CHAPTER XXI.

THE PRICE OF THREE TENEMENTS.

"A letter forged! St. Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed?"--_Marmion_.

A few pages back, we left the Duke of Rothesay, the Earl of Angus, and Lord Drummond seeking the presence of James III., all in a high state of excitement. They soon reached the hall (already described) where, during his annual visits to Dundee, the king received petitions and heard complaints, or held council, with what success we have already shown. It was, as usual, crowded by courtiers and nobles, with their armed followers and dependents; and Hailes, Home, the Forester of Drum, the Steward of Menteith, and other discontented personages, were grouping and whispering together.

The king was seated in the great chair, under the purple cloth of estate; near him stood John Abercrombie, the learned Benedictine, and they were examining with deep interest Lorenzo della Magna's edition of Dante's _Inferno_, which had been printed at Florence seven years before, and had thirteen illustrations engraved by Baldini. This had been a gift to James from the Papal ambassador, the Bishop of Imola; and the almost unlettered Angus gazed with wonder and pity at a king whose mind was so narrow that he could feel interested in a trifle so pitiful as a printed book!

The usually stern expression which clouded the dark face of this great lord of Galloway was partly concealed by the visor of his helmet; but the excitement under which he laboured was evident, for he frequently approached James, and withdrew again, as if irresolute how to broach the subject that oppressed him.

Lord Drummond and Rothesay were equally excited, and their emotion was balm to the gloomy soul of Sir Patrick Gray who accompanied them, and who, with his pale thin lips and fine but sharp teeth, his small wiry hands and cold delusive smile, seemed to be the evil genius of them all.

"My Lord Angus," said the Constable of Dundee, "dost think this king of ours will ever prefer the marshalling of hosts to the making of books and ballads--the clank of armour to rustle of silk--or the jangle of spurs to the patter of cork-heeled shoon?"

"We shall soon see," replied Angus, hoarsely, through his clenched teeth, as he darted a savage glance at the Duke of Montrose.

"It would seem not," added the warlike Constable, who, when a mere youth, had slain the aged Earl of Crawford at the battle of Arbroath; "he is overmuch of a clerk and carpet squire for me."

Neither Angus nor this Lord of Dudhope had much love for each other, but like many of the hostile nobles, they cordially agreed in keeping an iron hand over the poor king, and in resolving to defeat his projects, whether wise or unwise, and to destroy every favourite chosen from "the herd," as they designated the people, from whom unfortunately the favourites of the Stuart princes were generally chosen.

"Fool-king!" growled the furious earl, "while thou toyest with some wretched ballad-book, I hold in my hand that which shall startle all Scotland like the note of the last trumpet."

"Yea," responded the Constable of Dundee, "these balladeers and book-makers remind me of so many birds of prey hovering about the throne."

"These carles in iron seem like so many crocodiles watching the poor king," whispered the Benedictine at the same moment to William Dunbar, the sweet author of the _Thrissel and the Rois_, for there was then a feud between the men of the sword and the men of letters, as it was not an age when they could entertain a high veneration for each other.

Rothesay's excitement at last became insupportable. Pale and trembling with grief and anger, he approached the royal chair, and stretching out his hands, with his fine eyes full of fire, tears, and upbraiding, said to the king,--

"Father, is it thus thou hast deceived me!"

"Deceived thee--in what?" asked the astonished monarch.

"Yea, deceived me. The Lord Drummond told thee how I loved and was wedded to his daughter; and you gave me hopes of clemency and forgiveness, while knowing that overnight she had been most cruelly and foully abducted--torn away from me--from me who loved her better than my own soul!"

It is impossible to describe the astonishment that was visible in the faces of all who heard this startling avowal and charge; but in no face was it more strongly impressed than the king's, and his silence appeared to Rothesay the dumb confusion of discovered guilt.

"Father and king," said he, firmly, "where is my wife, the Duchess of Rothesay?"

"Rash monarch!" added Lord Drummond, with a hand on his sword, "I, too, demand, where is my daughter?"

"By my soul as a man--by my honour as a king, I know not!" replied James, with dignity and indignation, as he rose from his chair, and threw the poems of Dante on the dais.

"Restore her to me!" continued the young prince, frantically, while his dark eyes sparkled through their tears; "restore her, or in three days I will set all Scotland on fire!"

"'Tis a wile of the English faction to further their Tudor marriage," said Lord Lindesay, an opinion in which many nobles concurred; "beware, my lord, beware of what you say and do!"

Angus stood silent and confounded by this double revelation.

"'Tis enough to weep _once_ over those we love," said Lord Drummond; "I have wept for my lost daughter, for she was my dearest and best beloved, the most gentle and bonnie of five; and now I shall think of vengeance! None but thee, James Stuart, could have an interest in removing or destroying her, so restore her, dead or alive, or vengeance will be the occupation of my life! The honour of a Scottish noble cannot be trifled with, even by a Scottish king; so beware that, when plunging into the abyss of rebellion I do not drag thy throne down with me!"

