CHAPTER LVII.

[Contents]CHAPTER LVII.The Scots besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls.The smaller force, under the Douglas, broke up from Jedworth, and set forward in high spirits, cheered by the good countenance and presence of their renowned commander. Their parting shouts were re-echoed from the sides of the surrounding hills, and were replied to with yet louder bursts of acclamation by the large army of which they had been so lately a portion. Their route lay through the wilderness of the forest which at that time covered the country, and they soon lost even the cheers of their departing comrades, that, mellowing by degrees, at last died away among the hollow valleys. On entering Northumberland,[416]the Earl of Douglas allowed little time for pillaging the country, but stretched forward with the utmost expedition, so that he might carry on the war directly into the heart of the Bishoprick of Durham, before his movements could be made known to the Earl of Northumberland, who was at Alnwick, or to his two sons, who were at that moment patiently waiting at Newcastle, with the other English lords, for the return of their spy.The Douglas was by no means one who could endure to make a mere empty show of invasion, for the purpose of creating a diversion that might smooth the way of his politic brother-in-law the Earl of Fife. His force was small indeed, but he resolved that it should do England as much harm as he could effect with it. Passing the River Tyne, therefore, at some distance above Newcastle, he spread his troops over the fair County of Durham, and began taking an awful, nay, a tenfold revenge, for the miseries which the Merse had so lately endured, at the hands of the English, by carrying devastation far and wide.The news that the Scots were abroad at last reached Newcastle and Durham, and their numbers being exaggerated, these towns were filled with great consternation. They now learned the tale, indeed, from the evidence of their senses, for the smoke of the continued conflagration, creeping heavily over the country, and, carrying the smell of combustion along with it, poisoned the very air of both these places. Having reached the gates of Durham, the Douglas found them firmly closed against him; so, after skirmishing there for some days, he pushed on, destroying everything in his way, even to the very gates of York, and leaving no town unburnt that was not sufficiently walled to require a regular siege.Having thus more than made good a chivalric vow with which he had started, that he should see Durham ere he returned, and having already ventured farther into a hostile country than his small force warranted, he returned towards Newcastle, industriously perfecting any destruction that he had before left unfinished; and having re-crossed the Tyne, at the same spot where he had passed it in his way southwards, he set himself down before the town on the side lying towards Scotland. The place was strongly garrisoned, and contained the flower of the chivalry of the counties of York, Durham, and Northumberland; for as soon as it was fully known that the Scots were abroad, and that they had already passed onwards into Yorkshire, a general rising of the country took place, under the influence of Harry Piersie, lately appointed Keeper of the Northumbrian Marches; and orders were even despatched[417]to the governors of Berwick, Norham, and the other fortresses now in rear of the enemy, to join the general muster with what force they could spare without too much weakening their garrisons.Sir Rafe Piersie had long ceased to think of Eleanore de Selby. His passion was like the summer-storm, violent in character, but short in duration. His father, the haughty old Earl of Northumberland, had heard of it, and had signified his unqualified displeasure that his son should have even thought of a marriage with the daughter of a mere soldier; while his elder brother, the lively and peppery Hotspur, had laughed and railed at him till he became tired of the very name of De Selby. Part of this feeling arose from an honourable cause. His conscience told him that he had permitted his violent temper to make him forget what was due to the courtesy of knighthood, and he now so deeply repented him of his conduct at Norham, where he had so grossly insulted his host, that the scene never occurred to his mind without bringing the blush of shame to his cheek. He longed for an opportunity, where, without debasing himself, he might prove these feelings to Sir Walter; and the issuing of the order for the Border Captains to appear at Newcastle being the first that presented itself, he immediately availed himself of it.“Brother,” said he to Hotspur, “as for Sir Matthew Redman of Berwick, he is a stout and able Captain, and in his own person a powerful aid. But what wouldst thou, I pray thee, with bringing the old Captain of Norham so far from home?”“Dost thou fear to meet him, Rafe?” cried Hotspur, with a sarcastic smile; “or wouldst thou rather that I should send for his dark-eyed daughter hither?”“Nay, nay, brother,” replied Sir Rafe; “but methinks he is of years somewhat beyond the battle-field.”“Thou mayest do with him as thou listest, brother Rafe,” replied Hotspur, who was too busy to waste time on such a matter; “but we must have his men.”Armed with Sir Henry Piersie’s authority to do so, Sir Rafe despatched an especial messenger to Sir Walter de Selby, to assure him that it rejoiced him much to be the instrument of procuring his exemption from personal attendance at Newcastle, which to one who had already seen so many fields, must be rather irksome. The messenger found Sir Walter de Selby lately recovered from his bodily malady; for the death of the wizard Ancient and his villainy being now known to him, he[418]again enjoyed comparative peace of mind. But he was much enfeebled by the shocks he had received. He heard the courier to an end; and the moisture in his eye, with the nervous motion in his closed lips, showed how much he was affected by it.“Am I then deemed to be so old and worthless?” said he, after a pause. “The time was when the Marches, neither East nor West, could have turned out a starker pricker; yet was it kind in Sir Rafe Piersie, after what hath passed between us, and tell him, I beseech thee, that I so felt and received his message. But it shall never be said that I am behind when others are in the field; it shall never be said of old Sir Walter de Selby, who hath worn the hauberk and morion from his cradle, that he was afraid to die in knightly harness. No, no; let Tom Turnberry prepare my war steed; I’ll lead mine own spears to Newcastle. To thee, my good Lieutenant Oglethorpe, do I commit the keeping of old Norham. It is King Richard’s now. See that it hath no other master when I or King Richard demand it of thee.”With these words, the brave old warrior gave orders for his men to assemble immediately, and mounting, with the aid of his esquires, he rode from the court-yard at the head of his force, on a mettlesome horse, the fiery paces of which but ill suited with his years; as he went, he joined feebly in the parting cheer with which his brave bowmen and lances took leave of their comrades.It was the daring spirit of chivalry, more than any great hope of taking the town, that induced the gallant Douglas to tarry for two days before Newcastle. The most powerful thirst of heroic adventure then prevailed, and those within the town were as eager to rush beyond their ramparts to meet the assailants, as the Scottish knights were to assault them. Both days, therefore, were occupied in a succession of skirmishes; and it was a remarkable feature of this warfare, that it seemed to be more regulated by the courtesy of the tournament, than guided by the brutal and remorseless rage of battle. No sooner did a body of lances show itself from within the Scottish lines, than another of equal numbers appeared from behind the barriers of the town, prepared to give it a meeting. Spurring from opposite sides, the combatants encountered each other midway, as if they had been in the lists. A desperate shock took place, followed by a melée, in which prodigious feats of arms were done, whilst the English from their walls, and the Scottish troops from their temporary entrenchments, alternately cheered their friends, as one or other side gained the advantage. But,[419]what was most wonderful, everything resembling atrocity appeared to be banished from the field, and mercy and generosity so tempered victory, that it was difficult to say whether the contest was greatest for glory in the skirmish, or for superiority in clemency, and every other noble feeling, after it was over.On the evening of the first day, the Lord Douglas, to give the troops a breathing, ordered the place to be assaulted by means of scaling ladders, with the hopes of perhaps surprising it by a coup-de-main. The Scottish troops rushed to the walls with their usual hardihood, and Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton were found in the very front of the attack made by the Earl of Moray’s division. Although they were provided with fascines and trusses of straw to throw into the ditch, yet the ladders were in general found to be too short for surmounting the walls. At one place, however, they were successfully applied; and the two knights, followed by their esquires and some few others, gallantly mounted in the teeth of the enemy, and fought their way into the town, driving the English before them; but being unsupported, owing to the failure of the escalade in other quarters, they were unwillingly compelled to retreat, which they and their followers did, bravely fighting with their faces to the enemy. Having gained the spot where they had climbed, the two friends planted themselves side by side firmly in front of it, to cover the retreat of those who were with them, and gallantly kept a whole host of foes at bay, until all who had entered the place with them had descended, except their trusty esquires, and two other individuals whom they had not leisure to note. The ladders had all been broken or thrown down in the confusion except one, and the English so pressed upon the little knot of Scotchmen that it appeared impossible for so many of them to escape.“One desperate charge at them, Assueton,” cried Hepborne. “Our safety depends on driving them back for a brief space’s breathing. On them, brave Scots!”The two knights raised a shout, in which they were joined by their fellow-combatants, and with one accord rushed furiously against the dense circle of English. The effect was tremendous. Many were overthrown by the vigorous blows of the knights and their assistants, but more by the press and confusion occasioned by the panic, excited by the belief that they were backed by a fresh assault of troops from without the walls. There was a momentary dispersion of them; but the individuals of the Scottish party were also separated from each other, and as Sir[420]Patrick Hepborne returned to the rallying point, he was grieved to discover his friend Assueton lying wounded and helpless on the ground. He immediately stooped, to endeavour to set him on his legs, but he was unable to support himself.“Leave me, dear Hepborne,” said Assueton faintly; “thine own safety depends on thy doing so.”“Leave thee, Assueton!” cried Hepborne with energy; “nay, by St. Baldrid, if I cannot bear thee hence, I will perish with thee. Clasp thine arms round my neck, my friend,” added he, as he lifted him up from the ground, and began carrying him towards the walls. “Be of good cheer, and tighten thy grasp; thou dost thereby lighten my burden.”As he moved off, the English returned, shouting upon his heels, with Sang sullenly retreating before them.“Succour, succour, my trusty esquire,” cried Hepborne; “I have a life here to preserve dearer to me a thousand times than mine own.”Sang came up to him as he reached the top of the only remaining ladder. To the esquire he hastily confided the care of Assueton, and, turning on the foe, again drove them before him, so as to give Sang leisure to descend with his burden; and then hastily returning to the spot where the ladder was, he discovered that it was broken, and saw Sang in the ditch beneath, endeavouring to extricate himself and the wounded knight from the bundles of straw and fascines among which they had fallen. The enemy were fast gathering behind, and he had no alternative. Selecting a place where the heaps in the ditch were highest, he sprang from the wall, and happily alighted almost uninjured.Whilst he and his squire were busily employed in lifting Sir John Assueton from the ditch, their attention was attracted to the walls above them, where a desperate struggle was going on between two figures distinctly seen against the sky. But it was of short duration.