"A sailor's life is a life of woe,He works now late, now early;Now up, now down, now to and fro,But then he takes it cheerly.And yet think not our fate is hard.Though storms at sea so treat us,For coming home, a sweet reward,With smiles our sweethearts greet us."T. DIBDIN.
In an apartment which had three large windows overlooking the river, the ladies seated themselves in a group to await their visitors; and two, at least, were flushed and palpitating, for they expected acknowledged lovers. The younger girls were all expectation too, anticipating certain gifts or presents; Margaret, alone, was, as usual, pale, calm, and quiet—even sad.
The lofty walls of the chamber were hung with pale brown leather, stamped with rich golden figures; the ceiling was covered with grotesque gilding, and upon every available place appeared the sleuth-hound of the Drummonds, with their motto,Gang warily. A magnificent Dutch buffet, having bulbous shapen legs, and deep recesses, stood at one end, and was surmounted by a large hound in delft ware; a gift by which Barton, whose father brought it from Flanders, first made an impression on the old lord's heart. The chairs were of oak, with crimson cushions; but the floor had no other carpet than a matting of plaited straw. There was a high stone mantelpiece covered with carving; an iron grate, the enormous basket of which (the season being summer) was filled with sea-shells, and on each side was a sculptured niche or ambre, so common in old Scottish houses of that age.
"Heaven be praised, our anchor hath again hold of Scottish ground!" said Falconer, as a page conducted him and Barton up stairs.
"How so—thou art either more of a lover or less of a sailor than I, David?"
"Nay, I am not less of a lover, but more of a soldier, perhaps," replied the arquebussier, "or more of a landlubber, if you will."
"Now then, little marmoset," said Barton, who perceived the page listening, "heave ahead, if you please."
The captain of the caravel and his companion were attired just as we have seen them on board, save that the latter had adopted an embossed helmet, with a plume of feathers, a bright gorget, and long steel gloves. He looked very handsome, gay, and glittering; but honest Barton, in whose heart the recent tidings he had received, sank deep, looked grave and grim, though a sad smile spread over his brown and weatherbeaten face, as he took both Lady Euphemia's hands in his, and greeted all her sisters with warmth of heart, though perhaps with less of formal courtesy than Falconer, who had served in the King's Guard, and was one of those fine handsome fellows whom all women unite in admiring; for he had a superb but native and inimitable air. While his friend, inured to a life of hardship on the ocean, at a time when the infancy of science trebled its dangers, was perhaps less easy, he was not a whit less noble in manner or aspect; and the name and wealth he inherited from his gallant father, the fighting merchant-mariner of Leith, had gained him a place among those proud barons, who, but for the valour by which old Andrew Barton won his spurs, would heartily have despised the magnificent fortune and estate acquired by his probity and care.
Poor Falconer was wont to say, that allhisfather had left him consisted of a rusty coat of mail, two old swords, and four or five cordial hatreds, or feuds, to settle; all of which he had settled honestly and manfully, twice over, on the street, or the highway, wherever and whenever he chanced to meet with the creditors; and now he owed no man either a blow or a bodle.
"Welcome, Robert Barton, my dream is read," said Euphemia, rising up with a bright expression in her beautiful eyes.
"And what was thy dream, dearest Effie?" he asked in a soft voice.
"'Tis of an old saw, told me by Jamie Gair."
"The fisherman of Broughty—he boarded us as we passed the auld craig—but what of his saw?"
"'To dream of a ship sailing on the blue seaIs a sign of bright joy to thy kindred and thee;But to dream of a ship that lies bulged on the strandIs a sign that dark sorrow is almost at hand.'
"Now last night, Robert, I dreamt of thy yellow caravel sailing on the sea (said I not so, Margaret?); and lo, thou art here!"
"And my friend Falconer, too?"
"He is, like thee, most welcome," said Lady Euphemia, offering her pretty hand, which Falconer timidly raised to his lip, and then approached Sybilla; but on receiving from her a significant glance, full of prudence and love, he sighed, bowed and remained aloof; for the passion of these two was as yet, secret, or merely a matter of jest with some, and of speculation with others.
Falconer, brave to a fault, was poor, and had only his spurs and his sword. He knew this but too well, and Sybilla did not forget it. He had long concealed his passion; but she had soon divined it; and now they treasured up a secret thought in the depth of their hearts, like a dream that might never be realized; for Lord Drummond was ambitious, and had many a time sworn, that at least "four of his daughters shoulddie countesses." Thus Sybilla and Falconer had found their best resort was patience or hope.
The eldest sister was a happy, rich, and beautifulfiancée; Sybilla was a timid girl, loved by one who dared not avow his passion to her family; and Lady Margaret was sad and melancholy, loved, the people said, by many for her goodness and gentleness, but by none for her beauty—save one, of whom more anon. After the first compliments, inquiries, and congratulations were over,
"Ah! I had almost forgotten thee, little one," said Barton, kissing the pretty Lizzie, whom he now observed hovering about him; "but here is thy promised necklace."
"Oh, joy!" said the girl, skipping among her sisters, on receiving a beautiful collar of Bruges silver, with a pendant of opals; "now I am not less than my cousin Lady Egidia Crawford, who is so proud becausehermother was created a duchess."
"By my faith, Barton!" said Falconer, "thou givest such magnificent presents to Lady Lizzie, that to keep Beatie's favour, I shall be a ruined dyvour."
"With all the rings and blessed medals these children have got, they might open a trinket shop," said Sybilla.
"And hast thou nothing for me?" asked Beatie.
"I have the most beautiful veil that the nuns of Sluice could work; but unfortunately, it is still on board the frigate. To-morrow I shall remember it better than I did in the hurry of to-day."
"To-morrow the king arrives," said Barton.
"Nay—we heard nothing of it," observed Sybilla.
"Sir Hew Borthwick, or the man so-called, informed us that the king was coming hither from Stirling on the morrow with the young Duke of Rothesay, and all the court."
Lady Margaret's colour heightened at this intelligence, and to conceal her emotion, she hastened to say,
"If Borthwick said so, it must be true, for he is one who is never far from those parasites and flatterers who crowd the court at present."
"Moreover, he told us that certain ambassadors from France, who are now at the constable's house in the Carse, would be presented soon after."
"And on what mission have they come?" asked Sybilla.
"I know not; but our right honourable informant, the worthy swashbuckler, hinted—and really this fellow often knows matters which are far above his position—that they had come anent some royal marriage, as the young prince's proposed alliance with the House of England has been so fortunately broken off since my poor father's battle in the English Channel."
Margaret trembled so excessively as Barton said this, that had the four lovers been less occupied with each other than they were, and had the children not been engaged with the silver collar, some of them must have observed her singular emotion, which however fortunately passed unnoticed.
Restrained by the presence of others, the conversation of Sybilla and Falconer (who, had the world been his, would have given it for liberty to press her to his breast) was confined to the merest commonplace; but Robert Barton and Euphemia, who, by Lord Drummond having consented that their marriage should take place in autumn, were under very different circumstances, had retired somewhat apart. She had passed her arm through his, and clasping her hands upon it, was looking up fondly in his sunburned face, and was telling him in a low and earnest voice of all she had learned concerning his father's death off the English coast; how she had prayed for him, and had masses said for his soul; and with an air, in which sternness, bitterness, and tenderness were curiously mingled, the heir of Sir Andrew Barton listened to her; for his thoughts hovered between the bright eyes and soft accents of the fair girl by his side and the carnage of that day's battle in the Kentish Downs, when he would have given the best ten years of his life to have stood for an hour on his father's deck. In these thoughts, and in those of future vengeance, he almost forgot that this untimely event (though it put him in possession of a princely fortune, an estate in Lothian, and a mansion like a baronial castle in Leith) would necessarily delay his marriage with Lady Euphemia for many months to come.
