Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle,And beside him Old Redcap sly;—"Now, tell me, thou sprite, who art meikle of might,"The death that I must die?""While thou shalt bear a charmed life,"And hold that life of me,"'Gainst lance and arrow, sword and knife,"I shall thy warrant be."Nor forged steel, nor hempen band,"Shall e'er thy limbs confine,"Till threefold ropes, of sifted sand,"Around thy body twine."If danger press fast, knock thrice on the chest,"With rusty padlocks bound;"Turn away your eyes, when the lid shall rise,"And listen to the sound."Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle,And Redcap was not by;And he called on a page, who was witty and sage,To go to the barmkin high."And look thou east, and look thou west,"And quickly come tell to me,"What troopers haste along the waste,"And what may their livery be."He looked o'er fell, and he looked o'er flat,But nothing, I wist, he saw,Save a pyot on a turret that satBeside a corby craw.The page he look'd at the skrieh[69]of day,But nothing, I wist, he saw,Till a horseman gray, in the royal array,Rode down the Hazel-shaw."Say, why do you cross o'er moor and moss?"So loudly cried the page;"I tidings bring, from Scotland's king,"To Soulis of Hermitage."He bids me tell that bloody warden,"Oppressor of low and high,"If ever again his lieges complain,"The cruel Soulis shall die."By traitorous slight they seized the knight,Before he rode or ran,And through the key-stone of the vault,They plunged him, horse and man.
Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle,And beside him Old Redcap sly;—"Now, tell me, thou sprite, who art meikle of might,"The death that I must die?"
"While thou shalt bear a charmed life,"And hold that life of me,"'Gainst lance and arrow, sword and knife,"I shall thy warrant be.
"Nor forged steel, nor hempen band,"Shall e'er thy limbs confine,"Till threefold ropes, of sifted sand,"Around thy body twine.
"If danger press fast, knock thrice on the chest,"With rusty padlocks bound;"Turn away your eyes, when the lid shall rise,"And listen to the sound."
Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle,And Redcap was not by;And he called on a page, who was witty and sage,To go to the barmkin high.
"And look thou east, and look thou west,"And quickly come tell to me,"What troopers haste along the waste,"And what may their livery be."
He looked o'er fell, and he looked o'er flat,But nothing, I wist, he saw,Save a pyot on a turret that satBeside a corby craw.
The page he look'd at the skrieh[69]of day,But nothing, I wist, he saw,Till a horseman gray, in the royal array,Rode down the Hazel-shaw.
"Say, why do you cross o'er moor and moss?"So loudly cried the page;"I tidings bring, from Scotland's king,"To Soulis of Hermitage.
"He bids me tell that bloody warden,"Oppressor of low and high,"If ever again his lieges complain,"The cruel Soulis shall die."
By traitorous slight they seized the knight,Before he rode or ran,And through the key-stone of the vault,They plunged him, horse and man.
O May she came, and May she gaed,By Goranberry green;And May she was the fairest maid,That ever yet was seen.O May she came, and May she gaed,By Goranberry tower;And who was it but cruel Lord Soulis,That carried her from her bower?He brought her to his castle gray,By Hermitage's side;Says—"Be content, my lovely May,"For thou shalt be my bride."With her yellow hair, that glittered fair,She dried the trickling tear;She sighed the name of Branxholm's heir,The youth that loved her dear."Now, be content, my bonny May,"And take it for your hame;"Or ever and ay shall ye rue the day,"You heard young Branxholm's name."O'er Branxholm tower, ere the morning hour,"When the lift[70]is like lead so blue;"The smoke shall roll white on the weary night,"And the flame shine dimly through."Syne he's ca'd on him Ringan Red,A sturdy kemp was he;From friend or foe, in border feid,Who never a foot would flee.Red Ringan sped, and the spearmen led,Up Goranberry slack;Aye, many a wight, unmatched in fight,Who never more came back.And bloody set the westering sun,And bloody rose he up;But little thought young Branxholm's heir,Where he that night should sup.He shot the roe-buck on the lee,The dun deer on the law;The glamour[71]sure was in his e'e,When Ringan nigh did draw.O'er heathy edge, through rustling sedge,He sped till day was set;And he thought it was his merrymen true,When he the spearmen met.Far from relief, they seized the chief;His men were far away;Through Hermitage slack, they sent him back,To Soulis' castle gray;Syne onward fure for Branxholm tower,Where all his merry men lay."Now, welcome, noble Branxholm's heir!"Thrice welcome," quoth Soulis, "to me!"Say, dost thou repair to my castle fair,"My wedding guest to be?"And lovely May deserves, per fay,"A brideman such as thee!"And broad and bloody rose the sun,And on the barmkin shone;When the page was aware of Red Ringan there,Who came riding all alone.To the gate of the tower Lord Soulis he speeds,As he lighted at the wall,Says—"Where did ye stable my stalwart steeds,"And where do they tarry all?""We stabled them sure, on the Tarras Muir;"We stabled them sure," quoth he:"Before we could cross that quaking moss,"They all were lost but me."He clenched his fist, and he knocked on the chest,And he heard a stifled groan;And at the third knock, each rusty lockDid open one by one.He turned away his eyes, as the lid did rise,And he listen'd silentlie;And he heard breathed slow, in murmurs low,"Beware of a coming tree!"In muttering sound the rest was drowned;No other word heard he;But slow as it rose the lid did close,With the rusty padlocks three.
