By Loch and by Lin

by Sorche Nic Leodhas

  Then late one night a band of thieves came riding, and broke into the house while all inside were sound asleep. They slew the young knight before he could reach for his sword, and when the young wife screamed with horror at the sight, one of the robbers picked her up like a sack of rags and tossed her through the open window of the room.

  Then the thieves went quickly through the house, ransacking it from cellar to garret until they had gathered everything of value that could be carried away. They took all the steeds and the gear from the stables, and when their booty was packed on the horses’ backs, they set fire to the house. Off they galloped and left the red flames roaring behind them on the darkness of the night.

  When the young wife was hurled through the window she fainted from fright. Day had begun to dawn before she came to herself and looked about her, dazed and only half-remembering what had happened during the night. By good fortune, she had fallen into a thick clump of gorse bushes that grew on the hillside below the house, far enough from the flames that she had been safe from being burned. The thick branches had caught her and broken her fall so that she was not injured, although she was badly scratched by the spiky twigs and the sharp thorns. Now that day had come she could see what damage had been done. The fire had almost consumed the walls of the manor house by then, and when she looked up and saw the smoking remains of the home where she had dwelt so happily, her heart nearly broke in two for grief. She scrambled out of the bushes and climbed the hillside to the courtyard, and there she stood with bent head, trying to gather her thoughts together and decide what she was to do.

  She had no kinsmen to go to, and she had been so much alone with her father before her marriage that she had made no close friends. The servants who had remained here had all been slain by the robbers, and she was sure that those who had saved themselves by running away would not return. There was naught here for them to return to, nor was there anything left to keep her here. She was left all by herself, alone in the world. And away from here, into the world, she must go and try to find a place for herself.

  Although her heart was filled with sorrow, she did not lack courage, and she would not let herself despair. She set herself down upon the brink of the well in the courtyard and began to consider what she would have to do. She had no clothes of her own to wear except for her torn night shift which the gorse bushes had tattered into shreds. All the rest of her clothes, if not stolen, were burned to ashes in the fire. That mattered very little, she thought, for a lady could not travel about the countryside alone. She would have to go as a man. One of her husband’s servingmen lay where he had fought and died in defense of his master, on the stones of the courtyard near the house. She wept to rob him, but she took away his clothes, comforting herself by thinking he needed them no longer, and in return she wrapped him as well as she could in her ragged shift. With his dagger she cut her hair short, and then she donned his doublet and hose and put his gold collar about her neck. The thieves had not noticed his sword in the darkness of the night, but now she found it and hung it at her side. The man was slight, and not tall, so the clothes did not fit too badly, but when she tried on his boots they were too big. She could not take two steps in them without tumbling head over heels, so she left them and took the buskins of her own little page, who lay dead with his head pillowed on the steps that led up to the front door. She took up the servingman’s beaver hat and set it upon her shorn head. Now, she thought, she was ready, and she must remember henceforth that she was a man, and if anyone should ask her, her name was William. So off she started to find a place for herself, and how many sighs she sighed, and how many tears she shed for sorrow, no one ever knew but herself.

  Through field and forest, over moor and brae, by path and lane and highroad she traveled, and at last she came to the king’s court. She went into the hall and there was the king sitting in his great chair. She bowed low to show her high respect for him.

  “Stand up, my good lad,” the king said, kindly. “Who are you and whence have you come?”

  “My name is William and I come from the west,” said she. “Your Majesty has many leal subjects in the west.”

  The king was pleased with her reply. He looked her over, and it never came into his mind that she was aught but what she seemed to be—a bonnie young lad with a soft voice and gentle manner, clad in travel-stained clothes. She stood before him and said in a straightforward way, “My home and all my family were put to the fire and the sword by thieves who came to our house in the night, and I am the only one left to tell the tale. I had no one to turn to, so it seemed well to come to the king and ask him to find me a place among his servingmen.”

  “The lad speaks well and seems to be honest,” said the king to himself. “No doubt he could make himself useful here.”

  Then the king said aloud, “Let us hear what you can do, and if we can find a place to fit you, we will not send you away.”

  What would William like to be, the king asked. An usher to wait upon the king’s nobles? Or an attendant at the king’s table, to taste his food and wines? Or perhaps one of the castle guards to protect those in the castle? Or chamberlain of the royal chamber?

  To all that he said she shook her head. “I am but a simple lad,” she said. “I should fumble and be awkward waiting at table, and Heaven knows my strength would be hardly enough to protect the sparrows in the courtyard from the stable cat. These things are all too grand for me. Let me be only a plain servingman to run your small errands and make myself useful in little ways.”

  The king could find good use for a lad to run his little errands, so he called his nobles together to ask counsel, and they all agreed that young William o’ the West was a likely lad, and he should be servingman to run errands for the king.