"How happy thou art to be rich, Robert," said Falconer, as they descended to the street, after lingering long and bidding the ladies adieu.
"Wealth does not always bring happiness, David," replied the seaman; "and just now I am miserable, when I reflect on how my brave old father, and so many fine fellows, have been flung overboard, to feed the hungry serpent of the sea."
"The ocean is wide," replied Sir David; "but thou mayst meet the Lord Howard on it yet."
"And he is not the man to avoid me."
"I would give my right hand to be, like thee, Lord Drummond's friend," said Falconer, bitterly, and still thinking of Sybilla.
"Without thy starboard fin, David, thou wouldst be of little use in this world; and mayst yet be the Lord Drummond's friend without so great a sacrifice; besides, I can foresee, that between intrigues, mayhap invasion from abroad, and domestic rebellion, the loyal and the good in Scotland will ere long require all their hands to keep their heads on their shoulders."
"Dost thou think so?" asked the arquebussier, with kindling eyes.
"Yea—a child that knoweth neither how to pass a gasket or knot a reef point, might see it."
And though no prophet, but only a blunt and plain-speaking seaman, Robert Barton spoke of coming events with more foresight and acuteness than he was perhaps aware of possessing.
"Who ever approached me, but for some private object, or with some private passion to gratify? Hatred, ambition, and cupidity form round me a circle without issue, and as a victim is ever needed for each violence—that victim is ever myself."—JOAN OF NAPLES.
Next day, the second of August, the sun rose above Dundee in the same unclouded splendour, and again the green hills, the ancient burgh, with its spires and castle, the bannered ships, and all the wide panorama of the Tay, were mirrored in its clear and waveless depths.
Bells were tolling merrily in the tall spire of the great church, then designated the Kirk of the Blessed Virgin Mary in the Fields, as it stood without the portes of the burgh; and a wreath of those sacred lilies which still form the armorial bearing of Dundee, encircled the now mouldering statue of our Lady, which, with the little infant Jesus in her arms, has survived the storms of seven centuries and the rough hands of the Scottish Iconoclasts, and still adorns the western gallery of that stupendous tower which overlooks the "Gift of God."
Almost drowning the peals that jangled from the belfries of the Grey Franciscans in the Howff, the Dominicans in the Friars Vennel, the Mathurins, and the nuns of St. Clare, the great bell of St. Mary (which was rent when too joyous a peal was rung for Prince Charles, in 1745,) rolled a flood of iron sound above the town, and summoned all the burgesses to meet a monarch whom the people loved, but whom the nobles hated—James III.—who was now approaching by the road from Perth.
Beyond the western porte, and all the streets that led thereto, this road was crowded by the populace; and there might be seen the merchants and burgesses, clad in plain broadcloth, with steel-hilted poniards in their girdles. By law, neither they nor their wives could wear scarlet, silk, or furring, and the females of their families were restricted to short curches with little hoods, after the Flemish fashion; and the ladies of poor gentlemen, whose property was under forty pounds, had to content them with the same. There, too, were officials of the church, doctors, and gentlemen, (having two hundred marks per annum,) in cloaks of scarlet, laced and furred; and labourers, who had exchanged their work-dresses of grey frieze and Galloway white for the holiday attire of red and green.
From the eight stone gurgoyles of the market-cross, which, as usual in Scotland, was surmounted by a tall octagonal column, bearing the unicornsejant, resting its forepaws on the imperial scutcheon, wine was flowing, and a noisy contest waging among the younggamins, seamen, and others, who struggled and thrust each other aside, not always with good humour, to fill their quaighs, cups, and luggies with the generous Rhenish and claret, which gushed forth alternately from the mouths of the dragons and wyverns; but order was stringently kept by the constable of Dundee, Sir James of Dudhope, who had brought into the burgh five hundred of his troopers from the Howe of Angus—all sturdy yeomen, who wore black iron casquetels, with oreillets over the cheeks and spikes on the top, and were armed with that deadly weapon the ghisarma, which had been but recently introduced.
Escorted by a numerous retinue of well armed serving men, all of whom hadthe sleuthhoundembroidered on the sleeves of their gaberdines, and were accoutred with jacks and bonnets of steel, two-handed swords, and wooden targets covered with threefold hide, the daughters of Lord Drummond, with their aunt the Duchess of Montrose, the Lady of Strathmartine, and many other noble dames from the Carse of Gowrie, were grouped together on horseback, awaiting the king. Robert Barton, Sir David Falconer, and other gentlemen, attended them on foot, and held their bridles, having assigned their own horses to the care of the pages, who carried their swords and helmets,—for a page was at that time indispensable to every gentleman of pretensions.
Conspicuous amid all was the old Duchess of Montrose, a tall and noble-looking matron, whose height on horseback, when her stupendous coif was added, became almost startling; for, like old people generally, "being behind her age," she still retained one of those enormous head-dresses which our ladies had copied from the French, and which had been introduced by Isabel of Bavaria, consort of Charles VI., who had to enlarge all the doors in the Palace of Vincennes after the arrival of his bride.
Nor must we forget that redoubtable Knight of the Post and Chevalier d'Industrie, Sir Hew Borthwick, who loitered near, bowing and smiling to people who knew him not, or knowing, who disdained him. After completely failing to attract the attention of Falconer or Barton, he swaggered through the crowd, clinking a pair of enormous brass spurs, and exhibiting a new scarlet cloak, which he had procured by the recent replenishing of his exchequer; he tilted up the tail of this by his long sword, pointed his mustachios, and from time to time turned up his eyes complacently, to watch the nodding of an absurdly long feather that drooped from his head-dress; and the latter being a velvet hat, like that of an Englishman, the people murmured, and made angry observations about it.
The undisguised aversion and fear with which the crowd made way for him wherever he went, were a source of satisfaction to this barefaced charlatan, of whom we shall hear more than enough perhaps, in time to come. He found ample occupation in observing the brilliant group which surrounded Margaret Carmichael of Meadowflat, the Duchess of Montrose, and in surveying the brilliant colours of those splendid costumes which exhibited all the frippery extravagance and coxcombry of the time of James III. Gold and jewels flashed on everything, from the ladies' fair fingers to the bridles of their palfreys; but by far the greatest number of diamonds and pearls glittered on the long stomachers and among the braided hair of Lord Drummond's three beautiful daughters.
Finding himself bluntly repulsed by Captain Barton and the arquebussier, Borthwick had actually the assurance to address the admiral, who came through the archway on horseback, surrounded by his barge's crew, who had no other weapons than their poniards and boat-stretchers; but a determined and hardy-looking old bodyguard they were, with swarthy visages, long grisly beards, and broad blue bonnets.
"Your humble servant, Sir Andrew," said the impudent swashbuckler, elbowing a passage through them; "I dare say the folks will marvel at this—a knight like me on foot, and thou, a seaman, on horseback."
"And how came this to pass, Sir Hew?" asked the admiral, who, being older, had, perhaps, more complaisance or less pride than Barton or Falconer.
"My favourite horse was shod in the quick by a villanous smith, who is now dreeing the reward of his carelessness in the jougs at the burgh cross."