O May she came, and May she gaed,By Goranberry green;And May she was the fairest maid,That ever yet was seen.
O May she came, and May she gaed,By Goranberry tower;And who was it but cruel Lord Soulis,That carried her from her bower?
He brought her to his castle gray,By Hermitage's side;Says—"Be content, my lovely May,"For thou shalt be my bride."
With her yellow hair, that glittered fair,She dried the trickling tear;She sighed the name of Branxholm's heir,The youth that loved her dear.
"Now, be content, my bonny May,"And take it for your hame;"Or ever and ay shall ye rue the day,"You heard young Branxholm's name.
"O'er Branxholm tower, ere the morning hour,"When the lift[70]is like lead so blue;"The smoke shall roll white on the weary night,"And the flame shine dimly through."
Syne he's ca'd on him Ringan Red,A sturdy kemp was he;From friend or foe, in border feid,Who never a foot would flee.
Red Ringan sped, and the spearmen led,Up Goranberry slack;Aye, many a wight, unmatched in fight,Who never more came back.
And bloody set the westering sun,And bloody rose he up;But little thought young Branxholm's heir,Where he that night should sup.
He shot the roe-buck on the lee,The dun deer on the law;The glamour[71]sure was in his e'e,When Ringan nigh did draw.
O'er heathy edge, through rustling sedge,He sped till day was set;And he thought it was his merrymen true,When he the spearmen met.
Far from relief, they seized the chief;His men were far away;Through Hermitage slack, they sent him back,To Soulis' castle gray;Syne onward fure for Branxholm tower,Where all his merry men lay.
"Now, welcome, noble Branxholm's heir!"Thrice welcome," quoth Soulis, "to me!"Say, dost thou repair to my castle fair,"My wedding guest to be?"And lovely May deserves, per fay,"A brideman such as thee!"
And broad and bloody rose the sun,And on the barmkin shone;When the page was aware of Red Ringan there,Who came riding all alone.
To the gate of the tower Lord Soulis he speeds,As he lighted at the wall,Says—"Where did ye stable my stalwart steeds,"And where do they tarry all?"
"We stabled them sure, on the Tarras Muir;"We stabled them sure," quoth he:"Before we could cross that quaking moss,"They all were lost but me."
He clenched his fist, and he knocked on the chest,And he heard a stifled groan;And at the third knock, each rusty lockDid open one by one.
He turned away his eyes, as the lid did rise,And he listen'd silentlie;And he heard breathed slow, in murmurs low,"Beware of a coming tree!"
In muttering sound the rest was drowned;No other word heard he;But slow as it rose the lid did close,With the rusty padlocks three.
Now rose with Branxholm's ae brother,The Teviot, high and low;Bauld Walter by name, of meikle fame,For none could bend his bow.O'er glen and glade, to Soulis there spedThe fame of his array,And that Tiviotdale would soon assailHis towers and castle gray.With clenched fist, he knocked on the chest,And again he heard a groan;And he raised his eyes as the lid did rise,But answer heard he none.The charm was broke, when the spirit spoke,And it murmur'd sullenlie,—"Shut fast the door, and for evermore,"Commit to me the key."Alas! that ever thou raised'st thine eyes,"Thine eyes to look on me!"Till seven years are o'er, return no more,"For here thou must not be."Think not but Soulis was wae to yieldHis warlock chamber o'er;He took the keys from the rusty lock,That never was ta'en before.He threw them o'er his left shoulder,With meikle care and pain;And he bade it keep them, fathoms deep,Till he returned again.And still, when seven years are o'er,Is heard the jarring sound;When slowly opes the charmed doorOf the chamber under ground.And some within the chamber doorHave cast a curious eye;But none dare tell, for the spirits in hell,The fearful sights they spy.
Now rose with Branxholm's ae brother,The Teviot, high and low;Bauld Walter by name, of meikle fame,For none could bend his bow.
O'er glen and glade, to Soulis there spedThe fame of his array,And that Tiviotdale would soon assailHis towers and castle gray.
With clenched fist, he knocked on the chest,And again he heard a groan;And he raised his eyes as the lid did rise,But answer heard he none.
The charm was broke, when the spirit spoke,And it murmur'd sullenlie,—"Shut fast the door, and for evermore,"Commit to me the key.
"Alas! that ever thou raised'st thine eyes,"Thine eyes to look on me!"Till seven years are o'er, return no more,"For here thou must not be."
Think not but Soulis was wae to yieldHis warlock chamber o'er;He took the keys from the rusty lock,That never was ta'en before.
He threw them o'er his left shoulder,With meikle care and pain;And he bade it keep them, fathoms deep,Till he returned again.
And still, when seven years are o'er,Is heard the jarring sound;When slowly opes the charmed doorOf the chamber under ground.
And some within the chamber doorHave cast a curious eye;But none dare tell, for the spirits in hell,The fearful sights they spy.
