Chapter 7

"I rode at my own peril," answered the young man haughtily, for he did not like to be questioned in this manner, "and it is on mine own head that the blame must fall. Thou knowest that right well, Sir Juden, so it seems to me but waste of words to parley here."

"So thou knowest the fate that thy rash deed brings on thee," said Sir Juden hastily, his temper, never of the sweetest, rising rapidly at the young man's coolness. He would fain have hanged him without more ado, did prudence permit; and it was hard to sit still and bargain with him.

"So thou knowest that I have the right to hang thee, without further words," he continued; "and, by my faith, many a man would do it, too, without delay. But thou art young, William, and young blood must aye be roving, that I would fain remember, and so I offer thee another chance."

Here the Lord of Elibank paused and glanced at his wife, to see if he had said the right thing, for it was she who had arranged the scene beforehand, and had schooled her husband in the part he was to play.

Meanwhile young Harden, happening to meet Meg Murray's eyes, and puzzled by the look, half wistful, half imploring, which he saw there, glanced hastily out of the little casement beside which he was standing, and received a rude shock, in spite of all his courage, when he saw a strong rope, with a noose at the end of it, dangling from a stout branch of the dule-tree on the green, while a man-at-arms stood kicking the ground idly beside it, apparently waiting till he should be called on to act as executioner.

"So the old rascal is going to hang me after all," he said to himself; "then what, in Our Lady's name, means this strange mummery, and how comes that ill-favoured maiden to look at me as if her life depended on mine?"

At that moment, old Sir Juden, reassured by a nod from Dame Margaret, went on with his speech.

"I will therefore offer thee another chance, I say, and, moreover, I will throw a herd of the cattle which thou wert so anxious to steal into the bargain, if thou wilt promise, on thy part, to wed my daughter Meg within the space of four days."

Here the wily old man stopped, and the Lady of Elibank nodded her head again, while, as for young Harden, for the moment he was too astonished to speak.

So this was the meaning of it all. He was to be forced to marry the ugliest maiden in the south of Scotland in order to save his life. The vision of his mother's beauty rose before him, and the contrast between the Flower of Yarrow and Muckle-Mou'ed Meg o' Elibank struck him so sharply that he cried out in anger, "By my troth, but this thing shall never be. So do thy worst, Sir Juden."

"Think well before ye choose," said that knight, more disappointed than he would have cared to own at his prisoner's words, "for there are better things in this world than beauty, young man. Many a beautiful woman hath been but a thorn in her husband's side, and forbye[10] that, hast thou not learned in the Good Book--if ever ye find time to read it, which I fear me will be but seldom--that a prudent wife is more to be sought after than a bonnie one? And though my Meg here is mayhap no' sae well-favoured as the lassies over in Borthwick Water, or Teviotdale, I warrant there is not one of them who hath proved such a good daughter, or whose nature is so kind and generous."

[Footnote 10: Besides.]

Still young Harden hesitated, and glanced from the lady, who, poor thing, had hidden her face in her hands, to the gallows, and from the gallows back again to the lady.

Was ever mortal man in such a plight? Here he was, young, handsome, rich, and little more than four-and-twenty, and he must either lose his life on the green yonder, or marry a damsel whom everyone mocked at for her looks.

"If only I could be alone with her for five minutes," he thought to himself, "to see what she looks like, when there is no one to peep and peer at her. The maiden hath not a chance in the midst of this mannerless crowd, and methought her eyes were open and honest, as they looked into mine a little while ago."

At that moment Meg Murray lifted her head once more, and gazed round her like a stag at bay. Poor lassie, it had been bad enough to be jeered at by her father, and flouted and scolded by her mother, because of the unfortunately large mouth with which Providence had endowed her, without being put up for sale, as it were, in the presence of all her father's retainers, and find that the young man to whom she had been offered chose to suffer death rather than have her for a bride.

It was the bitterest moment of all her life, and, had she known it, it was the moment that fixed her destiny.

For young Willie of Harden saw that look, and something in it stirred his pity. Besides, he noticed that her pale face was sweet and innerly,[11] and her gray eyes clear and true.

