The Prose Marmion

Here their conversation was interrupted. By the King's command, each train on the following day was to proceed by its own way to Scotland's camp, near Edinburgh. Early they set out for the moor surrounding the city, where lay the Scotch hosts.

From the crown of Blackford, Marmion gazed on the martial scene. It was a Kingdom's vast array. Thousands on thousands of pavilions, white as snow, dotted the upland, dale, and down, and checkered the heath between town and forest. The relics of the old oaks softened the glaring white with a background of restful green.

From north, from south, from east, from west, had gathered Scotland's warriors. All between the ages of sixteen and sixty, from king to vassal, stood ready to fight for the beloved land. Marmion heard the mingled hum of myriads of voices float up the mountain side. He saw the shifting lines, and marked the flashing of shield and lance. Nor did he mark less that in the air,

 
    "A thousand streamers flaunted fair,
       Various in shape, device and hue,
       Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
     Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,
     Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there
       O'er the pavilions flew.
     Highest and midmost, was descried
     The royal banner floating wide;
       The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,
     Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,
       Yet bent beneath the standard's weight
       Whene'er the western wind unroll'd,
       With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,
     And gave to view the dazzling field,
     Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,
       The ruddy lion ramped in gold.
 
 
    "Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright, —
     He viewed it with a chief's delight, —
       Until within him burn'd his heart,
         As on the battle-day;
       Such glance did falcon never dart,
       When stooping on his prey.
     'Oh! well, Lord Lion, hast thou said,
     Thy King from warfare to dissuade
       Were but a vain essay;
     For, by St. George, were that host mine,
     Nor power infernal, nor divine,
     Should once to peace my soul incline,
     Till I had dimmed their armor's shine
       In glorious battle-fray!'"
 

A bard near at hand replied:

"'Tis better to sit still, than rise, perchance to fall."

From this scene of preparation for battle, their eyes wandered to the fairest scene of peace. The distant city glowed in gloomy splendor. The sun's morning beams tinged turret and tower. The wreaths of rising smoke turned to clouds of red and gold. Dusky grandeur clothed the height where the huge castle stood in state. Far to the north, ridge on ridge, rose the mountains, the rosy morning light bathing their sides in floods of sunshine, and turning each heather bell at their feet into an amethyst. Yonder could be seen the shores of Fife, nearer Preston Bay and Berwick. Between them rolled the broad Firth, islands floating on its bosom like emeralds on a chain of gold.

 
    "Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;
     As if to give his rapture vent,
     The spur he to his charger lent,
       And raised his bridle hand,
     And making demivolte in air,
     Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare
       To fight for such a land!'"
 

While they gazed the time arrived for King James to take his way to a solemn mass. The distant bells chimed the hour, the fife, the sackbut, the psaltery, the cymbal, the war-pipe, in discordant cry took up the note, and together the sounds rolled up the hillside.

Sir David sighed as he listened.

"I look," he said, "upon this city, Empress of the North, her palaces, her castles, her stately halls, her holy towers, and think what war's mischance may bring. These silvery bells may toll the knell of our gallant King. We must not dream that conquest is sure or easily bought. God is ruler of the battlefield, but when yon host begins the combat, wives, mothers, and maids may weep, and priests prepare the death service, for when such a power is led out by such a King, not all will return."

CHAPTER V

Lindesay now bade the guard open the palisade that closed the tented field, and as into its ample bounds Marmion passed, the warders' men drew back. The Scottish warriors stared at the strangers, and envy arose at seeing them so well appointed. Such length of shaft, bows so mighty, had never been seen by northern eyes. Little did the Highlanders then think to feel these shafts through links of Scotch mail on Flodden Field.

No less did Marmion and his men marvel that one small country could marshal forth such hosts. Men-at-arms were heavily sheathed in mail. They were like iron towers on Flemish steeds. Young squires and knights practiced their chargers on the plain to pass, to wheel, to curvet, that the swords of their riders might not descend amiss on foeman's casque. Hardy burghers were there, marching on foot. No waving plume, no crest they wore, but corselet, gorget, and brigantine, brightly burnished. The yeomen, too, were on foot, yet dressed in steel. Each at his back carried forty days' provisions. His arms were the halbert, axe, or spear, a crossbow, a dagger, or a sword. Each seemed almost sad at leaving the dear cottage, the simple pleasures and duties of home, to march into a foreign land. It was not cowardice, not terror, for the more they loved Scotland the more fiercely would they fight.