When Soulis thought on his merry men now,A woeful wight was he;Says—"Vengeance is mine, and I will not repine!"But Branxholm's heir shall die."Says—"What would ye do, young Branxholm,"Gin ye had me, as I have thee?""I would take you to the good greenwood,"And gar your ain hand wale[72]the tree.""Now shall thine ain hand wale the tree,"For all thy mirth and meikle pride;"And May shall chuse, if my love she refuse,"A scrog bush thee beside."They carried him to the good greenwood,Where the green pines grew in a row;And they heard the cry, from the branches high,Of the hungry carrion crow.They carried him on from tree to tree,The spiry boughs below;"Say, shall it be thine, on the tapering pine,"To feed the hooded crow?""The fir-tops fall by Branxholm wall,"When the night blast stirs the tree,"And it shall not be mine to die on the pine,"I loved in infancie."Young Branxholm turned him, and oft looked back,And aye he passed from tree to tree;Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly[73]spake,"O sic a death is no for me!"And next they passed the aspin gray;Its leaves were rustling mournfullie:"Now, chuse thee, chuse thee, Branxholm gay!"Say, wilt thou never chuse the tree?""More dear to me is the aspin gray,"More dear than any other tree;"For beneath the shade, that its branches made,"Have past the vows of my love and me."Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly spake,Until he did his ain men see,With witches' hazel in each steel cap,In scorn of Soulis gramarye;Then shoulder height for glee he lap,"Methinks I spye a coming tree!""Aye, many may come, but few return,"Quo' Soulis, the lord of gramarye;"No warrior's hand in fair Scotland"Shall ever dint a wound on me!""Now, by my sooth," quo' bauld Walter,"If that be true we soon shall see."His bent bow he drew, and the arrow was true,But never a wound or scar had he.Then up bespake him, true Thomas,He was the lord of Ersyltoun:"The wizard's spell no steel can quell,"Till once your lances bear him down."They bore him down with lances bright,But never a wound or scar had he;With hempen bands they bound him tight,Both hands and feet on the Nine-stane lee.That wizard accurst, the bands he burst;They mouldered at his magic spell;And neck and heel, in the forged steel,They bound him against the charms of hell.That wizard accurst, the bands he burst;No forged steel his charms could bide;Then up bespake him, true Thomas,"We'll bind him yet, whate'er betide."The black spae-book from his breast he took,Impressed with many a warlock spell:And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott,Who held in awe the fiends of hell.They buried it deep, where his bones they sleep,That mortal man might never it see:But Thomas did save it from the grave,When he returned from Faërie.The black spae-book from his breast he took,And turned the leaves with curious hand;No ropes, did he find, the wizard could bind,But threefold ropes of sifted sand.They sifted the sand from the Nine-stane burn,And shaped the ropes so curiouslie;But the ropes would neither twist nor twine,For Thomas true and his gramarye.The black spae-book from his breast he took,And again he turned it with his hand;And he bade each lad of Teviot addThe barley chaff to the sifted sand.The barley chaff to the sifted sandThey added still by handfulls nine;But Redcap sly unseen was by,And the ropes would neither twist nor twine.And still beside the Nine-stane burn,Ribbed like the sand at mark of sea,The ropes, that would not twist nor turn,Shaped of the sifted sand you see.The black spae-book true Thomas he took;Again its magic leaves he spread;And he found that to quell the powerful spell,The wizard must be boiled in lead.On a circle of stones they placed the pot,On a circle of stones but barely nine;They heated it red and fiery hot,Till the burnished brass did glimmer and shine.They rolled him up in a sheat of lead,A sheat of lead for a funeral pall;They plunged him in the cauldron red,And melted him, lead, and bones, and all.At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron stillThe men of Liddesdale can shew;And on the spot, where they boiled the pot,The spreat[74]and the deer-hair[75]ne'er shall grow.
When Soulis thought on his merry men now,A woeful wight was he;Says—"Vengeance is mine, and I will not repine!"But Branxholm's heir shall die."
Says—"What would ye do, young Branxholm,"Gin ye had me, as I have thee?""I would take you to the good greenwood,"And gar your ain hand wale[72]the tree."
"Now shall thine ain hand wale the tree,"For all thy mirth and meikle pride;"And May shall chuse, if my love she refuse,"A scrog bush thee beside."
They carried him to the good greenwood,Where the green pines grew in a row;And they heard the cry, from the branches high,Of the hungry carrion crow.
They carried him on from tree to tree,The spiry boughs below;"Say, shall it be thine, on the tapering pine,"To feed the hooded crow?"
"The fir-tops fall by Branxholm wall,"When the night blast stirs the tree,"And it shall not be mine to die on the pine,"I loved in infancie."
Young Branxholm turned him, and oft looked back,And aye he passed from tree to tree;Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly[73]spake,"O sic a death is no for me!"
And next they passed the aspin gray;Its leaves were rustling mournfullie:"Now, chuse thee, chuse thee, Branxholm gay!"Say, wilt thou never chuse the tree?"
"More dear to me is the aspin gray,"More dear than any other tree;"For beneath the shade, that its branches made,"Have past the vows of my love and me."
Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly spake,Until he did his ain men see,With witches' hazel in each steel cap,In scorn of Soulis gramarye;Then shoulder height for glee he lap,"Methinks I spye a coming tree!"
"Aye, many may come, but few return,"Quo' Soulis, the lord of gramarye;"No warrior's hand in fair Scotland"Shall ever dint a wound on me!"
"Now, by my sooth," quo' bauld Walter,"If that be true we soon shall see."His bent bow he drew, and the arrow was true,But never a wound or scar had he.
Then up bespake him, true Thomas,He was the lord of Ersyltoun:"The wizard's spell no steel can quell,"Till once your lances bear him down."
They bore him down with lances bright,But never a wound or scar had he;With hempen bands they bound him tight,Both hands and feet on the Nine-stane lee.
