[Contents]CHAPTER LVI.Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great Gathering at Jedworth—The Council of War.It was some days after the lady’s arrival that five horsemen knocked at the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower. They were clad rather as pilgrims than as warriors, and, arriving by the English side of the river, were judged to have come from the south. Matters had undergone a change since we had last occasion to notice the hall of Norham. Old Kyle had been gathered to his fathers, his buxom wife had wept her fair number of days, and, beginning to recover her spirits by the reflection that she was a well-looking and wealthy widow, her heart was already besieged by numerous lovers. Though under a woman’s government, the police of the Norham Tower was at this moment more strict than usual. The war had made its mistress careful to rid it at an early hour every night of all straggling topers. There were certain privileged customers, indeed, to whom a more liberal license was granted, and of this number was Mr. Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry.As two of the strangers, of nobler mien than the rest, entered the common room, they found the esquire in the act of rising from table, with another man in whose company he had been drinking.“A-well,” said the latter; “I bid thee good e’en, Sir Squire. I’ll warrant thou shalt not find better steeds between Tweed and Tyne than the two I have sold thee.”“Ay, ay, Master Truckthwaite,” replied Turnberry with a sarcastic smile, “thy word is all well; yet would I rather trust the half of mine own eye than the whole of thy tongue in such matters. Good e’en, good e’en. A precious knave, I wot,” added he, after the man was gone.“Doth that varlet sell thee good cattle, Sir Squire?” said one of the strangers who had entered.“Nay, in truth, he is a proper cheat,” replied Turnberry. “But the villain had to do with a man who hath lived all his life in a stable, and one, moreover, who hath sober, steady, habits. Your drunkard hath ever but poor chance in a bargain with your sober man.”“Most true,” replied the stranger. “Here, tapster; a flagon of Rhynwyn. Wilt thou stay, Sir Squire, and help us to drain it?”[403]“Rhynwyn!” exclaimed Turnberry; “by St. Cuthbert, but there is music in the very clink of the word. Nay, Sir Pilgrim, I care not an I taste with thee ere I go; I am but a poor drinker, yet hath honest Rhynwyn its charms.”“Ha,” said Tom, after deeply returning the stranger’s pledge, “this is right wholesome stuff, I promise ye, my masters. ’Tis another guess-liquor than old Mother Rowlandson’s i’ the Castle.”“Thou art of the Castle, then?” said he who had always spoken. “I drink to the health of thy gallant old captain, Sir Walter de Selby.”“Thank ye, thank ye,” replied Tom, taking the flagon. “Well, here’s to old Wat. Many is the ride we have had over the Border together; and many is the hard knock we have both ta’en and given, side by side. Trust me, there breathes not a better man. His health, God wot, hath been none of the best of late; so, with thy good leave, Sir Pilgrim, I’ll drink to it again.”“Hath he not a daughter?” demanded the pilgrim.“Yea, that he hath,” replied Tom—“an only daughter, whose beauty hath been the talk of all Northumberland.”“Let us drink to her health, then,” said the pilgrim.“Here’s to the Lady de Vere, then,” said Turnberry, lifting the flagon to his head to do justice to the health.“The Lady de Vere!” said the pilgrim who had not yet spoken, betraying an emotion that escaped Tom Turnberry, in the long draught he was taking.“Ay, the Lady de Vere,” said Tom, taking the flagon from his head. “The Lady Eleanore de Selby is now the Lady de Vere, as we have all heard at the Castle since two or three days have gone by. Sir Walter would have fain had her marry Sir Rafe Piersie, who courted her, but his haughtiness sorted ill with her high and untameable spirit; so she was contrarisome, and ran away with a love of her own choosing some time ago.”“And who might the lover be who bore away so rich a prize?” demanded the pilgrim.“Why, one of the Court lordlings, as we now learn, a Sir something de Vere, a kinsman to the King’s favourite, the banished Duke of Ireland. He is but lately come from abroad, it seems, for he is a foreign knight born, and being suspected as coming on some secret mission to the King, it is thought that he will rise high in his good graces. The poor ould soul, Sir Walter, did live in grievous case until these few days bygone,[404]for he knew not until then what had befallen his daughter. But now that he hath learned who his son-in-law is, he hath somewhat raised his head. But fie on me,” added the squire, after a long draught, that enabled him to see the bottom of the flagon, “I must hie me to the Castle; and so good night, and many thanks, my civil masters. Trust me, I shall right willingly bestow a can upon you when ye do come this way again, if ye will but ask for old Thomas Turnberry, the esquire equerry.”The dialogue between Tom Turnberry and the two strangers had been over for a good hour, when another conversation took place a few steps from the gate of the inn, between Mrs. Kyle and one who considered himself a favourite lover.“These be plaguy cunning knaves,” said Mrs. Kyle; “they thinks, I’se warrant me, that no one doth know ’em; yet—but I shall say nothing, not I.”“I dare swear a man would need to be no fool who should strive to deceive thee, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion, willing to draw her on a little.“Me!” replied she; “trust me, the old Fiend himself would not cheat me; for instance, now, that saucy Sang there did no sooner show his face within the four walls o’ the Norham Tower than I did straightway know him through all his disguises; and so, having once nosed him, I did quickly smell out his fellow-esquire, and the two knights their masters.”“That was clever in thee, i’ faith, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion.“Yea, but my name be not Margaret Kyle an I make no more out by my cleverness,” said the dame. “But mum for that.”“Nay, thou knowest thou canst not be Margaret Kyle long, my bonny dame,” replied the man.“Fie thee now,” replied she, “sure it will be long ere I do trust me to men again, after honest Sylvester, my poor dear husband that was.”“And what didst thou say they were here for?” demanded her companion.“Ye may trow they are here for no good,” replied the dame. “I’ll warrant me the seizing o’ them will be a right brave turn; but mum again, for he who is to take them this night did say as how none should ken nothing on’t till the stroke should be strucken; yea, and by the same token he did gie me kisses enow to seal up my mouth.”[405]“And when did Sir Miers tell thee this?” demanded the man.“Sir Miers!” replied Mrs. Kyle; “laucker-daisey, did I tell thee that it was Sir Miers? St. Mary, I had nae will tae hae done that. Hoot, toot, my lips hae no been half glued.”“And so thou dost say that Sir Miers is to surround the house to-night, and to take these same strangers?” observed the man.“Yea, but of a truth I shouldna hae tell’d thee a’ that; may my tongue be blistered for’t,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “for he bid me take especial care, aboon a’ things, to let thee know nought on’t.”“Nay, Mrs. Kyle,” said the man, “but thou knowest thou dost love me over much to hide anything from me.”“O ay, for a matter o’ that. I do love thee well enow,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but Sir Miers hath such pleasant ways with him.”“Hath he?” replied the man carelessly. “Thou didst say, I think, that the attempt is to be made at midnight, and that thou art to be on the watch to let them in?”“Nay, then,” said Mrs. Kyle, “I did verily say no sike thing, I wot. What I did say was this, that Sir Miers is to be here an hour after midnight, and that John Hosteler is to let them in.”“Ay, ay, I see I did mistake thy words,” replied the man. “Why, holy St. Cuthbert, thou wilt get a power of money for thine information.”“So Sir Miers hath promised me,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but what doth chiefly season the matter to my stomach is the spicy revenge I shall hae against that flouting knave Sang, and the very thought o’ this doth keenly edge me to aid the gallant Sir Miers in his enterprise; yet, to tell thee the truth, the handsome knight might rauckon on as much service at my hands, yea, or more, when it mought please him bid me.”“So,” replied her companion; “but come, I will see thee into the house, drink one cup of thine ale with thee, and so speed me to the other end of the village to Sir Miers. Who knows but I may be wanted after all to bear the brunt of this business.”By this time the two knights and their three attendants were the sole tenants of the common room, and this circumstance, coupled with the disguises they wore, led them to imagine that they ran no risk of discovery.Robert Lindsay, who was the fifth man, took up a lamp, and sallied forth to look at the horses ere he should seek repose.[406]All was quiet in the court-yard, as well as in the various buildings surrounding it. He entered the stable, but, though there were wain horses enow there belonging to the hostel, he saw, with utter dismay, that the five steeds belonging to his party were gone. He turned to rush out of the stable to tell the knights of this treacherous robbery, when the light of the lamp in his hand flashed on the figure of a man, who was determinedly posted in the doorway, as if resolved to oppose his passage.“Ralpho Proudfoot!” exclaimed Lindsay in astonishment; and then observing that he was fully armed, and that he carried a lance in his hand, whilst he himself had not even his sword, he gave himself up for lost; but resolving to sell his life as dearly as possible, he wrenched a rung from one of the stalls, and planted himself in a posture of defence.“Nay, thou needest look for no injury at my hands,” said Proudfoot; “this haughty spirit of mine, the which did once make me thy determined foe because thou wert promoted above me, doth now prompt me not to be outdone by thee in a generous deed. I come to warn thee that an attempt on the liberty, if not on the lives, of thee and those that be with thee, is to be made, within less than an hour hence, by Sir Miers de Willoughby and a strong force. The reward for taking prisoners of sike note, together with the gold to be gotten for their ransom, is the temptation to this enterprise. Lose not a moment then in rousing the knights, and warning them of their danger.”“But what hath become of our horses?” demanded Lindsay, not yet recovered from his surprise.“It was I who removed them,” replied Proudfoot. “I took them from the stable, after leaving the hosteller to sleep off the heavy draughts of ale I made him swallow; they stand ready caparisoned under the trees a few yards behind the inn. Quick, bring me to the knights, that I may show them their danger, and teach them how to avoid it; not a moment is to be lost.”Without farther question, Lindsay led the way to the common room where the knights were lying. They were soon roused, and listened to Proudfoot’s account of the plot against them with considerable surprise; but they hesitated to believe him, and were in doubt what to do.“Nay, then, Sir Knights,” said Proudfoot, “an ye will hesitate, certain captivity must befall ye. Captivity, did I say? yea, something worse; a base and black thirst of vengeance doth move this treacherous knight against thee, Sir John Assueton. I have reason to know that he hath ever cherished it sith thy last encounter.”[407]“’Twere better to plant ourselves here, and fight to the death with what weapons we may have about us,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne.“Right, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “we at least know and can be true to one another, and that of itself will give us victory.”“We shall be prepared for them,” said Mortimer Sang, “and we shall make them fly before us by the very suddenness of our assault.”“How many De Willoughby spears are of them?” demanded the taciturn Roger Riddel, with extreme composure.“Some two dozen at the least, I warrant me,” replied Proudfoot, “and all fully appointed.”“Bring they Norham Castle on their backs?” demanded Riddel again.“Nay,” replied Proudfoot, “their leader hath kept his scheme to himself, that he may have the greater share of booty and ransom money.”“But Norham Castle hath ears,” said Riddel again.“Thou sayest true, friend,” replied Proudfoot. “Were resistance to be made, the din of arms and the noise of the assault would soon bring out the garrison upon ye. Quickly resolve, Sir Knights, for the hour wanes, and they will be here anon. What can ye fear of traiterie from me? Could I not have left ye to fall easy victims to Sir Miers de Willoughby’s snare?”“So please ye, gallant knights, I will answer with my life for the truth of Ralpho Proudfoot in this matter,” said Lindsay confidently.“Nay, an ye fear me, ye shall all stand about me,” said Proudfoot; “and if ye do find me a traitor, your five daggers may drink my blood at once.”The minds of the two knights were at last made up, and they resolved to trust themselves to the guidance of RalphoProudfoot. Armed with their daggers alone, they stole silently out in the dark, and were so planted by him behind the gate as to be prepared to rush out when the time for doing so should come. Ralpho Proudfoot cautioned them to keep perfectly quiet. To attempt to escape along the street of the village at that moment would have subjected them to certain observation: they were therefore to wait his signal, and to follow him. He placed himself, as he had said, in the midst of them, and set himself to listen for a sound from the outside.They had not been long posted, when footsteps were heard[408]approaching very gently. There was then some whispering, and a slight cough. Proudfoot immediately answered it.“Art there, John?” said a voice in an under tone.“Yea,” replied Proudfoot, imitating the language of the hosteller, “but they be’s still astir; so when the yate be opened, ye maun rush in like fiends on them, for the hinge do creak, and they will start to their arms wi’ the noise. Are ye a’ ready?”“We are,” replied the voice without.“Noo, then, in on them and at them,” cried Proudfoot, throwing the gate wide open, so as to conceal himself and his companions behind it.In rushed Sir Miers de Willoughby, at the head of a large party of his men; and out went Ralpho Proudfoot, with the two Scottish knights and their attendants. The gate was hastily locked externally; the horses were quickly gained, and mounted in the twinkling of an eye; and Ralpho Proudfoot, who had taken the precaution to have his steed placed with the rest, got to saddle along with them. As they rode past the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower, the loud voices, and the execrations of Sir Miers de Willoughby and his people, and the shrill screams of Mrs. Kyle, told them that the failure of the plot had been already discovered by the actors in it.“So,” said Ralpho, in half soliloquy, as he guided the knights down the village street at a canter—“so, thou didst cease to trust me, Sir Miers, me who hath been faithful to thee to the peril of my salvation. By St. Benedict, thou shalt now find that it would have been well for thee to have trusted me still; yea and thou didst tamper with her whom I would have espoused. By the bones of St. Baldrid, but thou mayest mate thee with her now an thou listest, for I am done for ever with her, with thee, and with England, except as a foeman.”The two knights made the best of their way until they had got beyond the English march, and were fairly on what might be termed Scottish ground. Armed men were still crowding in greater or lesser bodies to Jedworth, where those who had by this time assembled formed a large army. They were encamped on what was then called the High Forest; and thither the two friends were hastening, and were already but a little way from the position of the troops, when Sir Patrick Hepborne halted, and thus addressed his companion—“Canst thou tell me, Assueton, what may cause the mingled crowd of squires, lacqueys, grooms, and horses, that doth surround the gates of yonder church? Meseems it some convocation,[409]and those varlets do wait the pleasure of some personages of greater note who are within.”