“Uve, uve! an she wonnot let her go, by St. Giles, but she shall go wi’ her,” cried Duncan MacErchar, who was one of them; and griping his enemy fast, he sprang with him over the battlements.Duncan had by no means time to be so select in the choice of the spot where he was to alight as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been. But he took care to leap with his antagonist before him, and his doing so was the saving of his life, his fall being broken by the body of the wretch who participated in it, and who was crushed to death against the very bottom of the ditch, whilst[421]Duncan, though stunned, escaped with some considerable bruises, and immediately regaining his legs, assisted Sir Patrick and his esquire to carry off Sir John Assueton to the Scottish camp.We have already apprised the reader that the brave knights were supported by two other individuals besides their esquires. One of these, it may be guessed, was the brave MacErchar. The other, when the little party was dispersed after their bold onset, unfortunately missed his way in attempting to return to the rallying point, and, being assailed by a crowd of his foes, was compelled to retreat before them, until he was stopped by a wall, under which he took shelter, and prepared himself for a desperate resistance.“Yield thee, Scot,” cried some of the first who came up to him. “On him—Seize him,” cried a dozen of them at once.“By St. Lowry, ’tis right well for ye Southrons to cry yield to ane honest Scotchman. But troth, I’ll tell ye it’s easier to say so to ane o’ my country than to gar him do it, and mair, when ye speak to the henchman o’ the Yearl o’ Moray himsel’,” cried Rory Spears; for it was he, no longer clad, indeed, in his fishing coat and otterskin cap, but armed as became the Earl of Moray’s henchman, and wielding a long pole-axe instead of his gaud-clip.“Take him alive,” cried an officer who was present; “let not his life be taken, as you value your own. If he be of the Earl of Moray’s household, we may be the better for knowing some of his secrets.”“Troth, ye’ll hae ill taking o’ me without taking my life too, my lads,” said Rory, swinging his pole-axe so cleverly around him that no one was disposed to risk approaching him.“In on him and take him, his ransom will be great,” cried the officer; and thus encouraged, one or two of the hardiest did venture to attempt to close on him, but they paid dearly for their daring, being prostrated to right and left like so many nine-pins. The rest were so scared that they scrupled to approach him; and he might have kept them off long enough had not a man who had climbed on the wall behind him suddenly dropped down on his shoulders à califourchon, and brought him headlong to the ground.“Well done, Tom Turnberry,” cried a dozen voices at once, and in an instant Rory was overpowered, and hastily dragged down a stair and thrust into a dark dungeon under the ramparts, where he was left to his own reflections.“Is there ony ither poor deevil like mysel’ here?” demanded[422]Rory aloud, after he had in some measure recovered his breath; but finding that no one answered, he went to talk to himself. “Na—nae answer. A-weel, Maister Spears, thou art here, art thou, amang the foundations o’ Newcastle? This is seeing merry England wi’ a vengeance. Troth, after a’, if this is to be the upshot, thou mightest as weel hae turned back frae Norham yonder. Thou canst be of nae satisfaction to the Yearl whiles thou art liggen here, I trow. And as to ony mair comfort or consolation in the wars, thou mayest e’en bid them good day, for thou’lt hae nae mair o’ them, I’ll promise thee. By my troth, an thou hadst not seen this day’s fighting, thou mightest hae been as well liggen on the rocks at the Ess. A-weel, a-weel—it is most surprising how a man o’ sense wull gae wrang at times. Hadst thou no been a fool, ye might hae let thae wud chields climb the wa’s o’ Newcastle themlanes, that is, takin’ thy time o’ life into consideration. By holy St. Mary, what wull become o’ poor Kate? Hoot, the Leddy o’ Norham wull surely see her sent safe back to Tarnawa; though in conscience I had rather been her guide mysel. I was a fool to leave the damosel. And then, St. Lawrence protect me, how I wull be missed at hame.” The thought of his daughter, of his wife, and of his home, grappled Rory by the heart, so that he did nothing but sigh for some moments. “A-weel,” continued he at length, “I maun say, after a’, that albeit there is a great pleasure in fighting, it is but a fool-thing for God’s rational creatures to be cutting ane anither’s throats as if they war wild cats or wolf-beasts. What for sould I come a’ the gate frae Findhorn-side to cleave the skull o’ some poor honest deevil o’ the Tyne here, against whom, as I hope for mercy mysel, I hae no decent or wiselike cause o’ quarrel? War is a fool-thing; but I wull say there is some pleasure in’t, after a’.”“Ay!” said a long yawning voice from a deep recess in the dungeon.“St. Lowry defend us, wha’s that!” cried Rory.“One Roger Riddel,” replied the voice.“What hast thou been doing, that thou hast been so long silent?” demanded Rory.“Sleeping,” answered Roger.“Thou art esquire to that brave knight Sir John Assueton, if I err not?” said Rory.“Thou art right,” replied Roger.“And how, in the name of St. Andrew, camest thou here?” demanded Rory.“By being taken,” replied Roger.[423]“Thou wert on the ramparts with us to the last,” said Rory.“I was,” replied Roger.“By St. Giles, but it was a noble escalade, comrade, an we had only been well backed,” cried Spears with enthusiasm.“Noble,” cried Roger in the same tone.“Didst thou mark how the knaves fled afore sax o’ us?” cried Rory. “Sax against twa hundred o’ them at least.”“Nay, three hundred, brother,” replied Roger.“Ay, faith, that may be,” said Rory; “I’ll no dispute as to that. There might be three, ay, or four hundred o’ them, for I had no great leisure to count them. But this I ken, neebour, that an it hadna been bigget ground, thou and I souldna hae been here.”“No, that I’ll promise thee,” replied Roger.“Where art thou, comrade? Gi’es thy hand; we fought like brave chields thegither,” cried Rory in great glee, and groping about for Squire Riddel. “Thou art a prince of brave fellows.”“And thou art a very king,” replied Roger, shaking him heartily by the hand.“’Tis a pleasure to meet thee, though it be in this dungeon,” cried Rory. “Would we had but some yill to wet our friendship. St. Lowry grant that we had but a wee sup yill.”“Ay, would indeed we had a drop of ale,” re-echoed Roger with a deep sigh.At this moment steps were heard descending, a light glimmered faintly for a moment through a chink beneath the door, and the key being turned, the round, rosy visage of Master Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry of Norham, appeared within it. He entered, bearing a lamp in his hand, and was followed by an attendant, who carried an enormous pasty, that had been just broken upon, and a huge stoup of ale.“So!” said Master Turnberry; “put thee down these things, and let the gentlemen eat and drink. Having put a man into captivity by mine own hard riding, I do think it but consistent with charity to see that he starveth not. Yea, and albeit I am but a soberish man myself, yet do I know that there be others who love ale; and having mortal bowels of compassion in me, I have pity for the frailties of my fellow-men.”“Sir,” said Rory, lifting the vessel with great readiness from the ground, “an thou hadst been St. Lowry himsel, thou couldst not have ministered to my present wants more cheeringly. I[424]drink to thee from the bottom o’ my soul——Hech!” cried he, after having swallowed half the contents of the vessel, with the nicest measurement, and most scrupulous justice to him who was to come after him; “hech, ’tis most invigorating to the very spinal marrow. It must be allowed that ye do brew most excellent nut-brown to the south o’ the Tweed.”“Excellent, indeed, judging by its good sale,” cried Roger Riddel, looking into the flagon before he put it to his head; then nodding to Master Turnberry, he drained it to the bottom.“By’r lackins, but ye have good go-downs, my masters,” cried Turnberry, taking the flagon, and raising the bottom of it, so as to show that it was empty, and at the same time betraying some disappointment. “Methinks I could ha’e ta’en a drop of ale myself. But there be more where this came from. See that the gentlemen lack for nothing,” said he, turning to the attendant. “And so, good night, my merry masters.”It was about the middle of the ensuing day that Rory Spears was sitting indulging in soliloquy, Roger Riddel having retired to the farther part of the vault, where he had thrown himself down, and buried himself among the straw, to sleep away the time.“I hae sat for days by mysel, as a relay to watch for the deer,” said Rory—“ay, and I hae lien for weeks by my lane, watching the saumonts loupin’, without hearing voice save the water-kelpy roarin’ in the Ess—yet was I never sae tired as I am at this precious moment, sitting in this hole, wi’ a bit chink yonder aboon just enew to let a poor deevil ken that it’s daylight, and that he mought be happy thereout i’ the sun. As for that chield, Roger Riddel there, my ain Oscar would be mair companionable, I wot. He lies rucking and snorting there as composed as if he were in the best hostel in a’ bonny Scotland. As St. Lowry kens, I wad be content to be in its warst, rather than whaur I am. Holy St. Mungo, the chield hath buried himsel like a very mouldiwort; I can see nought but his nose. A-weel, an I could only gie owre thinking o’ Alice, and Kate, and the Yearl o’ Moray, I mought peraunter sleep mysel.”As he was stretching himself along the bench where he had been sitting, with the resolution of trying the experiment, he was disturbed by a coming step. The door opened, and an officer entered in great seeming haste.“Thou art a body attendant of the Earl of Moray, art thou not?” said he, glancing at Spears.[425]“Yea, I am the noble Yearl’s henchman, as I mought say,” replied Rory.“Doubtless thou knowest well the person of the Lord Douglas?” said the officer.“Ay, weel do I that,” replied Rory; “and mair, he hath a great good-wull to me, for mony is the time we hae hunted thegither. Is he not my master the Yearl’s brother-in-law?”“Follow me then without loss of time,” said the officer; “Sir Henry Piersie would have conference with thee.”Rory said no more, but joyfully obeyed; and the officer, too much occupied with his errand to investigate things closely, and having no suspicion that the place contained two prisoners, tripped up the stair that led from the dungeon, leaving the door open behind him.Master Roger Riddel was not asleep; he had only dosed, to save himself the trouble of forming replies to the incessant talk which Rory had carried on; on peeping out from his straw after the officer and his fellow-prisoner had left him, and seeing the door of the dungeon wide open, he slowly raised himself up, walked out of the place, and ascended the short winding stair, from the top of which he quietly emerged into the pure air. With the utmost composure, he then struck into one of the lanes that led from the walls, and walked coolly down a street, through crowds of anxious individuals, all of whom were too busily occupied with anticipations of glory or defeat, to notice a man in the attire of a squire, of whom there were many. Following a crowd that was pressing forwards, he reached the gate. There was a muster at the barriers.“Where are thy weapons, Sir Squire?” demanded a spearman as he passed by.“Lend me thy lance, good fellow,” said Roger; “I am in haste—here be money to get thee another.”The man gave him the spear, took the money, and thanked him; and Roger went on. At the gate stood three horses held by a single groom. Roger went boldly up to him.“Thou waitest thy master, friend?” said he in a tone of inquiry.“Yea; and what be that to thee?” replied the fellow surlily.“Because I have got an angel for thee, and I would know if thou be’st the right man,” replied Riddel.“Give it me straight, then, good master,” said the man, eagerly.“Nay, that will I not, neither straight nor crooked,” replied[426]Riddel; “that is, not till I know thy master’s name from thee, that I may know whether in very deed thou be’st the man I do look for.”“’Tis Sir Robert Ogill that be my master,” replied the man.“Then art thou the very good fellow I would speak with,” said Roger. “Give me that roan as fast as may be, and this angel here is the token thy master Sir Robert sent thee. I ride on business of his to the barrier.”Without more ado, and without interruption from the groom, he leaped into the saddle, and riding by the guards at a careless pace, got beyond the barriers, and put his horse to speed for the Scottish camp. A shout was raised among a party of spearmen who were forming without, and some dozen or two of them spurred after him; but he had gained so much start of them, and his horse was so good, that he escaped in spite of all their exertions, and got fairly within the lines occupied by his countrymen.

