The Mosstrooper: A Legend of the Scottish Border

“A strange revolution of Fortune’s wheel,” whispered the Sheriff to his chief attendant. “The King’s Grace has appointed George Hepburn, the kinsman of Altoncroft, Sheriff in my room, and commends me to resign my office into his hands without delay, for which purpose he is to be at Jedburgh to-morrow at noon. This is the work of my unfriends at our fickle Sovereign’s court. Altoncroft cannot yet know of the change, else he would spurn my authority and provoke strife: therefore, I must dismiss him at once. I should have arrested him when he stabbed the witness; but I feared that such action would only embroil the business still further; and I am now glad it was not done.”

The Sheriff went over to Royston Scott, and said that after what had happened on the field, the arbitration proceedings behoved to be adjourned to some future day, and also enjoined him to retire, and to keep the peace. Altoncroft obeyed, and departed with his followers.

“There’s the main danger blawn ower,” said the gaberlunzie, viewing with much satisfaction the rude Laird’s retreat. “We winna toom a tankard wi’ the gentle Johnston the nicht; and wha kens whether he’ll see the morn? We’ll tak’ the road, wi’ your leave, master, as lang as the play is fair.”

What road? – whither were they going? Ruthven indicated his intended destination, but did not desire to return to Greenholm, where he had changed his dress; and he added that he wished his route to be taken, so far as practicable, by paths not commonly frequented, to avoid any other mischance. The gaberlunzie was ready to accompany him by any route.

They left the Deadman’s Holm without attracting much notice, and were speedily in the midst of solitudes. As the day wore to its close, they made a halt on the edge of a wood, and what Harthill’s wallet yet contained, in the shape of viands, formed a substantial repast. This done, the journey was resumed while the sun was setting.

How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds,Like the blood he predicts.

Soon, through the fading lustre above Sol’s ocean-bed, Hesperus, the lover’s star, sparkled brightly. Our wayfarer’s path now led near a sluggish stream which skirted a hilly chain, and beyond the heights lay a village, where, as Harthill said, they might find lodgement for the night; but it had this disadvantage, that it was part of the barony pertaining to Altoncroft’s kinsman, the newly-made Sheriff, and, therefore, Ruthven thought that their more prudent course would be to seek a less questionable place of rest. But, in short, to tell the truth, he was secretly desirous of parting, as soon as might be, with Willie, and of pursuing his course alone to Berwick, where he might obtain shipping for France – a country which afforded opportunities, to friendless and adventurous young Scots like himself of carving out their fortunes with their swords.

The twilight darkened, and the path grew wilder. Occasionally the harsh screams of birds of prey smote on the ear, and seemed to chill the gaberlunzie’s blood.

“I dinna like the cries o’ thae birds ava – they aye bode ill,” he said. “Nae doubt they think to pyke our banes belyve. Shue! shue! ye evil emissaries! Our Lady help us! was yon a groan? Heard you naething, master?”

“It sounded like the fall of a fragment of rock from yonder cliff,” answered Ruthven, with indifference.

Harthill shook his head, as if dubious of the explanation. His mind engrained with superstitious frailty, he began to hear uncanny sounds all around him. Every sough of the wind among the brackens was a dread presage. Hurrying his steps, he frequently left Ruthven in the rear; and to every half-jocular remonstrance of the youth, whose strength of limb was fast failing, Willie had but one apology: —

“It’s a bogley part this after dark. I’ve heard as mony stories aboot ugsome sichts seen here as there’s teeth in my head. I wadna put ower a nicht here, no for the crown o’ Scotland. Haste you, master, haste you! It’s for your ain gude.”

Without doubt he meant well. But Ruthven flagged more and more, and, after climbing a grassy eminence, which was surmounted by the ruins of a place of strength, he protested that, happen what might, he would go no farther.

“You’re in jest, master?” cried Harthill, scratching the side of his head in sheer vexation.

“We can rest here till daylight,” replied Ruthven. “The place is lone, and therefore safe.”

“Safe?” echoed Willie, with somewhat of asperity. “If we be sae daft as to rest here, we may ne’er see daylicht. Be advised, master, be advised.”

Ruthven, however, was not to be advised. He advanced towards the ruin. The gaberlunzie followed with laggard pace, and shrank back when an owl started out, and, hooting dolefully, flew over their heads.

“There’s a warning!” ejaculated Willie. “The place is fu’ o’ uncanny things. Come back, for ony sake.”

