Chapter XXII A Marriage made in Hell
When Robert Harburgh came in to see me in the evening, I was chill enough in my reception; but since he was of a calm temper, though so great a sworder, I might just as well have embraced him, for all the difference it made to him.
‘So,’ I said, without giving him more than time to sit down—for all my days I must ever fly headlong at a thing and have done with it—‘so you are going to marry Kate Allison?’
‘She was proposing so,’ said he, as calmly as when he had walked across the yard to the summer-house, with the hackbutt bullets splattering about him and the guns going crack-crack down the hedgerows, like the thumbs of a class of bairns when the dominie asks a question.
‘So,’ said I. ‘And you were thinking, maybe, that that was the action of a friend when your comrade was laid by the heels?’
‘I was thinking so,’ said he, looking out of the window at the trees.
‘Did you not know,’ I cried, for I was angered beyond words, being weak, and taking ill with the cherry being thus snatched out of my mouth, ‘did you not know that Kate Allison was my lass before she was yours? Did she not tell you that?’ said I.
Now, had I been myself, I should not thus have told left-handed tales on a lass, even though I believed with some reason that she had deceived me.
‘I was not deprived of the sight of my eyes,’ said he, very quietly.
‘And you mean by that—?’ said I, trembling with anger.
‘That I did not need telling that you had been courting the lass off and on for a year or twa, and that she took it not ill.’
‘And, in spite of that, you made up to Kate Allison when I was lying sick unto death upon my bed?’ I asked him bitterly.
‘How long may you have kenned Kate Allison?’ said Robert Harburgh to me in his turn.
‘Six years or so,’ said I.
‘And did you ever, in all that time, ask her to marry you?’ he inquired.
‘No,’ said I, not seeing what he was driving at.
‘Then,’ said Robert, very drily, ‘I did, though I kenned her not six weeks. And I would not wonder,’ he went on, as though deep in meditation, ‘I would not wonder but that is the reason why she is going to marry me.’
So I turned over in bed, being deep in the sullens, and Robert Harburgh went away, saying only, ‘Now ye are angry, Launcelot, but ye will find us both good friends, and blythe will we be to see you at the five-merk lands of Chitterlintie which my Lord Cassillis is setting to Kate and me.’
However, as things fell out, the wedding was not to be on the Thursday, nor yet for many Thursdays, for Robert was bidden ride with the Earl to the Inch, his new house in Galloway. Hither he went to set pressure on the country lairds, who were his feudal holders, to gar them pay the dues which he, Grab-siller John, thought had been too long overlooked by his forebears. As the business was likely to prove a troublesome one, he sent for Robert Harburgh to ride with him. So, without so much as stopping to dismount, for the message came when he had been on duty, Robert Harburgh rode away. And if you will believe it, he went without so much as kissing his sweetheart. He leaned down and shook hands with her! But as for me, I marvelled how she bore with that, for to my certain knowledge she liked the other not so ill.
Just as I was daily getting stronger, I received another shock which had, I think, even more effect on me than the other. One morning there came Sir Thomas down from the castle, and I could see that he was full to the teeth with news, for he walked with great confidence, and swung a little stick made of two twisted stems of ivy which I had given him, very quaint and curious.
‘It is all done with now,’ he said, as soon as ever he had gotten himself seated; ‘there are to be no more ill times in Carrick, and kinsmen’s blood shall not flow any more in the West. John Mure of Auchendrayne and I have settled it all between us. His son and apparent heir, James, is to marry to-morrow with my daughter.’
I stared at him, stunned and dumbfounded.
‘Ay,’ he said, ‘it is short notice, but young folks, ye ken—and my daughter would not hear of a great wedding; only what was fitting and plain.’
‘Your daughter?’ I said, steadying myself, though my heart was like to break, for I thought all my friends were to leave me together.
‘Ay, Marjorie,’said Sir Thomas, ‘she is a quiet like lass and speaks little, but when I put the matter of the marriage to her, she said only, “If it will staunch the feud, I am ready to marry whomsoever you will—Sir Thomas Tode, gin you like!” But that was only her daffing, for, as we all know, Sir Thomas is married already. And even if he were not, marrying him would be neither here nor there in the matter of the Cassillis and Bargany feuds.’