“Thou art right,” replied Assueton; “for to-day was fixed for a council of war to be held within that church, and it would seem that at least some, if not all, of the nobles and knights of the host are already met. Let us hasten thither, I beseech thee. I long to learn what is to be the plan of our warfare.”“I shall at least meet my father there,” said Sir Patrick listlessly, and as if he cared for little else. “Do thou follow us, Lindsay, to take our horses, and then wait for us, with the esquires, under the spreading oaks of yonder swelling knoll.”On entering the church the two knights learned that they had arrived just in time for the opening of the business. The Earls of Fife, Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray were there, and indeed all the leading nobles and knights of Scottish chivalry; and the doors being closed, the assembly were soon deeply engaged in the gravest deliberations.Whilst the council of war was so employed within the church, Mortimer Sang was lying at the root of an aged oak, holding conversation to, rather than with, Roger Riddel. Near them were the horses tethered and feeding, under the eyes of Robert Lindsay, and his old, though newly-recovered comrade, Ralpho Proudfoot, who were earnestly engaged in talking over many a story of their boyhood.“What dost thou stare at so, friend Riddel?” demanded Sang, who observed his comrade stretching his neck so as to throw his eyes up the trough of a ravine down which stole a little rill, that murmured around the knoll where they were sitting; “what dost thou see, I say, friend Roger, that thou dost so stretch thy neck like a heron, when disturbed in her solitary fishing?”Roger replied not, but nodded significantly, and pointed with his finger.“Nay, I see nought,” replied Sang, “save, indeed, a swinking churl, who doth untie and lead away a gallant and bravely caparisoned steed from yonder willow that weepeth over the stream.”Roger looked grave, and nodded again, and looked as much as to say, “A-well, and dost thou see nothing in that?”“Nay, now that the knave hath mounted,” said Sang, “he seemeth to ride like one who would make his horse’s speed keep his neck from the halter. By’r Lady, he’s gone already. Is the rogue a thief, thinkest thou, Roger?”“Notour, I’ll warrant me,” replied Squire Riddel.[410]“By St. Baldrid, had we but thought of that sooner, we might have frayed the malfaitor, yea, or taken him in the very fact,” said Sang. “But now we are too late to meddle in the matter.”“We are no thief-takers,” replied Roger Riddel, with great indifference.“Nay, now I think on’t, he who would hang up his horse so in the Borders may be his own thief-taker for me,” replied Sang; “but look ye, friend Roger,” continued he, after a pause, “who may that stranger be who cometh forth from the crowd armed and spurred, yea, as a squire ought, yet who walketh away as if neither groom nor horse tarried for him? Stay—methinks he cometh this way.”The stranger looked around him, after getting rid of the embarrassment of the crowd about the church, and then moved quickly towards the knoll where the two esquires were sitting, and, passing quietly under it, without either looking at or speaking to them, made his way up the ravine in the direction of the willow-trees, where the horse had been tethered. The path he followed was so much lower than the ground whence they had observed the actions of the man who took the horse, that the stranger walked smartly on for more than a bow-shot, ere he came within view of the willow-trees. Then it was that he began to betray great confusion. He hastened to the spot whence the horse had been so lately removed, and finding that he was irrecoverably gone, he clasped his hands, looked up to heaven, and seemed to be lost in despair.“Dost thou mark yonder man who did walk by here alone?” demanded Sang eagerly. “Behold how he doth show signs of distress, that would mark him to be the master of the horse which the thief took. I ween he be no Scottish squire, for he knew no one, and seemed to covet concealment as he did pass us by. An I mistake not, he will prove better worth catching than the thief would have done. Let’s after him, Roger, that we may prove my saying.”Roger, though slow to speak, was quick to act. The two esquires seized their steeds, and throwing themselves into their saddles, galloped at full speed after the stranger. Startled by the sound of pursuit, he at first made an effort to escape, but, seeing how hotly he was chased, he lost spirit, and, shortening his pace, allowed them to come up with him.“Whither wouldst thou, comrade? and whence hast thou come? and what dost thou, a spurred esquire, without a horse?” demanded Sang, in a string of interrogations.“I do but breathe the air here,” replied the man in great[411]confusion. “As for my horse, I do verily believe some villain hath stolen him from those willow trees where I had tied him.”“But why didst thou tie thy horse in this lone place? and how comest thou thus unattended?” demanded Sang again. “But, hey, holy St. Baldrid, is it thou, my gentle Clerk-Squire Barton? When, I pray thee, didst thou leave the peaceful following of the godly Bishop of Durham, to mell thee with dangerous matters like these thou art now in? By the blessed Rood, it had been well for thee, methinks, an thou couldst but have aped somewhat of the loutish Scot in thy gait, peraunter thou mightest have better escaped remark? So, thou hast become a spy on these our Eastern Marches, hast thou? By the mass, but thou must with us to the conclave. It doth erke me to speak it, mine excellent friend, but, by’r Lady, I do fear me that thou mayest hang for it.”“Talk not so, Squire Sang,” replied Barton, with a face of alarm. “Trust me, I have seen nought—I know nought. Thou knowest we did drink together in good fellowship at Norham. Let me go, I do beseech thee, and put not an innocent man’s life to peril, seeing that appearances do happen to be so sore against me.”“Sore against thee, indeed, pot-companion,” said Roger Riddel, portentously shaking his head.“Yea, appearances are sore against thee, Master Barton,” reechoed Sang. “Verily, we did behold thee as thou didst come forth from yonder church, where thou didst doubtless possess thyself of much important matter that did there transpire, the which it will be by no means convenient that thou shouldst carry in safety to those who may have sent thee hither. Better that thou hadst chanted thirty trentals of masses in the goodly pile of Durham for the soul of thy grandmother, ay, and that fasting, too, than that thou shouldst have set thy foot for a minute’s space of time within yonder church this day.”“Let me go, good gentlemen, I do beseech ye,” said Barton. “Squire Riddel, hast thou no compassion for me?”“Much,” replied Roger.“Natheless, thou must with us, Squire Barton.”“Nay, in truth thou must with us without more ado,” said Sang; “yet make thyself as easy as may be; for, in consideration of our meeting at Norham, I shall do thee all the kindness I may consistent with duty, both now and when thou shalt be sent to the fatal tree, to the which I do fear thy passage will be short and speedy.”The English esquire shuddered, but he was compelled to submit;[412]and he was accordingly led by his captors to the church, where the council of war was assembled. The news of his capture excited great interest and commotion among the knights; and the Earl of Fife, who presided over their deliberations, had no sooner learned the particulars of his taking than he ordered him into his presence. Barton came, guarded by Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel. He had put on the best countenance he could, but judging by the working of his features, all his resolution was required to keep it up.“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the Earl of Fife. “What hast thou to say for thyself, Sir Squire? Thou hast been taken in arms within the Scottish bounds—thou hast been seen of several who did note thine appearance at this our secret meeting—and there be knights here, as well as those worthy esquires who took thee, who can speak to thy name and country. Whence art thou come? and who did send thee hither to espy out our force, and to possess thyself of our schemes?”“Trusting to the sacred office of my Lord the Bishop of Durham, I came but as a pious traveller to visit certain shrines,” replied Barton. “Being in these parts, I wot it was no marvel in me, the servant of a churchman so dignified, to look into the church, and——”“Nay, nay—so flimsy a response as this will by no means serve,” interrupted the Earl of Fife, who, though cool, calm, and soft in manner, was in reality much more cruel of heart than his brother the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, albeit devoid of the furious passion so ungovernable in that Earl. “He doth but trifle with our patience. Let a rack be instantly prepared, and let a tree be erected without loss of time, whereon his tortured limbs, whilst their fibres shall yet have hardly ceased to feel, may be hung as tender food for the ravens. His throat shall be squeezed by the hangman’s rope, until all he hath gained by his espial be disgorged or closed up for ever within it.”Barton shook from head to foot at this terrible sentence, uttered with a mildness and composure that might have suited well with a homily. His face grew deadly pale, despair grappled at his breath, and he gasped as if already under the hands of the executioner. His eyes, restless and protruded, seemed as if anxious to shun the picture of the horrible death that so soon awaited him. His lips moved, but they were dry as ashes, and they gave forth no sound. Sang and Roger Riddel almost regretted that they had been instrumental in bringing the wretch there, though by doing so they had so well served their country. They looked at each other with horror; but in such[413]a presence, and at such a time, Sang was condemned to remain as dumb as Squire Riddel. The good Earl of Moray had more liberty of speech, and he failed not to use it.“Be not too hasty with him, my Lord,” said he; “he may yet peraunter be brought to give us tidings of the enemy. Let him but give us what information he can, under promise, that if it be found soothfast, he shall have no evil. Meanwhile, after he shall have effunded all that it may concern us to know, let him be delivered into the custody of the Constable of Jedworth, with him to liggen in strict durance, until we shall have certiorated ourselves by our own experience, whether the things which he may tell be true or false, with certification that his life shall be the forfeit of the minutest breach of verity. If he doth refuse these terms, then, in the name of St. Andrew, let him incontinent lose his head.”A hum of approbation ran around the meeting, and the Earl of Fife, though in secret half-chagrined that he had not had his own will, saw that in this point he must give way to the general voice.“Thou dost hear thy destiny,” said he to the prisoner; “what is thine election?”“My Lord, seeing that I have no alternative but to yield me to dire necessity,” answered the English esquire, with an expression of infinite relief in his countenance, “verily, I do most gladly accept your terms. As God is my judge, I shall tell thee all I know, without alteration, addition, or curtailment.”“Who sent thee hither, then?” demanded the Earl of Fife.“Being one to whom these Marches be well known, I was chosen by the Lords of Northumberland, and sent hither to learn the state of your enterprise; as alswa to gather which way ye do propose to draw.”“Where, then, be these English Lords?” demanded the Earl of Douglas.“Sirs,” replied the captive squire, “sith it behoveth me to say the truth, ye shall surely have it. I be come straight hither from Newcastle, where be Sir Henry Piersie, surnamed Hotspur, from his frequent pricking; and his brother Sir Rafe Piersie, yea, and divers other nobles and knights, flowers of English chivalry, all in readiness to depart thence as soon as they may know that ye have set forward into England; for, hearing of the strength of your host, they do not choose to come to meet you.”“Why, what number do they repute us at?” demanded the Earl of Moray.[414]“Sir,” replied the esquire, “it is said how ye be forty thousand men and twelve hundred spears.”“What then may be their plan?” demanded the Earl of Fife.“This be their plan, my Lord,” replied the esquire: “If ye do invade England by Carlisle, then will they straightway force a passage for themselves by Dunbar to Edinburgh; and if ye do hold through Northumberland, then will they enter Scotland by the Western Marches.”As the English esquire Barton was thus delivering himself, the Scottish lords threw significant glances towards each other. Some further questions of less moment were put to him, and after he had answered to all with every appearance of perfect candour—“Let him be removed into the strict keeping of the Constable of Jedworth,” said the Earl of Fife. “His life and liberty shall be safe, provided his report shall in all things prove true, and for this I do gage my word in name of myself and all these noble lords and knights here present. Should he be found to have spoken falsely in the veriest tittle, he knoweth his fate.”After the prisoner was withdrawn under the charge of a guard, the Earl of Fife conveyed thanks to the two esquires for having so well fulfilled their duty to Scotland. The assembled lords and knights were overjoyed that the intent of their enemies should have been thus made so surely known to them, and a buzz of congratulation arose.“This is all well, my Lords,” said the Earl of Fife, after having again procured silence; “but let us now to council, I entreat you, that we may straightway devise how best to avail ourselves of the tidings we have gained. For mine own part I do opine that we should break our host into two armies. Let the most part, together with all our carriage, go by the Cumberland Marches and Carlisle, and let a smaller body draw towards Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to fill up and occupy the attention of the enemy assembled there. I speak under the correction of wiser heads,” continued the Earl, bowing around him with great condescension, so as to excite a burst of approbation from those weaker spirits whom he daily flattered until he made them his staunch partisans—“I speak, I say, under the correction of wiser heads; yet meseems, from those unanimous applauses, my Lords, that you do honour my scheme of warfare with your universal support; and such being the case, I may now say, that whilst I do myself propose to lead the main army by the Western Marches, I shall commit the command of the smaller[415]body to the brave Earls of Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray. For this last service, methinks, three hundred lances, and three thousand crossbows and axemen, may well enow suffice.”“By St. Andrew, but ’tis a fine thing to know how to keep one’s head safe,” whispered Sir William de Dalzell ironically to Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger; “what thinkest thou of him who shall shoulder ye a catapult to crush a swarm of dung flies, whilst he doth send out others to war on lions and bearded pards with a handful of hazel nuts. Depardieux, he who goeth by Carlisle may march boldly from one end of Cumberland to the other, with a single clump of spears at his back, ay, and take the fattest spoil too; but he who shall march to Newcastle will want all the hardy hearts and well-strung thewes and muscles he can muster around him, and is like after all to get nought but a broken head for his journey. Holy St. Giles, but ’tis well to take care of one’s self.”By a little management, the opinion of the council of war was easily brought perfectly to coincide with the views of the Earl of Fife. But so great was the name of James Earl of Douglas, that it was in itself a host. The two brothers, George Dunbar Earl of Dunbar and March, and John Dunbar Earl of Moray, too, were so much beloved, that a puissant band of knights voluntarily mustered under their banners. Among these were Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and Sir John Assueton. Ere the assembly dissolved, it was determined that the armies should divide, and march on their respective routes early on the ensuing morning; and all was bustle and preparation accordingly.
