The sun rose as the funeral procession of the Earl of Mar moved from before the gates of the monastery at Falkirk. Lord Ruthven and Edwin mounted their horses. The maids of the two ladies led them forth toward the litters which were to convey them so long a journey. Lady Ruthven came first, and Wallace placed her tenderly in her carriage. The countess next appeared, clad in the deep weeds of widowhood. Her child followed in the arms of its nurse. At the sight of the innocent babe, whom he had so often seen pressed to the fond bosom of the father it was now following to his grace, tears rushed into the eyes of Wallace. Lady Mar hid the tumult of her feelings on the shoulder of her maid. He advanced to her respectfully, and handing her to her vehicle, urged her to cherish life for the sake of her child. She threw herself with increased agitation on her pillow, and Wallace, deeming the presence of her babe the surest comforter, laid it tenderly by her side. At that moment, before he had relinquished it, she bent her face upon his hands, and bathing them with tears, faintly murmured, “Oh! Wallace, remember me!” Lord Ruthven rode up to bid adieu to his friend, and the litters moved on. Wallace promised that both he and Edwin should hear of him in the course of a few days; and affectionately grasping the hand of the latter, bade him farewell.
Hear of him they should, but not see him; for it was his determination to set off that night for Durham, where, he was informed, Edward now lay, and, joined by his young queen, meant to sojourn till his wounds were healed. Believing that his presence in Scotland could no longer be serviceable, and would engender continual intestine divisions, Wallace did not hesitate in fixing his course. His first object was to fulfill his vow to Lord Mar. He thought it probable, that Helen might have been carried to the English court; and that in seeking her, he might also attempt an interview with young Bruce; hoping to learn how far he had succeeded in persuading his father to leave the vassalage of Edward, and once more dare resuming the specter of his ancestors.
To effect his plan without hinderance, on the disappearance of the funeral cavalcade, Wallace retired to his apartment to address a letter to Lord Ruthven. In this epistle he told the chief that he was going on an expedition which he hoped would prove beneficial to his country; but it was an enterprise of rashness, he would not make any one his companion; he therefore begged Lord Ruthven to teach his friends to consider with candor a flight they might otherwise deem unkind.
All the brother was in his letter to Edwin, conjuring him to prove his affection for his friend by quietly abiding at home till they should meet again in Scotland.
He wrote to Andrew Murray (now Lord Bothwell), addressing him as the first of his compatriots who had struck a blow for Scotland; and, as his dear friend and brother soldier, he confided to his care the valiant troop which had followed him from Lanark. “Tell them,” said he, “that in obeying you they still serve with me, they perform their duty to Scotland at home — I abroad; our aim is the same; and we shall meet again at the consummation of our labors.”
These letters he inclosed in one to Scrymgeour, with orders to dispatch two of them according to their directions; but that to Murray, Scrymgeour was himself to deliver at the head of the Lanark veterans.
At the approach of twilight Wallace quitted the monastery, leaving his packet with the porter, to present to Scrymgeour when he should arrive at his usual hour. As the chief meant to assume a border-minstrel’s garb, that he might travel the country unrecognized as its once adored regent, he took his way toward a large hollow oak in Tor Wood, where he had deposited his means of disguise. When arrive there he disarmed himself of all but his sword, dirk, and breastplate; he covered his tartan gambeson with a minstrel’s cassock, and staining his bright complexion with the juice of a nut, concealed his brighter locks beneath a close bonnet. Being thus equipped, he threw his harp over his shoulder; and having first, in that solitude, where no eye beheld, no ear heard but that of God, invoked a blessing on his enterprise, with a buoyant spirit — rejoicing in the power in whose light he moved — he went forth, and under the sweet serenity of a summer night pursued his way along the broom-clad hills of Muiravenside.
All lay in profound rest-not a human creature crossed his path till the carol of the lark summoned the husbandman to his toil, and spread the thymy hills and daisied pastures with herds and flocks. As the lowing of cattle descending to the water, and the bleating of sheep, hailing the morning beam, came on the breeze, mingled with the joyous voices of their herdsmen, calling to each other from afar — as all met the ear of Wallace — his conscious heart could not but whisper: “I have been the happy instrument to effect this! I have restored every man to his paternal fields! I have filled all these honest breasts with gladness!”
