Loe raamatut: «The Mosstrooper: A Legend of the Scottish Border», lehekülg 3
Chapter IV
Wi’ cauk and keel I’ll win your bread,
And spindles and whorles for them wha need.
Whilk is a gentle trade indeed,
To carry the Gaberlunzie on.
– The Gaberlunzie-man.
AS the self-exiled Eustace pursued his route, in troubled reverie, he was soon hailed by a masculine voice from a straggling thicket near the wayside. Glancing in that direction, he saw a man issue from among the trees, and step towards him. The man was in the humble garb of a gaberlunzie, and seemed a fair representative of the trade of mendicancy, which was numerously followed throughout the country in that age, and for ages afterwards. At a little distance he looked rather youngish; but on nearer approach he was seen to be elderly, perhaps about his grand climacteric. He was tall, spare, and erect of figure, lithe of limb, and with a shrewd, honest, weather-beaten, but unwrinkled countenance, and short, iron-grey locks appearing from under his broad blue bonnet. A wallet was slung at his back, and a leathern pouch or purse at the side of his waist-belt, in which was stuck a sheathed whinger, and he carried a stout kent or long staff with an iron spike at the end, which would prove a formidable weapon when wielded in a fray by a strong hand. Eustace stopped, and was saluted by the stranger, who doffed his bonnet and bowed low. Understanding that the man’s object was the solicitation of charity, Eustace gave him an alms which was received with effusive thanks, and dropped into the pouch.
“You’ll be gaun the Greenholm way, master?” said the stranger, deferentially.
“I am. But no farther than the village for the night.”
“Weel, master, I’m just gaun the same gate: and aiblins you winna be offended though a gaberlunzie should jog at your heels?”
Eustace looked at him, with a complacent smile, without replying to the question; but the smile seemed to be intended and accepted as a negative reply. They went on together, side by side.
“It’s a braw and bonnie nicht,” said the beggar, surveying the surrounding scenery with a gratified eye, and pointing here and there with his staff. “A braw May nicht indeed. Look to the lift – look to the earth – there’s beauty owre a’. See – the parting beams o’ the sun linger on the bald, rocky brow o’ yon hill, like a crown o’ glory, while a’ the dell aneath is losing itsel’ in the shadow, and the haze is rising that will soon ha’e the appearance o’ a loch. You hear the sweet sangs o’ the birds, the sough o’ the westland wind, and the everlasting plash o’ yon burnie that gushes owre its linn. The gowden clouds are sailing solemnly as if to strains o’ angel-music. How pleasant to wander, free as air, amang Nature’s charms!”
“It is so,” said Eustace, surprised at the elevation of the beggar’s tone. “But life passes through gloom and storm as well as through sunshine. We have our flowery May, and we have our wintry December. In some deep cleugh among the hills patches of last December’s snow will still be lying.”
“Ay, truly,” returned the mendicant, glancing keenly at the youth. “And, if I may presume, you seem to me, frae your words, to ha’e borne the brunt o’ a stormy fortune, though you’re o’ gentle rank, and in the morning o’ life, and no a grey carle like me, wha has warsled wi’ the warld sae lang an’ sair.”
“No one, whatsoever his station, is exempt from the frowns of fickle Fortune,” said Eustace. “In sooth, the more exalted the station, the more exposed is it to adverse blasts.”
“True, master, true,” responded the gaberlunzie. “The whirlwind, or the levin’-bolt, that rives and scatters in flinders the sturdy oak o’ a hunder years, spares the wee bush that grows lowly at its root.”
“But how came you, who must have been a man of mettle in your prime, to take to this wandering life?” questioned Eustace. “The world must have gone ill with you.”
“Ay, master, just as it has gane ill wi’ mony a better man,” answered the gaberlunzie, with a dry smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “I was born and bred in a peasant’s cot in the Lothians, and mony a year I spent in the service o’ my faither’s Laird. But service, you ken, is nae inheritance: and I ne’er rase aboon the lot o’ a simple hind, trauchling frae morning till nicht. I saw a’ my kith and kin laid aneath the yird. Sae I flung the gaberlunzie-wallet ower my shouther, and here I am.”
“And is the trade better to your liking and your profit?”
