‘I thought King Henry had resembled thee,
In courage, courtship, and proportion:
But all his mind is bent to holiness,
To number Ave-Maries on his beads:
His champions are the prophets and apostles;
His weapons, holy saws of sacred writ.’
King Henry VI.
George Douglas’s chivalrous venture in defence of the falcon of his lady-love had certainly not done much for him hitherto, as Davie observed. The Lady Joanna, as every one now called her, took it as only the bounden duty and natural service of one of her suite, and would have cared little for his suffering for it personally, except so far as it concerned her own dignity, which she understood much better than she had done in Scotland, where she was only one of ‘the lassies,’ an encumbrance to every one.
The York retainers had dropped all idea of visiting his offence upon Douglas when they found that he had acted in the service of an honoured guest of their lord, but they did not look with much favour on him or on any other of the Scottish troop, whom their master enjoined them to treat as guests and comrades.
The uniting of so many suites of the mighty nobles of the fifteenth century formed quite a little army, amounting to some two or three hundred horsemen, mostly armed, and well appointed, with their masters’ badges on their sleeves,—falcon and fetterlock, dun cow, bear and ragged staff and the cross of Durham, while all likewise wore in their caps the white rose. Waggons with household furniture and kitchen needments had been sent in advance with the numerous ‘black guard,’ and a provision of cattle for slaughter accompanied these, since it was one of the considerate acts that already had won affection to Richard of York that, unlike many of the great nobles, he always avoided as much as possible letting his train be oppressive to the country-people.
David Drummond had been seeing that all his father’s troop were duly provided with the Drummond badge, the thyme, which was requisite as showing them accepted of the Duke of York’s company, but as George and his follower had never submitted to wear it, he was somewhat surprised to find the gray blossom prominent in George’s steel-guarded cap, and to hear him saying—
‘Don it, Ringan, as thou wouldst obey me.’
‘His father’s son is not his own father,’ said Ringan sulkily.
‘Then tak’ thy choice of wearing it, or winning hame as thou canst—most like hanging on the nearest oak.’
‘And I’d gey liefer than demean myself in the Drummond thyme!’ replied Ringan, half turning away. ‘But then what would come of Gray Meg wi’ only the Master to see till her,’ muttered he, caressing the mare’s neck. ‘Weel, aweel, sir’—and he held out his hand for the despised spray.
‘Is yon thy wild callant, Geordie?’ said David in some surprise, for Ringan was not only provided with a pony, but his thatch of tow-like hair had been trimmed and covered with a barret cap, and his leathern coat and leggings were like those of the other horse-boys.