G. J. Whyte-Melville

‘Oh! is my basnet a widow’s curch,

Or my lance a wand of the willow tree,

Or my arm a lady’s lily hand,

That an English lord should lightly me?’

Unusual silence prevailed in the lofty hall of Hermitage, and the dinner hour, commonly one of mirth and festivity, arrived with a solemn gravity, by no means welcome to the light-hearted borderers. It was in vain that large joints of beef and mutton steamed on the long tables, and ample baskets, piled to the edge with coarse oaten bread, stood side by side with deep measures of foaming ale below the salt, while a modest display of plate, in which one or two church ornaments were conspicuous, decked the upper end of the board. The preparations, indeed, smacked of good cheer, but the hilarity which promotes digestion was wanting.

The master-spirit, gloomy, morose, and preoccupied, walked to and fro under the stag’s antlers, at the extremity of the hall, and no man dared to question or interrupt his meditations.

Bothwell was indeed chafing to the verge of madness. In vain he had submitted patiently to a mock imprisonment at the Queen’s pleasure; in vain he had waited till days grew to weeks and weeks to months for some acknowledgment from Mary of the injustice she had done him—some expression of sorrow or sympathy for the loyal soldier and devoted vassal. No acquittal came, no reprieve, no message. Desperate and goaded he had escaped from his confinement at last, and fled to Hermitage, where he now found himself, as autumn waned, in the anomalous attitude of an attainted subject holding a royal fortress, and a warden of the Marches, without the privilege of communicating with his sovereign. It has been truly said that no position is so false as that which entails responsibility without conferring authority, and of this he found himself too keenly conscious. Neither was Bothwell’s a nature to submit patiently to a slight. Hot-headed and irascible, with strong feelings and a sad want of foresight, he could act, but he could not endure. At this period he had indeed sufficient reason to feel aggrieved, and he fretted like some wild animal in a cage. It was noon; the guard was being relieved in the outer court. Bustle reigned in the kitchen; two or three old hounds, with wistful faces, licked their lips as they nosed the savoury preparations that emanated from that department; hawks screamed and flapped their wings on the perch; everything denoted the arrival of the most important hour in the twenty-four.

By twos and threes brawny men-at-arms lounged into the hall and took their places at the board. A year ago, shout and jest and schoolboy prank would have been rife at such a moment; the earl’s laugh would have been the loudest and his voice the gayest amongst them all; now they watched him pacing silently to and fro, with looks askance. Taking their cue from their chief, the boisterous riders were gloomy as mutes.

Bothwell turned suddenly and summoned his henchman.

‘Is the holy man not ready yet?’ said he, with something of irony in his tone. ‘Ho! bid the knaves bring in the food. Cowl or cassock, rochet and stole, or black Geneva gown, not one of them but comes to corn as kindly as the longest-legged borderer that ever lifted a spear. Bid them serve, Dick, in the devil’s name.’

‘Nay, James Hepburn,’ said a deep, stern voice at the earl’s elbow, ‘not in the name of the evil one, but in His from whom cometh all good. Bless the food,’ he added, stretching both hands over the board which was now spread, and shutting his eyes reverently while he prayed: ‘Bless those good things which are the product of thrift and honest industry, and may every morsel turn to gall on the lip, and poison in the breast, that is wrested by violence and bloodshed from the store of the widow and the fatherless!’

‘Amen!’ ejaculated Bothwell, without pretending to conceal the sneer on his lip, as he took his seat; whilst his retainers, glancing with a comical mixture of respect and astonishment at a man who dared to address their formidable chief in accents of reproach, seemed uncertain how to receive a blessing of such doubtful import on the border. The obvious course was to fall to without further ceremony; and soon the clatter of knives and drinking-horns drowned all qualms of conscience, if indeed such were experienced; ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ merely remarking, as he filled his trencher, ‘that if all the beef in the larder that was lifted behoved to turn to gall, there wou’d be no want o’ mustard for a whiley in Liddesdale.’

Evidently putting a strong constraint on himself, the earl proceeded to entertain his guest with marked distinction and courtesy. Indeed, after a time, the stately bearing and obvious sincerity of the man could not fail to produce a favourable effect; and though Bothwell, for political reasons, was disposed to court his good opinion, he could not but confess to himself, that under that black robe and grave exterior, lurked a spirit equal in point of courage, and far superior in energy, perseverance, and force of character, to his own.

