THE SCOTTISH CAVALIER.

An Historical Romance.

BY JAMES GRANT, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR, OR THE GORDON HIGHLANDERS," "MEMOIRS OF KIRKALDY OF GRANGE," &C.

Dost thou admit his right, Thus to transfer our ancient Scottish crown? Ay, Scotland was a kingdom once, And, by the might of God, a kingdom still shall be! ROBERT THE BRUCE, ACT II.

IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II.

LONDON: HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1850.

Contents

I. Les Gardes Ecossais II. The Glove III. A Ball in the Olden Time IV. Two Loves for One Heart V. Beatrix Gilruth VI. The Sedan VII. Adventures of the Night Concluded VIII. The Fencing Lesson IX. The Luckenbooths X. The White Horse Cellar XI. The Betrothal XII. The Defiance XIII. The March for England XIV. The Hawk and the Dove XV. A Statesman of 1688 XVI. Trust and Mistrust XVII. The Guisards XVIII. The Revolt at Ipswich XIX. Free Quarters XX. The Redeemed Pledge XXI. The Swart Rüyters

WALTER FENTON;

OR,

THE SCOTTISH CAVALIER.

CHAPTER I. LES GARDES ECOSSAIS.

Thus shall your country's annals boast your corps, And, glorious thought! in times and ages hence, Some valiant chief to stimulate the more, And urge his troops, the battle in suspense, Shall hold your bright example to their view. RUDDIMAUN'S MAG.

Louis, surnamed the Saint, King of France, having taken the cross, sailed with a splendid retinue of knights, nobles, and soldiers bent on the delivery of Jerusalem from the profanation of the Moslem; and, landing in the East, laid siege to Damietta (in Lower Egypt), which he triumphantly won by storm. But, after enduring innumerable hardships and disasters by the sword, and by pestilence from the fœtid waters of the marshy Nile and the Lake of Menzaleh, he was overthrown in battle at Mansoura, and made captive by the Soldan.

This was about the year 1254, when Alexander III. was King of Scotland.

In these Eastern wars, St. Louis was twice saved from death by the valour of a small band of auxilliary Scots crusaders, commanded by the Earls of March and Dunbar, Walter Stewart Lord of Dundonald, and Sir David Lindsay of Glenesk. Those brave adventurers had the good fortune to rescue the French monarch, first from the scimitars of the followers of the King of the Arsacides, a Mahommedan despot, and afterwards from the emissaries of the Comtesse de la Marche. Our good King Alexander, sent ambassadors to congratulate St. Louis on his deliverance from these double perils; and on his return from this first crusade, the two monarchs agreed that, in remembrance of these deeds of fidelity and valour, there should remain in France, in all time coming, "a standing company or guard of Scotsmen recommended by their own sovereign," and who should in future form the garde-du-corps of the most Christian King.

Such was the origin of the bravest body-guard that Europe ever saw, though our ancient historians are fond of dating its formation from the days of Charlemagne and Gregory the Great of Scotland.

The Guard thus established by St. Louis marched with him to his second crusade, in the year 1270. It was then led by the Earls of Carrick and Athole, Sir John Stuart, Sir William Gordon, and other brave knights, most of whom perished with Louis of a deadly pestilence before the walls of Tunis, and under the towers of Abu Zaccheria.

This noble band of Scottish Archers remained constantly in France, and were the only military corps in that country, until King Charles VII. added a few French companies to increase his Guards, still giving the Scots their old pre-eminence and post of honour next the royal person. Their leader was styled Premier Capitaine of the Guards, and as such took precedence of all military officers in France. When the French sovereign was anointed, he stood beside him; and when the ceremony was over, obtained the royal robes, with all their embroidery and jewels, as his perquisite. When a city was to be stormed, the Scottish Archers led the way; when it surrendered, the keys were received by their captain from the hands of the king.

Twenty-five of them, "in testimony of their unspotted fidelity," wore over their magnificent armour white hoquetons of a peculiar fashion, richly laced and embossed with silver. Six of them in rotation were ever beside the royal person—by night as well as by day—at the reception of foreign ambassadors—in the secret debates of the cabinet—in the rejoicings of the tournament—the revels of the banquet—the solemnities of the church—and the glories of the battle-field. These Scottish hearts formed a zone around the monarchs of France; and at the close of the scene, the chosen twenty-five had the privilege of bearing the royal remains to the regal sepulchre of St. Denis.