For my good master never saw far into a whin bush all his days, though accounted by most to be a wise man.
On the morrow, which was the day of the ill-faured wedding, I put on my complete accoutrements for the first time. I had Dom Nicholas saddled, for I felt strong once more, and greatly desired to be away from the place. So I stood by the gate as the party from Auchendrayne came in, and saluted them, as was my duty. Then I was riding away alone down by the shore road, when I heard in the distance the sound as of an approaching cavalcade.
Bridles were jingling, stirrups clicking, and spearheads making points of light, while the white foam went blowing back from the hard-ridden horses. When they rode up, I saw that they were as trenchant a set of blades as ever a man might wish to set eyes on. And at the head of them rode young Gilbert Kennedy of Bargany.
So, not knowing whether they came in peace or war, I set myself upright on the back of Dom Nicholas, who was of so great freshness with kicking of his heels in the park, that he was ill to keep at the stand. Nevertheless, stand I did in the midst of the outer gate, so that I should know whether they came in peace or war, and to have time to cry to the porter, even if they rode roughshod over me.
And though I was weak, and knew not what might happen, it was a joy untellable to be somebody again, and to gar men reckon with me.
But, being pale, I fear I made a poor figure to stand in the gate and withhold so many. For during my captivity the hair on my face had begun to grow in a manner that was surprising, and proved a constant trouble to me to keep shaven.
‘Halt!’ I cried to them. ‘How come you to Culzean—in peace or boding in fear of war?’
‘But to wish the Tutor luck on his birthday in passing,’ said Gilbert, ‘and then to ride on to the help of John, Earl of Cassillis.’
So, much astonished at what had befallen, and especially at his last saying, I fell in behind him, and the word was given to ride forward.
But Bargany called me to come beside him, and asked me of my health. I replied that I had been long time sick of a wound, but that I was now recovered, and above all things desired action, being sicker far of the doing of nothing.
Whereat he laughed, and said, ‘Be cheerful, and if ye want blows, I will ask the loan of you as a hostage from your master.’
Then, seeing the stir about the doors, and the serving men running every way with flagons and dishes, he said, ‘’Tis a great stir for naught but the Tutor’s birthday. What may be the occasion?’
Then, with my eyes secretly upon his, I told Gilbert Kennedy that the Lady Marjorie was to be married that day to James Mure of Auchendrayne. I never saw a man’s countenance change so suddenly. The fire sprang to his eyes, and died out again like dead tinder. The heart blood flushed hot to his face, and, returning, left him pale as a maid in a decline.
Then I minded how I had taken the matter myself. Yet I was sorrier for him, because I knew that he had loved her longer and better than I. But nevertheless he tossed his sword hand in air, and cried, ‘We are in time for a bridal, brave lads; this is more than we bargained for. Let us go greet the bride and wish her joy.’
And this I grant was a better way than sulking and self-pity in the greenwood, which would have been mine that day, had I been left alone.
With that he put the horses to the gallop, and we rode through the narrow pass of the drawbridge by two and two. The roar of the horses passing over was as the roar of the sea when the storm drives up from the west on the Craigs of Culzean.
As we came by the corner of the terrace, I saw him give a look at that window of the White Tower which faced to the landward. It had been the Lady Marjorie’s, and now was to be hers no more. Then I saw him look down on the fretting sea, as it tumbled white on the pebbles and rocks by the Cove. And I knew why he looked there, and I knew more also, for I remembered what I had heard Marjorie say after he had gone clanking down the shore in his anger and pride.
Yet all the while Bargany rode light-hand upon his bridle-rein, the pride of his horsemen clattering behind him, gay with the music of hoofs and the dance of red and white pennons.
I wondered not that, as they said, he took the eyes of ladies wherever he went. So that the Queen’s bower-women quarrelled concerning him, till Her Majesty said, ‘I shall have no peace till I take him for myself. But what would James say if young Bargany were to sing “John, come kiss me now,” beneath my bower window?’
But more than all ladies’ favours I envied him such a brave repair of horse to follow him. For Culzean was too poor, and the Lord of Cassillis too near the bone to keep any such array of mounted gentlemen.
