The Complete Works of Mary Shelley - Part 7

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The Complete Works of Mary Shelley - Part 7

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The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck, A Romance



PREFACE 



The story of Perkin Warbeck was first suggested to me as a 
subject for historical detail. On studying it, I became aware of 
the romance which his story contains, while, at the same time, 
I felt that it would be impossible for any narration, that should 
be confined to the incorporation of facts related by our old 
Chroniclers, to do it justice. 

It is not singular that I should entertain a belief that Perkin 
was, in reality, the lost duke of York. For, in spite of Hume, 
and the later historians who have followed in his path, no person 
who has at all studied the subject but arrives at the same con- 
clusion. Records exist in the Tower, some well known, others 
with which those who have access to those interesting papers 
are alone acquainted, which put the question almost beyond a 
doubt. 

This is not the place for a discussion of the question. The 
principal thing that I should wish to be impressed on my reader’s 
mind is, that whether my hero was or was not an impostor, he 
was believed to be the true man by his contemporaries. The 
partial pages of Bacon, of Hall, and Holinslied, and others of 
that date, are replete with proofs of this fact. There are some 
curious letters, written by Sir John Ramsay, laird of Balmayne, 
calling himself Lord Bothwell, addressed to Henry the Seventh 
himself, which, though written by a spy and hireling of that 
monarch, tend to confirm my belief, and even demonstrate that 
in his eagerness to get rid of a formidable competitor, Henry 
did not hesitate to urge midnight assassination. These letters 
are printed in the Appendix to Pinkerton’s “ History of Scot- 
land.” The verses which form the motto to these volumes, are 

2 a 



 




IV 



PREFACE. 



part of a rythmical chronicle, written by two subjects of Bur- 
gundy, who lived in those days ; it is entitled, “ Recollection 
des Merveilles, advenues en nostre temps, commencde par tres 
elegant orateur, Messire Georges Chastellan, et continuee par 
Maistre Jean Molinet.” 

In addition to the unwilling suffrage of his enemies, we may 
adduce the acts of his friends and allies. Human nature in its 
leading features is the same in all ages. James the Fourth of 
Scotland was a man of great talent and discernment : he was 
proud ; attached, as a Scot, to the prejudices of birth ; of punc- 
tilious honour. No one can believe that he would have bestowed 
his near kinswoman, nor have induced the earl of Huntley to 
give his daughter in marriage to one who did not bear evident 
signs of being of royal blood. 

The various adventures of this unfortunate prince in many 
countries, and his alliance with a beautiful and high-born 
woman, who proved a faithful, loving wife to him, take away 
the sting from the ignominy which might attach itself to his 
fate ; and make him, we venture to believe, in spite of the con- 
tumely later historians have chosen, in the most arbitrary way, 
to heap upon him, a fitting object of interest — a hero to ennoble 
the pages of a humble tale. 




 




PERKIN WARBECK. 



- 1 1 



CHAPTEE I. 

THE FLIGHT FBOM BOSWOBTH FIELD. 



He seemed breathless, heartless, faint and wan. 

And all his armour sprinkled was with blood. 

And soil’d with dirty pore, that no man can 
Discern the hne thereof. He never stood. 

But bent bis hasty course towards the idle flood. 

Spenser. 

Afteb a long series of civil dissension — after many battles, 
whose issue involved the fate of thousands — after the destruction 
of nearly all the English nobility in the contest between the two 
Eoses, the decisive battle of Bosworth Field was fought on the 
22nd of August, 1415, whose result was to entwine, as it was 
called, the white and red symbols of rivalsbip, and to restore 
peace to this unhappy country. 

The day had been sunny and warm : as the evening closed in, 
a west wind rose, bringing along troops of fleecy clouds, golden 
at sunset, and then dun and grey, veiling with pervious network 
the many stars. Three horsemen at this hour passed through 
the open country between Hinckley and Welfare! in Leicester- 
shire. It was broad day when they descended from the elevation 
on which the former stands, and the villagers crowded to gaze 
upon the fugitives, and to guess, from the ensigns they bore, to 
which party they belonged, while the warders from tiie near 
castle hastened out to slop them, thus to curry favour with the 
conqueror; a design wholly baffled. The good steeds of the 
knights, for such their golden spurs attested them to be, bore 
them fast and far along the Eoman road, which still exists in 
those parts to shame our modern builders. It was dusk when, 
turning from the direct route to avoid entering Wolford, they 
reached a ford of the Avon. Hitherto silence had prevailed with 
the party — for until now their anxiety to fly had solely occupied 
their thoughts. Their appearance spoke of war, nay, of slaughter. 
Their cloaks were stained and torn ; tlieir armour « as disjointed, 
and parts of it were wanting ; yet these losses were so arbitrary, 

B 



 




2 



THE FLIGHT FBOM 



that it was plain that the pieces had been hacked from their 
fastenings. The helm of the foremost was deprived of its crest ; 
another wore the bonnet of a common soldier, which ill accorded 
with the rest of his accoutrements ; while the third, bareheaded, 
his hair falling on his shoulders, lank and matted from heat and 
exercise, gave more visible tokens of the haste of flight. As the 
night grew darker, one of them, and then another, seemed willing 
to relax somewhat in their endeavours : one alone continued, 
with unmitigated energy, to keep his horse at the same pace 
they had all maintained during the broad light of day. 

When they reached the ford, the silence was broken by the 
hindmost horseman ; he spoke in a petulant voice, saying 
“ Another half mile at this pace, and poor Floeur-de-Luce foun- 
ders ; if you will not slacken your speed, here we part, my 
friends. God save you till we meet again ! ” 

“ Evil betide the hour that separates us, brother ! ” said the 
second fugitive, reining in ; “ our cause, our peril, our fate shall 
be the same. You, my good lord, will consult your own safety.” 
The third cavalier had already entered the stream : he made a 
dead halt while his friends spoke, and then replied : — “ Let us 
name some rendezvous where, if we escape, we may again meet. 
I go on an errand of life and death : my success is doubtful, 
my danger certain. If I succeed in evading it, where shall I 
rejoin you P ” 

“ Though the event of this day has been fatal to the king,” 
answered the other, “ our fortunes are not decided. I propose 
taking refuge in some sanctuary, till we perceive how far the earl 
of Richmond is inclined to mercy.” 

“I knew the earl when a mere youth, Sir Humphrey Staf- 
ford,” said the foremost rider, “ and heard more of him w hen I 
visited Brittany, at the time of King Louis’s death, two years 
ago. When mercy knocks at his heart, suspicion and avarice 
give her a rough reception. We must fly beyond sea, uidess we 
can make further stand. More of this when we meet again. 
Where shall that be P ” 

“ I have many friends near Colchester,” replied the elder 
Stafford, “ and St. Mary boasts an asylum there which a crowned 
head would not dare violate. Thence, if all else fail, we can 
pass with ease to the Low Countries.” 

“ In sanctuary at Colchester — I will not fail you. God bless 
and preserve you the while ! ” 

Tne noble, as he said these words, put spurs to his horse, and 
without looking back, crossed the stream, and turning on the 
skirts of a copse, was soon out of sight of his companions. He 
rode all night, cheering his steed with hand and voice ; looking 
angrily at the early dawning east, which soon cast from her 



B08W0BTH FIELD. 



V 



3 



cloudless brow the dimness of night. Yet the morning air was 
grateful to his heated cheeks. It was a perfect summer’s 
morn. The wheat, golden from ripeness, swayed gracefully to 
the light breeze; the slender oats shook their small bells in the 
air with ceaseless motion ; the birds, twittering, alighted from 
the full-leaved trees, scattering dew-drops from the braiches. 
With the earliest dawn, the cavalier entered a forest, traversing 
its depths with the hesitation of one unacquainted with the 
country, and looked frequently at the sky, to be directed by the 

E osition of the glowing east. A path more worn than the one he 
ad hitherto followed now presented itself, leading into the 
heart of the wood. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then, 
with a word of cheer to his horse, pursued his way into the 
embowering thicket. After a short space the path narrowed, 
the meeting branches of the trees impeded him, and the sudden 
angle it made from the course he wished to follow, served to 

E erplex him still farther ; but as he vented his impatience by 
carty Catholic exclamations, a little tinkling bell spoke of a 
chapel near, and of the early rising of the priest to perform the 
matin service at its altar. The horse of the fugitive, a noble 
war-steed, had long flagged ; and hunger gnawed at the rider’s 
own heart, for he had not tasted food since the morning of the 
previous day. These sounds, therefore, heard in so fearless a 
seclusion, bore with them pleasant tidings of refreshment and 
repose. He crossed himself in thankfulness ; then throwing 
himself from his horse (and such change was soothing to his 
stiffened limbs), he led him through the opening glade to where 
a humble chapel and a near adjoining hut stood in the bosom of 
the thicket, emblems of peace and security. 

The cavalier tied his horse to a tree, and entered the chapel. 
A venerable priest was reading the matin service ; one old woman 
composed his congregation, and she was diligently employed 
telling her beads. The bright rays of the newly-risen sun 
streamed through the eastern window, casting the chequered 
shadow of its lattice-work on the opposite w r all. The chapel 
was small and rustic ; but it was kept exquisitely clean ; the 
sacred appurtenances of the altar also were richer than was 
usual, and each shrine was decked with clusters of flowers, 
chiefly composed of white roses. No high praise, indeed, was 
due to the rude picture of the Virgin of the Annunciation, or of 
the Announcing Angel, a representation of whom formed the 
altar-piece ; but in barbaric England, in those days, piety stood 
in place of taste, and that which represented Our Lady received 
honour, however unworthy it might be of the inspiress of 
Raphael or Correggio. The cavalier took his disornamented 
casque from his head, placed it on the ground, and knelt reveren- 




4 



THE FLIGHT FBOM 



tially on the bare earth. He had lately escaped from battle and 
slaughter, and he surely thought that he had especial motive for 
thanksgiving ; so that if his lips uttered a mere soldier’s “ Ave,” 
still it had the merit of fervour and sincerity. 

Had he been less occupied by his own feelings, he might have 
remarked the many glances the priest cast on him, who dis- 
honoured his learning and piety ny frequent mistakes of lan- 
guage, as his thoughts wandered from his breviary, to observe 
with deep attention his unexpected visitor. At length the 
service ended : the old dame rose from her knees, and satisfied 
her curiosity, which she had excited by many a look askance, by a 
full and long gaze on the cavalier. His hewn armour, torn cloak, 
and, unseemly for the sacred spot, the dread stains on his gar- 
ments and hands, were all minutely scanned. Nor did his per- 
sonal appearance escape remark. His stature was tall, his person 
well knit, showing him to be a man of about thirty years of age. 
His features were finely moulded, his grey eyes full of fire, his 
step had the dignity of rank, and his look expressed chivalrous 
courage and frankness. The good woman had not been long 
engaged in surveying the stranger, when her pastor beckoned 
her to retire, and himself advanced, replying to the soldier’s 
salute with a benedicite, and then hastily inquiring if he came 
from the field. 

“ Even so, father,” said the cavalier ; “ I come from the field 
of the bloody harvest. Has any intelligence of it travelled 
hither so speedily ? If so, I must have wandered from the right 
road, and am not so far on my journey as I hoped.” 

“ I have only heard that a battle was expected,” said the 
priest, “ and your appearance tells me that it is over. The for- 
tunes, nay, perhaps the life of a dear friend are involved in its 
issue, and I fear that it is adverse — for you fly from pursuit, and 
methinks, though stained with dust and blood, that emblem on 
your breast is the White Hose.” 

The warrior looked on the old man, whose dignity and language 
were at variance with his lowly destination ; he looked partly in 
wonder, and partly to assure himself of his questioner’s sin- 
cerity. “ You are weary, Sir Knight,” added the monk, whose 
experienced eyes had glanced to the golden spurs of his visitant ; 
“ come to my hermitage, there to partake of such refreshment 
as I can bestow. When your repast is ended, I will, by confi- 
dence on my part, merit yours.” 

This invitation was that of worldly courtesy, rather than tho 
rustic welcome of a recluse monk. The cavalier thanked him 
cordially, adding, that he must first provide food and water for his 
horse, and that afterwards he would gratefully accept his host’s 
invitation. Tho old man entered with the spirit of a soldier into 




boswobth field. 



5 



his guest’s anxiety for his steed, and assisted in purveying to its 
wants, ingratiating himself meanwhile with its master, by dis- 
covering and praising scientifically its points of beauty. The 
poor animal showed tokens of over fatigue, yet still he did not 
refuse his food, and thq cavalier marked with joy that his eye 
grew brighter and his knees firmer after feeding. 

They then entered the cottage, and the soldier’s eye was at- 
tracted from more sacred emblems by a sword which was suspended 
over a picture of the Virgin : — “ You belong to our Chivalry !” 
he exclaimed, while his countenance lighted up with joyful 
recognition. 

“Now I belong to the holy order whose badge I wear,” the 
monk replied, pointing to his Benedictine dress. “ In former 
days I followed a brave leader to the field, and, in his service, 
incurred such guilt, as I now try to expiate by fasting and 
prayer.” 

I'he monk’s features were convulsed by agitation as he spoke, 
then crossing his arms on his breast, he was absorbed in thought 
for a few moments, after which he raised his head and resumed 
the calm and even serene look that characterized him. “ Sir 
Knight,” said he, motioning to the table now spread for the 
repast, “I have but poor fare to offer, but a soldier will not 
disdain its meagreness. My wine I may praise, as being the 
produce of a generous vintage ; I have kept it sealed, to open it 
on occasions like the present, and rejoice that your strength will 
be recruited by it.” 

Bread, fruits, cheese, and a flagon of the wine, which merited 
the giver’s eulogium, composed the fugitive’s breakfast, whose 
fatigue required cordial and repose. As he was occupied by his 
repast, his host eyed him with evident agitation, eager yet fearful 
to question him on the subject of the battle. At length he again 
asked, “ You come from the field on which the forces of the 
king and of the earl of Bichmond met ?” 

“Ido.” 

“ You fought for the White Bose, and you fly ?” 

“ I fought for the 'White Bose till it was struck to the ground. 
The king has fallen with his chief nobility around him. Few 
Yorkists remain to mourn the success of the Lancastrians.” 

Deep grief clouded the old man’s countenance, but accustomed 
to subdue his feelings, as one on whom, being stricken by an 
overwhelming misery, all subsequent disasters fall blunted, he 
continued with greater calmness : “ Pardon me, noble gentle- 
man, if I appear to ask an indiscreet question. You are of 
lordly bearing, and probably filled a place near the royal person. 
Did you hear, on the night before last, aught of the arrival of a 
Biranger youth at the king’s tentP” 




6 



THE FLIGHT FBOM 



The knight eyed the old man with a quick glance, asking, in 
his turn, “Are you, then, the foster-father of King Richard’s son ? ” 
“Did you see my boy P” cried the priest. “Did his father 
acknowledge him P — Where is he now P — Did he enter the ranks 
to fight and fall for his parent P” 

“ On the night of which you speak,” said the stranger, evading 
the immediate question, “the king placed his son’s hand in 
mine, as I vowed to protect and guard him if ill befell our party, 
as it has befallen.” 

“ Surely some presentiment of evil haunted the king’s mind.” 
“ I do believe it ; for his manner was solemn and affecting. 
He bade the youth remember that he was a Plantagenet, and 
spoke proudly of the lineage from which he sprung. The young 
esquire listened intently, looking at his father with such an 
ingenuous and thoughtful expression, that he won my heart to 
love him.” 

“ Now bless thee. Sir Knight, whoever thou art, for this 
praise of my poor Edmund. I pray you, hasten to tell me what 
more passed.” 

The cavalier continued his account ; but his manner was 
serious, as if the conclusion of his tale would afflict his auditor. 
He related how, on quitting the royal tent, he had lod Edmund 
Plantagenet to his own, there to converse with him awhile, the 
better to learn whether his bearing and speech Bhowed promise 
of future merit* King Richard had enjoined his son to return 
to his seclusion early on the following morning ; but as soon as 
he entered his conductor’s tent, he knelt to him and asked a 
boon, while tears gathered in his eyes, and his voice was broken 
by the fervour of his desire. The noble was moved by his 
entreaties, and promised to grant his request, if it did not militate 
against his honour and allegiance. “ It is for honour that I 
speak,” said Plantagenet ; “ I am older in years than in seeming, 
for already I number twenty summers ; and, spite of my boyish 
look, I am familiar with martial exercises, and the glorious 
promise of war. Let me draw my sword for my father to-mor- 
row — let me, at your side, prove myself a worthy descendant of 
the conquerors of France ! Who will fight for King Richard 
with greater courage, fidelity, and devotion, than his acknowledged 
and duteous son P” The cavalier yielded to his noble yearnings. 
Clothed in armour he entered the ranks, and hovered a protec- 
ting angel near his parent during the bloody contest. And now, 
as his venerable guardian watched with trembling eagerness the 
countenance of his guest while he told his tale, and the stranger, 
with bitter regret, was about to relate that he had seen Plan- 
tagenet felled to the ground by a battle-axe, quick steps, and 
then a knocking, was heard at the cottage door. The stranger 




B0SW0ETH FIELD. 



7 



Btarted on his feet, and put his hand upon his sword ; but a 
bright smile illuminated the monk’s face, as the very youth of 
whom they spoke, Edmund Plantagenet, rushed into the apart- 
ment. His soiled garments and heated brow spoke of travel 
and fatigue, while his countenance wore an expression of wildness 
and even of horror. He started when he saw the stranger, but 
quickly recognized him as his new friend. “ Thank God !” he 
cried, “ that you, my dear lord, have not fallen into the hands of 
the sacrilegious usurper ! It is my father’s spirit that has saved 
you for his son’s sake, that I may not be utterly abandoned and 
an orphan." 

With milder accost he bent his knee to his holy guardian, and 
then turned to answer the cavalier’s questions of how he had 
escaped death from the blow he had received, and what new 
events had occured since he had quitted the field early on the 
preceding day P — while the monk chid him for his disobedience 
to his father’s commands, in having mingled with the fray. The 
eyes of Plantagenet flashed fire at this reproach. — “Could I 
know that my father’s crown and life,” he exclaimed impetuously, 
“ depended on the combat, and not bring to his aid my weak 
arm P God of Heaven ! had there been five hundred true as I, 
we might all have fallen round him : but never, never, should I 
have seen the sight which last night I saw — nor heard the sounds 
I last night heard !” 

The youth covered his face with his hands, and the boiling 
tears trickled between his fingers. “ Tell me,” cried the noble, 
“ what has happened ? — and swiftly tell me, for 1 loiter here too 
long.” 

Almost suffocated by emotion, Plantagenet related, that when 
he recovered from the trance into which the fearful blow he had 
received had thrown him, the earl’s camp-followers were busy 
among the slain : and that he had seen the body of King 
Eichard — of his father — thrown half-naked across a mule, thus 
to be borne to be exposed to the public gaze and mockery in 
Leicester, where, but the day before, he had ridden with the 
royal crown on his head, the acknowledged sovereign of England. 
And that crown, base, ill-bartered bauble, having been found in 
the tent by Lord Stanley, he had brought and placed on Kich- 
mond’s head, while the soldiers, with one acclaim, hailed him 
Henry the Seventh, King of England. 

The last words more than the others, for the death of his 
royal master was already known to him, moved the knight: — 
“Is this the end of our hopes P” he cried. “Am I then too 
lateP Farewell, my friends ! Plantagenet, I shall never forget 
my oath to the king ; I shall become, I fear, an outcast and a 
soldier of fortune, even if I escape worse fate j but claim when 








s 



THE FLIGHT FBOM 



you will, and it shall be yours, whatever protection I can afford 
you”' 

“ Yield, tlien. Lord Lovel,” said the youth, “ to my first 
request. You are in peril, let me share it ; permit me to accom- 
pany you. If you refuse, my plan is alreaay formed ; I repair 
to the earl of Lincoln, whom King Bichard named his successor, 
and offer myself as a soldier in his attempt to discrown the 
usurping Henry, and to raise again the White Bose to its right- 
ful supremacy.” 

“To the earl of Liucoln — the successor of Bichard — to him 
you would repair? It is well — come with me now', and I will 
present you to that nobleman. If your foster-father consents, 
bid adieu to this seclusion for a time, and accompany me to 
London, to new contests — to the combat of right against might 
— to success and honour, or to defeat and death ! ” 

The sun had risen high when, having taken leave of the vene- 
rable monk, w ho w’ould not oppose his pupil’s gallant spirit of 
enterprise, Lord Lovel and young Plantagenet threaded the forest 
paths, which, by a safer and a shorter route than the highway, 
took them on their road to London. For a time they led their 
liorses with difficulty through the entangled thicket, when at 
last reaching the open road, they mounted, and Lord Love], w ho 
was desirous of estimating the abilities and disposition of his 
companion, entered into conversation with him. They first con- 
versed on the sad changes which were the work of the eventful 
day of battle ; afterwards the cavalier led Edmund to speak of 
himself, his early life, his acquirements, and his hopes. 

When Plantagenet was but ten years old his mother died, and 
her last request to the father of her boy, founded on a deep 
know ledge of the world, was, that her son might be educated far 
from the court, nor be drawn from the occupations and happier 
scenes of private life, to become a hauger-on of princes and 
nobles. There was a man, a gentleman and a knight, who had 
been a partizan of the White Bose, and who had fought and bled 
for it in various battles between the duke of York and Henry the 
Sixth. In one of these, the misery of the times, and horrible 
consequences of civil dissension, caused him unwittingly to lift 
his armed hand against his twin brother, nor did he discover the 
mistake till, with his dying voice, that brother called on him to 
assist him against his slayer. A life of seclusion, penance, and 
prayer, alone blunted his sense of remorse, and quitting the 
world, he retired to a monastery, where after due noviciate ho 
took vows, and then shrinking from commerce with his kind, 
followed by visions that spoke for ever to him of his unnatural 
crime, he retreated to the forest of Leicestershire, to dwell alone 
with his grief and his repentance. 



 




SOSWORTH FIELD. 



0 



His retreat was known to many of his friends, and chance 
had brought the duke of Gloucester at one time to visit him ; 
when the ancient warrior rejoiced with enthusiasm at the 
exaltation of the party to which he was attached. The death 
of the mother of Edmund had the effect of softening the duke’s 
heart, of making for a short interval worldly cares and objects 
distasteful to him, and of filling him with a desire of seclusion 
and peace. If he was unable to enjoy these himself, he re- 
solved that at least his child should not be drawn by him into 
the thorny path of rivalship and ambition. His mother’s last 
injunction strengthened this feeling ; and the duke, visiting 
again the hermit of the wood, induced him to take charge of 
Edmund, and bringing him up in ignorance of his real parentage, 
to bestow such education on him as would enable him to fill 
with reputation an honourable, if not a distinguished station in 
society. This order of things was not changed by Eichard’s 
exaltation to the crown. On the contrary, the dangers ho 
incurred from his usurpation made him yet more anxious to 
secure a peaceful existence for his offspring. When, however, 
his legitimate son, whom he had created prince of Wales, died, 
paternal affection awoke strong in his heart, and he could not 
resist his desire of seeing Edmund : a memorable visit for the 
priest-bred nursling of the forest! It gave him a link with 
society, with which before he had felt no connexion : his imagi- 
nation and curiosity were highly excited. His revered friend, 
yielding to his eager demands, was easily enticed to recur to the 
passed scenes of an eventful life. Tbe commencement of the 
wars of the two Boses, and their dreadful results, furnished 
inexhaustible topics of discourse. Plantagenet listened with 
breathless interest, although it was not till the eve of the battle 
of Bosworth, that he knew how indissolubly his own fortunes 
were linked with those of the house of York. 

The events of the few last days had given him a new exist- 
ence. For the first time, feeling was the parent of action ; and 
a foregoing event drove him on to the one subsequent. He was 
excited to meditate on a thousand schemes, while the unknown 
future inspired him with an awe that thrilled his young heart 
with mingled pain and pleasure. He uttered his sentiments 
with the ingenuousness of one wdio had never been accustomed 
to converse with any but a friend ; and as he spoke, his dark 
and thoughtful eyes beamed with a tempered fire, that showed 
him capable of deep enthusiasm, though utter want of know- 
ledge of the world must make him rather a follower than a 
leader. 

They rode on meanwhile, the noble cavalier and gentle squire 
indulging in short repose. The intense fatigue Edmund at first 




10 



THB FLIGHT FROM 



endured, seemed to be subdued by the neccrsity of its con- 
tinuance, nor did it prevent him from conversing with Lord 
Lovel. He was anxious thoroughly to understand the imme- 
diate grounds of the earl of Eichmond’s invasion, and to 
ascertain the relative position of the remaining chiefs of the 
White Eose : 44 Where,” he asked, 44 are Edward the Fourth’s 
children P ” 

44 The elder of these,” Lord Lovd replied, 44 the Lady Eliza- 
beth, is, by direction of her uncle, at Sheriff Hutton, in York- 
shire.” 

44 And where are the princes? Edward, who was proclaimed 
king, and his younger brother? ” 

44 They were long imprisoned in the Tower. Young Edward 
died there more than a year ago.” 

44 And the Duke of York P ” 

44 He is supposed to have died also : they were both sickly 
boys.” 

Lord Lovel said these words in a grave voice, and suspicion 
would have been instilled into any but the unsuspecting Ed- 
mund, of some covert meaning. After a short pause, he 
continued : — the question of the succession stands thus. Your 
father, the duke of Gloucester, threw the stigma of illegitimacy 
on King Edward’s children, and thus took from them their 
right \of inheriting the crown. The attainder of the duke 
of Clarence was considered reason sufficient why his children 
should be excluded from the throne, and their uncle, in con- 
sequence, became, by right of birth, king of England : his 
Son he created prince of Wales. We submitted ; for a child 
like Edward the Fifth could scarcely be supported against an 
experienced warrior, a man of talent, a sage and just king, but 
at the expense of much blood. The wounds indicted by the 
opposing houses of York and Lancaster were yet, as the late 
successful rebellion proves, unhealed ; and baa the Yorkists 
contended among themselves, they would yet sooner have lost 
the supremacy they so hardly acquired: Eichard therefore 
received our oaths of allegiance. When his son died, the 
question of who was the heir to the crown became agitated ; 
and the king at first declared the earl of Warwick, the son 
of the duke of Clarence, to be his successor. It was a dan- 
gerous step — and the imprudent friends of the young earl 
made it more so — to name him to succeed, who, if he were 
permitted at any time to wear the crown, might claim prece- 
dence of him who possessed it. Poor Warwick paid the 
penalty of youth and presumption : he is now a prisoner at 
Sheriff Hutton ; and John de la Poole, earl of Lincoln, son of 
ttichard’s sister, and by the removal of the children of his 



 




B0SW0J&TH FIELD. 



11 



elder brothers, bis beir by law was nominated to succeed bis 
uncle. I am now proceeding to him. I am ignorant of the 
conduct he will pursue ; whether he will make head against 

this Lancastrian king, or . Lincoln is a noble cavalier ; 

a man whom bright honour clothes ; he is brave, generous, and 
good. I shall guide myself by his counsels and resolves j and 
you, it appears, will follow my example.” 

After a pause, Lord Lovel continued: “After the death or 
disappearance of his princely nephews, the king, wishing to 
confirm his title, was ready to take the stigma thrown on their 
birth from his brother's daughters, and to marry his niece, the 
Lady Elizabeth. Her mother at first resisted, but the prospect 
of seeing her children restored to their rights, and herself to her 
lost dignity, overcame her objections, and the princess yielded a 
willing consent. Meanwhile, the Yorkists, who joined the earl of 
Richmond, extorted from him a vow that he would make King 
Edward’s daughter his queen ; and even the Lancastrians, 
thinking thus to secure a king of their own, are eager for this 
union : yet the earl hates us all so cordially that he was hardly 
brought to consent. Should he, now that ho has declared 
himself king, evade his promise, the children of Elizabeth 
Woodville will suffer the stain of illegitimacy ; but if the 
marriage has place, and this unhappy race is restored to their 
honours and rights, our self-named sovereign may find that his 
own hands have dug the pit into which he will fall.” 

A long silence succeeded to these explanations. The last 
expression used by Lovel inspired Edmund with wonder and 
curiosity ; but the noble pressing his horse to a swifter pace, 
did not hear his observations, or hearing them, replied only by 
saying, “ Three hours' good riding will bring us to London. 
Courage, Plantagenet ! slacken not your speed, my good boy ; 
soft ease will follow this hard labour.” 

The young moon in its first quarter was near its setting when 
they arrived at London. They approached from Edgwarc: 
without entering the town, they skirted its northern extremity, 
till Lord Lovel, checking his horse, remarked to his companion, 
that he judged it fitting to delay approaching the residence of 
the earl of Lincoln, until the setting of the moon and subsequent 
darkness secured them from observation. 



% 



 




12 



CHAPTER II. 

TUB CONFERENCE. 



Yes, my good Lord, 

It doth contain a king- : King Richard lies 

Within the limits of yon lime and stone. 

SilAKSPEARE. 

Tni? earl of Lincoln, declared by Richard the Third, heir to the 
crown, did not join the royal forces, nor appear at the battle of 
Bosworth. This distinguished prince was a man of singular 
abilities and strength of mind, which chivalrous generosity 
adorned with a lustre superior even to that which he derived 
from his high rank. Lord Lovel was possessed of knightly 
courage, untarnished honour, and gentlemanly accomplishment. 
To these military and graceful qualities Lincoln added the wis- 
dom of a statesman and the moral energy resulting from inflexi- 
ble principle. He felt himself responsible to mankind and 
to all posterity for his actions. He was brave — that was a vir- 
tue of the times ; but he was just, in a comprehensive sense of 
the word, and that exalted him above them. His manly features 
did not so much wear the stamp of beauty, though, like all the 
offspring of the House of York, lie was handsome, as of the best 
quality of man, a perception of right, and resolution to achieve 
that right. 

Lord Lincoln disapproved decidedly of the usurpation of his 
uncle, Richard the Third, over the children of Edward the 
Eourth. He allowed that the evidence was strong in favour of 
that king’s former marriage, and their consequent illegitimacy ; 
but he said, that Elizabeth Woodville had so long been held 
queen of England, and her children heirs to the crown, that it 
was impossible to eradicate the belief of the English people, that 
their allegiance was due to him who had been proclaimed even 
by his uncle, Edward the Fifth. Even if they were put aside, 
the attainder passed against the duke of Clarence was an insuffi- 
cient reason- to deprive his son of his lawful inheritance. He 
saw England wasted, and her nobility extirpated by civil con- 
test; and he perceived the seeds of future strife in the assump- 
tion of the crown by the duke of Gloucester. When the son of 
Richard the Third died, and the earl of Warwick was named 
his successor, the superior right of the nephew before the reign- 
ing uncle became so eminent a subject of discussion, that the 
king was obliged to recall his declaration, and to coniine the 



 




THE CONFERENCE, 



13 



young prince in a castle in Yorkshire. The earl of Lincoln, 
then seven and twenty years of age, was next named. lie re- 
monstrated with his uncle privately ; but fear of dividing the 
House of York against itself, and a disdain to make common 
cause with the dowager queen’s relations,* made him outwardly 
submit; but his plan was formed, and secretly all his efforts 
tended towards the restoring the children of Edward to their 
paternal rights. 

The boys were sickly. Edward the Fifth, irritated by the 
extinction of the hopes which the intrigues of his mother had 
kept alive in his breast, wasted by imprisonment in the Tower, 
and brooking with untamed pride the change from a regal to a 
private station, pined and died. Richard, duke of York, was 
between ten and eleven ; a sprightly, ingenuous boy, whose lively 
spirit wore out his frame, and this, added to confinement and 
attention to his dying brother, brought him also near the grave. 
It was on the death of Edward, that the earl of Lincoln visited 
the Tower, and saw young Richard. The accounts given by the 
attendants of his more than a child’s devotion to his brother, his 
replies full of sportive fancy, his beauty, though his cheek was 
faded and his person grown thin, moved the generous noble to 
deep compassion. He ventured, under the strong influence of 
this feeling, to remonstrate warmly with his royal uncle, re- 
proaching him with needless cruelty, and telling him how in 
fact, though not in appearance, he was the murderer of his 
nephews, and would be so held by all mankind. Richard’s ambi- 
tion was satisfied by the success of his measures to obtain the 
crown; but his fears were awake. The duke of Buckingham 
was in arms against him — the queen and her surviving relatives 
were perpetually employed in exciting discontents in the kingdom. 
Richard feared that if they obtained the person of his nephew, 
ho would be turned into an engine for his overthrow ; while to 
obtain possession of him was the constant aim of their endea- 
vours. He earnestly desired to reconcile himself to the queen, 
and to draw her from the sanctuary in which she had immured 
herself — she refused all his offers, unless her son was first placed 
in her hands. 

His head, ripe with state plots, now conceived a scheme. He 
consented that Lincoln should take the duke of York under his 
charge, if he would first engage to keep his removal from the 
Tower, and even his existence, a secret from his enemies. 
Lincoln made the required promise ; the young prince was 
conveyed to a country seat belonging to the earl, and Richard, 
in furtherance of his plan, caused a rumour to go abroad that ho 
also was dead. No one knew with whom this report originated. 
When, to assure themselves, various nobles visited the Tower, 




14 



THE CONFEBElfCE. 



the boy was no longer there. The queen gave credit to the 
tale. At this moment, Richard set on foot a negotiation of 
marriage with the eldest daughter of Edward the Fourth, the 
Lady Elizabeth. The.partizans of the earl of Richmond sought 
to ensure the success of his enterprise by the same means : and 
while little Richard grew in health and happiness in his country 
retreat, his own nearest and most attached relatives were giving 
away hi? inheritance — his uncle unwittingly laid the foundation 
stone of the reputation of cruelty and murder ever after 
affixed to him j and his mother, endeavouring to exalt her 
daughter, and to restore herself to her lost station in the 
kingdom, sealed the fatal decree that first deprived her son of 
his rights, and afterwards of his life. 

On the evening that Lord Lovel and Edmund Plantagcnet 
entered London, the earl of Lincoln remained waiting intelli- 
gence from the field, in a palace he inhabited not far from 
, Tottenham Court, a secluded habitation, surrounded by a 
garden and a high wall. This was an irksome situation for a 
warrior ; but though his uncle loved, he distrusted him : his 
projected marriage with the Lady Elizabeth would probably 
cause him again to be father of an heir to the crown, and 
knowing that Lincoln possessed, in the young duke of York, a 
dangerous rival, he refused to allow him to take up arms 
against Richmond. Lord Lincoln was alone, pacing his large 
and vaulted hall in deep and anxious meditation. He, who with 
conscience for his rule, takes, or endeavours to take, the reins 
of fate into his own hands, must experience frequent misgivings ; 
and often feel that he wheels near the edge of a giddy pre- 
cipice, down which the tameless steeds he strives to govern 
may, in an instant, hurl him and all dependent upon his 
guidance. The simple feeling of compassion, arising from the 
seeing childhood lose its buoyancy in undue confinement, had 
first led the princely noble to take charge of his young cousin. 
Afterwards, when he beheld the boy grow in health and years, 
developing the while extraordinary quickness of intellect, and a 
sweet, ingenuous disposition, he began to reflect on the station 
he held, his rights and his injuries ; and then the design was 
originated on which he was now called to act. 

If Richard gained the day, all would stand as before. Should 
he be defeated — and that second sense, that feeling of coming 
events, which is one of the commonest, though the least acknow- 
ledged of the secret laws of our nature, whispered the yet 
unrevealed truth to him — who then would assume England’s 
diadem, aud how could he secure it for its rightful owner, the 
only surviving son of Edward the Fourth? All these reflections 
coursed themselves through his brain, while, with the zeal of a 




THE C0N7EBENCE. 



15 



partizan, and the fervour of one wedded to the justice of hia 
cause, he revolved every probable change of time and fortune. 

At this moment a courier was announced : he brought tidings 
from the field. As is usual on the eve of a great event, they were 
dubious and contradictory. The armies faced each other, and 
the battle was impending. The doubts entertained on both 
sides, as to the part that Lord Stanley would take, gave still a 
greater uncertainty to the anticipations of each. 

Soon after the arrival of this man, tho loud ringing at the 
outer gate was renewed; and the trampling of horses, as they 
entered the court, announced a more numerous company. 
There was something in the movements of his domestics that 
intimated to the earl that his visitor was of superior rank. 
Could it be the king, who had fled; conquered, and a fugitive P 
Could such terms be applied to the high-hearted Richard P The 
doors of the hall were thrown open, and the question answered 
by the entrance of his visitant: it was a woman ; and her name, 
“ Lady Brampton ! ” in a tone of wonder, burst from the noble’s 
lips. 

“Even I, my good lord,” said the lady; “allow me your 

{ )rivate ear; I bring intelligence from Leicestershire. All is 
ost,” she continued, when the closing of the door assured her 
of privacy; “all is lost, and all is gained — Richard is slain. 
My emissaries brought swift intelligence of this event to me at 
Northampton, and I have hastened with it hither, that without 
loss of time you may act.” 

There was a quickness and a decision in the lady’s manner, 
that checked rather than encouraged her auditor. She con- 
tinued: “Vesper hour has long passed — it matters not — 
London yet is ours. Command instantly that Richard the 
Fourth be proclaimed king of England.” 

Lord Lincoln started at these words. The death of his uncle 
and benefactor could not bo received by him like the loss of a 
move at chess ; a piece lost, that required the bringing up of 
other pieces to support a weak place. “ The king is slain,” 
were words that rang in his ears : drowning every other that 
the lady uttered with rapidity and agitation. “We will speak 
of that anon,” he replied; and going to the high window of 
his hall, he threw it open, as if the air oppressed him. The 
wind sighed in melancholy murmurs among the branches of 
the elms and limes in the garden : tho stars were bright, and the 
Betting moon was leaving the earth to their dim illumination. 
“ Yesternight,” thought Lincoln, “ he was among us, a part of 
our conversation, our acts, our lives ; now his glazed eyes 
behold not these stars. The past is his : with the present and 
the future be has no participation,” 




1G 



TUB CONFEBENCE. 



Lady Brampton’s impatience did not permit the earl long to 
indulge in that commune with nature, which we eagerly seek 
when grief and death throws us back on the weakness of our 
human state, and we feel that we ourselves, our best laid pro- 
jects and loftiest hopes, are but the playthings of destiny. 
“ Wherefore,” cried the lady, “ does De la Poole linger P Does 
he hesitate to do his cousin justice? Does he desire to follow 
in the Bteps of his usurping predecessor? Wherefore this 
delay ?” 

“ To strike the surer,” replied Lincoln. “May not I ask, 
wherefore this impatience P” 

Even as he spoke, steps were heard near the apartment ; and 
while the eyes of both were turned with inquietude on the 
expected intruder, Lord Lovel entered : there was no triumph, 
no eager anticipation on his brow — he was languid from ill 
success and fatigue. Lincoln met him with the pleasure of one 
who sees his friend escaped from certain death. He was over- 
joyed to be assured of his existence ; be was glad to have his 
assistance on the present emergency. “ We know,” he said, 
“ all the evil tidings you bring us ; we are now deliberating on 
the conduct we are to pursue : your presence will facilitate our 
measures. Tell me what other friends survive to aid us. The 
duke of Norfolk, the Staffords, Sir Robert Brakenbury, where 
are they ? ” 

Lovel had seen the duke fall, the Staffords had accompanied 
his flight ; uncertainty still hung over the fate of many others. 
This detail of the death of many of their common friends, 
subdued the impetuosity of the lady, till an account of how 
Richard himself had fought and been slain recalled her to their 
former topic of discussion ; and, again, she said, “ It is strango 
that you do not perceive the dangers of delay. Why is not tho 
king proclaimed ? ” 

“ Do you not know,” asked Lord Lovel, “ that the^ king in 
proclaimed ? ” 

Lady Brampton clasped her hands, exclaiming, “ Then Richard 
the Fourth will wear his father’s crown ! ” 

“ Henry the Seventh,” said Lovel, “ possesses and wears the 
English crown. Lord Stanley placed tne diadem on the head 
of the earl of Richmond, and bis soldiers, with one acclaim, 
acknowledged him as their sovereign.” 

“ This is mere trifling,” said the lady ; “ the base-born off- 
spring of Lancaster may dare aspire so high, but one actol ours 
dethrones him. The Yorkists are numerous, and will defend 
their king: London is yet ours.” 

“Yes,” replied Lincoln, “ it is in our power to deluge the 
streets of London with blood ;• to bring massacre among its 







THE CONFBBENCE. 



17 

citizens, and worse disaster on its wives and maidens. I would 
not buy an eternal crown for myself — I will not strive to place 
that ot‘ England on my kinsman’s head — at this cost. We have 
had over-much of war : I have seen too many of the noble, 
young, and gallant, fall by the sword. Brute force has had its ’ 
day ; now let us try what policy can do.” 

The council these friends held together was long and anxious. 
The lady still insisted on sudden and resolute measures. Lord 
Lovel, a soldier in all his nature, looked forward to the calling 
together the Yorkists from every part of the kingdom. The 
earl, with a statesman’s experience, saw more of obstacle to their 
purpose in the elevation of Henry the Seventh than either of 
nis companions would allow ; the extreme youth of the duke of 
Y'ork, the oblivion into which he had sunk, and the stain on his 
birth, which was yet unremoved, would disincline the people to 
hazard life and fortune in his cause. Henry had taken oath to 
marry his sister, the Lady Elizabeth, and when thus the progeny 
of Edward the Fourth were freed from the slur under which 
they now laboured, the whole country would be alive to the 
claims of his only son. It was necessary now to place him in 
safety, and far away from the suspicious eyes of his usurping 
enemy. That morning Lord Lincoln had brought him up from 
his rural retreat to the metropolis, and sheltered him for a few 
hours under safe but strange guardianship. He was left at the 
house of a Flemish money-lender well known at court. It w’as 
agreed that Lord Lovel should take him thence, and make him 
the companion of his journey to Colchester, where they should 
remain watching the turn of events, and secretly preparing the 
insurrection which would place him on the throne. Lady 
Brampton was obliged to proceed immediately northwards to 
join her husband ; the north was entirely Yorkist, and her 
influence would materially assist the cause. The earl remained 
in London ; he would sound the inclinations of the nobility, and 
even coming in contact with the new king, watch over danger 
and power at its fountain-head. One more question was dis- 
cussed: Whether the queen, Elizabeth Woodville, should be 
made acquainted with the existence of her son. All three, from 
various reasons, decided in the negative. A personal enmity 
existed between the widow of Edward the Fourth and Lady 
Brampton : her party was detested by the two nobles. It would 
be more popular with»the nation, they thought, if her kinsmen, 
whose upstart pretensions were the object of the derision and 
scorn of the old aristocracy, had no part in bestowing the crown 
on the heir of the House of York. Time wore away during 
these deliberations ; it was past midnight before the friends 

c 








18 



THE CONFERENCE. 



separated. Lord Lovel presented his young friend, Edmund 
PJantagenct, to the earl, and recommended him to his protec- 
tion. Refreshment was also necessary after Lovel's fatiguing 
journey ; but he was so intent on accomplishing his purpose, 
that he wasted but a few minutes in this manner, and then being 
provided with a fresh horse from Lincoln’s stables, he left the 
palace to proceed first to the prsent abode of Richard of York, 
and afterwards, accompanied by him, on his road to Essex. 

Lord Lovel threaded his way through the dark narrow streets 
of London towards Lothbury. The habitation of the money- 
lender was well known to him, but it was not easily entered at 
past midnight. A promised bribe to the apprentice who hailed, 
liim from the lofty garret-window, and his signet-ring sent in to 
his master, at length procured admission into the bedchamber of 
Mynheer Jahn. Warbeck. The old man sat up in his bed, his 
red cotton night-cap on his head, his spectacles, with which he 
had examined the ring, on his nose ; his chamber was narrow 
and dilapidated, his bed of ill condition. “ Who would suppose,” 
thought Lovel, “ that this man holds half England in pawn P” 

When Warbeck heard that the errand of Lovel was to take 
from him his princely charge, he rose hastily, wrapping a robe 
round him, and opened a small wainscoat door leading into a 
little low room, whence he drew the half-sleeping and wondering 
boy. There was a rush taper in the room, and daylight began to 
peep through the crevices of the shutters, giving melancholy 
distinctness to the dirty and dismantled chamber. One ray fell 
directly on the red night-cap and spectacles of old Jahn, whose 
parchment face was filled with wrinkles, vet they were lines of care, 
not of evil, and there was even benevolence in his close mouth ; 
for the good humour and vivacity of the boy had won on him. 
Besides, he had himself a son, for whom he destined all his 
wealth, of the same age as the little fellow whose plump roseate 
hand he held in his own brown shrivelled palm. The boy came 
in, rubbing his large blue eyes, the disordered ringlets of his 
fair hair shading a face replete with vivacity and intelligence. 
Mynheer Jahn was somewhat loth to part with the little prince, 
but the latter clapped his hands in ecstacy when he heard that 
Lord Lovel had come to take him away. 

“I pray you tell me, Sir Knight,” said old Warbeck, “ whether 
intelligence hath arrived of the victory of our gra'cious sovereign, 
and the defeat of the Welch rebels.” 

Richard became grave at these words ; he fixed his eyes 
inquiringly on the noble : “ Dear Lord Lovel,” he cried, “ for I 
remember you well, my very good lord, when you came to the 
Tower and found me and Robert Clifford playing at bowls — tell 
me, how you have fought, and whether you have won.” 



THE CONFEItENCE. 



19 



“Mine are evil tidings,” said Lord Lovel'; “all is lost. We 
were vanquished, and j - our royal uncle slain.” 

Warbeck’s countenance changed at these words ; he lamented 
the king; he lamented the defeat of the party which he had 
aided by various advances of money, and his regrets at once 
■expressed sorrow for the death of some, and dread from the con- 
fiscation of the property of others. Meanwhile, Kichard of York 
was full of some thought that swelled his little breast ; taking 
Lovel’s hand, he asked again, “ My uncle, Richard the Third, is 
dead?” 

“ Even so,” was the reply ; “ he died nobly on the field of 
battle.” 

The child drew himself up, and his eyes flashed as he said 
proudly, — “ Then I am king of England.” 

“ Who taught your grace that lesson P” asked Lovel. 

“[My liege — my brother Edward. Often and often in the long 
winter nights, and when he was sick in bed, he told me how, 
after lie had been proclaimed king, he had been dethroned ; but 
that when our uncle died he should be king again ; and that if 
it pleased God to remove him, I should stand in his place; and I 
should restore my mother’s honour, and this he made me swear.” 
“Bless the boy!” cried Warbeck, “he speaks most sagely; 
may the saints incline my lord, the earl of Lincoln, to do his 
royal cousin justice !” 

“ Your grace,” said Lovel, “shall hear more of this as we pro- 
ceed on our journey. Mynheer Jahn, the carl bade me apply 
to you ; you are to repair to him before noon ; meanwhile, fill 
this long empty purse with gold coins. He will be my guarantee.” 
“Lend me the money,” cried the little duke, “I will repay 
you. We will repay you, when we have our crown.” 

This was an inducement not to be resisted. Warberk counted 
out the gold ; the boy with light steps tripped down the creaking 
old staircase, and when Lovel had mounted, taking his hand, he 
sprung in the saddle before him. The fresh morning air was 
grateful to both, after the close chambers of the Fleming. The 
noble put his horse to a quick trot, and leaving London by a 
different road from that by which he had entered, took his way 
through Romford and Chelmsford to Colchester. 

The news of the earl of Richmond’s victory and assumption 
of the crown reached London that night. The citizens heard it 
on their awakening. The market people from the west related 
it to those who came in from the east; but it had not hitherto 
travelled in that direction. Lovel knew that the storm was- 
behind him, but he outrode it ; on the evening of the second day 
he was safe in sanctuary at Colchester. His young charge was 
lodged at a farm-house belonging to a tenant of Sir Humphrey 

c 3 




20 



ELIZABETH OP YORK. 



Stafford. They all awaited impatiently for the time when the 
earl of Lincoln would put a period to their confinement, by- 
informing them that the hour was arrived when they might again 
take arms against the upstart Lancastrian king. 



CITAPTER III. 

ELIZABETH OF YORK. 



Small joy have I in being England’s queen. 

Sbaksfsare. 

Henry the Seventh was a man of strong sense and sound under- 
standing. He was prudent, resolute, and valiant ; on the other 
hand, he was totally devoid of generosity, and was actuated all 
his life by base and bad passions. At first the ruling feeling of 
his heart was hatred of the House of York — nor did he wholly 
give himself up to the avarice that blotted his latter years, till 
the extinction of that unhappy family satisfied his revenge, so 
that for want of fuel the flame died away. Most of his relatives 
and friends had perished in the field or on the scaffold by the 
hands of the Yorkists — his own existence had been in jeopardy 
during their exaltation ; and the continuance of his reign, and 
even of his life, depended on their utter overthrow. Henry had 
a mind commensurate to the execution of bis plans : he had a 
talent for seizing, as if instinctively, on all the bearings of a 
question before him ; and a ready perception of the means by 
w hich he might obviate difficulties and multiply facilities, was 
the most prominent part of his character. He never aimed at 
too much, and felt instantaneously when he had arrived at the 
enough. More of cruelty would have roused England against 
him ; less would have given greater hopes to the partizans of his 
secreted rival. He had that exact portion of callousness of heart 
which enabled him to extricate himself in the admirable manner 
he did from all his embarrassments. 

It is impossible to say what his exact views were, when 
he landed in England, an 1 made head against Richard the Third. 
His right of succession, even through the House of Lancaster, 
was ill-founded, and probably he would scarcely have dared to 
decorate his brows with the royal circlet but for the happy bold- 
ness of Stanley, and the enthusiasm felt by his soldiers in the 
hour of victory, which had bestowed it on him. Once a king, as 



b 




ELIZABETH OP YOBK. 



21 



it was impossible, without risk of life, to sink to a private station, 
he did not hesitate, but bent every energy of his mind to the 
contriving the means to seat himself firmly on his newly-acquired 
throne. 

The illegitimacy of Edward the Fourth’s children had removed 
them from the succession. But though no doubt was entertained 
as to the fact of Edward having married Lady Eleanor Butler, 
yet Henry had the taint of illegitimacy on his own race ; and, 
moreover, Elizabeth Woodville having so long filled the station 
of queen of England, the public voice went in her favour, and 
the majority of the English people looked upon the tale which 
deprived her children of their rights, as a contrivance of their 
usurping uncle. What then was to become of them ? Edward 
the Fifth was dead : of this fact there was no doubt. It had 
been rumoured that the duke of York had not long survived his 
brother. To ascertain the truth of this report, Henry dispatched 
one of his most staunch adherents to the Tower. The boy was 
not there ; but a mystery hung over his fate which did not quite 
assure the new king of his death. Henry feared that he was in 
the hands of the Yorkists, and this dread gave fresh vigour to 
his distrust and abhorrence of the partizans of the White Hose. 
He formed a scheme to defeat their projects ; he caused it to be 
disseminated that both the princes had been found dead — 
murdered — in the Tower. 

The competitors for the crown, whose claims ranked next, 
were the daughters of Edward the Fourth. Henry immediately 
saw the necessity of agreeing to the treaty entered into by the 
countess of Richmond, for his marriage with the eldest of these 
princesses. He hated to owe his title to the crown to any part 
of the House of York ; he resolved, if possible, to delay and 
break the marriage ; but his own friends were urgent with him 
to comply, and prudence dictated the measure ; he therefore 
promised to adopt it — thus effectually to silence the murmurs of 
the party of the White Hose. 

But if the young duke of York reappeared meanwhile, it 
would be necessary not to repeal the Act of Parliament that cast 
a stigma on his birth. If the children of Elizabeth Woodville 
and Edward the Fourth were debarred from the crown, the earl 
of Warwick was the next heir. He was confined, by Richard 
the Third, at Sheriff Hutton, in Yorkshire. He was the especial 
object of Henry's fear, and now he commanded him to be 
brought from his northern prison to the Tower of London, to be 
kept a close prisoner in that melancholy and ill-fated place. 
There was one other rival, the earl of Lincoln, named by Richard 
to succeed him; but his pretensions came so far behind tho 
others, and he enjoyed so high a reputation for sagacity and 




22 



ELIZABETH OF YOEK. 



virtue, that Henry believed it best to let him alone for the pre- 
sent, only sui-rounding him with spies ; and resolved, on the first 
note of danger, to destroy him. 

Fortune smiled on the new sovereign. The disappearance of 
the two children from the Tower caused the Yorkists to settle 
their affections on the young Elizabeth. She was at Sheriff 
Hutton, waiting impatiently for her union with her uncle ; now 
she received commands to proceed to London, as the affianced 
bride of that uncle’s conqueror. Already the common talk ran 
on the entwining of the two ltoses ; and all the adherents of her 
family, who could gain access, recommended their cause to her, 
and entreated her, in the first days of power, not to forget her 
father’s friends, but to incline the heart of her husband to an 
impartial love for the long rival houses of Lancaster and York. 

Two parties arrived on the same day at Sheriff Hutton, on the 
different missions of conducting the Lady Elizabeth and the earl 
of Warwick to London. On the morning of their departure they 
met in the garden of their abode to take leave of each other. 
Elizabeth was nineteen years old, Warwick was the exact ago 
of her brother, Edward the Fifth ; he was now sixteen. 

“ We are about to travel the same road with far different 
expectations,” said Warwick. “ I go to be a prisoner ; you, fair 
cousin, to ascend a throne.” 

There was a despondency in the youth’s manner that deeply 
affected this princess. “ Dear Edward,” she replied, clasping his 
hand, “ we have been fellow-prisoners long, and sympathy has 
lightened the burthen of our chains. Can I forget our walks in 
this beauteous park, and the love and confidence we have felt for 
each other P My dearest boy, when I am queen, Esther will 
claim a boon from Ahasuerus, and Warwick shall be the chief 
noble in my train.” 

She looked at him with a brilliant smile ; her heart glowed 
with sisterly affection. She might well entertain high anticipa- 
tions of future power ; she was in the pride of youth and beauty ; 
the light spirit of expected triumph lighted up her lovely face. 
She was about to become the bride of a conqueror, yet one 
whose laurels would droop without her propping ; she was to bo 
queen of her native land, the pearly clasp to unite the silken 
bond with which peace now bound long discordant England. 
She was unable to communicate this spirit of hope to her 
desponding friend ; lie gazed on her beauty with admiration and 
deep grief, asking, with tearful eyes, “ Shall we ever meet 
again P ” 

“ Yes ! in London, in the court of Henry, we shall again ho 
companions — friends.” 

“ X go to the Tower, not to the court,” replied Warwick, 



 




ELIZABETH OP YORK. 



23 



“ and when those gloomy gates close on me, I shall pray that my 
head may soon repose on the cold stone that pillows my cousin 
Edward. I shall sleep uneasily till then.” 

“ Fie, cousin ! ” said Elizabeth ; “ such thoughts ill beseem 
the nearest kinsman of the future queen of England. You will 
remain but a short time in the Tower ; but if you nurse thoughts 
like these, you will pine there as you did before I shared your 
prison here, and the roses with which my care has painted your 
cheeks, will again fade.” 

“ Wan and colourless will my cheek be ere your bright eyes 
look on it again. Is it not sufficient grief that I part from you, 
beloved friend !” 

A gush at once of sorrow, of affection, of long suppressed love, 
overpowered the youth. “I shall think of you,” he added, “ in 
my prison-house ; and while I know that you regret my fate, I 
cannot be wholly a wretch. Do you not love me? And will 
you not, as a proof, give me one of these golden hairs, to soothe 
poor Warwick’s misery ? One only,” he saitf, taking from her 
braided locks the small gift he demanded, “ I will not diminish 
the rich beauty of your tresses, yet they will not look lovelier, 
pressed by the jewelled diadem of England, than under the 
green chaplet I crowned you with a few months past, my Queen 
of May!" 

And thus, the eyes of each glistening with tears, they parted. 
For a moment Warwick looked as if he wished to press his 
cousin to his heart ; and she, who loved him as a sister, would 
have yielded to his embrace : but before his arms enfolded her, 
he started back, bent one knee, pressed her hand to his lips, his 
eyea, his brow, and bending his head for an instant towards the 
ground, sprang up, and rushed down the avenue towards the 

S ;ate at which his guard awaited him. Elizabeth stood motion- 
css, watching him till out of sight. The sun sparkled brightly 
on a tuft of wild flowers at her feet. The glittering light caught 
her eye. “ It is noon,” she thought ; “ the morning dew is dry ; 
it is Warwick's tears that gem these leaves.” She gathered the 
flowers, and, first kissing them, placed them in her bosom ; with 
slow steps, and a sorrowing heart, she re-entered the castle. 

The progress of the Lady Elizabeth from Sheriff Hutton to 
London was attended by every circumstance that could sustain 
her hopes. She was received with acclamation and enthusiasm 
in every town through which she passed. She indeed looked 
forward w ith girlish vanity to the prospect of sharing the throne 
with Henry. She had long been taught the royal lesson, that 
with princes, tho inclinations are not to bear any part in a dis- 
posal of the hand. Her imagination fed on the good she would 
do for others, w hen raised to the regal dignity ; the hope of 








24 



ELIZABETH OF YOBK. 



liberating Warwick, and of fulfilling her mother’s wishes in con- 
ferring benefits on various partizans of the White Bose, filled 
her bosom with the purest joy; youth, beauty, and the expecta- 
tion of happiness, caused the measure of her content to overflow. 
With a fluttering heart she entered London : small preparation 
had been made to receive her, and she was immediately con- 
ducted to her mother’s abode at the Tower Boyal, in the parish 
of Wal brook. The first check her hopes received arose from the 
clouded brow of the queen, as she embraced her daughter, and 
welcomed her arrival. Many fears in truth occupied the thoughts 
of the illustrious widow. She could not forget her sons ; and 
the mystery that hung over the fate of the younger pressed 
heavily upon her. It was now the eighteenth of October, and 
the preparations for the coronation of Henry were in great for- 
wardness ; Parliament had recognized his title without any 
allusion to the union with the heiress of the House of York. 
She had endeavoured to fathom his purposes, and to understand 
his character. She knew that he entertained a settled hatred 
for the White Eose, and that his chief pride lay in establishing 
himself on the throne, independent of the claim he might acquire 
by his marriage with the Lady Elizabeth. The common people 
murmured, the Yorkists were discontented, — the neighbour 
stage before they should break out into open rebellion. Thus 
dark clouds interposed before the sun of peace, which had been 
said to have risen on the event of the battle of Bosworth Field. 

Henry the Seventh was crowned on the thirtieth of October. 
The queen looked on this ceremony as the downfall of her hopes. 
Housed by this fear, she entered into a sea of intrigue, in which, 
after all, she had no certain aim, except that of re-animating the 
zeal of the Yorkists, and of exciting such discontent in the public 
mind, on the postponement of her daughter’s marriage, as to 
force Henry to consent to an immediate union. The gentle 
Elizabeth had meanwhile submitted patiently to her destiny. 
She dismissed regality from her thoughts, and devoted herself to 
her mother; recreating herself in the society of her sisters, and 
now and then contemplating the faded leaves she had brought 
from Sheriff Hutton, and lamenting the fate of Warwick. She 
had learned to fear and almost to hate Henry ; and, but for the 
sake of her suffering party, to rejoice that he had apparently 
relinquished his intention of marrying her. 

The dissatisfaction manifested by the English people forced 
Henry to comply with the universal wish entertained of seeing 
the daughter of Edward the Fourth on the throne ; yet it was 
not until the beginning of January that the princess received 
timation to prepare for her nuptials. This prospect, which had 
fore elated, now visited her coldly ; for, without the hope of 



ELIZABETH OF YOBK. 



