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THE LAST OF THE BARONS
by Edward Bulwer Lytton
DEDICATORY EPISTLE.
I dedicate to you, my indulgent Critic and long-tried Friend, the work
which owes its origin to your suggestion. Long since, you urged me to
attempt a fiction which might borrow its characters from our own
Records, and serve to illustrate some of those truths which History is
too often compelled to leave to the Tale-teller, the Dramatist, and
the Poet. Unquestionably, Fiction, when aspiring to something higher
than mere romance, does not pervert, but elucidate Facts. He who
employs it worthily must, like a biographer, study the time and the
characters he selects, with a minute and earnest diligence which the
general historian, whose range extends over centuries, can scarcely be
expected to bestow upon the things and the men of a single epoch. His
descriptions should fill up with colour and detail the cold outlines
of the rapid chronicler; and in spite of all that has been argued by
pseudo-critics, the very fancy which urged and animated his theme
should necessarily tend to increase the reader's practical and
familiar acquaintance with the habits, the motives, and the modes of
thought which constitute the true idiosyncrasy of an age. More than
all, to Fiction is permitted that liberal use of Analogical Hypothesis
which is denied to History, and which, if sobered by research, and
enlightened by that knowledge of mankind (without which Fiction can
neither harm nor profit, for it becomes unreadable), tends to clear up
much that were otherwise obscure, and to solve the disputes and
difficulties of contradictory evidence by the philosophy of the human
heart.
My own impression of the greatness of the labour to which you invited
me made me the more diffident of success, inasmuch as the field of
English historical fiction had been so amply cultivated, not only by
the most brilliant of our many glorious Novelists, but by later
writers of high and merited reputation. But however the annals of our
History have been exhausted by the industry of romance, the subject
you finally pressed on my choice is unquestionably one which, whether
in the delineation of character, the expression of passion, or the
suggestion of historical truths, can hardly fail to direct the
Novelist to paths wholly untrodden by his predecessors in the Land of
Fiction.
Encouraged by you, I commenced my task; encouraged by you, I venture,
on concluding it, to believe that, despite the partial adoption of
that established compromise between the modern and the elder diction,
which Sir Walter Scott so artistically improved from the more rugged
phraseology employed by Strutt, and which later writers have perhaps
somewhat overhackneyed, I may yet have avoided all material trespass
upon ground which others have already redeemed from the waste.
Whatever the produce of the soil I have selected, I claim, at least,
to have cleared it with my own labour, and ploughed it with my own
heifer.
The reign of Edward IV. is in itself suggestive of new considerations
and unexhausted interest to those who accurately regard it. Then
commenced the policy consummated by Henry VII.; then were broken up
the great elements of the old feudal order; a new Nobility was called
into power, to aid the growing Middle Class in its struggles with the
ancient; and in the fate of the hero of the age, Richard Nevile, Earl
of Warwick, popularly called the King-maker, "the greatest as well as
the last of those mighty Barons who formerly overawed the Crown,"
[Hume adds, "and rendered the people incapable of civil government,"--
a sentence which, perhaps, judges too hastily the whole question at
issue in our earlier history, between the jealousy of the barons and
the authority of the king.] was involved the very principle of our
existing civilization. It adds to the wide scope of Fiction, which
ever loves to explore the twilight, that, as Hume has truly observed,
"No part of English history since the Conquest is so obscure, so
uncertain, so little authentic or consistent, as that of the Wars
between the two Roses." It adds also to the importance of that
conjectural research in which Fiction may be made so interesting and
so useful, that "this profound darkness falls upon us just on the eve
of the restoration of letters;" [Hume] while amidst the gloom, we
perceive the movement of those great and heroic passions in which
Fiction finds delineations everlastingly new, and are brought in
contact with characters sufficiently familiar for interest,
sufficiently remote for adaptation to romance, and above all, so
frequently obscured by contradictory evidence, that we lend ourselves
willingly to any one who seeks to help our judgment of the individual
by tests taken from the general knowledge of mankind.
Round the great image of the "Last of the Barons" group Edward the
Fourth, at once frank and false; the brilliant but ominous boyhood of
Richard the Third; the accomplished Hastings, "a good knight and
gentle, but somewhat dissolute of living;" [Chronicle of Edward V., in
Stowe] the vehement and fiery Margaret of Anjou; the meek image of her
"holy Henry," and the pale shadow of their son. There may we see,
also, the gorgeous Prelate, refining in policy and wile, as the
enthusiasm and energy which had formerly upheld the Ancient Church
pass into the stern and persecuted votaries of the New; we behold, in
that social transition, the sober Trader--outgrowing the prejudices of
the rude retainer or rustic franklin, from whom he is sprung--
recognizing sagaciously, and supporting sturdily, the sectarian
interests of his order, and preparing the way for the mighty Middle
Class, in which our Modern Civilization, with its faults and its
merits, has established its stronghold; while, in contrast to the
measured and thoughtful notions of liberty which prudent Commerce
entertains, we are reminded of the political fanaticism of the secret
Lollard,--of the jacquerie of the turbulent mob-leader; and perceive,
amidst the various tyrannies of the time, and often partially allied
with the warlike seignorie, [For it is noticeable that in nearly all
the popular risings--that of Cade, of Robin of Redesdale, and
afterwards of that which Perkin Warbeck made subservient to his
extraordinary enterprise--the proclamations of the rebels always
announced, among their popular grievances, the depression of the
ancient nobles and the elevation of new men.]--ever jealous against
all kingly despotism,--the restless and ignorant movement of a
democratic principle, ultimately suppressed, though not destroyed,
under the Tudors, by the strong union of a Middle Class, anxious for
security and order, with an Executive Authority determined upon
absolute sway.
Nor should we obtain a complete and comprehensive view of that most
interesting Period of Transition, unless we saw something of the
influence which the sombre and sinister wisdom of Italian policy began
to exercise over the councils of the great,--a policy of refined
stratagem, of complicated intrigue, of systematic falsehood, of
ruthless, but secret violence; a policy which actuated the fell
statecraft of Louis XI.; which darkened, whenever he paused to think
and to scheme, the gaudy and jovial character of Edward IV.; which
appeared in its fullest combination of profound guile and resolute
will in Richard III.; and, softened down into more plausible and
specious purpose by the unimpassioned sagacity of Henry VII., finally
attained the object which justified all its villanies to the princes
of its native land,--namely, the tranquillity of a settled State, and
the establishment of a civilized but imperious despotism.
Again, in that twilight time, upon which was dawning the great
invention that gave to Letters and to Science the precision and
durability of the printed page, it is interesting to conjecture what
would have been the fate of any scientific achievement for which the
world was less prepared. The reception of printing into England
chanced just at the happy period when Scholarship and Literature were
favoured by the great. The princes of York, with the exception of
Edward IV. himself, who had, however, the grace to lament his own want
of learning, and the taste to appreciate it in others, were highly
educated. The Lords Rivers and Hastings [The erudite Lord Worcester
had been one of Caxton's warmest patrons, but that nobleman was no
more at the time in which printing is said to have been actually
introduced into England.] were accomplished in all the "witte and
lere" of their age. Princes and peers vied with each other in their
patronage of Caxton, and Richard III., during his brief reign, spared
no pains to circulate to the utmost the invention destined to transmit
his own memory to the hatred and the horror of all succeeding time.
