CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PENANCE OF JOCK THE PENMAN
There still remained to me to make the acquaintance of the sole daughter of Malise M‘Kim, the sister of Sholto and Laurence. She was not yet sixteen years of age, but already her name had gone wide athwart the country. Yet withal she was a strange girl--with a look on her face like to one who had spoken with the Little People, so they said.
As her mother had told me, she loved the wild wood better than the village street, the heathery hill more than the noise of the market-place, the tumult of the fair, or even the genial push and jostle of the tourney when folk of all degrees looked over one another’s shoulders.
And still I had not set eyes upon this marvel. But one morning, awaking early, I heard two of our soldiers of the guard--A’Hannays both of them--Gib the Brown and Kirsten the Red, exchanging confidences on the stone balcony beneath my chamber, where their watch had been set by Sholto M‘Kim.
They had taken leave to rest their halberds in a corner, and to lean upon the balusters with their elbows (God help them if Sholto, or even Andro the Penman, came their way!).
“So ye were ower by at the Three Thorns yestreen, Kirsten?” inquired Gib the Brown, starting a subject which, in spite of his air of nonchalance, was evidently near his heart. “Saw ye ocht o’ the Flooer-o’-the-Haw?”
(For by this name, it appeared, the men of the Thrieve guard and the country folk about spoke of the daughter of the armourer.)
The Red one shrugged his shoulders and scratched meditatively.
“The Flooer--no,” answered Kirsten softly, “but the Thorn--ay! The Thorn was there!”
“Ye cam’ on Malise M‘Kim, then!--What said he till ye?”
“‘Said,’ quo’ he,” growled Kirsten the Red, “truth o’ Peter an’ Paul, I didna wait for what he said. I kenned the auld man’s foot, and I left--yes, Gib, ye may tak’ your oath on that! I left the viceenity!”
“But how kenned ye the fit o’ Malise M‘Kim?” inquired Gib.
Kirsten the Red turned upon his kinsman a look of mingled pity and contempt.
“Gib,” he said, “it’s little that ye ken. I kenned Malise’s fit by the sign that it liftit me near sax feet into the air, wi’ a spang like a green puddock loupin’ into a pool. So I cam’ awa’! Ay, Kirsten A’Hannay cam’ away frae there and waited for nae leave-takkin’ either!”
“Umph!” retorted Gib, “but ye are a poor plucked bantam to fight a man. Noo, if it had been me”--
“See here--you,” cried Kirsten, the Red A’Hannay, fiercely, “if ye think ye can do mair nor me--come your ways doon to the green yonder when our watch is lifted, and I’ll show you. Ay, or better yet, gang to the well-yett o’ Carlinwark an’ gae three whustles like this”--
Here Kirsten imitated the call of the peewit upon the moor with great exactness. Then he laughed. “Saul’s health!” he cried, “then ye will ken whether ye are welcome or no’ at the smiddy o’ the Three Thorns--thro’ the shape o’ the old man’s brogans!”
At this point there was a hurried rush to arms. The sound of footsteps approached from below, halted, again receded. Instantly halberds were grounded--piled, and the peaceful confabulation of the A’Hannays continued over the parapet.
“I said, Gib, she’s maist awsome bonny--yon Yin!”
“Ye’re speakin’, Red Kirsten!” replied his cousin. Then with a groan he added, “But oh, man, whiles I’m feared till I sweat that she’s no’ for the like o’ us, Gib. There was young Jock the Penman--they say he made up till her yae day on the road to Ba’maghie Kirk--near by the wood o’ Lochar. And my faith, I kenna what he said to her, but she bade him gang an’ seat himsel’ on the muckle stane in the mids’ of the ford--they caa’ it the Black Douglas, ye ken. And he was to sit there for a day an’ a nicht withoot speech, or else she wad tell her faither and her seven brithers the words he had spoken till her!”
“Lord sake, ye tell me sae? And did he gang?”
“Gang, Kirsten!” continued Gib solemnly. “Certes, there was nae two ways aboot that! He sat him doon there, a’ disjaskit an’ drookit-like (for he had to wade to the oxters and him dressed in his green velvets). Ay, as the stane was marvellous slippery, he had to sit on his hunkers, blinkin’ like a hoolet in the sunshine a’ the time the kirk folk were gaun by. An’ siccan jeerin’ and lauchin’ as there was at him, hotchin’ there, wi’ the caller Dee water sappy and broon about his hurdies, an’ the ill-faured laddies frae the kirkclachan flingin’ stanes an’ dirt at him! Eh, but it was graund to see!”
Kirsten made silent contortions indicative of delight.
“Ay, an’ yince he turned his back on the ford, and the lassie M‘Kim (I never thocht she had as muckle spunk in her) garred him turn him again and face the folk as they gaed planterin’ an’ splashin’ through the shallows on horse and on foot. And sae there sat Jock till what time Sir Hairry the parson had said his mass, and the kirk folk were on their road back again. Then Malise M‘Kim spied Maister Jock sitting a’ crowled up on the Black Dooglas--his chin on his knees and dreeping like seaweed on a tide-rock.
“‘What’s that fule doin’ there, Magdalen?’ said Malise.
“‘Had you not better ask him, faither?’ said the lass, speakin’ mim an’ denty like a wee white doo drinkin’ water.”
“Ay,” sighed Kirsten, “she canna help it. It’s an airt she haes!”
“‘Better ask at him, had I?’ growls Malise; ‘faith, richt sune I’ll do the speerin’.’
