The only man about the court who seemed to know nothing of what was going forward was the king himself. The French ambassador narrowly watched his actions, but James was the same free-hearted, jovial, pleasure-seeking monarch he had always been. He hunted and caroused, and was the life of any party of pleasure which sallied forth from the castle. He disappeared now and then, as was his custom, and could not be found, although his nobles winked at one another, while the perturbed French ambassador looked anxiously for the treasure ship that never came.
At last the nobles, who, in spite of their threatenings, had too much shrewdness to kill the gold-maker, hoping his lapse of power was only temporary, forced the question to a head and made appeal to the astonished king himself. Here was a man, they said, who could make gold and wouldn’t. They desired a mandate to go forth, compelling him to resume the lucrative occupation he had abandoned.
The king expressed his amazement at what he heard, and summoned the mountebank before him. The gold-maker abandoned his robe of scarlet and appeared before James dressed soberly. He confessed that he knew the secret of extracting gold from ordinary soil, but submitted that he was not a Scottish citizen and therefore could not properly be coerced by the Scottish laws so long as he infringed none of the statutes. The king held that this appeal was well founded, and disclaimed any desire to coerce a citizen of a friendly state. At this the charlatan brightened perceptibly, and proportionately the gloom on the brows of the nobles deepened.
“But if you can produce gold, as you say, why do you refuse to do so?” demanded the king.
“I respectfully submit to your majesty,” replied the mountebank, “that I have now perfected an invention of infinitely greater value than the gold-making process; an invention that will give Scotland a power possessed by no other nation, and which will enable it to conquer any kingdom, no matter how remote it may be from this land I so much honour. I wish, then, to devote the remaining energies of my life to the enlarging of this invention, rather than waste my time in what is, after all, the lowest pursuit to which a man may demean himself, namely, the mere gathering of money,” and the speaker cast a glance of triumph at the disgruntled barons.
“I quite agree with you regarding your estimation of acquisitiveness,” said the king cordially, giving no heed to the murmurs of his followers. “In what does this new invention consist?”
“It is simply a pair of wings, your majesty, made from the finest silk which I import from France. They may be fitted to any human being, and they give that human being the power which birds have long possessed.”
“Well,” said the king with a laugh, “I should be the last to teach a Scottish warrior to fly; still the ability to do so would have been, on several occasions, advantageous to us. Have you your wings at hand?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Then you yourself shall test them in our presence.”
“But I should like to spend, your majesty, some further time on preparation,” demurred the man uneasily.
“I thought you said a moment ago that the invention was perfect.”
“Nothing human is perfect, your majesty, and if I said so I spoke with the over-confidence of the inventor. I have, however, succeeded in sailing through the air, but cannot yet make way against a wind.”
“Oh, you have succeeded so far as to interest us in a most attractive experiment. Bid your assistant bring them at once, and let us understand their principle. I rejoice to know that Scotland is to have the benefit of your great genius.”
Farini showed little enthusiasm anent the king’s confidence in him. He had, during the colloquy, cast many an anxious glance towards the French ambassador, apparently much to the annoyance of that high dignitary, for now the Frenchman, seeing his continued hesitation, said sharply, —
“You have heard his majesty’s commands; get on your paraphernalia.”
When the Italian was at last equipped, looking like a demon in a painting that hung in the chapel, the king led the way to the edge of Stirling cliff.
“There,” he said, indicating a spot on the brow of the precipice, “you could not find in all Scotland a better vantage-point for a flight.”
The terrified man stood for a moment on the verge of the appalling precipice; then he gave utterance to a remarkable pronouncement, the import of which was perhaps misunderstood because of the chattering of his teeth.
“Oh, not here, your majesty! Forgive me, and I will confess everything. The gold which I pretended to – ”
“Fly, you fool!” cried the French ambassador, pushing the Italian suddenly between the shoulders and launching him into space. With a wild scream Farini endeavoured to support himself with his gauze-like wings, and for a moment seemed to hover in mid-air; but the framework cracked and the victim, whirling head over heels, fell like a plummet to the bottom of the cliff.