But when we look around us, we see, in contrast to the gracious and
fostering reception of the mere mechanism by which science is made
manifest, the utmost intolerance to science itself. The mathematics
in especial are deemed the very cabala of the black art. Accusations
of witchcraft were never more abundant; and yet, strange to say, those
who openly professed to practise the unhallowed science, [Nigromancy,
or Sorcery, even took its place amongst the regular callings. Thus,
"Thomas Vandyke, late of Cambridge," is styled (Rolls Parl. 6, p. 273)
Nigromancer as his profession.--Sharon Turner, "History of England,"
vol iv. p. 6. Burke, "History of Richard III."] and contrived to make
their deceptions profitable to some unworthy political purpose, appear
to have enjoyed safety, and sometimes even honour, while those who,
occupied with some practical, useful, and noble pursuits
uncomprehended by prince or people, denied their sorcery were
despatched without mercy. The mathematician and astronomer
Bolingbroke (the greatest clerk of his age) is hanged and quartered as
a wizard, while not only impunity but reverence seems to have awaited
a certain Friar Bungey, for having raised mists and vapours, which
greatly befriended Edward IV. at the battle of Barnet.
Our knowledge of the intellectual spirit of the age, therefore, only
becomes perfect when we contrast the success of the Impostor with the
fate of the true Genius. And as the prejudices of the populace ran
high against all mechanical contrivances for altering the settled
conditions of labour, [Even in the article of bonnets and hats, it
appears that certain wicked falling mills were deemed worthy of a
special anathema in the reign of Edward IV. These engines are accused
of having sought, "by subtle imagination," the destruction of the
original makers of hats and bonnets" by man's strength,--that is, with
hands and feet; "and an act of parliament was passed (22d of Edward
IV.) to put down the fabrication of the said hats and bonnets by
mechanical contrivance.] so probably, in the very instinct and destiny
of Genius which ever drive it to a war with popular prejudice, it
would be towards such contrivances that a man of great ingenuity and
intellect, if studying the physical sciences, would direct his
ambition.
Whether the author, in the invention he has assigned to his
philosopher (Adam Warner), has too boldly assumed the possibility of a
conception so much in advance of the time, they who have examined such
of the works of Roger Bacon as are yet given to the world can best
decide; but the assumption in itself belongs strictly to the most
acknowledged prerogatives of Fiction; and the true and important
question will obviously be, not whether Adam Warner could have
constructed his model, but whether, having so constructed it, the fate
that befell him was probable and natural.
Such characters as I have here alluded to seemed, then, to me, in
meditating the treatment of the high and brilliant subject which your
eloquence animated me to attempt, the proper Representatives of the
multiform Truths which the time of Warwick the King-maker affords to
our interests and suggests for our instruction; and I can only wish
that the powers of the author were worthier of the theme.
It is necessary that I now state briefly the foundation of the
Historical portions of this narrative. The charming and popular
"History of Hume," which, however, in its treatment of the reign of
Edward IV. is more than ordinarily incorrect, has probably left upon
the minds of many of my readers, who may not have directed their
attention to more recent and accurate researches into that obscure
period, an erroneous impression of the causes which led to the breach
between Edward IV. and his great kinsman and subject, the Earl of
Warwick. The general notion is probably still strong that it was the
marriage of the young king to Elizabeth Gray, during Warwick's
negotiations in France for the alliance of Bona of Savoy (sister-in-
law to Louis XI.), which exasperated the fiery earl, and induced his
union with the House of Lancaster. All our more recent historians
have justly rejected this groundless fable, which even Hume (his
extreme penetration supplying the defects of his superficial research)
admits with reserve. ["There may even some doubt arise with regard to
the proposal of marriage made to Bona of Savoy," etc.--HUME, note to
p. 222, vol. iii. edit. 1825.] A short summary of the reasons for
this rejection is given by Dr. Lingard, and annexed below. ["Many
writers tell us that the enmity of Warwick arose from his
disappointment caused by Edward's clandestine marriage with Elizabeth.
If we may believe them, the earl was at the very time in France
negotiating on the part of the king a marriage with Bona of Savoy,
sister to the Queen of France; and having succeeded in his mission,
brought back with him the Count of Dampmartin as ambassador from
Louis. To me the whole story appears a fiction. 1. It is not to be
found in the more ancient historians. 2. Warwick was not at the time
in France. On the 20th of April, ten days before the marriage, he was
employed in negotiating a truce with the French envoys in London (Rym.
xi. 521), and on the 26th of May, about three weeks after it, was
appointed to treat of another truce with the King of Scots (Rym. xi.
424). 3. Nor could he bring Dampmartin with him to England; for that
nobleman was committed a prisoner to the Bastile in September, 1463,
and remained there till May, 1465 (Monstrel. iii. 97, 109). Three
contemporary and well-informed writers, the two continuators of the
History of Croyland and Wyrcester, attribute his discontent to the
marriages and honours granted to the Wydeviles, and the marriage of
the princess Margaret with the Duke of Burgundy."--LINGARD, vol. iii.
c. 24, pp. 5, 19, 4to ed.] And, indeed, it is a matter of wonder that
so many of our chroniclers could have gravely admitted a legend
contradicted by all the subsequent conduct of Warwick himself; for we
find the earl specially doing honour to the publication of Edward's
marriage, standing godfather to his first-born (the Princess
Elizabeth), employed as ambassador or acting as minister, and fighting
for Edward, and against the Lancastrians, during the five years that
elapsed between the coronation of Elizabeth and Warwick's rebellion.
The real causes of this memorable quarrel, in which Warwick acquired
his title of King-maker, appear to have been these.
It is probable enough, as Sharon Turner suggests, [Sharon Turner:
History of England, vol. iii. p. 269.] that Warwick was disappointed
that, since Edward chose a subject for his wife, he neglected the more
suitable marriage he might have formed with the earl's eldest
daughter; and it is impossible but that the earl should have been
greatly chafed, in common with all his order, by the promotion of the
queen's relations, [W. Wyr. 506, 7. Croyl. 542.] new men and apostate
Lancastrians. But it is clear that these causes for discontent never
weakened his zeal for Edward till the year 1467, when we chance upon
the true origin of the romance concerning Bona of Savoy, and the first
open dissension between Edward and the earl.
In that year Warwick went to France, to conclude an alliance with
Louis XI., and to secure the hand of one of the French princes [Which
of the princes this was does not appear, and can scarcely be
conjectured. The "Pictorial History of England" (Book v. 102) in a
tone of easy decision says "it was one of the sons of Louis XI." But
Louis had no living sons at all at the time. The Dauphin was not born
till three years afterwards. The most probable person was the Duke of
Guienne, Louis's brother.] for Margaret, sister to Edward IV.; during
this period, Edward received the bastard brother of Charles, Count of
Charolois, afterwards Duke of Burgundy, and arranged a marriage
between Margaret and the count.
