by Mary Shelley
These words had been spoken — earl, baron, and gallant knight thronged the courts of Holyrood. There was the sound of warlike trump and the streaming of painted banners, among which that of the White Rose waved conspicuous. The King vaulted on his saddle; the Prince of England rode at his side. He was surrounded by the rude northern warlike chiefs, ancient enemies of his native land, whose fierce eyes were lighted up by the expectation of meeting their old adversaries in the field; could he fancy that, through such aid, he might win back the crown usurped from him?
King James and Richard rode side by side. At this moment, when the one was spending the riches of his kingdom and the lives of his subjects for the other’s sake, while the hearts of both were softened by regret for their abandoned home, and both anticipated the joys of victory or perils of defeat to be shared between them, the sentiment of friendship was rekindled. Never had they been more cordial, more confidential, more happy in each other’s society. After several hours’ ride, the short spring day declined to evening, which was accompanied by a drizzling rain: the bad roads, and the darkness impeded their progress; and it was night before the twinkling camp-lights appeared in the distance, and the hum of men was heard. To the right of the camp, surrounded by the tents of his nobles, the royal pavilion was pitched. On their arrival the Earl of Buchan was in readiness to hold the King’s stirrup. “Nay,” said James, “first we will see our royal guest lodged: where is the tent of his Grace of England? we commanded it to be pitched in close neighbourhood to our own.”
“Please you, my liege,” said Buchan, “Lord Moray gave direction it should be placed out of our line; it is set up a mile eastward of us.”
“My uncle forgot himself; and you also, Sir Earl, were bound rather to obey our order,” said the King.
“There were reasons,” returned Buchan: “your Majesty, I dare aver, will approve the change, and his Highness of England also. There was a brawl between the Scottish borderers and the English; blood has been shed. We feared that the peace of the encampment, not to say the life of his Highness, would be endangered if he were in the midst of our savage Southrons.”
“I like not this,” said James moodily, “but it is too late to change to-night. The rain-drops begin to freeze upon my hair; your Highness would rather be in your tent, far though it be from mine, than quarrel about its position at this inclement hour. Lord Buchan, you will attend him thither. Prince, good night; tomorrow we will be more brotherly in our fashion; now the fiat of my Lord of Moray must be obeyed.”
The King dismounted and entered his pavilion: as the cloth was raised, a blazing fire, the apparel of silver flagons and golden cups, the trim appearance of silken-suited pages were visible, making strong contrast with the cheerless blank without. One slight glimpse revealed the cause, and partly excused the inhospitality of James, in not inviting his guest to partake his warm cheer. One in a kirtle sat somewhat retired from view; the quick motion of her head, the glance of her dark eye, showed that the monarch had been impatiently expected, and was gladly welcomed by the lovely daughter of the Earl of Cassils.
Lord Buchan accompanied Richard, Lord Barry, and Plantagenet, to their quarters; talking, as he went, of the contention, which had terminated fatally to several. They rode down the elevated ground on which the King’s tent was placed, over a plashy low plain, through a little wood of stunted larch, across a narrow dell, in whose bottom a brook struggled and murmured, to the acclivity on the other side, on which the tents of the English troops were pitched; considerably apart from the rest was Richard’s own pavilion: all looked tranquil and even desolate, compared to the stirring liveliness of the Scotch camp. Richard was received by Sir George Neville, who looked more than usually cold and haughty as he bent to Lord Buchan’s salutation: the Scotchman uttered a hasty good night, galloped down the upland, and across the dell, and was lost to sight in the wood.
“What means this, Sir George?” was the Prince’s first remark: “what dicipline is yours? — brawling and bloodshed with our allies!”
“Did your Highness name them our enemies,” said Neville, “it were more appropriate. Suspend your displeasure, I beseech you, until I can lay before you the reality of what you name a brawl; my honour, and I fear all our safeties are concerned in the discovery. Now, your Grace is wet and fatigued, you will repose.”