“I fear you have been too impetuous with him,” said the king severely, although as his majesty glanced at Sir David Lyndsay the faint suspicion of a wink momentarily obscured his eye, – a temporary veiling of the royal refulgence, which passed unnoticed as every one else was gazing over the cliff at the motionless form of the fallen man.
“I am to blame, sire,” replied the ambassador contritely, “but I think the villain is an impostor, and I could not bear to see your royal indulgence trifled with. However, I am willing to make amends for my imprudence, and if the scoundrel lives, I shall, at my own expense, transport him instantly to France, where he shall have the attendance of the best surgeons the country affords.”
“That is very generous of you,” replied the king.
And the ambassador, craving permission to retire, hastened to translate his benevolence into action.
Farini was still unconscious when the ambassador and his attendants reached him; but the French nobleman proved as good as his word, for he had the injured man, whose thigh-bone was broken, conveyed in a litter to Leith, and from there shipped to France. But it was many a day before the Scottish nobles ceased to deplore the untimely departure of their gold-maker.
The King A-Begging
Literary ambition has before now led men into difficulties. The king had completed a poem in thirteen stanzas entitled “The Beggar Man,” and the prime requisite of a completed poem is an audience to listen to it. In spite of the fact that he wrote poetry, the king was a sensible person, and he knew that if he read his verses to the court, the members thereof were not the persons to criticise adequately the merits of such a composition; for you cannot expect a high noble, who, if he ever notices a beggar, merely does so to throw a curse at him, or lay the flat of his sword over his shoulders, to appreciate an epic which celebrates the free life led by a mendicant.
The king was well aware that he would receive ample praise for his production; king’s goods are ever the best in the market, and though, like every other literary man, it was praise and not criticism that James wanted, still he preferred to have such praise from the lips of one who knew something of the life he tried to sing; therefore, as evening came on, the monarch dressed himself in his farmer costume, and, taking his thirteen stanzas with him, ventured upon a cautious visit to his friend the cobbler in the lower town of Stirling.
The cobbler listened with an attention which was in itself flattering, and paid his royal visitor the additional compliment of asking him to repeat certain of the verses, which the king in his own heart thought were the best. Then when the thirteenth stanza was arrived at, with the “No-that-bad” commendation, which is dear to the heart of the chary Scotchman, be he of high or low degree, Flemming continued, —
“They might be worse, and we’ve had many a poet of great reputation in Scotland who would not be ashamed to father them. But I’m thinking you paint the existence of a beggar in brighter colours than the life itself warrants.”
“No, no, Flemming,” protested the king earnestly. “I’m convinced that only the beggar knows what true contentment is. You see he begins at the very bottom of the ladder and every step he takes must be a step upward. Now imagine a man at the top, like myself; any move I make in the way of changing my condition must be downward. A beggar is the real king, and a king is but a beggar, for he holds his position by the favour of others. You see, Flemming, anything a beggar gets is so much to the good; and, as he has nothing to lose, not even his head – for who would send a beggar to the block – he must needs be therefore the most contented man on the face of the footstool.”
“Oh, that’s maybe true enough,” replied Flemming, set in his own notion notwithstanding it was the king who opposed him; “but look you, what a scope a beggar has for envy, for there’s nobody he meets that’s not better off than himself.”
“You go to extremes, Flemming. An envious man is unhappy wherever you place him; but I’m speaking of ordinary persons like ourselves, with charity and good-will toward all their fellow-kind. That man, I say, is happier as a beggar than as a king.”
“Well, in so far as concerns myself, your majesty, I’d like to be sure of a roof over my head when the rain’s coming down, and of that a beggar never can be. A king or a cobbler has a place to lay his head, at any rate.”
“Aye,” admitted the king, “but sometimes that place is the block. To tell you the truth, Flemming, I’m thinking of taking a week at the begging myself. A poet should have practical knowledge of the subject about which he writes. Give me a week on the road, Flemming, and I’ll pen you a poem on beggary that will get warmer praise from you than this has had.”
“I give your rhyming the very highest praise, and say that Gavin Douglas himself might have been proud had he put those lines together.”
