What’s all this turmoil crammed into our parts?
Faith, but the pit-a-pat of poor young hearts.
DRYDEN.
The sturdy armourer was not, it may be believed, slack in keeping the
appointment assigned by his intended father in law. He went through the
process of his toilet with more than ordinary care, throwing, as far as
he could, those points which had a military air into the shade. He was
far too noted a person to venture to go entirely unarmed in a town where
he had indeed many friends, but also, from the character of many of his
former exploits, several deadly enemies, at whose hands, should they
take him at advantage, he knew he had little mercy to expect. He
therefore wore under his jerkin a “secret,” or coat of chain mail, made
so light and flexible that it interfered as little with his movements
as a modern under waistcoat, yet of such proof as he might safely depend
upon, every ring of it having been wrought and joined by his own hands.
Above this he wore, like others of his age and degree, the Flemish
hose and doublet, which, in honour of the holy tide, were of the best
superfine English broadcloth, light blue in colour, slashed out with
black satin, and passamented (laced, that is) with embroidery of black
silk. His walking boots were of cordovan leather; his cloak of good
Scottish grey, which served to conceal a whinger, or couteau de chasse,
that hung at his belt, and was his only offensive weapon, for he carried
in his hand but a rod of holly. His black velvet bonnet was lined with
steel, quilted between the metal and his head, and thus constituted a
means of defence which might safely be trusted to.
Upon the whole, Henry had the appearance, to which he was well entitled,
of a burgher of wealth and consideration, assuming, in his dress, as
much consequence as he could display without stepping beyond his own
rank, and encroaching on that of the gentry. Neither did his frank and
manly deportment, though indicating a total indifference to danger, bear
the least resemblance to that of the bravoes or swashbucklers of the
day, amongst whom Henry was sometimes unjustly ranked by those who
imputed the frays in which he was so often engaged to a quarrelsome and
violent temper, resting upon a consciousness of his personal strength
and knowledge of his weapon. On the contrary, every feature bore
the easy and good-humoured expression of one who neither thought of
inflicting mischief nor dreaded it from others.
Having attired himself in his best, the honest armourer next placed
nearest to his heart (which throbbed at its touch) a little gift which
he had long provided for Catharine Glover, and which his quality of
Valentine would presently give him the title to present, and her to
receive, without regard to maidenly scruples. It was a small ruby
cut into the form of a heart, transfixed with a golden arrow, and was
inclosed in a small purse made of links of the finest work in steel, as
if it had been designed for a hauberk to a king. Round the verge of the
purse were these words:
Loves darts Cleave hearts Through mail shirts.
This device had cost the armourer some thought, and he was much
satisfied with his composition, because it seemed to imply that his
skill could defend all hearts saving his own.
He wrapped himself in his cloak, and hastened through the still silent
streets, determined to appear at the window appointed a little before
dawn.
With this purpose he passed up the High Street, and turned down the
opening where St. John’s Church now stands, in order to proceed to
Curfew Street; when it occurred to him, from the appearance of the sky,
that he was at least an hour too early for his purpose, and that it
would be better not to appear at the place of rendezvous till nearer the
time assigned. Other gallants were not unlikely to be on the watch as
well as himself about the house of the Fair Maid of Perth; and he
knew his own foible so well as to be sensible of the great chance of a
scuffle arising betwixt them.
“I have the advantage,” he thought, “by my father Simon’s friendship;
and why should I stain my fingers with the blood of the poor creatures
that are not worthy my notice, since they are so much less fortunate
than myself? No--no, I will be wise for once, and keep at a distance
from all temptation to a broil. They shall have no more time to quarrel
with me than just what it may require for me to give the signal, and for
my father Simon to answer it. I wonder how the old man will contrive to
bring her to the window? I fear, if she knew his purpose, he would find
it difficult to carry it into execution.”
