Now we leave the royal revels, and return to Saint Hilda and her maids. As they sailed back to Whitby, their galley was captured on the high seas by the Scotch, and the ladies were held at Edinburgh until James should decide their fate.
Soon, however, they were informed that they must prepare to journey to England, under the escort of Lord Marmion. At this, terror seized the heart of the Abbess and of Clara. The aged, saintly lady knew the fate of Constance, and for this, feared Lord Marmion's wrath. She told her beads, she implored heaven!
The Lady Clara knew the sword that hung from Marmion's belt had drawn the blood of her lover, Ralph De Wilton! Unwittingly the King had given these defenceless women into the care of the man they most dreaded. To protest was hopeless. In the bustle of war, who would listen to the tale of a woman and a nun?
The maids and the Abbess were assigned lodgings joining those of Marmion, their guardian. While there, the unhappy, but alert, holy woman caught sight of the Palmer. His dress made her feel that she would here find a friend. Secretly she conveyed to him a message, saying she had a secret to reveal immediately concerning the welfare of the church, and of a sinner's soul.
With great secrecy she named as a meeting place, an open balcony, that hung high above the street.
Night fell; the moon rose high among the clouds; the busy hum of the city ceased; the din of war and warriors' roar was hushed. The music of the cricket, the whirr of the owlets, might easily have been heard, when the holy Dame and the Palmer met. The Abbess had chosen a solemn hour, to disclose a solemn secret.
"O holy Palmer!" she began,—"for surely he must be holy whose feet have trod the ground made sacred by a Redeemer's tomb,—I come here in this dread hour, for the dear sake of our Holy Church. Yet I must first speak, in explanation of a worldly love." Here was related by unwilling lips, the story of Constance's fall, of De Wilton's death or exile after being proved a traitor, of Lady Clara's faithfulness to the memory of De Wilton, and of her desire to enter the convent of the Abbess.
"'A purer heart, a lovelier maid,Ne'er shelter'd her in Whitby's shade.'
"Yet, King Henry declares she shall be torn from us, and given to this false Lord Marmion. I am helpless, a prisoner, with these innocent maidens, and I fear we have been betrayed by Henry, that Clara may fall into the hands of his favorite. I claim thine aid.
"'By every step that thou hast trodTo holy shrine and grotto dim,By every saint and seraphim,And by the Church of God!For mark: When Wilton was betrayed,'
"it was by means of forged letters,—letters written by Constance de Beverley, at the command of Marmion, and placed, by De Wilton's squire, where they could be used against that noble knight.
"I have in my possession letters proving all this and more. I must not keep them. Who knows what may happen to me on my homeward journey? I now give this packet to thy care, O saintly Palmer! Bring them safe to the hands of Wolsey, that he may give them to the King, and for this deed there will be prayers offered for thee while I live. Why! What ailest thou? Speak!"
As he took the packet, he was shaken by strong emotion, but before he could reply, the Abbess shrieked, "What is here? Look at yon City Cross!"
"Then on its battlements they sawA vision, passing Nature's law."
Figures seemed to rise and die, to advance and to flee, and from the midst of the spectre throng this awful summons came:—"Prince, prelate, potentate and peer, I summon one and all to answer at my tribunal."
"Then thunder'd forth a roll of names:The first was thine, unhappy James!Then all thy nobles came;Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,Why should I tell their separate style?Each chief of birth and fame,Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,Foredoomed to Flodden's carnage pile,Was cited there by name;And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye.
"Prone on her face the Abbess fell,And fast, and fast, her beads did tell;She mark'd not, at the scene aghast,What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd."
The following day, Marmion and the brave Douglas journeyed to fair Tantallon. The Palmer still was with the band, as Angus commanded that no one should roam at large. A wondrous change had come to the holy Palmer. He freely spoke of war; he looked so high, and rode so fast, that old Hubert said he never saw but one who could sit so proud, and rein so well.
A half hour's march behind, came Fitz-Eustace, escorting the Abbess, the fair Lady Clare, and all the nuns.
