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The Caged Lion

by Charlotte M. Yonge

April, 2001  [Etext #2573]


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This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
from the 1912 Macmillan edition.





THE CAGED LION

by Charlotte M. Yonge



PREFACE



When the venture has been made of dealing with historical events and
characters, it always seems fair towards the reader to avow what
liberties have been taken, and how much of the sketch is founded on
history.  In the present case, it is scarcely necessary to do more
than refer to the almost unique relations that subsisted between
Henry V. and his prisoner, James I. of Scotland; who lived with him
throughout his reign on the terms of friend rather than of captive,
and was absolutely sheltered by this imprisonment throughout his
nonage and early youth from the frightful violence and presumption of
the nobles of his kingdom.

James's expedition to Scotland is wholly imaginary, though there
appears to have been space for it during Henry's progress to the
North to pay his devotions at Beverley Minster.  The hero of the
story is likewise invention, though, as Froissart ascribes to King
Robert II. 'eleven sons who loved arms,' Malcolm may well be supposed
to be the son of one of those unaccounted for in the pedigrees of
Stewart.  The same may be said of Esclairmonde.  There were plenty of
Luxemburgs in the Low Countries, but the individual is not to be
identified.  Readers of Tyler's 'Henry V.,' of Agnes Strickland's
'Queens,' Tytler's 'Scotland,' and Barante's 'Histoire de Bourgogne'
will be at no loss for the origin of all I have ventured to say of
the really historical personages.  Mr. Fox Bourne's 'English
Merchants' furnished the tradition respecting Whittington.  I am
afraid the knighthood was really conferred on Henry's first return to
England, after the battle of Agincourt; but human--or at least story-
telling--nature could not resist an anachronism of a few years for
such a story.  The only other wilful alteration of a matter of time
is with regard to the Duke of Burgundy's interview with Henry.  At
the time of Henry's last stay at Paris the Duke was attending the
death-bed of his wife, Michelle of France, but he had been several
times in the King's camp at the siege of Meaux.

Another alteration of fact is that Ralf Percy, instead of being
second son of Hotspur, should have been Henry Percy, son of Hotspur's
brother Ralf; but the name would have been so confusing that it was
thought better to set Dugdale at defiance and consider the reader's
convenience.  Alice Montagu, though her name sounds as if it came out
of the most commonplace novelist's repertory, was a veritable
personage--the heiress of the brave line of Montacute, or Montagu;
daughter to the Earl of Salisbury who was killed at the siege of
Orleans; wife to the Earl of the same title (in her right) who won
the battle of Blore Heath and was beheaded at Wakefield; and mother
to Earl Warwick the King-maker, the Marquis of Montagu, and George
Nevil, Archbishop of York.  As nothing is known of her but her name,
I have ventured to make use of the blank.

For Jaqueline of Hainault, and her pranks, they are to be found in
Monstrelet of old, and now in Barante; though justice to her and
Queen Isabeau compels me to state that the incident of the ring is
wholly fictitious.  Of the trial of Walter Stewart no record is
preserved save that he was accused of 'roborica.'  James Kennedy was
the first great benefactor to learning in Scotland, and founder of
her earliest University, having been himself educated at Paris.

The Abbey of Coldingham is described from a local compilation of the
early part of the century, with an account of the history of that
grand old foundation, and the struggle for appointments between the
parent house at Durham and the Scottish Government.  Priors Akefield
and Drax are historical, and as the latter really did commission a
body of moss-troopers to divert an instalment of King James's ransom
into his own private coffers, I do not think I can have done him much
injustice.  As the nunnery of St. Abbs has gone bodily into the sea,
I have been the less constrained by the inconvenient action of fact
upon fiction.  And for the Hospital of St. Katharine's-by-the-Tower,
its history is to be found in Stowe's 'Survey of London,' and
likewise in the evidence before the Parliamentary Commission, which
shows what it was intended by Queen Philippa to have been to the
river-side population, and what it might have been had such
intentions been understood and acted on--nay, what it may yet become,
since the foundation remains intact, although the building has been
removed.

C. M. YONGE.

November 24, 1869.



CHAPTER I:  THE GUEST OF GLENUSKIE



A master hand has so often described the glens and ravines of
Scotland, that it seems vain and presumptuous to meddle with them;
and yet we must ask our readers to figure to themselves a sharp cleft
sloping downwards to a brawling mountain stream, the sides scattered
with gray rocks of every imaginable size, interspersed here and there
with heather, gorse, or furze.  Just in the widest part of the
valley, a sort of platform of rock jutted out from the hill-side, and
afforded a station for one of those tall, narrow, grim-looking
fastnesses that were the strength of Scotland, as well as her bane.

Either by nature or art, the rock had been scarped away on three
sides, so that the walls of the castle rose sheer from the steep
descent, except where the platform was connected with the mountain
side by, as it were, an isthmus joining the peninsula to the main
rock; and even this isthmus, a narrow ridge of rock just wide enough
for the passage of a single horse, had been cut through, no doubt
with great labour, and rendered impassable, except by the lowering of
a drawbridge.  Glenuskie Castle was thus nearly impregnable, so long
as it was supplied with water, and for this all possible provision
had been made, by guiding a stream into the court.

The castle was necessarily narrow and confined; its massive walls
took up much even of the narrow space that the rock afforded; but it
had been so piled up that it seemed as though the builders wished to
make height compensate for straitness.  There was, too, an unusual
amount of grace, both in the outline of the gateway with its mighty
flanking towers, and of the lofty donjon tower, that shot up like a
great finger above the Massy More, as the main building was commonly
called by the inhabitants of Glenuskie.

Wondrous as were the walls, and deep-set as were the arches, they had
all that peculiar slenderness of contour that Scottish taste seemed
to have learnt from France; and a little more space was gained at the
top, both of the gateway towers and the donjon, by a projecting
cornice of beautifully vaulted arches supporting a battlement, that
gave the building a crowned look.  On the topmost tower was of course
planted the ensign of the owner, and that ensign was no other than
the regal ruddy Lion of Scotland, ramping on his gold field within
his tressure fiery and counter flory, but surmounted by a label
divided into twelve, and placed upon a pen-noncel, or triangular
piece of silk.  The eyes of the early fifteenth century easily
deciphered such hieroglyphics as these, which to every one with the
least tincture of 'the noble science' indicated that the owner of the
castle was of royal Stewart blood, but of a younger branch, and not
yet admitted to the rank of knighthood.

The early spring of the year 1421 was bleak and dreary in that wild
lonely vale, and large was the fire burning on the hearth in the
castle hall, in the full warmth of which there sat, with a light blue
cloth cloak drawn tightly round him, a tall old man, of the giant
mould of Scotland, and with a massive thoughtful brow, whose grand
form was rendered visible by the absence of hair, only a few remnants
of yellow locks mixed with silver floating from his temples to mingle
with his magnificent white beard.  A small blue bonnet, with a short
eagle feather, fastened with a brooch of river pearl, was held in the
hands that were clasped over his face, as, bending down in his chair,
he murmured through his white beard, 'Have mercy, good Lord, have
mercy on the land.  Have mercy on my son,--and guard him when he goes
out and when he comes in.  Have mercy on the children I have toiled
for, and teach me to judge and act for them aright in these sore
straits; and above all, have mercy on our King, break his fetters,
and send him home to be the healer of his land, the avenger of her
cruel wrongs.'

So absorbed was the old man that he never heard the step that came
across the hall.  It was a slightly unequal step, but was carefully
hushed at entrance, as if supposing the old man asleep; and at a slow
pace the new-comer crossed the hall to the chimney, where he stood by
the fire, warming himself and looking wistfully at the old Knight.

He was wrapped in a plaid, black and white, which increased the gray
appearance of the pale sallow face and sad expression of the wearer,
a boy of about seventeen, with soft pensive dark eyes and a sickly
complexion, with that peculiar wistful cast of countenance that is
apt to accompany deformity, though there was no actual malformation
apparent, unless such might be reckoned the slight halt in the gait,
and the small stature of the lad, who was no taller than many boys of
twelve or fourteen.  But there was a depth of melancholy in those
dark brown eyes, that went far into the heart of any one who had the
power to be touched with their yearning, appealing, almost piteous
gaze, as though their owner had come into a world that was much too
hard for him, and were looking out in bewilderment and entreaty for
some haven of peace.

He had stood for some minutes looking thoughtfully into the fire, and
the sadness of his expression ever deepening, before the old man
raised his face, and said, 'You here, Malcolm? where are the others?'

'Patie and Lily are still on the turret-top, fair Uncle,' returned
the boy.  'It was so cold;' and he shivered again, and seemed as
though he would creep into the fire.

'And the reek?' asked the uncle.

'There is another reek broken out farther west,' replied Malcolm.
'Patie is sure now that it is as you deemed, Uncle; that it is a
cattle-lifting from Badenoch.'

'Heaven help them!' sighed the old man, again folding his hands in
prayer.  'How long, O Lord, how long?'

Malcolm took up the appeal of the Psalm, repeating it in Latin, but
with none the less fervency; that Psalm that has ever since David's
time served as the agonized voice of hearts hot-burning at the sight
of wrong.

'Ah yes,' he ended, 'there is nothing else for it!  Uncle, this was
wherefore I came.  It was to speak to you of my purpose.'

'The old purpose, Malcolm?  Nay, that hath been answered before.'

'But listen, listen, dear Uncle.  I have not spoken of it for a full
year now.  So that you cannot say it is the caresses of the good
monks.  No, nor the rude sayings of the Master of Albany,' he added,
colouring at a look of his uncle.  'You bade me say no more till I be
of full age; nor would I, save that I were safe lodged in an abbey;
then might Patrick and Lily be wedded, and he not have to leave us
and seek his fortune far away in France; and in Patie's hands and
leading, my vassals might be safe; but what could the doited helpless
cripple do?' he added, the colour rising hotly to his cheek with pain
and shame.  'Oh, Sir, let me but save my soul, and find peace in
Coldingham!'

'My poor bairn,' said his uncle, laying a kind hand upon him, as in
his eagerness he knelt on one knee beside the chair, 'it must not be.
It is true that the Regent and his sons would willingly see you in a
cloister.  Nay, that unmanly jeer of Walter Stewart's was, I verily
believe, meant to drive you thither.  But were you there, then would
poor Lilias become a prize worth having, and the only question would
be, whether Walter of Albany, or Robert of Athole, or any of the rest
of them, should tear her away to be the lady of their fierce ungodly
households.'

'You could give her to Patrick, Uncle.'

'No, Malcolm, that were not consistent with mine honour, or oaths to
the King and State.  You living, and Laird of Glenuskie, Lilias is a
mere younger sister, whom you may give in marriage as you will; but
were you dead to the world, under a cowl, then the Lady of Glenuskie,
a king's grandchild, may not be disposed of, save by her royal
kinsman, or by those who, woe worth the day! stand in his place.  I
were no better than yon Wolf of Badenoch or the Master of Albany, did
I steal a march on the Regent, and give the poor lassie to my own
son!'

'And so Lilias must pine, and Patrick wander off to the weary French
war,' sighed Malcolm; 'and I must be scorned by my cousins whenever
the House of Stewart meets together; and must strive with these
fierce cruel men, that will ever be too hard for me when Patie is
gone.'  His eyes filled with tears as he continued, 'Ah! that fair
chapel, with the sweet chant of the choir, the green smooth-shaven
quadrangle, the calm cloister walk; there, there alone is rest.
There, one ceases to be a prey and a laughing-stock; there, one sees
no more bloodshed and spulzie; there, one need not be forced to
treachery or violence.  Oh, Uncle! my very soul is sick for
Coldingham.  How many years will it be ere I can myself bestow my
sister on Patie, and hide my head in peace!'

Before his uncle had done more than answer, 'Nay, nay, Malcolm, these
are no words for the oe of Bruce; you are born to dare as well as to
suffer,' there was an approach of footsteps, and two young people
entered the hall; the first a girl, with a family likeness to
Malcolm, but tall, upright, beautiful, and with the rich colouring of
perfect health, her plaid still hanging in a loose swelling hood
round her brilliant face and dark hair, snooded with a crimson ribbon
and diamond clasp; the other, a knightly young man, of stately height
and robust limbs, keen bright blue eyes and amber hair and beard,
moving with the ease and grace that showed his training in the
highest school of chivalry.

'Good Uncle,' cried the maiden in eager excitement, 'there is a guest
coming.  He has just turned over the brae side, and can be coming
nowhere but here.'

'A guest!' cried both Malcolm and the elder knight, 'of what kind,
Lily?'

'A knight--a knight in bright steel, and with three attendants,' said
Lilias; 'one of Patrick's French comrades, say I, by the grace of his
riding.'

'Not a message from the Regent, I trust,' sighed Malcolm.  'Patie, oh
do not lower the drawbridge, till we hear whether it be friend or
foe.'

'Nay, Malcolm, 'tis well none save friends heard that,' said Patrick.
'When shall we make a brave man of you?'

'Nevertheless, Patie,' said the old gentleman, 'though I had rather
the caution had come from the eldest rather than the youngest head
among us, parley as much as may serve with honour and courtesy ere
opening the gate to the stranger.  Hark, there is his bugle.'

A certain look of nervous terror passed over young Malcolm's face,
while his sister watched full of animation and curiosity, as one to
whom excitement of any kind could hardly come amiss, exclaiming, as
she looked from the window, 'Fear not, most prudent Malcolm; Father
Ninian is with him:  Father Ninian must have invited him.'

'Strange,' muttered Patrick, 'that Father Ninian should be picking up
and bringing home stray wandering land-loupers;' and with an anxious
glance at Lilias, he went forward unwillingly to perform those duties
of hospitality which had become necessary, since the presence of the
castle chaplain was a voucher for the guest.  The drawbridge had
already been lowered, and the new-comer was crossing it upon a
powerful black steed, guided by Father Ninian upon his rough mountain
pony, on which he had shortly before left the castle, to attend at a
Church festival held at Coldingham.

The chaplain was a wise, prudent, and much-respected man;
nevertheless, young Sir Patrick Drummond felt little esteem for his
prudence in displaying one at least of the treasures of the castle to
the knight on the black horse.  The stranger was a very tall man, of
robust and stalwart make, apparently aged about seven or eight and
twenty years, clad in steel armour, enamelled so as to have a
burnished blue appearance; but the vizor of the helmet was raised,
and the face beneath it was a manly open face, thoroughly Scottish in
its forms, but very handsome, and with short dark auburn hair, and
eyes of the same peculiar tint, glancing with a light that once seen
could never be forgotten; and the bearing was such, that Patrick at
once growled to himself, 'One of our haughty loons, brimful of outre
cuidance; and yet how coolly he bears it off.  If he looks to find us
his humble servants, he will find himself mistaken, I trow.'

'Sir Patrick,' said Father Ninian, who was by this time close to him,
'let me present to you Sir James Stewart, a captive knight who is
come to collect his ransom.  I fell in with him on the road, and as
his road lay with mine, I made bold to assure him of a welcome from
your honoured father and Lord Malcolm.'

Patrick's face cleared.  It was no grace or beauty that he feared in
any stranger, but the sheer might and unright that their Regency
enabled the House of Albany to exercise over the orphans of the royal
family, whose head was absent; and a captive knight could be no
mischievous person.  Still this might be only a specious pretence to
impose on the chaplain, and gain admittance to the castle; and
Patrick was resolved to be well on his guard, though he replied
courteously to the graceful bow with which the stranger greeted him,
saying in a manly mellow voice and southern accent, 'I have been bold
enough to presume on the good father's offer of hospitality, Sir.'

'You are welcome, Sir,' returned Patrick, taking the stranger's
bridle that he might dismount; 'my father and my cousin will gladly
further on his way a prisoner seeking freedom.'

'A captive may well be welcome, for the sake of one prisoner,' said
his father, who had in the meantime come forward, and extended his
hand to the knight, who took it, and uncovering his bright locks,
respectfully said, 'I am in the presence of the noble Tutor of
Glenuskie.'

'Even so, Sir,' returned Sir David Drummond, who was, in fact, as his
nephew's guardian, usually known by this curious title; 'and you here
see my wards, the Lord Malcolm and Lady Lilias.  Your knighthood will
make allowances for the lad, he is but home-bred.'  For while Lilias
with stately grace responded to Sir James Stewart's courtly greeting,
Malcolm bashfully made an awkward bow, and seemed ready to shrink
within himself, as, indeed, the brutal jests of his rude cousins had
made him dread and hate the eye of a stranger; and while the knight
was led forward to the hall fire, he merely pressed up to the priest,
and eagerly demanded under his breath, 'Have you brought me the
book?' but Father Ninian had only time to nod, and sign that a volume
was in his bosom, before old Sir David called out, 'What now,
Malcolm, forgetting that your part is to come and disarm the knight
who does you the honour to be your guest?'  And Sir Patrick rather
roughly pushed him forward, gruffly whispering, 'Leave not Lily to
supply your lack of courtesy.'

Malcolm shambled forward, bewildered, as the keen auburn eye fell on
him, and the cheery kindly voice said, 'Ha! a new book--a romance?
Well may that drive out other thoughts.'

'Had he ears to hear such a whisper?' thought Malcolm, as he mumbled
in the hoarse voice of bashful boyhood, 'Not a romance, Sir, but
whatever the good fathers at Coldingham would lend me.'

'It is the "Itinerarium" of the blessed Adamnanus,' replied Father
Ninian, producing from his bosom a parcel, apparently done up in many
wrappers, a seal-skin above all.

'The "Itinerarium"!' exclaimed Sir James, 'methought I had heard of
such a book.  I have a friend in England who would give many a fair
rose noble for a sight of it.'

'A friend in England!'--the words had a sinister sound to the
audience, and while Malcolm jealously gathered up the book into his
arms, the priest made cold answer, that the book was the property of
the Monastery at Coldingham, and had only been lent to Lord Malcolm
Stewart by special favour.  The guest could not help smiling, and
saying he was glad books were thus prized in Scotland; but at that
moment, as the sunny look shone on his face, and he stood before the
fire in the close suit of chamois leather which he wore under his
armour, old Sir David exclaimed, 'Ha! never did I see such a
likeness.  Patie, you should be old enough to remember; do you not
see it?'

'What should I see?  Who is he like?' asked Patrick, surprised at his
father's manner.

'Who?' whispered Sir David in a lowered voice; 'do you not see it? to
the unhappy lad, the Duke of Rothsay.'

Patrick could not help smiling, for he had been scarcely seven years
old at the time of the murder of the unfortunate Prince of Scotland;
hut a flush of colour rose into the face of the guest, and he shortly
answered, 'So I have been told;' and then assuming a seat near Sir
David, he entered into conversation with him upon the condition of
Scotland at the period, inquiring into the state of many of the
families and districts by name.  Almost always there was but one
answer--murder--harrying--foray; and when the question followed,
'What had the Regent done?' there was a shrug of the shoulders, and
as often Sir James's face flushed with a dark red fire, and his hand
clenched at the hilt of the sword by his side.

'And is there not a man in Scotland left to strike for the right?' he
demanded at last; 'cannot nobles, clergy, and burghers, band
themselves in parliament to put down Albany and his bloody house, and
recall their true head?'

'They love to have it so,' returned Sir David sadly.  'United, they
might be strong enough; but each knows that his fellow, Douglas,
Lennox, March, or Mar, would be ready to play the same game as
Albany; and to raise a rival none will stir.'

'And so,' proceeded Sir James, bitterly, 'the manhood of Scotland
goes forth to waste itself in an empty foreign war, merely to keep
France in as wretched a state of misrule as itself.'

'Nay, nay, Sir,' cried Patrick angrily, 'it is to save an ancient
ally from the tyranny of our foulest foe.  It is the only place where
a Scotsman can seek his fortune with honour, and without staining his
soul with foul deeds.  Bring our King home, and every sword shall be
at his service.'

'What, when they have all been lavished on the crazy Frenchman?' said
Sir James.

'No, Sir,' said Patrick, rising in his vehemence; 'when they have
been brightened there by honourable warfare, not tarnished by home
barbarities.'

'He speaks truly,' said Sir David; 'and though it will go to my heart
to part with the lad, yet may I not say a word to detain him in a
land where the contagion of violence can scarce be escaped by a brave
man.'

Sir James gave a deep sigh as of pain, but as if to hinder its being
remarked, promptly answered, 'That may be; but what is to be the lot
of a land whose honest men desert her cause as too evil for them, and
seek out another, that when seen closer is scarce less evil?'

'How, Sir!' cried Patrick; 'you a prisoner of England, yet speaking
against our noble French allies, so foully trampled on?'

'I have lived long enough in England,' returned Sir James, 'to think
that land happiest where law is strong enough to enforce peace and
order.'

'The coward loons!' muttered Patrick, chiefly out of the spirit of
opposition.

'You have been long in England, Sir?' said Lilias, hoping to direct
the conversation into a more peaceful current.

'Many years, fair lady,' he replied, turning courteously to her; 'I
was taken when I was a mere lad, but I have had gentle captors, and
no over harsh prison.'

'And has no one ransomed you?' she asked pitifully, as one much moved
by a certain patience on his brow, and in his sweet full voice.

'No one, lady.  My uncle was but too willing that the heir should be
kept aloof; and it is only now he is dead, that I have obtained leave
from my friendly captor to come in search of my ransom.'

Lilias would have liked to know the amount, but it was not manners to
ask, since the rate of ransom was the personal value of the knight;
and her uncle put in the question, who was his keeper.

'The Earl of Somerset,' rather hastily answered Sir James; and then
at once Lilias exclaimed, 'Ah, Uncle, is not the King, too, in his
charge?'  And then questions crowded on.  'What like is the King?
How brooks he his durance?  What freedom hath he?  What hope is there
of his return?  Can he brook to hear of his people's wretchedness?'

This was the first question at which Sir James attempted to unclose
his hitherto smiling and amused lip.  Then it quivered, and the dew
glittered in his eyes as he answered, 'Brook it!  No indeed, lady.
His heart burns within him at every cry that comes over the Border,
and will well-nigh burst at what I have seen and heard!  King Harry
tells him that to send him home were but tossing him on the swords of
the Albany.  Better, better so, to die in one grapple for his
country's sake, than lie bound, hearing her bitter wails, and unable
to stir for her redress!' and as he dashed the indignant tear from
his eyes, Patrick caught his hand.

'Your heart is in the right place, friend,' he said; 'I look on you
as an honest man and brother in arms from this moment.'

''Tis a bargain,' said Sir James, the smile returning, and his eyes
again glistening as he wrung Sir Patrick's hand.  'When the hour
comes for the true rescue of Scotland, we will strike together.'

'And you will tell the King,' added Patrick, 'that here are true
hearts, and I could find many more, only longing to fence him from
the Albany swords, about which King Harry is so good as to fash
himself.'

'But what like is the King?' asked Lilias eagerly.  'Oh, I would fain
see him.  Is it true that he was the tallest man at King Harry's
sacring? more shame that he were there!'

'He and I are much of a height, lady,' returned the knight.  'Maybe I
may give you the justest notion of him by saying that I am said to be
his very marrow.'

'That explains your likeness to the poor Duke,' said Sir David,
satisfied; 'and you too count kindred with our royal house,
methinks?'

'I am sprung from Walter the Stewart, so much I know; my lands lie
Carrick-wards,' said Sir James lightly, 'but I have been a prisoner
so long, that the pedigree of my house was never taught me, and I can
make no figure in describing my own descent.'  And as though to put
an end to the inquiry, he walked to the window, where Malcolm so soon
as they had begun to talk of the misrule of Scotland, had ensconced
himself in the window-seat with his new book, making the most of the
failing light, and asked him whether the Monk of Iona equalled his
expectations.

Malcolm was not easy to draw out at first, but it presently appeared
that he had been baffled by a tough bit of Latinity.  The knight
looked, and readily expounded the sentence, so that all became plain;
and then, as it was already too dark to pursue the study with
comfort, he stood over the boy, talking to him of books and of poems,
while the usually pale, listless, uninterested countenance responded
by looks of eager delight and flushing colour.

It seemed as though each were equally pleased with the other:  Sir
James, at finding so much knowledge and understanding in a Scottish
castle; and Malcolm, at, for the first time, meeting anything but
contempt for his tastes from aught but an ecclesiastic.

Their talk continued till they were summoned to supper, which had
been somewhat delayed to provide for the new-comers.  It was a simple
enough meal, suited to Lent, and was merely of dried fish, with
barley bread and kail brose; but there were few other places in
Scotland where it would have been served with so much of the
refinement that Sir David Drummond and his late wife had learnt in
France.  A tablecloth and napkins, separate trenchers, and water for
hand cleansing, were not always to be found in the houses of the
nobles; and in fact, there were those who charged Malcolm's delicacy
and timidity on the nisete or folly of his effeminate education; the
having the rushes on the floor frequently changed, the preference of
lamps for pine torches, and the not keeping falcons, dogs, swine, and
all, pell mell in the great hall.

Lilias sat between her uncle and his guest, looking so fair and
bright that Patrick felt fresh accesses of angry jealousy, while the
visitor talked as one able to report to the natives from another
world, and that world the hateful England, which as a Scotsman he was
bound to abhor.  Had it been France, it had been endurable, but
praise of English habits was mere disloyalty; and yet, whenever
Patrick tried to throw in a disparaging word, he found himself met
with a quiet superiority such as he had believed no knight in
Scotland could assume with him, and still it was neither brow-beating
nor insolence, nothing that could give offence.

Malcolm begged to know whether there had not been a rare good poet in
England, called Chaucer.  Verily there had been, said the knight; and
on a little solicitation, so soon as supper was over, he recited to
the eager and delighted auditors the tale of patient Grisel, as
rendered by Chaucer, calling forth eager comments from both Patrick
and Lily, on the unknightliness of the Marquis.  Malcolm, however,
added, 'Yet, after all, she was but a mere peasant wench.'

'What makes that, young Sir?' replied Sir James gravely.  'I would
have you to know that the husband's rank is the wife's, and the more
unequal were their lot before, the more is he bound to respect her,
and to make her be respected.'

'That may be, after the deed is done,' said Sir David, in a warning
voice; 'but it is not well that like should not match with like.
Many an evil have I seen in my time, from unequal mating.'

'And, Sir,' eagerly exclaimed Patrick, 'no doubt you can gainsay the
slander, that our noble King has been caught in the toils of an
artful Englishwoman, and been drawn in to promise her a share in his
crown.'

A flush of crimson flamed forth on Sir James Stewart's cheeks, and
his tawny eye glanced with a fire like red lightning, but he seemed,
as it were, to be holding himself in, and answered with a voice
forcibly kept low and calm, and therefore the more terribly stern,
'Young Sir, I warn you to honour your future queen.'

Sir David made a gesture with his hand, enforcing restraint upon his
son, and turning to Sir James, said, 'Our queen will we honour, when
such she is, Sir; but if you are returning to the King, it were well
that he should know that our hot Scottish bloods, here, could scarce
brook an English alliance, and certainly not one beneath his birth.'

'The King would answer, Sir,' returned Sir James, haughtily, but with
recovered command over himself, 'that it is for him to judge whom his
subjects shall brook as their queen.  Moreover,' he added, in a
different and more conciliatory voice, 'Scotsmen must be proud indeed
who disdain the late King's niece, the great-granddaughter of King
Edward III., and as noble and queenly a demoiselle as ever was born
in a palace.'

'She is so very fair, then?' said Lilies, who was of course on the
side of true love.  'You have seen her, gentle Sir?  Oh, tell us what
are her beauties?'

'Fair damsel,' said Sir James, in a much more gentle tone, 'you
forget that I am only a poor prisoner, who have only now and then
viewed the lady Joan Beaufort with distant reverence, as destined to
be my queen.  All I can tell is, that her walk and bearing mark her
out for a throne.'

'And oh!' cried Malcolm, 'is it not true that the King hath composed
songs and poems in her honour?'

'Pah!' muttered Patrick; 'as though the King would be no better than
a wandering minstrel rhymester!'

'Or than King David!' dryly said Sir James.

'It is true, then, Sir,' exclaimed Lilias.  'He doth verily add
minstrelsy to his other graces?  Know you the lines, Sir?  Can you
sing them to us?  Oh, I pray you.'

'Nay, fair maid,' returned Sir James, 'methinks I might but add to
the scorn wherewith Sir Patrick is but too much inclined to regard
the captive King.'

'A captive, a captive--ay, minstrelsy is the right solace for a
captive,' said Patrick; 'at least, so they say and sing.  Our king
will have better work when he gains his freedom.  Only there will
come before me a subtilty I once saw in jelly and blanc-mange, at a
banquet in France, where a lion fell in love with a hunter's
daughter, and let her, for love's sake, draw his teeth and clip his
claws, whereupon he found himself made a sport for her father's
hounds.'

'I promise you, Sir Patrick,' replied the guest, 'that the Lady Joan
is more hike to send her Lion forth from the hunter's toils, with
claws and teeth fresh-whetted by the desire of honour.

'But the lay--the hay, Sir,' entreated Lilias; 'who knows that it may
not win Patrick to be the Lady Joan's devoted servant?  Malcolm, your
harp!'

Malcolm had already gone in quest of the harp he loved all the better
for the discouragement thrown on his gentle tastes.

The knight leant back, with a pensive look softening his features as
he said, after a little consideration, 'Then, fair lady, I will sing
you the song made by King James, when he had first seen the fair
mistress of his heart, on the slopes of Windsor, looking from his
chamber window.  He feigns her to be a nightingale.'

'And what is that, Sir?' demanded Lilias.  'I have heard the word in
romances, and deemed it a kind of angel that sings by night.'

'It is a bird, sister,' replied Malcolm; 'Philomel, that pierces her
breast with a thorn, and sings sweetly even to her death.'

'That's mere minstrel leasing, Malcolm,' said Patrick.  'I have both
seen and heard the bird in France--Rossignol, as we call it there;
and were I a lady, I should deem it small compliment to be likened to
a little russet-backed, homely fowl such as that.'

'While I,' replied the prisoner, 'feel so much with your fair sister,
that nightingales are a sort of angels that sing by night, that it
pains me, when I think of winning my freedom, to remember that I
shall never again hear their songs answering one another through the
forest of Windsor.'

Patrick shrugged his shoulders, but Lilias was so anxious to hear the
lay, that she entreated him to be silent; and Sir James, with a manly
mellow voice, with an exceedingly sweet strain in it, and a skill,
both of modulation and finger, such as showed admirable taste and
instruction, poured forth that beautiful song of the nightingale at
Windsor, which commences King James's story of his love, in his poem
of the King's Quhair.

There was an eager pressing round to hear, and not only were Lilias
and Malcolm, but old Sir David himself, much affected by the strain,
which the latter said put him in mind of the days of King Robert
III., which, sad as they were, now seemed like good old times, so
much worse was the present state of affairs.  Sir James, however,
seemed anxious to prevent discussion of the verses he had sung, and
applied to Malcolm to give a specimen of his powers:  and thus, with
music, ballad, and lay, the evening passed away, till the parting cup
was sent round, and the Tutor of Glenuskie and Malcolm marshalled
their guest to the apartment where he was to sleep, in a wainscoted
box bedstead, and his two attendant squires, a great iron-gray Scot
and a rosy honest-faced Englishman, on pallets on the floor.

In the morning he went on his journey, but not without an invitation
to rest there again on his way back, whether with or without his
ransom.  He promised to come, saying that he should gladly bear to
the King the last advices from one so honoured as the Tutor of
Glenuskie; and, on their sides, Malcolm and Sir David resolved to do
their best to have some gold pieces to contribute, rather than so
'proper a knight' should fail in raising his ransom; but gold was
never plenty, and Patrick needed all that his uncle could supply, to
bear him to those wars in France, where he looked for renown and
fortune.

For these were, as may have been gathered, those evil days when James
I. of Scotland was still a captive to England, and when the House of
Albany exercised its cruel misrule upon Scotland; delaying to ransom
the King, lest they should bring home a master.

Old Robert of Albany had been King Stork, his son Murdoch was King
Log; and the misery was infinitely increased by the violence and
lawlessness of Murdoch's sons.  King Robert II. had left Scotland the
fearful legacy of, as Froissart says, 'eleven sons who loved arms.'
Of these, Robert III. was the eldest, the Duke of Albany the second.
These were both dead, and were represented, the one by the captive
young King James, the other by the Regent, Duke Murdoch of Albany,
and his brother John, Earl of Buchan, now about to head a Scottish
force, among whom Patrick Drummond intended to sail, to assist the
French.

Others of the eleven, Earls of Athol, Menteith, &c., survived; but
the youngest of the brotherhood, by name Malcolm, who had married the
heiress of Glenuskie, had been killed at Homildon Hill, when he had
solemnly charged his Stewart nephews and brothers to leave his two
orphan children to the sole charge of their mother's cousin, Sir
David Drummond, a good old man, who had been the best supporter and
confidant of poor Robert III. in his unhappy reign, and in embassies
to France had lost much of the rugged barbarism to which Scotland had
retrograded during the wars with England.



CHAPTER II:  THE RESCUE OF COLDINGHAM



It was a lonely tract of road, marked only by the bare space trodden
by feet of man and horse, and yet, in truth, the highway between
Berwick and Edinburgh, which descended from a heathery moorland into
a somewhat spacious valley, with copsewood clothing one side, in the
midst of which rose a high mound or knoll, probably once the site of
a camp, for it still bore lines of circumvallation, although it was
entirely deserted, except by the wandering shepherds of the
neighbourhood, or occasionally by outlaws, who found an admirable
ambush in the rear.

The spring had hung the hazels with tassels, bedecked the willows
with golden downy tufts, and opened the primroses and celandines
beneath them, when the solitary dale was disturbed by the hasty
clatter of horses' feet, and hard, heavy breathing as of those who
had galloped headlong beyond their strength.  Here, however, the
foremost of the party, an old esquire, who grasped the bridle-rein of
youth by his side, drew up his own horse, and that which he was
dragging on with him, saying -

'We may breathe here a moment; there is shelter in the wood.  And
you, Rab, get ye up to the top of Jill's Knowe, and keep a good look-
out.'

'Let me go back, you false villain!' sobbed the boy, with the first
use of his recovered breath.

'Do not be so daft, Lord Malcolm,' replied the Squire, retaining his
hold on the boy's bridle; 'what, rin your head into the wolf's mouth
again, when we've barely brought you off haill and sain?'

'Haill and sain?  Dastard and forlorn,' cried Malcolm, with
passionate weeping.  'I--I to flee and leave my sister--my uncle!
Oh, where are they?  Halbert, let me go; I'll never pardon thee.'

'Hoot, my lord! would I let you gang, when the Tutor spak to me as
plain as I hear you now?  "Take off Lord Malcolm," says he; "save
him, and you save the rest.  See him safe to the Earl of Mar."  Those
were his words, my lord; and if you wilna heed them, I will.'

'What, and leave my sister to the reivers?  Oh, what may not they be
doing to her?  Let us go back and fall on them, Halbert; better die
saving her than know her in Walter Stewart's hands.  Then were I the
wretched craven he calls me.'

'Look you, Lord Malcolm,' said Halbert, laying his finger on his
nose, with a knowing expression, 'my young lady is safe from harm so
long as you are out of the Master of Albany's reach.  Had you come by
a canny thrust in the fray, as no doubt was his purpose, or were you
in his hands to be mewed in a convent, then were your sister worth
the wedding; but the Master will never wed her while you live and
have friends to back you, and his father, the Regent, will see she
has no ill-usage.  You'll do best for yourself and her too, as well
as Sir David, if you make for Dunbar, and call ben your uncles of
Athole and Strathern.--How now, Rab? are the loons making this way?'

'Na, na!' said Rab, descending; ''tis from the other gate; 'tis a
knight in blue damasked steel:  he, methinks, that harboured in our
castle some weeks syne.'

'Hm!' said Halbert, considering; 'he looked like a trusty cheild:
maybe he'd guide my lord here to a wiser wit, and a good lance on the
way to Dunbar is not to be scorned.'

In fact, there would have been no time for one party to conceal
themselves from the other; for, hidden by the copsewood, and unheeded
by the watchers who were gazing in the opposite direction, Sir James
Stewart and his two attendants suddenly came round the foot of Jill's
Knowe upon the fugitives, who were profiting by the interval to
loosen the girths of their horses, and water them at the pool under
the thicket, whilst Halbert in vain tried to pacify and reason with
the young master, who had thrown himself on the grass in an agony of
grief and despair.  Sir James, after the first momentary start,
recognized the party in an instant, and at once leapt from his horse,
exclaiming -

'How now, my bonnie man--my kind host--what is it? what makes this
grief?'

'Do not speak to me, Sir,' muttered the unhappy boy.  'They have been
reft--reft from me, and I have done nothing for them.  Walter of
Albany has them, and I am here.'

And he gave way to another paroxysm of grief, while Halbert explained
to Sir James Stewart that when Sir Patrick Drummond had gone to
embark for France, with the army led to the aid of Charles VI. by the
Earl of Buchan, his father and cousins, with a large escort, had
accompanied him to Eyemouth; whence, after taking leave of him, they
had set out to spend Passion-tide and Easter at Coldingham Abbey,
after the frequent fashion of the devoutly inclined among the
Scottish nobility, in whose castles there was often little commodity
for religious observances.  Short, however, as was the distance, they
had in the midst of it been suddenly assailed by a band of armed men,
among whom might easily be recognized the giant form of young Walter
Stewart, the Master of Albany, the Regent Duke Murdoch's eldest son,
who was well known for his lawless excesses and violence.  His
father's silky sayings, and his own ruder speeches, had long made it
known to the House of Glenuskie that the family policy was to cajole
or to drive the sickly heir into a convent, and, rendering Lilias the
possessor of the broad lands inherited from both parents, unite her
and them to the Albany family

The almost barbarous fierceness and wild licentiousness of Walter
would have made the arrangement abhorrent to Lilias, even had not
love passages already passed between her and her cousin, Patrick
Drummond, and Sir David had hitherto protected her by keeping Malcolm
in the secular life; but Walter, it seemed, had grown impatient, and
had made this treacherous attack, evidently hoping to rid himself of
the brother, and secure the sister.  No sooner had the Tutor of
Glenuskie perceived that his own party were overmatched, than he had
bidden his faithful squire to secure the bairns--if not both, at
least the boy; and Halbert, perceiving that Lilias had already been
pounced upon by Sir Walter himself and several more, seized the
bridle of the bewildered Malcolm, who was still trying to draw his
sword, and had absolutely swept him away from the scene of action
before he had well realized what was passing; and now that the poor
lad understood the whole, his horror, grief, and shame were
unspeakable.

Before Sir James had done more than hear the outline of Halbert's
tale, however, the watchers on the mound gave the signal that the
reivers were coming that way--a matter hitherto doubtful, since no
one could guess whether Walter Stewart would make for Edinburgh or
for Doune.  With the utmost agility Sir James sprang up the side of
the mound, reconnoitred, and returned again just as Halbert was
trying to stir his master from the ground, and Malcolm answering
sullenly that he would not move--he would be taken and die with the
rest.

'You may save them instead, if you will attend to me,' said Sir
James; and at his words the boy suddenly started up with a look of
hope.

'How many fell upon you?' demanded Sir James.

'Full a hundred lances,' replied Halbert (and a lance meant at least
three men).  'It wad be a fule's wark to withstand them.  Best bide
fast in the covert, for our horses are sair forfaughten.'

'If there are now more than twenty lances, I am greatly mistaken,'
returned Sir James.  'They must have broken up after striking their
blow, or have sent to secure Glenuskie; and we, falling on them from
this thicket--'

'I see, I see,' cried Halbert.  'Back, ye loons; back among the
hazels.  Hold every one his horse ready to mount.'

'With your favour, Sir Squire, I say, bind each man his horse to a
tree.  The skene and broadsword, which I see you all wear, will be
ten times as effective on foot.'

'Do as the knight bids,' said Malcolm, starting forth with colour on
his cheek, light in his eye, that made him another being.  'In him
there is help.'

'Ay, ay, Lord Malcolm,' muttered Halbert; 'you need not tell me that:
I know my duty better than not to do the bidding of a belted knight,
and pretty man too of his inches.'

The two attendants of Sir James were meantime apparently uttering
some remonstrance, to which he lightly replied, 'Tut, Nigel; it will
do thine heart good to hew down a minion of Albany.  What were I
worth could I not strike a blow against so foul a wrong to my own
orphan kindred?  Brewster, I'll answer it to thy master.  These are
his foes, as well as those of all honest men.  Ha! thou art as glad
to be at them as I myself.'

By this time he had exchanged his cap for a steel helmet, and was
assuming the command as his natural right, as he placed the men in
their ambush behind the knoll, received reports from those he had set
to watch, and concerted the signal with Halbert and his own
followers.  Malcolm kept by him, shivering with intense excitement
and eagerness; and thus they waited till the horses' hoofs and clank
of armour were distinctly audible.  But even then Sir James, with
outstretched hand, signed his followers back, and kept them in the
leash, as it were, until the troop was fairly in the valley, those in
front beginning to halt to give their horses water.  They were, in
effect, riding somewhat carelessly, and with the ease of men whose
feat was performed, and who expected no more opposition.  Full in the
midst was Lilias, entirely muffled and pinioned by a large plaid
drawn closely round her, and held upon the front of the saddle of a
large tall horse, ridden by a slender, light-limbed, wiry groom, whom
Malcolm knew as Christopher Hall, a retainer of the Duke of Albany;
and beside him rode her captor, Sir Walter Stewart, a man little
above twenty, but with a bronzed, hardened, reckless expression that
made him look much older, and of huge height and giant build.
Malcolm knew him well, and regarded him with unmitigated horror and
dread, both from the knowledge of his ruffianly violence even towards
his father, from fear of his intentions, and from the misery that his
brutal jests, scoffs, and practical jokes had often personally
inflicted:  and the sight of his sister in the power of this wicked
man was the realization of all his worst fears.  But ere there was
time for more than one strong pang of consternation and
constitutional terror, Sir James's shout of 'St. Andrew for the
right!' was ringing out, echoed by all the fifteen in ambush with
him, as simultaneously they leapt forward.  Malcolm, among the first,
darting with one spring, as it were, to the horse where his sister
was carried, seized the bridle with his left hand, and flashing his
sword upon the ruffian with the other, shouted, 'Let go, villain;
give me my sister!' Hall's first impulse was to push his horse
forward so as to trample the boy down, but Malcolm's hold rendered
this impossible; besides, there was the shouting, the clang, the
confusion of the outburst of an ambush all around and on every side,
and before the man could free his hand to draw his weapon he
necessarily loosed his grasp of Lilias, who, half springing, half
falling, came to the ground, almost overthrowing her brother in her
descent, but just saved by him from coming down prostrate.  The
horse, suddenly released, started forward with its rider and at the
same moment Malcolm, recovering himself, stood with his sword in his
hand, his arm round his sister's waist, assuring her that she was
safe, and himself glowing for the first time with manly exultation.
Had he not saved and rescued her himself?

It was as well, however, that the rescue did not depend on his sole
prowess.  Indeed, by the time the brother and sister were clinging
together and turning to look round, the first shock was over, and the
retainers of Albany, probably fancying the attack made by a much
larger troop, were either in full flight, or getting decidedly the
worst in their encounters with their assailants.

Sir James Stewart had at the first onset sprung like a lion upon the
Master of Albany, and without drawing his sword had grappled with
him.  'In the name of St. Andrew and the King, yield thy prey, thou
dastard,' were his words as he threw his arms round the body of Sir
Walter, and exerted his full strength to drag him from his horse.
The young giant writhed, struggled, cursed, raged; he had not space
to draw sword or even dagger, but he struck furiously with his
gauntleted hand, strove to drive his horse forward.  The struggle
like that of Hercules and Antaeus, so desperate and mighty was the
strength put forth on either side, but nothing could unclasp the iron
grip of those sinewy arms, and almost as soon as Malcolm and Lilias
had eyes to see what was passing, Walter Stewart was being dragged
off his horse by that tremendous grapple, and the next moment his
armour rung as he lay prostrate on his back upon the ground.

His conqueror set his mailed foot upon his neck lightly, but so as to
prevent any attempt to rise, and after one moment's pause to gather
breath, said in a clear deep trumpet voice, 'Walter Stewart of
Albany, on one condition I grant thee thy life.  It is that thou take
the most solemn oath on the spot that no spulzie or private brawl
shall henceforth stain that hand of thine while thy father holds the
power in Scotland.  Take that oath, thou livest:  refuse it, and--'
He held up the deadly little dagger called the misericorde.

'And who art thou, caitiff land-louper,' muttered Walter, 'to put to
oath knights and princes?'

The knight raised the visor of his helmet.  The evening sun shone
resplendently on his damasked blue armour and the St. Andrew's cross
on his breast, and lighted up that red fire that lurked in his eyes,
and withal the calm power and righteous indignation on his features
might have befitted an avenging angel wielding the lightning.

'Thou wilt know me when we meet again,' was all he said; and for the
very calmness of the voice the Master of Albany, who was but a mere
commonplace insolent ruffian, quailed with awe and terror to the very
backbone.

'Loose me, and I will swear,' he faintly murmured.

Sir James, before removing his foot, unclasped his gorget, and
undoing a chain, held up a jewel shaped like a St. Andrew's cross,
with a diamond in the midst, covering a fragmentary relic.  At the
sight Walter Stewart's eyes, large pale ones, dilated as if with
increased consternation, the sweat started on his forehead, and his
breath came in shorter gasps.  Malcolm and Lilias, standing near,
likewise felt a sense of strange awe, for they too had heard of this
relic, a supposed fragment of St. Andrew's own instrument of
martyrdom, which had belonged to St. Margaret, and had been thought a
palladium to the royal family and House of Stewart.

'Rise on thy knees,' said Sir James, now taking away his foot, 'and
swear upon this.'

Walter, completely cowed and overawed, rose to his knees at his
victor's command, laid his hand on the relic, and in a shaken, almost
tremulous voice, repeated the words of the oath after his dictation:
'I, Walter Stewart, Master of Albany, hereby swear to God and St.
Andrew, to fight in no private brawl, to spoil no man nor woman, to
oppress no poor man, clerk, widow, maid, or orphan, to abstain from
all wrong or spulzie from this hour until the King shall come again
in peace.'

He uttered the words, and kissed the jewel that was tendered to him;
and then Sir James said, in the same cold and dignified tone, 'Let
thine oath be sacred, or beware.  Now, mount and go thy way, but take
heed HOW I meet thee again.'

Sir Walter's horse was held for him by Brewster, the knight's English
attendant, and without another word he flung himself into the saddle,
and rode away to join such of his followers as were waiting dispersed
at a safe distance to mark his fate, but without attempting anything
for his assistance.

'Oh, Sir!' burst forth Malcolm; but then, even as he was about to
utter his thanks, his eye sought for the guardian who had ever been
his mouthpiece, and, with a sudden shriek of dismay, he cried, 'My
uncle! where is he? where is Sir David?'

'Alack! alack!' cried Lilias.  'Oh, brother, I saw him on the ground;
he fell before my horse.  I saw no more, for the Master held me, and
muffled my face.  Oh, let us back, he may yet live.'

'Yea, let us back,' said Sir James, 'if we may yet save the good old
man.  Those villains will not dare to follow; or if they do, Nigel--
Brewster, you understand guarding the rear.'

'Sir,' began Lilias, 'how can we thank--'

'Not at all, lady,' replied Sir James, smiling; 'you will do better
to take your seat; I fear it must be en croupe, for we can scarce
dismount one of your guards.'

'She shall ride behind me,' said Malcolm, in a more alert and
confident voice than had ever been heard from him before.

'Ay, right,' said Sir James, placing a kind hand on his shoulder;
'thou hast won her back by thine own exploit, and mayst well have the
keeping of her.  That rush on the caitiff groom was well and shrewdly
done.'

And for all Malcolm's anxiety for his uncle, his heart had never
given such a leap as at finding himself suddenly raised from the
depressed down-trodden coward into something like manhood and self-
respect.

Lilias, who, like most damsels of her time, was hardy and active, saw
no difficulties in the mode of conveyance, and, so soon as Malcolm
had seated himself on horseback, she placed one foot upon his toe,
and with a spring of her own, assisted by Sir James's well-practised
hand, was instantly perched on the crupper, clasping her brother
round the waist with her arms, and laying her head on his shoulder in
loving pride at his exploit, while for her further security Sir James
threw round them both the long plaid that had so lately bound her.

'Dear Malcolm'--and her whisper fell sweetly on his ear--'it will be
bonnie tidings for Patie that thou didst loose me all thyself.  The
false tyrant, to fall on us the very hour Patie was on the salt sea.'

But they were riding so fast that there was scant possibility for
words; and, besides, Sir James kept too close to them for private
whispers.  In about an hour's time they had crossed the bit of table-
land that formed the moor, and descended into another little gorge,
which was the place where the attack had been made upon the
travellers.

This was where it was possible that they might find Sir David; but no
trace was to be seen, except that the grass was trampled and stained
with blood.  Perhaps, both Lilias and old Halbert suggested, some of
their people had returned and taken him to the Abbey of Coldingham,
and as this was by far the safest lodging and refuge for her and her
brother, the horses' heads were at once turned thitherwards.

The grand old Priory of Coldingham, founded by King Edgar, son of
Margaret the Saint, and of Malcolm Ceanmohr, in testimony of his
gratitude for his recovery of his father's throne from the usurper
Donaldbane, was a Benedictine monastery under the dominion of the
great central Abbey of Durham.

It had been a great favourite with the Scottish kings of that
glorious dynasty which sprung from Margaret of Wessex, and had ample
estates, which, when it was in good hands, enabled it to supply the
manifold purposes of an ecclesiastical school, a model farm, a
harbour for travellers, and a fortified castle.  At this period, the
Prior, John de Akecliff, or Oakcliff, was an excellent man, a great
friend of Sir David Drummond, and much disliked and persecuted by the
House of Albany, so that there was little doubt that this would be
the first refuge thought of by Sir David's followers.

Accordingly Malcolm and his companions rode up to the chief gateway,
a grand circular archway, with all the noble though grotesque
mouldings, zigzag and cable, dog-tooth and parrot-beak, visages human
and diabolic, wherewith the Norman builders loved to surround their
doorways.  The doors were of solid oak, heavily guarded with iron,
and from a little wicket in the midst peered out a cowled head, and
instantly ensued the exclamation -

'Benedicite!  Welcome, my Lord Malcolm!  Ah! but this will ease the
heart of the Tutor of Glenuskie!'

'Ah! then he is here?' cried Malcolm.

'Here, Sir, but in woful plight; borne in an hour syne by four carles
who said you had been set upon by the Master of Albany, and sair
harried, and they say the Tutor doth nought but wail for his bairns.
How won ye out of his hands, my Lord?'

'Thanks to this good knight,' said Malcolm; and the gate was opened,
and the new-comers dismounted to pass under the archway, which taught
humility.  A number of the brethren met them as they came forth into
the first quadrangle, surrounded by a beautiful cloister, and
containing what was called Edgar's Walls, a house raised by the good
founder, for his own lodging and that of visitors, within the
monastery.  It was a narrow building, about thirty feet from the
church, was perfectly familiar to Malcolm, who bent his steps at once
thither, among the congratulations of the monks; and Lilias was not
prevented from accompanying him thus far within the convent, but all
beyond the nave of the church was forbidden ground to her sex, though
the original monastery destroyed by the Danes had been one of the
double foundations for monks and nuns.

Entering the building, the brother and sister hastily crossed a sort
of outer hall to a chamber where Sir David lay on his bed, attended
by the Prior Akecliff and the Infirmarer.  The glad tidings had
already reached him, and he held out his hands, kissed and blessed
his restored charges, and gave thanks with all his heart; but there
was a strange wanness upon his face, and a spasm of severe pain
crossed him more than once, though, as Lilias eagerly asked after his
hurts, he called them nothing, since he had her safe again, and then
bade Malcolm summon the captive knight that he might thank him.

Sir James Stewart had been left in the hall without, to the
hospitality of the monks; he had laid aside his helmet, washed his
face, and arranged his bright locks, and as he rose to follow
Malcolm, his majestic stature and bearing seemed to befit the home of
the old Scottish King.

As he entered the chamber, Sir David slightly raised himself on the
pillow, and, with his eyes dilating into a bewildered gaze,
exclaimed, 'My liege, my dear master!'

'He raves,' sighed Lilias, clasping Malcolm's hand in dire distress.

'No,' muttered the sick man, sinking back.  'Good King Robert has
been in his grave many a day; his sons, woe is me!--Sir,' recovering
himself, 'pardon the error of an old dying man, who owes you more
than he can express.'

'Then, Sir,' said James Stewart, 'grant me the favour of a few
moments' private speech with you.  I will not keep you long from
him,' he added to Malcolm and Lilias.

His manner was never one to be disputed, there was an atmosphere of
obedience about the whole monastery, and the Prior added -

'Yes, my children, it is but fitting that you should give thanks in
the church for your unlooked-for deliverance.'

Malcolm was forced to lead Lilias away into the exquisite cross
church, built in the loveliest Early English style, of which a few
graceful remnants still exist.  The two young things knelt together
hand in hand in the lornness of their approaching desolation, neither
of them having dared to utter the foreboding upon their hearts, but
feeling it all the more surely; and while the sister's spirit longed
fervently after him whose protection had been only just removed, the
brother looked up to the sheltering vaults, lost in the tranquil
twilight, and felt that here alone was his haven of peace, the refuge
for the feeble and the fatherless.

Their devotions performed, they ventured back to the outer hall, and
on their return being notified, they were again admitted.  Sir James,
who had been seated on a stool by the sick man's head, immediately
rose and resigned his place to Lilias, but did not leave the room and
Sir David thus spoke:  'Bairns, God in His mercy hath raised you up
the best of guardians in the stead of your ain poor Tutor.  Malcolm,
laddie, you will ride the morn with this gentleman to the true head
of your name, your ain King, whom God for ever bless!'  His voice
quivered.  'And be it your study so to profit by his example and
nurture, as to do your devoir by him for ever.'

'Nay, father,' cried Malcolm, 'I cannot leave you and Lily.'

'If you call me father, do my bidding,' said Sir David.  'Lily can be
safely bestowed with the good Sisters of St. Abbs, nor while you are
out of Albany's reach is the poor lassie worth his molesting; but
when I am gone, your uncles of Albany and Athole become your tutors,
and the Prior has no power to save you.  Only over the Border with
the King is there safety from them, and your ruin is the ruin of your
sister.'

'And,' added Sir James, 'when the King is at liberty, or when you
yourself are of age, you will return to resume the charge of your
fair sister, unless some nearer protector be found.  Meantime,' he
laid one hand on Malcolm's head, and with the other took out the
relic which had had so great an effect upon Walter Stewart, 'I swear
on this holy Rood of St. Andrew, that Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie
shall be my charge, not merely as my kinsman, but as my young
brother.'

'You hear, Malcolm,' said Sir David.  'You will strive to merit such
goodness.'

'Father,' broke out the poor boy again, 'you cannot mean to part us!
Let us abide as we have been till I am of age to take my vows!  I am
not fit to serve the King.'

'He is the best judge of that,' returned Sir James.

'And,' added Sir David, 'I tell you, lad, that I shall never be as I
was before, and that were I a whole man and sain, riding back to
Glenuskie the morn, I should still bless the saints and bid you
gang.'

Rarely did the youth of the fifteenth century venture to question the
authority of an elder, but Malcolm was only silenced for a moment,
and though by no means understanding that his guardian believed his
injuries mortal, he threw himself upon the advice of the Prior, whom
he entreated to allow him to judge for himself, and to remain to
protect his sister--he talked boldly of protecting her after this
day's exploit.  But Prior Akecliff gave him no more encouragement
than did his uncle.  The Benedictine vows were out of the question
till he should be eighteen, and the renunciation of the world they
involved would be ruinous to Lilias, since she would become his
heiress.  Moreover, the Prior himself was almost in a state of siege,
for the Regent was endeavouring to intrude on the convent one Brother
William Drake, or Drax, by his own nomination, instead of the
canonical appointment emanating from Durham, and as national feeling
went with the Regent's nominee, it was by no means certain that the
present Prior would be able to maintain his position.

'Oh, go! yes, go, dear brother,' entreated Lilias.  'I should be far
happier to know you in safety.  They cannot hurt me while you are
safe.'

'But you, Lily!  What if this villain Drax have his way?'

'He could not harm her in St. Ebba's fold,' returned the Prior.  'The
Abbess herself could not yield her; and, as you have so often been
told, my young Lord, your absence is a far greater protection to your
sister than your presence.  Moreover, were the Tutor's mind at rest,
there would be far better hope of his recovery.'

There was no alternative, and Malcolm could not but submit.  Lilias
was to be conducted before daybreak to the monastery of St. Abbs,
about six miles off, whence she could be summoned at any time to be
with her uncle in Coldingham; and Malcolm was to set off at daybreak
with the captive knight, whose return to England could no longer be
delayed.

Poor children! while Sir James Stewart was in the Prior's chamber,
they sat silent and mournful by the bedside where their guardian lay
dozing, even till the bell for Matins summoned them in common with
all the other inmates of the convent; they knelt on the floor of the
candle-lit church, and held each other's hands as they prayed; Lilias
still the stronger and more hopeful, while Malcolm, as he looked up
at those dear familiar vaultings, felt as if he were a bird driven
from its calm peaceful nest to battle with the tossing winds and
storms of ocean, without one near him whom he had learnt to love.

It was still dark when the service had ended, and Prior Akecliff came
towards them.  'Daughter,' he said to Lilias, 'we deem it safer that
you should ride to St. Abbs ere daylight.  Your palfrey is ready, the
Mother Abbess is warned, and I will myself conduct you thither.'

Priors were not people to be kept waiting, and as it was reported
that the Tutor of Glenuskie was still asleep, Lilias had to depart
without taking leave of him.  With Malcolm the last words were spoken
while crossing the court.  'Fear not, Lily; my heart will only weary
till the Church owns me, and Patie has you.'

'Nay, my Malcolm; mayhap, as the Prior tells me, your strength and
manhood will come in the south country.'

'Let them,' said Malcolm; 'I will neither cheat the Church nor
Patie.'

'It were no cheat.  There never was any compact.  Patie is winning
his fortune by his own sword; he would scorn--'

'Hush, Lily!  When the King sees what a weakling Sir James has
brought him, he will be but too glad to exchange Patie for me, and
leave me safe in these blessed walls.'

But here they were under the archway, and the convoy of armed men,
whom the exigencies of the time forced the convent to maintain, were
already mounted.  Sir James stood ready to assist the lady to her
saddle, and with one long earnest embrace the brother and sister were
parted, and Lilias rode away with the Prior by her side, letting the
tears flow quietly down her cheeks in the darkness, and but half
hearing the long arguments by which good Father Akecliff was proving
to her that the decision was the best for both Malcolm and herself.

By and by the dawn began to appear, the air of the March night became
sharper, and in the distance the murmur and plash of the tide was
heard.  Then, standing heavy and dark against the clear pale eastern
sky, there arose the dark mass of St. Ebba's monastery, the parent of
Coldingham, standing on the very verge of the cliff to which it has
left the name of St. Abb's Head, upon ground which has since been
undermined by the waves, and has been devoured by them.  The sea, far
below, calmly brightened with the brightening sky, and reflected the
morning stars in a lucid track of light, strong enough to make the
lights glisten red in the convent windows.  Lilias was expected, was
a frequent guest, and had many friends there, and as the sweet sound
of the Lauds came from the chapel, and while she dismounted in the
court the concluding 'Amen' swelled and died away, she, though no
convent bird, felt herself in a safe home and shelter under the wing
of kind Abbess Annabel Drummond, and only mourned that Malcolm, so
much tenderer and more shrinking than herself, should be driven into
the unknown world that he dreaded so much more than she did.



CHAPTER III:  HAL



The sun had not long been shining on the dark walls of St. Ebba's
monastery, before the low-browed gate of Coldingham Priory opened to
let pass the guests of the previous night.  Malcolm had been kissed
and blessed by his guardian, and bidden to transfer his dutiful
obedience to his new protector; and somewhat comforted by believing
Sir David to be mending since last night, he had rent himself away,
and was riding in the frosty morning air beside the kinsman who had
so strangely taken charge of him, and accompanied by Sir James's tall
old Scottish squire, by the English groom, and by Malcolm's own
servant, Halbert.

For a long space there was perfect silence:  and as Malcolm began to
detach his thoughts from all that he had left behind, he could not
help being struck with the expressions that flitted over his
companion's countenance.  For a time he would seem lost in some deep
mournful reverie, and his head drooped as if in sadness or
perplexity; then a sudden gleam would light up his face, as if a
brilliant project had occurred to him, his lips would part, his eyes
flash, he would impel his horse forward as though leading a charge,
or lift up his head with kindling looks, like one rehearsing a
speech; but ever a check would come on him in the midst, his mouth
closed in dejection, his brow drew together in an anguish of
impatience, his eyelids drooped in weariness, and he would ride on in
deep reflection, till roused perhaps by the flight of a moor-fowl, or
the rush of a startled roe, he would hum some gay French hunting-song
or plaintive Scottish ballad.

Scarcely a word had been uttered, until towards noon, on the borders
of a little narrow valley, the merry sound of bells clashed up to
their ears, and therewith sounds of music.  ''Tis the toon of
Christ's Kirk on the Green,' said the squire, as Sir James looked at
him for information, 'where we were to bait.  Methought in Lent we
had been spared this gallimawfrey.'

''Tis Midlent week, you pagan,' replied Sir James.  'These good folk
have come a-mothering, and a share of their simnels we'll have.'

'Sir,' entreated the squire, 'were it not more prudent of you to
tarry without, and let me fetch provisions?'

'Hoot, man, a throng is our best friend!  Besides, the horses must
rest.'

So saying, Sir James rode eagerly forward; Malcolm following, not
without wonder at not having been consulted, for though kept in
strict discipline by his uncle, it had always been with every
courtesy due to his rank as a king's grandson; and the cousins, from
whom he had suffered, were of the same rank with himself.  Did this
wandering landless knight, now he had him in his power, mean to
disregard all that was his due?  But when Sir James turned round his
face sparkling with good-humour and amusement, and laughed as he
said, 'Now then for the humours of a Scottish fair!' all his offended
dignity was forgotten.

The greensward was surrounded by small huts and hovels; a little old
stone church on one side, and a hostel near it, shadowed by a single
tall elm, beneath which was the very centre of the village wake.  Not
only was it Midlent, but the day was the feast of a local saint, in
whose honour Lenten requirements were relaxed.  Monks and priests
were there in plenty, and so were jugglers and maskers, Robin Hood
and Marion, glee-men and harpers, merchants and hucksters, masterful
beggars and sorners, shepherds in gray mauds with wise collies at
their feet, shrewd old carlines with their winter's spinning of yarn,
lean wolf-like borderers peaceable for the nonce, merry lasses with
tow-like locks floating from their snoods, all seen by the intensely
glittering sun of a clear March day, dry and not too cold for these
hardy northern folk.

Nigel, the squire, sighed in despondency; and Malcolm, who hated
crowds, and knew himself a mark for the rude observations of a free-
spoken populace, shrank up to him, when Sir James, nodding in time to
the tones of a bagpipe that was playing at the hostel door, flung his
bridle to Brewster the groom, laughed at his glum and contemptuous
looks, merrily hailed the gudewife with her brown face and big silver
ear-rings, seated himself on the bench at the long wooden table under
the great garland of fir-boughs, willow catkins, and primroses, hung
over the boughs of the tree, crossed himself, murmured his Benedictus
benedicat, drew his dagger, carved a slice of the haunch of ox on the
table, offered it to the reluctant Malcolm, then helping himself,
entered into conversation with the lean friar on one side of him, and
the stalwart man-at-arms opposite, apparently as indifferent as the
rest of the company to the fact that the uncovered boards of the
table were the only trenchers, and the salt and mustard were taken by
the point of each man's dagger from common receptacles dispersed
along the board.  Probably the only person really disgusted or amazed
was the English Brewster, who, though too cautious to express a word
of his feelings, preserved the most complete silence, and could
scarcely persuade himself to taste the rude fare.

Nor when the meal was over was Sir James disposed to heed the wistful
looks of his attendants, but wandered off to watch the contest in
archery at the butts, where arrow after arrow flew wide of the clout,
for the strength of Scotland did not lie in the long-bow, and
Albany's edict that shooting should be practised on Sundays and
holidays had not produced as yet any great dexterity.