"I congratulate you on your good fortune," said the admiral, endeavouring to pass; "by your scarlet cloak I perceive—"
"That I have now more per annum than the Apparel Act requires: so far, right, Sir Andrew; but, alas! an ancestor of mine lost a noble estate by one act of indiscretion."
"Ah!—How?"
"By eating an apple," replied Borthwick, with one of his hideous grins; "but so thou art come hither among us courtiers, admiral, to steer by the royal smiles."
"The sailor's best compass is his conscience, messmate, and by that I steer," retorted Wood, as he gave a peculiar wink to his coxswain; then the Knight of the Post was gently put aside by the barge's crew, and the old admiral alighted on foot by the side of the Duchess of Montrose.
Around this noble matron, who was then the second lady in the realm, the conversation was very animated; and, notwithstanding the awful exclusiveness with which the Scottish noblesse in those days chose to hedge themselves about, it was evident that the venerable Wood, the gallant Barton, and the handsome arquebussier, were three centres of attraction.
Margaret Drummond, still sad, pale, and thoughtful, paid little attention to the buzz and bustle around her; she gazed anxiously at the vista of the road which stretched westward past the Convent of St. Mary Magdalene and the Tower of Blackness; a page held her bridle; but the horses of her sisters were each held by their lovers, with whom they were conversing in low and earnest tones. Falconer spoke little, yet he was, perhaps, the happiest man in Dundee, for now he was by the side of Sybilla, and could converse with her untrammelled by the observation of others; and as the only matron who could control her actions knew neither of his hopes, (or, as she would have termed it, his presumption,) many little attentions were unheeded or unseen.
A cloud of dust that rolled along the road announced the approach of the King, and soon a troop of nearly a hundred and fifty mounted men was seen approaching at a rapid trot. This cavalcade was well mounted on horses of a breed which, at that time, was famous, a baron of Corstorphine having improved the high Lanarkshire horses by the introduction of some sturdy Flemish mares; thus, for hacks and chargers, these large animals were esteemed as superior to any of the four distinct breeds of horses belonging to the country. All their steeds were brilliantly caparisoned with rich saddles, housings, and bridles, covered with fringes and tassels of silk and gold embroidery, gilded ornaments, and armorial bearings.
On approaching the west porte of Dundee, the king and his attendants slackened their speed to a walk, but their horses continued tossing their proud heads and flinging the white foam from side to side. The monarch was unaccompanied by his queen, Margaret of Denmark and Norway, who had departed, with many of her ladies, on a pilgrimage to the famous shrine of St. Duthac, in Ross, then esteemed a long and arduous journey.
James III., a tall, handsome, and athletic man, was then in his thirty-fourth year; his complexion was of that deep brown tint which is not usual to the islanders of Britain, and his hair was black and curly. When in repose, his mouth expressed the utmost sweetness of expression, but there were times when it curled with bitterness and suppressed passion. His beard was closely trimmed; his air was soldierlike; his manner dignified, at one time cold and reserved, but at others sad, even to despondency, for he was the most unhappy of kings.
On this day he wore a doublet of rose-coloured satin, embroidered with damask gold, cut and lined with rose-coloured sarcenet, and fastened by twenty-four little gold buttons. Over this he had a riding surtout of green velvet, laced. On his dark locks he wore a black velvet bonnet, with an embroidered band, a St. Andrew's cross, and white plume; he had long riding-boots with embroidered velvet gambadoes and gold spurs.
James, the young Duke of Rothesay, then in his seventeenth year, also tall, and a very handsome youth, inherited his father's dark eyes and hair; his straight nose, with its fine nostril, and his mouth, which was like a woman's, but over it a dark mustachio was sprouting. The dresses of the king, the prince, and all their suite, were nearly alike in fashion, colours, and richness, unless we except the Lord High Treasurer, Sir William Knollis, one of the most upright and valiant men of the age, who, as Lord of St. John of Jerusalem, and preceptor of the religious knights of Torphichen, wore the black dress and eight-pointed cross of Rhodez. Around this ill-fated king were many who were his friends, but many more who were his most bitter enemies, and whose loyalty or treason will all be revealed in future chapters; to wit, Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, who had been made governor of Stirling because his father had been slain by a cannon shot at the siege of Dunbar; Evandale, the Lord High Chancellor; Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff; the Lord Drummond; his brother, Sir Walter, who was Dean of Dunblane and Lord Clerk Register; the Duke of Montrose, who was Master of the Household and Great Chamberlain of Scotland; Lord Lindesay of the Byres, and Archibald,the great Earlof Angus, a noble then in his thirtieth year—one whose fierce and restless ambition, indomitable pride, and vast feudal power, made him a terror to the good king on the one hand, and to the oppressed people on the other. Then, he was popularly known by the sobriquet of Bell-the-Cat, from the quaint parable spoken by him at Lauder Bridge in that memorable raid when he hanged every favourite of James III.; for, in his eyes, Robert Cochrane, the eminent architect, was but a stone-cutter; Sir William Rogers, who composed many fine airs, but a fiddler; Leonard, the engineer, was but a smith; and Torphichen, the fencing-master, a miserable fletcher—men who disgraced James III. by the preference which he showed for them over a proud, barbarous, and unlettered nobility, whom, like his father, he resolved to spare no pains to curb and to humble. Vain thought!
This Lord of Tantallon, who was Warden of the East and Middle Marches, and a chieftain of the powerful House of Douglas, overshadowed even the throne by his power; for the King of Scotland was but a laird in comparison to the great military nobles. Angus was dark and swarthy as a Spaniard; his hair and beard were sable, his eyes black and sparkling, with a keen, restless, and imperious expression. Like his father—that valiant earl, who with ten thousand horse, covered the retreat of M. de Brissac and the French troops from Alnwick in 1461—he constantly wore armour, and was now riding beside the Earl of Erroll, Lord High Constable of the kingdom, who had come with a few lances from the Carse of Gowrie, to escort the sovereign to Dundee.
As this brilliant and illustrious cavalcade passed through the old moss-grown and smoke-encrusted archway which then closed the end of the principal street, a general uncovering of heads took place, and loud and reiterated cheers greeted James, who was beloved by the people, especially in the towns where there was now rising a wealthy middle class, who had no sympathy with, and who owed no fealty to, the great barons, but were rather at enmity with them. He who cheered most lustily, in forcing a passage through the gate with the courtiers, was the soi-disant Sir Hew Borthwick, who endeavoured to place himself as near to the king or prince as Lord Erroll's lances would permit.
On passing Sir Patrick Gray, he exchanged a glance of intelligence.
"To-night," said he, in a whisper.
"Where?" asked the Knight of Kyneff,
"On the beach near Broughty," replied Borthwick. And here the crowd pressed between them.
The king, still young and handsome, doffed his bonnet to the tall duchess and her fair companions, and the young heir of Scotland, whose spirited horse curvetted past them, bowed again and again to his saddle; and though he looked anxiously amid all that glittering group for one beloved face, by some fatality he never observed it, and caprioled through the archway by his father's side.
Margaret Drummond, the foremost of the group, and almost unconscious of where she was, had watched the approaching party in silence with a beating heart. The shadow of her hood and veil concealed her pallor and the sad and anxious expression of her fine blue eyes. Amid those hundred horsemen and more who swept up to the gate, she had soon distinguished Rothesay, and held her very breath with joy as he passed, but alas! without observing her; and her young heart sank as he did so; for though none knew it, save one old priest and two other persons, the crown prince of Scotland was her weddedhusband—wedded at the altar of St. Blane with all the solemnity of the ancient faith—but in secret.