[Contents]CHAPTER LVII.The Scots besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls.The smaller force, under the Douglas, broke up from Jedworth, and set forward in high spirits, cheered by the good countenance and presence of their renowned commander. Their parting shouts were re-echoed from the sides of the surrounding hills, and were replied to with yet louder bursts of acclamation by the large army of which they had been so lately a portion. Their route lay through the wilderness of the forest which at that time covered the country, and they soon lost even the cheers of their departing comrades, that, mellowing by degrees, at last died away among the hollow valleys. On entering Northumberland,[416]the Earl of Douglas allowed little time for pillaging the country, but stretched forward with the utmost expedition, so that he might carry on the war directly into the heart of the Bishoprick of Durham, before his movements could be made known to the Earl of Northumberland, who was at Alnwick, or to his two sons, who were at that moment patiently waiting at Newcastle, with the other English lords, for the return of their spy.The Douglas was by no means one who could endure to make a mere empty show of invasion, for the purpose of creating a diversion that might smooth the way of his politic brother-in-law the Earl of Fife. His force was small indeed, but he resolved that it should do England as much harm as he could effect with it. Passing the River Tyne, therefore, at some distance above Newcastle, he spread his troops over the fair County of Durham, and began taking an awful, nay, a tenfold revenge, for the miseries which the Merse had so lately endured, at the hands of the English, by carrying devastation far and wide.The news that the Scots were abroad at last reached Newcastle and Durham, and their numbers being exaggerated, these towns were filled with great consternation. They now learned the tale, indeed, from the evidence of their senses, for the smoke of the continued conflagration, creeping heavily over the country, and, carrying the smell of combustion along with it, poisoned the very air of both these places. Having reached the gates of Durham, the Douglas found them firmly closed against him; so, after skirmishing there for some days, he pushed on, destroying everything in his way, even to the very gates of York, and leaving no town unburnt that was not sufficiently walled to require a regular siege.Having thus more than made good a chivalric vow with which he had started, that he should see Durham ere he returned, and having already ventured farther into a hostile country than his small force warranted, he returned towards Newcastle, industriously perfecting any destruction that he had before left unfinished; and having re-crossed the Tyne, at the same spot where he had passed it in his way southwards, he set himself down before the town on the side lying towards Scotland. The place was strongly garrisoned, and contained the flower of the chivalry of the counties of York, Durham, and Northumberland; for as soon as it was fully known that the Scots were abroad, and that they had already passed onwards into Yorkshire, a general rising of the country took place, under the influence of Harry Piersie, lately appointed Keeper of the Northumbrian Marches; and orders were even despatched[417]to the governors of Berwick, Norham, and the other fortresses now in rear of the enemy, to join the general muster with what force they could spare without too much weakening their garrisons.Sir Rafe Piersie had long ceased to think of Eleanore de Selby. His passion was like the summer-storm, violent in character, but short in duration. His father, the haughty old Earl of Northumberland, had heard of it, and had signified his unqualified displeasure that his son should have even thought of a marriage with the daughter of a mere soldier; while his elder brother, the lively and peppery Hotspur, had laughed and railed at him till he became tired of the very name of De Selby. Part of this feeling arose from an honourable cause. His conscience told him that he had permitted his violent temper to make him forget what was due to the courtesy of knighthood, and he now so deeply repented him of his conduct at Norham, where he had so grossly insulted his host, that the scene never occurred to his mind without bringing the blush of shame to his cheek. He longed for an opportunity, where, without debasing himself, he might prove these feelings to Sir Walter; and the issuing of the order for the Border Captains to appear at Newcastle being the first that presented itself, he immediately availed himself of it.“Brother,” said he to Hotspur, “as for Sir Matthew Redman of Berwick, he is a stout and able Captain, and in his own person a powerful aid. But what wouldst thou, I pray thee, with bringing the old Captain of Norham so far from home?”“Dost thou fear to meet him, Rafe?” cried Hotspur, with a sarcastic smile; “or wouldst thou rather that I should send for his dark-eyed daughter hither?”“Nay, nay, brother,” replied Sir Rafe; “but methinks he is of years somewhat beyond the battle-field.”“Thou mayest do with him as thou listest, brother Rafe,” replied Hotspur, who was too busy to waste time on such a matter; “but we must have his men.”Armed with Sir Henry Piersie’s authority to do so, Sir Rafe despatched an especial messenger to Sir Walter de Selby, to assure him that it rejoiced him much to be the instrument of procuring his exemption from personal attendance at Newcastle, which to one who had already seen so many fields, must be rather irksome. The messenger found Sir Walter de Selby lately recovered from his bodily malady; for the death of the wizard Ancient and his villainy being now known to him, he[418]again enjoyed comparative peace of mind. But he was much enfeebled by the shocks he had received. He heard the courier to an end; and the moisture in his eye, with the nervous motion in his closed lips, showed how much he was affected by it.“Am I then deemed to be so old and worthless?” said he, after a pause. “The time was when the Marches, neither East nor West, could have turned out a starker pricker; yet was it kind in Sir Rafe Piersie, after what hath passed between us, and tell him, I beseech thee, that I so felt and received his message. But it shall never be said that I am behind when others are in the field; it shall never be said of old Sir Walter de Selby, who hath worn the hauberk and morion from his cradle, that he was afraid to die in knightly harness. No, no; let Tom Turnberry prepare my war steed; I’ll lead mine own spears to Newcastle. To thee, my good Lieutenant Oglethorpe, do I commit the keeping of old Norham. It is King Richard’s now. See that it hath no other master when I or King Richard demand it of thee.”With these words, the brave old warrior gave orders for his men to assemble immediately, and mounting, with the aid of his esquires, he rode from the court-yard at the head of his force, on a mettlesome horse, the fiery paces of which but ill suited with his years; as he went, he joined feebly in the parting cheer with which his brave bowmen and lances took leave of their comrades.It was the daring spirit of chivalry, more than any great hope of taking the town, that induced the gallant Douglas to tarry for two days before Newcastle. The most powerful thirst of heroic adventure then prevailed, and those within the town were as eager to rush beyond their ramparts to meet the assailants, as the Scottish knights were to assault them. Both days, therefore, were occupied in a succession of skirmishes; and it was a remarkable feature of this warfare, that it seemed to be more regulated by the courtesy of the tournament, than guided by the brutal and remorseless rage of battle. No sooner did a body of lances show itself from within the Scottish lines, than another of equal numbers appeared from behind the barriers of the town, prepared to give it a meeting. Spurring from opposite sides, the combatants encountered each other midway, as if they had been in the lists. A desperate shock took place, followed by a melée, in which prodigious feats of arms were done, whilst the English from their walls, and the Scottish troops from their temporary entrenchments, alternately cheered their friends, as one or other side gained the advantage. But,[419]what was most wonderful, everything resembling atrocity appeared to be banished from the field, and mercy and generosity so tempered victory, that it was difficult to say whether the contest was greatest for glory in the skirmish, or for superiority in clemency, and every other noble feeling, after it was over.On the evening of the first day, the Lord Douglas, to give the troops a breathing, ordered the place to be assaulted by means of scaling ladders, with the hopes of perhaps surprising it by a coup-de-main. The Scottish troops rushed to the walls with their usual hardihood, and Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton were found in the very front of the attack made by the Earl of Moray’s division. Although they were provided with fascines and trusses of straw to throw into the ditch, yet the ladders were in general found to be too short for surmounting the walls. At one place, however, they were successfully applied; and the two knights, followed by their esquires and some few others, gallantly mounted in the teeth of the enemy, and fought their way into the town, driving the English before them; but being unsupported, owing to the failure of the escalade in other quarters, they were unwillingly compelled to retreat, which they and their followers did, bravely fighting with their faces to the enemy. Having gained the spot where they had climbed, the two friends planted themselves side by side firmly in front of it, to cover the retreat of those who were with them, and gallantly kept a whole host of foes at bay, until all who had entered the place with them had descended, except their trusty esquires, and two other individuals whom they had not leisure to note. The ladders had all been broken or thrown down in the confusion except one, and the English so pressed upon the little knot of Scotchmen that it appeared impossible for so many of them to escape.“One desperate charge at them, Assueton,” cried Hepborne. “Our safety depends on driving them back for a brief space’s breathing. On them, brave Scots!”The two knights raised a shout, in which they were joined by their fellow-combatants, and with one accord rushed furiously against the dense circle of English. The effect was tremendous. Many were overthrown by the vigorous blows of the knights and their assistants, but more by the press and confusion occasioned by the panic, excited by the belief that they were backed by a fresh assault of troops from without the walls. There was a momentary dispersion of them; but the individuals of the Scottish party were also separated from each other, and as Sir[420]Patrick Hepborne returned to the rallying point, he was grieved to discover his friend Assueton lying wounded and helpless on the ground. He immediately stooped, to endeavour to set him on his legs, but he was unable to support himself.“Leave me, dear Hepborne,” said Assueton faintly; “thine own safety depends on thy doing so.”“Leave thee, Assueton!” cried Hepborne with energy; “nay, by St. Baldrid, if I cannot bear thee hence, I will perish with thee. Clasp thine arms round my neck, my friend,” added he, as he lifted him up from the ground, and began carrying him towards the walls. “Be of good cheer, and tighten thy grasp; thou dost thereby lighten my burden.”As he moved off, the English returned, shouting upon his heels, with Sang sullenly retreating before them.“Succour, succour, my trusty esquire,” cried Hepborne; “I have a life here to preserve dearer to me a thousand times than mine own.”Sang came up to him as he reached the top of the only remaining ladder. To the esquire he hastily confided the care of Assueton, and, turning on the foe, again drove them before him, so as to give Sang leisure to descend with his burden; and then hastily returning to the spot where the ladder was, he discovered that it was broken, and saw Sang in the ditch beneath, endeavouring to extricate himself and the wounded knight from the bundles of straw and fascines among which they had fallen. The enemy were fast gathering behind, and he had no alternative. Selecting a place where the heaps in the ditch were highest, he sprang from the wall, and happily alighted almost uninjured.Whilst he and his squire were busily employed in lifting Sir John Assueton from the ditch, their attention was attracted to the walls above them, where a desperate struggle was going on between two figures distinctly seen against the sky. But it was of short duration.