Warwick's embassy was thus dishonoured, and the dishonour was
aggravated by personal enmity to the bridegroom Edward had preferred.
[The Croyland Historian, who, as far as his brief and meagre record
extends, is the best authority for the time of Edward IV., very
decidedly states the Burgundian alliance to be the original cause of
Warwick's displeasure, rather than the king's marriage with Elizabeth:
"Upon which (the marriage of Margaret with Charolois) Richard Nevile,
Earl of Warwick, who had for so many years taken party with the French
against the Burgundians, conceived great indignation; and I hold this
to be the truer cause of his resentment than the king's marriage with
Elizabeth, for he had rather have procured a husband for the aforesaid
princess Margaret in the kingdom of France." The Croyland Historian
also speaks emphatically of the strong animosity existing between
Charolois and Warwick.--Cont. Croyl. 551.] The earl retired in
disgust to his castle. But Warwick's nature, which Hume has happily
described as one of "undesigning frankness and openness," [Hume,
"Henry VI.," vol. iii. p. 172, edit. 1825.] does not seem to have long
harboured this resentment. By the intercession of the Archbishop of
York and others, a reconciliation was effected, and the next year,
1468, we find Warwick again in favour, and even so far forgetting his
own former cause of complaint as to accompany the procession in honour
of Margaret's nuptials with his private foe. [Lingard.] In the
following year, however, arose the second dissension between the king
and his minister,--namely, in the king's refusal to sanction the
marriage of his brother Clarence with the earl's daughter Isabel,--a
refusal which was attended with a resolute opposition that must
greatly have galled the pride of the earl, since Edward even went so
far as to solicit the Pope to refuse his sanction, on the ground of
relationship. [Carte. Wm. Wyr.] The Pope, nevertheless, grants the
dispensation, and the marriage takes place at Calais. A popular
rebellion then breaks out in England. Some of Warwick's kinsmen--
those, however, belonging to the branch of the Nevile family that had
always been Lancastrians, and at variance with the earl's party--are
found at its head. The king, who is in imminent danger, writes a
supplicating letter to Warwick to come to his aid. ["Paston Letters,"
cxcviii. vol. ii., Knight's ed. See Lingard, c. 24, for the true date
of Edward's letters to Warwick, Clarence, and the Archbishop of York.]
The earl again forgets former causes for resentment, hastens from
Calais, rescues the king, and quells the rebellion by the influence of
his popular name.
We next find Edward at Warwick's castle of Middleham, where, according
to some historians, he is forcibly detained,--an assertion treated by
others as a contemptible invention. This question will be examined in
the course of this work; [See Note II.] but whatever the true
construction of the story, we find that Warwick and the king are still
on such friendly terms, that the earl marches in person against a
rebellion on the borders, obtains a signal victory, and that the rebel
leader (the earl's own kinsman) is beheaded by Edward at York. We
find that, immediately after this supposed detention, Edward speaks of
Warwick and his brothers "as his best friends;" ["Paston Letters,"
cciv. vol. ii., Knight's ed. The date of this letter, which puzzled
the worthy annotator, is clearly to be referred to Edward's return
from York, after his visit to Middleham in 1469. No mention is
therein made by the gossiping contemporary of any rumour that Edward
had suffered imprisonment. He enters the city in state, as having
returned safe and victorious from a formidable rebellion. The letter
goes on to say: "The king himself hath (that is, holds) good language
of the Lords Clarence, of Warwick, etc., saying 'they be his best
friends.'" Would he say this if just escaped from a prison? Sir John
Paston, the writer of the letter, adds, it is true, "But his household
men have (hold) other language." very probably, for the household men
were the court creatures always at variance with Warwick, and held, no
doubt, the same language they had been in the habit of holding
before.] that he betroths his eldest daughter to Warwick's nephew, the
male heir of the family. And then suddenly, only three months
afterwards (in February, 1470), and without any clear and apparent
cause, we find Warwick in open rebellion, animated by a deadly hatred
to the king, refusing, from first to last, all overtures of
conciliation; and so determined is his vengeance, that he bows a
pride, hitherto morbidly susceptible, to the vehement insolence of
Margaret of Anjou, and forms the closest alliance with the Lancastrian
party, in the destruction of which his whole life had previously been
employed.
Here, then, where History leaves us in the dark, where our curiosity
is the most excited, Fiction gropes amidst the ancient chronicles, and
seeks to detect and to guess the truth. And then Fiction, accustomed
to deal with the human heart, seizes upon the paramount importance of
a Fact which the modern historian has been contented to place amongst
dubious and collateral causes of dissension. We find it broadly and
strongly stated by Hall and others, that Edward had coarsely attempted
the virtue of one of the earl's female relations. "And farther it
erreth not from the truth," says Hall, "that the king did attempt a
thing once in the earl's house, which was much against the earl's
honesty; but whether it was the daughter or the niece," adds the
chronicler, "was not, for both their honours, openly known; but surely
such a thing WAS attempted by King Edward," etc.
Any one at all familiar with Hall (and, indeed, with all our principal
chroniclers, except Fabyan), will not expect any accurate precision as
to the date he assigns for the outrage. He awards to it, therefore,
the same date he erroneously gives to Warwick's other grudges (namely,
a period brought some years lower by all judicious historians) a date
at which Warwick was still Edward's fastest friend.
Once grant the probability of this insult to the earl (the probability
is conceded at once by the more recent historians, and received
without scruple as a fact by Rapia, Habington, and Carte), and the
whole obscurity which involves this memorable quarrel vanishes at
once. Here was, indeed, a wrong never to be forgiven, and yet never
to be proclaimed. As Hall implies, the honour of the earl was
implicated in hushing the scandal, and the honour of Edward in
concealing the offence. That if ever the insult were attempted, it
must have been just previous to the earl's declared hostility is
clear. Offences of that kind hurry men to immediate action at the
first, or else, if they stoop to dissimulation the more effectually to
avenge afterwards, the outbreak bides its seasonable time. But the
time selected by the earl for his outbreak was the very worst he could
have chosen, and attests the influence of a sudden passion,--a new and
uncalculated cause of resentment. He had no forces collected; he had
not even sounded his own brother-in-law, Lord Stanley (since he was
uncertain of his intentions); while, but a few months before, had he
felt any desire to dethrone the king, he could either have suffered
him to be crushed by the popular rebellion the earl himself had
quelled, or have disposed of his person as he pleased when a guest at
his own castle of Middleham. His evident want of all preparation and
forethought--a want which drove into rapid and compulsory flight from
England the baron to whose banner, a few months afterwards, flocked
sixty thousand men--proves that the cause of his alienation was fresh
and recent.
If, then, the cause we have referred to, as mentioned by Hall and
others, seems the most probable we can find (no other cause for such
abrupt hostility being discernible), the date for it must be placed
where it is in this work,--namely, just prior to the earl's revolt.
