The Prose Marmion

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.

"The Palmer, in good sooth, parted from Douglas at dawn of day. If a Palmer he is, he set out in strange guise," replied the youth.

"What mean you?" quickly demanded Marmion.

"My Lord, I can ill interpret what I say. All night I was disturbed in my sleep, as if by workmen forging armor. At dawn, hearing the drawbridge fall, I looked from a loophole and saw old Bell-the-Cat, wrapped in sables, come from Tantallon keep. The wind blew aside the fur mantle, and I beheld beneath it, a suit of rusty mail, which I am sure must have done bloody work against Saracen and Turk. Last night that armor did not hang in Tantallon hall. Next, I saw Old Cheviot, Douglas's matchless steed, led forth, sheathed in bright armor. The Palmer sprang to the saddle, Lord Angus wished him speed, and as he bowed and bent in graceful farewells, I could but think how strongly that Palmer resembled the young knight you overthrew at Cottiswold."

A sudden light broke upon Marmion. "Dastard! fool! I, to reason lost, when I rode to meet a fay, a ghost, on Gifford's moor. It was this Palmer fiend, De Wilton in disguise, I met. Had I but fought as is my wont, one thrust had placed him where he would never cross my path again. Now he has told my tale to Douglas. This is why I was treated with scorn. I almost fear to meet my Lord Surrey. I must avoid the Lady Clare, and separate Constance from the nuns.

    "O, what a tangled web we weave,     When first we practice to deceive!     A Palmer too! – no wonder why     I felt rebuked beneath his eye:     I might have known there was but one     Whose look could quell Lord Marmion!"

Stung with these thoughts, he urged on his troop, and at nightfall reached the Tweed, closing the march of the day at Lennel convent. Here Marmion, his train, and Lady Clare, were given entertainment for the night.

    "'Next morn, the baron climb'd the tower,      To view afar the Scottish power,        Encamped on Flodden edge:      The white pavilions made a show,      Like remnants of the winter snow,        Along the dusky ridge.      Lord Marmion look'd: – at length his eye      Unusual movement might descry.      Their ranks inclining, wheeling, bending,      Now drawing back, and now descending,      The skilful Marmion well could know,      They watched the motions of some foe."

Even so it was. The Scots from Flodden ridge saw the English host leave Barmore-wood and cross the river Till. Why did Scotland's hosts stand idle? What checked the fiery James, that he sat inactive on his steed and saw Surrey place the English army between Scotland and Scotland's army? O Douglas! O Wallace! O Bruce! for one hour of thy leadership to rule the fight! The precious hour passed, – the hour when in crossing the river, the English might have been destroyed.

    "From fate's dark book a leaf been torn,     And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!"

Fitz-Eustace called to Blount, and both to Marmion, "'Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!'" The spirit of war flowed in every vein. Marmion flung himself into the saddle, scarce bade adieu to the good Abbot, commanded the young knight to escort the Lady Clare, and dashed on to the Tweed. The river must be crossed. Down to the deep and dangerous ford, he ventured desperately. Foremost of all, he gallantly entered and stemmed the tide. Eustace held Clare upon her saddle, and old Hubert reined her horse. Stoutly they braved the current, and though carried far down the stream, they gained the opposite bank.

The train followed. Each held his bow high over his head, and well he might. Every string that day needed to be unharmed by moisture, that it might ring sharply in the coming combat.

Marmion rested a moment, only to bathe his horse, then halted not until Surrey's rear guard was reached. Here on a hillock, by a cross of stone, they could survey the field.

    "The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion stayed:    'Here, by this cross,' he gently said,    'You well may view the scene.     Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:     Oh! think of Marmion in thy prayer!     Thou wilt not? well, – no less my care     Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.     You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,       With ten picked archers of my train;     With England if the day go hard,       To Berwick speed amain.     But if we conquer, cruel maid,     My spoils shall at your feet be laid,       When here we meet again."

He waited for no answer, but dashed over the plain to Lord Surrey, who met him with delight.

"Welcome, good Lord Marmion; brief greeting must serve in time of need.

With Stanley, I myself, have charge of the central division of the army, Tunstall, stainless knight, directs the rearward, and the vanguard alone needs your gallant command."

"Thanks, noble Surrey," Marmion said, and darted forward like a thunderbolt. At the van, arose cheer on cheer, "Marmion! Marmion!" so shrill, so high, as to startle the Scottish foe.

Eustace and Blount sadly thought,

    "'Unworthy office here to stay!      No hope of gilded spurs to-day.'"

When King James saw that the English army by its skilful countermarch had separated him from his base of supplies, and from his own country, he resolved upon battle at once. Setting fire to his tents, he descended, and the two armies, one facing north, the other south, met almost without seeing each other.

    "From the sharp ridges of the hill,     All downward to the banks of Till,       Was wreathed in sable smoke.     Volumed and fast, and rolling far,     The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,       As down the hill they broke;     Nor mortal shout, nor minstrel tone,     Announced their march; their tread alone     Told England, from his mountain-throne       King James did rushing come.     Scarce could they hear or see their foes,       Until at weapon-point they close.     They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,     With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;       And such a yell was there,     Of sudden and portentous birth,     As if men fought upon the earth,       And fiends in upper air;     Oh, life and death were in the shout,     Recoil and rally, charge and rout,       And triumph and despair.     Long look'd the anxious squires; their eye     Could in the darkness naught descry."

