The Caged Lion by Charlotte M. Yonge (books to read to increase intelligence TXT) 📕

to dispose of your sister?  Some nunnery—’

‘Poor Lily, she is weary of convents,’ said Malcolm ‘but if Lady Montagu would let her be with her and the Lady Esclairmonde, then would she learn somewhat of the ways of a well-ordered English noble house.  And I could well provide for her being there as befits her station.’

‘Well thought of!  The gentle Lady Alice will no doubt welcome her,’ said the King; ‘and Patrick must endure.’

Thus then was it fixed.  The King and Queen, stately and beautiful, royally robed, and mounted on splendid steeds, were escorted the next morning to the Scottish gate of Berwick by Lord Northumberland and his retinue, and they were met by an imposing band of Scottish nobles, with the white-haired Earl of Lennox at their head.  To these the captive was formally surrendered by Northumberland; and James, flinging himself from his horse, kissed his native soil, and gave thanks aloud to God, ere he stood up and received the homage of his subjects, to most of whom he was a total stranger.

Malcolm and Lilias on the walls could see all, but could not hear, and finally beheld the glittering troop wind their way over the hills to make ready for the coronation of James and Joan as king and queen of Scotland.

CHAPTER XIX: THE LION’S WRATH

It was the 24th of May, 1425, when in the vaulted hall of the Castle of Stirling the nobles of Scotland were convened to try, as the peers of the realm, men of rank—no less than Murdoch, Duke of Albany, his sons Walter and Alexander, the Earl of Lennox, and twenty-two other nobles, most of whom had been arraigned in the Parliament of Perth two months previously, and had been shut up in different castles.  Robert Stewart had escaped to the Highlands; and Walter—who had neither been at the Coronation of Scone, nor at the Parliament of Perth, nor indeed had ever bowed his pride so as to present himself to the King at all—had been separately arrested, and shut up for two months in the strong castle on the Bass Rock.

The charge was termed treason and violence; and assuredly there had been perpetual acts of spoil and barbarous infractions of the law by men who deemed themselves above all law.  The only curiosity was, for which of these acts they were to be tried, and this affected many of their judges likewise; for there was hardly a man in that court who was not conscious of some deed that would not exactly bear to be set beside the code of Scotland, and who had not been in the habit of regarding those laws as all very well for burghers, but not meant for gentlemen.

There, on seats behind the throne, sat the twenty-one jurors, Earl Douglas among them—a new earl, for the grim old Archibald had died in the battle of Verneuil some months before.  Angus, March, and Mar, and all the most powerful names in Scotland, were there; and upon his throne, in regal robes of crimson and ermine, the crown upon his brow, the sceptre in his hand, the sword of state held before him, sat King James, the most magnificent-looking king then reigning in Europe, but with the sternest, saddest, most resolute of countenances, as one unalterably fixed upon the terrible duty of not bearing the sword in vain.  Something of Henry’s avenging-angel look seemed to have passed into his face, but with far more of melancholy weight.

Walter Stewart was led into the court.  He too was a man of lofty stature and princely bearing, and his grand Stewart features were set in an expression of easy nonchalance and scorn; aware as he was that of whatever he might be accused, there were few of his judges that did not share the guilt, and moreover persuaded that this was a mere ceremony, and that the King would never dare to go beyond this futile attempt to overawe him.  He stood alone—his father and the others were reserved for another trial; and as, richly arrayed, he stood opposite to the jury, gazing fixedly first at one, then at the other, as though challenging their right to sit in judgment on him, one eye after another fell beneath his gaze.

‘Walter Stewart of Albany, Earl of Fife,’ proclaimed the crier’s voice.  ‘You stand here arraigned of murder and of robbery.’

‘At whose suit?’ demanded Walter, undaunted.

‘At the suit of Malcolm and Lilias Stewart of Glenuskie; and of Patrick Drummond of the Braes,’ returned the crier, an ecclesiastic, as were all lawyers; and at the same moment three figures came forward, namely, a tall knightly gentleman with gold chain and spurs, a lady whose veil disclosed a blushing dark-eyed face, and a slender youth of deep and earnest countenance.  ‘At the suit of these here present you stand arraigned, Sir Walter Stewart of Albany, for having feloniously, and of malice aforethought, on the Eve of the Annunciation of our Lady, of the year of grace 1421, set upon the said Malcolm and Lilias Stewart, Sir David Drummond of the Braes, Tutor of Glenuskie, and divers other persons, on the muir of Hetherfield; and having there cruelly and maliciously wounded the said David of the Braes to the death; and of having forcibly stolen and abducted the person of the said Lilias Stewart—’

The crier was not permitted to proceed, for Walter Stewart broke forth, passionately addressing the jurors.  ‘So this is all that can be found to be laid against me.  This is the way that matters of five years back are raked up to vex the princes and nobles of Scotland.  I am sorry for you, lords and gentlemen, if this is the way that vexatious are to be stirred up against those who have defended their country so long.’

‘This is no answer to the accusation, Sir Walter,’ said the Earl of Mar.

‘Accusation, forsooth!’ said Walter Stewart scornfully.  ‘Who dares to bear witness, if I did maintain my father’s lawful authority over peevish runaway wards of the Crown?’