[Contents]CHAPTER LVI.Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great Gathering at Jedworth—The Council of War.It was some days after the lady’s arrival that five horsemen knocked at the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower. They were clad rather as pilgrims than as warriors, and, arriving by the English side of the river, were judged to have come from the south. Matters had undergone a change since we had last occasion to notice the hall of Norham. Old Kyle had been gathered to his fathers, his buxom wife had wept her fair number of days, and, beginning to recover her spirits by the reflection that she was a well-looking and wealthy widow, her heart was already besieged by numerous lovers. Though under a woman’s government, the police of the Norham Tower was at this moment more strict than usual. The war had made its mistress careful to rid it at an early hour every night of all straggling topers. There were certain privileged customers, indeed, to whom a more liberal license was granted, and of this number was Mr. Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry.As two of the strangers, of nobler mien than the rest, entered the common room, they found the esquire in the act of rising from table, with another man in whose company he had been drinking.“A-well,” said the latter; “I bid thee good e’en, Sir Squire. I’ll warrant thou shalt not find better steeds between Tweed and Tyne than the two I have sold thee.”“Ay, ay, Master Truckthwaite,” replied Turnberry with a sarcastic smile, “thy word is all well; yet would I rather trust the half of mine own eye than the whole of thy tongue in such matters. Good e’en, good e’en. A precious knave, I wot,” added he, after the man was gone.“Doth that varlet sell thee good cattle, Sir Squire?” said one of the strangers who had entered.“Nay, in truth, he is a proper cheat,” replied Turnberry. “But the villain had to do with a man who hath lived all his life in a stable, and one, moreover, who hath sober, steady, habits. Your drunkard hath ever but poor chance in a bargain with your sober man.”“Most true,” replied the stranger. “Here, tapster; a flagon of Rhynwyn. Wilt thou stay, Sir Squire, and help us to drain it?”[403]“Rhynwyn!” exclaimed Turnberry; “by St. Cuthbert, but there is music in the very clink of the word. Nay, Sir Pilgrim, I care not an I taste with thee ere I go; I am but a poor drinker, yet hath honest Rhynwyn its charms.”“Ha,” said Tom, after deeply returning the stranger’s pledge, “this is right wholesome stuff, I promise ye, my masters. ’Tis another guess-liquor than old Mother Rowlandson’s i’ the Castle.”“Thou art of the Castle, then?” said he who had always spoken. “I drink to the health of thy gallant old captain, Sir Walter de Selby.”“Thank ye, thank ye,” replied Tom, taking the flagon. “Well, here’s to old Wat. Many is the ride we have had over the Border together; and many is the hard knock we have both ta’en and given, side by side. Trust me, there breathes not a better man. His health, God wot, hath been none of the best of late; so, with thy good leave, Sir Pilgrim, I’ll drink to it again.”“Hath he not a daughter?” demanded the pilgrim.“Yea, that he hath,” replied Tom—“an only daughter, whose beauty hath been the talk of all Northumberland.”“Let us drink to her health, then,” said the pilgrim.“Here’s to the Lady de Vere, then,” said Turnberry, lifting the flagon to his head to do justice to the health.“The Lady de Vere!” said the pilgrim who had not yet spoken, betraying an emotion that escaped Tom Turnberry, in the long draught he was taking.“Ay, the Lady de Vere,” said Tom, taking the flagon from his head. “The Lady Eleanore de Selby is now the Lady de Vere, as we have all heard at the Castle since two or three days have gone by. Sir Walter would have fain had her marry Sir Rafe Piersie, who courted her, but his haughtiness sorted ill with her high and untameable spirit; so she was contrarisome, and ran away with a love of her own choosing some time ago.”“And who might the lover be who bore away so rich a prize?” demanded the pilgrim.“Why, one of the Court lordlings, as we now learn, a Sir something de Vere, a kinsman to the King’s favourite, the banished Duke of Ireland. He is but lately come from abroad, it seems, for he is a foreign knight born, and being suspected as coming on some secret mission to the King, it is thought that he will rise high in his good graces. The poor ould soul, Sir Walter, did live in grievous case until these few days bygone,[404]for he knew not until then what had befallen his daughter. But now that he hath learned who his son-in-law is, he hath somewhat raised his head. But fie on me,” added the squire, after a long draught, that enabled him to see the bottom of the flagon, “I must hie me to the Castle; and so good night, and many thanks, my civil masters. Trust me, I shall right willingly bestow a can upon you when ye do come this way again, if ye will but ask for old Thomas Turnberry, the esquire equerry.”The dialogue between Tom Turnberry and the two strangers had been over for a good hour, when another conversation took place a few steps from the gate of the inn, between Mrs. Kyle and one who considered himself a favourite lover.“These be plaguy cunning knaves,” said Mrs. Kyle; “they thinks, I’se warrant me, that no one doth know ’em; yet—but I shall say nothing, not I.”“I dare swear a man would need to be no fool who should strive to deceive thee, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion, willing to draw her on a little.“Me!” replied she; “trust me, the old Fiend himself would not cheat me; for instance, now, that saucy Sang there did no sooner show his face within the four walls o’ the Norham Tower than I did straightway know him through all his disguises; and so, having once nosed him, I did quickly smell out his fellow-esquire, and the two knights their masters.”“That was clever in thee, i’ faith, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion.“Yea, but my name be not Margaret Kyle an I make no more out by my cleverness,” said the dame. “But mum for that.”“Nay, thou knowest thou canst not be Margaret Kyle long, my bonny dame,” replied the man.“Fie thee now,” replied she, “sure it will be long ere I do trust me to men again, after honest Sylvester, my poor dear husband that was.”“And what didst thou say they were here for?” demanded her companion.“Ye may trow they are here for no good,” replied the dame. “I’ll warrant me the seizing o’ them will be a right brave turn; but mum again, for he who is to take them this night did say as how none should ken nothing on’t till the stroke should be strucken; yea, and by the same token he did gie me kisses enow to seal up my mouth.”[405]“And when did Sir Miers tell thee this?” demanded the man.“Sir Miers!” replied Mrs. Kyle; “laucker-daisey, did I tell thee that it was Sir Miers? St. Mary, I had nae will tae hae done that. Hoot, toot, my lips hae no been half glued.”“And so thou dost say that Sir Miers is to surround the house to-night, and to take these same strangers?” observed the man.“Yea, but of a truth I shouldna hae tell’d thee a’ that; may my tongue be blistered for’t,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “for he bid me take especial care, aboon a’ things, to let thee know nought on’t.”“Nay, Mrs. Kyle,” said the man, “but thou knowest thou dost love me over much to hide anything from me.”“O ay, for a matter o’ that. I do love thee well enow,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but Sir Miers hath such pleasant ways with him.”“Hath he?” replied the man carelessly. “Thou didst say, I think, that the attempt is to be made at midnight, and that thou art to be on the watch to let them in?”“Nay, then,” said Mrs. Kyle, “I did verily say no sike thing, I wot. What I did say was this, that Sir Miers is to be here an hour after midnight, and that John Hosteler is to let them in.”“Ay, ay, I see I did mistake thy words,” replied the man. “Why, holy St. Cuthbert, thou wilt get a power of money for thine information.”“So Sir Miers hath promised me,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but what doth chiefly season the matter to my stomach is the spicy revenge I shall hae against that flouting knave Sang, and the very thought o’ this doth keenly edge me to aid the gallant Sir Miers in his enterprise; yet, to tell thee the truth, the handsome knight might rauckon on as much service at my hands, yea, or more, when it mought please him bid me.”“So,” replied her companion; “but come, I will see thee into the house, drink one cup of thine ale with thee, and so speed me to the other end of the village to Sir Miers. Who knows but I may be wanted after all to bear the brunt of this business.”By this time the two knights and their three attendants were the sole tenants of the common room, and this circumstance, coupled with the disguises they wore, led them to imagine that they ran no risk of discovery.Robert Lindsay, who was the fifth man, took up a lamp, and sallied forth to look at the horses ere he should seek repose.[406]All was quiet in the court-yard, as well as in the various buildings surrounding it. He entered the stable, but, though there were wain horses enow there belonging to the hostel, he saw, with utter dismay, that the five steeds belonging to his party were gone. He turned to rush out of the stable to tell the knights of this treacherous robbery, when the light of the lamp in his hand flashed on the figure of a man, who was determinedly posted in the doorway, as if resolved to oppose his passage.“Ralpho Proudfoot!” exclaimed Lindsay in astonishment; and then observing that he was fully armed, and that he carried a lance in his hand, whilst he himself had not even his sword, he gave himself up for lost; but resolving to sell his life as dearly as possible, he wrenched a rung from one of the stalls, and planted himself in a posture of defence.“Nay, thou needest look for no injury at my hands,” said Proudfoot; “this haughty spirit of mine, the which did once make me thy determined foe because thou wert promoted above me, doth now prompt me not to be outdone by thee in a generous deed. I come to warn thee that an attempt on the liberty, if not on the lives, of thee and those that be with thee, is to be made, within less than an hour hence, by Sir Miers de Willoughby and a strong force. The reward for taking prisoners of sike note, together with the gold to be gotten for their ransom, is the temptation to this enterprise. Lose not a moment then in rousing the knights, and warning them of their danger.”“But what hath become of our horses?” demanded Lindsay, not yet recovered from his surprise.“It was I who removed them,” replied Proudfoot. “I took them from the stable, after leaving the hosteller to sleep off the heavy draughts of ale I made him swallow; they stand ready caparisoned under the trees a few yards behind the inn. Quick, bring me to the knights, that I may show them their danger, and teach them how to avoid it; not a moment is to be lost.”Without farther question, Lindsay led the way to the common room where the knights were lying. They were soon roused, and listened to Proudfoot’s account of the plot against them with considerable surprise; but they hesitated to believe him, and were in doubt what to do.“Nay, then, Sir Knights,” said Proudfoot, “an ye will hesitate, certain captivity must befall ye. Captivity, did I say? yea, something worse; a base and black thirst of vengeance doth move this treacherous knight against thee, Sir John Assueton. I have reason to know that he hath ever cherished it sith thy last encounter.”[407]“’Twere better to plant ourselves here, and fight to the death with what weapons we may have about us,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne.“Right, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “we at least know and can be true to one another, and that of itself will give us victory.”“We shall be prepared for them,” said Mortimer Sang, “and we shall make them fly before us by the very suddenness of our assault.”“How many De Willoughby spears are of them?” demanded the taciturn Roger Riddel, with extreme composure.“Some two dozen at the least, I warrant me,” replied Proudfoot, “and all fully appointed.”“Bring they Norham Castle on their backs?” demanded Riddel again.“Nay,” replied Proudfoot, “their leader hath kept his scheme to himself, that he may have the greater share of booty and ransom money.”“But Norham Castle hath ears,” said Riddel again.“Thou sayest true, friend,” replied Proudfoot. “Were resistance to be made, the din of arms and the noise of the assault would soon bring out the garrison upon ye. Quickly resolve, Sir Knights, for the hour wanes, and they will be here anon. What can ye fear of traiterie from me? Could I not have left ye to fall easy victims to Sir Miers de Willoughby’s snare?”“So please ye, gallant knights, I will answer with my life for the truth of Ralpho Proudfoot in this matter,” said Lindsay confidently.“Nay, an ye fear me, ye shall all stand about me,” said Proudfoot; “and if ye do find me a traitor, your five daggers may drink my blood at once.”The minds of the two knights were at last made up, and they resolved to trust themselves to the guidance of RalphoProudfoot. Armed with their daggers alone, they stole silently out in the dark, and were so planted by him behind the gate as to be prepared to rush out when the time for doing so should come. Ralpho Proudfoot cautioned them to keep perfectly quiet. To attempt to escape along the street of the village at that moment would have subjected them to certain observation: they were therefore to wait his signal, and to follow him. He placed himself, as he had said, in the midst of them, and set himself to listen for a sound from the outside.They had not been long posted, when footsteps were heard[408]approaching very gently. There was then some whispering, and a slight cough. Proudfoot immediately answered it.“Art there, John?” said a voice in an under tone.“Yea,” replied Proudfoot, imitating the language of the hosteller, “but they be’s still astir; so when the yate be opened, ye maun rush in like fiends on them, for the hinge do creak, and they will start to their arms wi’ the noise. Are ye a’ ready?”“We are,” replied the voice without.“Noo, then, in on them and at them,” cried Proudfoot, throwing the gate wide open, so as to conceal himself and his companions behind it.In rushed Sir Miers de Willoughby, at the head of a large party of his men; and out went Ralpho Proudfoot, with the two Scottish knights and their attendants. The gate was hastily locked externally; the horses were quickly gained, and mounted in the twinkling of an eye; and Ralpho Proudfoot, who had taken the precaution to have his steed placed with the rest, got to saddle along with them. As they rode past the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower, the loud voices, and the execrations of Sir Miers de Willoughby and his people, and the shrill screams of Mrs. Kyle, told them that the failure of the plot had been already discovered by the actors in it.“So,” said Ralpho, in half soliloquy, as he guided the knights down the village street at a canter—“so, thou didst cease to trust me, Sir Miers, me who hath been faithful to thee to the peril of my salvation. By St. Benedict, thou shalt now find that it would have been well for thee to have trusted me still; yea and thou didst tamper with her whom I would have espoused. By the bones of St. Baldrid, but thou mayest mate thee with her now an thou listest, for I am done for ever with her, with thee, and with England, except as a foeman.”The two knights made the best of their way until they had got beyond the English march, and were fairly on what might be termed Scottish ground. Armed men were still crowding in greater or lesser bodies to Jedworth, where those who had by this time assembled formed a large army. They were encamped on what was then called the High Forest; and thither the two friends were hastening, and were already but a little way from the position of the troops, when Sir Patrick Hepborne halted, and thus addressed his companion—“Canst thou tell me, Assueton, what may cause the mingled crowd of squires, lacqueys, grooms, and horses, that doth surround the gates of yonder church? Meseems it some convocation,[409]and those varlets do wait the pleasure of some personages of greater note who are within.”