[Footnote 11: Confiding.]

"Hold," he cried, just as Sir Juden, whose patience was quite exhausted, gave a signal to his men-at-arms to seize the prisoner, and hurry him off to the gallows, "I have changed my mind, and I accept the conditions. But I call all men to witness that I accept not the hand of this noble maiden of necessity, or against my will. I am a Scott, and, had I been minded to, I could have faced death. But I crave the honour of her hand from her father with all humility, and here I vow, before ye all, to do my best to be to her a loyal and a true man."

Loud cheers, and much jesting, followed this speech, and men would have crowded round the young Knight and made much of him, but he pushed his way in grim silence up the hall to where Meg o' Elibank stood trembling by her delighted parents.

She greeted him with a look which set him thinking of a bird which sees its cage flung open, and I wot that, though he did not know it, at that moment he began to love her.

Be that as it may, his words to Sir Juden were short and gruff. "Sir," he asked, "hast thou a priest in thy company? For, if so, let him come hither and finish what we have begun. I would fain spend this night in my own Tower of Oakwood."

Sir Juden and his lady were not a little taken aback at this sudden demand, for, now that the matter was settled to their satisfaction, they would have liked to have married their eldest daughter with more state and ceremony.

"There's no need of such haste," began Dame Margaret, with a look at her lord, "if your word is given, and the Laird satisfied. The morn, or even the next day might do. The lassie's providing[12] must be gathered together, for I would not like it said that a bride went out of Elibank with nothing but the clothes she stood in."

[Footnote 12: Trousseau.]

But young Harden interrupted her with small courtesy. "Let her be married now, or not at all," he said, and as the heir of Harden as a prospective son-in-law was very different from the heir of Harden as a prisoner, she feared to say him nay, lest he went back on his word.

So a priest was sent for, and in great haste William Scott of Harden was wedded to Margaret Murray of Elibank, and then they two set off alone, over the hills to the old Tower of Oakwood--he, with high thoughts of anger and revenge in his heart for the trick that had been played him;--she, poor thing, wondering wistfully what the future held in store for her.

The day was cold and wet, and halfway over the Hangingshaw Height he heard a stifled sob behind him, and, looking over his shoulder, he saw his little woebegone bride trying in vain with her numbed fingers to guide her palfrey, which was floundering in a moss-hole, to firmer footing.

The sight would have touched a harder heart than Willie of Harden's, for he was a true son of his mother, and the Flower of Yarrow was aye kind-hearted; and suddenly all his anger vanished.

"God save us, lassie, but there's nothing to greet[13] about," he said, turning his horse and taking her reins from her poor stiff fingers, and, though the words were rough, his voice was strangely gentle. "'Tis not thy fault that things have fallen out thus, and if I be a trifle angered, in good faith it is not with thee. Come," and, as he spoke, he stooped down and lifted her bodily from her saddle, and swung her up in front of him on his great black horse. "Leave that stupid beast of thine alone; 'twill find its way back to Elibank soon enough, I warrant. We will go over the hill quicker in this fashion, and thou wilt have more shelter from the rain. There is many a good nag on the hills at Harden, and, when she hears of our wedding, I doubt not but that my mother will have one trained for thee."

[Footnote 13: Cry.]

Poor Meg caught her breath. She did not feel so much afraid of her husband now that she was close to him, and his arm was round her; besides, the shelter from the rain was very pleasant; but still her heart misgave her.

"Thy Lady Mother, she is very beautiful," she faltered, "and doubtless she looked for beauty in her sons' wives."

Then, for ever and a day, all resentment went out of Willie of Harden's heart, and pure love and pity entered into it.

"If her sons' wives are but good women, my mother will be well content," he said, and with that he kissed her.

And I trow that that kiss marked the beginning of Meg Scott's happiness.

For happy she always was. She was aye plain-looking--nothing on earth could alter her features--but with great happiness comes a look of marvellous contentment, which can beautify the most homely face, and she was such a clever housekeeper (no one could salt beef as she could), and so modest and gentle, that her handsome husband grew to love her more and more, and I wot that her face became to him the bonniest and the sweetest face in the whole world.