Barton and Falconer were now compelled to leave the ladies, and with many other gentlemen sprang on horseback, to accompany the admiral, who had now joined the royal cavalcade.
The king received the fine old man with unfeigned expressions of affection and joy; for grief soon discovers true sympathy, and misfortune readily discerns the difference between flattery and devotion: thus James III. always felt stronger and more confident when such men as Sir Andrew Wood, or Lindesay and Montrose were by his side; but such nobles as Angus and Lord Drummond were his horror and aversion.
"There are times, my faithful friend," said he to Wood, as their train fell back a little on entering the narrow Nethergaitt, "when I envy thee and thy honest hearts the free and happy life they lead upon the open sea."
"Yet a sailor's life hath its troubles and its crosses too—witness the fate of Barton, my gude auld messmate."
"Of that, and of thy Flemish mission, we will talk at another time," replied the king; "let us not mar the happiness I feel at seeing thee, honest Wood, the dearest and most faithful of my people, by allusions to such cold and bitter subjects."
"God and St. Andrew bless your majesty!" said the admiral, whose eyes and heart overflowed as he spoke. "I have never done aught more than my duty to Scotland and my king, as man and boy, for forty years, since first I trod a deck—a puir sailor laddie, in thePeggieof Pittenweem. I would run my head into a cannon's mouth, if by doing so I could serve your majesty; and that, I believe, is mair than half of these gay galliards ahead and astern of us would do; natheless their long pedigrees and their dainty doublets, with white lace knuckle-dabbers at the wrists."
"Some day I shall go to sea with thee, Wood," said King James, with a melancholy smile; "for, by the soul of Bruce! I begin to tire of this trade of kingcraft."
"I like the land as little as a fish; but should a day of foul weather ever come, when your majesty is safer on salt water than on Scottish earth," said the admiral, more than divining the secret thoughts of the king; "remember, there is a ship's company of five hundred good men and true, under the flag of theYellow Frigate, every man of whom hath a seaman's hand and a seaman's heart, solid as a pump-bolt, and not like a perfumed and painted courtier's, hollow as a leather bottle, or rotten like an old pumpsucker. Gadzooks! I would like to see a few of these braw gallants drifting under close-reefed topsails, with a wind blowing hard from the east, and the craigs of Dunnottar on their lee!"
The king sighed, and allowed the reins of his horse to drop upon its neck.
"Your majesty is troubled," resumed the honest seaman; "but if any of these dogfish barons have been at their auld work, just let me ken, and, by all the serpents in the sea! they shall feel the weight of my two-handed sword, or I shall pipe away my barge's crew with their boat-stretchers, and they will soon clear the causeway of every lord and loon in Dundee."
The king laughed.
"Thou art indeed an honest heart," said he; for he found that they could converse freely, as the incessant exclamations of the people, as they pressed along the crowded streets, concealed their conversation from such jealous listeners as Angus and Drummond. "A process so summary might destroy thee, admiral, and thy bargemen too. But indeed, Sir Andrew, I am sick of this ferocious loyalty (if I may so term it) by which the nobles encircle me like a wall of iron. Though short, my life has been a long and dreary labyrinth of intrigue and civil war, of crafty councils and infernal suggestions—a struggle between a tyrannical feudal peerage and a gallant people, who would, and by St. Giles's bones shall yet, be free! The nation has placed upon my brow a crown of gold; but the nobles have engirt my heart by a band of burning steel!"
As the king spoke in this figurative language, he glanced about him uneasily, almost timidly, and encountered the dark and stern visage of Angus, and the proud, inquiring eyes of Drummond but they had not heard him, or, having done so, did not comprehend.
"I speak figuratively, admiral," said he; "but do you understand me?"
"Perfectly, your majesty," stammered Wood, as with some perplexity he rubbed his grizzly beard; "but come, come, Sir Hew," he added, on perceiving that worthy close to them; "ware ship—give us sea-room here, if it please ye."
At that moment the report of cannon on the river announced that theYellow Frigateand her consort were firing salutes, as the king and his train halted at the old palace of St. Margaret, where the Duke of Montrose, as Master of the Royal Household, and the Constable of Dundee, had already alighted, and were on foot to receive him.
"The weird wan moonlight looketh down,And silvers the roofs of the silent town—Silvers the stones of the silent street,That ere while echoed to busy feet."
This venerable royal residence was situated at the head of a narrow street opening off the great thoroughfare, then called St. Margaret's Close, though by mistake the civic authorities have now given that name to another alley in the Nethergaitt, where stood an ancient chapel, dedicated to the Saxon Queen-Consort of Malcolm III., who had her dowry lands in the adjacent Howe of Angus.
By her numerous virtues, the sister of Edgar Atheling was so endeared to the Scottish people, that every spot connected with her presence is still remembered; thus her name was long and indissolubly connected with this little palace at Dundee. It was a gloomy and massive building, which stood within a court or cloister, and had over the central door, and all the windows, deep and low-browed arches, covered with a profusion of catsheads and grotesque sculpture. These arches sprang from short, round, and massive pillars, having escalloped capitals and zigzag mouldings. The deeply recessed windows were all barred with iron, glazed with lozenged panes, painted with coats of arms and brilliant devices, designed by Robert Cochrane, the royal architect, an artist of great taste and talent—one of the murdered favourites of the king, who in his foolish generosity had created him general of artillery and Earl of Mar.
It was in this palace that in the year 1209, Alan, Lord of Galloway and Constable of Scotland, espoused Margaret, niece of King William the Lion.
Soon after the entrance of James III. the bells ceased to toll, and the ship guns ceased firing; the wine and ale still poured at intervals from the stone spouts of the Cross; but the acclamations died away in the Nethergaitt, and soon a stillness reigned around the small but crowded residence of the king. A stranger could not have imagined that a monarch and a court were there—so ominous was the silence in that grim old Scottish palace; for James mourned over the caprices of his nobles and the insults he had endured from them, during his nine months' captivity in the Castle of Edinburgh, from which he was not released until Richard III. of England interfered in his behalf, at the head of 30,000 men. Young Rothesay mourned over domestic troubles, and a secret marriage which he dared not yet avow; while a crowd of cunning favourites on one hand, and of ambitious nobles on the other, watched like lynxes for the turning of any scale that would prove of advantage to themselves.
Discontent was apparent everywhere in and about the court of James III. It was visible in the face of the king, for the recent slaughter of his courtiers by Angus and others, against whom he was nursing secret plans of vengeance; it was visible in the stern eyes of the noblesse, who, by a royal edict, had been desired to forbear wearing swords within the royal precincts—an order which they observed by arming themselves to the teeth, and doubling the number of their mail-clad followers; it was visible in the faces of the merchants,anentthe twenty-one years' quarrel with Flanders; and in the faces of the people, because they saw a disastrous struggle approaching between the feudal nobles and themselves—a struggle which the field of battle alone would decide for their future good or evil.
That evening the king gave a banquet to his false courtiers, ad to Admiral Wood, to Barton, and Falconer. Lord Drummond was grand carver, Angus grand cupbearer, and the Laird of Kyneff grand sewer, orasseour; but Rothesay stole at an early period from the table, and reached his own apartments unperceived. There be exchanged dresses with his faithful Lord Lindesay of the Byres; and putting on a mask, with a shirt of mail of the finest texture under his doublet, issued by a private gate into the main street, just as the last shadows of the mountain that overhangs Dundee were fading away upon the river—or rather becoming blended with the general obscurity of the summer gloaming.
