My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this farther charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or circumstance.—Measure for Measure.
Florence, with his heart beating wildly, from the conflicting revelations of his late interview, had placed his foot in the silver stirrup of his saddle, and was in the act of grasping his horse's flowing mane preparatory to mounting, when a gauntleted hand was laid bluntly on his shoulder, and on turning he met the dark and handsome, but somewhat crafty, face of John Livingstone of Champfleurie, captain of the queen's guard, a man who had been long enough about courts and among Scottish and French courtiers to acquire the habit of veiling every emotion of life under a bland and well-bred smile, from which nothing could be gathered. Though faithful enough to the queen, as faith went at court, he was also disposed to be not unfriendly to his kinsman the Earl of Bothwell, and, heedless whether the missive given him by the latter purported good or evil to the bearer, he undertook that Fawside should deliver it. It was a favourite proverb of this time-serving soldier, "as long as one is in the fox's service, one must bear up his tail."
"Under favour," said he, "I would speak with you, laird."
"Then speak quickly, for I am in haste," replied the young man, gathering up his reins.
"Pardon me, sir, but 'tis said that a traveller should carry two bags,—one of patience and one of crowns."
"I carry neither; so to the point, sir."
"I believe I have the honour of being known to you."
"Yes; John Livingstone of Champfleurie, captain of the queen's guard," replied Florence, bowing.
"'Tis said you ride westward."
"True. But how know you that?"
"My sentinels overheard it from the pages of the queen."
"Well?"
"Pass you by the tower of Millheugh, in Cadzow Wood?"
"Perhaps; but the country thereabout is strange and new to me," said Florence impatiently.
"There are wild bulls, broken men, sloughs, pitfalls, and swamps in plenty. But will you do a fair lady of the court a favour?"
"That will I blithely," replied Fawside, whose heart beat quicker at the request.
"She is in sore trouble, and lacks a messenger to her kinsman, the laird of Millheugh. As you pass his tower, will you please to deliver this little letter, and tarry a moment to refresh?"
"And the lady?—her name?—who is she?"
"Inquire not, as a gallant man."
"Mystery again!" thought Florence, as he took the note, and his mind immediately reverted to the lady he had just left.
Who was this fair woman, so beautiful, so graceful, so gentle in breeding and manner, that avowed herself his enemy, and yet admitted that she loved him; who gave him an opal ring in token of that love, and yet repelled further advances; and who now, he fondly believed, intrusted him with a letter?
"Champfleurie," said he, "I presume you know all the great people about the queen-mother's court?"
"Ay, from the great Earl of Huntly down to yonder little foot-page, who is clanking his spurs at the Close-head; for your court page is a great man too."
"Then pray tell me who are the queen's ladies?"
The captain smiled; for, if court scandal could be trusted, he stood high in favour with more than one of them; so he said evasively,—
"You seek to discover of whose letter you are bearer?"
"Nay, on my honour I do not!"
"Her ladies?" queried the cunning captain, pausing for a reply.
"Yes, what countesses has she about her?"
"There are the countesses of Huntly, Monteith, Mar, and Crawford."
"Pshaw! all these are old, or well up in years."
"Well, I said not otherwise," replied the arquebusier, laughing.
"The young and beautiful?"
"Are Errol, Orkney, and Argyle."
"Nay, 'tis none of these I ask for. I am assured, Laird of Champfleurie, that you are a most discreet man; but fare you well, sir—so now for Cadzow ho!" and putting his Ripon spurs to his impatient horse, he rode hastily off.
Champfleurie looked after the fated young man, who trotted his grey charger through the time-blackened arch of the Upper Bow Porte, and disappeared down the winding descent of the ancient street which lay beyond, and athwart the picturesque mansions of which the meridian sun was pouring its broad flakes of hazy light, that varied its mass of shadows.
"Poor fool!" said the captain of the guard with his crafty smile; "he rides on his death-errand."
* * * * * *
The dawn of the next day was breaking, when a mounted man reined up his horse at the turnpike-stair, which gave access to a quaint tenement on the Castle-hill, known as the Bothwell Lodging (not far from where Master Posset's dried aligator swung daily in the wind), and demanded, at once to see his lordship on business of importance. In a scarlet gown trimmed with black fur, under which he carried his unsheathed dagger as a safeguard, the earl, who had just sprung from bed, appeared in his chamber of dais before the messenger, who was a rough and weather-beaten fellow, in a morion and plated jack, and who seemed half-trooper, half-brigand, and wholly desperado.
"Well, varlet," said the earl angrily, "you rouse us betimes! What the devil is astir? Have the English taken my castle of Hermitage, or are the Lord Clinton's war-ships off Dunbar Sands—eh?"
"Neither, lord earl," replied the man, in a strong Clydesdale accent; "I hae come in frae the west country, and been in my stirrups since twa past midnight."
"From Millheugh?"
"Direct."
"The spy——"
"Bound hand and foot, is safely lodged in Millheugh Tower, where the laird bade me say he shall bide in sure ward until ye come west; or if ye wished it, he would bind him to the pot-cruicks ower the low in the kitchen, and smeik his secret out o' him by dint o' green-wood boughs, and wet bog peats."
"Right—I shall reward him for this, and thee too," said the earl, with fierce triumph. "Thank St. Bryde of Bothwell, or the devil more likely, we have nailed this knavish messenger at last. Get thee a horn of Flemish wine, my man, a fresh horse, and order all my train; I shall ride for Millheugh, and leave the West Porte behind me, ere the sun be up!"
Bothwell made such expedition, that in reality, ere the sun rose above Arthur's Seat, he and Glencairn, with Millheugh's messenger and a train of twenty well-armed horsemen, had galloped through the western gate of the city, skirted the hill of Craiglockart, the ancient manors of Meggatland and Red Hall, and taken the old Lanark road, direct to the country of the Hamiltons.
Meanwhile, let us see how fared it with the solitary messenger of Mary of Lorraine.