“Uve, uve! an she wonnot let her go, by St. Giles, but she shall go wi’ her,” cried Duncan MacErchar, who was one of them; and griping his enemy fast, he sprang with him over the battlements.Duncan had by no means time to be so select in the choice of the spot where he was to alight as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been. But he took care to leap with his antagonist before him, and his doing so was the saving of his life, his fall being broken by the body of the wretch who participated in it, and who was crushed to death against the very bottom of the ditch, whilst[421]Duncan, though stunned, escaped with some considerable bruises, and immediately regaining his legs, assisted Sir Patrick and his esquire to carry off Sir John Assueton to the Scottish camp.We have already apprised the reader that the brave knights were supported by two other individuals besides their esquires. One of these, it may be guessed, was the brave MacErchar. The other, when the little party was dispersed after their bold onset, unfortunately missed his way in attempting to return to the rallying point, and, being assailed by a crowd of his foes, was compelled to retreat before them, until he was stopped by a wall, under which he took shelter, and prepared himself for a desperate resistance.“Yield thee, Scot,” cried some of the first who came up to him. “On him—Seize him,” cried a dozen of them at once.“By St. Lowry, ’tis right well for ye Southrons to cry yield to ane honest Scotchman. But troth, I’ll tell ye it’s easier to say so to ane o’ my country than to gar him do it, and mair, when ye speak to the henchman o’ the Yearl o’ Moray himsel’,” cried Rory Spears; for it was he, no longer clad, indeed, in his fishing coat and otterskin cap, but armed as became the Earl of Moray’s henchman, and wielding a long pole-axe instead of his gaud-clip.“Take him alive,” cried an officer who was present; “let not his life be taken, as you value your own. If he be of the Earl of Moray’s household, we may be the better for knowing some of his secrets.”“Troth, ye’ll hae ill taking o’ me without taking my life too, my lads,” said Rory, swinging his pole-axe so cleverly around him that no one was disposed to risk approaching him.“In on him and take him, his ransom will be great,” cried the officer; and thus encouraged, one or two of the hardiest did venture to attempt to close on him, but they paid dearly for their daring, being prostrated to right and left like so many nine-pins. The rest were so scared that they scrupled to approach him; and he might have kept them off long enough had not a man who had climbed on the wall behind him suddenly dropped down on his shoulders à califourchon, and brought him headlong to the ground.“Well done, Tom Turnberry,” cried a dozen voices at once, and in an instant Rory was overpowered, and hastily dragged down a stair and thrust into a dark dungeon under the ramparts, where he was left to his own reflections.“Is there ony ither poor deevil like mysel’ here?” demanded[422]Rory aloud, after he had in some measure recovered his breath; but finding that no one answered, he went to talk to himself. “Na—nae answer. A-weel, Maister Spears, thou art here, art thou, amang the foundations o’ Newcastle? This is seeing merry England wi’ a vengeance. Troth, after a’, if this is to be the upshot, thou mightest as weel hae turned back frae Norham yonder. Thou canst be of nae satisfaction to the Yearl whiles thou art liggen here, I trow. And as to ony mair comfort or consolation in the wars, thou mayest e’en bid them good day, for thou’lt hae nae mair o’ them, I’ll promise thee. By my troth, an thou hadst not seen this day’s fighting, thou mightest hae been as well liggen on the rocks at the Ess. A-weel, a-weel—it is most surprising how a man o’ sense wull gae wrang at times. Hadst thou no been a fool, ye might hae let thae wud chields climb the wa’s o’ Newcastle themlanes, that is, takin’ thy time o’ life into consideration. By holy St. Mary, what wull become o’ poor Kate? Hoot, the Leddy o’ Norham wull surely see her sent safe back to Tarnawa; though in conscience I had rather been her guide mysel. I was a fool to leave the damosel. And then, St. Lawrence protect me, how I wull be missed at hame.” The thought of his daughter, of his wife, and of his home, grappled Rory by the heart, so that he did nothing but sigh for some moments. “A-weel,” continued he at length, “I maun say, after a’, that albeit there is a great pleasure in fighting, it is but a fool-thing for God’s rational creatures to be cutting ane anither’s throats as if they war wild cats or wolf-beasts. What for sould I come a’ the gate frae Findhorn-side to cleave the skull o’ some poor honest deevil o’ the Tyne here, against whom, as I hope for mercy mysel, I hae no decent or wiselike cause o’ quarrel? War is a fool-thing; but I wull say there is some pleasure in’t, after a’.”“Ay!” said a long yawning voice from a deep recess in the dungeon.“St. Lowry defend us, wha’s that!” cried Rory.“One Roger Riddel,” replied the voice.“What hast thou been doing, that thou hast been so long silent?” demanded Rory.“Sleeping,” answered Roger.“Thou art esquire to that brave knight Sir John Assueton, if I err not?” said Rory.“Thou art right,” replied Roger.“And how, in the name of St. Andrew, camest thou here?” demanded Rory.“By being taken,” replied Roger.[423]“Thou wert on the ramparts with us to the last,” said Rory.“I was,” replied Roger.“By St. Giles, but it was a noble escalade, comrade, an we had only been well backed,” cried Spears with enthusiasm.“Noble,” cried Roger in the same tone.“Didst thou mark how the knaves fled afore sax o’ us?” cried Rory. “Sax against twa hundred o’ them at least.”“Nay, three hundred, brother,” replied Roger.“Ay, faith, that may be,” said Rory; “I’ll no dispute as to that. There might be three, ay, or four hundred o’ them, for I had no great leisure to count them. But this I ken, neebour, that an it hadna been bigget ground, thou and I souldna hae been here.”“No, that I’ll promise thee,” replied Roger.“Where art thou, comrade? Gi’es thy hand; we fought like brave chields thegither,” cried Rory in great glee, and groping about for Squire Riddel. “Thou art a prince of brave fellows.”“And thou art a very king,” replied Roger, shaking him heartily by the hand.“’Tis a pleasure to meet thee, though it be in this dungeon,” cried Rory. “Would we had but some yill to wet our friendship. St. Lowry grant that we had but a wee sup yill.”“Ay, would indeed we had a drop of ale,” re-echoed Roger with a deep sigh.At this moment steps were heard descending, a light glimmered faintly for a moment through a chink beneath the door, and the key being turned, the round, rosy visage of Master Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry of Norham, appeared within it. He entered, bearing a lamp in his hand, and was followed by an attendant, who carried an enormous pasty, that had been just broken upon, and a huge stoup of ale.“So!” said Master Turnberry; “put thee down these things, and let the gentlemen eat and drink. Having put a man into captivity by mine own hard riding, I do think it but consistent with charity to see that he starveth not. Yea, and albeit I am but a soberish man myself, yet do I know that there be others who love ale; and having mortal bowels of compassion in me, I have pity for the frailties of my fellow-men.”“Sir,” said Rory, lifting the vessel with great readiness from the ground, “an thou hadst been St. Lowry himsel, thou couldst not have ministered to my present wants more cheeringly. I[424]drink to thee from the bottom o’ my soul——Hech!” cried he, after having swallowed half the contents of the vessel, with the nicest measurement, and most scrupulous justice to him who was to come after him; “hech, ’tis most invigorating to the very spinal marrow. It must be allowed that ye do brew most excellent nut-brown to the south o’ the Tweed.”“Excellent, indeed, judging by its good sale,” cried Roger Riddel, looking into the flagon before he put it to his head; then nodding to Master Turnberry, he drained it to the bottom.“By’r lackins, but ye have good go-downs, my masters,” cried Turnberry, taking the flagon, and raising the bottom of it, so as to show that it was empty, and at the same time betraying some disappointment. “Methinks I could ha’e ta’en a drop of ale myself. But there be more where this came from. See that the gentlemen lack for nothing,” said he, turning to the attendant. “And so, good night, my merry masters.”It was about the middle of the ensuing day that Rory Spears was sitting indulging in soliloquy, Roger Riddel having retired to the farther part of the vault, where he had thrown himself down, and buried himself among the straw, to sleep away the time.“I hae sat for days by mysel, as a relay to watch for the deer,” said Rory—“ay, and I hae lien for weeks by my lane, watching the saumonts loupin’, without hearing voice save the water-kelpy roarin’ in the Ess—yet was I never sae tired as I am at this precious moment, sitting in this hole, wi’ a bit chink yonder aboon just enew to let a poor deevil ken that it’s daylight, and that he mought be happy thereout i’ the sun. As for that chield, Roger Riddel there, my ain Oscar would be mair companionable, I wot. He lies rucking and snorting there as composed as if he were in the best hostel in a’ bonny Scotland. As St. Lowry kens, I wad be content to be in its warst, rather than whaur I am. Holy St. Mungo, the chield hath buried himsel like a very mouldiwort; I can see nought but his nose. A-weel, an I could only gie owre thinking o’ Alice, and Kate, and the Yearl o’ Moray, I mought peraunter sleep mysel.”As he was stretching himself along the bench where he had been sitting, with the resolution of trying the experiment, he was disturbed by a coming step. The door opened, and an officer entered in great seeming haste.“Thou art a body attendant of the Earl of Moray, art thou not?” said he, glancing at Spears.[425]“Yea, I am the noble Yearl’s henchman, as I mought say,” replied Rory.“Doubtless thou knowest well the person of the Lord Douglas?” said the officer.“Ay, weel do I that,” replied Rory; “and mair, he hath a great good-wull to me, for mony is the time we hae hunted thegither. Is he not my master the Yearl’s brother-in-law?”“Follow me then without loss of time,” said the officer; “Sir Henry Piersie would have conference with thee.”Rory said no more, but joyfully obeyed; and the officer, too much occupied with his errand to investigate things closely, and having no suspicion that the place contained two prisoners, tripped up the stair that led from the dungeon, leaving the door open behind him.Master Roger Riddel was not asleep; he had only dosed, to save himself the trouble of forming replies to the incessant talk which Rory had carried on; on peeping out from his straw after the officer and his fellow-prisoner had left him, and seeing the door of the dungeon wide open, he slowly raised himself up, walked out of the place, and ascended the short winding stair, from the top of which he quietly emerged into the pure air. With the utmost composure, he then struck into one of the lanes that led from the walls, and walked coolly down a street, through crowds of anxious individuals, all of whom were too busily occupied with anticipations of glory or defeat, to notice a man in the attire of a squire, of whom there were many. Following a crowd that was pressing forwards, he reached the gate. There was a muster at the barriers.“Where are thy weapons, Sir Squire?” demanded a spearman as he passed by.“Lend me thy lance, good fellow,” said Roger; “I am in haste—here be money to get thee another.”The man gave him the spear, took the money, and thanked him; and Roger went on. At the gate stood three horses held by a single groom. Roger went boldly up to him.“Thou waitest thy master, friend?” said he in a tone of inquiry.“Yea; and what be that to thee?” replied the fellow surlily.“Because I have got an angel for thee, and I would know if thou be’st the right man,” replied Riddel.“Give it me straight, then, good master,” said the man, eagerly.“Nay, that will I not, neither straight nor crooked,” replied[426]Riddel; “that is, not till I know thy master’s name from thee, that I may know whether in very deed thou be’st the man I do look for.”“’Tis Sir Robert Ogill that be my master,” replied the man.“Then art thou the very good fellow I would speak with,” said Roger. “Give me that roan as fast as may be, and this angel here is the token thy master Sir Robert sent thee. I ride on business of his to the barrier.”Without more ado, and without interruption from the groom, he leaped into the saddle, and riding by the guards at a careless pace, got beyond the barriers, and put his horse to speed for the Scottish camp. A shout was raised among a party of spearmen who were forming without, and some dozen or two of them spurred after him; but he had gained so much start of them, and his horse was so good, that he escaped in spite of all their exertions, and got fairly within the lines occupied by his countrymen.

