CHAPTER IX.
The hour of vespers had come and passed; the organ and choir had hushedtheir solemn sounds. The abbot and his attendant monks, the king who,with his train, had that evening joined the solemn service, all haddeparted, and but two inmates were left within the abbey church ofScone. Darkness and silence had assumed their undisturbed dominion, forthe waxen tapers left burning on the altar lighted but a few yardsround, leaving the nave and cloisters in impenetrable gloom. Some twentyor thirty yards east of the altar, elevated some paces from the ground,in its light and graceful shrine, stood an elegantly sculptured figureof the Virgin and Child. A silver lamp, whose pure flame was fed witharomatic incense, burned within the shrine and shed its soft light on asuit of glittering armor which was hanging on the shaft of a pillarclose beside it. Directly behind the altar was a large oriel window ofstained glass, representing subjects from Scripture. The window, withits various mullions and lights, formed one high pointed arch, marked bysolid stone pillars on each side, the capitals of which traced thecommencement of the arch. Another window, similar in character, thoughsomewhat smaller in dimensions, lighted the west end of the church; andnear it stood another shrine containing a figure of St. Stephen, lightedas was that of the Virgin and Child, and, like that, gleaming on a suitof armor, and on the figure of the youthful candidate for knighthood,whose task was to pass that night in prayer and vigil beside his armor,unarmed, saved by that panoply of proof which is the Christian'sportion--faith, lowliness, and prayer.
No word passed between these pledged brothers in arms. Their watch wasin opposite ends of the church, and save the dim, solemn light of thealtar, darkness and immeasurable space appeared to stretch between them.Faintly and fitfully the moon had shone through one of the long, narrowwindows of the aisles, shedding its cold spectral light for a briefspace, then passing into darkness. Heavy masses of clouds sailed slowlyin the heavens, dimly discernible through the unpainted panes; theoppression of the atmosphere increasing as the night approached herzenith, and ever and anon a low, long peal of distant thunder, eachsucceeding one becoming longer and louder than the last, and heralded bythe blue flash of vivid lightning, announced the fury of the comingtempest.
The imaginations even as the feelings of the young men were alreadystrongly excited, although their thoughts, perchance, were less akinthan might have been expected. The form of his mother passed not fromthe mental vision of the young heir of Buchan: the tone of her voice,the unwonted tear which had fallen on his cheek when he had knelt beforeher that evening, ere he had departed to his post, craving her blessingon his vigil, her prayers for him--that tone, that tear, lingered on hismemory, hallowing every dream of glory, every warrior hope that enteredin his soul. Internally he vowed he would raise the banner of his race,and prove the loyalty, the patriotism, the glowing love of liberty whichher counsels, her example had planted in his breast; and if therecollection of his mother's precarious situation as a proscribedtraitor to Edward, and of his father's desertion of his country and herpatriot king in his adherence to a tyrant--if these reflections came todamp the bright glowing views of others, they did but call the indignantblood to his cheek, and add greater firmness to his impatient step, foryet more powerfully did they awake his indignation against Edward. Tillnow he had looked upon him exclusively in the light of Scotland'sfoe--one against whom he with all true Scottish men must raise theirswords, or live forever 'neath the brand of slaves and cowards; but nowa personal cause of anger added fuel to the fire already burning in hisbreast. His mother was proscribed--a price set upon her head; and as ifto fill the measure of his cup of bitterness to overflowing, his ownfather, he who should have been her protector, aided and abetted thecruel, pitiless Edward. Traitress! Isabella of Buchan a traitress! thenoblest, purest, bravest amid Scotland's children. She who to him hadever seemed all that was pure and good, and noblest in woman; and mostnoble and patriot-hearted now, in the fulfilment of an office inherentin the House of Fife. Agitated beyond expression, quicker and quicker hestrode up and down the precincts marked for his watch, the increasingtempest without seeming to assimilate strangely with the storm within.Silence would have irritated, would have chafed those restless smartingsinto very agony, but the wild war of the elements, while they rousedhis young spirit into yet stronger energy, removed its pain.
