A large train of attendants followed, partly on horseback and partly on foot. These were variously armed with hunting-spears, cross-bows, and long-bows: and many of the pedestrians, who were coarsely clad, and some of them even barefooted as well as bareheaded, led a number of alloundes, raches, and sleuth-hounds, whilst others carried carcases of red deer and roebucks, suspended on poles borne between two, as also four-footed and feathered animals of chase, which had fallen victims to the sport of the day.
All this, which has taken so much time to describe, was seen by Sir Patrick Hepborne at a single glance, or at least he had sufficient leisure to make himself master of the particulars ere the cavalcade came up to him. As the Wolfe of Badenoch drew near, Sir Patrick dismounted, and, giving his horse to his esquire, advanced towards him, and paid him the respectful obeisance due to the King’s son.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, reigning up his curvetting steed; “who, in the fiend’s name, may this be?” [[209]]
“My noble Lord of Buchan,” said Hepborne, “I wait upon your Highness by the especial desire of His Majesty the King, your royal father. Being on my way to Moray Land, to be present at the tournament to be held by the Earl of Moray on the Mead of St. John’s, I passed by Scone, to pay mine humble duty at his Grace’s Court after my return from France, where I have been for some of these late years; and knowing mine intent of visiting these northern parts, your royal father did kindly bid me seek your well-known hospitality as I should pass into Moray Land. Moreover, he did honour me so far as to charge me with a letter under his own signet, addressed for your Highness.—My name is Sir Patrick Hepborne.”
The Wolfe fidgetted to and fro upon his horse, and displayed very great impatience until the knight had finished.
“Ha!” said he, the moment he had done speaking—“ha! ’tis well. By my trusty burly-brand, thou art welcome, Sir Patrick Hepborne. Thy name hath a sweet savour with it for stark doughtiness in stiff stour, since thou be’st, as I ween, the son of the bold Sir Patrick Hepborne of Hailes. By my beard, thou art welcome,” said he again, as he stretched out his hand to him. “As for the old man’s letter, we shall see that anon when better place and leisure serve. Know this lady, Sir Patrick,” continued he, turning towards her who rode with him; “she is the Lady Mariota Athyn (of whom peraunter thou mayst have heard), and mother to those five sturdy whelps who ride at my back, and who are wont to call me father. But get thee to horse, Sir Patrick; the feast waits for us ere this, and we can talk anon with our wine wassail. If thou hadst done as much to-day as we have, and been as long from thy trencher, the red fiend catch me but thou wilt think more of eating than of talking. Get thee to horse, then, and on with us, I say; we are now but a short space from the tents. To horse, then, to horse!”
Mortimer Sang brought up his master’s steed, Sir Patrick vaulted into the saddle, and, being beckoned by the Wolfe to take his place beside him, immediately obeyed. The Lady Mariota Athyn, who had eyed the handsome Maurice de Gray, gave him a condescending signal to come to her right hand, and in this order they rode up the glen, towards the place where the tents were pitched, the knight’s party mingling as they went with that of Lord Badenoch, according to the various conditions of the persons who composed it. [[210]]
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Wolfe of Badenoch’s Hunting Encampment—Letter from King Robert—Arrival at the Wolfe’s Stronghold.