The young prince wore a casquetel, and had his sword and dagger under the scarlet cloak of Lord Lindesay, for whom he was mistaken by the pages, yeomen, and archers, in the neighbourhood of the palace, as he passed into the burgh.
"Oho, my merry masquer!" said Sir Hew Borthwick, who had been loitering near the king's residence for the livelong day, in the hope of finding some one to drink or play with him, or from whom to pick up any stray intelligence concerning the admiral's embassy to Flanders, and the errand of those envoys who were now at the house of the Provost in the Howe. "By the Holy Kirk! I should know that dainty red cloak; now, were those locks black instead of brown, and had that casquetel a feather, and those boots silver spurs instead of gold, I would say this gallant was my good friend Lord Lindesay of the Byres, andnotthe young Duke of Rothesay. But to the proof! On my honour, I'll follow him; and if he is bent on the errand I suppose, this night may bring another thousand of King Henry's English pounds to my purse." Walking very quick after the young prince, who was carefully keeping himself under the shadows of the darkest and least frequented streets, the spy cried aloud,
"Soho! sir—I crave pardon; but can you tell me what's o'clock?"
Annoyed by this impertinent interruption, the prince paused and laid a hand on his sword; but being anxious to avoid a brawl, turned and walked on at a quicker pace. Borthwick, who was now close at his heels, came abreast of him just at the corner of Fish-street, which was then quite dark and destitute of lamps.
"Sir—thou with the mask," continued Borthwick; "when I ask questions I expect to receive replies. Will you please to give me one?"
"There, blockhead!" retorted the prince, furiously, as he gave him a blow with his clenched hand which levelled the intruder in the kennel; and as it was dealt skilfully, right under the left ear, it was a full minute before he recovered.
Then, from the muddy street, Borthwick rose with a heart full of rage and vengeance. His first thought was of his soiled cloak; his second of something else.
"'Twas the prince's voice!" said he; "I was right! Oho!—let me watch, and watch well. How fortunate! the more so as I keep tryst at Broughty to-night."
After knocking this fellow down, Rothesay hurried along the street in the twilight.
Borthwick saw him cross it near the great mansion of Lord Drummond, which, with its dark façade and round towers, overshadowed the narrow way. There he disappeared under the arcades, but whether he was lurking among them, or had been received into some secret door, Borthwick could not discover; yet for more than an hour he lingered there, watching to make sure that Rothesay had really entered the house, which he dared not approach, lest a thrust from a sword, unseen, might reward his impertinence, from behind one of the columns on which the superstructure stood.
At last eleven tolled from the tower of St. Mary's Church, and remembering his appointment (of which more anon), the swashbuckler muffled his cloak about him, and set off at a rapid pace along the eastern road, which by the margin of the river led towards the Castle of Broughty, the lights of which could be seen twinkling on the low flat promontory that approaches the mouth of the Firth of Tay.
——They gazed upon each other,With swimming looks of speechless tenderness,Which mixed all feelings, child, friend, lover, brother,All that the best can mingle and express,When two pure hearts are poured in one another,And love too much, and yet cannot love less!BYRON.
In a small round chamber, really "a secret bower," of her father's house, Margaret Drummond was seated alone. She was half kneeling and half reclining in an oldprie-dieuof oak, for she had just concluded her prayers; and a missal, bound in velvet and gold, with a rosary of bright amber beads, lay in her lap.
In a large holder of carved wood and brass-work, two tall candles lighted this apartment, which was hung all round with dark-red arras. Here was a little bed, raised scarcely a foot from the ground, canopied by a gilded cornice with plumes of feathers, with a small niche over the pillows, and within it stood the prettiest Madonna that ever came out of Italy, with a little font, which always contained some holy water.
This was Margaret's little bower, and at times her sleeping-place. As she lay half reclined in that old and grotesqueprie-dieu, with her soft sad features partly hidden amid her clustering hair, her long lashes downcast, one white hand supporting her temples, and the other drooping by her side, she would have made a beautiful picture. She was still as death, as she listened for every passing sound; but all was quiet in that vast mansion, whose inmates were now retired to rest. For more than an hour she had watched and listened, without hearing anything, for the old walls of the house were several feet thick, and, together with the wainscoting and tapestry, nearly excluded all external sound, even by day. At last she raised her head and listened, while her fine eyes sparkled with animation.
St. Mary's bell struck ten.
"Ten—and he comes not yet!" said Margaret, rising, to sink again with a sigh into theprie-dieu, but almost immediately a knock was heard at the side of the apartment, and a soft voice sang the burden of that beautiful old song—
"Oh, are you sleeping, Maggie,My ain, my dear, my winsome Maggie!Unbar your door, for owre the muirThe wind blaws cauld frae Aberdaggie."
An expression of joy spread over her features; her eyes sparkled again; her cheek flushed, and springing from theprie-dieu, she raised the red arras, opened a little door by withdrawing a bar of oak, and stooping low the young Duke of Rothesay entered from a secret staircase, to which he alone had access, and which communicated with the lobby of the house and its arcades below.
"Tears?" said the handsome prince, taking her tenderly in his arms, and kissing her on the lips and on the eyes. "Dearest, why this emotion?"
But Margaret only sobbed, drooped her head upon his breast, and wept.
"It was my happiness to see you; but you did not observe me to-day."
"See thee, dearest Maggie," said the prince, throwing aside his casquetel and rich mantle; "I looked all amid the glittering crowd that stood by the western gate for thee, and thee only; but, whichever way I turned, could see nothing save the enormous fantange of Madam the Duchess of Montrose. I vow it looks like a kirk steeple! But now," added Rothesay, with a smile of inexpressible tenderness, "thou forgettest, I have one other little mouth to kiss."
Margaret drew back the curtain of an alcove, and there, within a little couch, canopied by rich hangings of rose-coloured velvet, lay a pretty child of not more than eight months old, plump, fair, and round, with its small face and cheeks, tinted like rose-leaves, encircled by a lace cap. Two hands were also visible, so small and so very diminutive, that but for their dimples they might have passed for those of a fairy. The prince knelt down, and while his heart rose to his lips, kissed gently the soft warm cheek of the sleeping baby that in after years was to be Lady Gordon of Badenoch; and after gently closing the curtain, again he pressed Margaret to his breast, and seated her beside him.
"Life is so sweet!" said he, "when one has something to love, and is beloved again; and you, my Maggie, are a diamond among women."
"And thou wilt never tire of thy poor little Margaret?"
"Tire of thee?" sighed the prince, smiling; "dear Maggie, since I knew thee I have only begun to live—to know joy. To me it seems that we have but one heart, one soul, and that without thee I should now have neither. And thou hast confided to me thy life, thy love, thy destiny, and this dear infant, the pledge of them all. Oh, Margaret, without thee, how dark would this world be to Rothesay?"
"And yet, prince, for one long month we have not met."
"Why call meprince? Dear Margaret, here there is no prince."
"Nor princess!" she sighed.
"Thereis—for thou art Duchess of Rothesay, and shall yet be Queen of Scotland—even as my ancestress, Annabella Drummond, was before thee."
