"Be assured our king has not forgotten it – but hush – be wary."
"And wherefore hush?" was the fierce response.
"Because they who did that deed, the most foul murder of God's anointed king, perished miserably on the scaffold more than twenty years ago. Their ashes have long since mingled with the earth, for fire consumed and the wind of heaven scattered them; but their names exist in the execration of all good men and true."
"Hard words," said the other, scoffingly; "hard words, sir, for us, who are on the eve, perhaps, of a most just rebellion against his son, if he and his Flemish princess, with that old fox, Crichton, push us too severely; and then I think his dainty Falkland knights, and well-fed Lothian infantry, may find it perilous work to march through Nithsdale and penetrate among the wild hills of Galloway."
Gray did not answer; they had now emerged from the wood, and the Loch of Carlinwark was shining like a mirror in the full splendour of the moonlight. At some distance he could discern the three old thorn-trees, where, on a similarly calm and lovely moonlit night, he had first plighted love, life, and hope, to Murielle; and now, as then, he could see Thrave, her home and her prison, casting its long black shadows on the Dee.
"Here is Thrave," said the stranger, reining up his powerful horse beside the barbican-gate.
"And you, sir? – "
"I am James, earl of Douglas," replied the other, sternly and loftily; "you are on the king's errand, Sir Patrick Gray – 'tis well; I bid you welcome; but remember, save for that tabard which you wear, by the bones of St. Bryde, I would hang you by the neck from that stone knob above the gate!"
Gray bowed and smiled bitterly, as they rode into the court-yard, and he found himself inclosed by the gates and surrounded by the followers of his mortal enemy.
He had shuddered on passing under the barbican-gate, for a man was hanging at the gallows-knob above it. Gray knew the dread custom there – that each culprit or victim was replaced by another, and he knew not who the next "tassel" might be.
The night-wind lifted the dead man's hair at times as the body swung mournfully to and fro. Beneath this ghastly object, in the blaze of the torches which were upheld by a crowd of liveried serving-men and savage-looking kilted Galwegians, there shone a great shield of carved and painted stone. It bore the arms of the ancient lords of Galloway – azure a lion rampant, argent crowned with an imperial diadem, impaled with the countless quarterings of the Douglases.
The moon was waning now; but the number of torches, as they flared on the walls and grated windows of the vast keep, made the court-yard seem light as if the night was noon.
As Gray dismounted, a familiar voice reached his ear, saying, "Thanks, brave friend and kinsman – you have perilled much to save me!"
"Thou art right, MacLellan – I come by the king's orders, so take courage!" replied Gray, looking about him; but from which of the black gratings of that lofty edifice the voice came his eye failed to discover.
A cruel smile passed over the grim face of the earl, as he said, "Sir Patrick Gray, it is ill speaking between a full man and a fasting; so get you to bed for to-night; after breakfast to-morrow, we will consider your errand from the king; and you have my knightly word for your safety while within the walls of Thrave."
"And how, when I leave them, my lord?"
"That is as may be," said the other, turning on his heel.
With these dubious, or rather ominous words, the earl retired, and within an hour, Gray, after partaking of some refreshment alone, found himself lying on a couch with his armour on and his drawn sword by his side, endeavouring to court sleep, with his mind full of the terrible novelty of his situation; and not without a sense of charm, for he knew that Murielle was near him, and that the same roof covered them both.
On a tabourette by the bedside were placed a night-lamp, a cup of sack posset, and the earl of Douglas's dagger as a symbol of peace and protection – that he had armed his unwelcome guest against even his own household; for such was the custom of the age and country.
CHAPTER XLVII
HUSBAND AND WIFE
First rose a star out owre the hill,
And next the lovelier moon;
While the bonnie bride o' Galloway
Looked for her blythe bridegroom;
Lythlie she sang as the new moon rose,
Blythe as a young bride may,
When the new moon lights her lamp o' love,
And blinks the bride away. —
Sir Patrick Gray sprang from a couch, where dreams, rather than sleep, had pressed thick and fast upon him. He rose while yet the summer sun was below the green Galloway hills, and while the dark waters of the Dee were veiled by the white mists of the early morning.
His mind was full of Murielle, and he was not without hope, that while all the numerous household and powerful feudal garrison were yet abed, he might find some means to communicate with her – to see, to speak to one so beloved – one from whom he had been so long, so wickedly separated – his seven years' wedded wife!
It seemed to Gray, while thinking of this, that some one had been softly and timidly tapping at his door.
Gently drawing back the numerous bars of wood and iron, with which the doors of all bed-chambers in old Scottish mansions were furnished in those days and for long after, he stepped into an arched corridor; then, on looking along its dusky vista, he saw a female figure approach, and what were his emotions on beholding the sudden realization of his dearest wish – Murielle, who had left the room thus early on the same errand and with the same desperate yet tenderly loving hope, had been watching the door of his chamber.
She seemed pale and wan, as one who had been sleepless; but though more womanly and more full in figure, she was otherwise unchanged as when he had seen her last, on that happy and yet unfortunate night, in the church of St. Genevieve, in Flanders.
"At last, my Murielle!"
"At last we meet – but oh! for a moment only."
They clasped each other in a tender embrace – heart to heart, and lip to lip. His face was bent on hers, and her tears of joy and fear fell fast.
"You love me still, Murielle?"
"Still!" she reiterated reproachfully – "oh, with all my life and strength."
"But to what a hopeless love and aimless life have my passion and its selfish ties consigned you!" said he; "we are the slaves of others and of destiny."
"Such have we ever been, since that fatal day on which my cousins, William and David, were slain. That was in 1440, ten long, long years ago; but – "
"A crisis in our fate is coming now, dear Murielle."
"But say why – oh, why are you here – here in Thrave, here, where your life is in peril so deadly?"
"I am come, in our good king's name, to demand MacLellan's release, and to invite the earl, under cartel, to meet the council at Stirling, that all these evils may be peacefully ended."
"I pray to the kind Father of all, and to his Blessed Mother, who is in heaven, that it may be so," sighed poor Murielle. "But oh, I am so weary, weary – so sad and weary here! They keep me quite a prisoner, though not so cruelly as they keep Sir Thomas MacLellan; for I am told by Marion Douglas that he is confined in the pit."
"Mahoun! say you so, dearest – in that horrid vault?"
"Yes; but hush – we may be overheard."
"Ah! my brave and noble kinsman – such a doom! Was it not in that dungeon that Earl Archibald, the first duke of Touraine, kept MacLellan, the laird of Borgue, chained, like a wild beast, till he became a jabbering idiot, and when found by the prior of St. Mary's Isle, he was laughing as he strove to catch the single sunbeam that fell through the grated slit into his prison – yea, striving fatuously to catch it with his thin, wan, fettered hand – the same hand that carried the king's banner at the battle of Homildon!"