"Peste! Did he not bear hard on the monks?" persisted the querist.
"I am not aware," replied Gray, with increasing reserve, "as I have not heard; but what said he?"
"At the head of two hundred gentlemen of his party, the valiant Procopius came before the council, and stoutly maintained that monkery was an invention of the devil.
"'Can you prove this?' asked Cardinal St. Julien, while his face flushed red as his stockings.
"'Yes!' replied the Bohemian, stoutly.
"'How?' thundered the cardinal, knitting his brows.
"'Thus; will you deny that the Saviour did not institute it?'
"'We do not.'
"'Then,' quoth Procopius, ''tis plainly an invention of the devil,' whereat Ænies Sylvius Piccolomini – "
"He who was in Scotland?"
"Yes; burst into a fit of laughter, which however did not prevent him from committing several poor devils to the flames in the course of the evening, where they spluttered and burned bravely for the amusement of all good Catholics."
"We have had some such work at home, where John Resby and Paul Crawar have perished at the stake, for preaching doctrines which some term false and others simply new."
"How do you term them?" asked the second traveller.
"Sir," replied Gray, "I am a soldier, and, being neither priest nor clerk may not know the difference."
"So you are of Scotland?" said the first stranger, suddenly relinquishing his French for the old dialect then spoken by the upper classes of the northern kingdom; "we bid you welcome, as countrymen. Pray join us – and harkee, tapster, let us have lights and more wine – we too, sir, are of Scotland."
More Burgundy was promptly brought, and on four torch-like candles of yellow wax being lighted in four great brass sconces, Gray was enabled to observe the aspect and bearing of his fellow travellers, or rather sojourners at the hostelry.
Both had their hair cut closely round above their ears, in the unbecoming fashion of twenty years before. They were moustached, but had their beards and whiskers shaved off in what was then the Scottish mode; they wore armour, with skirts composed of horizontal steel bands, called taces, with circular epaulets, to protect the armpits from sword thrusts, with spikes on the oriellets of their helmets.
The tallest and most handsome forcibly recalled to Gray's memory the late King James I.; he seemed to have something of that unhappy monarch's voice too, but his air and manner, though soldierly and stately, were reckless and blasé, and at times even abrupt and rough, yet not altogether unpleasing.
The other had pale grey cunning eyes, which were either bloodshot by dissipation, or reddened by the fire of innate cruelty, and they twinkled so far apart from his nose that it appeared almost impossible for him to see an object with both at once, for each seemed to be looking at the ear which adjoined it, and his hair and beard were a fiery red. But what were the emotions of Gray, and how firmly did he grasp his dagger, while a gust of fury filled his heart – a fury which he had great difficulty in repressing – when, in this person we have just described, he recognized that venal wretch, James Achanna!
By the light of the sconces the latter and his companion had a full view of Gray, but they seemed not to recognize him, for, as already stated, the ghisarma of Earl James had laid both cheeks open, thus a hideous wound traversed his whole face like a livid bar sinister. It was slowly passing away, however, for the old duchess of Gueldres had given him a rare balsam, which she said would effectually efface the scars; but as yet they, and a new curl which Gray had fancifully given his moustache, had so effectually altered his appearance, as to conceal his identity from this ruffianly swashbuckler of the earl of Douglas.
"So you are of Scotland, sir?" resumed the other traveller.
"I am come from thence but lately," replied Gray; "and may I ask your names?"
"Certainly," replied our old acquaintance, with perfect confidence; "I am James Achanna, a gentleman of the Lord Douglas, a name at which men prick their ears in Nithsdale, whatever they may do in foggy Flanders."
"And I," said the other, "am the Lord Rosse."
"Rosse!" reiterated Gray; "pardon me, sir, but, under favour, we have no such lord in Scotland."
"Not when I am out of it," said he, laughing.
"I know not the title," added Gray, coldly.
"Indeed! one seems to be soon forgotten then. Shall I state to you more fully that I am Robert Stewart, duke of Albany and earl of Rosse."
"The son of Duke Murdoch!" exclaimed Gray, starting from his seat with mingled surprise and respect.
"Yes; son of that Duke Murdoch, who, with his second son, and Duncan, earl of Lennox, was foully butchered at the Lady's Rock, before the castle gates of Stirling. Vengeance has a long and bitter memory! and by that extrajudicial murder, for such I will maintain it to be in the face of Europe, I have been since boyhood an exile, a wanderer, and now, when little more than thirty years of age, my hair is greyer than my poor old father's was, when his venerable head rolled in the sand beneath the doomster's axe."
Gray bowed low, for respect to the royal blood was strongly graven then in the hearts of the Scots, in none more than his, and Albany, though exiled and outlawed, in consequence of the malpractices of his father (who had been regent during the detention of James I. in England), was the cousin of King James II.
"And you, sir?" asked Albany, loftily.
"I am your grace's most humble servant," replied Gray pausing, as he dreaded to tell his name before Achanna, lest it might reveal to the Douglases his royal mission, and blight his hope of meeting Murielle.
"But your name, sir," said the duke, with growing displeasure; "your name?"
"Yes," added Achanna, imitating him, "we must have your name."
"I am the laird of Luaig," replied Gray, with ready wit, taking the name of a little obscure loch, which lies in a narrow glen near his father's castle of Foulis.
CHAPTER XXX
BOLD SCHEMES
Many have ruined their fortunes; many have escaped ruin by want of fortune. To obtain it the great have become little, and the little great. – Zimmerman.
"Luaig, laird of Luaig," said Albany, ponderingly; "I do not recognize the name."
"Lairds are plenty as heather hills in the far north country," said Achanna, sneeringly.
"And I have been long enough in France and elsewhere to forget even my mother tongue, as well as my dear mother's face; yet she was Isabel of Lennox," said Albany, sadly; "but lairds in the north are plenty, I know."
"And poor as plenty," added Achanna.
"True, sir," said Gray, "and hence my mission here in Flanders."
"How; I was just about to inquire," observed the duke; "seek you knight's service?"
"Yes; fortune has made me a free lance."
"And ready to follow any banner?"
"Yes; provided it find me in food, horse, and armour."
"Then follow me," said Albany, "and ere long, my friend, I may find work for your sword at home."
"At home; do you mean in Scotland?"
"Aye, in Scotland; how now, Achanna, why the devil dost twitch my sleeve?"
"As a warning that your grace should be wary."
"Here thought and speech are free. True, we have not eaten a peck of salt with our new friend, the laird of Luaig, but at this distance from that bloody rock which lies before Stirling gate, we may trust him nevertheless," said the reckless Albany, draining his wine cup at a draught; "wilt follow me, Luaig – is it a bargain?" he added, holding out his hand.
"But whither goes your grace?"
"To tread the same path my hapless father trod," replied the duke, with something of dignity and pathos in his manner.
"It may lead, alas! – "
"To the same bloody doom, you would say?"
"Yes; I would pray your grace to be wary."
"I care not; I shall live and die, Robert Stewart, duke of Albany and earl of Rosse, if I die not something better."