Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive.
Scott.
In a preceding chapter we left two right honourable lords—to wit, the earls of Bothwell and Glencairn—in search of Master Patten, the scribe or secretary to Edward Shelly, the captain of the Boulogners. These gentlemen, as supposed followers of the house of Glencairn, resided in a quaint old-fashioned stone house, then known as Cunninghame's Land, which had been galleried and fronted with timber in the time of James IV. It was situated above the Upper Bow Porte, and there they were found readily enough by the two nobles, who had free entrance at all times. On this occasion, however, the earls, on coming in, hurriedly and unannounced, found the Englishmen seated at a table, immersed among letters, dockets of papers, maps, and manuscripts: they were both busy writing. Glencairn, who had a supreme contempt for such work, gave a hasty and impatient glance at Bothwell, whose only literary efforts had been to make his mark or fix his seal to a notary's deed; for, like Bell-the-Cat, of whom we read in "Marmion," or his majesty King Cole of the popular ditty, this untutored lord
"Quite scorn'd the fetters of four-and-twenty letters,
And it saved him a vast deal of trouble."
On their abrupt entrance, Patten and Shelly started in alarm from their work. The former spread his hands over the papers, as if to protect them; but the valiant captain of the Boulogners drew his sword, with the first instinct of a soldier, to protect his compatriot and himself.
"Uds daggers! what new plot art thou hatching, worthy scribe, to put men's weasons in peril?" asked Glencairn; "how many human souls are bartered in these piles of scribbled paper—eh?"
"Up with thy sword, Master Shelly," said Bothwell, laughing, and twisting up his large black moustache. "Did you think we were the provost halberds or the queen's guard come to arrest you?"
"Either had found me ready, my lord. But I knew not what to think," replied Shelly with some displeasure, as he dropped his long straight sword into its scabbard, swept the papers into a drawer, and locked it. "Master Patten and I were deeply engaged——"
"Plotting—eh?"
"Nay, my Lord of Bothwell; I have had enough of that," replied the soldier coldly. "We were simply reducing the bulk of our correspondence to suit the compass of our cloak-bags, committing some papers to the flames, and selecting others for conveyance to England, for whither we set out——"
"Not before the convention at Stirling, I hope?"
"No."
"When?"
"Immediately after. Our work will then be completed, for peace or for war—for good or for evil."
"But time presses, and our man is not yet gone," said Glencairn, glancing anxiously from the window.
"What would your lordships with us?" asked Shelly; "and to what do we owe the honour of this visit?"
"To our lack of skill in the perilous art of clerking like worthy Master Patten," replied Glencairn.
"And to our zeal in the young king your master's service," added Bothwell, with his quiet mocking smile.
"To the point, my lords!" said Shelly haughtily, while he drew tighter, by a hole or two, the silver buckle of his sword-belt.
"Florence Fawside, the French envoy, spy, or what you will, is even now with Mary of Lorraine!"
"Art sure of this?" asked Shelly in a low voice, full of interest, as he gazed through the barred window.
"Sure as my name is Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell; we both saw him enter her residence; and a soldier of her guard holds the bridle of his grey horse at the door—a soldier, who says he departs thereafter for Cadzow—dost thou see, for Cadzow!"
"To the lord regent. This must not be!" said Master Patten, starting up.
"Let us follow and cut him off—'tis the simplest plan," said Shelly.
"Nay—nay!"
"Why, thou, Bothwell, art not wont to be wary!"
"Our trains are scattered abroad throughout the city, and if we fared ill——"
"Four to one?"
"He might still cut his way through us; and, if once he reaches Arran, with promises of French succour, the Hamiltons in the west and Huntly in the north will take the field at once against all malcontents: thus, the sooner we begin our Miserere mei Dominus, and commit our neckverse to memory, the better."
"If a long sword will not keep me from having a long neck, or my head from rolling among the sawdust, I shall e'en submit; I were not my father's son else!" said the grim Earl of Glencairn, frowning till his black eyebrows met over his fierce nose.
"But what can I do in this matter, my lords?" asked Shelly with impatience.
"Simply this. Desire Master Patten to write, with all speed, a note to a friend of mine. This note Champfleurie, captain of the queen's guard, a gentleman in our interest, will prevail upon Fawside to deliver, as he rides westward, to a friend of mine, mark you; and this friend will place him in sure ward till we arrive. Then, after investigating his cloak-bags and pockets to our hearts' content, if we do not find what will satisfy us, we can roast him over the potcruicks and baste him well with grease till his tongue tells us all he knows of the Guises and their desperate game."
"Agreed!" said Shelly, with a disdainful smile. "And this friend——"
"Is Allan Duthie, laird of Millheugh, whose tower, a strong but sequestered place, standeth near the highway that leads through Cadzow Forest. Quick!—indite me this note. We have no time to lose, for every moment I expect to see him come forth and betake him to horse, and then our plot will fail."
Patten with great deliberation selected a sheet of the coarse brown-tinted paper then used, and dipping his quill in the ink-horn, wrote to Bothwell's dictation the following note:—
"RIGHT TRUSTY FRIEND,—I greet you well and heartillie. It will be for the furtherance of our great cause if the bearer hereof, a spy of the Guises, who is on his way to Cadzow, be detained at your house until such time as I and my friends arrive. These with my hand at the pen,
"BOITHWELLE."
"For the Right Hon. the Laird of Millheugh. These."
"Can your friend read?" asked Shelly.
"Like Duns Scotus himself," replied Bothwell; adding, "Master Patten, I thank you. When I am the husband of Katharine Willoughby, I will requite this and other services as they deserve. And now for our messenger, who must receive this from the hand of Champfleurie to lull all suspicion."
"Fawside is quite unsuspecting," said Glencairn.
"And therefore, the more open to guile and to attack, poor fellow!" added Shelly with some commiseration, though not much afflicted with tender scruples at any time.