Chapter 10

Not far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troop array, To Surrey’s camp to ride; He had safe-conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide: The ancient earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whispered in an under-tone, “Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.” The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:— “Though something I might plain,” he said, “Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king’s behest, While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed; 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 whom 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.”

XIV.

Burned 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 head, 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: And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near— Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword— I tell thee, thou’rt defied! And if thou said’st, I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!” On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage O’ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth—“And dar’st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop’st thou thence unscathed to go: No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms—what, warder, ho Let the portcullis fall.” Lord Marmion turned—well was his need, And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung, The ponderous gate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars descending razed his plume.

XV.

The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Nor lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake’s level brim: And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenchéd hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. “Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and chase!” But soon he reined his fury’s pace: “A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name. A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed! At first in heart it liked me ill, When the King praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to St. Bothan, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line: So swore I, and I swear it still, Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. ’Tis pity of him, too,” he cried: “Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.” With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls.

XVI.

The day in Marmion’s journey wore; Yet, ere his passion’s gust was o’er, They crossed the heights of Stanrig Moor. His troop more closely there he scanned, And missed the Palmer from the band. “Palmer or not,” young Blount did say, “He parted at the peep of day; Good sooth it was in strange array.” “In what array?” said Marmion, quick. “My lord, I ill can spell the trick; But all night long, with clink and bang, Close to my couch did hammers clang; At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, And from a loophole while I peep, Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep, Wrapped in a gown of sables fair, As fearful of the morning air; Beneath, when that was blown aside, A rusty shirt of mail I spied, By Archibald won in bloody work Against the Saracen and Turk: Last night it hung not in the hall; I thought some marvel would befall. And next I saw them saddled lead Old Cheviot forth, the earl’s best steed; A matchless horse, though something old, Prompt in his paces, cool, and bold. I heard the sheriff Sholto say, The earl did much the master pray To use him on the battle-day; But he preferred”—“Nay, Henry, cease Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace. Eustace, thou bear’st a brain—I pray What did Blount see at break of day?”

XVII.

“In brief, my lord, we both descried (For then I stood by Henry’s side) The Palmer mount, and outwards ride, Upon the earl’s own favourite steed: All sheathed he was in armour bright, And much resembled that same knight, Subdued by you in Cotswold fight: Lord Angus wished him speed.” The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, A sudden light on Marmion broke: “Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!” He muttered; “’Twas nor fay nor ghost I met upon the moonlight wold, But living man of earthly mould. O dotage blind and gross! Had I but fought as wont, one thrust Had laid De Wilton in the dust, My path no more to cross. How stand we now?—he told his tale To Douglas; and with some avail; ’Twas therefore gloomed his ruggéd brow. Will Surrey dare to entertain, ’Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain? Small risk of that, I trow. Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun; Must separate Constance from the nun— Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise 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.”

XVIII.

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reached, at eve, the Tweed, Where Lennel’s convent closed their march; (There now is left but one frail arch, Yet mourn thou not its cells: Our time a fair exchange has made; Hard by, in hospitable shade, A reverend pilgrim dwells, Well worth the whole Bernardine brood That e’er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) Yet did Saint Bernard’s Abbot there Give Marmion entertainment fair, And lodging for his train and Clare. Next morn the baron climbed 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. Long Marmion looked: at length his eye Unusual movement might descry Amid the shifting lines: The Scottish host drawn out appears, For, flashing on the edge of spears The eastern sunbeam shines. Their front now deepening, now extending Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, Now drawing back, and now descending, The skilful Marmion well could know, They watched the motions of some foe, Who traversed on the plain below.

XIX.