To this the king made no reply, and the cobbler, looking up at him, saw that a frown marred his brow. Then he remembered, as usual a trifle late, James’s hatred of the Douglas name; a hatred that had been honestly earned by the Earl of Angus, head of that clan. Flemming was learning that it was as dangerous to praise, as to criticise a king. With native caution however, the cobbler took no notice of his majesty’s displeasure, but added an amendment to his first statement.
“It would perhaps be more truthful to say that the verses are worthy of Sir David Lyndsay. In fact, although Sir David is a greater poet than Gavin Douglas, I doubt very much if in his happiest moments he could have equalled ‘The Beggar Man.’”
In mentioning Sir David Lyndsay, Flemming had named the king’s greatest friend, and the cobbler’s desire to please could not have escaped the notice of a man much less shrewd than was James the Fifth. The king rose to his feet, checking a laugh.
“Man Flemming,” he said, “I wonder at you! Have you forgotten that Sir David Lyndsay married Janet Douglas?”
The palpable dismay on the cobbler’s countenance caused the young man to laugh outright.
“The cobbler should stick to his honesty, and not endeavour to tread the slippery path of courtiership. Flemming, if I wanted flattery I could get that up at the castle. I come down here for something better. If anything I could write were half so good as Sir David’s worst, I should be a pleased man. But I’m learning, Flemming, I’m learning. This very day some of my most powerful nobles have presented me with a respectful petition. A year ago I should have said ‘No’ before I had got to the signature of it. But now I have thanked them for their attention to affairs of State, although between me and you and that bench, Flemming, it’s a pure matter of their own greed and selfishness. So I’ve told them I will give the subject my deepest consideration, and that they shall have their answer this day fortnight. Is not that the wisdom of the serpent combined with the harmlessness of the dove?”
“It is indeed,” agreed the cobbler.
“Very well; to-morrow it shall be given out that this petition will occupy my mind for at least a week, and during that time the king is invisible to all comers, high or low. To-morrow, Flemming, you’ll get me as clean a suit of beggar’s rags as you can lay your hands on. I’ll come down here as the Master of Ballengeich, and leave these farmer’s clothes in your care. I shall pass from this door as a beggar, and come back to it in the same condition a week or ten days hence, so see that you’re at hand to receive me.”
“Does your majesty intend to go alone?”
“Entirely alone, Flemming. Bless me, do you imagine I would tramp the country as a beggar with a troop of horse at my back?”
“Your majesty would be wise to think twice of such a project,” warned the cobbler.
“Oh, well, I’ve doubled the number; I’ve thought four times about it; once when I was writing the poem, and three times while you were raising objections to my assertion that the beggar is the happiest man on earth.”
“If your majesty’s mind is fixed, then there’s no more to be said. But take my advice and put a belt round your body with a number of gold pieces in it, for the time may come when you’ll want a horse in a hurry, and perhaps you may be refused lodgings even when you greatly need them; in either case a few gold rascals will stand your friend.”
“That’s canny counsel, Flemming, and I’ll act on it.”
“And perhaps it might be as well to leave with some one in whom you have confidence, instructions so that you could be communicated with if your presence was needed hurriedly at Stirling.”
“No, no, Flemming. Nothing can go wrong in a week. A beggar with a string tied to his legs that some one in Stirling can pull at his pleasure, is not a real beggar, but a slave. If they should want me sorely in Stirling before I return, they’ll think the more of me once I am back.”
And thus it came about that the King of Scotland, with a belt of gold around his waist in case of need, and garments concealing the belt which gave little indication that anything worth a robber’s care was underneath, tramped the high roads and byways of a part of Scotland, finding in general a welcome wherever he went, for he could tell a story that would bring a laugh, and sing a song that would bring a tear, and all such rarely starve or lack shelter in this sympathetic world.
Only once did he feel himself in danger, and that was on what he thought to be the last day of his tramp, for in the evening he expected to reach the lower town of Stirling, even though he came to it late in the night. But the weather of Scotland has always something to say to the pedestrian, and it delights in upsetting his plans.