But Ruthven still advanced. The ruin, in its palmy days, had consisted of a massive square tower of two storeys above the ground floor, with battlemented roof, and surrounded by an outer wall, which was now broken down to heaps of rubbish, overgrown with coarse vegetation. The roof had fallen in, and so had both floors, leaving only a shell of crumbling, grim walls: the courtyard was miry: and the arched portal preserved no vestige of the iron-bound door which had once barred passage. As Ruthven was about to pass inward, he was stayed for a moment by the almost hysterical entreaties of his companion, who now assumed a tone of wailing.

“I shall lodge here till morning,” answered the youth determinedly. “If anything earthly molests me, I carry a stout heart and a trusty blade; and unearthly things I fear not.”

The gaberlunzie held up his hands in deprecation of such a foolhardy resolve; but at length he said – “Aweel, master, a wilfu’ man maun ha’e his ain way, and I maun leave you for the nicht. May a’ haly saints watch ower you! I’ll gang-on to the neist bigging, and in the morning I’ll come back; but I fear the morning winna find you a living wicht.”

“Never fear; but do as you say,” responded Ruthven. “Take this small guerdon” – bestowing some money. “You’ll find me in the morning hale and sound. Good-night, and good luck.”

The gaberlunzie was loth to part; but his superstitious nature prevailed, and he took leave, reiterating his promise to return in the morning.

Ruthven entered the ruined pile. The interior was heaped with fallen stones and debris. Casting his eye upward, as from the bottom of a deep well, he saw the dim welkin overhead, which was becoming sprinkled with golden cressets.

Star after star, from some unseen abyss,Came through the sky, like thoughts into the mind,We know not whence.

Some square apertures in the walls, which once were windows, were partly choked with grass: a narrow stone stair had given access to the first storey, but only a few of the lower steps remained intact: the air felt damp and chill, and the pervading silence was like that of a sepulchre. Ruthven weariedly sat down on a hillock of ruin close to the portal, and bending his face upon his hands, fell into a reverie, which eventually lapsed into troubled slumber.

When he awoke from a confused dream, trembling with cold, all was dark around him. He arose and went out into the courtyard to look at the sky. It was cloudless, and bright with the celestial host; and a gusty breeze blew from the west. As he turned in that direction, he perceived, upon the verge of the horizon, a glimmering light, which rose and fell alternately, but in short space grew into a broad and steady glare. Was “yon red glare the western star?” or was it “the beacon-blaze of war?” Whatever it was, it speedily became an intense mass of flame, shedding a lurid gleam on earth and heaven.

As Ruthven watched the mysterious fire, the clatter of horses approaching from the west struck his ear. He receded into the portal, and drew his sword. In a few moments several horsemen, riding in disorder, broke dimly on his view as they ascended the height. Up they came: they urged their panting steeds over the rubbish of the wall, and drew rein in the courtyard. They were five in number, all wearing warlike harness, and seemed to have fled from an unsuccessful fight. Four dismounted, but the remaining one kept his saddle, and gazed back to the distant blaze, which was now sinking.

“Woe worth this nicht, that has seen mair ruin wrought than can be repaired in a lang life time!” ejaculated this rider, wringing his hands. “That cruel spoiler! that bluid-thirsty riever! Curses on him that wad fire an auld man’s house aboon his head!”

Ruthven recognised the voice as that of Lauder of Ballinshaw.

“A stranger here! a lurking enemy!” exclaimed one of the party, spying Ruthven in the doorway; but instantly Ruthven called out that he was no enemy but a friend to Ballinshaw.

“By St. Bryde! this is the brave lad that defended our Edie when he fell!” cried the man, “Of a surety he is a friend.”

Ruthven, assured of safety, stepped out of the portal, and sheathing his brand, hastened to the old Laird’s side, inquiring what had befallen; but the question had to be thrice repeated ere Lauder seemed to hear and comprehend it, and then he started, and peering down into Ruthven’s face, exclaimed – “Wha is this?”

“The stranger who defended our Edie,” said the retainer who had previously spoken.

“Indeed!” said Ballinshaw, in a vague way, and again directing his eye towards the fading fire. “See yonder what’s befaun. Bluidshed and murder! Ruth and ruin! A’ is lost – the airn kist fu’ o’ merks in the secret closet ahint the spence – the candlesticks and the plate that my great-grandsire brought frae the Low Countries – a’ plundered – a’ gane. But how cam’ you here, lad?”

“Night overtook me on my way, and I sought shelter here, where scant shelter there is,” replied Ruthven.

“We seek refuge, too,” said the retainer; “but if Altoncroft be in pursuit o’ us – ”

“Altoncroft!” cried Ruthven. “Is he the ravager?”