"It matters not," his train of thought continued, "while this brain canthink, this heart can feel, this arm retain its strength, Isabella ofBuchan needs no other guardian but her son. It is as if years had lefttheir impress on my heart, as if I had grown in very truth to man,thinking with man's wisdom, fighting with man's strength. He that hathnever given a father's love, hath never done a father's duty, hath noclaim upon his child; but she, whose untiring devotion, whose faithfullove hath watched over me, guarded, blessed from the first hour of mylife, instilled within me the principles of life on earth andimmortality in heaven--mother! mother! will not thy gentle virtues clingaround thy boy, and save him even from a father's curse? Can I do elsethan devote the life thou gavest, to thee, and render back with mystronger arm, but not less firm soul, the care, protection, love thouhast bestowed on me? Mother, Virgin saint," he continued aloud, flinginghimself before the shrine to which we have alluded, "hear, oh hear myprayer! Intercede for me above, that strength, prudence, wisdom may begranted me in the accomplishment of my knightly vows; that my mother, myown mother may be the first and dearest object of my heart: life, fame,and honor I dedicate to her. Spare me, bless me but for her; if danger,imprisonment be unavailingly her doom, let not my spirit waver, nor mystrength flag, nor courage nor foresight fail, till she is rescued toliberty and life."
Wrapt in the deep earnest might of prayer, the boy remained kneeling,with clasped hands, and eyes fixed on the Virgin's sculptured face, hisspirit inwardly communing, long, long after his impassioned vows hadsunk in silence; the thunder yet rolled fearfully, and the bluelightning flashed and played around him with scarce a minute'sintermission, but no emotion save that of a son and warrior tookpossession of his soul. He knew a terrific storm was raging round him,but it drew him not from earthly thoughts and earthly feelings, evenwhile it raised his soul in prayer. Very different was the effect ofthis lonely vigil and awful night on the imaginative spirit of hiscompanion.
It was not alone the spirit of chivalry which now burned in the nobleheart of Nigel Bruce. He was a poet, and the glowing hues of poesieinvested every emotion of his mind. He loved deeply, devotedly; andlove, pure, faithful, hopeful love, appeared to have increased everyfeeling, whether of grief of joy, in intensity and depth. He felt toodeeply to be free from that peculiar whispering within, known by theworld as presentiment, and as such so often scorned and contemned as themere offspring of weak, superstitious minds, when it is in reality oneof those distinguishing marks of the higher, more ethereal temperamentof genius.
Perchance it is the lively imagination of such minds, which in the verymidst of joy can so vividly portray and realize pain, or it may be,indeed, the mysterious voice which links gifted man with a higher classof beings to whom futurity is revealed. Be this as it may, even whilethe youthful patriot beheld with, a visioned eye the liberty of hiscountry, and rejoiced in thus beholding, there ever came a dim andsilent shadowing, a whispering voice, that he should indeed behold it,but not from earth. When the devoted brother and loyal subject picturedhis sovereign in very truth a free and honored King, his thronesurrounded by nobles and knights of his own free land, and many others,the enthusiast saw not himself amongst them, and yet he rejoiced in thefaith such things would be. When the young and ardent lover sate by theside of his betrothed, gazing on her sweet face, and drinking in deeplythe gushing tide of joy; when his spirit pictured yet dearer, lovelier,more assured bliss, when Agnes would be in very truth his own, still didthat strange thrilling whisper come, and promise he should indeedexperience such bliss, but not on earth; and yet he loved, aye, andrejoiced, and there came not one shadow on his bright, beautiful face,not one sad echo in the rich, deep tones of
his melodious voice tobetray such dim forebodings had found resting in his soul.