He was still more than two leagues from his castle, and the dark Forest of Torwood lay between him and royal Stirling, when towards the end of a lowering day, there came up over the hills to the west one of the fiercest storms he had ever beheld, which drove him for shelter to a wayside inn on the outskirts of the forest. The place of shelter was low and forbidding enough, but needs must when a Scottish storm drives, and the king burst in on a drinking company, bringing a swirl of rain and a blast of wind with him; so fierce in truth was the wind that one of the drinkers had to spring to his feet and put his shoulder to the door before the king could get it closed again. He found but scant welcome in the company. Those seated on the benches by the fire scowled at him; and the landlord seeing he was but a beggar, did not limit his displeasure to so silent a censure.
“What in the fiend’s name,” he cried angrily, “does the like of you want in here?”
The king nonchalantly shook the water from his rags and took a step nearer the fire.
“That is a very unnecessary question, landlord,” said the young man with a smile, “nevertheless, I will answer it. I want shelter in the first place, and food and drink as soon as you can bring them.”
“Shelter you can get behind a stone dyke or in the forest,” retorted his host; “food and drink are for those who can pay for it. Get you gone! You mar good company.”
“In truth, landlord, your company is none to my liking, but I happen to prefer it to the storm. Food and drink, you say, are for those who can pay; you see one of them before you, therefore, sir, hasten to your duty, or it may be mine to hurry you unpleasantly.”
This truculence on the part of a supposed beggar had not the effect one might have expected of increasing the boisterousness of the landlord. That individual well knew that many beggars were better able to pay their way than was he himself when he took to journeying, so he replied more civilly, —
“I’ll take your order for a meal when I have seen the colour of your money.”
“Quite right,” said the king, “and only fair Scottish caution.” Then with a lack of that quality he had just commended, he drew his belt out from under his coat, and taking a gold piece from it, threw the coin on the table.
The entrance of the king and the manner of his reception exposed him to the danger almost sure to attend the display of so much wealth in such forbidding company. A moment later he realised the jeopardy in which his rashness had placed him, by the significant glances which the half-dozen rough men there seated gave to each other. He was alone and unarmed in a disreputable bothy on the edge of a forest, well known as the refuge of desperate characters. He wished that he had even one of the sharp knives belonging to his friend the cobbler, so that he might defend himself. However, the evil was done, if evil it was, and there was no help for it. James was never a man to cross a bridge before he came to it; so he set himself down to the steaming venison brought for his refreshment, and made no inquiry whether it were poached or not, being well aware that any question in that direction was as unnecessary as had been the landlord’s first query to himself. He was young. His appetite, at all times of the best, was sharpened by his journey, and the ale, poor as it was, seemed to him the finest brew he had ever tasted. The landlord was now all obsequiousness, and told the beggar he could command the best in the house.
When the time came to retire, his host brought the king by a ladder to a loft which occupied the whole length of the building, and muttered something about the others sleeping here as well, but thanked Heaven there was room enough for an army.
“This will not do for me,” said the beggar, coming down again. “I’ll take to the storm first. What is this chamber leading out from the tap-room?”
“That is my own,” replied the landlord, with some return of his old incivility, “and I’ll give it up to no beggar.”
The king without answering opened the door of the chamber and found himself in a room that could be barricaded. Taking a light with him he examined it more minutely.
“Is this matchlock loaded?” he asked, pointing to a clumsy gun, which had doubtless caused the death of more than one deer in the forest.
The landlord answered in surly fashion that it was, but the king tested the point for himself.
“Now,” he said, “I rest here, and you will see that I am not disturbed. Any man who attempts to enter this room gets the contents of this gun in him, and I’ll trust to my two daggers to take care of the rest.”
He had no dagger with him, but he spoke for the benefit of the company in the tap-room. Something in his resolute manner seemed to impress the landlord, who grumbled, muttering half to himself and half to his companions, but he nevertheless retired, leaving the king alone, whereupon James fortified the door, and afterward slept unmolested the sleep of a tired man, until broad day woke him.
Wonderful is the change wrought in a man’s feelings by a fair morning. A new day; a new lease of life. The recurrent morning must have been contrived to give discouraged humanity a fresh chance. The king, amazed to find that he had slept so soundly in spite of the weight of apprehension on his mind the night before, discovered this apprehension to be groundless in the clear light of the new day. The sulky villains of the tap-room were now honest fellows who would harm no one, and James laughed aloud at his needless fears; the loaded matchlock in the corner giving no hint of its influence towards a peaceful night. The landlord seemed, indeed, a most civil person, who would be the last to turn a penniless man from his door. James, over his breakfast, asked what had become of the company, and his host replied that they were woodlanders; good lads in their way, but abashed before strangers. Some of them had gone to their affairs in the forest and others had proceeded to St. Ninians, to enjoy the hanging set for that day.