"Alas, but for our unfortunate consanguinity through her, we had not been wedded in secret, or been driven thus to commit a mortal sin. I had not borne this poor child unknown, or carried under my bosom a load of grief and shame."
"Shame," reiterated Rothesay, kissing away her tears. "Ah, Margaret, have you forgotten that night in the cathedral at Dunblane, when we were so solemnly united, as Father Zuill and the cathedral registrars shall yet bear testimony in Parliament. Ere long the Bishop of Dunblane will bring from Rome the dispensation that shall clear us all, and then I shallagainespouse thee, Margaret, with such splendour as Scotland has not seen since Mary of Gueldres stood by the side of James II. at the altar of the Holy Cross."
"But till then, I must live in terror, and love in secret. Oh, prince, had I loved thee less—had I known or foreseen—but I most not weary thee with unavailing reproaches, prince——"
"Prince again! Now this is most unkind. Dear Margaret, why call me otherwise than James Stuart—am I not thine own James?"
"Thou art, indeed, and my beloved one!" said Margaret, laying her beautiful head on the breast of her handsome lover, with one of her sweetest and most confiding smiles; "but do pardon me, if I say, that there are times when I look forward and tremble—look back and weep. There is something to me so terrible in the renewal of the old strife between the king and the nobles. My father, the proudest among them, is ever muttering deep threats of vengeance against the royal favourites, and in the quarrel which I see too surely coming, if all the pride and ferocity of the peers are unchained against the throne, what may be the fate of thee, of this poor tender bud, and of myself? Oh, James, think of the many who wish for the English alliance, and who would brush me from their path like a gossamer web!"
"Thee!" exclaimed the prince, clutching his poniard; "not Angus himself, even in the heart of his strongest fortresses, or amid his twenty thousand vassals, dare harbour an evil thought against the lady Rothesay loves. Nay, nay, Maggie, thou art sorely in error."
"At a wave from the hand of Angus, all the troopers of the east and middle marches are in their helmets; then think of the hatred of Shaw and Hailes—the treachery of Kyneff—the mad ambition of them all! They are brooding over revolt—one day it will come. Would, dear prince, that we had never met or rather, that I had never been!"
"Still regrets," said Rothesay, impatiently.
"Pardon me, dearest, if I weary thee—I do not regret, but I fear."
"What glamour hath possessed thee to-night, Margaret? for, by the Black Rood, I never saw thee so full of dolorous thoughts."
"An evil omen, perhaps," said Margaret, with one of her faint smiles. "This morning, when looking for the prayers prepared for those who are in tribulation, I thrice opened my missal at the burial service for the dead."
"And what then?"
"Madam my aunt, the Duchess of Montrose, told me, to-day, it was a sure sign of coming evil."
"Your aunt the Duchess of Montrose is an—old fool!" said the prince, bluntly.
"Strife is coming—I know it," continued Margaret, emphatically; "for I have read it in the face of my father and the faces of his friends, when Angus, the Lords Hailes and Home, and Shaw of Sauchie, are with him. I have heard it in their deep whispers, and seen it in their dark and angry glances, when Lindesay or Montrose, Gray, Ruthven, Grahame or Maxwell, Wood of Largo, Falconer, or Barton—any who are the king's known friends—are mentioned."
"And what matters it to us if all these high-born brawlers cut each other's throats? The peers of Scotland are her curse, and in all ages have been her betrayers, and will be so until the detested brood are rooted out. A few names less on the peerage roll will better enable the grain to ripen in harvest, and the people to live in peace. My father, the king, has taught me this lesson, and I will never forget it. War will come—I know it; for if we do not fight with England, we must fight among ourselves, just, as it were, to keep our hands in practice. But fear not for me, Margaret, and fear less for our little babe, for I can protect both, and must do so; for my soul is but a ray of thine—my life, the breath of thee. My castle of Rothesay is thy proper dwelling, and I will place young Lindesay in it, with five hundred of his men-at-arms."
The young prince left nothing unsaid which he thought might soothe Margaret's fears, and remove those dreary forebodings of coming evil in which she had indulged, and by dwelling as long as possible on the expected return of the Bishop of Dunblane from Rome, with the dispensation of Innocent VIII., he completely restored her to cheerfulness; for that venerable prelate was in their secret, and had undertaken to remove the only obstacle that prevented the public orstateespousal, which Father Zuill (who, being partly a seaman, and not over-particular) had anticipated, by performing their marriage ceremony in secret, and thus ending for ever all those deep intrigues by which the three Kings of England, Edward II., Richard III., and, lastly, Henry VII., had each in succession striven to have the Crown Prince of Scotland wedded to a princess of their families.
Though thus espoused, Rothesay and Lady Margaret were still lovers, for both were so young, that long and frequent absences, with the secrecy they were compelled to observe, lest the politic king, on the one hand, or the imperious Lord Drummond on the other, should discover their union, all tended to increase, rather than to diminish their tender regard.
The prince remained by her side until midnight had tolled, and their conversation was all of themselves; for so it is ever with lovers, who would cease to be so if they tired of their theme, which "is ever charming, ever new."
Promising to return at the same hour on the second night following, James kissed his beautiful princess and her infant daughter, wrapped his scarlet mantle about him, and raising the arras, slipped down the secret stair, the concealed door of which Lady Margaret immediately secured.
"She hath spoken truly," muttered the prince, as he turned the buckle of his belt behind him, brought the hilt of his sword round, and looked cautiously up and down the dark, silent, and deserted street for the interloper by whom he had been formerly followed. "She hath, indeed, spoken truly. A strife approaches that will drench the land in blood—a strife which even I cannot avert. This secret marriage may destroy us both. Dear, dear Margaret! Like my father, a fatality pursues me, and those who could guide us both may be the innocent cause of undoing us all."
He hurried along the narrow and quaint old street, and, favoured by his disguise and the watch-word, passed the sentinels, and reached the Palace of St. Margaret unknown and undiscovered.
The unfortunate relationship which rendered a papal dispensation necessary in those days, was caused by Rothesay's descent from Annabella Drummond, queen of Robert III., who was a daughter of Margaret's great-great-grandsire, Sir John Drummond of that ilk. In her own time, this queen had been justly celebrated for her loveliness; for, as Cambden says, "the women of the family of Drummond, for charming beauty and complexion, are beyond all others."
Other writers amply corroborate this, and add, that three girls more beautiful than Euphemia, Sybilla, and Margaret Drummond had never graced the court of a Scottish king.
Oh weel may the boatie row,And better may she speed;And weel may the boatie row,That wins the bairns' bread.I cuist my net in Largo bay,And fishes I caught nine;There's three to fry, and three to broil,And three to bait the line.Scots Song.
A cheerful fire burned on the hearth of Jamie Gair, the fisherman of Broughty-point, and it seemed to burn brighter as evening deepened on the land and sea. The cottage, which stood within a kail-yard, the gate of which was a pair of whale jaw-bones, consisted of a butt and a ben,—i.e., an outer and inner apartment,—the latter, serving as a kitchen, had a floor of hard-beaten clay; the walls were lined with wood, and in the rafters were a vast quantity of lumber, boat-gear, oars, sails, fishing-creels, bladders, floats, and other apparatus stowed away aloft. Half of a cart-wheel felloe formed a fender (such as we may yet see in Scottish cottages), but the fire of bog-fir was blazing on the hearthstone, for iron grates were then an article of splendour and luxury. On the wooden shelf above the fireplace stood a little image of St. Clement, the mariner's patron, with the anchor of his martyrdom hung about his neck; and on the back of the door a horseshoe was nailed, with a sprig of rowan-tree, the usual precaution against witchcraft. From a rafter an egg was suspended by a rope-yarn. This was thebabys-egg, the first laid by a pullet, the gift of its granny, and carefully preserved, as a source of good fortune to it in after life.