“Ay,” returned the man. “His hatred has burnt up Ballinshaw. When we reached hame yesterday, word was heard that our fickle King had appointed Altoncroft’s kinsman Sheriff, in room o’ the just Sir Robert Home; and we heard the news like our death-knell. Dreading the warst, as weel we micht, we prepared the auld house for defence – armed every man and callant – and keepit strict watch. Afore midnicht, Altoncroft cam’ wi’ a’ his power. There was a fierce and deadly struggle; but he brak’ in wi’ his ruthless band, and we were driven out, and the place was fired. The flames lichted our way as we fled.”

“Did Edie Johnston perish in the struggle?” asked Ruthven.

“Not that I can tell,” said the retainer. “When the enemy brak’ in, we lowered Edie into the subterranean passage that leads frae the ha’ to the middle o’ the garden; but if the villains discovered his hiding place, they would gi’e him but short shrift.”

Note. – A parallel to the catastrophe of the arbitration is recorded in Sir John Sinclair’s “Statistical Account of Scotland” (Vol. V., 153), as having occurred in the parish of Menmuir, in the county of Forfar: —

“Two lairds quarrelled about their marches, and witnesses were brought to swear to the old boundaries. One of these chieftains, provoked to hear his opponent’s servant declare, on oath, that he then stood on his master’s ground, pulled a pistol from his belt, and shot him dead on the spot. It was found that to save his conscience he had earth in his shoes brought from his laird’s lands.”

“A’ my strength is blasted like a flower o’ the field, and a’ my gear gane like snaw aff a dyke,” moaned Ballinshaw, again wringing his hands. “But the enemy may be hard ahint us, and we maun on and awa’ – on and awa’.”

“Our horses are blawn, and we maun gi’e them some minutes’ rest,” said the retainer, languidly laying himself on a heap of rubbish.

Scarcely had they thought of rest when the clatter of hoofs sounded in the glen below. Ballinshaw started in affright, and the next moment had fallen from his steed, a victim of apoplexy.

“’Tis Royston Scott!” exclaimed one of his retainers. “We are but dead men!”

The pursuers, headed by Altoncroft, rapidly began to ascend the hill. Leading his followers, Scott encouraged them in their work with promise of reward. Ruthven Somervil watched their movements, and, lifting a large stone, cast it down upon Altoncroft with so sure an aim that it struck horse and man to the earth. For the moment there was panic among Scott’s supporters, but an instant later, having left their leader to recover as best he might, they made for the crest of the hill, all eyes ablaze with vengeance against the youth who had thrown their master.

Ruthven wisely decided on flight. Entering the ruined fort, he dragged himself up on the broad sill of one of the windows, and leapt upon the soft, boggy ground beneath, seized one of the horses, and galloped away. Shouts and cries were behind him; he pricked his horse with his dagger for want of spurs, and dashed among the mountains, never drawing rein until he considered himself safe from the reach of the anger of the house of Altoncroft.

Chapter VIII

“The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene and resolute and still,And calm and self-possessed.”

LITTLE did Ruthven Somervil reck that Edie Johnston, whom he had so valiantly defended, was the man who had slipped him through the portal of Hawksglen on that long-past night. Had a suspicion, even hinting at that, dawned upon him, he would have instantly sought out Edie and tried to learn from him something of his descent. With Johnston and kindred spirits he was destined to have much in common, but the question of his parentage was never mentioned in their hearing.

Ruthven found refuge at Hunterspath, a notorious Border-raiders’ stronghold. The tidings he brought of the outrage on Ballinshaw, and his modest recital of the part he himself had played in recent events, won the sympathy and admiration of the mosstroopers, and he soon proved his daring before their own eyes. None was more fearless than Ruthven, no sword on all the Borders was sharper than his, and when, at the end of two years, the Chief of Hunterspath went down to his robber grave as the result of a treacherous thrust from a foeman’s spear, Ruthven Somervil was hailed as his successor. To him was assigned the Captaincy by common consent, and never a man went back on his choice.

The daring life of a mosstrooper did not ill agree with Ruthven’s valiant spirit. He was never more in his element than when leading his men across the English Border on some mission of pillage, and never prouder than when he withdrew into the stronghold of Hunterspath to share his spoils with his companions.

But sometimes, when alone, a kindly thought of Eleanor Elliot brought a mist to his eyes as he considered how ill-suited a Border-raider was to be a mate of such a gentle lady. From the topmost turret of his own keep he would gaze in the direction of Hawksglen, and try to discern the towers of the ancient castle where his childhood and youth had been passed.

