by G. A. Henty
“You have played us a scurvy trick, monk,” the leader said, angrily. “Who was to guess it was a monk, who was thus striding along?”
“You would find it difficult to walk, yourself, with this robe dangling about your heels,” Roger said.
“Whither are you bound, and whence are you going?”
“We are travelling to Dunbar, being sent to the convent of Saint Magnus there, and come from Roxburgh.”
“’Tis a shame that so stalwart a fellow as you are should be leading a drone’s life, in a convent; when every true Scotsman is sharpening his spear, in readiness for what may come when the truce with England expires.”
“I am glad to hear that you are so well employed,” Roger replied; “but methinks that, in days like these, it is sometimes useful to have a few men of thews and sinews, even in a religious house; for there are those who sometimes fail in the respect they owe to the Church.”
“That is true enough,” the men laughed. “Well, go thy way. There is naught to be gained from a travelling monk.”
“Naught, good friend, save occasionally hard blows, when the monk happens to be of my strength and stature, and carries a staff like this.”
“’Tis a goodly weapon, in sooth, and you look as if you knew how to wield it.”
“Even a monk may know that, seeing that a staff is not a carnal weapon.”
And rolling up his sleeves, Roger took the staff in the middle with both hands, in the manner of a quarterstaff, and made it play round his head; with a speed, and vigour, that showed that he was a complete master of the exercise.
“Enough, enough!” the man said, while exclamations of admiration broke from the others. “Truly from such a champion, strong enough to wield a weapon that resembles a weaver’s beam, rather than a quarterstaff, there would be more hard knocks than silver to be gained; but it is all the more pity that such skill and strength should be thrown away, in a convent. Perhaps it is as well that you are wearing a monk’s gown, for methinks that, eight to one as we are, some of us might have got broken heads, before we gained the few pence in your pocket.
“Come on, men. Better luck next time. It is clear that this man is not the one we are charged to capture.”
And, with his followers, he rode off across the moor.
“I do not think that they are what they seem,” Oswald said, as they resumed their journey. “The man’s speech was not that of a border raider, and his followers would hardly have sat their horses so silently, and obeyed his orders so promptly, had they been merely thieving caterans; besides, you marked that he said you were not the man they were watching for.”
“Whom think you that they are, then, Master Oswald?”
“I think it possible that they may be a party of Douglas’s followers, led by a knight. It may be that Douglas has received some hint of March’s being in communication with England; and that he has sent a party to seize, and search, any traveller who looked like a messenger from the south. Of course, this may be only fancy. Still, I am right glad that you were wearing your monkish robe; for, had I been alone, I might have been cross-questioned so shrewdly as to my purpose in travelling, that I might have been held on suspicion, and means employed to get the truth out of me.”
At the small town where they stopped, next night, they learned that many complaints had been made, by travellers from the south, of how they had been stopped by a party of armed men on the border, closely questioned, and searched, and in some cases robbed. This had been going on for some weeks, and the sheriff of the county had twice collected an armed force, and ridden in search of the robbers, but altogether without success. It was believed that they were strangers to the district, and the description given of them had not agreed with those of any noted bad characters, in the neighbourhood.
“Certainly, Master Oswald,” the monk said, “all this seems to support your idea. Money and valuables are soon found; but by what these men say of the way in which the clothes and belongings of these travellers were searched, it would seem to show that money was not the object of the band, but rather the discovery of correspondence, and that money was only taken as a cloak.”
“I have no doubt that they were there to intercept someone, Roger, though it may not have been Percy’s messengers; still, we are well rid of them, and I hope that we shall meet no more, on our way.”
The hope was fulfilled, and they reached Dunbar without further interruption. Here they deemed it better to separate. The monk went to a convent, and gave out there that he was on the way to Edinburgh, being on a journey thither to see his aged father, who was in his last sickness. Oswald went to a shop, and bought clothes suited for the son of a trader in a fair position; and, changing his things at the inn where he had put up, made his way to the castle.
“I would have speech with the earl,” he said, to the warder at the gate. “I have his orders to wait upon him.”
“What is your name and condition?”
“That matters not. I am here by the earl’s orders. He sent me a ring, by which it might be known that I am authorized to have access to him.”
On seeing the ring, the warder at once called to one of the servitors, and bade him conduct Oswald to the earl’s apartment.
“Whom shall I say?” he asked, when he reached the door.
“Give this ring to him, and say that the bearer awaits admittance to him.”
The man entered the room and then, opening the door again, motioned to Oswald to enter. The earl, a tall and powerfully-built man, looked with a keen scrutiny at him.
“From whom come you, young sir?”
“From the holder of that ring, my Lord Earl,” Oswald said, presenting the ring that Percy had given him. “My name is Oswald Forster, and I have the honour to be one of Lord Percy’s esquires.”
“Come you alone?” the earl asked.
“I came with a companion, a monk. I was in the disguise of a young servitor of his convent. We came on foot from Roxburgh.”