For hackbuttmen, and footmen with spears, were more to our Earl’s mind, being better in the time of war, and a deal cheaper in the days of peace—which even in these troubled years were so many more than the days of fighting.
As we rode up, and the Bargany squadron halted with a great spattering of sand and tossing of the heads of horses, the wedding folk were just coming out. First of all there issued forth the bride, our Marjorie, the Marjorie that had been ours, on James Mure’s arm—he that now was her husband. And behind them came the Minister of Maybole and Sir Thomas, walking together very caigy2 and jocose.
But Marjorie’s face was like stone, though the bitterness of death overpast was gone from it. I trust mine eyes may never see such a look of reproach and pain in any human face, as was in hers when she saw Gilbert Kennedy sitting his horse in front of the squadron, upon the gravel stones from the seashore that were laid before the castle steps. But Gilbert only saluted her, and cried aloud as was customary, ‘Luck to the wedding and health to the bride!’
Then ran Sir Thomas to him and took his hand, bubbling over with kindliness and pleasure.
‘The feud is staunched indeed, when I see Bargany once more in peace at the house of Culzean, even as my good friend the Laird of Auchendrayne said it would be. What might be your kindly errand? And will ye not light off your beasts and bide to feast with us.’
‘I cannot,’ said Bargany. ‘The Earl of Cassillis is besieged in the house of Inch by the Lairds of Galloway, and I ride to his assistance.’
Then she that had been Marjorie Kennedy turned to him, and said, ‘And will ye indeed consent to staunch the feud for John Mure’s sake, that would not do it for mine?’
Which seemed to me a strange mode of speech to be spoken in the hearing of a husband on his wedding day. But I had forgotten that none held the key to the utterance saving Gilbert Kennedy and myself.
‘The staunching of the feud is neither yours nor mine, Lady Marjorie,’ said Bargany, bending very gently toward her, ‘but I cannot bide still in my house at the town of Ayr while a Kennedy of Cassillis—my enemy though he be—is dared, outfaced, and threatened by a pack of Galloway lairds.’
‘Are they, then, ill men and far in the wrong?’ said she.
‘On the contrary, they are good men and in the right. But that does not hinder me from standing for my name and house against every other, even though that house be foredoomed to fall, because it is divided against itself.’
Then he turned to my master, saying to him, ‘For this one time, and as a pledge to my Lord the Earl John that I mean his good, will you permit Launcelot, your esquire, to ride in my company—he that hath so oft ridden well against my folk?’
‘Gladly,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘but the lad has been ill.’
‘It is no far ride, and the boy needs but change of air and foes of mettle to strengthen his sword-arm against.’
So in a trice I was ready to follow my house’s enemy.
As I turned I saw John Mure of Auchendrayne standing, looking in the dignity of his white hair most like a saint, though contrariwise I knew him to be that which I will not name. I heard him say to my master, ‘Ye see, did not I tell you? This marriage brings all good things already. And this is but the beginning.’
‘Nay,’ replied Sir Thomas, ‘indeed it is most gratifying and well done of you. Who would have believed a week ago that to-day Bargany would have saddled his steeds and mounted his men to ride to the succour of John, Earl of Cassillis?’
And I saw my good, simple master raise his hand and clap Auchendrayne upon the shoulder. Then, for very hate and loathing, I turned away. Even as I did so I saw the eye of John Mure on the watch, and I knew that he understood. For his glance was like a rapier-thrust when your enemy means killing.
Ere the horsemen turned to ride away, Marjorie came down the steps to where Bargany sat his charger, and slipping a ring off her finger she handed it up to him.
‘For your Isobel Stewart!’ she said.
And though I saw it not, I am as certain as if I had seen the crest and posy upon it that the ring was his own, one which he had given her in some past day when they had far other hopes than to part in this fashion on her wedding morning.
Then, with a quick cry of command and the gallant clatter of hoofs, we rode away. And that was the last parting in life of Gilbert and Marjorie Kennedy, who had been lovers ever since they were bairns, and had linked themselves together for man and wife with chains of yellow gowans upon the braes of Culzean.
Notes
2 Friendly.