Marmion had sought no audience, fearing to increase Clara's hatred. He preferred to wait until she was removed from the convent and in her uncle's care. He hoped then, with the influence of her kinsman and her King, to gain her consent to be the Lady Marmion. He longed to command,
"O'er luckless Clara's ample land,"
yet he hated himself when he thought of the meanness to which he stooped for conquest, when he remembered his own lost honor; for,
"If e'er he lov'd, 'twas her alone,Who died within that vault of stone."
Near Berwick town they came upon a venerable convent pile, and halted at its gate. In answer to the bell, a door opened, and an aged dame appeared to ask St. Hilda's Abbess to rest here with her nuns until a barque was provided to bear her back to Whitby.
The courtesy of the Scottish Prioress was most joyfully received, and the delighted maidens gladly left their palfreys; but when Lady Clara attempted to dismount, Fitz-Eustace gently refused, saying:
"I grieve, fair lady, to separate you from your friends. Think it nodiscourtesy of mine, but lords' commands must be obeyed, and Marmion andDouglas order that you shall return directly to your kinsman,Lord Fitz-Clare."
The startled Abbess loud exclaimed, but Clara was speechless and deadly pale.
"Cheer thee, my child!" the Abbess cried; "they dare not tear thee from my care, to ride alone among soldiers."
"Nay, nay, holy mother," interrupted Fitz-Eustace, "the lovely lady, while in Scotland, will be the immediate ward of Lady Angus Douglas, and when she rides to England, female attendance will be provided befitting the heir of Gloster. My Lord Marmion will not address Lady Clare by word or look."
He blushed as he spoke, but truth and honor were painted in his face, and the maiden's fear was relieved. The Abbess entreated, threatened, wept, prayed to saint and to martyr, then called upon the Prioress for aid. The grave Cistercian replied:
"The King and Douglas shall be obeyed. Dream not that harm can come to woman, however helpless, who falls to the care of Douglas of Tantallon Hall."
The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, assumed her wonted state, composed her veil, raised her head, and began again,—but Blount now broke in:
"'Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band;St. Anton fire thee! wilt thou standAll day, with bonnet in thy hand,To hear the lady preach?By this good light! if thus we stay,Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,Will sharper sermon teach.Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse;The dame must patience take perforce."
"Dear, holy Abbess," said Clare, "we must submit to the separation for the present,
"'But let this barbarous lord despairHis purposed aim to win;Let him take living, land, and life;But to be Marmion's wedded wifeIn me were deadly sin.'
"Mother, your blessing and your prayers are all I ask. Remember your unhappy child! If it be the decree of the King that I return not to the sanctuary with thee to dwell, yet one asylum remains—low, silent, and lone, where kings have little power. One victim of Lord Marmion is already there."
Weeping and wailing arose round patient Clare. Eustace hid his tears, and even the rude Blount could scarce bear the sight. Gently the squire took the rein and led the way, striving to cheer the poor fainting girl, by courteous word and deed.
They had passed but a few miles, when from a height, they saw the vast towers of Tantallon. The noble castle was enclosed on three sides by the ocean, and on the fourth by walled battlements,
"And double mound and fosse,By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong,Through studded gates, and entrance long,To the main court they cross.It was a wide and stately square:Around were lodgings, fit and fair,And towers of various form."
Here they rested, receiving from the host cold, but princely attention. By hurrying posts, daily there came varying tidings of war. At first they heard of the victories of James at Wark, at Etall, and at Ford; and then, that Norham castle had been taken; but later, news was whispered that while King James was dallying the time away with the wily Lady Heron, the army lay inactive. At length they heard the army had made post on the ridge that frowns over the Millfield Plain, and that brave Surrey, with a force from the South, had marched into Northumberland and taken camp.
At this, Marmion exclaimed:
"'A sorry thing to hide my headIn castle, like a fearful maid,When such a field is near!Needs must I see this battle-day:Death to my fame if such a frayWere fought, and Marmion away!The Douglas, too, I wot not why,Hath 'bated of his courtesy:No longer in his halls I'll stay."
