[Contents]CHAPTER L.The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and Men-at-Arms at Aberdeen.The banquet, though sufficiently splendid, was tempered by moderation, and the guests broke up at an early hour, for the Bishop took an opportunity of signifying his wish to hold private council with the Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar, and one or two of the other nobles and knights whom he named. The hint was accordingly taken, and the accommodation of the Castle being too confined for a company so numerous, the Bishop of Moray consigned to the care of his canons the duty of providing fit lodging for such as might be compelled to go into the town. Though the apartments in the houses of these churchmen were small, yet were they most luxuriously furnished for the times to which this history refers.As De Vaux, the Lord of Dirleton, was one of the few whom the Bishop requested to aid him with his advice, the former remained for some time at the Castle. His lady and daughter were therefore consigned to the care of a rosy-faced, tun-bellied canon, who was ready with his attendants to escort them to his antique mansion. As his lacqueys lighted them along under the covered arcades lining both sides of the streets, his gay smiles and gallant air sorted but indifferently with the solemn religious grandeur that was everywhere spread over this ancient episcopal town.The subject of conference between the Bishop and the nobles was the late outrages of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The good Bishop was himself incapable of seeking vengeance, in as far as he as a mere man was concerned. But he was zealous for the interests of that religion and of that Church of which he was the minister; and being firmly resolved that neither should be insulted with impunity, he stated to the Lords and Knights his determination to go with them to Aberdeen, and to lay the matter before the King. To such a step no objection could be urged by those who heard him, and accordingly, after some conversation on other matters, which continued to a pretty late hour, the party broke up.As the Lord of Dirleton was leaving the Castle, with the intention of finding his way to the house of the canon, whither his lady and the Lady Jane de Vaux had gone before him, he[352]was suddenly addressed by some one from behind, who, in a distinct but hollow tone, whispered in his ear—“Wouldst thou know aught of the fate of thy first-born daughter?”“Ha! what canst thou tell me?” cried De Vaux, turning round with inconceivable eagerness, and addressing a Franciscan monk who stood behind him shrouded up in his cowl; “speak, I beseech thee, holy man, what hast thou to tell of my first-born daughter?”“Dismiss thine attendants,” replied the Franciscan calmly, “and follow me to the church of Greyfriars; there shalt thou learn all that I have to tell.”“Get thee to thy lodgings,” cried the Lord of Dirleton to his people, “and leave me with this holy monk. I would have converse with him alone.”“My Lord,” replied his esquire, “it were safer methinks to have thy people about thee; treachery hath many disguises—there may be danger.”“Talk not to me of danger,” cried De Vaux; “leave me, as I do command thee.”The esquire bowed, and retired with the valets and lacqueys who had waited. The monk, who had stood aloof abiding his determination, now moved away, and the Lord of Dirleton followed him. The streets were deserted and silent, and the Franciscan staid not to speak, but glided so quickly along as to defy all attempts at conversation on the part of the knight who followed him. After threading through some narrow lanes and uncouth passages, the Lord of Dirleton was led by his guide to the door of the church of the Greyfriars, to which the monk applied a large key that hung at his girdle, and after letting himself and the knight in, he again locked it carefully behind him. The interior of the holy place was dimly illuminated by the few lamps that were burning here and there before some of the shrines, but the gloomy light was not even sufficient to dissipate the shadows that hung beneath the arch of the groined roof.“Speak, quickly speak, father—in charity speak, and satisfy my anxiety,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, panting with the eagerness of expectation, combined with the breathlessness of exertion. “What knowest thou of the fate of my child?—Is she alive?—In mercy speak!”The Franciscan shot a glance at De Vaux from under his cowl, and then strode slowly up the nave of the Church until he came opposite to a shrine dedicated to an image of the Virgin.[353]There he halted, and leaning against its iron screen with his back to the lamps, dropped his head on his bosom, and seemed lost in thought for some moments.“Oh, speak,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, following him—“Speak—does my child live? my child Beatrice?”“Thy child liveth not,” murmured the monk, in a deep sepulchral tone; “’tis of her death I would tell thee.”“Alas, alas! I did indeed fear so,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, deeply affected. “I had indeed ceased to hope that she might be yet alive. Yet even to know her fate were something amid the sad obscurity which hath so long oppressed us. What canst thou tell me of her, holy father?”“Thou hadst a brother,” said the Franciscan, slowly and solemnly.“Alas! I had. I had indeed a brother,” cried De Vaux. “Then are my fears but too just. It was he then who reft me of mine infant. Oh, wretch, wretch, how couldst thou be so cruel!”“It was he,” cried the monk, with a peculiar energy of manner, whilst his eyes glared strangely from beneath his cowl as he spake; “it was thy brother, who, in revenge for the blow he received from thine hand, tore thine infant daughter from her nurse, and fled with her.”“Then may God in His infinite mercy forgive him!” cried De Vaux, clasping his hands together with strong agitation of manner; and, dropping on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, he buried his face in his mantle, and gave way to his emotions.“What! canst thou in truth forgive him, then?” cried the monk; “canst thou in sincerity pray for his forgiveness in Heaven? Wouldst thou not rather seek revenge against him—revenge, the which may ere long be put within thy power—revenge, to which even I might peradventure help thee?”“And dost thou, the servant of Christ—thou who shouldst be the messenger of peace—dost thou become a tempter?” cried De Vaux, looking upwards at the monk with astonishment; “dost thou counsel revenge?—dost thou become a pander to the most malignant of human passions, so as to offer thyself to be the instrument who shall drag up my sinful, yet perchance ere this, repentant brother, to dree my vengeance?”