"But a queen—especially a young queen (I am only thirty-two)," she added with a charming French smile, "is always surrounded by so many flatterers!"
Poor Florence now coloured absolutely crimson, for with all his love for Madeline he felt how seductive and dangerous was this intimacy and familiarity with Mary of Lorraine. The latter saw the triumph of her beauty, felt its power and smiled again; for amid all her domestic and political troubles, she was too much of a Frenchwoman and a Guise not to find a pleasure and consolation in this.
"Ah, monsieur," she added, "do you love your little queen?"
"I love her, madam, as becomes a Scottish gentleman and faithful subject,—as the daughter of that good King James for whom my father drew his sword at Falamuir, at Ancrumford, and Solway Moss!"
"She is yet a child—alas!——"
"A child in whose person are embodied all the destinies of Scotland, past, present, and future; yea, and it may be the future destiny of Britain itself!" said the Earl of Mar without knowing how truly he spoke.
"Be it so," replied the queen, "fair sirs—look here!"
She drew back the arras, and there within a carved oak cradle, which stood within a recess, and the canopy of which was surmounted by a royal crown, lay the little queen of Scots asleep, with a white kitten in her arms, and Janet Sinclair, her nurse, seated on a tabourette close by. The white-haired Earl of Mar raised higher the visor of his helmet, and knelt down to kiss her tiny dimpled hands.
Then the tears sparkled in the eyes of Mary of Lorraine, as she saw so many brave lords and gentlemen in their blood-spotted armour, fresh from the terrors of that lost battle, follow the example of the noble chief of the Erskines. She placed her beautiful hand caressingly on the old earl's shoulder, and said,—
"Thou good and faithful Mar! to thee her father turned his eyes, ere he died at Falkland, when around him were Scotland's bravest and most true, men whose advice had been faithful to him in council, and whose swords had never failed him in peril, for in good sooth, Mar, he loved thine old face well."
"Madam," said Claude Hamilton impatiently, "if indeed your grace is to ride for Stirling, the sooner we set forth the better; for the morning wears apace and dawn draws nigh. The English will ere long break up from their camp at Edmondstone Edge, and advance on the city. Methinks I hear the sound of their artillery already."
"The laird of Preston speaketh wisely, madam; let us to horse, for ladies, litters, and sumpter-nags are a sore hindrance when men have to cut a passage through a stand of pikes," said the laird of Balmuto, a Fifeshire baron, whose suit of black armour was encrusted with blood, and whose eyes were wandering, wild in expression, tearless and bloodshot.
"You are wounded?" said the queen, with deep commiseration.
"Nay, madam, my hands could ever keep my head."
"But this blood?——"
"Is the blood of my enemies, and of—my ain bairns!" he added bitterly.
"Your bairns!"
"Two of my sons gave up their lives on yonder field, the English cannon slew them by my side, upon the bridge of Esk; but blessed be God and their leal mother, I have three mair at hame, to handle their swords when the time comes."
"Heaven may requite this devotion, my brave Balmuto, but Mary of Lorraine never can!" replied the queen, with growing emotion.
"Madam, forth, I say, ere the day break, and we hear the English trumpets in the Nether Bow—forth, and fear not," resumed Claude Hamilton; "fear not, though we have lost the battle. I have this sword, which I drew at Flodden, and my father drew at Sark, and which his sire drew at Vernuiel—'tis at your service still, and thus can thirty thousand other Scotsmen say, who like me, are ready to peril all for the child and crown of King James the Fifth!"
"To horse, then," said the queen; and giving her hand to the Earl of Mar, she prepared to leave her favourite little palace, and surveyed the apartment sadly as she withdrew.
Florence turned towards the Countess of Yarrow; but with a cold and stern expression in his eye, Claude Hamilton, quick as thought, anticipated him; and presenting his gauntleted hand to his niece and ward, led her from the apartment to the street; and with a sinking heart the young laird of the ruined tower followed them.
Deeming some explanation necessary, while the queen and her train were mounting, Hamilton turned to him, and said in a low but determined tone,—
"Here ends our temporary peace and truce. You scorned my alliance and every reparation to the dead as well as to the living, at a time when, with a full heart and a purpose leal and true, I proffered it; so think not to win my kinswoman's love, for that can never be the prize of one whose kindred shed her pure and sinless blood so wickedly as Dame Alison did, on that terrible night in the church of Tranent. Enough, sir—we now know each other—adieu!"
Florence, chilled by these stern and unexpected words, turned to Father John, who stood near, regarding them both wistfully; but the old priest shook his head with an air of sadness, and drew back, while Madeline held her veil close to conceal the tears that filled her eyes.
Woe, woe to ye! ye haughty towers;No sound of sweetest strain,No music, song, nor roundelayShall haunt your halls again;Naught—naught but sighs and groans,And tread of slaves in grim affright,Till, crush'd in dust and ashes,Ye feel the avenger's might!—Uhland.
In the pale grey of the morning, when the moon was waning and the stars fading out of the sky, when the cold, heavy shadows lay deep in the high and narrow wynds and alleys of the city, from whose towering mansions so many generations have looked down on scenes of wonder, awe and terror, broil, bloodshed, and disaster, the child-queen of Scotland (still tenaciously grasping her favourite kitten) was placed in her warm litter, and its curtains were carefully drawn. The queen-mother, with the few nobles and ladies of her train, mounted; the lackeys led all the spare and sumpter horses; and with a band of some forty spearmen on horseback, an escort provided by the care of the Earl of Mar, she set forth from Edinburgh.
The streets were still encumbered by crowds of fugitives and terrified people, pale with weeping for the slain and watching in the night. Many surrounded the train of the queen, and strove to keep pace with it, crying for aid, advice, or protection from the coming English.
