Among the bonny winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin’ clear,
Where Bruce once ruled the martial ranks,
And shook his Carrick spear. Burns.
IF the old-time Earls of Cassillis were
Kings of Carrick, the ancient house which bears their name has seen their
throne disputed on more than one occasion when the wild blood of feudal
enemies was surging for vengeance.
One thing I like about these old
fighting days—a man had to be a man in every sense of the word or go under
for all time. Bluff may carry one far in these modern times, when the law
may be invoked and a full purse gains more respect than a long spear, but
it was not so when the walls of Cassillis were new, and its only
protection and assurance lay in the spirit of the men who warded it
against all corners.
At one time Dunure was the recognized
home and stronghold of the Kennedys, and the winning of Cassillis is an
illuminating chapter on the Carrick of bygone times.
The oldest wing of the present
Cassillis is said by competent authorities to date only from 1452, so that
a still more ancient house must have at one time occupied the present
site.
Originally it was the feudal
stronghold of the Montgomerie family, but, Sir Neill Montgomerie having
died, for lack of an heir-male the “said lands fell to ane lass.”
The Laird of Dairymple now came upon the
scene as suitor, but the young lady would have nothing to do with him. The
laird decided to gain the maid (and lands) by force, and so beset the
house.
Kennedy of Dunure, getting word of the
matter, came to the rescue, slew Dairymple, and released the lady. Dunure
escorted her to his sea-girt rock, and under promise of marriage she
resigned her lands and possessions in his favour. It would appear that the
marriage was never solemnized, and shortly thereafter the lady died.
The sons of the slain Dairymple were now
quarrelling amongst themselves. The youngest son, for some consideration,
sold or made over his right to Dunure. This arrangement completed, Dunure
“sett” for the elder son and slew him near the kirk of Dalrymple— “and
thus wes Dalrumpillis conquerit.”
Those were great days! When a certain
laird of Dunure died the family met to decide who should be Tutor. The
youngest brother declared himself to be “best and worthiest,” and so
forced his brethren to appoint him to the coveted position. Alexander
Dalgour was this hero’s name, the cognomen “Dalgour” being conferred
because of Alexander’s facility in the use of a dagger! Now Alexander
Dalgour had a quarrel with the Earl of Wigton. The Earl, anxious to settle
the affair so that it would not worry him again, offered the forty-merk
land of Stewarton, in Cunninghame, as a reward to anyone who would
bring him Dalgour’s head.
Word of this at once reached Dunure, who
was nothing if not intrepid.
Mounting his retainers, to the number of
one hundred men, he rode to Wigton. It appears to have been Christmas
morning when the Kennedys arrived, and the Earl was at Mass.
It was a dangerous mission this,
bearding the Earl amongst his own people, but Dalgour had made all
preparations, even to the drawing up of a deed transferring the lands of
Stewarton to himself, and was not a man to give undue weight to risk where
his interests were concerned.
Riding to the church door the Tutor went
boldly in to the Earl, and holding out the deed of transfer said: “My
lord, ye have offered this land to any who would bring you my head, and I
know none more fit than myself. And will therefore desire your lordship to
act with me as you would with any other!”
The Earl, perceiving that if he refused
his life would pay forfeit, took pen and subscribed the deed. Alexander
Dalgour thanked his lordship, leaped on his horse, and galloped off
towards the sheltering walls of Dunure.
But Alexander proved too successful in
the affairs of this world and grew haughty and proud. His attitude was not
that of the Tutor so much as of the heir and master, and the other members
of the family began to fear for the young heir’s fate.
A family conference was held, unknown to
Alexander Dalgour, and a plan arrived at. The verdict was that the Tutor
should be smothered with a feather bed (or pillow) while asleep, a
decision at once acted upon, “and thair he deit.”
Brave old days !—but never a better
morning for any Carrick project than this which found me tramping along
the Maybole road towards Cassillis.
The beech-hedges were like burnished
copper in the forenoon sun, somewhere behind the trees an old cock
pheasant was challenging the world, and on every count it was good to be
alive.