“Thou art right,” replied Assueton; “for to-day was fixed for a council of war to be held within that church, and it would seem that at least some, if not all, of the nobles and knights of the host are already met. Let us hasten thither, I beseech thee. I long to learn what is to be the plan of our warfare.”“I shall at least meet my father there,” said Sir Patrick listlessly, and as if he cared for little else. “Do thou follow us, Lindsay, to take our horses, and then wait for us, with the esquires, under the spreading oaks of yonder swelling knoll.”On entering the church the two knights learned that they had arrived just in time for the opening of the business. The Earls of Fife, Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray were there, and indeed all the leading nobles and knights of Scottish chivalry; and the doors being closed, the assembly were soon deeply engaged in the gravest deliberations.Whilst the council of war was so employed within the church, Mortimer Sang was lying at the root of an aged oak, holding conversation to, rather than with, Roger Riddel. Near them were the horses tethered and feeding, under the eyes of Robert Lindsay, and his old, though newly-recovered comrade, Ralpho Proudfoot, who were earnestly engaged in talking over many a story of their boyhood.“What dost thou stare at so, friend Riddel?” demanded Sang, who observed his comrade stretching his neck so as to throw his eyes up the trough of a ravine down which stole a little rill, that murmured around the knoll where they were sitting; “what dost thou see, I say, friend Roger, that thou dost so stretch thy neck like a heron, when disturbed in her solitary fishing?”Roger replied not, but nodded significantly, and pointed with his finger.“Nay, I see nought,” replied Sang, “save, indeed, a swinking churl, who doth untie and lead away a gallant and bravely caparisoned steed from yonder willow that weepeth over the stream.”Roger looked grave, and nodded again, and looked as much as to say, “A-well, and dost thou see nothing in that?”“Nay, now that the knave hath mounted,” said Sang, “he seemeth to ride like one who would make his horse’s speed keep his neck from the halter. By’r Lady, he’s gone already. Is the rogue a thief, thinkest thou, Roger?”“Notour, I’ll warrant me,” replied Squire Riddel.[410]“By St. Baldrid, had we but thought of that sooner, we might have frayed the malfaitor, yea, or taken him in the very fact,” said Sang. “But now we are too late to meddle in the matter.”“We are no thief-takers,” replied Roger Riddel, with great indifference.“Nay, now I think on’t, he who would hang up his horse so in the Borders may be his own thief-taker for me,” replied Sang; “but look ye, friend Roger,” continued he, after a pause, “who may that stranger be who cometh forth from the crowd armed and spurred, yea, as a squire ought, yet who walketh away as if neither groom nor horse tarried for him? Stay—methinks he cometh this way.”The stranger looked around him, after getting rid of the embarrassment of the crowd about the church, and then moved quickly towards the knoll where the two esquires were sitting, and, passing quietly under it, without either looking at or speaking to them, made his way up the ravine in the direction of the willow-trees, where the horse had been tethered. The path he followed was so much lower than the ground whence they had observed the actions of the man who took the horse, that the stranger walked smartly on for more than a bow-shot, ere he came within view of the willow-trees. Then it was that he began to betray great confusion. He hastened to the spot whence the horse had been so lately removed, and finding that he was irrecoverably gone, he clasped his hands, looked up to heaven, and seemed to be lost in despair.“Dost thou mark yonder man who did walk by here alone?” demanded Sang eagerly. “Behold how he doth show signs of distress, that would mark him to be the master of the horse which the thief took. I ween he be no Scottish squire, for he knew no one, and seemed to covet concealment as he did pass us by. An I mistake not, he will prove better worth catching than the thief would have done. Let’s after him, Roger, that we may prove my saying.”Roger, though slow to speak, was quick to act. The two esquires seized their steeds, and throwing themselves into their saddles, galloped at full speed after the stranger. Startled by the sound of pursuit, he at first made an effort to escape, but, seeing how hotly he was chased, he lost spirit, and, shortening his pace, allowed them to come up with him.“Whither wouldst thou, comrade? and whence hast thou come? and what dost thou, a spurred esquire, without a horse?” demanded Sang, in a string of interrogations.“I do but breathe the air here,” replied the man in great[411]confusion. “As for my horse, I do verily believe some villain hath stolen him from those willow trees where I had tied him.”“But why didst thou tie thy horse in this lone place? and how comest thou thus unattended?” demanded Sang again. “But, hey, holy St. Baldrid, is it thou, my gentle Clerk-Squire Barton? When, I pray thee, didst thou leave the peaceful following of the godly Bishop of Durham, to mell thee with dangerous matters like these thou art now in? By the blessed Rood, it had been well for thee, methinks, an thou couldst but have aped somewhat of the loutish Scot in thy gait, peraunter thou mightest have better escaped remark? So, thou hast become a spy on these our Eastern Marches, hast thou? By the mass, but thou must with us to the conclave. It doth erke me to speak it, mine excellent friend, but, by’r Lady, I do fear me that thou mayest hang for it.”“Talk not so, Squire Sang,” replied Barton, with a face of alarm. “Trust me, I have seen nought—I know nought. Thou knowest we did drink together in good fellowship at Norham. Let me go, I do beseech thee, and put not an innocent man’s life to peril, seeing that appearances do happen to be so sore against me.”“Sore against thee, indeed, pot-companion,” said Roger Riddel, portentously shaking his head.“Yea, appearances are sore against thee, Master Barton,” reechoed Sang. “Verily, we did behold thee as thou didst come forth from yonder church, where thou didst doubtless possess thyself of much important matter that did there transpire, the which it will be by no means convenient that thou shouldst carry in safety to those who may have sent thee hither. Better that thou hadst chanted thirty trentals of masses in the goodly pile of Durham for the soul of thy grandmother, ay, and that fasting, too, than that thou shouldst have set thy foot for a minute’s space of time within yonder church this day.”“Let me go, good gentlemen, I do beseech ye,” said Barton. “Squire Riddel, hast thou no compassion for me?”“Much,” replied Roger.“Natheless, thou must with us, Squire Barton.”“Nay, in truth thou must with us without more ado,” said Sang; “yet make thyself as easy as may be; for, in consideration of our meeting at Norham, I shall do thee all the kindness I may consistent with duty, both now and when thou shalt be sent to the fatal tree, to the which I do fear thy passage will be short and speedy.”The English esquire shuddered, but he was compelled to submit;[412]and he was accordingly led by his captors to the church, where the council of war was assembled. The news of his capture excited great interest and commotion among the knights; and the Earl of Fife, who presided over their deliberations, had no sooner learned the particulars of his taking than he ordered him into his presence. Barton came, guarded by Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel. He had put on the best countenance he could, but judging by the working of his features, all his resolution was required to keep it up.“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the Earl of Fife. “What hast thou to say for thyself, Sir Squire? Thou hast been taken in arms within the Scottish bounds—thou hast been seen of several who did note thine appearance at this our secret meeting—and there be knights here, as well as those worthy esquires who took thee, who can speak to thy name and country. Whence art thou come? and who did send thee hither to espy out our force, and to possess thyself of our schemes?”“Trusting to the sacred office of my Lord the Bishop of Durham, I came but as a pious traveller to visit certain shrines,” replied Barton. “Being in these parts, I wot it was no marvel in me, the servant of a churchman so dignified, to look into the church, and——”“Nay, nay—so flimsy a response as this will by no means serve,” interrupted the Earl of Fife, who, though cool, calm, and soft in manner, was in reality much more cruel of heart than his brother the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, albeit devoid of the furious passion so ungovernable in that Earl. “He doth but trifle with our patience. Let a rack be instantly prepared, and let a tree be erected without loss of time, whereon his tortured limbs, whilst their fibres shall yet have hardly ceased to feel, may be hung as tender food for the ravens. His throat shall be squeezed by the hangman’s rope, until all he hath gained by his espial be disgorged or closed up for ever within it.”Barton shook from head to foot at this terrible sentence, uttered with a mildness and composure that might have suited well with a homily. His face grew deadly pale, despair grappled at his breath, and he gasped as if already under the hands of the executioner. His eyes, restless and protruded, seemed as if anxious to shun the picture of the horrible death that so soon awaited him. His lips moved, but they were dry as ashes, and they gave forth no sound. Sang and Roger Riddel almost regretted that they had been instrumental in bringing the wretch there, though by doing so they had so well served their country. They looked at each other with horror; but in such[413]a presence, and at such a time, Sang was condemned to remain as dumb as Squire Riddel. The good Earl of Moray had more liberty of speech, and he failed not to use it.“Be not too hasty with him, my Lord,” said he; “he may yet peraunter be brought to give us tidings of the enemy. Let him but give us what information he can, under promise, that if it be found soothfast, he shall have no evil. Meanwhile, after he shall have effunded all that it may concern us to know, let him be delivered into the custody of the Constable of Jedworth, with him to liggen in strict durance, until we shall have certiorated ourselves by our own experience, whether the things which he may tell be true or false, with certification that his life shall be the forfeit of the minutest breach of verity. If he doth refuse these terms, then, in the name of St. Andrew, let him incontinent lose his head.”A hum of approbation ran around the meeting, and the Earl of Fife, though in secret half-chagrined that he had not had his own will, saw that in this point he must give way to the general voice.“Thou dost hear thy destiny,” said he to the prisoner; “what is thine election?”“My Lord, seeing that I have no alternative but to yield me to dire necessity,” answered the English esquire, with an expression of infinite relief in his countenance, “verily, I do most gladly accept your terms. As God is my judge, I shall tell thee all I know, without alteration, addition, or curtailment.”“Who sent thee hither, then?” demanded the Earl of Fife.“Being one to whom these Marches be well known, I was chosen by the Lords of Northumberland, and sent hither to learn the state of your enterprise; as alswa to gather which way ye do propose to draw.”“Where, then, be these English Lords?” demanded the Earl of Douglas.“Sirs,” replied the captive squire, “sith it behoveth me to say the truth, ye shall surely have it. I be come straight hither from Newcastle, where be Sir Henry Piersie, surnamed Hotspur, from his frequent pricking; and his brother Sir Rafe Piersie, yea, and divers other nobles and knights, flowers of English chivalry, all in readiness to depart thence as soon as they may know that ye have set forward into England; for, hearing of the strength of your host, they do not choose to come to meet you.”“Why, what number do they repute us at?” demanded the Earl of Moray.[414]“Sir,” replied the esquire, “it is said how ye be forty thousand men and twelve hundred spears.”“What then may be their plan?” demanded the Earl of Fife.“This be their plan, my Lord,” replied the esquire: “If ye do invade England by Carlisle, then will they straightway force a passage for themselves by Dunbar to Edinburgh; and if ye do hold through Northumberland, then will they enter Scotland by the Western Marches.”As the English esquire Barton was thus delivering himself, the Scottish lords threw significant glances towards each other. Some further questions of less moment were put to him, and after he had answered to all with every appearance of perfect candour—“Let him be removed into the strict keeping of the Constable of Jedworth,” said the Earl of Fife. “His life and liberty shall be safe, provided his report shall in all things prove true, and for this I do gage my word in name of myself and all these noble lords and knights here present. Should he be found to have spoken falsely in the veriest tittle, he knoweth his fate.”After the prisoner was withdrawn under the charge of a guard, the Earl of Fife conveyed thanks to the two esquires for having so well fulfilled their duty to Scotland. The assembled lords and knights were overjoyed that the intent of their enemies should have been thus made so surely known to them, and a buzz of congratulation arose.“This is all well, my Lords,” said the Earl of Fife, after having again procured silence; “but let us now to council, I entreat you, that we may straightway devise how best to avail ourselves of the tidings we have gained. For mine own part I do opine that we should break our host into two armies. Let the most part, together with all our carriage, go by the Cumberland Marches and Carlisle, and let a smaller body draw towards Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to fill up and occupy the attention of the enemy assembled there. I speak under the correction of wiser heads,” continued the Earl, bowing around him with great condescension, so as to excite a burst of approbation from those weaker spirits whom he daily flattered until he made them his staunch partisans—“I speak, I say, under the correction of wiser heads; yet meseems, from those unanimous applauses, my Lords, that you do honour my scheme of warfare with your universal support; and such being the case, I may now say, that whilst I do myself propose to lead the main army by the Western Marches, I shall commit the command of the smaller[415]body to the brave Earls of Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray. For this last service, methinks, three hundred lances, and three thousand crossbows and axemen, may well enow suffice.”“By St. Andrew, but ’tis a fine thing to know how to keep one’s head safe,” whispered Sir William de Dalzell ironically to Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger; “what thinkest thou of him who shall shoulder ye a catapult to crush a swarm of dung flies, whilst he doth send out others to war on lions and bearded pards with a handful of hazel nuts. Depardieux, he who goeth by Carlisle may march boldly from one end of Cumberland to the other, with a single clump of spears at his back, ay, and take the fattest spoil too; but he who shall march to Newcastle will want all the hardy hearts and well-strung thewes and muscles he can muster around him, and is like after all to get nought but a broken head for his journey. Holy St. Giles, but ’tis well to take care of one’s self.”By a little management, the opinion of the council of war was easily brought perfectly to coincide with the views of the Earl of Fife. But so great was the name of James Earl of Douglas, that it was in itself a host. The two brothers, George Dunbar Earl of Dunbar and March, and John Dunbar Earl of Moray, too, were so much beloved, that a puissant band of knights voluntarily mustered under their banners. Among these were Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and Sir John Assueton. Ere the assembly dissolved, it was determined that the armies should divide, and march on their respective routes early on the ensuing morning; and all was bustle and preparation accordingly.
CHAPTER LVI.Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great Gathering at Jedworth—The Council of War.
Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great Gathering at Jedworth—The Council of War.
Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great Gathering at Jedworth—The Council of War.
It was some days after the lady’s arrival that five horsemen knocked at the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower. They were clad rather as pilgrims than as warriors, and, arriving by the English side of the river, were judged to have come from the south. Matters had undergone a change since we had last occasion to notice the hall of Norham. Old Kyle had been gathered to his fathers, his buxom wife had wept her fair number of days, and, beginning to recover her spirits by the reflection that she was a well-looking and wealthy widow, her heart was already besieged by numerous lovers. Though under a woman’s government, the police of the Norham Tower was at this moment more strict than usual. The war had made its mistress careful to rid it at an early hour every night of all straggling topers. There were certain privileged customers, indeed, to whom a more liberal license was granted, and of this number was Mr. Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry.As two of the strangers, of nobler mien than the rest, entered the common room, they found the esquire in the act of rising from table, with another man in whose company he had been drinking.“A-well,” said the latter; “I bid thee good e’en, Sir Squire. I’ll warrant thou shalt not find better steeds between Tweed and Tyne than the two I have sold thee.”“Ay, ay, Master Truckthwaite,” replied Turnberry with a sarcastic smile, “thy word is all well; yet would I rather trust the half of mine own eye than the whole of thy tongue in such matters. Good e’en, good e’en. A precious knave, I wot,” added he, after the man was gone.“Doth that varlet sell thee good cattle, Sir Squire?” said one of the strangers who had entered.“Nay, in truth, he is a proper cheat,” replied Turnberry. “But the villain had to do with a man who hath lived all his life in a stable, and one, moreover, who hath sober, steady, habits. Your drunkard hath ever but poor chance in a bargain with your sober man.”“Most true,” replied the stranger. “Here, tapster; a flagon of Rhynwyn. Wilt thou stay, Sir Squire, and help us to drain it?”[403]“Rhynwyn!” exclaimed Turnberry; “by St. Cuthbert, but there is music in the very clink of the word. Nay, Sir Pilgrim, I care not an I taste with thee ere I go; I am but a poor drinker, yet hath honest Rhynwyn its charms.”“Ha,” said Tom, after deeply returning the stranger’s pledge, “this is right wholesome stuff, I promise ye, my masters. ’Tis another guess-liquor than old Mother Rowlandson’s i’ the Castle.”“Thou art of the Castle, then?” said he who had always spoken. “I drink to the health of thy gallant old captain, Sir Walter de Selby.”“Thank ye, thank ye,” replied Tom, taking the flagon. “Well, here’s to old Wat. Many is the ride we have had over the Border together; and many is the hard knock we have both ta’en and given, side by side. Trust me, there breathes not a better man. His health, God wot, hath been none of the best of late; so, with thy good leave, Sir Pilgrim, I’ll drink to it again.”“Hath he not a daughter?” demanded the pilgrim.“Yea, that he hath,” replied Tom—“an only daughter, whose beauty hath been the talk of all Northumberland.”“Let us drink to her health, then,” said the pilgrim.“Here’s to the Lady de Vere, then,” said Turnberry, lifting the flagon to his head to do justice to the health.“The Lady de Vere!” said the pilgrim who had not yet spoken, betraying an emotion that escaped Tom Turnberry, in the long draught he was taking.“Ay, the Lady de Vere,” said Tom, taking the flagon from his head. “The Lady Eleanore de Selby is now the Lady de Vere, as we have all heard at the Castle since two or three days have gone by. Sir Walter would have fain had her marry Sir Rafe Piersie, who courted her, but his haughtiness sorted ill with her high and untameable spirit; so she was contrarisome, and ran away with a love of her own choosing some time ago.”“And who might the lover be who bore away so rich a prize?” demanded the pilgrim.“Why, one of the Court lordlings, as we now learn, a Sir something de Vere, a kinsman to the King’s favourite, the banished Duke of Ireland. He is but lately come from abroad, it seems, for he is a foreign knight born, and being suspected as coming on some secret mission to the King, it is thought that he will rise high in his good graces. The poor ould soul, Sir Walter, did live in grievous case until these few days bygone,[404]for he knew not until then what had befallen his daughter. But now that he hath learned who his son-in-law is, he hath somewhat raised his head. But fie on me,” added the squire, after a long draught, that enabled him to see the bottom of the flagon, “I must hie me to the Castle; and so good night, and many thanks, my civil masters. Trust me, I shall right willingly bestow a can upon you when ye do come this way again, if ye will but ask for old Thomas Turnberry, the esquire equerry.”The dialogue between Tom Turnberry and the two strangers had been over for a good hour, when another conversation took place a few steps from the gate of the inn, between Mrs. Kyle and one who considered himself a favourite lover.“These be plaguy cunning knaves,” said Mrs. Kyle; “they thinks, I’se warrant me, that no one doth know ’em; yet—but I shall say nothing, not I.”“I dare swear a man would need to be no fool who should strive to deceive thee, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion, willing to draw her on a little.“Me!” replied she; “trust me, the old Fiend himself would not cheat me; for instance, now, that saucy Sang there did no sooner show his face within the four walls o’ the Norham Tower than I did straightway know him through all his disguises; and so, having once nosed him, I did quickly smell out his fellow-esquire, and the two knights their masters.”“That was clever in thee, i’ faith, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion.“Yea, but my name be not Margaret Kyle an I make no more out by my cleverness,” said the dame. “But mum for that.”“Nay, thou knowest thou canst not be Margaret Kyle long, my bonny dame,” replied the man.“Fie thee now,” replied she, “sure it will be long ere I do trust me to men again, after honest Sylvester, my poor dear husband that was.”“And what didst thou say they were here for?” demanded her companion.“Ye may trow they are here for no good,” replied the dame. “I’ll warrant me the seizing o’ them will be a right brave turn; but mum again, for he who is to take them this night did say as how none should ken nothing on’t till the stroke should be strucken; yea, and by the same token he did gie me kisses enow to seal up my mouth.”[405]“And when did Sir Miers tell thee this?” demanded the man.“Sir Miers!” replied Mrs. Kyle; “laucker-daisey, did I tell thee that it was Sir Miers? St. Mary, I had nae will tae hae done that. Hoot, toot, my lips hae no been half glued.”“And so thou dost say that Sir Miers is to surround the house to-night, and to take these same strangers?” observed the man.“Yea, but of a truth I shouldna hae tell’d thee a’ that; may my tongue be blistered for’t,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “for he bid me take especial care, aboon a’ things, to let thee know nought on’t.”“Nay, Mrs. Kyle,” said the man, “but thou knowest thou dost love me over much to hide anything from me.”“O ay, for a matter o’ that. I do love thee well enow,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but Sir Miers hath such pleasant ways with him.”“Hath he?” replied the man carelessly. “Thou didst say, I think, that the attempt is to be made at midnight, and that thou art to be on the watch to let them in?”“Nay, then,” said Mrs. Kyle, “I did verily say no sike thing, I wot. What I did say was this, that Sir Miers is to be here an hour after midnight, and that John Hosteler is to let them in.”“Ay, ay, I see I did mistake thy words,” replied the man. “Why, holy St. Cuthbert, thou wilt get a power of money for thine information.”“So Sir Miers hath promised me,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but what doth chiefly season the matter to my stomach is the spicy revenge I shall hae against that flouting knave Sang, and the very thought o’ this doth keenly edge me to aid the gallant Sir Miers in his enterprise; yet, to tell thee the truth, the handsome knight might rauckon on as much service at my hands, yea, or more, when it mought please him bid me.”“So,” replied her companion; “but come, I will see thee into the house, drink one cup of thine ale with thee, and so speed me to the other end of the village to Sir Miers. Who knows but I may be wanted after all to bear the brunt of this business.”By this time the two knights and their three attendants were the sole tenants of the common room, and this circumstance, coupled with the disguises they wore, led them to imagine that they ran no risk of discovery.Robert Lindsay, who was the fifth man, took up a lamp, and sallied forth to look at the horses ere he should seek repose.[406]All was quiet in the court-yard, as well as in the various buildings surrounding it. He entered the stable, but, though there were wain horses enow there belonging to the hostel, he saw, with utter dismay, that the five steeds belonging to his party were gone. He turned to rush out of the stable to tell the knights of this treacherous robbery, when the light of the lamp in his hand flashed on the figure of a man, who was determinedly posted in the doorway, as if resolved to oppose his passage.“Ralpho Proudfoot!” exclaimed Lindsay in astonishment; and then observing that he was fully armed, and that he carried a lance in his hand, whilst he himself had not even his sword, he gave himself up for lost; but resolving to sell his life as dearly as possible, he wrenched a rung from one of the stalls, and planted himself in a posture of defence.“Nay, thou needest look for no injury at my hands,” said Proudfoot; “this haughty spirit of mine, the which did once make me thy determined foe because thou wert promoted above me, doth now prompt me not to be outdone by thee in a generous deed. I come to warn thee that an attempt on the liberty, if not on the lives, of thee and those that be with thee, is to be made, within less than an hour hence, by Sir Miers de Willoughby and a strong force. The reward for taking prisoners of sike note, together with the gold to be gotten for their ransom, is the temptation to this enterprise. Lose not a moment then in rousing the knights, and warning them of their danger.”“But what hath become of our horses?” demanded Lindsay, not yet recovered from his surprise.“It was I who removed them,” replied Proudfoot. “I took them from the stable, after leaving the hosteller to sleep off the heavy draughts of ale I made him swallow; they stand ready caparisoned under the trees a few yards behind the inn. Quick, bring me to the knights, that I may show them their danger, and teach them how to avoid it; not a moment is to be lost.”Without farther question, Lindsay led the way to the common room where the knights were lying. They were soon roused, and listened to Proudfoot’s account of the plot against them with considerable surprise; but they hesitated to believe him, and were in doubt what to do.“Nay, then, Sir Knights,” said Proudfoot, “an ye will hesitate, certain captivity must befall ye. Captivity, did I say? yea, something worse; a base and black thirst of vengeance doth move this treacherous knight against thee, Sir John Assueton. I have reason to know that he hath ever cherished it sith thy last encounter.”[407]“’Twere better to plant ourselves here, and fight to the death with what weapons we may have about us,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne.“Right, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “we at least know and can be true to one another, and that of itself will give us victory.”“We shall be prepared for them,” said Mortimer Sang, “and we shall make them fly before us by the very suddenness of our assault.”“How many De Willoughby spears are of them?” demanded the taciturn Roger Riddel, with extreme composure.“Some two dozen at the least, I warrant me,” replied Proudfoot, “and all fully appointed.”“Bring they Norham Castle on their backs?” demanded Riddel again.“Nay,” replied Proudfoot, “their leader hath kept his scheme to himself, that he may have the greater share of booty and ransom money.”“But Norham Castle hath ears,” said Riddel again.“Thou sayest true, friend,” replied Proudfoot. “Were resistance to be made, the din of arms and the noise of the assault would soon bring out the garrison upon ye. Quickly resolve, Sir Knights, for the hour wanes, and they will be here anon. What can ye fear of traiterie from me? Could I not have left ye to fall easy victims to Sir Miers de Willoughby’s snare?”“So please ye, gallant knights, I will answer with my life for the truth of Ralpho Proudfoot in this matter,” said Lindsay confidently.“Nay, an ye fear me, ye shall all stand about me,” said Proudfoot; “and if ye do find me a traitor, your five daggers may drink my blood at once.”The minds of the two knights were at last made up, and they resolved to trust themselves to the guidance of RalphoProudfoot. Armed with their daggers alone, they stole silently out in the dark, and were so planted by him behind the gate as to be prepared to rush out when the time for doing so should come. Ralpho Proudfoot cautioned them to keep perfectly quiet. To attempt to escape along the street of the village at that moment would have subjected them to certain observation: they were therefore to wait his signal, and to follow him. He placed himself, as he had said, in the midst of them, and set himself to listen for a sound from the outside.They had not been long posted, when footsteps were heard[408]approaching very gently. There was then some whispering, and a slight cough. Proudfoot immediately answered it.“Art there, John?” said a voice in an under tone.“Yea,” replied Proudfoot, imitating the language of the hosteller, “but they be’s still astir; so when the yate be opened, ye maun rush in like fiends on them, for the hinge do creak, and they will start to their arms wi’ the noise. Are ye a’ ready?”“We are,” replied the voice without.“Noo, then, in on them and at them,” cried Proudfoot, throwing the gate wide open, so as to conceal himself and his companions behind it.In rushed Sir Miers de Willoughby, at the head of a large party of his men; and out went Ralpho Proudfoot, with the two Scottish knights and their attendants. The gate was hastily locked externally; the horses were quickly gained, and mounted in the twinkling of an eye; and Ralpho Proudfoot, who had taken the precaution to have his steed placed with the rest, got to saddle along with them. As they rode past the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower, the loud voices, and the execrations of Sir Miers de Willoughby and his people, and the shrill screams of Mrs. Kyle, told them that the failure of the plot had been already discovered by the actors in it.“So,” said Ralpho, in half soliloquy, as he guided the knights down the village street at a canter—“so, thou didst cease to trust me, Sir Miers, me who hath been faithful to thee to the peril of my salvation. By St. Benedict, thou shalt now find that it would have been well for thee to have trusted me still; yea and thou didst tamper with her whom I would have espoused. By the bones of St. Baldrid, but thou mayest mate thee with her now an thou listest, for I am done for ever with her, with thee, and with England, except as a foeman.”The two knights made the best of their way until they had got beyond the English march, and were fairly on what might be termed Scottish ground. Armed men were still crowding in greater or lesser bodies to Jedworth, where those who had by this time assembled formed a large army. They were encamped on what was then called the High Forest; and thither the two friends were hastening, and were already but a little way from the position of the troops, when Sir Patrick Hepborne halted, and thus addressed his companion—“Canst thou tell me, Assueton, what may cause the mingled crowd of squires, lacqueys, grooms, and horses, that doth surround the gates of yonder church? Meseems it some convocation,[409]and those varlets do wait the pleasure of some personages of greater note who are within.”