[Contents]CHAPTER LXVIII.The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise.The wretched Wolfe of Badenoch was slowly raised by those who were about him; and he submitted, as if altogether unconscious of what they were doing. His features were immoveable, and his eyes vacant, until they rested on his two sons, Walter and James, who lay wounded in the arms of his servants.“Where is my son Andrew?” cried he, suddenly recovering the use of speech.The attendants muttered to one another, but no one answered him.“Speak, ye knaves,” cried he, grinding his teeth, and at the same time springing on them, and seizing one of them in each hand by the throat; “villains, I will choke ye both with my grasp if ye answer me not.”“My noble Lord,” cried the men, terrified by his rage and his threats, “we saw him enter the burning building with thee, but none of us saw him issue thence.”“Villains, villains, tell me not so!” cried the Wolfe, shaking the two men from him, and sending them reeling away with such force that both were prostrated on the earth. “What, hath he too perished?—And it was I who did myself compel him thither!” and, saying so, he struck his breast, and moved about rapidly through the court, giving vent to a frenzy of self accusation.“Ha!” cried he, halting suddenly, as he heard the clang of horses’ heels approaching; “who comes there?—Alexander—my son—thou art all that is left to me now;” and springing[548]forward, he clasped the knees of Sir Alexander Stewart, who at that moment appeared, followed by the whole of his force.“Why tarriest thou here, father?” demanded his son; “depardieux, but I have sought thee around all the glorious fires we have kindled. Little did I think to find thee here in this by-corner, looking on so paltry a glede as this, when the towers of the Cathedral do shoot out flames that pierce the heavens, and proclaim thy red vengeance on the Bishop of Moray, yea, even to his brother-mitred priest of Ross, even across the broad friths that do sunder them.—Come with me, I pray, and ride triumphant through the flaming streets, that our shouts may ring terribly in the craven corbie’s ears, and reach him even where he doth hide him in his Palace of Spynie.—But what aileth thee, father, that thou seemest so unmanned.”“Alexander,” cried the afflicted father, embracing his son, who stooped over him, “thy brethren have perished; Walter and James are there dying from their bruises, and Andrew and Duncan—my beloved boy Duncan—have perished in these flames.”“How, what! how hath this happened?” cried Sir Alexander, leaping from his horse and running to question the attendants who supported his two wounded brothers. From them he gathered a brief account of the events that had occurred, and for some moments gave way to the sorrow that afflicted his father.“But why grieve we here, my Lord?” cried he suddenly; “of a truth, whatever woe hath befallen us, hath but come by reason of that ill-starred enemy of our house, Bishop Barr, who has driven us to the desperation out of which all these evils have arisen. He and his accursed flock of ill-omened crows have flown to the refuge of his Palace of Spynie. Rouse, my noble father, and let us gallop thither and seek a sweet revenge by pulling the choughs from their nests.”“Right, son Alexander,” cried the Wolfe, his native temper being so far roused for the moment by this speech that he shook off the torpor that had come upon him, and sprang into his saddle; “by this beard, but thou dost say right. ’Tis indeed that accursed Priest-Bishop who hath embittered the whole stream of my life, and hath now been the cause of hurling all this misery upon me. Alas, my poor boys!—But, by the blood of the Bruce, they shall be avenged.—I shall take thy counsel, my son—My son, said I?—Alas, Alexander, thou wilt soon, I fear, be mine only son.—Dost hear, Sir Squire?” said he, turning fiercely to one of his attendants, “See that thou dost take[549]care of my wounded boys. Take people enow with thee, and see that they be promptly and tenderly carried on men’s shoulders to Lochyndorbe—Dost thou mark me?—Thy head shall pay the forfeit of thy neglect of the smallest tittle of thy duty.”“Ay,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, “our business, I trow, will soon be sped, and we shall overtake them before they shall have gone many miles of the way.”“Come, then, Alexander, let’s to Spynie,” cried the Wolfe; and then turning again to the esquire—“But take care of my boys, and see that they be gently borne.”“On, brave spears,” cried Sir Alexander; “ye shall have work peraunter to do anon.”Out dashed the Wolfe of Badenoch, gnashing his teeth, as if to wind himself up to desperation, yet rather led than followed by Sir Alexander Stewart, and away rattled about two hundred well-armed and well-mounted men-at-arms at their backs, leaving behind them a sufficient force to escort the wounded youths homeward in safety. There were but few among the troops that would not have willingly stayed behind. They liked not this ungodly warfare, and although they witnessed the execution of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s fell fury on the holy edifices, done by a few of the less scrupulous ministers of his vengeance, they felt conscience-stricken at the sight, and this feeling had not been diminished by the denunciations of the Franciscan, the direful fate of the boy Duncan Stewart, and of his brother Sir Andrew, and that which had befallen the youths Walter and James, of whose recovery there seemed to be but little hope.The Palace of Spynie offered them but a wretched defence against any assailant who might choose to attack it, for it was not till the following century that it was so strengthened as to enable Bishop David Stuart1to defy the proud Earl of Huntly. The buildings, indeed, were surrounded by a wall; but, trusting to that awe which the sacred dignity of the possessor was calculated to inspire, the wooden gate was left unprotected by any portcullis of iron. It therefore promised to be easily assailable by the sledge-hammers which had been found so useful in furthering the work of destruction they had already accomplished.The Wolfe of Badenoch, hurried on by his son, swept over[550]the gentle eminence lying between the town and the palace, and as the distance was but a mile, his excitement had had hardly time to expend itself ere he found himself approaching the walls. The lurid red vault of the sky reflected a dim light, which might have been sufficient to enable them to discover the building before them. But, independently of this, the summit of the outer walls was lined by a number of torches, which began to flit about hastily, as soon as the thundering sound of the horses’ feet reached those who carried them.“The place doth seem to be already alarmed,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, as they advanced, his resolute soul shaken by his recent calamities. “These lights are not wont to appear on the grass-grown walls of these mass-ensconced priests. Thou shalt halt here, son Alexander, and let me advance alone to reconnoitre. I cannot, I wis, afford to peril the life of thee, whom my fears do tell me I may now call mine only son.”“Peril my life?” cried Sir Alexander indignantly; “what, talkest thou of peril, when we have but these carrion crows to deal with? I trow there be garrison enow of them, sith that all their rookeries, grey, black, and hooded, have doubtless gathered there to-night. By my knighthood, but it doth almost shame me to attack them with harness on my back, or men-at-arms at my heels. And see, the lights have disappeared. Never trust me, but those who did flourish them have fled into the deepest cellar of the place, at the very tramp of our war-steeds.”“Nay, but, son Alexander,” repeated the Wolfe, “I do command thee to halt; thou shalt not advance until I shall have first——Where hath he vanished?” cried the Wolfe, losing sight of him for a moment in the dark. “Ha! there he speeds him to the gate,” and, leaping from his saddle, he launched himself after his son. Sir Alexander had snatched a sledge-hammer from some one near him, and was already raising it to strike the first blow at the gate, when his right arm fell shattered and nerveless by his side, and he was crushed to the earth by some unseen power. The Wolfe of Badenoch reached his son but to raise him up in his arms. At that moment a broad blaze arose on the top of the wall, immediately over the gateway, in front of which the Wolfe of Badenoch stood appalled by the apparition it illumined, and he grew deadly pale when he beheld the figure of the Franciscan, of that very friar whom he believed nothing but superhuman power could have saved from the flames of the Maison Dieu, again presented before his eyes. The attitude of the monk was fearfully[551]commanding. He reared a large crucifix in his left hand, whilst the other was stretched out before him. The light by which he was encircled shot around him to a great distance, showing the walls thickly manned with crossbow-men prepared to shoot upon the assailants, and exhibiting these assailants themselves with their faces turned to what they believed to be a miraculous vision, which filled them with a terror that no merely human array could have awakened.