The Grey Man

CHAPTER L

THE LAST OF THE GREY MAN

It was the morn of the execution. Justice, delayed for long, was that day to let fall its sword. We of the Cassillis colours mustered in the dead of the night, for there was no force save the City Guard within the walls. And we had recently had overly many proofs how little these men could do with the unruly commons of Edinburgh if it pleased them to be turbulent. So it had come to be bruited abroad, that there was an intent to prevent the execution and deliver the murderers out of the hands of justice.

But we were resolved that this should not be. So, as was our bounden duty, we armed us to support the right and to keep the King's peace against all riotous law-breakers. The Earl gave to me the command of one half of the band, reserving the other for himself. And already he called me Sir Launcelot, though I had not yet received the acknowledgment of knighthood from the King.

At the first break of day it was to be done. Of this we had private notice from the turnkey of the Tolbooth.

I had worked earnestly upon my mother and Nell that they should abide from the business – which was, indeed, not for womankind to see. Though I knew that there would be many there, ay, even dames gentle of degree. But my father marched with me.

'Shall I put my harness off me,' said he, 'when there is a chance of a tumult, and of the defeating of the solemn justice of Providence and of King James? God forbid! Wife, help me on with my jack.'

So I placed my father in my own command, and I set him in the second rank with Hugh of Kirriemore beside him and Robert Harburgh in front of him, where I judged he would not come to any great harm. And we Kennedies had the King's private permission thus to come through the town under arms. When we arrived at the place the tall scaffold had already been set up at the cross, and even ere we arrayed us first about it, many a candle had begun to wink here and there in the tall windows of the High Street.

The Earl was to command a second strong guard from the prison port to the scaffold, lest the rabble should try to overwhelm the City Guard and the marshal's men as they convoyed the prisoners to the place of execution.

Thus we of the first band stood grimly to our arms a long time after the gloaming of the morning began. The hum of the folk gathering surrounded us. There was, however, little pleasance or laughing, as there is at an ordinary heading or hanging; and that did not betoken good, for when the populace is silent, it is plotting. This much I had learned in my long service and afterwards as a knight-at-arms. Therefore I hold it the true wisdom to strike ere the many-headed can bite. That, at least, is my thought of it.

Slowly and slowly three or four dark figures on the scaffold grew clearer to our eyes, till we could see the headsman and his assistants waiting patiently for their work to be brought to them. The chief of these was a man mighty of his arms. He had a black mask upon his face, and was naked even to the waist. A leathern apron like a smith's was done about his loins, and he stood leaning his broad axe upon the block. The sun was just beginning to redden the clouds in the east, when the door of the Tolbooth fell open with a loud noise. At the very same moment the rooks and jackdaws arose in a perfect cloud from the pinnacles of St Giles as well as from the whole city. And in a black clanging cloud they drifted seaward. Which was looked upon as a marvel by them that watched for freits. For they said, 'These be John Mure's devils that have forsaken him.' And, indeed, whether there was aught in it or no, certain is it that the birds came not back for many days. At least, not to my seeing, but then I was much occupied with other matters.

As the procession came out, the Earl John and his men filed on either side in a triple line, with the axe-men of the guard marching close about the prisoners. John Mure walked first in his grey cloak, but bareheaded, striding reverend and strong before all. Behind him came his son. And hand in hand with him (O marvel of marvels!) was she that had been in name his wife, even Marjorie Kennedy. And as they came, the light grew clearer. There seemed to be almost a smile upon the Lady Marjorie's face. And James Mure listened intently as she spoke low and steadily to him.

For Marjorie had in these days become (as it seemed) a woman removed from us, supported by no earthly food. For none touched her lips, her strength being upheld by some power from above; at least, so I think. She had received permission from the King to be with her husband in his last hours.

'I have fulfilled the Lord's justice, for my duty was laid upon me,' she said, 'but I would not kill both body and soul.'

How she effected it I know not; but certain it is that during the weeks of waiting she had won James Mure in some sort to contrition and prayer. And now with his hand in hers, they walked together along the short way to the scaffold foot; but old John Mure strode scornfully on before, heedful neither of man nor woman. And I swear that I could not but in some measure admire at him, devil of cruelty as he was.