“Thou art right,” replied Assueton; “for to-day was fixed for a council of war to be held within that church, and it would seem that at least some, if not all, of the nobles and knights of the host are already met. Let us hasten thither, I beseech thee. I long to learn what is to be the plan of our warfare.”“I shall at least meet my father there,” said Sir Patrick listlessly, and as if he cared for little else. “Do thou follow us, Lindsay, to take our horses, and then wait for us, with the esquires, under the spreading oaks of yonder swelling knoll.”On entering the church the two knights learned that they had arrived just in time for the opening of the business. The Earls of Fife, Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray were there, and indeed all the leading nobles and knights of Scottish chivalry; and the doors being closed, the assembly were soon deeply engaged in the gravest deliberations.Whilst the council of war was so employed within the church, Mortimer Sang was lying at the root of an aged oak, holding conversation to, rather than with, Roger Riddel. Near them were the horses tethered and feeding, under the eyes of Robert Lindsay, and his old, though newly-recovered comrade, Ralpho Proudfoot, who were earnestly engaged in talking over many a story of their boyhood.“What dost thou stare at so, friend Riddel?” demanded Sang, who observed his comrade stretching his neck so as to throw his eyes up the trough of a ravine down which stole a little rill, that murmured around the knoll where they were sitting; “what dost thou see, I say, friend Roger, that thou dost so stretch thy neck like a heron, when disturbed in her solitary fishing?”Roger replied not, but nodded significantly, and pointed with his finger.“Nay, I see nought,” replied Sang, “save, indeed, a swinking churl, who doth untie and lead away a gallant and bravely caparisoned steed from yonder willow that weepeth over the stream.”Roger looked grave, and nodded again, and looked as much as to say, “A-well, and dost thou see nothing in that?”“Nay, now that the knave hath mounted,” said Sang, “he seemeth to ride like one who would make his horse’s speed keep his neck from the halter. By’r Lady, he’s gone already. Is the rogue a thief, thinkest thou, Roger?”“Notour, I’ll warrant me,” replied Squire Riddel.[410]“By St. Baldrid, had we but thought of that sooner, we might have frayed the malfaitor, yea, or taken him in the very fact,” said Sang. “But now we are too late to meddle in the matter.”“We are no thief-takers,” replied Roger Riddel, with great indifference.“Nay, now I think on’t, he who would hang up his horse so in the Borders may be his own thief-taker for me,” replied Sang; “but look ye, friend Roger,” continued he, after a pause, “who may that stranger be who cometh forth from the crowd armed and spurred, yea, as a squire ought, yet who walketh away as if neither groom nor horse tarried for him? Stay—methinks he cometh this way.”The stranger looked around him, after getting rid of the embarrassment of the crowd about the church, and then moved quickly towards the knoll where the two esquires were sitting, and, passing quietly under it, without either looking at or speaking to them, made his way up the ravine in the direction of the willow-trees, where the horse had been tethered. The path he followed was so much lower than the ground whence they had observed the actions of the man who took the horse, that the stranger walked smartly on for more than a bow-shot, ere he came within view of the willow-trees. Then it was that he began to betray great confusion. He hastened to the spot whence the horse had been so lately removed, and finding that he was irrecoverably gone, he clasped his hands, looked up to heaven, and seemed to be lost in despair.“Dost thou mark yonder man who did walk by here alone?” demanded Sang eagerly. “Behold how he doth show signs of distress, that would mark him to be the master of the horse which the thief took. I ween he be no Scottish squire, for he knew no one, and seemed to covet concealment as he did pass us by. An I mistake not, he will prove better worth catching than the thief would have done. Let’s after him, Roger, that we may prove my saying.”Roger, though slow to speak, was quick to act. The two esquires seized their steeds, and throwing themselves into their saddles, galloped at full speed after the stranger. Startled by the sound of pursuit, he at first made an effort to escape, but, seeing how hotly he was chased, he lost spirit, and, shortening his pace, allowed them to come up with him.“Whither wouldst thou, comrade? and whence hast thou come? and what dost thou, a spurred esquire, without a horse?” demanded Sang, in a string of interrogations.“I do but breathe the air here,” replied the man in great[411]confusion. “As for my horse, I do verily believe some villain hath stolen him from those willow trees where I had tied him.”“But why didst thou tie thy horse in this lone place? and how comest thou thus unattended?” demanded Sang again. “But, hey, holy St. Baldrid, is it thou, my gentle Clerk-Squire Barton? When, I pray thee, didst thou leave the peaceful following of the godly Bishop of Durham, to mell thee with dangerous matters like these thou art now in? By the blessed Rood, it had been well for thee, methinks, an thou couldst but have aped somewhat of the loutish Scot in thy gait, peraunter thou mightest have better escaped remark? So, thou hast become a spy on these our Eastern Marches, hast thou? By the mass, but thou must with us to the conclave. It doth erke me to speak it, mine excellent friend, but, by’r Lady, I do fear me that thou mayest hang for it.”“Talk not so, Squire Sang,” replied Barton, with a face of alarm. “Trust me, I have seen nought—I know nought. Thou knowest we did drink together in good fellowship at Norham. Let me go, I do beseech thee, and put not an innocent man’s life to peril, seeing that appearances do happen to be so sore against me.”“Sore against thee, indeed, pot-companion,” said Roger Riddel, portentously shaking his head.“Yea, appearances are sore against thee, Master Barton,” reechoed Sang. “Verily, we did behold thee as thou didst come forth from yonder church, where thou didst doubtless possess thyself of much important matter that did there transpire, the which it will be by no means convenient that thou shouldst carry in safety to those who may have sent thee hither. Better that thou hadst chanted thirty trentals of masses in the goodly pile of Durham for the soul of thy grandmother, ay, and that fasting, too, than that thou shouldst have set thy foot for a minute’s space of time within yonder church this day.”“Let me go, good gentlemen, I do beseech ye,” said Barton. “Squire Riddel, hast thou no compassion for me?”“Much,” replied Roger.“Natheless, thou must with us, Squire Barton.”“Nay, in truth thou must with us without more ado,” said Sang; “yet make thyself as easy as may be; for, in consideration of our meeting at Norham, I shall do thee all the kindness I may consistent with duty, both now and when thou shalt be sent to the fatal tree, to the which I do fear thy passage will be short and speedy.”The English esquire shuddered, but he was compelled to submit;[412]and he was accordingly led by his captors to the church, where the council of war was assembled. The news of his capture excited great interest and commotion among the knights; and the Earl of Fife, who presided over their deliberations, had no sooner learned the particulars of his taking than he ordered him into his presence. Barton came, guarded by Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel. He had put on the best countenance he could, but judging by the working of his features, all his resolution was required to keep it up.“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the Earl of Fife. “What hast thou to say for thyself, Sir Squire? Thou hast been taken in arms within the Scottish bounds—thou hast been seen of several who did note thine appearance at this our secret meeting—and there be knights here, as well as those worthy esquires who took thee, who can speak to thy name and country. Whence art thou come? and who did send thee hither to espy out our force, and to possess thyself of our schemes?”“Trusting to the sacred office of my Lord the Bishop of Durham, I came but as a pious traveller to visit certain shrines,” replied Barton. “Being in these parts, I wot it was no marvel in me, the servant of a churchman so dignified, to look into the church, and——”“Nay, nay—so flimsy a response as this will by no means serve,” interrupted the Earl of Fife, who, though cool, calm, and soft in manner, was in reality much more cruel of heart than his brother the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, albeit devoid of the furious passion so ungovernable in that Earl. “He doth but trifle with our patience. Let a rack be instantly prepared, and let a tree be erected without loss of time, whereon his tortured limbs, whilst their fibres shall yet have hardly ceased to feel, may be hung as tender food for the ravens. His throat shall be squeezed by the hangman’s rope, until all he hath gained by his espial be disgorged or closed up for ever within it.”Barton shook from head to foot at this terrible sentence, uttered with a mildness and composure that might have suited well with a homily. His face grew deadly pale, despair grappled at his breath, and he gasped as if already under the hands of the executioner. His eyes, restless and protruded, seemed as if anxious to shun the picture of the horrible death that so soon awaited him. His lips moved, but they were dry as ashes, and they gave forth no sound. Sang and Roger Riddel almost regretted that they had been instrumental in bringing the wretch there, though by doing so they had so well served their country. They looked at each other with horror; but in such[413]a presence, and at such a time, Sang was condemned to remain as dumb as Squire Riddel. The good Earl of Moray had more liberty of speech, and he failed not to use it.“Be not too hasty with him, my Lord,” said he; “he may yet peraunter be brought to give us tidings of the enemy. Let him but give us what information he can, under promise, that if it be found soothfast, he shall have no evil. Meanwhile, after he shall have effunded all that it may concern us to know, let him be delivered into the custody of the Constable of Jedworth, with him to liggen in strict durance, until we shall have certiorated ourselves by our own experience, whether the things which he may tell be true or false, with certification that his life shall be the forfeit of the minutest breach of verity. If he doth refuse these terms, then, in the name of St. Andrew, let him incontinent lose his head.”A hum of approbation ran around the meeting, and the Earl of Fife, though in secret half-chagrined that he had not had his own will, saw that in this point he must give way to the general voice.“Thou dost hear thy destiny,” said he to the prisoner; “what is thine election?”“My Lord, seeing that I have no alternative but to yield me to dire necessity,” answered the English esquire, with an expression of infinite relief in his countenance, “verily, I do most gladly accept your terms. As God is my judge, I shall tell thee all I know, without alteration, addition, or curtailment.”“Who sent thee hither, then?” demanded the Earl of Fife.“Being one to whom these Marches be well known, I was chosen by the Lords of Northumberland, and sent hither to learn the state of your enterprise; as alswa to gather which way ye do propose to draw.”“Where, then, be these English Lords?” demanded the Earl of Douglas.“Sirs,” replied the captive squire, “sith it behoveth me to say the truth, ye shall surely have it. I be come straight hither from Newcastle, where be Sir Henry Piersie, surnamed Hotspur, from his frequent pricking; and his brother Sir Rafe Piersie, yea, and divers other nobles and knights, flowers of English chivalry, all in readiness to depart thence as soon as they may know that ye have set forward into England; for, hearing of the strength of your host, they do not choose to come to meet you.”“Why, what number do they repute us at?” demanded the Earl of Moray.[414]“Sir,” replied the esquire, “it is said how ye be forty thousand men and twelve hundred spears.”“What then may be their plan?” demanded the Earl of Fife.“This be their plan, my Lord,” replied the esquire: “If ye do invade England by Carlisle, then will they straightway force a passage for themselves by Dunbar to Edinburgh; and if ye do hold through Northumberland, then will they enter Scotland by the Western Marches.”As the English esquire Barton was thus delivering himself, the Scottish lords threw significant glances towards each other. Some further questions of less moment were put to him, and after he had answered to all with every appearance of perfect candour—“Let him be removed into the strict keeping of the Constable of Jedworth,” said the Earl of Fife. “His life and liberty shall be safe, provided his report shall in all things prove true, and for this I do gage my word in name of myself and all these noble lords and knights here present. Should he be found to have spoken falsely in the veriest tittle, he knoweth his fate.”After the prisoner was withdrawn under the charge of a guard, the Earl of Fife conveyed thanks to the two esquires for having so well fulfilled their duty to Scotland. The assembled lords and knights were overjoyed that the intent of their enemies should have been thus made so surely known to them, and a buzz of congratulation arose.“This is all well, my Lords,” said the Earl of Fife, after having again procured silence; “but let us now to council, I entreat you, that we may straightway devise how best to avail ourselves of the tidings we have gained. For mine own part I do opine that we should break our host into two armies. Let the most part, together with all our carriage, go by the Cumberland Marches and Carlisle, and let a smaller body draw towards Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to fill up and occupy the attention of the enemy assembled there. I speak under the correction of wiser heads,” continued the Earl, bowing around him with great condescension, so as to excite a burst of approbation from those weaker spirits whom he daily flattered until he made them his staunch partisans—“I speak, I say, under the correction of wiser heads; yet meseems, from those unanimous applauses, my Lords, that you do honour my scheme of warfare with your universal support; and such being the case, I may now say, that whilst I do myself propose to lead the main army by the Western Marches, I shall commit the command of the smaller[415]body to the brave Earls of Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray. For this last service, methinks, three hundred lances, and three thousand crossbows and axemen, may well enow suffice.”“By St. Andrew, but ’tis a fine thing to know how to keep one’s head safe,” whispered Sir William de Dalzell ironically to Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger; “what thinkest thou of him who shall shoulder ye a catapult to crush a swarm of dung flies, whilst he doth send out others to war on lions and bearded pards with a handful of hazel nuts. Depardieux, he who goeth by Carlisle may march boldly from one end of Cumberland to the other, with a single clump of spears at his back, ay, and take the fattest spoil too; but he who shall march to Newcastle will want all the hardy hearts and well-strung thewes and muscles he can muster around him, and is like after all to get nought but a broken head for his journey. Holy St. Giles, but ’tis well to take care of one’s self.”By a little management, the opinion of the council of war was easily brought perfectly to coincide with the views of the Earl of Fife. But so great was the name of James Earl of Douglas, that it was in itself a host. The two brothers, George Dunbar Earl of Dunbar and March, and John Dunbar Earl of Moray, too, were so much beloved, that a puissant band of knights voluntarily mustered under their banners. Among these were Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and Sir John Assueton. Ere the assembly dissolved, it was determined that the armies should divide, and march on their respective routes early on the ensuing morning; and all was bustle and preparation accordingly.
