The Caged Lion by Charlotte M. Yonge (readict .txt) 📖

says, ‘eleven sons who loved arms.’  Of these, Robert III. was the eldest, the Duke of Albany the second.  These were both dead, and were represented, the one by the captive young King James, the other by the Regent, Duke Murdoch of Albany, and his brother John, Earl of Buchan, now about to head a Scottish force, among whom Patrick Drummond intended to sail, to assist the French.

Others of the eleven, Earls of Athol, Menteith, &c., survived; but the youngest of the brotherhood, by name Malcolm, who had married the heiress of Glenuskie, had been killed at Homildon Hill, when he had solemnly charged his Stewart nephews and brothers to leave his two orphan children to the sole charge of their mother’s cousin, Sir David Drummond, a good old man, who had been the best supporter and confidant of poor Robert III. in his unhappy reign, and in embassies to France had lost much of the rugged barbarism to which Scotland had retrograded during the wars with England.

CHAPTER II: THE RESCUE OF COLDINGHAM

It was a lonely tract of road, marked only by the bare space trodden by feet of man and horse, and yet, in truth, the highway between Berwick and Edinburgh, which descended from a heathery moorland into a somewhat spacious valley, with copsewood clothing one side, in the midst of which rose a high mound or knoll, probably once the site of a camp, for it still bore lines of circumvallation, although it was entirely deserted, except by the wandering shepherds of the neighbourhood, or occasionally by outlaws, who found an admirable ambush in the rear.

The spring had hung the hazels with tassels, bedecked the willows with golden downy tufts, and opened the primroses and celandines beneath them, when the solitary dale was disturbed by the hasty clatter of horses’ feet, and hard, heavy breathing as of those who had galloped headlong beyond their strength.  Here, however, the foremost of the party, an old esquire, who grasped the bridle-rein of youth by his side, drew up his own horse, and that which he was dragging on with him, saying—

‘We may breathe here a moment; there is shelter in the wood.  And you, Rab, get ye up to the top of Jill’s Knowe, and keep a good look-out.’

‘Let me go back, you false villain!’ sobbed the boy, with the first use of his recovered breath.

‘Do not be so daft, Lord Malcolm,’ replied the Squire, retaining his hold on the boy’s bridle; ‘what, rin your head into the wolf’s mouth again, when we’ve barely brought you off haill and sain?’

‘Haill and sain?  Dastard and forlorn,’ cried Malcolm, with passionate weeping.  ‘I—I to flee and leave my sister—my uncle!  Oh, where are they?  Halbert, let me go; I’ll never pardon thee.’

‘Hoot, my lord! would I let you gang, when the Tutor spak to me as plain as I hear you now?  “Take off Lord Malcolm,” says he; “save him, and you save the rest.  See him safe to the Earl of Mar.”  Those were his words, my lord; and if you wilna heed them, I will.’

‘What, and leave my sister to the reivers?  Oh, what may not they be doing to her?  Let us go back and fall on them, Halbert; better die saving her than know her in Walter Stewart’s hands.  Then were I the wretched craven he calls me.’

‘Look you, Lord Malcolm,’ said Halbert, laying his finger on his nose, with a knowing expression, ‘my young lady is safe from harm so long as you are out of the Master of Albany’s reach.  Had you come by a canny thrust in the fray, as no doubt was his purpose, or were you in his hands to be mewed in a convent, then were your sister worth the wedding; but the Master will never wed her while you live and have friends to back you, and his father, the Regent, will see she has no ill-usage.  You’ll do best for yourself and her too, as well as Sir David, if you make for Dunbar, and call ben your uncles of Athole and Strathern.—How now, Rab? are the loons making this way?’

‘Na, na!’ said Rab, descending; ‘’tis from the other gate; ’tis a knight in blue damasked steel: he, methinks, that harboured in our castle some weeks syne.’

‘Hm!’ said Halbert, considering; ‘he looked like a trusty cheild: maybe he’d guide my lord here to a wiser wit, and a good lance on the way to Dunbar is not to be scorned.’

In fact, there would have been no time for one party to conceal themselves from the other; for, hidden by the copsewood, and unheeded by the watchers who were gazing in the opposite direction, Sir James Stewart and his two attendants suddenly came round the foot of Jill’s Knowe upon the fugitives, who were profiting by the interval to loosen the girths of their horses, and water them at the pool under the thicket, whilst Halbert in vain tried to pacify and reason with the young master, who had thrown himself on the grass in an agony of grief and despair.  Sir James, after the first momentary start, recognized the party in an instant, and at once leapt from his horse, exclaiming—

‘How now, my bonnie man—my kind host—what is it? what makes this grief?’

‘Do not speak to me, Sir,’ muttered the unhappy boy.  ‘They have been reft—reft from me, and I have done nothing for them.  Walter of Albany has them, and I am here.’

And he gave way to another paroxysm of grief, while Halbert explained to Sir James Stewart that when Sir Patrick Drummond had gone to embark for France, with the army led to the aid of Charles VI. by the Earl of Buchan, his father and cousins, with a large escort, had accompanied him to Eyemouth; whence, after taking leave of him, they had set out to spend Passion-tide and Easter at Coldingham Abbey, after the frequent fashion of the devoutly inclined among the Scottish nobility, in whose castles there was often little commodity for religious observances.  Short, however, as was the distance, they had in the midst of it been suddenly assailed by a band of armed men, among whom might easily be recognized the giant form of young Walter Stewart, the Master of Albany, the Regent Duke Murdoch’s eldest son, who was well known for his lawless excesses and violence.  His father’s silky sayings, and his own ruder speeches, had long made it known to the House of Glenuskie that the family policy was to cajole or to drive the sickly heir into a convent, and, rendering Lilias the possessor of the broad lands inherited from both parents, unite her and them to the Albany family.

