Jane Seton; or, The King's Advocate: A Scottish Historical Romance
crafts and consequential councillors of the gude town, were impatient
for the _deid chack_, and had ordered that, as the friars had
lingered too long with Jane in her cell, and as the hour of twelve
approached, and the people were impatient, they should do their
office at the stake--an edict of selfishness and cruelty.
This _deid chack_ was a dinner or supper (according to the hour) of
which the magistrates always partook after an execution; and it was
generally served up with great civic state, in a chamber which
adjoined the church of St. Giles, and which in later days was the
vestry of the Tolbooth kirk.
Twelve rang from the great tower of that venerable fane; and to the
ears of all it seemed to do so more slowly and solemnly than usual,
for such is the force of imagination. At the same moment the lurid
flash of a culverin broke redly from the battlements of the
Constable's Tower, and its hoarse boom pealed away over the heads of
the people.
Every heart leaped, every ear tingled, every eye dilated. A rapid
murmur pervaded the vast multitude, and then died away, leaving them
all attention--all ear and eye; they seemed to have but one pulse,
one heart, and their expectations were excited to the utmost degree
when the strong iron portal of the Spur unclosed, and the procession
of death appeared slowly descending the steep bank towards the stake.
First came six arquebusiers in steel caps and crimson doublets,
marching in double file, with their matches smoking.
Then came Sanders Screw, dressed in flaming scarlet, with a leather
apron, and his arms bared to the elbow. He bore a lighted torch,
which flared luridly on his withered visage and decrepit figure. He
looked like an antiquated fiend.
Then came the governor of the fortress, Sir James Riddel, walking on
foot, but in half armour, attended by an esquire and two pages, one
bearing his sword, the other his helmet. With him were the
magistrates in their scarlet gowns, wearing their chains of gold,
with their sword-bearer, macer, and halberdiers, clad in blue
doublets, laced, and slashed with yellow.
Then appeared Father St. Bernard, with the Dominican who acted as the
governor's chaplain. Both were walking bareheaded and in full
canonicals, with their eyes fixed upon their books. St. Bernard was
praying, the Dominican made the responses in a loud and audible
voice. All the people immediately uncovered their heads, and the
horsemen of Gourtoun lowered the points of their lances.
When Lady Jane appeared, another low murmur pervaded the people,
mingled with exclamations of--
"Alake! alake! oh, waly! waly! Eh, sirs, and gude preserve us! waly!
waly!" for the latter is an old Scottish exclamation expressive of
the utmost commiseration.
It rose almost to a shout, then it died away, and silence sealed the
lips of nearly ten thousand persons; they seemed for a time to be
frozen with pity, horror, and expectation of the dire catastrophe;
and so they remained with their countless eyes fixed upon her, their
mouths open, their voices hushed, their breathing suspended.
Poor Jane! Amid all that living sea, around, above, and below her,
she saw not the face of a friend, and yet the heads were rising and
falling like the billows of a heaving ocean, as the hushed people,
animated by morbid curiosity, struggled in silence to obtain a full
view of her.
The lines of Nicholas Howe are strikingly descriptive of her aspect;
for as she descended to the pile--
"Submissive, sad, and lowly was her look;
A burning taper in her hand she bore,
And on her shoulders carelessly confused
With loose neglect her lovely tresses hung;
Upon her cheek a faintish flush was spread;
Feeble she seemed, ami sorely smit with pain.
Her streaming eye bent ever on the earth,
Except when in some bitter pang of sorrow,
To heaven she seemed in fervent zeal to raise,
_And begged that mercy man denied her here_."
Instead of being dressed in a penitent's frock of tarred canvas,
painted with flames pointing downwards, like those of the "heretics"
whom the same spectators had seen burned at the Rood of Greenside,
before the gate of the Carmelites, a short time before, Jane wore an
ordinary tunic of blue silk, and her little velvet cap, with its
triangular front, from the top of which a pendant bob-jewel sparkled
on her brow,--for she had resolved to die bravely. Her rosary,
formed of silver and coral beads, hung at her wrist; her missal was
in one hand, a taper in the other. Her luxuriant brown hair hung
over her shoulders, in sign of sorrow and repentance; she was sorely
changed, and worn almost to a skeleton, but there was something
almost holy in the solemn and resigned expression of her beautiful
face. It was the pallor of long mental suffering, mingled with a
sublime resignation to the will of God and the hard fate He designed
for her at the hands of His creatures, who seemed to her so merciless.
Now, hovering between time and eternity, she seemed as one beyond the
pale of life.
The fear and hatred which her name, as a rumoured sorceress, had
excited in the minds of the people, died away when they beheld her.
Sorrow and compassion swelled in every heart, and each man whispered
to his neighbour of her youth and beauty, and the memory of that good
and valiant earl her father, "who fought so well for Scotland, God
rest him!"
Many wrung their hands, many wept, and more prayed for her; for if
they were blunt and fiery, our Scottish sires of the olden time, and
somewhat too ready with the use of their swords and dirks, they were
warm-hearted and kind, as they were honest and true.