It was some days after the lady’s arrival that five horsemen knocked at the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower. They were clad rather as pilgrims than as warriors, and, arriving by the English side of the river, were judged to have come from the south. Matters had undergone a change since we had last occasion to notice the hall of Norham. Old Kyle had been gathered to his fathers, his buxom wife had wept her fair number of days, and, beginning to recover her spirits by the reflection that she was a well-looking and wealthy widow, her heart was already besieged by numerous lovers. Though under a woman’s government, the police of the Norham Tower was at this moment more strict than usual. The war had made its mistress careful to rid it at an early hour every night of all straggling topers. There were certain privileged customers, indeed, to whom a more liberal license was granted, and of this number was Mr. Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry.
As two of the strangers, of nobler mien than the rest, entered the common room, they found the esquire in the act of rising from table, with another man in whose company he had been drinking.
“A-well,” said the latter; “I bid thee good e’en, Sir Squire. I’ll warrant thou shalt not find better steeds between Tweed and Tyne than the two I have sold thee.”
“Ay, ay, Master Truckthwaite,” replied Turnberry with a sarcastic smile, “thy word is all well; yet would I rather trust the half of mine own eye than the whole of thy tongue in such matters. Good e’en, good e’en. A precious knave, I wot,” added he, after the man was gone.
“Doth that varlet sell thee good cattle, Sir Squire?” said one of the strangers who had entered.
“Nay, in truth, he is a proper cheat,” replied Turnberry. “But the villain had to do with a man who hath lived all his life in a stable, and one, moreover, who hath sober, steady, habits. Your drunkard hath ever but poor chance in a bargain with your sober man.”
“Most true,” replied the stranger. “Here, tapster; a flagon of Rhynwyn. Wilt thou stay, Sir Squire, and help us to drain it?”[403]
“Rhynwyn!” exclaimed Turnberry; “by St. Cuthbert, but there is music in the very clink of the word. Nay, Sir Pilgrim, I care not an I taste with thee ere I go; I am but a poor drinker, yet hath honest Rhynwyn its charms.”
“Ha,” said Tom, after deeply returning the stranger’s pledge, “this is right wholesome stuff, I promise ye, my masters. ’Tis another guess-liquor than old Mother Rowlandson’s i’ the Castle.”
“Thou art of the Castle, then?” said he who had always spoken. “I drink to the health of thy gallant old captain, Sir Walter de Selby.”
“Thank ye, thank ye,” replied Tom, taking the flagon. “Well, here’s to old Wat. Many is the ride we have had over the Border together; and many is the hard knock we have both ta’en and given, side by side. Trust me, there breathes not a better man. His health, God wot, hath been none of the best of late; so, with thy good leave, Sir Pilgrim, I’ll drink to it again.”
“Hath he not a daughter?” demanded the pilgrim.
“Yea, that he hath,” replied Tom—“an only daughter, whose beauty hath been the talk of all Northumberland.”
“Let us drink to her health, then,” said the pilgrim.
“Here’s to the Lady de Vere, then,” said Turnberry, lifting the flagon to his head to do justice to the health.
“The Lady de Vere!” said the pilgrim who had not yet spoken, betraying an emotion that escaped Tom Turnberry, in the long draught he was taking.
“Ay, the Lady de Vere,” said Tom, taking the flagon from his head. “The Lady Eleanore de Selby is now the Lady de Vere, as we have all heard at the Castle since two or three days have gone by. Sir Walter would have fain had her marry Sir Rafe Piersie, who courted her, but his haughtiness sorted ill with her high and untameable spirit; so she was contrarisome, and ran away with a love of her own choosing some time ago.”
“And who might the lover be who bore away so rich a prize?” demanded the pilgrim.
“Why, one of the Court lordlings, as we now learn, a Sir something de Vere, a kinsman to the King’s favourite, the banished Duke of Ireland. He is but lately come from abroad, it seems, for he is a foreign knight born, and being suspected as coming on some secret mission to the King, it is thought that he will rise high in his good graces. The poor ould soul, Sir Walter, did live in grievous case until these few days bygone,[404]for he knew not until then what had befallen his daughter. But now that he hath learned who his son-in-law is, he hath somewhat raised his head. But fie on me,” added the squire, after a long draught, that enabled him to see the bottom of the flagon, “I must hie me to the Castle; and so good night, and many thanks, my civil masters. Trust me, I shall right willingly bestow a can upon you when ye do come this way again, if ye will but ask for old Thomas Turnberry, the esquire equerry.”
The dialogue between Tom Turnberry and the two strangers had been over for a good hour, when another conversation took place a few steps from the gate of the inn, between Mrs. Kyle and one who considered himself a favourite lover.
“These be plaguy cunning knaves,” said Mrs. Kyle; “they thinks, I’se warrant me, that no one doth know ’em; yet—but I shall say nothing, not I.”
“I dare swear a man would need to be no fool who should strive to deceive thee, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion, willing to draw her on a little.
“Me!” replied she; “trust me, the old Fiend himself would not cheat me; for instance, now, that saucy Sang there did no sooner show his face within the four walls o’ the Norham Tower than I did straightway know him through all his disguises; and so, having once nosed him, I did quickly smell out his fellow-esquire, and the two knights their masters.”
“That was clever in thee, i’ faith, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion.
“Yea, but my name be not Margaret Kyle an I make no more out by my cleverness,” said the dame. “But mum for that.”
“Nay, thou knowest thou canst not be Margaret Kyle long, my bonny dame,” replied the man.
“Fie thee now,” replied she, “sure it will be long ere I do trust me to men again, after honest Sylvester, my poor dear husband that was.”
“And what didst thou say they were here for?” demanded her companion.
“Ye may trow they are here for no good,” replied the dame. “I’ll warrant me the seizing o’ them will be a right brave turn; but mum again, for he who is to take them this night did say as how none should ken nothing on’t till the stroke should be strucken; yea, and by the same token he did gie me kisses enow to seal up my mouth.”[405]
“And when did Sir Miers tell thee this?” demanded the man.
“Sir Miers!” replied Mrs. Kyle; “laucker-daisey, did I tell thee that it was Sir Miers? St. Mary, I had nae will tae hae done that. Hoot, toot, my lips hae no been half glued.”
“And so thou dost say that Sir Miers is to surround the house to-night, and to take these same strangers?” observed the man.
“Yea, but of a truth I shouldna hae tell’d thee a’ that; may my tongue be blistered for’t,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “for he bid me take especial care, aboon a’ things, to let thee know nought on’t.”
“Nay, Mrs. Kyle,” said the man, “but thou knowest thou dost love me over much to hide anything from me.”
“O ay, for a matter o’ that. I do love thee well enow,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but Sir Miers hath such pleasant ways with him.”
“Hath he?” replied the man carelessly. “Thou didst say, I think, that the attempt is to be made at midnight, and that thou art to be on the watch to let them in?”
“Nay, then,” said Mrs. Kyle, “I did verily say no sike thing, I wot. What I did say was this, that Sir Miers is to be here an hour after midnight, and that John Hosteler is to let them in.”
“Ay, ay, I see I did mistake thy words,” replied the man. “Why, holy St. Cuthbert, thou wilt get a power of money for thine information.”
“So Sir Miers hath promised me,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but what doth chiefly season the matter to my stomach is the spicy revenge I shall hae against that flouting knave Sang, and the very thought o’ this doth keenly edge me to aid the gallant Sir Miers in his enterprise; yet, to tell thee the truth, the handsome knight might rauckon on as much service at my hands, yea, or more, when it mought please him bid me.”
“So,” replied her companion; “but come, I will see thee into the house, drink one cup of thine ale with thee, and so speed me to the other end of the village to Sir Miers. Who knows but I may be wanted after all to bear the brunt of this business.”
By this time the two knights and their three attendants were the sole tenants of the common room, and this circumstance, coupled with the disguises they wore, led them to imagine that they ran no risk of discovery.
Robert Lindsay, who was the fifth man, took up a lamp, and sallied forth to look at the horses ere he should seek repose.[406]All was quiet in the court-yard, as well as in the various buildings surrounding it. He entered the stable, but, though there were wain horses enow there belonging to the hostel, he saw, with utter dismay, that the five steeds belonging to his party were gone. He turned to rush out of the stable to tell the knights of this treacherous robbery, when the light of the lamp in his hand flashed on the figure of a man, who was determinedly posted in the doorway, as if resolved to oppose his passage.
“Ralpho Proudfoot!” exclaimed Lindsay in astonishment; and then observing that he was fully armed, and that he carried a lance in his hand, whilst he himself had not even his sword, he gave himself up for lost; but resolving to sell his life as dearly as possible, he wrenched a rung from one of the stalls, and planted himself in a posture of defence.
“Nay, thou needest look for no injury at my hands,” said Proudfoot; “this haughty spirit of mine, the which did once make me thy determined foe because thou wert promoted above me, doth now prompt me not to be outdone by thee in a generous deed. I come to warn thee that an attempt on the liberty, if not on the lives, of thee and those that be with thee, is to be made, within less than an hour hence, by Sir Miers de Willoughby and a strong force. The reward for taking prisoners of sike note, together with the gold to be gotten for their ransom, is the temptation to this enterprise. Lose not a moment then in rousing the knights, and warning them of their danger.”
“But what hath become of our horses?” demanded Lindsay, not yet recovered from his surprise.
“It was I who removed them,” replied Proudfoot. “I took them from the stable, after leaving the hosteller to sleep off the heavy draughts of ale I made him swallow; they stand ready caparisoned under the trees a few yards behind the inn. Quick, bring me to the knights, that I may show them their danger, and teach them how to avoid it; not a moment is to be lost.”
Without farther question, Lindsay led the way to the common room where the knights were lying. They were soon roused, and listened to Proudfoot’s account of the plot against them with considerable surprise; but they hesitated to believe him, and were in doubt what to do.
“Nay, then, Sir Knights,” said Proudfoot, “an ye will hesitate, certain captivity must befall ye. Captivity, did I say? yea, something worse; a base and black thirst of vengeance doth move this treacherous knight against thee, Sir John Assueton. I have reason to know that he hath ever cherished it sith thy last encounter.”[407]
“’Twere better to plant ourselves here, and fight to the death with what weapons we may have about us,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne.
“Right, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “we at least know and can be true to one another, and that of itself will give us victory.”
“We shall be prepared for them,” said Mortimer Sang, “and we shall make them fly before us by the very suddenness of our assault.”
“How many De Willoughby spears are of them?” demanded the taciturn Roger Riddel, with extreme composure.
“Some two dozen at the least, I warrant me,” replied Proudfoot, “and all fully appointed.”
“Bring they Norham Castle on their backs?” demanded Riddel again.
“Nay,” replied Proudfoot, “their leader hath kept his scheme to himself, that he may have the greater share of booty and ransom money.”
“But Norham Castle hath ears,” said Riddel again.
“Thou sayest true, friend,” replied Proudfoot. “Were resistance to be made, the din of arms and the noise of the assault would soon bring out the garrison upon ye. Quickly resolve, Sir Knights, for the hour wanes, and they will be here anon. What can ye fear of traiterie from me? Could I not have left ye to fall easy victims to Sir Miers de Willoughby’s snare?”
“So please ye, gallant knights, I will answer with my life for the truth of Ralpho Proudfoot in this matter,” said Lindsay confidently.
“Nay, an ye fear me, ye shall all stand about me,” said Proudfoot; “and if ye do find me a traitor, your five daggers may drink my blood at once.”
The minds of the two knights were at last made up, and they resolved to trust themselves to the guidance of RalphoProudfoot. Armed with their daggers alone, they stole silently out in the dark, and were so planted by him behind the gate as to be prepared to rush out when the time for doing so should come. Ralpho Proudfoot cautioned them to keep perfectly quiet. To attempt to escape along the street of the village at that moment would have subjected them to certain observation: they were therefore to wait his signal, and to follow him. He placed himself, as he had said, in the midst of them, and set himself to listen for a sound from the outside.
They had not been long posted, when footsteps were heard[408]approaching very gently. There was then some whispering, and a slight cough. Proudfoot immediately answered it.
“Art there, John?” said a voice in an under tone.
“Yea,” replied Proudfoot, imitating the language of the hosteller, “but they be’s still astir; so when the yate be opened, ye maun rush in like fiends on them, for the hinge do creak, and they will start to their arms wi’ the noise. Are ye a’ ready?”
“We are,” replied the voice without.
“Noo, then, in on them and at them,” cried Proudfoot, throwing the gate wide open, so as to conceal himself and his companions behind it.
In rushed Sir Miers de Willoughby, at the head of a large party of his men; and out went Ralpho Proudfoot, with the two Scottish knights and their attendants. The gate was hastily locked externally; the horses were quickly gained, and mounted in the twinkling of an eye; and Ralpho Proudfoot, who had taken the precaution to have his steed placed with the rest, got to saddle along with them. As they rode past the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower, the loud voices, and the execrations of Sir Miers de Willoughby and his people, and the shrill screams of Mrs. Kyle, told them that the failure of the plot had been already discovered by the actors in it.
“So,” said Ralpho, in half soliloquy, as he guided the knights down the village street at a canter—“so, thou didst cease to trust me, Sir Miers, me who hath been faithful to thee to the peril of my salvation. By St. Benedict, thou shalt now find that it would have been well for thee to have trusted me still; yea and thou didst tamper with her whom I would have espoused. By the bones of St. Baldrid, but thou mayest mate thee with her now an thou listest, for I am done for ever with her, with thee, and with England, except as a foeman.”
The two knights made the best of their way until they had got beyond the English march, and were fairly on what might be termed Scottish ground. Armed men were still crowding in greater or lesser bodies to Jedworth, where those who had by this time assembled formed a large army. They were encamped on what was then called the High Forest; and thither the two friends were hastening, and were already but a little way from the position of the troops, when Sir Patrick Hepborne halted, and thus addressed his companion—
“Canst thou tell me, Assueton, what may cause the mingled crowd of squires, lacqueys, grooms, and horses, that doth surround the gates of yonder church? Meseems it some convocation,[409]and those varlets do wait the pleasure of some personages of greater note who are within.”