That wizard accurst, the bands he burst;They mouldered at his magic spell;And neck and heel, in the forged steel,They bound him against the charms of hell.
That wizard accurst, the bands he burst;No forged steel his charms could bide;Then up bespake him, true Thomas,"We'll bind him yet, whate'er betide."
The black spae-book from his breast he took,Impressed with many a warlock spell:And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott,Who held in awe the fiends of hell.
They buried it deep, where his bones they sleep,That mortal man might never it see:But Thomas did save it from the grave,When he returned from Faërie.
The black spae-book from his breast he took,And turned the leaves with curious hand;No ropes, did he find, the wizard could bind,But threefold ropes of sifted sand.
They sifted the sand from the Nine-stane burn,And shaped the ropes so curiouslie;But the ropes would neither twist nor twine,For Thomas true and his gramarye.
The black spae-book from his breast he took,And again he turned it with his hand;And he bade each lad of Teviot addThe barley chaff to the sifted sand.
The barley chaff to the sifted sandThey added still by handfulls nine;But Redcap sly unseen was by,And the ropes would neither twist nor twine.
And still beside the Nine-stane burn,Ribbed like the sand at mark of sea,The ropes, that would not twist nor turn,Shaped of the sifted sand you see.
The black spae-book true Thomas he took;Again its magic leaves he spread;And he found that to quell the powerful spell,The wizard must be boiled in lead.
On a circle of stones they placed the pot,On a circle of stones but barely nine;They heated it red and fiery hot,Till the burnished brass did glimmer and shine.
They rolled him up in a sheat of lead,A sheat of lead for a funeral pall;They plunged him in the cauldron red,And melted him, lead, and bones, and all.
At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron stillThe men of Liddesdale can shew;And on the spot, where they boiled the pot,The spreat[74]and the deer-hair[75]ne'er shall grow.
BY THE EDITOR.
The tradition regarding the death of Lord Soulis, however singular, is not without a parallel in the real history of Scotland. The same extraordinary mode of cookery was actually practised (horresco referens) upon the body of a sheriff of the Mearns. This person, whose name was Melville of Glenbervie, bore his faculties so harshly, that he became detested by the barons of the country. Reiterated complaints of his conduct having been made to James I. (or, as others say, to the Duke of Albany), the monarch answered, in a moment of unguarded impatience, "Sorrow gin the sheriff were sodden, and supped in broo'!" The complainers retired, perfectly satisfied. Shortly after, the lairds of Arbuthnot, Mather, Laurestoun, and Pittaraw, decoyed Melville to the top of the hill of Garvock, above Lawrencekirk, under pretence of a grand hunting party. Upon this place (still called theSheriff's Pot), the barons had prepared a fire and a boiling cauldron, into which they plunged the unlucky sheriff. After he wassodden(as the king termed it), for a sufficient time, the savages, that they might literally observe the royal mandate, concluded the scene of abomination, by actually partaking of the hell-broth.
The three lairds were outlawed for this offence; and Barclay, one of their number, to screen himself from justice, erectedthe kaim (i.e.the camp, or fortress) of Mathers, which stands upon a rocky, and almost inaccessible peninsula, overhanging the German ocean. The laird of Arbuthnot is said to have eluded the royal vengeance, by claiming the benefit of the law of clan Macduff, concerning which the curious reader will find some particulars subjoined. A pardon, or perhaps a deed of replegiation, founded upon that law, is said to be still extant among the records of the viscount of Arbuthnot.
Pellow narrates a similar instance of atrocity, perpetrated after the death of Muley Ismael, emperor of Morocco, in 1727, when the inhabitants of Old Fez, throwing off all allegiance to his successor, slew "Alchyde Boel le Rosea, their old governor, boiling his flesh, and many, through spite, eating thereof, and throwing what they could not eat of it to the dogs."—SeePellow'sTravels in South Barbary. And we may add, to such tales, the oriental tyranny of Zenghis Khan, who immersed seventy Tartar Khans in as many boiling cauldrons.
The punishment of boiling seems to have been in use among the English at a very late period, as appears from the following passage inStowe'sChronicle:—"The 17th of March (1524), Margaret Davy, a maid, was boiled at Smithfield, for poisoning of three households that she had dwelled in." But unquestionably the usual practice of Smithfield cookery, about that period, was by a different application of fire.
Though it is rather foreign to the proper subject of this work, many readers may not be displeased to have some account of the curious privilege enjoyed by the descendants of the famousMacduff, thane of Fife, and thence called the Law of the Clan, or family, bearing his name.
When the revolution was accomplished, in which Macbeth was dethroned and slain, Malcolm, sensible of the high services of the thane of Fife, is said, by our historians, to have promised to grant the first three requests he should make. Macduff accordingly demanded, and obtained, first, that he and his successors, lords of Fife, should place the crown on the king's head at his coronation; secondly, that they should lead the vanguard of the army, whenever the royal banner was displayed; and, lastly, this privilege of clan Macduff, whereby any person, being related to Macduff within the ninth degree, and having committed homicide inchaude melle(without premeditation), should, upon flying to Macduff's Cross, and paying a certain fine, obtain remission of their guilt. Such, at least, is the account given of the law by all our historians. Nevertheless, there seems ground to suspect, that the privilege did not amount to an actual and total remission of the crime, but only to a right of being exempted from all other courts of jurisdiction, except that of the lord of Fife. The reader is presented with an old document, in which the law of clan Macduff is pleaded on behalf of one of the ancestors of Moray of Abercairny; and it is remarkable that he does not claim any immunity, but solely a right of being re-pledged, because his cause had already been tried by Robert earl of Fife, the sole competent judge. But the privilege of being answerable only to the chief of their own clan, was, to the descendants of Macduff, almost equivalent to an absolute indemnity.