CHAPTER LVII.The Scots besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls.

The Scots besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls.

The Scots besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls.

The smaller force, under the Douglas, broke up from Jedworth, and set forward in high spirits, cheered by the good countenance and presence of their renowned commander. Their parting shouts were re-echoed from the sides of the surrounding hills, and were replied to with yet louder bursts of acclamation by the large army of which they had been so lately a portion. Their route lay through the wilderness of the forest which at that time covered the country, and they soon lost even the cheers of their departing comrades, that, mellowing by degrees, at last died away among the hollow valleys. On entering Northumberland,[416]the Earl of Douglas allowed little time for pillaging the country, but stretched forward with the utmost expedition, so that he might carry on the war directly into the heart of the Bishoprick of Durham, before his movements could be made known to the Earl of Northumberland, who was at Alnwick, or to his two sons, who were at that moment patiently waiting at Newcastle, with the other English lords, for the return of their spy.The Douglas was by no means one who could endure to make a mere empty show of invasion, for the purpose of creating a diversion that might smooth the way of his politic brother-in-law the Earl of Fife. His force was small indeed, but he resolved that it should do England as much harm as he could effect with it. Passing the River Tyne, therefore, at some distance above Newcastle, he spread his troops over the fair County of Durham, and began taking an awful, nay, a tenfold revenge, for the miseries which the Merse had so lately endured, at the hands of the English, by carrying devastation far and wide.The news that the Scots were abroad at last reached Newcastle and Durham, and their numbers being exaggerated, these towns were filled with great consternation. They now learned the tale, indeed, from the evidence of their senses, for the smoke of the continued conflagration, creeping heavily over the country, and, carrying the smell of combustion along with it, poisoned the very air of both these places. Having reached the gates of Durham, the Douglas found them firmly closed against him; so, after skirmishing there for some days, he pushed on, destroying everything in his way, even to the very gates of York, and leaving no town unburnt that was not sufficiently walled to require a regular siege.Having thus more than made good a chivalric vow with which he had started, that he should see Durham ere he returned, and having already ventured farther into a hostile country than his small force warranted, he returned towards Newcastle, industriously perfecting any destruction that he had before left unfinished; and having re-crossed the Tyne, at the same spot where he had passed it in his way southwards, he set himself down before the town on the side lying towards Scotland. The place was strongly garrisoned, and contained the flower of the chivalry of the counties of York, Durham, and Northumberland; for as soon as it was fully known that the Scots were abroad, and that they had already passed onwards into Yorkshire, a general rising of the country took place, under the influence of Harry Piersie, lately appointed Keeper of the Northumbrian Marches; and orders were even despatched[417]to the governors of Berwick, Norham, and the other fortresses now in rear of the enemy, to join the general muster with what force they could spare without too much weakening their garrisons.Sir Rafe Piersie had long ceased to think of Eleanore de Selby. His passion was like the summer-storm, violent in character, but short in duration. His father, the haughty old Earl of Northumberland, had heard of it, and had signified his unqualified displeasure that his son should have even thought of a marriage with the daughter of a mere soldier; while his elder brother, the lively and peppery Hotspur, had laughed and railed at him till he became tired of the very name of De Selby. Part of this feeling arose from an honourable cause. His conscience told him that he had permitted his violent temper to make him forget what was due to the courtesy of knighthood, and he now so deeply repented him of his conduct at Norham, where he had so grossly insulted his host, that the scene never occurred to his mind without bringing the blush of shame to his cheek. He longed for an opportunity, where, without debasing himself, he might prove these feelings to Sir Walter; and the issuing of the order for the Border Captains to appear at Newcastle being the first that presented itself, he immediately availed himself of it.“Brother,” said he to Hotspur, “as for Sir Matthew Redman of Berwick, he is a stout and able Captain, and in his own person a powerful aid. But what wouldst thou, I pray thee, with bringing the old Captain of Norham so far from home?”“Dost thou fear to meet him, Rafe?” cried Hotspur, with a sarcastic smile; “or wouldst thou rather that I should send for his dark-eyed daughter hither?”“Nay, nay, brother,” replied Sir Rafe; “but methinks he is of years somewhat beyond the battle-field.”“Thou mayest do with him as thou listest, brother Rafe,” replied Hotspur, who was too busy to waste time on such a matter; “but we must have his men.”Armed with Sir Henry Piersie’s authority to do so, Sir Rafe despatched an especial messenger to Sir Walter de Selby, to assure him that it rejoiced him much to be the instrument of procuring his exemption from personal attendance at Newcastle, which to one who had already seen so many fields, must be rather irksome. The messenger found Sir Walter de Selby lately recovered from his bodily malady; for the death of the wizard Ancient and his villainy being now known to him, he[418]again enjoyed comparative peace of mind. But he was much enfeebled by the shocks he had received. He heard the courier to an end; and the moisture in his eye, with the nervous motion in his closed lips, showed how much he was affected by it.“Am I then deemed to be so old and worthless?” said he, after a pause. “The time was when the Marches, neither East nor West, could have turned out a starker pricker; yet was it kind in Sir Rafe Piersie, after what hath passed between us, and tell him, I beseech thee, that I so felt and received his message. But it shall never be said that I am behind when others are in the field; it shall never be said of old Sir Walter de Selby, who hath worn the hauberk and morion from his cradle, that he was afraid to die in knightly harness. No, no; let Tom Turnberry prepare my war steed; I’ll lead mine own spears to Newcastle. To thee, my good Lieutenant Oglethorpe, do I commit the keeping of old Norham. It is King Richard’s now. See that it hath no other master when I or King Richard demand it of thee.”With these words, the brave old warrior gave orders for his men to assemble immediately, and mounting, with the aid of his esquires, he rode from the court-yard at the head of his force, on a mettlesome horse, the fiery paces of which but ill suited with his years; as he went, he joined feebly in the parting cheer with which his brave bowmen and lances took leave of their comrades.It was the daring spirit of chivalry, more than any great hope of taking the town, that induced the gallant Douglas to tarry for two days before Newcastle. The most powerful thirst of heroic adventure then prevailed, and those within the town were as eager to rush beyond their ramparts to meet the assailants, as the Scottish knights were to assault them. Both days, therefore, were occupied in a succession of skirmishes; and it was a remarkable feature of this warfare, that it seemed to be more regulated by the courtesy of the tournament, than guided by the brutal and remorseless rage of battle. No sooner did a body of lances show itself from within the Scottish lines, than another of equal numbers appeared from behind the barriers of the town, prepared to give it a meeting. Spurring from opposite sides, the combatants encountered each other midway, as if they had been in the lists. A desperate shock took place, followed by a melée, in which prodigious feats of arms were done, whilst the English from their walls, and the Scottish troops from their temporary entrenchments, alternately cheered their friends, as one or other side gained the advantage. But,[419]what was most wonderful, everything resembling atrocity appeared to be banished from the field, and mercy and generosity so tempered victory, that it was difficult to say whether the contest was greatest for glory in the skirmish, or for superiority in clemency, and every other noble feeling, after it was over.On the evening of the first day, the Lord Douglas, to give the troops a breathing, ordered the place to be assaulted by means of scaling ladders, with the hopes of perhaps surprising it by a coup-de-main. The Scottish troops rushed to the walls with their usual hardihood, and Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton were found in the very front of the attack made by the Earl of Moray’s division. Although they were provided with fascines and trusses of straw to throw into the ditch, yet the ladders were in general found to be too short for surmounting the walls. At one place, however, they were successfully applied; and the two knights, followed by their esquires and some few others, gallantly mounted in the teeth of the enemy, and fought their way into the town, driving the English before them; but being unsupported, owing to the failure of the escalade in other quarters, they were unwillingly compelled to retreat, which they and their followers did, bravely fighting with their faces to the enemy. Having gained the spot where they had climbed, the two friends planted themselves side by side firmly in front of it, to cover the retreat of those who were with them, and gallantly kept a whole host of foes at bay, until all who had entered the place with them had descended, except their trusty esquires, and two other individuals whom they had not leisure to note. The ladders had all been broken or thrown down in the confusion except one, and the English so pressed upon the little knot of Scotchmen that it appeared impossible for so many of them to escape.“One desperate charge at them, Assueton,” cried Hepborne. “Our safety depends on driving them back for a brief space’s breathing. On them, brave Scots!”The two knights raised a shout, in which they were joined by their fellow-combatants, and with one accord rushed furiously against the dense circle of English. The effect was tremendous. Many were overthrown by the vigorous blows of the knights and their assistants, but more by the press and confusion occasioned by the panic, excited by the belief that they were backed by a fresh assault of troops from without the walls. There was a momentary dispersion of them; but the individuals of the Scottish party were also separated from each other, and as Sir[420]Patrick Hepborne returned to the rallying point, he was grieved to discover his friend Assueton lying wounded and helpless on the ground. He immediately stooped, to endeavour to set him on his legs, but he was unable to support himself.“Leave me, dear Hepborne,” said Assueton faintly; “thine own safety depends on thy doing so.”“Leave thee, Assueton!” cried Hepborne with energy; “nay, by St. Baldrid, if I cannot bear thee hence, I will perish with thee. Clasp thine arms round my neck, my friend,” added he, as he lifted him up from the ground, and began carrying him towards the walls. “Be of good cheer, and tighten thy grasp; thou dost thereby lighten my burden.”As he moved off, the English returned, shouting upon his heels, with Sang sullenly retreating before them.“Succour, succour, my trusty esquire,” cried Hepborne; “I have a life here to preserve dearer to me a thousand times than mine own.”Sang came up to him as he reached the top of the only remaining ladder. To the esquire he hastily confided the care of Assueton, and, turning on the foe, again drove them before him, so as to give Sang leisure to descend with his burden; and then hastily returning to the spot where the ladder was, he discovered that it was broken, and saw Sang in the ditch beneath, endeavouring to extricate himself and the wounded knight from the bundles of straw and fascines among which they had fallen. The enemy were fast gathering behind, and he had no alternative. Selecting a place where the heaps in the ditch were highest, he sprang from the wall, and happily alighted almost uninjured.Whilst he and his squire were busily employed in lifting Sir John Assueton from the ditch, their attention was attracted to the walls above them, where a desperate struggle was going on between two figures distinctly seen against the sky. But it was of short duration.