  So the lady was given a suit of the king’s livery to wear and took up her duties as a servant in the castle, and her duties were very well done. From morn to night she ran about tirelessly on errands in and out of the castle, here with a message, there with a letter, fetching and carrying willingly. It was not only the king she served, but the nobles, too, for they found her ready to do whatever they asked. If the end of the day found her weary she made no complaint, even to herself. So the deft serving-lad who smiled much but had little to say pleased them all, and soon it was that she became a favorite at the court. Sweet William was what they called the servingman—king, nobles, and all.

  It was the custom of the king to go hunting each day with his nobles and their attendants in train. When they had gone, except for the servants in the kitchen, there was nobody left at home but Sweet William and an old man whom the king kept with him for charity’s sake, who sat as porter at the door.

  Sweet William was not unwilling to have a bit of time off from her labors. One day she came into the hall and picked up a lute that one of the king’s lords had left lying upon a table. Sitting on a bench by one of the windows, Sweet William played on the lute and sang, and wept as she sang.

  The old man, drawn by the plaintive melody, and curious because of the tears that flowed from the servingman’s eyes, left the door and came closer to hear the words of the song. But at once Sweet William laid the lute aside, and played no more that day.

  Three times the same thing happened in the next three days, but try as he would the old man could never manage to hear the words of the song, and when the old man begged Sweet William to sing for him, the servingman smiled and went away.

  The old man’s curiosity gave him no rest. He felt he must know the words of the strange, sorrowful song. So early on the next day, when the king had ridden out to the hunt, the old man hid himself behind the tapestry that hung on the wall near the window where Sweet William was wont to sit and sing. After a while Sweet William came into the hall, and seeing that the door stood open and the porter was not in sight, the servingman picked up the lute and sang. For the first time the old man heard the song.

  Sweet William sang:

  My father was a noble lord,

 
My mother was a lady gay,

  My husband was a valiant knight,

  Alas, my joys have passed away.

  My friends are gone, my husband dead,

  I never thought to see the day

  That I should be a servingman;

  Alas, my joys have passed away.

  “Husband!” said the old man to himself. “Husband?” said he, and he clapped his hands to his mouth lest he cry out in his surprise. And then he remembered that there had always been something about Sweet William that had puzzled him, although he didn’t know why. But it was all clear to him now. “By the Saints!” said the old man to himself. “Our Sweet William is a bonnie young lady, and not a servingman at all!”

  It was the king’s way to stop at the door when he came in and say to the old man at the door. “What news, old man? What news do you have to tell me?” It was only the king’s way of making the old man think he was of some importance in the castle, and not because the king expected to hear any news, for there never was any. The old man always replied. “No news, Your Majesty. No news at all today.”

  But this day was not as other days. “What news, old man?” asked the king as he took off his riding gloves and looked about for Sweet William to come and take them. “What news do you have for me today?”

  “Braw news!” cried the old man.

  “What!” cried the king in surprise.

  “I have braw news to tell you,” said the old man. He beckoned the king closer and whispered in his ear. “Sweet William is no servingman, nor is he a man at all! He’s a bonnie young lady clad in man’s attire!”

  At first the king could find no words, and then he said, “Sweet William a bonnie young lady! Old man, if this be true, I’ll make you a laird and settle an estate upon you, but if you have told me a lie, I’ll have you hanged on the highest gibbet in the land.”

  But it was true, as the king found out very soon, for he went in search of Sweet William and asked her about it, and she told him the truth herself.

  Then the king had the castle maids come and take away her servingman’s dress, and robe her in silks and satins befitting a lady of the court, and the king himself set a crown of gold upon her head. Then he called his nobles together to give him counsel. He told them all her sad story and asked their consent to wed her and make her his queen.

  Every noble in the court gave his consent most willingly, so the king married the fair young lady, and long and happily did they reign.

  The old man became a laird and was given a fine estate, and many a time he was heard to say:

  “The like before was never seen,

  For a servingman to become a queen!”

  The Tale of the

  Heir of Linne

  IN Aberdeen there was once a good old laird with an only son who was a sore trouble to him. The lad was a lightheaded, lighthearted callant, given to gambling and running hither and thither with carefree young companions like himself, and to throwing his money about on all sides. Many a time the old Laird of Linne shook his head in sorrow when he thought about his wayward son who would someday be Laird of Linne himself.

  “Och, the foolish lad,” the old laird would say to himself full often. “After I’m gone ’twill not be long that he’ll have so much as a penny left in his pocket.” But if the son would not listen to advice, what could the father do?

  Well, the Laird of Linne died, and the Heir of Linne, his son, inherited the castle, the lands, and the title, and beside, his father left him three big money chests as full of golden pounds and golden guineas as they would ever hold. The Heir of Linne mourned his father sincerely, for though he was unthrifty, still he was not unloving. But all the grief in the world would not bring his father back to him, so after a while he dried his tears and took up his life again in the old thriftless way. His days and nights were spent in revels, and the gambling rooms and the tavern knew him well. He had dozens of friends who hung upon his shoulders and told him what a fine fellow he was, with their eyes always to the gold in his pockets and their hands out for what they could get of it for themselves.