Sir James at first laughed merrily at the extraordinary screwings of
visage and contortions of attitude, and the useless demonstration of
effort with which the clowns aimed their shafts and drew their bow,
sometimes to find the arrow on the grass at their feet, sometimes to
see it producing consternation among the bystanders; but when he saw
Brewster standing silently apart, viewing their efforts with a scorn
visible enough in the dead stolidity of his countenance, he murmured
a bitter interjection, and turned away with folded arms and frowning
brow.

Nigel again urged their departure, but at that moment the sweet notes
of a long narrative ballad began to sound to the accompaniment of a
harp, and he stood motionless while the wild mournful ditty told of
the cruelty of the Lady of Frendraught, and how


'Morning sun ne'er shone upon
Lord John and Rothiemay.


Large tears were dropping from under the hand with he veiled his
emotion; and when Nigel touched his cloak to remind him that the
horses were ready, he pressed the old man's hand, saying, with a
sigh, 'I heard that last at my father's knee!  It rung in my ears for
many a year!  Here, lad!' and dropping a gold coin into the wooden
bowl carried round by the blind minstrel's attendant, he was turning
away, when the glee-man, detecting perhaps the ring of the coin,
broke forth in stirring tones -


"It fell about the Lammas tide,
When moormen win their hay,
The doughty Earl of Douglas rode
Into England to catch a prey."


Again he stood transfixed, beating time with his hand, his eyes
beaming, his hips moving as he followed the spirit-stirring ballad;
and then, as Douglas falls, and is laid beneath the bracken bush,
unseen by his men, and Montgomery forces Hotspur to yield, not to
him, but


'to the bracken bush
That grows upon the lily lea,'


he sobbed without disguise; and no sooner was the ballad ended than
he sprang forward to the harper, crying, 'Again, again; another gold
crown to hear it again!'

'Sir,' entreated Nigel, 'remember how much hangs on your speed.'

'The ballad I MUST have,' exclaimed Sir James, trying to shake him
off.  'It moves the heart more than aught I ever heard!  How runs
it?'

'_I_ know the ballad,' said Malcolm, half in impatience, half in
contempt.  'I could sing every word of it.  Every glee-man has it.'

'Nay--hear you, Sir--the lad can sing it,' reiterated Nigel; and Sir
James, throwing the promised guerdon to the minstrel, let himself be
led away to the front of the inn; but there was a piper, playing to a
group of dancers, and as if his feet could not resist the
fascination, Sir James held out his hand to the first comely lass he
saw disengaged, and in spite of the steel-guarded boots that he wore,
answered foot for foot, spring for spring, to the deft manoeuvres of
her shoeless feet, with equal agility and greater grace.  Nigel
frowned more than ever at this exhibition, and when the knight had
led his panting partner to a seat, and called for a tankard of ale
for her refreshment, he remonstrated more seriously still.  'Sir, the
gates of Berwick will be shut.'

'The days lengthen, man.'

'And who knows if some of yon land-loupers be not of Walter Stewart's
meine?  Granted that they ken not yourself, that lad is only too ken-
speckle.  Moreover, you ye made free enough with your siller to set
the haill crew of moss-troopers on our track.'

'Twenty mile to Berwick-gate,' said Sir James, carelessly; 'nor need
you ever look behind you at jades like theirs.  Nay, friend, I come,
since you grudge me for once the sight of a little wholesome glee
among my own people.  My holiday is dropping from me like sands in an
hour-glass!'

He mounted, however, and put his horse to as round a pace as could be
maintained by the whole party with out distress; nor did he again
break silence for many miles.

At the gates of Berwick, then in English hands, be gave a pass-word,
and was admitted, he bade Nigel conduct Lord Malcolm to an inn,
explaining that it was his duty to present himself to the governor;
and, being detained to sup with him, was seen no more till they
started the next morning.  The governor rode out with them some ten
miles, with a strong guard of spearmen; and after parting with him
they pushed on to the south.

After the first day's journey, Malcolm was amazed to see Sir James
mount without any of his defensive armour, which was piled on the
spare horse; his head was covered by a chaperon, or flat cap with a
short curtain to it, and his sword was the only weapon he retained.
Nigel was also nearly unarmed, and Sir James advised Malcolm himself
to lay aside the light hawberk he wore; then, at his amazed look,
said, 'Poor lad! he never saw the day when he could ride abroad
scathless.  When will the breadth of Scotland be as safe as these
English hills?'

He was very kind to his young companion, treating him in all things
like a guest, pointing out what was worthy of note, and explaining
what was new and surprising.  Malcolm would have asked much
concerning the King, to whom he was bound, but these questions were
the only ones Sir James put aside, saying that his kinsman would one
day learn that it ill beseemed those who were about a king's person
to speak of him freely.

One night was spent at Durham, the parent of Coldingham, and here
Malcolm felt at home, far more grand as was that mighty cathedral
institution.  There it stood, with the Weir encircling it, on its own
fair though mighty hill, with all the glory of its Norman mister and
lovely Lady-chapel; yet it seemed to the boy more like a glorified
Coldingham than like a strange region.

'The peace of God rests on the place,' he said, when Sir James asked
his thoughts as he looked back at the grand mass of buildings.
'These are the only spots where the holy and tender can grow, like
the Palestine lilies sheltered from the blast in the Abbot's garden
at Coldingham.'

'Nay, lad, it were an ill world did lilies only grow in abbots'
gardens.'

'It is an ill world,' said Malcolm.

'Let us hear what you say in a month's time,' replied the knight,
lightly:  then dreaming over the words.

A few days more, and they were riding among the lovely rock and
woodland scenery of Yorkshire, when suddenly there leaped from behind
a bush three or four young men, with a loud shout of 'Stand.'

'Reivers!' thought Malcolm, sick with dismay, as the foremost grasped
Sir James's bridle; but the latter merely laughed, saying, 'How now,
Hal! be these your old tricks?'

'Ay, when such prizes are errant,' said the assailant and Sir James,
springing from his horse, embraced him and his companion with a
cordiality that made Malcolm not a little uneasy.  Could he have been
kidnapped by a false Englishman into a den of robbers for the sake of
his ransom?

'You are strict to your time,' said the chief robber.  'I knew you
would be.  So, when Ned Marmion came to Beverley, and would have us
to see his hunting at Tanfield, we came on thinking to meet you.
Marmion here has a nooning spread in the forest; ere we go on to
Thirsk, where I have a matter to settle between two wrong-headed
churls.  How has it been with you, Jamie? you have added to your
meine.'

'Ah, Hal! never in all your cut-purse days did you fall on such an
emprise as I have achieved.'

'Let us hear,' said Hal, linking his arm in Sir James's, who turned
for a moment to say, 'Take care of the lad, John; he is a young
kinsman of mine.'

'Kinsman!' thought Malcolm; 'do all wandering Stewarts claim kin to
the blood royal?' but then, as he looked at Sir James's stately head,
he felt that no assumption could be unbecoming in one of such a
presence, and so kind to himself; and, ashamed of the moment's
petulance, dismounted, and, as John said, 'This is the way to our
noon meat,' he let himself be conducted through the trees to a glade,
sheltered from the wind, where a Lenten though not unsavoury meal of
bread, dried fish, and eggs was laid out on the grass, in a bright
warm sunshine; and Hal, declaring himself to have a hunter's
appetite, and that he knew Jamie had been starved in Scotland, and
was as lean as a greyhound, seated himself on the grass, and to
Malcolm's extreme surprise, not to say disgust, was served by Lord
Marmion on the knee and with doffed cap.

While the meal was being eaten, Malcolm studied the strangers.  Lord
Marmion was a good-humoured, hearty-looking young Yorkshireman, but
the other two attracted his attention far more.  They were evidently
brothers, one perhaps just above, the other just below, thirty; both
of the most perfect mould of symmetry, activity, and strength, though
perhaps more inclining to agility than robustness.  Both were fair-
complexioned, and wore no beard; but John was the paler, graver, and
more sedate, and his aquiline profile had an older look than that
borne by Hal's perfectly regular features.  It would have been hard
to define what instantly showed the seniority of his brother, for the
clearness of his colouring--bright red and white like a lady's--his
short, well-moulded chin, and the fresh earnestness and animation of
his countenance, gave an air of perpetual youth in spite of the scar
of an arrow on the cheek which told of at least one battle; but there
were those manifestations of being used to be the first which are the
evident tokens of elder sonship, and the lordly manner more and more
impressed Malcolm.  He was glad that his own Sir James was equal in
dignity, as well as superior in height, and he thought the terrible
red lightning of those auburn eyes would be impossible to the
sparkling azure eyes of the Englishman, steadfast, keen, and
brilliant unspeakably though they were; but so soon as Sir James
seemed to have made his explanation, the look was most winningly
turned on him, a hand held out, and he was thus greeted:  'Welcome,
my young Prince Malcolm; I am happy that your cousin thinks so well
of our cheer, that he has brought you to partake it.'

'His keeper, Somerset,' thought Malcolm, as he bowed stiffly; 'he
seems to treat me coolly enough.  I come to serve my King,' he said,
but he was scarcely heard; for as Hal unbuckled his sword before
sitting down on the grass, he thrust into his bosom a small black
volume, with which he seemed to have been beguiling the time; and
John exclaimed -

'There goes Godfrey de Bulloin.  I tell you, Jamie, 'tis well you are
come!  Now have I some one to speak with.  Ever since Harry borrowed
my Lady of Westmoreland's book of the Holy War, he has not had a word
to fling at me.'

'Ah!' said Sir James, 'I saw a book, indeed, of the Holy Land!  It
would tempt him too much to hear how near the Border it dwells!  What
was it named, Malcolm?'

'The "Itinerarium of Adamnanus,"' replied Malcolm, blushing at the
sudden appeal.

'Ha!  I've heard of it,' cried the English knight.  'I sent to half
the convent libraries to beg the loan when Gilbert de Lannoy set
forth for the survey of Palestine.  Does the Monk of Iona tell what
commodity of landing there may be on the coast?'

Malcolm had the sea-port towns at his fingers' ends, and having in
the hard process of translation, and reading and re-reading one of
the few books that came into his hands, nearly mastered the contents,
he was able to reply with promptness and precision, although with
much amazement, for


'Much he marvelled a knight of pride
Like book-bosomed priest should ride;'


nor had he ever before found his accomplishments treated as aught but
matters of scorn among the princes and nobles with whom he had
occasionally been thrown.

'Good! good!' said Sir Harry at last.  'Well read, and clearly called
to mind.  The stripling will do you credit, James.  Where have you
studied, fair cousin?'

Cousin! was it English fashion to make a cousin of everybody?  But
gentle, humble Malcolm had no resentment in him, and felt gratified
at the friendly tone of so grand and manly-looking a knight.  'At
home,' he answered, 'with a travelling scholar who had studied at
Padua and Paris.'

'That is where you Scots love to haunt!  But know you how they are
served there?  I have seen the gibbet where the Mayor of Paris hung
two clerks' sons for loving his daughters over well!'

'The clerks' twa sons of Owsenford that were foully slain!' cried
Malcolm, his face lighting up.  'Oh, Sir, have you seen their
gibbet?'

'What? were they friends of yours?' asked Hal, much amused, and
shaking his head merrily at Sir James.  'Ill company, I fear--'

'Only in a ballad,' said Malcolm, colouring, 'that tells how at
Yuletide the ghosts came to their mother with their hats made of the
birk that grew at the gates of Paradise.'

'A rare ballad must that be!' exclaimed Hal.  'Canst sing it?  Or are
you weary?--Marmion, prithee tell some of the fellows to bring my
harp from the baggage.'

'His own harp is with ours,' said Sir James; 'he will make a better
figure therewith.'

At his sign, the attendant, Nigel, the only person besides Lord
Marmion of Tanfield who had been present at the meal, besides the two
Stewarts and the English brothers, rose and disappeared between the
trees, beyond which a hum of voices, an occasional laugh, and the
stamping of horses and jingling of bridles, betokened that a good
many followers were in waiting.  Malcolm's harp was quickly brought,
having been slung in its case to the saddle of Halbert's horse; and
as he had used it to beguile the last evening's halt, it did not need
much tuning.  Surprised as his princely notions were at being
commanded rather than requested to sing, the sweet encouraging smile
and tone of kind authority banished all hesitation in complying, and
he gave the ballad of the Clerks' Twa Sons of Owsenford with much
grace and sweetness, while the weakness of his voice was compensated
by the manlier strains with which Sir James occasionally chimed in.
Then, as Harry gave full meed of appreciative praise and thanks, Sir
James said, 'Lend me thine harp, Malcolm; I have learnt thy song now;
and thou, Harry, must hear and own how far our Scottish minstrelsy
exceeds thy boasted Chevy Chase.'

And forth rang in all the mellow beauty of his voice that most
glorious of ballads, the Battle of Otterburn, as much more grand than
it had been when he heard it from the glee-man or from Malcolm, as a
magnificent voice, patriotic enthusiasm, and cultivation and
refinement, could make it.  He had lost himself and all around in the
passion of the victory, the pathos of the death.  But no such bright
look of thanks recompensed him.  Harry's face grew dark, and he
growled, 'Douglas dead?  Ay, he wins more fields so than alive!  I
wish you would keep my old Shrewsbury friend, Earl Tyneman, as you
call him, at home.'

''Tis ill keeping the scholars in bounds when the master is away,'
returned Sir James.

'Well, by this time Tom has taught them how to transgress--sent them
home with the long scourge from robbing orchards in Anjou.  He writes
to me almost with his foot in the stirrup, about to give Douglas and
Buchan a lesson.  I shall make short halts and long stages south.
This is too far off for tidings.'

'True,' said Sir John, with a satirical curl of the lip; 'above all,
when fair ladies brook not to ink their ivory fingers.'

'There spake the envious fiend,' laughed the elder brother.  'John
bears not the sight of what he will not or cannot get.'

'I'll never be chained to a lady's litter, nor be forced to loiter
till her wimple is pinned,' retorted John.  'Nor do I like dames with
two husbands besides.'

'One would have cancelled the other, as grammarians tell us,' said
Harry, 'if thy charms, John, had cancelled thine hook nose!  I would
they had, ere her first marriage.  Humfrey will burn his fingers
there, and we must hasten back to look after that among other
things.--My Lord Marmion,' he added, starting hastily up, and calling
to him as he stood at some distance conversing with the Scottish
Nigel, 'so please you, let us have the horses;' and as the gentleman
hastened to give the summons, he said, 'We shall make good way now.
We shall come on Watling Street.  Ha, Jamie, when shall we prove
ourselves better men than a pack of Pagan Romans, by having a set of
roads fit for man or beast, of our own making instead of theirs half
decayed?  Look where I will, in England or France, their roads are
the same in build--firm as the world itself, straight as arrows.  An
army is off one's mind when once one gets on a Roman way.  I'll learn
the trick, and have them from Edinburgh to Bordeaux ere ten years are
out; and then, what with traffic and converse with the world, and
ready justice, neither Highland men minor Gascons will have leisure
or taste for robbery.'

'Perhaps Gascons and Scots will have a voice in the matter,' said
James, a little stiffly; and the horses being by this time brought,
Sir Harry mounted, and keeping his horse near that of young Malcolm,
to whom he had evidently taken a fancy, he began to talk to him in so
friendly and winning a manner, that he easily drew from the youth the
whole history of his acquaintance with Sir James Stewart, of the
rescue of his sister, and the promise to conduct him to the captive
King of Scots, as the only means of saving him from his rapacious
kindred.

'Poor lad!' said Harry, gravely.

'Do you know King James, Sir?' asked Malcolm, timidly.

'Know him?' said Harry, turning round to scan the boy with his merry
blue eye.  'I know him--yes; that as far as a poor Welsh knight can
know his Grace of Scotland.'

'And, Sir, will he be good lord to me?'

'Eh! that's as you may take him.  I would not be one of yonder Scots
under his hands!'

'Has he learned to hate his own countrymen?' asked Malcolm, in an
awe-stricken voice.

'Hate?  I trow he has little to love them for.  He is a good fellow
enough, my young lord, when left to himself; but best beware.  Lions
in a cage have strange tempers.'

A courier rode up at the moment, and presented some letters, which
Sir Harry at once opened and read, beckoning his brother and Sir
James to his side, while Malcolm rode on in their wake, in a state of
dismay and bewilderment.  Nigel and Lord Marmion were together at so
great an interval that he could not fall back on them, nor learn from
them who these brothers were.  And there was something in the
ironical suppressed pity with which Harry had spoken of his prospects
with the King of Scots, that terrified him all the more, because he
knew that Sir James and Nigel would both hold it unworthy of him to
have spoken freely of his own sovereign with an Englishman.  Would
James be another Walter? and, if so, would Sir James Stewart protect
him?  He had acquired much affection for, and strong reliance on, the
knight; but there was something unexplained, and his heart sank.

The smooth line of Watling Street at length opened into the old town
of Thirsk, and here bells were ringing, flags flying from the
steeple, music sounded, a mayor and his corporation in their robes
rode slowly forth, crowds lined the road-side, caps were flung up,
and a tremendous shout arose, 'God save King Harry!'

Malcolm gazed about more utterly discomfited.  There was 'Harry,'
upright on his horse, listening with a gracious smile, while the
mayor rehearsed a speech about welcome and victories, and the hopeful
queen, and, what was still more to the purpose, tendered a huge pair
of gauntlets, each filled to the brim, one with gold, and the other
with silver pieces.

'Eh!  Thanks, Master Mayor, but these gloves must be cleared, ere
there is room for me to use them in battle!'

And handing the gold glove to his brother, he scattered the contents
of the silver one far and wide among the populace, who shouted their
blessings louder than ever, and thus he reached the market-place.
There all was set forth as for the lists, a horseman in armour on
either side.

'Heigh now, Sirs,' said Harry, 'have we not wars enough toward
without these mummings of vanity?'

'This is no show, my Lord King,' returned the mayor, abashed.  'This
is deadly earnest.  These are two honourable gentlemen of Yorkshire,
who are come hither to fight out their quarrel before your Grace.'

'Two honourable foolsheads!' muttered Harry; then, raising his voice,
'Come hither, gentlemen, let us hear your quarrel.'

The two gentlemen were big Yorkshiremen, heavy-browed, and their
native shrewdness packed far away behind a bumpkin stolidity and
surliness that barely allowed them to show respect to the King.

'So please you, Sir,' growled the first in his throat, 'here stands
Christopher Kitson of Barrowbridge, ready to avouch himself a true
man, and prove in yonder fellow's teeth that it was not a broken-
kneed beast that I sent up for a heriard to my Lord Archbishop when
my father died; but that he of Easingwold is a black slanderer and
backbiter.'

'And here,' shouted the other, 'stands honest William Trenton of
Easingwold, ready to thrust his lies down his throat, and prove on
his body that the heriard he sent to my Lord Archbishop was a sorry
jade.'

'That were best proved by the beast's body,' interposed time King.

'And,' proceeded the doughty Kitson, as though repeating a lesson,
'having vainly pleaded the matter these nine years, we are come to
demand licence to fight it out, with lance, sword, and dagger, in
your royal presence, to set the matter at rest for ever.'

'Breaking a man's head to prove the soundness of a horse!' ejaculated
Harry.

'Your licence is given, Sir King?' demanded Kitson.

'My licence is given for a combat a l'outrance,' said Henry; but, as
they were about to flounder back on their big farm-horses, he raised
his voice to a thundering sound:  'Solely on this condition, that he
who slays his neighbour, be he Trenton or Kitson, shall hang for the
murder ere I leave Thirsk.'

There was a recoil, and the mayor himself ventured to observe
something about the judgment of God, and 'never so seen.'

'And I say,' thundered Henry, and his blue eyes seemed to flame with
vehement indignation, 'I say that the ordeal of battle is shamefully
abused, and that it is a taking of God's name--ay, and man's life--in
vain, to appeal thereto on every coxcomb's quarrel, risking the life
that was given him to serve God's ends, not his own sullen fancy.  I
will have an end of such things!--And you, gentlemen, since the
heriard is dead, or too old to settle the question, shake hands, and
if you must let blood, come to France with me next month, and flesh
your knives on French and Scots.'

'So please you, Sir,' grumbled Kitson, 'there's Mistress Agnes of
Mineshull; she's been in doubt between the two of us these five
years, and she'd promised to wed whichever of us got the better.'

'I'll settle her mind for her!  Whichever I find foremost among the
French, I'll send home to her a knight, and with better sense to boot
than to squabble for nine years as to an old horse.'

He then dismounted, and was conducted into the town-hall, where a
banquet was prepared, taking by the hand Sir James Stewart, and
followed by his brother John, and by Malcolm, who felt as though his
brain were turning, partly with amazement, partly with confusion at
his own dulness, as he perceived that not only was the free-spoken
Hal, Henry of Monmouth, King of England, but that his wandering
benefactor, the captive knight, whose claim of kindred he had almost
spurned, was his native sovereign, James the First of Scotland.



CHAPTER IV:  THE TIDINGS OF BEAUGE



Malcolm understood it at last.  In the great chamber where he was
bidden to wait within 'Nigel' till 'Sir James' came from a private
conference with 'Harry,' he had all explained to him, but within a
curtness and brevity that must not be imitated in the present
narrative.

The squire Nigel was in fact Sir Nigel Baird, Baron of Bairdsbrae,
the gentleman to whom poor King Robert II. had committed the charge
of his young son James, when at fourteen he had been sent to France,
nominally for education, but in reality to secure him from the fate
of his brother Rothsay.

Captured by English vessels on the way, the heir of Scotland had been
too valuable a prize to be resigned by the politic Henry IV., who had
lodged him at Windsor Castle, together with Edmund Mortimer, earl of
March, and placed both under the nominal charge of the Prince of
Wales, a youth of a few years older.  Unjust as was the detention, it
had been far from severe; the boys had as much liberty as their age
and recreation required, and received the choicest training both in
the arts of war and peace.  They were bred up in close intercourse
with the King's own four sons, and were united with them by the
warmest sympathy.

In fact, since usurpation had filled Henry of Lancaster's mind with
distrust and jealousy, his eldest son had been in no such enviable
position as to be beyond the capacity of fellow-feeling for the royal
prisoner.

Of a peculiarly frank, open, and affectionate nature, young Henry had
so warmly loved the gentle and fascinating Richard II., that his
trust in the father, of whom he had seen little in his boyhood, had
received a severe shock through Richard's fate.  Under the influence
of a new, suspicious, and avaricious wife, the King kept his son as
much at a distance as possible, chiefly on the Welsh marches,
learning the art of war under Hotspur and Oldcastle; and when the
father and son were brought together again, the bold, free bearing
and extraordinary ability of the Prince filled the suspicious mind of
the King with alarm and jealousy.  To keep him down, give him no
money, and let him gain no influence, was the narrow policy of the
King; and Henry, chafing, dreaming, feeling the injustice, and pining
for occupation, shared his complaints within James, and in many a
day-dream restored him freely to his throne, and together redressed
the wrongs of the world.  Meantime, James studied deep in
preparation, and recreated himself with poetry, inspired by the
charms of Joan Beaufort, the lovely daughter of the King's
legitimatized brother, the Earl of Somerset; while Henry persisted in
a boy's passionate love to King Richard's maiden widow, Isabel of
France.  Entirely unrequited as his affection was, it had a
beneficial effect.  Next after his deep sense of religion, it kept
his life pure and chivalrous.  He was for ever faithful to his future
wife, even when Isabel had been returned to France, and his romantic
passion had fixed itself on her younger sister Catherine, whom he
endowed in imagination with all he had seen or supposed in her.

Credited with every excess by the tongue of his stepmother, too
active-minded not to indulge in freakish sports and experiments in
life very astounding to commonplace minds, sometimes when in dire
distress even helping himself to his unpaid allowance from his
father's mails, and always with buoyant high spirits and unfailing
drollery that scandalized the grave seniors of the Court, there is
full proof that Prince Hal ever kept free from the gross vices which
a later age has fancied inseparably connected with his frolics; and
though always in disgrace, the vexation of the Court, and a by-word
for mirth, he was true to the grand ideal he was waiting to
accomplish, and never dimmed the purity and loftiness of his aim.
That little band of princely youths, who sported, studied, laughed,
sang, and schemed in the glades of Windsor, were strangely brought
together--the captive exiled King, the disinherited heir of the
realm, and the sons of the monarch who held the one in durance and
occupied the throne of the other; and yet their affection had all the
frank delight of youthful friendship.  The younger lads were in more
favour with their father than was the elder.  Thomas was sometimes
preferred to him in a mortifying manner, John's grave, quiet nature
prevented him from ever incurring displeasure, and Humfrey was the
spoilt pet of the family; but nothing could lessen Harry's large-
minded love of his brothers; and he was the idol and hero of the
whole young party, who implicitly believed in his mighty destinies as
a renovator of the world, the deliverer of Jerusalem, and restorer of
the unity and purity of the Church.

'Harry the Fifth was crowned,' and with the full intention of
carrying out his great dream.  But his promise of releasing James
became matter of question.  The House of Albany, who held the chief
power in Scotland, had bound Henry IV. over not to free their master;
and it was plain that to send him home before his welcome was ensured
would be but tossing him on their spears.  In vain James pleaded that
he was no boy, and was able to protect himself; and vowed that when
the faithful should rally round his standard, he would be more than a
match for his enemies; or that if not, he would rather die free than
live in bondage.  Henry would not listen, and insisted upon retaining
him until he should himself be at leisure to bring him home with a
high hand, utterly disregarding his assurance that this would only be
rendering him in the eyes of his subjects another despised and hated
Balliol.

Deeming himself a divinely-appointed redresser of wrongs, Henry was
already beginning on his great work of purifying Europe in
preparation for his mighty Crusade; and having won that splendid
victory which laid distracted France at his feet, he only waited to
complete the conquest as thoroughly and rapidly as might be; and,
lest his grand purpose should be obstructed, this great practical
visionary, though full of kindness and generosity, kept in thraldom a
whole troop of royal and noble captives.

He had, however, been so far moved by James's entreaties, as to
consent that when he himself offered his devotions at the shrine of
St. John of Beverley, the native saint who shared with the two
cordwainers his gratitude for the glories of 'Crispin Crispian's
day,' his prisoner should, unknown to any save the few who shared the
pilgrimage, push on to reconnoitre his own country, and judge for
himself, having first sworn to reveal himself to no one, and to avoid
all who could recognize him.  James had visited Glenuskie within a
special view to profiting by the wisdom of Sir David Drummond, and
had then been at Stirling, Edinburgh, and Perth.  On his way back,
falling in with Malcolm in his distress, he had conceived the project
of taking him to England; and finding himself already more than half
recognized by Sir David, had obtained his most grateful and joyous
consent.  In truth, James's heart had yearned to his young cousin,
his own situation had become much more lonely of late; for Henry was
no longer the comrade he had once been, since he had become a keeper
instead of a fellow-sufferer.  It was true that he did his best to
forget this by lavishing indulgences on his captive, and insisting on
being treated on terms of brotherly familiarity; but though his
transcendent qualities commanded love, the intimacy could be but a
semblance of the once equal friendship.  Moreover, that conspiracy
which cost the life of the Earl of Cambridge had taught James that
cautious reserve was needed in dealing with even his old friends the
princes, so easily might he be accused of plotting either with
Henry's immediate heir or with the Mortimers; and, in this guarded
life, he had hailed with delight the opportunity of taking to himself
the young orphan cousin of kindred blood, of congenial tastes, and
home-like speech, whom he might treat at once as a younger brother
and friend, and mould by and by into a trusty counsellor and
assistant.  That peculiar wistfulness and gentleness of Malcolm's
look and manner, together with the refinement and intellect apparent
to all who conversed with him without alarming him, had won the
King's heart, and made him long to keep the boy with him.  As to
Malcolm's longing for the cloister, he deemed it the result of the
weakly health and refined nature which shrank from the barbarism of
the outer world, and he thought it would pass away under shelter from
the rude taunts of the fierce cousins, at a distance from the well-
meaning exhortations of the monks, and at the spectacle of brave and
active men who could also be pious, conscientious, and cultivated.
In the renewed sojourn at Windsor which James apprehended, the
training of such a youth as Malcolm of Glenuskie would be no small
solace.

By the time Malcolm had learnt as much of all this as Sir Nigel Baird
knew, or chose to communicate, the King entered the room.  He flung
himself on his knees, exclaiming, with warm gratitude, as he kissed
the King's hand, 'My liege, I little kenned--'

'I meant thee to ken little,' said James, smiling.  'Well, laddie,
wilt thou share the prisoner's cell?--Ay, Bairdsbrae, you were a true
prophet.  Harry will do all himself, and will not hear of losing me
to deal with my own people at my own gate.  No, no, he'll have me
back with Southron bows and bills, so soon as this small trifle of
France lies quiet in his grasp!  I had nearly flung back my parole in
his face, and told him that no English sword should set me on the
Bruce's throne; but there is something in Harry of Monmouth that one
MUST love, and there are moments when to see and hear him one would
as soon doubt the commission of an angel with a flaming sword.'

'A black angel!' growled Sir Nigel.

'Scoff and chafe, Baird, but look at his work.  Look at Normandy,
freed from misrule and exaction, in peace and order.  Look at this
land.  Was ever king so loved?  Or how durst he act as he did this
day?'

'Nay, an it were so at home,' said Baird, 'I had as lief stay here as
where a man is not free to fight out his own feud.  Even this
sackless callant thought it shame to see two honest men baulked.'

'Poor Scotland!' sighed James.  'Woe is the land where such thoughts
come readiest to gray-haired men and innocent boys.  I tell you,
cousin, this precious right is the very cause that our poor country
is so lawless and bloody, that yon poor silly sparrow would fain be
caged for fear of the kites and carrion-crows.'

'Alack, my Lord, let me but have my way.  I cannot fight!  Let
Patrick Drummond have my sister and my lands, and your service will
be far better done,' said Malcolm.

'I know all that,' said the King, kindly.  'There is time enough for
settling that question; and meantime you will not be spoilt for monk
or priest by cheering me awhile in my captivity.  I need you,
laddie,' me added, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, with all
the instinctive fascination of a Stewart.  'I lack a comrade of my
own blood, for I am all alone!'

'Oh, Sir!' and Malcolm, looking into his face, saw it full of
tenderness.

'Books and masters you shall have,' continued James, 'such as for
church or state, cathedral, cloister, or camp, shall render you the
meeter prince; and I pass you my royal word, that if at full age the
cowl be your choice, I will not gainsay you.  Meantime, abide with
me, and be the young brother I have yearned for.'

The King threw his arms round Malcolm, who felt, and unconsciously
manifested, a strange bliss in that embrace, even while fixed in his
determination that nothing should make him swerve from his chosen
path, nor render him false to his promise to Patrick and Lilias.  It
was a strange change, from being despised and down-trodden by fierce
cousins, or only fondled, pitied, and treated with consideration by
his own nearest and dearest friends, to be the chosen companion of a
king, and SUCH a king.  Nor could it be a wile of Satan, thought
Malcolm, since James still promised him liberty of choice.  He would
ask counsel of a priest next time he went to confession; and in the
meantime, in the full tide of gratitude, admiration, and affection,
he gave himself up to the enjoyment of his new situation, and of time
King's kindness and solicitude.  This was indeed absolutely that of
an elder brother; for, observing that Malcolm's dress and equipments,
the work of Glenuskie looms, supplemented by a few Edinburgh
purchases, was uncouth enough to attract some scornful glances from
the crowd who came out to welcome the royal entrance into York the
next day, he instantly sent Brewster in search of the best tailor and
lorimer in the city, and provided so handsomely for the appearance of
young Glenuskie, his horse, and his attendants, that the whole floor
of their quarters was strewn with doublets, boots, chaperons, and
gloves, saddles, bridles, and spurs, when the Duke of Bedford
loitered into the room, and began to banter James for thus (as he
supposed) pranking himself out to meet the lady of his love; and then
bemoaned the fripperies that had become the rage in their once
bachelor court, vowing, between sport and earnest, that Hal was so
enamoured of his fair bride, that anon the conquest of France would
be left to himself and his brother, Tom of Clarence; while James
retorted by thrusts at Bedford's own rusticity of garb, and by
endeavouring to force on him a pair of shoes with points like ram's
horns, as a special passport to the favour of Dame Jac--a lady who
seemed to be the object of Duke John's great distaste.

Suddenly a voice was heard in the gallery of the great old mansion
where they were lodged.  'John!  John!  Here!--Where is the Duke, I
say?'  It was thick and husky, as with some terrible emotion; and the
King and Duke had already started in dismay before the door was
thrown open, and King Henry stood among them, his face of a burning
red.

'See here, John!' he said, holding out a letter; and then, with an
accent of wrathful anguish, and a terrible frown, he turned on James,
exclaiming, 'I would send you to the Tower, Sir, did I think you had
a hand in this!'

Malcolm trembled, and sidled nearer his prince; while James, with an
equally fierce look, replied, 'Hold, Sir!  Send me where you will,
but dare not dishonour my name!'  Then changing, as he saw the
exceeding grief on Henry's brow, and heard John's smothered cry of
dismay, 'For Heaven's sake, Harry, what is it?'

'This!' said Henry, less loudly, less hotly, but still with an agony
of indignation:  'Thomas is dead--and by the hand of two of your
traitor Scots!'

'Murdered!' cried James, aghast.

'Murdered by all honest laws of war, but on the battlefield,' said
Henry.  'Your cousin of Buchan and old Douglas fell on my brave
fellows at Beauge, when they were spent with travel to stop the
robberies in Anjou.  They closed in with their pikes on my brave
fellows, took Somerset prisoner, and for Thomas, while he was dealing
with a knight named Swinton in front, the villain Buchan comes behind
and cleaves his head in twain; and that is what you Scots call
fighting!'

'It was worthy of a son of Albany!' said James.  'Would that
vengeance were in my power!'

'Ay, you loved him!' said Henry, grasping James's hand, his passion
softened into a burst of tears, as he wrung his prisoner's hand.
'Nay, who did not love him, my brave, free-hearted brother?  And that
I--I should have dallied here and left him to bear the brunt, and be
cut off by you felon Scots!'  And he hid his face, struggling within
an agony of heart-rending grief, which seemed to sway his whole tall,
powerful frame as he leant against the high back of a chair; while
John, together with James, was imploring him not to accuse himself,
for his presence had been needful at home; and, to turn the tenor of
his thought, James inquired whether there were any further disaster.

'Not as yet,' said Henry; 'there is not a man left in that heaven-
abandoned crew who knows how to profit by what they have got! but I
must back again ere the devil stir them up a man of wit!--And you,
Sir, can you take order with these heady Scots?'

'From Windsor? no,' said James; 'but set me in the saddle, let me
learn war under such a captain as yourself, and maybe they will not
take the field against me; or if they do, the slayer of Clarence
shall rue it.'

'Be it so,' said Henry, wringing his hand.  'You shall with me to
France, Jamie, and see war.  The Scots should flock to the Lion
rampant, and without them the French are mo better than deer, under
the fool and murderer they call Dauphin.  Yet, alas! will any success
give me back my brother--my brother, the brave and true?' he added,
weeping again within the ABANDON of an open nature and simple age.
'It was for my sins, my forgetfulness of my great work, that this has
come on me.--Ho, Marmion! carry these tidings from me to the Dean;
pray him that the knell be tolled at the Minster, and a requiem sung
for my brother and all who fell with him.  We will be there
ourselves, and the mayor must hold us excused from his banquet; these
men are too loyal not to grieve for their King.'

And, with his arm round the neck of his brother John, Henry left the
room; and before another word could be said, Sir Nigel was there,
having only retired on the King's entrance.  The news was of course
all over the house, and with an old attendant's freedom he exclaimed,
'So, Sir, the English have found tough cummers at last!'

'Not too honourably,' said James, sadly.

'Hout, would not the puir loons be glad enow of any gate of coming by
a clout at the man's brother that keeps you captive!'

'They have taken away one of those I loved best!' said James.

'I'm no speaking ill of the lad Clarence himself,' said Nigel; 'he
was a braw youth, leal and bold, and he has died in his helm and
spurs, as a good knight should.  I'd wish none of these princes a
waur ending.  Moreover, could Swinton have had the wit to keep him
living, he'd have been a bonnie barter for you, my Lord; but ony way
the fight was a gallant one, and the very squire that brought the
tidings cannot deny that our Scots fought like lions.'

'Would Douglas but so fight in any good quarrel!' sighed the King.
'But what are you longing to ask, Malcolm?  Is it for your kinsman
Patrick?  I fear me that there is little chance of your hearing by
name of him.'

'I wot not,' said Sir Nigel; 'I did but ask for that hare-brained
young cousin of mine, Davie Baird, that must needs be off on this
journey to France; and the squire tells me he was no herald, to be
answerable for the rogues that fought on the other side.'

'We shall soon see for ourselves,' said James; 'I am to make this
campaign.'

'You! you, my liege!  Against your own ally, and under the standard
of England!  Woe's me, how could ye be so lost!'

James argued on his own conviction that the true France was with poor
Charles VI., and that it was doing the country no service to prolong
the resistance of the Armagnacs and the Dauphin, who then appeared
mere partisans instead of patriots.  As to fighting under the English
banner, no subjection was involved in an adventurer king so doing:
had not the King of Bohemia thus fought at Crecy? and was not the
King of Sicily with the French army?  Moreover, James himself felt
the necessity of gaining some experience in the art of war.
Theoretically he had studied it with all his might, from Caesar,
Quintus Curtius, and that favourite modern authority, the learned
ecclesiastic, Jean Pave, who was the Vauban of the fifteenth century;
and he had likewise obtained greedily all the information he could
from Henry himself and his warriors; but all this had convinced him
that if war was to be more than a mere raid, conducted by mere spirit
and instinct, some actual apprenticeship was necessary.  Even for
such a dash, Henry himself had told him that he would find his book-
knowledge an absolute impediment without some practice, and would
probably fail for that very reason when opposed to tough old seasoned
warriors.  And, prudence apart, James, at five-and-twenty, absolutely
glowed with shame at the thought that every one of his companions had
borne arms for at least ten years past, while his arrows had no mark
but the target, his lances had all been broken in the tilt-yard.  It
was this argument that above all served to pacify old Bairdsbrae;
though he confessed himself very uneasy as to the prejudice it would
create in Scotland, and so evidently loathed the expedition, that
James urged on him to return to Scotland, instead of continuing his
attendance.  There was no fear but that his ransom would be accepted,
and he had been absent twelve years from his home.

'No, no, my Lord; I sware to your father that I'd never quit you till
I brought you safe home again, and, God willing, I'll keep my oath.
But what's this puir callant to do, that you were set upon rearing
upon your books at Windsor?'

'He shall choose,' said James.  'Either he shall study at the learned
university at Oxford or at Paris, or he shall ride with me, and see
how cities and battles are won.  Speak not yet, cousin; it takes many
months to shake out the royal banner, and you shall look about you
ere deciding.  Now give me yonder black cloak; they are assembling
for the requiem.'

Malcolm, as he followed his king, was not a little amazed to see that
Henry, the magnificent victor, was wrapped in a plain black serge
garment, his short dark hair uncovered, his feet bare; and that on
arriving at the Minster he threw himself on his knees, almost on his
face, before the choir steps, there remaining while the De profundis
and the like solemn and mournful strains floated through the dark
vaultings above him, perhaps soothing while giving expression to the
agony of his affliction, and self-accusation, not for the devastation
of the turbulent country of an insane sovereign, but for his having
relaxed in the mighty work of renovation that he had imposed on
himself.

Even when the service was ended, the King would not leave the
Minster.  He lifted himself up to bid Bedford and his companions
return; but for himself, he intended to remain and confess, in
preparation for being 'houselled' at the Mass for the dead early the
next morning, before hastening on the southern journey.

Was this, thought the bewildered Malcolm as he fell asleep, the
godless atmosphere he had been used to think all that was not
Glenuskie or Coldingham--England above all?

Indeed, in the frosty twilight of the spring morning, though Henry
was now clad in his usual garb, sleeplessness, sorrow, and fasting
made him as wan and haggard as any ascetic monk; his eyes were
sunken, and his closed lips bore a stern fixed expression, which
scarcely softened even when the sacrificial rite struck the notes of
praise; and though a light came into his eye, it was rather the
devotion of one who had offered himself, than the gleam of hopeful
exultation.  The horses stood saddled at the west door, for Henry was
feverishly eager to reach Pontefract, where he had left his queen,
and wished to avoid the delay of breaking his fast at York, but only
to snatch a meal at some country hostel on his way.

Round the horses, however, a crowd of the citizens were collected to
gaze; and two or three women with children in their arms made piteous
entreaties for the King's healing touch for their little ones.  The
kind Henry waited, ungloved his hand, asked his treasurer for the
gold pieces that were a much-esteemed part of the cure, and signed to
his attendant chaplain to say the Collect appointed for the rite.

Fervent blessings were meantime murmured through the crowd, which
broke out into loud shouts of 'God save King Harry!' as he at length
leapt into the saddle; but at that moment, a feeble, withered old
man, leaning on a staff, and wearing a bedesman's gown, peered up,
and muttered to a comrade -

'Fair-faced, quotha--fair, maybe, but not long for this world!  One
is gone already, and the rest will not be long after; the holy man's
words will have their way--the death mark is on him.'

The words caught James's ear, and he angrily turned round:  'Foul-
mouthed raven, peace with thy traitor croak!' but Bedford caught his
arm, crying -

'Hush! 'tis a mere bedesman;' and bending forward to pour a handful
of silver into the beggar's cap, he said, 'Pray, Gaffer, pray--pray
for the dead and living, both.'

'So,' said James, as both mounted, 'there's a fee for a boding
traitor.'

'I knew his face,' said Bedford, with a shudder; 'he belonged to
Archbishop Scrope.'

'A traitor, too,' said James.

'Nay, there was too much cause for his words.  Never shall I forget
the day when Scrope was put to death on this very moor on which we
are entering.  There sat my father on his horse, with us four boys
around him, when the old man passed in front of us, and looked at him
with a face pitiful and terrible.  "Harry of Bolingbroke," he said,
"because thou hast done these things, therefore shall thy foes be of
thine own household; the sword shall never depart therefrom, but all
the increase of thy house shall die in the flower of their age, and
in the fourth generation shall their name be clean cut off."  The
commons will have it that at that moment my father was struck with
leprosy; and struck to the heart assuredly he was, nor was he ever
the same man again.  I always believed that those words made him
harder upon every prank of poor Hal's, till any son save Hal would
have become his foe!  And see now, the old bedesman may be in the
right; poor pretty Blanche has long been in her grave, Thomas is with
her now, and Jamie,'--he lowered his voice,--'when men say that Harry
hath more of Alexander in him than there is in other men, it strikes
to my heart to think of the ring lying on the empty throne.'

'Now,' said James, 'what strikes ME is, what doleful bodings can come
into a brave man's head on a chill morning before he has broken his
fast.  A tankard of hot ale will chase away omens, whether of bishop
or bedesman.'

'It may chase them from the mind, but will not make away with them,'
said John.  'But I might have known better than to speak to you of
such things--you who are well-nigh a Lollard in disbelief of all
beyond nature.'

'No Lollard am I,' said James.  'What Holy Church tells me, I believe
devoutly; but not in that which she bids me loathe as either craft of
devils or of men.'

'Ay, of which?  There lies the question,' said John.

'Of men,' said the Scottish king; 'of men who have wit enough to lay
hold of the weaker side even of a sober youth such as Lord John of
Lancaster!  Your proneness to believe in sayings and prophecies, in
sorceries and magic, is the weakest point of all of you.'

'And it is the weakest point in you, James, that you will not credit
upon proof, such proof as was the fulfilment of the prophecy of the
place of my father's death.'

'One such saying as that, fulfilled to the ear, though not in truth,
is made the plea for all this heart-sinking--ay, and what is worse,
for the durance of your father's widow as a witch, and of her brave
young son, because forsooth his name is Arthur of Richemont, and some
old Welsh rhymester hath whispered to Harry that Richmond shall come
out of Brittany, and be king of England.'

'Arthur is no worse off than any other captive of Agincourt,' said
Bedford; 'and I tell you, James, the day may come when you will rue
your want of heed to timely warnings.'

'Better rue once than pine under them all my life, and far better
than let them betray me into deeming some grewsome crime an act of
justice, as you may yet let them do,' said James.

Such converse passed between the two princes, while King Henry rode
in advance, for the most part silent, and only desirous of reaching
Pontefract Castle, where he had left the young wife whose presence he
longed for the more in his trouble.  The afternoon set in with heavy
rain, but he would not halt, although he gave free permission to any
of his suite to do so; and James recommended Malcolm to remain, and
come on the next day with Brewster.  The boy, however, disclaimed all
weariness, partly because bashfulness made him unwilling to venture
from under his royal kinsman's wing, and partly because he could not
bear to let the English suppose that a Scotsman and a Stewart could
be afraid of weather.  As the rain became harder with the evening
twilight, silence sank upon the whole troop, and they went splashing
on through the deep lanes, in mud and mire, until the lights of
Pontefract Castle shimmered on high from its hill.  The gates were
opened, the horses clattered in, torches came forth, flickering and
hissing in the darkness.  The travellers went through what seemed to
Malcolm an interminable number of courts and gateways, and at length
flung themselves off their horses, when Henry, striding on, mounted
the steps, entered the building, and, turning the corner of a great
carved screen, he and his brother, with James and Malcolm, found
themselves in the midst of a blaze of cressets and tapers, which
lighted up the wainscoted part of the hall.

The whole scene was dazzling to eyes coming in from the dark, and
only after a moment or two could Malcolm perceive that, close to the
great fire, sat a party of four, playing at what he supposed to be
that French game with painted cards of which Patrick Drummond had
told him, and that the rest seemed to be in attendance upon them.

Dark eyed and haired, with a creamy ivory skin, and faultless form
and feature, the fair Catherine would have been unmistakable, save
that as Henry hurried forward, the lights glancing on his jaded face,
matted hair, and soaked dress, the first to spring forward to meet
him was a handsome young man, who wrung his hand, crying, 'Ah, Harry,
Harry, then 'tis too true!' while the lady made scarcely a step
forwards:  no shade of colour tinged her delicate cheek; and though
she did not resist his fervent embrace, it was with a sort of recoil,
and all she was heard to say was, 'Eh, Messire, vos bottes sont
crottees!'

'You know all, Kate?' he asked, still holding her hand, and looking
afraid of inflicting a blow.

'The battle?  Is it then so great a disaster?' and, seeing his amazed
glance, 'The poor Messire de Clarence! it was pity of him; he was a
handsome prince.'

'Ah, sweet, he held thee dear,' said Henry, catching at the crumb of
sympathy.

'But yes,' said Catherine, evidently perplexed by the strength of his
feeling, and repeating, 'He was a beau sieur courtois.  But surely it
will not give the Armagnacs the advantage?'

'With Heaven's aid, no!  But how fares it with poor Madge--his wife,
I mean?'

'She is away to her estates.  She went this morn, and wished to have
taken with her the Demoiselle de Beaufort; but I forbade that--I
could not be left without one lady of the blood.'

'Alack, Joan--' and Henry was turning, but Catherine interrupted him.
'You have not spoken to Madame of Hainault, nor to the Duke of
Orleans.  Nay, you are in no guise to speak to any one,' she added,
looking with repugnance at the splashes of mud that reached even to
his waist.

'I will don a fresh doublet, sweetheart,' said Henry, more rebuked
than seemed fitting, 'and be ready to sup anon.'

'Supper!  We supped long ago.'

'That may be; but we have ridden long since we snatched our meal,
that I might be with thee the sooner, my Kate.'

'That was not well in you, my Lord, to come in thus dishevelled,
steaming with wet--not like a king.  You will be sick, my Lord.'

The little word of solicitude recalled his sweet tender smile of
gratitude.  No fear, ma belle; sickness dares not touch me.'

'Then,' said the Queen, 'you will be served in your chamber, and we
will finish our game.'

Henry turned submissively away; but Bedford tarried an instant to
say, 'Fair sister, he is sore distressed.  It would comfort him to
have you with him.  He has longed for you.'

Catherine opened her beautiful brown eyes in a stare of surprise and
reproof at the infraction of the rules of ceremony which she had
brought with her.  John of Bedford had never seemed to her either
beau or courtois, and she looked unutterable things, to which he
replied by an elevation of his marked eyebrows.

She sat down to her game, utterly ignoring the other princes in their
weather-beaten condition; and they were forced to follow the King,
and make their way to their several chambers, for Queen Catherine's
will was law in matters of etiquette.

'The proud peat!  She is jealous of every word Harry speaks--even to
his cousin,' muttered James, as he reached his own room.  'You saw
her, though,--you saw her!' he added, smiling, as he laid his hand on
Malcolm's shoulder.

The boy coloured like a poppy, and answered awkwardly enough, 'The
Lady Joan, Sir?'

'Who but the Lady Joan, thou silly lad?  How say'st thou?  Will not
Scotland forget in the sight of that fair face all those fule
phantasies--the only folly I heard at Glenuskie?'

'Methinks,' said Malcolm, looking down in sheer awkwardness, 'it were
easier to bow to her than to King Harry's dame.  She hath more of
stateliness.'

'Humph!' said James, 'dost so serve thy courtly 'prenticeship?  Nay,
but in a sort I see thy meaning.  The royal blood of England shows
itself to one who hath an eye for princeliness of nature.'

'Nay,' said Malcolm, gratified, 'those dark eyes and swart locks--'

'Dark eyes--swart locks!' interrupted the King.  'His wits have gone
wool-gathering.'

'Indeed, Sir!' exclaimed Malcolm, 'I thought you meant the lady who
stood by the Queen's table, with the grand turn of the neck and the
white wimple and veil.'

'Pshaw!' said James; 'the foolish callant! he hath taken that great
brown Luxemburg nun of Dame Jac's for the Rose of Somerset.'

However, James, seeing how confounded the boy was by this momentary
displeasure, explained to him who the other persons he had seen were-
-Jaqueline, the runaway Countess of Hainault in her own right, and
Duchess of Brabant by marriage; Humfrey, duke of Gloucester, the
King's young, brilliant brother; the grave, melancholy Duke of
Orleans, who had been taken captive at Agincourt, and was at present
quartered at Pontefract; the handsome, but stout and heavy-looking
Earl of March; brave Lord Warwick; Sir Lewis Robsart, the old knight
to whose charge the Queen had been specially committed from the
moment of her betrothal; and a young, bold, gay-looking lad, of
Malcolm's own age, but far taller and stouter, and with a merry,
half-defiant, half-insouciant air, who had greatly taken his fancy,
was, he was told, Ralf Percy, the second son of Sir Harry Percy.

'Of him they called Hotspur?--who was taken captive at Otterburn, who
died a rebel!' exclaimed Malcolm.

'Ay,' said James; 'but King Harry had learnt the art of war as a boy,
first under Hotspur, in Wales; nor doth he love that northern fashion
of ours of keeping up feud from generation to generation.  So hath he
restored the eldest son to his barony, and set him to watch our
Borders; and the younger, Ralf, he is training in his own school of
chivalry.'

More wonders for Malcolm Stewart, who had learnt to believe it mere
dishonour and tameness to forgive the son for his father's deeds.  A
cloistered priest could hardly do so:  pardon to a hostile family
came only with the last mortal throe; and here was this warlike king
forgiving as a mere matter of course!

'But,' added James, 'you had best not speak of your bent conventwards
in the Court here.  I should not like to have you called the
monkling!'

Malcolm crimsoned, with the resolution never to betray himself.



CHAPTER V:  WHITTINGTON S FEAST



The next day the royal train set forth from Pontefract, and ere
mounting, James presented his young kinsman to the true Joan
Beaufort--fair-haired, soft-featured, blue-eyed, and with a lovely
air of graciousness, as she greeted him with a sweet, blushing, sunny
smile, half that of the queen in anticipation, half that of the
kindly maiden wishing to set a stranger at ease.  So beautiful was
she, that Malcolm felt annihilated at the thought of his blunder of
last night.

As they rode on, James was entirely occupied with the lady, and
Malcolm was a good deal left to himself; for, though the party was
numerous, he knew no one except the Duke of Bedford, who was riding
with the King and Lord Warwick, in deep consultation, while Sir Nigel
Baird, Lord Marmion, and the rest were in the rear.  He fell into a
mood of depression such as had not come upon him since he passed the
border, thinking himself despised by all for being ill-favoured and
ill-dressed, and chafing, above all, at the gay contempt he fancied
in young Ralf Percy's eye.  He became constantly more discontented
with this noisy turmoil, and more resolved to insist on returning to
the peaceful cloister where alone he could hide his head and be at
rest.

The troop halted for what they called their noon meat at the abode of
a hospitable Yorkshire knight; but King Henry, in order that the good
gentleman's means should not be overtasked, had given directions that
only the ladies and the princes should enter the house, while the
rest of the suite should take their meal at the village inn.

King James, in attending to Joan, had entirely forgotten his cousin;
and Malcolm, doubtful and diffident, was looking hesitatingly at the
gateway, when Ralf Percy called out, 'Ha! you there, this is our way.
That is only for the royal folk; but there's good sack and better
sport down here!  I'll show you the way,' he added, good-naturedly,
softened, as most were, by the startled, wistful, timid look.

Malcolm, ashamed to say he was royal, but surprised at the patronage,
was gratefully following, when old Bairdsbrae indignantly laid his
hand on the rein.  'Not so, Sir; this is no place for you!'

'Let me alone!' entreated Malcolm, as he saw Percy's amazed look and
whistle of scorn.  'They don't want me.'

'You will never have your place if you do not take it,' said the old
gentleman; and leading the trembling, shrinking boy up to the door,
he continued, 'For the honour of Scotland, Sir!' and then announcing
Malcolm by his rank and title, he almost thrust him in.

Fancying he detected a laugh on Ralf Percy's face, and a sneer on
that of the stout English porter, Malcolm felt doubly wretched as he
was ushered into the hall and the buzz of talk and the confusion made
by the attendance of the worthy knight and his many sons, one of
whom, waiting with better will than skill, had nearly run down the
shy limping Scotsman, who looked wildly for refuge at some table.  In
his height of distress, a kindly gesture of invitation beckoned to
him, and he found himself seated and addressed, first in French, and
then in careful foreign English, by the same lady whom he had
yesterday taken for Joan of Somerset, namely, Esclairmonde de
Luxemburg.

He was too much confused to look up till the piece of pasty and the
wine with which the lady had caused him to be supplied were almost
consumed, and it was not till she had made some observations on the
journey that he became at ease enough to hazard any sort of answer,
and then it was in his sweet low Scottish voice, with that
irresistibly attractive look of shy wistful gratitude in his great
soft brown eyes, while his un-English accent caused her to say, 'I am
a stranger here, like yourself, my Lord;' and at the same moment he
first raised his eyes to behold what seemed to him perfect beauty and
dignity, an oval face, richly-tinted olive complexion, dark pensive
eyes, a sweet grave mouth smiling with encouraging kindness, and a
lofty brow that gave the whole face a magnificent air, not so much
stately as above and beyond this world.  It might have befitted St.
Barbara or St. Katherine, the great intellectual virgin visions of
purity and holiness of the middle ages; but the kindness of the smile
went to Malcolm's heart, and emboldened him to answer in his best
French, 'You are from Holland, lady?'

'Not from the fens,' she answered.  'My home lies in the borders of
the forest of Ardennes.'

And then they found that they understood each other best when she
spoke French, and Malcolm English, or rather Scotch; and their
acquaintance made so much progress, that when the signal was again
given to mount, the Lady Esclairmonde permitted Malcolm to assist her
to her saddle; and as he rode beside her he felt pleased with
himself, and as if Ralf Percy were welcome to look at him now.

On Esclairmonde's other hand there rode a small, slight girl, whom
Malcolm took for quite a child, and paid no attention to; but
presently old Sir Lewis Robsart rode back with a message that my Lady
of Westmoreland wished to know where the Lady Alice Montagu was.  A
gentle, timid voice answered, 'O Sir, I am well here with Lady
Esclairmonde.  Pray tell my good lady so.'

And therewith Sir Lewis smiled, and said, 'You could scarcely be in
better hands, fair damsel,' and rode back again; while Alice was
still entreating, 'May I stay with you, dear lady?  It is all so
strange and new!'

Esclairmonde smiled, and said, 'You make me at home here,
Mademoiselle.  It is I who am the stranger!'

'Ah! but you have been in Courts before.  I never lived anywhere but
at Middleham Castle till they fetched me away to meet the Queen.'

For the gentle little maiden, a slender, fair-haired, childish-faced
creature, in her sixteenth year, was the motherless child and heiress
of the stout Earl of Salisbury, the last of the Montacutes, or
Montagues, who was at present fighting the King's battles in France,
but had sent his commands that she should be brought to Court, in
preparation for fulfilling the long-arranged contract between her and
Sir Richard Nevil, one of the twenty-two children of the Earl of
Westmoreland.

She was under the charge of the Countess--a stately dame, with all
the Beaufort pride; and much afraid of her she was, as everything
that was shy or forlorn seemed to turn towards the maiden whose
countenance not only promised kindness but protection.

Presently the cavalcade passed a gray building in the midst of green
fields and orchards, where, under the trees, some black-veiled
figures sat spinning.

'A nunnery!' quoth Esclairmonde, looking eagerly after it as she rode
past.

'A nunnery!' said Malcolm, encouraged into the simple confidingness
of a young boy.  'How unlike the one where my sister is!  Not a tree
is near it; it is perched upon a wild crag overhanging the angry sea,
and the winds roar, and the gulls and eagles scream, and the waves
thunder round it!'

'Yet it is not the less a haven of peace,' replied Esclairmonde.

'Verily,' said Malcolm, 'one knows what peace is under that cloister,
where all is calm while the winds rave without.'

'You know how to love a cloister,' said the lady, as she heard his
soft, sad tones.

'I had promised myself to make my home in one,' said Malcolm; 'but my
King will have me make trial of the world first.  And so please you,'
he added, recollecting himself, 'he forbade me to make my purpose
known; so pray, lady, be so good as to forget what I have said.'

'I will be silent,' said Esclairmonde; 'but I will not forget, for I
look on you as one like myself, my young lord.  I too am dedicated,
and only longing to reach my cloistered haven.'

She spoke it out with the ease of those days when the monastic was as
recognized a profession as any other calling, and yet with something
of the desire to make it evident on what ground she stood.

Lady Alice uttered an exclamation of surprise.

'Yes,' said Esclairmonde, 'I was dedicated his my infancy, and
promised myself in the nunnery at Dijon when I was seven years old.'

Then, as if to turn the conversation from herself, she asked of
Malcolm if he too had made any vow.

'Only to myself,' said Malcolm.  'Neither my Tutor nor the Prior of
Coldingham would hear my vows.'  And he was soon drawn into telling
his whole story, to which the ladies both listened with great
interest and kindness, Esclairmonde commending his resolution to
leave the care of his lands and vassals to one whom he represented as
so much better fitted to bear them as Patrick Drummond, and only
regretting the silence King James had enjoined, saying she felt that
there was safety and protection in being avowed as a destined
religious.

'And you are one,' said Lady Alice, looking at her in wonder.  'And
yet you are with THAT lady--'  And the girl's innocent face expressed
a certain wonder and disgust that no one could marvel at who had
heard the Flemish Countess talk in the loudest, broadest, most
hoydenish style.

'She has been my very good lady,' said Esclairmonde; 'she has, under
the saints, saved me from much.'

'Oh, I entreat you, tell us, dear lady!' entreated Alice.  It was not
a reticent age.  Malcolm Stewart had already avowed himself in his
own estimation pledged to a monastic life, and Esclairmonde of
Luxemburg had reasons for wishing her position and intentions to be
distinctly understood by all with whom she came in contact; moreover,
there was a certain congeniality in both her companions, their
innocence and simplicity, that drew out confidence, and impelled her
to defend her lady.

'My poor Countess,' she said, 'she has been sorely used, and has
suffered much.  It is a piteous thing when our little imperial fiefs
go to the spindle side!'

'What are her lands?' asked Malcolm.

'Hainault, Holland, and Zealand,' replied the lady.  'Her father was
Count of Hainault, her mother the sister of the last Duke of
Burgundy--him that was slain on the bridge of Montereau.  She was
married as a mere babe to the Duke of Touraine, who was for a brief
time Dauphin, but he died ere she was sixteen, and her father died at
the same time.  Some say they both were poisoned.  The saints forfend
it should be true; but thus it was my poor Countess was left
desolate, and her uncle, the Bishop of Liege--Jean Sans Pitie, as
they call him--claimed her inheritance.  You should have seen how
undaunted she was!'

'Were you with her then?' asked Alice Montagu.

'Yes.  I had been taken from our convent at Dijon, when my dear
brothers, to whom Heaven be merciful! died at Azincourt.  My oncles a
la mode de Bretagne--how call you it in English?'

'Welsh uncles,' said Alice.

'They are the Count de St. Pol and the Bishop of Therouenne.  They
came to Dijon.  In another month I should have been seventeen, and
been admitted as a novice; but, alack! there were all the lands that
came through my grandmother, in Holland and in Flanders, all falling
to me, and Monseigneur of Therouenne, like almost all secular clergy,
cannot endure the religious orders, and would not hear of my becoming
a Sister.  They took me away, and the Bishop declared my dedication
null, and they would have bestowed me in marriage at once, I believe,
if Heaven had not aided me, and they could not agree on the person.
And then my dear Countess promised me that she would never let me be
given without my free will.'

'Then,' said Alice, 'the Bishop did cancel your dedication?'

'Yes,' said Esclairmonde; 'but none can cancel the dedication of my
heart.  So said the holy man at Zwoll.'

'How, lady?' anxiously inquired Malcolm; 'has not a bishop power to
bind and unloose?'

'Yea,' said Esclairmonde, 'such power that if my childish promise had
been made without purpose or conscience thereof, or indeed if my will
were not with it, it would bind me no more, there were no sin in
wedlock for me, no broken vow.  But my own conscience of my vow, and
my sense that I belong to my Heavenly Spouse, proved, he said, that
it was not my duty to give myself to another, and that whereas none
have a parent's right over me, if I have indeed chosen the better
part, He to whom I have promised myself will not let it be taken from
me, though I might have to bear much for His sake.  And when I said
in presumption that such would lie light on me, he bade me speak less
and pray more, for I knew not the cost.'

'He must have been a very holy man,' said Alice, 'and strict withal.
Who was he?'

'One Father Thomas, a Canon Regular of the chapter of St. Agnes, a
very saint, who spends his life in copying and illuminating the Holy
Scripture, and in writing holy thoughts that verily seem to have been
breathed into him by special inspiration of God.  It was a sermon of
his in Lent, upon chastening and perplexity, that I heard when first
I was snatched from Dijon, that made me never rest till I had
obtained his ghostly counsel.  If I never meet him again, I shall
thank Heaven for those months at Zwoll all my life--ere the Duke of
Burgundy made my Countess resign Holland for twelve years to her
uncle, and we left the place.  Then, well-nigh against her will, they
forced her into a marriage with the Duke of Brabant, though he be her
first cousin, her godson, and a mere rude boy.  I cannot tell you how
evil were the days we often had then.  If he had been left to
himself, Madame might have guided him; but ill men came about him;
they maddened him with wine and beer; they excited him to show that
he feared her not; he struck her, and more than once almost put her
in danger of her life.  Then, too, his mother married the Bishop of
Liege, her enemy -

'The Bishop!'

'He had never been consecrated, and had a dispensation.  That
marriage deprived my poor lady of even her mother's help.  All were
against her then; and for me too it went ill, for the Duke of
Burgundy insisted on my being given to a half-brother of his, one
they call Sir Boemond of Burgundy--a hard man of blood and revelry.
The Duke of Brabant was all for him, and so was the Duchess-mother;
and though my uncles would not have chosen him, yet they durst not
withstand the Duke of Burgundy.  I tried to appeal to the Emperor
Sigismund, the head of our house, but I know not if he ever heard of
my petition.  I was in an exceeding strait, and had only one trust,
namely, that Father Thomas had told me that the more I threw myself
upon God, the more He would save me from man.  But oh! they seemed
all closing in on me, and I knew that Sir Boemond had sworn that I
should pay heavily for my resistance.  Then one night my Countess
came to me.  She showed me the bruises her lord had left on her arms,
and told me that he was about to banish all of us, her ladies, into
Holland, and to keep her alone to bear his fury, and she was resolved
to escape, and would I come with her?  It seemed to me the message of
deliverance.  Her nurse brought us peasant dresses, high stiff caps,
black boddices, petticoats of many colours, and therein we dressed
ourselves, and stole out, ere dawn, to a church, where we knelt till
the Sieur d'Escaillon--the gentleman who attends Madame still--drove
up in a farmer's garb, with a market cart, and so forth from Bruges
we drove.  We cause to Valenciennes, to her mother; but we found that
she, by persuasion of the Duke, would give us both up; so the Sieur
d'Escaillon got together sixty lances, and therewith we rode to
Calais, where never were weary travellers more courteously received
than we by Lord Northumberland, the captain of Calais.'