“’Tis well,” replied the Franciscan coolly; “I did so speak but to prove thy virtue, the which I do find to be great. Forgiveness is the badge of our Christian faith, which it well becometh thee to wear; and thou hast the jewel of its highest[354]perfection, sith thou canst bring thy mind to forgive him who was the murderer of thy first-born child.”“The murderer of my child!” cried the wretched De Vaux, starting from his knees, and pacing the church, wringing his hands. “Were my worst fears true, then? was my innocent infant, my smiling cherub, was my Beatrice murdered? The few words thou didst let fall had overpowered my first suspicions, and had already engendered hopes that my brother’s violence had at least stopped short of a crime so horrible. Murdered, saidst thou? Oh, most foul, most foul! He whom I did love and cherish from boyhood as my son—yea, loved as the issue of my own loins—in whose nurture I so interested myself, and on whom I did propose to bestow large possessions—What, the flesh of mine own father to murder my helpless babe!”“Thy forgiveness is indeed of most marvellous and unexampled excellence,” cried the Franciscan in a whining tone, the true meaning of which could hardly be interpreted; “wouldst thou, then, that thy brother should be brought before thee, that he may receive full pardon at thy hands for the cruel coulpe he hath committed against thee?”“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the wretched Lord of Dirleton with rapid utterance, “let me not see him—let me not see him. I loved the sight of him once as the darling son of mine aged father—let me not see him now as the murderer of my child. The taking of the life of my brother cannot restore that of which he did bereave my Beatrice. As I hope for mercy from on high, so do I forgive him. Let him then live and repent; let him do voluntary penance, that his soul may yet meet with mercy at Heaven’s high tribunal; but let me not see him. Had he only robbed me of my child, I mought peraunter have been able to have yielded him my forgiveness face to face; yea, and moreover to have extinguished all animosity by weeping a flood of tears upon his bosom; for verily I am but as a lone and bruised reed, and a brother’s returning love were a healing balm worth the purchasing. But the murderer of my child—oh, horrible!—let me not see him.”The Franciscan drew his cowl more completely over his face, and stood for some moments with his head averted, as if to hide those emotions to which De Vaux’s agitation had given rise. Starting suddenly from the position he had taken, he sprang forward a pace or two towards the Lord of Dirleton, and then halted suddenly ere he reached him. De Vaux, wrapped up in his own thoughts, was unconscious of the movement of the monk. He threw himself again on his knees before the shrine of the[355]Virgin, and began offering up sincere but incoherent and unconnected petitions, at one time for the forgiveness of his own sins, at another for the soul of his murdered daughter, and again for mercy and pardon from Heaven for the crimes of his brother. The Franciscan, with his arms crossed over his breast, stood with his body gently bent over the pious supplicant, absorbed in contemplation of him, and deeply moved by the spectacle. A footstep was heard—the Lord of Dirleton’s ear caught it too at length, and he arose hastily; but the Franciscan friar with whom he had been holding converse was gone.“Father,” said the knight eagerly to a brother of the convent who now approached him from an inner door, “tell me, I pray thee, who was he of thine order who passed from me but now?”“Venerable warrior,” replied the monk with an air of surprise, “in truth, I saw no one. May the blessing of St. Francis be with thee. Peraunter thine orisons hath induced our Blessed Lady to send some saint miraculously to comfort thee. Nay, perhaps St. Francis himself may have been sent by the Holy Virgin to reward thy piety for thus seeking her shrine at such an hour. Leave me something in charity for our poor convent, and her blessing, as alswa that of St. Francis, will assuredly cleave to thee.”“Hath not one of thy brethren loitered in the streets until now?” demanded the Lord of Dirleton.“Nay,” replied the monk, “I this moment left the dormitory, where they are all asleep. Trust me, they are not given to wander in the streets at such an hour as this; and no one else could come hither, seeing that the door of our church is carefully locked at night.”The Lord of Dirleton was lost in thought for some moments; but, recollecting himself, he gave gold to the begging friar, who received it meekly. He then craved the monk’s guidance to the house of the canon, where his lady and daughter were lodged; and the holy man, taking a key from his girdle, unfastened the door of the church, and De Vaux silently followed him, ruminating as he went on the mysterious interview he had had, as well as on the sad story of his murdered daughter, the whole of his affliction for whom had been so strangely and so strongly brought back upon him.In the morning, the march of the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms was swelled by the presence of the Bishop of Moray, attended by a large party of his churchmen and followers. The whole body reached the ancient city of Aberdeen early on the fourth day, and Sir Patrick Hepborne had reason to be fully[356]satisfied with the gracious reception he met with from King Robert. He was gladdened by a happy meeting with his father, and with his friend Assueton, who had come to attend on His Majesty.“How fareth thine excellent mother, Assueton?” demanded Hepborne jocularly; “thou hast doubtless ere this had enough of her good society, as well as of thy home.”“Nay, of a truth, my dearest bel ami,” replied his friend, “parfay my conscience doth sorely smite me in that quarter. Verily, I have not yet seen mine excellent mother. Day after day have I been about to hie me to her, to receive her blessing; but something untoward hath ever arisen to detain me; and just as I was about to accomplish mine intent, I was hurried away hither by the King’s command. Perdie, I did never before think that I could have complained of the sudden outbreak of war; yet do I confess that I did in good earnest begrudge this unlooked-for call most bitterly.”“And hath love or filial affection the most to do in exciting thy complaint, thinkest thou?” demanded Hepborne.“Um! somewhat of both, perhaps,” replied Assueton gravely. “By St. Andrew, but I am an altered man, Hepborne. Nay, smile not; or rather, if it so pleaseth thee, smile as thou mayest list, for certes I am now case-hardened against thy raillery.”
