Gentle friend,
Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday,
And may be so tomorrow.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
The Duke of Albany was, like his royal brother, named Robert. The
Christian name of the latter had been John until he was called to the
throne; when the superstition of the times observed that the name
had been connected with misfortune in the lives and reigns of John of
England, John of France, and John Baliol of Scotland. It was therefore
agreed that, to elude the bad omen, the new king should assume the name
of Robert, rendered dear to Scotland by the recollections of Robert
Bruce. We mention this to account for the existence of two brothers of
the same Christian name in one family, which was not certainly an usual
occurrence, more than at the present day.
Albany, also an aged man, was not supposed to be much more disposed for
warlike enterprise than the King himself. But if he had not courage, he
had wisdom to conceal and cloak over his want of that quality, which,
once suspected, would have ruined all the plans which his ambition had
formed. He had also pride enough to supply, in extremity, the want
of real valour, and command enough over his nerves to conceal their
agitation. In other respects, he was experienced in the ways of courts,
calm, cool, and crafty, fixing upon the points which he desired to
attain, while they were yet far removed, and never losing sight of them,
though the winding paths in which he trode might occasionally seem to
point to a different direction. In his person he resembled the King, for
he was noble and majestic both in stature and countenance. But he had
the advantage of his elder brother, in being unencumbered with any
infirmity, and in every respect lighter and more active. His dress was
rich and grave, as became his age and rank, and, like his royal brother,
he wore no arms of any kind, a case of small knives supplying at his
girdle the place usually occupied by a dagger in absence of a sword.
At the Duke’s entrance the prior, after making an obeisance,
respectfully withdrew to a recess in the apartment, at some distance
from the royal seat, in order to leave the conversation of the brothers
uncontrolled by the presence of a third person. It is necessary to
mention, that the recess was formed by a window; placed in the inner
front of the monastic buildings, called the palace, from its being the
frequent residence of the Kings of Scotland, but which was, unless on
such occasions, the residence of the prior or abbot. The window
was placed over the principal entrance to the royal apartments, and
commanded a view of the internal quadrangle of the convent, formed on
the right hand by the length of the magnificent church, on the left by
a building containing the range of cellars, with the refectory, chapter
house, and other conventual apartments rising above them, for such
existed altogether independent of the space occupied by King Robert and
his attendants; while a fourth row of buildings, showing a noble
outward front to the rising sun, consisted of a large hospitium, for
the reception of strangers and pilgrims, and many subordinate offices,
warehouses, and places of accommodation, for the ample stores which
supplied the magnificent hospitality of the Dominican fathers. A lofty
vaulted entrance led through this eastern front into the quadrangle,
and was precisely opposite to the window at which Prior Anselm stood, so
that he could see underneath the dark arch, and observe the light which
gleamed beneath it from the eastern and open portal; but, owing to the
height to which he was raised, and the depth of the vaulted archway, his
eye could but indistinctly reach the opposite and extended portal. It is
necessary to notice these localities.
We return to the conversation between the princely relatives.
“My dear brother,” said the King, raising the Duke of Albany, as
he stooped to kiss his hand--“my dear, dear brother, wherefore this
ceremonial? Are we not both sons of the same Stuart of Scotland and of
the same Elizabeth More?”
“I have not forgot that it is so,” said Albany, arising; “but I must not
omit, in the familiarity of the brother, the respect that is due to the
king.”
“Oh, true--most true, Robin,” answered the King. “The throne is like a
lofty and barren rock, upon which flower or shrub can never take root.
All kindly feelings, all tender affections, are denied to a monarch.
A king must not fold a brother to his heart--he dare not give way to
fondness for a son.”
“Such, in some respects, is the doom of greatness, sire,” answered
Albany; “but Heaven, who removed to some distance from your Majesty’s
sphere the members of your own family, has given you a whole people to
be your children.”