“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried the Franciscan, in his wonted clear but solemn voice, “have I not told thee that the Omnipotent hath resigned thee and thine into my grasp for penance or for punishment? Go, take thy wounded son with thee, sith that thou hast sought this fresh affliction. His life and the lives of those who are now borne to thy den hang on thy repentance.”A hissing sound was heard—a dense vapour arose—and all was again dark as before. Some of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s terrified attendants ventured to approach the gate to assist him. They carried Sir Alexander away; and the ferocious Earl, again subdued from the high wrath to which his son’s sudden excitation had for a moment raised his native temper, relapsed into that apathetical stupor from which he had been roused. He seemed to know not what he was doing, or where he was; but, mechanically mounting his horse, he retired from the walls of Spynie, and took his way slowly homewards. As the distant conflagration flashed from time to time on his face, he started and looked towards it with wild expression—and then elevated his eye towards his son, who was carried on a bier formed of crossed lances, by some men on foot; but excepting when he was so moved, his features were like those of the stone effigy which now lies stretched upon his tomb.The Bishop and the dignitaries of the Cathedral who composed his Chapter, had assembled in fear and trembling in the Chapel of the Palace, where they offered up prayers for deliverance from their scourge; and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his formidable party were no sooner ascertained to have permanently withdrawn, than they issued forth, bearing some of the most holy of their images, with the most precious relics of saints, which had been hastily snatched from their shrines on the first alarm of the enemy’s approach, and began to move in melancholy procession towards Elgin, guarded by the armed vassals of the Church, who had been summoned to man the Palace walls. As they rose over the hill, they beheld the flames still raging in all their fury. The sun was by this time rising over[552]the horizon, but his rays added little to the artificial day that already possessed the scene. The smiling morning, indeed, served to show the extent of the devastation which the flames had already occasioned; but the cheerful matin song of the birds accorded ill with the wailings that burst from those who beheld this dismal spectacle. The pride of the Bishop, if the good man ever had any, was indeed effectually humbled. As he rode on his palfrey at the head of the sad procession, the reins held by two attendants, one of whom walked on each side of him, he wept when he came within view of the town; and, ordering them to halt, he crossed his hands meekly over his breast, and looked up in silent ejaculation to Heaven.“O speculum patriæ et decus regni,” cried he, turning his eyes again towards the Cathedral, whilst the tears rolled over his cheeks. “Oh, glory and honour of Scotland—thou holy fane, which we, poor wretched mortals, did fondly believe to be a habitation worthy of the omnipotent and mysterious Trinity, to whom thou wast dedicated—behold thee, for the sins of us the guilty servants of a just God, behold thee yielded up a prey to the destroyer! Oh, holy Father, and do thou, blessed Virgin Mother, cause our prayers to find acceptance at the Almighty throne, through the merits of thy beloved Son—may we, thy sinful creatures, be humbled before this thine avenging arm; and may the fasts, penances, and mortifications we shall impose be the means of bringing us down, both body and soul, unto the dust, that thy just wrath against us may be assuaged; for surely some great sin hath beset us, seeing it hath pleased thee to destroy thine own holy temple, that our evil condition might be made manifest to us.”Those who formed the procession bent reverently to the ground as the venerable prelate uttered these words.“And now, my sons,” said he with a sigh, “let us hasten onwards, and do what we can to preserve what may yet have escaped from the general destruction.”The first care of the good Bishop was to collect the scattered townsmen, who had already begun to cluster in the streets; and every exertion was immediately used to put a stop to the conflagration. The Franciscan was there, but his attention was occupied with something very different from that which so painfully interested every one else. The Lady Beatrice—was she safe? At the risk of his life he had clambered over the blazing roof of the Maison Dieu to seek her in her chamber. She was gone from thence. He had searched anxiously through all the upper apartments of the building, and yet he had seen[553]no trace of her. Full of alarm, he had been compelled to rest on the hope that she might have escaped with others from the flames; and, with an unspeakable anxiety to have that hope confirmed, he went about inquiring impatiently of every one he met, whether any damsel, answering to the description of the Lady Beatrice, had been seen; but of all those to whom he addressed himself, there was no one who could say that she was known to have escaped.“Miserable wretch that I am,” said he, “have her sins then been punished by so terrible a death—sins for the which I myself must be called to dread account both here and hereafter—I who deprived her of the blessing of a virtuous mother’s counsel, and of a father’s powerful protection? Holy St. Francis forgive me, the thought is agony.”He sat him down on a stone in the court of the Maison Dieu, and he was soon joined by sister Marion, the lame housekeeper of the Hospital, who came to mourn over its smouldering ruins.“Oh, dear heart and alas!” cried the withered matron—“the blessed St. Mary defend, protect, and be good unto us—and there is a dole sight to be sure. Under that very roof hae I been housed and sheltered, come the feast of Our Lady, full forty——nay, I should hae said fourteen years and upwards, and now I am to be turned out amidst the snares and temptations of this wicked world, to be the sport and the pastime of the profligate and ungodly. What will become of us, to whose lot beauty hath fallen as a snare, and fair countenance as an aid to the Evil One? Where, alas! shall we hide our heads that we fall not in the way of sinners? Where——”“Tell me, sister!” cried the Franciscan, impatiently interrupting her—“tell me, didst thou see the Lady Beatrice, whom I escorted hither yesterday?”“Yea, in good verity, did I that, brother,” replied Marion.“Where?—where and when?” cried the anxious Franciscan.“Nay, be not in such a flurry, brother,” replied she. “I did first see her in the refectory when thou didst bring her there, and a pretty damsel she be, I trow.”“Nay, but didst thou see her after the fire?” demanded the Franciscan.“In very deed, nay, brother,” replied the literal sister, Marion.“Wretch that I am,” cried the Franciscan, in an agony of suspense, “hath then no one seen her escape?”“St. Katherine help us, an thou dost talk of her escape,[554]indeed, thou comest to the right hand in me,” replied she, “sith that it was I myself who did show her how to escape; but that was neither before nor after the fire, I promise thee, but in the very height of the brenning, when the flames were bursting here, and crackling there—and the rafters——”“Nay, tell me, I entreat thee, sister,” cried the Franciscan, interrupting her, though greatly relieved—“tell me how and where she did save herself?”“But I do tell thee thou art wrong, brother,” cried the peevish old woman, “for it was in no such ways, seeing, as I said before, it was I myself that did save her.But thou art so flustrificacious; an thou wouldst but let me tell mine own tale——”“Go on then, I pray thee, sister Marion,” cried the monk, curbing his ire, and patiently resuming his seat upon the stone; “take thine own way.”“In good troth, my way is the right way,” replied sister Marion. “Well, as I was a-saying, I was sound asleep in my bed, in the back turret at the end of the passage, when cometh the Lady Beatrice to my room, and did shake, shake at me; and up did I start, for luckily for me I had taken an opiate, tincture, or balsam, the which the good cellarer doth give me ofttimes for the shooting toothache pain (but, alas! I doubt it be all burnt now), and so I had somehow lain down in my clothes; and then came the cries of the people, and the smoke and flame—and so I did bethink me straightway of the nun’s private stair to the Chapel, the which did lead down from my very door. This I did enter, and bid the Lady Beatrice follow me. But I being rather lame, and the stair being fit only for one at a time, she did sorely hurry and hasten me; and methought we should never hae gotten down to the Chapel. A-weel, as we were crossing the Chapel to make our way out at the door that doth lead into the garden, who should I see coming down the steps of the main-stair that doth lead from yonder passage on the ground floor into the Chapel, but Sir Andrew Stewart, the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself. Trust me, I stayed not long. But if the Lady Beatrice did complain of my delay in the way down thither, I trow she had reason in sooth to think me liard enow in leaving it. I was gone in a trice ere she did miss me; for of a truth I had no fancy to fall into such hands, since who doth know what——”“And the Lady Beatrice?” interrupted the Franciscan.“Nay, I must confess I did see him lay his hands on her,”[555]answered Marion; “and I did see him behind me as I did flee through the garden. But——”“Then all is well,” interrupted the Franciscan, turning away from the fatiguing old woman, and finishing the rest of his speech in grateful soliloquy. “It doth rejoice me much that she hath fallen into the hands of Sir Andrew Stewart; for albeit the Wolfe of Badenoch hath wrought so much evil, verily I have myself seen that he is no enemy to the Lady Beatrice. And then, Sir Andrew Stewart hath the reputation of being the best of his family—one who is a mirror of virtue and of peaceful gentleness; a perfect lamb of patience in that ferocious litter of wild beasts. Even our holy Bishop hath him in favourable estimation. He could not choose but take especial care of her. Praised be the Virgin, I may now go about the Bishop’s affairs withouten care, being sure that I shall hear good tidings of her anon.”All that day and night, and all the following day, had passed away—the flames had been partly extinguished by active exertion, and had partly expired from lack of further food, and much had doubtless been done by the influence of images and relics. Measures also had been taken to preserve the quiet and peace of the town, as well as to ensure the immediate accommodation and support of such of its inhabitants as had suffered in the general calamity. Penitential prayers had been offered up, and hymns chanted in the conventual churches and chapels which had not suffered. A general penance and solemn fast had been ordered, after all which the Bishop sent for the Franciscan, and held a long conference with him on the subject of the affairs of the Church, which we shall leave them to discuss together, that we may now follow the humbled Wolfe of Badenoch to Lochyndorbe.1Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date posterior to that alluded to in the text.↑