“Muckle better,” replied the wanderer. “I stravaig the country at my ain will, and the calling thrives wi’ me. I use my e’en and lugs, and aften see and hear what ithers dinna dream o’. A Border mosstrooper is aye richt glad to pay for my tidings, whilk may shew him how to mak’ a stroke o’ gude luck, or to save his neck frae the gallows. The same wi’ a Border knicht or baron, wha may be threatened wi’ the onfa o’ an enemy. Again, if a fair dame, shut up in her faither’s bower, has a love message to send to the lad o’ her heart, wha sae able to carry it, whether by word o’ mouth or in a sealed billet, as Willie Harthill, the gaberlunzie? I pass free frae the clay-bigging to the lordly ha’, and am aye welcome. Sae, master, the trade thrives weel, and if the times were mair troubled, it micht thrive better – wha kens?”
The wayfarer soon came within sight of the hamlet of Greenholm, which lay nestled in a hollow among grassy hills, whose sides were dotted with sheep, which shepherds and their dogs were collecting to fold for the night.
Eustace was asking some question when Willie stopped him with – “Hush! master. We are coming to haunted ground. Do you see thae bourochs – thae bonnie green knowes, that are freshened by the sweetest dew and blessed by the silveriest moonshine at midnicht hours?”
“Haunted ground!” muttered Eustace, not without a faint feeling of awe. He saw on one side of the path several gentle knolls, covered with verdure, and environed by broom bushes like a hedge; and coming nearer he perceived on the knolls some of those gracefully-formed grassy circles which so long perplexed the ignorance, and confirmed the superstition, of bygone ages. Tracing those mystic rounds, the Fairies were believed to dance their gay galliards in the moonlight. Our travellers paused a moment to contemplate the scene of Elfin revelry.
“You’ll ha’e whiles seen the gude neighbours, master?” said the gaberlunzie.
“Never,” answered Eustace; “the fairies are but figments of the imagination.”
“Dinna ca’ them by that name, whatever you may think o’ them,” said the other hastily. “You may freely ca’ them gude neighbours; but seelie wichts is the name they like best; for they say themsells —
“’Gin you ca’ me Imp or Elf,
I rede you look weel to yourself:
Gin you ca’ me Fairy,
I’ll work you muckle tarrie:
Gin Gude neighbour you ca’ me,
Then gude neighbour I will be:
But gin you ca’ me Seelie wicht,
I’ll be your friend baith day and nicht.”
“My forbears ha’e seen them: and I saw them twice mysel’ langsyne on the green at the burn-side ahint our laird’s Grange. What mair proof wad you seek? And as to their rings on the grass, the auld rhyme says – na, we maun gang on a bit,” he said, checking himself, “we maun get ayont the bourochs before I venture on a rhyme that ca’s the seelie wichts by a wrang name.”
They jogged on beyond the knolls, and then Willie, believing himself out of supernatural danger, recited the following words of warning – which, however, he did not presume to aver were the composition of some fairy versifier: —
“He wha gaes by the fairy ring,
Nae dule nor pine shall see;
And he wha cleans the fairy ring,
An easy death shall dee.
But he wha tills the fairies’ green,
Nae luck again shall ha’e;
And he wha spills the fairies ring,
Betide him want and wae;
For weirdless days and weary nichts
Are his till his dying day.”
Our travellers soon reached the outskirts of the village, which was situated at the foot of a hill, with a shallow stream running in front of the cottages, which all stood, in irregular order, on its farther bank. A few old and gnarled trees raised their leafy heads above the roofs. In the back-ground appeared a lofty square tower of the order known on the Border as Peels or Peelhouses, to which the neighbouring cottagers usually resorted for protection against an inroading enemy. The Peel had scarcely any windows save near the battlemented roof; but the walls were pierced with many shot-holes, and it was surrounded by a high and thick wall, with a strong portal. In the vicinity was a mound, on which stood a moss-monolith or stone-pillar, perhaps the last remnant of a Druidical circle, or perhaps the memorial of some doughty warrior who fell in battle ages before.
The hamlet looked poor and miserable, being composed of about a score of clay-walled and thatched cottages, which, on the occasion of an English inroad, would be unroofed and left empty, to let the foes work what ravage they might; but there being little or nothing to burn, the huts could be restored when the foray was over. The burn was bridged here and there by old planks, and stepping-stones were also seen in the water at different places. A troop of half-clad children romped about the burn-side; and some old men sate at doors, in the evening light, repairing rude implements of husbandry. When the two travellers were perceived by the youngsters, they eyed them attentively, and then, with a shrill outburst of delight, came running forward, and danced about the gaberlunzie, like the very elves of whom he had been speaking. He patted the heads of the girls, and chucked the chins of the boys, saying, meanwhile, to Eustace – “The bairns a’ ken the gaberlunzie. But are you kent here?”
“I am a stranger to the place,” answered Eustace.
