The Complete Works of Mary Shelley - Part 8

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The Complete Works of Mary Shelley - Part 8

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The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck, A Romance continued...

The earl had found no great difficulty 
in escaping from England, and returning to his native island. 
The timely assistance he had afforded Henry’s enemy in the 
Tower was an impenetrable mystery, though the consciousness 
of it had made him more yielding than he would otherwise have 
been in his concessions to Poynings. He received York with 
the hospitality of an Irish chieftain, and the kindness of a friend. 
But he held out no inducement for him to remain : on the con- 
trary, he was the first to counsel him to turn his eyes, where a 
new and brighter prospect presented itself. Sir Patrick Hamil- 
ton had left Munster a few months before, with a firm belief iu 
ltichard’s truth ; he had assured the earl of the favourable 
reception his adventurous friend would obtain from his royal 
master, and had declared his intention of proceeding to Brussels 
to see the prince, and personally to enforce his invitation. York 
w r as absent; but the duchess gave a cordial reception to the 
renowned Scottish cavalier. He had been present at the sailing 
of the fleet ; and his last words were wishes for their success, 
and an offer of Becure and honourable refuge in Edinburgh, in 
case of failure. It had been agreed, that on his own return 
thither, he should be accompanied by messengers from the 
duchess, to thank the king of Scotland for the interest he mani- 
fested towards her beloved nephew. Sir Edward Brampton was 
chosen as the chief of these, accompanied, of course, by his lady,' 
York’s long-tried and zealous friend. 

All these circumstances were decisive of the course it became 
the exile to pursue. He was at that moment iu a condition to 
appear under advantageous circumstances at the Scottish court. 
He had lost several valued friends during the late attempt ; but 
many remained of noble birth and good renown. Above a 
hundred knights graced his train. The treasure his aunt had 
bestowed for his English struggle remained, besides a con- 
siderable sum of money, services of valuable plate and valuable 
jewels, the munificent gift of the dowager duchess of Norfolk. 
In fine, not a dissentient voice was raised ; and the attention of 
every one was turned towards preparations for the voyage. York 
continued to be the earl of Desmond’s guest : in his princely 
halls he received all the honour due to his rank and pretensions. 
The countess, a lady of the noble family of Boehe, distinguished 



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by L: 




THE PASTING. 207 

him by her kindness, and conceived a peculiar friendship for the 
Spanish maiden, Monina. 

The moment arrived for York’s embarkation. He had visited 
his vessels, and seen that all was in readiness ; but his surprise 
was excited by perceiving that no preparations were made for 
sailing on board the Adalid. This was explained on his return, 
by the countess telling him that a friend of his desired to take 
leave of him before he sailed, and that she had been besought by 
her to explain in some measure the reasons of their separation. 
De Faro’s whole soul was set upon becoming one of those im- 
mortal pioneers who opened new paths across the unexplored 
west. He could be of no use to .Richard in Scotland ; but he 
could not prevail on himself to leave his lovely, unprotected girl 
behind. She had at last consented to accompany him in his far 
and dangerous voyage. 

Many had been this poor child’s struggles, sad her reflections, 
ere she wrought herself to this purpose. “ Alas ! ” such were 
her reveries, “ that innocence should be no safeguard in this ill 
world ! If indeed I loved him sinfully, or he sought me wrong- 
fully, I should simply obey the laws of God in flying him ; but 
he is noble, and I know my own heart. Spotless Mother of God, 
thou knowest it! — there is no single feeling in my woman’s soul 
that I dare not avouch to thy all-blessed gentleness ! I ask only 
to live in the same land, to breathe the same air, to serve him 
at his need, to associate with his friends ; so that when I see him 
not, I may feed upon discourse of him. This is all I ask — all ! 
— and this must not be ! I cannot bear a tainted name ; I can- 
not endure that, linked with any slightest stain of calumny, my 
image should haunt his dreams ; nor that he or any human being 
should suffer through me, which may so easily happen : for if 
words like those Frion reported should reach my father’s ears, 
he would clothe his tempest-shaken limbs in arms, and expose 
his breast to the sharp sword's point, to vindicate my honour. 
No ! — no tragedy shall be associated w ith poor Monina’s name ; 
nor agony nor woe shall visit those I love, through me : they 
shall not even commiserate my sufferings ; these shall be garnered 
lip in my own heart, watched with a miser’s care. 1 will not 
enrich the tell-tale air by one sigh ; nor through my broken 
heart shall the gloom of my despair appear. I will paint my 
face w ith joy’s own hue ; put sunshine in my eyes : my hapless 
love shall be no tale of pity for any, save my own desolate 
thoughts. Nor let me forget every lesson of resignation, nor 
the dear belief I cherish in the protection and goodness of my 
sainted guardianess. Let me rejoice at much that exalts my 
destiny in my own eyes. The prince’s friendship, affection, 








208 



THE PASTING. 



? ratitude, and esteem are mine : I have been able to serve him 
love — am I not sufficiently fortunate ? He needs me no more ; 
but I am no alien upon earth. I shall give delight to my dear 
father by accompanying him over the untrod watery deserts : 
through me — for, if I went not, he would remain behind — the 
name of De Faro will be added to the list of those who be- 
stow a new creation of supernal beauty on our out-worn world. 
He will call me the partner of his glory ; and, though that be a 
vain word, his dark eyes will flash with joy. My dear, dear 
father ! Should the prince succeed and ascend his rightful 
throne, more impassable than that wide sea would be the gulph 
which ceremony would place between us ; and if he fall — an ! 
mine is no summer’s day voyage ; the tornados of that wild 
region may wreck me ; the cold sea receive me in her bosom ; 
and I shall never hear of Rickard’s overthrow, nor endure the 
intolerable pang of knowing that he dies.” 

Fortified in some degree by such thoughts, anxious to conceal 
her sorrows from one who might compassionate, yet not wholly 
share them, Monina met Richard with an air of gaiety : glad, in 
spite of his involuntary mortification, that she should be spared 
any pain, he copied her manner ; and a spectator would have 
thought, that either they parted for a few hours, or were indif- 
ferent to each other. He could not help betraying some anxiety 
however, when Lady Desmond, who was present, solicited him 
to make his friend change her purpose, and drew a frightful 
picture of the hazardous voyage, the storms, the likelihood that 
they might be driven far, far away, where no land was, where 
they w r ould perish of famine on the barren, desolate ocean. 
Monina laughed — she endeavoured thus to put aside her friend’s 
serious entreaties ; and, when she found that she failed, she 
spoke of the Pi’ovidence that could protect her even on the 
wastes of innavigable oceau ; and proudly reminded him, that 
she would trust her father, whose reputation as a mariner stood 
foremost among those in the king of Portugal’s employ. Richard 
looked perplexed — sorrow and pain spoke in his own coun- 
tenance ; while she, true to herself to the last, said, “ I have 
now told you my puVpose — but this is no farewell ; to-morrow 
we meet again ; and another to-morrow w'ill come also, when I 
bring treasure from my Indian isle to dazzle the monarch of 
fair, happy England.” 

On that morrow Richard sought in vain among the countess 
of Desmond’s companions for his sweet Spaniard ; he imaged 
her as he last saw her, light, laughing, her soft-beaming eyes 
hardly daring to glance towards him, while he fancied that a 
shower of precious drops was shaken from their fringed lids. 




THE PASTING. 



209 

He had meant to Bay, “ Ah ! weep, Monina, weep for Anda- 
lusia — for our happy childhood — for the hopes that leaves us : 
thy tears will seem to me more glad than thy untrue smile.” 
But she was not there. Could ho have seen her from the deck 
of his vessel, marking its progress from the watch-tower of 
Youghall, he had been satisfied. The anguish of bitter tears, 
the heart’s agonizing gaspings, were hers, to be succeeded by 
the dull starless night of despair, when his sail vanished on the 
glittering plains of the sunny sea. 

Farewell to her who mourned ; to her who saw neither day 
nor joy, whose heart lived with him, while she prepared for her 
melancholy separation from the very world which he inhabited. 

The scene shifts to Scotland ; and hither, to a new country, a 
new people, almost to a new language, our royal adventurer is 
transported. Dark, tumultuous, stained with blood, and ren- 
dered foul by treason, are the pages of early Scottish history. 
A wild and warlike people inhabited its mountainous districts, 
w T hose occupation was strife, whose religion was power and 
revenge. The Lowlanders, a wealthier race, were hardly more 
cultivated or less savage. One course of rebellion against the 
sovereign, and discord among themselves, flows, a sanguinary 
stream from the hidden sources of things, threading a long track 
of years, or overflowing it with its pernicious waves. Discord, 
hate, and murder were the animating spirits of the scene. 

James the Third was a weak, unhappy man. A prophecy had 
induced him to distrust all the princes of his house — he extended 
this distrust to his son, who was brought up consequently in a 
kind of honourable and obscure imprisonment. He fostered 
unworthy favourites ; and many bold and sanguinary revolts 
had been the consequence. On one occasion, while encamped 
during a foray into England, his nobles had seized on all his 

S ersonal friends and adherents, and hanged them over Loudon 
-ridge. The last rebellion cost him his life. The insurgents 
seized on, and placed at their head, his eldest son, then only 
sixteen years of age — they met their sovereign in the field — he 
fled before them ; and his death was as miserable and dastardly 
as his life. 

James the Fourth succeeded to the throne. The mean 
jealousy of his father had caused him to be untutored ; but he 
was one of those beings, who by nature inherit magnanimity, 
refinement, and generosity. His faults were those that belong to 
such a character. His imagination was active, his impulses warm 
but capricious. He was benignant to every other, severe only 
in his judgment of himself. His father’s death, to which he 
had been an unwilling accessary, weighed like parricide on his 

p 








I 



210 THE PABTINQ. 

conscience. To expiate it, in the spirit of those times, he wore 
perpetually an iron girdle, augmenting the weight each year, as 
habit or increasing strength lightened the former one. He 
devoted much of his life to penance and prayer. Here ended, 
however, all of the ascetic in his disposition. He was a gallant 
knight and an accomplished gentleman. He encouraged 
tourneys and passages of arms, raising the reputation of the 
Scottish cavaliers all over Europe, so that many noble foreigners 
repaired to Edinburgh, to gain new trophies in contests with 
the heroes of the north. He passed edicts to enforce the 
schooling of the children of the nobles and lairds. His general 
love of justice, a little impaired it is true by feudal prejudices, 
often led him to wander in disguise over his kingdom ; seeking 
hospitality from the poor, anti listening with a candid and 
generous mind to every remark upon himself and his govern- 
ment. 

He was singularly handsome, graceful, prepossessing, and yet 
dignified in his manners. He loved pleasure, and was the slave 
of the sex, which gives to pleasure all its elegance and refine- 
ment ; he partook his family’s love for the arts, and was 
himself a poet and a musician ; nay more, to emulate the divine 
patron of these accomplishments, he was well-skilled in surgery, 
and the science of healing. He was ambitious, active, energetic. 
He ruminated many a project of future glory ; meanwhile his 
chief aim was to reconcile the minds of the alienated nobles — • 
his murdered father’s friends — to himself ; and, succeeding in 
this, to abolish the feuds that raged among the peers of Scot- 
land, and civilize their barbarous propensities. He succeeded 
to a miracle. His personal advantages attracted the affection 
of his subjects ; they were proud of him, and felt exalted by his 
virtues. His excellent government and amiable disposition, 
both united to make his reign peaceful in its internal policy, and 
beneficial to the kingdom. The court of Holyrood vied with 
those of Paris, London, and Brussels ; to which capitals many of 
his high-born subjects, no longer engaged in the struggles of 
party, travelled ; bringing back with them the refinements of 
gallantry, the poetry, learning, and science of the south of 
Europe. The feuds, last flickerings of the dying torch of 
discord, which lately spread a fatal glare through the land, 
ceased ; if every noble did not love, they all obeyed their 
sovereign — thus a new golden age might be said to have 
dawned upon this eyrie of Boreas, this tempestuous Thule of the 
world. 

We must remember that this was the age of chivalry; the 
spirit of Edward the Third and the princely dukes of Burgundy 



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THE PAETING. 



211 



yet survived. Lonis the Eleventh, in France, had done mnch 
to quench it; it burnt bright again under the auspices of his 
son. Henry the Seventh was its bitter enemy ; but we are still 
at the beginning of his reign, while war and arms were unex- 
tinguished by his cold avaricious policy. James of Scotland 
laboured, ana successfully, to pacify his subjects, children of one 
common parent ; but he, as well as they, disdained the ignoble 
arts of peace. England formed the lists where they desired to 
display their courage ; war with England was a word to animate 
every heart to dreadful joy : in the end, it caused the destruction 
of him and all his chivalry in Flodden Field ; now it made him 
zealous to upraise a disinherited prince ; so that under the idea 
of restoring the rightful sovereign to the English throne, he 
might have fair pretext for invading the neighbour kingdom. 
At the hope, the soldiers of Scotland — in other words, its whole 
population — awakened, as an unhooded hawk, ready to soar at 
its accustomed quarry. 

Sir Patrick Hamilton, the most accomplished and renowned 
of the Scottish cavaliers, and kinsman of the royal house, had 
returned laden with every testimony of the White Hose’s truth, 
and a thousand proofs of his nobleness and virtue. Sir Edward 
Brampton delivered the duchess’s message of thanks ; and his 
lady had already awakened the zeal of many a gentleman, and 
the curiosity and interest of many a lady, for the pride of York, 
the noble, valiant Plantagenet. Woman’s sway was great at 
Holyrood ; as the bachelor king, notwithstanding his iron girdle, 
and his strict attention to his religious duties, was a devout votary 
at the shrine of feminine beauty. 

There was a hawking party assembled in the neighbourhood 
of Stirling, which he graced by his presence. All was, appa- 
rently, light-heartedness and joy, till a dispute arose between 
two damsels upon the merits of their respective falcons. One 
of these was fair Mary Boyd, daughter of the laird of Bonshaw. 
Mary Boyd was tho first-love of the young sovereign, and the 
report went, that he was no unsuccessful suitor ; it spoke of 
offspring carefully concealed in a village of Fife, whom James 
often visited. When, afterwards, this young lady’s example was 
imitated by others nobly born, this became no secret, and of her 
children, one became archbishop of St. Andrew’s — the other, a 
daughter, married the earl of Morton. 

But these were days of youthful bashfulness and reserve ; the 
mind of Mary Boyd balanced between pride in her lover, and 
shame for her fault ; a state of feeling that ill brooked the loss 
of what gilded her too apparent frailty — the exclusive attention 
of the king. Mary was older than the king ; the dignity which 

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212 



THE PASTING. 



had captivated the boy’s imagination, lost its charm when the 
tyranny of assumed right took the place of that of tenderness. He 
grew cold, th’en absent, and at last, ventured to fix a regard of 
admiration on another, sliding easily from the restraint to which he 
at first submitted, into all of devotion, and soft, gallant courtesy, 
by which kings win ladies’ love, and in which none grew to be a 
greater adept than James. The new object that attracted him 
was, the young, gay, and lovely Lady Jane Kennedy, daughter 
of the earl of Cassils. Her sparkling eyes, her “ bonny brent 
brow,” her dark, clustering hair, contrasted with the transparency 
of her complexion — her perfect good-humour, her vivacity, and 
her wit — made her a chief beauty in the Scottish court, and in 
all this she was the reverse of the fair, light-haired, sleepy-eyed 
Mary. Lady Jane saw and gloried in her triumph over the 
king. Innocent then, she only desired the reputation of such a 
conquest, fully resolved not to tread in the steps of her rival. 
It is something of fool’s play to strive to enchain fire by links of 
straw, to throw silken fetters on a bounding torrent, to sport with 
the strong lion, Love, as he were a playful whelp : some, secure 
in innocence and principle, may at last discover their mistake 
and remain uninjured ; but not the vain, heedless, self-willed. 
Lady Jane. The courtiers were divided in their attentions; 
some for shame would not forsake Mary Boyd ; some thought 
that still she would regain her power ; one or two imagined that 
Lady Jane’s resistance would restore the king to her rival ; but 
the greater number caught the light spirit of the hour, and 
gathered round the laughing, happy girl. 

The contention between these ladies made many smile. The 
king betted a diamond against a Scotch pebble on Lady Jane’s 
bird. Mary had thwarted him, and forced him to her side during 
the first part of the day — now he took his revenge. A heron 
rose from the river banks. The birds were unhooded, and up 
soared Lady Jane’s in one equal flight through the blue air, 
cleaving the atmosphere with noiseless wing. Mary’s followed 
slower ; but, when Lady Jane’s pounced on the quarry, and 
brought it screaming and flapping to the ground, the rival bird 
darted on the conqueror, and a sharp struggle ensued. It was 
unequal ; for the Lady Jane’s hawk would not quit its prey. 
“ Let them fight it out,” said Mary, “ and the survivor is 
surely the victor.” 

But the spectators cried shame — while Lady Jane, with a 
scream, hastened to save her favourite. The other, fiery as a 
borderer, attacked even her ; and, in spite of her gloves, drops 
of blood from her fair hand, stained her 6ilken robe. James 
came to her rescue, and with one blow put an end to the offender’s 




THE PASTING. 



213 



life. Jane caressed her “ tassel gentle,” while Mary looked on 
her “ false carrion’s ” extinction with unrepressed indignation. 
They returned to Stirling : immediately on their arrival, they 
received tidings that the duke of York’s fleet had been descried, 
and was expected to enter the Frith on the following day. None 
heard the words without emotion; the general sentiment was 
joy ; for Kichard’s landing was to be the signal of invasion. 
King Henry had one or two friends among the Scottish nobles, 
and these alone smiled contemptuously. 

“ We must have feasts and tourneys, fair mistress,” said the 
king, “ to honour our royal visitor. Will your servant intrude 
unseemingly if, while his arms extol your beauty, he wears your 
colours ? ” 

Lady J ane smiled a reply, as she followed her father towards 
his mansion. She smiled, while feminine triumph beamed in her 
eye, and girlish bashfulness blushed in her cheek. “ Has she 
not a bonny eeP ” cried James, to him who rode near him. It 
was Sir Patrick Hamilton, his dear cousin and friend, to whom 
James often deferred, and respected, while he loved. His serious 
look recalled the king. “ This is not the time, good sooth ! ” he 
continued, “ for such sweet gauds — but for lance, and broad- 
sword : — the coming of this prince of Hoses will bring our arms 
into play, all rusty as they are. I wonder what presence our 
guest may have ! ” 

The friends then conversed concerning the projected war, 
which both agreed would be well-timed. It would at once give 
vent to the fiery impulses of the Scotch lords, otherwise apt to 
prey upon each other. But lately a band of the Drummonds 
had burnt the kirk of Moulward, in which w r ere six-score 
Murrays, with their wives and children, all of whom were 
victims. But foray in England — war with the land of their 
hate — the defiance would be echoed in glad shouts from Tweed 
to Tay, from the Lothians to the Carse of Gowrie; while it 
should be repeated in groans from the Northumberland wilds. 



 




214 



/ 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

WELCOME TO SCOTLAND. 



Cousin of York, thus once more we embrace thee ; 

Welcome to James of Scotland ! For thy safety, 

Know, such as love thee not shall never wrong thee. 

Come, we will tast" awhile our court delights. 

Dream hence afflictions past, and then proceed 
To high attempts of honour. 

Ford. 

The duke of York arrived off Leith. While the messengers 
were going to and fro, and preparation was made to dis- 
embark, he and his principal friends were assembled on tho 
deck of their vessel, regarding this strange northern coast with 
curiosity, wonder, and some contempt. 

“ I see horses,” cried Lord Barry ; “ by’r Lord’s grace, grass 
grows hitherward — that is much ! ” 

“ I see kye,” exclaimed Frion, “ so we may hope for buttered 
sotvans at least, if not beef, at the palace of feasts.” 

“Ay,” cried Sir Edward Brampton, who had come on board, 
“ you may hope for choice cheer. I promise ye shall live well, 
ye that are noble — these unclad rocks and desert moors are the 
home of many an earl and belted knight, whose gorgeousness 
may vie with the cavaliers of France or Burgundy. In this it 
differs from England, ye will not find stout franklins or fat 
burgesses ; there are no men of Ghent, nor London aldermen : 
the half-naked kern tills the stony soil. Next to the palace is 
the hearthless hovel. Wealth and penury, if not mates, aro 
joint masters of the land.” 

“ I have heard,” said York, “ that there is much paternal lovo 
and filial duty between the rich and poor in this country.” 

“ Among the northern mountains thus it is,” said Brampton ; 
“ a strange and savage race, which, my good Lord Barry, some 
name Irish, dwell on the barren heights, along the impossablo 
defiles; beside their vast stormy lakes ; but the Lowlander 
looks askance on the Highland clanship. List ye, gentlemen ; 
all bears a different aspect hero from the gentle southern 
kingdoms ; but they are men, proud, valiant, warlike men, as 



 




WELCOME TO SCOTLAND. 215 

such they claim our respect. His majesty and a few others aro 
moreover right gallant cavaliers.” 

“ Mark these words,” said York, earnestly, “ and remember, 
dear friends, that we, the world’s wanderers, seek refuge hero 
of our own will, which if we find, we must not disdain our hosts. 
Remember, too, the easy rage of the fiery Scot ; and that we 
boast gentler customs : suffer no brawling to mar our concord ; 
let not Richard of York, who of all his wide realm possesses 
your hearts only, find his dominions narrowed, or violently 
disturbed by your petulance and pride.” 

The duke’s associates listened with respect. Hitherto the 
spirited boy had been led by a Barry, a Clifford, a Neville, or a 
Plantagenet. They had counselled, spoken for him ; his sword 
only had been as active as theirs. A new light seemed to have 
broken in upon his soul ; it assumed a seriousness and power 
that exalted him in their eyes, while it took nothing from the 
candour and single-hearted reliance on their loves, which was 
his dearest charm. 

On landing, the duke of York was escorted to Edinburgh by 
the earl of Errol, Sir Patrick Hamilton, and others. The attire, 
arms, and horses, with their caparisons, of these gentlemen, were 
little inferior to those displayed at Paris. King James awaited 
him at the castle of Edinburgh. The monarch received his 
guest in state on his throne. The prince was struck at once by 
his elegance, his majesty, and sweet animated aspect : his black 
bonnet, looped up by a large ruby, sat lightly on his brow, his 
glossy black curly hair escaping in ringlets from underneath ; 
his embroidered shirt-collar, thrown baclf, displayed bis throat, 
and the noble expression of his head ; his dark grey eyes, his 
manly sun-burnt complexion, the look of thought, combined 
with goodness, mingled with dignity, gave an air of distinction 
to his whole person. Various were the physiognomies, various 
the guises, of those around him. The swart, gaunt Highlander, 
in his singular costume ; the blue-eyed, red-haired sons of the 
Howlands were there ; and in each and all were remarkable a 
martial, sometimes a ferocious, expression. 

The prince of England entered, surrounded by his (to the 
Scotch) foreign-looking knights. 

James descended from his throne to embrace his visitant, and 
then re-assumed it, while all eyes were turned upon the royal 
adventurer, whose voice and mien won every heart, before his 
eloquence had time to move them. “ High and mighty king,” 
said Richard, “ your grace, and these your nobles present, be 
pleased to hear the tragedy of one, who, born a prince, comes 
even as a beggar to your court. My lords, sorrow and X were 




216 



■WELCOME TO SCOTLAND. 



not twins : I am the elder, and for nine years I beheld not the 
ill-visage of that latest birth of my poor but royal mother’s 
fortunes. It were a long tale to tell, what rumour has made 
familiar to every ear: my uncle Gloucester’s usurpation; my 
brother’s death ; and the sorrows of our race. I lost my king- 
dom ere I possessed it ; and while yet my young hands were 
too feeble to grasp the sceptre of my ancestors, and, with it, 
the sword needful to defend the same, capricious fate bestowed 
it on Henry of Richmond ; a base-born descendant of ill-nur- 
tured Bolingbroke ; a scion of that Red Rose that so long ana 
so rightfully had been uprooted in the land, which they had 
bought with its children’s dearest blood. 

“ Good, my lords, I might move you to pity did I relate how, 
in my tender years, that usurer king sought my life, buying the 
the blood of the orphan at the hands of traitors. How, when 
these cruelties failed him, he used subtler arts ; giving me nick- 
names ; meeting my gallant array of partizans, not with an army 
of their peers, but with a base rout of deceits, treasons, spies, 
and blood-stained decoyers. It would suit me better to excite 
your admirations by speaking of the nobleness and fidelity of 
my friends; the generosity of the sovereigns who have shed 
invaluable dews upon the fading White Rose, so to refresh and 
restore it. 

“ But not to waste my tediousness on you, let this be the 
sum. I am here, the friend of France, the kinsman of Bur- 
gundy ; the acknowledged lord of Ireland ; pursued by my 
powerful foe, I am here, king of Scotland, to claim your friend- 
ship and your aid. Here lies the accomplishment of my des- 
tiny ! The universal justice to be rendered me, which I dreamed 
of in my childhood, the eagle hopes Of my youth, my betjter 
fortunes, and future greatness, have fled me. But here they 
have found a home ; here they are garnered up ; render them 
back to me, my lord ; unlock with the iron key of fatal battle 
the entrance to those treasures, all mine own, whose absence 
renders me so poor. Arm for me Scotland ; arm for the right ! 
Never for a juster cause could you buckle breast-plate, or poize 
your lance. Be my captain, and these your peers, my fellow- 
soldiers. Fear not, but that we vanquish ; that I gain a king- 
dom ; you eternal glory from your regal gift. Alas ! I am as 
a helmless vessel drifting towards the murderous rock ; but 
you, as the strong north-wind, may fill the flapping sails, 
and carry me on my way with victory and gladness.” 

A murmur filled the presence-chamber : dark Douglas grasped 
his sword ; Hamilton’s eyes glanced lightnings ; not one there 
but felt his heart beat with desire to enforce the illustrious 




THE COtTBT OP SCOTLAND. 



217 



exile’s right. The tide of rising enthusiasm paused as James 
arose ; and deep attention held them all. He descended from 
his throne. “ My royal brother,” he said, “ were I a mere 
errant knight, so good and high I esteem your cause, without 
more ado I would don my armour, and betake me to the field. 
The same power which enables me to afford you far better 
succour than the strength of one arm, obliges me to pause and 
take council, ere I speak what it is in my heart to promise. But 
your highness has made good your interests among my coun- 
sellors ; and I read in their gestures the desire of war and 
adventure for your sake. Deem yourself an exile no more. 
Fancy that you have come from merry England to feast with 
your brother in the north, and we will escort you back to your 
capital in triumphant procession, showing the gaping world how 
slighter than silky cobwebs are the obstacles that oppose the 
united strength of Plantagenet and Stuart. Welcome — thrice 
welcome to the Scottish land — kinsmen, nobles, valiant gentle- 
men, bid dear welcome to my brother England 1 ” 



CHAPTER XXX. 

THE COURT OP SCOTLAND. 



A lady, the wonder other kind. 

Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind ; 

Which dilating had moulded her mien and motion, 

Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean. 

Shelley. 

A few days made it .apparent that York acquired a stronger 
potver over the generous and amiable king of Scotland, than 
could be given by motives of state policy. He became his 
friend ; no empty name with James, whose ardent soul poured 
itself headlong into this new channel, and revelled in a kind of 
ecstasy in the virtues and accomplishments of his favoured 
guest. Both these princes were magnanimous and honotirable, 
full of grandeur of purpose, and gentleness of manner ; united 
by these main qualities, the diversities of their dispositions 
served rather to draw them closer. Though Richard’s adven- 
tures and disasters had been so many, his countenance, his 



 




218 



THE COUBT OF SCOTLAND. 



very mind was less careworn than that of James. The White 
Rose, even in adversity, was the nursling of love ; the Scottish 
prince, in his palace-fostered childhood, had been the object 
of his father’s hatred and suspicion : cabal, violence, and du- 
plicity, had waited on him. James governed those around him 
by demonstrating to them, that it was their interest to obey 
a watchful, loving, generous monarch : Richard’s power was 
addressed to the most exalted emotions of the human heart, 
to the fidelitv, self-devotion, and chivalric attachment of his 
adherents. James drew towards himself the confidence of 
men;. Richard bestowed his own upon them. James was 
winning from his courtesy, Richard from his ingenuousness. 
Remorse had printed a fadeless stamp of thought and pain on 
the king’s countenance ; an internal self-communion and self- 
rebuke were seated in the deep shadows of his thoughtful eyes. 
Richard’s sorrow for the disasters he might be said to have 
occasioned his friends, his disdain of his own vagabond position, 
his sadness when his winged thoughts flew after the Adalid, 
to hover over his sweet Monina ; all these emotions were 
tinged by respect for the virtues of those around him, con- 
scious rectitude, pious resignation to Providence, gratitude to 
his friends, and a tender admiration of the virgin virtues of her 
he loved : so that there arose thence only a softer expression 
for his features, a sweetness in the candour of his smile, a gentle 
fascination in his frank address, that gave at once the stamp 
of elevated feeling and goodness to his mien. He looked inno- 
cent, while James’s aspect gave token, that in his heart good 
and ill had" waged war : the better side had conquered, yet had 
not come off’ scathless from the fight. 

In the first enthusiasm of his new attachment, James was 
eager to lavish on his friend every mark of his favour and 
interest ; he was obliged to check his impatience, and to submit 
to the necessity of consulting with and deferring to others. His 
promises, though large, continued therefore to be vague; and 
York knew that he had several enemies at the council-board. 



The intimacy between him and the king prevented him from 
entertaining any doubts as to the result ; but he had a difficult 
task in communicating this spirit of patient forbearance to his 
friends. Sometimes they took sudden fright, lest they should 
all at once meet a denial to their desires ; sometimes they were 
indignant at the delays that were interposed. None wjxs more 
open in his expressions of discontent than Master Secretary 
Prion. He who had been the soul of every enterprise until 
now, who had fancied that his talents for negotiation would be 
of infinite avail in the Scottish court, found that the friendship 




THE COXTET OF SCOT1AND. 



219 



between the princes, and Richard’s disdain of artfully enticing 
to his side his host’s noble subjects, destroyed at once his 
diplomatic weaving. He craftily increased the discontent of 
the proud Neville, the disquietude of the zealous Lady Bramp- 
ton, and the turbulent intolerance of repose of Lord Barry ; 
while Richard, on the other hand, exerted himself to tranquillize 
and reduce them to reason: he was sanguine in his expecta- 
tions, and above all, confident in his friend’s sincere intention to 
do more than merely assist him by force of arms. He saw a 
thousand projects at work in James’s generous heart, every one 
tending to exalt him in the eyes of the world, and to rescue 
him for ever from the nameless, fugitive position he occupied. 
Nor was hts constant intercourse with the king of small influ- 
ence over his happiness ; the genius, the versatile talents, the 
grace and accomplishments of this sovereign, the equality and 
sympathy that reigned between them, was an exhaustless source 
of more than amusement, of interest and delight. The friends 
of James became his friends : Sir Patrick Hamilton was chief 
among these, and warmly attached to the English prince : 
another, whom at first ceremony had placed at a greater distance 
from him, grew into an object of intense interest and continual 
excitation. 

“ This evening,” said the king to him, soon after his arrival, 
“you will see the flower of our Scottish damsels, the flower of 
the world well may I call her ; for assuredly, when you see the 
Lady Katherine Gordon, you will allow that she is matchless 
among women.” 

Richard was surprised: did James’s devotion to Lady Jane 
Kennedy, nay, his conscious look whenever he mentioned her, 
mean nothing? Besides, on this appeal to his own judgment, ho 
pictured his soft-eyed Spaniard, with all her vivacity and all her 
tenderness, and he revolted from the idea of being the slave of 
any other beauty. “ Speak to our guest, Sir Patrick,” continued 
the king, “ and describe the fair earthly angel who makes a 
heaven of our bleak wilds ; or rather, for his highness might 
suspect you, let me, not her lover, but her cousin, her admirer, 
her friend, tell half the charms, half the virtues of the daughter 
of Huntley. Is it not strange that I, who have seen her each day 
since childhood, and who still gaze with wonder on her beauty, 
should yet find that words fail me when I would paint it? I 
am apt to see, and ready to praise, the delicate arch of this lady’s 
brow, the fire of another’s eyes, another’s pouting lip and fair 
complexion, the gay animation of one, the chiselled symmetry 
of a second. Often, when our dear Lady Kate has sat, as is often 
her wont, retired from sight, conversing with Borne travelled 




220 



THB OOTTBT OF SCOTLAND. 



greybeard, or paying the homage of attention to some ancient 
dame (of late I have remarked her often in discourse with Lady 
Brampton), I have studied her face and person to dscover where 
the overpowering charm exists, which, like a strain of impassioned 
music, electrifies the senses, and touches the hearts of all near 
her. Is it in her eyes ? A poet might dream of dark blue orbs 
like hers, and that he had kissed eyelids soft as those, when he 
came unawares on the repose of young Aurora, and go mad for 
ever after, because it was only a dream: yet I have seen brighter; 
nor are they languishing. Her lips, yes, the soul of beauty is 
there, and so is it in her dimpled chin. In the delicate rounding 
of her cheeks, and the swanlike loveliness of her throat, in the 
soft ringlets of her glossy hair, down to the very tips of her 
roseate-tinged fingers, there is*proportion, expression, and grace. 
You will hardly see all this : at first you will be struck ; extreme 
beauty must strike ; but your second thought will be, to wonder 
what struck you, and then you will look around, and see twenty 
prettier and more attractive ; and then, why, at the first words 
she speaks, you will fancy it an easy thing to die upon the mere 
thought of her : her voice alone will take you out of yourself, and 
carry you into another state of being. She is simple as a child, 
straightforward, direct : falsehood — pah ! Katherine is Truth. 
This simplicity, which knows neither colouring nor deviation, 
might almost make you fear, while you adore her, but that her 
goodness brings you back to love. She is good, almost beyond the 
consciousness of being so : she is good because she gives herself 
entirely up to sympathy ; and, beyond every other, she dives 
into the sources of your pleasures and pains, and takes a part in 
them. The better part of yourself will, when she speaks, appear 
to leap out, as if, for the first time, it found its other half ; w hile 
the worse is mute, like a stricken dog, before her. She is gay, 
more eager to create pleasure than to please ; for to please, we 
must think of ourselves, and be ourselves the hero of the story, 
and Katherine is ever forgetful of self : she is guileless and gall- 
less ; all love her ; her proud father, and fiery, contentious 
Highland brothers, defer to her ; yet, to look at her, it is as if 
the youngest and most innocent of the graces read a page of 
wisdom’s book, scarce understanding what it meant, but feeling 
jfcb*t it was right.” 

*It was dangerous to provoke the spirit of criticism by excessive 
praise ; Richard felt half inclined to assert that there was some- 
thing in the style of the king’s painting that showed he should 
not like this lauded lady ; but she was his cousin, he was proud 
of her, and so he was silent. There was a ball at court that 
night ; and he would see many he had never seen before ; James 




THE C0UBT OP 8C0TLAND. 



221 



made it a point that he should discover which was his cousin. 
He could not mistake. “ She is loveliness itself ! ” hurst from 
his lips ; and from that moment he felt what James had said, 
that there was a “ music breathing from her face,” an unearthly, 
spirit-stirring beauty, that inspired awe, had not her perfect 
want of pretension, her quite, unassuming simplicity, at once led 
him back to every thought associated with the charms and virtues 
of woman. Lady Brampton was already a link between them ; 
and, in a few minutes, he found himself conversing with more 
unreserve and pleasure than he had ever done. There are two 
pleasures in our intercourse in society, one is to listen, another 
to speak. We may frequently meet agreeable, entertaining 
people, and even sometimes individuals, whose conversation, 
either by its wit, its profundity, or its variety, commands our 
whole rapt attention : but very seldem during the course of our 
lives ^lo we meet those who thaw every lingering particle of ice, 
who set the warm life-springs flowing, and entice us, with our 
hearts upon our lips, to give utterance to its most secret mys- 
teries ; to disentangle every knot and fold of thought, and, like 
sea-weed in the wave, to spread the disregarded herbage, as a 
tracery matchlessly fair before another’s eyes. Such pleasure 
Bichard felt with Katherine ; and, ever and anon, her melodious 
voice interposed with some remark, some explanation of his own 
feelings, at once brilliant and true. 

Bichard knew that Sir Patrick Hamilton loved the Lady Kath- 
erine Gordon; he also was related to the royal family. Hamilton, 
in the eyes of all, fair ladies and sage counsellors, was acknow- 
ledged to be the most perfect knight of Scotland ; what obstacle 
could there be to their union P Probably it was already projected, 
and acceded to. Bichard did not derogate from the faith that 
he told himself he owed to Monina, by cultivating a friend- 
ship for the promised bride of another, and moreover one whom, 
after the interval of a few short months, he would never see 
again. Satisfied with this reasoning, York lost no opportunity 
of devoting himself to the Lady Katherine. 

His interests were the continual subject of discussion in the 
royal counsel-chamber. There were a few who did not speak in 
his favour. The principal of these was the earl of Moray, the 
king’s uncle: the least in consideration, for he was not of the 
council, though he influenced it : but the bitterest in feeling, was 
Sir John Bamsey, laird of Balmayne, who styled himself Lord 
Bothwell. He had been a favourite of James the Third. His 
dark, fierce temper was exasperated by his master’s death, and 
he brooded perpetually for revenge. He had once, with several 
other nobleB, entered into a conspiracy to deliver up the present 




222 



THE COTJBT OF SCOTLAND. 



king; to Henry the Seventh ; and the traitorous intent was 
defeated, not from want of will, but want of power in his abettors. 
Since then, Lord Bothwell, though nominally banished and 
attainted, was suffered to live in Edinburgh, nay, to have access 
to the royal person. James, whose conscience suffered so dearly 
by the death of his father, had no desire to display severity 
towards his ancient faithful servant; besides, one who was really 
so insignificant as Sir John Ramsey. This man was turbulent, 
dissatisfied : he was sold to Henry of England, and had long 
acted as a spy; the appearance of York at Edinburgh gave 
activity and importance to his function: his secret influence and 
covert intrigues retarded somewhat the projects and desires of 
the king. 

When the first opposition made to acknowledging this pretender 
to the English crown was set aside, other difficulties ensued. 
Some of the counsellors were for making hard conditions with 
the young duke, saying, that half a kingdom were gift enough to 
a Prince Lackland : a golden opportunity was this, they averred, 
to slice away a bonny county or two from wide England ; he 
whom they gifted with the rest could hardly say them nay. But 
James was indignant at the base proposal, and felt mortified and 
vexed when obliged to concede in part, and to make conditions 
which he thought hard with his guest. After a noisy debate, 
these propositions were drawn out, and York was invited 
to attend the council, where they were submitted for his 
assent. 

These conditions principally consisted in the surrender of 
Berwick, and the promised payment of one hundred thousand 
marks. They were hard ; for it would touch the new monarch’s 
honour not to dismember his kingdom ; and it were his policy 
not to bm'den himself with a debt which his already oppressed 
subjects must be drawn on to pay. The duko asked for a day 
for consideration, which was readily granted. 

With real zeal for bis cause on one side, and perfect confidence 
in his friends’ integrity on the other, these difficulties became 
merely nominal, and the treaty was speedily arranged. But the 
month of September was near its close : a winter campaign would 
be of small avail : money, arms, and trained men, were wanting. 
The winter was to be devoted to preparation ; with the spring 
the Scottish army was to pass the English border. In every 
discussion, in every act, James acted as his guest’s brother, the 
sharer of his risks and fortunes : one will, one desire, was theirs. 
Sir Patrick Hamilton went into the west to raise levies : no 
third person interposed between them. It was the king’s dispo- 
sition to yield himself wholly up to the passion of the hour. He 




the cottbt of scotxand. 



223 



saw in Richard, not only a prince deprived of his own, and driven 
into exile, but a youth of royal lineage, exposed to the oppro- 
biura of nick-names and the accusation of imposture. The king 
of France acknowledged, but he had deserted him ; the archduke 
had done the same : how could James prove that he would not 
follow in these steps ? He levied the armies of his kingdom in 
his favour ; he was to fight and conquer for him next spring. 
The intervening months were intolerable to the fervent spirit of 
the Stuart — something speedy, something now, he longed, he 
resolved to do ; which, with a trumpet-note, should to all corners 
of the world declare, that he upheld Richard of York’s right — 
that he was hi3 defender, his champion. Once he penned a 
universal challenge, then another especially addressed to Henry 
Tudor ; but his invasion were a better mode than this. Should 
he give him rank in Scotland P — that would ill beseem one who 
aspired to the English 'crown.- Should he proclaim him Richard 
the Fourth in Edinburgh? — York strongly objected to this. 
Money P — it were a base gilding ; besides, James was very poor, 
and had melted down his plate, and put his jewels to pawn, 
to furnish forth the intended expedition. Yet there was one 
way, — the idea was as lightning — James felt satisfied and proud; 
and then devoted all his sagacity, all his influence, all his ardent 
soul, to the accomplishment of a plan, which, while it insured 
young Richard's happiness, stamped him indelibly as beiDg no 
vagabond impostor, but the honoured prince, the kinsman and 
ally of Scotland’s royal house. 

King James and the duke of York had ridden.out to inspect a 
Howland regiment, which the earl of Angus proudly displayed as 
the force of the Douglas. As they returned, James was melan- 
choly and meditative. “It is strange and hard to endure,” he 
said at last, fixing on his companion his eyes at once so full of 
fire and thought, “ when two spirits contend within the little 
microcosm of man. I felt joy at sight of those bold followers of 
the Douglas, to think that your enemy could not resist them ; 
but I do myself foolish service, when I place you on the English 
throne. You will leave us, my lord : you will learn in your 
bonny realm to despise our barren wilds : it will be irksome 
to you in prosperity, to think of your friends of the dark hour.” 

There was sincerity in'these expressions, but exaggeration in 
the feelings that dictated them. Richard felt half-embarrassed, 
in spite of gratitude and friendship. The king, following the 
bent of his own thoughts, not those of others, suddenly con- 
tinued : “ Our cousin Kate at last, finds grace in your eyes ; 
is she not good and beautiful, all cold and passionless as 
she is P” 




224 



THE COURT OP SCOTLAND. 



“ Cold ! ” the Lady Katherine, whose heartfelt sympathy, was 
a sunny clime in which he basked — whose sensibility perpetually 
varied the bright expression of her features — York repeated the 
word in astonishment. 

“ Thou findest her wax ? ” inquired James, smiling ; “ by my 
troth, she has proved but marble before.” 

“ I cannot guess even at your meaning,” replied York, with all 
the warmth of a champion ; “ the lady is in the estimation of all, 
in your own account, the best daughter, the most devoted friend, 
the kindest mistress in the world. How can we call that spirit 
cold, which animates her to these acts P It is not easy to per- 
form, as she does, our simplest duties. How much of self-will, 
of engrossing humour, even of our innocent desires and cherished 
tastes, must we not sacrifice, when we devote ourselves to the 
pleasure and service of others ? How much attention does it not 
require, how sleepless a feeling of interest, merely to perceive 
and understand the moods and wishes of those around us ! An 
inert, sluggish nature, half ice, half rock, cannot do this. To 
achieve it, as methinks your fair kinswoman does, requires all 
her understanding, all her sweetness, all that exquisite tact and 
penetrative feeling I never saw but in her.” 

“I am glad you say this,” said James. “Yes, Kate has a 
warm heart : none has a better right to say so than L Thcx*e are 
•—there were times, for the gloom of the dark hour is Bomewhat 
mitigated — when no priest, no penance, had such power over me 
as my cousin Katherine’s sweet voice. Like a witch she dived 
into the recesses of my heart, plucking thence my unholy distrust 
in God’s mercy. By St. Andrew ! when I look at her, all simple 
and gentle as she is, I w’onder in what part of her resides the 
wisdom and the eloquence I have heard fall from her lips ; nor 
have I had the heart to reprove her, when I have been angered 
to see our cousin Sir Patrick driven mad by her sugared 
courtesies.” 

“ Does she not affect Sir Patrick P ” asked Bichard, while he 
wondered at the thrilling sensation of fear that accompanied his 
words. 

“ ‘Yea, heartily,’ she will reply,” replied the king ; “ ‘Would 
you have me disdain our kinsman?’ she asks when I rail; 
but you, who are of gender masculine, though, by the mass ! 
a smooth specimen of our rough kind, know full well that pride 
and impertinence are better than equable, smiling, impenetrable 
sweetness. Did the lady of my love treat me thus, ’sdeath, 

I think I should order myself the rack for pastime. But we 
forget ourselves ; push on, dear prince. It is tne hour, when the 
hawks and their fair mistresses are to meet us on the hill’s side. 



 




THE CDHKT OP SCOTLAND, 



225 



I serve no such glassy damsel ; nor would I that little Kennedy’s 
eye darted fires on me in scorn of mv delay. Are not my pretty 
Lady Jane’s eyes bright, Sir Duke P ” 

“ As a fire-fly among dark-leaved myrtles.” 

“ Or a dew-drop on the heather, when the morning sun glances 
on it, as wc take our mountain morning-way to the chase. You 
look grave, my friend ; surely her eyes are nought save as 
nature’s miracle to you P ” 

“ Assuredly not,” replied York ; “ arc they other to your 
majesty — you do not love the lady P ” 

“ Oh, no! ’’ reiterated James, with a meaning glance, “ I do 
not love the Lady Jane ; only I would bathe in fire, bask in ice, 
do each and every impossibility woman’s caprice could frame 
for trials to gain — but I talk wildly to a youthful sage. Say, 
most revered anchorite, wherefore doubt you my love to my 
pretty mistress ? ” 

“ Love ! ” exclaimed Richard ; his eyes grew lustrous in their 
own soft dew as he spoke. “ Oh, what profanation is this ! And 
this you think is love ! to select a young, innocent, and beauteous 
girl — who, did she wed her equal, would become an honoured 
wife and happy mother — to select her, the more entirely to 
deprive her of these blessings — to bar her out for ever from a 
woman’s paradise, a happy home ; you, who even now are in 
treaty for a princess-briae, would entice this young thing to give 
up her heart, her all, into your hands, who will crush it, as boys 
a gaudy butterfly, when the chase is over. Dear my lord, spare 
her the pain — yourself remorse ; you are too good, too wise, too 
generous, to commit this deed and not to suffer bitterly,” 

A cloud came over James’s features. The very word “ remorse" 
was a sound of terror to him. He smote his right hand against 
his side, where dwelt his heart, in sore neighbourhood to the 
iron of his penance. 

At this moment, sweeping down the near hill-side, came a 
gallant array of ladies and courtiers. The king even lagged 
behind ; when near, he accosted Katherine, he spoke to the earl 
of Angus, to Mary Boyd, to all save the Lady Jane, who first 
looked disdainful, then hurt, and, at last, unable to struggle 
with her pain, rode sorrowfully apart. James tried to see, to 
feel nothing. Her pride he resisted, her anger he strove to 
contemn, her dejection ho could not endure: and, when riding 
up to her unaware, he saw the traces of tears on her cheek, 
usually so sunny bright with smiles, he forgot everything save 
his wish to console, to mollify, to cheer her. As they returned, 
his hand was on her saddle-bow, his head bent down, his eyes 
looking into hers, and she was smiling, though less gay than 

4 




226 



TUB MA.BBU.GE. 



usual. From that hour James less coveted the prince’s society. 
He began a little to fear him : not the less did he love and 
esteem him ; and more, far more, did he deem him worthy of the 
honour, the happiness he intended to bestow upon him. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE MABBIAGE. 



She is mine own ; 

And I as rich in having such a jewel, 

As twenty *eas, if all their sand were pearl. 

Their water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 

SlIAKSFKARH. 

The threads were spun, warp and woof laid on, and Fate busily 
took up the shuttle, which was to entwine the histories of two 
beings, at whose birth pomp and royalty stood sponsors, whose 
career was marked by every circumstance that least accorded 
with such a nativity. A thousand obstacles stood in the way ; 
the king, with all his fervour, hesitated before he proposed to 
the earl of Huntley to bestow his daughter, of whom he was 
justly proud, on a fugitive sovereign, without a kingdom, almost 
without a name. Fortune, superstition, ten thousand of those 
imperceptible threads which fate uses when she weaves her most 
indissoluble webs, all served to bring about the apparently 
impossible. 

The earl of Huntley was a man of a plain, straightforward, 
resolved ambition. His head was warm, his heart cold, his 
purpose one — to advance his house, and himself at the head of 
it, to as high a situation as the position of subject would permit. 
In the rebellion which occasioned the death of James the Third, 
he had vacillated, unable quite to ascertain which party would 

I >rove triumphant ; and when the rebels, rebels then no more, but 
ieges to James the Fourth, won the day, they looked coldly on 
their lukewarm partizan. Huntley grew discontented : though 
still permitted to hold the baton of Earl Marshal, he saw a cloud 
of royal disfavour darkening his fortunes ; in high indignation ho 
joined in the nefarious plot of Buchan, Bothwell, and Sir Thomas 



 



THE MABBIAGB. 227 

Todd, to deliver his sovereign into the hands of Henry of 
England, a project afterwards abandoned. 

Time had softened the bitter animosities which attended 
James at the beginning of his reign. He extended his favour to 
all parties, and reconciled them to each other. A wonder it was, 
to see the Douglases, Hamiltons, Gordons, Homes, the Murrays, 
and Lennoxes, and a thousand others, at peace with each other, 
and obedient to their sovereign. The earl of Huntley, a man 
advanced in life, prudent, resolute, and politic, grew into favour. 
He was among the principal of the Scottish peers ; he had sons, 
to whom the honours of his race would descend, and this one 
daughter, whom he loved as well as he could love anything, and 
respected from the extent of her influence, and the perfect pru- 
dence of her conduct ; she was his friend and counsellor, the 
mediator between him and her brothers ; the kind mistress to his 
vassals, a gentle, but all-powerful link between him and his king, 
whose value he duly appreciated. 

Her marriage was often the subject of his meditation. Super- 
stition was ever rife in Scotland. James the Third had driven 
all his brothers from him, because he had been told to beware of 
ono near of kin ; and his death, of which his son was the osten- 
sible agent, fulfilled the prophecy. Second-sight, in the High- 
lands, was of more avail than the predictions of a Lowland sibyl. 
The seer of the house of Gordon had, on the day of her birth, 
seen the Lady Katherine receive homage as a queen, and standing 
at the altar with one, on whose young brow he perceived, all dim 
and shadowy, “ the likeness of a kingly ci’own.” True, this eleva- 
tion was succeeded by disasters : he had beheld her a fugitive ; 
he saw her stand on the brow of a cliff that overlooked the sea, 
while the wild olouds careered over the pale moon, alone, de- 
serted ; he saw her a prisoner ; he saw her stand desolate beside 
the corpse of him she had wedded — the diadem was still there, 
dimly seen amid the disarray of his golden curls. These images 
haunted the earl’s imagination, and made him turn a slighting 
ear to Sir Patrick Hamilton, and other noble suitors of his lovely 
child. Sometimes he thought of the king, her cousin, or one of 
his brothers : flight, desolation, and death, were no strange 
attendants on the state of the king of Scotland, and these 
miseries he regarded as necessary and predestined ; he could not 
avert, and so he hardly regarded them, while his proud bosom 
swelled at the anticipation of the thorny diadem, which was to 
press the brow of a daughter of the Gordon. 

Lord Huntley had looked coldly on the English prince. Lord 
Bothwell, as he called himself, otherwise Sir John Itamsay, of 
Balmayne, his former accomplice, tampered with him on the part 

q 2 




228 



TIIE Sf ABET AGE. 



of Henry the Seventh, to induce him to oppose warmly the 
reception of this “ feigned boy,” and to negative every proposi- 
tion to advance his claims. King Henry’s urgent letters, and 
Ham? ay’s zenl, awakened the earl’s suspicions ; a manifest im- 
postor could hardly engender such fears, such hate ; and, when 
midnight assassination, or the poisoned bowl, were plainly hinted 
at by the monarch of wide England, Huntley felt assured that 
the enemy he so bitterly pursued was no pretender, but the 
rightful heir of the sceptre Henry held. He did not quite refuse 
to join with Bothwell, especially when he heard that he was 
listened to by the bishop of Moray and the earl of Buchan ; but 
involuntarily he assumed a different language with regard to 
York, became more respectful to him, and by his demeanour 
crushed at once the little party who had hitherto spoken of him 
with contempt. The king perceived this change ; it was the 
foundation-stone of his project. “ Tell me, you who are wise, 
my lord,” said the monarch to his earl marshal, “ how I may 
raise our English prince in the eyes of Scotland. We light for 
him in the spring — for him, we say — but few of ours echo the 
word ; they disdain to fight for any not akin to them.” 

“ They would fight for the Foul Fiend,” said Huntley, “ whom 
they would be ill-pleased to call cousin, if he led them over the 
English border.” 

“Ay, if he took them there to foray ; but the duke of York 
will look on England as his own, and when the nobles of the 
land gather round him, it will be chauncy work to keep them 
and our Scots from shedding each other’s blood; they would, 
spill Duke Eichard’s like water, if no drop of it can be deemed 
Scotch.” 

“ It were giving him a new' father and mother,” replied tho 
earl, “ to call him thus.” 

“ When two even of hostile houses intermarry, our heralds 
pale their arms ; the offspring pale their blood.” 

“But what Scottish lady would your grace bestow on him 
whose rank were a match for royalty P There is no princess of 
the Stuarts.” 

“And were there,” asked James, quickly, “would it beseem 
us to bestow our sister on a King Lackland P” 

“Or would your majesty wait till he were king of England, 
when France, Burgundy, and Spain would compete with you P I 
do believe that this noble gentleman has fair right to his father’s 
crown ; he is gallant and generous, so is not King Henry ; he 
is made to be the idol of a warlike people, such as the English, 
so is not his rival. Do you strike one stroke, the whole realm 
riges for him, and he becomes its sovereign : then it were a pride 




THE MABBIAGE. 



229 

and a glorp for us, for him a tie to bind him for ever, did ho 
place his diadem on the head of a Scottish damsel.” 

“ You are sanguine and speak warmly,” replied the king : 
“ see you beyond your own words P to me they suggest a thought 
which I entertain, or not, as is your pleasure : there is but one 
lady in our kingdom fitting mate for him, and she is more 
Gordon than Stuart. Did your lordship glance at the Lady 
Katherine in your speech P ” 

Lord Huntley changed colour : a sudden rush of thought 

{ ralsied the beatings of his heart. Was he called upon to give 
lis child, his throne-destined daughter, to this king-errant? 
Hay, nav, thus did fortune blindly work ; her hand would insure 
to him the crown, and so fulfil to her the dark meaning of the 
seer : hesitating, lost to his wonted presence of mind, Huntley 
could only find words to ask for a day for reflection. James 
wondered at this show of emotion ; he could not read its full 
meaning : “ At your pleasure, my lord,” he said, “ but if you 
decide against my honoured, royal friend, remember that this 
question dies without record — you will preserve our secret.” 
Every reflection that could most disquiet an ambitious man 
possessed the earl marshal. That his daughter should be queen 
of England was beyond his hopes ; that she should be the errant 
wife of a pretender, who passed his life in seeking ineffectual aid 
at foreign courts, was far beneath them. He canvassed every 
likelihood of York’s success ; now they dwindled like summer- 
snow on the southern mountain’s side — now they strode high 
and triumphant over every obstacle ; the clinging feeling was — 
destiny had decreed it — she being his wife, both would succeed 
and reign. “ There is fate in it,” was his last reflection, “ and I 
will not gainsay the fulfilment. Andrew of the Shawe was the 
prince of seers, as I have good proof. Still to a monarch alone 
shall she give her hand, and I must make one condition.” 

This one condition Lord Huntley communicated to his royal 
master. It was that York should, as of right lie might, assume 
the style and title of king. James smiled at his earl marshal’s 
childish love of gauds, and did not doubt that the duke would 
pay so easy price for a jewel invaluable as Katherine. But 
granting this, the king, knowing the noble’s despotic character, 
required one condition also on his part, that lie should first 
announce the intended union to the lady, and that it should not 
have place without her free and entire consent. Huntley was 
surprised : “ Surely, my liege,” he began, “ if your majesty and 
I command ” 

“ Our Bwcet Kate will obey,” interrupted James; “but this 
is oo mere marriage of policy ; hazards, fearful hazards may 




230 



THB MABBIAGE. 



attend it. Did I not believe that all would end Veil, by the 
Holy Rood he should not have her ; but she may see things with 
different eyes — she may shrink from becoming the wife of an 
exile, a wanderer without a home : yet that need never be.” 

York little guessed the projects of bis royal friend. Love, in 
its most subtle guise, had insinuated itself into his soul, becoming 
a very portion of himself. That part of our nature, which to our 
reflections appears the most human, and yet which forms the 
best part of humanity, is our desire of sympathy ; the intense 
essence of sympathy is love. Love has been called selfish, 
engrossing, tyrannic — as the root-, so the green leaf that shoots 
from it — love is a part of us — it is our manifestation of life ; 
and poisonous or sweet will be the foliage, according to the 
stock. When we love, it is our aim and conclusion to make the 
object a part of ourselves — if we are self-willed and evilly in- 
clined, little good can arise ; but deep is the fount of generous, 
devoted, godlike feeling, which this silver key unlocks in gentle 
hearts. Richard had found in the Lady Katherine a magic 
mirror, which gave him back himself, arrayed with a thousand 
alien virtues ; his soul was in her hands, plastic to her fairy 
touch, and tenderness and worship and wonder took his heart, 
ere passion woke, and threw a chain over these bosom guests, so 
that they could never depart. A mild, yet golden light dawned 
upon his soul, and beamed from it, lighting up creation with 
splendour — filling his mind with mute, yet entrancing melody. 
He walked in a dream ; but far from being rendered by his 
abstraction morose or inattentive to others, never had he been 
so gay, never so considerate and amiable. He felt that, beneath 
the surface of his life, there was the calm and even the bliss of 
Paradise ; and his lightest word or act must be, by its grace and 
benevolence, in concord with the tranquil spirit that brooded 
over his deeper-hidden self. All loved him the better for the 
change, save Frion; there was something in him that the w ily 
Frenchman did not understand ; he went about and about, but 
how could this man of “ low-thoughted care” understand the 
holy mysteries of love. 

Katherine accompanied her father to Gordon Castle, in Aber- 
deenshire. Where was the light now, that had made a summer 
noon in Richard’s soul P There was memory : it brought before 
him her cherub-face, her voice, the hours when at her side he had 
poured out his overbrimming soul in talk — not of love, but of 
ideas, feelings, imaginations he had never spoken before. Two 
days passed, and by that time he had collected a whole volume of 
things he wished to say — and she was far : then hope claimed 
entrance to his heart, and with her came a train he dreamt not 




THE MABBIA.GE. 



231 



of — of fears, anticipations, terror, despair ; and then a tenfold 
ardour for liis enterprise. Should he not win Katherine and a 
kingdom P 

On the third day after her departure, King James informed 
the prince, that Lord Huntley had invited them to visit him at 
his castle. “ Will your grace venture,” he asked, “ so far into 
the frozen circles of the icy north? You will traverse many a 
savage defile and wild mountain-top ; torrents and dark pine 
forests bar the way, and barrenness spreads her hag’s arms to 
scare the intruder. I speak your language, the effeminate 
language of an Andalusian, who loves the craggy heights, only 
when summer basks upon them ; and the deep suuless dell, when 
myrtles and geranium impregnate the air w ith sweets. I love 
the mist and snow, the tameless winds and howling torrent, the 
bleak unadorned precipice, the giant pines w here the north makes 
music. The grassy upland and the corn-field, these belong to 
man, and to her they call Nature, the fair, gaudy dame; but 
God takes to himself, and fives among, these sublime rocks, 
where power, majesty and eternity are shaped forth, and the 
grandeur of heaven-piercing cliffs allies us to a simple but 
elevating image of the Creator.” 