'Oh, I am glad you came to us English!' cried Alice.  'Only I would
it had been my father who welcomed you.  And now?'

'Now I remain with my lady, as the only demoiselle she has from her
country; and, moreover, I am waiting in the trust that my kinsmen
will give up their purpose of bestowing me in marriage, now that I am
beyond their reach; and in time I hope to obtain sufficient of my own
goods for a dowry for whatever convent I may enter.'

'Oh, let it be an English one!' cried Alice.

'I have learnt to breathe freer since I have been on English soil,'
said Esclairmonde, smiling; 'but where I may rest at last, Heaven
only knows!'

'This is a strange country,' said Malcolm.  'No one seems afraid of
violence and wrong here.'

'Is that so strange?' asked Alice, amazed.  'Why, men would be hanged
if they did violence!'

'I would we were as sure of justice at my home,' sighed Esclairmonde.
'King Henry will bring about a better rule.'

'Never doubt,' cried Salisbury's daughter.  'When France is once
subdued, there will be no more trouble, he will make your kinsmen do
you right, dear demoiselle, and oh! will you not found a beauteous
convent?'

'King Henry has not conquered France yet,' was all Esclairmonde said.

'Ha!' cried the buxom Countess Jaqueline, as the ladies dismounted,
'never speak to me more, our solemn sister.  When have I done worse
than lure a young cavalier, and chain him all day with my tongue?'

'He is a gentle boy!' said Esclairmonde, smiling.

'Truly he looked like a calf turned loose among strange cattle!  How
gat he into the hall?'

'He is of royal Scottish blood,' said Esclairmonde 'cousin-german to
King James.'

'And our grave nun has a fancy to tame the wild Scots, like a second
St. Margaret!  A king's grandson! fie, fie! what, become ambitious,
Clairette?  Eh? you were so occupied, that I should have been left to
no one but Monseigneur of Gloucester, but that I was discreet, and
rode with my Lord Bishop of Winchester.  How he chafed! but I know
better than to have tete-a-tetes with young sprigs of the blood
royal!'

Esclairmonde laughed good-humouredly, partly in courtesy to her
hoyden mistress, but partly at the burning, blushing indignation she
beheld in the artless face of Alice Montagu.

The girl was as shy as a fawn, frightened at every word from knight
or lady, and much in awe of her future mother-in-law, a stiff and
stately dame, with all the Beaufort haughtiness; so that Lady
Westmoreland gladly and graciously consented to the offer of the
Demoiselle de Luxemburg to attend to the little maiden, and let her
share her chamber and her bed.  And indeed Alice Montagu, bred up in
strictness and in both piety and learning, as was sometimes the case
with the daughters of the nobility, had in all her simplicity and
bashfulness a purity and depth that made her a congenial spirit with
the grave votaress, whom she regarded on her side with a young girl's
enthusiastic admiration for a grown woman, although in point of fact
the years between them were few.

The other ladies of the Court were a little in awe of the Demoiselle
de Luxemburg, and did not seek her when they wished to indulge in the
gossip whose malice and coarseness she kept in check; but if they
were anxious, or in trouble, they always came to her as their natural
consoler; and the Countess Jaqueline, bold and hoydenish as she was,
kept the license of her tongue and manners under some shadow of
restraint before her, and though sometimes bantering her, often
neglecting her counsel, evidently felt her attendance a sort of
safeguard and protection.

The gentlemen were mostly of the opinion of the Duke of Gloucester,
who said that the Lady Esclairmonde was so like Deborah, come out of
a Mystery, that it seemed to be always Passion-tide where she was;
and she, moreover, was always guarded in her manner towards them,
keeping her vocation in the recollection of all by her gravely and
coldly courteous demeanour, and the sober hues and fashion of her
dress; but being aware of Malcolm's destination, perceiving his
loneliness, and really attracted by his pensive gentleness, she
admitted him to far more friendly intercourse than any other young
noble, while he revered and clung to her much as Lady Alice did, as
protector and friend.

King James was indeed so much absorbed in his own lady-love as to
have little attention to bestow on his young cousin, and he knew,
moreover, that to be left to such womanly training as ladies were
bound to bestow on young squires and pages was the best treatment for
the youth, who was really thriving and growing happier every day, as
he lost his awkwardness and acquired a freedom and self-confidence
such as he could never have imagined possible in his original brow-
beaten state, though without losing the gentle modesty and refinement
that gave him such a charm.

A great sorrow awaited him, however, at Leicester, where Easter was
to be spent.  A messenger came from Durham, bringing letters from
Coldingham to announce the death of good Sir David Drummond, which
had taken place two days after Malcolm had left him, all but the
youth himself having well known that his state was hopeless.

In his grief, Malcolm found his chief comforter in Esclairmonde, who
kindly listened when he talked of the happy old times at Glenuskie,
and of the kindness and piety of his guardian; while she lifted his
mind to dwell on the company of the saints; and when he knew that her
thoughts went, like his, to his fatherly friend in the solemn
services connected with the departed, he was no longer desolate, and
there was almost a sweetness in the grief of which his fair saint had
taken up a part.  She showed him likewise some vellum pages on which
her ghostly father, the Canon of St. Agnes, had written certain
dialogues between the Divine Master and His disciple, which seemed
indeed to have been whispered by heavenly inspiration, and which
soothed and hallowed his mourning for the guide and protector of his
youth.  He loved to dwell on her very name, Esclairmonde--'light of
the world.'  The taste of the day hung many a pun and conceit upon
names, and to Malcolm this--which had, in fact, been culled out of
romance--seemed meetly to express the pure radiance of consolation
and encouragement that seemed to him to shine from her, and brighten
the life that had hitherto been dull and gloomy--nay, even to give
him light and joy in the midst of his grief.

At that period Courts were not much burdened with etiquette.  No
feudal monarch was more than the first gentleman, and there was no
rigid line of separation of ranks, especially where, as among the
kings of the Red Rose, the boundaries were so faint between the
princes and the nobility; and as Catherine of Valois was fond of
company, and indolently heedless of all that did not affect her own
dignity or ease, the whole Court, including some of the princely
captives, lived as one large family, meeting at morning Mass in
church or chapel, taking their meals in common, riding, hunting,
hawking, playing at bowls, tennis, or stool-ball, or any other
pastime, in such parties as suited their inclinations; and spending
the evening in the great hall, in conversation varied by chess, dice,
and cards, recitals of romance, and music, sometimes performed by the
choristers of the Royal chapel, or sometimes by the company
themselves, and often by one or other of the two kings, who were both
proficients as well with the voice as with the lute and organ.

Thus Malcolm had many opportunities of being with the Demoiselle of
Luxemburg:  and almost a right was established, that when she sat in
the deep embrasure of a window with her spinning, he should be on the
cushioned step beneath; when she mounted, he held the stirrup; and
when the church bells were ringing, he led her by her fair fingers to
her place in the nave, and back again to the hall; and when the
manchet and rere supper were brought into the hall, he mixed her wine
and water, and held the silver basin and napkin to her on bended
knee, and had become her recognized cavalier.  He was really
thriving.  Even the high-spirited son of Hotspur could not help
loving and protecting him.

'Have a care,' said Ralf to a lad of ruder mould; 'I'll no more see
that lame young Scot maltreated than a girl.'

'He is no better than a girl,' growled his comrade; 'my little
brother Dick would be more than a match for him!'

'I wot not that,' said Percy; 'there's a drop of life and spirit at
the bottom; and for the rest, when he looks up with those eyes of
his, and smiles his smile, it is somehow as if it were beneath a man
to vex him wilfully.  And he sees so much meaning in everything, too,
that it is a dozen times better sport to hear him talk than one of
you fellows, who have only wit enough to know a hawk from a heron-
schaw.'

After a grave Easter-tide spent at Leicester, the Court moved to
Westminster, where Henry had to meet his parliament, and obtain
supplies for the campaign which was to revenge the death of Clarence.

There was no great increase of gaiety even here, for Henry was
extremely occupied, both with regulating matters for government
during his absence, and in training the troops who began to flock to
his standard; so that the Queen complained that his presence in
England was of little service to her, since he never had any leisure,
and there were no pastimes.

'Well, Dame,' said Henry, gaily, 'there is one revel for you.  I have
promised to knight the Lord Mayor, honest Whittington, and I hear he
is preparing a notable banquet in the Guild Hall.'

'A city mayor!' exclaimed Queen Catherine, with ineffable disgust.
'My brothers would sooner cut off his roturier head than dub him
knight!'

'Belike,' said Henry, dryly; 'but what kind of friends have thy
brothers found at Paris?  Moreover, this Whittington may content thee
as to blood.  Rougedragon hath been unfolding to me his lineage of a
good house in Gloucestershire.'

'More shame that he should soil his hands with trade!' said the
Queen.

'See what you say when he has cased those fair hands in Spanish
gloves.  You ladies should know better than to fall out with a
mercer.'

'Ah!' said Duke Humfrey, 'they never saw the silks and samites
wherewith he fitted out my sister Philippa for the Swedes!  Lucky the
bride whose wardrobe is purveyed by honest Dick!'

'Is it not honour enough for the mechanical hinds that we wear their
stuffs,' said Countess Jaqueline, 'without demeaning ourselves to eat
at their boards?  The outrecuidance of the rogues in the Netherlands
would be surpassing, did we feed it in that sort.'

''Tis you that will be fed, Dame Jac,' laughed Henry.  'I can tell
you, their sack and their pasties, their march-pane and blanc-manger,
far exceed aught that a poor soldier can set before you.'

'Moreover,' observed Humfrey, 'the ladies ought to see the romaunt of
the Cat complete.'

'How!' cried Jaqueline, 'is it, then, true that this Vittentone is
the miller's son whose cat wore boots and made his fortune?'

'I have heard my aunt of Orleans divert my father with that story,'
murmured Catherine.  'How went the tale?  I thought it folly, and
marked it not.  What became of the cat?'

'The cat desired to test his master's gratitude, so tells
Straparola,' said the Duke of Orleans, in his dry satirical tone;
'and whereas he had been wont to promise his benefactor a golden
coffin and state funeral, Puss feigned death, and thereby heard the
lady inform her husband that the old cat was dead.  "A la bonne
heure!" said the Marquis.  "Take him by the tail, and fling him on
the muck-heap beneath the window!"'

'Thereof I acquit Whittington, who never was thankless to man or
brute,' said King Henry.  'Moreover, his cat, or her grandchildren,
must be now in high preferment at the King of Barbary's Court.'

'A marvellous beast is that cat,' said James.  'When I was a child in
Scotland, we used to tell the story of her exchange for a freight of
gold and spices, only the ship sailed from Denmark,'

'Maybe,' said Henry; 'but I would maintain the truth of Whittington's
cat with my lance, and would gladly have no worse cause!  You'll see
his cat painted beside him in the Guild Hall, and may hear the tale
from him, as I loved to hear him when I was a lad.


"Turn again, Whittington,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London town!"


I told my good old friend I must have come over from France on
purpose to keep his third mayoralty.  So I am for the City on
Thursday; and whoever loves good wine, good sturgeon, good gold, or
good men, had best come with me.'

Such inducements were not to be neglected, and though Queen Catherine
minced and bridled, and apologized to Duchess Jaqueline for her
husband's taste for low company, neither princess wished to forego
the chance of amusement; and a brilliant cavalcade set forth in full
order of precedence.  The King and Queen were first; then, to his
great disgust, the King of Scots, with Duchess Jaqueline; Bedford,
with Lady Somerset; Gloucester, with the Countess of March; the Duke
of Orleans, with the Countess of Exeter; and Malcolm of Glenuskie
found himself paired off with his sovereign's lady-love, Joan
Beaufort, and a good deal overawed by the tall horned tower that
crowned her flaxen locks, as well as by knowing that her uncle, the
Bishop of Winchester, the stateliest, stiffest, and most
unapproachable person in all the Court, was riding just behind him,
beside the Demoiselle de Luxemburg.

Temple Bar was closed, and there was a flourish of trumpets and a
parley ere the gate was flung open to admit the royal guests; but
Malcolm, in his place, could not see the aldermen on horseback, in
their robes of scarlet and white, drawn up to receive the King.  All
that way up Holborn, every house was hung with tapestry, and the
citizens formed a gorgeously-apparelled lane, shouting in unison,
their greetings attuned to bursts of music from trumpets and nakers.

Beautiful old St. Paul's, with the exquisite cross for open-air
preaching in front, rose on their view; and before the lofty west
door the princely guests dismounted, each gentleman leading his lady
up the nave to the seat prepared in such manner that he might be
opposite to her.  The clergy lined the stalls, and a magnificent mass
was sung, and was concluded by the advance of the King to the altar
step, followed by a fine old man in scarlet robes bordered with white
fur, the collar of SS. round his neck, and his silvery hair and lofty
brow crowning a face as sagacious as it was dignified and benevolent.

It seemed a reversal of the ordinary ceremonial when the slender
agile young man took in hand the sword, and laid the honour of
knighthood on the gray-headed substantial senior, whom he bade to
arise Sir Richard Whittington.  Jaqueline of Hainault had the bad
taste to glance across to Humfrey and titter, but the Duke valued
popularity among the citizens, and would not catch her eye; and in
the line behind the royal ladies there was a sweet elderly face,
beautiful, though time-worn, with blue eyes misty with proud glad
tears, and a mouth trembling with tender exultation.

After the ceremony was concluded, King Henry offered his hand to the
Lady Mayoress, Dame Alice Whittington, making her bright tears drop
in glad confusion at his frank, hearty congratulation and warm praise
of her husband; and though the fair Catherine could have shuddered
when Sir Richard advanced to lead her, she was too royal to
compromise her dignity by visible scorn, and she soon found that the
merchant could speak much better French than most of the nobles.

Malcolm felt as averse as did the French princesses to burgher wealth
and splendour, and his mind had not opened to understand burgher
worth and weight; and when he saw the princes John and Humfrey, and
even his own king, seeking out city dames and accosting them with
friendly looks, it seemed to him a degrading truckling to riches,
from which he was anxious to save his future queen; but when he would
have offered his arm to Lady Joan, he saw her already being led away
by an alderman measuring at least a yard across the shoulders; and
the good-natured Earl of March, seeing him at a loss, presented him
to a round merry wife in a scarlet petticoat and black boddice, its
plump curves wreathed with geld chains, who began pitying him for
having been sent to the wars so young, being, as usual, charmed into
pity by his soft appealing eyes and unconscious grace; would not
believe his assertions that he was neither a captive nor a
Frenchman;--'don't tell her, when he spoke like a stranger, and
halted from a wound.'

Colouring to the ears, he explained that he had never walked
otherwise; whereupon her pity redoubled, and she by turns advised him
to consult Master Doctor Caius, and to obtain a recipe from Mistress-
-she meant Dame--Alice Whittington, the kindest soul living, and,
Lady Mayoress as she was, with no more pride than the meanest
scullion.  Pity she had no child--yet scarce pity either, since she
and the good Lord Mayor were father and mother to all orphans and
destitute--nay, to all who had any care on their minds.

Malcolm was in extreme alarm lest he should be walked up to the Lady
Mayoress for inspection before all the world when they entered the
Guild Hall, a building of grand proportions, which, as good Mistress
Bolt informed him, had lately been paved and glazed at Sir Richard
Whittington's own expense.  The bright new red and yellow tiles, and
the stained glass of the tall windows high up, as well as the panels
of the wainscot, were embellished with trade-marks and the armorial
bearings of the guilds; and the long tables, hung with snowy napery,
groaned with gold and silver plate, such as, the Duke of Orleans
observed to Catherine, no citizens would dare exhibit in France to
any prince or noble, at peril of being mulcted of all, with or
without excuse.

On an open hearth beneath the louvre, or opening for smoke, burnt a
fire diffusing all around an incense-like fragrance, from the logs,
composed of cinnamon and other choice woods and spices, that fed the
flame.  The odour and the warmth on a bleak day of May were alike
delicious; and King Henry, after heading Dame Alice up to it, stood
warming his hands and extolling the choice scent, adding:  'You spoil
us, Sir Richard.  How are we to go back to the smoke of wood and
peat, and fires puffed with our own mouths, after such pampering as
this--the costliest fire I have seen in the two realms?'

'It shall be choicer yet, Sir,' said Sir Richard Whittington, who had
just handed the Queen to her seat.

'Scarce possible,' replied Henry, 'unless I threw in my crown, and
that I cannot afford.  I shall be pawning it ere long.'

Instead of answering, the Lord Mayor quietly put his hand into his
furred pouch, and drawing out a bundle of parchments tied with a
ribbon, held them towards the King, with a grave smile.

'Lo you now, Sir Richard,' said Henry, with a playful face of
disgust; 'this is to save your dainty meats, by spoiling my appetite
by that unwelcome sight.  What, man! have you bought up all the bonds
I gave in my need to a whole synagogue of Jews and bench of Loin-
bards?  I shall have to send for my crown before you let me go;
though verily,' he added, with frank, open face, 'I'm better off with
a good friend like you for my creditor--only I'm sorry for you, Sir
Richard.  I fear it will be long ere you see your good gold in the
stead of your dirty paper, even though I gave you an order on the
tolls.  How now!  What, man, Dick Whittington!  Art raving?  Here,
the tongs!'

For Sir Richard, gently smiling, had placed the bundle of bonds on
the glowing bed of embers.

Henry, even while calling for the tongs, was raking them out with his
sword, and would have grasped them in his hand in a moment, but the
Lord Mayor caught his arm.

'Pardon, my lord, and grant your new knight's boon.'

'When he is not moon-struck!' said Henry, still guarding the
documents.  'Why, my Lady Mayoress, know you what is here?'

'Sixty thousand, my liege,' composedly answered Dame Alice.  'My
husband hath his whims, and I pray your Grace not to hinder what he
hath so long been preparing.'

'Yea, Sir,' added Whittington, earnestly.  'You wot that God hath
prospered us richly.  We have no child, and our nephews are well
endowed.  How, then, can our goods belong to any save God, our king,
and the poor?'

Henry drew one hand over his eyes, and with the other wrung that of
Whittington.  'Had ever king such a subject?' he murmured.

'Had ever subject such a king?' was Whittington's return.

'Thou hast conquered, Whittington,' said the King, presently looking
up with a sunny smile.  'To send me over the seas a free man,
beholden to you in heart though not by purse, is, as I well believe,
worth all that sum to thy loyal heart.  Thou art setting me far on my
way to Jerusalem, my dear friend!  Thank him, Kate--he hath done much
for thine husband!'

Catherine looked amiable, and held out a white hand to be kissed,
aware that the King was pleased, though hardly understanding why he
should be glad that an odour of singed parchment should overpower the
gums and cinnamon.  This was soon remedied by the fresh handful of
spices that were cast into the flame, and the banquet began,
magnificent with peacocks, cranes, and swans in full plumage; the
tusky bear crunched his apple, deer's antlers adorned the haunch, the
royal sturgeon floated in wine, fountains of perfumed waters sprang
up from shells, towers of pastry and of jelly presented the endless
allegorical devices of mediaeval fancy, and, pre-eminent over all, a
figure of the cat, with emerald eyes, fulfilled, as Henry said, the
proverb, 'A cat might look at a king;' and truly the cat and her
master had earned the right; therefore his first toast was, 'To the
Cat!'

Each guest found at his or her place a beautiful fragrant pair of
gloves, in Spanish leather, on the back of which was once more
embroidered, in all her tabby charms, the cat's face.  Therewith
began a lengthy meal; and Malcolm Stewart rejoiced at finding himself
seated next to the Lady Esclairmonde, but he grudged her attention to
her companion, a slender, dark, thoughtful representative of the
Goldsmiths' Company, to whom she talked with courtesy such as Malcolm
had scorned to show his city dame.

'Who,' said Esclairmonde, presently, 'was a dame in a religious garb
whom I marked near the door here?  She hooked like one of the
Beguines of my own country.'

'We have no such order here, lady,' said the goldsmiths, puzzled.

'Hey, Master Price,' cried Mistress Bolt, speaking across Malcolm, 'I
can tell the lady who it was.  'Twas good Sister Avice Rodney, to
whom the Lady Mayoress promised some of these curious cooling drinks
for the poor shipwright who hath well-nigh cloven off his own foot
with his axe.'

'Yea, truly,' returned the goldsmith; 'it must have been one of the
bedeswomen of St. Katharine's whom the lady has seen.'

'What order may that be?' asked Esclairmonde.  'I have seen nothing
so like my own country since I came hither.'

'That may well be, madam,' said Mistress Belt, 'seeing that these
bedeswomen were first instituted by a countrywoman of your own--Queen
Philippa, of blessed memory.'

'By your leave, Mistress Bolt,' interposed Master Price, 'the
hospital of St. Katharine by the Tower is of far older foundation.'

'By YOUR leave, sir, I know what I say.  The hospital was founded I
know not when, but these bedeswomen were especially added by the good
Queen, by the same token that mine aunt Cis, who was tirewoman to the
blessed Lady Joan, was one of the first.'

'How was it?  What is their office?' eagerly inquired Esclairmonde.
And Mistress Bolt arranged herself for a long discourse.

'Well, fair sirs and sweet lady, though you be younger than I, you
have surely heard of the Black Death.  Well named was it, for never
was pestilence more dire; and the venom was so strong, that the very
lips and eyelids grew livid black, and then there was no hope.
Little thought of such disease was there, I trow, in kings' houses,
and all the fair young lords and ladies, the children of King Edward,
as then was, were full of sport and gamesomeness as you see these
dukes be now.  And never a one was blither than the Lady Joan--she
they called Joan of the Tower, being a true Londoner born--bless her!
My aunt Cis would talk by the hour of her pretty ways and kindly
mirth.  But 'twas even as the children have the game in the streets -


"There come three knights all out of Spain,
Are come to fetch your daughter Jane."


'Twas for the King of Castille, that same Peter for whom the Black
Prince of Wales fought, and of whom such grewsome tales were told.
The pretty princess might almost have had a boding what sort of
husband they had for her, for she begged and prayed, even on her
knees, that her father would leave her; but her sisters were all
espoused, and there was no help for it.  But, as one comfort to her,
my aunt Cis, who had been about her from her cradle, was to go with
her; and oft she would tell of the long journey in litters through
France, and how welcome were the English tongues they heard again at
Bordeaux, and how when poor Lady Joan saw her brother, the Prince,
she clung about his neck and sobbed, and how he soothed her, and said
she would soon laugh at her own unwillingness to go to her husband.
But even then the Black Death was in Bordeaux, and being low and
mournful at heart, the sweet maid contracted it, and lay down to die
ere she had made two days' journey, and her last words were, "My God
hath shown me more pity than father or brother;" and so she died like
a lamb, and mine aunt was sent by the Prince to bear home the tidings
to the good Queen, who was a woeful woman.  And therewith, here was
the pestilence in London, raging among the poor creatures that lived
in the wharves and on the river bank, in damp and filth, so that
whole households lay dead at once, and the contagion, gathering
force, spread into the city, and even to the nobles and their ladies.
Then my good aunt, having some knowledge of the sickness already, and
being without fear, went among the sick, and by her care, and the
food, wine, and clothing she brought, saved a many lives.  And from
whom should the bounties come, save from the good Queen, who ever had
a great pity for those touched like her own fair child?  Moreover,
when she heard from my aunt how the poor things lived in uncleanness
and filth, and how, what with many being strangers coming by sea, and
others being serfs fled from home, they were a nameless, masterless
sort, who knew not where to seek a parish priest, and whom the friars
shunned for their poverty, she devised a fresh foundation to be added
to the hospital of St. Katharine's in the Docks, providing for a
chapter of ten bedeswomen, gentle and well-nurtured, who should both
sing in choir, and likewise go forth constantly among the poor, to
seek out the children, see that they learn their Credo, Ave, and
Pater Noster, bring the more toward to be further taught in St.
Katharine's school, and likewise to stir poor folk up to go to mass
and lead a godly life; to visit the sick, feed and tend them, and so
instruct them, that they may desire the Sacraments of the Church.'

'Ah! good Flemish Queen!' cried Esclairmonde.  'She learnt that of
our Beguines!'

'If your ladyship will have it so,' said Mrs. Bolt; 'but my aunt
Cicely began!'

'Who nominates these bedeswomen?' asked Esclairmonde.

'That does the Queen,' said Mistress Bolt.  'Not this young Queen, as
yet, for Queen Joan, the late King's widow, holds the hospital till
her death, unless it should be taken from her for her sorceries, from
which Heaven defend us!'

'Can it be visited?' said Esclairmonde.  'I feel much drawn thither,
as I ever did to the Beguines.'

'Ay, marry may it!' cried delighted Mrs. Bolt.  'I have more than one
gossip there, foreby Sister Avice, who was godchild to Aunt Cis; and
if the good lady would wish to see the hospital, I would bear her
company with all my heart.'

To Malcolm's disgust, Esclairmonde caught at the proposal, which the
Scottish haughtiness that lay under all his gentleness held somewhat
degrading to the cousin of the Emperor.  He fell into a state of
gloom, which lasted till the loving-cup had gone round and been
partaken of in pairs.

After hands had been washed in rose-water, the royal party took their
seats in barges to return to Westminster by the broad and beautiful
highway of the Thames.

Here at once Alice Montagu nestled to Esclairmonde's side, delighted
with her cat gloves, and further delighted with an old captain of
trained bands, to whose lot she had fallen, and who, on finding that
she was the daughter of the Earl of Salisbury, under whom he had
served, had launched forth by the hour into the praises of that brave
nobleman, both for his courage and his kindness to his troops.

'No wonder King Henry loves his citizens so well!' cried
Esclairmonde.  'Would that our Netherlandish princes and burghers
could take pride and pleasure in one another's wealth and prowess,
instead of grudging and fearing thereat!'

'To my mind,' said Malcolm, 'they were a forward generation.  That
city dame will burst with pride, if you, lady, go with her to see
those bedeswomen.'

'I trust not,' laughed Esclairmonde, 'for I mean to try.'

'Nay, but,' said Malcolm, 'what should a mere matter of old rockers
and worn-out tirewomen concern a demoiselle of birth?'

'I honour them for doing their Master's work,' said Esclairmonde,
'and would fain be worthy to follow in their steps.'

'Surely,' said Malcolm, 'there are houses fit for persons of high and
princely birth to live apart from gross contact with the world.'

'There are,' said Esclairmonde; 'but I trust I may be pardoned for
saying that such often seem to me to play at humility when they
stickle for birth and dower with the haughtiest.  I never honoured
any nuns so much as the humble Sisters of St. Begga, who never ask
for sixteen quarterings, but only for a tender hand, soft step, pure
life, and pious heart.'

'I deemed,' said Malcolm, 'that heavenly contemplation was the
purpose of convents.'

'Even so, for such as can contemplate like the holy man I have told
you of,' said Esclairmonde; 'but labour hath been greatly laid aside
in convents of late, and I doubt me if it be well, or if their
prayers be the better for it.'

'And so,' said Alice, 'I heard my Lord of Winchester saying how it
were well to suppress the alien priories, and give their wealth to
found colleges like that founded by Bishop Wykeham.'

For in truths the spirit of the age was beginning to set against
monasticism.  It was the period when perhaps there was more of
license and less of saintliness than at any other, and when the long
continuance of the Great Schism had so injured Church discipline that
the clergy and ecclesiastics were in the worst state of all,
especially the monastic orders, who owned no superior but the Pope,
and between the two rivals could avoid supervision altogether.  Such
men as Thomas a Kempis, or the great Jean Gerson, were rare indeed;
and the monasteries had let themselves lose their missionary
character, and become mere large farms, inhabited by celibate
gentlemen and their attendants, or by the superfluous daughters of
the nobles and gentry.  Such devotion as led Esclairmonde to the pure
atmosphere of prayer and self-sacrifice had well-nigh died out, and
almost every other lady of the time would have regarded her release
from the vows made for her its her babyhood a happy escape.

Still less, at a time when no active order of Sisters, save that of
the Beguines in Holland, had been invented, and when no nun ever
dreamt of carrying her charity beyond the quadrangle of her own
convent, could any one be expected to enter into Esclairmonde's
admiration and longing for out-of-door works; but the person whom she
had chiefly made her friend was the King's almoner and chaplain,
sometimes called Sir Martin Bennet, at others Dr. Bennet, a great
Oxford scholar, bred up among William of Wykeham's original seventy
at Winchester and New College, and now much trusted and favoured by
the King, whom he everywhere accompanied.  That Sir Martin was a
pluralist must be confessed, but he was most conscientious in
providing substitutes, and was a man of much thought and of great
piety, in whom the fair pupil of the Canon of St. Agnes found a
congenial spirit.



CHAPTER VI:  MALCOLM'S SUIT



'That is a gentle and gracious slip of the Stewart.  What shall you
do with him?' asked King Henry of James, as they stood together at
one end of the tilt-yard at Westminster, watching Malcolm Stewart and
Ralf Percy, who were playing at closhey, the early form of nine-pins.

'I know what I should like to do,' said James.

'What may that be?'

'To marry him to the Lady Esclairmonde de Luxemburg.'

Henry gave a long whistle.

'Have you other views for her?'

'Not I!  Am I to have designs on every poor dove who flies into my
tent from the hawk?  Besides, are not they both of them vowed to a
religious life?'

'Neither vow is valid,' replied James.

'To meddle with such things is what I should not DARE,' said Henry.

'Monks and friars are no such holy beings, that I should greatly
concern me about keeping an innocent had out of their company,' said
James.

'Nor do I say they are,' said Henry; 'but it is ill to cross a vow of
devotion, and to bring a man back to the world is apt to render him
not worth the having.  You may perchance get him down lower than you
intended.'

'This boy never had any real vocation at all,' said James; 'it was
only the timidity born of ill-health, and the longing for food for
the mind.'

'Maybe so,' replied the English king, 'and you may be in the right;
but why fix on that grand Luxemburg wench, who ought to be a Lady
Abbess of Fontainebleau at least, or a very St. Hilda, to rule monks
and nuns alike?'

'Because they have fixed on each other.  Malcolm needs a woman like
her to make a man of him; and with her spirit and fervent charity, we
should have them working a mighty change in Scotland.'

'If you get her there!'

'Have I your consent, Harry?'

'Mine?  It's no affair of mine!  You must settle it with Madame of
Hainault; but you had best take care.  You are more like to make your
tame lambkin into a ravening wolf, than to get that Deborah the
prophetess to herd him.'

James in sooth viewed this warning as another touch of Lancastrian
superstition, and only considered how to broach the question.
Malcolm, meantime, was balancing between the now approaching decision
between Oxford and France.  He certainly felt something of his old
horror of warlike scenes; but even this was lessening; he was aware
that battles were not every-day occurrences, and that often there was
no danger at all.  He would not willingly be separated from his king;
and if the female part of the Court were to accompany the campaign,
it would be losing sight of all he cared for, if he were left among a
set of stranger shavelings at Oxford.  Yet he was reluctant to break
with the old habits that had hitherto been part of his nature; he
felt, after every word of Esclairmonde--nay, after every glance
towards her--as though it were a blessed thing to have, like her,
chosen the better part; he knew she would approve his resort to the
home of piety and learning; he was aware that when with Ralf Percy
and the other youths of the Court he was ashamed of his own
scrupulousness, and tempted to neglect observances that they might
call monkish and unmanly; and he was not at all sure that in face of
the enemy a panic might not seize him and disgrace him for ever!  In
effect he did not know what he wished, even when he found that the
Queen had decided against going across the sea, and that therefore
all the ladies would remain with her at Shene or Windsor.

He should probably never again see Esclairmonde, the guiding star of
his recent life, the embodiment of all that he had imagined when
conning the quaint old English poems that told the Legend of Seynct
Katharine; and as he leant musingly against a lattice, feeling as if
the brightness of his life was going out, King James merrily
addressed him:-

'Eh! the fit is on you too, boy!'

'What fit, Sir?'  Malcolm opened his eyes.

'The pleasing madness.'

Malcolm uttered a cry like horror, and reddened crimson.  'Sir!  Sir!
Sir!' he stammered.

'A well-known token of the disease is raving.'

'Sir, Sir!  I implore you to speak of nothing so profane.'

'I am not given to profanity,' said James, endeavouring to look
severe, but with laughter in his voice.  'Methought you were not yet
so sacred a personage.'

'Myself!  No; but that I--I should dare to have such thoughts of--oh,
Sir!' and Malcolm covered his face with his hands.  'Oh, that you
should have so mistaken me!'

'I have NOT mistaken you,' said James, fixing his keen eyes on him.

'Oh, Sir!' cried Malcolm, like one freshly stung, 'you have!  Never,
never dreamt I of aught but worshipping as a living saint, as I would
entreat St. Margaret or--'

There was still the King's steady look and the suppressed smile.
Malcolm broke off, and with a sudden agony wrung his hands together.
The King still smiled.  'Ay, Malcolm, it will not do; you are man,
not monk.'

'But why be so cruel as to make me vile in my own eyes?' almost
sobbed Malcolm.

'Because,' said the King, 'she is not a saint in heaven, nor a nun in
a convent, but a free woman, to be won by the youth she has marked
out.'

'Marked!  Oh, Sir, she only condescended because she knew my
destination.'

'That is well,' said King James.  'Thus sparks kindle at unawares.'

Malcolm's groan and murmur of 'Never!' made James almost laugh at the
evidence that on one side at least the touch-wood was ready.

'Oh, Sir,' he sighed, 'why put the thought before me, to make me
wretched!  Even were she for the world, she would never be for me.
I--doited--hirpling--'

'Peace, silly lad; all that is past and gone.  You are quite another
now, and a year or two of Harry's school of chivalry will send you
home a gallant knight and minstrel, such as no maiden will despise.'

The King went, and Malcolm fell into a silent state of musing.  He
was entirely overpowered, both by the consciousness awakened within
himself, by the doubt whether it were not a great sin, and by the
strangeness that the King, hitherto his oracle, should infuse such a
hope.  What King James deemed possible could never be so incredible,
or even sacrilegious, as he deemed it.  Restless, ashamed, rent by a
thousand conflicting feelings, Malcolm roamed up and down his
chamber, writhed, tried to sit and think, then, finding his thoughts
in a whirl, renewed his frantic pacings.  And when dire necessity
brought him again into the ladies' chamber, he was silent, blushing,
ungainly, abstracted, and retreated into the farthest possible corner
from the unconscious Esclairmonde.

Then, when again alone with the King, he began with the assertion,
'It is utterly impossible, Sir;' and James smiled to see his poison
working.  Not that he viewed it as poison.  Monasticism was at a
discount, and the ranks of the religious orders were chiefly filled,
the old Benedictine and Augustinian foundations by gentlemen of good
family who wanted the easy life of a sort of bachelor squire, and the
friaries were recruited by the sort of men who would in modern times
be dissenting teachers of the lower stamp.  James was persuaded that
Malcolm was fit for better things than were usually to be seen in a
convent, and that it was a real kindness not to let him merely retire
thither out of faintness of heart, mistaken for devotion; and he also
felt as if he should be doing good service, not only to Malcolm, but
to Scotland, if he could obtain for him a wife of the grand character
of Esclairmonde de Luxemburg.

He even risked the mention of the project to the Countess of
Hainault, without whose consent nothing could be effected.  Jaqueline
laughed long and loud at the notion of her stately Esclairmonde being
the lady-love of King James's little white-visaged cousin; but if he
could bring it about she had no objection, she should be very glad
that the demoiselle should come down from the height and be like
other people; but she would wager the King of Scots her emerald
carcanet against his heron's plume, that Esclairmonde would never
marry unless her hands were held for her.  Was she not at that very
moment visiting some foundation of bedeswomen--that was all she heard
of at yonder feast of cats!

In fact, under Dr. Bennet's escort, Esclairmonde and Alice were in a
barge dropping down the Thames to the neighbourhood of the frowning
fortress of the Tower--as yet unstained; and at the steps leading to
the Hospitium of St. Katharine the ladies were met, not only by their
friend Mrs. Bolt, but by Sir Richard Whittington, his kindly dame,
and by 'Master William Kedbesby,' a grave and gentle-looking old man,
who had been Master of St. Katharine's ever since the first year of
King Richard II., and delighted to tell of the visits 'Good Queen
Anne' of Bohemia had made to her hospital, and the kind words she had
said to the old alms-folk and the children of the schools; and when
he heard that the Lady Esclairmonde was of the same princely house of
Luxemburg, he seemed to think no honour sufficient for her.  They
visited the two houses, one for old men, the other for old women,
each with a common apartment, with a fire, and a dining-table in the
midst, and sleeping cells screened off round it, and with a paved
terrace walk overhanging the river, where the old people could sit
and sun themselves, and be amused by the gay barges and the swans
that expatiated there.  The bedeswomen, ten in number, had a house
arranged like an ordinary nunnery, except that they were not in
seclusion, had no grating, and shared the quadrangle with the alms-
folk and children.  They were gentle and well-nurtured women, chiefly
belonging to the city and country families that furnished servants to
the queens; and they applied themselves to various offices of
charity, going forth into the city to tend the poor, and to teach the
women and children.  The appointments of alms-folk and admissions to
the school were chiefly made at their recommendation; and though a
master taught all the book-learning in the busy hive of scholars--
eighty in number--one or more of them instructed the little girls in
spinning and in stitchery, to say nothing of gentle and modest
demeanour.  There was a great look of happiness and good order about
all; and the church, fair and graceful, seemed well to complete and
rule the institution.  Esclairmonde could but sigh with a sort of
regret as she left it, and let herself be conducted by Sir Richard
Whittington to a refection at his beautiful house in Crutched Friars,
built round a square, combining warehouse and manor-house; richly-
carved shields, with the arms of the companies of London, supporting
the tier of first-floor windows, and another row of brackets above
supporting another overhanging story.  A fountain was in the centre
of a beautiful greensward, with beds of roses, pansies, pinks, stars
of Bethlehem, and other good old flowers, among which a monkey was
chained to a tree, while a cat roamed about at a safe distance from
him.

Alice Montagu raised a laugh by asking if it were THE cat; to which
her city namesake replied that 'her master' never could abide to be
without a cat in memory of his first friend, and marshalled them into
the beautiful hall, with wainscot lining below, surmounted by an
arcade containing statues, and above a beautiful carved ceiling.
Here a meal was served to them, and the Lady talked with Whittington
of the grand town-halls and other buildings of the merchants of the
Low Countries, with whom he was a trader for their rich stuffs; and
the visit passed off with no small satisfaction to both parties.

Esclairmonde sat in the barge on her return, looking out on the gray
clear water, and on the bright gardens that sloped down to it, gay
with roses and fruitful with mulberries, apples, and strawberries,
and the mansions and churches that were never quite out of sight,
though there were some open fields and wild country ere coming to
Westminster, all as if she did not see them, but was wrapped in deep
contemplation.

Alice at last, weary of silence, stole her arm round her waist, and
peeped up into her face.  'May I guess thy thoughts, sweet Clairette?
Thou wilt found such a hospice thyself?'

'Say not I WILL, child,' said Esclairmonde, with a crystal drop
starting in each dark eye.  'I would strive and hope, but--'

'Ah! thou wilt, thou wilt,' cried Alice; 'and since there are
Beguines enough for their own Netherlands, thou wilt come to England
and be our foundress here.'

'Nay, little one; here are the bedeswomen of St. Katharine's in
London.'

'Ah! but we have other cities.  Good Father, have we not?  Hull--
Southampton--oh! so many, where poor strangers come that need ghostly
tendance as well as bodily.  Esclairmonde--Light of the World--oh! it
was not for nothing that they gave thee that goodly name.  The
hospice shall bear it!'

'Hush, hush! sweet pyet; mine own name is what they must not bear.'

'Ah! but the people will give it; and our Holy Father the Pope, he
will put thee into the canon of saints.  Only pity that I cannot live
to hear of Ste. Esclairmonde--nay, but then I must overlive thee,
mind I should not love that.'

'Oh, silence, silence, child; these are no thoughts to begin a work
with.  Little flatterer, it may be well for me that our lives must
needs lie so far apart that I shall not oft hear that fond silly
tongue.'

'Nay,' said Alice, in the luxury, not of castle-building but of
convent-building; 'it may be that when that knight over there sees me
so small and ill-favoured he will none of me, and then I'll thank him
so, and pray my father to let him have all my lands and houses except
just enough to dower me to follow thee with, dear Lady Prioress.'

But here Alice was summarily silenced.  Such talk, both priest and
votaress told her, was not meet for dutiful daughter or betrothed
maiden.  Her lot was fixed, and she must do her duty therein as the
good wife and lady of the castle, the noble English matron; and as
she looked half disposed to pout, Esclairmonde drew such a picture of
the beneficent influence of the good baronial dame, ruling her
castle, bringing up her children and the daughters of her vassals in
good and pious nurture, making 'the heart of her husband safely trust
in her,' benefiting the poor, and fostering holy men, wayfarers, and
pilgrims, that the girl's eyes filled within tears as she looked up
and said, 'Ah! lady, this is the life fitted for thee, who can paint
it so well.  Why have I not a brother, that you might be Countess of
Salisbury, and I a poor little sister in a nunnery?'

Esclairmonde shook her head.  'Silly child, petite niaise, our lots
were fixed by other hands than ours.  We will strive each to serve
our God, in the coif or in the veil, in samite or in serge, and He
will only ask which of us has been most faithful, not whether we have
lived in castle or in cloister.'

Little had Esclairmonde expected to hear the greeting with which the
Countess received her, breaking out into peals of merriment as she
told her of the choice destiny in store for her, to be wedded to the
little lame Scot, pretending to read her a grave lecture on the
consequences of the advances she had made to him.

Esclairmonde was not put out of countenance; in fact, she did not
think the Countess in earnest, and merely replied with a smile that
at least there was less harm in Lord Malcolm than in the suitors at
home.

Jaqueline clapped her hands and cried, 'Good tidings, Clairette.
I'll never forgive you if you make me lose my emerald carcanet!  So
the arrow was winged, after all.  She prefers him--her heart is
touched by the dainty step.'

'Madame!' entreated Esclairmonde, with agitation; 'at least,
infirmity should be spared.'

'It touches her deeply!' exclaimed the Duchess.  'Ah! to see her in
the mountains teaching the wild men to say their Aye, and to wear
culottes, the little prince interpreting for her, as King James told
us in his story of the saint his ancestor.'

Raillery about Malcolm had been attempted before, but never so
pertinaciously; and Esclairmonde heeded it not at all, till James
himself sought her out, and, within all his own persuasive grace,
told her that he was rejoiced to hear from Madame of Hainault that
she had spoken kindly of his youthful kinsman, for whose improvement
he was sure he had in great measure to thank her.

Esclairmonde replied composedly, but as one on her guard, that the
Sieur de Glenuskie was a gentle and a holy youth, of a good and
toward wit.

'As I saw from the first,' said James, 'when I brought him away from
being crushed among our rude cousins; but, lady, I knew not how the
task of training the boy would be taken out of my hands by your
kindness; and now, pardon me, lady, only one thing is wanting to
complete your work, and that is hope.'

'Hope is always before a holy man, Sir.'

'O, madame! but we peer earthly beings require an earthly hope,
nearer home, to brace our hearts, and nerve our arms.'

'I thought the Sieur de Glenuskie was destined to a religious life.'

'Never by any save his enemies, lady.  The Regent Albany and his
fierce sons have striven to scare Malcolm into a cloister, that his
sister and his lands may be their prey; and they would have succeeded
had not I come to Scotland in time.  The lad never had any true
vocation.'

'That may be,' said Esclairmonde, somewhat sorrowfully.

'Still,' added James, 'he is of a thoughtful and somewhat tender
mould, and the rudeness of life will try him sorely unless he have
some cheering star, some light of love, to bear him up and guide him
on his way.'

'If so, may he find a worthy one.'

'Lady, it is too late to talk of what he may find.  The brightness
that has done so much for him already will hinder him from turning
his eyes elsewhere.'

'You are a minstrel, Sir King, and therefore these words of light
romance fall from your lips.'

'Nay, lady, hitherto my romance has been earnest.  It rests with you
to make Malcolm's the same.'

'Not so, Sir.  That has long been out of my hands.'

'Madame, you might well shrink from what it was as insult to you to
propose; but have you never thought of the blessings you might confer
in the secular life, with one who would be no hindrance, but a help?'

'No, Sir, for no blessings, but curses, would follow a breach of
dedication.'

'Lady, I will not press you with what divines have decided respecting
such dedication.  Any scruples could be removed by the Holy Father at
Rome, and, though I will speak no further, I will trust to your
considering the matter.  You have never viewed it in any light save
that of a refuge from wedlock with one to whom I trust you would
prefer my gentle cousin.'

'It were a poor compliment to Lord Malcolm to name him in the same
day with Sir Boemond of Burgundy,' said Esclairmonde; 'but, as I
said, it is not the person that withholds me, but the fact that I am
not free.'

'I do not ask you to love or accept the poor boy as yet,' said James;
'I leave that for the time when I shall bring him back to you, with
the qualities grown which you have awakened.  At least, I can bear
him the tidings that it is not your feelings, but your scruples that
are against him.'

'Sir King,' said Esclairmonde, gravely, 'I question not your judgment
in turning your kinsman and subject to the secular life; but if you
lead him by false hopes, of which I am the object, I tell you plainly
that you are deluding him; and if any evil come thereof, be it on
your own head.'

She moved away, with a bend of her graceful neck, and James stood
with a slight smile curving his lip.  'By my troth,' he said to
himself, 'a lordly lady!  She knows her own vocation.  She is one to
command scores of holy maids, and have all the abbots and priors
round at her beck, instead of one poor man.  Rather Malcolm than I!
But he is the very stuff that loves to have such a woman to rule him;
and if she wed at all, he is the very man for her!  I'll not give it
up!  Love is the way to make a man of him, whether successful or not,
and she may change her mind, since she is not yet on the roll of
saints.  If I could get a word with her father confessor, and show
him how much it would be for the interest of the Church in Scotland
to get such a woman there, it would be the surest way of coming at
her.  Were she once in Scotland, my pretty one would have a stay and
helper!  But all must rest till after the campaign.'

James therefore told Malcolm so much as that he had spoken to his
lady-love for him, and that she had avowed that it was not himself,
but her own vows, that was the obstacle.

Malcolm crimsoned with joy as well as confusion; and the King
proceeded:  'For the vows'--he shrugged his shoulders--'we knew there
is a remedy!  Meantime, Malcolm, be you a man, win your spurs, and
show yourself worth overcoming something for!'

Malcolm smiled and brightened, holding his head high and joyously,
and handling his sword.  Then came the misgiving--'But Lilias, Sir,
and Patrick Drummond.'

'We will provide for them, boy.  You know Drummond is bent on carving
his own fortune rather than taking yours, and that your sister only
longs to see you a gallant knight.'

It was true, but Malcolm sighed.

'You have not spoken to the lady yourself?' asked the King.

'No, Sir.  Oh, how can I?' faltered Malcolm, shamefaced and
frightened.

James laughed.  'Let that be as the mood takes you, or occasion
serves,' he said, wondering whether the lad's almost abject
awkwardness and shame would be likely to create the pity akin to love
or to contempt, and deciding that it must be left to chance.

Nor did Malcolm find boldness enough to do more than haunt
Esclairmonde's steps, trembling if she glanced towards him, and
almost shrinking from her gaze.  He had now no doubts about going on
the campaign, and was in full course of being prepared with
equipments, horses, armour, and attendants, as became a young prince
attending on his sovereign as an adventurer in the camp.  It was not
even worth while to name such scruples to the English friar who
shrived him on the last day before the departure, and who knew
nothing of his past history.  He knew all priests would say the same
things, and as he had never made a binding vow, he saw no need of
consulting any one on the subject; it would only vex him again, and
fill him with doubts.  The suspicion that Dr. Bennet was aware of his
previous intention made him shrink from him.  So the last day had
come, and all was farewell.  King Henry had persuaded the Queen to
seclude herself for one evening from Madame of Hainault, for his
sake.  King James was pacing the gardens on the Thames banks, with
Joan Beaufort's hand for once allowed to repose in his; many a noble
gentleman was exchanging last words with his wife--many a young
squire whispering what he had never ventured to say before--many a
silver mark was cloven--many a bright tress was exchanged.  Even Ralf
Percy was in the midst of something very like a romp with the
handsome Bessie Nevil for a knot of ribbon to carry to the wars.

Malcolm felt a certain exaltation in being enough like other people
to have a lady-love, but there was not much comfort otherwise;
indeed, he could so little have addressed Esclairmonde that it was
almost a satisfaction that she was the centre of a group of maidens
whose lovers or brothers either had been sent off beforehand, or who
saw their attentions paid elsewhere, and who all alike gravitated
towards the Demoiselle de Luxemburg for sympathy.  He could but hover
on the outskirts, conscious that he must cut a ridiculous figure, but
unable to detach himself from the neighbourhood of the magnet.  As he
looked back on the happy weeks of unconstrained intercourse, when he
came to her as freely as did these young girls with all his troubles,
he felt as if the King had destroyed all his joy and peace, and yet
that these flutterings of heart and agonies of shame and fits of
despair were worth all that childish calm.

He durst say nothing, only now and then to gaze on her with his great
brown wistful eyes, which he dropped whenever she looked towards him;
until at last, when the summer evening was closing in, and the last
signal was given for the break-up of the party, Malcolm ventured on
one faltering murmur, 'Lady, lady, you are not offended with me?'

'Nay,' said Esclairmonde, kindly; 'nothing has passed between us that
should offend me.'

His eye lighted.  'May I still be remembered in your prayers, lady?'

'As I shall remember all who have been my friends here,' she said.

'And oh, lady, if I should--should win honour, may I lay it at your
feet?'

'Whatever you achieve as a good man and true will gladden me,' said
Esclairmonde, 'as it will all others that wish you well.  Both you
and your sister in her loneliness shall have my best prayers.
Farewell, Lord Malcolm; may the Saints bless and guard you, whether
in the world or the Church.'

Malcolm knew why she spoke of his sister, and felt as if there were
no hope for him.  Esclairmonde's grave kindness was a far worse sign
than would have been any attempt to evade him; but at any rate she
had spoken with him, and his heart could not but be cheered.  What
might he not do in the glorious future?  As the foremost champion of
a crusading king, bearing St. Andrew's cross through the very gates
of Jerusalem, what maiden, however saintly, could refuse him his
guerdon?

And he knew that, for the present, Esclairmonde was safe from
retiring into any convent, since her high birth and great possessions
would make any such establishment expect a large dower with her as a
right, and few abbesses would have ventured to receive a runaway
foreigner, especially as one of her guardians was the Bishop of
Therouenne.



CHAPTER VII:  THE SIEGE OF MEAUX



Wintry winds and rains were sweeping over the English tents on the
banks of the Marne, where Henry V. was besieging Meaux, then the
stronghold of one of those terrible freebooters who were always the
offspring of a lengthened war.  Jean de Gast, usually known as the
Bastard de Vaurus, nominally was of the Armagnac or patriotic party,
but, in fact, pillaged indiscriminately, especially capturing
travellers on their way to Paris, and setting on their heads a heavy
price, failing which he hung them upon the great elm-tree in the
market-place.  The very suburbs of Paris were infested by the forays
of this desperate routier, as such highway robbers were called; the
supplies of previsions were cut off, and the citizens had petitioned
King Henry that he would relieve them from so intolerable an enemy.

The King intended to spend the winter months with his queen in
England, and at once attacked the place in October, hoping to carry
it by a coup de main.  He took the lower city, containing the market-
place and several large convents, with no great difficulty; but the
upper city, on a rising ground above the river, was strongly
fortified, well victualled, and bravely defended, and he found
himself forced to invest it, and make a regular siege, though at the
expense of severe toil and much sickness and suffering.  Both his own
prestige in France and the welfare of the capital depended on his
success, and he had therefore fixed himself before Meaux to take it
at whatever cost.

The greater part of the army were here encamped, together with the
chief nobles, March, Somerset, Salisbury, Warwick, and likewise the
King of Scots.  James had for a time had the command of the army
which besieged and took Dreux while Henry was elsewhere engaged, but
in general he acted as a sort of volunteer aide-de-camp to his
brother king, and Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie was always with him as
his squire.  A great change had come over Malcolm in these last few
months.  His feeble, sickly boyhood seemed to have been entirely cast
off, and the warm genial summer sun of France to have strengthened
his frame and developed his powers.  He had shot up suddenly to a
fair height, had almost lost his lameness, and gained much more
appearance of health and power of enduring fatigue.  His nerves had
become less painfully sensitive, and when after his first skirmish,
during which he had kept close to King James, far too much terrified
to stir an inch from him, he had not only found himself perfectly
safe, but had been much praised for his valour, he had been so much
pleased with himself that he quite wished for another occasion of
displaying his bravery; and, what with use, and what with the
increasing spirit of pugnacity, he was as sincere as Ralf Percy in
abusing the French for never coming to a pitched battle.  Perhaps,
indeed, Malcolm spoke even more eagerly than Ralf, in his own
surprise and gratification at finding himself no coward, and his fear
lest Percy should detect that he ever had been supposed to be such.

So far the King of Scots had succeeded in awakening martial fire in
the boy, but he found him less the companion in other matters than he
had intended.  When at Paris, James would have taken him to explore
the learned hoards of the already venerable University of Paris,
where young James Kennedy--son to Sir James Kennedy of Dunure, and to
Mary, an elder sister of the King--was studying with exceeding zeal.
Both James and Dr. Bennet were greatly interested in this famous
abode of hearing--the King, indeed, was already sketching out designs
in his own mind for a similar institution in Scotland, designs that
were destined to be carried out after his death by Kennedy; and
Malcolm perforce heard many inquiries and replies, but he held aloof
from friendship with his clerkly cousin Kennedy, and closed his ears
as much as might be, hanging back as if afraid of returning to his
books.  There was in this some real dread of Ralf Percy's mockery of
his clerkliness, but there was more real distaste for all that
appertained to the past days that he now despised.

The tide of vitality and physical vigour, so long deficient, had,
whom it had fairly set in, carried him away with it:  and in the
activity of body newly acquired, mental activity had well-nigh
ceased.  And therewith went much of the tenderness of conscience and
devout habits of old.  They dropped from him, sometimes for lack of
time, sometimes from false shame, and by and by from very weariness
and distaste.  He was soldier now, and not monk--ay, and even the
observances that such soldiers as Henry and James never failed in,
and always enforced, were becoming a burthen to him.  They wakened
misgivings that he did not like, and that must wait till his next
general shrift.

And Esclairmonde?  Out of her sight, Malcolm dreamt a good deal about
her, but more as the woman, less as the saint; and the hopes, so low
in her presence, burnt brighter in her absence as Malcolm grew in
self-confidence and in knowledge of the world.  He knew that when he
parted with her he had been a miserable little wretch whom any woman
would despise, yet she had shown him a sort of preference; how would
it be when he returned to her, perhaps a knight, certainly a brave
man like other men!

Of Patrick Drummond he had as yet heard nothing, and only believed
him to be among the Scots who fought on the French side under the
Earls of Buchan and Douglas.  Indeed, James especially avoided places
where he knew these Scots to be engaged, as Henry persisted in
regarding them as rebels against him, and in hanging all who were
made prisoners; nor had Malcolm, during the courtesies that always
pass between the outposts of civilized armies, made much attempt to
have any communication with his cousin, for though his own abnegation
of his rights had never been permitted by his guardian, or reckoned
on by his sister or her lover, still he had been so much in earnest
about it himself, as, while regarding it as a childish folly, to feel
ill at ease in the remembrance, and, though defiant, willing to avoid
all that could recall it.

Meantime he, with his king, was lodged in a large old convent, as
part of the immediate following of King Henry.  Others of the princes
and nobles were quartered in the market hall and lower town, but
great part of thine troops were in tents, and in a state of much
discomfort, owing to the overflowings of the Marne.  Fighting was the
least of their dangers, though their skirmishes were often fought
ankle-deep in mud and mire; fever and ague were among them, and many
a sick man was sent away to recover or die at Paris.  The long dark
evenings were a new trial to men used to summer campaigning, and
nothing but Henry's wonderful personal influence and perpetual
vigilance kept up discipline.  At any hour of the day or night, at
any place in the camp, the King might be at hand, with a cheery word
of sympathy or encouragement, or with the most unflinching sternness
towards any disobedience or debauchery--ever a presence to be either
loved or dreaded.  An engineer in advance of his time, he was
persuaded that much of the discomfort might be remedied by trenching
the ground around the camp; but this measure proved wonderfully
distasteful to the soldiery.  How hard they laboured in the direct
siege operations they cared not, but to be set to drain French fields
seemed to them absurd and unreasonable, and the work would not have
proceeded at all without constant superintendence from one of the
chiefs of the army, since the ordinary knights and squires were as
obstinately prejudiced as were the men.

Thus it was that, on a cold sleety December day, James of Scotland
rode along the meadows, splashing through thin ice into muddy water,
and attended by his small personal suite, excepting Sir Nigel Baird,
who was gone on a special commission to Paris.  Both he and Malcolm
were plainly and lightly armed, and wore long blue cloaks with the
St. Andrew's cross on the shoulder, steel caps without visors, and
the King's merely distinguished by a thread-hike circlet of gold.
They had breastplates, swords, and daggers, but they were not going
to a quarter where fighting was to be expected, and bright armour was
not to be exposed to rust without need.  A visit of inspection to the
delvers was not a congenial occupation, for though the men-at-arms
had obeyed James fairly well when he was in sole command at Dreux,
yet whenever he was obliged to enforce anything unpopular, the
national dislike to the Scot was apt to show itself, and the whole
army was at present in a depressed condition which made such
manifestations the more probable.

But King Henry was not half recovered from a heavy feverish cold,
which he had not confessed or attended to, and he had also of late
been troubled with a swelling of the neck.  This morning, too, much
to his inconvenience and dismay, he had missed his signet-ring.  The
private seal on such a ring was of more importance than the autograph
at that time, and it would never have left the King's hand; but no
doubt, in consequence of his indisposition, his finger, always small-
boned, had become thin enough to allow the signet to escape unawares,
he was unwilling to publish the loss, as it might cast doubt on the
papers he despatched, and he, with his chamberlain Fitzhugh, King
James, Malcolm, Percy, and a few more, had spent half the morning in
the vain search, ending by the King sending his chamberlain, Lord
Fitzhugh, to carry to Paris a seal already bearing his shield, but
lacking the small private mark that authenticated it as his signet.
Fitzhugh would stand over the lapidary and see this added, and bring
it back.  Ralf Percy had meantime been sent to bring a report of the
diggers, but he was long in returning; and when Henry became uneasy,
James had volunteered to go himself, and Henry had consented, not
because the air was full of sleety rain or snow, but because his
hands were full of letters needing to be despatched to all quarters.

The air was so thick that it was not easy to see where were the
sullen group of diggers presided over by the quondam duellists of
Thirsk, Kitson and Trenton, now the most inseparable and
impracticable of men; but James and his companions had ridden about
two miles from the market-place, when Ralf Percy came out of the
mist, exclaiming, 'Is it you, Sir King?  Maybe you can do something
with those rascals!  I've talked myself blue with cold to make them
slope the sides of their dyke, but the owl Kitson says no
Yorkshireman ditcher ever went but by one fashion, and none ever
shall; and when I lifted my riding-rod at the most insolent of the
rogues, what must Trenton do but tell me the lot were free yeomen,
and I'd best look out, or they'd roll me in the mire if I meddled
with a soul of them.'

'You didn't threaten to strike Trenton?'

'No, no; the sullen cur is a gentleman.  'Twas one of those lubberly
men-at-arms!  I told them they should hear what King Harry would say
to their mood.  I would it were he!'

'So would I,' said James.  'Little chance that they will hearken to a
Scot when you have put them in such a mood.  Hold, Ralf, do not go
for the King; he has letters for the Emperor mattering more than this
dyke.'

He rode on, and did his best by leaping into the ditch, taking the
spade, and showing the superior security of the angle of inclination
traced by the King, but all in vain; both Trenton and Kitson silently
but obstinately scouted the notion that any king should know more
about ditches than themselves.

'See,' cried Percy, starting up, 'here's other work!  The fellows,
whence came they?'

Favoured by the fog and the soft soil of the meadows, a considerable
body of the enemy were stealing on the delvers with the manifest
purpose of cutting them off from the camp.  They were all mounted,
but the only horses in the English party were those of James, Percy,
Malcolm, and the half-dozen men of his escort.  James, assuming the
command at once, bade these to be all released; they would be sure to
find their way to the camp, and that would bring succour.  Meantime
he drew the whole of the men, about thirty in number, into a compact
body.  They were, properly, archers, but their bows had been left
behind, and they had only their pikes and bills, which were, however,
very formidable weapons against cavalry as long as they continued in
an unbroken rank; and though the bogs, pools, sunken hedges, and
submerged stumps made it difficult to keep close together as they
made their way slowly with one flank to the river, these obstacles
were no small protection against a charge of horsemen.

For a quarter of a mile these tactics kept them unharmed, but at
length they reached a wide smooth meadow, and the enemy seemed
preparing to charge.  James gave orders to close up and stand firm,
pikes outwards.  Malcolm's heart beat fast; it was the most real
peril he had yet seen; and yet he was cheered by the King's ringing
voice, 'Stand firm, ye merry men.  They must soon be with us from the
camp.'

Suddenly a voice shouted, 'The Scots! the Scots!  'Tis the Scots!
Treachery! we are betrayed.  Come, Sir' (to Percy), 'they'll be on
you.  Treason!'

'An' it were, you fool, would a Percy turn his back?' cried Ralf,
striking at the man; but the panic had seized the whole body; all
were shouting that the false Scots king had brought his countrymen
down on them; they scattered hither and thither, and would have
fallen an easy prey if they had been pursued.  But this did not seem
to be the purpose of the enemy, who merely extended themselves so as
to form a hedge around the few who stood, sword in hand, disdaining
to fly.  These were, James, somewhat in advance, with his head high,
and a lion look on his brow; Malcolm, white with dismay; Ralf,
restless with fury; Kitson and Trenton, apparently as unmoved as
ever; Brewster, equally steady:  and Malcolm's follower, Halbert, in
a glow of hopeful excitement.

'Never fear, friends,' said James, kindly; 'to you this can only be
matter of ransom.'

'I fear nothing,' sharply answered Ralf.

'We'll stand by you, Sir,' said Kitson to Ralf; 'but if ever there
were foul treason--'

'Pshaw! you ass,' were all Percy's thanks; for at that moment a
horseman came forward from among the enemy, a gigantic form on a tall
white horse, altogether a 'dark gray man,' the open visor revealing
an elderly face, hard-featured and grim, and the shield on his arm so
dinted, faded, and battered, as scarce to show the blue chief and the
bleeding crowned heart; but it was no unfamiliar sight to Malcolm's
eyes, and with a slight shudder he bent his head in answer to the
fierce whisper, 'Old Douglas himself!' with which Hotspur's son
certified himself that he had the foe of his house before him.  King
James, resting the point of his sword on his mailed foot, stood erect
and gravely expectant; and the Scot, springing to the ground,
advanced with the words, 'We greet you well, my liege, and hereby--'
he was bending his knee as he spoke, and removing his gauntlet in
preparation for the act of homage.

'Hold, Earl Douglas,' said James, 'homage is vain to a captive.'

'You are captive no longer, Sir King,' said Earl Archibald.  'We have
long awaited this occasion, and will at once return to Scotland with
you, with the arms and treasure we have gained here, and will bear
down the craven Albany.'

Kitson and Trenton looked at one another and grasped their swords, as
though doubting whether they ought not to cut down their king's
prisoner rather than let him be rescued; and meanwhile the cry, 'Save
King James!' broke out on all sides, knights leapt down to tender
their homage, and among the foremost Malcolm knew Sir Patrick
Drummond, crying aloud, 'My lord, my lord, we have waited long for
you.  Be a free king in free Scotland!  Trust us, my liege.'

'Trust you, my friends!' said James, deeply touched; 'I trust you
with all my heart; but how could you trust me if I began with a
breach of faith to the King of England?'

