CHAPTER LXVI.

THE STONE BICKER.

"Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too."--MOORE.

Everything being quiet now, at home and abroad, Lord Drummond proposed the completion of his old arrangement for wedding his daughters to Home and Bothwell, and as the Bishop of Dunblane was returning through England,--ready excuses having been found for his unlawful detention,--the scheming and ambitious old noble contemplated a grand and triple ceremony; the coronation of one daughter and the marriage of the other two, and spent much of his time among monks, minstrels, heralds, and other devisers of pageantries.

Henry had released the poor Bishop, and satisfied him that his detention had been all a mistake; and in proof thereof, committed his secretary of state to the Tower--craved the reverend Father's blessing, kissed his episcopal ring, and so forth, and thus dismissed him with all honour; but, cunning as a lynx, and still following the insidious policy of his family and his time, he hourly expected tidings from Shaw, from Gray, or Borthwick, of whom more anon; for that worthy had contrived to keep himself concealed in the ship of Bull during the engagement, having not the slightest interest in its issue, and feeling only a laudable spirit of economy with regard to risking his own precious person. Thus, on the ship's anchoring off Dundee, favoured by the darkness and confusion, he lowered himself into the water by one of the starboard gunports, swam safely ashore, and made his way with all speed to the house of the traitor Gray of Kyneff, which lay several miles distant, beyond the Howe of Angus, and there he remained for some time in concealment and consultation.

Brown autumn came; the birchen leaves turned yellow in the russet woods of Angus; the hills looked dark and close at hand; the black corbie and the greedy gled croaked on the fauld dykes and on the bare branches of the loftiest trees, and the swallows had long since departed on their yearly journey to the sunny lands of the South.

All taut and trim as ever, the _Yellow Frigate_, with her carved and painted sides that shone with gilding, still lay inactive in the harbour of Dundee, with her long blue pennon dipping in the glassy water alongside.

The Bishop of Dunblane (James Chisholm, chaplain to the late king) had now reached his episcopal palace on the banks of the Allan Water, and from Strathearn, Lord Drummond had brought his two beautiful daughters, with a glittering escort, to Dundee; but now Home and Bothwell, their intended spouses and their double terror, were loitering on the borders, concerning some dispute in which they had--fortunately for those in whom we are interested--became involved with the Wardens of the English Marches.

Barton and Falconer hovered about the mansion of Lord Drummond, and watched its walls, till they knew every stone in its quaint arcades and broad round towers; they loitered in Tindall's Wynd and the Fish-street daily--each like an Adam near his Eden; but never once, at the windows, on the bartizan, nor in the street on foot or on horseback, nor at church during morning mass or evening vespers, had they been favoured by a sight of the sisters; neither did they receive any message, which only convinced them how strictly the poor girls were guarded, for Drummond of Mewie and a band of his men from Strathearn garrisoned the house, and warded, like wakeful hounds, every avenue to it.

In Dundee, in those days, there was a famous hostel and tavern, named the Stone Bicker, which had been established by the provost and magistrates in the time of James I., in obedience to the law of 1424, which required all burgh-towns in the realm to have at least one comfortable "hostellrie," with stables and chambers. This was a quaint old house, having many crow-stepped gables, square ingle-chimneys, and deep shady galleries of wood, which stood upon columns of stone. Above its door was carved in stone a bicker--with the legend,

PAX INTRANTIBUS, 1424.

In form, this stoup or bicker was identically the same as that now used in Scotland; and the name is derived from the same source as the German _becher_.

Behind the house was a spacious green, smooth, grassy, and surrounded by various little bowers trimmed over with Gueldre roses, sweetbriar, and woodbine. Here the soldiers of the king's guard, the cannoniers of Broughty Castle, the seamen of the ships, pages of the court, and other idlers--not a few of the latter, knights and gentlemen--loitered and played, or observed others playing, at long-bowls, at chess, or cards, or shooting at the butts with bow and arquebuse, to encourage the use of which, James I. put down the games of golf and foot-ball by act of parliament in 1424.