Sons and daughters were born to them, strapping lads and fair-faced lassies, and, in after years, when old Wat o' Harden died, and Sir William reigned in his stead, in the old house at the head of the glen, he was wont to declare that for prudence, and virtue, and honour, there was no woman on earth to be compared with his own good wife Meg.

DICK O' THE COW

"Now Liddesdale has layen lang in, There is na ryding there at a'; The horses are a' grown sae lither fat, They downa stir out o' the sta'.

Fair Johnie Armstrong to Willie did say-- 'Billy, a riding we will gae; England and us have lang been at feid; Ablins we'll light on some bootie.'"

It was somewhere about the year 1592, and Thomas, Lord Scroope, sat at ease in his own apartment in Carlisle Castle. He had finished supper, and was now resting in a great oak chair before a roaring fire. A tankard of ale stood on a stool by his side (for my Lord of Scroope loved good cheer above all things), and his favourite hound lay stretched on the floor at his feet.

To judge by the look on his face, he was thinking pleasant thoughts just then. He held the office of Warden of the English Marches, as well as that of Governor of Carlisle Castle, and in those lawless days the post was not an easy one. There was generally some raid or foray which had to be investigated, some turbulent Scot pursued, or mayhap some noted freebooter hung; but just at present the country-side was at peace, and the Scotts, and Elliots, and Armstrongs, seemed to be content to stay quietly at home on their own side of the Border.

So that very day he had sent off a good report to his royal mistress, Queen Elizabeth, then holding her court in far-off London, and now he was dreaming of paying a long deferred visit to his Castle of Bolton in Lancashire.

A sharp knock at the door came as a sudden interruption to these dreams. "Enter," he cried hastily, wondering to himself what message could have arrived at the castle at that hour of night.

It was his own poor fool who entered, for in Carlisle Castle high state was kept, and Lord Scroope had his jester, like any king.

The man was known to everyone as "Dick o' the Cow," the reason probably being that his wife helped to eke out his scanty wages by keeping three cows, and selling their milk to the honest burghers of Carlisle. He was a harmless, light-hearted fellow, whom some men called half-witted, but who was much cleverer than he appeared at first sight to be.

As a rule he was always laughing and making jokes, but to-night his face was long and doleful.

"What ails thee, man?" cried Lord Scroope impatiently. "Methinks thou hast forgot thine office, else why comest thou here with a face that would make a merry man sad?"

"Alack, Master," answered the fool, "up till now I have been an honest man, but at last I must turn my hand to thieving, and for that reason I would crave thy leave to go over the Border into Liddesdale."

"Tush!" said the Warden impatiently, "I love not such jesting. I hear enough about thieving and reiving, and such-like business, without my very fool dinning it into my ears. Leave such matters for my Lord of Buccleuch and me to settle, Sirrah, and bethink thee of thy duty. 'Tis easier to crack jokes and sing songs in the safe shelter of Carlisle Castle than to ride out armed against these Scottish knaves."

But Dick knelt at his master's feet.

"This is no jest, my lord," he said. "For once in his life this poor fool is in earnest. For I am like to be ruined if I cannot have revenge. Thou knowest how my wife and I live in a little cottage just outside the city walls, and how, with my small earnings, I bought three milch cows. My wife is a steady woman and industrious, and she sells the milk which these three cows give, to the people in the city, and so she earns an honest penny."

"In good sooth, a very honest penny," repeated Lord Scroope, laughing, for 'twas well known in Carlisle that the milk which was sold by Dick o' the Cow's wife was thinner and dearer than any other milk sold in the town.

"Last night," went on the fool, "these Scottish thieves, the Armstrongs of Liddesdale, rode past the house, and, of course, they must needs drive these cows off, and, not content with that, they broke open the door, and stole the very coverlets off my bed. My wife bought these coverlets at the Michaelmas fair, and, I trow, what with the loss of them, and the loss of the cows, she is like to lose her reason. So, to comfort her, I have promised to bring them back. Therefore, my lord, I crave leave of thee to go over into Liddesdale, and see what I can lay my hands on there."