Ralf Percy held up his finger and nodded his head to the Yorkshire
squires, who stood open-mouthed, still believing that a Scot must be
false.  There was an angry murmur among the Scots, but James gazed at
them undauntedly, as though to look it down.

'Yes, to King Harry!' he said, in his trumpet voice.  'I belong to
him, and he has trusted me as never prisoner was trusted before, nor
will I betray that trust.'

'The foul fiend take such niceties,' muttered old Douglas; but,
checking himself, he said, 'Then, Sir, give me your sword, and we'll
have you home as my prisoner, to save this your honour!'

'Yea,' said James, 'that is mine own, though my body be yours, and
till England put me to ransom you would have but a useless captive.'

'Sir,' said Sir John Swinton, pressing forward, 'if my Lord of
Douglas be plain-spoken, bethink you that it is no cause for casting
aside this one hope of freedom that we have sought so long.  If you
have the heart to strike for Scotland, this is the time.'

'It is not the time,' said James, 'nor will I do Scotland the wrong
of striking for her with a dishonoured hand.'

'That will we see when we have him at Hermitage Castle,' quoth
Douglas to his followers.  'Now, Sir King, best give your sword
without more grimace.  Living or dead you are ours.'

'I yield not,' said James.  'Dead you may take me--alive, never.'
Then turning his eyes to the faces that gazed on him so earnestly in
disappointment, in affection, or in scorn, he spoke:  'Brave friends,
who may perchance love me the better that I have been a captive half
my life and all my reign, you can believe how sair my heart burns for
my bonnie land's sake, and how little I'd reck of my life for her
weal.  But broken oaths are ill beginnings.  For me, so notably
trusted by King Henry, to break my bonds, would shame both Scots and
kings; and it were yet more paltry to feign to yield to my Lord of
Douglas.  Rescue or no rescue, I am England's captive.  Gentles,
kindly brother Scots, in one way alone can you free me.  Give up this
wretched land of France, whose troubles are but lengthened by your
valour.  Let me gang to King Harry and tell him your swords are at
his service, so soon as I am free.  Then am I your King indeed; we
return together, staunch hearts and strong hands, and the key shall
keep the castle, and the bracken bush keep the cow, though I lead the
life of a dog to bring it about.'

His tawny eye flashed with falcon light; and as he stood towering
above all the tall men around, there were few who did not in heart
own him indeed their king.  But his picture of royal power accorded
ill with the notions of a Black Douglas, in the most masterful days
of that family; and Earl Archibald, who had come to regard kings as
beings meant to be hectored by Douglases, resentfully exclaimed,
'Hear him, comrades; he has avouched himself a Southron at heart.
Has he reckoned how little it would cost to give a thrust to the
caitiff who has lost heart in his prison, and clear the way for
Albany, who is at least a true Scot?'

'Do so, Lord Earl,' said James, 'and end a long captivity.  But let
these go scatheless.'

With one voice, Percy, Kitson, Trenton, and Brewster, shouted their
resolve to defend him to the last; and Malcolm, flinging himself on
Patrick Drummond, adjured him to save the King.

'Thou here, laddie!' said Patrick, amazed; and while several more
knights exclaimed, 'Sir, Sir, we'll see no hand laid on you!' he
thrust forward, 'Take my horse, Sir, ride on, and I'll see no scathe
befall you.'

'Thanks,' said James; 'but my feet will serve me best; we will keep
together.'

The Scottish force seemed dividing into two:  Douglas and his friends
and retainers, mounted and holding together, as though still
undecided whether to grapple with the King and his half-dozen
companions; while Drummond and about ten more lances were disposed to
guard him at all risks.

'Now,' said James to his English friends; and therewith, sword in
hand, he moved with a steady but swift stride towards the camp, nor
did Douglas attempt pursuit; some of the other horsemen hovered
between, and Patrick Drummond, with a puzzled face, kept near on
foot.  So they proceeded till they reached a bank and willow hedge,
through which horses could hardly have pursued them.

On the other side of this, James turned round and said, 'Thanks, Sir
Knight; I suppose I may not hope that you will become a follower of
the knight adventurer.'

'I cannot fight under the English banner, my liege.  Elsewhere I
would fellow you to the death.'

'This is no time to show your error,' said James; 'and I therefore
counsel you to come no farther.  The English will be pricking forth
in search of us:  so I will but thank you for your loyal aid.'

'I entreat you, Sir,' cried Patrick, 'not to believe that we meant
this matter to go as it has done!  It had long been our desire--of
all of us, that is, save my Lord Buchan's retainers--to find you and
release you; but never did we deem that Lord Douglas would have dared
to conduct matters thus.'

'You would be little the better for me did Lord Douglas bring me back
on his own terms,' said James, smiling.  'No, no; when I go home, it
shall be as a free king, able to do justice to all alike; and for
that I am content to bide my time, and trust to such as you to back
me when it comes.'

'And with all my heart, Sir,' said Patrick.  'Would that you were
where I could do so now.  Ah! laddie,' to Malcolm; 'ye're in good
hands.  My certie, I kenned ye but by your voice!  Ye're verily grown
into a goodly ship after all, and ye stood as brave as the rest.  My
poor father would have been fain to see this day!'

Malcolm flushed to the ears; somehow Patrick's praise was not as
pleasant to him as he would have expected, and he only faltered, 'You
know--'

'I ken but what Johnnie Swinton brought me in a letter frae the Abbot
of Coldingham, that my father--the saints be with him!--had been set
on and slain by yon accursed Master of Albany--would that his
thrapple were in my grip!--that he had sent you southwards to the
King, and that your sister was in St. Abbs.  Is it so?'

Malcolm had barely time to make a sign of affirmation, when the King
hurried him on.  'I grieve to balk you of your family tidings, but
delay will be ill for one or other of us; so fare thee well, Sir
Patrick, till better times.'

He shook the knight's hand as he spoke, cut short his protestations,
and leapt down the bank, saying in a low voice, as he stretched out
his hand and helped Malcolm down after him, 'He would have known me
again for your guest if we had stood many moments longer; he looked
hard at me as it was; and neither in England nor Scotland may that
journey of mine be blazed abroad.'

Malcolm was on the whole rather relieved; he could not help feeling
guilty towards Patrick, and unless he could have full time for
explanation, he preferred not falling in with him.

And at the same moment Kitson stepped towards the King.  'Sir, you
are an honest man, and we crave your pardon if we said aught that
seemed in doubt thereof.'

James laughed, shaking each honest hand, and saying, 'At least, good
sirs, do not always think Scot and traitor the same word; and thank
you for backing me so gallantly.'

'I'd wish no better than to back such as you, Sir,' said Kitson
heartily; and James then turned to Ralf Percy, and asked him what he
thought of the Douglas face to face.

'A dour old block!' said Ralf.  'If those runaways had but stayed
within us, the hoary ruffian should have had his lesson from a
Percy.'

James smiled, for the grim giant was still a good deal more than a
match for the slim, rosy-faced stripling of the house of Percy, who
nevertheless simply deemed his nation and family made him invincible
by either Scot or Frenchman.

The difficulties of their progress, however, entirely occupied them.
Having diverged from the regular track, they had to make their way
through the inundated meadows; sometimes among deep pools, sometimes
in quagmires, or ever hedges; while the water that drenched them was
fast freezing, and darkness came down on them.  All stumbled or were
bogged at different times; and Malcolm, shorter and weaker than the
rest, and his lameness becoming more felt than usual, could not help
impeding their progress, and at last was so spent that but for the
King's strong arm he would have spent the night in a bog-hole.

At last the lights were near, the outskirts were gained, the pass-
word given to the watch, and the rough but welcome greeting was
heard--'That's well!  More of you come in!  How got you off?'

'The rogues got back, then?' said Kitson.

'Some score of them,' was the answer; 'but 'tis thought most are
drowned or stuck by the French.  The King is in a proper rage, as
well he may be; but what else could come of a false Scot in the
camp?'

'Have a care, you foul tongue!' Percy was the first to cry; and as
torches were now brought out and cast their light on the well-known
faces, the soldiers stood abashed; but James tarried not for their
excuses; his heart was hot at the words which implied that Henry
suspected him, and he strode hastily on to the convent, where the
quadrangle was full of horses and men, and the windows shone with
lights.  At the door of the refectory stood a figure whose armour
flashed with light, and his voice sounded through the closed visor--
'I tell you, March, I cannot rest till I knew what his hap has been.
If he have done this thing-- '

'What then?' answered James out of the darkness, in a voice deep with
wrath; but Henry started.

'You there! you safe!  Speak again!  Come here that I may see.  Where
is he?'

'Here, Sir King,' said James, gravely.

'Now the saints be thanked!' cried Henry, joyously.  'Where be the
caitiffs that brought me their false tale?  They shall hang for it at
once.'

'It was the less wonder,' said James, still coldly, 'that they should
have thought themselves betrayed, since their king believed it of
me.'

'Nay, 'twas but for a hot moment--ay, and the bitterest I ever spent.
What could I do when the villains swore that there were signals and I
know not what devices passing?  I hoped yet 'twas but a plea for
their own cowardice, and was mounting to come and see for you.  Come,
I should have known you better; I'd rather the whole world deceived
me than have distrusted you, Jamie.'

There was that in his tone which ended all resentment, and James's
hand was at once clasped in his, while Henry added, 'Ho, Provost-
marshal! to the gallows with these knaves!'

'Nay, Harry,' said James, 'let me plead for them.  There was more
than ordinary to dismay them.'

'Dismay! ay, the more cause they should have stood like honest men.
If a rogue be not to hang for deserting his captain and then
maligning him, soon would knavery be master of all.'

'Hear me first, Hal.'

'I'll hear when I return and you are dried.  Why, man, thou art an
icicle errant; change thy garments while I go round the posts, or I
shall hear nought for the chattering of thy teeth.'

'Nor I for your cough, if you go, Harry.  Surely, 'tis Salisbury's
night!'

'The more cause that I be on the alert!  Could I be everywhere,
mayhap a few winter blasts would not have chilled and frozen all the
manhood out of the host.'

He spoke very sharply as he threw him on his horse, and wrapped his
cloak about him--a poor defence, spite of the ermine lining, against
the frost of the December night for a man whose mother, the fair and
wise Mary de Bohun, had died in early youth from disease of the
lungs.

James and the two young partners of his adventure had long been clad
in their gowns of peace, and seated by the fire in the refectory,
James with his harp in his hand, from time to time dreamily calling
forth a few plaintive notes, such as he said always rang in his ears
after hearing a Scottish voice, when they again heard Henry's voice
in hot displeasure with the provost-marshal for having deferred the
execution of the runaways till after the hearing of the story of the
King of Scots.

'His commands were not to be transgressed for the king of anything,'
and he only reprieved the wretches till morning that their fate might
be more signal.  He spoke with the peremptory fierceness that had of
late almost obscured his natural good-humour and kindliness; and when
he entered the refectory and threw himself into a chair by the fire,
he looked wearied out in body and mind, shivered and coughed, and
said with unwonted depression that the sullen fellows would make a
quagmire of their camp after all, since a French reinforcement had
come up, and the vigilance that would be needed would occupy the
whole army.  At supper he ate little and spoke less; and when James
would have related his encounter within the Scots, he cut him short,
saying, 'Let that rest till morning; I am sick of hearing of it!  An
air upon thy harp would be more to the purpose.'

Nor would James have been unwilling to be silent on old Douglas's
conduct if he had not been anxious to plead for the panic-stricken
archers, as well as to extol the conduct of the two youths, and of
the Yorkshire squires; but, as he divined that the young Hotspur
would regard praise from him as an insult, he deferred the subject
for his absence, and launched into a plaintive narrative ballad, to
which Henry listened, leaning back in his chair, often dozing, but
without relaxation of the anxiety that sat on his pale face, and ever
and anon wakening within a heavy sigh, as though his buoyant spirits
were giving way under the weight of care he had brought on himself.

James was just singing of one of the many knightly orphans of
romance, exposed in woods to the nurture of bears, his father slain,
his mother dead of grief--a ditty he had perhaps chosen for its
soporific powers--when a gay bugle blast rang through the court of
the convent.

'The French would scarce send to parley thus late,' exclaimed James;
but the next moment a joyful clamour arose without, and Henry,
springing to his feet, spoke not, but stood awaiting the tidings with
the colour burning on cheek and brow in suppressed excitement.

An esquire, splashed to the ears, hurried into the room, and falling
on his knees, cried aloud, 'God save King Harry!  News, news, my
lord!  The Queen has safely borne you a fair son at Windsor Castle,
five days since.'

Henry did not speak, but took the messenger's hand, wrung it, and
left a costly ring there.  Then, taking off his cap, he put his hands
over his face, uttering a few words of fervent thanksgiving almost
within himself, and then turning to the esquire, made further
inquiries after his wife's welfare, took from him the letter that
Archbishop Chicheley had sent, poured out a cup of wine for him, bade
the lords around make him good cheer, but craved license for himself
to retire.

It was so unlike his usual hilarious manner that all looked at one
another in anxiety, and spoke of his unusual susceptibility to
fatigue and care; while the squire, looking at the rich jewel in his
hand, declared within disappointment in his tone, that he would
rather have had a mere flint stone so he had heard King Harry's own
cheery voice.

James was not the least anxious of them, but long ere light the next
morning Henry stood at his bedside, saying, 'I must go round the
posts before mass, Jamie.  Will you face the matin frost?'

'I am fitter to face it than thou,' said James, rising.  'Is there
need for this?'

'Great need,' said Henry.  'Here are these fresh forces all aglow
within their first zeal, and unless they are worse captains than I
suppose them, they will attempt some mischief ere long--nor is any
time so slack as cock-crow.'

James was speedily ready, and, within some suppressed sighs, so was
Malcolm, who knew himself in duty bound to attend his master, and was
kept on the alert by seeing Ralf Percy also on foot.  But it was a
great relief to him that the young gentleman murmured in no measured
terms against the intolerable activity of their kings.  No other
attendants went within them, since Henry was wont to patrol his camp
with as little demonstration as possible.

'I would scarcely ask a dog to come out with me this wintry morn,'
said he, as he waved back his sleepy chamberlain, Fitzhugh, and took
his brother king's arm; 'but I could not but crave a turn with thee,
Jamie, ere the hue and cry of rejoicing begins.'

'That is poor welcome for your heir,' said James.

'Poor child!' said Henry; then, after they had walked some space in
silence, he added, 'You'll mock me, but I would that this had not
befallen at Windsor.  I had laid my plans that it should be
otherwise; but ladies are ill to guide.'

'And wherefore should it not have been at fair Windsor?  If I can
love it as a prison, sure your son may well love it as a cradle.'

'No dishonour to Windsor,' said Henry; 'but, sleeping or waking, this
whole night hath this adage rung in my ears -


"Harry, born at Monmouth, shall short time live and all get;
Harry, born at Windsor, shall long time live and lose all."'


'A most choice piece of royal poesy and prophecy,' laughed James.

'Nay, do not charge me with it, thou dainty minstrel.  It was sung to
me by mime old Herefordshire nurse, when Windsor seemed as little
within my reach as Meaux, and I never thought of it again till I
looked to have a son.'

'Then balk the prophecy,' said James; 'Edward born at Windsor got
enough, and lived long enough to boot!'

'Too late!' was the answer.  'The Archbishop christened the poor
child Harry in the very hour of his birth.'

'Poor child!' echoed James, rather sarcastically.

'Nay, 'tis not solely the rhyme,' said Henry; 'but this has been a
wakeful night, and not without misgivings whether I am one who ought
to look for joy in his children.'

'What is past was not such that you alone should cry mea culpa,' said
James.

'I never thought so till now,' said Henry.  'Yet who knows?  My
father was a winsome young man ere his exile, full of tenderness to
us all, at the rare times he was with us.  Who knows what cares may
make of me ere my boy learns to knew me?'

'You will not hold him aloof, and give him no chance of loving you?'

'I trow not!  I'll have him with me in the camp, and he and my brave
men shall be one another's pride.  Which Roman emperor is it that
hears the nickname his father's soldiers gave him as a child?  Nay--
Caligula was it?  Omens are against me this morning.'

'Then laughs them to scorn, and be yourself,' said James.  'Bless God
for the goodly child, who is born to two kingdoms, won by his
father's and his grandsire's swords.'

'Ah!' said Henry, depressed by failing health, a sleepless night, and
hungry morning, 'maybe it were better for him, soul and body both,
did I stand here Duke of Lancaster, and good Edmund of March yonder
were head of realm and army.'

'Never would he be head of this army,' said James.  'He would be
snoring at Shene; that is, if he could sleep for the trouble the Duke
of Lancaster would be giving him.'

Henry laughed at last.  'Good King Edmund, he would assuredly never
try to set the world right on its hinges.  Honest fellow, soon he
will be as hearty in his congratulations as though he did not lie
under a great wrong.  Heigh-ho! such as he may be in the right on't.
I've marvelled of late, whether any priest or hermit could bring back
my old assurance, that all this is my work on earth, or tell me if it
be all one grand error.  Men there have been like Caesar, Alexander,
or Charlemagne, who thought my thoughts and worked them out; and
surely Church and nations cry aloud for purifying.  Jerusalem, and a
general council--I saw them once clear and bright before me; but now
a mist seems to rise up from Richard's blood, and hide them from me;
and there comes from it my father's voice when he asked on his
deathbed what right I had to the crown.  What would it be if I had to
leave this work half done?'

He was interrupted by the sight of a young knight stealing into the
camp, after a furtive expedition to Paris.  It was enough to rouse
him from his despondent state; and the severity of his wrath was in
full proportion to the offence.  Nor did he again utter his
misgivings, but was full of his usual alacrity and life, as though
daylight had restored his buoyancy.

James, on the way back to the thanksgiving mass, interceded for last
night's offenders, as an act of grace suitable to the occasion; but
Henry was inexorable.

'Had they stood to die like Englishmen, they had not lied like dogs!
'he said; 'and as dogs they shall hang!'

In fact, in the critical state of his army, he knew that the only
safety lay in the promptest and sternest justice; and therefore the
three foremost in accusing King James of treachery were hung long
before noon.

However, he called for the two Yorkshiremen, and thus addressed them:
'Well done, my masters!  Thanks for showing Scots and Frenchmen what
stuff Englishmen are made of!  I keep my word, good fellows.  Kneel
down, and I'll dub each a knight.  How now! what are you blundering
and whispering for?'

'So please you, Sir,' said Kitson, 'this is no matter to win one's
spurs for--mere standing still without a blow.'

'I would all had that same gift of standing still,' returned Henry.
'What is it sticks in your gizzard, friend?  If 'tis the fees, I take
them on myself.'

'No, Sir,' hoarsely cried both.

And Kitson explained:  'Sir, you said you'd knight the one of us that
was foremost.  Now, the two being dubbed, we shall be but where we
were before as to Mistress Agnes of Mineshull, unless of your good-
will you would be pleased to let us fight out the wager of the
heriard in all peace and amity.'

Henry burst out laughing, with all his old merriment, as he said,
'For no Mistress Agnes living can I have honest men's lives wasted,
specially of such as have that gift of standing still.  If she does
not knew her own mind, one of you must get himself killed by the
Frenchmen, not by one another.  So kneel down, and we'll make your
knighthood's feast fall in with that of my son.'

Thus Sir Christopher Kitson and Sir William Trenton rose up knights;
and bore their honours with a certain bluntness that made them butts,
even while they were the heroes of the day; and Henry, who had
resumed his gay temper, made much diversion out of their mingled
shrewdness and gruffness.

'So,' muttered Malcolm to Ralf Percy, 'we are passed over in the
self-same matter for which these fellows are knighted.'

'Tush!' answered Percy; 'I'd scorn to be confounded with a couple of
clowns like them!  Moreover,' he added, with better reason, 'their
valour was more exercised than ours, inasmuch as they thought there
was treachery, and we did not.  No, no; when my spurs are won, it
shall be for some prowess, better than standing stock-still.'

Malcolm held his tongue, unwilling that Percy should see that he did
feel this an achievement; but he was vexed at the lack of reward,
fancying that knighthood would be no small step in the favour of that
imaginary Esclairmonde whom he had made for himself.

'Light of the world' he loved to call her still, but it was in the
commonplace romance of his time, the mere light of beauty and grace
illuminating the world of chivalry.



CHAPTER VIII:  THE CAPTURE



The seven months' siege ended at last, but it was not until the
brightness of May was on the fields outside, and the deadly blight of
famine on all within, that a haggard, wasted-looking deputation came
down from the upper city to treat with the King.

Henry was never severe with the inhabitants of French cities, and
exacted no harsh terms, save that he insisted that Vaurus, the robber
captain, and his two chief lieutenants, should be given up to him to
suffer condign punishment.  The warriors who had shut themselves up
to hold out the place by honourable warfare for the Dauphin must be
put to ransom as prisoners of war; but the burghers were to be
unmolested, on condition of their swearing allegiance to Henry as
regent for, and heir of, Charles VI.

To this the deputies consented, and the next day was fixed for the
surrender.  The difficulty was, as Henry had found at Harfleur,
Rouen, and many other places, to enforce forbearance on his soldiery,
who regarded plunder as their lawful prey, the enemy as their natural
game, and the trouble a city had given them as a cause for
unmercifulness.  The more time changed his army from the feudal
gathering of English country gentlemen and yeomen to mercenary bands
of men-at-arms, the mere greedy, rapacious, and insubordinate became
their temper.  Well knowing the greatness of the peril, and that the
very best of his captains had scarcely the will, if they had the
power, to restrain the license that soon became barbarity
unimaginable, he spoke sadly overnight of his dread of the day of
surrender, when it might prove impossible to prevent deeds that would
be not merely a blot on his scutcheon, but a shame to human nature;
looking back to the exultation with which he had entered Harfleur as
a mere effect of boyish ignorance and thoughtlessness.

Having taken all possible precautions, he stood in his full armour,
with the fox's brush in his helmet, under the great elm in the
market-place, received the keys, accepted the sword of the captain
commissioned by Charles with royal courtesy, gave his hand to be
kissed by the mayor; and then, with grave inexorable air, like a
statue of steel, watched as the freebooter Vaurus and his two chief
companions were led down with their hands tied, halters round their
necks, and priests at their sides, preparing them to be hung on that
very tree.  They were proud hard men, and uttered no entreaty for
grace.  They had hung too many travellers upon these same branches
not to expect their own turn, and they were no cravens to abase
themselves.

That act of justice ended, Henry mounted his warhorse and rode in at
the gates.  His wont was to go straight to the principal church, and
there attend a solemn mass of thanksgiving; but experience had taught
him that his devotions were the very opportunity of his men's rapine:
he had therefore arranged that as soon as he should have arrived in
the choir of the cathedral, James should take his place, and he slip
out by a side door, so as to return to the scene of action.

In full procession he and his suite reached the chief door, and there
dismounted in an immense crowd, which thronged in at the doors.

'Come, Glenuskie,' said Ralf Percy, as the two youths were pushed
chose together in the press; 'if you have a fancy for being smothered
in the minster, I have none.  We shall never be missed.  'Twill be
sport to walk round and see how these hardy rogues contrived to hold
out.'

Malcolm willingly turned aside with him, and looked down the sloping
street, which was swarming with comers and goers.  The whole place
was in an inflammable state.  Soldiers were demanding quarters, which
the citizens unwillingly gave.  A refusal or expostulation against a
rough entry led to violence; and ever as the two youths walked
farther from the cathedral, there was more of excitement, more rude
oaths of soldiers, more shrieking of women, often crying out even
before any harm was done to them or their houses.

At last, before a tall overhanging house, there was an immense press,
and a frightful din of shouts and imprecations, filling both the new-
comers with infectious eagerness.

'How now? how now?' called Percy.  'Keep the peace, good fellows.'

'Sir,' cried a number of voices, passionately, 'the French villains
have barred their door.  There's a lot of cowardly Armagnacs hid
there with their gold, trying to balk honest men of their ransom.'

Such was the cry resounding on all sides.  'Have at them!  There's
the rogue at the windows.  Out on the fellows!  Burn down the door!
'Tis Vaurus himself and all his gold.  Treason! treason!'

The clamour was convincing to the spirit, if not to the senses.  The
two lads believed in the concealed Armagnacs, or perhaps more truly
were carried away by the vehemence around them; and with something of
the spirit of the chase, threw themselves headlong into the affair.

'Open! open!' shouted Ralf.  'Open, in the name of King Henry!'

An old man's face peeped through a little wicket in the door, and at
sight of the two youths, evidently of high rank, said in a trembling
voice, 'Alas! alas!  Sir, bid these cruel men go away.  I have
nothing here--no one--only my sick daughter.'

'You hear,' said Malcolm, turning round; 'only his sick daughter.'

'Sick daughter!--old liar!  Here's an honest tinker makes oath he has
hoards of gold laid up for Vaurus, and ten Armagnacs hidden in his
house.  Have at him!  Bring fire!'

Blows hailed thick on the door; a flaming torch was handed over the
heads of the throng; horrible growls and roars pervaded them.
Malcolm and Ralf, furious at the cheat, stood among the foremost,
making so much noise themselves between thundering and reviling, and
calling out, 'Where are the Armagnacs?  Down with the traitors!' that
they were not aware of a sudden hush behind them, till a buffet from
a heavy hand fell on Malcolm's shoulder, and a mighty voice cried
'Shame! shame!  What, you too!'

'There are traitors hid here, Sir,' said Percy, in angry self-
justification.

'And what an if there are?  Back, every one of you! rogues that you
be!--Here, Fitzhugh, see those villains back to the camp.  Let their
arms be given up to the Provost-marshal.--Kites and crows as you are!
Away, out with you!'

Henry pointed to the broken door, and the cowed and abashed soldiers
slunk away from the terrible light of his eyes.  No man could stand
before the face of the King.

There was a stillness.  He stood leaning on his sword, his chest
heaving with his panting breaths.  He was naturally as fleet as the
swift-footed Achilles, but the winter had told upon him, and the
haste with which he had rushed to the rescue left him breathless and
speechless, while he seemed as it were to nail the two lads to the
spot by his steady gaze of mingled distress and displeasure.

Neither could brook his eye:  Percy hung his head like a boy in a
scrape; Malcolm quailed with terror, but at the same time felt a keen
sense of injury in being thus treated as a plunderer, and the blow
under which his shoulder ached seemed an indignity to his royal
blood.

'Boys,' said Henry, still low and breathlesly, but all the more
impressively, 'what is to become of honour and mercy if such as you
must needs become ravening wolves at scent of booty?'

'It was not booty, Sir; they said traitors were hid here,' said
Percy, sulkily.

'Tush! the old story!  Ever the plea for rapine and bloodthirstiness.
After the warnings of last night you should have known better; but
you are all alike in frenzy for a sack.  You have both put off your
knighthood till you have learnt not to become a shame thereto.'

'I take not knighthood at your hands, Sir,' burst out Malcolm, goaded
with hot resentment, but startled the next moment at the sound of his
own words.

'I cry you mercy,' said King Henry, in a cold, short tone.

Malcolm turned on his heel and walked away, without waiting to see
how the poor old man in the house threw himself at the King's feet
with a piteous history of his sick daughter and her starving
children, nor how Ralf hurried off headlong to the lower town to send
them immediate relief in bread, wine, and doctors.  The gay, good-
natured, thoughtless lad no mere harboured malice for the
chastisement than if his tutor had caught him idling; but things went
deeper with Malcolm.  True, he had undergone many a brutal jest and
cruel practical joke from his cousins; but that was all in the
family, not like a blow from an alien king, and one not apologized
for, but followed up by a rebuke that seemed to him unjust, lowering
him in his own eyes and those of Esclairmonde, and making him ready
to gnaw himself with moody vexation.

'You here, Malcolm!' said King James, entering his quarters; 'did you
miss me in the throng?  I have not seen you all day.'

'I have been insulted, Sir,' said Malcolm.  'I pray your license to
depart and carry my sword to my kinsmen in the French camp.'

'How now!  Is it the way to treat an insult to run away from it?'

'Not when the world judges men to be on equal terms, my lord.'

'What!  Who has done you wrong, you silly loon?'

'King Henry, Sir; he struck me with his fist, and rated me like his
hound; and I will not eat another morsel of his bread unless he would
answer it to me in single combat.'

'Little enough bread you'd eat after that same answer!' ejaculated
James.  'Oh!  I understand now.  You were with young Hotspur and the
rest that set on the poor townsmen, and Harry made small distinction
of persons!  Nay, Malcolm, it was ill in you, that talked of so
loathing spulzie!'

'I wanted no spulzie.  There were Armagnacs hid in the house, and the
King would not hear us.'

'He knew that story too well.  Were you asleep or idling last night,
when he warned all, on no plea whatever, to break into a house, but,
if the old tale of treachery came up, to set a guard, and call one of
the captains?  Did you hear him--eh?'

'I can take chiding from you, Sir, but neither words nor blows from
any other king in Christendom, still less when he threatens me that I
have deferred my knighthood!  As if I would have it from him!'

'From me you will not have it until he have pardoned Ralf Percy,'
said James, dryly.  'Malcolm, I had not thought you such a fule body!
Under a captain's banner, what can be done but submit to his rule?  I
should do so myself, were Salisbury or March in command.'

'Then, Sir,' said Malcolm, much hurt that the King did not take his
part, 'I shall carry my service elsewhere.'

'So,' said James, much vexed, 'this is the meek lad that wanted to
hide in a convent from an ill world, flying off from his king and
kinsman that he may break down honest men's doors at his will.'

'That I may be free from insult, Sir.'

'You think John of Buchan like to cosset you!  You found the Black
Douglas so courtly to me the other day as to expect him to be tender
to this nicety of yours!  Malcolm, as your prince and guardian, I
forbid this folly, and command you to lay aside this fit of malice
and do your devoir.  What! sobbing, silly lad--where's your manhood?'

'Sir, Sir, what will they think of me--the Lady Esclairmonde and all-
-if they hear I have sat down tamely with a blow?'

'She will never think about you at all but as a sullen malapert
ne'er-do-weel, if you go off to that camp of routiers, trying to prop
a bad cause because you cannot take correction, nor observe
discipline.'

A sudden suspicion came over Malcolm that the King would not thus
make light of the offence, if it had really been the inexpiable
insult he had supposed it, and the thought was an absolute relief;
for in effect the parting from James, and joining the party opposed
to Esclairmonde's friends, would have been so tremendous a step, that
he could hardly have contemplated it in his sober senses, and he
murmured, 'My honour, Sir,' in a tone that James understood.

'Oh, for your honour--you need not fear for that!  Any knight in the
army could have done as much without prejudice to your honour.  Why,
you silly loon, d'ye think I would not have been as angered as
yourself, if your honour had been injured?'

Malcolm's heart felt easier, but he still growled.  'Then, Sir, if
you assure me that I can do so without detriment to my honour, I will
not quit you.'

James laughed.  'It might have been more graciously spoken, my good
cousin, but I am beholden to you.'

Malcolm, ashamed and vexed at the sarcastic tone, held his tongue for
a little while, but presently exclaimed, 'Will the Bishop of
Therouenne hear of it?'

James laughed.  'Belike not; or, if he should, it would only seem to
him the reasonable training of a young squire.'

The King did not say what crossed his own mind, that the Bishop of
Therouenne was more likely to think Henry over-strict in discipline,
and absurdly rigorous.

The prelate, Charles de Luxemburg, brother to the Count de St. Pol,
had made several visits to the English camp.  He was one of these
princely younger sons, who, like Beaufort at home, took
ecclesiastical preferments as their natural provision, and as a
footing whence they might become statesmen.  He was a great admirer
of Henry's genius, and, as the chief French prelate who was heartily
on the English side, enjoyed a much greater prominence than he could
have done at either the French or Burgundian Court.  He and his
brother of St. Pol were Esclairmonde's nearest kinsmen--'oncles a la
mode de Bretagne,' as they call the relationship which is here
sometimes termed Welsh uncle, or first cousins once removed--and from
him James had obtained much more complete information about
Esclairmonde than he could ever get from the flighty Duchess.

Her mother, a beautiful Walloon, had been heiress to wide domains in
Hainault, her father to great estates in Flanders, all which were at
present managed by the politic Bishop.  Like most of the statesman-
secular-clergy, the Bishop hated nothing so much as the monastic
orders, and had made no small haste to remove his fair niece from the
convent at Dijon, where she had been educated, lest the Cistercians
should become possessed of her lands.  He had one scheme for her
marriage; but his brother, the Count, had wished to give her to his
own second son, who was almost an infant; and the Duke of Burgundy
had designs on her for his half-brother Boemond; and among these
various disputants, Esclairmonde had never failed to find support
against whichever proposal was forced upon her, until the coalition
between the Dukes of Burgundy and Brabant becoming too strong, she
had availed herself of Countess Jaqueline's discontent to evade them
both.

The family had, of course, been much angered, and had fully expected
that her estates would go to some great English abbey, or to some
English lord whose haughty reserve and insularity would be
insupportable.  It was therefore a relief to Monseigneur de
Therouenne to hear James's designs; and when the King further added,
that he would be willing to let the claims on the Hainault part of
her estates be purchased by the Count de St. Pol, and those in
Flanders by the Duke of Burgundy, the Bishop was delighted, and
declared that, rather than such a negotiation should fail, he would
himself advance the sum to his brother; but that the Duke of
Burgundy's consent was more doubtful, only could they not do without
it?

And he honoured Malcolm with a few words of passing notice from time
to time, as if he almost regarded him as a relation.  No doubt it
would have been absurd to fly from such chances as these to Patrick
Drummond and the opposite camp; and yet there were times when Malcolm
felt as if he should get rid of a load on his heart if he were to
break with all his present life, hurry to Patrick, confess the whole
to him, and then--hide his head in some hermitage, leaving his pledge
unforfeited!

That, however, could not be.  He was bound to the King, and might not
desert him, and it was not unpleasant to brood over the sacrifice of
his own displeasure.

'See,' said Henry, in the evening, as he came into the refectory and
walked up to James, 'I have found my signet.  It was left in the
finger of my Spanish glove, which I had not worn since the beginning
of winter.  Thanks to all who took vain pains to look for it.'

But Malcolm did not respond with his pleased look to the thanks.  He
was not in charity with Henry, and crept out of hearing of him, while
James was saying, 'You had best destroy one or the other, or they
will make mischief.  Here, I'll crush it with the pommel of my
sword.'

'Ay,' said Henry, laughing, 'you'd like to shew off one of your
sledge-hammer blows--Sir Bras de Fer!  But, Master Scot, you shall
not smash the English shield so easily.  This one hangs too loose to
be safe; I shall keep it to serve me when we have fattened up at
Paris, after the leanness of our siege.'

'Hal,' said James, seeing his gay temper restored, 'you have
grievously hurt that springald of mine.  His northern blood cannot
away with the taste he got of your fist.'

'Pretty well for your godly young monk, to expect to rob unchecked!'
laughed Henry.

'He will do well at last,' said James.  'Manhood has come on him with
a rush, and borne him off his feet; nor would I have him over-tame.'

'There spake the Scot!' said Henry.  'By my faith, Jamie, we should
have had you the worst robber of all had we not caught you young!
Well, what am I do for this sprig of royalty?  Say I struck unawares?
Nay, had I known him, I'd have struck with as much of a will as his
slight bones would bear.'

'An you love me, Hal, do something to cool his ill blood, and remove
the sense of shame that sinks a lad in his own eyes.'

'Methought,' said Henry, 'there was more shame in the deed than in
the buffet.'

Nevertheless the good-natured King took an occasion of saying:  'My
Lord of Glenuskie, I smote without knowing you.  It was no place for
a prince--nay, for any honest man; otherwise no hand should have been
laid on my guest or my brother's near kinsman.  And whereas I hear
that both you and my fiery hot Percy verily credited the cry that
prisoners were hid in that house, let me warn you that never was
place yielded on composition but some villain got up the shout, and
hundreds of fools followed it, till they learnt villainy in their
turn.  Therefore I ever chastise transgression of my command to touch
neither dwelling nor inhabitant.  You have both learnt your lesson,
and the lion rampant and he of the straight tail will both be reined
up better another time.'

Malcolm had no choice but to bend his head, mutter something, and let
the King grasp his hand, though to him the apology seemed none at
all, but rather to increase the offence, since the blame was by no
means taken back again, while the condescension was such as could not
be rejected, and thus speciously took away his excuse for brooding
over his wrath.  His hand lay so unwillingly in that strong hearty
clasp that the King dropped it, frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and
muttered to himself, 'Sullen young dog!  No Scot can let bygones be
bygones!' and then he turned away and cast the trifle from his
memory.

James was amazed not to see the moody face clear up, and asked of
Malcolm whether he were not gratified with this ample satisfaction.

'I trow I must be, Sir,' said Malcolm.

'I tell thee, boy,' said James, 'not one king--nay, not one man--in a
thousand would have offered thee the frank amends King Harry hath
done this day:  nay, I doubt whether even he could so have done, were
it not that the hope of his wife's coming hath made him overflow with
joy and charity to all the world.'

Malcolm did not make much reply, and James regarded him with some
disappointment.  The youth was certainly warmly attached to him, but
these tokens of superiority to the faults of his time and country
which had caused the King to seek him for a companion seemed to have
vanished with his feebleness and timidity.  The manhood that had been
awakened was not the chivalrous, generous, and gentle strength of
Henry and his brothers, but the punctilious pride and sullenness, and
almost something of the license, of the Scot.  The camp had not
proved the school of chivalry that James, in his inexperience, had
imagined it must be under Henry, and the tedium and wretchedness of
the siege had greatly added to its necessary evils by promoting a
reckless temper and willingness to snatch at any enjoyment without
heed to consequences.  Close attendance on the kings had indeed
prevented either Malcolm or Percy from even having the temptation of
running into any such lengths as those gentry who had plundered the
shrine of St. Fiacre at Breuil, or were continually galloping off for
an interval of dissipation at Paris; but they were both on the
outlook for any snatch of stolen diversion, for in ceasing from
monastic habits Malcolm seemed to have laid aside the scruples of a
religious or conscientious youth, and specially avoided Dr. Bennet,
the King's almoner.

James feared he had been mistaken, and looked to the influence of
Esclairmonde to repair the evil, if perchance she should follow the
Queen to France.  And this it was almost certain she must do, since
she was entirely dependent upon the Countess of Hainault, and could
not obtain admission to a nunnery without recovering a portion of her
estates.



CHAPTER IX:  THE DANCE OF DEATH



The Queen was coming!  No sooner had the first note of surrender been
sounded from the towers of Meaux, than Henry had sent intelligence to
England that the way was open for the safe arrival of his much-loved
wife; and at length, on a sunny day in May, tidings were received
that she had landed in France, under the escort of the Duke of
Bedford.

Vincennes, in the midst of its noble forest, was the place fixed for
the meeting of the royal pair; and never did a happier or more
brilliant cavalcade traverse those woodlands than that with which
Henry rode to the appointed spot.

All the winter, the King had heeded appearances as little as of old
when roughing it with Hotspur in Wales; but now his dress was of the
most royal.  On his head was a small green velvet cap, encircled by a
crown in embroidery; his robe was of scarlet silk, and over it was
thrown a mantle of dark green samite, thickly powdered with tiny
embroidered white antelopes; the Garter was on his knee, the George
on his neck.  It was a kingly garb, and well became the tall slight
person and fair noble features.  During these tedious months he had
looked wan, haggard, and careworn; but the lines of anxiety were all
effaced, his lustrous blue eyes shone and danced like Easter suns,
his complexion rivalled the fresh delicate tints of the blossoms in
the orchards; and when, with a shyness for which he laughed at
himself, he halted to brush away any trace of dust that might offend
the eye of his 'dainty Kate,' and gaily asked his brother king if he
were sufficiently pranked out for a lady's bower, James, thinking he
had never seen him so handsome, replied:

'Like a young bridegroom--nay, more like a young suitor.'

'You're jealous, Jamie--afraid of being outshone.  'Tis is your own
fault, man; none can ever tell whether you be in festal trim or not.'

For King James's taste was for sober, well-blending hues; and as he
never lapsed into Henry's carelessness, his state apparel was not
very apparently dissimilar from his ordinary dress, being generally
of dark rich crimson, blue, or russet, with the St. Andrew's cross in
white silk on his breast, or else the ruddy lion, but never
conspicuously; and the sombre hues always seemed particularly well to
suit his auburn colouring.

Malcolm, in scarlet and gold, was a far gayer figure, and quite
conscious of the change in his own appearance--how much taller,
ruddier, and browner he had become; how much better he held himself
both in riding and walking; and how much awkwardness and
embarrassment he had lost.  No wonder Esclairmonde had despised the
sickly, timid, monkish school-boy; and if she had then shown him any
sort of grace or preference, what would she think of the princely
young squire he could new show her, who had seen service, had proved
his valour, and was only not a knight because of King Henry's
unkindness and King James's punctilio?--at any rate, no child to be
brow-beaten and silenced with folly about cloistral dedication, but a
youth who had taken his place in the world, and could allege that his
inspiration had come through her bright eyes.

Would she be there?  That was the chief anxiety:  for it was not
certain that either she or her mistress would risk themselves on the
Continent; and Catherine had given no intimation as to who would be
in her suite--so that, as Henry had merrily observed, he was the only
one in the whole party who was not in suspense, except indeed
Salisbury, who had sent his commands to his little daughter to come
out with the Queen.

'She is come!' cried Henry.  'Beforehand with us, after all;' and he
spurred his horse on as he saw the banner raised, and the escort
around the gate; and in a few seconds more he and his companions had
hurried through the court, where the ladies had scarcely dismounted,
and hastened into the hall, breaking into the seneschal's solemn
reception of the Queen.

'My Kate, my fairest!  Mine eyes have been hungry for a sight of
thee.'

And Catherine, in her horned head-gear and flutter of spangled veil,
was almost swallowed up in his hearty embrace; and the fervency of
his great love so far warmed her, that she clung to him, and tenderly
said, 'My lord, it is long since I saw you.'

'Thou wert before me!  Ah! forgive thy tardy knight,' he continued,
gazing at her really enhanced beauty as if he had eyes for no one
else, even while with lip and hand, kiss, grasp, and word, he greeted
her companions, of whom Jaqueline of Hainault and John of Bedford
were the most prominent.

'And the babe! where is he?' then cried he.  'Let me have him to hold
up to my brave fellows in the court!'

'The Prince of Wales?' said Catherine.  'You never spake of my
bringing him.'

'If I spake not, it was because I doubted not for a moment that you
would keep him with you.  Nay, verily it is not in sooth that you
left him.  You are merely sporting with use.'

'Truly, Sir,' said Catherine, 'I never guessed that you would clog
yourself with a babe in the cradle, and I deemed him more safely
nursed at Windsor.'

'If it be for his safety!  Yet a soldier's boy should thrive among
soldiers,' said the King, evidently much disappointed, and proceeding
to eager inquiries as to the appearance and progress of his child; to
which the Queen replied with a certain languor, as though she had no
very intimate personal knowledge of her little son.

Other eyes were meanwhile eagerly scanning the bright confusion of
veils and wimples; and Malcolm had just made out the tall head and
dark locks under a long almost shrouding white veil far away in the
background behind the Countess of Hainault, when the Duke of Bedford
came up with a frown of consternation on his always anxious face, and
drawing King James into a window, said, 'What have you been doing to
him?'--to which James, without hearing the question, replied, 'Where
is SHE?'

'Joan?  At home.  It was the Queen's will.  Of that another time.
But what means this?' and he signed towards his brother.  'Never saw
I man so changed.'

'Had you seen him at Christmas you might have said so,' replied
James; 'but now I see naught amiss; I had been thinking I had never
seen him so fair and comely.'

'I tell you, James,' said Bedford, contracting his brows till they
almost met ever his arched nose, 'I tell you, his look brings back to
me my mother's, the last time she greeted my father!'

'To your fantasy, not your memory, John!  You were a mere babe at her
death.'

'Of five years,' said Bedford.  'That face--that cough--have brought
all back--ay, the yearning look when my father was absent, and the
pure rosy fairness that Harry and Tom cited so fiercely against one
who would have told them how sick to death she was.  I mind me too,
that when our grandame of Hereford made us motherless children over
to our grandsire of Lancaster, it was with a warning that Harry had
the tender lungs of the Bohuns, and needed care.  One deadly sickness
he had at Kenilworth, when my father was ridden for post-haste.  My
mind misgave me throughout this weary siege; but his service held me
fast at home, and I trusted that you would watch over him.'

'A man like him is ill to guide,' said James; 'but he is more himself
now than he has been for months, and a few weeks' quiet with his wife
will restore him.  But what is this?' he proceeded in his turn; 'why
is the Lady Joan not here?'

'How can I tell?  It was no fault of mine.  I even got a prim warning
that it became me not to meddle about her ladies, and I doubted what
slanders you might hear if I were seen asking your Nightingale for a
token.'

'Have you none!  Good John, I know you have.'

John smiled his ironical smile, produced from the pouch at his girdle
a small packet bound with rose-coloured silk, and said:  'The
Nightingale hath a plume, you see, and saith, moreover, that her
knight hath done his devoir passably, but that she yet looks to see
him send some captive giant to her feet.  So, Sir Knight, I hope your
poor dwarf hath acquitted him well in your chivalrous jargon.'

James smiled and coloured with pleasure; the fantastic message was
not devoid of reality in the days when young imaginative spirits
tried to hide the prose of war and policy in a bright mist of
romantic fancy; nor was he ashamed to bend his manly head in
reverence to, and even press to his lips, his lady's first love-
letter, in the very sight of the satirical though sympathizing
Bedford, of whom he eagerly asked of the fair Joan's health and
welfare, and whether she were flouted by Queen Catherine.

'No more than is the meed of her beauty,' said Bedford.  'Sister Kate
likes not worship at any shrine save one.  Look at our suite:  our
knights--yea, our very grooms are picked for their comeliness; to wit
that great feather-pated oaf of a Welshman, Owen Tudor there; while
dames and demoiselles, tire-women and all, are as near akin as may be
to Sir Gawain's loathly lady.'

'Not at least the fair Luxemburg.  Did not I see her stately mien?'

'She is none of the Queen's, and moreover she stands aloof, so that
the women forgive her gifts!  There is that cough of Harry's again!
He is the shadow of the man he was; I would I knew if this were the
step-dame's doing.'

'Nay, John, when you talk to me of Harry's cough, and of night-
watches and flooded camps, I hearken; but when your wits run wool-
gathering after that poor woman, making waxen images stuck full--'

'You are in the right on't, James,' said Henry, who had come up to
them while he was speaking.  'John will never get sorceries out of
his head.  I have thought it over, and will not be led into
oppressing my father's widow any more.  I cannot spend this Pentecost
cheerily till I know she is set free and restored to her manors; and
I shall write to Humfrey and the Council to that effect.'

And as John shrugged his shoulders, Henry gaily added:  'Thou seest
what comes of a winter spent with this unbeliever Jamie; and truly, I
found the thought of unright to my father's widow was a worse pin in
my heart than ever she is like to thrust there.'

Thus then it was, that in the overflowing joy and good-will of his
heart, and mayhap with the presentiment which rendered him willing to
be at peace with all his kindred, Henry forgave and released his
step-mother, Joan of Navarre, whom common rumour termed the Witch
Queen, and whom he had certainly little reason to love, whether it
were true or not that she had attempted to weave spells against him.
In fact, there were few of the new-comers from England who did not,
like Bedford, impute the transparency of Henry's hands, and the
hollowness of his brightly-tinted cheek, to some form of sorcery.

Meantime, Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, more beautiful than ever under a
still simpler dress, had greeted Malcolm with her wonted kindness;
adding, with a smile, that he was so much grown and embrowned that
she should not have known him but for the sweet Scottish voice which
he, like his king, possessed.

'You do me too much grace in commending aught that is mine, madame,'
said Malcolm, with an attempt at the assurance he believed himself to
have acquired; but he could only finish by faltering and blushing.
There was a power of repression about Esclairmonde that annihilated
all his designs, and drove him back into his bashful self whenever he
came into contact with her, and felt how unlike the grave serene
loftiness of her presence was to the mere queen of romance, that in
her absence her shadow had become.

Alice Montagu, returning to her side, relieved while disconcerting
him.  Sweet little Alice had been in a continual flutter ever since
commands had come from Meaux that she was to come out to meet the
father whom she had not seen since what seemed like half her childish
lifetime, and the betrothed whom she had never seen at all; and Lady
Westmoreland had added to her awe by the lengthened admonition with
which she took leave of her.  And on this day, when Esclairmonde
herself had arrayed the fair child in the daintiest of rose-pink
boddices edged with swan's-down, the whitest of kirtles, and softest
of rosy veils, the flush of anxiety on the pale little face made it
so fair to look upon, that as the maiden wistfully asked, 'Think you
he will flout me?' it was impossible not to laugh at the very notion.
'Ah! but I would be glad if he did, for then I might bide with you.'

When, in the general greeting, Alice had been sought out by a tall,
dark-browed, grizzled warrior, Esclairmonde had, cruelly, as the
maiden thought, kept her station behind the Countess, and never
stirred for all those wistful backward glances, but left her alone to
drop on her knee to seek the blessing of the mighty old soldier.

And now she was holding his great hand, almost as tough as his
gauntlets, and leading him up to her friend, while he louted low, and
spoke with a grand fatherly courtesy:

'Fair demoiselle, this silly wench of mine tells me that you have
been good friend to her, and I thank you for the same with all mine
heart.'

'Silly' was a fond term of love then, and had all the affection of a
proud father in it, as the Earl of Salisbury patted the small soft
fingers in his grasp.

'Truly, my lord,' responded Esclairmonde, 'the Lady Alice hath been
my sweetest companion, friend, and sister, for these many months.'

'Nay, child, art worthy to be called friend by such a lady as this?
If so, I shall deem my little Alice grown a woman indeed, as it is
time she were--Diccon Nevil is bent on the wedding before we go to
the wars again.'

Alice coloured like a damask rose, and hid her face behind her
friend.

'Hast seen him, sweet?' asked Esclairmonde, when Salisbury had been
called away.  'Is he here?'

'Yes; out there--he with the white bull on his surcoat,' said Alice,
dreading to look that way.

'And hast spoken with him?' asked the lady next, feeling as if the
stout, commonplace, hardy-looking soldier she saw was scarce what she
would have chosen for her little wild rose of an Alice, comely and
brave though he were.

'He hath kissed mine hand,' faltered Alice, but it was quite credible
that not a word had passed.  The marriage was a business contract
between the houses of Wark and Raby, and a grand speculation for Sir
Richard Nevil, that was all; but gentle Alice had no reluctance
beyond mere maidenly shyness, and unwillingness to enter on an
unknown future under a new lord.  She even whispered to her dear
Clairette that she was glad Sir Richard never tormented her by
talking to her, and that he was grave, and so old.

'So old? why, little one, he can scarce be seven-and-twenty!'

'And is not that old? oh, so old!' said Alice.  'Able to take care of
me.  I would not have a youth like that young Lord of Glenuskie.  Oh
no--never!'

'That is well,' said Esclairmonde, smiling; 'but wherefore put such
disdain in thy voice, Alice?  He used to be our playfellow, and he
hath grown older and more manly in this year.'

'His boyhood was better than such manhood,' said Alice; 'he was more
to my taste when he was meek, than now that he seems to say, "I would
be saucy if I durst."  And he hath not the stuff to dare any way.'

'Fie! fie!  Alice, you are growing slanderous.'

'Nay, now, Clairette, own verily--you feel the like!'

'Hush, silly one, what skills it?  Youths must pass through
temptation; and if his king hindered his vocation, maybe the poor lad
may rue it sorely, but methinks he will come to the right at last.
It were better to say a prayer for his faults than to speak evil of
them, Alice.'

Poor Malcolm!  He was at that very moment planning with an
embroiderer a robe wherein to appear, covered with flashes of
lightning transfixing the world, and mottoes around--'Esclaire mais
Embrase'

Every moment that he was absent from Esclairmonde was spent in
composing chivalrous discourses in which to lay himself at her feet,
but the mere sight of her steady dark eyes scattered them instantly
from his memory; and save for very shame he would have entreated King
James again to break the ice for him, since the lady evidently
supposed that she had last year entirely quashed his suit.  And in
this mood Malcolm mounted and took his place to ride into Paris,
where the King wished to arrive in the evening, and with little
preparation, so as to avoid the weary length of a state reception,
with all its speeches and pageants.

In the glow of a May evening the cavalcade passed the gates, and
entered the city, where the streets were so narrow that it was often
impossible to ride otherwise than two and two.  The foremost had
emerged into an open space before a church and churchyard, when there
was a sudden pause, a shock of surprise.  All across the space,
blocking up the way, was an enormous line of figures, looking shadowy
in the evening light, and bearing the insignia of every rank and
dignity that earth presented.  Popes were there, with triple crown
and keys, and fanned by peacock tails; scarlet-matted and caped
cardinals, mitred and crosiered bishops, crowned and sceptred kings,
ermined dukes, steel-clad knights, gowned lawyers, square-capped
priests, cowled monks, and friars of every degree--nay, the mechanic
with his tools, the peasant with his spade, even the beggar within
his dish; old men, and children of every age; and women too of all
grades--the tower-crowned queen, the beplumed dame, the lofty abbess,
the veiled nun, the bourgeoise, the peasant, the beggar;--all were
there, moving in a strange shadowy wild dance, sometimes slow,
sometimes swift and mad with gaiety, to the music of an unseen band
of clashing kettle-drums, cymbals, and other instruments, that played
fast and furiously; while above all a knell in the church tower rang
forth at intervals a slow, deep, lugubrious note; and all the time
there glided in and out through the ring a grisly being--skull-
headed, skeleton-boned, scythe in hand--Death himself; and ever and
anon, when the dance was swiftest, would he dart into the midst,
pounce on one or other, holding an hour-glass to the face, unheeding
rank, sex, or age, and bear his victim to the charnel-house beside
the church.  It was a sight as though some terrible sermon had taken
life, as though the unseen had become visible, the veil were taken
away; and the implicit unresisting obedience of the victims added to
the sense of awful reality and fatality.

The advance of the victorious King Henry made no difference to the
continuousness of the frightful dance; nay, it was plain that he was
but in the presence of a monarch yet more victorious than himself,
and the mazes wound on, the performers being evidently no phantoms,
but as substantial as those who beheld them; nay, the grisly ring
began to absorb the royal suite within itself, and an awe-stricken
silence prevailed--at least, where Malcolm Stewart and Ralf Percy
were riding together.

Neither lad durst ask the other what it meant.  They thought they
knew too well.  Percy ceased not for one moment to cross himself, and
mutter invocations to the saints; Malcolm's memory and tongue alike
seemed inert and paralyzed with horror--his brain was giddy, his eyes
stretched open; and when Death suddenly turned and darted in his
direction, one horrible gush of thought--'Fallen, fallen!  Lost,
lost!  No confession!'--came over him; he would have sobbed out an
entreaty for mercy and for a priest, but it became a helpless shriek;
and while Percy's sword flashed before his eyes, he felt himself
falling, death-stricken, to the earth, and knew no more.

'There--he moved,' said a voice above him.

'How now, Glenuskie?' cried Ralf Percy.  'Look up; I verily thought
you were sped by Death in bodily shape; but 'twas all an abominable
grisly pageant got up by some dismal caitiffs.'

'It was the Danse Macabre,' added the sweet tone that did indeed
unclose Malcolm's eyes, to see Esclairmonde bending over him, and
holding wine to his lips.  Ralf raised him that he might swallow it,
and looking round, he saw that he was in a small wainscoted chamber,
with an old burgher woman, Ralf Percy, and Esclairmonde; certainly
not in the other world.  He strove to ask 'what it meant,' and
Esclairmonde spoke again:

'It is the Danse Macabre; I have seen it in Holland.  It was invented
as a warning to those of sinful life, and this good woman tells me it
has become the custom to enact it every evening at this churchyard of
the Holy Innocents.'

'A custom I devoutly hope King Harry will break!' exclaimed Ralf.
'If not, I'll some day find the way between those painted ribs of
Monseigneur de la Mort, I can tell him!  I had nearly given him a
taste of my sword as it was, only some Gascon rogue caught my arm,
and he was off ere I could get free.  So I jumped off, that your poor
corpse should not be trodden by French heels; and I hardly know how
it was, but the Lady Esclairmonde was by my side as I dragged you
out, and caused these good folks to let me bring you in behind their
shop.'

'Lady, lady, I am for ever beholden,' cried Malcolm, gathering
himself up as if to fall at her feet, and his heart bounding high
with joy, for this was from death to life indeed.

'I saw there was some one hurt,' said Esclairmonde in her repressive
manner.  'Drink some more wine, eat this bread, and you will be able
to ride to the Hotel de St. Pol.'

'Oh, lady, let me speak of my bliss!' and he snatched at her hand,
but was still so dizzy that he sank back, becoming aware that he was
stiff and bruised from his fall.  Almost at the same moment a new
step and voice were heard in the little open booth where the cutler
displayed his wares, and King James was at once admitted.

'How goes it, laddie?' he asked.  'They told me grim Death had
clutched you and borne you off to his charnel-house; but at least I
see an angel has charge of you.'

Esclairmonde slightly coloured as she made answer:

'I saw some one fall, and came to offer my poor skill, Sir; but as
the Sieur de Glenuskie is fast recovering, if you will permit Sir
Nigel Baird to attend me, Sir, I will at once return.'

'I am ready--I am not hurt.  Oh, let us go together!' panted Malcolm,
leaping up.

'Eh, gentlemen!' exclaimed the hospitable cutler's wife; 'you will
not away so fast!  This gallant knight will permit you to remain.
And the fair lady, she will do me the honour to drink a cup of wine
to the recovery of her betrothed.'

'Not so, good woman,' said Esclairmonde, a little apart, 'I am the
betrothed of Heaven.  I only assisted because I feared the youth's
fall was more serious than it proves.'

The bourgeoise begged pardon, and made a curtsey; there was nothing
unusual in the avowal the lady had made, when the convent was a
thoroughly recognized profession; but Esclairmonde could not carry
out her purpose of departing separately with old Sir Nigel Baird;
Malcolm was on his feet, quite ready to mount, and there was no
avoiding the being assisted to her saddle by any but the King, who
was in truth quite as objectionable a companion, as far as
appearances went, for a young solitary maiden, as was Malcolm
himself.  Esclairmonde felt that her benevolence might have led her
into a scrape.  When she had seen the fall, knowing that to the
unprepared the ghastly pageant must seem reality, she had obeyed the
impulse to hurry to the rescue, to console and aid in case of injury,
and she had not even perceived that her female companions did not
attempt to accompany her.  However, the mischance could best be
counteracted by simplicity and unconsciousness; so, as she found
herself obliged to ride by the King, she unconcernedly observed that
these fantastic dances might perhaps arouse sinners, but that they
were a horrible sight for the unprepared.

'Very like a dream becoming flesh and blood,' said James.  'We in
advance were slow to perceive what it was, and then the King merely
thought whether it would alarm the Queen.'

'I trow it did not.'

'No; the thing has not been found that will stir her placid face.
She merely said it was very lugubrious, and an ill turn in the
Parisians thus to greet her, but they were always senseless betes;
and he, being relieved of care for her, looked with all his eyes,
with a strange mixture of drollery at the antics and the masques, yet
of grave musing at the likeness to this present life.'

'I think,' said Esclairmonde, 'that King Henry is one of the few men
to whom the spectacle IS a sermon.  He laughs even while he lays a
thing to heart.'

These few sentences had brought them to the concourse around the
gateway of the great Hotel de St. Pol, in whose crowded courtyard
Esclairmonde had to dismount; and, after being handed through the
hall by King James, to make her way to the ladies' apartments, and
there find out, what she was most anxious about, how Alice, who had
been riding at some distance from her with her father, had fared
under the alarm.

Alice ran up to her eagerly.  'Ah, dear Clairette, and was he greatly
hurt?'

'Not much; he had only swooned for fright.'

'Swooned! to be a prince, and not have the heart of a midge!'

'And how was it with you, you very wyvern for courage?'

'With me?  Oh, I was somewhat appalled at first, when my father took
hold of my rein, and bade me never fear; for I saw his face grow
amazed.  Sir Richard Nevil rode up on the other side, and said the
hobgoblins should eat out his heart ere they hurt me; and I looked
into his face as he said that, and liked it more than ever I thought
to like any but yours, Clairette.  I think my father was going to
leave me to him and see whether the King needed some one to back him;
but up came a French lord, and said 'twas all a mere show, and my
father said he was glad I was a stout-hearted wench that had never
cried out for fear; and then I was so pleased, that I never heeded
the ugly sight any more.  Ay, and when Sir Richard lifted me off my
horse, he kissed my hand of his own accord.'

'This is all he has ever said to you?' said Esclairmonde, smiling.
'It is like an Englishman--to the purpose.'

'Yea, is it not?  Oh! is it not better than all the fine speeches and
compliments that Joan Beaufort gets from her Scottish king?'

'They have truths in them too, child.'

'Ay; but too fine-spun, too minstrel-like, for a plain English maid.
The hobgoblins should eat out his heart ere they touched me!' she
repeated to herself, as though the saying were the most poetical
concert sung on minstrel lover's lute.

Death's Dance had certainly brought this affianced pair to a better
understanding than all the gayest festivities of the Court.

Esclairmonde would have been happy if no one had noticed her
benevolence to the young Scot save Alice Montagu; but she had to
endure countless railleries from every lady, from Countess Jaqueline
downwards, on the unmistakable evidence that her heart had spoken;
and her grave dignity had less effect in silencing them than usual,
so diverting was the alleged triumph over her propriety, well as they
knew that she would have done the same for the youngest horse-boy, or
the oldest man-at-arms.



CHAPTER X:  THE WHITSUNTIDE FESTIVAL



'Lady, fairest lady!  Ah, suffer your slave to fall at your feet with
his thanks!'

'No thanks are due, Sir.  I knew not who had fallen.'

'Cruel coyness!  Take not away the joy that has fed a hungry heart.'

'Lord Glenuskie's heart was wont to hunger for better joys.'

'Lady, I have ceased to be a foolish boy.'

'Such foolishness was better than some men's wisdom.'

'Listen, belle demoiselle.  I have been forth into the world, and
have learnt to see that monasteries have become mere haunts for the
sluggard, who will not face the world; and that honour, glory, and
all that is worth living for, lie beyond.  Ah, lady! those eyes first
taught me what life could give.'

'Hush, Sir!' said Esclairmonde.  'I can believe that as a child you
mistook your vocation, and the secular life may be blest to you; but
with me it can never be so; and if any friendship were shown to you
on my part, it was when I deemed that we were brother and sister in
our vows.  If I unwittingly inspired any false hopes, I must do
penance for the evil.'

'Call it not evil, lady,' entreated Malcolm.  'It cannot be evil to
have wakened me to life and hope and glory.'

'What should you call it in him who should endeavour to render Lady
Joan Beaufort faithless to your king, Lord Malcolm?  What then must
it be to tempt another to break troth-plight to the King of Heaven?'

'Nay, madame,' faltered Malcolm; 'but if such troth were forbidden
and impossible?'

'None has the right or power to cancel mine,' replied the lady.

'Yet,' he still entreated, 'your kindred are mighty.'

'But my Bridegroom is mightier,' she said.

'O lady, yet-- Say, at least,' cried Malcolm, eagerly, 'that were you
free in your own mind to wed, at least you would less turn from me
than from the others proposed to you.'

'That were saying little for you,' said Esclairmonde, half smiling.
'But, Sir,' she added gravely, 'you have no right to put the
question; and I will say nothing on which you can presume.'

'You were kinder to me in England,' sighed Malcolm, with tears in his
eyes.

'Then you seemed as one like-minded,' she answered.

'And,' he cried, gathering fresh ardour, 'I would be like-minded
again.  You would render me so, sweetest lady.  I would kiss your
every step, pray with you, bestow alms with you, found churches,
endow your Beguines, and render our change from our childish purpose
a blessing to the whole world; become your very slave, to do your
slightest bidding.  O lady, could I but give you my eyes to see what
it might be!'

'It could not be, if we began with a burthened conscience,' said
Esclairmonde.  'We have had enough of this, Sieur de Glenuskie.  You
know that with me it is no matter of likes or dislikes, but that I am
under a vow, which I will never break!  Make way, Sir.'