Even the rude borderers felt the influence of his presence. Although the name of John Knox was ere this familiar in all men’s mouths, through the length and breadth of Scotland, these lawless soldiers, while professing, for the most part, the Reformed religion, which combined in their eyes the intrinsic advantages of freedom, liberality, and cheapness, were at heart wofully indifferent to its tenets, or its obligations. They had thrown off with small compunction the shackles of the Roman Catholic Church; they were not quite so ready, however, to submit themselves to the discipline of that faith which had supplanted it. In all violent and fundamental changes of opinion, the teachers of a new doctrine have to contend with two serious difficulties: the ill-judged warmth of their more zealous disciples, and the convenient indifference of a large proportion of converts, who cannot be brought to see the advantage of dissent, if it is to substitute one form of government for another.

Physically, the great Scottish Reformer appeared scarcely equal to the work he had engaged to perform. His spare frame was indeed sufficiently ascetic to command respect; and his dignified bearing, well set off by the close black gown, with its loose sleeves, which he chose to wear, was not unworthy of the holy profession of which he was so zealous a member; but his stature was low, and his bodily strength proportionate. Nevertheless in his high grave brow, only partially covered by a close black skull cap, there was rectitude, pitiless, indeed, of others’ weakness, but equally stern and uncompromising towards its own. The bold features and pale colouring of the face, more remarkable than comely, denoted energy with force of will; and though the mouth was somewhat large and coarse, its expression was firm and daring in the highest degree. His dark eyes, which it was his habit to fix intently on those with whom he conversed, were brilliantly piercing, and in the heat of argument or declamation shone and sparkled with an inward flame. A flowing beard descended to his girdle, somewhat softening the harshness of his features, and imparting a patriarchal dignity to his whole person. There was but little appearance of versatility on his immovable face, and yet John Knox, driven by his zeal into the political stream, had been forced to trim his bark more than once to suit the exigencies of the storm; and it may be that this very consciousness added to the stern defiance of his bearing.

Without attempting to be ‘all things to all men,’ the Reformer never forgot for an instant the one end and aim of his unceasing efforts, the destruction of papacy in his native land; and if ever he did turn aside for an advantage, or halt for a breathing-space, it was but to gather fresh energies for the great work, and devote himself more unreservedly to its accomplishment. If he was prejudiced, bigoted, and illiberal, he was at least an honest man thoroughly in earnest.

The latter quality invariably wins respect in the rudest, as in the most civilised societies, and even Earl Bothwell’s wild jackmen could not withhold an involuntary homage from one whose peaceful profession, while it did not affect his insensibility to physical danger, or his coolness under trying circumstances, was followed out with an energy and perseverance of which their own lawless pursuits afforded no example. The Reformer, too, for all his infirmities, could back a horse and fly a hawk with the best of them. His stirring life had given him habits of activity and daring, whilst the energy of action was not wanting, which is so useful an accessory to a keen intellect. Though he ate sparingly, the preacher’s cup was filled and emptied with grave, good fellowship, and he did not disdain to mingle in such mirth as was restrained within the bounds of decorum. There was a spice of quaint humour in his conversation that insensibly excited the attention of the most careless listeners; and though he never so far forgot his sacred office as to descend into buffoonery, he was no contemner of a ludicrous illustration or a harmless jest.

The dinner, nevertheless, progressed wearily. The churchman’s presence restrained that wild ribaldry which had been, of late, Bothwell’s only attempt at gaiety; and when the jackmen had eaten their fill, and satisfied their thirst, a gloomy silence once more pervaded the old hall.

It was the practice at Hermitage to conclude every meal with the standing toast of ‘Snaffle, spur, and spear;’ but to-day cups were emptied less cordially than usual to the accustomed pledge, and a long grace from Mr Knox immediately succeeding, it was received by the listeners with more respect than attention. It was a relief to all when the earl, calling for a basin and ewer, dipped his hands, wiped his beard, and rose from table, summoning the Reformer to attend him for a stroll upon the rampart, and whispering a few words to ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ as he passed out of the hall.

That worthy received his master’s commands with an appearance of intense gratification, which communicated itself, as if by electricity, to the majority of his comrades. Bustle and activity seemed all at once to pervade the castle, and the merriment hitherto stifled and repressed broke forth with renewed violence. The tramp of horses and the clank of steel smote gratefully on ears in which such sounds made the sweetest of music; and when the churchman crossed the courtyard in search of his host, he found it filled by some two score of well-mounted men-at-arms, drawn up in disciplined army, with ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ at their head.

The earl was giving his final orders to this leader with considerable energy. He was in a towering passion, none the less unbridled that he was not going to command the expedition himself.

