[Contents]CHAPTER XXIX.The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold.The spot chosen for the Wolfe of Badenoch’s hunting encampment was beautiful. The little rill came welling forth in one great jet, like a copious fountain, from a crevice in the rocks that, rising like a mimic castle, terminated the glen at its upper extremity. The bright greens of the ivy, honeysuckle, and various creeping plants and shrubs that climbed over its surface, blended with the rich orange, brown, and yellow tints of the lichens that covered it. On the smooth flat sward, a little in advance of this, was pitched the pavilion of the Wolfe himself, with his banner waving before it. It consisted of three apartments, the largest of which, occupying the whole front, was used as the banqueting place, whilst the two others behind were devoted to the private convenience and repose of the Earl and the Lady Mariota.To the right and left of this central pavilion were the tents of the five young knights. Of these the eldest, Sir Alexander Stewart, afterwards Earl of Mar, had all the violence of his father’s temper; Sir Andrew, the second, was cool, crafty, and designing; and Walter, James, and Duncan, who were too young to have anything like fixed characters, had all the tricks and pranks of ill-brought-up and unrestrained youths, though Duncan, the youngest, had naturally rather a more amiable disposition than any of the others.Besides these tents, there were several more on the two flanks, extending towards the extremity of the horns of the semi-circle, occupied by squires, and the principal people of the Earl’s retinue. Within a rocky recess at one side, almost shut out from view by the embowering trees, a number of temporary huts were erected for culinary purposes, as well as for lodging the great mass of the lower order of attendants; and on the opposite side were extensive pickets, to which the horses were attached in lines.The night dropped fast down on that low and narrow spot, and, as the cavalcade arrived, the people were already engaged in lighting a huge bonfire in the centre of it, quite capable of restoring an artificial day, and this immense blaze was to be kept up all night, partly for purposes of illumination, and partly[211]to keep off the wolves. The Earl no sooner appeared, than all was clamour, and running, and bustle, and confusion. He halted in front of the tents—the bugles blew, and the squires and attendants ran to hold his stirrup. But he waited not for their assistance. Ere they could reach him he sprang to the ground, and lifting the Lady Mariota from off her palfrey, carried her into the pavilion.“Sir Patrick,” said he to Hepborne, as an esquire ushered him in, “thou must bear with such rustic entertainment as we have to offer thee here to-night. To-morrow we move to Lochyndorbe, where thou shalt be better bestowed.”Sir Patrick bowed; but he saw no lack of provision for good cheer as he cast his eyes over the ample board, which was covered with a profusion of silver utensils of all kinds, among which were strangely mingled pewter, and even wooden trenchers, and where there were not only silver flagons and mazers, but leathern black-jacks, wooden stoups, and numerous drinking-horns, the whole being lighted by a silver lamp that hung over the centre.“What, in the fiend’s name, makes the feast to tarry?” cried the Wolfe impatiently: “do the loons opine that we have no stomachs, or that we are blocks of wood, that we can stand all day i’ the passes, and yet do at night without feeding? The feast, I say—the feast! Nay, send me that rascal cook here.”The cook, sweating from his fiery occupation, was instantly brought before him, trembling, carrying a stew-pan in one hand, and a long iron gravy-ladle in the other, with his sleeves tucked up, and clothed in a white apron and night-cap.“Villain!” said the Wolfe, in a tremendous voice, “why are not the viands on the table? By all the fiends of the infernal realms, thou shalt be forthwith spitted and roasted before thine own fire, an we have not our meal ere I can turn myself.”The cook bowed in abject terror, and, as soon as he was beyond the tent door, ran off, bawling to his assistants; and in a few minutes, a crowd of lacqueys bearing the smoking-hot dishes came pouring into the pavilion, heaping the board with them till it groaned again.“Blow the bugle for the banquet,” cried the impatient Earl, seating himself at the head of the table. “Sit thee down, Mariota, on my right hand here; and do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, sit here on my left. The boys and the rest may find places for themselves.”“But where is thy gentle page, Sir Knight?” said the Lady Mariota to Hepborne. “I pray thee let him sit down with us.[212]Certes, he doth appear to be come of no mean blood. Make me to know how the doced youth is hight, I do beseech thee?”“Lady,” said Sir Patrick, smiling, “he is called Maurice de Grey, a truant boy of a good English house. His father is a gallant knight, who governs the border strength of Werk. Tired of soft service as a page of dames, he left his indulgent mother to roam into the world, and chancing to encounter me, I adopted him as my page. In truth, though young, he is prudent, and perdie, he hath more than once showed a good mettle, and some spirit, too, though his thewes and muscles have hardly strength enow, as yet, to bear it out.”“Oh, fye on thee, Maurice de Grey,” said the lady, smiling graciously on the page, as he entered among the crowd—“fye on thee, Maurice, I say. Art thou so naughty as to wish to shun the converse of women at thine age? Oh, shame to thy youth-hed. Parfay, I shall myself undertake thy punishment, so sit thee down by me here, that I may school thee for thy folly and want of gallantry.”Maurice bowed respectfully, and immediately occupied the proffered seat, where the lady did all in her power to gratify him by putting the nicest dainties on his plate, and prattling many a kind and flattering speech in his ear. Sir Alexander Stewart placed himself next to Sir Patrick, and, though naturally fierce and haughty in his air, showed every disposition to exert hospitable and knightly courtesy towards his father’s guest. Below them, on both sides of the table, sat his brothers; and the rest of the long board was filled up by the esquires and other retainers, who each individually occupied the first room he could find. For some time there was but little conversation, and nothing interrupted the clinking of knives upon the trenchers but an occasional pledge called for by the Wolfe, who, as he ate largely and voraciously, drank long draughts too, to promote the easy descent of the food into his capacious stomach. He continued to eat long after every one else at table had ceased.“Ha!” said he at length, as he laid down his implements of carving; “quick! clear away those offensive fragments. Hey! what stand ye all staring at? Remove the assiettes and trenchers, I say—Are ye deaf, knaves?”Every servile hand was upon the board in an instant, and the dishes and plates disappeared as if by magic.“Wine—Rhenish!—Malvoisie! Wine, I say!” vociferated the Wolfe. “What, ye rogues, are we to perish for thirst?”The silver flagons, stoups, and black-jacks were replenished[213]with equal celerity, and deep draughts went round, and the carouse became every moment more fierce and frequent. The Lady Mariota Athyn rose to retire to her own private quarter of the pavilion.“Young Sir Page,” said she to Maurice de Grey, “wine wassail is not for thee, I ween; thou shalt along with my boys and me, thou naughty youth; thou shalt with me, I say. Verily, I condemn thee to do penance with me and my damsels until the hour of couchee. Come along, Sir Good-for-Nothing.”The page arose, and went with the lady and her three younger sons, but he seemed to go very unwillingly. In truth, he had received her little attentions rather coldly; so much so, indeed, that Hepborne had felt somewhat hurt at his seeming indifference.After much wine had been swallowed, and a great deal of conversation had passed about hunting and deeds of chivalry—“And so thou goest to this tourney of my brother-in-law, the Earl of Moray’s, Sir Patrick?” said the Wolfe.“Such is the object of my journey, my Lord,” replied Hepborne.“By St. Hubert! I have a mind to go with thee, were it only to show my boys the sport,” replied the Wolfe. “But, by the thunder of Heaven! I am not over well pleased with this same brother-in-law. The old man, my doting liege-father, hath refused to add Moray Land to my lieutenantship, which now lacketh but it to give me broad control from the Spey to the Orcades; and, by my beard, I cannot choose but guess that Earl John hath had some secret hand in preventing him. My sister Margery denies this stoutly; but she would deny anything to keep fire and sword from her lord’s lands. Yet may the hot fiend swallow me if I ween not that I have hit the true mark in so suspecting.”“By the red Rood, then, I would straightway tax him with it,” said Sir Alexander Stewart.“Nay, nay, meddle thou not, Sandy,” said the Wolfe. “I lack not thine advice. This matter concerns not thee.”“Concerns not me!” exclaimed Sir Alexander, hotly—“by the martyrdom of St. Andrew, but it does though—it concerneth me mightily; yea, it enchafeth me to see thee, my father, pusillanimously suffer thyself to be agrutched and hameled in the extent of thy flight, an if thou wert a coistril hawk, to be mewed by any he of the mark of Adam.”“I tell thee, boy, thou art a silly fool,” roared out the Wolfe, gnashing his teeth in a fury.[214]“If I am a fool, then,” said Sir Alexander, in no less a rage, “I am at least wise enough to know from whom I have had my folly.”The ferocious Wolfe could stand this no longer. His eyes flashed fire, and, catching up a large silver flagon of wine, from which he had been going to drink, he hurled it at his son’s head with so much celerity and truth of aim that had not Hepborne raised his left arm and intercepted it in its flight, though at the expense of a severe contusion, the hot Sir Alexander would never have uttered a word more. Heedless of the escape he had made, he rose to return the compliment against his father; but Hepborne, and some of those nearest to him, interfered, and with some difficulty the anger of both father and son was appeased. It was a feature in the Wolfe’s character, and one also in which his son Alexander probably participated, that, although his passion was easily and tremendously excited on every trifling occasion, so as to convert him at once into an ungovernable wild beast, capable of the most savage and cruel deeds, yet there were times when he was not unapt to repent him of any atrocious act he might have been guilty of, particularly where his own family was concerned. He loved his son Alexander—with the exception of the child Duncan, indeed, he loved him more than any of the others, perhaps because he more nearly resembled himself in temper. After the fray had been put an end to he sat for some moments trembling with agitation; but, as his wrath subsided, and he became calmer, he began to picture to himself his son stretched dead at his feet by a blow from his own hand. His countenance became gloomy and oppressed; he fidgetted upon his seat, and at length starting hurriedly up—“Depardieux, I thank thee, Sir Patrick,” said he, taking Hepborne’s right hand, and squeezing it heartily—“depardieux, I thank thee for having arrested a blow I should have so much repented—Alexander,” continued he, going up and embracing his son, “forgive me, my boy; but provoke not mine ire in the same way again, I beseech thee.”“Nay, father,” said Sir Alexander, “perhaps I went too far; but, by the mass, I was irritated by the thought that John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, should have got between thee and the King with his silky curreidew tongue.”“Right, boy,” cried the Wolfe, relieved by finding a new outlet for his rage, and striking the table furiously with his fist as he resumed his seat—“right, boy: there it is. If I but find that my suspicions are true, by the beard of my grandfather his being my sister Margery’s husband shall not save him from[215]my wrekery. But, Sir Patrick,” continued he, after a short pause, “so please thee, let me see the old man’s letter thou wert charged with, Knowest thou aught of its contents?”“No, my good lord,” said Hepborne, taking the embroidered silken case that contained the King’s epistle from his bosom. “His Majesty put it himself into my hands as I kissed his, to take my duteous leave, and here it is as he gave it to me.”The Wolfe glanced at the royal signet, and then, with his wonted impatience, tore up the silk, and began to read it to himself. His brow darkened as he went on, his teeth ground against each other, and his lip curled with a growing tempest. At length he dashed down the King’s letter on the table, and struck the board with his clenched fist two or three times successively—“Ha! see, Sir Knight, what it is thou hast brought me,” cried he, in a fury so great that he could hardly give utterance to his words. “Read that, read that, I say. By all the fiends, ’tis well I read it not at first, ere I knew thee better, Sir Knight, or thou mightest have had but a strange reception. Read it—read it, I say!”Hepborne took up the letter, and read as follows:—“To the High and Noble, our trusty and well-beloved son, Alexander Stewart. Earl of Buchan, Earl of Ross, Lord of Badenoch, and our faithful Lieutenant over the northern part of our kingdom, from the bounds of the county of Moray to the Pentland Frith, these greeting—“Son Alexander,—We do hope these may find thee well. It hath reached our ears that thou dost still continue to keep abiding with thee thy leman, Mariota Athyn. Though she, the said Mariota, be the mother of thy five boys, yet is the noble Lady Euphame, Countess of Ross, thy true and lawful wife; with her, therefore, it behoveth thee to consort, yea, and her it behoveth thee to cherish: yet are we informed, and it doleth us much that it should be so, that thou dost still leave her to grieve in loneliness and solitude. Bethink thee that thou yet liest under the threatened ban of holy Mother Church, and under the penalty laid on thee by the godly Bishops of Moray and Ross for having cruelly used her, and that thou dost yet underly, and art bound by their sentence to live with her in a virtuous and seemly manner. Let not gratitude permit thee to forget, also, that she did bestow upon thee rich heritages in land, and[216]that it is through her thou dost hold thy title of Earl of Ross, which we did graciously confirm to thee. Return, then, from thy wicked ways, and cleave unto thy lawful wife, to her cherisaunce, as thou wouldst value our good favour, and as thou wouldst give jovisaunce to these our few remaining years of eld. And so, as thou dost obey these our injunctions, may God keep thee and thine in health, and soften thine heart to mercy and godliness. So prayeth thy loving father and King,“Robert Rex.”Hepborne laid down the King’s letter without venturing a single comment on it, and it was instantly snatched up by Sir Alexander Stewart.“What!” cried he with indignation, after glancing it over, “is our mother, or are we, to be turned adrift from our father’s house like ragamuffin quistrons, to beg our way through the world, to please a doting old man?”“Nay, sooner shall I pluck out every hair of this beard from my face,” shouted the Wolfe in a fury, and tugging out a handful of it unconsciously as he said so. “What! am I to be schooled by an old bigoted prater at my time of life, and to be condemned to live with a restless intriguing hag, who hath been the cause of so much vexation to me! The red fiend shall catch me then! Not for all the bishops in Mother Church, with the Orders four to boot, shall I submit me to such penance. But, by all the powers of darkness, the split-capped Bishop of Moray, Alexander Barr, shall suffer for this. He it is who hath been at the bottom of it all; he it is who hath stirred up the King; and by the infernal fires, he shall ere long undergo my wrekery. He hath been an eternal torture to me; but, by my trusty burly-brand, I shall make the craven, horrow lossel rue that ever he roused theWolfe of Badenoch.”He struck the table tremendously with his fist as he concluded. His calling himself by hisnom de guerrewas with him like Jupiter swearing by the river Styx. His people moved on their seats, put on stern brows, and looked at one another, as if each would have said, “Brother, we shall have something to do here.” The Earl himself snatched up a flagon of Rhenish, and took a deep draught to cool his ire; then turning to Hepborne—“I bid thee good night, Sir Patrick,” said he; “thou hast no fault in this matter; good night, I say.” Then turning to the rest—“See that Sir Patrick Hepborne have the best quarters[217]that may be given him. Good night. By all the fiends, the white-faced hypocrite shall pay for it.” And so saying, he disappeared into the inner apartment of the pavilion.Immediately afterwards, the page and the three younger Stewarts came forth. Sir Alexander still continued to fret and broil with the fury which the King’s letter had excited in him; yet he neglected not the civilities due to their guest. He gave orders that the youngest boy’s tent should be prepared for Sir Patrick Hepborne, and that his brothers, Duncan and James, should occupy one tent for the night; and, leaving Sir Andrew Stewart to see that the stranger Knight was properly accommodated, he made an exit similar to his father’s.