25 



influencing her husband, the state of a queen appeared mere 
bondage. In her heart she wished to reject her uncourteous 
bridegroom ; and once she had ventured to express this desire 
to her mother, who, filled with affright, laid aside her intrigues, 
devoting herself to cultivate a more rational disposition in her 
daughter. Henry paid the doomed girl one visit, and saw little 
in her except a bashful child ; while his keener observation was 
directed towards the dowager queen. She, with smooth brow 
and winning smiles, did the honours of reception to her future 
son-in-law — to her bitter foe. The cold courtesy of Henry 
chilled her ; and a strong desire lurked under her glossy mien, 
to reproach the usurper with his weak title, to set up her daugh- 
ter’s claim in opposition to his, and to defy him to the field. As 
soon as Henry departed, her suppressed emotions found vent in 
tears. Elizabeth was astonished : she knelt before her, caressed 
her, and asked if all were not well now, since the plighted troth 
had passed between her and the king. 

“ Has it passed P” murmured the queen ; “ and is your hapless 
fate decided P Why did I not join you at Sheriff Hutton P 
Why did I not place your hand in that of your noble cousin P 
Ah, Warwick ! could I even now inspire you with my energy, 
you would be free in arms ; and England to a man would rise in 
the cause of Edward the Sixth, and my sweet Elizabeth ! ” 

The colour in the princess’s cheeks varied during the utter- 
ance of this speech ; first they flushed deep red, but the pale 
hue of resolution succeeded quickly to the agitation of doubt. 
“ Mother,” she said, “ I was your child ; plastic clay in your 
hands; had you said these words two hours ago, Warwick 
might have been liberated — I perhaps happy. 13ut you have 
given me away ; this ring is the symbol of my servitude ; I 
belong to Henry. Say no word, I beseech you, that can inter- 
fere with my duty to him. Permit me to retire.” 

On the eighteenth of January her nuptials were celebrated. 

The forbidding manners of Henry threw a chill over the 
marriage festival. He considered that he had been driven to 
this step by his enemies ; and that the chief among these, 
influenced by her mother, was Elizabeth herself. The poor girl 
never raised her eyes from the moment she had encountered at 
the altar the stern and unkind glance of the king. Her steps 
were unassured, her voice faltering ; the name of wife was to 
her synonymous with that of slave, while her sense of duty pre- 
vented every outward demonstration of the despair that occupied 
her heart. 

Her mother's indignation was deeper, although not less 
veiled. She could silence, but not quell, the rage that arose in 
her breast from her disappointment ; and there were many 




26 



LADY B HAMPTON. 



present who shared her sentiments. As far as he had been able, 
Ilenry had visited the Yorkists with the heaviest penalties. An 
act of attainder had been passed against the duke of Norfolk, 
Lord Lovel, the Staffords, and all indeed of note who had 
appeared against him. Those with whom he could not proceed 
to extremities, he wholly discountenanced. The lied liose 
flourished bright and free — one single white blossom, doomed 
to untimely blight, being entwined with the gaudier flowers. 



CHAPTER IV. 

LADY BBAMPTON. 



My noble queen, let former grudges pass, 

And henceforth I am thy true servitor. 

SlIAKSFEARB. 

Meanwhile the Yorkists were impatient for action. The 
existence of Prince Richard was a secret to all save Lincoln and 
Lovel — even the Staffords were kept in ignorance ; their purpose, 
therefore, was merely to put down the Lancastrians, and to 
raise their own party, with Warwick or Lincoln at their head ; 
they cared not which, so that they got a king w ho would, in his 
turn, uproot the Red Rose. Lincoln would consent to no 
decisive step ; but from the day of his cousin’s marriage, all his 
emissaries and friends were on foot to cause insurrectionary 
movements in the kingdom, rousing in the old Yorkists their 
ancient party spirit, and inspiring the young with hopes of 
future aggrandizement and victory. 

As the spring advanced, Henry sent the young queen, with 
her mother and sisters, and the countess of Richmond, to hold 
her court at Winchester, while he resolved on a progress through 
the northern counties of England, the most affected towards the 
House of York, to endeavour, by the royal presence, to 
awaken affection towards the reigning sovereign. He passed 
the festival of Easter at Lincoln, and there ho heard that Lord 
Lovel and the two Staffords had escaped from sanctuary. The 
sound of insurrection is fearful to a newly -anointed king ; but 
as no explanation was given to their movements, and no name of 
import mingled in the tale, lie felt less perturbation at this 
intelligence. As he proceeded on his journey, the affair took a 



 




IADY BBAMPTON. 



27 



more serious aspect. The Staffords advanced to besiege Wor- 
cester ; and Love], with an increasing armv of three or four 
thousand men, was in the neighbourhood of York. 

Sir Edward Brampton joined the forces of Lord Love], and 
he and Lady Brampton amin met. The history of this kdy 
was singular. Ten years before the time of which we write, 
being tnen eighteen, she married, and attended the court of 
Edward the Fourth. She had talent and vivacity; her dark 
laughing eyes, the animation of her countenance, her gay and 
naive manners, attracted her sovereign ; and she was soon dis- 
tinguished as one whose advancement, if so it might be called, 
to the highest influence over him, depended on her own choice 
between honour and such preferment. She did not hesitate ; 
but her rejection won Edward as much as her beauty. A kind 
of friendship, kept up under the chivalrous phraseology of the 
day, was established between them, that gave, perhaps, more 
umbrage to the queen than a less avowed connection would have 
done. All was open ; and if the good humour of her young 
rival never permitted her to assume haughtiness, there was 
something even more revolting in her girlish assumptions of 
power and consequence. The queen hated and affected to 
despise Lady Brampton ; Lady Brampton felt that she injured 
the wife of Edward the Fourth. At first she had earnestly 
sought to gain her favour, but when rebuffed, she resorted to 
the weapons of youth, beauty, and wit, and set at defiance the 
darkened brow of Elizabeth. Ten years had passed since then. 

Edward the Fourth died, and under Bichard the Third Lady 
Brampton returned to her natui’al place m society ; nay, the 
vivacity of speech with which she defended the rights of his 
nephews, made him absolutely discountenance her. In her days 
of pride she had refused every mark of favour from Edward, 
thus to place their avowed friendship far above the petty intrigues 
of the courtiers. It might have been thought that the queen 
and her rival would now, on the grounds of affection for Edward’s 
children, have leagued together; but, on the contrary, the mother 
expressed contempt and indignation at the presumption of Lady 
Brampton in assuming a personal interest in her children, and 
that lady too well remembered how often her manner and 
Bpeech must have offended the queen to make any vain attempt 
at reconciliation. The earl of Lincoln and Lady Brampton had 
always been friends ; her liveliness amused him, her integrity 
and real goodness of heart won his esteem. Her passionate 
love for the princes in the Tower had caused him, when ho 
withdrew thence the young Bichard, whose ill-health demanded 
constant feminine attentions, to confide him to her charge ; thus 
she alone became possessed of the secret of his existence, and 




28 



LADY BBAMPTON. 



now with Lord Lovel she debated how best his interests could 
be furthered. 

Lord Lincoln feared by rash measures to endanger the safety 
of his nephew. He desired to place him on the throne, but he 
preferred bringing him up in freedpm and obscurity to any ill- 
judged attempt that might throw him into his enemy’s hands, 
and make him prisoner for life. His plans were all laid upon this 

E rinciple ; he commanded Lord Lovel, who submitted wholly to 
im, not to breathe the name of the son of Edward till he had 
gained a decided advantage over the reigning sovereign. If 
victorious, he might set up the royal standard and proclaim 
[Richard the Fourth, while the earl, still in London, would call 
together all the Yorkists, and, in the absence of the king, seize, 
iu his nephew’s name, upon the capital of the kingdom. If 
Lord Lovel’s attempt proved unsuccessful, it was decided that 
the prince should escape immediately to the Continent, there to 
remain till some new insurrection was organized ; for, though, 
cautious, he was resolute, and he had determined never to relin- 
quish his purpose, but to excite rebellion and discontent against 
Henry till the rightful heir possessed his own. 

These plans were in contradiction to Lady Brampton’s views, 
but she was obliged to submit. Her quick woman’s wit dis- 
covered her another danger. The absolute silence observed 
concerning the young prince, then only eleven years of age, 
might in the end cast a doubt over the justice of his pretensions, 
and she told Lord Lovel, that if, after a failure, Richard quitted 
England, he must first be seen and acknowledged by his mother. 
She resolved, therefore, on immediately going to Winchester to 
prepare Elizabeth for the reception of her son ; and Lord Lovel, 
who agreed in the wisdom of this proposal, promised, at all 
hazards, that ere leaving the kingdom the duke of York should 
cross the country to that town, whence, by Southampton, he 
might escape to France. While, therefore, Lord Lovel increased 
his army, and marched in high hopes towards York, Lady 
Brampton proceeded southward, meditating the safest and best 
manner of introducing herself to the queen. 

There was a man, Richard Simon, or Symond, who afterwards 
figured in the chronicles, that had long been secretly concerned 
in the course of events. He was the son of a tenant of Sir 
John Gray, and had been the playmate of the Lady Elizabeth 
Gray *8 elder children. His love of books, his sedentary habits, 
and quick wit on matters of learning, led those interested in his 
fate to consider him fitted for tlje church, and therefore, he took 
priest’s orders. But his mind, though not attuned to action in. 
its noblest sense, was not one that could remain at rest. He 
loved power ; he was sagacious, astute, aud intriguing : when 




LADY BBAMPTOX. 



29 



the Lady Gray became queen, he being still too young for high 

g romotiou, preferred an unnoticed but influential situation near 
er person to more lucrative employ, which would remove him 
from the pleasures and dignity of the court. When Edward 
died, he devoted- himself to the service of his royal patroness, 
and hardly escaped being imprisoned for life by Richard, when 
the latter was most exasperated against the queen-dowager’s 
relations. From that time Richard Simon found full occupation 
for his plotting head, in endeavouring to bring about the over- 
throw of the usurping Gloucester, and to raise the hopes of 
Henry the Seventh, who requited ill his active zeal: and now 
again he busied himself in exalting the queen’s party. He looked 
the man he was — a prier into secrets-— one wno conducted the 
drama of life by back-stairs and tell-tale valets : his small grey 
eyes were quick to discern the meaning of each smile or frown ; 
his young brow was already wrinkled tnrough care and thought ; 
craft lurked in the corners of his lips ; and his whispering voice 
betokened habitual caution. He continued to hover near the 

a ueen ; now despatched to sound some Yorkist, now closeted to 
iscuss some expression of the king’s, in which to find a secret 
meaning. Repose was the thing he hated ; and for ever with 
some plan on foot, some web to weave or unravel, he was seen 
•with brows a little elevated by self-conceit, with a courtly bend 
of the body, and insinuating address, now assuring a Lancastrian 
of the perfect satisfaction of the queen, now whispering to a 
Yorkist a tale of slights and injuries practised by Ring Henry 
against his consort and her friends. All the communication that 
had taken place between Elizabeth Woodville and the earl of 
Lincoln had been carried on through this man, though each knew 
not that he communicated to the other what either said. But 
Lincoln respected his undeviating fidelity towards his patroness, 
and valued his talents. It was to this man that Lady Brampton 
addressed herself on her arrival at Winchester, to procure for 
her a private audience with the queen. Her dark hints respecting 
the insurrection of Lovcl and the Staffords excited his curiosity, 
yet ho experienced more difficulty than he expected in bringing 
the royal dowager to consent to receive her rival. When our 
days of prosperity are fled we cling fondly to all that reminds us 
of their brightness, and turn with augmented distaste from 
everthing that marred their splendour. Elizabeth loved to 
remember herself as the chosen bride of Edward, and any 
circumstance that spoke of his inconstancy, or detracted from 
the entireness of her influence .over him, then inspired her with 
indignation, now with abhorrence. It required all Simon’s 
dexterity to allay her anger, and excite her curiosity, sufficiently 
to induce her to admit her rival to her presence. 




30 



IiADY BBAMPTOtf. 



It vras at the hour of vespers that the priest introduced [Lady 
Brampton into the queen’s cabinet. Elizabeth was assured that 
she had secrets of importance to communicate, and she designed 
by affability to vrin her to a full disclosure of them. Yet her 
heart and manner grew cold as she entered the closet where the 
lady and her guide already were, and bending her head slightly, 
she said, “ The Lady Brampton desired an audience with me — 
I grant it.” 

With all her vivacity and consciousness of the importance of 
her disclosures, the lady felt herself awed and chilled ; and tho 
memory of Edward came across her, who had before shielded 
her from such unkindness, and filled her eyes with tears. A long 
pause ensued ; the queen looked as in expectation, and Richard 
Simon, who had retired to an embrasure of a window, was about 
to come forward, when Lady Brampton, conquering her emotion, 
said, “ Your grace is the happy mother of the queen of England, 
and the hope of an heir, which you now entertain, may make my 
intelligence distasteful.” 

“Say on,” replied Elizabeth, haughtily ; “I listen to your 
words.” 

The lady felt much inclined not to say another word, but 
assuming almost equal coldness of manner, she continued, “Would 
your grace prefer that your fair daughter should still bear the 
sceptre, or that Richard the Fourth should wrest it from the 
husband’s grasp P” 

Now indeed the queen started, and cried impetuously, 

“ I charge you, trifle with me no longer ! Explain your words ; 
•who would supplant my child ? ” 

“ Her brother,” Lady Brampton replied ; and seeing the 
queen lost in a mixture of amazement and terror, she added, 

“ The Duke of York still lives : ho is now, I trust, at the head 
of forces sufficient to enforce his rights. In a few days 
England will acknowledge him as sovereign.” 

In reply to these words, spoken with rapidity, as if they were 
pregnant with supreme delight to their auditress, the queen 
with an angry look, said, “ I shall league with no plotters to 
establish an impostor.” 

“Beware,” said Lady Brampton, indignantly; “let your 
majesty bethink yourself before you consign your son to 
misery and an early grave. Will his mother be his chief 
enemy ? ” 

“ Who vouches for him P ” 

“Himself! He is the very Edward who once was yours: 
his young features arc but the miniature mirror of his royal 
father ; his princely grace, his wit, his courage, are all derived 
from him." 







LADY BBAMPTOU*. 



31 

** I must see the boy,” said the queen, “ to end at once this 
Billy masque. How do you pretend that he escaped town the 
Tower?” 

The independence and sensibility of Lady Brampton’s dis- 
position would not permit her to answer a question asked thus 
ironically. Had she looked at the queen, she might have seen, 
by her change of countenance, that it was nearly all put on by 
the jealous instinct that would not permit her to acknowledge 
herself under so great an obligation to her rival. Lady Bramp- 
ton turned to Simon, saying, “ I am ready to depart, Sir Priest ; 
I see her grace sorrows that the same cold bed does not entomb 
Bichard of York and Edward the Fifth. Poor prince ! My 
Lord of Lincoln counselled well, and I was to blame in not 
acting on his advice.” 

“ Stay,” cried Elizabeth, “ speak again. Is the earl of Lin- 
coln a party to this tale P ” 

“ Your majesty insults me,” said the lady ; “ I came here to 
please a mother’s ear by assurances of her son’s safety, and to 
conduct the tempest-tost fortunes of this ill-starred boy into the 
safe harbour of maternal love. I came with a full heart and an 
ardent desire to serve you ; no other motive could have led me 
hither. You receive me with disdain ; you dismiss me with 
contumely. I fear that so much you hate me, that, for my sake, 
your heart is steeled against your princely son. But as you 
already know so much as to make it necessary that you should 
know all, I will hasten to London, and intreat the noble De la 
Poole to communicate with you, and to avert a mother’s enmity 
from her child. I take my leave.” 

She was about to depart ; but Simon, who knew that a feud 
between the prince’s partizans must ruin his cause, entreated 
her to remain ; and then addressing the queen, tried to soothe 
her, for she was pacing the rusheB of her chamber in excessive 
agitation. “Peace, good friend,” said she, “I will speak to 
Lincoln ; I will ask him why I, who was deemed by his honoured 
uncle fit partaker of his councils, am kept by him in ignorance 
of the alleged existence of this poor boy P Even now lie might 
be sitting on the throne, had I been consulted : instead of 
this, to what has this distrust brought him P He is a crown- 
less king, a fugitive prince, branded as an impostor ; a seal is 
put on his fate, which nothing probably will ever remove. I, 
even I, have called my son, if such he be, a counterfeit ! ” 

Maternal tenderness touched to the quick the royal lady's 
heart, and she wept. Lady Brampton was all impulse and 
goodness of disposition: she felt that Elizabeth had wronged 
her, but in a moment she forgave the oflence ; she advanced, 
and kneeling at her feet, touched her hand gently, as she said, 



 




32 



LAST BRAMPTON. 



“ Let not your grace judge too harshly of our proceedings. 
We poor faulty human beings, hurried hither and thither by 
passion, are for ever jostling against and hurting each other, 
where more perfect natures would coalesce, and thus succeed 
where we fail. Forgive, forget the past ; it cannot now be 
changed. Forgive the earl, who, long bound by an oath to his 
uncle Gloucester, could only save your son’s life by feigning 
his death. Forgive the humblest of your servants, even myself, 
who acted under his commands, and who now, in disobedience 
to them, attempts to bring the royal exile to his mother's arms. 
Would that my humility could appease your displeasure, and 
that you would acknowledge me your faithful follower. My life 
should be at the disposal of you and the princely York." 

Lady Brampton, full of vivacity, energy, and even of iiu- 

E eriousness, had so much grace in her manner and sweetness in 
er voice, when she laid these keen weapons aside to assume 
those of gentleness and love, that she was irresistible. The 
queen, at once softened, stretched out her hand, which the lady 
pressed respectfully to her lips ; then, as friends bent on one 
design, they conversed unreservedly together. Lady Brampton 
entered into long details concerning the past history of the 
duke of York, and the schemes then on foot for his advance- 
ment. This was not their sole interview ; they met again and 
again, and mutual affection confirming the link which the fato 
of Richard caused to exist between them, the queen named the 
Lady Brampton one of her ladies, and hencetorth they lived 
together under the same roof. 



 




33 



CHAPTER Y. 

THE INTERVIEW. 



England, farewell ! thou, who hast been my cradle, 
Shalt never be my dungeon or my gravel 

SlIKLLKT. 



Tab historical account of Lord Lovel’s insurrection is contained 
in a few words. While the two Staffords besieged Worcester, 
this nobleman advanced against Henry in York. The duke of 
Bedford was sent against him, who published a general pardon 
for all the rebels who should submit. The soldiers of Lord 
Lovel had no powerful watch-word to insure their union ; the 
existence of Edward the Fourth’s son was a profound secret; 
they were therefore easily induced to abandon an almost nameless 
cause ; and in three weeks Lord Lovel found himself with only 
one hundred adherents, or rather personal friends, who at his 
earnest entreaty disbanded, while he, chiefly bent on saving the 
life of his princely charge, felt greater security in being left 
singly with him. 

lie had promised to traverse England, and to conduct him to 
Winchester ; but the hot pursuit on foot forced him to delay 
this journey. Meanwhile a present refuge was to be sought. 
He had a stanch friend in a zealous Yorkist, Sir Thomas 
Broughton, who resided in Lancashire, to whose residence he 
directed his steps. Still, even during this short journey, great pre- 
caution was necessary. Lord Lovel and his charge travelled dis- 
guised, avoiding highroads and great towns. On the second 
evening, when the red aspect of the setting sun threatened an 
inclement night, they took shelter in a lone cot, on one of the 
wild moors of that county. 

A long habit of personal attendance had instilled into Lovel’s 
mind a parental affection for the little prince. They had jour- 
neyed far that day, and Richard was overpowered by fatigue ; 
his friend strewed for him a bed of leaves — he stretched himself 
on it, and quickly fell into a sound sleep, while the noble kept 
up the fire he had lighted, and paced the hut, revolving in his 
mind a thousand schemes. It was a chill February evening ; 
and, a9 night came on, a thick sleet beat against the windows, 

D 



 




34 



THE INTERVIEW. 



while the wind, sweeping over the wide heath, howled round the 
miserable shepherd’s cot. Some time passed thus, and fear in 
Lovel’s mind gave place to the sense of security, inspired by the 
desolation of the spot and the inclemency of the elements. He 
needed rest, and as soon as he had thrown himself on the ground, 
drowsiness overpowered him — the wind sang a wild lullaby to 
both the sleepers. 

Though still lost to the outer world, a change passed over 
Lovel’s countenance — again his features relaxed into sleep, and 
again expressed disquietude. The tramp of horses’ feet was 
around the hut — voices mingled alien sounds with the raging 
blast ; — at last a loud knocking at the door caused the noble at 
once to start on his feet wide awake. Richard still slept on. 
Lord Lovel cautiously withdrew into the shadow behind the 
door, listening intently to divine the motives of these unwelcome 
intruders. He felt assured that they were emissaries of Henry, 
who had traced him hither ; he endeavoured to form in his mind 
some plan of conduct to save the duke, whom he was about to 
awaken and put on his guard, when a woman’s voice struck upon 
his ear. The knocking at the door was changed into a violent 
beating, the rude hinges gave way, and it swung back. The 
fugitive’s heart beat quick ; it was a moment full of fate ; such 
a one as, w hen passed, we seem to have concentrated a life into 
its small space. The man that entered calmed his fears ; low in 
stature, broadly built, a cloak lined with furs added to his bulk, 
and a Flemish hat completed his peaceable appearance ; though 
he was too much muffled to show his face. Glancing at Lovel a 
look which was, doubtless, intended to convey reproach, he mut- 
tered some words in a foreign guttural language, and went back 
to his companions. Two women now entered, both enveloped in 
furs. One stepped lightly on, and drew the bench, which had 
lately pillowed the head of Lovel, closer to the fire, while the 
other, bending under the burthen in her arms, approached slower, 
and sitting down on the seat prepared for her, threw back her 
cloak, and discovered that she bore in her arms a sleeping child, 
about six years of age. The first, meanwhile, disencumbered 
herself of her rich furs, and then leaning over the child, kissed 
its little hands, and regarded its sleeping form with mingled 
anxiety and tenderness, speaking to the other in a foreign dialect, 
evidently about the risk the poor babe had run from exposure to 
the weather. Lovel remained a mute spectator ; he resolved 
not to come forward till he should see who their male attend- 
ants were. After a brief interval the first intruder again entered ; 
he threw off his cloak, and looking round with keen eyes, the 
fugitive discovered the well-known features of a friend. His 
heart now relieved, his countenance lighted up, and he stepped 




THE INTERVIEW.' 



35 



forward, saying : “ Mynheer Jalm Warbeck, God be with you ! 
you travel on a stormy night.” 

“ And you, Lord Lovel,” replied the money-lender, angrily, 
“ are sufficiently discourteous to wanderers at such a season. 
Whv even vipers are harmless during a storm.” 

“ But fair weather returns, and they again find their sting. I 
might bare my own breast, but — ” he pointed to the bed of 
leaves, on which, in spite of the tumult, young Richard still 
slept. 

Warbeck started : but before he could reply, one of his com- 
panions turned to speak to him, and a conversation ensued, 
begun in Dutch, and continued in French, concerning the cir- 
cumstances which had divided them from their attendants, and 
their fatiguing wanderings during the storm. A small saddle- 
bag was produced by Warbeck, containing a few provisions. A 
bed for the sleeping child was formed, and the travellers sat 
round the fire, enjoying their simple fare. From time to time 
the fair blue eyes of the younger lady, who was evidently the 
mistress, and the other an attendant, turned to look on the chi- 
valric form and manly beauty of Lovel ; a few smiling observa- 
tions escaped her in her native language, which Warbeck 
answered drily and succinctly. The bench on which the lady* 
sat was soon sacrificed for firing — the cloaks of the party were 
dried, and the women, wrapt in them, sought repose on the bare 
ground, which was the sole flooring of the hut, the younger 
drawing to her bosom the sleeping child. Lovel and Warbeck 
kept silence, till the deep breathing of their companions showed 
that they slept: then, in reply to the Fleming’s questions, Lovel 
related the history of the last months, and at the conclusion 
frankly asked his advice and assistance in accomplishing his 
design of conveying the duke of York to Winchester. Warbeck 
looked thoughtful on this demand, and after a pause said, “ I 
cannot say wherefore this unfortunate prince excites so strong an 
interest in me ; for in truth my heart yearns towards him as if 
he were akin to me. Is it because he bore for a time my poor 
boy’s name P ” 

Warbeck paused ; his hard features were strongly marked by 
grief— “ I and my sister,” he continued, “ crossed the country to 
visit my Peterkin, who was ill— -who is lost to me now for ever.” 

A pause again ensued : the young soldier respected too much 
the father’s grief to interrupt it. At length the Fleming said, 
“ Lord Lovel, I will — I trust I can — save Duke Richard’s life. 
My sister is kind-hearted; and the silence you have observed 
concerning the very existence of King Edward’s son makes the 
task more easy. Madeline is about to return to her own country ; 
ghe was to have taken my Peterkin with her. Let thfe prined 

d 2 




36 



THE INTEEVIEW. 



again assume that name : it shall be my care to escort him in this 
character to "Winchester; and at Portsmouth they may embark, 
■while you follow your own plans, and take refuge with the friends 
you mention in these parts.” 

As Warbeck spoke, Lovel motioned to him to observe his 
sister, who, unable to sleep, was observing them with attention. 
“ Madeline does not understand our English,” Baid her brother ; 
“but it were well that she joined our counsels, which may con- 
tinue in French. I have your leave, my lord, to disclose your 
secret to her? Fear her not : she would die rather than injure 
one hair of that poor child’s head,” 

On Warbeck ’s invitation, the lady rose; and he, taking her hand, 
led her to the low couch of the duke of York. Sleep and gentle 
dreams spread an irradiation of beauty over him: his glowing 
cheek, his eyes hardly closed, the masses of rich auburn hair that 
clustered on a brow of infantine smoothness and candour, the little 
hand and arm, which, thrown above his head, gave an air of help- 
lessness to his attitude, combined to form a picture of childish grace 
and sweetness, which no woman, and that woman a mother, could 
look on without emotions of tenderness. “What an angelic 
child,” said the fair sister of Warbeck, as she stooped to kiss his 
rosy cheek ; “ what a noble-looking boy. Who is he P” 

“One proscribed,” said the cavalier; “one whom he who 
reigns over England would consign to a dungeon. Were he to 
fall into the hands of his enemies, they might not, indeed, dare 
not cut him off violently ; but they would consume and crush 
him, by denying him all that contributes to health and life.” 

“ Can this sweet boy have enemies?” cried the lady : “ Ah ! 
if he have, has he not friends also to guard him from them?” 

“ With our lives !” he replied, emphatically ; “ but that is a 
small sacrifice and a useless one ; for, to preserve him we must 
preserve ourselves. My life, — such acts deserve no record, — I 
Lave, and will again and again expose for him ; but the will to 
save him is not enough without the power ; and that power you 
possess, lady, to a far, far greater extent than I.” 

“ The w ill I have most certainly,” said the fair one, regarding 
the boy with anxious tenderness. “ Command me, sire chevalier; 
my power, small as I must believe it to be, and my will, shall 
unite to preserve this sweet child.” 

Warbeck disclosed briefly to his sister the secret of young 
llichard’s birth, and detailed his plan for his safe journey to 
Winchester ; nay, and after that, for his crossing the sea, and 
continuing to personate, in Flanders, the nephew of Madeline, if 
so his royal mother deemed fitting, till the moment should arrive, 
when the schemes of his partizans being crowned with success, 
he could be restored to his country and his birthright. The fair 








THE INTEBVIEW. 



37 

Fleming joyfully assented to this proposition, and entered cordi- 
ally into the details. Lovel was profuse of thanks : so suddenly 
and so easily to be relieved from his worst fears, appeared like 
the special interposition of some guardian saint. His heart 
overflowed with gratitude ; and his glistening eyes gave token of 
greater thanks than even his emphatic words. Madeline felt 
all the excitement of being actively employed in a deed of 
benevolence : her calm features were animated with an aDgelic 
expression. The discussion of details demanding the coolest 
prudence and most vigilant observation, long occupied them : and 
the lady brought a woman’s tact and keen penetration to arrange 
the crude designs of her brother. All was rendered smooth ; 
every obstacle foreseen and obviated; every" pass of danger 
reconnoitered and provided for. When, at last, their plans were 
perfected, the lady again returned to her hard couch to seek 
repose: for some time the cavalier and the Fleming kept watch, 
till they also, in such comfortless posture as they might, stretched 
on the bare ground, yielded to drowsiness ; and grey morning 
found all the dwellers in the sheepcot sunk in profound sleep. 
Fear, charity, hope, and love, might colour their dreams ; but 
quiet slumber possessed them all, driving care and thought from 
the heart and brain, to steep both in oblivion of all ill. 

When Madeline awoke in the morning, the first sight that 
met her eyes was the lovely boy she had promised to protect, 
playing with her dark-eyed girl, who displayed all the ecstacy of 
childish glee with her new playmate. Madeline was a blonde 
Fleming, with light blue eyes and flaxen ringlets — she was about 
five-and-twenty years of age ; an expression of angelic goodness 
animated her features, bestowing on them an appearance of 
loveliness, which of themselves they did not possess. It could 
hardly be guessed, that Richard’s playmate was the daughter of 
the fair-haired Fleming: but the husband of Warbeck’s sister 
was a Spaniard, and the child resembled her father in everything 
except tnesoft mouth and sweet smile, which was all her mother’s: 
her large full dark eyes gave to her infantine face a look of sen- 
sibility far beyond her years. The little girl ran to her mother 
when she awoke ; and Madeline caressed both her and the prince 
with the greatest tenderness. They stood at the door of the 
cottage ; the early sun shone brightly on the hoar frost that 
covered the moor ; the keen air was bracing, though cold ; the 
morning was cheerful, such as inspires hope and animation, a 
lively wit to understand, and a roused courage to meet difficulties. 

Madeline turned from the glittering scene to look on her 
young charge — bis eyes were fixed on her face. “ How beautiful 
and good you look,” said the boy, 

“ I am glad that you think me good,” replied the lady, smiling; 




38 



THE INTEBVIBW. 



“ you will have less fear in trusting yourself with me : your 
noble friend has confided your grace to my care, if, indeed, you 
will condescend to live with me, and be as a son to me. I have 

i 'ust lost a little nephew whom I fonely loved ; will you supply 
iis place, and take his nameP ” 

“ Fair cousin,” said the prince, caressing his kind friend as he 
spoke, “ I will wait on you, and serve you as no nephew ever 
served. What name did your lost kinsman bear P Quickly tell 
me, that I may know my own, and hereafter call myself by it.” 
“ Perkin Warbeck,” said Madeline. 

“Now you mock me,” cried Richard : “that has long been my 
name ; but I knew not that it gave me a claim to so pretty a 
relation.” 

“ This courtly language,” replied the lady, “ betrays your 
grace’s princeliness. What will our Flemish boors say, when I 

E resent the nursling of royalty as mineP You will shame our 
omely breeding, Duke Richard.” 

“ I beseech you, fair mistress,” said Lovel, who now joined 
them, “ to forget, even in private, such high-sounding titles. It 
is dangerous to play at majesty, unaided by ten thousand armed 
asserters of our right. Remember this noble child only as your 
loving nephew, Perkin Warbeck : he, who well knows the misery 
of regal claims unallied to regal authority, will shelter himself 
gladly and gratefully under the shadow of your lowly bower.” 
And now, as the wintry sun rose higher, the travellers pre- 
pared for their departure. Warbeck first left them to find and to 
dismiss his domestics, who would have been aware of the decep- 
tion practised in the person of Richard. He returned in a few 
hours for his sister. The duke and Lord Lovel then separated. 
The intervening time had been employed by the noble in school- 
ing the boy as to his future behaviour, in recounting to him his 
plans and hopes, and in instructing him how to conduct himself 
with his mother, if indeed he Baw her ; for Lovel was ignorant 
how Lady Brampton had succeeded at Winchester, and how far 
it would be possible to bring about an interview between the 
queen and her son. At length Warbeck returned ; the travellers 
mounted, and Lord Lovel, watching from the cottage door, 
beheld with melancholy regret the prince depart : the long habit 
of intercourse, the uncertain future, his high pretensions, and 
his present state, had filled the cavalier with moody thoughts, 
unlike his usual sanguine anticipations, and energetic resolves. 
“ This is womanly,” at last he thought, as the reflection that he 
was alone, and had, perhaps, seen his beloved charge for the last 
time, filled his eyes with unwonted tears. “ To horse ! To my 
friends ! — There to plan, scheme, devise — and then again to the 
field!” r 




THE INTERVIEW. 



39 



Days and weeks passed, replete with doubt and anxiety to the 
queen and her enthusiastic friend at Winchester. Each day, 
many, many times, Lady Brampton visited the cathedral to 
observe whether the silver heart was suspended near the altar, 
which she had agreed with Lord Lovel should be the sign of the 
duke’s arrival. The part Elizabeth Woodville had to play mean- 
while was difficult and painful — she lived in constant intercourse 
with the countess of Richmond ; the wishes and thoughts of all 
around were occupied by the hope of an heir to the crown, which 
the young queen would soon bestow on England. The birth of 
a son, it was prognosticated, would win her husband’s affection, 
and all idea of future disturbance, of further risings and dis- 
loyalty, through the existence of this joint offspring of the two 
Roses, would be for ever at an end. While these hopes and 
expectations formed, it was supposed, the most flattering and 
agreeable subject of congratulation for the dowager queen, she 
remained sleepless and watchful, under the anticipation of seeing 
her fugitive son, the outcast and discrowned claimant of all that 
was to become the birthright of the unborn child. 

At length the unwearied cares of Lady Brampton were 
rewarded ; a small silver heart, bearing the initials of Richard, 
duke of York, was suspended near the shrine; and as she 
turned to look who placed it there, the soft voice of Madeline 
uttered the word of recognition agreed upon ; joy filled Lady 
Brampton’s heart, as the brief answers to her hurried questions 
assured her of Richard’s safety. The same evening she visited, 
in disguise, the abode of Warbeck, and embraced, in a transport 
of delight, the princely boy, in whose fate she interested herself 
with all the fervour of her warm heart. She now learnt the 
design Lord Lovel had of placing Richard in safety under 
Madeline’s care in Flanders, until his friends had prepared for 
him a triumphant return to England. She concerted with her 
new friends the best mode of introducing Richard into his 
mother’s presence ; and it was agreed that, early on the following 
morning, Madeline and the duke should seek one of the small 
chapels of the cathedral of Winchester, and that Elizabeth 
should there meet her son. With an overflowing heart, Lady 
Brampton returned to communicate this intelligence to the royal 
widow, and to pass with her the intervening hours in oft-renewed 
conjectures and anticipations concerning the duke of York. 

To modern and Protestant England, a cathedral or a church 
may appear a strange place for private assignations and concealed 
meetings. It was otherwise in the days of our ancestors, when, 
through similarity of religion, our manners bore a greater resem- 
blance than they now do to those of foreign countries. The 
churches stood always open, ready to receive the penitent, who 




40 



THE INTERVIEW. 



sought the stillness of the holy asylum the more entirely to con- 
centrate his thoughts in prayer. As rank did not exempt its 
possessors from sin nor sorrow, neither did it from acts of 
penitence, nor from those visitations of anguish, when the sacred 
temple was sought, as bringing the votarist into more immediate 
communication with the Deity. The queen dowager excited, 
therefore, no suspicion, when, with her rosary formed of the 
blessed wood of Lebanon encased in gold in her hand, with 
Lady Brampton for her sole aftendant, she sought at five in the 
morning the dark aisle of the cathedral of Winchester, there to 
perform her religious duties. Two figures already knelt near 
the altar of the chapel designated as the place of meeting ; 
Elizabeth’s breath came thick, her knees bent under her, she 
leaned against a buttress, while a fair-haired boy turned at the 
sound. He first looked timidly on her, and then, encouraged 
by the smile that visited her quivering lips, he sprung forward, 
and kneeling at her feet, buried his face in her dress, sobbing, 
while, bending over him, her own tears fell on his glossy hair. 
Lady Brampton and Madeline retired up the aisle, leaving the 
mother and child alone. 

“ Look up, my Richard,” cried the unfortunate widow ; “ look 
up, son of King Edward, — my noble, my outcast boy ! Thou 
art much grown — much altered since I last saw thee. Thou art 
more like thy blessed father than thy infancy promised.” She 
parted his curls on his brow, and looked on him with the very 
soul of maternal tenderness. “ Ah ! were I a cottager,” she 
contirfhed, “ though bereft of my husband, I should collect my 
young ones round me, and forget sorrow. I should toil for 
them, and they would learn to toil for me. How sweet the food 
my industry procured for them, how hallowed that which their 
maturer strength would bestow on me ! I am the mother of 
princes. Vain boast ! I am childless ! ” 

The queen, lost in thought, scarcely heard the gentle voice of 
her son who replied by expressions of endearment, nor felt his 
caresses ; but collecting her ideas, she called to mind how brief 
the interview must be, and how she was losing many preciout 
moments in vain exclamations and regrets. Recovering that 
calm majesty which usually characterized her, she said : 
“ Richard, arise ! our minutes are counted, and each must be 
freighted with the warning and wisdom of years. Thou art 
young, my son ! but Lady Brampton tells me that thy under- 
standing is even premature; thy experience indeed must be small, 
but I will try to adapt my admonitions to that experience. 
Should you fail to understand me, do not on that account despise 
my lessons, but treasure them up till thy increased years reveal 
their meaning to thee. We may never meet again; for once 




THE INTERVIEW. 



41 



separated, ten thousand swords, and twice ten thousand dangers 
divide us perhaps for ever. I feel even now that? it is given to 
me to bless thee for the last time, and I would fain to the last be 
the cause of good to thee. I have lived, ah ! how long ; and 
suffered, methinks, beyond human suffering ; let the words I 
now utter live in thy soul for ever ; my soul is in them ! Will 
not my son respect the sacred yearnings of his mother’s heart?” 

Touched, penetrated by this exordium, the tearful boy pro- 
mised attention and obedience. Elizabeth sat on a low tomb, 
Richard knelt before her ; one kiss she imprinted on his young 
brow, while endeavouring to still the beating of her heart, and to 
command the trembling of her voice. She was silent for a few 
moments. Richard looked up to her with mingled love and awe ; 
wisdom seemed to beam from her eyes, and the agitation that 
quivered on her lips gave solemnity to the tone with which she 
addressed her young auditor. 

She spoke of his early prospects, his long imprisonment, and 
late fortunes. She descanted on the character of Henry 
Tudor, describing him as wise and crafty, and to be feared. 
She dwelt on the character of the earl of Lincoln and other 
chiefs of the house of York, and mentioned how uneasily 
they bore the downfall of their party. No pains, no artifice, 
no risk, she said, would be spared by any one of them to 
elevate an offspring of the White Rose, and to annihilate tho 
pretensions and power of Lancaster. “ Still a boy, unmeet 
for such contest, noble blood will be shed for you, my son,” 
she continued ; “ and while you are secluded by those who 
love you from danger, many lives will be spent for your sake. 
We shall hazard all for you ; and all may prove too little for 
success. We may fail, and you be thrown upon your own 
guidance, your unformed judgment, and childish indiscretion. 
Alas ! what will then be your fate P Your kinsmen and partizans 
slain — your mother broken-hearted, it may be, dead ! — spies will 
on every side environ you, nets will be spread to ensnare you, 
daggers sharpened for your destruction. You must oppose pru- 
dence to craft, nor, until your young hand can wield a man’s 
weapon, dare attempt aught against Henry’s power. Never 
forget that you are a king’s son, yet suffer not unquiet ambition 
to haunt you. Sleep in peace, my love, while others wake for 
you. The time may come when victory will be granted to our 
arms. Then we shall meet again, not as now, like skulking 
guilt, but in the open sight of day I shall present my son to his 
loyal subjects. Now wo part, my Richard — again you are lost 
to me, save in tho recollection of this last farewell.” 

Her own words fell like a mournful augury on her ear. With 
a look of agonized affection she opened her arms, and then 




42 



THE INTEBVIEW. 



enclosed in their circle the stripling form of her son. Slie 
pressed him passionately to her heart, covering him with her 
kisses, while the poor boy besought her not to weep ; yet, infected 
by her sorrow, tears streamed from his eyes, and his little heart 
swelled with insupportable emotion. It was at once a sight of 
pity and of fear to behold his mother’s grief. 

Lady Brampton and Madeline now drew near, and this 
effusion of sorrow passed away. The queen collected herself, 
and rising, taking Richard’s hand in hers, with dignity and 
grace she led him up to the fair Fleming, saying “ A widowed 
mother commits to your protection her beloved child. If heaven, 
favour our right, we may soon claim him, to fill the exalted 
station to which he is heir. If disaster and death follow our 
attempts, be kind to my orphan son, protect him from the 
treachery of his enemies ; preserve, I beseech you, his young 

Madeline replied in a tone that showed how deeply she 
sympathized in the queen’s sorrows, while she fervently pro- 
mised never to desert her charge. “ Now depart,” said Elizabeth; 

“ leave me, Richard, while I have yet courage to say adieu ! ” 

Elizabeth stood watching, while the forms of the prince and 
his protectress disappeared down the dark aisle. They reached 
the door ; it swung back on its hinges, and the sound, made as 
it closed again, reverberated through the arched cathedral. The 
unfortunate mother did not speak ; leaning on her friend’s arm 
she quitted the church by another entrance. They returned to 
the palace in silence ; and when again they conversed, it was 
concerning their hopes of the future, the schemes to be devised ; 
nor did the aching heart of Elizabeth relieve itself in tears and 
complaints, till the intelligence, received some weeks afterwards 
of the safe arrival of the travellers in France, took the most 
bitter sting from her fears, and allowed her again to breath© 
freely. 



i 



 




43 



CHAPTER VI. 

LAMBEBT SIMNEL. 



Such when as Archimago him (lid view, 

He weened well to work some nncouth wile ; 

Eftsoon untwisting his deceitful clew, 
lie ’gan to weave a web of cunning guile. 

• Spbjjsbe. 

The birth of Arthur, prince of Wales, which took place in the 
month of September of this same year, served to confirm Henry 
Tudor on the throne, and almost to obliterate the memory of a 
second and resisting party in the kingdom. That party indeed 
was overthrown, its chiefs scattered, its hopes few. Most of the 
principal Yorkists had taken refuge in the court of the duchess 
of Burgundy ; the earl of Lincoln only ventured to remain, 
preserving the appearance of the greatest privacy, while his 
secret hours were entirely occupied by planning a rising in the 
kingdom, whose success would establish his cousin Richard duke 
of York, the fugitive Perkin Warbeck, on the throne. The 
chief obstacle that presented itself was the difficulty of exciting 
the English to any act of rebellion against the king, without 
bringing forward the young prince as the principal actor on the 
scene. The confirmed friendship between the queen and Lady 
Brampton bad produced a greater degree of intercourse between 
the former and the earl ; but their joint counsels had yet failed 
to originate a plan of action ; when chance, or rather the 
unforeseen results of former events, determined their course of 
action, and brought to a crisis sooner than they expected the 
wavering purposes of each. 

Richard Simon had quitted Winchester to fulfil his duties as 

E riesfc in the town of Oxford. No man was better fitted than 
imon to act a prominent part in a state-plot. He was brave ; 
but the priestly garb having wrested the sword from his hand, 
circumstances bad converted that active courage, which might 
have signalized him in the field, to a spirit of restless intrigue ; 
to boldness in encountering difficulties, and address in surmount- 
ing them. To form plans, to concoct the various parts of a 
scheme, wedging one into the other ; to raise a whirlwind around 



 




44 



LAMBERT SIMNEL. 



him, and to know, or to fancy that he knew, the direction the 
ravager would take, and what would be destroyed and what 
saved in its course, had been from youth the atmosphere in which 
he lived. Now absent from the queen, he was yet on the alert 
to further her views, and he looked forward to the exaltation of 
her son to the throne as the foundation-stone of his own fortunes. 
In what way could this be brought about ? After infinite deli- 
beration with himself, Simon conceived the idea of bringing 
• forward an impostor, who, taking the name of Richard of York, 
whose survival, though unattested, was a current belief in the 
kingdom, might rouse England in his cause. If unsuccessful, 
the safety of the rightful prince was not endangered; if tri- 
umphant, this counterfeit would doff his mark at once, and the 
real York come forward in his place. 

In the true spirit of intrigue, in which Simon was an adept, 
he resolved to mature his plans and commence his operations 
before he communicated them to any. He looked round for a 
likely actor for his new part, and chance brought him in contact 
with Lambert Simnel, a baker's son at Oxford. There was 
something in his fair complexion and regular soft features that 
was akin to York ; his figure was slight, his untaught manners 
replete with innate grace ; he was clever ; and his beauty having 
made him a sort of favourite, he had grown indolent ana assum- 
ing. His father died about this time, and he was left a penniless 
orphan. Simon came forward to protect him, and cautiously to 
point out the road to fortune without labour. The youth proved 
an apt scholar. To hear speak of princes, crowns, and kingdoms 
as objects in which he was to have an interest and a share, 
dazzled his young eyes. He learnt speedily every lesson the 
priest taught him, and adopted so readily the new language 
inculcated, that Simon became more and more enamoured of his 
scheme, and sanguine as to its results. The next care of Simon 
was to confirm, in the partizans of the House of York, the 
suspicion they already entertained of the existence of its noblest 
scion ; he despatched anonymous letters to the chief nobles, and 
it became whispered through the country, though none knew the 
origin of the tale, that the surviving son of Edward the Fourth 
was about to appear to claim the crown. The peaceful sighed 
to think that the White and Red Boses would again be watered 
by the best blood of England. The warlike and ambitious, the 
partizans of York, who had languished in obscurity, walked 
more erect ; they regarded their disused armour with com- 
placency, for war and tumult was then the favourite pastime of 
high-born men. 

It was at this period that, through the intervention of Lady 
BramptoD, Sir Thomas Broughton, a most zealous Yorkist and 




LAMBEBT SIMNEt. 



45 



chief friend of Lord Lovel, was introduced to the dowager queen’s 
presence, then residing in London. He came full of important 
intelligence. He had been roused from his usual repose by one 
of Simon's anonymous letters, which hinted at the existence of 
the duke of York, and counselled a drawing together of such 
forces as would be willing to support him ; Lord Lovel was with 
him, and at the name of Richard at once prepared for action. 
He was busied in raising adherents in the south, sending Sir 
Thomas to London, that lie might there receive the commands 
of the prince’s mother. Scarcely had he entered the metropolis, 
when in one of its narrowest alleys he was accosted by Richard 
Simon, who had earnestly besought him to obtain an audience 
for Simon himself from the queen ; acknowledging that he was 
the author of the reports and commotions, and that he had 
important secrets to disclose. 

All this inspired the queen with the deepest disquietude. She 
readily arranged with Sir 1’homas the desired interview, which, 
at Simon’s request, was to take place that very night, and 
agreed that he should enter the palace by a private door. Lady 
Brampton giving him admittance. Broughton departed ; and 
Elizabeth, disturbed and agitated, counted the hours impatiently 
which must intervene before the riddle was explained. 

Even this interval was full of wonder. A report was circulated, 
which soon reached the palace, that the earl of Warwick, in 
endeavouring to escape from the Tower in a boat, had fallen 
into the river, and was drowned before assistance could bo 
afforded. Such was the current tale ; but many suspected that 
the king was privy to a more guilty termination of his unhappy 
prisoner, of whose death none entertained a doubt. This cir- 
cumstance added to the queen’s impatience — life was bound up 
in the event of the next few hours. 

The time arrived — all was quiet in the palace (the queen 
inhabited Tower Royal) ; and the royal dowager and her friend 
prepared for their visitor. At the signal given, the door was 
opened ; but Simon came not alone ; the earl of Lincoln, Lord 
Lovel, Sir Thomas Broughton, and an unknown youth — it was 
Edmund Plantagenet — entered. The tale of the imposture of 
Lambert Simnel was disclosed, and w’ith it a change of plan, the 
result of the death of Warwick. Simnel’s age and appearance 
accorded better with this prince than with his younger cousin.. 
It were easy to spread abroad that the report of his death was a 
fiction contrived by the king ; that he had escaped, in fact, and 
was in arms. If a more sinister fate had befallen him, guilt 
would impose silence on his murderer ; if the attempt failed, no 
evil would occur ; if successful, he would give instant place to 
the superior claims of the duke of York, 




46 



THB BATTLB OF NEWARK. 



Lincoln unfolded these schemes with sagacity and deliberation, 
and the queen eagerly adopted his ideas as he disclosed them. It 
was also the earl’s suggestion that Simnel should first appear in. 
Ireland. The duke of Clarence had been lieutenant there, and 
was much beloved throughout the island. Through neglect and 
forgetfulness all the counsellors and officers appointed by Clarence 
had been unremoved by the new government, and might easily be 
induced to favour his persecuted son. The duchess of Burgundy 
was also to be applied to ; and counsel was held as to who should 
be informed of the truth — who deceived in this hazardous attempt. 
Night wore away, while still the conspirators were in delibera- 
tion ; they separated at last, each full of hope — each teeming 
with gallant resolution. Henceforth the false smile or ill-con- 
cealed frown of their enemy was indifferent to them ; their good 
swords were their sure allies ; the very victory gained by Henry 
at Bosworth raised their expectations ; one other battle might 
give them again all that then they lost. 



CHAPTER VII. 

TUB BATTLE OF NEWARK. 



Within those ten days take a monastery ; 

A most strict house ; a house where none may whisper, 

Where no more light is known bnt what may make you 
Believe there is a day ; where no hope dwells, 

Nor comfort but in tears. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

With the consciousness of this plot weighing on her mind, 
Elizabeth Woodville continued her usual routine of life, and 
made a part of the court of Henry the Seventh. She had long 
been accustomed to pass from one evil to the other, and to find 
that when one cause for unhappiness died away, it gave instant 
place to another. She felt, with all the poignancy of a mother’s 
disappointed pride, the situation of her daughter. Neglect was 
the lightest term that could be applied to the systematized and 
cold-hearted tyranny of Henry towards his wife. For not only 
he treated her like an unfavoured child, whose duty it was to 
obey without a murmur, and to endeavour to please, though 
sure of being repulsed. At the same time that he refused to 



 




THE BATTLE OP HEWABK. 



47 



raise her above this state of degradation, he reproached her with 
the faults of maturity, and stung her womanly feelings with 
studied barbarity. He taunted her with her attachment to her 
family and its partizans ; spoke with triumph of its overthrow ; 
and detailed with malignant pleasure every severe enactment 

E assed by himself against the vanquished Yorkists. Then, again, 
e accused her of participating in her parent’s intrigues ; and 
though proud of the son she had given him, as the heir of his 
crown, he divided, as much as possible, the infant from the 
mother, under the avowed though ridiculous pretence of pre- 
venting her from inculcating principles of rebellion towards his 
liege and father. 

This last blow sunk deep. She had hitherto borne his harsh- 
ness meekly, sustained by the hope of overcoming his flinty 
nature by softness and yielding. She had anticipated that the 
fresh enmity conceived against her on the event of Lord Lovel’s 
rebellion would be entirely allayed by her pretty Arthur, whose 
birth was solemnized by many rejoicings. But when she found 
this last hope fail, every expectation of good died away with it. 
Among other acts of duty, Bhe had for a long time pursued 
a system of self-denial, deeming it a breach of duty to complain 
of her husband, even to her mother. But this mother, acquainted 
with the secrets of the human heart, and desirous of detaching 
her entirely from her husband, exerted all the influence that one 
experienced and firm can exercise over the young and vacil- 
lating : she brought her to lament her situation, and to complain 
of each fresh token of the king’s disregard. The barrier of self- 
restraint once broken through, the sympathy and remonstrances 
of her parent emboldened her to such a change of conduct 
towards Henry, as at first excited his surprise, then his con- 
tempt. The many rumours afloat concerning the existence of 
the duke of York served also to rouse his angry mood. If at 
first he appoared somewhat complaisant towards his mother-in- 
law, it was from an endeavour to put her off her guard, and to 
attract or surprise her confidence on the point which lay nearest 
his heart; but when he found that his attacks were vain, his 
undisguised arrogance and her ill-concealed resentment produced 
scenes, disgraceful in themselves, and agonizing to the wife and 
daughter who was their witness. 

At this moment, when suspicion was abroad — the Lancastrians 
fearful, the Yorkists erect with renewed hopes — like the bursting 
of a thunderstorm came the intelligence of the appearance of the 
earl of Warwick in Dublin, his enthusiastic reception there, the 
rising of the people in his favour, and the menaces held out by 
him of his intention to wrench the sceptre of England from the 
hand of him who held it. 




48 



THE BALTLB OF NBWABB. 



Henry alone heard these momentous tidings with contempt. 
The earl of Kildare, lord-lieutenant of tne kingdom, had 
received the pretender with princely honours ; yet the very 
circumstance of a false son of Clarence being supported by the 
Yorkists was the occasion of satisfaction to him ; his only fear 
arose from the probable mystery covered by these designs. He 
was angry at the disloyalty manifested ; but it was in a distant 
province, and so came not home to him. There appeared no 
falling off, no disturbance among his English subjects. Still 
caution and policy were the weapons he best loved to wield ; 
and he despatched several spies to Ireland, to endeavour to 
fathom the extent and nature of the rebellion. The chief among 
them was his own secretary, Frion, a Frenchman — a crafty and 
experienced implement. He succeeded in bringing back irre- 
fragable proof that the dowager queen mingled deeply in the 
plot. 

Henry hated Elizabeth Woodville. He considered that it 
was principally through her restless scheming that he had been 
forced to marry the portionless (her detested claim to his crown 
her only dower) daughter of York, instead of forming an union 
with a foreign princess; perhaps Mary of Burgundy, or Anne of 
Britanny, either of whom would have brought gold to his coffers, 
or extensive domains to his empire. He hated her, because lie 
deeply suspected that she was privy to the existence of a formi- 
dable rival to his state. He kneto that the young duke of York 
had hot died in the Tower. In every way she was his enemy ; 
besides that linked to her ruin was the sweet idea of confisca- 
tion, one ever entertained with delight by the money-loving 
king. 

He assembled a council in his palace at Shene, which stood 
near where Bichmond now stands. The chiefs of the English 
nobility were his counsellors. The duke of Buckingham, son of 
him who first favoured, and then rose against Bichard the Third. 
The lords Dawbeny and Broke, who had been raised to the 
peerage for their services in the same cause. Lord and Sir 
William Stanley, men to whom Henry principally owed his 
crown. Others there were of high rank and note ; but the king 
paid most attention to two priests : John Morton, bishop of 
Ely, and Bichard Fox, bishop of Exeter, were his private advi- 
sers and friends, as well as public counsellors. Morton had 
watched over his interests while in exile ; he first had excited 
the duke of Buckingham to revolt, and hatched the plot which 
placed Bichmond on the throne. 

The council held was long and solemn, and the results brought 
about more by insinuation than open argument, were different 
from those expected by most of the persons present. First it 




THE BATTLE OE NEWARK. 



49 



was resolved that a general pardon should be proclaimed to the 
insurgents. No exceptions Were to be made ; those persons then 
in the very act of setting up his adversary were included ; for as, 
by the second decree, that the real earl of Warwick should be 
shown publicly in London, the deception would become mani- 
fest ; if indeed they were deceived, it was thought more politic 
to reclaim them by clemency, than by severe measures to drive 
them to despair. 

The third and last enactment was levelled against the queen 
dowager. Many of the council were astonished to hear it pro- 
posed, that she should forfeit all her goods and lands, and be 
confined for life in a convent, for having consented to the mar- 
riage of her daughter aud Richard the Third, while the ready 
acquiescence of the king and his chief advisers made ihem per- 
ceive that this measure was no new resolve. These three decrees 
passed, thecouncil separated, aud Henry returned to Westminster, 
accompanied by Sir William Stanley. To him he spoke openly 
of the treason of the queen : he even ventured to say, that he 
was sure that some mystery lurked beneath ; he commissioned 
Stanley, therefore, to notify the order of council to her majesty ; 
but at the same time to show her, that disclosure, and reliance 
on the king, would obtain her pardon. Sir William Stanley was 
a courtier in the best sense of the term ; a man of gentle man- 
ners ; desirous of doing right, easily excited to compassion, but 
ambitious and timid ; one in truth than whom none could be 
more dangerous ; for his desire to please those immediately 
before him, led him to assume every appearance of sincerity, aud 
perpetually to sacrifice the absent to the present. 

Elizabeth heard, with utter dismay, the sentence passed against 
her;— courage was restored only when she found that her free- 
dom could be purchased by the confession of her son’s existence, 
and place of abode. She repelled Stanley’s solicitations with dis- 
dain; answered his entreaties with an appeal to his own feelings, 
of how far, if such a secret existed, £t were possible that she, a 
mother, should intrust it to the false and cruel king. Stanley 
speedily found his whole battery of persuasiou exhausted; ho 
withdrew in some wonder as to what the real state of things 
might be, and full of the deepest compassion. She had indeed 
scarcely veiled the truth to him ; for, calling to mind the fate of 
the wretched Margaret of Anjou, she asked him, whether, like 
her, she should expose the young orphan York to the fate of the 
Lancastrian Prince Edward. But Stanley shrunk from being 
privy to such disclosures, aud hastily withdrew. 

Henry had not exhausted all his hopes : glad as he was to 
wreak his vengeance on the queen, and to secure her possessions 
to himself, he was not so blind as not to see that the knowledgo 

B 




THE BATTLE OP NEWABK. 



50 

of her secret were a far greater prize. Hia next implement was 
her eldest son, the marquess of Dorset. Lord Dorset had been 
so active in his opposition to Richard the Third, and had done 
such good service to his adversary, that Henry overlooked hi$ 
near kindred to the queen dowager, regarding him rather as the 
representative of his father, Sir John Gray, who had fallen in 
the cause of Lancaster. He became indeed a sort of favourite 
with the king. Dorset was proud, self-sufficient, and extrava- 
gant, but his manners were fascinating, his spirit buoyant, and 
Henry, who was accustomed to find the storms of party lower- 
ing like winter over his domestic circle, found relief only when 
Dorset was present. The present occasion, however, called 
forth other feelings in the haughty noble ; he might be angry 
with his mother’s plotting, but he was more indignant at the 
severity exercised against her ; and far from furthering Henry’s 
designs, he applauded her resistance, and so irritated the king, 
that it ended by his sudden arrest, and being committed to the 
Tower. 

And now all hope was at an end for the unhappy lady. The 
various acts of her tragic history were to close in the obscurity 
and poverty of a convent-prison. Fearful that her despair would 
lead her to some deed that might at least disturb the quiet and 
order he loved, Henry had resolved that no delay should have 
place, but that on the very morrow she should be conveyed to 
Bermondsey. She was to be torn from her family — her five young 
daughters, with whom she resided. The heartless tyrant was 
callous to every pang that he inflicted, or rejoiced that he had 
the power to wound so deeply one whom he abhorred. Lady 
Brampton was with her to the last ; not to sustain and comfort 
her ; the queen’s courage and firmness was far greater than that 
of her angry friend ; she pointed out the hope, that the cruelties 
exercised towards her might animate the partisans of York to 
greater ardour; and tears forced themselves into her eyes only 
when she pictured Richard, her victorious sovereign and son, 
hastening to unbar her prison doors to restore her to liberty and 
rank. The night was spent in such discourses between the 
ladies. With early dawn came the fated hour, the guard, the 
necessity for instant departure. She disdained to show regret 
before Henry’s emissaries ; aud with one word only to her friend 
— “ I commit him to your guidance,” she yielded to her fate ; 
submitting to be torn from all she loved, and, without an ex.- 

{ >resscd murmur, entered the litter that bore her singly to her 
iving grave. 

The same sun that rose upon the melancholy progress of Eliza- 
beth Woodville towards Bermondsey, shone on a procession, 
more gaudy in appearance, yet, if that were possible, more sad 




THE BATTLE OF NRWAKK. 