He then unscrewed the handle of a dagger Percy had given him, for the purpose, and pulled out a small roll of paper, which he handed to the earl. It contained only the following words:
“Do not intrust undue confidence in the bearer. The matters you wot of are in good train; of them my messenger knows nothing.”
“This was so writ by Sir Henry Percy,” said Oswald, “in order that, if I were detained and searched on the way, and this paper found on me, I might not be forced, by torture, to say aught of my message.”
“But this signet ring would have shown to whom you were coming.”
“It was concealed in my staff, my lord, and could not have been discovered, had not that been split open. Had it been so, I should have admitted that Lord Percy had indeed committed the signet and the writing to me to carry, and had bid me travel as the servitor of a monk on his journey north; but that, more than that these were to be delivered to you, I knew nothing. Lord Percy selected me as his messenger partly because, from my youth, I should not be likely to be suspected of being a messenger between two great lords; and in the second place because, if arrested, and these matters found on me, the statement in the letter would be readily believed. It would not be supposed that important state secrets would be committed to a lad, like myself.”
The earl made no reply, for a time, but sat with his eyes fixed on Oswald’s face, as if he were reading him thoroughly.
“Then you do know the matters in question?”
“I do, my lord. I am the bearer of a further communication to you.”
“Say on, then.”
“Lord Percy bids me say that, on the receipt of your message to him, he forwarded it by one of his knights to the king at Westminster; and that the matter was discussed, by his majesty, with two or three of his most trusted councillors. After full consideration, the king has accepted your offer, and will grant all its conditions. He sent, my lord, also a document with his royal seal attached, engaging to observe all the conditions of the compact. This document Lor
d Percy holds, to be given to you on a convenient occasion; but he deemed it of so important a nature that it would be too hazardous to send it to you. The king, in a letter to Lord Percy, begged him to tell you that, so long as the truce continued, he could not collect an army to support you; but that, as the time for its termination approached, he would begin to do so, and would be in readiness to take the field, in the north, immediately you move in the matter.”
The earl sat for some time, in thought.
“Do you know the conditions of the compact?” he asked, suddenly.
Oswald had expected this question, and felt sure that the earl, who was, when not inflamed by anger, a cool and cautious man, would highly disapprove of Hotspur’s frankness; and might possibly detain him, if he knew that he possessed so important a secret. He therefore replied:
“As to such grave matters, it was not necessary that I should know more than I have said to you, my Lord Earl. As it is no secret that you and the Douglases have personal enmity, I deemed that the compact referred to our king giving you aid, should you need it against the Douglases.”
The answer was apparently satisfactory. The earl asked no further questions, on this head.
“Were there other reasons than those you have stated why he chose you as his messenger?”
“Another reason he gave me, my lord, was that, as I came of a family who reside within a few miles of the border, and had relatives on this side whom I sometimes visited, my language was similar to that spoken in Roxburghshire; so that I could therefore pass as a Lowland Scot, without difficulty. No one, in fact, at the various places at which we have stopped, has taken me for aught but a countryman; though the monk with me was often taxed with being an Englishman, though belonging to a monastery at Roxburgh.”
Again the earl was silent for some time.
“I must think over the message that I shall give you, for Percy,” he said. “I like not the delay, though I see that there is good reason for it. As one of Hotspur’s esquires, I would fain treat you with all courtesy, and lodge you here; but this might cause question as to who you are, and it were, therefore, better that you should lodge in the town. Have you put up anywhere?”
“I rested for an hour at the sign of the Lion, my lord; engaging a room there, in order to effect a change in my clothes. I left by the back entrance, in order that the change should not be observed.”
“It were best that you fetched those you travelled in away, or rather that you returned unnoticed; and, as it is getting dark now, this can doubtless be managed; and, when you sally out, place that cloak over your shoulders to hide your dress as a servitor, and go to the other inn, the Falcon. Say, there, that you are staying for a few days in Dunbar, having come here on business with me; and that I bade you go there, so that I might know where to send for you, if necessary. You can pass for what you seem, a young trader who has come from Edinburgh to arrange, on the part of your father, a cloth merchant there, for a supply of stuffs for the clothing of my retainers.”
Oswald carried out his instructions, walked about until it was quite dark, then entered the inn, made his way unobserved to the chamber where he had left his clothes, put these on, made the others up into a bundle, and then went downstairs again and paid his bill; saying, as he did so, that he had found the friends he came to see, and that they had room to take him in. After leaving the house he threw the cloak, which he had carried on his arm, over his shoulders; and put on the cap that belonged to his other dress, and then went to the Falcon Inn, and repeating to the landlord the statement the earl had made, was at once shown to a chamber, with some deference.
“Will your worship have supper here, or in the room below?”
“I will come down,” he said. “It is dull work, sitting alone.”