“Some day, some day,” he would sigh, “God grant that I may clasp my fair angel to my breast.”

Since the morning when he had said good-bye to Sir James and Lady Elliot, more than three years ago, no word had ever passed between him and Eleanor. But something told him that the fair daughter of Hawksglen, who had looked into his eyes with the eyes of affection, was true to his undeclared love, and would yet welcome him to her arms. Had he known that Lady Elliot was assiduously endeavouring to arrange a marriage between Eleanor and Sir Anthony Maxwell of Rutherwell, it would have filled him with alarm, but even knowledge of that kind would not have shaken his faith in the companion of his early years. One summer evening, when he was more than usually moody, the long-desired opportunity of seeing Hawksglen came in his way. Edie Johnston burst in upon the mosstroopers.

“The English loons are owre again!” he exclaimed. “Sir Dacre de Ermstein and twa hunder o’ his men are spreading disaster on every hand. I hear that Elliot’s place is the next mark for them.”

“Elliot? Hawksglen?” queried Ruthven, as he sprang to his feet.

“Ay, the very same,” replied Edie.

“Then to-night we must strike a blow for the honour of Scotland. The quarrel of Elliot shall be our quarrel, and God help the English loon that fa’s in our way.”

A few minutes later, at the head of his followers, Ruthven Somervil was advancing rapidly towards Hawksglen. Already news of the attack from the English enemy had spread in the district, and barons and their retainers, from different quarters, had assembled to help Elliot, and resist their common foe. When Ruthven and his men appeared upon the scene the conflict was at its height. Sir Anthony Maxwell, cheered by the thought that Eleanor’s hand might be the reward of his valour, fought nobly for the house of Elliot. But it was evident that Sir Dacre de Ermstein was to be victor. Once or twice the defenders had been forced back, and the spirits of the garrison began to droop. Then came the turn in fortune’s wheel. The reivers burst through the lines, and changed the fate of Hawksglen.

Another half-hour and the defeat of the English was complete. Horse and foot broke away from the fatal conflict, and fled for refuge in every direction. A murmur of rage broke from the lips of Ermstein, and he turned to one of his followers.

“This robber chief – his name?” he demanded.

“Ruthven Somervil. He keeps the Tower of Hunterspath with a powerful and desperate band.”

“Ruthven Somervil,” said the knight slowly; “he shall be remembered. Chance may yet throw vengeance into my power. But Elliot may thank his robber allies, for, had not they come to his aid, the flag of Dacre de Ermstein would now have been floating triumphantly over the towers of Hawksglen.”

Giving vent to his anger in these and similar words, the English knight withdrew his forces, and retired in the direction of the Border. The raiders of Hunterspath, greedy of booty, did not hesitate to despoil the English dead, and went about their business, while the servants of Hawksglen succoured those who had been wounded in defence of their house.

Sir James Elliot invited Maxwell, and others who had come to his relief, to partake of his hospitality, and Lady Elliot was most assiduous in her attentions to the guests.

“The chief of Hunterspath,” she said to her husband, as she noticed that Ruthven was not in the banqueting hall.

“Ay; I had almost forgotten,” returned Sir James, as he went in search of the mosstrooper.

A moment later he held his breath in wonder: Eleanor and Ruthven were in conversation in the courtyard. The mosstrooper’s visor was still down, as it had been during the fight. Sir James approached.

“You will drink to the defeat of our foes?” he said.

“Nay, Sir James,” and the voice sounded strangely familiar in his ear. “With Sir Dacre de Ermstein vowing vengeance against me I have other things to think of. But judge me not a churl,” he went on, as he took Eleanor’s hand; “one touch from your daughter’s fingers, and one glance from her flashing eye, are reward enough for the Captain of Hunterspath.”

Chapter IX

Wha’s friends, wha’s faes, in this cauld warld,Is e’en richt ill to learn;But an evil e’e hath looked on thee,My bonnie, bonnie bairn.A. M’Laggan.

WHEN Ruthven mounted his steed, and passed the gate of Hawksglen, he found that all his followers, with the exception of Edie Johnston, had retired. Laden with booty, they had made tracks for Hunterspath, well knowing that their Captain was able to defend himself from the attack of any English straggler.

“It’s a bonnie sicht,” said Edie, as he indicated the English dead, “them a’ lying heids and thraws. An’ it was a bonnier sicht to see the lads gae aff wi’ the plunder.”

But Ruthven was in no mood for conversation. He had learned from Eleanor that Lady Elliot was desirous of marrying her to Sir Anthony Maxwell, and he well knew that Maxwell’s valour that day must have greatly advanced him in the eyes of Hawksglen. Deep in thought – almost unconscious of the presence of Edie – he rode on, while the shades of night descended upon them.