“’Tis an unfortunate weakness,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, as he accompanied Hepborne to his tent, “’tis an unhappy weakness that so cruelly besets my father and my brother Alexander; half the hours of their lives are spent in temporary frenzy. It would be well for them if they could bridle their passions.”Hepborne found it difficult to reply; so changing the subject adroitly, and thanking Sir Andrew for his courteous attention, he bade him good night, and was glad to take refuge in the quiet of the tent that had been prepared for him. Being indisposed for sleep, he called his page, whose couch was in the outer apartment, and, ere they retired to rest, their conversation ran as follows:—“Maurice,” said the knight, “why didst thou show thyself so backward in receiving the Lady Mariota’s favours? She seemed anxious to show thee all manner of kind attention, yet thou didst repel her by thy very looks.”“Sir Knight,” said the page, “I like not that woman; she is not the wife of the Earl of Buchan, and meseems it a foul thing to see her sit in the seat of so honourable and virtuous a lady as the Countess of Ross, queening it where she hath no claim but the base one that may spring from her own infamy.”“Thou art right, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou art right, in good truth; but ’tis not for us to read moral lessons to our seniors. Where we see positive harm, or glaring injury, done to any one by another, then it behoveth a true knight to stay not his hand, but forthwith to redress the grievance at peril of his life. But though he is not to court the society of those who sin grossly, yet cannot he always eschew it, and it falleth not within the province of a knight to read moral lectures and homilies to every one he meeteth that may offend against God’s[218]laws; else might he exchange the helmet for the cowl. And, verily, he should have little to do but to preach, since the wickedness of man is so great, and so universal, that there is no one who might not call for his sermons; yea, and while zealously preaching to others, he would certainly fall into guilt himself. No, Maurice; let us take care to live irreproachably; then let us suffer no one to do tyranny or injustice to another; and having secured these important things, let us leave all else to a righteous God, who will Himself avenge the sins committed against His moral law. Yet do I much commend that virtuous indignation in thee; and if thy love should ever haply run smooth, as I sincerely pray that it may, I trust that thou wilt be a mirror of virtuous constancy.”The page clasped his hands on his breast, and, throwing up his eyes to Heaven, “Grant but that my love may yet prosper,” said he, fervently; “grant but that, ye blessed Virgin, and the sun shall not be more constant to the firmament, than I shall be in the attachment to the object of my affection! But couldst thou be constant, Sir Knight?” added he, with a sigh.“’Tis an odd question, boy,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I think I know so much of myself as to say boldly that I could; and, verily, I would never mate me where I weened there might be risk of temptation to aught else. But, of a truth, I have not yet seen the woman of whom I might think so highly as to risk chaining my virtue to her side.”The page sat silent for some moments, and at length, turning to Hepborne, “I have seen knights,” said he, “who did roune sweet speeches in the ears of foolish maidens, who did swear potent oaths that they did love them, and yet, when the silly pusels believed them, they would laugh at their facile credence, and then, leaping into their saddles, ride away, making mirth of the sad wounds they had caused. Say, Sir Knight, couldst thou do this?”“Depardieux, mon bel ami Maurice de Grey,” said the knight, laughing, “methinks thou hast made thyself my father confessor to-night. What meanest thou by these questions?”“In truth, my dear master,” said the boy, “I do but ask, that I may better myself by the wisdom of thine answers. How should I, an untaught youth, ever become an honour to knighthood, as I hope one day to be, save by thy sage precept and bright example?”“Nay, then, sweet page,” said the knight, kindly, “I shall[219]not deny to answer thee. In good sooth, I have never yet been so base, nor could I ever be guilty of so much wickedness.”The page’s eyes brightened for a moment at the knight’s virtuous assertion.“There be women indeed,” continued Sir Patrick, “to whom it is even dangerous for a courteous knight to address the common parlance of courtly compliment, without instilling into them the vain belief that their charms have wrought a conquest. Of such an innocent fault the folly of many maidens may have made me guilty. Never, save once, did I seriously love, and then, alas, I discovered that my heart had been affected by an unworthy object, so that I did forthwith tear myself from her.”“Unworthy, didst thou say, Sir Knight?” cried the boy, earnestly; “and who, I pray thee, could be so unworthy to thee?”“Nay, my good Maurice,” said Hepborne, “that were truly to ask too much. Were she as worthy as I did once esteem her, I would proudly publish her name to the world; but after having said so much to her dishonour, and now that she cannot be mine, her name shall never more escape these lips whilst I think of her as I at present do, save when ’tis brought in accidentally by others, or when ’tis murmured in my secret despair. But what ails thee, boy? Thou weepest. Tell me, I pray thee, why thou shouldst now be thus drent in dreriment? What hast thou to do with my love-griefs?”“I but cry for pity, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Thy tale, too, doth somewhat touch mine own, and so doth it, peraunter, affect me the more. May Heaven in its mercy clear away those cruel clouds that do at present so darken our souls!”“Amen!” said the knight fervently. “Then get thee to thy couch, Maurice, for I will to mine.”Sir Patrick Hepborne had already slept for a considerable time, when he was awakened by the clamour of voices. This, perhaps, would have excited little astonishment, had he not previously remarked the uncommon degree of quietness that had been preserved in the little encampment, the probable effect of the stern character and alert discipline of him who was at the head of it. He sat up, and leaning for some moments on his elbow to listen, he by and by heard the trampling of steeds, and the bustle of preparation, as if for a departure. He then called to the page, who answered him so immediately, that Hepborne suspected, what was really the case, that he had not as yet slept.“What noise is that we hear, Maurice?” said he.“Methinks,” said the page, “it is some party that sets forth.[220]Perhaps it may be one moiety of the retinue who go before, to prepare those of the Castle for the Earl’s coming.”This very natural explanation satisfied Hepborne. He soon heard the noise increase, and the neighing and prancing of the horses, with the voices of many men, though their words were not intelligible; then he heard a loud command to march, and the gallop of the troop died away upon his ear, and then again all was quiet, and his repose was uninterrupted until morning.He was hardly dressed when Sir Andrew Stewart came courteously to offer the usual morning compliments, and to conduct him to the great pavilion.“My father,” said he, “hath been called on urgent business into Badenoch; he left this yesternight, to ride thither sans delay: my brothers, Alexander, Walter, and James, also went with him; but he left me here to do thee what poor hospitality I may until his return. To-day, with thy good leave, we shall hie us to Lochyndorbe, and to-morrow I hope he will be there to do the honours of the Castle in his own person.”This sudden departure of the Wolfe of Badenoch accounted to Hepborne for the disturbance he had met with in the night. The Lady Mariota received him graciously.“But where is my handsome good-for-nothing page?” eagerly inquired she. “Ah, there comes the naughty boy, I see. Come hither, Sir Scapegrace; I trow I did school thee to some purpose yestreen; but parfay, thou shalt have more on’t anon. Come hither, I say. Verily, the young varlet hangeth his ears like a whelp that feareth the rod; but i’faith I am not come to that yet,—though, never trust me,” added she, laughing, “but thou shalt have it ere long, an’ thou be’st not more docile. Sit thee down here, I say. And see now how, in hopes of thine amendment, I have carved for thee the tenderest and whitest part of this black grouse’s breast; yea, Sir Good-for-Nothing—with mine own fair fingers have I done it.”Maurice de Grey appeared more than half inclined to keep aloof from the lady, notwithstanding all her kind raillery; but he caught his master’s eye, and seeing that Sir Patrick seemed to wish that he should receive her notice with a good grace, he put on the semblance of cheerfulness, and took his seat by her accordingly.The morning’s meal passed over without anything remarkable, the lady devoting all her attention and all her trifling to Maurice de Grey, and Hepborne being engaged in conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart; there being no one else present but the boy Duncan. Soon afterwards, orders were issued for the[221]encampment to break up, and the attendants to prepare themselves and their steeds for their departure. Much time was lost until all the necessary arrangements were made. The sturdy sullen loons were aware of the absence of the Wolfe, and revelled in the enjoyment of the power, so seldom theirs, of doing things leisurely. Besides, all the most active and intelligent persons of the suite were gone. At length a string of little batt horses, pressed from the neighbouring churls, were despatched with the most valuable and more immediately necessary part of the moveables, and a few more were left to bring up the tents and heavier articles, when additional aid should arrive.Meanwhile, the palfrey of the Lady Mariota was brought out, together with two others for her maids; and the horses of the rest of the party also appeared. Hepborne assisted the lady to mount, but though she thanked him graciously for his courtesy, she was by no means satisfied.“That white palfrey of thine, Sir Page Maurice,” said she, “seemeth to have an affection for my pyeball; let them not be separated, I pr’ythee. Mount thee, and be thou the squire of my body for this day. Allons.”Maurice was obliged to comply, and rode off with the lady at the head of the cavalcade, followed by her son Duncan, and attended by the two damsels, who seemed, by their nods and winks to each other, to imply something extremely significant, yet understood by themselves alone. Sir Patrick Hepborne rode next, with Sir Andrew Stewart. Their train was meagre compared to that which Hepborne had seen the previous evening; indeed, his own attendants formed by far the greater part of the cortege that now accompanied them. Their route was by the same path that Hepborne had approached the glen, until they reached the steep side of the hill overhanging the head of it, whence he had first peeped into it. They then continued onwards through the forest in the same northern direction in which the guide was conducting the knight, at the time he was diverted from his way by discovering the Wolfe’s hunting camp.They travelled through a great and elevated plain, covered by pine trees so thickly as almost to exclude the sun, and even the hills that bounded it were wooded to their very tops. At length they turned towards an opening that appeared in the hills to their left, and, winding over some knolls, began to catch occasional glimpses of an extensive sheet of water, when the dark green fir tufts, now and then receding from one another, permitted the party to look beyond them. In a short time they[222]reached the shore of the eastern end of Lochyndorbe, about four miles in length, and of an oblong form. The hills bounding it on the north and south arose with gentle slope. A considerable island appeared near the upper or western extremity of the lake, a short way from its southern shore, and entirely covered with the impregnable Castle, of the same name with the sheet of water surrounding it. In the vista beyond, a sloping plain appeared, with high hills rising over it. The whole scene was one continued pine forest, and as solitary and wild as the most gloomy mind could desire. A group of firs, more ancient and enormous than the rest, occupied a point of land, and were tenanted by a colony of herons; and the lonely scream of these birds, and their lagging heavy flight, added to, rather than enlivened the sombre character of the loch.As they made their way up the southern shore, the enormous strength of the Castle became more apparent at every step. It was, in fact, a royal fortress, constructed for the purpose of sustaining regular and determined siege. It occupied the whole island to the very margin of the water, and its outer walls running, in long unbroken lines, from one point to another, in successive stretches, embraced a space of something more than two acres within them. On a low, round projection of land, immediately opposite on the southern shore, and within about two hundred yards of it, was situated an outwork, or sconce, erected for the purpose of preserving the communication with the terra firma, but yet of too little importance to be of any great benefit to an enemy that might chance to possess himself of it, or to enable him to do much injury to the Castle, even with the most powerful engines then in use—particularly as the massive walls opposed to it presented a straight, continuous, unbroken, and unassailable front. Here they found several large and small boats in waiting for them; but there appeared to be a great want of people to serve them.“Methinks thou hast but a paltry crew for thy navy to-day, Master Bruce?” said the Lady Mariota to an old grey-headed squire-seneschal, who came to receive her.“Madame,” said he, “my lord the Earl sent orders here last night for the spears, axemen, and bowmen, to meet him early this morning on Dulnan side. About an hundred good men of horse and foot marched thither long ere the sun saw the welkin, so that we be but meagrely garrisoned, else thou shouldst have been received with more honour.”“Nay, then, since it is so,” said the lady, “let us cross as we best may. That small boat will do for us, so lend me thine arm,[223]Sir Page Maurice.” And immediately entering the boat, she made the youth sit beside her. Hepborne and Sir Andrew Stewart also embarked, and, leaving the horses and attendants to follow at leisure, were pulled rapidly towards the Castle by a couple of old boatmen. They landed on the narrow strip of beach, extending hardly a yard from the walls, and that only when the water was low, and were admitted through all the numerous and potent defences of the deep gateway, by the warder, and one or two men who kept watch. They then traversed the courts intervening between the outer and inner walls, which were defended at all the salient angles by immensely strong round towers, one of them completely commanding the entrance. Then passing onwards, they came to the inner gateway, through which they ascended into the central area of the Castle, forming a large elevated quadrangle, surrounded by the buildings necessary in such a garrison.The Lady Mariota, still leaning on the arm of Maurice de Grey, led them into that part of the square occupied by the Earl’s mansion, and soon introduced them into a banqueting-hall of magnificent proportions, hung round with arms, and richly furnished for the times we speak of, and where, notwithstanding the draft made that morning on the forces of the place, there was still a considerable show of domestics in waiting.“Let us have the banquet immediately,” said the Lady Mariota to the seneschal. “Sir Knight,” said she, turning to Hepborne, “if our hospitality should lack its wonted comfort to-day, thou must lay it to the account of our late absence from the Castle; and if it should want its usual spirit, it must be set down to the score of the Earl’s absence. But to-morrow both these wants shall be supplied. Andrew, thou wilt see Sir Patrick Hepborne rightly accommodated. As for this naughty page, Maurice de Grey, I shall myself see him fittingly bestowed in a chamber near mine own, that I may have all proper and convenient opportunity of repeating those lessons I have already endeavoured to impress upon him. Come along then, good-for-nothing boy; come along, I say.”The page cast an imploring look at his master, who regarded it not; then hanging his head, he followed the Lady Mariota with an unwilling step, like a laggard schoolboy who dreads the ferula of his pedagogue; whilst Hepborne was ushered to his apartment, where, having procured the attendance of the faithful Mortimer Sang, he proceeded to array himself in attire suitable to the evening.[224]
