The Prose Marmion

Sir David sighed as he listened.

"I look," he said, "upon this city, Empress of the North, her palaces, her castles, her stately halls, her holy towers, and think what war's mischance may bring. These silvery bells may toll the knell of our gallant King. We must not dream that conquest is sure or easily bought. God is ruler of the battlefield, but when yon host begins the combat, wives, mothers, and maids may weep, and priests prepare the death service, for when such a power is led out by such a King, not all will return."

CHAPTER V

Lindesay now bade the guard open the palisade that closed the tented field, and as into its ample bounds Marmion passed, the warders' men drew back. The Scottish warriors stared at the strangers, and envy arose at seeing them so well appointed. Such length of shaft, bows so mighty, had never been seen by northern eyes. Little did the Highlanders then think to feel these shafts through links of Scotch mail on Flodden Field.

No less did Marmion and his men marvel that one small country could marshal forth such hosts. Men-at-arms were heavily sheathed in mail. They were like iron towers on Flemish steeds. Young squires and knights practiced their chargers on the plain to pass, to wheel, to curvet, that the swords of their riders might not descend amiss on foeman's casque. Hardy burghers were there, marching on foot. No waving plume, no crest they wore, but corselet, gorget, and brigantine, brightly burnished. The yeomen, too, were on foot, yet dressed in steel. Each at his back carried forty days' provisions. His arms were the halbert, axe, or spear, a crossbow, a dagger, or a sword. Each seemed almost sad at leaving the dear cottage, the simple pleasures and duties of home, to march into a foreign land. It was not cowardice, not terror, for the more they loved Scotland the more fiercely would they fight.

Quite another class was the Borderer, bred to war. He joyed to hear the roar of battle. No harp, no lute, could please his ear as did the loud slogan. Nobles might fight for fame, vassals might follow, burghers might guard their townships, but to a battle the Borderer joyfully took his way as to a game, scarce caring who might win the day.

Marmion next viewed the Celtic race. Each tribe had its own chief, its belted plaid, its warpipes varying with the clan. Their legs were bare; the undressed hide of the deer gave them buskins, a plaid covered the shoulders, and a broadsword, a dagger, a studded targe, completed the outfit.

Through the Scottish camp, the English train had now passed, and the city gates were reached. The streets were alive with martial show. The Lion King led to lodgings that overlooked the town. Here Marmion, by the King's command, was to remain until the vesper hour and then to ride to Holy-Rood. Meanwhile Sir David ordered a banquet rich and rare.

At the hour appointed, Marmion, attended by the Lion-Lord, arrived at the palace hall, at Holy-Rood. In this princely abode James was feasting the chiefs of Scotland. The historic halls rang with mirth, for well the monarch loved song and banquet. By day the tourney was held, at night the mazy dance was trod by quaint maskers. The scene of this night outshone all others. The dazzling lights hanging from the galleries, displayed the grace of lords and ladies of the court. The "motley fool" retailed his jest, the juggler performed his feat, the minstrel plied his harp, and the lady touched a softer string.

All made room as through this throng the King came to greet his guest.

And now, his courtesy to show,

    "He doff'd to Marmion, bending low,       His broider'd cap and plume.     For royal was his garb and mien,       His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,       Trimm'd with the fur of martin wild;     His gorgeous collar hung adown,     Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown,     The thistle brave, of old renown:     His trusty blade, Toledo right,     Descended from a baldric bright;     White were his buskins, on the heel,     His spurs inlaid of gold and steel:     His bonnet, all of crimson fair,     Was buttoned with a ruby rare:     And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen     A prince of such a noble mien."

His splendid form, his eagle eyes, his light footstep, his merry laugh and speaking glance made him envied of men and adored of women. He joyed to linger in banquet bower, but often in the midst of wildest glee, a shadow and an expression of pain flitted across the handsome face. His hands instinctively clasped as he felt the pain of the penance belt, worn in memory of his slain father. In a moment the pang was past, and forward, with redoubled zest, he rushed into the stream of revelry.

Courtiers said that Lady Heron, wife of Sir Hugh of Norham, held sway over the heart of the King. To Scotland's court she had come to be a hostage, and to reconcile the offended King to her husband. The fair Queen of France also held the king in thrall. She had sent him a turquoise ring and a glove, and charged him as her knight in English fray, to break for her a lance. For love of the French Queen, as much as for the rights of Scotland, he clothed himself in mail and put his country's noblest, dearest, and best in arms, to die on Flodden Field. For Love of Lady Heron, he admitted English spies to his inmost counsels.

    "And thus, for both, he madly planned     The ruin of himself and land."

For these two artful women he sacrificed the true happiness of his home.

    "Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen,     Were worth one pearl-drop bright and sheen,       From Margaret's eyes that fell, —     His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower     All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour."