He could but obey:  she was far too majestic and authoritative to be
gainsaid.  And Malcolm, in an access of misery, stood lost to all the
world, kneeling in the window-seat, where she had left him resting
his head against the glass, when suddenly a white plump hand was laid
on his shoulder, and a gay voice cried:

'All a la mort, my young damoiseau!  What, has our saint been
unpropitious?  Never mind, you shall have her yet.  We will see her
like the rest of the world, ere we have done within her!'

And Malcolm found himself face to face with the free-spoken Jaqueline
of Hainault.

'You are very good, madame,' he stammered.

'You shall think me very good yet!  I have no notion of being opposed
by a little vassal of mine; and we'll succeed, if it were but for the
fun of the thing!  Monseigneur de Therouenne is on your side, or
would be, if he were sure of the Duke of Burgundy.  You see, these
prelates hate nothing so much as the religious orders; and all the
pride of the Luxemburgs is in arms against Clairette's fancy for
those beggarly nursing Sisters; so it drives him mad to hear her say
she only succoured you for charity.  He thinks it a family disgrace,
that can only be wiped off by marrying her to you; and he would do it
bon gre, mal gre, but that he waits to hear what Burgundy will say.
You have only to hold out, and she shall be yours, if I hold her
finger while you put on the ring.  Only let us be sure of Burgundy.'

This was not a very flattering way of obtaining a bride; but Malcolm
was convinced that when once married to Esclairmonde, his devotion
would atone to her for all that was unpleasant in obtaining her.  At
least, she loved no one else; she had even allowed that she had once
thought him like-minded; she had formerly distinguished him; and
nothing lay between them but her scruples; and when they were
overcome, by whatever means, his idol would be his, to adore, to
propitiate, to win by the most intense devotion.  All now must,
however, turn upon the Duke of Burgundy, without whose sanction
Madame of Hainault would be afraid to act openly.

The Duke was expected at Paris for the Whitsuntide festival, which
was to be held with great state.  The custom was for the Kings of
France to feast absolutely with all Paris, with interminable banquet
tables, open to the whole world without question.  And to this Henry
had conformed on his first visit to the city; but he had learnt that
the costly and lavish feast had been of very little benefit to the
really distressed, who had been thrust aside by loud-voiced
miscreants and sturdy beggars, such as had no shame in driving the
feeble back with blows, and receiving their own share again and
again.

By the advice of Dr. Bennet, his almoner, he was resolved that this
should not happen again; that the feast should be limited to the
official guests, and that the cost of the promiscuous banquet should
be distributed to those who really needed it, and who should be
reached through their parish priests and the friars known to be most
charitable.

Dr. Bennet, as almoner, with the other chaplains, was to arrange the
matter; and horrible was the distress that he discovered in the city,
that had for five-and-twenty years been devastated by civil fury, as
well as by foreign wars; and famines, pestilences, murders, and
tyrannies had held sway, so as to form an absolute succession of
reigns of terror.  The poor perished like flies in a frost; the
homeless orphans of the parents murdered by either faction roamed the
streets, and herded in the corners like the vagrant dogs of Eastern
cities; and meantime, the nobles and their partisans revelled in
wasteful pomp.

Scholar as he was, Dr. Bennet was not familiar enough with Parisian
ways not to be very grateful for aid from Esclairmonde in some of his
conferences, and for her explanations of the different tastes and
needs of French and English poor.

What she saw and heard, on the other hand, gave form and purpose to
her aspirations.  The Dutch Sisters of St. Bega, the English
Bedeswomen of St. Katharine, were sorely needed at Paris.  They would
gather up the sufferers, collect the outcast children, feed the
hungry, follow with balm wherever a wound had been.  To found a
Beguinage at Paris seemed to her the most befitting mode of devoting
her wealth; and her little admirer, Alice, gave up her longing desire
that the foundation should be in England, when she learned that, as
the wife of Nevil, her abode was likely to be in France as long as
that country required English garrisons.

To the young heiress of Salisbury, her own marriage, though close at
hand, seemed a mere ordinary matter compared with Esclairmonde's
Beguinage, to her the real romance.  Never did she see a beggar
crouching at the church door, without a whisper to herself that there
was a subject for the Beguines; and, tender-hearted as she was, she
looked quite gratified at any lamentable tale which told the need.

If Esclairmonde had a climax to her visions of her brown-robed
messengers of mercy, it was that the holy Canon of St. Agnes should
be induced to come and act the part of master to her bedeswomen, as
did Master Kedbesby at home.

She had even dared to murmur her design to Dr. Bennet; and when he,
under strict seal of secrecy, had sounded King Henry, the present
real master of Paris, he reported that the tears had stood in the
King's eyes for a moment, as he said, 'Blessings on the maiden!
Should she be able to do this for this city, I shall know that Heaven
hath indeed sent a blessing by my arms!'

For one brief week, Esclairmonde and Alice were very happy in this
secret hope; but at the end of that time the Bishop of Therouenne
appeared.  Esclairmonde had ventured to hope that the King's
influence, and likewise the fact that her intention was not to enrich
one of the regular monastic orders, might lead him to lend a
favourable ear to her scheme; but she was by no means prepared to
find him already informed of the affair of the Dance of Death, and
putting his own construction on it.

'So, my fair cousin, this is the end of your waywardness.  The tokens
were certainly somewhat strong; but the young gentleman's birth being
equal to yours, after the spectacle you have presented, your uncle of
St. Pol, and I myself, must do our utmost to obtain the consent of
the Duke of Burgundy.'

'Monseigneur is mistaken,' said Esclairmonde.

'Child, we will have no more folly.  You have flown after this young
Scot in a manner fitted only for the foolish name your father culled
for you out of his books of chivalry.  You have given a lesson to the
whole Court and city on the consequences of a damsel judging for
herself, and running a mad course over the world, instead of
submitting to her guardians.'

'The Court understands my purpose as well as you do, Monseigneur.'

'Silence, Mademoiselle.  Your convent obstinacy is ended for ever
now, since to send you to one would be to appear to hide a scandal.'

'I do not wish to enter a convent,' said Esclairmonde.  'My desire is
to dedicate my labour and my substance to the foundation of a house
here at Paris, such as are the Beguinages of our Netherlands,'

The Bishop held up his hands.  He had never heard of such lunacy and
it angered him, as such purposes are wont to anger worldly-hearted
men.  That a lady of Luxemburg should have such vulgar tastes as to
wish to be a Beguine was bad enough; but that Netherlandish wealth
should be devoted to support the factious poor of Paris was
preposterous.  Neither the Duke of Burgundy, nor her uncle of St.
Pol, would allow a sou to pass out of their grasp for so absurd a
purpose; the Pope would give no license--above all to a vain girl,
who had helped a wife to run away from her husband--for new religious
houses; and, unless Esclairmonde was prepared to be landless,
penniless, and the scorn of every one, for her wild behaviour, she
must submit, bon gre, mal gre, to become the wife of the Scottish
prince.

'Landless and penniless then will I be, Monseigneur,' said
Esclairmonde.  'Was not poverty the bride of St. Francis?'

The Bishop made a growl of contempt; but recollecting himself, and
his respect for the saint, began to argue that what was possible for
a man, a mere merchant's son, an inspired saint besides, was not
possible to a damsel of high degree, and that it was mere
presumption, vanity, and obstinacy in her to appeal to such a
precedent.

There was something in this that struck Esclairmonde, for she was
conscious of a certain satisfaction in her plan of being the first to
introduce a Beguinage at Paris, and that she was to a certain degree
proud of her years of constancy to her high purpose; and she looked
just so far abashed that the uncle saw his advantage, and discoursed
on the danger of attempting to be better than other people, and of
trying to vapour in spiritual heights, to all of which she attempted
no reply; till at last he broke up the interview by saying, 'There,
then, child; all will be well.  I see you are coming to a better
mind.'

'I hope I am, Monseigneur,' she replied, with lofty meekness; 'but
scarcely such as you mean.'

Alice Montagu's indignation knew no bounds.  What! was this noble
votaress to be forced, not only to resign the glory of being the
foundress of a new order of beneficence, but to be married, just like
everybody else, and to that wretched little coward?  Boemond of
Burgundy was better than that, for he at least was a man!

'No, no, Alice,' said Esclairmonde, with a shudder; 'any one rather
than the Burgundian!  It is shame even to compare the Scot!'

'He may not be so evil in himself,' said Alice; 'but with a brave man
you have only his own sins, while a coward has all those other people
may frighten him into.'

'He bore himself manfully in battle,' said the fair Fleming in
reproof.

But Alice answered with the scorn that sits so quaintly on the gentle
daughter of a bold race:  'Ay, where he would have been more afraid
to run than to stand.'

'You are hard on the Scot,' said Esclairmonde.  'Maybe it is because
the Nevils of Raby are Borderers,' she added, smiling; and, as Alice
likewise smiled and blushed, 'Now, if it were not for this madness, I
could like the youth.  I would fain have had him for a brother that I
could take care of.'

'But what will you do, Esclairmonde?'

'Trust,' said she, sighing.  'Maybe, my pride ought to be broken; and
I may have to lay aside all my hopes and plans, and become a mere
serving sister, to learn true humility.  Anyhow, I verily trust to my
Heavenly Spouse to guard me for himself.  If the Duke of Burgundy
still maintains Boemond's suit, then in the dissension I see an
escape.

'And my father will defend you; and so will Sir Richard,' said Alice,
with complacent certainty in their full efficiency.  'And King Harry
will interfere; and we WILL have your hospital; ay, we WILL.  How can
you talk so lightly of abandoning it?'

'I only would know what is human pride, and what God's will,' sighed
Esclairmonde.

The Duke arrived with his two sisters, his wife being left at home in
bad health, and took up his abode at the Hotel de Bourgogne, whence
he came at once to pay his respects to the King of England; the poor
King of France, at the Hotel de St. Pol, being quite neglected.

Esclairmonde and Alice stood at a window, and watched the arrival of
the magnificent cavalcade, attended by a multitude, ecstatically
shouting, 'Noel Noel!  Long live Philippe le Bon!  Blessings on the
mighty Duke!'  While seated on a tall charger, whose great dappled
head, jewelled and beplumed, could alone be seen amid his sweeping
housings, bowing right and left, waving his embroidered gloved hand
in courtesy, was seen the stately Duke, in the prime of life,
handsome-faced, brilliantly coloured, dazzlingly arrayed in gemmed
robes, so that Alice drew a long breath of wonder and exclaimed,
'This Duke is a goodly man; he looks like the emperor of us all!'

But when he had entered the hall, conducted by John of Bedford and
Edmund of March, had made his obeisance to Henry, and had been
presented by him to King James, Alice, standing close behind her
queen, recollected that she had once heard Esclairmonde say, 'Till I
came to England I deemed chivalry a mere gaudy illusion.'

Duke Philippe would not bear close inspection; the striking features
and full red lips, that had made so effective an appearance in the
gay procession seen from a distance, seemed harsh, haughty, and
sensual near at hand, and when brought into close contact with the
strange bright stern purity, now refined into hectic transparency, of
King Henry's face, the grand and melancholy majesty of the royal
Stewart's, or even the spare, keen, irregular visage of John of
Bedford.  And while his robes were infinitely more costly than--and
his ornaments tenfold outnumbered--all that the three island princes
wore, yet no critical eye could take him for their superior, even
though his tone in addressing an inferior was elaborately affable and
condescending, and theirs was always the frankness of an equal.
Where they gave the sense of pure gold, he seemed like some ruder
metal gilt and decorated; as if theirs were reality, his the
imitation; theirs the truth, his the display.

But in reality his birth was as princely as theirs; and no monarch in
Europe, not even Henry, equalled him in material resources; he was
idolized by the Parisians; and Henry was aware that France had been
made over to England more by his revenge for his father's murder at
Montereau than by the victory at Agincourt.  Therefore the King
endured his grand talk about OUR arms and OUR intentions; and for
Malcolm's sake, James submitted to a sort of patronage, as if meant
to imply that if Philippe the Magnificent chose to espouse the cause
of a captive king, his ransom would be the merest trifle.

When Henry bade him to the Pentecostal banquet, 'when kings keep
state,' he graciously accepted the invitation for himself and his two
sisters, Marguerite, widow of the second short-lived Dauphin, and
Anne, still unmarried; but when Henry further explained his plan of
feasting merely with the orderly, and apportioning the food in real
alms, the Duke by no means approved.

'Feed those miserables!' he said.  'One gains nothing thereby!  They
make no noise; whereas if you affront the others, who know how to cry
out, they will revile you like dogs!

'I will not be a slave to the rascaille,' said Henry.

'Ah, my fair lord, you, a victor, may dispense with these cares; but
for a poor little prince like me, it is better to reign in men's
hearts than on their necks.'

'In the hearts of honest men--on the necks of knaves,' said Henry.

Philippe shrugged his shoulders.  He was wise in his own generation;
for he had all the audible voices in Paris on his side, while the
cavils at Henry's economy have descended to the present time.

'Do you see your rival, Sir?' said the voice of the Bishop of
Therouenne in Malcolm's ear, just as the Duke had begun to rise to
take leave; and he pointed out a knight of some thirty years,
glittering with gay devices from head to foot, and showing a bold
proud visage, exaggerating the harshness of the Burgundian
lineaments.

Malcolm shuddered, and murmured, 'Such a pearl to such a hog!'

And meanwhile, King James, stepping forward, intimated to the Duke
that he would be glad of an interview with him.

Philippe made some ostentation of his numerous engagements with men
of Church and State; but ended by inviting the King of Scotland to
sup with him that evening, if his Grace would forgive travellers'
fare and a simple reception.

Thither accordingly James repaired on foot, attended only by Sir
Nigel and Malcolm, with a few archers of the royal guard, in case
torches should be wanted on the way home.

How magnificent were the surroundings of the great Duke, it would be
wearisome to tell.  The retainers in the court of the hotel looked,
as James said, as if honest steel and good cloth were reckoned as
churls, and as if this were the very land of Cockaigne, as Sir
Richard Whittington had dreamt it.  Neither he nor St. Andrew himself
would know their own saltire made in cloth of silver, 'the very metal
to tarnish!'

Sir Nigel had to tell their rank, ere the porters admitted the small
company:  but the seneschal marshalled them forward in full state.
And James never looked more the king than when, in simple crimson
robe, the pure white cross on his breast, his auburn hair parted back
from his noble brow, he stood towering above all heads, passively
receiving the Duke of Burgundy's elaborate courtesies and greetings,
nor seeming to note the lavish display of gold and silver, meant to
amaze the poorest king in Europe.

Exceeding was the politeness shown to him--even to the omission of
the seneschal's tasting each dish presented to the Duke, a
recognition of the presence of a sovereign that the two Scots
scarcely understood enough for gratitude.

Malcolm was the best off of the two at the supper; for James had of
course to be cavalier to the sickly fretful-looking Dauphiness, while
Malcolm fell to the lot of the Lady Anne, who, though not beautiful,
had a kindly hearty countenance and manner, and won his heart by
asking whether the Demoiselle de Luxemburg were still in the suite of
Madame of Hainault; and then it appeared that she had been her
convent mate and warmest friend and admirer in their girlish days at
Dijon, and was now longing to see her.  Was she as much set as ever
on being a nun?

Meantime, the Duke was pompously making way for the King of Scots to
enter his cabinet, where--with a gold cup before each, a dish of
comfits and a stoup of wine between them--their interview was to take
place.

'These dainties accord with a matter of ladies' love,' said James, as
the Duke handed him a sugar heart transfixed by an arrow.

'Good, good,' said Philippe.  'The alliance is noble and our crowns
and influence might be a good check in the north to your mighty
neighbour; nor would I be hard as to her dowry.  Send me five score
yearly of such knaves as came with Buchan, and I could fight the
devil himself.  A morning gift might be specified for the name of the
thing--but we understand one another.'

'I am not certain of that, Sir,' said James, smiling; 'though I see
you mean me kindly.'

'Nay, now,' continued Philippe, 'I know how to honour royalty, even
in durance; nor will I even press Madame la Dauphine on you instead
of Anne, though it were better for us all if she could have her wish
and become a queen, and you would have her jointure--if you or any
one else can get it.'

'Stay, my Lord Duke,' said James, with dignity, 'I spake not of
myself, deeming that it was well known that my troth is plighted.'

'How?' said Burgundy, amazed, but not offended.  'Methought the House
of Somerset was a mere bastard slip, with which even King Henry with
all his insolence could not expect you to wed in earnest.  However,
we may keep our intentions secret awhile; and then, with your lances
and my resources, English displeasure need concern you little.'

James, who had learned self-control in captivity, began politely to
express himself highly honoured and obliged.

'Do not mention it.  Royal blood, thus shamefully oppressed, must
command the aid of all that is chivalrous.  Speak, and your ransom is
at your service.'

The hot blood rushed into James's cheek at this tone of
condescension; but he answered, with courteous haughtiness:  'Of
myself, Sir Duke, there is no question.  My ransom waits England's
willingness to accept it; and my hand is not free, even for the prize
you have the goodness to offer.  I came not to speak of myself.'

'Not to make suit for my sister, nor my intercession!' exclaimed
Philippe.

'I make suit to no man,' said James; then, recollecting himself, 'if
I did so, no readier friend than the Duke of Burgundy could be found.
I did in effect come to propose an alliance between one of my own
house and a fair vassal of yours.'

'Ha! the runaway jade of Luxemburg!' cried Burgundy; 'the most
headstrong girl who lives!  She dared to plead her foolish vows
against my brother Boemond, fled with that other hoyden of Hainault,
and now defies me by coming here.  I'll have her, and make her over
to Boemond to tame her pride, were she in the great Satan's camp
instead of King Henry's.'

And this is the mirror of chivalry! thought James.  But he persevered
in his explanation of his arrangement for permitting the estates of
Esclairmonde de Luxemburg to be purchased from her and her husband,
should that husband be Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie; and he soon
found that these terms would be as acceptable to the Duke as they had
already proved to her guardian, Monseigneur de Therouenne.  Money was
nothing to Philippe; but his policy was to absorb the little
seignoralties that lay so thick in these border lands of the Empire;
and what he desired above all, was to keep them from either passing
into the hands of the Church, or from consolidating into some
powerful principality, as would have been the case had Esclairmonde
either entered a convent or married young Waleran de Luxemburg, her
cousin.  Therefore he had striven to force on her his half-brother,
who would certainly never unite any inheritance to hers; but he much
preferred the purchase of her Hainault lands; and had no compunction
in throwing over Boemond, except for a certain lurking desire that
the lady's contumacy should be chastised by a lord who would beat her
well into subjection.  He would willingly have made a great show of
generosity, and have laid James under an obligation; and yet by the
King's dignified tone of courtesy he was always reduced to the air of
one soliciting rather than conferring a favour.

Finally, Malcolm was called in, and presented to the Duke, making his
own promise on his word of honour as a prince, and giving a written
bond, that so soon as he obtained the hand of the Demoiselle de
Luxemburg he would resign her Hainault estates to the Duke of
Burgundy for a sum of money, to be fixed by persons chosen for the
purpose.

This was more like earnest than anything Malcolm had yet obtained;
and he went home exulting and exalted, his doubts as to
Esclairmonde's consent almost silenced, when he counted up the forces
that were about to bear upon her.

And they did descend upon her.  Countess Jaqueline had been joined by
other and more congenial Flemish dames, and was weary of her grave
monitress; and she continually scolded at Esclairmonde for
perverseness and obstinacy in not accepting the only male thing she
had ever favoured.  The Bishop of Therouenne threatened and argued;
and the Duke of Burgundy himself came to enforce his commands to his
refractory vassal, and on finding her still unsubmissive, flew into a
rage, and rated her as few COULD have done, save Philippe, called the
Good.

All she attempted to answer was, that they were welcome to her lands,
so they would leave her person free; her vows were not to man, but to
God, and God would protect her.

It was an answer that seemed specially to enrage her persecutors, who
retorted by telling her that such protection was only extended to
those who obeyed lawful authority; and hints were thrown out that, if
she did not submit willingly, she might find herself married
forcibly, for a bishop could afford to disregard the resistance of a
bride.

Would Malcolm--would his king--consent to her being thus treated?

As to Malcolm, he seemed to her too munch changed for her to reckon
on what remnant of good feeling there might be to appeal to in him.
And James, though he was certain not to permit palpable coercion in
his presence, or even if he were aware that it was contemplated,
seemed to have left the whole management of the affair to
Esclairmonde's own guardians; and they would probably avoid driving
matters to extremities that would revolt him, while he was near
enough for an appeal.  And Esclairmonde was too uncertain whether her
guardians would resort to such lengths, or whether it were not a vain
threat of the giddy Countess, to compromise her dignity by crying out
before she was hurt; and she had no security, save that she was
certain that in the English household of King Henry such violence
would not be attempted; and out of reach of that protection she never
ventured.

Once she said to Henry, 'My only hope is in God and in you, my lord.'

And Henry bent his head, saying, 'Noble lady, I cannot interfere; but
while you are in my house, nothing can be done with you against your
will.'

Yet even Henry was scarcely what he had been in all-pervading
vigilance and readiness.  Like all real kings of men, he had been his
own prime minister, commander-in-chief, and private secretary,
transacting a marvellous amount of business with prompt completeness;
and when, in the midst of shattered health which he would not avow,
the cares of two kingdoms, and the generalship of an army, with all
its garrisons, rested on him, his work would hardly have been
accomplished but for his brother's aid.  It was never acknowledged,
often angrily disdained.  But when John of Bedford had watched the
terrible lassitude and lethargy that weighed on the King at times in
the midst of his cabinet work, he was constantly on the watch to
relieve him; and his hand and style so closely resembled Henry's that
the difference could scarce be detected, and he could do what none
other durst attempt.  Many a time would Henry, whose temper had grown
most uncertain, fiercely rate him for intermeddling; but John knew
and loved him too well to heed; and his tact and unobtrusiveness made
Henry rely on him more and more.

If the illness had only been confessed, those who watched the King
anxiously would have had more hope; but he was hotly angered at any
hint of his needing care; and though he sometimes relieved oppression
by causing himself to be bled by a servant, he never allowed that
anything ailed him; it was always the hot weather, the anxious
tidings, the long pageant that wearied him--things that were wont to
be like gnats on a lion's mane.

Those solemn banquets and festivals--lasting from forenoon till
eventide, with their endless relays of allegorical subtleties, their
long-winded harangues, noisy music, interludes of giants, sylvan men,
distressed damsels, knights-errant on horseback, ships and forests
coming in upon wheels, and fulsome compliments that must be answered-
-had been always his aversion, and were now so heavy an oppression
that Bedford would have persuaded the Queen to curtail them.  But to
the fair Catherine this appeared an unkind endeavour of her
disagreeable brother-in-law, to prevent her from shining in her
native city, and eclipsing the Burgundian pomp; and she opened her
soft brown eyes in dignified displeasure, answering that she saw
nothing amiss with the King; and she likewise complained to her
husband of his brother's jealousy of her welcome from her own people,
bringing on him one of Henry's most bitter sentences.

Henry would only have had her abate somewhat of the splendour that
gratified her, because he did not think it becoming to outshine her
parents; but Catherine scorned the notion.  Her old father would know
nothing, or would smile in his foolish way to see her so brave; and
for her mother, she recked not so long as she had a larded capon
before her:  nor was it possible to make the young queen understand
that this fatuity and feebleness were the very reasons for deferring
to them.

The ordering of the feast fell to Catherine and her train; and its
splendours on successive days had their full development, greatly to
the constraint and weariness, among others, of Esclairmonde, who was
always assigned to Malcolm Stewart, and throughout these long days
had to be constantly repressing him; not that he often durst make her
any direct compliment, for he was usually quelled into anxious
wistful silence, and merely eyed her earnestly, paying her every
attention in his power.  And such a silent tedious meal was sure to
be remarked, either with laughing rudeness by Countess Jaqueline, or
with severe reproof by the Bishop of Therouenne, both of whom assured
her that she had better lay aside her airs, and resign herself in
good part, for there was no escape for her.

One day, however, when the feast was at the Hotel de Bourgogne, and
there were some slight differences in the order of the guests, the
Duke of Bedford put himself forward as the Lady Esclairmonde's
cavalier, so much to her relief, that her countenance, usually so
guarded, relaxed into the bright, sweet smile of cheerfulness that
was most natural to her.  Isolated as the pairs at the table were,
and with music braying in a gallery just above, there was plenty of
scope for conversation; and once again Esclairmonde was talking
freely of the matters regarding the distress in Paris, that Bedford
had consulted her upon before he became so engrossed with his
brother's affairs, or she so beset by her persecutors.

Towards the evening, when the feast had still some mortal hours to
last, there fell a silence on the Duke; and at length, when the music
was at the loudest, he said 'Lady, I have watched for this moment.
You are persecuted.  Look not on me as one of your persecutors; but
if no other refuge be open to you, here is one who might know better
how to esteem you than that malapert young Scot.'

'How, Sir?' exclaimed Esclairmonde, amazed at these words from the
woman-hating Bedford.

'Make no sudden reply,' said John.  'I had never thought of you save
as one consecrate, till, when I see you like to be hunted down into
the hands of yon silly lad, I cannot but thrust between.  My brother
would willingly consent; and, if I may but win your leave to love
you, lady, it will be with a heart that has yearned to no other
woman.'

He spoke low and steadily, looking straight before him, with no
visible emotion, save a little quiver in the last sentence, a slight
dilating of the delicately cut nostril; and then he was silent,
until, having recovered the self-restraint that had been failing him,
he prevented the words she was trying to form by saying, 'Not in
haste, lady.  There is time yet before you to bethink yourself
whether you can be free in will and conscience.  If so, I will bear
you through all.'

How invitingly the words fell on the lonely heart, so long left to
fight its own battles!  There came for the first time the full sense
of what life might be, the shielding tenderness, the sure reliance,
the pure affection, such as she saw Henry lavish on the shallow
Queen, but which she could meet and requite in John.  The brutal
Boemond, the childish Malcolm, had aroused no feeling in her but
dislike or pity, and to them a convent was infinitely preferable; but
Bedford--the religious, manly, brave, unselfish Bedford--opened to
her the view of all that could content a high-souled woman's heart,
backed, moreover, by the wonder of having been the first to touch
such a spirit.

It would not have been a mesalliance.  Her family was one of the
grandest of the Netherlands; the saintly Emperor, Henry of Luxemburg,
was her ancestor; and Bedford's proposal was not a condescension such
as to rouse her sense of dignity.  His rank did not strike her as did
his lofty stainless character; the like of which she had never known
to exist in the world of active life till she saw the brothers of
England, who came more near to the armed saints and holy warriors of
Church legend than her fancy had thought mortal man could do, bred as
she had been in the sensual, violent, and glittering Burgundy of the
fifteenth century.  In truth, as Malcolm had thought the cloister the
only refuge from the harshness and barbarism of Scotland, so
Esclairmonde had thought piety and purity to be found nowhere else;
and both had found the Court of Henry V. an infinitely better world
than they had supposed possible; but, until the present moment,
Esclairmonde had never felt the slightest call to take a permanent
place there.  Now however the cloister, even if it were open to her,
presented a gloomy, cheerless life of austerity, in comparison with
human affection and matronly duty.  And most vivid of all at the
moment was the desire to awaken the tender sweetness that slept in
those steady gray eyes, to see the grave, wise visage gleam with
smiling affection, and to rest in having one to take thought for her,
and finish this long term of tossing about and self-defence.  Was not
the patience with which he kept his eyes away from her already a
proof of his consideration and delicate kindness?

But deep in Esclairmonde's soul lay the sense that her dedication was
sacred, and her power over herself gone.  She had always felt a
wife's allegiance due to Him whom she received as her spiritual
Spouse; and though the sense at this moment only brought her
disappointment and self-reproach, her will was loyal.  The bond was
cutting into her very flesh, but she never even thought of breaking
it; and all she waited for was the power of restraining her grateful
tears.

In this she was assisted by observing that Bedford's attention had
been attracted towards his brother, who was looking wan and weary,
scarcely tasting what was set before him; and, after fitfully trying
to converse with Marguerite of Burgundy, at last had taken advantage
of an endless harangue from all the Virtues, and had dropped asleep.
The Lady Anne was seen making a sign to her sister not to disturb
him; and Bedford murmured, with a sigh, 'There is, for once, a
discreet woman.'  Then, as if recalled to a sense of what was
passing, he turned on Esclairmonde his full earnest look, saying,
'You will teach the Queen how HE should be cared for.  You will help
me.'

'Sir,' said Esclairmonde, feeling it most difficult not to falter,
'this is a great grace, but it cannot be.'

'Cannot!' said Bedford, slowly.  'You have taken thought?'

'Sir, it is not the part of a betrothed spouse to take thought.  My
vows were renewed of my own free will and it were sacrilege to try to
recall them for the first real temptation.'

She spoke steadily, but the effort ached through her whole frame,
especially when the last word illumined John Plantagenet's face with
strange sweet light, quenched as his lip trembled, his nostril
quivered, his eye even moistened, as he said, 'It is enough, lady; I
will no more vex one who is vexed enough already; and you will so far
trust me as to regard me as your protector, if you should be in
need?'

'Indeed I will,' said Esclairmonde, hardly restraining her tears.

'That is well,' said Bedford.  And he neither looked at her nor spoke
to her again, till, as he led her away in the procession from the
hall, he held her hand fast, and murmured:  'There then it rests,
sweet lady unless, having taken counsel with your own heart, you
should change your decree, and consult some holy priest.  If so, make
but a sign of the hand, and I am yours; for verily you are the only
maiden I could ever have loved.'

She was still in utter confusion, in the chamber where the ladies
were cloaking for their return, when her hands were grasped on either
side by the two Burgundian princesses.

'Sweet runaway, we have caught you at last!  Here, into Anne's
chamber.  See you we must!  How is it with you?  Like you the limping
Scot better than Boemond?' laughed the Dauphiness, her company
dignity laid aside for school-girl chatter.

'If you cannot hold out,' said Anne, 'the Scot seems a gentle youth;
and, at least, you are quit of Boemond.'

'Yes,' said Marguerite, 'his last prank was too strong for the Duke:
quartering a dozen men-at-arms on a sulky Cambrai weaver till he paid
him 2000 crowns.  Besides, it would be well to get the Scottish king
for an ally.  Do you know what we two are here for, Clairette?  We
are both to be betrothed:  one to the handsome captive with the gold
locks; the other to your hawk-nosed neighbour, who seemed to have not
a word to say.'

'But,' said Esclairmonde, replying to the easiest part of the
disclosure, 'the King of Scots is in love with the Demoiselle of
Somerset.'

'What matters that, silly maid?' said Marguerite 'he does not
displease me; and Anne is welcome to that melancholy duke.'

'Oh, Lady Anne!' exclaimed Esclairmonde, 'if such be your lot, it
would be well indeed.'

'What, the surly brother, of whom Catherine tells such tales!'
continued Marguerite.

'Credit them not,' said Esclairmonde.  'He never crosses her but when
he would open her eyes to his brother's failing health.'

'Yes,' interrupted Marguerite; 'my lord brother swears that this king
will not live a year; and if Catherine have no better luck with her
child than poor Michelle, then there will be another good Queen Anne
in England.'

'If so,' said Esclairmonde, looking at her friend with swimming eyes,
'she will have the best of husbands--as good as even she deserves!'

Anne held her hand fast, and would have said many tender words on
Esclairmonde's own troubles; but the other ladies were arrayed, and
Esclairmonde would not for worlds have been left behind in the Hotel
de Bourgogne.

Privacy was not an attainable luxury, and Esclairmonde could not
commune with her throbbing heart, or find peace for her aching head,
till night.  This must be a matter unconfided to any, even Alice
Montagu.  And while the maiden lay smiling in her quiet sleep, after
having fondly told her friend that Sir Richard Nevil had really
noticed her new silken kirtle, she knelt on beneath the crucifix,
mechanically reciting her prayers, and, as the beads dropped from her
fingers, fighting out the fight with her own heart.

Her mind was made up; but her sense of the loss, her craving for the
worthy affection which lay within her grasp--these dismayed her.  The
life she had sighed for had become a blank; and she passionately
detested the obligation that held her back from affection,
usefulness, joy, and excellence--not ambition, for the greatest help
to her lay in Bedford's position, his exalted rank, and nearness to
the crown.  Indeed, she really dreaded and loathed worldly pomp so
much that the temptation would have been greater had he not been a
prince.

It was this sense of renunciation that came to her aid.  She had at
least a REAL sacrifice to offer; till now, as she became aware, she
had made none.  She folded her hands, and laid her offering to be
hallowed by the One all-sufficient Sacrifice.  She offered all those
capacities for love that had been newly revealed to her; she offered
up the bliss, whose golden dawn she had seen; she tried to tear out
the earthliness of her heart and affections by the roots, and lay
them on the altar, entreating that, come what might, her spirit might
never stray from the Heavenly Spouse of her betrothal.

Therewith came a sense of His perfect sufficiency--of rest, peace,
support, ineffable love, that kept her kneeling in a calm, almost
ecstatic state, in which common hopes, fears, and affections had
melted away.



CHAPTER XI:  THE TWO PROMISES



After all, Alice Montagu was married almost privately, and without
any preparation.  Tidings came that the Duke of Alencon was besieging
Cosne, a city belonging to the Duke of Burgundy, and that instant
relief was needed.  The Duke was urgent with Henry to save the place
for him, and set off at once to collect his brilliant chivalry; while
Henry, rousing at the trumpet-call, declared that nothing ailed him
but pageants, sent orders to all his troops to collect from different
quarters, and prepared to take the command in person; while reports
daily came in of the great muster the Armagnacs were making, as
though determined to offer battle.

Salisbury was determined not to abide the chances of the battle
without first giving a protector to his little daughter; and
therefore, as quietly as if she had been merely going to mass, the
Lady Alice was wedded to her Sir Richard Nevil, who treated the
affair as the simplest matter of course, and troubled himself with
very slight demonstrations of affection.  The wedding took place at
Senlis, whither the female part of the Court had accompanied the
King, upon the very day of the parting.  No one was present, except
one of Sir Richard's brothers (the whole family numbered twenty-two),
his esquire; and on Alice's side, her father, Esclairmonde, and a few
other ladies.

At the last moment, however, the King himself came up, leaning on
Warwick's arm, looking thin, ill, and flushed, but resolved to do
honour to his faithful Salisbury, at whose request he had permitted
the barony of Montagu to be at once transferred to Nevil, who would
thenceforth be called by that title.

After the ceremony, King Henry kissed the gentle bride, placed a
costly ring upon her finger, and gave his best and warmest wishes to
the newly-married pair.  Little guessed any there present what the
sound of Warwick and Salisbury would be in forty years' time to the
babe cradled at Windsor.

As the King passed Esclairmonde, he paused, and said, in an
undertone, 'Dear lady, deem not that I have forgotten your holy
purpose; but you understand that there are some who are jealous of
any benefit conferred on Paris save from themselves, and whose
alliance I may not risk.  But if God be pleased to grant me this
battle also, then, with His good pleasure, I shall not be forced to
have such respect to persons; and when I return, lady, whether the
endowment come from your bounty or no, God helping us, you shall
begin the holy work of St. Katharine's bedeswomen among the poor of
Paris.'

But while Henry V., with all his grave sweetness, spoke these words
to Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, this was the farewell of Countess
Jaqueline of Hainault to Malcolm Stewart:

'Look here, my languishing swain; never mind her scorn, but win your
spurs in the battle that is to be, and then make some excuse to get
back again to us before the two Kings, with all their scruples.  Then
beshrew me but she shall be yours!  If Monseigneur de Therouenne and
I cannot manage one proud girl, I am not Countess of Hainault!'

This promise sent him away, planning the enjoyment of conquering
Esclairmonde's long resistance, and teaching her where to find
happiness.  Should he punish her, by being stern and tyrannical at
first? or should his kindness teach her to repent?  When he was a
knight, he would be in a condition to assert his authority, he
thought; and of knighthood both he and Ralf Percy felt almost
certain, in that wholesale dubbing of knights that was wont to be the
preliminary of a battle.  To be sure, they had indulged in a good
many unlicensed pleasures at Paris--Ralf from sheer reckless love of
sport, Malcolm in his endeavour to forget himself, and to be manly;
but they had escaped detection, and they knew plenty of young
Englishmen, and many more Burgundians and Gascons, who had plunged
far deeper into mischief, and thought it no disgrace, but rather held
that there was some special dispensation for the benefit of warriors.

Malcolm and Ralf were riding with a party of these young men.  King
Henry had consented to make his first day's journey as far as Corbeil
in a litter, since only there he was to meet the larger number of his
troops, whom Bedford and Warwick were assembling.  James was riding
close beside him, with his immediate attendants; and the two youths,
not being needed, had joined their comrades with the advanced guard
of the escort.

It was always a fiction maintained by Henry, that he was marching in
a friendly country; plunder was strictly forbidden, and everything
was to be paid for; but unfortunately, the peasantry on his way never
realized this, and the soldiery often took care they should not.
Therefore, when the advanced guard came to the village that had been
marked out for their halt, instead of finding provisions and forage
to be purchased, they met with only bare walls, and a few stray cats;
and while storming and raving between hunger and disappointment, a
report came from somewhere that the inhabitants had fled, and driven
off their cattle to another village some four miles off, in the
woods, on the heights above.  Of course, they must be taught reason.
It was true that the men-at-arms, who were under the command of Sir
Christopher Kitson and Sir William Trenton, were obliged to abide
where they were, much as Kitson growled at being unable to procure a
draught of wine for Trenton, whom he had been nursing for weeks under
intermitting fever, caught at Meaux; but the young gentlemen were
well pleased to show themselves under no Yorkshireman's orders, and
galloped off en masse to procure refreshment for their horses and
themselves, further stimulated by the report that the Armagnacs had
left a sick man behind them there, who might be a valuable prisoner.

By and by, a woodland path brought the disorderly party, about forty
in number, including their servants and the ruffians who always
followed whenever plunder was to be scented, out upon a pretty French
village of the better class, built round a green shaded with
chestnuts, under which, sure enough, were hay-carts, cows, sheep, and
goats, and their owners, taking refuge in a place thought to be out
of the track of the invaders.

Here were the malicious defrauders of the hungry warriors.  Down upon
them flew the angry foragers.  Soon the pretty tranquil scene was
ringing with the oaths of the plundering and the cries of the
plundered; the cattle were being driven off, the houses and farm-
yards rifled, blood was flowing, and what could not be carried off
was burning.  The search for the Armagnac prisoner had, however,
relaxed after the first inquiry, and Malcolm, surprised that this had
been forgotten, suddenly bethought him of the distinction he should
secure by sending a valuable prize to Esclairmonde's feet.  He seized
on an old man who had not been able to fly, and stood trembling and
panting in a corner, and demanded where the sick man was.  The old
man pointed to a farm-house, round which clouds of smoke were
rolling, and Malcolm hurried into it, shouting, 'Dog of an Armagnac,
come out!  Yield, ere thou be burnt!'

No answer; and he dashed forward.  In the lower room was a sight that
opened his eyes with horror--no other than the shield of Drummond,
with the three wavy lines; ay, and with it the helmet and suit of
armour, whereof he knew each buckle and brace!

'Patie!  Patrick!  Patrick Drummond!' he wildly shouted, 'are you
there?'

No answer; and seeing through the smoke a stair, he rushed up.
There, in an upper room, on a bed, lay a senseless form, suffocated
perhaps by the smoke, but unmistakably his cousin!  He called to him,
seized him, shook him, dragged him out of bed, all in vain; there was
no sign of animation.  The fire was gaining on the house; Malcolm's
own breath was failing, and his frenzied efforts to carry Patrick's
almost giant form to the stairs were quite unavailing.  Wild with
horror, he flew shouting down-stairs to call Halbert, whom he had
left with his horse, but neither Halbert nor horse was in sight, nor
indeed any of the party.  Not a man was in sight, except a few
hurrying far out of reach, as if something had alarmed them.  He
wrung his hands in anguish, and was about to make another attempt to
drag Patrick down from the already burning house, when suddenly a
troop of horse was among the scene of desolation, and at their head
King James himself.  Malcolm flew to the King, cutting short his
angry exclamation with the cry, 'Help! help! he will burn!  Patrick!
Patie Drummond!  There!'

James had scarce gathered the sense of the words, ere, leaping from
his horse, he bounded up the stairs, through the smoke, amid flakes
of burning thatch falling from the roof, groped in the dense clouds
of smoke for the senseless weight, and holding the shoulders while
Malcolm held the feet, they sped down the stair, and rested not till
they had laid him under a chestnut tree, out of reach of the crash of
the house, which fell in almost instantly.

'Does he live?' gasped Malcolm.

'He will not,' said the King, 'if his nation be known here.  Keep out
of his sight!  He must hear only French!'

Remembering how inexorably Henry hung every Scotch prisoner,
Malcolm's heart sank.  This was why no one had sought the prisoner.
A Scot was not available for ransom!  Should he be the murderer of
his cousin, Lily's love?

Meantime James hurriedly explained to Kitson that here was the sick
man left by the enemy, summoned Sir Nigel to his side, closed his own
visor, and called for water; then hung over the prisoner, anxious to
prevent the first word from being broad Scotch.  In the free air,
some long sobs showed that Patrick was struggling back to life; and
James at once said, 'Rendez vous, Messire;' but he neither answered,
nor was there meaning in his eyes.  And James perceived that he was
bandaged as though for broken ribs, and that his right shoulder was
dislocated, and no doubt had been a second time pulled out when
Malcolm had grasped him by the arms.  He swooned again at the first
attempt to lift him, and a hay-cart having been left in the flight of
the marauders, he was laid in it, and covered with the King's cloak,
to be conveyed to Corbeil, where James trusted to secure his life by
personal intercession with Henry.  He groaned heavily several times,
but never opened his eyes or spoke articulately the whole way; and
James and Sir Nigel kept on either side of the cart, ready to address
him in French the first moment, having told the English that he was a
prisoner of quality, who must be carefully conveyed to King James's
tent at Corbeil.  Malcolm was not allowed to approach, lest he should
be recognized; and he rode along in an agony of shame and suspense,
with very different feelings towards Patrick than those with which he
had of late thought of him, or of his own promises.  If Patrick died
through this plundering raid, how should he ever face Lily?

It was nearly night ere they reached Corbeil, where the tents were
pitched outside the little town.  James committed his captive to the
prudent care of old Baird, bidding him send for a French or
Burgundian surgeon, unable to detect the Scottish tongue; and then,
taking Malcolm with him, he crossed the square in the centre of the
camp to the royal pavilion, opposite to which his own was pitched.

It was a sultry night, and Henry had insisted on sleeping in his
tent, declaring himself sick of stone walls; and as they approached
his voice could be heard in brief excited sentences, giving orders,
and asking for the King of Scots.

'Here, Sir,' said James, stopping in where the curtain was looped up,
and showed King Henry half sitting, half lying, on a couch of
cushions and deer-skins, his eyes full of fire, his thin face flushed
with deep colour; Bedford, March, Warwick, and Salisbury in
attendance.

'Ho! you are late!' said Henry.  'Did you come up with the caitiff
robbers?'

'They made off as we rode up.  The village was already burnt.'

'Who were they?  I hope you hung them on the spot, as I bade,'
continued Henry, coughing between his sentences, and almost in spite
of himself, putting his hand to his side.

'I was delayed.  There was a life to save:  a gentleman who lay sick
and stifled in a burning house.'

'And what was it to you,' cried Henry, angrily, 'if a dozen rebel
Armagnacs were fried alive, when I sent you to hinder my men from
growing mere thieves?  Gentleman, forsooth!  One would think it the
Dauphin himself; or mayhap Buchan.  Ha! it is a Scot, then!'

'Yes, Sir,' said James; 'Sir Patrick Drummond, a good knight, hurt
and helpless, for whom I entreat your grace.'

'You disobeyed me to spare a Scot!' burst forth Henry.  'You, who
call yourself a captain of mine, and who know my will!  He hangs
instantly!'

'Harry, bethink yourself.  This is no captive taken in battle.  He is
a sick man, left behind, sorely hurt.'

'Then wherefore must you be meddling, instead of letting him burn as
he deserved, and heeding what you undertook for me?  I WILL have none
of your traitor ruffians here.  Since you have brought him in, the
halter for him!--Here, Ralf Percy, tell the Provost-marshal--'

He was interrupted, for James unbuckled his sword, and tendered it to
him.

'King Harry,' he said gravely, 'this morning I was your friend and
brother-in-arms; now I am your captive.  Hang Patrick Drummond, who
aided me at Meaux in saving my honour and such freedom as I have, and
I return to any prison you please, and never strike blow for you
again.'

'Take back your sword,' said Henry.  'What folly is this?  You knew
that I count not your rebel subjects as prisoners of war.'

'I did not know that I was saving a defenceless man from the flames
to be used like a dog.  I never offered my arm to serve a savage
tyrant.'

'Take your sword!' reiterated Henry, his passion giving way before
James's steady calmness.  'We will look into it to-morrow:  but it
was no soldierly act to take advantage of my weariness, to let my
commands be broken the first day of taking the field, and bring the
caitiff here.  We will leave him for the night, I say.  Take up your
sword.'

'Not till I am sure of my liegeman's life,' said James.

'No threats, Sir.  I will make no promise,' said Henry, haughtily;
but the words died away in a racking cough.

And Bedford, laying his hand on James's arm, said, 'He is fevered and
weary.  Fret him no longer, but take your sword, and get your fellow
out of the camp.'

James was too much hurt to make a compromise.  'No,' he said; 'unless
your brother freely spares the life of a man thus taken, I must be
his prisoner--but his soldier never!'

He left the tent, followed by Malcolm in an agony of despair and
self-reproach.

Henry's morning decisions were not apt to vary from his evening ones.
There was a terrible implacability about him at times, and he had
never ceased to visit his brother of Clarence's death upon the Scots,
on the plea that they were in arms against their king.  Even Bedford
obviously thought that the prisoner would be safest out of his reach;
and this could hardly be accomplished, since Patrick had been placed
in James's tent, in the very centre of the camp, near the King's own.
And though Bedford and March might have connived at his being taken
away, yet the mass of the soldiery would, if they detected a Scot
being smuggled away into the town, have been persuaded that King
James was acting treacherously.

Besides, the captive himself proved to be so exhausted, that to
transport him any further in his present state would have been almost
certainly fatal.  A barber surgeon from Corbeil had been fetched, and
was dealing with the injuries, which had apparently been the effect
of a fall some days previously, probably when on his way to join the
French army at Cosne; and the first fever of these hurts had no doubt
been aggravated by the adventures of the day.  At any rate Patrick
lay unconscious, or only from time to time groaning or murmuring a
few words, sometimes French, sometimes Scotch.

Malcolm would have fallen on his knees by his side, and striven to
win a word or a look, but James forcibly withheld him.  'If you
roused him into loud ravings in our own tongue, all hope of saving
him would be gone,' he said.

'Shall we?  Oh, can we?' cried Malcolm, catching at the mere word
HOPE.

'I only know,' said the King, 'that unless we do so by Harry's good-
will, I will never serve under him again.'

'And if he persists in his cruelty?'

'Then must some means be found of carrying Drummond into Corbeil.  It
will go hard with me but he shall be saved, Malcolm.  But this whole
army is against a Scot; and Harry's eye is everywhere, and his
fierceness unrelenting.  Malcolm, this IS bondage!  May God and St.
Andrew aid us!'

When the King came to saying that, it was plain he deemed the case
past all other aid.

Malcolm's misery was great.  The very sight of Patrick had made a
mighty revulsion in his feelings.  The almost forgotten associations
of Glenuskie were revived; the forms of his guardian and of Lily came
before him, as he heard familiar names and phrases in the dear home
accent fall from the fevered lips.  Coldingham rose up before him,
and St. Abbs, with Lily watching on the rocks for tidings of her
knight--her knight, to whom her brother had once promised to resign
all his lands and honours, but who now lay captured by plunderers,
among whom that brother made one, and in peril of a shameful death.
Oh, far better die in his stead, than return to Lily with tidings
such as these!

Was this retribution for his broken purpose, and for having fallen
away, not merely into secular life, but into sins that stood between
him and religious rites?  The King had called St. Andrew to aid!
Must a proof of repentance and change be given, ere that aid would
come?  Should he vow himself again to the cloister, yield up the hope
of Esclairmonde, and devote himself for Patrick's sake?  Could he
ever be happy with Patrick dead, and Esclairmonde driven and harassed
into being his wife?  Were it not better to vow at once, that so his
cousin were spared he would return to his old purposes?

Almost had he uttered the vow, when, tugging hard at his heart, came
the vision of Esclairmonde's loveliness, and he felt it beyond his
strength to resign her voluntarily; besides, how Madame of Hainault
and Monseigneur de Therouenne would deride his uncertainties; and how
intolerable it would be to leave Esclairmonde to fall into the hands
of Boemond of Burgundy.

Such a renunciation could not be made; he did not even know that
Patrick's safety depended on it; and instead of that, he promised,
with great fervency of devotion, that if St. Andrew would save
Patrick Drummond, and bring about the two marriages, a most splendid
monastery for educational purposes, such as the King so much wished
to found, should be his reward.  It should be in honour of St.
Andrew, and should be endowed with Esclairmonde's wealth, which would
be quite ample enough, both for this and for a noble portion for
Lily.  Surely St. Andrew must accept such a vow, and spare Patrick!
So Malcolm tried to pacify an anguish of suspense that would not be
pacified.



CHAPTER XII:  THE LAST PILGRIMAGE



The summer morning came; the reveille sounded, Mass was sung in the
chapel tent, without which Henry never moved; and Malcolm tried to
reassure his sinking heart by there pledging his vow to St. Andrew.

The English king was not present; but the troops were drawing up in
complete array, that he might inspect them before the march.  And a
glorious array they were, of steel-clad men-at-arms on horseback, in
bands around their leader's banner, and of ranks of sturdy archers,
with their long-bows in leathern cases; the orderly multitude,
stretching as far as the eye could reach, glittering in the early
sun, and waiting with bold and glad hearts to greet the much-loved
king, who had always led them to victory.

The only unarmed knight was James of Scotland.  He stood in the space
beside the standard of England, in his plain suit of chamois leather,
his crimson cloak over his shoulder, but with no weapon about him,
waiting with crossed arms for the morning's decision.

Close outside the royal tent waited Henry's horse, and those of his
brother and other immediate attendants; and after a short interval
the King came forth in his brightest armour, with the coronal on his
helmet, and the beaver up; and as he mounted, not without
considerable aid, enthusiastic shouts of 'Long live King Harry!'
broke forth, and came echoing back and back from troop to troop,
gathering fervour as they rose.

The King rode forward towards the standard; but while yet the shouts
were pealing from the army, be suddenly caught at his saddle-bow,
reeled visibly, and would have fallen before Bedford could bring his
horse to his side, had not James sprung forward, and laid one arm
round him, and a hand on his rein.

'It is nothing,' said Henry.  'Let me alone.'

Ere the words were finished, he put his hand to his side, dropped his
bridle, and gasped, while a look of intense suffering passed over his
features; and he was passive while his horse was led back to the
tent, and he was lifted down and placed on the couch he had just
quitted.

'Loose my belt,' he gasped; then trying to smile, 'Percy has strained
it three holes tighter.'

Alas! though it was indeed thus drawn in, his armour was hanging on
him like the shell of a last year's nut.  They released him from it,
and he lay against the cushions with short painful respiration, and
frequent cough.

'You must go on with the men at once, John,' he said.  'I will but be
blooded, and follow in the litter.'

'Warwick and Salisbury--' began Bedford.

'No, no!' peremptorily gasped Henry.  'It must be you or I, I would,
but this stitch in the side catches me, so that I can neither ride
nor speak.  Go, instantly.  You know what I have ordered.  I'll be up
with you ere the battle.'

He brooked no resistance.  His impatience, and with it the oppression
and pain, only grew by remonstrance; and Bedford was forced to obey
the command to go himself, and leave no one he could help behind him.

'You will stay, at least,' said John, in his distress, turning to the
Scottish king.

'I must,' said James.

'You hold not your wrath?' said Bedford.  'It will madden me to leave
him to any save you in this stress.  Some are dull; some he will not
heed.'

'I will tend him like yourself, John,' said the Scot, taking his
hand.  'Do what he may, Harry is Harry still.  Hasten to your
command, John; he will be calmer when you are gone.'

Bedford groaned.  It was hard to leave his brother at a moment when
he must be more than himself--become general of an army, with a
battle imminent; but he was under dire necessity, and forced himself
to listen to and gather the import of the few terse orders and
directions that Henry, breathless as he was, rendered clear and
trenchant as ever.

The King almost drove his brother away at last, while a barber was
taking a copious stream of blood from him; and as the army had
already been set in motion, a great stillness soon prevailed, no one
being left save a small escort, and part of the King's own immediate
household, for Henry had himself ordered away Montagu, his
chamberlain, Percy, and almost all on whom his eyes fell.  The
bleeding relieved him; he breathed less tightly, but became deadly
pale, and sank into a doze of extreme exhaustion.

'Who is here?' he said, awakening.  'Some drink!  What you, Jamie!
You that were on fire to see a stricken field!'

'Not so much as to see you better at ease,' said James.

'I am better,' said Henry.  'I could move now; and I must.  This tent
will stifle me by noon.'

'You will not go forward?'

'No; I'll go back.  A sick man is best with his wife.  And I can
battle it no further, nor grudge the glory of the day to John.  He
deserves it.'

The irascible sharpness had passed from his voice and manner, and
given place to a certain languid cheerfulness, as arrangements were
made for his return to Vincennes.

There proved to be a large and commodious barge, in which the transit
could be effected on the river, with less of discomfort than in the
springless horse litter by which he had travelled the day before; and
this was at once prepared.

Malcolm had meanwhile remained, as in duty bound, in attendance on
his king.  James had found time to enjoin him to stay, being, to say
the truth, unwilling to trust one so inexperienced and fragile in the
melee without himself; nor indeed would this have been a becoming
moment for him to put himself forward to win his spurs in the English
cause.

Nothing had passed about Patrick Drummond, nor the high words of last
night.  Henry seemed to have forgotten them, between his bodily
suffering and the anxiety of being forced to relinquish the command
just before a battle; and James would have felt it ungenerous to
harass him at such a moment, when absolutely committed to his charge.
For the present, there was no fear of the prisoner being summarily
executed by any lawful authority, since the King had promised to take
cognizance of the case; and the chief danger was from his chance
discovery by some lawless man-at-arms, who would think himself doing
good service by killing a concealed Scot under any circumstances.

Drummond himself, after his delirious night, had sunk into a heavy
sleep; and the King thought the best hope for him would be to remain
under the care of Sir Nigel Baird for the present, until he could
obtain favour for him from Henry, and could send back orders from
Vincennes.  He would not leave Malcolm to share the care of him,
declaring that the canny Sir Nigel would have quite enough to do in
averting suspicion without him; and, besides, he needed Malcolm
himself, in the scarcity of attendants who had any tenderness or
dexterity of hand to wait upon the suffering King.

Henry had rallied enough to walk down to the river, leaning upon
James; and he smiled thanks when he was assisted by Trenton and
Kitson to lie along on cushions.  'So, my Yorkshire knights,' he
said, ''tis you that have had to stop from the battle to watch a sick
man home!'

'Ay, Sir,' said Sir Christopher; 'I did it with the better will, that
Trenton here has not been his own man since the fever; and 'twere no
fair play in the matter your Grace wets of, did I go into battle
whole and sound, and he sick and sorry.'

Henry's look of amusement brightened him into his old self, as he
said, 'Honester guards could I scarce have, good friend.'

At that moment, after a nudge or two from Trenton, Kitson and he came
suddenly down on their knees, with an impetus that must have tried
the boards of the bottom of the barge.  'Sir,' said Kitson, always
the spokesman, 'we have a grace to ask of you.'

'Say on,' said Henry.  'Any boon, save the letting you cut one
another's throats.'

'No, Sir.  Will Trenton's scarce my match now, more's the pity; and,
moreover, we've lost the good will to it we once had.  No, Sir; 'twas
license to go a pilgrimage.'

'On pilgrimage!'

'Ay, Sir; to yon shrine at Breuil--St. Fiacre's, as they call him.
Some of our rogues pillaged his shrine, as you know, Sir; and those
that know these parts best, say he was a Scottish hermit, and bears
malice like a Scot, saint though he be; and that your sickness, my
lord, is all along of that.  So we two have vowed to go barefoot
there for your healing, my liege, if so be we have your license.'

'And welcome, with my best thanks, good friends,' said Henry,
exerting himself to lean forward and give his hand to their kiss.
Then, as they fell back into their places, with a few inarticulate
blessings and assurances that they only wished they could go to Rome,
or to Jerusalem, if it would restore their king, Henry said, smiling,
as he looked at James, 'Scotsmen here, there, and everywhere--in
Heaven as well as earth!  What was it last night about a Scot that
moved thine ire, Jamie?  Didst not tender me thy sword?  By my faith,
thou hast it not!  What was the rub?'

James now told the story in its fulness.  How he had met Sir Patrick
Drummond at Glenuskie; how, afterwards, the knight had stood by him
in the encounter at Meaux; and how it had been impossible to leave
him senseless to the flames; and how he had trusted that a capture
made thus, accidentally, of a helpless man, would not fall under
Henry's strict rules against accepting Scottish prisoners.

'Hm!' said Henry; 'it must be as you will; only I trust to you not to
let him loose on us, either here or on the Border.  Take back your
sword, Jamie.  If I spoke over hotly last night--a man hardly knows
what he says when he has a goad in the side--you forgive it, Jamie.'
And as the Scots king, with the dew in his eyes, wrung his hand, he
added anxiously, 'Your sword!  What, not here!  Here's mine.  Which
is it?'  Then, as James handed it to him:  'Ay, I would fain you wore
it!  'Tis the sword of my knighthood, when poor King Richard dubbed
me in Ireland; and many a brave scheme came with it!'

The soft movement of the barge upon the water had a soothing
influence; and he was certainly in a less suffering state, though
silent and dreamy, as he lay half raised on cushions under an awning,
James anxiously watching over him, and Malcolm with a few other
attendants near at hand; stout bargemen propelling the craft, and the
guard keeping along the bank of the river.

His thoughts were perhaps with the battle, for presently he looked
up, and murmured the verse:


'"I had a dream, a weary dream,
Ayont the Isle of Skye;
I saw a dead man win a fight,
And I think that man was I.'


That stave keeps ringing in my brain; nor can I tell where or when I
have heard it.'

''Tis from the Scottish ballad that sings of the fight of Otterburn,'
said James; 'I brought it with me from Scotland.'

'And got little thanks for your pains,' said Henry, smiling.  'But,
methinks, since no Percy is in the way, I would hear it again; there
was true knighthood in the Douglas that died there.'

James's harp was never far off; and again his mellow voice went
through that gallant and plaintive strain, though in a far more
subdued manner than the first time he had sung it; and Henry,
weakened and softened, actually dropped a brave man's tear at the
'bracken bush upon the lily lea,' and the hero who lay there.

'That I should weep for a Douglas!' he said, half laughing; 'but the
hearts of all honest men lie near together, on whatever side they
draw their swords.  God have mercy on whosoever may fall to-morrow!
I trow, Jamie, thou couldst not sing that rough rhyme of Agincourt.
I was bashful and ungracious enough to loathe the very sound of it
when I came home in my pride of youth; but I would lief hear it once
more.  Or, stay--Yorkshiremen always have voices;' and raising his
tone, he unspeakably gratified Trenton and Kitson by the request; and
their voices, deep and powerful, and not uncultivated, poured forth
the Lay of Agincourt to the waves of the French river, and to its
mighty victor:


'Our King went forth to Normandye.'


Long and lengthily chanted was the triumphant song, with the Latin
choruses, which were echoed back by the escort on the bank; while
Henry lay, listening and musing; and Malcolm had time for many a
thought and impulse.

Patrick's life was granted; although it had been promised too late to
send the intelligence back to the tent at Corbeil.  So far, the
purpose of his vow to St. Andrew had been accomplished; but with the
probability that he should soon again be associated with Patrick,
came the sense of the failure in purpose and in promise.  Patrick
would not reproach him, he well knew--nay, would rejoice in the
change; but even this certainty galled him, and made him dread his
cousin's presence as likely to bring him a sense of shame.  What
would Patrick think of his letting a lady be absolutely compelled to
marry him?  Might he not say it was the part of Walter Stewart over
again?  Indeed, Malcolm remembered how carefully King James was
prevented from hearing the means by which the Countess intended to
make the lady his own; and a sensation came over him, that it was
profanation to call on St. Andrew to bless what was to be brought
about by such means.  Why was it that, as his eyes fell on the face
of King Henry, the whole world and all his projects acquired so
different a colouring? and a sentence he had once heard Esclairmonde
quote would come to him constantly:  'My son, think not to buy off
God.  It is thyself that He requires, not thy gifts.'

But the long lay of victory was over; and King Henry had roused
himself to thank the singers, then sighed, and said, 'How long ago
that was!'

'Six years,' said James.

'The whole space from the hope and pride of youth to the care and
toil of eld,' said Henry.  'Your Scots made an old man of me the day
they slew Thomas.'

'Yet that has been your sole mishap,' said James.

'Yea, truly!  But thenceforth I have learnt that the road to
Jerusalem is not so straight and plain as I deemed it when I stood
victorious at Agincourt.  The Church one again--the Holy Sepulchre
redeemed!  It seemed then before my eyes, and that I was the man
called to do it.'

'So it may be yet,' said James.  'Sickness alters everything, and
raises mountains before us.'

'It may be so,' said Henry; 'and yet--Jerusalem!  Jerusalem!  It was
my father's cry; it was King Edward's cry; it was St. Louis' cry; and
yet they never got there.'

'St. Louis was far on his way,' said James.

'Ay! he never turned aside!' said Henry, sighing, and moving
restlessly and wearily with something of returning fever.


"'O bona patria, lumina sobria te speculantur--"


Boy, are you there?' as, in turning, his eye fell on Malcolm.  'Take
warning:  the straight road is the best.  You see, I have never come
to Jerusalem.'  Then again he murmured:


"'Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur, hic breve fletur;
Non breve vivere, non breve plangere, retribuetur."


And James, seeing that nothing lulled him like song, offered to sing
that mysteriously beautiful rhythm of Bernard of Morlaix.

'Ay, prithee do so,' said Henry.  'There's a rest there, when the
Agincourt lay rings hollow.  Well, there is a Jerusalem where our
shortcomings are made up; only the straight way--the straight way.'

Malcolm took his part with James in singing the rhythm, which he had
learnt long ago at Coldingham, and which thus in every note brought
back the vanished aspirations and self-dedication to 'the straight
way.'

For such, an original purpose of self-devotion must ever be--not of
course exclusively to the monastic life; but whoever lowers his aims
of serving God under any worldly inducement, is deviating from the
straight way:  and, thought Malcolm, if King Harry feels Agincourt an
empty word beside the song of Sion, must not all I have sought for be
a very vanity?

Sometimes dozing, but sometimes restless, and with the pain of
breathing constantly increasing on him, Henry wore through the
greater part of the day, upon the river, until it was necessary to
land, and be taken through the forest in his litter.  He was now
obliged to be lifted from the barge; and his weariness rendered the
conveyance very distressing, save that his patient smile never faded;
and still he said, 'All will be well when I come to my Kate!'

Alas! when the gates were reached, James hardly knew how to tell him
that the Queen had gone that morning to Paris with her mother.  Yet
still he was cheerful.  'If the physicians deal hard with me,' he
said, 'it will be well that she should not be here till the worst is
over.'

The physicians were there.  A messenger had gone direct from Corbeil
to summon them; and Henry delivered himself up into their hands, to
fight out the battle with disease, as he had set himself to fight out
many another battle in his time.

A sharp conflict it was--between a keen and aggravated disease,
apparently pleurisy coming upon pulmonary affection of long standing,
and a strong and resolute nature, unquenched by suffering, and backed
by the violent remedies of a half-instructed period.  Those who
watched him, and strove to fulfil the directions of the physicians,
hardly marked the lapse of hours; even though more than one day and
night had passed ere in the early twilight of a long summer's morn he
sank into a sleep, his face still distressed, but less acutely, and
his breath heavy and labouring, though without the severe pain.

The watchers felt that here might be the turning point, and stood or
sat around, not daring to change their postures, or utter the
slightest word.  Suddenly, James, who stood nearest, leaning against
the wall, with his eyes fixed on the face of the sleeper, was aware
of a hand on his shoulder, and looking round, saw in the now full
light Bedford's face--so pale, haggard, and replete with anxiety, so
dusty and travel-stained, that Henry, awakening at that moment,
exclaimed, 'Ha, John!'  And as his brother was slow to reply--'Has
the day gone against thee?  How was it?  Never fear to speak,
brother; thou art safe; and I know thou hast done valiantly.  Valour
is never lost, whether in defeat or success.  Speak, John.  Take it
not so much to heart.'

