The Caged Lion, Charlotte M. Yonge [dark books to read TXT] 📗

course should next be.  Strange to say, in spite of the horror of knowing his sister to have been a whole year in Walter Stewart’s power, he was neither hopeless nor disheartened.  Lilias seemed to have kept her persecutor at bay once, and she might have done so again—if only by the appeal to the mysterious relic, on which his oath to abstain from violence had been sworn.  And confidence in Esclairmonde’s prayers continued to buoy him up, as he recited his own, and formed his designs for ascertaining whether she were to be found at Doune—either as wife, or as captive, to Walter, Earl of Fife and heir of Albany.

So soon as the doors of Coldingham Priory were opened, he was on his way northward.  It was a sore and trying journey, in the bitter March weather, for one so little used to hardship.  He did not fail in obtaining shelter or food; his garb was everywhere a passport; but he grew weary and footsore, and his anxiety greatly increased when he found that fatigue was bringing back the lameness, which greatly enhanced the likelihood of his being recognized.  Kind monks, and friendly gude-wives, hospitably persuaded the worn student to remain and rest, till his blistered feet were whole; but he pressed on whenever he found it possible to travel, and after the first week found his progress less tardy and painful.

Resting at Edinburgh for Passion-tide and Easter Day, he found that the Regent Albany himself, with all his family, were at Doune, and he accordingly made his way thither; rejoicing that he had had some little time to perfect himself in his part, before rehearsing it to the persons most likely to detect his disguise.

Along the banks and braes of bonny Doune he slowly moved, with weary limbs; looking up to the huge pile of the majestic castle in sickening of heart at the doubt that was about to become a certainty, and that involved the happiness or the absolute misery of his sister’s life.  Nay, he would almost have preferred to find that she had perished in her resistance, rather than have become wife to such a man as Walter Stewart.

The Duke of Albany, as representing majesty, kept up all the state that Scottish majesty was capable of, in its impoverished irregular state.  Hosts of rough lawless warriors, men-at-arms, squires and knights, lived at free quarters, in a sort of rude plenty, in and about the Castle; eating and drinking at the Regent’s expense, sleeping where they could, in hall or stable, and for clothing and armour trusting to ‘spulzie’; always ready for violence, without much caring on whom exercised—otherwise hunting, or lounging, or swelling their master’s disorderly train.

This retinue was almost at its largest at this time, being swelled by the following of the two younger sons of Murdoch, Robert and Alexander; and the courts of the Castle were filled with rude, savage-looking men, some few grooming horses, others with nothing to do but to shout forth their jeers at the pale, black-gowned student, who timidly limped into their lair.

Timidly—yes; for the awful chances heavily oppressed him; and the horrible scurrility and savagery that greeted him on all sides made his heart faint at the thought of his Lily in this cage of foul animals.  He did not fear for himself, and never paused until a shouting circle of idle ruffians set themselves full in his way, to badger and bait the poor scholar with taunts and insults—hemming him in, bawling out ribald mirth, as a pack of hounds fall on some stray dog, or, as Malcolm thought, in a moment half of sick horror, half of resolute resignation, like wild cattle—fat bulls of Bashan closing in on every side.  So horrible a moment of distress he had never known; but suddenly, as he stood summoning all his strength, panting with dismay, inwardly praying, and trying to close his ears and commend himself to One who knew what mockery is, there was an opening of the crowd, a youth darted down among them, with a loud cry of ‘Shame!  Out on you!  A poor scholar!’ and taking Malcolm’s hand, led him forward; while a laugh of mockery rose in the distance—‘Like to like.’

‘Ay, my friend and brother, I am Baccalaureus, even as you are,’ eagerly said the young gentleman, in whom Malcolm, somewhat to his alarm, recognized his cousin, James Kennedy, the King’s nephew, a real Parisian ‘bejanus,’ or bec jaune, {2} when they last had met in the Hôtel de St. Pol; and thus not only qualified to confute and expose him, should he show any ignorance of details, but also much more likely to know him than those who had not seen him for many months before he had left Scotland.

But James Kennedy asked no questions, only said kindly, in the Latin that was always spoken in the University, ‘Pray pardon us!  Mores Hyperboreis desunt. {3}  The Regent would be grieved, if he knew how these scelerati {4} have sorted you.  Come, rest and wash—it will soon be supper-time.’

He took Malcolm to an inner court, filled for him a cup of ale, for his immediate refreshment, and led him to a spout of clear water, in the side of the rock on which the Castle stood; where a stone basin afforded the only facilities for washing that the greater part of the inhabitants of the Castle expected, and, in effect, more than they commonly used.  Malcolm, however, was heartily glad of the refreshment of removing the dust from his weary face and feet—and heartily thanked his protector, in the same dog-Latin.  Kennedy waited for him, and as a great bell began to ring, said ‘Pro cænâ,’ {5} and conducted him towards the great hall while Malcolm felt much impelled to make himself known, but was conscious that he had not so comported himself towards his cousin at Paris as to deserve much favour from him.

A high table was spread in the hall, with the usual appliances befitting princes and nobles.  The other tables, below the dais, were of the rudest description, and stained with accumulations of grease and ale; and no wonder, since trenchers were not, and each man hacked a gobbet for himself from the huge pieces of beef carried round on spits—nor would the guests have had any objection, during a campaign, to cook the meat in the fashion described by Froissart, between themselves and the saddle.  These were the squirearchy; Malcolm’s late persecutors did not aspire to the benches around these boards, or only at second hand, and for the most part had no seat but the unclean straw and rushes that strewed the floor.