It would require volumes, instead of a chapter, to recount all the honours paid to the Scottish Guard, and the glory acquired by them in the wars of five centuries.

Led by Alexander Earl of Buchan, Great Constable of France, they performed good service in that great battle at Banje-en-Anjou, where the English were completely routed; and at Verneuil, where Buchan died sword in hand, like a brave knight, and covered with renown,—at the same moment that Swinton, the gallant Laird of Dalswinton, slew the boasting Clarence with one thrust of his border-spear.

In 1570 the Guard consisted of a hundred curassiers, or hommes-des-armes, a hundred archers of the corps, and twenty-five "keepers of the King's body,"—all Scottish gentlemen of noble descent and coat-armour. They saved the life of the tyrant Louis XI. at Liege, and at Pavia fought around the gallant Francis in a circle until four only were left alive; and then, but not till then, the King fell into the hands of the foe. In gratitude for their long-tried faith and unmatched valour, they were vested with "all the honour and confidence the King of France could bestow on his nearest and dearest friends;" and thus, in a little band of Scottish Archers originated the fashion of standing armies, and the nucleus of the great permanent forces of France.

"By this means," says an old Jacobite author, "our gentry were at once taught the rules of civility and art of war; and we were possessed of an inexhaustible stock of brave officers fit to discipline and to command our armies at home, and ever sure to keep up that respect, which was deservedly paid to the Scots' name and nation abroad."

As Sir James Hepburn's regiment of Pikemen they returned to Scotland in 1633, being sent over by Louis XIII. to attend the coronation of Charles I. at Edinburgh. On the commencement of the great and disastrous civil war eight years after, they loyally adhered to the King, and were then by the Cavalier army first styled the Royal Scots. On the reverse of Charles's fortune and subversion of all order, they went back to France; and under Louis of Bourbon, Duc d'Enghien, shared in all the dangers and glories of that campaign on the frontiers of Flanders, so famous for ending in the utter destruction of the Spanish host, the death of the brave Condé de Fuentes, the fall of Thionville, Philipsburg, Mentz, Worms, and Oppenheim, till the waters of the Rhine reflected the flash of their armour; and there fell the veteran Hepburn with his helmet on his brow, and the flag of St. Andrew over him.

Returning in 1678, they re-entered the Scottish army as the Earl of Dunbarton's foot; and eight years after served against the ill-fated Monmouth, and suffered severely, being attacked at Sedgemoor by his cavalry in the night, their position being discerned through the darkness by the glow of their lighted matches.

At the Union in 1707, on the incorporation of the forces as the British establishment—and when Scottish blood and Scottish treasure were more than ever required to further the grasping aims and useless wars of that age—the Royals, in consequence of their high-standing in arms and venerable antiquity, were numbered as the First, or Royal Scots Regiment of Foot,—a title they have since maintained with honour, and on a hundred fields have upborne victoriously, the same silver cross which the brave Archers of Athole and the spearmen of Buchan unfurled so gloriously on the plains of Anjou, and at Verneuil, on the banks of the Aure.

Proud of themselves and of the honours their predecessors had sustained untarnished in so many foreign battles, Dunbarton's musqueteers felt an esprit du corps, to which at that time few other military bands were entitled; and it was with a bosom glowing with the highest sentiments of this description, that Walter Fenton for the first time clasped on the silver gorget and plumed headpiece of his junior rank, and found himself really a standard-bearer of a regiment deemed the first in Europe, and whose boasted antiquity had become a jocular proverb, obtaining for it the name of Pontius Pilate's Guard.

When next he paid his devoirs at the residence of the Napiers, Lilian fairly blushed with pleasure to see him looking so gallant and handsome; for, to a young girl's eye, a nodding plume, a golden scarf, and jewelled rapier, were considerable additions to an exterior otherwise extremely prepossessing.

