A Prince of Good Fellows

“I can well believe it,” answered the king.

“An Englishman of great ingenuity had a plan for capturing us, but, as it stands, we captured him; and being a merciful man, always loth to hang, when anything else can be done, I set him at work here, and this is one of his constructions. As it’s growing dark, come nearer that you may see how it works.”

At the bottom of the tower, and close to it, there lay a wooden platform which afforded standing room for six or seven men. Peter got up on this platform and pulled a cord, which opened a concealed sluice-gate and resulted in a roar of pouring water. Gradually the platform lifted, and the king saw that it was placed on top of a tall pine-tree that had been cut in the form of a screw, the gigantic threads of which were well oiled. A whirling horizontal water-wheel, through the centre of which the big screw came slowly upwards, with Peter on the gradually elevating platform, formed the motive power of the contrivance.

“You understand the mechanism?” said Armstrong. “By pulling one cord, the water comes in on this side of the wheel and the platform ascends. Another cord closes the sluice and everything is stationary. A third cord opens the gate which lets the water drive the wheel in the opposite direction and then the platform descends. You see, I have taken away the old lower stairway that was originally built for the tower, and this is the only means of getting up and down from the top story. It does not, if you will notice, go entirely to the top, but stops at that door, fifty feet from the rock, into which Peter is now entering.”

“It is a most ingenious invention,” admitted the king. “I never saw anything like it before.”

“It would be very useful in a place like Stirling,” said Johnny, looking hard at his prisoner.

“I suppose it would,” replied the king, in a tone indicating that it was no affair of his, “but you see I’m not a Stirling man myself. I belong rather to all Scotland; a man of the world, as you might say.”

By this time Peter had climbed to the highest room of the tower, worked his way on hands and knees out to the end of the beam, and had drawn up to him the swaying body. With the deftness of expert practice, he loosened the noose and the body dropped like a plummet through the air, disappearing into the chasm below. Peter, taking the noose with him, crawled backward, like a crab, out of sight, and into the tower again. Armstrong, from below, had opened the other sluice, and the empty platform descended as leisurely and as tremblingly as it had risen. Armstrong himself cut the cords that bound the ankles of his captives.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “if you will step on the platform I shall have the pleasure of showing you to your rooms.”

Three armed men and the three prisoners moved upwards together.

“A fine sylvan view you have,” said the king.

“Is it not!” exclaimed Armstrong, seemingly delighted that it pleased his visitor.

After the mechanical device had landed them some fifty feet above the rocks, they ascended several flights of stairs, a man with a torch leading the way. The prisoners were conducted to a small room, which had the roof of the tower for its ceiling. In a corner of the cell cowered a very abject specimen of the human race, who, when the others came, seemed anxious to attract as little attention as possible.

Armstrong, again, with his own hands removed the remaining cords from the prisoners, and the three stretched up their arms, glad to find them at liberty once more.

“Place the torch in its holder,” said Johnny. “Now, gentlemen, that will last long enough to light you to your supper, which you will find on the floor behind you. I’m sure you will rest here comfortably for the night. The air is pure at this height, and I think you’ll like this eagle’s nest better than a dungeon under the ground. For my own part, I abhor a subterranean cell, and goodness knows I’ve been in many a one, but we’re civilised folk here on the Border and try to treat our prisoners kindly.”

“You must, indeed, earn their fervent gratitude,” said the king.

“We should, we should,” returned Johnny, “but I’m not certain that we do. Man is a thrawn beast as a rule. And now, you’ll just think over your situation through the night, and be ready to answer me in the morning all the questions I’ll ask of you. I’ll be wanting to know who sent you here, and what news you have returned to him since you have been on the Border.”

“We will give your request our deep consideration,” replied the king.

“I’m glad to hear that. You see, we are such merciful people that we have but one rope to hang our enemies with, while we should have a dozen by rights. Still, I think we could manage three at a pinch, if your answers should happen to displease me. You will excuse the barring of the door, but the window is open to you if your lodgings are not to your liking. And so, good-night, the three of you.”

“Good-night to you, Mr. Armstrong,” said the king.