“Uve, uve! an she wonnot let her go, by St. Giles, but she shall go wi’ her,” cried Duncan MacErchar, who was one of them; and griping his enemy fast, he sprang with him over the battlements.Duncan had by no means time to be so select in the choice of the spot where he was to alight as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been. But he took care to leap with his antagonist before him, and his doing so was the saving of his life, his fall being broken by the body of the wretch who participated in it, and who was crushed to death against the very bottom of the ditch, whilst[421]Duncan, though stunned, escaped with some considerable bruises, and immediately regaining his legs, assisted Sir Patrick and his esquire to carry off Sir John Assueton to the Scottish camp.We have already apprised the reader that the brave knights were supported by two other individuals besides their esquires. One of these, it may be guessed, was the brave MacErchar. The other, when the little party was dispersed after their bold onset, unfortunately missed his way in attempting to return to the rallying point, and, being assailed by a crowd of his foes, was compelled to retreat before them, until he was stopped by a wall, under which he took shelter, and prepared himself for a desperate resistance.“Yield thee, Scot,” cried some of the first who came up to him. “On him—Seize him,” cried a dozen of them at once.“By St. Lowry, ’tis right well for ye Southrons to cry yield to ane honest Scotchman. But troth, I’ll tell ye it’s easier to say so to ane o’ my country than to gar him do it, and mair, when ye speak to the henchman o’ the Yearl o’ Moray himsel’,” cried Rory Spears; for it was he, no longer clad, indeed, in his fishing coat and otterskin cap, but armed as became the Earl of Moray’s henchman, and wielding a long pole-axe instead of his gaud-clip.“Take him alive,” cried an officer who was present; “let not his life be taken, as you value your own. If he be of the Earl of Moray’s household, we may be the better for knowing some of his secrets.”“Troth, ye’ll hae ill taking o’ me without taking my life too, my lads,” said Rory, swinging his pole-axe so cleverly around him that no one was disposed to risk approaching him.“In on him and take him, his ransom will be great,” cried the officer; and thus encouraged, one or two of the hardiest did venture to attempt to close on him, but they paid dearly for their daring, being prostrated to right and left like so many nine-pins. The rest were so scared that they scrupled to approach him; and he might have kept them off long enough had not a man who had climbed on the wall behind him suddenly dropped down on his shoulders à califourchon, and brought him headlong to the ground.“Well done, Tom Turnberry,” cried a dozen voices at once, and in an instant Rory was overpowered, and hastily dragged down a stair and thrust into a dark dungeon under the ramparts, where he was left to his own reflections.“Is there ony ither poor deevil like mysel’ here?” demanded[422]Rory aloud, after he had in some measure recovered his breath; but finding that no one answered, he went to talk to himself. “Na—nae answer. A-weel, Maister Spears, thou art here, art thou, amang the foundations o’ Newcastle? This is seeing merry England wi’ a vengeance. Troth, after a’, if this is to be the upshot, thou mightest as weel hae turned back frae Norham yonder. Thou canst be of nae satisfaction to the Yearl whiles thou art liggen here, I trow. And as to ony mair comfort or consolation in the wars, thou mayest e’en bid them good day, for thou’lt hae nae mair o’ them, I’ll promise thee. By my troth, an thou hadst not seen this day’s fighting, thou mightest hae been as well liggen on the rocks at the Ess. A-weel, a-weel—it is most surprising how a man o’ sense wull gae wrang at times. Hadst thou no been a fool, ye might hae let thae wud chields climb the wa’s o’ Newcastle themlanes, that is, takin’ thy time o’ life into consideration. By holy St. Mary, what wull become o’ poor Kate? Hoot, the Leddy o’ Norham wull surely see her sent safe back to Tarnawa; though in conscience I had rather been her guide mysel. I was a fool to leave the damosel. And then, St. Lawrence protect me, how I wull be missed at hame.” The thought of his daughter, of his wife, and of his home, grappled Rory by the heart, so that he did nothing but sigh for some moments. “A-weel,” continued he at length, “I maun say, after a’, that albeit there is a great pleasure in fighting, it is but a fool-thing for God’s rational creatures to be cutting ane anither’s throats as if they war wild cats or wolf-beasts. What for sould I come a’ the gate frae Findhorn-side to cleave the skull o’ some poor honest deevil o’ the Tyne here, against whom, as I hope for mercy mysel, I hae no decent or wiselike cause o’ quarrel? War is a fool-thing; but I wull say there is some pleasure in’t, after a’.”“Ay!” said a long yawning voice from a deep recess in the dungeon.“St. Lowry defend us, wha’s that!” cried Rory.“One Roger Riddel,” replied the voice.“What hast thou been doing, that thou hast been so long silent?” demanded Rory.“Sleeping,” answered Roger.“Thou art esquire to that brave knight Sir John Assueton, if I err not?” said Rory.“Thou art right,” replied Roger.“And how, in the name of St. Andrew, camest thou here?” demanded Rory.“By being taken,” replied Roger.[423]“Thou wert on the ramparts with us to the last,” said Rory.“I was,” replied Roger.“By St. Giles, but it was a noble escalade, comrade, an we had only been well backed,” cried Spears with enthusiasm.“Noble,” cried Roger in the same tone.“Didst thou mark how the knaves fled afore sax o’ us?” cried Rory. “Sax against twa hundred o’ them at least.”“Nay, three hundred, brother,” replied Roger.“Ay, faith, that may be,” said Rory; “I’ll no dispute as to that. There might be three, ay, or four hundred o’ them, for I had no great leisure to count them. But this I ken, neebour, that an it hadna been bigget ground, thou and I souldna hae been here.”“No, that I’ll promise thee,” replied Roger.“Where art thou, comrade? Gi’es thy hand; we fought like brave chields thegither,” cried Rory in great glee, and groping about for Squire Riddel. “Thou art a prince of brave fellows.”“And thou art a very king,” replied Roger, shaking him heartily by the hand.“’Tis a pleasure to meet thee, though it be in this dungeon,” cried Rory. “Would we had but some yill to wet our friendship. St. Lowry grant that we had but a wee sup yill.”“Ay, would indeed we had a drop of ale,” re-echoed Roger with a deep sigh.At this moment steps were heard descending, a light glimmered faintly for a moment through a chink beneath the door, and the key being turned, the round, rosy visage of Master Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry of Norham, appeared within it. He entered, bearing a lamp in his hand, and was followed by an attendant, who carried an enormous pasty, that had been just broken upon, and a huge stoup of ale.“So!” said Master Turnberry; “put thee down these things, and let the gentlemen eat and drink. Having put a man into captivity by mine own hard riding, I do think it but consistent with charity to see that he starveth not. Yea, and albeit I am but a soberish man myself, yet do I know that there be others who love ale; and having mortal bowels of compassion in me, I have pity for the frailties of my fellow-men.”“Sir,” said Rory, lifting the vessel with great readiness from the ground, “an thou hadst been St. Lowry himsel, thou couldst not have ministered to my present wants more cheeringly. I[424]drink to thee from the bottom o’ my soul——Hech!” cried he, after having swallowed half the contents of the vessel, with the nicest measurement, and most scrupulous justice to him who was to come after him; “hech, ’tis most invigorating to the very spinal marrow. It must be allowed that ye do brew most excellent nut-brown to the south o’ the Tweed.”“Excellent, indeed, judging by its good sale,” cried Roger Riddel, looking into the flagon before he put it to his head; then nodding to Master Turnberry, he drained it to the bottom.“By’r lackins, but ye have good go-downs, my masters,” cried Turnberry, taking the flagon, and raising the bottom of it, so as to show that it was empty, and at the same time betraying some disappointment. “Methinks I could ha’e ta’en a drop of ale myself. But there be more where this came from. See that the gentlemen lack for nothing,” said he, turning to the attendant. “And so, good night, my merry masters.”It was about the middle of the ensuing day that Rory Spears was sitting indulging in soliloquy, Roger Riddel having retired to the farther part of the vault, where he had thrown himself down, and buried himself among the straw, to sleep away the time.“I hae sat for days by mysel, as a relay to watch for the deer,” said Rory—“ay, and I hae lien for weeks by my lane, watching the saumonts loupin’, without hearing voice save the water-kelpy roarin’ in the Ess—yet was I never sae tired as I am at this precious moment, sitting in this hole, wi’ a bit chink yonder aboon just enew to let a poor deevil ken that it’s daylight, and that he mought be happy thereout i’ the sun. As for that chield, Roger Riddel there, my ain Oscar would be mair companionable, I wot. He lies rucking and snorting there as composed as if he were in the best hostel in a’ bonny Scotland. As St. Lowry kens, I wad be content to be in its warst, rather than whaur I am. Holy St. Mungo, the chield hath buried himsel like a very mouldiwort; I can see nought but his nose. A-weel, an I could only gie owre thinking o’ Alice, and Kate, and the Yearl o’ Moray, I mought peraunter sleep mysel.”As he was stretching himself along the bench where he had been sitting, with the resolution of trying the experiment, he was disturbed by a coming step. The door opened, and an officer entered in great seeming haste.“Thou art a body attendant of the Earl of Moray, art thou not?” said he, glancing at Spears.[425]“Yea, I am the noble Yearl’s henchman, as I mought say,” replied Rory.“Doubtless thou knowest well the person of the Lord Douglas?” said the officer.“Ay, weel do I that,” replied Rory; “and mair, he hath a great good-wull to me, for mony is the time we hae hunted thegither. Is he not my master the Yearl’s brother-in-law?”“Follow me then without loss of time,” said the officer; “Sir Henry Piersie would have conference with thee.”Rory said no more, but joyfully obeyed; and the officer, too much occupied with his errand to investigate things closely, and having no suspicion that the place contained two prisoners, tripped up the stair that led from the dungeon, leaving the door open behind him.Master Roger Riddel was not asleep; he had only dosed, to save himself the trouble of forming replies to the incessant talk which Rory had carried on; on peeping out from his straw after the officer and his fellow-prisoner had left him, and seeing the door of the dungeon wide open, he slowly raised himself up, walked out of the place, and ascended the short winding stair, from the top of which he quietly emerged into the pure air. With the utmost composure, he then struck into one of the lanes that led from the walls, and walked coolly down a street, through crowds of anxious individuals, all of whom were too busily occupied with anticipations of glory or defeat, to notice a man in the attire of a squire, of whom there were many. Following a crowd that was pressing forwards, he reached the gate. There was a muster at the barriers.“Where are thy weapons, Sir Squire?” demanded a spearman as he passed by.“Lend me thy lance, good fellow,” said Roger; “I am in haste—here be money to get thee another.”The man gave him the spear, took the money, and thanked him; and Roger went on. At the gate stood three horses held by a single groom. Roger went boldly up to him.“Thou waitest thy master, friend?” said he in a tone of inquiry.“Yea; and what be that to thee?” replied the fellow surlily.“Because I have got an angel for thee, and I would know if thou be’st the right man,” replied Riddel.“Give it me straight, then, good master,” said the man, eagerly.“Nay, that will I not, neither straight nor crooked,” replied[426]Riddel; “that is, not till I know thy master’s name from thee, that I may know whether in very deed thou be’st the man I do look for.”“’Tis Sir Robert Ogill that be my master,” replied the man.“Then art thou the very good fellow I would speak with,” said Roger. “Give me that roan as fast as may be, and this angel here is the token thy master Sir Robert sent thee. I ride on business of his to the barrier.”Without more ado, and without interruption from the groom, he leaped into the saddle, and riding by the guards at a careless pace, got beyond the barriers, and put his horse to speed for the Scottish camp. A shout was raised among a party of spearmen who were forming without, and some dozen or two of them spurred after him; but he had gained so much start of them, and his horse was so good, that he escaped in spite of all their exertions, and got fairly within the lines occupied by his countrymen.

