A Prince of Good Fellows

The King Investigates

The king, wishing to decide wisely, was troubled by a conflict of evidence, the bane of impartial judges all the world over. A courier from England had brought formal complaint that, while the two countries were ostensibly at peace, the condition along the border was practically a state of war. Raids were continually being made from the southern portion of Scotland across the boundary into England, and the robbers retreated unscathed to hide themselves among their hills, carrying their booty with them. These ruffians had long gone unpunished, and now England made friendly protest in the matter.

The king gathered his nobles about him and laid the case before them. Not a man among them but was older than himself, and therefore more experienced. James requested advice regarding the action it might be thought wise to take. Many of the nobles whose estates lay in the Lowlands of Scotland had themselves suffered from Highland cattle-lifters, and thus they were imbued with a fellow feeling for the raided English across the border. The English protest, they said, was courteously made. The evil was undoubted, and had existed unchecked for years, growing worse rather than better. Henry VIII, who now occupied the English throne, was a strong and determined man, and this continued source of irritation in the northern part of his realm might easily lead to a deplorable war between the two countries. In addition, James of Scotland was nephew to Henry of England, and the expostulation from uncle to nephew was of the mildest, without any threat even intimated.

The nobles thought that James might well put a stop to a state of things which no just man could approve, and thus do an act of justice which would at the same time please an august relative. James admitted that these were powerful arguments, but still if the Border robbers, who had many followers, resisted the Scottish force sent against them, there would be civil war, an outcome not to be looked forward to with light heart.

“In truth,” said the king, “I would rather lead an army against England, with England in the right, than against my own countrymen, even if they were in the wrong.”

This remark seemed to encourage certain gentlemen there present, who up to that moment had not spoken. The Earl of Bothwell, as the highest in rank among the silent phalanx, stepped forward and said, —

“Your majesty, there are always two sides to a question, and, with your permission, I should be glad to put in a word for those Border riders who have been so ruthlessly condemned by men who know nothing of them.”

“It is for the purpose of hearing all there is to say that I called you together,” rejoined the king. “Speak, my Lord of Bothwell.”

“In the first place, your majesty, these Border men have had to stand the first brunt of all invasions into our country for centuries past. It is, therefore, little to be wondered at that they have small liking for the English. We are at peace with those to the south of us now, it is true; but how long that peace will remain unbroken, no man can say. There is, however, one thing certain, that if the King of Scotland exercises the power he undoubtedly possesses, and crushes the Border forces, he will have destroyed a staunch bulwark of his realm, and I quite agree with those gentlemen who have spoken so eloquently against the Borderers, that the King of England, and the people of England, will be well pleased.”

This statement had a marked effect on King James, and it would have been well if those who agreed with the Earl of Bothwell had been as moderate in their denunciation. But some of them, apparently, could not forget the youth of the king, and, not having the sense to see that his majesty’s desire was to render a just decision, thought he might be frightened by strong language.

“It is easy for those to speak well of the pike, who have not felt the prod of its point,” cried Lord Maxwell angrily. “Few English invasions have reached Stirling, but every one of them have crossed the Border. What matters the lifting of some English cattle? The Southerners never scrupled to eat good Scottish beef whenever they set foot on Scottish soil. I would hang the English envoy for daring to come to a Scottish king with complaints of cattle lifting.”

The king frowned slightly but said nothing, and then Adam Scott of Tushielaw had to thrust his bull neck into the noose.

“I give you fair warning,” he cried, “that if the king’s forces are turned against the Borderers, my sword helps my neighbours.”

“And I say the same,” shouted Cockburn of Henderland.

Some of the opposition were about to speak, but the king held up his hand for silence.

“That is treason,” he said quietly. “Adam Scott, I have heard that you are called King of the Border. Scotland is blessed with a number of men who are king of this, or king of that, and I am sure I make no objection, as long as they do not forget the difference that exists between a king in name and a king in reality. I asked for advice, but not for threats.”

Then to the whole assemblage he went on —

“Gentlemen, I thank you for your counsel. I shall give a soothing reply to my uncle’s ambassador, keeping in mind the peace that exists between the two countries, and then I shall take what has been said on each side into consideration and let you know the result.”

Accepting this as dismissal, those there congregated withdrew, save only Sir David Lyndsay, the king having made a sign for him to remain. “Well, Davie,” he said, when they were alone, “what do you think of it all?”

“To tell truth, your majesty,” answered the poet, “it’s a knotty problem, not to be solved by rhyming brain. When the first spokesman finished I was entirely of his opinion, but, after that, the Earl of Bothwell’s plea seemed equally weighty, and between the two I don’t know what to think.”

