The Fair Maid of Perth; Or, St. Valentine's Day by Walter Scott (love story novels in english .txt) 📖

“You are something chary of your treasure, chief,” said the Earl Marshal: “a gold crown is poor payment for such a campaign as is before you.”

“If there be any man willing to fight for honour,” replied MacGillis Chattanach, “the price will be enough; and I want not the service of a fellow who draws his sword for gold alone.”

The heralds had made their progress, moving half way round the lists, stopping from time to time to make proclamation as they had been directed, without the least apparent disposition on the part of any one to accept of the proffered enlistment. Some sneered at the poverty of the Highlanders, who set so mean a price upon such a desperate service. Others affected resentment, that they should esteem the blood of citizens so lightly. None showed the slightest intention to undertake the task proposed, until the sound of the proclamation reached Henry of the Wynd, as he stood without the barrier, speaking from time to time with Baillie Craigdallie, or rather listening vaguely to what the magistrate was saying to him.

“Ha! what proclaim they?” he cried out.

“A liberal offer on the part of MacGillie Chattanach,” said the host of the Griffin, “who proposes a gold crown to any one who will turn wildcat for the day, and be killed a little in his service! That’s all.”

“How!” exclaimed the smith, eagerly, “do they make proclamation for a man to fight against the Clan Quhele?”

“Ay, marry do they,” said Griffin; “but I think they will find no such fools in Perth.”

He had hardly said the word, when he beheld the smith clear the barriers at a single bound and alight in the lists, saying: “Here am I, sir herald, Henry of the Wynd, willing to battle on the part of the Clan Chattan.”

A cry of admiration ran through the multitude, while the grave burghers, not being able to conceive the slightest reason for Henry’s behaviour, concluded that his head must be absolutely turned with the love of fighting. The provost was especially shocked.

“Thou art mad,” he said, “Henry! Thou hast neither two handed sword nor shirt of mail.”

“Truly no,” said Henry, “for I parted with a mail shirt, which I had made for myself, to yonder gay chief of the Clan Quhele, who will soon find on his shoulders with what sort of blows I clink my rivets! As for two handed sword, why, this boy’s brand will serve my turn till I can master a heavier one.”

“This must not be,” said Errol. “Hark thee, armourer, by St. Mary, thou shalt have my Milan hauberk and good Spanish sword.”

“I thank your noble earlship, Sir Gilbert Hay, but the yoke with which your brave ancestor turned the battle at Loncarty would serve my turn well enough. I am little used to sword or harness that I have not wrought myself, because I do not well know what blows the one will bear out without being cracked or the other lay on without snapping.”

The cry had in the mean while run through the multitude and passed into the town, that the dauntless smith was about to fight without armour, when, just as the fated hour was approaching, the shrill voice of a female was heard screaming for passage through the crowd. The multitude gave place to her importunity, and she advanced, breathless with haste under the burden of a mail hauberk and a large two handed sword. The widow of Oliver Proudfute was soon recognised, and the arms which she bore were those of the smith himself, which, occupied by her husband on the fatal evening when he was murdered, had been naturally conveyed to his house with the dead body, and were now, by the exertions of his grateful widow, brought to the lists at a moment when such proved weapons were of the last consequence to their owner. Henry joyfully received the well known arms, and the widow with trembling haste assisted in putting them on, and then took leave of him, saying: “God for the champion of the widow and orphan, and ill luck to all who come before him!”

Confident at feeling himself in his well proved armour, Henry shook himself as if to settle the steel shirt around him, and, unsheathing the two handed sword, made it flourish over his head, cutting the air through which it whistled in the form of the figure eight with an ease and sleight of hand that proved how powerfully and skilfully he could wield the ponderous weapon. The champions were now ordered to march in their turns around the lists, crossing so as to avoid meeting each other, and making obeisance as they passed the Golden Arbour where the King was seated.

While this course was performing, most of the spectators were again curiously comparing the stature, limbs, and sinews of the two parties, and endeavouring to form a conjecture an to the probable issue of the combat. The feud of a hundred years, with all its acts of aggression and retaliation, was concentrated in the bosom of each combatant. Their countenances seemed fiercely writhen into the wildest expression of pride, hate, and a desperate purpose of fighting to the very last.

The spectators murmured a joyful applause, in high wrought expectation of the bloody game. Wagers were offered and accepted both on the general issue of the conflict and on the feats of particular champions. The clear, frank, and elated look of Henry Smith rendered him a general favourite among the spectators, and odds, to use the modern expression, were taken that he would kill three of his opponents before he himself fell.

Scarcely was the smith equipped for the combat, when the commands of the chiefs ordered the champions into their places; and at the same moment Henry heard the voice of Simon Glover issuing from the crowd, who were now silent with expectation, and calling on him: “Harry Smith—Harry Smith, what madness hath possessed thee?”

“Ay, he wishes to save his hopeful son in law that is, or is to be, from the smith’s handling,” was Henry’s first thought; his second was to turn and speak with him; and his third, that he could on no pretext desert the band which he had joined, or even seem desirous to delay the fight, consistently with honour.

He turned himself, therefore, to the business of the hour. Both parties were disposed by the respective chiefs in three lines, each containing ten men. They were arranged with such intervals between each individual as offered him scope to wield his sword, the blade of which was five feet long, not including the handle. The second and third lines were to come up as reserves, in case the first experienced disaster. On the right of the array of Clan Quhele, the chief, Eachin MacIan, placed himself in the second line betwixt two of his foster brothers. Four of them occupied the right of the first line, whilst the father and two others protected the rear of the beloved chieftain. Torquil, in particular, kept close behind, for the purpose of covering him. Thus Eachin stood in the centre of nine of the strongest men of his band, having four especial defenders in front, one on each hand, and three in his rear.

The line of the Clan Chattan was arranged in precisely the same order, only that the chief occupied the centre of the middle rank, instead of being on the extreme right. This induced Henry Smith, who saw in the opposing bands only one enemy, and that was the unhappy Eachin, to propose placing himself on the left of the front rank of the Clan Chattan.