“Sae doon he gangs to the water-side on that muckle Flanders beast o’ his that wad carry a tun o’ wine, and he stands a bit while intent upon the peetifu’ object on the Black Dooglas, lookin’ an’ aye better-lookin’. An’ them that was there telled me that it was better nor a monk’s-play, when the black deils come chasin’ in after the ill-doers, wi’ their reid-het pincers. Ye ken what wi’ the sparks o’ forty years’ smiddwark, Malise wrinkles up his face into knots, and pu’s doon his broos till he girns at ye like a fox oot o’ a whun bush. This time, they say, he was fair fearsome to see.
“‘Wha are ye an’ what are ye doin’ there on the Lord’s day morning?’ says Malise in a voice that near shook Jock the Penman aff the stane intil the water. ‘Is this the feast o’ the King o’ Misrule?’
“But Jock he says naething, him kennin’ better.
“An’ sae Malise cries oot again, ‘Tell me what for ye are sitting there like a popinjay on a steeple, makin’ yoursel’ a cockshy for a’ the vagrom bairns and guid-for-naething rake-the-countries in ten pairishes? Is that the way to mak’ your maister respeckit?’
“But aye Jock said naething. For the lass was stannin’ watchin’ on the shore.
“Sae wi’ that Malise began to wade in to him on his muckle Flamand. In his hand the smith had a branch o’ an oak he had poo’ed in the wood o’ Glenlochar, an’ as he took his beast into the ford he strippit the cudgel to the white. And because Jock the Penman sat still, because he dauredna steer, the fear bein’ on him, Malise lifted him up like a half-drooned kitten, an’ cast him across his saddle-bow.
“‘I did it for a penance,’ says Jock at last; ‘it was a vow!’ And had the stake been the salvation o’ his saul, that was as near the truth as he bode to come that day, whatever.
“But, wae’s me, when Malise had brocht him to the shore, there was the lass waiting, an’ Jock telled me after, that his verra bowels turned to water within him when he saw her. But she only said, calm and saftlike as rain in summer when nae wind is, ‘What was it that ye said to me, John the Penman, as ye gaed oot through the woods o’ Lochar?’
“An’ for the life o’ him Jock could think o’ naething better to answer than that he had said it was a bonny day for the folk to gang kirkward, an’ sain their sowls hearkenin’ to the holy and blessed words o’ Mess Hairry, the parson o’ Ba’maghie!
“‘Nothing more than that?’ she said. ‘It runs in my head that ye said mair nor that.’
“‘Naething,’ cries Jock, ‘but that if it were the Lord’s ain wull, a drap or two o’ water wad be guid for the craps!’
“‘Sae ye bode to hae the hale flood o’ the Water o’ Dee to keep yoursel’ happy, ye numskull!’ said Malise, setting Jock on the ground wi’ a shake that garred his teeth chatter in their sockets.
“‘And when next you say your prayers for the folk at Mass,’ Magdalen put in, ‘and for the rain upon the crops, let your place of oratory be other than the middle o’ Dee Water, and your _prie-dieu_ a fitter place than the Black Douglas o’ Glenlochar!’
“‘Ay, see to it!’ growled Malise. ‘Mind what the lass says, or else will I break thy thick head with this cudgel.’”
Then there was a pause as I abode listening. The two men stood silently degusting the tale of Jock the Penman. It seemed to have a personal flavour for them.
“And what think ye, Gib, after a’,” said Kirsten the Red, “was it that Jock said to the lass?”
“That,” answered Gib sententiously, “has never been revealed--but”--
“But what?” said Kirsten, whose temper was never of the longest.
“Weel, gin onybody ocht to ken what Jock the Penman said to Magdalen M‘Kim, it should be yoursel’, Gib A’Hannay! Ye hae had experience. Tak’ my advice, and keep far yont frae the Three Thorns. They are no’ a canny set, thae M‘Kims!”
There was silence again from that point for several minutes--a silence strained and disagreeable.
“Onyway,” said Gib, breaking out fiercely, “_I_ haena been kickit and taen it like a lamb!”
“Hae ye no’,” cried his cousin, “weel, ye’ll no’ hae that lang to complain o’. There! And there! And there!”
I could hear the rush of the two A’Hannays to the corner where they had piled their arms, and the first click of the halberds as the weapons came to the engage. But as I did not wish two of Sholto’s best men put _hors de combat_ for a few foolish words, I slipped out on the balcony and called down to them, “Have you seen Sir Sholto M‘Kim? Pray send him up to me.”
They were standing, breathing hard, their heads thrown back, foot to foot, weapon to weapon, as is the way of their fighting race. For the A’Hannays
[Illustration: “SAE WI’ THAT MALISE BEGAN TO WADE IN TO HIM ON HIS MUCKLE FLAMAND. IN HIS HAND THE SMITH HAD A BRANCH O’ AN OAK HE HAD POO’ED IN THE WOOD O’ GLENLOCHAR.”]
can never hold land long, however they may gain it. They fall a-fighting among themselves when there is none other to strive with, and after the battle the land generally goes to the sole surviving cousin in the twentieth degree of relationship.
So when Gib the Brown and Kirsten the Red saw me, they drew themselves up and saluted.
“Now,” I ordered them severely, “let there be no more of this, or I will have you both in the dungeon of Archibald the Grim, on bread-and-water for a week--ay, and little enough of the first! This is no place for pikes and partisans when every good Douglas is wanted. If ye have aught to say to one another, go down to the green and say it with your fists like men!”