“And which way may your honour be journeying?” asked the innkeeper, “for I see that you are no beggar.”
“I am no beggar at such an inhospitable house as this,” replied the wayfarer, “but elsewhere I am a beggar, that is to say, the gold I come by is asked for, and not earned.”
“Ah, that’s it, is it?” said the other with a nod, “but for such a trade you need your weapons by your side.”
“The deadliest weapons,” rejoined the king mysteriously, “are not always those most plainly on view. The sting of the wasp is generally felt before it is seen.”
The landlord was plainly disturbed by the intelligence he had received, and now made some ado to get the change for the gold piece, but his guest replied airily that it did not matter.
“With whatever’s coming to me,” he said, “feed the next beggar that applies to you on a rainy night with less at his belt to commend him than I have.”
“Well, good-day to you, and thank you,” said the innkeeper. “If you’re going Stirling way, your road’s straight through the forest, and when you come to St. Ninians you’ll be in time to see a fine hanging, for they’re throttling Baldy Hutchinson to-day, the biggest man between here and the Border, yes, and beyond it, I warrant.”
“That will be interesting,” replied the king. “Good-day to you.”
At the side of the wall, which ran from the end of the hostel and enclosed a bit of ground appertaining to it, James stooped ostensibly to tie his shoe, but in reality to learn if his late host made any move, for he suspected that the sinister company of the night before might not be so far away as the landlord had intimated. His stratagem was not without its reward. The back door opened, and he heard the landlord say in a husky whisper to some one unseen, —
“Run, Jock, as fast’s you can to the second turning in the road, and tell Steenie and his men they’d best leave this chap alone; he’s a robber himself.”
The king smiled as he walked slowly north towards the forest and saw a bare-legged boy race at great speed across the fields and disappear at their margin. He resolved to give time for this message to arrive, so that he might not be molested, and therefore sauntered at a more leisurely rate than that at which a man usually begins a journey on an inspiring morning.
Entering the forest at last, he relaxed no precaution, but kept to the middle of the road with his stout stick ready in his hand. Whether Jock found his men or not he never learned, but at the second turning five stalwart ruffians fell upon him; two armed with knives, and three with cudgels. The king’s early athletic training was to be put to a practical test. His first action was to break the wrist of one of the scoundrels who held a knife, but before he could pay attention to any of the others he had received two or three resounding blows from the cudgels, and now was fully occupied warding off their strokes, backing down the road to keep his assailants in front of him. His great agility gave him an advantage over the comparative clumsiness of the four yokels who pressed him, but he was well aware that an unguarded blow might lay him at their mercy. He was more afraid of the single knife than of the three clubs, and springing through a fortunate opening was delighted to crack the crown of the man who held the blade, stretching him helpless in a cart rut. The three who remained seemed in no way disheartened by the discomfiture of their comrades, but came on with greater fury. The king retreated and retreated baffling their evident desire to get in his rear, and thus the fighting four came to the corner of the road that James had passed a short time previously. One of the trio got in a nasty crack on the top of the beggar’s bonnet, which brought him to his knees, and before he could recover his footing, a blow on the shoulder felled him. At this critical juncture there rose a wild shout down the road, for the fighting party, in coming round the turn, had brought themselves within view of a sturdy pedestrian forging along at a great pace, which he nevertheless marvellously accelerated on seeing the mêlée. For a moment the dazed man on the ground thought that the landlord had come to his rescue, but it was not so. It seemed as if a remnant of the storm had swept like a whirlwind among the aggressors, for the newcomer in the fray, with savage exclamations, which showed his delight in a tumult, scattered the enemy as a tornado drives before it the leaves of a forest. The king raised himself on his elbow and watched the gigantic stranger lay about him with his stick, while the five, with cries of terror, disappeared into the forest, for the two that were prostrate had now recovered wind enough to run.