As James Kennedy entered the hall with Malcolm, there came from another door, marshalled by the seneschal in full feudal state, the Regent Duke of Albany himself, his wife, a daughter or two, two sons—and Malcolm saw, with beating heart, Lilias herself, pale worn, sorrowful-looking, grievously altered, but still his own Lily.  Others followed, chiefly knights and attendants, but Malcolm saw no one but Lily.  She took her place dejectedly, and never raised her eyes towards him, even when, on the Regent’s question, ‘What have ye there, Jamie?’  Kennedy stood forth and answered that it was a scholar, a student, for whom he asked the hospitality of his kinsman.

‘He is welcome,’ said the Regent, a man of easy good-nature, whose chief misfortune was, that being of weak nature, he came between a wicked father and wickeder sons.  He was a handsome man, with much of the stately appearance of King James himself, and the same complexion; but it was that sort of likeness which was almost provoking, by seeming to detract from the majesty of the lineaments themselves, as seen in him who alone knew how to make them a mask for a great soul.  His two sons, Robert and Alexander, laughed as they saw Kennedy’s companion, and called out, ‘So that’s the brotherhood of learning, is it, Jamie?—forgathering with any beggar in the street!’

‘Yea,’ said Kennedy, nothing daunted, ‘and finding him much better mannered than you!’

‘Ay!’ sighed Murdoch, feebly; ‘when I grew up, it was at the Castles of Perth and Doune that we looked for the best manners.  Now—’

‘We leave them to the lick-platters that have to live by them,’ said Alexander, rudely.

Kennedy, meanwhile, gave the young scholar in charge to a gray-headed retainer, who seemed one of the few who had any remains of good-breeding; and then offered to say Grace—he being the nearest approach to an ecclesiastic present—as the chaplain was gone to an Easter festivity at his Abbey.  Malcolm thus obtained a seat at the second table, and a tolerable share of supper; but he could hardly eat, from intense anxiety, and scarcely knew whether to be glad or sorry that he was out of sight of Lily.

By and by, a moment’s lull of the universal din enabled Malcolm to hear the Regent saying, ‘Verily, there is a look of gentle nurture about the lad.  Look you, James, when the tables are drawn, you shall hold a disputation with him.  It will be sport to hear how you chop logic at your Universities yonder.’

Malcolm’s spirit sank.  Such disputations were perfectly ordinary work at both Oxford and Paris, and, usually, he was quite capable of sustaining his part in them; but his heart was so full, his mind so anxious, his condition so dangerous, that he felt as if he could by no means rally that alertness of argument, and readiness of quotation, that were requisite even in the merest tyro.  However, he made a great effort.  He secretly invoked the Light of Wisdom; tried to think himself back into the aisles of St. Mary’s Church, and to call up the key-notes of some of the stock arguments; hoping that, if the selection of the subject were left to Kennedy, he would hit on one of those most familiar at Oxford.

The supper was ended, the tables were removed, and the challenge took place.  Duke Murdoch, leaning back in his high chair by the peat-fire, while the ladies sat round at their spinning, called for the two young clerks to begin their tourney of words.  They stood opposite one another, on the step of the dais; and Kennedy, as host and challenger, assigned to his opponent the choice of a subject, when Malcolm, brightening, proposed one that he had so often heard and practised on, as to have the arguments at his fingers’ ends; namely, that the real consists only in that which is substantial to the senses, and which we see, hear, taste, smell, or touch.

Kennedy’s shrewd gray eye glanced at him in a manner that startled him, as he made reply, ‘Fellow-alumnus, you speak as Oxford scholars speak; but I rede ye well that the real is not that which is grossly tangible to the corporeal sense, but the idea that is conceived within the immortal intelligence.’

The argument was carried on in the vernacular, but there was an unlimited license of quotation from authors of all kinds, classics, Fathers, and schoolmen.  It was like a game at chess, in which the first moves were always so much alike, that they might have been made by automatons; and Malcolm was repeating reply and counter-reply, almost by rote, when a citation brought in by Kennedy again startled him.

‘Outward things,’ said James, ‘are the mere mark; for have we not heard how

“Telephus et Peleus, quum pauper et exsul uterque,
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba”?’ {6}

Was this to prove that he recognized a wandering prince in his opponent? thought Malcolm; but, much on his guard, he made answer, as usual, in his native tongue.  ‘That which is not touched and held is but a vain and fleeting shadow—“solvitur in nube.” {7}

‘Negatur, it is denied!’ said Kennedy, fixing his eyes full upon him.  ‘The Speculum of the Soul, which is immortal, retains the image even while the bodily presence is far away.  Wherefore else was it that Ulysses sat as a beggar by his paternal hearth, or that Cadmus wandered to seek his sister?’

This was anything but the regular illustration—the argument was far too directly ad hominem—and Malcolm hesitated for a moment, ere framing his reply.  ‘If the image had satisfied the craving of their hearts, they had never wandered, nor endangered themselves.’

‘Nor,’ said Kennedy, ‘endeared themselves to all who love the leal and the brave, and count these indeed as verities for which to live.’

From the manner in which these words were spoken, Malcolm had no further doubt either that Kennedy knew him, or that he meant to assist him; and the discussion thenceforth proceeded without further departures from the regular style, and was sustained with considerable spirit, till the Regent grew weary of it, and bed-time approached, when Kennedy announced his intention of taking his fellow-student to share his chamber; and, as this did not appear at all an unnatural proposal, in the crowded Castle, Malcolm followed