Already excited by his conversation with Agnes, the service in which hefound himself engaged was not such as to tranquillize his spirit, orstill his full heart's quivering throb. His imaginative soul had alreadyflung its halo over the solemn rites which attended his inauguration asa knight. Even to less enthusiastic spirits there was a glow, a glory inthis ceremony which seldom failed to awake the soul, and inspire it withhigh and noble sentiments. It was not therefore strange that theseemotions should in the heart of Nigel Bruce obtain that ascendency,which to sensitive minds must become pain. Had it been a night of calmand holy stillness, he would in all probability have felt its soothingeffect; but as it was, every pulse throbbed and every nerve was strained'neath his strong sense of the sublime. He could not be said to think,although he had struggled long and fiercely to compose his mind forthose devotional exercises he deemed most fitted for the hour. Feelingalone possessed him, overwhelming, indefinable; he deemed it admiration,awe, adoration of Him at whose nod the mighty thunders rolled and thedestructive lightnings flashed, but he could not define it such. He didnot dream of earth, not even the form of Agnes flashed, as was its wont,before him; no, it was of scenes and sounds undreamed of in earth'sphilosophy he thought; and as he gazed on the impenetrable darkness, andthen beheld it dispersed by the repeated lightning, his excited fancyalmost believed that he should see it peopled by the spirits of themighty dead which slept within those walls, and no particle of terrorattended this belief. In the weak superstition of his age, Nigel Brucehad never shared, but firmly and steadfastly he believed, even in hiscalm and unexcited moments, that there was a link between the living andthe dead; that the freed spirits of the one were permitted to holdcommune with the other, not in visible shape, but in those thrillingwhispers which the spirit knows, while yet it would deny them even toitself. It was the very age of superstition; religion itself was clothedin a veil of solemn mystery, which to minds constituted as Nigel's gaveit a deeper, more impressive tone. Its ceremonies, its shrines, itsfictions, all gave fresh zest to the imagination, and filled the heartof its votary with a species of devotion and excitement, which would nowbe considered as mere visionary madness, little in accordance with thetrue spirit of piety or acceptable to the Most High, but which was thenregarded as meritorious; and even as we look back upon the saints andheroes of the past, even now should not be condemned; for, according tothe light bestowed, so is devotion demanded and accepted by the God ofall.
Nigel Bruce had paused in his hasty walk, and leaning against the pillarround which his armor hung, fixed his eyes for a space on the largeoriel window we have named, whose outline was but faintly discernible,save on the left side, which was dimly illumined by the silver lampburning in the shrine of St. Stephen, close beside which the youthfulwarrior stood. The storm had suddenly sunk into an awful and almostportentous silence; and in that brief interval of stillness and gloom,Nigel felt his blood flow more calmly in his veins, his pulses stilledtheir starting throbs, and the young soldier crossed his arms on hisbreast, and bent his uncovered head upon them in silent yet earnestprayer.
The deep, solemn chime of the abbey-bell, echoing like a spirit-voicethrough the arched and silent church, roused him, and he looked up. Atthe same moment a strong and awfully brilliant flash of lightning dartedthrough the window on which his eyes were fixed, followed by a mightypeal of thunder, longer and louder than any that had come before. Forabove a minute that blue flash lingered playing, it seemed, on steel,and a cold shuddering thrill crept through the frame of Nigel Bruce,sending the life-blood from his cheek back to his very heart, for eitherfancy had again assumed her sway, and more vividly than before, or hiswild thoughts had found a shape and semblance. Within the arch formed bythe high window stood or seemed to stand a tall and knightly form, cladfrom the gorget to the heel in polished steel; his head was bare, andlong, dark hair shaded a face pale and shadowy indeed, but strikinglyand eminently noble; there was a scarf across his breast, and on itNigel recognized the cognizance of his own line, the crest and motto ofthe Bruce. It could not have been more than a minute that the bluelightning lingered there, yet to his excited spirit it was long enoughto impress indelibly and startlingly every trace of that strange visionupon his heart. The face was turned to his, with a solemn yet sorrowfulearnestness of expression, and the mailed hand raised on high, seemedpointing unto heaven. The flash passed and all was darkness, the moredense and impenetrable, from the vivid light which had preceded it; butNigel stirred not, moved not, his every sense absorbed, not in theweakness of mortal terror, but in one overwhelming sensation of awe,which, while it oppressed the spirit well-nigh to pain, caused it tolong with an almost sickening intensity for a longer and clearer view ofthat which had come and passed with the lightning flash. Again the vividblaze dispersed the gloom, but no shadow met his fixed impassioned gaze.Vision or reality, the form was gone; there was no trace, no sign ofthat which had been. For several successive flashes Nigel remainedgazing on the spot where the mailed form had stood, as if he felt itwould, it must again appear; but as time sped, and he saw but space, thesoul relaxed from its high-wrought mood, the blood, which had seemedstagnant in his veins, rushed back tumultuously through its variedchannels, and Nigel Bruce prostrated himself before the altar, towrestle with his perturbed spirit till it found calm in prayer.