The next question is, who could have been the lady thus offended,
whether a niece or daughter. Scarcely a niece, for Warwick had one
married brother, Lord Montagu, and several sisters; but the sisters
were married to lords who remained friendly to Edward, [Except the
sisters married to Lord Fitzhugh and Lord Oxford. But though
Fitzhugh, or rather his son, broke into rebellion, it was for some
cause in which Warwick did not sympathize, for by Warwick himself was
that rebellion put down; nor could the aggrieved lady have been a
daughter of Lord Oxford, for he was a stanch, though not avowed,
Lancastrian, and seems to have carefully kept aloof from the court.]
and Montagu seems to have had no daughter out of childhood, [Montagu's
wife could have been little more than thirty at the time of his death.
She married again, and had a family by her second husband.] while that
nobleman himself did not share Warwick's rebellion at the first, but
continued to enjoy the confidence of Edward. We cannot reasonably,
then, conceive the uncle to have been so much more revengeful than the
parents,--the legitimate guardians of the honour of a daughter. It
is, therefore, more probable that the insulted maiden should have been
one of Lord Warwick's daughters; and this is the general belief.
Carte plainly declares it was Isabel. But Isabel it could hardly have
been. She was then married to Edward's brother, the Duke of Clarence,
and within a month of her confinement. The earl had only one other
daughter, Anne, then in the flower of her youth; and though Isabel
appears to have possessed a more striking character of beauty, Anne
must have had no inconsiderable charms to have won the love of the
Lancastrian Prince Edward, and to have inspired a tender and human
affection in Richard Duke of Gloucester. [Not only does Majerus, the
Flemish annalist, speak of Richard's early affection to Anne, but
Richard's pertinacity in marrying her, at a time when her family was
crushed and fallen, seems to sanction the assertion. True, that
Richard received with her a considerable portion of the estates of her
parents. But both Anne herself and her parents were attainted, and
the whole property at the disposal of the Crown. Richard at that time
had conferred the most important services on Edward. He had remained
faithful to him during the rebellion of Clarence; he had been the hero
of the day both at Barnet and Tewksbury. His reputation was then
exceedingly high, and if he had demanded, as a legitimate reward, the
lands of Middleham, without the bride, Edward could not well have
refused them. He certainly had a much better claim than the only
other competitor for the confiscated estates,--namely, the perjured
and despicable Clarence. For Anne's reluctance to marry Richard, and
the disguise she assumed, see Miss Strickland's "Life of Anne of
Warwick." For the honour of Anne, rather than of Richard, to whose
memory one crime more or less matters but little, it may here be
observed that so far from there being any ground to suppose that
Gloucester was an accomplice in the assassination of the young prince
Edward of Lancaster, there is some ground to believe that that prince
was not assassinated at all, but died (as we would fain hope the
grandson of Henry V. did die) fighting manfully in the field.--
"Harleian Manuscripts;" Stowe, "Chronicle of Tewksbury;" Sharon
Turner, vol. iii. p. 335.] It is also noticeable, that when, not as
Shakspeare represents, but after long solicitation, and apparently by
positive coercion, Anne formed her second marriage, she seems to have
been kept carefully by Richard from his gay brother's court, and
rarely, if ever, to have appeared in London till Edward was no more.
That considerable obscurity should always rest upon the facts
connected with Edward's meditated crime,--that they should never be
published amongst the grievances of the haughty rebel is natural from
the very dignity of the parties, and the character of the offence;
that in such obscurity sober History should not venture too far on the
hypothesis suggested by the chronicler, is right and laudable. But
probably it will be conceded by all, that here Fiction finds its
lawful province, and that it may reasonably help, by no improbable nor
groundless conjecture, to render connected and clear the most broken
and the darkest fragments of our annals.
I have judged it better partially to forestall the interest of the
reader in my narrative, by stating thus openly what he may expect,
than to encounter the far less favourable impression (if he had been
hitherto a believer in the old romance of Bona of Savoy), [I say the
old romance of Bona of Savoy, so far as Edward's rejection of her hand
for that of Elizabeth Gray is stated to have made the cause of his
quarrel with Warwick. But I do not deny the possibility that such a
marriage had been contemplated and advised by Warwick, though he
neither sought to negotiate it, nor was wronged by Edward's preference
of his fair subject.] that the author was taking an unwarrantable
liberty with the real facts, when, in truth, it is upon the real
facts, as far as they can be ascertained, that the author has built
his tale, and his boldest inventions are but deductions from the
amplest evidence he could collect. Nay, he even ventures to believe,
that whoever hereafter shall write the history of Edward IV. will not
disdain to avail himself of some suggestions scattered throughout
these volumes, and tending to throw new light upon the events of that
intricate but important period.
It is probable that this work will prove more popular in its nature
than my last fiction of "Zanoni," which could only be relished by
those interested in the examinations of the various problems in human
life which it attempts to solve. But both fictions, however different
and distinct their treatment, are constructed on those principles of
art to which, in all my later works, however imperfect my success, I
have sought at least steadily to adhere.
To my mind, a writer should sit down to compose a fiction as a painter
prepares to compose a picture. His first care should be the
conception of a whole as lofty as his intellect can grasp, as
harmonious and complete as his art can accomplish; his second care,
the character of the interest which the details are intended to
sustain.
It is when we compare works of imagination in writing with works of
imagination on the canvas, that we can best form a critical idea of
the different schools which exist in each; for common both to the
author and the painter are those styles which we call the Familiar,
the Picturesque, and the Intellectual. By recurring to this
comparison we can, without much difficulty, classify works of Fiction
in their proper order, and estimate the rank they should severally
hold. The Intellectual will probably never be the most widely popular
for the moment. He who prefers to study in this school must be
prepared for much depreciation, for its greatest excellences, even if
he achieve them, are not the most obvious to the many. In discussing,
for instance, a modern work, we hear it praised, perhaps, for some
striking passage, some prominent character; but when do we ever hear
any comment on its harmony of construction, on its fulness of design,
on its ideal character,--on its essentials, in short, as a work of
art? What we hear most valued in the picture, we often find the most
neglected in the book,--namely, the composition; and this, simply
because in England painting is recognized as an art, and estimated
according to definite theories; but in literature we judge from a
taste never formed, from a thousand prejudices and ignorant
predilections. We do not yet comprehend that the author is an artist,
and that the true rules of art by which he should be tested are
precise and immutable. Hence the singular and fantastic caprices of
the popular opinion,--its exaggerations of praise or censure, its
passion and reaction. At one while, its solemn contempt for
Wordsworth; at another, its absurd idolatry. At one while we are
stunned by the noisy celebrity of Byron, at another we are calmly told
that he can scarcely be called a poet. Each of these variations in
the public is implicitly followed by the vulgar criticism; and as a
few years back our journals vied with each other in ridiculing
Wordsworth for the faults which he did not possess, they vie now with
each other in eulogiums upon the merits which he has never displayed.
These violent fluctuations betray both a public and a criticism
utterly unschooled in the elementary principles of literary art, and
entitle the humblest author to dispute the censure of the hour, while
they ought to render the greatest suspicious of its praise.