“Thou art right,” replied Assueton; “for to-day was fixed for a council of war to be held within that church, and it would seem that at least some, if not all, of the nobles and knights of the host are already met. Let us hasten thither, I beseech thee. I long to learn what is to be the plan of our warfare.”
“I shall at least meet my father there,” said Sir Patrick listlessly, and as if he cared for little else. “Do thou follow us, Lindsay, to take our horses, and then wait for us, with the esquires, under the spreading oaks of yonder swelling knoll.”
On entering the church the two knights learned that they had arrived just in time for the opening of the business. The Earls of Fife, Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray were there, and indeed all the leading nobles and knights of Scottish chivalry; and the doors being closed, the assembly were soon deeply engaged in the gravest deliberations.
Whilst the council of war was so employed within the church, Mortimer Sang was lying at the root of an aged oak, holding conversation to, rather than with, Roger Riddel. Near them were the horses tethered and feeding, under the eyes of Robert Lindsay, and his old, though newly-recovered comrade, Ralpho Proudfoot, who were earnestly engaged in talking over many a story of their boyhood.
“What dost thou stare at so, friend Riddel?” demanded Sang, who observed his comrade stretching his neck so as to throw his eyes up the trough of a ravine down which stole a little rill, that murmured around the knoll where they were sitting; “what dost thou see, I say, friend Roger, that thou dost so stretch thy neck like a heron, when disturbed in her solitary fishing?”
Roger replied not, but nodded significantly, and pointed with his finger.
“Nay, I see nought,” replied Sang, “save, indeed, a swinking churl, who doth untie and lead away a gallant and bravely caparisoned steed from yonder willow that weepeth over the stream.”
Roger looked grave, and nodded again, and looked as much as to say, “A-well, and dost thou see nothing in that?”
“Nay, now that the knave hath mounted,” said Sang, “he seemeth to ride like one who would make his horse’s speed keep his neck from the halter. By’r Lady, he’s gone already. Is the rogue a thief, thinkest thou, Roger?”
“Notour, I’ll warrant me,” replied Squire Riddel.[410]
“By St. Baldrid, had we but thought of that sooner, we might have frayed the malfaitor, yea, or taken him in the very fact,” said Sang. “But now we are too late to meddle in the matter.”
“We are no thief-takers,” replied Roger Riddel, with great indifference.
“Nay, now I think on’t, he who would hang up his horse so in the Borders may be his own thief-taker for me,” replied Sang; “but look ye, friend Roger,” continued he, after a pause, “who may that stranger be who cometh forth from the crowd armed and spurred, yea, as a squire ought, yet who walketh away as if neither groom nor horse tarried for him? Stay—methinks he cometh this way.”
The stranger looked around him, after getting rid of the embarrassment of the crowd about the church, and then moved quickly towards the knoll where the two esquires were sitting, and, passing quietly under it, without either looking at or speaking to them, made his way up the ravine in the direction of the willow-trees, where the horse had been tethered. The path he followed was so much lower than the ground whence they had observed the actions of the man who took the horse, that the stranger walked smartly on for more than a bow-shot, ere he came within view of the willow-trees. Then it was that he began to betray great confusion. He hastened to the spot whence the horse had been so lately removed, and finding that he was irrecoverably gone, he clasped his hands, looked up to heaven, and seemed to be lost in despair.
“Dost thou mark yonder man who did walk by here alone?” demanded Sang eagerly. “Behold how he doth show signs of distress, that would mark him to be the master of the horse which the thief took. I ween he be no Scottish squire, for he knew no one, and seemed to covet concealment as he did pass us by. An I mistake not, he will prove better worth catching than the thief would have done. Let’s after him, Roger, that we may prove my saying.”
Roger, though slow to speak, was quick to act. The two esquires seized their steeds, and throwing themselves into their saddles, galloped at full speed after the stranger. Startled by the sound of pursuit, he at first made an effort to escape, but, seeing how hotly he was chased, he lost spirit, and, shortening his pace, allowed them to come up with him.
“Whither wouldst thou, comrade? and whence hast thou come? and what dost thou, a spurred esquire, without a horse?” demanded Sang, in a string of interrogations.
“I do but breathe the air here,” replied the man in great[411]confusion. “As for my horse, I do verily believe some villain hath stolen him from those willow trees where I had tied him.”
“But why didst thou tie thy horse in this lone place? and how comest thou thus unattended?” demanded Sang again. “But, hey, holy St. Baldrid, is it thou, my gentle Clerk-Squire Barton? When, I pray thee, didst thou leave the peaceful following of the godly Bishop of Durham, to mell thee with dangerous matters like these thou art now in? By the blessed Rood, it had been well for thee, methinks, an thou couldst but have aped somewhat of the loutish Scot in thy gait, peraunter thou mightest have better escaped remark? So, thou hast become a spy on these our Eastern Marches, hast thou? By the mass, but thou must with us to the conclave. It doth erke me to speak it, mine excellent friend, but, by’r Lady, I do fear me that thou mayest hang for it.”
“Talk not so, Squire Sang,” replied Barton, with a face of alarm. “Trust me, I have seen nought—I know nought. Thou knowest we did drink together in good fellowship at Norham. Let me go, I do beseech thee, and put not an innocent man’s life to peril, seeing that appearances do happen to be so sore against me.”
“Sore against thee, indeed, pot-companion,” said Roger Riddel, portentously shaking his head.
“Yea, appearances are sore against thee, Master Barton,” reechoed Sang. “Verily, we did behold thee as thou didst come forth from yonder church, where thou didst doubtless possess thyself of much important matter that did there transpire, the which it will be by no means convenient that thou shouldst carry in safety to those who may have sent thee hither. Better that thou hadst chanted thirty trentals of masses in the goodly pile of Durham for the soul of thy grandmother, ay, and that fasting, too, than that thou shouldst have set thy foot for a minute’s space of time within yonder church this day.”
“Let me go, good gentlemen, I do beseech ye,” said Barton. “Squire Riddel, hast thou no compassion for me?”
“Much,” replied Roger.“Natheless, thou must with us, Squire Barton.”
“Nay, in truth thou must with us without more ado,” said Sang; “yet make thyself as easy as may be; for, in consideration of our meeting at Norham, I shall do thee all the kindness I may consistent with duty, both now and when thou shalt be sent to the fatal tree, to the which I do fear thy passage will be short and speedy.”
The English esquire shuddered, but he was compelled to submit;[412]and he was accordingly led by his captors to the church, where the council of war was assembled. The news of his capture excited great interest and commotion among the knights; and the Earl of Fife, who presided over their deliberations, had no sooner learned the particulars of his taking than he ordered him into his presence. Barton came, guarded by Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel. He had put on the best countenance he could, but judging by the working of his features, all his resolution was required to keep it up.
“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the Earl of Fife. “What hast thou to say for thyself, Sir Squire? Thou hast been taken in arms within the Scottish bounds—thou hast been seen of several who did note thine appearance at this our secret meeting—and there be knights here, as well as those worthy esquires who took thee, who can speak to thy name and country. Whence art thou come? and who did send thee hither to espy out our force, and to possess thyself of our schemes?”
“Trusting to the sacred office of my Lord the Bishop of Durham, I came but as a pious traveller to visit certain shrines,” replied Barton. “Being in these parts, I wot it was no marvel in me, the servant of a churchman so dignified, to look into the church, and——”
“Nay, nay—so flimsy a response as this will by no means serve,” interrupted the Earl of Fife, who, though cool, calm, and soft in manner, was in reality much more cruel of heart than his brother the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, albeit devoid of the furious passion so ungovernable in that Earl. “He doth but trifle with our patience. Let a rack be instantly prepared, and let a tree be erected without loss of time, whereon his tortured limbs, whilst their fibres shall yet have hardly ceased to feel, may be hung as tender food for the ravens. His throat shall be squeezed by the hangman’s rope, until all he hath gained by his espial be disgorged or closed up for ever within it.”
Barton shook from head to foot at this terrible sentence, uttered with a mildness and composure that might have suited well with a homily. His face grew deadly pale, despair grappled at his breath, and he gasped as if already under the hands of the executioner. His eyes, restless and protruded, seemed as if anxious to shun the picture of the horrible death that so soon awaited him. His lips moved, but they were dry as ashes, and they gave forth no sound. Sang and Roger Riddel almost regretted that they had been instrumental in bringing the wretch there, though by doing so they had so well served their country. They looked at each other with horror; but in such[413]a presence, and at such a time, Sang was condemned to remain as dumb as Squire Riddel. The good Earl of Moray had more liberty of speech, and he failed not to use it.
“Be not too hasty with him, my Lord,” said he; “he may yet peraunter be brought to give us tidings of the enemy. Let him but give us what information he can, under promise, that if it be found soothfast, he shall have no evil. Meanwhile, after he shall have effunded all that it may concern us to know, let him be delivered into the custody of the Constable of Jedworth, with him to liggen in strict durance, until we shall have certiorated ourselves by our own experience, whether the things which he may tell be true or false, with certification that his life shall be the forfeit of the minutest breach of verity. If he doth refuse these terms, then, in the name of St. Andrew, let him incontinent lose his head.”
A hum of approbation ran around the meeting, and the Earl of Fife, though in secret half-chagrined that he had not had his own will, saw that in this point he must give way to the general voice.
“Thou dost hear thy destiny,” said he to the prisoner; “what is thine election?”
“My Lord, seeing that I have no alternative but to yield me to dire necessity,” answered the English esquire, with an expression of infinite relief in his countenance, “verily, I do most gladly accept your terms. As God is my judge, I shall tell thee all I know, without alteration, addition, or curtailment.”
“Who sent thee hither, then?” demanded the Earl of Fife.
“Being one to whom these Marches be well known, I was chosen by the Lords of Northumberland, and sent hither to learn the state of your enterprise; as alswa to gather which way ye do propose to draw.”
“Where, then, be these English Lords?” demanded the Earl of Douglas.
“Sirs,” replied the captive squire, “sith it behoveth me to say the truth, ye shall surely have it. I be come straight hither from Newcastle, where be Sir Henry Piersie, surnamed Hotspur, from his frequent pricking; and his brother Sir Rafe Piersie, yea, and divers other nobles and knights, flowers of English chivalry, all in readiness to depart thence as soon as they may know that ye have set forward into England; for, hearing of the strength of your host, they do not choose to come to meet you.”
“Why, what number do they repute us at?” demanded the Earl of Moray.[414]
“Sir,” replied the esquire, “it is said how ye be forty thousand men and twelve hundred spears.”
“What then may be their plan?” demanded the Earl of Fife.
“This be their plan, my Lord,” replied the esquire: “If ye do invade England by Carlisle, then will they straightway force a passage for themselves by Dunbar to Edinburgh; and if ye do hold through Northumberland, then will they enter Scotland by the Western Marches.”
As the English esquire Barton was thus delivering himself, the Scottish lords threw significant glances towards each other. Some further questions of less moment were put to him, and after he had answered to all with every appearance of perfect candour—
“Let him be removed into the strict keeping of the Constable of Jedworth,” said the Earl of Fife. “His life and liberty shall be safe, provided his report shall in all things prove true, and for this I do gage my word in name of myself and all these noble lords and knights here present. Should he be found to have spoken falsely in the veriest tittle, he knoweth his fate.”
After the prisoner was withdrawn under the charge of a guard, the Earl of Fife conveyed thanks to the two esquires for having so well fulfilled their duty to Scotland. The assembled lords and knights were overjoyed that the intent of their enemies should have been thus made so surely known to them, and a buzz of congratulation arose.
“This is all well, my Lords,” said the Earl of Fife, after having again procured silence; “but let us now to council, I entreat you, that we may straightway devise how best to avail ourselves of the tidings we have gained. For mine own part I do opine that we should break our host into two armies. Let the most part, together with all our carriage, go by the Cumberland Marches and Carlisle, and let a smaller body draw towards Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to fill up and occupy the attention of the enemy assembled there. I speak under the correction of wiser heads,” continued the Earl, bowing around him with great condescension, so as to excite a burst of approbation from those weaker spirits whom he daily flattered until he made them his staunch partisans—“I speak, I say, under the correction of wiser heads; yet meseems, from those unanimous applauses, my Lords, that you do honour my scheme of warfare with your universal support; and such being the case, I may now say, that whilst I do myself propose to lead the main army by the Western Marches, I shall commit the command of the smaller[415]body to the brave Earls of Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray. For this last service, methinks, three hundred lances, and three thousand crossbows and axemen, may well enow suffice.”
“By St. Andrew, but ’tis a fine thing to know how to keep one’s head safe,” whispered Sir William de Dalzell ironically to Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger; “what thinkest thou of him who shall shoulder ye a catapult to crush a swarm of dung flies, whilst he doth send out others to war on lions and bearded pards with a handful of hazel nuts. Depardieux, he who goeth by Carlisle may march boldly from one end of Cumberland to the other, with a single clump of spears at his back, ay, and take the fattest spoil too; but he who shall march to Newcastle will want all the hardy hearts and well-strung thewes and muscles he can muster around him, and is like after all to get nought but a broken head for his journey. Holy St. Giles, but ’tis well to take care of one’s self.”
By a little management, the opinion of the council of war was easily brought perfectly to coincide with the views of the Earl of Fife. But so great was the name of James Earl of Douglas, that it was in itself a host. The two brothers, George Dunbar Earl of Dunbar and March, and John Dunbar Earl of Moray, too, were so much beloved, that a puissant band of knights voluntarily mustered under their banners. Among these were Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and Sir John Assueton. Ere the assembly dissolved, it was determined that the armies should divide, and march on their respective routes early on the ensuing morning; and all was bustle and preparation accordingly.