[Contents]CHAPTER XXIX.The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold.The spot chosen for the Wolfe of Badenoch’s hunting encampment was beautiful. The little rill came welling forth in one great jet, like a copious fountain, from a crevice in the rocks that, rising like a mimic castle, terminated the glen at its upper extremity. The bright greens of the ivy, honeysuckle, and various creeping plants and shrubs that climbed over its surface, blended with the rich orange, brown, and yellow tints of the lichens that covered it. On the smooth flat sward, a little in advance of this, was pitched the pavilion of the Wolfe himself, with his banner waving before it. It consisted of three apartments, the largest of which, occupying the whole front, was used as the banqueting place, whilst the two others behind were devoted to the private convenience and repose of the Earl and the Lady Mariota.To the right and left of this central pavilion were the tents of the five young knights. Of these the eldest, Sir Alexander Stewart, afterwards Earl of Mar, had all the violence of his father’s temper; Sir Andrew, the second, was cool, crafty, and designing; and Walter, James, and Duncan, who were too young to have anything like fixed characters, had all the tricks and pranks of ill-brought-up and unrestrained youths, though Duncan, the youngest, had naturally rather a more amiable disposition than any of the others.Besides these tents, there were several more on the two flanks, extending towards the extremity of the horns of the semi-circle, occupied by squires, and the principal people of the Earl’s retinue. Within a rocky recess at one side, almost shut out from view by the embowering trees, a number of temporary huts were erected for culinary purposes, as well as for lodging the great mass of the lower order of attendants; and on the opposite side were extensive pickets, to which the horses were attached in lines.The night dropped fast down on that low and narrow spot, and, as the cavalcade arrived, the people were already engaged in lighting a huge bonfire in the centre of it, quite capable of restoring an artificial day, and this immense blaze was to be kept up all night, partly for purposes of illumination, and partly[211]to keep off the wolves. The Earl no sooner appeared, than all was clamour, and running, and bustle, and confusion. He halted in front of the tents—the bugles blew, and the squires and attendants ran to hold his stirrup. But he waited not for their assistance. Ere they could reach him he sprang to the ground, and lifting the Lady Mariota from off her palfrey, carried her into the pavilion.“Sir Patrick,” said he to Hepborne, as an esquire ushered him in, “thou must bear with such rustic entertainment as we have to offer thee here to-night. To-morrow we move to Lochyndorbe, where thou shalt be better bestowed.”Sir Patrick bowed; but he saw no lack of provision for good cheer as he cast his eyes over the ample board, which was covered with a profusion of silver utensils of all kinds, among which were strangely mingled pewter, and even wooden trenchers, and where there were not only silver flagons and mazers, but leathern black-jacks, wooden stoups, and numerous drinking-horns, the whole being lighted by a silver lamp that hung over the centre.“What, in the fiend’s name, makes the feast to tarry?” cried the Wolfe impatiently: “do the loons opine that we have no stomachs, or that we are blocks of wood, that we can stand all day i’ the passes, and yet do at night without feeding? The feast, I say—the feast! Nay, send me that rascal cook here.”The cook, sweating from his fiery occupation, was instantly brought before him, trembling, carrying a stew-pan in one hand, and a long iron gravy-ladle in the other, with his sleeves tucked up, and clothed in a white apron and night-cap.“Villain!” said the Wolfe, in a tremendous voice, “why are not the viands on the table? By all the fiends of the infernal realms, thou shalt be forthwith spitted and roasted before thine own fire, an we have not our meal ere I can turn myself.”The cook bowed in abject terror, and, as soon as he was beyond the tent door, ran off, bawling to his assistants; and in a few minutes, a crowd of lacqueys bearing the smoking-hot dishes came pouring into the pavilion, heaping the board with them till it groaned again.“Blow the bugle for the banquet,” cried the impatient Earl, seating himself at the head of the table. “Sit thee down, Mariota, on my right hand here; and do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, sit here on my left. The boys and the rest may find places for themselves.”“But where is thy gentle page, Sir Knight?” said the Lady Mariota to Hepborne. “I pray thee let him sit down with us.[212]Certes, he doth appear to be come of no mean blood. Make me to know how the doced youth is hight, I do beseech thee?”“Lady,” said Sir Patrick, smiling, “he is called Maurice de Grey, a truant boy of a good English house. His father is a gallant knight, who governs the border strength of Werk. Tired of soft service as a page of dames, he left his indulgent mother to roam into the world, and chancing to encounter me, I adopted him as my page. In truth, though young, he is prudent, and perdie, he hath more than once showed a good mettle, and some spirit, too, though his thewes and muscles have hardly strength enow, as yet, to bear it out.”“Oh, fye on thee, Maurice de Grey,” said the lady, smiling graciously on the page, as he entered among the crowd—“fye on thee, Maurice, I say. Art thou so naughty as to wish to shun the converse of women at thine age? Oh, shame to thy youth-hed. Parfay, I shall myself undertake thy punishment, so sit thee down by me here, that I may school thee for thy folly and want of gallantry.”Maurice bowed respectfully, and immediately occupied the proffered seat, where the lady did all in her power to gratify him by putting the nicest dainties on his plate, and prattling many a kind and flattering speech in his ear. Sir Alexander Stewart placed himself next to Sir Patrick, and, though naturally fierce and haughty in his air, showed every disposition to exert hospitable and knightly courtesy towards his father’s guest. Below them, on both sides of the table, sat his brothers; and the rest of the long board was filled up by the esquires and other retainers, who each individually occupied the first room he could find. For some time there was but little conversation, and nothing interrupted the clinking of knives upon the trenchers but an occasional pledge called for by the Wolfe, who, as he ate largely and voraciously, drank long draughts too, to promote the easy descent of the food into his capacious stomach. He continued to eat long after every one else at table had ceased.“Ha!” said he at length, as he laid down his implements of carving; “quick! clear away those offensive fragments. Hey! what stand ye all staring at? Remove the assiettes and trenchers, I say—Are ye deaf, knaves?”Every servile hand was upon the board in an instant, and the dishes and plates disappeared as if by magic.“Wine—Rhenish!—Malvoisie! Wine, I say!” vociferated the Wolfe. “What, ye rogues, are we to perish for thirst?”The silver flagons, stoups, and black-jacks were replenished[213]with equal celerity, and deep draughts went round, and the carouse became every moment more fierce and frequent. The Lady Mariota Athyn rose to retire to her own private quarter of the pavilion.“Young Sir Page,” said she to Maurice de Grey, “wine wassail is not for thee, I ween; thou shalt along with my boys and me, thou naughty youth; thou shalt with me, I say. Verily, I condemn thee to do penance with me and my damsels until the hour of couchee. Come along, Sir Good-for-Nothing.”The page arose, and went with the lady and her three younger sons, but he seemed to go very unwillingly. In truth, he had received her little attentions rather coldly; so much so, indeed, that Hepborne had felt somewhat hurt at his seeming indifference.After much wine had been swallowed, and a great deal of conversation had passed about hunting and deeds of chivalry—“And so thou goest to this tourney of my brother-in-law, the Earl of Moray’s, Sir Patrick?” said the Wolfe.“Such is the object of my journey, my Lord,” replied Hepborne.“By St. Hubert! I have a mind to go with thee, were it only to show my boys the sport,” replied the Wolfe. “But, by the thunder of Heaven! I am not over well pleased with this same brother-in-law. The old man, my doting liege-father, hath refused to add Moray Land to my lieutenantship, which now lacketh but it to give me broad control from the Spey to the Orcades; and, by my beard, I cannot choose but guess that Earl John hath had some secret hand in preventing him. My sister Margery denies this stoutly; but she would deny anything to keep fire and sword from her lord’s lands. Yet may the hot fiend swallow me if I ween not that I have hit the true mark in so suspecting.”“By the red Rood, then, I would straightway tax him with it,” said Sir Alexander Stewart.“Nay, nay, meddle thou not, Sandy,” said the Wolfe. “I lack not thine advice. This matter concerns not thee.”“Concerns not me!” exclaimed Sir Alexander, hotly—“by the martyrdom of St. Andrew, but it does though—it concerneth me mightily; yea, it enchafeth me to see thee, my father, pusillanimously suffer thyself to be agrutched and hameled in the extent of thy flight, an if thou wert a coistril hawk, to be mewed by any he of the mark of Adam.”“I tell thee, boy, thou art a silly fool,” roared out the Wolfe, gnashing his teeth in a fury.[214]“If I am a fool, then,” said Sir Alexander, in no less a rage, “I am at least wise enough to know from whom I have had my folly.”The ferocious Wolfe could stand this no longer. His eyes flashed fire, and, catching up a large silver flagon of wine, from which he had been going to drink, he hurled it at his son’s head with so much celerity and truth of aim that had not Hepborne raised his left arm and intercepted it in its flight, though at the expense of a severe contusion, the hot Sir Alexander would never have uttered a word more. Heedless of the escape he had made, he rose to return the compliment against his father; but Hepborne, and some of those nearest to him, interfered, and with some difficulty the anger of both father and son was appeased. It was a feature in the Wolfe’s character, and one also in which his son Alexander probably participated, that, although his passion was easily and tremendously excited on every trifling occasion, so as to convert him at once into an ungovernable wild beast, capable of the most savage and cruel deeds, yet there were times when he was not unapt to repent him of any atrocious act he might have been guilty of, particularly where his own family was concerned. He loved his son Alexander—with the exception of the child Duncan, indeed, he loved him more than any of the others, perhaps because he more nearly resembled himself in temper. After the fray had been put an end to he sat for some moments trembling with agitation; but, as his wrath subsided, and he became calmer, he began to picture to himself his son stretched dead at his feet by a blow from his own hand. His countenance became gloomy and oppressed; he fidgetted upon his seat, and at length starting hurriedly up—“Depardieux, I thank thee, Sir Patrick,” said he, taking Hepborne’s right hand, and squeezing it heartily—“depardieux, I thank thee for having arrested a blow I should have so much repented—Alexander,” continued he, going up and embracing his son, “forgive me, my boy; but provoke not mine ire in the same way again, I beseech thee.”“Nay, father,” said Sir Alexander, “perhaps I went too far; but, by the mass, I was irritated by the thought that John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, should have got between thee and the King with his silky curreidew tongue.”“Right, boy,” cried the Wolfe, relieved by finding a new outlet for his rage, and striking the table furiously with his fist as he resumed his seat—“right, boy: there it is. If I but find that my suspicions are true, by the beard of my grandfather his being my sister Margery’s husband shall not save him from[215]my wrekery. But, Sir Patrick,” continued he, after a short pause, “so please thee, let me see the old man’s letter thou wert charged with, Knowest thou aught of its contents?”“No, my good lord,” said Hepborne, taking the embroidered silken case that contained the King’s epistle from his bosom. “His Majesty put it himself into my hands as I kissed his, to take my duteous leave, and here it is as he gave it to me.”The Wolfe glanced at the royal signet, and then, with his wonted impatience, tore up the silk, and began to read it to himself. His brow darkened as he went on, his teeth ground against each other, and his lip curled with a growing tempest. At length he dashed down the King’s letter on the table, and struck the board with his clenched fist two or three times successively—“Ha! see, Sir Knight, what it is thou hast brought me,” cried he, in a fury so great that he could hardly give utterance to his words. “Read that, read that, I say. By all the fiends, ’tis well I read it not at first, ere I knew thee better, Sir Knight, or thou mightest have had but a strange reception. Read it—read it, I say!”Hepborne took up the letter, and read as follows:—“To the High and Noble, our trusty and well-beloved son, Alexander Stewart. Earl of Buchan, Earl of Ross, Lord of Badenoch, and our faithful Lieutenant over the northern part of our kingdom, from the bounds of the county of Moray to the Pentland Frith, these greeting—“Son Alexander,—We do hope these may find thee well. It hath reached our ears that thou dost still continue to keep abiding with thee thy leman, Mariota Athyn. Though she, the said Mariota, be the mother of thy five boys, yet is the noble Lady Euphame, Countess of Ross, thy true and lawful wife; with her, therefore, it behoveth thee to consort, yea, and her it behoveth thee to cherish: yet are we informed, and it doleth us much that it should be so, that thou dost still leave her to grieve in loneliness and solitude. Bethink thee that thou yet liest under the threatened ban of holy Mother Church, and under the penalty laid on thee by the godly Bishops of Moray and Ross for having cruelly used her, and that thou dost yet underly, and art bound by their sentence to live with her in a virtuous and seemly manner. Let not gratitude permit thee to forget, also, that she did bestow upon thee rich heritages in land, and[216]that it is through her thou dost hold thy title of Earl of Ross, which we did graciously confirm to thee. Return, then, from thy wicked ways, and cleave unto thy lawful wife, to her cherisaunce, as thou wouldst value our good favour, and as thou wouldst give jovisaunce to these our few remaining years of eld. And so, as thou dost obey these our injunctions, may God keep thee and thine in health, and soften thine heart to mercy and godliness. So prayeth thy loving father and King,“Robert Rex.”Hepborne laid down the King’s letter without venturing a single comment on it, and it was instantly snatched up by Sir Alexander Stewart.“What!” cried he with indignation, after glancing it over, “is our mother, or are we, to be turned adrift from our father’s house like ragamuffin quistrons, to beg our way through the world, to please a doting old man?”“Nay, sooner shall I pluck out every hair of this beard from my face,” shouted the Wolfe in a fury, and tugging out a handful of it unconsciously as he said so. “What! am I to be schooled by an old bigoted prater at my time of life, and to be condemned to live with a restless intriguing hag, who hath been the cause of so much vexation to me! The red fiend shall catch me then! Not for all the bishops in Mother Church, with the Orders four to boot, shall I submit me to such penance. But, by all the powers of darkness, the split-capped Bishop of Moray, Alexander Barr, shall suffer for this. He it is who hath been at the bottom of it all; he it is who hath stirred up the King; and by the infernal fires, he shall ere long undergo my wrekery. He hath been an eternal torture to me; but, by my trusty burly-brand, I shall make the craven, horrow lossel rue that ever he roused theWolfe of Badenoch.”He struck the table tremendously with his fist as he concluded. His calling himself by hisnom de guerrewas with him like Jupiter swearing by the river Styx. His people moved on their seats, put on stern brows, and looked at one another, as if each would have said, “Brother, we shall have something to do here.” The Earl himself snatched up a flagon of Rhenish, and took a deep draught to cool his ire; then turning to Hepborne—“I bid thee good night, Sir Patrick,” said he; “thou hast no fault in this matter; good night, I say.” Then turning to the rest—“See that Sir Patrick Hepborne have the best quarters[217]that may be given him. Good night. By all the fiends, the white-faced hypocrite shall pay for it.” And so saying, he disappeared into the inner apartment of the pavilion.Immediately afterwards, the page and the three younger Stewarts came forth. Sir Alexander still continued to fret and broil with the fury which the King’s letter had excited in him; yet he neglected not the civilities due to their guest. He gave orders that the youngest boy’s tent should be prepared for Sir Patrick Hepborne, and that his brothers, Duncan and James, should occupy one tent for the night; and, leaving Sir Andrew Stewart to see that the stranger Knight was properly accommodated, he made an exit similar to his father’s.