They climbed the scaffold – John Mure calmly as though he were leading a lady to a banquet table – but his son faltered and had fallen at the ladder foot, save for the hand of Marjorie, who walked in white by his side, accompanying him faithfully to his end.

'I am his wife,' she said. 'It was I who brought him to this. Ye will not twain me from him on this day of shame. Never have I owned James Mure as my husband before, but I own him now.' These were her words, when the captain of the guard was instant with her to depart home.

And I declare that the doomed man looked at her with something like a beast's dumb gratitude in his eyes, which, when you think on it, is a thing marvellous enough. And I ask not that it shall be believed. Yet I saw it, and will at any time uphold the truth of it with my sword if need be.

At last they stood upon the scaffold platform, and the headsman made ready. Then there sounded above the mingled roar of the multitude the blowing of a trumpet. And the King's gay favourite, the Duke of Lennox, rode to the foot of the stage. He had a paper in his hand.

'A pardon! A pardon!' yelled the people.

My heart gave a great leap and stood still.

'They never dare!' cried I. 'Lads, stand firm. If the King hath pardoned the murderers, shall we of the West? Will ye follow me, lads?'

And they whispered back, 'Ay, that we will. We will help you to do justice upon them. The Mures shall never leave this place alive, though we all die also. We shall not go back to Carrick, shamed by these men's lives.'

So we arranged it, if by any chance there should be news of a reprieve. For it was by singular good hap that we were the only company under arms in the city, save the few men of the Town Guard.

But when Lennox made his way to the scaffold, we heard another way of it. I was almost underneath the staging upon the front, and heard that which was said, almost every word.

'The King to you two traitors about to die,' he read. 'His Majesty desires greatly to be informed of the certainty of these things whereof you have been accused, and for which you have been justly condemned – the murder of Sir Thomas Kennedy, the matter of the bloody dagger thrown at the Red House, the Treasure of Kelwood, and its taking out of the changehouse on the Red Moss. His Majesty the King offers life and his clemency in a perpetual exile upon some warded isle, to the first of you that will reveal the whole matter.'

The King's favourite ceased his reading, and looked at the condemned men.

And John Mure in his plain grey cloak, which he had not yet laid aside, looked askance at Lennox, who shone like a butterfly in gay colours, being tricked out in the latest fitful extravagancies of fashion.

'We shall be grateful to His Majesty all our lives,' said he, sneeringly, 'but the Solomon of Scotland is so wise that he can easily certify himself of the truth of these things without our poor aid.'

But James Mure the younger, where he stood with his wife by his side, seemed a little struck with the message, and began to listen with interest.

'Read that again,' he said to Lennox, abruptly.

And Lennox, prinking and preening him like a gay-feathered Indian bird in my lady's bower, read the King's mandate over again.

John Mure watched his son with the eye of a crouching wild cat. The younger man was about to utter something, when his father said quickly to Lennox, 'I pray thee, my Lord Duke, may I speak with you a moment apart? I am the first to accept the offer!'

And with that they came both of them to the side of the scaffold where I was on guard, leaving James Mure standing with drooping head by the block.

'Hark ye, my lord,' said Auchendrayne the elder, 'thy master's terms are fair enough to be offered to a dying man on the scaffold. I will take them. But on condition that my son be executed before I reveal the secret. For there are but two of us left, and we have been close to one another all our lives. I would not, therefore, have my son think that I, being an old man, for the sake of a year or two of longer life, would reveal those matters for which he has already suffered the torture of the extreme question, with so great constancy both in the King's inquest chamber and before the Lords of Secret Council.'

'That is easily arranged,' said Lennox, dusting at his doublet. 'I have but to give the word to the executioner, and he will do his duty first upon your son. Then he will halt till you have accepted the King's mercy, and given pledge and earnest of full revelations concerning these hidden and mysterious matters.'

This was Lennox's customary manner of speaking – as he had learned it in the English Court, with womanish conceits and a flood of words and gestures. And as he spoke he smiled upon John Mure, as though the old grey man in the cloak and reverend beard had been some young and easy-virtued dame of the Court.

And so taken up with himself was he, that he did not observe the basilisk look which the arch-conspirator turned upon him.