[Contents]CHAPTER L.The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and Men-at-Arms at Aberdeen.The banquet, though sufficiently splendid, was tempered by moderation, and the guests broke up at an early hour, for the Bishop took an opportunity of signifying his wish to hold private council with the Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar, and one or two of the other nobles and knights whom he named. The hint was accordingly taken, and the accommodation of the Castle being too confined for a company so numerous, the Bishop of Moray consigned to the care of his canons the duty of providing fit lodging for such as might be compelled to go into the town. Though the apartments in the houses of these churchmen were small, yet were they most luxuriously furnished for the times to which this history refers.As De Vaux, the Lord of Dirleton, was one of the few whom the Bishop requested to aid him with his advice, the former remained for some time at the Castle. His lady and daughter were therefore consigned to the care of a rosy-faced, tun-bellied canon, who was ready with his attendants to escort them to his antique mansion. As his lacqueys lighted them along under the covered arcades lining both sides of the streets, his gay smiles and gallant air sorted but indifferently with the solemn religious grandeur that was everywhere spread over this ancient episcopal town.The subject of conference between the Bishop and the nobles was the late outrages of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The good Bishop was himself incapable of seeking vengeance, in as far as he as a mere man was concerned. But he was zealous for the interests of that religion and of that Church of which he was the minister; and being firmly resolved that neither should be insulted with impunity, he stated to the Lords and Knights his determination to go with them to Aberdeen, and to lay the matter before the King. To such a step no objection could be urged by those who heard him, and accordingly, after some conversation on other matters, which continued to a pretty late hour, the party broke up.As the Lord of Dirleton was leaving the Castle, with the intention of finding his way to the house of the canon, whither his lady and the Lady Jane de Vaux had gone before him, he[352]was suddenly addressed by some one from behind, who, in a distinct but hollow tone, whispered in his ear—“Wouldst thou know aught of the fate of thy first-born daughter?”“Ha! what canst thou tell me?” cried De Vaux, turning round with inconceivable eagerness, and addressing a Franciscan monk who stood behind him shrouded up in his cowl; “speak, I beseech thee, holy man, what hast thou to tell of my first-born daughter?”“Dismiss thine attendants,” replied the Franciscan calmly, “and follow me to the church of Greyfriars; there shalt thou learn all that I have to tell.”“Get thee to thy lodgings,” cried the Lord of Dirleton to his people, “and leave me with this holy monk. I would have converse with him alone.”“My Lord,” replied his esquire, “it were safer methinks to have thy people about thee; treachery hath many disguises—there may be danger.”“Talk not to me of danger,” cried De Vaux; “leave me, as I do command thee.”The esquire bowed, and retired with the valets and lacqueys who had waited. The monk, who had stood aloof abiding his determination, now moved away, and the Lord of Dirleton followed him. The streets were deserted and silent, and the Franciscan staid not to speak, but glided so quickly along as to defy all attempts at conversation on the part of the knight who followed him. After threading through some narrow lanes and uncouth passages, the Lord of Dirleton was led by his guide to the door of the church of the Greyfriars, to which the monk applied a large key that hung at his girdle, and after letting himself and the knight in, he again locked it carefully behind him. The interior of the holy place was dimly illuminated by the few lamps that were burning here and there before some of the shrines, but the gloomy light was not even sufficient to dissipate the shadows that hung beneath the arch of the groined roof.“Speak, quickly speak, father—in charity speak, and satisfy my anxiety,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, panting with the eagerness of expectation, combined with the breathlessness of exertion. “What knowest thou of the fate of my child?—Is she alive?—In mercy speak!”The Franciscan shot a glance at De Vaux from under his cowl, and then strode slowly up the nave of the Church until he came opposite to a shrine dedicated to an image of the Virgin.[353]There he halted, and leaning against its iron screen with his back to the lamps, dropped his head on his bosom, and seemed lost in thought for some moments.“Oh, speak,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, following him—“Speak—does my child live? my child Beatrice?”“Thy child liveth not,” murmured the monk, in a deep sepulchral tone; “’tis of her death I would tell thee.”“Alas, alas! I did indeed fear so,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, deeply affected. “I had indeed ceased to hope that she might be yet alive. Yet even to know her fate were something amid the sad obscurity which hath so long oppressed us. What canst thou tell me of her, holy father?”“Thou hadst a brother,” said the Franciscan, slowly and solemnly.“Alas! I had. I had indeed a brother,” cried De Vaux. “Then are my fears but too just. It was he then who reft me of mine infant. Oh, wretch, wretch, how couldst thou be so cruel!”“It was he,” cried the monk, with a peculiar energy of manner, whilst his eyes glared strangely from beneath his cowl as he spake; “it was thy brother, who, in revenge for the blow he received from thine hand, tore thine infant daughter from her nurse, and fled with her.”“Then may God in His infinite mercy forgive him!” cried De Vaux, clasping his hands together with strong agitation of manner; and, dropping on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, he buried his face in his mantle, and gave way to his emotions.“What! canst thou in truth forgive him, then?” cried the monk; “canst thou in sincerity pray for his forgiveness in Heaven? Wouldst thou not rather seek revenge against him—revenge, the which may ere long be put within thy power—revenge, to which even I might peradventure help thee?”“And dost thou, the servant of Christ—thou who shouldst be the messenger of peace—dost thou become a tempter?” cried De Vaux, looking upwards at the monk with astonishment; “dost thou counsel revenge?—dost thou become a pander to the most malignant of human passions, so as to offer thyself to be the instrument who shall drag up my sinful, yet perchance ere this, repentant brother, to dree my vengeance?”