On a warm evening about the end of August, Barton and Falconer sat moodily over a stoup of Bordeaux, in one of these bowers: close by them on the green was a knot of their sailors, lounging at full length, drinking ale from pewter flagons of that form which we find still retained in the metal gill and mutchkin stoups in Scotland: they were all talking and laughing with their bonnets off and gaberdines unbuttoned, for they had just ended a tough game at bowls; Cuddie Clewline, the coxswain, with his arm still in a sling, old Archy of Anster, the boatswain, and Master Wad, the gunner, were among them; and placing his short squat figure against a cask, Willie began to scrape and screw up his fiddle, preparatory to favouring the company with an air.

"How happy seem those honest souls of ours," said Falconer; "no thought of to-day--and less care for the morrow."

"True, David; and all are happy whose wants and wishes, hopes and ambition, are small--for contentment is great wealth."

"Hark," said Wad, lowering his fiddle-bow as a bell tolled; "what's o'clock?"

"It is Sanct Clement's Kirk, but tak nae heed what's o'clock, sae lang as ye are happy, Willie," said Cuddie. "We'll hae another stoup, and pay the score wi' the fore-topsail."

"And are you sae happy awa' frae your bonnie English wife?"

"Yes, I am--happy as a cricket; but do the folk no say that bell tolled o' its sel on the nicht the king was slain."

"There can be nae sic thing in nature, coxswain," said a seaman.

"But there may be out o' nature," replied the coxswain, sharply; "how the black de'il can you ken aucht aboot it--you that hae been but a month at sea?"

"I hae heard o' mony queer things in my time, Cuddie; but I never heard o' a bell that rang o' its ain accord."

"Weel, I _have_," said the old boatswain, solemnly; "and if ye wad like to hear a bit yarnie spun anent it--"

"Coil away, boatswain," said one, clinking his stoup.

"Pay it out, carle Archy," said another.

"My faither, honest man, in his young days was master o' the _Saint Denis_, a pinck of Kinghorn," began the boatswain, "and had three times the honour o' sailing to France wi' knights and ambassadors, anent the marriage o' King James wi' the daughter o' Duke Arnold and Catharine the Duchess o' Cleves. Weel, on the third time, in the year '48 as he was bearing awa' for name, and had left far astern the free port o' auld Dunkerque, wi' its basin, sluice, and batteries, he found a dismasted and abandoned caravel floating on the sea; and lang she seemed to have been dismantled and unmanned, for sea-weed and barnacles grew thick on her gaping planks and rusty chainplates, and it was next thing to a miracle that she floated at all. He boarded and overhauled her, but name, mark, or trace found he none, to indicate whose she might be, or where she cam' frae. A fine bell, wi' a clear siller tone, rocked on her forecastle, and this he unhooked and brought awa'; and the moment his boat pushed off, the bell gied a clink wi' its tongue, and the auld battered wreck gaed down wi' a sough, and half swamped the boat in its swirl as the waves yawned and closed owre it. The sailors looked ilka man in the other's face, and there seemed whisper in their hearts, that there was something about that auld and nameless wreck that was strange and eerie.

"My faither hung the bell in his forecastle,--for its tones were clear and ringing, like a siller horn in a summer wood, or a young lassie's laugh when her heart is full; but my certie, there were soon terror and dismay on board the brave pinck _Saint Denis_, of Kinghorn; for the bell o' the nameless wreck was bewitched, and rang a' the watches itsel', and untouched by mortal hand; and in the deid hour o' the mirk nichts its full clear notes vibrated through every plank and stanchion in the ship, and through every sleeper's ears and heart; for never before had a bell wi' sic a sweet yet terrible tone flung its sound upon the waters. It was thrice thrown overboard, and thrice it was found hanging on its old neuk in the forecastle; and when the _Saint Denis_ came home, far and wide spread the terror o' her story through a' the seaport towns o' Lothian, Fife, and Angus; so the owners had to break up the pinck, for nae man would bide aboard o' her, and for years she lay rotting at her anchors in the harbour o' Wester Kinghorn."

"May this broon ale be bilge if I would ha'e put a foot on her deck after the bell came back the first time," said the gunner. "So they broke the auld craft up for firewood: weel, Archy, after that what became o' the bell?"