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore Wood, their evening post, And heedful watched them as they crossed The Till by Twisel Bridge. High sight it is, and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile; Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, Beneath the castle’s airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree, Troop after troop are disappearing; Troop after troop their banners rearing; Upon the eastern bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den, Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim-wood glen, Standards on stardards, men on men, In slow succession still, And, sweeping o’er the Gothic arch, And pressing on, in ceaseless march, To gain the opposing hill. That morn, to many a trumpet clang, Twisel! thy rocks deep echo rang; And many a chief of birth and rank, Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank. Thy hawthorn glade which now we see In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, Had then from many an axe its doom, To give the marching columns room.

XX.

And why stands Scotland idly now, Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow, Since England gains the pass the while, And struggles through the deep defile? What checks the fiery soul of James? Why sits that champion of the dames Inactive on his steed, And sees, between him and his land, Between him and Tweed’s southern strand, His host Lord Surrey lead? What ’vails the vain knight-errant’s brand? Oh, Douglas for thy leading wand! Fierce Randolph, for thy speed! Oh, for one hour of Wallace wight, Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, And cry, “Saint Andrew and our right!” Another sight had seen that morn, From Fate’s dark book a leaf been torn, And Flodden had been Bannockbourne! The precious hour has passed in vain, And England’s host has gained the plain; Wheeling their march, and circling still, Around the base of Flodden Hill.

XXI.

Ere yet the bands met Marmion’s eye, Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, “Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum! And see ascending squadrons come Between Tweed’s river and the hill, Foot, horse, and cannon: hap what hap, My basnet to a ’prentice cap, Lord Surrey’s o’er the Till! Yet more! yet more!—how far arrayed They file from out the hawthorn shade, And sweep so gallant by! With all their banners bravely spread, And all their armour flashing high, Saint George might waken from the dead, To see fair England’s standards fly.” “Stint in thy prate,” quoth Blount, “thou’dst best, And listen to our lord’s behest.” With kindling brow Lord Marmion said— “This instant be our band arrayed; The river must be quickly crossed, That we may join Lord Surrey’s host. If fight King James—as well I trust That fight he will, and fight he must, The Lady Clare behind our lines Shall tarry, while the battle joins.”

XXII.

Himself he swift on horseback threw, Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu; Far less would listen to his prayer, To leave behind the helpless Clare. Down to the Tweed his band he drew, And muttered, as the flood they view, “The pheasant in the falcon’s claw, He scarce will yield to please a daw: Lord Angus may the Abbot awe, So Clare shall bide with me.” Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, Where to the Tweed Leat’s eddies creep, He ventured desperately: And not a moment will he bide, Till squire, or groom, before him ride; Headmost of all he stems the tide, And stems it gallantly. Eustace held Clare upon her horse, Old Hubert led her rein, Stoutly they braved the current’s course, And though far downward driven per force, The southern bank they gain; Behind them straggling, came to shore, As best they might, the train; Each o’er his head his yew-bow bore, A caution not in vain; Deep need that day that every string, By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. A moment then Lord Marmion stayed, And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, Then forward moved his band, Until, Lord Surrey’s rear-guard won, He halted by a cross of stone, That, on a hillock standing lone, Did all the field command.

XXIII.

Hence might they see the full array Of either host, for deadly fray; Their marshalled lines stretched east and west, And fronted north and south, And distant salutation passed From the loud cannon mouth; Not in the close successive rattle, That breathes the voice of modern battle, But slow and far between. The hillock gained, 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 not for answer there, And would not mark the maid’s despair, Nor heed the discontented look From either squire; but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle plain, His way to Surrey took.

XXIV.

“The good Lord Marmion, by my life! Welcome to danger’s hour! Short greeting serves in time of strife: Thus have I ranged my power: Myself will rule this central host, Stout Stanley fronts their right, My sons command the vaward post, With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight: Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, Shall be in rearward of the fight, And succour those that need it most. Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, Would gladly to the vanguard go; Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, With thee their charge will blithely share: There fight thine own retainers too, Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.” “Thanks, noble Surrey!” Marmion said, Nor farther greeting there he paid; But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt, Where such a shout there rose Of “Marmion! Marmion!” that the cry Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, Startled the Scottish foes.