Willie then addressed the merry group around him – “Enough o’ daffing, bairns. Come awa’ and let me get into ane o’ your couthy hames; for I am sair wearied this nicht wi’ lang travel.”
The imps set up another shout, and proceeded to escort the twain to the village, where most of the cottagers were attracted to their doors by the clamour.
“Weel, master,” said Willie, “will you condescend sae far as tae tak’ pat-luck wi’ me, or maun you ha’e a lodging for yoursel’?”
“One lodging will serve us both for the night,” answered Eustace. “I am not proud, and I am glad of an honest companion. I neither know nor care whether the people here recognise me; but recognition would do me no harm. Meantime you can tell them, if required, that I had lost my way before meeting with you.”
“And what name do you pass under?”
“Ruthven Somervil,” returned Eustace, without hesitation, having previously decided on that adoption. The surname was an honourable one on the Border, and had been so since the legendary times when an early Somervil killed a serpent or dragon that kept its lair in a wild glen of Linton parish in Roxburghshire – as the old rhyme commemorates:
The wode Laird of Laristone
Slew the worm of Worm’s Glen,
And wan all Linton parochine.
“But,” added Eustace, “you need repeat the name to nobody.”
The cottagers greeted the gaberlunzie with kindly welcome; and the dress of Eustace bespoke for him a respectful reception, no one seeming to know who or what he was. A grey-headed sire and his dame invited the travellers into their dwelling. Homely viands were set before them, of which they partook with relish – Eustace being served apart. When the meal was over, neighbours came in, and solicited Willie to sing them some of his stock of songs. He complied, and a full supply of nappy liquor being procured at Eustace’s expense,
The nicht drave on wi’ sangs an clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better.
When the jovial company broke up, the aged host showed Eustace into a closet, furnished with a couch, and then bade the gaberlunzie ascend by a trap-stair to the loft above, where he would find a sleeping place. Eustace stretched himself on his couch, and slumber speedily overtook him. He slept soundly until the morning sun, beaming on his face, awoke him from strange dreams.
Chapter V
Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried —
“Prepare ye all for blows and blood!
Wat Tinlinn, from the Liddle-side,
Comes wading through the flood.”
– Lay of the Last Minstrel.
WHEN our two road-companions left their pallets and returned to the kitchen or main-room of the cottage, the goodwife was setting out materials for breakfast. The windows were wide open, admitting the fresh breath of dewy morn to purify and sweeten the atmosphere that had pervaded the domicile during the night. Early as was the hour, the village was astir for the labours and duties of the new day, and the horn of the cowherd who was driving the “milky mothers” to the pastures – the singing of birds – the cawing of rooks – and the ceaseless babble of the burn – formed a medley of sounds right cheerful to hear. With fair appetite our wayfarers attacked the viands spread before them; but ere they had finished their repast a sudden clamouring of tongues and a trampling of horses made them pause and listen. Am I pursued? thought Eustace – or, as we shall now call him, Ruthven Somervil – and he and his companion rose, and going to a window, saw a band of armed troopers riding slowly through the village, their appearance causing a general commotion among its denizens. But at the first glance our hero satisfied himself that the strangers were not retainers of Hawksglen.
The better to observe the party, Harthill and the old host went out to the door, but Ruthven remained at the window. The horsemen were seven in number, jackmen or retainers of Laird or Baron. All wore strong leathern “jacks” or doublets; iron bascinet caps or round helmets with cheek plates, but no visors; and heavy jack boots with large spurs. They were armed, after the usual fashion, with spears, swords, and daggers – the spears being of the enormous length of nearly six ells, according to the regulation in the Act of the Scottish Parliament of 2nd April, 1481. The foremost rider, the apparent leader of the party, wore, in the front of his bascinet, a few sprigs of the golden broom, which Ruthven knew was the cognizance or badge of Gilbert Lauder, a grasping and restless laird, whose Peel was a number of miles distant.
“There maun be something in the wind,” said the gaberlunzie to his host, “when gentle Edie Johnston is in the saddle sae early.”
Edie Johnston? Yea, the leader was the very man who had left the child at Hawksglen gate! He looked much older now, older than perhaps he actually was. Twenty years and more of a habitual course of “sturt and strife” had done their work upon him: his complexion was darker, his form more spare, and the scar on his cheek, which he would carry to the grave with him, gave his countenance a settled and forbidding gloom. Ruthven gazed at him with surprise, for, though he could not remember having ever seen the man before, yet the face seemed one that had frequently haunted his dreams, and now the figment was embodied to his view.
