Chapter 33

THE ASSASSIN

Traitor, what hast thou done? how ever may
Thy cursed hand so cruelly have swayed
Against that knight? Harrow and weal-away?
After so wicked deed, why liv’st thou longer day!

SPENSER.

When he had been dismissed by his royal master, Frion called aside the esquire, and sent him on an errand, it would seem of some import and distance; for the youth uttered a few forcible interjections, and with a lowering brow drew on the riding-boots he had just doffed, muttering, “I must treat my horse better than my lord treats me; so, master, seek a fresh steed. By my fay! this is to become a squire of dames—a love-token to the duchess, in good hour!”

Having got rid of this young gentleman, Frion’s next care was to give distant employment to the pages, saying he would wait their return. But scarcely had they entered the most crowded part of the camp, before with quick cautious steps the secretary took the same path which the prince trod half an hour later—he crossed the dell, and arriving at the little wood of larches, instead of traversing, he skirted it, till the gentle eminence on which the English camp was pitched, grew higher and more abrupt, the murmuring brook took the guise of a brawling torrent, grey rocks peeped out from the soil, and the scene became wilder and more mountainous: he walked on, till he arrived where a rustic bridge spanned the stream; under its shadow were three horsemen, two of whom dismounted, and a tall servitor held the bridles. One of these men Frion knew at once to be him who called himself Lord Bothwell, King Henry’s spy, and Richard’s fierce, motiveless, but ruthless enemy; the other—his bonnet was drawn over his brow—a cloak obscured his person. Frion’s quick eyes scrutinized it vainly, for the moon, cloudy at intervals, gave uncertain light; besides, the man had stationed himself within the deepest shadow of the bridge.

“Good befall your watch,” said Frion; “your worship is before your time.”

“Is not all ready?” asked Balmayne.

“That question is mine,” replied the other. “You know our treaty—not a hair of my lord’s head must be injured.”

“Tush! tush! fear not, good conscience-stickier,” replied Bothwell, with a contemptuous laugh; “no ill will befall the boy; we but ferry him over the Tweed a few hours earlier than he dreamed of, and land him all gently on the shore he seeks. As for thy reward, I have said, name it thyself.”

“Fair words are these, Sir John Ramsay,” said Frion; “but I said before, I must have surer pledge, both for my reward and my lord’s safety. King Henry will haggle about payment when the work is done, and the steel you wear is a toper in its way.”

“How now, sir knave?” cried Balmayne; “thinkest thou that I will turn midnight stabber?”

The man in the cloak started at these words. He uttered some sound, but again drew back; while the person who continued on horseback said, and his voice was that of the bishop of Moray, King James’s uncle, “A truce to this contention, Master Good-fellow—whatever thy name be: I will answer for thy pay, and here is earnest of my truth.” He threw a purse at Frion’s feet. “The peace of two kingdoms—the honour of a royal, too long dishonoured house are at stake. No time is this to squabble for marks, or the paltry life of a base impostor. I, a prince of Scotland, avouch the deed. It were more friendly, methinks; to unlock his life with the steel key of our friend Wiatt, than to devote him to the gallows. Let Scotland be rid of him, I reck not how.”

Again Frion fixed his eyes on the other;—the clouds had fallen low in the sky; the moon was clear; the western breeze murmured among the bushes and the trees, and the beams of the silvery planet played upon the unquiet waters. “We have no time for delay. Sir John,” said Frion, “prithee introduce me to our fellow-labourer—this is the king’s emissary? You call yourself Wiatt, Master Black Cloak?”

The other made a gesture of impatience as he stepped aside. Balmayne and Moray discoursed aside, till the former bade the secretary lead on; as they went, the Scotchman and Frion conversed in whispers concerning their plans, while their companion followed as if doggedly. Once he cast an impatient glance at the moon—Frion caught that look. “Have I found you, good friend,” he thought; “then by our lady of Embrun, you shall acquit you of the debt I claim this night.”