There was a hawking party assembled in the neighbourhood of Stirling, which he graced by his presence. All was, apparently, light-heartedness and joy, till a dispute arose between two damsels upon the merits of their respective falcons. One of these was fair Mary Boyd, daughter of the laird of Bonshaw. Mary Boyd was the first-love of the young sovereign, and the report went, that he was no unsuccessful suitor; it spoke of offspring carefully concealed in a village of Fife, whom James often visited. When, afterwards, this young lady's example was imitated by others nobly born, this became no secret, and of her children, one became archbishop of St. Andrew's—the other, a daughter, married the earl of Morton.
But these were days of youthful bashfulness and reserve; the mind of Mary Boyd balanced between pride in her lover, and shame for her fault; a state of feeling that ill brooked the loss of what gilded her too apparent frailty—the exclusive attention of the king. Mary was older than the king; the dignity which had captivated the boy's imagination, lost its charm when the tyranny of assumed right took the place of that of tenderness. He grew cold, then absent, and at last, ventured to fix a regard of admiration on another, sliding easily from the restraint to which he at first submitted, into all of devotion, and soft, gallant courtesy, by which kings win ladies' love, and in which none grew to be a greater adept than James. The new object that attracted him was, the young, gay, and lovely Lady Jane Kennedy, daughter of the earl of Cassils. Her sparkling eyes, her "bonny brent brow," her dark, clustering hair, contrasted with the transparency of her complexion—her perfect good-humour, her vivacity, and her wit—made her a chief beauty in the Scottish court, and in all this she was the reverse of the fair, light-haired, sleepy-eyed Mary. Lady Jane saw and gloried in her triumph over the king. Innocent then, she only desired the reputation of such a conquest, fully resolved not to tread in the steps of her rival. It is something of fool's play to strive to enchain fire by links of straw, to throw silken fetters on abounding torrent, to sport with the strong lion, Love, as he were a playful whelp: some, secure in innocence and principle, may at last discover their mistake and remain uninjured; but not the vain, heedless, self-willed, Lady Jane. The courtiers were divided in their attentions; some for shame would not forsake Mary Boyd; some thought that still she would regain her power; one or two imagined that Lady Jane's resistance would restore the king to her rival; but the greater number caught the light spirit of the hour, and gathered round the laughing, happy girl.
The contention between these ladies made many smile. The king betted a diamond against a Scotch pebble on Lady Jane's bird. Mary had thwarted him, and forced him to her side during the first part of the day—now he took his revenge. A heron rose from the river banks. The birds were unhooded, and up soared Lady Jane's in one equal flight through the blue air, cleaving the atmosphere with noiseless wing. Mary's followed slower; but, when Lady Jane's pounced on the quarry, and brought it screaming and flapping to the ground, the rival bird darted on the conqueror, and a sharp struggle ensued. It was unequal; for the Lady Jane's hawk would not quit its prey. "Let them fight it out," said Mary, "and the survivor is surely the victor."
But the spectators cried shame—while Lady Jane, with a scream, hastened to save her favourite. The other, fiery as a borderer, attacked even her; and, in spite of her gloves, drops of blood from her fair hand, stained her silken robe. James came to her rescue, and with one blow put an end to the offender's life. Jane caressed her "tassel gentle," while Mary looted on her "false carrion's" extinction with unrepressed indignation. They returned to Stirling: immediately on their arrival, they received tidings that the duke of York's fleet had been descried, and was expected to enter the Frith on the following day. None heard the words without emotion; the general sentiment was joy; for Richard's landing was to be the signal of invasion. King Henry had one or two friends among the Scottish nobles, and these alone smiled contemptuously.
"We must have feasts and tourneys, fair mistress," said the king, "to honour our royal visitor. Will your servant intrude unseemingly if, while his arms extol your beauty, he wears your colours?"
Lady Jane smiled a reply, as she followed her father towards his mansion. She smiled, while feminine triumph beamed in her eye, and girlish bashfulness blushed in her cheek. "Has she not a bonny ee?" cried James, to him who rode near him. It was Sir Patrick Hamilton, his dear cousin and friend, to whom James often deferred, and respected, while he loved. His serious look recalled the king. "This is not the time, good sooth!" he continued, "for such sweet gauds—but for lance, and broadsword:—the coming of this prince of Roses will bring our arms into play, all rusty as they are. I wonder what presence our guest may have!"
The friends then conversed concerning the projected war, which both agreed would be well-timed. It would at once give vent to the fiery impulses of the Scotch lords, otherwise apt to prey upon each other. But lately a band of the Drummonds had burnt the kirk of Moulward, in which were six-score Murrays, with their wives and children, all of whom were victims. But foray in England—war with the land of their hate—the defiance would be echoed in glad shouts from Tweed to Tay, from the Lothians to the Carse of Gowrie; while it should be repeated in groans from the Northumberland wilds.
CHAPTER XXIX
WELCOME TO SCOTLAND
Cousin of York, thus once more we embrace thee;
Welcome to James of Scotland! For thy safety,
Know, such as love thee not shall never wrong thee.
Come, we will taste awhile our court delights,
Dream hence afflictions past, and then proceed
To high attempts of honour.