CHAPTER VI
Now we leave the royal revels, and return to Saint Hilda and her maids. As they sailed back to Whitby, their galley was captured on the high seas by the Scotch, and the ladies were held at Edinburgh until James should decide their fate.
Soon, however, they were informed that they must prepare to journey to England, under the escort of Lord Marmion. At this, terror seized the heart of the Abbess and of Clara. The aged, saintly lady knew the fate of Constance, and for this, feared Lord Marmion's wrath. She told her beads, she implored heaven!
The Lady Clara knew the sword that hung from Marmion's belt had drawn the blood of her lover, Ralph De Wilton! Unwittingly the King had given these defenceless women into the care of the man they most dreaded. To protest was hopeless. In the bustle of war, who would listen to the tale of a woman and a nun?
The maids and the Abbess were assigned lodgings joining those of Marmion, their guardian. While there, the unhappy, but alert, holy woman caught sight of the Palmer. His dress made her feel that she would here find a friend. Secretly she conveyed to him a message, saying she had a secret to reveal immediately concerning the welfare of the church, and of a sinner's soul.
With great secrecy she named as a meeting place, an open balcony, that hung high above the street.
Night fell; the moon rose high among the clouds; the busy hum of the city ceased; the din of war and warriors' roar was hushed. The music of the cricket, the whirr of the owlets, might easily have been heard, when the holy Dame and the Palmer met. The Abbess had chosen a solemn hour, to disclose a solemn secret.
"O holy Palmer!" she began, – "for surely he must be holy whose feet have trod the ground made sacred by a Redeemer's tomb, – I come here in this dread hour, for the dear sake of our Holy Church. Yet I must first speak, in explanation of a worldly love." Here was related by unwilling lips, the story of Constance's fall, of De Wilton's death or exile after being proved a traitor, of Lady Clara's faithfulness to the memory of De Wilton, and of her desire to enter the convent of the Abbess.
"'A purer heart, a lovelier maid,
Ne'er shelter'd her in Whitby's shade.'
"Yet, King Henry declares she shall be torn from us, and given to this false Lord Marmion. I am helpless, a prisoner, with these innocent maidens, and I fear we have been betrayed by Henry, that Clara may fall into the hands of his favorite. I claim thine aid.
"'By every step that thou hast trod
To holy shrine and grotto dim,
By every saint and seraphim,
And by the Church of God!
For mark: When Wilton was betrayed,'
"it was by means of forged letters, – letters written by Constance de Beverley, at the command of Marmion, and placed, by De Wilton's squire, where they could be used against that noble knight.
"I have in my possession letters proving all this and more. I must not keep them. Who knows what may happen to me on my homeward journey? I now give this packet to thy care, O saintly Palmer! Bring them safe to the hands of Wolsey, that he may give them to the King, and for this deed there will be prayers offered for thee while I live. Why! What ailest thou? Speak!"
As he took the packet, he was shaken by strong emotion, but before he could reply, the Abbess shrieked, "What is here? Look at yon City Cross!"
"Then on its battlements they saw
A vision, passing Nature's law."
Figures seemed to rise and die, to advance and to flee, and from the midst of the spectre throng this awful summons came: – "Prince, prelate, potentate and peer, I summon one and all to answer at my tribunal."
"Then thunder'd forth a roll of names:
The first was thine, unhappy James!
Then all thy nobles came;
Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,
Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,
Why should I tell their separate style?
Each chief of birth and fame,
Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,
Foredoomed to Flodden's carnage pile,
Was cited there by name;
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye.
"Prone on her face the Abbess fell,
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell;
She mark'd not, at the scene aghast,
What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd."
The following day, Marmion and the brave Douglas journeyed to fair Tantallon. The Palmer still was with the band, as Angus commanded that no one should roam at large. A wondrous change had come to the holy Palmer. He freely spoke of war; he looked so high, and rode so fast, that old Hubert said he never saw but one who could sit so proud, and rein so well.
A half hour's march behind, came Fitz-Eustace, escorting the Abbess, the fair Lady Clare, and all the nuns.
Marmion had sought no audience, fearing to increase Clara's hatred. He preferred to wait until she was removed from the convent and in her uncle's care. He hoped then, with the influence of her kinsman and her King, to gain her consent to be the Lady Marmion. He longed to command, "O'er luckless Clara's ample land," yet he hated himself when he thought of the meanness to which he stooped for conquest, when he remembered his own lost honor; for,
"If e'er he lov'd, 'twas her alone,
Who died within that vault of stone."
