Two Penniless Princesses
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> Two Penniless Princesses
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'Man can,' he said. 'That will we. Brave sire, your hand on
it.'
The days were almost at their longest, and it was about five in
the morning, the sun only just making his way over the screen
of the higher hills to the north-east, though it had been
daylight for some time.
Prudence made the two withdraw under the shelter of the woods,
and there they built their plan, both young men being gratified
to do so without their two advisers.
Neither of them doubted his own footing, and George was sure
that three or four of the men who had come with Sir Robert were
equally good cragsmen. Sigismund sighed for some Tirolese whom
he had left at home, but he had at least one man with him ready
to dare any height; and he thought a rope would make all things
sure. Nothing could be attempted till the next night, or
rather morning, and Sigismund decided on sending a messenger
down to the Franciscans to borrow or purchase a rope, while
George and Ringan, more used to shifts, proceeded to twist
together all the horses' halters they could collect, so as to
form a strong cable.
To avert suspicion, Sigismund appeared to have yielded to the
murmurs of his people, and sent more than half his troop down
the hill, in the expectation that he was about to follow. The
others were withdrawn under one clump of wood, the Scotsmen
under another, with orders to advance upon the gateway of the
castle so soon as they should hear a summons from the Duke's
bugle, or the cry, 'A Douglas!' Neither Sir Gebhardt nor Sir
Robert was young enough or light enough to attempt the climb,
each would fain have withheld his master, had it been possible,
but they would have their value in dealing with the troop
waiting below.
So it came to pass that when Eleanor, anxious, sorrowful,
heated, and weary, awoke at daydawn and crept from the side of
her sleeping sister to inhale a breath of morning breeze and
murmur a morning prayer, as she gazed from her loophole over
the woods with a vague, never-quenchable hope of seeing
something, she became aware of something very stealthy below--
the rustling of a fox, or a hare in the fern mayhap, though she
could not see to the bottom of the quarry, but she clung to the
bar, craned forward, and beheld far down a shaking of the ivy
and white-flowered rowan; then a hand, grasping the root of a
little sturdy birch, then a yellow head gradually drawn up,
till a thin, bony, alert figure was for a moment astride on the
birch. Reaching higher, the sunburnt, freckled face was lifted
up, and Eleanor's heart gave a great throb of hope. Was it not
the wild boy, Ringan Raefoot? She could not turn away her
head, she durst not even utter a word to those within, lest it
should be a mere fancy, or a lad from the country bird's-
nesting. Higher, higher he went, lost for a moment among the
leaves and branches, then attaining a crag, in some giddy
manner. But, but--what was that head under a steel cap that
had appeared on the tree? What was that face raised for a
moment? Was it the face of the dead? Eleanor forced back a
cry, and felt afraid of wakening herself from what she began to
think only a blissful dream,--all the more when that length of
limb had reared itself, and attained to the dizzy crag above.
A fairer but more solid face, with a long upper lip, appeared,
mounting in its turn. She durst not believe her eyes, and she
was not conscious of making any sound, unless it was the
vehement beating of her own heart; but perhaps it was the power
of her own excitement that communicated itself to her sleeping
sister, for Jean's voice was heard, 'What is it, Elleen; what
is it?'
She signed back with her hand to enjoin silence, for her sense
began to tell her that this must be reality, and that castles
had before now been thus surprised by brave Scotsmen. Jean was
out of bed and at the loophole in a moment. There was room for
only one, and Eleanor yielded the place, the less reluctantly
that the fair head had reached the part veiled by the tree, and
Jean's eyes would be an evidence that she herself might trust
her own sight.
Jean's glance first fell on the backs of the ascending figures,
now above the crag. 'Ah! ah!' she cried, under her breath, 'a
surprise--a rescue! Oh! the lad--stretching, spreading! The
man below is holding his foot. Oh! that tuft of grass won't
bear him. His knees are up. Yes--yes! he is even with the top
of the wall now. Elleen! Hope! Brave laddie! Why--'tis--
yes--'tis Ringan. Now the other, the muckle carle--Ah!' and
then a sudden breathless silence came over her.
Eleanor knew she had recognised that figure!
Madame de Ste. Petronelle was awake now, asking what this
meant.
'Deliverance!' whispered Eleanor. 'They are scaling the wall.
Oh, Jean, one moment--'
'I canna, I canna,' cried Jean, grasping the iron bar with all
her might: 'I see his face; he is there on the ledge, at fit of
the wall, in life and strength. Ringan--yes, Ringan is going
up the wall like a cat!'