“Alas! Robert,” answered the monarch, “your heart is better framed for
the duties of a sovereign than mine. I see from the height at which fate
has placed me that multitude whom you call my children. I love them, I
wish them well; but they are many, and they are distant from me. Alas!
even the meanest of them has some beloved being whom he can clasp to
his heart, and upon whom he can lavish the fondness of a father. But all
that a king can give to a people is a smile, such as the sun bestows
on the snowy peaks of the Grampian mountains, as distant and as
ineffectual. Alas, Robin! our father used to caress us, and if he chid
us it was with a tone of kindness; yet he was a monarch as well as I,
and wherefore should not I be permitted, like him, to reclaim my poor
prodigal by affection as well as severity?”
“Had affection never been tried, my liege,” replied Albany, in the tone
of one who delivers sentiments which he grieves to utter, “means of
gentleness ought assuredly to be first made use of. Your Grace is best
judge whether they have been long enough persevered in, and whether
those of discouragement and restraint may not prove a more effectual
corrective. It is exclusively in your royal power to take what measures
with the Duke of Rothsay you think will be most available to his
ultimate benefit, and that of the kingdom.”
“This is unkind, brother,” said the King: “you indicate the painful path
which you would have me pursue, yet you offer me not your support in
treading it.”
“My support your Grace may ever command,” replied Albany; “but would it
become me, of all men on earth, to prompt to your Grace severe measures
against your son and heir? Me, on whom, in case of failure--which Heaven
forefend!--of your Grace’s family, this fatal crown might descend? Would
it not be thought and said by the fiery March and the haughty Douglas,
that Albany had sown dissension between his royal brother and the heir
to the Scottish throne, perhaps to clear the way for the succession of
his own family? No, my liege, I can sacrifice my life to your service,
but I must not place my honour in danger.”
“You say true, Robin.--you say very true,” replied the King, hastening
to put his own interpretation upon his brother’s words. “We must not
suffer these powerful and dangerous lords to perceive that there is
aught like discord in the royal family. That must be avoided of all
things: and therefore we will still try indulgent measures, in hopes
of correcting the follies of Rothsay. I behold sparks of hope in
him, Robin, from time to time, that are well worth cherishing. He is
young--very young--a prince, and in the heyday of his blood. We will
have patience with him, like a good rider with a hot tempered horse. Let
him exhaust this idle humor, and no one will be better pleased with
him than yourself. You have censured me in your kindness for being too
gentle, too retired; Rothsay has no such defects.”
“I will pawn my life he has not,” replied Albany, drily.
“And he wants not reflection as well as spirit,” continued the poor
king, pleading the cause of his son to his brother. “I have sent for him
to attend council today, and we shall see how he acquits himself of
his devoir. You yourself allow, Robin, that the Prince wants neither
shrewdness nor capacity for affairs, when he is in the humor to consider
them.”
“Doubtless, he wants neither, my liege,” replied Albany, “when he is in
the humor to consider them.”
“I say so,” answered the King; “and am heartily glad that you agree with
me, Robin, in giving this poor hapless young man another trial. He has
no mother now to plead his cause with an incensed father. That must be
remembered, Albany.”
“I trust,” said Albany, “the course which is most agreeable to your
Grace’s feelings will also prove the wisest and the best.”
The Duke well saw the simple stratagem by which the King was
endeavouring to escape from the conclusions of his reasoning, and
to adopt, under pretence of his sanction, a course of proceeding the
reverse of what it best suited him to recommend. But though he saw he
could not guide his brother to the line of conduct he desired, he would
not abandon the reins, but resolved to watch for a fitter opportunity of
obtaining the sinister advantages to which new quarrels betwixt the King
and Prince were soon, he thought, likely to give rise.
In the mean time, King Robert, afraid lest his brother should resume
the painful subject from which he had just escaped, called aloud to the
prior of the Dominicans, “I hear the trampling of horse. Your station
commands the courtyard, reverend father. Look from the window, and tell
us who alights. Rothsay, is it not?”
“The noble Earl of March, with his followers,” said the prior.
“Is he strongly accompanied?” said the King. “Do his people enter the
inner gate?”
At the same moment, Albany whispered the King, “Fear nothing, the
Brandanes of your household are under arms.”
The King nodded thanks, while the prior from the window answered the
question he had put. “The Earl is attended by two pages, two gentlemen,
and four grooms. One page follows him up the main staircase, bearing his
lordship’s sword. The others halt in the court, and--Benedicite, how is
this? Here is a strolling glee woman, with her viol, preparing to sing
beneath the royal windows, and in the cloister of the Dominicans, as
she might in the yard of an hostelrie! I will have her presently thrust
forth.”