"Alms—largess—largess!" cried many, while poor women held aloft the babes, whom the strife of yesterday had made fatherless.
"For alms and largess ye shall have the first rents I receive from my lordship of Monteith and my castle of Doune," replied the queen, who was moved to tears by the scenes she saw; but among the dense masses at the city gate were many Reformers, who on seeing her began to shout,—
"Down with the league with France—no French alliance!"
"Woe to the day that Mary of Lorraine brought forth a female bairn!" cried one.
"And that our gude auld Scottish crown fell from the sword to the distaff!" added another.
"Down with the bloody house of Guise! A Hamilton—a Hamilton!"
The poor queen-mother grew deadly pale on hearing these hostile and unexpected shouts from the populace, whose favour has ever been in all ages variable as the wind; but Florence felt his blood boil! He had been reared in a land where gallantry was a science; he had heard Francis I.—the most splendid of European monarchs—declare that a court without ladies was like a spring without flowers; he had stood by his side, bearing the train of Anne of Albany, when Laura's tomb at Avignon was opened, and when flowers and verses were cast upon her bones, as a tribute to her past beauty and to Petrarch's love and muse. The fourth and fifth Jameses were in their graves, and Scotland no longer understood the sentiment of chivalry; but, filled with indignation by the reiterated insults of a lank-haired fellow who followed the queen's train, in a suit of sad-coloured clothes, Florence drew his sword and would have smote him down, when she quickly arrested his hand, and said, with one of her most alluring smiles,—
"I pray you to spare the poor man, and I shall tell you a story. One day some drunken archers of Paris, in my hearing, insulted Catherine de Médicis, and said a hundred bitter and abusive things to her, as she was proceeding on foot under her canopy through the Rue de l'Arbre Sec towards the Louvre. Perceiving my kinsman, the Cardinal de Lorraine, start angrily from her side, she grasped his scarlet cope, saying,—
"'Whither goes your eminence?'
"'To see those poltroons hanged without delay!'
"'Nay, nay,' said she, 'not so; let them alone. I will this day show to after-ages that, in the same person, a woman, a queen, and an Italian, controlled both pride and passion.' If the terrible Catherine could do this, why not may I, who have ever been deemed so tender and gentle?"
"Most true, madam," replied Florence, bowing low as he sheathed his sword; "your wish is law to me."
Her train left Edinburgh by the Lower Bow Porte, on the parapet of which was a bare white skull, that seemed to grin mockingly at the turmoil and terror of those who crowded the steep and winding street below. Mary shuddered as she saw it, for this poor relic of mortality was the head of the terrible "Bastard of Arran," Sir James Hamilton of Finnard, whilom captain of Linlithgow, royal cup-bearer, and grand inquisitor of Scotland, executed for treason against James V.; and all who passed the old arch beneath were wont to sign the cross, for it was alleged that this head, after it was cut off, had thrice cried "Jesus Christus" as it rolled about the scaffold, and that no blood came from it; moreover, on the day it was first spiked, a certain honest farmer, the gudeman of St. Giles's Grange, when passing under the gate with a cartload of turnips to market, beheld them all turn into human heads, which winked and grinned at him for the full space of three minutes.
As the royal train issued forth upon the western road that led to Stirling, the sun arose in his ruddy splendour and shed a blaze of yellow light across the eastern quarter of the sky; and against this glow Edinburgh uprose, with its castles, towers, and spires, its hills and mass of roofs, its strange piles of gables and chimneys, in outline, strongly and darkly defined. Then the blue flag, with the white cross of St. Andrew, was seen to wave upon the summit of King David's keep; and the flash and boom of a culverin from the rampart below it, as the light smoke floated away on the soft breeze of the early morning, announced that the governor of the castle, Hamilton of Stainhouse, had fired the first gun at the approaching foe.
A wail arose from the city beneath; for that hostile sound also announced that the English, with sword and torch, flushed by victory and fired by the spirits of rancour and devastation, were at hand; but the queen and her train, warned by it of coming danger, added spurs to their speed, as they galloped past the long shallow loch, the ancient church, the rocky hills, and reedy marshes of Corstorphine.
Ayliffe.—'Tis bold—'tis very bold!Restalrig.— I tell you, sir,There be more Arrans and more LennoxesOn Scottish ground than you in England wot of.Earl Gowrie—A Tragedy.
Four days after the battle,i.e., the 14th of September, Holyrood Day, or the Festival of the Exaltation of the Cross, a time when children were wont of old to commence nutting in the woods, the town of Stirling, the great abbey of Cambus Kenneth, and all the strongholds in their vicinity, were crowded with fugitives; and masses of retreating soldiers occupied all the passages, fords, and roads towards the north. Mary of Lorraine, with her suite, and the Regent Arran, attended by many officers of state and barons of his house held a solemn and somewhat bitter council, to deliberate on the future, in that vaulted chamber of the castle of Stirling wherein, a hundred and eighteen years before, Queen Jane had brought James II. into the world, and in which the traitor Walter, son of Murdoch Duke of Albany, passed his last night on earth, the 18th of May, 1426. On this day many met who deemed each other had perished on the field.
Hither came the Lord Kilmaurs, now fifth Earl of Glencairn, wearing a black scarf over his armour as mourning for his father's fall; hither came also the regent's brother, John Abbot of Paisley, lord high treasurer; William Commendator of Culross, the comptroller of Scotland; and David Panater, the classic bishop of Ross, who was still secretary of state; Lord Errol, the high constable; the Earls of Cassilis, Mar, and many others, including the lairds of Fawside and Preston.