Lennox held up his hand to the executioner.

'In the King's name,' he cried to the man in the mask, 'do thine office upon the younger first, and speedily.'

'These are not my orders!' quoth he in the mask, curtly.

Lennox flashed a little ebon staff, with a golden crown set upon the summit, before his eyes.

'Would'st thou argie-bargie with me?' he said, 'then right soon another shall take thy bishopric and (as thou dost others) shalt shepherd thee to Hades.'

Whereat Marjorie, robed in her clear-shining white, took the hand of James Mure, the man that was about to die.

'Husband,' said she, calmly, 'I have asked pardon for thee from God – do thou also ask it now, ere swift death take thee. Ask it both from God and man.'

For she had been his ministrant angel in the prison. And her own heart being changed – vengeance in the drinking not seeming so sweet a cup as it had appeared in the mixing. She had also won the sullen mechanic heart of him, who, according to the law of the land, had been so long her husband. She had showed him the way to a certain sum of faith, penitence, and hope. Which, perchance, he snatched at, not so much for themselves, but as the best things which were left to him.

'James, won thou forth on thy way. Fear not! Thou shalt not be long alone,' she said to him.

And, staggering a little, he moved across the scaffold. He would have fallen but that Marjorie set his hand upon her shoulder and put her arm about him. So he came forward stumbling like a man in sore sickness, as doubtless he was.

'I am a sinful man,' he said, so that some, at least, could hear him. 'Pray for me, good people. Keep your hands from blood, as I have not kept mine. And, Marjorie, though thou didst never love me, love me now, and bide with me till I die.'

'Fear not,' she said; 'I will stand beside thee, and not only here. I have a message that I shall right soon be called to journey with thee further, meeting thee somewhere by the way that thou must go.'

And calling him again 'sweet brother' and 'James,' she laid down his neck upon the block, and with one blow the headsman featly did his office. But Marjorie stood still and received the poor head in a decent napkin after the masked man had held it up.

John Mure looked at her and at her son all the time, and an evil and contemptuous light shone in his eyes.

'Madam,' he said, 'it had done no harm had you begun your care and attendance somewhat earlier. Ye might have made a decent preacher out of James. He was never muckle worth for aught else.'

Then Lennox came forward again with his paper.

'Now, John Mure,' he said, 'we have done according to your desire. Ye will now, I doubt not, having seen the end and reward of iniquity in the person of your son, accept His Majesty's so marvellous clemency, and be content to reveal all the matter.'

He came a little near to the old man, airily whisking his paper with his forefinger.

John Mure waved him aside with one hand, and held his nose with the other.

'Pah! Get apart from me, civet cat!' he cried. 'Think ye that I will have any dealings with you or with your dullard fool master, King Baggy-breeches. I saw that ye might, perchance, were I first turned to dead clay and lappered blood, chance to get something out of James there. I saw him look somewhat too eagerly on your reprieve, for much belated domesticity had turned him soft. So I played with you. And now, wot ye well, ye shall know nothing from me that your precious Solomon of asses cannot divine for himself!'

He took off his cloak of grey and lace collar, baring his neck for the dead stroke.

'Stay,' he said to Lennox. 'Since your wise King is so curious. Here is a history of divers matters that may interest your master. It may do him some good.'

The new minister of Edinburgh, a soft-spoken, King-fearing man, came near. John Mure looked at him.

'Of what religion art thou?' he asked. 'Ay, verily, of the King's religion. Were my time not so circumscribed, I would have at thee with texts, thou time-serving rogue. Ay, and would swinge thee with them soundly, too.'

'In what religion dost thou die?' said the minister. For it was a customary question in those days, when men were forced to live and die on the borderland of many creeds.

John Mure smiled as he bent his head to the block.

'Of the ancientest persuasion,' said he, 'for I am ready to believe in any well-disposed god whom I may chance to meet in my pilgriming. But in none will I believe till I do meet him. Nevertheless do thou, like a wise, silly bishop, stick to the King and thy printed book!'

Which saying was remembered when the minister was afterward made a bishop by the King's favour.