“’Tis an unfortunate weakness,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, as he accompanied Hepborne to his tent, “’tis an unhappy weakness that so cruelly besets my father and my brother Alexander; half the hours of their lives are spent in temporary frenzy. It would be well for them if they could bridle their passions.”Hepborne found it difficult to reply; so changing the subject adroitly, and thanking Sir Andrew for his courteous attention, he bade him good night, and was glad to take refuge in the quiet of the tent that had been prepared for him. Being indisposed for sleep, he called his page, whose couch was in the outer apartment, and, ere they retired to rest, their conversation ran as follows:—“Maurice,” said the knight, “why didst thou show thyself so backward in receiving the Lady Mariota’s favours? She seemed anxious to show thee all manner of kind attention, yet thou didst repel her by thy very looks.”“Sir Knight,” said the page, “I like not that woman; she is not the wife of the Earl of Buchan, and meseems it a foul thing to see her sit in the seat of so honourable and virtuous a lady as the Countess of Ross, queening it where she hath no claim but the base one that may spring from her own infamy.”“Thou art right, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou art right, in good truth; but ’tis not for us to read moral lessons to our seniors. Where we see positive harm, or glaring injury, done to any one by another, then it behoveth a true knight to stay not his hand, but forthwith to redress the grievance at peril of his life. But though he is not to court the society of those who sin grossly, yet cannot he always eschew it, and it falleth not within the province of a knight to read moral lectures and homilies to every one he meeteth that may offend against God’s[218]laws; else might he exchange the helmet for the cowl. And, verily, he should have little to do but to preach, since the wickedness of man is so great, and so universal, that there is no one who might not call for his sermons; yea, and while zealously preaching to others, he would certainly fall into guilt himself. No, Maurice; let us take care to live irreproachably; then let us suffer no one to do tyranny or injustice to another; and having secured these important things, let us leave all else to a righteous God, who will Himself avenge the sins committed against His moral law. Yet do I much commend that virtuous indignation in thee; and if thy love should ever haply run smooth, as I sincerely pray that it may, I trust that thou wilt be a mirror of virtuous constancy.”The page clasped his hands on his breast, and, throwing up his eyes to Heaven, “Grant but that my love may yet prosper,” said he, fervently; “grant but that, ye blessed Virgin, and the sun shall not be more constant to the firmament, than I shall be in the attachment to the object of my affection! But couldst thou be constant, Sir Knight?” added he, with a sigh.“’Tis an odd question, boy,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I think I know so much of myself as to say boldly that I could; and, verily, I would never mate me where I weened there might be risk of temptation to aught else. But, of a truth, I have not yet seen the woman of whom I might think so highly as to risk chaining my virtue to her side.”The page sat silent for some moments, and at length, turning to Hepborne, “I have seen knights,” said he, “who did roune sweet speeches in the ears of foolish maidens, who did swear potent oaths that they did love them, and yet, when the silly pusels believed them, they would laugh at their facile credence, and then, leaping into their saddles, ride away, making mirth of the sad wounds they had caused. Say, Sir Knight, couldst thou do this?”“Depardieux, mon bel ami Maurice de Grey,” said the knight, laughing, “methinks thou hast made thyself my father confessor to-night. What meanest thou by these questions?”“In truth, my dear master,” said the boy, “I do but ask, that I may better myself by the wisdom of thine answers. How should I, an untaught youth, ever become an honour to knighthood, as I hope one day to be, save by thy sage precept and bright example?”“Nay, then, sweet page,” said the knight, kindly, “I shall[219]not deny to answer thee. In good sooth, I have never yet been so base, nor could I ever be guilty of so much wickedness.”The page’s eyes brightened for a moment at the knight’s virtuous assertion.“There be women indeed,” continued Sir Patrick, “to whom it is even dangerous for a courteous knight to address the common parlance of courtly compliment, without instilling into them the vain belief that their charms have wrought a conquest. Of such an innocent fault the folly of many maidens may have made me guilty. Never, save once, did I seriously love, and then, alas, I discovered that my heart had been affected by an unworthy object, so that I did forthwith tear myself from her.”“Unworthy, didst thou say, Sir Knight?” cried the boy, earnestly; “and who, I pray thee, could be so unworthy to thee?”“Nay, my good Maurice,” said Hepborne, “that were truly to ask too much. Were she as worthy as I did once esteem her, I would proudly publish her name to the world; but after having said so much to her dishonour, and now that she cannot be mine, her name shall never more escape these lips whilst I think of her as I at present do, save when ’tis brought in accidentally by others, or when ’tis murmured in my secret despair. But what ails thee, boy? Thou weepest. Tell me, I pray thee, why thou shouldst now be thus drent in dreriment? What hast thou to do with my love-griefs?”“I but cry for pity, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Thy tale, too, doth somewhat touch mine own, and so doth it, peraunter, affect me the more. May Heaven in its mercy clear away those cruel clouds that do at present so darken our souls!”“Amen!” said the knight fervently. “Then get thee to thy couch, Maurice, for I will to mine.”Sir Patrick Hepborne had already slept for a considerable time, when he was awakened by the clamour of voices. This, perhaps, would have excited little astonishment, had he not previously remarked the uncommon degree of quietness that had been preserved in the little encampment, the probable effect of the stern character and alert discipline of him who was at the head of it. He sat up, and leaning for some moments on his elbow to listen, he by and by heard the trampling of steeds, and the bustle of preparation, as if for a departure. He then called to the page, who answered him so immediately, that Hepborne suspected, what was really the case, that he had not as yet slept.“What noise is that we hear, Maurice?” said he.“Methinks,” said the page, “it is some party that sets forth.[220]Perhaps it may be one moiety of the retinue who go before, to prepare those of the Castle for the Earl’s coming.”This very natural explanation satisfied Hepborne. He soon heard the noise increase, and the neighing and prancing of the horses, with the voices of many men, though their words were not intelligible; then he heard a loud command to march, and the gallop of the troop died away upon his ear, and then again all was quiet, and his repose was uninterrupted until morning.He was hardly dressed when Sir Andrew Stewart came courteously to offer the usual morning compliments, and to conduct him to the great pavilion.“My father,” said he, “hath been called on urgent business into Badenoch; he left this yesternight, to ride thither sans delay: my brothers, Alexander, Walter, and James, also went with him; but he left me here to do thee what poor hospitality I may until his return. To-day, with thy good leave, we shall hie us to Lochyndorbe, and to-morrow I hope he will be there to do the honours of the Castle in his own person.”This sudden departure of the Wolfe of Badenoch accounted to Hepborne for the disturbance he had met with in the night. The Lady Mariota received him graciously.“But where is my handsome good-for-nothing page?” eagerly inquired she. “Ah, there comes the naughty boy, I see. Come hither, Sir Scapegrace; I trow I did school thee to some purpose yestreen; but parfay, thou shalt have more on’t anon. Come hither, I say. Verily, the young varlet hangeth his ears like a whelp that feareth the rod; but i’faith I am not come to that yet,—though, never trust me,” added she, laughing, “but thou shalt have it ere long, an’ thou be’st not more docile. Sit thee down here, I say. And see now how, in hopes of thine amendment, I have carved for thee the tenderest and whitest part of this black grouse’s breast; yea, Sir Good-for-Nothing—with mine own fair fingers have I done it.”Maurice de Grey appeared more than half inclined to keep aloof from the lady, notwithstanding all her kind raillery; but he caught his master’s eye, and seeing that Sir Patrick seemed to wish that he should receive her notice with a good grace, he put on the semblance of cheerfulness, and took his seat by her accordingly.The morning’s meal passed over without anything remarkable, the lady devoting all her attention and all her trifling to Maurice de Grey, and Hepborne being engaged in conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart; there being no one else present but the boy Duncan. Soon afterwards, orders were issued for the[221]encampment to break up, and the attendants to prepare themselves and their steeds for their departure. Much time was lost until all the necessary arrangements were made. The sturdy sullen loons were aware of the absence of the Wolfe, and revelled in the enjoyment of the power, so seldom theirs, of doing things leisurely. Besides, all the most active and intelligent persons of the suite were gone. At length a string of little batt horses, pressed from the neighbouring churls, were despatched with the most valuable and more immediately necessary part of the moveables, and a few more were left to bring up the tents and heavier articles, when additional aid should arrive.Meanwhile, the palfrey of the Lady Mariota was brought out, together with two others for her maids; and the horses of the rest of the party also appeared. Hepborne assisted the lady to mount, but though she thanked him graciously for his courtesy, she was by no means satisfied.“That white palfrey of thine, Sir Page Maurice,” said she, “seemeth to have an affection for my pyeball; let them not be separated, I pr’ythee. Mount thee, and be thou the squire of my body for this day. Allons.”Maurice was obliged to comply, and rode off with the lady at the head of the cavalcade, followed by her son Duncan, and attended by the two damsels, who seemed, by their nods and winks to each other, to imply something extremely significant, yet understood by themselves alone. Sir Patrick Hepborne rode next, with Sir Andrew Stewart. Their train was meagre compared to that which Hepborne had seen the previous evening; indeed, his own attendants formed by far the greater part of the cortege that now accompanied them. Their route was by the same path that Hepborne had approached the glen, until they reached the steep side of the hill overhanging the head of it, whence he had first peeped into it. They then continued onwards through the forest in the same northern direction in which the guide was conducting the knight, at the time he was diverted from his way by discovering the Wolfe’s hunting camp.They travelled through a great and elevated plain, covered by pine trees so thickly as almost to exclude the sun, and even the hills that bounded it were wooded to their very tops. At length they turned towards an opening that appeared in the hills to their left, and, winding over some knolls, began to catch occasional glimpses of an extensive sheet of water, when the dark green fir tufts, now and then receding from one another, permitted the party to look beyond them. In a short time they[222]reached the shore of the eastern end of Lochyndorbe, about four miles in length, and of an oblong form. The hills bounding it on the north and south arose with gentle slope. A considerable island appeared near the upper or western extremity of the lake, a short way from its southern shore, and entirely covered with the impregnable Castle, of the same name with the sheet of water surrounding it. In the vista beyond, a sloping plain appeared, with high hills rising over it. The whole scene was one continued pine forest, and as solitary and wild as the most gloomy mind could desire. A group of firs, more ancient and enormous than the rest, occupied a point of land, and were tenanted by a colony of herons; and the lonely scream of these birds, and their lagging heavy flight, added to, rather than enlivened the sombre character of the loch.As they made their way up the southern shore, the enormous strength of the Castle became more apparent at every step. It was, in fact, a royal fortress, constructed for the purpose of sustaining regular and determined siege. It occupied the whole island to the very margin of the water, and its outer walls running, in long unbroken lines, from one point to another, in successive stretches, embraced a space of something more than two acres within them. On a low, round projection of land, immediately opposite on the southern shore, and within about two hundred yards of it, was situated an outwork, or sconce, erected for the purpose of preserving the communication with the terra firma, but yet of too little importance to be of any great benefit to an enemy that might chance to possess himself of it, or to enable him to do much injury to the Castle, even with the most powerful engines then in use—particularly as the massive walls opposed to it presented a straight, continuous, unbroken, and unassailable front. Here they found several large and small boats in waiting for them; but there appeared to be a great want of people to serve them.“Methinks thou hast but a paltry crew for thy navy to-day, Master Bruce?” said the Lady Mariota to an old grey-headed squire-seneschal, who came to receive her.“Madame,” said he, “my lord the Earl sent orders here last night for the spears, axemen, and bowmen, to meet him early this morning on Dulnan side. About an hundred good men of horse and foot marched thither long ere the sun saw the welkin, so that we be but meagrely garrisoned, else thou shouldst have been received with more honour.”“Nay, then, since it is so,” said the lady, “let us cross as we best may. That small boat will do for us, so lend me thine arm,[223]Sir Page Maurice.” And immediately entering the boat, she made the youth sit beside her. Hepborne and Sir Andrew Stewart also embarked, and, leaving the horses and attendants to follow at leisure, were pulled rapidly towards the Castle by a couple of old boatmen. They landed on the narrow strip of beach, extending hardly a yard from the walls, and that only when the water was low, and were admitted through all the numerous and potent defences of the deep gateway, by the warder, and one or two men who kept watch. They then traversed the courts intervening between the outer and inner walls, which were defended at all the salient angles by immensely strong round towers, one of them completely commanding the entrance. Then passing onwards, they came to the inner gateway, through which they ascended into the central area of the Castle, forming a large elevated quadrangle, surrounded by the buildings necessary in such a garrison.The Lady Mariota, still leaning on the arm of Maurice de Grey, led them into that part of the square occupied by the Earl’s mansion, and soon introduced them into a banqueting-hall of magnificent proportions, hung round with arms, and richly furnished for the times we speak of, and where, notwithstanding the draft made that morning on the forces of the place, there was still a considerable show of domestics in waiting.“Let us have the banquet immediately,” said the Lady Mariota to the seneschal. “Sir Knight,” said she, turning to Hepborne, “if our hospitality should lack its wonted comfort to-day, thou must lay it to the account of our late absence from the Castle; and if it should want its usual spirit, it must be set down to the score of the Earl’s absence. But to-morrow both these wants shall be supplied. Andrew, thou wilt see Sir Patrick Hepborne rightly accommodated. As for this naughty page, Maurice de Grey, I shall myself see him fittingly bestowed in a chamber near mine own, that I may have all proper and convenient opportunity of repeating those lessons I have already endeavoured to impress upon him. Come along then, good-for-nothing boy; come along, I say.”The page cast an imploring look at his master, who regarded it not; then hanging his head, he followed the Lady Mariota with an unwilling step, like a laggard schoolboy who dreads the ferula of his pedagogue; whilst Hepborne was ushered to his apartment, where, having procured the attendance of the faithful Mortimer Sang, he proceeded to array himself in attire suitable to the evening.[224]
CHAPTER XXIX.The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold.
The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold.
The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold.