51 



at heart. This was the visit, ordered by the king, of the earl of 
Warwick to St. Paul’s Cathedral; thus to contradict to the eyes 
of all men the pretender in Ireland. Warwick had spent a year 
in the Tower, in almost solitary imprisonment. Hopeless of 
♦freedom, worn in health, dejected from the overthrow of all the 
wild schemes he had nourished at Sheriff Hutton, linked with 
the love he bore his cousin, the Lady Elizabeth, now queen of 
England, he could hardly be recognized as the same youth who 
had been her companion during her residence there. He was 
pale ; he had been wholly neglectful of his person ; carking sor- 
row had traced lines on his young brow. At first he had con- 
templated resisting the order of being led out as a show to 
further his enemies’ cause : one futile and vague hope, which 
could only have sprung up in a lover’s heart, made him concede 
this point. Perhaps the court — the queen would be there. 

He met several noble friends, commanded by Henry to attend 
him ; for it was the king’s policy to surround him with Yorkists, 
so to prove that he was no counterfeit. Alas ! 

“ These cloudy princes, and heart- sorrowing peers,” 

assembled like shadows in the dim abyss, mourning the splendour 
of the day for ever set. They entered the cathedral, which 
Btood a heavy Gothic pile, on a grassy mound, removed from all 
minor edifices. There was a vast assemblage of ladies and 
knights ; all looked compassionately on this son of poor mur- 
dered Clarence, the luckless flower, brought to bloom for an 
hour, and then to be cast into perpetual darkness. The solemn 
religious rites, the pealing organ, the grandeur of the church, 
and chequered painted light thrown from the windows, for a 
moment filled with almost childish delight the earl’s young 
heart ; that this scene, adapted to his rank, should be so single 
and so transient, filled his soul with bitterness. Once or twice 
he thought to appeal to his noble friends, to call on them to 
resist the tyrant — Elizabeth’s ^husband. His heart chilled at 
the idea ; his natural timidity resumed its sway, and he was led 
back to the prison-fortress, despairing, but unresisting. 

Yet, at this hour, events were in progress which filled many 
hearts with hope of such change as he would gladly hail. On 
the news of the queen’s arrest, Lord Lincoln had departed with 
all speed to Flanders, to his aunt, the duchess of Burgundy, to 
solicit her aid to attack and overcome the enemy of their van- 
quished family. The Lady Margaret, sister of Edward the 
Fourth of England, and wife of Charles the Eash of Burgundy, 
was a woman distinguished by her wisdom and her goodness. 
When Charles fell before Nancy, and his more than princely 

E 2 



 




52 



THE BATTLE OF NEWABK. 



domains descended into the hands of his only child, a daughter 
— and the false Louis the Eleventh of France, on one hand, and 
the turbulent Flemings on the other, coalesced to rend in pieces, 
and to prey upon, the orphan’s inheritance — her mother-in-law, 
the Lady Margaret, was her sage and intrepid counsellor ; and * 
when this young lady died, leaving two infant children as co- 
heirs, the dowager duchess entirely loved, and tenderly brought 
them up, attending to their affairs with maternal solicitude, and 
governing the countries subject to them with wisdom and justice. 
This lady was warmly attached to her family : to her the earl 
of Lincoln and Lord Lovel resorted, revealing the state of things 
— how her nephew, young Richard, was concealed in poor 
disguise in French Flanders, and how they had consented to 
Richard Simon’s plots, and hoped that their result would be to 
restore her brother’s son to tho throne of their native land. 

The duchess of Burgundy possessed a proud and high spirit. 
The abasement in which her niece, the Lady Elizabeth, was held 
by the earl of Richmond ; she, the real giver of his crown, not 
having herself been crowned ; the rigour exercised towards the 
Yorkist chiefs, many of whom had been her defenders and 
friends in time of flight and defeat ; the calumnies heaped on 
the various members of her royal house ; made a prospect of 
displanting Henry, and of revenge, gratefid to her. She acceded 
to the earl’s request, gave him an aid of two thousand Germans, 
led by Martin Swartz, a man of family and note in Germany, 
providing them with vessels to take them to Ireland, and blessing 
their expedition with her best and earnest wishes. 

On their arrival in Dublin, a gay and brilliant scene was 
acted, which raised the euthusiasm of the Irish, and spread a 
glory round the impostor they supported. The exhibition of 
the real earl of Warwick had produced no effect in Ireland ; 
Thomas Geraldine, earl of Kildare, asserted that Henry had 
brought forward a counterfeit, and Lambert Simnel lost no 
credit among them. He was proclaimed king of England ; he 
was crowned by the bishop of Mbath with a diadem taken from 
an image of the Blessed Virgin ; a parliament was convoked in 
his name, and every measure taken to insure his power in Ire- 
land, and to gather together forces wherewith to invade the 
sister island. 

The English lords felt far more anxiety than their allies in the 
tcsult of this insurrection. Although it had been disregarded 
by the Irish, the effect produced in England by the visit of 
Warwick to St. Paul’s was such as Henry had anticipated, and 
the counterfeit in Ireland found few supporters among the 
Yorkists. Still it w as necessary to end as they had begun : to 
acknowledge the imposture, so to bring forward the young son 




THE BATTLE OF NEWABK. 



53 

of Edward, would hare been to all appearance too barefaced a 
cheat. Lovel, as a gallant soldier, was ready to spend his blood 
in any enterprise that promised to advance the White Rose ; 
* but he, as well as the earl of Lincoln, mingling sad memories 
of the past with careful forethought, looked forward ’to the result 
of Riehard Simon’s contrivance with well-founded dread. Still 
they entertained no thought of retreat, but mustered their forces, 
and counselled with their associates for the furtherance of the 
cause. On the 4th of June, Lambert Simnel, under the name 
of Edward the Sixth, with his, so called, cousin De la Poole, 
Lord Lovel, and their constant attendant young Edmund Plan- 
tagenet, the Lords Thomas and Maurice Geraldine, with their 
force of savage scarce-armed Irish, and Martin Swartz, with his 
German auxiliaries, landed at the pile of Foudray, in Lancashire, 
where they were soon after joined by Sir Thomas Broughton, 
who brought some few English to fight and die for this unhappy 
conspiracy. 

Henry was prepared for their arrival : to gain grace in his 
subjects’ eyes, he first made a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Wal- 
singham, and then, proceeding to the midland counties, held 
council to know whether it were best to encounter his foes out 
of hand, or to let them drag on ; so to weary them by delay. 
A number of nobles and their followers joined the king, and it 
was agreed among them to press forward, before the enemy 
should gather force in England. Henry had a further view in 
this : he could not tell how far the secret of their plot, which he 
felt assured was the design to advance the young son of Edward, 
was divulged among the Yorkists, and how far believed ; as yet 
the enterprise bore no ill guise for him, having at its head a 
manifest impostor; so he hastened onward to crush it utterly, 
before it assumed a more fearful form. The earl of Lincoln, 
eager to try the fortune of battle, advanced also on his side, and 
the rival armies drew nigh each other at Newark -upon-Trent. 
The king pitched his tents three miles beyond the town ; and on 
the same night the earl encamped at Stoke, but a few miles dis- 
tant. And now, after a reign of two years, as he had forced 
King Richard to fight for his crown against him, an adventurer 
and an invader in his realm, did Henry Tudor find himself in 
his adversary’s position, about to risk life and kingdom on one 
cast of the die against troops as ill-assorted but as desperate and 
brave as his had been. Henry felt in his heart’s core the 
thrilling pang, which a conviction that all is in the hands of 
fortune must ever impart to a human being who is her slave. 
He felt that his crown was but an usurpation, that his anointed 
and sacred head claimed no reverence from these enemies ; he 
was degraded in his own eyes from being a sceptred king upheld 




THE BATTLE OF NEWARK. 



54 

by the laws, to a wild adventurer, liis good sword his right ; a 
fierce but disciplined anger filled his heart ; his brows were bent, 
his voice was attuned to harshness, his thoughts were conversant 
with overthrow and death. The hour was come ; he was im- 
patient for its passing, and he led forth his troops, all well- 
appointed English soldiery, in such hope as the sight of a noble 
army might well inspire, in such dread as was the natural 
offspring of the many chances and changes that had occurred to 
the sovereigns of England during the late struggles. 

The earl of Lincoln cherished still mightier fears ; yet there 
was more of calm and dignity in his meditations than in the 
impatient misgivings of Henry. His heart sickened at the idea 
of battle and bloodshed : he felt himself responsible for the lives 
of all : and, while this nerved his heart to courage, it took rest 
from his eyes, and planted sorrow deep in his manly breast. 
The morrow ! oh, the morrow ! hours full of fate ! whoso looks 
forward and sees in the morrow the crown or ruin of the hopes 
of many, may well pray the swift-pacing hours to lag, and 
night to remain for ever as a spell to stop the birth of time. 

But the morrow came ; a day of slaughter and captivity for 
the Yorkist party. The battle was hard fought ; the German 
auxiliaries were veteran soldiers, who spared neither blows nor 
blood ; their leader, Martin Swartz, for valour, for strength, 
and for agility of body, was inferior to none among the warlike 
captains of those times. The Irish, though half-naked and ill- 
armed, fought with desperate bravery. In vain ; the valour 
of Henry’s soldiers was equal, their discipline and numbers 
superior. First the noble Lincoln fell, and his comrades were 
slaughtered around him, avenging his death. The Lords Geraldine, 
Swartz, and Sir Thomas Broughton, were found among the 
slain ; Lord Lovel was never heard of more ; the young Ed- 
mund Plantagenet, struck in the side by a dart, lay for dead 
upon the ground. Bichard Simon and his false-seeming pupil 
were among the prisoners. 

Such was the event of the last attempt of the Yorkists to 
raise the bruised White Bose to its old supremacy. All of high 
rank and power that owned this symbol were gone ; Lincoln, 
the best column of its fortunes, was destroyed ; nothing re- 
mained, save the orphan prince, the royal exile, a boy of 
thirteen years of age, brought up as the child of a Flemish 
money-lender. To hide himself in safe obscurity was his only 
wisdom, till time should give strength to his arm, sagacity to 
his plans, and power to his acts ; happy if he could find any 
oncealment sufficiently obscure, to baffle the discernment of 
nry, and to save him from the arts of those whom he would 

uploy to discover and seize on him. 




?HE DISCOVERY. 



55 

Henry again felt himself secure on his throne : he deeply 
lamented the death of Lincoln, as lie had hoped to learn from 
biin the secret of the conspiracy. He found iu Lambert Simnel 
the mere tool of others, and in contempt made him a scullion 
in his kitchen, so to throw derision on the attempt which had 
been made to exalt him. He dealt otherwise with Richard 
Simon. In the secrecy of his prison, every art was practised 
to induce him to make a full confession. Simon played a 
dastardly and a double part, half revealing, half disguising the 
truth. Henry became assured that his rival, the duke of York, 
survived, and he was led in some sort to guess at the place 
of his abode. He had promised liberty to Simon when the 
young prince should be iu his hands ; meanwhile he was im- 
prisoned in the monastery in which ho was fated to close his 
existence. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

THE DISCOVERY. 



Our king he kept a false stewarde. 

Sir Aldingar they him call ; 

A falser stewarde than he was one, 

• Served not in bower nor hall. 

Old Ballad. 

Whoever writes concerning the actions of the men of the 
oldeu time, must sadden the reader by details of war, descrip- 
tions of fields of battle, narrations of torture, imprisonment, 
and death. But here also we find records of high virtues and 
exalted deeds. It is at first sight strange that men whose 
trade was murder, who habitually wore offensive weapons, whose 
chief happiness was derived from the glory thev acquired by 
inflicting misery on others, should be among those who live 
in our memories as examples of what is most graceful and 
excellent in human nature. Too great security destroys the 
spirit of manhood, while the habit of hazardous enterprise 
strengthens and exalts it. It was not because they destroyed 
others, that the warriors of old were famous for honour, courage, 



 




5G 



THE DISCOVERY. 



and fidelity ; but because, from some motive springing from 
the' unselfish part of our nature, they exposed themselves to 
danger and to death. 

It was at times such as these that friendship formed the chief 
solace of man’s life. The thought of his lady-love supported 
the knight during his wanderings, and rewarded him on his 
return ; but the society of his brothers in arms shortened the 
weary hours, and made peril pleasure. Death, the severer of 
hearts and destroyer of hope, is, in its actual visitation, the 
great evil of life — the ineffaceable blot, the tarnisher of the 
imagination’s brightest hues ; but if he never came, but only 
hovered, the anticipation of his advent might be looked upon 
as the refiner of our nature. To go out under the shadow of 
liis dark banner, hand in hand, to encounter a thousand times 
his grim likeness ; to travel on through unknown ways, during 
starless nights, through forests beset with enemies, over moun- 
tains, whose defiles hid him but to assure his aim ; to meet him 
arrayed in his full panoply on the field of battle ; to separate 
in danger ; to meet on the verge of annihilation ; and still, 
through every change, to reap joy, because every peril was 
mutual, every emotion shared, was a school for heroic f riendship 
that does not now exist. In those times, also, man was closer 
linked with nature than now ; and the sublimity of her crea- 
tions exalted his imagination, and elevated his enthusiasm — 
dark woods, wild mountains, and the ocean’s vast expanse, form 
a stage on which, when we act our parts, we feel that mightier 
natures than our own witness the scenes we present, and our 
hearts are subdued by awe to resignation. 

Edmund Plantagenet, the forest-bred son of Richard the 
Third, the late companion of the illustrious Lincoln and gallant 
Lovcl, lay long insensible on the field of battle, surrounded by 
the dead — he awoke from his swoon to the consciousness that 
they lay strewed around him dead, whom he had worshipped 
as heroes, loved as friends. Life became a thankless boon ; 
willingly would he have closed his eyes, and bid his soul also 
go on her journey to the unknown land, to which almost all 
those to whom he had been linked during his past existence had 
preceded him. He was rescued by a charitable friar from this 
sad state — his wound was dressed — life, and with it liberty, 
restored to him. After some reflection, the first use he resolved 
to make of these gifts was to visit the young duke of York at 
Tournay. 

Edmund’s mind, without being enterprising, was full of latent 
energy, and contemplative enthusiasm. The love of virtue 
reigned paramount in it ; nor could he conceive happiness un- 
allied to some pursuit, whose origin was duty, whose aim was 








THE DISCOVEBT. 



67 



the pood of others. His father, his ambition and his downfall, 
were perpetual subjects for reflection ; to atone for the first and 
redeem the last, in the person of his nephew, became, in his 
idea, the only fitting end of his life. Fostering this sentiment, 
he speedily formed the determination of attaching himself to 
the exiled duke of York : first, to devote himself to the pre- 
serving and educating him during childhood — and secondly, to 
fight and die for him, when the time was ripe to assert his rights. 

During his hazardous journey to Flanders, Edmund was sup- 
ported by that glowing sensation which borrows the hues and 
sometimes the name of happiness ; it was an ecstatic mood that 
soared above the meaner cares of life, and exalted him by the 
grandeur of his own ideas. Self-devotion is, while it can keep 
true to itself, the best source of human enjoyment : there is 
small alloy when we wholly banish our own wretched clinging 
individuality, in our entire sacrifice at the worshipped shrine. 
Edmund became aware of the value of his own life, as ho 
planned how in future he should be the guardian and protector 
of his unfriended, peril-encircled orphan cousin. A religious 
sentiment of filial love also influenced him ; for thus he could 
in some sort repair the wrongs committed by his father. There 
was much in Edmund’s temperament that might have rendered 
him a mere dreamer. The baser ends of common men possessed 
no attractions for him ; but a lofty purpose developed the best 
points of his character. 

It was early dawn, when, a month after the battle of Stoke, 
Plantagenet, in pursuance of his design, arrived at the cottage of 
Madeline de Faro, where, under the lowly name of Perkin 
Warbeck, dwelt the noble scion of the house of York. It was 
a lovely spot — trees embowered the cot, roses bloomed in the 
garden, and jessamine and woodbine were twined round the 
porch. The morning breeze and rising sun filled the atmosphere 
with sweets. Already the cottagers were enjoying its fragrance, 
and Edmund, as he alighted, beheld the object of his journey — 
the fair-haired stripling prince and his protectress Madeline. 
Edmund was one-and-twenty, but his brow was more bent, 
his eye more thoughtful, his cheek more pale and sunk 
than befitted his age ; it was only when he smiled that 
frankness displayed solemnity, and those who conversed with 
him were ever eager to call forth those smiles, which, like sun- 
beams that chase the shadows on a green hill-side, made darkness 
light. Confidence readily springs up between the open-hearted 
and good ; and Edmund and the inhabitants of the cottage found 
no impediment to entire reliance on each other. Madeline was 
overjoyed that her young charge should find manly guardianship 
in his cousin, and mentioned how often her fears had been 



 



68 



THE DISCOVEBY. 



awakened on his account, and how suspicions had got abroad 
concerning him among the citizens of Tournay. 

Madeline, the sister of the Fleming, John Warbeck, was mar- 
ried to a Spaniard in the service of Portugal. In those days, 
just previous to the discovery of America by Columbus, while 
that illustrious man was offering’ his unesteemed services at 
Lisbon, the Portuguese were full of the spirit of enterprise and 
maritime adventure. Each year new vessels were sent south- 
ward along the unexplored shores of Africa, to discover beyond 
the torrid zone a route to India. Hernan de Faro was a mariner 
— it was during one of his voyages to Holland that he had seen , 
and married Madeline, and he left her in her native country, 
while he pursued his fortunes down the Golden Coast as far as 
the Cape of Good Hope. He had been absent longer than she 
had anticipated, and each day might bring the wanderer back, 
when he purposed taking her with him to his native Spain. 
"What, then, must become of Richard F Plantagenet saw at 
once the necessity of visiting the court of Burgundy, and of 
placing her nephew at the disposition of the Duchess Margaret. 

The young prince was now fourteen — he had shot up in height 
„ beyond his years, beautiful in his boyhood, and of greater promise 
for the future. His clear blue laughing eyes — his clustering 
auburn hair — his cheeks, whose rosy hue contrasted with the 
milk-white of his brow — his tall and slender but agile person, 
would have introduced him to notice among a crowd of strangers. 

His very youthful voice was attuned to sweetness. If Edmund 
found the Lady Margaret lukewarm, he need only lead the noble 
boy into her presence to interest her in his favour. Richard 
heard with tearful eyes of the imprisonment of his mother, and 
the slaughter of his kinsmen ana friends. His heart for the 
moment desired vengeance ; he would himself seek his aunt of 
Burgundy, and aided by her, attack the usurper. With difficulty 
he permitted his cousin to depart alone ; but he was obliged to 
yield, and Plantagenet set out for Brussels, promising a speedy 
return. 

About a week after Edmund’s departure, another visitor 
arrived at the cottage of the exile. A violent storm had over- 
taken Duke Richard and his constant companion, Madeline’s 
daughter, in one of their wanderings in the fields near Tournay. 

As they stood for shelter under a half-ruined building, a traveller 
came to share the asylum. He was a Frenchman — a Provencal 
by his accent; for he immediately entered into conversation with 
them. As he is a man spoken of in the Chronicles, he shall 
receive his name at once ; this apparently chance-traveller was 
hrion, Stephen Frion, King Henry’s secretary. He had been 
employed to search out the young prince by such tokens as 



de 



3d by 




THE DISCOVEBY. 



59 



Hiehard Simon liad given, and chance had caused him to fall in 
■with Edmund, whom he had before remarked in attendance on 
the earl of Lincoln. Easily guessing that Edmund’s journey 
might have connection with his own, he tracked him to Tournay, 
and then by some untoward chance lost sight of him. The inde- 
fatigable spy had spent the last week in a particular survey of 
every spot round the town and in the neighbouring cities, to 
discover his lost clue. Overtaken by a storm on his return from 
Lisle, he suddenly found himself under a shed with a youth 
whose appearance at once excited his strongest curiosity. 

What Frion loved beyond all other things was power and 
craft. He had been a subject of the poetical King Rend of Pro- 
vence ; but, despatched on some occasion to Louis the Eleventh, 
he entered into the service of that monarch, whose subtlety and 
faithlessness were a school of wisdom to this man. On one sub- 
ject did he love to dwell — the contrast between Charles of Bur- 
gundy and Louis of France ; the first commencing his reign by 
combating and vanquishing the latter, and dying miserably at 
last by a traitor’s hand, his armies exit to pieces, his domains the 
unresisting prey of his rival ; while Louis, by serpent ways, by 
words — not deeds — gained every point, won every follower, and 
established his rule at last over the greater part of the wide 
territories of the fallen duke. In a minor way Frion aimed at 
imitating Louis ; but he was naturally more fiery and rash. He 
had visited Italyalso, and studied there the wiles and cruelties 
of the Italian lords ; crossing back to Marseilles, he had been 
seized by corsairs and carried to Africa : — here he put in practice 
some of his lessons, and contrived to make himself a favourite 
with his Mahometan master, who afterwards crossed to Spain to 
serve under the Moorish king of Granada. Frion was quickly 
distinguished for his sagacity in the divided counsels of this dis- 
tracted kingdom, and became the trusty adviser of him called 
Boabdil el Chico. When this unfortunate sovereign was taken 
prisoner by the Spaniards, Frion was a chief mediator between 
them and the Sultana Ayza. At the court of Ferdinand and 
Isabella he met several Frenchmen, who awakened in his heart 
a keen desire to revisit his native couutry. He took advantage 
of an embassy thither from the court of Spain, to fulfil his wishes, 
but arrived at Plessis only in time to witness Louis’ death. Two 
years afterwards he was found in the train of the carl of Kick- 
mond — the future secretary, Bpy, and favourite of Henry the 
Seventh — now travelling by his order to find, seize, or destroy r , 
the last blossom of the uprooted White Hose. 

Frion was rather handsome in appearance, with bright black 
eyes and dark hair, a complexion embrowned by the sun, a look 
of gaiety — unless when controlled by the will of a superior, he 



 



60 



THE DISCOVEBY. 



was always laughing — a quiet kind of sarcastic laugh ; he looted 
not the man Caesar would have feared, except that his person 
was rather inclined to leanness ; but he was active and well versed 
in martial exercises, though better in clerkly accomplishments. 
His early youth had been chiefly employed in copying poetry 
for King Rend — he wrote beautifully, and his small white hands 
were the objects of his own very great admiration. Such was 
his outward look ; he had stores of science and knowledge within, 
which he seldom displayed, or, when necessary, let appear with 
all the modesty of one who deemed such acquirements were of 
little worth — useful sometimes, but fitter for a servitor than his 
lord. No words could describe his wiliness, his power of being 
all things to all men, his flattery, his knowledge of human 
nature, his unparalleled artifice, which, if it could be described, 
would not have been the perfect thing it was : it was not silken, 
it was not glossy, but it wound its way unerringly. Could it fail 
— the rage and vengeance to follow were as certain as dire, for, 
next to love of power, vanity ruled this man ; all he did was 
right and good, other pursuits contemptible and useless. 

Such was the serpent-spirited man who contrived to partake 
Richard’s shelter ; he eyed him keenly, he addressed him, and 
the prince replied to his questions about an asylum for the night, 
by a courteous invitation to his home. “ The boy speaks not 
like a cotter : his eye beams with nobleness. What a freak of 
nature, to make one in appearance a king’s son, the plodding 
offspring of a rude Fleming ! ” As these thoughts passed through 
Frion’s mind, the truth came not across him ; and he even hesi- 
tated for a moment whether he should not, now the storm had 
passed, pursue his way : but his garments were wet, the ways 
miry, night at hand. At a second thought he accepted the invi- 
tation, and leading his horse, he accompanied the youthful pair 
to their cottage home. 

Madeline, unsuspicious of one obviously a Frenchman, 
received him without fear, and after a fire had dried the visitor’s 
dress, they sat down to a frugal supper. Frion, according to his 
usual manner, strove to please his hosts. His gay discourse, 
the laughable, yet interesting accounts he gave of various 
adventures that had befallen him, made all three — the fair 
Madeline the ardent princely boy, and the dark-eyed daughter 
of de Faro — sit in chained attention. When he heard that 
Madeline was united to a Spaniard, he spoke of Spain, of 
Granada and the Moorish wars ; Richard’s eyes flashed, and the 
dark orbs of the girl dilated with wonder and delight. 

At length he spoke of England, and his words implied that 
he had lately come thence. “ How fares the poor island P ” 




THE DISCOVEEY. 61 

asked the youth ; “ such stories of its tyrant reach us here, that 
metbinks its fields must be barren, its people fen'.” 

“ Had you been my comrade, young master, through merry 
Kent,” said Frion, “you would speak in another strain. Plenty 
and comfort, thanks to King Harry and the Ked Hose, flourish 
there. The earth is rich in corn, the green fields peopled with 
fat kine, such as delight yon islanders. * Give an Englishman 
beef and mustard,’ says our French proverb, ‘ and he is happy 
they will find dearth of neither, while the sage Henry lives, and 
is victorious.” 

“ Yet we are told here,” cried the youth, “ that this Welsh 
earl, whom you call king, grinds the poor people he has van- 
quished to the dust, making them lament him they named Crook- 
back, who, though an usurper, was a munificent sovereign.” 
These words from a Fleming or a Frenchman sounded strange 
to Frion ; the doubt, which he wondered had not before pre- 
sented itself, now came full-fledged, and changed at its birth to 
certainty ; yet, as the angler plays with the hooked fish, he 
replied, “ I, a stranger in the land, saw its fair broad fields, and 
thought their cultivators prosperous ; I heard that the king was 
victorious over his foes, and deemed his subjects happy. Yet, I 
bethiuk me, murmurs were abroad, of taxes and impositions. 
They spoke, with regret, of the White Kose, and scowled when 
they said that Elizabeth of York was rather a handmaiden in 
her husband’s palace, than queen of fertile England.” 

“ Now, were I an English knight, with golden spurs,” said 
the stripling, “ I would challenge to mortal combat that recreant 
Tudor, and force him to raise fair Elizabeth to her fitting 
elevation : woe the while, all England's good knights arc slain, 
and the noble Lincoln, the last and best of all, has perished ! ” 

“ You speak unwisely and unknowingly, of things you wot 
not of,” said Madeline, alarmed at the meaning glance of Frion ; 
“ good nephew Perkin, your eyes see not even the English 
white cliffs, much less can your mind understand its dangerous 
policy.” 

“ Hay, dear mother,” remarked her little daughter, “you have 
told me that the noble earl and the good Lord Lovel had been 
kind guardians to my cousin Peterkin : you chid him not when 
he wept their death, and you may suffer him to reproach their 
foe.” 

“ I know nothing of these lords,” said Frion, “ whose names 
are a stumbling-block to a Frenchman’s tongue. But methinks 
it is well for us that they aim at each other’s hearts, and make 
booty of their own provender, no longer desolating the gay 
fields of France with their iron hoofs,” ' 



 




62 



THE DECOT. 



And now, since that he had found him whom he sought, 
Frion talked again of other matters, and, as before, his smooth 
and gay discourse gained him pleased auditors. At length, the 
peaceful cottagers retired to rest, and Frion sunk to sleep under 
their hospitable roof, after he had thought of various plans by 
which he might possess himself of the prince’s person ; — the 
readiest and safest way was to entice him to accompany him 
alone some little space, no matter how short : he trusted to his 
own skill to draw him still further and further on, till he should 
be put on board the boat that would ferry him to his own 
revolted England. 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE DECOT. 



Giltlerny was a bonriic boy. 

Had roses tull his shoone; 

His stockings were of silken soy, 

With garters hanging doon. 

Old Ballad. 

It was a simple scheme, yet with the simple simplicity succeeds 
best. A new face and talk of distant lands had excited York 
beyond his wont. He could not rest during the long night, 
while the image of bis disastrous fortunes haunted him like a 
ghost. “ Were I the son of a falconer or hind,” he thought, “ I 
could don my breastplate, seize my good cross-bow, and away 
to the fight. Mewed up here with women, the very heart of a 
Plantagenet will fail, and I shall play the girl at the sight of 
blood. Wherefore tarries Sir Edmund, our gentle cozP If he 
be a true man, he shall lead me to danger and glory, and 
England, ere she own her king, shall be proud of her outcast 
child.” 

To a mind thus tempered— -heated like iron in a smith’s forge 
— Frion, on the morrow, played the crafty artisan, fashioning it 
to his will. He and the prince rose early, and the secretary 

S ared for immediate departure. As he hastily partook of a 
it repast, he renewed the conversation of the preceding 
night, and like the Sultaness Scheherezade (perhaps he had 
heard of her device among the Moors), he got into the midst of 



 




THE DECOY. 



63 



the quarrels of El Zagal and El Chico, the kings of Granada, at 
the moment it was necessary for him to hasten away — “ Good 
youth,” said he, “ I play the idle prater, while mine errand waits 
for me — lead me to the stable, and help me to saddle my nag ; if 
you will serve me as a guide to Lisle, you will do a good deed, 
and I will reward it by finishing the strange history of the 
Moorish kings.” 

The horse was quickly in order for departure. “ I will but 
say good day to my kinswoman, and go with you,” said Richard. 

“ That were idle,” replied the secretary, “ the sun lias hardly 
peeped out from his eastern window, and dame Madeline aud 
her dark-eyed daughter sleep; we kept them waking yester- 
night; they will scarce have risen ere you return." 

The duke suffered himself to be persuaded — with his hand on 
the neck of the horse, he strode beside his tempter, listening to 
his cunning tales of Moorish ferocity and Christian valour. The 
walls of Lisle at length appeared — “ Here we part,” said the 
duke, who remembered the caution given him, never to enter 
these border towns, where the English nobles often resided for a 
space, and the appearahce of the gallant stripling, and his close 
resemblance to other members of the princely house of York, « 
might beget suspicion and danger. 

“ Wherefore this haste, Sir Perkin P ” said Frion ; “ cooped up 
under a thatched roof from Lent to Shrovetide, metliinks you 
should be glad to 6tretch your chain. I remain brief space in 
yonder walls ; leave me not till I depart.” 

“ Who told you I was cooped up P ” said the prince, hastily ; 
“ if I am chained, the key of my fetters is in my own hand.” 

“ Put it swiftly in the w y ards then, and cast away the heavy 
iron ; come on with me, to where thou slmlt ruffle bravely with 
satin-coated squires.” 

Frion judged his prize already won, and almost threw aside 
his usual caution. Richard liked not the expression his sharp 
black eye assumed, nor the wrinkling of his brow ; he began to 
wonder what there had been in this man so to allure him into 
friendly converse ; now that in a familiar tone he invited him to 
continue his companion, his haughty spirit revolted. “ Good sir,” 
said he, “ I now have done a host’s duty by you. I saved you 
from a storm, restored you to your road — yonder path, shaded 
by poplars, leads at once to the town’s gate — farewell ! ” 

“ I am but an unmeet comrade for you, gay gentleman,” said 
Frion ; “ pardon me if I have said aught unfitting the cottager 
of Tournay to hear. I now go to the noble knight, the Sire do 
Bi’verem, and I would fain have shown him what striplings these 
swamps breed; methought his gilt palace were fitter dwelling 
than yonder hut for one, who, if his face lie not, aspires to nobler 



 



64 



THE DECOY. 



acts than weeding a garden or opening a drain. Come, my lord, 
— how tript my tongue P but your eye is so lordly that the word 
came of itself — gentle youth, trust yourself with one, who loves 
to see the fiery youngster amid his mates, the gallant boy looked 
on with love and favour by the noble and valiant.” 

Prudence whispered to Iiichard that this was dangerous sport ; 
pride told him that it were unfit, nameless, and ushered thus, to 
appear before the high-born ; but thoughtless youth urged him 
on, and even as Frion spoke, at a quick pace they approached 
the town-gate. The Sire de Beverem too, whom the wily French- 
man named, had been favoured by Edward the Fourth, and was 
his guest in London — “ Let the worst come, and it were well to 
have made such a friend. I will bear myself gallantly,” thought 
York, “ and win the good knight’s smile ; it may profit me here- 
after. Now I shall Bee how the world goes, and if any new 
device or fashion have sprung up among our chivalry, that I may 
seem not quite untaught when I lead the sons of my father’s 
friends to the field. Be it as you please,” he said to his seducer, 
“ before now my hand has grasped a foil, and I will not shame 
your introduction.” 

Frion went forward conning his part ; he felt that his task was 
not so easy as he had imagined : the boy was wild as a bird, and 
so gave in to the lure ; but, like a bird, he might away without 
warning, and speed back to his nest ere his wings were well 
limed. It was many miles to the coast : Frion’s resolution had 
been hastily formed. The Lord Fitzwater, a partisan of Henry, 
was then sojourning at Lisle. He had been to Brussels, and on 
his return towards Calais a sickness had seized him, which forced 
him to remain some weeks under the roof of the Sire de Beverem ; 
he was recovering now, and on the eve of his departure ; without 
confiding the whole secret to him, the papers and tokens Frion 
bore must vouch that the king would thank any of his lieges who 
should aid him in bringing by force or decoy a pretended son of 
the traitor earl of Lincoln (tor thus Frion resolved to name his 
victim) to the English shores. 

Yet the decoyer had a difficult part to play ; there was a 
quickness in the prince’s manner which made him fear that, if 
his intentious changed, his acts would not lag behind ; and 
though he did not betray suspicion, he was so perfectly alive to 
everything said and done, that any circumstance of doubt would 
not fail immediately to strike him. Although they had hitherto 
discoursed in French, yet it was certain that his native English 
had not been forgotten by him ; nay, the appearance of the Lord 
Fitzwater’s attendants, their livery, their speech, must awaken 
the prince’s fears, and confound the wiles of his enemy. Frion 
pondered on all these obstacles, as he rode gently through the 







THE DECOY. 



65 



narrow streets of Lisle ; at length they reached the abode of the 
French noble, and here Frion halted ; while the duke, beginning 
to be ill-satisfied with the part he played, and his promised pre- 
sentation by such a man, almost resolved to break from him here 
and to return ; shame of appearing feeble of purpose alone pre- 
vented him. At last, passing through the court-yard up a dark and 
massy staircase, he found himself in a hall, where several men 
at arms were assembled, some furbishing pieces of armour, others 
engaged in talk, one or two stretched along the benches asleep : 
pride awoke in the youth’s breast, he had gone too far to retrace 
his steps, and he resolved to bear himself gallantly towards the 
noble to whom he was about to be presented : yet, pausing for a 
moment, “My memory,” he thought, “leads me far a-field, or 
some of these men bear English badges, and their wearers seem 
grey-eyed Englishmen.” Frion meanwhile, selecting with quick 
tact one of the followers of the Sire de Beverem who chanced 
to be among these men, requested an instant introduction to 
Lord Fitzwater, using such golden arguments that the man, half 
afraid of being cabled on to divide the spoil, motioned him 
quickly to follow, and, passing through a suite of rooms, as he 
approached the last, he said, “ He is there, I will call his page.” 
“ It needs not," said Frion ; “ await me here, Sir Perkin,” and 
pushing forward, to the astonishment of the attendant, entered 
unannounced to the baron’s presence : Richard thought he heard 
a “ By St. Thomas ! ” uttered as the door closed hastily ; but 
some Englishman might be with the French noble, and though 
a momentary wonder crossed him, no doubt of Frion’s integrity 
was awakened. 

“By Saint Thomas!” exclaimed Lord Fitzwater, as Frion 
almost burst into his apartment, “ what rude varlet is this P 
Are serfs so used to enter a baron’s chamber in France P” 

“ Most noble sir,” said Frion, “ if in three words, or, if you 
refuse me these, if in one eye-glance, I do not satisfy you, bid 
your men beat me with staves from the door. I am here in 
King Henry’s service.” 

“ God save him ! ” said the noble, “ and you, sir knave, from 
the fate you name, which will be yours undoubtedly, if you do 
not give me good reason for your ill-mannered intrusion.” 

Frion looked round. Except the baron there was no one in 
the room, save a stripling of about sixteen years. The lad, 
though short in stature, was handsome ; yet there was a look 
that indicated the early development of qualities, which, even 
in manhood, detract from beauty. He seemed conversant in the 
world’s least holy ways, vain, reckless, and selfish; yet the 
coarser lines drawn by self-indulgence and youthful sensuality, 

F 



ogle 




66 



THE DECOY. 



were redeemed in part by the merry twinkling of hia eye, and 
the ready laugh that played upon Ins lips. “ My words are for 
your ears alone, my lord,” 6aid Irion, “and be assured they 
touch your liege nearly.” 

“ Go, Robert,” said Fitzwater, “ but not further than the 
ante-chamber." 

“There is one there,” said Frion, anxiously: “he must not 
quit it — he must not escape, nor learn in whose hands he is.” 

“ Your riddles, sir, ill please me,” replied the noble. 

“ Look at this paper, my lord, and let it vouch for the heavy 
import of my business.” 

Lord Fitzwater recognized his royal master’s signature, and 
with an altered tone he said, “ Leave us, Robert ; tarry not in 
the ante-chamber, but bear my greeting to my noble host, and 
ask him, when I may, at his best leisure, pay my thanks to him 
and my kind lady. I depart to-morrow at dawn ; and mark, 
speak not to the stranger who waits without.” 

The youth made obeisance, and departed. A piece of tapestry 
hung before the door, which, together with the massy boards 
themselves, prevented any sound from piercing to the other side; 
the lad was about to proceed on his errand, when curiosity 
prompted him to look on the stranger, with whom he was com- 
manded not to parley. Richard stood in the embrasure of one 
of the windows, but turned quickly as the folding-door shut with 
no gentle 6ound ; his candid brow, his bright blue eyes, his 
frank-hearted smile, who that had ever seen could forget them P 
nor were the traits of the other’s countenance less marked, 
though less attractive. The words burst at the same instant 
from either — “My Lord of York!” “Gentle Robin Clifford.” 

“ My prison play -fellow,” cried the prince; “this for me is a 
dangerous recognition. I pray you be wise, and — as you were 
ever — kind, and keep my secret close.” 

“ Alas ! my lord,” said Robert, “ you have opened your hand, 
and let the winged fool fly uuwittingly, if you think it has not 
been discovered by yonder false loon. Know you where you 
areP” 

“ Then I am betrayed ! I see it, feel it. Farewell, Robin, 
my fleet legs will outrun their slow pursuit.” 

“ Nay, an’ that were possible,” said Clifford ; “ but it is not ; 
let me better advise your highness ; trust me you shall be free ; 
but hark, they come ; I must not be found here. Show no 
suspicion ; yield to your fafce as if you knew it not, and confide 
in me ; my hand on it, this night you are at liberty.” 

Clifford quitted the apartment by the opposite door, while 
Frion entered from the other, beckoning the duke to approach. 



 



e 




THE DECOY. 



67 

He took him by the hand, and led him to Lord Fitzwatcr, who 
started back when he saw him, and was about to exclaim ; but 
Frion, in French, addressing him as the Sire de Beverem, 
entreated his kind favour for Perkin Warbeck, the gallant youth 
before him. The baron evidently was ill-pleased at the part he 
had consented to play ; he said a few words with an ill grace, 
and bidding Perkin welcome, promised him favour, and permis- 
sion for the present to remain in his abode. Richard saw 
through the flimsy disguise which the Englishman threw over 
his native speech, though he did not know who his receiver was; 
but, feeling that it was best to follow his young friend’s counsel, 
he replied, also in French, that, at his guide’s invitation, he had 
eagerly sought an interview with the renowned Sire de Beverem ; 
that the honour done him would be deeply engraven in his heart; 
that on some future occasion he would gratefully avail himself 
of his offers; but, at the present time, he had left his home 
without intimating any intention of a prolonged absence, and 
that he owed it to a kind kinswoman not to disquiet her by 
delaying his return. He prayed the noble to dismiss him there- 
fore, craving leave only to attend him some other day. 

“ Be it so,” said Fitzwater ; “ to-morrow at dawn you shall 
depart hence ; but you must not refuse my proffered hospitality. 
I shall introduce you to my household as one who ere long will 
be admitted into it, and show my friend, Sir Lalayne, who is 
now here, what gentle boors our Flanders breeds.” 

“ I can return to-morrow, my good lord,” Richard began ; but 
the noble not heeding him, added, “ Stay till my return ; I now 
go to hear mass,” and passed hastily from the chamber. 

The prince’s first impulse was to reproach Frion’s knavery, 
assert his freedom, and, ere any measures had been taken to 
secure his person, to quit his new prison. But he did not know 
how deep-laid the plot might be; he was inclined to think that 
all was prepared for his reception and safe - custody, so that any 
open attempt to regain his liberty would be resisted by force ; 
while, through the assistance of his friend Clifford, he might hope 
to escape, if, giving in to the stratagem, he took occasion by the 
curb, and forced it to his purpose. “ Are you mad,” said Frion, 
“ my rustic, that you resist the proffers of a high and powerful 
man of your native land P” 

Richard wondered, when he beheld Frion’s sneer and crafty 
glance, how he had not mistrusted him from the moment he 
beheld him ; the double meaning of his words, and the familiar 
tone in which they were uttered, grated him like a personal 
insult. He repressed the angry reply rising to his lips, and 
said, “ It seems I must submit, yet I should be beholden to you 

f 2 








68 



TUB DECOT. 



if you contrived an excuse, and lent me your horse, that I might 
ride back and inform Dame Madeline. To-morrow I might 
return.” 

Frion opposed this intention, and led the prince to a chamber 
at some distance from any other, at the end of a corridor, saying, 
“ that it had been assigned to him and after a short conversa- 
tion left him. Richard heard the shooting of the bolt as the 
door closed ; “ Son of King Edward,” he thought, “ thy folly 
disgraces thy parentage ; thus at once to have run into the gin. 
Yet I am of good cheer, and my heart tells me that I shall 
relate the merry tale of my escape to Madeline and my sweet 
coz, and dry this night the tears my disappearance has caused 
them to shed.” It soon appeared, by the long absence of his 
betrayer, that it was not intended to continue the farce longer ; 
but that, from the moment he had entered that chamber, he was 
in treatment as well as in fact a prisoner. After several weary 
hours had elapsed, his blithe spirit began to sink ; he reflected 
that Clifford had probably promised more than he could perform ; 
but courage awoke with the sense of danger ; he resolved to be 
true to himself, and to effect his escape singly, if he could gain 
no assistance. “ Men have ears and hearts,” he thought, “ and 
I can work on these ; or they may be neglectful while I am on 
the alert, and I can profit by their carelessness. In all forms 
my fortune may take, I will not fail to myself ; and there is 
small danger in any change for a true man. With my light 
spirit and resolved will, I could, I doubt not, persuade an armed 
band to make way for me, or open prison bolts with charming 
words, though my witchcraft be only that of gentle courtesy, 
moulding with skilful hand the wax of soft humanity.” Pacing 
the apartment, he continued these meditations, imagining every 
circumstance that might and would arise, and how he was to 
turn all to the best advantage. He framed persuasive speeches, 
wily answers to ensnaring questions, cautious movements, by 
which he might withdraw himself from the hands of his enemies ; 
and while he thus occupied himself, his eyes gleamed, and his 
cheeks glowed, as if the moment of action had come, and his 
life and liberty depended on instant deed. 

At two hours past noon the door was unclosed, and a servant 
entered bearing food ; impatient to begin his plans of escape, 
Richard was about to speak to him, when, in the doorway, ho 
beheld the slight, stunted figure of Clifford, whose forefinger 
was pressed on his lips, and who, after exchanging one glance 
with his friend, cast aside his stealthy expression of countenance, 
entering with a half-swaggering look, and saying, in French, 
“ M y lord, young sir, has sent mo on a pleasant embassage, 




TIIE DECOT. 



69 



even that of dining with your pageship, saying, two boys like 
us were better and merrier together, than in the great hall with 
the arrogant serving-men.” Bichard felt no great appetite ; but 
taking the tone from his friend, he thanked him, and they fell to 
on the viands. “ Now, kind Thomas,” said Clifford, “ of your 
bounty bring us a stoup of wine ; the day is rainy, and wc cannot 
abroad ; so my gossip and I will tell long stories over our bottle, 
and lay some plan of merry mischief which you and your fellows 
may in good time rue.” 

The domestic obeyed ; nor till the wine was brought, the 
servant fairly dismissed, and the door closed, did Clifford put 
aside the character he had assumed of a stripling page, in a 
noble master’s abode, entertaining a stranger visitant of his own 
years. At length, when they were quite alone, the merry hoy 
put his hauds to his sides and indulged in so gay a peal of 
laughter, that the prince, who at first stared in wonder, at last 
caught the infection, and laughed too, while tears from super- 
abundant glee streamed down their cheeks. Once, twice, and 
thrice did Eichard check himself, and turn seriously to inquire 
the cause of this merriment ; and Clifford strove to answer ; but 
laughter, bubbling up choked his voice, and both again yielded 
in accord to the overpowering fit. At last gasping, holding their 
sides, and by degrees commanding their muscles, the duke said, 
“ I would ask you, friend Eobin, what this means? But at tho 
word, lo you! your very voice is lost. Now, prithee, feel half 
as weary as I do of this folly, and you will be as grave as tumble- 
down Dick. Do you remember the simpering fellow we made 
good sport of in the Tower P ” 

“ You have broken the spell, my lord,” said Clifford ; “ that 
word suffices to make me as grave as Brakenbury himself, when 
he looked on your brother’s corpse. Ah dear, your highness, the 
name of the Tower is worse than a raven’s croak ! God and 
St. Thomas preserve you from ever getting the other side of its 
moat ! " 

“ Amen, Eobin, with all my heart,” said Eichard ; “ a shudder 
runs through my limbs down to my finger tips, making the skin 
on my head creep, when I think there is any chance of my 
passing long years in those dreary cells, with their narrow deep 
windows ; the court-yards, which the sun seldom visits ; the 
massy dark walls, whose black stones seemed to frown angrily 
if our childs’ voices were ever heard in sport.” 

“There your cousin, my lord of Warwick, pines oxit his 
melancholy days,” replied Clifford; “and that is your destined 
abode. My grandfather was slain by Queen Margaret’s side, 
and stained the Eed Bose with a blood-red dye, falling in its 




70 



THE ESCAPE. 



cause. Your father and his brothers did many a Clifford much 
wrong, and woe and mourning possessed my house till the line 
of Lancaster was restored. I cannot grieve, therefore, for the 
exaltation of the earl of Richmond ; yet I will not passively see 
my playmate mewed up in a cage, nor put in danger of having 
his head laid on that ungentle pillow in Tower Yard. The 
daughter of Warwick, our Edward’s affianced bride, your crook- 
backed uncle’s wife, loved my pranks and nurtured my youth ; 
and by her good leave, many a mirthful hour I spent in the dark 
place you name. May neither of us ever see it more ! ” 

“ You will, then, assist my escape P ” asked Richard. 

“ As faithfully, gossip' Dickon, as God his grace shall await 
me at the last day ! And now I will tell you a merry tale.” 



CHAPTER X. 

THE ESCAPE. 



—It is thy merit 

To make all mortal business ebb and flow 
By roguery. 

IIombr’s Hymn to Mkrcury. 

And then, with you, my friends, and the old man, 

We’ll load the hollow depth of our black ship. 

And row with double strokes from this dread shore. 

Tub Crctops. 

Notwithstanding the promise Clifford made of a merry tale, 
both he and his auditor looked grave as he commenced. Richard 
expected, with some anxiety, an explanation from his friend, and 
the other assumed the self-consequence resulting from having 
achieved a victory. No two beings ever displayed, in their way, 
a greater contrast than these youths. The prince was many 
inches taller than his companion, and his slim make promised 
increase of height. His brow was smooth as infancy, candid as 
day ; his bright blue eyes were lighted up with intelligence, yet 
there was a liquid lustre in them that betokened tenderness ; .nor 
did his lips, that nest of the heart’s best feelings, belie his eyes. 



 




THE ESCAPE. 



71 



They were full, a little curled, can we say in pride, or by what 
more gentle word can we name a feeling of self-elevation and 
noble purpose, joined to benevolence and sweetness? His oval 
cheeks were rounded by the dimpled chin, and his golden hair 
clustered on a throat of marble whiteness, which, as the white 
embroidered collar thrown back over the doublet, permitted the 
outline to be seen, sustained his head as the Ionic flute rears its 
graceful capital. Clifford was shorter, but firm set and more 
manlike in form, his grey eyes were bright or dull as his soul 
spoke in them; his brow slightly ^scowled, pending over, and 
even thus early, lines were delved in it, hardly seen when he was 
in repose, but which, as he spoke, showed deep and distorted ; 
his smile was tinctured by a sneer, his voice attracted no confi- 
dence, yet Richard now hung intently on it as he spoke : 

“ When I returned from doing my lord’s bidding, I found him 
moving about the room, more like a parched pea than a stately- 
noble; for now he stood still, and then shot off with a quick 
step, showing every sign of being ill at ease. How, boy as I am, 
for I can number but sixteen summers, my lord more than loves 
me, he trusts me, and not without cause — for when at hazard — 
but my story will be too long — enough that ere now I have done 
him service. Had I not known the cause of his disquiet I should 
have asked it, but, believing myself fully aware of what this all 
meant, I went to my post, and busied myself in making some 
flies for angling, seeming most intent upon my work. My lord 
stood over me, and twice or thrice fetched a sigh, and then strode 
away, and came again, saying, “I am a fool, a dolt — the king 
can mean no ill to this lad — and yet — ” I cannot tell you how long 
this indecision lasted, while I patiently toiled at a fly of green 
and gold, bright as those which trouts love to snap at in clear 
streams during May. At length he asked me, * Robin, did you 
mark the boy that stood in the ante-chamber P’ ‘Aye, my good 
lord ! ’ * And what thought you of him P ’ ‘ Thought, my lord P ’ 
I spoke inquiringly, for it suddenly came across me that he did 
not know you, and it was not for me to betray your secret. 
* Aye,' he replied, ‘ thought ? Does he resemble any one you 
ever knew P Of what country do you divine him to be P ’ ‘ These 

Flemings are sandy-haired,’ I said, * yet he does not look of 
Flanders. Methinks he seems English born.' 

“ ‘ You are right,’ said he, * English he is confessedly. This 
Frion calls him a natural son of De la Poole — of the late Earl of 
Lincoln. He says that he has knowledge of a secret treasure 
concealed by his father before this last rebellion, and the king 
wishes to get him into his hands, thus to secure the gold. The 
tale is not unlikely, for the Tudor ever loved the glitter— nay, 




72 



THE ESCAPE. 



the very dust of the precious metal, — and the boy resembles 
strangely the House of York. Yet, I care not for the task put 
upon me of kidnapping a child, and of betraying him into his 
enemy’s hands — pernaps of delivering him up a prisoner for life, 

for the sake of Poor fellow ! if he know aught of a concealed 

treasure, in God’s name, let him confess it while on this side the 
fatal channel that now divides him from tyranny or death.’ 
' Let mo deal with him,’ I said, ‘ let me throw out some toy, such 
as is this gold and green thread to a silly fish, and learn the 
truth ; if he discovers the hiding-place of this so coveted coin, 
we may spare him the trouble of his enforced journey.’ ‘ I know 
not that,’ answered my patron ; * Master Frion is earnest for his 
safe keeping ; and no one is nearer our liege’s inner wishes than 
this Provencal, who served him in exile, and who followed him 
in his expedition thence ; and yet there is a noble daring in the 
boy, a mountain freshness in his cheek, a springy freedom in his 
gait, that it were a thousand pities to fetter and limit within 
narrow prison bounds.’ Seeing that my lord was thus favour- 
ably inclined, I used all my poor eloquence to urge him further, 
and at last brought him to consent that I should converse with 
you ; learn, if possible, your secret ; inform you of your danger, 
and advise you to escape. One only difficulty remained : my 
lord had promised this master secretary that none should be 
admitted to talk with you; but when the subtle fiend, the 
double-dealing Frenchman entered, I told him with a long visage, 
that our noble host, the Sire de Beverem, had heard that we 
were carrying off by force a Fleming ; and that, considering his 
hospitable mansion stained by the act, he had commanded strict 
watch to be kept on the morrow, that if any of the English suite 
were unwilling to go, or appeared in durance, he should be 
rescued. It was advisable therefore, that you should be kept 
in good-humour till fairly beyond the gates of Lisle ; and 
this mv wisdomship offered to do, if admitted to parlance with 

J rou. You look grave, sir prince, but had you seen Frion’s sage 
ook of hesitation, and heard his many exhortations that I would 
by no means betray my knowledge of who you really were ; and 
how I, with a bow, careful as if my curls were white from years, 
promised discretion, you would laugh as I did, when, the mime 
over which I played before the servitor, I doffed my page’s 
seeming equality, and in duteous phrase to his highness of York, 
offer my best services to liberate him.” 

“ That seems already done,” said Biehard ; “ usher mo to the 
Lord Fitzwater. I will declare myself to him ; his compassion, 
already excited——” 

“ Would then be cool as snow at Christmas. Wise young 




THE ESCAPE. 



73 

sir, Baron Fitzwater wears the blushing Bose; and for him 
there is wormwood in the name of York. Now, as a chance 
offshoot of the white thorn, he only sees in you a harmless boy, 
whom it were sin to injure ; but give yourself a name whose 
very echo would bring St. Albans, Tewkesbury, Bosworth Field, 
and a thousand scaffolds streaming with his kinsmen’s blood 
before him, and without remorse he would let Frion have his 
will of you. Even I, Duke Bichard, I am sprung from those 
who fell for Lancaster ” 

“ Enough,” replied the prince, haughtily. “ I am content to 
stand alone, to achieve my freedom singly, or to submit to my 
fate.” 

“ Not so, my noble playmate,” said the other. *' I will not 
offer you my knee, my oath, my sword, for my allegiance belongs 
to the anointed King of England ; but, I beseech you, suffer 
Bobin Clifford to assist high-born Plantagenet to escape from 
a prison or from death ; permit him to pay, if not the duty of a 
subject, yet that of a loving friend to the former companion of 
his childish sports.” 

Eichard listened somewhat sullenly to these offers ; he ill 
brooked the thought that any of English parentage should, 
knowing who he was, refuse to acknowledge him for his liege : 
but Clifford would not be refused ; while it was hardly worth 
while to contend with his light spirit, which appeared incapable 
of a serious or profound idea. After a short resistance, there- 
fore, the duke entered willingly into a discussion of the best 
means of effecting his escape in such a way, that he should have 
several hours the start of Frion, and be distant from danger 
before his seducer could discover that he was not still safe in his 
hands. 

In the midst of this discussion, Frion suddenly entered. The 
stake for which he played was too momentous to trust it wholly 
to the stripling page, and distrust of the wily boy entered also 
into his calculations ; he broke in, therefore, not only unan- 
nounced, but with such stealthy quiet as showed that he meant 
to pounce on his victim unawares. The youths sat, their stools 
drawn close ; Clifford was leaning forward earnestly propound- 
ing his schemes, and Bichard listened, his whole soul in his 
countenance. Frion was close upon them before he was per- 
ceived by either, his eyes glimmering with their usual suspicious 
look. 1'he artless Bichard started, and would with a conscious 
mien have drawn back ; but Clifford, more used to the wiles and 
watchfulness of others, and his own double mode of action, con- 
tinued to speak in the same tone the same words, without moving 
a muscle. The prince wondered, and regained his self-posses- 



sd by Coogle 




74 



THE ESCAPE. 



sion ; not from entering into the deceit of his companion, but 
from the haughty sentiment of his own dignity, which even in 
danger refused to cower. 

Clifford had been saying — “I will hence to the sire: a word 
to him of whose secretary this Provencal is, and insinuation 
that he is now on a secret expedition to the Flemish towns, will 
awaken his curiosity ; he w ill send for him ; fortunately the 
good knight speaks so slow that a mass can be said while he ia 
introducing the subject of his inquiries ; as each word expires, 
he pauses while a requiem might be sung for its death ; our 
antagonist will writhe and — ” and a glance askance informed the 
speaker that this man was at his side : he continued — “ and 
strive vainly to escape ; the heavy weight will be too much for 
him, he must submit. Such feints suit well us boys who have 
not strength nor skill for more declared warfare. To-morrow’s 
dawn I will practise with you in the court of the castle ere you 
depart. But, indeed, my gossip, you must promise to be at 
Calais on the sixteenth, when we shall see a combat of good 
knights fit for royal princesses to look on. And now, fair sir, 
farewell; here is your friend. The Sire de Beverem com- 
manded my presence at this hour. If I see you not again 
to-night, the saints have you in their keeping ! ” 

When Clifford, with his pagelike vivacity, ran from the room 
singing a gay romance, Frion felt himself embarrassed; and 
more so when Richard said, — “ My guest, it is hard, after 
giving you harbourage last night, that I should be forced, 
whether I will or not, to tarry here, leaving my kinswoman in 
dread and doubt. Make you my excuse to the chevalier, and 
delay me no longer, I beseech you.” 

Frion, without directly replying, said, “Anon I will speak of 
that ; meanwhile, I have news for you.” And he entered into 
a long account of an expected sedition in Flanders, and how tho 
Sire de Beverem had promised to enlist Perkin Warbeck in his 
particular troop, when with courage and good fortune, he could 
not fail to rise. While he was talking, one of the men-at-arms 
of the noble entered, and notified to Frion that his lord desired 
an instant interview with him. The secretary hastened to obey ; 
he thought that good fortune itself provided this excuse for him 
to escape from his victim, and resolved not again to present 
himself before him. He was scarcely gone when Clifford re- 
turned. “Now quick,” he cried, “down the back staircase! 
My own steed stands saddled for you ; ride fast and far — but 
whither — whither do you intend to go P ” 

“ In the first place,' to Dame Madeline’s cottage." 

“That were midsummer madness,” cried Clifford; “Frion 





THE ESCAPE. 



75 



will never rest till he ensnares his bird again ; nay, though I 
trust he will not discover your escape till to-morrow morning, 
that part of my scheme may fail ; and his papers from the king 
are such, that my lord could not refuse to aid him. I pray you 
set space and cloudy mystery between you.” 

“ It shall be so. Probably I shall seek refuge at Brussels ; 
but I must see my gentle guardian and my sweet cousin, calm 
their fears, and bid them farewell.” 

They had descended a narrow winding staircase : Clifford 
unlocked a postern, opening on a dark alley. A small light- 
limbed horse stood without, held by a stout, almost gigantic 
fellow. “ Here, Bryan,” said Clifford, “ this is the smuggled 
article of which I spoke. Convey it in safety to the gate ; once 
without, the road is known. How now, sweeting ! you sit your 
steed as if you were used to this gear — in truth thou art a false 
one — yet take care — fold your cloak thus. Not one kiss ere we 
part P ” He sportively snatched the prince’s hand, and pressing 
it to his lips, continued, “No weeping, lovely: my merry heart 
hates tears like verjuice. The blessed Virgin protect you ; I 
must in. Bemember, in every ill, Robert Clifford is your fast, 
your sworn friend. Look at her, Bryan ; one would swear by 
her bearing it were a beardless page, and not a long-haired girl ; 
remember, though gamesome, she is gentle, and respect her on 
your life.” 

Laughing at his own deceits, the guileful boy re-entered the 
mansion ; nor could Richard avoid smiling at the merry and 
ready subterfuges which his friend had at command on every 
occasion. Brian demurely held the rein, and hardly hazarded a 
look or covert joke, as, with a pace that put the pony to a trot, 
he led the prince through the narrow streets to the western gate. 
The youth breathed freely when, after having passed the hollow 
sounding drawbridge, he saw the dark wall of the town behind 
him, and before, the green plain. In his haste he scarcely 
bestowed a benison on his guide ; but snatching the rein from 
his hand, and with the other throwing some money at his feet, 
and exclaiming, “ BewaTe of prating, as thou art willing to save 
thyself from the whipping-post!” he impatiently struck liis 
unarmed heel against the horse’s sides, and bounded swiftly 
forward. Bryan picked up the angels, and told them slowly, us 
he said “I meant to have paid myself in other coin ; but, by St. 
Julian, she rides more like a trooper than a gentle dame — and 
her speech — Master Robert has before now entrusted a damsel 
to my guidance, but they ever spoke me lovingly, with * fair Sir,’ 
and ‘ sweet Bryan ! ’ Forsooth, Flemish girls ruffle more like 
pranksome pages than soft-cheeked wenches.” 



 




THE ESCAPE. 