Macduff's Cross was situated near Lindores, on the march dividing Fife from Strathern. The form of this venerable monument unfortunately offended the zeal of the reformer, Knox, and it was totally demolished by his followers. The pedestal,a solid block of stone, alone escaped the besom of destruction. It bore an inscription, which, according to the apocryphal account of Sir Robert Sibbald, was a mixture of Latin, Saxon, Danish, and old French. Skene has preserved two lines:—
Propter Makgridim et hoc oblatum,Accipe Smeleridem super lampade limpidæ labrum
Propter Makgridim et hoc oblatum,Accipe Smeleridem super lampade limpidæ labrum
Skene, de verb. sig. voce Clan Macduff.
The full inscription, real or pretended, may be found in Sir Robert Sibbald'sHistory of Fife, and in James Cunninghame'sEssay upon Macduff's Cross, together with what is called a translation, or rather paraphrase, of the piebald jargon which composes it. In Gough's edition of Camden's Britannia, a different and more intelligible version is given, on the authority of a Mr Douglas of Newburgh. The cross was dedicated to a St Macgider. Around the pedestal are tumuli, said to be the graves of those, who, having claimed the privilege of the law, failed in proving their consanguinity to the thane of Fife. Such persons were instantly executed. The people of Newburgh believe, that the spectres of these criminals still haunt the ruined cross, and claim that mercy for their souls, which they had failed to obtain for their mortal existence.
The late Lord Hailes gives it as his opinion, that the indulgence was only to last till the tenth generation from Macduff.
Fordun and Wintoun state, that the fine, to be paid by the person taking sanctuary, was twenty-four merks for a gentleman, and twelve merks for a yeoman. Skene affirms it to be nine cows, and a colpindach (i.e.a quey, or cow of one or two years old).—Fordun, lib. 5, cap. 9.;Wintoun's Cronykel, b. 6, ch. 19.;Skene, ut supra.The last cited author avers, that he has seen an old evident, bearing, that Spens of Wormestoun, being of Macduff's kin, enjoyed this privilege for the slaughter of one Kinnermonth. The following deed, of a like nature, is published from a copy, accurately transcribed from an original deed, in the hands of the late Mr Cuming, of the Herald-Office, Edinburgh, by Messrs Brown and Gibb, librarians to theFaculty of Advocates. The blanks are occasioned by some parts of the deed having been obliterated.
"In nomine domini amen. Per presens publicum instrumentum, cunctis pateat evidenter quod anno ejusdem domini mo. cco. nonagesimo primo, indictione quinta decima Pontificatus sanctissimi in Christo Patris, ac domini nostri Clementis divina providentia Papæ septimi anno quarto decimo mensis Decembris die septimo. In mei notarii publici et testium subscriptorum presentia personaliter constitutus, nobilis et potens vir dominus Alexander de Moravia, miles, cum prolucutoribus suis, domino Bernardo de Howden, milite, et Johanne de Logie, vocatus per rotulos indictamentorum super interfectione Willielmi de Spalden coram Justiciariis; viz. Johanne de Drummond milite, Mauricio de Drummond.
"Filium Willielmi in judicio sedentibus apud Foulis et potestatus erat, quod ex quo semel pro interfectione dicti hominis antea fuit per indictamentum judicio vocatus et replegiatus ad legem de clan Macduff, per dominum Robertum comitem de Fyfe non tenebatur coram quocunque alio de dicta interfectione judiciari, quosque dicta lex de clan Macduff suo intemerata privilegio de ipso ut prædicitur ad ipsam legem atto. Petens ipsum legaliter deliberari, et per ipsos vel eorum indictamentis sic indebite ulterius non vexari. Quiquidem judicis nolle dictum dominum Alexandrum deliberarie si ipsum bene vellent respectuare eousque quod dominus de Brochepen justiciarius capitalis dicta actione ordinaverunt quod sibi et suo concilio expedientius videretur, quiquidem dominus Alexander et sui prolucutores eorum petitione et prestatione et predictorum judicum responsione, petierunt a me notario publico infra scripto præsentium acta fuerunt hæc apud Foulis in itinere justiciario ibidem tento anno mense die et pontificatu prescriptis per nobilibus et discretis viris dominis Mauricio archidiacono Dumblan, Willielmo de Grame, Vinfrido de Cunyngham, David de Militibus, Moritio de Drummond, Waltero de Drummond, Walterde Moravia, Scutiferis testibus ad præmissa vocatis specialiter et rogatis.
"Et ego Johannes Symonis Clericus Dunkeldensis publicus imperial notarius prædicti domini Alexandri comparitione ipsius petitione et protestatione desuper justiciariorum responsione omnibusque aliis et singulis dum sic ut priusquam et agerentur una cum prenominatis testibus presens interfui eaque sic fieri vidi et in hanc forman publicam, redegi manuque mea propria scripsi requisitus et roga om omnium premissorum signo meo consueto signavi."
Alas! that e'er thou raised'st thine eyes,Thine eyes to look on me.—P.261. v. 5.
Alas! that e'er thou raised'st thine eyes,Thine eyes to look on me.—P.261. v. 5.