King James was a poet, and could feel thus — York might 
smile at his enthusiasm for the bleak and horrific. But had the 
path to Gordon Castle been ten times more frightful, the thoughts 
of love were roses, the hopes of love vernal breezes, to adorn it 
with beauty. “ Say, my lord,” continued James, “ shall we go 
throwing aside the cumbrous burthen of pomp? We are here 
in Perth. Yonder, over those peaks, lies our direct path. Shall 
we, two woodland rovers, with bows in our hand and quivers at 
our back, take our solitary way through the w ild region P It is 
my pastime ofttimes so to do ; and well I know the path that 
leads me to the abode of my cousin Kate. We will send our 
attendants by the easier path to the eastern sea-shore, at once 
to announce our approach, and bear such gear as we may need, 
not to play too humble a part in Huntley’s eyes.” 

A thousand motives of policy and pride had induced the earl 
to desire that this marriage should be celebrated in the High- 
lands. Here he would appear almost a sovereign to his royal 
son-in-law ; here also he should avoid the sarcasms of the Tudor 
party, and the anger of those who had pretended to fair Kathe- 
rine’s hand. James consented to his wish, and now led his 
friend and guest, through the very heart of his craggy kingdom 
over tho Grampians, towards Aberdeen. It was the end of 
October ; a few sweet autumnal days still fingered among these 
northern hills, as if to fight on their way the last feathered 




232 



THE MA.HEUGE. 



migrators hastening towards the south ; but dark mists invested 
their morning progress. The rivers were swollen ; and the 
mountain peaks often saluted the rising sun, garmented in 
radiant snow. It was a little drear, jet grand, sublime, 
wondrous. York suppressed his chilling distaste, till it grew 
into admiration ; the king played the guide featly ; and the 
honoured name of the Bruce, which peopled this region with 
proud memories, was the burthen of many a tale ; nor was his 
account of the fierce people of these wilds unwelcome to a 
warrior. York remarked that the king was generally known to 
them, not, indeed, as a monarch, but as a hunter, a traveller, 
sometimes as a skilful mediciner, or as a bard, and always 
hospitably received. 

After three days they drew near their journey's end : curiosity 
as to the cause of their visit, anxiety concerning his reception, 
all faded in Richard's heart ; dimmed by the glad expectation 
of seeing her again, who had dawned the glowiDg orient of his 
darkened heart. They had departed from their rude shelter 
before the sun rose : the mountain peaks were awake with day, 
while night still slumbered in the plain below : some natural 
sights speak to the heart more than others, wherefore we know 
not : the most eloquent is that of the birth of day on the 
untrodden hill-tops, while we, who behold it, are encompassed 
by shadows. York paused : the scene appeared to close in on 
him, and to fill him, even to overflowing, with its imagery. 
They were toiling up the mountain’s side : below, above, the dark 
pines, in many a tortuous shape, clung to the rifted rocks ; the 
tern clustered round some solitary old oak ; while, beetling over, 
were dark frowning crags, or the foldings of the mountains, 
softened into upland, painted by the many coloured heather. 
With the steady pace of a mountaineer, King James breasted 
the hill-side ; nor did York bely his rugged Spanish home. As 
a bravado, the king, in the very sheer ascent, trolled a ballad, a 
wild Scottish song, and Richard answered by a few notes of 
a Moorish air. A voice seemed to answer him, not an echo, for 
it was not his own, but taking the thrilling sweetness of 
Monina’s tones. Ah ! ungentle waves, and untaught winds, 
whither bear ye now the soft nursling of Andalusia? Such 
a thought darkened York’s brow; when the king, pausing in 
his toil, leaned against a jutting crag — both young, both gallant, 
both so noble and so beautiful ; of what could they think — of 
what speak P Not of the well-governed realm of the one, nor 
the yet unconquered kingdom of the other; of such they might 
have spoken among statesmen and warriors, in palaces or on the 
battle plain ; but here, in this wild solitude, the vast theatre 








THE MABBUGB. 



233 



whoso shifting scenes and splendid decorations wero the clouds, 
the mountain, the forest, and the wave, where man stood, not as 
one of the links of society, forced by his relative position to 
consider his station and his rank, but as a human being, ani- 
mated only by such emotions as were the growth of his own 
nature — of what should they speak — the young, the beautiful — 
but love ! 

“ Tell me, gentle cavalier,” cried J ames, suddenly ; “ hast thou 
ever been in love P Now would I give my iewel-hilted dagger 
to tear thy secret from thee,” continued the King, laughing ; for 
Yoj k’s eyes had flashed with sudden light, and then fell down- 
cast. Where were his thoughts P at his journey’s goal, or on 
the ocean seaP If he smiled, it was for Kate ; but the tear that 
glittered on his long eyelashes, spoke of his Spanish maid. Yet 
it was not the passion of love that he now felt for his childhood 
companion ; it was tenderness, a brother’s care, a friend’s watch- 
fulness, all that man can feel for woman, unblended with the 
desire of making her his ; but gratitude and distance had so 
blended and mingled his emotions, that, thus addressed, he 
almost felt as if he had been detected in a crime. 

“ Now, by the Holy Rood, thou blushest,” said James, much 
amused ; “ not more deeply was fair Katherine’s cheek bedyed, 
when I put the self-same question to her. Does your grace 
guess, wherefore we journey northwards?” 

Richard turned an inquiring and unquiet look upon his royal 
companion. A kind of doubt was communicated to James’s 
mind ; he knew little of his friend’s former life : was it not 
possible that engagements were already formed, incompatible 
with his plans P With some haughtiness, for his impetuous 
spirit ill brooked the slightest check, he disclosed the object 
of their visit to Castle Gordon, and the proposal he had made to 
the earl to unite him in marriage to the Scottish princess. 

“ When I shall possess my kingdom — when I may name 
my wife, that which she is, or nothing — queen ! ” llichard 
exclaimed. 

“Nay, I speak of no millenium, but of the present hour,” 
said James. 

The enthusiastic king, bent upon his purpose, went on to 
speak of all the advantages that would result from this union. 
Y ork’s silence nettled him : the prince’s thoughts were, indeed, 
opposed to the exultation and delight which his friend had 
expected to see painted on his face. The first glad thought of a 
lover is to protect and exalt her he loves. Katherine was 
a princess in her native land; — and what was heP — an outcast 
and a beggar — a vagabond upon the earth — a man allied to all 



 




234 



THE MABBIAGE. 



that was magnificent in hope — to all that imagination could 
paint of gallant and true in himself, and devoted and noble in his 
friends. But these were idealities to the vulgar eye ; and he 
had only a title as unreal as these, and a mere shadowy right, 
to bestow. It had been sinful even to ally Mouina to his 
broken fortunes ; but this high offspring of a palace — the very 
offer, generous as it was, humbled him. A few minutes’ silence 
intervened ; and, in a colder tone James was about to address 
him, when York gave words to all the conflicting emotions in 
his breast — speaking such gratitude, love, hope, and despair, as 
reassured his friend, and made him the more resolved to conquer 
the difficulties unexpectedly given birth to by the disinterested- 
ness of his guest. 

A contest ensued ; Richard deprecating the rich gift offered to 
him — the king warmly asserting that he must accept it. The 
words vagabond and outcast were treason to his friendship : if, 
which was impossible, they did not succeed in enforcing the 
rights to his ancestral kingdom, was not Scotland his home — for 
ever his home — if he married Katherine? And the monarch 
went on to describe the happiness of their future lives — a trio 
bound by the ties of kindred — by affection — by the virtues, nay, 
even by the faults of each. He spoke also of the disturbances 
that so often had wrecked the fortunes of the proudest Scottish 
nobles, and said, that a princess of that land, united, it might 
be, to one of its chiefs, trimmed her bark for no summer sea. 
“ Like these wild Highlands are our storm-nursed lives,” 
continued James. “ By our ruder thanes the beautiful and 
weak are not respected ; and tempest and ruin visit ever the 
topmost places. Kate is familiar to such fears, or rather to the 
resignation and courage such prospects may inspire. Look 
around on these crags ! listen ! the storm is rising on the hills — 
howling among the pines. Such has been my cousin’s nursery 
—such the school which has made her no slave of luxury ; no 
frail floweret, to be scared when the rough wind visits her 
cheek." 

In such discussions the travellers beguiled the time. The 
day was stormy ; but, eager to arrive, they did not heed its 
pelting. York had a sun in his own heart, that beamed on him 
in spite of the clouds overhead. Notwithstanding his first keen 
emotion of pain at the idea of linking one so lovely to his dark 
fate, the entrancing thought of possessing Katherine — that she 
had already consented to be his — animated him with delight, 
vague indeed ; for yet he struggled against the flattering illusion. 

After battling the whole day against a succession of steep 
acclivities, as evening drew near, the friends gained the last Hill- 




TEE MABBUGB. 



235 



top, and stood on its brow, overlooking a fertile plain or strath 
—an island of verdure amidst the black, precipitous mountains 
that girded it. The sun was hidden by the western mountains, 
which cast their shadow into the valley ; but the clouds were 
dispersed, and the round full silvery moon was pacing up the 
eastern heaven. The plain at their feet was studded by villages, 
adorned by groves, and threaded by two rivers, whose high, 
romantic banks varied the scene. An extensive, strongly-built 
caatle stood on the hill that overhung one of the streams, 
looking proudly down on this strath, which contained nearly 
thirty-six square miles of fertile ground. “ Behold,” said James, 
“ the kingdom of Lord Huntley, where he is far more absolute 
than I in my bonny Edinburgh. The Gordon fought for the 
Bruce ; and the monarch bestowed on him this fair, wide plain 
as his reward. Bruce flying before his enemies, on foot, almost 
alone, among these savage Grampians, then looked upon it as 
now we do.” , 

King James’s thoughts were full of that wild exhilaration of 
spirit, which none, save the inhabitant of a mountainous country, 
knows.when desolation is around — a desolation which is to him 
the pledge of freedom and of power. But York had other ideas : 
he had been told that the Lady Katherine bad yielded a willing 
consent to the proposal made ; and she whom he had before 
conversed with only as a gentle friend — she, the lovely and the 
good — his young heart beat thick, — it had no imagery, far less 
words, expressive of the rapture of love, tortured by the belief 
that such a prize he ought to — he must — resign. 

The petty tyranny of trivial circumstance often has more 
power over our best-judged designs, than our pride permits us 
to confess. From the moment York entered Castle Gordon, he 
found an almost invisible, but all-conquering net thrown over 
him. The Gordon, for thus the earl of Huntley preferred being 
called, when surrounded by his clan in his northern fastness, 
received the princes with barbaric, but extreme magnificence : 
his dress was resplendent ; his followers numerous, and richly 
clad according to Highland ideas of pomp. But no Lady 
Katherine was there, and it soon became apparent that Richard 
w as first to see her at the altar. Sounds of nuptial festivity 
rang through the castle ; instead of grace or generosity attend- 
ing his meditated declining of the honour, it would have borne 
the guise of an arrogant refusal. There was also something in 
the savage look of the clansmen, in the rude uncivilization of 
her native halls, where defence and attack formed the creed and 
practice of all, that reconciled him to the idea of leading her 
from the wild north to softer, milder scenes ; where every 




I 



236 THE MARRIAGE. j 

disaster wears a gentler shape ; soothed, not exasperated by the 
ministrations of nature. 

At midnight, but a very few hours after his arrival, he stood 
beside her in the chapel to interchange their vows. The earl 
had decorated the holy place with every emblem that spoke of 
his own greatness, and that of his son-in-law. The style of 
royalty was applied to him, and the ambitious noble, “ over- 
leaping” himself, grasped with childish or savage impetuosity at 
the shadowy sceptre, and obscure cloud-wrapt crown of the 
royal exile. York, when he saw the princess, summoned all his 
discernment to read content or dissatisfaction in her eyes ; if 
any of the latter should appear, even there he would renounce 
his hopes. All was calm, celestially serene. Nay, something 
almost of exultation struggled through the placid expression of 
her features, as she cast her eyes up to heaven, till modest 
gentleness veiled them again, and they were bent to earth. 

The generosity and pride of woman had kindled these sen- 
timents. The Lady Katherine, a princess by birth, would 
scarcely have dreamed of resisting her father’s behests, even 
if they had been in opposition to her desires ; but here she was 
to sacrifice no inclination, nothing but prosperity ; that must 
depart for ever, she felt she knew, when she became the bride 
of England’s outcast prince. Yet should aught of good and 
great cling to him, it was her gift ; and to bestow was the 
passion of her guileless heart. It was not reason ; it was 
feeling, perhaps superstition, that inspired these ideas. The 
seer who foretold her fortunes, had been her tutor and her 
poet ; she believed in him, and believed that all would be accom- 
plished ; even to the death of the beautiful and beloved being 
who stood in the pride and strength of youth at her side. All 
must be endured; for it was the will of Heaven. Meanwhile, 
that he should be happy during his mortal career was to be her 
study, her gift, the aim of her life. In consenting to be his, 
she also had made a condition, that, if defeat awaited his arms, 
and that again a wanderer he was obliged to fly before his 
enemies, she was not to be divided from him; if no longer here, 
she was to be permitted to join him ; if he departed, she should 
accompany him. 

As the priest bestowed his benediction on the illustrious and 
beauteous pair, a silent vow was formed in the heart of either. 
Doomed by his ill-fate to hardship and dependence, he would 
find in her a medicine for all his woes, a wife, even the better, 
purer part of himself, who would never suffer him to despair ; 
out who would take the bitterer portion of his sorrow on her- 
self, giving in return the heroism, the piety, the serene content 




TUB MARCH T0WARD9 ENGLAND. 



237 



which was the essence of her being. His vow, it depended not 
on himself, poor fellow ! “ Never through mo shall she suffer, ” 

was the fervent resolve. Alas ! as if weak mortal hands could 
hold back giant Calamity, when he seizes the heart, and rends 
it at his pleasure. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE II ARC II TOWARDS ENGLAND. 



But these are chimes for funerals : my business 
Attends on fortune of a sprightlier triumph ; 

For love and majesty are reconciled. 

And vow to crown thee Empress of the West. 

Ford. 

The Toyal party returned to Edinburgh, where the nuptials 
of Richard of England and the Lady Katherine were celebrated 
with splendour. Festivities of all kinds, tournaments, hunting 
parties, balls, succeeded to each other ; but far beyond every 
outward demonstration was the real happiness insured by this 
marriage. Graced by Katherine, the little English court became 
a paradise. The princess assumed her new character among 
the exiles with facility ; yet the phrase is bad, for Katherine 
could assume nothing, not even a virtue, if she had it not. In 
every position Bhe was not princess, queen, patroness, or mis- 
tress ; but woman merely — a true-hearted, gentle, refined 
woman. She was too young for the maternal character to be 
appropriate to her, yet the watchfulness and care she had for 
all resembled it. Her new subjects felt as if before they had 
been a disconnected, vagabond troop, and that dignity and 
station were assigned to them through her ; through her the 
charities and elegances of life hallowed and adorned them. The 
quality most peculiarly her own was the divine simplicity which 
animated her look, her manners, her acts. Taintless simplicity, 
that best of fascinations, whose power is not imperious and 
sudden, but gradual and changeless, where every word spoken 
is but the genuine interpreter of the feelings of the heart, to 
which not only falsehood, but even the slightest disguise or 
affectation, is wholly foreign ; and which is the more delicate. 



 




238 



THE MABCH T0WABDS ENGLAND. 



winning and kind, from being spontaneous — so that, as in de- 
scribing her, her royal cousin had said, “you almost questioned 
her authority from its want of pretension, yet yielded to it in 
all its extent.” 

Richard’s political position stood higher than ever. The 
ever-watchful duchess of Burgundy had sent a renowned Bur- 
gundian captain, Sir Roderick-de-Lalayne, with two hundred 
German mercenaries. The king of France, at the request of 
Henry the Seventh, had despatched an embassy to King James, 
to advise a peace between England and Scotland. The am- 
bassador was the Sire de Concressault, York’s ancient friend, 
who continued to espouse his cause warmly, and gave it all the 
grace and honour of his high influence. King James was eager 
to collect his army, and to prepare for an invasion. If Richard 
had lost any part of his open-hearted confidence and personal 
friendship, he had gained in his esteem and consideration. The 
change that had been operating was imperceptible to York, who 
naturally found in his marriage a barrier to the hourly inter- 
course they had formerly had, when both were free. Yet change 
there was, greater even than the king himself suspected ; the 
causes were easily traced. 

The Tudor party in Scotland, instigated by bribes and large 

; romises, were very active in their enmity to the White Rose. 

'hey had been obliged to let the torrent of royal favour force 
its headlong way, but they watched the slightest pause in its 
flow, to throw impediments in the way of the abundant stream. 
Soon after his return from the North, it became apparent that 
the king continued no unsuccessful suitor to the Lady Jane 
Kennedy. This a good deal estranged him from his English 
friend, who no longer reproved, but whose tacit condemnation 
he feared, as well as that of his fair cousin. Nay, more, Lady- 
Jane had drawn from him the cause of their transient quarrel, 
and, now that she had yielded, felt angry and disdainful at the 
attempt made to estrange her lover. One of those lower eddies 
or currents of intelligence, so in use at courts, had reported an 
angry expression of hers to the earl of Buchan, one of York’s 
most active enemies. This grasping-place in their difficult way 
was eagerly laid hold of by the conspirators. A coalition was 
formed between Lady Jane and this party, which insured the 
aggravation of any ill-feeling that might arise between the late 
brothers in heart. Soon after another agent or tool was added 
to their number. 

The most subtle, the most politic, the most wily, are some- 
times the slaves of impulse ; nav, very often those who fancy 
that they measure their actions the most narrowly by the rules. 




THE MABCH TOWABDS ENGLAND. 239 

either of self-interest or ambition, are more easily influenced to 
unwise passion by any obstacle thrown in their path. The 
Secretary Frion had hitherto considered himself of primal im- 
port to the English prince : no project was conceived, that was 
not first concocted in his brain, and insinuated by him ; every 
new partizan had been enticed by his silvery speeches ; what- 
ever of difficult, crooked, and hidden was to be done, Frion was 
consulted, and employed, and deeply trusted in its accomplish- 
ment. On his first arrival in Scotland, the intimacy between 
the king and York destroyed half his influence. James’s dis- 
cernment and experience was not duped by the insinuating 
flatteries of Frion : as a proud man he disdained, as a con- 
scientious and pious one, he disliked him. It was worse when 
Katherine’s influence became paramount ; Bhe put him exactly 
in his right place, yet was bo kind that there was no room for 
complaint : all his former patrons were her worshippers ; her 
praises were re-echoed from all ; and assuredly no intrigue 
could exist where she was. Yet it was neither comprehensible, 
nor to be endured, that this banished prince and his friends 
should walk straight forward in their allotted route, unaided by 
plot or manoeuvre. The subtlety of the man quickly revealed to 
him the existence of the opposing party ; he was ready to 
foment it, were it only to gain reputation afterwards by its 
destruction. He made one step, and became the confidant of 
Balmayne, and apparently the tool of the higher confederates : 
at first he rather perplexed than served them, spinning spiders’ 
webs in their way, and elevating himself in their eyes by brushing 
them off at his pleasure. He was exactly the man to shine in a 
dark conspiracy : soon nothing could be done but by his advice, 
nothing known but as he informed them, nothing said but as he 
dictated. Balmavne, who, fierce and moody, entered more zeal- 
ously into these discontents than any other, yet took his counsel 
—little knew they Maitre Etienne Frion: he only watched the 
while, sage fisher of men as he was, for the best opportunity of 
betraying them for his own advantage. In the'midst of festivity, 
of gallant, warlike preparation, Frion had, like a witch gathering 
poisonous herbs by the silvery light of the quiet moon, sought 
to extract all that was baleful in what, but for the uses to which 
he strove to put it, had died innocuous. 

The winter grew into spring : these were the happiest months 
of young Richard’s life. He had traversed many a pass of 
danger and tract of sorrow — falsehood had blotted — loss of 
friends, who had died for him, had darkened the past years : 
often during their course he had believed that he gave himself 
up to despair; he had fancied that he had doubted every one 








240 



THE MARCH TOWABDS ENGLAND. 



and every thing ; he imagined that he was tired of existence — 
vain ideas ! Sanguine, confiding, full to the very brim of that 
spirit of life •which is the happiness of the young, he spi’ang up 
a fresh Antajus, each time that Fortune with Herculean power 
had thrown him to the earth. And now he congratulated him- 
self even on every misery, every reverse, every sentiment of 
despondency that he experienced : they were so many links of 
the chain that made him what he was — the friend of James, the 
husband of Katherine. It was this best attribute of sunny- 
hearted youth, this greenness of the soul, that made Richard 
so frank, so noble, so generous ; care and time had laboured in 
vain — no wrinkle, no deforming line marked his mind, or, that 
mind’s interpreter, his open, candid brow. 

"With the spring the Scottish troops drew together, and 
encamped near Edinburgh. The occasion seemed seasonable ; 
for news arrived of disturbances which had taken place in 
England, and which had caused Henry the Seventh to recall the 
carl of Surrey (who was conducting an army northward to 
oppose the expected attack from Scotland), to check and defeat 
enemies which had arisen in the west of his kingdom. The 
inhabitants of Cornwall, vexed by increasing taxes, had long been 
in a state of turbulence ; and now, instigated by two ringleaders 
from among themselves, combined together, and rose in open and 
regulated rebellion — sedition, it might have been called ; and 
had perhaps been easily crushed, but for the interference of one, 
who acted from designs and views which at first had made no 
part of the projects of the insurgents. 

Lord Aualey had not forgotten the White Rose. On his return 
westward, however, he found all so quiet, that no effort of his 
could rouse the rich and satisfied men of Devon, from their 
inglorious repose. His imprudence attracted attention ; he had 
notice of the danger of an arrest, and suddenly resolved to quit 
the post he had chosen, and to join the duke of York in Ireland. 
He came too late ; the English squadron had sailed ; and he, 
changeful as the winds and as impetuous, despising a danger 
now remote, resolved to return to England, and to Devonshire. 
His voyage from Cork to Bristol was sufficiently disastrous ; 
contrary and violent winds drove him from his course into the 
Atlantic; here he beat about for several days, till the wind, 
shifting a point or two to the west, he began to make what sail 
he could in the opposite direction. Still the weather was tem- j 
pestuous, and his skiff laboured frightfully amidst the stormy ] 
waves ; not far from them, during the greatest fury of the gale, I 
was a larger vessel, if such might be called the helmlesa, dismasted I 
hull, tossed by the billowB, the sport of the winds, ns it rose andj 




THE MARCH TOWARDS ENGLAND. 



211 



fell in the trough of the sea. At length the wind lulled ; and the 
captain of the caravel, which indeed might be called a wreck, 
lowered a boat, and came alongside Lord Audley’s vessel, asking 
whither he was bound? To England, was the answer; and the vast 
reef of clouds lifted on the southern horizon, and showing beyond 
a streak of azure, gave promise of success in their voyage. The 
questioner, who spoke English imperfectly, went on to say, that 
in spite of the miserable state of the caravel, he was resolved not 
to aesert her, but to carry her, God willing, into the nearest 
Erench port he could make. But there was on board one sick, a 
woman, whom he wished to spare the dangers and privations of 
the voyage. Would the commander take her to England, and 
bestow her in some convent, where she might be tended and 
kept in honourable safety P Lord Audley gave a willing consent, 
and the boat went off speedily, returning again with their stranger 
passenger. She was in the extremity of illness, even of danger, 
and lay, like a child, in the arms of the dark, tall, weather-beaten 
mariner, who, though squalid in his appearance from fatigue and 
want, stood as a rock that has braved a thousand storms ; his 
muscles seemed iron — his countenance not stern, but calm and 
resolved — yet tenderness and softness were in the expression of 
his lips, as he gazed on his fragile charge, and placed her with 
feminine gentleness on such rude couch as could be afforded ; 
then addressing Lord Audley, “You are an Englishman,” he said, 
“ perhaps a father P ” 

“I am an English noble,” replied the other; “confide in my 
care, my honour ; but, to be doubly sure, if you feel distrust, 
remain with us ; yonder wreck will not weather another 
night." 

“ She has seen the suns of two worlds,” said the sailor, proudly, 
“ and the blessed Virgin has saved her at a worse hazard. If she 
perish now, it were little worth that her old captain survived : 
better both go down, as, if not now, some day we shall, together. 
I will confide my poor child to you, my lord. If she recover, 
she has friends in England ; she would gain them, even if she 
had them not. Not one among your boasted island-women is 
more lovely or more virtuous, than my poor, my much-suffering 
Monina.” 

Lord Audley renewed his protestations. De Faro listened 
with the ingenuous confidence of a sailor; he placed several 
caskets and a well-filled bag of gold in the noble’s hand, saying, 
“ The Adalid fills a-pace. You but rob the ocean. If my child 
survives, you can give her the treasure you disdain. If she does ” 
— and he bent over her ; she almost seemed to sleep, so oppressed 
was she by feebleness and fever. A tear fell from her father’s 

R 



 




242 



THE MAECH TOWARDS ENGLAND. 



eve upon her brow : “ And she will : Saint Mary guide us, we 
snail again.” 

Such was the strange drama acted on the wide boundless sea. 
Such the chances that restored the high-minded Andalusian to 
England, to the "White Eose, to all the scenes, to every hope and 
fear which she had resolved to abandon for ever. For good or 
ill, we are in the hands of a superior power : 

“ There 's a divinity that shapes our ends. 

Rough-hew them how we will.” 

We can only resolve, or rather endeavour, to act our parts well, 
such as they are allotted to us. Little choice have we to seek or 
to eschew our several destinations. 

With Monina at his side, and his own restless ambition as a 
spur, it may be easily imagined what Lord Audley’a projects were 
in joining the Cornish insurgents. He led them from tnc western 
extremity of the island towards Kent, where he hoped to find 
the seeds of rebellion to Lancaster, which he had sown the year 
before, ripened into harvest. Hews of the unimpeded march of 
the insurgents from Cornwall to the neighbourhood of London 
was brought to Edinburgh, freshening the zeal and animating 
the preparations for war. 

Already the Scottish army was encamped south of Edinburgh. 
The English troops set up their tents among them. The day 
was fixed for the departure of the king, the prince, and the 
noble leaders. They quitted Edinburgh in all the pompous 
array of men assured of victory. James loved the hopes and 
stirring delights of war: Eichard saw his every good in life 
dependent on this expedition, and fostered sanguine expectation 
of triumph. The burning desire of asserting himself, of re- 
warding nis faithful friends, of decorating Katherine with the 
rank and honours due to her — the belief that he should achieve 
all this — gave dignity and even gladness, to his last adieu to 
his lovely wife. Her heart mirrored his hopes ; not that she 
entertained them for her own, but for his sake : yet the quicker 
sensibilities of a woman imparted fears unknown to him. She 
concealed them, till when, as her last office and duty, she had 
fastened an embroidered scarf around him. Softly, whisperingly, 
as fearful of paining him, she said, “ You will return — you 
have a kingdom here: though England prove false, you must 
not disdain to be sole monarch of Katherine.” 

These words had been spoken — earl, baron, and gallant knight 
thronged the courts of Holyrood. There was the sound of war- 
like trump and the streaming of painted banners, among which, 
that of the White Eose waved conspicuous. The king vaulted 



 




THE MABCH TOWABDS ENGLAND. 



243 



on his saddle ; the prince of England rode at his side. He was 
surrounded by the rude northern warlike chiefs, ancient ene- 
mies of his native land, whose fierce eyes were lighted up by the 
expectation of meeting their old adversaries in the field. Could 
he fancy that, through such aid, he might win back the crown 
usurped from him P 

King James and Richard rode side by side. At this moment, 
when the one was spending the riches of his kingdom and the 
lives of his subjects for the other’s sake, while the hearts of both 
were softened by regret for their abandoned home, and both 
anticipated the joys of victory or perils of defeat to be shared 
between them, the sentiment of friendship was rekindled. Never 
had they been more cordial, ;more confidential, more bappy in 
each other’s society. After several hours’ ride, the short spring 
day declined to evening, which was accompanied by a drizzling 
rain : the bad roads and the darkness impeded their progress ; 
and it was night before the twinkling camp-lights appeared in 
the distance and the hum of men was heard. To the right of 
the camp, surrounded by the tents of his nobles, the royal pavi- 
lion was pitched. On their arrival, the earl of Buchan was in 
readiness to hold the king’s stirrup. “Nay,” said James, “first 
we will see our royal guest lodged ; where is the tent of his 
grace of England ? we commanded it to be pitched in close 
neighbourhood to our own P ” 

“ Please you, mv liege,” said Buchan, “ Lord Moray, gave 
direction it should be placed out of our line ; it is set up a mile 
eastward of ns.” 

“ My uncle forgot himself ; and yon also, sir earl, were bound 
rather to obey our order,” said the king. 

“ There were reasons,” returned Buchan: “your majesty, I 
dare aver, will approve the change, and his highness of England 
also. There was a brawl between the Scottish borderers and 
the English ; blood has been shed. We feared that the peace 
of the encampment, not to say the life of his highness, would 
be endangered if he were in the midst of our savage Southrons.” 

“ I like not this,” said James, moodily, “ but it is too late to 
change to-night. The rain-drops begin to freeze upon my hair ; 
your highness would rather be in your tent, far though it be 
from mine, than quarrel about its position at this inclement 
hour. Lord Buchan, you will attend him thither. Prince, good- 
night ; to-morrow we will be more brotherly in our fashion ; now 
the fiat of my lord of Moray must be obeyed.” 

The king dismounted, and entered his pavilion : as the cloth 
was raised, a blazing fire, the apparel of silver flagons and 
golden cups, the trim appearance of silken-Buited pages were 

B 2 




244 



THE MABCH T0WABD8 ENGLAND. 



visible, making strong contrast with the cheerless blank without. 
One slight glimpse revealed the cause, and partly excused the 
inhospitality of J ames, in not inviting his guest to partake his 
warm cheer. One in a kirtle sat somewhat retired from view ; 
the quick motion of her head, the glance of her dark eye, 
showed that the monarch had been impatiently expected, and 
was gladly welcomed by the lovely daughter of the earl of 
Cassils. 

Lord Buchan accompanied Richard, Lord Barry, and Plan- 
tagenet to their quarters ; talking, as he went, of the contention, 
which had terminated fatally to several. They rode down the 
elevated ground on which the king’s tent was placed, over a 
plashy, low plain, through a little wood of stunted larch, across a 
narrow dell, in whose bottom a brook struggled and murmured, 
to the acclivity on the other side, on which the tents of the 
English troops were pitched ; considerably apart from the rest 
was Richard s own pavilion : all looked tranquil and even deso- 
late, compared to the stirring liveliness of the Scotch camp. 
Richard was received by Sir George Neville, who looked more 
than usually cold and naughty as he bent to Lord Buchan’s 
salutation : the Scotchman uttered a hasty good night, galloped 
down the upland and across the dell, and was lost to sight in the 
wood. 

“ What means this. Sir George P ” was the prince’s first 
remark : “ what discipline is yours — brawling and bloodshed 
with our allies P ” 

“ Did your highness name them our enemies,” said Neville, 
“ it were more appropriate. Suspend your displeasure, I beseech 
you, until I can lay before you the reality of what you name a 
brawl ; my honour, and I fear all our safeties are concerned in 
the discovery. Now, your grace is wet and fatigued ; you will 
repose P ” 

Richard desired solitude, not rest : he wished to be alone ; for 
a thousand intricate ideas possessed him, clamouring to be 
attended to. He dismissed his friends. Frion only remained — 
Frion, who lately had almost become surly, but who was now 
smooth, supple as ever ; his eye twinkling as of yore, and his 
ready laugh — that most characteristic part of him — again show- 
ing the old secretary returned. To the prince’s warm heart, the 
appearance of discontent and moodiness was peculiarly grating ; 
the smile or frown even of Frion had power over him ; and he 
felt grateful to the man for his glossy and satisfactory speeches, 
now that, spite of himself, a feeling — it was not fear, but an 
anticipation of evil — disturbed his mind. 

At length, he dismissed him ; yet still he felt utterly disin- 



THB MABCH TOWABDS ENGLAND. 



245 



dined for sleep. For some time he paced his tent ; images of 
war and battle floated before him — and then the vision of an 
angel with golden hair, came, not to calm, but to trouble him 
with unquiet regret. In vain he strove to awaken the flock of 
gentle thoughts that usually occupied him; his ideas seemed 
wolf-visaged ; unreal bowlings and cries rung in his ears. This 
unusual state of mind was intolerable : he folded his cloak round 
him, and stepped into his outer tent. Frion, two pages, and his 
esquire, were to occupy it ; but he found it solitary. This 
seemed a little strange ; but it was early yet. He lifted the 
outer cloth ; a sentinel was duly at his post ; the prince saluted 
him and passed on. The fitful winds of spring had dispersed the 
storm : the scarcely ^waning moon, encircled by the dark clear 
ether, was in the east ; her yellow light filled the atmosphere, 
and lay glowing on the trees and little hill-side. The prince 
stepped onwards, down the declivity, across the dell, into the 
wood. He thought he heard voices ; or was it only the swinging 
branches of the pines P The breeze raised his hair and freshened 
his brow. Still he walked on, till now he came in view of the 
Scottish camp, which lay tranquil as sheep in a fold, the moon’s 
bright eye gazing on it. The sight brought proud Granada and 
all its towers, with the Christian camp sleeping at her feet, 
before his mind ; and he still lingered. Now the tramp of horses 
became audible : a troop wound down the hill : the leader stopped 
exclaiming in some wonder, “My lord of York! does your 
highness need any service P do you bend your steps to the royal 
tent ? ” 

“ I blush to answer, Sir Patrick,” replied the prince ; “ for you 
will scoff at me as the moon’s minion : I came out but to visit 
her. Yet a knight need not feel shame at loitering beneath her 
ray, dreaming of his lady-love. You are more actively em- 
ployed P ” 

“ I was on my way to your highness’s encampment,” replied 
the knight. “His majesty is not quite satisfied with Lord 
Buchan’s report, and sent but now his esquire to me, to bid me 
visit it. With your good leave, I will escort you thither.” 



 




CHAPTER XXXIII. 



TITS ASSASSIN. 



# 

Traitor, what hast thou done? how ever may 
Thy cursed hand so cruelly have swayed 
Against that knipht? Harrow and weal-away? 

Alter so wicked deed, why liv’st thou longer day I 

Spenser. 

Wjirn he had been dismissed by his royal master, Frion called 
aside the esquire, and sent him on an errand, it would seem of 
some import and distance ; for the youth uttered a fqw forcible 
interjections, and with a lowering brow drew on the riding-boots 
he had just do fifed, muttering, “ I must treat my horse better 
than my lord treats me ; so, master, seek a fresh steed. By my 
fay ! this is to become a squire of dames — a love-token to the 
duchess, in good hour 1 ” 

Having got rid of this young gentleman, Frion’s next care was 
to give distant employment to the pages, saying he would wait 
their return. But scarcely had they entered the most crowded 
part of the camp, before with quick jeautious steps the secretary 
took the same path which the prince trod half an hour later — he 
crossed the dell, and arriving at the little wood of larches, 
instead of traversing, he skirted it, till the gentle eminence on 
which the English camp was pitched, grew higher and more 
abrupt, the murmuring brook took the guise of a brawling tor- 
rent, grey rocks peeped out from the soil, and the scene became 
wilder and more mountainous : he walked on, till ho arrived 
where a rustic bridge spanned the stream ; under its shadow 
were three horsemen, two of whom dismounted, and a tall servi- 
tor held the bridles. One of these men Frion knew at once to 
be him who called himself Lord Bothwell, King Henry’s spy, 
and Richard’s fierce, motiveless, but ruthless enemy ; the other 
— his bonnet was drawn over his brow — a cloak obscured his 
person. Frion’s quick eyes scrutinized it vainly, for the moon, 
cloudy at intervals, gave uncertain light ; besides, the man had 
stationed himself within the deepest shadow of the bridge. 



 j 



THE ASSASSIN. 



247 

"Good befall your watch,” said Frion; "your worship is 
before your time.” 

“ Is not all ready? ” asked Balmayne. 

" That question is mine,” replied tko other. " You know 
our treaty — not a hair of my lord’s head must be injured.” 

“ Tush ! tush ! fear not, good conscience-stickler,” replied 
Bothwell, with a contemptuous laugh; “no ill will befall the 
boy ; we but ferry him over the Tweed a few hours earlier than 
lie dreamed of, and laud him all gently on the shore lie seeks. 
As for thy reward, I have said, name it thyself.” 

“ Fair words are these, Sir John Itamsay,” said Frion; “but 
I said before, 1 must have surer pledge, both for my reward and 
my lord’s safety. King Henry will haggle about payment 
when the work is done, and the steel you wear is a toper in its 
way.” 

“ How now, sir knave?” cried Balmayne; “thinkest thou that I 
will turn midnight stabber? ” 

The man in the cloak started at these words. He uttered 
some sound, but again drew back ; while the person who con- 
tinued on horseback said, and his voice was that of the bishop 
of Moray, King James’s uncle, " A truce to this contention. 
Master Good-fellow — whatever thy name be : I will answer for 
thy pay, and here is earnest of my truth.” He threw a purse at 
Frion’s feet. “ The peace of two kingdoms — the honour of a 
royal, too-long dishonoured house are at stake. No-time is this 
to squabble for marks, or the paltry life of a base impostor. I, 
a prince of Scotland, avouch the deed. It were more friendly, 
methinks, to unlock his life with the steel key of our friend 
Wiatt, than to devote him to the gallows. Let Scotland be rid 
of him, I reck not how.” 

Again Frion fixed his eyes on the other;— the clouds had 
fallen low in the sky ; the moon was clear ; the western breeze 
murmured among the bushes and the trees, and the beams of 
the silvery planet played upon the unquiet waters. “We have 
no time for delay, Sir John,” said Frion, “prithee introduce me 
to our fellow-labourer — this is the king’s emissary P Yon call 
yourself Wiatt, Master Black Cloak P ” 

The other made a gesture of impatience as he stepped aside. 
Balmayne and Moray discoursed aside, till the former bade the 
secretary lead on ; as they went, the Scotchman and Frion con- 
versed in whispers concerning their plans, while their companion 
followed as if doggedly. Once he cast an impatient glance at 
the moon — Frion caught that look. “ Have I found you, good 
friend,” he thought; “then by our lady of Embrun, you shall 
acquit you of the debt I claim this night.” 



 



248 



THE ASSASSIN. 



With quicker steps the Provencal proceeded, till they reached 
the opening of the valley, and came opposite the slope on which 
the English camp was pitched. Furthest off and far apart was 
the royal pavilion, the Danner of England flapping in the breeze, 
and this the only sign of life ; but for this, the white silent tents 
looked like vast Druidical stones piled upon a wild moor. They 
paused. “ I must go first," said Frion ; “ we have wasted 
more time than I counted for — you will await me here.” 

“Listen, Master Frion,” said Balmavne. “I would hardly 
trust you, but that I think you are a wise man ; silver angels 
and golden marks, as a wise man, you will love : one thing you 
will hardly seek, a shroud of moonbeams, a grave in the vulture’s 
maw. Look ye, one soars above even now ; he scents dainty fare : 
twenty true men are vowed that he shall sup on thee, if thou art 
foresworn : thou wilt give some signal, when all is ready." 

“ That were difficult,” said Frion ; “ I will return anon if 
there be any let to your enterprise ; else, when the shadow of 
that tall larch blackens the white stone at your feet, come up 
without fear : have ye bonds ready for your prisoner P ” 

“ An adamantine chain — away !’’ Frion cast one more glance 
at him called Wiatt. “ It is even he, I know him, by that trick 
of his neck ; his face was ever looking sideways : ” thus assured, 
the Frenchman ascended the hill. Balmayne watched him, 
now visible, and now half-hid by the deceptive light, till he 
entered the” folds of the pavilion ; and then he glanced his eyes 
upon the shadow of the tree, yet far from the white stone ; and 
then paced the sward, as if disdaining to hold commune with 
Wiatt. Whatever thoughts possessed this hireling’s breast he 
made no sign, but stood motionless as a statue ; his arms folded, 
his head declined upon his breast. He was short, even slight in 
make, his motionless, half-shrinking attitude contrasted with the 
striding pace and the huge, erect form of the borderer. Who 
that had looked down upon these two figures, sole animations 
visible on the green earth beneath the moon’s bright eye, would 
have read villany and murder in their appearance ; the soft 
sweet night seemed an antidote to savageness, yet neither moon 
nor the sleeping face of beauteous earth imparted any gentleness 
to the Scot ; he saw neither, except when impatiently he glanced 
at the slow-crawling shadow, and the moonlight sleeping on the 
signal-stone. Many minutes passed — Bothwell gave one impatient 
look more — how slowly the dusky line proceeded ! He walked 
to the edge of the brook ; there was no movement about the 
pavilion ; tranquil as an infant’s sleep was the whole encamp- 
ment. Suddenly a cry made him start, it was from Wiatt ; the 
man, heretofore so statue-like, had thrown his arms upward with 




THE ASSASSIN. 



249 



a passionate gesture, and then recalled by Bothwell’s impreca- 
tion, shrunk back into his former quiet, pointing only with a 
trembling finger to the stone, now deep imbedded in the black 
shadow of the larch. The Scot gave a short shrill laugh, and 
crying “ Follow !” began the ascent, taking advantage of such 
broken ground and shrubs, as blotted the brightness of the rays 
that lit up the acclivity. Bothwell strode on with the aotivity of 
a mosstrooper ; Whitt was scarce able to walk ; he stumbled 
several times. At length they reached the pavilion ; the French- 
man stood just within, lifting the heavy cloth ; they entered. 
Frion whispered, “ I have cleared the coast ; my lord sleeps ; we 
need but cast a cloak around him, to blind him, and so bear him 
off without more ado on his forced journey.” 

“ There is wisdom in your speech,” said Balmayne, with some- 
thing of a grin. " My mend Wiatt has a cloak large and dark 
enough for the nonce." 

Frion drew back the silken lining of the inner tent, saying, 
“ Tread soft, my lord ever sleeps lightly ; he must not be waked 
too soon,” 

“ Never were the better word,” muttered Bothwell : the dim- 
mest twilight reigned in the tent. The prince’s couch was in 
shadow ; the men drew near ; the sleeper was wrapt in his silken 
coverlid, with his face buried in his pillow : his light-brown 
hair, lying in large clusters on his cheek, veiled him completely. 
Ramsay bent over him ; his breathing was heavy and regular ; 
he put out his large bony hand, and, as gently as he might, 
removed the quilt, uncovering the sleeper’s right side ; then 
turning to Wiatt, who had not yet advanced, he pointed to 
the heaving heart of his victim with such a glance of murder- 
ous callousness, that the very assassin shrunk beneath it ; yet 
he approached; his hand held an unsheathed dagger, but it 
shook even to impotence ; he raised it over his prey, but had 
no power to strike. Frion had crept round behind ; a sound 
just then, and tramp of feet was heard in the outer tent ; as by 
magic, in one brief second of time the mute dread scene changed 
its every characteristic. The assassin cried aloud, “ It is not 
he ! ” Frion had seized his arm — the dagger fell — the pretended 
sleeper "(one of York’s pages) leaped from the couch; and the 
muffling cloak, dropping from the murderer’s shoulders, disclosed 
the wretched, degraded Clifford. Ramsay drew his sword, and 
rushed towards the outer tent, when at the same moment Richard 
of York and Sir Patrick Hamilton showed themselves from 
beneath the hangings, which their attendants had raised. This 
sight startled Frion, and Clifford, restored to life and energy, 
tore himself from his grasp, and in a moment had rushed from 




250 



THE ASSASSIN. 



beneath the pavilion ; he was forgotten ; all eyes were turned on 
Bothwell ; the dagger at his feet, his drawn sword, his appear- 
ance in the retirement of the prince of England, all accused him. 
He saw at once his danger, drew himself proudly up, and 
returned Hamilton’s look with a fierce, haughty glare. 

“ Thy act is worse than thy enemies’ speech,” said Sir Patrick, 
sternly ; “ thou wilt answer this, recreant, to thy royal master.” 

“ To him, to any, to you," said Balmayne ; “ there is my 
glove. Now, on the hill’s side, or in the lists anon, I will avouch 
my deed.” 

Hamilton answered with a look of sovereign contempt; he 
bade his men seize the traitor. “ Before I sleep," he cried, “ the 
king hears this treason.” 

Richard had looked on in silence and wonder ; he placed his 
hand on Hamilton’s arm, stopping him, “ Pardon me, valiant 
knight,” heaaid ; “but, I do beseech you, disturb not the king 
to-night, nor ever, with this ill tale. Too roughly already has the 
English. prince broken Scotland’s rest. No blood is shed ; and, 
strange as appearances are, I take Sir John ltamsay’s word, and 
believe that, as a cavalier, he may maintain his cause, nor stain 
by it his knightly cognizance. I take up your glove, fair sir, but 
only to restore it; without one slightest accusation attaching 
itself to you therewith. Nay, myself will take up the quarrel, 
if any blame you. Sir Patrick will not call me to the trial, I 
am sure. Prion, conduct the gallant gentleman beyond our 
lines.” 

Shame for the first time flushed Ramsay’s brow as he left the 
tent. The prince drew up to let him pass, with a mien so digni- 
fied and yet so tranquil, with a smile so bland, that thus it 
seemed an angelic essence, incapable of wound, might have gazed 
on a mere mortal, armed to injure him. 

“ Is this recklessness or nobility of soulP ” Sir Patrick thought. 
He did not doubt, when Richard, changing his look to one of 
anxious appeal, besought him to omit utterly to report this 
strange scene. “ I much fear,” he said, “ my wily secretary to 
bo most in fault ; and I caught a glance of one, w'hose appear- 
anco here proves that Ramsay is not alone guilty. Let me 
inquire, let me learn — punish, if need be. English gold and 
English steel were the weapons here, and I alone have power 
over England. You will pledge me vour word, Sir Patrick, not 
to disquiet our royal cousin by our domestic brawls. We must 
not put in opposing Beales our paltry anger against ruffians like 
these, and the disquiet of the generous-hearted James. Ramsay 
was his father’s favourite ; for his sake he bears with him ; and 
more easily may I. I indeed, who am most in fault; for spending 



 



THE ASSASSIN. 



251 



the precious minutes wandering, like a shepherd of Arcadia, in 
a listless foolishness, instead of acting the general, and guarding 
my tents from such visitors. The brawl last night might have 
forewarned me.” 

“ Does it not shame Scotland,” cried Hamilton, warmly, “ that 
you should need any guard but our true hearts, while you tread 
our soil P ” 

“Were this true,” answered York, yet more earnestly, 
“ remember, what shames Scotland, shames her king. Be assured, 
dear cousin, I speak advisedly. Were this examined, worse 
might appear ; and I and your liege must be the sufferers : I to 
excite this treason in his subjects’ hearts ; he to prove that some 
near him are not true as they seem.” 

Hamilton yielded to these many pleas ; but his heart warmed 
with admiration and love for the noble being who urged the 
cause of pardon for his enemies. “ Be it as your highness 
pleases,” he exclaimed. “ This I the more readily yield, since 
any new attempt kills Hamilton ere it reach you. I will be your 
guard, your sentinel, your wide, invulnerable shield ; you will 
not refuse me this post of honour.” 

“ Or let us both fulfil it,” cried York, “ one to the other ; let 
us be brothers in arms, noble Hamilton. And yet, how can I, a 
fugitive, almost a tainted man, seek the alliance of one who 
stands as you do, fair and free in all men's eyes P ” 

As he spoke, the prince held out his hand ; the Scottish knight 
raised it respectfully to his lips. But now Frion returned ; and 
the clash of arms and trumpets’ sound spoke of the advance of 
night, and change of guard: the noble friends took leave of each 
other, and Sir Patrick departed. As soon as they were private, 
the prince questioned his secretary closely and sternly as to the 
events of the night. Frion had a plausible and ready tale, of 
artifice and guile, of how he had a pledge even from the king’s 
uncle that York’s life was not to be attempted ; and that he had 
but wished to balk and vex them, by causing the page to be 
carried off ; the discovery of their mistake would shame them 
from any second enterprize against the prince of England. 

York was but half satisfied ; he had caught a transient glimpse 
of the fugitive. Was it indeed Clifford, who came a hired 
murderer to his bedside P A man who had partaken his heart’s 
counsels, long his companion, once his friend P It was frightful, 
it was humiliating but to imagine how deep the man may fall, 
who once gives himself over to evil thoughts, and unlawful 
deeds. Frion here protested his ignorance and surprise. It 
was almost day before his master dismissed him : and even then, 
how could liichard repose P That couch, Clifford had marked as 



.gle 




252 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 



his bier — it were a bed of thorns ; he threw himself on the bare 
hard ground, and innocence had more power than his angelio 
pity for the vice of others ; it shed poppy influence on his lids ; 
and the beams of the morning sun stole softly over, but did not 
disturb his slumberB. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 



Metbinks I see Death and the Furies wait in* 

What we will do, and all the Heaven at leisure 
For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords ! 

Bgsr Jovsov. 

Faster than the airy slave quicksilver is influenced by the 
changes of the atmosphere, does the subtle essence of the mind 
of one, who from love or gratitude hangs upon the smile or 
frown of another, feel the sunshine or frost of that other’s coun- 
tenance ; and an independent disposition speedily revolts from 
servile obedience to such alteration. On the following day, and 
afterwards on the succeeding ones, Richard felt that the heart 
of James was no longer the same. He was courteous, kind — 
his friend’s interests formed the sole topic of their conversations 
— but York could neither sav the thing he wished, nor do that 
which he desired ; the same objects were before him, apparently 
the same colouring was upon them ; yet a pale sickly hue was 
cast over the before glowing picture ; a chill had penetrated the 
summer warmth in which he basked ; the wave was yet calm, 
but it was clouded, and no longer showed in its limpid depths 
that sympathy and affection which made the White Rose’s 
fortunes seem truly and intrinsically Scotland’s own. 

Friendship was now professed, service tendered ; before words 
had seemed superfluous — the thing was there. James assured 
his guest that he would not turn back, nor give ear to Henry’s 
propositions ; and York felt, with a start, that ear had been 
given to them, or this conclusion had not been noted. The dis- 
union and continued separation of the camps was another 
circumstance that spoke loudly of division of thought and 
counsel. 



 




DISAPPOINTMENT. 



258 



Prion believed that he should now resume hiB ancient position 
with his royal master: he bore his reproofs humbly, and strove 
to regain liis favour by the importance of his services. The 
arcana of the Tudor party were, to a great degree, revealed to 
York; and it was easy to mark the ascendancy it was gaining. 
The presence of Lady Jane Kennedy might explain the cere- 
mony and regulations observed in the intercourse between the 
king and his friend; but it was Frion’s part to disclose the 
enmity this lady entertained for the Wnite Hose, and the 
influence she exerted to its detriment. Moray and Lord Buchan 
were her friends, and they were frequent visitors in the royal 
pavilion. 

A short time somewhat changed this state of things. The 
army drew near the frontier ; and the king separated himself 
from the fair mistress of his heart. On the third day they 
arrived on the banks of the Tweed. It was but crossing a little 
river — but stepping from one stone to another, and liichard 
would stand on English ground. 

The troops had passed the day before ; some had proceeded 
southw ard ; others were even now to be seen defiling in long 
lines on the distant plain. The sun was up cheerily ; the fresh 
pleasant green of spring had stolen, more like a tinted atmo- 
sphere, than in the guise of foliage, over tree and bush ; field 
flowers and crocusses peeped from under the mossy turf. The 
scene was a wide moor, varied by broken ground ; clumps of 
trees, where many a bird nestled; and here and there thick 
underwood, where the wild deer made his lair ; this had been 
the scene of a thousand conflicts, and of mortal carnage between 
Scot and Englishman, but the skylark above sang of nature’s 
bounty and nature’s loveliness, an immemorial and perennial 
hymn, while nothing spoke of the butchery and wretchedness 
which once had made the landscape a tragic corpse-strewn 
stage. 

Brining in his pawing courser. King James, in all the gay 
array of a high-born knight, paused on the Scottish bank — his 
lips, proud as the Apollo’s — spoke of struggle and victory, 

“ In his eye 

And nostril, beautiful disdain and might 
And majesty flashed their fuU lightnings by.” 

Here was ho who,- in a later day, led the flower of Scotland to 
die on the English plains ; who himself was doomed to lie with 
mangled limbs, and in blank, cold extinction, a trophy of victory 
to his enemy, on Flodden Field : he was alive now, and in hie 
itrength ;*he drank in. with buoyant spirit every glorious anticU 



 




254 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 



nation, and laughed with fond delight ; spurring on his horse, 
he crossed the ford, and entered England. 

In a moment, as by impulse, York, who had lingered, dashed 
after him ; allies they were; friends in seeming, nay, in truth ; 
for the glance of proud enmity .Richard cast on the Scot was 
perhaps the more factitious feeling : it sprang from patriotism, 
but its energy was borrowed from the deadly feuds of their 
ancestors, that natural hate which is said to exist now between 
the French and English, and which was far more envenomed 
between the near-rival people. Notwithstanding J ames’s change 
towards him, York felt in the core of his affectionate heart, all 
that was due to him who had raised him when he was fallen ; 
given him state, power — Katherine ; he saw in him his kinsman 
— his benefactor. But the pride of a son of England rose in his 
breast, when he beheld the haughty Scot caracol in arrogant 
triumph on her soil. What was he r What had he done P He 
was born king and father of this realm : because he was despoiled 
of his high rights, was he to abjure his natural duty to her, as 
her child P Yet here he was an invader ; not arming one division 
of her sons against the other, but girt with foreigners, aided by 
the ancient ravagers of her smiling villages and plenteous har- 
vests. He looked on each individual Scot, and on their gallant 
king, and felt his bosom swell with rage and hate. These were 
unwise, nay, ungrateful sentiments ; but he could not repel 
them. His first commands were to his cousin, to hasten to 
Randal of Dacre, to learn what Yorkists had gathered together 
to receive him. “ If there be any large company,” ho said, 
“without more ado we will thank our kiud cousin, invite him to 
recross the Tweed, and leave us to fight our battles by our- 
selves.” 

The satisfaction and triumph James felt made him, so far 
from participating in York’s feelings, turn with renewed cor- 
diality towards him. It was his first care to have the standard 
of the White Rose set up with martial pomp, to disperse, his 
proclamations, and to invite, bj r his own manner, the Scottish 
nobles to increase in observance towards the prince. Lord 
Huntley, believing that the prophecy of his daughter’s elevation 
was on the eve of its accomplishment, was prodigal of his shows 
of honour and service to his son-in-law. For some days the 

J avilions of the brother kings were pitched side by side, and 
ames each hour thought to hear of the arrival of the Yorkist 
nobility of England: he had expected so many that he had 
given orders that care should be taken to recall his own troops, 
when the English visitants outnumbered his own guard. Day 
after day passed, and not one came — not one : even Randal of 




DISAPPOINTMENT. 



255 



Dacre, Lord Dacre’s brother, who had visited Eichard in Scot- 
land, seized with panic, had gone southward. Nothing came, 
save intelligence that the Cornish insurgents had been defeated 
on Blackheath, their ringleaders taken and executed ; among 
them Lord Audley perished. 

Another life ! — how many more to complete the sad hecatomb, 
a useless offering to obdurate fate in Eichard 's favour! Sir 
George Neville, gathered up in all the cold pride of disappointed 
ambition, disdained to regret. Plantagenet saw the hopes and 
purpose of his life crushed, but dared not give words to his 
despair ; Sir Koderick sneered ; Lord Barry was loud in his 
laments ; while the Scots grew taller and prouder, and ceased 
to frequent the tents of the English exiles. Councils were held 
by James, in which York had no part; it was only afterwards, 
that he learnt it had- been commanded to the Scotch army to 
lay waste the country. Now indeed all the Englishman was 
alive in his heart — he gave sudden orders to raise his camp, and 
to march forward ; he had sat still too long ; he would enter 
the kingdom he claimed ; discover for himself his chance of suc- 
cess — and, if there were none, his rights should not be made 
the pretence of a Scotch invasion. 

None cried, "Long live King Eichard !” as he passed along. 
How did his noble, youthful spirit droop at finding that not 
only he did not meet with, but was judged not to deserve success. 
It ranks among the most painful of our young feelings, to find 
that we are justly accused of acting wrong. Our motives — we 
believed them disinterested or justifiable ; we have advanced a 
wondrous step in life before we can concede even to ourselves 
that alloy may be mingled with what we deemed pure gold : 
ignorant of the soil and culture of our own hearts, we feel sure 
that no base mixture can form a part of what we fancy to be 
a mine of virgin ore. Eichard would have stood erect and chal- 
lenged the world to accuse him — God and his right, was his 
defence. His right ! Ob, narrow and selfish was that sentiment 
that could see, in any right appertaining to one man the excuse 
for the misery of thousands. 

War, held in leash during the army’s march from Edinburgh, 
was now let loose; swift and barbarous he tore forward on his 
way ; a thousand destructions waited on him ; his track was 
marked by ruin : the words of Lord Surrey were fulfilled. 
What a sight for one, whose best hope in acquiring his kingdom, 
waa to bestow the happiness of which the usurper deprived it. 
The English troops, about five hundred men, crossed the 
wide-spread plains in the immediate vicinity of Scotland ; they 
entered a beaten track, where the traces of cultivation spoke of 







256 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 



man ; a village peeped from among the hedge-row trees — York’s 
heart beat high. Would the simple inhabitants refuse to ac- 
knowledge him P A few steps disclosed the truth — the village 
had been Backed by the Scotch : it was half burnt, and quite 
deserted ; one woman alone remained — Bhe sat on a pile of ashes 
wailing aloud. The exiles dared not read in each other’s eyes 
the expression of their horror ; they walked on like men re- 
buked. This was England, their country, their native home ; 
and they had brought the fierce Scot upon her. Passing for- 
ward, they met trains of, waggons laden with spoil, droves of 
cattle and sheep. They overtook a troop roasting an ox by the 
burning rafters of a farm-house, whose green palings, trim 
orchard, and shaved grass-plat, spoke of domestic comfort ; the 
house-dog barked fearfully — a Lowland archer transfixed him 
with his arrow. 

The English marched on ; they dared not eye the ravagers ; 
shame and hate contended — these were their allies ; while the 
sarcasm and scornful laugh which followed them, drugged with 
wormwood the bitter draught. In vain, west or east or south, 
did they turn their eyes, a sad variety of the same misery pre- 
sented itself on every side. A stout yeoman, gashed by an 
Highlander’s claymore, was sometimes the ghastly stepping- 
stone passed over to enter his own abode ; women and children 
had not been spared, or were only left to perish for want. 
Often during apparent silence, a fearful shriek, or the voice of 
lamentation, burst upon the air: now it was a woman’s cry, 
now the shrill plaint of infancy. With the exception of these 
sufferers, the landscape was a blank. Where were the troops 
of friends Richard had hoped would hail him? Where the 
ancient Yorkists P Gone to augment the army which Surrey 
was bringing against the Scot; attached to these ill-omened 
allies, how could the prince hope to be met by his partizans ? 
He had lost them all; the first North Briton who crossed the 
Tweed trampled on and destroyed for ever the fallen White 
Rose. 

Resolutely bent on going forward till he should have advanced 
beyond the Scotch, on the following day York continued his 
march. They entered the ruins of another village ; the desola- 
tion here was even more complete, although more recent ; the 
flame was hardly spent upon the blackened rafters ; the piles 
which the day before had been smiling dwellings, still smoked ; 
a few domestic animals were skulking about. There was a 
church at the end of what had been a street; this was not 
Bpared. The English entered the desecrated aisle ; an aged 
bleeding monk was lying at the altar’s foot, who scowled even 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 



257 



in death upon the soldiery ; suddenly he recognized his country- 
men ; pleasure gleamed in his sunken eyes, “ Ye will avenge 
us ! Deliver the land ! — The hand of God will lead ye on ! ” 
Plantagenet rushed forward — “ Father !/’ he cried, “ do I find 
you here ?” 