Richard desired solitude, not rest: he wished to be alone; for a thousand intricate ideas possessed him, clamouring to be attended to. He dismissed his friends. Frion only remained — Frion, who lately had almost become surly, but who was now smooth, supple as ever; his eye twinkling as of yore, and his ready laugh — that most characteristic part of him — again showing the old secretary returned. To the Prince’s warm heart the appearance of discontent and moodiness was peculiarly grating; the smile or frown even of Frion had power over him; and he felt grateful to the man for his glossy and satisfactory speeches, now that, spite of himself, a feeling — it was not fear, but an anticipation of evil — disturbed his mind.
At length, he dismissed him; yet still he felt utterly disinclined for sleep. For some time he paced his tent; images of war and battle floated before him — and then the vision of an angel with golden hair came, not to calm, but to trouble him with unquiet regret. In vain he strove to awaken the flock of gentle thoughts that usually occupied him; his ideas seemed wolf-visaged; unreal howlings and cries rung in his ears. This unusual state of mind was intolerable: he folded his cloak round him, and step into his outer tent. Frion, two pages, and his esquire, were to occupy it; but he found it solitary. This seemed a little strange; but it was early yet. He lifted the outer cloth; a sentinel was duly at his post; the prince saluted him, and passed on. The fitful winds of spring had dispersed the storm: the scarcely waning moon, encircled by the dark clear ether, was in the east; her yellow light filled the atmosphere, and lay glowing on the trees and little hill-side. The Prince stept onwards, down the declivity, across the dell, into the wood. He thought he heard voices; or was it only the swinging branches of the pines? The breeze raised his hair and freshened his brow. Still he walked on, till now he came in view of the Scottish camp, which lay tranquil as sheep in a fold, the moon’s bright eye gazing on it. The sight brought proud Granada and all its towers, with the Christian camp sleeping at her feet, before his mind; and he still lingered. Now the tramp of horses became audible: a troop wound down the hill: the leader stopt, exclaiming, in some wonder, “My Lord of York! does your Highness need any service? do you bend your steps to the royal tent?”
“I blush to answer, Sir Patrick,” replied the Prince; “for you will scoff at me as the moon’s minion: I came out but to visit her. Yet a knight need not feel shame at loitering beneath her ray, dreaming of his lady-love. You are more actively employed?”
“I was on my way to your Highness’s encampment,” replied the Knight. “His Majesty is not quite satisfied with Lord Buchan’s report, and sent but now his esquire to me, to bid me visit it. With your good leave, I will escort you thither.”
CHAPTER XV.
Traitor, what hast thou done? how ever may
Thy cursed hand so cruelly have swayed
Against that knight? Harrow and weal-away!
After so wicked deed why liv’st thou longer day!
— SPENSER.
When he had been dismissed by his royal master, Frion called aside the esquire, and sent him on an errand, it would seem of some import and distance; for the youth uttered a few forcible interjections, and with a lowering brow drew on the riding-boots he had just doffed, muttering, “I must treat my horse better than my Lord treats me; so, master, seek a fresh steed. By my fay! this is to become a Squire of Dames — a love-token to the Duchess, in good hour!”
Having got rid of this young gentleman, Frion’s next care was to give distant employment to the pages, saying he would wait their return. But scarcely had they entered the most crowded part of the camp, before with quick cautious steps the secretary took the same path which the Prince t
rod half an hour later — he crossed the dell, and arriving at the little wood of larches; instead of traversing, he skirted it, till the gentle eminence on which the English camp was pitched, grew higher and more abrupt, the murmuring brook took the guise of a brawling torrent, grey rocks peeped out from the soil, and the scene became wilder and more mountainous: he walked on, till he arrived where a rustic bridge spanned the stream — under its shadow were three horsemen, two of whom dismounted, and a tall servitor held the bridles. One of these men Frion knew at once to be him who called himself Lord Bothwell, King Henry’s spy, and Richard’s fierce, motiveless, but ruthless enemy; the other — his bonnet was drawn over his brow — a cloak obscured his person. Frion’s quick eyes scrutinized it vainly, for the moon, cloudy at intervals, gave uncertain light; besides, the man had stationed himself within the deepest shadow of the bridge.
“Good befall your watch,” said Frion; “your worship is before your time.”
“Is not all ready?” asked Balmayne.
“That question is mine,” replied the other. “You know our treaty — not a hair of my Lord’s head must be injured.”