“That is the disadvantage of an unbiased mind, Davie. Now, with good, strong prejudices, one side or the other, the way would be clear, and yet I despise a man who doesn’t know his own mind.”

“Scott and Cockburn seemed to know their minds very well,” ventured the poet, with a smile.

“Yes, and if one or two more of them had spoken as decidedly, I would have been off to the Border to-night at the head of my troops. It is a weakness of mine, but I can’t put up with a threat very well.”

“Kings are rarely called upon to thole a threat,” said Sir David, with a laugh.

“I’m not so sure of that, Davie. Kings have to thole many things if they are to rule justly. Now, Davie, if you’ll but tell me just what to do, it will be a great help, for then I can take the opposite direction with confidence.”

But the poet shook his head.

“I cannot tell you,” he said. “There seems much to be said for both sides.”

“Then, Davie, send down to the town for the cobbler; send for Flemming, he is a common-sense, canny body; he shall be the Solomon of the occasion. That broad-faced hammer of his seems to rap out wisdom as well as drive pegs. Bring him up with you, and we’ll place the case before him.”

As the rhymster left the room, Sir Donald Sinclair came clanking in, seemingly in something of a hurry.

“Was it your majesty’s pleasure,” began Sir Donald, “to have detained Adam Scott and Cockburn?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because they have mounted their horses and are off to the Border as fast as two good steeds can carry them.”

“And where are Bothwell, Home, and Maxwell, and the Lairds of Fairniherst, Johnston and Buccleuch?”

“They are all closeted in the Earl of Bothwell’s room, your majesty. Shall I take any action regarding them?”

“Oh no; do not meddle with them. You heard the opinions given a while since, Donald? What conclusion did you arrive at?”

“I am scarcely an impartial judge, your majesty. A soldier is ever for fighting, and I fear he pays little attention to the right or wrong of it.”

“You would try a fall with the Border kings perhaps?”

“Yes, your majesty, I would.”

“Then I need have no fear but the troops will respond if I call on them?”

“None in the least, your majesty.”

“Well, I am glad to hear that, Sir Donald, and, meanwhile, I can think of the project without any doubt regarding my army.”

When the cobbler came to the castle with Sir David, the king led the way to one of his small private rooms, and there sketched out the argument on both sides of the question with great impartiality.

“Now, Flemming,” he said, at the conclusion, “what is there to do?”

For a long time the shoemaker made no reply; then he scratched his head in perplexed fashion. At last he said:

“It gets beyond me, your majesty. Thieving is not right unless it’s done under cover of law, which these reiving lads to the South seem to take small account of. On the other hand, to destroy them root and branch may be leaving Scotland naked to her enemy. I admit I’m fairly in a corner.”

Sir David Lyndsay laughed.

“You’re as bad as I am, cobbler,” he said.

“There is one point,” commented the king, “that no one seems to have taken any notice of, and that is this: Those who speak against the Border marauders are those who know little of them except by hearsay; while the lords in their neighbourhood, who should know them well, stand up for them, and even threaten to draw sword on their behalf.”

“That certainly speaks well for the villains,” admitted the cobbler.

“Then what is your verdict,” demanded the king.

“Well, I kind of think I should leave them alone,” said Flemming cautiously.

“Do you agree with him, David?”

“I’m not sure but I do. It seems a choice of two evils.”

The king laughed riotously and smote his thigh.

“Well, of all half-hearted counsellors, King James has the champion pair; and yet I had made up my mind before I asked the advice of either of you.”

“And what was that?” inquired Sir David, “to attack them?”

“No.”

“To leave them alone?” suggested the cobbler.

“No.”

“What then?” cried both together.

“What then? Why, just to get a little surer information. Here are three men of open minds. I propose that for the next week, or thereabouts, we three shall be honest cattle merchants, who will mount our honest horses and take a quiet bit journey along the Border. The scenery, they tell me, is grand, and David here will make poems on it. It’s a healthy country, and the cobbler has been bending too assiduously over broken shoes of late, so the fresh air and the exercise will do him good.”

“Losh, your majesty!” cried the cobbler, in dismay, “I’m no horseman. I never rode any four-legged thing but a cobbler’s bench, and that side-saddle fashion.”

“Oh, you’ll have learnt when we reach the Border,” said the king, with a laugh. “Before two days are past you’ll be riding as well as Sir David, who is at present the worst horseman in all Scotland.”

“Pegasus is the steed I yearn to ride,” returned the poet, with a wry face.