Each hour brought a different tale. Marmion fretted like the impatient charger that "snuffs the battle from afar." It was true that Douglas had changed in his demeanor, had grown cold and silent. The dejected Clare sought retirement. Courteous she was to Lady Angus, shared in ceaseless prayers for the safe return of Scotch liege and lord, but borne down with sorrow, she loved best to find some lonely spot, turret, tower, or parapet, where she might retire alone to listen to the wailing waters, to hear the sea-bird's cry, to recall her life at the Convent of Whitby, and to regret the loss of the loved garb of the nun. At the command of her kinsman, the Benedictine dress, the hood and veil, so much in harmony with her life, had been denied her, and she had been made to assume the costume of the world.
Her sunny locks were again unbound, and rich garments were provided, suited to her rank. Of the holy dress, the cross alone she was permitted to wear,—a golden cross set with rubies; but in her hand she always bore the loved breviary.
Pacing back and forth at evening, sick with sorrow, she came suddenly upon a full suit of armor. It lay directly in her path—the targe, the corselet, the helm, the pierced breastplate. She raised her eyes in alarm, and before her stood De Wilton, but so changed it might have been his ghost. The Palmer's dress was thrown aside, the dress of the knight not resumed. He was neither king's noble, nor priest. Not until he had been proven innocent of treason, and redubbed knight, could he honorably wear his spurs.
Long was the interview held between the astonished, delighted Clare, and the undisguised De Wilton. He began the story of his exile and travels, taking up the tale from the moment when he lay senseless in the lists at Cottiswold. The kind care of Austin, the beadsman, had restored him to health and strength. He described the long journeys in Palmer's dress, his return to Scotland, meeting Marmion at Norham Castle, the tilt on Gifford moor, and the interview with the Abbess, when he received from her the letters proving his innocence.
Already, at Tantallon, he had told his story to Douglas, who had known De Wilton's family of old. That night, Douglas was to make him again a belted knight, and at dawn, he would haste to Surrey's camp to fight again for king and for country. The story heard from De Wilton, the letters showing the treachery of Marmion, accounted for the cold disdain shown by Douglas to his guest.
The noble baron of Tantallon had promised to bring to the chapel at midnight the now happy, yet unhappy Clare, that she might bind on the spurs, buckle on the belt, and hear the magic words uttered which made her lover a noble knight. She was unhappy to think that so soon they must part, perhaps never to meet.
Sweetly, tearfully she pleaded:
"'O Wilton! must we thenRisk new-found happiness again,Trust fate of arms once more?And is there not a humble glen,Where we content and poor,Might build a cottage in the shade,A shepherd thou, and I to aidThy task on dale and moor?—That reddening brow!—too well I know,Not even thy Clare can peace bestow,While falsehood stains thy name:Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go!Clare can a warrior's feelings know,And weep a warrior's shame;Buckle the spurs upon thy heel,And belt thee with thy brand of steel,And send thee forth to fame!'"
At midnight, the slumbering moon-beams lay on rock and wave. Silvery light fell through every loop-hole and embrasure. In the witching hour two priests, the Lady Clare, Ralph de Wilton, and Douglas, Lord of Tantallon, stood before the altar of the chapel. De Wilton knelt, and when Clare had bound on sword and belt, Douglas laid on the blow, exclaiming as it fell:
"'I dub thee knight.Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir!For King, for Church, for Lady fair,See that thou fight.'"
De Wilton knelt again before the giant warrior, and grasping his hand, exclaimed:
"Where'er I meet a Douglas, that Douglas will be to me as a brother."
"Nay, nay," the Lord of Tantallon replied, "not so; I have two sons in the field armed against your king. They fight for James of Scotland; you for Henry of England.
"'And, if thou meet'st them under shield,Upon them bravely,—do thy worst;And foul fall him that blenches first!"
They parted; De Wilton to Surrey's camp, the Douglas to his castle to ponder on the strange events of the past few days, and Clare to weep in loneliness.
It was yet early when Marmion ordered his train to be ready for the southward march. He had safe pass-ports for all, given under the royal seal of James. Douglas provided a guide as far as Surrey's camp. The ancient earl, with stately grace, placed the Lady Clare on her palfrey and whispered in her ear, "The falcon's prey has flown."