While these lover-like thoughts were passing through his brain, the
armourer loitered in his pace, often turning his eyes eastward, and
eyeing the firmament, in which no slight shades of grey were beginning
to flicker, to announce the approach of dawn, however distant, which, to
the impatience of the stout armourer, seemed on that morning to abstain
longer than usual from occupying her eastern barbican. He was now
passing slowly under the wall of St. Anne’s Chapel (not failing to cross
himself and say an ace, as he trode the consecrated ground), when a
voice, which seemed to come from behind one of the flying buttresses of
the chapel, said, “He lingers that has need to run.”
“Who speaks?” said the armourer, looking around him, somewhat startled
at an address so unexpected, both in its tone and tenor.
“No matter who speaks,” answered the same voice. “Do thou make great
speed, or thou wilt scarce make good speed. Bandy not words, but
begone.”
“Saint or sinner, angel or devil,” said Henry, crossing himself, “your
advice touches me but too dearly to be neglected. St. Valentine be my
speed!”
So saying, he instantly changed his loitering pace to one with which few
people could have kept up, and in an instant was in Couvrefew Street.
He had not made three steps towards Simon Glover’s, which stood in the
midst of the narrow street, when two men started from under the houses
on different sides, and advanced, as it were by concert, to intercept
his passage. The imperfect light only permitted him to discern that they
wore the Highland mantle.
“Clear the way, cateran,” said the armourer, in the deep stern voice
which corresponded with the breadth of his chest.
They did not answer, at least intelligibly; but he could see that they
drew their swords, with the purpose of withstanding him by violence.
Conjecturing some evil, but of what kind he could not anticipate, Henry
instantly determined to make his way through whatever odds, and defend
his mistress, or at least die at her feet. He cast his cloak over his
left arm as a buckler, and advanced rapidly and steadily to the two men.
The nearest made a thrust at him, but Henry Smith, parrying the blow
with his cloak, dashed his arm in the man’s face, and tripping him at
the same time, gave him a severe fall on the causeway; while almost at
the same instant he struck a blow with his whinger at the fellow who was
upon his right hand, so severely applied, that he also lay prostrate
by his associate. Meanwhile, the armourer pushed forward in alarm,
for which the circumstance of the street being guarded or defended
by strangers who conducted themselves with such violence afforded
sufficient reason. He heard a suppressed whisper and a bustle under the
glover’s windows--those very windows from which he had expected to be
hailed by Catharine as her Valentine. He kept to the opposite side of
the street, that he might reconnoitre their number and purpose. But
one of the party who were beneath the window, observing or hearing
him, crossed the street also, and taking him doubtless for one of the
sentinels, asked, in a whisper, “What noise was yonder, Kenneth? why
gave you not the signal?”
“Villain,” said Henry, “you are discovered, and you shall die the
death.”
As he spoke thus, he dealt the stranger a blow with his weapon, which
would probably have made his words good, had not the man, raising his
arm, received on his hand the blow meant for his head. The wound must
have been a severe one, for he staggered and fell with a deep groan.
Without noticing him farther, Henry Smith sprung forward upon a party of
men who seemed engaged in placing a ladder against the lattice window
in the gable. Henry did not stop ether to count their numbers or to
ascertain their purpose. But, crying the alarm word of the town, and
giving the signal at which the burghers were wont to collect, he rushed
on the night walkers, one of whom was in the act of ascending the
ladder. The smith seized it by the rounds, threw it down on the
pavement, and placing his foot on the body of the man who had been
mounting, prevented him from regaining his feet. His accomplices struck
fiercely at Henry, to extricate their companion. But his mail coat stood
him in good stead, and he repaid their blows with interest, shouting
aloud, “Help--help, for bonny St. Johnston! Bows and blades, brave
citizens! bows and blades! they break into our houses under cloud of
night.”
These words, which resounded far through the streets, were accompanied
by as many fierce blows, dealt with good effect among those whom the
armourer assailed. In the mean time, the inhabitants of the district
began to awaken and appear on the street in their shirts, with
swords and targets, and some of them with torches. The assailants now
endeavoured to make their escape, which all of them effected excepting
the man who had been thrown down along with the ladder. Him the intrepid
armourer had caught by the throat in the scuffle, and held as fast as
the greyhound holds the hare. The other wounded men were borne off by
their comrades.