He stopped at a little moss-covered cabin on the burn-side, beneath Craig Castle in Mid–Lothian, and was hospitably entertained by its simple inhabitants. Wallace repaid their kindness with a few ballads, which he sung accompanied by his harp. As he gave the last notes of “King Arthur’s Death in Glory,” the worthy cotter raised his head from the spade on which he leaned, and asked whether he could not sing the glory of Scotland.
“Our renowned Wallace,” said he, “is worth King Arthur and all the stranger knights of his round table, for he not only conquers for us in war, but establishes us in happy peace. Who like him, of all our great captains, ever took such care of the poor as to give them, not only the bread which sustains temporal, but that which supports eternal life? Sing us then his praises, minstrel, and tarry with us days instead of hours.”
The wife, and the children who clung around their melodious visitant, joined in this request. Wallace rose with a saddened smile, and replied:
“I cannot do what you require; but I can yield you an opportunity to oblige Sir William Wallace. Will you take a letter from him, of which I am the bearer, to Lord Dundaf at Berwick? I have been seeking, what I have now found, a faithful Scot, with whom I could confide this trust. It is to reveal to a father’s heart the death of a son, for whom Scotland must mourn to her latest generations.”
The honest shepherd respectfully accepted this mission; and his wife, loading her guest’s scrip with her choicest fruits and cakes, accompanied him, followed by the children, to the bottom of the hill.
In this manner, sitting at the board of the lowly, and sleeping beneath the thatched roof, did Wallace pursue his way through Tweedale and Ettrick Forest, till he reached the Cheviots. From every lip he heard his own praises, heard them with redoubled satisfaction, for he could have no suspicion of their sincerity, as they were uttered without expectation of their ever reaching the regent’s ear.
It was the Sabbath day when he mounted the Cheviots. He stood on one of their summits, and leaning on his harp, contemplated the fertile dales he left behind. The gay villagers, in their best attires, were thronging to their churches; while the aged, too infirm for the walk, were sitting in the sun at their cottage doors, adoring the Almighty Benefactor in his sublimer temple of the universe. All spoke of security and happiness. “Thus I leave thee, beloved Scotland! And on revisiting these hills, may I still behold thy sons and daughters rejoicing in the heaven-bestowed peace of their land!”
Having descended into Northumberland, his well-replenished script was his provider; and when it was exhausted, he purchased food from the peasantry; he would not accept the hospitality of a country he had so lately trodden as an enemy. Here he heard his name mentioned with terror as well as admiration. While many related circumstances of misery to which the ravaging of their lands had reduced them, all concurred in praising the moderation with which the Scottish leader treated his conquests.
Late in the evening, he arrived on the banks of the river that surrounds the episcopal city of Durham. He crossed Framlinggate Bridge. His mistrel garb prevented his being stopped by the guard at the gate; but as he entered its porch, a horse that was going through started at his abrupt appearance. Its rider suddenly exclaimed, “Fool, thou dost not see Sir William Wallace!” Then turning to the disguised knight, “Harper,” cried he, “you frighten my steed; draw back till I pass.” Not displeased to find the terror him so great amongst the enemies of Scotland, that they even addressed their animals as sharers in the dread, Wallace stood out of the way, and saw the speaker to be a young Southron knight, who with difficulty kept his seat on the restive horse. Rearing and plunging, it would have thrown its rider, had not Wallace put forth his hand and seized the bridle. By his assistance, the animal was soothed; and the young lord thanking him for his service, told him that, as a reward, he would introduce him to play before the queen, who that day held a feast at the bishop’s palace. Wallace thought it probable he might see or hear of Lady Helen in this assembly, or find access to Bruce, and he gladly accepted the offer. The knight, who was Sir Piers Gaveston, ordering him to follow, turned his horse toward the city, and conducted Wallace through the gates of the citadel, to the palace within its walls.
On entering the banqueting-hall, he was placed by the knight in the musicians’ gallery, there to await his summons to her majesty. This entertainment being spread, and the room full of guests, the queen was led in by the haughty bishop of the see, the king being too ill of his wounds to allow his joining so large a company. The beauty of the lovely sister of Philip le Bel seemed to fill the gaze and hearts of all bystanders, and none appeared to remember that Edward was absent. Wallace hardly glanced on her youthful charms; his eyes roamed from side to side in quest of a fairer, a dearer object — the captive daughter of his dead friend! She was not there; neither was De Valence; but Buchan, Athol, and Soulis, were near the royal Margaret; in all the pomp of feudal grandeur. In vain waived the trophied banners over their heads; they sat sullen and revengeful, for the defeat on the Carron had obscured the treacherous victory of Falkirk; and instead of having presented Edward to his young queen as the conqueror of Scotland; she had found him, and them fugitives in the castle of Durham!