Stunned by this terrible and, at such a time, most dangerous accusation--dangerous, the more so that it came from the lips of his own son, the good and amiable king gazed irresolutely among the nobles, and read a threatening expression in all their clouded brows; even Montrose, his most trusty councillor, cast down his eyes in doubt, and now the stern face cf Angus, who stood close by him, leaning on his sword, rivetted his wondering gaze.

"My lord earl," said he, "what is the matter? Why approach me in harness, and almost in a close helmet? Say, dost thou believe me capable of a deed so vile?"

There was a solemn silence, for it was known that the majority would adopt the opinion of this potent military chief.

"I do deem thee guilty of this most cruel abduction; yea, and of worse!" replied the stern Earl, as he threw up the barred umbriere of his black helmet with a jerk, and drew from his gauntlet a letter which was folded with care and tied by a ribbon, sealed with purple wax, and inscribed "_secret, with care_." "And to prove how far the bitter memory of our raid at Lauder, and the love of the faithless and vile will carry thee, I will take the liberty of reading to this most illustrious audience a letter which is addressed to his Grace of Montrose, but which, by a blundering pikeman, was brought to my secretary, who made himself master of its contents. My lords, these are terrible! Strict honour required that it should have been forwarded to the Earl of Crawford--pardon me--(with a sneer) I mean your Grace of Montrose; but the common safety of the First Estate required its immediate publicity."

The stealthy eyes of Sir James Shaw sought those of Gray, and an icy smile was exchanged; but to others, their faces seemed imperturbable. A commotion immediately pervaded the hitherto still assembly; and the old Duke of Montrose, with his sword half-drawn, was approaching Angus, in great wrath, when his arm was grasped by the king. Seeing a storm impending, several of the peers, the Sieur de Concressault, the Lord Lindesay, and Ramsay, Lord Bothwell, drew near the throne, the malcontent nobles drew near Angus, while the pale and irresolute Rothesay stood like a statue between them.

"You know this signature, my lords," said Angus, displaying the letter.

"It is the king's," said Shaw, almost the only man among them who could read or write with ease.

"And this seal, _bearing two rocks in the centre of a stormy sea_, with the motto 'DURABO?'"

"The king's private signet," said Sir Patrick Gray; "we all that as well as our own faces."

"Read, read, my lord," cried twenty voices; and with some trouble, though the handwriting of this document of Borthwick, which is now before us, is very plain, Angus sternly and emphatically read as follows:--

"To his Grace the Duke of Montrose and Earl of Crawford, our trusty and heartily beloved friend, Lord Great Chamberlain, &c., be this delivered.

"Montrose, we greet you well. The help of the same blessed God, who has delivered us from many perils, will, I doubt not, with the assistance and advice of such powerful and zealous subjects as your grace, soon free our unhappy realm and oppressed people from that cruel nobility who tyrannize over all. I have now all prepared for the great banquet to be given in the Castle of Edinburgh, where, when Angus, Hailes, Home, and all that party, are birling the wine pot, we shall show them the _Black Bull's Head_. Fail not to come with all your most trusty adherents--men who will close their hearts to every emotion of pity and remorse, and who will have no thought but the wish to save Scotland by extirpating a traitorous nobility, who in all ages have been ready to sell their souls and bodies to the English kings for gold. With the fathers, all the sons above the age of twelve years should also be invited, and such I think was the suggestion of your grace at our last meeting. It now remains but to fix the time of this auspicious banquet. What say you to the feast of St. Monina--that evil day of July? From our Castle of Stirling, the 7th day of May, 1488.

"JAMES REX."

Exclamations of anger and astonishment burst from every lip, for this letter contained some artful hits, such as the Bull's Head, which was the signal for the murder of the Earl of Douglas in 1440, and Monina's day, which was the anniversary of the raid at Lauder.

The king was fearfully pale.

"My Lord Earl of Angus," said he, controlling his righteous indignation, "on your allegiance as a subject, I command you to surrender up this tissue of falsehood--this infamous forgery."

"Nay," replied the earl, with a grim smile; "if your Majesty wishes it consigned to the custody of the Lord Clerk Register, let him and other parasites seek it at my Castle of Thrieve, in Galloway, where, by the cannon's mouth, it shall be faithfully delivered to them or their messengers."

"Beware, Archibald Douglas, lest ye overtask my patience."

"Beware, James Stuart, for thou playest a perilous game! So this precious banquet is to be on Monina's day in July. I trust _that party_ will all come with their best swords by their sides."

"The anniversary of the raid of Lauder," said the governor of Broughty; "an ominous day."

"This is infamous--this is intolerable!" exclaimed the white-haired Duke of Montrose, unsheathing his sword.

"So say I," added Angus, with a bitter laugh.

