Jane Seton; or, The King's Advocate: A Scottish Historical Romance
captain and lieutenant of the king's guard have sent to say, they
will do themselves the pleasure of supping with me to-night, and
hospitality requires that I should not decline, for we are three _bon
camarados_, and have made a compact to dine and sup with each other
alternately whenever our cash was low."
"Then the cash of these wild gallants is gone?"
"Sunk to the lowest ebb, Jane. I met them this morning, swearing
like Turks, for they had lost all they possessed, even to their
rings, at the French ambassador's. With the earl and his enormous
Tizona, and these tall trenchermen, who are always lounging about the
kitchen-fire and stable-yard, none will dare to molest you to-night."
"Be not too certain. Oh, I have so many lovers, that I dare scarcely
look from under my hood, lest I add one to the number. Abduction is
not so uncommon, surely. Did not King James carry off the lady of
Lochlevin on her bridal night? Is not the Knight of Casche now a
prisoner in the castle for carrying off the wife of Sir David Scott,
whom he slew in the kirk of Strathmiglo? And 'tis only six days
since Kincaid of Coates forcibly abducted the poor wife of master
Quentin Smebard, when she was cheapening her a new hood at the
Tron--yea, in the High-street, and at noon-day."
"Tush! a pitiful clerk of the chancery," said Roland, playing with
her curls. "Believe me, my little ladykin, that none will dare
meddle with thee who see the livery of thy followers, and remember
thou art the affianced bride of Sir Roland Vipont. So in vain,
cunning fairy, thou wouldest frighten me from performing what
friendship and hospitality require. But what is this book, for which
madam the prioress of St. Katherine is so anxious?"
"See, it is _The Lyf of St. Katherin of Sienna_," said Jane, opening
a little volume of Wynkyn de Worde's, the velvet cover of which she
had embroidered beautifully with gold upon crimson. "Thou canst read
this black letter, of course?"
"Why, thanks to fortune and my good friend the father here, I learned
the _Grace Buke_ and _Prymar_, at the principal grammar school of
this good burgh, when it was first opened by Provost Logan of
Coatfield."
"In the year of grace 1519," said the countess, "just six years after
the death of the good King James, whose munificence founded it--woe's
me!"
"And why doth this prioress not embroider her own books? How, i' the
devil's name, do they spend the long dull day in yonder convent; for
I vow 'tis a fortress all walled round like the city of Lisle--and I
suppose the fair sisters are never beyond it."
"Save when sickness or sorrow, want or misery, call them into the
world; for they are of inestimable service to the poor. Ah! had you
seen them in time of the plague. The Prioress Josina--thou
rememberest the beautiful Josina Henrison, who with me was a
damoiselle of honour to madam the Duchess Anne of Albany? Ah! she is
a very angel of goodness. Now, do not look in that way, as if you
were just about to laugh at me?"
"Who--I? Mass! I would almost have fallen sick on purpose, to have
had such a nurse as the pretty Josina--had I not----"
"What, sir?"
"Loved thee, and consequently been sure of another."
"'Tis well you say so," replied Jane, playfully, pinching his ear.
"Ah! my mother is watching us!"
"God bless ye, bairns!" said the old countess, kindly and fondly;
"for ye were born under the same star, ilk being destined for the
other."
"_Pax Domini sit semper voliscum_," said Father St. Bernard, with
closed eyes, and waving his right hand towards them.
"Plague take thy Latin," muttered the earl.
"Which meaneth, the peace of the Lord be about you," continued the
priest.
"I never tried Latin but once, good father, and then it was to curse
roundly when my Scottish failed--_in nomine patris et filii_, and so
forth."
"And when was this, my sou?"
"Retreating up Yarrow-braes from Cessford's spearmen, with two
bullets and three arrows sticking in my body."
The old priest crossed himself, and turned up his eyes; but those of
the countess kindled as her son spoke, and some fiery remark was
hovering on her lips, when her bower-woman, a demure looking abigail,
clad in solemn black taffety, raised the arras, glided in on tiptoe,
and whispered something in her ear.
Lady Ashkirk turned very pale.
"Mother dear," said Lady Jane, tenderly, "what has happened?"
"That hen hath crowed again, as Janet tells me."
"Hen--what hen?" said the earl.
"An ill-omened hen in the poultry-yard, whilk hath now crown thrice
since you came amongst us. Oh! my doo Archibald! my doo
Archibald!--it's a sad boding of evil, whilk the Mother o' God avert."
"Amen!" said the old priest, "_pax domini_----"
"Friend Roland," said the earl, with a smile, "did you ever know any
one who dwelt in such an atmosphere of omens and predictions, salves
and recipes, as the good lady my mother? 'Tis very perplexing, to
say the least of it."
"Hush, lord earl!" said the countess, with some asperity; "every
bairn kens that the crowing of a hen bodeth evil, and that no house
can thrive where the hens are addicted to sic an ungodly and
unnatural amusement. Harkee, Janet, let its neck be drawn, and
bestow it as an almous on the first Franciscan who comes hither wi'
his begging box."