“’Tis well,” replied the Franciscan coolly; “I did so speak but to prove thy virtue, the which I do find to be great. Forgiveness is the badge of our Christian faith, which it well becometh thee to wear; and thou hast the jewel of its highest[354]perfection, sith thou canst bring thy mind to forgive him who was the murderer of thy first-born child.”“The murderer of my child!” cried the wretched De Vaux, starting from his knees, and pacing the church, wringing his hands. “Were my worst fears true, then? was my innocent infant, my smiling cherub, was my Beatrice murdered? The few words thou didst let fall had overpowered my first suspicions, and had already engendered hopes that my brother’s violence had at least stopped short of a crime so horrible. Murdered, saidst thou? Oh, most foul, most foul! He whom I did love and cherish from boyhood as my son—yea, loved as the issue of my own loins—in whose nurture I so interested myself, and on whom I did propose to bestow large possessions—What, the flesh of mine own father to murder my helpless babe!”“Thy forgiveness is indeed of most marvellous and unexampled excellence,” cried the Franciscan in a whining tone, the true meaning of which could hardly be interpreted; “wouldst thou, then, that thy brother should be brought before thee, that he may receive full pardon at thy hands for the cruel coulpe he hath committed against thee?”“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the wretched Lord of Dirleton with rapid utterance, “let me not see him—let me not see him. I loved the sight of him once as the darling son of mine aged father—let me not see him now as the murderer of my child. The taking of the life of my brother cannot restore that of which he did bereave my Beatrice. As I hope for mercy from on high, so do I forgive him. Let him then live and repent; let him do voluntary penance, that his soul may yet meet with mercy at Heaven’s high tribunal; but let me not see him. Had he only robbed me of my child, I mought peraunter have been able to have yielded him my forgiveness face to face; yea, and moreover to have extinguished all animosity by weeping a flood of tears upon his bosom; for verily I am but as a lone and bruised reed, and a brother’s returning love were a healing balm worth the purchasing. But the murderer of my child—oh, horrible!—let me not see him.”The Franciscan drew his cowl more completely over his face, and stood for some moments with his head averted, as if to hide those emotions to which De Vaux’s agitation had given rise. Starting suddenly from the position he had taken, he sprang forward a pace or two towards the Lord of Dirleton, and then halted suddenly ere he reached him. De Vaux, wrapped up in his own thoughts, was unconscious of the movement of the monk. He threw himself again on his knees before the shrine of the[355]Virgin, and began offering up sincere but incoherent and unconnected petitions, at one time for the forgiveness of his own sins, at another for the soul of his murdered daughter, and again for mercy and pardon from Heaven for the crimes of his brother. The Franciscan, with his arms crossed over his breast, stood with his body gently bent over the pious supplicant, absorbed in contemplation of him, and deeply moved by the spectacle. A footstep was heard—the Lord of Dirleton’s ear caught it too at length, and he arose hastily; but the Franciscan friar with whom he had been holding converse was gone.“Father,” said the knight eagerly to a brother of the convent who now approached him from an inner door, “tell me, I pray thee, who was he of thine order who passed from me but now?”“Venerable warrior,” replied the monk with an air of surprise, “in truth, I saw no one. May the blessing of St. Francis be with thee. Peraunter thine orisons hath induced our Blessed Lady to send some saint miraculously to comfort thee. Nay, perhaps St. Francis himself may have been sent by the Holy Virgin to reward thy piety for thus seeking her shrine at such an hour. Leave me something in charity for our poor convent, and her blessing, as alswa that of St. Francis, will assuredly cleave to thee.”“Hath not one of thy brethren loitered in the streets until now?” demanded the Lord of Dirleton.“Nay,” replied the monk, “I this moment left the dormitory, where they are all asleep. Trust me, they are not given to wander in the streets at such an hour as this; and no one else could come hither, seeing that the door of our church is carefully locked at night.”The Lord of Dirleton was lost in thought for some moments; but, recollecting himself, he gave gold to the begging friar, who received it meekly. He then craved the monk’s guidance to the house of the canon, where his lady and daughter were lodged; and the holy man, taking a key from his girdle, unfastened the door of the church, and De Vaux silently followed him, ruminating as he went on the mysterious interview he had had, as well as on the sad story of his murdered daughter, the whole of his affliction for whom had been so strangely and so strongly brought back upon him.In the morning, the march of the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms was swelled by the presence of the Bishop of Moray, attended by a large party of his churchmen and followers. The whole body reached the ancient city of Aberdeen early on the fourth day, and Sir Patrick Hepborne had reason to be fully[356]satisfied with the gracious reception he met with from King Robert. He was gladdened by a happy meeting with his father, and with his friend Assueton, who had come to attend on His Majesty.“How fareth thine excellent mother, Assueton?” demanded Hepborne jocularly; “thou hast doubtless ere this had enough of her good society, as well as of thy home.”“Nay, of a truth, my dearest bel ami,” replied his friend, “parfay my conscience doth sorely smite me in that quarter. Verily, I have not yet seen mine excellent mother. Day after day have I been about to hie me to her, to receive her blessing; but something untoward hath ever arisen to detain me; and just as I was about to accomplish mine intent, I was hurried away hither by the King’s command. Perdie, I did never before think that I could have complained of the sudden outbreak of war; yet do I confess that I did in good earnest begrudge this unlooked-for call most bitterly.”“And hath love or filial affection the most to do in exciting thy complaint, thinkest thou?” demanded Hepborne.“Um! somewhat of both, perhaps,” replied Assueton gravely. “By St. Andrew, but I am an altered man, Hepborne. Nay, smile not; or rather, if it so pleaseth thee, smile as thou mayest list, for certes I am now case-hardened against thy raillery.”
CHAPTER L.The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and Men-at-Arms at Aberdeen.