'Where is he? Is he safe--the Duke, I would say?' gasped
Eleanor. 'Oh, let me see, Jeanie.'
'The Duke, is it? Ah! Geordie is giving a hand to help him on
the ground. Tak' tent, tak' tent, Geordie. Dinna coup ower.
Ah! they are baith there, and one--two--three muckle fellows
are coming after them.'
'Climbing up there!' exclaimed the Dame, bustling up. 'God
speed them. Those are joes worth having, leddies!'
'There! there--Geordie is climbing now. St. Bride speed him,
and hide them. Well done, Duke! He hoisted him so far. Now
his hand is on that broken stone. Up! up! His foot is in the
cleft now! His hand--oh!--clasps the ivy! God help him! Ah,
he feels about. Yes, he has it. Now--now the top of the
battlement. I see no more. They are letting down a rope.
Your Duke disna climb like my Geordie, Elleen!'
'Oh, for mercy's sake, to your prayers, dinna wrangle about
your joes, bairns,' cried Madame de Ste. Petronelle. 'The
castle's no won yet!'
'But is as good as won,' said Eleanor. 'There are barely
twelve fighting men in it, and sorry loons are the maist. How
many are up yet, Jeanie?'
'There's a fifth since the Duke yet to come up,' answered Jean,
'eight altogether, counting the gallant Ringan. There!'
''Tis the warder's horn. They have been seen!' and the poor
women clasped their hands in fervent prayer, with ears intent;
but Jean suddenly darted towards her clothes, and they hastily
attired themselves, then cautiously peeped out at their door,
since neither sight nor sound came to them from either window.
The guard who had hindered their passage was no longer there,
and Jean led the way down the spiral stairs. At the slit
looking into the court they heard cries and the clash of arms,
but it was too high above their heads for anything to be seen,
and they hastened on.
There also in the narrow court was a fight going on--but nearly
ended. Geordie Douglas knelt over the prostrate form of
Rudiger von Balchenburg, calling on him to yield, but meeting
no answer. One or two other men lay overthrown, three or four
more were pressed up against a wall, howling for mercy.
Sigismund was shouting to them in German--Ringan and the other
assailants standing guard over them; but evidently hardly
withheld from slaughtering them. The maidens stood for a
moment, then Jean's scream of welcome died on her lips, for as
he looked up from his prostrate foe, and though he had not yet
either spoken or risen, Sigismund had stepped to his side, and
laid his sword on his shoulder.
'Victor!' said he, 'in the name of God and St. Mary, I make
thee Chevalier. Rise, Sire George of Douglas!'
'True knight!' cried Jean, leaping to his side. 'Oh, Geordie,
Geordie, thou hast saved us! Thou noblest knight!'
'Ah! Lady, it canna be helpit,' said the new knight. ''Tis no
treason to your brother to be dubbed after a fair fight, though
'tis by a Dutch prince.'
'Thy King's sister shall mend that, and bind your spurs,' said
Jean. 'Is the reiver dead, Geordie?'
'Even so,' was the reply. 'My sword has spared his craig from
the halter.'
Such were the times, and such Jean's breeding, that she looked
at the fallen enemy much as a modern lady may look at a slain
tiger.
Eleanor had meantime met Sigismund with, 'Ah! well I knew that
you would come to our aid. So true a knight must achieve the
adventure!'
'Safe, safe, I am blessed and thankful,' said the Duke, falling
on one knee to kiss her hand. 'How have these robbers treated
my Lady?'
'Well, as well as they know how. That good woman has been very
kind to us,' said Eleanor, as she saw Barbe peeping from the
stair. 'Come hither, Barbe and Trudchen, to the Lord Duke's
mercy.'
They were entering the hall, and, at the same moment, the gates
were thrown open, and the men waiting with Gebhardt and Robert
Douglas began to pour in. It was well for Barbe and her
daughter that they could take shelter behind the ladies, for
the men were ravenous for some prize, or something to wreak
their excitement upon, besides the bare walls of the castle,
and its rude stores of meal and beer. The old Baron was hauled
down from his bed by half-a-dozen men, and placed before the
Duke with bound hands.
'Hola, Siege!' said he in German, all unabashed. 'You have got
me at last--by a trick! I always bade Rudiger look to that
quarry; but young men think they know best.'
'The old traitor!' said George in French. 'Hang him from his
tower for a warning to his like, as we should do in Scotland.'
'What cause have you to show why we should not do as saith the
knight?' said Sigismund.