‘Were he ten times warden,’ the Reformer heard him say, ‘he should not drive horses, with impunity, from my side the March. Does my Lord Scrope think that James Hepburn has been superseded at Hermitage? or that I am a likely man to submit to the slight he has endeavoured to put upon me? Faith, not while this arm of mine can lay lance in the rest. If you come across the English warden, Dick Rutherford, you shall cast James Hepburn’s defiance in his teeth. Within twenty-one days, alone, or with his following, on foot or on horseback, with spear, sword, or axe, and not more than three English miles from the border, I challenge him to meet me, if he be a man, and “God defend the right!” Have you picked the horses?’ he added, abruptly, and turning with a soldier’s eye to scan the troop.

‘I cast the twa four-year-aulds,’ answered Dick, ‘an’ I waled the soar[6] and the three bays, forbye the white-footed yane, an’ I’m ridin’ Wanton Willie mysel’. Gin I track the drove to Peel-fell, will I follow them into Cumberland?’

[6] Sorrel or chestnut—next to bay, the favourite colour of the borderers.

‘Follow them to hell!’ answered Bothwell. ‘I will have that gray gelding back if he is stabled in Carlisle. I’ll have him from under Lord Scrope himself, if the Englishman never gets across a horse again. What! there is peace between the two countries, more’s the pity, or I had been at his castle-gate by this time with all Teviotdale at my back; and so you may tell him, if you can meet with him under steel.’

‘They might ha’ been ta’en by the Langholme lads,’ interposed Dick, whose spirits were rising considerably with the prospect of a foray, but who looked upon the whole affair, nevertheless, as a matter of business combined with wholesome recreation. ‘They lifted a score o’ runts frae “daft Davie,” in Lammas time, an’ took the vara’ coverlet aff his wife’s bed. He saw it himsel’ at Dumfries, puir fallow!’

‘Nay, nay,’ answered Bothwell, ‘the Langholme riders do not come down by the score, with dags, and petronels, and St George’s cross on their basnets. If it’s not a warden-raid, as, indeed, it can hardly be, it has been done by the warden’s orders; and he shall answer it to me as sure as I serve Queen Mary! At least, with all her pride, she shall know that Bothwell never suffered it to be lowered an inch,’ he muttered between his teeth as he turned away.

‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ put the men in motion and himself at their head. As they emerged upon the open ground from the gray walls of the square old keep, the slanting beams of an autumn sun gilded the brown heather, and shed a soft lustre over the undulating moorland ere it flashed from the steel armour of the troop. The riders were in high spirits at the prospect of a change from their long period of inaction. The horses snorted and shook their bridles gaily. It was a party of pleasure and adventurous excitement to all concerned, and even now they were anticipating their plunder and jesting about their profits. Only one heart felt more softened than usual under its steel breastplate. ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ acknowledged the influence of the mellow sunlight and the balmy breeze. Somehow the very earth and sky seemed to connect themselves with a pair of laughing eyes and a shower of bright hair, with a fairy figure tripping up the High Street, a basket on its arm; or, as he had seen it first, shining like a vision of light in the dark passages of Holyrood, with a voice that used to thrill so sweetly once, that he never heard now but in his dreams. The henchman would have fought like a lion, and yet he felt tenderly disposed towards all living things. He would have met death more cheerfully than ever, yet he seemed only to have learned the value of life within the last few months; another contradiction—but is it not full of contradictions, that engrossing folly in which the true believer is as sure to suffer martyrdom as the false worshipper is to obtain his reward?

The earl and his visitor watched the troop defiling round the base of a low acclivity that soon hid them from sight. As they disappeared, Bothwell turned away with a bitter curse. He scarcely felt as if he had a right to order an expedition on the border in the name of his sovereign; and again Mary’s injustice and neglect rankled like a poisoned shaft in his breast. But the earl was in no mood for balancing probabilities or counting cost. The horses that had been driven were his own, and he had reason to believe that Lord Scrope was not ignorant of the theft. This was sufficient to rouse his ire to the utmost, and he had despatched a force to follow and retake them, strong enough to preclude the possibility of failure. It was maddening, though, to be compelled to stay within the four walls of Hermitage, when his retainers were in the field; maddening, all the more that his present false position, as he argued, was owing to a queen’s injustice and a woman’s ingratitude.

A few short turns upon the rampart, with the soft west wind fanning his brow, restored his composure, and addressing his companion, he professed his readiness to enter at once upon the business which had brought the latter to Hermitage.