A right noble and glorious scene did the great hall of the palacepresent the morning which followed this eventful night. The king,surrounded by his highest prelates and nobles, mingling indiscriminatelywith the high-born dames and maidens of his court, all splendidlyattired, occupied the upper part of the hall, the rest of which wascrowded both by his military followers and many of the good citizens ofScone, who flocked in great numbers to behold the august ceremony of theday. Two immense oaken doors at the south side of the hall were flungopen, and through them was discerned the large space forming the palaceyard, prepared as a tilting-ground, where the new-made knights were toprove their skill. The storm had given place to a soft breezy morning,the cool freshness of which appearing peculiarly grateful from theoppressiveness of the night; light downy clouds sailed over the blueexpanse of heaven, tempering without clouding the brilliant rays of thesun. Every face was clothed with smiles, and the loud shouts whichhailed the youthful candidates for knighthood, as they severallyentered, told well the feeling with which the patriots of Scotland wereregarded.
Some twenty youths received the envied honor at the hand of theirsovereign this day, but our limits forbid a minute scrutiny of thebearing of any, however well deserving, save of the two whose vigilshave already detained us so long. A yet longer and louder shoutproclaimed the appearance of the youngest scion of the house of Bruce,and his companion. The daring patriotism of Isabella of Buchan hadenshrined her in every heart, and so disposed all men towards herchildren, that the name of their traitorous father was forgotten.
Led by their godfathers, Nigel by his brother-in-law, Sir ChristopherSeaton, and Alan by the Earl of Lennox, their swords, which had beenblessed by the abbot at the altar, slung round their necks, theyadvanced up the hall. There was a glow on the cheek of the young Alan,in which pride and modesty were mingled; his step at first wasunsteady, and his lip was seen to quiver from very bashfulness, as hefirst glanced round the hall and felt that every eye was turned towardshim; but when that glance met his mother's fixed on him, and breathingthat might of love which filled her heart, all boyish tremors fled, thecalm, staid resolve of manhood took the place of the varying glow uponhis cheek, the quivering lip became compressed and firm, and his stepfaltered not again.
The cheek of Nigel Bruce was pale, but there was firmness in the glanceof his bright eye, and a smile unclouded in its joyance on his lip. Thefrivolous lightness of the courtier, the mad bravado of knight-errantry,which was not uncommon to the times, indeed, were not there. It was thequiet courage of the resolved warrior, the calm of a spirit at peacewith itself, shedding its own high feeling and
poetic glory over allaround him.
On reaching the foot of King Robert's throne, both youths knelt and laidtheir sheathed swords at his feet. Their armor-bearers then approached,and the ceremony of clothing the candidates in steel commenced; thegolden spur was fastened on the left foot of each by his respectivegodfather, while Athol, Hay, and other nobles advanced to do honor tothe youths, by aiding in the ceremony. Nor was it warriors alone.
"Is this permitted, lady?" demanded the king, smiling, as the Countessof Buchan approached the martial group, and, aided by Lennox, fastenedthe polished cuirass on the form of her son. "Is it permitted for amatron to arm a youthful knight? Is there no maiden to do such inspiringoffice?"