70 

The thought of his conductor had passed as swiftly from the 

E rince’s thoughts, as he made the ground fly from under his 
orse’s hoof. He was aware that he did neither the safest nor 
best thing in seeking, like a hupted hare, the form from which 
he had been roused in the morning ; but the desire of calming 
Madeline’s anxiety, and imprinting a farewell kiss on the sweet 
lips of her daughter, prevented him from altering his first pur- 
pose. The night was cloudy and very dark, but the road was 
known to him, and he continued at full speed till a voice, calling 
aloud, attracted his attention — the words could not be mistaken. 
— his own name, “Perkin Warbeck!” sounded through the 
night. His first thought was, that he was pursued, but reflec- 
tion told him that assuredly his pursuers would not halloo to 
him, while any sent in search of him by Madeline, might natu- 
rally so try to stop him as he rode so fast through the dark. He 
checked his speed, therefore, and in a few moments a cavalier, a 
stranger was at his side, mounted on a tall black horse ; his 
form seemed gigantic, and little else could be discerned ; the 
stranger spoke to him in French, with a foreign accent. He 
asked him, “ Are you not he they call Perkin Warbeck P ” This 
address was sufficiently startling ; and the youth haughtily re- 
plied, “ My name imports not to you, while to me this interrup- 
tion is unseasonable." 

“ Enough ; you go towards the cottage of Madeline de Faro : 
I follow your highness thither.” 

It i chard grasped the small poniard which hung from his belt ; 
yet how could he, a child, contend with the tall and muscular 
form beside him ? “ Whoever thou art,” he cried, “ and who- 
ever I may be, follow me not ; I am no serf to be seized and 
carried back to his suzerain. Depart in God’s name, that the 
fingers of neither may receive an ill stain ! ’’ 

“ Thou art a gallant boy ! ” cried the stranger, as placing his 
hand on the youth’s arm, his most gentle touch was felt as an 
iron vice pressing on his flesh : “ Pardon, my lord, the interfer- 
ence of one unknown to you, though I will not call myself a 
stranger. I am Hernan de Fero, the husband of Dame Made- 
line ; now stay not your speed, while we hasten to relieve her 
thousand fears. I am come in search of you.” 

The heart of Richard warmed towards his new friend ; he felt, 
that with him on his side, he might defy Frion, Fitzwater, and 
all their followers ; for there was something in De Faro’s mien, 
which spoke of a thousand combats, and as many victories ; his 
deep voice out-roared the elements ; his hand might arrest a 
wild horse in mad career. When they arrived at the wicket 
entrance to the cot, he lifted the boy from the saddle, as a child 





THE ESCAPE. 



77 



would handle a toy, and shouted aloud in his own language, 
“ Viva el Duque de Inglatierra y el Marinero, Hernan de Faro.” 

The dangers Richard had run, and the delight she experienced 
in seeing him, when again under her roof, stopped all Madeline’s 
reproaches. “ Is he not worthy all my fears P ” she said to her 
husband, who stood eyeing the boy as he caressed his daughter. 
De Faro stretched out his hand, saying, “ Will you, Senor Don 
Ricardo, accept my services, and my vow to protect you till the 
death, so help me the Blessed Virgin and the Holy Trinity.” 

De Faro was a mariner who had sailed in the service of the 
king of Portugal, along the unsounded shores of Africa, and 
sought beyond the equator a route to the spicy Indian land. 
His dark skin was burnt to a nearly negro die ; nis black curled 
hair, his beard and moustachios of the same dusky hue, half hid 
his face ; his brow somewhat lowered over eyes dark as night ; 
but, when he smiled, his soft mouth and pearly teeth, softened 
the harshness of his physiognomy, and he looked gentle and kind. 
Every nerve, every muscle, had been worn and hardened by long 
toilsome navigation; his strong limbs had withstood the tempest, 
his hands held unmoved the cordage, which the whirlwind strove 
vainly to tear from his grasp. He was a tower of a man ; yet 
withal one, to whom the timid and endangered would recur for 
refuge, secure of his generosity and dauntless nature. He heard 
the story of Richard's dangers; his plan was formed swiftly: he 
said, “ If you choose, Sir Prince, to await your foes here, I am 
ready, having put these girls in safety, to barricade the doors, 
and with arquebus and sword to defend you to the last : but 
there is a safer and better way for us all. I am come to claim 
my Madeline and our child, and to carry them with me to my 
native Spain. My vessel now rides off Ostend. I had meant 
to make greater preparation, and to have laid up some weeks 
here before we went on our home-bound voyage ; but, as it is, 
let us depart to-night.” 

The door suddenly opened as he spoke — Madeline shrieked — ■ 
Richard sprang upon his feet, while De Faro rose more slowly, 
placing himself like a vast buttress of stone before the intruder. 
It was Clifford. 

“ All is safe for the night,” he cried ; “ your grace has a few 
hours the start, and but a few ; dally not here ! ” 

Again the discussion of whither he should fly was renewed, 
and the duke spoke of Brussels — of his aunt. “ Of poison and 
pit-falls,” cried Robert ; “ think you, boy as you are, and, under 
pardon, no conjuror, that the king will not contrive your de- 
struction ? ” 

Probably self-interested motives swayed Clifford; but he 




THE ESCAPE. 



78 

entered waraily into De Faro’s idea of hastening to the sea-coast, 
and of sailing direct for Spain. “ In a few years you will be a 
man — in a few years ” 

“ Forgotten ! Yes — I may go ; but a few months shall marie 
my return. I go on one condition ; that you, Clifford, watch 
for the return of my cousin, Sir Edmund, and direct him where 
to find me.” 

“ I will not fail. Sir Mariner, whither are you bound P ” 

“ To Malaga.” 

And now, urged and quickened by Clifford, who promised to 
attend to all that this sudden resolve left incomplete, the few 
arrangements for their departure were made. Favoured by 
night, and the prince’s perfect knowledge of the country, they 
were speedily on their way to Ostend. Clifford returned to 
Lisle, to mai’k and enjoy Frion’s rage and Fitzwater’s confusion, 
when, on the morrow, the quarry was found to have stolen from 
its lair. Without a moment’s delay, the secretary followed, he 
hoped, upon his track : he directed his steps to Brussels. A 
letter meanwhile from Ostend. carefully worded, informed Clif- 
ford of the arrival and embarkation of his friends ; again he was 
reminded of Plantagenet ; nor had he long to wait before ho 
fulfilled this last commission. 

Edmund had found the Lady Margaret glad to receive tidings 
of her nephew; eager to ensure his safety and careful bringing- 
up, but dispirited by the late overthrow, and deeply grieved by 
the death of the noble and beloved Lincoln: no attack could 
now be made ; it would be doubly dangerous to bring forward 
the young ltichard at this juncture. She commissioned Plan- 
tagenet to accompany him to Brussels that she might see him ; 
and then they could confer upon some fitting plan for the privacy 
and security of his future life, until maturer age fitted him to 
enter on his destined struggles. 

Edmund returned with brightened hopes to Tournay, to find 
the cottage deserted, his friends gone. It may easily be imagined 
that this unexpected blank was a source of terror, almost of 
despair to the adventurer. He feared to ask questions, and 
when he did propound a few, the answers only increased his 
perplexity and fears. It was not until his third hopeless visit to 
the empty dwelling, that he met a stripling page, who, with an 
expression of slyness in his face, spoke the watchword of the 
friends of York. Edmund gladly exchanged the countersign, 
and then the boy asked him, whether he called himself cousin to 
the fugitive duke of York, laughing the while at the consterna- 
tion his auditor exhibited at the utterance of this hidden and 
sacred word : “ You come to seek your prince,” he continued. 



 




THE ESCAPE. 



79 



“ and wonder whither he may be flown, and what corner of the 
earth’s wilderness affords him an abode. He is now, by my 
calculations, tossing about in a weather-beaten caravel, com- 
manded by Hernan de Faro, in the Bay of Biscay ; in another 
month he may anchor in the port of Malaga ; and the dark-eyed 
girls of Andalusia will inform you in what nook of their sunny 
land the fair-haired son of England dwells. The king is defeated, 
Master Frion balked, and Lord Fitzwater gono on a bootless 
errand : the White Bose flourishes free as those that bloom in 
our Kentish hedges.” 

Without waiting for a reply, but with his finger on his lip to 
repel further speech, the youth vaulted on his horse, and was 
out of sight in a moment. Edmund doubted for some time 
whether he should act upon this singular communication. He 
endeavoured to learn who his informant was, and, at last, became 
assured that it was Bobert Clifford, a young esquire in Lord 
Fitzw&ter’s train. He was the younger son of the Lord Clifford 
who fell for Lancaster, at the battle of St. Alban’s. By birth, by 
breeding, he was of the Bed Bose, yet it was evident that his 
knowledge was perfect as to the existence of the duke of York ; 
and the return of Lord Fitzwater and King Henry’s secretary 
to Lisle, disappointed and foiled, served to inspire confidence in 
the information he had bestowed. After much reflection, Plan- 
tagenet resolved to visit Paris, where he knew that the brother 
of Madeline, old John Warbcck, then sojourned ; and, if he did 
not gain surer intelligence from him, to proceed by way of 
Bordeaux to Spain. 



 




80 



CHAPTER XI. 

THE EXILES. 



A day will come when York shall claim his own ; 

Then York be still awhile, till time do serve. 

SOAKSFEABE. 

The further Edmund journeyed from the late abode of his lost 
cousin, the more he felt displeased at the step he had taken ; 
but on his arrival in Paris his uncertainty ended. Warbeck had 
received intimation of the hurried embarkation of his sister, 
and here also he found Lady Brampton, whose husband had 
taken refuge in Paris after the battle of Stoke. Like the queen- 
dowager, the fate of Margaret of Anjou’s son haunted this lady, 
and she warmly espoused the idea of bringing the duke of York 
up in safe obscurity, until his own judgment might lead him to 
choose another line of action, or the opposing polities of Europe 

E romised some support to his cause. She agreed to repair 
erself to Brussels, to take counsel with the duchess, to use all 
her influence and arts, and, as soon as time was ripe, to proceed 
herself to Spain to announce it to the prince. Meanwhile, 
Plantagenet,, following his former purpose, would take up his 
abode with Richard in Spain ; teacu him the science of arms, 
and the more difficult lessons of courage, self-command, and 
prudent conduct. In pursuance of this plan, Edmund lost no 
time in going to Bordeaux, whence he embarked for Malaga, and 
following his friend’s steps, arrived shortly after him at the 
retreat De Faro had chosen among the foldings of the moun- 
tains on the borders of Andalusia.* 

De Faro’s was a singular history. In those days, that part 
of Andalusia which comprised the kingdom of Granada, was 
the scat of perpetual wars, and even when armies did not meet 

* I had originally entered more at large on a description of Andalusia, and the 
history of the conquest of Granada. The subsequent publication of Mr. Washing- 
ton Irving's very interesting work has superseded the necessity of this dcviaUon 
from the straight path of my story. Events which, in their romantic detail, were 
before only to be found in old Spanish folios, are now accessible to every English 
reader, adorned by the elegance of style, and arranged with the exquisite taste, 
which characterize the very delightful “ Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada.” 



 




THE EXILES. 



81 



to deluge its fertile plains and valleys with their blood, troops 
led by noble cavaliers and illustrious commanders overran its 
districts in search of plunder and glory. During one of these 
incursions, in the year 1452, some impulse of religion or humanity 
made a Spanish soldier snatch from a couch in the country-house 
of a noble wealthy Moor, already half consumed, an infant hardly 
a year old ; the band was already in full retreat, and, fortunately, 
this incident took place on the very frontiers of Granada, or the 
benevolence of the soldier would hardly have been proof against 
the trouble his little charge occasioned him. Toiling up the 
mountains on their return to the kingdom of Jaen, they entered 
the little town of Alcala-la-Iteal, where, on the side of the 
mountainous road, rose the walls of a monastery. “ IIow 
better,” thought the soldier, “ save the soul of this boy than by 
giving him to the monks P” It was not, perhaps, the present 
they would most readily have selected, but compassion and 
piety forbade them to refuse it: the little Moor became a 
Christian by the name of Hernan, and was brought up within 
the sacred precincts of the convent. Though the monks were 
able to make a zealous Catholic of their nursling, they did not 
succeed so well in taming his fiery spirit, nor could they induce 
him to devote himself to the inactive and mortifying life of a 
priest. Yet he was generous and daring, and thus acquired 
their affection ; next to being a recluse vowed to God, the 
vocation of a soldier for the faith, in the eyes of these holy men, 
was to be selected. Hernan advancing in life, and shooting up 
into strong and premature manhood, was recommended by the 
abbot to his cousin, the illustrious Don Rodrigo Ponce de Leon, 
marquess of Cadiz. He fought several times under his banners, 
and in the year 1471 entered with him the kingdom of Granada, 
and was wounded at the taking of Cardela. In this last action 
it was, that a sudden horror of taking up arms against his 
countrymen sprung up in Hernan’s breast. He quitted Spain 
in consequence ; and, visiting Lisbon, he was led to embrace a 
sea-faring life, and entered the marino service of the king of 
Portugal ; at one time, visiting Holland, where he sought and 
won the hand of Madeline : and afterwards, with Bartholomew 
Diaz, he made one of the crew that discovered the Cape of Good 
Hope. He sailed with three vessels, one of which lost company 
of the others, and its crow underwent various and dreadful perils 
at sea, and from the blacks on land : after nine months they 
again fell in with their companions, three sailors only remaining. 
One of these was Hernan de Faro ; his skill, valour, and forti- 
tude, had saved the vessel ; he was exalted to its command. 




82 



TBE EXILES. 



and now, in safer voyage over seas more known, be bad freighted 
it with the fugitives from Tournay. 

Daring all his wanderings, even in the gay and rich Portugal, 
Hernan turned with fond regret to his mountain home. To its 



rugged peaks, its deep and silent dells ; its torrents, its verdure, 
its straggling and precipitous paths ; its prospect over the rich 
and laughing Vega of Granada. He had promised himself, after 
weary toils, a long repose in this beloved spot ; and hither he 
now led his wife, resolving to set up his tent for ever in the land 
of his childhood, his happy childhood. It was a strange place to 
choose, bordering on Granada, which at that time was as lists in 
which Death and Havock sat umpires. But the situation of 
Alcala-la-Beal preserved it secure, notwithstanding its dangerous 
neighbourhood. It was perched high upon the mountain, over- 
looking a plain which had been for many years the scene of 
ruthless carnage and devastation, being in itself an asylum for 
fugitives— a place of rest for the victor — an eagle’s nest, unas- 
sailable by the vultures of the plain. 

Here, then, Plantagenet found his cousin ; here, in lovely and 
romantic Spain. Though defaced and torn by war, Andalusia 
presented an aspect of rich and various beauty, intoxicating to 
one whose life had been spent in the plains of England, or the 
dull flats of Flanders. The purple vineyards ; the olive planta- 
tions clothing the burning hill-side; the groves of mulberry, 
cork, pomegranate, and citron, that diversified the fertile vegas 
or plains ; the sweet flowing rivers, with their banks adorned 
by scarlet geranium or odoriferous myrtle, made this spot 
Nature’s own favoured garden — a paradise unequalled upon 
earth. On such a scene did the mountain-home of the exiles 



look down. Alcala, too, had beauties of her own. Ilex and pine 
woods clothed the defiles of the rugged Sierra, which stretched 
far and wide, torn by winter torrents into vast ravines ; varia- 
gated by a thousand intersecting lines, formed by the foldings 
of the hills ; the clouds found a home on the lofty summits ; the 
wandering mists crept along the abrupt precipices ; alternate 
light and shadow, rich in purple and golden hues, arrayed each 
rocky peak or verdant slope in radiance all their own. 

All this fair land had been under the dominion of the Moors. 
Now, town by town, stronghold by stronghold, they had lost it ; 
the riches of the land belonged to the Christians, who still, by 
military conquest or policy, pressed the realm of the Moorish 
sovereign into a narrower compass ; while, divided in itself, the 
unhappy kingdom fell piecemeal into their hands. De Faro was 
a devout Catholic ; but, with all his intrepidity, more humanity 
than belonged to that age warmed his manly heart. He remem- 




THE EXILES. 



83 



bered that ho was a Moor : whenever ho saw a Moslem prisoner 
in chains, or a cavalgada of hapless women driven from their 
native towns to slavery, the blood in his veins moved with 
instinctive horror ; and the idea that among them might pine 
and groan his parents, his own relatives, burned like living coal 
in his breast. He had half forgotten this when he came to 
Alcala, bringing his wife and child, and resolved to set up here 
bis home ; but when, in the succeeding spring, the Spanish 
army assembled on the frontiers of Murcia, and swept on 
towards the south — when deeds of Moorish valour and Moorish 
suffering reached Alcala — when the triumph of the Chris- 
tians and their ravages were repeated — the gallant mariner 
could endure no longer. “ It is a fruitless struggle,” he said ; 
“ Granada must fall ; and God, who searches hearts, knows that 
his victory will be dear to me when the cross floats from the 
towers of the Alhambra. But I cannot behold the dark, blood- 
stained advances of the invader. I will go — go where man 
destroys not his brother, where the wild winds and waves are 
the armies we combat. In a year or two every sword will be 
sheathed ; the peace of conquest will reign over Andalusia. One 
other voyage, and I return.” 

He went without fear, for Alcala appeared a safe retreat, and 
left his family spectators of the war. What a school for Richard ! 
Edmund rejoiced that he would be accomplished in knightly 
exercise in the land of chivalry ; but he was not prepared for the 
warlike enthusiasm that sprung up in his cousin’s heart, and even 
in his own. It was the cause of God that armed the gentlemen 
of Spain, that put daring into the politic Ferdinand’s heart, and 
inspired with martial ardour the magnanimous Isabella. The 
veteran cavaliers had lost many relatives and companions in 
arms, in various defeats under the rocky castles, or within 
the pathless defiles of Andalusia; and holy zeal possessed 
them to avenge their deaths, or to deliver those who pined in 
bondage. The younger knights, under the eye of their sove- 
reigns, emulated each other in gallantry and glory. They 
painted war with pomp, and adorned it by their virtues. 

Not many months before, the earl of Rivers, with a band of 
Englishmen, aided at the siege of Loxa, and distinguished 
himself by his undaunted bravery ; his blunt but gay humour; 
his eager emulation with the Spanish commanders. The duke of 
York heard, with a leaping heart, his mother’s brother’s name. 
Had he still been there ; but no, he had returned to fall in 
affray in Britany, the victim of Tudor’s heartless desertion— 
this circumstance had given distinction and honour to the name 
of Englishmen j nor did Edmund feel inclined to lower the 

o 2 




84 



THE EXILES. 



national character by keeping away from the scene of glory. 
What was to be done ? lork was a mere boy-; yet when Plan- 
tagenet spoke of serving under one of the illustrious Catholic 
chieftains, York said, “ I follow you ; I will be your squire, 
your page, your stirrup-boy ; but I follow 1 ’’ 

In 1489 the siege of Baza was formed. It was defended with 
desperate valour by the Moors, while every noble Spaniard 
capable of bearing arms assembled in Ferdinand’s camp, which 
glittered in silks and gay caparisons ; yet the very luxury of the 
warriors was ennobled by their valour. The sallies on the part 
of the besieged were furious ; the repulse they sustained, deter- 
mined and successful. When closely hemmed in, the Moors 
relaxed in their desperate efforts. The younger Christian 
cavaliers used the leisure so afforded them to unite in making’ 
incursions in the surrounding country, to cut off supplies, and 
to surprise the foraging-parties of the enemy. Two youths 
became conspicuous in these exploits ; both proclaimed their 
English origin. One bore a knight’s golden spurs (Edmund had 
been knighted on the eve of the battle of Stoke by the earl of 
Lincoln), and boasted of his royal, though illegitimate, descent ; 
the other, a beardless, fair-haired, blooming boy, was nameless, 
save by the Christian appellation of Eicardo, to which was added 
the further designation of El Muchacho, from his extreme youth. 
It was a lovely yet an awful sight to behold this pair. The elder, 
whose dark eyes and dun complexion gave him a greater resem- 
blance to his southern comrades, never lost sight of his young 
friend ; side by side, his shield before Eichard’s breast, they 
went to the field. When Edmund would otherwise have pressed 
forward, he hung back to guard his cousin ; and w hen the boy 
was hurried forward in the ardour of fight, still his kinsman’s 
gaze was on him — his sword protecting him in every aspect of 
danger. If the stripling were attacked, Edmund’s eyes flashed 
fire, and mortal vengeance fell upon his foe. They became the 
discourse of the camp ; and Plantagenet’s modesty, and Eichard’a 
docility in all, save avoiding peril, advanced them still further in 
the favour of the grave, courteous Spaniards. “ Art thou, then, 
motherless P ” Isabel asked ; “ if thou art not, thy gentle parent 
must pass many wakeful nights for thee!” At length, in one 
skirmish, both tlie youths got surrounded by the foe. Eichard’s 
young arm, wearied by the very sword he bore, gave ineffectual 
blows. Forgetting that he left himself unguarded, Edmund 
rushed between him and his assailant ; others came to their 
assistance ; but Plantagenet was already struck to the ground ; 
and for many w'eeks York forgot even the glorious emulation of 
arms, while watching over his best and dearest friend. Mean- 




TUB EXILES. 



85 



•while Baza surrendered ; and the cousins returned to Alcala, to 
Madeline and her fair child ; and domestic peace succeeded to 
the storms of war. Richard loved Madeline as his mother ; her 
daughter was his sister, hie angel sister, whose tenderness and 
heroism of character commanded deep affection. 

Monina de Faro was, even in childhood, a being to worship 
and to love. There was a dreamy sweetness in her countenance, 
a mystery in the profound sensibility of her nature, that fasci- 
nated beyond all compare. Her characteristic was not bo much 
the facility of being impressed, as the excess of the emotion pro- 
duced by every new idea or feeling. Was she gayP — her large 
eyes laughed in their own brightness, her lovely countenance 
became radiant with smiles, her thrilling voice was attuned 
to lightest mirth, while the gladness that filled her heart over- 
flowed from her as light does from the sud, imparting to all 
around a share of its own essence. Did sorrow oppress herP— 
dark night fell upon her mind, clouding her face, oppressing 
her whole person, which staggered and bent beneath the freight. 
Had she been susceptible of the stormier passions, her subtle 
and yielding soul would have been their unresisting victim — • 
but though impetuous — wild — the slave of her own sensations, 
her soft bosom could harbour no emotion unallied to goodness : 
and the devouring appetite of her soul, was the desire of benefit- 
ing all around her. Her countenance was the mirror of her 
mind. Its outline resembled those we see in Spanish pictures, 
not being quite oval enough for a northern beauty. It seemed 
widened at the forehead, to give space for her large, long eyes, 
and the canopy of the darkly fringed and veined lid : her hair 
was not blacK, but of a rich sunny chesnut, finer than carded 
silk, and more glossy; her skin was delicate, somewhat pale, 
except when emotion suffused it with a deep pink. In person, 
she was not tall, but softly rounded ; and her taper, rosy-tipped 
fingers, and little feet, bespoke the delicate proportion - that 
moulded her form to a beauty, whose every motion awakened 
admiration and love. 

With, these companions Richard passed the winter. The 
following spring brought war still nearer to the English exiles — 
Baza had fallen ; one of the kings of Granada, surnamed El 
Zagal, the Valiant, had submitted to the Spaniards : and now 
Ferdinand commanded his former ally, Boabdil el Chico, to 
deliver up to him proud Granada, the loved city of the Moors. 
Poor Boabdil, whose misfortunes had been prophesied at his 
birth, and whose whole career had been such as to affix to him 
the surname of -el Zogoybi, or the Unfortunate, was roused from 
his state of opprobrious vassalage by this demand, and followed 







86 



THE EXILES. 



tip his refusal by an inroad into the Christian country, near 
Jaen. Count de Tendilla, a veteran warrior of high reputation 
and brilliant exploits, commanded this district. His head- 
quarters were in the impregnable fortress of Alcala-la-Real 
itself; and when the cry came, that the Moors had passed his 
border, he resolved to stoop from his eagle’s eyrie, and to pounce 
upon the insolent foe, as they returned from their incursion. He 
chose one hundred and fifty men, and lay in ambush for them. 
Plantagenct was of the number, and our young warrior also ; 
though with sage entreaties Edmund, and with tears Madeline, 
had besought him to stay. The count succeeded to his wish — 
the Moors fell into his toils — few escaped slaughter or capture : 
but while the Christian hero exulted in victory, a messenger, 
pale with horror, spent with weariness, came to tell that a band 
of Moors had taken advantage of his absence, to fall upon Alcala. 
Indignation and fury possessed the noble captain ; he left half 
his troop to protect his spoil, and with the rest, all weary as they 
were, he hurried back to Alcala, eager to fall upon the marauders 
before they should have secured their prey in a neighbouring for- 
tress. Edmund and Richard were among the foremost ; their rage 
could only be calmed by the swiftness with which they returned 
to deliver or avenge their friends. The sun was sinking in the 
west when they arrived at the foot of the Sierra. At first 
Tendilla desired that his wearied troop should repose; but several 
stragglers among the enemy, perceiving them, gave the alarm to 
their comrades, who, laden with booty, were preparing to depart. 
Harassed as the Christians were, they had no choice, while 
their position, on the lower ground, rendered their attack very 
disadvantageous. But nothing could cheek their fury : with, 
loud cries and flashing weapons they fell upon the enemy, who, 
burthened by their prey and wearied by their very outrages, 
could ill resist men fighting to avenge their desolated hearths. 
Still, so accustomed to war, so innately brave was every soldier 
on either side, that the combat was long and sanguinary. Night, 
the swift-walking darkness of the nights of the south, came sud- 
denly upon the combatants : the casques of one party t and the 
turbans of the other, were scarce perceptible, to guide the 
scimitar, or to serve as an aim for the arquebus. The discomfited 
Moors, leaving their booty, dispersed along the defiles, and, 
forgetful of their prisoners, availed themselves of the obscurity 
to make good their flight. Alcala was retaken ; and through the 
shadows of night, husbands and fathers called aloud on their 
wives and children to tell them if they were safe, while many a 
sound of woman’s wail arose over the corpse of him who had 
died to save her. 




THE EXILES. 



87 



The troop, diminished in number, was drawn up the following 
morning in the square of Alcala. “ Where,” asked the count, 
“are my two English soldiers P I saw the elder leading five 
others across a steep mountain-path, so as to fall on the enemy’s 
rear ; it was a sage measure, and succeeded well. Ricardo I 
beheld contending with two bearded Moors, who held in their 
fierce grasp a young and fainting girl. I sent Diego to his 
rescue : Diego, they say, was slain : night prevented me from 
knowing more : have both these strangers fallen P I would pay 
them a Spaniard’s thanks for their aid — a knight’s praise for 
their gallantry." 

Alas ! both thanks and praise would have visited their cars 
coldly. They had forgotten Tendilla, his troop, the very Chris- 
tian cause, in the overwhelming calamity that had befallen them. 
Assisted by Diego, who was cut down in the conflict, Richard 
had delivered Monina ; and, forcing his way through the enemy, 
now already scattered, clambered with her in his arms to their 
mountain abode : he was guided towards it by the glaring light 
of the flames that destroyed it. Meanwhile, the fight still 
raged ; York placed Monina in safety, and returned to share its 
perils. 

The peace of desolation that came with the morning united 
the cousins ; and they sought the ruins of their home, and their 
miserable friend, whose broken and harrowing tale recorded how 
Madeline had fallen a victim to the savage cruelty of the enemy, 
as she strove to defend her daughter from impending slavery. 

This was the result of Moorish wars — death and misery. 
Richard’s young heart had bounded to the sound of trump and 
clarion ; and he returned to hear the melancholy bell that tolled 
for death. Their verv home was in ruins ; but it was long before, 
amidst deeper woe, they remembered to lament the destruction 
of many papers and hoarded objects, the relics and the testi- 
monies of Richard’s royal descent. 



 




88 



CHAPTER XII. 

THE CHALLENGE. 



Ah ! where are they who heard in former hours 

The voice of song in these neglected bowers ? 

They are gone ! 

m Moore. 

The chain is loos’d, the sails are spread, 

The living breath is fresh behind ; 

As with dews and sunrise fed, 

Comes the laughing morning wind. . 

Shelley. 

This was a gloomy lesson for these young and affectionate 
beings ; they consoled one another, and wept as they consoled. 
At first Monina despaired ; her ceaseless laments and tmassuaged 
grief appeared to undermine her very life ; but, when she marked 
the sorrow she communicated, when she heard Richard exclaim, 
“ Oh ! for spring and battle, when I may avenge Monina’s grief, 
or die ! Death is a thousand times preferable to the sight of her 
woe !” and felt that the fate and happiness of those about her 
depended on her fortitude : she forced smiles back to her lips, 
and again her sweet eyes beamed, undimmed by tears. 

Spring came at last, and with it busy preparation for the siege 
of Granada ; troop after troop defiled through Alcala, bearing 
the various ensigns of the noble commanders ; the Count Tendilla, 
leaving his mountain nest, united himself to the regal camp 
before Ihe devoted city ; Isabella joined her royal husband 
accompanied by her children. Where women looked on the 
near face of war, even the timid were inspired to bear arms. 
The reputation the English warrior youths had gained forbade 
inglorious ease, even had they not aspired with their whole hearts 
for renown ; yet Plantagenet looked forward with reluctance to 
the leading forth his brave, dear cousin to new dangers ; divided 
between pride in his valour, satisfaction at his thus being 
schooled to arms, and terror from the perils to which he would 
be exposed in a war, on the side of the enemy, of despair and 
fury — his thoughtful eyes rested on the young prince’s glowing 
cheek, his unsullied youth; if wound or fatal hurt maimed his 



 



THE CHALLENGE. 



89 



fail proportion, how should he reply to his widowed mother’s 
agony P If, snapt like a poor flowret, he fell upon the death- 
strewn Vega, what tale should he report to the ardent Yorkists P 
None ! At least he should be pierced only through him, and 
Edmund’s corse would rampart his heart, even when he had 
died to save him. 

Thus they again appeared in the Spanish army, and were 
hailed as among its ornaments. Whatever desperate enterprise 
kindled the young Spaniards to heroic frenzy, found the English 
pair among their numbers. At the beginning of the siege, the 
Moors, few in numbers, and often defeated, cheated victory of 
its triumph by various challenges to single combat, where many 
a Spaniard fell : their frays resembled, in the splendour of their 
armour and their equipments, the stately ceremonial of the 
tournaments, but they were deadly in the event. Ferdinand, 
sure of victory, and reluctant to expose the noble youth of his 
kingdom to needless peril, forbade these duels ; and the Moors 
enraged, multiplied their insults and their bravadoes, to draw 
their enemies to the field ; nor lost any opportunity of commit- 
ing the defence of their beloved city to the risk of battle, rather 
than the slow progress of famine. One memorable engagement 
took place on occasion of the visit of Queen Isabella to the ham- 
let of Zubia, there to obtain a nearer view of beautiful Granada. 
The Moors seeing the Spanish troops in array before their walls, 
came out to attack them ; a battle was fought under the very eyes 
of the queen, wherein it was the good fortune of Richard to make 
so gallant a figure, that on the very spot the Count Tendilla 
conferred on him the honour of knighthood. 

Proud was the young duke of York, and eager to paint his 
maiden shield with worthy device ; he was now nearly eighteen, 
boyish in aspect, yet well-knit in person, and accustomed to the 
fatigue of arms. He no longer burst on his foes, like an 
untrained dog, seeking only to slay : there was forethought in 
His eye, and a most careful selection of worthy and valorous 
opponents. Edmund still was to be found within a javelin’s 
throw of him ; but he no longer feared his untaught rashness, as 
before he had done. 

In July occurred the conflagration of the Christian camp. The 
day following, Ferdinand led forth his troops to make a last 
ravage among the gardens and orchards, the emerald girdle of 
Granada. During the fray, it was the young duke’s chance to 
throw his javelin so as to slay on the spot a veteran Moor, whose 
turban having fallen off, exposed him thus. His companion in 
arms, a tall fierce Moslem, rushed forward to fell the insolent 
youth ; others interposed. Still the Moor kept his eye upon his 




90 



THE CHALLENGE. 



boyish foe ; a thousand times he threw his dart ; twice or thrice 
he rushed on him with uplifted scimitar : the battle raged among 
the orchard-paths and flowery hedges of the thickly-planted 
gardens, and ever some obstruction thwarted the infidel. Plan- 
tagenet had marked his rage and his purpose ; he watched him 
keenly, and the fierce Gomelez boiled with impatient indignation, 
as some impediment for ever baffled his design. His last effort 
was to fling an arrow, which stuck in the ground quivering at 
Richard’s feet : a label was affixed — “ Dog and infidel,” thus was 
the cartel worded — “ if thou hast courage, meet me at dawn at 
the Fountain of Myrtles.” 

The following morning, at the hour when Plantagenet was 
wont to see his cousin, the prince was absent. Noon ap- 
proached ; the troops reposed after the battle of the day before, 
or were employed in clearing the dark ruins of the camp : some 
thoughtless project might occupy the duke : some excursion to 
the other side of Granada. The shades of evening gathered 
round the lofty towers, and dimmed the prospect of its Y ega : 
still Richard came not. Sad, anxious night drew near. Edmund 
roved through the camp, questioning, seeking ; at last, on the 
morrow he heard the report, that the previous evening a cava- 
lier had seen Almoradi Gomelez issue from a little wood half 
a league from the city, and ride towards a postern ; that he was 
galloping up to him, when he saw the Moor totter in his saddle, 
and at last fall from his horse ; before succour could come, ho 
died. His last words only spoke of the Fountain of Myrtles ; 
in agony of spirit, for Gomelez had surely stricken to death 
his stripling foe, ere he left the place of combat, Edmund 
hurried to the spot ; the herbage round the fountain was tram- 
pled and torn, as by horses’ hoofs. It was moistened, but not 
with water; a bank, thickly overgrown with geraniums, bore 
the print of a man’s form, but none was there. 

M.onina had been left in Alcala-la-Real, a prey to fear, to 
gaze from the steep summit on the plain, whereon, beyond her 
sight, was acted the real drama of her life; to question 
the wounded, or the messengers that visited Alcala, and to ad- 
dress prayers to the Virgin, were the sad varieties of her day. 
In the midst of this suspense, two unexpected guests visited 
her abode — her father, and an Irish chieftain ; a Yorkist, who 
came to lead the duke from his Spanish abode, to where he 
might combat for his lost crown. De Faro had not heard of 
the death of Madeline ; and with awe his child beheld the tears 
that bedewed his rugged cheeks at this sad termination of his 
ocean-haunting vision. He embraced his daughter — “ Thou 
wilt not desert mo; we will leave this fated spot: and thou, 



THE CHALLENGE. 91 

Monina, will sail for ever with thy father on the less barbarous 
sea.” 

Do Faro’s companion was named Lord Barry. He was 
baron of Buttevant, in the county of Cork, and allied to the 
Geraldines, chiefs of that soil. He had fought at Stoke, and 
been attainted by Henry ; so that he was forced to wander a 
banished man. Eager to reinstate himself, every Yorkist plot 
numbered him among its warmest partizans. He had for some 
time resided either at Paris or at Brussels, where he often held 
counsel with Lady Brampton. Weary of delay, he at last 
stole back to Ireland, to see whether his noble kinsmen there 
would abet and rise in favour of the duke of York. He came 
away, proud and delighted with his success ; promises of service 
for the White ltose had been showered on him — his eloquence 
and enthusiasm conquered even Lady Brampton. War also 
seemed impending between France and England ; if that were 
once declared, every objection would be obviated. At any rate, 
the times seemed so fair, that she agreed with Lord Barry to 
visit the present home of the young English prince ; and, as 
if to further their designs, Sir Edward Brampton was at that 
moment requested by the Archduke Maximilian to undertake a 

{ irivate embassy to Lisbon. Thither they had sailed, and now, 
eaving this lady in Portugal, Lord Barry had continued his 
voyage to Andalusia, with the intention of returning again to 
Lisbon, accompanied by the promise and hope of the house of 
York. He met Do Faro in the port of Malaga: the name 
was familiar to him. They journeyed together to Alcala-la- 
Real. 

Lord Barry was all eagerness that the English prince should 
immediately join Lady Brampton at Lisbon. It was agreed 
that they should proceed thither in De Faro’s caravel. The 
mariner abhorred the name of warfare betwen Spaniard and 
Moor ; and Madeline’s death only added poignancy to 'this sen- 
sation. He would not look on the siege of Granada. While 
the Irish noble and Monina proceeded to the camp to prepare 
the cousins, he returned to Malaga to briug round his vessel to 
the nearer port of Almeria. Lord Barry and the fair Moor 
commenced their journey on the morning of a most burning 
day ; they wound down the steep declivities of the Sierra, and 
entered upon the bright blooming plain. Noon with all its heat 
approached. They rested under a grove of mulberries, reposing 
by a brook, while Lord Barry’s horse and Monina’s mule were 
tied to the nearest shrubs. Slight accidents are the wires and 
pullies on which the machinery of our lives hang. Stung by 
flies, the noble horse grew restive, broke his rein, and galloped 




THE CHALLENGE. 



92 

away ; through the thick shade his master pursued, till tramp of 
feet and crackling of branches died on Monina’s ear. A quarter 
of an hour, half an hour passed, when on her solitude came 
a Moorish voice, an exclamation in the name of Allah, and the 
approach of several men whom already she painted as enemies. 
To take to her mule, to ride swiftly through the grove, was the 
impulse of her fear ; and, when again silence gave her token 
of security, she found that she had lost her way. It was only 
after many vain attempts that she extricated herself from the 
wood, and then perceived that she had wandered from the direct 
road to Granada, whose high towers were visible at a distance. 
The burning July noonday sun scorched her. Her mule lagged 
in his pace. As a last effort, she sought a plantation of elms, 
not far distant. The grateful murmur of flowing waters saluted 
her ears as she approached. Tor a few minutes more she was 
exposed to the glaring sunshine, and then entered the cool 
umbrage of the trees — the soft twilight of woven leaves and 
branches ; a fountain rose in the midst, and she hastened to 
refresh herself by sprinkling herself with cool waters. Thus 
occupied, she thought she was alone in this sequestered nook, 
when a crash among the underwood startled her : the mule 
snorted aloud, and from the brake issued a mare caparisoned 
with saddle and bridle. She had lost her rider; yet her dis- 
tended nostrils, the foam that flaked her sides, the shiver that 
made her polished skin quiver, spoke of recent contest or flight. 
She looked on her — could it be ? She called her “ Daraxa,” 
and the animal recognized her voice ; while, in answer to the 
dreadful surmises that awoke in her heart, a low groan was 
heard from the near bank. Turning, she beheld the form of 
a man lying on the herbage ; not dead, for he groaned again, 
and then stirred, as if with returning sense. Quick as light- 
ning, she was at his side ; she unlaced his helmet, nor did she 
need to' look at his pallid countenance to be assured of what 
she already knew, that Richard of England lay there, but for 
her help, expiring. She filled his helm with water, and sprink- 
ling it over him, he opened his eyes, and groaning again, strove 
to clasp his head with his unnerved hand. With light fairy 
fingers she released him from his coat of mail, and saw on his 
right sight side a mass of congealed blood, which his faintness 
had made cease to flow from his wound. Tearing that it would 
bleed again as he revived, she bound it with his scarf and her 
own veil, and then gave him water to drink ; after which he 
showed still more certain signs of recovery. 

It was wonder to him to find himself alive, when already he 
had believed the bitterness of death to be passed ; still greater 




THE CHALtENGE. 



93 



wonder was it to behold his own sweet Monina, like a spirit of 
good, hovering over to recover him. He tried to raise himself, 
and she bent down to support him, resting his head on her gentle 
heart; he felt its beating, and blest her with a thousand soft 
thanks and endearing names. Though the wound in his Bide 
was deep, yet now that the blood was staunched, it did not seem 
dangerous. The immediate cause of his swoon was a stunning 
blow on his head, which had beat in the iron of his helm, but 
inflicted no further injury. It was long, however, before he 
could move; and the evening shades had made it almost night, 
before he could sit his horse and slowly quit the wood. Wishing 
to conduct him to where they might find succour, Monina 
directed his -steps to a village, east of the grove. They had 
hardly ridden half a mile, when Richard felt dizzy ; he faintly 
called her to his side — she received him as. he fell, and, support- 
ing him to a bank, called aloud in agony, in hopes that some 
wandering soldier or peasant might be near to aid them. It 
happened to her wish ; several countrymen, who had been 
carrying fruit to the Christian camp, passed them — she conjured 
them, in the Virgin’s name, to assist a soldier of the faith, a 
crusader in their cause. Such an appeal was sacred in their 
ears ; they contrived, with the poles and baskets in which they 
had carried their fruit, covering them with a part of their habili- 
ments and the saddle-cloths of the animals, to form a sort of 
litter, on which they placed Richard. Monina followed on foot, 
clasping his hand ; the men led the horses : and thus they pro- 
ceeded up the mountains to a village about two leagues from 
Granada, where every house was open to them. The prince was 
permitted to repose in the habitation of the Alcalde, and the 
deep sleep into which he soon fell was a dear assurance to his 
friend’s anxious heart, of the absence of danger, and a promise 
of speedy recovery. 

Yet the night that began so well with the patient, wore a less 

E rosperous appearance towards the conclusion. Monina sat 
esiae his couch, and perceived with alarm symptoms of pain 
and fever. According to the custom of the time, she had 
acquired some little skill in surgery; this, when the wound 
came to be dressed, made her acquainted with its irritated and 
dangerous appearance. • As the heat of the day came on, the 
prince’s sufferings increased. In this little village there was 
neither physician nor medicaments necessary for the emergency ; 
and the place itself, low-built, hedged in by mountains, and 
inhabited by peasants only, was ill suited for the patient. She 
resolved that he should that night be removed to a town on the 
eastern side of the mountains, overlooking the plain bordering 



94 



THE CHAtlBNGE. 



the sea. A litter was prepared ; and she, fatigued by her 
journey, and by long and painful solicitude, yet walked beside 
it, listening to his low breathing, catching the smallest sound 
he made in complaint or questioning. Before she quitted the 
village, she employed a peasant to seek Plantagenet, aud convey 
to him intelligence of the actual state of his friends. 

After three days of fear and anxious care, the wound began 
to heal, and Richard became convalescent. Who could tell, 
during the long hours that composed those days and nights, the 
varying emotions that agitated poor Monina? That he should 
die, was a thought in which, in its extent and reality, she never 
indulged ; but an awful fear of what of suffering the coming 
hours might produce, never for a moment slept within her. She 
spent long intervals of time kneeling by his couch — her soft 
fingers on his pulse, counting the rapid vibration — her cool hand 
alone tempered the burning of his crow ; and often, supported 
by her, he slept, while she remained in the same position, im- 
movable. The very pain this produced was a pleasure to her, 
since it was endured for him who was the idol of her innocent 
and pure thoughts ; she almost lamented when he no longer 
needed her undivided attention : the hours she gave to repose 
came like beggars following in a procession of crowned heads ; 
they were no longer exalted by being devoted to him. 

After the lapse of three anxious days he grew rapidly better, 
and at evening-tide enjoyed at the open casement the thrilling 
sweetness of the mountain air. How transporting and ineffable 
are the joys of convalescence ! — the calm of mind — the volup- 
tuous langour — the unrebuked abandonment to mere pleasurable 
sensation — the delight that every natural object imparts, fill 
those hours with a dream-like, faint ecstasy, more dear to 
memory than tumultuous joy. _ Monina sat near him, and it was 
dangerous for their young hearts thus to be united and alone in 
a fairy scene of beauty and seclusion. Monina’s ardent spirit 
was entranced by delight at his recovery: no thought of self 
mingled with the single idea that he was saved — saved for youth, 
for happiness, and for his long-lost rights. Darkness crept 
around them, the clumps of chesnut trees grew more massy and 
indistinct — the fire-fly was alive among the defiles of the hills — 
the bat wheeled round their humble dwelling — the heavy-winged 
owl swept with huge flapping wings out of the copse. “ Are ye 
here P ” were the first sounds that broke the silence ; it was the 
voice of Edmund. Monina sprung up, and glad to disburthen 
her full heart, welcomed with an embrace this beloved friend. 

“ Guardian angel of our lives,” he cried ; “ you are destined at 
all times to save us l ” Dear, soothing expressions, which then 




THE CHALLENGE. 95 

formed the joy, long afterwards the master-impulse of her fervent 
and devoted spirit. 

Each told their tale ; the one of hazard and mischance, the 
other of agonizing inquietude. For Eichard, Edmund had 
feared ; but when, wearied, terrified, and in despair, Lord Barry 
had brought intelligence of Monina’s disappearance from the 
streamlet’s side where he had left her, and of a distant view he 
had caught of Moorish horsemen who took refuge in Granada — 
heaven seemed at once to empty on him its direst curses, and his 
fate was sealed with misery for ever. 

The peasant dispatched by Monina had delayed; not for 
three days did he deliver her letter to Plantagenet, who still, 
trembling in recollection of his past terror, and what might 
have been the ultimate event of the prince’s wound, departed on 
the moment for . 

And now farewell to Spain ! to romantic Spain, to Moorish 
and Christian combat, to the gay fields of the Vega, to the 
sunny mountains of Andalusia ! De Faro’s caravel, true to its 
appointment, arrived at Almeria. They embarked ; their imme- 
diate destination was Lisbon ; but their thoughts were fixed on 
the, promised termination of their wanderings. Soon they 
•would bend their course far away to the islands of the turbid 
Northern sea, where nature veils herself in clouds, where war 
assumes a sterner aspect, and the very virtues of the inhabit- 
ants grow stubborn and harsh from the struggle they make to 
he enabled to bear the physical ills of existence. 

Farewell to Spain ! to boyhood’s feats, to the light coursing 
of shadows as he ran a race with the swift-footed hours. A 
kingdom calls for Eichard ! the trials of life attend him, the 
hope of victory, the fortitude of well-endured defeat. 



 



96 



CHAPTEE XIII. 

TEMPTATION. 



To England, if you will. 

Shakspbarc. 

A thousand recollections and forgotten thoughts revived in 
Eichard’s bosom when he saw his childhood’s friend, the Lady 
Brampton. He was reminded of his sufferings in the Tower, 
of his noble cousin Lincoln, of her maternal tenderness, when 
under her care he quitted the gloomy fortress, his brother 
Edward’s tomb. His mother’s last embrace again thrilled 
through his frame, and Lovel’s parting blessing ; what sad 
changes had chanced since last he saw her ! Sad in all, but 
that he, then a boy, had sprung up into the riper age of youth- 
ful prowess. 

Even with the banished prince we must recur to the state of 
affairs in the north of Europe. The French king. Charles the 
Eighth, had directed all his attempts to the subjugation of 
Britany, which was now under the dominion of the youthful 
Anne, its orphan duchess. The English nation espoused her 
cause, watched with jealousy and indignation the progress of the 
French arms, and clamoured loudly for war in her support. 
Henry, on the contrary, was obstinately bent upon peace, 
though he took advantage of his subjects’ appetite for war, to 
foist subsidies upon them, which were no sooner collected than 
liis armaments were disbanded, and an ambassador, sent on a 
mission of peace, was substituted for the herald ready apparelled 
for defiance. This could not last for ever. French policy 
triumphed in the marriage of Charles the Eighth with Anne of 
Britany ; and that duchy became finally annexed to the crown 
of France. England was roused to indignation ; theking, forced 
to listen to their murmurs, promised to invade the rival kingdom 
the following spring ; a benevolence was granted him; all his acts 
tended to the formation of an expedition, which was the best 
hope of York. 

Lord Barry was urgent against delay, while the English 



 




TEMPTATION* 



97 

partisans wished that Richard’s landing in Ireland, and Henry’s 
in Prance, should be consentaneous. Nay, they had deeper 
views. Ireland, since Simnel’s defeat, appeared but a forlorn 
hope, and they fostered the expectation or being able to make 
England itself the scene of their first attempt, so soon as its 
king should be fairly engaged in hostilities on the other side of 
the Channel. The duke himself, eager as he was to begin his 
career, warmly supported this project ; communication with the 
North was slow meanwhile, and months wore away — not fruit- 
lessly. Richard gained in every way by the delay ; his know- 
ledge of English affairs grew clearer ; his judgment formed ; his 
strength, weakened by the events of the summer, was restored 
during the repose and salubrious coolness of the winter months. 

Accident furthered their designs ; a visitor arrived from 
England, who brought with him accounts so encouraging, that 
hope blossomed into certainty in the hearts of the warm-hearted 
followers of York. But ere we introduce this new and seemingly 
important personage, we must return awhile to England, to speak 
of Henry’s suspicions, his fears, his artful policy. 

All that Frion had achieved through his abortive attempt, had 
been but to ascertain the existence of the duke of York, and to 
spread still wider the momentous secret; so that Henry, sus- 
picious and irritated, received him on his return with anger, 
resenting his failure as the result of treachery. Frion had been 
dismissed ; and now years passed over, without the occurrence 
of any circumstances that spoke of the orphan heir of the 
English crown. The king brooded over the secret, but spoke of 
it to no one. The royal youth grew to his imagination, as in 
reality he did, passing from boyhood to almost man’s estate. 
Yet, when Henry reflected on the undisturbed state he had 
enjoyed for years, on the firmness with which he was seated on 
the throne, and the strong hold he had acquired through the 
lapse of time on his subjects’ minds, he sometimes thought that 
even Richard’s friends would advise him to continue in an 
obscurity, which was, at least, void of danger. Nevertheless, 
whenever there had been a question of attacking France, the 
feeling that his rival was ready to come forward, and that, 
instead of a war of invasion, he might have to fight for his own 
crown, increased his unwillingness to enter on the contest. 

Now rumours were afloat — none knew whence they came, 
from France or Ireland — of the existence of King Edward’s 
younger son, and that he would speedily appear to claim his suc- 
cession. Henry, who was accustomed to tamper with spies and 
informers, was yet the last to hear of a circumstance so nearly 

H 




TEMPTATION, 



98 

affecting his interests. The name of Lady Brampton at length 
reached him, as being abroad on a secret and momentous expedi- 
tion. This namehadmade a considerable figure in Bichard Simon’s 
confessions ; it was connected with Lincoln, Lovel, the dowager 
queen, all whom the Tudor feared and hated. Yet he paused 
before he acted ; his smallest movement might rouse a torpid 
foe ; he only increased his vigilance ; and, from past experience 
knowing that to be the weak point, he dispatched emissaries to 
Ireland, to learn if any commotion was threatened, any tale rife 
there, that required his interference. As the time approached 
when it was expected that the English prince would declare 
himself, the policy of his friends greatly changed ; and, far from 
maintaining their former mysterious silence, the circumstance of 
his abode in Spain, and the expectation of his speedy appearance 
in Ireland, made, during the winter of 1491-92, a principal topic 
among such of the native nobility as the earl of Desmond had 
interested in his cause. Henry’s spies brought him tidings 
beyond his fears ; and he saw that the struggle was at hand, 
unless he could arrest the progress of events. Meanwhile, he 
continued to defer his war with France ; he felt that that would 
be the signal for his enemy’s attack. 

As he reflected on these things, a scheme developed itself in 
his mind, on which he resolved to act. The enemy was distant, 
obscure, almost unknown ; were it possible to seize upon his 

f erson where he then was, to prevent his proposed journey to 
reland, to prepare for him an unsuspected but secure prison — no 
cloud would remain to mar his prospect; and, as to the boy 
himself, he could hope for nothing better than his cousin War- 
wick’s fate, unless he had preferred, to the hazardous endeavour 
of dethroning his rival, a private and innocuous life in the distant 
clime where chance had thrown him. This wa3 to be thought of 
no more : already he was preparing for the bound, but ere lie 
made it, he must be crushed for ever. 

In those times, when recent civil war had exasperated the 
minds of men one against the other, it was no difficult thing 
for a Lancastrian king to find an instrument willing and fitting 
to work injury against a Yorkist. During Henry’s exile in 
Brittany, he had become acquainted with a man, who had 
resorted to him there for the sole purpose of exciting him against 
Itichard the Third ! he had been a favourite page of Henry the 
Sixth, he had waited on his son, Edward, prince of Wales, that 
noble youth whose early years promised every talent and virtue; 
he had idolized the heroic and unhappy Queen Margaret. Henry 
died a foul death in the Tower; the gracious Edward was 



TEMPTATION. 



99 



stabbed at Tewkesbury ; the royal Margaret had given place to 
the widow Woodville ; while, through the broad lands of Eng- 
land, the sons of York rioted in the full possession of her wealth. 
Meiler Trangmar felt every success of theirs as a poisoned arrow 
in his flesh — he hated them, as the mother may hate tbe tiger 
whose tusks are red with the life-blood of her first-born — he 
hated them, not with the measured aversion of a warlike foe, but 
the dark frantic vehemence of a wild beast deprived of its young. 
He had been the father of three sons ; the first had died at 
Prince Edward’s feet, ere he was taken prisoner; another lost 
his head on the scaffold ; the third — the boy had been nurtured 
in hate, bred amid dire curses and bitter imprecations, all levelled 
against Edward the Fourth and his brothers — his mind had 
become distorted by the ill food that nurtured it — he brooded 
over the crimes of these men, till he believed that he should do 
a good deed in immolating them to the ghosts of the murdered 
Lancastrians. He attempted the life of the king — was seized — ■ 
tortured to discover his accomplices : he was tortured, and the 
father heard his cries beneath the dread instrument, to which 
death came as a sweet release. Real madness for a time possessed 
the unhappy man, and when reason returned, it was only the 
dawn of a tempestuous day, w hich rises on the wrecks of a gallant 
fleet and its crew, strewn on the dashing waves of a stormy sea. 
He dedicated himself to revenge; he had sought Henry in 
Brittany; he had fought at Bosworth, and at Stoke. The 
success of his cause, and the peace that followed, was at first a 
triumph, at last almost a pain to him. He was haunted by 
memories which pursued him like the hell-born Eumenides ; 
often he uttered piercing shrieks, as the scenes, so pregnant with 
horror, recurred too vividly to his mind. The priests, to whom 
he had recourse as his soul’s physicians, counselled him the 
church’s discipline ; he assumed the Franciscan habit, but found 
sackcloth and ashes no refuge from the greater torture of his 
mind. This man, in various ways, had been recalled to Henry’s 
mind, and now he selected him to effect his purpose. 

To any other he would have feared to intrust the whole 
secret ; but the knowledge that the destined victim w r as the son 
and rightful heir of King Edward, w'ould add to his zealous 
endeavours to crush him. Besides that Trangmar had a know- 
ledge of the fact, from having been before employed to extract in 
Bis priestly character this secret from a Yorkist, Sir George 
jNevil, who had been intrusted by Sir Thomas Broughton. Every- 
thing yielded in this wretch’s mind to his hatred of York ; and 
lie scrupled not to hazard his soul, and betray the secrets of the 








TEMPTATION. 



100 

confessional. Nevll fortunately was informed in time of the 
danger that menaced him, and had fled ; while Trangmar, 
tliunderstruck by the magnitude of his discovery, hastened to 
reveal it to the king. It were long to detail each act of the crafty 
sovereign, and his scarcely human tool. By his order, the friar 
introduced himself to the dowager queen, at Bermondsey, with 
a plausible tale, to which she, in spite of her caution, was induced 
to give ear, and intrusted a message by him, as he said that he 
was on his way to Spain, to seek and exhort to action the dilatory 
prince. He then departed. Henry had rather to restrain than 
urge his furious zeal. The scheme projected was, that Richard 
should be entrapped on board a vessel, and brought with secrecy 
and speed to England, where he might be immured for life in 
some obscure castle in Wales. Trangmar promised that either 
he would accomplish this, or that the boy should find a still more 
secret prison, whence he could never emerge to disturb the reign 
of Henry, or put in jeopardy the inheritance of his son. 

Such was the man who, in the month of April, 1492, following 
Lady Brampton’s steps, arrived at Lisbon, and found to his wish 
the prince there also, and easy access afforded him to his most 
secret counsels. He brought letters from the dowager queen, 
and some forged ones from other partisans of York, inviting 
the prince, without application to any foreign sovereigns, or aid 
from distant provinces, at once to repair to England, and to set 
up his standard in the midst of his native land, where, so these 
letters asserted, the earl of Surrey and many other powerful 
rH^p-jlords anxiously awaited him. All this accorded too well with 
. wishes of the little conclave not to insure assent ; nay, more, 

•... '•$oen Trangmar urged the inexpediency of the duke’s being 
" ’ ' accompanied by such notorious Yorkists as Plantagenet and Lady 
Brampton, it was suddenly agreed that Richard should embark 
oh board a merchantman, to sail with the next fair wind for 
England, while his friends dispersed themselves variously for his 
benefit. De Faro, in his caravel, was to convey Lord Barry to 
Cork. Plantagenet resolved to visit the duchess of Burgundy, 
at Brussels. Lady Brampton departed for the court of France, 
to engage the king at once to admit young Richard’s claim, and 
aid him to make it good. “ You, sweet, will bear me company 
and Monina, her whole soul — and her eyes expressed that soul’s 
devotion to Richard’s success — remembered, starting, that the 
result of these consultations was to separate her from her child- 
hood’s companion, perhaps, for ever. As if she had tottered on 
the brink of a precipice, she shuddered ; but all was well again. 
It w us not to be divided from the prince, to remain with Lady 



i 



TEMPTATION. 



101 



Brampton, to proceed to Paris with her ; on his earliest triumph 
to make a part of it, and to join his court in London. All these 
words, king, victory, and court, wove a golden tissue before the 
ardent girl’s eyes ; she had not yet 

“ Lifted the painted veil which men call life ; ” 

as a child who chases the glories of the west, she knew not that 
night was falling upon her, while still she fancied that she 
advanced towards the ever-retreating splendour of the sky. 

Lady Brampton and Plantagenet trembled, as they committed 
their beloved charge to other hands ; they importuned Trangmar 
with their injunctions — their entreaties, their thousand last 
words of care and love — the friar heard, and smiled assent to 
all. Monina had need of all her courage for the hour, which 
she knew not that she dreaded till it came. He was going ; the 
truth flashed suddenly upon her — he, from whom since childhood 
she had scarcely been absent for a day. So blind had she been 
to her own sensations, that it was not until he leaped into the 
boat, and put off* from shore, that she became aware of the 
overwhelming tide of grief, disquiet, almost of despair, that 
inundated her heart. Where was her gaiety, her light, ethereal 
spirit flown P Why lagged the hours thus P .Why did ceaseless 
reverie seem her only refuge from intolerable wretchedness P 

She had one other solace; she was still with his friends, 
whose whole thoughts were spent upon him ; his name enriched 
their discourse ; the chances of his voyage occupied their atten- 
tion. Little knew they the strange and tragic drama that was 
acting on board the skiff that bore afar the idol of their hopes. 




 




102 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE TBAITOB PUNISHED. 



This friar boasteth that he knowcth hell. 

And God it wot that is but litel wonder j 
Friars and fiends ben but litel asonder. 

Chaucer. 

Richabd meanwhile sailed fearlessly, with treachery for his 
nearest mate. Trangmar had at once exhibited audacity and 
prudence in the arrangement of his plan. He had made no great 
preparation, nor confided to any the real object of his intents. 
His only care had been, that the duke should sail on board an 
English vessel; and chance had brought into the Tagus one 
whose captain was inclined to the party of Lancaster. He also 
contrived to have two hirelings of his own engaged on board as 
part of the crew, who knew that it was their employer’s design 
to carry to England a prisoner for the king. He was besides 
provided with a warrant from Henry, empowering him to seize 
on his rebel subject — the name a blank, for the monk to fill up — 
alive or dead. The paper ran thus ; so, in case of struggle, to 
afford warranty for his darker purpose. 

Richard was now a prisoner. The vessel belonging to any 
country is a portion of that country ; and the deck of this 
merchantman was virtually a part of the British soil. The 
prince, not heeding his position, was so far from fearing his 
enemy’s power, that he felt glad to find himself among his 
countrymen. He looked on the weather-beaten countenances 
of the honest sailors, and believed that he should find friends 
and partisans in all. He spoke to Trangmar of his purpose of 
declaring himself, and gaining them over ; making this tiny 
offshoot of wide England his first conquest. Trangmar had not 
anticipated this. He was ignorant of the versatile and active 
spirit of the youth with whom he had to deal ; nor had he, by 
putting himself in imagination in the prince’s place, become 
aware how the project of acquiring his own was his sleepless 
incentive to every action, ana how he saw in every event a 



 




THE TBAITOB PUNISHED. 