The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and Men-at-Arms at Aberdeen.
The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and Men-at-Arms at Aberdeen.
The banquet, though sufficiently splendid, was tempered by moderation, and the guests broke up at an early hour, for the Bishop took an opportunity of signifying his wish to hold private council with the Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar, and one or two of the other nobles and knights whom he named. The hint was accordingly taken, and the accommodation of the Castle being too confined for a company so numerous, the Bishop of Moray consigned to the care of his canons the duty of providing fit lodging for such as might be compelled to go into the town. Though the apartments in the houses of these churchmen were small, yet were they most luxuriously furnished for the times to which this history refers.As De Vaux, the Lord of Dirleton, was one of the few whom the Bishop requested to aid him with his advice, the former remained for some time at the Castle. His lady and daughter were therefore consigned to the care of a rosy-faced, tun-bellied canon, who was ready with his attendants to escort them to his antique mansion. As his lacqueys lighted them along under the covered arcades lining both sides of the streets, his gay smiles and gallant air sorted but indifferently with the solemn religious grandeur that was everywhere spread over this ancient episcopal town.The subject of conference between the Bishop and the nobles was the late outrages of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The good Bishop was himself incapable of seeking vengeance, in as far as he as a mere man was concerned. But he was zealous for the interests of that religion and of that Church of which he was the minister; and being firmly resolved that neither should be insulted with impunity, he stated to the Lords and Knights his determination to go with them to Aberdeen, and to lay the matter before the King. To such a step no objection could be urged by those who heard him, and accordingly, after some conversation on other matters, which continued to a pretty late hour, the party broke up.As the Lord of Dirleton was leaving the Castle, with the intention of finding his way to the house of the canon, whither his lady and the Lady Jane de Vaux had gone before him, he[352]was suddenly addressed by some one from behind, who, in a distinct but hollow tone, whispered in his ear—“Wouldst thou know aught of the fate of thy first-born daughter?”“Ha! what canst thou tell me?” cried De Vaux, turning round with inconceivable eagerness, and addressing a Franciscan monk who stood behind him shrouded up in his cowl; “speak, I beseech thee, holy man, what hast thou to tell of my first-born daughter?”“Dismiss thine attendants,” replied the Franciscan calmly, “and follow me to the church of Greyfriars; there shalt thou learn all that I have to tell.”“Get thee to thy lodgings,” cried the Lord of Dirleton to his people, “and leave me with this holy monk. I would have converse with him alone.”“My Lord,” replied his esquire, “it were safer methinks to have thy people about thee; treachery hath many disguises—there may be danger.”“Talk not to me of danger,” cried De Vaux; “leave me, as I do command thee.”The esquire bowed, and retired with the valets and lacqueys who had waited. The monk, who had stood aloof abiding his determination, now moved away, and the Lord of Dirleton followed him. The streets were deserted and silent, and the Franciscan staid not to speak, but glided so quickly along as to defy all attempts at conversation on the part of the knight who followed him. After threading through some narrow lanes and uncouth passages, the Lord of Dirleton was led by his guide to the door of the church of the Greyfriars, to which the monk applied a large key that hung at his girdle, and after letting himself and the knight in, he again locked it carefully behind him. The interior of the holy place was dimly illuminated by the few lamps that were burning here and there before some of the shrines, but the gloomy light was not even sufficient to dissipate the shadows that hung beneath the arch of the groined roof.“Speak, quickly speak, father—in charity speak, and satisfy my anxiety,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, panting with the eagerness of expectation, combined with the breathlessness of exertion. “What knowest thou of the fate of my child?—Is she alive?—In mercy speak!”The Franciscan shot a glance at De Vaux from under his cowl, and then strode slowly up the nave of the Church until he came opposite to a shrine dedicated to an image of the Virgin.[353]There he halted, and leaning against its iron screen with his back to the lamps, dropped his head on his bosom, and seemed lost in thought for some moments.“Oh, speak,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, following him—“Speak—does my child live? my child Beatrice?”“Thy child liveth not,” murmured the monk, in a deep sepulchral tone; “’tis of her death I would tell thee.”“Alas, alas! I did indeed fear so,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, deeply affected. “I had indeed ceased to hope that she might be yet alive. Yet even to know her fate were something amid the sad obscurity which hath so long oppressed us. What canst thou tell me of her, holy father?”“Thou hadst a brother,” said the Franciscan, slowly and solemnly.“Alas! I had. I had indeed a brother,” cried De Vaux. “Then are my fears but too just. It was he then who reft me of mine infant. Oh, wretch, wretch, how couldst thou be so cruel!”“It was he,” cried the monk, with a peculiar energy of manner, whilst his eyes glared strangely from beneath his cowl as he spake; “it was thy brother, who, in revenge for the blow he received from thine hand, tore thine infant daughter from her nurse, and fled with her.”“Then may God in His infinite mercy forgive him!” cried De Vaux, clasping his hands together with strong agitation of manner; and, dropping on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, he buried his face in his mantle, and gave way to his emotions.“What! canst thou in truth forgive him, then?” cried the monk; “canst thou in sincerity pray for his forgiveness in Heaven? Wouldst thou not rather seek revenge against him—revenge, the which may ere long be put within thy power—revenge, to which even I might peradventure help thee?”“And dost thou, the servant of Christ—thou who shouldst be the messenger of peace—dost thou become a tempter?” cried De Vaux, looking upwards at the monk with astonishment; “dost thou counsel revenge?—dost thou become a pander to the most malignant of human passions, so as to offer thyself to be the instrument who shall drag up my sinful, yet perchance ere this, repentant brother, to dree my vengeance?”