"All who dare aver that the king wrote such a letter to me," continued Montrose, "or that such was the intention of our state banquet at Edinburgh, lie foully in their throats, and are false cravens! Let us betake us to our swords at once, for the sword alone can wrest a charter for the people's liberty from this subtle and tyrannical nobility."

"Duke," said James, "liberty is the inherent right of the people. They give us prerogatives, but it is not in the power of princes to give a people what they possess by right of inheritance--liberty."

"Montrose, thou sayest well," said Angus, who did not understand the hint conveyed by the king's reply; "the sword, the sword, so be it then," he added, with lofty pride and stern joy; "and with God's blessing, let the battle field decide whether this kingdom of Scotland shall be governed by its hereditary peers or the parasites of a king. James II. slew two earls of my house; one was murdered in the castle of Edinburgh in the midst of a friendly feast, another was stabbed to the heart by a dagger in the Castle of Stirling--stabbed by the royal hand, and then was flung over the chamber window upon the rocks below, like the body of a slaughtered hound rather than the corse of William Douglas, Duke of Touraine, and Lord Supreme of Galloway. I shall be wary how your father's son adds a third to the number."

Angus glared with hatred at Montrose, who was the first subject in Scotland after the little Duke of Ross, being the first of the nobility who attained a ducal coronet, a distinction quite sufficient to gain him the enmity of all the earls of the Douglas faction.

"Oh, Angus," said James, reproachfully, "thou art a fierce subject, in whose lawless heart uncurbed ambition rages like a devouring flame; but wouldst thou have thy king to stoop to thee?"

"And why not, if that king hath erred?" asked the earl, bluntly.

"God be the judge between us," said James, raising upwards his hands and tearful eyes.

"Decide, decide," said Angus, whose anger was increasing every moment; "banishment to such evil councillors as Montrose, and death to all ignoble favourites--or death to the peers of Scotland; and here, at the foot of that throne for which I and ten generations of my house have often shed the Douglas blood, I throw down the gage of battle!"

With these daring words Angus drew the steel gauntlet from his right hand, hurled it at the foot of the throne, and withdrew, followed by Drummond, Hailes, Home, Gray, and others, who led the bewildered Duke of Rothesay away with them. The young Lord Lindesay, and his father the venerable Montrose, both sprang forward to pick the gauntlet up, but the latter was successful, and both these loyal nobles, with several others who loved and pitied the king, followed him to his private cabinet, to which he immediately withdrew.

"Said I not that I would put all Scotland in a flame?" whispered Borthwick to Sauchie, as he put his foot in the stirrup to mount at the palace gate.

"Yea, and verily thou shalt have, as I promised, three of my best tenements in Stirling, by deed of a notary's hand," replied the Laird of Sauchie.

Abercrombie the Benedictine, William Dunbar the poet, and other literary men, were left behind in the hall. The angry altercation had somewhat scared them, but they could not resist an expression of pleasure at the prospect of their enemies, the military nobles, confronting each other on the field of battle.

"I would not, for a king's ransom, be in the boots of him who penned this specious forgery!" said the chief of our ancient poets, in his East Lothian patois.

"Ay, Willie Dunbar," said Father Abercrombie, "with the nobles it proposed to slay their eldest sons--no bad hint."

"Why, this would make our poor king a heathen, like the Jews of old," replied Dunbar.

"Yea, and it reminds me of a passage in the first act of the _Electra_ of Sophocles."

"You remember of the pagan emperor, who amused himself catching flies?" said the translator of Sallust, laughing.

"I warrant you, Brother Barclay," replied Dunbar, "the king will find these carles increase like unto so many wasps. But hint not that, even in jest, our blessed king conceived a thought so vile as that banquet of blood."

"Alas!" said the young poet Henrison, sorrowfully, "who among us can foresee the end of all this? Life is unstable as sunshine on the water."

"Yes, my good master of arts," replied Barclay, "it is even our friend Dunbar sings in his sweet Lament--

"Our pleasaunce here is all vane glory, This false world is but transitory: The flesh is bruckle, the fiend is slee-- _Timor mortis conturbat me!_"

Dunbar gave a gratified smile at this quotation from his and bowed to the learned Benedictine. At that moment the clatter of hoofs drew them all to the north windows of the hall, and they beheld the noisy train of Angus gallop along the street with lances uplifted, and his banner with the _red heart_ displayed. The earl, with the Duke of Rothesay and others, were with them, and save the prince, all were brandishing their drawn swords, and crying, "A Douglas! a Home! to arms! Remember the raid of Lauder!"

To these tumultuous cries many added others, such as, "No English alliance, no invasion of Bretagne! Remember Andrew Barton!" And making a terrible din as they poured along the narrow street, Angus, with five hundred armed men, issued from the western gate of Dundee, and, conveying the young heir of Scotland with him, took the road direct for the royal burgh of Stirling.