It is, then, in conformity, not with any presumptuous conviction of
his own superiority, but with his common experience and common-sense,
that every author who addresses an English audience in serious earnest
is permitted to feel that his final sentence rests not with the jury
before which he is first heard. The literary history of the day
consists of a series of judgments set aside.
But this uncertainty must more essentially betide every student,
however lowly, in the school I have called the Intellectual, which
must ever be more or less at variance with the popular canons. It is
its hard necessity to vex and disturb the lazy quietude of vulgar
taste; for unless it did so, it could neither elevate nor move. He
who resigns the Dutch art for the Italian must continue through the
dark to explore the principles upon which he founds his design, to
which he adapts his execution; in hope or in despondence still
faithful to the theory which cares less for the amount of interest
created than for the sources from which the interest is to be drawn;
seeking in action the movement of the grander passions or the subtler
springs of conduct, seeking in repose the colouring of intellectual
beauty.
The Low and the High of Art are not very readily comprehended. They
depend not upon the worldly degree or the physical condition of the
characters delineated; they depend entirely upon the quality of the
emotion which the characters are intended to excite,--namely, whether
of sympathy for something low, or of admiration for something high.
There is nothing high in a boor's head by Teniers, there is nothing
low in a boor's head by Guido. What makes the difference between the
two? The absence or presence of the Ideal! But every one can judge
of the merit of the first, for it is of the Familiar school; it
requires a connoisseur to see the merit of the last, for it is of the
Intellectual.
I have the less scrupled to leave these remarks to cavil or to
sarcasm, because this fiction is probably the last with which I shall
trespass upon the Public, and I am desirous that it shall contain, at
least, my avowal of the principles upon which it and its later
predecessors have been composed. You know well, however others may
dispute the fact, the earnestness with which those principles have
been meditated and pursued,--with high desire, if but with poor
results.
It is a pleasure to feel that the aim, which I value more than the
success, is comprehended by one whose exquisite taste as a critic is
only impaired by that far rarer quality,--the disposition to over-
estimate the person you profess to esteem! Adieu, my sincere and
valued friend; and accept, as a mute token of gratitude and regard,
these flowers gathered in the Garden where we have so often roved
together. E. L. B.
LONDON, January, 1843.
PREFACE TO THE LAST OF THE BARONS
This was the first attempt of the author in Historical Romance upon
English ground. Nor would he have risked the disadvantage of
comparison with the genius of Sir Walter Scott, had he not believed
that that great writer and his numerous imitators had left altogether
unoccupied the peculiar field in Historical Romance which the Author
has here sought to bring into cultivation. In "The Last of the
Barons," as in "Harold," the aim has been to illustrate the actual
history of the period, and to bring into fuller display than general
History itself has done the characters of the principal personages of
the time, the motives by which they were probably actuated, the state
of parties, the condition of the people, and the great social
interests which were involved in what, regarded imperfectly, appear
but the feuds of rival factions.
"The Last of the Barons" has been by many esteemed the best of the
Author's romances; and perhaps in the portraiture of actual character,
and the grouping of the various interests and agencies of the time, it
may have produced effects which render it more vigorous and lifelike
than any of the other attempts in romance by the same hand.
It will be observed that the purely imaginary characters introduced
are very few; and, however prominent they may appear, still, in order
not to interfere with the genuine passions and events of history, they
are represented as the passive sufferers, not the active agents, of
the real events. Of these imaginary characters, the most successful
is Adam Warner, the philosopher in advance of his age; indeed, as an
ideal portrait, I look upon it as the most original in conception, and
the most finished in execution, of any to be found in my numerous
prose works, "Zanoni" alone excepted.
For the rest, I venture to think that the general reader will obtain
from these pages a better notion of the important age, characterized
by the decline of the feudal system, and immediately preceding that
great change in society which we usually date from the accession of
Henry VII., than he could otherwise gather, without wading through a
vast mass of neglected chronicles and antiquarian dissertations.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BOOK I
THE ADVENTURES OF MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILE
CHAPTER
I The Pastime-ground of old Cockaigne
II The Broken Gittern
III The Trader and the Gentle; or, the Changing Generation
IV Ill fares the Country Mouse in the Traps of Town
V Weal to the Idler, Woe to the Workman
VI Master Marmaduke Nevile fears for the Spiritual Weal of his
Host and Hostess
VII There is a Rod for the Back of every Fool who would be Wiser
than his Generation
BOOK II
THE KING'S COURT
CHAPTER
I Earl Warwick the King-maker
II King Edward the Fourth
III The Antechamber
BOOK III
IN WHICH THE HISTORY PASSES FROM THE KING'S COURT TO THE STUDENT'S
CELL, AND RELATES THE PERILS THAT BEFELL A PHILOSOPHER FOR
MEDDLING WITH THE AFFAIRS OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER
I The Solitary Sage and the Solitary Maid
II Master Adam Warner grows a Miser, and behaves Shamefully
III A Strange Visitor--All Ages of the World breed World-
Betters
IV Lord Hastings
V Master Adam Warner and King Henry the Sixth
VI How, on leaving King Log, Foolish Wisdom runs a-muck on
King Stork
VII My Lady Duchess's Opinion of the Utility of Master Warner's
Invention, and her esteem for its Explosion
VIII The Old Woman talks of Sorrows, the Young Woman dreams
of Love; the Courtier flies from Present Power to
Remembrances of Past Hopes, and the World-Bettered opens
Utopia, with a View of the Gibbet for the Silly Sage he
has seduced into his Schemes,--so, ever and evermore,
runs the World away
IX How the Destructive Organ of Prince Richard promises Goodly
Development
BOOK IV
INTRIGUES OF THE COURT OF EDWARD IV
CHAPTER
I Margaret of Anjou
II In which are laid Open to the Reader the Character of Edward
the Fourth and that of his Court, with the Machinations of
the Woodvilles against the Earl of Warwick
III Wherein Master Nicholas Alwyn visits the Court, and there
learns Matter of which the Acute Reader will judge for
himself
IV Exhibiting the Benefits which Royal Patronage confers on
Genius,--also the Early Loves of the Lord Hastings; with
other Matters Edifying and Delectable
V The Woodville Intrigue prospers--Montagu confers with
Hastings, visits the Archbishop of York, and is met on the
Road by a strange Personage
VI The Arrival of the Count de la Roche, and the various
Excitement produced on many Personages by that Event
VII The Renowned Combat between Sir Anthony Woodville and the
Bastard of Burgundy
VIII How the Bastard of Burgundy prospered more in his Policy than
With the Pole-axe--and how King Edward holds his Summer
Chase in the Fair Groves of Shene
IX The Great Actor returns to fill the Stage
X How the Great Lords come to the King-maker, and with what
Proffers
BOOK V
THE LAST OF THE BARONS IN HIS FATHERS HALLS
CHAPTER
I Rural England in the Middle Ages--Noble Visitors seek the
Castle
Of Middleham
II Councils and Musings
III The Sisters
IV The Destrier
BOOK VI
WHEREIN ARE OPENED SOME GLIMPSES OF THE FATE BELOW THAT ATTENDS THOSE
WHO ARE BETTER THAN OTHERS, AND THOSE WHO DESIRE TO MAKE OTHERS
BETTER. LOVE, DEMAGOGY, AND SCIENCE ALL EQUALLY OFF-SPRING OF THE
SAME PROLIFIC DELUSION,--NAMELY, THAT MEAN SOULS (THE EARTH'S
MAJORITY) ARE WORTH THE HOPE AND THE AGONY OF NOBLE SOULS, THE
EVERLASTING SUFFERING AND ASPIRING FEW.