By the bright red light of the fire (which shone through a little window upon the waters of the ferry) Jamie Gair sat mending his nets, and affixing various large brown bladders thereto. A red night-cap was placed jauntily on his round curly head; the sleeves of his blue flannel-shirt were rolled up to the elbows, displaying his brawny arms, and, where his thick beard and whiskers did not conceal it, his face was browned to the hue of mahogany by exposure to the weather.
Mary, his wife, a buxom dame of six-and-twenty, wearing one of those long-eared coifs, which are still worn by old women in the Lowlands, and a short skirted jacket, was fondling their son and heir, a baby about a year old, to which she was merrilyliltingin that manner peculiar to the women of Scotland, when a song is hummed and half sung, while a dish of stappit-haddie (i.e., a haddock stuffed with oatmeal, onions, and pepper), broiled before the fire, for breakfast next morning, as Jamie had to start early, and now sat late in the preparation of his nets.
Jamie had not sailed that day to the fishing-ground for various reasons. He had passed a stray pig on the beach; and, moreover, he had on a pair of new boots—both ominous of a bad day's fishing, and, perhaps, of greater evil; so he had spent the noon and evening beside his red-cheeked Mary at the cottage, mending and thoroughly repairing his nets for the morrow; for he believed as implicitly in these augurs of evil as in the mark of St. Peter's thumb on the haddock, and in the wonderful story of the twenty-four beautiful mermaids who swam round Inchkeith, and sought in vain to tempt Abbot William of Holyrood, who dwelt there as a hermit, to trust himself afloat on their tails, which, happily for himself, the Abbot politely declined to do. Mary was pleased that he was at home, for the night was fitful, and dark masses of cloud crossed the face of the moon, which rose slowly above the ness of Fife. The wind swept in sudden gusts down the ferry, and the surf hissed as it rolled on the outer beach; for the sand was thickly strewn with enormous whin boulders, and was not a pistol-shot from the cottage door.
Three strange ships had been visible in the offing all day, and, as evening fell, Jamie had observed them stealthily creeping towards the shore; and when the gloaming came on, the head-most vessel was perhaps not three miles from the Gaa sands. When Jamie had scanned her last with his nautical eye he observed her laying off and on, but without manifesting any intention of entering the harbour or requiring a pilot, as she never fired a gun or showed her colours. Not a vessel had passed the ferry that day; all was quiet in the harbour of Dundee, for the old superstition about the ill-luck of sailing on a Friday was still devoutly believed in.
The hour was now verging on midnight. Jamie had mended the last hole in his nets, and the pretty Mary looked very sleepy and coy.
"Hark, gudeman," said she, interrupting her lilting, "some one tirls the door-pin."
At that moment a loud and reiterated knocking was heard, and the door-latch was shaken violently. Jamie relinquished the net for a boat-stretcher, lest the visitor might be, as he muttered, "some ground-shark or uncanny body," and angrily opened the door, saying,—
"Wha the deil's this, makin' sic a dirdum at my door, at this time o' nicht?"
"Sir Hew Borthwick," replied that personage, with gruff hauteur; and Jamie perceived that he and two companions were well muffled in cloaks, beneath which he saw their long swords and spurs glittering. The two gentlemen were masked. "Thou knowest me, Jamie Gair, I think?"
"Ay, Sir Hew," replied the fisherman, doffing his night-cap, while something of a leer twinkled in his lively grey eyes; "I took ye on board theYellow Frigateyestreen, for which—"
"I owe thee half a lion; here it is. Now, art willing to earn another honest penny?"
"Troth am I, sir," replied Jamie, throwing on his storm-jacket; "I've my gudewife and a bonnie bairn to provide for. In what can I serve ye, sir?"
"Take us on board the vessel that is nearest the shore, and thou shalt have an angel."
An angel was thirteen shillings Scots—but now Jamie paused.
"A Louis, then? Plague on't! thou sailest nigh the wind, man!"
"Come, come, fellow," said one of the masked men, imperiously, "do not trifle, for we have not time to chaffer with such carles as thee. Besides, this place hath a devilish odour of tar, wet twine, and old fish baskets——"
"Wow, sir, but you've a het tongue in your head, and a dainty nose on your face. But it's no the money that I tak tent o'," replied Jamie, proudly. "The craft that was close in shore, and hugging the land a' day, never showed her ensign; but three times lowered her boat, and three times hoisted it on board again. Her forecastle guns are levelled owre the gunnel, and not through portholes, wherefore I opine she is English; so gentlemen, I crave your pardons, but I likena the job."
"Jamie Gair," said one of the strangers, in a hoarse whisper, "'tis on the King's service we are boune; here are six golden lions; art satisfied? If not, I would not be in thy tarry boots, fellow, for all the Howe of Angus!"
This man's voice startled Jamie, for he now recognised Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff, captain of the adjacent Royal Castle of Broughty—one with whom he, a poor fisherman, dared not trifle for a moment.
"I will do your bidding, fair sir; but my neighbour is away to the fishing-ground, whilk o' ye can handle an oar?"
"I," said Borthwick.
"And I," added Gray of Kyneff; "so let us be off, for I have not a moment to spare."
"Gudewife, thou wilt pardon us taking Jamie away for an hour or so; and bethink thee, dame, how many braw gauds and new kirtles these golden lions will buy." And with these words Gray placed in Margo's hand six of those large gold coins of James II., which bore on one side a lion rampant, and on the reverse, the St. Andrew's cross. Jamie put on one of those broad blue bonnets for the manufacture of which Dundee was even then celebrated, and after kissing the sleeping baby, said,—
"Now, Mary, let me kiss thee, lass, frae lug to lug."
"To spare time, I shall be glad to save thee that trouble, Gair," said Sir Patrick Gray.
"Mony thanks, my braw gentleman," retorted Jamie, twirling the boat-stretcher in his brawny hand; "but there are some things I like to do for myself, andthisis ane o' them. Keep a cog fu' o' het yill on the hearth for me, Mary, gin the time I return; and now, sirs, let's awa."
As they stumbled along the beach to the rude stone pier, where Jamie's clinker-built boat was moored to an iron ring,
"Dost see anything of those ships?" asked Sir Patrick Gray whom Jamie was careful not to recognise.
"The headmost craft wasna a mile frae the Buddon-ness when the gloaming fell," replied the fisherman, looking keenly to the eastward; "the wind was off the land then, but it veered round a point to the north. Wow but the moon bodes a grand haul o' herrin' off St. Monan's the morn! I wish I had gane to the fishing-ground——"
"And lost these six lions—eh? But here is thy boat, grumbler," said the third personage, who as yet had scarcely spoken; "now let us shove off."
"If these are English ships, sir," said Jamie, as he assisted the three to embark, and cast off the painter, "I marvel mickle at their impudence in being off the Tay, while Sir Andrew Wood is at anchor in the Firth."
"Marvel at nothing; but keep thy wind for cooling thy porridge, or for better uses," retorted the haughty Gray, rolling himself up in his mantle, and his companion did the same, while Borthwick and Jamie shipped their oars, and turned the boat's prow to the sea.