Quite another class was the Borderer, bred to war. He joyed to hear the roar of battle. No harp, no lute, could please his ear as did the loud slogan. Nobles might fight for fame, vassals might follow, burghers might guard their townships, but to a battle the Borderer joyfully took his way as to a game, scarce caring who might win the day.

Marmion next viewed the Celtic race. Each tribe had its own chief, its belted plaid, its warpipes varying with the clan. Their legs were bare; the undressed hide of the deer gave them buskins, a plaid covered the shoulders, and a broadsword, a dagger, a studded targe, completed the outfit.

Through the Scottish camp, the English train had now passed, and the city gates were reached. The streets were alive with martial show. The Lion King led to lodgings that overlooked the town. Here Marmion, by the King's command, was to remain until the vesper hour and then to ride to Holy-Rood. Meanwhile Sir David ordered a banquet rich and rare.

At the hour appointed, Marmion, attended by the Lion-Lord, arrived at the palace hall, at Holy-Rood. In this princely abode James was feasting the chiefs of Scotland. The historic halls rang with mirth, for well the monarch loved song and banquet. By day the tourney was held, at night the mazy dance was trod by quaint maskers. The scene of this night outshone all others. The dazzling lights hanging from the galleries, displayed the grace of lords and ladies of the court. The "motley fool" retailed his jest, the juggler performed his feat, the minstrel plied his harp, and the lady touched a softer string.

All made room as through this throng the King came to greet his guest.

And now, his courtesy to show,

 
    "He doff'd to Marmion, bending low,
       His broider'd cap and plume.
     For royal was his garb and mien,
       His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,
       Trimm'd with the fur of martin wild;
     His gorgeous collar hung adown,
     Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown,
     The thistle brave, of old renown:
     His trusty blade, Toledo right,
     Descended from a baldric bright;
     White were his buskins, on the heel,
     His spurs inlaid of gold and steel:
     His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
     Was buttoned with a ruby rare:
     And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen
     A prince of such a noble mien."
 

His splendid form, his eagle eyes, his light footstep, his merry laugh and speaking glance made him envied of men and adored of women. He joyed to linger in banquet bower, but often in the midst of wildest glee, a shadow and an expression of pain flitted across the handsome face. His hands instinctively clasped as he felt the pain of the penance belt, worn in memory of his slain father. In a moment the pang was past, and forward, with redoubled zest, he rushed into the stream of revelry.

Courtiers said that Lady Heron, wife of Sir Hugh of Norham, held sway over the heart of the King. To Scotland's court she had come to be a hostage, and to reconcile the offended King to her husband. The fair Queen of France also held the king in thrall. She had sent him a turquoise ring and a glove, and charged him as her knight in English fray, to break for her a lance. For love of the French Queen, as much as for the rights of Scotland, he clothed himself in mail and put his country's noblest, dearest, and best in arms, to die on Flodden Field. For Love of Lady Heron, he admitted English spies to his inmost counsels.

 
    "And thus, for both, he madly planned
     The ruin of himself and land."
 

For these two artful women he sacrificed the true happiness of his home.

 
    "Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen,
     Were worth one pearl-drop bright and sheen,
       From Margaret's eyes that fell, —
     His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower
     All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour."
 

In gay Holy-Rood, Dame Heron, Lady of Norham, smiled at the King, glanced archly at the courtiers, and ably played the coquette. When asked to draw from the harp music to charm the ring of admirers, she laughed, blushed, and with pretty oaths, by yea and nay, declared she could not, would not, dare not! At length, however, she seated herself at Scotland's loved instrument, touched and tuned the strings, laid aside hood and wimple, the better to display her charms, and with a borrowed simplicity well assumed, sang a lively air, Lochinvar.

 
    "Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
     Through all the wild border his steed was the best;
     And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
     He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone;
     So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
     There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
 
 
    "He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
     He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;
     But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
     The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
     For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
     Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
 
 
    "So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
     Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
     Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
     For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
     'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
     Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'
 
 
    "'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;
     Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide —
     And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
     To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
     There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
     That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'
 
 
    "The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,
     He quaff'd off the wine, and threw down the cup,
     She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
     With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye,
     He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, —
     'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.
 