Near Berwick town they came upon a venerable convent pile, and halted at its gate. In answer to the bell, a door opened, and an aged dame appeared to ask St. Hilda's Abbess to rest here with her nuns until a barque was provided to bear her back to Whitby.
The courtesy of the Scottish Prioress was most joyfully received, and the delighted maidens gladly left their palfreys; but when Lady Clara attempted to dismount, Fitz-Eustace gently refused, saying:
"I grieve, fair lady, to separate you from your friends. Think it no discourtesy of mine, but lords' commands must be obeyed, and Marmion and Douglas order that you shall return directly to your kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare."
The startled Abbess loud exclaimed, but Clara was speechless and deadly pale.
"Cheer thee, my child!" the Abbess cried; "they dare not tear thee from my care, to ride alone among soldiers."
"Nay, nay, holy mother," interrupted Fitz-Eustace, "the lovely lady, while in Scotland, will be the immediate ward of Lady Angus Douglas, and when she rides to England, female attendance will be provided befitting the heir of Gloster. My Lord Marmion will not address Lady Clare by word or look."
He blushed as he spoke, but truth and honor were painted in his face, and the maiden's fear was relieved. The Abbess entreated, threatened, wept, prayed to saint and to martyr, then called upon the Prioress for aid. The grave Cistercian replied:
"The King and Douglas shall be obeyed. Dream not that harm can come to woman, however helpless, who falls to the care of Douglas of Tantallon Hall."
The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, assumed her wonted state, composed her veil, raised her head, and began again, – but Blount now broke in:
"'Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band;
St. Anton fire thee! wilt thou stand
All day, with bonnet in thy hand,
To hear the lady preach?
By this good light! if thus we stay,
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,
Will sharper sermon teach.
Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse;
The dame must patience take perforce."
"Dear, holy Abbess," said Clare, "we must submit to the separation for the present,
"'But let this barbarous lord despair
His purposed aim to win;
Let him take living, land, and life;
But to be Marmion's wedded wife
In me were deadly sin.'
"Mother, your blessing and your prayers are all I ask. Remember your unhappy child! If it be the decree of the King that I return not to the sanctuary with thee to dwell, yet one asylum remains – low, silent, and lone, where kings have little power. One victim of Lord Marmion is already there."
Weeping and wailing arose round patient Clare. Eustace hid his tears, and even the rude Blount could scarce bear the sight. Gently the squire took the rein and led the way, striving to cheer the poor fainting girl, by courteous word and deed.
They had passed but a few miles, when from a height, they saw the vast towers of Tantallon. The noble castle was enclosed on three sides by the ocean, and on the fourth by walled battlements,
"And double mound and fosse,
By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong,
Through studded gates, and entrance long,
To the main court they cross.
It was a wide and stately square:
Around were lodgings, fit and fair,
And towers of various form."
Here they rested, receiving from the host cold, but princely attention. By hurrying posts, daily there came varying tidings of war. At first they heard of the victories of James at Wark, at Etall, and at Ford; and then, that Norham castle had been taken; but later, news was whispered that while King James was dallying the time away with the wily Lady Heron, the army lay inactive. At length they heard the army had made post on the ridge that frowns over the Millfield Plain, and that brave Surrey, with a force from the South, had marched into Northumberland and taken camp.
At this, Marmion exclaimed:
"'A sorry thing to hide my head
In castle, like a fearful maid,
When such a field is near!
Needs must I see this battle-day:
Death to my fame if such a fray
Were fought, and Marmion away!
The Douglas, too, I wot not why,
Hath 'bated of his courtesy:
No longer in his halls I'll stay."
CHAPTER VII
Each hour brought a different tale. Marmion fretted like the impatient charger that "snuffs the battle from afar." It was true that Douglas had changed in his demeanor, had grown cold and silent. The dejected Clare sought retirement. Courteous she was to Lady Angus, shared in ceaseless prayers for the safe return of Scotch liege and lord, but borne down with sorrow, she loved best to find some lonely spot, turret, tower, or parapet, where she might retire alone to listen to the wailing waters, to hear the sea-bird's cry, to recall her life at the Convent of Whitby, and to regret the loss of the loved garb of the nun. At the command of her kinsman, the Benedictine dress, the hood and veil, so much in harmony with her life, had been denied her, and she had been made to assume the costume of the world.
Her sunny locks were again unbound, and rich garments were provided, suited to her rank. Of the holy dress, the cross alone she was permitted to wear, – a golden cross set with rubies; but in her hand she always bore the loved breviary.