‘Sir Walter,’ said the King, ‘you would have done better to have waited and heard the whole indictment ere answering one charge.  But since you demand who will dare to bear witness in this matter of the murder of Sir David Drummond of the Braes, and of the seizure of the Lady Lilias, here is one.’

So saying, and rising as he spoke, he held forth the reliquary that hung from a chain round his neck, keeping his gleaming tawny eyes fixed steadily straight upon Walter Stewart’s face.

That face, as he first had stood up, expressed the utmost amazement, and this gradually, under the lion glance, became more and more of dismay, quailing, collapsing visibly under the passionless gravity of that look.  Even the tall form seemed to shrink, the eyes dilated, the brows drew closer together, and the chest seemed to pant, as the relic was held forth.  There was a dead silence throughout the court as the King ceased to speak; only he continued to bend that searching gaze upon his prisoner.

‘Was it you?—was it your own self, my lord?’ he stammered forth at last, in the tone of one stricken.

‘Yea, Walter Stewart.  To me it was, and on this holy relic, that you made oath to abstain from all further spoil and violence until the King should come again in peace.  How that oath has been kept the further indictments will show.’

‘I deemed it was St. Andrew,’ faltered the prisoner.

‘And therefore that the oath to a heavenly saint would better bear breaking than one to an earthly sinner,’ replied James gravely.  ‘Read on, Clerk of the Court.’

The roll continued—a long and terrible record of violence and cruelty; the private warfare of the lawless young prince, the crimes of reckless barbarity and of savage passion—a deadly roll, in which indeed even the second abduction of Lilias was one of the least acts laid to his charge.

No lack of witnesses were there to prove deeds that had been done in the open face of day, in utter fearlessness of earthly justice, and defiance of Heaven.  The defence that the prisoner seemed to have been prepared to us?—that those who sat to judge him had shared in his offences, and his daring power of brow-beating them, as he had so often done before, as son of the man who sat in the King’s seat—had utterly failed him now.  He was mute; and the forms of the trial were gone through as of one whose doom was already sealed, but who must receive his sentence according to the strictest form of law, lest the just reward of his deeds should partake of their own violence.  By the end of the day the jurors had found Walter Stewart guilty; and the doomster, a black-robed clerk, rising up, pronounced the sentence that condemned Walter Stewart of Albany to suffer death by beheading.

Even then no one believed that the doom would be inflicted.  Royal blood had never flowed beneath the headsman’s axe; and it would have been infinitely more congenial to Scottish feelings if the King had sent a party of men-at-arms to fall on the Master in the high road, and cut him off, or had burnt him alive in his castle.  The verdict ‘served him right’ would have been universally returned, and rejoiced in; but a regular trial of a man of such birth was unheard of, and shocking to the feelings even of those whom that irresistible force of the King’s had compelled to sit in judgment upon him.  No one could avow it face to face with the King; but every one felt it an outrage to find that no rank was exempt from law.

Duke Murdoch, his son Alexander, and his father-in-law Lennox, were tried the next day, and many a deed of dark treason was laid to their charge.  The Earl of Lennox had been the scourge of Scotland for more than half the eighty years of his life, but his extreme age might have excited some pity; Murdoch had erred rather negatively than positively; and Alexander, ruffian as he was, had been bred to nothing better.  Each had deserved the utmost penalty of the law again and again, and yet there did seem more scope for mercy in their case than in that of Walter.

But the King was inexorable.  He set Malcolm aside as he had set others.

‘I know what you would say, lad.  Lennox is old, and Alexander is young, and Albany is a fool; and Walter has injured you, so you are bound to speak for him.  Take it all as said.  But these are the men who have been foremost in making our country a desert!  Did I pardon them, with what face could I ever make any man suffer for crime?  And, in the state of this land, ruth to the guilty high would be treason to the sackless low.’

So Stirling saw the unprecedented sight of three generations suffering for their crimes upon the same scaffold—the white-haired Lennox, the Duke of Albany in the prime of life, Walter in the flush and strength of early manhood, Alexander in the bloom of youth.  They all met their fate undauntedly; for if Murdoch’s heart in any measure failed him, he was afraid to give way in presence of the proud bold Walter, who maintained an iron rigidity of demeanour with the wild fortitude of a Red Indian at the stake, and in like manner could by no means comprehend that King James acted from any motive save malice, for having been so long kept out of his kingdom.  ‘It was his turn now,’ said poor Murdoch, even when most desirous of bringing himself to die in a state of Christian forgiveness; nor could any power on earth show any of the criminals that the King acted in the eternal interests of right and justice.

Thus it was with the whole country; and when the four majestic-looking men stood bare-headed on the scaffold, in view even of their own fair towers of Doune, and one by one bowed their heads on the block, perverse Scottish nature broke out into pity for their fate, and wrath against the King, who could thus turn against his own blood, and disgrace the royal lineage.

On that same day Malcolm received Esclairmonde’s token, there being at present full peace with England, and set forth on her summons.  He met her at Pontefract, where she was residing with the Dowager Queen Joan of Navarre, Alice of Salisbury having been summoned to return to her husband in France.

There then it was that Malcolm and Esclairmonde, in presence of the chaplain, gave each other back the rings, and therewith their troth to wed none other, and were once more declared free.

Esclairmonde held out her hand to Malcolm, saying, ‘The thanks I owe you, Sir, are beyond what tongue can tell.  May He to Whom my first vows were due requite it to you.’

And Malcolm, with his knee to