As adieus were about to be said, Lord Marmion began:
"In the treatment received, I, your guest, by your king's command, might well complain of coldness, indifference, and disrespect; but I let it pass, hoping that,
"'Part we in friendship from your land;And, noble Earl, receive my hand.'—But Douglas round him drew his cloak,Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:—'My manors, halls, and bowers, shall stillBe open, at my sovereign's will,To each one who he lists, howe'erUnmeet to be the owner's peer.My castles are my King's alone,From turret to foundation-stone—The hand of Douglas is his own;And never shall in friendly grasp,The hand of such as Marmion clasp.'"—
"Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,And shook his very frame for ire,And,—'This to me!' he said,—'An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,Such hand as Marmion's had not sparedTo cleave the Douglas' head!And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,He, who does England's message here,Although the meanest in her state,May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:Even in thy pitch of pride,Here in thy hold, thy vassals near—I tell thee, thou'rt defied!And if thou said'st, I am not peerTo any lord in Scotland here,Lord Angus, thou hast lied!'On the Earl's cheek, a flush of rageO'ercame the ashen hue of age:Fierce he broke forth,—And dare'st thou thenTo beard the lion in his den,The Douglas in his hall?And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go?—Updrawbridge, grooms—what, Warder, ho!Let the portcullis fall.'Lord Marmion turned—well was his need,And dash'd the rowels in his steed."
A swallow does not more lightly skim the air, than Marmion's steed flew along the drawbridge. The man drew rein when he had reached the train, turned, clenched his fists, shouted defiance, and shook his gauntlet at the towers where so lately he had been a guest.
"To horse! to horse!" cried Douglas. "Let the chase be up." Then relenting, he smiled bitterly, saying, "He came a royal messenger. Bold can he talk and fairly ride, and I doubt not he will fight well."
Slowly the Earl sought the castle walls, that frowned still more gloomily, no longer brightened by the young and beautiful Lady Clare.
As the day wore on, Marmion's passion wore off, and scanning his little band, he missed the Palmer. From young Blount he demanded an explanation of the guide's absence.
"The Palmer, in good sooth, parted from Douglas at dawn of day. If aPalmer he is, he set out in strange guise," replied the youth.
"What mean you?" quickly demanded Marmion.
"My Lord, I can ill interpret what I say. All night I was disturbed in my sleep, as if by workmen forging armor. At dawn, hearing the drawbridge fall, I looked from a loophole and saw old Bell-the-Cat, wrapped in sables, come from Tantallon keep. The wind blew aside the fur mantle, and I beheld beneath it, a suit of rusty mail, which I am sure must have done bloody work against Saracen and Turk. Last night that armor did not hang in Tantallon hall. Next, I saw Old Cheviot, Douglas's matchless steed, led forth, sheathed in bright armor. The Palmer sprang to the saddle, Lord Angus wished him speed, and as he bowed and bent in graceful farewells, I could but think how strongly that Palmer resembled the young knight you overthrew at Cottiswold."
A sudden light broke upon Marmion. "Dastard! fool! I, to reason lost, when I rode to meet a fay, a ghost, on Gifford's moor. It was this Palmer fiend, De Wilton in disguise, I met. Had I but fought as is my wont, one thrust had placed him where he would never cross my path again. Now he has told my tale to Douglas. This is why I was treated with scorn. I almost fear to meet my Lord Surrey. I must avoid the Lady Clare, and separate Constance from the nuns.
"O, what a tangled web we weave,When first we practice to deceive!A Palmer too!—no wonder whyI felt rebuked beneath his eye:I might have known there was but oneWhose look could quell Lord Marmion!"
Stung with these thoughts, he urged on his troop, and at nightfall reached the Tweed, closing the march of the day at Lennel convent. Here Marmion, his train, and Lady Clare, were given entertainment for the night.
"'Next morn, the baron climb'd the tower,To view afar the Scottish power,Encamped on Flodden edge:The white pavilions made a show,Like remnants of the winter snow,Along the dusky ridge.Lord Marmion look'd:—at length his eyeUnusual movement might descry.Their ranks inclining, wheeling, bending,Now drawing back, and now descending,The skilful Marmion well could know,They watched the motions of some foe."