Arran was pale, and his eye was red and feverish. He still wore the suit of hacked and dinted mail, which he had never put off since the day on which he fought the fatal battle. It had lost all its brilliance; and he was now without his splendid orders of St. Andrew, St. Michael, and the Golden Fleece, all of which he had lost in that dreadfulmêléewhen his main body closed with the English under the Earl of Warwick.
"Taunt me not, my lords," said he bitterly, in reply to the angry remarks of some who were present; "I feel too keenly my own position and this crisis of the national affairs. Alas!" he added, striking his gauntleted hand on the oak table, "I can never more hold up my crest in Scotland; and it is a crest, sirs, that has never yet stooped, even to those kings with whom we have been allied."
"Say not so, my lord," said the gentle Mary of Lorraine, on whom the countesses of Yarrow, Huntly, Mar, and Athole were in attendance, and who felt a sympathy for the somewhat unmerited shame that stung the proud heart of Arran; "do not blame yourself for having fought this field of Pinkey."
"I do not blame myself for having fought, but for having lost it, madam."
"After this admission, my lord, even your enemies can have nothing more to urge."
"Nay," said the fierce young Earl of Glencairn, while his eyes shot a baleful gleam, "lay the blame on those hireling Germans of Pieter Mewtas and those heretical Spaniards, whose graves I hope to dig in some deep glen between the Torwood and the Tweed. What availed our old-fashioned battle-axes, our mauls and maces, spears and bows, against gunpowder and the close-volleyed shot of culverins and arquebuses?"
"The English are loitering in Lothian still," observed the Earl of Cassilis, "and the dead are yet unburied on the field."
"Woe is me!" added the abbot of Paisley, who fought there among the band of monks, "how close and thick the slain were lying!"
"Yea, my lord abbot; Duke Somerset's plunderers may win a bushel of golden spurs for the Lombard Jews in London, if they choose to glean among the dead men's heels—my brave father's among the rest," said Glencairn; "for, shot dead by a Spanish arquebuse, he fell by my side, when together we attempted to ford the water of the Esk."
"Butyouescaped, my Lord Kilmaurs," said Arran significantly; for he knew well the secret treason of the father and son, and cordially hated them both.
"Escaped by favour of the patron saint of Scotland," added the abbot of Paisley, to soften the taunt of which he dreaded the result.
"Escaped by favour of a sharp sword and fleet horse," rejoined Glencairn sourly; "for I may assure ye, sirs, that the patron saint of Scotland seemed to have other business on hand than attending to any of us on that day—my unworthy self in particular."
"Or it might be that the smoke of the gunpowder bewildered him, as it did his grace the regent," was the taunting surmise of Cassilis.
"And now, my brave Fawside," said Arran, turning to Florence, as he felt the earl's insolence, and wished to change the conversation, "what recompense can I give you for your services—for your valour on that fatal tenth of September."
"I have performed no services superior to those of other men, my lord," said Florence modestly.
"Do you consider bearing to me the letters of Henry of Valois; that covering our retreat at Inveresk, and routing by three desperate charges the demi-lances of Vane and the Spaniards of Gamboa; that saving the life of the Countess of Yarrow, and assisting to escort the queen to Stirling, are no services?"
"Lord regent, they were but duties which every loyal gentleman owed to the crown, and nothing more."
"I dispute while I admire your modest spirit. You shall be a knight, as your father was; though that is but a meagre recompense as knighthoods go in these days of ours. Have you no boon to ask?"
Florence glanced timidly towards the Countess of Yarrow, and was silent, though his poor heart was beating with love and anxiety. Claude Hamilton detected the glance, rapid and covert though it was, and frowned so deeply, that Arran, though unable to understand what new turn matters had taken between these troublesome and hereditary enemies, was too politic to notice it, but held out his right hand to the old baron, saying,—
"And thou, stout kinsman, I rejoice to see thee safe, for I heard somewhat of a dangerous wound."
"Nay, Arran, I am free even of a scratch."
"'Twas not your fault, laird, if you escaped so well."
Preston felt the compliment these words conveyed, and bowed low in reply. These conversational remarks over, the regent and others were about to resume the consideration of the present warlike and political crisis, when the constable of the castle entered hurriedly to announce "a messenger from Edinburgh, with tidings for my lord regent."
"Admit him instantly," exclaimed Arran, starting from his seat; and all eyes were turned towards the door.
The messenger appeared, clad still in his riding-cloak, armour, and muddy boots, the spurs of which bore traces of blood, for he had ridden hard and fast.
"The Master of Lyle!" exclaimed Arran. "Speak, sir, are the English advancing hither!"
"Nay, my lord regent—the reverse," replied the master smiling.
"Retreating?"
"Yes, as I myself have seen," replied Lyle gaily enough, though he was one of the traitor faction, or had been so until the merciless slaughter of Pinkey soured his heart against England. "This day at noon the Duke of Somerset broke up from his camp and commenced his homeward march, drawing together all his ravagers and foraging parties, while his fleet, under the Lord Clinton, has already left the Firth of Forth, and sailed towards their own seas."
This intelligence, which other messengers soon confirmed, caused the utmost rejoicing in the minds of all save Arran, who, covered with shame and mortification by his late defeat, was longing for another trial of strength with the foe, while Mary of Lorraine was desirous of peace at any price, as she felt sure thatnowthe Scots would never break their ancient league with France; and that the fatal events of the 10th September, would soon place the regency of the realm in her own hands, and thus enable her to advance the interest of the House of Guise and the Church of Rome.