In gay Holy-Rood, Dame Heron, Lady of Norham, smiled at the King, glanced archly at the courtiers, and ably played the coquette. When asked to draw from the harp music to charm the ring of admirers, she laughed, blushed, and with pretty oaths, by yea and nay, declared she could not, would not, dare not! At length, however, she seated herself at Scotland's loved instrument, touched and tuned the strings, laid aside hood and wimple, the better to display her charms, and with a borrowed simplicity well assumed, sang a lively air, Lochinvar.

    "Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,     Through all the wild border his steed was the best;     And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,     He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone;     So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,     There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.    "He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;     He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;     But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,     The bride had consented, the gallant came late;     For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,     Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.    "So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,     Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:     Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,     For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,     'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,     Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'    "'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;     Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide —     And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,     To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.     There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,     That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'    "The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,     He quaff'd off the wine, and threw down the cup,     She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,     With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye,     He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, —     'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.    "So stately his form, and so lovely her face,     That never a hall such a galliard did grace;     While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,     And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;     And the bride's-maidens whisper'd, ''Twere better by far     To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'    "One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,     When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near;     So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,     So light to the saddle before her he sprung!     'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;     They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.    "There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;     Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;     There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,     But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.     So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,     Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?"

The monarch hung over the wily singer, and beat the measure as she sang. He pressed closer, and whispered praises in her ear. The courtiers broke in applause, the ladies whispered, and looked wise. The witching dame, not satisfied to win a King, threw her glances at Lord Marmion. The glances were significant, familiar, and told of confidences long and old between the English lord and his countrywoman, guests of a Scotch King, on the eve of a great conflict between the two countries.

The King saw their meeting eyes, saw himself treated almost with disdain, and darkest anger shook his frame, for sovereigns illy bear rivals in word, or smile, or look. He drew forth the parchment on which was written Marmion's commission, and strode to the side of brave Douglas, the sixth who had worn the coronet of Angus. The King stood side by side with this brave Scotsman, who had been madly watching the pageant, the fire flashing from his stern eye. This very day he had besought his King to withdraw from the coming war, only to call forth the reproaches of his ungrateful ruler. Yet at this moment, James felt a pride in standing by the side of Bothwell's Lord, and placing in his custody Marmion, the flower of English chivalry.

    "The Douglas' form, like ruin'd tower,     Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower:     His locks and beard in silver grew;     His eyebrows kept their sable hue.     Near Douglas, where the monarch stood,     His bitter speech he thus pursued:     'Lord Marmion, since these letters say     That in the North you needs must stay       While slightest hopes of peace remain,     Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,     To say – Return to Lindisfarne —     Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;     Your host shall be the Douglas bold,     A chief unlike his sires of old.     He wears their motto on his blade,     Their blazon o'er his towers display'd;     Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,     More than to face his country's foes.       And, I bethink me, by St. Stephen,     But e'en this morn to me was given     A prize, the first fruits of the war,     Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar,       A bevy of the maids of Heaven.     Under your guard these holy maids     Shall safe return to cloister shades.'"

The proud heart of Douglas felt the keen thrust. It was true, he would not, even for the King he devotedly loved, draw sword in an unholy cause. As a burning tear stole down his scarred cheek, he turned aside to conceal what might seem weakness. This sight the king could not bear, and seizing the hand of Angus, exclaimed:

    "'Now, by the Bruce's soul,      Angus, my hasty speech forgive!        I well may say of you, —      That never king did subject hold,      In speech more free, in war more bold,      More tender and more true:      Forgive me, Douglas, once again!'"

While monarch and man embraced, while the aged noble's tears fell like rain, Marmion seized the moment to restore himself to favor with both, and whispered half aloud to the King:

    "'Oh! let such tears unwonted plead      For respite short from dubious deed!      A child will weep a bramble's smart,      A maid to see her sparrow part,      A stripling for a woman's heart:      But woe awaits a country when      She sees the tears of bearded men.      Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,      When Douglas wets his manly eye!'"

That a stranger should see his changing moods, and above all, should presume to tamper therewith, aroused in James the fierce spirit of revenge. Said the fiery monarch:

    "'Laugh those that can, weep those that may,      Southward I march by break of day;      And if within Tantallon strong      The good Lord Marmion tarries long,      Perchance our meeting next may fall      At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.'"

Marmion felt the taunt, and answered gravely: "My humble home would be much honored if King James should visit its halls, but Nottingham has as true archers as e'er drew bow, and Yorkshire men are stern and brave.

    "'And many a banner will be torn,      And many a knight to earth be borne,      And many a sheaf of arrows spent,      Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent.'"

Scornfully the Monarch turned away, and commanded the gayeties to proceed. He flung aside cloak and sword, and gallantly led Dame Heron in the dance, as the minstrels, at the King's command, struck up "Blue Bonnets o'er the Border."

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.