Peter had drawn in the rope, and its sinister loop lay on the floor, its further length resting on the window sill, and extending out to the end of the beam. The cobbler examined it with interest. “Come,” cried the king, “there is little use letting a supper wait for the eating merely because we seem to have gone wrong in our inquiries about the cattle.”

Neither the poet nor the cobbler had any appetite for supper, but the king was young and hungry, and did justice to the hospitality of the Armstrongs.

“Have you been here long?” he asked of the prisoner in the corner.

“A good while,” answered the latter despondently. “I don’t know for how long. They hanged my mate.”

“I saw that. Do they hang many here about?”

“I think they do,” replied the prisoner. “Some fling themselves down on the rocks, and others are starved to death. You see, the Armstrongs go off on a raid, and there’s no one here to bring us food, for the women folk don’t like to tamper with that machine that comes to the lower stair. I doubt if Johnny starves them intentionally, but he’s kept away sometimes longer than he expects.”

“Bless me,” cried the king, “think of this happening in Scotland. And now, cobbler, what are we to do?”

“I’m wondering if this man would venture out to the end of the beam and untie the rope,” suggested Flemming.

“Oh, I’ll do that, willingly,” cried the prisoner. “But what is the use of it; it’s about ten times too short, as the Armstrongs well know.”

“Are we likely to be disturbed here through the night?” asked Flemming.

“Oh no, nor till late in the day to-morrow; they’ll be down there eating and drinking till all hours, then they sleep long.”

“Very well. Untie the other end of the rope, and see you crawl back here without falling.”

As the prisoner obeyed instructions, Flemming rose to his feet and began feeling in his pockets, drawing forth, at last, a large brown ball.

“What is your plan, cobbler?” asked the king, with interest.

“Well, you see,” replied Flemming, “the rope’s short, but it’s very thick.”

“I don’t see how that is to help us.”

“There are nine or ten strands that have gone to the making of it, and I’m thinking that each of those strands will bear a man. Luckily, I have got a ball of my cobbler’s wax here, and that will strengthen the strands, keep the knots from slipping, and make it easier to climb down.”

“Cobbler!” cried the king, “if that lets us escape, I’ll knight you.”

“I care little for knighthood,” returned the cobbler, “but I don’t want to be benighted here.”

“After such a remark as that, your majesty,” exclaimed the poet, “I think you should have him beheaded, if he doesn’t get us out of this safely.”

“Indeed, Sir David,” said the cobbler, as he unwound the rope, “if I don’t get you out of here, the Armstrongs will save his majesty all trouble on the score of decapitation.”

There was silence now as the three watched the deft hands of the cobbler, hurrying to make the most of the last rays of the flickering torch in the wall. He tested the strands and proved them strong, then ran each along the ball of wax, thus cementing their loose thread together. He knotted the ends with extreme care, tried their resistance thoroughly, and waxed them unsparingly. It was a business of breathless interest, but at last the snake-like length of thin rope lay on the floor at his disposal. He tied an end securely to the beam just outside the window-sill so that there would be no sharp edge to cut the cord, then he paid out the line into the darkness, slowly and carefully that it might not became entangled.

“There,” he said at last, with a sigh of satisfaction, “who’s first for the rope. We three await your majesty’s commands.”

“Do you know the country hereabout?” asked the king of the man who had been prisoner longest.

“Every inch of it.”

“Can you guide us safely to the north in the darkness?”

“Oh, yes, once I am down by the stream.”

“Then,” said the king, “go down by the stream. When you are on firm footing say no word, but shake the rope. If you prove a true guide to us this night we will pay you well.”

“I shall be well paid with my liberty,” replied the prisoner, crawling cautiously over the stone sill and disappearing in the darkness. The cobbler held the taut line in his hand. No man spoke, they hardly seemed to breathe until the cobbler said:

“He’s safe. Your majesty should go next.”

“The captain is the last to leave the ship,” said the king; “over you go, Flemming.” After the cobbler, Sir David descended, followed by the king; and they found at the bottom of the ravine some yards of line to spare.

Their adventures through that wild night and the next day, until they came to a village where they could purchase horses, form a story in themselves.