The idea of Lord Soulis' familiar seems to be derived from the curious story of the spirit Orthone and the lord of Corasse, which, I think, the reader will be pleased to see, in all its Gothic simplicity, as translated from Froissart, by the lord of Berners.
"It is great marveyle to consyder one thynge, the whiche was shewed to me in the earl of Foix house at Ortayse, of hym that enfourmed me of the busynesse at Juberothe (Aljubarota, where the Spaniards, with their French allies, were defeated by the Portugueze, A.D. 1385). He showed me one thyng that I have oftentymes thought on sithe, and shall do as longe as I live. As thys squyer told me that of trouthe the next day after the battayl was thus fought, at Juberoth, the erle of Foiz knewe it, whereof I had gret marveyle; for the said Sonday, Monday, and Tuesday, the erle was very pensyf, and so sadde of chere, that no man could have a worde of hym. And all the same three days he wold nat issue out of his chambre, nor speke to any man, though they were never so nere about hym. And, on the Tuesday night, he called to him his brother Arnault Guyllyam, and sayd to hym, with a soft voice, 'Our men hath had to do, whereof I am sorrie; for it is come of them, by their voyage, as I sayd or they departed.' Arnault Guyllyam, who was a sage knight, and knewe right well his brother's condicions (i.e.temper), stode still and gave none answere. And than the erle, who thought to declare his mind more plainlye, for long he had borne the trouble thereof in his herte, spake agayn more higher than he dyd before, and sayd, 'By God, Sir Arnault, it is as I saye, and shortely ye shall here tidynges thereof; but the countrey of Byerne, this hundred yere, never lost such a losse, at no journey, as they have done now in Portugal.'—Dyvers knyghtes and squyers, that were there present, and herde hym say so, stode styll, and durst nat speke, but they remembered his wordes. And within a ten days after, they knewe the trouthe thereof, by such as had been at the busynesse, and there they shewed every thinge as it was fortuned at Juberoth. Than the erle renewed agayn his dolour, and all the countreye were in sorrowe, for they had lost their parentes, brethren, chyldren, and frendes. 'Saint Mary!' quod I to the squyer that shewed me thys tale, 'how is it, that the earl of Foiz could know, on one daye, what was done, within a day or two before, beyng so farre off?'—'By my faythe, Sir,' quod he, 'as it appeared well, he knewe it.'—Than he is a diviner,' quod I, 'or els he hath messangers, that flyethe with the wynde, or he must needs have some craft.' The squyer began to laugh, and sayd, "Surely he must know it, by some art of negromansye or otherwyse. To saye the trouthe, we cannot tell how it is, but by our ymaginacions.'—'Sir,' quod I, 'suche ymaginacions as ye have therein, if it please you to shew me, I wold be gladde therof; and if it be suche a thynge as ought to be secrete, I shall nat publysshe it, nor as long as I am in thys countrey I shall never speke worde thereof.'—'I praye you therof,' quod the squyer, 'for I wolde nat it shulde be knowen, that I shulde speke thereof. But I shall shewe you, as dyvers men speketh secretelye, whan they be togyder as frendes.' Than he drew me aparte into a corner of the chapell at Ortayse, and then began his tale, and sayd:
"It is well a twenty yeares paste, that there was, in this countre, a barone, called Raymond, lorde of Corasse, whyche is a sevyn leagues from this towne of Ortayse. Thys lord of Corasse had that same tyme, a plee at Avygnon before the Pope, for the dysmes (i.e.tithes) of his churche, against a clerk, curate there; the whiche priest was of Catelogne. He was a grete clerk, and claymed to have ryghte of the dysmes, in the towne of Corasse, which was valued to a hundred florens by the yere, and the ryghte that he had, he shewed and proved it; and, by sentence diffynitive, Pope Urbane the fythe, in consistory generall, condempned the knighte, and gave judgement wyth the preest, and of this last judgment he had letters of the Pope, for his possession, and so rode tyll he came into Berne, and there shewed his letters and bulles of the Popes for his possession of his dysmes. The lord of Corasse had gret indignacion at this preest, and came to hym, and said, 'Maister Pers, or Maister Martin (as his name was) thinkest thou, that by reason of thy letters I will lose mine herytage—be nat so hardy, that thou take any thynge that is myne; if thou do, it shall cost thee thy life. Go thy waye into some other place to get thee a benefyce, for of myne herytage thou gettest no parte, and ones for alwayes, I defende thee.' The clerk douted the knight, for he was a cruell man, therefore he durst nat parceyver.—Than he thoughte to return to Avignon, as he dyde; but, whan he departed, he came to the knight, the lord of Corasse, and sayd, 'Sir, by force, and nat by ryght, ye take away from me the ryght of my churche, wherein you greatly hurt your conscience.