'I care little how it goes with my old carcase now,' returned
Balchenburg, in the spirit of the Amalekite of old. 'I only
mourn that I shall not be there to see the strife you will
breed with the lute-twanger or his fellows at Nanci.'
Gebhardt here gave his opinion that it would be wise to reserve
the old man for King Rene's justice, so as to obviate all peril
of dissension. The small garrison, to be left in the castle
under the most prudent knight whom Gebhardt could select, were
instructed only to profess to hold it till the Lords of Alsace
and Lorraine should jointly have determined what was to be done
with it.
It was not expedient to tarry there long. A hurried meal was
made, and then the victors set out on the descent. George had
found his good steed in the stables, together with the ladies'
palfreys, and there had been great joy in the mutual
recognition; but Jean's horse was found to show traces of its
fall, and her arm was not yet entirely recovered, so that she
was seated on Ringan's sure-footed pony, with the new-made
knight walking by her side to secure its every step, though
Ringan grumbled that Sheltie would be far safer if left to his
own wits.
Sigismund was proposing to make for Sarrebourg, when the
glittering of lances was seen in the distance, and the troop
was drawn closely together, for the chance that, as had been
already thought probable, some of the Lorrainers had risen as
to war and invasion. However, the banner soon became
distinguishable, with the many quarterings, showing that King
Rene was there in person; and Sigismund rode forward to greet
him and explain.
The chivalrous King was delighted with the adventure, only
wishing he had shared in the rescue of the captive princesses.
'Young blood,' he said. 'Youth has all the guerdons reserved
for it, while age is lagging behind.'
Yet so soon as Sir Patrick Drummond had overtaken him at
Epinal, he had turned back to Nanci, and it was in consequence
of what he there heard that he had set forth to bring the
robbers of Balchenburg to reason. To him there was no
difficulty in accepting thankfully what some would have
regarded as an aggression on the part of the Duke of Alsace,
and though old Balchenburg, when led up before him, seemed bent
upon aggravating him. 'Ha! Sir King, so a young German and a
wild Scot have done what you, with all your kingdoms, have
never had the wit to do.'
'The poor old man is distraught,' said the King, while
Sigismund put in--
'Mayhap because you never ventured on such audacious villainy
and outrecuidance before.'
'Young blood will have its way,' repeated the old man. 'Nay,
I told the lad no good would come of it, but he would have it
that he had his backers, and in sooth that escort played into
his hands. Ha! ha! much will the fair damsels' royal beau-
frere thank you for overthrowing his plan for disposing of
them.'
'Hark you, foul-mouthed fellow,' said King Rene; 'did I not
pity you for your bereavement and ruin, I should requite that
slander of a noble prince by hanging you on the nearest tree.'
'Your Grace is kindly welcome,' was the answer.
Rene and Sigismund, however, took counsel together, and agreed
that the old man should, instead of this fate, be relegated to
an abbey, where he might at least have the chance of repenting
of his crimes, and be kept in safe custody.
'That's your mercy,' muttered the old mountain wolf when he
heard their decision.
All this was settled as they rode back along the way where
Madame de Ste. Petronelle had first become alarmed. She had
now quite resumed her authority and position, and promised
protection and employment to Barbe and Trudchen. The former
had tears for 'her boy,' thus cut off in his sins; but it was
what she always foreboded for him, and if her old master was
not thankful for the grace offered him, she was for him.
King Rene, who believed not a word against his nephew, intended
himself to conduct the ladies to the Court of his sister, and
see them in safety there. Jean, however, after the first
excitement, so drooped as she rode, and was so entirely unable
to make answer to all the kindness around her, that it was
plain that she must rest as soon as possible, and thus
hospitality was asked at a little country castle, around which
the suite encamped. A pursuivant was, however, despatched by
Rene to the French Court to announce the deliverance of the
princesses, and Sir Patrick sent his son David with the party,
that his wife and the poor Dauphiness might be fully reassured.
There was a strange stillness over Chateau le Surry when David
rode in triumphantly at the gate. A Scottish archer, who stood
on guard, looked up at him anxiously with the words, 'Is it
weel with the lassies?' and on his reply, 'They are sain and
safe, thanks, under Heaven, to Geordie Douglas of Angus!' the
man exclaimed, 'On, on, sir squire, the saints grant ye may not
be too late for the puir Dolfine! Ah! but she has been sair
misguided.'
'Is my mother here?' asked David.
'Ay, sir, and with the puir lady. Ye may gang in without
question. A' the doors be open, that ilka loon may win in to
see a princess die.'