When the king reached Stirling, and was dressed once more in a costume more suited to his station than that which had been torn by the brambles of the Border, he called to him the chief minister of his realm.

“You will arrest immediately,” he said, “Cockburn of Henderland, and Adam Scott of Tushielaw, and have them beheaded.”

“Without trial, your majesty?” asked the minister in amazement.

“Certainly not without trial, but see that the trial is as short as possible. Their crime is treason; the witnesses as many as you like to choose from our last council meeting. I love and adhere to the processes of law, but see that there is no mistake about the block being at the end of your trial.” The minister made a note of this and awaited further instructions. “Place the Earl of Bothwell in the strongest room that Edinburgh Castle has vacant. Imprison Lord Maxwell and Lord Home and the Lairds of Fairniherst, Johnston and Buccleuch, in whatever stronghold is most convenient. Let these orders be carried out as speedily as possible.”

The next man called into the royal presence was Sir Donald Sinclair.

“Have you five hundred mounted men ready for the road, Sir Donald?”

“Yes, your majesty, a thousand if you want them.”

“Very well, a thousand I shall have, and I shall ride with you to the Border.”

Nevertheless, when the king came to the inn where he had been captured, there were but twenty troopers with him. Sir Donald was the spokesman on that occasion. He said to the landlord, whose roving eye was taking count of the number of horses, —

“Go to Johnny Armstrong and tell him that the king, with twenty mounted men at his back, commands his presence here, and see that he comes quickly.”

Johnny was not slow in replying to the invitation, and forty troopers rode behind him. The king sat on his horse, a little in advance of his squadron. As a mounted man, James looked well, and there was but little resemblance between him and the unfortunate drover, who had been taken prisoner at that spot two short weeks before.

“I have come promptly in answer to your majesty’s call,” said Armstrong, politely removing his bonnet, but making no motion to pay further deference to the King of Scotland.

“It gives me great pleasure to see you,” replied the king, suavely. “You travel with a large escort, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Yes, your majesty, I am a sociable man and I like good company. The more stout fellows that are at my back, the better I am pleased.”

“In this respect we are very much alike, Mr. Armstrong, as you will admit if you but cast your eyes to the rear of your little company.”

At this, Johnny Armstrong violated a strict rule of royal etiquette and turned the back of his head to his king. He saw the forest alive with mounted men, their circle closing in upon him. He muttered the word: “Trapped!” and struck the spurs into his horse’s flank. The stung steed pranced in a semi-circle answering his master’s rein, but the fence of mounted steel was complete, every drawn sword a picket. Again Armstrong, laughing uneasily, faced the king, who still stood motionless.

“Your majesty has certainly the advantage of me as far as escort is concerned.”

“It would seem so,” replied James. “You travel with twoscore of men; I with a thousand.”

“I have ever been a loyal subject of your majesty,” said Armstrong, moistening his dry lips. “I hope I am to take no scathe for coming promptly and cordially to welcome your majesty to my poor district.”

“You will be better able to answer your own question when you have replied to a few of mine. Have you ever met me before, Mr. Armstrong?”

The robber looked intently at the king.

“I think not,” he said.

“Have you ever seen this man before?” and James motioned Sir David Lyndsay from the troop at his side.

Armstrong drew the back of his hand across his brow.

“I seem to remember him,” he said, “but cannot tell where I have met him.”

“Perhaps this third man will quicken your memory,” and the cobbler came forward, dressed as he had been the night he was captured.

Armstrong gasped, and a greenish pallor overspread his face.

“What is your answer, Armstrong?” asked the king.

“I and my forty men will serve your majesty faithfully in your army if you grant us our lives.”

“No thieves ride with any of Scotland’s brigade, Armstrong.”

“I will load your stoutest horse with gold until he cannot walk, if you spare our lives.”

“The revenues of Scotland are sufficient as they are, Armstrong,” replied the king.

“Harry of England will be glad to hear that the King of Scotland has destroyed twoscore of his stoutest warriors.”

“The King of England is my relative, and I shall be happy to please him. The defence of Scotland is my care, and I have honest men enough in my army to see that it is secure. Have you anything further to say, Armstrong?”