"It was exorcised by candle, book, and holy water, by the Abbot o' Inchcolm, and thereafter it was hung in the steeple o' Largo, where unto _this day_ it summons the faithfu' to prayer; but never a note hath it rung unbidden since its devilish power was destroyed."

"Ugh!" said the gunner, shrugging his thick square shoulders, "St. Mary keep us frae evil! And noo for a song, shipmates," he added, giving his bow a flourish over the fiddle. "Cuddie will sing us the last new ballad, made by a gentle makkar, on the admiral--to whom lang life--and our battle with Sir Stephen Bull,--to whom I also say long life, southron he be!"

Thus invited, Cuthbert Clewline required no pressing, but after clearing his throat, giving his ruff a jerk, and hitching at the points of his wide canvas breeches--which were similar to those still worn by our fishermen, being so ample and short as to resemble a kilt, he sang the quaint and old doggrel ballad of

"Schir Andro Wood,"

to the air of _Sir Andrew Barton_; and as it is somewhat curious as a nautical ballad of the time, we are tempted to transfer a modernized copy of it from the "History of the Scots Wars," into these pages, still preserving, however, the words the coxswain sung.

"Of all our Scottish mariners, who ever sailed the sea, The stoutest was Sir Andrew Wood, the bravest too was he! So wroth grew England's haughty king, that a single Scot should keep, From Norway's shores to Cape de Verd, the mastery of the deep; And he throughout his kingdom did a proclamation make, Of a thousand silver pounds per year, Sir Andrew Wood to take.

"Then up a gallant captain stood, Sir Stephen Bull was he, Saying, 'I shall fight this Scottish man till he your prisoner be,' Right merrie and right proud withal was England's monarch then, And he gave unto this captain bold, three ships with guns and men. So sailing to our Scottish seas, he cruised near to Crail, Until he saw Sir Andrew Wood with two ships under sail.

"No enemies old Andrew wot were in the Scottish sea, And fearing neither man nor deil, he sailed right merrilie; But when he saw the English cross, O joyful was he then, And bravely did his crew exhort to fight like Scottish men; 'For Scotland's king we draw the sword, our bairnies and our wives, in the cause we'll fearless risk our precious limbs and lives.'

"So then he pierced the auld red wine, and a stoup to ilk did gie, As owre the capstan-head we swore from southron ne'er to flee! Thus on we came with open ports, at six knots going free, And vowed to sink--or sink the foe--to die, but never flee! And there we fought this battle keen beside the Bass and May, From the rising to the set of sun, upon a summer day.

"The first ball from the English fleet, it shot our foreyard through, And the splinters beat our gunner wight, till he was black and blue, Then up he sprang, stout Willie Wad, for a fierce wee man he, And vowed to drink 'a pint o' bilge,' or he avenged would be; Then levelling straight a great carthoun, with rings of iron stayed, A bloody lane, from stem to stern, he through the foemen made!

"The Scots they fought like lyons bold, and many English slewe, So the slaughter which they made that day, old England long sall rue; And bravely fought Sir Stephen's men, as Englishmen do aye, And blows they gave, for ilk they got, as we shall ne'er gainsay; Till the red summer eve closed in, and at the set of day, We parted, but as tigers part, all panting from the fray.

"But ere again that summer sun rose from the German main, Once more the drummes to quarters beat, the fight began againe; And long we fought with deadly hate, as men for life may fight, For nought can nerve a Scottish arm, like Scotland's wrong and right. Sir Stephen Bull we captive made, and sailing to Dundee, We squared the yards, we furled the sails, and anchored merrilie.

"Then joyful was our noble king, and generous too was he, Red gold he gave, and shipped them home, to their ain countrie; 'Go tell fair England's king,' quoth he, 'that soe I use the brave, But if againe ye sayle our seas, you'll win a watery grave.' Sir Andrew Wood, our captain bolde, was thanked throughout the land, And many a fair reward got he, from good King James's hand. Thus bravely was this battle fought, between the Tay and Bass, And when _next_ we meet the English fleet, may worse ne'er come to passe!"