As I turned abruptly to the right at the
crossing the narrow winding roadway dropped suddenly, but above the hedges
I could see a rampart of distant blue hills, and the air was fragrant with
wood smoke from some near-by cottage.
A sloping field on the left was
literally covered with peesweeps, gulls and crows. Never have I seen such
a busy congregation, and although I stood at the hedge-side and watched
the proceedings for quite a time, not one individual ceased from its
labours; indeed, they ignored me entirely. Another rushing burn, the
second within some fifty yards, and it was easy to guess how Doon
maintains her flood. The road still wound and twisted, as if postponing
its arrival for as long as possible, and then the open fields gave place
to the woods of Cassillis. A circling bend in the roadway, and there,
reserved and austere amongst its autumn setting of trees, the old house of
Cassiliis, the Brown Carrick forming a suitable background. Burns mentions
Cassillis in his Hallowe’en, and apparently at one time fairies danced of
a moonlit evening on the Downans, or green hillocks, or galloped over the
lays or fields on elfin horses:
“Upon that night, when fairies light,
On Cassius Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance.”
But the most interesting feature
is the old dule-tree, a wicked old monster from the branches of which were
hanged those who outraged feudal dignity. It was on this tree that Johnnie
Faa and his merry band expiated their crime of carrying off the Earl’s
lady. The story is well known, but no chapter on Cassillis House would be
complete without its inclusion, although it is only fair to mention that
the facts are all against the likelihood of its being true in any respect.
Chambers evidently accepted the traditional story as being founded on
fact, indeed he is quite clear on the point, but while the actual facts
may never come to light, it is, to say the least, doubtful.
The tale as Chambers has it is that
John, the sixth Earl of Cassillis, was a stern Covenanter, a man who would
never allow anything he said to be misunderstood or misconstrued in any
way. There was just one way with him—his own narrow, Cameronian path. A
most admirable type, but an uncomfortable man to live W1th. Thomas, first
Earl of Haddington, the most brilliant lawyer of his day, had by his
genius amassed a fortune and been elevated to the peerage. This Earl of
Haddington had a beautiful daughter, Lady Jean Hamilton, who loved and was
loved by a gallant knight of about her own years, a Sir John Faa of
Dunbar. Picture their consternation when one day the Earl warned his
daughter to prepare for her nuptials as he had arranged with the Earl of
Cassillis to give her to that nobleman in marriage!
Those were stern days, and the Lady Jean
had no option but to bid her lover a last farewell and become the bride of
the serious, uncompromising Carrick nobleman. Some years passed, the Lady
Jean had presented her husband with at least three children, and the old
romantic attachment to the knight of Dunbar might well be considered a
thing of the past. But that was not so, and Sir John Faa at least—I dare
not cast further aspersions on the lady—had never forgotten his true love,
and still nursed hopes of claiming her as his own. Then was held the
Assembly of Divines at Westminster, and Cassillis was one of those chosen
to attend. Sir John Faa seized the opportunity, and disguising himself as
a gypsy, and accompanied by fourteen real gypsies to help him in his
mission, he came to Cassillis.
“The gypsies cam’ to our gude lord’s yett,
And O but they sang sweetly;
They sang sac sweet and sac very complete,
That doun cam’ our fair lady.
And she cam’ tripping down the stair,
And all her maids before her:
As soon as they saw her well-fa’ured face,
They cuist the glaumourye o’er her.”
So much did they “cuist the glamourye
o’er her” that she produced white bread for them to eat, and, alas! taking
off her wedding-ring, she ran off with her old sweetheart. She was no more
than gone when the Earl unexpectedly returned from Westminster. On asking
for his lady, the terrified domestics related what had happened. Tired and
fatigued as they were from their long journey, the Earl ordered his
retainers to follow, tarrying an impatient moment until fresh horses were
saddled, and then galloped off in pursuit of his Countess and her lover.
They had not far to go, and at a spot
still called the Gypsies’ Steps the band was overtaken, and captured to a
man. The Earl brought them back to Cassillis, and before the lady’s
horrified eyes hanged the fifteen men on his dule-tree! That some domestic
tragedy was enacted on the spot is possible, perhaps probable, but the
letters written by the sixth Earl on the death of his Countess, dated from
Cassillis, December 1642, are of themselves ample proof that his domestic
affairs were uneventful and happy, and he mentions his loss in terms of
sorrowful affliction.