[Contents]CHAPTER LXVIII.The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise.The wretched Wolfe of Badenoch was slowly raised by those who were about him; and he submitted, as if altogether unconscious of what they were doing. His features were immoveable, and his eyes vacant, until they rested on his two sons, Walter and James, who lay wounded in the arms of his servants.“Where is my son Andrew?” cried he, suddenly recovering the use of speech.The attendants muttered to one another, but no one answered him.“Speak, ye knaves,” cried he, grinding his teeth, and at the same time springing on them, and seizing one of them in each hand by the throat; “villains, I will choke ye both with my grasp if ye answer me not.”“My noble Lord,” cried the men, terrified by his rage and his threats, “we saw him enter the burning building with thee, but none of us saw him issue thence.”“Villains, villains, tell me not so!” cried the Wolfe, shaking the two men from him, and sending them reeling away with such force that both were prostrated on the earth. “What, hath he too perished?—And it was I who did myself compel him thither!” and, saying so, he struck his breast, and moved about rapidly through the court, giving vent to a frenzy of self accusation.“Ha!” cried he, halting suddenly, as he heard the clang of horses’ heels approaching; “who comes there?—Alexander—my son—thou art all that is left to me now;” and springing[548]forward, he clasped the knees of Sir Alexander Stewart, who at that moment appeared, followed by the whole of his force.“Why tarriest thou here, father?” demanded his son; “depardieux, but I have sought thee around all the glorious fires we have kindled. Little did I think to find thee here in this by-corner, looking on so paltry a glede as this, when the towers of the Cathedral do shoot out flames that pierce the heavens, and proclaim thy red vengeance on the Bishop of Moray, yea, even to his brother-mitred priest of Ross, even across the broad friths that do sunder them.—Come with me, I pray, and ride triumphant through the flaming streets, that our shouts may ring terribly in the craven corbie’s ears, and reach him even where he doth hide him in his Palace of Spynie.—But what aileth thee, father, that thou seemest so unmanned.”“Alexander,” cried the afflicted father, embracing his son, who stooped over him, “thy brethren have perished; Walter and James are there dying from their bruises, and Andrew and Duncan—my beloved boy Duncan—have perished in these flames.”“How, what! how hath this happened?” cried Sir Alexander, leaping from his horse and running to question the attendants who supported his two wounded brothers. From them he gathered a brief account of the events that had occurred, and for some moments gave way to the sorrow that afflicted his father.“But why grieve we here, my Lord?” cried he suddenly; “of a truth, whatever woe hath befallen us, hath but come by reason of that ill-starred enemy of our house, Bishop Barr, who has driven us to the desperation out of which all these evils have arisen. He and his accursed flock of ill-omened crows have flown to the refuge of his Palace of Spynie. Rouse, my noble father, and let us gallop thither and seek a sweet revenge by pulling the choughs from their nests.”“Right, son Alexander,” cried the Wolfe, his native temper being so far roused for the moment by this speech that he shook off the torpor that had come upon him, and sprang into his saddle; “by this beard, but thou dost say right. ’Tis indeed that accursed Priest-Bishop who hath embittered the whole stream of my life, and hath now been the cause of hurling all this misery upon me. Alas, my poor boys!—But, by the blood of the Bruce, they shall be avenged.—I shall take thy counsel, my son—My son, said I?—Alas, Alexander, thou wilt soon, I fear, be mine only son.—Dost hear, Sir Squire?” said he, turning fiercely to one of his attendants, “See that thou dost take[549]care of my wounded boys. Take people enow with thee, and see that they be promptly and tenderly carried on men’s shoulders to Lochyndorbe—Dost thou mark me?—Thy head shall pay the forfeit of thy neglect of the smallest tittle of thy duty.”“Ay,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, “our business, I trow, will soon be sped, and we shall overtake them before they shall have gone many miles of the way.”“Come, then, Alexander, let’s to Spynie,” cried the Wolfe; and then turning again to the esquire—“But take care of my boys, and see that they be gently borne.”“On, brave spears,” cried Sir Alexander; “ye shall have work peraunter to do anon.”Out dashed the Wolfe of Badenoch, gnashing his teeth, as if to wind himself up to desperation, yet rather led than followed by Sir Alexander Stewart, and away rattled about two hundred well-armed and well-mounted men-at-arms at their backs, leaving behind them a sufficient force to escort the wounded youths homeward in safety. There were but few among the troops that would not have willingly stayed behind. They liked not this ungodly warfare, and although they witnessed the execution of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s fell fury on the holy edifices, done by a few of the less scrupulous ministers of his vengeance, they felt conscience-stricken at the sight, and this feeling had not been diminished by the denunciations of the Franciscan, the direful fate of the boy Duncan Stewart, and of his brother Sir Andrew, and that which had befallen the youths Walter and James, of whose recovery there seemed to be but little hope.The Palace of Spynie offered them but a wretched defence against any assailant who might choose to attack it, for it was not till the following century that it was so strengthened as to enable Bishop David Stuart1to defy the proud Earl of Huntly. The buildings, indeed, were surrounded by a wall; but, trusting to that awe which the sacred dignity of the possessor was calculated to inspire, the wooden gate was left unprotected by any portcullis of iron. It therefore promised to be easily assailable by the sledge-hammers which had been found so useful in furthering the work of destruction they had already accomplished.The Wolfe of Badenoch, hurried on by his son, swept over[550]the gentle eminence lying between the town and the palace, and as the distance was but a mile, his excitement had had hardly time to expend itself ere he found himself approaching the walls. The lurid red vault of the sky reflected a dim light, which might have been sufficient to enable them to discover the building before them. But, independently of this, the summit of the outer walls was lined by a number of torches, which began to flit about hastily, as soon as the thundering sound of the horses’ feet reached those who carried them.“The place doth seem to be already alarmed,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, as they advanced, his resolute soul shaken by his recent calamities. “These lights are not wont to appear on the grass-grown walls of these mass-ensconced priests. Thou shalt halt here, son Alexander, and let me advance alone to reconnoitre. I cannot, I wis, afford to peril the life of thee, whom my fears do tell me I may now call mine only son.”“Peril my life?” cried Sir Alexander indignantly; “what, talkest thou of peril, when we have but these carrion crows to deal with? I trow there be garrison enow of them, sith that all their rookeries, grey, black, and hooded, have doubtless gathered there to-night. By my knighthood, but it doth almost shame me to attack them with harness on my back, or men-at-arms at my heels. And see, the lights have disappeared. Never trust me, but those who did flourish them have fled into the deepest cellar of the place, at the very tramp of our war-steeds.”“Nay, but, son Alexander,” repeated the Wolfe, “I do command thee to halt; thou shalt not advance until I shall have first——Where hath he vanished?” cried the Wolfe, losing sight of him for a moment in the dark. “Ha! there he speeds him to the gate,” and, leaping from his saddle, he launched himself after his son. Sir Alexander had snatched a sledge-hammer from some one near him, and was already raising it to strike the first blow at the gate, when his right arm fell shattered and nerveless by his side, and he was crushed to the earth by some unseen power. The Wolfe of Badenoch reached his son but to raise him up in his arms. At that moment a broad blaze arose on the top of the wall, immediately over the gateway, in front of which the Wolfe of Badenoch stood appalled by the apparition it illumined, and he grew deadly pale when he beheld the figure of the Franciscan, of that very friar whom he believed nothing but superhuman power could have saved from the flames of the Maison Dieu, again presented before his eyes. The attitude of the monk was fearfully[551]commanding. He reared a large crucifix in his left hand, whilst the other was stretched out before him. The light by which he was encircled shot around him to a great distance, showing the walls thickly manned with crossbow-men prepared to shoot upon the assailants, and exhibiting these assailants themselves with their faces turned to what they believed to be a miraculous vision, which filled them with a terror that no merely human array could have awakened.