Jane Seton; or, The King's Advocate: A Scottish Historical Romance
his visits as far as the woods of Donnibrissal and Falkland, and
along the winding coast even so far as the cave of St. Monan. He was
somewhat particular in his taste, and always preferred little
children, when they could be had, as being more tender than either
sheep or calves. He prowled about the most populous burrow-touns,
and sometimes darted through their main streets at midday, making a
passing snap at whoever chanced to be in his way; thus those little
ones whose occupation it was to fish for pow-wowets in the pools of
water which then encumbered the streets, or made dams and dirt-pies
in the gutters, were in imminent danger, for his foraging excursions
extended along the whole Howe of Fife.
The wood-cutters were afraid to venture into the forests, which made
firing so dear, that one or two hapless "heretics" in the castle of
St. Andrew were not burnt for a whole week after the Laird of
Fynnard, High Inquisitor under Paul III., had solemnly delivered them
over to the devil and the devouring element. The little birds held
jubilee in every hedge and hawthorn tree, for their nests were now
respected by truants and harriers; while the people nailed additional
horseshoes, rowan-twigs, and foxes' faces on their doors at night;
and old wives pinned their stockings and garters crosswise at their
pillows to keep away evil. If the wind rumbled in the chimney, as it
often did (for _lums_ were of enormous size in those days), gudeman
and gudewife trembled together in the secrecy of their snug box-beds;
for they were assured it could be nothing else than the wolf
bellowing at the sailing moon.
The wise men of St. Monan's kept their kirk bell (which was thought
to have miraculous powers) ringing all night to scare away the
prowler; but this was soon likely to cause a rebellion among the
Crail and Kinghorn fishermen, who declared that the noise would scare
all the herrings from the coast.
Every night the wolf was heard roaring somewhere, and next morning
the bones of children or sheep were found on the highways, picked as
clean as ivory. Superstition increased the terrors of the people,
who averred that it was visible in many places at once. It was said
by some to be red, by others to be black; some declared that its
mouth was like that of a hound, others like that of the great cannon,
Meg of Threive, or, as it is erroneously named, Mons Meg. It had the
claws of an eagle, by one account; a barbed tail, by another; it
vomited fire; it was a griffin; the devil--everything frightful that
folly and fear could make it.
The best and bravest huntsmen had failed to slay or capture it; the
sharpest spears had been blunted on its side, which the hereditary
forester declared to be like a coat of mail; the fleetest dogs had
been outrun by it, and the fiercest torn by its fangs when brought to
bay; even Bash and Bawtry, the two great hounds of James V., on which
Sir David of the Mount made many a witty rhyme, failed with this
terrible wolf; and the unhappy Fifers were reduced to the verge of
despair.
In the days of King James II. (A.D. 1547), a law ordained that for
the destruction of wolves the sheriffs of counties and bailies of
towns and regalities were empowered to convene the men of their
districts thrice yearly, "betwixt St. Mark's day and Lambmass, for
that (saith the act) is the time of the quhelpes;" and every huntsman
who slew a wolf was to receive from each parishioner one penny; and
whoever brought the wolf's head to the sheriff, lord, baron, or
bailie, should receive six pennies.
Conformably to this law, passed eighty years before, and led in
person by the gallant king (who was compelled for one day to leave
his Magdalene's couch of sickness and of suffering), the whole male
population of Fife, with horse and hound, spear and horn, bow and
arquebuse, had made a vengeful and simultaneous search by hill and
howe, by wood and wold, for this obnoxious denizen; but their efforts
proved perfectly futile; and the night descended upon a hundred
hunting bands without their having had even a glimpse of the
enemy--at least so far as was known of those around the burgh of
Kinghorn, where the earl had landed about noon that day; for an
adverse wind had long detained the little sloop which plied at that
ancient ferry.
On disembarking, he repaired to an hostel house, which bore the sign
of _The King's Horn_, for an old tradition asserts that as the
earlier Scottish monarchs had a castle there, the frequent winding of
the king's horn, as he sallied out to the chase, had given a name to
the little town that nestled on the shore; but the _cean-gorm_, or
blue promontory of the Celtic Scots, still frowns above it, to
contradict the tale. Then, as now, Kinghorn was a steep and
straggling burgh of strange and quaint old houses, piled over each
other, pell-mell, on the brow of a hill, and was traversed by a
brawling mountain burn, that turned the wooden wheel of many an
ancient mill. It is overlooked by the lofty and rugged precipice,
from, the summit of which Alexander III., when riding from
Inverkeithing to his castle of Kinghorn, having mistaken his path in
the forest, fell and broke his neck; a catastrophe which ended the
old line of the Macalpine kings, and began the long wars and woes of
the Scottish succession.
After a slight repast of cheese, bran-bannocks, and a draught of
mum-beer, at the hostel, the earl became alarmed on discovering a
proclamation, descriptive of his person, pasted on the wall
immediately above his head. The unfortunate noble became still more
apprehensive of suspicion or discovery, as the thirty huntsmen who
filled the burrow-toun came crowding into the hostel, and on
perceiving that two or three were beginning to whisper and observe
him, for his whole aspect was wild, haggard, and disordered; he
resolved, if questioned, to pass for a forester like themselves, and,
if attacked, to sell his life as dearly as possible.