The spot chosen for the Wolfe of Badenoch’s hunting encampment was beautiful. The little rill came welling forth in one great jet, like a copious fountain, from a crevice in the rocks that, rising like a mimic castle, terminated the glen at its upper extremity. The bright greens of the ivy, honeysuckle, and various creeping plants and shrubs that climbed over its surface, blended with the rich orange, brown, and yellow tints of the lichens that covered it. On the smooth flat sward, a little in advance of this, was pitched the pavilion of the Wolfe himself, with his banner waving before it. It consisted of three apartments, the largest of which, occupying the whole front, was used as the banqueting place, whilst the two others behind were devoted to the private convenience and repose of the Earl and the Lady Mariota.To the right and left of this central pavilion were the tents of the five young knights. Of these the eldest, Sir Alexander Stewart, afterwards Earl of Mar, had all the violence of his father’s temper; Sir Andrew, the second, was cool, crafty, and designing; and Walter, James, and Duncan, who were too young to have anything like fixed characters, had all the tricks and pranks of ill-brought-up and unrestrained youths, though Duncan, the youngest, had naturally rather a more amiable disposition than any of the others.Besides these tents, there were several more on the two flanks, extending towards the extremity of the horns of the semi-circle, occupied by squires, and the principal people of the Earl’s retinue. Within a rocky recess at one side, almost shut out from view by the embowering trees, a number of temporary huts were erected for culinary purposes, as well as for lodging the great mass of the lower order of attendants; and on the opposite side were extensive pickets, to which the horses were attached in lines.The night dropped fast down on that low and narrow spot, and, as the cavalcade arrived, the people were already engaged in lighting a huge bonfire in the centre of it, quite capable of restoring an artificial day, and this immense blaze was to be kept up all night, partly for purposes of illumination, and partly[211]to keep off the wolves. The Earl no sooner appeared, than all was clamour, and running, and bustle, and confusion. He halted in front of the tents—the bugles blew, and the squires and attendants ran to hold his stirrup. But he waited not for their assistance. Ere they could reach him he sprang to the ground, and lifting the Lady Mariota from off her palfrey, carried her into the pavilion.“Sir Patrick,” said he to Hepborne, as an esquire ushered him in, “thou must bear with such rustic entertainment as we have to offer thee here to-night. To-morrow we move to Lochyndorbe, where thou shalt be better bestowed.”Sir Patrick bowed; but he saw no lack of provision for good cheer as he cast his eyes over the ample board, which was covered with a profusion of silver utensils of all kinds, among which were strangely mingled pewter, and even wooden trenchers, and where there were not only silver flagons and mazers, but leathern black-jacks, wooden stoups, and numerous drinking-horns, the whole being lighted by a silver lamp that hung over the centre.“What, in the fiend’s name, makes the feast to tarry?” cried the Wolfe impatiently: “do the loons opine that we have no stomachs, or that we are blocks of wood, that we can stand all day i’ the passes, and yet do at night without feeding? The feast, I say—the feast! Nay, send me that rascal cook here.”The cook, sweating from his fiery occupation, was instantly brought before him, trembling, carrying a stew-pan in one hand, and a long iron gravy-ladle in the other, with his sleeves tucked up, and clothed in a white apron and night-cap.“Villain!” said the Wolfe, in a tremendous voice, “why are not the viands on the table? By all the fiends of the infernal realms, thou shalt be forthwith spitted and roasted before thine own fire, an we have not our meal ere I can turn myself.”The cook bowed in abject terror, and, as soon as he was beyond the tent door, ran off, bawling to his assistants; and in a few minutes, a crowd of lacqueys bearing the smoking-hot dishes came pouring into the pavilion, heaping the board with them till it groaned again.“Blow the bugle for the banquet,” cried the impatient Earl, seating himself at the head of the table. “Sit thee down, Mariota, on my right hand here; and do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, sit here on my left. The boys and the rest may find places for themselves.”“But where is thy gentle page, Sir Knight?” said the Lady Mariota to Hepborne. “I pray thee let him sit down with us.[212]Certes, he doth appear to be come of no mean blood. Make me to know how the doced youth is hight, I do beseech thee?”“Lady,” said Sir Patrick, smiling, “he is called Maurice de Grey, a truant boy of a good English house. His father is a gallant knight, who governs the border strength of Werk. Tired of soft service as a page of dames, he left his indulgent mother to roam into the world, and chancing to encounter me, I adopted him as my page. In truth, though young, he is prudent, and perdie, he hath more than once showed a good mettle, and some spirit, too, though his thewes and muscles have hardly strength enow, as yet, to bear it out.”“Oh, fye on thee, Maurice de Grey,” said the lady, smiling graciously on the page, as he entered among the crowd—“fye on thee, Maurice, I say. Art thou so naughty as to wish to shun the converse of women at thine age? Oh, shame to thy youth-hed. Parfay, I shall myself undertake thy punishment, so sit thee down by me here, that I may school thee for thy folly and want of gallantry.”Maurice bowed respectfully, and immediately occupied the proffered seat, where the lady did all in her power to gratify him by putting the nicest dainties on his plate, and prattling many a kind and flattering speech in his ear. Sir Alexander Stewart placed himself next to Sir Patrick, and, though naturally fierce and haughty in his air, showed every disposition to exert hospitable and knightly courtesy towards his father’s guest. Below them, on both sides of the table, sat his brothers; and the rest of the long board was filled up by the esquires and other retainers, who each individually occupied the first room he could find. For some time there was but little conversation, and nothing interrupted the clinking of knives upon the trenchers but an occasional pledge called for by the Wolfe, who, as he ate largely and voraciously, drank long draughts too, to promote the easy descent of the food into his capacious stomach. He continued to eat long after every one else at table had ceased.“Ha!” said he at length, as he laid down his implements of carving; “quick! clear away those offensive fragments. Hey! what stand ye all staring at? Remove the assiettes and trenchers, I say—Are ye deaf, knaves?”Every servile hand was upon the board in an instant, and the dishes and plates disappeared as if by magic.“Wine—Rhenish!—Malvoisie! Wine, I say!” vociferated the Wolfe. “What, ye rogues, are we to perish for thirst?”The silver flagons, stoups, and black-jacks were replenished[213]with equal celerity, and deep draughts went round, and the carouse became every moment more fierce and frequent. The Lady Mariota Athyn rose to retire to her own private quarter of the pavilion.“Young Sir Page,” said she to Maurice de Grey, “wine wassail is not for thee, I ween; thou shalt along with my boys and me, thou naughty youth; thou shalt with me, I say. Verily, I condemn thee to do penance with me and my damsels until the hour of couchee. Come along, Sir Good-for-Nothing.”The page arose, and went with the lady and her three younger sons, but he seemed to go very unwillingly. In truth, he had received her little attentions rather coldly; so much so, indeed, that Hepborne had felt somewhat hurt at his seeming indifference.After much wine had been swallowed, and a great deal of conversation had passed about hunting and deeds of chivalry—“And so thou goest to this tourney of my brother-in-law, the Earl of Moray’s, Sir Patrick?” said the Wolfe.“Such is the object of my journey, my Lord,” replied Hepborne.“By St. Hubert! I have a mind to go with thee, were it only to show my boys the sport,” replied the Wolfe. “But, by the thunder of Heaven! I am not over well pleased with this same brother-in-law. The old man, my doting liege-father, hath refused to add Moray Land to my lieutenantship, which now lacketh but it to give me broad control from the Spey to the Orcades; and, by my beard, I cannot choose but guess that Earl John hath had some secret hand in preventing him. My sister Margery denies this stoutly; but she would deny anything to keep fire and sword from her lord’s lands. Yet may the hot fiend swallow me if I ween not that I have hit the true mark in so suspecting.”“By the red Rood, then, I would straightway tax him with it,” said Sir Alexander Stewart.“Nay, nay, meddle thou not, Sandy,” said the Wolfe. “I lack not thine advice. This matter concerns not thee.”“Concerns not me!” exclaimed Sir Alexander, hotly—“by the martyrdom of St. Andrew, but it does though—it concerneth me mightily; yea, it enchafeth me to see thee, my father, pusillanimously suffer thyself to be agrutched and hameled in the extent of thy flight, an if thou wert a coistril hawk, to be mewed by any he of the mark of Adam.”“I tell thee, boy, thou art a silly fool,” roared out the Wolfe, gnashing his teeth in a fury.[214]“If I am a fool, then,” said Sir Alexander, in no less a rage, “I am at least wise enough to know from whom I have had my folly.”The ferocious Wolfe could stand this no longer. His eyes flashed fire, and, catching up a large silver flagon of wine, from which he had been going to drink, he hurled it at his son’s head with so much celerity and truth of aim that had not Hepborne raised his left arm and intercepted it in its flight, though at the expense of a severe contusion, the hot Sir Alexander would never have uttered a word more. Heedless of the escape he had made, he rose to return the compliment against his father; but Hepborne, and some of those nearest to him, interfered, and with some difficulty the anger of both father and son was appeased. It was a feature in the Wolfe’s character, and one also in which his son Alexander probably participated, that, although his passion was easily and tremendously excited on every trifling occasion, so as to convert him at once into an ungovernable wild beast, capable of the most savage and cruel deeds, yet there were times when he was not unapt to repent him of any atrocious act he might have been guilty of, particularly where his own family was concerned. He loved his son Alexander—with the exception of the child Duncan, indeed, he loved him more than any of the others, perhaps because he more nearly resembled himself in temper. After the fray had been put an end to he sat for some moments trembling with agitation; but, as his wrath subsided, and he became calmer, he began to picture to himself his son stretched dead at his feet by a blow from his own hand. His countenance became gloomy and oppressed; he fidgetted upon his seat, and at length starting hurriedly up—“Depardieux, I thank thee, Sir Patrick,” said he, taking Hepborne’s right hand, and squeezing it heartily—“depardieux, I thank thee for having arrested a blow I should have so much repented—Alexander,” continued he, going up and embracing his son, “forgive me, my boy; but provoke not mine ire in the same way again, I beseech thee.”“Nay, father,” said Sir Alexander, “perhaps I went too far; but, by the mass, I was irritated by the thought that John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, should have got between thee and the King with his silky curreidew tongue.”“Right, boy,” cried the Wolfe, relieved by finding a new outlet for his rage, and striking the table furiously with his fist as he resumed his seat—“right, boy: there it is. If I but find that my suspicions are true, by the beard of my grandfather his being my sister Margery’s husband shall not save him from[215]my wrekery. But, Sir Patrick,” continued he, after a short pause, “so please thee, let me see the old man’s letter thou wert charged with, Knowest thou aught of its contents?”“No, my good lord,” said Hepborne, taking the embroidered silken case that contained the King’s epistle from his bosom. “His Majesty put it himself into my hands as I kissed his, to take my duteous leave, and here it is as he gave it to me.”The Wolfe glanced at the royal signet, and then, with his wonted impatience, tore up the silk, and began to read it to himself. His brow darkened as he went on, his teeth ground against each other, and his lip curled with a growing tempest. At length he dashed down the King’s letter on the table, and struck the board with his clenched fist two or three times successively—“Ha! see, Sir Knight, what it is thou hast brought me,” cried he, in a fury so great that he could hardly give utterance to his words. “Read that, read that, I say. By all the fiends, ’tis well I read it not at first, ere I knew thee better, Sir Knight, or thou mightest have had but a strange reception. Read it—read it, I say!”Hepborne took up the letter, and read as follows:—“To the High and Noble, our trusty and well-beloved son, Alexander Stewart. Earl of Buchan, Earl of Ross, Lord of Badenoch, and our faithful Lieutenant over the northern part of our kingdom, from the bounds of the county of Moray to the Pentland Frith, these greeting—“Son Alexander,—We do hope these may find thee well. It hath reached our ears that thou dost still continue to keep abiding with thee thy leman, Mariota Athyn. Though she, the said Mariota, be the mother of thy five boys, yet is the noble Lady Euphame, Countess of Ross, thy true and lawful wife; with her, therefore, it behoveth thee to consort, yea, and her it behoveth thee to cherish: yet are we informed, and it doleth us much that it should be so, that thou dost still leave her to grieve in loneliness and solitude. Bethink thee that thou yet liest under the threatened ban of holy Mother Church, and under the penalty laid on thee by the godly Bishops of Moray and Ross for having cruelly used her, and that thou dost yet underly, and art bound by their sentence to live with her in a virtuous and seemly manner. Let not gratitude permit thee to forget, also, that she did bestow upon thee rich heritages in land, and[216]that it is through her thou dost hold thy title of Earl of Ross, which we did graciously confirm to thee. Return, then, from thy wicked ways, and cleave unto thy lawful wife, to her cherisaunce, as thou wouldst value our good favour, and as thou wouldst give jovisaunce to these our few remaining years of eld. And so, as thou dost obey these our injunctions, may God keep thee and thine in health, and soften thine heart to mercy and godliness. So prayeth thy loving father and King,“Robert Rex.”Hepborne laid down the King’s letter without venturing a single comment on it, and it was instantly snatched up by Sir Alexander Stewart.“What!” cried he with indignation, after glancing it over, “is our mother, or are we, to be turned adrift from our father’s house like ragamuffin quistrons, to beg our way through the world, to please a doting old man?”“Nay, sooner shall I pluck out every hair of this beard from my face,” shouted the Wolfe in a fury, and tugging out a handful of it unconsciously as he said so. “What! am I to be schooled by an old bigoted prater at my time of life, and to be condemned to live with a restless intriguing hag, who hath been the cause of so much vexation to me! The red fiend shall catch me then! Not for all the bishops in Mother Church, with the Orders four to boot, shall I submit me to such penance. But, by all the powers of darkness, the split-capped Bishop of Moray, Alexander Barr, shall suffer for this. He it is who hath been at the bottom of it all; he it is who hath stirred up the King; and by the infernal fires, he shall ere long undergo my wrekery. He hath been an eternal torture to me; but, by my trusty burly-brand, I shall make the craven, horrow lossel rue that ever he roused theWolfe of Badenoch.”He struck the table tremendously with his fist as he concluded. His calling himself by hisnom de guerrewas with him like Jupiter swearing by the river Styx. His people moved on their seats, put on stern brows, and looked at one another, as if each would have said, “Brother, we shall have something to do here.” The Earl himself snatched up a flagon of Rhenish, and took a deep draught to cool his ire; then turning to Hepborne—“I bid thee good night, Sir Patrick,” said he; “thou hast no fault in this matter; good night, I say.” Then turning to the rest—“See that Sir Patrick Hepborne have the best quarters[217]that may be given him. Good night. By all the fiends, the white-faced hypocrite shall pay for it.” And so saying, he disappeared into the inner apartment of the pavilion.Immediately afterwards, the page and the three younger Stewarts came forth. Sir Alexander still continued to fret and broil with the fury which the King’s letter had excited in him; yet he neglected not the civilities due to their guest. He gave orders that the youngest boy’s tent should be prepared for Sir Patrick Hepborne, and that his brothers, Duncan and James, should occupy one tent for the night; and, leaving Sir Andrew Stewart to see that the stranger Knight was properly accommodated, he made an exit similar to his father’s.