“Here are a sort of knaves breaking peace within burgh,” said Henry
to the neighbours who began to assemble; “make after the rogues. They
cannot all get off, for I have maimed some of them: the blood will guide
you to them.”
“Some Highland caterans,” said the citizens; “up and chase, neighbours!”
“Ay, chase--chase! leave me to manage this fellow,” continued the
armourer.
The assistants dispersed in different directions, their lights flashing
and their cries resounding through the whole adjacent district.
In the mean time the armourer’s captive entreated for freedom, using
both promises and threats to obtain it. “As thou art a gentleman,” he
said, “let me go, and what is past shall be forgiven.”
“I am no gentleman,” said Henry--“I am Hal of the Wynd, a burgess of
Perth; and I have done nothing to need forgiveness.”
“Villain, then hast done thou knowest not what! But let me go, and I
will fill thy bonnet with gold pieces.”
“I shall fill thy bonnet with a cloven head presently,” said the
armourer, “unless thou stand still as a true prisoner.”
“What is the matter, my son Harry?” said Simon, who now appeared at the
window. “I hear thy voice in another tone than I expected. What is all
this noise; and why are the neighbours gathering to the affray?”
“There have been a proper set of limmers about to scale your windows,
father Simon; but I am like to prove godfather to one of them, whom I
hold here, as fast as ever vice held iron.”
“Hear me, Simon Glover,” said the prisoner; “let me but speak one word
with you in private, and rescue me from the gripe of this iron fisted
and leaden pated clown, and I will show thee that no harm was designed
to thee or thine, and, moreover, tell thee what will much advantage
thee.”
“I should know that voice,” said Simon Glover, who now came to the door
with a dark lantern in his hand. “Son Smith, let this young man speak
with me. There is no danger in him, I promise you. Stay but an instant
where you are, and let no one enter the house, either to attack or
defend. I will be answerable that this galliard meant but some St.
Valentine’s jest.”
So saying, the old man pulled in the prisoner and shut the door,
leaving Henry a little surprised at the unexpected light in which his
father-in-law had viewed the affray.
“A jest!” he said; “it might have been a strange jest, if they had got
into the maiden’s sleeping room! And they would have done so, had it not
been for the honest friendly voice from betwixt the buttresses, which,
if it were not that of the blessed saint--though what am I that the holy
person should speak to me?--could not sound in that place without her
permission and assent, and for which I will promise her a wax candle at
her shrine, as long as my whinger; and I would I had had my two handed
broadsword instead, both for the sake of St. Johnston and of the rogues,
for of a certain those whingers are pretty toys, but more fit for a
boy’s hand than a man’s. Oh, my old two handed Trojan, hadst thou been
in my hands, as thou hang’st presently at the tester of my bed, the legs
of those rogues had not carried their bodies so clean off the field. But
there come lighted torches and drawn swords. So ho--stand! Are you for
St. Johnston? If friends to the bonny burgh, you are well come.”
“We have been but bootless hunters,” said the townsmen. “We followed by
the tracks of the blood into the Dominican burial ground, and we started
two fellows from amongst the tombs, supporting betwixt them a third, who
had probably got some of your marks about him, Harry. They got to the
postern gate before we could overtake them, and rang the sanctuary
bell; the gate opened, and in went they. So they are safe in girth and
sanctuary, and we may go to our cold beds and warm us.”
“Ay,” said one of the party, “the good Dominicans have always some
devout brother of their convent sitting up to open the gate of the
sanctuary to any poor soul that is in trouble, and desires shelter in
the church.”
“Yes, if the poor hunted soul can pay for it,” said another “but, truly,
if he be poor in purse as well as in spirit, he may stand on the outside
till the hounds come up with him.”
A third, who had been poring for a few minutes upon the ground by
advantage of his torch, now looked upwards and spoke. He was a
brisk, forward, rather corpulent little man, called Oliver Proudfute,
reasonably wealthy, and a leading man in his craft, which was that of
bonnet makers; he, therefore, spoke as one in authority.