'There has been no battle, Harry,' said Bedford, gathering voice with
difficulty.  'The Dauphin would not abide our coming, but broke up
his camp.'

'Beshrew thee, man!' said Henry; 'but I thought thou wast just off a
flight!'

'Dost think one can ride fast only for a flight?' said Bedford.  'Ah,
would that it had been the loss of ten battles rather than this!'

And he fell on his knees, grasping Henry's hand, and hiding his face
against the bed, with the same instinct of turning to him for comfort
with which the young motherless children of Henry of Bolingbroke,
when turned adrift among the rude Beaufort progeny of John of Gaunt,
had clung to their eldest brother, and found tenderness in his love
and protection in his fearlessness; so that few royal brethren ever
loved better than Henry and John of Lancaster.

'It was well and kindly done, John,' said Henry; 'and thou hast come
at a good time; for, thanks be to God, the pain hath left me; and if
it were not for this burthen of heaviness and weariness, I should be
more at ease than I have been for many weeks.'

But as he spoke, there was that both in his face and voice that
chilled with a dread certainty the hearts of those who hung over him.

'Is my wife come?  I could see her now,' he wistfully asked.

Alas! no.  Sir Lewis Robsart, the knight attached to her service,
faltered, with a certain shame and difficulty, that the Queen would
come when her orisons at Notre Dame were performed.

It was his last disappointment; but still he bore it cheerily.

'Best,' he said.  'My fair one was not made for sights like this; and
were she here'--his lip trembled--'I might bear me less as a
Christian man should.  My sweet Catherine!  Take care of her, John;
she will be the most desolate being in the world.'

John promised with all his heart; though pity for cold-hearted
Catherine was not the predominant feeling there.

'I would I had seen my child's face, and blessed him,' continued
Henry.  'Poor boy!  I would have him Warwick's charge.'

'Warwick is waiting admission,' said Bedford.  'He and Salisbury and
Exeter rode with me.'

The King's face lighted up with joy as he heard this.  'It is good
for a man to have his friends about him,' he said; and as they
entered he held out his hand to them and thanked them.

Then took place the well-known scene, when, looking back on his
career, he pronounced it to have been his endeavour to serve God and
his people, and declared himself ready to face death fearlessly,
since such was the will of his Maker:  grieving only for the infancy
of his son, but placing his hope and comfort in his brother John, and
commending the babe to the fatherly charge of Warwick.  'You cannot
love him for his own sake as yet; but if you think you owe me aught,
repay it to him.'  And as he thought over the fate of other infant
kings, he spoke of some having hated the father and loved the child,
others who had loved the father and hated the child.

To Humfrey of Gloucester he sent stringent warnings against giving
way to his hot and fiery nature, offending Burgundy, or rushing into
a doubtful wedlock with Jaqueline of Hainault; speaking of him with
an elder brother's fatherly affection, but turning ever to John of
Bedford with full trust and reliance, as one like-minded, and able to
carry out all his intentions.  For the French prisoners, they might
not be released, 'lest more fire be kindled in one day than can be
quenched in three.'

'And for you, Jamie,' he said, affectionately holding out his hand,
'my friend, my brother-in-arms, I must say the same as ever.  Pardon
me, Jamie; but I have not kept you out of malice, such as man must
needs renounce on his death-bed.  I trust to John, and to the rest,
for giving you freedom at such time as you can safely return to be
such a king indeed as we have ever hoped to be.  Do you pardon me,
James, for this, as for any harshness or rudeness you may have
suffered from me?'

James, with full heart, murmured out his ardent love, his sense that
no captive had ever been so generously treated as he.

'And you, my young lord,' said Henry, looking towards Malcolm, whose
light touch and tender hands had made him a welcome attendant in the
illness, 'I have many a kind service to thank you for.  And I believe
I mightily angered you once; but, boy, remember--ay, and you too,
Ralf Percy--that he is your friend who turns you back from things
sore to remember in a case like mine!'

After these, and other calm collected farewells, Henry required to
know from his physicians how long his time might yet be.  There was
hesitation in answering, plainly as they saw that mortification had
set in.

'What,' he said, 'do ye think I have faced death so many times to
fear it now?'

Then came the reply given by the weeping, kneeling physician:  'Sir,
think of your soul, for, without a miracle, you cannot live two
hours.'

The King beckoned his confessor, and his friends retired, to return
again to take their part in the last rites, the Viaticum and Unction.

Henry was collected, and alive to all that was passing, responding
duly, and evidently entering deeply into the devotions that were to
aid his spirit in that awful passage; his face gravely set, but firm
and fearless as ever.  The ceremonial ended, he was still sensible,
though with little power of voice or motion left; but the tone,
though low, was steady as ever, when he asked for the Penitential
Psalms.  Still they doubted whether he were following them, for his
eyes closed, and his lips ceased to move, until, as they chanted the
revival note of David's mournful penance--'O be favourable and
gracious unto Sion; build Thou the walls of Jerusalem;'--at that
much-loved word, the light of the blue eyes once more beamed out, and
he spoke again.  'Jerusalem!  On the faith of a dying king, it was my
earnest purpose to have composed matters here into peace and union,
and so to have delivered Jerusalem.  But the will of God be done,
since He saw me unworthy.'

Then his eyes closed again; he slept, or seemed to sleep; and then a
strange quivering came over the face, the lips moved again, and the
words broke from them, 'Thou liest, foul spirit! thou liest!' but, as
though the parting soul had gained the victory in that conflict,
peace came down on the wasted features; and with the very words of
his Redeemer Himself, 'Into Thy hands I commend my spirit,' he did
indeed fall asleep; the mighty soul passed from the worn-out frame.



CHAPTER XIII:  THE RING AND THE EMPTY THRONE



No one knows how great a tree has been till it has fallen; nor how
large a space a mighty man has occupied till he is removed.

King Henry V. left his friends and foes alike almost dizzy, as in
place of his grand figure they found a blank; instead of the hand
whose force they had constantly felt, mere emptiness.

Malcolm of Glenuskie, who had been asserting constantly that King
Henry was no master of his, and had no rights over him, had
nevertheless, for the last year or more, been among those to whom the
King's will was the moving spring, fixing the disposal of almost
every hour, and making everything dependent thereon.

When the death-hush was broken by the 'Depart, O Christian soul,' and
Bedford, with a face white and set like a statue, stood up from his
knees, and crossed and kissed the still white brow, it was to Malcolm
as if the whole universe had become as nothing.  To him there
remained only the great God, the heavenly Jerusalem into which the
King had entered, and himself far off from the straight way,
wandering from his promise and his purpose into what seemed to him a
mere hollow painted scene, such as came and went in the midst of a
banquet.  Or, again, it was the grisly Dance of Death that was the
only reality; Death had clutched the mightiest in the ring.  Whom
would he clutch next?

He stood motionless, as one in a dream, or rather as if not knowing
which was reality, and which phantom; gazing, gazing on at the bed
where the King lay, round which the ecclesiastics were busying
themselves, unperceiving that James, Bedford, and the nobles had
quitted the apartment, till Percy first spoke to him in a whisper,
then almost shook him, and led him out of the room.  'I am sent for
you,' he said, in a much shaken voice; 'your king says you can be of
use.'  Then tightening his grasp with the force of intense grief,
'Oh, what a day! what a day!  My father! my father!  I never knew
mine own father!  But he has been all to Harry and to me!  Oh, woe
worth the day!'  And dropping into a window-seat, he covered his face
with his hands, and gave way to his grief:  pointing, however, to the
council-room, where Malcolm found Bedford writing at the table, King
James, and a few others, engaged in the same manner.

A few words from James informed him (or would have done so if he
could have understood) that the Duke of Bedford, on whom at that
terrible moment the weight of two kingdoms and of the war had
descended, could not pause to rest, or to grieve, till letters and
orders had been sent to the council in England, and to every
garrison, every ally in France, to guard against any sudden panic, or
faltering in friendship to England and her infant heir.  Warwick and
Salisbury were already riding post haste to take charge of the army;
Robsart was gone to the Queen, Exeter to the Duke of Burgundy; and as
the clergy were all engaged with the tendance of the royal corpse,
there was scarcely any one to lessen the Duke's toil.  James, knowing
Malcolm's pen to be ready, had sent for him to assist in copying the
brief scrolls, addressed to each captain of a fortress or town,
announcing the father's death, and commanding him to do his duty to
the son--King Harry VI.  Each was then to be signed by the Duke, and
despatched by men-at-arms, who waited for the purpose.

Like men stunned, the half-dozen who sat at the council-table worked
on, never daring to glance at the empty chair at the upper end.  The
only words that passed were occasional inquiries of, and orders from,
Bedford; and these he spoke with a strange alertness and metallic
ring in his voice, as though the words were uttered by mechanism; yet
in themselves they were as clear and judicious as possible, as if
coming from a mind wound up exclusively to the one necessary object;
and the face--though flushed at first, and gradually growing paler,
with knitted brows and compressed lips--betrayed no sign of emotion.

Hours passed:  he wrote, he ordered, he signed, he sealed; he
mentioned name after name, of place and officer, never moving or
looking up.  And James, who knew from Salisbury that he had neither
slept nor eaten since sixty miles off he had met a worse report of
his brother, watched him anxiously till, when evening began to fall,
he murmured, 'There is the captain of--of--at--but--'--the pen
slipped from his fingers, and he said, 'I can no more!'

The overtaxed powers, strained so long--mind, memory, and all--were
giving way under the mere force of excessive fatigue.  He rose from
his seat, but stumbled, like one blind, as James upheld him, and led
him away to the nearest bed-chamber, where, almost while the
attendants divested him of the heavy boots and cuirass he had never
paused all these hours to remove, he dropped into a sleep of sheer
exhaustion.

James, who was likewise wearied out with watching, turned towards his
own quarters; but, in so doing, he could not but turn aside to the
chapel, where before the altar had been laid all that was left of
King Henry.  There he lay, his hands clasped over a crucifix, clad in
the same rich green and crimson robes in which he had ridden to meet
his Queen at Vincennes but three short months before; the golden
circlet from his helmet was on his head, but it could not give
additional majesty to the still and severe sweetness of his grand and
pure countenance, so youthful in the lofty power that high
aspirations had imprinted on it, yet so intensely calm in its marble
rest, more than ever with the look of the avenging unpitying angel.
To James, it was chiefly the face of the man whom he had best loved
and admired, in spite of their strange connection; but to Malcolm,
who had as usual followed him closely, it was verily a look from the
invisible world--a look of awful warning and reproof, almost as if
the pale set lips were unclosing to demand of him where he was in the
valley of shadows, through which the way lay to Jerusalem.  If Henry
had turned back, and warned him at the gate of the heavenly Sion,
surely such would have been his countenance; and Malcolm, when, like
James, he had sprinkled the holy water on the white brow, and crossed
himself while the low chant of Psalms from kneeling priests went up
around him--clasped his two hands close together, and breathed forth
the words, 'Oh, I have wandered far!  O great King, I will never
leave the straight way again!  I will cast aside all worldly aims!  O
God, and the Saints, help me not to lose my way again!'

He would have tarried on still, in the fascination of that wonderful
unearthly countenance, and in the inertness of faculties stunned by
fatigue and excitement, but James summoned him by a touch, and he
again followed him.

'O Sir!' he began, when they had turned away, 'I repent me of my
falling away to the world!  I give all up.  Let me back to my vows of
old.'

'We will talk of that another time,' said James, gravely.  'Neither
you nor I, Malcolm, can think reasonably under such a blow as this;
and I forbid you rashly to bind yourself.'

'Sir, Sir!' cried Malcolm, petulantly.  'You took me from the
straight way.  You shall not hinder my return!'

'I hinder no true purpose,' said King James.  'I only hinder another
rash and hasty pledge, to be felt as a fetter, or left broken on your
conscience.  Silence now.  When men are sad and spent they cannot
speak as befits them, and had best hold their peace.'

These words were spoken on the way up the stair that led to the
apartments of the King of Scots.  On opening the door of the larger
room, the first thing they saw was the tall figure of a
distinguished-looking knight, who, as they entered, flung himself at
King James's feet, fervently exclaiming, 'O my liege! accept my
homage!  Never was vassal so bound to his lord by thankfulness for
his life, and for far more than his life!'

'Sir Patrick Drummond, I am glad to see you better at ease,' said
James.  'Nay, suffer me,' he added, giving his hand to raise the
knight, but finding it grasped and kissed with passionate devotion,
almost overpowering the only half-recovered knight, so that James was
forced to use strength to support him, and would at once have lifted
him up, but the warm-hearted Patrick resisted, almost sobbing out--
'Nay, Sir! king of my heart indeed! let me first thank you.  I knew
not how much more I owed you than the poor life you saved--my
father's rescue, and that of all that was most dear.'

'Speak of such things seated, my good friend,' said James, trying to
raise him; but Drummond still did not second his efforts.

'I have not given my parole of honour as the captive whose life is
again due to you.'

'You must give that to the Duke of Bedford, Sir Patrick,' said James.
'I know not if I am to be put into ward myself.  In any case you are
safe, by the good King's grace, so you pledge yourself to draw no
sword against England in Scotland or France till ransom be accepted
for you.'

'Alack!' said Patrick, 'I have neither sword nor ransom.  I would I
knew what was to be done with the life you have given me, my lord.'

'I will find a use for it, never fear,' said James, sadly, but
kindly.  'Be my knight for the present, till better days come for us
both.'

'With my whole heart!' said Patrick, fervently.  'Yours am I for
ever, my liege.'

'Then my first command is that you should rise, and rest,' said
James, assisting the knight to regain his feet, and placing him in
the only chair in the room.  'You must become a whole man as soon as
may be.'

For Patrick's arm was in a sling, and evidently still painful and
useless, and he sank back, breathless and unresisting, like one who
had by no means regained perfect health, while his handsome features
looked worn and pale.  'I fear me,' said James, as the two cousins
silently shook hands, 'that you have moved over soon.--You surely had
my message, Bairdsbrae?'

'Oh yes, my lord,' replied Baird; 'but the lad was the harder to
hold; and after the fever was gone, we deemed he could well brook the
journey by water.  'Twas time I was here to guide ye too, my lord;
you and the callant baith look sair forfaughten.'

'We have had a sad time of it, Nigel,' said James, with trembling
lip.

'And if Brewster tells me right, ye've not tasted food the whole
day?' said Nigel, laying an authoritative hand on his royal pupil.
'Nay, sit ye down; here come the varlets with the meal I bade them
have ready.'

James passively yielded, courteously signing to the others to share
the food that was spread on a table; and with the same scarcely
conscious grace, making inquiries, which elicited that Patrick
Drummond's hurts had been caused by his horse falling and rolling
over with him, whilst with Sir John Swinton and other Scottish
knights he was reconnoitring the line of the English march.  He was
too much injured to be taken back to the far distant camp, and had
accordingly been intrusted to the French farmer, with no attendant
but a young French horse-boy, since he was too poor to keep a squire.
He knew nothing more, for fever had run high; and he had not even
been sensible of his desertion by his French hosts on the approach of
the English, far less of the fire, and of his rescue by the King and
Malcolm; but for this he seemed inclined to compensate to the utmost,
by the intense eagerness of devotion with which he regarded James,
who sat meanwhile crushed down by the weight of his own grief.

'I can eat no more, Baird,' said he, swallowing down a draught of
wine, and pushing aside his trencher.  'Your license, gentlemen.  I
must be alone.  Take care of the lads, Nigel.  Malcolm is spent too.
His deft service was welcome to--to my dearest brother.'

And though he hastily shut himself into his own inner chamber, it was
not till they had seen that his grief was becoming uncontrollable.

Patrick could not but murmur, 'Dearest brother!'

'Ay, like brothers they loved!' said Baird, gravely.

'A strange brotherhood,' began Drummond.

But Malcolm cried, with much agitation, 'Not a word, Patie!  You know
not what you say.  Take heed of profaning the name of one who is gone
to the Sion above.'

'You turned English, our wee Malcolm!' exclaimed Drummond, in amaze.

'There is no English, French, or Scot where he is gone!' cried
Malcolm.  'No Babel!  O Patie, I have been far fallen!  I have done
you in heart a grievous wrong! but if I have turned back in time, it
is his doing that lies there.'

'His! what, Harry of Lancaster's?' demanded the bewildered Patrick.
'What had he to do with you?'

'He has been my only true friend here!' cried Malcolm.  'Oh, if my
hand be free from actual spoil and bloodshed, it was his doing!  Oh,
that he could hear me bless him for the chastisement I took so
bitterly!'

'Chastisement!' demanded Patrick.  'The English King dared chastise
YOU! of Scots blood royal!  'Tis well he is dead!'

'The laddie's well-nigh beside himself!' said Baird.  'But he speaks
true.  This king whom Heaven assolizie, kept a tight hand over the
youngsters; and falling on Lord Malcolm and some other callants
making free with a house at Meaux, dealt some blows, of which my
young lord found it hard to stomach his share; though I am glad to
see he is come to a better mind.  Ay, 'tis pity of this King Harry!
Brave and leal was he; never spake an untrue word; never turned eye
for fear, nor foot for weariness, nor hand for toil, nor nose for ill
savour.  A man, look you, to be trusted; never failing his word for
good or ill!  Right little love has there been between him and me;
but I could weep like my own lad in there, to think I shall never see
that knightly presence more, nor hear those frank gladsome voices of
the boys, as they used to shout up and down Windsor Forest.'

'You too, Sir Nigel! and with a king like ours!'

'Ay, Sir Patrick! and if he be such a king as Scotland never had
since St. David, and maybe not then, I'm free to own as much of it is
due to King Harry as to his own noble self.--Did ye say they had
streekit him in the chapel, Lord Malcolm?  I'd fain look on the
bonnie face of him; I'll ne'er look on his like again.'

No sooner had old Bairdsbrae gone, than Malcolm flung himself down
before his cousin, crying, 'Oh, Patrick, you will hear me!  I cannot
rest till you know how changed I have been.'

'Changed!' said Patrick; 'ay, and for the better!  Why, Malcolm, I
never durst hope to see you so sturdy and so heartsome.  My father
would have been blithe to see you such a gallant young squire.  Even
the halt is gone!'

'Nearly,' said Malcolm.  'But I would fain be puny and puling, to
have the clear heart that once I had.  Oh, hear me! hear me! and
pardon me, Patie!'

And Malcolm, in his agitation, poured forth the whole story of his
having shifted from his old cherished purpose of devoting himself to
the service of Heaven, and leaving lands and vassals to the stronger
hands of Patrick and Lilias; how, having thus given himself to the
world, he had fallen into temptation; how he had let himself be led
to persecute with his suit a noble lady, vowed like himself; how he
had almost agreed to marry her by force:  and how he had been running
into the ordinary dissipations of the camp, abstaining from
confession, avoiding mass; disobeying orders, plunging into scenes of
plunder, till he had almost been the death of Patrick, whom he had
already so cruelly wronged.

So felt the boy.  Fresh from that death-bed, the evils his conscience
had protested against from the first appeared to him frightfully
heinous, and his anguish of self-reproach was such, that Patrick
listened in the greatest anxiety lest he should hear of some deadly
stain on his young kinsman's scutcheon; but when the tale was told,
and he had demanded 'Is that all?' and found that no further overt
act was alleged against Malcolm, he breathed a long sigh, and
muttered, 'You daft laddie! you had fairly startled me!  So this is
the coil, is it?  Who ever told you to put on a cowl, I should like
to know?  Why, 'twas what my poor father ever declared against.  I
take your lands!  By my troth! 'twould be enough to make me break
faith with your sister, if I COULD!'

'The vow was in my heart,' faltered Malcolm.

'In a fule's head!' said Patrick.  'What right have babes to be
talking of vows?  'Twould be the best tidings I've heard for many a
long day, that you were wedded to a lass with a good tocher, and fit
to guide your silly pate.  What's that?  Her vows!  If they are no
better than yours, the sooner they are forgot the better.  If she had
another love, 'twould be another matter, but with a bishop on your
side, you've naught to fear.'

Malcolm turned away, sick at heart.  To him his present position had
become absolute terror.  His own words had worked him up to an
alarming sense of having lapsed from high aims to mere selfishness;
of having profaned vows, consented to violence, and fallen away from
grace; and he was in an almost feverish passion to utter something
that would irrevocably bind him to his former intentions; but here
were the King and Patrick both conspiring to silence him, and hold
him back to his fallen and perilous state.  Nay, Patrick even derided
his penitence.  Patrick was an honourable knight, a religious man, as
times went, but he had been brought up in a much rougher and more
unscrupulous school than Malcolm, and had been hardened by years of
service as a soldier of fortune.  The Armagnac camp was not like that
of England.  Warriors of such piety and strictness as Henry and
Bedford had never come within his ken; and that any man, professing
to be a soldier, should hesitate at the license of war, was
incomprehensible to him.  The discipline of Henry's army had been
scoffed at in the French camp, and every infraction of it hailed as a
token of hypocrisy; and to the stout Scot Malcolm's grief for the
rapine at Meaux, which after all he had not committed, seemed a
simple absurdity.  Even his own danger, on the second occasion, did
not make him alter his opinion; it was all the fortune of war.  And
he was not sure that he had not best have been stifled at once, since
his hands were tied from warfare.  And as for Lily--how was he to win
her now?  Then, as Malcolm opened his mouth, Patrick sharply charged
him to hold his tongue as to that folly, unless he wanted to drive
him to make a vow on his side, that he would turn Knight of Rhodes,
and never wed.

Malcolm, wearied out with excitement, came at last to weeping that no
one would hear or understand him; but the scene was ended by
Bairdsbrae, who, returning, brought a leech with him, who at once
took the command of Patrick, and ordered him to his bed.

Malcolm could not rest.  He was feverish with the shock of grief and
awe, and absorbed in the thought which had mastered him, and which
was much dwelt on in the middle ages: --the monastic path, going
towards heaven straight as a sunbeam; the secular, twining its way
through a tortuous difficult course--the 'broad way,' tending
downward to the abyss.  To his terrified apprehension, he had
abandoned the direct and narrow path for the fatal road, and there
might at any moment be captured, and whirled away by the grisly
phantom Death, who had just snatched the mightiest in his inevitable
clutch; and with something of the timidity of his nature, he was in
absolute terror, until he should be able to set himself back on the
shining road from which he had swerved, and be rid of the load of
transgression which seemed ready to sink him into the gulf.

Those few and perfunctory confessions to a courtly priest who knew
nothing about him, and was sure not to be hard on a king's cousin,
now seemed to add to his guilt:  and, wandering down-stairs towards
the chapel, he met a train of ecclesiastics slowly leaving it, having
just been relieved by a bevy of monks from a neighbouring convent,
who took up the chants where they had left them.

Looking up at them, he recognized Dr. Bennet's bent head, and
throwing himself before him on his knee, he gasped, 'O father,
father! hear me!  Take me back!  Give me hope!'

'What means this, my young lord?' said Dr. Bennet, pausing, while his
brethren passed on.  'Are you sick?' he added, kindly, seeing the
whiteness of Malcolm's face, and his startled eye.

'Oh, no, no! only sick at heart at my own madness, and the doom on
it!  O Sir, hear me!  Take my vow again! give me absolution once more
to a true shrift.  Oh, if you will hear me, it shall be honest this
time!  Only put me in the way again.'

The chaplain was sorely sad and weary.  He it was whose ministrations
had chiefly comforted the dying King.  To him it had been the loss of
a deeply-loved son and pupil, as well as of almost unbounded hopes
for the welfare of the Church; and he had had likewise, in the
freshness of his sorrow, to take the lead in the ecclesiastical
ceremonies that ensued, so that both in body and mind he was well-
nigh worn out, and longed for peace in which to face his own private
sorrow; but the wild words and anguished looks of the young Scot
showed him that his case was one for immediate hearing, and he drew
the lad into the confessional, authoritatively calmed his agitation,
and prepared to hear the outpouring of the boy's self-reproach.

He heard it all--sifting facts from fancies, and learning the early
purpose, the terror at the cruel world, the longing for peace and
shelter; the desire to smooth his sister's way, which had led him to
devote himself in heart to the cloister, though never permitted
openly to pledge himself.  Then the discovery that the world was less
thorny than he had expected; the allurement of royal favour and
greatness; the charm of amusement, and activity in recovered health;
the cowardly dread of scorn, leading him not merely into the secular
life, but into the gradual dropping of piety and devotion; the actual
share he had taken in forbidden diversions; his attempts at plunder;
his ill-will to King Henry; and, above all, his persecution of
Esclairmonde, which he now regarded as sacrilegious; and he even told
how he lay under a half engagement to Countess Jaqueline to return
alone to the Court, and bear his part in the forcible marriage she
projected.

He told all, with no extenuation; nay, rather with such outbursts of
opprobrium on himself, that Dr. Bennet could hardly understand of
what positive evils he had been guilty; and he ended by entreating
that the almoner would at once hear his vow to become a Benedictine
monk, ere -

But Dr. Bennet would not listen.  He silenced the boy by saying he
had no more right to hear it than Malcolm as yet to make it.  Nay,
that inner dedication, for which Malcolm yearned as a sacred bond to
his own will, the priest forbade.  It was no moment to make such a
promise in his present mood, when he did not know himself.  If
broken, he would only be adding sin to sin; nor was Malcolm, with all
his errors fresh upon him, in any state to dedicate himself worthily.
The errors--which in Ralf Percy, or in most other youths, might have
seemed slight--were heavy stains on one who, like Malcolm, had erred,
not thoughtlessly, but with a conscience of them all, in wilful
abandonment of his higher principles.  On these the chaplain mostly
dwelt; on these he tried to direct Malcolm's repentance; and, finding
that the youth was in perpetual extremes of remorse, and that his
abject submission was a sort of fresh form of wilfulness, almost
passion at being forbidden to bind himself by the vow, he told him
that the true token of repentance was steadiness and constancy; and
that therefore his absolution must be deferred until he had thus
shown that his penitence was true and sincere--by perseverance,
firstly, in the devotions that the chaplain appointed for him, and,
secondly, in meeting whatever temptations might be in store for him.
Nay, the cruel chaplain absolutely forbade the white, excited, eager
boy to spend half the night in chapel over the first division of
these penitential psalms and prayers, but on his obedience sent him
at once to his bed.

Malcolm could have torn his hair.  Unabsolved!  Still under the
weight of sin; still unpledged; still on dangerous ground; still left
to a secular life--and that without Esclairmonde!  Why had he not
gone to a French Benedictine, who would have caught at his vow, and
crowned his penitence with some magnificent satisfying asceticism?

Yet something in his heart, something in the father's own authority,
made him submit; and in a tumult of feeling, more wretched even than
before his confession, he threw himself on his bed, expecting to
charge the tossings of a miserable night on Dr. Bennet, and to creep
down barefoot to the chapel in the early morning to begin his
Misereres.

Instead of which, his first wakening was in broad daylight, by King
James standing over him.  'Malcolm,' he said, 'I have answered for
you that you are discreet and trusty.  A message of weight is to be
placed in your hands.  Come with me to the Duke of Bedford.'

Malcolm could only dress himself, and obediently follow to the
chamber, where sat the Duke, his whole countenance looking as if the
light of his life had gone out, but still steadfastly set to bear the
heavy burden that had been placed on his shoulders.

He called Malcolm to him, and showed him a ring, asking whether he
knew it.

'The King's signet--King Harry's,' said Malcolm.

He was then reminded how, in the winter, Henry had lost the ring, and
after having caused another to be made at Paris, had found it in the
finger of his gauntlet.  Very few knew of the existence of this
duplicate.  Bedford himself was not aware of it till it had been
mentioned by James and Lord Fitzhugh the chamberlain; and then search
was made for it, without effect, so that it evidently had been left
with the Queen.  These private signets were of the utmost importance,
far more so than even the autograph; for, though signatures were just
acquiring individuality enough to become the best authentication, yet
up to this very reign the seal was the only valid affirmation.  Such
signets were always destroyed on a prince's death, and it was of the
utmost importance that the duplicate should not be left in Queen
Catherine's hands--above all, while she was with her mother and her
party, who were quite capable of affixing it to forgeries.

Bedford, James, and Fitzhugh were all required at Vincennes; the two
latter at the lying-in-state in the chapel.  Most of the other trusty
nobles had repaired to the army; and, indeed, Bedford, aware of the
terrible jealousies that were sure to break out in the headless
realm, did not choose to place a charge that might hereafter prove
invidious in the hands of any Englishman, or to extend the secret any
further than could be helped; since who could tell what suspicion
might not be thus cast on any paper sealed by Henry?

In his perplexity, James had suggested young Malcolm, who had
assisted in the search for the lost ring, and been witness to its
discovery; and whom he could easily send as bearer of his condolences
to the widowed Queen; who had indeed the entree of the palace, but
had no political standing, was neither French nor English, and had
shown himself discreet enough with other secrets to deserve
confidence.

Bedford caught at the proposal.  And Malcolm now received orders to
take horse, with a sufficient escort, and hasten at once to Paris,
where he should try if possible to obtain the ring from the Queen
herself; but if he could not speak to her in private, he might apply
to Sir Lewis Robsart.  No other person was to be informed of the real
object of the mission, and he was to get back to Vincennes as soon as
possible.

Neither prince could understand the scared, distressed looks with
which Malcolm listened to commands showing so much confidence in a
youth of his years.  They encouraged him by assurances that Sir Lewis
Robsart, who had a curious kind of authority, half fatherly, half
nurselike, over the Queen, would manage all for him.  And King James,
provoked by his reluctance, began, as they left Bedford's chamber, to
chide him for ungraciousness in the time of distress, and
insensibility to the honour conferred on him.

'Nay, nay,' disclaimed Malcolm, almost ready to weep, 'but I have a
whole world of penance!'

'Penance!  Plague on the boy's perverseness!  What penance is so good
as obedience?' said James, much displeased.

'Sir, Sir,' panted Malcolm, ''tis not only that.  Could any one but
be sent in my stead?  My returning alone is what Madame of Hainault
bade--for--for some scheme on--'

His voice was choked, and his face was burning.

'Is the lad gone daft?' cried James, in great anger.  'If Madame of
Hainault were so lost to decorum as to hatch such schemes at such a
moment, I trow you are neither puppet nor fool in her hands for her
to do what she will with.  I'll have no more fooling!'

Malcolm could only obey.

In the brief space while the horses were preparing, and he had to
equip and take food, he sped in search of Dr. Bennet, hoping, he knew
not what, from his interference, or trusting, at any rate, to explain
his own sudden absence.

But, looking into the chapel, he recognized the chaplain as one of
the leading priests in one of the lengthiest of masses, which was
just commencing.  It was impossible to wait for the conclusion.  He
could but kneel down, find himself too much hurried and confused to
recollect any prayer, then dash back again to don his riding-gear,
before King James should miss him, and be angered again.

'Unabsolved--unvowed!' he thought.  'Sent off thither against my
will.  Whatever may fall out, it is no fault of mine!'



CHAPTER XIV:  THE TROTH FLIGHT



Trembling and awed, the ladies waited at Paris.  It was well known
how the King's illness must end.  No one, save the Queen, professed
to entertain any hope of his amendment; but Catherine appeared to be
too lethargic to allow herself to be roused to any understanding of
his danger; and as to the personal womanly tendance of wife to
suffering husband, she seemed to have no notion of it.  Her mother
had never been supposed to take the slightest care of King Charles;
and Catherine, after her example, regarded the care either of husband
or child as no more required of a royal lady than of a queen bee.

The little Lady Montagu, as Alice was now to be called, who had been
scheming that her Richard should be wounded just enough to learn to
call her his good little nurse-tender, was dreadfully scandalized, as
indeed were wives of more experience, when they found all their
endeavours to make their mistress understand how ill the King really
was, and how much he wished for her, fall upon uncomprehending ears,
and at last were desired by her mother Isabeau not to torment the
poor Queen, or they would make her ill.

'Make her ill!  I wish I could!' muttered Lady Warwick, as she left
the presence-chamber; 'but it is like my little Nan telling her
apple-stock baby that all her kin were burnt alive in one castle.
She heeds as much!'

But when at late evening Sir Lewis Robsart rode up to the hotel, and
a hush went along with him, for all knew that he would never have
left his King alive, Catherine's composure gave way.  She had not
imagination enough for apprehension of what was out of sight; but
when she knew that she had lost her king, to whom she had owed the
brief splendour of an otherwise dreary and neglected life, she fell
into a passion of cries and tears, even at the mere sight of Sir
Lewis, and continued to bewail her king, her lord, her husband, her
light, her love, with the violence of an utterly unexpected
bereavement.

But while her shrieks and sobs were rending the air, a hoarse voice
gasped out, 'What say you?  My son Henri dead!' and white and
ghastly, the gray hair hanging wildly from the temples, the eyes
roaming with the wistful gaze of the half insane, poor King Charles
stood among them, demanding, 'Tell me I am sick again!  Tell me it is
but one of my delusions!  So brave, so strong, so lively, so good to
the poor old man!  My son Henri cannot die!  That is for the old, the
sick!'

And when Sir Lewis with gentle words had made him understand the
truth, he covered his face with his hands, and staggered away, led by
his attendant knight, still murmuring in a dazed way, 'Mon fils
Henri, mon bon fils Henri--most loving of all my children!'

In truth, neither of his own sons had been thus mourned; nor had any
person shown the poor crazed monarch the uniform deferential
consideration he had received from Henry.  He crept back to his own
chamber, and for many days hardly spoke, save to moan for his bon
fils Henri, scarcely tasting food, and pining away day by day.  Those
who had watched the likeness between the heroes of Monmouth and of
Macedon, saw the resemblance carried out; for as the aged Persian
queen perished away from grief for the courteous and gentle
Alexander, so now the king of the conquered realm was actually
wasting to death with mourning for his frank and kindly bon fils
Henri.

As part of royal etiquette, Catherine betook herself to her bed, in a
chamber hung with black, the light of day excluded, and ranks of wax
tapers shedding a lugubrious light upon rows of gentlemen and ladies
who had to stand there on duty, watching her as the mourners watched
the King, though her lying-in-state was not always as silent; for
though, there was much time spent in slumber, Catherine sometimes
would indulge in a good deal of subdued prattle with her mother, or
her more confidential attendants.  But at other times, chiefly when
first awaking, or else when anything had crossed her will, she would
fall into agonies of passionate grief--weeping, shrieking, and
rending her hair with almost a frenzy of misery, as she called
herself utterly desolate, and screamed aloud for her king to return
to her.

She was quite past the management of her English ladies on these
occasions; and her mother, declaring that she was becoming crazed
like her father, declined having anything to do with her.  Even Sir
Lewis Robsart she used to spurn aside; and nothing ever seemed
effectual, but for the Demoiselle de Luxemburg, with her full sweet
voice, and force of will in all the tenderness of strength,
caressingly to hold her still, talk to her almost as to an infant,
and sing away her violence with some long low ditty--sometimes a mere
Flemish lullaby, sometimes a Church hymn.  As Lady Warwick said, when
the ladies were all wearied out with the endeavour to control their
Queen's waywardness and violence, and it sighed away like a departing
tempest before Esclairmonde, 'It was as great a charity as ever
ministering as a St. Katherine's bedeswoman could be.'

To the young Lady Montagu, the blow was astounding.  It was the first
realization that a great man could die, a great support be taken
away; and, child-like, she moved about, bewildered and stunned, in
the great household on which the dark cloud had descended--clinging
to Esclairmonde as if to protect her from she knew not what; anything
dreadful might happen, with the King dead, and her father and husband
away.

Alas! poor Esclairmonde!  She was in much more real danger herself,
as came to the bride's mind presently, when, in the midst of her
lamentations, she exclaimed, 'And, ah, Clairette! there ends his
goodly promise about the sisterhood of good works at Paris.'

Esclairmonde responded with a gesture of sorrow, and the murmur of
the 'In principibus non confide' that is so often the echo of
disappointment.

'And what will you do?' continued Alice, watching her anxiously, as
her face, turning very pale, was nevertheless uplifted towards
heaven.

'Strive to trust more in God, less in princes,' she breathed forth,
clasping her hands, and compressing her lips.

'Nay, but does it grieve you so intensely?' asked Alice.  'Mayhap--'

'Alas! sweet one!  I would that the fall of this device seemed like
to be the worst effect to me of your good king's death.  Pray for me,
Alice, for now no earthly power stands between me and my kinsmen's
will.'

Alice cried aloud, 'Nay, nay, lady, we are English still.  There are
my father; my lord, the Duke of Bedford; they will not suffer any
wrong to be done.'

'Hush, Alice.  None of them hath any power to aid me.  Even good King
Henry had no legal power to protect me; only he was so great, so
strong in word or deed, that no man durst do before him what he
declared a shame and a sin.  Now it will be expedient more than ever
that nothing be done by the English to risk offending the Duke of
Burgundy.  None will dare withhold me; none ought to dare, for they
act not for themselves, but for their infant charge; and my countess
is weary of me.  There is nothing to prevent my uncles from taking me
away with them; or--'

'Nothing!' cried Alice.  'It cannot be!  Oh, that my father were
here!'

'He could do nothing for me.'

'A convent!'

'No convent here could keep me against the Bishop of Therouenne.'

Alice wrung her hands.  'Oh, it cannot--shall not be!'

'No, Alice, I do not believe it will be.  I have that confidence in
Him to whom I have given myself, that I do not believe He will permit
me to be snatched from Him, so long as my will does not consent.'
Esclairmonde faltered a moment, as she remembered her wavering,
crossed her hands on her breast, and ejaculated, 'May He deal
mercifully with me!  Yet it may be at an exceeding cost--at that of
all my cherished schemes, of all that was pride and self-seeking.
Alice, look not so terrified.  Nothing can be done immediately, or
with violence, in this first mourning for the King; and I trust to
make use of the time to disguise me, and escape to England, where I
may keep my vow as anchoress, or as lay sister.  Let me keep that,
and my self-exalting schemes shall be all put by!'

The question whether this should be to England, or to the southern
parts of France held by the Armagnacs, remained for decision, as
opportunity should direct:  Alice constantly urging her own scheme of
carrying her friend with her as her tire-woman, if, as seemed likely,
she were sent home; and Esclairmonde refusing to consent to anything
that might bring the bride into troubles with her father and husband;
and the debates being only interrupted when the Lady Montagu was
required to take her turn among the weary ladies-in-waiting around
Catherine's state bed.

Whenever she was not required to control, console, or persuade the
Queen, Esclairmonde spent most of her time in a chamber apart from
the chatter of Jaqueline's little court, where she was weaving, in
the delicate point-lace work she had learnt in her Flemish convent,
an exquisite robe, such as were worn by priests at Mass.  She seldom
worked, save for the poor; but she longed to do some honour to the
one man who would have promoted her nearly vanished scheme, and this
work she trusted to offer for a vestment to be used at his burial
Mass.  Many a cherished plan was resigned, many an act of self-
negation uttered, as she bent over the dainty web; many an entreaty
breathed, that her moment's wandering of fancy might not be reckoned
against her, but that she might be aided to keep the promise of her
infancy, and devote herself undivided to the direct service of God
and of His poor, be it in ever so humble a station.

Here she sat alone, when steps approached, the door opened, and of
all people he stood before her whom she least wished to see, the
young Lord of Glenuskie.

Amazed as she was, she betrayed no confusion, and merely rose, saying
quietly, 'This is an error.  I will show you Madame's apartment.'

But Malcolm, who had begun by looking far more confused than she,
cried earnestly, 'One moment, lady.  I came not willingly; the
Countess sent for me to her.  But since I am here--listen while
Heaven gives me strength to say it--I will trouble you never again.
I am come to a better mind.  Oh, forgive me!'

'What are you here then for, Sir?' said Esclairmonde, with the same
defensive dignity.

'My king sent me, against my will, on a mission to the Queen,' panted
Malcolm.  'I am forced to wait here; or, lady, I should have been
this day doing penance for my pursuit of you.  Verily I am a
penitent.  Mayhap Heaven will forgive me, if you will.'

'If I understand you aright, it is well,' said Esclairmonde, still
gravely and doubtfully.

'It is so indeed,' protested Malcolm, with a terrible wrench to his
heart, yet a sensation of freeing his conscience.  'Fear me no longer
now.  After that which I saw at Vincennes, I know what it is to be on
the straight path, and--oh! what it is to have fallen from it.  How
could I dream of dragging you down to be with one so unworthy,
becoming more worthless each day?  Lady, if I never see you more,
pardon me, pray for me, as a saint for a poor outcast on earth!'

'Hush,' said Esclairmonde; 'I am no saint--only a maiden pledged.
But, Sir, I thank you fervently.  You have lightened my heart of one
of my fears.'

Malcolm could not but be cheered by being for once spoken to by her
in so friendly a tone; and he added, gravely and resolutely:  'My
suit, then, I yield up, lady--yield for ever.  Am I permitted once to
kiss that fair and holy hand, as I resign my presumptuous hopes
thereof?'

'Mayhap it were wiser left undone,' said Esclairmonde.  'My mind
misgives me that this meeting is planned to bring us into trouble.
Farewell, my lord.'

As she had apprehended, the door was flung back, and Countess
Jaqueline rushed in, clasping her hands in an affectation of merry
surprise, as she cried, 'Here they are!  See, Monseigneur!  No
keeping doves apart!'

'Madame,' said Esclairmonde, turning on her with cold dignity, 'I
have been thanking Monsieur de Glenuskie for having resigned the suit
that I always declared to be in vain.'

'You misunderstood, Clairette,' said Jaqueline.  'No gentleman ever
so spoke!  No, no; my young lord has kept his promise to me, and I
will not fail him.'

'Madame,' faltered Malcolm, 'I came by command of the King of Scots.'

'So much the better,' cried Jaqueline.  'So he can play into our
hands, for all his grandeur!  It will lose him his wager, though!
Here is bride--there is priest--nay, bishop!' pointing to him of
Therouenne, who had accompanied her, but hitherto had stood silent.

'Madame,' said Malcolm, 'the time and state of the household forbid.'

'Ma foi!  What is that to us?  King Henry is neither our brother nor
our father; and Catherine will soon laugh at it as a good joke.'

'Nay,' said the Bishop, with more propriety, 'it is the contract and
troth-plight alone that could take place at present.  That secure,
the full solemnities will await a fitting time; but it is necessary
that the troth be exchanged at once.'

'Monseigneur,' said Esclairmonde, 'mine is in other keeping.'

'And, Monseigneur,' added Malcolm, 'I have just told the lady that I
repent of having fallen from my vocation, and persecuted her.'

'How, Sir!' said the Bishop, turning on him; 'do you thus lightly
treat a lady of the house of Luxemburg?  Beware!  There are those who
know how to visit an insult on a malapert lad, who meddles with the
honour of the family.'

'Be not threatened, Lord Malcolm,' said Esclairmonde, with a gleam in
her eye.

And Malcolm was Stewart enough to answer with spirit:  'My lord, I
will meet them if needed.  This lady is so affianced, that it is
sacrilege to aspire to her.'

'Ah!' said the Bishop, in an audible aside to the giggling Countess:
'this comes of her having thrown herself at the youth's head.  Now he
will no more of her.'

Crimson with wrath, and also with a wild sense of hope that the
obligation had become absolute, Malcolm made a vehement incoherent
exclamation; but Esclairmonde retained her composure.

'Monseigneur and Madame both know better,' she said.  'This is but
another menace.'

'Peace, minion,' said the Bishop of Therouenne, 'and listen to me.
If this young gentleman, after professing himself willing to wed you,
now draws back, so much the worse for him.  But if you terrify him
out of it with your humours, then will my brother St. Pol and the
Duke of Burgundy soon be here, with no King of England to meddle; and
by St. Adrian, Sir Boemond will be daunted by no airs, like Monsieur
there.  A bride shall you be, Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, ere the week
is out, if not to Monsieur de Glenuskie, to the Chevalier Boemond de
Bourgogne.'

'Look not at me,' said Jaqueline.  'I am weary of your contumacy.
All I shall do is to watch you well.  I've suspected for some days
that you were concocting mischief with the little Montagu; but you'll
not escape again, as when I was fool enough to help you.'

The two stood a few paces apart, where they had been discovered;
Esclairmonde's eyes were closed, her hands clasped, as if in silent
prayer for aid.

'Girl--your choice!' said the Bishop, peremptorily.  'Wedlock on the
spot to this gentleman, or to Sir Boemond a week hence.'

Esclairmonde was very white.

'My will shall not consent to a present breach of vow to save a
future one,' she said, in a scarce audible voice.

A sudden thought darted into Malcolm's mind.  With colour flooding
his face to his very temples, he stepped nearer to her, and said, in
a tremulous under-tone, 'Lady, trust me.'

The Bishop withheld Jaqueline almost by force, so soon as he saw that
the pair were whispering together, and that there was something of
relaxation in Esclairmonde's face as she looked up at him in silent
interrogation.

He spoke low, but solemnly and imploringly.  'Trust me with your
plight, lady, and I will restore it when you are free.'

Hardly able to speak, she however murmured, 'You will indeed do
this?'

'So help me Heaven!' he said, and his eyes grew large and bright; he
held his head with the majesty of his race.

'Heaven has sent you,' said Esclairmonde, with a long sigh, and
holding out her hand to him, as though therewith she conferred a
high-souled woman's full trust.

And Malcolm took it with a strange pang of pain and exultation at the
heart.  The trust was won, but the hope of earthly joy was gone for
ever.

The Countess broke out with a shout of triumph:  'There, there! they
have come to reason at last.  There's an end of her folly.'

Malcolm felt himself a man, and Esclairmonde's protector, all at
once, as he stood forth, still holding her hand.

'Monseigneur,' he said, 'this lady consents to intrust her troth to
me, and be affianced to me'--his chest heaved, but he still spoke
firmly--'on condition that no word be spoken of the matter, nor any
completion of the rite take place until the mourning for King Henry
be at an end;' and, at a sort of shiver from Esclairmonde, he added:
'Not for a year, by which time I shall be of full age.'

'A strange bridegroom!' said Jaqueline; 'but maybe you do well to get
her on what terms you can.  Do you agree, Monseigneur?'

In truth, Monseigneur may have been relieved that the trial of
strength between him and his ward had thus terminated.  He was only
anxious to have the matter concluded.

The agreement, binding Malcolm to accept a stated number of crowns in
instalments, as the value of Esclairmonde's lands, under the
guarantee of the Duke of Burgundy and King James of Scotland, had all
been long ago signed, sealed, and secured; and there was nothing to
prevent the fiancailles, or espousals, from taking place at once.

It was a much more real ceremony than a mere betrothal, being, in
fact, in the eye of the civil law a marriage, though the full
blessing and the sacramental words of union were deferred for the
completion of the rite.  It was the first part of the Marriage
Service, binding the pair so indissolubly to one another, that
neither could enter into wedlock with any one else as long as the
other lived--except, of course, by Papal dispensation; and in cases
of stolen weddings, it was all that was deemed needful.

All therefore that remained to be done was, that the Bishop summoned
his chaplain to serve as a witness and as scribe; and then the two
young people, in their deep mourning dresses, standing before the
Bishop, vowed to belong to none other than to one another, and the
betrothal rings being produced, were placed on their fingers, and
their hands were clasped.  Malcolm's was steady, as he felt
Esclairmonde's rest in his untrembling, but with the quietness of one
who trusted all in all where she trusted at all.

'Poor children! they have all to learn,' hilariously shouted the
Countess.  'They have forgotten the kiss!'

'Will you suffer it, my sister?' said Malcolm, with burning cheeks.

'My brother and my guardian!' responded Esclairmonde, raising the
white brow to his lips.

At that moment back went the door, and in flew Alice Montagu, crying
aloud, 'Clairette! the Queen--oh, Madame, your pardon! but I am sent
for Esclairmonde.  The Queen is in worse fits than ever.  Sir Lewis
can't get the ring from her.  They think she will rave like her
father presently!  Come!'

Esclairmonde could only hurry away at this; while Alice, grasping her
hand, continued:

'Oh, have they been persecuting you?  I dreaded it when I saw yon
little wretch; but--oh, Esclairmonde, what is this?' in an utterly
changed voice.

'He holds my faith in trust.  He will restore it,' said Esclairmonde,
hurriedly.

But Lady Montagu spoke not another word; and, indeed, they were hard
upon the English queen's rooms, whence they already heard hysterical
screams of passion.

Jaqueline had immediately set forth in the same direction out of
curiosity; and Malcolm in much anxiety, since the mission that he had
been cautioned to guard so jealously seemed in danger of being known
everywhere.  He had himself been allowed to stand by the Queen's
bedside, and rehearse James's message; but when he had further hinted
of his being sent by Bedford to bring the ring, the Queen, perhaps at
the mention of the brother-in-law, pouted, knew nothing of any ring,
and supposed M. le Duc meant to strip her, a poor desolate widow, of
all her jewels.

Then Malcolm had spoken in private with Sir Lewis Robsart, who knew
the ring was among her jewels, and promised to get it for him as soon
as was possible; and it was while waiting for this that Malcolm had
been summoned to the Countess of Hainault's apartments.

But ere Sir Lewis could get the ear of the Queen, as he now told
Malcolm, her mother had been with her.  Catherine was dull, jealous,
unwilling to part with anything, but always easily coaxed over.  Her
mother Isabeau had, on the other hand, a good deal of low cunning and
selfishness, and understood how valuable an instrument might be a
duplicate seal of a deceased monarch.  Therefore she instigated her
daughter to deny that she possessed it, and worked her up into a
state of impracticability, in which Sir Lewis Robsart was unable to
deal with her, and only produced so wild a tempest of passion as
perfectly to appal both him and her ladies.

That the Duke of Bedford had sent for a ring, which she would not
give up, was known over the whole palace; the only matter still not
perhaps known was, what was the value of that individual ring.

Robsart, however, promised to exonerate Malcolm from having shown any
indiscretion; he charged it all on himself for having left his Queen
for an instant to Isabeau.

Meanwhile, Malcolm and he, with other nobles and ladies, waited,
waited in the outer chamber, listening to the fearful storm of
shrieks and cries, till they began to spend themselves and die away;
and then they heard Esclairmonde's low voice singing her lullaby, and
every one breathed freer, as though relieved, and murmurs of
conversation rose again.  Malcolm moved across to greet the Lady
Montagu; and though she looked at him with all the disdain her little
gentle face could accomplish, he had somehow a spring and strength in
him that could not now be brow-beaten.

He bent over her, and said, 'Lady, I see you know all.  It is but a
trust.'

'If you so treat it, Sir, you will do well,' responded the young
matron, with as much stern gravity as she could assume; the fact
being that she longed to break down and cry heartily, that
Esclairmonde should so far have failed, and become like other people.

Long, long they waited--Malcolm with a strange dreamy feeling at his
heart, neither triumph nor disappointment, but something between
both, and peace above all.  Dinner was served in the hall; the
company returned to the outer apartment, yet still all was silent
within; till at last, late in the afternoon, there came a black
figure forth from under the black hangings, and Esclairmonde, turning
to Lady Warwick, said, 'The Queen is awake, and desires her ladies'
presence.'  And then coming towards Malcolm, who was standing near
Sir Lewis Robsart, she placed in his hand the signet-ring.

Both, while the attendants of the Queen filed back into her chamber,
eagerly demanded how the ring had been obtained.

'Poor lady!' said Esclairmonde, 'she was too much spent to withhold
anything.  She was weak and exhausted with cries and tears; and when
she had slept, she was as meek as a lamb; and there was no more ado
but to bid her remember that the blessed King her lord would have
bidden her let the ring be broken up at once, lest it should be used
so as to harm her son.'

That Esclairmonde had prevailed by that gentle force of character
which no one could easily resist, could not, however, be doubted for
a moment; and a fresh thrill of amazement, and almost of joy, came
over Malcolm at the sense that he had become the protector of such a
being, and that in a sort she belonged to him, and was in his power,
having trusted herself to him.

Robsart advised, and Esclairmonde concurred in the counsel, that Lord
Glenuskie should set forth for Vincennes immediately, before there
should be time for any more cabals, or for Queen Isabeau to have made
her daughter repent of having delivered up the signet-ring.

Malcolm therefore at once took leave of his affianced, venturing to
kiss her hand as he looked wistfully in her face, and said, 'Dear
lady, how shall I thank you for this trust?'

Esclairmonde gave her sweet grave smile, as she said, 'To God's
keeping I commend you, Sir.'  She would not even bid him be true to
his trust; it would have seemed to her to insult him in whom her
confidence was placed, and she only added:  'I shall ever bless you
for having saved me.  Farewell!  Now am I bound for ever to pray for
you and your sister.'

And it would be impossible to tell how the sense of Esclairmonde's
trust, and of the resolute self-denial it would require of him,
elevated Malcolm's whole tone, and braced his mind.  The taking away
of his original high purpose had rendered him as aimless and
pleasure-loving as any ordinary lad; but the situation in which he
now stood--guarding this saintly being for her chosen destiny, at the
expense of all possible earthly projects for his own happiness or
ambition--was such as to bring out that higher side of his nature
that had well-nigh collapsed.  As he stood alone in the ante-room,
waiting until his horse and escort should be ready for his return, a
flood of happiness seemed to gush over him.  Esclairmonde was no more
his own, indeed, than was King Henry's signet; but the trust was very
precious, and gave him at least the power of thinking of her as
joined by a closer link than even his sister Lilias.  And towards her
his conscience was again clear, for this very betrothal put marriage
out of the question for him, and was a real seal of his dedication.
He only felt as if his heart ought not to be so light and peaceful,
while his penance was still unsaid, his absolution not yet
pronounced.



CHAPTER XV:  THE TRUST



James of Scotland and John of Bedford sat together in the twilight of
a long and weary day, spent by the one in standing like a statue at
the head of his deceased friend as a part of the pageant of the
lying-in-state in the chapel, whither multitudes had crowded
throughout the day to see the 'mighty victor, mighty lord, lie low on
his funeral couch;' the nobles gazing with a certain silent and
bitter satisfaction at him who had not only broken the pride of their
country, but had with his iron hand repressed their own private
exactions, while the poor and the peasants openly bewailed him as the
father and the friend who had stood between them and their harsh
feudal lords.  By the other, the hours had passed in the press of
toil and perplexity that had fallen on him as the yet unaccredited
representative of English power in France, and in writing letters to
those persons at home from whom he must derive his authority.  The
hour of rest and relaxation was welcome to both, though they chiefly
spent it each leaning back in his chair in silence.

'Your messenger is not come back,' said Bedford, presently, rousing
himself.

'It may have been no easy task,' replied James, not however without
uneasiness.

'I would,' said Bedford, presently, 'that I had writ the matter
straight to Robsart.  The lad is weak, and may be tampered with.'

'He knows that I have pledged my honour for him,' said James.

Bedford's thin lips moved at the corners.

'Nay,' said James, not angrily, 'the youth hath in some measure
disappointed me.  The evil in him shot forth faster than the good
under this camp life; but methinks there is in him a certain rare
quality of soul that I loved him for at the first, and though it hath
lain asleep all this time, yet what he hath now seen seemed to me
about to work the change in him.'

'It may be so,' said Bedford; 'and yet I would I had not consented to
his going where that woman of Hainault might work on him to fret the
Lady Esclairmonde.'

James started somewhat as he remembered overruling this objection of
Malcolm's own making.  'She cannot have the insolence,' he said.

At that moment a hasty step approached; the door was opened with
scant ceremony, and Ralf Percy, covered from head to foot with blood,
hurried in breathless and panting.

'My lord Duke, your license!  Here is Malcolm Stewart set upon in the
forest by robbers and stabbed!'

'Slain?  Dead?' cried both princes, springing up in horror.

'Alive still--in the chapel--asking for you, my lord,' said Percy.
'He bade us lay him there at the King's feet; and as it was the
readiest way to a priest, we did his bidding.'

'My poor Malcolm!' sighed James; and he and Bedford hastened to obey
the summons.

There was time on the way for Ralf Percy to give them the
particulars.  'We had gone forth--Trenton, Kitson, altogether some
half-dozen of us--for a mouthful of air in the forest after our guard
all day in the chapel, when about a mile from the Castle we heard a
scuffle, and clashing of arms.  So breaking through the thicket, we
saw a score of fellows on horseback fully armed, and in the midst
poor Glenuskie dragged to the ground and struggling hard with two of
them.  We drew our swords, hallooed, and leapt out; and the knaves
never stayed to see how many of us there were, but made off like the
dastards they were, but not till one had dealt poor Stewart this
parting stroke.  He hath been bleeding like a sheep all the way home,
and hath scarce spoken but a thanksgiving for our having come in
time, as he called it, and to ask for Dr. Bennet and the Duke.'

The words brought them to the door of the chapel, where for a time
the chants around King Henry had paused in the agitation of the new
arrival.  As the black and white crowd of priests and monks opened
and made way for the King and Duke, they saw, in the full light of
the wax tapers, laid on a pile of cushions not far from King Henry's
feet, the figure of Malcolm, his riding-gown open at the breast, and
kerchiefs dyed and soaked with blood upon it; the black of his
garments and hair enhancing the ghastly whiteness of his face, and
yet an air of peace and joy in the eyes and in the folded hands, as
Dr. Bennet and another priest stood over him, administering those
abbreviated rites of farewell blessing which the Church sanctioned in
cases of sudden and violent death.  The princes both stood aside, and
presently Malcolm faintly said, 'Thank God!  I trusted to His mercy
to pardon!  Now all would be well could I but see the Duke.'

'I am here, dear youth,' said Bedford, kneeling on one side of him;
while James, coming to the other side, spoke to him affectionately;
but to him Malcolm only replied by a fond clasp of the hand, giving
his sole attention to Bedford, to whom he held the signet.

'It has cost too much,' said Bedford, sadly.

'Oh, Sir, this would be naught, save that I am all that lies between
her--the Lady Esclairmonde--and Boemond of Burgundy;' and as at that
moment Bedford saw the gold betrothal ring on the finger, his
countenance lost something of the pitying concern it had worn.
Malcolm detected the expression, and rallying his powers the more,
continued:  'Sir, there was no help--they vowed that she must choose
between Boemond and me.  On the faith of a dying man, I hold her
troth but in trust; I pledged myself to her to restore it when her
way is clear to her purpose.  She would never be mine but in name.
And now who will save her?  My life alone is between her and yonder
wolf.  Oh, Sir Duke, promise me to save her, and I die content.'

'This is mere waste of time!' broke in the Duke.  'Where are the
knave chirurgeons?--See, James, if the lad dies, 'twill be from mere
loss of blood; there is no inward bleeding; and if there be no more
loitering, he will do well.'

And seeing the surgeons at hand, he would have risen to make way, but
Malcolm held him fast, reiterating, 'Save her, Sir.'

'If your life guards her, throw it not away by thus dallying,' said
Bedford, disengaging himself; while Malcolm groaned heavily, and
turned his heavy eyes to his royal friend, who said kindly, 'Fear
not, dear cousin; either thou wilt live, or he will be better than
his word.'

'God will guard her, I know,' said Malcolm; 'and oh! my own dear
lord, I need not ask you to be the brother to my poor sister you have
been to me.  At least all will be clear for her and Patie!'

'I trust not yet,' said James, smiling in encouragement.  'Thou wilt
live, my faithful laddie.'

Malcolm was spent and nearly fainting by this time, and all his reply
was a few gasps of 'Only say you pardon me all, my lord, and will
speak for HER to the Duke! ask HER prayers for me!' and as James
sealed his few words of reply with a kiss, he closed his eyes, and
became unconscious; in which state he was conveyed to his bed.

'You might have set his mind at rest,' said James, somewhat hurt, to
the Duke.

'Who?  I!' said Bedford.  'I cannot stir a finger that could set us
at enmity with Burgundy, for any lady in the land.  Moreover, if she
have found means to secure herself once, she can do so again.'

'I would you could have been more kind to my poor boy,' said James.

'Methought I was the most reasonably kind of you all!  Had it not
been mere murder to keep him there prating and bleeding, I had asked
of him what indiscretion had blown the secret and perilled the
signet.  No robbers were those between Paris and Vincennes in our
midst, but men who knew what he bore.  I'll never--'

Bedford just restrained himself from saying, 'trust a Scot again;'
but his manner had vexed and pained James, who returned to Malcolm,
and left him no more till called by necessity to his post as King
Henry's chief mourner, when the care of him was left to Patrick
Drummond and old Bairdsbrae; and Malcolm was a very tranquil patient,
who seemed to need nothing but the pleasure of looking at the ring on
his finger.  The weapon had evidently touched no vital part, and he
was decidedly on the way to recovery, when on the second evening
Bedford met James, saying:  'I have seen Robsart.  It was no
indiscretion of young Glenuskie's.  It was only what comes of dealing
with women.  Can I see the boy without peril to him?'

Malcolm was so much better, that there was no reason against the
Duke's admission, and soon Bedford's falcon-face looked down on him
in all its melancholy.

'Thanks, my Lord Glenuskie,' he said; 'I thought not to be sending
you on a service of such risk.'

'It was a welcome service,' said Malcolm.

Bedford's brows knitted themselves for a moment as he said, 'I came
to ask whether you deem that this hurt was from a common robber or
routier.'

'Assuredly not,' said Malcolm, but very low; and looking up into his
face, as he added, 'This should be for your ear alone, Sir.'

They were left alone, and the Duke said:  'I have heard from Robsart
how the ring was obtained.  You may spare that part of the story.'

'Sir,' said Malcolm, 'when the Lady Esclairmonde' (for he was not to
be balked of dwelling on that name with prolonged delight) 'had
brought me the ring, Sir Lewis Robsart advised my setting forth
without loss of time.'

'So he told me,' said the Duke; 'and likewise that you took his words
so literally as to set out with only three followers.'

'Ay, Sir; but he knew not wherefore.  My escort had gone forth into
the city, and while they were being collected, a message bade me to
the Lady Esclairmonde's presence.  I went, suspecting naught, but I
found myself in presence of Madame of Hainault, and of a veiled lady-
-who, my Lord--'  He paused.  'She was broad in form, and had a trick
of gasping as though over-fat.'

Bedford nodded.  Every one knew Queen Isabeau by these tokens.

'She scarce spoke, my Lord; but the Countess Jaqueline pretended to
be in one of her merry moods.  She told me one good turn deserved
another, and that, as in gratitude and courtesy bound, I must do her
the favour of either lending her the signet, or, if I would not let
it out of my hands, of setting it to a couple of parchments, which
she declared King Henry had promised to grant.'

'The false woman!'

'Sir, words told not on her.  She laughed and clapped her hands at
whatever I said of honour, faith, or trust.  She would have it that
it was a jest--nay, romping fashion, she seized my hand, which I let
her have, knowing it was only my own seal that was on it.  Never was
I so glad that the signet being too small for my fingers, it was in
my bosom.'

'Knew you what the parchments bore?' asked, Bedford, anxiously.

'One--so far as I could see--was of the Duke of Orleans' liberty,'
said Malcolm.  'The other--pardon me, Sir--it bore the names of Duke
Humfrey and Countess Jaqueline.'

'The shameless wanton!' broke forth Bedford.  'How did you escape her
at last, boy?'

'Sir,' said Malcolm, turning as red as loss of blood permitted, 'she
had not kept her hands off me; therefore when she stood between me
and the door, I told her that discourtesy was better than trust-
breaking, and while she jeered at my talking out of a book of
chivalry, I e'en took her by the hands, lifted her aside, opened the
door, ran down-stairs, and so to the stables, where I mounted with
the only three men I could get together.'

Bedford could not but laugh, as he added, 'Bravely done, Lord
Malcolm; but, I fear me, she will never forgive you.  What next?'

'I left word for the other fellows to join us at the hostel by the
gate, and tarried for them till I feared being here after the gates
were fast; then set out without them, and rode till, just within the
forest, a band of men, how many I cannot tell, were on us, and before
my sword was well drawn they had surrounded me, and seized my bridle.
One of them bade me submit quietly, and they would not harm me, if I
would yield up that which I wist of.  I said I would sooner yield my
life than my trust; whereupon they mastered me, and dragged me off my
horse, and were rifling me, when I--knowing the Flemish accent of
that drunken fellow of the Countess's--called out, "Shame on you,
Ghisbert!"  Then it was that he stabbed me, even at the moment when
the holy Saints sent brave Percy and the rest to rush in upon them.'