“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried the Franciscan, in his wonted clear but solemn voice, “have I not told thee that the Omnipotent hath resigned thee and thine into my grasp for penance or for punishment? Go, take thy wounded son with thee, sith that thou hast sought this fresh affliction. His life and the lives of those who are now borne to thy den hang on thy repentance.”A hissing sound was heard—a dense vapour arose—and all was again dark as before. Some of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s terrified attendants ventured to approach the gate to assist him. They carried Sir Alexander away; and the ferocious Earl, again subdued from the high wrath to which his son’s sudden excitation had for a moment raised his native temper, relapsed into that apathetical stupor from which he had been roused. He seemed to know not what he was doing, or where he was; but, mechanically mounting his horse, he retired from the walls of Spynie, and took his way slowly homewards. As the distant conflagration flashed from time to time on his face, he started and looked towards it with wild expression—and then elevated his eye towards his son, who was carried on a bier formed of crossed lances, by some men on foot; but excepting when he was so moved, his features were like those of the stone effigy which now lies stretched upon his tomb.The Bishop and the dignitaries of the Cathedral who composed his Chapter, had assembled in fear and trembling in the Chapel of the Palace, where they offered up prayers for deliverance from their scourge; and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his formidable party were no sooner ascertained to have permanently withdrawn, than they issued forth, bearing some of the most holy of their images, with the most precious relics of saints, which had been hastily snatched from their shrines on the first alarm of the enemy’s approach, and began to move in melancholy procession towards Elgin, guarded by the armed vassals of the Church, who had been summoned to man the Palace walls. As they rose over the hill, they beheld the flames still raging in all their fury. The sun was by this time rising over[552]the horizon, but his rays added little to the artificial day that already possessed the scene. The smiling morning, indeed, served to show the extent of the devastation which the flames had already occasioned; but the cheerful matin song of the birds accorded ill with the wailings that burst from those who beheld this dismal spectacle. The pride of the Bishop, if the good man ever had any, was indeed effectually humbled. As he rode on his palfrey at the head of the sad procession, the reins held by two attendants, one of whom walked on each side of him, he wept when he came within view of the town; and, ordering them to halt, he crossed his hands meekly over his breast, and looked up in silent ejaculation to Heaven.“O speculum patriæ et decus regni,” cried he, turning his eyes again towards the Cathedral, whilst the tears rolled over his cheeks. “Oh, glory and honour of Scotland—thou holy fane, which we, poor wretched mortals, did fondly believe to be a habitation worthy of the omnipotent and mysterious Trinity, to whom thou wast dedicated—behold thee, for the sins of us the guilty servants of a just God, behold thee yielded up a prey to the destroyer! Oh, holy Father, and do thou, blessed Virgin Mother, cause our prayers to find acceptance at the Almighty throne, through the merits of thy beloved Son—may we, thy sinful creatures, be humbled before this thine avenging arm; and may the fasts, penances, and mortifications we shall impose be the means of bringing us down, both body and soul, unto the dust, that thy just wrath against us may be assuaged; for surely some great sin hath beset us, seeing it hath pleased thee to destroy thine own holy temple, that our evil condition might be made manifest to us.”Those who formed the procession bent reverently to the ground as the venerable prelate uttered these words.“And now, my sons,” said he with a sigh, “let us hasten onwards, and do what we can to preserve what may yet have escaped from the general destruction.”The first care of the good Bishop was to collect the scattered townsmen, who had already begun to cluster in the streets; and every exertion was immediately used to put a stop to the conflagration. The Franciscan was there, but his attention was occupied with something very different from that which so painfully interested every one else. The Lady Beatrice—was she safe? At the risk of his life he had clambered over the blazing roof of the Maison Dieu to seek her in her chamber. She was gone from thence. He had searched anxiously through all the upper apartments of the building, and yet he had seen[553]no trace of her. Full of alarm, he had been compelled to rest on the hope that she might have escaped with others from the flames; and, with an unspeakable anxiety to have that hope confirmed, he went about inquiring impatiently of every one he met, whether any damsel, answering to the description of the Lady Beatrice, had been seen; but of all those to whom he addressed himself, there was no one who could say that she was known to have escaped.“Miserable wretch that I am,” said he, “have her sins then been punished by so terrible a death—sins for the which I myself must be called to dread account both here and hereafter—I who deprived her of the blessing of a virtuous mother’s counsel, and of a father’s powerful protection? Holy St. Francis forgive me, the thought is agony.”He sat him down on a stone in the court of the Maison Dieu, and he was soon joined by sister Marion, the lame housekeeper of the Hospital, who came to mourn over its smouldering ruins.“Oh, dear heart and alas!” cried the withered matron—“the blessed St. Mary defend, protect, and be good unto us—and there is a dole sight to be sure. Under that very roof hae I been housed and sheltered, come the feast of Our Lady, full forty——nay, I should hae said fourteen years and upwards, and now I am to be turned out amidst the snares and temptations of this wicked world, to be the sport and the pastime of the profligate and ungodly. What will become of us, to whose lot beauty hath fallen as a snare, and fair countenance as an aid to the Evil One? Where, alas! shall we hide our heads that we fall not in the way of sinners? Where——”“Tell me, sister!” cried the Franciscan, impatiently interrupting her—“tell me, didst thou see the Lady Beatrice, whom I escorted hither yesterday?”“Yea, in good verity, did I that, brother,” replied Marion.“Where?—where and when?” cried the anxious Franciscan.“Nay, be not in such a flurry, brother,” replied she. “I did first see her in the refectory when thou didst bring her there, and a pretty damsel she be, I trow.”“Nay, but didst thou see her after the fire?” demanded the Franciscan.“In very deed, nay, brother,” replied the literal sister, Marion.“Wretch that I am,” cried the Franciscan, in an agony of suspense, “hath then no one seen her escape?”“St. Katherine help us, an thou dost talk of her escape,[554]indeed, thou comest to the right hand in me,” replied she, “sith that it was I myself who did show her how to escape; but that was neither before nor after the fire, I promise thee, but in the very height of the brenning, when the flames were bursting here, and crackling there—and the rafters——”“Nay, tell me, I entreat thee, sister,” cried the Franciscan, interrupting her, though greatly relieved—“tell me how and where she did save herself?”“But I do tell thee thou art wrong, brother,” cried the peevish old woman, “for it was in no such ways, seeing, as I said before, it was I myself that did save her.But thou art so flustrificacious; an thou wouldst but let me tell mine own tale——”“Go on then, I pray thee, sister Marion,” cried the monk, curbing his ire, and patiently resuming his seat upon the stone; “take thine own way.”“In good troth, my way is the right way,” replied sister Marion. “Well, as I was a-saying, I was sound asleep in my bed, in the back turret at the end of the passage, when cometh the Lady Beatrice to my room, and did shake, shake at me; and up did I start, for luckily for me I had taken an opiate, tincture, or balsam, the which the good cellarer doth give me ofttimes for the shooting toothache pain (but, alas! I doubt it be all burnt now), and so I had somehow lain down in my clothes; and then came the cries of the people, and the smoke and flame—and so I did bethink me straightway of the nun’s private stair to the Chapel, the which did lead down from my very door. This I did enter, and bid the Lady Beatrice follow me. But I being rather lame, and the stair being fit only for one at a time, she did sorely hurry and hasten me; and methought we should never hae gotten down to the Chapel. A-weel, as we were crossing the Chapel to make our way out at the door that doth lead into the garden, who should I see coming down the steps of the main-stair that doth lead from yonder passage on the ground floor into the Chapel, but Sir Andrew Stewart, the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself. Trust me, I stayed not long. But if the Lady Beatrice did complain of my delay in the way down thither, I trow she had reason in sooth to think me liard enow in leaving it. I was gone in a trice ere she did miss me; for of a truth I had no fancy to fall into such hands, since who doth know what——”“And the Lady Beatrice?” interrupted the Franciscan.“Nay, I must confess I did see him lay his hands on her,”[555]answered Marion; “and I did see him behind me as I did flee through the garden. But——”“Then all is well,” interrupted the Franciscan, turning away from the fatiguing old woman, and finishing the rest of his speech in grateful soliloquy. “It doth rejoice me much that she hath fallen into the hands of Sir Andrew Stewart; for albeit the Wolfe of Badenoch hath wrought so much evil, verily I have myself seen that he is no enemy to the Lady Beatrice. And then, Sir Andrew Stewart hath the reputation of being the best of his family—one who is a mirror of virtue and of peaceful gentleness; a perfect lamb of patience in that ferocious litter of wild beasts. Even our holy Bishop hath him in favourable estimation. He could not choose but take especial care of her. Praised be the Virgin, I may now go about the Bishop’s affairs withouten care, being sure that I shall hear good tidings of her anon.”All that day and night, and all the following day, had passed away—the flames had been partly extinguished by active exertion, and had partly expired from lack of further food, and much had doubtless been done by the influence of images and relics. Measures also had been taken to preserve the quiet and peace of the town, as well as to ensure the immediate accommodation and support of such of its inhabitants as had suffered in the general calamity. Penitential prayers had been offered up, and hymns chanted in the conventual churches and chapels which had not suffered. A general penance and solemn fast had been ordered, after all which the Bishop sent for the Franciscan, and held a long conference with him on the subject of the affairs of the Church, which we shall leave them to discuss together, that we may now follow the humbled Wolfe of Badenoch to Lochyndorbe.1Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date posterior to that alluded to in the text.↑
CHAPTER LXVIII.The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise.
The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise.
The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise.
The wretched Wolfe of Badenoch was slowly raised by those who were about him; and he submitted, as if altogether unconscious of what they were doing. His features were immoveable, and his eyes vacant, until they rested on his two sons, Walter and James, who lay wounded in the arms of his servants.“Where is my son Andrew?” cried he, suddenly recovering the use of speech.The attendants muttered to one another, but no one answered him.“Speak, ye knaves,” cried he, grinding his teeth, and at the same time springing on them, and seizing one of them in each hand by the throat; “villains, I will choke ye both with my grasp if ye answer me not.”“My noble Lord,” cried the men, terrified by his rage and his threats, “we saw him enter the burning building with thee, but none of us saw him issue thence.”“Villains, villains, tell me not so!” cried the Wolfe, shaking the two men from him, and sending them reeling away with such force that both were prostrated on the earth. “What, hath he too perished?—And it was I who did myself compel him thither!” and, saying so, he struck his breast, and moved about rapidly through the court, giving vent to a frenzy of self accusation.“Ha!” cried he, halting suddenly, as he heard the clang of horses’ heels approaching; “who comes there?—Alexander—my son—thou art all that is left to me now;” and springing[548]forward, he clasped the knees of Sir Alexander Stewart, who at that moment appeared, followed by the whole of his force.“Why tarriest thou here, father?” demanded his son; “depardieux, but I have sought thee around all the glorious fires we have kindled. Little did I think to find thee here in this by-corner, looking on so paltry a glede as this, when the towers of the Cathedral do shoot out flames that pierce the heavens, and proclaim thy red vengeance on the Bishop of Moray, yea, even to his brother-mitred priest of Ross, even across the broad friths that do sunder them.—Come with me, I pray, and ride triumphant through the flaming streets, that our shouts may ring terribly in the craven corbie’s ears, and reach him even where he doth hide him in his Palace of Spynie.—But what aileth thee, father, that thou seemest so unmanned.”“Alexander,” cried the afflicted father, embracing his son, who stooped over him, “thy brethren have perished; Walter and James are there dying from their bruises, and Andrew and Duncan—my beloved boy Duncan—have perished in these flames.”“How, what! how hath this happened?” cried Sir Alexander, leaping from his horse and running to question the attendants who supported his two wounded brothers. From them he gathered a brief account of the events that had occurred, and for some moments gave way to the sorrow that afflicted his father.“But why grieve we here, my Lord?” cried he suddenly; “of a truth, whatever woe hath befallen us, hath but come by reason of that ill-starred enemy of our house, Bishop Barr, who has driven us to the desperation out of which all these evils have arisen. He and his accursed flock of ill-omened crows have flown to the refuge of his Palace of Spynie. Rouse, my noble father, and let us gallop thither and seek a sweet revenge by pulling the choughs from their nests.”“Right, son Alexander,” cried the Wolfe, his native temper being so far roused for the moment by this speech that he shook off the torpor that had come upon him, and sprang into his saddle; “by this beard, but thou dost say right. ’Tis indeed that accursed Priest-Bishop who hath embittered the whole stream of my life, and hath now been the cause of hurling all this misery upon me. Alas, my poor boys!—But, by the blood of the Bruce, they shall be avenged.—I shall take thy counsel, my son—My son, said I?—Alas, Alexander, thou wilt soon, I fear, be mine only son.—Dost hear, Sir Squire?” said he, turning fiercely to one of his attendants, “See that thou dost take[549]care of my wounded boys. Take people enow with thee, and see that they be promptly and tenderly carried on men’s shoulders to Lochyndorbe—Dost thou mark me?—Thy head shall pay the forfeit of thy neglect of the smallest tittle of thy duty.”“Ay,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, “our business, I trow, will soon be sped, and we shall overtake them before they shall have gone many miles of the way.”“Come, then, Alexander, let’s to Spynie,” cried the Wolfe; and then turning again to the esquire—“But take care of my boys, and see that they be gently borne.”“On, brave spears,” cried Sir Alexander; “ye shall have work peraunter to do anon.”Out dashed the Wolfe of Badenoch, gnashing his teeth, as if to wind himself up to desperation, yet rather led than followed by Sir Alexander Stewart, and away rattled about two hundred well-armed and well-mounted men-at-arms at their backs, leaving behind them a sufficient force to escort the wounded youths homeward in safety. There were but few among the troops that would not have willingly stayed behind. They liked not this ungodly warfare, and although they witnessed the execution of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s fell fury on the holy edifices, done by a few of the less scrupulous ministers of his vengeance, they felt conscience-stricken at the sight, and this feeling had not been diminished by the denunciations of the Franciscan, the direful fate of the boy Duncan Stewart, and of his brother Sir Andrew, and that which had befallen the youths Walter and James, of whose recovery there seemed to be but little hope.The Palace of Spynie offered them but a wretched defence against any assailant who might choose to attack it, for it was not till the following century that it was so strengthened as to enable Bishop David Stuart1to defy the proud Earl of Huntly. The buildings, indeed, were surrounded by a wall; but, trusting to that awe which the sacred dignity of the possessor was calculated to inspire, the wooden gate was left unprotected by any portcullis of iron. It therefore promised to be easily assailable by the sledge-hammers which had been found so useful in furthering the work of destruction they had already accomplished.The Wolfe of Badenoch, hurried on by his son, swept over[550]the gentle eminence lying between the town and the palace, and as the distance was but a mile, his excitement had had hardly time to expend itself ere he found himself approaching the walls. The lurid red vault of the sky reflected a dim light, which might have been sufficient to enable them to discover the building before them. But, independently of this, the summit of the outer walls was lined by a number of torches, which began to flit about hastily, as soon as the thundering sound of the horses’ feet reached those who carried them.“The place doth seem to be already alarmed,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, as they advanced, his resolute soul shaken by his recent calamities. “These lights are not wont to appear on the grass-grown walls of these mass-ensconced priests. Thou shalt halt here, son Alexander, and let me advance alone to reconnoitre. I cannot, I wis, afford to peril the life of thee, whom my fears do tell me I may now call mine only son.”“Peril my life?” cried Sir Alexander indignantly; “what, talkest thou of peril, when we have but these carrion crows to deal with? I trow there be garrison enow of them, sith that all their rookeries, grey, black, and hooded, have doubtless gathered there to-night. By my knighthood, but it doth almost shame me to attack them with harness on my back, or men-at-arms at my heels. And see, the lights have disappeared. Never trust me, but those who did flourish them have fled into the deepest cellar of the place, at the very tramp of our war-steeds.”“Nay, but, son Alexander,” repeated the Wolfe, “I do command thee to halt; thou shalt not advance until I shall have first——Where hath he vanished?” cried the Wolfe, losing sight of him for a moment in the dark. “Ha! there he speeds him to the gate,” and, leaping from his saddle, he launched himself after his son. Sir Alexander had snatched a sledge-hammer from some one near him, and was already raising it to strike the first blow at the gate, when his right arm fell shattered and nerveless by his side, and he was crushed to the earth by some unseen power. The Wolfe of Badenoch reached his son but to raise him up in his arms. At that moment a broad blaze arose on the top of the wall, immediately over the gateway, in front of which the Wolfe of Badenoch stood appalled by the apparition it illumined, and he grew deadly pale when he beheld the figure of the Franciscan, of that very friar whom he believed nothing but superhuman power could have saved from the flames of the Maison Dieu, again presented before his eyes. The attitude of the monk was fearfully[551]commanding. He reared a large crucifix in his left hand, whilst the other was stretched out before him. The light by which he was encircled shot around him to a great distance, showing the walls thickly manned with crossbow-men prepared to shoot upon the assailants, and exhibiting these assailants themselves with their faces turned to what they believed to be a miraculous vision, which filled them with a terror that no merely human array could have awakened.“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried the Franciscan, in his wonted clear but solemn voice, “have I not told thee that the Omnipotent hath resigned thee and thine into my grasp for penance or for punishment? Go, take thy wounded son with thee, sith that thou hast sought this fresh affliction. His life and the lives of those who are now borne to thy den hang on thy repentance.”A hissing sound was heard—a dense vapour arose—and all was again dark as before. Some of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s terrified attendants ventured to approach the gate to assist him. They carried Sir Alexander away; and the ferocious Earl, again subdued from the high wrath to which his son’s sudden excitation had for a moment raised his native temper, relapsed into that apathetical stupor from which he had been roused. He seemed to know not what he was doing, or where he was; but, mechanically mounting his horse, he retired from the walls of Spynie, and took his way slowly homewards. As the distant conflagration flashed from time to time on his face, he started and looked towards it with wild expression—and then elevated his eye towards his son, who was carried on a bier formed of crossed lances, by some men on foot; but excepting when he was so moved, his features were like those of the stone effigy which now lies stretched upon his tomb.The Bishop and the dignitaries of the Cathedral who composed his Chapter, had assembled in fear and trembling in the Chapel of the Palace, where they offered up prayers for deliverance from their scourge; and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his formidable party were no sooner ascertained to have permanently withdrawn, than they issued forth, bearing some of the most holy of their images, with the most precious relics of saints, which had been hastily snatched from their shrines on the first alarm of the enemy’s approach, and began to move in melancholy procession towards Elgin, guarded by the armed vassals of the Church, who had been summoned to man the Palace walls. As they rose over the hill, they beheld the flames still raging in all their fury. The sun was by this time rising over[552]the horizon, but his rays added little to the artificial day that already possessed the scene. The smiling morning, indeed, served to show the extent of the devastation which the flames had already occasioned; but the cheerful matin song of the birds accorded ill with the wailings that burst from those who beheld this dismal spectacle. The pride of the Bishop, if the good man ever had any, was indeed effectually humbled. As he rode on his palfrey at the head of the sad procession, the reins held by two attendants, one of whom walked on each side of him, he wept when he came within view of the town; and, ordering them to halt, he crossed his hands meekly over his breast, and looked up in silent ejaculation to Heaven.“O speculum patriæ et decus regni,” cried he, turning his eyes again towards the Cathedral, whilst the tears rolled over his cheeks. “Oh, glory and honour of Scotland—thou holy fane, which we, poor wretched mortals, did fondly believe to be a habitation worthy of the omnipotent and mysterious Trinity, to whom thou wast dedicated—behold thee, for the sins of us the guilty servants of a just God, behold thee yielded up a prey to the destroyer! Oh, holy Father, and do thou, blessed Virgin Mother, cause our prayers to find acceptance at the Almighty throne, through the merits of thy beloved Son—may we, thy sinful creatures, be humbled before this thine avenging arm; and may the fasts, penances, and mortifications we shall impose be the means of bringing us down, both body and soul, unto the dust, that thy just wrath against us may be assuaged; for surely some great sin hath beset us, seeing it hath pleased thee to destroy thine own holy temple, that our evil condition might be made manifest to us.”Those who formed the procession bent reverently to the ground as the venerable prelate uttered these words.“And now, my sons,” said he with a sigh, “let us hasten onwards, and do what we can to preserve what may yet have escaped from the general destruction.”The first care of the good Bishop was to collect the scattered townsmen, who had already begun to cluster in the streets; and every exertion was immediately used to put a stop to the conflagration. The Franciscan was there, but his attention was occupied with something very different from that which so painfully interested every one else. The Lady Beatrice—was she safe? At the risk of his life he had clambered over the blazing roof of the Maison Dieu to seek her in her chamber. She was gone from thence. He had searched anxiously through all the upper apartments of the building, and yet he had seen[553]no trace of her. Full of alarm, he had been compelled to rest on the hope that she might have escaped with others from the flames; and, with an unspeakable anxiety to have that hope confirmed, he went about inquiring impatiently of every one he met, whether any damsel, answering to the description of the Lady Beatrice, had been seen; but of all those to whom he addressed himself, there was no one who could say that she was known to have escaped.“Miserable wretch that I am,” said he, “have her sins then been punished by so terrible a death—sins for the which I myself must be called to dread account both here and hereafter—I who deprived her of the blessing of a virtuous mother’s counsel, and of a father’s powerful protection? Holy St. Francis forgive me, the thought is agony.”He sat him down on a stone in the court of the Maison Dieu, and he was soon joined by sister Marion, the lame housekeeper of the Hospital, who came to mourn over its smouldering ruins.“Oh, dear heart and alas!” cried the withered matron—“the blessed St. Mary defend, protect, and be good unto us—and there is a dole sight to be sure. Under that very roof hae I been housed and sheltered, come the feast of Our Lady, full forty——nay, I should hae said fourteen years and upwards, and now I am to be turned out amidst the snares and temptations of this wicked world, to be the sport and the pastime of the profligate and ungodly. What will become of us, to whose lot beauty hath fallen as a snare, and fair countenance as an aid to the Evil One? Where, alas! shall we hide our heads that we fall not in the way of sinners? Where——”“Tell me, sister!” cried the Franciscan, impatiently interrupting her—“tell me, didst thou see the Lady Beatrice, whom I escorted hither yesterday?”“Yea, in good verity, did I that, brother,” replied Marion.“Where?—where and when?” cried the anxious Franciscan.“Nay, be not in such a flurry, brother,” replied she. “I did first see her in the refectory when thou didst bring her there, and a pretty damsel she be, I trow.”“Nay, but didst thou see her after the fire?” demanded the Franciscan.“In very deed, nay, brother,” replied the literal sister, Marion.“Wretch that I am,” cried the Franciscan, in an agony of suspense, “hath then no one seen her escape?”“St. Katherine help us, an thou dost talk of her escape,[554]indeed, thou comest to the right hand in me,” replied she, “sith that it was I myself who did show her how to escape; but that was neither before nor after the fire, I promise thee, but in the very height of the brenning, when the flames were bursting here, and crackling there—and the rafters——”“Nay, tell me, I entreat thee, sister,” cried the Franciscan, interrupting her, though greatly relieved—“tell me how and where she did save herself?”“But I do tell thee thou art wrong, brother,” cried the peevish old woman, “for it was in no such ways, seeing, as I said before, it was I myself that did save her.But thou art so flustrificacious; an thou wouldst but let me tell mine own tale——”“Go on then, I pray thee, sister Marion,” cried the monk, curbing his ire, and patiently resuming his seat upon the stone; “take thine own way.”“In good troth, my way is the right way,” replied sister Marion. “Well, as I was a-saying, I was sound asleep in my bed, in the back turret at the end of the passage, when cometh the Lady Beatrice to my room, and did shake, shake at me; and up did I start, for luckily for me I had taken an opiate, tincture, or balsam, the which the good cellarer doth give me ofttimes for the shooting toothache pain (but, alas! I doubt it be all burnt now), and so I had somehow lain down in my clothes; and then came the cries of the people, and the smoke and flame—and so I did bethink me straightway of the nun’s private stair to the Chapel, the which did lead down from my very door. This I did enter, and bid the Lady Beatrice follow me. But I being rather lame, and the stair being fit only for one at a time, she did sorely hurry and hasten me; and methought we should never hae gotten down to the Chapel. A-weel, as we were crossing the Chapel to make our way out at the door that doth lead into the garden, who should I see coming down the steps of the main-stair that doth lead from yonder passage on the ground floor into the Chapel, but Sir Andrew Stewart, the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself. Trust me, I stayed not long. But if the Lady Beatrice did complain of my delay in the way down thither, I trow she had reason in sooth to think me liard enow in leaving it. I was gone in a trice ere she did miss me; for of a truth I had no fancy to fall into such hands, since who doth know what——”“And the Lady Beatrice?” interrupted the Franciscan.“Nay, I must confess I did see him lay his hands on her,”[555]answered Marion; “and I did see him behind me as I did flee through the garden. But——”“Then all is well,” interrupted the Franciscan, turning away from the fatiguing old woman, and finishing the rest of his speech in grateful soliloquy. “It doth rejoice me much that she hath fallen into the hands of Sir Andrew Stewart; for albeit the Wolfe of Badenoch hath wrought so much evil, verily I have myself seen that he is no enemy to the Lady Beatrice. And then, Sir Andrew Stewart hath the reputation of being the best of his family—one who is a mirror of virtue and of peaceful gentleness; a perfect lamb of patience in that ferocious litter of wild beasts. Even our holy Bishop hath him in favourable estimation. He could not choose but take especial care of her. Praised be the Virgin, I may now go about the Bishop’s affairs withouten care, being sure that I shall hear good tidings of her anon.”All that day and night, and all the following day, had passed away—the flames had been partly extinguished by active exertion, and had partly expired from lack of further food, and much had doubtless been done by the influence of images and relics. Measures also had been taken to preserve the quiet and peace of the town, as well as to ensure the immediate accommodation and support of such of its inhabitants as had suffered in the general calamity. Penitential prayers had been offered up, and hymns chanted in the conventual churches and chapels which had not suffered. A general penance and solemn fast had been ordered, after all which the Bishop sent for the Franciscan, and held a long conference with him on the subject of the affairs of the Church, which we shall leave them to discuss together, that we may now follow the humbled Wolfe of Badenoch to Lochyndorbe.
The wretched Wolfe of Badenoch was slowly raised by those who were about him; and he submitted, as if altogether unconscious of what they were doing. His features were immoveable, and his eyes vacant, until they rested on his two sons, Walter and James, who lay wounded in the arms of his servants.
“Where is my son Andrew?” cried he, suddenly recovering the use of speech.
The attendants muttered to one another, but no one answered him.
“Speak, ye knaves,” cried he, grinding his teeth, and at the same time springing on them, and seizing one of them in each hand by the throat; “villains, I will choke ye both with my grasp if ye answer me not.”
“My noble Lord,” cried the men, terrified by his rage and his threats, “we saw him enter the burning building with thee, but none of us saw him issue thence.”
“Villains, villains, tell me not so!” cried the Wolfe, shaking the two men from him, and sending them reeling away with such force that both were prostrated on the earth. “What, hath he too perished?—And it was I who did myself compel him thither!” and, saying so, he struck his breast, and moved about rapidly through the court, giving vent to a frenzy of self accusation.
“Ha!” cried he, halting suddenly, as he heard the clang of horses’ heels approaching; “who comes there?—Alexander—my son—thou art all that is left to me now;” and springing[548]forward, he clasped the knees of Sir Alexander Stewart, who at that moment appeared, followed by the whole of his force.
“Why tarriest thou here, father?” demanded his son; “depardieux, but I have sought thee around all the glorious fires we have kindled. Little did I think to find thee here in this by-corner, looking on so paltry a glede as this, when the towers of the Cathedral do shoot out flames that pierce the heavens, and proclaim thy red vengeance on the Bishop of Moray, yea, even to his brother-mitred priest of Ross, even across the broad friths that do sunder them.—Come with me, I pray, and ride triumphant through the flaming streets, that our shouts may ring terribly in the craven corbie’s ears, and reach him even where he doth hide him in his Palace of Spynie.—But what aileth thee, father, that thou seemest so unmanned.”
“Alexander,” cried the afflicted father, embracing his son, who stooped over him, “thy brethren have perished; Walter and James are there dying from their bruises, and Andrew and Duncan—my beloved boy Duncan—have perished in these flames.”
“How, what! how hath this happened?” cried Sir Alexander, leaping from his horse and running to question the attendants who supported his two wounded brothers. From them he gathered a brief account of the events that had occurred, and for some moments gave way to the sorrow that afflicted his father.
“But why grieve we here, my Lord?” cried he suddenly; “of a truth, whatever woe hath befallen us, hath but come by reason of that ill-starred enemy of our house, Bishop Barr, who has driven us to the desperation out of which all these evils have arisen. He and his accursed flock of ill-omened crows have flown to the refuge of his Palace of Spynie. Rouse, my noble father, and let us gallop thither and seek a sweet revenge by pulling the choughs from their nests.”
“Right, son Alexander,” cried the Wolfe, his native temper being so far roused for the moment by this speech that he shook off the torpor that had come upon him, and sprang into his saddle; “by this beard, but thou dost say right. ’Tis indeed that accursed Priest-Bishop who hath embittered the whole stream of my life, and hath now been the cause of hurling all this misery upon me. Alas, my poor boys!—But, by the blood of the Bruce, they shall be avenged.—I shall take thy counsel, my son—My son, said I?—Alas, Alexander, thou wilt soon, I fear, be mine only son.—Dost hear, Sir Squire?” said he, turning fiercely to one of his attendants, “See that thou dost take[549]care of my wounded boys. Take people enow with thee, and see that they be promptly and tenderly carried on men’s shoulders to Lochyndorbe—Dost thou mark me?—Thy head shall pay the forfeit of thy neglect of the smallest tittle of thy duty.”
“Ay,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, “our business, I trow, will soon be sped, and we shall overtake them before they shall have gone many miles of the way.”
“Come, then, Alexander, let’s to Spynie,” cried the Wolfe; and then turning again to the esquire—“But take care of my boys, and see that they be gently borne.”
“On, brave spears,” cried Sir Alexander; “ye shall have work peraunter to do anon.”
Out dashed the Wolfe of Badenoch, gnashing his teeth, as if to wind himself up to desperation, yet rather led than followed by Sir Alexander Stewart, and away rattled about two hundred well-armed and well-mounted men-at-arms at their backs, leaving behind them a sufficient force to escort the wounded youths homeward in safety. There were but few among the troops that would not have willingly stayed behind. They liked not this ungodly warfare, and although they witnessed the execution of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s fell fury on the holy edifices, done by a few of the less scrupulous ministers of his vengeance, they felt conscience-stricken at the sight, and this feeling had not been diminished by the denunciations of the Franciscan, the direful fate of the boy Duncan Stewart, and of his brother Sir Andrew, and that which had befallen the youths Walter and James, of whose recovery there seemed to be but little hope.
The Palace of Spynie offered them but a wretched defence against any assailant who might choose to attack it, for it was not till the following century that it was so strengthened as to enable Bishop David Stuart1to defy the proud Earl of Huntly. The buildings, indeed, were surrounded by a wall; but, trusting to that awe which the sacred dignity of the possessor was calculated to inspire, the wooden gate was left unprotected by any portcullis of iron. It therefore promised to be easily assailable by the sledge-hammers which had been found so useful in furthering the work of destruction they had already accomplished.
The Wolfe of Badenoch, hurried on by his son, swept over[550]the gentle eminence lying between the town and the palace, and as the distance was but a mile, his excitement had had hardly time to expend itself ere he found himself approaching the walls. The lurid red vault of the sky reflected a dim light, which might have been sufficient to enable them to discover the building before them. But, independently of this, the summit of the outer walls was lined by a number of torches, which began to flit about hastily, as soon as the thundering sound of the horses’ feet reached those who carried them.
“The place doth seem to be already alarmed,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, as they advanced, his resolute soul shaken by his recent calamities. “These lights are not wont to appear on the grass-grown walls of these mass-ensconced priests. Thou shalt halt here, son Alexander, and let me advance alone to reconnoitre. I cannot, I wis, afford to peril the life of thee, whom my fears do tell me I may now call mine only son.”
“Peril my life?” cried Sir Alexander indignantly; “what, talkest thou of peril, when we have but these carrion crows to deal with? I trow there be garrison enow of them, sith that all their rookeries, grey, black, and hooded, have doubtless gathered there to-night. By my knighthood, but it doth almost shame me to attack them with harness on my back, or men-at-arms at my heels. And see, the lights have disappeared. Never trust me, but those who did flourish them have fled into the deepest cellar of the place, at the very tramp of our war-steeds.”
“Nay, but, son Alexander,” repeated the Wolfe, “I do command thee to halt; thou shalt not advance until I shall have first——Where hath he vanished?” cried the Wolfe, losing sight of him for a moment in the dark. “Ha! there he speeds him to the gate,” and, leaping from his saddle, he launched himself after his son. Sir Alexander had snatched a sledge-hammer from some one near him, and was already raising it to strike the first blow at the gate, when his right arm fell shattered and nerveless by his side, and he was crushed to the earth by some unseen power. The Wolfe of Badenoch reached his son but to raise him up in his arms. At that moment a broad blaze arose on the top of the wall, immediately over the gateway, in front of which the Wolfe of Badenoch stood appalled by the apparition it illumined, and he grew deadly pale when he beheld the figure of the Franciscan, of that very friar whom he believed nothing but superhuman power could have saved from the flames of the Maison Dieu, again presented before his eyes. The attitude of the monk was fearfully[551]commanding. He reared a large crucifix in his left hand, whilst the other was stretched out before him. The light by which he was encircled shot around him to a great distance, showing the walls thickly manned with crossbow-men prepared to shoot upon the assailants, and exhibiting these assailants themselves with their faces turned to what they believed to be a miraculous vision, which filled them with a terror that no merely human array could have awakened.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried the Franciscan, in his wonted clear but solemn voice, “have I not told thee that the Omnipotent hath resigned thee and thine into my grasp for penance or for punishment? Go, take thy wounded son with thee, sith that thou hast sought this fresh affliction. His life and the lives of those who are now borne to thy den hang on thy repentance.”
A hissing sound was heard—a dense vapour arose—and all was again dark as before. Some of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s terrified attendants ventured to approach the gate to assist him. They carried Sir Alexander away; and the ferocious Earl, again subdued from the high wrath to which his son’s sudden excitation had for a moment raised his native temper, relapsed into that apathetical stupor from which he had been roused. He seemed to know not what he was doing, or where he was; but, mechanically mounting his horse, he retired from the walls of Spynie, and took his way slowly homewards. As the distant conflagration flashed from time to time on his face, he started and looked towards it with wild expression—and then elevated his eye towards his son, who was carried on a bier formed of crossed lances, by some men on foot; but excepting when he was so moved, his features were like those of the stone effigy which now lies stretched upon his tomb.