"Yes, when the knight be one as this, my liege," she answered, in thesame tone; "let a matron arm him, good my liege," she added, sadly--"leta mother's hand enwrap his boyish limbs in steel, a mother's blessingmark him thine and Scotland's, that those who watch his bearing in thebattle-field may know who sent him there, may thrill his heart withmemories of her who stands alone of her ancestral line, that though hebears the name of Comyn, the blood of Fife flows reddest in his veins."
"Arm him and welcome, noble lady," answered the king, and a buzz ofapprobation ran through the hall; "and may thy noble spirit anddauntless loyalty inspire him; we shall not need a trusty follower whilesuch as he are round us. Yet, in very deed, my youthful knight musthave a lady fair for whom he tilts to-day. Come hither, Isoline; thoulookest verily inclined to envy thy sweet friend her office, and nothingloth to have a loyal knight thyself. Come, come, my pretty one, noblushing now. Lennox, guide those tiny hands aright."
Laughing and blushing, Isoline, the daughter of Lady Campbell, a sisterof the Bruce, a graceful child of some thirteen summers, advanced,nothing loth, to obey her royal uncle's summons, and an arch smile ofreal enjoyment irresistibly stole over the countenance of Alan,dispersing the emotion his mother's words produced.
"Nay, tremble not, sweet one," the king continued, in a lower and yetkinder tone, as he turned from the one youth to the other, and observedthat Agnes, overpowered by emotion, had scarcely power to perform herpart, despite the whispered words of encouraging affection Nigelmurmured in her ear. Imaginative to a degree, which, by her quiet,subdued manners, was never suspected, the simple act of those earlyflowers withering in her grasp, fresh as they were from the hand of herbetrothed, had weighed down her spirits as with an indefinable sense ofpain, which she could not combat. The war of the elements, attending asit did the vigil of her lover, had not decreased these feelings, and themorning found her dispirited and shrinking in sensitiveness from thevery scene she had anticipated with joy.
"It must not be with a trembling hand the betrothed of a Bruce arms herchosen knight, fair Agnes," continued the king, cheeringly. "She mustinspire him with valor and confidence. Smile, then, gentlest andloveliest; we would have all smiles to-day."
And she did smile, but it was a smile of tears, gleaming on herbeautiful face as a sunny beam through a glistening spray. One by onethe cuirass and shoulder-pieces, the greaves and gauntlets, the gorgetand brassards, the joints of which were so beautifully burnished thatthey shone as mirrors, and so flexible every limb had its free use,enveloped those manly forms. Their swords once again girt to theirsides, and once more keeling, the king descended from his throne, andalternately dubbed them knight in the name of God, St. Michael, and St.George.
"Be faithful, brave, and hardy, youthful cavaliers," he said; "true tothe country which claims ye, to the monarch ye have sworn to serve, tothe knight from whose sword ye have received the honor ye have craved.Remember, 'tis not the tournay nor the tilted field in which ye willgain renown. For your country let your swords be drawn; against her foesreap laurels. Sir Nigel, 'tis thine to retain unsullied the name thoubearest, to let the Bruce be glorified in thee. And thou, Sir Alan, 'tisthine to _earn_ a name--in very truth, to win thy golden spurs; to provewe do no unwise deed, forgetting thy early years, to do honor to thymother's son."
Lightly and eagerly the new-made knights sprung to their feet, the veryclang of their glittering armor ringing gratefully and rejoicingly intheir ears. Their gallant steeds, barded and richly caparisoned, held bytheir esquires, stood neighing and pawing at the foot of the stepsleading from the oaken doors.
Without touching the stirrup, both sprung at the same instant in theirsaddles; the helmet, with its long graceful plume, was quickly donned;the lance and shield received; the pennon adorning the iron head of eachlowered a moment in honor to their sovereign, then waved gayly in air,and then each lance was laid in rest; a trumpet sounded, and onwarddarted the fiery youths thrice round the lists, displaying a skill andcourage in horsemanship which was hailed with repeated shouts ofapplause. But on the tournay and the banquet which succeeded theceremony we have described we may not linger, but pass rapidly on to alater period of the same evening.