Appropriating to himself a stout hunting-spear which stood in a
corner of the kitchen, he bade adieu to the sign of _The King's
Horn_, and, quitting the town, struck into the old horseway that
traversed the heights overhanging the coast.
The sun was now setting.
Remembering how suspiciously he had been eyed in the little hostelry,
he grasped the hunting-spear, looked warily about him, and walked
quietly to the eastward, anxious to leave Kinghorn as far as possible
behind him.
The sun set darkly and lowering as he progressed, and the last flush
of its light fell with a dusky yellow upon the long expanse of
Kirkaldy sands, and the gigantic castle of Ravenscraig, with its
round and square towers--a stronghold of the Sinclairs--which
terminated them.
"I have neither money, food, nor shelter," thought the earl; "but,
praised be fortune, I am at least free!"
The wind growled along the hollows; the Firth grew black as ink, and
its waves rolled white and frothy upon the circular sands, where more
than one small vessel had dropped all her anchors, and made
everything secure aloft and below, to brave the coming tempest. That
vague and indescribable murmur, the sure forerunner of a rising
storm, was floating over the dark-green bosom of the German Sea, and
he heard it mingling with the hiss of the breakers. A tempestuous
night was at hand, and the hapless earl knew not where to look for
refuge; the castle of Kirkaldy-grange, the dwelling of the lord high
treasurer, crowned an eminence on his left; the fortlet of Seafield,
where dwelt the hostile race of Moultray (hostile, at least, to him),
overlooked the beach on his right; so avoiding both, and the little
fane called Eglise Marie, which then occupied the hollow between
them, he descended the wild and then uncultivated shore, and skirting
the long straggling town of Kirkaldy, hoped to find a shelter in one
of those innumerable caverns with which, in many places, the coast of
Fife is completely perforated.
The scudding clouds became blacker and denser; and their shadows
darkened all the foam-flecked estuary. Night came rapidly on, and by
the time when Lord Ashkirk had traversed the long and winding sands,
and found himself near those stupendous cliffs which were crowned by
the great castle of William Lord Sinclair, baron of Dysart and
Ravenscraig, the most perfect gloom had enveloped both sea and shore,
while the red and fiery glow of several salt-pans on the beach
imparted a singular effect to the scenery.
As yet no rain had fallen; but now one of those appalling gusts of
wind which uproot the strongest trees, and lay bare the scalps of
mountains, rushed along the bosom of the Forth, hurling its waves
upon the beach, rolling them sea on sea far along the level sands,
and pouring them in a whirlwind of spray against the grey and lofty
summit of the Ravenscraig. Startled by the din of the encroaching
waves, the earl, by a winding path, was rapidly ascending the
headland, when a wild cry from the ocean--for there the river was
indeed an ocean--made him pause and look back.
"Mother of Mercy!" he exclaimed, as he held his bonnet on his head,
struck his spear in the earth, and turned to face the storm.
A terrific glare of lightning revealed for a moment the deep dark
trough of seething water, where, in flames and fragments, as the
levin brand had scorched and rent her, a strong and stately ship,
with all her masts and yards, her gilded sides, and tier of cannon,
sank down for ever! The vision came and went with that flash of
forky light; and then no more was seen, and nothing more was heard
but the thunder pealing away over the mountains, the roaring of the
angry wind, and the deep boom of the angrier sea.
The earl looked wistfully at the vast and opaque outline of
Ravenscraig, with its stupendous keep and flanking towers, amid whose
stony depths many a warm red light twinkled, indicative of comfort
within; but there an avowed foeman dwelt; and he passed the gate
without knowing where other shelter might be found. He now became
more anxious, for a few large and warm drops, which plashed upon his
face, announced that a drenching summer thunder-shower was about to
fall.
He had now attained such high ground that even the turrets of
Ravenscraig were below him, and the wind swept over it with redoubled
force; for then the promontory was all desolate and bare, though in
the Druid days a vast forest had covered it. Beneath him lay the
little town of Dysart, a closely-packed and antique burgh, nestling
on the steep and strangling shore, full of quaint old-fashioned
houses, roofed with stone, and built upon broad and low arcades,
where the merchants exposed their wares; but, save where a ray of
light shone from an open shutter or an upper window, the whole town
was buried in murky obscurity.
The roaring of the winds, and the din of the breakers against the
promontory, prevented the earl hearing the sound of his own
footsteps; and in the gloom he paused irresolutely on the brow of
this rugged eminence, for now the tall and beautiful tower of Saint
Denis started up from amid the architectural masses of the Black
Friary, and seemed to be immediately below his feet, yet it was fully
a quarter of a mile distant.
He was about to descend and claim the shelter and sanctuary which the
Dominican fathers were bound to afford him, for one night at least,
when a wild and frightful cry, that was borne on the wind past his
ear, made him pause once more, again grasp his hunting-spear, and
gaze around him.
All was darkness and obscurity behind; no object met his eye save
three large and beautiful oaks, which stood equi-distant on the
hill-side; and against the gloomy sky he saw their gloomier outline,
twisted, torn, and shaken as if by the hand of a giant, and every