“’Tis well,” replied the Franciscan coolly; “I did so speak but to prove thy virtue, the which I do find to be great. Forgiveness is the badge of our Christian faith, which it well becometh thee to wear; and thou hast the jewel of its highest[354]perfection, sith thou canst bring thy mind to forgive him who was the murderer of thy first-born child.”“The murderer of my child!” cried the wretched De Vaux, starting from his knees, and pacing the church, wringing his hands. “Were my worst fears true, then? was my innocent infant, my smiling cherub, was my Beatrice murdered? The few words thou didst let fall had overpowered my first suspicions, and had already engendered hopes that my brother’s violence had at least stopped short of a crime so horrible. Murdered, saidst thou? Oh, most foul, most foul! He whom I did love and cherish from boyhood as my son—yea, loved as the issue of my own loins—in whose nurture I so interested myself, and on whom I did propose to bestow large possessions—What, the flesh of mine own father to murder my helpless babe!”“Thy forgiveness is indeed of most marvellous and unexampled excellence,” cried the Franciscan in a whining tone, the true meaning of which could hardly be interpreted; “wouldst thou, then, that thy brother should be brought before thee, that he may receive full pardon at thy hands for the cruel coulpe he hath committed against thee?”“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the wretched Lord of Dirleton with rapid utterance, “let me not see him—let me not see him. I loved the sight of him once as the darling son of mine aged father—let me not see him now as the murderer of my child. The taking of the life of my brother cannot restore that of which he did bereave my Beatrice. As I hope for mercy from on high, so do I forgive him. Let him then live and repent; let him do voluntary penance, that his soul may yet meet with mercy at Heaven’s high tribunal; but let me not see him. Had he only robbed me of my child, I mought peraunter have been able to have yielded him my forgiveness face to face; yea, and moreover to have extinguished all animosity by weeping a flood of tears upon his bosom; for verily I am but as a lone and bruised reed, and a brother’s returning love were a healing balm worth the purchasing. But the murderer of my child—oh, horrible!—let me not see him.”The Franciscan drew his cowl more completely over his face, and stood for some moments with his head averted, as if to hide those emotions to which De Vaux’s agitation had given rise. Starting suddenly from the position he had taken, he sprang forward a pace or two towards the Lord of Dirleton, and then halted suddenly ere he reached him. De Vaux, wrapped up in his own thoughts, was unconscious of the movement of the monk. He threw himself again on his knees before the shrine of the[355]Virgin, and began offering up sincere but incoherent and unconnected petitions, at one time for the forgiveness of his own sins, at another for the soul of his murdered daughter, and again for mercy and pardon from Heaven for the crimes of his brother. The Franciscan, with his arms crossed over his breast, stood with his body gently bent over the pious supplicant, absorbed in contemplation of him, and deeply moved by the spectacle. A footstep was heard—the Lord of Dirleton’s ear caught it too at length, and he arose hastily; but the Franciscan friar with whom he had been holding converse was gone.“Father,” said the knight eagerly to a brother of the convent who now approached him from an inner door, “tell me, I pray thee, who was he of thine order who passed from me but now?”“Venerable warrior,” replied the monk with an air of surprise, “in truth, I saw no one. May the blessing of St. Francis be with thee. Peraunter thine orisons hath induced our Blessed Lady to send some saint miraculously to comfort thee. Nay, perhaps St. Francis himself may have been sent by the Holy Virgin to reward thy piety for thus seeking her shrine at such an hour. Leave me something in charity for our poor convent, and her blessing, as alswa that of St. Francis, will assuredly cleave to thee.”“Hath not one of thy brethren loitered in the streets until now?” demanded the Lord of Dirleton.“Nay,” replied the monk, “I this moment left the dormitory, where they are all asleep. Trust me, they are not given to wander in the streets at such an hour as this; and no one else could come hither, seeing that the door of our church is carefully locked at night.”The Lord of Dirleton was lost in thought for some moments; but, recollecting himself, he gave gold to the begging friar, who received it meekly. He then craved the monk’s guidance to the house of the canon, where his lady and daughter were lodged; and the holy man, taking a key from his girdle, unfastened the door of the church, and De Vaux silently followed him, ruminating as he went on the mysterious interview he had had, as well as on the sad story of his murdered daughter, the whole of his affliction for whom had been so strangely and so strongly brought back upon him.In the morning, the march of the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms was swelled by the presence of the Bishop of Moray, attended by a large party of his churchmen and followers. The whole body reached the ancient city of Aberdeen early on the fourth day, and Sir Patrick Hepborne had reason to be fully[356]satisfied with the gracious reception he met with from King Robert. He was gladdened by a happy meeting with his father, and with his friend Assueton, who had come to attend on His Majesty.“How fareth thine excellent mother, Assueton?” demanded Hepborne jocularly; “thou hast doubtless ere this had enough of her good society, as well as of thy home.”“Nay, of a truth, my dearest bel ami,” replied his friend, “parfay my conscience doth sorely smite me in that quarter. Verily, I have not yet seen mine excellent mother. Day after day have I been about to hie me to her, to receive her blessing; but something untoward hath ever arisen to detain me; and just as I was about to accomplish mine intent, I was hurried away hither by the King’s command. Perdie, I did never before think that I could have complained of the sudden outbreak of war; yet do I confess that I did in good earnest begrudge this unlooked-for call most bitterly.”“And hath love or filial affection the most to do in exciting thy complaint, thinkest thou?” demanded Hepborne.“Um! somewhat of both, perhaps,” replied Assueton gravely. “By St. Andrew, but I am an altered man, Hepborne. Nay, smile not; or rather, if it so pleaseth thee, smile as thou mayest list, for certes I am now case-hardened against thy raillery.”