“It is folly to seek grace at a graceless face. If we are for the tree, then to the tree with us. But if you make this fair forest bear such woeful fruit, you shall see the day when you shall die for lack of stout hearts like ours to follow you, as sure as this day is the fatal thirteenth.”

The forty-one trees bore their burden, and thirteen years from that time the outlaw’s prophecy was fulfilled.

The King’s Gold

It is strange to record that the first serious difficulty which James encountered with the nobles who supported him, arose not over a question of State, but through the machinations of a foreign mountebank. The issue came to a point where, if the king had proceeded to punish the intriguer, his majesty might have stood alone while the lords of his court would have ranged themselves in support of the charlatan – a most serious state of things, the like of which has before now overturned a throne. In dealing with this unexpected crisis, the young king acted with a wisdom scarcely to be expected from his years. He directed the nobility as a skilful rider manages a mettlesome horse, sparing curb and spur when the use of the one might have unseated him, or the use of the other resulted in a frenzied bolt. Thus the judicious horseman keeps his saddle, yet arrives at the destination he has marked out from the beginning.

In the dusk of the evening, James went down the high street of Stirling, keeping close to the wall as was his custom when about to pay a visit to his friend the cobbler, for although several members of the court knew that he had a liking for low company, the king was well aware of the haughty disdain with which the nobles regarded those of the mechanical or trading classes. So he thought it best not to run counter to a prejudice so deeply rooted, and for this reason he restricted the knowledge of his visits to a few of his more intimate friends.

As the king was about to turn out of the main street he ran suddenly into the arms of a man coming from the shop of a clothier who made costumes for the court. As each started back from the unexpected encounter, the light from the mercer’s shop window lit up the face of his majesty’s opponent, and the latter saw that he had before him his old friend, Sir David Lyndsay.

“Ha, Davie!” cried the king, “it’s surely late in the day to choose the colours for a new jacket.”

“Indeed your majesty is in the right,” replied Sir David, “but I was not selecting cloth; I was merely enacting the part of an honest man, and liquidating a reckoning of long standing.”

“What, a poet with money!” exclaimed the king. “Who ever heard of such a thing? Man Davie, you might share the knowledge of your treasure-house with a friend. Kings are always in want of money. Is your gold mine rich enough for two?”

The king spoke jocularly, placing no particular meaning upon his words, and if Sir David had answered in kind, James would doubtless have thought no more about the matter, but the poet stammered and showed such evident confusion that his majesty’s quick suspicions were at once aroused. He remembered that of late a change had come over the court. Scottish nobles were too poor to be lavish in dress, and frequently the somewhat meagre state of their wardrobe had furnished a subject for jest on the part of ambassadors from France or Spain. But when other foreigners less privileged than an ambassador had ventured to make the same theme one for mirth, they speedily found there was no joke in Scottish steel, which was ever at an opponent’s service, even if gold were not. So those who were wise and fond of life, became careful not to make invidious comparisons between the gallants of Edinburgh and Stirling, and those of Paris and Madrid. But of late the court at Stirling had blossomed out in fine array, and although this grandeur had attracted the notice of the king and pleased him, he had given no thought to the origin of the new splendour.

The king instantly changed his mind regarding his visit to the cobbler, linked arm with the poet, and together they went up the street. This sudden reversion of direction gave the royal wanderer a new theme for thought and surmise. It seemed as if all the town was on the move, acting as surreptitiously as he himself had done a few moments previously. At first he imagined he had been followed, and the suspicion angered him. In the gloom he was unable to recognise any of the wayfarers, and each seemed anxious to avoid detection, passing hurriedly or slipping quietly down some less frequented alley or lane. Certain of the figures appeared familiar, but none stopped to question the king.

“Davie,” cried James, pausing in the middle of the street, “you make a very poor conspirator.”

“Indeed, your majesty,” replied the poet earnestly, “no one is less of a conspirator than I.”

“Davie, you are hiding something from me.”

“That I am not, your majesty. I am quite ready to answer truly any question your majesty cares to ask.”