The preacher pointed to the surrounding scenery, the waving tracts of moorland bathed in the lustre of an afternoon sun, the cattle feeding securely in the green nooks and pasturage which broke the uniformity of the undulating waste, the yellow patch of cultivation under the very shadow of the keep, and the clear, autumnal heaven above all, pale and serene, and dappled here and there by flaky clouds edged with gold.

‘It is not my business,’ said the preacher, ‘nor is it thine, Lord Warden, that hath brought me here, but the will of Him who holdeth this glorious universe in the hollow of His hand. It is to do His work that I have ridden through these wastes from dawn till mid-day, and that I must depart again ere set of sun. I charge thee to aid me, heart and hand, in the service of my Master!’

It is the misfortune of earnest men that, in this self-seeking world of ours, they seldom obtain the credit they deserve for sincerity and singleness of heart. Bothwell listened with outward respect, yet unworthy suspicions would not be kept down.

‘Now for some double-dyed intrigue,’ was his inmost thought, ‘some plot set on foot by impenetrable Moray, not satisfied with his new earldom, and turbulent Morton, with his own craft added to the recklessness of all his Douglas ancestors, and Maitland, the skilful penman, the subtle diplomatist, wise as the serpent and plausible as the father of lies himself. They would fain make a cat’s-paw of rude James Hepburn, for, doubtless, they want a bold heart and a ready hand to aid their schemes, and they send this godly man, half-fanatic, half-hypocrite, to feel if the tool be heated the right temper. I wot they may burn their fingers, one and all of them, yet!’ But he only answered, abruptly—

‘I believe you are the friend of my house. You will counsel nothing that can prejudice my honour, or my loyalty to the Queen.’

‘My great-grandfather, my gude-sire, and my father, have served your family, James Hepburn, for three generations. Ay! served them when their banner was waving in the fore-front of the battle, and the arrows of the English archers were hailing against their harness like a storm from hell. Do you think their blood is not boiling in my veins because I wear a Geneva cassock for a steel breastplate? Do you think if my forebears shrank not to ride through fire and water for the Hepburn, I would fear to encounter death in his defence, much less would tempt him to danger or disgrace? Nay, my lord earl, though the commands of my Master are imperative, they will but lead to your aggrandisement in this world, and your salvation in the next.’

John Knox paused and turned a scrutinising look on his companion’s face.

The latter plucked a morsel of grass from the rampart, and flung it on the breeze.

‘Let us see how the wind blows,’ he replied, with a scornful laugh; ‘fair or foul, ye can trim your sails to it, all of ye, and I can ride through a storm with the best!’

‘Nay!’ exclaimed the Reformer; ‘the labourer is worthy of his hire; know ye not that the great trial is approaching between the powers of darkness and the children of light? In France, the sovereign and his ministers are determined to stifle the good cause with the strong hand, and even now the blood of saints and martyrs crieth aloud from the very stones in the streets of Paris. The scarlet woman who spreadeth her mantle over the Seven Hills, and waveth her white arms abroad to lure souls to perdition, seducing some with indulgences and driving others to despair with her curse, is battling for her very existence, and that of the reptiles she hath spawned, and who crawl around her feet. Here in Scotland—ay, at Holyrood itself—hath not an image been erected unto Baal? and is not the idolatry of the mass raised weekly by Mary Stuart, whom men call Queen of Scotland, and who is herself a daughter of perdition?’

‘Hold!’ exclaimed Bothwell, in a voice of thunder, and advancing a step towards the speaker, as though about to hurl him from the rampart. He restrained himself, however, with an obvious effort, and proceeded in a calmer voice, ‘It was not to malign his Queen that you sought an interview with the most devoted of her servants?’

Knox saw his zeal had carried him too far. The Reformer, like those whose persuasion he reprobated, was somewhat prone to allow that ‘the end justified the means.’ He retraced his steps, therefore, as it were, and resumed more calmly—

‘Her Majesty must be saved from the influence of evil advisers. Why are her communications with the bloody Guises so frequent? Why is Popish Riccio all-powerful at Holyrood? Why is Bothwell virtually banished, and well nigh attainted for a traitor? But because there is a schism in the camp of the faithful, and a house divided against itself shall not stand.’

‘The Queen has, indeed, dealt me scant justice,’ answered the earl, musingly. ‘What would your employers have me do?’

‘I speak for myself,’ replied the other, ‘or rather I speak the words that are borne in unto me by Him whose servant I am. What shall ye say of a family in which brother is at variance with brother? of an army in which troop falls away from troop, for some petty feud, when the enemy is drawn up over against them in battle array? The nobles of Scotland are gathering to the front for the defence of their souls’ liberties, and the boldest spirit amongst them all keeps aloof here at Hermitage because of a foolish brawl with a weak enthusiast who bore him no real ill-will.’