To keep Florence near her own person, as she found him useful, faithful, and liked his society, she made him captain of her guard, in place of Livingstone of Champfleurie; but the Countess of Yarrow was no longer at court, as Claude Hamilton, in his capacity of tutor or guardian, appointed by the will of her father the earl, had removed her to Edinburgh. Thus Florence felt an irrepressible gloom over him, a moodiness of spirit, which not even the dazzling favour, or seductive society of Mary of Lorraine could relieve.
The English Protector had fortunately neither the enterprise nor firmness of mind to improve the victory he had won, by making a rapid march to Stirling,—a movement by which he might perhaps have secured the great object of his wanton and daring campaign, the person of the young queen, before she could be sent to France. Instead of this decisive advance, which, at all events would have complicated and protracted the war, he wasted his time in petty ravages throughout the Lothians; and on hearing tidings of a conspiracy formed against him in England, he made all preparations for a sudden retreat, and finally did so, on the 18th September, thus remaining exactly one week after the battle was won.
The events of this campaign, together with an inroad made on the 8th September, by the Lord Wharton, and Mathew Stuart, the outlawed Earl of Lennox, who with five thousand men, ravaged all the Western Borders and stormed the stronghold of Castle-milk, destroyed the town of Annan, and blew up its church, increased the general indignation of the people at the rash attempts to force them into a matrimonial alliance with England; and now, by the affectionate energy of Mary of Lorraine, prompt measures were at once adopted for the transmission of the little queen to France.
This proposal was warmly received by Monsieur d'Oysell the ambassador of Henry II., who assured the Scottish peers that the House of Valois would never fail in maintaining the ancient alliance which had subsisted between the two countries since the days of Charlemagne.
"And be assured, my lords," added Mary of Lorraine, who had all the boldness which characterized the House of Guise, "that the dauphin of France, heir of the first kingdom in Europe, is a more suitable consort for Mary of Scotland than this English king, whose pretensions to her hand have been supported by every violence and barbarity of which the worst of men are capable."
Soon after these proceedings, the Sieur Nicholas de Villegaignon, in the same ship which brought Florence from France, anchored in the Firth of Forth, to receive the queen, who, with her train, had been removed to the sequestered priory of Inchmahoma, or "the Isle of Rest" in the Loch of Menteith.
"Thus," according to one of our historians, "England discovered that the idea that a free country was to be compelled into a pacific matrimonial alliance amid the groans of its dying citizens, and the flames of its cities and seaports, was revolting and absurd!"
Such was thesequelto the campaign of 1547.
This dowry now our Scottish virgin brings,A nation famous for a race of kings,By firmest leagues to France for ages join'd,With splendid feats and friendly ties combined,A happy presage of connubial joy,Which neither time nor tempests shall destroy,A people yet in battle unsubdued,Though all the land has been in blood imbued.Buchanan.
So wrote the most classic of Scottish scholars in hisEpithalamium, or "Ode on the marriage of Francis of Valois and Mary, sovereigns of France and Scotland," the ungrateful Buchanan; but we are somewhat anticipating history and our own narrative in the heading of our chapter.
Inchmahoma, the secure and temporary abode of the two queens and their court, is a singularly beautiful islet, so small and so green, in the midst of the lake of Menteith, that when viewed from the mountains it resembles a large emerald in the centre of a shield of silver.
Of the Augustinian priory—which was founded in the twelfth century by Edgar, King of Scotland (the son of Cean-mhor), a prince who reigned only nine years, but lived "reverenced and beloved by the good, and so formidable to the bad, that in all his reign there was no sedition or fear of a foreign enemy,"—there remainsnowbut one beautiful gothic arch, the dormitory, and the vaults embosomed in a grove of aged and mossgrown timber. These trees are all chestnuts, and were planted by the canons before the Reformation. A few decaying fruit trees, and traces of a terrace, show where the garden of these sequestered churchmen lay; and where, in her sportive glee, the little queen of Scots with her auburn hair streaming behind her, played for many an hour with the ladies of her mother's train; and heard the white-bearded fathers of St. Augustine tell old tales of their holy isle, and show the oak chair wherein the stout King Robert sat when, in 1310, four years before Bannockburn, he came there to visit them; and legends of the stalwart Earls of Menteith, whose ruined castle stands on the Isle of Tulla, and whose graves are in Mahoma; of Arnchly, or "the bloody field of the sword," where, at the western end of the loch, stood a little chapel, wherein a monk said mass daily for the souls of the slain. And, in that terraced garden, to lighten care and chase sad thoughts away, Florence spent many an hour with this beautiful child, whose "pure and sinless brow" was encircled by the Scottish crown of thorns, and with her four Maries, who were the daughters of four loyal lords,—all women celebrated in after life—by song, by tradition, and by Scotland's brave but mournful history.
These young ladies—to wit, Mary Fleming, daughter of that Lord Fleming who fell at Pinkey; Mary Livingstone, Mary Seaton, and Mary Beaton (a kinswoman of the murdered cardinal), all received precisely the same education as their beautiful mistress, and were taught every language and accomplishment by the same instructors, and they all loved each other with deep affection.
Their favourite amusement waspalm play, which Florence taught them as he had learned it at the Louvre and Vendome. It is an old French game, which simply consisted in receiving a ball in the palm of the hand, and propelling it back again; but it became so fashionable in the kingdom of the Louis, that the nobles, when they lost large sums, and found their purses empty, to continue the play would stake their mantles, armour, poniards, jewels, or anything, in the ardour with which they pursued it.
On a little eminence close to the verge of the loch, there still remains a box-wood summer-house, with a fine old hawthorn in its centre; and in this the little queen and her mother, with the four Maries, are said to have sat in the autumn evenings, and heard Florence read the ancient chronicles of Scotland, theBruceof Barbour, and tell old tales of wizards and fairies, giants and dwarfs, till the light of day faded from the romantic summit of Ghoille-dun; till the vesper lights began to twinkle through the Gothic windows of the old priory upon the tremulous waters of the lake, and the ancient tower of Tulla, on the Earl's Isle (where dwelt Earl John, who in that year, 1547, was slain by the tutor of Appin) cast its lengthening shadow to the shore.