'You are sure it was Ghisbert?' repeated Bedford, anxiously.

'As certain as a man's voice can make me,' said Malcolm.  'Methinks,
had I not named him, he would perhaps have bound me to a tree, and
left it to be thought that they were but common thieves.'

'Belike,' said Bedford, thoughtfully.  'We are beholden to you, my
Lord Glenuskie; the whole state of England is beholden to you for the
saving of the confusion and evils the loss of that ring would have
caused.  You can keep counsel, I wot well.  Then let all this matter
of the Queen and Countess rest a secret.'

Malcolm looked amazed; and Bedford added:  'I cannot quarrel with the
woman, nor banish her from Court.  Did we accuse her, Holland would
become Armagnac; nor is she subject of ours, to have justice done on
her.  It is for her interest to hush the matter up, and it must be
ours too.  If that knave Ghisbert ever gives me the chance, he shall
hang like a dog; but for the rest--' he shrugged his shoulders.

'And,' said Malcolm, 'Ghisbert only meant to serve his lady.  Any
vassal of mine would do the like for me or my sister.'

Bedford half smiled; then sighed and said:  'Once we were like to get
laws more obeyed than lords; but that is all over now!  Yet you,
young Sir, have seen a great pattern; you will have great powers!'

'Sir,' interrupted Malcolm, 'I pray you believe me, great powers I
shall not have.  As I told you last night, I do but hold this
precious troth in trust!  It must be a secret, or it would not save
her; but you--oh, Sir! you will believe that!'

'If it be so,' said Bedford, gravely, 'it is too sacred a trust to be
spoken of.  You will deserve greater honour if you keep your word,
than ever you will receive from the world.  Farewell--and recover
fast.'

Malcolm did not meet with much encouragement from the few to whom he
thought fit to confide the conditions of his espousal.  The King
allowed that he could not have acted otherwise, but was concerned at
it, because of the hindrance that might for years be interposed in
the way of his welfare; and secretly hoped that Malcolm, in his new
capacity, would so gain on Esclairmonde's esteem and gratitude, as to
win her affection, and that by mutual consent they would lay aside
their loftier promises, and take up their espousal where they had
left it.

And what James secretly desired, Sir Patrick Drummond openly
recommended.  In his eyes, Malcolm would be no better than a fool if
he let his ladye-love, with all her lands, slip through his fingers,
when she was lawfully his own.  Patrick held that a monastery was a
good place to be nursed in if wounded, and a convenience for
disposing of dull or weakly younger sons; and he preferred that there
should be some holy men to pray for those who did the hard and bloody
work of the world; but he had no desire that any one belonging to
himself should plunge into extra sanctity; and the more he saw
Malcolm developing into a man among men, the more he opposed the
notion of his dedicating himself.

A man!  Yes; Malcolm was rising from his bed notably advanced in
manliness.  As the King's keen eye had seen from the first, and as
Esclairmonde had felt, there was an elevation, tenderness, and
refinement in his cast of character, which if left to his natural
destiny would have either worn out his life early in the world, or
carried him to the obscure shelter of a convent.  In the novelty of
the secular life, and temptations of all kinds, dread of ridicule,
and the flood of excitements which came with reviving health, that
very sensitiveness led him astray; and the elevated aims fell with a
heavier fall when diverted from heavenly palaces to earthly ones.
Self-reproach and dejection drove him further from the right course,
and in proportion to the greater amount of conscience he had by
nature, his character was the more deteriorating.  His deeds were far
less evil in themselves than those of many of his companions, but
inasmuch as they were not thoughtless in him, they were injuring him
more.  But the sudden shock of Patrick's danger roused him to a new
sense of shame.  King Henry's death had lifted his mind out of the
earthly atmosphere, and then the treasure of Esclairmonde's pure and
perfect trust seemed to be the one thing to be guarded worthily and
truly.  It gave him weight, drew him out of himself, lifted him above
the boyish atmosphere of random self-indulgence and amusement.  To be
the protector who should guard her vows for the heavenly Bridegroom
to whom her soul was devoted, was indeed a championship that in his
eyes could only have befitted Sir Galahad; and a Galahad would he
strive to be, so long as that championship held him to the secular
life.  James and Bedford both told him he had won his spurs, and
should have them on the next fit occasion; but he had ceased to care
for knighthood, save in that half-consecrated aspect which he thought
would render his guardianship less unmeet for Esclairmonde.

She had not shunned to send him a kind greeting on hearing of his
wound, and by way of token a fresh leaf of vellum with a few more of
those meditations from Zwoll--meditations that he spelled over from
Latin into English, and dwelt upon in great tranquillity and soothing
of spirit during the days that he was confined to his bed.

These were not many.  He was on his feet by the time the funeral
cavalcade was in readiness to move from Vincennes to convey Henry of
Monmouth to his last resting-place in Westminster Abbey.  Bedford
could not be spared to return to England, and was only to go as far
as Calais; and James of Scotland was therefore to act as chief
mourner, attended by his own small personal suite.

Sir Patrick Drummond--though, shrugging his shoulders, he muttered
that he should as soon have thought of becoming mourner at the foul
fiend's funeral as at the King of England's--could not object to
swell the retinue of his sovereign by his knighthood; and though
neither he nor Malcolm were in condition for a campaign, both could
ride at the slow pace of the mournful procession.

The coffin was laid on a great car, drawn by four black horses, and
surmounted by Henry's effigy, made in boiled leather and coloured to
the life, robed in purple and ermine, crown on head, sceptre and orb
in either hand.  The great knights and nobles rode on each side,
carrying the banners of the Saints; and close behind came James and
Bedford, each with his immediate attendants; then the household
officers of the King, Fitzhugh his chamberlain, Montagu his cup-
bearer, Ralf Percy and his other squires, and all the rest.  Four
hundred men-at-arms in black armour, with lances pointed downwards,
formed the guard behind; and the vanguard was of clergy, robed in
white, bearing banners and wax lights, and chanting psalms.  At the
border of every parish, all the ecclesiastics thereto appertaining,
parochial, chantry, and monastic, turned out to meet the procession
with their tapers; escorted it to the principal church; performed
Mass there, if it were in the forenoon; and then accompanied the
coffin to the other limit of their ground, and consigned it to the
clerks of the next parish.  At night, the royal remains always rested
in a church, guarded by alternate watches of the English men-at-arms,
and sung over by the local clergy, while the escort were quartered in
the town, village, or abbey where the halt chanced to be made.  Very
slow was this progress; almost like a continual dream was that long
column, moving, moving on--white in front, black behind--when seen
winding over a hill, or, sometimes, the banners peering over the
autumn foliage of some thicket, all composed to profound silence and
tardy measured tread; while the chants rose and fell with the breeze,
like unearthly music.  Many moved on more than half asleep; and
others of the younger men felt like Ralf Percy, who, for all his real
sorrow for the King, declared that, were it not for rushing out,
morning and evening, for a bathe and a gallop, to fly a hawk or chase
a hare, he should some day run crazed, blow out all the wax lights,
or play some mad prank to break the intolerable oppression.  Malcolm
smiled at this; but to him, still in the dreamy inertness of
recovery, this tranquil onward movement in the still autumn weather
had some thing in it of healing influence; and the sweet chants, the
continual offices of devotion, were accordant with his present tone
of mind, and deepened the purpose he had formed.

Queen Catherine and her ladies joined the funeral march at Rouen, or
rather followed it at a mile's interval; but the two trains kept
apart, and only occasional messages were sent from one to the other.
Some of the gentlemen, who had a wife or sister in the Queen's suite,
would ride at nightfall to pay her a hasty visit; but Malcolm--though
he longed to be sent--durst not intrude upon Esclairmonde; and the
Duke of Bedford was not only forced to spend all the evening and half
the night in business, but was not loth to put off the day of the
meeting with his dear sister Catherine--to say nothing of the 'Woman
of Hainault.'

Therefore it was not until all had arrived at Calais, where a fleet
was waiting to meet them, that any visits were openly made by the one
party to the other.

Bedford and James went together to the apartments of the Queen, and
while they saw her in private, Malcolm came blushing towards
Esclairmonde, and was welcomed by her with a frank smile,
outstretched hand, and kind inquiry after his recovery.

She treated him indeed as a brother, as one on whom she depended, and
had really wished to see and arrange with.  She told him that Alice
Montagu and her husband were returning to England, and that her
little friend had so earnestly prayed her to abide with her at
Middleham for the present, that she had consented--'until such time
as the way be open,' said Esclairmonde, with her steady patient
smile.

Malcolm bowed his head.  'I am glad you will not be forced to be with
your Countess,' he said.

'My poor lady!  Maybe I have spoken too plainly.  But I owe her much.
I must ever pray for her.  And you, my lord?'

'I,' said Malcolm, 'shall go to study at Oxford.  Dr. Bennet intends
returning thither to continue his course of teaching, and my king has
consented to my studying with him.  It will not cut me off, lady,
from that which you permit me to be.  King Henry and his brothers
have all been scholars there.'

'I understand,' said Esclairmonde, slightly colouring.  'It is well.
And truly I trust that matters may be so guided, that care for me may
not long detain you from more lasting vows--be they of heaven or
earth.'

'Lady,' said Malcolm, earnestly, 'none who had been plighted to you
COULD pledge himself to aught else save One above!'

Then, feeling in himself, or seeing in Esclairmonde's face, that he
was treading on dangerous ground, he asked leave to present to her
his cousin, Patrick Drummond:  and this was accordingly done; the
lady comporting herself with so much sweet graciousness, that the
good knight, as they left the hall, exclaimed:  'By St. Andrew,
Malcolm, if you let that maiden escape you now she is more than half-
wedded to you, you'll be the greatest fool in broad Scotland.  Why,
she is a very queen for beauty, and would rule Glenuskie like a
princess--ay, and defend the Castle like Black Agnes of Dunbar
herself!  If you give her up, ye'll be no better than a clod.'

Malcolm and Patrick had been borne off by James's quitting the
Castle; Bedford remained longer, having affairs to arrange with the
Queen.  As he left her, he too turned aside to the window where
Esclairmonde sat as usual spinning, and Lady Montagu not far off, but
at present absorbed by her father, who was to remain in France.

One moment's hesitation, and then Bedford stepped towards the
Demoiselle de Luxemburg, and greeted her.  She looked up in his face,
and saw its settled look of sad patient energy, which made it full
ten years older in appearance than when they had sat together at
Pentecost, and she marked the badge that he had assumed, a torn-up
root with the motto, 'The root is dead.'

'Ah! my lord, things are changed,' she could not help saying, as she
felt that he yearned for comfort.

'Changed indeed!' he said; 'God's will be done!  Lady,' he added,
'you wot of that which once passed between us.  I was grieved at
first that you chose a different protector in your need.'

'You COULD not, my lord,' faltered Esclairmonde, crimson as she never
had been when speaking to Malcolm.

'No, I COULD not,' said Bedford; 'and, lady, my purpose was to thank
you for the generous soul that perceived that so it is.  You spared
me from a cruel case.  I have no self any longer, Esclairmonde; all I
am, all I have, all I can, must be spent in guarding Harry's work for
his boy.  To all else I am henceforth dead; and all I can do is to be
thankful, lady, that you have spared me the sorest trial of all, both
to heart and honour.'

Esclairmonde's eyes were downcast, as she said, 'Heaven is the
protector of those of true and kind purpose;' and then gathering
courage, as being perfectly aware to whom Bedford must give his hand
if he would conciliate Burgundy, she added, 'And, verily, Sir, the
way of policy is this time a happy one.  Let me but tell you how I
have known and loved gentle Lady Anne.'

Bedford shook his head with a half smile and a heavy sigh.  'Time
fails me, dear lady,' he said; 'and I cannot brook any maiden's
praise, even from you.  I only wait to ask whether there be any way
yet left wherein I can serve you.  I will strive to deal with your
kinsmen to restore your lands.'

'Hold!' said Esclairmonde.  'Never for lands of mine will I have your
difficulties added to.  No--let them go!  It was a vain, proud dream
when I thought myself most humble, to become a foundress; and if I
know my kinsmen, they will be too much angered to bestow on me the
dower required by a convent.  No, Sir; all I would dare to inquire
would be, whether you have any voice in choosing the bedeswomen of
St. Katharine's Hospital?'

'The bedeswomen!  They come chiefly from the citizens, not from
princely houses like yours!' said John, in consternation.

'I have done with princely houses,' said Esclairmonde.  'A Flemish
maiden would be of no small service among the many whom trade brings
to your port from the Netherlands, and my longing has ever been to
serve my Lord through His poor and afflicted.'

'It is my father's widow who holds the appointments,' said John.
'Between her and me there hath been little good-will, but my dear
brother's last act towards her was of forgiveness.  She may wish to
keep well with us of the Regency--and more like still, she will be
pleased that one of so great a house as yours should sue to her.  I
will give you a letter to her, praying her to remember you at the
next vacancy; and mayhap, if the Lady Montagu could take you to visit
her, you could prevail with her!  But, surely, some nunnery more
worthy of your rank--'

'There is none that I should love so well,' said Esclairmonde,
smiling.  'Mayhap I have learnt to be a vagabond, but I cannot but
desire to toil as well as pray.'

'And you are willing to wait for a vacancy?'

'When once safe from my kinsmen, in England, I will wait under my
kind Alice's wing till--till it becomes expedient that yonder
gentleman be set free.'

'You trust him?' said Bedford.

'Entirely,' responded Esclairmonde, heartily.

'Happy lad!' half sighed the Duke; but, even as he did so, he stood
up to bid the lady adieu--lingering for a moment more, to gaze at the
face he had longed for permission to love--and thus take leave of all
his youth and joy, addressing himself again to that burthen of care
which in thirteen years laid him in his grave at Rouen.

As he left the Castle and came out into the steep fortified street,
Ralf Percy came up to him, laughing.  'Here, my lord, are those two
honest Yorkshire knights running all over Calais to make a petition
to you.'

'What--Trenton and Kitson!  I thought their year of service was up,
and they were going home!'

'Ay, my lord,' said Kitson, who with his comrade had followed close
in Percy's wake, 'we were going home to bid Mistress Agnes take her
choice of us; but this morn we've met a pursuivant that is come with
Norroy King-at-arms, and what doth he but tell us that no sooner were
our backs turned, than what doth Mistress Agnes but wed--ay, wed
outright--one Tom of the Lee, a sneaking rogue that either of us
would have beat black and blue, had we ever seen him utter a word to
her?  A knight's lady--not to say two--as she might have been!  So,
my lord, we not being willing to go home and be a laughing-stock,
crave your license to be of your guard as we were of King Harry's,
and show how far we can go among the French.'

'And welcome; no good swords can be other than welcome!' said
Bedford, not diverted as his brother would have been, but with a
heartiness that never failed to win respectful affection.

Long did James and Bedford walk up and down the Castle court
together, while the embarkation was going on.  The question weighed
on them both whether they should ever meet more, after eighteen years
of youth spent together.

'Youth is gone,' said Bedford.  'We have been under a mighty master,
and now God help us to do his work.'

'You!' said James; 'but for me--it is like to be the library and the
Round Tower again.'

'Scarcely,' said Bedford, 'the Beauforts will never rest till Joan is
on a throne.'

James smiled.

'Ay,' said Bedford, 'the Bishop of Winchester will be no small power,
you will find.  Would that I could throw up this France and come
home, for he and Humfrey will clash for ever.  James, an you love me,
see Humfrey alone, and remind him that all the welfare of Harry's
child may hang on his forbearance--on union with the Bishop.  Tell
him, if he ever loved the noblest brother that ever lived, to rein
himself in, and live only for the child's good, not his own.  Tell
him that Bedford and Gloucester must be nothing henceforth--only
heads and hands doing Harry's will for his babe.  Oh, James, what can
you tell Humfrey that will make him put himself aside?'

'You have writ to him Harry's words as to Dame Jac?'

'The wanton! ay, I have; and if you can whisper in his ear that
matter of Malcolm and the signet, it might lessen his inclination.
But,' he sighed, 'I have little hope, James; I see nothing for
Lancaster but that which the old man at York invoked upon us!'

'Yet, when I look at you and Humfrey, and think of the contrast with
my own father's brethren, I see nothing but hope and promise for
England,' said James.

'We must do our best, however heavy-hearted,' said John of Bedford,
pausing in his walk, and standing steadfast.  'The rod becomes a palm
to those who do not freshly bring it on themselves.  May this poor
child of Harry's be bred up so that he may be fit to meet evil or
good!'

'Poor child,' repeated James.  'Were he not there, and you--'

'Peace, James,' said Bedford; 'it is well that such a weight is not
added!  While I act for my nephew, I know my duty; were it for
myself, methinks I should be crazed with doubts and questions.
Well,' as a messenger came up with tidings that all was ready, 'fare
thee well, Jamie.  In you I lose the only man with whom I can speak
my mind, or take counsel.  You'll not let me gain a foe, as well as
lose a friend, when you get home?'

'Never, in heart, John!' said the King.  'As to hand--Scotland must
be to England what she will have her.  Would that I saw my way
thither!  Windsor will have lost all that made captivity well-nigh
sweet.  And so farewell, dear brother.  I thank you for the granting
to me of this sacred charge.'

And so, with hands clasped and wrung together, with tears raining
from James's eyes, and a dry settled melancholy more sad than tears
on John's countenance, the two friends parted, never again to meet;
each to run a course true, brave, and short--extinguished the one in
bitter grief, the other in blood.

On All Saints' Day, while James stood with Humfrey of Gloucester at
the head of the grave at Westminster, where Henry's earthly form was
laid to rest amid the kings his fathers, amid the wail of a people as
sorrowful as if they knew all the woes that were to ensue, Bedford
was in like manner standing over a grave at the Royal Abbey of St.
Denis.  He, the victor's brother, represented all the princely
kindred of Charles VI. of France, and, with his heart at Westminster,
filled the chief mourner's place over the king who had pined to death
for his conqueror.

The same infant was proclaimed king over each grave--heir to France
and England, to Valois and Lancaster.  Poor child, his real heirloom
was the insanity of the one and the doom of the other!  Well for him
that there was within him that holy innocence that made his life a
martyrdom!



CHAPTER XVI:  THE CAGE OPEN



More than a year had passed, and it was March when Malcolm was
descending the stone stair that leads so picturesquely beneath the
archway of its tower up to the hall of the college of St. Mary
Winton, then REALLY New College.  He had been residing there with Dr.
Bennet, associating with the young members of the foundation educated
at Winchester, and studying with all the freshness of a recent
institution.  It had been a very happy time for him, within the gray
stone walls that pleasantly recalled Coldingham, though without
Coldingham's defensive aspect, and with ample food for the mind,
which had again returned to its natural state of inquiring reflection
and ardour for knowledge.

Daily Malcolm woke early, attended Matins and Mass in the chapel,
studied grammar and logic, mastered difficult passages in the
Fathers, or copied out portions for himself in the chamber which he
as a gentleman commoner, as we should call him, possessed, instead of
living in a common dormitory with the other scholars.  Or in the open
cloister he listened and took notes of the lectures of the fellows
and tutors of the college, and seated on a bench or walking up and
down received special instructions.  Then ensued the meal, spread in
the hall; the period of recreation, in the meadows, or in the
licensed sports, or on the river; fresh studies, chapel, and a social
but quiet evening over the supper in the hall.  All this was varied
by Latin sermons at St. Mary's, or disputations and lectures by
notable doctors, and public arguments between scholars, by which they
absolutely fought out their degrees.  There were few colleges as yet,
and those resident in them were the elite; beyond, there was a great
mob of scholars living in rooms as they could, generally very poor,
and often very disorderly; but they did not mar the quiet semi-
monastic stillness within the foundations, and to Malcolm it seemed
as if the truly congenial home was opened.

The curriculum of science began to reveal itself to him with all the
stages so inviting to a mind conscious of power and longing for
cultivation.  The books, the learned atmosphere, the infinite
possibilities, were delightful to him, and opened a more delightful
future.  His metaphysical Scottish mind delighted in the scholastic
arguments that were now first set before him, and his readiness,
appreciation, and eager power of acquiring surprised his teachers,
and made him the pride of New College.

When he looked back at his year of court and camp, he could only
marvel at having ever preferred them.  In war his want of bodily
strength would make real distinction impossible; here he felt himself
excelling; here was absolute enjoyment, and of a kind without
drawback.  Scholarship must be his true element and study:  the deep
universal study of the sisterhood of science that the University
offered was his veritable vocation.  Surely it was not without
significance that the ring that shone on his finger betrothed him to
Esclairmonde, the Light of the World; for though in person the maiden
was never to be his own, she was the emblem to him of the pure virgin
light of truth and wisdom that he would be for ever wooing, and
winning only to see further lights beyond.  Human nature felt a pang
at the knowledge that he was bound to deliver up the ring and resign
his connection with that fair and stately maiden; but the pain that
had been sore at first had diminished under the sense that he stood
in a post of generous trust, and that his sacrifice was the passport
to her grateful esteem.  He knew her to be with Lady Montagu,
awaiting a vacancy at St. Katharine's, and this would be the signal
for dissolving the contract of marriage, after which his present
vision was to bestow Lilias upon Patrick, make over his estates to
them, take minor orders, and set forth for Italy, there to pursue
those deeper studies in theology and language for which Padua and
Bologna were famous.  It was many months since he had heard of
Lilias; but this did not give him any great uneasiness, for
messengers were few, and letter-writing far from being a common
practice.  He had himself written at every turning-point of his life,
and sent his letters when the King communicated with Scotland; but
from his sister he had heard nothing.

He had lately won his first degree as Bachelor of Arts, and was
descending the stair from the Hall after a Lenten meal on salt fish,
when he saw below him the well-known figure of King James's English
servant, who doffing his cap held out to him a small strip of folded
paper, fastened by a piece of crimson silk and the royal seal.  It
only bore the words:-


TO OUR RIGHT TRUSTY AND WELL-BELOVED COUSIN THE LORD MALCOLM STEWART
OF GLENUSKIE THIS LETTER BE TAKEN.

'DEAR COUSIN,

'We greet you well, and pray you to come to us without loss of time,
having need of you, we being a free man and no captive.

'Yours,
'JAMES R.

'Written at the Castle of Windsor this St. David's Day, 1424.'


'A free man:' the words kept ringing in Malcolm's ears while he
hastened to obtain license from Warden John Bonke, and to take leave
of Dr. Bennet.  He had not left Oxford since the beginning of his
residence there.  Vacations were not general dispersions when ways
and means of transit were so scarce and tardy, and Malcolm had been
long without seeing his king.  Joy on his sovereign's account, and
his country's, seemed to swallow up all other thoughts; as to
himself, when he bade his friends and masters farewell, he declared
it was merely for a time, and when they shook their heads and augured
otherwise, he replied:  'Nay, think you I could live in the Cimmerian
darkness yonder, dear sirs?  Our poor country hath nothing better
than mere monastery schools, and light of science having once shone
on me, I cannot but dwell in her courts for ever!  Soon shall I be
altogether her son and slave!'

Nevertheless, Malcolm was full of eagerness, and pressed on rapidly
through the lanes between Oxford and Windsor, rejoicing to find
himself amid the noble trees of the forest, over which arose in all
its grandeur the Castle and Round Tower, as beautiful though less
unique than now, and bearing on it the royal standard, for the little
King was still nursed there.

Under the vaulted gateway James--with Patrick and Bairdsbrae behind
him--met Malcolm, and threw his arms round him, crying:  'Ay, kiss
me, boy; 'tis a king and no caitiff you kiss now!  Another six weeks,
and then for the mountain and the moor and the bonnie north
countree.'

'And why not for a month?' was Malcolm's question, as hand and eye
and face responded heartily.

'Why?  Why, because moneys must be told down, and treaties signed;
ay, and Lent is no time for weddings, nor March for southland roses
to travel to our cold winds.  Ay, Malcolm, you see a bridegroom that
is to be!  Did you think I was going home without her?'

'I did not think you would be in such glee even at being free, my
lord, if you were.'

'And now, Malcolm, ken ye of ony fair Scottish lassie--a cousin of
mine ain, who could be had to countenance my bride at our wedding,
and ride with us thereafter to Scotland?'

'I know whom your Grace means,' said Malcolm, smiling.

'An if you do, maybe, Malcolm, sin she bides not far frae the border,
ye'd do me the favour of riding with Sir Patrick here, and bringing
her to the bridal,' said the King, making his accent more home-like
and Scottish than Malcolm had ever heard it before.

The happiness of that spring afternoon was surpassing.  The King
linked his arm into Malcolm's, and walked up and down with him on the
slopes, telling him all that had led to this consummation; how Walter
Stewart and his brothers had become so insolent and violent as to
pass the endurance of their father the Regent, as well as of all
honest Scots; and how, after secret negotiations and vain endeavours
to obtain from him a pledge of indemnity for all that had happened,
the matter had been at length opened with Gloucester, Beaufort, and
the Council.  The Scottish nation, with Albany at the head, was
really recalling the King.  This was the condition on which Henry V.
had always declared that he should be liberated; these were the terms
on which he had always hoped to return; and his patience was at last
rewarded.  Bedford had sent his joyful consent, and all was now
concluded.  James was really free, and waited only for his marriage.

'I would not tell you, Malcolm, while there might yet be a slip
between cup and lip,' said the King; 'it might have hindered the
humanities; and yet I needed you as much when I was glad as when all
seemed like to fail!'

'You had Patrick,' said Malcolm.

'Patrick's a tall and trusty fellow,' said the King, 'with a shrewd
wit, and like to be a right-hand man; but there's something in you,
Malcolm, that makes a man turn to you for fellow-feeling, even as to
a wife.'

Nevertheless, the King and Patrick had grown much attached to each
other, though the latter, being no lover of books, had wearied sorely
of the sojourn at Windsor, which the King himself only found
endurable by much study and reflection.  Their only variety had been
keeping Christmas at Hertford with Queen Catherine; 'sorry pastime,'
as Drummond reported it to him, though gladdened to the King by Joan
Beaufort's presence, in all her charms.

'The Demoiselle of Luxemburg was there too, statelier than ever,'
said James.  'She is now at Middleham Castle, with the Lady Montagu,
and you might make it your way northward, and lodge a night there.
If you can win her consent, it were well to be wedded when we are.'

'Never shall I, my lord.  I should not dare even to speak of it.'

'It is well; but, Malcolm, you merit something from the damsel.  You
are ten times the man you were when she flouted you.  If women were
not mostly witless, you would be much to be preferred to any mere
Ajax or Fierabras; and if this damsel should have come to the wiser
mind that it were pity to be buried to the world--'

'Sir, I pray you say no more.  I were forsworn to ask such a thing.'

'I bid you not, only I would I were there to see that all be not lost
for want of a word in season; and it is high time that something be
done.  Here be letters from my Lord of Therouenne, demanding the
performance of the contract ere our return home.'

'He cannot reach her here,' said Malcolm.

'No; but his outcry can reach your honour; and it were ill to have
such a house as that of Luxemburg crying out upon you for breach of
faith to their daughter.'

Malcolm smiled.  'That I should heed little, Sir.  I would fain bear
something for her.'

'Why, this is mere sublimated devoir, too fine for our gross
understandings,' said James, ironically.  'Mayhap the sight of the
soft roseate cheek may bring it somewhat down to poor human flesh and
blood once more.'

'Once I was tempted, Sir,' said Malcolm, blushing deeply; 'but did I
not know that her holiness is the guardian of her earthly beauty, I
would not see her again.'

'Nay, there I command you,' said the King; 'soon I shall have
subjects enough; but while I have but half a dozen, I cannot be
disobeyed by them!  I bid you go to Middleham, and there I leave all
to the sight.'

The King spoke gaily, and with such kind good-humour that Malcolm,
humiliated by the thought of the past, durst not make fresh
asseverations.  James, in the supreme moment of the pure and innocent
romance of which he was the hero, looked on love like his own as the
highest crown of human life, and distrusted the efforts after the
superhuman which too often were mere simulation or imitation; but a
certain recollection of Henry's warnings withheld him from pressing
the matter, and he returned to his own joys and hopes, looking on the
struggles he expected with a strong man's exulting joy, and not even
counting the years of his captivity wasted, though they had taken
away his first youth.

'What should I have been,' he said, 'bred up in the tumults at home?
What could I have known better than Perth?  Nay, had I been sent home
when I came to age, as a raw lad, how would one or other by fraud or
force have got the upper hand, so as I might never have won it back.
No, I would not have foregone one year of study--far less that
campaign in France, and the sight of Harry in war and in policy.'

James also took Malcolm to see the child king, his little master.
This, the third king of James's captivity, was now a fair creature of
two years old.  He trotted to meet his visitor, calling him by a baby
name for brother, and stretching out his arms to be lifted up and
fondled; for, as Dame Alice Boteller, his gouvernante, muttered, he
knew the King of Scots better than he did his own mother.

A retinue had been already collected, and equipments prepared, so
that there was no delay in sending forth Malcolm and Patrick upon
their northward journey.  At the nearest town they halted, sending
forward a messenger to announce their neighbourhood to the old
Countess of Salisbury and her grand-daughter Lady Montagu, and to
request permission to halt for 'Mothering Sunday' at the Castle.

In return a whole band of squires and retainers came forth, headed by
the knightly seneschal, to invite Lord Malcolm Stewart and his
companion to the Castle; whereupon Sir Patrick proceeded to don his
gayest gown and chaperon, and was greatly scandalized that Malcolm's
preparation consisted in putting on his black serge bachelor's gown
and hood of rabbit's fur such as he wore at Oxford, looking, as
Patrick declared, no better than a begging scholar.  But Malcolm had
made up his mind that if he appeared before Esclairmonde at all it
should be in no other guise; and thus it was that he rode like a
black spot in the midst of the cavalcade, bright with the colours of
Nevil and of Montagu, and was marshalled up the broad stairs by the
silver wand of the seneschal.

Lord Montagu had gone back to the wars; so the family at home
consisted of the grand, stately, and distant old Countess of
Salisbury, and her young grand-daughter, the Lady Montagu, with her
three months' old son.  Each had an almost royal suite of well-born
dames and damsels in attendance, among whom the Demoiselle de
Luxemburg alone was on an equality with the mistresses of the house.
Even Queen Catherine's presence-chamber had hardly equalled the grand
baronial ceremony of the hall, where sat the three ladies in the
midst of their circle of attendants, male and female ranged on
opposite sides; and old Lady Salisbury knew the exact number of paces
that it befitted her and Lady Montagu to advance to receive the royal
infusion of blood that flowed in the veins of my Lord of Glenuskie.
And yet it was the cheek, and not the hand, that were offered in
salutation by both ladies, as well as by Esclairmonde.  Malcolm,
however, only durst kneel on one knee and salute her hand, and felt
himself burning with crimson as the touch and voice brought back
those longings that, as James had said, proved him human still.  He
was almost glad that etiquette required him to hand the aged Countess
to her seat and to devote his chief attention to her.

Punctilio reigned supreme in such a house as this.  Nowhere had
Malcolm seen such observance of ceremony, save in the court of the
Duke of Burgundy, and there it was modified by the presence of rough
and ready warriors; but an ancient dame like Lady Salisbury thought
it both the due and the safeguard of her son's honour, and exacted it
rigorously of all who approached her.

Alice of Montagu had the sweet fragile look of a young mother about
her, but her frightened fawn air was gone; she was in her home, had
found her place, and held it with a simple dignity of her own, quite
ready to ripen into all the matronly authority, without the severe
formality, of her grand-dame.

She treated Malcolm with a gentle smiling courtesy such as she had
never vouchsafed to him before, and all the shyness that had once
made her silent was gone, when at the supper-table, and afterwards
seated around the fire, the tidings of the camp and court were talked
over with all the zest of those to whom King Harry's last campaign
was becoming 'old times'; and what with her husband's letters and
opinions, little Alice was really the best-informed as to the present
state of things.  Esclairmonde took her part in the conversation, but
there was no opportunity of exchanging a private or personal word
between her and Malcolm in a party of five, where one was as vigilant
and grave-eyed as my Lady Salisbury.

However, the next was a peculiar day, the Fourth Sunday in Lent,
called 'Mothering Sunday' because on that day it was originally the
custom for offerings to be carried from all the country round to the
cathedral or mother church on that day.  This custom had been
modified, but it was still the rule that all the persons, who at
other times worshipped at the nearest monastery chapel or at a
private chapel in their own houses, should on that day repair to
their parish church, and there make a special offering at the Mass--
that offering which has since become the Easter dues.  It was a
festival Sunday too--'Refreshing Sunday'--then, as now, marked by the
Gospel on the feeding of the multitude; and from this, as well as
from the name, the pretty custom had begun of offering the mother of
each house her rich simnal cake, with some other gift from each of
her children.

Hearing a pattering of feet in the early morning, Malcolm looked out
and beheld a whole troop of small children popping in and out of a
low archway.  If he could have peeped in, he would have known how
many simnals Ladies Esclairmonde and Alice were sending down--with
something more substantial--to be given to mothers by the children
who as yet had nothing to bring of their own.

But when the household assembled in the castle hall, they did see
fair young Lady Montagu kneel at the chair of the grave old Countess,
and hold up a silver dish, wherein lay the simnal, mixed, kneaded,
and moulded by her own hands, and bearing on it a rich ruby clasp,
sent by her father, the Earl, as his special gift to his mother on
this Sunday.

And then, when the old lady, with glistening eyes, had spoken her
blessing on the fair young head bent down before her, and the
grandchild rose up, there was the pretty surprise for her of her
little swaddled son, lying in Esclairmonde's arms, and between the
small fingers, that as yet knew not how to grasp, the tiny simnal;
and moreover a fair pearl devised in like manner by the absent Sir
Richard as a gift for his wife's first 'Mothering Sunday.'  There was
no etiquette here to hinder sweet Alice from passionately clasping
her child, and covering him with kisses, as many for his father as
for himself, as she laughed at the baby smiles and helpless gestures
of the future king-maker, whose ambition and turbulence were to be
the ruin of that fair and prosperous household, and bring the gentle
Alice to a widowed, bereaved, and attainted old age.

Well that none there present saw the future, as she proudly claimed
the admiration of Malcolm for her babe!

She was equipped for the expedition to the parish church, as likewise
were Esclairmonde and almost all the rest; but the aged Countess
could not encounter the cold March winds, and had a dispensation; and
thus Alice, being the lady of the procession, contrived at the same
time to call Sir Patrick to her side, and bid Lord Malcolm lead the
Lady Esclairmonde.

For as the weather was dry and cold, Lady Montagu had chosen to go on
foot; and a grand procession it was that she led, of gentlemen and
ladies, two and two, in their bright dresses and adornments that
delighted the eyes of the homely yeomen and their wives, flocking in
from their homesteads with baskets of offerings, often in kind.

Meantime, Malcolm, holding the tips of Esclairmonde's fingers, durst
not speak till she began:  'This is a devout and pious household--
full of peace and good government.'

'And your time goes happily here?' asked Malcolm.

'Yes, it has been a peaceful harbour wherein to wait,' said
Esclairmonde.  'And even if Alice were called to her husband in
France, my Lady Countess will keep me with her till there be a
vacancy for me at St. Katharine's.'

'Have you the promise from Queen Joan?'

'Yes,' replied Esclairmonde.  'The Countess had been a lady of hers,
and wrought with her, so that whenever the post of bedeswoman is in
her gift I shall be preferred to it.'

'You, the heiress, accept the charity!' Malcolm could not help
exclaiming.

'The better for all remnants of pride,' returned the lady.  'And you,
my lord, has it fared well with you?'

Malcolm, happy in her interest, poured forth all that he had to tell,
and she listened as Esclairmonde alone could listen.  There was
something in her very expression of attention that seemed to make the
speaker take out the alloy and leave only his purest gold to meet her
ears.  Malcolm forgot those throbs of foolish wild hope that had shot
across him like demon temptations to hermit saints, and only felt
that the creature of his love and reverence was listening benignly as
he told her of the exceeding delight that he was unravelling in
learned lore; how each step showed him further heights, and how he
had come to view the Light of the World as the light of wisdom, to
the research of which he meant to devote his entire life, among
universities and manuscripts.

'The Light of Wisdom,' repeated Esclairmonde--'so it may be, for
Christ is Heavenly Wisdom; but I doubt me if the Light of the World
lies solely in books and universities.'

'Nay,' said Malcolm.  'Once I was fool enough to fancy it was the
light of glory, calling knights to deeds of fame and chivalry.  I
have seen mine error now, and--oh, lady, what mean you? where should
that light be, save in the writings of wise and holy men?'

'Methinks,' said Esclairmonde, 'that the light is there, even as the
light is also before the eyes of the true knight; but it is not only
there.'

'Where is it then?' said Malcolm.  'In helmet or in cowl, I am the
sworn champion of the Light of the World.'

'The Light,' said Esclairmonde, looking upwards, 'the true Light of
the World is the Blessed Saviour, the Heavenly Wisdom of God; and His
champions find Him and serve Him in camp, cloister, or school, or
wherever He has marked their path, so as they seek not their own
profit or glory, and lay not up their treasure for themselves on
earth.'

'Then surely,' said Malcolm, 'the hoards of deep study within the
mind are treasures beyond the earth.'

'Your schoolmen speak of spirit, mind, and body,' said Esclairmonde--
'at least so I, an ignorant woman, have been told.  Should not the
true Light for eternity lighten the spirit rather than the mind?'

Malcolm pondered and said:  'I thought I had found the right path at
last!'

'Nay--never, never did I say otherwise,' cried Esclairmonde.  'To
seek God's Light in good men's words, and pursue it, must be a
blessed task.  Every task must be blessed to which He leads.  And
when you are enlightened with that light, you will hold it up to
others.  When you have found the treasure, you will scatter it here,
and so lay it up above.'

Esclairmonde's words were almost a riddle to Malcolm, but his
reverence for her made him lay them up deeply, as he watched her
kneeling at the Mass, her upturned face beaming with an angelic
expression.

His mind was much calmed by this meeting.  It had had an absolutely
contrary effect to what King James had expected, by spiritualizing
his love, and increasing that reverence which cast out its
earthliness.  That first throb which had been so keen at meeting, and
knowing her not for him, had passed away in the refining of that
distant worship he had paid her in those days of innocence.

Lady Montagu was quite satisfied with him now.  He was the Malcolm of
her first acquaintance, only without his foolish diffidence, and with
a weight and earnestness that made him a man and not a boy; and she
cordially invited him to bring his sister with him, and rest, on the
way southward.  He agreed most thankfully, since this would be the
only opportunity of showing Esclairmonde and Lilias one to the other,
as well as one of his own few chances of seeing Esclairmonde.

Once they must meet, that their promises might be restored the one to
the other; but as the betrothal remained the lady's security, this
could not be done till she became pledged at St. Katharine's.  When
the opportunity came, she was to send Malcolm a messenger, and he
would come to her at once.  Until then he promised that he would not
leave Great Britain.

On Monday the cousins proceeded, coming after a time to the route by
which Malcolm had ridden three years before, and where he was now at
home in comparison with Patrick.  How redolent it was with
recollections of King Harry, in all his gaiety and grace, ere the
shock of his brother's death had fallen on him!  At Thirsk, Malcolm
told of the prowess and the knighthood of honest Trenton and Kitson,
to somewhat incredulous ears.  The two squires had been held as
clownish fellows, and the sentiment of the country was that Mistress
Agnes was well quit of them, and the rough guardianship by which they
had kept off all other suitors.  As mine host concluded, ''Tis a fine
thing to go to the wars.'

Hearing that Kitson's mother lived not a mile out of his way, Malcolm
rode to the fine old moated grange, where he found her sitting at her
spinning, presiding over a great plentiful household, while her
second son, a much shrewder-looking man than Sir Christopher, managed
the farm.

The travellers were welcomed with eager hospitality so soon as it was
understood that they brought tidings of 'our Kit'; and Malcolm's
story was listened to with tears of joy by the old lady, while the
brother could not get over his amazement at hearing that Trenton and
Kitson had become a proverb in the camp for oneness in friendship.

'Made it up with Will Trenton!  And never fought it out!  I'd never
know our Kit again after that!'

His steady bravery, his knighthood, and the King's praise, his having
assisted in saving Lord Glenuskie's life against such odds, did not
seem to strike Wilfred Kitson half as much as the friendship with
Trenton, and Malcolm did not think the regret was very great at the
two knights having given up their intention of returning.  'Our
Kit's' place seemed to have closed up behind him; Wilfred seemed to
be too much master to be ready to give up to the elder brother; and
even the mother had learnt to do without him.  'I'll warrant,' quoth
she, 'that now he is a knight and got used to fine French ways, he'll
think nothing good enow for him.  And if he brought Will Trenton with
him, I'd not sit at the board with the fellow.--But ye'll ride over,
Wilfred, and take care the minx Agnes knows what she's lost.  Ay, and
if you knew of a safe hand, Sir, when the shearing is over I'd send
the lad a purse of nobles to keep up his knighthood in the camp,
forsooth.'

'Certes,' said Malcolm, as after a salt-fish dinner he mounted again,
'if honest Kitson knew, he would scarce turn back from the camp,
where he is somebody.  Shall we find ourselves as little wanted when
we get home, Patie?'

Patrick drew himself up with a happy face of secret assurance.
Nothing could make Lilias forsake him, he well knew.

At Durham they found their good friend Father Akefield, erst Prior of
Coldingham, but who had been violently dispossessed by the House of
Albany in favour of their candidate, Drax, about a year before, and
was thankful to have been allowed with a few English monks to retire
across the Border to the mother Abbey at Durham.

The good father could hardly believe his eyes when he beheld Malcolm,
now a comely and personable young gentleman, less handsome and
graceful indeed than many, but with all his painful personal
peculiarities gone, with none of the scared, imploring look, but with
a grave thoughtful earnestness about his face, as though all that
once was timid and wandering was now fixed and steadfast.

Father Akefield could tell nothing of Lilias since his own expulsion,
but as the Prioress of St. Abbs was herself a Drummond, and no one
durst interfere with her, he had no alarms for her safety.  But he
advised the two gentlemen to go straight to St. Abbs, without showing
themselves at Coldingham, lest Prior Drax, being in the Albany
interest, should make any demur at giving her up to the care of the
brother, who still wanted some months of his twenty-first year.

Accordingly they pushed on, and in due time slept at Berwick,
receiving civilities from the English governor that chafed Patrick's
blood, which became inflammable as soon as he neared the Border; and
rising early the next morning, they passed the gates, and were on
Scottish ground once more, their hearts bounding at the sense that it
was their own land, and would soon be no more a land of misrule.
With their knowledge of King James and his intentions, well might
they have unlimited hopes for the country over which he was about to
reign.

They turned aside from Coldingham, and made for the sea, and at
length the promontory of St. Abbs Head rose before them; they passed
through the outer buildings intended as shelter for the attendants of
ladies coming to the nunnery, and knocked at the gateway.

A wicket in the door was opened, and the portress looked out through
a grating.

'Benedicite, good Sister,' said Malcolm.  'Prithee tell the Mother
Abbess that Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie is here from the King, and
craves to speak with her and the Lady Lilias.'

'Lord Malcolm!  Lady Lilias!  St. Ebba's good mercy!' shrieked the
affrighted portress.  They heard her rushing headlong across the
court, and looked on one another in consternation.

Patrick betook himself to knocking as if he would beat down the door,
and Malcolm leant against it with a foreboding that took away his
breath--dreading the moment when it should be opened.

The portress and her keys returned again, and parleyed a moment.
'You are the Lord Malcolm in very deed--in the flesh?'

'Wherefore not?' demanded Malcolm.

'Nay, but we heard ye were slain, my lord,' explained the portress--
letting him in, however, and leading them across the court, to where
the Mother Abbess, Annabel Drummond, awaited them in the parlour.

'Alas, Sirs, what grievous error has this been?' was her exclamation;
while Malcolm, scarcely waiting for salutation, demanded, 'Where is
my sister?'

'How?  In St. Hilda's keeping at Whitby, whither the King sent for
her,' said the Abbess.

'The King!' cried Malcolm, 'we come from the King!  Oh, what
treachery has been here?'

'And you, Lord Malcolm--and you, my kinsman, Sir Patrick of the
Braes, how do I see you here?  We had heard you both were dead.'

'You heard a lying tale then, good Mother,' said Patrick, gruffly,
'no doubt devised for the misery of the--of my--'  He could not
finish the sentence, and Malcolm entreated the Abbess to tell the
whole.

It appeared that about a year previously the chaplain of the
monastery had learnt at Coldingham that Sir John Swinton of Swinton
had sent home tidings that Patrick Drummond had been thrown from his
horse and left behind in a village which the English had harried, and
as he could not move, he was sure to have been either burnt or hung.
This conclusion was natural, and argued no malice in the reporter;
and while poor Lilias was still in her first agony of grief, Prior
Drax sent over intelligence derived from the Duke of Albany himself
that Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie had been stabbed in the forest of
Vincennes.  This report Malcolm himself accounted for.  He had heard
a Scots tongue among his foes, though national feeling had made him
utterly silent on that head to the Duke of Bedford, and he guessed it
to belong to a certain M'Kay, whose clan regarded themselves as at
feud with the Stewarts, and of whom he had heard as living a wild
routier life.  He had probably been hired by Ghisbert for the attack,
and had returned home and spread the report of its success.

Some few weeks later, the Abbess Annabel continued, there had arrived
two monks from Coldingham, with an escort, declaring themselves to
have received orders from King James to transport the Lady Lilias to
the nunnery at Whitby, where the Abbess had promised to receive her,
till he could determine her fate.

The forlorn and desolate Lilias, believing herself to stand alone in
the world, was very loth to quit her shelter and her friends at St.
Abbs; but the Abbess, doubting her own ability to protect her from
the rapacious grasp of Walter Stewart, now that she had, as she
believed, become an heiress, and glad to avert from her house the
persecution that such protection would bring upon it, had gratefully
heard of this act of consideration on the King's part, and expedited
her departure.  The two monks, Simon Bell and Ringan Johnstone, had
not returned to the monastery, but had been thought to be in the
parent house at Durham; but Malcolm, who knew Brother Simon by sight,
was clear that he had not seen him there.

All this had taken place a year ago, and there could be no doubt that
some treachery had been exercised.  Nothing had since been heard of
Lilias; none of Malcolm's letters had reached St. Abbs, having
doubtless been suppressed by the Prior of Coldingham; and all that
was certain was that Walter Stewart, to whom their first suspicions
directed themselves, had not publicly avouched any marriage with
Lilias or claimed the Glenuskie estates, or the King, who had of late
been in close correspondence with Scotland, must have heard of it.
And it was also hardly possible that the Regent Murdoch and his sons,
though they might for a few weeks have been misled by M'Kay's report,
should not have soon become aware of Malcolm's existence.

Unless, then, Walter had married her 'on the first brash,' as Patrick
called it, he might not have thought her a prize worth the winning;
but the whole aspect of affairs had become most alarming, and Malcolm
turned pale as death at the thought that his sister might be
suffering retribution for the sin he had contemplated.

The danger was terrible!  He could not imagine Lilias to have the
moral grandeur and force of Esclairmonde.  Moreover, she supposed her
lover dead, and had not the same motive for guarding her troth.
Forlorn and despairing, she might have yielded, and Walter Stewart
was, Malcolm verily believed, worse to deal with than even Boemond.
As the whole danger and uncertainty came over him, his senses seemed
to reel; he leant back in his seat, and heard as in the midst of a
dream his sister's sobs and groans, Patrick's fierce and furious
exclamations, and the Abbess's attempts at consoling him.  Dizzy with
horror at the scene he realized, Lilias's cries and shrieks of
entreaty were ringing in his ear, when suddenly a sweet full low
voice seemed to come through them, 'I am bound ever to pray for you
and your sister.'  Mingled with the cry came ever the sweet soft
Litany cadences--'For all that are desolate and oppressed:  we
beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.' Gradually the cries seemed to be
swallowed up, both voices blended in Kyrie eleison and then in the
Gloria, and at that moment he became aware of Patrick crying, 'I will
seek her in every castle in Scotland.'

'Stay, Patrick,' he said, rising, though forced to hold by his chair;
'that must be my part.'

'You--why, the laddie is white as a sheet!  He well-nigh swooned at
the tidings.  You seek her, forsooth!' and Patrick laughed bitterly.

'Yes, Patie,' said Malcolm, 'for this I am strong.  It is my duty and
not yours, and God will strengthen me for it.'

Patrick burst out at this:  'Neither man nor devil shall tell me it
is not mine!'

'You are the King's prisoner still,' said Malcolm, rising to energy;
'you are bound to return to him.  The tidings must be taken to him at
once.'

'A groom could do that.'

'Neither so swiftly nor surely as you.  Moreover, your word of honour
binds you not to wander at your own pleasure.'

'My honour binds me not to trust you--wee Malcolm--to wander into the
wolf's cage alone.'

'I am not the silly feckless callant I once was, Patie,' answered
Malcolm.  'There are many places where my student's serge gown will
take me safely, where your corslet and lance would never find
entrance.  No one will know me again as I am now:  will they, holy
Mother?'

'Assuredly not,' said the Abbess.

'A student is too mean a prey to be meddled with,' proceeded Malcolm,
'and is sure of hospitality in castle or convent.  I can try at
Coldingham to find out whither the two monks are gone, and then
follow up the track.'

Patrick stormed at the plan, and was most unwilling it should be
adopted.  He at least must follow, and keep watch over his young
cousin, or it would be a mere throwing the helve after the hatchet--a
betrayal of his trust.

But a little reflection convinced him that thus to follow would only
bring suspicion on Malcolm and defeat his plans; and that it were
better to obtain some certain information ere the King should come
home, and have to interfere with a high hand; and Malcolm's arguments
about his obligations as a captive, too, had their effect.  He
perceived his own incapacity to act; and in his despair at nothing
being done consented to risk Malcolm in the search, while he himself
should proceed to the King, only ascertaining on the way that Lilias
was not at Whitby.  And so, in grief and anxiety, the cousins parted,
and Malcolm alone durst speak a word of hope.



CHAPTER XVII:  THE BEGGING SCHOLAR



'The poor scholar,' now only existing in Ireland and Brittany--nay,
we believe extinct there since the schoolmaster has become not
abroad, but at home, in Government colleges--was to be found
throughout the commonwealth of Europe in the Middle Ages.  Young
lads, in whom convent schools had developed a thirst for learning,
could only gratify it by making their way to some university, where
between begging, singing, teaching, receiving doles, earning rewards
in encounters of wit and learning, doing menial services and using
all manner of shifts, they contrived to live a hard life, half savage
on the one side, highly intellectual upon the other.  They would suck
the marrow of one university, and then migrate to another; and the
rank they had gained in the first was available in the second, so
that it was no means uncommon for them to bring away degrees from
half the universities in Europe, all of which formed one general
system--all were like islands of one country, whose common language
was queer Latin, and whose terms, manners, and customs were alike in
all main points.

Scotland contributed many of her sons to this curious race of
vagabond students, when she herself was without any university to
satisfy the cravings of her thoughtful and intellectual people.  'No
country without a Scot or a flea' was an uncomplimentary proverb due
to the numerous young clerks, equally fierce for frays and for
lectures, who flocked to the seats of learning on the Continent, and
sometimes became naturalized there, sometimes came home again, to
fight their way to the higher benefices of the Church, or to become
councillors of state.

It was true that Malcolm was an Oxford scholar, or rather bachelor,
and that Oxford and Cambridge were almost the only universities where
Scots were not--their place being taken by multitudinous Irish; yet
not only were all universities alike in essentials, but he had seen
and heard enough of that at Paris to be able to personate a clerk
from thence.

It was no small plunge for one hitherto watched, tended, and guarded
as Malcolm had been, to set forth entirely alone; but as he had
approached manhood, and strengthened in body, his spirit had gained
much in courage, and the anxiety about his sister swallowed up all
other considerations.  Even while he entreated the prayers of the
Abbess, he felt quite sure that he had those of Esclairmonde; and
when he had hunted out of his mails the plain bachelor's rabbit-skin
hood and black gown--which, perhaps, was a little too fine in texture
for the poor wanderer--and fastened on his back, with a leathern
thong, a package containing a few books and a change of linen, his
pale and intellectual face made him look so entirely the young clerk,
that Patrick hardly believed it was Malcolm.

And when the roads parted, and Drummond and his escort had to turn
towards Berwick, while Malcolm took the path to the monastery, it was
the younger who was the stronger and more resolute of the two; for
Patrick could neither reconcile himself to peril the boy, who had
always been his anxious trust, nor to return to the King without him;
and yet no one who loved Lilias could withhold him from his quest.

Malcolm did not immediately speed to the monastery on taking leave of
Patrick.  He stood first to watch the armour flashes gradually die
away, and the little troop grow smaller to his eye, across the brown
moor, till they were entirely out of sight, and he himself left
alone.  Then he knelt by a bush of gorse, told his beads, and
earnestly entreated direction and aid for himself, and protection for
his sister; and when the sun grew so low as to make it time for a
wanderer to seek harbour, he stained and daggled his gown in the mire
and water of a peat-moss, so as to destroy its Oxford gloss, took a
book in his hand, and walked towards the monastery, reciting Latin
verses in the sing-song tone then universally followed.

As he came among the fields, he saw that the peasants, and lay
brethren who had been working among them, were returning, some from
sowing, others from herding the cattle, which they drove before them
to the byre within the protecting wall of the monastery.

A monk--with a weather-beaten face and athletic figure, much like a
farmer's of the present day--overtook him, and hailed him with
'Benedicite, you there and welcome to your clerkship!  Are you coming
for supper and bed in the convent?'

Malcolm knew good-natured Brother Nicolas, and kept his hood well
over his face after the first salutation; though he felt confident
that Lord Malcolm could hardly be recognized in the begging scholar,
as he made reply, 'Salve, reverende frater.  Venio de Lutetia
Parisiorum.' {1}

'Whisht with your Latin, laddie,' said the brother.  'Speak out, if
you've a Scots tongue in your head, and have not left it in foreign
parts.'

'For bed and board, holy father, I shall be most thankful,' replied
Malcolm.

'That's more like it,' said the brother, who acted as a kind of
farming steward, and was a hearty, good-natured gossip.  'An' what's
the name of ye?'

He gave his real Christian name; and added that he came from
Glenuskie, where the good Tutor of Glenuskie had been kind enough to
notice him.

'Ay,' said Brother Nicolas, 'he was a guid man to all towardly
youths.  He died in this house, more's the pity.'

'Yea, Sir--so I heard say,' returned Malcolm.  'He was a good friend
to me!' he added, to cover his heavy sigh.  'And, Sir, how went it
with the young laird and leddy?'

'For the young laird--a feckless, ugsome, sickly wean he was, puir
laddie--a knight cam by, an' behoved to take him to the King.  Nay,
but if you've been at Parish--if that's what ye mean with your
Lutetia--ye'll have seen him an' the King.'

'I saw the King,' answered Malcolm; 'but among the Englishry.'

'A sorry sight enow!' said the monk; 'but he'll soon find his Scots
heart again; and here we've got rid of the English leaven from the
house, and be all sound and leal Scots here.'

'And the lady?' Malcolm ventured to ask.  'She had a winsome face.'

'Ho! ho! what have young clerks to do wi' winsome faces?' laughed the
Benedictine.

'She was good to me,' Malcolm could truly say.

'They had her in St. Abbs yonder,' said the monk.

'Is she there?' asked Malcolm.  'I would pay my duty and thanks to
her.'

'Now--there I cannot say,' replied Brother Nicolas.  'My good Mother
Abbess and our Prior are not the friends they were in Prior
Akefield's time; and there's less coming and going between the
houses.  There was a noise that Lord Malcolm had been slain, and I
did hear that, thereupon, she had been claimed as a ward of the
Crown.  But I cannot say.  If ye gang to St. Abbs the morn, ye may
hear if she be there--and at any rate get the dole.'

It was clear that the good brother knew no more, and Malcolm could
only thank him for his condescension, and follow among the herdsmen
into the well-known monastery court.

Here he availed himself of his avowed connection with Glenuskie, to
beg to be shown good old Sir David Drummond's grave.  A flat gray
stone in the porch was pointed out to him; and beside this he knelt,
until the monks flocked in for prayers--which were but carelessly and
hurriedly sung; and then followed supper.  It was all so natural to
him, that it was with an effort that he recalled that his place was
not at the high table, as Lord Malcolm Stewart, but that Malcolm, the
nameless begging scholar, must be trencher-fellow with the servants
and lay brethren.  He was the less concerned, that here there was
less danger of recognition, and more freedom of conversation.

Things were evidently much altered.  A novice was indeed, as usual,
placed aloft in the refectory pulpit, to read aloud to the brethren
during their repast, but no one seemed to think it needful to
preserve the decorous silence that had been rigidly exacted during
Prior Akefield's time, and there was a continual buzz of
conversation.  Lent though it was, the fish was of the most esteemed
kinds, and it was evident that, like the monks of Melrose, they 'made
gude kale.'  Few of the kindly old faces that Malcolm remembered were
to be seen under their cowls.  Prior Drax himself had much more the
countenance of a moss-trooper than of a monk--mayhap he was then
meditating that which he afterwards carried out successfully, i.e.
the capture and appropriation of a whole instalment of King James's
ransom, on its way across the Border; and there was a rude
recklessness and self-indulgence about the looks, voices, and manners
of the brethren he had brought with him, such as made Malcolm feel
that if he had had his wish, and remained at Coldingham, he should
soon have found it no haven of peace.

The lay-brothers and old servants were fixtures, but the old faithful
and devout ones looked forlorn and unhappy and there had been a great
importation of the ruffianly men-at-arms, whom the more pugnacious
ecclesiastics, as well as nobles, of Scotland, were apt to maintain.
Guards there had been in old times, but kept under strict discipline;
whereas, in the rude conduct of these men, there was no sign that
they knew themselves to be in a religious house.  Malcolm, keeping
aloof from these as much as might be, gave such an account of himself
as was most consistent with truth, since it was necessary to account
for his returning so young from his studies.  He had, he said, been
told that there was an inheritance fallen due to him, and that the
kinsman, in whose charge his sister had been left, was dead; and he
had come home to seek her out, and inquire into the matter of his
heirship.

Rude jokes, from some of the new denizens of the monastery, were
spent on the improbability of his finding sister or lands; if it were
in the Barony of Glenuskie, the House of Albany had taken the
administration of that into their own hands.

'Nay--but,' said Malcolm, 'could I but see my young Lady Lilias, she
might make suit for me.'

The gray-headed lay-brother, to whom he addressed himself, replied
that it was little the Lady Lilias could do, but directed him to St.
Abbs to find her; whereat one of the men-at-arms burst out laughing,
and crying, 'That's a' that ye ken, auld Davie!  As though the Master
of Albany would let a bonnie lassie ware hersel' and her tocher on
stone walls and dour old nuns.'

'Has she wedded the Master of Albany, then?' asked Malcolm,
concealing his anxiety as best he might.

'That's as he pleases; and by my troth he took pains enow to get
her!'

'What pains?'

'Why, once she slipped out of his very fingers; that time that he had
laid hands on her, and the hirpling doited brother of hers cam down
with a strange knight, put her into St. Abbs, and made off for
England--so they said.  Some of the rogues would have it 'twas St.
Andrew in bodily shape, and that he tirled the young laird, as was
only fit for a saint, aff to heaven wi' him; for he was no more seen
in these parts.'

'Nay, that couldna be,' put in another soldier.  'Sandy M'Kay took
his aith that he was in the English camp--more shame till him--an'
was stickit dead for meddling between King Harry's brother and his
luve.  It sorted him weel, I say.'

'Aweel!' continued the first; 'gane is he, and sma' loss wi' him!
An' yon old beldame over at St. Abbs, she kens weel how to keep a
lass wi' a tocher--so what does the Master but sends a letter ower to
our Prior, bidding him send two trusty brethren, as though from the
King, to conduct her to Whitby?'

'Ha!' said Malcolm; 'but that's ower the Border.'

'Even so; but the Glenuskies are all English at heart, and it sicker
trained away the silly lassie.'

'And then?'--the other man-at-arms laughed.

'Why, at the first hostelry, ye can guess what sort of nuns were
ready to meet her!  I promise ye she skirled, and ca'ed Heaven and
earth to help; but Brother Simon and Brother Ringan gave their word
they'd see nae ill dune to her, and she rade with them on each side
of her, and us tall fellows behind and before, till we cam to Doune.'

'And what became of her, the poor lassie, then?' inquired Malcolm,
steadying his voice with much effort.

'Ye maun ask the Master that,' said the soldier.  'I ken nae mair; I
was sent on anither little errand of the Earl of Fife into the
Highlands, and only cam back hither a week syne, to watch the
Border.'

'Had it been St. Andrew that saved her before, he wad hae come
again,' pondered the lay-brother.  'He'd hardly hae given her up.'

'Weel, I heard the lassie cry on the Master to mind the aith he had
made the former time; an' though he tried to laugh her to scorn, his
eyes grew wild, and there were some that tell'd me they lookit to see
that glittering awsome knight among them again!  My certie, they maun
hae been feared enow the time he did come.'

Malcolm had now had his fears and suspicions so far confirmed, that
he perceived what his course should next be.  Strange to say, in
spite of the horror of knowing his sister to have been a whole year
in Walter Stewart's power, he was neither hopeless nor disheartened.
Lilias seemed to have kept her persecutor at bay once, and she might
have done so again--if only by the appeal to the mysterious relic, on
which his oath to abstain from violence had been sworn.  And
confidence in Esclairmonde's prayers continued to buoy him up, as he
recited his own, and formed his designs for ascertaining whether she
were to be found at Doune--either as wife, or as captive, to Walter,
Earl of Fife and heir of Albany.

So soon as the doors of Coldingham Priory were opened, he was on his
way northward.  It was a sore and trying journey, in the bitter March
weather, for one so little used to hardship.  He did not fail in
obtaining shelter or food; his garb was everywhere a passport; but he
grew weary and footsore, and his anxiety greatly increased when he
found that fatigue was bringing back the lameness, which greatly
enhanced the likelihood of his being recognized.  Kind monks, and
friendly gude-wives, hospitably persuaded the worn student to remain
and rest, till his blistered feet were whole; but he pressed on
whenever he found it possible to travel, and after the first week
found his progress less tardy and painful.

Resting at Edinburgh for Passion-tide and Easter Day, he found that
the Regent Albany himself, with all his family, were at Doune, and he
accordingly made his way thither; rejoicing that he had had some
little time to perfect himself in his part, before rehearsing it to
the persons most likely to detect his disguise.

Along the banks and braes of bonny Doune he slowly moved, with weary
limbs; looking up to the huge pile of the majestic castle in
sickening of heart at the doubt that was about to become a certainty,
and that involved the happiness or the absolute misery of his
sister's life.  Nay, he would almost have preferred to find that she
had perished in her resistance, rather than have become wife to such
a man as Walter Stewart.

The Duke of Albany, as representing majesty, kept up all the state
that Scottish majesty was capable of, in its impoverished irregular
state.  Hosts of rough lawless warriors, men-at-arms, squires and
knights, lived at free quarters, in a sort of rude plenty, in and
about the Castle; eating and drinking at the Regent's expense,
sleeping where they could, in hall or stable, and for clothing and
armour trusting to 'spulzie'; always ready for violence, without much
caring on whom exercised--otherwise hunting, or lounging, or swelling
their master's disorderly train.

This retinue was almost at its largest at this time, being swelled by
the following of the two younger sons of Murdoch, Robert and
Alexander; and the courts of the Castle were filled with rude,
savage-looking men, some few grooming horses, others with nothing to
do but to shout forth their jeers at the pale, black-gowned student,
who timidly limped into their lair.

Timidly--yes; for the awful chances heavily oppressed him; and the
horrible scurrility and savagery that greeted him on all sides made
his heart faint at the thought of his Lily in this cage of foul
animals.  He did not fear for himself, and never paused until a
shouting circle of idle ruffians set themselves full in his way, to
badger and bait the poor scholar with taunts and insults--hemming him
in, bawling out ribald mirth, as a pack of hounds fall on some stray
dog, or, as Malcolm thought, in a moment half of sick horror, half of
resolute resignation, like wild cattle--fat bulls of Bashan closing
in on every side.  So horrible a moment of distress he had never
known; but suddenly, as he stood summoning all his strength, panting
with dismay, inwardly praying, and trying to close his ears and
commend himself to One who knew what mockery is, there was an opening
of the crowd, a youth darted down among them, with a loud cry of
'Shame!  Out on you!  A poor scholar!' and taking Malcolm's hand, led
him forward; while a laugh of mockery rose in the distance--'Like to
like.'