The old man spoke, looked faintly ; Edmund bent over him : 

“ My father, it is I, Edmund, your boy, your murde ” 

“ My son,” said the monk, “ I behold you again, and die 
content ! You are in arms, but by the blessing of the saints 
your sword’s point is turned against the cruel invader. Not 
one, oh ! not one Englishman will fall by his brother’s hand, for 
not one will fight for that base deceit, the ill-nurtured Perkin, 
to whom God in his wrath has given such show of right as brings 
the Scot upon us. Once I thought — but no son of York would 
ally himself to these cruel border-robbers. God of my country, 
oh curse, curse him and his cause ! ” 

The dying man spoke with difficulty ; a few moments more, a 
spasm crossed his features, and they settled into stony insen- 
sibility. Edmund threw himself on the body ; a deathlike 
Bilence reigned in the building ; every heart beat with breathless 
horror; the curse uttered by the. murdered man was even then 
breathed before God, and accepted. York spoke first with a 
calm, firm voice, “ Arise, my cousin,” he said ; “ do not thou 
fix yet more deeply the barbed arrow, which has entered my 
heart.” 

There are periods when remorse and horror conquer by iheir 
intensity every lesser impulse, and reign kings of the waste ; 
this was no time for words or tears. Oh ! welcome the grief or 
crime, which the bitterest of these could express or extenuate ; 
it would insult this sad effigy of death to imagine that the im- 
piety could be expiated. In silenco they bore the reverend 
corpse to the vaults of the church, and then continued their 
way ; some of the under-officers and men whispered together ; 
but when again the chiefs conversed, they did not allude to this 
frightful scene, or to the awful imprecation which they felt sus- 

E ended over their heads, shadowing their souls with unknown 
orror. 

This was but the opening scene to worse wretchedness ; 
hitherto they had seen the waste of war, now they came upon 
its active atrocities. A dense smoke, the flickering of palo 
flames, marked the progress of devastation ; fierceness gleamed 
in the open blue eyes of Richard ; he bit his lips, and at a 
quicker pace went forward ; screams and horrid shrieks, mixed 
with shouts — oh ! may not a veil be drawn over such horrors — 
flying children, mothers who stayed to die, fathers who unarmed 

s 



 




258 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 



rushed upon the weapons of the foe ; fire and sword, animated 
bv man’s fellest spirit, were there to destroy. Kindled to fury, 
York and his chief friends had outspeeded their troops : they 
came to save ; they called on the fierce Scot to spare ; and, 
when their words were unheeded, they drew their swords to 
beat back their allies. A fresh troop of Borderers, headed by 
Sir John Ramsay, at thi3 moment poured into the village. The 
grey eye of the Scot was lighted up to the fiercest rage ; but 
when he saw who and how few were they who had assailed his 
men, a demoniac expression, half exultation and joy, half deadly 
hate, animated him. Richard was driving before him a whole 
troop of camp-followers, cowardly and cruel fellows. Balmayne’s 
hand was on his arm. “Your Highness forgets yourself,” he 
said ; “ or is the fable ended, and you turned friend of Tudor P” 
York’s blood was up ; his cheek, his brow were flushed ; the 
word “ assassin ” burst from his lips, as he wheeled round and 
assailed his midnight foe. Thus a natural war began ; English 
and Scotchmen, bent on mutual destruction, spurred on by 
every feeling of revenge, abhorrence, and national rivalship, 
dealt cruel blows one on the other. Richard’s troops began to 
arrive in greater numbers ; they far out-told their adversaries. 
Lord Bothwell, with his marauders, was obliged to retreat, and 
York was left in possession of his strange conquest. The 
peasantry gathered round him : they did not recognize the 
White Rose, they] but blessed him as their deliverer: yet the 
sufferers were many, and the flames still raged One woman 
with a wild shriek for her children, threw herself into the very 
heart of her burning cot ; while, statue-like, amidst a little 
helpless brood, his wife at his feet a corpse, his dwelling in 
ashes, a stout yeoman stood ; tears unheeded flowing down his 
weather-beaten cheeks. During the whole day Richard had 
striven against his own emotions, trying to dispel by pride, and 
indignation, and enforced fortitude, the softness that invaded 
his heart and rose to his eyes, blinding them ; but the sight of 
these miserable beings, victims of his right, grew into a tragedy 
too sad to endure. One young mother laid her infant offspring 
at his feet, crying, “ Bless thee ; thou hast saved her ! ” and 
then sunk in insensibility before him ; her stained dress and 
pallid cheeks speaking too plainly of wounds and death. Richard 
burst into tears, “ Oh my stony and hard-frozen heart ! ” ho 
cried, “ which breakest not to see the loss and slaughter of so 
many of thy natural- born subjects and vassals ! ” 

He spoke — he looked : Plantagenet was there, grief and 
horror seated in his dark, expressive eyes; Neville, who had 
lost his lofty pride ; it was shame and self-abhorrence that 



THE EETEEAT. 



259 



painted their cheeks with blushes or unusual pallor. “We 
must hasten, my lord,” said Barry, “ after those evil-doers : 
they but quit one carcase, to pounce upon another." 

“ Do we fight the king of England’s battles ? ” cried the 
Burgundian Lalayne, in unfeigned astonishment : “ this will be 
strange intelligence for James of Scotland.” 

“ So strange, Sir Roderick,” said Richard, “ that we will be 
the bearers of it ourselves. Give orders for the retreat, gentle- 
men. His majesty is engaged in the siege of Norham Castle. 
We will present us before him, and demand mercy for our un- 
happy subjects.*’ 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE EETEEAT. 



Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day. 

And make me travel forth without my cloak, 

To let base clouds o’ertake me on the way. 

Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 

Shaksfeare. 

It was York’s characteristic to be Banguine beyond all men. 
Pain impressed him more deeply and sorely, than could be 
imagined by the cold of spirit; but show him the remedy, teach 
him the path to redress, and he threw off the clogging weight 
of care, and rose free and bright as in earliest youth. His im- 
patience to behold his royal friend, to speak the little word, 
which he felt assured would recall the Scots from their ravages, 
and take from him the guilt of his subjects’ blood, grew like a 
torrent in the spring : — he outspeeded his main troop ; he left 
all but his chiefest friends behind ; one by one even these grew 
fewer ; he mounted a fresh horse, it was the third that day — 
“ May-flower is worse than blown,” said Neville ; “ will not 
your highness repose till to-morrow P ” 

“ Repose ! ” — this echo was his only answer, and already ho 
wan far and alone upon his way. 

The Scottish lines were passed, and the embattled walls of 
Norham, grey and impenetrable as rock, were before him ; the 
royal pavilion occupied the centre of the camp. The wearied 
steed that bore York dropt on one knee as he reined him up 

v s 2 



i 




260 



THE RETREAT. 



before it, flushed, with every mark of travel and haste — he threw 
himself from his saddle, and entered the tent : it was thronged ; 
he saw not one face, save that of the monarch himself, who was 
conversing with a churchman, whose dark foreign countenance 
Bichard had seen before ; now it was like a vision before him. 
James, in an accent of surprise, cried, “ My lord, this is an un- 
expected visit.” 

“Excuse ceremony, my dear cousin,” said York; “I come 
not to speak to the majesty of Scotland : man to man — a friend 
to his dearest friend — I have a suit to urge.” 

James, who was aware that his actual occupation of listening 
and even acceding to the suggestions of his foreign visitant, in 
favour of peace with Henry, was treason to York’s cause, thought 
that news of Don Pedro D’Ayala’s arrival was the secret of 
these words : he blushed as he replied, “ As friend to friend, wo 
will hear anon — to-morrow.” 

There is no anon to my dear plea,” said York ; “ even now 
the hellish work is about which you must check. Oh, what am 
I, king of Scotland, that I am to be made the curse and scourge 
of my own people P The name of Hichard is the bye-word of 
hate and terror, there, where I seek for blessings and filial love. 
You know not the mischief your fierce Borderers achieve — it is 
not yet too late ; recall your men ; bid them spare my people ; 
let not the blood of my subjects plead against my right ; rather 
would I pine in exile for ever, than occasion the slaughter and 
misery of my countrymen, my children.” 

Bichard spoke impetuously ; his eyes filled with tears, his 
accents were fraught with passionate entreaty, and yet with a 
firm persuasion that he spoke not in vain : but his address had 
the very worst effect. James believed that, hearing that he was 
in treaty with his foe, he had come to re-urge his suit, to enforce 
the many promises given, to demand a continuation of the war. 
James, a Scotchman, bred in civil strife among fierce Highlanders 
and ruthless Borderers, saw something contemptible in this pity 
and supplication for cottagers and villains : the shame he nad 
felt, or feared to feel, at the idea of being accused of treachery 
by liis guest, was lightened ; his lips were curled even to scorn, 
as in a cold tone he replied, “ Sir, methinketh you take much 
pains, and very much strive to preserve the realm of another 
prince, which, I do believe, never will be yours.” 

A momentary surprise set open wide York’s eyes ; he glanced 
round him ; the earl of Huntley’s brow was clouded ; a smile 
curled Lord Buchan’s lips ; the emotion that had convulsed the 
prince's features, gave place to the calmest dignity. “ If not 
he said, “let me yield the sway to the lady Peace : the 



THE BETBEAT. 



261 



name and presence of a Plantagenet shall no longer sanction the 
devastation of his country. I would rather be a cotter on your 
wild Highlands, than buy the sovereignty of my fair England 
by the blood of her inhabitants.” 

The warm, though capricious heart of James, was quickly re- 
called by the look and voice of his once dearest friend, to a sense 
of the ungraciousness of his proceeding : he frankly stretched 
put his hand ; “ I was wrong, cousin, forgive me, we will confer 
anon. Even now, orders have been issued to recall the troops ; 
a few words will explain everything.” 

York bent his head in acquiescence. The king dismissed his 
nobles, and committed to the care of one among them the 
reverend D’Ayala. With a strong sentiment of self-defence, 
which was sell-accusation — a half return of his ancient affection, 
which acted like remorse — James set himself to explain his pro- 
ceedings. Fearful, unaided by any of the natives, of proceeding 
with an inadequate force farther into the heart of the country, 
he had set down before the castle of Norham, which was de- 
fended undauntedly by the bishop of Durham. He had wasted 
much time here ; and now the Cornish insurgents being quelled, 
the earl of Surrey was marching northwards, at the head of 
forty thousand men. Surrey, Howard, might he not be a masked 
friend P “who,” continued James, “has surely some personal 
enmity to your highness ; for the reverend Father D’Ayala, an 
ambassador from Spain, visited him on his journey northward, 
and it seems the noble indulged in despiteful language ; saying, 
that he who could bring the fell Scot (I thank him) into Eng- 
land, wore manifest signs of — I will not say — I remember not 
his words ; they are of no import. The sum is, my dear lord, 
I cannot meet the English army in the open field ; walled town 
— even those paltry towers — 1 cannot win : with what shame 
and haste I may, I must retreat over the border.” 

Many more words'James, in the heat of repentant affection, 
said to soothe his English friend. York’s blood boiled in his 
veins ; his mind was a chaos of scorn, mortification, and worse 
anger against himself. The insult inflicted by James before his 
assembled lords, the bitter speech of Surrey ; he almost feared 
that he deserved the one, while he disdained to resent the other ; 
and both held him silent. As speedily as he might, he took 
leave of the king : he saw signs in the encampment of the return 
of the foragers ; they were laden with booty : his heart was 
sick ; to ease his pent-up burning spirit, when night brought soli- 
tude, though not repose, he wrote tnus to the Lady Katherine 

“ Wilt thou, dear lady of my heart, descend from thy lofty 




262 



THE BETEEAT. 



state, and accept an errant knight, instead of a sceptered king, 
for thy mate P Alas ! sweet Kate, if thou wilt not, I may never 
seo thee more : for not thus, oh not thus, my God, will [Richard 
win a kingdom ! Poor England bleeds : our over-zealous 
cousin has pierced her with dismal wounds ; and thou wouldst 
in thy gentleness shed a thousand tears, hadst thou beheld 
the misery that even now, grim and ghastly, floats before my 
sight. What am I, that I should be the parent of evil 
merely P Oh, my mother, my too kind friends, why did ye not 
conceal me from myself? Teaching me lessons of humbleness, 
rearing me as a peasant, consigning me to a cloister, my 
injuries would have died with me; and the good, the brave, the 
iuuocent, who have perished for me, or through me, had been 
spared ! 

“ I fondly thought that mine was no vulgar ambition. I 
desired the good of others ; the raising up and prosperity of my 
country. I saw my father’s realm sold to a huckster — his 
subjects the victims of low-souled avarice. What more apparent 
duty, than to redeem his crown from Jew-hearted Tudor, and to 
set the bright jewels, pure and sparkling as when they graced 
his brow, on the head of his only son P Even now I think the 
day will come when I shall repair the losses of this sad hour — is 
it the restless ambitious spirit of youth that whispers future 
good, or true forebodings of the final triumph of the right ? 

“ Now, O sweetest Kate, I forget disgrace, I forget remorse ; 
I bury every sorrow in thought of thee. Thy idea is as a windless 
haven to some way-worn vessel — its nest in a vast oak-tree to a 
tempest-baffled bird — hope of Paradise to the martyr who 
expires in pain. Wilt thou receive me with thine own dear 
smile P My divine love, I am not worthy of thee ; yet thou 
art mine — Lackland [Richard's single treasure. The stars play 
strange gambols with us — I am richer than Tudor, and but that 
tliy husband must leave no questioned name, I would sign a 
bond with fate — let him take England, give me Katherine. But 
a prince may not palter with the holy seal God aflixes to him — 
nor one espoused to thee be less than king ; fear not, therefore, 
that I waver though I pause— Adieu !” 






263 



CHAPTEE XXXVI. 

TIDINGS FROM IRELAND. 



Yet noble friends, his mixture with our blood. 

Even with our own, shall no way interrupt 
A general peace. 

Ford. 

Pedro D’Ayala was ambassador from Ferdinand and Isabella to 
the king of England. There was something congenial in the 
craft and gravity of this man with the cautious policy of Henry. 
When the latter complained of the vexation occasioned him by 
the counterfeit Plantagenet, and the favour he met with in 
Scotland, D'Ayala offered to use his influence and counsel to 
terminate these feuds. He found James out of humour with 
York’s ill success among the English, weary of a siege, where 
impregnable stone walls were his only enemies, uneasy at the 
advance of Surrey ; pliable, therefore, to all his arguments. 
A week after D’ Ayala's arrival, the Scots had recrossed the 
Tweed, the king and his nobles had returned to Edinburgh, and 
York to Katherine. 

Eichard’s northern sun was set, and but for this fair star he 
had been left darkling. When the English general in his turn 
crossed the Tweed, and ravaged Scotland, he was looked on by 
its inhabitants as the cause of their disasters ; and, but that 
some loving friends were still true to him, he had been deserted 
in the land which so lately was a temple of refuge to him. The 
earl of Huntley exerted himself to prevent his falling into too 
deep disgrace in the eyes of Scotland, and was present at the 
consultations of the exiles to urge some new attempt in some 
other part of King Henry’s dominions. York was anxious to 
wash out the memory of his overthrow ; so that this check, 
which seemed so final to his hopes, but operated as an incentive 
to further exertions. Yet whither should he go P the whole 
earth was closed upon him. The territory of Burgundy, which 
had so long been his home, was forbidden. France — Concres- 
sault, who was his attached friend, dissuaded him from encoun- 



 




264 



TIDINGS FROM IRELAND. 



tering a mortifying repulse there. Even his own Spain would 
refuse to receive him, now that D’Ayala had shown himself his 
enemy ; but, no, he was not so far reduced to beg axefuge at 
the limits of civilization ; still he had his sword, his cause, his 
friends. 

A stranger came, an unexpected visitant from over the sea, to 
decide his vacillating counsels. The man was aged and silver- 
haired, smooth in his manners, soft-voiced, yet with quick grey 
eyes and compressed lips, indications of talent and resolution 
and subtlety. Erion saw him first, and, deceived by his almost 
fawning manners into an idea of his insignificance, asked his 
purpose and name. The stranger with the utmost gentleness 
refused to disclose his object to any but the prince ; and Erion, 
with great show of insolence, refused to introduce him to his 
presence. “ Then without thy leave, sir knave,” said the old 
man calmly, “ I must force my way.” 

Astley, the poor scrivener of Canterbury, was present. This 
honest, simple-hearted fellow, had shown so much worth, so 
much zeal, so much humbleness with such fidelity, that he had 
become a favourite in York’s court, and principally with the 
Lady Katherine. Erion hated him, for he was his opposite, but 
pretended to despise him, and to use him as an underling. 
Astley meekly submitted, and at last gained a kind of favour in 
the Frenchman's eyes by the deference and respect of his 
manner. The stranger, with the readiness of one accustomed 
to select agents for his will, addressed him, bidding him an- 
nounce to his highness a gentleman from Ireland. “ And be 
assured,” he said, “ the duke will ill-requite any tardiness on 
thy part.” 

An angry burst from Frion interrupted him. This man, 
rarely off his guard, but roused now by recent mortifications, 
forgot himself in the violence he displayed, which strangely con- 
trasted with the soft tranquillity ot the stranger, and Astley’s 
modest, but very determined annunciation of his resolve to 
convey the message to the prince. Erion, from loud words, 
was about to proceed to acts, when Lord Barry entered — Barry, 
who felt Scotland as a limbo of despair, who was for ever urging 
Kichard to visit Ireland, to whom the court life of the English 
was something like a trim-fenced park to a new caught lion. 
Barry saw the stranger — his eyes lighted up, nay, danced with 
sudden joy : with no gentle hand he thrust Erion away, and then 
bent his knee, asking a blessing of the prior of Kilmainham ; 
and in the same breath eagerly demanded what had brought the 
venerable man from Buttevant across the dangerous seas. 

Keating’s presence gave new life to York’s councils : he brought 



TIDINGS FBOM ICELAND. 



2G5 



an invitation from Maurice of Desmond to the duke. The 
earl had, since Rickard’s departure, been occupied in training 
troops, and so fortifying himself as to enable him to rise against 
Poynings, whose regular government, and above all, whose pre- 
dilection for the Butlers, caused him to be detested by the 
Geraldines. Hurried on by hatred and revenge, Desmond re- 
solved to do that which would be most dreaded and abhorred of 
Henry — to assume the badge of the White Rose, and to set up 
the pretensions of young Richard. The tidings were that York 
was a loved and honoured guest in Edinburgh ; and the im- 
petuous Desmond feared that he would hardly be induced to 
abandon King James’s powerful alliance, for the friendship of a 
wild Irish chieftain. The very invitation must be committed to 
no mean or witless hands : the difficulties appeared so great, 
that the measure was on the point of being abandoned, when the 
prior of Kilmainham, who, in the extreme of age, awoke to 
fresh life at a prospect of regaining his lost consequence, offered 
himself to undertake the arduous task. His views went far 
beyond the earl’s : he hoped to make the king of Scotland an 
active party in his plots, and to contrive a simultaneous invasion 
of England from the north and from the west. Already his 
turbulent and grasping spirit saw Irish and Scotch meeting 
midway in England, and with conjoined forces dethroning 
Tudor, and dictating terms to his successor. He came too late : 
he came to find a peace nearly concluded between James and 
Henry ; the White Rose fallen into disregard ; and his arrival 
looked upon as the best hope, the last refuge of his fallen 
party. 

Richard on the instant accepted his invitation. To a generous 
heart the feeling of enforced kindness succeeding to spontaneous 
affection, is intolerable. The very generosity of his own dis- 
position made him recoil from exacting a reluctant boon from 
nis sometime friend. To live a pensioner among the turbulent, 
arrogant Scots, was not to be thought of. The earl of 
Huntley, in fond expectation of his daughter’s greatness, would 
have despised him had he remained inactive. Even Katherine 
was solicitous to leave Scotland — she knew her countrymen ; 
and, ready as she was to give up every exalted aim, and to make 
her husband’s happiness in the retired quiet of private life, she 
knew that insult and feud would attend his further tarrying 
among the Scotch. 

York had been for nearly a year the guest of King James ; 
twelve months, in all their long-drawn train of weeks and days, 
had paced over the wide earth, marking it with change : each 
one had left its trace in the soul of Richard. There is some- 




266 



TIDINGS FBOM IRELAND. 



tiling frightful, to a spirit partly tired of the world, to find that 
their life is to be acquainted with no durable prosperity ; that 
happiness is but a modification of a train of events, which, like 
the fleeting birth of flowers, varies the year with different hues. 
But York was still too young to be aweary even of disappoint-' 
ment ; he met the winter of his fortunes with cheerful fortitude, 
so that a kind of shame visited James, inspired by the respect 
his injured friend so well merited. 

The capricious, but really noble heart of the Scottish king was 
at this time put to a hard trial. One of the preliminaries of 
peace, most insisted upon by Henry, was, that his rival should 
be given up to him : — this was, at the word, refused. But even 
to dismiss him from his kingdom, seemed so dastardly an act 
towards one allied to him bv his own choice, that the swelling 
heart of the cavalier could not yet tame itself to the statesman’s 
necessity. Some of his subjects, meanwhile, were ready enough 
to cut the Gordian knot by which he was entangled. Tudor 
had many emissaries in Edinburgh ; and Lord Moray, Lord 
Buchan, and the dark Bothwell, whose enmity had become fierce 
personal hate, were still egged on by various letters and messages 
from England to some deed of sanguinary violence. 

Sir John Bamsay was sought out by Frion. That goodly 
diplomatist must have entertained a high opinion of his molli- 
fying eloquence, when he dared encounter the hot temper of 
him he had dishonoured in the eyes of the English prince, and of 
his own countryman Hamilton. But Frion knew that in offering 
revenge ho bought pardon : he was of little mark in Kamsay’s 
eyes, while the man he had injured, and whom he consequently 
detested beyond every other, survived to tell the grating tale of 
the defeated villany of the assassin, and the godlike magna- 
nimity of him who pardoned. 

Frion’s own feelings, which had vacillated, were now fixed to 
betray the prince. Ho had wavered, because he had a kind 
of personal affection for the noble adventurer. Somehow he 
managed to fancy him a creature of his own : he had worked 
so long, and at one time so well for him, that he had fostered 
the vain belief that his dearest hopes, and best pretensions, 
would vanish like morning mist, if he blew unkindly on them. 
It was not so : James had been his friend ; Huntley had given 
him his daughter without his interference ; and the Irish 
project, with Keating at its head, who treated Frion with 
galling contempt, filled up the measure of his discontents. If 
anything else had been needed, the Lady Katherine’s favour to 
Astley, and some offices of trust, in which York himself had 
used him, sufficed to add the last sting to malice. “ If they wil 



 



/ 



TIDINGS FROM IRELAND. 



267 



not let me make, they shall rue the day when I shall mar ; learn 
shall they, that Frion can clip an eagle’s wings even in its pride 
of flight.” 

It is common to say that there is honour among thieves and 
villains. It is not honour ; but an acknowledged loss of shame 
and conscience, and a mutual trust in the instinctive hatred the 
bad must bear the good, which strongly unites them. In spite 
of the Frenchman’s former treachery, Balmayne felt that he 
could now confide, that his guilt would stretch far enough to 
encircle in its embrace the very act he desired ; and he again 
trusted, and used him as the chief agent of his plots. 

The earl of Surrey was ravaging Scotland ; and King James, 
with the chivalrous spirit of the times, challenged him to single 
combat. The earl, in answer, refused to place his master’s 
interests at the hazard of his single prowess, though ready for 
any other cause to accept the honour tendered him. The herald 
that brought this reply, Frion reported to Richard to be charged 
with a letter to him. Its purpose was to declare, that though, 
while aided and comforted by the enemies of England, the earl 
warred against him, yet the Howard remembered the ancient 
attachments of his house ; and that, if the White Hose, wholly 
renouncing the Scotch, M ould trust to the honour of the repre- 
sentative of a race of nobles, the army now in the field to his 
detriment should be turned to an engine of advantage. “ Time 
pressed,” the letter concluded by saying — “ and if the duke of 
York were willing to give his sails to the favouring wind, let 
him repair with a small company to Greenock, where he would 
find zealous and powerful friends.” 

At first this intimation filled the prince with exultation and 
delight. The time was at last come u hen he should lead the 
native nobility of England to the field, and meet his enemy in 
worthy guise. There was but one check ; he could not join 
Surrey, while Surrey was in arms against his once generous 
friend ; so that, by a strange shifting of events, he now became 
anxious for peace between Scotland and England ; eager that 
the seal should be set that destroyed the alliance and amity 
which had so lately been the sole hope of his life. Neville and 
Plantagcnet entered into his views ; and while, seemingly at the 
bottom of Fortune’s scale, a new spirit of gladness animated 
this little knot of Englishmen. 

For one thing young Richard was not prepared : the prelimi- 
naries of peace he knew were arranged, and he was aware that 
its conclusion would take the sword out of James’s hand. They 
had rarely met lately ; and this, while it lessened the familiarity, 
rather added to the apparent kindness of their interviews. 




268 



TIDINGS FROM IRELAND. 



There waB in both these young princes a genuine warmth of 
heart, and brightness of spirit, that drew them close whenever 
they did meet. James honoured the integrity and the uncon- 
quered soul of the outcast monarch, while his own genius, his 
vivacity, and polished courtesy, in spite of his caprice and late 
falling off, spread a charm around that forced admiration and 
affection even from him he injured. It was at this period, that, 
notwithstanding their real disunion, Richard felt it as strange 
to find his royal host confused in manner, and backward of 
speech. They had been at a hunting parly, where Lord Moray’s 
haughty glance of triumph, and the sneer that curled the earl 
of Buchan’s lip, would have disclosed some victory gained by 
them, had York deigned to regard their aspects. At length, 
after much hesitation, while riding apart from his peers, James 
asked — “If there were any news from the Lady Margaret of 
Burgundy P” 

“ Sir Roderick Lalayne returned to her a month ago,” replied 
York, “ and with him went my dear and zealous Lady Brampton, 
to urge fresh succour for one, to whom fortune has so long 
shown a wintry face, that methinks spring must at last be nigh 
at hand, herald of bright, blossoming summer.” 

“What promises then my lady duchess P" said the king, 
eagerly. 

“ Alas ! her promises are as blank as her power,” replied 
Richard. “Even when the old dukes of Burgundy were as 
emperors in Christendom, they were but as provosts and city- 
magistrates in the free towns of Flanders ; and these towns 
resolve on peace with England.” 

“ It is the cry of the world,” said James, with a sigh ; “ this 
Tudor is a mighty man. Why, even I, a Scot, a warrior, and a 
king, am forced to join the universal voice, and exclaim, * Peace 
with England,’ even though my honour is the sacrifice.” 

“ Your majesty imparts no strange truth to me,” said York. 
“ I have long known that this must be ; but surely you speak 
ip soreness of spirit, when you speak of the sacrifice of 
honour. I thought the terms agreed on were favourable to 
Scotland P” 

“ King Henry demanded, in the first place, the delivery of 
your highness into his hands.” James blushed deeply as he 
said these words. 

“ Or he will come seize me,” rejoined the duke, with a laugh. 
“ In good hour I will deliver myself, if he will walk through the 
bristling lances, and set at naught the wide-mouthed cannon 
that will bellow in his path.” 

“Have you then new hopes?” cried the king; “oh! say 



 



TIDINGS FROM IRELAND. 



269 



but so ; and half my shame, and all my sorrow vanishes. Say 
that you have hope of speedy good in some other country ; for 
I have sworn, ere April wear into May, Scotland shall be made 
poor by your highness’s absence.” 

A long pause followed these words. James felt as if he had 
given words to his own concealed dishonour, and struck his 
iron-girdled side with the bitter thought. “ O ! spirit of my 
father, this may not atone ; but I must pay also in shame and 
torturous self-contempt for my heavy guilt.” A sudden blow, a 
precipitous fall 'when unaware his feet had reached the crumbling 
brink of a beetling precipice, would not have made such commo- 
tion in Richard’s heart, as the forced and frightful conviction 
that the friend he had trusted heaped this insult on him. For 
the first time in his life, perhaps, pride conquered every other 
feeling ; for reproach had been more friendly , than the spirit 
that impelled him, with a placid voice, and a glance of haughty 
condescension, to reply : — “ Now that your majesty dismisses 
me, I find it fittest season to thank you heartily for your many 
favours. That you deny me to the suit of your new ally, and 
send me forth scathless from your kingdom, is the very least of 
these. Shall I forget that, when, a wanderer and a stranger, I 
came hither, you were a brother to me ? That when an outcast 
from the world, Scotland became a home of smiles, and its king 
my dearest friend ? These are lesser favours ; for your love was 
of more value to me than your power, though you used it for 
my benefit ; and, when you gave me the Lady Katherine, I 
incurred such a debt of gratitude, that it were uncancelled, 
though you cast me, bound hand and foot, at Tudor’s footstool. 
That I am bankrupt even in thanks, is my worst misery ; yet, if 
the eye of favour, which I believe Fortune is now opening on 
me, brighten into noon-day splendour, let James of Scotland ask, 
and, when England shall be added to his now barren name, 
Richard will give, though it were himself.” 

“ Gentle cousin,” replied the king, “ you gloss with horrid 
words a bitter pill to both ; for though the scath seem yours, 
mine is the punishment. I lose what I can ill spare, a kinsman 
and a friend.” 

“ Never ! ” cried York ; “ Scotland bids a realmless monarch, 
a beggar prince, depart : the king of Scotland, moved by strong 
state necessity, is no longer the ally of the disinherited orphan 
of Edward the Fourth : but James is Richard’s friend ; he will 
rejoice, when he sees him, borne with the flowing tide, rise from 
lowness to the highest top at which he aims. And now, dear 
my lord, grant me one other boon. I am about to depart, even 
of my own will ; dismiss then every rankling feeling ; lay no 



ogle 




TBEACHEBY. 



270 

more to your generous, wounded heart, a need, which is even 
more mine than yours ; but let smiles and love attend your kins- 
man to the end, unalloyed by a deeper 'egret, than that fate wills 
it, and we must separate.” 



CHAPTElt XXXVII. 

TBEACHEBY. 



I am your wife, 

No human power can or shall divorce 

My faith from duty. 

Fonn. 

With 

My fortune and my seeming destiny, 

He made the bond, and broke it not with me. 

No human tie is snapp’d betwixt us two. 

Schiller’s Wallenstein. 

Frion believed that he held the strings, which commanded 
the movements of all the puppets about him. The intrigues of 
party, the habitual use of ill means to what those around him 
deemed a good end, had so accustomed him to lying and forgery, 
that his conscience was quite seared to the iniquity of these acts; 
truth to him was an accident, to be welcomed or not according 
as it was or was not advantageous to his plots. 

King James prepared a fleet for the conveyance of the prince ; 
and the earl of Huntley, as a matter of course, promised to en- 
tertain his daughter royally, until, in a palace in Westminster, 
she should find her destined title and fit abode. The Lady 
Katherine thanked him, but declared that she was nothing 
moved from her bridal vow, and that she never would desert 
Kichard’s side. All that her father urged was of no avail. State 
and dignity, or their contraries, humiliation and disgrace, could 
only touch her through her husband ; he was her exalter or 
debaser, even as he rose or fell ; it was too late now to repine at 
degradation, which it ill beseemed the daughter of a Gordon to 
encounter ; it was incurred when she plighted her faith at the 
altar ; wherever she was it must be hers. As a princess, she 
was lost or redeemed by her husband’s fortunes. As a woman, 
her glory and ail her honour must consist in never deviating 



 



TBEACHEEY. 271 

from the straight line of duty, 'which forbade her absence from 
his side. 

The earl disdained to reason with a fond doting girl, as ho 
called the constant-minded lady, but applied to the king, repre- 
senting how it would redound to his discredit, should a princess 
of his blood wander a vagrant beggar over sea and land. James 
had passed his royal word to Katherine, that she should have 
her will on this point; and when, at her father’s suit he tried to 
dissuade her, he was at once silenced by her simple earnest 
words ; “ Ask me not,” she said, “ to place myself on the list 
of unworthy women : for your own honour’s sake, royal cousin, 
permit your kinswoman to perform a wife’s part unopposed. You 
and my father bestowed me, a dutiful subject, an obedient 
daughter, according to your will ; you transferred my duty and 
obedience ; and truly as I paid it to you, so will I keep it for 
my lord.” 

“ What can we reply, my good earl marshal,” said James, 
turning to Huntley, “ I rebelled against the religion through 
which I reign, did I deny our sweet Kate free allowance to follow 
the dictates of her generous heart. Nor let us grudge the White 
Rose this one fair bloom. Love, such as Katherine feels, love, 
and the dearest, best gift of God — alas ! too oft denied to poor 
humanity, and most to me — self-complacency, arising from a 
good conscience, will repay her every sacrifice.” 

Huntley retired in high indignation ; his will was opposed ; 
his word, which he deemed a law, had but a feather’s weight. 
The blood of the Gordon was stirred to rage ; and he broke 
forth in fierce and cruel expressions of anger, calling his daugh- 
ter ingrate — her lord base, and a traitor. Such muttered curses 
were reported to Lord Buchan : in the scheme on foot, they had 
somewhat dreaded to incur Huntley’s displeasure and revenge, 
knowing how r dearly he prized the nope of royalty for his daugh- 
ter ; but now they fancied that they might draw him in ere he 
was aware to approve their deed. The crafty Frion was set 
on to sound him ; the iron was hot, most easily to their eyes, 
it took the desired form. 

Huntley was a Scot, cunning even when angry — cautious 
when most passionate. The first intimations of the conspiracy 
were greedily received by him. He learnt the falsehood of the 
letter pretending to come from the earl of Surrey ; and the use 
that was to be made of this decoy to seize on the duke of York’s 
person. He did not scruple to promise his assistance ; he reite- 
rated his angry imprecations against his unworthy son-in-law ; 
he thanked Frion with cordial warmth for affording him this 
opportunity lor revenge ; he declared his gratitude towards the 



)ole 




272 



TBEACHEBY. 



confederate nobles ; and the Frenchman left him, with the full 
belief that he was ready to lend his best aid to deliver over the 
English prince to ignominy and death. 

Such was the end of King Henry’s last scheme to obtain pos- 
session of his too noble, too excelling rival, by means of Scottish 
fraud, and the treason of York’s dependants. The earl of 
Huntley conducted the whole affair with the utmost secrecy. 
Apparently he acted the part designed for him by the conspira- 
tors. He reconciled himself to the prince ; ho urged an instant 
compliance with Surrey’s invitation. The English had asked for 
some guarantee of Surrey’s truth. Huntley obviated this diffi- 
culty. Through his intervention a new aud*sufficing impulse 
was given. Hichard appointed the day when he should repair 
to Greenock, there to meet the envoy who was to lead him to 
Lord Surrey ’8 presence. In the harbour of Greenock rode the 
bark which was to convey him to his English prison. King 
Henry’s hirelings were already there ; Frion conducted the vic- 
tims blindfold into the net : they had meant to have gathered 
together a troop of ruffian borderers to prevent all resistance ; 
but Huntley promised to be there himself with a band of 
Highlanders. The whole thing only seemed too easy, too 
secure. 

The wily secretary had overshot his mark in taking so readily 
for granted Huntley’s assent to the ruin of the duke of York. 
He had come upon him in his angry hour: his honied words 
were a dew of poison ; his adjurations for peace, oil to fire. 
Then, as the noble Btrode through the hall, imprecating ven- 
geance, he slid in words that made him stop in full career. Men 
are apt to see their wishes mirrored in the object before them ; 
and, when the earl bent his grey eyes upon the Provencal and 
knit his time-furrowed brow in attention and interest, Frion saw 
the satisfaction of a man on the brink of dear revenge. He was 
far a-field. The very rage in which the carl had indulged, by a 
natural reaction, softened him towards his children ; and when 
the traitor spoke of schemes ripe to deliver York into his adver- 
sary’s hands, he recoiled at once from the path of vengeance 
opened before him, and listened with horror to the detail of a 
conspiracy which would tear the very shadow of a diadem from 
his daughter’s brow ; yet he listened, and his words still enticed 
the over-wily Frion. “ Balmayne,” said the earl, “ all must 
succeed even to the death. Where he intermeddles, he is ruth- 
less thus ran his comments : “ My good Lord Buchan, what 
the foul fiend makes him so busy? English gold! Yes: 
Buchan loves the gilding better than the strong iron that it 
hides. The honour of the royal house, my most reverend uncle ! 




TREACHERY. 



273 



Is his animosity so stirring P Oh ! priests are your only haters. 
So liichard’s tale is told. The chroniclers will speak of Duke 
Perkin, of the canker that ate out the heart of Gordon’s fair 
rose, the gibbet, instead of a throne, to which she was wed; a 
fair eminence ! My Kate will hardly ascend it with him : she 
must halt at the gallows’ foot.” These words, said with bitter- 
ness, seemed to Prion the boiling sarcasm of an exasperated 

f >arent. The man’s vanity was the trap in which he was caught: 
le could not believe that a savage Scot, an untaught Highlander, 
could enter the lists with one nurtured in the subtle atmosphere 
of Provence, with the pupil of Louis the Eleventh ; a man 
schooled in eastern lore, who had passed a whole life of contri- 
vance and deceit. 

The Scottish nobles, Moray, Buchan, and Both well, were 
satisfied in having given their countenance to the English hire- 
lings ; and now that the more powerful Huntley promised to 
watch over the execution of their designs, they were glad enough 
to withdraw from the rude and inhospitable act. Huntley had 
everything in his own hands. He, with a party of Highlanders, 
escorted the duke and duchess of York, with their friends and 
attendants, to Greenock. Frion had never shown himself so 
humble or so courteous ; he seemed afraid that any one of his 
victims should escape : he was particularly anxious to entice his 
old enemy, the prior of Kilmainham, into the snare. His readi- 
ness and vivacity were remarked by all : it was attributed to the 
high hopes he entertained of his royal master’s success through 
the alliance of the earl of Surrey ; and, while York expressed 
his affectionate approbation, he smiled blandly, and painted every 
feature in the very colouring he wished it to wear. 

The vessel rode at anchor ; the English sailors, on the 
arrival of York, went on board, got her under weigh, and 
dropped down the coast. With the dawn Lord Howard of Effing- 
ham, with a chosen troop, was, according to the false hopes 
of liichard, to arrive at the rendezvous, a wood about two 
miles south of the town, bordering the sands of the sea. Here 
the English emissaries were congregated, and here a score of 
Highlanders were in ambush, to assist in the capture of the 
White Hose. Hither, even before dawn, the wakeful Frion 
came, to announce the speedy arrival of his lord. He found his 
English friends in some anxiety. Clifford, w'ho, under the 
name of Wiatt, had been chief among them, was seized with 
panic or remorse, and had gone on board the vessel, which had 
cast anchor but a few furlongs from the shore. The others 
were meau underlings : Frion’s presence gave them courage ; he 
was elated ; his laugh was free ; he had neither doubt nor 




TEEACHEBY. 



274 

scruple ; no, not even wlien lie turned from the vulgar, brutalized 
countenances of these ruffians, to behold the princely victim in 
all the splendour of innocence, with one beside him so lovely, 
that the spirit of good itself had selected her form for its best 
earthly bower ; or to see Edmund, whose dark eyes beamed 
with unknown joy, and Neville, whose haughty glance was 
exchanged for a glad smile. The man’s sole thought was 
exultation at his own cleverness and success, in having inveigled 
so many of the noble and the brave to this dark fate. 

“ What tidings of Effingham P” asked York. 

“ Are ye ready ? ” cried Huntley. 

“All!” replied Frion; “all save him ye name Wiatt. Sir 
Robert, forsooth, is but half a man, and never does more than 
half deed, though that half makes a whole crime. All is ready. 
I hear the sound of oars ; the boat nears the shore.” 

Through the tall bare trunks of the trees, a glimpse of the 
beach might be gained ; the roaring of the surges was distinct, 
now mingled with the cry of sailors. 

“ Then lose we no time,” said Huntley. ‘‘My lord of York, 
these words sound strange. You expected a noble couutrymaa 
to lead you to victory ; you find nameless fellows, and the 
prince of knaves, most ready and willing to lead you to ever- 
lasting prison. Lo, the scene shifts again ! Never be cast 
down, Master Frion ; you are as subtle as any of your race — 
only to be outwitted by a niggard Scotchman, who can ill read, 
and worse write ; except when- villany is blazoned in a man’s 
face, and his sword indites a traitor’s fate. Your clerkship w'ill 
find none among us learned enough to afford you benefit of 
clergy.” 

Huntley drew his sword ; and at the signal his Highlanders 
arose from their ambush. Frion was seized and bound. None, 
who even a moment before had seen the smooth-faced villain, 
could have recognized him ; he was pale as the Bnow on Ben 
Nevis. A Highlander, an adept in Buch acts, dexterously threw 
a knot^d rope over his head, and cast his eye up to the trees 
for a convenient branch. Such had been the orders ; such the 
summary justice of the earl. 

Richard meanwhile looked on the blanched visage and quail- 
ing form of his betrayer in mere compassion. “ Is it even so, 
Etienne ! ” he said ; “ and after long companionship we part 
thus.” 

The trembling craven fell on his knees, though he tightened 
the halter by the movement, so that when Richard turned away, 
saying,/* I had thought better of thee: Jesu pardon thee qb 
readily as I — farewell! ” he had scarce voice to cry for mercy. 




TBEACJIEKY. 



275 



“ Aye,” cried the Gordon ; “ such mercy as we grant the 
wolf and thievish fox. Short shrift be thine, Master Secretary !” 

“ By Our Lady’s grace, stay ! ” said Katherine ; “do not kill 
the false-hearted knave. He is a coward, and dares survive his 
honour ; let him live.” 

Richard looked sternly on the kneeling slave. To the good 
there is something awful in the sight of a guilty man. It is a 
mystery to them how the human heart can be so perverted. Is 
it a spirit from hell that incorporates itself with the pulsations 
of our mortal bosom ; a darkness that overshadows ; a fiendish 
essence that mingles with the breath God gave to his own 
image P York felt a shrinking horror. “Thou hast pursued 
me since my youth,” he said, “ forcing thyself into my councils j 
sometimes as a wily enemy ; at others befriending me in seem- 
ing, raising my soul, that flagged beneath the world's unkind 
ministry ; dropping balm by thy words into a wounded heart ; 
to end thy office thus ! Was this thy purpose ever; or what 
demon v hispered thee to betray P Die ! oh no ! too many, the 
good, the great, the true, have died for me ; live thou a 
monument — a mark to tell the world that York can pardon, 
York can despise — not so base a thing as thee — that were little, 
but even thy employer. Go, tell my sister’s husband that I bear 
a charmed life ; that love and valour are my guards. Bid him 
bribe those, nor waste his ill-got crowns on such as thee. 
Unbind him, sirs ; make signal to the boat ; let him on board j 
the wind stands fair for England.” 

The fall of many a hope, roused by the forgery on Surrey's 
name, was forgotten by .Richard, as he sickened at this other 
mark of man’s wickedness and folly. He was surely the dear 
sport of fortune, a tale to chronicle how faithless friends may 
be. If such thoughts, like summer clouds, darkened his mind, 
they vanished, driven by the winds of life that bore him onward. 
This was no time for mere gloomy meditation. Though he was 
obliged to return to his forgotten Irish scheme, and to dismiss 
the glorious anticipation in which he had indulged, of leading 
the chivalry of England to the field ; though no real defeat had 
ever visited him so keenly as this mockery of one ; yet he was 
forced to forget himself, and to apply himself to console and 
rouse his downcast friends ; but his skill was well repaid, and 
soon he again awoke to those feelings of buoyant hope, 
unwearied energy, and unshaken confidence which were the 
essence of his character. 

In this last trial he felt how much good he might derive from 
the sweetness and constant spirit of the Lady Katherine. She 
hoped for none of the world’s blessings, except they came in the 

T 2 




TBEACHEBY. 



276 

shape of lores from him to whom she was united ; happiness — 
all hers as centred in her blameless affections ; and her eon- 
ffdence was placed ill the belief and knowledge, that by devoting 
herself to her lord, to the wandering outcast who so dearly 
needed her sacrifice, she fulfilled her destiny upon earth, and 
pleased “ the great Task Master,” who for happiness or misery, 
but certainly for good, had given her life. All her gentle 
eloquence was spent in dissuading Richard from those unkind 
thoughts towards his species, which the treason of these base 
men, the caprice of James, the harsh sentence (for this was 
again brought home to him by disappointment) of Surrey, 
awakened in his bosom. It proved no hard task ; soon the 
princely adventurer, with eagle flight, soared from the sad 
prostration of spirit, the birth of his disasters, to fresh hopes 
and lofty resolves. 

It was necessary immediately to prepare for his departure. 
The earl of Huntley, struck by his magnanimity, no longer 
opposed his daughter’s wish. The English exiles were eager 
fur a new, and, they believed (for untired is hope in man), for 
a prosperous career. Scotland grew rude, confined, and remote 
in their eyes. In Ireland were placed for them the portals of 
the world, to be opened by their swords ; the dancing sea-waves 
invited them ; the winds of heaven lent themselves to their 
service. “ My friends,” said Richard, “ dear and faithful 
partners of my wayward fortunes, I would fondly believe that 
we are favoured ot Heaven. Me are few ; but the evil and 
the treacherous are no longer among us. And does old Time in 
all his outworn tales tell any truer, than that the many, being 
disunited, and so false, have ever been vanquished by the loving, 
bold, and heroic few? That a child may scan with its fingers 
our bare arithmetic, will therefore be to us the source of success, 
as assuredly it will be of glory. The English were few when 
they mowed down thickly-planted French at Creasy and 
Poictiers. Which among us, armed as we are in the mail of 
valour, but would encounter ten of Tudor’s scant-paid mer- 
cenaries ? For me! I do believe that God is on my side, as 
surely as I know that justice and faith are ; and I fear no 
defeat.” 

It is thus that man, with fervent imagination, can endue the 
rough stone with loveliness, forge the misshapen metal into a 
likeness of all that wins our hearts by exceeding beauty, and 
breathe into a dissonant trump soul-melting harmonies. The 
mind of man — that mystery, which may lend nrms against itself, 
teaching vain lessons of material philosophy, but w hich, in the 
very act, shows its power to play with all created things, adding 



- •: :: 



DEPRESSION'. 277 

the sweetness of its own essence to the sweetest, taking its ugli- 
ness from the deformed. The creative faculty of man’s soul — 
which, animating ^Richard, made him see victory in defeat, suc- 
cess and glory in the dark, the tortuous, the thorny path, which 
it was his destiny to walk from the cradle to the tomb. 

Oh, had I, weak and faint of speech, words to teach my fellow- 
creatures the beauty and capabilities of man’s mind ; could I, or 
could one more fortunate, breathe the magic word which would 
reveal to all the power, which we all possess, to turn evil to 
good, foul to fair ; then vice and pain would desert the new- 
born world ! 

It is not thus : the wise have taught, the good suffered for us ; 
we are still the same ; and still our own bitter experience and 
heart-breaking regrets teach us to sympathize too feelingly with 
a tale like this ; which records the various fortunes of one who 
at his birth received every gift which most we covet; whose 
strange story is replete with every change of happiness and 
misery ; with every contrast of glorious and disgraceful ; who 
was the noble object of godlike fidelity, and the sad victim of 
demoniac treason ; the mark of man’s hate and woman's love ; 
spending thus a short eventful life. It is not spent; he yet 
breathes : he is on the world of waters. What new scene unfolds 
itself? Where are they who were false, where those who were 
true ! They congregate around him, and the car of life bears 
him on, attended by many frightful, many lovely shapes, to his 
destined end. Ho has yet much to suffer ; and, human as he is, ■ 
much to enjoy. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

DEPRESSION. 



One moment these were heard and seen j another 
Past, and the two who stood beneath that night. 

Each only heard, or saw, or felt the other. 

SlIELLBV. 

The hour had now arrived when Richard took leave of Scotland. 
The king was humbled by the necessity he felt himself under, of 
sending forth his friend and kinsman into the inhospitable 
world ; and he felt deep grief at j parting with his lovely cousin. 



 



278 



DEPRESSION. 



She grew pale, when for the last time she Baw the friend of her 
youth. But Katherine looked upon life in a mode very different 
from the usual one : the luxuries and dignities of the world 
never in her mind for a moment came in competition with her 
affections and her duty ; she saw the plain path before her ; 
whatever her father’s or her royal cousin’s idea had been in 
giving her to the duke of York, she knew that, beiug his, her 
destiny upon earth was to share his fortunes, and soothe his 
sorrows. This constant looking on, giving herself up to, and 
delighting in one aim, one object, one occupation, elevated her 
far above the common cares of existence. She left 

“ All meaner things, 

The low ambition and the pride of kings,” 

— to shroud herself in love ; to take on herself the hallowed 
stato of one devoting herself to another’s happiness. Cleopatra, 
basking in sunny pomp, borne, the wonder of the world, in her 
gilded bark, amidst all the aroma of the east, upon the gently- 
rippling Cydnus, felt neither the pride nor joy of Katherine, as, 
on the poor deck of their dark weather-beaten skiff, she felt 
pillowed by the downy spirit of love, fanned by its gentle breath. 

The duke of York was more depressed ; he thought of how, 
since his miserable childhood, he had been the sport of Fortune 
and her scorn'. He thought of the false, the cold, the perished : 
a dark wall seemed to rise around him ; a murky vault to close 
over him : success, glory, honour, the world’s treasures, which 
he had been brought up to aspire to as his dearest aim, his right, 
were unattainable ; he was the defeated, the outcast ; there was 
a clog in his way for ever ; a foul taint upon his name. Thus 
seated on the deck, his arm coiled round a rope, his head leaning 
on his arm, while the stars showered a dim silvery radiance, and 
the sparkling sea mocked their lustre with brighter fires ; while 
the breeze, that swelled his sail, and drove him merrily along, 
spent its cold breath on him ; he, painting all natural objects 
with the obscure colouring suggested by his then gloomy spirit, 
distorting the very scenery of heaven and vast ocean into 
symbols of his evil fate, gave himself up to the very luxury of 
woe, — meanwhile the shadow of a lovely form fell on him, soft 
fingers pressed the curls of his hair, and Katherine asked, “Are 
the nights of Andalusia more glorious than this P ” 

At the voice of the charmer the demon fled ; sky and sea cast 
off the dim veil his grief had woven, and creation was restored 
Is native beauty. Hitherto the halls of palaces, the gaiety of a 
ourt, the council-chamber, had been the scenes in which the 
princely pair had lived together ; linked to an engrossing state 




DEPRESSION. 



279 

of tilings, surrounded by their partisans, they had been friends, 
nay lovers, according to the love of the many. But solitary 
Nature is the true temple of Love, where he is not an adjunct, 
but an essence ; and now she alone was around them, to fill 
them with sublime awe, and the softest tenderness. In Richard’s 
eyes, the kingdom of his inheritance dwindled into a mere 
speck ; the land of her nativity became but a name to Katherine. 
It sufficed for their two full hearts thal they were together on 
the dark wide sea ; the bright sky above, and calm upon the 
bosom of the deep. They could ill discern each other in the 
shadowy twilight ; a dream-like veil was cast over their features, 
as sleep curtains out the soul, so that we look on the beloved 
slumberer, and say, “ He is there, though the mystery of repose, 
wraps me from him ; ” so now darkness blinded and divided 
them : but hand clasped hand ; he felt that one existed who was 
his own, his faithful; and she rejoiced in the accomplishment of 
the master-sentiment of her soul, the desire of self-devotion, 
self-annihilation, for one who loved her. The passion that 
warmed their hearts had no fears, no tumult, no doubt. One 
to the other they sufficed ; and, but that the trance is fleeting, 
Happiness, the lost child of the world, would have found here 
her home ; for when love, which is the necessity of affectionate 
hearts, and the sense of duty, which is the mystery and the law 
of our souls, blend into one feeling, Paradise has little to promise 
save immortality. 

For many days this state of forgetful ecstasy lasted. Plan- 
tagenet and Neville spoke of wars in England ; Lord Barry and 
Keating of their Irish schemes — the prince listened and replied ; 
but his soul was far away — Oh, that for ever they might sail 
thus on the pathless, shoreless sea ! — Nothing mean or trivial or 
ignoble could visit them ; no hate, no care, no fear — this might 
not be, but to have felt, to have lived thus for a few short days, 
suffices to separate mortal man from the groveling part of his 
nature — no disgrace, no despair can so bring him back to the 
low-minded world, as to destroy the sense of having once so 
existed. And Richard, marked for misery and defeat, acknow- 
ledged that power which sentiment possesses to exalt us — to 
convince us that our minds, endowed with a soaring, restless 
aspiration, can find no repose on earth except in love. 



 




280 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

% 

SIEGE OF WATEEFOED. 



“ Now for our Irish wars t ” 

SlIAKSFKARE. 

Again the duke of York approached the rocky entrance of the 
Cove of Cork, again he passed through the narrow passage, 
which opening, displayed a lovely sheet of tranquil water, 
decked with islands. The arrival of his fleet in the harbour was 
hailed with joy. Old John O’Water had returned to his civic 
labours, and had contrived to get himself chosen mayor for this 
year, that he might be of greater assistance to the White Rose 
in his enterprise. 

As soon as the arrival of his ships off the coast was known, 
O’Water despatched messengers] to the earl of Desmond, and 
busied himself to give splendour to Richard’s entrance into 
Cork. Tapestry and gay-coloured silks were hung from the 
windows ; the street was strewn with flowers — citizens and 
soldiers intermixed crowded to the landing-place. York’s heart 
palpitated with joy. It was not that thence he much hoped for 
success to his adventure, which required more than the enthu- 
siasm of the remote inhabitants of the south of Ireland to 
achieve it : but Cork was a sort of home to him ; here he had 
found safety when he landed, barely escaped from Trangmar’s 
machinations — here he first assumed his rightful name and title 
— here, a mere boy, ardent, credulous, and bold — he had seen 
strangers adopt his badge and avouch his cause. Five years had 
elapsed since then — the acclaim of a few kind voices, the display 
of zeal, could no longer influence his hopes as then they had 
done, but they gladdened his heart, and took from it that painful 
feeling which we all too often experience — that we are castaway 
on the inhospitable earth, useless and neglected. 

He was glad also in the very first spot of his claimed domi- 
nions whereon ho set foot, to see the Lady Katherine received 
with the honours due to her rank. Her beauty and affability 
won the hearts of all around, and O’Water, with the tenderness 



 



SIEGE OF WATEEFOED. 



281 



that an old man is so apt to feel towards a young and lovely 
woman, extended to her a paternal affection, the simplicity and 
warmth of which touched her, thrown as she was among strangers, 
with gratitude. 

Lord Desmond arrived — he was struck by the improvement 
in York’s manner, still ingenuous and open-hearted : he was 
more dignified, more confident in himself than before — the hus- 
band of Katherine also acquired consideration ; as an adven- 
turous boy, he might be used according to the commodity of the 
hour — now he had place — station in the world, and Desmond 
paid him greater deference, almost unawares. 

But the earl was sorely disappointed; “ Reverend Father,” 
said he to Keating, “ what aid does Scotland promise P Will 
they draw Tudor with his archers and harquebussiers, and well- 
horsed knights, to the north, giving our Irish kern some chance 
of safe landing in the weBt P ” 

“ Peace is concluded between Scotland and England,” replied 
Keating. 

Desmond looked moody. “ How thrives the White Hose 
over the water P How sped the duke, when he entered Eng- 
land ? Some aid somewhere we must have, besides yonder 
knot'of wanderers, and our own hungry, naked kerns.” 

“ By my fav ! ” replied Keating, “ every budding blossom on 
the liose-bush was nipped, as by a north-east wind. When 
Duke liichard sowed his hopes there, like the dragon’s teeth of 
Dan Cadmus, they turned into so many armed men to attack 
him.” 

“ Sooth, good prior,” said the earl, with a sharp laugh, “we 
shall speed well thereby : would you a re-acting of the gleeful 
mime at Stowe P " 

“ Wherefore,” said Keating, “ fix your thoughts on England? 
The dark sea rolls between us, and even the giants of old broko 
their causeway, which in the north ’tis said they built, ere it 
laid its long arm on the English shore. The name of Ireland 
reads as fair as England ; its sons are as brave and politic, able 
to defend, to rule themselves : blot England from the world, and 
Ireland stands free and glorious, sufficing to herself. This 
springal, valorous though he be, can never upset Tudor’s throne 
in London ; but he can do more for us by nis very impotence. 
He is the true lord of Ireland : we are liegemen in maintaining 
his right. Plant his banner, rally round it all men who wish well 
to their country ; drive out the good man Poynings ; crush the 
Butlers — aye, down with them ; and when liichard is crowned 
King of Erin, and the Geraldines rule under him, our native land 
will stand singly, nor want England for a crutch — or, by’r Lady ! 








282 



SIEGE OF WATEBFOBD. 



for a spear to enter her heart, while she leaneth on it ; so the wars 
of York and Lancaster may free us from the proud, imperious 
English ; and the Irish, like the Scotch, have a king and a stato 
of their own.” 

Desmond’s eyes flashed for a moment, as Keating thus pre- 
sented before them the picture he most desired to behold ; but 
they grew cold again. “The means, reverend prior, the arms, 
the money, the soldiers P ” 

“ A bold stroke brings all : strike one blow, and Ireland is at 
our feet. "\Ye must not tarry ; now the Butlers and their party 
are asleep in their security ; gather men together j march forward 
boldly ; strike at the highest, Dublin herself.” 

“Father,” replied the earl, “long before I were halfway 
there, my litter would be abandoned even by its bearers, and we 
left alone among the bogs and mountains, to feed as we may, or 
die. If there be any sooth in your scheme, it can only provo 
good, inasmuch as we secure Connaught to ourselves, and turn 
this corner of the island into a kingdom ; but neither one word, 
nor one blow, will gain Dublin. You are right so far, — something 
must be done, and speedily ; and, if it be well done, we may do 
more, till by the aid of the blessed St. Patrick and white-tooth’d 
Bridget ! we tread upon the necks of the Butlers.” 

This one thing to be undertaken, after much consultation among 
the chieftains, was the siege of Waterford : it had been sum- 
moned to acknowledge Duke Richard as its lord, and had refused: 
Keating was very averse to spending time before a fortified town. 
“On, on, boutezenavant!" He reminded Lord Barry of his device, 
and strove to awaken ambition in him. The prior of Kilmainham 
had spent all his life in Dublin, a chief member of the govern- 
ment, a seditious, factious but influential man : the capital to 
him was all that was worth having, while, to these lords of 
Munster, the smallest victory over their particular rivals, or the 
gaining a chief city in a district, which was their world, appeared 
more glorious than entering London itself victoriously, if mean- 
while Waterford, or any one of the many towns of Ireland, held 
out against them. 

On the fifteenth of July, 1497, the duke of York, the earl of 
Desmond, and the other many chief of many names, some 
Geraldines, all allied to, or subject to them, as the O’Briens, the 
Roches, the Macarthys, the Barrys, and others, assembled at 
Youghall, a town subject to the earl of Desmond, and situated 
about midway between Cork and Waterford, at the mouth of the 
river Blackwater. 

On the twenty-second of July the army was in movement, 
and entered the county of Waterford ; the chiefs, at the 



gl 




8IEGE OF WATEBFOBD. 



