Chapter 8

His giant form like ruined tower, Though fall’n its muscles’ brawny vaunt, Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt, Seemed o’er the gaudy scene to lower: His locks and beard in silver grew; His eyebrows kept their sable hue. Near Douglas when 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 Until my herald come again. 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 displayed; Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, More than to face his country’s foes. And, I bethink me, by Saint 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; And, while they at Tantallon stay, Requiem for Cochrane’s soul may say.” And with the slaughtered favourite’s name Across the monarch’s brow there came A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

XVI.

In answer nought could Angus speak; His proud heart swelled well-nigh to break: He turned aside, and down his cheek A burning tear there stole. His hand the monarch sudden took; That sight his kind heart could not brook: “Now, by the Bruce’s soul, Angus, my hasty speech forgive! For sure as doth his spirit live, As he said of the Douglas old, 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.” And while the king his hand did strain, The old man’s tears fell down like rain. To seize the moment Marmion tried, And whispered to the king aside: “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!”

XVII.

Displeased was James, that stranger viewed And tampered with his changing mood. “Laugh those that can, weep those that may,” Thus did the fiery monarch say, “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.” The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, And answered, grave, the royal vaunt:— “Much honoured were my humble home If in its halls King James should come; But Nottingham has archers good, And Yorkshire-men are stern of mood; Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. On Derby hills the paths are steep; In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep; 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: Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may.” The monarch lightly turned away, And to his nobles loud did call, “Lords, to the dance—a hall! a hall!” Himself his cloak and sword flung by, And led Dame Heron gallantly; And minstrels, at the royal order, Rung out “Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.”

XVIII.

Leave we these revels now, to tell What to Saint Hilda’s maids befell, Whose galley, as they sailed again To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en. Now at Dunedin did they bide, Till James should of their fate decide; And soon, by his command, Were gently summoned to prepare To journey under Marmion’s care, As escort honoured, safe, and fair, Again to English land. The Abbess told her chaplet o’er, Nor knew which saint she should implore; For when she thought of Constance, sore She feared Lord Marmion’s mood. And judge what Clara must have felt! The sword that hung in Marmion’s belt Had drunk De Wilton’s blood. Unwittingly, King James had given, As guard to Whitby’s shades, The man most dreaded under heaven By these defenceless maids: Yet what petition could avail, Or who would listen to the tale Of woman, prisoner, and nun, ’Mid bustle of a war begun? They deemed it hopeless to avoid The convoy of their dangerous guide.

XIX.

Their lodging, so the king assigned, To Marmion’s, as their guardian, joined; And thus it fell that, passing nigh, The Palmer caught the Abbess’ eye, Who warned him by a scroll She had a secret to reveal That much concerned the Church’s weal And health of sinner’s soul; And with deep charge of secrecy She named a place to meet, Within an open balcony That hung from dizzy pitch, and high Above the stately street; To which, as common to each home, At night they might in secret come.

XX.

At night, in secret, there they came, The Palmer and the holy dame. The moon among the clouds rose high, And all the city hum was by. Upon the street, where late before Did din of war and warriors roar, You might have heard a pebble fall, A beetle hum, a cricket sing, An owlet flap his boding wing On Giles’s steeple tall. The antique buildings, climbing high, Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, Were here wrapt deep in shade; There on their brows the moonbeam broke Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke, And on the casements played. And other light was none to see, Save torches gliding far, Before some chieftain of degree, Who left the royal revelry To bowne him for the war. A solemn scene the Abbess chose; A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.

XXI.