  But then he was a kindhearted young man, and generous to all, from the friends with whom he caroused to the least beggar on the streets, and his money ran through his fingers like water. Three big chests hold a great lot of gold, but at the pace he was going, as might have been expected, all three were empty before much more than a year had gone by. One fine morning the Heir of Linne felt in his pockets and found nothing there. He looked in his purse and there was naught in it but a silver luck penny. He went to his money chests and opened them, one by one, and all he found was a letter in the bottom of one of the chests with his own name on it, written in his father’s hand.

  “Och, father!” sighed the Heir of Linne. “’Tis no use now for you to bid me take care of my money, for there’s no money left for me to take care of.” Impatiently, the young laird thrust the letter, unread, into his purse and went down to the hall of his castle where his friends were waiting for him, and feasting on his food and drinking his good red wine.

  Among the throng there was one who was no laird at all, but a man of low degree who, as a moneylender, had grown rich on the misfortunes of his betters, and his name was John o’ the Scales. In some fashion he had managed to push himself into the company that gathered about the Heir of Linne. This John o’ the Scales desired above all things to be a fine laird himself, and to own a castle and a big estate. By craft and cunning he learned that the Heir of Linne was in great need of money, so he decided the time had come for him to try for the prize he wanted so much. He whispered into the young laird’s ear. “How do you fare, Laird o’ Linne? Are you troubled? Is it gold that you lack? Will you not sell your lands o’ Linne to such a good fellow as me?”

  The young laird thought of his empty money chests, and his pockets filled with naught but air. His pretty purse had only his little silver luck penny in it, and what was the good of that? He could not keep up his lands without money. Might as well take the moneylender’s gold now, and someday he would redeem them again. He took the luck penny out of his purse and threw it on the table to bind the bargain.

  “I beg you all to witness, my lairds,” said he, “that this penny binds a bargain made between me and John o’ the Scales, who is buying my house and my lands from me.”

  Then John o’ the Scales laid on the table, to the last penny, the money to pay for the castle and the lands of Linne.

  “Take it up. The gold is yours,” said John o’ the Scales. “But the land is mine, and now I shall be Laird o’ Linne!”

  The Heir of Linne took up the gold. “Here’s money enough,” cried he, “for me and all my merry men!”

  Before another year had passed away, all the money he got for his lands was spent, and with his gold gone, his friends departed and left him all alone.

  The Heir of Linne looked into his purse and found three pennies there. But one was lead, and one was brass, and only one of the three was a true white silver coin.

  “Alas,” said the weary Heir of Linne. “Alas, and woe is me! I had no lack of money when I was first Laird of Linne. Now I have neither money nor lands, for I have spent the one and sold the other, and here I stand forlorn with only one little silver penny to call my own.”

  Then he thought of the many friends who had kept him company. “Surely there are some among them who will not forsake me,” he said. “They will remember the days when they were welcome guests in my house and they will help me, now that I am in need.”

  From one to another he went, but in some places he stood at the door and was not let in. Some of those he had befriended in the past listened to his plea, then tossed him a gold piece or two, and told him that they were too taken up with their own affairs to give their minds to his. And there were some, among whom were those he had looked upon as his best friends, who refused to listen to him at all, and told him to go to the devil, for all they cared.

  Without money, home, lands, or friends, what could t
he weary Heir of Linne do now? He walked down the causeway and his thoughts were bitter. He thought of his good old father who had lived well and comfortably for so many years on the yield of the lands of Linne. “God rest his soul!” cried the Heir of Linne. “Had I but heeded his counsel, I should not be forced to beg for my bread.”

  He took a beggar’s staff and a sack for food in his hand, and walked into the town to ask alms of any who would give. As he passed by the tavern, the merry men who had once lived high at his expense looked out and saw him going by.

  “Give him a glass of wine!” cried some, but some cried “Nay!” and others said that if all the beggars in the town were sentenced to be hanged, they would make sure that he would be the first to be strung up for his idleness.

  When he came down to the Gallowgate and walked along the quay, he saw the fishermen there, taking their rest. There was a time when these fellows, too, had had a taste of his bounty, but when they saw him come begging among them, with his ragged clothing and his beggar’s staff and sack, they began to poke fun at him.

  “Give him a fish!” cried some, but others laughed loud and said, “Nay, give him a fin!” and jeering at him, they drove him away from the quay. The Heir of Linne turned himself about and went back into the town. Cold, wet, and hungry he was that sorry day. His old nurse looked out and saw him as he went plodding by the house where she dwelt. She ran out and called to him, “Come in, my bairn! Come in! Rest here a while with me, and warm yourself by my fire.”

  The Heir of Linne turned back and went into his nurse’s house and sat down near the fire to dry his clothes, and she set food and drink out and bade him eat.

  “Och, you’ve seen many happier days than these,” she said. “And in those days you did not lack for friends.”