283 



head of their respective followers, proceeded to the shrine of 
St. Declan at Ardmore, to make their rows for the success of 
their expedition. The church at Ardmore, the round tower, 
the shrine, and healing-rock, were all objects of peculiar sanctity. 
The countess of Desmond, and her young son, and the fair 
duchess of York, accompanied this procession from Youghall. 
After the celebration of mass, the illustrious throng congregated 
on the rocky eminence, on which the mysterious tower is built, 
overlooking the little bay, where the calm waters broke gently on 
the pebbly beach. It was a beauteous summer-day ; the noon-day 
heat was tempered by the sea breeze, and relieved by the 
regular plash of the billows, as they spent themselves on the 
shore. A kind of silence — such silence as there can be among 
a multitude, such a silence as is preserved when the winds sing 
among the pines — possessed the crowd : they stood in security, 
in peace, surrounded by such objects as excited piety and awe ; 
and yet the hopes of the warrior, and, if such a word may be 
used, a warrior’s fears, possessed them ; it was such a pause as 
the mountain-goat makes ere he commits himself to the pre- 
cipice. A moment afterwards all was in motion ; to the sound 
of warlike instruments the troops wound up the Ardmore moun- 
tains, looking down on the little fleet that stemmed its slow 
way towards the harbour of Waterford. The ladies were left 
alone with few attendants. The young duchess gazed on that 
band of departing warriors, whose sole standard was the spotless 
rose ; they were soon lost in the foldings of the hills ; again 
they emerged ; her straining eye caught them. That little 
Bpeck upon the mountain-side contained the sole hope and joy 
of her life, exposed to danger for the sake of a little good; for 
Katherine, accustomed to the sight of armies, and to the com- 
panionship of chiefs and rulers, detected at once the small chance 
there was, that these men could bring to terms a strongly fortified 
city ; but resignation supplied the place of hope ; she believed 
that Kichard would be spared ; and, but for his own sake, she 
cared little whether a remote home in Ireland, or a palace in 
England received them. She looked again on the mountain 

{ >ath ; no smallest moving object gave sign of life ; the sun- 
ight slept upon the heathy uplands ; the grey rocks stood in 
shadowy grandeur; Katherine sighed and turned again to the 
chapel, to offer still more fervent prayers, that on this beauteous 
earth, beneath this bright genial heaven, she might not be left 
desolate : whatever else her fortune, that Kichard might be hers. 

The army which the earl of Desmond led against Waterford, 
did not consist of more than two thousand men. With these he 
invested the western division of the city. Kichard, with his 




SIEGE OF WATERFORD. 



284 

peculiar troop, took his position at the extremity of this line, 
nearest Passage, close to Lumbard’s Marsh, there to protect the 
disembarkment of troops from the fleet. 

Neither party failed in zeal or activity. The first days were 
actively employed in erecting works and bringing the cannon to 
play upon the town. On the third, in the very midst of their 
labours, while the earl in his litter was carried close under the 
walls among the pioneers, and Lord Barry in his eagerness 
seized a spade and began to work, signals of attack were made 
from the town, and the troops poured out from the nearest gate. 
The advanced guard were too few to contend with them ; they 
were driven back on the entrenchments. The citizens were full 
of fury and indignation ; they rushed forward with loud cries, 
and created a confusion, which Desmond and Lord Barry were 
not slow to encounter ; they brought a few regular troops to 
stand the assault ; a well pointed cannon from the town swept 
the thin lines ; they fell back ; a yell of victory was raised by the 
men of Waterfond ; it reached the outpost of Duke Bichard : 
he, with a score of men, five among them, with himself, being 
cavaliers armed at all points, were viewing a portion of the walls 
that seemed most open to assault ; the roar of cannon and the 
clash of arms called him to more perilous occupation ; he 
galloped towards the scene of action ; and, while still the 
faltering men of Desmond were ashamed to fly, yet dared not 
stand, he, with his little troop, attacked the enemy on their 
flank. The white steed, the nodding plume, the flashing sword 
of York were foremost in the fray ; Neville and Plantaganet 
were close behind ; these knights in their iron armour seemed 
to the half-disciplined Irish like invulnerable statues, machines 
to offend, impregnable to offence ; twenty such might have 
turned the fortunes of a more desperate day : their antagonists 
fell back. The knight of Kerry led on at this moment a re- 
inforcement of Geraldines, and a cannon, which hitherto had 
been rebel to the cannoneer’s art, opened its fiery mouth with 
such loud injurious speech, that for many moments the dread 
line it traced remained a blank. Bichard saw the post of 
advantage, and endeavoured to throw himself between the 
enemy and the city : he did not succeed ; but, on the contrary, 
■was nearly cut oft' himself by a reinforcement of townsmen, sent 
to secure the retreat of their fellows. Those M ho saw him fight 
that day spoke of him as a wonder : the heart that had ani- 
mated him in Andalusia was awake ; as there he smote to death 
the turbaned Moor, so now he dealt mortal blows on all 
around, fearless of the pressing throng and still increasing 
numbers. _ While thus hurried away by martial enthusiasm, 




SIEGE OF WATEEFOED. 



285 



the sound of a distant trumpet caught his car, and the coho of 
fire-arms followed ; .it came from the east — his own post was 
attacked : now, when he wished to retreat, he first discerned 
how alone and how surrounded he was ; yet, looking on his foes 
he saw, but for their numbers, how despicable they were ; to a 
knight, what was this throng of half-armed burghers and naked 
kerns, who pell-mell aimed at him, every blow ineffectual ? Eut 
again the loud bellow of distant cannon called him, and he 
turned to retreat — a cloud of missiles rattled against him ; his 
shield was struck through ; the bullets rebounded from his case 
of iron, while his sword felled an enemy at every stroke ; and 
now, breaking through the opposing rank on the other side, his 
friends joined him — the citizens recoiled. “ Old Reginald’s 
tower,” they averred, “ would have bled sooner than these Sir 
Tristans — they were charmed men, and lead and good arrow- 
heads were softer than paper-pellets on their sides.” The first 
movement of panic was enough ; before their leaders could rally 
them again to the attack, the English knights were far, riding 
at full speed towards the eastern gate. 

Here liichard’s presence was enough to restore victory to his 
standard — flushed, panting, yet firm in his seat, his hand true 
and dangerous in its blows, there was something superhuman in 
his strength and courage, yet more fearful than his sharp sword. 
The excess of chivalrous ardour, the burning desire to mingle in 
the thickest fight, made danger happiness, and all the terrible 
shows of war entrancing joys to York. "When reproached for 
rashness by his cousin, his bright eye was brighter for a tear, as 
he cried, “ Cousin, I must have some part of my inheritance : 
my kingdom I shall never gain — glory — a deathless name — oh, 
must not these belong to him who possesses Katherine ? The 

f iroud Scots, who looked askance at my nuptials, shall avow at 
cast that she wedded no craven-hearted loon.” 

"With the morrow came a new task. Their little fleet had 
made its way up Waterford Harbour into the river Suir ; and 
the troops destined to join his were partly disembarked. To 
protect the landing, he and Neville rode across the marsh to the 
strand. On their return a fresh sight presented itself — the 
ponds of Kilbarry were filled, the besieged having raised a 
mound of earth to stop the course of the river which flows from 
Kilbarry into the Suir ; and the road back to their camp was 
completely cut off. There w r as no mode of getting round save 
by the road to Tramore ; yet to the active mind of Richard, it 
seemed that even this disaster might be turned into a benefit. 
He re-embarked the troops ; he himself went onboard the prin- 
cipal vessel ; he called to secret council the captains : — the con- 



 




286 



S1EGB 0? watebfokd. 



elusion was not immediately divulged, but some adventure of 
peril was assuredly planned among them. • 

The long summer day went slowly down ; the hum of men 
from Waterford reached the ships ; the quay was thronged with 
soldiers : several vessels were anchored in the advance, and 
manned with troops ; but the English fleet, their anchors cast, 
their sails furled, seemed peacefully inclined. As night came 
on, the quay became a desert ; the ships were worked back to 
their former stations. It grew darker ; the city, with its old 
rough tower and spires, was mirrored indistinctly in the twilight 
tide ; the walls grew dim and gigantic ; the sound of fire-arms 
ceased ; the last roll of the drum died away ; the city Blept, fear- 
less of its invaders. At this moment, the ebbing tide began to 
flow. Assisted by the rising waters, Eichard and Neville ran a 
small boat under the cover of the opposite bank of the river, to 
observe what defences the quay might possess. The low tide at 
that hour was its best defence ; a watch-tower or two with their 
sentinels, completed the guard of a part of the town, whose 
defence on that side was neglected ; by midnight also the tide 
would have risen, but it was necessary to wait for the following 
night ; for first he must communicate with Desmond, that a 
night attack in the opposite direction might effectually leave the 
water-side deserted. The vessels meanwhile dropped down below 
Little Island, at once to get out of shot of Eeginald’s Tower, 
which commands the harbour, and to remove from the citizens 
any apprehensions they might entertain of attack. The winding 
of the river concealed them entirely from the town. 

The next day, a burning August day, declined into a dewy 
night ; imperceptibly during the dark the vessels were nearer 
the city ; and while the warders of the city fancied that the 
troops on board the fleet were finding a circuitous path over 
land to Desmond’s camp, the stars of night twinkled through 
the shrouds upon decks crowded with men, arming themselves 
in busy silence. Suddenly it was reported to Eichard that a 
stranger caravel was among them ; she was the only vessel 
with set sails, and these were enlarged by night, till as she 
neared, she seemed a giant, a living thing stalking between 
heaven and the element beneath. A sudden shiver convulsed 
the prince ; to his eye it was the likeness of that vessel which 
long ere this had traversed, he hoped in safety, the western 
sea, etemming its mountainous waves towards the beauteous 
Indian Isles. Had it been wrecked, and this the spectre? 
It was the illusion of a moment ; but it was necessary to ascer- 
tain the nature and intentions of the stranger, who was now 
close among them. York’s vessel, at his command, got alongside 




SIEGE OF WATERFORD. 



287 



of her ; he leapt upon the deck, and saw at once him whom the 
dim night had concealed before, Hernan de Faro upon the deck. 

A thousand emotions — wonder, fear, delight — rushed into the 
youth’s heart ; while the mariner, yet more weather-beaten, thin 
to emaciation, but still erect, still breathing the same spirit of 
fortitude and kindliness, grasped liis hand, and blessed the 
Virgin for the meeting. The questions, the anxiety of Richard, 
could* not be uttered in this hour of action ; he only said, “ You 
will join us, and we will be doubly strong; or must you remain 
to guard your daughter P ” 

“ I come from her — she is not with me — more of this anon.” 

Rapidly he asked and obtained information of the meditated 
attack ; in part he disapproved, and, with all the sagacity of a 
veteran- in such enterprises, suggested alterations. Now every 
boat was lowered with silent expedition, each received its freight 
of troops, and was rowed with the tide up the Suir. One skiff 
contained York and the Moor. The prince, in the anticipation 
of the hazardous contest, looked serious ; while every feature of 
De Faro’s face was bright, his animated, glad smile, his flashing 
eyes — all spoke the exhilaration of one engaged in his elected 
pleasure. Richard had never seen him thus before : usually he 
appeared kind, almost deferential ; yet, except when he talked 
of the sea, heavy and silent, and speaking of that in a subdued 
tone. He now stood the picture of a veteran hero, self-possessed 
and calm, but for the joyousness that the very feeling of his 
sword’s weight, as his right hand grasped the hilt, imparted^to 
his warlike spirit. 

Had an angel, on poised wings of heavenly grain, hovered 
over the city of Waterford, gazing on its star-pointing spires, 
the reflecting waters of thej|Suir, the tranquil hills and woods 
that gathered round the river, he would have believed such quiet 
inviolate, and blessed the sleep that hushed the miserable pas- 
sions of humanity to repose. Anon there came the splash of 
waters, the shout of men, the sentinels’ startled cry, the sudden 
rush of the guard, the clash of swords, the scream, the low 
groan, the protracted howl, and the fierce bark of the watch-dog 
joining in. The celestial angel has soared to heaven, scared ; 
and yet honour ,fmagnanimity, devotion, filled the hearts of those 
who thus turned to hell a seeming paradise. Led by Richard 
and De Faro, while a party was left behind to insure retreat, 
another rushed forward right through the town, to throw open 
the western gate, and admit Desmond, before the terrified citi- 
zens had exchanged their nightcaps for helmets ; in vain : 
already the market-place was filled with soldiers ready for the 
encounter; guided by a native, they endeavoured to find a 




288 



4 



SIEGE OF WATEEFOED. 



way through the bye-streets ; they lost themselves ; they got 
entangled in narrow alleys ; the awakened citizens cast upon 
their heads tiles, blocks of wood, — all they could lay hands 
upon. To get back to the square was their only salvation ; 
although the storm and yell that rose behind, assured 
them that Desmond had commenced the attack. With dimin- 
ished numbers York regained the market-place ; here he was 
furiously attacked ; the crowd still increased, until the kfiot of 
assailants might have been crushed, it seemed, by mere num- 
bers ; day, bright day, with its golden clouds and swift-pacing 
sun, dawned upon the scene. In one of those pauses which 
sometimes occur in the most chaotic roar, a trumpet was heard, 
sounding as it seemed Desmond’s retreat from the walls. 
Rickard felt that he was deserted, that all hope was over ; and 
to secure the retreat of his men was a work of sufficient diffi- 
culty. Foot to foot the young hero and the veteran mariner 
fought ; one by the quickness of his blows, the other by his 
tower-like strength, keeping back the enemy ; while retreating 
slowly, their faces to the foe, they called on their men to make 
good their escape. They reached the quay — they saw the wide 
river, their refuge ; their vessels near at hand, the boats hover- 
ing close, their safety was in sight, and yet hope of safety died 
in their hearts, so many and so fierce were those who pressed on 
them. Richard was wounded, weary, faint ; De Faro alone — 
Reginald’s old tower, which, dark and scathless, frowned on 
them, seemed his typo. They were at the water’s edge, and the 
high tide kissed with its waves the very footway of the quay: 
“ Courage, my lord, — a few more blows and we are safe : ” the 
mariner spoke thus, for he saw Richard totter ; and his arm, 
raised feebly, fell agaan without a stroke. At that moment, a 
flame, and then a bellowing roar, announced that the tardy can- 
noneer had at last opened his battery on the fleet, from the 
tower. One glance De Faro cast on his caravel ; the bolt had 
struck and damaged one of the vessels, but the Adalid escaped, 
“ Courage, my lord ! ” again he shouted'; and at that moment a 
blow was struck at Richard which felled him ; he lay stretched 
at De Faro’s feet. Ere it could be repeated, the head of the 
assailant was cleft by a Moorish scimitar. "With furious strength, 
De Faro then hurled his weapon among the soldiers ; the unex- 
pected act made them recoil ; he lifted up the insensible form of 
liichard with the power of an elephant; he cast him into the 
near waves, and leapt in after : raising him with one hand, he 
cut the waters with the other, and swam thus towards his vessel, 
pursued bv a rain of missiles ; one arrow glanced on Richard’s 
unstrung helmet, another fixed itself in the joint at the neck ; 



^le 



Digiti; 




an Escape. 



289 



but De Faro was unhurt. He passed, swimming thus, the near- 
est vessels : the sailors crow'ded to the sides, imploring him to 
enter : as if it had been schoolboy’s sport, he refused, till he 
reached the Adalid, till his own men raised Richard, revived 
now, but feeble, to her worn deck : and he, on board her well- 
known planks, felt superior to every sovereign in the world. 



CHAPTER XL. 

AN ESCAPE. 



Farewell, Erin ! farewell all 
Who live to weep our fall ! 

Moore. 



On the height of the tower of Ardmore, the White Rose of 
young Richard kept her vigils, and looked across the calm sea, 
and along the passes of the mountains of Drum, in anxious 
expectation of the event of the expedition. Sad forebodings 
oppressed her ; the sentiment that mastered every other, was 
that her lord should require her presence, her assistance, while 
she was far. He had promised to send a post each day ; when 
these failed, her heart sank within her. The only change that 
occurred, was when she saw the Adalid proceed slowly in the 
calm towards Waterford. 



One sunny morn she from her watch - tower perceived 
several straggling groups descending the mountains. She 
strained her eyes : no banners waved ; no martial music spoke 
of victory. That was secondary in her eyes ; it was for 
Richard’s safety that she was solicitous ; yet she would not, did 
not fear ; for there is an instinctive sense in human nature which, 



in time of doubt, sallies forth from the ark of refuge, and 
brings back tidings of peace or sorrow to the expectant on the 
perilous flood; a prophetic spirit which, when it despairs — 
woe the while ! — the omen proves not false. The Lady Kathe- 
rine watched anxiously but not in despair. At length heavy 
footsteps ascended the tower-stairs ; and to answer the beat- 
ings of her heart, Edmund Plantageuet and the muyor of 
Cork presented themselves ; they eagerly asked, “ Is he not 
here ? ” 



u 



 



290 



AN ESCAPE. 



“Nay, he has not fledP” she replied, while for the first 
time she grew pale. 

“Weigh our words as mere air,” said O’Water; “for we 
know nothing, gentle dame, but that I must to Cork, to bar 
out the men of Waterford. His highness left us for the fleet ; 
and the filling up of those cursed ponds of Kilbarry — ill luck to 
them ! — cut off his return. Last night — Saint Patrick knows the 
deeds of the last night ! — weary from our labour the day before, 
we were all too carelessly asleep, when our camp was assaulted. 
Earl Maurice had ridden to Lismore to hasten his cousin, the 
Knight of the Valley. There was some report of an attack 
upon the town from the ships. Havoc was the cry that roused 
the welkin from east to west. The sum I know not, save that 
we are runaways — the siege of Waterford is raised.” 

“What skiff is thatP” interrupted the duchess. Bound 
the point of Minehead first peeped the bowsprit, then the prow ; 
and last the complete form of a vessel in full sail, yet scarcely 
touched by the wind, weathered the promontory. “ Haste we, 
my friends,” she continued ; “ the duke may be on board ; at 
least we shall have intelligence.” 

“ I know that craft full well,” said O’Water ; “ her captain is 
a converted Moorish pagan.” 

“ The White Rose waves from her mast-top,” cried Katherine ; 
“ oh, he is there ! ” 

“ Holy angels ! ” exclaimed Edmund ; “ it is the Adalid ! I 
will on board on the instant.” 

Already the duchess was descending the steep narrow stairs ; 
the villagers of Ardmore, with many of the soldiers who had 
fled from Waterford, were on the shingles, watching the cara- 
vel, now full in sight, yet fearful to venture too near the 
shelving shore. “ They are bound for Cork,” cried a man. 

“ Oh, not till I first speak to them,” said Katherine ; " the 
day is fair, the sea calm, put off a boat. Ah, my cousin Ed- 
mund, take me with thee.” 

Plantagenet had already got a boat from its moorings. 
O’Water was beside the princess to beseech vainly that she 
would be patient; and poor Astley, who had been left in 
special attendance on her, waited near with blanched cheeks. 
Accompanied by these dear or humble friends, the White Rose 
was borne with the speed of ten oars towards the Adalid. On 
the deck, half reclining on a rude bed, very pale, yet with 
lively, wakeful eyes, lay the prince of England. In a moment 
Katherine was assisted on board. There was no death for 
Richard ; she was there, life of his life ; so young, so beautiful, 
and true ; the celestial goodness that beamed in her eyes, and 







AN ESCAPE. 



291 



dimpled her cherub countenance, was not like that of an inha- 
tant of this sad planet ; except that spirits of beauty and love 
ever and anon do animate the frames of the earth-born ; so that 
we behold in the aspects of our fellow-beings glances and smiles 
bright as those of angels. De Faro himself looked with admi- 
ration on the bending form of this lovely one, till accosted by 
Edmund, whose first question was, “ Don Hernan here — where 
then is ” 

“ My beloved Monina you would ask for,” said De Faro ; 
“ she, who to please her vagrant father would have crossed the 
wild Atlantic to visit the savage Western Isles. Poor child, 
even at the threshold of this adventure we were nearly wrecked. 
She is now in England; she sent me here — to tell of rebel- 
lion against King Henry ; to invite Duke Richard to his 
kingdom.” 

Thus they were occupied on the sunny deck ; the sea was 
calm, the keel almost stationary in the water ; they were bound 
for Cork ; Plantagenet and the mayor gathered eagerly from Do 
Faro the history of the combat. They learned that it had been 
expected that Desmond would have assaulted from land, while 
York invaded the city from the river ; but the fellow sent with 
Richard’s missive had been taken, the city put on her guard. 
Nothing but the desire of the citizens to do too much, and his 
own desperate valour, had saved Richard ; they resolved at 
once to receive and destroy him, and to sally unawares on the 
earl’s camp : they hoped to make prisoners of all the chiefs. 
They failed in this, but succeeded in raising the siege of their 
citv. 

Towards evening a land-breeze sprung up, and two others of 
York’s vessels hove in sight, and passed them quickly ; for the 
Adalid was much disabled, and made slow way. Soon in pur- 
suit appeared a ship and two corvettes, which O’Water recog- 
nized as belonging to Waterford. The corvettes proceeded on 
their way ; but the larger vessel spied out the Adalid, and, 
being now in advance of her, hove to, with the manifest resolve 
of attacking her on her watery way towards Cork. De Faro, 
with his keen eyes fixed on the enemy’s movements, stood on tko 
forecastle in silence; while Plantagenet and O’Water eagerly de- 
manded arms, and exhorted the sailors to a most vain resistance. 
From the ves9el of the foe the Moorish mariner cast his eyes 
upwards ; the wind was shifting to the west. With a loud voice 
he shouted to his crew to man the yards ; then, seizing the 
rudder, gave the swift orders that made the caravel go about. 
Sailing near the wind, her canvass had flapped lazily, now it 
filled ; the keel felt the impulse, and dashed merrily along, 

tj 2 




AN ESCAEE. 



292 

bounding forward like a courser in the race ; the ship, which 
had furled its sails in expectation of the combat, was in an 
instant left far behind; the other vessels from Waterford were 
still further to the west, towards Cork. 

All these manoeuvres were mysteries to the landsmen : they 
gladly hailed the distance placed between them and a superior 
enemy ; but as with a freshening gale the Adalid still held her 
swift course towards the east, and the land began to sink on the 
horizon, O’Water asked with some eagerness whither they were 
bound. 

“ To safety,” De Faro replied, laconically. 

“ An idle answer,” Baid Edmund ; “ we must judge whore our 
safety lies P ” 

“ I have ever found best safety on the wide ocean sea,” cried 
the mariner, looking round proudly on his beloved element. 
" Your safeties and your lords are, methinks, English born ; 
if this wind hold, on the third morning we shall see the coast of 
Cornwall.” 

The mayor was aghast, exclaiming — “ Cornwall ! England ! 
we are betrayed P " 

De Faro looked on him with contempt : — “ I do not command 
here,” he continued, “ I obey the prince of England ; let him 
decide. Shall we engage superior force ; be boarded ; taken by 
the enemy : or land, be wrecked, perchance, upon this savage 
coast ; alive with vengeful kerns — defeated men among a victo- 
rious angry people P Or go where we are called by your leader’s 
cause, where thousands of men are up in arms to receive you 
like brothers, to fight for you, with you ; where England, the 
long-desired kingdom, makes you welcome to her green, sunny 
shores P Ask ye your prince this question ; let his word be 
law.” 

This statement, upheld by York, brought conviction to the 
minds of Plantagenet and O’Water. The latter was aware of 
the risk he ran from the awakened vengeance of Henry, to 
pursue his having fostered rebellion in the city of which he was 
magistrate ; and a moment’s reflection showed him that there 
was no security for him, except in flight from Ireland. — Mean- 
while the wind, increasing in its strength, and right astern, 
carried them over the foaming waters. The early dawn showed 
them far at sea : they had outrun or baffled their pursuers ; 
and though, now and then, with anxious thought, they reflected 
on the comrades left behind, on the poor equipage, and 
diminished numbers with which they were about to land in 
England, still there was something so miraculous in their 
escape, so unforeseen in the destiny that cut them off, and 



id by Goc 







AN ESCAPE, 293 

carried them, a remnant merely of the war, away from its 
dangers, that they felt as if they were under the immediate 
direction of a ruling Providence, and so resigned themselves ; 
greedily drinking in the while the highly coloured picture Do 
Faro painted of the Yorkist army which awaited them in 
Cornwall. 

Again upon the sea — again impelled by winds and waves to 
new scenes — new hopes, tossed here and there by Fortune, it was 
Pickard’s fate to see one frustrated expectation give place to 
another, which, in its turn, faded and died. This constant 
succession of projects kept alive within him that sanguine spirit 
which never could be vanquished. Eagerly he passed from one 
idea to another, and almost welcomed the last disaster, which 
appeared but to pioneer the way to future success. During this 
voyage, weak as his wotmds had made him, he talked of 
England as his own — the dearer because he must spend his 
blood to win it. Circumstances had an exactly contrary effect 
upon Katherine. The continual change of schemes convinced 
her of the futility of all. She felt that, if the first appearance 
of the duke of York, acknowledged and upheld by various 
sovereigns and dear high-born relatives, had not animated the 
party of the White Rose in his favour, it was not now, after 
many defeats and humiliations on his side, and after triumphs 
and arrogant assumptions on that of his enemy, that brilliant 
success could be expected. This conviction must soon become 
general among the Yorkists, Richard would learn the sad lesson, 
but she was there to deprive it of its sting ; to prove to him, 
that tranquillity and Katherine were of more worth than 
struggles, even if they proved successful, for vain power. 

It was strange that a girl of royal birth, bred in a palace, 
accustomed to a queen-like sovereignty over her father’s nu- 
merous vassals in the Highlands, should aim at restricting the 
ambitious York to mere privacy ; while Monina, the humble 
daughter of a Moorish mariner, would have felt honour, repu- 
tation, all that is dear to man, at stake, if her friend had 
dreamed of renouncing his claims to the English crown. His 
cause was her life; his royalty the main spring of all her 
actions and thoughts. She had sacrificed love to it — she 
taught her woman’s soul to rejoice in his marriage with 
another, because his union with a princess was pledge to the 
world of his truth. Perhaps, had the time ever come when he 
renounced his struggles, she had felt with a pang that his lowly 
fortunes might not incongruously be shared by her, and seif 
had mingled in the religion of her heart, which was virtuous 
devotion to him; but as it was, the idea never presented itself. 



294 



AN BSCAPJ5. 



He must win or die. Did he win, her happiness would result 
from the contemplation of his glory ; were he to die, the young 
hero’s grave would not be w atered by her tears : she believed 
that in that hour her life w'ould cease. 

The Lady Katherine saw a vain mask in all the common-place 
pomp of palaces ; she perceived that power failed most when its 
end was good ; she saw that in accomplishing its purpose in the 
cottage, or in halls of state, felicity resulted from the affections 
only. It was but being an actor in different scenes, to be a 
potentate or a peasant ; the ontward garb is not the livery of 
the mind : the refinement of taste which enables us to gather 
pleasure from simple objects ; the warmth of heart which neces- 
sitates the exercise of our affections, but which is content when 
they are satisfied ; these, to her mind, were the only, but they 
were the complete ingredients of happiness ; and it was rarer 
to find and more difficult to retain them, among false-hearted, 
ambitious courtiers, and the luxury of palaces, than among 
simple-minded peasantry and a plain natural style of living. 
There was some romance in this idea ; Katherine felt that there 
was, and subdued herself not to lay too much store by any 
change or guise of outward circumstance. She taught herself 
to feel and know, that in the tumult of camps and war, in the 
anxieties of her present vagrant life, on the throne which she 
might possess, or in the prison she might share, by devoting 
herself to the happiness of him to whom she was united, 
whose heroism, goodness and love merited all her affection, 
she was performing the part assigned to her on earth, and 
securing a portion of happiness, far beyond the common lot of 
those whose colder, harder natures require something beyond 
sympathy to constitute their misnamed felicity. 







295 



CHAPTER 5LI. 

ABBIVAL IN ENGLAND. 



From Ireland tlms come? York to claim his right. 

If I am not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. 

SlIAKSFEARE. 

On tho deck of the sea-worn Adalid, watching the renovated 
strength, and attending on the still remaining weakness of her 
lord, the soft heart of the princess possessed to fulness all its 
desires ; while Monina, among the wild rude Cornish rebels, 
exerted herself to inspire zeal for his cause, and to increase the 
number of his partisans, winning them by her thrilling 
eloquence, ruling them by her beauty and enthusiasm. She had 
found the whole population ready to second him ; but fitting 
leaders, noble and influential men, were absolutely wanting. 
She sent her father to urge Richard to this new attempt, and 
when he should appear, attended, as she fondly hoped, by a 
train of high-born Irish lords, of gallant Scotch cavaliers, and 
devoted English warriors ; he would be able to give a martial 
form to the rout of Cornish insurgents, to discipline their wild, 
untamed valour, to attract others by name and rank, and Tudor 
at last must grow pale upon his throne. With eagerness she 
awaited the fleet that was to bring the chosen band of heroes ; 
when, after a long and calm voyage, on the third of September, 
the Adalid ran into White Sand Bay, on the western coast of 
Cornwall, and Plantagenet, at Richard’s command, disembarked 
and proceeded forthwith to Bodmin. 

It was strange that the chief partizan of the White Rose 
should, on his invasion of the island, find a Spanish girl the main 
source of information — the chief mover of the rebellion by 
which he was to profit. Yet Plantagenet almost forgot his 
mortal struggle for a kingdom, in the anticipation of seeing 
Monina. Plantagenet, prouder, more ambitious for his cousin 
than Richard for himself— Plantagenet, who had but one object, 
to be the guardian, supporter, defender of York, now wandered 
in thought far back through many years to their Spanish home ; 



 




296 



AEEIYAL IK ENGLAND. 



to his tenderness for tile sweet child of Madeline; to the 
development of the beauty and virtues of the lovely Moor. 
Thrown apart by their several destinies, he had scarcely seen 
her since then ; and now, in place of the dark, laughing-eyed 
girl, he beheld a woman, bright with intelligence and sensibility ; 
whose brow wore somewhat the sad trace of suffering, whose 
cheek was a little sunk, but in whose eyes there was a soul, in 
whose smile an enchantment not to be resisted. She was all 
life, vivacity, and yet softness : all passion, yet yielding and 
docile. Her purpose was steady, stubborn ; but the mode of 
its attainment, her conduct, she easily permitted to be guided. 
Edmund scarcely recognized her, but she instantly knew him ; 
her elder brother, her kind but serious guardian, whom she 
had loved with awe, as the wisest and best of men. Now he 
bore a dearer name, as the unfailing friend of him she loved. 
To both their hearts this meeting was an unexpected joy. 
Monina had thought too much of Richard to remember his 
cousin. He had half forgotten his own sensations; or, at 
least, was quite unprepared for the power and effect of her 
surpassing beauty. 

After the first overflowing of afflrotion, Monina eagerly 
detailed the forces raised, and dwelt on the spirit and courage 
of the insurgents. “ They are poor fellows,” she said, "but 
true ; burning with zeal to right themselves, and to avenge 
their losses at Blackheath. They are gathered together by 
thousands. They want merely leaders, discipline, arms, money, 
ammunition, and a few regular troops to show them the way : 
these, of course, you bring.” 

“ Alas ! no,” said Edmund, “ we bring merely ourselves.” 

“Could Ireland, then, furnish no warlike stores P" con- 
tinued the zealous girl. “ But this can be remedied, doubtless. 
Yourself, your leader, Lord Desmond, Lord Barry, the gallant 
Neville; tell me who else — who from Burgundy — what Irish, 
what Scottish knights ? ” 

The last word was said with difficulty ; it made a pause in her 
rapid utterance ; while Edmund, aghast, replied, “ Indeed S 
none of all these, or very few : in a word, we have fled from 
Waterford in the Adalicl. His highness and myself are tho 
sole English knights. The good old mayor of Cork must 
represent all Ireland, gentle and simple, to your eyes — our fair 
duchess, Scotland : her attendants will follow in due time, but 
these are but needy servitors.” Monina laughed. “We came 
to seek, not bring aid,” continued Plantagenet, gravely. 

“ Do not be angry,” replied Monina. “ There is more bitter- 
ness and sorrow in my laugh, than in, methinks, a widow’s tears, 






)gle 




AEEIVAL IN ENGLAND. 



297 



My dear friend, God send we are not utterly lost. Yet his 
highness and yourself may work wonders. Only report truly 
our state, that the duke be not too dissatisfied with our appear- 
ance. Tell him Lord Audley headed a worse organized troop : 
tell him that Master Heron, the mercer, has no silken soul — that 
Master Skelton, the tailor, disdains a smaller needle than a 
cloth-yard shaft.” 

“ And is it to head men like these we have been drawn from 
our Irish friends ?” cried Edmund ; “ better return. Alas ! our 
path is besieged ; the very sea is subject to our enemy ; in the 
wide world the king of England has no refuge.” 

“ That he is king of England,” said Monina, “let not him, 
let none of us forget. The very name is powerful: let him, 
orf his native shores, assume it. Surely, if their liege king 
stand singly in the land of his forefathers, at his sacred name 
thousands will congregate. He has dared too little, when he 
had power : at the worst, even now, let him dare all, and 
triumph.” 

Her bold, impetuous language had its effects on Edmund; it 
echoed his own master passion, which ever cried aloud, “ He is 
a king ! and, once give himself that sacred name, submission 
and allegiance from his subjects must follow.” Buoyed up by 
these thoughts, his report on board the Adadid was free from 
those humiliating details, which, even if he had wished, he 
would have found no voice to communicate to his royal cousin. 

Monina’s task of imparting to her friends the destitute con- 
dition in which their sovereign arrived, was even easier. “ He 
is come among tall men,” said the pompous Heron, “who 
can uphold him for the better king, even to the satin of his 
doublet.” 

“ And fight for him, even to the rending of our own,” cried 
Skelton. 

“ And die for him, as he must too, when all’s done,” said 
Trereife. “ A soldier’s death is better than a dastard’s life.” 

“ We will have our men in goodly array,” said Heron. 
“Master Skelton, are the doublets cut from that piece of 
sad-coloured velvet, last of my wares, slashed with white, as I 
directed P” 

“ Slash me no doublets but with a Spanish rapier,” squeaked 
Skelton, “ Have I not cast away the shears P Yet, look you 
now, good lack ! I lie. Here in my pouch be a sharp pair, to 
clip Master Walter of Horneck’s ears — if, by the help of the 
saints, we can lay him as flat on the field as his own grey suit 
was on my board when a shaping ; by the same token that ho 
pever paid for it.” 



 




298 



ABBIVAL IN ENGLAND. 



“In good hour, Sir Taylor,” said Monina: “but tbe talk 
now is, now duly to receive his grace, how induce him to accept 
your aid." 

“ Ay, by Saint Dunstan !” cried Trereife, “ he has ruffled in 
France] and Burgundy, my masters, and will look on you as 
clowns and base-born burghers ; but no man has more to give 
than his life, and if he waste that heartily, time was, and time 
may be, when villains trod on the necks of knights, as the ghost 
of Charles of Burgundy could tell us. Courage is the beginning 
and end of a soldier’s catechism.” 

Such were the chiefs Monina found desirous, and in their own 
conceit capable, of placing England’s diadem on Duke Kiehard’B 
head. Heron, the bankrupt mercer, who fancied himself the 
base-born offspring of the late earl of Devonshire, and wliote 
first deed of arms would find him Heron no more, but Sir John 
Courtney ; Skelton, a luckless wight, whose shears ever went 
astray (the true cause why Walter of Hombeck paid not for his 
misshapen suit), and who, therefore, believed himself born for 
greater things; and Trereife, the younger prodigal son of a 
rural Franklin, who, cast off and disinherited, had served in the 
wars in Flanders, gaining in that country no small reverence for 
the good Duchess Margaret, and ready therefore to right her 
nephew ; besides, like a true hero, be abhorred this silken time 
of peace, and hoped to gather spoil, if not laurels, in tho 
meditated insurrection. 

The noble passengers disembarked from the Adadid. “ Wel- 
come to England, sweet Kate ! welcome to the country of 
which thou art queen,” said York ; “ and even if her reception 
be cold or rough, love her for my sake, for she is my mother.” 

“ A stepmother I will not call her, dear my lord,” replied the 
princess, “ but the maternal embrace is strangely wanting on 
these deserted sands : the narrow deck of yonder caravel, were, 
methinks, a kindlier home: may we go on and prosper; but, if 
we fail, my lord will pardon me, if I welcome the day when I 
embark again on board the Adadid ; to find, when tho wide 
earth proves false, safety and happiness on the free waves of 
ocean.” 



 




290 



CHAPTER XLII. 

RECEPTION IN CORNWALL. 



Skei.ton. 'Tis but going to sea, anti, leaping ashore, cut ten or twelve thou- 
sand unnecessary throats, fire seven or eight towns, take half a dozen cities, get 
into the market-place, crown him Richard the Fourth, and the business is 
finished. 

Ford. 

Am f not king ? 

Awake, thou coward majesty ! thou sleepest. 

Is not the king’s name forty thousand names ? 

SllAKSFJfARK. 

These doughty leaders drew out their followers in a plain just 
without Bodmin. There were about two hundred men decently- 
clad from the remnants of the mercer’s wares, tolerably well 
armed and disciplined by Trereife ; this troop obtained the 
distinction of being selected as King Richard’s body-guard. 
Skelton was their captain, a rare commander, whose real merit 
was that he felt happiest when stuck close as a burr to Trereife ; 
for at heart he was an arrant coward, though a loud braggart, 
and talked of slaying his thousands, while the very wounding of 
his doublet had made him wince. , 

Heron was brave in his way ; a true Cornishman, he could 
wrestle and cast his antagonist with the strength of a lion ; he 
loved better, it is true, to trust to his arm than to his sword, 
which, in spite of his strength, Trereife always made fly from 
his hand in their fencing lessons; not the less did he consider 
himself a gallant knight, and had cut up many a yard of crimson 
cramoisy to make a rich suit for himself. He wore Monin a’s 
glove in his cap and large yellow roses at his knees ; he called 
himself generalissimo, and marshalled under him full three 
thousand men, who in truth had 

Never set a squadron in the field 
Nor the division of a battle knew 
More than a spinster ; 

but they were sturdy discontented spirits, who valued life at its 



 




300 



RECEPTION IN CORNWALL. 



worth, which was even nothing to them, who had laboured with 
all their hearts, till labour was of no avail, and who then left the 
mine and the furrow to carry their loud complaints to the foot 
of Henry’s throne — they were better pleased with the prospect 
of overthrowing it. 

“ How, my masters, make yourselves heard,” cried Heron, as 
he shuffled down a little eminence on a short-legged Welsh 
pony, the only steed he found he could back in safety. “ His 
grace is within ear-shot, so you be loud. Long life to King 
[Richard 1 — down with the taxes — Saint Michael and Cornwall 
for ever ! ” 

The din was prolonged, ended, began, went on, as the prince 
arrived at the summit of the hill with his little train — fair 
Katherine was at his side — Plantaganet, O’Water, De Faro, 
with some dozen soldiers who fled from Waterford ; sure never 
invader came so ill equipped. On the hill-top the illustrious 
wanderers paused. Richard hastily scanned the rough-suited 
multitude — then, turning to Plantagenet, “ Cousin,” he said, 
“ you told me that the insurgent army would be drawn out for 
my view ; is it not strange that yonder rabble should hide it 
from us ? As far as my eye can reach, I see no martial dis- 
cipline, no banners, no lordly crest ; fie on those drums ! they 
have no touch of military concord. What makes our army so 
slack of duty, cousin P ” 

Though no fault of his, Edmund blushed deeply in very 
shame — the approach of Heron, Skelton, Trereife, and three or 
four other principal rebels, cut off his reply. It had been 
agreed that Skelton, who had a gift of eloquence, should speak, 
and many words he used to welcome his liege. “ We will have 
every man with a red rose in his cap, in a drag chain, please 
your grace, and give a sound lesson to the saucy burghers of 
Exeter withal. Not a knight shall live in the land, but of your 
majesty’s dubbing. We have but to put to rout King Henry’s 
army, to hang the false loon for a traitor, and to set fire to 
London and the Parliament. Such nobles as please to doff 
their silken cloaks, and don miners’ jackets, may work, the rest 
shall hang. Their mere wardrobes, bless the day ! will find us 
and your grace in cloth of gold, embroidery, and other rich 
garniture to the end of our lives.” 

“ We thank your zeal, my worthy master,” said [Richard, 
courteously ; “ if our good troops do half your saying, King 
Henry must look to it.” 

“ Are those men to be worse than their word P” cried Skelton. 
“ There is not one among us but has the arms of ten. We 
are of a race of giants, please your majesty, and could knock 




RECEPTION IN CORNWALL. 



301 



the walls of Exeter down with our fists. Please you to enter 
Bodmin, whose very stones will cry for King Richard louder 
than King Hal’s cannon ; — to-morrow, God willing, we are for 
the wars.” 

The royal party passed on — the dark ferocity or sturdy 
obstinacy painted on the faces of the ill-armed rout, struck 
Kichard as he passed — he became meditative, while Edmund, 
shamed and angry, his cheeks burning, his eyes on the ground, 
listened in indignant silence to Master Skelton, who fastened on 
him with such talk, that whether a soldier spoke of killing 
doublets, or a tailor prattled of fashioning a field of slaughter, 
was a riddle ill to be devised. At length they passed the gates 
of Bodmin ; and here was a louder cry of welcome from the 
shrill voices of women, who held up their thin hands and half- 
starved children, crying for vengeance on Tudor, blessing the 
sweet faces of Richard and his lovely wife. York’s eyes flashed 
again with their wonted fires ; his creative spirit had found 
materials here to work some project, all poor and rude as they 
might seem. 

They entered the town-hall ; when, by some sudden revulsion 
in the tide of the crowd, every Cornishman fell back, closed the 
doors, and left the wanderers alone. Something was forgotten 
surely ; for Heron had paced pompously up to Richard, when 
suddenly he turned on his heel, crying, “ A word, my masters ! ” 
and all were gone. The Lady Katherine had marked their 
backing and hurrying with becoming gravity ; but, when the 
door was fairly shut, she could restrain no longer a heart-felt 
laugh. Richard joined in her mirth, while Plantagenet strode 
through the hall angrily ; muttering, “ an army, a rout of 
shirtless beggars ; is this England’s reception for her king P ” 

“ It were fine mumming,” said Richard, “ under a hedge with 
the green sward for a stage.” 

,( By our Lady, this passes patience ! ” reiterated Edmund ; 
“ where are the gentlemen of England P Where the sons of 
those who fell for York ? Are we to oppose these half-naked 
knaves to the chivalry of Henry P ” 

“ It would seem that such is expected,” replied tho prince ; 
“ and, verily, cousin, we might do worse. I pray you, treat the 
honest rogues well ; better may come of it ; keep we our Becret, 
and have we not an army P ” 

“ My lord ! ” cried Plantagenet, in wonder. 

“ Patience, dear friend,” said York ; “ I have not been appren- 
tice to adversity so many long years, without becoming an adept 
in my calling. I say, I have an army ; bold, though poor — 
ragged truly, but exceeding faithful. Methinks it were more 




302 RECEPTION IN COBNWAL1. 

glorious to put Tudor down with such small means, than to 
meet him in equal terms, like a vulgar conqueror. I do beseech 
you, Edmund, put a good face on it; speak to our Cornish 
giants, as if they had souls of mettle, and bodies decked like 
Ponce de Leon and his peers, when they welcomed Queen Isabel 
to the Spanish camp. You remember the golden array of the 
knights, cousin P ” 

Edmund was impatient of the prince’s gay humour ; while 
Katherine, seeing in his bright eyes heroism and lofty resolve, 
felt a dewy moisture gather in her own : there is something at 
once awful and affecting, when a man, the sport of fortune, 
meets her rudest blow unshrinking, and turns her very spite 
into arms against herself. The whole secret of Kichard ’s pre- 
sent thoughts she could not divine, but she saw that their scope 
was worthy of his birth, his aim : her respect — her love aug- 
mented ; and her gentle heart at that moment renewed its vow 
to devote herself to him entirely and for ever. 

In the same spirit, York answered the deputation that waited 
on him. He commanded a proclamation to be made, in which 
he assumed the title of Kichard the Fourth. He announced 
his intention of immediately penetrating England, and seizing 
on some walled town or city, before Henry could be aware of 
his having landed. Nor did he confine his energy to words ; he 
examined the state of his men ; their arms and furniture ; he 
provided for their better discipline, and animated his cousin to 
take an active part in marshalling them to order. He went 
among them, learned the causes of their dissatisfaction, pro- 
mised them better days, and so raised a glad spirit in them, that 
their hearts, overleaping both time and circumstance, paid him the 
honour and the love ho might have claimed, had he already led 
them through fertile England, and planted his victorous standard 
on the Tower of London. Trereife swore by his beard, he was 
a proper youth ; the old soldier awoke to the remembrance 
of harvests of spoil he had gathered in the Netherlands, the 
stern encounters and tho joys of success ; he gazed on the rough 
Cornish men, and wondered how they should withstand tho 
nobility of England : but, when Kichard glanced hope and 
triumph from his bright eyes, when he spoke of the omnipotence 
of resolved valour, when he drew a picture of their ghastly 
poverty, and showed them how, by standing firm merely, they 
might redeem themselves ; — while the poor fellows answered 
with a prolonged shout, or better still, grasped their arms more 
fiercely, and trod the earth with free and decided steps; — a 
thousand facilities seemed to be discovered ; a thousand resources 
the war displayed, undreamt of before. Were these mere 



 




RECEPTION IK CORNWALL. 303 

words ? or at his voice did soldiers rise from the clods, and 
victory obey the sound ? 

Plantagenet, seeing his royal cousin’s resolve, strove to second 
it. With a party of men he assaulted a near fortress, carried it, 
and seized on a store of arms. This success looked like a mighty 
victory ; Richard exalted it as such ; and the very fellows who 
handled awkwardly their booty, fancied themselves heroes at the 
mere sight of it. 

On the third day they were to proceed to Exeter, it being 
determined that they should besiege this city. De Faro offered 
to sail to Cork to invite the warlike chieftains of Munster to 
come over with their power ; and at least himself to bring back 
in the Adalid, Neville, and the rest of the English exiles. While 
Edmund, who looked glad at the thought, counselled that they 
Bhould entrench themselves in this corner of England, which was 
so entirely devoted to them, till these forces were added to their 
number, and till by discipline, they should have made regular 
troops of the rabble, by courtesy y’eleped an army. 

“ Wherefore, cousin,” asked Richard, “ do you desire others 
to share in our disasters P ” 

“ My lord ! ” cried Edmund, astounded. 

“ I have but one wish,” continued the prince, “ that you and 
my good O’Water were even now in Ireland ; so that I might 
stand the brunt of this war alone. You look amazed. Yet it 
were more amazing if I expected to do battle against the Veres, 
the Howards, the Berkeleys, the Courtneys, and ten thousand 
other names of high renown, backed by their train of martial 
adherents, with ragged regiments like those we are about to 
lead to the field ; — even though the kerns of Ireland made 
their number double, and the Geraldines, Barry and Neville 
added by their nobleness dignity to our victor’s conquest. 
Remember Stoke, my cousin Edmund ; you may well remember 
it. Remember my honoured kinsman the earl of Lincoln and 
my lamented Lovel. Ah ! that I did not now perjl your life, 
then spared ! ” 

“Yet, if your grace fight at all,” said O’Water, bluntly; 
“methinks we were not the worse for being better appointed 
for the fray. For victims, even those poor honest varlets are 
too many.” 

“ That one other life should be wasted for me,” replied 
Richard, fervently, “ is my saddest thought. I fear it must be 
bo ; some few lives, each as dear to him that spends it, as is the 
life-blood to our own hearts. I can say no more. I have a 
secret purpose, I confess, in all I do. To accomplish it — and 
I do believe it to be a just one — I must strike one blow ; nor 




30 i 



MISGIVINGS# 



fail. Tudor is yet unprepared ; Exeter vacant of garrison ; with 
stout hearts for the work, I trust to be able to seize that city. 
There the wars of York shall end. So far I confide in your 
discretions, that you may not deem me mad. More is the single 
property of my own soul. Will you help me so far, dear friends — 
so far hazard life — not to conquer a kingdom for Bichard, but to 
redeem his honour ? ” 

The warm-hearted, grey-headed Irish O’Water, with gushing 
eyes, swore to adhere to him the last. 

Edmund replied, “ I am but a bit of thee ; deal with me as 
with thyself ; and I know thou wilt be no niggard in giving me 
away to danger.” 

De Faro cried, “ I am a sailor, and know better how to face 
death on the waves than victory on shore ; but, Santiago ! may 
our blessed Lady herself look shy on me at the great day, if the 
mariner of the wreck prove false to your grace.” 

“Now then to our work,” cried York, “to speak fair to my 
faithful fellows and their braggart leaders. They at least shall 
be winners in our game ; for my hand is on my prize ; a spirit 
has whispered success to me ; my hope and its consummation 
are married even at their birth.” 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

MISGIVINGS. 



Dost thou hear, lady ? 

If from the field I shall return once more 
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood; 

I and my sword will earn our chronicle ; 

There is hope in it yet. 

Shaksfbare. 

Hichabd was obliged to plead his cause yet once again. 
Katherine had watched all his movements ; she had eyed 
curiously the army he mustered to the field : she talked to its 
leaders, and while they vaunted her affability, she was diving 
with earnest mind, into the truth of things. No fear that it 
could be hid from her ; love for Richard was the bright light 
that dispelled every deceptive shadow from the scene. She saw 
the bare reality ; some three thousand poor peasants and me- 



 




MISGIVINGS. 



305 



clianics, whose swords were more apt to cut themselves than 
strike the enemy, were arrayed against the whole power and 
majesty of' England. On the morrow they were to set forward. 
That night, while at the casement of his rude chamber, Richard 
gazed upon the congregated stars, trying to decipher in their 
intricate bright tracery the sure omen of the good he was told 
they charactered for him, Katherine, after a moment’s hesitation, 
with a quivering voice, and hand that shook as it pressed his, 
knelt on a cushion at his feet, saying, “ My sweet Richard, hear 
me ; hear your faithful friend — your true wife ; call not my 
councils weak and feminine, but weigh them sagely ere you 
resolve. May I speak P” 

“ Lady of my heart, arise,” said Richard ; “ speak, my soft- 
voiced Katherine — my White Rose of beauty — fair flower, crown- 
ing York’s withered tree. Has not God done all in giving you 
to me P yet we must part, love, for a while. Your soldier is for 
the wars, Kate, while you sit in your bower, weaving victorious 
garlands for his return.” 

*' My ever dear lord,” said Katherine, “ I speak with fear, 
because I feel that I shall not address myself to your concealed 
thought. I do not wish to penetrate your secrets, and yet I 
tremble at their event. You have not so far deceived yourself 
as to imagine, that with these unfortunate men you can ride 
over the pride and the power of this island ; did I see on what 
else you founded the lofty hope, that has, since we came here, 
beamed in your eyes t I would resign mvself to your better 
wisdom. But, wherever I turn my view, there is a blank. You 
do not dream of conquest, though you feel secure of victory. 
"What can this mean, save that you see glory in death?” 

“ You are too quick-sighted, sweet Kate,” said Richard, “and 
see beyond the mark. I do not set my cast upon falling in this 
fray ; though it may well happen that I should : but I have 
another aim.” 

“ Without guessing at what that may be,” replied the lady, 
“since you seem desirous to withhold the knowledge, permit 
me to present another object to your choice ; decide between 
them, and I submit : but do not carelessly turn from mine. 
There is all to lose, nought to win, in what you now do. Death 
may blot the future page, so that we read neither disgrace nor 
prison in its sad lines ; but wherefore risk to die. While yet, 
dear love, we are young, life has a thousand charms, and one 
may be the miserable survivor, whose heart now bleeds at the 
mere surmise.” 

She faltered ; he kissed her soft cheek, and pressed her to his 
heart. “Why may _ we not — why should we not liveP” con- 

x 



 




306 



MISGIVINGS. 



tinned Katherine ; "what is there in the name or state of king 
that should so take captive our thoughts, that we can imagine 
no life but on a throne P Believe me, careful nights and thorny 
days are the portion of a monarch : he is lifted to that awful 
height only to view more clearly destruction beneath ; around, 
fear, hate, disloyalty, all yelling at him. The cold, heartless 
Tudor may well desire the prize, for he has nothing save the 
gilt crown to ennoble him ; nothing but the supple knees of 
courtiers to present to him the show of love. But — ah! could 
I put lire into my weak words— my heart’s zeal into my suppli- 
catory voice — persuasion w'ould attend upon me, and you would 
feel that to the young, to two united as we are, our best kingdom 
is each other’s hearts ; our dearest power that which each, 
without let or envy, exercises over the other. Though 'our 
palace-roof be the rafters of a lowly cot, our state, the dear 
affection we bear each other, our attendants the duty and ob- 
servance of one to the other — I, so served by King Edward’s 
son — vou, by the rightful queen of this fair island — were better 
waited on than Henry and Elizabeth, by their less noble ser- 
vitors. I almost think that, with words like these, I might 
draw you from the uneasy throne to the downy paradise of love ; 
and can I not from this hard struggle, while death yet guards 
the palace-gate, and you will be pierced through and through 
long ere you can enter.” 

“ Thus, my gentle love,” said Richard, “ you would have me 
renounce my birth and name ; you desire that we become the 
scorn of the world, and would be content that, so dishonoured, 
the braggart impostor, and his dame Katherine, should spend 
their shameful days in an ignominious sloth, misnamed tran- 
quillity. I am a king, lady, though no holy oil nor jewelled 
crown has touched this head ; and such I must prove myself.” 

“Oh, doubt it not,” she replied, “it is proved by your Own 
speech and your own nobleness ; my heart approves you such ; 
the w hole earth, till its latest day, will avouch that the lord 
of Katherine is no deceiver; but my words avail not with 
you/’ 

“ They do avail, my best, my angel girl, to show me that the 
world’s treasure is mere dross compared with thee : one only 
thing I prize, not as thy equal, but as that without which, I 
were a casket not even worthy to encase this jewel of the eartli 
— my honour ! A w r ord taught me by my victim brother, by 
my noble cousin Lincoln, by the generous Blantagenet ; I learnt 
its meaning among a race of heroes — the Christian cavaliers — 
the Moorish chivalry of Spam ; dear is it to me, since without 
’t I would not partake your home of love — a home, more 



itized 




MISGIVINGS. 



307 



glorious and more blessed than the throne of the universe. It 
is for that I now fight, Katherine, not for a kingdom ; which, 
as thy royal cousin truly said, never will be mine. If I fall, 
that cousin, the great, the munificent James, will be your 
refuge.” 

“Never,” interrupted the lady. “ Scotland I shall never see 
again ; never show n^self a queen and no queen, the mock of 
their rude speech ; never put myself into my dear, but ambitious 
father’s hands, to be bartered away to another than my Riehard ; 
rather with your aunt of Burgundy, rather in Tudor’s own 
court, with your fair sister. Holy angels ! of what do I speak P 
how frightfully distinct has the bereft world spread itself out as 
my widowed abode !” 

A gush of tears closed her speech. “ Think of brighter days, 
my love,” said Richard, “ they will be ours. You spoke erewhile 
of the difficulty of giving true imagery to the living thought ; 
thus, I know not how to shape an appropriate garb (to use a 
trope of my friend Skelton) for my inmost thoughts. I feel 
sure of success. I feel, that in giving up every prospect of 
acquiring my birthright, I make the due oblation to Fortune, 
and that she will bestow the rest — that rest is to rescue my 
name from the foul slur Henry has cast on it ; to establish my- 
self as myself in the eyes of England ; and then to solicit your 
patience iu our calamity — your truth and love as the only sceptre 
and globe this hand will ever grasp. In my own Spain, among 
the orange and myrtle groves, the flowery plains and sun-lit 
hills of Andalusia, we will live unambitious, yet more fortunate 
than crowned emperors.” , 

With such words and promises he soothed her fears ; to the 
word honour she had no reply. Yet it was a mere word here ; 
in this case, a barren word, on which her life and happiness 
were to be wrecked. 

The prince and Monina had met with undisguised delight. 
No Clifford would now dare traduce her ; she need not banish 
herself from countries where his name enriched the speech of all 
men ; nor even from that which, invited by her, he had come to 
conquer. He was glad to be able to extend his zealous fraternal 
protection over her, to feel that he might guard her through 
life, despite of the fortune that divided them. He obtained for 
her the Lady Katherine’s regard, which she sought opportu- 
nities to demonstrate, while they were avoided by Monina, who 
honoured and loved her as Richard's wife and dearest friend, 
yet made occasion to absent herself from both. Nothing beauti- 
ful could be so unlike as these two fair ones. Katherine was 
the incarnate image of loveliness, such as it might have been 

x 2 



 




308 



MISGIVINGS. 



conceived by an angelic nature ; noble, soft, equable from her 
tender care not to displease others ; in spite of the ills of fate, 
gay, because self-satisfied and resigned ; the bright side of 
things was that which she contemplated : the bright and the 
tranquil— although the hazards run by him she loved, at this 
period informed her thoughts with terror. Monina — no, there 
was no evil in Monina; if too much self-devotion, too passion- 
ate an attachment to one dear idea, too enthusiastic an adoration 
of one exalted being, could be called aught but virtue. The full 
orbs of her dark eyes, once flashing bright, were now more 
serious, more melancholy ; her very smile would make you 
weep; her vivacity, all concentred in one object, forgot to 
spend itself on trifles ; yet, while the princess wept that Richard 
should encounter fruitless danger for a mistaken aim, gladness 
sat on Monina’s brow: “He goes to conquer; God will give 
victory to the right : as a warrior he treads his native land ; as 
a monarch he w ill rule over her. The very name of king he 
bears will shame the lukewarm English ; they will gather round 
the apparent sun, now that he shows himself unclouded, leaving 
the false light, Tudor, to flicker into its native nothingness.” 

“ Monina,” said the prince, “ you in the wide world can 
bestow richest largess on the beggar, ' King Richard." She 
looked on him in wonder. “ I go to conquer or to die : this, 
lovely one, is no new language for you ; a warrior’s friend 
must hear such words unflinching. I die without a fear if you 
take one charge upon you.” Her beaming, expressive eyes 
replied to him. He continued : “ The Adalid and safety are 
images most firmly united in my mind ; if I cannot find security 
on board of her myself, let those dear to me inherit my posses- 
sion there. The hardest thought that I bear with me, is that 
my fair queen should become captive to my base-minded foe. 
May I not trust that if I fall, the Adalid will be her home and 
refuge to convey her to her native country, or any whither she 
may direct? I intrust this charge to you, mv sister, my far 
more than sister, my own kind Monina. You will forget 
yourself in that fateful hour, to fulfil my latest wishP ” 

“ My prince,” she replied, “ your words were cruel, did I not 
know that you speak in over-care, and not from the impulse of 
your heart. In the same spirit, I promise that your desire shall 
be accomplished : if you fall, my father will protect — die for my 
lady the queen. But why speak these ill-omened words? You 
will succeed ; you will hasten the lagging hand of Fate, and 
dethrone one never born to reign, to bestow on England its 
rightful king. The stars promise this in their resplendent, un- 
liling scrowl — the time-worn student in his lore has proclaimed 




A CHALLENGE. 309 

it — the sacred name of monarch which you bear is the pledge 
and assurance of predestined victory.” 

“ And you, meanwhile, will stay, and assure Katherine’s 
destiny ? ” 

“ My dear lord, I have a task to accomplish. If I leave her 
grace, it is because all spirits of good and power watch over 
her, and my weak support is needed elsewhere. I am bound 
for London.” 

They parted thus. The temerity of their designs sometimes 
inspired them with awe ; but more usually animated them to 
loftier hopes. When the thickening shadows of "coming 
events ” clouded their spirits, they took refuge in the sun- 
bright imaginations which painted to each the accomplishment 
of their several hopes. Monina felt assured that the hour of 
victory was at hand, Richard looked forward to a mortal 
struggle, to be crowned with success : a few short weeks or 
briefer days would close the long account : his word redeemed, 
his honour avenged, he looked forward to his dear reward : not 
a sceptre — that was a plaything fit for Henry’s hand ; but to a 
life of peace and love ; a very eternity of sober, waking bliss, 
to be passed with her he idolized, in the sunny clime of his 
regretted Spain. 



CHAPTER XLIY. 

A CHALLENGE. 



Ob, that stem, unbending man ! 

In this unhappy marriage what have I 
Not suffered— not endured ! 

Schi i.lkr’s Waliknstbin. 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, 

Or close the wall up with our English dead ! 