The banquet, though sufficiently splendid, was tempered by moderation, and the guests broke up at an early hour, for the Bishop took an opportunity of signifying his wish to hold private council with the Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar, and one or two of the other nobles and knights whom he named. The hint was accordingly taken, and the accommodation of the Castle being too confined for a company so numerous, the Bishop of Moray consigned to the care of his canons the duty of providing fit lodging for such as might be compelled to go into the town. Though the apartments in the houses of these churchmen were small, yet were they most luxuriously furnished for the times to which this history refers.
As De Vaux, the Lord of Dirleton, was one of the few whom the Bishop requested to aid him with his advice, the former remained for some time at the Castle. His lady and daughter were therefore consigned to the care of a rosy-faced, tun-bellied canon, who was ready with his attendants to escort them to his antique mansion. As his lacqueys lighted them along under the covered arcades lining both sides of the streets, his gay smiles and gallant air sorted but indifferently with the solemn religious grandeur that was everywhere spread over this ancient episcopal town.
The subject of conference between the Bishop and the nobles was the late outrages of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The good Bishop was himself incapable of seeking vengeance, in as far as he as a mere man was concerned. But he was zealous for the interests of that religion and of that Church of which he was the minister; and being firmly resolved that neither should be insulted with impunity, he stated to the Lords and Knights his determination to go with them to Aberdeen, and to lay the matter before the King. To such a step no objection could be urged by those who heard him, and accordingly, after some conversation on other matters, which continued to a pretty late hour, the party broke up.
As the Lord of Dirleton was leaving the Castle, with the intention of finding his way to the house of the canon, whither his lady and the Lady Jane de Vaux had gone before him, he[352]was suddenly addressed by some one from behind, who, in a distinct but hollow tone, whispered in his ear—
“Wouldst thou know aught of the fate of thy first-born daughter?”
“Ha! what canst thou tell me?” cried De Vaux, turning round with inconceivable eagerness, and addressing a Franciscan monk who stood behind him shrouded up in his cowl; “speak, I beseech thee, holy man, what hast thou to tell of my first-born daughter?”
“Dismiss thine attendants,” replied the Franciscan calmly, “and follow me to the church of Greyfriars; there shalt thou learn all that I have to tell.”
“Get thee to thy lodgings,” cried the Lord of Dirleton to his people, “and leave me with this holy monk. I would have converse with him alone.”
“My Lord,” replied his esquire, “it were safer methinks to have thy people about thee; treachery hath many disguises—there may be danger.”
“Talk not to me of danger,” cried De Vaux; “leave me, as I do command thee.”
The esquire bowed, and retired with the valets and lacqueys who had waited. The monk, who had stood aloof abiding his determination, now moved away, and the Lord of Dirleton followed him. The streets were deserted and silent, and the Franciscan staid not to speak, but glided so quickly along as to defy all attempts at conversation on the part of the knight who followed him. After threading through some narrow lanes and uncouth passages, the Lord of Dirleton was led by his guide to the door of the church of the Greyfriars, to which the monk applied a large key that hung at his girdle, and after letting himself and the knight in, he again locked it carefully behind him. The interior of the holy place was dimly illuminated by the few lamps that were burning here and there before some of the shrines, but the gloomy light was not even sufficient to dissipate the shadows that hung beneath the arch of the groined roof.
“Speak, quickly speak, father—in charity speak, and satisfy my anxiety,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, panting with the eagerness of expectation, combined with the breathlessness of exertion. “What knowest thou of the fate of my child?—Is she alive?—In mercy speak!”
The Franciscan shot a glance at De Vaux from under his cowl, and then strode slowly up the nave of the Church until he came opposite to a shrine dedicated to an image of the Virgin.[353]There he halted, and leaning against its iron screen with his back to the lamps, dropped his head on his bosom, and seemed lost in thought for some moments.
“Oh, speak,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, following him—“Speak—does my child live? my child Beatrice?”
“Thy child liveth not,” murmured the monk, in a deep sepulchral tone; “’tis of her death I would tell thee.”
“Alas, alas! I did indeed fear so,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, deeply affected. “I had indeed ceased to hope that she might be yet alive. Yet even to know her fate were something amid the sad obscurity which hath so long oppressed us. What canst thou tell me of her, holy father?”
“Thou hadst a brother,” said the Franciscan, slowly and solemnly.
“Alas! I had. I had indeed a brother,” cried De Vaux. “Then are my fears but too just. It was he then who reft me of mine infant. Oh, wretch, wretch, how couldst thou be so cruel!”
“It was he,” cried the monk, with a peculiar energy of manner, whilst his eyes glared strangely from beneath his cowl as he spake; “it was thy brother, who, in revenge for the blow he received from thine hand, tore thine infant daughter from her nurse, and fled with her.”
“Then may God in His infinite mercy forgive him!” cried De Vaux, clasping his hands together with strong agitation of manner; and, dropping on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, he buried his face in his mantle, and gave way to his emotions.
“What! canst thou in truth forgive him, then?” cried the monk; “canst thou in sincerity pray for his forgiveness in Heaven? Wouldst thou not rather seek revenge against him—revenge, the which may ere long be put within thy power—revenge, to which even I might peradventure help thee?”
“And dost thou, the servant of Christ—thou who shouldst be the messenger of peace—dost thou become a tempter?” cried De Vaux, looking upwards at the monk with astonishment; “dost thou counsel revenge?—dost thou become a pander to the most malignant of human passions, so as to offer thyself to be the instrument who shall drag up my sinful, yet perchance ere this, repentant brother, to dree my vengeance?”