Having ordered his supper, with a flask of wine, Oswald again donned his attire as a trader, and went downstairs. Just as he entered the room, in which several persons were sitting, a soldier came in from the outer door. He looked round the room.
“I have a message, from the earl, for the person who was with him, this afternoon.”
Oswald at once rose, and went across to him.
“The earl bade me tell you,” the soldier said, in a low voice, “that his present furnisher is Robert Micklethwaite, and that his place of business is near the castle gate, at Edinburgh.”
“Please thank the earl for the information,” Oswald replied, and then returned to his seat.
He had indeed, while dressing, been wondering what name he should give. It was like enough that, in Dunbar, many might know the names of the principal traders in Edinburgh; and that, were he to give an unknown one, he might be questioned as to his place of business. The message, therefore, relieved him of this difficulty.
After he had finished his supper, which was an excellent one, he beckoned to the landlord.
“I am a stranger here, landlord,” he said. “I pray you to drink a cup with me, and tell me the news of the place.
“You may know the name of Micklethwaite,” he went on, as the landlord sat down, “and that he comes, or sends regularly, to arrange for the supply of cloth, its quality and price, required for the earl’s retainers.”
“Master Micklethwaite always puts up here, when he visits Dunbar,” the landlord said. “I must have misunderstood him, for one day, when he was talking with me, he said that it was a trouble to him that he had no sons.”
“Nor has he,” Oswald said; “luckily for me, who am but a nephew.”
“He is a good customer,” the landlord went on, “and good company, too; but he cares not for French wines, and does not trouble my cellarer, much.”
“He is a careful man,” Oswald said, with a smile; “and though he is a good trencherman, he does not waste his money on such matters. However, he lets me have a freer hand than he uses himself; and asks not, when I return, for a close account of my outgoings.
“What do they say, here, as to the chances of another war with England?”
“I fear the worst,” the landlord replied. “These wars are ruin to us, and we have had the English at the gates of Dunbar over many times, already; and the town sacked, and burnt over our heads, more than once. Though I do not say that it might not have been worse, for our earls have ever stood aloof, as much as possible, and have often inclined towards the English side. Still, even then it is bad enough, for the whole country, from Berwick, has often been wasted to check the progress of the armies, and our trade well-nigh ruined. A pest on all wars, say I!”
“And which way, think you, that the present earl’s leanings would go?”
“I think not about it, one way or the other. My business is to sell food and liquor, the earl’s to take part in affairs of state. In days like these, it is quite enough for each man to attend to his own business, without troubling about that of other people; more especially when that other is a powerful noble, who thinks little enough of slitting a tongue that wags too freely.
“No, no, lad; John Sanderson is no fool, and knows better than to open his mouth, touching the affairs of great nobles. I know not how it may be with you, and the burghers of Edinburgh, but here we are content to cool our own porridge, and let others take their food hot or cold, as they choose.”
“I was not wishing you to give me so much your own ideas, as the common talk of the town; but I see that my question was indiscreet, and I ask your pardon.”
“I know you meant no harm, lad, and that your question was just one that any young man of your age might ask, without thinking that there was harm in it, or that the answering of it might lead to harm. I can tell you that, whatever folk may think here in Dunbar, they say naught about it to their nearest neighbour. We can talk of war with England, that is too common a thing for there to be harm in it; and as no one knows aught, one man’s opinion is as good as another’s; but the talk is general, and assuredly no man asks his neighbour what this great lord will do, or how matters will go. There is no harm in two gossips wondering whether, if
the English come, the town will hold out till help comes, or whether they will batter down the walls first.
“It is a kind of riddle, you see, and all the more that no one knows who may be by the king’s side, when the storm breaks. A generation back, men might make a fair guess; but now it were beyond the wisest head to say and, for my part, I leave the thinking to those whom it concerns. You from Edinburgh ought to know more than we do, for in great cities men can talk more freely, seeing that no one lord has the place in his hands, and that the citizens have rights, and hold to them.
“The general thought is that we shall have war, directly the truce is over. Among us who live by peaceful trade, we still hope for peace; for we see not what good comes of war, save to those who make raids in England, and as often as not these get more hard knocks than plunder; but to the quiet trader it means loss, and may well mean ruin, if the English army again marches through Scotland. We can discover no reason why the two countries should not live peaceably together, each going about its own business. I have heard it said, before now, that it would be a good thing for both countries if the border districts on both sides were stripped altogether of their people, and allowed to lie desolate.
“Ay, it would be a rare thing, that. It is thieving loons, on both sides of the border, that keep up the ill feeling; and the loss would not be great, seeing that there are plenty of waste tracts where the people might be bestowed, and pass their time more profitably, in raising crops and cattle, than in destroying or carrying off those of their neighbours. However, young sir, that is not like to be, in our time.”
“I am afraid not, Sanderson, and we must needs make the best we can of things, as they stand. I think that ’twould be well, if the English do come north again and capture Edinburgh, and ruin trade for years, to cross the seas to France, and take service there.”