The blood rose to the Warden's face. "By my troth, but thou art not frightened to speak, Sirrah," he cried. "Am I not set here to preserve law and order, and thou wouldst have me give thee permission to steal?"

"Nay, not to steal," said the fool slyly; "I only crave leave to get back my own, or, at least, the money's worth for what was my own."

Lord Scroope pondered the request for a minute or two.

"After all," he thought to himself, "what can this one poor man do against such a powerful clan as the Armstrongs? He will be killed, most likely, and that will be the end of it. So there can be no great harm in letting him go."

"If I give thee leave, wilt thou swear that thou wilt steal from no one but those who stole from thee?" he asked at last.

"That I will," said Dick readily. "I give thee my troth, and there is my right hand upon it. Thou canst hang me for a thief myself, if I take as much as a bannock of bread from the house of any man who hath done me no harm."

So my Lord of Scroope let him go.

A blithe man was Dick o' the Cow as he went down the streets of Carlisle next morning, for he had money in his pocket, and a big scheme floating in his brain. It mattered little to him that men smiled to each other as they passed him, and whispered, "There goes my Lord of Scroope's poor jester."

"He laughs the longest who laughs the last," he thought to himself, "and mayhap all men will envy me before long."

First of all, he went and bought a pair of spurs, and a new bridle, which he carefully hid in his breeches pocket, then he turned his back on Carlisle and set out to walk over Bewcastle Waste into Liddesdale. It was a long walk, but he footed it bravely, and at last he arrived at Pudding-burn House, a strongly fortified place, held by John Armstrong, "The Laird's Jock," as he was called, son of the Laird of Mangerton, and a man of importance in the clan. He was known to be both just and generous, and the poor fool thought that he would go to him, and tell him his story, in the hope that he would force the rest of the Armstrongs to give him back his three cows. But when he came near the Pudding-burn House, he found to his dismay that the two Armstrongs who had stolen his cows, Johnie and Willie, had stopped there, on their way home, with all their men-at-arms, and, from the sounds of feasting and mirth which he heard as he approached, he suspected that one, at least, of his three cows had been killed to provide the supper.

"Ah well," thought he to himself, "I am but a poor fool, and there are three-and-thirty armed men against me. To fight is impossible, so I must e'en set my wits to work against their strength of arms."

So he walked boldly up to the house, and demanded to see the Laird's Jock. There was much laughter among the men-at-arms as he was led into the great hall, for everyone had heard of my Lord of Scroope's jester, and, when they knew that it was he, they all crowded round to see what he was like.

He knew his manners, and bowed right low before the master of the house. "God save thee, my good Laird's Jock," he said, "although I fear me I cannot wish so well to all thy company. For I come here to bring a complaint against two of these men--against Johnie and Willie Armstrong, who, with their followers, broke into my house near Carlisle these two nights past, and drove away my three good milk cows, forbye stealing three coverlets from my bed. And I crave that I get my own again, and that justice may be meted out to the dishonest varlets."

These words were greeted by a shout of laughter, for these were rough and lawless times, when might was right, and the strong tyrannised over the weak, and it seemed ridiculous to see this poor fool standing in the middle of all these armed moss-troopers, and expecting to be heard.

"He deserves to be hanged for his insolence," said Johnie Armstrong, who had been the leader of the company.

"Run him through with a sword," said Willie, laughing; "'tis less trouble, and 'twill serve the same end."

"No," cried another. "'Tis not worth while to kill him. He is but a fool at the best. Let us give him a good beating, and then let him go."

But the Laird's Jock heard them, and his voice rang out high above the rest. "Why harm the poor man?" he said. "After all, he hath but come to seek his own, and he must be both hungry and footsore." Then, turning to the fool, he added kindly, "Sit thyself down, my man, and rest thee a little. I am sorry that we cannot exactly give thee thy cattle back again, but at least we can give thee a slice from the leg of one of them. Beshrew me if I have tasted finer beef for many a long day."