“O holy Palmer!” she began— “For sure he must be sainted man Whose blessèd feet have trod the ground Where the Redeemer’s tomb is found— For His dear Church’s sake my tale Attend, nor deem of light avail, Though I must speak of worldly love— How vain to those who wed above! De Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed Clara de Clare, of Gloucester’s blood; Idle it were of Whitby’s dame, To say of that same blood I came; And once, when jealous rage was high, Lord Marmion said despiteously, Wilton was traitor in his heart, And had made league with Martin Swart, When he came here on Simnel’s part And only cowardice did restrain His rebel aid on Stokefield’s plain, And down he threw his glove: the thing Was tried, as wont, before the king; Where frankly did De Wilton own That Swart in Gueldres he had known; And that between them then there went Some scroll of courteous compliment. For this he to his castle sent; But when his messenger returned, Judge how De Wilton’s fury burned For in his packet there were laid Letters that claimed disloyal aid, And proved King Henry’s cause betrayed. His fame, thus blighted, in the field He strove to clear by spear and shield; To clear his fame in vain he strove, For wondrous are His ways above! Perchance some form was unobserved; Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved; Else how could guiltless champion quail, Or how the blessèd ordeal fail?

XXII.

“His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doomed to suffer law, Repentant, owned in vain, That while he had the scrolls in care, A stranger maiden, passing fair, Had drenched him with a beverage rare; His words no faith could gain. With Clare alone he credence won, Who, rather than wed Marmion, Did to Saint Hilda’s shrine repair, To give our house her livings fair, And die a vestal vot’ress there. The impulse from the earth was given, But bent her to the paths of heaven. A purer heart, a lovelier maid, Ne’er sheltered her in Whitby’s shade, No, not since Saxon Edelfled: Only one trace of earthly strain, That for her lover’s loss She cherishes a sorrow vain, And murmurs at the cross. And then her heritage;—it goes Along the banks of Tame; Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, In meadows rich the heifer lows, The falconer and huntsman knows Its woodlands for the game. Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, And I, her humble vot’ress here, Should do a deadly sin, Her temple spoiled before mine eyes, If this false Marmion such a prize By my consent should win; Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn That Clare shall from our house be torn; And grievous cause have I to fear Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

XXIII.

“Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed To evil power, I claim thine aid, By every step that thou hast trod To holy shrine and grotto dim, By every martyr’s tortured limb, By angel, saint, and seraphim, And by the Church of God! For mark:—When Wilton was betrayed, And with his squire forged letters laid, She was, alas! that sinful maid By whom the deed was done— Oh! shame and horror to be said!— She was a perjured nun! No clerk in all the land, like her Traced quaint and varying character. Perchance you may a marvel deem That Marmion’s paramour (For such vile thing she was) should scheme Her lover’s nuptial hour; But o’er him thus she hoped to gain, As privy to his honour’s stain, Illimitable power: For this she secretly retained Each proof that might the plot reveal, Instructions with his hand and seal; And thus Saint Hilda deigned, Through sinners’ perfidy impure, Her house’s glory to secure And Clare’s immortal weal.

XXIV.

“’Twere long and needless here to tell How to my hand these papers fell; With me they must not stay. Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true! Who knows what outrage he might do While journeying by the way? O blessèd saint, if e’er again I venturous leave thy calm domain, To travel or by land or main, Deep penance may I pay! Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer: I give this packet to thy care, For thee to stop they will not dare; And, oh! with cautious speed To Wolsey’s hand the papers bring, That he may show them to the king And for thy well-earned meed, Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrine A weekly mass shall still be thine While priests can sing and read. What ail’st thou? Speak!” For as he took The charge, a strong emotion shook His frame; and, ere reply, They heard a faint yet shrilly tone, Like distant clarion feebly blown, That on the breeze did die; And loud the Abbess shrieked in fear, “Saint Withold, save us! What is here? Look at yon city cross! See, on its battled tower appear Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, And blazoned banners toss!”

XXV.

Dunedin’s Cross, a pillared stone, Rose on a turret octagon; (But now is razed that monument Whence royal edict rang, And voice of Scotland’s law was sent In glorious trumpet-clang. Oh! be his tomb as lead to lead Upon its dull destroyer’s head!— A minstrel’s malison is said). Then on its battlements they saw A vision, passing Nature’s law, Strange, wild, and dimly seen— Figures that seemed to rise and die, Gibber and sign, advance and fly, While nought confirmed could ear or eye Discern of sound or mien. Yet darkly did it seem, as there Heralds and pursuivants prepare, With trumpet sound and blazon fair, A summons to proclaim; But indistinct the pageant proud, As fancy-forms of midnight cloud, When flings the moon upon her shroud A wavering tinge of flame; It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, From midmost of the spectre crowd, This awful summons came:—

XXVI.

“Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, Whose names I now shall call, Scottish, or foreigner, give ear! Subjects of him who sent me here, At his tribunal to appear I summon one and all: I cite you by each deadly sin That e’er hath soiled your hearts within; I cite you by each brutal lust That e’er defiled your earthly dust— By wrath, by pride, by fear; By each o’er-mastering passion’s tone, By the dark grave and dying groan! When forty days are passed and gone, I cite you, at your monarch’s throne, To answer and appear.” Then thundered 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, Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye; De Wilton, erst of Aberley, The self-same thundering voice did say. But then another spoke: “Thy fatal summons I deny, And thine infernal lord defy, Appealing me to Him on high, Who burst the sinner’s yoke.” At that dread accent, with a scream. Parted the pageant like a dream, The summoner was gone. Prone on her face the Abbess fell, And fast and fast her beads did tell; Her nuns came, startled by the yell, And found her there alone. She marked not, at the scene aghast, What time, or how, the Palmer passed.

XXVII.

Shift we the scene. The camp doth move; Dunedin’s streets are empty now, Save when, for weal of those they love, To pray the prayer, and vow the vow, The tottering child, the anxious fair, The grey-haired sire, with pious care, To chapels and to shrines repair— Where is the Palmer now? and where The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare? Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair They journey in thy charge. Lord Marmion rode on his right hand, The Palmer still was with the band; Angus, like Lindesay, did command That none should roam at large. But in that Palmer’s altered mien A wondrous change might now be seen; Freely he spoke of war, Of marvels wrought by single hand When lifted for a native land; And still looked high, as if he planned Some desperate deed afar. His courser would he feed and stroke, And, tucking up his sable frock, Would first his mettle bold provoke, Then soothe or quell his pride. Old Hubert said, that never one He saw, except Lord Marmion, A steed so fairly ride.

XXVIII.

Some half-hour’s march behind, there came, By Eustace governed fair, A troop escorting Hilda’s dame, With all her nuns and Clare. No audience had Lord Marmion sought; Ever he feared to aggravate Clara de Clare’s suspicious hate; And safer ’twas, he thought, To wait till, from the nuns removed, The influence of kinsmen loved, And suit by Henry’s self approved, Her slow consent had wrought. His was no flickering flame, that dies Unless when fanned by looks and sighs, And lighted oft at lady’s eyes; He longed to stretch his wide command O’er luckless Clara’s ample land; Besides, when Wilton with him vied, Although the pang of humbled pride The place of jealousy supplied, Yet conquest, by that meanness won He almost loathed to think upon, Led him, at times, to hate the cause Which made him burst through honour’s laws If e’er he loved, ’twas her alone Who died within that vault of stone.

XXIX.

And now when close at hand they saw North Berwick’s town and lofty Law, Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile Before a venerable pile, Whose turrets viewed, afar, The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, The ocean’s peace or war. At tolling of a bell, forth came The convent’s venerable dame, And prayed Saint Hilda’s Abbess rest With her, a loved and honoured guest, Till Douglas should a barque prepare To waft her back to Whitby fair. Glad was the Abbess, you may guess, And thanked the Scottish Prioress; And tedious were to tell, I ween, The courteous speech that passed between. O’erjoyed, the nuns their palfreys leave; But when fair Clara did intend, Like them, from horseback to descend, Fitz-Eustace said, “I grieve, Fair lady—grieve e’en from my heart— Such gentle company to part; Think not discourtesy, But lords’ commands must be obeyed; And Marmion and the Douglas said That you must wend with me. Lord Marmion hath a letter broad, Which to the Scottish earl he showed, Commanding that beneath his care Without delay you shall repair To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.”

XXX.