“Yes, and even it sometimes throws you, David. You’ll never be the Psalmist your namesake was. Well, we’ll look on it as agreed. Flemming shall be purse-bearer, and so our tour will be an economical one. Here is a purse well filled. You will look after the drover’s costumes, make all disbursements, and take care that you do not betray us by undue lavishness.”

Thus it came about that three supposed drovers took their way to the Border by a route which drovers were never known to travel before, and, besides this, they were travelling empty-handed towards England, whereas, real drovers faced the south with their herds before them, and the north with those herds sold or stolen. Not one of the three had in his vocabulary a single word pertaining to the cattle trade, and every man with whom they spoke knew at once that, whatever else they might be, they were not drovers, and so the ill-fated three went blundering through the free-booters’ country, climbing hills and descending dales, and frightening honest folk with the questions they asked; questions about men whose names should be spoken in a whisper, and even then with a look of fear over the shoulder. Innkeepers who saw them approach with delight, watched them leave with relief, thanking God that no raider had happened inside to hear their innocent inquiries; yet the three themselves were enjoying an interesting and instructive journey, and the king had come to the conclusion that the devil was not so black as he was painted.

At last, they stumbled into a hostelry kept by a man whose name was Armstrong. Their horses were taken care of and the trio sat down to a hearty meal, as had been their luck all along the Border.

“Landlord, does this meat come from England?” asked the king.

The landlord caught his breath. He stood stock still for a moment and then replied, —

“I hope it is to your lordship’s liking.”

“Oh! I’m no lordship,” said James, “but an honest drover body, trying to find new markets for my stock.”

“I can see that,” replied the landlord; “then you will know that this meat’s raised by Scotchmen.”

“Raised!” laughed the king. “Raised where? In Northumberland? Are you sure ‘lift’ is not the word you mean?”

“Sir,” said the landlord, gravely, “there’s no lifting of cattle hereabout. This is not the Highlands. All in the neighbourhood are honest farmers or foresters.”

“Earning their bread by the sweat of their brow,” put in Sir David Lyndsay.

“Doubtless, when the English are after them,” suggested the cobbler.

The landlord did not join in their mirth, but merely said, —

“If your dinner is to your liking, my duty is done.”

“Quite so,” answered the king. “We were merely curious regarding the origin of your viands; but the question seems to be a ticklish one in this district.”

“Oh, not at all,” replied the innkeeper grimly. “If you question enough, you are sure to meet some one who will make you a suitable answer.”

The landlord, seemingly not liking the turn of the conversation, disappeared, and during the rest of the meal they were waited upon by a lowering, silent woman, who scowled savagely at them, and made no reply to the raillery of the king, who was in the highest spirits. They had ridden far that morning since breakfasting, and it was well after midday when they drew away from a table that had been devoted to their satisfying. Sir David and Flemming showed little inclination to proceed with their journey.

“The poor beasts must have a rest,” said the poet, although none of the three were horsemen enough to go out and see how the animals fared at the hands of the stableman. The king was accustomed to be waited upon, and the other two knew little and cared less about horses. As they sat there in great content they heard suddenly a commotion outside and the clatter of many hoofs on the stone causeway. The door burst in, and there came, trampling, half a dozen men, who entered with scant ceremony, led by a stalwart individual who cast a quick glance from one to the other of the three who were seated. His eye rested on the king, whom, with quick intuition, he took to be the leader of the expedition and, doffing his feathered bonnet in a salutation that had more of mockery than respect in it, he said: “I hear that, like myself, you’re in the cattle trade, and that you’re anxious to learn the prospect of doing business in this mountainous locality.”

“You are quite right,” replied the king.

“I have in my byres near by,” continued the man, “some of the finest stirks that ever stood on four hoofs. Would you be willing to come and give me your opinion of them, and say how much you care to pay for as many as you need?”

Again the man swept his bonnet nearly to the floor, and his six men, who stood back against the wall, as if to give the speaker the stage in the centre of the floor, glanced one at another. The king, however, was unruffled, and he replied with a twinkle in his eye, —

“My good sir, you are mistaken, we are on the other side of the market. We are sellers and not buyers.”

“So was Judas,” said the incomer, his politeness giving way to an expression of fierceness and cruelty which went far to terrify two of the seated men. “Are you sure, sir, that the cattle you sell have not two legs instead of four?”

“I don’t understand you,” replied the king.

“Is it men or stirks, you would give to the butcher?”

“Still I do not understand you,” repeated the king.

“Oh, very well. How much are you asking for your cattle?”

“We are here rather to see how much may be offered.”

“I can well believe you. Still, you must know something of the price of beasts on hoofs. How much would you want for a good, fat stirk? Answer me that!”