103 



stepping-stone in the prosecution of his enterprise. He started 
at the proposal, and in his own heart said, “ I must lose no 
time ; that which I thought to do next week, were better done 
to-morrow.” With Richard he argued against this measure : 
he showed how the captain was bound to the present English 
government by his fortunes ; how far more likely it was that, 
instead of gaining him and his crew, he would be made a 
prisoner by them, and delivered up to his enemy. Richard lent 
no great credence to this, but he yielded to the authority of the 
elder and the priest. 

It was not in the power of his wily adversary to prevent him 
from ingratiating himself in the hearts of all around him. 
Besides his gentleness, his unaffected sympathy, and noble 
demeanour, his gay and buoyant spirit was congenial to the 
reckless sailors, who, during the deaa calm that succeeded their 
first day’s sail after quitting the Tagus, were glad of amusement 
to diversify their monotonous lives. He interceded with their 
captain when any fault was committed ; he learned their private 
histories, promised his assistance, and scattered money among 
them. Sometimes he called them around him to teach him their 
art, discoursing about the stars, the magnet, the signs of the 
weather ; he climbed the shrouds, handled the ropes, became an 
adept in their nautical language. At other times he listened to 
tales of dreadful shipwrecks and sailors’ hardships, and recounted 
in turn De Faro’s adventures. This made them talk of the new 
African discoveries, and descant on the wild chimeras or sage 
conclusions of Columbus, who at last, it was said, was to be sent 
by the sovereigns of Spain in quest of the western passage to 
India, over the slant and boundless Atlantic. All this time, 
with flapping sails, they lay but a short distance off the mouth 
of the Tagus ; and Trangmar, impatient of delay, yet found it 
prudent to postpone his nefarious purpose. 

After the calm had continued for nearly a week, signs of bad 
weather manifested themselves ; squalls assailed the ship, settling 
at last in a gale, which grew into a tempest. Their little vessel 
was decked, yet hardly able to resist the lashing waves of the 
Bay of Biscay. A leak, which had shown itself even during the 
calm, increased frightfully ; the men were day and night em- 
ployed at the pumps, exposed to the beating rain, and to the 
waves, which perpetually washed the deck, drenching their 
clothes and bedding; each hour the' wind became more furious, 
dark water-spouts dipping into the boiling sea, and churning it 
to fury, swept past them, and the steep sides of the mountain- 
high billows were ready at every moment to overwhelm them. 
Their tiny bark, which in these days would scarcely receive a 




THE TEAITOE PUNISHED. 



104 

more dignified name than a skiff, was borne as a leaf on the stream 
of the wind, its only safety consisting in yielding to its violence. 
Often at the worst the men despaired. The captain himself, 
frightened at the danger — and, strange inconsistency, still more 
fearful of the ruin that must attend him if his vessel were 
wrecked — lost all presence of mind. The prince displayed, 
meanwhile, all his native energy ; he commanded the men, and 
they obeyed him, looking on him as a superior being ; when, by- 
following his orders, the progress of the leak was checked, apd 
the tossed bark laboured less among the surges. “ Sailors have 
short prayers,” he said ; “ but if they are sincere ones, the saints 
will not the less intercede for us before God. Join me, my men, 
in a pious vow. I swear, by our Lady’s precious name, to walk 
barefoot to her nearest shrine the first land we touch, and there 
to make a gift of incense and candles at her altar. This, if we 
escape ; if not, here is Father Meiler, a holy Franciscan, to give 
us short shrift; so that, like devout Catholics, we may recom- 
mend our souls to the mercy of Jesus. And now to the pump, 
the ropes ; bring me a hatchet — our mast must overboard.” 

Three days and nights they worked unremittingly ; the lull 
that then succeeded was followed by another tempest, and tho 
exhausted mariners grew desperate. They had been borne far 
into the Atlantic, and now the wind shifting, drove them with 
the same fury into the Bay of Biscay. Every moment in 
expectation of death, the heart of Trangmar softened towards 
his victim in spite of himself ; he was forced to admire his 
presence of mind, his unvanquishable courage ; his light, yet 
gentle spirit, which made him bear up under every difficulty, yet 
pity those who sunk beneath, cheering them with accents at once 
replete with kindness and fearless submission to the decree of 
Providence. Feeling the crew bound to him as his natural 
subjects, he extended towards them a paternal love, and felt 
called upon to guard and save them. After, for a fortnight, they 
had thus been the sport of the elements, the gale decreased ; the 
violent breakers subsided into one long swell, which bore them 
into a sheltered cove, in the wild coast that surrounds the Bay 
of Biscay. The men disembarked, the vessel was drawn up ; all 
hands were employed in unlading and repairing her. “ Ye do 
ill,” said llichard ; “ do you not remember our vow P Doubtless 
some village is near which contains a shrine where we may pay 

This piety was in accord with the spirit of the times ; and the 
men, rebuked, revered still more the youth w ho had saved them 
in danger, and who now in safety paid, with religious zeal, the 
debt incurred towards their heavenly patroness. A little village 




THE TBAITOB PUNISHED. 



105 



lay secluded near the creek, and above it, on a high rock, was a 
chapel dedicated to Saint Mary of the Ascension, erected by a 
noble, who had vowed such offering on escaping, as the prince of 
England had, from death on those perilous seas. Bareheaded, 
barefooted, bearing lights, following the Franciscan who led the 
way, the crew of the. St. George proceeded towards the shrine. 
Next to the Blessed Virgin, Bichard claimed their gratitude; and 
after due Aves had been said at the altar, still in the sacred place 
they gathered round him, offering their property and their lives, 
imploring him to accept from them some pledge of their thank- 
fulness. t The heart of the outcast sovereign swelled within him. 
“ I reign here, in their breasts I reign,” was the thought that 
filled his bright eyes with a dew springing from the fulness of 
his soul. With a smile of triumph ho looked towards Father 
Meiler, as if to appeal to his judgment, whether now he might 
not declare himself, and claim these men’s allegiance. He was 
startled by the dark and even ferocious expression of Trangmar’s 
countenance. His coarse brown Franciscan dress, belted in by a 
rope ; the cowl thrown back, displaying the monkish tonsure ; 
the naked feet : these were symbols of humility and Christian 
virtue, in strong contrast with the deep lines of his face, and the 

f lare of his savage eyes. He met the glance of his victim, and 
ecame confused, while the prince in wonder hastened to- ask 
what strange thoughts occupied him, painting his visage with 
every sign of fierce passion. 

“ I was thinking,” said Trangmar, hesitating ; “ I was de- 
liberating, since God has cast us back on the land, whether it 
were not wiser to continue our journey through France, bidding 
farewell to the perils of the ocean sea ? ” 

“That will I not,” cried the prince. “Father Meiler, I 
watched you during the storm; you acted no coward’s part 
then ; why do you now ? ” 

“ When danger is near, I can meet it as a man of courage,” 
said Trangmar ; “ when it is far, I can avoid it liko a prudent 
one.” 

“A good clerical distinction, fit for a monk,” replied the 
duke ; “ but I, who am a cavalier, father, love rather to meet 
danger, than to avoid it like a woman or a priest.” 

“ Insulting boy ! ” cried Meiler ; “ dare you taunt me with 
cowardice P That I was a soldier ere I was a monk, some of 
your race dearly rued ! *’ 

Before these words were fully uttered, Trangmar recollected 
himself ; his voice died away, so that his last expression was 
inaudible. The duke only beheld his burst of passion and sudden 
suppression of it, and said gently, “ Pardon me, father ; it is my 



 




106 



THE TBAITOB PUNISHED. 



fault that you forgot the respect due to me. I forgot the 
reverence meet from youth to age — most meet from a sinful boy 
to a holy monk.” 

“ I thank your highness,” said the friar, “for recalling to my 
memory a truth that had half escaped it. Henceforth be assured 
that I will not forget that you are the undoubted offspring of the 
earl of March — of Edward of England.” 

Fate thus urged this wicked and miserable man to his fiend- 
like purpose. Awakened again to deadly vengeance, he resolved 
to delay no longer ; to trust no more to chance : he saw now all 
the difficulties of his former scheme of taking his enemy a pri- 
soner to England ; and this soothed liiB conscience as he recurred 
to more fatal designs. During the short delay that intervened 
before they again put out to sea, he watched an opportunity, 
but found none. At length they weighed anchor ; and w ith a 
favourable wind, bore down the coast of France. The time was 
come, he surely thought : for during this long voyage he could 
frame an opportunity ; during some dark night, when the ship 
sailed cheerily before a fair breeze, he would engage the prince 
in engrossing talk concerning the conduct he should pursiie 
w lien in England, taking advantage of his victim’s incautious- 
ness to allure him near the brink, and then push him overboard. 
His single strength was more than a match for his slight adver- 
sary j but to render his scheme doubly sure, he would have the 
two men in his pay near him, to assist, in the case of struggle, 
and vouch for his innocence if he were accused of foul play. 

It is the fortune of those hurried into crime by violent passion, 
that they can seldom find accomplices as wicked as themselves. 
Thus was it with Trangmar. The men whose assistance he relied 
upon, the enthusiasm of their fellow-sailors for their noble pas- 
senger. After they had again set sail, the wind blowing gently 
from the south, bore them onwards with a favourable navigation, 
till, shifting a few points eastward, it began to freshen. It was 
then that the Franciscan, not wholly betraying his purpose, but 
hinting that their presence would be necessary, ordered his men 
to contrive that the rest of the crew should be below, and they 
near at hand, while he that night should be alone with Itichard 
upon deck. One of the men replied by stoutly declaiming that if 
any evil was threatened the prince, he would not be a party in 
it. “ You possess King Henry’s warrant,” he said, “ to make 
this Fitzroy a prisoner. I will not oppose his majesty’s com- 
mand. You have him safely ; what would you more P ” 

The other apparently yielded an assent to his employees 
commands, and then found a speedy opportunity to warn 
Hichard of his danger A veil fell from the prince’s eyes. 




THE TBA.ITOE PUNISHED. 



107 

“ Sorely I knew this before,” he thought ; “ ever since I was in 
Saint Mary’s Chapel, I must have known that this dastard 
monk was my enemy. I am indeed betrayed, alone, friendless, 
on board an English vessel, surrounded by an English crew. 
Now let the trial be made, whether simple honesty be not of 
more avail than cruelty and craft. But first let me fathom the 
full intention of this man, and learn whether he have a worse 
design than that of delivering me over defenceless to my adver- 
sary. It cannot be that he would really murder me.” 

The breeze had rather sunk towards sunset, but it arose again 
with the stars ; the vessel’s prow struck against the light waves, 
and danced gaily on through the sea. One man stood at the 
helm ; another, one of the friar’s hirelings, loitered near ; the 
other kept out of the way. Still, beneath the thousand stars of 
cloudless night, the little bark hurried on, feeling the freshening 
of the wind ; her larboard beam was deep in the water, and 
close at the deck’s leeward edge, Meiler and his intended victim 
paced. One thoughtless boy, high among the shrouds, whistled 
in answer to the winds. There was at once solitude and activity- 
in the scene. “ This is the hour,” thought Richard ; “ surely if 
man’s sinful heart was ever touched with remorse, this man’s may 
now. God’s throne, visible in all its beauty above us — beneath, 
around, the awful roaring waters, from which we lately so mira- 
culously escaped.” He began to speak of England, of his 
mother, of the hopes held out to him by his companion ; eager 
in liis desire of winning a traitor to the cause of truth, he 
half forgot himself, and then started to find that, ever as he 
walked, his companion got him nearer to the brink of the slant, 
slippery deck. Seized with horror at this manifestation of the 
worst designs, yet scarcely daring to credit his suspicions, ho 
suddenly stopped, seizing a rope that swung near, and steadying 
himself by winding his arm round it, an act that escaped his 
enemy’s observation, for, as he did it, he spoke : “ Ho you know, 
Father Meiler, that I suspect and fear you? I am an inexpe- 
rienced youth, and if I am wrong, forgive me ; but you have 
changed towards me of late, from the kind friend you once were. 
Strange doubts have been whispered: do you reply to them. 
Are you my friend, or are you a treacherous spy P — the agent of 
the noble Yorkists, or Henry Tudor’s hireling murderer? ” 

As he spoke, the friar drew still nearer, and the prince recoiled 
farther from him : he got on the sheer edge of the deck. “ Hash 
boy ! ” cried Trangmar, “ know that I am no hireling : sacred 
vengeance pricks me on! Son of the murderer! tell me, where 
is sainted Henry P where Prince Edward P where all the noble 
martyrs of his cause P where my brave and lost sons ? There, 




108 



TUB TBAITOB PUNTSHED. 



even where thou shalt be : quick, look back, thy grave yawns 
for thee ! ” 

With the words he threw himself furiously on the prince : the 
stripling sprung back with all the force lent him by the rope he 
hela, and pushed at the same time Trangmar violently from him, 
as he criea aloud on the sailors, “ What, ho ! treason is among 
us ! ” A heavy splash of the falling Meiler answered his call : 
the strong man was cast down in his very pride ; the waters 
divided, and sucked him in. In a moment the crew were on 
deck ; Trangmar’s hireling, scared, cried out, “ He is King 
Henry’s prisoner ! seize him!” thus increasing the confusion. 
The friar, his garments floating, now appeared struggling among 
the waves ; a rope was thrown to him ; the vessel sped on mean- 
while, and it fell far short ; Richard, horror-struck, would have 
leapt in to save his enemy ; but the time was gone. One loud 
shriek burst on the ear of night, and all was still ; Trangmar, his 
misery, his vengeance, and his crimes, lay buried in the ocean’s 
hoary caves. 

What explanation could follow this tremendous incident P 
The prince spoke of his life attacked ; the men of the warrant 
their master had for his seizure : what was his crime none knew. 
“That willldeclarefreely,” said the royal youth ; “thatunhappy 
man has sealed my truth by his death. In my childhood I was 
nurtured in a palace, and bore the title of the duke of York. 
Edward the Fourth was my father, Edward the Fifth my 
brother.” 

“ Why this is foulest treason,” cried the trembling captain. 

“ Ay, or fairest loyalty ; speak, my friends ; which of you 
will lay hands on your liege, on Richard the Fourth of England ? ” 

The reckless and ignorant sailors, riotously and with one 
acclaim, swore to die for him ; but their commander shuddered 
at the peril that beset him : while his men were hanging round 
their idolized prince, he retired with his mate to lament the ugly 
chance of Trangmar’s death, and to express terror at the very 
name of York. If the captain was a coward-friend of Tudor, 
the mate was a sturdy Lancastrian ; he recommended his chief 
to seize the boy, and convey him a welcome gift to his sovereign ; 
the clamours of the delighted crew showed that this was vain 
advice. He had said to them, with all the ingenuousness of youth, 
“ My life is in your hands, and I know that it is safe.” Yet, 
when they spoke of seizing their unwilling commander, and of 
delivering the vessel in his hands, he said, “ My good friends, I 
will not make lawless acts the stepping-stones to my throne ; it 
is grief enough for me that my young hands have unwittingly 
destroyed the life of one who, not as an armed knight, but in 



 




THE TBAITOB PUNISHED. 109 

holy garb set himself against me. I myself will persuade your 
captain to do me all the service I require.” 

This poor man was willing enough to hear what he called rea- 
son ; at first he would fain have entreated Richard to suffer 
himself to be carried a prisoner to England ; and, when he found 
his discourse vain, he yielded timid obedience to York’s wishes, 
in spite of the lowering brow of his mate : thus, at least, his 
cargo would be saved, and his crew preserved from mutiny. 
Richard simply requested to be set on shore in Cork harbour, 
suddenly relinquishing every thought of England, now that he 
saw the treachery that awaited him there, and recurring to the 
former plans of Lord Barry. In Ireland, in the county of the 
Desmonds, he should find friends, adherents, almost prepared 
for his arrival ; and there also, if Barry forgot not his promise, 
this stanch partisan would speedily join him: the captain 
gladly assented to any project that did not force him to land 
this dangerous pretender on the English shores. 

For one week they ran before the wind ; and Ireland, far and 
low, was discernible on the horizon ; the dear land of promise to 
the weary exile, the betrayed, but high-hearted prince : during 
this short navigation it had required all his fortitude to banish 
from his mind the image of the friar struggling in the waves, of 
a man precipitated iu the very act of crime “ uhhouseled, un- 
anointed, unannealed,” into the life-quenching waters. Besides 
all other expectations, Richard longed to get on shore, that in a 
confessional he might lift this burthen of involuntary guilt from 
his soul. 

At length the iron-bound coast was right ahead ; the pon- 
derous rocky jaws of the creek were open, and they sailed up 
Passage, past beautiful and woody islands, under forest-crowned 
hills, till they cast anchor before the picturesque and hill-set city 
of Cork, whose quay was crowded by multitudes, gazing on the 
newly-arrived vessel. 

The duke of - York stood on the prow of his skiff, reflecting on 
the first step he ought to take. He knew little of Ireland, and 
that little had been gleaned from Lord Barry : he heard from 
him of its warlike chiefs, its uncivilized septs, and English 
settlers, scarce less wild, and quite as warlike as its aboriginal 
inhabitants. He called to mind the names most familiar to him — 
the earl of Kildare, abettor of Simnel, pardoned by Henry, and 
continued in his office of Lord Deputy ; the earl of Desmond, 
whom Lord Barry had particularly interested in his favour, who 
affected the state of an Irish chieftain, or rather king, and who, 
in his remote abode in Munster, disdained to attend the Dublin 
parliament, or to make one of the lawful governors of the land, 




110 



THE TBAITOB PUNISHED. 



Other names he remembered of less note : Plunket, the lord 
chief justice, whom, with infinite reluctance, Henry had 
pardoned ; Keating, prior of Kilmainham, who had been 
constable of Dublin Castle, and who, ejected from his office after 
the battle of Stoke, had saved himself by flight, and was now 
concealed in an abbey near Buttevant. Much, however, of 
what he had heard, escaped his memory ; and he stood on the 
threshold of this unknown land, vainly seeking in his recollection 
for the dim and shadowy forms which were to guide him in the 
new and unexplored world before him. Another reflection abo 
presented itself : Lord Barry had quitted Ireland the year before, 
and communication there had been none since then — Was Kildare 
still deputy ? did incursions of the natives, or turbulence among 
themselves, occupy the lords of the Pale P Should he find a 
band of nobles and their followers ready to assist him, or the 
motley population of a barbarous wild, whose sole ideas were 
internal struggles for power, whose watchwords for enterprise 
were names and things in which he bad no portion P 

In a hurried manner, York resolved on bis plan of action. He 
had, on their approach to land, arrayed himself in gay and rich 
apparel. The Spain from which he came was parent of this act: 
there embroidery, housings inlaid with gold, and arms encrusted 
with jewels, formed the pride of the high-born cavaliers. Ho 
stood prepared to land ; he thanked the captain for his enforced 
courtesy ; he held out his hand to the crew, who gathered round 
him with their prayers and blessings. “ Mv own ! ” was his 
first thought as he set his foot on shore : “ Hail, realm of my 
fathers ! Hear the vow of the fugitive who claims your sway ! 
Justice, mercy, and paternal love, are the gifts with which I 
will repay your obedience to my call ; your submission to my 
rule.” 

“ Heave the anchor, and away ! ” thus spoke the captain of 
the craft he had left. 

“ For England ; to warn our king of this springal’s insolent 
presumption,” said the mate. 

“ To r.ny quarter of the wide world, save England,” replied 
the timid captain : “ Would you have me run my neck into the 
noose for not having clapped under hatches this mercurial spark P 
Master mate, learn from an old sailor, that the best you can do 
with kings and grandees, is to have nought to do with them.” 







Ill 



CHAPTEE XV. 

THE 1ANDINO AT COBK. 



Then Paridell, in whom a kindly pride 
Of gracious speech, and skill his words to frame 
Abu untied, being glad of so fit tide 
Him to commend to them, thus spake, of all well eyed. 

Spenseb 

Cobk was an asylum for civilization in tlie centre of a savage 
district. The cautious burghers, made wealthy by trade, and 
ever in fear of incursions from the surrounding septs, kept the 
strictest guard upon their city, as if they had a continual siege 
laid to it. They forbade all intercourse or intermarriage between 
those within and without the walls, till every citizen became 
linked together by some sort of kindred. It is true, that the 
country around was peopled to a great degree by English lords ; 
but they were the degenerate English, as they were styled, who 
imitated the state and independence of the native chiefs. Such 
was the earl of Desmond, of the family of the Geraldines, who 
ruled as a king over Munster, and with whom the Barrys, the 
De Courcys, the Barrets, and the Mac Carthys, Mac Swineys, 
aud other native chiefs, were connected by marriage, or struggling 
with him for “ chieferie ” in the mutable chance of war. 

There was no appearance of timidity in the frank and assured 
aspect of the unfriended adventurer, as, without entering the city, 
but merely passing through its suburbs, he proceeded to the 
cathedral church. It was twelve o’clock on the 24th of June, 
the feast of Saint J ohn the Baptist ; and high mass was cele- 
brating. The duke of York entered the church — his soul was 
filled with pious gratitude for his escape from the dangers of the 
sea, and the craft of his enemies ; and, as he knelt, he made a 
vow to his sainted patroness, the Virgin, to erect a church on 
the height which first met his eyes as ho approached shore, and 
to endow a foundation of Franciscans — partly, because of all 
monkish orders they chiefly venerate her name, partly to atone 
for his involuntary crime in the death of Meiler Trangmar, who 
wore that habit. The appearance of this young, silken-suited, 



 




112 



TUB LANDING AT COBB. 



and handsome cavalier, drew the eyes of Erin’s bine-eyed 
daughters : — the men whispered together that he must be some 
Spanish grandee or English noble j but wherefore, unannounced 
and unattended, he came and knelt in their church before the 
shrine of Saint Finbar, was matter of vague conjecture. The 
congregation passed out ; then, impelled by curiosity, formed a 
wide semicircle round the gates of the cathedral, watching the 
motions of the graceful stranger. Master John Lavallan, the 
mayor, John O’ Water, the wealthiest citizen, and former mayor 
of the town, and other rich burghers, stood close to the Hound 
Tower within tho walls of the Garth, in expectation of being 
addressed by their distinguished visitor. The duke of York 
cast a quick glance around ; and then, as the mayor advanced, 
the youth stepped forward to meet him. The citizen, as one 
habituated to exercise hospitality, bade the knight welcome, 
beseeching him to honour his abode with his presence, and to 
command his services. The duke frankly accepted the invitation, 
and descended with the mayor into the main street, where that 
officer resided ; and here again Hichard was made welcome to 
the city of Cork. 

It was a gala day at the mayor’s ; and now, at the dinner hour, 
twelve o’clock, the long tables groaned under the weight of 
viands, and round the hospitable board were seated the principal 
families of the town. No questions were asked the visitor — his 
golden spurs bespoke his honourable rank ; he was placed at the 
right hand of Lavallan ; and, while the clatter of knives and 
trenchers went on, he was only remarked by the younger guests, 
who gazed, even to the injury of their appetites, on his burnished 
ringlets, his fair open brow, his bright blue eyes, and smile of 
courteous affability : but time went on ; the dishes were carried 
away, the goblets placed ; when the mayor, rising, drank welcome 
to the stranger, and asked, if no reason forbade him to reply, his 
name and mission. Already Hichard had become acquainted 
with most of the countenances of his entertainers — that is, of 
those nearest him ; for, far through the long hall, almost out of 
si»ht, the table extended, crowded by city retainers, and a few 
of the mere “ Irishry,” whose long hair and loose saffron- 
coloured mantles contrasted with the doublet, hose, and trimmed 
locks of the townsmen. Those near him bore the latter character, 
though their vivacious glances and quick gestures were more 
akin to the inhabitants of the south, among whom he had been 
accustomed to live, than to the steady, dull demeanour of 
English traders. 

When Lavallan drank to the stranger, every eye turned to the 
object of the toast. Hichard arose— his plumed cap was doffed j 




THE LANDING- AT CODE. 



113 

hi3 shining hair, parted on his brow, clustered round his throat ; 
his sunny countenance was full of confidence and courage — “ Sir 
Mayor,” he said, “ my most kind entertainer, and you, my 
friends, men of Cork, may the grateful thanks of the homeless 
adventurer be as kindly received by you, as they are gladly paid 
by him. Who am I P you ask. Wherefore do I come P My 
name is the best m the land ; my coming is to claim your aid, to 
elevate it to its rightful place of pride and honour. Were I 
craven-hearted, or you less generous, I might dread to declare 
myself ; but fear never entered the heart of a Plantagenet ; and, 
when, unreservedly, I place my life in your hands, will you 
betray the trust P ” 

A murmur quickly hushed, the sound of suppressed emotion, 
as the winds of thought passed over the minds of those around, 
for an instant interrupted the speaker — 

“ Neither is my name nor lineage unknown to you,” he con- 
tinued : “ you honour both and have obeyed them ; will you 
refuse to submit to me, their descendant and representative P 
Did you not vow fealty to Richard duke of York, who, driven 
from his own England by false Lancaster, found refuge and 
succour here? Was not Clarence your ruler, and Edward of 
England monarch of your isle ? In the name of these, in the 
name of the White Rose and Mortimer and Plantagenet — I, the 
son of Edward the Fourth, the victim of my uncle Gloster's 
treachery, and low-born Tudor’s usurpation ; I, named in my 
childhood duke of York and lord of Ireland, now, if rightly 
styled, Richard the Fourth of England, demand my lieges of 
Cork to acknowledge my rights, to rise in my cause. I, a 
prince and au outcast, place myself in their hands, through them 
to be a fugitive for ever, or a king.” 

Had Richard planted this scene, with deep insight into the 
dispositions of those with whom he had to deal, he could not 
have projected a better arrangement. They had learned of his 
existence from Lord Barry, and were prepossessed in his favour. 
Their fiery hearts were lighted at the word — his name, with 
a thousand blessings attached to it, rang through the hall : by 
means of the servants and followers at the lower end of the 
table, it reached the outer apartments and avenues of the 
mansion-house ; while, with a kind of exalted rapture, the 
mayor and his guests hung over their new-found prince. The 
citizens began to gather without, and to call aloud for the White 
Rose of England; the day was finished in festal tumult; the 
mayor led forth his princely visitor — he was hailed lord of 
Ireland with one acclaim. Some elders, who had known his 
grandfather, or had been followers of the duke of Clarence, and 

i 



,gte 




114 



THE LANDING AT COBK. 



others who, visiting England, had seen Edward the FoTGrtli 
were struck by the likeness he bore to his progenitors, and 
enthusiastically vouched for his truth. To see and hear themnd 
exultation of the moment, an uninterested spectator must hare 
thought that a messenger from heaven had arrived, to bestow 
liberty on the groaning slaves of some blood-nurtured tyrant. 
The duke was installed in the castle with princely state, a town- 
guard appointed him, and the night was far advanced, before he 
was permitted to repose, and wondering to collect his thoughts, 
and feel himself an acknowledged sovereign in the first town of 
his alienated dominions in which he had set foot. 

The morrow brought no diminution to the zeal of his partizans. 
The first measure of the day was his attending high mass, sur- 
rounded by the mayor and citizens ; when the holy ceremony was 
finished, he took oath on the Gospels, that he was the man he had 
declared himself. The eager people clamoured for him to assume 
the name of king ; but that he said he would win with his good 
sword, nor, till he possessed its appanage, assume a barren title: 
he was the duke of York, until at Westminster be received his 
paternal crown. 

From the church the mayor and citizens attended his council 
at the Castle, and here Richard more fully explained to them the 
projects of Lord Barry, his hopes from the earl of Desmond, and 
his wish to attach to his cause the earl of Kildare, Lord Deputy 
of Ireland. He learned the changes that had taken place 
but a month or two before : some suspicion having entered 
Henry’s mind, the earl of Kildare had been dismissed from his 
high office, and Walter, archbishop of Dublin, substituted in his 
room. The baron of Portlcster, who had been treasurer for 
forty years, was obliged to resign in favour of a Butler, heredi- 
tary and bitter enemies of the Geraldines, while the exaltation of 
Plunket, from the office of chief justice to that of chancellor, only 
proved that he was entirely gained over to the Lancastrians. 
The acts of this new government tended to mortify the late 
deputy, who bore ill his own degradation and the triumph of his 
enemies. On various occasions brawls had ensued ; and when 
Sir James of Ormond wished to place a creature of his own in a 
castle over which Kildare claimed seignory, the latter defended 
it by arms. This turbulent state of things promised fair for the 
adventurer; and his first deed was to despatch letters to the 
earls of Kildare and Desmond, soliciting their assistance, setting 
forth the ready zeal of the city of Cork, and the promises 
and attachment of Lord Barry, whom he daily expected to see 
arrive. 

In all that the English prince did, nothing spoke louder for 



 




THE LANDING AT COBK, 



115 



him to liis Irish friends than his fearless confidence, and 
artless, yet not undignified reliance on their counsels. He had 
gained a warm friend in the former mayor, O’ Water, a man 
reverenced throughout Munster. In his youth he had served in 
the army, and his spirit was hardly yet tamed to the pacific 
habits of a burgher. He was sixty years of age ; but he bore 
his years lightly, and remembered but as the occurrence of 
yesterday the time when the duke of York, grandfather of 
young Bichard, was lord of Ireland. He had attached himself 
particularly to his person, and followed him to England, return- 
ing to his own country after his patron’s death. He saw in the 
descendant of his chief, his rightful lord, to refuse obedience to 
whom was a sin against the laws of God and man. He fervently 
swore never to desert him, and despatched emissaries on all sides 
to spread the tidings of his arrival, and excite the partizans of 
the White Bose to his active assistance. 

When the letters were written, council held, and a course of 
conduct determined on, still the caravel of De Faro did not 
appear, and Eichard grew weary of his Btate of indolence. A 
week passed ; and during the second, at the conclusion of which, 
the answers from the noble chieftains were expected, the duke of 
York announced to O’Water his intention of visiting Buttevant, 
the seat of Lord Barry, where, in the Abbey of Ballybeg, he 
hoped to find the abbot of Kilmainham ; a man who, in exile 
and poverty, exercised great influence over the Irish Yorkists. 
He had been insolent and cruel towards his enemies when in 
power, but he was endowed with popular qualities for his fol- 
lowers ; while among his friends, he was valued for his boldness, 
sagacity, and undaunted courage. His career had been turbulent; 
he had supported himself against his sovereign by acts of lawless 
violence, till, obliged at last to yield, ho found himself, in his old 
age, a poor brother in a distant monastery, obliged, for safety’s 
sake, to veil his lofty pretensions in the obscurest guise. Lord 
Barry had offered him an asylum in the Abbey of Ballybeg ; 
venerating, with the blind admiration of a soldier, the learning 
and craft of the priest, conjoined, as it here was, to dauntless 
courage. O’Water, on the contrary, disliked the subtle prior, 
and endeavoured to dissuade the prince from the journey ; but 
he spurned the city laziness, and in spite of his friends’ entreaties, 
and their fears for his safety among the followers of Desmond, 
Barry, and Macarthy, departed on his intended visit, attended 
only by Hubert Burgh, the foster-brother of Lord Barry. 

The way from Cork to Buttevant was not far, but more 
desolate than Granada during the Moorish war. Summer and 
the sun adorned that smiling land, casting a verdurous mantle 

i 2 




116 THE LANDING AT COBK. 

over her deep wounds, painting the rude visage of war with 
brilliant hues. The forests, dark hills, and uncultivated wilds of 
Munster, showed nakedly the deep traces of the sovereign ill. But 
lately this neighbourhood had been the seat of war between the 
earl of Desmond and the chief of the Macarthys ; the latter had 
fallen in battle, but his brother and Tanist had succeeded to him, 
and was already gathering together his sept for a more desperate 
struggle. Never in Spain had Richard seen such wild, strange 
figures, as crossed his path during this short journey ; whether 
it were the native kern, wrapt in his mantle, disguised by his 
glibb, or long shaggy hair, or the adherents of Desmond, who 
aflected the state of an Irish chieftain, whose leather-quilted 
jackets, long saffron-coloured shirts, cloaks and shaggy mustachios, 
riding without stirrups, bearing spears, formed objects not less 
uncouth and savage ; the very women bore a similar appearance 
of incivilization. And as a comment on such text, Burgh told, 
as they rode, the history of the late wars of Desmond with. 
O’Carrol, prince of Ely, and with Macarthy ; and, a still more 
dread tale, the incursion of Murrogh-en-Ranagh, an O’Brien ; 
who, rising first in Clare, spread through the country, over- 
running Munster, and bold from Buccess, advanced into eastern 
Leinster. All these accounts of battle were interwoven with 
tales of feuds, handed down from father to son, of the natural 
hatred of the native chiefs to the lords of English origin ; 
interspersed with such strange wild tales, where the avowedly 
supernatural was intermingled with deeds of superhuman prowess 
and barbarity, that the English-born prince, nursling of romantic 
Spain, felt as if he were transplanted into a new planet, and 
stopped the speaker at each moment, to obtain some clearer 
explanation, or to have interpreted words he had never before 
heard, the names of customs and things found only in this land. 

Thus entertained, the way to Buttevant, or as the Irish called 
it, Kilnemullagh, which was about twenty miles, seemed short. 
One thing was evident in all these details, that it was easy to 
rouse the English lords in Ireland to any act of turbulence and 
revolt ; but that it would be difficult nevertheless for their ill- 
armed followers, and undisciplined bands, to compete with the 
soldiery of England. 



wle 




117 



CHAPTER XYI. 

NEW FBIENDS. 



Sisters, I from Ireland came. 

Coleridge. 

The duke, immediately on his arrival at the Castle of Buttevant, 
despatched Hubert Burgh to the prior of Kilmainham, with a 
message from himself and a token from Lord Barry, announcing 
his intention of visiting him at the abbey the next day. But 
Keating feared thus to draw the eyes of some enemy upon him, 
and appointed a meeting in a secluded dell, near the bank of the 
Mullagh, or Awbeg, the river which Spenser loves to praise. 
Early in the morning Richard repaired alone to this rural 
presence-chamber, and found Keating already there. Hearing 
of the priest's haughty pride, Richard, with a sensation of 
disgust, had figured a man something like the wretched Trang- 
mar, strong of limb, and with a ferocious expression of coun- 
tenance. Keating appeared in his monk’s humble guise ; his 
light eyes were still lively, though his hair and beard were 
snowy white ; his brow was deeply delved by a thousand lines ; 
his person short, slender, bent ; his Btep infirm ; his voice was 
silver-toned ; ho was pale, and his aspect in its lower part sweetly 
serene. Richard looked with wonder on this white, withered 
leaf — a comparison suggested by his frail tenuity ; and again 
ho almost quailed before the eager scrutiny of the prior’s eye. 
A merchant at a Moorish mart he had seen thus scan a slave he 
was about to purchase. At length, with a look of great satisfac- 
tion, the monk said, “ This fits exactly ; our friends will not 
hesitate to serve so goodly a gentleman. The daughter of 
York might in sooth mistake thee for a near kinsman. Thou 
comest from Portugal, yet that could not have been thy native 
place P” 

Richard started. This was the first time he had heard an 
expression of doubt of his veracity. How could he reply P His 
word alone must support his honour ; his sword must remain 
sheathed, for his injurer was a priest. Keating caught his 



 




118 



NEW FBIEND8. 



haughty glance, and perceived his mistake. It was with an 
effort that he altered his manner, for he exchanged with pain a 
puppet subject to his will, for a man (prince or pretender) who 
had objects and a state of his own to maintain. “ Pardon the 
obscure vision of an old man,” he said ; “ my eyes were indeed 
dim not to see the true marks of a Plantagenet in your appearance. 
I was but a boy when your princely grandsire fell ; nor has it 
been my fortune to visit England or to see your royal father. 
But? the duke of Clarence honoured me with his friendship, and 
your cousin De la Poole ackowledged my zeal in furthering 
his projects. I am now neither prior nor commander ; but, 
poor monk as I am become, I beseech your highness to com- 
mand my services.” 

This swift change of language but ill satisfied the pride of 
Bichard, and in reply, he briefly recounted such facts as estab- 
lished his right to the name he claimed. The noble artlessness 
of his tone conquered the priest's, lurking suspicions : in a more 
earnest manner he besought the duke’s pardon ; and a cordial 
intercourse was established between them. 

The place where they met was secluded and wild ; a bower 
of trees hid it from the view of the river, and an abrupt rock 
sheltered it behind. It was apparently accessible by the river 
only, and it was by its bank that the duke and prior had arrived. 
Nothing could equal the picturesque solitude around them. The 
waving of the leafy boughs, the scream of the water-fowl, or the 
splashing they made as they sprung from among the sedge and 
darted across the stream, alone interrupted the voiceless calm ; 

f ret, at every moment, in his speech, Keating stopped, as if 
istening, and cast his keen eyes, which he libelled much in calling 
dim, up the steep crag, as if among its herbage and shrubs some 
dreaded spy or expected messenger might appear. Then again 
he apologized to the duke for having selected this wild spot for 
their interview. A price, he observed, had been set upon his 
head, and his only safety lay in perpetual watchfulness and 
never-sleeping caution. “ My zeal in your highness’s cause,” 
he added, with a courtier smile, “ cannot be deemed a strange 
frenzy, since your success will not only assure my restoration to 
the dignity of which I have been unjustly deprived, but prevent 
an old man from perpetually dreaming of the sword of the slayer, 
or the more frightful executioner’s axe.” 

Again the prior fixed his eyes on a fissure in the rock, adding, 
“ I had oppointed to meet one in this place before your message 
was communicated to me — and in good time ; for, methinks, the 
object of your visit may be furthered by the intelligence I hope 
soon to receive. Your highness must have heard at Cork of the 




NEW FRIENDS. 



119 



war carried on by the great eai’l of Desmond and a native sept 
of this region. Macarthy, their chief, fell during the struggle, 
but his successor and Tanist mustered his broken forces to 
avenge him. The earl is impatient of this resistance, for his 
presence is necessary in Thomond to drive the O'Carrols from 
that district. At his invitation he and Macarthy meet this day 
to parley but a few miles hence. I was to have made one among 
them ; but a boding raven told me that danger was abroad.” 

The tidings of the near presence of the earl of Desmond were 
unexpected, and most welcome to the duke. He immediately 
resolved not to lose the golden hour. He eagerly asked where 
the meeting was to be, and how speedily he might reach the 
spot. 

As he was thus earnestly expressing his desire* a slight rustling 
caught the prior’s ear : he looked up ; a human form hovered as 
in mid-air, scarcely, as it were, alighting on the precipitous rock ; 
quickly, but cautiously, it threaded its steep and tortuous path. 

• A large mantle was wrapt round the mountaineer, a large white 
kerchief enveloped the head in the manner of a turban, yet the 
prince caught the outline of a female figure, which soon des- 
cended to the little plain on which they stood, and advanced 
towards them ; she was evidently very young, but weather-worn 
even in youth : her wild, picturesque dress concealed the pro- 
portions of her form ; her large white sleeves hid her arm, but 
the emaciated appearance of her face and hands, and bare feet, 
struck Hichard with pity. She seemed astonished at seeing 
him, and spoke to his companion in the language of the country, 
which he did not understand : the prior’s face darkened as she 
spoke : there dwelt on it a mixture of disappointment and 
ferocity, of which it could hardly have been deemed capable by 
one who had hitherto seen it only bland and smiling ; swiftly, 
however, he dismissed these indications of passion, and addressed 
the prince calmly. “ I cannot go,” he said ; “ mv time is still to 
be deferred, though it shall not be for ever lost. How does your 
courage hold P if you are not afraid of going alone with a guide 
whose very dialect is a mystery to you, through a country torn 
by opposing factions ; if you do not fear presenting yourself 
friendless to a haughty noble, who deems himself sovereign in 
this domain, I will contrive that, ere four hours elapse, you shall 
find yourself in Desmond’s presence.” 

“ Fear ! ” the prince repeated. His eye glanced with some 
contempt on the priest’s cowl, which alone could suggest pardon 
for such a thought; yet he checked himself from any angry 
disclaiming of the accusation, as he said, “Whatever in my 
presumption I may hope, sage forethought tells me that I walk 




120 



NEW FBIENDS. 



a road strewn with a thousand dangers, leading, it may be, to an 
early death. Not for that will I deviate one furlong from my 
path. Sir Prior, where is the guide you promise P ” 

Keating, after a -few minutes’ reflection, instead of replying 1 , 
conversed again with the girl, and then addressed the duke : 
“This Lapless child is a victim of the wars; she was born far 
hence, and is the last surviving of my foster-sister’s once bloom- 
ing family. Her mother saved my life. This child, barefoot as 
Bhe is, guided mo hither. Is not a Keating fallen, when he 
cannot give succour to an offspring of his fosterer’s house P 
lnd she, poor girl ! she has walked far for me to-day ; but she 
ill not slacken in her toil when I bid her proceed. She shall 
o your guide, and your grace may rely upon hey ; the dog you 
fed from its birth were less faithful. Now, at the hour of noon, 
Desmond meets Macarthy of Muskerry, on Ballahourah. But 
for the bogs and streams that cross your path, it is not far ; at 
the worst, you can reach Mallow, where the earl will lie to-night. 
It is best not to delay ; for, if there is peace in Munster, very 
speedily Desmond will be on his way to Thojnond.” 

This was a fresh spur to Bichard. He accepted the proffered 
guide, who listened attentively to Keating’s instructions given in 
her native tongue. He followed the girl but a short distance ere 
he looked back ; the prior was gone ; the solitude of the wild 
crags and shrubs alone met his, eye. Meanwhile his companion 
stepped forward, motioning him to follow. They plunged into 
the brake ; the sun rose high ; the birds winged their glad flight 
among the trees. Now toiling up a steep, now wading a stream, 
now entangled in a thicket, now stepping lightly over boggy 
earth : now meditating on Andalusia, and now wondering at his 
present position, Bichard followed his swift and silent guide 
through the wild country between Buttevant and Mallow. 

Already the meeting between the earl of Desmond and 
Macarthy, the chief of Muskerry, was at an end. They ported 
with fair words and exasperated thoughts. The native lord 
could ill brook the settler’s haughty assumptions ; nor Geraldine 
endure the obstinate pride of the conquered native. Still their 
relative positions enforced a peace. 

They had separated, and after a hasty repast, spread on the 
heathy side of Ballahourah, the earl proceeded towards Mallow. 
He was surrounded by warriors, who all claimed the Geraldine 
name, and who variously distinguished themselves as the White 
Knight, the Knight of Kerry, and the Knight of the Glen. 
There was Lord Fermoy, his father-in-law, and others of the 
Boches. Nor did all the native chiefs absent themselves. One 
sister of the earl had married Macarthy Beagh ; another, an 




NEW FBIENDS. 



121 



O’Brien, whose daughter had intermarried with an O’Carroll — 
all this in defiance of the English law, which forbade such 
alliances, through which, the father of the present earl was 
beheaded in the year 1467. Their antique costume, tight truise, 
saffron tunics, and flowing robes, distinguished them from the 
Saxons ; yet these had not followed the fashions of the times, 
but dressed in the garb used by the courtiers of Edward the 
Third. 

Maurice, tenth earl of Desmond, was brave even to a proverb. 
He loved war, and deemed himself rather king of Desmond, 
than a chief of English descent. To extend and secure his 
possessions, rendering them at once independent of his sove- 
reign and of the native chieftains, was the aim of his life. He 
now meditated the invasion of Thomond ; but Macarthy’s angry 
demeanour showed that he must not be left unchecked in his 
rear. “ Where is my cousin Barry — where the lord of But- 
tevant — the chief of the Barrymores? Flying before a slip of 
parchment indited in far London, as if my sword held not better 
sway in these regions than a Parliament attainder ! Were he 
here, the O’Carrolls should hear the thunder of my arms ere 
this moon waned. Muskerry could make no gathering in the 
vales, while Barry sat on his perch at Buttevant.” 

The earl had time to waste in thought, as he was borne along 
—•at the age of fifteen, pushing rashly forward in an assault, he 
received a wound in his leg, which lamed him for life, so that 
he was carried about in a litter, and went by the name of 
Claudus ; yet he was not deemed the less an experienced and 
gallant warrior. With the virtues of a chieftain he possessed 
the defects : Munster was his world ; his universe was peopled 
by the Geraldines, the Macarthys, the Barrys, Donegans, Bar- 
retts, Bocb.es, O’Briens, O’Carrolls, and the rest ; he disdained 
his noble brethren of the pale. He considered it a mark of 
distinction to be exempted by a law from attendance of Par- 
liament and the government of the land ; he saw in the king of 
England, not his monarch, but the partizan of Ormond, and 
therefore an enemy. This, and an ancient alliance, linked him to 
the cause of the English outcast prince, who solicited his aid ; 
he had replied favourably to his request ; but his interests and 
the conquest of a kingdom must be delayed, while he subdued 
the half-naked septs who insulted his power. 

While thus busied, reflecting upon the events of the day, the 
earl sat silent and thoughtful. Suddenly, at a turn in the road, 
he called on his followers to stop ; his eye lighted up, — he saw 
two horsemen swiftly approaching — Lord Barry was the fore- 
most rider. Forgetting his lameness in his joy, the noble 




122 



NEW FBIBNDS. 



warrior almost threw himself from the litter, ns he cried, “ Jesu ; 
speed you, my loving cousin ! spur on ! spur on ! remember ' 
your badge, Boutez en avant f No enemy ever turned his back 
on your sword to avoid, so eagerly as my arms will open to 
receive you ! Were you bound for Mallow P” 

“ No, my noble coz,” replied Lord Barry, “ I am for Kilne- 
mullagh ; an eaglet I have nursed has winged its way thither, 
and I fear may suffer injury in my absence; for he is young, 
and his pinions all untried.” 

“ Leave him to his fate, my lord,” said the earl ; “ if he be 
a faithful bird he will find his way back to his fosterer; mean- 
while the king of eagles, thy cousin Desmond himself, has need 
of thee.” 

“ One word, dear Maurice, will explain the greater duty that 
I owe my princely fowl. The White Bose of England, missing 
him, loses all ; you, I, each, and every one of us, are his servants 
and must become his soldiers.” 

“ Cousin,” replied Desmond, “ one son of York made my 
father, whose soul God assoilzie ! Lord Deputy ; another 
chopped off his bead — so much for tho White Bose ! Still 
I allow this new Lancastrian king is a bitterer enemy : he is 
a friend of the Butlers, whom the fiend confound. We will first 
subdue the O’Carrolls, humble the Macarthys, take Coollong 
from Clan Cartie Beagh, and root out the Desies ; and then, 
when we are kings of Munster, in good hour let us march with 
your duke of York, and set our foot on the necks of the Butlers 
in Dublin.” 

The earl spoke with rapidity and energy; all Munster 
spread before Lord Barry’s mind — city, town, stronghold, held 
by ancestral enemies ; and it was wonderful what a change was 
wrought in his mind by his cousin’s eloquence, and the names 
of all these sons of Erin, with each of whom he had a mortal 
quarrel. He agreed, therefore, to go with the earl to Mallow 
that evening, postponing his visit to Buttevant till the following 
day. 

Such were the wise counsels that stayed the mighty power 
Barry had promised York should rise at his name to vanquish. 
England. It was better thus ; so the royal boy thought himself, 
when, welcomed by Desmond at Mallow, he looked round ou 
kern and gallowglass, hearing a language that was not English, 
viewing their strange attire and savage countenances. “ It is 
not thus, my England, that I will seize on you. Your own 
nobles shall place the crown on my head ; your people wield 
the sword that will injure only our common enemy. Shall I 



 




NEW FBIENDS. 123 

make a Granada of my native land, and shed Christian blood, 
better spilt in the cause of God against infidel dogs P” 

When the earl of Desmond found that the prince, whom he 
regretted to receive with such cold hopes, was well content, 
nothing doubting that the good-will of the English would prove 
a better ally than the spears of the Irish, he conceived a sudden 
affection for him. It was no wonder ; for the ingenuousness of 
untarnished youth is ineffably winning ; and here it was added 
to a quick wit, a grace and gallantry, that shone as a vision of 
light in this wild region. 

A few days brought still greater satisfaction to all parties. 
An embassy had arrived in Cork from the king of France to the 
duke of York to invite him to Paris. Desmond would not 
relinquish his guest : he carried him to his noble seat at Ard- 
finnin ; and thither repaired in due time the messengers from 
Charles the Eighth. 

The chief of these was our old friend Frion, besides a French- 
man called Lucas, and two Englishmen, Stephen Poytron and 
John Tiler. The duke was not well pleased with the selection of 
Frion ; but, while this man by his singular arts of insinuation 
made good his cause, Barry showed how in two points his cause 
. was benefitted by him. First, that having been secretary to 
Henry, he knew many secrets, and was acquainted with many 
circumstances that might be turned to use ; and, secondly, that 
his very attempt to entrap the prince was a proof that he was 
fully aware of who he was ; that ho would prove a useful link 
between Perkin Warbeck, Diehard Fitzroy.and the duke of York; 
that he need be no more trusted than was deemed expedient ; 
but that meanwhile it were good to entertain him with fair 
words. Diehard yielded ; and Frion made good use of this 
standing-room by which he meant to move the world. Master 
of the arts of flattery, cunning and wise, he so ingratiated him- 
self with the duke, and afterwards with his other friends, that 
by degrees he was admitted to their confidence ; and at last 
succeeded in his chief wish, of becoming follower, secretary, 
counsellor, he called himself friend, of the English prince. 

Urged by the earl of Desmond and Lord Barry, and suf- 
ficiently inclined in his own mind, the duke accepted the French 
king’s invitation, and prepared to cross to France. On the very 
eve of his departure, he was surprised by a visit from John 
O’ Water, of Cork. This warm-hearted old man bad conceived 
a paternal love for the royal youth. He came to recommend 
his return to Cork — his taking up a kind of regal residence 
there — the not deserting a nook of his kingdom which acknow- 




124 



THE FBENCH COTJBT. 



lodged him. He came too late : — already the prince was on 
hoard the vessel in Youghall Harbour which was to convey him 
away. “ One day you will return to us, my lord,” said O’ Water ; 
“ a l'uture day will afford us opportunity to prove our zeal. I 
am old ; I had given up public life : but I will take to the oar 
again. John O’Water will once more be mayor of Cork, and 
his right beloved Sovereign shall command him in his service.” 
The good man departed ; with blessings, thanks, and glad 
prognostics, Desmond and Barry also took leave of him. The 
wind was fair, the sea smooth : before morning they lost sight 
of the hospitable shores of Ireland, and turned their thoughts 
from its quarrels, its chieftains, its warm hearts, and kind 
reception, to the civilized land of Frauce, and the more in- 
fluential protection promised by its king to the royal adventurer. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

THE FBENCH COUBT. 



Long die thy happy days before thy death ; 

Ami, after many lengthened hours of grief. 

Die neither mother, wife nor England’s queen ! 

SOAKSPBARE. 

The voyage of the duke of York was easy and auspicious. Ho 
repaired to Paris ; and all tbe exiled Yorkists, to the number of 
one hundred gentlemen, instantly gathered round him, offering 
him their services, and forming his court. Charles assigned him 
magnificent apartments iu the Tuileries, and appointed a guard 
of honour, under the command of the lord of Concressault, 
who, as was the case with every one who approached him, soon 
became warmly attached to the princely youth. Having just 
concluded a peace with Britanny by marrying its young duchess, 
tho king of France found himself in so prosperous a state at 
home, that he began to look abroad for wars, and resolved to 
invade Naples, to whose crown he had a claim. Meanwhile, the 
utmost splendour and gaiety reigned in Paris : — balls, tourna- 
ments, and hunting-parties, succeeded one to the other ; now to 



 




THE FBENCH C0T7BT. 



125 



celebrate a marriage — now to grace the entrance of some noble 
gentleman into the order of knighthood. Charles was an amiable 
prince — his queen a beautiful and spirited lady — the duke of 
Orleans an accomplished and adventurous cavalier. They all 
vied in acts of courtesy and kindness towards their royal visitor. 
There was an innocence in Kichard’s vivacity, an ingenuousness 
in his reliance on their protection, that particularly captivated the 
chivalrous Orleans and the fair Queen Anne. How changed 
the scene from the wilds of Ireland and the semi-barbarous halls 
of the Desmond! The courtly and soft grace of the French, 
different from the dignity of the Spaniard, was irresistible to the 
inexperienced youth. It seemed to him that his standard was 
set up here for ever. No change could sully the fair favour of 
these illustrious friends. All young as he was, to be treated as 
rightful king of England by this potent government satisfied for 
the moment his ambition. He and his English friends welcome 
everywhere, all honoured — himself beloved — were the ascendant 
star in Paris. O’Maurice of Desmond ! O’Barry, and good, 
honest-hearted O’Water ! — though still he acknowledged your 
kindness, how did your uncivilized hospitalities fade before the 
golden splendour of King Charles’s court ! 

York might by the sober be blamed for yielding to the current, 
for setting his swelling canvas with the favouring wind — exulting. 
It was a boy’s blindness ; the unsuspiciousness of inexperience ; 
the fault lay in the falsehood ; and that was not his. 

On the sixth of October Henry the Seventh landed at Calais ; 
on the nineteenth he sat down before Boulogne, with sixteen 
hundred men-at-arms, and twenty-five thousand infantry. Charles 
could not much fear the tardy operations of his foe; but the 
name of an English invasion, so associated with defeat and 
disaster, was portentous to the French : besides, Charles was 
eager to prepare for his Italian wars. Thus disposed, peace was 
easily brought about. One only obstable presented itself. 
Henry insisted that the newly-arrived duke of York should bo 
delivered up to him ; Charles rejected the proposition with dis- 
dain : the negotiations were suspended, and the French king 
grew uneasy : it was no pleasant thing to have thirty or forty- 
thousand of those English in the kingdom, who had disputed it 
inch by inch, at the expense of so much misery and slaughter, 
with his grandfather. Their king was averse to war ; but the 
body of the army, the nobles, and leaders, ardently desired it ; 
some intrigue, some accident, might light up a train to be 
quenched only by seas of blood ; and all this for a prince, in 
whom, except that he was gallant and unfortunate, CharleB took 
no concern. 



tized t 






126 



THE FRENCH COURT. 



Richard, basking in the noon-day of regal favour, of a sudden 
felt a cloud spread athwart his sunshine, and a chill take place 
of the glowing warmth. The complaints of his followers, prin- 
cipally of Lady Brampton, opened his eyes ; for the king and 
princes, on the eve of betraying him, were in manner kinder than 
ever. First, Queen Anne asked this lady, if it were not the 
duke’s intention to repair to Flanders, to claim the support of the 
Lady Margaret. It seemed as if nothing was to be spoken of but 
Brussels, the Low Countries, Maximilian of Austria, and, above 
all, the virtues and sagacity of the illustrious widow of Charles 
the Rash. In youth we are slow to understand the covert 
language of duplicity. Frion was next put in requisition ; he 
arrived in Paris after ten days’ absence, with an invitation to her 
so-named nephew from the duchess of Burgundy ; and when, 
from the disinclination of the French to an act of glaring inhos- 
pitality, and of the English so to pain the confiding spirit of their 
prince, he was still kept darkling, suddenly one night his friend, 
the sire de Concressault, visited him. He brought many sugared 
words from his sovereigns ; but the end was, that their ever dear 
friend, and most honoured guest, the duke of York, would render 
them special pleasure, if, for some short time, he would visit 
Brussels. The fiery spirit of youth blazed forth at a dismission, 
still more when Concressault added, that horses were already 
prepared, and everything arranged for his immediate departure. 
To qualify this insult, Concressault could best bring his own 
warm, affectionate feelings. He loved the English prince, and 
by the frankness of his explanations, soothed him, while he made 
the wound deeper, by showing whence it was directed, and that 
Henry Tudor’s was the the master-hand. 

This name calmed York by elevating his thoughts above the 
actual evil. “ It is well, my lord : I shall obey,” he said ; “ I 
had forgotten myself ; and your monarch’s kindness was an 
opiate to my unripened purpose. I might have lived his happy 
guest ; reigning over the English hearts around me, forgetful, 
like Dan Dlysse of old in the Lotus land, of my native isle, and 
rightful kingdom. I thank my enemy he has not permitted this: 
his insults rouse me; his injuries place the sword in my hand ; 
on him fall the harm.” 

The French sovereigns did all they could to salve this ill- 
favoured wound. The duke of Orleans visited York at the 
moment of his departure ; his English partizans were loaded 
with presents; he quitted France; and, on the day following, 
the treaty of peace with England was signed. 

Pride, indignation, and heroic resolve sustained the duke under 
this insult; but violent, angry emotion was foreign to. his dispo- 




THB FRENCH COURT. 



127 



sition, and only kept alive in his bosom at the expense of much 
suffering. How gladly he took refuge from these painful sensa- 
tions iu the gratitude and affection inspired by his noble cunt. 
Margaret had never seen him ; the earl of Liucoln, Lady 
Brampton, Lovel, Plantagenet, and others were vouchers for his 
truth ; still his first unsupported appearance in Ireland, and his 
long absence in Spain, engendered doubts, not in her mind, but 
in Maximilian and other nobles and counsellors around her. 
She replied to their arguments, but they remained unconvinced ; 
at once, therefore, to justify her acknowledgment of him in their 
eyes, and to force them to the same credence as herself, she 
caused his first audience to be a solemn one, nor gave him a 
kinswoman’s reception until he had proved his right to it. 

He, who has heard some one falsely traduced and vilely calum- 
niated, and, if not quite believing the detraction, yet impelled by 
it to some distaste of its object, and when that object appeared, 
radiant in innocence, attended by the dignity of truth and con- 
scious worth, at once has yielded to the evidence of sense, will 
have some understanding of what passed in the mind of Marga- 
ret of Burgundy. None could resist the frank, blue, unclouded 
eye of the prince ; that voice and manner, replete with simplicity 
and native honour. He replied to the duchess’s questions briefly 
or otherwise, as appeared most pertinent, but in a way that van- 
quished the most sceptical person present. The warm-hearted 
duchess had hardly contained herself from the moment she 
beheld this youthful imago of her dead brother. As the tones 
of a remembered melody awaken from sweet and bitter associa- 
tion unbidden tears, so did his voice, his gestures, the very 
waving of his glossy curls, strike the mute chords of many a for- 
gotten memory. As soon as she saw belief and satisfaction in 
the countenances of those around her, she no longer restrained 
herself ; with tears she embraced him ; with a broken voicp she 

£ resented her nephew to all around. Now to heap favours on 
im was her dear delight : she loved not the name of the duke 
of York, because, his pretensions admitted, he was something 
more ; but he objected firmly to the empty title of king, and 
reiterated his determination to assume that only at Westminster. 
So she invented other names ; the prince of England, and the 
White Rose of England, were those he went by ; she appointed 
him a guard of thirty halberdiers in addition to that formed by 
his English followers. Nor did she rest here ; it was her ardent 
wish to place him on the throne of his father. The glad welcome 
she gave to the Yorkists, as, from far exile in distant lands, or 
obscure hiding in England, they repaired to her nephew’s court, 
her discourse of succour, armies, plots quickly raised a spirit 




128 



THE FEENCH C0T7BT. 



that spread to the near island; and the rumour of this new 
White Rose became a watch-word of hope for York, of fear for 
Lancaster. 

The riches and magnificence of the now extinguished house of 
Burgundy, almost equalled that of Paris ; their cavaliers were as 
noble and as gallant; their tournaments and feasts as gay and 

E ompous. The . prince felt his situation much changed for the 
etter. His aunt’s warm affection was more worth than Charles’s 
politic and courteous protection. There he was an honoured 
visitor, here one of the family — his interests apparently bound up 
with theirs. His long-tried friends exulted in his position ; 
Piantagenet and Lady Brampton congratulated each other. The 
English exiles, Sir George Neville and Sir John Taylor, the one 
proud and discontented, the other extravagant and poor, blessed 
the day which gave them dignity and station, as chief attendants 
and counsellors of the noble York. One friend he missed : his 
childhood’s companion, his gentle nurse, his beloved Monina. 