Shaihiau. 

The lapse of years had confirmed Henry on his throne. He 
was extortionate and severe, it is true ; and thus revolts had 
been frequent during the earlier portion of his reign ; but they 
took their rise in a class which, even in modern days, it is 
difficult to keep within the boundaries of law. The peasantry, 
scattered and dependent on the nobles, were tranquil :J)ut arti- 



 




310 



A CJTAIXENGE. 



fleers, such as the miners of Cornwall, who met in numbers, and 
could ask each other, “ Why, while there is plenty in the land, 
should we and our children starve? Why pay our hard 
earnings into the regal coffers P ” and, still increasing in bold- 
ness, demand at last, “ Why should these men govern us? 

“ Wc are many — they are few ! ” 

Thus sedition sprung from despair, and assumed arms ; to which 
Henry had many engines to oppose, bulwarks of his power. A 
commercial spirit had sprung up during his reign, partly arising 
from the progress of civilization, and partly from so large a 
portion of the ancient nobility having perished in the civil wars. 
The spirit of chivalry, which isolates men, had given place to 
that of trade, which unites them in bodies. 

Among these the White Rose of England had not a sitigle 
partizan — the nobles who once had upheld the house of York 
were few ; they had for the last eight years been intent upon 
restoring their fortunes, and were wholly disinclined to the en- 
dangering them afresh for a stranger youth. When Fitzwater, 
Stanley, and their numerous fellow-conspirators and fellow- 
victims, sided with the duke of York, nearly all England enter- 
tained a timid belief in his identity with King Edward’s lost son 
— but those times were changed. Many were glad to soothe 
their consciences by declaring him an impostor ; many so desired 
to curry favour with Henry ; a still greater number either feared 
to say their thought, or were averse to disturb the tranquillity 
of their country by a contest which could benefit one man alone, 
and which must entail on them another war like that so lately 
ended. Abroad, in France, Burgundy, and Scotland, the prince 
might be discountenanced from political motives ; but he was 
treated with respect, and spoken of as being the man he named 
himself : in England it was otherwise — contempt followed hard 
upon fear, giving birth to derision, the best weapon against the 
unhappy, which Henry well knew how to wield. He had two 
motives in this — one was, that by affixing disgrace and scorn to 
his adversary, he took away the glitter of his cause, and deterred 
the young and ambitious from any desire to share in his obloquy. 
The other was a feeling deeper-rooted in his mind — an intense 
hatred of the house of York — an exultation in its overthrow 
and disgrace — a gloating over every circumstance that blotted it 
with ignominy. If Richard had really been an impostor, Henry 
had not used half the pains to stigmatize him as low-born — to 
blast his pride with nicknames, nor have looked forward with 
the joy he now did, to having him in his power — to the degra- 




A CHALLENGE. 311 

dation — the mortal stain, of infamy he intended to taint him 
with for ever. 

Secure in power — fearless of the result, Henry heard with 
unfeigned joy that his young rival had landed in England, and 
was advancing into the interior of the island, at the head of the 
Cornish insurgents. He himself announced the rising to his 
nobles. Laughing, he said, “ I have tidings for you, gentlemen, 
a flight of wild geese clad in eagles’ feathers, are ready to pounce 
upon us. Even now they hover over our good city of Exeter, 
frighting the honest burghers with their dissonance.” 

“ Blackheath will witness another victory,” said Lord Oxford. 

“ And my kitchen receive a new scullion,” replied the king ; 
“ since Lambert Simnel became falconer, our roast meat thinks 
itself dishonoured at not being spitted by a pretender to my 
crown ; for no Audley heads these fellows, but the king of 
Ilakehells himself, the most noble Perkin, who, to grace the 
more the unwashed rogues, calls himself Richard the Fourth 
for the nonce. I have fair hope to see his majesty this bout, if 
he whiz not away in a fog, or sink underground like Lord Lovel, 
to the disappointment of all merry fellows who love new masks 
and gaudy mumming.” 

“ Please your majesty,” said the young Lord William Court- 
ney, “ it is for the honour of our house that not. a stone of 
Exeter be harmed. With your good leave, my father and 
myself will gather in haste what force we may : if fortune aid 
us, we may present your grace with your new servitor.” 

“ Be it so, my lord,” replied the king, “ and use good dispatch. 
We ourselves will not tarry : so that, with less harm to all, we 
may tread out these hasty lighted embers. Above all, let not 
Duke Perkin escape ; it is my dearest wish that he partake 
our hospitality.” 

“ Yes,” so ran Henry’s private thoughts ; “ he must be mine, 
mine alive, mine to deal with as I list. With even more care 
than he put in the mustering his army, he ordered that the whole 
of the southern sea-coast of England should be guarded ; every 
paltry fishing village had its garrison, which permitted no boat 
to put off to sea, nor any to land, without the strictest investi- 
gation ; not content with this, he committed it to the care of his 
baser favourites to forge some plot which might betray his enemy 
without a blow into his hands. 

“ Give me your benison, good Bess,” said the monarch, with 
unwonted gaiety of manner ; “ with daylight I depart on the 
ungentle errand of encountering your brother Perkin.” 

Elizabeth, not less timid than she had ever been, was alarmed 
by his show of mirth, and by this appellation bestowed on one 




312 



A CHALLENGE. 



she knew to be so near of kin. That very morning she had seen 
Monina — the enthusiastic Monina, who, confiding in her royal 
friend’s success, visited London to watch over the fate of Eliza- 
beth and her children. The queen smiled at her offers of ser- 
vice ; she felt that no such army could endanger Henry’s reign ; 
but she feared for Richard, for her ill-fated brother, who had 
now entered the net, for whom she fplt assured there was no 
escape. Trembling at her own boldness, she answered the 
king, “ Whoever he may be, you will not destroy him in cold 
blood?” 

“You would have me spare the impostor?” asked Henry. 
“ Spare him who claims your son’s throne ? By Our Lady of 
Walsingbam, the maternal virtues of the daughter of York 
deserve high praise.” 

Elizabeth, dreading more to offend, horror-struck at the idea 
that her husband should shed her brother’s blood, burst into 
tears. “ Silly girl,” said Henry, “ I am not angry; nay, more, 
I grant your prayer. Perkin, if not slain by a chance blow, 
shall live. My word is passed, trust to it ; I neither inquire nor 
care whether he be the godson or the base brat of the libertine 
Edward. In either case, my revenge stoops not so low as his 
paltry life : does this content you ? ” 

“ May the saints bless your grace,” said Elizabeth, “ you 
have eased my every fear.” 

“ Remember then that you prove no ingrate,” continued the 
king, “ no dupe of report, no traducer of your children’s birth. 
Betray no interest in the knave’s downfall, save as he is my 
enemy. If you display any emotion that awakens a doubt that 
this canker rose be aught in your eyes except a base pretender — 
if you mark any feeling but stern contempt for one so vile — 
tremble. My vengeance will fall on him ; and his blood be on 
your head.” 

“ Magnanimous prince!” thought Elizabeth, in bitter scorn, 
when he had left her: “this is your mercy. You fear! My 
poor Richard — your sister, a monarch’s daughter, is finely 
taught by this earl’s son. But you will live ; then let him do 
his worst : the queen of England is not quite a slave ; if Henry 
can bind, Elizabeth may loose ; and the duke of York laugh in 
another land at the malice of his enemy.” 

We return to this prince, whose lofty spirit was sustained by 
an aim, an object dearer than a kingdom in his eyes. He 
arrived before Exeter at the head of seven thousand men. All 
the discontented in Cornwall and Devonshire joined him. Some 
of these were younger brothers ; some men-at-arms who repined 
at peace ; chiefly they were needy, oppressed men, roused by a 



 




A CHALLENGE. 



313 



sense of wrong, as destitute, but not so hardy as the kerns of 
Ireland. Still they were many, they were valiant ; Exeter was 
ungarrisoned, unprepared for defence, and there was a pos- 
sibility that by sudden assault, he might possess himself of the 
town. With this intent he did not allow his troops time to 
repose, but at once set on for the attack, endeavouring to scale 
the lofty walls ; unaided by any fitting machinery, scarcely pos- 
sessed of a single scaling ladder, he was driven back with loss. 
Foiled, but not vanquished, for his heart was set upon this 
prize, for three days, though unpossessed of artillery or any 
warlike engine, he exerted his utmost force to win the city ; he 
contrived rude machinery to cast stones, he planted the ladders 
himself, he multiplied himself to appear everywhere, flattering, 
encouraging, leading his troops again and again to the assault. 
When they found the walls impregnable, he made an attempt 
on the gates ; with fascines and hewed trees he set one of them 
on fire ; his men shouted as they heard the stout oak crackle, 
and saw it split and crumble, offering a large opening ; but the 
citizens, maue desperate, fearful of the ravages this untamed 
multitude might commit, were true to themselves ; they resisted 
fire by fire, keeping up a fierce blaze within, till with piles of 
brick and rubbish they had blocked the passage. Richard saw 
his last hope fail. “ This is not the work of the burghers,” he 
cried, “a soldier’s skill is here." 

“ True as my old yard measure ! ” cried Heron. “ It was but 
last night that my cousin, the earl of Devon, clambered into the 
city ; he came to the northern wall, where Skelton keeps watch ; 
when my valiant tailor heard the noise, he ran to look for Master 
Trereife, who, poor fellow, lies cold within the moat. The 
citizens heard and answered my cousin the earl’s call ; but they 
were too frightened to let light through the keyhole of a 
postern ; and his lordship, God save him ! was obliged to climb 
the battlements.” 

“ Climb the battlements, noble captain?” said Richard ; “that 
is, a ladder was let down !” 

“ It was a stone ladder he scaled, my liege,” said Heron ; 
“ your grace may walk up the same. It will scarce budge, seeing 
that it is the old part of the wall itself.” 

“ Who knows more of thisP” asked the prince. 

“ I saw the whole,” said Skelton ; “ That is the end. Master 
Trereife was dead for the nonce, so I came back to lead my men 
to the fray. There was the earl, perched like a crow, on the 
boughs of an old thorn-bush that grows at the top of the wall. 
Surely he must have torn his cloak, for the place is thick with 
all manner of weeds, and rough stones, and brambles. But* 




314 



A CHALLENGE. 



more than his broadcloth pot a hole ; for Clira of Tregotbius 
handled his bow, and let fly a cloth-yard shaft, which was 
sticking in his shoulder as he got down the other side.” 

While the tailor talked. Hi chard was proceeding hastily to tho 
spot. It looked tranquil. The old crumbling wall was green 
with rank grass and tangled weeds. He drew nearer, and then 
a whole shower of arrows was discharged against him. The earl 
had expected that his success would excite their curiosity, and 
prepared for them, with not the less zeal on account of his own 
wound. Riehard escaped unhurt; but Edmund, who was 
scantily armed, received an arrow in his side — he fell. That 
same hour tidings came of the advance of King Henry at the 
head of a formidable army. 

Plantaganet’s wound was dressed ; it showed signs of danger, 
and quite disabled him. “ My faithful fellows swear to pre- 
serve you in safety, cousin,” said Richard ; “ I must leave 
you.”' 

“ Do you retreat ?” asked Edmund. 

“ No, by my soul ! Truly, my hopes have somewhat quailed ; 
yet it is but a lucky blow, and I gain all. I leave you, my 
friend ; but I will not leave you in doubt and ignorance. Read 
this paper : it is to enforce its contents — to oblige my haughty 
foe to lay aside his worst weapon, detraction, that I, against all 
probability and wisdom, will urge my cause to the last. My 
kingdom, it is his ; my honour he must restore, and I cry him 
quits. Now you have my secret. Pardon for my poor fellows ; 
pardon, and some alleviation of their cruel lot. For myself, as 
you will find, I ask little, but I must show no fear, no retreating, 
to obtain even that. I march forwards, then, towards Taunton : 
it is a less place than Exeter. The smallest secure port gained, 
and Henry may grant my boon.” 

Plantaganet unfolded the paper, and read these words : — 

“ Richard, legitimate and true son of Edward the Fourth, 
king of England and France, and lord of Ireland, to Henry, the 
reigning sovereign of these realms. In my infancy I was made 
a prisoner by a usurping uncle, escaping from his thrall by 
aid of the most noble earl of Lincoln. This uncle, this usurper, 
you conquered, and seized upon his crown. You claim the 
same by right of Bolingbroke, and strengthen your title through 
your union with my sister, the Lady Elizabeth. I'am poor, and 
an outcast — you a king. God has destroyed my house, and I 
submit. But I will not submit to the vile slander that takes 
from me my name, and brands me a dishonoured man. 

“ Henry of Richmond, I neither admit nor combat your 



A CHALLENGE. 



315 



claim to the crown'. Lancaster lias many partisans, and the 
victory is yours. But as duke of York, I challenge and defy 
you. I call on you, either by person or by champion, to meet 
me in the lists, that I may defend my honour and maintain the 
right. Let us spare the people’s blood. In single combat let 
my pretensions be set at issue ; and my good sword shall cut to 
pieces the wicked lies and base traditions you have calumniously 
and falsely forged to my disgrace. 

“ Body to body, I will meet you or your champion. Name 
the day, the hour, and the place. With my lance and my sword, 
to the death I will maintain my birth. If I fall, I ask that my 
wife, the Lady Katherine Gordon, be permitted to return to her 
royal cousin, James of Scotland; that such of my followers as 
desire it, may be allowed to go beyond seas ; that those of your 
subjects, who, goaded into rebellion by your exactions, have 
taken up arms, receive free pardon and remission of their 
imposts. If I conquer, I add but one other demand — that you 
confess to the wide world how foully you have slandered me ; 
revoke the lies you have published, and acknowledge me to all 
men, the rightful duke of York. 

“ If you deny my just demands, be the blood spilt in defence 
of my honour on your head ; England ravaged, your towns 
destroyed, your realm subject to all the calamities of war ; these 
evils rest with you. I wiil not sheathe my sword, nor tread one 
backward step in my undertaking ; but as in the lists, so on the 
dread battle-field, meet your abettors, and conquer or die in 
defence of my name. Expecting a fitting answer to this just 
defiance, I bid you heartily farewell. 

“ Richard. 

“ Written under the walls of Exeter, this twelfth day of 
September, in the year of our Blessed Lord, 1497.” 

Plantagenet was deeply affected by his cousin’s gallantry, 
lie sighed, saying, “ Tudor has not, will not reply to your 
challenge P ” 

“ He has not, but he may," replied Richard. “ I have, I 
know not why, a firm belief that good will come from it. If 
not, in a few days all will be over. In a very few days you can 
be conveyed to St. Michael’s Mount, where the queen now is. 
The Adalid hovers near. Save her, save yourself : save one 
other, less helpful than my Katherine — be a brother to Monina.” 

Richard, erring in his mark, was animated by the most san- 
guine hopes, to which he was seduced by a constant belief that 
his life was not near its close, and therefore that his claims 




316 



A CHALLENGE. 



would be admitted : as otherwise he had resolved to fall in the 
assertion of them. Leaving the sick-couch of his cousin, he pre- 
pared to advance to Taunton. A conversation meanwhile which 
he dreamt not of, and would have scorned, had taken place in an 
obscure and gloomy spot in London, fraught with fate to him. 

After the base desertion of his royal master, Frion had sailed 
to England with the other hirelings of Henry ; among these was 
Clifford— Clifford, whose need and whose maliee armed him 
against York’s life, but who tried to hide his shame under an 
assumed appellation. There had always been a false fellowship 
and a real enmity between Frion and the knight. On his first 
arrival in Brussels, the secretary looked on him as an interloper ; 
and Clifford, while he used the other, tried to force him into his 
place as an underling, and to blind him to his own designs. 
When he betrayed his party, spreading death among the partizans 
of York, and annihilating the cause, Frion, whose fortunes 
depended on its success, was unmeasured in his expressions of 
indignation and contempt. They had worked in direct oppo- 
sition the year before in Kent : and, when Frion saw the hand 
of this reprobated man uplifted in midnight assassination, he 
triumphed in the lowness of his fall. Both were traitors now, 
both baffled : Frion looked on Clifford as the worse villain ; and 
Clifford writhe’d under the familiar impertinence of a menial. 
They arrived in London ; Sir Itobert was dismissed with barren 
thanks, Frion thrown into prison ; how far the knight’s account 

S ave intimation of the brenchman’s double-dealing, and so 
rought this severity upon him was not known, but for three 
months this mercurial spirit had languished in confinement. 

Addicted to scheming, he had now full leisure to spend his 
whole thoughts that way ; a single, simple plot was too plain for 
his industrious soul ; he wore a whole web of them so intricate, 
that he sometimes lost the clue himself ; not the less did he do 
his endeavour to put them in action. He intended either to 
lose Kichard or make him ; either to be the cause of his over- 
throwing Henry, or of being overthrown by him ; in either ease, 
to reap favour and advantage from the triumphant party. 

Sad as is ever a prison-house, it was worse in tnose days of 
incivilization : this pen could ill describe the squalid figures and 
dire visages that crowded its tumultuous court. Even here 
Frion reigned umpire ; but he broke from a knot of noisy squab- 
blers, who held tattered cards, and appealed to him on a 
question of fair-play, as he saw one enter. Even he a wretch, 
yet many degrees better than the best of his miserable com- 
panions ; a scarlet suit, trimmed with gold lace, somewhat 
tarnished, a cloak of ample folds, but threadbare, a dark plumed 





A CHALLENGE. 



317 

bonnet, drawn over bis brow, above all, a rapier at bis side, dis- 
tinguished him from the prisoners. “ This is kind, Sir Robert,” 
Baid Frion in his softest manner, “ I half feared you were too 
proud or politic to visit a disgraced man ; for these last three 
days I have despaired of your worship ; by my fay ! you are 
right welcome.” 

Clifford cast a shuddering look around the walls ; his eyes 
were hollow ; his cheek sunk ; he was the mere shadow of bold 
Robert. “Few words are best thanks, Master Stephen,” he 
replied ; “ I am kind to you because the dice are cruel to me ; 
you promise largely, and my wants are no dwarfs. What are 
your designs P” 

“ This is no place for parley,” said Frion ; “ follow me.” He 
led the way through several narrow passages to a miserable cell ; 
straw was heaped in one corner for a bed ; the walls were dank 
and tattered ; the floor broken and filthy. “ Welcome to my 
domicile, sir knight,” said Frion: whether it were compunction 
that he had brought him to this, or distrust that the injury 
would be revenged, Clifford shrunk back and bis lips grew livid. 
“ One would not live here from choice,” said Frion, “ I allow ; 
yet do not grudge me a few moments, it may stead us both.” 

“ To the point then,” said the knight ; “ it is not the place, 
Master Frion ; but at the hour of noon — ” 

“ No excuses, you like the place as ill as I,” said the French- 
man, with a bland smile ; “ but you are more generous, for I 
would not dwell an instant’s space here of my own will to gain 
any man’s salvation. Now, what news from the westP Is it 
true that the duke of York is slain? or Exeter taken P both 
reports are rife. Adam Wicherly and Mat Oldcraft made their 
escape two days ago, to join the gallant. Mat was seized again, 
and says that there were bonfires in Southwark for Richard the 
Fourth.” 

Clifford, by a brief detail, answered, and then after some hesi- 
tation said, “ He is not so low but that the king desires him to 
he lower : he who could bring him,' bound hand and foot, to 
London, would be made a man. Empson saw Garthe yesterday ; 
and he, who calls me Wiatt, came post to consult with me ; but 
it were hazardous to attempt him ; he is ten thousand strong.” 

“ You know me. Sir Robert,” said Frion ; “ there are few 
things I cannot bring about, so that I have room to ruffle in. I 
have a plot, King Richard is ours in three days, so one word bo 
said ; that word is liberty to me. Take you the reward ; I ask 
no further share in your gains than free leave to set the channel 
between mo and this dingy island.” 

Each despising, each mistrusting the other, these men con- 








318 



ARRIVAL AT TAUNTON. 



spired for the prince’s fall : like “ mousing owls ” they hawked 
at an eagle with too true an aim. York's thoughts were of 
honour ; but through them they were to be drugged with 
ignominy and despair. It is melancholy that circumstance and 
fortune should have power to reach the very shrine of our 
dearest thoughts ; degrading them from their original brightness 
to a likeness of the foul aspect of the outer world. Rickard’s 
free and noble spirit was to become plastic to the touch of such 
men as the fallen Clifford and crafty Frion. Men, whom he had 
cast from him as unworthy his regard, could besiege the citadel 
of his hopes, and garrison it with disgrace ; forcing him to occupy 
himself with ideas as base as those which possessed their own 
minds. It is the high heart’s curse to be obliged to expend its 
deep and sacred emotions in hatred of, or struggle with things so 
mean, so very alien to its own aspiring nature. 



CHAPTER XLY. 

ARRIVAL AT TAUNTON. 



Ah ! Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind, 

I see thy glory, like a shooting star, 

Fall to the base earth from the firmament. 

Shassprark. 

Richard proceeded towards Taunton. Although this was in 
appearance an advance, his ill-success before Exeter, and report 
of the large force already brought against them by Sir John 
.Cheney, King Henry’s chamberlain, had so far discouraged his 
follow crs as to occasion the desertion of many, so that of the seven 
thousand he had with him in Devonshire, he retained but three on 
his arrival near Taunton. These consisted of the original body of 
insurgents, Cornishmen, who had proceeded too far to go back, 
and who, partly in affection for their leader, partly from natural 
stubbornness, swore to die in the cause. Poor fellows ! rusty 
rapiers, and misshapen lances were their chief arms ; a few had 
bows ; others slings ; a still greater number their ponderous tools, 
implements of labour and of peace, to be used now in slaughter. 
Their very dress displayed at once their unmartial and poverty- 
stricken state. In ail these might be gathered a troop of three 



 



ABBIVAL AT TAUNTON. 



310 



hundred foot, not wholly destitute of arms and discipline. The 
horse were not less at fault; yet among them there were about one 
hundred tolerably mounted, the riders, indeed, but too frequently 
disgracing their steeds. 

It required all Richard’s energy of purpose to hold him back 
from despair. The bitter sense of degradation visited him in 
spite of every effort. Had he ever made one of the chivalry of 
France and Burgundy ? Had he run a tilt with James of Scot- 
land, or grasped in knightly brotherhood the mailed hand of Sir 
Patrick Hamilton? And were these his comrades? unwashed 
artificers ; ragged and rude peasants ; vulgar-tongued traders ? 
He felt “ in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes ; ” and now to 
obtain pardon for them, to send them back scathless to their 
own homes, w-as his chief desire, even to the buying of their 
safety with his own downfall. 

After a two days’ march he arrived near Taunton. On recon- 
noitring the town, its position and weakness gave him hope that 
he might carry it, even with his sorry soldiery. To check these 
thoughts, tidings came, that Sir John Cheney was in close neigh- 
bourhood, and Henry himself advancing with a chosen body of 
men, On the evening of their arrival before the town, a detach- 
ment of the enemy entered it, cutting off the last hope of 
Richard. 

The next morning it became evident that the crisis of his for- 
tunes was at hand. The whole country teemed with soldiery. 
As the troops poured towards a common centre, the array and 
order of a battle-field became apparent in their operations. A 
battle, between a very myriad of golden-spurred knights, armed 
at all points, and the naked inhabitants of Richard’s camp ! call 
it rather a harvest ; there were the reapers, here the bending 
corn. When in the north Richard wept over the devastation of 
the land, he felt that a word of his could counteract the harm — 
but now, his challenge had proved an airy dagger — substance- 
less — his resolve to encounter his foe, bringing the unarmed 
against these iron-suited warriors, grew in ids eyes into pre- 
meditated murder : his heart heaved in his overcharged breast. 
To add bitterness to his thoughts there were his companions — 
O’Water brave in despair ; Astley pale with fear for his lord ; 
Heron foolish in his unmeaning boasting ; Skelton trembling in 
every joint, and talking incessantly, apparently to deafen him- 
Belf to “ the small still voice” that whispered terror to his 
heart. 

Richard spent the day among his men. They were prepared 
to fight ; if needs must, to fall : protestations of sturdy devotion, 
the overflowing of the rude, manly heart, always affecting, met 








320 



ABBIVAL AT TAUNTON. 



him at every turn. He was beloved, for he was generous and 
kind. Often he had exposed his life, when before Exeter, to 
save some one among them : when dismayed, he had cheered, 
when defeated, he had comforted them ; nor did he leave the 
body of the meanest camp-follower uninterred ; for one of 
Richard's characteristics was a quick sympathy with his species, 
and a reverence for all that bore the shape of man. But, while 
these qualities rendered him dear to all, they inspired him with 
a severe sense of his duties towards others, and a quick insight 
into their feelings ; thus increasing to anguish the disquictudo 
that agitated him. 

Towards evening he was alone in his tent. At first he was 
confused by the various aspects, all terrible, that his fortunes 
assumed. By the caprice of destiny, he, who was descended 
from a line of kings, who had so long been the inhabitant of 
courts, a cavalier, honourable in his degree, renowned for his 
prowess, had not one noble-born partizan near him : not one of 
his ancient counsellors, to whom he had been used to defer, 
remained ; he was absolutely alone ; the sense of right and jus- 
tice in his own heart was all he possessed, to be a beacon-light 
in this awful hour, when thousands depended upon his word— 
yet had he the power to save P 

An idea, dim at first as a star on the horizon’s verge, 
struggling through vapoxirs, but growing each second brighter 
and clearer, dawned upon his mind. All then was over ! his 
prophetic soul had proved false in its presumed foreknowledge ; 
defeat, dishonour, disgrace tracked his steps. To lead his troops 
forth, and then to redeem them at Henry’s hand, by the con- 
ditionless surrender of himself, was the thought, child of despair 
and self-devotion, that, still struggling with the affections and 
weaknesses of his nature, presented itself, not yet full fledged, 
but about to become so. 

He had been several times interrupted during his meditations 
by the arrival of scouts, with various reports of the situation and 
proceedings of the enemy : Richard, better than these untaught 
recruits, knew the meaning of the various operations. As if on 
a map, he saw the stationing of a large ana powerful army in 
expectation of battle ; and was aware how incapable he was to 
cope with their numbers and force. At last Astley announced 
the arrival of two men : one was a Fleming, known to Richard 
as one of Lalayne’s men, but the fellow' was stupidly drunk ; the 
other was an English peasant. “ Please your worship,” he said, 
“ I am this man’s guide, and must act as his interpreter besides ; 
nothing would serve the spungy fellow but he must swallow ale 
at every Tavern on the way.”^ 








ABUIVAL AT TAIXKTON. ' 321 

“ Speak, then,” said Richard ; “ what is the purport of his 
journey P ” 

“ Please you, sir, last night three hundred of them came right 
pop upon us afore we were aware ; sore afraid they made us 
with their tall iron-shafted poles, steel caps, and short swords, 
calling each one for bread and beer.” 

“ Do you mean,” cried the prince, his eye brightening as he 
spoke, “ that three hundred men, soldiers, armed like yonder 
fellow, are landed in England P ” 

So the countryman averred ; and that even now they were but 
at the distance of twenty miles from Richard’s, encampment. 
They were still advancing, when the report was spread that the 
prince’s forces were dispersed, himself taken prisoner. The 
rustic drew from the Fleming’s pocket a letter, in French, signed 
by Schwartz, a son of him who fell at Stoke, a man in high favour 
with the Lady Margaret of Burgundy. It said how he had been 
despatched by her grace to his succour ; how intelligence of the 
large army of Henry, and his defeat, had so terrified his men, 
that they refused to proceed, nay, by the next morning would 
tako their way back to Poole, where they had landed, unless 
Richard himself came to reassure them, and to lead them on. 
Every word of the letter lighted up to forgotten joy young 
Richard’s elastic spirit. With these men to aid him, giving 
weight and respect ability to his powers, he might hope to enforce 
the conditions of his challenge. All must be decided on the 
morrow ; that very hour he would set forth, to return before 
morning with these welcome succours. 

It was near midnight ; his camp was still : the men, in expect- 
ation of the morrow’s struggle, had retired to repose; their 
leaders had orders to visit their commander in his tent at the 
hour which now the empty hour-glass told was come. Hastily, 
eagerly, Richard announced the arrival of these German merce- 
naries ; he directed them to accompany him, that with Borne 
show of attendance he might present himself to Schwartz. The 
camp was not to be disturbed ; two or three men alone among 
them were awakened, and ordered to keep guard — in five hours 
assuredly he must return. In a brief space of time, the troop 
who were to accompany him, Heron, Skelton, O’W ater, and 
Astley, with some forty more, led their horses to his tent in 
silence : — there were few lights through all the camp ; their 
honest hearts which beat within slept, while he was awake to 
succour and save them. This was Richard’s last thought, as, 
mounted on his good steed, he led the way across the dim heath, 
towards Yeovil. 

Jt was such a night as is frequent at the end of September ; a 

Y 



gif 




322 



ABRIVAI, AT TAUNTON. 



warm but furious west-wind tore along tbe sky, shaking the 
dark tresses of the tress, and chasing the broad shadows of the 
clouds across the plains. The moon, at the beginning of her 
third quarter, sped through the sky with rapid silvery wings ; 
now cutting the dark, sea-like ether ; now plunging deep amidst 
the clouds ; now buried in utter darkness ; anon spreading a 
broad halo among the thinner woof of vapours. The guide was 
at the prince’s side ; Heron, upon his short, sturdy pony, was 
just behind ; Skelton tried to get his tall mare to an even pace 
with Richard’s horse, but she fell back continually : the rushing, 
howling wind and rustling trees drowned the clatter of the hoofs, 
They reached the extreme edge of the common ; Richard turned 
his head — the lights of his little camp burnt dim in the moon- 
shine, its poor apparel of tents was lost in the distance : they 
entered a dark lane, and lost sight of every trace of it ; still they 
rode fleetly on. Hight, and the obscure shapes of night around 
— holy, blinding, all-seeing night ! when we feel the power of 
the Omnipotent as if immediately in contact with us ; when 
religion fills the soul, and our very fears are unearthly ; when 
familiar images assume an unknown power to thrill our hearts ; 
and the winds and trees and shapeless clouds have a voice not 
their own, to speak of all that we dream or imagine beyond our 
actual life. Through embowered lanes, whose darkness seemed 
thick and palpable — over open, moonshiny fields, where the airy 
chase of clouds careered in dimmer shapes upon the earth — 
Richard rode forward, fostering newly-awakened hope ; glad in 
the belief that while he saved all who depended on him, he 
would not prove a mere victim led in tame submission, an 
unrighteous sacrifice to the Evil Spirit of the World. 



i 



323 



CHAPTER XLYI. 

A miSONEK. 



Art thou he, traitor ! that with treason vile 
Hast slain my men in this unmanly manner, 

Anl now triumphest in the piteous spoil 
Of these poor folk ; whose souls with black dishonour 
And foul defame do deck thy bloody banner ? 

The meed whereof shall shortly be thy shame, 

And wretched end which still attendeth on her. 

With that himself to battle he did frame ; 

So did his forty yeomen which there with him came. 

Spenser. 

Some miles to the east of Yeovil there was a deep stream, whose 
precipitous banks were covered by a thick underwood that 
almost concealed the turbid waters, which undermined and 
bared the twisted and gnarled roots of the various overhanging 
trees or shrubs. The left side of the stream was bounded by an 
abrupt hill, at the foot of which was a narrow pathway ; on the 
green acclivity flourished a beech grove, whose roots were 
spread in many directions to caich the soil, while their trunks, 
some almost horizontal, were all fantastically grown, and the 
fairy tracery of the foliage shed such soft, mellowed, chequered 
light as must incline the heart of the wanderer beneath the 
leafy bower to delicious musings. 

Now the moon silvered the trees, and sometimes glimmered 
on the waters, whose murmurs contended with the wind that 
sung among the boughs : and was this all F A straggling moon- 
beam fell on something bright amid the bushes, and a deep 
voice cried, “ Jack of the Wynd, if thou can’st not get to thicker 
cover, pluck darnels to cover that cursed steel cap of thine.” 

“ Hush!” repeated another lower voice, “your bawling is 
worse than his head-piece ; you outroar the wind. How high tho 
moon is, and our friends not come ; — he will be here before them.” 
“ Hark ! a bell ! ” 

“ Matins, by the Fiend ! may he seize that double-tongued 
knave ! I much suspect Master Frion ; I know him of old.” 

“ He cannot mar us now, though it bo he who made this 
ambushment.” 

y 2 



 




324 



A PRIS0NF.B. 



“ Oh, by your leave ! he has the trick of it, and could spring 
a mine in tne broadest way ; he can turn and twist, and show 
more faces than a die. lie laughed this moru — I know the 
laugh — there is mischief in’t.” 

“ But, your worship, now, what can he do F ” 

“ Do ! darken the moon ; set these trees alive and dancing ; 
do ! so play the Will o’ the Wisp that the king shall be on 
Pendennis and the duke at Greenwich, and each fancy he is 
within bow-shot of the other ; do ! ask the devil what is in his 
compact, for he is but the Merry Andrew of Doctor Frion. 
Hush!” 

“ It is he,” said the other speaker. 

A breathless pause ensued ; the wind swept through the 
trees — another sound — its monotonous recurrence showed that 
it was a dashing waterfall — and yet again it grew louder. 

“ It is he.” 

“No, Gad’s mercy, it comes westward — close, my merry 
fellows, close, and mind the word!, close, for we have but half 
our number, and yet he may escape.” 

Again the scene sank into silence and darkness : such silence 
as is nature’s own, whose voice is ever musical ; such darkness 
as the embowering trees and vast island-clouds made, dimming 
and drinking up the radiance of the moon. 

The stillness was broken by the tramp of horses drawing 
near, men’s voices mingled with the clatter, and now several 
cavaliers entered the defile ; they rode iu some disorder, and so 
straggling, that it was probable that many of their party lagged 
far behind : the principal horseman had reached midway the 
ravine, when suddenly a tree, with all its growth of green and 
tangled boughs, fell right across the path ; the clatter of the 
fall deafened the screech which accompanied it, for one rider 
was overthrown ; it was succeeded by a flight of arrows from 
concealed archers. “ Hide for your lives,” cried Bichard : but 
his path was crossed by six horsemen, while, starting from the 
coppice, a band of near forty men engaged with the van of his 
troop, who tried to wheel about: Borne escaped, most fell. 
With his sword drawn, the prince rushed at his foremost 
enemy ; it was a mortal struggle for life and liberty, for hatred 
and revenge. Bichard was the better swordsman, but his horse 
was blown, and half sunk upon his haunches, when pressed closely 
by the adversary. Bichard saw his danger, and yet his advan- 
tage, for his foe, over-eager to press him down, forgot the ward ; 
he rose on his stirrups, and grasped his sword with both hauds, 
when a blow from behind, a coward's blow, from a battle-axe, 
struck him ; it was repeated, and he fell lifeless on the earth. 



 




A ntlSONEC. 



325 



Sickness, and* faintness, and throbbing pain were the first 
tokens of life that visited his still failing sense ; sight and the 
power of motion seemed to have deserted him, but memory 
reviving told him that he was a prisoner. Moments were 
stretched to ages while he strove to collect his sensations ; still 
it was night ; the view of fields and uplands and of the varied 
moon-lit sky grew upon his languid senses ; he was still on 
horseback, bound to the animal, and supported on either side by 
men. As his movements communicated his returning strength, 
one of these fellows rode to impart the tidings to their leader, 
while the other stayed to guide his horse ; the word “gallop! ” 
was called aloud, and he was urged along at full speed, while 
the sudden motion almost threw him back into his swoon. 

Dawn, which at first seemed to add to the dimness and indis- 
tinctness of the landscape, struggling through the clouds, and 
paling the moon, slowly stole upon them. The prince became 
sufficiently alive to make observations ; he and his fellow- 
prisoners were five in number only, their guards were ten ; 
foremost among them was one whom, in whatever guise, he 
could not mistake. Each feeling in Richard’s heart stimulated 
him to abhor that man, yet he pitied him more. Gallant, bold 
Robin, the frolicksome page, the merry-witted sharer of a 
thousand pleasures. Time, thou art a thief ; how base a thief— 
when thou stealest not only our friends, our youth, our hopes, 
but, besides, our innocence ; giving us in the place of light- 
hearted confidence — guile, distrust, the consciousness of evil 
deeds. In these thoughts, Richard drew the colouring of the 
picture, from the fresh and vivid tints that painted his own 
soul. Clifford’s breast had perhaps never been free from the 
cares of guilt : he had desired honour ; he had loved renown ; 
but the early development of passion and of talent had ren- 
dered him, even in boyhood, less single-hearted than Richard 
now. 

Clifford was triumphant ; he possessed Monina’s beloved— 
the cause of his disgrace — bound, a prisoner, and, wounded. 
Why then did pain distort his features, and passion flush his 
browP No triumph laughed in his eye, or sat upon his lip. He 
hated the prince ; but he hated and despised himself. He 
played a dastardly and a villain’s part; and shame awaited 
even success. The notoriety and infamy that attended on him 
(exaggerated as those things usually arc, in his own eyes), 
made him fear to meet, in the neighbouring villages or towns, 
any noble cavalier who might recognise him ; even if he saw a 
party of horsemen on the road he turned out of it, and thus 
got entangled among by-paths in an unfrequented part of the 




326 



A PBIS0NEB. 



country. They continued the same fast carreer for several 
hours, till they entered a wild dark forest, where the inter- 
minable branches of the old oaks met high-arched over-head, 
and the paths were beset with fern and underwood. The road 
they took was at first a clear and open glade, but it quickly 
narrowed, and branched off in various directions ; they followed 
one of its windings till it abruptly closed : the leader then 
reined in, and Clifford’s voice was heard. Years had elapsed 
since it had met Richard’s ear ; the mere, as it were, abstract 
idea of Clifford was mingled with crime and hate ; his voice, his 
manner, his look were associated with protestations of fidelity ; 
or, dearer still, the intercourse of friendship and youthful gaiety ; 
no wonder that it seemed a voice from the grave to betrayed 
York. “ Halloo 1 ” cried Clifford, “ Clim of the Lyn, my 
merry man, thou art to track us through the New Forest to 
Southampton. ” 

“ Please your knightship,” said a shaggy-headed fellow, “ our 
way is clear, I am at home now : but, by Saint George, we 
must halt ; a thirty miles’ ride since matins, his fast unbroken, 
would have made Robin Hood a laggard.” 

“"What would you eat here? ’’cried Clifford; “a stoup of 
canary and beef were blessings for the nonce ; but we must get 
out of this accursed wilderness into more Christian neighbour- 
hood before we find our hostelry.” 

Clim of the Lyn grinned. “ To a poor forester,” said he, 
“ the green-wood is a royal inn ; vert and venison, your 
worship, sound more savoury than four smoky walls, and a 
platter of beef brought in mine host’s left hand, while his right 
already says — ‘ Pay ! ’ ” 

“ They would feed me with mine own venison in way of 
courtesy, even as the Lion Heart, my namesake and ancestor, 
was feasted of old ; mine — each acre, each rood, and every 
noble stag that pastures thereon ; but I am not so free as they ; 
and, mine though this wild wood be, I must thank an outlaw 
ere I dine upon my own.” 

Thus thought Richard ; and at that moment, with his limbs 
aching through their bondage, and with throbbing temples, 
liberty in the free forest seemed worth more than a kingdom. 
The bright sun was high — the sky serene — the merry birds 
were carolling in the brake — the forest basked in noon-day, 
while the party wound along the shady path beneath. The 
languid frame of York revived ; at first to pain alone, for 
memory was serpent-fanged. "What bird-lime was this to 
ensnare the royal eagle ! but soon Despair, which had flapped 
her harpy wings across his face, blinding him, fled away ; Hope 



Di 



•yin 




A PEI80KEE. 327 

awoke, and in her train, schemes of escape, freedom, and a 
renewal of the struggle. 

Meanwhile they threaded many a green pathway, and, after 
another hour’s ride, arrived at the opening of a wide grassy 
dell ; a deer, “ a stag of ten," leaped from his ferny bed and 
bounded away ; a herd of timid fawns, just visible in the dis- 
tance, hurried into the thicket ; while many a bird flew from 
the near sprays. Hero the party halted ; first they unbitted 
their steeds, and then dismounted the prisoners, binding them 
for security’s sake to a tree. Richard was spared this degrada- 
tion, for still he was a prince in Clifford’s eyes ; and his extreme 
physical weakness, caused by his blow, made even the close 
watching him superfluous. He was lifted from his horse, and 
placed upon the turf, and there left. While some of his guards 
went to seek and slay their repast, others led their animals to a 
brook which murmured near ; all were variously and busily etn- 




casque : his features were ghastly : there was a red streak upon 
his brow, which was knit as if to endurance, and his lips were 
white and quivering. Never had crime visited with such 
torment ill-fated man ; he looked a Cain after the murder ; the 
Abel he had killed was his own fair fame — the ancestral honour 
of his race. How changed from when Richard last saw him, 
but two years before ; his hair was nearly grey, his eyes hollow, 
his cheeks fallen in ; yet, though thin to emaciation, he had lost 
that delicacy and elegance of feature that had characterized 
him. Almost without reflection, forgetting his own position in 
painful compassion, the prince exclaimed, “ Thou art an unhappy 
man, Sir Robert P” The knight replied with a ghastly smile, 
which he meant to be disdainful. “But now,” continued 
Richard, “ while thy visor screened thy face, I was on the point 
of taunting thee as a coward, of defying thee to mortal combat ; 
but thou art miserable, and brokenhearted, and no match 
for me." 

Clifford’s eyes glared, his hand was upon his sword’s hilt : he 
recollected himself, replying, “ You cannot provoke me, sir, you 
are my prisoner.” 

“ Thy victim, Robin ; though once saved by thee : but that is 
past, and there is no return. The blood of Stanley, and of a 
hundred other martyrs, rolls between us : I conquer my own 
nature, when even for a moment I look upon their murderer.” 

The weakness of the prince gave a melancholy softness to his 
voice and manner ; the deep pity he felt for his fallen friend 
imparted a seraphic expression to his clear open countenance. 




328 



A PRISONER. 



Clifford writhed with pain. Clifford, who, though not quick to 
feel for others, was all sense and sensitiveness for himself : and 
how often in the world do we see sensibility attributed to indi- 
viduals, whose showof feeling arises from excessive susceptibility 
to their own sorrows and injuries ! Clifford wished to answer — 
— to go away — he was spell-bound; his cowering look lirst 
animated Richard to an effort, which a moment before he would 
have ridiculed. “ Wherefore,” said he, “ have you earned all 
men’s hate, and your own to boot F Are you more honoured 
and loved than in Brussels? Scorn tracks you in your new 
career, and worst of all, you despise yourself.” 

“ By St. Sathanas and his brood!” fiercely burst from the 
knight. Then he bit his lip, and was silent. 

“ Yet, Clifford, son of a noble father, spare yourself this 
crowning sin. I have heard from travelled men, that in 
Heathenesse the unbaptized miscreant is true to him whose 
hospitality he has shared. There was a time when my eyes 
brightened when I saw you ; when the name of Eobiu was a 
benediction to be. You have changed it for the direst curse. 
Yours are no common crimes. Foremost in the chronicles, your 
name will stand as a type and symbol of ingratitude and treason, 
written with the blood of Fitzwater and Stanley. But this is 
not all. The young and defenceless you destroy : you have 
stood with uplifted dagger over the couch of a sleeping man.” 
Clifford had fostered the belief that this vilest act of his life, 
to which he had been driven rather by fierce revenge than hope 
of reward, was a secret. A moment before he had advanced 
with hasty and furious glances towards his enemy. Scarcely 
had the words passed York’s lips, than a kind of paralysis came 
over him. His knees knocked together : his arms fell nerveless 
to his side. 

“ O, man !” continued York, “ arouse thy sleeping faculties. 
Bid the fiend who tortures thee avaunt ! Even now, at the 
word, he feels his power over thy miserable soul waver. By 
Him who died on the Gross, I conjure him to leave thee. Say 
thou * amen ’ to my adjuration, and he departs. Cast off the 
huge burthen of guilt : deliver thy soul into the care of hoi 7 
men. As thy first act, depart this spot: leave me. It is I 
who command — Richard of York, thy sovereign. Begone; 
or kneeling at my feet, seek the grace thou hast so dearly 
forfeited.” 

For a moment it almost seemed as if the wretched man were 
’’out to obey ; but at the moment his groom came from the 
mg, where he had been watering his horse. The sight of 
other human being, to witness his degradation, awoke him to 







A PRISONER. 329 

frenzy. He called aloud, “ How now, sirrah ! Why, unbit 
Dragon P Bring him here. I must begone.” 

“ He can’t carry your honour a mile,” said the fellow. 

“ A miracle,” cried Richard ; “ you repent, Sir Robert.” 

“ As Lucifer in hell ! Look to the prisoner.” Clifford vaulted 
on his horse : his head was bare, his eyes wild and bloodshot. 
Clapping spurs to the jaded animal’s side, he put him to his 
speea, and was gone. 

“ His fit is on him !” cried his attendant, “ and what are we 
to do P He rides a race with the fiend, leaving us to do both 
their works.” More whisperingly he muttered, “ Hold Duke 
Richard in bonds against his will may I not. He gave me gold 
in Flanders ; he is a king’s son and a belted knight, and I a 
poor servitor.” 

Richard had conceived a faint hope of working on Clifford’s 
manifest remorse, and enlisting him again under the banner of 
the White Rose. His wonder was great when he saw him flying 
through the forest with uncovered head and dishevelled hair ; 
the bridle of his horse in the groom’s hand, while the wearied 
animal, spurred to speed, threw up his head, snorting with fear. 
Not a moment was to be lost, the prince flew to his comrades in 
captivity. Already Heron and O’Water had their bonds cut by 
the sword of which he possessed himself. Heron, in whose 
two arms lay his chief strength, and O’Water, at home in a 
fray, fired with the desire of liberty and life, got speedy hold of 
battle-axes, and stood at bay. Skelton, the next made free, 
began to run r but finding his flight was solitary, he secured a 
bow and arrows, and betook himself to a short, sure aim from 
behind a tree, while he offered up another sigh to the memory 
of Trereife. Astley threw himself foremost before his master, 
unarmed. The weapons of their guard were chiefly in a heap, 
and these, defended by the enfranchised prisoners, were useless 
to them. Headed by Clifford’s groom, who stood in salutary 
awe of shedding royal blood, a parley commenced. He en- 
treated Richard to submit ; he told him that the whole country 
was in arms against him, his way back to his army beset, the 
sea-coasts strictly guarded. What then could he do P 

“ Die, in arms and at liberty. Stand back, sirs ; what would 
you do with me P Your guilty captain has deserted you ; is 
there one of your number who will raise his accursed weapon 
against a king and a knight P” 

Clym of the Lyn, and another outlawed forester (Clifford in 
mustering a troop had gathered together all manner of wild 
companions), now appeared dragging in a fat buck. Clym 
grinned when he saw the altered state of things : “ Come, my 








330 



A DILEMMA. 



men,” he said, “ it is not for us to fight King ITenry’s battles ; 
the more majesties there be in England, the merrier for us, I 
trow ; and the wider and freer the range of the king of the New 
Forest. Put up your rapiers, and let us feast like brethren ; ye 
may fall to with your weapons afterwards. Or, if it please your 
grace to trust to me, I will lead you where none of the king’s 
men will follow.” 

“ Wilt thou guide me back to Taunton P” asked the prince. 

“ Not for my cap full of rose nobles,” replied the outlaw ; 
“the way is beset: and trust me your worship’s men are scat- 
tered far and wide ere this. You are a tall fellow, and I should 
ill like to see you in their gripe. Be one of us ; you shall bo 
king of the Greenwood-shade ; and a merrier, freer monarch than 
he who lives at Westminster.” 

“ Hark!” the word, spoken in a voice of alarm, made the 
party all ear. There was a distant tramp — every now and then 
a breaking of bushes — and a whole herd of deer came bounding 
up the glade in flight. A forester who had rambled further than 
the rest, rushed back, saying, “ Sixty yeomen of the royal guard ! 
They are coming hitherward. Sir Harry de Yero leads them — I 
know his bright bay horse.” 

“ Away ! ” 



CHAPTER XLVII. 

A DILEMMA. 



Ho might have dwelt in green forest. 

Under the shadows green ; 

And have kept both him and us at rest. 

Out of all trouble and teen. 

Old Ballad. 

It had been the policy of Richard’s captors to have remained to 
deliver up their prisoners to a stronger force. But most of them 
were outlaws by profession, who held the king’s men in instinc- 
tive horror : these were the first to fly ; the panic spread i those 
who had no cause to fear fled because they saw others do so. 
In a moment the sward was cleared of all save the prisoners, 
who hastily bridled their horses, and followed York down a 
narrow path into a glen, in an opposite direction from the 



 




A DILEMMA. 



331 



approaching troop. .With what speed they might they made 
tneir way through the forest, penetrating its depths, till they 
got completely entangled in its intricacies. They proceeded for 
several hours, but their jaded horses one by one foundered : they 
were in the most savage part of the wood : there was no begin- 
ning nor end to the prospect of knotted trunks, which lifted their 
vast leafy burthen into the air ; here was safety and needful 
repose. Kiehard, animated to a sudden effort, could now hardly 
keep his seat : the state of their animals was imperative for a 
halt ; so here, in a wild brake, they alighted near a running 
brook ; and here O’Water slew a buck, while Astley and Skelton 
unbridled their horses, and all set about preparing a most need- 
ful repast. Evening stole upon them before it was concluded ; 
the slant sun-beams lay in golden glory on the twisted ivy-grown 
trunks, and bathed the higher foliage in radiance. By the time 
their appetites were satisfied, Heron and Skelton were discovered 
to be in a sound sleep ; it were as well to follow their example ; 
neither men nor horses could proceed without repose ; darkness 
also afforded best safety for travelling. It was agreed that they 
should pursue their way at midnight ; and so, stretched on the 
grassy soil, peace and the beauty of nature around them, each 
gave himself up to a slumber which, at that extremity of fatigue, 
needed no courting. 

All slept, save the prince ; he lay in a state of feverish dis- 
quietude, looking at the sky through the leafy tracery overhead, 
till night massed and confused every object. Darkest thoughts 
thronged his mind ; loss of honour, desertion of friends, the fate 
of his poor men : he was to have devoted himself to them, but a 
stream, driven by a thundering avalanche from its course, had 
as much power as he to oppose the circumstances that had 
brought him from his camp near Taunton, to this secluded spot. 
For an interval he gave himself up to a tumult of miserable 
ideas, till from the grim troop some assumed a milder aspect, 
some a brighter hue ; and, after long and painful consideration, 
he arranged such a plan as promised at least to vindicate his own 
name, and to save the lives of his adherents. Calmed by these 
thoughts, soothed to repose by the gentle influence of a south 
wind, and the sweet monotony of rustling leaves and running 
water, he sank at last into a dreamless sleep. 

A whispering of voices was the first thing that struck his 
wakening sense : it was quite dark. “ Is Master O’Water como 
backP” asked Heron. 

“ I am here,” replied the Irishman. 

“ Hast discovered aught? ” 

“That the night is dark, and the forest wide,” replied 




332 



A DILEMUA. 



O’ Water ; “liad we a planet to guide ps we might hope to 
reach its skirts. We are worse off than the Spanish Admiral 
on the western sea, for the compass was a star without a cloud 
to him.” 

“ Saint Mary save us ! ” said, or rather whined poor Skelton, 
“ our fortunes are slit from top to toe, and no patch-work will 
make them whole.” 

“There is hope at the mouth of a culverin,” said O’Water, 
“ or at the foot of the gallows, so that a man be true to himself. 
I have weathered a worse day, when the Macarthys swore to 
revenge themselves on the Roches." 

“ And by our Lady’s grace,” interrupted Richard, “ shall again, 
worthy mayor. My good fellows, fear nothing, I will save you ; 
the ocean cannot be many miles off, for the sun set at our right 
hand, and blinded our eyes through the day ; the wind by its 
mildness is southerly ; we w ill face it. When once we reach the 
seaside, the shore of the free, wide ocean, Tudor’s power stops 
short, and ye are safe ; of myself there will then be time to 
think. Say, shall we proceed now, or give another hour to 
repose P ” 

All w ere eager to start, slowly leading their horses through 
the tangled paths they could find, the quarter whence the wind 
blew, their only guide ; morning found them toiling on, but 
morning diminished half their labours ; and, as the birds twit- 
tered, and the east gleamed, their spirits rose to meet and con- 
quer danger. O’Water was in his native element, that of hair- 
breadth escape and peril. As to Heron and Skelton, they might 
have flagged, but for Richard ; he flattered their pride, raised 
their hopes, making weariness and danger a plaything and a jest. 
As the sun mounted in the sky, their horses showed many a sign 
of weariness ; and in spite of a store of venison, which the care- 
ful Skelton had brought away with him, they needed refresh- 
ment ; each mile lengthened to ten ; each glade grew intermin- 
able in their eyes ; and the wide forest seemed to possess all 
England in its extent. Could the prince’s body have conquered 
his mind, the White Rose had indeed drooped ; he was parched 
with fever, and this, preying on his brain, made him the victim 
of conflicting thoughts : his heart, his imagination, were in his 
deserted camp ; even fair Katherine, awaiting tidings of him in 
her far retreat, had not such power to awaken anguish in his 
heart, as the idea of Henry’s vengeance exercised on his faithful, 
humble friends, whose father and protector he had called him- 
self. There was disease in the fire and rapidity with which these 
ideas coursed through his mind ; with a strong will he overcame 
them, bent on accomplishing his present purpose, and rescuing 



A DIIEMMA. 333 

these chief rebels, whose lives were most endangered, before he 
occupied himself with the safety of the rest. 

At length, at noon, his quick ear caught a heavy, distant roar. 
The trees had begun to be more scattered: they reached the 
verge of the forest; they were too weary to congratulate each 
other; before them was a rising ground which bounded their 
view ; some straggling cottages crowned the height ; slowly 
they reached the hill-top, and there beheld stormy ocean, clip- 
ping in, the circular coast with watery girdle ; at a crow’s flight 
it might be a mile distant. A few huts and a single black boat 
spotted in one place the>*else desert beach ; a south wind swept 
tne sea, and vast surges broke upon the sands ; all looked bleak 
and deserted. 

They stopped at a cottage- door, inquiring the road ; they heard 
there was one, which went three miles about, but that the plain 
at their feet was intersected by wide ditches, which their fagged 
animals could not leap. Moreover, what hope of putting out to 
sea, in opposition to the big noisy waves which the wind was 
hurrying towards shore ! It were safest and best to take a short 
repose in this obscure village. Heron and Skelton entered the 
poor inn, while Richard waited on his horse, striving to win him 
by caresses to taste the food he at first refused. Heron, who 
was warm-hearted with all his bluster, brought the prince out a 
flagon of excellent wine, such as by some chance — it might be a 
wreck — the tide had wafted from the opposite coast : Richard 
was too ill to drink ; but, as he stood, his arm on his poor steed’s 
neck, the creature looked wistfully up in his face, averting his 
mouth from the proffered grain ; half-playfully his master held 
out to him the wide-mouthed flagon, and he drank with such 
eagerness, that Richard vowed he should have another bottle, 
and, buying the host’s consent with gold, filled a large can from 
the wine-cask ; the beast drank, and, had he been a Christian 
man, could not have appeared more refreshed. The prince, for- 
getful of his pains, was amusing himself thus, when Skelton, pale 
and gasping, came from the house, and voiceless through fear, laid 
one hand on his leader’s arm, and with the other pointed : too 
soon the hapless fugitive saw to what he called his attention. 
Along the shore of the sea a moving body was perceptible, 
approaching towards them from west to east, which soon showed 
itself to be a troop of horse soldiers. Richard gave speedy order 
that his friends should assemble and mount, while be continued 
to watch the proceedings of the enemy. 

They were about two hundred strong — they arrived at the 
huts on the beach, and the prince perceived that they were 
making dispositions to leave a part of their number behind. 




334 



A DILEMMA. 



Fifty men were selected, and posted as patrol — the rest then 
moved forward, still towards the east. By this time the remain- 
ing fugitives had mounted, and gathered in one spot — the vil- 
lagers also were collecting — Skelton’s teeth chattered — he asked 
an old woman if there were any sanctuary near. 

“ Ay, by our Lady, is there,” replied the dame, “ sixteen miles 
along the coast is the monastery of Beaulieu. A sanctuary for 
princes ; by the same token that the Lady Margaret, Saint 
Henry *8 queen, lived safely there in spite of the wicked Yorkists, 
who would have taken her precious life.” 

Bichard turned quickly round as the woman spoke and heard 
her words, but again his eyes were attracted to the coast. As 
the troop were proceeding along the sands, the little knot of 
horsemen perched upon the hill caught the attention of a 
soldier. lie rode along the lines, and spoke to the commanding 
officer; a halt ensued, “ We are lost,” cried Skelton, “we arc 
taken. Lord ! Lord ! will they grant us our lives P ” 

“These trees are tempting, and apt for hanging,” said 
O’Water, with the air of a connoisseur. 

“ Oh, for Bewley, — for Bewley, let us ride ! ” exclaimed 
Skelton, longing to go, yet afraid of separating himself from his 
companions. 

Still the prince watched the movements of the adverse party. 
Ten men were detached, and began to advance inland — “ Oh, 
dear, my lord,” cried Astlev, “ betake yourself to the forest — 
there are a thousand ways of baffling these men. I will meet 
them, and put them to fault. Bide, for my Lady’s sake, ride ! ” 
“ Master Astley is a cunning gentleman,” said Skelton ; “ our 
horses are a-weary, and a little craft would help us mightily.” 
Still Bichard’s eyes were fixed on the troopers — the men 
advanced as far as a broad, deep Btream, which intersected the 
plain; here they hesitated; one of the best mounted leaped 
across, the others drew back, seeking along the steep, shelving 
banks for a ford, or a narrowing of the stream. The eyes of the 
troop on the shore were now turned upon their comrades. “ Our 
time is come,” cried Bichard ; “ back to the forest.” One step 
took them down the other side of the hill, hiding sea and beach 
and enemy from their eyes, and screening them also from observ- 
ation. They soon reached the forest, and entered its shade ; 
and then proceeded along just within its skirts. “Whither?" 
respectfully O’Water asked, after Skelton had for some time 
been muttering many a hint concerning sanctuary. 

“ To Beaulieu,” said the prince. “We are barred out from 
the ocean — w e are beset at land — the little island ycleped sanc- 
tuary is all that is left to ye. God speed us safely hither.” 








A DILEMMA. 



335 



[Richard's horse was lively and refreshed after his generous 
draught, but these of the others flagged. The prince exerted 
himself to keep up the spirits of all ; he rallied Skelton, spoke 
comfort to Astley, and good hope to Heron. The sturdy 
apprentice of danger, flight, and trouble, O’Water, treated it all 
as a matter of course — even hanging, if it so chanced, was but a 
likely accident — the others needed more encouragement. Astley 
feared for his lord, even to an appearance of timidity, which, 
though disinterested, had a bad effect on the others. Heron 
complained bitterly that his dinner had been left unfinished ; 
while the poor tailor, now fancying that he would run away 
from all, now fearful of solitary misadventure, kept up a garru- 
lous harangue, of which terror was the burthen and the sum. 
llichard’s voice was cheerful, his manner gay ; but, placing his 
hand on Astley, it felt scorching ; every moment it required 
more energy to throw off the clinging lethargy that fell upon 
him. It was again evening — a circumstance that had caused 
them to enter deeper into the forest ; and it was to be feared 
they had lost their way. All were weary — all, save [Richard, 
hungry. The breeze had died away ; the air was oppressive, 
and more and more it felt like a load intolerable to the prince’s 
burning brow. [Night began to close in so very dark, that the 
horses refused to go forward. Suddenly a roaring sound arose, 
which was not the sea ; and, but that the atmosphere was^ so 
still, the wanderers would have said that it was a fierce wind 
among the trees. Such must it be, for now r it came nearer ; like 
living things, the vast giants of the forest tossed their branches 
furiously ; and entire darkness and sudden pouring rain revealed 
the tempest, which their leafy prison had before hidden — all was 
so instantaneous, that it would seem that nature was undergoing 
some great revulsion in her laws. Tiie prince’s horse snorted 
and reared, while O’Water’s dashed furiously on, striking against 
a tree, and throwing his rider, from whose lips there escaped a 
shriek. What would have been the last overflowing drop in the 
bitter cup to a weak mind, restored Richai’d — lassitude and 
despondency vanished. In an instant he was off his horse at 
O’Water’s side, speaking in his own cheerful, kind voice. 
“ Waste no moment on me,” cried the generous mayor. “ My 
leg is broken — I can go no further— speed you, your highness, 
to the sanctuary.” 