The king glanced at his two companions, and his glance said as plainly as words, “Give me a hint, in heaven’s name, regarding the cost of a beast;” but in all Scotland he could not have found two men who knew less about the subject.

“Oh, well,” said the king, nonchalantly, not at all liking the turn affairs had taken, “I suppose we would be satisfied with twenty pounds,” and this being received with a roar of laughter, he added hastily, “twenty pounds Scots.”

“Oh,” said the big man, “I was afraid you were going to demand that amount in English currency. It is evident you will do well at the trade, if you can find such buyers.”

“Then make us an offer,” suggested the king, with the air of a man willing to listen to reason.

“Where are your cattle?”

“They’re in the north.”

“What part of the north?”

“My good fellow,” cried the king, his temper rising, “you have asked many questions and answered none. Who are you, and what right have you to make your demands in such a tone?”

“Ah, then there’s some spirit among the three of you. I am glad to see that. Who am I? I am Johnny Armstrong. Did you ever hear tell of him? And I suspect that your cattle are grown in the high town of Stirling. Am I right in that? It is in Stirling that you can sell what you may lift on the Border, and your cattle will be paid for in king’s gold. You are spies, my fine gentlemen, and know as little of cattle as I know of the king and the court.”

The king rejoined calmly, —

“The country is at peace. There can be no spies except in a time of war.”

“Is it even so? Then what are you three doing rampaging up and down my land on the Border?”

“That the lands may be yours we do not dispute, nor have we interfered with them. The highways are the king’s, and we three are peaceful subjects of his, claiming, therefore, the right to travel on them as we will, so long as we infringe not his peace or the liberty of any man.”

“Stoutly spoken and bravely, considering in what king’s dominion you now find yourself. You have to learn that Johnny, and not Jamie, is king of the Border. And when you’re in the hands of a man named Armstrong, you’ll find how little a boy named Stuart can do for you. Tie them up!”

Before one of the three could move from the stool he occupied, they were set upon by the ruffians, and each Stirling man found his ankles fastened together and his elbows tied behind his back with a speed that amazed him.

“Bless my soul,” moaned the poet, “all this in broad daylight, and in the king’s dominion.”

They were carried outside and flung thus helpless, face downward on horses, like so many sacks of corn, each before a mounted man. Armstrong sprung upon his horse and led his men from the high road into the forest, his followers numbering something like a score. The captives, from their agonising position on the horses, could see nothing of the way they were being taken, except that they journeyed on and on through dense woodland. They lost all knowledge of direction, and, by and by, came to the margin of a brawling stream, arriving at last, much to their relief, at a stronghold of vast extent, situated on a beetling rock that overhung the river. Here the three were placed on their feet again, and chattering women and children crowded round them, but, in no case, was there a word of pity or an expression of sympathy for their plight.

The striking feature of the castle was a tall square tower, which might be anything from seventy to a hundred feet in height; and connected with it were several stone buildings, some two stories and some three stories high. Round the castle, in a wide, irregular circle, had been built a stout stone wall, perhaps twenty feet high, wide enough on the top for half a dozen men to walk abreast. The space enclosed was tolerably flat, and large enough for a small army to exercise in. Leaning against the inside of this wall was an array of sheds, which provided stabling for the horses, and numerous stalls in which many cattle were lowing. The contour of the wall was broken by a gateway, through which the troop and their captives had entered. The inlet could be closed by a massive gate, which now stood open, and by a stout portcullis that hung ready to drop when a lever was pulled. But the most gruesome feature of this robber’s lair was a stout beam of timber, which projected horizontally from the highest open window of the square tower. Attached to the further end of the beam was a thick rope, the looped end of which encircled the drawn neck of a man, whose lifeless body swayed like a leaden pendulum, helpless in the strong breeze. Seeing the eyes of the three directed to this pitiful object, Armstrong said to one of his men, —

“Just slip that fellow’s head from the noose, Peter; we may need the rope again to-night.” Then turning to his prisoners, Armstrong spoke like a courteous host anxious to exhibit to a welcome guest the striking features of his domain.

“That’s but a grisly sight, gentlemen, to contemplate on a lowering evening.”

The day was darkening to its close, and a storm, coming up out of the west, was bringing the night quicker than the hour sanctioned.

“But here is an ingenious contrivance,” continued the freebooter, cheerfully, “which has commanded the admiration of many a man we were compelled to hang. You see there are so many meddlesome bodies in this world that a person like myself, who wishes to live in peace with all his fellows, must sometimes give the interferers a sharp bit lesson.”