The smaller force, under the Douglas, broke up from Jedworth, and set forward in high spirits, cheered by the good countenance and presence of their renowned commander. Their parting shouts were re-echoed from the sides of the surrounding hills, and were replied to with yet louder bursts of acclamation by the large army of which they had been so lately a portion. Their route lay through the wilderness of the forest which at that time covered the country, and they soon lost even the cheers of their departing comrades, that, mellowing by degrees, at last died away among the hollow valleys. On entering Northumberland,[416]the Earl of Douglas allowed little time for pillaging the country, but stretched forward with the utmost expedition, so that he might carry on the war directly into the heart of the Bishoprick of Durham, before his movements could be made known to the Earl of Northumberland, who was at Alnwick, or to his two sons, who were at that moment patiently waiting at Newcastle, with the other English lords, for the return of their spy.

The Douglas was by no means one who could endure to make a mere empty show of invasion, for the purpose of creating a diversion that might smooth the way of his politic brother-in-law the Earl of Fife. His force was small indeed, but he resolved that it should do England as much harm as he could effect with it. Passing the River Tyne, therefore, at some distance above Newcastle, he spread his troops over the fair County of Durham, and began taking an awful, nay, a tenfold revenge, for the miseries which the Merse had so lately endured, at the hands of the English, by carrying devastation far and wide.

The news that the Scots were abroad at last reached Newcastle and Durham, and their numbers being exaggerated, these towns were filled with great consternation. They now learned the tale, indeed, from the evidence of their senses, for the smoke of the continued conflagration, creeping heavily over the country, and, carrying the smell of combustion along with it, poisoned the very air of both these places. Having reached the gates of Durham, the Douglas found them firmly closed against him; so, after skirmishing there for some days, he pushed on, destroying everything in his way, even to the very gates of York, and leaving no town unburnt that was not sufficiently walled to require a regular siege.

Having thus more than made good a chivalric vow with which he had started, that he should see Durham ere he returned, and having already ventured farther into a hostile country than his small force warranted, he returned towards Newcastle, industriously perfecting any destruction that he had before left unfinished; and having re-crossed the Tyne, at the same spot where he had passed it in his way southwards, he set himself down before the town on the side lying towards Scotland. The place was strongly garrisoned, and contained the flower of the chivalry of the counties of York, Durham, and Northumberland; for as soon as it was fully known that the Scots were abroad, and that they had already passed onwards into Yorkshire, a general rising of the country took place, under the influence of Harry Piersie, lately appointed Keeper of the Northumbrian Marches; and orders were even despatched[417]to the governors of Berwick, Norham, and the other fortresses now in rear of the enemy, to join the general muster with what force they could spare without too much weakening their garrisons.

Sir Rafe Piersie had long ceased to think of Eleanore de Selby. His passion was like the summer-storm, violent in character, but short in duration. His father, the haughty old Earl of Northumberland, had heard of it, and had signified his unqualified displeasure that his son should have even thought of a marriage with the daughter of a mere soldier; while his elder brother, the lively and peppery Hotspur, had laughed and railed at him till he became tired of the very name of De Selby. Part of this feeling arose from an honourable cause. His conscience told him that he had permitted his violent temper to make him forget what was due to the courtesy of knighthood, and he now so deeply repented him of his conduct at Norham, where he had so grossly insulted his host, that the scene never occurred to his mind without bringing the blush of shame to his cheek. He longed for an opportunity, where, without debasing himself, he might prove these feelings to Sir Walter; and the issuing of the order for the Border Captains to appear at Newcastle being the first that presented itself, he immediately availed himself of it.

“Brother,” said he to Hotspur, “as for Sir Matthew Redman of Berwick, he is a stout and able Captain, and in his own person a powerful aid. But what wouldst thou, I pray thee, with bringing the old Captain of Norham so far from home?”

“Dost thou fear to meet him, Rafe?” cried Hotspur, with a sarcastic smile; “or wouldst thou rather that I should send for his dark-eyed daughter hither?”

“Nay, nay, brother,” replied Sir Rafe; “but methinks he is of years somewhat beyond the battle-field.”

“Thou mayest do with him as thou listest, brother Rafe,” replied Hotspur, who was too busy to waste time on such a matter; “but we must have his men.”

Armed with Sir Henry Piersie’s authority to do so, Sir Rafe despatched an especial messenger to Sir Walter de Selby, to assure him that it rejoiced him much to be the instrument of procuring his exemption from personal attendance at Newcastle, which to one who had already seen so many fields, must be rather irksome. The messenger found Sir Walter de Selby lately recovered from his bodily malady; for the death of the wizard Ancient and his villainy being now known to him, he[418]again enjoyed comparative peace of mind. But he was much enfeebled by the shocks he had received. He heard the courier to an end; and the moisture in his eye, with the nervous motion in his closed lips, showed how much he was affected by it.

“Am I then deemed to be so old and worthless?” said he, after a pause. “The time was when the Marches, neither East nor West, could have turned out a starker pricker; yet was it kind in Sir Rafe Piersie, after what hath passed between us, and tell him, I beseech thee, that I so felt and received his message. But it shall never be said that I am behind when others are in the field; it shall never be said of old Sir Walter de Selby, who hath worn the hauberk and morion from his cradle, that he was afraid to die in knightly harness. No, no; let Tom Turnberry prepare my war steed; I’ll lead mine own spears to Newcastle. To thee, my good Lieutenant Oglethorpe, do I commit the keeping of old Norham. It is King Richard’s now. See that it hath no other master when I or King Richard demand it of thee.”

With these words, the brave old warrior gave orders for his men to assemble immediately, and mounting, with the aid of his esquires, he rode from the court-yard at the head of his force, on a mettlesome horse, the fiery paces of which but ill suited with his years; as he went, he joined feebly in the parting cheer with which his brave bowmen and lances took leave of their comrades.

It was the daring spirit of chivalry, more than any great hope of taking the town, that induced the gallant Douglas to tarry for two days before Newcastle. The most powerful thirst of heroic adventure then prevailed, and those within the town were as eager to rush beyond their ramparts to meet the assailants, as the Scottish knights were to assault them. Both days, therefore, were occupied in a succession of skirmishes; and it was a remarkable feature of this warfare, that it seemed to be more regulated by the courtesy of the tournament, than guided by the brutal and remorseless rage of battle. No sooner did a body of lances show itself from within the Scottish lines, than another of equal numbers appeared from behind the barriers of the town, prepared to give it a meeting. Spurring from opposite sides, the combatants encountered each other midway, as if they had been in the lists. A desperate shock took place, followed by a melée, in which prodigious feats of arms were done, whilst the English from their walls, and the Scottish troops from their temporary entrenchments, alternately cheered their friends, as one or other side gained the advantage. But,[419]what was most wonderful, everything resembling atrocity appeared to be banished from the field, and mercy and generosity so tempered victory, that it was difficult to say whether the contest was greatest for glory in the skirmish, or for superiority in clemency, and every other noble feeling, after it was over.

On the evening of the first day, the Lord Douglas, to give the troops a breathing, ordered the place to be assaulted by means of scaling ladders, with the hopes of perhaps surprising it by a coup-de-main. The Scottish troops rushed to the walls with their usual hardihood, and Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton were found in the very front of the attack made by the Earl of Moray’s division. Although they were provided with fascines and trusses of straw to throw into the ditch, yet the ladders were in general found to be too short for surmounting the walls. At one place, however, they were successfully applied; and the two knights, followed by their esquires and some few others, gallantly mounted in the teeth of the enemy, and fought their way into the town, driving the English before them; but being unsupported, owing to the failure of the escalade in other quarters, they were unwillingly compelled to retreat, which they and their followers did, bravely fighting with their faces to the enemy. Having gained the spot where they had climbed, the two friends planted themselves side by side firmly in front of it, to cover the retreat of those who were with them, and gallantly kept a whole host of foes at bay, until all who had entered the place with them had descended, except their trusty esquires, and two other individuals whom they had not leisure to note. The ladders had all been broken or thrown down in the confusion except one, and the English so pressed upon the little knot of Scotchmen that it appeared impossible for so many of them to escape.

“One desperate charge at them, Assueton,” cried Hepborne. “Our safety depends on driving them back for a brief space’s breathing. On them, brave Scots!”

The two knights raised a shout, in which they were joined by their fellow-combatants, and with one accord rushed furiously against the dense circle of English. The effect was tremendous. Many were overthrown by the vigorous blows of the knights and their assistants, but more by the press and confusion occasioned by the panic, excited by the belief that they were backed by a fresh assault of troops from without the walls. There was a momentary dispersion of them; but the individuals of the Scottish party were also separated from each other, and as Sir[420]Patrick Hepborne returned to the rallying point, he was grieved to discover his friend Assueton lying wounded and helpless on the ground. He immediately stooped, to endeavour to set him on his legs, but he was unable to support himself.

“Leave me, dear Hepborne,” said Assueton faintly; “thine own safety depends on thy doing so.”

“Leave thee, Assueton!” cried Hepborne with energy; “nay, by St. Baldrid, if I cannot bear thee hence, I will perish with thee. Clasp thine arms round my neck, my friend,” added he, as he lifted him up from the ground, and began carrying him towards the walls. “Be of good cheer, and tighten thy grasp; thou dost thereby lighten my burden.”

As he moved off, the English returned, shouting upon his heels, with Sang sullenly retreating before them.

“Succour, succour, my trusty esquire,” cried Hepborne; “I have a life here to preserve dearer to me a thousand times than mine own.”

Sang came up to him as he reached the top of the only remaining ladder. To the esquire he hastily confided the care of Assueton, and, turning on the foe, again drove them before him, so as to give Sang leisure to descend with his burden; and then hastily returning to the spot where the ladder was, he discovered that it was broken, and saw Sang in the ditch beneath, endeavouring to extricate himself and the wounded knight from the bundles of straw and fascines among which they had fallen. The enemy were fast gathering behind, and he had no alternative. Selecting a place where the heaps in the ditch were highest, he sprang from the wall, and happily alighted almost uninjured.

Whilst he and his squire were busily employed in lifting Sir John Assueton from the ditch, their attention was attracted to the walls above them, where a desperate struggle was going on between two figures distinctly seen against the sky. But it was of short duration.

“Uve, uve! an she wonnot let her go, by St. Giles, but she shall go wi’ her,” cried Duncan MacErchar, who was one of them; and griping his enemy fast, he sprang with him over the battlements.

Duncan had by no means time to be so select in the choice of the spot where he was to alight as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been. But he took care to leap with his antagonist before him, and his doing so was the saving of his life, his fall being broken by the body of the wretch who participated in it, and who was crushed to death against the very bottom of the ditch, whilst[421]Duncan, though stunned, escaped with some considerable bruises, and immediately regaining his legs, assisted Sir Patrick and his esquire to carry off Sir John Assueton to the Scottish camp.

We have already apprised the reader that the brave knights were supported by two other individuals besides their esquires. One of these, it may be guessed, was the brave MacErchar. The other, when the little party was dispersed after their bold onset, unfortunately missed his way in attempting to return to the rallying point, and, being assailed by a crowd of his foes, was compelled to retreat before them, until he was stopped by a wall, under which he took shelter, and prepared himself for a desperate resistance.