The pursuivant, hearing that the King and Dauphin were no
longer in the castle, rode on to Chalons, but David dismounted,
and followed a stream of persons, chiefly monks, friars, and
women of the burgher class, up the steps, and on into the
vaulted room, the lower part shut off by a rail, against which
crowded the curious and only half-awed multitude, who whispered
to each other, while above, at a temporary altar, bright with
rows of candles, priests intoned prayers. The atmosphere was
insufferably hot, and David could hardly push forward; but as
he exclaimed in his imperfect French that he came with tidings
of Madame's sisters, way was made, and he heard his mother's
voice. 'Is it? Is it my son? Bring him. Oh, quickly!'
He heard a little, faint, gasping cry, and as a lane was opened
for him, struggled onwards. In poor Margaret's case the
etiquette that banished the nearest kin from Royalty in
articulo mortis was not much to be regretted. David saw her--
white, save for the death-flush called up by the labouring
breath, as she lay upheld in his mother's arms, a priest
holding a crucifix before her, a few ladies kneeling by the
bed.
'Good tidings, I see, my son,' said Lady Drummond.
'Are--they--here?' gasped Margaret.
'Alack, not yet, Madame; they will come in a few days' time.'
She gave a piteous sigh, and David could not hear her words.
'Tell her how and where you found them,' said his mother.
David told his story briefly. There was little but a quivering
of the heavy eyelids and a clasping of the hands to show
whether the dying woman marked him, but when he had finished,
she said, so low that only his mother heard, 'Safe! Thank God!
Nunc dimittis. Who was it--young Angus?'
'Even so,' said David, when the question had been repeated to
him by his mother.
'So best!' sighed Margaret. 'Bid the good father give thanks.'
Dame Lilias dismissed her son with a sign. Margaret lay far
more serene. For a few minutes there was a sort of hope that
the good news might inspire fresh life, and yet, after the
revelation of what her condition was in this strange,
frivolous, hard-hearted Court, how could life be desired for
her weary spirit? She did not seem to wish--far less to
struggle to wish--to live to see them again; perhaps there was
an instinctive feeling that, in her weariness, there was no
power of rousing herself, and she would rather sink undisturbed
than hear of the terror and suffering that she knew but too
well her husband had caused.
Only, when it was very near the last, she said, 'Safe! safe in
leal hands. Oh, tell my Jeanie to be content with them--never
seek earthly crowns--ashes--ashes--Elleen--Jeanie--all of them-
-my love-oh! safe, safe. Now, indeed, I can pardon--'
'Pardon!' said the French priest, catching the word. 'Whom,
Madame, the Sieur de Tillay?'
Even on the gasping lips there was a semi-smile. 'Tillay--I
had forgotten! Tillay, yes, and another.'
If no one else understood, Lady Drummond did, that the
forgiveness was for him who had caused the waste and blight of
a life that might have been so noble and so sweet, and who had
treacherously prepared a terrible fate for her young innocent
sisters.
It was all ended now; there was no more but to hear the priest
commend the parting Christian soul, while, with a few more
faint breaths, the soul of Margaret of Scotland passed beyond
the world of sneers, treachery, and calumny, to the land 'where
the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at
rest.'
CHAPTER 12
SORROW ENDED
'Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the Hero that here lies:
Death, avenger of wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.'
Much Ado About Nothing.
A day's rest revived Jean enough to make her eager to push on
to Chalons, and enough likewise to revive her coquettish and
petulant temper.
Sigismund and Eleanor might ride on together in a species of
paradise, as having not only won each other's love, but acted
out a bit of the romance that did not come to full realisation
much more often in those days than in modern ones. They were
quite content to let King Rene glory in them almost as much as
he had arrived at doing in his own daughter and her Ferry, and
they could be fully secure; Sigismund had no one's consent to
ask, save a formal licence from his cousin, the Emperor
Frederick III., who would pronounce him a fool for wedding a
penniless princess, but had no real power over him; while
Eleanor was certain that all her kindred would feel that she
was fulfilling her destiny, and high sweet thoughts of
thankfulness and longing to be a blessing to him who loved her,
and to those whom he ruled, filled her spirit as she rode through
the shady woods and breezy glades, bright with early summer.
Jean, however, was galled by the thought that every one at home
would smile and say that she might have spared her journey, and
that, in spite of all her beauty, she had just ended by wedding
the Scottish laddie whom she had scorned. True, her heart knew
that she loved him and none other, and that he truly merited
her; but her pride was not willing that he should feel that he
had earned her as a matter of course, and she was quite as
ungracious to Sir George Douglas, the Master of Angus, as ever
she had been to Geordie of the Red Peel, and she showed all the
petulance of a semi-convalescent. She would not let him ride
beside her, his horse made her palfrey restless, she said; and
when King Rene talked about her true knight, she pretended not
to understand.