“Canst tell us, jolly smith”--for they recognised each other by the
lights which were brought into the streets--“what manner of fellows they
were who raised up this fray within burgh?”
“The two that I first saw,” answered the armourer, “seemed to me, as
well as I could observe them, to have Highland plaids about them.”
“Like enough--like enough,” answered another citizen, shaking his head.
“It’s a shame the breaches in our walls are not repaired, and that these
landlouping Highland scoundrels are left at liberty to take honest men
and women out of their beds any night that is dark enough.”
“But look here, neighbours,” said Oliver Proudfute, showing a bloody
hand which he had picked up from the ground; “when did such a hand as
this tie a Highlandman’s brogues? It is large, indeed, and bony, but
as fine as a lady’s, with a ring that sparkles like a gleaming candle.
Simon Glover has made gloves for this hand before now, if I am not much
mistaken, for he works for all the courtiers.”
The spectators here began to gaze on the bloody token with various
comments.
“If that is the case,” said one, “Harry Smith had best show a clean pair
of heels for it, since the justiciar will scarce think the protecting a
burgess’s house an excuse for cutting off a gentleman’s hand. There be
hard laws against mutilation.”
“Fie upon you, that you will say so, Michael Webster,” answered the
bonnet maker; “are we not representatives and successors of the stout
old Romans, who built Perth as like to their own city as they could? And
have we not charters from all our noble kings and progenitors, as being
their loving liegemen? And would you have us now yield up our rights,
privileges, and immunities, our outfang and infang, our handhaband,
our back bearand, and our blood suits, and amerciaments, escheats,
and commodities, and suffer an honest burgess’s house to be assaulted
without seeking for redress? No, brave citizens, craftsmen, and
burgesses, the Tay shall flow back to Dunkeld before we submit to such
injustice!”
“And how can we help it?” said a grave old man, who stood leaning on a
two handed sword. “What would you have us do?”
“Marry, Bailie Craigdallie, I wonder that you, of all men, ask the
question. I would have you pass like true men from this very place
to the King’s Grace’s presence, raise him from his royal rest, and
presenting to him the piteous case of our being called forth from our
beds at this season, with little better covering than these shirts, I
would show him this bloody token, and know from his Grace’s own royal
lips whether it is just and honest that his loving lieges should be thus
treated by the knights and nobles of his deboshed court. And this I call
pushing our cause warmly.”
“Warmly, sayst thou?” replied the old burgess; “why, so warmly, that we
shall all die of cold, man, before the porter turn a key to let us into
the royal presence. Come, friends, the night is bitter, we have kept
our watch and ward like men, and our jolly smith hath given a warning to
those that would wrong us, which shall be worth twenty proclamations of
the king. Tomorrow is a new day; we will consult on this matter on this
self same spot, and consider what measures should be taken for discovery
and pursuit of the villains. And therefore let us dismiss before the
heart’s blood freeze in our veins.”
“Bravo--bravo, neighbour Craigdallie! St. Johnston for ever!”
Oliver Proudfute would still have spoken; for he was one of those
pitiless orators who think that their eloquence can overcome all
inconveniences in time, place, and circumstances. But no one would
listen, and the citizens dispersed to their own houses by the light of
the dawn, which began now to streak the horizon.
They were scarce gone ere the door of the glover’s house opened, and
seizing the smith by the hand, the old man pulled him in.
“Where is the prisoner?” demanded the armourer.
“He is gone--escaped--fled--what do I know of him?” said the glover. “He
got out at the back door, and so through the little garden. Think not of
him, but come and see the Valentine whose honour and life you have saved
this morning.”
“Let me but sheathe my weapon,” said the smith, “let me but wash my
hands.”
“There is not an instant to lose, she is up and almost dressed. Come
on, man. She shall see thee with thy good weapon in thy hand, and with
villain’s blood on thy fingers, that she may know what is the value of a
true man’s service. She has stopped my mouth overlong with her pruderies
and her scruples. I will have her know what a brave man’s love is worth,
and a bold burgess’s to boot.”