If a knight did upset the matrimonial
routine, at one time, it is probable he assumed the name of Faa as a
disguise. Faa was a well-known gypsy name, and more than one Act of
Parliament was passed for the suppression of gypsies in which it is
specially mentioned. In 1579 the Estates enacted against “strang and idle
beggars.” The Act was expressly framed to put a stop to masterful beggars
and vagrants, doubtless a serious danger in the then state of the country,
and also embraced “sic as make themselves fules and are bards” and
“vagabond scholars of the universities of St Andrews, Glasgow and
Aberdeen.”
It was an unlucky year for poets, and at
least two were hanged for no other crime! Cassillis may have hanged a
number of gypsies on his dule-tree, and if so he was merely carrying out
the law, as a man in his position was almost bound to do. In July 1616
some members of the Faa tribe, John and James Faa, Moses Baillie and Helen
Brown were arrested for remaining in this country contrary to the Act
which banished all known Egyptians on pain of death. They were sentenced
to be hanged. Some eight years later six members of the Faa tribe were
hanged for a like offence, their wives and children liberated on condition
that they departed outwith Scotland at once.
Something of the kind may have happened
at Cassillis, and the romantic details been added by the balladist, who
knows? But love is a pale subject in a land so coloured by feuds and
strife, and one of the strangest sorties in our history was conceived by
the Kennedys, and staged across the Doon a mile or two from here. I have
referred to it on a former occasion, but may be allowed to touch upon it
in passing. The affair in question took place somewhere in the fifteenth
century, the date is uncertain, and is known as “Skeldon Haughs, or the
Tethering of the Sow.” The Kennedys and the Craufurds had been
enemies for generations.
The Doon ran between their territories,
and it was good sport to cross the ford, fire a few farm-steadings and
drive off the cattle. There was no appeal to law—other than the law of
reprisal —after an excursion of this sort, but each side was getting wary
and hard to trap, and the younger blood of Carrick was getting restive and
weary for lack of excitement. One evening as old Craufurd was sitting in
his castle of Kerse (not a stone remains to mark its spot to-day),
surrounded by his sons and retainers, an emissary from the Kennedys was
announced. It took a daring man to beard Craufurd in his own domain, and
angry frowns and murmurs greeted the lad as he advanced. But old Kerse was
master in his house, and his dominant glance quelled the uprising tide of
anger. Curtly he asked the lad to state his business, telling him that,
while he was an unwelcome visitor, his safety was assured. “My business,”
replied the young scion of the Kennedy clan, “is to tell you that on
Lammas Day the Kennedys will tether a sow on Skeldon Houghs, and not all
the Craufurds in their might dare flit it.”
At once the hall buzzed with indignation
at the insult, but the fierce old man raised his hand for silence, and
facing the page said: “You are a brave lad to come here on such an errand.
Now go back to ‘those who sent you, and tell them that we shall be ready,
and to think well before they put their hands into a wolf-trap from which
they shall not escape scathless.” More than one Craufurd rose as if to
follow the young messenger as, self-contained and disdainful, he bowed to
their ancient chief and turned to leave the great hail. The fierce old
leader ordered them to remain where they were and to molest the Kennedy
courier at their risk. The fatal morning arrived, impatiently awaited be
sure, and the sow, brought in a sack, was duly tethered.
“Twas Lammas-morn, on Skeldon Houghs,
The glintin’ sun had tinged the soughs;
Frae Girvan banks and Carrick side
Down pour’d the Kennedies, in pride;
And frae Kyle-Stewart and King’s-Kyle
The Crawfords march’d in rank and file.”
The picked fighting men of Carrick
and Kyle were to meet again in open conflict, and had chosen the longest
day for their trial of strength, each side imperiously certain of its
prowess. Kerse himself was too old to take part, but his sons were there,
noted fighting men all. The long hours passed slowly for the old warrior,
his heart in the conflict but his palsied arms unfitted for the sword. Now
and again he could hear the angry shouts of the contestants, but no
messenger brought tidings. And then as twilight was falling a horseman
galloped towards Kerse, and in his eagerness for news the old chieftain
ran forth to meet him.