“Not so, father,” said the King. “Let me implore grace for the poor
wanderer. The joyous science, as they call it, which they profess,
mingles sadly with the distresses to which want and calamity condemn a
strolling race; and in that they resemble a king, to whom all men cry,
‘All hail!’ while he lacks the homage and obedient affection which
the poorest yeoman receives from his family. Let the wanderer remain
undisturbed, father; and let her sing if she will to the yeomen and
troopers in the court; it will keep them from quarrelling with each
other, belonging, as they do, to such unruly and hostile masters.”
So spoke the well meaning and feeble minded prince, and the prior bowed
in acquiescence. As he spoke, the Earl of March entered the hall of
audience, dressed in the ordinary riding garb of the time, and wearing
his poniard. He had left in the anteroom the page of honour who carried
his sword. The Earl was a well built, handsome man, fair complexioned,
with a considerable profusion of light coloured hair, and bright
blue eyes, which gleamed like those of a falcon. He exhibited in his
countenance, otherwise pleasing, the marks of a hasty and irritable
temper, which his situation as a high and powerful feudal lord had given
him but too many opportunities of indulging.
“I am glad to see you, my Lord of March,” said the King, with a
gracious inclination of his person. “You have been long absent from our
councils.”
“My liege,” answered March with a deep reverence to the King, and a
haughty and formal inclination to the Duke of Albany, “if I have been
absent from your Grace’s councils, it is because my place has been
supplied by more acceptable, and, I doubt not, abler, counsellors. And
now I come but to say to your Highness, that the news from the English
frontier make it necessary that I should return without delay to my
own estates. Your Grace has your wise and politic brother, my Lord of
Albany, with whom to consult, and the mighty and warlike Earl of Douglas
to carry your counsels into effect. I am of no use save in my own
country; and thither, with your Highness’s permission, I am purposed
instantly to return, to attend my charge, as Warden of the Eastern
Marches.”
“You will not deal so unkindly with us, cousin,” replied the gentle
monarch. “Here are evil tidings on the wind. These unhappy Highland
clans are again breaking into general commotion, and the tranquillity
even of our own court requires the wisest of our council to advise, and
the bravest of our barons to execute, what may be resolved upon. The
descendant of Thomas Randolph will not surely abandon the grandson of
Robert Bruce at such a period as this?”
“I leave with him the descendant of the far famed James of Douglas,”
answered March. “It is his lordship’s boast that he never puts foot in
stirrup but a thousand horse mount with him as his daily lifeguard, and
I believe the monks of Aberbrothock will swear to the fact. Surely, with
all the Douglas’s chivalry, they are fitter to restrain a disorderly
swarm of Highland kerne than I can be to withstand the archery of
England and power of Henry Hotspur? And then, here is his Grace of
Albany, so jealous in his care of your Highness’s person, that he
calls your Brandanes to take arms when a dutiful subject like myself
approaches the court with a poor half score of horse, the retinue of
the meanest of the petty barons who own a tower and a thousand acres
of barren heath. When such precautions are taken where there is not the
slightest chance of peril--since I trust none was to be apprehended from
me--your royal person will surely be suitably guarded in real danger.”
“My Lord of March,” said the Duke of Albany, “the meanest of the barons
of whom you speak put their followers in arms even when they receive
their dearest and nearest friends within the iron gate of their castle;
and, if it please Our Lady, I will not care less for the King’s person
than they do for their own. The Brandanes are the King’s immediate
retainers and household servants, and an hundred of them is but a small
guard round his Grace, when yourself, my lord, as well as the Earl of
Douglas, often ride with ten times the number.”
“My Lord Duke,” replied March, “when the service of the King requires
it, I can ride with ten times as many horse as your Grace has named;
but I have never done so either traitorously to entrap the King nor
boastfully to overawe other nobles.”