“Tush! tush! fear not, good conscience-stickler,” replied Bothwell with a contemptuous laugh; “no ill will befall the boy; we but ferry him over the Tweed a few hours earlier than he dreamed of, and land him all gently on the shore he seeks. As for thy reward, I have said, name it thyself.”
“Fair words are these, Sir John Ramsay,” said Frion; “but I said before, I must have surer pledge, both for my reward and my Lord’s safety. King Henry will haggle about payment when the work is done, and the steel you wear is a toper in its way.”
“How now, Sir Knave,” cried Balmayne; “thinkest thou that I will turn midnight stabber!”
The man in the cloak started at these words. He uttered some sound, but again drew back; while the person who continued on horseback, said, and his voice was that of the Bishop of Moray, King James’s uncle, “A truce to this contention, Master Good-fellow — whatever thy name be: I will answer for thy pay, and here is earnest of my truth.” He threw a purse at Frion’s feet—”The peace of two kingdoms — the honour of a royal, too long dishonoured house are at stake. No time is this to squabble for marks, or the paltry life of a base impostor. I, a prince of Scotland, avouch the deed. It were more friendly, methinks, to unlock his life with the steel key of our friend Wiatt, than to devote him to the gallows. Let Scotland be rid of him, I reck not how.”
Again Frion fixed his eyes on the other — the clouds had fallen low in the sky; the moon was clear; the western breeze murmured among the bushes and the trees, and the beams of the silvery planet played upon the unquiet waters. “We have no time for delay, Sir John,” said Frion, “prithee introduce me to our fellow labourer — this is the King’s emissary? You call yourself Wiatt, master Black Cloak?”
The other made a gesture of impatience as he stepped aside. Balmayne and Moray discoursed aside, till the former bade the Secretary lead on — as they went, the Scotchman and Frion conversed in whispers concerning their plans, while their companion followed as if doggedly. Once he cast an impatient glance at the moon — Frion caught that look. “Have I found you, good friend,” he thought; “then by our Lady of Embrun, you shall acquit you of the debt I claim this night.”
With quicker steps the Provencal proceeded, till they reached the opening of the valley, and came opposite the slope on which the English camp was pitched. Furthest off and far apart was the royal pavilion, the banner of England flapping in the breeze, and this the only sign of life — but for this, the white silent tents looked like vast druidical stones piled upon a wild moor. They paused—”I must go first,” said Frion; “we have wasted more time than I counted for — you will await me here.”
“Listen, Master Frion,” said Balmayne. “I would hardly trust you, but that I think you are a wise man; silver angels and golden marks, as a wise man, you will love: one thing you will hardly seek, a shroud of moonbeams, a grave in the vulture’s maw. Look ye, one soars above even now; he scents dainty fare: twenty true men are vowed that he shall sup on thee, if thou art foresworn: thou wilt give some signal, when all is ready.”
“That were difficult,” said Frion; “I will return anon if there be any let to your enterprize; else, when the shadow of that tall larch blackens the white stone at your feet, come up without fear: have ye bonds ready for your prisoner?”
“An adamantine chain — away!” Frion cast one more glance at him called Wiatt. “It is even he, I know him, by that trick of his neck; his face was ever looking sideways:” thus assured, the Frenchman ascended the hill. Balmayne watched him, now visible, and now half hid by the deceptive light, till he entered the folds of the pavilion; and then he glanced his eyes upon the shadow of the tree, yet far from the white stone; and then paced the sward, as if disdaining to hold commune with Wiatt. Whatever thoughts possessed this hireling’s breast he made no sign, but stood motionless as a statue; his arms folded, his head declined upon his breast. He was short, even slight in make, his motionless, half-shrinking attitude contrasted with the striding pace and the huge, erect form of the borderer. Who that had looked down upon these two figures, sole animations visible on the green earth beneath the moon’s bright eye, would have read villany and murder in their appearance; the soft sweet night seemed an antidote to savageness, yet neither moon nor the sleeping face of beauteous earth imparted any gentleness to the Scot; he saw neither, except when impatiently he glanced at the slow-crawling shadow, and the moonlight sleeping on the signal stone. Many minutes past — Bothwell gave one impatient look more — how slowly the dusky line proceeded! He walked to the edge of the brook; there was no movement about the pavilion; tranquil as an infant’s sleep was the whole encampment. Suddenly a cry made him start, it was from Wiatt; the man, heretofore so statue-like, had thrown his arms upward with a passionate gesture, and then, recalled by Bothwell’s imprecation, shrunk back into his former quiet, pointing only with a trembling finger to the stone, now deep imbedded in the black shadow of the larch. The Scot gave a short shrill laugh, and crying “Follow!” began the ascent, taking advantage of such broken ground and shrubs, as blotted the brightness of the rays that lit up the acclivity. Bothwell strode on with the activity of a moss-trooper; Wiatt was scarce able to walk; he stumbled several times. At length they reached the pavilion; the Frenchman stood just within, lifting the heavy cloth; they entered. Frion whispered, “I have cleared the coast; my Lord sleeps; we need but cast a cloak around him, to blind him, and so bear him off without more ado on his forced journey.”