Almost before the man-at-arms had reined
in his horse Kerse was anxiously calling to know if the sow was flitted.
“Both sides have suffered great loss,” began the man. “Never mind the
losses,” replied Kerse; “is the sow flitted?” “Your son Jock has been
killed,” altered the retainer, “and——” “Is the sow flitted?” demanded
Kerse. “Tell me at once.” “Yes,” was the answer, “the Kennedys and their
sow are across the Doon and in full flight.” “Then ma thoom for Jock!”
shouted old Kerse in unholy triumph, almost dancing with joy. “Ma thoorn
for Jock, if the sow is flittit!” Alexander Boswell of Auchinleck put the
tale into rhyme, and the closing stanzas are amusingly written:
“‘Is the sow flitted? Tell me, loon!
Is auld Kyle up and Carrick doon?’
Mingled wi’ sobs, his broken tale
The youth began
:—‘ Ah, Kerse, bewail
This luckless day! your blythe son, John,
Ah! waes my heart he’s on the lawn,
And he could sing like ony merle.’
Is the sow flitted,’ cried the cane,
‘Gie me the answer—short and plain—
Is the sow flitted, yammerin’ wean?’
‘The sow deil tak’ her’s ower the water,
And at their backs the Craufurds batter,
The Carrick couts are corned and bitted.’
‘My thumb for Jock! the
sow is flitted.’”
Reginald, first of the Kerse Craufurds,
got a grant of the lands of Kerse from his brother Hugh, in the reign of
King Alexander III. (1249-1286), and like their neighbours the Kennedys
they loved fighting for the game’s sake. When James VI., dismayed at the
disorders and feuds amongst his noblemen, and fearful that the internal
strife would weaken the national fighting forces, ordered a number of the
more prominent feudalists to appear before him, in the closing days of
1595, Craufurd of Kerse was amongst those singled out for the royal
summons.
The fields and braes look peaceful
enough to-day in the autumn sunshine, and the road—one of the most winding
and procrastinating I know—meanders on until at last it faces the Doon,
and Dalrymple kirk comes into the view. A long narrow bridge joins Carrick
and Kyle, and below the Doon was in flood, a broad drumly stream, and then
the wide deserted main street of Dalrymple. Of Dalrymple Castle,
stronghold of the would-be suitor of Sir Neill Montgomerie’s daughter,
there is now no trace. Tradition credits Sir John Kennedy of Dunure with
having had something to do with razing the walls, but this may be nothing
other than romance.
In any case this Sir John was the knight
who slew Dairymple, abducted the maiden, and then conducted a feud with
the heirs, as already shown. Naturally, the Dairymple family had no love
for the strong-handed Kennedy, but he had proved his might on so many
occasions that they decided to accomplish by guile what they could not
achieve by force. The plan was to invite Sir John to a feast in Dairymple
Castle, and once caged see that the bird did not escape.
It is a striking proof of his temerity
that the Kennedy not merely accepted the invitation but set out for
Dalrymple accompanied only by a squire. Just as they were about to cross
the drawbridge, Sir John’s old nurse, who was now a dependent of the
Dairymple family, looking at her former charge audibly remarked, as if
speaking to herself; what a pity it was that such a brave man should
unwittingly enter a trap. At once the intended victim became alive to his
danger, and hastily retreating made all speed for his own stronghold of
Dunure. Calling out his men-at-arms he returned to Dairymple, slaughtered
the inmates and laid waste the castle.
To stand on the bridge and look across
the peaceful countryside, the clustering trees concealing Cassillis and
Auchendrane, a slow-moving ploughman and his team at work in the autumn
sunshine, it is hard to believe that such scenes were enacted, and that
only a few years ago in the history of our land no man could foretell if
his roof-tree would cover his head that night. If the old Brown Carrick
hill could only speak and tell of the scenes it has witnessed since the
centuries were young! |