Sir David now rode towards Newcastle with the Bishop, and soon overtook the large army which he commanded that was now returning thither. After being fairly lodged within the walls of the town, the Bishop treated him with the utmost kindness and hospitality, and left him to wander about at his own discretion, rather like a guest than a prisoner. The place was filled with mourning and lamentation, and every now and then fresh stragglers, who had fled from the field of Otterbourne, were dropping in to tell new tales of the grievous loss and mortifying [[458]]disgrace which had befallen the English arms. Murmurs began to rise against the Bishop because he had not proceeded against the Scots, and attempted the rescue of the Piersies. At all events, he might have revenged their loss. The Bishop himself, too, began to be somewhat ashamed that he should have retired so easily, and without so much as looking on the Scottish army. At last he consented to summon a council of war, and in it he was persuaded, by the importunity of the knights and esquires who were present, to order immediate proclamation for the assembling of his army, consisting of ten thousand men, to march long before sunrise.
“Verily, our foes shall be consumed,” said the Bishop, his courage rising. “Si consistent adversum me castra non timebit cor meum. Let the whole Scottish force be there, yet will my heart be bold for the encounter.”
After the council of war, the Bishop introduced Sir David Lindsay to the guests who filled his house. The Scottish knight, so closely connected with the Douglas, was courteously received by the English chevaliers, who, though much cast down in reality by the failure of the Piersies’ attempt, did their best to assume an air of gaiety before him. They vied with one another who should show him greatest kindness. Many were the questions put to him about the fate of the Douglas, but he was too cautious to say anything that could lead them to believe that he had fallen.
The ladies crowded around him to satisfy their curiosity about the particulars of the battle, and he answered them with becoming gallantry. Among those who so addressed him was a lady in a veil, who hung pensively on the arm of the Bishop, and whose figure bespoke her young and handsome. After some general conversation with him, during which she endeavoured to ascertain from him all that he knew as to what English knights had been killed or taken—
“Sir Knight,” said she, with a half-suppressed sigh, “I have heard of a certain brave chevalier of Scotland who did distinguish himself in France, Sir Patrick Hepborne, the younger of that name. Was he in the bloody field? and hath he escaped unhurt, I pray thee?”
“I do well know him, lady,” replied Sir David Lindsay. “To him, and to his gallant father, was chiefly due the gaining of the glorious victory the Scots did yesternight achieve over the bravest army that did ever take the field. I saw him safe ere I left the fight. Proud might he be, I ween, to be so inquired after by one so lovely as thou art.” [[459]]
“Nay,” said the lady, in some confusion, “I do but inquire to satisfy the curiosity of a friend.” And so saying, she retreated towards the protection of the Bishop of Durham, who seemed to take an especial charge of her.
Sir David Lindsay, for his part, to avoid being annoyed by further questions, retired within the deep recess of a Gothic window, where he sat brooding over the untimely fate of the Douglas, and weeping inwardly at the blow that Scotland had sustained by his loss. He was awakened from his reverie by a friendly tap on the shoulder.
“Ha, Sir Matthew Redman!” said Lindsay, looking up with surprise.
“Sir David de Lindsay!” cried Redman, with signs of still greater astonishment; “what, in the name of the holy St. Cuthbert, dost thou make here at Newcastle? Hath my cordial bottle bewildered thy brain so, that thou hast fancied that it was I who took thee, not thou who took me? Did I not promise thee, on the word of a knight, to go to thee at Edinburgh? and thinkest thou that I would not have kept my word?”