Amid roars of laughter a slice of beef was cut from the enormous leg which lay roasted on the great table, and placed before Dick. But he could not eat it, he could only think what a fine cow it had been when it was alive. At last he slipped away unobserved out of the house, and, looking about for somewhere to sleep, he found an old tumble-down house filled with peats.

He crept into it, and lay there, wondering and scheming how he could avenge himself.

Now it had always been the custom at Mangerton Hall, where the Laird's Jock had been brought up, that whoever was not in time for one meal had to wait till the next, and he made the same rule hold good at Pudding-burn House.

As the poor fool lay among the peats, he could see what was going on through a crack in the door, and he noticed that, as the Armstrongs' men were both tired and hungry, they did not take time to put the key away safely after attending to their horses and locking the stable door, but flung it hastily up on the roof, where it could easily be found if it were wanted, and hurried off in case they were late for their supper.

"Here is my chance," he thought to himself, and, as soon as they were all gone into the house, he crept out, and took down the key, and entered the stable. Then he did a very cruel thing. He cut every horse, except three, on one of its hind legs, "tied it with St Mary's knot," as it was called; so that he made them all lame. Then he hastily drew the spurs and the new bridle out of his breeches pocket. He buckled on the spurs, and began to examine the three horses which he had not lamed. He knew to whom they belonged. Two of them, which were standing together, belonged to Johnie and Willie Armstrong, and were the very horses they had ridden when they stole the cows. The third, a splendid animal, which had a stall to itself, plainly belonged to the Laird's Jock.

"I will leave the Laird's Jock's," thought Dick to himself, "for I cannot take three, and he is a kind man; but Johnie's and Willie's must go. 'Twill perhaps teach them what comes of dishonest ways."

So saying, he slipped the bridle over the head of one horse, and tied a rope round the neck of the other, and, opening the stable door, he led them out quietly, and then, mounting one of them, he galloped away as fast as he could.

The next morning, when the men went to the stable to see after their horses, there were shouts of anger and consternation. And no wonder. For it was easy to be seen that thirty of the horses would never put foot to the ground again; other two were stolen; and there was only one, the beautiful bay mare which belonged to the Laird's Jock, which was of any use at all.

"Now who hath done this cruel thing?" cried the master of the house in great anger. "Let me know his name, and by my soul, he shall be punished."

"'Twas the varlet whom we all took to be such a fool," cried Johnie; "the rascal who came here last night whining for his precious cows. A thousand pities but we had done as I said, and hanged him on the nearest tree."

"Hold thy tongue and take blame to thyself," said the Laird's Jock sharply. "Did I not tell thee, ere thou rode to Carlisle, thou and Willie and thy thieving band, that the two countries were at peace, and if thou began this work once more, 'twas hard to say where it would end? Truly the tables are indeed turned. For this poor fool, as thou callest him, hath befooled us all, for the men's horses are maimed and useless, thine own and thy brother's are stolen, and there but remains this good bay mare of mine. Beshrew me, but it seems as if the fellow had some gratitude left that he did not touch her, for I love her as I never loved a horse before."

"Give her to me," cried Johnie Armstrong quickly, stung by this well-earned reproof, "and I will bring the two horses back, and the cunning fool with them, either alive or dead. 'Tis a far cry from here to Carlisle, and I trow he could ride but slowly in the darkness."

"A likely story," said the Laird's Jock. "The fool, as thou callest him, hath already stolen two good horses, and to send another after him would but be sending good siller after bad."

"An' dost thou think that he could take the horse from me?" asked Johnie indignantly, and he pleaded so hard to be allowed to pursue Dick, that at last the Laird's Jock gave him leave.

He wasted no time in seeking his armour, but, snatching up hastily his kinsman's doublet, sword, and helmet, he leaped on the bay mare and galloped away.

He rode so furiously that by midday he overtook Dick on Canonbie Lee, not far from Longtown.

The poor fool had had to ride slowly, for he was not very much accustomed to horses, and it was not easy for him to manage two. He looked round in alarm when he heard the thunder of hoofs behind him, but his face cleared when he saw that Johnie Armstrong was alone.