Amid the romantic mountain scenery which surrounded this lake and isle, Florence, while attending to the somewhat trivial and monotonous duties which the queen-mother assigned him as captain of her guard—duties which he varied occasionally by hawking on the long, narrow, promontory that runs out from the southern shore, or by fishing for pike by baited lines tied to the leg of a goose—a strange custom then common in Monteith—longed to be once again in the Scottish capital, for now he never saw, nor by rumour, letter, or report, heard from the Countess of Yarrow. His love affair seemed literally to be an end! The angry spirit of the old feud, thought he, may have gathered again in the heart of her kinsman; and there were times when he bitterly upbraided himself for having so sternly declined that kinsman's proffered friendship and alliance; "but, alas! what could I do?" he would exclaim—"the blood of my father, the blood of my brother, were alike upon his hands." Then he would strive to recal some of the anger, bitterness, and antipathy that filled his heart when he first left France on board of the galley of Villegaignon, with no other thought but to fulfil the terrible injunction of his mother's homeward summons—to slay the Laird of Preston as he would have slain a snake or tiger—but the soft image of Madeline arose before him, and he strove in vain!
If the sentiments of Claude Hamilton had really grown more hostile, and Madeline Home had learned to share them, she might also gradually learn to loveanother, or to wed in mere indifference, for she had many suitors—but he thrust these ideas aside, and vainly strove to think of other things.
So time passed slowly, heavily on, and brown October spread her russet hues upon the foliage; the swallows disappeared, and the woodcocks came through dark and misty skies from the shores of the Baltic to replace them.
By the old chesnuts that cast at eve their shadows on the grey walls of the ancient priory, and by the waves of the lake, poor Florence sat and pondered, till the sweet voice of Madeline seemed to come to his ear, amid the ripples that chafed on the little beach, and amid the rustle of the dry leaves, as the autumn gusts shook them down from the tossing branches.
Michaelmas came; but even in that remote Highland region, where,yet, so many old customs linger, few traces remained of the feast of St. Michael, as it was held of old; though Mary of Lorraine and the prior of the isle, or Earl John of Monteith, in Tulla Hall, partook of roasted goose, duly and solemnly, on the eleventh of the month, as an indispensable ceremony—all unaware that it was the last remnant of a creed that flourished long anterior to Christianity; for on this day the Pagans of old sacrificed a goose to Proserpine, the infernal goddess of Death.
'Twas November now; and the piercing wind that swept over the mountains seemed as if anxious to tear the last brown leaves of autumn from the naked trees; and then came snow to whiten the hills and valleys—to bury deep the rocky passes; and with it came the frost, to seal up the waters of the lake; for, unlike those of the present age, the winters of the olden time were somewhat Arctic in their aspect, with the strong and bitter Scottish frost, of which Annsæus Julius Floras, the satirical Roman poet and historian, wrote, when, armed with his pen, he entered the lists against the Emperor Adrian:—
"Ego nolo Cæsar esse,Ambulare per Brittanos,Scoticaspati pruinas."
And so the Highland winter came on with all its dreariness; and amid the cloistral seclusion of the Isle of Rest, and of Mary of Lorraine's little court, Florence thought ever of Madeline Home, and longed again to hear her voice—to see her smile—to touch her pretty hand. Mary of Lorraine saw that he was sad, pre-occupied, and thoughtful; and, with the natural gaiety of a Frenchwoman, she rallied him on the subject of his pensiveness, and bade him be of good cheer; for though man proposed, God disposed, and all would yet be well.
With early summer final preparations were made for the young queen's departure to France; and after sailing from Leith, round the stormy Pentland Firth, a gallant fleet of caravels dropped their anchors in the waters of the Clyde.
On a bright July morning, when the wooded hills that rise around the blue lake, the ancient priory, and the green Isle of Rest were clothed in their heaviest summer foliage, Florence was seated in the boxwood bower beside the old hawthorn-tree, reading to the little queen. With her dove-like eyes turned up to his face in wonder, she heard how the valiant paladin, Sir Palomides, sorrowed for la Belle Isonde—of the siege perilous, and the marvellous adventure of the sword in a stone; but now Mary of Lorraine approached them with a grave and mournful expression in her face; kissing her daughter, she desired her to withdraw, and the young sovereign at once obeyed. She now desired Florence, who had instantly arisen and closed his book, which was Sir Thomas Malori's romance of "King Arthur," to listen, as she had a serious matter whereon to confer with him.
"In a week," said she, "my daughter sails for France."
"France, within a week—so soon!" he exclaimed, with regret and surprise; "and in charge of whom, madam?"
"The lords Livingstone, Erskine, and a chosen and gallant train; but more immediately would I confide her to the care of one whose character I have studied carefully and closely, and in whom I can repose implicit faith."
"Your grace is right; but who is this honoured person?"
"Yourself, fair sir," replied Mary with one of her most beautiful smiles.
"I!" he exclaimed with astonishment.
"You, Florence Fawside."
"Oh, madam, you overwhelm me!" he replied, casting down his eyes: for his first thought was the total separation from Madeline Home, that was consequent to this important trust, which he durst not decline.
"You express more surprise than satisfaction," said the queen, who was an acute reader of the human face, and could read all its varying expressions. "You dislike the high trust I would repose in you?" she added, with a proud but peculiar smile.
