The Wolfe of Badenoch: A Historical Romance of the Fourteenth Century

by Sir Thomas Dick Lauder

“Speak not so, my son,” cried the old King, who had now [[587]]sufficiently recovered himself to be able to talk calmly. “Self-accusation, except in so far as it is used as an offering before Heaven, is but a vain thing. Let thy whole heart be given up to that contrition the which is between thee and thy God alone, through the medium and mediation of the blessed Virgin and her Son; and let the seemliness and sincerity of thy public penance be an earnest of the amendment of thy future life.”

“I will, I will, my father,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, much moved. “Would that ages of my penance could but add to the number of thy peaceful and righteous years; cheerfully would I wander as a barefooted palmer for the rest of my miserable days. Yet fancy not, my father, that I have lacked mine own share of punishment. The viper for whom I did risk thy wrath and that of Heaven, hath stung me to the heart. Ha! but ’tis over now. The good Friar John hath taught me to keep down the raging ire which her black and hellish ingratitude did excite within me. May the holy Virgin grant me aid to subdue it, that my whole heart may be in to-morrow’s work; for, sooth to say, ’tis cruel and cutting, after all, for a hardy, haughty soul like mine to bend me thus beneath the rod of the priesthood. Ha! by the bones of my ancestors, a King’s son too—thy son! Nay, ’tis that the which doth most gall and chafe me; to think that thou shouldst thus be brought into derision by the disgrace which befalleth me. Thou, a King who——”

“Son Alexander,” said the venerable Monarch, calmly interrupting the Wolfe of Badenoch, as he was gradually blowing up a self-kindled flame of passion; “think not of us—think not of us now. Thou shouldst have thought of us and of our feelings before thou didst apply the torch of thy wild wrath to the holy temples of God and the peaceful habitations of his ministers. Robert was indeed ashamed of a wicked son, glorying in his mad and guilty rage; but Robert never can be ashamed of a son who is an humble penitent. No, Alexander; thy penance will be a crown of glory to us. Further, we would have thee remember that the priesthood are but the ministers of the justice of a greater King than any upon earth; and we would have thee to bear in mind how the Son of that Almighty King did, in all His innocence, submit Himself to the scourge and the cross, to infamy and cruel suffering, that He might redeem such sinners as thou and I. Let this humble thy pride and tame thy temper, if, indeed, pride or violence may yet remain with thee. And now haste thee homeward, that, by a night spent in conversation and prayer with the holy Friar John, thou mayest fit and prepare thyself for to-morrow’s duty, the which ought [[588]]to be rather esteemed a triumph than a trial to thee. We shall be at the Castle of St. Johnstoun by times to give thee our best comfort; till then take with thee a father’s blessing.”

The Wolfe of Badenoch bowed his head to receive the benediction of the good old King, who wept as he gave it him, and throwing one arm round his son’s neck, he patted his head with the other hand, kissing his cheek repeatedly with all the affection of a doating father, who abandons himself to the full tide of his feelings and who is unwilling to shorten the transports he enjoys.

The news of the intended penitential procession of the King’s son, the terrible Wolfe of Badenoch, spread like wildfire through the town of St. Johnstoun, as well as throughout the surrounding country, and produced a general commotion. The Bishops of St. Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane, had already arrived at the Dominican Convent, each having separately entered the town in great pomp, attended by all the high dignitaries of their respective dioceses. It was a proud triumph for the Church, and secret advices had been accordingly sent everywhere, that it might be rendered the more imposing and impressive by the numbers and importance of those religious persons who came as deputations from the different monastic houses which were within reach. Of the canons regular, there were the Abbots of Scone, Inch Colm, and Inch Mahome, with the Priors of St. Andrews, Loch Leven, Port Moak, and Pittenweem; of the Trinity, or Red Friars, were the Ministers of the Hospitals of Scotlandwell and of Dundee; of the Dominicans or Black Friars, the inmates of the Dominican Convent of Perth, where the ceremony was to take place, with the heads of the Convents of Dundee, Cupar in Fife, St. Monans, and St. Andrews; of the Benedictines, the Abbot of Dunfermline; of the Tyronenses, the Abbot of Lundores; of the Cistertians, or Bernardines, the Abbots of Culross and Balmerinoch; of the Franciscans, or Grey Friars, the head of the Convent of Inverkeithing; and, lastly, a numerous body of Carmelites, or White Friars, from the neighbouring Convent of Tullilum. All these heads of houses were largely attended; and if the crowd of these holy men was great that of the laity and vulgar was tenfold greater. The houses of the place were unable to contain them, and many were glad to encamp on those beautiful meadows stretching to north and south of the town, thankful to huddle themselves under any temporary shelter they could procure. The Black Friars Monastery, which was to be the scene of the humiliation of the Wolfe of Badenoch, was all in a [[589]]ferment, and many there were who, knowing the formidable character of him they had to deal with, muttered secret ejaculations that all were well over.

The King left his Palace of Scone early in the morning, and entered Perth in his litter, attended by the Regent and the courtiers, being desirous to get as quietly as possible into the Castle. The King’s body-guard were drawn out to line the street from the Castle to the Church of the Dominican Convent. The distance was short, but the crowd contained in that small space was immense. The murmur was great, and the eyes of the spectators were constantly directed towards the gate of the Castle, whence they expected the procession to come. Every motion among the multitude excited an accession of impatience.

At length the King’s litter appeared, attended by the Regent, and followed by the crowd of courtiers. They came without order, and the litter hurried into the Church amidst the loud shouts of the people. All was then eager expectation, and nothing interrupted the low hum of voices, save the noise occasioned by those who made way for the different religious deputations, who approached the Church from different directions.

All these had passed onwards, and some time had elapsed, when a general hush ran through the crowd—a dead silence ensued—all eyes were directed towards the Castle gate—and the Wolfe of Badenoch appeared. He was supported on his right hand by his confessor, the Franciscan Friar, and he was followed by his two sons Andrew and Duncan, and by a very numerous train of attendants, all clad in the same humiliating penitential garb, walking barefooted. The Wolfe of Badenoch had no sooner issued from the Castle gateway than he appeared to be astonished and mortified at the multitude of people who had collected to witness his abasement. Anticipating nothing of this sort, he had prepared to assume a subdued air; but he was roused by the sight, and advanced with his head carried high, and with all his usual haughtiness of stride, his eyes flinging a bold defiance to all round, and their glances travelling rapidly from countenance to countenance, as they surveyed the two walls of human faces lining his way, as if he looked eagerly for some one whose taunting smile might give him an apology for breaking forth, and giving vent to his pent-up passion by felling him to the earth. He went on, biting his nether lip, and still he scanned them man by man; but everywhere he encountered eyes that quailed before his, and peaceful, gaping faces, filled with vulgar wonder, perhaps, and indicating much of fear, but nothing of scorn to [[590]]be seen. The Franciscan was observed to whisper him; he seemed to listen with reverence, and, as he approached the entrance to the Church, he adopted a more humble gait and look. As for his men, they hung down their heads sheepishly from the first, like felons going to execution.

When the procession had reached the great door of the Church, which was closed against it, the Franciscan approached, and knocked slowly and solemnly.

“Who is he who knocketh for admission into the Church of God?” demanded a voice from within.