This was the end of hope — the raging storm, the disabled 
man, dark night, and [Richard’s resolve not to desert his follower, 
all were causes of terror and of despair. 

A voice in the wood was heard calling aloud ; no answer could 
bo returned ; it was repeated, and Astley went forward to recon- 



 




336 



A DILEMMA. 



n.oitre — even an enemy .wore help in such disaster, yet Heron 
and Skelton implored him to remain. Another halloo Richard 
answered ; for he recognized Astley’s voice, who in the dark 
could not find his way back. He came at last, accompanied by 
a monk — this was heaven’s favour revealed ; for the holy man 
was a hermit, and his poor cell was near: poor indeed was it, 
built with logs, the interstices filled with mud ; a bed of dried 
leaves was nearly all the furniture. The hermit had gone on 
first, and lit a torch ; as they might, they bore along poor 
O’Water, and placed him in his agony on the low couch. The 
hermit looked inquisitively on all the party, neglecting to answer 
Skelton, who asked for the hundredth time the distance to 
Beaulieu. 

Richard still occupied himself with the mayor, endeavouring 
to discover if the limb were broken. “By your leave, your 
grace,” said the hermit, “ I am somewhat of a chirurgeon ; I 
boast of my cures of horses, and have saved a Christian man ero 
now.” 

Scarcely did the prince remember to wonder at the title by 
which the unknown addressed him. By our Lady’s love he 
besought him to attend to his friend. “Trust me,” said the 
hermit, “ I will not fail ; but you, my lord, must not tarry here ; 
the forest is beset with troops ; but for night and storm, you 
would hardly attain Beaulieu in safety. It is but two miles dis- 
tant : I will guide your highness thither ; and then return to 
your follower. Have faith in me, my lord; I have served your 
royal uncle, and was enlisted under your banner last year in 
Kent. I made a shift to escape, and took sanctuary ; but the 
stone walls of a monastery are little better than those of a 
prison ; so I betook me to the woods. Oh, I beseech you, waste 
no time : I will return to your follower: he is safe till then.” 

“ Direct us, and I will thank you,” replied Richard ; “ but you 
shall not desert your patient even for a moment.” 

There was no alternative but to comply : the man gave as 
clear instructions as he might, and Richard again set forward 
with his diminished party. They were long entangled by trees ; 
and it was now quite night : the excitement over, the prince had 
drooped'again. Even this interval was full of peril — a tramp of 
steeds was heard : they drew up among the trees ; a party of 
horsemen passed ; one — could it be the voice of the subtle Frion ? 
— said, “ At the end of this glade we shall see the abbey spires. 
Well I know the same ; for w hen Queen Margaret ” 

This speaker was succeeded by a woman’s voice : yet greater 
wonder, she spoke in Spanish, in unforgotten accents — Richard’s 
heart stood still, as he heard them ; but soon both voice anb 



 




A DILEMMA. 



337 



tramp of steeds grew faint ; and his brain, becoming more and 
more bewildered, allowed no thought to enter, save the one fixed 
there even in delirium. The fugitives continued to linger in this 
spot until it was probable that the travellers should have arrived. 
True to the information they had, overheard, the forest opened 
at the end of the glade into a leafy amphitheatre ; an avenue was 
opposite, which led to the abbey gates, whose Gothic spires, 
buttresses and carved arches, rose above the tufted trees in dark 
masses. One end of the building was illuminated — that was 
the church, and the pealing organ stole mournfully on the night, 
sounding a Miserere ; the chaunting of the monks mingled with 
the harmonious swell, adding that pathos, that touch of solemn, 
unutterable sentiment, which perhaps no music, save that of 
the human voice, possesses. Bichard’s companions were rough- 
suited, vulgar-minded ; but they were Catholic and religious 
men, and were awe-struck by this voice from heaven reaching 
them thus in their desolation ; a voice promising safety and 
repose to their harassed, wearied bodies. 

A few steps carried them to the very spot ; the bell was 
rung, the gate was opened, sanctuary'was claimed and afforded. 
Skelton sprang forward ; the other two hung back ; but, on 
a Bign from Bichard, they also passed the sacred threshold 
“ Farewell, my friends,” he said, “ a short farewell. Astley, I 
charge you wait for me. Sir priest, close the gate.” 

The word was said, the order obeyed, Bichard was left alone 
in darkness. “Now for my task — for my poor trusty fellows. 
The work of murder cannot yet have begun : my life pays for 
all. Yet awhile bear me up, thou fainting spirit; desert not 
Bichard’s breast till his honour be redeemed ! ” 

Vain prayer! — “I must repose,” he thought; “it is of no 
avail to urge nature beyond herself ; a few minutes, and I am 
strong.” He dismounted, and, with a sensation of delicious 
relief, threw himself at his length on the wet grass, pressing the 
dank herbage to' his fevered brow. At first he felt recovered ; 
but in a few minutes strong spasms shot through his frame ; and 
these yielded to a feebleness, that forced him to sink to the 
ground, when he endeavoured to rise : he forgot his situation, 
the near abbey, his friends ; he forgot wherefore, but he remem- 
bered that his presence was required somewhere, and with 
a resolved effort he rose and staggered towards his horse — he 
fell. “ A little sleep, and I shall be well.” This was his last 
thought, and he lay in a state between slumber and stupor upon 
the earth. 



z 



 



338 



CHAPTEE XLVIII. 

CAPTTJBE OF KATHERINE. 



If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, 

Injurious distance should not stop my way ; 

For then, despite of space, I would be brought 
To limits far remote, where thou dost stay. 

Shakspeark. 

Thebe is a terror whose cause is unrevealed even to its victim, 
which makes the heart beat wildly, and we ask the voiceless 
thing wherefore ; when the beauty of the visible universe 
sickens the aching Bense ; when we beseech the winds to com- 
fort us, and we implore the Invisible for relief, which is to speed 
to us from afar. We endeavour, in our impotent struggle with 
the sense of coming evil, to soar bevond the imprisoning atmo- 
sphere of our own identity ; we call upon the stars to speak to 
us, and would fain believe that mother earth, with inorganic 
voice, prophesies. Driven on by the mad imaginings of a heart 
hovering between life and death, we fancy that the visible frame 
of things is replete with oracles. Or is it true ; and' do air 
and earth, divined by the sorrow-tutored spirit, possess true 
auguries P At such dread hour we are forced to listen and 
believe : nor can we ever afterwards, in common life, forget our 
miserable initiation into the mysteries of the unexplained laws 
of our nature. To one thus aware of the misfortune that awaits 
her, the voice of consolation is a mockery. Yet, even while she 
knows that the die is cast, she will not acknowledge her intimate 
persuasion of ill ; but sits smiling on any hope brought to her, 
as a mother on the physician who talks of recovery while her 
child dies. 

The Lady Katherine had yielded to Bichard’s wishes, because 
she saw that he really desired her absence. Alone in a monas- 
tery, in a distant part of Cornwall, she awaited the fatal tiding9, 
which she knew must come at last. She was too clear-sighted 
not to be aware, that the armed power of a mighty kingdom, 
such as England, must crush at once his ill-organized revolt. 
She was prepared for, and ready to meet, all the disasters and 



 




CAPTUEB 0? KATITXIllXK. 



339 



numiliations of defeat ; but not to be absent from her husband at 
this crisis. She ordered horses to be kept perpetually in readi- 
ness, that she might proceed towards him on the first intimation 
of change and downfall. She watched from the highest tower of 
her abode, the arrival of messengers : before she dared open her 
letters, she read in their faces, what news of Richard P It was 
a bitter pang to hear that Plantagenet was dangerously wounded ; 
that the prince had advanced further forward, at the head of 
his rabble soldiers. 

She had no friends, save humble ones, and very few of these : 
they borrowed their looks from her, yet hoped more than she 
did. Quickly she was aware of a change in them : they spoke 
in a low, subdued voice, as if awe-struck by some visitation of 
destiny. That very day letters arrived from the prince : they 
were of ancient date, nor could she lay his terms of* endearment 
and cheering to her heart and be consoled. In the afternoon a 
torn, soiled billet was brought her from Edmund. In spite of 
his wound, he had dragged himself as far as Launceston, on his 
way to her. Forced to stop, he sent her tidings of all he knew 
— - -Richard’s mysterious flight, Henry’s bloodless victory, the 
eagerness the king expressed to learn where she was, and the 
despatching of troops in search of her. He besought her to fly. 
It might be hoped that the prince had escaped beyond sea, whi- 
ther she must hasten ; or falling into his enemy’s hands, she 
would never see him more. 

Perplexed and agitated, knowing that dishonour would result 
from Richard’s strange disappearance, yet persuaded that he had 
some ulterior view which it behoved her not to thwart, she hesi- 
tated what step to take. 

An incident occurred to end her uncertainty. Suddenly, in 
the evening, Monina stood before her. Monina came with the 
safety -laden Adalid, to bear her to the shores of Burgundy. 
8he brought the history of the fraud practised upon York, of 
the ambush laid for his life, of his escape, and the arrival, 
immediately succeeding to hers, of his followers at the Abbey of 
Beaulieu; how the pawing and trampling of a horse at the 
gates had brought out the monks, who discovered the hapless 
prince senseless on the dark sod. He was carried in, and 
through her care his name was entered in the sanctuary. She 
had attended on his sick couch two days and nights, when his 
first return to reason was to implore her to seek Katherine, to 
carry her beyond Tudor’s power, out of the island prison. Her 
father’s caravel was hovering on the coast. A favouring south- 
east wind bore her to these shores : she came at his desire : the 
Adalid was there, and she might sail, not to Burgundy; but even 




340 



CAFTTTBB OF KATHEBINE. 



to the 8 pot which harboured Richard. She also could take sane* 
tuary in Beaulieu. 

The monastery in which the duchess of York had taken refugo 
was situated on St. Michael’s Mount, not far from the Land’s 
End. The land projects romantically into the sea, forming a 
little harbour called Mount’s Bay. Towards the land the accli- 
vity is at first gradual, becoming precipitous towards the sum- 
mit : now, at high water, the tide flows between the rock and 
the land, but it was in those days connected by a kind of natural, 
rocky causeway. Towards the sea it is nearly perpendicular. 
A strong fortress was connected with the church ; and a stone- 
lantern was attached to one of the towers of the church. Hot 
far from the castle, in a craggy and almost inaccessible part of 
the cliff, is situated Saint Michael’s Chair, which, on account of 
its dangerous approach, and the traditions attached to it, became 
the resort of the pious. Many a legend belonged to this spot. 
Its thick woods, the hoar appearance of the crags, the wide- 
spread sea, for ever warring against the land, which had thrust 
itself out into the watery space, usurping a part of its empire, 
made it singularly grand; while the placid beauty of the little 
bay formed by the rock, and the picturesque grouping of the 
„ trees, the straggling paths, and numerous birds, added every 
softer beauty to the scene. 

Often did Katherine watch the changeful ocean, or turn her 
eyes to the more grateful spectacle of umbrageous woods, and 
rifted rock, and seek for peace in the sight of earth’s loveliness. 
All weighed with tenfold heaviness on her foreboding soul. For 
the first time, they wore to her the aspect of beauty, when now 
she hoped to leave them. Hopes so soon to fail. A south 
wind had borne the caravel swiftly into the bay, but the breeze 
increased to a gale, and even while the ladies were making a 
few hasty preparations, De Faro had been obliged to slip his 
moorings, and run out to sea, to escape the danger of being 
wrecked on a lee shore. With a pang of intense misery, Ka- 
therine saw its little hull hurry over the blackening waters, 
and its single sail lose itself amidst the sea-foam. The mariner 
had even, on anchoring, anticipated a storm ; he had informed 
his daughter of the probability there was, that he should be 
driven to seek for safety in the open sea ; but he promised with 
the first favourable change of wind to return,. When would this 
come ? Fate was in the hour, nor could even Katherine school 
herself to patience. 

■ Evening shades gathering round them ; the princess, growing 
each minute more unquiet and miserable, sought in some kind 
of activity for relief to her sufferings. “ I will go to Saint 




CAPTURE OF KATHERINE. 



34 



Michael’s Chair,” she said ; good spirits for ever hover near the 
sainted spot ; they will hear and carry a fond wife’s prayer to 
the throne of the Eternal.” 

In silence Monina followed the lady. They were both moun- 
tain-bred, and trod lightly along paths which Beemed scarcely to 
afford footing to a goat. They reached the seat of the rock ; they 
looked over the sea, whose dark surface was made visible by 
the sheets of foam that covered it ; the roar of waves was at their 
feet. The sun went down blood-red, and, in its dying glories, 
the crescent moon showed first pale, then glowing ; the thou- 
sand stars rushed from among the vast clouds that blotted the 
sky ; and the wind tore fiercely round the crag, and howled 
among the trees. O earth, and sea, and sky ! strange myste- 
ries ! that look and are so beautiful even in tumult and in storm ; 
did ye feel pain then, when the elements of which ve are com- 
posed battled together P Were ye tortured by the strife of 
wind and wave, even as the soul of man when it is the prey of 
passion P Or were ye unmoved, pain only being the portion of 
the hearts of the two human beings, who, looking on the 
commotion, found your wildest rage calm in comparison with 
the tempest of fear and grief which had mastery over them. 

Sickened by disappointment, impatient of despair, each re- 
mained, brooding mutely over their several thoughts. 

Poor Katherine ; her dearest wish was set upon sharing in all 
its drear minutiai the fortune of her lord, her gallant knight, her 
most sweet Richard. He was her husband ; he had taken her, 
timid yet confiding, from the shelter of her father’s roof; they 
had entered the young world of hope and hazard together. 
Custom, the gentle weaver of soft woman’s tenderness, had 
thrown its silken net over her ; his disasters became hers ; his 
wishes, and their defeat, were also hers. She only existed as 
a part of him ; while enthusiastic love made her fondly cling 
even to the worst that betided, as better in its direst shape 
than any misnamed good fortune that unlinked them. 

“ My love, my altar-plighted love ! must I then wake and 
say no good day to theo ; and sleep, my rest unbenisoned 
by thy good night ! The simple word, the we, that symbolized 
our common fate, cut in two, each half a nothing so disjoined.” 

While Katheripe thus struggled with necessity, Monina was 

g iven up to patience. The present hour had fulfilled its fear ; 

er busy thoughts fashioned a thousand plans for his escape, or 
tremblingly painted a dark futurity. He was a part of her 
being, though no portion of herself was claimed by him. She 
was not his, as a lover or a wife, but as a sister might be ; if in 
this ill world such heart’s concord could exist : a sharing of fate 




BICHABD SUBBENDERS. 



343 



expectation ; yet how, lost to liberty, could she hope to attain 
it P 

But thus we are, while untamed by years. Youth, elastic and 
bright, disdains to be compelled. When conquered, from its 
very chains it forges implements for freedom ; it alights from 
one baffled flight, only again to soar on untired wing towards 
some other aim. Previous defeat is made the bridge to pass the 
tide to another shore ; and, if that break down, its fragments 
become stepping-stones. It will feed upon despair, and call it a 
medicine which is to renovate its dying hopes. 



CHAPTER XLIX. 

BICHABD SUBBENDBB3. 



For, when Cymocles saw the foul reproach 
Which him appeached, prick’d with noble shame 
And inward grief, he fiercely ’gan approach; 

Resolved to put away that loathly blame. 

Or die with honour and desert of fame. 

Spbnsbr. 

After the prince, by the voyage of Monina, had, as he hoped, 
provided for the escape and safety of the Lady Katherine, he 
could not, all weak as he was, regain in repose. 

From his early childhood he had been nurtured in the idea 
that it was his first, chief duty to regain his kingdom ; his 
friends lived for that single object ; all other occupation was 
regarded as impertinent or trifling. On the table of his ductile 
boyish mind, that sole intent was deeply engraved by every hand 
or circumstance. The base-minded disposition of his rival kiDg 
adorned his cause with a show of use and the name of virtue. 

Those were days when every noble-born youth carved honour 
for himself with his sword ; when passes at arms where resorted 
to whenever real wars did not put weapons in their hands, and 
men exposed their breasts to sharp-biting steel in wanton sport. 
Often during his green and budding youth Richard had gloried 
in the very obstacles set before bim ; to be cast out and forced 
to redeem his state, was a brighter destiny than to be lapped in 
the bosom of guarded royally. The treason of Clifford and the 
sacrifice of devoted friends but whetted his ambition ; ven- 



 




344 



BICHABD 8UBBENDEB8. 



geance, the religion of that age, being a sacred duty in his eyes, 
lie had been shaken by Lord Surrey’s appeal, but cast the 
awakened pity off as a debasing weakness. 

The painted veil of life was torn. His name had not armed 
the nobles of his native land, his cause had not been trumpeted 
with praise nor crowned by victory; deserted by foreign allies, 
unsuccessful in Ireland, he had appeared at the head of a rabble 
army strong only in wrongs and in revenge. Even these he 
had abandoned, and with nameless hinds taken sanctuary ; his 
story was a fable, his name a jeer ; he no longer, so it seemed, 
existed ; for the appellation of duke of York was to be lost 
and merged in the disgraceful misnomer affixed to him by the 
Usurper. 

Richard was no whining monk to lament the inevitable, and 
tamely to await the result. To see an evil was to spur him to 
seek a remedy : he had given up every expectation of reigning, 
except such as sprung from his right, and faith in the justice of 
God. But honour was a more valued treasure ; and to his 
warm heart dearer still was the safety of the poor fellows aban- 
doned by him. On the third day after his arrival at Beaulieu, 
he arose from his sick couch, donned his armour, and, yet pale 
and feeble, sent to speak with the cavalier who commanded the 
party that guarded all egress from the abbey. With him ho 
held long parley, in conclusion of which Sir Hugh Luttrei 
directed three of Ins followers to be in readiness, and two of his 



chosen horses to be led to the abbey gates. Richard took leave 
of the abbot; he recommended his poor followers to him, and 
lightly answered the remonstrance of the holy man, who thought 
that delirium alone could urge the fugitive to quit the tranquil, 
sacred spot, where he himself passed his days in quiet, and 
which held out so secure a protection to the vanquished. His 
remonstrance was vain ; one word weighed more with Richard 
than a paradise of peace. Infamy, dishonour ! No ; even if 
his people were safe — by throwing himself in the self-same peril 
to which he had apparently exposed them, that stain were 
effaced. The very gentleman to whom he had surrendered 
himself had trespassed on his allegiance to Henry to dissuade 
him from the fool-hardihood of his adventure. It was a sight 
of pity to see one so very young walk voluntarily to the sacri- 
fice ; and the princely mien and youthful appearance of the 
self-constituted prisoner wrought all to compassion and respect. 
Eor still this fair White Rose was in the very opening flower of 
manhood : he looked, after such variety of fortune, as if evil not 
only never had, but never could tarnish the brightness of his 
spirit or of his aspect ; illness had a little eqfeebled him, without 



tie 




BICHABD StJBBBNDEB on 



345 



detracting from his youthful beauty, giving rather that softness 
which made it loveliness, yet painted fairer by his self-immo- 
lating resolve, 



“ A sweet regard and amiable grace. 

Mixed with manly sternness did appear,” 

and eagerness withal : for eager he was, even to almost foolish 
haste, to redeem the lost hours, and establish himself again no 
runaway. 

With fresh joy he addressed himself to retrace his steps to 
Taunton. Sanctuary and refuge from death— oh ! how lie 
trampled on the slavish thought. Death was to him a word, a 
shadow, a phantom to deride and scorn, not an enemy to grapple 
with ; disgrace was his abhorred foe, and him he thus over- 
threw. His resolves, inspired by disdain of permitting one 
taint to blemish his career, were not the expedients of prudence, 
but the headlong exploit of daring youth. The iron must indeed 
have entered our souls, and we be tamed from dear, youthful 
freedom to age’s humble concessions to necessity, before we can 
bow our head to calumny, smile at the shafts as they rankle in 
our flesh, and calmly feel that, among the many visitations of 
evil we undergo, this is one we are compelled to endure. 

Thus he, his gentle guide and followers, travelled towards 
Taunton. In all prudence, from the moment they left sanctuary, 
Sir Hugh Luttrel ought to have guarded him closely. But even 
the staid Sir Hugh forgot this duty ; rather was Richard the 
enforcer of this journey, than his guard. Richard it was who 
at night halted unwillingly ; Richard who first cried to horse at 
morning’s dawn ; who, in spite of ill-weather, resisted every 
delay. As they drew near their bourne, the appellation of 
Perkin first met the prince’s ear ; he was unaware that it had 
ever been applied to him except by Henry’s written proclama- 
tions. It acted as a galling spur ; for he believed, with youth’s 
incapacity of understanding systematized falsehood, that his 
presence would put to flight the many-coloured web of invention, 
which his rival had cast over him to mar his truth and obscure 
his nobility. 

After three days they drew near Taunton. The stubble fields, 
the flowery hedges, the plenteous orchards were passed. Prom 
a rising ground they looked upon the walls of the town, and the 
vacant moor where his camp had stood. Richard halted, saying 
— “ Sir knight, I will await you here — do you seek your king : 
say, I come a voluntary sacrifice, to purchase with drops of my 
royal blood the baser tide of my poor followers. I demand no 
more — bid him rear the scaffold; let the 'headsman sharpen the 




/ 



346 BICHABD STJBBENDEBS. 

axe, to lop off the topmost bough of Plantagenet. The price I 
ask, is the despised lives of men, who, but that they loved me, 
were incapable of merit or of crime in his eyes. For their 
humble sakes, like my grandfather York, I am prepared to die. 
If pledge of this be denied me, I still am free. I wear a sword 
and will sell my life dearly, though alone.” 

Sir Hugh Luttrel was perplexed. He knew the stern nature 
of his royal master, and how heavily he would visit on him any 
disappointment in his dearest wish of obtaining possession of his 
rival's person. The prince had, during their three days' com- 
panionship, gained great power over him : he felt that he was 
in truth the son of Edward the Fourth, a man he had never 
loved (for Sir Hugh was a Lancastrian), but one whom he had 
feared and obeyed as his sovereign. How could he put slavish 
force upon his gallant offspring P He hesitated, till the princo 
demanded — “Wherefore delay — is thero aught else that you 
desire P” 

“You pledge your knightly word,” said Sir Hugh, “not to 
desert this spot P ” 

“ Else wherefore am I here P — this is idle. Yet, so to content 
you, I swear by my vow made under the walls of Granada, by 
our Lady, and by the blessed saints, I will abide here, t 
The knight rode into the town with his followers, leaving 
young Richard impatient for the hour that was to deliver him to 
servitude. 

Sir Hugh first sought Lord Dawbeny, requesting him to 
obtain for him instant audience of the king. “ His grace,” said 
the noble, “ is at vespers, or about to attend them.” 

“I dare not wait till they are said,” replied Luttrel, who 
every minute felt the burthen of responsibility weighing heavier 
on him. 

“Nor I interrupt his majesty — even now he enters the 
church.” 

In haste Sir Hugh crossed the street ; and, as the king took 
the holy water from the chalice, he knelt before him. The few 
words he spoke painted Henry’s face with exulting gladness. 
“ We thank thee, good Sir Hugh,” he said, “and will make our 
thanks apparent. By the mass, thou hast deserved well of us 
this day ! Where hast thou bestowed our counterfeit P” 

“ Please your majesty, he awaits your highness’s acceptance ot 
his conditions without the eastern gate.” 

“ You have placed strong guard over him P" 

“ He pledged his oath to await niy return. He is alone.” 

A dark, angry frown chased all glee from Tudor’s brow ; 
bending a stern glance on his erewhile welcome messenger, he 








BICHAED SUEBENDERS. 



347 

commanded Lord Wells, his cousin, to take a strong force and 
to seize this duko of Runaways. Sir Hugh, timid as ho was, in- 
terfered : driven by respect for his prisoner, and fear of what 
might ensue, he tried to enforce York’s stipulation. Henry 
looked on him with scorn, then said, “ Truly, cousin, I have 
vaunted of a bloodless conquest ; so let not the blood of the 
misborn traitor stain our laurels, nor Sir Luttrel’s Duke Perkin 
shed one precious ruby drop. Say ay to all he asks ; for, as it 
seems, his demands are as foolish as himself, and need no 
chaffering. Tell him that his. life is safe, but bring him here ; 
set him within our ward and limitation : do this, while we with a 
Te Deum thank our Heavenly Father for his watchful mercies. 
Sir Hugh, accompany our cousin, and then wend your way whither 
it please you. We nave no pleasure in your presence.” 

Thus duped, even by his own generous, proud spirit, the duke 
of York became a prisoner — delivering up his sword, and yield- 
ing himself an easy prey to his glad victor. Once, twice, thrice, 
as he waited the return of Luttrel, it had crossed his mind, not 
to fly, His vow being pledged, but to remember that he was now 
free and unconstrained, and would soon be in other’s thrall — 
when farewell to the aspiring thought, the deed of arms, and to 
the star of his life, to whose idea, now his purpose was accom- 
plished, he fondly turned ! — “ Poor Katherine,” he whispered, 
“ this is the crown, the fated, fallen youth, the seer foretold.” 
In after-times that scene dwelt on his memory ; he called to 
mind the evening-tide, for the sun was down, and the clouds, 
lately gold besprent, waxing dun, as the town walls grew high 
and dark, and the few trees about him waved fitfully in a soft 
breeze ; that wind was free, and could career over the plain ; 
what spell bound the noble knight and stalwart steed, that they 
coursed not also free as it P 

In a few minutes he was a prisoner — and led within those 
darksome walls. At first, treated with some observance, ho was 
unaware, as is the case in any new position, with whoso circum- 
stances and adjuncts we are unacquainted, how utterly he had 
fallen. He was led to no barred prison ; and, for a time, the 
nobles and knights who flocked to see him were no bad 
exchange for the motley crew he had quitted. But, as if in a 
dream, he felt gather round him impalpable but adamantine 
walls — chains hung upon his limbs, not the less heavy, because 
the iron pierced his soul rather than his flesh. He had been a 
free man ; his name was attended with love and respect, and 
his aspect commanded the obedience of men. Now, the very 
appellation given to him was a mortal insult; a stranger 
Beemed to be spoken to when he was addressed, and yet he must 




348 



BICHABD BUBBENDEBS. 



answer. He waB never alone ; and night was the Bole suspen- 
sion from the insulting curiosity of the crowd. He must forego 
himself ; grow an impostor in his own eyes ; take on him the 
shameful name of Perkin : all which native honour, and memory 
of his princess bride, made trebly stinging. 

To barb the dart came intelligence that the Lady Katherine 
was a prisoner. King Henry had quitted Taunton, and gone 
towards Exeter, when, on his arrival there, the earl of Oxford 
presented the Scottish princess to him. Praises of her won- 
drous beauty became rife, brought by some of the king’s train, 
returned to Taunton ; praises so excessive and warm as could not 
have been inspired by celestial beauty in adversity, if not egged 
on by some adventitious stimulant. It was the fashion to speak 
of her as the Queen of Loveliness ; as (for beauty’s sake the 
name belonged to her) the fairest White Hose that ever grew 
on thorny bush. By this name she was mentioned to York ; 
and it visited his heart as the first gleam of sunshine on his 
enshadowed misery ; deaf was the name of the White Boso to 
the fallen one. It had been his own in fresh and happy days, 
when first he showed his prowess among the knights of 
France and Burgundy. Still louder grew the echo of some 
mighty voice, that gave forth encomium of the prisoner’s bride ; 
and the smiles with which some spoke, smiles half of wonder 
half of mockery, told of some secret charm, which at last was 
openly commented upon. “ Again the king saw the fair ono 
yestermorn ; and dallied ere he granted the earnest suit she 
made, as if he loved to be entreated.” 

“ The grave King Henry caught in the net of the wanton 
boy ! Oh, this were subject for a ballad for the nonce.” 

“ Blythe news for gentle Perkin ; his wife thrives at court. 
She takes occasion by too slender a hold, if she raise not her 
husband from the kitchen to a higher place at court.” 

“ Now we shall see our the lady the queen jealous of her 
liege.” 

“ Our queen P what midsummer's dream is this ? The White 
Bose will never flower in our court garden.” 

To falsify this assertion came the next day a messenger, with 
command to convey the noble prisoner with all speed to London ; 
and for the attendance of the Lady Cheney, and the Lady 
Howard, two noble matrons, to wait on the Lady Katherine, 
who was about to proceed to Westminster. Smiles and whispers 
were interchanged ; and, when to this was added, that as much 
courtesy should be shown the counterfeit youth as might 
not endanger his safe keeping, the light laugh followed ; though, 
as if to meet and overthrow the raillery, it was added, this 




A PB0CE83T0N. 



349 

was ordered for his royal wife’s sake, who was cousin to Eng- 
land’s dear ally, the king of Scotland. These idle tales did not 
reach York’s ear : wherever he showed himself, he enforced 
such personal respect, that there was no likelihood that any 
conjecture, linked with his lady’s name, would be hazarded 
before him. He was told that the king entertained her royally ; 
and when he heard that she was to be presented to his sister, 
the Queen Elizabeth, a thrill of joy passed into his heart. His 
sister! as a boy, he remembered the fair, kind girl, whom lie 
had called his loved and most sweet sister : he knew that she 
was conscious of his truth, and, though wedded to his rival, 
loved not her lord. It was a pleasing dream, to fancy these 
gentle ladies together; to know r that, while the one spoke her 
affection and praise, the other must feel the kindred blood warm 
in her heart, and proudly, though sadly, acknowledge him her 
worthy brother. 



CHAPTER L. 

A PB0CE8SI0N. 



They are noble sufferers. I marvel 
How they’d have looked, had they been victors, that 
With such a constant nobility enforce 
A freedom out of bondage. 

Two Noble Kinsmen. 

The vulgar rabble, fond of any sort of show, were greedy of 
this new one. In all parts the name of the duke of York, of the 
counterfeit Perkin, drew a concourse of gazers. The appetite 
was keenest in London ; and many a tawdry masque and mime 
was put in motion, to deck the streets through which the de- 
feated youth was to pass. Vainly ; he entered London at night, 
and was conducted privately to Westminster. What strange 
thing was this P What mark of reality did his veiy forehead 
wear, that Henry, so prodigal of contumely on his foes, dared 
not bring him forward for the public gaze P One man was put in 
the stocks for a similar remark ; and on the following day it was 
suddenly proclaimed, that Perkin would go in procession from 
Westminster to Saint Paul’s, and back again. A troop of horse 
at the appointed hour left the palace : in the midst of them rode 
a fair young gentleman, whose noble mien and gallant bearing 



 




350 



A PHOCESSIOX. 



gave lustre to his escort : his sweet aspect, his frank soft smile 
and lively but calm manner, had no trace of constraint or de- 
basement, “ He is unarmed — is that Perkin ? No, the earl of 
Warwick — he is a prince sure — yet that is he !.” Such murmurs 
sped around; at some little distance followed another burlesque 
procession ; a poor fellow, a Cornishman, was tied to an ass, his 
face to the tail, and the beast now proceeding lazily, now driven 
by sticks, now kicking, now galloping, made an ill-fashioned 
mirth for the multitude. . Whether, as York was not to be dis- 
graced in his own person, the contumely was to reach him 
through this poor rogue, or whether the eyes of men were to be 
drawn from nim to the rude mummery which followed, could 
only be guessed : the last was the effect produced. Richard 
heard mass at Saint Paul’s, and returned to Westminster un- 
molested by insult. It seemed but as if some young noble made 
short pilgrimage from' one city to the other, to accomplish a 
vow. The visit of ill-fated Warwick to the cathedral, before 
the battle of Stoke, had more in it of humiliating ostentation. 

He returned to the palace of Westminster. A few weeks he 
spent in mingled curiosity and anxiety concerning his future 
destiny. It was already accomplished. Modern times could 
not present anything more regular and monotonous than the 
way of life imposed upon him. It was like the keeping of a 
lunatic, who, though now sane, might be momentarily expected 
to break out in some dangerous explosion, rather than the con- 
fining of a state-prisoner. Four armed attendants, changed every 
eight hours, constantly guarded him, never moving, according 
to the emphatic language of the old chroniclers, the breadth of 
a nail from his side. He attended early mass each morning : 
he was permitted to take one hour’s ride on every evening that 
was not a festival. Two large gloomy chambers, with barred 
windows, were allotted him. Among his guards, he quickly per- 
ceived that the same faces seldom appeared ; and the most 
rigorous silence, or monosyllabic discourse, was imposed upon 
them. Harsher measures were perhaps spared, from respect to 
his real birth, or his alliance with the king of Scotland : yet 
greater severity had been less tantalizing. As it was, the corpse 
in the grass-grown grave was not more bereft of intercourse with 
the sunny world, than the caged duke of York. From his 
windows, he looked upon a deserted court-yard ; in his rides, 
purposely directed to unfrequented spots, he now and then saw 
a few human beings — such name could be hardly bestowed on 
his stony-faced, stony-hearted guards. 

Richard was the very soul of sympathy ; he could muse for 
hours in solitude, but it must be upon dear argument, that had 




A PROCESSION . 



331 



for its subject the pleasures, interests or affections of others. 
He could not entertain a heartless intercourse. Wherever he 
saw the human countenance, he beheld a fellow-creature ; and, 
duped a thousand times, and a thousand times deceived, “still 
he must love.” To spend the hour in sportive talk ; fondly to 
interchange the gentle offices of domestic life ; to meet peril and 
endure misery with others ; to give away himself, and then re- 
turn to his inner being, laden like a bee with gathered sweets ; 
to pile up in his Btore-house, memory, the treasured honey of 
friendship and love, and then away to nestle in the bosom of 
his own dear flower, and drink up more, or gaily to career the 
golden fields ; such was his nature : and now — this was worse 
loneliness ; this commune with the mutes of office ; to be 
checked by low-born men ; to feel that he must obey the beck 
of an hireling. A month, interspersed with hopes of change, he 
had endured the degradation ; now he began to meditate escape. 
Yet he paused. Where was Katherine P where his many zealous 
friends r 

The Lady Katherine was in an apartment of the palace, whose 
arched and fretted roof, and thick buttresses, were well adapted 
to impart a feeling of comfortable seclusion from the rough 
elements without. The dulness of dark November was gladdened 
by a huge wood fire. The little prince of Wales was narrating 
some strange story of fairyland ; and bluff Harry was setting 
two dogs to quarrel, and then beating his favourite for not con- 
quering, which seeing, his sister Margaret drew the animal from 
him to console and caress it. The gentle queen bent over her 
embroidery. Listening she was to her favourite Arthur, inter- 
rupting him with playful questions and exclamations, while Ka- 
therine now kindly attended to the boy, now turned anxiously 
at every sound. She rose at last : “ Surely vespers are ringing 
from the abbey. My lord the king promised to see me before 
vespers.” 

“ My lord the king is very gracious' to you, sweet one,” said 
Elizabeth. { 

“ Methinks by nature he is gracious,” replied the princess ; 
“ at least, I have ever found him so. Surely the shackles of 
state are very heavy, or ere this he would nave granted my 
prayer, which he has listened to so oft indulgently.” 

The queen smiled faintly, and again pursued her work with 
seeming earnestness. Was it jealousy that dimmed the siTk of 
her growing rosebud by a tear — or what name shall we give to 
the feeling P — envy we may not call it, she was too sweetly good 
— which now whispered, “.Even he, the cold, the stern, is kind 
to her ; my brother loves her passionately ; and many a laneo 



I 



 




A PBOCESSION. 



352 

has been broken for her. Happy girl ; happy in adversity ; 
■while I, England’s miserable queen, am forgotten even by my 
fellow-prisoner of Sheriff Hutton, poor Warwick ! he might 
have been my refuge : for the rest, how hard and rocky seem all 
human hearts to me.” Her tears now flowed fast. Catherine 
saw them : she approached her, saying, “ Dear and royal lady, 
none should weep, methinks, but only I, whose mate is caged 
and kept away ; none sigh but poor Kate, whose more than life 
hangs on state policy ; or is it for him these tears are shed?” 

Still Elizabeth wept. Accustomed to the excess of self- 
restraint, timid, schooled to patience, but with the proud, fiery 
spirit of a Plantaganet, tamed, not dead within her, she could be 
silent, but not speak by halves. The very natural vivacity of 
her nature made her disdain not to have her will, when once it 
was awaked. She struggled against her rising feeling ; she 
strove to suppress her emotion ; but at last she spoke ; and 
once again, after the ten years that had elapsed since her 
mother’s imprisonment, truth was imaged by her words. To 
none could she have addressed herself better. The life of the 
Scottish princess had been spent in administering balm to 
wounded minds : the Bame soft eloquence, the same persuasive 
counsels, that took the sting of remorse from her royal cousin’s 
conscience, was spent upon the long-hidden sorrows of the 
neglected wife, the humbled woman. From her own sensitive 
mind she culled the knowledge which taught her where and how 
peace and resignation were to be found. The piety that mingled 
with her talk was the religion of love ; her philosophy was mere 
love ; and it was the spirit of love, now kindling the balmy 
atmosphere of charity to many, now concentred in one point, 
but ever ready to soothe human suffering with its soft influence, 
that dwelt upon her lips, and modulated her silver voice. 
Elizabeth felt as if she had wandered long in a wolf-haunted 
wild, now suddenly changed to a fairy demesne, fresh and beau- 
tiful as poet’s dream. Timidly she feared to set her untaught 
feet within the angel-guarded precincts. The first effect of her 
new friend’s eloquence was to make her speak. After years of 
silence, to utter her very inner thoughts, her woman’s fears, her 
repinings, her aversions, her lost hopes and affections crushed : 
she spent her bitterest words ; but thus it was as if she emptied 
a silver chalice of its gall, to be refilled by Katherine with 
heavenly dew. 

The weeks of baffled expectation grew into months. It is a 
dreary portion of our existence, when we set our hearts upon an 
object which recedes as we approach, and yet entices us on. The 
kings courtesy and smiles, and evident pleasure in her society, 




A PfiOCESSION. 



353 



gave birth to warm hopes in the bosom of the princess. She 
had asked to share her husband’s prison ; she had besought to 
be permitted to see him ; it seemed, from Henry’s vague but 
consolatory answers, that to-morrow she would receive even 
more than her desires. The disappointment of the morrow, 
which she lamented bitterly at first, then grew into the root 
whence fresh hopes sprang again, to be felled by the cruel axe, 
again to shoot forth : the sickening sensation of despair crept 
over her sometimes ; her very struggles to master it enfeebled 
her ; and yet she did conquer all but the hard purposes of the 
tyrant. Now a messenger was to be despatched to Scotland ; 
now he expected one thence ; now an embassy from Burgundy : 
he implored her patience, and talked back the smiles into her 
saddened countenance. He was almost sincere at first, not in 
his excuses, but in his desire to please her at any sacrifice ; but 
this disinterested wish grew soon into a mere grasping at self- 
gratification. In a little while he hoped she would be per- 
suaded how vain it was to expect that he should set free so 
dangerous a rival ; and yet he uid not choose to extinguish all 
her anticipations ; for perhaps then she would desire to return 
to her native country ; and Henry would have sacrificed much 
to keep her where he could command her society. Thus he 
encouraged her friendship with the queen, though he wondered 
how one so wise, so full of reflection and reason as Katherine, 
could love his feeble-minded wife. 

The king underrated the talents of Elizabeth. This hapless 
woman had perceived that contention was useless ; she there- 
fore conceded everything without a struggle. Her energies, 
spent upon endurance, made her real strength of mind seem 
tameness ; but Katherine read with clearer eyes. We are all 
and each of us riddles, when unknown one to the other. The 
plain map of human powers and purposes, helps us not at all to 
thread the labyrinth each individual presents in his involution 
of feelings, desires, and capacities ; and we must resemble, in 
quickness of feeling, instinctive sympathy, and warm bene- 
volence, the lovely daughter of Huntley, before we can hope to 
judge rightly of the good and virtuous among our fellow- 
creatures. 

The strangest sight of all was to see Henry act a lover’s part. 
At first he was wholly subdued, 

“ So easy is t’ appease the stormy wind 
Of malice, in the calm of pleasant womankind.” 

Even generosity and magnanimity, disguises he sometimes wore 
the better to conceal his inborn littleness of soul, almost pos- 

2 A 




354 



A PROCESSION. 



sesscd him ; for a moment he forgot his base exultation in 
crushing a foe, and for a moment dwelt with genuine pleasure on 
the reflection, that it was in his power to gratify her every wish, 
and to heap benefits on one so lovely and so true. When first 
she was presented to him, in all the calm majesty of her self- 
conquering mood, her stainless loveliness had such effect, that 
surely he could deny her nothing ; and when she asked that no 
foul dishonour should be put upon her lord, he granted almost 
before she asked : his expressions of service and care were 
heartfelt; and she lost every fear as she listened. When 
custom, which, with man, is the devourer of holy enthusiasm, 
changed his purer feelings into something he dared not name, 
he continued to manifest the same feelings, which had bested 
him so well at first, and to angle with his prey. Though he 
scarcely knew what he wished, for a thousand worldly motives 
sufficed to check any dishonourable approach, it was enough that 
she was there ; that, when she saw him, her countenance lighted 
up with pleasure ; that with the sweetest grace she addressed 
her entreaties to his ear ; not in abrupt demands, but in such 
earnest prayer, such yielding again, to return with another and 
another argument ; that often he thought, even if he had wished 
to concede, he would hold out a little longer, that still her sweet 
voice might address him, still her stately neck be bent imploring 
as she fixed her blue eyes on him. 

It was very long before the artless girl suspected that he had 
any other intent but to consent at last to her supplications. As 
it was as easy to him to lure her on with a greater as a lesser 
hope, she even fancied that, under certain restrictions, Yoi-k’s 
freedom might be restored ; and that with him, in some remote 
country, she might bless Tudor as a generous adversary. 
Elizabeth was afraid to discover the truth to her, for she also 
dreaded to lose her, and was afraid that, on the failure of her 
hopes, she would seek to return to Scotland ; or at least seclude 
herself from her husband’s jailer. Monina first awoke her to 
the truth. Monina, who had been to Brussels, to consult with 
the Duchess Margaret and Lady Brampton, and who came back 
full of projects for her friend’s escape, heard with amazement 
and scorn the false lures held out by Henry ; she impatiently 
put aside every inducement for delay, and with rash, but 
determined zeal, framed many a scheme for communicating with 
him, and contriving means for his flight. 

He himself — the chained eagle — was sick at heart. No word 
— no breath — no hope ! Had all forgotten him P Was he, yet 
living, erased from the lists of memory P Cut off from the beloved 
beings in whom he had confided, through their own act— no 




A PROCESSION. 



355 



longer apart of their thoughts, their lives, themselves? Stood 
he alone in this miserable world, allied to it by hate only — the 
hate borne to him by his foe ? Such gloomy misgivings were 
so alien to his nature, that they visited him as cruel iron torture 
visits soft human flesh. That she — the life of his life, should be 
false and cold ! Each friend forgetful — Monina — Plantagenet 
—all — all! Oh, to stretch his quivering frame upon burning 
coals, had been to slumber on a bed of roses, in comparison with 
the agony these thoughts administered. His calmer moods, 
when he believed that, though tardy, they were true, were 
scarcely less painful. Then the real state of things grew more 
galling : the bluntness or silence of his keepers ; their imper- 
turbable or rude resistance to his questions ; the certainty that 
if one answered graciously — that one he should see no more. 
Often he felt as if he could not endure his present position one 
hour longer. Fits of hope, meditations on escape, chequered 
his days; so that all was not so dark — but the transition from 
one emotion to another, each to end in blank despair, tasked his 
mercurial soul. Patience died within him — he might perish in 
the attempt, but he would be free. 

Urged by Monina, by her own awakening fears, and above all 
by the keen burning desire of her heart, the Lady Katherine 
became very importunate with the crafty monarch to be per- 
mitted an interview with her lord. Henry was in no mood to 
grant her request : the thousand designs he had meditated to 
disgrace his victim, he had given up for her sake, because he 
would not refuse himself the pleasure of seeing her, and feared 
to behold aversion and horror mark an aspect hitherto all 
smiles towards him. The same fear, nurtured by the expres- 
sions of her tender affection, made him hesitate, ere he should 
endeavour to convince her that she had misallied herself to an 
impostor. Indeed, when at last he ventured to frame a speech 
bearing such a meaning, her answer told him, that if he could 
have changed the Koyal York into base-born Perkin, the young 
and innocent wife would still cling to him to whom she had 
pledged her rows ; to whom she had given himself ; whose 
own, in Heaven’s and her own eyes, she unalienably was. But 
now Henry, grown more callous as time elapsed, coined a new 
scheme, vile as his own soul : he resolved, by acting on her 
•woman’s fears, tenderness, and weakness, to make her the 
instrument of persuading her lord to some damning confession, 
that must stamp him as a deceiver for ever. This bright project 
animated him to fresh endeavours to please, and her with fresh 
hopes ; yet he paused a little before he sought to execute it. 

Winter crept on into spring, and spring ripened into summer, 

2 a 2 




356 



A PB0CESSI0X. 



and still the various actors in this tragic drama were spending 
their lives, their every thought and heart's pulsation on one 
object. Richard had latterly received intimation that he would 
be permitted an interview with his beloved White Rose ; and a 
week or two more were patiently endured with this expectation. 
Katherine each day believed, that cn the morrow she should see 
him, whom now she conversed with only in her nightly dreams, 
and woke each morning to find him fled with them. Some 
change approached : Henry’s promises became more clear in 
their expression ; his assertions more peremptory : he would at 
last name his conditions, which she was to communicate to her 
lord ; even Elizabeth almost dared to hope. Monina alone, 
deeply impressed with a belief in the malice of Tudor, was 
incredulous, and reluctantly yielded to Katherine’s request to 
suspend yet a little while herplots. 

Whitsuntide arrived, and Henry at last would decide. This 
estival was to be spent at Shene : thither the royal family went, 
accompanied by the princess, who ^vanquished her disappoint- 
ment at further delay, not to appear an ingrate to the fair- 
promising king. Indeed, in the secure hope she cherished of 
again seeing him who was her earthly paradise, she smiled 
through the very heart-gushing tears expectation caused to flow. 
On Whit Sunday she awoke, resolving to discard the heavy 
load of anticipated evil that involuntarily weighed at her heart. 
She knelt at mass, and fervently strove to resign her dearest 
wishes to the direction of her God ; and yet that she should see 
him again soon — oh ! how very soon, — filled her with such dizzy 
rapture, that her orisons were forgot midway — remembered, and 
turned to thanksgivings — till she recollected that still her hope 
was unfulfilled ; and fear awoke, and with tears and prayer she 
again strove to ease her agitated heart. 

That very night a thunder-storm roused her from slumber : 
with those unexplained emotions, which, in fateful periods, make 
so large a portion of our lives, she felt as if every clap spoke 
audibly some annunciation which she could not interpret : as if 
every lurid flash were sent to disclose a sight whicn yet she 
could not see. At length the rain ceased, the thunder grew 
distant, the lightning faint ; a load was lifted from her soul ; she 
slept, with the firm belief that on the morrow tidings, not all 
evil, would be brought from London. 

Some tidings surely came. What they were she was not per- 
mitted to know. For the first time Henry made her a real 
prisoner ; she was carefully guarded, and none were allowed to 
spyak to her. Overwrought by her expectations, this seemed a 
frightful cruelty ; and yet, where caution was used, there must 








ANT ESCAPE. 



357 

be fear : her— bis enenry feared — then good had occurred. She 
dared not permit her imagination to picture forth the thing 
which yet was for ever present to it ; and, while all else were 
amazed to hear that York had escaped and fled, his lovely, 
anxious wife, cut off from communication with all, knew only 
that she alone was ignorant of what she would have given her 
life to learn. 



CHAPTER LI. 

AN ESCAPE. 



Thou, God of winds, that reign est in the seas, 

That reignest also in the continent, 

At last blow up some gentle gale of ease, 

The which may bring my ship, ere it be rent, 

Unto the gladsome port of her intent. 

Sfbnskr. 

Duhing the winter and the untoward late spring, Richard had 
endured his captivity. The warm happy summer season, calling 
all nature to a jubilee, at first saddened, then animated him to 
contrive new projects of escape. The promised interview with 
his White Rose tempted him to delay ; while an inner spirit 
rebelled even against this dear enticement, and bade him fly. 

On the evening of the ninth of June, he was permitted to 
attend vespers in a secluded chapel of Westminster Abbey. 
During the short passage from the palace to the cathedral, it 
seemed to him as if a new life were awake everywhere; an 
unknown power, on the eve of liberating him. Never before 
had he prayed so fervently for freedom : the pealing organ, the 
dim arched venerable vault above, acted as stimulants to his 
roused and eager soul ; he stood tiptoe, as on the eve of the 
accomplishment of his desire. 

A deep and awful sound suddenly shook the building ; a 
glaring, lurid flash, filled with strange brilliancy the long, dark 
aisle. A clap of thunder, loud, and swiftly repeated, rever- 
berated along the heavens ; the shrill scream of women answered 
the mighty voice. The priest who read the service, saw his 
sacred book glared on by so keen a flash, as blinded him to the 
dimmer light that succeeded. Every being in the church sank 
pa their knees, crossing themselves, and striving to repeat their 



 




338 



AN ESCAPE. 



Paternosters and Aves ; while Richard stood fearless, enjoying the 
elemental roar, exulting in the peal, the flash, the tempestuous 
liavock, as powers yet rebellious to his conqueror. Freedom 
was victorious in the skyey plains ; there was freedom in tho 
careering clouds, freedom in the sheeted lightning, freedom in 
the cataract of sound that tore its way along. On his poor 
heart, sick of captivity, and enforced obedience, the sweet word 
liberty hung as a spell : every bird and tiny fly he had envied as 
being free ; how much more things more powerful, the chainle6S 
destructions of nature. The voice of God speaking in his own 
consecrated abode was terrible to all ; soothing to himself alone. 
He walked to the southern entrance of the edifice to mark the 
splashing shower, as it ploughed the stones : two of bis keepers 
remained on their knees, paralyzed by terror ; the two others 
followed trembling. At that moment a louder, a far, far louder 
clap burst right above them, succeeding so instantaneously tho 
blinding flash, that, while every object was wrapped in flame, the 
pavement and fretted roof of the abbey shook with the sound. 
A bolt had fallen^ the priest at the altar was struck ; with 
mingled horror and curiosity one of York’s remaining guards 
rushed towards the spot ; the only remaining one was kneeling 
in an agony of terror. York stood on the threshold of the 
porch ; he advanced a few steps beyond ; a new fear possessed 
the fellow.. “ He will escape! — halloo! — James! — Martin!” 
The very words imparted the thought to the prince, who filled 
erewhile with wonder and religious awe, had forgotten his own 
sad plight. He turned to the man, who was doubtful whether to 
rush into the chapel for his comrades, or singly to seize his 
prisoner — his dagger was drawn. “ Put up that foolish steel,” 
said York, “it cannot harm one whom Goa calls to freedom- 
listen, He speaks ; — farewell ! ” The lightning again flashed ; 
with blue and forked flame it ran along the blade of the weapon 
raised against him ; with a shriek the man dashed it to the 
earth. Richard was already out of sight. 

The rain poured in torrents : it came down in continuous 
cataracts from the eaves of the houses. On this sunny festival 
few had remained at home ; and those, terror-stricken now, were 
on their knees ; no creature was in the streets as the fugitive 
sped on, ignorant whither he should go. London was a vast, 
unknown labyrinth to him : as well as he could divine, he directed 
his flight eastward, and that with such velocity, that he might 
compete with a horse in full career. If any saw him, as thus 
with winged heels he flew along, they did not wonder that a 
person should hasten to shelter out of the storm. It was of 
slight regard to him that rain and hail ploughed the earth, and 




AN ESCAPE. 



359 



f 



continued thunder echoed through the sky ; that alone and 
friendless he fled through the streets of his victor’s chief city. 
His exulting heart, his light, glad spirit told him that he was 
free ; if for a few minutes only, he would joyfully purchase with 
his life those few minutes’ emancipation from his frightful 
thraldom. No words could speak, no thought image the supremo 
gladness of that moment. 

Meanwhile, dark night, aided by the thick clouds which still 
poured down torrents of rain, had crept over the dim twilight, 
and began to imbarrier with doubt the path of the rejoicing 
fugitive. He found at last that the lines of houses receded, and 
that he was in an open space, in the midst of which rose a 
gigantic shadow, stretching itself in stillness and vastness on the 
summit of the rising ground before him ; — it was the cathedral 
of St. Paul’s. Now, cloaked by the dark and inclement night, 
he began to reflect on his actual situation : London might swarm 
with Hia partizans, but he knew not where to find one. Proba- 
bly all those who were occupied by his fate resided in West- 
minster, whence he had precipitately fled ; whither assuredly he 
would not return. These reflections perplexed him, but in no 
way allayed his transport at finding himself free ; he felt that if 
ho wandered to the wide fields, and died of hunger there, it were 
bliss enough to see the sky “unclouded by his dungeon roof; ” 
to behold the woods, the flowers, and the dancing waves ; nor 
be mocked with man’s shape, when those who wore it had sold 
man’s dearest privilege — that of allowing his actions to wait 
upon the free impulses of his heart. 

Still, therefore, he hurried along, and finally became com- 
pletely bewildered in some swampy, low fields, intersected by 
wide ditches. The night was pitchy dark ; nor was there any 
clue afforded him by which he could even guess whether he 
might not be returning on his path. Suddenly a small ray of 
light threaded the gloom ; it went and came, and at last remained 
stationary. With wavering will and irregular steps the prince 
proceeded towards it ; for lie would rather have died whero he 
stood, than discover himself, so to fall again into captivity. Once 
or twice he lost sight of this tiny earth-star, which evidently 
shone through some low casement ; and, as at last he caught 
sight of the solitary miserable hut where it was sphered, the 
recollection of his former asylum, of ill-fated Jane Shore’s penu- 
rious dwelling, flashed across him : with speedy, reassured 
pace he hurried on, leaping a ditch that obstructed his path, 
careless of every physical obstacle, when the malice of man 
was no longer to he apprehended. “Poor Jane!” he ejacu- 
lated ; and again he reflected with some wonder that, in every 




360 



AN ESCAPE. 



adversity, women had been his resource and support; their 
energies, their undying devotion and enthusiasm, were the 
armour and weapons with which he had defended himself from 
and attacked fortune. Even one so fallen and so low as poor 
Jane Shore, was, through the might of fidelity and affection, of 
more avail than all his doughty partizans, who, in the hour of 
need, were scattered and forgetful. 

The low-roofed cot was before him unmistaken. The crevice 
whence the light emanated was too small to admit his inquiring 
glance ; amid the driving, pattering rain he fancied that ne dis- 
tinguished voices within ; but, with a boldness which bade him 
fear nothing, he lifted the latch, and beheld in truth a sight of 
wonder ; — Monina, with a shriek started from her seat ; she 
folded him with wild joy in her fair arms, and then, blushing 
and trembling, threw herself on the neck of Lady Brampton ; 
and Jane herself rose from her couch of straw, more wan, more 
emaciated than ever ; — yet even over her sad pale face a smile 
wandered, showing in yet more ghastly hues the ruin it 
illumined. 

Questions, ejaculations, wonder and delight, burst from every 
lip : “ He is here to our wish ; the means of escape are secured, 
and he is here ! Oh, dearest Lady Brampton, do not the blessed 
angels guard him P ” Monina spoke, and her soft luminous eyes 
were fixed on him, as if not daring to believe the vision ; it was 
not the chastened delight of age, but the burning, ardent joy of 
a young heart, who had but one thought, one desire, ana that 
about to be accomplished; her flushed cheeks betokened her 
rapture : " I have repined, despaired, almost blasphemed ; yet 
he is here : how good is Almighty God ! Listen, dear my lord, 
how wondrously opportune your arrival is : Lady Brampton will 
tell you all. Oh, this new miracle is the blessed Virgin’s own 
achievement — you are free ! ” 

Scarcely less animated, the zealous lady detailed the circum- 
stances that united so favourably for him. She had been for 
some time at Brussels with the Duchess Margaret, who was 
more grieved than could be imagined at the capture of her 
beloved nephew. She lived in a state of terror on his account. 
That his life was awhile spared, availed little to pacify her ; the 
midnight murders and prison-assassinations, so rife during the 
wars of York and Lancaster were present to her imagination. 
She exhausted every device, every bribe, to gain partizans for 
him to achieve his freedom. Among other's, most liberal of pro- 
mises, was the false Clifford. After Kichard had escaped from 
him in the New Forest, he fell in with Frion, whose double plot 
being defeated, he strove to capture and accuse the accomplice 






AN ESCAPE. 



361 



whom, in fact, he had deceived. The knight fled ; he escaped 
to the Low Countries ; and by a glozing tale easily gained the 
ear of the duchess. Lost in England, perhaps lie wished to 
rebuild his fallen fortunes ; aided by her munificence, perhaps 
he prepared some new treachery ; however it might be, he was 
trusted, and was the soul of the present enterprise. De Faro’s 
vessel, refitted and well manned, was now anchored in the mouth 
of the Thames. Clifford undertook the task of foisting some 
creature of his own, or even himself, disguised, of undertaking 
the part of one of Richard’s keepers, when he doubted not to be 
able to secure his flight. 

With her usual vivacity Lady Brampton gave this account ; 
but no explanations on her Dart could dissipate the horror York 
felt at the name of Cliffora, or inspire him with anything but 
distrust of his intentions. Monina, before silenced by her san- 
guine associates, now gave expression to the terror and abhor- 
rence his interference occasioned ; she had come, exposing 
herself to a thousand perils and pains, merely that she might 
watch over his acts, and awaken her too credulous friends to a 
knowledge of his duplicity. But the danger was past ; before 
Clifford could know that he had escaped, York might reach 
the Adalid. 

Almost as an answering echo to these words there was a sound 
of hurrying steps. “ It is he : the traitor comes. Oh, bar the 
door ! ” There was no bar, no mode of securing this dwelling 
of penury ; three women alone were his guard : Monina, pale 
and trembling ; Lady Brampton, endeavouring to reassure her ; 
while Richard stood, forward, his gaze fixed on the opening door, 
whose latch was already touched, resolved to meet, with perfect 
show of frank reliance and intrepidity, the intruders. 

Sir Robert Clifford entered. Confusion, attempted boldness, 
and, last, sullen malice painted his aspect when he beheld the 

E rince. He was much changed, and looked almost an old man ; 

is dark and profuse hair was grizzled ; his grey eyes hollow : 
and his dress, though that of a cavalier, exhibited signs of 
habitual neglect. His person, always slight, had been redeemed 
from insignificance by its exquisite grace and elegance ; every 
trace of this was flown ; and nis haggard countenance and dimi- 
nutive size made even York scarcely credit that this was indeed 
the gay, reckless Robin. His resolve had been already made ; 
he addressed him kindly, saying, “ Sir Robert, I hear that you 
are willing to renew to me your broken vows : may you here- 
after keep them more faithfully.” 

Cliffora muttered a, few words ; he looked towards the door, 
*8 if desirous of escape ; he struggled with shame, guilt, and 



isle 




362 



AN ESCAPE. 



some other emotion. As soon as a consultation began as to the 
means to be adopted for the prince to reach the sea in safety, he 
conquered himself, entering into it with spirit and zeal. The 
plan he proposed was crafty, his own part in it the principal. 
He spoke of disguising the prince as a female attendant on 
Monina; of his and O’Water’s accompanying them along the 
river banks as soon as daylight. 