With these words, John Mure threw out his hands with a sharp jerk – for that was the customary signal. The broad axe rose and fell, flashing in the sun a moment ere it crashed dully upon the block. The Westland men gave a shout, and the heathen spirit of John Mure of Auchendrayne, carrying such a load of sin and bloodshedding as never soul did before or since, fared forth alone to its own place.

CHAPTER LI

MARJORIE'S GOOD-NIGHT

Even as the axe was falling, Marjorie Kennedy sank down upon the platform of the scaffold, as though the stroke had fallen upon her. I sheathed my sword, and sprang upon the slippery stage to hold her up. When I took her in my arms she was soft and pliable in all her limbs like a little child. Till now she had been like a woman of steel, or rather like one carven in alabaster, as I have said. But now she lay in my arms like a new-born babe on the nurse's lap.

We carried her homeward, making strangely enough for some distance but one procession with the bodies which were going to be buried without the wall, while the heads were taken to be set on the pikes of the Nether Bow.

To the Earl John's own lodging we brought her, and in a room with a wide north-looking window we laid her down on a bed. Then we stood silently about her, Nell and I being nearest.

In a little while Marjorie turned her head to the window. The sun had risen on the sea. A north wind was blowing. All was very blue, and smacked of the morning freshness, for the window was open, and the sea air blew off the firth almost as salt it was wont to blow in at the windows of Culzean.

Thrice she moved her lips to speak, but till the fourth time no word came.

'I have done the work appointed,' she said, 'I ken not if I have done it right.'

She paused a little, and her eyes, as she looked at the sea, were very wide and wistful.

'It is a hard saying that "Vengeance is His." I thought it would be sweet – sweet,' she said, 'but now in the mouth it is bitter.'

'Hush thee, Marjorie,' whispered my Nell; 'it was the justice of God upon the murderers of our father.'

And I thought that she spoke well.

But Marjorie waved her aside.

'Like enough,' she answered, quietly, as one that has not strength to argue, but yet holds the contrary opinion. 'Done, at least, is Marjorie's task. I journey forth to take my wages. Fare you well.'

She turned her face a little outward so that she could look upon the sea and the Fife Lomonds.

'A dearer shore,' she said, softly, and then she started a little, quickly as if she had waked from sleep.

'Where am I?' she asked.

But ere we could answer – even Nell, who stood close beside her and stroked her brow with a soft hand, she went on, —

'Oh, what am I saying? I was thinking on our garden at Culzean, with its rose walks and the sweet dreaming scent of the sea?'

She looked up at me, as it had been almost archly, yet so as almost to break my heart.

'Launcelot, lad,' she said, 'hast thou thy gage that I gave thee there? Ye thought me once to be sweet. And I liked you, laddie, I liked you – with something just an inch on the hither side of loving. But now Nelly will love thee a mile on the further side. Come you, Nell,' she said, beckoning her, 'brave, sweet sister! Let not thy sharp tongue longer injure thy warm heart. Give me your hand, little sister Nelly. Where is it? I cannot see – for the bright shining light.'

And finding Nell's hand she put it into mine across the bed.

'Good-night, bairns,' she said, 'even so keep them till the world ends!'

Then for a short space she was silent, and when she spoke again it was very low, so that none save Nell and I could hear. But the words made us tingle as we caught them.

'Gilbert,' she was saying in a whisper, clear and distinct, 'is it not sweet to walk thus hand in hand on the green meadows? Are not the spring flowers sweet, lad of my love? Shall I sing thee a song about them? For, though thou know'st it not, I can sing both high and low.'

Then she spoke as it had been liltingly and gladsomely.

'Gilbert, let me set this spray of the bonny birk above thine heart. Methinks it hath a strange look. I kenned not that it grew in this countryside.'

She broke into a weird lilt of song that sent the tears hasting to our eyes. But Marjorie was smiling as she never smiled on me, and that made me weep the more.

'Gilbert, Gilbert,' she said lovingly, crooning like one that is caressed, 'is not this right winsome? That we are walking here together on the living green – with all our fashes, all our troubles left quite behind us. There was surely something long ago that wearied us, something that parted us and twained us. I cannot mind what it was. I shall not try to remember. But, love of mine, it shall separate us no more for ever and ever!'