Even so it was. The Scots from Flodden ridge saw the English host leave Barmore-wood and cross the river Till. Why did Scotland's hosts stand idle? What checked the fiery James, that he sat inactive on his steed and saw Surrey place the English army between Scotland and Scotland's army? O Douglas! O Wallace! O Bruce! for one hour of thy leadership to rule the fight! The precious hour passed,—the hour when in crossing the river, the English might have been destroyed.
"From fate's dark book a leaf been torn,And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!"
Fitz-Eustace called to Blount, and both to Marmion,
"'Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!'"
The spirit of war flowed in every vein. Marmion flung himself into the saddle, scarce bade adieu to the good Abbot, commanded the young knight to escort the Lady Clare, and dashed on to the Tweed. The river must be crossed. Down to the deep and dangerous ford, he ventured desperately. Foremost of all, he gallantly entered and stemmed the tide. Eustace held Clare upon her saddle, and old Hubert reined her horse. Stoutly they braved the current, and though carried far down the stream, they gained the opposite bank.
The train followed. Each held his bow high over his head, and well he might. Every string that day needed to be unharmed by moisture, that it might ring sharply in the coming combat.
Marmion rested a moment, only to bathe his horse, then halted not until Surrey's rear guard was reached. Here on a hillock, by a cross of stone, they could survey the field.
"The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion stayed:'Here, by this cross,' he gently said,'You well may view the scene.Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:Oh! think of Marmion in thy prayer!Thou wilt not? well,—no less my careShall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,With ten picked archers of my train;With England if the day go hard,To Berwick speed amain.But if we conquer, cruel maid,My spoils shall at your feet be laid,When here we meet again."
He waited for no answer, but dashed over the plain to Lord Surrey, who met him with delight.
"Welcome, good Lord Marmion; brief greeting must serve in time of need.With Stanley, I myself, have charge of the central division of the army,Tunstall, stainless knight, directs the rearward, and the vanguard aloneneeds your gallant command."
"Thanks, noble Surrey," Marmion said, and darted forward like a thunderbolt. At the van, arose cheer on cheer, "Marmion! Marmion!" so shrill, so high, as to startle the Scottish foe.
Eustace and Blount sadly thought,
"'Unworthy office here to stay!No hope of gilded spurs to-day.'"
When King James saw that the English army by its skilful countermarch had separated him from his base of supplies, and from his own country, he resolved upon battle at once. Setting fire to his tents, he descended, and the two armies, one facing north, the other south, met almost without seeing each other.
"From the sharp ridges of the hill,All downward to the banks of Till,Was wreathed in sable smoke.Volumed and fast, and rolling far,The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,As down the hill they broke;Nor mortal shout, nor minstrel tone,Announced their march; their tread aloneTold England, from his mountain-throneKing James did rushing come.Scarce could they hear or see their foes,Until at weapon-point they close.They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;And such a yell was there,Of sudden and portentous birth,As if men fought upon the earth,And fiends in upper air;Oh, life and death were in the shout,Recoil and rally, charge and rout,And triumph and despair.Long look'd the anxious squires; their eyeCould in the darkness naught descry."
At length the breeze threw aside the shroud of battle, and there might be seen ridge after ridge of spears. Pennon and plume floated like foam on the crest of the wave. Spears shook; falchions flashed; arrows fell like rain; crests rose, and stooped, and rose again.
"Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flewWith wavering flight, while fiercer grewAround the battle-yell.The Border slogan rent the sky!A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:Loud were the clanging blows;Advanced—forced back—now low, now high,The pennon sunk and rose;As bends the barque's mast in the gale,When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,It waver'd 'mid the foes.No longer Blount the view could bear:'By heaven and all its saints! I swear,I will not see it lost;Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady ClareMay bid your beads, and patter prayer,—I gallop to the host.'"
To the fray he rode, followed by the archers. At the next moment, fleet as the wind, Marmion's steed riderless flew by, the housings and saddle dyed crimson. Eustace mounted and plunged into the fight, resolved to rescue the body of his fallen lord.
