and by it will I stand.’
The conditions were grievously hard, and had a damping and dismal effect on the courtly circle. The light of every eye deadened into a dim and sullen scowl. It was a deed that promised glory and renown to adventure their blood for such a dame – to win such a lady as the Princess of Scotland: But, to give up their broad lands and castles to enrich a hated rival, was an obnoxious consideration, and what in all likelihood was to be the issue. When all the forces of the land had been unable to take the castle by storm, where was the probability that any of them was now to succeed? None accepted the conditions. Some remained silent; some shook their heads, and muttered incoherent mumblings; others strode about the room, as if in private consultation.
‘My honoured liege,’ said Lady Margaret, ‘none of the lords or knights of your court have the spirit to accept of my conditions. Be pleased then to grant me a sufficient force. I shall choose the officers for them myself, and I engage to take the castle of Roxburgh before Christmas. I will disappoint the bloody Musgrave of his bride; and the world shall see whether the charms of Lady Jane Howard or those of Margaret Stuart shall rouse their admirers to deeds of the most desperate valour. Before the Christmas bells have tolled, that shall be tried on the rocks, in the rivers, in the air, and the bowels of the earth. In the event of my enterprise proving successful, all the guerdon that I ask is, the full and free liberty of giving my hand to whom I will. It shall be to no one that is here.’ And so saying she struck it upon the table, and again took her seat at the king’s left hand.
Every foot rung on the floor with a furious tramp, in unison with that stroke of the princess’s hand. The taunt was not to be brooked. Nor was it. The haughty blood of the Douglasses could bear it no longer. James, the gallant earl of Douglas and Mar, stepped forward from the circle. ‘My honoured liege, and master,’ said he, ‘I have not declined the princess’s offer – beshrew my heart if ever it embraced such a purpose. But the stake is deep, and a moment’s consideration excusable. I have considered, and likewise decided. I accept the lady’s proposals. With my own vassals alone, and at my own sole charge, will I rescue the castle from the hands of our enemies, or perish in the attempt. The odds are high against me. But it is now a Douglas or a Musgrave: God prosper the bravest!’
‘Spoken like yourself, noble Douglas,’ said the king, ‘The higher the stake the greater the honour. The task be yours, and may the issue add another laurel to the heroic name.’
‘James of Douglas,’ said Lady Margaret, ‘dost thou indeed accept of these hard conditions for my sake? Then the hand of thy royal mistress shall buckle on the armour in which thou goest to the field, but never shall unloose it, unless from a victor or a corse!’ And with that she stretched forth her hand, which Douglas, as he kneeled with one knee on the ground, took and pressed to his lips.
Every one of the nobles shook Douglas by the hand, and wished him success. Does any man believe that there was one among them that indeed wished it? No, there was not a chief present that would not have rejoiced to have seen him led to the gallows. His power was too high already, and they dreaded that now it might be higher than ever; and, moreover, they saw themselves outdone by him in heroism, and felt degraded by the contract thus concluded.
The standard of the Douglas was reared, and the bloody heart flew far over many a lowland dale. The subordinate gentlemen rose with their vassals, and followed the banner of their chief; but the more powerful kept aloof, or sent ambiguous answers. They deemed the service undertaken little better than the frenzy of a madman.
There was at that time a powerful border baron, nicknamed Sir Ringan Redhough, by which name alone he was distinguished all the rest of his life. He was warden of the middle marches, and head of the most warlike and adventurous sept in all that country. The answer which this hero gave to his own cousin, Thomas Middlemas, who came to expostulate with him from Douglas, is still preserved verbatim: ‘What, man, are a’ my brave lads to lie in bloody claes that the Douglas may lie i’ snaw-white sheets wi’ a bonny bedfellow? Will that keep the braid border for the king, my master? Tell him to keep their hands fu’, an’ their haunches toom, an’ they’ll soon be blythe to leave the lass an’ loup at the ladle; an’ the fient ae cloot shall cross the border to gar their pots play brown atween Dirdanhead and Cocketfell. Tell him this, an’ tell him that Redhough said it. If he dinna work by wiles he’ll never pouch the profit. But if he canna do it, an’ owns that he canna do it, let him send word to me, an’ I’ll tak’ it for him.’
With these words he turned his back, and abruptly left his cousin, who returned to Douglas, ill satisfied with the success of his message, but, nevertheless, delivered it faithfully. ‘That curst carle,’ said the Douglas, ‘is a thorn in my thigh, as well as a buckler on my arm. He’s as cunning as a fox, as stubborn as an oak, and as fierce as a lion. I must temporize for the present, as I cannot do without his support, but the time may come that he may be humbled, and made to know his betters; since one endeavour has failed, we must try another, and, if that do not succeed, another still.’
The day after that, as Sir Ringan was walking out at his own gate, an old man, with a cowl, and a long grey beard, accosted him. ‘May the great spirit of the elements shield thee, and be thy protector, knight,’ said he.
‘An’ wha may he be, carle, an it be your will?’ said Ringan; ‘An’ wha may ye be that gie me sic a sachless benediction? As to my shield and protection, look ye here!’ and with that he touched his two-handed sword, and a sheaf of arrows that was swung at his shoulder; ‘an’ what are all your saints and lang nebbit spirits to me?’
‘It was a random salutation, knight,’ said the old man, seeing his mood and temper; ‘I am not a priest but a prophet. I come not to load you with blessings, curses, nor homilies, all equally unavailing, but to tell you what shall be in the times that are to come. I have had visions of futurity that have torn up the tendrils of my spirit by the roots. Would you like to know what is to befal you and your house in the times that are to come?’
‘I never believe a word that you warlocks say,’ replied the knight; ‘but I like aye to hear what you will say about matters; though it is merely to laugh at ye, for I dinna gie credit to ane o’ your predictions. Sin’ the Rhymer’s days, the spirit o’ true warlockry is gane. He foretauld muckle that has turned out true; an’ something that I hope will turn out true: But ye’re a’ bairns to him.’
‘Knight,’ said the stranger, ‘I can tell you more than ever the Rhymer conceived, or thought upon; and, moreover, I can explain the words of True Thomas, which neither you nor those to whom they relate in the smallest degree comprehend. Knowest thou the prophecy of the Hart and the Deer, as it is called?
‘Quhere the hearte heavit in het blude over hill and howe,
There shall the dinke deire droule for the dowe:
Two fleite footyde maydenis shall tredde the greine,
And the mone and the starre shall flashe betweine.
Quhere the proude hiche halde and heveye hande beire
Ane frenauch shall feide on ane faderis frene feire,
In dinging at the starris the D shall doupe down,
But the S shall be S quhane the heide S is gone.’
‘I hae heard the reide often and often,’ said the knight, ‘but the man’s unborn that can understand that. Though the prophecies and the legends of the Rhymer take the lead i’ my lear, I hae always been obliged to make that a passover.’
‘There is not one of all his sayings that relates as much to you and your house, knight. It foretels that the arms of your family shall supersede those