CHAPTER
I New Dissentions
II The Would-be Improvers of Jove's Football, Earth--The Sad
Father and the Sad Child--The Fair Rivals
III Wherein the Demagogue seeks the Courtier
IV Sibyll
V Katherine
VI Joy for Adam, and Hope for Sibyll--and Popular Friar Bungey!
VII A Love Scene
BOOK VII
THE POPULAR REBELLION
CHAPTER
I The White Lion of March shakes his Mane
II The Camp at Olney
III The Camp of the Rebels
IV The Norman Earl and the Saxon Demagogue confer
V What Faith Edward IV purposeth to keep with Earl and People
VI What befalls King Edward on his Escape from Olney
VII How King Edward arrives at the Castle of Middleham
VIII The Ancients rightly gave to the Goddess of Eloquence a Crown
IX Wedded Confidence and Love--the Earl and the Prelate--the
Prelate and the King--Schemes--Wiles--and the Birth of a
Dark Thought destined to eclipse a Sun
BOOK VIII
IN WHICH THE LAST LINK BETWEEN KING-MAKER AND KING SNAPS ASUNDER
CHAPTER
I The Lady Anne visits the Court
II The Sleeping Innocence--the Wakeful Crime
III New Dangers to the House of York--and the King's Heart
allies itself with Rebellion against the King's Throne
IV The Foster-brothers
V The Lover and the Gallant--Woman's Choice
VI Warwick returns-appeases a Discontented Prince-and confers
with a Revengeful Conspirator
VII The Fear and the Flight
VIII The Group round the Death-bed of the Lancastrian Widow
BOOK IX.
THE WANDERERS AND THE EXILES
CHAPTER
I How the Great Baron becomes as Great a Rebel
II Many Things briefly told
III The Plot of the Hostelry--the Maid and the Scholar in
their Home
IV The World's Justice, and the Wisdom of our Ancestors
V The Fugitives are captured--the Tymbesteres reappear--
Moonlight on the Revel of the Living--Moonlight on the
Slumber of the Dead
VI The Subtle Craft of Richard of Gloucester
VII Warwick and his Family in Exile
VIII How the Heir of Lancaster meets the King-maker
IX The Interview of Earl Warwick and Queen Margaret
X Love and Marriage--Doubts of Conscience--Domestic Jealousy--
and Household Treason
BOOK X.
THE RETURN OF THE KING-MAKER
CHAPTER
I The Maid's Hope, the Courtier's Love, and the Sage's Comfort
II The Man awakes in the Sage, and the She-wolf again hath
tracked the Lamb
III Virtuous Resolves submitted to the Test of Vanity and the
World
IV The Strife which Sibyll had courted, between Katherine and
herself, commences in Serious Earnest
V The Meeting of Hastings and Katherine
VI Hastings learns what has befallen Sibyll, repairs to the
King, and encounters an old Rival
VII The Landing of Lord Warwick, and the Events that ensue
thereon
VIII What befell Adam Warner and Sibyll when made subject to the
Great Friar Bungey
IX The Deliberations of Mayor and Council, while Lord Warwick
marches upon London
X The Triumphal Entry of the Earl--the Royal Captive in the
Tower--the Meeting between King-maker and King
XI The Tower in Commotion
BOOK XI
THE NEW POSITION OF THE KING-MAKER
CHAPTER
I Wherein Master Adam Warner is notably commended and
advanced--and Greatness says to Wisdom, "Thy Destiny
be mine, Amen"
II The Prosperity of the Outer Show--the Cares of the Inner Man
III Further Views into the Heart of Man, and the Conditions
of Power
IV The Return of Edward of York
V The Progress of the Plantagenet
VI Lord Warwick, with the Foe in the field and the Traitor at
The Hearth
BOOK XII
THE BATTLE OF BARNET
CHAPTER
I A King in his City hopes to recover his Realm--A Woman in
her Chamber fears to forfeit her own
II Sharp is the Kiss of the Falcon's Bear
III A Pause
IV-VI The Battle
VII The last Pilgrims in the long Procession to the Common Bourne
BOOK I.
THE ADVENTURES OF MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILE.
CHAPTER I.
THE PASTIME-GROUND OF OLD COCKAIGNE.
Westward, beyond the still pleasant, but even then no longer solitary,
hamlet of Charing, a broad space, broken here and there by scattered
houses and venerable pollards, in the early spring of 1467, presented
the rural scene for the sports and pastimes of the inhabitants of
Westminster and London. Scarcely need we say that open spaces for the
popular games and diversions were then numerous in the suburbs of the
metropolis,--grateful to some the fresh pools of Islington; to others,
the grass-bare fields of Finsbury; to all, the hedgeless plains of
vast Mile-end. But the site to which we are now summoned was a new
and maiden holiday-ground, lately bestowed upon the townsfolk of
Westminster by the powerful Earl of Warwick.
Raised by a verdant slope above the low, marsh-grown soil of
Westminster, the ground communicated to the left with the Brook-
fields, through which stole the peaceful Ty-bourne, and commanded
prospects, on all sides fair, and on each side varied. Behind, rose
the twin green hills of Hampstead and Highgate, with the upland park
and chase of Marybone,--its stately manor-house half hid in woods. In
front might be seen the Convent of the Lepers, dedicated to Saint
James, now a palace; then to the left, York House, [The residence of
the Archbishops of York] now Whitehall; farther on, the spires of
Westminster Abbey and the gloomy tower of the Sanctuary; next, the
Palace, with its bulwark and vawmure, soaring from the river; while
eastward, and nearer to the scene, stretched the long, bush-grown
passage of the Strand, picturesquely varied with bridges, and flanked
to the right by the embattled halls of feudal nobles, or the inns of
the no less powerful prelates; while sombre and huge amidst hall and
inn, loomed the gigantic ruins of the Savoy, demolished in the
insurrection of Wat Tyler. Farther on, and farther yet, the eye
wandered over tower and gate, and arch and spire, with frequent
glimpses of the broad sunlit river, and the opposite shore crowned by
the palace of Lambeth, and the Church of St. Mary Overies, till the
indistinct cluster of battlements around the Fortress-Palatine bounded
the curious gaze. As whatever is new is for a while popular, so to
this pastime-ground, on the day we treat of, flocked, not only the
idlers of Westminster, but the lordly dwellers of Ludgate and the
Flete, and the wealthy citizens of tumultuous Chepe.
The ground was well suited to the purpose to which it was devoted.
