Late one spring evening not long after the disaster of Solway Moss, Sir Robert Maxwell was walking to and fro within the Tower of Lochmaben—a heavy frown upon his brow—cogitating his reply to a letter from my Lord Arran—now governor of Scotland under the regency of the widowed Queen, Mary of Lorraine.
Amongst other matters touched upon Arran made mention of his purpose to find the right suitor for the hand of Agnes Herries—daughter and heiress of the Lord Herries of Hoddam Castle. A hint was delicately conveyed that possibly Maxwell himself might be eligible—if he gave up his 'assurance with England.'
Now Sir Robert's late father—the Lord Maxwell—had been made prisoner at Solway Moss, but had been set free on 'taking assurance' with England and giving twelve hostages of his own name to the opposite warden—Lord Wharton at Carlisle.
In addition there was a suggestive allusion to the Scots Wardenry of the Western march, which was vacant at the moment.
The offer was most tempting, but—there were the twelve Maxwell hostages, his cousins, in Wharton's hands.
Sir Robert grew wroth as he read and re-read the letter. 'Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?' he questioned angrily, as he sat down to indite a peremptory refusal.
He found his task very difficult, for he had little skill in writing. Shortly, he determined to send over to Dumfries first thing in the morning for the notary public to come and write the letter for him, and be a witness to his signature.
This he did, but the messenger brought word back that the notary was ill with the spotted fever and could not come.
Sir Robert's anger increased, for the temptation beckoned insistently. He had already had thoughts of the fair and well-dowered Agnes, but he knew 'twas hopeless unless he was reconciled to Arran.
He determined to ride out and rid himself of black care by a gallop. Mounting, he let the horse choose his ain gait, and shortly found himself in the airt of Hoddam, whence he rode up to the grassy fells above Solway. Then he let his horse out on a gallop, and away he sped like a curlew—sweeping over the short grass, and drinking in the breeze like wine.