“’Tis an unfortunate weakness,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, as he accompanied Hepborne to his tent, “’tis an unhappy weakness that so cruelly besets my father and my brother Alexander; half the hours of their lives are spent in temporary frenzy. It would be well for them if they could bridle their passions.”Hepborne found it difficult to reply; so changing the subject adroitly, and thanking Sir Andrew for his courteous attention, he bade him good night, and was glad to take refuge in the quiet of the tent that had been prepared for him. Being indisposed for sleep, he called his page, whose couch was in the outer apartment, and, ere they retired to rest, their conversation ran as follows:—“Maurice,” said the knight, “why didst thou show thyself so backward in receiving the Lady Mariota’s favours? She seemed anxious to show thee all manner of kind attention, yet thou didst repel her by thy very looks.”“Sir Knight,” said the page, “I like not that woman; she is not the wife of the Earl of Buchan, and meseems it a foul thing to see her sit in the seat of so honourable and virtuous a lady as the Countess of Ross, queening it where she hath no claim but the base one that may spring from her own infamy.”“Thou art right, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou art right, in good truth; but ’tis not for us to read moral lessons to our seniors. Where we see positive harm, or glaring injury, done to any one by another, then it behoveth a true knight to stay not his hand, but forthwith to redress the grievance at peril of his life. But though he is not to court the society of those who sin grossly, yet cannot he always eschew it, and it falleth not within the province of a knight to read moral lectures and homilies to every one he meeteth that may offend against God’s[218]laws; else might he exchange the helmet for the cowl. And, verily, he should have little to do but to preach, since the wickedness of man is so great, and so universal, that there is no one who might not call for his sermons; yea, and while zealously preaching to others, he would certainly fall into guilt himself. No, Maurice; let us take care to live irreproachably; then let us suffer no one to do tyranny or injustice to another; and having secured these important things, let us leave all else to a righteous God, who will Himself avenge the sins committed against His moral law. Yet do I much commend that virtuous indignation in thee; and if thy love should ever haply run smooth, as I sincerely pray that it may, I trust that thou wilt be a mirror of virtuous constancy.”The page clasped his hands on his breast, and, throwing up his eyes to Heaven, “Grant but that my love may yet prosper,” said he, fervently; “grant but that, ye blessed Virgin, and the sun shall not be more constant to the firmament, than I shall be in the attachment to the object of my affection! But couldst thou be constant, Sir Knight?” added he, with a sigh.“’Tis an odd question, boy,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I think I know so much of myself as to say boldly that I could; and, verily, I would never mate me where I weened there might be risk of temptation to aught else. But, of a truth, I have not yet seen the woman of whom I might think so highly as to risk chaining my virtue to her side.”The page sat silent for some moments, and at length, turning to Hepborne, “I have seen knights,” said he, “who did roune sweet speeches in the ears of foolish maidens, who did swear potent oaths that they did love them, and yet, when the silly pusels believed them, they would laugh at their facile credence, and then, leaping into their saddles, ride away, making mirth of the sad wounds they had caused. Say, Sir Knight, couldst thou do this?”“Depardieux, mon bel ami Maurice de Grey,” said the knight, laughing, “methinks thou hast made thyself my father confessor to-night. What meanest thou by these questions?”“In truth, my dear master,” said the boy, “I do but ask, that I may better myself by the wisdom of thine answers. How should I, an untaught youth, ever become an honour to knighthood, as I hope one day to be, save by thy sage precept and bright example?”“Nay, then, sweet page,” said the knight, kindly, “I shall[219]not deny to answer thee. In good sooth, I have never yet been so base, nor could I ever be guilty of so much wickedness.”The page’s eyes brightened for a moment at the knight’s virtuous assertion.“There be women indeed,” continued Sir Patrick, “to whom it is even dangerous for a courteous knight to address the common parlance of courtly compliment, without instilling into them the vain belief that their charms have wrought a conquest. Of such an innocent fault the folly of many maidens may have made me guilty. Never, save once, did I seriously love, and then, alas, I discovered that my heart had been affected by an unworthy object, so that I did forthwith tear myself from her.”“Unworthy, didst thou say, Sir Knight?” cried the boy, earnestly; “and who, I pray thee, could be so unworthy to thee?”“Nay, my good Maurice,” said Hepborne, “that were truly to ask too much. Were she as worthy as I did once esteem her, I would proudly publish her name to the world; but after having said so much to her dishonour, and now that she cannot be mine, her name shall never more escape these lips whilst I think of her as I at present do, save when ’tis brought in accidentally by others, or when ’tis murmured in my secret despair. But what ails thee, boy? Thou weepest. Tell me, I pray thee, why thou shouldst now be thus drent in dreriment? What hast thou to do with my love-griefs?”“I but cry for pity, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Thy tale, too, doth somewhat touch mine own, and so doth it, peraunter, affect me the more. May Heaven in its mercy clear away those cruel clouds that do at present so darken our souls!”“Amen!” said the knight fervently. “Then get thee to thy couch, Maurice, for I will to mine.”Sir Patrick Hepborne had already slept for a considerable time, when he was awakened by the clamour of voices. This, perhaps, would have excited little astonishment, had he not previously remarked the uncommon degree of quietness that had been preserved in the little encampment, the probable effect of the stern character and alert discipline of him who was at the head of it. He sat up, and leaning for some moments on his elbow to listen, he by and by heard the trampling of steeds, and the bustle of preparation, as if for a departure. He then called to the page, who answered him so immediately, that Hepborne suspected, what was really the case, that he had not as yet slept.“What noise is that we hear, Maurice?” said he.“Methinks,” said the page, “it is some party that sets forth.[220]Perhaps it may be one moiety of the retinue who go before, to prepare those of the Castle for the Earl’s coming.”This very natural explanation satisfied Hepborne. He soon heard the noise increase, and the neighing and prancing of the horses, with the voices of many men, though their words were not intelligible; then he heard a loud command to march, and the gallop of the troop died away upon his ear, and then again all was quiet, and his repose was uninterrupted until morning.He was hardly dressed when Sir Andrew Stewart came courteously to offer the usual morning compliments, and to conduct him to the great pavilion.“My father,” said he, “hath been called on urgent business into Badenoch; he left this yesternight, to ride thither sans delay: my brothers, Alexander, Walter, and James, also went with him; but he left me here to do thee what poor hospitality I may until his return. To-day, with thy good leave, we shall hie us to Lochyndorbe, and to-morrow I hope he will be there to do the honours of the Castle in his own person.”This sudden departure of the Wolfe of Badenoch accounted to Hepborne for the disturbance he had met with in the night. The Lady Mariota received him graciously.“But where is my handsome good-for-nothing page?” eagerly inquired she. “Ah, there comes the naughty boy, I see. Come hither, Sir Scapegrace; I trow I did school thee to some purpose yestreen; but parfay, thou shalt have more on’t anon. Come hither, I say. Verily, the young varlet hangeth his ears like a whelp that feareth the rod; but i’faith I am not come to that yet,—though, never trust me,” added she, laughing, “but thou shalt have it ere long, an’ thou be’st not more docile. Sit thee down here, I say. And see now how, in hopes of thine amendment, I have carved for thee the tenderest and whitest part of this black grouse’s breast; yea, Sir Good-for-Nothing—with mine own fair fingers have I done it.”Maurice de Grey appeared more than half inclined to keep aloof from the lady, notwithstanding all her kind raillery; but he caught his master’s eye, and seeing that Sir Patrick seemed to wish that he should receive her notice with a good grace, he put on the semblance of cheerfulness, and took his seat by her accordingly.The morning’s meal passed over without anything remarkable, the lady devoting all her attention and all her trifling to Maurice de Grey, and Hepborne being engaged in conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart; there being no one else present but the boy Duncan. Soon afterwards, orders were issued for the[221]encampment to break up, and the attendants to prepare themselves and their steeds for their departure. Much time was lost until all the necessary arrangements were made. The sturdy sullen loons were aware of the absence of the Wolfe, and revelled in the enjoyment of the power, so seldom theirs, of doing things leisurely. Besides, all the most active and intelligent persons of the suite were gone. At length a string of little batt horses, pressed from the neighbouring churls, were despatched with the most valuable and more immediately necessary part of the moveables, and a few more were left to bring up the tents and heavier articles, when additional aid should arrive.Meanwhile, the palfrey of the Lady Mariota was brought out, together with two others for her maids; and the horses of the rest of the party also appeared. Hepborne assisted the lady to mount, but though she thanked him graciously for his courtesy, she was by no means satisfied.“That white palfrey of thine, Sir Page Maurice,” said she, “seemeth to have an affection for my pyeball; let them not be separated, I pr’ythee. Mount thee, and be thou the squire of my body for this day. Allons.”Maurice was obliged to comply, and rode off with the lady at the head of the cavalcade, followed by her son Duncan, and attended by the two damsels, who seemed, by their nods and winks to each other, to imply something extremely significant, yet understood by themselves alone. Sir Patrick Hepborne rode next, with Sir Andrew Stewart. Their train was meagre compared to that which Hepborne had seen the previous evening; indeed, his own attendants formed by far the greater part of the cortege that now accompanied them. Their route was by the same path that Hepborne had approached the glen, until they reached the steep side of the hill overhanging the head of it, whence he had first peeped into it. They then continued onwards through the forest in the same northern direction in which the guide was conducting the knight, at the time he was diverted from his way by discovering the Wolfe’s hunting camp.They travelled through a great and elevated plain, covered by pine trees so thickly as almost to exclude the sun, and even the hills that bounded it were wooded to their very tops. At length they turned towards an opening that appeared in the hills to their left, and, winding over some knolls, began to catch occasional glimpses of an extensive sheet of water, when the dark green fir tufts, now and then receding from one another, permitted the party to look beyond them. In a short time they[222]reached the shore of the eastern end of Lochyndorbe, about four miles in length, and of an oblong form. The hills bounding it on the north and south arose with gentle slope. A considerable island appeared near the upper or western extremity of the lake, a short way from its southern shore, and entirely covered with the impregnable Castle, of the same name with the sheet of water surrounding it. In the vista beyond, a sloping plain appeared, with high hills rising over it. The whole scene was one continued pine forest, and as solitary and wild as the most gloomy mind could desire. A group of firs, more ancient and enormous than the rest, occupied a point of land, and were tenanted by a colony of herons; and the lonely scream of these birds, and their lagging heavy flight, added to, rather than enlivened the sombre character of the loch.As they made their way up the southern shore, the enormous strength of the Castle became more apparent at every step. It was, in fact, a royal fortress, constructed for the purpose of sustaining regular and determined siege. It occupied the whole island to the very margin of the water, and its outer walls running, in long unbroken lines, from one point to another, in successive stretches, embraced a space of something more than two acres within them. On a low, round projection of land, immediately opposite on the southern shore, and within about two hundred yards of it, was situated an outwork, or sconce, erected for the purpose of preserving the communication with the terra firma, but yet of too little importance to be of any great benefit to an enemy that might chance to possess himself of it, or to enable him to do much injury to the Castle, even with the most powerful engines then in use—particularly as the massive walls opposed to it presented a straight, continuous, unbroken, and unassailable front. Here they found several large and small boats in waiting for them; but there appeared to be a great want of people to serve them.“Methinks thou hast but a paltry crew for thy navy to-day, Master Bruce?” said the Lady Mariota to an old grey-headed squire-seneschal, who came to receive her.“Madame,” said he, “my lord the Earl sent orders here last night for the spears, axemen, and bowmen, to meet him early this morning on Dulnan side. About an hundred good men of horse and foot marched thither long ere the sun saw the welkin, so that we be but meagrely garrisoned, else thou shouldst have been received with more honour.”“Nay, then, since it is so,” said the lady, “let us cross as we best may. That small boat will do for us, so lend me thine arm,[223]Sir Page Maurice.” And immediately entering the boat, she made the youth sit beside her. Hepborne and Sir Andrew Stewart also embarked, and, leaving the horses and attendants to follow at leisure, were pulled rapidly towards the Castle by a couple of old boatmen. They landed on the narrow strip of beach, extending hardly a yard from the walls, and that only when the water was low, and were admitted through all the numerous and potent defences of the deep gateway, by the warder, and one or two men who kept watch. They then traversed the courts intervening between the outer and inner walls, which were defended at all the salient angles by immensely strong round towers, one of them completely commanding the entrance. Then passing onwards, they came to the inner gateway, through which they ascended into the central area of the Castle, forming a large elevated quadrangle, surrounded by the buildings necessary in such a garrison.The Lady Mariota, still leaning on the arm of Maurice de Grey, led them into that part of the square occupied by the Earl’s mansion, and soon introduced them into a banqueting-hall of magnificent proportions, hung round with arms, and richly furnished for the times we speak of, and where, notwithstanding the draft made that morning on the forces of the place, there was still a considerable show of domestics in waiting.“Let us have the banquet immediately,” said the Lady Mariota to the seneschal. “Sir Knight,” said she, turning to Hepborne, “if our hospitality should lack its wonted comfort to-day, thou must lay it to the account of our late absence from the Castle; and if it should want its usual spirit, it must be set down to the score of the Earl’s absence. But to-morrow both these wants shall be supplied. Andrew, thou wilt see Sir Patrick Hepborne rightly accommodated. As for this naughty page, Maurice de Grey, I shall myself see him fittingly bestowed in a chamber near mine own, that I may have all proper and convenient opportunity of repeating those lessons I have already endeavoured to impress upon him. Come along then, good-for-nothing boy; come along, I say.”The page cast an imploring look at his master, who regarded it not; then hanging his head, he followed the Lady Mariota with an unwilling step, like a laggard schoolboy who dreads the ferula of his pedagogue; whilst Hepborne was ushered to his apartment, where, having procured the attendance of the faithful Mortimer Sang, he proceeded to array himself in attire suitable to the evening.[224]
The spot chosen for the Wolfe of Badenoch’s hunting encampment was beautiful. The little rill came welling forth in one great jet, like a copious fountain, from a crevice in the rocks that, rising like a mimic castle, terminated the glen at its upper extremity. The bright greens of the ivy, honeysuckle, and various creeping plants and shrubs that climbed over its surface, blended with the rich orange, brown, and yellow tints of the lichens that covered it. On the smooth flat sward, a little in advance of this, was pitched the pavilion of the Wolfe himself, with his banner waving before it. It consisted of three apartments, the largest of which, occupying the whole front, was used as the banqueting place, whilst the two others behind were devoted to the private convenience and repose of the Earl and the Lady Mariota.
To the right and left of this central pavilion were the tents of the five young knights. Of these the eldest, Sir Alexander Stewart, afterwards Earl of Mar, had all the violence of his father’s temper; Sir Andrew, the second, was cool, crafty, and designing; and Walter, James, and Duncan, who were too young to have anything like fixed characters, had all the tricks and pranks of ill-brought-up and unrestrained youths, though Duncan, the youngest, had naturally rather a more amiable disposition than any of the others.