About the outskirts, indeed, there were swamps and fish-pools; but a
considerable plot towards the centre presented a level sward, already
worn bare and brown by the feet of the multitude. From this, towards
the left, extended alleys, some recently planted, intended to afford,
in summer, cool and shady places for the favourite game of bowls;
while scattered clumps, chiefly of old pollards, to the right broke
the space agreeably enough into detached portions, each of which
afforded its separate pastime or diversion. Around were ranged many
carts, or wagons; horses of all sorts and value were led to and fro,
while their owners were at sport. Tents, awnings, hostelries,
temporary buildings, stages for showmen and jugglers, abounded, and
gave the scene the appearance of a fair; but what particularly now
demands our attention was a broad plot in the ground, dedicated to the
noble diversion of archery. The reigning House of York owed much of
its military success to the superiority of the bowmen under its
banners, and the Londoners themselves were jealous of their reputation
in this martial accomplishment. For the last fifty years,
notwithstanding the warlike nature of the times, the practice of the
bow, in the intervals of peace, had been more neglected than seemed
wise to the rulers. Both the king and his loyal city had of late
taken much pains to enforce the due exercise of "Goddes instrumente,"
[So called emphatically by Bishop Latimer, in his celebrated Sixth
Sermon.] upon which an edict had declared that "the liberties and
honour of England principally rested!"
And numerous now was the attendance, not only of the citizens, the
burghers, and the idle populace, but of the gallant nobles who
surrounded the court of Edward IV., then in the prime of his youth,--
the handsomest, the gayest, and the bravest prince in Christendom.
The royal tournaments (which were, however, waning from their ancient
lustre to kindle afresh, and to expire in the reigns of the succeeding
Tudors), restricted to the amusements of knight and noble, no doubt
presented more of pomp and splendour than the motley and mixed
assembly of all ranks that now grouped around the competitors for the
silver arrow, or listened to the itinerant jongleur, dissour, or
minstrel, or, seated under the stunted shade of the old trees,
indulged, with eager looks and hands often wandering to their dagger-
hilts, in the absorbing passion of the dice; but no later and earlier
scenes of revelry ever, perhaps, exhibited that heartiness of
enjoyment, that universal holiday, which attended this mixture of
every class, that established a rude equality for the hour between the
knight and the retainer, the burgess and the courtier.
The revolution that placed Edward IV. upon the throne had, in fact,
been a popular one. Not only had the valour and moderation of his
father, Richard, Duke of York, bequeathed a heritage of affection to
his brave and accomplished son; not only were the most beloved of the
great barons the leaders of his party; but the king himself, partly
from inclination, partly from policy, spared no pains to win the good
graces of that slowly rising, but even then important part of the
population,--the Middle Class. He was the first king who descended,
without loss of dignity and respect, from the society of his peers and
princes, to join familiarly in the feasts and diversions of the
merchant and the trader. The lord mayor and council of London were
admitted, on more than one solemn occasion, into the deliberations of
the court; and Edward had not long since, on the coronation of his
queen, much to the discontent of certain of his barons, conferred the
Knighthood of the hath upon four of the citizens. On the other hand,
though Edward's gallantries--the only vice which tended to diminish
his popularity with the sober burgesses--were little worthy of his
station, his frank, joyous familiarity with his inferiors was not
debased by the buffooneries that had led to the reverses and the awful
fate of two of his royal predecessors. There must have been a popular
principle, indeed, as well as a popular fancy, involved in the steady
and ardent adherence which the population of London in particular, and
most of the great cities, exhibited to the person and the cause of
Edward IV. There was a feeling that his reign was an advance in
civilization upon the monastic virtues of Henry VI., and the stern
ferocity which accompanied the great qualities of "The Foreign Woman,"
as the people styled and regarded Henry's consort, Margaret of Anjou.
While thus the gifts, the courtesy, and the policy of the young
sovereign made him popular with the middle classes, he owed the
allegiance of the more powerful barons and the favour of the rural
population to a man who stood colossal amidst the iron images of the
Age,--the greatest and the last of the old Norman chivalry, kinglier
in pride, in state, in possessions, and in renown than the king
himself, Richard Nevile, Earl of Salisbury and Warwick.
This princely personage, in the full vigour of his age, possessed all
the attributes that endear the noble to the commons. His valour in
the field was accompanied with a generosity rare in the captains of
the time. He valued himself on sharing the perils and the hardships
of his meanest soldier. His haughtiness to the great was not
incompatible with frank affability to the lowly. His wealth was
enormous, but it was equalled by his magnificence, and rendered
popular by his lavish hospitality. No less than thirty thousand
persons are said to have feasted daily at the open tables with which
he allured to his countless castles the strong hands and grateful
hearts of a martial and unsettled population. More haughty than
ambitious, he was feared because he avenged all affront; and yet not
envied, because he seemed above all favour.
The holiday on the archery-ground was more than usually gay, for the
rumour had spread from the court to the city that Edward was about to
increase his power abroad, and to repair what he had lost in the eyes
of Europe through his marriage with Elizabeth Gray, by allying his
sister Margaret with the brother of Louis XI., and that no less a
person than the Earl of Warwick had been the day before selected as
ambassador on the important occasion.
Various opinions were entertained upon the preference given to France
in this alliance over the rival candidate for the hand of the
princess,--namely, the Count de Charolois, afterwards Charles the
Bold, Duke of Burgundy.
"By 'r Lady," said a stout citizen about the age of fifty, "but I am
not over pleased with this French marriage-making! I would liefer the
stout earl were going to France with bows and bills than sarcenets and
satins. What will become of our trade with Flanders,--answer me that,
Master Stokton? The House of York is a good House, and the king is a
good king, but trade is trade. Every man must draw water to his own
mill."
"Hush, Master Heyford!" said a small lean man in a light-gray surcoat.
"The king loves not talk about what the king does. 'T is ill jesting
with lions. Remember William Walker, hanged for saying his son should
be heir to the crown."
"Troth," answered Master Heyford, nothing daunted, for he belonged to
one of the most powerful corporations of London,--it was but a scurvy
Pepperer [old name for Grocer] who made that joke; but a joke from a
worshipful goldsmith, who has moneys and influence, and a fair wife of
his own, whom the king himself has been pleased to commend, is another
guess sort of matter. But here is my grave-visaged headman, who
always contrives to pick up the last gossip astir, and has a deep eye
into millstones. Why, ho, there! Alwyn--I say, Nicholas Alwyn!--who
would have thought to see thee with that bow, a good half-ell taller
than thyself? Methought thou wert too sober and studious for such
man-at-arms sort of devilry."
"An' it please you, Master Heyford," answered the person thus
addressed,--a young man, pale and lean, though sinewy and large-boned,
with a countenance of great intelligence, but a slow and somewhat
formal manner of speech, and a strong provincial accent,--"an' it
please you, King Edward's edict ordains every Englishman to have a bow
of his own height; and he who neglects the shaft on a holiday
forfeiteth one halfpenny and some honour. For the rest, methinks that
the citizens of London will become of more worth and potency every
year; and it shall not be my fault if I do not, though but a humble
headman to your worshipful mastership, help to make them so."
"Why, that's well said, lad; but if the Londoners prosper, it is
because they have nobles in their gipsires, [a kind of pouch worn at
the girdle] not bows in their hands."