—I am not so strong in this countrey as ye be; but, sir, knowe, for trouthe, that as soon as I maye, I shall sende to you suche a champyon, whom ye shall doubte more than me.' The knight, who doubted nothyng his thretynges, said, 'God be with thee; do what thou mayst; I doute no more dethe than lyfe; for all thy wordes, I wyll not lese mine herytage.' Thus, the clerk departed from the lord of Corasse, and went I cannot tell wheder to Avygnon or into Catalogne, and forgat nat the promise that he had made to the lord of Corasse or he departed. For whan the knight thoughte leest on hym, about a three monethes after, as the knyght laye on a nyght a-bedde in his castelle of Corasse, with the lady, there came to hym messangers invisible, and made a marvellous tempest and noisein the castell, that it seemed as thoughe the castell shulde have fallen downe, and strak gret strokes at his chambre dore, that the goode ladye, his wife, was soore afrayde. The knight herd alle, but he spoke no word thereof; bycause he wolde shewe no abasshed corage, for he was hardy to abyde all adventures. Thys noyse and tempest was in sundry places of the castell, and dured a long space, and, at length, cessed for that nyght. Than the nexte mornyng, all the servants of the house came to the lord, whan he was risen, and sayd, 'Sir, have you nat herde this night, that we have done?' The lord dissembled, and sayd, 'No! I herd nothyng—what have you herde?' Than they shewed him what noyse they hadde herde, and howe alle the vessel in the kechyn was overtowrned. Than the lord began to laugh, and sayd, 'Yea, sirs! ye dremed, it was nothynge but the wynde.'—'In the name of God!' quod the ladye, 'I herde it well.' The next nyght there was as great noyse and greatter, and suche strokes gyven at his chambre dore and windows, as alle shulde have broken in pieces. The knyghte starte up out of his bedde, and wolde not lette, to demaunde who was at his chambre dore that tyme of the nyght; and anone he was answered by a voyce that sayd, 'I am here.' Quod the knyght, 'Who sent thee hyder?'—'The clerk of Catelogne sent me hyder,' quod the voice, 'to whom thou dost gret wronge, for thou hast taken from hym the ryghtes of his benefyce; I will nat leave thee in rest tylle thou haste made hym a good accompte, so that he be pleased.' Quod the knight, 'What is thy name, that thou art so good a messangere?' Quod he, 'I am called Orthone.'—'Orthone!' quod the knight, 'the servyce of a clerke is lytell profyte for thee. He will putte thee to moche payne if thou beleve hym. I pray thee leave hym, and come and serve me; and I shall give thee goode thanke.' Orthone was redy to aunswere, for he was inamours with the knyghte, and sayde, 'Woldest thou fayne have my servyce?'—'Yea, truly,' quod the knyghte, 'so thou do no hurte to any persone in this house.'—'No more I will do,' quod Orthone, 'for I have no power to do anyother yvell, but to awake thee out of thy slepe, or some other.'—'Well,' quod the knyght, 'do as I telle thee, and we shall soone agree, and leave the yvill clerke, for there is no good thyng in him, but to put thee to payne; therefore, come and serve me.'—'Well,' quod Orthone, 'and sythe thou wilt have me, we are agreed.'
"So this spyrite Orthone loved so the knight, that oftentymes he wold come and vysyte hym, while he lay in his bedde aslepe, and outher pull him by the eare, or els stryke at his chambre dore or windowe. And, whan the knyght awoke, than he wolde saye, 'Orthone, lat me slepe.'—'Nay,' quod Orthone, 'that will I nat do, tyll I have shewed thee such tydinges as are fallen a-late.' The ladye, the knyghtes wyfe, wolde be sore afrayed, that her heer wald stand up, and hyde herself under the clothes. Than the knyght wolde saye, 'Why, what tidynges hast thou brought me?'—Quod Orthone, 'I am come out of England, or out of Hungry, or some other place, and yesterday I came hens, and such things are fallen, or such other.' So thus the lord of Corasse knewe, by Orthone, every thing that was done in any part of the worlde. And in this case he contynued a fyve yere, and could not kepe his own counsayle, but at last discovered it to the Erle of Foiz. I shall shewe you howe.
"The firste yere, the lord of Corasse came on a day to Ortayse, to the Erle of Foiz, and sayd to him, 'Sir, such things are done in England, or in Scotland, or in Almagne, or in any other countrey.' And ever the Erle of Foiz found his sayeing true, and had great marveyle how he shulde knowe such things so shortly. And, on a tyme the Erle of Foiz examined him so straitly, that the lord of Corasse shewed hym alle toguyder howe he knewe it, and howe he came to hym firste. When the Erle of Foiz hard that, he was joyfull, and said, Sir of Corasse, kepe him well in your love; I wolde I hadd suche an messanger; he costeth you nothyng, and ye knowe by him every thynge that is done in the worlde.' The knyght answered, and sayd, 'Sir, that is true.' Thus, the lord of Corasse was served with Orthone a long season. I can nat sayeif this Orthone hadde any more masters or nat; but every weke, twise or thrisse, he wolde come and vysite the lord of Corasse, and wolde shewe hym such tidyngs of any thing that was fallen fro whens he came. And ever the lord of Corasse, when he knewe any thynge, he wrote thereof to the Erle of Foiz, who had great joy thereof; for he was the lord, of all the worlde, that most desyred to here news out of straunge places. And, on a tyme, the lord of Corasse was wyth the Erle of Foiz, and the erle demaunded of hym, and sayd, 'Sir of Corasse, dyd ye ever as yet se your messengere?'—'Nay, surely, sir,' quod the knyghte, 'nor I never desyred it.'—'That is marveyle,' quod the erle; 'if I were as well acquainted with him as ye be, I wolde have desyred to have sene hym; wherefore, I pray you, desyre it of hym, and then telle me what form and facyon he is of. I have herd you say howe he speketh as good Gascon as outher you or I.'