“Brother Robert,” said the King, ever anxious to be a peacemaker, “you
do wrong even to intimate a suspicion of my Lord of March. And you,
cousin of March, misconstrue my brother’s caution. But hark--to divert
this angry parley--I hear no unpleasing touch of minstrelsy. You know
the gay science, my Lord of March, and love it well. Step to yonder
window, beside the holy prior, at whom we make no question touching
secular pleasures, and you will tell us if the music and play be worth
listening to. The notes are of France, I think. My brother of Albany’s
judgment is not worth a cockle shell in such matters, so you, cousin,
must report your opinion whether the poor glee maiden deserves
recompense. Our son and the Douglas will presently be here, and then,
when our council is assembled, we will treat of graver matters.”
With something like a smile on his proud brow, March withdrew into the
recess of the window, and stood there in silence beside the prior, like
one who, while he obeyed the King’s command, saw through and despised
the timid precaution which it implied, as an attempt to prevent the
dispute betwixt Albany and himself. The tune, which was played upon a
viol, was gay and sprightly in the commencement, with a touch of the
wildness of the troubadour music. But, as it proceeded, the faltering
tones of the instrument, and of the female voice which accompanied it,
became plaintive and interrupted, as if choked by the painful feelings
of the minstrel.
The offended earl, whatever might be his judgment in such matters on
which the King had complimented him, paid, it may be supposed, little
attention to the music of the female minstrel. His proud heart was
struggling between the allegiance he owed his sovereign, as well as
the love he still found lurking in his bosom for the person of his well
natured king, and a desire of vengeance arising out of his disappointed
ambition, and the disgrace done to him by the substitution of Marjory
Douglas to be bride of the heir apparent, instead of his betrothed
daughter. March had the vices and virtues of a hasty and uncertain
character, and even now, when he came to bid the King adieu, with the
purpose of renouncing his allegiance as soon as he reached his own
feudal territories, he felt unwilling, and almost unable, to resolve
upon a step so criminal and so full of peril. It was with such dangerous
cogitations that he was occupied during the beginning of the glee
maiden’s lay; but objects which called his attention powerfully, as the
songstress proceeded, affected the current of his thoughts, and riveted
them on what was passing in the courtyard of the monastery. The song was
in the Provencal dialect, well understood as the language of poetry
in all the courts of Europe, and particularly in Scotland. It was more
simply turned, however, than was the general cast of the sirventes,
and rather resembled the lai of a Norman minstrel. It may be translated
thus:
The Lay of Poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! The livelong day
She roams from cot to castle gay;
And still her voice and viol say,
Ah, maids, beware the woodland way;
Think on Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! The sun was high;
It smirch’d her cheek, it dimm’d her eye.
The woodland walk was cool and nigh,
Where birds with chiming streamlets vie
To cheer Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! The savage bear
Made ne’er that lovely grove his lair;
The wolves molest not paths so fair.
But better far had such been there
For poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! In woody wold
She met a huntsman fair and bold;
His baldrick was of silk and gold,
And many a witching tale he told
To poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! Small cause to pine
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine;
For peace of mind, that gift divine,
And spotless innocence, were thine.
Ah, poor Louise!
Ah, poor Louise! Thy treasure’s reft.
I know not if by force or theft,
Or part by violence, part by gift;
But misery is all that’s left
To poor Louise,
Let poor Louise some succour have!
She will not long your bounty crave,
Or tire the gay with warning stave;
For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave
For poor Louise.
The song was no sooner finished than, anxious lest the dispute should be
revived betwixt his brother and the Earl of March, King Robert called to
the latter, “What think you of the minstrelsy, my lord? Methinks, as I
heard it even at this distance, it was a wild and pleasing lay.”
“My judgment is not deep my lord; but the singer may dispense with
my approbation, since she seems to have received that of his Grace of
Rothsay, the best judge in Scotland.”
“How!” said the King in alarm; “is my son below?”
“He is sitting on horseback by the glee maiden,” said March, with a
malicious smile on his cheek, “apparently as much interested by her
conversation as her music.”
“How is this, father prior?” said the King.
But the prior drew back from the lattice. “I have no will to see, my
lord, things which it would pain me to repeat.”
“How is all this?” said the King, who coloured deeply, and seemed about
to rise from his chair; but changed his mind, as if unwilling, perhaps,
to look upon some unbecoming prank of the wild young prince, which he
might not have had heart to punish with necessary severity. The Earl
of March seemed to have a pleasure in informing him of that of which
doubtless he desired to remain ignorant.