She bad accompanied Lady Brampton to Paris, when intelli- 
gence came of Trangmar’s treachery, of the falsehood of his pre- 
tensions ; and, at the same time, letters were covertly conveyed 
to Lady Brampton from the dowager queen, in which mention 
was made of this man as a trustworthy agent : the Yorkists 
desired much to fathom this mystery, and to have some explicit 
elucidation from the imprisoned Elizabeth. As they canvassed 
the various modes by which this might be accomplished — the 
disguises that might be assumed — Monina preferred an earnest 
prayer, that she might be permitted to undertake the task ; a 
thousand circumstances rendered this desirable — she would be 
entirely unsuspected, and she was fully acquainted with the cir- 
cumstances of the case. Three days before Richard landed in 
France from Ireland, Monina crossed to England — she assumed 
a pilgrim’s garb, and without danger or much difficulty, arrived 
at London from the seacoast. 

The sudden apparition of Richard, first in Ireland, and after- 
wards in Paris, was a stunning blow to Henry. No Trangmar 
arrived to explain the riddle ; and, in spite of his caution and his 
cruelty, he had been unable to avert theevent he dreaded — nothing 
could he do now better than to scoff at his rival, and to oppose 
his statements with counter declarations ; spreading around his 
spies to Btop at its very outset any symptom of rebellion in 
England. He caused stricter watch than ever to be set on the 
unfortunate Elizabeth Woodville, who had been for six years the 
melancholy inmate of her convent prison. All necessity of caut ion 
there was soon to be at an end ; her health had long declined — 
latterly she had wasted to a mere shadow, so that the continuance 




TIIE FBENCH COUBT. 129 

of life in her attenuated frame appeared a miracle : a feeling 
of suffocation prevented her from lying down ; she sat propped 
by pillows : her fleshless hands ineapable of any office, her 
cheeks fallen in ; her eyes nlone — last retreat of the spirit of life 
— gleamed brightly amid the human ruin. So long had she been 
thus, that her death, apparently so near, was hardly feared by 
those around. Henry almost considered her danger as a new 
artifice, and absolutely refused her last request, to be permitted 
to see her daughter and grand -children once again. Her last 
hour approached ; and none were near save the nuns of the 
convent, who almost revered her as a saint. 

There arrived at the monastery a pilgrim, with relics collected 
in Araby and Spain. She was admitted into the parlour; and 
one simplo sister asked for some wonder-working relic that 
might give health to the dying. The pilgrim heard of Eliza- 
beth’s hopeless state : she begged to be admitted to her presence, 
that she might try the virtues of a precious balsam given her by 
the monks of Aleala-la-Ecal in Spain. Elizabeth was informed 
of her request : when last she had heard of her son, he was at 
Alcala — all the strength that had pi’olonged her life now roused 
itself ; with earnestness she desired that the Spanish maiden 
might be admitted to her presence. It was Henry’s express 
command that none should see her; but she was dying; his 
power, so soon to be at end, might well slacken in its rigour at 
the very verge of its annihilation. 

The pilgrim knelt beside the queen’s couch — the nuns, 
commanded to retreat., observed a miracle — the dying appeared 
again to live; the grim spectre, who had planted his banner in 
the chamber, retreated for a moment, os Elizabeth listened to 
Monina’s whispered words, “ Oh, for one hour more,” she cried, 
“ I have so much to say. He conies then, my son comes ! Oh, 
.rouse England with the tale — Sir William Stanlej*, you must 
visit him — bid him not draw his sword against my Edward’s 
son. Say to tho dean of St. Paul’s — I feel faint,” she continued, 
“my voice fails me — I must leave all unsaid, save this — HiB 
sister must not doubt his truth ; Heury must not shed the blood 
of bis wife’s brother.” 

“ Madam,” said Monina, “ let me bear some token to my lady 
the queen.” 

“ A token — no words can these weak fingers trace. Yet stay ; 
in the missal there is a prayer which each day I addressed to 
heaven to preserve my son. Pear the missal to my Elizabeth, bid 
her listen to you, and believe.” 

With trembling hands the young girl took the small, but, 
splendid vplumc. Tho queen then dismissed her v, ilh a faintly 

K 



 




130 



THE TOKEN. 



spoken blessing and a prayer. Before night all was over — the 
cause of her son moved her no more — her sorrowing heart 
reposed from every strife — she died. The vase replete with so 
much anguish was broken — the “silver cord,” that bound 
together a whole life of pain, loosened. Her existence had been 
woe ; her death was the dearest blessing sho could receive from 
heaven. 



CHAPTEE XVIII. 

THE TOKEN. 



She was most beautiful to see. 

Like a lady of a far countree . 

Coleridge. 

While in attendance on the king at his palace of Shene, the 
the lord chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, was informed that a 
young and foreign lady requested an audience with him. Moniua 
was ushered in — her extraordinary beauty — her large soft eyes 
— the fascinating sweetness of her manner, at once charmed the 
worthy gentleman. She spoke in good but accentuated English, 
and informed Sir William that she came from the death-bed of 
the queen of England. 

“ I know,” said Stanley, “ that her grace has long been ill, 
but ” 

“ God take her to his mercy,” interrupted Monina, “ she died 
last night.” 

“ Is his majesty informed of this event?” Sir William asked. 

“ It is not yet noon,” replied the maiden ; “ by that hour the 
messengers from the convent will arrive. I have reasons for 
greater speed. I bear the royal lady’s last words to hor 
daughter, the queen Elizabeth ; you, my lord, will favour me 
by procuring an immediate interview with her majesty." 

Stanley knew the aversion the king had to any private inter- 
course between Elizabeth rfhd her mother. He informed his 
visitor that she must first obtain the king’s permission for this 
audience, which he did not believe would be granted ; but 
Monina, without hesitation, declared that she would apply for 
it to the king, and requested the chamberlain to introduce her. 



 




THE TOKEN. 



131 



Stanley, good-natured but timid, hesitated— she would not bo 
denied — at last he hit upon an expedient. Henry had gone out 
hawking in the park : if she would place herself at the gate on 
his return, she might prefer her prayer — he would be near to 
insure her being heard. 

Noontide was approached. The sport was over, and the royal 
party on their, return. Henry rode foremost with Morton, 
while his retinue followed at a slower pace, conversing gaily 
about the birds ; now and then hazarding a remark on the war, 
so oft delayed, at last declared. They were interrupted by the 
arrival of Sir William Stanley, who communicated to the king 
the tidings of the dowager queen’s death. Six long years had 
passed since the battle of Stoke, and the commencement of 
Elizabeth Woodville’s imprisonment. She was forgotten at 
court. Many there had never seen her ; few remembered her 
as the reigning queen of England. Her history was almost 
like a romance of the olden time ; yet, forgotten during life, her 
death clouded the hilarity of those who heard it. Among those 
most affected by these tidings, as was natural, was her son, the 
marquess of Corset; he hastily rode up to receive from 
Stanley’s own lips confirmation of the news. Feeling that of late 
he had almost forgotten and wholly neglected his mother, a 
sudden visitation of remorse was blended with the grief that 
choked his voice, and blinded his eyes with tears. Henry, who 
was attached to him, viewed with pity the bitter regret of his 
gay, unheeding kinsman, and bade him, ere ruder tongues 
proclaimed it, bear the melancholy tidings to his royal sister. 
Dorset, gladly escaping from the throng, rode swiftly forward. 
Meanwhile the order of the ride was disturbed. The nobles 
conversed earnestly together. After a few questions, Henry 
remained lost in thought : eager perhaps to know whether her 
secret had died with her ; and viewing in her demise one master 
testimony the less in favour of liis young competitor. Stanley 
awaited with some inquietude for the moment when they should 
encounter Monina. They passed the park gate. She was not 
there. Henry pursued his way, and entered the palace. Still 
she did not appear. 

Lord Dorset had ridden on with the speed of a man who seeks 
to escape from himself. Death has more power in its mere 
sound, than the enchanting touch of a wizard’s rod. She was 
dead — how awful was that word! — the unfailing friend, his 
mother ! All his remissness towards her took a monstrous 
form : he felt that if ho had wearied Henry with prayers, he 
might have extorted some mitigation of her suffering ; and it 
would have consoled her in her solitude, to have received the 

k 2 



 




132 



THE TOKEN.. 



balmy medicine of filial tenderness, which he had neglected to 
pay. At that moment he would hare given his marquisate to 
a beggar, to have purchased the memory of one action done to 
gootne her woful end. The pomp of a funeral — masses for her 
soul — these were small compensations, which her arch enemy, 
even Henry himself, could, and probably would concede. The 
voice of affection — the duteous affection of a .child — ho only 
could have afforded ; and he had withheld it. 

Monina stood at the park gate, attended by her Spanish 
domestic, whose singular costume alone must attract regard. 
“What do you here, maiden?” cried Dorset; “ the king and 
his court will speedily pass this way : this is no fitting place 
for you.” 

“ I am here,” she replied, “ to see and speak to your kiug. I 
come to prefer a request in the name of one whom God take to 
his place ; she can disturb him no more.” 

“ You are from Bermondsey — from ” The words choked 

Dorset. Monina continued : — “ I come from the death-bed of 
the Lady Elizabeth of England.” 

“ What demand would you make on his majesty ? ” said the 
marquess ; do you seek a guerdon for your pains ? Speak, then, 
to me — I am her son.” 

He was about to draw forth his purse ; but her look, which 
grew animated, prevented him, as she said, “I come on a holy 
errand. The dying lady commanded me to convey her last 
werds to her roval daughter. I seek permission from your king 
to fulfil her wish.” 

Dorset was thoughtless and eager. He saw no objection that 
Henry could have that his sister should have the last message 
from her now dead parent ; so without hesitation he told the 
maiden that by Henry’s permission ho was now about to com- 
municate the sad intelligence to the queen, and that she might 
accompany him. 

It is thus by small invisible threads that Fate weaves the 
intricate web of our lives. All hung by the slenderest tissue : 
had Monina seen Henry, most assuredly he would have pre- 
vented the interview she sought, and have used his utmost craft 
to discover whether the fatal secret made a part of the queen’s 
message. Now his sagacity, his caution, his severity were of no 
avail. Monina stood in the presence of his wife. 

Six years had considerably altered Elizabeth ; habitual fear 
had engendered a moral timidity, which was not natural to her. 
for she was the daughter of a proud race : her sweetness, her 
affectionate disposition still remained ; but her soul was sad, 
and she looked pale and inanimate. The news of her mother’s 



 




THE TOKEN. 



133 



death moved her to tears. One expression of bitter regret 
burst from her lips ; it was mingled with blame of her consort ; 
and she cheeked herself, while she wept still more abundantly. 
Dorset felt uneasy at the sight of female tears ; he longed to 
escape. Monina’s request for a private interview came to 
liberate him ; he presented her to his sister, and hurried away. 

Elizabeth eagerly asked many questions concerning her 
mother’s dying moments. The Spanish maiden, wondering at 
her own success, fearful of interruption, presented the missal, 

■ and then hastened to declare the motive for which it was sent. 
She opened the jewelled clasps, and showed the queen the prayer 
written in her mother’s hand on a blank leaf of the brilliantly- 
illuminated pages, liapidly the enthusiastic girl detailed the 
escape, the exile of the duke of York, while Elizabeth, not 
daring to believe her own senses, astounded, terrified, looked 
with large open eyes on the animated countenance of her lovely 
visitant. Before Monina paused, or gave time for an answer, 
they were interrupted by the entrance of Sir William Stanley. 
He started when he saw Afonina, nor did the confused look of 
his queen, as she hastily closed the fatal volume, tend to re-assure 
him. He came to announce a visit from Henry to Elizabeth. 
Frightened at what he saw, he hardly permitted a slight inter- 
change of greeting, but hurried Afonina away, through a door 
hid by the tapestry, down a narrow staircase into a garden, 
and then by a small gate that opened on a court. In this 
court was placed the entrance to the apartments of the pages 
and esquires of the king. Stanley unlocked the gate cautiously, 
hesitating before he permitted his fair companion to pass on, in 
the fear that some mischievous boy or prying servitor might be 
there to wonder at and question wherefore lie led the maiden 
from the queen’s garden through a door, sacred, and never opened, 
into the resort of wild and dissolute youth. As he unclosed the 
wicket, at its very entrance, standing so that in spite of every 
caution a full view of Afonina was at once afforded, stood a 
young man, whose countenance bespoke him to be ever on the 
alert for gamesome tricks or worse mischief. His first aspect 
was that of recklessness ; his second spoke of baser habits ; and 
athwart both broke gleams now of better feelings, now of 
desperate passion. He had heard the rusty bolts move, and 
perceived the slow opening of the door. Knowing how sacred 
was the respect enforced towards this ingress to the queen’s 
retirement, lie stood close to discover and shame any intruder. 
“ In good season, my Lord Chamberlain ! ” he at first exclaimed, 
vexed to find no cause for taunt, till perceiving his fair com- 
panion, the expression of his countenance changed to irony, as 




134 



THB TOKBN. 



lie cried, “ Whither so fast and fearfully, my good lord ? Does 
her grace deal in contraband ; and art thou the huckster P ” 

“ As ill luck will have it, wild Robin. Clifford 1 ” cried Stanley, 
angrily. 

“ Nay, we are brothers in wildness now, fair sir,” retorted the 
other ; “ and I claim my part here.” 

Clifford approached Monina ; but Stanley interposed. “Waste 
your ribaldry on me, good knight, but spare this child. Let us 
pass in all speed, I pray you.” 

Monina drew baclc ; but Clifford still followed. “ Child ! In 
good hour she is young ; and but that burning suns have made 
her cheek tawny, I might call her fair. She is w T ell worth your 
pains, and I praise them. Sweet mistress, I am beholden to my 
Lord Chamberlain for making us friends.” 

He was running on thus ; but Monina, collecting her spirits, 
raised her large eyes on him. His name had caught her ear ; she 
remembered partly having seen him on the night of their flight 
from Tournay ; and frequent mention had subsequently been 
made of him by the cousins. She began — “ Sir Robert Clifford, 

I know you wiil not harm me.” 

“ Thanks for that knowledge, pretty one,” cried the youth ; 

“ old grey-beards only, with frozen hearts (pardon me, Sir 
William !), could injure thee ; thou art sure of good from tall 
fellows (though in troth tall I am not) like me.” 

Sir William writhed with impatience ; again and again he 
would have interrupted the intruder. Monina replied : — “ We 
have met .before — when you served him I now serve. I speak iu 
his name : for the sake of Pebkin Wabbeck, detain me no 
longer. Noble sir, I attend you. Sir Clifford yields respect to 
the words I have spoken.” 

“ They are strange indeed, maiden,” he replied, “ and I must 
hear more of this. We have met before, 1 now believe ; and 
we must meet again. Meanwhile, I will keep off birdcatchers 
till you and his reverence get clear of these limed twigs. Ah ! 
I see a gallant ; I will go draw William d’Aubigny aside whilo 
you pass forth.” 

And now again Sir William proceeded on his expedition, and 
conducted his gentle companion beyond the precincts of the 
palace. As they parted one from the other, Monina, in a brief, 
energetic manner, delivered the message of the departed queen 
to the good chamberlain : he was more disconcerted than sur- 
prised, and the reflection that Clifford was a party to the secret, 
added to his consternation. He felt how far he was compro- 
mised by the introduction of Monina to the young queen ; feai 
for a while palsied his better feelings : he replied only by 




THE TOKEN* 



135 



entreating her not to remain longer in London, but to embark in 
all haste for France : he then quitted her, yet again came back 
to ask where she sojourned in town, and turned away a second 
time, as if to escape from his better self, and from the interest 
he felt in King Edward’s son, which impelled him to ask a 
thousand questions. 

He returned to the courtyard of the palace, and found Clif- 
ford pacing its length in deep thought. Monina’s words had 
awakened a thousand ideas in his unquiet bosom. Since the 
event to which she referred, when he delivered Kichard from 
Frion’s hands, he had run a headlong, ruinous course. No 
character can be wholly evil ; and Clifford’s was not destitute 
of good, though overgrown and choked up by weedy vices, so 
that his better nature too often served but as a spur and in- 
centive to folly and crime. He was generous ; but that led to 
rapacity ; since, unable to deny himself or others, if he de- 
spoiled himself one day, on the next he engaged in the most 
desperate enterprises to refill the void. He was bold — that made 
him fearless in doing wrong; and to drown the gentle spirit 
of humanity, which, too often for his own peace, sprung up in 
his heart, he hardened himself in selfishness ; then, as his sen- 
sitive, undisciplined nature received new impressions, ho was 
cowardly, cruel, and remorseless. He had never forgotten the 
princely boy he had saved : he turned to that recollection as to 
one of the few oases of virtue in the far extended desert of ill, 
over which, in hours of satiety or despondency, his sickening 
memory wandered. Indeed, he was yet too young to be decidedly 
vicious : for at one-and-twenty a thousand mere human impulses, 
unrepressed by worldly wisdom, occasion sallies of kindly sym- 
pathy. The worst was, that Clifford was a ruined man : his 
fortunes were nought, his reputation shaken on its base; he 
( veiled, bv an appearance of hilarity and recklessness, the real 
despair that gnawed at his heart, when he considered all that 
he might have been — the worse than nothing that he was. 
Hitherto he had, to a great degree, blinded the world, and he 
longed for some adventure, some commotion, either public or 
private, that should refill his emptied money-bags, and paint 
him fair in men’s eye’s ; all these considerations mingled incon- 
gruously to make him wish to know more of the outcast duke. 
He awaited the return of Stanley — he learned the name of the 
Spanish girl : as they spoke, both became aware that tho other 
possessed a secret each dreaded to avow. Clifford first dashed 
through the flimsy barrier of useless discretion, and related his 
adventure at Lisle ; meantime Sir William broke forth in 
lamentation, that young Kichard should, have been induced to 








136 



cliffobd’s besolve. 



quit the security of private life, to enter on an unequal and 
bloody contest, which could only end in destruction to himself 
and his partizans, while England would again be made the tomb 
of the Irish (the landing of Richard at Cork was all that was 
then known), whom he might allure from their woods and bogs 
to ravage the more gifted sister isle. A new light was let in 
on Clifford at these words. Was the game already playing — 
the box shaken — the die about to fall ? This required his atten- 
tion, and determined his half-formed purpose of visiting, that 
same night, the daughter of do Earo. 



CHAPTER XIX. 
Clifford’s resolve. 



His father was a right good lord, 

His mother a lady of high degree ; 

But they, alas ! were dead him frae. 

And he loved keeping companie. 

To spend the day with merry cheer. 

To drink and revel every night ; 

To card and dice from eve to morn, 

It was, I ween, his heart’s delight. 

The Heir or Lvjjne, 

It had been Monina’s design to return to the protection of 
Lady Brampton, immediately on the fulfilment of her task in 
England. The appearance of Clifford suggested other ideas. 
It was the duty of every friend of York to declare his existence, 
and claim the allegiance of his subjects. It might seem a hope- 
less enterprise for her, a young foreign girl, to do this in the 
heart of the usurper’s power ; and yet she fancied that she might 
attempt it with success. The most distant prospect of serving 
her beloved friend was hailed by her with romantic ardour ; 
while the knowledge possessed by Stanley and Clifford promised 
to render her undertaking less nugatory in its effects. Her 
purpose was quickly formed. She resolved to postpone her 
departure, and to busy herself in replanting, in Tudor’s own 
city of London, the uprooted rose-bush, parent of the spotless 
flower. None but a woman’s fond enthusiastic heart can tell the 



 




ciiffobd’s besoive. 



137 



glow of joy, the thrilling gladness, that diffused itself through her 
frame, as this plain spread itself, clear as a map, beautiful as a 
champagne country viewed from some overtopping mountain 
peak, to her keen mind’s eye. She rode to London occupied by 
these thoughts, and on her arrival, announced to the merchant 
friend, at whose house she resided, her intention of l’emaining in 
England : the vessel that was on the morrow to have conveyed 
her away would bear instead a letter to Lady Brampton, explana- 
tory of her hopes and intentions : that very night, in the seclusion 
of her chamber, she robbed some hours from sleep to write 
it ; her enthusiasm animated her expressions ; her cheeks glowed 
as she wrote, for she spoke of services she might render to him 
who was the idol of her thoughts ; though with his idea she 
consciously mingled no feeling save that of devoted friendship 
and an intense desire to benefit. The weariness of spirit that 
oppressed her in his absence, she did not attribute to him. 

Thus intently occupied, she was unaware of a parley in the 
room beneath growing into a loud contention, till steps upon 
the stairs recalled her wandering thoughts ; she looked up from 
her task ; but her gaze of inquiry was changed to an expression 
of heartfelt pleasure, when Sir Robert Clifford entered the 
apartment. Here then her enterprise commenced. There, was 
something that did not quite please her in the manners of her 
visitant, but this was secondary to the great good she might 
achievo through him. Her eyes danced in their own joy, as 
she cried, “Welcome, gallant gentleman! you are here to my 
wish : you come to learn how best you may prove your alle- 
giance to your rightful sovereign, your zeal in his cause.” 

These words grated somewhat on the ear of a man who had 
hitherto worn the Red Rose in his cap, and whose ancestors had 
died for Lancaster. He did not, therefore, reply in the spirit 
of her wish when he said, “ We will not quarrel, pretty one, 
about names ; sooth is it, that I came to learn tidings of my 
princely gossip, and I am right glad that fortune makes thee 
the tale-bearer. Prolong as thou wilt, I shall never cry hold 
while my eyes serve to make true harmony to the sound of your 
Bweet voice.” 

Much more he said in the same strain of gallantry, os he 
placed himself beside the maiden, with the air of one whose 
soft speeches ever found ready hearing. Monina drew back, 
replying, gently, “ I am the partizan, the vowed conspirator 
for a cause, whose adherents walk as over the thread-broad 
ridge spanning an unfathomable gulph, which I have heard 
spoken of by the Moors in my own Granada ; I beseech you, as 
you are a gentlemau, reserve your fair speeches for the fortu- 



,gle 




138 



CLIFFOBD’8 BK80LVB. 



nate ladies of your native land. I will be a beacon light to 
guide you, a clue for your use through a maze, a landmark to 
point your way ; meanwhile, forget me as I am ; let me be a 
voice only.” 

“ As soon forget sunshine or moonshine, or the chance of play 
when the dice-box rattles,” thought Clifford, as she clasped her 
little fingers in the fervour of her wish, and raised on him her 
soft, full eyes : but though he gazed with unrepressed admiration, 
he said nothing as she told the story of Duke Itichard’s Spanish 
adventures, and last of his attempt in Ireland and the embassy 
sent to him by King Charles. How eloquently and well she told 
his tale! speaking of him with unfeigned admiration, nothing 
disguising her zealous devotion. “ Sir Clifford,” she continued, 
“ you are his friend. His cause will sanctify your sword ; it will 
call you from the paltry arts of peace to the nobler deeds of 
chivalry ; it will give you grace in the eyes of her you love, 
defending and asserting your king.” 

She paused, breathless from her own agitation ; she looked up 
into his thoughtful face and placed her hands on his ; the soft 
touch awoke him from a reverie in which he had lost himself. 

“ Maiden,” he replied, “ you plead your cause even too well ; 
you have cast a spell upon me ; so that at this moment I would 
readily swear to perform your bidding, but that, when I do not 
see your witch’s eyes, nor hear your magic voice, another wind 
may blow me right to the other side. Do not call this courtly 
gallantry, would by Saint Cupid that it were ! for I am not pleased 
to behold my sage self fined down into a woman’s tool : nor is it 
love ; — Thor s hammer could not knock a splinter from my hard 
heart, nor the Spanish sun thaw its seven-fold coat of ice. I 
never have loved ; I never shall : but there is some strange 
sorcery about you. When I next see you, I will draw a circle 
round, knock my head three times on the eastern floor, and call 
out ‘aroint!’ This twinkling light too, and darkling hour — I 
must away : — sunshine shall, when next wo meet, protect me 
from your incantations. Will you trust yourself P At to- 
morrow’s noon a servitor of mine shall await you at the gate of 
St. Paul’s : dare you commit yourself to one in the devil’s pay P” 

All this incoherent talk was spoken at intervals ; he rose, sat 
down, stood, over her as she patiently let him run his tether’s 
length : his last words were said in an insinuating, and, as well 
as he could command, a soft voice, as he pressed her hand in his. 
She crossed herself, as she replied, “ Our Lady and my cause 
shall protect me, while I adventure life fearlessly for its sake ! 
Adieu till then, sir knight : the saints guard you, and give you 
better thoughts.” 




CLIFFOBD’9 besoive. 



139 



The cavalier proceeded homewards, considering deeply the 
part he was to act. He thought of what he might gain or lose 
by siding with the duke ; and he was angry to find that the 
image of Monina presented itself even more vividly, than his 
ambitious dreams. “ God assoil me,” thought he. “ I will 
repeat a paternoster backwards, and so unsay her sorceries. She 
has persuaded me, even as my own soul did before, that the best 
mode to mend my broken fortunes, and better still to regild my 
faded escutcheon, is to join Duke Richard. Yet, after all, this 
may be mere magic ; for once I will act a wise man’s part, and 
seek old gray -beard, my Lord Fitzwater.” 

Lord Fitzwater endured impatiently the harsh countenance 
Henry bore to him, ever since he had permitted his young rival 
to escape. Some question of right and law, which implicated a 
large portion of his possessions, had, as he believed, been unjustly 
decided against him through the interposition of the king, who, 
on every occasion, sought to mortify and injure the old man. 
He lived as the disgraced and impoverished servants of a court 
are wont to live, neglected and forgotten. He had no family. 
He loved Robert Clifford better than any other in the world ; 
and he, when suffering from disappointment or loss, when hi3 
own pain reminded him of that of others, sought his ancient 
friend — too seldom to please him with a show of reverence, often 
enough to keep alive his affection. 

If it were good for him to aid in the replanting of the White 
Rose, so also were it well that Lord Fitzwater joined the same 
party. He talked even to himself of asking his experienced 
friend’s advice ; he really meant to endeavour to seduce him into 
a companionship in the projected rebellion against Henry Tudor. 
In this spirit he paid his visit ; nearly three months had elapsed 
since his preceding one. The noble received him coldly; so at 
once to break through the ceremony that fettered their discourse, 
he cried, “ I hear from soft Sir William Stanley, that his majesty 
has again said that he will find a way to thank you for a service 
you rendered him some six years ago.” 

“ I have long had knowledge of his grace’s good memory on 
that point,” answered his lordship, angrily ; “ and yours, 
methinks, might remind you of the part you played, liy St. 
Thomas, Robin, I believe you saw further in the game than I. 
But what makes the king harp on this out-worn tale P” 

“ Few know — we may guess. Have you not heard him tell of 
a new king of kerns and gallow-glasses P a phantom duke, whoso 
duchy lies without the English pale in Ireland P a ghost whose 
very name makes the king’s knees knock together as he sits on 
the throne P This ruffler, who calls himself son of Edward the 




140 



Clifford’s ersolve. 



Fourth, the Prince Richard of York, escaped from the Totter, 
bears a strange resemblance to the hero of Lisle, Perkiu 
Warbeck.” 

“Would, by St. George, he were the same!” exclaimed the 
noble; “my dagger should sever the entwined roses, our armdd 
heels tread to dust the cankered red blossom.” 

“ You speak treason, my lord,” said Clifford ; “ but you speak 
to a friend. Let us talk more calmly. I, the playmate of the 
imprisoned prince, know that he, Perkin Warbeck, and the Irish 
hero are the same — this I can prove : so much for the justice of 
our cause ; as to the expediency, — we, my good lord, are styled 
Lancastrians, but our meed therefore is small. Tudor is a niggard 
king ; Plantagenet, a young and generous adventurer. What 
shall we say? Shall Fitzwater and Clifford place the sacred 
diadem on this boy’s head, and become chiefs in the land where 
they now pine obscurely ? ” 

Lord Fitzwater fastened his keen eyes on his companion, while 
his hand involuntary grasped his dagger’s hilt. “ I am not an 
old man,” he cried ; “ fifty-seven winters have shed no snows 
upon my head. I remember when, at Tewkesbury, I smote an 
iron-capped yeoman who raised his battle-axe against our young 
Edward, aud clove the villain to the throat. I can wield the 
same weapon — do the same deed now ; and I am thrown like a 
rusty sword among old armour — refused permission to lead my 
followers to Calais. War in France ! — it will never be : the word 
is grown obsolete in England. Ambassadors thrive instead of 
valiant captains ; crafty penmanship in lieu of straightforward 
blows. Art sure, Robin, that this youth is King Edward’s 
son ? ” 

This was the first step Clifford took ; and the eagerness of 
Fitzwater quickly impelled him to spread wider the narrow circle 
of conspirators. The intelligence, meanwhile, that the king 
of France had received in Paris with meet honour a Yorkist 
pretender to the crown burst at once over England, spreading 
wonder and alarm. Some few despised the pretensions of the 
youth ; the greater number gave to them full and zealous cre- 
dence. Many, dreading Henry’s sagacity and harshness, re- 
coiled from every thought rebellious to him ; others hailed with 
joy the appearance of a rival who would shake his throne, and 
hold forth hope of disturbance and change. As yet this was talk 
merely ; nay, there was more thought, than spoken. Men ex- 
pected that some other would make the first move, which would 
put in play the menacing forces mustered on either eide. Mo- 
nima saw with joy the work well begun. She remembered the 
queen’s injunction to seek the Dean of St. Paul’s : in acquiring 




Clifford's resolve. 



141 



him, many reverent and powerful partizans were secured. Her 
presence added to the interest which the mere name of Richard 
of York excited. Many who disbelieved his tale were eager to 
behold his lovely advocate : they listened to her syren eloquence, 
and ranged themselves on her side. Clifford watched jealously 
the influence she acquired. When he first saw her, she had 
been an untaught girl in comparison with the graceful, self-pos- 
sessed being who now moved among them. One feeling in 
her heart separated her indeed from the crowd — but this was 
veiled, even to herself ; and she appeared courteous, benign to 
all. Clifford often flattered himself that when she spoke to him 
her expressions were more significant, her voice sweeter. He 
did not love — no, no — his heart could not entertain the effeminate 
devotion ; but if she loved him, could saints in heaven reap 
higher glory ? Prompted by vanity, and by an unavowed im- 
pulse, he watched, hung over her, fed upon her words, and felt 
that in pleasing her he was for the present repaid for the zeal he 
manifested for the duke her friend. Strange he never suspected 
that she was animated towards the prince by a deeper feeling. 
They had lived like near relations from their childhood ; that 
were sufficient to raise the flame that shed so bright a light over 
her soul : that he was a prince, and she the daughter of a Spanish 
mariner, forbade their union; and he paid the just tribute to 
innocent youth, in not judging of its upright purity by the dis- 
torted reflection his depraved heart presented, whenever he 
dared turn his eyes inward. 

Foundation was thus laid in England for a momentous com- 
bination. Intelligence from the continent was gathered with 
keen interest. Early in December the axuny of Henry recrossed 
the Channel : they brought word of the favour and esteem 
Richard enjoyed at the French court, of the zeal of the exiled 
Yorkists, of their satisfied assurance of his truth. Next was 
spread abroad the news of his reception by the dowager duchess 
of Burgundy, and the brilliant figure he made at Brussels. 
What step would be taken next to advance his cause P 

This was a fearful question for the actual king of England. 
He redoubled his artful policy, while he wore a mask of mere 
indifference. The Yorkists, not yet considerable enough to act 
openly, or even covertly to combine for any great attempt, felt 
fresh bonds thrown over, new and vexatious tyrannies in exercise 
against them. This served to unite and animate their chiefs ; 
they each and all resolved that, when fit opportunity armed their 
prince, their swords should at the same moment leap from the 
scabbards, darkly to be dyed ere resheathed, or struck useless 
from their lifeless hands. The days of St. Alban’s and Tcwkes- 



 



142 



THB CONSPIRACY. 



bury passed in all their grim conclusions before their eyes, but 
the event was worth the risk : defeated, tliey lost nothing; vic- 
torious, they exchanged a narrow-hearted, suspicious, exacting 
tyrant for a chivalrous and munificent sovereign ; Henry Tudor, 
the abhorred Lancastrian, for the grandson of York, the lineal 
heir of Edward the Third — the true representative of the kings 
of the glorious and long line of the Plantaganets, 



CHAPTER XX. 

THB CONSPIRACY. 



Like one lost in a thorny wood, 

That rents the thorns, and is rent with the thorns. 

Seeking: a way, and straying from the way; 

Not knowing how to find the open air, 

Hut toiling desperately to find it out. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

In the days of our earlier history, our commerce led us to havo 
more intercourse with Flanders than with France. That which 
journeyed slowly and doubtfully from Paris came in all the heat 
of a first impression from the Low Countries. A train had been 
laid before, which now took light and blazed through the king- 
dom. The duchess of Burgundy’s reception of the duke of York, 
the honours rendered him at her court, the gladgathering together 
of the fugitive English, gave pledge of his truth, and promise 
of glorious results. Sedition began to spring up in England on 
every side ; even as, after a mild rain in the birth of the year, a 
black, ploughed field is suddenly verdant with the youug blades 
of wheat. All who had, since the battles of Bosworth and of 
Stoke, lived in seclusion or fear ; all who from whatever reason 
had taken sanctuary ; men of ruined fortunes, who desired to 
escape bondage ; came singly or in small companies to the coast, 
embarked for the continent, and hastened to the court of the 
dowager of Burgundy. All discontented men, who felt them- 
selves looked coldly on by Tudor, to whom they had yielded the 
throne of their native land ; many, whom it grieved and vexed 
to see the world stagnate in changeless peace, desirous of novelty 
and glad of any pretence that called them into activity, dashed 



 







THE CONSPIBACY. 143 

headlong into revolt ; nor were there few, chiefly indeed among 
the nobility, who had lamented the fall of the House of York, 
and hailed gladly this promise of its resuscitation. The common 
adventurers and soldiers of fortune acted on their single separate 
resolves ; the noble adherents of the White Hose drew together, 
that there might be plan and strength in their schemes. They 
were cautious, for their enemy was crafty and powerful ; they 
were resolute, for they hated him. 

Out, far in the low flats bordering the river Lea, there stood, 
in a marshy hollow, a straggling vulage, now effaced from the 
landscape. At its extremity was a solid, but gloomy, square 
brick house, surrounded by a moat, which the low watery soil 
easily filled, even to overflow ; and the superfluity was received 
in a deep stagnant pool at the back of the mansion. The damp 
atmosphere had darkened the structure, and thrown a mantle of 
green moss and speckled lichen over the bricks. Its fantastically 
carved and heavy portal yawned like a black cavern’s mouth, and 
added to the singularly desolate appearance of the mansion. 
The village was but half inhabited, and looked as struck by 
poverty and discomfort. The house belonged to the Clifford 
family. It had been built, it was said, in Henry the Fifth’s 
time, when Sir Hogcr Clifford, a stern old man, following his 
sovereign to the wars, shut up here his beautiful young wife, so 
to insure her fidelity during his absence. Among her peers and 
gentle companions, the Lady Clifford had doubtless been true to 
the bond that linked her to her lord ; but, alone in this solitary 
mansion, surrounded by ill-natured peasants, pining for her 
father’s pleasant halls, and her girlish enjoyments, no wonder 
that she found her state intolerable. Age and jealousy are ill 
mates for youth and sprightliness, and suspicion easily begets 
that which it abhors even to imagine. One who had loved her 
in her virgin days introduced himself into her suite ; the brief 
months of stolen happiness passed by, and the green stagnant 
pool was, they said, the cold sepulchre of the betrayed lovers. 
Since then, during the wars of York and Lancaster, this house 
had been the resort of Clifford’s followers : and, when the White 
Hose became supreme, that alone of the family possessions had 
not been forfeited to the crown : it was the last relic of Sir 
Hobert’s fortunes. His few tenantry, hard pressed for rent to 
satisfy his necessities, had deserted their abodes ; the green 
acres had passed into other hands ; a band of poor cotters alone 
remained, and this old house haunted by the ghosts of those who 
slept beneath the waveless pool, dilapidated, disfurnished. Yet 
here the wild knight had held lawless carousals ; hither he some- 
times fled to hide after some ruinous loss, or when he was pursued 



144 



THE CONSPIBACY. 



by those wlio sought to avenge insults committed during drunken 
brawls. 

Now it would seem some orgie was meditated: liveried ser- 
vants, one or two only bearing Clifford’s coat, the rest wearing 
different badges, as belonging to different masters, had arrived 
during the previous day. Some of the ruined huts were pulled 
down to supply firewood, and the old chimnies sent out volumes 
of smoke ; various carts, laden, some with eatables, fat bucks, 
young calves, pheasants, hares, and partridges, piles of bread, 
seven hooped casks of wine, were unladen in the mildew-stainccl 
hall. Other carts followed the first, bearing bedding, apparel, 
furniture, and, it was whispered by the idling villagers, arms. 
Several apartments were strewed thick with rushes, and the 
blazing fires, in spite -of the tattered plaster and stained ceilings, 
imparted cheerfulness to the rooms. There was need of internal 
warmth ; a thick snow-storm fell, sheeting the low fields, which, 
uninterspersed by trees, now looked doubly wild and drear. The 
waters of the moat and pool were frozen ; a sharp north wind 
whistled round the house. For the first time for many years its 
poor dependents were cheered during the severe season by the 
crumbs, or rather large portions of superfluous food, from the 
mansion of their landlord. 

The first guest that arrived came in a close litter, attended by 
a Moorish servant, and Clifford himself on horseback. Monina 
bad forgotten her Flemish home : bright Andalusia — its orange 
groves, myrtle and geranium hedges, the evergreen forests which 
embowered Alcala, and the fertile laughing Vega of Granada, 
formed her image of such portions of fair earth, as, unencum- 
bered by houses, afforded on it3 green and various surface 
sustenance to bis inhabitants. She shivered before the northern 
blast, and gazed appalled on the white plain, where the drifting 
snow shifted in whole showers as the wind passed over it. Tho 
looks of the people, sallow, ill-clothcd, and stupid, made her turn 
from contemplating them, as she yet answered the contemptuous 
and plaintive remarks of her Spanish attendant in a cheerful, 
deprecating voice. 

For two successive days other guests continued to arrive. 
They were chiefly men of note, yet came attended by few domes- 
tics. There was Lord Fitzwatcr, dissatisfied at the part of rebel 
he was forced, be thought, to play; and on that account be was 
louder than any against King Henry. Sir Simon Mountford 
wa3 a Yorkist of the days of Edward the Fourth ; he personally 
bated .Richmond, and looked on Richard’s as a snore cl cause. 
Sir Thomas Thwailes had been a friend of the carl of Rivers, 
and gladly seized this occasion to avenge his death, attributable 



.OCR 




THE CONSPIBACY. 



145 



to the dastardly policy of Henry. William Daubeny was 
attached to the earl of Warwick, and entered warmly into 
projects whose success crowned his freedom. Sir Robert Eat- 
cliffe, cousin of Lord Fitzwater, had lived in poor disguise since 
the battle of Stoke, and gladly threw off his peasant’s attire 
to act the soldier again in a new war of the Hoses. Sir Richard 
Leasey had been chaplain to the household of Edward the 
Fourth. Sir William Worseley, dean of St. Paul’s, was a rare 
instance of gratitude outliving the period of receiving benefits ; 
he had been a creature, and was a sincere mourner, of the late 
queen. Many others, clergy and laity, entered the plot; a 
thousand different motives impelled them to one line of conduct, 
and brought them to Clifford’s moated house, to conspire the 
overthrow of Tudor, and the exaltation of the duke of York to 
the throne. One only person invited to this assembly failed. 
Sir William Stanley ; each voice was loud against his tergiver- 
sation, and Clifford’s whispered sarcasm cut deeper than all. 

The debates and consultations lasted three days. After infinite 
confusion and uncertainty, the deliberations brought forth 
conclusions that were resolved upon unanimously. First, the 
house they then occupied, and the village, was to be a repository 
for arms, a rendezvous for the recruits of the cause. The con- 
spirators levied a tax on themselves, and collected some thousand 
pounds to be remitted to the prince. They regulated a system, 
whose object was to re-awaken party-spirit in England, and to 
quicken into speedy growth the seeds of discontent and sedition, 
which Henry’s avarice and extortion had sown throughout the 
land. Those who possessed estates and followers were to organize 
troops. At last, they deputed two of their number to go over 
to the duchess of Burgundy, and to carry their offers of service 
to her royal nephew. The two selected for this purpose were, 
first, Sir Iiobert Clifford, who had known the duko formerly, and 
who, it was supposed, would be peculiarly welcome to him ; and 
secondly, Master William Barley, a man advanced in years ; ho 
had combated in nearly all the twelve pitched and sanguinary 
battles that were fought between York and Lancaster, lie had 
been a boy-servitor to the old duko of York, a yeoman ot 
Edward’s guard, a halberdier in Richard the Third’s time. 
He had been left for dead on the field of Bosworth, but came to 
life again to appear at the battle of Stoke. He had risen in the 
world, and was a man of substance and reputation : he was not 
noble ; but he was rich, zealous, and honest. 

The meeting lasted three days, and then gradually dispersed. 
All had gone well. An assembly, whose individuals were noble, 
wealthy, or infl uential, united to acknowledge Richard as their 

l 




146 



THB CONSPIBACY. 



liege. Foreign potentates declared for him ; and hope was high 
in every bosom at all these forerunners of success. Monina’s 
enthusiastic heart beat with ecstasy. Young, the innocent child 
of unsophisticated impulse, her gladness showed itself in wild 
spirits and unconstrained expressions of exultation. She and 
Clifford returned to London together, for he contrived tacitly 
and unsuspected by her, to install himself as her habitual escort. 
Ilappy in expectation of her beloved friend’s success, she talked 
without reserve ; and the genius, which was her soul’s essence, 
gave power and fascination to everything she said. She spoke 
of Spain, of Richard’s adventures there, of her father and his 
voyages. The name of Columbus was mentioned ; and the New 
"World — source of wondrous conjecture. They spoke of the 
desolate waste of waters that hems in the stable earth — of the 
golden isles beyond : to all these subjects Monina brought vivid 
imagery, and bright painting, creations of her own quick fancy. 
Clifford had never before held such discourse. In hours of sick- 
ness or.distaste, at moments of wild exhilaration, when careering 
on a high-mettled horse beneath the stars of night, fanned by a 
strong but balmy wind, he had conceived ideas allied to the lofty 
aspirations of our nature ; but he cast them off as dreams, un- 
worthy of a wise man’s attention. The melodious voice of 
Monina, attuned by the divine impulses of her spirit, as the 
harp of the winds by celestial breezes, raised a commotion in 
his mind, such as a prophetess of Delphi felt when the oracular 
vapour rose up to fill her with sacred fury. A word, a single 
word, was a potent northern blast to dash aside the mist, and to 
re-apparel the world in its, to him, naked, barren truth. So fer- 
vently, and so sweetly did she speak of Bichard, that Clifford’s 
burning heart was in a moment alight with jealousy ; and the 
love he despised, and thought he mastered, became his tyrant, 
when it allied itself to his evil passions. He looked angry, ho 
spoke sharply — Monina was astonished ; but his libellous insinu- 
ations fell innocuous on her pure mind : she only felt that she 
feared him, half-disliked him, and, trembling and laughing as she 
spoke, said, “Well, well; I will not care for your angry mood. 
You ai’e going soon : ere you return, our prince will, by his own 
bright example, have taught you better things. Learn from him 
diligently, sir knight, for he is all courtesy and nobleness.” 
Clifford laughed bitterly, and a base resolve of lowering the 
high-hearted York to his own degrading level arose in his breast : 
it was all chaos there as yet ; but the element, which so lately 
yielded to a regular master-wind of ambition, w T as tossed in wild 
and hideous waves by— -we will not call the passion love — by 
jealousy, envy, and growing hate. Short interval was allowed 




THE COKSPIBNCY. 



147 

for the gathering 0 f the storm ; he was soon called upon to fulfil 
his commission, and to accompany Master William Barley on 
their important embassy to Brussels. 

The scene here presented, operated a considerable change on 
these personages ; arriving from England, where the name of the 
White Bose was whispered, and every act in his favour was hid 
in the darkness of skulking conspiracy, to his court at Brussels, 
where noble followers clustered round him, and the duchess, 
with a woman’s tact and a woman’s zeal, studied how best to 




ness, still glowed in the bosom of this daughter of Henry the 
Sixth’s unhappy rival, — the child of disaster, and bride of frantic 
turbulence. Opposed to the remorseless Louis the Eleventh, 
struggling with the contentious insolence of the free towns of 
Plunders, war appeared to her the natural destiny of man, and 
she yielded to its necessity, while her gentle heart sorrowed 
over the misery which it occasioned. 

She first received Clifford and Barley ; and with the winning 
grace of a sovereign, solicited for her nephew their affection ana 
support : then she presented them to him — this was tho fair- 
haired, blue-eyed boy, whom Clifford saved, the gentle, noble- 
looking being, whose simplicity awed him ; whose bright smile 
said, “ I reign over every heart.” The knight shrunk into him- 
self : how had he dyed his soul in a worldliness which painted 
his countenance in far other colours. — He was not deficient in 
grace : his dark-grey eyes, veiled by long lashes, were in them- 
selves exceedingly handsome : the variableness of his face, traced 
with many unseasonable lines, yet gave him the power of assum- 
ing a pleasing expression ; and his person, though diminutive, 
was eminently elegant, while his Self-possession and easy address, 
covered a multitude of faults. Now, his first resolve was to 
insinuate himself into Richard’s affections; to become a favourite; 
and consequently to lead him blindly on the path he desired he 
should tread. 

The prince’s spirits were high ; his soul exulted in the attach- 
ment of others, in the gratitude that animated him. Until 
Clifford’s arrival (Edmund was for the time in England), Sir 
George Neville, among his new friends, held the first place. He 
was proud and reserved ; but his aristocracy was so blended with 
honour, his reserve with perfect attention and deference to tho 
feeling of others, that it was impossible not to esteem him, and 
find pleasure in liis society. Clifford and Neville made harsh 
discord together. Richard, inexperienced in the world, sought 

I. 2 







148 



THE C0N9PIBACY. 



to harmonize that which never could accord: Neville drew 
back ; and Clifford’s good humour, and apparent forbearance, 
made him appear to advantage. 

At this period ambassadors from Henry arrived at Brussels : 
they had been expected ; and as a measure of precaution, Richard 
left that place before their arrival, and took up his temporary 
abode at Audenarde, a town which made part of the dowry of 
the Duchess Margaret. All the English, save Lady Brampton, 
attended him to his retreat. The ambassadors, in their audience 
with the archduke, demanded the expulsion of Richard from the 
Low Countries, taunting the duchess with her support of the 
notorious impostor, Lambert Simnel, and speaking of the duke 
of York as a fresh puppet of her own making. They received 
the concise reply — that the gentleman she recognized as her 
nephew, inhabited the territory of her dowry, of which she was 
sovereign, and over which the archduke had no jurisdiction : 
however, that no disturbance might occur in their commercial 
relations, which would have roused all Flanders to rebellion, 
Maximilian was obliged to temporize, and to promise to afford 
no aid to the illustrious exile. 

Their audience accomplished, the ambassadors had only to 
return. They remained but one night at Brussels : on this 
night, Sir Edward Poynings and Doctor Wattam, who fulfilled 
this mission, were seated over a cup of spiced wine, in discourse 
concerning these strange events, the Lady Margaret’s majestic 
demeanour, and the strangeness of her supporting this j’oung 
man, if indeed he were an impostor ; when a cavalier, whose 
soiled dress and heated appearance bespoke fatigue and haste, 
entered the room. It was Sir Robert Clifford : they received 
him as liege subjects may receive a traitor, with darkened brows 
and serious looks, Clifford addressed them in his usual careless 
style : — “ Saint Thomas shield me, my masters ; can you not 
afford one benison to your gossip ! Good Sir Edward, we have 
ruffled together, when we wore both white and red in our caps ; 
and does the loss of a blood-stained rag degrade me from your 
friendship P ” 

Tlie bitter accusations of the knight, and the doctor’s sarcasms, 
which were urged in reply, awoke a haughty smile. “ Oh, yes ! ” 
he cried, “ye arc true men, faithful liege subjects! I, an 
inheritance of the block, already marked for quartering, because 
I am for the weak right, you for the strong might. Right, I 
say — start not — the mother of God be my witness ! Duke 
Richard is Duke Richard — is lord of us all — true son of the true 
king, Ned of the White Rose, whom you swore to protect, 
cherish, and exalt ; you, yes, even you, sir knight. Where is 







THE CONSJ?IEACY. 149 

now your oath ? cast from heaven, to pave the hell where you 
will reap the meed of your lying treachery ! ” 

Clifford, always insolent, was doubly so now that he felt 
accused of crimes of which he did not deem himself guilty ; but 
which would (so an obscure presentiment told him) hereafter 
stain his soul. Doctor Wattam interposed before Poyning’s 
rising indignation : “ Wherefore come you here, Sir Robert ? ” 
he asked. “ Though we are envoys of the king you have 
betrayed, we may claim respect : Sir Edward, as a gentleman 
and a cavalier — I as an humble servitor of the Lord Jesus, in 
whose name I command you not to provoke to a bloody deed 
the messengers of peace.” 

“ Cease to taunt me with a traitor’s name,” replied Sir 
Robert, “ and I will chafe no further the kindling blood of my 
sometime friend. Let us rather leave all idle recrimination. I 
came hither to learn how wagged the world in London town, 
and, as a piece of secret intelligence, to assure you that you 
wrongfully brand this stripling for an impostor. Bo he sovereign 
of our land or not — be it right or wrong to side with York 
against Lancaster — York he is, the son of Edward and Eliza* 
beth, so never fail me my good sword or my ready wits ! ” 

The best of us are inclined to curiosity. A little fearful of 
each other, the ambassadors exchanged looks, to know whether 
either would accuse the other of treachery if they heard further. 
“ Good sir,” said the doctor, gravely, “ methinks we do our liego 
sexwice in listening to this gentleman. We can the better 
report to his majesty on what grounds the diabolic machination 
is founded.” 

So, over another goblet, Clifford sat telling them how Richard 
had long lived as Perkin Warbeck in the neighbourhood of 
Tournay, under the guardianship of Madeline de Faro; and he 
recounted the history of his escape from the hands of Erion. 
Doctor Wattam carefully conned these names ; and then, in 
reply, he set forth how unworthy it was of a Clifford to desert 
from Lancaster ; how unlikely, even if it were true, which, after 
all his tale hardly proved it was, that the outcast boy could 
compete with success with the sage possessor of England’s 
throne. Poynings asked him how it pleased him to find himself 
at the same board with a Nevill and a Taylor, and hinted that 
an exile from his country and a traitor to his sovereign, this was 
hardly the way to replenish his purse, or to gain anew the broad 
lands he had lost. The service lie might do Henry by a return 
to his duty, gratitude and reward, were then urged by the 

E riest, while Clifford listened in dogged silence, His brow 
ecame flushed ; his lips worked with internal commotion. Ho 







150 



THE CONSriBACY. 



felt, lie knew, that he hated the very man whose cause ho 
espoused ; but he was pledged to so many, a whole array of 
noble and respected names came before him. — Could he, in the 
eyes of these, become a false foul traitor? He refilled, and 
quaffed again and again his cup ; and at last so wound himself 
up, as to begin, “ My friends, you speak sooth, though I may 
not listen ; yet, if you name one so humble and distasteful, say 
to my liege — ” 

A page in green and white — the colours of Lady Brampton — 
entered, announcing her speedy arrival. Clifford’s wits were 
already disturbed by wine ; instinct made him fear in such a 
state to come in contact with the subtle lady ; he drew his cap 
over his eyes, his cloak around his person, and vanished from 
the hall, ere his friends were aware of his intention. 

The interview between Lady Brampton and the gentlemen 
was of another sort. Sir Edward had in her younger days worn 
her colours. She was changed in person since then : but, when, 
after a short interval, he got over the shock consequent on 
the first perception of the sad traces of time on the cheek of 
beauty, he found that her eyes possessed the same fire, her voice 
the same thrilling tone, her smile the same enchantment. While 
the doctor, who had loved her as a daughter, and she regarded 
him with filial reverence, rebuked her for what he termed her 
misdeeds ; she replied with vivacity, and such true and zealous 
love for him whose cause she upheld, that they were both moved 
to listen with respect, if not conviction, to her asseverations. 
She could not gain her point, nor win them over to her side ; 
but, when she departed, neither spoke of young Richard's 
rights, unwilling to confess to one another that they wero 
converts to his truth. She went. The next day they departed 
from Brussels, and it became subject of discussion, what step 
Henry would now take, and whether, by any new measure, ho 
could disturb the ripening conspiracy against his throne. 



 




151 



• CHAPTER XXL 

THEASOK. 



Oh, what excuse can my invention make ? 

I do arrest ye of high treason here ! 

Shakspeare. 

Henbt’s ambassadors had wrought little change on any except 
Clifford. His words had been interrupted; they were nothing 
in themselves ; but their spirit, the spirit of treason, was in his 
heart. He made up his mind to nothing ; he looked forward to 
no certain project ; but he felt that hereafter he might betray his 
present associates to their arch-enemy. As yet his conscience 
was not seared ; the very anticipation of guilt tortured him, and 
he longed to fly from thought. Another blind impulse drove 
him on. He hated the prince, because he was his opposite; 
because, while he was a cankered bloom, his heart a waste, his 
soul crusted over by deceit, his very person sullied by evil deeds 
and thoughts, Duke Richard stood in all the pride of innocence. 
Could he degrade him to his own level, there would be a pang 
the less in his bosom ; could he injure him in the eyes of his 
friends, render him, as he himself had ever been, an object of 
censure, he would satisfy the ill-cravings of his nature, and do 
Henry a wondrous benefit by tarnishing the high character his 
rival bore, causing him whom his adherents set up as an idol, to 
become a reproach to them. 

Clifford thought that it would be an easy task to entice a gay 
young stripling into vice. Richard loved hawking, hunting, and 
jousting in the lists, almost more, some of his elder friends 
thought, than befitted one on the eve of a perilous enterprise. 
Governed by Edmund, attended bv Neville, watched by the 
noble duchess and vigilant Lady Rrampton, it was no great 
wonder that he had hitherto escaped error ; but Clifford went 
wilily to work, and hoped in some brief luckless hour to undo 
the work of years. Richard was glad to find in him a defender* 
of his inclination for manly sports ; an intimacy sprung up 



 




152 



TBEASON. 



between them, which it would not be the knight’s fault, if it did 
not bring about the catastrophe he desired. 

What then perpetually opposed all his measures P What, 
when he thought he had caused the tide of temptation to flow, 
suddenly made it ebb and retreat back to its former banks P 
Clifford, an adept in every art, moulded himself to every needful 
form, and at last won the secret from the deep recess of Kicliard’s 
heart 5 he loved — he loved Monina, that living emblem of 
innocent affection ; never, he had vowed, would he disturb the 
sacred calm that reigned in her young heart, nor gift ignorance 
with fatal knowledge. She knew not the nature of her own 
feelings, and he would not withdraw the veil ; but he was him- 
self conscious of being swayed by the tenderest love. He could 
not marry her; his own misfortunes had arisen from the mis- 
alliance of his father ; she herself would have refused to injure 
thus his cause, and have disdained him, if for her sake he had 
been inclined to abdicate his rights ; he would be her friend, her 
brother. With passion came sorrrow ; he fled from sad reflec- 
tion to the chase, to the exercise of arms. But other tempta- 
tion became blunted by this very sentiment ; his love grew more 
ardent by restraint ; it he yielded in her absence to the contem- 

f dation of her image, his soul was filled with a voluptuous 
anguor, from which he roused himself by attention to his 
duties or hardy pastimes ; but to every other form of pleasure 
he was cold. This was a strange, incomprehensible picture to 
present to the world-worn Clifford ; he fancied that it must be a 
delusion, but he found all the resistant of firm reality. To 
embitter his defeat came his own fierce passions, and the know- 
ledge that Monina loved his rival; they would see each other, 
be happy in each other, and laugh him to scorn ! He concealed 
his jealousy, his disappointment ; but double treble rage gnawed 
at his heart ; hatred awoke in her most viperous shape, fanged 
by a sense of inferiority, envenomed by envy, sharpened by the 
torture of defeat. How little did any know — above all, how 
not at all did his innocent victim suspect — the storm that brooded 
in his heart ! There was something in the very slightness and 
grace of his figure that was at variance with the idea of violence 
and crime ; and his glossing tongue added to the deceit. Lady 
Brampton feared him a little ; Frion saw something in him, that 
made aim pay greater court to him than to any other — these were 
the only indications. Sunshine and calm brooded over the earth- 
quake’s birth. 

Meanwhile, Henry was not sleeping at his post. He saw tho 
full extent of his danger, and exerted all his energy to provide 
against it. His immediate attention was chiefly directed to two 




TBEASON. 



153 



points. ” In the first place it was desirable to forge some tale, to 
account for the circumstances that spoke so loudly for the truth 
of York’s story, and thus to degrade him from the high esteem 
in which he was universally held ; secondly, it became necessary 
to certify to the public the death of Edward the Fifth and his 
brother in the Tower. Wo may well wonder at his ill success as 
to the first point ; — there never was concocted so ill-fangled, so 
incongruous, and so contradictory a fable, as that put together 
by Henry, purporting to be the history of the pretender. He 
was himself ashamed of it, and tried to call it in. History has 
in its caprice given more credence to this composition, than its 
contemporaries gave ; it was ridiculed and despised at the time 
even by the partisans of Lancaster. 

He was equally unfortunate in his second effort. To explain 
his attempts we must go back to the time of Richard the Third. 
On repeated reports being made to him of his unhappy imprisoned 
nephew’s illness, this monarch had commissioned Sir James 
Tirrel to visit him. The young prince had languished without 
any appearance of immediate danger, and then suddenly drooped 
even to the grave. Tirrel arrived at the Tower late in the even- 
ing, and the first intelligence he received was, that the Lord 
Edward was dying. At the midnight hour he was admitted 
into his sick-room ; his two attendants followed him no further 
than the antechamber. He entered. The glazed, eye and death- 
pale cheek of the victim spoke of instant dissolution; a few 
slight convulsions, and it was over — Edward was no more ! 
With wild, loud cries poor little York threw himself on his 
brother’s body. Tirrel’s servants, affrighted, entered; they 
found one of the princes, whose illness had been represented as 
trivial, dead ; the other was carried off, struggling and screaming, 
by their master and an attendant priest, the only two persons in 
the chamber. They departed two hours afterwards from the 
Tower. Tirrel seemed disturbed, and was silent. They ■would 
perhaps have thought less about it ; but hearing subsequently 
of the disappearance and supposed death of the young duke, 
wonder grew into suspicion, and in thoughtless talk they laid the 
foundation of a dire tale out of these fragments. Henry had 
heard it before ; now he endeavoured to trace its origin. Tirrel, 
who for some time had lived obscurely in the country, came to 
London — he was immediately seized, and thrown into prison. 
Emissaries were set to work to find the three others, the priest 
and Sir James’s two servants. Only one was to be found ; and 
when Tirrel was asked concerning this man, by name John 
Dighton, he told a tale of ingratitude punished by him, which 
was soothing sweet to King Henry’s car; he was speedily 



 



154 



TBEA90N. 



discovered and imprisoned. Both master and follower under- 
went many examinations ; and it was suggested to each, that 
reward would follow their giving countenance to a tale of mid- 
night murder. Tirrel was indignant at the proposal ; Digliton, 
on the contrary — a needy, bad man — while he told the story so 
as to gloss his own conduct, was very ready to inculpate his 
master ; and it grew finely under his fosterage. Henry saw 
that without Tirrel’s connivance he could not authenticate any 
account ; but he gave all the weight he could to these reports. 
Few persons believed them, yet it served to confuse and compli- 
cate events ; and, while people argued, some at least would tako 
his side of the question, and these would be interested to spread 
their belief abroad ; — Duke Richard must be the loser in every 
way. 