This episode was rather "a damper" to the ladies; but Roland
endeavoured to divert them, by engaging and vanquishing them all
successively at the old French military game of _passe dix_, which
was played with three dice, at which (as we learn from the _Complete
Gamester_, 1680) "the caster throws continually till he hath thrown
doublets under ten, and then he is _out_, and loseth, or doublets
above ten, and then he _passeth_, and wins." At this simple game
fortune favoured Roland, and he swept off the entire passbank, which
was composed of little _bon-bons_ of honey and flour, for sugar was
then growing in the mist of futurity--at least, it was unknown in
Scotland. The time stole swiftly on; at last the ringing of vespers
warned him that he must retire, as his friends, who had so annoyingly
invited themselves, would be awaiting him.
"Say a prayer for me at St. Katherine's to-night, my dear Jane," said
Roland, as he buckled on his rapier. "I fear me I am a sad rogue,
and often omit to pray for myself in these stirring times, when one's
armour is so rarely off: and of all things forget not to give my very
best commendations to the fair Josina."
"Sirrah! thou wantest thine other ear well pinched."
"And you return?"
"To-morrow, at noon."
"Ah--the devil! and shall I not see thee till then?" said Roland,
scared at the prospect of an eighteen hours' separation.
"Thou wilt not die of despair in that time, surely?" replied Jane,
archly.
"Then to-morrow, at noon, I will be at the convent gate, or under the
old lime-trees that border its pathway, near the loch; and so till
then, my sweet flower, farewell."
After paying his adieux to all with that grave formality which French
intercourse had impressed upon the manners of the Scottish noblesse,
he retired; whereupon the messieurs Birrel and Dobbie ordered in the
additional stoup of Flemish wine, as we have related in the
thirteenth chapter of this history.
CHAPTER XVI.
VIPONT'S HOUSEHOLD.
"At length they to the house retreated,
And round the supper soon were seated;
When the time quickly passed away,
And gay good humour closed the day."
_Dr. Syntax_, Canto XIV.
Having lost all their money at play with the French and Spaniards,
Roland's two comrades, the captain of the arquebusiers, and Leslie,
his lieutenant, had both invited themselves to sup with him on that
evening, according (as he has already stated) to an arrangement the
three friends had made--that he whose exchequer was low should dine
or sup with the others. But now it chanced that Roland's purse was
drained too; and though hospitality and the manners of the time
forbade the least evasion of this visit, or rather visitation, old
Lintstock had fully participated in the consternation it occasioned
his master. Lintstock, however, with the coolness of an old soldier
who was well used to foraging, begged Sir Roland to keep his mind at
ease, as he would provide an adequate supper by the hour of the
cavaliers' arrival.
Roland knew not what to make of this; but he was aware of the
fertility of his valet's resources, and that the cunning old vender
of projectiles had made love to an inn (as he said), or rather an
innkeeper's widow, whom he had been intending to espouse for the last
live years; thus he doubted not Lintstock would provide the viands if
Heaven did not.
Roland lodged with the widow of one of the king's falconers; but the
pittance he received per month from the exchequer (for although
styled master of the ordnance, he was in reality only captain of a
few hundred cannoniers, who were scattered throughout the royal
castles) afforded little more than what soldiers usually term
comforts--_i.e._, plain bed, board, and quarters. He was never so
much in camp or garrison as to lose the polish of the courtier or
relish for the society of ladies. The "rough and round" of a
soldier's life never discomposed him; he wore his heavy armour as
easily as Jane Seton did her gloves of Blois; and his love for her
threw a poetry around all that plainness and positive discomfort
which generally surrounded him, but of which she was totally
ignorant. Soldiering had, of course, considerably sharpened his
faculties; but Roland never forgot the gentle bearing of the perfect
cavalier; and though perhaps inferior in head to such a man as Sir
Adam Otterburn, he was immensely superior in heart and
straightforwardness of purpose.
Roland's windows overlooked the Abbey Close, and the setting sun
shone partly through them. They were strongly grated, and lighted a
room which was wainscoted with Scottish fir, and furnished with six
hardwood chairs and a table of oak. An almerie or corner cupboard, a
boxed bed within a recess, a suit of bright armour, and a quantity of
other harness for horse and man, with various weapons, hung upon
pegs; a few books of old romances, and a French _Manuel de
l'Artilleur_, made up its furniture.
"What the devil shall I do, if Lintstock has failed?" thought Roland,
as he entered his domicile. "Hallo, old Ironhead, how goeth the
supper?" (People supped then at seven o'clock.)
"Right weel, Sir Roland, as ye may see for yoursel," replied the old
fellow, over whose broad visage and solitary eye there spread a
brilliant smile of self-satisfaction.
A snow-white cloth covered the old oak-table; a knife, a
drinking-horn, and platter were laid for each of the friends; a
silver salt-cellar occupied the centre; a plate, with four roasted
ducks, stood on one side thereof, a tart and stewed pigeons on the
other, with a joint of veal daintily roasted; while an eel-pie and
two large manchets of white flour, with other et cetera, appeared on
the side buffet, with a row of wine flasks in fair battaglia, side by
side, telling by their gaudy badges that they were from France, and
such wine as was then sold by the retailers at sixpence Scots (one
half-penny sterling) the pint, under penalty of having the head of
the cask beaten out, as an edict of the provost and baillies in 1520
remains to show.
"By Jove, thou art the very fiend himself!" said Roland, lost in
astonishment at the sight of all these good things; "how else couldst
thou get these gallant bottles of Rochelle and Bourdeaux from that
old curmudgeon of the _Cross and Gillstoup_--for I see they bear his
mark. On my honour, I am mightily tickled by thine ingenuity!"
"I said we would pay----"
"_We?_"