Sir Nigel and his beautiful betrothed had withdrawn a while from theglittering scene around them; they had done their part in the gracefuldance, and now they sought the comparative solitude and stillness of theflower-gemmed terrace, on which the ball-room opened, to speakunreservedly the thoughts which had filled each heart; perchance therewere some yet veiled, for the vision of the preceding night, thestrange, incongruous fancies it had engendered in the youthful warrior,a solemn vow had buried deep in his own soul, and not even to Agnes, towhom his heart was wont to be revealed, might such thoughts find words;and she shrunk in timidity from avowing the inquietude of her own simpleheart, and thus it was that each, for the sake of the other, spokehopefully and cheeringly, and gayly, until at length they were butconscious of mutual and devoted love--the darkening mists of the futurelost in the radiance of the present sun.
A sudden pause in the inspiring music, the quick advance of all thedifferent groups towards one particular spot, had failed perchance tointerrupt the happy converse of the lovers, had not Sir Alan hastilyapproached them, exclaiming, as he did so--
"For the love of heaven! Nigel, forget Agnes for one moment, and comealong with me. A messenger from Pembroke has just arrived, bearing achallenge, or something very like it, to his grace the king; and it maybe we shall win our spurs sooner than we looked for this morning. Thesight of Sir Henry Seymour makes the war trumpet sound in mine ears.Come, for truly there is something astir."
With Agnes still leaning on his arm, Nigel obeyed the summons of hisimpatient friend, and joined the group around the king. There was aquiet dignity in the attitude and aspect of Robert Bruce, or it might bethe daring patriotism of his enterprise was appreciated by the gallantEnglish knight; certain it was that, though Sir Henry's bearing had beensomewhat haughty, his brow knit, and his head still covered, as hepassed up the hall, by an irresistible impulse he doffed his helmet ashe met the eagle glance of the Bruce, and bowed his head respectfullybefore him, an example instantly followed by his attendants.
"Sir Henry Seymour is welcome to our court," said the king, courteously;"welcome, whatever message he may bear. How fares it with the chivalricknight and worthy gentleman, Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke? Yebring us a message from him, 'tis said. Needs it a private hearing, sirknight? if so, we are at your service; yet little is it Aymer de Valencecan say to Scotland's king which Scotland may not hear."
"Pembroke is well, an please you, and sendeth greeting," replied theknight. "His message, sent as it is to the Bruce, is well fitted for theears of his followers, therefore may it be spoken here. He sendeth allloving and knightly greeting unto him known until now as Robert Earl ofCarrick, and bids him, an he would proclaim and prove the rights he hathassumed, come forth from the narrow precincts of a palace and town,which ill befit a warrior of such high renown, and give him battle inthe Park of Methven, near at hand. He challenges him to meet him there,with nobles, knights, and yeomen, who proclaiming Robert Bruce theirsovereign, cast down the gauntlet of defiance and rebellion againsttheir rightful king and mine, his grace of England; he challenges thee,sir knight, or earl, or king, which
ever name thou bearest, and daresthee to the field."
"And what if we accept not his daring challenge?" demanded King Robert,sternly, without permitting the expression of his countenance to satisfyin any way the many anxious glances fixed upon it.
"He will proclaim thee coward knight and traitor slave," boldly answeredSir Henry. "In camp or in hall, in lady's bower or tented field, he willproclaim thee recreant; one that took upon himself the state and pomp ofroyalty without the spirit to defend and prove it."