“Losh,” panted the giant, returning to the man on the road, “I wish I’d been here at the beginning.”
“Thank goodness you came at the end,” said the king, staggering unsteadily to his feet.
“Are you hurt?” asked the stranger.
“I’m not just sure yet,” replied the king, removing his bonnet and rubbing the top of his head with a circular movement of his hand.
“Just a bit cloor on the croon,” said the other in broad Lowland Scotch. “It stunners a man, but it’s nothin’ ava when ye can stan’ on your ain feet.”
“Oh, it’s not the first time I’ve had to fight for my crown,” said James with a laugh, “but five to one are odds a little more heavy than I care to encounter.”
“Are ye able to walk on, for I’m in a bit o’ a hurry, as ye’d have seen if your attention hadna been turned to the north.”
“Oh, quite able,” replied the king as they strode along together.
“What’s wrong wi’ those scamps to lay on a poor beggar man?” asked the stranger.
“Nothing, except that the beggar man is not so poor as he looks, and has a belt of gold about him, which he was foolish enough to show last night at the inn where these lads were drinking.”
“Then the lesson hasn’t taught you much, or you wouldn’t say that to a complete stranger in the middle of a black forest, and you alone with him, that is, unless they’ve succeeded in reiving the belt away from you?”
“No, they have not robbed me, and to show you that I am not such a fool as you take me for, I may add that the moment you came up I resolved to give to my rescuer every gold piece that is in my belt. So you see, if you thought of robbing me, there’s little use in taking by force what a man is more than willing to give you of his own free will.”
The giant threw back his head and the wood resounded with his laughter.
“What I have said seems to amuse you,” said the king not too well pleased at the boisterous merriment of his companion.
“It does that,” replied the stranger, still struggling with his mirth; then striking the king on the shoulder, he continued, “I suppose there is not another man in all broad Scotland to-day but me, that wouldn’t give the snap of his fingers for all the gold you ever carried.”
“Then you must be wealthy,” commented the king. “Yet it can’t be that, for the richest men I know are the greediest.”
“No, it isn’t that,” rejoined the stranger, “but if you wander anywhere about this region you will understand what I mean when I tell you that I’m Baldy Hutchinson.”
“Baldy Hutchinson!” echoed the king, wrinkling his brows, trying to remember where he had heard that name before, then with sudden enlightenment, —
“What, not the man who is to be hanged to-day at St. Ninians?”
“The very same, so you see that all the gold ever minted is of little use to a man with a tightening rope round his neck.” And the comicality of the situation again overcoming Mr. Hutchinson, his robust sides shook once more with laughter.
The king stopped in the middle of the road and stared at his companion with amazement.
“Surely you are aware,” he said at last, “that you are on the direct road to St. Ninians?”
“Surely, surely,” replied Baldy, “and you remind me, that we must not stand yammering here, for there will be a great gathering there to see the hanging. All my friends are there now, and if I say it, who shouldn’t, I’ve more friends than possibly any other man in this part of Scotland.”
“But, do you mean that you are going voluntarily to your own hanging? Bless my soul, man, turn in your tracks and make for across the Border.”
Hutchinson shook his head.
“If I had intended to do that,” he said, “I could have saved myself many a long step yesterday and this morning, for I was a good deal nearer the Border than I am at this moment. No, no, you see I have passed my word. The sheriff gave me a week among my own friends to settle my worldly affairs, and bid the wife and the bairns good-bye. So I said to the sheriff, ‘I’m your man whenever you are ready for the hanging.’ Now, the word of Baldy Hutchinson has never been broken yet, and the sheriff knew it, although I must admit he swithered long ere he trusted it on an occasion like this. But at last he said to me, ‘Baldy,’ says he, ‘I’ll take your plighted word. You’ve got a week before you, and you must just go and come as quietly as you can, and be here before the clock strikes twelve on Friday, for folk’ll want to see you hanged before they have their dinners.’ And that’s what way I’m in such a hurry now, for I’m feared the farmers will be gathered, and that it will be difficult for me to place myself in the hands of the sheriff without somebody getting to jalouse what has happened.”