Besides these tents, there were several more on the two flanks, extending towards the extremity of the horns of the semi-circle, occupied by squires, and the principal people of the Earl’s retinue. Within a rocky recess at one side, almost shut out from view by the embowering trees, a number of temporary huts were erected for culinary purposes, as well as for lodging the great mass of the lower order of attendants; and on the opposite side were extensive pickets, to which the horses were attached in lines.
The night dropped fast down on that low and narrow spot, and, as the cavalcade arrived, the people were already engaged in lighting a huge bonfire in the centre of it, quite capable of restoring an artificial day, and this immense blaze was to be kept up all night, partly for purposes of illumination, and partly[211]to keep off the wolves. The Earl no sooner appeared, than all was clamour, and running, and bustle, and confusion. He halted in front of the tents—the bugles blew, and the squires and attendants ran to hold his stirrup. But he waited not for their assistance. Ere they could reach him he sprang to the ground, and lifting the Lady Mariota from off her palfrey, carried her into the pavilion.
“Sir Patrick,” said he to Hepborne, as an esquire ushered him in, “thou must bear with such rustic entertainment as we have to offer thee here to-night. To-morrow we move to Lochyndorbe, where thou shalt be better bestowed.”
Sir Patrick bowed; but he saw no lack of provision for good cheer as he cast his eyes over the ample board, which was covered with a profusion of silver utensils of all kinds, among which were strangely mingled pewter, and even wooden trenchers, and where there were not only silver flagons and mazers, but leathern black-jacks, wooden stoups, and numerous drinking-horns, the whole being lighted by a silver lamp that hung over the centre.
“What, in the fiend’s name, makes the feast to tarry?” cried the Wolfe impatiently: “do the loons opine that we have no stomachs, or that we are blocks of wood, that we can stand all day i’ the passes, and yet do at night without feeding? The feast, I say—the feast! Nay, send me that rascal cook here.”
The cook, sweating from his fiery occupation, was instantly brought before him, trembling, carrying a stew-pan in one hand, and a long iron gravy-ladle in the other, with his sleeves tucked up, and clothed in a white apron and night-cap.
“Villain!” said the Wolfe, in a tremendous voice, “why are not the viands on the table? By all the fiends of the infernal realms, thou shalt be forthwith spitted and roasted before thine own fire, an we have not our meal ere I can turn myself.”
The cook bowed in abject terror, and, as soon as he was beyond the tent door, ran off, bawling to his assistants; and in a few minutes, a crowd of lacqueys bearing the smoking-hot dishes came pouring into the pavilion, heaping the board with them till it groaned again.
“Blow the bugle for the banquet,” cried the impatient Earl, seating himself at the head of the table. “Sit thee down, Mariota, on my right hand here; and do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, sit here on my left. The boys and the rest may find places for themselves.”
“But where is thy gentle page, Sir Knight?” said the Lady Mariota to Hepborne. “I pray thee let him sit down with us.[212]Certes, he doth appear to be come of no mean blood. Make me to know how the doced youth is hight, I do beseech thee?”
“Lady,” said Sir Patrick, smiling, “he is called Maurice de Grey, a truant boy of a good English house. His father is a gallant knight, who governs the border strength of Werk. Tired of soft service as a page of dames, he left his indulgent mother to roam into the world, and chancing to encounter me, I adopted him as my page. In truth, though young, he is prudent, and perdie, he hath more than once showed a good mettle, and some spirit, too, though his thewes and muscles have hardly strength enow, as yet, to bear it out.”
“Oh, fye on thee, Maurice de Grey,” said the lady, smiling graciously on the page, as he entered among the crowd—“fye on thee, Maurice, I say. Art thou so naughty as to wish to shun the converse of women at thine age? Oh, shame to thy youth-hed. Parfay, I shall myself undertake thy punishment, so sit thee down by me here, that I may school thee for thy folly and want of gallantry.”
Maurice bowed respectfully, and immediately occupied the proffered seat, where the lady did all in her power to gratify him by putting the nicest dainties on his plate, and prattling many a kind and flattering speech in his ear. Sir Alexander Stewart placed himself next to Sir Patrick, and, though naturally fierce and haughty in his air, showed every disposition to exert hospitable and knightly courtesy towards his father’s guest. Below them, on both sides of the table, sat his brothers; and the rest of the long board was filled up by the esquires and other retainers, who each individually occupied the first room he could find. For some time there was but little conversation, and nothing interrupted the clinking of knives upon the trenchers but an occasional pledge called for by the Wolfe, who, as he ate largely and voraciously, drank long draughts too, to promote the easy descent of the food into his capacious stomach. He continued to eat long after every one else at table had ceased.
“Ha!” said he at length, as he laid down his implements of carving; “quick! clear away those offensive fragments. Hey! what stand ye all staring at? Remove the assiettes and trenchers, I say—Are ye deaf, knaves?”
Every servile hand was upon the board in an instant, and the dishes and plates disappeared as if by magic.
“Wine—Rhenish!—Malvoisie! Wine, I say!” vociferated the Wolfe. “What, ye rogues, are we to perish for thirst?”
The silver flagons, stoups, and black-jacks were replenished[213]with equal celerity, and deep draughts went round, and the carouse became every moment more fierce and frequent. The Lady Mariota Athyn rose to retire to her own private quarter of the pavilion.
“Young Sir Page,” said she to Maurice de Grey, “wine wassail is not for thee, I ween; thou shalt along with my boys and me, thou naughty youth; thou shalt with me, I say. Verily, I condemn thee to do penance with me and my damsels until the hour of couchee. Come along, Sir Good-for-Nothing.”
The page arose, and went with the lady and her three younger sons, but he seemed to go very unwillingly. In truth, he had received her little attentions rather coldly; so much so, indeed, that Hepborne had felt somewhat hurt at his seeming indifference.
After much wine had been swallowed, and a great deal of conversation had passed about hunting and deeds of chivalry—
“And so thou goest to this tourney of my brother-in-law, the Earl of Moray’s, Sir Patrick?” said the Wolfe.
“Such is the object of my journey, my Lord,” replied Hepborne.
“By St. Hubert! I have a mind to go with thee, were it only to show my boys the sport,” replied the Wolfe. “But, by the thunder of Heaven! I am not over well pleased with this same brother-in-law. The old man, my doting liege-father, hath refused to add Moray Land to my lieutenantship, which now lacketh but it to give me broad control from the Spey to the Orcades; and, by my beard, I cannot choose but guess that Earl John hath had some secret hand in preventing him. My sister Margery denies this stoutly; but she would deny anything to keep fire and sword from her lord’s lands. Yet may the hot fiend swallow me if I ween not that I have hit the true mark in so suspecting.”
“By the red Rood, then, I would straightway tax him with it,” said Sir Alexander Stewart.
“Nay, nay, meddle thou not, Sandy,” said the Wolfe. “I lack not thine advice. This matter concerns not thee.”
“Concerns not me!” exclaimed Sir Alexander, hotly—“by the martyrdom of St. Andrew, but it does though—it concerneth me mightily; yea, it enchafeth me to see thee, my father, pusillanimously suffer thyself to be agrutched and hameled in the extent of thy flight, an if thou wert a coistril hawk, to be mewed by any he of the mark of Adam.”
“I tell thee, boy, thou art a silly fool,” roared out the Wolfe, gnashing his teeth in a fury.[214]
“If I am a fool, then,” said Sir Alexander, in no less a rage, “I am at least wise enough to know from whom I have had my folly.”
The ferocious Wolfe could stand this no longer. His eyes flashed fire, and, catching up a large silver flagon of wine, from which he had been going to drink, he hurled it at his son’s head with so much celerity and truth of aim that had not Hepborne raised his left arm and intercepted it in its flight, though at the expense of a severe contusion, the hot Sir Alexander would never have uttered a word more. Heedless of the escape he had made, he rose to return the compliment against his father; but Hepborne, and some of those nearest to him, interfered, and with some difficulty the anger of both father and son was appeased. It was a feature in the Wolfe’s character, and one also in which his son Alexander probably participated, that, although his passion was easily and tremendously excited on every trifling occasion, so as to convert him at once into an ungovernable wild beast, capable of the most savage and cruel deeds, yet there were times when he was not unapt to repent him of any atrocious act he might have been guilty of, particularly where his own family was concerned. He loved his son Alexander—with the exception of the child Duncan, indeed, he loved him more than any of the others, perhaps because he more nearly resembled himself in temper. After the fray had been put an end to he sat for some moments trembling with agitation; but, as his wrath subsided, and he became calmer, he began to picture to himself his son stretched dead at his feet by a blow from his own hand. His countenance became gloomy and oppressed; he fidgetted upon his seat, and at length starting hurriedly up—
“Depardieux, I thank thee, Sir Patrick,” said he, taking Hepborne’s right hand, and squeezing it heartily—“depardieux, I thank thee for having arrested a blow I should have so much repented—Alexander,” continued he, going up and embracing his son, “forgive me, my boy; but provoke not mine ire in the same way again, I beseech thee.”
“Nay, father,” said Sir Alexander, “perhaps I went too far; but, by the mass, I was irritated by the thought that John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, should have got between thee and the King with his silky curreidew tongue.”
“Right, boy,” cried the Wolfe, relieved by finding a new outlet for his rage, and striking the table furiously with his fist as he resumed his seat—“right, boy: there it is. If I but find that my suspicions are true, by the beard of my grandfather his being my sister Margery’s husband shall not save him from[215]my wrekery. But, Sir Patrick,” continued he, after a short pause, “so please thee, let me see the old man’s letter thou wert charged with, Knowest thou aught of its contents?”
“No, my good lord,” said Hepborne, taking the embroidered silken case that contained the King’s epistle from his bosom. “His Majesty put it himself into my hands as I kissed his, to take my duteous leave, and here it is as he gave it to me.”
The Wolfe glanced at the royal signet, and then, with his wonted impatience, tore up the silk, and began to read it to himself. His brow darkened as he went on, his teeth ground against each other, and his lip curled with a growing tempest. At length he dashed down the King’s letter on the table, and struck the board with his clenched fist two or three times successively—
“Ha! see, Sir Knight, what it is thou hast brought me,” cried he, in a fury so great that he could hardly give utterance to his words. “Read that, read that, I say. By all the fiends, ’tis well I read it not at first, ere I knew thee better, Sir Knight, or thou mightest have had but a strange reception. Read it—read it, I say!”
Hepborne took up the letter, and read as follows:—
“To the High and Noble, our trusty and well-beloved son, Alexander Stewart. Earl of Buchan, Earl of Ross, Lord of Badenoch, and our faithful Lieutenant over the northern part of our kingdom, from the bounds of the county of Moray to the Pentland Frith, these greeting—“Son Alexander,—We do hope these may find thee well. It hath reached our ears that thou dost still continue to keep abiding with thee thy leman, Mariota Athyn. Though she, the said Mariota, be the mother of thy five boys, yet is the noble Lady Euphame, Countess of Ross, thy true and lawful wife; with her, therefore, it behoveth thee to consort, yea, and her it behoveth thee to cherish: yet are we informed, and it doleth us much that it should be so, that thou dost still leave her to grieve in loneliness and solitude. Bethink thee that thou yet liest under the threatened ban of holy Mother Church, and under the penalty laid on thee by the godly Bishops of Moray and Ross for having cruelly used her, and that thou dost yet underly, and art bound by their sentence to live with her in a virtuous and seemly manner. Let not gratitude permit thee to forget, also, that she did bestow upon thee rich heritages in land, and[216]that it is through her thou dost hold thy title of Earl of Ross, which we did graciously confirm to thee. Return, then, from thy wicked ways, and cleave unto thy lawful wife, to her cherisaunce, as thou wouldst value our good favour, and as thou wouldst give jovisaunce to these our few remaining years of eld. And so, as thou dost obey these our injunctions, may God keep thee and thine in health, and soften thine heart to mercy and godliness. So prayeth thy loving father and King,“Robert Rex.”
“To the High and Noble, our trusty and well-beloved son, Alexander Stewart. Earl of Buchan, Earl of Ross, Lord of Badenoch, and our faithful Lieutenant over the northern part of our kingdom, from the bounds of the county of Moray to the Pentland Frith, these greeting—
“Son Alexander,—We do hope these may find thee well. It hath reached our ears that thou dost still continue to keep abiding with thee thy leman, Mariota Athyn. Though she, the said Mariota, be the mother of thy five boys, yet is the noble Lady Euphame, Countess of Ross, thy true and lawful wife; with her, therefore, it behoveth thee to consort, yea, and her it behoveth thee to cherish: yet are we informed, and it doleth us much that it should be so, that thou dost still leave her to grieve in loneliness and solitude. Bethink thee that thou yet liest under the threatened ban of holy Mother Church, and under the penalty laid on thee by the godly Bishops of Moray and Ross for having cruelly used her, and that thou dost yet underly, and art bound by their sentence to live with her in a virtuous and seemly manner. Let not gratitude permit thee to forget, also, that she did bestow upon thee rich heritages in land, and[216]that it is through her thou dost hold thy title of Earl of Ross, which we did graciously confirm to thee. Return, then, from thy wicked ways, and cleave unto thy lawful wife, to her cherisaunce, as thou wouldst value our good favour, and as thou wouldst give jovisaunce to these our few remaining years of eld. And so, as thou dost obey these our injunctions, may God keep thee and thine in health, and soften thine heart to mercy and godliness. So prayeth thy loving father and King,
“Robert Rex.”
Hepborne laid down the King’s letter without venturing a single comment on it, and it was instantly snatched up by Sir Alexander Stewart.
“What!” cried he with indignation, after glancing it over, “is our mother, or are we, to be turned adrift from our father’s house like ragamuffin quistrons, to beg our way through the world, to please a doting old man?”
“Nay, sooner shall I pluck out every hair of this beard from my face,” shouted the Wolfe in a fury, and tugging out a handful of it unconsciously as he said so. “What! am I to be schooled by an old bigoted prater at my time of life, and to be condemned to live with a restless intriguing hag, who hath been the cause of so much vexation to me! The red fiend shall catch me then! Not for all the bishops in Mother Church, with the Orders four to boot, shall I submit me to such penance. But, by all the powers of darkness, the split-capped Bishop of Moray, Alexander Barr, shall suffer for this. He it is who hath been at the bottom of it all; he it is who hath stirred up the King; and by the infernal fires, he shall ere long undergo my wrekery. He hath been an eternal torture to me; but, by my trusty burly-brand, I shall make the craven, horrow lossel rue that ever he roused theWolfe of Badenoch.”