The paleness resulting from his confinement had quite passed away; his olive cheek was suffused with the rich warm glow of health; while buoyant spirits, new hopes, and high aspirations, lent a lustre to his eye and a grace to his actions, which was not visible before, when he felt himself to be the mere object of patronage and dependence—the poor private gentleman with a brass-hilted whinger and corslet of black iron.

Again and again he visited the old turretted house on the Burghmuir, and drank deeper draughts of that intoxicating passion which, from its hopelessness, he dared hardly acknowledge to himself. Every day he became more and more in love, and felt that it would be impossible (with all his awe of Lady Grisel's fardingale and cane) to keep it long a secret from the being who inspired it.

CHAPTER II. THE GLOVE.

Distrust me not, but unreserved disclose The anxious thought that in thy bosom glows; To impart our griefs is apt to mitigate, And social sorrows blunt the darts of fate. EVENING, a Poem.

A month had passed away, and the summer came; it was a month of unalloyed happiness to Walter Fenton, who, at the somewhat solitary mansion of Bruntisfield, was a frequent and always a welcome guest; and there he spent every moment he could spare from his military duties, which chiefly consisted of being on guard at the Palace Porch or Privy Council Chamber, a review on Leith Links before old Sir Thomas of Binns practising King James's new mode of exercise by flam of drum, or 'worrying' various unhappy old women to say 'God save the King,' pronounce the rising at Bothwell a rebellion, Archbishop Sharpe a martyr, and Peden an impostor.

Notwithstanding the early season of the year, the game in the woods had particularly taken his fancy; so had the herons, eels, teals, and trout of the Loch; and rabbit-warrens, and foxes that lurked among the great quarries; and with Finland he generally contrived to finish the day's loitering at the Hall fire, where Lady Grisel, with the birr of her silver-mounted wheel, performed a burden to the long and monotonous tales she inflicted, of the splendours of King Charles's court, the terrors of the wars of Montrose, and the spells and charms of sorcerers and witches—warnings, ghosts, and Heaven knows what more; but all of which proved much more interesting to her hearers in that age, than it could to my readers in this.

Walter loved better to hear the wiry tinkling of Lilian's cittern or virginals after the old lady had fallen fast asleep, and then Annie Laurie joined her clear merry voice to the deeper notes of Douglas; and they were ever a happy evening party when the pages of Cassandra, or The Banished Virgin, and other romantic folios of the day—luxury, music, and conversation, free and untrammelled as any lover could wish—made the hours fleet past on silken wings. Ever joyous and ever gay, it was a circle from which Walter departed with regret, and counted one by one the long and weary hours until he found himself there again.

Notwithstanding her violent prejudice against the obscurity of his birth, Lady Grisel warmly admired the young man for the frankness and courage he displayed, his general high bearing, and above all, for a certain strong resemblance which she averred he bore to her youngest son, Sir Archibald Napier, who was slain in the unfortunate battle of Inverkeithing, when Cromwell forced the passage of the Forth.

Lucky it was for Walter that this strong idea took possession of her mind. From that time forward she loved to see him constantly, to watch his actions and features, and to listen to the tones of his voice, until, to her moistened and aged eyes, the very image of her youngest and best-beloved son seemed to be conjured up before her; and so strong became her feelings when this fancy possessed her, that it would have been a relief to have fallen upon his neck and kissed him.

To her it was a living dream of other days—a dream that called back sorrow and joy, and a thousand tender memories from the mists that envelope the past; and Walter was often surprised to find her eyes full of tears when, after a long pause, she addressed him. Perhaps for nothing but this tender and mysterious source of interest, would she have permitted such an intimacy to spring up between the nameless soldier and Lilian, the last hope of her race, the heiress of the honours and possessions of the old barons of Bruntisfield and the Wrytes. But her mind was now becoming enfeebled by age, and prudence struggled in vain with her powerful fancies.