'Ay, my friend and brother, I am Baccalaureus, even as you are,'
eagerly said the young gentleman, in whom Malcolm, somewhat to his
alarm, recognized his cousin, James Kennedy, the King's nephew, a
real Parisian 'bejanus,' or bec jaune, {2} when they last had met in
the Hotel de St. Pol; and thus not only qualified to confute and
expose him, should he show any ignorance of details, but also much
more likely to know him than those who had not seen him for many
months before he had left Scotland.

But James Kennedy asked no questions, only said kindly, in the Latin
that was always spoken in the University, 'Pray pardon us!  Mores
Hyperboreis desunt. {3}  The Regent would be grieved, if he knew how
these scelerati {4} have sorted you.  Come, rest and wash--it will
soon be supper-time.'

He took Malcolm to an inner court, filled for him a cup of ale, for
his immediate refreshment, and led him to a spout of clear water, in
the side of the rock on which the Castle stood; where a stone basin
afforded the only facilities for washing that the greater part of the
inhabitants of the Castle expected, and, in effect, more than they
commonly used.  Malcolm, however, was heartily glad of the
refreshment of removing the dust from his weary face and feet--and
heartily thanked his protector, in the same dog-Latin.  Kennedy
waited for him, and as a great bell began to ring, said 'Pro caena,'
{5} and conducted him towards the great hall while Malcolm felt much
impelled to make himself known, but was conscious that he had not so
comported himself towards his cousin at Paris as to deserve much
favour from him.

A high table was spread in the hall, with the usual appliances
befitting princes and nobles.  The other tables, below the dais, were
of the rudest description, and stained with accumulations of grease
and ale; and no wonder, since trenchers were not, and each man hacked
a gobbet for himself from the huge pieces of beef carried round on
spits--nor would the guests have had any objection, during a
campaign, to cook the meat in the fashion described by Froissart,
between themselves and the saddle.  These were the squirearchy;
Malcolm's late persecutors did not aspire to the benches around these
boards, or only at second hand, and for the most part had no seat but
the unclean straw and rushes that strewed the floor.

As James Kennedy entered the hall with Malcolm, there came from
another door, marshalled by the seneschal in full feudal state, the
Regent Duke of Albany himself, his wife, a daughter or two, two sons-
-and Malcolm saw, with beating heart, Lilias herself, pale worn,
sorrowful-looking, grievously altered, but still his own Lily.
Others followed, chiefly knights and attendants, but Malcolm saw no
one but Lily.  She took her place dejectedly, and never raised her
eyes towards him, even when, on the Regent's question, 'What have ye
there, Jamie?'  Kennedy stood forth and answered that it was a
scholar, a student, for whom he asked the hospitality of his kinsman.

'He is welcome,' said the Regent, a man of easy good-nature, whose
chief misfortune was, that being of weak nature, he came between a
wicked father and wickeder sons.  He was a handsome man, with much of
the stately appearance of King James himself, and the same
complexion; but it was that sort of likeness which was almost
provoking, by seeming to detract from the majesty of the lineaments
themselves, as seen in him who alone knew how to make them a mask for
a great soul.  His two sons, Robert and Alexander, laughed as they
saw Kennedy's companion, and called out, 'So that's the brotherhood
of learning, is it, Jamie?--forgathering with any beggar in the
street!'

'Yea,' said Kennedy, nothing daunted, 'and finding him much better
mannered than you!'

'Ay!' sighed Murdoch, feebly; 'when I grew up, it was at the Castles
of Perth and Doune that we looked for the best manners.  Now--'

'We leave them to the lick-platters that have to live by them,' said
Alexander, rudely.

Kennedy, meanwhile, gave the young scholar in charge to a gray-headed
retainer, who seemed one of the few who had any remains of good-
breeding; and then offered to say Grace--he being the nearest
approach to an ecclesiastic present--as the chaplain was gone to an
Easter festivity at his Abbey.  Malcolm thus obtained a seat at the
second table, and a tolerable share of supper; but he could hardly
eat, from intense anxiety, and scarcely knew whether to be glad or
sorry that he was out of sight of Lily.

By and by, a moment's lull of the universal din enabled Malcolm to
hear the Regent saying, 'Verily, there is a look of gentle nurture
about the lad.  Look you, James, when the tables are drawn, you shall
hold a disputation with him.  It will be sport to hear how you chop
logic at your Universities yonder.'

Malcolm's spirit sank.  Such disputations were perfectly ordinary
work at both Oxford and Paris, and, usually, he was quite capable of
sustaining his part in them; but his heart was so full, his mind so
anxious, his condition so dangerous, that he felt as if he could by
no means rally that alertness of argument, and readiness of
quotation, that were requisite even in the merest tyro.  However, he
made a great effort.  He secretly invoked the Light of Wisdom; tried
to think himself back into the aisles of St. Mary's Church, and to
call up the key-notes of some of the stock arguments; hoping that, if
the selection of the subject were left to Kennedy, he would hit on
one of those most familiar at Oxford.

The supper was ended, the tables were removed, and the challenge took
place.  Duke Murdoch, leaning back in his high chair by the peat-
fire, while the ladies sat round at their spinning, called for the
two young clerks to begin their tourney of words.  They stood
opposite one another, on the step of the dais; and Kennedy, as host
and challenger, assigned to his opponent the choice of a subject,
when Malcolm, brightening, proposed one that he had so often heard
and practised on, as to have the arguments at his fingers' ends;
namely, that the real consists only in that which is substantial to
the senses, and which we see, hear, taste, smell, or touch.

Kennedy's shrewd gray eye glanced at him in a manner that startled
him, as he made reply, 'Fellow-alumnus, you speak as Oxford scholars
speak; but I rede ye well that the real is not that which is grossly
tangible to the corporeal sense, but the idea that is conceived
within the immortal intelligence.'

The argument was carried on in the vernacular, but there was an
unlimited license of quotation from authors of all kinds, classics,
Fathers, and schoolmen.  It was like a game at chess, in which the
first moves were always so much alike, that they might have been made
by automatons; and Malcolm was repeating reply and counter-reply,
almost by rote, when a citation brought in by Kennedy again startled
him.

'Outward things,' said James, 'are the mere mark; for have we not
heard how


"Telephus et Peleus, quum pauper et exsul uterque,
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba"?' {6}


Was this to prove that he recognized a wandering prince in his
opponent? thought Malcolm; but, much on his guard, he made answer, as
usual, in his native tongue.  'That which is not touched and held is
but a vain and fleeting shadow--"solvitur in nube." {7}

'Negatur, it is denied!' said Kennedy, fixing his eyes full upon him.
'The Speculum of the Soul, which is immortal, retains the image even
while the bodily presence is far away.  Wherefore else was it that
Ulysses sat as a beggar by his paternal hearth, or that Cadmus
wandered to seek his sister?'

This was anything but the regular illustration--the argument was far
too directly ad hominem--and Malcolm hesitated for a moment, ere
framing his reply.  'If the image had satisfied the craving of their
hearts, they had never wandered, nor endangered themselves.'

'Nor,' said Kennedy, 'endeared themselves to all who love the leal
and the brave, and count these indeed as verities for which to live.'

From the manner in which these words were spoken, Malcolm had no
further doubt either that Kennedy knew him, or that he meant to
assist him; and the discussion thenceforth proceeded without further
departures from the regular style, and was sustained with
considerable spirit, till the Regent grew weary of it, and bed-time
approached, when Kennedy announced his intention of taking his
fellow-student to share his chamber; and, as this did not appear at
all an unnatural proposal, in the crowded Castle, Malcolm followed
him up various winding stairs into a small circular chamber, with a
loop-hole window, within one of the flanking towers.

Carefully closing the heavy door, Kennedy held out his hands.  'Fair
cousin,' he said, 'this is bravely done of you.'

'Will it save my sister?' asked Malcolm, anxiously.

'It should,' said his kinsman; 'but how can it be?  Whatever is done,
must be ere Walter Stewart returns.'

'Tell me all!  I know nothing--save that she was cruelly lured from
St. Abbs.'

'I know little more,' said Kennedy.  'It was on a false report of
your death, and Walter had well-nigh obtained a forcible marriage;
when her resistance and cries to Heaven daunted the monk who was to
have performed the rite, so that he, in a sort, became her protector.
When she was brought here, Walter swore he would bend her to his
will; shut her up in the old keep, and kept her there, scantily fed,
and a close prisoner, while he went forth on one of his forays.  The
Regent coming here meantime, found the poor maiden in her captivity,
and freed her so far that she lives, to all appearance, as becomes
his kinswoman; but the Duchess is cruelly strict with her, being
resolved, as she says, to take down her pride.'

'They must know that I live,' said Malcolm.

'They do; but Walter is none the less resolved not to be balked.
Things came to a wild pass a few weeks syne.  The Regent had never
dared tell him how far matters had gone for bringing back the King,
when one day Walter came in, clad for hawking; and, in his rudest
manner, demanded the falcon that was wont to sit on his father's
wrist, and that had never been taken out by any other.  The Regent
refused to part with the bird, as he had oft done before; whereupon
his son, in his fury, snatched her from his wrist, and wrung her head
off before all our eyes; then turning fiercely on your poor sister,
told her that "yon gled should be a token to her, of how they fared
who withheld themselves from him."  Then rose the Duke, trembling
within rage; "Ay, Wat," said he, "ye hae been owermuch for me.  We
will soon have ane at home that will ken how to guide ye."  Walter
looked at him insolently, and muttered, "I've heard of this before!
They that wad have a master, may live under a master--but I'm not ane
of them;" and then, turning upon Lady Lilias, he pointed to the dead
hawk, and told her that, unless she yielded to him with a good grace,
that bird showed her what she might expect, long ere the King or her
brother were across the border.'

'And where is he now?'

'In Fife, striving to get a force together to hinder the King's
return.  He'll not do that; men are too weary of misrule to join him
against King James; but he is like, any day, to come back with
reivers enough to terrify his father, and get your sister into his
hands--indeed, his mother is ready to give her up to him whenever he
asks.  He has sworn to have her now, were it merely to vex the King
and you, and show that he is to be daunted neither by man, heaven,
nor hell.'

'And he may come?'

'Any day or any night,' said James.  'Since he went I have striven,
in vain, to devise some escape for your sister; but Heaven has surely
sent you to hinder so foul a wrong!  Yet, if you went to Glenuskie
and raised your vassals--'

'It would be loss of time,' said Malcolm; 'and this matter may not be
put to the doubtful issue of a fray between my men and his villains.
Out of this place must she go at once.  But, alas! how win to the
speech of her?'

'That can I do,' said Kennedy.  'For a few brief moments, each day,
have I spoken to her in the chapel.  Nay, I had left this place
before now, had she not prayed me to remain as her only friend.'

'Heaven must requite you, Cousin James,' said Malcolm, warmly.  'I
deserved not this of you.'

'All that I desire,' said Kennedy, 'is to see this land of ours cease
to be full of darkness and cruel habitations.  Malcolm, you know the
King better than I; may we not trust that he will come as a redresser
of wrongs?'

'Know you not his pledge to himself?--"I will make the key keep the
castle, and the bracken bush keep the cow, though I live the life of
a dog to bring it about!"'

'God strengthen his hand,' said Kennedy, with tears in his eyes; 'and
bring better days to our poor land.  Cousin, has not your heart burnt
within you, to be doing somewhat to bring these countrymen of ours to
better mind?'

'I have grieved,' said Malcolm.  'The sight has been the woe and
horror of my whole life; and either it is worse now than when I went
away, or I see it clearer.'

'It is both,' said Kennedy; 'and, Malcolm, it is borne in on me that
we, who have seen better things, have a heavy charge!  The King may
punish marauders, and enforce peace; but it will be but the rule of
the strong hand, unless men's hearts be moved!  Our clergy--they bear
the office of priests--but their fierceness and their ignorance would
scarce be believed in France or England; and how should it be
otherwise, with no schools at home save the abbeys--and the abbeys
almost all fortresses held by fierce noblemen's sons?'

Malcolm would much rather have discussed the means of rescuing his
sister, but James Kennedy's heart was full of a youth's ardent plans
for the re-awakening of religion in his country, chiefly through the
improved education of the clergy, and it was not easy to bring his
discourse to a close.

'You--you were to wed a great Flemish heiress?' he said.  'You will
do your part, Cousin, in the founding of a University--such as has
changed ourselves so greatly.'

Malcolm smiled.  'My only bride is learning,' he said; 'my other
betrothal is but in name, for the safety of the lady.'

'Then,' cried Kennedy joyfully, 'you will give yourself.  Learning
and culture turned to God's service, for this poor country's sake, in
one of birth like you, may change her indeed.'

Was this the reading of Esclairmonde's riddle? suddenly thought
Malcolm.  Was the true search for heavenly Light, then, to consist in
holding up to his countrymen the lamp he was kindling for himself?
Must true wisdom consist in treasuring knowledge, not for his own
honour among learned men, or the delectation of his own mind, but to
scatter it among these rude northern souls?  Must the vision of
learned research and scholarly calm vanish, as cloistral peace, and
chivalrous love and glory, had vanished before? and was the lot of a
hard-working secular priest that which called him?



CHAPTER XVIII:  CLERK DAVIE



For Malcolm to speak with his sister was well-nigh an impossibility.
Had he been detected, he would have been immediately treated as a
spy, and the suspicion thus excited would have been a dangerous
preparation for the King as well as for himself; nor was there any
pretext for giving the wandering scholar an interview with her.

But harsh and strict as was the Duchess of Albany--a tall, raw-boned,
red-haired woman, daughter of the fierce old Earl of Lennox--and
resolved as she was to bend Lilias by persecution to accept her son,
she could not debar a young gentleman of the royal kindred, like
James Kennedy, from entering the apartment where the ladies of the
family sat with their needles; and the Regent, half from pity, half
from shame, had refused to permit Lilias Stewart's being treated as a
mere captive.

Thus Malcolm remained in Kennedy's room in much anxiety, while his
cousin went forth to do his best in his cause, and after some hours
returned to him with the tidings that he had succeeded in letting
Lily know that he was in the Castle.  Standing over her while she
bent over her embroidery, and thus concealing her trembling
agitation, he had found it possible to whisper in her ears the
tidings of her brother having come to save her, and of hearing her
insist that Malcolm, 'wee Malcolm, must run no peril, but that she
would do and dare everything--nay, would prefer death itself to
Walter Stewart.'

'Have you any device in this matter?' demanded James Kennedy, when he
had thus spoken.

'Have you your college gown here?' inquired Malcolm.

'I have, in yon kist,' said Kennedy.  'Would you disguise her
therein?  You and she are nearly of a height.'

'Ay,' said Malcolm.  'The plot I thought on is this--the worst is
that the risk rests with you.'

'That is naught, less than naught,' said Kennedy.  'I had risked
myself ten times over had I seen any hope for her in so doing.'

Malcolm then explained his plan, namely, that if Lilias could have
Kennedy's gown conveyed to her, she should array herself therein, and
be conducted out of the castle by her cousin by one gate, he himself
in secular garb going by another, and joining at some place of
meeting, whence, as a pair of brothers, Malcolm and she might gain
the English border.

James Kennedy considered, and then added that he could improve on the
plan.  He had long intended leaving Doune for his brother's castle,
but only tarried in case he could do anything for Lilias.  He would
at supper publicly announce to the Regent his departure for the next
day, and also say that he had detained his fellow-scholar to go
within him.  Then arranging for Malcolm's exit in a secular dress
among his escort, as one of the many unobserved loungers, Lilias
should go with him in very early morning in the bachelor's gown,
which he would place in a corner of a dark passage, where she could
find it.  Then if Malcolm and she turned aside from his escort, as
the pursuit as soon as her evasion was discovered would be
immediately directed on himself, they would have the more time for
escape.

It was a complicated plan, but there was this recommendation, that
Malcolm need not lose sight of his sister.  Clerk as he was, young
Kennedy could not ride without an escort, and among his followers he
could place Malcolm.  Accordingly at supper he announced his desire
to leave Doune at dawn next morning, and was, as a matter of course,
courteously pressed to remain.  Malcolm in the meantime eluded
observation as much as possible while watching his sister, who, in
spite of all her efforts, was pale and red by turns, never durst
glance towards him, and trembled whenever any one went near him.

The ladies at length swept out of the hall, and Robert and Alexander
called for more wine for a rere-supper to drink to James's good
journey; but Kennedy tore himself from their hospitable violence, and
again he and Malcolm were alone, spending a night of anxiety and
consultation.

Morning came; Malcolm arrayed himself in a somewhat worn dress of
Kennedy's, with the belt and dirk he had carried under his scholar's
garb now without, and a steel cap that his cousin had procured for
him on his head.  With a parcel in his arms of Kennedy's gear, he
might pass for a servant sent from home to meet him; and so soon as
this disguise was complete, Kennedy opened the door.  On the turret
stair stood a hooded black figure, that started as the door opened.

Malcolm's heart might well seem to leap to his lips, but both brother
and sister felt the tension of nerve that caution required too much
to give way for a moment.

Kennedy whispered, 'Your license, fair Cousin,' and passed on with
the free step of lordly birth, while a few paces behind the seeming
scholar humbly followed, and Malcolm, putting on his soldier's tread
and the careless free-and-easy bearing he had affected before Meaux,
brought up the rear with Master Kennedy's mails.

As they anticipated, the household was not troubling itself to rise
to see the priest off.  Not that this made the coast clear, for the
floor of the hall was cumbered with snoring sleepers in all sorts of
attitudes--nay, at the upper table, the flushed, debauched, though
young and handsome, faces of Robert and Alexander Stewart might have
been detected among those who lay snoring among the relics of their
last night's revel.

The old steward was, however, up and alert, ready to offer the
stirrup-cup, and the horses were waiting in the court; but what they
had by no means expected or desired was that Duke Murdoch himself, in
his long furred gown, came slowly across the hall to bid his young
kinsman Kennedy farewell.

'Speed you well, my lad,' he said kindly.  'I ask ye not to tarry in
what ye must deem a graceless household;' and he looked sadly across
at his two sons, boys in age, but seniors in excess.  'I would we had
mair lads like you.  I fear me a heavy reckoning is coming.'

'You have ever been good lord to all, Sir,' said Kennedy,
affectionately, for he really loved and pitied the soft-hearted Duke.

'Too good, maybe,' said Murdoch.  'What! the scholar goes with you?'
and he fixed a look on Lily's face that brought the colour deep into
it under her hood.

'Yes, Sir,' answered Kennedy, respectfully.  'Here, you Tam,'
indicating Malcolm, 'take him behind you on the sumpter-horse.'

'Fare ye weel, gentle scholar,' said Murdoch, taking the hand that
Lily was far from offering.  'May ye win to your journey's end safe
and sound; and remember,' he added, holding the fingers tight, and
speaking under the hood, 'if ye have been hardly served, 'twas to
make ye the second lady in Scotland.  Take care of her--him, young
laddie,' he added, turning on Malcolm:  ''tis best so; and mind' (he
spoke in the same wheedling tone of self-excuse), 'if ye tell the
tale down south, nae ill hath been dune till her, and where could she
have been mair fitly than beneath her kinsman's roof?  I'd not let
her go, but that young blude is hot and ill to guide.'

An answer would have been hard to find; and it was well that he did
not look for any.  Indeed, Malcolm could not have spoken without
being heard by the seneschal, and therefore could only bow, take his
seat on the baggage-horse, and then feel his sister mounting behind
him in an attitude less unfamiliar on occasion even to the high-born
ladies of the fifteenth century than to those of our day.  Four years
it was since he had felt her touch, four years since she had sat
behind him as they followed the King to Coldingham!  His heart
swelled with thankfulness as he passed under the gateway, and the
arms that clung round his waist clasped him fervently; but neither
ventured on a word, amid Kennedy's escort, and they rode on a couple
of miles in the same silence.  Then Kennedy, pausing, said, 'There
lies your way, Brother.  Tam, you may show the scholar the way to the
Gray Friars' Grange, bear them greetings frae me, and halt till ye
hear from me.  Fare ye well.'

Lilias trusted her voice to say, 'Blessings on ye, Sir, for all ye
have done for me,' but Malcolm thought it wiser in his character of
retainer to respond only by a bow.

Of course they understood that the direction Kennedy gave was the
very one they were not to take, but they followed it till a tall bush
of gorse hid them from the escort; and then Malcolm, grasping his
sister's hand, plunged down among the rowans, ferns, and hazels, that
covered the steep bank of the river, and so soon as a footing was
gained under shelter of a tall rock, threw his arms round her, almost
sobbing in an under-tone, 'My Lily, my tittie!--safe at last!  Oh,
God be thanked!  I knew her prayers would be heard!  Oh, would that
Patrick were here!'  Then, as her face changed and quivered ready to
weep, he cried, 'Eh, what! art still deeming him dead?'

'How!' she cried wildly.  'He fell into the hands of your English,
and--'

'He fell into the hands of your King and mine,' said Malcolm.  'Yes,
King James dragged him out of the burning house, and wrung his pardon
out of King Harry.  He came with me to St. Abbs to fetch you, Lily,
and only went back because his knighthood would not serve in this
quest like my clerkship.'

'Patrick living, Patrick safe!  Oh!' she fell on her knees among the
ferns, hid her face in her hands, and drew a long breath.  'Malcolm,
this is joy overmuch.  The desolation of yesterday, the joy to-day!'

Malcolm, seeing her like one stifled by emotion, fell on his knees
beside her, and whispered forth a thanksgiving.  She rested with her
head on his shoulder in content till he started up, saying in a
lively manner, 'Come, Lily, we must be on our way.  A very bonnie
young clerk you are, with your berry-brown locks cut so short round
your face.'

Lilias blushed up to the short dark curls she had left herself.  'Had
I thought he lived, I could scarce have done it.'

'What, not to get to him, silly maid?  Here,' as he shook out and
donned the gown he had brought rolled up, 'now am I a scholar too.
Stay, you must take off this badge of the bachelor; you have only
been in a monastery school, you know; you are my young brother--what
shall we call you?'

'Davie,' softly suggested Lilias.

'Ay, Davie then, that I've come home to fetch to share my Paris lear.
You can be very shy and bashful, you know, and leave all the knapping
of Latin and logic to me.'

'If it is such as you did with Jamie Kennedy,' said Lilias, 'it will
indeed be well.  Oh, Malcolm, I sat and marvelled at ye--so gleg ye
took him up.  How could ye learn it?  And ye are a brave warrior too
in battles,' she added, looking him over with a sister's fond pride.

'We have had no battle, no pitched field,' said Malcolm 'but I have
seen war.'

'So that ugly words can never be flung in your face again!' cried
Lilias.  'Are you knighted, brother?'

'No, but they say I have won my spurs.  I'll tell you all, Lily, as
we walk.  Only let me bestow this iron cap where some mavis may
nestle in it.  Ay, and the boots too, which scarce befit a clerk.
There, your hand, Clerk Davie; we must make westward to-day, lest
poor Duke Murdoch be forced to send to chase us.  After that, for the
Border and Patie.'

So brother and sister set forth on their wandering--and truly it was
a happy journey.  The weather favoured them, and their hearts were
light.  Lilias, delivered from terrible, hopeless captivity, her
brother beside her, and now not a brother to be pitied and protected,
but to protect her and be exulted in, trod the heather with an
exquisite sense of joy and freedom that buoyed her up against all
hardships; and Malcolm was at peace, as he had seldom been.  His
happiness was not exactly like his sister's in her renewed liberty
and restoration to love and joy, for he had known a wider range of
life, and though really younger than Lily, his more complicated
history could not but make him older in thought and mind.  Another
self-abnegation was beginning to rise upon him, as he travelled
slowly southwards by stages suited to his sister's powers, and by
another track than that by which he had gone.  On the moor, or by the
burn side, there was peace and brightness; but wherever he met with
man he found something to sadden him.  Did they rest in a monastery,
there was often irregularity, seldom devotion, always crass
ignorance.  The manse was often a scene of such dissolute life that
Malcolm shunned to bring his sister into the sight of it; the peel
tower was the dwelling of savagery; the farm homestead either rude
and lawless or in constant terror; the black spaces on many a brae
side showed where dwellings had been burned; more than once they
passed skeletons depending from the trees or lying rotting by the
way-side.  And it was frightful to Malcolm, after his four years'
absence, to find how little Lilias shared his horror, taking quite
naturally what to Alice Montagu would have seemed beyond the bounds
of possibility, and would have set Esclairmonde's soul on fire, while
Lilias seemed to think it her brother's amiable peculiarity to be
shocked, or to long to set such things straight.

He felt the truth of James Kennedy's words--that reformation could
not be the sole work of the King, but that his hands must be
strengthened by all the few who knew that a different state of things
was possible, and that, above all, the clergy needed to be awakened
into vigour and intelligence.  Formerly, the miserable aspect of the
country had merely terrified him, and driven him to strive to hide
his head in a convent; but the strength and the sense of duty he had
acquired had brought his heart to respond to Kennedy's call to work.

Esclairmonde's words wrought within him beyond her own ken or purpose
in speaking them.  He began to understand that to bury himself in an
Italian university and dive into Aristotle's sayings, to heap up his
own memory with the stores of thought he loved, or to plunge into the
mazes of mathematics, philosophy, and music, while his brethren in
his own country were tearing one another to pieces for lack of any
good influence to teach or show them better things, would be a
storing of treasure for himself on earth, a pursuit of the light of
knowledge indeed, but not a wooing of the light of Wisdom, the true
Light of the World, as seen in Him who went about doing good.  To
complete his present course was, he knew, necessary.  He had seen
enough of really learned scholars to know the depths of his own
ignorance, and to be aware that certain books must be read under
guidance, and certain studies gone through, before his cultivation
would be on a level with the standard of the best working clergy of
the English Church--such as Chicheley, Waynflete, or the like.  He
would therefore remain at Oxford, he thought, long enough to take his
Master of Arts degree, and then, though to his own perceptions only
the one-eyed among the blind, he would make the real sacrifice of
himself in the rude and cruel world of Scotland.

He knew that his king was well satisfied with Patrick, and also that
a man of sound heart and prompt, hard hand was far fitter to rule as
a secular lord than his own more fine-drawn mature could ever be; but
as a priest, with the influence that his birth and the King's
friendship would give him, he already saw chances of raising the tone
of the clergy, and thus improving the wild and lawless people.

A deep purpose of self-devotion was growing up in his soul, but
without saddening him, only rendering him more energetic and cheerful
than his sister had ever known him.

As they walked together over the long stretches of moor, many were
Lily's questions; and Malcolm beguiled the way with many a story of
camp and court, told both for his own satisfaction in her sympathy,
and with the desire to make the Scottish lassie see what was the life
and what the thoughts of ladies of her own degree in other lands, so
that the Lady of Glenuskie might be awake to somewhat of the high
purpose of virtuous home government to which Alice of Salisbury had
been trained.

As to the Flemish heiress, no representation would induce Lilias to
love her.  Reject Malcolm for a convent's sake!  It was unpardonable;
and as to a bedeswoman, working uncloistered in the streets, Lily
viewed that as neither the one thing nor the other, neither religious
nor secular; and she was persuaded that a little exertion on the part
of the brother, whom she viewed as a paladin, would overcome all
coyness on the lady's part.

Malcolm found it vain to try to show his sister his sense of his own
deserts, and equally so to declare that if the maiden should so
yield, she would indeed be the Demoiselle de Luxemburg to whom he was
pledged, but not the Esclairmonde whom his better part adored.  So he
let the matter pass by, and both enjoyed their masquing in one
another's company as a holiday such as they could never have again.

They had no serious alarms; the pursuit must have been disconcerted,
and the two young scholars were not worth the attention of
freebooters.  Their winsomeness of manner won them kindness wherever
they harboured; and thus, after many days, without molestation they
came to the walls of Berwick.  And now, while Malcolm thought his
difficulties at an end, a horror of bashfulness fell upon Lilias.
She had been Clerk Davie merrily enough while there was no one to
suspect her, but the transmutation into her proper self filled her
with shame.

She hung back, and could be hardly dragged forward to the embattled
gateway of the bridge by her brother--who, as the guards, jealously
cautious even in this time of peace, called out to him to stand,
showed his ring bearing the royal arms, and desired to speak within
the captain of the garrison, who was commanding in the name of the
Earl of Northumberland, Governor of Berwick and Warden of the
Marches, and who had entertained him on his way north, and would have
been warned by Patrick of his probable return in this guise.

Instead of the stalwart form of the veteran sub-governor, however, a
quick step came hurrying to the gateway, and the light figure of a
young knight stood before him, with outstretched hands, crying:
'Welcome to the good town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, dear comrade!'  And
he added in a lower tone:  'So you have succeeded in your quest--if,
as I trow, this fairest of clerks be your lady sister.  May I--'

'Hold!' softly said Malcolm.  'She is so shamefast that she cannot
brook a word;' and in fact Lilias had pulled her hood over her face,
and shrunk behind him, at the first approach of the young gentleman.

'We will to my mother,' said Ralf, aloud.  'She has always a soft
corner in her heart for a young clerk or a wanderer.'

And so saying, without even looking at the disguised figure, he gave
the pass-word, and holding Malcolm by the arm, led him, followed by
Lilias, through the defences and into the court of the castle, then
to a side-door, where, bounding up several steps at once of a stone
stair, he opened a sort of anteroom door, and bade the two strangers
wait there while he fetched his mother.

'That is well!  Who would have looked to see him here!' cried
Malcolm, joyously.  'What, you knew him not?  It was Ralf Percy, my
dear old companion!'

'Ralf Percy! he that was so bold and daring?' cried Lilias.  'Nay,
but how can it be, he was as meek and shamefast--'

'As yourself,' smiled Malcolm.  'Ah, sister, you have much to learn
of the ways of an English gentleman among ladies.'

Before many further words could be exchanged, there entered a fair
and matronly dame in the widow's veil she had worn ever since the
fatal day of Shrewsbury--that eager, loving, yet almost childish
woman whom we know so well as Hotspur's gentle Kate (only that
unfortunately her name was Elizabeth); fondling, teasing, being
fondled and teased in return, and then with all her pretty
puerilities scorched away when she upbraids Northumberland with his
fatal delay.  Could Malcolm and Lilias have known her as we do in
Shakespeare, they would have been the more gratified by her welcome,
whereas they only saw her kind face and the courtly sweep of her
curtsey, as, going straight up to the disguised girl, blushing and
trembling now more than ever, she said:  'Poor child, come with me,
and we will soon have you yourself again, ere any other eye see you;'
and then moved away again, holding Lily by the hand, while Ralf, who
had followed close behind her, again grasped Malcolm's hand.

'Well done, Glenuskie; you have all the adventures!  They seek you, I
believe!  So you have borne off your damosel errant, and are just in
time to receive your king.'

'Is he wedded then?'

'Ay, and you find us all here in full state, prepared to banquet him
and lodge him and his bride for a night, and then I fancy my brother
is to go through some ceremony, ere giving him up to his own
subjects.  We are watching for him every day.  Come to my chamber,
and I'll apparel you.'

'Nay, but what brings you here, Ralf?--you, whom I thought in
France.'

''Twas a Scottish bill that brought me,' answered Ralf.  'What, are
you too lost in parchment at Oxford to hear of us poor soldiers, or
knew you not how we fought at Crevant?'

'I heard of the battle, and that you were hurt, but that was months
ago, and I deemed you long since in the field again.  Was it so sore
a matter?'

'Chiefly sore for that it hindered me from taking the old rogue
Douglas, and meriting my spurs as befitted a Percy.  I was knighted
while the trumpet was sounding, and I did think that I was on the way
to prowess, for fully in the melee I saw a fellow with the Douglas
banner.  I made at it, thinking of my father's and of Otterburn; and,
Malcolm, this very hand was on the staff, when what must a big Scot
do but chop at me with his bill like a butcher's axe.  Had it fallen
on mine arm it would have been lopped off like a bough of a tree,
but, by St. George's grace, it lit here, between my neck and
shoulder, and stuck fast as I went down, and the fellow was swept
away from me.  'Twas so fixed in the very bone, that they had much
ado to wrench it out, when there was time after the fight to look
after us who had come by the worse.  And what d'ye think they found,
Malcolm?  Why, those honest Yorkshiremen, Trenton and Kitson, stark
dead, both of them.  Trenton must have gone down first, with a lance-
thrust in the throat; and there was Kitson over him, his shield over
his head, and his own cleft open with an axe!  They laid them side by
side--so I was told--in their grave; and sure 'twas as strange and as
true a brotherhood as ever was between two brave men.'

'The good fellows!' cried Malcolm.  'Nay, after what I saw I can
hardly grieve.  I went to Kitson's home, where they knew as little as
I did of his death, and verily his place had closed up behind him, so
that I scarce think his mother even cared to see him more, and the
whole of them seemed more concerned at his amity with Trenton than
proud of his feats of arms.  I was marvelling if their friendship
would be allowed to subsist at home, even when they, poor fellows,
were lying side by side in their French grave.'

'We warriors should never come home,' said Percy; 'we are spoilt for
aught but our French camp.  I am wearying to get back once more, but
so long as I cannot swing my sword-arm I must play the idler here.'

'It must have been a fearsome wound,' said Malcolm.  'The marvel is
your overgetting it.'

'So say they all; and truly it has lasted no small time.  They
shipped me off home so soon as I could leave my bed, and bade me
rest.  Nay, and my mother herself came even to London, when my
brother was summoned to Parliament,--she who had never been there
since the first year after she was wedded!'

'You can scarce complain of such kin as that,' said Malcolm.

''Tis not the kin, but this petty Border life, that frets me.  Here
we move from castle to castle, and now and then come tidings of a
cattle lifting, and Harry dons his helm and rides forth, but nine
times out of ten 'tis a false alarm, or if it be true, the thieves
have made off, and being time of peace, he, as Warden, cannot make a
raid in return.  I'm sick of the life, after the only warfare fit for
a knight, with French nobles instead of Border thieves; and back I
will.  If my right arm will not serve me, the left shall.  I can use
a lance indifferent well already.'

As Sir Ralf Percy spoke, a bugle-call rang through the castle.  He
started.  'Hark! that's the warder's horn,' and flying to the door,
he soon returned crying--'Your king is in sight, Malcolm!'

'How soon will he be here?'

'In less than half an hour.  There's time to array yourself.  I'll
take you to my chamber.'

'Thanks,' said Malcolm; 'but this gown is no disguise to me.  I had
rather meet the King thus, for it is my fitting garb.  Only I would
remove the soil of the journey, and then take my sister by the hand.'

For this there was ample time, and Malcolm had arranged his hair, and
brushed away the dust from his gown, washed his face and hands, and
made himself look more like an Oxford bachelor, and less like a
begging clerk, than he had of late judged it prudent to appear, ere
Ralf took him to the great hall, where he found Lord Northumberland
and the chief gentlemen of his household, with his mother, Lady
Percy, and his young wife, together with their ladies, assembling for
the reception of their royal guests.

Malcolm was presented to, and kindly greeted by, each of the
principal personages, and then the Earl, Sir Ralf, and their officers
went forth to meet the King at the gateway.  Malcolm, however, at his
sister's entreaty, remained with her, for in the doubt whether
Patrick were really at hand, and a fond unreasonable vexation that he
had had no part in her liberation, her colour was coming and going,
and she looked as if she might almost faint in her intense
excitement.

But when, marshalled by the two Percies, King James and Queen Joan
had entered the hall, and the blare of trumpets without and
rejoicings within, and had been welcomed with deep reverences by the
two ladies, Ralf said:  'Sir, methinks you have here what you may be
glad to see.'

And standing aside, he made way for the two figures to stand forth,
one in the plain black gown and hood, the other in the rich robes of
a high-born maiden, her dark eyes on the ground, her fair face
quivering within emotion, as both she and her brother bent the knee
before their royal master.

'Ha!' cried James, 'this is well indeed.  Thou hast her, then, lad?
See, Patrick!  Where is he?  Nay, but, fair wife, I must present thee
the first kinswoman of mine thou hast seen.  How didst bring her off,
Malcolm?'  And he embraced Malcolm with the ardour of a happy man, as
he added, 'This is all that was wanting.'

Truly James looked as if nothing were wanting to his joy, as there he
stood after his years of waiting, a bridegroom, free, and on the
borders of his native land.  His eyes shone with joy, and there was a
bright energy and alacrity in his bearing that, when Malcolm
bethought him of those former grave movements, and the quiet
demeanour as though only interested by an effort, marked the change
from the captive to the free man.  And beautiful Joan, lovelier than
ever, took on her her queenly dignity with all her wonted grace and
graciousness.

She warmly embraced Lilias, hailing her as cousin, and auguring
joyously of the future from the sight of this first Stewart maiden
whom she had seen; and the next moment Patrick Drummond, hurrying
forward, fell on his knee before his lady, grasped, kissed, fondled
her hand, and struggled and stammered between his rejoicing over her
liberation and despair that he had no part in it.

'Yea,' said the King 'it was well-nigh a madman whom you sent home to
me, Malcolm.  He was neither to have nor to hold; and what he would
have had me do, or have let him do, I'll not say, nor doth he know
either.  I must hear your story ere I sleep, Malcolm.'

The King did not ask for it then:  he would not brook the exposure of
the disunion and violence of Scotland to the English, especially the
Percies; and it was not till he could see Malcolm alone that he
listened to his history.

'Cousin,' he said, 'you have done both bravely and discreetly.
Methinks you have redeemed my pledge to your good guardian that in
the south you should be trained to true manhood; though I am free to
own that 'twas not under my charge that you had the best training.
How is it to be, Malcolm?  Patrick tells me you saw the Lady of
Light.'

'Ay, Sir, but neither her purpose nor mine is shaken.  My lord, I
believe I see how best to serve God and yourself.  If you will
consent, I will finish my first course at Oxford, and then offer
myself for the priesthood.'

'Not hide thyself in cloister or school--that is well!' exclaimed the
King.

'No, Sir.  Methinks I could serve yonder rude people best if I were
among them as a priest.'

James considered, then said:  'I pledged myself not to withstand your
conscience, Malcolm; and though I grieve that the lady should be
lost, she has never wavered, and cannot be balked of her will.  Godly
and learned priests will indeed be needed; and between you and James
Kennedy, when both are come to elder years, we may perchance lift our
poor Scottish Church to some clearer sense of what a church should
be.  Meanwhile--'  The King stopped and considered.  'Study in
England!  Ay!  You see, Malcolm, I must take my seat, and have the
reins of my unruly steed firm in my hand, ere I take cognizance of
these offences.  The caitiff Walter--mansworn that he is--he shall
abye it; but that can scarce be as yet, and methinks it were not well
that I entered Scotland with you and your sister at my side, for then
must I seem to have overlooked an offence that, by this holy relic, I
will never pardon.  So, Malcolm, instead of entering Scotland with
me--bonnie land, how sweet its air blows from the north!--ye must
e'en turn south!  But how to dispose of your sister?  Some nunnery--'

'Poor Lily, she is weary of convents,' said Malcolm 'but if Lady
Montagu would let her be with her and the Lady Esclairmonde, then
would she learn somewhat of the ways of a well-ordered English noble
house.  And I could well provide for her being there as befits her
station.'

'Well thought of!  The gentle Lady Alice will no doubt welcome her,'
said the King; 'and Patrick must endure.'

Thus then was it fixed.  The King and Queen, stately and beautiful,
royally robed, and mounted on splendid steeds, were escorted the next
morning to the Scottish gate of Berwick by Lord Northumberland and
his retinue, and they were met by an imposing band of Scottish
nobles, with the white-haired Earl of Lennox at their head.  To these
the captive was formally surrendered by Northumberland; and James,
flinging himself from his horse, kissed his native soil, and gave
thanks aloud to God, ere he stood up and received the homage of his
subjects, to most of whom he was a total stranger.

Malcolm and Lilias on the walls could see all, but could not hear,
and finally beheld the glittering troop wind their way over the hills
to make ready for the coronation of James and Joan as king and queen
of Scotland.



CHAPTER XIX:  THE LION'S WRATH



It was the 24th of May, 1425, when in the vaulted hall of the Castle
of Stirling the nobles of Scotland were convened to try, as the peers
of the realm, men of rank--no less than Murdoch, Duke of Albany, his
sons Walter and Alexander, the Earl of Lennox, and twenty-two other
nobles, most of whom had been arraigned in the Parliament of Perth
two months previously, and had been shut up in different castles.
Robert Stewart had escaped to the Highlands; and Walter--who had
neither been at the Coronation of Scone, nor at the Parliament of
Perth, nor indeed had ever bowed his pride so as to present himself
to the King at all--had been separately arrested, and shut up for two
months in the strong castle on the Bass Rock.

The charge was termed treason and violence; and assuredly there had
been perpetual acts of spoil and barbarous infractions of the law by
men who deemed themselves above all law.  The only curiosity was, for
which of these acts they were to be tried, and this affected many of
their judges likewise; for there was hardly a man in that court who
was not conscious of some deed that would not exactly bear to be set
beside the code of Scotland, and who had not been in the habit of
regarding those laws as all very well for burghers, but not meant for
gentlemen.

There, on seats behind the throne, sat the twenty-one jurors, Earl
Douglas among them--a new earl, for the grim old Archibald had died
in the battle of Verneuil some months before.  Angus, March, and Mar,
and all the most powerful names in Scotland, were there; and upon his
throne, in regal robes of crimson and ermine, the crown upon his
brow, the sceptre in his hand, the sword of state held before him,
sat King James, the most magnificent-looking king then reigning in
Europe, but with the sternest, saddest, most resolute of
countenances, as one unalterably fixed upon the terrible duty of not
bearing the sword in vain.  Something of Henry's avenging-angel look
seemed to have passed into his face, but with far more of melancholy
weight.

Walter Stewart was led into the court.  He too was a man of lofty
stature and princely bearing, and his grand Stewart features were set
in an expression of easy nonchalance and scorn; aware as he was that
of whatever he might be accused, there were few of his judges that
did not share the guilt, and moreover persuaded that this was a mere
ceremony, and that the King would never dare to go beyond this futile
attempt to overawe him.  He stood alone--his father and the others
were reserved for another trial; and as, richly arrayed, he stood
opposite to the jury, gazing fixedly first at one, then at the other,
as though challenging their right to sit in judgment on him, one eye
after another fell beneath his gaze.

'Walter Stewart of Albany, Earl of Fife,' proclaimed the crier's
voice.  'You stand here arraigned of murder and of robbery.'

'At whose suit?' demanded Walter, undaunted.

'At the suit of Malcolm and Lilias Stewart of Glenuskie; and of
Patrick Drummond of the Braes,' returned the crier, an ecclesiastic,
as were all lawyers; and at the same moment three figures came
forward, namely, a tall knightly gentleman with gold chain and spurs,
a lady whose veil disclosed a blushing dark-eyed face, and a slender
youth of deep and earnest countenance.  'At the suit of these here
present you stand arraigned, Sir Walter Stewart of Albany, for having
feloniously, and of malice aforethought, on the Eve of the
Annunciation of our Lady, of the year of grace 1421, set upon the
said Malcolm and Lilias Stewart, Sir David Drummond of the Braes,
Tutor of Glenuskie, and divers other persons, on the muir of
Hetherfield; and having there cruelly and maliciously wounded the
said David of the Braes to the death; and of having forcibly stolen
and abducted the person of the said Lilias Stewart--'

The crier was not permitted to proceed, for Walter Stewart broke
forth, passionately addressing the jurors.  'So this is all that can
be found to be laid against me.  This is the way that matters of five
years back are raked up to vex the princes and nobles of Scotland.  I
am sorry for you, lords and gentlemen, if this is the way that
vexatious are to be stirred up against those who have defended their
country so long.'

'This is no answer to the accusation, Sir Walter,' said the Earl of
Mar.

'Accusation, forsooth!' said Walter Stewart scornfully.  'Who dares
to bear witness, if I DID maintain my father's lawful authority over
peevish runaway wards of the Crown?'

'Sir Walter,' said the King, 'you would have done better to have
waited and heard the whole indictment ere answering one charge.  But
since you demand who will dare to bear witness in this matter of the
murder of Sir David Drummond of the Braes, and of the seizure of the
Lady Lilias, here is one.'

So saying, and rising as he spoke, he held forth the reliquary that
hung from a chain round his neck, keeping his gleaming tawny eyes
fixed steadily straight upon Walter Stewart's face.

That face, as he first had stood up, expressed the utmost amazement,
and this gradually, under the lion glance, became more and more of
dismay, quailing, collapsing visibly under the passionless gravity of
that look.  Even the tall form seemed to shrink, the eyes dilated,
the brows drew closer together, and the chest seemed to pant, as the
relic was held forth.  There was a dead silence throughout the court
as the King ceased to speak; only he continued to bend that searching
gaze upon his prisoner.

'Was it you?--was it your own self, my lord?' he stammered forth at
last, in the tone of one stricken.

'Yea, Walter Stewart.  To me it was, and on this holy relic, that you
made oath to abstain from all further spoil and violence until the
King should come again in peace.  How that oath has been kept the
further indictments will show.'

'I deemed it was St. Andrew,' faltered the prisoner.

'And therefore that the oath to a heavenly saint would better bear
breaking than one to an earthly sinner,' replied James gravely.
'Read on, Clerk of the Court.'

The roll continued--a long and terrible record of violence and
cruelty; the private warfare of the lawless young prince, the crimes
of reckless barbarity and of savage passion--a deadly roll, in which
indeed even the second abduction of Lilias was one of the least acts
laid to his charge.

No lack of witnesses were there to prove deeds that had been done in
the open face of day, in utter fearlessness of earthly justice, and
defiance of Heaven.  The defence that the prisoner seemed to have
been prepared to us?--that those who sat to judge him had shared in
his offences, and his daring power of brow-beating them, as he had so
often done before, as son of the man who sat in the King's seat--had
utterly failed him now.  He was mute; and the forms of the trial were
gone through as of one whose doom was already sealed, but who must
receive his sentence according to the strictest form of law, lest the
just reward of his deeds should partake of their own violence.  By
the end of the day the jurors had found Walter Stewart guilty; and
the doomster, a black-robed clerk, rising up, pronounced the sentence
that condemned Walter Stewart of Albany to suffer death by beheading.

Even then no one believed that the doom would be inflicted.  Royal
blood had never flowed beneath the headsman's axe; and it would have
been infinitely more congenial to Scottish feelings if the King had
sent a party of men-at-arms to fall on the Master in the high road,
and cut him off, or had burnt him alive in his castle.  The verdict
'served him right' would have been universally returned, and rejoiced
in; but a regular trial of a man of such birth was unheard of, and
shocking to the feelings even of those whom that irresistible force
of the King's had compelled to sit in judgment upon him.  No one
could avow it face to face with the King; but every one felt it an
outrage to find that no rank was exempt from law.

Duke Murdoch, his son Alexander, and his father-in-law Lennox, were
tried the next day, and many a deed of dark treason was laid to their
charge.  The Earl of Lennox had been the scourge of Scotland for more
than half the eighty years of his life, but his extreme age might
have excited some pity; Murdoch had erred rather negatively than
positively; and Alexander, ruffian as he was, had been bred to
nothing better.  Each had deserved the utmost penalty of the law
again and again, and yet there did seem more scope for mercy in their
case than in that of Walter.

But the King was inexorable.  He set Malcolm aside as he had set
others.

'I know what you would say, lad.  Lennox is old, and Alexander is
young, and Albany is a fool; and Walter has injured you, so you are
bound to speak for him.  Take it all as said.  But these are the men
who have been foremost in making our country a desert!  Did I pardon
them, with what face could I ever make any man suffer for crime?
And, in the state of this land, ruth to the guilty high would be
treason to the sackless low.'

So Stirling saw the unprecedented sight of three generations
suffering for their crimes upon the same scaffold--the white-haired
Lennox, the Duke of Albany in the prime of life, Walter in the flush
and strength of early manhood, Alexander in the bloom of youth.  They
all met their fate undauntedly; for if Murdoch's heart in any measure
failed him, he was afraid to give way in presence of the proud bold
Walter, who maintained an iron rigidity of demeanour with the wild
fortitude of a Red Indian at the stake, and in like manner could by
no means comprehend that King James acted from any motive save
malice, for having been so long kept out of his kingdom.  'It was his
turn now,' said poor Murdoch, even when most desirous of bringing
himself to die in a state of Christian forgiveness; nor could any
power on earth show any of the criminals that the King acted in the
eternal interests of right and justice.

Thus it was with the whole country; and when the four majestic-
looking men stood bare-headed on the scaffold, in view even of their
own fair towers of Doune, and one by one bowed their heads on the
block, perverse Scottish nature broke out into pity for their fate,
and wrath against the King, who could thus turn against his own
blood, and disgrace the royal lineage.

On that same day Malcolm received Esclairmonde's token, there being
at present full peace with England, and set forth on her summons.  He
met her at Pontefract, where she was residing with the Dowager Queen
Joan of Navarre, Alice of Salisbury having been summoned to return to
her husband in France.

There then it was that Malcolm and Esclairmonde, in presence of the
chaplain, gave each other back the rings, and therewith their troth
to wed none other, and were once more declared free.

Esclairmonde held out her hand to Malcolm, saying, 'The thanks I owe
you, Sir, are beyond what tongue can tell.  May He to Whom my first
vows were due requite it to you.'

And Malcolm, with his knee to the ground, pressing for the last time
that fair hand, said, 'The thanks, lady, are mine.  Had you been one
whit lower in aims or in constancy, what had I been?  You were my
light of the world, but to light me to seek that higher Light that
shone forth in you, and which may I show truly to the darkened
spirits of my countrymen!  Lady, you will permit me to take to myself
the ring you have worn so long.  It will be my token of my betrothal
to that true Light.'

Such was their parting, when the one went forth to her tasks of
charity among the poor in London, the other to divest himself of land
and lordship on behalf of his sister and her husband, and then to
begin his task in the priesthood, of trying to hold up the true Light
to hearts darkened by many an age of crime and ignorance.

Lived very happy ever after!  Yes, we would fain always leave the
creatures with whom our thoughts have been busy in such felicity; but
when we have linked them with real events, the sense of the veritable
course of history reminds us that we cannot even suppose beings
possible in real life without endowing them with the common lot of
humanity; and the personages of our tale lived in a time of more than
ordinary reverse and trouble.

Yet Sir Patrick Drummond and Lilias his wife, the Lord and Lady of
Glenuskie, nearly did fulfil these conditions.  They had not feelings
beyond their age, but they were good specimens of that age, and they
did their duty in it; he as a trustworthy noble, ready to aid in
council or war, and she as the beneficent dame, bringing piety and
charity to heal the sufferings of her vassals and serfs.  His hand
was strong enough to repel the attacks of his foes; her intelligence,
backed by Malcolm's counsel, introduced improvements; and the little
ravine of Glenuskie was a happy valley of peace and prosperity for
many years among the convulsions of Scotland.

Nor was Esclairmonde de Luxemburg's life in the Hospital of St.
Katharine otherwise than the holy and beneficent career that she had
always longed for--worshipping in the fair church, and going forth
from thence 'into the streets and lanes of the city,' to fulfil Queen
Philippa's pious behest, to seek out the suffering and the ignorant,
and to tend and instruct them.  The tall form and beautiful
countenance of Sister Clare were loved and reverenced as those of an
angel messenger among the high houses and courts that closed in on
the banks of the Thames; and while Luxemburgs in France and Flanders
intrigued and fought, plotted and fell, their kinswoman's days passed
by in busy alms-deeds and ever loftier devotion, till those who
watched her steps felt that she was verily a light of the world,
manifesting forth the true Light in many a dark place.

And her light of sympathy shone upon many an old friend both in joy
and in grief.  When the dissensions of Gloucester and Beaufort had
summoned Bedford to England to endeavour to appease their strife, his
Burgundian Duchess sought out her early friend, and Esclairmonde saw
her gentle companion, the Lady Anne, fulfilling her daily task of
mediation, and living a life, not indeed very sunshiny, but full of
all that esteem and respect could give her, and of calm gratitude and
affection, although Anne, like all others, believed that John of
Bedford's heart had been buried in his brother's grave, and that of
youthful love he had none to give.  His whole soul was absorbed in
his care for the welfare of the pale, gentle, dreamy, inanimate boy,
who, from his very meekness and docility, gave so little promise of
representing the father whose name he bore.

The loving Alice of Montagu, though the mother of many a bold boy and
girl, and busy with all the cares of the great Nevil household,
regarded as the chief delight in a journey to court the sight of her
dear Sister Clare.  It was to Sister Clare that Alice turned for
comfort when her brave old father died at the siege of Orleans; and
it was while daily soothing and ministering to her sorrow that
Esclairmonde heard the strange wild tales of the terrible witch
maiden who had appeared on behalf of the French, and turned whole
English armies to flight, by power that the French declared to come
from the saints, but which the English never doubted to be infernal.
Maimed and wounded soldiers, whom Esclairmonde relieved and tended as
they returned from lost battles, gave her fearful accounts of the
panic that La Pucelle inspired.  Even the hardy veteran, Sir John
Fastolfe, had not been able to withstand her spells, but had fled
from the field of Jergeau, where gallant Sir Ralf Percy had died, in
a vain attempt to gather the men to resist the irresistible maiden.
His groom, who had succumbed for a time to wounds and weakness on his
way home to Alnwick, was touched by the warmth and emotion with which
the kind bedeswoman listened to his lamentation over the good and
loyal knight, whom she pictured to herself resisting the
enchantress's dread power as dauntlessly as he had defied the
phantoms of the Dance of Death.

No whisper ever reached Esclairmonde that the terrible Pucelle was a
maiden as pure and high-souled as herself.  All that she heard more
was that this terror of the English and Burgundians was taken,
imprisoned for a time by her own Luxemburg kindred, and then carried
to Rouen, where the kind Duchess Anne of Bedford did her best to
persuade her to overcome the superstition that kept her in male
garments, thus greatly tending to increase the belief in her
connection with the powers of evil.  French and Burgundian bishops,
and even the University of Paris, were the judges of the maiden; and
the dastard prince she had crowned never stirred a finger nor uttered
a protest in her behalf.  Bedford, always disposed to belief in
witchcraft, acquiesced in the decision of Churchmen, which was
therefore called the judgment of the Church; but when he removed
himself and his duchess from Rouen, and left the conduct of the
matter to the sterner and harder Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, it was
with little thought that after-generations would load his memory with
the fate of Jeanne d'Arc, as though her sufferings had proceeded from
his individual malice.

Esclairmonde never saw Bedford again, and only heard through Alice,
now Countess of Salisbury, how when good Duchess Anne was dead, and
her gentle influence removed, Burgundy's disinclination to the
English cause was no longer balanced; and how Bedford, perplexed,
disheartened, broken in health, but still earnest to propitiate
friends for his helpless nephew, had listened to the wily whisper of
the Bishop of Therouenne, that his niece, Jaquette, would secure the
devotion of the Count de St. Pol, and that she was moreover like unto
another Demoiselle de Luxemburg.

How like, Esclairmonde could judge, when her kinswoman, widowed in
her eighteenth year, at six months' end, came to London to claim her
dower.  Never, since her days of wandering and anxiety, had
Esclairmonde felt such pain as when she perceived how little store
the thoughtless girl had set by the great and noble spirit that had
been quenched under the load of toil and care with which it had
battled for thirteen long years.  Faithful, great-hearted Bedford,
striving to uphold a losing cause, to reconcile selfish contentions,
to retain conquests that, though unjustly made, he had no power to
relinquish; and all without one trustworthy relation, with friends
and fellow-warriors dying, disputing, betraying, or deserting, his
was as self-devoted and as mournful a career as ever was run by any
prince at any age of the world; and while he slept in his grave at
Rouen, that grave which even Louis XI. respected, Esclairmonde, as,
like a true bedeswoman of St. Katharine, she joined in the orisons
for the repose of the souls of the royal kindred, never heard the
name of the Lord John without a throb of prayer, and a throb too that
warmed her heart with tenderness.

It was some four years later, and the even tenor of Sister Clare's
course had only been interrupted by her kinswoman, Jaquette, making
her way to her to confess her marriage with Richard Wydville, and to
entreat her intercession with the Luxemburg family; when one summer
night she was called on to attend a pilgrim priest from the Holy
Land, who had been landed from a Flemish vessel, and lay dangerously
sick at the 'God's house,' or hospital, by the river side.  He was
thought by his accent to be foreign, and Sister Clare was always
called on to wait upon the stranger.

As she stood by his bedside, she beheld a man of middle age, but
wasted with sickness, and with a certain strange look of horror so
imprinted on his brow, that even as he lay asleep, though his mouth
was grave and peaceful, the lines were still there, and the locks
that hung from around his tonsure were of a whiteness that scarce
accorded with the features.  It was a face that Esclairmonde could
not look at without waking strange memories; but it was not till the
sleeper awakened, opened two dark eyes, gazed on her with dreamy
doubtful wonder, and then clasped his hands with the murmured
thanksgiving, 'My God, hast Thou granted me this?  Light of my life!'
that she was assured to whom she was speaking.

Malcolm Stewart it verily was.  Canon Malcolm Stewart of Dunkeld was
his proper title, for he had, as she knew, long ceased to be Lord of
Glenuskie.  It was not at first that she knew how he had been brought
where she now saw him; but after some few days of her tender care and
skilful leechcraft, he somewhat rallied, and she gathered his history
from his conversation when he was able to speak.

He had had a time of happy labour in Scotland, fully carrying out the
designs with which he and his cousin James Kennedy had taken upon
them the ministry.  Their own birth, and the appointments their King
gave them, so soon as their age permitted, made them able to exert an
influence that told upon the rude and unenlightened clergy around.
It had been almost a mission of conversion, to awaken a spirit of
Christianity in the country, that had so long been a prey to anarchy.
The King's declaration, 'I will make the key keep the castle, and the
bracken-bush keep the cow, though I live the life of a dog to bring
it about,' had been the moving spring of their lives.  James had
fought hour by hour with the foul habits of lawlessness, savagery,
and violence, that had hitherto been absolutely unchecked; and while
he strove with the sword of justice, the two young priests worked
within the Word of truth, to implant some sense of conscience in the
neglected people.

It had been a life of constant exertion, but full of hope and
cheerfulness.  Amid that rude country, James's own home was always a
bright spot of peace, sunshine, and refinement.  With his beloved
queen, and their fair little brood of children, the King cast aside
his cares, and was all, and more than all, he had been as the
ornament of Henry's Court.  There all that was sweet, innocent, and
beautiful was to be found; and there Malcolm, his royal kinsman's
confidant, counsellor, and chaplain, was always welcome as one of the
home circle and family, till he broke away from such delights to
labour in his task of reviving religion in the land.  A little band
of men were gathering round, clergy awakening from their sloth or
worldliness, young nobles who began to see what chivalry meant,
burghers who rejoiced in order; and hope and encouragement
strengthened the hands of the three kinsmen.

But, alas! there were those who deemed James's justice on the savage
prince and noble mere sacrilege on high blood, and who absolutely
hated and loathed peace and order.  Those thirteen years of cheerful
progress ended in that murder so unspeakably horrible in all its
circumstances, which almost merits the name of a martyrdom to right
and justice.  Malcolm so shuddered when he did but touch on it, and
was so rent with agitation, that Esclairmonde perceived that when his
beloved King had perished, he had indeed received the death-wound to
his own fragile nature.

He had been actually in the Abbey of Perth; and had been one of those
who lifted the mangled corpse from the vault, and sought in vain for
a remnant of life, if but to grant the absolution, for which the
victim had so piteously besought his murderers.  No wonder that
Fastern's E'en had whitened Malcolm's hair!

But when the assassins were captured, and Joan of Beaufort was
resolved that their death should be as atrocious as their crime, it
was Malcolm who strove to bend her to forgiveness.  He bade her
recollect King Henry, and how, when dealing with that cruel monster,
the Castellane of Meaux, he had merely required death, without
enhancing the agony; but Joan, in her rage and misery, had left the
Englishwoman behind her, and was implacable.  All that human cruelty
could invent was to be the lot of Robert Graham and his associates;
and whereas they had granted no priest to their victim, none should
be granted to them.

And then it was that all Malcolm had learnt of the true spirit of the
Christian triumphed--not only over the dark Keltic spirit of revenge,
but over the shuddering of a tender and pitiful nature.  Where no
other priest durst venture, he went.  Through all the frightful and
protracted sufferings of Athol, Graham, Hall, and the rest, it was
Malcolm Stewart who, never flinching, prayed with and for them;
gathered their agonized sobs of confession, or strove to soften their
hardness; spoke the words of absolution, and commended their
departing souls.

When he awoke from the long unconsciousness and delirium that ensued
upon the force he had put on himself, he found himself tended by his
sister at Glenuskie.  Patrick Drummond had transported him thither;
finding that the angry Queen, in the madness of her vindictiveness,
was well-nigh disposed to connect him with the treasonable designs of
Athol and Graham.  He slowly and partially recovered, but his
influence was gone; the Queen would not brook the sound of his name,
the little king was beyond his reach, James Kennedy was biding his
time, and the country was returned to its state of misrule and
violence, wherein an individual priest could do little:  yet Malcolm
would have held by his post, had not his health been so utterly
shattered that he was incapable of the work he had hitherto done, as
a confessor and a preacher.  And therefore, as the state of his
beloved King, 'sent to his account unhouselled, disappointed,
unannealed,' hung heavy on his mind, he determined, so soon as he was
in any degree convalescent, to set forth on pilgrimage to Jerusalem,
the object of so many dreams of King Henry; there to offer masses and
prayers for the welfare of his departed prince, as well as of the
unhappy murderers, and for the country in its distracted condition.

And there, at the Holy Sepulchre, had Malcolm, in the fervour of his
heart, offered the greatest treasure he possessed--nay, the only one
that he still really cared for--namely his betrothal ring, which
Esclairmonde had worn for so long and had returned to him.  As a
priest, he had deemed that it was not unlawful for him to retain the
memorial of the link that had bound him to her who had been the light
that led him to the true Light beyond; but as youth passed away, as
devotion burned brighter, as the experiences of those years became
more dream-like, and the horror, grief, and misery of his King's
death had been assuaged only by the steadier contemplation of the
Light of Eternity, he had felt that this last pledge of his once
lower aims and hopes ought to be resigned; and that if it cost him a
pang, it was well that it should be so, to render the offering a
sacrifice.  So the ring that had once been Esclairmonde's protection
was laid on the altar of the Holy Tomb.

There Malcolm had well-nigh died, under the influences of agitation,
fatigue, and climate; but he had revived enough to set out on his
return from his pilgrimage, and had made his way tardily and wearily,
losing his attendants through death and desertion on the road; and
passing from one religious house to another, as his strength and
nearly exhausted means served him.  Unable to find any vessel bound
for Leith, he had taken ship for London; concealing his quality,
lest, in the always probable contingency of a war, it might lead to
his being made prisoner; and thus he had arrived, sick indeed unto
death, but peaceful, rejoicing, and hopeful.

'Sister,' he said, 'the morn that I had offered my ring, I was feeble
and faint; and when I knelt on before the altar in continued prayer--
I know not whether I slept or whether it were a vision, but it was to
me as though I were again on the river, and again the hymn of Bernard
of Morlaix was sung around and above me, by the voice I never thought
to hear again.  I looked up, and behold it was I that was in the
boat--my King was there no more.  Nay, he stood on the shore, and his
eyes beamed on me; while the ghastly wounds that I once strove in
anguish to staunch shone out like a ruby cross on his breast--the
hands, that were so sorely gashed, were to me as though marked by the
impress of the Sacred Wounds.  He spake not; but by his side stood
King Henry, beautiful and spirit-like, and smiled on me, and seemed
as though he pointed to the wounds, as he said, "Blessed is the king
who died by his people's hand, for withstanding his people's sin!
Blessed is every faint image of the true King!"

'Then methought they held out their arms to me; and I would have come
to them on their shore of rest, but the river bore me away--and I
looked up, to find I was as yet only in the earthly Jerusalem; but I
watch for them every hour, to call me once and for ever.'



Footnotes:

{1}  'Hail, reverend brother.  I come from Paris.'

{2}  Student of the first year.

{3}  Manners are lacking to the Northerners.

{4}  Wretches.

{5}  For supper.

{6}  Telephus and Peleus, when both are poor and exiled, dismiss
boasting and six-foot words.

{7}  It is dispersed in a cloud.





End of Project Gutenberg Etext of The Caged Lion, by Charlotte M. Yonge