"I wot not," said Maud; and the girls laughed loudly.
"Little Maggie Lauder of the Bass would suit him better, in years at least," said the countess, as she caressed the lint white locks of Sir Alan's youngest daughter, a girl of some nine years or so. "In sooth, cousin, you have a rare stock of news."
"Countess, I have more still."
"More?"
"The heritable sheriff of Perth, Sir William Ruthven of that ilk, accompanied by a party of the king's guard, have marched into Athole, and there captured John Gorm Stewart."
"A friend and ally of my husband, who had a message from him not ten days ago – he captured him, say you?"
"Ay, and slew him."
"John of Athole slain?"
"Yes, on the north Inch of Perth, with thirty of his followers; but Ruthven was also killed, and MacLellan and Gray, the commanders of the King's Guard, were wounded."
"The fools! to fight each other, when both were allies of ours; for this sheriff of Perth has a daughter wedded to George Douglas, of Leswalt, here in Galloway. So Gray was wounded – and the jesting MacLellan, too?"
On first hearing these names, the hitherto listless Murielle started, and turned to Maud Douglas; but feared to ask the question that seemed to burn her tongue.
"Is aught wrong, sister, that you start thus?" asked Margaret, half contemptuously.
"No – why do you ask?" said Murielle timidly.
"I thought a gnat had stung you."
"Oh, it was Andrew Gray, of Balgarno, who was wounded," said Maud good-naturedly, as she turned in haste to Murielle, whose anxiety she wished to relieve.
"Was your father sure of this?" asked the countess.
"The Provost of Dumfries had the surest tidings."
Margaret smiled bitterly at her pale sister.
"Alas!" thought the latter, in her heart, "he is not spoken of. Oh, can he be dead, that others have led where he was wont to lead?"
After a pause,
"Murielle," said the countess, with some asperity, "if you will not work with us, take your harp, and sing. Occupation will at times divert the mind, even from its most bitter thoughts. Please to give us the ballad of 'Sir Hugh le Blonde.'"
The ladies urged her to do so, but she replied briefly and wearily, —
"Under favour, I cannot sing."
"You cannot sing?" reiterated the countess, pausing in her work, and gazing at Murielle with her full black eyes, above which hung the wavy fringe of her absurdly lofty horned head-dress.
"I cannot sing that ballad – at least, just now."
"And wherefore?"
"I have forgotten it," said she, turning to the window.
"Do you remember when last you sang it?" asked Maud Douglas kindly, in a low voice.
"Oh yes, dear Maud," said Murielle, as her soft eyes filled with tears at the recollection of that night in the house of the abbot at Edinburgh, where – outwardly, at least – they all seemed so happy, and where her lover hung over her, as she played and sang for him, and him only.
The impetuous young countess, a little despot in her own household, grew weary of her sister's silence and reserve, for Murielle's attachment was no secret to the family; she tossed aside the tapestry, and desired Mariota, the Caillean Rua, to summon her pages and a musician, that they might dance and practise the pavan, which was a slow and stately measure then in fashion, and which took its name from the peacock, because it was danced by knights in their mantles and ladies in their trains; but Murielle said gently, but firmly, as she withdrew to a corbelled stone balcony, upon which the windows of the bower-chamber opened, —
"Excuse me, dear Maggie, I pray you; but I am not in the mood either to dance or sing."
Irritated still more by this, Margaret followed, and found her with her face bowed upon the parapet, and weeping bitterly.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE BALCONY
The nymph must lose her female friend,
If more admired than she;
But where will fierce contention end,
If flowers can disagree? —
"Is it so with you?" said the countess, roughly grasping her arm; "is it so – still mourning for that scurvy captain of the king's morris-pikes?"
"Morris-pikes! Oh, sister, can you compare to mummers, the men who formed the van at Piperden?"
"Ay, where a Douglas routed Piercy – a service, like others, committed to oblivion now," was the bitter response.
Murielle wept in silence, while her haughty sister continued to regard her with an expression in her eyes very much akin to disdain.
The poor girl had frequently been fretted and galled by hearing a much-loved name – alas! it might only be a much-revered memory– reviled; yet she bore it meekly, hoping daily for a change. But weeks became months, and months became seasons, yet no change came in the bearing of her sister; which, always haughty, turned at times violent and tempestuous.
The proud Margaret felt that she had done a wrong action by her second espousal, which had raised doubts in her mind that even the papal dispensation might fail to dispel; and while she writhed under this conviction, and longed for vengeance on the slayers of that handsome lover and boy-husband – whom she secretly mourned, even when in the arms of the subtle Earl James, she felt – she knew not why – irritated, and at times exasperated, by the meek, quiet, and passive tenor of Murielle's existence.
"Tears still," she resumed, "always tears; but beware how the earl finds you thus."
"Oh, Margaret, I have studied to conceal my living sorrow from him – from you – from all."
"But in vain, for all have seen it. There is not a trencher-boy in the kitchen, or a groom in the stables, but knows of it as well as I do."
"Have you never considered, sister, what a terrible thing it is to have to forget – to strive at crushing all memory of the past – all hope for the future; to rend from the heart a love it has cherished for years?"
"Years!" reiterated Margaret, with an angry laugh; "you are but eighteen, Murielle."
"And you not twenty."
"Yet I have wept for a dead husband."
"And been consoled," was the unwise reply.
Margaret's cheek grew white with suppressed passion at the inference which might be drawn from this casual remark; but she said, emphatically, —
"Enough of this; my husband, to strengthen his house, has resolved that you shall become the bride of one who is second to none in Scotland; and he has sworn it on the cross of his sword, by God and St. Bryde, that it shall be so, even should he chain you to the altar-steps, in Tongland Abbey kirk."
"Oh, Maggie," said Murielle, in a piercing voice, "do not talk to me thus. I have given my heart into the keeping of Patrick Gray, and death itself cannot restore it to me, or rend it from him. Trustingly I gave it, dear sister, yonder – yonder, at the three auld thorns of the Carlinwark; so be merciful to me, for no better, fonder, or purer love than his, was ever offered up to woman."
"A king's minion!" said the countess, spitefully; "but it is the will of God you shall never be this."
"Never! Say not so; it sounds like a prophecy. Never – "
"But as the earl, my husband, has sworn – "
"Oh, impiety!"
"The bride of a nobler and better."
"A better, say you?" exclaimed Murielle, with an angry laugh.
"Dispute it if you can – Robert, duke of Albany."
"An outlawed traitor," said Murielle, warming in her turn; "is this your husband's scheme?"
"Yes, a scheme formed for your honour."
"It is a bold one."
"Most of his schemes are so," replied Margaret, quietly.
"Duke Robert is contracted to a daughter of Charles VII. of France," said Murielle, taking courage.
"The same power that permitted my second marriage, can annul his contract, and give him back his troth, from Mademoiselle Radegonde."
"Well, rather than break mine, and be his bride, sister, you shall see me stretched in Tongland Abbey kirk, as cold as the marble tombs that lie there!"