“The trouble is, Davie, that my majesty has not yet got a clue which will lead to shrewd questioning, but as a beginning, I ask you, what is the meaning of all this court stir in the old town of Stirling?”

“How should I know, your majesty?” asked the poet in evident distress.

“There now, Davie, there now! The very first question I propound gets an evasive answer. The man who did not know would have replied that he did not. I dislike being juggled with, and for the first time in my life, Sir David Lyndsay, I am angered with you.”

The knight was visibly perturbed, but at last he answered, —

“In this matter I am sworn to secrecy.”

“All secrets reveal themselves at the king’s command,” replied James sternly. “Speak out; speak fully, and speak quickly.”

“There is no guilt in the secret, your majesty. I doubt if any of your court would hesitate to tell you all, were it not that they fear ridicule, which is a thing a Scottish noble is loth to put up with whether from the king or commoner.”

“Get on, and waste not so much time in the introduction,” said his majesty shortly.

“Well, there came some time since to Stirling, an Italian chemist, who took up his abode and set up his shop in the abandoned refectory of the old Monastery. He is the author of many wonderful inventions, but none interests the court so much as the compounding of pure gold in a crucible from the ordinary earth of the fields.”

“I can well believe that,” cried the king. “I have some stout fighters in my court who fear neither man nor devil in battle, yet who would stand with mouth agape before a juggler’s tent. But surely, Davie, you, who have been to the colleges, and have read much from learned books, are not such a fool as to be deluded by that ancient fallacy, the transmutation of any other metals into gold?”

Sir David laughed uneasily.

“I did not say I believed it, your majesty, still, a man must place some credence in what his eye sees done, as well as in what he reads from books; and after all, the proof of the cudgel is the rap on the head. I have beheld the contest, beginning with an empty pot and ending with a bar of gold.”

“Doubtless. I have seen a juggler swallow hot iron, but I have never believed it went down his throttle, although it appeared to have done so. Did you get any share of the transmuted gold? That’s the practical test, my Davie.”

“That is exactly the test your barons applied. I doubt if their nobilities would take much interest in a scientific experiment were there no profit at the end of it. Each man entering the laboratory pays what he pleases to the money taker at the table, but it must not be less than one gold bonnet-piece. When all have entered, the doors are closed and locked. The amount of money collected is weighed against small bars of gold which the alchemist places in the opposite scale until the two are equally balanced. This bar of gold he then throws into the crucible.”

“Oh, he puts gold into the crucible, does he? Where then is the profit? I thought these necromancers made gold from iron.”

“Signor Farini’s method is different, your majesty. He asserts that like attracts like, and that the gold in the crucible will take to itself the minute unseen particles which he believes exists in all soils; the intense heat burning away the dross and leaving the refined gold.”

“I see; and how ends this experiment?”

“The residue is cooled and weighed. Sometimes it is double the amount of gold put in, sometimes treble; and I have known him upon occasion take from the crucible quadruple the gold of the bar, but never have I known a melting fall below double the amount collected by the man at the table. At the final act each noble has returned to him double or treble the gold he relinquished on entering.”

“Where then arises the profit to your Italian? I never knew these foreigners to work for nothing.”

“He says he does it for love of Scotland and hatred of England; an ancient enemy. Were but the Scottish nation rich, he thinks they could the better withstand incursions from the south.”

“Well, Davie, that seems to me a most unsubstantial reason. Scotland’s protection has been her poverty in all except hard knocks. Were she as wealthy as France it would be the greater temptation for Englishers to overrun the country. My grandfather, James the Third, had a black chest full of gold and jewels, yet he was murdered flying from defeat in battle. When does this golden wizard fire his cauldron, Davie?”

“To-night, your majesty. That is the reason the nobles of your court were making sly haste to his domicile.”

“Ah, and Sir David Lyndsay was hurrying to the same spot so blindly that he nearly overran his monarch.”

“It is even so, your majesty.”

“Then am I hindering you from much profit, and you must even blame yourself for being so long in the telling. However, it is never too late to turn one bonnet-piece into two. So, Davie, lead the way, for I would see this alchemist turn out gold from a pot as a housewife boils potatoes.”