At length the breeze threw aside the shroud of battle, and there might be seen ridge after ridge of spears. Pennon and plume floated like foam on the crest of the wave. Spears shook; falchions flashed; arrows fell like rain; crests rose, and stooped, and rose again.

    "Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew     With wavering flight, while fiercer grew       Around the battle-yell.     The Border slogan rent the sky!     A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:     Loud were the clanging blows;     Advanced – forced back – now low, now high,       The pennon sunk and rose;     As bends the barque's mast in the gale,     When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,       It waver'd 'mid the foes.     No longer Blount the view could bear:    'By heaven and all its saints! I swear,       I will not see it lost;     Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare     May bid your beads, and patter prayer, —       I gallop to the host.'"

To the fray he rode, followed by the archers. At the next moment, fleet as the wind, Marmion's steed riderless flew by, the housings and saddle dyed crimson. Eustace mounted and plunged into the fight, resolved to rescue the body of his fallen lord.

Alone, in that dreadful hour, a courage not her own armed the gentle girl with strength to play a noble part. She was thinking only of De Wilton, when two horsemen drenched with human gore, rode up, bearing a wounded knight, his shield bent, his helmet gone. He yet bore in his hand a broken brand. Could this be Marmion? Blount unlaced the armor; Eustace removed the casque; revived by the free air, Marmion cried:

"Fitz-Eustace, Blount,

    "'Redeem my pennon, – charge again!      Cry, – "Marmion to the rescue!"       'Must I bid twice? – hence, varlets! fly!        Leave Marmion here alone, – to die.'        They parted, and alone he lay;        Clare drew her from the sight away,      Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,      And half he murmur'd – 'Is there none,        Of all my halls have nursed,      Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring      Of blessed water from the spring,        To slake my dying thirst!'"     "O Woman! in our hours of ease,      Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,      And variable as the shade      By the light quivering aspen made;      When pain and anguish wring the brow,      A ministering angel thou!      Scarce were the piteous accents said,      When, with the baron's casque, the maid        To the nigh streamlet ran:      Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;      The plaintive voice alone she hears,      Sees but the dying man."

She stooped by the side of the rill, but drew back in horror, – it ran red with the best blood of two kingdoms. Near by, a fountain played, the well of Sybil Grey. At this, the helmet was quickly filled, and accompanied by a monk, who was present to shrive the dying or to bless the dead, the Lady Clare hurried to the side of Marmion. Deep he drank, saying:

"Is it the hand of Constance or of Clare that bathes my brow? Speak not to me of shrift and prayer; while the spark of life lasts, I must redress the wrongs of Constance."

Between broken sobs the Lady Clare replied:

    "'In vain for Constance is your zeal;      She – died at Holy Isle.'"

Lord Marmion started from the ground, but fainting fell, supported by the monk.

The din of war ceased for a moment, then there swelled upon the gale the cry, "Stanley! Stanley!"

    "A light on Marmion's visage spread,       And fired his glazing eye:     With dying hand, above his head,     He shook the fragment of his blade,       And shouted 'Victory!     Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!'     Were the last words of Marmion."

The monk gently placed the maid on her steed, and led her to the fair Chapel of Tilmouth. The night was spent in prayer, and at dawn she was safely given to her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

All day, till darkness drew her wing over the ghastly scene, more desperate grew the deadly strife. When night had fallen, Surrey drew his shattered bands from the fray. Then Scotland learned her loss.

    "Their king, their lords, their mightiest low,     They melted from the field as snow,     Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless splash       While many a broken band,     Disorder'd, through her currents dash,       To gain the Scottish land;     To town and tower, to down and dale,     To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,     And raise the universal wail.     Tradition, legend, tune, and song,     Shall many an age that wail prolong:     Still from the sire the son shall hear     Of the stern strife, and carnage drear.       Of Flodden's fatal field,     Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,       And broken was her shield!    "Day dawns upon the mountain's side: —     There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,     Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one:     The sad survivors all are gone.     View not that corpse mistrustfully,     Defaced and mangled-though it be;     He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;     Reckless of life, he desperate fought,       And fell on Flodden plain:     And well in death his trusty brand,     Firm clench'd within his kingly hand,       Beseem'd the monarch slain."

Little remains to be told. Fitz-Eustace, faithful to the last, bore "To Litchfield's lofty pile," what he believed to be the pierced and mangled body of his once proud master. Here was reared a Gothic tomb; carved tablets were set in fretted niche; around were hung his arms and armor, and the walls were blazoned with his deeds of valor; but Lord Marmion's body lay not there. Midst the din and roar of battle, a poor dying peasant had dragged himself to the fountain where died the Lord of Fontenaye, the Lord of Tamworth tower and town. Spoilers stripped and mutilated both bodies and the lowly woodsman was carried to the proud baron's tomb.

Through the long and dreadful fight, Wilton was in the foremost and thickest. When Surrey's horse was slain, it was De Wilton's horse on which the noble leader was again mounted. It was Wilton's brand that hewed down the spearsmen. He was the living soul of all.

In that battle, he won back rank and lands, adding to his crest bearings bought on Flodden Field. King and kinsman blessed fair Clara's constancy. As he reads, each must paint for himself the bridal scene, and imagine that,

    "Bluff King Hal the curtain drew,     And Catherine's hand the stocking threw;     And afterwards, for many a day,     That it was held enough to say,     In blessing to a wedded pair,    'Love they like Wilton and like Clare.'"