'Ah!' he said, 'be consoled, brave sire; we all know it is the
part of the fair lady to be cruel and merciless. Let me sing
you a roman both sad and true!'
Which good-natured speech simply irritated George beyond
bearing. 'The daft old carle,' muttered he to Sir Patrick,
'why cannot he let me gang my ain gate, instead of bringing all
their prying eyes on me? If Jean casts me off the noo, it will
be all his fault.'
These small vexations, however, soon faded out of sight when
the drooping, half-hoisted banner was seen on the turrets of
Chateau le Surry, and the clang of a knell came slow and solemn
on the wind.
No one was at first visible, but probably a warder had
announced their approach, for various figures issued from the
gateway, some coming up to Rene, and David Drummond seeking his
father. The tidings were in one moment made known to the two
poor girls--a most sudden shock, for they had parted with their
sister in full health, as they thought, and Sir Patrick had
only supposed her to have been chilled by the thunderstorm.
Yet Eleanor's first thought was, 'Ah! I knew it! Would that I
had clung closer to her and never been parted.' But the next
moment she was startled by a cry--Jean had slid from her horse,
fainting away in George Douglas's arms.
Madame de Ste. Petronelle was at hand, and the Lady of
Glenuskie quickly on the spot; and they carried her into the
hall, where she revived, and soon was in floods of tears.
These were the days when violent demonstration was unchecked
and admired as the due of the deceased, and all stood round,
weeping with her. King Charles himself leaning forward to
wring her hands, and cry, 'My daughter, my good daughter!'
As soon as the first tempest had subsided, the King supported
Eleanor to the chapel, where, in the midst of rows of huge wax
candles, Margaret lay with placid face, and hands clasped over
a crucifix, as if on a tomb, the pall that covered all except
her face embellished at the sides with the blazonry of France
and Scotland. Her husband, with his thin hands clasped, knelt
by her head, and requiems were being sung around by relays of
priests. There was fresh weeping and wailing as the sisters
cast sprinklings of holy water on her, and then Jean, sinking
down quite exhausted, was supported away to a chamber where the
sisters could hear the story of these last sad days from Lady
Drummond.
The solemnities of Margaret's funeral took their due course--a
lengthy one, and then, or rather throughout, there was the
consideration what was to come next. Too late, all the Court
seemed to have wakened to regret for Margaret. She had been
open-handed and kindly, and the attendants had loved her, while
the ladies who had gossiped about her habits now found
occupation for their tongues in indignation against whosoever
had aspersed her discretion. The King himself, who had always
been lazily fond of the belle fille who could amuse him, was
stirred, perhaps by Rene, into an inquiry into the scandalous
reports, the result of which was that Jamet de Tillay was
ignominiously banished from the Court, and Margaret's fair fame
vindicated, all too late to save her heart from breaking. The
displeasure that Charles expressed to his son in private on the
score of poor Margaret's wrongs, is, in fact, believed to have
been the beginning of the breach which widened continually,
till finally the unhappy father starved himself to death in a
morbid dread of being poisoned by his son.
However, for the present, the two Scottish princesses reaped
the full benefit of all the feeling for their sister. The King
and Queen called them their dearest daughters, and made all
sorts of promises of marrying and endowing them, and Louis
himself went outwardly through all the forms of mourning and
devotion, and treated his two fair sisters with extreme
civility, such as they privately declared they could hardly
bear, when they recollected how he had behaved before Margaret.
Jean in especial flouted him with all the sharpness and
pertness of which she was capable; but do what she would, he
received it all with a smiling indifference and civility which
exasperated her all the more.
The Laird and Lady of Glenuskie were in some difficulty. They
could not well be much longer absent from Scotland, and yet
Lilias had promised the poor Dauphiness not to leave her
sisters except in some security. Eleanor's fate was plain
enough, Sigismund followed her about as her betrothed, and the
only question was whether, during the period of mourning, he
should go back to his dominions to collect a train worthy of
his marriage with a king's daughter; but this he was plainly
reluctant to do. Besides the unwillingness of a lover to lose
sight of his lady, the catastrophe that had befallen the
sisters might well leave a sense that they needed protection.
Perhaps, too, he might expect murmurs at his choice of a
dowerless princess from his vassals of the Tirol.
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