“Yield thee, Scot,” cried some of the first who came up to him. “On him—Seize him,” cried a dozen of them at once.

“By St. Lowry, ’tis right well for ye Southrons to cry yield to ane honest Scotchman. But troth, I’ll tell ye it’s easier to say so to ane o’ my country than to gar him do it, and mair, when ye speak to the henchman o’ the Yearl o’ Moray himsel’,” cried Rory Spears; for it was he, no longer clad, indeed, in his fishing coat and otterskin cap, but armed as became the Earl of Moray’s henchman, and wielding a long pole-axe instead of his gaud-clip.

“Take him alive,” cried an officer who was present; “let not his life be taken, as you value your own. If he be of the Earl of Moray’s household, we may be the better for knowing some of his secrets.”

“Troth, ye’ll hae ill taking o’ me without taking my life too, my lads,” said Rory, swinging his pole-axe so cleverly around him that no one was disposed to risk approaching him.

“In on him and take him, his ransom will be great,” cried the officer; and thus encouraged, one or two of the hardiest did venture to attempt to close on him, but they paid dearly for their daring, being prostrated to right and left like so many nine-pins. The rest were so scared that they scrupled to approach him; and he might have kept them off long enough had not a man who had climbed on the wall behind him suddenly dropped down on his shoulders à califourchon, and brought him headlong to the ground.

“Well done, Tom Turnberry,” cried a dozen voices at once, and in an instant Rory was overpowered, and hastily dragged down a stair and thrust into a dark dungeon under the ramparts, where he was left to his own reflections.

“Is there ony ither poor deevil like mysel’ here?” demanded[422]Rory aloud, after he had in some measure recovered his breath; but finding that no one answered, he went to talk to himself. “Na—nae answer. A-weel, Maister Spears, thou art here, art thou, amang the foundations o’ Newcastle? This is seeing merry England wi’ a vengeance. Troth, after a’, if this is to be the upshot, thou mightest as weel hae turned back frae Norham yonder. Thou canst be of nae satisfaction to the Yearl whiles thou art liggen here, I trow. And as to ony mair comfort or consolation in the wars, thou mayest e’en bid them good day, for thou’lt hae nae mair o’ them, I’ll promise thee. By my troth, an thou hadst not seen this day’s fighting, thou mightest hae been as well liggen on the rocks at the Ess. A-weel, a-weel—it is most surprising how a man o’ sense wull gae wrang at times. Hadst thou no been a fool, ye might hae let thae wud chields climb the wa’s o’ Newcastle themlanes, that is, takin’ thy time o’ life into consideration. By holy St. Mary, what wull become o’ poor Kate? Hoot, the Leddy o’ Norham wull surely see her sent safe back to Tarnawa; though in conscience I had rather been her guide mysel. I was a fool to leave the damosel. And then, St. Lawrence protect me, how I wull be missed at hame.” The thought of his daughter, of his wife, and of his home, grappled Rory by the heart, so that he did nothing but sigh for some moments. “A-weel,” continued he at length, “I maun say, after a’, that albeit there is a great pleasure in fighting, it is but a fool-thing for God’s rational creatures to be cutting ane anither’s throats as if they war wild cats or wolf-beasts. What for sould I come a’ the gate frae Findhorn-side to cleave the skull o’ some poor honest deevil o’ the Tyne here, against whom, as I hope for mercy mysel, I hae no decent or wiselike cause o’ quarrel? War is a fool-thing; but I wull say there is some pleasure in’t, after a’.”

“Ay!” said a long yawning voice from a deep recess in the dungeon.

“St. Lowry defend us, wha’s that!” cried Rory.

“One Roger Riddel,” replied the voice.

“What hast thou been doing, that thou hast been so long silent?” demanded Rory.

“Sleeping,” answered Roger.

“Thou art esquire to that brave knight Sir John Assueton, if I err not?” said Rory.

“Thou art right,” replied Roger.

“And how, in the name of St. Andrew, camest thou here?” demanded Rory.

“By being taken,” replied Roger.[423]

“Thou wert on the ramparts with us to the last,” said Rory.

“I was,” replied Roger.

“By St. Giles, but it was a noble escalade, comrade, an we had only been well backed,” cried Spears with enthusiasm.

“Noble,” cried Roger in the same tone.

“Didst thou mark how the knaves fled afore sax o’ us?” cried Rory. “Sax against twa hundred o’ them at least.”

“Nay, three hundred, brother,” replied Roger.

“Ay, faith, that may be,” said Rory; “I’ll no dispute as to that. There might be three, ay, or four hundred o’ them, for I had no great leisure to count them. But this I ken, neebour, that an it hadna been bigget ground, thou and I souldna hae been here.”

“No, that I’ll promise thee,” replied Roger.

“Where art thou, comrade? Gi’es thy hand; we fought like brave chields thegither,” cried Rory in great glee, and groping about for Squire Riddel. “Thou art a prince of brave fellows.”

“And thou art a very king,” replied Roger, shaking him heartily by the hand.

“’Tis a pleasure to meet thee, though it be in this dungeon,” cried Rory. “Would we had but some yill to wet our friendship. St. Lowry grant that we had but a wee sup yill.”

“Ay, would indeed we had a drop of ale,” re-echoed Roger with a deep sigh.

At this moment steps were heard descending, a light glimmered faintly for a moment through a chink beneath the door, and the key being turned, the round, rosy visage of Master Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry of Norham, appeared within it. He entered, bearing a lamp in his hand, and was followed by an attendant, who carried an enormous pasty, that had been just broken upon, and a huge stoup of ale.

“So!” said Master Turnberry; “put thee down these things, and let the gentlemen eat and drink. Having put a man into captivity by mine own hard riding, I do think it but consistent with charity to see that he starveth not. Yea, and albeit I am but a soberish man myself, yet do I know that there be others who love ale; and having mortal bowels of compassion in me, I have pity for the frailties of my fellow-men.”

“Sir,” said Rory, lifting the vessel with great readiness from the ground, “an thou hadst been St. Lowry himsel, thou couldst not have ministered to my present wants more cheeringly. I[424]drink to thee from the bottom o’ my soul——Hech!” cried he, after having swallowed half the contents of the vessel, with the nicest measurement, and most scrupulous justice to him who was to come after him; “hech, ’tis most invigorating to the very spinal marrow. It must be allowed that ye do brew most excellent nut-brown to the south o’ the Tweed.”

“Excellent, indeed, judging by its good sale,” cried Roger Riddel, looking into the flagon before he put it to his head; then nodding to Master Turnberry, he drained it to the bottom.

“By’r lackins, but ye have good go-downs, my masters,” cried Turnberry, taking the flagon, and raising the bottom of it, so as to show that it was empty, and at the same time betraying some disappointment. “Methinks I could ha’e ta’en a drop of ale myself. But there be more where this came from. See that the gentlemen lack for nothing,” said he, turning to the attendant. “And so, good night, my merry masters.”

It was about the middle of the ensuing day that Rory Spears was sitting indulging in soliloquy, Roger Riddel having retired to the farther part of the vault, where he had thrown himself down, and buried himself among the straw, to sleep away the time.

“I hae sat for days by mysel, as a relay to watch for the deer,” said Rory—“ay, and I hae lien for weeks by my lane, watching the saumonts loupin’, without hearing voice save the water-kelpy roarin’ in the Ess—yet was I never sae tired as I am at this precious moment, sitting in this hole, wi’ a bit chink yonder aboon just enew to let a poor deevil ken that it’s daylight, and that he mought be happy thereout i’ the sun. As for that chield, Roger Riddel there, my ain Oscar would be mair companionable, I wot. He lies rucking and snorting there as composed as if he were in the best hostel in a’ bonny Scotland. As St. Lowry kens, I wad be content to be in its warst, rather than whaur I am. Holy St. Mungo, the chield hath buried himsel like a very mouldiwort; I can see nought but his nose. A-weel, an I could only gie owre thinking o’ Alice, and Kate, and the Yearl o’ Moray, I mought peraunter sleep mysel.”

As he was stretching himself along the bench where he had been sitting, with the resolution of trying the experiment, he was disturbed by a coming step. The door opened, and an officer entered in great seeming haste.

“Thou art a body attendant of the Earl of Moray, art thou not?” said he, glancing at Spears.[425]

“Yea, I am the noble Yearl’s henchman, as I mought say,” replied Rory.

“Doubtless thou knowest well the person of the Lord Douglas?” said the officer.

“Ay, weel do I that,” replied Rory; “and mair, he hath a great good-wull to me, for mony is the time we hae hunted thegither. Is he not my master the Yearl’s brother-in-law?”

“Follow me then without loss of time,” said the officer; “Sir Henry Piersie would have conference with thee.”

Rory said no more, but joyfully obeyed; and the officer, too much occupied with his errand to investigate things closely, and having no suspicion that the place contained two prisoners, tripped up the stair that led from the dungeon, leaving the door open behind him.

Master Roger Riddel was not asleep; he had only dosed, to save himself the trouble of forming replies to the incessant talk which Rory had carried on; on peeping out from his straw after the officer and his fellow-prisoner had left him, and seeing the door of the dungeon wide open, he slowly raised himself up, walked out of the place, and ascended the short winding stair, from the top of which he quietly emerged into the pure air. With the utmost composure, he then struck into one of the lanes that led from the walls, and walked coolly down a street, through crowds of anxious individuals, all of whom were too busily occupied with anticipations of glory or defeat, to notice a man in the attire of a squire, of whom there were many. Following a crowd that was pressing forwards, he reached the gate. There was a muster at the barriers.

“Where are thy weapons, Sir Squire?” demanded a spearman as he passed by.

“Lend me thy lance, good fellow,” said Roger; “I am in haste—here be money to get thee another.”

The man gave him the spear, took the money, and thanked him; and Roger went on. At the gate stood three horses held by a single groom. Roger went boldly up to him.

“Thou waitest thy master, friend?” said he in a tone of inquiry.

“Yea; and what be that to thee?” replied the fellow surlily.

“Because I have got an angel for thee, and I would know if thou be’st the right man,” replied Riddel.

“Give it me straight, then, good master,” said the man, eagerly.

“Nay, that will I not, neither straight nor crooked,” replied[426]Riddel; “that is, not till I know thy master’s name from thee, that I may know whether in very deed thou be’st the man I do look for.”

“’Tis Sir Robert Ogill that be my master,” replied the man.

“Then art thou the very good fellow I would speak with,” said Roger. “Give me that roan as fast as may be, and this angel here is the token thy master Sir Robert sent thee. I ride on business of his to the barrier.”

Without more ado, and without interruption from the groom, he leaped into the saddle, and riding by the guards at a careless pace, got beyond the barriers, and put his horse to speed for the Scottish camp. A shout was raised among a party of spearmen who were forming without, and some dozen or two of them spurred after him; but he had gained so much start of them, and his horse was so good, that he escaped in spite of all their exertions, and got fairly within the lines occupied by his countrymen.

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