Alone, in that dreadful hour, a courage not her own armed the gentle girl with strength to play a noble part. She was thinking only of De Wilton, when two horsemen drenched with human gore, rode up, bearing a wounded knight, his shield bent, his helmet gone. He yet bore in his hand a broken brand. Could this be Marmion? Blount unlaced the armor; Eustace removed the casque; revived by the free air, Marmion cried:
"Fitz-Eustace, Blount,
"'Redeem my pennon,—charge again!Cry,—"Marmion to the rescue!"'Must I bid twice?—hence, varlets! fly!Leave Marmion here alone,—to die.'They parted, and alone he lay;Clare drew her from the sight away,Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,And half he murmur'd—'Is there none,Of all my halls have nursed,Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bringOf blessed water from the spring,To slake my dying thirst!'"
"O Woman! in our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!Scarce were the piteous accents said,When, with the baron's casque, the maidTo the nigh streamlet ran:Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;The plaintive voice alone she hears,Sees but the dying man."
She stooped by the side of the rill, but drew back in horror,—it ran red with the best blood of two kingdoms. Near by, a fountain played, the well of Sybil Grey. At this, the helmet was quickly filled, and accompanied by a monk, who was present to shrive the dying or to bless the dead, the Lady Clare hurried to the side of Marmion. Deep he drank, saying:
"Is it the hand of Constance or of Clare that bathes my brow? Speak not to me of shrift and prayer; while the spark of life lasts, I must redress the wrongs of Constance."
Between broken sobs the Lady Clare replied:
"'In vain for Constance is your zeal;She—died at Holy Isle.'"
Lord Marmion started from the ground, but fainting fell, supported by the monk.
The din of war ceased for a moment, then there swelled upon the gale the cry, "Stanley! Stanley!"
"A light on Marmion's visage spread,And fired his glazing eye:With dying hand, above his head,He shook the fragment of his blade,And shouted 'Victory!Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!'Were the last words of Marmion."
The monk gently placed the maid on her steed, and led her to the fair Chapel of Tilmouth. The night was spent in prayer, and at dawn she was safely given to her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.
All day, till darkness drew her wing over the ghastly scene, more desperate grew the deadly strife. When night had fallen, Surrey drew his shattered bands from the fray. Then Scotland learned her loss.
"Their king, their lords, their mightiest low,They melted from the field as snow,Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless splashWhile many a broken band,Disorder'd, through her currents dash,To gain the Scottish land;To town and tower, to down and dale,To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,And raise the universal wail.Tradition, legend, tune, and song,Shall many an age that wail prolong:Still from the sire the son shall hearOf the stern strife, and carnage drear.Of Flodden's fatal field,Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,And broken was her shield!
"Day dawns upon the mountain's side:—There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one:The sad survivors all are gone.View not that corpse mistrustfully,Defaced and mangled-though it be;He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;Reckless of life, he desperate fought,And fell on Flodden plain:And well in death his trusty brand,Firm clench'd within his kingly hand,Beseem'd the monarch slain."
Little remains to be told. Fitz-Eustace, faithful to the last, bore "To Litchfield's lofty pile," what he believed to be the pierced and mangled body of his once proud master. Here was reared a Gothic tomb; carved tablets were set in fretted niche; around were hung his arms and armor, and the walls were blazoned with his deeds of valor; but Lord Marmion's body lay not there. Midst the din and roar of battle, a poor dying peasant had dragged himself to the fountain where died the Lord of Fontenaye, the Lord of Tamworth tower and town. Spoilers stripped and mutilated both bodies and the lowly woodsman was carried to the proud baron's tomb.
Through the long and dreadful fight, Wilton was in the foremost and thickest. When Surrey's horse was slain, it was De Wilton's horse on which the noble leader was again mounted. It was Wilton's brand that hewed down the spearsmen. He was the living soul of all.
In that battle, he won back rank and lands, adding to his crest bearings bought on Flodden Field. King and kinsman blessed fair Clara's constancy. As he reads, each must paint for himself the bridal scene, and imagine that,
"Bluff King Hal the curtain drew,And Catherine's hand the stocking threw;And afterwards, for many a day,That it was held enough to say,In blessing to a wedded pair,'Love they like Wilton and like Clare.'"