Pacing back and forth at evening, sick with sorrow, she came suddenly upon a full suit of armor. It lay directly in her path – the targe, the corselet, the helm, the pierced breastplate. She raised her eyes in alarm, and before her stood De Wilton, but so changed it might have been his ghost. The Palmer's dress was thrown aside, the dress of the knight not resumed. He was neither king's noble, nor priest. Not until he had been proven innocent of treason, and redubbed knight, could he honorably wear his spurs.
Long was the interview held between the astonished, delighted Clare, and the undisguised De Wilton. He began the story of his exile and travels, taking up the tale from the moment when he lay senseless in the lists at Cottiswold. The kind care of Austin, the beadsman, had restored him to health and strength. He described the long journeys in Palmer's dress, his return to Scotland, meeting Marmion at Norham Castle, the tilt on Gifford moor, and the interview with the Abbess, when he received from her the letters proving his innocence.
Already, at Tantallon, he had told his story to Douglas, who had known De Wilton's family of old. That night, Douglas was to make him again a belted knight, and at dawn, he would haste to Surrey's camp to fight again for king and for country. The story heard from De Wilton, the letters showing the treachery of Marmion, accounted for the cold disdain shown by Douglas to his guest.
The noble baron of Tantallon had promised to bring to the chapel at midnight the now happy, yet unhappy Clare, that she might bind on the spurs, buckle on the belt, and hear the magic words uttered which made her lover a noble knight. She was unhappy to think that so soon they must part, perhaps never to meet.
Sweetly, tearfully she pleaded:
"'O Wilton! must we then
Risk new-found happiness again,
Trust fate of arms once more?
And is there not a humble glen,
Where we content and poor,
Might build a cottage in the shade,
A shepherd thou, and I to aid
Thy task on dale and moor? —
That reddening brow! – too well I know,
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow,
While falsehood stains thy name:
Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go!
Clare can a warrior's feelings know,
And weep a warrior's shame;
Buckle the spurs upon thy heel,
And belt thee with thy brand of steel,
And send thee forth to fame!'"
At midnight, the slumbering moon-beams lay on rock and wave. Silvery light fell through every loop-hole and embrasure. In the witching hour two priests, the Lady Clare, Ralph de Wilton, and Douglas, Lord of Tantallon, stood before the altar of the chapel. De Wilton knelt, and when Clare had bound on sword and belt, Douglas laid on the blow, exclaiming as it fell:
"'I dub thee knight.
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir!
For King, for Church, for Lady fair,
See that thou fight.'"
De Wilton knelt again before the giant warrior, and grasping his hand, exclaimed:
"Where'er I meet a Douglas, that Douglas will be to me as a brother."
"Nay, nay," the Lord of Tantallon replied, "not so; I have two sons in the field armed against your king. They fight for James of Scotland; you for Henry of England.
"'And, if thou meet'st them under shield,
Upon them bravely, – do thy worst;
And foul fall him that blenches first!"
They parted; De Wilton to Surrey's camp, the Douglas to his castle to ponder on the strange events of the past few days, and Clare to weep in loneliness.
It was yet early when Marmion ordered his train to be ready for the southward march. He had safe pass-ports for all, given under the royal seal of James. Douglas provided a guide as far as Surrey's camp. The ancient earl, with stately grace, placed the Lady Clare on her palfrey and whispered in her ear, "The falcon's prey has flown."
As adieus were about to be said, Lord Marmion began:
"In the treatment received, I, your guest, by your king's command, might well complain of coldness, indifference, and disrespect; but I let it pass, hoping that,
"'Part we in friendship from your land;
And, noble Earl, receive my hand.' —
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: —
'My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,
To each one who he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my King's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone —
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp,
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.'" —
"Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And, – 'This to me!' he said, —
'An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
He, who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near —
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou said'st, I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!'
On the Earl's cheek, a flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth, – And dare'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go? – Up
drawbridge, grooms – what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.'
Lord Marmion turned – well was his need,
And dash'd the rowels in his steed."
A swallow does not more lightly skim the air, than Marmion's steed flew along the drawbridge. The man drew rein when he had reached the train, turned, clenched his fists, shouted defiance, and shook his gauntlet at the towers where so lately he had been a guest.
"To horse! to horse!" cried Douglas. "Let the chase be up." Then relenting, he smiled bitterly, saying, "He came a royal messenger. Bold can he talk and fairly ride, and I doubt not he will fight well."
Slowly the Earl sought the castle walls, that frowned still more gloomily, no longer brightened by the young and beautiful Lady Clare.
As the day wore on, Marmion's passion wore off, and scanning his little band, he missed the Palmer. From young Blount he demanded an explanation of the guide's absence.