"Had he done so by our predecessor, Baliol, he had done well," returnedthe king, calmly. "Nobles, and knights, and gentlemen," he added, thelion spirit of his race kindling in his eye and cheek, "what say ye inaccepting the bold challenge of this courtly earl? Do we not read yourhearts as well as our own? Ye have chafed and fretted that we haveretained ye so long inactive: in very truth your monarch's spirit chafedand fretted too. We will do battle with this knightly foe, and give him,in all chivalric and honorable courtesy, the meeting he desires."
One startling and energetic shout burst simultaneously from the warriorsaround, forming a wild and thrilling response to their sovereign'swords. In vain they sought to restrain that outbreak of rejoicing, inrespect to the royal presence; they had pined, they had yearned foraction, and Sir Henry was too good a knight himself not to understand tothe full the patriotic fervor and chivalrous spirit from which thatshout had sprung. Proudly and joyfully the Bruce looked on his devotedadherents, and then addressed the English knight.
"Thou hast our answer, good Sir Henry," he said; "more thou couldstscarcely need. Commend us to your master, and take heed thou sayest allthat thou hast heard and seen in answer to his challenge. In the Park ofMethven, three days hence, he may expect the King of Scotland and hispatriot troops with him, to do battle unto death. Edward, good brother,thou, Seaton, and the Lord of Douglas, conduct this worthy knight in allhonor from the hall. Thou hast our answer."
The knight bowed low, but ere he retreated he spoke again. "I am chargedwith yet another matter, an it so please you," he said, evidentlystudying to avoid all royal titles, although the bearing of the kingrendered his task rather more difficult than he could have imagined; "amatter of small import, truly, yet must it be spoken. 'Tis rumored thatyou have amid your household a child, a boy, whose father was a favoredservant of my gracious liege and yours, King Edward. The Earl ofPembroke, in the name of his sovereign and of the child's father, bidsme demand him of thee, as having, from his tender years andinexperience, no will nor voice in this matter, he having been broughthere by his mother, who, saving your presence, had done better to haveremembered her duty to her husband than encourage rebellion against herking."
"Keep to the import of thy message, nor give thy tongue such license,sir," interrupted the Bruce, sternly; and many an eye flashed, and manya hand sought his sword. "Sir Alan of Buchan, stand forth and give thineown answer to this imperative demand; 'tis to thee, methinks, its importwould refer. Thou hast wisdom and experience, if not years enough, toanswer for thyself.
"Tell Aymer de Valence, would he seek me, he will find me by the side ofmy sovereign King Robert, in Methven Park, three days hence," boldly andquickly answered the young soldier, stepping forward from his post inthe circle, and fronting the knight. "Tell him I am here of my own freewill, to acknowledge Robert the Bruce as mine and Scotland's king; todefy the tyrant Edward, even to the death; tell him 'tis no child heseeks, but a knight and soldier, who will meet him on the field."
"It would seem we are under some mistake, young sir," replied Sir Henry,gazing with unfeigned admiration on the well-knit frame and glowingfeatures of the youthful knight. "I speak of and demand the surrender ofthe son and heir of John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, who was represented tome as a child of some ten or thirteen summers; 'tis with him, not withthee, my business treats."
"And 'tis the son--I know not how long _heir_--of John Comyn, Earl ofBuchan, who speaks with thee, sir knight. It may well be, my very age,my very existence hath been forgotten by my father," he added, with afierceness and bitterness little in accordance with his years, "aye,and would have been remembered no more, had not the late events recalledthem; yet 'tis even so--and that thy memory prove not treacherous, therelies my gage. Foully and falsely hast thou spoken of Isabella of Buchan,and her honor is dear to her son as is his own. In Methven Park we _two_shall meet, sir knight, and the child, the puny stripling, who hath ofhis own nor voice nor will, will not fail thee, be thou sure."
Proudly, almost sternly, the boy fixed his flashing orbs on the Englishknight, and without removing his glance, strode to the side of hismother and drew her arm within his own. There was something in theaccent, in the saddened yet resolute expression of his countenance,which forbade all rejoinder, not from Sir Henry alone, but even from hisown friends. Seymour raised the gage, and with a meaning smile securedit in his helmet; then respectfully saluting the group around him,withdrew, attended as desired by the Bruce.