By and by the friendly light of a wayside tavern burst upon their view, and roused Ruthven from his stupor. Edie watched the Captain’s eyes light upon the inn.

“It’s dry wark ridin’ in silence,” he ventured to remark.

“Ay, Edie, ay, but I had thoughts that kept me frae thirst.”

“Ye’ve been unco quiet sin’ ye left Hawksglen. What ails ye, gin I may mak’ bold to speir?”

They had alighted from their steeds. Ruthven put his hand on Edie’s shoulder.

“Twa men and a’e woman,” he said, in a low tone.

“The auld complaint,” answered Edie; “put yer sword in him. Wha is he?”

“Sir Anthony Maxwell.”

“Him that ettles to mairry Elliot’s dochter?”

“Ay, the same. And, Edie, I love the lass. I lived – it’s a secret, and I give it to you alone – for twenty years at Hawksglen, and I loved Eleanor from childhood.”

“Ay, twenty ’ear,” repeated Edie, “you’re the lad – ”

“That was left one night with nothing but this,” and he touched a little golden reliquary that hung round his neck, “to tell who I was.”

Edie looked keenly at his Captain. Would he tell him there and then that he was the man who had passed him through the portal of Hawksglen, and tell him whence was his origin? Would he? —

Before he had time to do aught, his arms were pinioned behind his back, and three stout Englishmen had thrown themselves suddenly on Ruthven.

The assault was so unexpected and sudden that neither the Captain of Hunterspath nor Edie could offer the least resistance. Amid the jeers of their captors they were mounted on their horses. Sir Dacre de Ermstein rode up to Ruthven and whispered in his ear:

“The robber of Hunterspath shall not always prevail against the house of Ermstein.”

By an ill-turn of Fortunes wheel the man who had beaten off the English foe from Hawksglen was now in the hands of that same foe – the victor led off in bonds by the vanquished!

A long night ride saw the forces of Sir Dacre de Ermstein across the Border, and on the afternoon of the following day the towers of Warkcliff Castle rose before Sir Dacre and his followers.

The Lady of Warkcliff, the childless wife of Sir Dacre de Ermstein, was sitting at her chamber window, vacantly watching the conflict that raged in the bosom of the sweet valley, between the heavy morning mists and the sun and wind. Lady de Ermstein had come of a noble English line: in her youth she had been peerless for her charms, but middle-age had reft all those youthful charms away; still, she was a stately dame, and still possessed those graces of manner which had so much enhanced her youthful beauty. But she was childless. This was the secret sorrow that preyed everlastingly upon her soul. Her husband was the last of his ancient line. With him would perish the noble house of De Ermstein, and the lordly domains of Warkcliff would pass away to the stranger.

Watching the battle in the valley between the mists and the sun and wind, she thought of that great cloud which had heavily enveloped her heart and hopes so long, which no sun, no breath of promise, would ever dissipate. Her husband burst into the chamber. His countenance was flushed, and his eye kindling, and his look elated. The lady had heard the tumult in the castle, but it only cost her a passing thought.

“Such tidings as I have to tell, Alice!” he exclaimed, grasping her by both hands. “Such tidings as make my heart leap!”

“They are not of sorrow, then!” said the lady, with a wan smile.

“No! why of sorrow? I have won a proud triumph, Alice. Mountjoy, whom I despatched to watch the Scots at their Weaponschaw, or military muster of the shire, has captured the villain Somervil, the robber who keeps a tower on the Cheviot hills, who infests the whole English marches, Mountjoy has made him a prisoner.”

“And brought him to the castle?”

“Yes; and the mosstrooper now lies in the Donjon with iron on wrist and ankle.”

“He has troubled the Border long,” said the lady thoughtfully. “But you do not resolve to have his life?” she added, looking full in her husband’s face.

“I have determined that he shall suffer the penalty due to his crimes,” cried Sir Dacre; “and that within three days. Has he not been my relentless foe, the relentless spoliator of my lands? I never can forget that, through him, I suffered that disgraceful repulse before the tower of Hawksglen, which, but for his interposition, would have yielded to the assaults of my gallant soldiers. No, no, Alice, speak not a word for him; I will hear no petition from human lips that his life should be spared. Since the day at Hawksglen how often have my vassals been plundered and slain by the mosstroopers of Hunterspath? I will not listen to appeals for mercy to this noted outlaw – this villain whose pride and boast it is to plunder the domains of Warkcliff, and mortify their lord.”