The spies, the traitor-emissaries of the fear-struck monarch, 
were all busy ; there was a whole army of them dispersed in 
England and Flanders — none could know the false man from the 
true. To obviate every suspicion, he caused his own hirelings 
to be proclaimed traitors, and cursed at St. Paul’s cross. 

The priests, ever his friends, were impiously permitted to 
violate the sacrament of confession ; and thus several unsus- 
pecting men betrayed their lives, while they fancied that they 
performed a religious duty. A few names still escaped him — ho 
tampered with Clifford and Frion for them : the former was not 
yet quite a villain; the latter found that he enjoyed more 
credit, honour, and power as the duke’s secretary than he could 
do as Henry’s spy ; besides, his vanity was hurt — he wished to 
revenge himself on the master who had discarded him. 

In nothing did Henry succeed better than in throwing an 
impenetrable veil over his manoeuvres. Most people thought, 
so tranquil and unconcerned he seemed, that he did not suspect 
the existence of an actual conspiracy, fostered in England itself, 
containing many influential persons among its numbers. All 
were sure that he was entirely ignorant of their names and actual 
purposes. The many months which intervened while he waited 
patiently, corroborated this belief, and the conspirators slept in 
security. The winter passed, and they continued to scheme, 
apparently unobserved ; spring came — they prepared for York’s 
landing — for a general rising — for a sudden seizing on many 
walled towns and fortresses — for the occupation of London itself. 
A few brief weeks, and Henry’s prosperity would bo shaken to 
its centre — his power uprooted — he and his children would 
wander exiles in a foreign land ; and another king, the gallant 
descendant of the true Flantagenets, reign in his stead. 

Thus occupied, thus prepared, were the Yorkists in England j 




TBEAS0N. 



155 



at Brussels, things were carried on more openly, and wore a 
more promising appearance. The duchess, Lady Brampton, 
Plantagenet, triumphed. Sir George Neville anticipated with 
proud joy a restoratiou of the fallen race of Warwick, and 
regarded himself already as another king-maker of that house. 
Every exile looked northward, and grew joyful with the thought 
of home. Frion became more busy and important than ever; 
he had lately gone disguised to England, in pursuance of some 
project. In another week they expected Lord Barry to join 
them from Ireland : Clifford was amazed, vacillating, terrilicd. 
He knew that Henry was far from idle ; he was aware that some 
of the loudest speakers in Bichard's favour in Brussels were his 
hirelings, whom he would not betray, because he half felt him- 
self one among them, though he could not quite prevail on him- 
self to join their ranks, ne believed that the king was in eager 
expectation of his decision in his favour ; that nothing could be 
done till he said the word ; he proposed conditions ; wished to 
conceal some names ; exempt others from punishment. Mes- 
sengers passed continually between him and bishop Morton, 
Henry’s chief counsellor and friend, and yet he could not deter- 
mine to be altogether a traitor. 

Thus stood affairs ; a consummation all thought to be nigh 
at band. It was the spring of 1494, and the coming summer 
was to decide the fate of York. A ball was given by the duchess, 
in honour of her nephew ; it was splendidly and gaily attended. 
Clifford had been conversing with the prince, when suddenly ho 
left the apartment : it was long ere he came back, and 6lowly 
joined the principal group in the room, consisting of the duchess, 
the prince, Lady Brampton, Neville, Plantagenet, Taylor, and 
several others. Clifford’s countenance was marked by horror 
and surprise ; so much so, that Lady Brampton looked at him a 
moment without knowing him. Suddenly she started up and 
seized his arm — “ Holy A r irgin ! ” she cried, “ what had dressed 
your face. Sir Kobert, in this pale livery P what tale of death 
have you heard ? ” 

The brow of Clifford became flushed, his lips grew whiter, as 
quivering they refused to form the words he attempted to utter. 
Barley had before this quitted the apartment : he rushed in now, 
crying aloud, “ Treason ! ” 

“Treason!” Neville repeated, laying his hand heavily on 
Clifford’s shoulder; “hear you that word, sir knight? Where 
is the traitor ? ” 

Clifford in a moment recovered himself, answering, com- 
posedly, “Ay, would I could point out the man — would that I 
could drag him forth, the mark, the very target for the shafts of 




156 



HERMAN DE EAEO. 



vengeance. We are lost; the cause is lost; our friends; the 
good Lord Fitzwater. I would have hid his name in the bowels 
of the earth ! ” 

Already the festal hall was deserted ; already the guests were 
dispersed, to learn how wide the destruction had spread. By 
the prince’s orders, the messenger from England was introduced 
before himself and his principal friends : it was Adam Floyer, 
Sir Simon Mountford’s chaplain ; escaped himself, he was the 
bearer of a frightful tale. On one day, almost at the same hour, 
the Yorkist conspirators were arrested. Lord Fitzwater, Sir 
Simon Mountford, Sir Thomas Thwaites, Robert Ratcliffe, 
William Daubeny, Thomas Cressenor, Thomas Astwood, two 
dominicans, by name William Richford and Thomas Poyns, 
Doctor William Sutton, Worseley the dean of Saint Paul’s, 
Robert Langborne, and Sir William Lessey, were all seized and. 
cast into prison. Others had escaped : young Gilbert Daubeny, 
brother of William, and Sir Edward Lisle, had arrived in Flan- 
ders. Others made good speed and had fled to Ireland. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

HERMAN DE FAEO. 



Ob, Clifford I but bethink thee once again, 

And in thy thought o’errun my former time, 

And if thou canst for blushing, view this face ! 

Shakspkark. 

“Where is the traitor P” Neville’s question resounded through 
Flanders, and was re-echoed in groans from the English shores. 
Each man feared the other, and saw the mark of Henry’s malice 
on the brow of all. It was a worse scene in England : execu- 
tions followed imprisonment ; the scaffolds flowed with blood ; 
and suspicion was still greedy of prey. Among the papers seized 
by the king there was found a letter from Clifford to Lord Fitz- 
water, containing these words : “ I do protest, my lord, that tho 
proof of York’s truth is most pertinent. You know this ; and 
yet he who cut the crooked rose-bush to the roots still doubts j 



 



HEBMAN PE FABO. 



157 



forsooth, ho is still at his ‘ifs’ — ‘if he were sure that that young 
man were King Edward’s son, he would never bear arms against 
him.’ Pray deprive my lord of his * if for arms he must never 
bear : he is too principal to any cause.” 

Henry tormented himself to find who this doubter might be : 
again he sought to bribe Clifford, who was at first dogged that 
so much was done without him, and then tried to barter his 
intelligence for Lord Fitzwater’s life. Such grace had he left, 
that he was ready to exert his wits to save his former patron ; 
this was granted. This noble alone of the conspirators who were 
laymen was spared : he was sent prisoner to Calais. 

At the first word of discovery, Monina’s friends had endea- 
voured to insure her escape to Flanders ; but her namo was 
known to Henry, and there was none whom ho was more 
desirous to get into his power. She remained concealed at 
a little distance from London. She grew mad in inaction : 
the work of death and misery around wound up her tender 
spirit to torture ; and the execution of her former friends filled 
her with such horror as made day hateful, night the parent of 
frightful visions. After several weeks’ seclusion, she all at once 
resolved to visit London, to seek some one of her former friends 
— to learn whether the tragedy was over, and what further 
mischiefs despair might have engendered. She inhabited a 
solitary mansion, with one old woman, who opposed her going, 
but vainly. Monina was too young to bear uncertainty with any 
degree of patience. Some slight joy visited her as she found 
herself on her road to London. Before she arrived a heavy rain 
fell ; but she was not to be discouraged. Sir Edward Lisle, she 
knew, had not been arrested : she was unaware of his escape, 
and thought perhaps that he had not been discovered ; she 
might get intelligence from him. His house was deserted and 
empty. Another hope remained — Sir William Stanley. She 
knew his timidity, and resolved to be cautious as to the manner 
of her visit. Sir William had ever been peculiarly kind to the 

g entle maiden ; fearing to see her openly, she had often come to 
im by water : his mansion, near the palace at Westminster, had 
a garden upon the Thames. Without exciting any remark, sho 
could land here. It was already night, and this favoured secrecy. 
W r ith some difficulty, in the city, where she then was, she con- 
trived to find her way to an obscure wharf, and embarked in a 
wherry. Fortunately it was high water, and she landed without 
difficulty in the garden, and dismissed the men. Now she began 
to be puzzled as to how she Bhould make her way, dripping with 
rain, unexpected, to Sir William’s presence. She had been 
accustomed to bo admitted by a little door opening on stairs 




168 



HERMAN DE FARO. 



which led her to her old friend’s library : this was shut now. 
Suddenly she thought she heard voices, and then perceived a 
thread of light that streamed through the key-hole of the 
summer-house in the garden. There was a noise on the water, 
too ; and a boat was paddled to the landing-place. Bewildered, 
yet believing that all this secrecy was connected with the grand 
conspiracy, she moved towards the summer-house : the door was 
opened, and the light falling full upon her, she saw several figures 
within, and a female shriek burst upon her ear. Quick steps 
were heard behind : to retreat or go forward equally terrified 
her ; w hen one of the persons in the summer-house, a man in au 
uncouth foreign garb, cried, “Thou here, Monina! What 
miracle is this ? Come, come in ; there is danger in all we 
do!” 

Monina recognized the voice of Frion, and entered: there 
she saw one, a lady richly attired, yet half disguised in a largo 
black cloak. Fear w r as painted on her cheek ; her blue eyes 
were cast up to Heaven. A female attendant with her seemed 
yet more terrified. About the room were scattered globes and 
astrolabes, and all the gear of an astrologer. In the lady, 
Monina recognized York’s sister, Tudor’s queen, the fair Eliza- 
beth of England. At once compassion and respect entered her 
heart : she addressed the royal lady with reverence, and all that 
touching grace that was her sweetest charm ; she assured her of 
inviolable secrecy ; she reminded her of their former interview. 
Elizabeth grew calmer as she recognized her visitor at Shene : 
she stretched out her hand to the Spaniard, saying, “ I do 
indeed believe and trust thee ; thou shalt hear again from me.” 
Then folding her mantle round her, and leaning on her attendant, 
she quitted the house, and with trembling haste embarked. 

For many weeks after this scene, Monina continued concealed 
in Sir William Stanley’s mansion. When the arrest of the con- 
spirators had taken place, Frion, balked in an attempt to escape, 
for safety’s sake had assumed the habit and character of au 
astrologer, and so far worked upon Stanley’s fears, and won him 
by his flattery, that he permitted him to take up his residence in 
his summer-house. Frion was a clever prophet, and too restless 
not to become notorious. It was a good mode, he averred, to 
put hope in the hearts of the Yorkists, by prognosticating all 
manner of success to them. His fame spread. The queen ques- 
tioned Stanley about his new astrologer ; and the confusion the 
poor chamberlain evinced, served only to excite her curiosity. 
She sent one of her attendants to see what manner of man he 
might be ; and the subtle Frion profited by this little artifice, 
which Sir William in his terror divulged, to entice the queen 



HERMAN DE FARO. 159 

herself to liis cell. She came, and the result of her visit was to 
bring Monina again before her. 

Such were the agents still at work for York in London. Such 
the materials Clifford strove to mould into a purpose of his own. 
There was no reason, so many of the White Rose thought, to 
forego all their plans because one had come to a fatal end. Still 
Richard might land in England, and make head against Tudor. 
On a smaller scale, with lessened hopes and diminished ardour, 
a scheme of this kind was canvassed. Clifford appeared its chief 
abettor, and encouraged it by every means in his power ; none 
were averse. It was not an enterprise of such high expectation 
as the discovered one ; but, undertaken with speed, and prose- 
cuted with energy, it might turn out as well. England was by 
no means tranquil; the metropolis itself was the scene of 
tumults : these were raised to a ferment by the embargo Henry 
had found it necessary to place on all communication with 
Holland — a measure fraught with ruin to many of the richest 
merchants in London. 

At this time, towards the end of the summer, the king came 
up from his palace at Shene, and held a court at Westminster. 
One of the immediate subjects that brought him up, was a 
tumult in the city, to which the embargo nad given rise. A 
vast number of apprentices and journeymen belonging to the 
ruined merchants were out of employ, while the traders from 
Hans, and other free German towns, who went among us by 
the name of the Easterlings, got the commerce into their own 
hands, and grew rich upon it. The sight of their prosperity 
was, to the starving Londoners, as the pressed rowel of a spur 
in a horse’s side ; with the usual barbarism of the untaught and 
rude, they visited on these men the fault of their governors — 
the discontent augmented till it became loud, furious, and 
armed. Multitudes of thoso deprived of their usual means, met, 
and, in a moment of rage, proceeded from words to acts. They 
endeavoured to force and rifle the warehouses of the Easterlings, 
who repulsed them with difficulty; nor did they disperse, till 
the mayor arrived with men and weapons, from whom they fled 
like a flock of sheep. When tidings of this event were brought 
to Henry, he, who saw in all things the multiplied image of the 
abhorred White Rose, believed the Yorkists to be its secret 
cause. The day after his arrival he gave audience to the mayor, 
who reported that, from every examination made, none 
appeared to have a part in it, except servants and appren- 
tices, nearly a hundred of whom were imprisoned in the 
Tower. 

In giving a detail of this circumstance, the mayor related that 








160 



HERMAN DE FARO. 



the Easterlings declared, that at the first onset their richest 
store-chambers must have become the prey of the rioters, but 
for the interposition of one man. He was a sea-captam, and 
had arrived but the day before with his caravel from Spain — 
they represented him as a person of gigantic stature and super- 
human strength. Entangled by the mob in his progress through 
the city, he had no sooner discovered their intent, than he con- 
trived to make his way into the stilyard ; and there combining 
the forces of the defenders, more by his personal prowess than 
any other means, he beat back the invaders, and succeeded in 
closing the gates. At the representation of the mayor, Henry 
commanded that this man should bebrought before him, partly 
that he might thank him for his services, and partly, for Henry 
was curious on such points, to learn from him the news from 
Spain, and if more had been heard of the wild visionary 
Columbus and his devoted crew, since they had deserted the 
stable continent, to invade the hidden chambers of the secret 
western ocean. 

The king received the mariner in his closet. None wero in. 
attendance save Urswick. There was something grand in the 
contrast between these men. The courtier-priest — the sove- 
reign, whose colourless face was deep-lined with careful thought, 
whose eyes were skilled in reading the thoughts of men, and 
whose soul was perpetually alive to everything that was passing 
around him — and the ocean rock, the man ©f tempests and hard- 
ships, whose complexion was darkened and puckered by exposure 
to sun and wind, whose every muscle was hardened by labour, 
but whose unservile mien bespoke no cringing to any power, 
Bave nature’s own. He received Henry’s thanks with respect, 
and replied simply : he answered also several questions put to 
him concerning his voyages ; it appeared that he had but lately 
arrived from Spain — that he came to seek a relative who resided 
in England. During this interview a thought flashed on Henry’s 
mind. In his late transactions with Clifford, the base purpose 
had been formed of enticing the duke and his principal ad- 
herents to England, and of delivering them up to their enemy ; 
there had been some discussion as to providing, at least, one 
vessel in Henry's pay, to make part of the little fleet which 
would bring the duke of York over. This was difficult, as 
suspicion might attach itself to any English vessel ; but here 
was one, with a stranger captain, and a foreign crew, a man who 
knew nothing of White or JBed Itose, who would merely fulfil 
his commission. Slow on all occasions to decide, the king 
appointed another interview with the stranger. 

It so happened, that the news of the appearance of the 




HEBNAN DE FAEO. 



161 



Spanish captain had penetrated to the queen’s apartments ; and 
little Arthur, her gentle and darling son, was desirous to sco 
the countrymen of Columbus, whose promised discoveries were 
the parent of such wonder and delignt throughout the world. 
The prince of Wales must not be denied this pleasure, and the 
Spaniard was ushered into the queen’s presence. An enthusiast 
in his art, his energetic, though simple expressions enchanted 
the intelligent prince, and even compelled the attention of his 
little sturdy brother Henry. He spoke in words, borrowed 
from Columbus’s own lips, of translucent seas, of an atmosphere 
more softly serene than ours, of shores of supernal beauty, of 
the happy natives, of stores of treasure, and the bright hopes 
entertained concerning the further quest to be made in these 
regions. Elizabeth forgot herself to listen, and regretted the 
necessity of so soon dismissing him. She asked a few questions 
relative to himself, his vessel; “ She was a gallant thing once,” 
replied her commander, “ when I took her from the Algerines, 
and new-christened her the Adalid ; because, like her owner, 
being of Moorish origin she embraced the true faith. My own 
name, please your grace, is Hernan do Faro, otherwise called 
the Captain of the Wreck, in memory of a sad tedious adven- 
ture, many years old.” 

“ De Faro — had he not a daughter P” 

Anxiety and joy showed itself at once in the mariner’s 
countenance. Monina ! — Where was she? How eagerly and 
vainly had he sought her — faltering, the queen had only power 
to say, that Sir William Stanley, the lord chamberlain, could 
inform him, and, tcrriGed, put an end to the interview. 

Two days after — already had De Faro found and fondly 
embraced his beloved child — Urswick, at the king’s command, 
sent for the hero of the stilyard, and, after some questioning, 
disclosed his commission to him ; it was such, that, had de Faro 
been in ignorance, would have led him to suspect nothing — he 
was simply to sail for Oatend ; where he would seek Sir 
Kobert Clifford, and deliver a letter : he was further told that 
he was to remain at Sir Robert's command, to receive on board 
his vessel whoever the knight should cause to embark in her, 
and to bring them safely to England. To all this De Faro, 
aware of the dread nature of these orders, assented ; aud, in 
Stanley’s summer-house, with the lord chamberlain, Monina, 
and Frion, it was discussed how this web of treason could best 
bo destroyed. There was little room for doubt ; Monina 
resolved to sail with her father, to denounce Clifford to the 
prince, and so save him and his friends from the frightful 

M 








162 



HEEHAN DE FABO. 



I 



snare. Irion still remained in England, to try to fathom the 
whole extent of the mischief intended ; though now, fearful of 
discovery, he quitted his present abode, and sought a new 
disguise. Stanley trerpbled at Clifford's name, but he saw no 
suspicion in his sovereign’s eye, and was reassured. 

The Adalid sailed, bearing the king’s letters to Clifford, and 
having Monina on board, who was to unfold to the deceived 
prince and his followers the dangers that menaced them. 

Already, as the appointed time drew near, most of Richard's 
partizanB were assembled at Ostend ; a fleet of three vessels was 
anchored in the port to convey them to England to fated death ; 
the prince himself, with Clifford, sojourned in a castle at no great 
distance. Sir Robert insinuated himself each day more and more 
into his royal friend’s confidence ; each day his hatred grew, and 
he fed himself with it to keep true to his base purpose ; among 
the partizans of York sometimes he felt remorse ; beside the 
bright contrast of his own dark self, never. 

Monina landed ; and, the prince being absent, first she sought 
Lady Brampton — she was at Brussels ; then Plantagenet, — he 
was expected, but not arrived from Paris ; then she asked for 
Sir George Neville, as the chief of the English exiles ; to him 
she communicated her strange, her horrid tidings, to him she 
showed Henry’s still sealed letter to Clifford. What visible 
Providence was here, laying its finger on the headlong machinery 
that was bearing them to destruction ! Neville was all aghast : 
he, who did not like, had ceased to suspect Clifford, seeing that 
he adhered to them at their worst. He lost no time in bringing 
Monina to the castle, but ten miles distant, where York then 
was ; he introduced her privately, and, wishing that she should 
tell her tale herself, went about to contrive that, without Clif- 
ford’s knowledge or suspicion, the prince should have an inter- 
view with her. 

Monina did not wonder that her bosom throbbed wildly, as 
she remained in expectation of seeing her childhood’s playfellow, 
from whom she bad been so lofig absent. Nor did she check 
her emotion of intense pleasure when she saw him, and heard 
him in her native Spanish utter expressions of glad delight at so 
unexpectedly beholding her. Time had changed him very little ; 
his aspect was still boyish ; and, if more thought was seated in 
his eye, his smile was not the less frank and sweet ; she was 
more altered ; her but little feminine form had acquired grace ; 
the girl was verging into the woman — blooming as the one, tender 
and impassioned as the other ; her full dark eyes, which none ^ 
could behold and not feel the very inner depths of their nature , 
Btirred, were the home of sensibility and love. A few moments i 



HEBMAN DB FAB0. 



163 



■were given to an interchange of affectionate greeting, and then 
York, recurring to the mysterious mode in which Neville had 
expressed himself, asked if anything save a kind wish to visit 
the brother of her childhood had brought her hither ; she re- 
plied, by relating to him the circumstances of her father’s com- 
mission from Henry, and delivering to him the letter for Sir 
Robert. The whole wide world of misery contains no pang so 
great as the discovery of treachery where we pictured truth ; 
death is less in the comparison, for both destroy the future, and 
one, with Gorgon countenance, transforms the past. The world 
appeared to slide from beneath the prince, as ne became aware 
that Clifford's smiles were false ; his seeming honesty, his dis- 
course of honour, the sympathy apparent between them, a lie, a 
painted lie, alluring him by fair colours to embrace foulest defor- 
mity. The exceeding openness and confidence of his own nature, 
rendered the blow doubly unnatural and frightful ; and Monina, 
who had half disliked, and latterly had almost forgotten Clifford, 
was full of surprise and pain to mark the affliction her friend’s 
countenance expressed. 

There was no time for regret. Neville interrupted them, and 
it became necessary, to act. Richard held in his hand the sealed 
proof of his associate’s falsehood ; Sir George urged him to open 
at, so as to discover the whole extent of the treason. The prince’s 
eyes were at once lighted up by the suggestion : no, no, because 
Clifford had been base, he would violate no law of honour — there 
was no need for the sake of others ; his treachery discovered, 
was fangless ; nor would ho even undertake the dark office of 
openly convicting and punishing : his conscience and remorse 
snould bo judge and executioner. 

Monina and Nevillo returned to Ostend. The prince sent a 
message to Clifford with some trifling commission to execute in 
the same town ; and Sir Robert, who had heard of the arrival of 
a stranger caravel from England, was glad of an opportunity, to 
ride over to learn its character. His feet were in the stirrups, 
when a page brought him a letter from the duke, which he was 
hid not to open till he had departed. A sense of a mysterious 
meaning came over him. Was he discovered P At the first dawn 
of this suspicion he clapped spurs to his horse, and was already 
far away ; then, impatient of uncertainty, as soon as half the 
brief space to Ostend was measured, he took out the packet, 
eyed it curiously, and, after many qualms and revolutions of 
feeling, suddenly tore it open. King Henry’s despatch, written 
in Urswick’s well-known hand, first met his eye. Worse in 
action than in thought, a cold dew mantled on his brow $ and. 



 




164 



THE TBAIT0E UNMASKED. 



\ 



while his heart stood still in his labouring breast, he east hia 
eyes over a few lines, written in Richard’s fair clear Spanish 
hand: — 

“ This paper, joined to the mode in which it fell into my 
hands, accuses you of treason. If wrongfully, accord permission 
that the seal may be broken, and your innocence proved. 

“Even if the mystery which this letter contains cannot be 
divulged nor exculpated, all is not lost. Perhaps you are rather 
weak than guilty ; erring, but not wicked. If so, return imme- 
diately on your steps ; by a frank confession merit my confidence. 
I were unworthy of the mediation of the Blessed Saints, whom 
each night I solicit to intercede for me before our Heavenly 
Father, were I not ready to pardon one who has sinned, but 
who repents. 

“If your crime be of a deeper dye, and you are allied in soul 
to my enemy, depart. It is enough for me that I never see you 
more. If I remain a fugitive for ever, you will lose nothing by 
deserting my ruined fortunes ; if I win the day, my first exercise 
of the dearest prerogative of kings, will be to pardon you. 

“ Richabd.” 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE TBAITOB UNMASKED. 



Shall I be the slave 

Of— what? a word ? which those of this false world 
Employ against each other, not themselves, 

As men wear daggers not for self olfence. 

But if 1 am mistaken, where shall I 
Find the disguise to hide me from myself ? 

As now I skulk from every other eye. 

. Shellev. 

One of tbo surest results of guilt is to deprive tbe criminal of 
belief in tbe goodness of others. Clifford was discovered. Even, 
if Richard continued true to his promise of pardon, his adherents 
and counsellors might force him to another line of conduct. A 
dungeon and death floated terribly before his confused vision. 
Plight, instant flight to England, where, by a full confession of 



j 




THE TRAITOE UNMASKED. 



165 



many things he had reserved, and the disclosure of an important 
unsuspected name, he might still receive welcome and reward 
from Henry, was the only course left him to pursue. 

His thoughts were chaos. Shame and indignation raged in 
his heart. He was a convicted traitor, a dishonoured man. 
“ Oh, my envied father ! ” in his wretchedness he exclaimed, 
“ you died gloriously for Lancaster. I live, steeped in obloquy, 
for the same cause. Abhorred Plantagenet ! what misery has 
been mine since first your name came to drug me with racking 

E oison! What have I not endured while I cringed to the fair- 
aired boy ! Thank the powers of hell, that time is past ! 
Devil as I have stamped myself, his arch crime, lying, is no 
more my attribute. To the winds and men’s thirsty ears I may 
cry aloud — I hate Plantagenet ! ” 

It was some relief to this miserable man to array his thoughts 
in their darkest garb, soothing his evil passions with words, 
which acted on them as a nurse’s fondling talk to a querulous 
child. His line of conduct was fixed : he remembered Neville’s 
sudden appearance and departure the night before ; he had 
brought the letter ; he was waiting for him at Ostend to seize on 
him, to turn to mockery the prince’s promised pardon. Those 
were days of violence and sudden bloodshed : the enemy a man 
could not visit with legal punishment, he thought himself 
justified in destroying with his own hand; the passions of tho 
Yorkists, who found they had been driven into shambles instead 
of a fold, must be fierce and dangerous. Without delay, he 
resolved to embark in one of the vessels then in the roads ; 
he hurried to the beach ; the wind seemed fair ; there was a poor 
kind of hostelry, the common resort of sailors near, from whence 
a signal could be given for a boat to be sent off for him. While 
waiting for it, he quitted the noisy vulgarity of the inn, and 
walked towards a kind of ruined tower, that once perhaps had 
served as a lighthouse. In all the panic of guilt, a roof, how- 
ever desolate, appeared a shelter, and he sought it: it was 
dilapidated and dark ; there were some rude, narrow stairs 
leading to the upper story,— these he ascended, and entered what 
had been a kina of guard-room, and started at the vision he 
beheld: leaning against the aperture that had served for a 
casement, looking on the wide green sea, was Monina. Her 
lustrous eyes turned on him — eyes before whose full softness his 
violence, his insolenco quailed ; till shame, despair, and rage, and 
the deep-seated arrogance of his nature, conquered his better 
feelings. She knew his crime, witnessed his disgrace ; there was 
no more to lose in the world. What more could he win ? His 
presence occasioned her much emotion. She had just quitted 




166 



THE TRAITOR UNMASKED. 



Neville, who somewhat angrily remarked upon the prince’s ill- 
timed lenity, and spoke bitterly of all the ill Clifford, thus let 
loose, might do in England. And here he was, about to embark 
for that very island, where one at least. Sir William Stanley, was 
at his mercy. Gladly Monina seized on this opportunity to dive 
into his projects, and to inspire by her energetic words the 
traitor’s bosom with some sense of right. She, alas ! inspired 

E assion only, and jealousy, that now at last his rival would see 
er love-lighted eyes turned affectionately on him ; while all the 
reproach of which they were capable was his meed. What such 
men as Clifford feel is not love : he had no real friendship for the 
innocent girl ; each feeling that expresses the sympathy of our 
intellectual nature was never associated to him with the name of 
woman. As she spoke therefore of his duties to God and man, 
violated, but not irretrievably, and with soft persuasion entreated 
him to spare those whose lives hung upon his word, he recovered 
his obduracy, and replied in a tone whose hollow vaunting was at 
discord with the music that fell from her lips — “My pretty 
maiden, I thank thee for thy good intentions, and if thou wilt 
wholly undertake my instruction, will prove an apt scholar. 
Honesty and I are too poor to be messmates ; but if thou wilt 
join us — bv God, Monina, I mean what I say — the priest shall 
say grace for us, and we will partake life’s feast or fast together. 
I wul sail with thee to thy Spain, to the Indies of the West. 
England shall be a forgotten name ; the White or Bed Bose, 
neither worse nor better in our eyes than any blooms that smell 
as sweet: if thou refusest this, here ends the last chance for 
honesty ; and be the victim who it may, I care not so my fortunes 
thrive.” 

“ Unworthy man ! ” cried Monina ; “ farewell ! I go to Eng- 
land also : I to save, you to destroy. Bounteous Heaven will 
look on our several intentions, and shape our course accordingly. 
Henry will visit with poor thanks your blighted purpose, barren 
now of its ill fruit. Mine will be the harvest; yours the 
unlamented loss.” 

She would have passed him, but he seized her slender wrist. 
“ We will run no race," he cried ; “ if we go to England, it will 
be together : listen to the splash of oars, it is my boat among the 
breakers. We enter it together ; it is vain for you to resist ; you 
are my prisoner.” 

Monina trembled in every joint : she felt that in very truth 
she was in Clifford’s power. There rode her father’s caravel ; but 
he could not guess her pressing danger : he would behold her 
depart, ignorant of the violence she was suffering, ignorant that 
she was there. No help !— no form of words was there, that 




THE TBAITOE UNMASKED. 



1C7 

might persuade the ill-minded knight to free her: her proud 
Bpirit disdained to bend ; her cheek was flushed ; she strove to 
withdraw her hand. “ Pardon me,” said Clifford ; “ if my fingers 
press too roughly ; the slight pain you endure will hardly coun- 
terbalance the fierce torture your words inflicted. Be patient, 
my fellows are already here. Let us not act a silly mime beforo 
them ; do not oblige me to demonstrate too unkindly, that you 
are wholly in my power.” 

Hardly had he spoken the words w'hen with a scream she 
sprang from him. He turned ; but before even he could see the 
gigantic form of De Faro, a blow was Btruck which made him 
reel against the wall. It would have been instantly followed by 
' another, but that Monina had flung herself on her father’s breast, 
and he, supporting her, forgot his enemy, who recovered himself, 
and drew his sword. He met the fierce glare of the injured 
parent’s eye, and shook. “ We meet again, recreant ! ” were the 
only words spoken by De Faro ; and, as an elephant might snatch 
a youngling antelope from the pursuit of a tiger, he took his 
daughter in his arms, descended the steps with her, and, as Clifford 
stood gazing on the sea, in such bitter mood as is the fruit of 
baffled malice, he saw the mariner lift his daughter into the boat. 
It pushed from the shore ; and, with long, measured strokes, it 
swept the waves towards the caravel, whose sails were again 
unfurled, while everything bespoke the readiness and anxiety of 
the crew to depart. 

Ere the Adalid had reached the open sea, Clifford in his vessel 
was but little astern. It was a race they ran. The caravel at 
first had the best. Night concealed them from each other’s 
view ; and, in the morning, already on the tranquil bosom of the 
Thames Sir Robert’s vessel was sailing alone towards London. 
By one of those strange turns of fortune by which our purposes 
swim or are wrecked, De Faro, without a pilot, unacquainted 
with the coast, missed the channel ; he grounded on a sand-bank 
at the river’s mouth ; and the tide which carried Clifford so 
swiftly towards London had several hours to run before it 
reached a height sufficient to float the other’s vessel ; the situation 
was not without peril, and no boat even could be lowered to carry 
the anxious Monina to shore. 

The very day (it was now the month of January) that Henry 
heard of Clifford’s arrival in London, he removed his court from 
Westminster to the Tower. Already he divined that his Lord 
Chamberlain was to be criminated by Sir Robert; and, as Stanley 
possessed considerable influence in the state, he wished to mako 
his arrest as unexpected as possible. Another motive worked 
upon the avaricious sovereign ; seized thus, without preparation 




168 



THE TRAITOR UNMASKED. 



or forethought, his jewels, his rich plate, his valuable moveables, 
which might otherwise be secreted, now fell the indiscriminate 
prey of confiscation ; the Tower, at once a palace and a prison, 
favoured this purpose. Here he received Clifford ; Ursw'ick had 
already conversea with the traitor knight, and represented to 
him the necessity of ample confession. There was something in. 
the priest’s manner that, like iron, entered Clifford’s soul ; ho 
felt himself, too truly, to be the abject slave, the despised tool of 
power ; there was but little need to use cajoleries or bribes with 
him now ; he was there, to be executed as a felon or pardoned 
as a spy, according as his disclosures satisfied or not the callous- 
hearted king. 

For his greater punishment, there clung to this unfortunate 
man a sense of what he ought to and might have been, and a 
burning consciousness of what he was. Hitherto he had fancied 
that he loved honour, and had been withheld, as by a hair, from 
overstepping the demarcation between the merely reprehensible 
and the disgraceful. The good had blamed him ; the reckless 
wondered at his proficiency in their own bad lessons ; but hitherto 
he had lifted his head haughtily among them, and challenged any 
man to accuse him of worse than greater daring in a career all 
travelled at a slower and more timid pace. 

But that time was gone by. He was now tainted by leprous 
treachery ; his hands were stained by the blood of his deceived 
confederates ; honour disowned him for her son ; men looked 
askance on him as belonging to a pariah race. He felt this ; and 
even Monina, who had last conversed with him in the summer- 
house of the inn at Ostend, would hardly have recognized him. 
He was then a bold-faced villain ; his step was haughty ; his 
manner insolent. Now his gait was shuffling, his appearance 
mean, his speech hesitating and confused. Urswuck had known 
him a gay ruffler ; he started back : was this Sir Robert Clifford ? 
He was obliged to use with him the usual style of speech adopted 
towards men in his situation ; to speak of his duty towards his 
liege ; the propriety of delivering up the guilty to condign 
punishment : hackneyed phrases, which sounded cold to the 
unhappy man. 

There was no resource. At Henry’s feet, kneeling before a 
king who used him as a tool, but who hated him as the abettor 
of his rival, and despised him as the betrayer of his friend, Clifford 
spoke the fatal word which doomed the confiding Stanley to 
instant death, himself to the horrors of conscious guilt, or, what 
as yet was more bitter to the worldling, relentless outlawry from 
the society and speech of all, however depravod, who yet termed 
themselves men of honour. 




THE TBAITOE UNMASKED. 



169 



Henry heard him with feigned amazement ; and with grating 
words of insulting unbelief, demanded evidence of his chamber- 
lain’s treason : these were easily furnished, yet such as they were, 
they comprised such irrefragable proof of the identity of the out- 
cast duke, that Henry found, that while they confirmed him 
more than ever in his resolve that Stanley should suffer the 
severest penalty of his crime, it made it difficult to bring forward 
the testimonials of his guilt. This was for after consideration : 
Clifford was dismissed with cold thanks, with promise of pardon 
and reward, and a haughty command neither to obtrude himself 
again into the royal presence, nor to depart from London without 
especial leave. 

Henry’s first act was to command Stanley not to quit his 
chamber in the Tower. The next day before the hour of noon, 
the Bishop of Durham, Lord Oxford, Lord Surrey, Urswick, and 
Lord Dawbeny, met in the fallen chamberlain’s apartment, for 
the purpose of examining him. A thousand opposing feelings 
operated upon Stanley: accustomed to pay deference to the king, 
even now he said nothing to displease him ; and his expressions 
rather spoke of compassion for him who very possibly was duke 
of York, than any falling off from his allegiance to the then kin* 
of England. 

This monarch was tormented by no doubts, — to be actuated 
by no pity. Stanley’s acknowledgment of the truth of the 
Burgundian pretender roused his bitterest feelings. In addition, 
he was rich booty — which weighed heavily against him ; *eo that, 
when Bishop Fox remarked on the villany and extent of his 
treason, Henry, off his guard, exclaimed — “I am glad of it ; the 
worse the better ; none can speak of mercy now, and confisca- 
tion is assured — nor did he in the interval before his trial, nor 
after it, express one regret that the man was about to forfeit his 
head, who had encircled his own with the regal diadem. 

Tried, condemned ; but a few days remained before on the 
fatal block the rich, noble, prudent, royally-connected Sir William 
Stanley would expiate his guilt to Henry. All wondered ; many 
pitied ; few thought of soliciting for or aiding the fallen man ; 
yet one or two there were, whom this last blow against York 
filled with bitter regret. In a secluded part of London Lord 
Barry, who had just arrived, Frion, and Monina met. Barry 
came with intelligence that there had appeared in Ireland a 
gentleman from Scotland, commissioned by its young monarch to 
inquire into the truth of ltichard’s story; and, if indubitably he 
were the man he pretended, to counsel him to visit Scotland, 
where he would find friendship and aid. The Earl of Desmond 
also had just arrived in London, and Lord Barry was in his 




170 



THE TRAITOR UNMASKED 



company. This downfall of Stanley called their minds from 
every other consideration. Monina was peculiarly agitated and 
thoughtful. One evening she joined them late : she was full of 
some project. “ I can, I do believe, save our friend,” she said : 
“the assistance I need is small — you. Master Stephen, will 
hasten on board the Adalid, and bid my father have all in readi- 
ness for sailing, and to drop down the river as far as Greenwich : 
you, my dear lord, must also take a part in my scheme — keep 
watch on the river, right opposite the Tower, during the coming 
night and the following : if you see a light upon the shore beneath 
its dark walls, come towards it with a boat ; the blessed Virgin 
aiding my design, it shall be freighted with disappointment to 
the Tudor, joy to us.” 

Lord Barry and Frion promised obedience, though they would 
have dissuaded her from the risk ; but she was devoted, enthusi- 
astic, firm : she left them, nor did they delay to execute her 
commission, and both went down the river to De Faro’s caravel. 
Ilere a new surprise awaited them. The duke of York and his 
friends had not been idle in the interim. Each design, as it 
failed, gave place to another. They were diminished in numbers, 
but now no traitors were among them. Their hopes were few ; 
but, unless the present time were seized, there would be none. 
The false expectations Clifford had held out to them of coalition 
and succour in England were lost, but attachment to York was 
alive in many an English bosom : the preparations of arms they 
had made still existed ; it was resolved therefore in early spring 
to descend on the English shores. 

The duke of York, deeply grieved by the ruin that visited his 
friends, stung to the heart by Clifford's treachery, resolved 
meanwhile to Beek relief in action. Could not his presence do 
much P Unknown in England, he might visit the Yorkists, rouse 
their affection, and form such a union, as, assisted afterwards by 
his friends and their little fleet, would contribute to insure 
success. His friends did not approve of the hazard to which 
he exposed himself ; but everything they alleged on this score, 
only confirmed his purpose. “ All endanger themselves — all die 
forme,” he cried ; “shall I alone be ingloriously safe P” The 
first sight therefore that presented itself to Lord Barry and Frion 
on the deck of the Adalid, was Prince Richard and Edmund 
Plantagenet. 

The duke’s presence did not change the purpose of Frion ’a 
visit. De Faro got his vessel in readiness for the voyage ; and 
Lord Barry, as evening closed in, prepared to take his stand— 
not singly : Richard insisted on sharing his watch ; docile as he 
usually was, remonstrance had now no effect ; hitherto he had 



lized by GoogI 




THE TOWEB. 



171 

given himself up to guarded safety, now he seemed in love with 
peril, resolved to court her at every opportunity. The risk to 
which Monina exposed herself, made him obstinate. He would 
have thought himself untrue to the laws of chivalry, a recreant 
knight, had he not hastened to protect her ; and, more than this — 
for the inborn impulses of the heart are more peremptory than 
men’s most sacred laws — he loved ; and a mother draws not more 
instinctively her first-born to her bosom, than does the true and 

E assionate lover feel impelled to hazard even life for the sake of 
er he loves, to shield her from every danger, or to share them 
gladly with her. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE TOWEB. 



I do not like the Tower of any place. 

Shaksfeake. 

At nine o’clock in the evening, York and Lord Barry took their 
station on the Thames, at the appointed place. The boat was 
tethered to the shore ; and the rising tide brought them nearer 
to the banks. All was dark during the cold night of early 
February ; to the right and left, nothing was apparent save tho 
glimmering water, and the only sound was the rushing and 
rippling of the Thames, as it sped downward in its course. 

“ My mother greets me with a cold kiss,” said the prince ; 
“ in truth she has wedded mine enemy, and cast me out from 
my inheritance.” 

A brief pause ensued — a few minutes, which were freighted 
with the cares and sorrows of years. Back, back, young Richard 
threw his eye over the skeleton shapes of the dead years ; and 
again he sought to penetrate the future. Dark as the starless 
sky, not one gleam of comfort presented itself to the outcast’s 
hope. But such state of mind was unnatural to the ardent boy, 
and he sprang from it ; 

“ Like to a lark at break of day, uprising 
From sullen earth, to sing at heaven’s gate,” 



 




172 



THE T0WEB. 



he soared from grovelling despondency into recollections of the 
labour and love that had been expended on him. His harvest 
might never be the crown at which he aimed ; but, better still, 
the ambrosial food of affection and devoted attachment, that 
filled him even to sweet satiety. 

“ A light ! our beacon ! ” cried Lord Barry. 

A small gleam appeared on the opposite bank. It moved ; 
tlien returned to its former place, and was stationary. They 
watched it, till they became satisfied that it was the guide for 
which they were waiting. The early matin service rung from 
several convents, and came pealing faintly across the water. It 
was the dead of night, and the gentlemen gladly exchanged their 
inert watch for the labour of contending with the tide and float- 
ing ice, which impeded their way as they rowed across the 
Thames to where the light was now fixed. 

The drear bank of the Tower-moat rose abruptly from the 
water-side, and the waves lay murky dark beneath the arch of 
the Traitor’s Gate. The tide, which was setting in, carried them 
above the point were the light was, to this spot. Their beacon 
indeed had disappeared ; and, as they waited its return, they 
floated idly on the river, merely giving now and then a few 
strokes, to keep the wherry stationary. They did not perceive 
that, while they thus curbed the tide, they had drifted into an 
eddy which carried them fast down, till jamming the m between 
the wall of the Tower and a near pile, their boat lurched, partly 
filled with water, and resisted every attempt they made to extri- 
cate it. The clouds were getting thinner before the pale waning 
moon ; but their fancied beacon-light had vanished. 

Their situation was sufficiently dreary. The cold was piercing. 
They had difficulty in keeping themselves out of the water that 
lay at the bottom of the boat. Lord Barry was a soldier, accus- 
tomed to hair- breadth escapes and dangerous attempts ; Richard 
a bold youth, who thought that his best satety depended on his 
own exertions. They were neither of them inclined to linger 
tamely in their present situation. 

“ Before our limbs get numbed with this biting breeze, we 
must use them to our own benefit. Your highness can swim?” 

“ So say the streams of the Yoga,” replied Richard : “ but 
the very remembrance of those sweet brooks makes me shudder 
at the chilly bath this ice-nourished river affords. I will recon- 
noitre the land before I attempt the freezing wave.” With 
lithe, sinuous limbs he coiled about the pile, and continued to 
raise himself to where a beam rested on the upright post, and 
again was fixed in the turret, which spans and guards the en- 
trance to the Tower by water. He had hardly gained this place. 




THE T0WEB. 



173 



and he felt little cold as with nervous fingers he kept fast in the 
position he had attained, when a ray of light fell upon the water, 
streaming from out a window of the turret. It was but for a 
moment, and it disappeared ; but Richard’s eyes had glanced 
keenly on the illuminated spot. The transverse beam he had 
attained was but little below the window ; it had been grated, 
but two of the stanch eons were broken. This, to our adventurer, 
suspended between the unattainable sky and the icy wave, seemed 
a place of refuge. Carefully and slowly, he with clinging knees 
and hands contrived to get along the beam, to raise himself on 
his feet on it, and then to clutch the broken iron bar, and hoist 
himself into a chamber of the Tower of London. 

The immediate physical dangers that beset our adventurers 
were so great (the least horrific of which was spending the night 
exposed to freezing blasts, which Barry already felt chilling his 
very heart’s blood), that they both forgot the dangerous nature 
of the asylum they were seeking. The Irish noble had, as well 
as darkness permitted, followed the movements of his young 
companion ; the same ray which guided Richard to temporary 
safety, had showed to Barry the mode of following him. He 
made the attempt ; but, though stronger, he was not so agile as 
his friend ; besides, the minutes which had elapsed during 
Richard’s exertions, had enfeebled by numbing the other’s 
powers ; he got nearly to the top of the pile — he felt his fingers 
slip, and that he could hold on no longer. One desperate struggle 
he made to cling closer ; his grasp seemed rather to relax, than 
tighten, in the attempt; and Richard, after a second, heard 
with horror his heavy fall into the water. But Barry was moro 
at his ease in the yielding wave ; and the very intensity of the 
cold, burning his skin, set his blood in motion ; the tide also 
had arrived at its height during this interval, and had turned : 
without great difficulty the noble cleared, after a few strokes, 
the abrupt banks that fence the Tower, and landed on a quay 
below. 

Richard heard the waters splash from under his strokes. The 
silence was so entire, that he thought he could distinguish the 
change of sound when the swimmer emerged, and plainly heard 
Lord Barry’s shout, in his own native Irish, of thanksgiving 
and good cheer. For a moment, like lightning, it flashed into 
his mind, the thought of the ominous refuge he nad found ; and 
he was tempted to leap into the water, and to rejoin his friend. 
But by this time the alarm of some one having plunged into the 
river had been spread by the sentinels. The court became 
thronged ; Borne hastened to the wall, others loosened the boats 
tethered beneath the gate, and issued in them from under the 




174 



THE TOWEB. 



dark arch, over which Duke Ei chard had found refuge. By 
the glare of many torches, they discovered the wherry wedged 
in, as has been described. The splash attested that some one 
had fallen into the water : that some one should escape from 
the fortress, was more readily present to their imaginations 
than that any should enter. They called to each other, com- 
municating their surmises and intentions: then one boat re- 
mained in guard close at the gate, while the other rowed down 
the stream. Their exertions must end in nothing, for Lord 
Barry had had full time to insure his escape. 

Bichard attended to all their motions : several of the men in 
pursuit had issued from the lower chambers of the turret in 
which he was : it was not thus cooped up that he chose to be 
found ; all Beemed still ; the only sounds came from the men in 
the boat ; he descended the stairs ; he came out upon the court of 
the Tower; the dark fortress frowned above, casting, in spite 
of the dull moon, a shadow dark enough to hide him. Steps 
were heard approaching ; he turned under a dim archway ; he 
ascended a narrow, steep staircase ; the steps still followed ; 
hurriedly he opened a door, and entered a chamber ; the men, 
whoever they might be, were unaware of his presence ; they 
passed the door, turned down another gallery; the very echo 
of their steps died away. 

Did he recognize the spot where he then stood ? Well !— 
far too well ! — with a sickening feeling, an irresistible impulse 
to penetrate into the very heart of the horror that made his 
pulses faint, he gazed on the walls around. Was he then alone 
changed? Had he sprung up into manhood, thought, expe- 
rienced, suffered ; and had the material universe stood still the 
*■' while P He saw before him a small chamber, enlightened by 
one deep-set window, half blocked up by projecting buttresses 
outside: there was the pallet-bed, the prie-Dieu, the little 
crucifix ; his infant limbs had reposed there ; on that couch his 
brother had died. 

This was the Tower ! Ten years before he had escaped from its 
gloomy walls ; and had he done this only to return again, when 
maturer years gave him a bitterer feeling of the ills he must 
endure? He had visited England, guided by the traitor-spirit 
of Clifford, it seemed ; for he had returned but to render him- 
self a prisoner ; yet at first these thoughts were hardly so 
painful as the memory of his childhood. The superstitious 
fears of the Tower, which haunted poor Edward, had made it 
an abode of terror for both : how often had they lain in that 
bed, curdling each other’s young blood with frightful tales ! 
His brother had pined, and died. Now, true to the pious 



Digi 




THE T0WEB. 



175 



usages of the times, he knelt to say a paternoster for his soul ; 
he said another for his own perilous state ; and then, having, 
with entire faith committed himself to the protection of his 
Father in Heaven, ho rose with a cheered heart and sustained 
courage. 

What was he to do P He was in the Tower ; a fortress so 
well guarded, that of the unhappy beings confined there for 
life, none had ever made their escape ; high walls, numerous 
courts, and grated windows, opposed his egress. The clock 
chimed one. It were as well to remain where he was, as to go 
on. But it were better still to turn back ; quiet would soon bo 
restored ; he might attain the same room, the same window, and 
leap thence into the waters below. He remembered wherefore 
he had come; the hazardous enterprise of Monina, and the 
imprisonment of Stanley. Now that he had attained this 
chamber, the whole Tower presented itself, as in a map, to his 
memory : he knew where the rooms allotted to state prisoners 
■were situated : confident in his knowledge, his feelings under- 
went an entire change ; instead of considering himself a prisoner 
in the Tower, he felt lord of its labyrinths. Darkness was his 
wand of office ; the ignorance of all that he was there, was his 
guard ; and his knowledge of the place, better than the jailor’s 
key, might aid him to liberate the victims of his enemy. 

In this temper of mind he rejoiced that he had been unable 
to follow his first impulse in leaping from the window ; and he 
resolved on making his way immediately to the part of the 
fortress inhabited by the state prisoners. Blindfold, setting 
out from the point where he was, he could have found his way ; 
yet several images of barred and locked doors presented them- 
selves to his recollection, as intervening between the spot where 
he then was, and that which he desired to visit. He descended 
again into the court — he skirted the edifice, keeping close to the 
shadowy wall — he saw the door but a few paces distant, which 
led to the prison-chambers. At dead of night it must be locked 
and barred, guarded by a sentinel, quite inaccessible to him. 
He paused — he saw no soldier near — he walked on a few steps 
quickly ; the door was wide open — this looked like success — he 
sprang up the steps ; a man below cried, “ Who goes there P ” 
adding, “ Is it you, sir P My light is puffed out ; I will bring 
one anon.” , Above he heard another voice — there was no re- 
treat — he went on, relying on some chance that might afford 
him a refuge under cover of murky night from the twofold, 
danger that beset him. A man stood at the doorway of the 
nearest chamber : it was not possible to pass him — as he hesi- 
tated he heard the words, “Good rest visit your lordship— I 




176 



THE T0WEB. 



grieve to have disturbed you.” Ricliard retired a few steps — 
the man closed, locked the door — “ A light, ho ! ” he exclaimed, 
and the prince feared to see the servitor ascend the stairs. The 
moon, just beginning to show its clouded rays, threw a brief 
ray upon the landing where Richard stood, and he moved out 
of the partial radiance ; the slight movement he made attracted 
notice, which was announced by a challenge of “ Who goes 
there ? is it you, Fitzwilliam P How is this P the word, sir ! ” 
The duke knew that, among the numerous and various inha- 
bitants of the Tower, many were personally unknown to each 
other ; and that any stranger visitor was not intrusted with the 
word — so he replied immediately, as his best safeguard : “ I 
was roused by the calling of the guard. I knew not that such 
reveilles were usual ; good night, sir.” 

Those pay little attention to the impression of their senses, 
who are not aware that family resemblance develops itself in 
nothing so much as the voice; and that it is difficult in the dark 
to distinguish relatives. In confirmation of this I heard a 
sagacious observer remark, and have proved the observation 
true, that the formation of the jaw, and setting of the teeth is 
peculiar, and the same in families. But this is foreign — enough 
that, caught by the voice, hardly able to distinguish the obscure 
outline of the speaker in the almost blackness of night — the 
man replied, “ I crave pardon, mv good lord, you forget your- 
self ; this w ay is your chamber. What, ho ! a light ! ” 

“It needs not,” said the prince; “the glare would offend 
mine eyes — I shall find the door.” 

“ Permit me,” said the other, going forward, “ I will wait on 
your lordship so far. I wonder not you were roused ; there 
was an alarm at the river postern, and the whole guard roused. 
Sir John thought it might concern poor Sir William; and I 
was fain to see all right with him. It irked me truly to break 
in on his repose ; the last he may ever have.” 

They approached a door ; the man’s hand was on the lock — 
Richard’s heart beat so loud and fast, that it seemed to him that 
that alone must be perceived and excite suspicion — if the door 
were fastened on the inside he were lost ; but the man was in 
no hurry to try — he talked on : — 

“The lieutenant was the more suspicious, because he gave 
credit and easy entrance to his pretended stripling son, who 
craved for it even with tears : yet when they met, wo all 
thought that the Lord Chamberlain did not greet him as a 
parent would a child at such a time ; the truth, indeed, we saw 
with half an eye, be she his daughter, or his light of love; yet 
not the last, methiuks, for she seemed right glad to be accom* 



 




THE TOWER. 



177 

modated for the night in a separate chamber— she is a mere 
girl beside, and in spite of her unmeet garb, modest withal.” 
“When goes sheP With the dawn?” Bichard hazarded 
these questions, for his silence might be more suspected than 
his speech ; and the information he sought, imported, to him. 

“ Nay, she will stay to the end for me,” said the man : “ Sir 
William was a kind gentleman, as I can testify, in his prosperity ; 
and it is little to let him have the comfort of this poor child’s 
company for a day longer : he dies on the morrow.” 

“ Could 1 see this fair one P ” 

“By my troth, fair she is not, though lovely to look on, but 
somewhat burnt, as if her mother had been a dweller in the 
south. If you visit and take leave of Sir Stanley to-morrow, 
you may chance to behold her : but I detain you, my Lord ; a 
good night, rather, a good morning to your lordship.” 

He unclosed the door; all was dark within, save that the 
chamber opened into another at the further end, in which evi- 
dently a lamp was burning. Kind thanks and a benison passed ; 
Bichard stepped within the apartment, and the door shut on him. 
What could this mean ? Glad, confused, yet still fearful, the 

E rinee was almost deprived of the power of motion. Becovering 
imself with a strong effort, he passed on to the inner chamber: 
it was a bedroom, tapestried, strewed thick with rushes, a silver 
lamp suspended by a silver chain to the grim claws of a gilt 
eagle, which was fixed in the ceiling, gave token of rank, as well 
as the rich damask of the bed-furniture and the curious carving 
of the couch and seats ; the articles of dress also strewed about 
belonged to the noble born : strange, as yet Bichard had not 
conjectured for whom he had been mistaken ! He drew near the 
bed, and gazed fixedly on its occupier. The short, clustering, 
auburn curls were tinged with grey, yet the sleeper was young, 
though made untimely old by suffering ; his cheeks were wasted 
and fallen in ; the blue veins on his brow were conspicuous, lift- 
ing the clear skin which clung almost to the bones ; he was as 
pale as marble, and the heavy eyelids were partly raised even in 
sleep by the large blue ball that showed itself beneath ; one hand 
lay on the coverlid, thin to emaciation. What manner of victim 
was this to Henry’s tyranny P nay, the enigma was easily solved : 
it must be the earl of Warwick. “ And such, but for my cousin 
Lincoln, would have been my fate,” thought Bichard. He 
remembered his childhood’s imprisonment ; he thought of the 
long days and nights of confinement, the utter hopelessness, the 
freezing despair, blighting the budding hopes of youth, the throes 
of intolerable, struggling agony, which had reduced poor War- 
wick to this shadow of humanity ; he felt a choking sensation in 




THE TOWER. 



178 

his throat as he bent over him ; large drops gathered in his eyes ; 
they fell, ere he was aware, on the sleeper’s wan cheek. 

Warwick turned uneasily, opened his eyes, and half-started 
up : “ Whom have we here ?” he cried : “ why am I disturbed ?” 

“Your pardon, fair gentleman,” Richard began 

“My pardon!” repeated Warwick, bitterly; “were that 
needed, you were not here. What means this intrusion — tell 
me, and be gone P” 

“I am not what you take me for, cousin Edward,” said tho 
prince. 

Now, indeed, did Warwick start ; shading his eyes from the 
lamp, he gazed earnestly on the speaker, murmuring, “ That 
voice, that name — it cannot be ! In the name of sweet charity 
speak again ; tell me* what this means, and if you are — why this 
visit, why that garb P ” 

“ My dear lord of Warwick,” said the prince, “ dismiss this 
inquietude, and if you will listen with patience to the story of an 
unhappy kinsman, you shall know all. I am Richard of York ; 
those whose blood is akin to yours as well as mine, have ycleped 
me the White Rose of England.” 

The earl of Warwick had heard of the Pretender set up by his 
aunt, the duchess of Burgundy ; he had often pondered over the 
likelihood of his really being his cousin, and the alteration it 
would occasion in his fortunes, if he were to succeed. Shut out 
from tho world, as he had been so long, the victim of mere 
despair, he could not even imagine that good could betide to any 
one, save to the oppressor of his race ; to see Perkin, for so ho 
had been taught to call him, within the walls of the ill-fated 
Tower, appeared to disclose at once his defeat. Even when the 
duke rapidly and briefly narrated the accidents that had brought 
him thither, and his strange position, Prince Edward believed 
only that he had been decoyed iuto the trap, which had closed on 
him for ever. 

Still Richard talked on ; his ardour, his confidence in his own 
measures, his vivacious anxiety already to put them into practice, 
his utter fearlessness, were not lost upon one who had been dead 
to outward impressions, not from want of sensibility, but from 
the annihilation of hope. Some of his cousin’s spirit overflowed 
into Warwick’s heart; and, in conclusion, he assented to all he 
said, promising to do whatever was required of him, though after 
ten years of lone imprisonment he almost shrunk from emerging 
from his listless state. 



 




179 



CHAPTER XXV. 

THE BESCUE. 



Let all the dukes and all the devils roar. 

He is at liberty ! I’ve ventured for him ; 

And out I’ve brought him to a little wood 
A mile hence. 

Two Noble Kinsmen. 

Mobning, cold and wintry, dawned upon the gloomy chambers 
of the Tower. York became eager to put in execution some 
plan of escape in which Warwick should share ; but Warwick 
was full of timidity and fear. His prison was a frightful den ; 
yet all without was a wide, pathlesB, tiger-infested jungle. He 
besought his cousin to regard his own safety only. Richard 
refused ; yet the more he meditated, the more did obstacles 
crowd upon him. After the lapse of an hour, Warwick was 
called upon to attend early mass, as usual, in the chapel of the 
fortress. Here he saw Stanley and the disguised shrinking 
Monina ; and, the service ended, attended them to the prison- 
chamber of the chamberlain, relating as he wont, in quick low 
whispers, the history of the preceding night. Both his hearers 
grew pale : one feared for her friend, the other for himself ; 
though on that score all cause of dread was well nigh at an end. 
All three entered Stanley’s cell, and found there Prince Richard 
himself, whose active mind had led him to watch his opportunity 
to pass hither unseen from Warwick’s apartment. 

The young earl of March, arming for the battle of Northamp- 
ton, looked not so young, so blooming, and so frankly erect, as 
his uncrowned son. Stanley saw at once who was before him, 
and, never forgetting the courtier, addressed his prince with a 
subject's respect. York was struck by the placid, though some- 
what worldly physiognomy of the man, devoted to die, at the ago 
when human beings are most apt to cling to life ; when, having 
weathered the Btorms and passions of youth, they desire to repose 
awhile on the sun-enlightened earth, before they enter the 
gloomy gates of the tomb. 

The princo spoke eagerly of escape — of safety — of life : War- 

n 2 



 




180 



THE BESCtJE. 



wick, even timid Warwick, xirged an attempt at flight ; while 
Monina kissed her aged friend’s hand, and turned her sweet eyes 
on him, saying : “You will listen to him, though you were deaf 
to me.” 

