During the battle, if such a word is to be used, James, who took good care to keep out of it, was concealed in his castle at Lochmaben, northeast of Dumfries.[261] There he was awaiting the issue of that famous expedition which was to be his title to glory. He had made sure of taking at the first blow the town of Carlisle, situated at a distance of some miles from the frontier, and formerly one of the principal military posts of the Romans, at which the wall of Hadrian terminated, and which had been more than once besieged and taken. Thence he hoped to pass on and reach York, and pay an armed visit to his dear uncle there. He was expecting the tidings of his triumph, when some of the fugitives made known to him the total rout of his army. Overwhelmed with sudden fear and astonishment, he could hardly utter a word. It was night when he heard of his defeat, and not daring to venture before daylight into unknown, untrodden ways, he retired to bed, but without finding the least repose. His distress was unbounded. He experienced the most acute pangs, could hardly breathe, and only uttered some vague cries. The manner in which his unworthy favorite had deceived his expectation, his defeat and flight, disturbed him as much as the victory of the English. He got up, paced up and down in his chamber, uttered lamentations, and cried out—‘Oh, fled Oliver? Is Oliver taken? Oh, fled Oliver?’[262] He was attacked with a kind of catalepsy. The constant contemplation of that extraordinary defeat and of the conduct of that despicable man on whom he had rested his hopes had in some degree suspended sensation in him, and he lay as in a long and painful trance until his death, continually repeating, ‘Oh, fled Oliver?’
The next morning, November 25, 1542, the king returned to Edinburgh. He could hardly conceal his disgrace in his splendid palace; and there a new disgrace was reported to him which still further heightened his grief. On November 14, two envoys from the duke of Norfolk had arrived there with a letter addressed to the king. The cardinal had replied that he was gone a-hunting in Fifeshire. Ten days later, on the fatal day of Solway, towards evening, when the English envoys on their return were approaching Dunbar, one of them, J. Ponds, Somerset herald, was attacked by two men and assassinated. James, when he heard of this on his return, was in consternation. It might seriously aggravate the crisis which was already so alarming. Notwithstanding the painful state in which he then was, he wrote immediately to his uncle: ‘Be assured that punishment shall thereafter follow according to the quality of the crime, and that there is no prince now living who could be more afflicted than we are that such an odious crime should remain unpunished.’ He offered to send ambassadors and heralds to explain the criminal deed.[263] That was probably the last letter written by the king.
James had a painful interview with the cardinal, who might now understand to what a condition his hatred of the Reformation and his ambition had reduced the king and the realm. James, who believed himself pursued by a fatal destiny, took account sorrowfully, when left alone, of his treasures and his jewels; and then, full of shame and melancholy, and afraid to show himself to anyone whomsoever in his capital, set out secretly for Fifeshire. He stopped at Hallyards, where he was warmly received by the lady of Grange, a respectable and pious woman, whose husband was absent at the time. This Christian woman, observing at supper that the prince was plunged in melancholy, sought to comfort him, and exhorted him to bow with resignation to the will of God. ‘My portion of this world is short,’ sorrowfully answered James; ‘in fifteen days I shall be with you no more.’ Some time afterwards one of the officers of his court having said to him, ‘Sire, Christmas is nigh; where will your majesty wish to celebrate that festival?’ James replied with a scornful smile, ‘I cannot tell: choose ye the place. But this I can tell you, on Yule day ye will be masterless, and the realm without a king.’
LAST HOURS OF JAMES V.
Haunted by these thoughts, the king went thence to Carney castle, and next to his palace at Falkland, where he took to his bed. It would have been natural for him to go to Linlithgow, to his queen, who was on the point of giving birth to a child. He chose rather to be at a distance from her. Loose living is incompatible with domestic happiness. No symptom showed that his death was near. James, however, was always repeating the words, ‘Before such a day I shall be dead.’ His courtiers, astonished and afflicted, said to one another that if the queen gave him a son, the happiness so much desired would restore him; but on December 8, 1542, she gave birth to a girl—the celebrated Mary Stuart. On learning that the newborn infant was a girl, James, wounded afresh in his dearest wish, turned to the wall, away from those who had brought him the sad tidings. ‘The devil go with it,’ he said; ‘it will end as it began; it came with a lass, and it will go with a lass.’[264] He saw his family extinct, his crown lost. Other Stuarts, however, bore it after Mary. Both Scotland and England, unhappily, knew that to their cost. But this circumstance—the hope frustrated of a son to take the place of the two which he had lost—was a fresh and fatal blow for the unfortunate James:
De douleur en douleur il traversait la vie.
The cardinal presented himself at the castle. His visit was natural at that moment. But the ambitious prelate, supposing the king to be near death, came not to console him, but to secure his own position. As the king in his present dangerous state could only hear with difficulty, the primate cried in his ear—‘Take order, sir, with the realm. Who shall rule during the minority of your daughter? Ye have known my service; what will ye have done? Shall there not be four regents chosen, and shall not I be principal of them?’ The clever prelate succeeded in getting a document prepared which was in his favor. The king was sinking. But the memory of Solway ran continually in his head, and disturbed his last moments. ‘Fie,’ cried he; ‘fled is Oliver? is Oliver taken? All is lost.’ On December 14, 1542, at the age of thirty-two, six days after the birth of Mary Stuart, James V. died. When disrobing him, they found in his pocket the famous proscription list. What was to come of that now?
James was buried at Holyrood January 8, and the cardinal who had driven him along that fatal path in which he was to meet death presided at the ceremony. This prince, thus taken away in the flower of his age, died not so much of disease as of a broken heart.[265] ‘The sorrow of the world worketh death.’ He had understanding, but it was uncultivated; he was moderate in respect to the pleasures of the table, but he had been thrown in his youth into other irregularities, from which he never got free. He might be seen in the bitterest winter weather, on horseback night and day, endeavoring to surprise the freebooters in their retreats; and poor men had always easy access to him. But for want of thoughtfulness and solid principles he was incessantly tossed to and fro between the nobles and the priests, and whichever of these two was the most adroit easily took the upper hand. He sinned much, but perhaps he was still more ‘sinned against.’