“’Tis well,” replied the Franciscan coolly; “I did so speak but to prove thy virtue, the which I do find to be great. Forgiveness is the badge of our Christian faith, which it well becometh thee to wear; and thou hast the jewel of its highest[354]perfection, sith thou canst bring thy mind to forgive him who was the murderer of thy first-born child.”
“The murderer of my child!” cried the wretched De Vaux, starting from his knees, and pacing the church, wringing his hands. “Were my worst fears true, then? was my innocent infant, my smiling cherub, was my Beatrice murdered? The few words thou didst let fall had overpowered my first suspicions, and had already engendered hopes that my brother’s violence had at least stopped short of a crime so horrible. Murdered, saidst thou? Oh, most foul, most foul! He whom I did love and cherish from boyhood as my son—yea, loved as the issue of my own loins—in whose nurture I so interested myself, and on whom I did propose to bestow large possessions—What, the flesh of mine own father to murder my helpless babe!”
“Thy forgiveness is indeed of most marvellous and unexampled excellence,” cried the Franciscan in a whining tone, the true meaning of which could hardly be interpreted; “wouldst thou, then, that thy brother should be brought before thee, that he may receive full pardon at thy hands for the cruel coulpe he hath committed against thee?”
“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the wretched Lord of Dirleton with rapid utterance, “let me not see him—let me not see him. I loved the sight of him once as the darling son of mine aged father—let me not see him now as the murderer of my child. The taking of the life of my brother cannot restore that of which he did bereave my Beatrice. As I hope for mercy from on high, so do I forgive him. Let him then live and repent; let him do voluntary penance, that his soul may yet meet with mercy at Heaven’s high tribunal; but let me not see him. Had he only robbed me of my child, I mought peraunter have been able to have yielded him my forgiveness face to face; yea, and moreover to have extinguished all animosity by weeping a flood of tears upon his bosom; for verily I am but as a lone and bruised reed, and a brother’s returning love were a healing balm worth the purchasing. But the murderer of my child—oh, horrible!—let me not see him.”
The Franciscan drew his cowl more completely over his face, and stood for some moments with his head averted, as if to hide those emotions to which De Vaux’s agitation had given rise. Starting suddenly from the position he had taken, he sprang forward a pace or two towards the Lord of Dirleton, and then halted suddenly ere he reached him. De Vaux, wrapped up in his own thoughts, was unconscious of the movement of the monk. He threw himself again on his knees before the shrine of the[355]Virgin, and began offering up sincere but incoherent and unconnected petitions, at one time for the forgiveness of his own sins, at another for the soul of his murdered daughter, and again for mercy and pardon from Heaven for the crimes of his brother. The Franciscan, with his arms crossed over his breast, stood with his body gently bent over the pious supplicant, absorbed in contemplation of him, and deeply moved by the spectacle. A footstep was heard—the Lord of Dirleton’s ear caught it too at length, and he arose hastily; but the Franciscan friar with whom he had been holding converse was gone.
“Father,” said the knight eagerly to a brother of the convent who now approached him from an inner door, “tell me, I pray thee, who was he of thine order who passed from me but now?”
“Venerable warrior,” replied the monk with an air of surprise, “in truth, I saw no one. May the blessing of St. Francis be with thee. Peraunter thine orisons hath induced our Blessed Lady to send some saint miraculously to comfort thee. Nay, perhaps St. Francis himself may have been sent by the Holy Virgin to reward thy piety for thus seeking her shrine at such an hour. Leave me something in charity for our poor convent, and her blessing, as alswa that of St. Francis, will assuredly cleave to thee.”
“Hath not one of thy brethren loitered in the streets until now?” demanded the Lord of Dirleton.
“Nay,” replied the monk, “I this moment left the dormitory, where they are all asleep. Trust me, they are not given to wander in the streets at such an hour as this; and no one else could come hither, seeing that the door of our church is carefully locked at night.”
The Lord of Dirleton was lost in thought for some moments; but, recollecting himself, he gave gold to the begging friar, who received it meekly. He then craved the monk’s guidance to the house of the canon, where his lady and daughter were lodged; and the holy man, taking a key from his girdle, unfastened the door of the church, and De Vaux silently followed him, ruminating as he went on the mysterious interview he had had, as well as on the sad story of his murdered daughter, the whole of his affliction for whom had been so strangely and so strongly brought back upon him.
In the morning, the march of the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms was swelled by the presence of the Bishop of Moray, attended by a large party of his churchmen and followers. The whole body reached the ancient city of Aberdeen early on the fourth day, and Sir Patrick Hepborne had reason to be fully[356]satisfied with the gracious reception he met with from King Robert. He was gladdened by a happy meeting with his father, and with his friend Assueton, who had come to attend on His Majesty.
“How fareth thine excellent mother, Assueton?” demanded Hepborne jocularly; “thou hast doubtless ere this had enough of her good society, as well as of thy home.”
“Nay, of a truth, my dearest bel ami,” replied his friend, “parfay my conscience doth sorely smite me in that quarter. Verily, I have not yet seen mine excellent mother. Day after day have I been about to hie me to her, to receive her blessing; but something untoward hath ever arisen to detain me; and just as I was about to accomplish mine intent, I was hurried away hither by the King’s command. Perdie, I did never before think that I could have complained of the sudden outbreak of war; yet do I confess that I did in good earnest begrudge this unlooked-for call most bitterly.”
“And hath love or filial affection the most to do in exciting thy complaint, thinkest thou?” demanded Hepborne.
“Um! somewhat of both, perhaps,” replied Assueton gravely. “By St. Andrew, but I am an altered man, Hepborne. Nay, smile not; or rather, if it so pleaseth thee, smile as thou mayest list, for certes I am now case-hardened against thy raillery.”