"Heed it not, my boy, my own noble boy!" said the Countess of Buchan, inthose low, earnest, musical tones peculiarly her own; for she saw thatthere was a quivering in the lip, a sudden paleness in the cheek of herson, as he gazed up in her lace, when he thought they stood alone, whichdenoted internal emotion yet stronger than that which had inspired hisprevious words. "Their scorn, their contumely, I heed as little as themountain rock the hailstones which fall upon its sides, in vain seekingto penetrate or wound. Nay, I could smile at them in very truth, were itnot that compelled as I am to act alone, to throw aside as worthless andrejected those natural ties I had so joyed to wear, my heart seemsclosed to smiles; but for words as those, or yet harsher scorn, grievenot, my noble boy, they have no power to fret or hurt me."
"Yet to hear them speak in such tone of thee--thee, whose high soul andnoble courage would shame a score of some who write themselvesmen!--thee, who with all a woman's loving heart, and guileless,unselfish, honorable mind, hath all a warrior's stern resolve, apatriot's noble purpose! Mother, mother, how may thy son brook scorn andfalsity, and foul calumny cast upon thee?" and there was a chokingsuffocation in his throat, filling his eyes perforce with tears; and hadit not been that manhood struggled for dominion, he would have flunghimself upon his mother's breast and wept.
"As a soldier and a man, my son," she drew him closer to her as shespoke; "as one who, knowing and feeling the worth of the contemned one,is conscious that the foul tongues of evil men can do no ill, but flingback the shame upon themselves. Arouse thee, my beloved son. Alas! whenI look on thee, on thy bright face, on those graceful limbs, so supplenow in health and life, and feel to what my deed may have devoted thee,my child, my child, I need not slanderous tongues to grieve me!"
"And doth the Countess of Buchan repent that deed?" asked the richsonorous voice of the Bruce, who, unobserved, had heard their converse."Would she recall that which she hath done?"
"Sire, not so," she answered; "precious as is my child to this loneheart--inexpressibly dear and precious--yet if the liberty of hiscountry demand me to resign him, the call shall be obeyed."
"Speak not thus, noble lady," returned the king, cheerily. "He is but_lent_, Scotland asks no more; and when heaven smiles on this poorcountry, smiles in liberty and peace, trust me, such devotedness willnot have been in vain. Our youthful knight will lay many a wreath oflaurel at his mother's feet, nor will there then be need to guard hername from scorn. See what new zest and spirit have irradiated the browsof our warlike guests; we had scarce deemed more needed than was therebefore, yet the visit of Sir Henry Seymour, bearing as it did achallenge to strife and blood, hath given fresh lightness to every step,new joyousness to every tone. Is not this as it should be?"
"Aye, as it _must_ be, sire, while loyal hearts and patriot spirits formthy court. Nobly and gallantly was the answer given to Pembroke'schallenge. Yet pardon me, sire, was it wise--was it well?"
"Its wisdom, lady, rests with its success in the hands of a higherpower," answered the king, gravely, yet kindly. "Other than we did w
ecould not do; rashly and presumptuously we would not have left ourquarters. Not for the mere chase of, mad wish for glory would we haverisked the precious lives of our few devoted friends, but challenged aswe were, the soul of Bruce could not have spoken other than he did; nordo we repent, nay, we rejoice that the stern duty of inaction is over.Thine eye tells me thou canst understand this, lady, therefore we say nomore, save to beseech thee to inspire our consort with the necessity ofthis deed; she trembles for the issue of our daring. See how grave andsad she looks, so lately as she was all smiles."
The countess did not reply, but hastened to the side of the amiable, butyet too womanly Queen Margaret, and gently, but invisibly sought tosoothe her fears; and she partially succeeded, for the queen ever seemedto feel herself a bolder and firmer character when in the presence andunder the influence of Isabella of Buchan.
The Days of Bruce Vol 1 Page 9
