Margaret Drummond heard these tidings with a pang, for the noble and gentle Howard had won her whole esteem, though he could win nothing more.
"Thou art so rich in honour, and, men say, in money too, Robert Barton," said the king, "that I am sorely puzzled how to reward thy bright career of faithful service; but thou shalt be the captain of my Great Michael, as soon as that stately ship is launched and fit for sea. And as for thee, my honest Davie Falconer, the gentle and the brave," he added, taking both Sir David's hands in his, "what shall I say to thee? As an earliest of better things, let me hang this gold medal, the gift of our Holy Father Innocent VIII., to the golden chain my father gave thee, when last we were all under this old rooftree together. May the good God bless thee, Davie Falconer; for, on the last day of that poor father's life, thou didst fight nobly by his side, where I too should have been, but for evil fortune and most accursed counsel!"
Falconer's heart swelled with mingled joy and sadness as the young king attached the medal to his chain, and he gazed imploringly at Margaret Drummond, with an expression that seemed to say, "Oh, speak for us—for Sybilla and for me—you know our secret well;" but terror of her father, on whose face there was a scornful smile, repressed any such thought in her mind.
"I have ever done my duty as a subject and a leal Scotsman," said Falconer; "but in this presence I dare not say all I think, or all I feel, lest the Lord Drummond and others deem me bold; for other inheritance than my sword and an honest name, have I none."
"Nay, by my soul, David Falconer, Drummond will never deem thee over-bold," said the old lord, with a sudden emotion of generosity, "for the sword is ever the Scotsman's best, and often his last inheritance, as many a foreign field can show; and well I know, that it was not when treading on a silken carpet you won the spurs you wear."
These were the first kind words the father of Sybilla had ever addressed to him, and they raised in his warm heart a glow of hope and gratitude.
That evening there was a grand banquet served up amid a flourish of trumpets; Sir Stephen Bull sat on the king's right hand, the Laird of Largo on his left; and the English and Scots, oblivious of yesterday's strife and slaughter, pushed the stoups of Malmsey and Rochelle, Canary and Bordeaux, as busily as of late they had plied cannon and arquebuss, eghisarma and hand-gun. Sir John Carmichael of Netherton and Hyndford—the same who, with Swinton of Dalswinton, slew the Duke of Clarence at the Battle of Verneuil—was chief carver; the Laird of Southesk was cup-bearer, and the kirk bells of "the Blessed Virgin Mary-in-the-fields" rang their matin-chime before the carousers drank the voidée, or parting-cup—the signal for retiring.
The dead were buried in two large graves, within the old cemetery of St. Paul's Church, between the Sea Gate and the Murray Gate of Dundee. Sir Fulke of Fulkeshall was interred alone; and his remains, with a large sword with the blade full of notches, and several silver coins (which the Scots always interred with the dead—a strange remnant of paganry) were found in a large stone coffin, when the foundations of the East Church of Dundee were being dug in 1842; but poor Howard had found a grave among the waves that dash upon the shoals of the Buddon-ness.
In less than a week the English ships were refitted, and began to drop down the Tay, to sail for London.
On Blue Peter being displayed at the masthead by Sir Stephen Bull, and the fore-topsails being cast loose—announcing that they were about to depart—the crews of all the Scottish war-ships, about fifteen or twenty of which had now mustered near Dundee—manned the yards, and gave them a parting cheer, while the Laird of Balgillo saluted St. George's cross by a salvo of guns from the battlements of Broughty; and thus they separated—those hostile ships—with farewell compliments and mutual expressions of amity and good-will.