XXV.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still With Lady Clare upon the hill; On which, for far the day was spent, The western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard, its meaning knew, Could plain their distant comrades view: Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, “Unworthy office here to stay! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. But see! look up—on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent.” And sudden, as he spoke, 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 martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march; their tread alone At times one warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled hum, 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 looked the anxious squires; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry.

XXVI.

At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears; And in the smoke the pennons flew, As in the storm the white sea-mew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumèd crests of chieftains brave Floating like foam upon the wave; But nought distinct they see: Wide raged the battle on the plain; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly: And stainless Tunstall’s banner white, And Edmund Howard’s lion bright, Still bear them bravely in the fight; Although against them come, Of gallant Gordons many a one, And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, And many a rugged Border clan, With Huntley and with Home.

XXVII.

Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, And flung the feeble targe aside, And with both hands the broadsword plied, ’Twas vain:—But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile, cheered Scotland’s fight. Then fell that spotless banner white, The Howard’s lion fell; 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 wavered ’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.” And to the fray he rode amain, Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a space, an opening large— The rescued banner rose— But darkly closed the war around, Like pine-trees, rooted from the ground, It sunk among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too:—yet stayed, As loth to leave the helpless maid, When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red, Lord Marmion’s steed rushed by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast, To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.

XXVIII.

Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone: Perchance her reason stoops or reels; Perchance a courage not her own, Braces her mind to desperate tone. The scattered van of England wheels; She only said, as loud in air The tumult roared, “Is Wilton there?” They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die—“Is Wilton there?” With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms were smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses’ feet, With dinted shield and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion? . . . Young Blount his armour did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face, Said—“By Saint George, he’s gone! That spear-wound has our master sped— And see, the deep cut on his head! Good-night to Marmion.” “Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: He opes his eyes,” said Eustace; “peace!”

XXIX.

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around ’gan Marmion wildly stare:— “Where’s Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare? Redeem my pennon—charge again! Cry—‘Marmion to the rescue!’—Vain! Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne’er be heard again! Yet my last thought is England’s—fly, To Dacre bear my signet ring: Tell him his squadrons up to bring. Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie; Tunstall lies dead upon the field, His life-blood stains the spotless shield Edmund is down:—my life is reft; The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire— With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland’s central host, Or victory and England’s lost. 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 rung forth a lowly moan, And half he murmured—“Is there none, Of all my halls have nursed, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessèd water from the spring, To slake my dying thirst?”

XXX.

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 her by the runnel’s side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain’s side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn?—behold her mark A little fountain cell, Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell. Above some half-worn letters say, “Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray . For . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil . Gray . Who . built . this . cross . and . well . ” She filled the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A monk supporting Marmion’s head; A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrive the dying, bless the dead.

XXXI.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave— “Is it the hand of Clare,” he said, “Or injured Constance, bathes my head?” Then, as remembrance rose— “Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!” “Alas!” she said, “the while, Oh, think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal; She—died at Holy Isle.” Lord Marmion started from the ground, As light as if he felt no wound; Though in the action burst the tide In torrents, from his wounded side. “Then it was truth,” he said—“I knew That the dark presage must be true. I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs Would spare me but a day! For wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar stone Might bribe him for delay. It may not be!—this dizzy trance— Curse on yon base marauder’s lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand! A sinful heart makes feeble hand.” Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk Supported by the trembling monk.

XXXII.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound, And strove to staunch the gushing wound: The monk with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church’s prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady’s voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear; For that she ever sung, “_In the lost battle_, _borne down by the flying_ _Where mingles war’s rattle with groans of the dying_!” So the notes rung;— “Avoid thee, Fiend!—with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner’s sand! Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer’s grace divine! Oh, think on faith and bliss! By many a death-bed I have been, And many a sinner’s parting seen, But never aught like this.” The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swelled the gale And—“Stanley!” was the cry; 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.

XXXIII.