“There is wisdom in your speech,” said Balmayne with something of a grin, “My friend Wiatt has a cloak large and dark enough for the nonce.”
Frion drew back the silken lining of the inner tent, saying, “Tread soft, my Lord ever sleeps lightly; he must not be waked too soon.”
“Never were the better word,” muttered Bothwell: the dimmest twilight reigned in the tent. The Prince’s couch was in shadow; the men drew near; the sleeper was wrapt in his silken coverlid, with his face buried in his pillow: his light-brown hair, lying in large clusters on his cheek, veiled him completely. Ramsay bent over him; his breathing was heavy and regular; he put out his large bony hand, and, as gently as he might, removed the quilt, uncovering the sleeper’s right side; then turning to Wiatt, who had not yet advanced, he pointed to the heaving heart of his victim with such a glance of murderous callousness, that the very assassin shrunk beneath it; yet he approached; his hand held an unsheathed dagger, but it shook even to impotence; he raised it over his prey, but had no power to strike. Frion had crept round behind; a sound just then, and tramp of feet was heard in the outer tent; as by magic, in one brief second of time the mute dread scene changed its every characteristic. The assassin cried aloud, “It is not he!” Frion had seized his arm — the dagger fell — the pretended sleeper (one of York’s pages) leaped from the couch; and the muffling cloak, dropping from the murderer’s shoulders, disc
losed the wretched, degraded Clifford. Ramsay drew his sword, and rushed towards the outer tent, when at the same moment Richard of York and Sir Patrick Hamilton showed themselves from beneath the hangings, which their attendants had raised. This sight startled Frion, and Clifford, restored to life and energy, tore himself from his grasp, and in a moment had rushed from beneath the pavilion: he was forgotten; all eyes were turned on Bothwell; the dagger at his feet, his drawn sword, his appearance in the retirement of the Prince of England, all accused him. He saw at once his danger, drew himself proudly up, and returned Hamilton’s look with a fierce, haughty glare.
“Thy act is worse than thy enemies’ speech,” said Sir Patrick, sternly; “thou wilt answer this, recreant, to thy royal master.”
“To him, to any, to you,” said Balmayne; “There is my glove. Now, on the hill’s side, or in the lists anon, I will avouch my deed.”
Hamilton answered with a look of sovereign contempt; he bade his men seize the traitor. “Before I sleep,” he cried, “the King hears this treason.”
Richard had looked on in silence and wonder; he placed his hand on Hamilton’s arm, stopping him, “Pardon me, valiant knight,” he said; “but, I do beseech you, disturb not the King to-night, nor ever, with this ill tale. Too roughly already has the English Prince broken Scotland’s rest. No blood is shed; and, strange as appearances are, I take Sir John Ramsay’s word, and believe that, as a cavalier, he may maintain his cause, nor stain by it his knightly cognizance. I take up your glove, fair Sir, but only to restore it; without one slightest accusation attaching itself to you therewith. Nay, myself will take up the quarrel, if any blame you. Sir Patrick will not call me to the trial, I am sure. Frion, conduct the gallant gentleman beyond our lines.”
Shame for the first time flushed Ramsay’s brow as he left the tent. The Prince drew up to let him pass, with a mien so dignified and yet so tranquil, with a smile so bland, that thus it seemed an angelic essence, incapable of wound, might have gazed on a mere mortal, armed to injure him.