“My liege,” he cried, “this is better and better. The glee maiden has
not only engaged the ear of the Prince of Scotland, as well as of every
groom and trooper in the courtyard, but she has riveted the attention of
the Black Douglas, whom we have not known as a passionate admirer of
the gay science. But truly, I do not wonder at his astonishment, for the
Prince has honoured the fair professor of song and viol with a kiss of
approbation.”
“How!” cried the King, “is David of Rothsay trifling with a glee maiden,
and his wife’s father in presence? Go, my good father abbot, call the
Prince here instantly. Go, my dearest brother--” And when they had both
left the room, the King continued, “Go, good cousin of March; there will
be mischief, I am assured of it. I pray you go, cousin, and second my
lord prior’s prayers with my commands.”
“You forget, my liege,” said March, with the voice of a deeply offended
person, “the father of Elizabeth of Dunbar were but an unfit intercessor
between the Douglas and his royal son in law.”
“I crave your pardon, cousin,” said the gentle old man. “I own you have
had some wrong; but my Rothsay will be murdered--I must go myself.”
But, as he arose precipitately from his chair, the poor king missed a
footstep, stumbled, and fell heavily to the ground, in such a manner
that, his head striking the corner of the seat from which he had risen,
he became for a minute insensible. The sight of the accident at once
overcame March’s resentment and melted his heart. He ran to the fallen
monarch, and replaced him in his seat, using, in the tenderest and most
respectful manner, such means as seemed most fit to recall animation.
Robert opened his eyes, and gazed around with uncertainty. “What has
happened?--are we alone?--who is with us?”
“Your dutiful subject, March,” replied the Earl.
“Alone with the Earl of March!” repeated the King, his still disturbed
intellect receiving some alarm from the name of a powerful chief whom he
had reason to believe he had mortally offended.
“Yes, my gracious liege, with poor George of Dunbar, of whom many have
wished your Majesty to think ill, though he will be found truer to your
royal person at the last than they will.”
“Indeed, cousin, you have had too much wrong; and believe me, we shall
strive to redress--”
“If your Grace thinks so, it may yet be righted,” interrupted the Earl,
catching at the hopes which his ambition suggested: “the Prince and
Marjory Douglas are nearly related--the dispensation from Rome was
informally granted--their marriage cannot be lawful--the Pope, who will
do much for so godly a prince, can set aside this unchristian union, in
respect of the pre-contract. Bethink you well, my liege,” continued
the Earl, kindling with a new train of ambitious thoughts, to which
the unexpected opportunity of pleading his cause personally had given
rise--“bethink you how you choose betwixt the Douglas and me. He is
powerful and mighty, I grant. But George of Dunbar wears the keys of
Scotland at his belt, and could bring an English army to the gates of
Edinburgh ere Douglas could leave the skirts of Carintable to oppose
them. Your royal son loves my poor deserted girl, and hates the haughty
Marjory of Douglas. Your Grace may judge the small account in which he
holds her by his toying with a common glee maiden even in the presence
of her father.”
The King had hitherto listened to the Earl’s argument with the
bewildered feelings of a timid horseman, borne away by an impetuous
steed, whose course he can neither arrest nor direct. But the last words
awakened in his recollection the sense of his son’s immediate danger.
“Oh, ay, most true--my son--the Douglas! Oh, my dear cousin, prevent
blood, and all shall be as you will. Hark, there is a tumult--that was
the clash of arms!”
“By my coronet, by my knightly faith, it is true!” said the Earl,
looking from the window upon the inner square of the convent, now filled
with armed men and brandished weapons, and resounding with the clash
of armour. The deep vaulted entrance was crowded with warriors at its
farthest extremity, and blows seemed to be in the act of being exchanged
betwixt some who were endeavouring to shut the gate and others who
contended to press in.
“I will go instantly,” said the Earl of March, “and soon quell this
sudden broil. Humbly I pray your Majesty to think on what I have had the
boldness to propose.”
“I will--I will, fair cousin,” said the King, scarce knowing to what he
pledged himself; “do but prevent tumult and bloodshed!”