“ And wherefore not now P Or rather, wherefore even now 
do we not hasten to the Thames, and seize a boat? ” 

“ Because,” said Clifford, interrupting Monina, “ his highness’s 
flight is already known ; a line of boats intersects the Thames 
below London Bridge ; and lower still every craft; is on the 
alert.” 

Each one exchanged looks ; the knight continued : “ You all 
distrust me, and I wonder not. I am in your power now ; here 
are my unarmed hands ; even a woman may bind them. Go 
forth yourselves : seek the path to the sea : before an hour 
elapses the duke will be again a prisoner. You may in this wild 
spot plant your daggers in my heart to avenge, but that will not 
save him ; for I have no power here. But set me free, confide 
to my care, and, by the God that made me, he walks the deck of 
the Adalid ere the setting sun. I could tell you how this can 
be, and ye would not the more trust me, if I spoke of such alli- 
ance with, such power over, the rogues and vagabonds of this 
saintly city, as enables me to move strange engines to execute 
my will ; even if you credited me you would disdain that your 
hero should owe his life to such base means. Be it as you will : 
believe me ; and I pledge my life that his- grace will ride the 
dancing waves beyond King Henry’s reach to-morrow night.” 

“ I accept the pledge,” replied York, who had eyed him ear- 
nestly as he spoke. “ I commit myself to your care ; act 
speedily, without fear of balk or suspicion on my part.” 

Clifford’s lips curled into a triumphant smile ; because again 
he was trusted, or because again he would betray, it was hard to 
divine. “ I must beseech your patience in the first place,” said 
Sir Robert : " I cannot get thg fitting disguises during the 
night.” 

“ Night is no more,” replied Richard, throwing open the case- 
ment ; and the dusky room was illuminated by the day. In the 
cast there was a very fountain of light, which, welling up, 
flooded the flecked and broken clouds with rosy hues : the stars 
were gone ; a soft azure peeped between the breaking vapours ; 
the morning air was deliciously fresh ; the birds chirped ; a dis- 
tant watch-dog barked. Otherwise all was silent ; and security 
seemed to walk the earth. 




AN ESCAPE. 



363 






“I will go seek the needful dresses,” said Clifford. “Your 
Grace will await my return, even though my stay, lengthened 
beyond my expectation, give some reason for the distrust I read 
n every eye.” 

“ It is but too natural,” said the prince, “ that my kind 
friends should suspect you ; for myself, I have said the word ; 
I place myself in your hands : half measures were of no avail. 
If indeed you are a traitor, bring Tudor’s hirelings here to seize 
their prey. I cannot fear ; I will not doubt ; and, if in my 
soul any suspicion lurk, my actions shall not be guided by it. 
Go ; let your return be speedy or otherwise, I await you here.” 
Scarcely had the door closed, when Monina, whose eyes had 
been fixed on Clifford’s countenance during the whole scene, 
exclaimed : — “ This moment is our own ! Fly, my prince ; 
trust me — I know that bad man ; if he find you here when he 
returns, you are lost.” 

“ Hist! ” Jane spoke the word, and a dead silence fell upon 
the anxious band. The steps of a horse were heard : Monina 
flew to the casement. “ It is our faithful Irish friend, my lord ; it 
is O’ Water." The door was opened; and each one crowded 
round the visitant. He uttered a “By the mischief! " which 
sounded like a benediction, when he saw the duke of York, 
adding, “ All is well, all in readiness ; I left the Adalid, after 
the storm yester evening, in safe anchorage.” 

“ Oh yes, safety,” cried the enthusiastic Spaniard ; “ safety or 
death! Trust not false Clifford — seize the fleeting, precious 

opportunity, — O’ Water’s horse ” 

“ Is blown,” said Bichard ; “ hft cannot carry me.” 

“And the ways strangely beset,” said the mayor. “Just 
now I saw a young gentleman seized, much to his annoyance, 
by some patrol. He bribed dearly, but they would not listen — 
the whole country is alarmed.” 

“ I will wait for Clifford,” continued York ; “ and trust in 
Providence. Some kind friend only bestow a dagger on me : I 
would not be taken like an unarmed girl.” 

“ A tramp of steeds — they are coming, Clifford guides them 
hither ; we are lost !” cried Lady Brampton. 

“ Oh, fly — fly — my liege,” said O’W ater, “ expose not these 
women to the assault. Poor Bose Blanche can yet bear you 
fast and far.” 

The sound as of a troop of horse neared. The prince saw 
O’Water blocking up the casement, and then draw his sword. 
Monina, wild with agony, fell at his feet : — “ Fly, my lord, fly 
for the Lady Katherine’s sake : fly for mine own : must I see 
you die P I, who have lived — alas ! how vainly. Lady Bramp- 








364 



AN ESCAPE. 



ton — beseech — command — he must fly. O, they will be here — 
to seize, to murder him ! ” 

“ Here is my dagger, my lord,” said O’Water, coolly ! — ■ 
“ Defend yourself — meanwhile — now at our last hour — for surely 
it is come, Our Lady recommend us to God’s holy grace.” 

The gallop of a troop grew yet more distinct ; Richard looked 
round : Jane was kneeling, her face buried in her hands : 
Lady Brampton pale, but resolved, was ready to sacrifice the 
life she had spent for him. O’Water had resigned himself to 
the final act of a life of peril, sealed in his blood. The lovely 
Spaniard alone lost all her self-possession ; tears streaming 
from her uplifted eyes ; her arms twined round his knees : to 
fly — fly ! was the only thought she could express. “ I yield,” 
said York ; “ throw open the door.” O’Water’s horse had been 
led within the hut ; he vaulted on his back ; he placed the 
dagger in his belt. “ That way,” Lady Brampton cried, “ it 
leads to the river’s side below." 

A scream from Monina followed his swift departure. “ He 
perishes — he betrays us !” cried O’Water. Richard galloped on 
not across the field away from town, but right into danger; 
there, whence the troop was certainly approaching. He was 
lost to view on the instant, in a straggling lane which stretched 
out half across the field. A moment after coming from the 
other side, unobserved till in the hut, Clifford entered alone. 
He bore a large bundle ; his steps were cautious and swift ; his 
look told that he was intent only on the object of his errand. 
“ I have succeeded beyond my hope. My life on it all is safe. 
Where have ye hid the prince P Oh, prithee, fear not, nor 
trifle : each second is precious.” 

The confused wondering looks of all present replied to him. 
Clifford laughed, a short, sarcastic, bitter laugh : and then, 
with a fiendlike expression of face, he said, “ The prince has 
done well ; and ye have all done well : and bis Grace will thank 
you anon. Ye grudge me, maybe, the Duchess Margaret’s 
bouuty. She promised largely ; ’twere pity to share the boon 
among so many. Now mark the event ! ” 

These words displayed the baseness of his motive, yet 
vouched for his sincerity. He threw a menacing glance around, 
and then quitted the hut; and with hurried pace hastened 
across the field towards the town. 



 




365 



CHAPTER LII. 

% 

TREASON. 



Full many a glorious morning have I seen. 

Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, 

Kissing with golden face the meadows green; 

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; 

Anon, permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face. 

Sbakspeake. 

The duke of York, urged so earnestly to fly, felt that to do 
so was to save himself at the expense of his friends, on whom 
Henry’s vengeance would severely fall, when he found himself 
balked of his victim. He consented to leave Jane Shore’s 
abode, with the resolve not of effecting his escape, but of 
securing, by surrendering himself, the safety of his defenceless 
adherents united under her lowly roof. He directed his course 
as he believed into the very centre of danger, entering the 
narrow straggling street whence the sound of the advance of 
the troop of horse had been heard. He entered the lane ; it 
was empty. The ominous sounds* were still sharp and near; it 
seemed as if they were in some street parallel to the one which 
he threaded. He turned at right angles into another, to reach 
the spot : again he turned, led by the baffling noise, in another 
direction. It was just four in the morning; there were but 
few abroad so early : he saw a monk gliding stealthily from 
under a dark archway, and a poor fellow, who looked as if he 
had slept beneath heaven’s roof, and had not wherewithal to 
break his fast. True to the kindly instincts of his nature, 
Richard felt at his girdle for his purse ; it was long since he had 
possessed the smallest coin of his adversary’s realm. “ I, a 
prince! ” his feeling had been more bitter, but that his fingers 
came in contact with his dagger’s hilt, and the conviction of 
freedom burst with fresh delight upon him. Free, even in 
spite of its intents ; for the tramp which had gradually grown 
fainter, was dying absolutely away. 

They had probably reached the hut : thither he must return. 
It was no easy thing to find his way to it, he had so entangled 



 




366 



TREASON. 



himself in the narrow lanes, and wretched assemblages of 
dwellings huddled together on the outskirts of London. At 
length they opened before him : there was the dingy held, there 
the hut, standing in quiet beneath the rays of the morning sun, 
of the opening, summer, soft, sweet day. He was quickly at 
its threshold ; he entered. Jane was within, alone, seated in 
her wooden chair ; her hands clasped ; her pale face sunk on 
her bosom : big tears were gathering in her eyes, and rolling 
down her faded cheeks unheeded. Jane’s aspect was usually so 
marble (a -miraculous chiselling of resigned hopelessness), her 
mien so unbending, that these signs of emotion struck the prince 
with wonder and compassion. 

He knelt at her feet and pressed her thin, but little hand to 
his lips, saying, “ Mother, where are my friends ? Mother, 
bless me before I go.” 

She dried the drops raining from her eyes, saying in a voice 
that expressed how occupied she was by her own emotion, “ I 
am a sinful woman ; well do these tones remind me of the same : 
those days are quite, quite gone, even from the memory of all ; 
but once they were as the present hour, when so he spoke, and 
I was lost, and still am lost ; for, through hunger and cold and 
shame, I love, and cannot quite repent. Will the hour ever 
come when I can regret that once I was happy P ” 

Many, many sad years had passed since words like these had 
dropped from poor Jane’s lips ; her feelings fed on her, possessed 
her, but she had been mute ; overflowing now, her aecent was 
calm ; she spoke as if she was unaware that her thoughts framed 
speech, and that she had an auditor. 

“ You have paid a dear penalty, and are surely forgiven,” 
said York, striving in his compassion to find the words that 
might be balm to her. 

“ Prince,” she continued, “ some time ago, — I have lost all 
date ; now the chasm seems nought, now a long eternity ; it was 
when my poor heart knew nothing of love, save its strong 
necessity and its delight ; methought I would see your father’s 
fair offspring, for I loved them for his sake. At the festival of 
Easter I placed myself near the gate of the royal chapel : I 
thought to be unseen. The happy queen held her sons each by 
the hand ; you were then, as now, his image, a little sportive 
blue-eyed cherub. The prince of Wales had his mother’s look : 
her large, dark eye, her soft, rosy mouth, her queenlike brow ; 
her beauty which had won Edward, her chaste sweetness, which 
had made her his w ife ; my presence — I thought to conceal it 
better — was revealed. The queen turned her face away ; there 
was anguish surely written there, for the prince darted on me 




TREASON. 



367 



* 

a look of suck withering scorn — yes, even he — his stainless, fair 
brow was knit, his bright angel’s face clouded : the look sank in 
my heart. Edward’s beautiful, pure child reproved me* hated 
me : for three days I felt that 1 would never see the deluder 
more : you do not share his abhorrence ; you do not hate the 
pale ghost of Shore’s wife ?” 

Such clinging to the past, such living memory of what was so 
absolutely dead to all except herself, awe-struck the prince : 
“ We are all sinners in the eye of God,” he said, “ but thy 
faults are surely forgiven thee, gentle one : thy tears have 
washed every trace away, and my brother, my poor murdered 
Edward, now blesses thee. Alas ! would that I could soften 
this last stage of your suffering earthly life.” 

“ ’Tis better as it is,” she answered hastily, “ once I felt dis- 
grace and privation keenly ; perhaps that may atone. Now, 
would it were more bitter, that so I might'wean myself from 
him whose very memory will lose my soul. You are good, and 
Our Lady will requite you. Now, listen : the damsel Monina 
and Master O’Water have gone towards Southend : your re- 
maining friends watch for you here. I shall see them again to- 
night : meanwhile it is to be feared that Clifford plots vengeance, 
and you must fly ; you must at every hazard go towards South- 
end. Beyond the town, on the lone sands, there is a wooden 
cross, telling where one escaped dseadful peril through the 
might of Him who died on it for us ; the smallest sign, the 
waving of your cap, will be watched for by the Adalid, they will 
send a boat to take you on board. Now swiftly depart: your 
life hangs on the hour ; this purse will furnish you with means : 
Lady Brampton left it for you.” 

“ Bless me, mother, ere I go.” 

“ Can a sinner’s blessing avail P fear rather that God punish 
me through you, whero my heart is garnered. Oh, may He 
indeed bless and save you ; and I shall die in peace.” 

He kissed her withered hand and was gone ; she dragged her 
failing limbs to the casement ; he was already lost among the 
straggling tenements that bounded her field. 

Again York was flying from his foe ; again studying to elude 
pursuit, with how different feelings. Before, his flight was 

J ieremptory, for the preservation of others, while he blindly 
onged to deliver himself to slavery. Now liberty, for its own 
dear sake, was worth the world to him. He had tasted to its 
dregs the misery of captivity, and loathed the very name ; 
whatever might betide, he would never submit willingly again to 
one hour’s thraldom. He felt his dagger’s hilt ; he drew it from 
the sheath, and eyed its polished blade with gladness ; for eight 




3C8 



f TBEA80N. 



months he had been living unarmed, under the perpetual keep- 
ing of armed jailors ; what wonder that he looked on this sharp 
steel as the key to set him free from every ill. 

He got clear of the town : the oj>en sky, the expanse of 
summer — adorned earth was before him. It was the “leafy 
month of June the far-spread corn-fields were getting yellow; 
and on their weltering surface played the shadows of a few 
clouds, relics of the last night’s storm : the sun was bright, the 
breeze balmy, already the very foot-paths were dry, and scarcely 
from its inmost leaves did any tree shake moisture : vet there 
was a freshness in the scene, a lightness in the air, the gift of 
tempest. The dazzling bud rose higher, and each island-vapour 
sank on the horizon ; the garish light clothed all things ; the 
lazy shadows crept up around the objects which occasioned 
them, while both object and its shade seemed to bask in the 
sunshine. Now overhead the meeting boughs of trees scarce 
sufficed to shield him from the penetrating glare ; now in the 
open path he was wholly exposed to it, as his diminished 
shadow clung almost to the horse’s hoofs. The birds twittered 
above ; the lazy mare was stretched basking, while her colt 
gambolled around ; each slight thing spoke of the voluptuous 
indolence of summer, and the wafted scent of hay, or gummy 
exhalation of evergreens, distilled by the warm noon, fed with 
languid sweets every delighted sense. If paradise be ever of 
this world it now embowered Richard. All was yet insecure ; 
his White Rose was far : but nature showered such ecstasy on 
him that his whole being was given up to her influence. Latterly 
the form of man had been ever before his aching sight under the 
aspect of an enemy ; the absence of every fellow-creature he 
hailed with gladness — free and alone, alone and free ! With the 
pertinacious dwelling on one idea, which is characteristic of 
overpowering feeling, this combination of words and ideas 
haunted his thoughts, fell from his lips, and made a part of the 
soul-subduing rapture now his portion. 

May it be added — we must address the unhappy and imagina- 
tive, who know that the future is so linked with the present as 
to have an influence over that present, when we add — that the 
intensity of the liberated prince’s feelings was wrought even to 
pain, by its being the last time that unalloyed delight would 
ever be his — the last when he might feel himself the nursling of 
nature, allied by the bond of enjoyment to all her offspring. He 
knew not this himself. Immersed in the sense of all that ho 
now possessed, he did not pause to reflect whether this were the 
last time, that he, the victim of chance and change, might ever 
see the waving corn or shadowy trees, or_ hear the carolling 




TREASOK. 



369 



birds, or the murmurs of the fresh free brooks gurgling round 
some pendant bough or jutting stone ; but that so it was to 
be, gave poignancy to his pleasure, a dreamy halo to the whole 
scene. 

It would appear, in spite of the precautions taken by his 
enemy, that the north bank of the Thames had been neglected. 
Eichard met with no impediment in his progress. Whenever 
he caught a sight of the river, he perceived unusual signs of 
activity. Little wherries shot hither and thither on its surface, 
revealing to him that keen and vigilant search was being made. 
Meanwhile he rode on, the broad stream for his guide, avoiding 
towns and villages. He ventured to purchase bread at a lone 
farmhouse — he alighted in a little grove beside a rivulet, to rest 
his tired horse, and to refresh himself. The summer heat re- 
called Andalusia to His mind; and scenes and objects, quite 
forgotten, wandered from their oblivious recesses back into his 
recollection. “ My happy boyhood ! My beloved Spain ! Why 

did I leave the land of beauty, where with Monina P” The 

idea of her whose fate was so inextricably linked with his, of his 
bride, who had quitted her palace home to share his adversity, 
reproached him. But his imagination could not fix itself on 
bleak Scotland, its wild haunts, its capricious king : it could 
only build another bower among the folds of the mountains of 
Andalusia, and place his White Hose therein. 

Again he pursued his way. The slant beams of the descend- 
ing sun were yet more sultry, but it sank swiftly down ; now 
casting gigantic shadows, bathing the tree-tops in golden dew, 
and flooding the clouds with splendour ; now it was gone, and 
the landscape faded into a brown mellow tint. The birds’ last 
chirp was given, the beetle wiuged her noisy flight, the congre- 
gated rooks bad flown to the belfry of the church, or to their 
nests in the churchyard trees ; silence and twilight crept up 
from the sedgy banks of the river, leaving the pale water alone 
to reflect the struggling farewell of day. In a little time the 
banks shelved away, giving place to broad yellow sand, Eichard 
ventured to bend his course along the beach. There was a bark 
upon the dim tide, whose progress he had watched since noou, 
whose flapping or full sails were the signs by which he foretold 
the prosperity of his destined voyage. Now with swelling canvas 
it walked swiftly over the water. 

He passed Southend. He perceived the tall rough-hewn 
cross. Two figures were seated at its foot. He hesitated, but 
quickly perceiving that one was a woman, he proceeded onwards. 
The stars were out ; the very west was dim ; in the offing there 
was a vessel, whose build and tall slender masts he thought he 




370 



TBEASON. 



recognized. The broad expanse of calm ocean was there, whose 
■waves broke in tiny ripplets on the beach. He reached the cross. 
O’Water and Monina saw his approach. The Irishman wel- 
comed him boisterously, in his own language. Monina uttered a 
benediction in Spanish. The scene was solitary and secure. 
Every danger was past. There floated the caravel which insured 
escape, and the stars alone witnessed their flight. Monina gavo 
her white veil to O’Water, who contrived to elevate it on tho 
cross. In a few moments the splash of oars was heard, and a 
dark speck floated towards them on the waves, from the direc- 
tion of the Adalid. “ They come ; you are safe,” murmured 
his lovely friend ; “ this hour repays for all.” The boat was 
already on the beach : a seaman leaped on shore. “ The White 
English Rose,” he said : such was the word agreed upon ; and, 
hailing it, Monina hurried to embark with her companions. The 
little boat was pushed from shore. O’Water gave vent to his 
delight in a shout that resembled a yelL Monina crept close to 
the duke of York : that he was safe was a truth so dear, so new, 
that she forgot everything, save her wish to assure herself again 
and again that so it was. At that moment of triumph, some- 
thing like sadness invaded .Richard : he had quitted the land for 
which his friends had bled, and he had suffered — for ever : he 
had left his Katherine there, where all was arrayed against 
him for his destruction. This was safety ; but it was the 
overthrow of every childish dream, every youthful vision ; it 
put the seal of ineffectual nothingness on his every manhood’s 
act. 

While each, occupied by their peculiar reveries, were aware 
only that they were being borne onwards on the waves, a smaller 
boat shot athwart their bows, and a voice exclaimed in Spanish, 
“ Desdicbados, estais all&P ” 

“My father — we are betrayed,” Monina cried: and she 
threw her arms round Richard, as if by such frail guard to 
shelter him — another stronger grasp was upon his arm as he 
endeavoured to rise — a voice, husky from passion, yet still 
Clifford’s voice, muttered, “ The day is mine — you — she — all 
are mine ! ” 

“ Thou fell traitor ! What ho ! De Faro, to the rescue ! ” 
already the mariner had thrown a grappling iron — already the 
Adalid was in motion towards them. Clifford strove to draw 
his sword. York was upon him in mortal struggle ; his keeu 
dagger, unsheathed, uplifted ; the boat lurched — his arm de- 
scended, but half the force of the intended blow was lost, while 
both fell overboard. The crew rushed to the boat’s side to 
loosen the grappling iron, which concluded its upset. De Faro, 




DEATH OF CLIFFOBD. 



371 



who stood high on the bows of his own boat, had seized Monina. 
Now another larger skiff" was seen approaching, “ To your oars ! M 
cried the Moor : they shot swiftly towards the Adalid, and 
while the sea became alive with craft, they reached the little 
caravel, who, turning her canvas to the wind, dropped down 
the tide. 



CHAPTER LIII. 

DEATH OF CLIFFOBD. 



Your love and pity doth the impression fill, 

Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow ; 

For what care I who calls me well or ill. 

So you o’erskreen my bad— my good allow ? 

Shaksfeare. 

On the fourth day of her restraint, imprisonment it could hardly 
be called, Lady Katherine was brought up to Westminster; she 
was carried in a close litter, and no familiar face or accustomed 
attendant came near. Her anxiety, her anguish weighed into- 
■lerably upon her — sleep had not visited her eyes ; she lived in 

f erpetual terror that each sound was freighted with fatal tidings. 

t was in vain that even reason bade her nourish hope — a 
stronger power than reason dwelt in her heart, turning all its 
yearnings to despair. * 

As she approached the city, she thought each step must reveal 
the truth of what she was to suffer. Lo ! the palace was entered 
— her habitual chamber — silence and solitude alone manifested 
that some change was even now in its effect ; she had no te^rs 
to spend upon her grief ; her changing colour, her quickened 
respiration showed that every faculty was possessed by terror. 
Two hours, each minute stretched to a long, long century, — two 
hours passed, when a little scroll was delivered to her ; it came 
from the queen, and contained these words, “ My White Rose ! 
the tempest has past — leaving, alas! devastation: we yet 

remain to each other — come ” 

These expressions spoke the worst to her fear-stricken mind 
— no subsequent agony might ever compare to the pang that 
made her very life-blood pause in her failing heart at that 
moment. Had the present and the future become void for him, 
to whom she was wedded heart and soul P — wedded in youth, 

2 b 2 



 




372 



DEATH OF CLIFFOBD. 



■when our hopes stretch themselves not merely to to*day and to- 
morrow, but even to eternity. In this state of human woe, we do 
not describe the disheartening and carking sorrows of those who 
lag on life’s highway — but the swift, poignant, intolerable ago- 
nies of the young, to whom the aspiration for happiness is a 
condition of being. The queen had been accustomed to witness 
and admire Katherine’s self-command and quiet fortitude ; she 
was awe-struck on beholding the devastation of the last four 
days, and the expression of wild horror on her soft features. 
With feminine instinct she read her heart, her first words were, 
“ Sweet love, he lives — and he will live — his life is spared, and 
we may still hope.” 

Tears at last flowed from the mourner’s eyes, as she asked, 
“ What then will be his fate P — Shall I ever see him more ? ” 

“ How can we guess the hidden purposes of the king P By 
your enforced solitude you have escaped his scowling brow, his 
violence, his sarcasms ; again he smiles. My gentle Kate, my 
sweet, courageous sufferer, hitherto we have played with the 
lion’s fangs — they are unsheathed in anger now — let us prepare : 
he will be here anon.” 

The princess desired not to exhibit too humiliating a spectacle 
of misery to her cruel foe — she checked her weeping — she en- 
deavoured to forget the burning agony that tortured her beating 
heart. “ Let him but live ; let me but once more see him and 
the unbidden tears flowed again. The king soon broke in upon 
them ; his look was haughty even to insolence : an expression 
of vulgar triumph was in his eyes, that baffled the eager scan- 
ning gaze of the hapless princess. He said, scoffiugly (and was 
it in man’s natur£ or only in Henry’s, to look on the sad, but 
lovely countenance of his victim, and to mock her woe ?), “ We 
congratulate you, lady, on the return of the gentle Perkin to 
our good city of W estminster — do not weep — he is in safe 
keeping now, very safe — it is no feathered shoo our Mercury- 
wears this day.” 

“ Holy Virgin ! ” cried Katherine, “ your grace docs not 
surely mean ” 

“ Pear not — he lives,” continued Henry, his scorn growing 
more bitter as he spoke ; “ he lives, and shall live, till the White 
Bose acknowledge on what base stock she is grafted, or he 
twist the rope by some new sleight. Is Perkin’s honoured 
dame satisfied P ” 

“ Oh, no, no, no ; some covert meaning you have ; in pity for 
a woman, speak.” The agony her countenance expressed was 
the mute echo of the frightful idea that convulsed her frame. 
“ Oh, let me see him ! you have tormented me too cruelly ; even 



 




DEATH OF CLIFFORD. 



373 



if my worst fears prove true, he suffers not more than I ; and can 
it be that the young limbs of my own loved Richard are put to 
torture ! ” 

Elizabeth grew ashy white ; the king listened with a sarcastic 
smile, saying, “ I had not thought of that ; you are a silly girl to 
mention such things.” 

“ I do not believe you,” exclaimed the princess, “ your looks 
belie your words ; let me but see him afar off, let me catch a 
glimpse of my princely love — is he in the Tower P ” 

“ Neither the Tower, nor any royal palace, detains your lord ; 
he is taking the air, pleasantly I hope, in the high places of our 
town. To finish this war of words, and your incredulity, will 
you visit your prince of plotters, and behold him on whom the 
king of Scotland bestowed your virgin hand ? ” 

“ See him ! Oh, even in death to clasp his decaying limbs 
were better than this absence ! ” 

An indefinable expression passed over Henry’s countenance as 
he replied, “ Be it as you wish ; you must hasten, for in an hour 
the occasion will be past ; it is but a few steps ; you shall be 
attended.” 

At last she was to see him ; this assurance filled and satisfied 
her ; there was no place in her heart for any other thought, 
sinister as were her torturer’s looks. Her eyes grew bright, her 
cheek resumed its vermeil tint, never had she looked more 
lovely ; it was a dazzling beauty ; one of those ineffable expres- 
sions, which, unless language could express music, or painting 
image fire, it is in vain to attempt to describe : an irradiation of 
love passed over her countenance ; her form ; something like it 
dwells in Raphael’s Madonnas and Guido’s Apgel of Annuncia- 
tion, — Henry was awestruck, yet did not falter in his purpose ; 
he let the bright angel go forth on her mission of good and love, 
to meet on her way a sight fiends might rejoice over. Human 
life and human nature are, alas ! a dread, inexplicable web of 
suffering and of infliction. 

In Westminster, in sight of the abbey where his ancestors 
had been crowned kings, the spectacle, intended to be so oppro- 
brious, was set forth. Henry, in his angry fear on his escape, 
in his exultation at his re-capture, forgot the soft tyranny of 
Katherine’s looks ; or rather he despised himself for the obedi- 
ence he had yielded to them ; and, in the true spirit of baseness, 
was glad to revenge on her the ill effects that had resulted to 
him through his involuntary enslavement. It was a triumph to 
him to disgrace the object of her care, for he was ill-read, his 
understanding affording him no key to the unknown language, 
in that illuminated page of the history of feminine excellence, 



 




374 



DE.ATII OF CLIFFORD. 



Trlaich. tells the delight she feels in exhausting her treasures ot 
devoted love on the fallen, because they need it most : he believed, 
that to present her husband to her, under the very infliction ot 
ignominy, would turn her affection to cold disdain — he permitted 
her to go. Attended by some of the body-guard and a gentle- 
man uslier, she hastened through the courts of the palace into 
the open square : there was assembled a crowd of common 
people, hushed to universal silence : at a distance from the centre 
some were talking aloud, and the name of “Perkin” was the 
burthen of their speech ; but pity stilled those nearest to the 
spot, towards which, to the surprise and horror of all, she 
hastened. The crowd instinctively closed to bar her advance ; 
and, when foi'ced to make way, in spite of the despotism of the 
times, the w ord “ Shame ” burst from the lips of many, especially 
the women. She was agitated by the obstacles, by the numerous 
uncourtly eyes turned on her ; still she went on, and soon saw — 

She understood not what — a kind of wooden machine, in which 
the lord of her heart sat. There had been a time when pride 
and royal majesty of soul had shed such grandeur over York, 
that, when exposed as a show, he bad excited reverence, not 
scoffing. Now he was evidently labouring under great physical 
suffering; his brow was streaked with mortal paleness, his 
cheeks were colourless ; his fair hair fell in disordered ringlets 
round his youthful but wan countenance ; he leaned his head 
against the side of the. machine ; his eyes were half Bliut ; it was 
not shame, but suffering, that weighed upon their lids, and 
diffused an air of languor and pain over his whole person. 
Katherine hastened towards him, she knelt on the unworthy 
earth at his side, she kissed his chained hands. “ You are ill, 
my love ; my ever dear Richard, what has happened P for you are 
very ill.” 

Roused by such music from the lethargy that oppressed him, 
yet still overcome, he replied, "Yes; and I do believe that all 
will soon end, and that I am stricken to the death.” 

She grew pale ; she called him cruel ; asking him how he could 
dream of leaving her, who was a part of him, alone in the deso- 
late world. “ Because,” he answered with a faint smile, “ the 
world is kind to all, save me. No taint, dear love, attaches 
itself to your name ; no ill will mark yotir fate, when you are no 
longer linked to such a thing as I. God has spoken, and told 
me that this earth is no dwelling for one, who, from his cradle to 
this last shame, has been fortune’s step-child, and her despised 
toy. How often have I been dragged to the utmost verge of 
life : I have felt indignation, anger, despair; now I am resigned ; 
I feel the hand of the Mighty One on me, and I bow to it. In 



g[ 




DEATH OF CLIFFORD. 375 

very truth, I am subdued ; I sleep away the weary hours, and 
death will end them all.” 

With every expression of tenderness, Katherine endeavoured 
to recall him to life and to herself. She spoke of another escape, 
which it would be her care to achieve, of the solitude, of the 

E aradise of love they would enjoy together. “ My poor girl,” 
e replied, “ teach your young heart to seek these blessings 
apart from me ; I were the very wretch Tudor stigmatises me, 
could I live under a memory like this. Forget me, my White 
Hose ; paint with gaudier colours the sickly emblem of my 
fortunes ; forget that, duped by some strange forgery, you were 
wedded to — Perkin Warbeck.” 

In spite of himself, large drops gathered ip his eyes, swelling 
the downcast lids, and then stealing down. Katherine kissed 
them from bis cheek ; a thousand times more noble, royal, god- 
like, she called him ; had not the best and worthiest suffered 
ignominious punishment ; even our blessed Lord himself P His 
own acknowledgment alone could disgrace him ; he must recall 
the false words wrung from his agony ; this last vile act of his 
enemy must awaken egch sovereign on his throne to indignation ; 
each would see in him a mirror of what might befall themselves, 
if fallen. James, her royal cousin, roused by her, should resent 
the stigma affixed to his kinsman. 

“ For your own sake, sweet, do so ; my soul dying within me 
is alive again with indignation, to think that your plighted 
wedded love is he, who is exposed to contumely ; but for that, 
methinks I would call myself by that wretched name I dared 
pronounce, so that the annals of the House of York escaped this 
stain : yet even thus I seem more closely allied to them ; for 
violent death, treachery, and ill have waited on each descendant 
of Mortimer ; my grandfather bore a paper crown in shame upon 
his kingly brow.” 

He was interrupted by the officer, who unclosed the instru- 
ment of disgrace. Richard, weak and failing, was assisted to 
rise ; Katherine supported him as a young mother her feeble 
offspring ; she twined her arms round him as his prop, and, in 
spite of misery, was enraptured once again to see, to hear, to 
touch him from whom she had been absent so long. “ This is 
not well ; it must not be ; his majesty will be much displeased,” 
said the chief of the guard, witnessing the compassion her tender 
care inspired. “ You must return to the palace, lady." 

“ One little step," pleaded Katherine ; “ if I should never see 
him more, how shoula I curse your cruelty ! I will not speak, 
as I half thought I would to these good people, to tell them that 
they may well honour him a princess loves : drag me not away 




376 DEATH OF CLIFFORD. 

yet — one more goo’d-bye ! — farewell, noble York, Kate’s only 
love ; — we meet again ; this parting is but mockery.” 

She wept on his bosom ; the sound of w T ailing arose in the 
crowd ; the prince’s eyes alone were dry ; he whispered comfort 
to her ; he promised to live, to baffle his foe again for her sake ; 
the words revived her, and she saw him depart with hope, with 
new joy kindled in her bosom. 

There had been another, the public gaze, till Katherine came 
to draw all eyes to a newer wonder. An emaciated, pale woman,' 
in a garb of penury, who knelt, telling her beads, beside York’s 
prison ; her lace was hid ; but her hands were thin and white to 
ghastliness ; during the last scene she had sobbed to agony, and 
now, as the place cleared, went her way silently, with slow, feeble 
steps. Many marked her with surprise and curiosity ; few 
knew that she was the Jane Shore, whose broken heart whis- 
pered misery, as she thought that she beheld King Edward’s 
guilt, in which she had shared, visited on his son. This cruel 
lesson of religion was a canker in her heart, and most true it 
was, as for as regarded her royal lover, that his light loves, and 
careless playing with sacred ties, had cagsed the blot of base 
birth to be affixed to his legitimate offspring, and so strewed the 
sad way that led them to untimely death. 

Henry, cruel as he was, had not the courage to encounter his 
insulted prisoner on her return. Katherine’s feelings were 
■wrought too high for any display of passion ; her anxiety was 
spent on how she could sooth York’s wounded feelings, and 
restore his health : it were vain to ask, she feared ; yet, if the 
king would permit her to attend on him, under whatever restric- 
tions, they should be obeyed; and this while poor Elizabeth 
besought her pardon with tears, for being the wife of her inso- 
lent adversary. She, a proud Plantagenet, was more sorely 
stung than the White Rose, by the indignity offered to her 
house ; and she entreated her not to love her brother less because 
of this foul disgrace. “ So doing,” said the quick-sighted queen, 
“you fulfil his dearest wish. While you are Richard’s loving 
wife, he, even he, the fallen and humiliated, is an object of envy 
to his majesty, w ho sought, by making you witness his ignominy, 
to detach you from him.” 

“ How r strange a mistake,” replied Katherine, “ for one so sage 
as the king : the lower my sweet Richard falls, the more need 
he surely has of me. Rut that love, such as ours, knits us too 
indivisibly to admit a reciprocity of benefit, I should say that it 
is to make me rich indeed, to enable me to bestow, to lavish good 
on my lord ; but we are one, and I but give to myself, and 
myself receive, if my weakness is of any strength to him. Dear 







DEATH OF ClIFFOBD. 



377 



sister mine, your liege, ■wise as he may Be, is a tyro in our 
woman’s lore — in the mysteries of devoted love ; he never felt 
one inspiration of the mighty sprite.” 

This was not quite true. For some few days Henry had been 
so inspired ; but love, an exotic in his heart, degenerated from 
being a fair, fragrant flower, into a wild, poisonous weed. Love, 
whose essence is the excess of sympathy, and consequently of 
self-abandonment and generosity, when it alights on an unworthy 
soil, appears there at first in all its native bloom, a very wonder 
even to the heart in which it has taken root. The cold, selfish, 
narrow-hearted Richmond was lulled to some slight forgetfulness 
of self, when first he was fascinated by Katherine, and he decked 
himself with ill-assorted virtues to merit her approbation. This 
lasted but a brief interval ; the uncongenial clime in which the 
new plant grew, impregnated it with its own poison. Envy, 
arrogance, base desire to crush the fallen, were his natural pro- 
pensities ; and, when love refused to minister to these, it changed 
to something like hate in his bosom ; it excited his desire to have 
power over her, if not for her good, then for her bane. 

The duke of York was imprisoned in the Tower. No further 
measures were apparently in action against him. Katherine no 
longer hoped anything from her foe ; and day and night there 
lay beneath her eyelids the image of Richard, wasting and dying 
in captivity. Something must be done, some aid afforded him ; 
she was anxious also to learn the details of his flight, and how 
again he fell into the hands of his foe. Monina, who in a thou- 
sand disguises had been used to penetrate everywhere, was seen 
no more. Still public report informed her of many things. 

It was known, that Sir Robert Clifford, the old spy and traitor 
of the White Rose, had become aware of the measures taken by 
York’s adherents to insure his escape from England. He had 
followed him down the river, and by a knowledge of the Bigns 
and countersigns of the party, decoyed him into a boat that was 
to convey his victim back to his prison-house. The deceit was 
discovered, and a mortal struggle ensued on board the tiny bark; 
it sunk, and many perished, Clifford among the rest. On the 
morrow his body was found upon the beach, stiff and stark ; a 

g aping wound in his neck showed that the waters alone had not 
een his foe ; in his clenched hand he grasped a mass of golden 
hairs, severed by some sharp implement from the head to which 
they grew : as if nought else could liberate his enemy from his 
hold. There he lay, bold Robin' Clifford, the dauntless, wily 
boy, hunted through life by his own fell passions, envy, cupidity, 
and libertinism ; they had tracked him to this death ; his false- 
hoods were now mute, his deceptions passed away ; he could 




378 



DEATH OF CLIFFOBD. 



never more win by his smiles, or stab by his lying words ; death 
alone had a share in him, death and the cold sands beneath which 
he was interred, leaving a name, the mark of scorn, the symbol 
of treachery. 

They had straggled beneath the strangling waves, Richard 
and his adversary. The prince was wounded in the scuffle, and 
became enfeebled almost to insensibility before he could sever 
from his enemy’s grasp the fair locks he clutched — he swam 
away, as well as he might, and, with the instinct of self-preserva- 
tion, made for the shore — he forgot that England was a wide 
prison — he only strove to master the fate which beat him to the 
ground. He reached the sands — he sought the covert of some 
near underwood, and threw himself upon the earth in blind 
thankfulness ; exhausted, almost inanimate, he lay there, given 
up only to the sense of repose, and safety from death, which 
visited his failing heart with a strange sense of pleasure. 

The following morning was far advanced, before he could rouse 
himself from this lethargy. He looked upon the waters; but 
the Adalid was no more to be seen — he was quite alone ; he needed 
succour, and none was afforded him. Well he knew that every 
held, lane, dingle, and copse swarmed with enemies, and he 
shuddered at the likelihood that unarmed, and weak as he was, 
he should fall into their hands. He desired to reach London 
again as his sole refuge ; and he journeyed, as he hoped, towards 
it, all unknowing of the route. Noway-worn traveller in savage 
lands, pursued by barbarous enemies, ever suffered more than 
the offspring of Edward the Fourth amidst the alienated fields 
of his paternal kingdom. Cold and rain succeeded to the plea- 
sant summer weather during night he lav exposed to the tem- 
pests — during day he toiled on, his limbs benumbed, his heart 
wasted by hunger and fatigue ; yet never, at the head of the 
Scottish chivalry, never in Burgundy or in England, did he feel 
more resolute not to submit, but, baffling fortune and his enemy’s 
power, to save himself in spite of fate. He had wandered far 
inland, and knew not where he was — he had indeed passed 
beyond London, and got up as high as Barnes. It was the fourth 
day from that of his escape — he had tasted little food, and no 
strength remained in him, except that which gave energy to his 
purpose. He found himself on a wide, heathy common, studded 
with trees, or desolately open — the rainy day closed, and a bleak 
east wind swept over the plain, and curled the leaden-coloured 
waters of the river — his love of life, his determination not to 
yield, quailed before the physical miseries of his lot ; for some 
few moments, he thought that he would lie down and die. 

At this time another human figure appeared upon the scene. 



lie 




DEATH OF* CLIFFORD. 



379 



A Benedictine lay-brother, who, in the freedom of solitude, in 
defiance of wind and rain, trolled a ditty, fitter for a ruffling 
swaggerer’s bonnet, than a monk’s cowl, lie started not a little, 
on perceiving our wanderer leaning against the scathed trunk of 
a solitary tree ; nor less did he wonder when he recognized the 
fallen prince. It was Heron himself, the magnanimous mercer, 
who having effected his escape with a well-hoarded purse, con- 
trived to introduce himself into the house of Bethlem, at Shene, 
which was called the Priory. He was a little frightened to per- 
ceive his ancient leader ; but pity succeeded to fear; and with 
many fair words and persuasions he induced him to permit him- 
self to be conducted to the Priory. There, since lie believed 
himself to be dying, he might receive the last sacraments — there 
perhaps, for, some few minutes, he might again behold his 
Katherine. 

Thus was the fugitive again led within the pale of liis enemy’s 
power. The prior, a man esteemed for holiness, did not delay 
to make his sovereign acquainted with the capture of his rival. 
His awe of Katherine having vanished, Henry was left at 
liberty to follow the ungenerous dictates of his grovelling spirit. 
Many a courtier, true man or false, counselled the death of the 
aspiring youth ; and they praised their master’s magnanimity, 
when he rejected this advice, and in lieu exposed him, w hom he 
knew to be the descendant of a line of kings, to beggarly dis- 
grace. Thus worn and weak, the ill-fated son of York was 
made a public spectacle of infamy. But Henry went a step too 
far; and, when he thrust the Scottish princess forward on the 
scene, he turned deafeat to triumph. 

He was not to die — but rather to pine out a miserable ex- 
istence — or had the sage monarch any other scheme P The 
high-spirited prince was to be cooped up within the Tower — 
there, where the earl of Warwick wasted his wretched life. 
Did he imagine that the resolved and ardent soul of Richard 
would, on its revival, communicate a part of its energy to the 
son of Clarence, and that ere long they would be enveloped in 
one ruin P Some words had transpired that appeared to reveal 
such an intention ; and his order to the lieutenant of the Tower, 
that, without permitting, he should connive at any covert inter- 
course between the two— -his recommendation of a noted spy 
and hireling to a high trust, and the order this fellow had to 
bring each day intelligence to the palace from the prison — spoke 
loudly of some design ; for Henry never did aught in vain. It 
was in circulation also among the lower officers in the fortress, 
that an attempt to escape was expected on the part of the pri- 
soners, and that rich reward would attend its discovery. 




380 



CHAPTER LIV. 

IMTEISONMENT IK THE TOWEE. 



And bore, at once. Captivity displayed. 

Stands scoffing through the never-opened gate ; 

Which nothing through its bars admits, save day 
And tasteless food. 

BVROK. 

The Lady Katherine, no longer trusting the good intentions of 
the insolent tyrant, was eager to communicate with her royal 
cousin of Scotland, to urge him to save from death or disgrace, 
if not to effect the liberation of him to whom he had given 
her hand. The difficulty of finding a messenger was great. 
The queen, all amiable and sorrowing as she was, shrunk from 
any act, which, if discovered, would enrage the king. Where 
did Monina tarry while her friend was in this strait? Of all 
his sometime associates was there not one who would risk all to 
retard the last steps of fate. Since York’s escape she had 
been so vigilantly guarded, that a thousand schemes she had 
formed for her own evasion proved abortive at their very outset. 

Help was at length afforded her unexpectedly, when most 
depairing. Edmund Plantagenet stood before her — changed 
indeed from what he had been ; she had not seen him since the 
siege of Exeter, where he was wounded; but slight was his 
bodily hurt in comparison to the death-blow his mind received. 

Plantagenet was one of those concentrated characters, whose 
very outward show of softness and gentleness serves the more 
to force the texture of their souls to receive one indelible 
impression. He had passed a boyhood of visions, given up to 
mighty aspirations and engrossing reverie. His thoughts were 
stirring as the acts of others ; his forest-school had so tutored 
him, that he could live in bodily repose, while his mind 
ruminated : he could be quickened to hope and fear, to lofty 
ambition, to generosity, and devoted courage, feeling in his 
heart the keenest impulses — while around him were the mute 
trees of the wild wood and pathless glades. He could be satis- 
l with such dreamy illusions ; so that action with him was 



 




IMPRISONMENT IN THE TOWER. 



381 



never the result of physical restlessness, nor of youthful 
emulation, nor of that stirring spirit of life which forces us to 
abhor repose. It flowed from an imperious sense of duty ; it 
welled up from the very sources of bis soul. Other men 
perform the various parts allotted to them, and yet are some- 
thing else the while ; as is the actor, even while he struts in 
the garb of royalty : but Edmund yielded himself wholly up, 
and was the mere creature of the thought within. 

To be great and good — great from the good he should effect, 
was his boyhood’s aspiration. It is probable that, if he had not 
been subjected to extraneous influence, he would have devoted 
himself to religion, and become a saint or martyr ; for his all, 
his understanding, heart, and person, would have been given 
up to the holy cause he espoused. His being led to King 
Richard's tent, the night before the battle of Bosworth Field, 
gave a new and inextinguishable law to his life. Unknown 
duties were imposed. The first and dearest was, to redeem his 
father’s soul from the guilt of murderous ambition, by elevating 
his injured nephew to his original greatness. He devoted 
himself to his cousin. Soon he learned to love Richard as the 
work of his own hands. He had reared his tender infancy ; he 
had been his tutor in martial exercises, teaching him to curb 
the_ fiery steed, to wield the lance, and, more than all, to meet 
danger in the field fearlessly : to be honourable, brave, and 
kind. He had led him to war, and shielded him with his own 
body from the cruel Moor. If ever they were divided, his 
thoughts dwelt ouly the more carefully with him. Last, he had 
brought him from glorious combats in Spain, to conquer liis 
ancestral kingdom, and set him up the rival of a powerful king 
— the mark of his vengeance. 

It was all over. Edmund possessed no innate strength to rise 
from the blow ; he was a mariner on the wide ocean, without 
compass or rudder. The universe had one central point for him ; 
that was destroyed, and a total blank remained. York’s first 
surrender visited him as a death-stroke; he struggled against it. 
Enfeebled by his wound, more by despair, he passed over to 
Ireland ; there he expected to find friends of the White Rose ; 
he found only enemies of Duke Perkin : men eager to exculpate 
themselves from the charges of ill faith or ingratitude, gladly 
adopted a phraseology, or a belief, that reduced to dust the 
golden glories of poor Edmund’s idol. Perkin Warbeck 1 Oh 
thou flower of York ! thou nursling of love, though child of 
calamity, is even thy bright name so to be tainted P Not by 
those immediately arrayed by self-interest against thee ; but by 
the vulgar crew, ever eager to crush the fallen. There was|no 




382 



IMPBISONMENT IK 



hope in Ireland. Keating, the Prior of Kilmainham, was 
dead. The earl of Desmond was reconciled to the English 
government. Lord Barry had fled to Spain. The citizens of 
Cork were busy redeeming, by eager servility, their mayor’s 
disloyalty. 

Overcome by these sad changes, a malignant fever] seized on 
Edmund: in addition to every other disappointment, he had 
the consciousness that his aid was necessary to his cousin : that 
his absence was probably misinterpreted by his friends as 
cowardly dereliction. York was calling on him in vain. Monina 
perhaps suspected his truth. Next to the sun of his life, the 
noble Richard, Monina lay nearest his heart. It was a mixture 
of many feelings ; and even love, subdued by hopelessness, 
quickened them to greater intensity. As soon as he could rise 
from his couch, he directed his course to England. He arrived 
in London on the day of the duke of York’s worst disgrace. 
It was reported to him as the gossip of the town : at the fatal 
word a mortal change seized upon his frame : his limbs were as 
if struck by palsy ; his cheeks fell in ; his hair grew white. On 
his arrival he had taken up his abode in a monastery in the habit 
of a poor pilgrim : the sage monks, who beheld his state, pos- 
sessed no leech-craft to administer his cure : he lay with 
beating pulses and open eyes, while the work of the grave 
appeared already in operation against him : he wasted into a 
fleshless skeleton. And then another secret change came over 
him; he conquered death, and crawled forth, the ghost of what 
he was, into the hopeless world. 

Ho contrived to gain admission to the princess. She did not 
recognize him, such was the pale disguise disease had put upon 
him. His voice, hollow as from a tomb, was altered ; his 
dark, melancholy eyes, occupying too large a portion of his face, 
gleamed from under his streaked and wan brow. Yet his was a 
visit of comfort, for he could do her mission to Scotland, and 
invite the forgetful James to succour his friend and kinsman. 
Edmund listened eagerly to this proposal : a draught of sooth- 
ing balm descended into his frame, with the thought that yet 
all was not lost. His physical energy almost returned : he 
hurried to depart — “ How will you traverse this wide king- 
dom ? ” asked the lady. “ Cannot the Adalid come as before, to 
aid and speed you on your way ? ” 

“ The Adalid is sailing on the far ocean Bea,” replied Plan- 
tagenet ; “ we are all as dead, in the eyes of De Faro and our 
Monina.” 

“ Faithless girl ! ” 

• Y’ith a trace of his ancient warmth and sweetness, Edmund 



i le 




THE TOWEB. 



383 



entered upon the gentle maiden’s exculpation. He related that 
a poor fellow lay - on the bed next his in the convent hospital, 
whom he recognized to be an Irishman, who had escaped from 
Waterford, and sailed with them in the Adalid to Cornwall. 
From him he heard the tale of what had befallen De Faro and 
his child. He heard how the mariner had long haunted the 
English coast waiting for an opportunity to carry off the prince ; 
of the fatal night, when snatching his daughter from the watery 
peril, he saw Richard, as he believed, perish in the waves. 
What more had the Moorish mariner and his daughter to do 
with this miserable, guilty island? He called his men together ; 
he told them his resolve finally to quit the eastern world for the 
golden islands of the west, inviting those who were averse to 
the voyage to go on shore at once, before the fair wind that was 
rising should hurry them into the open sea. The poor Irishman 
alone desired to land : before he went he saw the Spanish 
damsel ; he described her as calm and mild, though there was 
something unearthly in her gleaming eyes and in the solemn 
tone of her voice. “ If,” she said, “ you meet any of our friends, 
any who ask for De Faro and his daughter, if you see Lady 
Brampton, Lord Barry, or Sir Edmund Plantagenet, tell them 
that Monina lives, that she tarries with her father, and tasks 
herself to be his comfort and support. We seek the Western 
Indies ; well may it betide us that we never reach the unknow u 
strand ; or we may be cast away in an uninhabited*solitude, 
where my care and companionship may stead my dear father 
much ; or I may teach the sacred truths of our religion to the 
wild Indians, and speak the dear name of Christ to the unbap- 
tized of those wilds ; or soften, as ’best I may, the cruel 
Spaniard, and save the devoted people from their barbarity. 
Tell them, whichever way I look, I perceive a thousand duties 
to which our great Taskmaster calls me, and these I live to 
fulfil, if so my feeble body will permit ; tell them that my only 
hope is death ; that, and that by my obedience to the Almighty 
will, I may partly merit to join in Paradise the earthly angel 
who now survives there.” 

Tears choked further speech ; she imprinted her words by a 
gift of gold. The boat which had been hailed, came alongside. 
The man on board, the sails of the Adalid swelled proudly in 
the gale ; the little caravel ran lightly along on the top of the 
roughening waters. In less than two hours she was out of 
sight, speeding swiftly over the sea towards the wild western 
ocean. 

Plantagenet departed ; and the princess was yet more cheered 
when she found that no further injury was meditated against 




384 



IMPBISOKMENT IN 



her lord. Imprisonment in the Tower was his sole punishment. 
Her pure, gentle mind could not divine the full extent of King 
Henry’s villany, nor guess how he undermined the edifice he 
claimed praise for not levelling with the ground. 

Nor could her resigned, patient, feminine spirit conceive the 
cruel, biting impatience of his lot that York endured. He had 
yielded at first to the overwhelming sense of disgrace, and felt 
that last, worst emotion of the injured, which answers the in- 
ternal question, “ What have I done so to be visited?’’ in the 
poet’s words, — 

“ I cannot charge 

My memory with much save sorrow — but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chastened and visited, 1 needs must think 
That I was wicked.” 

But soon his eager, eagle spirit spurned the tame debasing 
thought: he resolved again to struggle, and at last to conquer; 
-the fire burned brighter for its short smouldering ; almost with 
a light heart he laughed, as he resolved again to endeavour. 

His prison life was more than irksome; it was unendurable. 
No change, which is the soul of enjoyment, varied it. No sym- 
pathy, the parent of content, came anear. In his young days 
he had trod on the verge of life’s wave, watching it recede, and 
fancying that it would discover glittering treasures as it re- 
treated into the ocean of eternity : now the tide ebbed sullenly ; 
the barren sands grew dark ; and the expanse before afforded 
no hope — what was to be done ? 

He was in the Tower, whence he had twice escaped ; -w here 
the earl of Warwick was immured, pining in fruitless vegetation, 
rather than living. Should he do as he had done, and become 
a cipher, a forgotten prisoner, a mere thing to wake and sleep, 
and be as nothing ? The very dog that guards a cottage-door 
from nightly harm had more dignity and purpose in his life 
than this victim of ambition. The bird that alighted on the sill 
of his iron-barred casement, and carried off a crumb for her 
nestlings, was an emblem of utility and freedom in comparison, 
which Warwick, cut off from all, must weep to mark. How 
different was Richard's fate ; he had dear friends ready to risk 
all for him, whose life’s sacrifice he could repay only by being 
true to himself ; he had a wife, wedded to him in youth’s early 
flower, whose happiness was unalterably linked to his. He had 
courage, fortitude, energy ; he would not cast these gifts away, 
a thankless boon: he valued them at their price: if death 
crowned his efforts, it were well ; he was a mere toy in the 
hands of God, and he submitted; but as a man, he was ready 
to cope with men, and though defeated never to be vanquished. 



THE TO WEB. 



385 



Not a month after his removal to the Tower he had observed 
his facilities, marked his instruments, and resolved to enter on 
his schemes : they were quickened by other circumstances. 

Warwick heard of his cousin’s arrival ; and he believed this 
to be the signal of his own deliverance. His first chief desire 
was to have communication with him. Among bis attendants 
there was one to whom he could apply ; he was a lank, tall 
fellow, with little understanding and but one idea — gratitude to 
the duke of Clarence. This man, called Roger, and nicknamed 
'Long Roger, his length being his chief distinction, had been 
very poor, and burthened besides with several infant children : 
accidents and a bad season brought them to the verge of starva- 
tion, when a chance threw him in the way of the duke of Cla- 
rence, who got him made servitor in the Tower. When this 
unfortunate prince was imprisoned within its fatal walls, Long 
Roger underwent a thousand perils to wait on him by stealth, 
and to do what service he might. Long Roger had a prodigious 
appetite, and his chief delight was to smuggle dainties, cooked 
by his Madge, into the prison chamber of the’duke. The manner 
of Clarence’s death, which Roger affirmed to accord with the 
popular tradition, alone consoled the faithful sympathizing 
fellow. Now he had turned the key for thirteen years on the 
duke’s hapless son : in spite of his watchful care and proffered 
cates, he had seen the poor youth dwindle to a skeleton, when 
suddenly the progress of delay was checked by Our Lady : it 
was a miracle to see Lord Edward grow fat and comely to look 
upon, changing his woe-begone looks into gracious smiles: by 
the mass, there was witchcraft in it ! Warwick often thanked 
Long Roger, and told him what he would do when restored to 
freedom and rank ; which will never be, Roger said, except 
among the saints in Paradise ; unless it pleased God to remove 
his majesty, when my lady the queen should fully know how 
fervently her cousin prayed for her ; and, forsooth, with sweet 
prince Arthur, his royal mother would be all powerful. Long 
Roger's visions went pot beyond. He never imagined the pos- 
sibility of effecting the earl’s escape; his limited understanding 
suggested no relief, save a bottle of Canary, or bunches of white 
roses in June, which in fact was Dame Madge’s feminine idea; 
and often had the simple flowers soothed Warwick’s care. To 
this man the poor prisoner applied, to enable him to see and 
converse with the newly arrived Richard : two are better than 
one to a feast ; and, the next time Roger meditated a dainty 
supper for his lord, he resolved to endeavour that York should 
partake it with him as a guest. 

In his own guileless way, the simple-hearted man began to 

2 c 




386 



IMPRISONMENT IN THE TOWER. 



practise on and bribe one of bis fellows, without whom it had 
been difficult to accomplish his desire. Abel Blewet had lately 
been appointed to his service : he was nearly a dwarf, with 
bushy eyebrows and red hair ; there was something of ill omen 
in his physiognomy, but as the tall yeoman looked over the 
head of his comrade, his courage rose : “ The whipper-snapper 
could not rebuff me,” he thought, as he drew himself up to his 
full height, and began to propound the mighty deed of con- 
ducting Perkin by mistake to the Lord Edward’s chamber, on 
his return from vespers. Eoger paused suddenly ; for, in spite 
of his stature, he was appalled by the glance Blewet shot up 
from under his penthouses of brows : still he gave a willing 
assent, and even took upon himself the chief risk of the under- 
taking. 

The following evening, while Biehard was yet pondering how 
to commence his machinations, undecided, though resolved; ana 
while he made up his mind not to betray his thoughts to the 
sinister-looking being before him, he was surprised to find 
that he was led through an unaccustomed gallery; and still 
more on entering the chamber into which he was introduced, to 
recognise it as that where he had unexpectedly found refuge 
during his last visit to the Tower, and to perceive that Warw ick 
himself was there expecting him. 

Was this the thin, wasted being he had Been three years be- 
fore? Had Warwick been .then set free to hunt upon the hills', 
he had not regained more flesh and bloom than now that hope 
had been his only medicine. His cousin York had inspired him 
with marvellous confidence; his last entrance into the formi- 
dable Tower, and his speedy exit, had appeared a miracle to the 
poor earl, to whom these high walls and sad chambers formed a 
world, from which, as from the larger one, death only promised 
egress. He had pined and wasted in his appetite to be free, to be 
without those gates, beyond that fosse and giant battlements that 
girded him in : these portentous, insuperable obstacles w ere mere 
cobweb chains to Bichard. He had come in, he had departed, 
and all as easily, 60 Warwick thought, as the unregarded ily, that 
had perhaps flown trom Westminster, from Elizabeth’s chamber, 
to light upon his cheek. In all the subsequent tales of York’s 
checks and overthrow, he smiled at, the idea that one born to 
victory could be thus overcome. He laughed at the chains 
Henry had throw n over him ; and his transfer to the Tower 
dated him with*fc firm belief that liberty was at hand. Dwell- 
ing on these thoughts, Warwick ceased to be the dead alive ; he 
was cheerful, erect, elastic in his gait, his complexion glowed 
w ith health, while sickness lingered,still on the cheek of the 



ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE. 387 

younger Plantagenet, and a more subdued spirit dwelt in his 
heart. 

Long Roger beheld the cousins embrace : he heard the earl 
call him, named Perkin, his liege, and most dear kinsman : from 
that moment the opprobrious name was banished from Roger’s 
lips : he was convinced of York’s truth, and the Lord Edward’s 
friend became an object of reverence and of love. 



CHAPTER LY. 

ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE. 



Gentle cousin, 

If you be seen, you peri .ii instantly 
For breaking prison. 

No, no, consin, 

1 will no more be bidden, nor put oft' 

This great adventure to a second trial. 

Two Noble Kinsmen - . 

Quick on the first greeting followed Warwick’s question. 