"Oh, madam, do not say so—I but——"
"Or the journey by sea, or a residence in Paris, or I know not what.Mon Dieu!would that I could go with her to merry France again; but that may never, never be. I have her turbulent kingdom to watch over as a sacred trust; and as its regent—for regent of Scotland Ishallbe!—I must bide any time in Holyrood."
"Your majesty must pardon me; I dislike neither the journey nor the splendid trust you would repose in me; but—but——"
"But what?" Florence coloured deeply, played with the plume in his bonnet, and hesitated.
"Queens are unused to doubts; but since you seem so averse to my offer, I must e'en repose the greater trust in the Countess of Yarrow, who has already consented to go."
"Consented to go!—to leave me; has Madeline really consented?" exclaimed poor Florence, in his desperation forgetting all his prudence.
"She has," replied the smiling queen.
"Oh, madam, can she go thus and leave me behind—who love her so tenderly—so well!"
"What would you have her to do!" said Mary of Lorraine; "it is arranged that, in charge of the Lords Livingstone and Erskine, together with the Earl and Countess of Yarrow, my daughter proceeds to France in the ship of M. de Villegaignon."
"And this—this Earl of Yarrow?" muttered Florence in a breathless voice, as he grew pale with sudden grief, fury, and confusion.
"Is——" the queen hesitated provokingly.
"Who—who?—pardon my vehemence!"
"Cannot you guess?"
"Madam, my heart is sick; I have neither wit nor skill for riddles!" replied Florence, who trembled and became painfully agitated.
"Oh, thou man of little faith," said the queen merrily, as she patted his cheek with her white hand; and then drawing two documents from the velvet pouch which hung at her girdle—"Look here!" she added, "and read."
Florence read them over hurriedly, and could scarcely believe his eyes. The first was a contract of marriage between himself and Madeline, Countess of Yarrow, signed by Madeline's own hand, by her uncle, and the Regent Arran;his ownsignature alone being wanting. The second document was a patent of nobility under the great seal of Scotland, granting the title of Earl of Yarrow and Baron Fawside to Florence Fawside, for the leal and true service rendered by his father, umquhile Sir John of that ilk, at Flodden, and by the said Florence at Pinkeycleuch; and for the good and leal services ever rendered by his forbears to the throne and ancestors of our dearest sovereign lady the queen. With these documents was a letter from Claude Hamilton, at least a letter written by a notary's hand and signed by the signet ring of the old baron, who had but small skill in clerking, and in it there occurred the following passage:—
"We have in sooth been owre near neighbours to be gude friends, as our auld Scots proverb hath it; but all the reparation I promised in the Torwood—reparation to the living and to the dead—am I still willing to make Florence Fawside; and to end this old hereditary feud, which hath been the curse of our forefathers, and all quarrels anent our marches, rights of fuel and pasture, fishing and forestry, let them henceforth becomeone; and let your wedding with my kinswoman be the bond of amity between us, and Father John be the notary who frames it. 'Tis well! And my fair lands of Preston shall be hers, after me, for pin-money for holding and her abulyements. With the broad seas of Scotland and France between us, laird, we shall be better friends than our forefathers when they could scowl from their barred gates at ilk other owre the waste of Gladsmuir; and so I commit you to God. "PRESTON."
"Now, sir," said Mary of Lorraine; "will you sail to France with my daughter, or will you stay at home?"
"Ah, madam, pardon me," exclaimed Florence, sinking on one knee; "I am without thought or speech—I have no words, no voice to thank you."
"I want not thanks; but your signature to the contract, and the benediction of the old vicar of Tranent on the marriage."
"Madam, who has done me all this kindness—all this most undeserved honour?"
"Say not so—but your good angel has been your dearest friend—Mary of Lorraine—from the first, my poor boy, I loved and valued your worth."
"I knew it—I knew it!" he exclaimed, kissing her hands with ardour; "but your grace must show me some mode by which I may requite this."
"In France be faithful to my daughter, be tender and be true," said the queen in an imploring voice, that seemed full of soul.
"True to death,—true as I would be to Madeline Home!"
"Come, then, for the countess has arrived; she is now with the Abbot of Inchmahoma, and awaits you in the priory," said the queen with a winning smile, as she presented her hand to the bewildered young man.
* * * * * *
And thus our story, like a good old-fashioned comedy, ends by one marriage, and opens the way to another. After this, we have but little more to add.
On a bright morning in July, 1548, when the hot sun exhaled a silver mist from the broad blue bosom of the Clyde; when its fertile and beautiful shores lay steeped in golden haze that mellowed each grey rock, green wood, and purple hill, bay, beach, and headland that stretched in distance, far, far away; and when the sunbeams played gaily upon the long, swelling ripples that seemed to vibrate in the heat, and churned the waves into little lines of foam as they rolled on the pebbled shore, the thunder of brass cannon from "Balclutha's walls of towers," the double peak of Dunbarton, boomed in the still air, while the bells rang their farewell peal in the spire of many a village church, as the fleet of the Sieur Nicholas de Villegaignon, Knight of Malta, and Grand-admiral of France, got under weigh.
Above the lesser ships that spread their white sails to the eastern breeze, his great caravel towered conspicuously.
High-pooped, with turrets of pepper-box aspect, she had three enormous lanterns at her stern, which, like her bow, rose nearly thirty feet above the water-line, and had a gilded iron gallery before each row of painted windows. This poop was covered with every variety of cunning work in wood, painting, and gilding, with niches containing saints with swords, wheels, and scourges, the emblems of their martyrdom; while long carved mouldings ran along the bends between the brass muzzles of the polished culverins that rose above each other in tiers and glittered in the sun as its rays played upon the rippling water. Many a gay pennon and streamer floated gracefully out like long and silken ribands on the breeze; but high over all were the liongulesof Scotland, the silver fleur-de-lis of old France, and the family banner of the Grand-admiral de Villegaignon, which floated from the mizzen-mast head, bearing two anchors crossed behind his paternal shield.