When the shadows of the land and the square dark keep of Broughty, with its broad barbican and flanking towers were left behind, the night (even while the moon was enveloped in clouds) was not so murky that objects could not be distinguished; yet the three voyagers looked in vain for a vestige of the ship which they expected to be nearest the shore. A pale stripe of white light edged the horizon, and between it and the boat the waves were rising and falling, like those of an inky ocean; and in that streak of sky, and between the flying clouds, a few red, fiery stars were seen to sparkle at intervals. Cold currents of air swept over the estuary, bringing that peculiar fragrance which a night breeze always bears off the land; and the hoarse roar of the heavy surf, as it bellowed on the rocks of Broughty Castle, and rolled far inland upon the shingly beach to the eastward of it, could be hoard distinctly, as the boat of Gair was pulled directly out to sea.
"Tarry a moment, Gair," said Sir Patrick Gray; "now where are those vessels—eh?"
"You'll see them, sir, when they are lifted into the streak o' light; there they are! awa' doon to windward."
"But what the devil is windward—which way?" asked Borthwick.
"Well mayst thou ask that, for it seems to be whichever way I turn my face; but oho! I see them now!" added Gray—as the dark outlines of two vessels, with all their sails set, appeared in the distant offing, between the black vapours that seemed to rest on their mast-heads and the darker ocean on which they floated. "'Sdeath! they are ten good miles off."
"Outside the Inchcape, at least, I should say," added his hitherto silent friend.
"But where is theHarry—this devilish craft, which Gair says was visible near the Buddon-ness?"
"I'll soon find out."
"What was the signal agreed upon?" whispered Gray.
"This," replied the other, discharging a hand-gun the air,
Almost immediately afterwards, two sparks appeared about half-a-mile off; they brightened fast, and then two pale blue lights were seen burning close to the edge of the water.
"'Tis theHarry! Give way, Jamie—give way, Borthwick!" said Sir Patrick. The oars dipped into the water, and the sharp-prowed boat shot over the waves towards the lights, which soon faded away and expired. The night was now intensely dark, for not a vestige of moon was visible; but soon a noise was heard above the incessant dashing of the sea. It was like the flapping of a sail; and then one faint blink of moonlight, as it broke through an opening in the clouds, showed, close by, a large and high-pooped vessel coming suddenly to the wind, as if the watch had descried the boat upon the water; and this proved to be the case, for almost immediately, a voice in English cried out,
"Boat, a-hoy!"
Gray, who answered the hail, and held the tiller, passed the fisher boat under the towering stern of the English ship, and sheering sharply round on her larboard side, the little craft was soon made fast; but Jamie was commanded to remain in her, while Sir Patrick Gray, Borthwick, and the third personage, who proved to be no other than Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, governor of Stirling, were introduced to the state-cabin, where, with some reluctance, we are compelled to accompany them.
"By Chericul's dark wandering streams.Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild;Sweet visions haunt my waking dreamsOf Scotland, loved while still a child;Of castled rocks stupendous piled,By Esk or Eden's classic wave,When loves of youth and friendship smiled,Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!"LEYDEN:The Gold Coin
For many hundred years a curse, or rather a fell spirit, hovered over Scotland, and time seems never to have lessened its force, or the evil produced by the blighting breath of thatyellow slave, of which he who found a grave so far from her shore—poor Leyden, one of the sweetest of our bards—has sung, in his beautiful Ode to an Indian coin of gold. This curse has been the mal-influence of a party within the Scottish nation, whose interests were separated from its common weal, who throve on its ruin and disgrace, and have ever been the ready instruments of oppression, neglect, and misrule: I mean that party distinguished in the darkest pages of our annals asthe English fiction—usually a band of paid traitors, whom even the Union could not abolish; men who surrendered themselves to work out the evil, disastrous, and insidious projects of the sister kingdom, for the purpose of weakening the power of the Scottish people; and thus, as Schiller says, "never has civil war embroiled the cities of Scotland, that an Englishman has not applied a brand to the walls."
To the patricidal efforts of this faction, which for many hundred years proved the bane of Scotland, our historians lay the blame of every dark and disastrous transaction that blackens the page of Scottish history.
Their intrigues brought on the troubles of Alexander III.; the betrayal of Wallace; and that long war, which even Bannockburn did not end; the early misfortunes of James I. and those of James III., when England intrigued with Albany to gain the town of Berwick, and marry a prince of Scotland to Margaret Tudor. We recognise the same corrupt faction in those ignoble peers who pledged themselves to the English king after the fight at Solway Moss, and thus broke the heart of James V., the most splendid of our monarchs; who plunged Scotland in bloodshed under the Regents Murray, Mar, and Morton; who betrayed Kirkaldy of Grange, and, after a life of woe, surrendered their sovereign to the axe of an English executioner. Again we recognise them, when "the master fiend, Argyle," and his compatriots, betrayed her misguided grandson to Cromwell, and when their more sordid successors sold their country at the Union; when they betrayed our Darien colonists to the Spanish allies of England, and the Macdonalds of Glencoe to the barbarous assassins of William of Orange.
Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff, and the despicable swashbuckler, Borthwick, in the days of James III., represented the ignoble Scots of 1488. They were conducted by a page to the great cabin of the English frigate, in which several gentlemen, all richly dressed, were lounging on the cushioned lockers, and drinking Canary and Rochelle wine out of silver-mounted horns. A lamp, having a globe of pink-coloured glass, swung from a beam, and diffused a warm light around the cabin, which was all wainscoted, and hung with armour and weapons of various kinds.
On the entrance of the three visitors, all the English officers withdrew, save Edmund Howard, the captain, who wore a scarlet cassock coat, richly furred with miniver, and a diamond sword-belt; and his secretary, Master Quentin Kraft, a London attorney, who was attired in plain blue broadcloth, trimmed with black tape, and who immediately produced writing materials, clean drinking horns, and more wine.
"Welcome on board the royal ship,Harry!" said Edmund Howard, bowing, without rising, while a sneer of ill-disguised contempt curled his handsome mouth, over which hung a dark mustachio; for, like a noble cavalier and honest mariner, he had an unmitigated aversion to the duty on which King Henry had sent him, and for the three Scotsmen, with whom he had to conduct a court intrigue. "I am glad you have come off at last; but why all rigged in armour—aloft and alow, from head to heel, eh?"
"In Scotland, men go not abroad without their harness," replied the Laird of Sauchie, haughtily.
"By St. George," said Howard, "four hours ago I was sick of knocking about in the offing, and then having to creep in, like a thief in the nightfall, between the Inchcape Rock and yonder devilish sands. A fine business 'twould have been to have found myself beached in the shoal water, and just after this hot affair of ours with Sir Andrew Barton in the Channel. Be seated, Sir James; Sir Patrick, the Canary stands withyou; come to anchor, Master Borthwick—cannot you find a seat? By the bye, talking of Barton, I owe thee a hundred crowns, Borthwick. Kraft, hand this gentleman a hundred crowns, and be sure to get his quittance for them, ere they are stowed away."
While this transaction passed, and the price of Barton's blood was being paid to Borthwick, the two rebellious barons divested themselves of their ample cloaks and masks, and each presented an athletic figure, completely cased in iron, save the head, and armed with daggers and long swords of a famous kind, then made and tempered at Banff.
Shaw of Sauchie was older, less bloated, and less dissipated in aspect than Gray; but he had the same cunning eyes, large mustachios, and bullying or imperious aspect.