Stanley alone was unmoved — “ A thousand heartfelt, useless 
thanks, my dear and honoured Lord, your poor servant renders ; 
and even when prayer for himself is most needed, earnestly he 
prays that harm to you arise not from your unexampled gene- 
rosity. I cannot fly ; I do believe that I would not, if I could : * 
and I will spare myself the disgrace of further endangering you, 
and of being seized myself in the coward’s act. Ask me not, 
with your beseeching eyes, my gentle, venturous child, for it 
must not be. I die to-morrow ; and this fate you would have 
me avoid. Whither would you drag me from the block P To 
poverty P to an unhonoured old age? a traitor’s reputation, and 
miserable dependence P I am a sinful man ; but I trust in God’s 
mercy, and he holds out better hopes after the brief spasm of 
death, than you after the torture of difficult escape.” 

More he would have said ; but they were interrupted. They 
had not been aware of any one’s approach ; and suddenly Sir 
John Digby, lieutenant of the Tower, entered. He was aghast 
to see one more than he expected — one whose demeanour spoke 
nobility. Silfence followed his entrance ; nor did words readily 
present themselves to the blunt soldier. At length, addressing 
the cause of this wonder, he, in an ironical tone of voice, asked, 

“ May I, lieutenant of this fortress, delegated by his majesty to 
its keeping, be permitted to ask, fair sir, the name, station, and 
designs of my unbidden guest P ” 

“ My answer to your two first questions,” replied York, 
“would little satisfy you. My design was to facilitate the 
escape of this virtuous and unhappy gentleman.” 

“ The king is infinitely your debtor ; and I shall prove unman- 
nered in marring your intent.” 

“ You do not mar it, Sir John,” said the prince. “ My Lord 
Chamberlain is a true man, and would ratlier lay his head on 
the block, at his liege’s bidding, than carry it in security at the 
prayer of any other. Sir William has refused to fly ; and, my 
mission ended, I was about to take my leave.” 

“ Do so, y ung man ; take leave — an eternal one — of Sir 
William, and follow me. My lord of Warwick, this is an 
unmeet scene for you to be present at. This holy man comes 
to bestow the last words of pious comfort my noble prisoner can 
receive in this world : please your lordship to leave them together 
uninterrupted. I am sorry,” continued the lieutenant, address- 
ing Monina, “ to retract the permission I gave you yesterday ; 




THE BESCUE. 181 

but this strange incident must be my excuse. Say a last 
farewell to him you have named your father.” 

Monina dreaaed too much tne fate that might befall her 
friend to entreat for any change in this decree. Soon poor Sir 
William found himself separated from the busy scene of life, 
shut up with the chaplain. He was bid to remember and 
repent, and to prepare to die. A dark veil fell before the vista 
of coming years, which was apparent to the eyes of his late 
companions. He saw in the present hour— one only, almost 
superfluous, added to the closing account. They beheld in it 
the arbiter of their undivined destinies. 

It is an awful emotion when we feel that the “ very shoal 
of time ” on which we stand is freighted with the good and ill 
of futurity — that the instant birth of the hour inherits our 
entire fortunes. Yet Richard was proof against this rough 
testimony of our powerless mortality. The ill had not yet 
arrived with which he did not believe he could cope ; and more 
— now he was bent upon endeavouring to save Stanley ; for his 
own fate, though about to expose it to the most unquestioned 
shape of peril, he had no fears. 

Sir John Digby, followed by his new prisoners, paced back to his 
own chamber, and then addressed his uninvited guest. “ Fair 
gentleman,” he said, “ again I crave to be informed of your 
name and degree, that his majesty maybe duly made acquainted 
on whom to bestow his thanks. Your speech and appearance 
are English ? ” 

“ Whoever I may be,” replied York, “ I will reveal nothing 
except to your king. If he is willing to listen to disclosures 
nearly touching his throne and safety, I will rouse him by a 
tale to shake sleep from one who has steeped his eyes in poppy- 
juice. To no other will I vouchsafe a word.” 

Monina listened in terror. She would have given her life to 
beseech her friend to retract that foolish word ; but it was too 
late ; while his questioner, startled by his unforeseen reply, 
said, “ You make a bold demand. Think you that his grace is 
of such common use, that it is an easy matter to attain his 
presence P ” 

“ I have said it, Sir John,” answered York. “Your liege may 
hereafter visit with poor thanks the denial you give me.” 

The lieutenant fixed his eyes on him : his youth and dignity 
impressed him favourably ; but he hesitated, confused by doubts 
of who and what he mignt be. At last he said, “ His majesty 
is at present at his palace of Shene, ten miles hence. 

“ The less reason. Sir Lieutenant,” replied Richard, “ that 
yott should dally in the execution of your duty, The life of 



 




182 



THE BE3CTTE. 



your prisoner, the fortunes of your king, depend upon this 
interview.” 

This was a riddle difficult for Sir John to solve ; and he vras 
about to order his enigmatical visitant to the guard-room, while 
he should- consult upon the fitting conduct to pursue; when 
a beating at the gates, the letting down of the drawbridge, and 
the clatter of hoofs announced fresh arrivals at the fortress. 

The attention of every one was suspended, till, the usher 
announcing the excellent prince, the earl of Desmond, that noble, 
attended by followers, almost with regal pomp, entered. He 
cast his penetrating glance around, and then unbonnetting to the 
duke, he said respectfully, “ Your highness will believe that as 
soon as I heard of the position into which, pardon me, your 
generous rashness has betrayed you, I hastened hither to vouch 
for you, and deliver you from it.” 

To such a speech, so unexpected, so portentous, what answer P 
Bichard felt inclined to laugh, as he heard himself spoken to, in 
terms which seemed to say that the discovery of wlio he really 
was, would occasion his release; but he quickly discerned a 
hidden meaning beneath this incomprehensible language, and he 
contented himself with graciously thanking the earl for his inter- 
ference, while this noble turned, to address the wondering Sir 
John. 

“ Sir Lieutenant,” said he, “ I have a strange story to tell, 
fi tter for his majesty’s ears than those of a subject ; but his grace 
is absent, and it were not well that this noble gentleman should 
be kept in durance while messengers go to and fro. Eather 
dismiss your followers, and I will confide a weighty secret to 
you, and bring such arguments as will induce you to intrust the 
high-born youth to my care and escort.” 

Digby was not much of a statesman ; he had a simple heart, 
and considerable veneration for rank. He knew that the earl of 
Desmond had been well received at court, and complied with his 
desire. The noble then began a long explanation of parties and 
tumults in Scotland ; of the frightful death of James the Third ; 
the accession of James the Fourth; the discontent of several 
chief nobles, who wished to set up the younger brother of the 
new king in opposition to him. “ Your highness,” continued 
Desmond, addressing Eichard, “ will pardon me for thus intro- 
ducing your name — this, Sir Lieutenant, is the duke of Eosse.wlio 
has come, and not vainly, to seek the assistance of our liege.” 

Sir John bowed low and looked puzzled, while Desmond con- 
tinued to speak of disguise and secresy, of friendship for Stanley, 
and of the rash design of Lord Barry of Buttevant and the young 
duke to liberate him, chiefly under the idea that thus they should 




TIIE BESCTXE. 



183 

beat serve King Henry, who must in his heart be loth to have 
his zealous friend put to death through the falsehood of faction. 
“ And now, gentle sir,” he continued, “ be guided by me ; the 
lring loves peace ; he loves state privacy ; the very presence of 
the duke in this country is a mystery ; you w'ill do agreeable 
service by hushing up this youthful frolic. Permit his highness 
to accompany me ; I will make fitting report to his majesty, who 
will be grateful withal.” 

There was a kind of confused tallying in the story ; for 
Richard's mysterious words were at no "discord with Desmond’s 
explanations ; and his excessively youthful and perfectly noble 
appearance were further con*oboration. Digby liked not the 
responsibility of keeping him: be spoke of sending for the bishop 
of Durham. Desmond exclaimed, “ A soldier have recourse to a 
priest — this England is a strange country ! Do as you will ) 
only until the thumber of missals arrive, this is no place of 
entertainment for the prince. We will receive you and your 
clericus at Walbrook ; and I will entertain the royal gentleman 
till you come.” 

Digby still looked blank and uncertain. Richard, who had 
remained silent, now spoke : “ Farewell, good sir : in truth, I 
need your excuse for my impertinent visit; but here it ends. 
When I travel to Scotland, I will report the favour I met at 
your hands.” 

This sufficed. Sir John sullenly yielded : with a mixture of 
fear and deference, he attended his visitors to the court ; they 
crossed the drawbridge ; and ere the Tower-gates closed behind 
them, they heard the lieutenant order out a guard and his own 
horse, that without loss of time he might communicate with the 
bishop. 

The duke and his preserver rode gently enough down Tower 
Hill : scarce had they reached the foot, before the earl gave a 
sudden, command to his followers, who turned one way, as he, 
York, and Monina, who had left the Tower at the same time, 
and was mounted on one of Desmond’s attendant’s horses, went 
another. “ Au galoppe, dear my lord ! ” cried the earl, “ wo 
have but a short hour’s grace — this way — still the river to our 
left." 

They galloped along with loosened reins. Arriving at the 
Vale of Holborn, they followed the upward course of the Fleet, 
so as to reach the open country ; and many a wild field they 
crossed, and briary lane they threaded — the country was flat, 
marshy, wild ; skirted in various directions by brown wintry 
woods, rarely interspersed by hamlets. The river was their 
only guide ; they followed its course for several miles, till they 




184 



THE RESCUE. 



reached the shelter of Caen Wood. “ Thank St. Patrick for 
this cover ! ” cried the Irish chieftain; “ may my cousin Barry 
find no let nor hindrance — yon troubled stream will guide him 
well. We have done a daring deed : for me, I have not ridden 
so far, since my father, God sain him ! died — I am well nigh 
hors dc combat." 

The prince assisted both his companions to dismount. 
Lord Desmond’s tale was soon told, of how Lord Barry had 
sought him and suggested this mode of effecting York’s escape. 
“ With the help of your Moorish friend,” said the earl, “no ill 
wind betide me — I shall be in Munster before the riddle be half 
told ; that is, if ever we reach the vessel. Bv my faith ! I would 
rather be knee-deep in a bog in Thomond, than dry-shod where 
I am ! ” 

As day advanced, the situation of the fugitives became still 
more disquieting. All was tranquil in the leafless wood ; but, in 
spite of the sun, it was very cold. Besides, they were in an 
unknown spot, without guide; their sole hope being, that each 
passing minute would bring Lord Barry to their assistance. 
Earl Maurice was thoroughly disabled ; he grumbled at first, 
and at last, wearied out, lay on the cold ground, and fell into 
a slumber. Monina, serious, timid, and yet, in spite of herself, 
happy in her friend's safety, and in her own being near him, 
was silent ; while Bichard, to escape from his own thoughts, 
talked to her. When, for a moment, Jiis conversation languished, 
his eyes were fondly fixed upon her downcast face, and a strife 
of sentiment, of ardent, long-restrained love, and a tortuous, but 
severe resolve to protect her, even from himself, battled in his 
heart; so that, in all-engrossing love, every sense of danger 
was lost. 

Desmond at last roused himself : “ The shadows grow long ; 
herbage there is little for our horses, pasture for ourselves there 
is none — if we stay, we starve ; if we stir, we ” 

He was interrupted ; strange voices came upon the wind ; then 
the cracking of boughs, and the sound of steps. Through the vista 
of bare trees the intruders at length appeared, in strange array. 
There was a band of ill-attired, ruffian-looking men, followed by 
women and children ; their swart visages, their picturesque, but 
scant and ragged garb, their black hair, and dark flashing eyes, 
were not English. Some were on foot, some on asses, some in 
a cart drawn by two rough ill-assorted colts — their very language 
was foreign. Kichard and Monina recognized a horde of Gitani, 
Bohemians, or Gipsies ; while Desmond looked in wonder on 
something almost wilder than the Irish kern. 



 




THE BB8CUE. 



185 

The savage wanderers were surprised to perceive the previous 
guests the barren woods had received — they paused and looked 
round in some fear ; for the noble appearance of the gentlemen 
made them imagine that they must be accompanied by numerous 
attendants. York’s quick wit suggested to him in a moment of 
what good use such humble friends might be. He addressed 
them ; told them that they were travellers who had lost their 
way, “And so we have encroached on your rightful domain; 
but, like courteous hosts, I beseech you, gentlemen, welcome us 
to your greenwood palace, and make happy as you will grateful 
guests of us.” 

Thus invited, the whole horde gathered round— the women, 
fancying all three of an opposite sex, were forward with their 
prophetic art. 

“ My fortune,” cries Desmond, “ shall not be told before 
supper ; it is an ill one, by the rood ! at this hour. I have fasted 
since yesternight.” 

Preparations were speedily made for a repast, while Richard, 
alive to his situation, looked around for the most fitting object to 
address ; whose charity and aid he could hope to solicit with the 
greatest success. One laughing-eyed girl glanced at him with 
peculiar favour ; but near her stood and scowled a tall handsome 
countryman of her own. York turned to another, fairer, who 
sat retired apart ; she looked more gentle and even refined than 
the rest. He addressed her in courtly phrase, and her reply, 
though ready, was modest. The acquaintance was a little in pro- 
gress, when one of the oldest among the sibyls, with white hair, 
and a face of wrinkled parchment, hobbled up, muttering, “ Ay, 
ay, the fairest flower is aye the dearest to pluck ; any of those 
gaudy weeds might serve his turn ; hut no, my young master 
must needs handle the daintiest bloom of the garden.” Notwith- 
standing this interruption, Richard still stood his ground, bandy- 
ing pretty speeches with one not the less pleased, because, 
strictly guarded by her duenna, she was unaccustomed to the 
language of flattery. 

“ Hast never a word for me, fair Bir,” said the crone, at last ; 
“ no comparison of star and gems for one, who in her day has 
flaunted with silk-clad dames— whose lips have been pressed 
even by a king P ” 

His father’s reputation for gallantry, thus alluded to, brought 
the blood into York’s cheeks ; forgetful of what import his 
words bore, he replied lastly, “ Sleep King Edward’s faults with 
him, mother ; it is neither "wise nor well to speak irreverently 
of those gone to their doom— may God assoilzie him ! ” 



i 




186 



THE BESCTTE. 



“What voice is tliatP” cried the old woman ; “if I boast. 
Heaven forgive me, of his grace’s slight favour, your mother 
may take shame ” 

“ Your words are naught," cried York, interrupting her, “my 
mother’s is a sacred name — yet, tell me in very truth, and give 
me some sign that, indeed, you knew my father.” 

The word passed his lips before he was aware, but being 
spoken, he felt that it were best not to recede. Seizing the old 
woman’s shrivelled hand, he said, “ Look — use thy art — read my 
palm : read rather my features, and learn indeed who I am : I 
am in danger ; you may betray, or you may save me : choose 
which you will — I am the duke of York.” 

An exclamation checked, a look of boundless surprise changed 
into a cautious glance around, attested the gipsy’s wish to serve 
the venturous youth. “ Hash boy,” she answered, in a low 
voice, “ what idle, or what mortal words are these ! How art 
thou here ? With what hope — what aid ? ” 

“ Frankly, none but what I derive from your bounty. I have 
escaped worse peril, so do not fear but that God will protect me, 
and even turn to profit my parent’s sin, if his kiss purchase his 
son’s life.” 

“ Young sir,” said the gipsy, with great seriousness, “ the 
flower of love is gay — its fruit too often bitter. So does she 
know on whose account I wickedly and shamelessly did the foul 
fiend’s bidding, and ruined a sinless soul to gratify the pleasnre- 
loving king. But thou hast paid the penalty : thou and thine, 
who have been called by .the ill-word, thrust from thy place by 
thy crook-back uncle ; and now art nearer a dungeon than a 
throne through thy father's fault. I will serve and save thee ; 
tell me quickly, who are thy companions — whither thou wouldst 
go — that I may judge the best to be done.” 

It is to be observed, that at the very beginning of this colloquy, 
the young girl, whom York had first addressed, had stolen away. 
Now he replied by mentioning the lameness of his elder friend, 
and his resolve not to bo divided from the other. He spoke of 
the Adalid, and of his further wish to be awhile concealed in- 
England. The old woman continued silent, wrapped in thought. 
At length she raised her head — “ It can be done, and it shall,” 
she said, half to herself. “ Come now, they are serving our 
homely fare. You, who are young, and ill-apt for penance, 
must cat before you go.” 

The savoury steams of the well-filled and rustic marmite, 
gave force to her words, and to Richard’s appetite. The repast 
was plentiful and gay, and even too long. Evening was far 
advanced, the fire grew light in the dusk, and threw its fitful 




THE BBSCUE. 



187 



rays upon the strange and incongruous feasters. Monina had 
cowered dose to Richard; the cup went round; scarcely did 
she put it to her lips ; a rude companion of the crew made some 
rough jest on her sobriety. Richard’s face lighted up with 
anger : his watchful old friend stepped forward, in her own jargon 
she made some communication to her associates, which caused a 
universal pause, and then a stir : it was evident some movement 
was intended. She meanwhile drew the three fugitives aside : 
“ In a few minutes,” she said, “ we shall all be on our way 
hence ; listen how I would provide for your safeties.” She then 

I >roposed that Desmond should assume the disguise of one of the 
lorde, and so be conveyed in safety to the banks of the Thames, 
and on board the Adalid. She promised herself to conduct the 
prince and his young friend to a secure refuge. The earl, 
accustomed to find fidelity and rags near mates, readily acceded 
to this proposal. In the solitary unknown spot to which chance 
had directed them, environed by every danger, no step was 
more perilous than the remaining where they were. York and 
Monina were familiar with the reports of the gipsy character 
—its Bavage honour and untractaole constancy. The season 
was such, though the day had been unusally sunny and warm, 
as to make a night in the open air no agreeable anticipation ; 
and Richard had a thousand tears on his lovely friend’s account. 
They all readily acceded to the old woman’s plan. Desmond 
was quickly disguised, his visage stained deep brown, his whole 

E erson transformed ; he was placed in the caravan, and the 
orde was speedily in movement ; the sound of their departing 
steps died away. They had left a rude cart, to which York’s 
horse, a strong hack, was harnessed. The sibyl undertook to 
guide it. Richard and Monina ascended the jumbling fabric. 
Soon they* were on their journey, none but their conductress • 
knew in what direction' ; but they submitted to her, and through 
copse and over field they wound their darkling way. 



 




188 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE EA.BL OP SUBEEY. 



So love did vanish with my state. 

Which now my soul repents too late ; 

Then, maids and wives, in time amend, 

For love and beauty will have end. 

Ballad op Javk Shore. 

Oh, it grieves my soul 
That I must draw this metal from my side 
To be a widow maker ! m 

Sif A KftPEARE. 

Seated -in the rude gipsy-cart, guided, protected, by the 
uncouth being into whose hands he had so strangely fallen, 
Richard, for the first time, felt the degradation and low fortune 
to which his aspirations, at variance with his means, made him 
liable. With a strong effort ho dismissed these painful ideas, 
and fixed his contemplation on mightier objects, which gilded 
his mean estate, or were rather the “ gold o’erdusted” by such 
extraneous poverty. To rise from this lowliness to a throne 
were an emprise worthy his ambition. Was he not a few hours 
ago a prisoner in the terror-striking tower P And now he was 
free — free in his England; which, when the battle-day was 
come and past, would claim him for her own. A few words 
from Monina interrupted the silence : she sat at his feet, and 
they conversed in whispers in Spanish. Night had gathered 
round them ; Monina, in all the innocence of her pure heart was 
supremely happy : to be near her friend in his disasters, united 
to him in his peril, was a more rapturous destiny to her than 
the world’s best pomp, and he absent. No busy conscience, no 
untoward thought disturbed in her soul the calm of perfect 
bliss. She grew weary at last ; her head sank on Richard’s 
knee, and, overworn with watching, she fell into a deep sleep. 
Richard heard her regular breathing ; once or twice his fingers 
played among her dishevelled ringlets, while his heart whispered 
to him what a wondrous creation woman was — weak, frail, 

complaining when she suffers for herself; heroic fortitude and 

* 







THE EABL OF 8TTBBEY. 189 

untired self-devotion are hers, when 6be sacrifices herself for him 
she loves. 

The cart moved on, Iticbard saw not whither ; they almost 
stuck in some flat, low fields, and at last arrived at a solitary, 
miserable hut. Monina awoke, when they stopped, and the gipsy 
told them that this wretched dwelling was to be their asylum : 
the apartment they entered was poor beyond meanness — a bed 
of straw piled in one corner, a rude bench, formed the furniture ; 
the walls were ragged and weather-stained, and the outer crumb- 
ling rafters were visible through the broken ceiling : there 
appeared to be neither food nor fire. The inhabitant of the 
hovel alone was there, — a white-looking, emaciated female ; yet 
with a look of such sweetness and patience, that she seemed the 
very enshrinement of Christian resignation, the type of sorrow 
and suffering, married to meek obedience to the supreme will. 
She had roused herself from slumber at the voice of the gipsy, 
and gathered her scant garments around her — scant and poor 
they were ; her coarse woollen dress was tied by a girdle of rope 
round her slender waist ; her head was wrapped in a kerchief ; her 
feet were bare. 

“Jane,” said the old woman, “you will not refuse the shelter 
of your roof to these poor wanderers F ” 

Such an address seemed strange, for the rich attire of her 
guests ill-accorded with her poverty-stricken home ; but she 
turned with a smile — she spoke — and then a throb of agony 
seemed to convulse her frame — her head swam ; Iticlmrd rushed 
forward to prevent her falling, but she shrunk from him, and 
leaned on the old woman, who said with a look of triumph, “ I 
knew* how it would be ; it is vain to hide a bright light behind a 
veil of gauze! Yes, Jane, this is his son; and you may save 
him from danger and death.” • 

Jane Shore, the once lovely mistress of King Edward, now 
the miserable outcast of the world’s scorn, heard these words, 
as if they had been spoken to her in a dream. After the death 
of her royal lover, she had obeyed the impulse that made her 
cling to the soft luxuries of life, and yielded to solicitations 
which tended to guard her from the sharp visitation of the 
world. She had become the mistress of the marquess of Dorset ; 
but sorrow and penury were destined to pursue her in their 
worst shape — and wherefore P She had been good and humane ; 
and in spite of her error, even the sternest moralist might have 
pitied her. But she was all woman, — fearful of repulse, dreading 
insult ; more willing to lie down and die, than, fallen and miser- 
able, to solicit uncertain relief: squalid poverty, famine, and 
lonely suffering, were hers ; yet in all she preserved an unalter- 



 




190 



THE EABIi OF SUBSET. 



able sweetness of disposition, which painted her wan face with 
its own soft colouring. 

The old woman went forth to seek for food, and the two friends 
were left for several hours alone with Jane. She gazed affec- 
tionately on the youthful duke ; she looked more timidly on 
Monina, whose sex could not be said to be disguised by her 
page’s dress : the fallen woman fears women, their self-sufficient 
virtues and cold reprobation ; yet the sensibility of Monina’s 
countenance, and the soft expression of her eves, so all-powerful 
in their sweetness, could not be mistaken ; ana her first shrinking 
from censure was exchanged for even a more painful feeling. 
They were a lovely pair, these lone guests of poverty ; innocence 
sat on the brow of each, yet love beamed in their aspect : — love ! 
the two-edged sword, the flower-strewn poison, the dread cause 
of every misery ! More than famine and sickness Jane feared 
love ; for with it in her mind were linked shame and guilt, and 
the world’s unkindness, hard to bear to one, whose heart was 
“ open as day to melting charity ; ” and she feared that she saw 
in this sweet girl a bright reflex of her early days. Oh, might 
the blotted mirror ne’er pourtray a change like hers ! “ I am a 

living lesson of the woes of love,” thought poor Jane; “may 
this chance-visit to my hut, which saves young K-iehard’s life, 
insure her innocence ! ” Thus impelled, she spoke : she spoke 
of the danger of their solitary companionship ; she adjured York 
to fly the delusive charm — for love’s own sake he ought to fly ; 
for if he made her his victim, affection would be married to hate 
— joy to woe — her he prized to a skeleton, more grim than death. 
Richard strove to interrupt her, but she misunderstood his 
meaning ; while Monina, somewhat bewildered, fancied that she 
only alluded to the dangers she incurred in his cause, and with 
her own beaming look cried, “ Oh, mother, is it not better to 
Buffer for one so noble, than to live in the cold security of 
prosperity F ” 

“ ISTo, no,’’ said Jane, “ Oh, does my miserable fate cry aloud, 
no ! Edward, his father, was bright as he. Libertine he was 
called — I know not if truly ; but sincere was the affection he 
bore to me. He never changed or faltered in the faith he pro- 
mised, when he led me from the dull abode of connubial strife 
to the bright home of love. Riches and the world’s pleasures 
were the least of his gifts, for he gave me himself and happiness. 
Behold me now : twelve long years have passed, and I waste 
and decay ; the wedded wife of shame ; famine, sorrow, and re- 
morse, my sole companions.” 

This language was too plain. The blood rushed into Monina’s 
face. “ Ob, love him not,” continued the hapless penitent ; “ fly 



 




THE EABL OF SUBREV. 191 

his love, because ho is beautiful, good, noble, worthy — fly from 
him, and thus preserve him yours for ever.” 

Monina quickly recovered herself; she interrupted her im- 
prudent monitres8, and calmly assured her that her admonition, 
though unnecessary, should not prove vain ; and then both she 
and York exerted themselves to engage Jane’s attention on 
topics relative to his cause, his hopes, his partisans, thus exciting 
her curiosity and interest. 

Richard passed the whole of the following day in this abode 
of penury and desolation. That day, indeed, was big with dire 
event. The morning rose upon Stanley’s death. In Jane’s hut 
the hollow bell was heard that tolled the fatal hour. The ear is 
sometimes the parent of a livelier sense than any other of the 
soul’s apprehensive portals. In Italy, for three days in Passion 
week, the sound of every bell and of every clock is suspended. 
On the noon of the day when the mystery of the Resurrection is 
solemnized, they all burst forth in one glad peel. Every Catho- 
lic kneels in prayer, and even the unimaginative Pretestant feels 
the influence of a religion which speaks so audibly. And, in 
this more sombre land, the sad bell that tolls for death strikes 
more melancholy to the heart than the plumed hearse or any 
other pageantry of woe. In silence and fear the fugitives heard 
the funereal knell sweep across the desolate fields, telling them 
that at that moment Stanley died. 

Women nurse grief — dwell with it. Like poor ^Constance, 
they dress their past joys in mourning raiment, and so abide 
with them. Rut the masculine spirit struggles with suffering. 
How gladly, that very evening, did the duke hail Frion’s arrival, 
who, in the garb of a saintly pardoner, came to lead him from 
Jane’s dim abode. In spite of his remonstrances, Monina re- 
fused to accompany him: she should endanger him, she said; 
besides that, his occupation would be to rouse a martial spirit 
among the Yorkists — hers to seek the Adalid and her dear 
father's protection. 

Frion procured a safe asylum for the prince : and here, no 
longer pressed by the sense of immediate danger, his head was rife 
with projects, his spirit burning to show himself first to the York- 
ists, m a manner worthy of his pretensions. The choice was 
hazardous and difficult : but it so happened that it was notified 
that in a few weeks Lord Surrey’s eldest sister was to marry the 
Lord de Walden, and the ceremony was to bo graced with much 
feasting and a solemn tournament. 

There was magic in all the associations with this family for 
Richard. In his early infancy, Thomas Mowbray, the last of 
the dukes of Norfolk of that name, died. It almost was beyond 




192 



THE EABL OF SUBSET. 



his recollection that he had been married to the little Lady 
Anne, the duke’s only child and heiress. She died soon after ; 
and the representative of the female branch of the Mowbrays, 
John Howard was created duke of Norfolk by Bichard the Third. 
He fell at Bosworth ; and his son, the earl of Surrey, though 
attaching himself to Henry the Seventh, and pardoned and 
taken into favour, was not permitted to assume his father’s 
attainted title. 

At this marriage-feast the mother of his Anne, the dowager 
duchess of Norfolk, daughter of Talbot, earl of Shrewsbury, so 
famous in the French wars, would be present; and others of the 
Howard and Berkeley families, all Yorkists once. The prince 
could not resist the temptation of appearing on the lists that 
day, where, if success crowned him, as surely it would, he could 
with prouder hopes call on Surrey to maintain his claims. Frion 
got gallant armour for him, and contrived to have him, under 
another name, inserted in the list of combatants. 

York’s bosom swelled with pride and exultation when he 
saw himself among his countrymen — his subjects — with lance 
in rest and bright shield upon his arm, about to tilt with 
England’s noblest cavaliers. It seemed to him as if he had 
never asked more of fortune — and the herald’s voice, the clarion’s 
sound, the neigh of steeds, the gallant bearing of the knights, 
and charmed circle-of joyous beauty around, were like a voice 
from beyond life, speaking of a Paradise he had left,— his own 
native home. But one emotion of disquiet crossed him : as 
about to pass the barrier, Frion put his hand on his rein, and 
whispered, “ Beware of Clifford ! ” The duke threw his eyes 
round the vizored throng. With what gladness would he have 
singled him out, and met him in fierce, mortal combat ! A 
second thought told him that the dishonoured man could not 
find place in this gallant company. 

We will not dwell on the tilt, the thrust, and the parry, the 
overthrowing of horses, and defeat of knights. Bichard gloried 
in the recollection of his Spanish combats, and the love he bore 
for martial exercises, which made him, so boyish in figure, emu- 
late the strong acts of men. Fortune had varied : but, when at 
noon the pastime of that day ended, the prince remained victor 
in the field. From the hand of the queen of the feast he was 
receiving his reward, when Surrey, who had led him to her 
throne, was suddenly called away. The assembly broke up ; 
and liichard was half occupied by polite attention to the coun- 
tess, and half by recollecting his peculiar situation, when the 
marshal of the lists whispered him to follow — he led him to a 
gallery, where Surrey alone was pacing backwards and forwards 



 




THE Ei.BE OF SUBSET. 



193 



in great agitation. He stopped when the prince entered — mo- 
tioned the marshal to leave them, and then, in a voice of sup- 
pressed passion, said, “ I will not ask thee why with a false 
appellation thou hast insulted the feast of nobles ? — but well 
may I ask, what fiend possessed thee to do a deed that affixes 
the taint of disloyalty to King Henry’s liege subject P ” 

“ My good sword, my lord,” said Richard, colouring, “ were 
eloquent to answer your questioning, but that you are much 
deceived; I am not indeed that which I called myself; but 
honour, not disgrace, attaches itself to my presence. I came to 
tell you thiB, to rouse the old fidelity of the Howards ; to bid 
Lord Surrey arm for the last of the true Plantagenets.” 

“ Saint Thomas speed me ! Clifford then spoke true — thou art 
Perkin Warbeck P ” 

“ I would fain,” said the duke haughtily, “ ask a revered lady, 
who claims kindred with thee, what name she would give to her 
sainted daughter’s affianced husband P ” 

The language of truth is too clear, too complete, for the blots 
and flaws of incredulity ; the very anger Lord Surrey had mani- 
fested, now turned to his confusion ; the insult he had offered 
demanded reparation ; he could not refuse his visitant’s earnest 
demand to be led to the widow of Mowbray, duke of Norfolk. 

Elizabeth, daughter of the gallant Talbot, was proud of her 
ancestry, and disappointed in the diminution of her house. 
When her Anne was affianced to the little duke of York, and tho 
nobility of Norfolk was merged in the royal style of England, 
she had gloried ; since then, attainder and defeat had eclipsed 
the ducal honours of her race ; nor could she forgive the alle- 
giance of its heirs to Lancaster. Often had she pondered on tho 
reports concerning Margaret of Burgundy’s White Rose ; it was 
with agitation therefore that she heard that he was to be brought 
for her to decide on his truth. 

The duke had doffed his helm : his golden hair clustered on 
tho almost infantine candour of his brow, and shaded to softer 
meaning the frank aspect of his clear blue eyes. Tho aged 
duchess fixed her dimmed but steady gaze upon him, and at onco 
became aware that this was no ignoble pretender who stood 
before her. His dignity inspired Surrey with respect : he hesi- 
tated as he introduced the subject of his identity with Edward 
the Fourth’s youngest son. The duke, with a half-smile, began 
to speak of his bovish recollections, and his little pretty play- 
fellow, and of one Mistress Margery, her governante ; he spoko 
of a quarrel with his infant bride on the very wedding-day, and 
how nothing would bribe him to the ceremony, 6ave the gift of 
a pretty foal. White Surrey, which afterwaras bore his uncle 

o 



)gle 




194 



THE EAEL OF SUBSET. 



Gloucester in the battle of Bosworth. As he spoke, he saw a 
smile mantle over the aged lady’s countenance ; and then he 
alluded to his poor wife’s death, and reminded the duchess, that 
when clad in black, an infant widower, he had visited her in 
condolence ; and how the sad lady had taken a jewel-encircled 
portrait of her lost child, garnished with the blended arms of 
Plantagenet ancUMowbray, from his neck, promising to restore 
it on an after-day, which day had never come. Tears now rushed 
into the duchess’s eyes ; she drew the miniature from her bosom, 
and neither she nor Lord Surrey could longer doubt, that the 
affianced husband of the noble Anne stood before them. 

Much confusion painted the earl’s countenance. The duke of 
York’s first involuntary act had been to stretch out his hand ; but 
the noble hesitated ere he could bestow on it the kiss of allegi- 
ance. Richard marked his reluctance, and spoke with gallant 
frankness : “lam an outcast,” fie said, “ the victim of lukewarm 
faith and ill-nurtured treason : I am weak, my adversary strong. 
My lord, I will ask nothing of you ; I will not fancy that you 
would revive the ancient bond of union between York and 
Norfolk ; and yet, were it not a worthy act to pull down a base- 
minded usurper, and seat upon his father’s throne an injured 
prince P ” 

The duchess answered for him. “ Oh, surely, my noblo 
cousin will be no recreant in this cause, the cause of our own so 
exalted lineage.” 

But Lord Surrey had different thoughts : it cost him much to 
express them ; for he had loved the House of York, and honoured 
and pitied its apparent offspring. At length he overcame his 
feelings, and said, “ And, if I do not this, if I do not assist to 
replant a standard whose staff was broken on the graves of our 
slaughtered fathers, will your highness yet bear with me, while 
I say a few words in my defence P ” 

“ It needs not, gallant Surrey,” interrupted York. 

“ Under favour, it does need,” replied the earl ; “and withal 
touches mine honour nearly, that it stand clear in this question. 
My lord, the Roses contended in a long and sanguinary war, and 
many thousand of our countrymen fell in the sad conflict. The 
executioner’s axe accomplished what the murderous sword 
Bpared, and poor England became a wide, wide grave. The 
green-wood glade, the cultivated fields, noble castles, and smiling 
villages were changed to churchyard and tomb : want, famine, 
and hate ravaged the fated land. My lord, I love not Tudor, but 
I love my country : and now that I see plenty and peace reign 
over this fair isle, even though Lancaster be their unworthy 
viceregent, shall I cast forth these friends of man, to bring back 








THE LANDING AT HYTHE. 



195 



the deadly horrors of unholy civil war? By the God that made 
me, I cannot? I have a dear wife and lovely children, sisters, 
friends, and all the sacred ties of humanity, that cling round my 
heart, and feed it with delight ; these I might sacrifice at the call 
of honour, but the misery I must then endure I will not inflict 
on others ; I will not people my country with widows and orphans; 
nor spread the plague of death from the eastern to the western 
sea.” 

Surrey spoke eloquently well ; for his heart was upon his lips. 
Prince Richard heard with burning emotion. “ By my fay ! ” he 
cried, “ thou wouldst teach me to turn spinster, my lord : but oh, 
cousin Howard ! did you know what it is to be an exiled man, 
dependent on the bounty of others ; though your patrimony were 
but a shepherd’s hut on a wild nameless common, you would „ 
think it well done to waste life to dispossess the usurper of your 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE LANDING AT HYTHE. 



Farewell, kind lord, fight valiantly to-day. 

And yet 1 do thee wrong to mind thee of it. 

For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour. 

Shaksfkark. 

Tne duke of York was not of a temperament to sink supinely 
before the first obstacles. Lord Surrey’s deep-felt abjuration of 
war influenced him to sadness, but the usual habit of his mind 
returned. He had been educated to believe that his honour 
called on him to maintain his claims. Honour, always a magic 
word with the good and brave, was then a part of the religion 
of every pious heart. He had been nursed in war — the javelin 
and the sword were as familiar to his hand as the distaff and 
spindle to the old Tuscan crone. In addition, the present 
occasion called for activity. The fleet, armed for invasion, pre- 
pared by his noble aunt — manned by his exiled zealous friends — 
would soon appear on the English coast, giving form and force 
to, while it necessitated his purposed attempt. 

He possessed in his secretary FrioD, a counsellor, friend, and 

o 2 



 




196 



THE LANDING AT HYTHE. 



servant, admirably calculated to prevent all wavering. This 
man’s vanity, lion-strong, was alive to insure his new master’s 
success, and to overthrow him by whom he had been discarded. 
He wns an adept in intrigue ; an oily flatterer ; a man of 
unwearied activity, both of mind and body. It was his care to 

E revent York from suffering any of the humiliations incident to 
is position. He obtained supplies of money for him — he suffered 
none to approach who were not already full of zeal — when he 
met with any failure, he proved logically that it was a success, 
and magnified an escape into a victory — he worked day and nmht 
to insure that nothing came near the prince, except through his 
medium, which was one sugared and drugged to please. When 
he saw Eichard’s clear spirit clouded by Lord Surrey, he demon- 
strated that England could not suffer through him ; for that in 
the battle it was a struggle between partizaus ready to lay down 
their lives in their respective causes, so that, for their own sakes 
and pleasure, he ought to call on them to make the sacrifice. As 
to the ruin and misery of the land — he bade him mark the 
exactions of Henry ; the penury of the peasant, drained to his 
last stiver — this was real wretchedness ; devastating the country, 
and leaving it barren, as if sown with salt. . Fertility and plenty 
would speedily efface the light wound he must inflict— nay, 
England would be restored to youth, and laugh through all her 
shores and plains, when grasping Tudor was exchanged for the 
munificient Plantagenet. 

In one circumstance Frion had been peculiarly fortunate. The 

E art he had played of astrologer during the foregoing summer 
ad bronght him acquainted with a young nobleman zealous in 
the cause of York, and well able to afford it assistance. Lord 
Audley was of the west country, but his maternal relations were 
Kentish, and he possessed a mansion and a small estate not far 
from Hythe in Kent. Lord Audley was of a class of men com- 
mon all over the world. He had inherited his title and fortune 
early in life, and was still a very young man. He loved action, and 
desired distinction, and was disposed to enter readily into all the 
turmoil and risk of conspiracy and revolt. His aim was to 
become a leader: he was vain, but generous; zealous, but defi- 
cient in judgment. He was a Yorkist by birth and a soldier by 
profession — all combined to render him, heart and soul, the 
friend of the wandering Plantagenet. 

Frion led York to the mansion of this noble, and it became the 
focus of the spirit of sedition and discontent to the country round. 
The immediate presence of the duke was concealed ; but the 
activity of his friends was not the less great to collect a band of 
partizans, to which, when prepared and disciplined, they might 




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197 



present their royal leader. Their chief purpose was to collect 
such a body of men as might give one impetus to the county, 
when the invading fleet should arrive on these coasts from Bur- 
gundy. Time was wanting for the complete organization of their 
plan ; for each day they expected the vessels, and their operations 
m consequence were a little abrupt. Still they were in hopes 
that they should be enabled to assemble an armed force suffleient 
to facilitate the landing and to insure the success of the expected 
troops. Day and night these men were occupied in gathering 
together followers. It was not long, however, before the wily 
secretary discovered that some one was at work to counteract 
their schemes. Those he had left transported with zeal for the 
cause yesterday, to-day he found lukewarm or icy cold. Their 
enemy, whoever it might be, observed great mystery in his pro- 
ceedings ; yet he appeared to have intuitive knowledge of theirs. 
Frion exerted himself to discover the secret cause of all the mis- 
chief — he was liberal of promises and bribes. One day he had 
appointed a rendezvous for a party of recruits, about a hundred 
men, who had been exercised for the last fortnight, and promised 
well — none arrived at the appointed spot. Frion rode sorrow- 
fully through the dusk of the evening towards Lord Audley’s 
dwelling. He was overtaken by a horseman, with a slouched 
hat, and otherwise muffled up : he rode at his side for a little 
way, quite mute to all Frion’s courteous salutations ; and then 
he suddenly put spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in a 
moment. Night grew darker; and at the mirk-embowered 
entrance of a shady lane, Frion was startled by the tramp of a 
horse — it was the same man : — “Maitre Frion !” he cried. 

“ Sir Bobert Clifford ! ” 

“ The same — I knew not that my voice was so treacherous,” 
Clifford began : he went on abruptly to declare that he was the 
counterminer ; he, the secret marplot of the sagacious French- 
man’s schemes. He displayed in all that he said a perfect 
knowledge of every transaction, and of the prince’spresent resi- 
dence. By’r Lady’s grace, he might have brought King Henry’s 
archers to Lord Audley’s very door! Wherefore he had not 
done this seemed strange ; his own account perplexed. In truth, 
this wretched man, at war with guilt and with himself, loathed the 
dishonour he had acquired. Like all evil-disposed persons, he 
had no idea of purging himself from the foul stain by frank con- 
fession and reformation : his project was to begin a new career in 
a new country : to go where his own tarnished reputation was 
unknown, where the cankerous name of York would poison no 
more his native language by its perpetual recurrence. His 
violent passions led him also to other conclusions; he hated 




198 



THE LANDING AT HYTHE. 



Richard, and loved Monina; his desire to satisfy both these 
sentiments suggested a project on which he now acted, and which 
dictated his discourse with Frion. He showed how from that 
very spot he might ride to London, and make disclosures to the 
king; his knowledge of every detail of the Yorkist plans was 
startling — ruinous ; — his offer was simply this : — That the duchess 
of Burgundy should pay him a thousand golden crowns ; that the 
Spanish maiden, Monina, should consent to wed him ; and that 
they should seek together the golden isles of the western ocean, 
leaving the old world for York to ruffle in. 

Frion desired time : it was necessary to consult Richard, and 
also Monina ; where should they meet again ? Clifford would 
appoint neither timu nor place : — “ I shall find you,” he said : 
“ I may draw your curtain at dead of night ; come on you with 
an armed band of men, whom you think all your own. I will 
choose my own hour, my own audience-chamber. You have but 
to get the damsel’s consent, and to tell her, an’ you list, that she 
were better as Robin Clifford’s wife, than as the light-of-love of 
the son of Jane Shore’s gallant.” With these words the knight 
rode off ; and being much better mounted than the secretary, 
put all pursuit to defiance. 

Frion was full of thought. He said nothing to the duke or 
Lord Audley ; but the following day hastened to visit Monina at 
Canterbury, where she had resided latterly, in the character of a 
pilgrim to St. Thomas a Becket’s shrine. Frion had flattered 
himself that he could easily persuade the young, inexperienced 
girl, whose ardour for York he had often admired. Yet he felt 
uncomfortable when he saw her. Monina looked a little pale, 
and her dark religious garb gave no adornment to her beauty ; 
but there was in the innocence and tenderness of her full dark 
eye, in the soft moulding of the cheek which harmonized with 
the beautiful lids, and in her 

“ sweet lips, like roses, 

With their own fragrance pale, which Spring but half uncloses.” 

— there was in all this a purity and soft appeal which even the 
politician felt, who looked on mankind as mere agents in the 
drama he caused to be acted. With some hesitation he brought 
out his story, hut of course grew bolder as he proceeded. 
Monina looked pained, but said — “Double the number of 
crowns, and Sir Bobert will content him. My father will make 
my ransom good.” 

Clifford’s speech and manner had convinced Frion that this 
would not be the case ; he tried to persuade Monina, and even 
repeated the knight’s insolent message. Her large eyes grew 




THE LANDING AT HYTHB. 



199 



larger, dilating with surprise apd indignation. He little knows 
woman, who thinks to govern the timid thing by threats. 
“ Answer that bad man,” she said, “ thus : Monina will wed 
death, rather than crime and treason. Good Master Frion, you 
have done wrong by so insulting mine ears ; it were enough to 
drive a poor girl to eternal vows and a convent, to dream that 
Buch words are spoken of her ; and if I do not take that refuge, 
it is because I will not desert my dear, fond, bereaved father — as 
soon I shall prove; meanwhile we must not delay to secure 
our prince from his enemy’s machinations. You know Astley, 
the poor scrivener in this town P I defy Clifford to win him. 
Bring his highness there, I will prepare him. We must show a 
boldness to Clifford matching his own ; let us be fearless for our- 
selves; and for the White Rose we need not fear. Stay; 
Clifford watches you ; I will provide for the duke’s safety.” 

That very night, by secret, unknown means (it might bo 
through her gipsy friend), Monina had communicated with York, 
and induced him to take refuge with the man she named. 
Astley’s father had been a soldier in the cause of York, and had 
died on Bosworth Field, leaving an unprovided widow and five 
children, one only among them being a son. From his youth 
upward, the boy had struggled, not with privation on his own 
account, to that he submitted without a murmur, but for the 
sake of his mother and sisters, whom he loved with an ardour 

E eculiar to his sensitive and affectionate disposition. Weak in 
ealt k and strength, he had betaken himself to the occupation of 
a scrivener, so meagrely to support them. It is probaole that, 
in the frame of all, there was a delicacy of organization that 
unfitted them for penury. One by one they died. That spring 
had left Astley comparatively rich, because he could well sup- 
port himself, but miserable beyond words, for he idolized all and 
every one of his lost relatives. Frion had, with unwearied care, 
made an accurate enumeration of all in Canterbury who had 
ever favoured the White Rose. Astley was on this list ; he saw 
him, and passed him over as useless. Chance brought him and 
Monina together, who instantly detected his latent, unpractised 
talents, his integrity and enthusiasm; now his habitation 
occurred as an unsuspected and faithful asylum for her perse- 
cuted friend. 

Frion was still at work ; Clifford came on him suddenly, and 
heard with unrepressed rage his rejection by Monina ; his threats 
were unmeasured ; but the moment for putting them into execu- 
tion to their full extent had gone by. On the very day that 
York arrived in safety at Canterbury, his fleet was seen off 
Hytke. In the morning the vessels hove in sight; towards 




200 



THE LANDING AT HYTHE. 



evening they bore down upon land, and anchored in the offing. 
The land-breeze rising at evening tide secured them from the 
dangers of a lee shore. 

Hythe is situated at the water’s edge. The cliffs, which at 
Dover beetle so fearfully over the tremendons deep, have by 
degrees receded from their apparent task of paling in the ocean, 
and as they retire inland, lose their barren, precipitous aspect, 
and become green, wooded hills, overlooking a grassy plain, 
which extends from their feet to the sands, a distance of about 
half a mile. In the neighbourhood of Hythe a ravine, the bed 
of a stream, divides these acclivities, which on one side are abrupt, 
on the other softly rounded as they gradually disappear. Arcadia 
seems to breathe from the fertile landscape ; the sunny uplands, 
the fringed banks of the rivulet, the darker shadows of the 
wooded hills, are contrasted with the verdant meadows, on which 
cattle and sheep graze. But the sea, the dark, dangerous sea, 
with barking waves and vast encircling barrenness, suddenly 
checks the beauty of the earth, adding magnificence to the 
pastoral prospect. 

A few days before, some gipsies had pitched their tents near 
the stream : some of the wanderers had strolled down to Hythe ; 
but they were looked on for the most part with suspicion and 
fear. IN ow, while at the close of day most of the inhabitants of 
the little town were collected on the beach, gazing on the 
anchored vessels, two stout-looking gipsy-men, with one old 
woman of their tribe, were lying on the sands, occupied, in their 
lazy way, by the same object, the vessels in sight. The people 
of Hythe, fishers, or such poor traders as supplied the fishermen 
with a few coarse necessaries, were roused from the usual mono- 
tony of their lives by the aspect of this fleet. Added to these, 
there were three or four mendicant friars ; an old soldier or two, 
disabled in the wars of the two Roses, and a few dependents on 
neighbouring nobles or Franklins ; while women and children of 
various ages filled up the group. They all spoke of the fleet : it 
consisted of five armed vessels ; two of these were weather- 
beaten caravels, two were low-decked Flemish smacks, but the 
fifth was one of prouder build, and it bore a flag of pretension on 
its mizen. The French king and the Spaniard were spoken of 
first ; some thought it was a fleet which had sought the unknown, 
golden lands, driven back upon the old world by the continuous 
west winds of the last month ; some said, they belonged to the 
duchy of Burgundy ; there was a spell in that word ; no one 
knew who first whispered the name ; none could guess whence 
or wherefore the conjecture arose, but the crowd broke into 
smaller groups ; their talk declined into whispers as “ York,” 






THE LANDING AT HTTHB. 



201 



“ Duke Perkin,” “ The White Hose,” “ The duchess of Bur- 
gundy,” were mentioned ; and the fleet grew as they spoke into 
a mighty armada, freighted with invasion, ready to disembark an 
army, to ravage and conquer the island. 

As Boon as the appearance and nature of these vessels became 
confirmed, the gipsies arose from their indolent posture and re- 
treated to their encampment. A few minutes afterwards, a wild- 
looking youth on a shaggy horse, without a saddle, trotted off at 
a quick pace through the ravine to the inland country. Lord 
Audley and Frion heard from him of the arrival of their friends, 
who they had expected would have been delayed for another 
month. Frion instantly set off for Canterbury to nppriso the 

E rince ; and the noble lost no time in collecting his retainers and 
astening to Hythe. Clifford’s spies brought him word also of 
the arrival of the fleet. Ill-luck attended his guiles. King 
Henry was in the north : there was no time to apprise him, and 
Clifford’s underhand proceedings might turn out bitterly to his 
disadvantage. He had nothing for it but to endeavour to be the 
first to convey the already-blown news to Sir John Peachy, 
sheriff for Kent : his pains were rewarded by his being detained 
prisoner as a suspected person, while Sir John mustered his 
yeomanry, and, together with the neighbouring gentry and their 
retainers, marched towards Hythe. The wavering people, awed 
by this show of legal and military power, grew cool towards the 
White Bose, whose name, linked to change and a diminution of 
taxation, had for a moment excited their enthusiasm. Some had 
assumed the snowy badge, and collected in groups ; but they 
tore it off when the magistrate appeared ; he thanked them for 
arming for their king, and they, in much fear and some wonder, 
joined his standard. 

Sir John advanced with his increasing troop towards the 
village in question. He was informed that a band of the 
prince’s friends was there before him, consisting of a few Yorkist 
gentlemen and their retainers. His first idea was to disperse 
them ; his second, “ No ; this will serve as a decoy ; every 
coast may not be prepared ; driven too speedily hence, the 
armament may make good their landing elsewhere : if we 
appear unguarded, they will disembark, and fall into our 
hands.” This policy had good effect ; the two smaller Dutch 
vessels and one of the caravels ran as close in shore as their 
soundings permitted, and hastily landed a part of the 
troops. The commanders of the expedition on board the fleet 
had been inconsiderable anxiety; they had hoped to find the 
country raised to receive them ; they saw but a handful of 
men ; still signs were made to them to disembark ; and, eager 




202 



THE LANDING AT HTTEU. 



to insure the safety of their prince, they in part obeyed, landing ' 
about two hundred and fifty men, with Mountford, Corbet, and 
some other distinguished exiles, at their head. York and 
Frion had not yet had time to arrive from Canterbury ; Lord 
Audley and his friends received the troops, and held consulta- 
tion with their chiefs. It was resolved to go forward, and pene- 
trate into the country, to raise it if possible ; and, as they had 
not yet heard of Sir John Peachy’s advance, to forestall re- 
sistance by their speed. 

They marched forward in good order for nearly ten miles, 
when they halted ; their scouts here brought intelligence of 
a regular force of at least two thousand men who were near at 
hand, advancing against them. Audley advised a deviation 
from their line of march, so as to enter the county in a different 
direction ; Mountford proposed to fortify themselves in Hythe ; 
Corbet to re-embark with all speed on board their vessels. 
While they deliberated, it was reported that another troop of 
the king’s men were posted in their rear, while a herald from 
the sheriff called on them to lay down their arms and to 
submit. Already a panic ran through this knot of men ; already 
their coward hands dropped their weapons, ready to be held out 
for servile cords, signs of terror increased by the near tramp 
of Peachy’s soldiers and the sound of martial music. 

At this moment of irresolution, four persons were seen at 
the top of a neighbouring eminence ; one was a knight in 
complete armour, the others were more peacefully attired ; they 
paused a moment gazing on the scene below ; then the three 
pursued their way over the hills towards the sea ; the cavalier 
came riding down at a furious pace ; Lord Audley advanced 
towards him. “All is lost ! ” he cried. 

“Or won!” exclaimed the prince; “surely Neville and my 
good cousin will send us reinforcements. How strong are ye 
on board, Mountford P ” 

“ About six hundred ; two of which are German well-trained 
auxiliaries ; but we hoped to find an ally army.” 

“ Treason, Sir John, is stronger to break, than truth to bind. 
Ye are mad ; better not have landed at all than thus.” 

A few scattered shot from Peachy’s advanced guard broke 
in upon these regrets ; Richard in a moment recollected that 
this was a time for action, not for words. He issued a few 
commands as to the position of his troops, and riding to their 
front addressed them : “ My merry men, and very good friends,” 
he cried, “ let us recollect that we are soldiers ; our lives depend 
upon our swords ; draw them for the right, and be strong in 
it. Our enemies are chiefly raw recruits ; cold friends of a 




THE LANDING AT HYTHE. 



203 



tyrant-usurper; but they are many, and death is before us; 
behind our vessels, the wide ocean, safety, and freedom ; we 
must retreat, not as cowardly fugitives, but as men who, while 
they see, fear not their danger.” 

The order of the march was speedily established. While the 
rear retrograded, Richard, with a hundred chosen men, made 
a stand, receiving so well the first onset of their assailants, that 
they were staggered and driven back. 

“ In good hour, spare neither whip nor spur,” cried York ; 
and turning his horse’s head, he galloped towards his retreating 
friends. Peachy, who believed that he had them in his toils, 
followed slowly and in good order. For the first five miles all 
went well ; but when the hills approached and grew more abrupt, 
forming by degrees a narrow ravine, they found this post 
guarded by the enemy. “ Betrayed ! ” cried Audley ; “ we 
ought to have traversed the hills ; now we are between two 
fires.” 

“ Silence !” said Richard, sternly ; “we must give courage to 
these poor fellows, not deprive them of it — fear you for your 
life, baron P By my fay, I had rather mine were spilt, than 
that of the meanest of our men ! ” 

Combat like this York had shared in the ravines of Anda- 
lusia: he remembered that warfare, and founded his present 
operations upon it. His onset was impetuous ; the enemy re- 
coiled, but formed again. The horsemen dismounted, and pre- 
sented a frightful bulwark of iron-headed lances to the horses 
of the little troop ; while, from the intervals in the ranks, the 
archers and men armed with matchlocks kept up a rain of 
arrows and bullets, that spread consternation among his troop. 
It was necessary to break through this formidable defence ; 
thrice the prince charged in vain ; the third time his standard- 
bearer fell ; he wore a white scarf ; he fixed it to his lance, and 
drawing his sword, he waved this emblem of his cause as again 
he dashed forwards, and with greater success ; yet, as he drove 
the enemjr before him, the whiz of bullets and arrows from 
behind showed that their previous resistance had given Sir John 
Peachy time to come up. York grasped Audley ’s hand : “ Fare- 
well,” he cried, “ forgive my hasty speech, my valiant friend ; 
may we meet in paradise, where surely, through God’s grace, 
we shall sup this night.” 

With the words he charged again, and overcame the last 
faint resistance. Followed by all his troop, pursuing the flying, 
Richard dashed through the defile : soon the open plain was 
before them, and he saw the wide, calm, free ocean, with his 
vessels riding at anchor. The decks were crowded with men, 



 




204 



THE LANDING AT IIYTHE. 



and the water covered with boats, hovering near shore, as they 
waited to reeeive tidings of their friends. 

Before in the van, Richard now hung back to secure the 
retreat of those behind. Audley urged him to embark ; but he 
moved slowly towards the beach, now calling his men to form 
and gather round him, now marking the motions of those 
behind, ready to ride back to their aid. At length Peachy’s 
troops poured through the defile ; the plain was covered by 
flying Yorkists : it only remained for him to assemble as many 
as he could, to protect and insure the embarkation of all. 

“ One word,” cried Audley ; “ whither do you propose to sail?” 

“ It is doubtful ; if Barry still be true, and my voice be heard, 
not to Burgundy and dependence, but rather to Ireland, to Cork 
and Desmond.” 

“ Meanwhile, dear your highness,” said the noble, “ I will not 
believe that all is lost in England. I shall make good speed to 
the West, and gather my friends together ; we shall not be distant 
neighbours; and if I succeed to my wish, Audley will call you 
from your Irish fastnesses to your own native England. Our 
Lady preserve you meanwhile — farewell ! ” 

Audley, swift in all his proceedings, put spurs to his horse, 
and was away. A few minutes brought Richard to the sands ; 
he guarded the embarkation of his diminished numbers ; nor, 
till Peachy’s troop was within bowshot, and the last straggler 
that arrived was in the last boat, did he throw himself from his 
horse and leap in ; he was- rowed to the chief vessel. He cast 
an anxious glance at the Adalid, just under weigh ; a green and 
white flag was hoisted; Monina was on board. Further to 
reassure him of his friends’ safety, Frion received him as he 
mounted on his own deck. Evening was at hand — the late 
balmy summer evening ; a land breeze sprung up ; the vessels 
had already weighed their anchors, and swiftly, with swelling 
sails, they gained the offlng. How tranquil and sweet seemed 
the wide-spread waters ; how welcome these arks of refuge, 
sailing placidly over them, after the strife, the blood, the shouts, 
the groans of battle. “Farewell, England,” said the royal 
exile; “ I have no country, save these decks trodden by my 
friends — where they are, there is my kingdom and my homo ! ” 




203 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE PAETIKG. 



YVhy, it cannot choose but be a noble plot : 

And then the power of Scotland and of York 
To join 

In faith it is exceedingly well aimed ! 

Shaksfearb. 

The dote of York found Lord Barry, Sir George Neville, 
Plantagenet, and several other distinguished friends, on board 
his vessel. In consultation with them, it was agreed to sail 
immediately for Cork. The loss of many brave friends, killed 
or prisoners, on the Kentish coast, saddened them : while the 
diminution of their numbers forbade the idea of a second descent 
upon England. Towards Ireland they sailed, with such alterna- 
tion of calm and contrary winds as made them linger for several 
weeks upon their way. Here, for the first time, Richard heard 
from Frion of Clifford’s machinations, and of his message and 
insolent threat to Monina. Every drop of blood in his veins 
was alive with indignation : before, he had despised Sir Robert 
as a traitor ; and, while he looked on him as the cause of all his 
disasters, and of the death of so many of his noble and gallant 
adherents, bis abhorrence was mingled with contemptuous pity. 
The unchivalrous wrong offered to a woman, that woman his 
sweet sister-friend, animated him with other feelings : to avenge 
her, and chastise the arrogant braggart, was his knightly duty, 
his fervent, impatient wish. He saw her not meanwhile ; she 
was in one of those dark hulls, among which love alone taught 
him to discern the lighter build and more sea- worn frame of the 
Adalid. 

Ireland was at this time very differently situated from when 
the prince first landed on her shores. After Lambert Simnel’s 
success there, still the king of England had neglected its internal 
policy. A more terrible name awakened his caution ; and he 
sent Sir Edward Poynings, as the deputy of his infan toon Henry, 
whom he had nominally appointed to the government. Poynings 



 




206 



THE PARTING. 



was resolute and successful. lie defeated the natives, quelled 
the earl of Kildare, and forced the earl of Desmond to renew his 
oaths of allegiance. A free pardon was afterwards granted to all, 
with the exception of Lord Harry. 

York was received at Cork most cordially by his old friend 
O’Water, and immediately, at the earl of Desmond’s invitation, 
repaired to Ardfinnin.