Her dignity and courage deserved their praise, for on beholding those
assembled thousands, the glittering pikes of the mailed horsemen, the
halberds and arquebuses, the stake with its chain, and the oiled
faggots which formed that appalling pile, Jane gathered courage from
her pride of birth and name, and resolved that history should never
have it to record that a daughter of the house of Ashkirk blanched in
the face of death--that grim foe whom its sons had so often
confronted on the fields of France and England. As these thoughts
fired her heart, her cheek flushed, her dark eye lighted up, she
became in a moment sublime; and as the bright torches glared on her
wasted and ghastly beauty, the people saw in her no longer the
regicide and the sorceress, but a heroine, a martyr!
Now she knelt down by the pile, for Father St. Bernard, in a low
voice, almost inaudibly tremulous, began to repeat the prayers
contained in the mass usually performed for the dead on the day of
decease or burial; for, as an "obdurate heretic and sorceress," Jane
was not permitted to receive the last sacraments of her church in
public, but the good old prebendary had bestowed them in secret.
Then, as this solemn service commenced, the entire assembled
thousands sank upon their knees and bowed down their heads. Even the
Reformers who were in the crowd (and there were many) could not
refuse to kneel and pray at a crisis so sad and terrible, when a poor
human soul was, as they thought, hovering on the brink of hell.
The horsemen of Gourtoun remained upright in their saddles, with
their armour gleaming in the torchlight, which shed its uncertain
glare upon the crowded bank, and on the giant fortress that towered
into the clouds above it, upon the bastions and cannon of the Spur,
upon the crowded windows and fantastic architecture of the closes,
and the sea of heads that were bowed in the market-place, far down
below, upon the kneeling sufferer, the silver hair, bald heads, and
shining vestments of the priests beside her; while, like the murmur
of a gentle wind as it passes over a full-eared corn-field, the
voices of the people rose when they joined in the beautiful hymn
prescribed by what was then their church,--
"The day of wrath! that dreadful day!
Shall the whole world in ashes lay,
As David and the sybils say.
What horror shall invade the mind,
When the strict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few venial faults to find!"
and so on to the close of the solemn chaunt,--
"Prostrate, my contrite heart I rend,--
My God, my Father, and my Friend,
Do not forsake me in mine end!
Well may they curse their second birth,
Who rise to everlasting death.
Thou great Creator of mankind,
Oh, let _this soul_ compassion find!"
Amid all that vast assemblage, there was one person who did not seem
to join in this hymn. He had lost his bonnet; his head was bare, and
his hair, wild, matted, and disordered, waved around his head, and
mingled with a beard that seemed to have been untrimmed for a
fortnight. He was armed with a long sword, and rode a powerful
horse, the blood of which was dripping from a pair of sharp spurs,
which appeared to be hurriedly buckled on. The whole multitude were
intently regarding the poor being who was about to suffer, otherwise
the pale visage, fierce eyes, and wild aspect of this strange
horseman must have attracted, in a marked manner, the attention of
all who chanced to observe him.
He was Roland Vipont, who, with a heart full of fury, and a head full
of desperate thoughts, had posted himself as near the pile as the
spearmen of Sir Andrew Preston would permit.
Love and wrath, together with wounded pride, had excited his great
inborn courage to a point of rashness and bravery that made him feel
strong as a Hercules, bold as a lion, and fitted to encounter,
without a shadow of fear or qualm of doubt, Sir Andrew of Gourtoun's
fifty lances in a general mêlée.
Slowly and impressively the chapel bells of the Greyfriars, and of
St. Mary in the Portsburgh, began to toll a knell for the passing
soul, and the heads of the people bent lower.
"Blessed Lord," Roland heard the voice of the prebend praying; "oh,
King of Glory, deliver the souls of all the faithful departed from
the flames of hell, and from the deep pit."
Jane's pale lips seemed to move as she made a response.
"Deliver them from the lion's mouth, lest hell swallow them, and lest
they fall into darkness.
"Let the standard-bearer, Saint Michael, bring them unto the holy
light which of old thou didst promise to Abraham and to his
posterity."
"Amen!" responded the calm voice of the old Dominican.
St. Bernard shut his missal, and covered his face with the sleeve of
his vestment.
As one man, the silent thousands raised their heads, and Sanders
Screw shook the flame of his torch, to light it fully.
Jane arose, and gazed placidly around her.
_The time had come!_
Then, if it could be possible, the heart of Roland Vipont beat
quicker, and he unsheathed his sword.
"Aid me, thou blessed Power, whom all these hearts have invoked! aid
me for her sake! But, aid or no aid, if I am forsaken, 'tis but the
soldier's death! Vipont! Vipont!" he exclaimed, and suddenly urging
his horse towards the stake, he threw his left arm around Jane, and
drew her across his saddle before any one had the least idea of what
he meant to do; and brandishing his sword around his head, dashed the
gory spurs again into the torn flanks of his horse.
Appalled by the rapidity of the action, the vast assemblage stood
immovable.
Down the frightful steep towards the King's Meuse he rode with the
speed of an arrow; and, as the clouds part before a thunderbolt, the
horsemen gave way, and the people parted before him.
"Shut the gates of the town!" cried Sir Andrew Preston; but a roar of
voices burst from the multitude, and amid that roar his voice was
confounded and lost.
Fortunately the gates were open, and deserted by their warders; and
thus, before the people had recovered from their astonishment, and
before the troopers of Gourtoun were ordered to pursue, Roland