Johnston, on coming up to the cottage, uttered an exclamation, and halting with his men, leaned aside, and tapped the gaberlunzie good-humouredly on the shoulder with his long lance, saying – “My worthy crony! Hard to tell where friends may meet. Troth, I ha’ena seen your blythesome face for near a twalmonth since yon nicht I fell foul o’ you instead o’ gleyed Hecky Lapstane, the Selkirk souter; but I hope you soon forgot the broil.”
“My cloured pow wasna sae soon forgotten,” answered Harthill. “But I bore you nae grudge, kenning that you ettled at the souter’s croon and no at mine.”
“Richt, Willie,” replied the trooper. “When the drink’s in, the wit’s out – a saying as true as Gospel. But I was sair vexed next day when I cam’ to my sober senses, and minded o’ what befell.”
“It was weel for you,” cried a village youth, on the other bank of the burn, who was hacking wood; “it was weel for you that you had to do wi’ souters and gaberlunzies, else you michtna seen the neist day.”
“Hooly, hooly, Dandie,” whispered a companion in the speaker’s ear. “Dinna raise his ill bluid. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Hooly yoursel’,” returned the youth. “If a’ tales be true, he has done ill to my kin, as weel as to fremit folk no far awa’. He canna deny – and though he denies wha cares? – he whiles sell’d himsel’ to our auld enemies ower the Border, and harried Scots land for them.”
“Ralph Kerr’s nowte were driven last Martinmas,” said another voice. “Wha did that?”
“And Widow Janfarrie’s hoggs the Michaelmas before,” added a third.
It was evident that the gentle Johnston was in bad repute among some, at least, of the Greenholm folks; and he was constrained to notice their aspersions.
“What?” he ejaculated, with a sardonic grin, which showed that he had lost some of his front teeth. “Are a’ the misdeeds on the Border to be laid to my charge?”
“Your hand has been in a hantle o’ them,” retorted a fourth voice.
Edie’s eyes glowed with dusky fire, and shaking his spear, he said – “If another foul word be spoken against me, by the mass! but I’ll gi’e some o’ ye bluidy croons for your pains. Let the man that I ha’e wranged stand forward, and I’ll answer him. If it werena that him I serve and your ain Laird are hand and glove, I wad tak’ amends for what has passed already.”
The mention of their own superior had a good effect upon the traducers; for, one by one, they slunk away, muttering to themselves what they did not venture to speak aloud.
“Cowardly tykes!” said Edie. “Weel did I ken that a word frae my lips wad be worth mair than anither man’s blow.”
The gaberlunzie now stepped out from the doorway, and patted the neck of Johnston’s nag, saying – “You wear Ballinshaw’s favour in your cap again. I thocht that when you left his service, on a quarrel, it was for gude an’ a’.”
“Sae I thocht, and sae I said,” answered Johnston. “But the Laird soon found out that he couldna want me; for I had been to him as his richt hand. He sent for me and southered up matters, and I put the bonnie broom in my cap again.”
“And what’s your errand this morning, if ane may daur to speir?”
“A peacefu’ errand,” responded Edie. “Ballinshaw and Royston Scott o’ Altoncroft ha’e differed anent the marches o’ their lands. In my judgment, a wheen spear-thrusts and sword-slashes wad ha’e decided the dispute speedily and honourably, according to Border use and wont, and I ga’e Ballinshaw my mind to that effect. But, by ill luck, Sir Robert Home, the Shirra, got inkling o’ the affair, and sent word to baith Lairds that if they broke the peace, he wad visit them baith wi’ the King’s vengeance. On the ither hand, he advised them to appoint him as arbiter atwixt them, and he wad decide justly on the plea.”
“He’s a worthy man Sir Robert,” said Willie. “Ever since he cam’ into power in this shire, he has done his best to mak’ the law respected.”
“Law respected! whew!” exclaimed Edie, with a scoffing whistle. “Baith Lairds swithered about coming to blows, and agreed to mak’ the Shirra their arbiter, and to gi’e leal and true obedience to his award. They are to meet him on the disputed ground this day at noon-tide: and I ha’e been gaun the rounds, warning men that can mak’ aith in Ballinshaw’s favour to attend at the place and hour appointed, and bear soothfast testimony, as I am to do mysel’. Will you gang ower the way? I’ll be glad to toom a tankard wi’ you after the sport.”
“Whaur’s the ground?”
“The meeting is to be at the Deadman’s Holm – ten lang mile awa.”
“I ken the place weel,” said the gaberlunzie, “and I’m a-mind to gang, just as I gang to a’ gatherings whaur there’s chance o’ bountith and gude cheer.”
