The meal over, the duke proposed a game of trictrac, and took care while it was going on to ply his guest freely with the wine, while his chamberlain was no less attentive to the three soldiers. The drink, and the heat of a great fire, near which they had artfully placed him, soon made the officer very drowsy, and the men too began to nod their heads.
Their time was come: the duke, who was a strong man, suddenly jumped up, and with one blow of a poniard laid the captain dead at his feet. In another moment he had despatched two of the soldiers; while the chamberlain with his own dagger finished the third. Their work was the easier to do as the drink and the fire together had almost stupefied the poor wretches before a blow was struck. After they had taken the keys out of the captain’s pockets, they threw the bodies on the fire, and making their way to an out-of-the-way corner of the wails, began their perilous descent.
The chamberlain went down first to try the cord, but it was too short, and he fell and broke his leg. He uttered no cry of pain, but simply told his master the cause of the disaster. The duke went back to fetch his bed-clothes, and finally made the descent in safety. His first care was to provide for the injured man; and he did not bestow a thought on himself till he had carried his faithful dependent to a hut where he might remain in perfect security until his recovery. This done, he flew to the sea-shore, and a boat answering to the hail—at the signal agreed on—he boarded the sloop, which instantly set sail for France.
During the night, the guards, who knew that their officer had three men with him in the duke’s room, had no suspicion of what was passing. But when at daybreak they saw the cord hanging from the wall, they took the alarm, and rushed hastily into the apartment, when they stumbled over the body of one soldier lying across the doorway, and saw those of the captain and the two other men smouldering amid the dying embers in the large fireplace. The King expressed much surprise at this extraordinary escape, and he could not be brought to believe in it till he had seen the place with his own eyes. (Sir Walter Scott’s History of Scotland, vol. i., ch. xix.)
JAMES V., KING OF SCOTLAND.
SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
Sir George Douglas and his brother, the Earl of Angus, who had married Queen Margaret of Scotland, had obtained possession of the person of the young King James V., then a child; and the Earl of Angus administered the kingdom, and discharged all the functions of a regent without assuming the title. In a word, these two lords manœuvred so as to substitute their family for the reigning one upon the throne of Scotland. Several attempts for the King’s deliverance had failed, and even two great battles had been fought without success by the partisans of James V. At the commencement of the second battle, George Douglas, seeing that the King was eagerly watching an opportunity to escape, said, “It is useless for your Grace to think of getting out of our hands; if our enemies held you by one arm, and we by the other, we would see you torn in pieces rather than loosen our grip.” To make quite sure of their prize, they appointed a hundred chosen men to guard the youthful monarch, commanded by one of their own family, Douglas of Parkhead.
Every attempt by open force having thus failed, James resolved to have recourse to stratagem. He persuaded his mother, Queen Margaret, to give up her castle of Stirling to him, and to place it under the command of a gentleman in whom he had confidence. All this was done very secretly, and the King, having thus prepared a possible retreat, began to seek an opportunity of flying to it. The better to disarm the vigilance of the Douglases, he showed such deference to the Earl of Angus, that people began to think he had gone over to that nobleman’s party, and had become resigned to the loss of his own liberty. He was then living at Falkland, a royal residence very favourably situated for hunting and falconry, his favourite amusements.
The Earl of Angus and Archibald and George Douglas had all three left Falkland on various errands of business or pleasure, and no one remained near the King but Douglas of Parkhead, with the hundred men on whose vigilance the family knew they could rely. James saw the moment was favourable. To allay the suspicions of his guards, he announced his intention of rising early on a certain morning to hunt the stag, and Douglas of Parkhead never doubting that this was said in good faith, went to bed after posting his sentinels in the usual manner.
But the King no sooner found himself alone than he called his trusty page, John Hart, and looking at him very earnestly, said, “John, do you love me?”