The almost barbarous fierceness and wild licentiousness of Walter would have made the arrangement abhorrent to Lilias, even had not love passages already passed between her and her cousin, Patrick Drummond, and Sir David had hitherto protected her by keeping Malcolm in the secular life; but Walter, it seemed, had grown impatient, and had made this treacherous attack, evidently hoping to rid himself of the brother, and secure the sister.  No sooner had the Tutor of Glenuskie perceived that his own party were overmatched, than he had bidden his faithful squire to secure the bairns—if not both, at least the boy; and Halbert, perceiving that Lilias had already been pounced upon by Sir Walter himself and several more, seized the bridle of the bewildered Malcolm, who was still trying to draw his sword, and had absolutely swept him away from the scene of action before he had well realized what was passing; and now that the poor lad understood the whole, his horror, grief, and shame were unspeakable.

Before Sir James had done more than hear the outline of Halbert’s tale, however, the watchers on the mound gave the signal that the reivers were coming that way—a matter hitherto doubtful, since no one could guess whether Walter Stewart would make for Edinburgh or for Doune.  With the utmost agility Sir James sprang up the side of the mound, reconnoitred, and returned again just as Halbert was trying to stir his master from the ground, and Malcolm answering sullenly that he would not move—he would be taken and die with the rest.

‘You may save them instead, if you will attend to me,’ said Sir James; and at his words the boy suddenly started up with a look of hope.

‘How many fell upon you?’ demanded Sir James.

‘Full a hundred lances,’ replied Halbert (and a lance meant at least three men).  ‘It wad be a fule’s wark to withstand them.  Best bide fast in the covert, for our horses are sair forfaughten.’

‘If there are now more than twenty lances, I am greatly mistaken,’ returned Sir James.  ‘They must have broken up after striking their blow, or have sent to secure Glenuskie; and we, falling on them from this thicket—’

‘I see, I see,’ cried Halbert.  ‘Back, ye loons; back among the hazels.  Hold every one his horse ready to mount.’

‘With your favour, Sir Squire, I say, bind each man his horse to a tree.  The skene and broadsword, which I see you all wear, will be ten times as effective on foot.’

‘Do as the knight bids,’ said Malcolm, starting forth with colour on his cheek, light in his eye, that made him another being.  ‘In him there is help.’

‘Ay, ay, Lord Malcolm,’ muttered Halbert; ‘you need not tell me that: I know my duty better than not to do the bidding of a belted knight, and pretty man too of his inches.’

The two attendants of Sir James were meantime apparently uttering some remonstrance, to which he lightly replied, ‘Tut, Nigel; it will do thine heart good to hew down a minion of Albany.  What were I worth could I not strike a blow against so foul a wrong to my own orphan kindred?  Brewster, I’ll answer it to thy master.  These are his foes, as well as those of all honest men.  Ha! thou art as glad to be at them as I myself.’

By this time he had exchanged his cap for a steel helmet, and was assuming the command as his natural right, as he placed the men in their ambush behind the knoll, received reports from those he had set to watch, and concerted the signal with Halbert and his own followers.  Malcolm kept by him, shivering with intense excitement and eagerness; and thus they waited till the horses’ hoofs and clank of armour were distinctly audible.  But even then Sir James, with outstretched hand, signed his followers back, and kept them in the leash, as it were, until the troop was fairly in the valley, those in front beginning to halt to give their horses water.  They were, in effect, riding somewhat carelessly, and with the ease of men whose feat was performed, and who expected no more opposition.  Full in the midst was Lilias, entirely muffled and pinioned by a large plaid drawn closely round her, and held upon the front of the saddle of a large tall horse, ridden by a slender, light-limbed, wiry groom, whom Malcolm knew as Christopher Hall, a retainer of the Duke of Albany; and beside him rode her captor, Sir Walter Stewart, a man little above twenty, but with a bronzed, hardened, reckless expression that made him look much older, and of huge height and giant build.  Malcolm knew him well, and regarded him with unmitigated horror and dread, both from the knowledge of his ruffianly violence even towards his father, from fear of his intentions, and from the misery that his brutal jests, scoffs, and practical jokes had often personally inflicted: and the sight of his sister in the power of this wicked man was the realization of all his worst fears.  But ere there was time for more than one strong pang of consternation and constitutional terror, Sir James’s shout of ‘St. Andrew for the right!’ was ringing out, echoed by all the fifteen in ambush with him, as simultaneously they leapt forward.  Malcolm, among the first, darting with one spring, as it were, to the horse where his sister was carried, seized the bridle with his left hand, and flashing his sword upon the ruffian with the other, shouted, ‘Let go, villain; give me my sister!’ Hall’s first impulse was to push his horse forward so as to trample the boy down, but Malcolm’s hold rendered this impossible; besides, there was the shouting, the clang, the confusion of the outburst of an ambush all around and on every side, and before the man could free his hand to draw his weapon he necessarily loosed his grasp of Lilias, who, half springing, half falling, came to the ground, almost overthrowing her brother in her descent, but just saved by him from coming down prostrate.  The horse, suddenly released, started forward with its rider and at the same moment Malcolm, recovering himself, stood with his sword in his hand, his arm round