“See that you keep tryst, Willie,” responded the gentle Johnston. “Now lads,” he cried, “the day is advancing, and we maun mak’ speed. We ha’e mair witnesses to warn.”
Instantly he and his band shook their bridles, spurred their horses, and clattered at the gallop through the village. The gaberlunzie came in from the door, and he and Ruthven proceeded to finish their morning meal.
“Yon’s a dare-deevil.” said Willie. “He wad as soon drive cauld, cauld steel through a man’s brisket as I cut up this black pudding”: and then, in answer to Ruthven’s anxious enquiry, the wanderer related what he knew of the gentle Johnston’s history: “Edie canna be muckle blamed; for, like mony anither Border lad, he was brocht up to rough living frae his young years – his faither being a famous reiver and lifter till he met his death in a fray with the Warden’s men. Edie was but a stripling when he was cuisten upon the world. For some time he lived by his ain hand, like his forbears, but syne took service as a common jackman, whiles on this side o’ the Border, whiles on the ither – Edie caring only for the side that brocht him the best pay. Mair nor ance he has rubbit shouthers wi’ the gallows, whilk, I fear, will be his end.”
The gaberlunzie then began to suggest that our adventurer might accompany him to the Deadman’s Holm to witness the proceedings of the arbitration. After some dubiety, the youth, who had decided as yet on no special destination, gave his consent, but deemed it absolutely necessary that, in going to the meeting, he should adopt a disguise to baffle recognition, and accordingly he requested his host to procure a humble garb for him. What he wanted was obtained for a small sum of money, and he donned a common dress, which was likely to suit his purpose. Retaining only his sword and dagger, he left his cast attire, with his hunting horn and spear, to be kept by the old villager until reclaimed.
Everything being satisfactorily arranged, Ruthven and the wanderer bade good-day to their host, who, being liberally rewarded for his hospitality, stuffed Willie’s wallet with what victuals would suffice for the day; and the strangely-assorted companions set forth.
The day was beautiful, the welkin pure as the brow of childhood, and the earth robed in all the flowery freshness of the merry month of May. The heart of the exile was lightened of its brooding despondency by the sweet influences of Nature, and seemed to beat in unison with the summer joy. But the relief was transient. Gloomy thoughts returned, like dark clouds over a sunny sky, imparting a sadness to his countenance, which, his fellow-traveller observing, he sought to divert his mind by singing legendary ballads, and telling tales of haunted ruins, fairies, and general diablerie – all which, if failing in their true object, served to beguile the tedium of the way.
Travelling leisurely, our wayfarers, in a few hours, approached the scene of the judicial meeting. A company of troopers and footmen, with the Sheriff at their head, marched past, showing that the appointed hour was drawing nigh. Our travellers, on reaching a sparse wood, halted in the cool shade, and partook of refreshments from the gaberlunzie’s wallet, which, being well stored, furnished a “feast of good things,” and their drink was supplied by a slender streamlet that flowed murmuring among the trees, and sparkling in the broken sunbeams that glinted through the foliage overhead. After satisfying their appetite, they pursued their route, and, having ascended an eminence, descried a dark tower with turrets in the distance, which the gaberlunzie said was the Keep of Ballinshaw, near which stretched a wide expanse of level moorland, yellow with the broom and whin.
They quickened their pace, and soon heard an occasional winding of horns and the loud voices of men, which directed their steps to a broad hollow, or holm, on the verge of the moor farthest from the tower of Ballinshaw, and traversed by a burn, the banks of which were lined with aged saughs. There a considerable concourse of men had assembled, partly armed, retainers and partly peasantry, straggled about on both sides of the water, some of the former trotting up and down on horseback, some lounging on the grass casting dice, whilst their steeds grazed at random. In the midst of a well-appointed band of jackmen appeared a knight in half-armour, Sir Robert Home, the Sheriff, a man of middle age, with a grey beard. A young page attended him, bearing aloft a spear with a gauntlet or glove on the point of it, as the well-known border emblem of peace and amity. Behind their superior stood the footmen of the party, some six Sheriff Officers or “Serjeants,” as they are distinctively termed in the old Acts of the Scottish Parliament. Their status was denoted by white wands in their hands; blazons, or medallions of brass, charged with the royal arms, displayed upon their breasts; and horns (for denouncing rebels) hanging from their necks by iron chains; while, for greater security in those troublous times, when law was so often defied, each officer was armed with a sword, and wore an iron bascinet cap, and gloves of mail.