On board of this gay caravel were Florence and his bride the countess, with the little queen and her two noble preceptors, the abbot of the Isle of Rest, and her three kinsmen, the Lord James Stuart (afterwards Regent Moray), the commendator of Holyrood, and the Lord Robert, Prior of Orkney, with a train of two hundred lords, ladies, and gentlemen, all of the best families in Scotland. The young bride of France was weeping bitterly, and the arm of the Countess of Yarrow was around her.
"The young queen," says the Captain Beaugue, a gallant French officer, who witnessed the embarkation, "was at that time one of the most perfect creatures the God of Nature ever formed, for her equal was nowhere to be found, nor had the world another child of her fortune and hopes."
As the ships got under weigh, and began to drop down the lovely river in the sunshine, and enveloped in the smoke of their cannon, which fired salutes, a cheer, which sounded somewhat like a wail of sorrow, as it floated over the Clyde, arose from a group that stood upon its shore, where Mary of Lorraine was lingering, to witness the departure of the daughter she was never to behold again; and there she watched the lessening sails until they melted into the haze and distance.
Escaping all the efforts of Somerset, who daringly sent out a fleet to intercept her, the young queen and her train landed in safety at Roscoff, three miles north of St. Pol de Leon, in the vicinity of Cape Finisterre, and on the 20th of August arrived at Morlaix; from there she proceeded to the palace of St. Germains, where Henry of Valois received her with every demonstration of respect and affection; and where he bestowed on the Earl of Yarrow, and the three great lords who accompanied her, the collar of St. Michael.
Soon after this, the Earl of Arran, on being created Duke of Chatelherault, in Poitou, and receiving the long-promised succours from France under General d'Essé d' Epainvilliers, solemnly abdicated the regency of Scotland in favour of Mary of Lorraine, who, by her perseverance, her wisdom, and skill, attained that power and dignity which had been so long the darling object of her wishes, and the ambition of the House of Guise.
I.—FAWSIDE OF THAT ILK.
In the text I have not exaggerated the antiquity of this old family, the ruins of whose fortalice are still existing in Haddingtonshire.
In the reign of David I., during a portion of the twelfth century, the name of William de Ffauside occurs in Parliament, and Edmundo de Ffauside witnesses the charter by which that monarch grants certain lands to Thor, the son of Swan of Tranent; and in the time of William the Lion, Gilbert de Fawside witnessed a charter of the monastery of St. Marie of Newbattle.
In 1246, Donatus Sybald witnessed a charter by De Quincy, Earl of Winton and Winchester, to Adam of Seaton,de Maritagio hoeredis Alani de Faside(Nisbet), and seven years afterwards Allan obliged himself "to pay yearly to the monks of Dunfermline,quinque solidas argenti," out of his lands.
In 1292 Robert de Fawside signed the Ragman Roll, and four years after we find a Roger and William of the same name swearing fealty to Edward I. Roger obtained a grant of the lands from Robert Bruce.
In 1306 Sir Christopher Seaton (who married Bruce's sister) was executed by Edward I. He was succeeded by his son, Sir Alexander Seaton, who obtained from his uncle, King Robert, the lands of Tranent, includingFawsideand Lougniddry, which formerly belonged to Alan de la Zouch. He and his second son were slain in battle by the English, near Kinghorn, in 1332, leaving a son, Sir Alexander, eighth baron of Seaton, the gallant defender of Berwick, whose sons, though given as hostages to Edward I., are alleged to have been basely hanged by that ferocious prince, in their father's view, before the walls of the town.
In 1350 a Sir Thomas of Fawside witnessed a charter of Duncan Earl of Fife to the monastery of Lindores; and in 1366 a charter of Malcolm of Fawside was witnessed by Symon Preston of Craigmillar, sheriff of Edinburgh. In 1371 William de Seaton granted to John of Fawside, for true and faithful service, the whole lands of Wester-Fawside, in the barony of Travernent,—a gift confirmed by Robert II. on the 20th of June.
In 1425 William of Fawside and Marjorie Fleming his spouse obtained the lands and will of Tolygart, and the lands of Wester-Fawside are confirmed to John of that ilk (Great Seal Office) in June.
In 1472 John Fawside married Margaret, daughter of Sir John Swinton of that ilk; and on his death, in 1503, she became prioress of the Cistercian nunnery at Elcho.
In 1528 there is a remission under the great seal to their son George Fawside of that ilk, for certain crimes committed by him; and in 1547, after the battle of Pinkey, as related in the story, his castle was burned by the English, after a stout resistance, and all within it were, as Patten relates, "brent and smoothered."
Twenty years after this, Thomas Fawside of that ilk signed the Bond of Association, for defending the coronation and government of the young king, James VI., against the supporters of his unfortunate mother; and in 1570, he was one of the assyse who tried Carkettle of Moreles for treason. In 1579, he became surety for Alexander Dalmahoy of that ilk, who, according to the fashion of the age, had employed his leisure time in besieging the house of Somerville (Pitcairn).
In 1600, on the occasion of the escape of James VI. from the plot of the Earl of Gourie, "this night (6th August) bonfires were sett upone Arthure Seate,Fawside Hill, and all places farre and neere" (Calderwood's Historie).