The startled Abbess loud exclaimed; But she at whom the blow was aimed Grew pale as death, and cold as lead— She deemed she heard her death-doom read. “Cheer thee, my child,” the Abbess said; “They dare not tear thee from my hand To ride alone with armèd band.” “Nay, holy mother, nay,” Fitz-Eustace said, “the lovely Clare Will be in Lady Angus’ care, In Scotland while we stay; And when we move, an easy ride Will bring us to the English side, Female attendance to provide Befitting Gloucester’s heir; Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord, By slightest look, or act, or word, To harass Lady Clare. Her faithful guardian he will be, Nor sue for slightest courtesy That e’en to stranger falls. Till he shall place her, safe and free, Within her kinsman’s halls.” He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace; His faith was painted on his face, And Clare’s worst fear relieved. The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, Entreated, threatened, grieved; To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed, Against Lord Marmion inveighed, And called the Prioress to aid, To curse with candle, bell, and book. Her head the grave Cistercian shook: “The Douglas and the King,” she said, “In their commands will be obeyed; Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall The maiden in Tantallon Hall.”

XXXI.

The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, Assumed her wonted state again— For much of state she had— Composed her veil, and raised her head, And—“Bid,” in solemn voice she said, “Thy master, bold and bad, The records of his house turn o’er, And when he shall there written see, That one of his own ancestry Drove the monks forth of Coventry, Bid him his fate explore. Prancing in pride of earthly trust, His charger hurled him to the dust, And, by a base plebeian thrust, He died his band before. God judge ’twixt Marmion and me; He is a chief of high degree, And I a poor recluse; Yet oft, in Holy Writ, we see Even such weak minister as me May the oppressor bruise: For thus, inspired, did Judith slay The mighty in his sin, And Jael thus, and Deborah”— Here hasty Blount broke in:— “Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band; Saint 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.”

XXXII.

“Submit we, then, to force,” said Clare, “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: And if it be the king’s decree That I must find no sanctuary In that inviolable dome Where even a homicide might come And safely rest his head, Though at its open portals stood, Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, The kinsmen of the dead; Yet one asylum is my own Against the dreaded hour— A low, a silent, and a lone, Where kings have little power. One victim is before me there. Mother, your blessing, and in prayer Remember your unhappy Clare!” Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows Kind blessings many a one: Weeping and wailing loud arose Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes Of every simple nun. His eyes the gentle Eustace dried, And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide. Then took the squire her rein, And gently led away her steed, And, by each courteous word and deed, To cheer her strove in vain.

XXXIII.

But scant three miles the band had rode, When o’er a height they passed, And, sudden, close before them showed His towers, Tantallon vast; Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, And held impregnable in war, On a projecting rock they rose, And round three sides the ocean flows, The fourth did battled walls enclose, And double mound and fosse. By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong, Through studded gates, an 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, Which on the court projected far, And broke its lines quadrangular. Here was square keep, there turret high, Or pinnacle that sought the sky, Whence oft the warder could descry The gathering ocean-storm.

XXXIV.

Here did they rest. The princely care Of Douglas, why should I declare, Or say they met reception fair? Or why the tidings say, Which, varying, to Tantallon came, By hurrying posts or fleeter fame, With every varying day? And, first, they heard King James had won Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then That Norham Castle strong was ta’en. At that sore marvelled Marmion; And Douglas hoped his monarch’s hand Would soon subdue Northumberland: But whispered news there came, That, while his host inactive lay, And melted by degrees away, King James was dallying off the day With Heron’s wily dame. Such acts to chronicles I yield: Go seek them there and see; Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, And not a history. At length they heard the Scottish host On that high ridge had made their post Which frowns o’er Milfield Plain, And that brave Surrey many a band Had gathered in the Southern land, And marched into Northumberland, And camp at Wooler ta’en. Marmion, like charger in the stall, That hears, without, the trumpet call, Began to chafe and swear: “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.” Then bade his band they should array For march against the dawning day.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH.

TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ.

_Mertoun House_, _Christmas_.