‘I will never return to Holyrood,’ answered Bothwell, looking wistfully towards the north while he spoke, ‘till the Queen sends for me herself and acknowledges her injustice. I will never stretch the hand of reconciliation to Arran till I have dealt him a buffet with a steel gauntlet and a Jedwood axe in its grasp.’

‘Nay, nay,’ expostulated the Reformer; ‘shall the edifice that such as you might rear on the goodly foundation of religious zeal, with the barons of Scotland for your fellow-workmen, crumble away for want of one stone in its right place? Once reconciled with Arran, the house of Hamilton might easily be secured in your interest. I can take upon myself to promise so much, or why am I here to-day? With Moray’s good-will, Morton’s friendship, the duke’s aid, and the favour of the godly throughout the kingdom, who so powerful at court as the Earl of Bothwell? Would it not be well to teach the Queen (for her own welfare) the indispensable lesson that a woman can only rule through the influence of men—by the brain of the wise and the arm of the strong? Would it not be well that Mary Stuart should learn, once for all, that she must look to James Hepburn as her champion and her trust?’

The picture was painted in glowing colours, and set in a vivid light. The temptation to such a nature as Bothwell’s was indeed of the strongest. It thrilled through heart and brain, that imaginary victory which should place in his power the option of humbling her to the dust, by whom he felt so aggrieved, or, better still, of foregoing his revenge and enjoying the nobler yet more complete triumph of forgiveness to his Queen. Nevertheless, the feudal feeling of resentment for an aspersion was still strong within him.

‘But he accused me of treason,’ urged the earl, lashing himself once more into anger, ‘would have attainted me before the council as a traitor to Queen Mary, as a rebel who meditated violence on her sacred person!’

‘The dream of a madman!’ answered Knox. ‘You know well that the earl’s health has long been failing, that he is of those who are scourged and tormented in the body for the discipline of their souls. In his paroxysms of insanity he is as one possessed, but they leave him like the poor maniac from whom devils were cast out, “clothed and in his right mind.” Nay, he did but accuse you of that which he had himself meditated in his madness. The Earl of Arran did indeed entertain a wild project to carry off the person of Mary Stuart, and immure her in some stronghold at his pleasure. The scheme was that of a madman, and yet might it have been feasible, nevertheless.’

Bothwell started, and turned pale. He could not trust himself to speak. At that moment, wild phantom shapes, that had vaguely haunted him for long, seemed suddenly to assume a distinct aspect of reality. Dropped by an unconscious hand, the seed now struck root, that was hereafter destined to bear such appalling fruit. The offspring of a chance word, a wild and maddening vision took possession of his brain. He looked around at the solid dimensions of his fortress; he counted the gallant hearts within its walls, for whom his will was law; he thought of his friends and following, his resources and his influence, his own daring and his father’s brilliant crimes. One desperate cast for the great stake; one bold swoop for the shrinking quarry; a few shots, a thrust or two, a white form borne swiftly away at a gallop, and the sweet face that had been a dream to him all his life might become a reality at last!

Why, even crazed Arran had been man enough to entertain such a scheme, whilst he, Bothwell, was eating his own heart here at Hermitage. Well, stranger things had come to pass. He must watch and bide his time; must be wary, vigilant; above all, must be patient. It was a stirring season. For a bold man nothing was impossible.

He replied at last, but cautiously and with reservations. If he joined the Protestant party, agreeing to act with Moray, Morton, and the rest, it must be under certain conditions; if he consented to a reconciliation with Arran, it must be accompanied with sundry stipulations which should be communicated hereafter at greater length. Even Maitland could not have been more mysterious, and the Reformer found himself wondering at the rapidity of a transformation which had changed the wild, reckless, border noble into a cold and scheming diplomatist.

He had attained his object, however, and that was enough for him. With a firm persuasion that he was furthering the good work, he took his leave of the earl, well-satisfied, resisting all hospitable importunities to remain, and even declining the offer of an escort to conduct him in safety through that lawless district.

‘My Master will care for me,’ said the preacher, as he prepared to leave the castle on horseback when the shades of night were closing in. ‘He who has sent me on my mission will provide for the safety of His servant!’ And so departed unarmed and alone.

Well might Morton hereafter pronounce over this dauntless nature its well-known epitaph, ‘There lies one that never feared the face of man.’