Sixteen years after, we find James Fawside of that ilk becoming pledge and surety for Sir Patrick Chirnsyde, of East Nisbet, who was accused before the Justiciary Court of abducting a girl of thirteen from Haddington; and in the same year (1616), his servitor, Robert Robertson, was "delatit for the crewel slaughter of umquhile John Fawside, in the barne of Fawside, with a knife or dagger, on the 10th of November," for which he was beheaded on the Castle Hill of Edinburgh (Pitcairn). On a dormer window of the ruins at Fawside are carved
I F—I E. 1618.
In 1631, Robert Fawside of that ilk is one of a commission for augmenting the stipend of Inveresk; and about this time the family sold their estate to Hamilton, a merchant in Edinburgh.
In 1666, James, eldest son of thedeceasedFawside of that ilk, witnessed a charter of George Earl of Haddington. He would seem to have been the last of the line. Their lands belong to Dundas of Arniston, and now nothing remains of this old Scottish family, but their ruined tower upon the hill, and in the church of Tranent, a half-defaced tablet inscribed
"John Fawside of that Ilk."
II.—THE BATTLE OF PINKEY.
Of this great defeat no trace remains in Scotland but the memory of its slaughter. Upwards of two thousand nobles and landed gentlemen fell, and the following list of a few of these, compiled from authorities too numerous to mention, may interest our Scottish readers, some of whom may find their ancestors therein:—William Cunninghame, Earl of Glencairn; Malcolm Lord Fleming, Lord High Chancellor; Allan Lord Cathcart; Alexander Lord Elphinstone; Henry Lord Methven; Robert Lord Grahame; John Master of Buchan; Robert Master of Erskine; John Master of Livingstone; Robert Master of Rosse; Adam Gordon, son of the Lord Aboyne; Sir James Gordon, Knight, of Lochinvar; Sir George Douglas, Knight, of the House of Angus; Sir Robert Douglas, Knight, of Lochlevin; Sir George Home, Knight, of Wedderburn; William Adamson of Craigcrook, near Edinburgh; Alexander Napier of Merchiston, near Edinburgh; John Brisbane of Bishoptoun, in Cunninghame; Alexander Frazer of Durris, Kincardine; Alexander Halyburton of Pitcur, in Angus; John Buchanan of Auchmar and Arnprior; John Norrie of Finarsie, Aberdeenshire; Gilbert MacIlvayne of Grummet, Argyle; Thomas Corrie of Kelwood, James Montfoyd of Montfoyd, Bernard Mure of Park, John Crawford of Giffertland, Quentin Hunter of Hunterstoun, Ayrshire; Robert Bothwick of Gordonshall, John Ramsay of Arbekie, John Strang of Balcaskie, William Barclay of Rhyud, David Reid of Aikenhead, James Wemyss of Myrecairnie, Andrew Anstruther (younger) of that ilk, Alexander Inglis of Tarvet, John Airth of Strathour-Wester, David Wemyss of Caskieberry, Stephen Duddingston of Kildinington, Fife; Ludovic Thornton of that ilk, Forfarshire; Cuthbert Aschennan of Park, John Gordon of Blaiket, John Ramsay of Sypland, Kirkcudbright; Thomas Hamilton of Priestfield, near Edinburgh; David Anderson of Inchcannon, in the barony of Errol; John Kincaid of Wester Lawes, in the barony of Kinnaird; John Leckie of that ilk, Stirlingshire; John Macdoull of Garthland, Wigton; Patrick Bissett of Lessindrum; Walter Macfarlane of Tarbet; Richard Melville of Baldovie, parson of Marytown; David Arbuthnot (younger) of that ilk, parson of Menmure; William Johnston of that ilk; Robert Munro of Foulis; John Murray of Abercairnie; David Murray of Auchtertyre; John Halket of Pitfirran; David and Robert Boswal, sons of the laird of Balmuto; Allan Lockhart of the Lee; Duncan Macfarlane of that ilk; Finlay Mhor, Farquharson of Invercauld, royal standard-bearer; George Henderson of Fordelhenderson; Alexander Skene of that ilk; James Innes of Rathmackenzie; Robert Leslie of Wardes; John Kinnaird of that ilk; William Cunninghame of Glengarnock; John and Arthur Forbes, sons of the Red Laird of Pitsligo; Cuthbert Hamilton of Candor, David Hamilton of Broomhill;[*] Gabriel Cunninghame of Craigends; John and Robert, sons of Sir Walter Lindsay of Edzell, who fell at Flodden; John Ogilvie of Durn; John Hamilton, merchant in the West Bow, Edinburgh; Walter Cullen, bailie of Aberdeen, and twenty-eight burghers of that city.
[*] Two brothers, slain when attempting to rescue the Lord Semple, who was taken prisoner.
Thesevensons of Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromarty are also said to have fallen, in this disastrous field; but their names do not appear in the "Scottish Baronage."
It was frequently named the Field of Inveresk and of Musselburgh.
In Bunbury Church, Cheshire, is a monument to Sir George Beeston, who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth for his bravery against the Armada in 1588. He died in 1601, at the age of 102, and would seem to have fought against the Scots at Pinkey. "Contra Scotos apudMusselborrow," is on his tomb.
In the following "Acquittaunce," rendered into English, the battle is styled Inveresk:—
"I, Walter Scot of Branxholm, Knight, grant me to have received from an honourable man, Sir Patrick Cheyne of Essilmont, Knight, the sum of eight score English nobles, for which I was bound and obliged to content and pay to Thomas Dacre of Lanercost, Knight, Englishman, taker of the said Sir Patrick at the field ofInveresk, for his ransom, of the which sum I hold me well-content and payed. In witness whereof, I have subscribed this my letter of acquittaunce with my hand, at Edinburgh, the 2nd March, 1548."—Aberdeen Collections, vol. ii.
THE END.
COX AND WYMAN, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON