[Contents]CHAPTER LXXI.The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale.Allowing the Wolfe of Badenoch and his friend the Franciscan to proceed on their journey, we must now return to inquire into the fate of Sir Patrick Hepborne. We left him lying on the straw in his dungeon, giving way to a paroxysm of grief for having been so cruelly rent from Lady Beatrice, tormenting himself with fears for her safety, and refusing the comfort which his esquire Mortimer Sang, and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe, were in vain attempting to administer to him. Whilst he was in this state of bitter affliction, the door of the dungeon was again opened, and a number of guards entering, silently approached him. Believing that they were about to lead him to immediate execution, he rose to meet them.“I am ready,” said he recklessly; “my life is now but of little value to me. The sooner it is over the better. Lead on, then, my friends.”Mortimer Sang sprang forward to prevent their seizure of his master, but he was speedily overpowered, and Sir Patrick was led passively away.He was conducted through a long dark passage, and finally lodged in a cell, to which he ascended by a short circular flight of steps. He questioned his conductors as to what was to be his fate, but they retired without giving him any reply. His new prison, though small, was less dark and gloomy than the larger dungeon from which he had been taken; and though sufficiently strong, it had an air of greater comfort about it; yet would he willingly have exchanged it for that he had left, to have been again blessed with the society of his esquire and the wine merchant. He seemed to be now condemned to solitary imprisonment, and he anticipated the worst possible intentions from this seclusion. The survey he took of the four walls that enclosed him left no hope of escape. There was indeed another small door besides that by which he had entered, but both were so powerfully fenced with iron as to be perfectly impregnable. He viewed this second door with an eye of suspicion, and the idea that through it might enter the assassins who were privily to despatch him, presented death to him in a shape so uninviting, that, ready as he had been to lay down his life but the moment before, he now resolved to sell it as dearly[577]as he could, although he had no other weapon but his hands to defend himself with.He sat down on a stone bench in a niche in the wall opposite to this suspicious door, and, fixing his eye on it, he fell into a reverie, from which he was roused by the sound of footsteps, as if descending towards it. He sprang up, that he might be prepared for action. The door opened, and a young man in the garb of a lacquey, and altogether unarmed, appeared at the bottom of a very narrow spiral staircase. He made an obeisance to Sir Patrick, and silently, but respectfully beckoned him to follow; and the knight, resolving to pursue his fate, immediately obeyed. He was conducted up several flights of steps, until at length, to his great surprise, he was brought into a little oratory, where he was again left alone.He had not waited long, when a pannel in the wall, behind the altar, opened, and a Franciscan Friar appeared. The knight regarded him with a calm and steady look. It was Friar Rushak, the King’s Confessor.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the monk mildly to him, “I come to thee on private embassage from the Royal Richard. Thine intemperance in breaking in upon his privacy as thou didst, hath led thee to be accused, by some who are more zealous than prudent, of having made a premeditated attempt to assassinate His Majesty. But this hath been done without the Royal sanction; for albeit that appearances do of a surety most powerfully array themselves against thee, yet he doth acquit thee of all such traitorous intent. But thou hast been led by blind fury to lift thine hand against the Sovereign whose hospitality thou dost now enjoy, and that, too, in defence of one against whom he did mean nothing dishonourable, though circumstances may have wrought up her fears to believe that he did.”“What!” cried Hepborne, with a strong expression of doubt in his face; “so King Richard doth deny all dishonourable intention against the Lady Beatrice? But what availeth it if he doth so? Hath he not sithence devoted her to certain destruction, by giving her up to one who hath already proved himself to be her enemy, yea, an assassin, who would have murdered her?”“Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak, after some moments’ thought, “trust me, the King had no hand in the disposal of her. He did never see the lady after that moment when thou didst force him to retreat before thine inconsiderate rage. But, an assassin—a murderer, saidst thou? How canst thou so accuse a brother of St. Francis?”[578]“Because I have good reason to know that he did once steal into the chamber of the Lady Beatrice at the hour of midnight, armed with a dagger,” cried Hepborne impatiently; “and had she not saved herself by flight——”“Thou must suffer me to tell thee that this strange tale is difficult of credence with me,” said Friar Rushak, interrupting him; “the more, too, that it cometh from the very knight whom report doth accuse of having taught the damsel to stray from the path of virtue, and to whom she oweth her present infamy.”“What mean ye, friar?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, with mingled indignation and astonishment. “Who hath so foully and falsely dared to charge me and the Lady Beatrice—she who is pure as an angel of light—Who, I say, hath dared to prefer so foul and false an accusation?”“The Franciscan whom thou——”“Villain!” cried Sir Patrick, interrupting Friar Rushak, and giving way to a rage which he was quite unable to control; “villain, black and damnable villain! I swear by the honour of a knight, that this charge is false as hell. Pardon me, holy father, for my just ire. I do beseech thee, tell me what thou dost know of this wretch, of this assassin, who doth so foully stab reputation too, and who hath so imposed on thy too easy belief—What, I pray thee, dost thou know of him?”“Nay, I am ashamed to say, I know not much,” replied Friar Rushak, already shaken in his opinion of the Franciscan by the solemnity of Sir Patrick’s asseverations; “yet what I do know I was about to tell thee, when thou didst break in on my speech. Being yesterday at the Franciscan Convent in the Newgate Street, a stranger brother of the order did claim a private audience of me, when he entreated mine aid to recover a damsel of good family from the house of the Lady de Vere. He stated his belief that she had come hither for the purpose of meeting with thee, with whom she had once lived in lawless love, hid in the disguise of a page, a connection which both were impatient to renew. He said that it was intended to bury her disgrace in a convent. Fearing, for certain reasons, that the King might see her at the Lady de Vere’s, and so be misled to take up with one so light, I resolved to do my best to assist in her removal, and to this I was afterwards the more spurred on by hearing that Richard had gone expressly to meet with her, as I did believe, by her own especial consent. Availing myself of my private knowledge of the palace, I did enable the stranger Franciscan to take her from the apartment, where she succeeded[579]in convincing me that she was no willing captive; and the King’s confession of this morning, the which I am so far permitted to impart to thee, hath satisfied me that I had weened too gravely of the matter as it did regard him, and that the whole of his share in it did but arise from a harmless piece of humour.”“And whither hath the Lady Beatrice been carried by this villain?” cried Hepborne, in all the agony of apprehension for her safety.“He took her hence by water,” said Friar Rushak, “and Scotland did seem to be the object of his voyage. But, of a truth, mine intercourse with the foul deceiver was so short that I had little leisure to question him.”“Fiend!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, his rage overpowering his grief. “If St. Baldrid do but speed me, I shall find him though he were to flee unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Meanwhile, may God in his mercy, and the blessed Virgin in her purity, protect theLadyBeatrice!”“Amen! my son,” said the father confessor. “Verily, I do grieve for thee and for her; and of a truth I do bitterly reproach mine own facile credence, the which hath led me to be the innocent author of this misfortune. Thou shalt have my prayers. Meanwhile, let us return to the object of my mission. Richard did send me to tell thee that he doth freely forgive thee thine indiscreet attack on his sacred person, seeing it was committed under a delusion. Thou and thine esquire are forthwith liberated, under his word as a king, and yours as a knight, that all that hath passed shall be buried in oblivion by both sides; and further, that thou, on thy part, shalt fasten no quarrel on Sir Hans de Vere for what hath passed.”“Nay,” replied Hepborne; “meseems that His Majesty doth ask too much in demanding of me to withhold punishment in a quarter where it is so justly due.”“Yes, and where it would be so well merited, Sir Knight,” observed the Friar Rushak. “But yet must thou yield for peace’s sake.”“Thou mayest tell the King, then,” said Hepborne, “that as a mark of the high sense I entertain of his hospitality, he shall be obeyed herein, and that Sir Hans de Vere shall find shelter under it from my just indignation.”“And now let me show thee forth, Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak.“Ere I go,” said Hepborne, forgetting not the misery of others amid his own affliction; “ere I go hence let me entreat[580]thee to use thine influence with His Majesty for the liberation of mine host, Master Lawrence Ratcliffe.”“Knowest thou aught of this same Ratcliffe, Sir Knight?” demanded the Friar after a pause, during which he endeavoured to read Hepborne’s countenance.“Nay, nothing further than that I have experienced his hospitality by His Majesty’s good will,” replied Hepborne.“And how may he have treated thee and thine?” inquired Rushak, resuming a careless air.“With a kindness for which I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude,” replied Hepborne.“’Tis well,” replied Rushak. “Then may I tell thee in confidence that he hath been for some time suspected as a malcontent, and after thine attempt of yesternight against the King, he was taken up by the officious minions of power, as the most likely person to have set thee on. But I may now promise for his liberation. Thou shalt forthwith see him at his own house, and he shall know, ere he goeth, that it is to thee he oweth his liberty.”Sir Patrick Hepborne now hastened home to his lodgings, whither he was soon afterwards followed by his esquire and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe. The former was all joy, and the latter all gratitude. By and by he was joined by Adam of Gordon, who wept bitterly for the fate of the Lady Beatrice. Hepborne, much as he wanted comfort himself, found it necessary to administer it to the good old man, whom he immediately took into his service. He was now impatient to begin his quest after the Franciscan, and he would have quitted London immediately could he have easily procured a safe-conduct for himself individually; but this could not be granted. Sir David Lindsay, however, having witnessed the perfect recovery of the Lord Welles, on whom he had been unceasing in his attendance, he readily yielded to Hepborne’s impatience, and the brave band of Scottish knights departed, leaving a sweet odour of good fame, both for courtesy and deeds of arms, behind them.Their journey was speedily and safely performed; and they were no sooner in Scotland than Hepborne hastened to Hailes Castle, whither he was accompanied by his friends. Thence he was eager to pursue his way northwards to Elgin, where he believed that the Franciscan had his abode, and whither he thought it likely that he had conveyed his prisoner. But Sir John Halyburton, to whom he had been much attached ever since their first acquaintance at Tarnawa, and with whom his[581]friendship had been drawn yet tighter by the intercourse he held during their late expedition, had already extracted a promise from him that he would be present at his marriage with the Lady Jane de Vaux, a promise from which he felt it impossible to rid himself by any excuse he could invent. But this, he hoped, would occasion him but small delay, for the Lord of Dirleton, with his lady and daughter, were understood to be with the Court at Scone; and thither Sir John Halyburton resolved to proceed immediately, in the hope that the consummation of his happiness would not be long deferred. Delay to Hepborne was distraction; but it was at least some small comfort to him, that at Scone he would be so much nearer that part of Scotland whither his anxiety now so powerfully drew him.The whole party then hastened to Scone, which the residence of the Court had already made the general rendezvous of the great. There Sir Patrick Hepborne had the happiness to find his father, and there he also embraced his happy sister Isabelle, and her Assueton. The Lord of Dirleton and his lady expressed much pleasure in again enjoying his society; but, to the great grief of Sir John Halyburton, and to the secret mortification of his friend Sir Patrick, the Lady Jane de Vaux was not with her father and mother, for, not being aware of the so early return of the knights from England, they had permitted their daughter to accompany the Countess of Moray from Aberdeen to Tarnawa, whence that noble lady was daily expected to bring her to Scone.The venerable King Robert received the knights who had so nobly supported the honour of Scotland on the bloody field of Otterbourne with distinguished cordiality and condescension. Sir Patrick Hepborne was among those who were most highly honoured. To him was granted the privilege, only extended to a limited number of courtiers, of entering the Royal presence at all times; and Robert, pressing his hand with a warmth which kings seldom permit themselves to show, told him that the more frequently he availed himself of the power of approaching him, the more he would add to his satisfaction. This flattering reception from his aged King, together with the gratifying notice bestowed on him by the Earl of Fife and Menteith, now the Regent of the Kingdom, might have made him well contented to prolong his residence at Court, and little regret the delay of Halyburton’s marriage, had it not been for the thought, that never forsook him, of the mysterious fate and probable misery of the Lady Beatrice. His mind was[582]ceaselessly employed in fancying a thousand improbable things regarding her, and he was generally abstracted in the midst of those gay scenes which the politic Regent took care should follow one another with the greatest rapidity, that he might the better keep his hold of the fickle hearts of the nobles. In vain were the fairest eyes of the Court thrown upon Sir Patrick Hepborne: their warm glances were invariably chilled by the freezing indifference by which they were met.Day after day passed away, and still no appearance of the Countess of Moray and her lovely companion; and Halyburton’s loudly-expressed impatience was only to be equalled by that which affected Hepborne in secret. The two knights had nearly agreed to proceed northwards together, a plan proposed by Hepborne, and listened to by Halyburton with great gratitude, as he considered it a very strong proof of his friend’s anxiety for his happiness. But, happening to recollect that the party from Tarnawa might reach Scone perhaps a few hours only after they should leave it on this doubtful expedition, and that the long-wished-for meeting with his beloved Jane de Vaux might thus be much delayed, instead of hastened, Halyburton, to Hepborne’s very great grief, abandoned the scheme as unwise. Soon afterwards came the intelligence of the burning of Elgin, which, whilst it threw a gloom over the whole Court, filled Hepborne’s mind with fresh apprehensions and anxieties.
[Contents]CHAPTER LXXI.The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale.Allowing the Wolfe of Badenoch and his friend the Franciscan to proceed on their journey, we must now return to inquire into the fate of Sir Patrick Hepborne. We left him lying on the straw in his dungeon, giving way to a paroxysm of grief for having been so cruelly rent from Lady Beatrice, tormenting himself with fears for her safety, and refusing the comfort which his esquire Mortimer Sang, and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe, were in vain attempting to administer to him. Whilst he was in this state of bitter affliction, the door of the dungeon was again opened, and a number of guards entering, silently approached him. Believing that they were about to lead him to immediate execution, he rose to meet them.“I am ready,” said he recklessly; “my life is now but of little value to me. The sooner it is over the better. Lead on, then, my friends.”Mortimer Sang sprang forward to prevent their seizure of his master, but he was speedily overpowered, and Sir Patrick was led passively away.He was conducted through a long dark passage, and finally lodged in a cell, to which he ascended by a short circular flight of steps. He questioned his conductors as to what was to be his fate, but they retired without giving him any reply. His new prison, though small, was less dark and gloomy than the larger dungeon from which he had been taken; and though sufficiently strong, it had an air of greater comfort about it; yet would he willingly have exchanged it for that he had left, to have been again blessed with the society of his esquire and the wine merchant. He seemed to be now condemned to solitary imprisonment, and he anticipated the worst possible intentions from this seclusion. The survey he took of the four walls that enclosed him left no hope of escape. There was indeed another small door besides that by which he had entered, but both were so powerfully fenced with iron as to be perfectly impregnable. He viewed this second door with an eye of suspicion, and the idea that through it might enter the assassins who were privily to despatch him, presented death to him in a shape so uninviting, that, ready as he had been to lay down his life but the moment before, he now resolved to sell it as dearly[577]as he could, although he had no other weapon but his hands to defend himself with.He sat down on a stone bench in a niche in the wall opposite to this suspicious door, and, fixing his eye on it, he fell into a reverie, from which he was roused by the sound of footsteps, as if descending towards it. He sprang up, that he might be prepared for action. The door opened, and a young man in the garb of a lacquey, and altogether unarmed, appeared at the bottom of a very narrow spiral staircase. He made an obeisance to Sir Patrick, and silently, but respectfully beckoned him to follow; and the knight, resolving to pursue his fate, immediately obeyed. He was conducted up several flights of steps, until at length, to his great surprise, he was brought into a little oratory, where he was again left alone.He had not waited long, when a pannel in the wall, behind the altar, opened, and a Franciscan Friar appeared. The knight regarded him with a calm and steady look. It was Friar Rushak, the King’s Confessor.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the monk mildly to him, “I come to thee on private embassage from the Royal Richard. Thine intemperance in breaking in upon his privacy as thou didst, hath led thee to be accused, by some who are more zealous than prudent, of having made a premeditated attempt to assassinate His Majesty. But this hath been done without the Royal sanction; for albeit that appearances do of a surety most powerfully array themselves against thee, yet he doth acquit thee of all such traitorous intent. But thou hast been led by blind fury to lift thine hand against the Sovereign whose hospitality thou dost now enjoy, and that, too, in defence of one against whom he did mean nothing dishonourable, though circumstances may have wrought up her fears to believe that he did.”“What!” cried Hepborne, with a strong expression of doubt in his face; “so King Richard doth deny all dishonourable intention against the Lady Beatrice? But what availeth it if he doth so? Hath he not sithence devoted her to certain destruction, by giving her up to one who hath already proved himself to be her enemy, yea, an assassin, who would have murdered her?”“Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak, after some moments’ thought, “trust me, the King had no hand in the disposal of her. He did never see the lady after that moment when thou didst force him to retreat before thine inconsiderate rage. But, an assassin—a murderer, saidst thou? How canst thou so accuse a brother of St. Francis?”[578]“Because I have good reason to know that he did once steal into the chamber of the Lady Beatrice at the hour of midnight, armed with a dagger,” cried Hepborne impatiently; “and had she not saved herself by flight——”“Thou must suffer me to tell thee that this strange tale is difficult of credence with me,” said Friar Rushak, interrupting him; “the more, too, that it cometh from the very knight whom report doth accuse of having taught the damsel to stray from the path of virtue, and to whom she oweth her present infamy.”“What mean ye, friar?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, with mingled indignation and astonishment. “Who hath so foully and falsely dared to charge me and the Lady Beatrice—she who is pure as an angel of light—Who, I say, hath dared to prefer so foul and false an accusation?”“The Franciscan whom thou——”“Villain!” cried Sir Patrick, interrupting Friar Rushak, and giving way to a rage which he was quite unable to control; “villain, black and damnable villain! I swear by the honour of a knight, that this charge is false as hell. Pardon me, holy father, for my just ire. I do beseech thee, tell me what thou dost know of this wretch, of this assassin, who doth so foully stab reputation too, and who hath so imposed on thy too easy belief—What, I pray thee, dost thou know of him?”“Nay, I am ashamed to say, I know not much,” replied Friar Rushak, already shaken in his opinion of the Franciscan by the solemnity of Sir Patrick’s asseverations; “yet what I do know I was about to tell thee, when thou didst break in on my speech. Being yesterday at the Franciscan Convent in the Newgate Street, a stranger brother of the order did claim a private audience of me, when he entreated mine aid to recover a damsel of good family from the house of the Lady de Vere. He stated his belief that she had come hither for the purpose of meeting with thee, with whom she had once lived in lawless love, hid in the disguise of a page, a connection which both were impatient to renew. He said that it was intended to bury her disgrace in a convent. Fearing, for certain reasons, that the King might see her at the Lady de Vere’s, and so be misled to take up with one so light, I resolved to do my best to assist in her removal, and to this I was afterwards the more spurred on by hearing that Richard had gone expressly to meet with her, as I did believe, by her own especial consent. Availing myself of my private knowledge of the palace, I did enable the stranger Franciscan to take her from the apartment, where she succeeded[579]in convincing me that she was no willing captive; and the King’s confession of this morning, the which I am so far permitted to impart to thee, hath satisfied me that I had weened too gravely of the matter as it did regard him, and that the whole of his share in it did but arise from a harmless piece of humour.”“And whither hath the Lady Beatrice been carried by this villain?” cried Hepborne, in all the agony of apprehension for her safety.“He took her hence by water,” said Friar Rushak, “and Scotland did seem to be the object of his voyage. But, of a truth, mine intercourse with the foul deceiver was so short that I had little leisure to question him.”“Fiend!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, his rage overpowering his grief. “If St. Baldrid do but speed me, I shall find him though he were to flee unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Meanwhile, may God in his mercy, and the blessed Virgin in her purity, protect theLadyBeatrice!”“Amen! my son,” said the father confessor. “Verily, I do grieve for thee and for her; and of a truth I do bitterly reproach mine own facile credence, the which hath led me to be the innocent author of this misfortune. Thou shalt have my prayers. Meanwhile, let us return to the object of my mission. Richard did send me to tell thee that he doth freely forgive thee thine indiscreet attack on his sacred person, seeing it was committed under a delusion. Thou and thine esquire are forthwith liberated, under his word as a king, and yours as a knight, that all that hath passed shall be buried in oblivion by both sides; and further, that thou, on thy part, shalt fasten no quarrel on Sir Hans de Vere for what hath passed.”“Nay,” replied Hepborne; “meseems that His Majesty doth ask too much in demanding of me to withhold punishment in a quarter where it is so justly due.”“Yes, and where it would be so well merited, Sir Knight,” observed the Friar Rushak. “But yet must thou yield for peace’s sake.”“Thou mayest tell the King, then,” said Hepborne, “that as a mark of the high sense I entertain of his hospitality, he shall be obeyed herein, and that Sir Hans de Vere shall find shelter under it from my just indignation.”“And now let me show thee forth, Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak.“Ere I go,” said Hepborne, forgetting not the misery of others amid his own affliction; “ere I go hence let me entreat[580]thee to use thine influence with His Majesty for the liberation of mine host, Master Lawrence Ratcliffe.”“Knowest thou aught of this same Ratcliffe, Sir Knight?” demanded the Friar after a pause, during which he endeavoured to read Hepborne’s countenance.“Nay, nothing further than that I have experienced his hospitality by His Majesty’s good will,” replied Hepborne.“And how may he have treated thee and thine?” inquired Rushak, resuming a careless air.“With a kindness for which I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude,” replied Hepborne.“’Tis well,” replied Rushak. “Then may I tell thee in confidence that he hath been for some time suspected as a malcontent, and after thine attempt of yesternight against the King, he was taken up by the officious minions of power, as the most likely person to have set thee on. But I may now promise for his liberation. Thou shalt forthwith see him at his own house, and he shall know, ere he goeth, that it is to thee he oweth his liberty.”Sir Patrick Hepborne now hastened home to his lodgings, whither he was soon afterwards followed by his esquire and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe. The former was all joy, and the latter all gratitude. By and by he was joined by Adam of Gordon, who wept bitterly for the fate of the Lady Beatrice. Hepborne, much as he wanted comfort himself, found it necessary to administer it to the good old man, whom he immediately took into his service. He was now impatient to begin his quest after the Franciscan, and he would have quitted London immediately could he have easily procured a safe-conduct for himself individually; but this could not be granted. Sir David Lindsay, however, having witnessed the perfect recovery of the Lord Welles, on whom he had been unceasing in his attendance, he readily yielded to Hepborne’s impatience, and the brave band of Scottish knights departed, leaving a sweet odour of good fame, both for courtesy and deeds of arms, behind them.Their journey was speedily and safely performed; and they were no sooner in Scotland than Hepborne hastened to Hailes Castle, whither he was accompanied by his friends. Thence he was eager to pursue his way northwards to Elgin, where he believed that the Franciscan had his abode, and whither he thought it likely that he had conveyed his prisoner. But Sir John Halyburton, to whom he had been much attached ever since their first acquaintance at Tarnawa, and with whom his[581]friendship had been drawn yet tighter by the intercourse he held during their late expedition, had already extracted a promise from him that he would be present at his marriage with the Lady Jane de Vaux, a promise from which he felt it impossible to rid himself by any excuse he could invent. But this, he hoped, would occasion him but small delay, for the Lord of Dirleton, with his lady and daughter, were understood to be with the Court at Scone; and thither Sir John Halyburton resolved to proceed immediately, in the hope that the consummation of his happiness would not be long deferred. Delay to Hepborne was distraction; but it was at least some small comfort to him, that at Scone he would be so much nearer that part of Scotland whither his anxiety now so powerfully drew him.The whole party then hastened to Scone, which the residence of the Court had already made the general rendezvous of the great. There Sir Patrick Hepborne had the happiness to find his father, and there he also embraced his happy sister Isabelle, and her Assueton. The Lord of Dirleton and his lady expressed much pleasure in again enjoying his society; but, to the great grief of Sir John Halyburton, and to the secret mortification of his friend Sir Patrick, the Lady Jane de Vaux was not with her father and mother, for, not being aware of the so early return of the knights from England, they had permitted their daughter to accompany the Countess of Moray from Aberdeen to Tarnawa, whence that noble lady was daily expected to bring her to Scone.The venerable King Robert received the knights who had so nobly supported the honour of Scotland on the bloody field of Otterbourne with distinguished cordiality and condescension. Sir Patrick Hepborne was among those who were most highly honoured. To him was granted the privilege, only extended to a limited number of courtiers, of entering the Royal presence at all times; and Robert, pressing his hand with a warmth which kings seldom permit themselves to show, told him that the more frequently he availed himself of the power of approaching him, the more he would add to his satisfaction. This flattering reception from his aged King, together with the gratifying notice bestowed on him by the Earl of Fife and Menteith, now the Regent of the Kingdom, might have made him well contented to prolong his residence at Court, and little regret the delay of Halyburton’s marriage, had it not been for the thought, that never forsook him, of the mysterious fate and probable misery of the Lady Beatrice. His mind was[582]ceaselessly employed in fancying a thousand improbable things regarding her, and he was generally abstracted in the midst of those gay scenes which the politic Regent took care should follow one another with the greatest rapidity, that he might the better keep his hold of the fickle hearts of the nobles. In vain were the fairest eyes of the Court thrown upon Sir Patrick Hepborne: their warm glances were invariably chilled by the freezing indifference by which they were met.Day after day passed away, and still no appearance of the Countess of Moray and her lovely companion; and Halyburton’s loudly-expressed impatience was only to be equalled by that which affected Hepborne in secret. The two knights had nearly agreed to proceed northwards together, a plan proposed by Hepborne, and listened to by Halyburton with great gratitude, as he considered it a very strong proof of his friend’s anxiety for his happiness. But, happening to recollect that the party from Tarnawa might reach Scone perhaps a few hours only after they should leave it on this doubtful expedition, and that the long-wished-for meeting with his beloved Jane de Vaux might thus be much delayed, instead of hastened, Halyburton, to Hepborne’s very great grief, abandoned the scheme as unwise. Soon afterwards came the intelligence of the burning of Elgin, which, whilst it threw a gloom over the whole Court, filled Hepborne’s mind with fresh apprehensions and anxieties.
CHAPTER LXXI.The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale.
The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale.
The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale.
Allowing the Wolfe of Badenoch and his friend the Franciscan to proceed on their journey, we must now return to inquire into the fate of Sir Patrick Hepborne. We left him lying on the straw in his dungeon, giving way to a paroxysm of grief for having been so cruelly rent from Lady Beatrice, tormenting himself with fears for her safety, and refusing the comfort which his esquire Mortimer Sang, and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe, were in vain attempting to administer to him. Whilst he was in this state of bitter affliction, the door of the dungeon was again opened, and a number of guards entering, silently approached him. Believing that they were about to lead him to immediate execution, he rose to meet them.“I am ready,” said he recklessly; “my life is now but of little value to me. The sooner it is over the better. Lead on, then, my friends.”Mortimer Sang sprang forward to prevent their seizure of his master, but he was speedily overpowered, and Sir Patrick was led passively away.He was conducted through a long dark passage, and finally lodged in a cell, to which he ascended by a short circular flight of steps. He questioned his conductors as to what was to be his fate, but they retired without giving him any reply. His new prison, though small, was less dark and gloomy than the larger dungeon from which he had been taken; and though sufficiently strong, it had an air of greater comfort about it; yet would he willingly have exchanged it for that he had left, to have been again blessed with the society of his esquire and the wine merchant. He seemed to be now condemned to solitary imprisonment, and he anticipated the worst possible intentions from this seclusion. The survey he took of the four walls that enclosed him left no hope of escape. There was indeed another small door besides that by which he had entered, but both were so powerfully fenced with iron as to be perfectly impregnable. He viewed this second door with an eye of suspicion, and the idea that through it might enter the assassins who were privily to despatch him, presented death to him in a shape so uninviting, that, ready as he had been to lay down his life but the moment before, he now resolved to sell it as dearly[577]as he could, although he had no other weapon but his hands to defend himself with.He sat down on a stone bench in a niche in the wall opposite to this suspicious door, and, fixing his eye on it, he fell into a reverie, from which he was roused by the sound of footsteps, as if descending towards it. He sprang up, that he might be prepared for action. The door opened, and a young man in the garb of a lacquey, and altogether unarmed, appeared at the bottom of a very narrow spiral staircase. He made an obeisance to Sir Patrick, and silently, but respectfully beckoned him to follow; and the knight, resolving to pursue his fate, immediately obeyed. He was conducted up several flights of steps, until at length, to his great surprise, he was brought into a little oratory, where he was again left alone.He had not waited long, when a pannel in the wall, behind the altar, opened, and a Franciscan Friar appeared. The knight regarded him with a calm and steady look. It was Friar Rushak, the King’s Confessor.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the monk mildly to him, “I come to thee on private embassage from the Royal Richard. Thine intemperance in breaking in upon his privacy as thou didst, hath led thee to be accused, by some who are more zealous than prudent, of having made a premeditated attempt to assassinate His Majesty. But this hath been done without the Royal sanction; for albeit that appearances do of a surety most powerfully array themselves against thee, yet he doth acquit thee of all such traitorous intent. But thou hast been led by blind fury to lift thine hand against the Sovereign whose hospitality thou dost now enjoy, and that, too, in defence of one against whom he did mean nothing dishonourable, though circumstances may have wrought up her fears to believe that he did.”“What!” cried Hepborne, with a strong expression of doubt in his face; “so King Richard doth deny all dishonourable intention against the Lady Beatrice? But what availeth it if he doth so? Hath he not sithence devoted her to certain destruction, by giving her up to one who hath already proved himself to be her enemy, yea, an assassin, who would have murdered her?”“Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak, after some moments’ thought, “trust me, the King had no hand in the disposal of her. He did never see the lady after that moment when thou didst force him to retreat before thine inconsiderate rage. But, an assassin—a murderer, saidst thou? How canst thou so accuse a brother of St. Francis?”[578]“Because I have good reason to know that he did once steal into the chamber of the Lady Beatrice at the hour of midnight, armed with a dagger,” cried Hepborne impatiently; “and had she not saved herself by flight——”“Thou must suffer me to tell thee that this strange tale is difficult of credence with me,” said Friar Rushak, interrupting him; “the more, too, that it cometh from the very knight whom report doth accuse of having taught the damsel to stray from the path of virtue, and to whom she oweth her present infamy.”“What mean ye, friar?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, with mingled indignation and astonishment. “Who hath so foully and falsely dared to charge me and the Lady Beatrice—she who is pure as an angel of light—Who, I say, hath dared to prefer so foul and false an accusation?”“The Franciscan whom thou——”“Villain!” cried Sir Patrick, interrupting Friar Rushak, and giving way to a rage which he was quite unable to control; “villain, black and damnable villain! I swear by the honour of a knight, that this charge is false as hell. Pardon me, holy father, for my just ire. I do beseech thee, tell me what thou dost know of this wretch, of this assassin, who doth so foully stab reputation too, and who hath so imposed on thy too easy belief—What, I pray thee, dost thou know of him?”“Nay, I am ashamed to say, I know not much,” replied Friar Rushak, already shaken in his opinion of the Franciscan by the solemnity of Sir Patrick’s asseverations; “yet what I do know I was about to tell thee, when thou didst break in on my speech. Being yesterday at the Franciscan Convent in the Newgate Street, a stranger brother of the order did claim a private audience of me, when he entreated mine aid to recover a damsel of good family from the house of the Lady de Vere. He stated his belief that she had come hither for the purpose of meeting with thee, with whom she had once lived in lawless love, hid in the disguise of a page, a connection which both were impatient to renew. He said that it was intended to bury her disgrace in a convent. Fearing, for certain reasons, that the King might see her at the Lady de Vere’s, and so be misled to take up with one so light, I resolved to do my best to assist in her removal, and to this I was afterwards the more spurred on by hearing that Richard had gone expressly to meet with her, as I did believe, by her own especial consent. Availing myself of my private knowledge of the palace, I did enable the stranger Franciscan to take her from the apartment, where she succeeded[579]in convincing me that she was no willing captive; and the King’s confession of this morning, the which I am so far permitted to impart to thee, hath satisfied me that I had weened too gravely of the matter as it did regard him, and that the whole of his share in it did but arise from a harmless piece of humour.”“And whither hath the Lady Beatrice been carried by this villain?” cried Hepborne, in all the agony of apprehension for her safety.“He took her hence by water,” said Friar Rushak, “and Scotland did seem to be the object of his voyage. But, of a truth, mine intercourse with the foul deceiver was so short that I had little leisure to question him.”“Fiend!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, his rage overpowering his grief. “If St. Baldrid do but speed me, I shall find him though he were to flee unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Meanwhile, may God in his mercy, and the blessed Virgin in her purity, protect theLadyBeatrice!”“Amen! my son,” said the father confessor. “Verily, I do grieve for thee and for her; and of a truth I do bitterly reproach mine own facile credence, the which hath led me to be the innocent author of this misfortune. Thou shalt have my prayers. Meanwhile, let us return to the object of my mission. Richard did send me to tell thee that he doth freely forgive thee thine indiscreet attack on his sacred person, seeing it was committed under a delusion. Thou and thine esquire are forthwith liberated, under his word as a king, and yours as a knight, that all that hath passed shall be buried in oblivion by both sides; and further, that thou, on thy part, shalt fasten no quarrel on Sir Hans de Vere for what hath passed.”“Nay,” replied Hepborne; “meseems that His Majesty doth ask too much in demanding of me to withhold punishment in a quarter where it is so justly due.”“Yes, and where it would be so well merited, Sir Knight,” observed the Friar Rushak. “But yet must thou yield for peace’s sake.”“Thou mayest tell the King, then,” said Hepborne, “that as a mark of the high sense I entertain of his hospitality, he shall be obeyed herein, and that Sir Hans de Vere shall find shelter under it from my just indignation.”“And now let me show thee forth, Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak.“Ere I go,” said Hepborne, forgetting not the misery of others amid his own affliction; “ere I go hence let me entreat[580]thee to use thine influence with His Majesty for the liberation of mine host, Master Lawrence Ratcliffe.”“Knowest thou aught of this same Ratcliffe, Sir Knight?” demanded the Friar after a pause, during which he endeavoured to read Hepborne’s countenance.“Nay, nothing further than that I have experienced his hospitality by His Majesty’s good will,” replied Hepborne.“And how may he have treated thee and thine?” inquired Rushak, resuming a careless air.“With a kindness for which I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude,” replied Hepborne.“’Tis well,” replied Rushak. “Then may I tell thee in confidence that he hath been for some time suspected as a malcontent, and after thine attempt of yesternight against the King, he was taken up by the officious minions of power, as the most likely person to have set thee on. But I may now promise for his liberation. Thou shalt forthwith see him at his own house, and he shall know, ere he goeth, that it is to thee he oweth his liberty.”Sir Patrick Hepborne now hastened home to his lodgings, whither he was soon afterwards followed by his esquire and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe. The former was all joy, and the latter all gratitude. By and by he was joined by Adam of Gordon, who wept bitterly for the fate of the Lady Beatrice. Hepborne, much as he wanted comfort himself, found it necessary to administer it to the good old man, whom he immediately took into his service. He was now impatient to begin his quest after the Franciscan, and he would have quitted London immediately could he have easily procured a safe-conduct for himself individually; but this could not be granted. Sir David Lindsay, however, having witnessed the perfect recovery of the Lord Welles, on whom he had been unceasing in his attendance, he readily yielded to Hepborne’s impatience, and the brave band of Scottish knights departed, leaving a sweet odour of good fame, both for courtesy and deeds of arms, behind them.Their journey was speedily and safely performed; and they were no sooner in Scotland than Hepborne hastened to Hailes Castle, whither he was accompanied by his friends. Thence he was eager to pursue his way northwards to Elgin, where he believed that the Franciscan had his abode, and whither he thought it likely that he had conveyed his prisoner. But Sir John Halyburton, to whom he had been much attached ever since their first acquaintance at Tarnawa, and with whom his[581]friendship had been drawn yet tighter by the intercourse he held during their late expedition, had already extracted a promise from him that he would be present at his marriage with the Lady Jane de Vaux, a promise from which he felt it impossible to rid himself by any excuse he could invent. But this, he hoped, would occasion him but small delay, for the Lord of Dirleton, with his lady and daughter, were understood to be with the Court at Scone; and thither Sir John Halyburton resolved to proceed immediately, in the hope that the consummation of his happiness would not be long deferred. Delay to Hepborne was distraction; but it was at least some small comfort to him, that at Scone he would be so much nearer that part of Scotland whither his anxiety now so powerfully drew him.The whole party then hastened to Scone, which the residence of the Court had already made the general rendezvous of the great. There Sir Patrick Hepborne had the happiness to find his father, and there he also embraced his happy sister Isabelle, and her Assueton. The Lord of Dirleton and his lady expressed much pleasure in again enjoying his society; but, to the great grief of Sir John Halyburton, and to the secret mortification of his friend Sir Patrick, the Lady Jane de Vaux was not with her father and mother, for, not being aware of the so early return of the knights from England, they had permitted their daughter to accompany the Countess of Moray from Aberdeen to Tarnawa, whence that noble lady was daily expected to bring her to Scone.The venerable King Robert received the knights who had so nobly supported the honour of Scotland on the bloody field of Otterbourne with distinguished cordiality and condescension. Sir Patrick Hepborne was among those who were most highly honoured. To him was granted the privilege, only extended to a limited number of courtiers, of entering the Royal presence at all times; and Robert, pressing his hand with a warmth which kings seldom permit themselves to show, told him that the more frequently he availed himself of the power of approaching him, the more he would add to his satisfaction. This flattering reception from his aged King, together with the gratifying notice bestowed on him by the Earl of Fife and Menteith, now the Regent of the Kingdom, might have made him well contented to prolong his residence at Court, and little regret the delay of Halyburton’s marriage, had it not been for the thought, that never forsook him, of the mysterious fate and probable misery of the Lady Beatrice. His mind was[582]ceaselessly employed in fancying a thousand improbable things regarding her, and he was generally abstracted in the midst of those gay scenes which the politic Regent took care should follow one another with the greatest rapidity, that he might the better keep his hold of the fickle hearts of the nobles. In vain were the fairest eyes of the Court thrown upon Sir Patrick Hepborne: their warm glances were invariably chilled by the freezing indifference by which they were met.Day after day passed away, and still no appearance of the Countess of Moray and her lovely companion; and Halyburton’s loudly-expressed impatience was only to be equalled by that which affected Hepborne in secret. The two knights had nearly agreed to proceed northwards together, a plan proposed by Hepborne, and listened to by Halyburton with great gratitude, as he considered it a very strong proof of his friend’s anxiety for his happiness. But, happening to recollect that the party from Tarnawa might reach Scone perhaps a few hours only after they should leave it on this doubtful expedition, and that the long-wished-for meeting with his beloved Jane de Vaux might thus be much delayed, instead of hastened, Halyburton, to Hepborne’s very great grief, abandoned the scheme as unwise. Soon afterwards came the intelligence of the burning of Elgin, which, whilst it threw a gloom over the whole Court, filled Hepborne’s mind with fresh apprehensions and anxieties.
Allowing the Wolfe of Badenoch and his friend the Franciscan to proceed on their journey, we must now return to inquire into the fate of Sir Patrick Hepborne. We left him lying on the straw in his dungeon, giving way to a paroxysm of grief for having been so cruelly rent from Lady Beatrice, tormenting himself with fears for her safety, and refusing the comfort which his esquire Mortimer Sang, and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe, were in vain attempting to administer to him. Whilst he was in this state of bitter affliction, the door of the dungeon was again opened, and a number of guards entering, silently approached him. Believing that they were about to lead him to immediate execution, he rose to meet them.
“I am ready,” said he recklessly; “my life is now but of little value to me. The sooner it is over the better. Lead on, then, my friends.”
Mortimer Sang sprang forward to prevent their seizure of his master, but he was speedily overpowered, and Sir Patrick was led passively away.
He was conducted through a long dark passage, and finally lodged in a cell, to which he ascended by a short circular flight of steps. He questioned his conductors as to what was to be his fate, but they retired without giving him any reply. His new prison, though small, was less dark and gloomy than the larger dungeon from which he had been taken; and though sufficiently strong, it had an air of greater comfort about it; yet would he willingly have exchanged it for that he had left, to have been again blessed with the society of his esquire and the wine merchant. He seemed to be now condemned to solitary imprisonment, and he anticipated the worst possible intentions from this seclusion. The survey he took of the four walls that enclosed him left no hope of escape. There was indeed another small door besides that by which he had entered, but both were so powerfully fenced with iron as to be perfectly impregnable. He viewed this second door with an eye of suspicion, and the idea that through it might enter the assassins who were privily to despatch him, presented death to him in a shape so uninviting, that, ready as he had been to lay down his life but the moment before, he now resolved to sell it as dearly[577]as he could, although he had no other weapon but his hands to defend himself with.
He sat down on a stone bench in a niche in the wall opposite to this suspicious door, and, fixing his eye on it, he fell into a reverie, from which he was roused by the sound of footsteps, as if descending towards it. He sprang up, that he might be prepared for action. The door opened, and a young man in the garb of a lacquey, and altogether unarmed, appeared at the bottom of a very narrow spiral staircase. He made an obeisance to Sir Patrick, and silently, but respectfully beckoned him to follow; and the knight, resolving to pursue his fate, immediately obeyed. He was conducted up several flights of steps, until at length, to his great surprise, he was brought into a little oratory, where he was again left alone.
He had not waited long, when a pannel in the wall, behind the altar, opened, and a Franciscan Friar appeared. The knight regarded him with a calm and steady look. It was Friar Rushak, the King’s Confessor.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the monk mildly to him, “I come to thee on private embassage from the Royal Richard. Thine intemperance in breaking in upon his privacy as thou didst, hath led thee to be accused, by some who are more zealous than prudent, of having made a premeditated attempt to assassinate His Majesty. But this hath been done without the Royal sanction; for albeit that appearances do of a surety most powerfully array themselves against thee, yet he doth acquit thee of all such traitorous intent. But thou hast been led by blind fury to lift thine hand against the Sovereign whose hospitality thou dost now enjoy, and that, too, in defence of one against whom he did mean nothing dishonourable, though circumstances may have wrought up her fears to believe that he did.”
“What!” cried Hepborne, with a strong expression of doubt in his face; “so King Richard doth deny all dishonourable intention against the Lady Beatrice? But what availeth it if he doth so? Hath he not sithence devoted her to certain destruction, by giving her up to one who hath already proved himself to be her enemy, yea, an assassin, who would have murdered her?”
“Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak, after some moments’ thought, “trust me, the King had no hand in the disposal of her. He did never see the lady after that moment when thou didst force him to retreat before thine inconsiderate rage. But, an assassin—a murderer, saidst thou? How canst thou so accuse a brother of St. Francis?”[578]
“Because I have good reason to know that he did once steal into the chamber of the Lady Beatrice at the hour of midnight, armed with a dagger,” cried Hepborne impatiently; “and had she not saved herself by flight——”
“Thou must suffer me to tell thee that this strange tale is difficult of credence with me,” said Friar Rushak, interrupting him; “the more, too, that it cometh from the very knight whom report doth accuse of having taught the damsel to stray from the path of virtue, and to whom she oweth her present infamy.”
“What mean ye, friar?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, with mingled indignation and astonishment. “Who hath so foully and falsely dared to charge me and the Lady Beatrice—she who is pure as an angel of light—Who, I say, hath dared to prefer so foul and false an accusation?”
“The Franciscan whom thou——”
“Villain!” cried Sir Patrick, interrupting Friar Rushak, and giving way to a rage which he was quite unable to control; “villain, black and damnable villain! I swear by the honour of a knight, that this charge is false as hell. Pardon me, holy father, for my just ire. I do beseech thee, tell me what thou dost know of this wretch, of this assassin, who doth so foully stab reputation too, and who hath so imposed on thy too easy belief—What, I pray thee, dost thou know of him?”
“Nay, I am ashamed to say, I know not much,” replied Friar Rushak, already shaken in his opinion of the Franciscan by the solemnity of Sir Patrick’s asseverations; “yet what I do know I was about to tell thee, when thou didst break in on my speech. Being yesterday at the Franciscan Convent in the Newgate Street, a stranger brother of the order did claim a private audience of me, when he entreated mine aid to recover a damsel of good family from the house of the Lady de Vere. He stated his belief that she had come hither for the purpose of meeting with thee, with whom she had once lived in lawless love, hid in the disguise of a page, a connection which both were impatient to renew. He said that it was intended to bury her disgrace in a convent. Fearing, for certain reasons, that the King might see her at the Lady de Vere’s, and so be misled to take up with one so light, I resolved to do my best to assist in her removal, and to this I was afterwards the more spurred on by hearing that Richard had gone expressly to meet with her, as I did believe, by her own especial consent. Availing myself of my private knowledge of the palace, I did enable the stranger Franciscan to take her from the apartment, where she succeeded[579]in convincing me that she was no willing captive; and the King’s confession of this morning, the which I am so far permitted to impart to thee, hath satisfied me that I had weened too gravely of the matter as it did regard him, and that the whole of his share in it did but arise from a harmless piece of humour.”
“And whither hath the Lady Beatrice been carried by this villain?” cried Hepborne, in all the agony of apprehension for her safety.
“He took her hence by water,” said Friar Rushak, “and Scotland did seem to be the object of his voyage. But, of a truth, mine intercourse with the foul deceiver was so short that I had little leisure to question him.”
“Fiend!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, his rage overpowering his grief. “If St. Baldrid do but speed me, I shall find him though he were to flee unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Meanwhile, may God in his mercy, and the blessed Virgin in her purity, protect theLadyBeatrice!”
“Amen! my son,” said the father confessor. “Verily, I do grieve for thee and for her; and of a truth I do bitterly reproach mine own facile credence, the which hath led me to be the innocent author of this misfortune. Thou shalt have my prayers. Meanwhile, let us return to the object of my mission. Richard did send me to tell thee that he doth freely forgive thee thine indiscreet attack on his sacred person, seeing it was committed under a delusion. Thou and thine esquire are forthwith liberated, under his word as a king, and yours as a knight, that all that hath passed shall be buried in oblivion by both sides; and further, that thou, on thy part, shalt fasten no quarrel on Sir Hans de Vere for what hath passed.”
“Nay,” replied Hepborne; “meseems that His Majesty doth ask too much in demanding of me to withhold punishment in a quarter where it is so justly due.”
“Yes, and where it would be so well merited, Sir Knight,” observed the Friar Rushak. “But yet must thou yield for peace’s sake.”
“Thou mayest tell the King, then,” said Hepborne, “that as a mark of the high sense I entertain of his hospitality, he shall be obeyed herein, and that Sir Hans de Vere shall find shelter under it from my just indignation.”
“And now let me show thee forth, Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak.
“Ere I go,” said Hepborne, forgetting not the misery of others amid his own affliction; “ere I go hence let me entreat[580]thee to use thine influence with His Majesty for the liberation of mine host, Master Lawrence Ratcliffe.”
“Knowest thou aught of this same Ratcliffe, Sir Knight?” demanded the Friar after a pause, during which he endeavoured to read Hepborne’s countenance.
“Nay, nothing further than that I have experienced his hospitality by His Majesty’s good will,” replied Hepborne.
“And how may he have treated thee and thine?” inquired Rushak, resuming a careless air.
“With a kindness for which I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude,” replied Hepborne.
“’Tis well,” replied Rushak. “Then may I tell thee in confidence that he hath been for some time suspected as a malcontent, and after thine attempt of yesternight against the King, he was taken up by the officious minions of power, as the most likely person to have set thee on. But I may now promise for his liberation. Thou shalt forthwith see him at his own house, and he shall know, ere he goeth, that it is to thee he oweth his liberty.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne now hastened home to his lodgings, whither he was soon afterwards followed by his esquire and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe. The former was all joy, and the latter all gratitude. By and by he was joined by Adam of Gordon, who wept bitterly for the fate of the Lady Beatrice. Hepborne, much as he wanted comfort himself, found it necessary to administer it to the good old man, whom he immediately took into his service. He was now impatient to begin his quest after the Franciscan, and he would have quitted London immediately could he have easily procured a safe-conduct for himself individually; but this could not be granted. Sir David Lindsay, however, having witnessed the perfect recovery of the Lord Welles, on whom he had been unceasing in his attendance, he readily yielded to Hepborne’s impatience, and the brave band of Scottish knights departed, leaving a sweet odour of good fame, both for courtesy and deeds of arms, behind them.
Their journey was speedily and safely performed; and they were no sooner in Scotland than Hepborne hastened to Hailes Castle, whither he was accompanied by his friends. Thence he was eager to pursue his way northwards to Elgin, where he believed that the Franciscan had his abode, and whither he thought it likely that he had conveyed his prisoner. But Sir John Halyburton, to whom he had been much attached ever since their first acquaintance at Tarnawa, and with whom his[581]friendship had been drawn yet tighter by the intercourse he held during their late expedition, had already extracted a promise from him that he would be present at his marriage with the Lady Jane de Vaux, a promise from which he felt it impossible to rid himself by any excuse he could invent. But this, he hoped, would occasion him but small delay, for the Lord of Dirleton, with his lady and daughter, were understood to be with the Court at Scone; and thither Sir John Halyburton resolved to proceed immediately, in the hope that the consummation of his happiness would not be long deferred. Delay to Hepborne was distraction; but it was at least some small comfort to him, that at Scone he would be so much nearer that part of Scotland whither his anxiety now so powerfully drew him.
The whole party then hastened to Scone, which the residence of the Court had already made the general rendezvous of the great. There Sir Patrick Hepborne had the happiness to find his father, and there he also embraced his happy sister Isabelle, and her Assueton. The Lord of Dirleton and his lady expressed much pleasure in again enjoying his society; but, to the great grief of Sir John Halyburton, and to the secret mortification of his friend Sir Patrick, the Lady Jane de Vaux was not with her father and mother, for, not being aware of the so early return of the knights from England, they had permitted their daughter to accompany the Countess of Moray from Aberdeen to Tarnawa, whence that noble lady was daily expected to bring her to Scone.
The venerable King Robert received the knights who had so nobly supported the honour of Scotland on the bloody field of Otterbourne with distinguished cordiality and condescension. Sir Patrick Hepborne was among those who were most highly honoured. To him was granted the privilege, only extended to a limited number of courtiers, of entering the Royal presence at all times; and Robert, pressing his hand with a warmth which kings seldom permit themselves to show, told him that the more frequently he availed himself of the power of approaching him, the more he would add to his satisfaction. This flattering reception from his aged King, together with the gratifying notice bestowed on him by the Earl of Fife and Menteith, now the Regent of the Kingdom, might have made him well contented to prolong his residence at Court, and little regret the delay of Halyburton’s marriage, had it not been for the thought, that never forsook him, of the mysterious fate and probable misery of the Lady Beatrice. His mind was[582]ceaselessly employed in fancying a thousand improbable things regarding her, and he was generally abstracted in the midst of those gay scenes which the politic Regent took care should follow one another with the greatest rapidity, that he might the better keep his hold of the fickle hearts of the nobles. In vain were the fairest eyes of the Court thrown upon Sir Patrick Hepborne: their warm glances were invariably chilled by the freezing indifference by which they were met.
Day after day passed away, and still no appearance of the Countess of Moray and her lovely companion; and Halyburton’s loudly-expressed impatience was only to be equalled by that which affected Hepborne in secret. The two knights had nearly agreed to proceed northwards together, a plan proposed by Hepborne, and listened to by Halyburton with great gratitude, as he considered it a very strong proof of his friend’s anxiety for his happiness. But, happening to recollect that the party from Tarnawa might reach Scone perhaps a few hours only after they should leave it on this doubtful expedition, and that the long-wished-for meeting with his beloved Jane de Vaux might thus be much delayed, instead of hastened, Halyburton, to Hepborne’s very great grief, abandoned the scheme as unwise. Soon afterwards came the intelligence of the burning of Elgin, which, whilst it threw a gloom over the whole Court, filled Hepborne’s mind with fresh apprehensions and anxieties.