Immediately on the royal band ceasing to play, Gaveston pressed toward the queen, and told her he had presumed to introduce a traveling minstrel into the gallery; hoping that she would order him to perform for her amusement, as he could sing legends from the descent of the Romans to the victories of her royal Edward. With all her age’s eagerness in quest of novelties, she commanded him to be brought to her.
Gaveston having presented him, Wallace bowed with the respect due to her sex and dignity, and to the esteem in which he held the character of her royal brother. Margaret desired him to place his harp before her, and begin to sing. As he knelt on one knee, and struck its sounding chords, she stopped him by the inquiry, of whence he came?
“From the north country,” was his reply.
“Were you ever in Scotland?” asked she.
“Many times.”
The young lords crowded round to hear this dialogue between majesty and lowliness. She smiled, and turned toward them.
“Do not accuse me of disloyalty, but I have a curiosity to ask another question.”
“Nothing your majesty wishes to know,” said Bishop Beck, “can be amiss.”
“Then tell me,” cried she —“for you wandering minstrels see all great people, good or bad, else how could you make songs about them! — did you ever see Sir William Wallace in your travels?”
“Often, madam.”
“Pray tell me what he is like! you probably will be unprejudiced, and that is what I can hardly expect in this case from any of these brave lords.”
Wishing to avoid further questioning on this subject, Wallace replied:
“I have never seen him so distinctly as to be enabled to prove any right to your majesty’s opinion of my judgment.”
“Cannot you sing me some ballad about him?” inquired she, laughing; “and if you are a little poetical in your praise, I can excuse you; for my royal brother thinks this bold Scot would have shone brightly in a fairer cause.”
“My songs are dedicated to glory set in the grave,” returned Wallace, “therefore Sir William Wallace’s faults or virtues will not be sung by me.”
“Then he is a very young man, I suppose? for you are not old, and yet you speak of not surviving him. I was in hopes,” cried she, addressing Beck, “that my lord the king would have brought this Wallace to have supped with me here; but for once rebellion overcame its master.”
Beck made some reply which Wallace did not hear, and the queen again turning to him resumed:
“Minstrel, we French ladies are very fond of a good mien; and I shall be a little reconciled to your northern realms if you tell me that Sir William Wallace is anything like as handsome as some of the gay knights by whom you see me surrounded.”
Wallace smiled, and replied:
“The comeliness of Sir William Wallace lies in a strong arm and a feeling heart; and if these be charms in the eyes of female goodness, he may hope to be not quite an object of abhorrence to the sister of Philip le Bel!”
The minstrel bowed as he spoke, and the young queen laughing again, said:
“I wish not to come within the influence of either. But sing me some Scottish legend, and I will promise wherever I see the knight to treat him with all courtesy due to valor.”
Wallace again struck the chords of his harp; and with a voice whose full and melodious tones rolled round the vast dome of the hall, he sung the triumphs of Beuther.44 The queen fixed her eyes upon him; and when he ended, she turned and whispered Gavestton:
“If the voice of this man had been Wallace’s trumpet, I should not now wonder at the discomfiture of England. He almost tempted me from my allegiance, as the warlike animation of his notes seemed to charge the flying Southrons.”
44 In commemoration of the victory which this ancient Scottish prince obtained over the Britons before the Christian era, the field of conquest has ever since been called Rutherglen.
Speaking, she rose, and presenting a jeweled ring to the mistrel, left the apartment.
The lords crowded out after her, and the musicians coming down from the gallery, seated themselves with much rude jollity to regale on the remnants of the feast. Wallace, who had discovered the senachie of Brue by the escutcheon of Annandale suspended at his neck, gladly saw him approach. He came to invite the stranger minstrel to partake of their fare. Wallace did not appear to decline it, and as the court bard seemed rather devoted to the pleasures of wine, he found it not difficult to draw from him what he wanted to know. He learned that young Bruce was still in the castle under arrest, “and,” added the senachie, “I shall feel no little mortification in being obliged, in the course of half an hour, to relinquish these festivities for the gloomy duties of his apartment.”