—'Truely, sir,' quod the knyght, 'so it is: he speketh as well, and as fayr, as any of us both do. And surely, sir, sithe ye counsayle me, I shall do my payne to see him as I can.' And so, on a night, as he lay in his bedde, with the ladye his wife, who was so inured to here Orthone, that she was no longer afrayd of him; than cam Orthone, and pulled the lord by the eare, who was fast asleep, and therewith he awoke, and asked who was there? 'I am here,' quod Orthone. Then he demaunded, 'From whens comest thou nowe?'—'I come,' quod Orthone, 'from Prague, in Eoesme.'—'How farre is that hens?' quod the knyght. 'A threescore days journey,' quod Orthone. 'And art thou come hens so soon?' quod the knyght. 'Yea truely,' quod Orthone, 'I come as fast as the wynde, or faster.'—'Hast thou than winges?' quod the knyght. 'Nay, truely,' quod he. 'How canst thou than flye so fast?' quod the knyght. 'Ye have nothing to do to knowe that,' quod Orthone. 'No?' quod the knyght, 'I wolde gladly se thee, to know what forme thou art of.'—'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye have nothing to do to knowe: it sufficeth you to here me, and to shewe you tidynges.'—'In faythe,' quod the knyght, 'I wolde love themoche better an I myght se thee ones.'—'Well,' quod Orthone, 'sir, sithe ye have so gret desyre to se me, the first thynge that ye se to-morrowe, whan ye ryse out of your bedde, the same shall be I.'—'That is sufficient,' quod the lorde. 'Go thy way; I gyve thee leave to departe for this nyght.' And the next mornynge the lord rose, and the ladye his wyfe was so afrayd, that she durst not ryse, but fayned herself sicke, and sayd she wolde not ryse. Her husband wolde have had her to have rysen. 'Sir,' quod she, 'than shall I se Orthone, and I wolde not se him by my gode wille.'—'Well,' quod the knyght, 'I wolde gladly se hym.' And so he arose, fayre and easily, out of his bedde, and sat down on his bedde-syde, wenying to have sene Orthone in his owne proper form; but he sawe nothynge wherbye he myght saye, 'Lo, yonder is Orthone.' So that day past, and the next night came, and when the knyght was in his bedde, Orthone came, and began to speke, as he was accustomed. 'Go thy waye,' quod the knyght, 'thou arte but a lyer; thou promysest that I shuld have sene the, and it was not so.'—'No?' quod he, 'and I shewed myself to the.'—'That is not so,' quod the lord. 'Why,' quod Orthone, 'whan ye rose out of your bedde, sawe ye nothynge?' Than the lorde studyed a lytell, and advysed himself well. 'Yes, truely,' quod the knyght, 'now I remember me, as I sate on my bedde-syde, thynking on thee, I sawe two strawes upon the pavement, tumblynge one upon another.'—'That same was I,' quod Orthone, 'into that fourme I dyd putte myself as than.'—'That is not enough to me,' quod the lord; 'I pray thee putte thyselfe into same other fourme, that I may better se and knowe thee.'—'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye will do so muche, that ye will lose me, and I to go fro you, for ye desyre to moch of me.'—'Nay,' quod the knyght, 'thou shalt not go fro me, let me se thee ones, and I will desyre no more.'—'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye shall se me to-morrowe; take hede, the first thyng that ye se after ye be out of your chamber, it shall be I.'—'Well,' quod the knyght, 'I am then content. Go thy way, lette me slepe.' And so Orthone departed, and the next mornyng the lord arose, and yssued oute of his chambre, and wente to a windowe, and looked downe into the courte of the castell, and cast about his eyen. And the firste thyng he sawe was a sowe, the greattest that ever he sawe; and she seemed to be so leane and yvell-favoured, that there was nothyng on her but the skynne, and the bones, with long eares, and a long leane snout. The lord of Corasse had marveyle of that leane sowe, and was wery of the sighte of her, and comaunded his men to fetch his houndes, and sayd, 'Let the dogges hunt her to dethe, and devour her.' His servaunts opened the kenells, and lette oute his houndes, and dyd sette them on this sowe. And, at the last, the sowe made a great crye, and looked up to the lord of Corasse as he looked out at a windowe, and so sodaynely vanyshed awaye, no man wyste howe. Than the lord of Corasse entred into his chambre, right pensyve, and than he remembered hym of Orthone, his messangere, and sayd, 'I repent me that I set my houndes on him. It is an adventure, an I here any more of hym; for he sayd to me oftentymes, that if I displeased hym, I shulde lose hym.' The lord sayd trouthe, for never after he came into the castell of Corasse, and also the knyght dyed the same yere next followinge."
"So, sir," said the squyer, "thus have I shewed you the lyfe of Orthone, and howe, for a season, he served the lord of Corasse with newe tidynges."—"It is true, sir," sayd I, "but nowe, as to your firste purpose. Is the Earl of Foiz served with suche an messangere?"—"Surely," quod the squyer, it is the ymaginacion of many, that he hath such messengers, for ther is nothynge done in any place, but and he sette his mynde thereto, he will knowe it, and whan men thynke leest thereof. And so dyd he, when the goode knightes and squyers of this country were slayne in Portugale at Juberothe. Some saythe, the knowledge of such thynges hath done hym moche profyte, for and there be but the value of a spone lost in his house, anone he will know where it is.' So, thus, then I toke leave of the squyer, and went toother company; but I bare well away his tale."—Bourchier'sTranslation of Froissart's Chronycle, Vol. II. chap. 37.