He struck the table tremendously with his fist as he concluded. His calling himself by hisnom de guerrewas with him like Jupiter swearing by the river Styx. His people moved on their seats, put on stern brows, and looked at one another, as if each would have said, “Brother, we shall have something to do here.” The Earl himself snatched up a flagon of Rhenish, and took a deep draught to cool his ire; then turning to Hepborne—
“I bid thee good night, Sir Patrick,” said he; “thou hast no fault in this matter; good night, I say.” Then turning to the rest—“See that Sir Patrick Hepborne have the best quarters[217]that may be given him. Good night. By all the fiends, the white-faced hypocrite shall pay for it.” And so saying, he disappeared into the inner apartment of the pavilion.
Immediately afterwards, the page and the three younger Stewarts came forth. Sir Alexander still continued to fret and broil with the fury which the King’s letter had excited in him; yet he neglected not the civilities due to their guest. He gave orders that the youngest boy’s tent should be prepared for Sir Patrick Hepborne, and that his brothers, Duncan and James, should occupy one tent for the night; and, leaving Sir Andrew Stewart to see that the stranger Knight was properly accommodated, he made an exit similar to his father’s.
“’Tis an unfortunate weakness,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, as he accompanied Hepborne to his tent, “’tis an unhappy weakness that so cruelly besets my father and my brother Alexander; half the hours of their lives are spent in temporary frenzy. It would be well for them if they could bridle their passions.”
Hepborne found it difficult to reply; so changing the subject adroitly, and thanking Sir Andrew for his courteous attention, he bade him good night, and was glad to take refuge in the quiet of the tent that had been prepared for him. Being indisposed for sleep, he called his page, whose couch was in the outer apartment, and, ere they retired to rest, their conversation ran as follows:—
“Maurice,” said the knight, “why didst thou show thyself so backward in receiving the Lady Mariota’s favours? She seemed anxious to show thee all manner of kind attention, yet thou didst repel her by thy very looks.”
“Sir Knight,” said the page, “I like not that woman; she is not the wife of the Earl of Buchan, and meseems it a foul thing to see her sit in the seat of so honourable and virtuous a lady as the Countess of Ross, queening it where she hath no claim but the base one that may spring from her own infamy.”
“Thou art right, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou art right, in good truth; but ’tis not for us to read moral lessons to our seniors. Where we see positive harm, or glaring injury, done to any one by another, then it behoveth a true knight to stay not his hand, but forthwith to redress the grievance at peril of his life. But though he is not to court the society of those who sin grossly, yet cannot he always eschew it, and it falleth not within the province of a knight to read moral lectures and homilies to every one he meeteth that may offend against God’s[218]laws; else might he exchange the helmet for the cowl. And, verily, he should have little to do but to preach, since the wickedness of man is so great, and so universal, that there is no one who might not call for his sermons; yea, and while zealously preaching to others, he would certainly fall into guilt himself. No, Maurice; let us take care to live irreproachably; then let us suffer no one to do tyranny or injustice to another; and having secured these important things, let us leave all else to a righteous God, who will Himself avenge the sins committed against His moral law. Yet do I much commend that virtuous indignation in thee; and if thy love should ever haply run smooth, as I sincerely pray that it may, I trust that thou wilt be a mirror of virtuous constancy.”
The page clasped his hands on his breast, and, throwing up his eyes to Heaven, “Grant but that my love may yet prosper,” said he, fervently; “grant but that, ye blessed Virgin, and the sun shall not be more constant to the firmament, than I shall be in the attachment to the object of my affection! But couldst thou be constant, Sir Knight?” added he, with a sigh.
“’Tis an odd question, boy,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I think I know so much of myself as to say boldly that I could; and, verily, I would never mate me where I weened there might be risk of temptation to aught else. But, of a truth, I have not yet seen the woman of whom I might think so highly as to risk chaining my virtue to her side.”
The page sat silent for some moments, and at length, turning to Hepborne, “I have seen knights,” said he, “who did roune sweet speeches in the ears of foolish maidens, who did swear potent oaths that they did love them, and yet, when the silly pusels believed them, they would laugh at their facile credence, and then, leaping into their saddles, ride away, making mirth of the sad wounds they had caused. Say, Sir Knight, couldst thou do this?”
“Depardieux, mon bel ami Maurice de Grey,” said the knight, laughing, “methinks thou hast made thyself my father confessor to-night. What meanest thou by these questions?”
“In truth, my dear master,” said the boy, “I do but ask, that I may better myself by the wisdom of thine answers. How should I, an untaught youth, ever become an honour to knighthood, as I hope one day to be, save by thy sage precept and bright example?”
“Nay, then, sweet page,” said the knight, kindly, “I shall[219]not deny to answer thee. In good sooth, I have never yet been so base, nor could I ever be guilty of so much wickedness.”
The page’s eyes brightened for a moment at the knight’s virtuous assertion.
“There be women indeed,” continued Sir Patrick, “to whom it is even dangerous for a courteous knight to address the common parlance of courtly compliment, without instilling into them the vain belief that their charms have wrought a conquest. Of such an innocent fault the folly of many maidens may have made me guilty. Never, save once, did I seriously love, and then, alas, I discovered that my heart had been affected by an unworthy object, so that I did forthwith tear myself from her.”
“Unworthy, didst thou say, Sir Knight?” cried the boy, earnestly; “and who, I pray thee, could be so unworthy to thee?”
“Nay, my good Maurice,” said Hepborne, “that were truly to ask too much. Were she as worthy as I did once esteem her, I would proudly publish her name to the world; but after having said so much to her dishonour, and now that she cannot be mine, her name shall never more escape these lips whilst I think of her as I at present do, save when ’tis brought in accidentally by others, or when ’tis murmured in my secret despair. But what ails thee, boy? Thou weepest. Tell me, I pray thee, why thou shouldst now be thus drent in dreriment? What hast thou to do with my love-griefs?”
“I but cry for pity, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Thy tale, too, doth somewhat touch mine own, and so doth it, peraunter, affect me the more. May Heaven in its mercy clear away those cruel clouds that do at present so darken our souls!”
“Amen!” said the knight fervently. “Then get thee to thy couch, Maurice, for I will to mine.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne had already slept for a considerable time, when he was awakened by the clamour of voices. This, perhaps, would have excited little astonishment, had he not previously remarked the uncommon degree of quietness that had been preserved in the little encampment, the probable effect of the stern character and alert discipline of him who was at the head of it. He sat up, and leaning for some moments on his elbow to listen, he by and by heard the trampling of steeds, and the bustle of preparation, as if for a departure. He then called to the page, who answered him so immediately, that Hepborne suspected, what was really the case, that he had not as yet slept.
“What noise is that we hear, Maurice?” said he.
“Methinks,” said the page, “it is some party that sets forth.[220]Perhaps it may be one moiety of the retinue who go before, to prepare those of the Castle for the Earl’s coming.”
This very natural explanation satisfied Hepborne. He soon heard the noise increase, and the neighing and prancing of the horses, with the voices of many men, though their words were not intelligible; then he heard a loud command to march, and the gallop of the troop died away upon his ear, and then again all was quiet, and his repose was uninterrupted until morning.
He was hardly dressed when Sir Andrew Stewart came courteously to offer the usual morning compliments, and to conduct him to the great pavilion.
“My father,” said he, “hath been called on urgent business into Badenoch; he left this yesternight, to ride thither sans delay: my brothers, Alexander, Walter, and James, also went with him; but he left me here to do thee what poor hospitality I may until his return. To-day, with thy good leave, we shall hie us to Lochyndorbe, and to-morrow I hope he will be there to do the honours of the Castle in his own person.”
This sudden departure of the Wolfe of Badenoch accounted to Hepborne for the disturbance he had met with in the night. The Lady Mariota received him graciously.
“But where is my handsome good-for-nothing page?” eagerly inquired she. “Ah, there comes the naughty boy, I see. Come hither, Sir Scapegrace; I trow I did school thee to some purpose yestreen; but parfay, thou shalt have more on’t anon. Come hither, I say. Verily, the young varlet hangeth his ears like a whelp that feareth the rod; but i’faith I am not come to that yet,—though, never trust me,” added she, laughing, “but thou shalt have it ere long, an’ thou be’st not more docile. Sit thee down here, I say. And see now how, in hopes of thine amendment, I have carved for thee the tenderest and whitest part of this black grouse’s breast; yea, Sir Good-for-Nothing—with mine own fair fingers have I done it.”
Maurice de Grey appeared more than half inclined to keep aloof from the lady, notwithstanding all her kind raillery; but he caught his master’s eye, and seeing that Sir Patrick seemed to wish that he should receive her notice with a good grace, he put on the semblance of cheerfulness, and took his seat by her accordingly.
The morning’s meal passed over without anything remarkable, the lady devoting all her attention and all her trifling to Maurice de Grey, and Hepborne being engaged in conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart; there being no one else present but the boy Duncan. Soon afterwards, orders were issued for the[221]encampment to break up, and the attendants to prepare themselves and their steeds for their departure. Much time was lost until all the necessary arrangements were made. The sturdy sullen loons were aware of the absence of the Wolfe, and revelled in the enjoyment of the power, so seldom theirs, of doing things leisurely. Besides, all the most active and intelligent persons of the suite were gone. At length a string of little batt horses, pressed from the neighbouring churls, were despatched with the most valuable and more immediately necessary part of the moveables, and a few more were left to bring up the tents and heavier articles, when additional aid should arrive.
Meanwhile, the palfrey of the Lady Mariota was brought out, together with two others for her maids; and the horses of the rest of the party also appeared. Hepborne assisted the lady to mount, but though she thanked him graciously for his courtesy, she was by no means satisfied.
“That white palfrey of thine, Sir Page Maurice,” said she, “seemeth to have an affection for my pyeball; let them not be separated, I pr’ythee. Mount thee, and be thou the squire of my body for this day. Allons.”
Maurice was obliged to comply, and rode off with the lady at the head of the cavalcade, followed by her son Duncan, and attended by the two damsels, who seemed, by their nods and winks to each other, to imply something extremely significant, yet understood by themselves alone. Sir Patrick Hepborne rode next, with Sir Andrew Stewart. Their train was meagre compared to that which Hepborne had seen the previous evening; indeed, his own attendants formed by far the greater part of the cortege that now accompanied them. Their route was by the same path that Hepborne had approached the glen, until they reached the steep side of the hill overhanging the head of it, whence he had first peeped into it. They then continued onwards through the forest in the same northern direction in which the guide was conducting the knight, at the time he was diverted from his way by discovering the Wolfe’s hunting camp.
They travelled through a great and elevated plain, covered by pine trees so thickly as almost to exclude the sun, and even the hills that bounded it were wooded to their very tops. At length they turned towards an opening that appeared in the hills to their left, and, winding over some knolls, began to catch occasional glimpses of an extensive sheet of water, when the dark green fir tufts, now and then receding from one another, permitted the party to look beyond them. In a short time they[222]reached the shore of the eastern end of Lochyndorbe, about four miles in length, and of an oblong form. The hills bounding it on the north and south arose with gentle slope. A considerable island appeared near the upper or western extremity of the lake, a short way from its southern shore, and entirely covered with the impregnable Castle, of the same name with the sheet of water surrounding it. In the vista beyond, a sloping plain appeared, with high hills rising over it. The whole scene was one continued pine forest, and as solitary and wild as the most gloomy mind could desire. A group of firs, more ancient and enormous than the rest, occupied a point of land, and were tenanted by a colony of herons; and the lonely scream of these birds, and their lagging heavy flight, added to, rather than enlivened the sombre character of the loch.
As they made their way up the southern shore, the enormous strength of the Castle became more apparent at every step. It was, in fact, a royal fortress, constructed for the purpose of sustaining regular and determined siege. It occupied the whole island to the very margin of the water, and its outer walls running, in long unbroken lines, from one point to another, in successive stretches, embraced a space of something more than two acres within them. On a low, round projection of land, immediately opposite on the southern shore, and within about two hundred yards of it, was situated an outwork, or sconce, erected for the purpose of preserving the communication with the terra firma, but yet of too little importance to be of any great benefit to an enemy that might chance to possess himself of it, or to enable him to do much injury to the Castle, even with the most powerful engines then in use—particularly as the massive walls opposed to it presented a straight, continuous, unbroken, and unassailable front. Here they found several large and small boats in waiting for them; but there appeared to be a great want of people to serve them.
“Methinks thou hast but a paltry crew for thy navy to-day, Master Bruce?” said the Lady Mariota to an old grey-headed squire-seneschal, who came to receive her.
“Madame,” said he, “my lord the Earl sent orders here last night for the spears, axemen, and bowmen, to meet him early this morning on Dulnan side. About an hundred good men of horse and foot marched thither long ere the sun saw the welkin, so that we be but meagrely garrisoned, else thou shouldst have been received with more honour.”
“Nay, then, since it is so,” said the lady, “let us cross as we best may. That small boat will do for us, so lend me thine arm,[223]Sir Page Maurice.” And immediately entering the boat, she made the youth sit beside her. Hepborne and Sir Andrew Stewart also embarked, and, leaving the horses and attendants to follow at leisure, were pulled rapidly towards the Castle by a couple of old boatmen. They landed on the narrow strip of beach, extending hardly a yard from the walls, and that only when the water was low, and were admitted through all the numerous and potent defences of the deep gateway, by the warder, and one or two men who kept watch. They then traversed the courts intervening between the outer and inner walls, which were defended at all the salient angles by immensely strong round towers, one of them completely commanding the entrance. Then passing onwards, they came to the inner gateway, through which they ascended into the central area of the Castle, forming a large elevated quadrangle, surrounded by the buildings necessary in such a garrison.
The Lady Mariota, still leaning on the arm of Maurice de Grey, led them into that part of the square occupied by the Earl’s mansion, and soon introduced them into a banqueting-hall of magnificent proportions, hung round with arms, and richly furnished for the times we speak of, and where, notwithstanding the draft made that morning on the forces of the place, there was still a considerable show of domestics in waiting.
“Let us have the banquet immediately,” said the Lady Mariota to the seneschal. “Sir Knight,” said she, turning to Hepborne, “if our hospitality should lack its wonted comfort to-day, thou must lay it to the account of our late absence from the Castle; and if it should want its usual spirit, it must be set down to the score of the Earl’s absence. But to-morrow both these wants shall be supplied. Andrew, thou wilt see Sir Patrick Hepborne rightly accommodated. As for this naughty page, Maurice de Grey, I shall myself see him fittingly bestowed in a chamber near mine own, that I may have all proper and convenient opportunity of repeating those lessons I have already endeavoured to impress upon him. Come along then, good-for-nothing boy; come along, I say.”
The page cast an imploring look at his master, who regarded it not; then hanging his head, he followed the Lady Mariota with an unwilling step, like a laggard schoolboy who dreads the ferula of his pedagogue; whilst Hepborne was ushered to his apartment, where, having procured the attendance of the faithful Mortimer Sang, he proceeded to array himself in attire suitable to the evening.[224]