 
    "So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
     That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
     While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
     And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
     And the bride's-maidens whisper'd, ''Twere better by far
     To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'
 
 
    "One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
     When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near;
     So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
     So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
     'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
     They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.
 
 
    "There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
     Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
     There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
     But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
     So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
     Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?"
 

The monarch hung over the wily singer, and beat the measure as she sang. He pressed closer, and whispered praises in her ear. The courtiers broke in applause, the ladies whispered, and looked wise. The witching dame, not satisfied to win a King, threw her glances at Lord Marmion. The glances were significant, familiar, and told of confidences long and old between the English lord and his countrywoman, guests of a Scotch King, on the eve of a great conflict between the two countries.

The King saw their meeting eyes, saw himself treated almost with disdain, and darkest anger shook his frame, for sovereigns illy bear rivals in word, or smile, or look. He drew forth the parchment on which was written Marmion's commission, and strode to the side of brave Douglas, the sixth who had worn the coronet of Angus. The King stood side by side with this brave Scotsman, who had been madly watching the pageant, the fire flashing from his stern eye. This very day he had besought his King to withdraw from the coming war, only to call forth the reproaches of his ungrateful ruler. Yet at this moment, James felt a pride in standing by the side of Bothwell's Lord, and placing in his custody Marmion, the flower of English chivalry.

 
    "The Douglas' form, like ruin'd tower,
     Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower:
     His locks and beard in silver grew;
     His eyebrows kept their sable hue.
     Near Douglas, where the monarch stood,
     His bitter speech he thus pursued:
     'Lord Marmion, since these letters say
     That in the North you needs must stay
       While slightest hopes of peace remain,
     Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,
     To say – Return to Lindisfarne —
     Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;
     Your host shall be the Douglas bold,
     A chief unlike his sires of old.
     He wears their motto on his blade,
     Their blazon o'er his towers display'd;
     Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
     More than to face his country's foes.
       And, I bethink me, by St. Stephen,
     But e'en this morn to me was given
     A prize, the first fruits of the war,
     Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar,
       A bevy of the maids of Heaven.
     Under your guard these holy maids
     Shall safe return to cloister shades.'"
 

The proud heart of Douglas felt the keen thrust. It was true, he would not, even for the King he devotedly loved, draw sword in an unholy cause. As a burning tear stole down his scarred cheek, he turned aside to conceal what might seem weakness. This sight the king could not bear, and seizing the hand of Angus, exclaimed:

 
    "'Now, by the Bruce's soul,
      Angus, my hasty speech forgive!
        I well may say of you, —
      That never king did subject hold,
      In speech more free, in war more bold,
      More tender and more true:
      Forgive me, Douglas, once again!'"
 

While monarch and man embraced, while the aged noble's tears fell like rain, Marmion seized the moment to restore himself to favor with both, and whispered half aloud to the King:

 
    "'Oh! let such tears unwonted plead
      For respite short from dubious deed!
      A child will weep a bramble's smart,
      A maid to see her sparrow part,
      A stripling for a woman's heart:
      But woe awaits a country when
      She sees the tears of bearded men.
      Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,
      When Douglas wets his manly eye!'"
 

That a stranger should see his changing moods, and above all, should presume to tamper therewith, aroused in James the fierce spirit of revenge. Said the fiery monarch:

 
    "'Laugh those that can, weep those that may,
      Southward I march by break of day;
      And if within Tantallon strong
      The good Lord Marmion tarries long,
      Perchance our meeting next may fall
      At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.'"
 

Marmion felt the taunt, and answered gravely: "My humble home would be much honored if King James should visit its halls, but Nottingham has as true archers as e'er drew bow, and Yorkshire men are stern and brave.

 
    "'And many a banner will be torn,
      And many a knight to earth be borne,
      And many a sheaf of arrows spent,
      Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent.'"
 

Scornfully the Monarch turned away, and commanded the gayeties to proceed. He flung aside cloak and sword, and gallantly led Dame Heron in the dance, as the minstrels, at the King's command, struck up "Blue Bonnets o'er the Border."