The Bishop and the dignitaries of the Cathedral who composed his Chapter, had assembled in fear and trembling in the Chapel of the Palace, where they offered up prayers for deliverance from their scourge; and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his formidable party were no sooner ascertained to have permanently withdrawn, than they issued forth, bearing some of the most holy of their images, with the most precious relics of saints, which had been hastily snatched from their shrines on the first alarm of the enemy’s approach, and began to move in melancholy procession towards Elgin, guarded by the armed vassals of the Church, who had been summoned to man the Palace walls. As they rose over the hill, they beheld the flames still raging in all their fury. The sun was by this time rising over[552]the horizon, but his rays added little to the artificial day that already possessed the scene. The smiling morning, indeed, served to show the extent of the devastation which the flames had already occasioned; but the cheerful matin song of the birds accorded ill with the wailings that burst from those who beheld this dismal spectacle. The pride of the Bishop, if the good man ever had any, was indeed effectually humbled. As he rode on his palfrey at the head of the sad procession, the reins held by two attendants, one of whom walked on each side of him, he wept when he came within view of the town; and, ordering them to halt, he crossed his hands meekly over his breast, and looked up in silent ejaculation to Heaven.
“O speculum patriæ et decus regni,” cried he, turning his eyes again towards the Cathedral, whilst the tears rolled over his cheeks. “Oh, glory and honour of Scotland—thou holy fane, which we, poor wretched mortals, did fondly believe to be a habitation worthy of the omnipotent and mysterious Trinity, to whom thou wast dedicated—behold thee, for the sins of us the guilty servants of a just God, behold thee yielded up a prey to the destroyer! Oh, holy Father, and do thou, blessed Virgin Mother, cause our prayers to find acceptance at the Almighty throne, through the merits of thy beloved Son—may we, thy sinful creatures, be humbled before this thine avenging arm; and may the fasts, penances, and mortifications we shall impose be the means of bringing us down, both body and soul, unto the dust, that thy just wrath against us may be assuaged; for surely some great sin hath beset us, seeing it hath pleased thee to destroy thine own holy temple, that our evil condition might be made manifest to us.”
Those who formed the procession bent reverently to the ground as the venerable prelate uttered these words.
“And now, my sons,” said he with a sigh, “let us hasten onwards, and do what we can to preserve what may yet have escaped from the general destruction.”
The first care of the good Bishop was to collect the scattered townsmen, who had already begun to cluster in the streets; and every exertion was immediately used to put a stop to the conflagration. The Franciscan was there, but his attention was occupied with something very different from that which so painfully interested every one else. The Lady Beatrice—was she safe? At the risk of his life he had clambered over the blazing roof of the Maison Dieu to seek her in her chamber. She was gone from thence. He had searched anxiously through all the upper apartments of the building, and yet he had seen[553]no trace of her. Full of alarm, he had been compelled to rest on the hope that she might have escaped with others from the flames; and, with an unspeakable anxiety to have that hope confirmed, he went about inquiring impatiently of every one he met, whether any damsel, answering to the description of the Lady Beatrice, had been seen; but of all those to whom he addressed himself, there was no one who could say that she was known to have escaped.
“Miserable wretch that I am,” said he, “have her sins then been punished by so terrible a death—sins for the which I myself must be called to dread account both here and hereafter—I who deprived her of the blessing of a virtuous mother’s counsel, and of a father’s powerful protection? Holy St. Francis forgive me, the thought is agony.”
He sat him down on a stone in the court of the Maison Dieu, and he was soon joined by sister Marion, the lame housekeeper of the Hospital, who came to mourn over its smouldering ruins.
“Oh, dear heart and alas!” cried the withered matron—“the blessed St. Mary defend, protect, and be good unto us—and there is a dole sight to be sure. Under that very roof hae I been housed and sheltered, come the feast of Our Lady, full forty——nay, I should hae said fourteen years and upwards, and now I am to be turned out amidst the snares and temptations of this wicked world, to be the sport and the pastime of the profligate and ungodly. What will become of us, to whose lot beauty hath fallen as a snare, and fair countenance as an aid to the Evil One? Where, alas! shall we hide our heads that we fall not in the way of sinners? Where——”
“Tell me, sister!” cried the Franciscan, impatiently interrupting her—“tell me, didst thou see the Lady Beatrice, whom I escorted hither yesterday?”
“Yea, in good verity, did I that, brother,” replied Marion.
“Where?—where and when?” cried the anxious Franciscan.
“Nay, be not in such a flurry, brother,” replied she. “I did first see her in the refectory when thou didst bring her there, and a pretty damsel she be, I trow.”
“Nay, but didst thou see her after the fire?” demanded the Franciscan.
“In very deed, nay, brother,” replied the literal sister, Marion.
“Wretch that I am,” cried the Franciscan, in an agony of suspense, “hath then no one seen her escape?”
“St. Katherine help us, an thou dost talk of her escape,[554]indeed, thou comest to the right hand in me,” replied she, “sith that it was I myself who did show her how to escape; but that was neither before nor after the fire, I promise thee, but in the very height of the brenning, when the flames were bursting here, and crackling there—and the rafters——”
“Nay, tell me, I entreat thee, sister,” cried the Franciscan, interrupting her, though greatly relieved—“tell me how and where she did save herself?”
“But I do tell thee thou art wrong, brother,” cried the peevish old woman, “for it was in no such ways, seeing, as I said before, it was I myself that did save her.But thou art so flustrificacious; an thou wouldst but let me tell mine own tale——”
“Go on then, I pray thee, sister Marion,” cried the monk, curbing his ire, and patiently resuming his seat upon the stone; “take thine own way.”
“In good troth, my way is the right way,” replied sister Marion. “Well, as I was a-saying, I was sound asleep in my bed, in the back turret at the end of the passage, when cometh the Lady Beatrice to my room, and did shake, shake at me; and up did I start, for luckily for me I had taken an opiate, tincture, or balsam, the which the good cellarer doth give me ofttimes for the shooting toothache pain (but, alas! I doubt it be all burnt now), and so I had somehow lain down in my clothes; and then came the cries of the people, and the smoke and flame—and so I did bethink me straightway of the nun’s private stair to the Chapel, the which did lead down from my very door. This I did enter, and bid the Lady Beatrice follow me. But I being rather lame, and the stair being fit only for one at a time, she did sorely hurry and hasten me; and methought we should never hae gotten down to the Chapel. A-weel, as we were crossing the Chapel to make our way out at the door that doth lead into the garden, who should I see coming down the steps of the main-stair that doth lead from yonder passage on the ground floor into the Chapel, but Sir Andrew Stewart, the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself. Trust me, I stayed not long. But if the Lady Beatrice did complain of my delay in the way down thither, I trow she had reason in sooth to think me liard enow in leaving it. I was gone in a trice ere she did miss me; for of a truth I had no fancy to fall into such hands, since who doth know what——”
“And the Lady Beatrice?” interrupted the Franciscan.
“Nay, I must confess I did see him lay his hands on her,”[555]answered Marion; “and I did see him behind me as I did flee through the garden. But——”
“Then all is well,” interrupted the Franciscan, turning away from the fatiguing old woman, and finishing the rest of his speech in grateful soliloquy. “It doth rejoice me much that she hath fallen into the hands of Sir Andrew Stewart; for albeit the Wolfe of Badenoch hath wrought so much evil, verily I have myself seen that he is no enemy to the Lady Beatrice. And then, Sir Andrew Stewart hath the reputation of being the best of his family—one who is a mirror of virtue and of peaceful gentleness; a perfect lamb of patience in that ferocious litter of wild beasts. Even our holy Bishop hath him in favourable estimation. He could not choose but take especial care of her. Praised be the Virgin, I may now go about the Bishop’s affairs withouten care, being sure that I shall hear good tidings of her anon.”
All that day and night, and all the following day, had passed away—the flames had been partly extinguished by active exertion, and had partly expired from lack of further food, and much had doubtless been done by the influence of images and relics. Measures also had been taken to preserve the quiet and peace of the town, as well as to ensure the immediate accommodation and support of such of its inhabitants as had suffered in the general calamity. Penitential prayers had been offered up, and hymns chanted in the conventual churches and chapels which had not suffered. A general penance and solemn fast had been ordered, after all which the Bishop sent for the Franciscan, and held a long conference with him on the subject of the affairs of the Church, which we shall leave them to discuss together, that we may now follow the humbled Wolfe of Badenoch to Lochyndorbe.
1Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date posterior to that alluded to in the text.↑
1Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date posterior to that alluded to in the text.↑
1Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date posterior to that alluded to in the text.↑
1Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date posterior to that alluded to in the text.↑