Lilian (but this is a secret known only to ourselves and her gossip Annie) admired young Fenton too, though with ideas widely differing from those of her grandaunt, because he was a very handsome lad, with a cavalier air, and locks curling over a white and haughty brow; keen dark eyes, that were ever full of fire, but became soft and chastened when he looked on her. She soon deemed that the curl of his lip showed a

"Spirit proud and prompt to ire;"

but she never observed his moustachioed mouth without thinking what a very handsome one it was. His soft mellow voice was deep in its tones, and she loved to listen to his words till her young heart seemed to vibrate when he spoke. He was generally subdued rather than melancholy in manner; but the depth of his own thoughts imparted to all he said an interest, that could not fail to attract a girl of Lilian's gentle disposition.

But his enthusiasm and his vehemence startled her at times, when he spoke of the soldiers of Dunbarton, and of the glory he hoped to win beneath those banners which Turenne and the Great Condé saw ever in the van of battle. Gratitude, too, had no small share in her sentiments towards him, when, reflecting on the risk he had so generously run to save her dearest and (except one) her only relative from a humiliating examination by the imperious Privy Council; and she shuddered to think how narrowly he had escaped the extremity of their wrath; for every instrument of torture was then judicially used at the pleasure and caprice of the judicial authorities.

A month, we have said, had passed away: in that brief time a great change had gradually stolen over the hearts of Walter and Lilian Napier. No declaration of love had been made on his part, and there had been no acceptance on hers; but they were on the footing of lovers: secret and sincere, each had only acknowledged the passion to themselves: to her he had never whispered a word of the love that now animated every thought and action; but she was not ignorant of his affection, which a thousand little tendernesses revealed—and love will beget love in others.

They both felt it, or at least thought so.

Though his dark eyes might become brighter or more languid, his voice more insinuating, and his manner more graceful and gentle, when he addressed her, never had he assumed courage sufficient to reveal the secret thought that with each succeeding interview was daily and hourly becoming more and more a part of his existence. Often he longed to be an earl, a lord, or even a laird like Finland, that then he might throw himself and his fortune at her feet, and declare the depth of his passion in those burning expressions, that a thousand times trembled on his lips, and were there chained by diffidence and poverty.

He was very timid, too: what true lover is not?

A circumstance soon occurred, which, however trivial in itself, was mighty in its effect on our two young friends; and, by opening up the secret fountain of hope and pleasure, altered equally the aspect of their friendship and the even tenor of their way.

Lilian was fair and beautiful indeed; and (though not one of those magnificent beings that exist only in the brains of romancers) when gifted with all the mystic charms and romantic beauty, with which the glowing fancy of the lover ever invests his mistress, she became in Walter's imagination something more angelic and enchanting than he had previously conceived to exist; for a lover sees everything through the medium of beauty and delight.

Notwithstanding the real charms of her mind and person, she possessed a greater and more lasting source of attraction, in a graceful sweetness of manner which cannot be described. With a voice that was ever "low and sweet," and with all her girlish frankness and openness of character, she could at times assume a womanly firmness and high decision of manner, which every Scottish maid and matron had need to possess in those days of stout hearts and hard blows, when brawls and conflicts were of hourly occurrence, as no man ever went abroad unarmed; and the upper classes, by never permitting an insult to pass unpunished, became as much accustomed to the use of the sword and dagger as their plodding descendants to handling the peaceful quill and useful umbrella.

On a bright evening in May, when the sun was sinking behind the wooded ridge of the dark Corstorphine hills, and when the shadows of the turrets of Bruntisfield and its thick umbrageous oaks were thrown far across the azure loch, where the long-legged herons were wading in search of the trout and perch, where the coot fluttered and the snow-white swan spread its soft plumage to the balmy western wind, Walter accompanied Lilian Napier and her fair friend, Annie Laurie, in a ramble by the margin of the beautiful sheet of water, the green and sloping banks of which were enamelled by summer flowers.

The purple heath-bell, bowers of the blooming hawthorn, the bright yellow broom, and a profusion of wild rose-trees, loaded the air with perfume; for everything was arrayed in the greenness, the sunlight, the purity, the glory of summer, and the thick dark oaks of Drumsheugh towered up as darkly and as richly, as when the sainted King David and his bold thanes hunted the snow-white bull and bristly boar beneath their sombre shadows.

The charms of the beautiful Annie Laurie live yet in Scottish song, though the name and memory of the gallant lover whose muse embalmed them is all but forgotten.