Boisterous applause followed the conclusion of this song, and every man simultaneously lifted his mug of ale to his mouth, in honour of the sentiment expressed by the last line.

"Thou hast sung well, honest fellow; take this for thy minstrelsy," said a gentleman who had loitered near, tossing into the coxswain's bonnet a golden louis, a donation which immediately drew all eyes upon him.

He was a handsome man, young apparently, and wore a rich sword and scarlet mantle, with a jazarine jacket and salade, which concealed his face, or at least hid so much of it that recognition was impossible. He had lingered near Falconer and Barton, and now resumed his place in a seat adjoining theirs, and if he was not eavesdropping his conduct looked very much like it; but it was unmarked by them, for they were too full of their own thoughts.

"Well fare thee, Scotland," sighed Falconer, draining his wine-horn, "and many such battles may ye win by land and sea. But, much as I love thee, thou art no longer a home or a place for me. France--France or Italy, and their battle-fields, must now be the place where my life and its sorrows may be ended together."

"Why so, bravo Falconer?" asked a familiar voice, as a hand was laid on his shoulder. "What melancholy crooning is this?"

Sir David turned, and his eyes met the face of the young king,--for he it was who wore the scarlet mantle, and had now laid the salade aside.

The two gentlemen started to their feet, and uncovered their heads with reverence.

"Nay, nay, sirs; put on your bonnets," said he. "I am the younger man by a few years, and, though a king, have not risked my head so often in my country's service; but a time may come. And now answer me truly, gallant Falconer--why didst thou not tell me of this old love of thine for our pretty Sybilla Drummond?"

"I dared not."

"Dared not! art thou not a brave fellow?"

"I am a poor one. Alas! your majesty cannot know the miserable timidity of the poor."

"Then what fettered thy tongue, stout Barton, eh?--thou who art laird of manors and acres, ships and stores, enow to make a monarch envy thee?"

"Because--dare I say it?"

"My true friends may say whatever they please to me."

"Because, your majesty, deep though my love, I dared not aspire to wed the sister of one who--who is to be our queen."

The young king coloured deeply, and paused for a moment, as if some such thought had now struck himself for the first time; then he thrust the idea aside, and said,

"Your fears were foolish, sirs; ye had won those ladies' love, and surely that was winning the main part of the battle; for, if the song says rightly, when a woman's heart is won, there is nothing more to achieve in this world."

"Save fortune and rank; and dare I, the son of a poor skipper of Borrowstonness, who have neither, compete with long descended peers who have both?"

"Yes, Falconer," said Barton, proudly; "for thou hast that which we seldom find among our nobles--a right true Scottish heart, that would peril all for the weal and honour of the land God gave our fathers."

"By Heaven and by my father's bones, you say well, Robert Barton!" said the young king, with a sudden emotion of generous enthusiasm; "and men who have hearts so tried and so true as yours, may well be the brothers of a Scottish king! and mine you shall be, or this proud old lord--John Drummond of Stobhall and that ilk--must tell me better why not! Come with me then--his house is close by; let us have this skein unravelled, for to make my loyal subjects happy is the best tribute I can pay to the memory of that dear departed sire for whom you fought: he who lost his life in upholding the rights of the people against the monstrous privileges of a race of titled tyrants."

However reluctant Barton and Falconer might be to thrust themselves upon the presence of Lord Drummond, while the barbarous treatment they had so lately experienced there was fresh in their minds, and being aware that the Laird of Mewie, with a band of wild Celts from the Highlands of Perthshire, guarded the passages and ambulatories of the house--the generous energy of the young king, the protection his presence could afford, his desire, which was law, and the happiness his intervention might procure, together with the wish for meeting once again with those they loved so well--were all too powerful to be resisted; and in silence the two gentlemen followed King James down the main street of Dundee, through Tyndall's Wynd, where Lord Lindesay and part of the royal retinue joined them, and together they all proceeded straight to visit Lord Drummond, the copper horn at whose gate young Lindesay blew lustily. And the old baron's half anger, half astonishment, and entire perplexity at the visit and its object, we will leave to the reader's imagination, and thus close this eventful chapter--eventful, at least, to the two lovers who accompanied the King of Scotland.