This was precisely the point to which Wallace had wished to lead him; and pleading disrelish of wine, he offered to supply his place in the earl’s chamber. The half-intoxicated bard accepted the proposition with eagerness; and as the shades of nigh had long closed in, he conducted his illustrious substitute to the large round tower of the castle, informing him as they went along, that he must continue playing in a recess adjoining Bruce’s room till the last vesper bell from the abbey in the neighborhood should give the signal for his laying aside the harp. At that time the earl would be fallen asleep, and he might then lie down on a pallet he would find in the recess.
All this Wallace promised punctually to obey; and being conducted by the senachie up a spiral staircase, was left in the little anteroom. The chief drew the cowl of his minstrel cloak over his face and set his harp before him in order to play. He could see through its strings that a group of knights were in earnest conversation at the further end of the apartment; but they spoke so low he could not distinguish what was said. One of the party turned round, and the light of a suspended lamp discovered him to be the brave Earl Gloucester, whom Wallace had taken, and released at Berwick. The same ray showed another to be Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Wallace found the strangeness of his situation. He, the conqueror of Edward, to have been singing as a mendicant in his halls; and having given laws to the two great men before him, he now sat in their view unobserved and unfeared! Their figures concealed that of Bruce, but at last when all rose together, he heard Gloucester say, in rather an elevated voice, “Keep up your spirits. This envy of your base countrymen must recoil upon themselves. It cannot be long before King Edward discovers the motives of their accusations, and his noble nature will acquit you accordingly.”
“My acquittal,” replied Bruce, in a firm tone, “cannot restore what Edward’s injustice has rifled from me. I abide by the test of my own actions, and by it will open the door of my freedom. Your king may depend on it,” added he, with a sarcastic smile, “that I am not a man to be influenced against the right. Where I owe duty I will pay it to the uttermost farthing.”
Not apprehending the true meaning of this speech, Percy immediately answered, “I believe you, and so must all that world; for did you not give brave proofs of it that fearful night on the Carron, in bearing arms against the triumphant Wallace?”
“I did indeed give proofs of it,” returned Bruce, “which I hope the world will one day know, by bearing arms against the usurper of my country’s rights! and in defiance of injustice and of treason, before men and angels I swear,” cried he, “to perform my duty to the end-to retrieve, to honor the insulted, the degraded name of Bruce!”
The two earls fell back before the vehement action which accompanied this burst from the soul of Bruce; and Wallace caught a glimpse of his youthful form, which stood pre-eminent in patriotic virtue between the Southron lords: his fine countenance glowed, and his brave spirit seemed to emanate in light from every part of his body. “My prince and brother!” exclaimed Wallace to himself, ready to rush forward and throw himself at his feet, or into his arms.
Gloucester, as little as Northumberland, comprehending Bruce’s ambiguous declaration, replied, “Let not your heart, my brave friend, burn too hotly against the king for this arrest. He will be the more urgent to obliterate by kindness this injustice when he understands the aims of the Cummins. I have myself felt his misplaced wrath; and who now is more favored by Edward than Ralph de Monthermer? My case will be yours. Good night, Bruce. May propitious dreams repeat the augury of your true friends!” Percy shook hands with the young earl, and the two English lords left the room.
Wallace could now take a more leisurely survey of Bruce. He no longer wore gay embroidered hacqueton; his tunic was black velvet, and all the rest of his garments accorded with the same mourning hue. Soon after the lords had quitted him, the buoyant elasticity of his figure, which before seemed ready to rise from the earth, so was his soul elevated by his sublime resolves, gave way to melancholy retrospections, and he threw himself into a chair with his hands clasped upon his knee and his eyes fixed in musing gaze upon the floor. It was now that Wallace touched the strings of his harp. “The Death of Cathullin” wailed from the sounding notes; but Bruce heard as though he heard them not; they sooth his mood without his perceiving what it was that calmed, yet deepened, the saddening thoughts which possessed him. His posture remained the same; and sigh after sigh gave the only response to the strains of the bard.
Wallace grew impatient for the chimes of that vesper bell which, by assuring Bruce’s attendants that he was going to rest, would secure from interruption the conference............