“ And, noble cousin, what have you projected P when shall we 
escape ? ” 

Richard’s being in durance with him, seemed sufficient pledge, 
that without delay they should both be free. While York, 
wearied by opposition to his mighty foe, just foiled in his endea- 
vours to preserve his freedom, even when he had attained it, saw 
giant obstacles in his path ; and, although resolved to endeavour 
all, was fully conscious of the fatal end that must wait upon his 
too probable failure. His reply was dictated by these feelings : 
lie was averse to drag one so inexperienced, and so unhappy, into 
the pit he believed that he was digging for himself. He besought 
the earl well to weigh the value he set upon life ; to place the 
fatal scaffold in prospect ; to teach himself to know what death 
was, and to be ready to meet it, before he planned escape from 
the wily Tudor. Warwick listened with impatient wonder ; but 
when Richard concluded with affirming, that he himself, in sober 
sadness, preferred hazarding all to the remaining in prison, 

. and that he would be free, the earl’s countenance again grew 
light and gladsome. “ But "when, coz — when ? ” was still his 
eager question. 

2 c 2 

 




388 



ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE. 



Thus they had changed characters. Warwick, so many years 
secluded from the world, was in total ignorance of its ways. 
Had the Tower-gates been opened to him, he had trembled to 
walk forth alone ; but restraint had made him feminine ; and 
with his cousin he would have rushed upon an army of spears, 
in sure belief that some unseen aegis would protect him. His 
position rendered him timid, indolent, and dependent ; but he 
relied on Richard, as a woman on her lover. York beheld all 
things in their clear, true light; he was aware of every diffi- 
culty ; of the means he possessed for overcoming them, and of 
the hazards he ran in using these means. A sentiment, born of 
the highest generosity made him hesitate before he concerted 
any plan with Warwick. It was not alone that he was averse 
to risking another life ; but he felt that his cause would receive 
advantage from this link with an undoubted Plantagenet ; nay, 
that, in the prison itself, the attachment and respect felt towards 
the son of Clarence, by some of the very men he meant to use, 
would serve him. That he should reap benefit from exposing the 
ill-fated prince to untried dangers, revolted his high and inde- 
pendent nature. Warwick had recourse to many an entreaty 
and persuasion, ere he brought Richard to consent that their 
fortunes should be joined, and that, last of the White Rose, they 
would rise or fall together. Still York was obliged to check his 
cousin’s impatience, and to show that they must slowly work out 
the end they had in view. 

To gratify the earl’s greedy curiosity, York related his adven- 
tures ; they afforded him an inexhaustible fund of surprise and 
delight. He sighed over his tale of wedded happiness ; and 
half wondered that angelic woman, seated high on the throne 
of loveliness and love, should deign to devote herself for man. 
A pang, not of envy, but of regret, on comparing their fates, 
shot across him ; soon the usual current of feeling returned ; 
and when he heard that his idolized, lost Elizabeth, was the 
friend and companion of the devoted wife of York, his affec- 
tion for Richard was increased. Night was far advanced 
before they separated, and then only in certain expectation of 
meeting again. 

York’s hopes grew brighter, and he indulged in visions of 
the future, which lately had been so blank. He verily believed 
that he might escape, though still he doubted whether he 
should. He remembered the fondness of the duchess of Bur- 
gundy for her brother Clarence, and how she had deplored the 
hard destiny of his offspring ; he would present that son, libe- 
rated bv him, to her. His junction with the prince must revive 
the old Yorkists in his favour; this worst blast of fortune 






ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE. 



388 

might be the gale to speed him to the harbour of his hopes. 
The royal cousins met again and again ; nor was it long before 
their own desires, and Henry’s craft, began to weave that fatal 
web which entangled them even in the veyy mode the hard- 
hearted king devised.  

Summer was gone : quicker than he was wont, the sun with- 
drew his embattled array of light and heat ; and cold and 
tempest, erewhile driven to mountain fastnesses, or to their own 
frozen kingdoms in the north, took courage and force, and broke 
with wild fury upon the defenceless world : the bleak winds 
were their coursers ; savagely they yelled and howled over the 
land they desolated. First, the growth of flowers was their 
prey ; the fruits, and then the verdure of the earth, while 
the sun, each day retreating, afforded further scope to their 
inroads. York resolved not to pass another winter in prison. 
He had quickly perceived that his purpose could only be effected 
by corrupting their guards, and then all would depend upon the 
fidelity of these men. His first attempts were followed by an 
almost too easy success : good-hearted, dull-headed Long Roger 
heard with unreplying credulity the assertions of Warwick, that 
Richard must succeed in all he undertook, and readily promised 
bis aid. Abel Blewet, in spite of his dogged, sinister aspect, 
yielded at once to the seduction of a promised bribe. Two 
others, by his advice, were associated as necessary to their suc- 
cess. Strangeways, a ruffling drunken fellow, who had been 
thrice dismissed, but whose pretty wife each time procured his 
reappointment ; and Astwooa, a saving miser, who lent money 
to his fellow-servitors on usury. With these instruments the 
cousins went to work. Warwick in full belief of success : 
York, perceiving treason and discovery close to them, but ready 
to defy these bloodhounds to their worst. 

“ And now, coz,” said Warwick, “ in very truth there needs 
no further delay. Methinks were the drawbridge down, you 
would mistrust some gin, and wait to throw an arch of your 
own across the moat. Sooth, my lord, I am a weary of your 
sloth.” 

There was a caressing sweetness in Warwick’s voice and 
manner : an ignorant, indolent, confiding enthusiasm, so unlike 
quick-witted Clifford, or any of Duke Richard’s former friends, 
that he felt a new emotion towards him — hitherto he had been the 
protected, served, and waited on, of his associates, now he played 
the protector and the guardian, i 

“ My gentle cousin,” he replied, “ even as you trust, so you 
shall find me — wait but a little, and all will be past. Yet I 
grieve to say, where you see escape, I perceive an ambushmeuf 




390 



ATTEMPT TO E8CAFE. 



of death ; and, though ready to face the grim skeleton, we must 
$rm ourselves against him. I wish I could show you even as I 
see, the dangers that environ us — perhaps you would shrink ; 
and it is yet time. What do you do ? Hot only plan escape, 
hut ally yourself, and give the sanction of your untarnished 
name, to one whom Tudor brands as an impostor, and abhors as 
a rival. His vengeance will fall heavily for this deed, if he 
reach you. While a few years, like the many already gone by, 
may lead him to his grave, and you to liberty. I have too often 
met danger to be frightened by him : and I endure worse than 
death, each day I pass of youth, apart my sweet White Rose. 
You have no lady-love to beckon you across the path of peril. 
Bethink you well, my ever dear lord, will you not regret this 
prison, when the cruel axe glitters before your eyes?” 

“ Do you refuse then to take me with yon?” said Warwick, 
mournfully. 

“ Be the choice yours ; to go with me is fraught with danger 
— to stay — ” 

“ Hush, cousin ! ” cried the earl, eagerly, “ speak not the ill- 
omened w r ord. Stay, — to endure days and nights of guarded 
doors ; to eat viands served up poisoned by the jailor’s touch ; 
to see the sky but through those iron bars ; alas ! in my dreams, 
when heaven and its stars are before me, they are crossed and 
paled by those accursed lines. Give me but an hour to tread 
earth a free man — or, mark, cousin; sometimes I win good 
Roger to lead me to the roof of the White Tower ; it is high, 
and overhangs the deep, dangerous river — the day you quit my 
side, I seek that tower, I leap from its height, and the cold 
waters shall drink up my being, rather than I endure another 
hour my prison-life.” 

“ My dear, dear cousin,” said York, “it is written by the 
Rates, and I yield — our fortunes shall be one. A few days now 
brings the hour ; it will move along the dial ; it will become a 
portion of past time— what itwill leave us, is in the hands of God.” 

That hour came — full soon it came — the evening hour which 
preceded their escape. Long Roger served supper to the kins- 
men, the last they were to partake within the fated walls. The 
poor fellow heaved a bitter sigh, as he waited by his lord’s chair. 
“ Thou art downcast, good Roger,” said the earl, “ pledge me, 
my man, in this ruby wine of Burgundy — think of to-morrow, 
not of to-night — to-morrow the deed will be done." 

Roger quaffed the proffered bowl — he set it down with 
another sigh, almost a groan, adding, “Better drown reason 
than life in the vat!” Then recollecting to what ho alluded, 
and before whom, he blushed scarlet to his very ears, and like a 



 




ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE. 



391 



bashful man he made it worse by going on blunderingly, “ I was 
never handy at these sort of things ; it is for all the world like 
turning out of a warm bed on a cold snowy morning, only to think 
of them — and when they are about, — by the Cross, I thought no 
hole far enough or dark enough, when my lord your father—" 

“ linger ! ” exclaimed Warwick. 

The wine had not decreased the man’s terror, but it had 
opened his mouth, and taken away his discretion ; he con- 
tinued : “ It was an awful night. We all knew what was going 
to be done. I am sure, as Thomas Paulet said, we heard our 
very hearts beat. Then there was grim-faced Hobler, who at 
the judgment might be taken for the born twin of Master Abel, 
only he was taller by a span — even he looked uglier, nor spoke 
above his breath — ‘ Is he at his prayers P ’ asked lie, and Sir 
Brakenbury was as white as the earth itself — it was the beginning 
of Lent ; and the snow lay three feet deep on it.” 

By no- uncommon law of our nature, the dread design of the 
present night awoke keen recollection in the usually drowsy 
mind of this man. At first, with thrilling horror, Warwick in- 
terrupted him, but now the very terrors of the theme he chose 
assumed an awful charm — he was fascinated to listen, while his 
knee3 knocked together. Richard felt also the magic of such 
perilous excitement. 

“ Oh, Lord Edward,” continued Roger, “ these walls have 
seen fiendly sights — the blood of many a Plantagenet, York, or 
Lancaster, is on its pavement. Was it not in this room that the 
pious king Saint lienry, as Father Piers calls him — you will 
not sleep another night in it, so there is no harm now, telling 
you that his poor ghost has been seen on the battlements coming 
From this very chamber, where he was murthered." 

The night wind rushed round the massy walls, the autumnal 
wind, fierce and howling — York started up. “ No more of this 
unreason, while we need all our strength, and God’s grace to 
boot, to nerve us to our task. • Oh, ghost of Lancaster ! if 
indeed thou hauntest this spot, where those akin to me did the 
foul deed, be thy pious soul propitiated now ; many a mass shall 
be told for thy repose P ” 

Roger crossed himself, and said an Ave ; then in his usual 
voice he rejoined, “ Would the thing did not require blood. 
Master Abel vows by the saints — ’twere better when men make 
bad oaths to swear by the fiends — that Sir John must die; old 
wrinkled Astwood squeaks out, “ By’r Lady, it were not worth 
while, with only promises for reward, if we have not the rifling 
of the lieutenant’s private chamber. They are bloody-minded 
men, my lord ; Mat Strangeways, when he is sober, and I, fast- 




392 



ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE. 



mg or feasting, hold out that we might bind him, and get the 
keys.’ ‘ Blockhead,’ says Master Blewet, saving your presence, 
‘ thou goest the way to hang us all.’ ” 

Another goblet had set Roger talking. Warwick had quitted 
the table. He threw open the casement : it was very dark, and 
the wind howled fearfully — “ Oh, iron bars of my prison-house,” 
cried the ill-fated prince, “ can only midnight-murder wrench ye 
asunder P It is a dread act to disobey God’s word, and lay tne 
soul under mortal sin — must it be done P ” 

“ My dear cousin,” said York, “ do not mistake — a month ago 
the choice was yours ; now there is no going back. We have no 
right to draw these poor men into peril, and then to quarrel at 
the precaution they take for their safeties. We said, ay, when 
the matter was proposed. Again I repeat the word ; they must 
look to it, who so savagely have driven us to the fatal pass. 
When Digby undertook the ungentle task of jailor, he knew that 
he must hold it at the hazard of his life.” 

“ Sir John has ever been kind tome,” said Warwick, “ forgive 
the word, my lord, I am firm now — away with mercy ! To win 
an easy egress from these murderous walls, I could myself plant 
the dagger.” 

“ We are not executioners,” interrupted the duke, who felt 
none of Warwick’s vacillations, now sinking beneath the required 
tone, now wound up far above it, and was perfectly calm, though 
his heart, he scarce knew why, entertained no hope of success. 
M arwick believed that he should win, and mourned the losers in 
the frightful game. Richard knew that he might fail, and 
assuredly would, did he not meet each necessity and hazard with 
a dauntless spirit. 

The sound of a bell from a neighbouring convent was brought 
fitfully by the wind — “ They are ringing matins — there is our 
signal,” cried Roger. 

“ And Digby ’s knell." The door of the chamber opened as 
Warwick said these words, and Blewet, with his usual catlike 
pace, slid in ; he walked straight up to Roger, and casting on him 
a glance from under his brows, said only, “ Come.” 

“ Are all at rest ? ” asked the earl. 

“ Two hours agone,” said Master Abel, “ I have kept myself 
awake sharpening my steel:” he touched the handle of a huge 
butcher’s knife stuck in his girdle, whose glittering blade did 
credit to his care. Warwick turned pale ana sick. “It will be 
dulled anon,” continued Blewet. 

“ Where are thy comrades ? ” Richard asked. 

“ They wait at the end of the corridor— Master Astwood 
is counting his gains. Come, Long Roger.” 



 




ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE. 



393 



Poor Roger followed liim to the door, then turning to the 
princes ; “ My royal masters,” said he, “ if this deed goes ill, 
and I never see ye more, by . Christ and his Cross, I pray a 
blessing on ye ; if I may pray, but by the mass I fear I shall 
never pray, nor sup more." 

They were gone — Warwick strove to look, to be firm, but he 
grew ashy white — a door clapped to at a distance made him 
almost faint. Richard was pale also ; but his hand shook not in 
the least, as he presented a cup of wine to his cousin. “ Give 
me water rather,” said the earl, shuddering, “ that cup is reJ 
— hark — it is his groans ! ” 

“ It is the wind around the turret, where my liege and brother 
died,” said York, endeavouring to give other thoughts to the 
poor prince, who cried, — 

“ It is the hell-born laugh of fiends viewing the deed.” With 
the breeze indeed came a sound of laughter. “ Are we betrayed ! ” 
cried York : but the sound passed away in wailing. Warwick 
was on his knees— ■“ I cannot pray,” he cried, “ a sea of blood is 
before me.” 

“ Hush ! ” 

Steps now approached along the corridor, and Blewet, his 
stained, half-wiped knife in his hand, appeared — Again the 
monosyllable “ Come,” was pronounced — fraught with how- 
different a meaning. A life had been torn from an innocent 
breast since then by that fell instrument. The princes, awe- 
struck, one trembling with dread, the other striving to quell his 
horror for a murderer, followed him, as he led through the 
gallery — at the end stood Astwood with a bunch of keys — there 
were no stains on his hands ; he looked anxious, but brightened 
up when he saw the prisoners. 

They trod stealthily along. Warwick’s faltering steps scarce 
kept pace with their conductor’s. After passing through many 
narrow high passages, they reached a low postern door. Astwood 
put the key in the lock — the sound was magical to the fearful 
earl. “ Farewell, old frightful walls,” he cried ; “farewell, dark 
murderous prison-house,; the Foul Fiend possess thee ! such is 
my benison. 

Blewet looked at him — York marked the sarcasm, the scorn 
of his glance — the gate meanwhile was opened ; at that moment 
a clash of arms was heard. “ The sentinels at the eastern gate,” 
remarked Abel. 

“ God grant it ! ” cried Warwick, “ God grant — yet can it be ! 
and am I free ? ” 

He rushed through the open door, intent to seize upon liberty, 
as Tantalus on his forbidden feast— his first step beyond the 




394 



THE TBIAL. 



threshold of his prison was followed by a shriek — almost a 
woman’s shriek, it was so shrill and piercing. What he quailed 
before, gave presence of mind to York — experienced in ills. 
Whatever the new evil might be, he went out to meet it calmly. 
A party of archers and yeomen were drawn up in the court- 
yard. “ This truly is a mime,” he said, “ in which one at least 
wins. Our good lieutenant is safe ; we are lost.” 

Grim Sir John had much disliked even this masque of murder. 
He saw their seizure with a grin of delight. He abhorred 
Richard, as the prime mover of the meditated assassination ; but 
he hated Warwick more, who thus could lay in ambush for the 
life of one, who he believed had been a most courteous and soft- 
hearted jailor to him — he commanded his myrmidons to lead the 
royal kinsmen to the strongest ward-rooms of the Tower, with 
dogged, savage joy. 

In dark and separate cells, in solitude and night, these ill-fated 
victims of craft and ambition were consigned to biting reflection 
and sinister anticipation. Warwick, worn out by the unusual 
excitement of the last weeks, by his eager hopes, and over- 
whelming despair, had no one thought, but ten thousand 
thoughts, making a chaos and hell of his poor heart. Richard 
felt more for his cousin than for himself. “ But for me,” he 
repeated internally, “ he had still been a patient prisoner. Yet 
to break prison is not crime capital — he may yet be saved. 
Elizabeth will intercede ; Tudor, for very shame, cannot do fur- 
ther wrong to one so near akin, so powerless and unfortunate. 
For myself: — I am dead already : the duke of York died, when 
first I became a slave. So that my memory survive in my own 
White Rose’s heart — let the victor dispose at his pleasure of this 
mere shell of Richard.” 



CHAPTER LVI. 

THE TRIAL. 



Tempestuous Fortune hath spent all her spite, 

_ And thrilling sorrow thrown his utmost dart 

Thy sad tongue cannot tell more heavy plight 
Than that 1 feel and harbour in my heart. 

Spknsek. 

Tiik morning of the first of November dawned : a cheery day. 
Men went to their usual works : the earth, despoiled of her 
summer garniture, yet bore the change with sober content ; for 



 




THE TRIAL. 396 

the sun shone, and soft airs, despite the coming winter, lightly 
shook the scant and altered foliage of the woods : — 

AU rose to do the task He set to each, 

Who shaped us to His ends, and not our own. 

And many rose 

Whose woe was such, that fear became desire. 



Among such fate-hunted victims was the duke of York. Hope 
had died in his heart ; and his few remaining days weYe only to 
be spent in celebrating her dark funeral. Morning opened its 
eyes on Prince Pickard's dungeon, showing him vanquished by 
grievous overthrow and change. To look back through his 
tumultuous life, to dwell upon its chances, to think of the many 
who had suffered for him, were sad but fitting thoughts, to which 
he betook himself, till death became lovely in his eyes. But 
intermingled with such retrospection were other memories : his 
own sweet love was before him, in her tears or smiles ; he looked 
into her dear eyes, he closed his own, and thrilling kisses pressed 
his burning bps, and soft, white arms were round him ; at 
thought of such he grew impatient of his chains, and the fearful 
cutting off from all that awaited him. He began to calculate on 
the probability that his life would be spared, and grew cowardly 
the while ; to feed upon those roseate lips, to drink life from 
those eyes, to clasp his beautiful, fond wife, feeling that beyond 
the circle of his arms nought existed worthy his desires, became 
a fierce, impatient hunger, to gratify which he would call him- 
self impostor, give up fame and reputation, and become Perkin 
Warbeck in all men’s eyes. 

There was but one refuse from this battle of youth and life 
with the grim skeleton. With a strong effort he endeavoured to 
turn his attention from earth, its victor woes, and still more 
tyrant joys, to the heaven where alone his future lay. The 
struggle was difficult, but he effected it : prayer brought resig- 
nation, calm ; so when his soul, still linked to his mortal frame, 
and slave to its instincts, again returned to earth, it was with 
milder wishes and subdued regrets. Monina’s lovely form wan- 
dered into his mind ; she was an angel now, a blessed spirit, he 
believed ; for, what deceived her, deceived him ; and he fancied 
that he alone had escaped from the w atery perils of that night : 
she had arrived" there, where he soon should be, in the serene 
immutability of eternal life ; he began, in the revulsion of his 
thoughts, to pity those destined still to exist. Earth was a 
scathed planet, a roofless, shelterless home ; a wild where the 
human soul wandered a little interval, tortured by sharp, cruel 
storms ; lost in thorny, entangled brakes ; weary repining, till 

 




396 



THE TRIAL. 



the hour came when it could soar to its native birthplace, and 
find refuge from its ills in promised Paradise. 

His cell was indeed the haven of peace, compared to the tur- 
bid, frightful atmosphere in which his Katherine lived. Edmund 
had not returned ; every attempt she made to communicate with 
Scotland or Burgundy failed. She had passed a summer of 
wretchedness, nor could the tender attention of Elizabeth soothe 
her. In spite of all, the poor queen was almost happier than 
Bhe had ever been ; for many years she had been “ the cannibal 
of her own heart," devouring her griefs in voiceless, friendless, 
solitude ; her very joys, and they were those of maternity, were 
locked up in her own bosom. It was the birth of happiness to 
share her griefs with another ; that other being so gentle, so 
wise, and yet so sensitive, as the fair White Eose, who con- 
cealed her own worst pains, to soothe those of one possessing less 
fortitude and fewer internal resources than herself. Yet, while 
thus she forgot herself, she never quitted in thought her 
Eichard’s side ; since the day she had seen him delivered over 
to ignominious punishment, pale and ill, he was as it were 
stamped on every outward object, an image placed between her 
and her thoughts ; for, while those were employed apparently on 
many things, he, in truth, was their first, last, all-possessing 
idea, more engrossing than her own identity. At one time she 
spent every effort to obtain an interview with him in prison ; and 
then she learned, through covert means, of the plots carrying on 
in the Tower for his escape, while the name of Warwick, min- 
gling in the tale, roused the latent feelings of Elizabeth. When 
the last, worst hour came, it was less replete with pain than these 
miserable, unquiet days, and sleepless, tearful nights ; the never- 
ending, still-beginning round of hours, spent in fear, doubt, and 
agonizing prayer. 

After a restless night, the princess opened her eyes upon the 
day, and felt even the usual weight at her heavy foreboding 
heart increased. The tale was soon told of Eichard’s attempted 
escape and failure: "What can be doneP” "Nothing; God 
has delivered the imiocent into the hands of the cruel ; the cruel, 
to whom mercy is as unknown as, methinks, it is even to the 
awful Power who rules our miserable lives." Such words, with 
a passionate burst of tears, burst from the timid Elizabeth, whose 
crushed and burning heart even arraigned the Deity for the 
agony she endured. 

Kathei’ine looked on her with sweet compassion, " Gentle 
one,” she said, " what new spirit puts such strange speech into 
your mouth, whose murmurings heretofore were those of 
piety P " 



lie 




THE TRJAl. 



397 

“ It is a bad world,” continued the queen ; “ and, if I become 
bad in it, perchance I shall prosper, and have power to save : I 
have been too mild, too self-communing and self-condemning ; 
and the frightful result is, that the sole being that ever loved me, 
perishes on the scaffold. Both will perish, my White Rose, doubt 
it not. Your own York, and my devoted only loved Edward. In 
his prison I have been his dream ; he breaks it, not to find liberty 
again, but Elizabeth. Wretched boy ! knows he not that he 
shall never again find her, who roamed with a free spirit the 
woodland glades, talking to him of the future, as of a scene 
painted to my will ; faded, outworn, a degraded slave — I am 
not Elizabeth.” 

“Did you know the dearest truth of religion,” replied Kathe- 
rine, “ you would feel that she, who has been tried, and come 
out pure, is a far nobler being than — ” 

“ I am not pure, not innocent ; milch you mistake me,” said 
the queen : “ wicked, impious thoughts harbour in my heart, 
and pollute my soul, even beyond the hope of mediation. Some- 
times I hate mv beautiful children because they are his ; some- 
times in the dark hour of night, I renounce my nuptial vow, 
and lend ready, willing ear to fiendish whisperings which borrow 
Edward’s voice. I court sleep, because lie wanders into my 
dreams: and — what do I say, what am I revealing? Lady, 
judge me not: you married him you loved, fulfilling thus the 
best destiny that can be given in this hard world to woman, 
whose life is merely love. Though he perish in his youth, and 

J rou weep for him for ever, hug yourself in the blessed know- 
edge that your fate is bright aB angels : for we reap celestial 
joys, when love and duty, twined in sisterly embrace, take up 
their abode together within us : and I — but Katherine, did you 
hear me P — They perish even as I speak : his cruel heart knows 
no touch of mercy, and they perish.” 

“ They shall not, dearest,” said York’s White Rose ; “ it cannot 
be, that so foul a blot darken our whole lives. No ; there are 
words and looks and tones that may persuade. Alas ! were wo 
more holy, surely a miracle might be vouchsafed, nor this 
Pharaoh harden his heart for ever.” 

All her love-laden soul beaming in her eyes, with a voice that 
even thrilled him, though it moved him not, the White Rose 
addressed Henry. She had yet to learn that a tyrant’s smile is 
more fatal than his frown : he was all courtesy, for he was re- 
solved, implacable ; and she gathered hope from what proved to 
be the parent of despair. She spoke with so much energy, yet 
simplicity, in the cause of goodness, and urged so sweetly her 
debt of gratitude; telling him, how from the altar of their 




398 



THE TRIAL. 



hearts, prayers would rise to the Eternal, fraught with blessings 
to him, that he encouraged her to go on, that still he might 
gaze on lineaments, which nobility of soul, the softest tender* 
ness, and exalted belief in good, painted with angelic hues. At 
length he replied that his council were examining witnesses, 
that her cause depended on facts, on its own justice ; that he 
hoped report had blackened the crimes of these rash men ; for 
her sake he sincerely hoped their guilt, as it was detailed to 
him, had been exaggerated. 

For a moment the princess was unaware what all this jargon 
might mean ; his next words were more perspicuous. “ Indeed, 
fair dame, you must forget this coil : if I consent, for the wel- 
fare of my kingdom, to sacrifice the queen’s nearest relative, 
you also must resign yourself to a necessity from which there 
is no appeal. Hereafter you will perceive that you gain, instead 
of losing by an aet of justice which you passionately call cruelty : 
it is mercy, heaven’s mercy doubtless, that breaks the link be- 
tween a royal princess and a baseborn impostor.” 

A sudden fear thrilled Katherine : “ You cannot mean that 
he should die,” she cried ; “ for your own sake, for your chil- 
dren’s sake, on whom your sins will be visited, you cannot intend 
such murder: you dare not ; for the whole world would rise 
against the unchristian king who sheds his kinsman’s blood. 
All Europe, the secret hearts of those nearest to you, your own 
knowledge, all proclaim your victim, your rival — to be your 
brother, and will brand you a fratricide. You are Lancaster, 
your ancestors were kings, you conquered this realm in their 
name, and may reign over it in peace of conscience ; but not so 
may you destroy the duke of York. His mother avouched him, 
the duchess of Burgundy acknowledges him ; I was given to him 
by my royal cousin, as to one of equal rank, and he upholds 
him. More than all, his princely self declares the truth ; nor 
can evil counsellors, nor false chroniclers, stand between you 
and heaven and the avenging w orld. You vainly seek to heap 
accusation on him you term Crookback’s head : time will affix 
the worst indelible stain upon you. You cannot, will not slay 
him.” 

What were words to the fixed mind of Henry? A summer 
breeze, whispering round a tempest-withstanding watch-tower — 
he might grow chill at this echo of the fears his own heart 
spoke : but still he smiled, and his purpose was unshaken. 

It became known that the princes were to be arraigned for 
treason : first the unhappy, misnamed Perkin was tried, by the 
common courts, in Westminster Hall. When a despot gives up 
the execution of his revenge to the course of law, it is only 




THE TRIAL. 



399 



because lie wishes to get rid of passing the sentence of death 
upon his single authority, and to make the dread voice of 
misnamed justice, and its executors, the abettors of his 
crime. 

When tragedy arrays itself in the formal robes of law, it 
becomes more heart-rending, more odious, than in any other 
guise. When sickness threatens to deprive us of one, round 
•whom our heart-strings have twined — we think inextricably — 
the skill of man is our friend : if merciless tempest be the mur- 
derer, we feel that it obeys One whose ways are inscrutable, 
while we strive to believe that they are good. Groping in dark- 
ness, we teach our hearts the bitter lesson of resignation. Nor 
do we hate nor blame the wild winds and murderous waves, 
though they have drunk up a life more precious and more be- 
loved than words have power to speak. But that man’s autho- 
rity should destroy the life of his fellow-man ; that he who is 
powerful, should, for his own security and benefit, drive into 
the darksome void of the tomb one united to our sun-visited 
earth by ties of tenderness and love — one whose mind was the 
abode of honour and virtue ; to know that the word of man 
could still bind to its earthly tabernacle the being, voice, looks, 
thoughts, affections of our all ; and yet that the man of power 
unlocks the secret chamber, rifles it of all its treasures, and 
gives us, for the living mansion of the soul, a low, voiceless 
grave : — against such tyranny, the softest heart must rebel ; 
nor scarcely could religion in its most powerful guise, the Ca- 
tholic religion, which almost tore aside for its votaries the veil 
between time and eternity, teach submission to the victims. 

Days flow ed on. However replete with event, the past is but 
a point to us ; however empty, the present pervades all things. 
And when that present is freighted with our whole futurity, it 
is as an adamantine chain binding us to the hour 4 there is no 
escape from its omnipotence and omnipresence ; it is as the all- 
covering sky. We shut our eyes ; the monster’s hollow breath 
is on our cheek ; w e look on all sides : from each his horrid 
eyes glare on us ; we would sleep ; he whispers dreams. Are 
we intelligible? Will those possessed by present tell us 
whether any bondage, any Bastille, can suggest ideas of more 
frightful tyranny, misery, than the cruel present, which clings 
to us, and cannot be removed. 

“ It is so ; he attempted to escape, and was discovered ; he is 
low in his dungeon ; his dear eyes are faint from disappointed 
hope. He will be tried. Tyranny will go forth in a masque, 
and with hideous antics fancy that she mantles w ith a decorous 
garb her blood-thirsty acts. He will be condemned ; but he will 



>sle 



400 



THE TRIAL. 



not die ! not die ! Oh no, my Richard is immortal — he cannot 
die ! ” 

“My royal cousin, when you gave me to my sweet love, and 
pledged your word that in weal or woe I should be his ; and I 
promised myself still dearer things, to be the guardian angel 
and tutelar genius of his life ; and took pleasure, fond, foolish 
girl that I was, in the anticipation of misfortunes that I should 
rob of all power to hurt ; no thought, among the many that 
strayed into futurity, told me of this desertion, this impotence 
of effecting good. Alas ! how deaf and cruel man is : I could 
more easily tear asunder his prison-walls with my hands, and 
break with my weak fingers his iron chains, than move one, as 
liable to suffer and to die as even his victim, to pity !” 

Elizabeth listened pale and silent to these complaints — bitter 
as they were, they were hushed to more heart-rending silence 
when the hour of trial came — she should only pray to die, 
before the word that spoke his condemnation met her ear. 
Accustomed as a princess — a high-born and respected daughter 
of one most powerful, to be obeyed and served ; to find herself 
destitute of all influence, seemed to place her in another planet 
—it was not men — not her fellow-creatures that were around 
her ; but fiends who wore the mask of humanity. An unin- 
habited desert had not been more solitary than this populous 
land, whose language she possessed not ; for what is language, 
if it reach not the heart and move itP 

Richard, the wonder of the time, gathered courage as ill- 
fortune pressed more hardly upon him ; in the hour of trial he 
did not quail, but stood in bold, fearless innocence before the 
men, whose thoughts were armed against his life. He was not 
guilty, he said, for he could not be guilty of treason. When 
the indictment was read which treated him as a foreigner and 
an alien, the spirit of the Plantagenet flashed from his eyes, 
and the very stony-hearted clerk, who read, casting his regards 
on him, faltered and stammered, overawed by a blaze of dignity, 
which, did we foster antique creeds, we might believe was shed 
over him by some such spirit as imparted divine majesty to the 
person of the king of Ithaca. Proudly and silently Richard 
listened to the evidence on his trial. It touched only on such 
points as would afterwards be most material for inculpation of 
poor Warwick. In the end he was asked what he had to 
plead, wherefore judgment should not pass upon him — but he 
was bid to be brief, and to beware not to use any language 
derogatory to the high and mighty prince Henry king of 
these realms. A smile curled his lips at this admonition, and 
with even a playful air he said, “ My very good lord, I ask for 




THE PRISON OF LUDGATE. 



401 



nothing, save that a little mercy be extended to the memory of 
my gracious uncle, my lord of Gloucester, who was no child- 
murderer.” 

At the word he was interrupted, and sentence pronounced. 
As the ignominious words were said, Richard, who from the 
beginning had abstracted himself in prayer, so that his ears 
might be as little wounded as possible, by an unconquerable 
impulse put his hand where his sword might have been. Its 
absence and the clanking of his chains recalled him to the 
truth, and he muttered the words, “ O basely murdered York ! ” 
in recollection of his unhappy grandfather, to whose miserable 
fate he often recurred, as an example of suffering aud patience. 

Thus ended the bitter scene ; one he had long expected, for 
which he had nerved himself. During nearly the whole, his 
look was as if he wore absent from it. I3ut who could read the 
secrets of his heart, while his impassive eye3 and lips were no 
index to the agonies that tortured it ? 



CHAPTER LVII. 

THE PRISON OF LUDGATE. 



So young to go 

Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground ! 

To be nailed down into a narrow place ; 

To see no more sweet sunshine ; hear no more 
Blithe voice of living thing ; muse not again 
Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost — 

How fearful ! 

SlIKLLEY. 

“ Speak to me, lady, sister, speak ! your frozen glances frighten 
me ; your fingers, as I touch them, have no resistance or life. 
Dearest and best, do not desert me — speal^ but one word, my 
own White Rose.” 

Katherine raised her blue eyes heavenward : as if the effort 
were too great, they fell again on the ground, as she said, in a 
voice so low that Elizabeth could hardly catch the sound ; “ I 
must see him pnce again before he dies.” 

“ And vou shall, dearest, I promise you. Cheer up, my love, 
not to affright him by looks like these. Indeed you shall see 
him, and I will also ; he shall know that he has a sister’s 

2 D 



 




402 



THE PBISON 



prayers, a sister’s love. Patience, sweet Kate, but a little 
patience.” 

“ Would I could sleep till then ! ” replied the miserable wife : 
and she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the 
light of day, and sighed bitterly. 

When our purposes are inflexible, how do insurmountable 
obstacles break before our strong will ; so that often it seems 
that we are more inconstant than fortune, and that with per- 
severance we might attain the sum of our desires. The queen, 
the weak, despised, powerless queen, resolved to gratify this one 
last wish of her beloved friend. Many a motive urged her to it ; 
compassion, love, and even self-interest. At first she idmost 
despaired ; while Bichard continued in the Tower it was impos- 
sible ; but on the twenty -third of November, two days before 
the destined termination of his fatal tragedy, on the day of the 
trial of poor Warwick, he was removed to the prison of Ludgate. 
And here, at dead of night, Henry, being absent inspecting his 
new palace at Biehmona, Elizabeth, timid, trembling, shrinking 
now at "the last — and Katherine, far too absorbed in one thought 
to dream of fear, took boat at Westminster, and were rowed 
along the dark, cold tide to Blackfriars. They were silent ; the 
queen clasped her friend’s hand, which was chill and deathlike. 
Elizabeth trembled, accustomed to hope for, to seek refuge in 
her stronger mind, she felt deserted, now that she, engrossed by 
passion, silent and still, the wife of the near prey of death, could 
remember only that yet for a little while he was alive. Their 
short voyage seemed endless ; still the oars splashed, still the 
boat glided, and yet they arrived not. Could it last for ever — 
with one hope ever in view, never to know that he was dead ? 
The thought passed into Katherine’s mind with the sluggish but 
absorbing tenacity of intense grief, and at last possessed it so 
wholly, that it was with a scream of fear that she found herself 
close to shore. 

The necessity of motion restored Katherine to her presence of 
mind, while it deprived the queen of the little courage she pos- 
sessed. Something was to be said and done : Elizabeth forgot 
what ; but Katherine spoke in a clear, though unnatural voice, 
and followed their conductors with a firm step, supporting the 
faltering queen. Yet she addressed her not ; her energies were 
wound up to achieve one thing ; more than that it would have 
cost her her life to attempt. They reached the dark walls of 
the prison ; a door was unbarred, and they were admitted. The 
princess passed the threshold with a quick step, as if overjoyed 
thus to be nearer her wish. Elizabeth paused, trembled, and 
almost wished to turn back. 




OF LCDGATE. 



403 



They crossed the high-walled court, and passed through 
several dark galleries : it seemed as if they would never arrive ; 
and yet both started when they stopped at the door of a cell. 

“ Does his grace erpect usP” asked Katherine. 

The turnkey looked as not understanding ; but their guide, 
who was the chaplain of the jail, answerd, — 

“ He does not. Fearful that some impediment might inter- 
vene, unwilling to disturb by a disappointed hope a soul so near 
its heavenly home, I have told him nothing.” 

“ Gently then,” said Katherine, “ let our speech be low.” 

The door opened, and displayed the son of the proud, luxurious 
Edward, sleeping on a wretched mattress, chained to the pave- 
ment. The ladies entered alone. Katherine glided noiselessly 
to his side ; her first act was to bend down her cheek, till his 
breath disturbed the ringlet that rested on it ; thus to assure 
herself that life was within bis lips. Elizabeth fixed her earnest 
gaze on him, to discover if in aught he reminded her of the blue- 
eyed, flaxen-haired bridegroom of Anne Mowbray : he more re- 
sembled a picture of her father in his early manhood ; and then 
again her aunt the duchess of Burgundy, whom she had seen 
just before king Edward’s death. He lay there in placid sleep ; 
thought and feeling absent : yet in that form resided the soul of 
Kichard ; a bright casket containing la priceless gem : no flaw — 
no token of weakness or decay. He lived — and at a word would 
come back from oblivion to her world of love. A few days and 
that form would still exist in all its fair proportion. But veil it 
quick ; he is not there ; unholy and false is the philosophy that 
teaches us that that lurid mockery was the thing we loved. 

And now he woke, almost to joy; yet sadness succeeded 
quickly to rapture. “ My poor girl,” he 'said, “ weep not for 
me ; weep for thyself rather ; a rose grafted on a thorn. The 
degraded and disgraced claims no such sorrow.” 

Katherine replied by an embrace ; by laying her beautiful 
head on his bosom, and listening with forgetful, delicious 
ecstasy to the throbbings of his beating heart. 

“ Be not unjust to thyself,” saia a soft, unknown voice, 
breaking the silence of the lovers ; “ be not false to thy 
house. We are a devoted race, my brother; but we are proud 
even to the last.” 

“ This is a new miracle,” cried the prince. “ Who, except 
this sainted one, will claim kindred with Tudor’s enemy P ” 

“ Tudor’s wife ; your sister. Do you not remember Eliza- 
beth P” 

As these words were said, Katherine, who appeard to have 
accomplished her utmost wish, sat beside him, her arms around 

2 d 2 







404 



THE PBISON OF LT7DGATB. 



him, her sweet head reposing, her eyes closed. Kissing her soft 
hair and fair brow, York disentwined her clasped hands, and 
rose, addressing the trembling queen : — 

* “ My sister,” he said, “ you do a deed which calls for blessings 
from heaven upon you and yours. Till now, such was my un- 
manly spirit, the stigma affixed to my name, the disgrace of my 
ignominious death, made me odious to myself. The weakness 
of that thought is past; the love of this sweetest sweet, and 
your kindness restore jne. Indeed, my sister, I am York — I 
am Plantagenet.” 

“ As such,” replied the queen, “ I ask a boon, for which, 
selfish ns I am, I chiefly came ; my brother will not deny me? ” 

“ Trifler, this is vanity. I can give nothing." 

“ Oh, everything,” exclaimed the lady ; “ years of peace, 
almost of happiness, in exchange for a life of bitter loneliness 
and suffering. You, my dearest lord, know the celestial good- 
ness of that fair White Kose ; in adversity and peril you have 
known it ; — J, amidst the cold deceits of a court. She has vowed 
never to return to her native land, to bear a questioned name 
among her peers ; or perhaps to be forced by her father to change 
it for one abhorred. Though she must hate me as the wife of 
her injurer, yet where can she better be than with your Bister? 
She would leave me, for I am Tudor’s queen ; bid her stay with 
her lord’s nearest kinswoman ; tell her that we will beguile the 
long years of our too young life with talk of you ; tell her that 
nowhere will she find one so ready to bless vour name as poor 
Elizabeth ; implore her, ah ! on my knees do I implore you to 
bid her not to leave me, a dead-alive, a miserable, bereft crea- 
ture, such as I was- ere I knew her love.” 

*■ “ What say’st thou, sweet P ” asked Richard ; “ am I yet 
monarch of that soft heart ? Will my single subject obey the 
crownless Richard ? " 

Katherine stretched out her hand to the queen, who was at 
York ’8 feet, in token of compliance : she could not speak ; it 
was a mighty effort to press the fingers of Elizabeth slightly ; 
who said, — 

“ Before heaven and your dear lord, I claim your promise ; 
you are mine for ever.” 

“ A precious gift, my Bess ; was it not thus my infant lips 
called you ? I 1 rust her to you; and so the sting of death is 
blunted. Yet let not too fond a lingering on one passed away, 
tarnish the bright hours that may yet be in store for her. Forget 
me, sweet ones ; I am nought ; a vapour which death and dark- 
ness inhales — best unremembered. Yet while I live I would 
ask one question — our victim-cousin, Edward of Warwick ? ” 



 




CONCLUSION. 



405 



Elizabeth could no longer restrain her tears as she related, that 
however weak Warwick might heretofore have seemed, he ap- 
peared a Plantagenet on his trial. He disdained the insulting 
formalities of law, where the bitter Lancastrian, Lord Oxford, 
w as the interpreter of justice ; he at once declared himself 
guilty of plotting to put the English crown on the head of his 
cousin, the duke of York. He was quickly interrupted, and 
condemned to be beheaded. 

“Generous, unhappy Warwick. Ah! is not life a misery, 
when all of good, except ye two angelic creatures, die P ” 

The signal was now given that the interview must end. Eliza- 
beth wept. Katherine, still voiceless, clung closer to her hus- 
band ; while he nerved himself to support these gentle spirits 
with manly fortitude. One long, affectionate kiss he pressed on 
the mouth of Katherine ; and as her roseate lips yet asked an- 
other, another and another followed ; their lives mingled with 
their breath. 

“We meet in Paradise, mine only one,” whispered Y'ork: 
“through our Lord’s mercy assuredly we meet there.” 

He unwound her arms ; he placed her in those of Elizabeth. 
“ Cherish, preserve her. Bless thee, my sister j thee, and thy 
children. They at least will, by my death, reign rightfully over 
this kingdom. Farewell.” 

He kissed her hand, and then again the lifeless hand of his 
wife, who stood a breathing statue. She had not spoken ; no 
words could utter her despair. Another moment, and their fair 
forms were gone ; the door of his cell was closed ; and, but for 
the presence of the God he worshipped, Bichard was left alone 
to solitude and night. 

o 



CHAPTER LVIII. 

CONCLUSION. 



Love is too young 1 to know what conscience is. 

Yet who knows not, Conscience is born of Love ? 

Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, 

Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. 

Shaksprare. 

Time,* we are told by all philosophers, is the sole medicine for 
grief. .Yet there are immortal regrets which must endure while 

* I do not know how far these concluding pages may be deemed superfluous : 



 




406 



CONCLUSION. 



we exist. Those who have met with one, with whose every feel- 
ing and thought their thoughts and feelings were entwined, who 
knew of no divided past, nor could imagine a solitary futurity, to 
them what balm can time bring? Time, the giver of hours, 
months, and years, each one liow barren, contemptible, and 
heavy to bear to the bereft ! 

There was no consolation for Katherine, which could make 
her for a moment forget that her present existence was but the 
lees of life, the spiritless remnants of a nectareous draught. 
But Katherine was gentle, good, and resigned ; she lived on, 
dispensing pleasure, adored by all who approached her, and 
gladly hailing any visitation of happiness which might reach 
one whose affections were too fondly linked to the grave. 

Years had passed since the last act of the sad tragedy which 
destroyed her dearest hopes. She accompanied the queen of 
England on a progress made by her, and they remained one 
night at Eastwell Place, the seat of Sir Thomas Moyle. There 
was a park, and stately pleasure-grounds belonging to the house, 
undulating uplands, shady copses, and sweet running brooks to 
diversify the scene. A crowd of the noble and the gay were 
there, and the royal party was unusually mirthful ; fireworks, 
masks, and dances were employed ; and all joyously gave them- 
selves up to the Bpirit of the hour. The chords of a harp, a 
well-known air, first awoke in the bosom of the White Rose 
that languid melancholy, so near allied to pleasure, so close a 
neighbour to pain. By degrees memory' grew busy in her brain ; 
she could no longer endure the laughter of her companions, 
their sallies, nay, nor their kindness ; for Elizabeth perceived 
her dear friend’s change of countenance, and was approaching, 
when Katherine, making her a sign not to remark her, stole 
away, and entering a straggling path, wandered on, struggling 
with the tears, which the beauty of the evening, and the very 
hilarity which just before she had shared, caused to gush warm 
and fast from her eyes. 

She reached a little streamlet, and was passing forward, 
when She became aware of the presence of another in the scene. 
A labouring man, of middle age (but his hair was grey and 
flowed on his shoulders) was seated on the rustic masonry of a 
rude fountain, reading ; he rose when he saw the lady, and 
doffed his hat; she, with the cordial sweetness that accom- 

the character of the Lady Katherine Gordon is a favonrite of mine, and yet many 
will be inclined to censure her abede in Henry the Seventh’s court, and other acts 
of her after-life. 1 desired therefore that she should speak for herself, and show 
how her conduct, subsequent to her husband’s death, was in accordance with the 
devotion and fidelity with which she attended his fortunes during his life. 




CONCLUSION. 



407 



panied her slightest acts, gave him an evening benison. Her 
voice, her look, her cordial manner moved to its depths a heart 
lately hardened against her. As she passed on, the man followed 
hastily, “ Lady ! ” he cried. 

It struck the princess that this poor fellow had some request 
to prefer to his master, and that he wished to do it through her 
medium : she turned with a benevolent smile : “ Can I do aught 
for you, good friend P ” 

His voice failed him ; he stretched out his hand, which held 
his book, she took it: the tiny volume was no stranger to her 
eyes; as if a ghost had looked on her lonely watching, she 
trembled and grew pale, when she opened it, and saw written 
in fair characters, by a hand now dust, “ La Rosa Blanca.” The 
rustic knelt before her. 

“ Lady, queen ! ” he cried, “ Sole relic of the unforgotten ! is 
it thus that we meet P ” 

“ My cousin Edmund ! ” 

“ Hush ! breathe not even to the silent woods the unknown 
word. Fancy not that I am Plantagenet : for all that was of 
worth in him you name, died when the White Bose scattered 
its leaves upon the unworthy earth.” 

“ Ah ! would that we had all died in that hour,” cried Kathe- 
rine : “ why, when the ungrateful world lost him, did not all 
the good and true die also, so that they might no longer 
suffer! ” 

Plantagenet cast a reproachful glance on her, as he said, 
“ Happy indeed are those who die. O God ! when I think of 
the many and the beloved, who, a few years ago, were alive 
around me, and among whose low silent graves I now walk 
alone, methinks I am dead; it is but the ghost of him you knew 
that lingers upon earth.” • 

u. “ Yes, they are all gone,” said the princess ; “ all who linked 
me to the past, and were portions of my Richard’s being. They 
are gone from before me. But are they truly no more, or do 
they live, like you, brooding over the lost, disdaining to com- 
municate with one who lives but to remember them r Of the 
death of several I have heard ; but often I have longed with 
bitterness to hear of you, and of the Spanish maiden, Monina 
de Faro.” 

“ Her gentle soul,” replied Edmund, “ has flown to join him 
for whom she lived and died. It is now two years since I was 
assured of this. A friar, whom I had formerly well known, 
visited Lisbon ; and I entreated him to inquire for De Faro and 
his child. The commander of the Adalid was almost forgotten ; 
at last, an old sailor was found, who remembered that, some 



 




408 



CONCLUSION. 



years before, lie bad sailed for the Western Indies, and was 
never beard of more.” 

“ His daughtor accompanied him?” 

“ In the churchyard of a convent, placed high among the 
foldings of those lovely hills which overlook Lisbon, he was 
shown an humble tomb, half defaped ; her dear, sacred name is 
carved upon it, and half the date, the 14 — , which showed that 
she died before the century began, in which we now live.* She 
could not have survived our prince many months ; probably she 
died before him, nor ever knew the worst pang of all, the igno- 
miny linked with his beloved memory.” 

“ And you, my kinsman, how long have you wedded penury 
and labour in this obscure disguise?” 

“ Penury and labour,” said Plantagenet, “are not confined to 
the humbie occupation I have adopted. I was made poor by 
the death-blow of my hopes ; and my chief labour is to tame 
my heart to resignation to the will of God. Obscure you may 
indeed call my destination. Would I could shroud it in tenfold 
night ! Dearer to me is the silence and loneliness of this spot, 
where I can for ever commune undisturbed with the past, than 
a pomp which is stained by the blood of him whom once I 
thought we all loved so well. 

“ When — oh, let me name not the frightful thing ! — when he 
was gone for ever, the whole world was to me but one miserable 
tomb. I groped in darkness, misery my mate, eternal lamenta- 
tion my sole delight. The first thing that brought peace to my 
soul, was the beauty of this visible universe. When God per- 
mitted, for some inscrutable purpose, moral evil to be showered 
so plentifully over us, he gave us a thousand resources out of 
ourselves in compensation. If I mingled with my fellow- 
creatures, how dearly should I miss him, who was single among 
men for goodness, wisdom, and heaven-born nobility of soul. 
My heart sickens at the evil things that usurp the shape of 
humanity, and dare deem themselves of the same species : I 
turn from all, loathing. But here there is no change, no falling- 
off, no loss of beauty and of good : these glades, these copses, 
the seasons’ change and elemental ministrations, are for ever the . 
same — the type of their Maker in glory and in good. The 
loveliness of earth saves me from despair: the Majesty of 
Heaven imparts aspiring hope. I bare my bosom to the breeze, 
and my wretched heart throbs less wildly. I drink in the balmy 
sweetness of the hour, and repose again on the goodness of my 
Creator. 

“ Yours is another existence, lady ; you need the adulation 

* Richard was put to death in 1490. 








CONCLUSION. 



409 

of the crowd — the luxury of palaces ; you purchase these, even 
by communing with the murderer of him who deserved a dearer 
recompense at your hands.” 

Kath erine smiled sadly at these last words, which betrayed 
the thought that rankled in her kinsman’s mind. “ I thank you,” 
she replied, “ for your details. I will not blame you for the 
false judgment you pass on me. "When years and quiet thought 
have brought you back from the tempest of emotion that shakes 
you, you will read my heart better, and know that it is still 
faithfully devoted to him I have lost.” 

“ Ah ! say those words again,” cried Plantagenet, “ and teach 
me to believe them. I would give my right hand to approve 
your conduct, to love and reverence you once again.” 

“ Will you have patience with me then, while I strive to 
justify myselfP” 

“ Oh, speak ! My life, my soul’s salvation, to hang upon 
your words.” 

Katherine raised her blue eyes to the now starry sky, as if to 
adjure that to be the witness of her innocent thoughts ; and then 
she said, “ We are all, dear cousin, impelled by our nature to make 
ourselves the central point of the universe. Even those, who as 
they fancy, sacrifice themBelves for the love of God, do it more 
truly for love of themselves ; and the followers of virtue too often 
see their duties through the obscure and deceptive medium 
which their own single, individual feelings create. Yet we have 
one unerring guide ; one given us at our birth, and which He 
who died on the Cross for us, taught us to understand and to 
appreciate, commanding us to make it the master-law of our lives. 
Call it love, charity, or sympathy ; it is the best, the angelic por- 
tion of us. It teaches us to feel pain at others’ pain, joy in their 
jov. The more entirely we mingle our emotions with those of 
others, making our well or ill being depend on theirs, the more 
completely do we cast away selfishness, and approach the per- 
fection of our nature. 

“ You are going to answer, perhaps to refute me — do not 
Remember I am a woman, with a woman’s tutelage in my early 
years, a woman’s education in the world, which is that of the 
heart— alas ! for us — not Of the head. I have no school-learning, 
no logic — but simply the voice of my own soul which speaks 
within me. 

“I try to forget; you force me back upon myself. You 
attack ; and you beseech me to defend myself. So to do, I 
must dwell upon the sentiments of a heart, which is human, and 
therefore faulty, but which has neither guile nor malice in it. 

“ In my father’s house — and when I wandered with my 



joogle 



410 



CONCLUSION. 



beloved outcast, I bad no difficulty in perceiving, nor — God was 
so gracious to me — in fulfilling my duties. For in childhood I 
was cherished and favoured by all ; and when I became a wife, 
it was no wonder that I should love and idolize the most single- 
hearted, generous, and kindly being that ever trod the earth. 
To give myself away to him — to be a part of him — to feel that 
we were an harmonious one in this discordant world, was a hap- 
piness that falls to the lot of few : — defeat, chains, imprison- 
ment — all these were but shows ; the reality was deep in our 
hearts, invulnerable by any tyrant less remorseless than death. 
If this life were the sum and boundary our being, I had pos- 
sessed the consummation and fulfilment of happiness. 

“ But we are taught to believe that our existence here is but 
the Btepping-stone to another beyond, and that ‘death is the 
beginning of life.’ When we reach the summit of our desires, 
then we fall, and death comes to destroy. He was lost to me, 
my glory, and my good ! Little could I avail to him now. The 
caresses, love, and watchfnl care, the obedience and the heart’s 
Baerifi.ee, of a poor thing who groped darkling upon earth, could 
avail nought to a spirit in Paradise. I was forced to feel that 
I was alone : and as to me, to love is toexist ; so in that dark 
hour, in the gaspings of my agony, I felt that I must die, if for 
ever divided from him who possessed my affections. 

“ Years have passed since then. If grief kills us not, we kill 
it. Not that I cease to grieve ; for each hour, revealing to me 
how excelling and matchless the being was who once was mine, 
but renews the pang with which I deplore my alien state upon 
earth. But such is God’s will j I am doomed to a divided 
existence, and I submit. Meanwhile I am human ; and human 
affections are the native, luxuriant growth of a heart whose 
weakness it is, too eagerly and too fondly, to seek objects on 
whom to expend its yearnings. My Richard’s last act was to 
bestow me on his sister : it were impious to retract a gift made 
by the dying. We wept together — how long, and how bitterly ! 
— the loss of our loved one ; and then together we turned to 
fulfil our duties. She had children ; they became as dear to me 
as to her. Margaret I cherish as the betrothed bride of my 
ever dear cousin, the king of Scotland ; and, when I endeavour 
to foster the many virtues nature has implanted in the noble 
mind of Prince Arthur, I am fulfilling, methinks, a task grateful 
in the eyes of Richard, thus doing my part to bestow on the 
England he loved a sovereign who will repair the usurper’s 
crimes, and bestow happiness on the realm. 

“ Nor is this all — despise me if you will, but I confess that I 
regard others among those with whom I associate, with a cling- 




CONCLUSION. 



411 



ing affection that forbids me to separate myself from them. Did 
I not love the noble and good, even as he did, while Richard 
lived P Does he not now, in his heavenly abode, love them ? 
and must my living heart be stone, because that dear form is 
dust which was the medium of my communication with his 
spirit P Where I Bee suffering, there I must bring my mite for 
its relief. We are not deities to bestow in impassive benevolence. 
We give, because we love — and the meshes of that sweet web, 
which mutual good offices and sympathy weave, entangle and 
enthral me, and force me to pain and pleasure, and to every 
variety of emotion which is the portion of those whom it holds 
within its folds. 

“ I quarrel not with — I admire — those who can be good and 
benovolent, and yet keep their hearts to themselves, the shrine 
of worship for God, a haven which no wind can enter. I^am 
not one of these, and yet take no shame therefore : I feel my 
many weaknesses, and know that some of these form a part of 
my strength ; the reviled part of our nature being a portion of 
that which elevates us to the godlike. My reason, my sense of 
duty, my conscientious observance of its dictates, you will set 
up as the better part ; but I venerate also the freer impulses of 
our souls. My passions, my susceptible imagination, my falter- 
ing dependence on others, my clinging to the sense of joy — 
this makes an integral part of Katherine, nor the worst part of 
her. When my soul quits this ‘ bower of flesh,’ these leaves and 
flowers, which are perhaps the growth of it, may decay and die. 
I know not ; as it is, I am content to be an imperfect creature, 
so that I never lose the ennobling attribute of my species, the 
constant'endeavour to be more perfect. 

“ I do not blame you, my cousin, for seeking repose in soli- 
tude after much endurance. But unquiet should I feel in the 
unreplying loneliness which forms your peace. I must love and 
be loved. I must feel that my dear and chosen friends are 
happier through me. When I have wandered out of myself in 
my endeavour to shed pleasure around, I must again return 
laden with the gathered sweets on which I feed and live. Permit 
this to be, unblamed — permit a heart whose sufferings have been, 
and are, so many and so bitter, to reap what joy it can from the 
strong necessity it feels to be sympatfitffiU D n 



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Discipline. | Self-Control. 

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| Thaddeus of Warsaw. 

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The Author of “ Rockingham.” 

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The Author of tc Whitefriars.” 

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Charles II. Charles I. 

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Owen Tudor. 

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In fcap. 8vo, price One Shilling each, doth limp, 

Angling and Where to Go. By I Cage and Singing Birds. By II. 

H. Blakey. 1 G. Adams. 

Pigeons ANr - - - i — — » y 0UB tt. 

Delamer. 

Kitchen Ga 
ELowKn Ga: 

Poultry Yj 
Watts. 

Small Far* 

Reader, hai 

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ale 





I .'-l -s 



V\o7- « 



PUBLISHING IN SHILLING MONTHLY PARTS. 



ROUTLEDGES SHAKSPEARE: 

ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN GILBERT, 

AND 

EDITED BY HOWARD STAUNTON. 

Parts L to V. are now ready. 

Each Part contains 48 pages of Letterpress, printed in Super-Royal Octavo, 
and on an average from 17 to 20 Illustrations. 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



Morning Chronicle. 

“ The ty of the work is clear and dis- 
tinct, the paper good, amt the price — this is 
k marvel, even in an age of cheap literature; 
forty-eight pages of super - royal octavo, 
printed and illustrated in the highest style of 
art. We cordially recommend every one of 
onr readers to become a subscriber to this 
splendid Kdition of • lloutledge’s Illustrated 
Nhukspeare.'" 



Morning Herald. 



a taw 



“ A good edition of Shakspeare at 
price is a national benefit, and as such we are 
glad to welcome • Holtledge’s Edition,’ 
and in all sincerity to wish it good speed. Its 
own merits will secure its success, and its 
rcn '.wn has already spread far aud wide. 1 ' 

' 

Morning Advertiser. 

‘•For general excellence, at a remarkably 
low price, we know of Jio publication that 
can be compared with these forty-eight pages 
of elegant letter-press, beautifully illustrated 
by John Gilbert. If no poet but Shakspeare 
could have imagined such a scene, so rich in 
truth and humour, surely John Gilbert is 
the only artist that could have thus inter- 
preted the poet, and given his creations a life- 



j like reality. There must be some standard, 

! and we fancy that this will become the Sh.d 
stieare of the people. Within the reach of all 
classes, it will serve every purpose, while the 
1 beautiful illustrations show the characters 
that Shakspeare drew." 

I 

Observer. 

•‘The illustrations are admirable for spirit 
and truth, and are many in number; and as 
i the work is published at a price which renders 
it a model of cheapness, there can be no doubt 
that its circulation will be commensurate will 
its high pretensions, and the great expense 
that has been incurred in its production." 



Leader. 

“ The typography of this new edition is ex- 
1 trcmely beautiful, am! a parently very cor- 
rect. Mr. Staunton's note* are carefully and 
sensibly compiled. The woodcuts in Farts 1 
and II. are really graceful and elegant; con- 
taining dainty title bits of landscape : 
notably, the brigand's forest in ‘The Two 
Gentlemen of Verona.' and a wood scene in 
! • Love's Labours Lost,’ several well-drawn 
human figures, and apparently careful re- 
; ferenee to costume, and some quaintly lanei 
ful tail pieces.” 



LONDON : G. ROXJTLEDGE & CO., 2, FARRINGDON STREET.