Marmion next viewed the Celtic race.  Each tribe had its own chief, its belted plaid, its warpipes varying with the clan.  Their legs were bare; the undressed hide of the deer gave them buskins, a plaid covered the shoulders, and a broadsword, a dagger, a studded targe, completed the outfit.

Through the Scottish camp, the English train had now passed, and the city gates were reached.  The streets were alive with martial show.  The Lion King led to lodgings that overlooked the town.  Here Marmion, by the King’s command, was to remain until the vesper hour and then to ride to Holy-Rood.  Meanwhile Sir David ordered a banquet rich and rare.

At the hour appointed, Marmion, attended by the Lion-Lord, arrived at the palace hall, at Holy-Rood.  In this princely abode James was feasting the chiefs of Scotland.  The historic halls rang with mirth, for well the monarch loved song and banquet.  By day the tourney was held, at night the mazy dance was trod by quaint maskers.  The scene of this night outshone all others.  The dazzling lights hanging from the galleries, displayed the grace of lords and ladies of the court.  The “motley fool” retailed his jest, the juggler performed his feat, the minstrel plied his harp, and the lady touched a softer string.

All made room as through this throng the King came to greet his guest.  And now, his courtesy to show,

    “He doff’d to Marmion, bending low,
       His broider’d cap and plume. 
     For royal was his garb and mien,
       His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,
       Trimm’d with the fur of martin wild;
     His gorgeous collar hung adown,
     Wrought with the badge of Scotland’s crown,
     The thistle brave, of old renown: 
     His trusty blade, Toledo right,
     Descended from a baldric bright;
     White were his buskins, on the heel,
     His spurs inlaid of gold and steel: 
     His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
     Was buttoned with a ruby rare: 
     And Marmion deemed he ne’er had seen
     A prince of such a noble mien.”

His splendid form, his eagle eyes, his light footstep, his merry laugh and speaking glance made him envied of men and adored of women.  He joyed to linger in banquet bower, but often in the midst of wildest glee, a shadow and an expression of pain flitted across the handsome face.  His hands instinctively clasped as he felt the pain of the penance belt, worn in memory of his slain father.  In a moment the pang was past, and forward, with redoubled zest, he rushed into the stream of revelry.

Courtiers said that Lady Heron, wife of Sir Hugh of Norham, held sway over the heart of the King.  To Scotland’s court she had come to be a hostage, and to reconcile the offended King to her husband.  The fair Queen of France also held the king in thrall.  She had sent him a turquoise ring and a glove, and charged him as her knight in English fray, to break for her a lance.  For love of the French Queen, as much as for the rights of Scotland, he clothed himself in mail and put his country’s noblest, dearest, and best in arms, to die on Flodden Field.  For Love of Lady Heron, he admitted English spies to his inmost counsels.