"Thinkest thou then, Master Heyford, that any king at a pinch would
leave them the gipsire, if they could not protect it with the bow?
That Age may have gold, let not Youth despise iron."
"Body o' me!" cried Master Heyford, "but thou hadst better curb in thy
tongue. Though I have my jest,--as a rich man and a corpulent,--a lad
who has his way to make good should be silent and--But he's gone."
"Where hooked you up that young jack fish?" said Master Stokton, the
thin mercer, who had reminded the goldsmith of the fate of the grocer.
"Why, he was meant for the cowl, but his mother, a widow, at his own
wish, let him make choice of the flat cap. He was the best 'prentice
ever I had. By the blood of Saint Thomas, he will push his way in
good time; he has a head, Master Stokton,--a head, and an ear; and a
great big pair of eyes always looking out for something to his proper
advantage."
In the mean while, the goldsmith's headman had walked leisurely up to
the archery-ground; and even in his gait and walk, as he thus repaired
to a pastime, there was something steady, staid, and business-like.
The youths of his class and calling were at that day very different
from their equals in this. Many of them the sons of provincial
retainers, some even of franklins and gentlemen, their childhood had
made them familiar with the splendour and the sports of knighthood;
they had learned to wrestle, to cudgel, to pitch the bar or the quoit,
to draw the bow, and to practise the sword and buckler, before
transplanted from the village green to the city stall. And even then,
the constant broils and wars of the time, the example of their
betters, the holiday spectacle of mimic strife, and, above all, the
powerful and corporate association they formed amongst themselves,
tended to make them as wild, as jovial, and as dissolute a set of
young fellows as their posterity are now sober, careful, and discreet.
And as Nicholas Alwyn, with a slight inclination of his head, passed
by, two or three loud, swaggering, bold-looking groups of apprentices
--their shaggy hair streaming over their shoulders, their caps on one
side, their short cloaks of blue torn or patched, though still
passably new, their bludgeons under their arms, and their whole
appearance and manner not very dissimilar from the German collegians
in the last century--notably contrasted Alwyn's prim dress, his
precise walk, and the feline care with which he stepped aside from any
patches of mire that might sully the soles of his square-toed shoes.
The idle apprentices winked and whispered, and lolled out their
tongues at him as he passed. "Oh, but that must be as good as a May-
Fair day,--sober Nick Alwyn's maiden flight of the shaft! Hollo,
puissant archer, take care of the goslings yonder! Look this way when
thou pull'st, and then woe to the other side!" Venting these and many
similar specimens of the humour of Cockaigne, the apprentices,
however, followed their quondam colleague, and elbowed their way into
the crowd gathered around the competitors at the butt; and it was at
this spot, commanding a view of the whole space, that the spectator
might well have formed some notion of the vast following of the House
of Nevile. For everywhere along the front lines, everywhere in the
scattered groups, might be seen, glistening in the sunlight, the
armourial badges of that mighty family. The Pied Bull, which was the
proper cognizance [Pied Bull the cognizance, the Dun Bull's head the
crest] of the Neviles, was principally borne by the numerous kinsmen
of Earl Warwick, who rejoiced in the Nevile name. The Lord Montagu,
Warwick's brother, to whom the king had granted the forfeit title and
estates of the earls of Northumberland, distinguished his own
retainers, however, by the special request of the ancient Montagus.--a
Gryphon issuant from a ducal crown. But far more numerous than Bull
or Gryphon (numerous as either seemed) were the badges worn by those
who ranked themselves among the peculiar followers of the great Earl
of Warwick. The cognizance of the Bear and Ragged Staff, which he
assumed in right of the Beauchamps, whom he represented through his
wife, the heiress of the lords of Warwick, was worn in the hats of the
more gentle and well-born clansmen and followers, while the Ragged
Staff alone was worked front and back on the scarlet jackets of his
more humble and personal retainers. It was a matter of popular notice
and admiration that in those who wore these badges, as in the wearers
of the hat and staff of the ancient Spartans, might be traced a grave
loftiness of bearing, as if they belonged to another caste, another
race, than the herd of men. Near the place where the rivals for the
silver arrow were collected, a lordly party had reined in their
palfreys, and conversed with each other, as the judges of the field
were marshalling the competitors.
"Who," said one of these gallants, "who is that comely young fellow
just below us, with the Nevile cognizance of the Bull on his hat? He
has the air of one I should know."
"I never saw him before, my Lord of Northumberland," answered one of
the gentlemen thus addressed; "but, pardieu, he who knows all the
Neviles by eye must know half England." The Lord Montagu--for though
at that moment invested with the titles of the Percy, by that name
Earl Warwick's brother is known to history, and by that, his rightful
name, he shall therefore be designated in these pages--the Lord
Montagu smiled graciously at this remark, and a murmur through the
crowd announced that the competition for the silver arrow was about to
commence. The butts, formed of turf, with a small white mark fastened
to the centre by a very minute peg, were placed apart, one at each
end, at the distance of eleven score yards. At the extremity where
the shooting commenced, the crowd assembled, taking care to keep clear
from the opposite butt, as the warning word of "Fast" was thundered
forth; but eager was the general murmur, and many were the wagers
given and accepted, as some well-known archer tried his chance. Near
the butt that now formed the target, stood the marker with his white
wand; and the rapidity with which archer after archer discharged his
shaft, and then, if it missed, hurried across the ground to pick it up
(for arrows were dear enough not to be lightly lost), amidst the jeers
and laughter of the bystanders, was highly animated and diverting. As
yet, however, no marksman had hit the white, though many had gone
close to it, when Nicholas Alwyn stepped forward; and there was
something so unwarlike in his whole air, so prim in his gait, so
careful in his deliberate survey of the shaft and his precise
adjustment of the leathern gauntlet that protected the arm from the
painful twang of the string, that a general burst of laughter from the
bystanders attested their anticipation of a signal failure.
"'Fore Heaven!" said Montagu, "he handles his bow an' it were a yard-
measure. One would think he were about to bargain for the bow-string,
he eyes it so closely."
"And now," said Nicholas, slowly adjusting the arrow, "a shot for the
honour of old Westmoreland!" And as he spoke, the arrow sprang
gallantly forth, and quivered in the very heart of the white. There
was a general movement of surprise among the spectators, as the marker
thrice shook his wand over his head. But Alwyn, as indifferent to
their respect as he had been to their ridicule, turned round and said,
with a significant glance at the silent nobles, "We springals of
London can take care of our own, if need be."
"These fellows wax insolent. Our good king spoils them," said
Montagu, with a curl of his lip. "I wish some young squire of gentle
blood would not disdain a shot for the Nevile against the craftsman.
How say you, fair sir?" And with a princely courtesy of mien and
smile, Lord Montagu turned to the young man he had noticed as wearing
the cognizance of the First House in England. The bow was not the
customary weapon of the well-born; but still, in youth, its exercise
formed one of the accomplishments of the future knight; and even
princes did not disdain, on a popular holiday, to match a shaft
against the yeoman's cloth-yard. [At a later period, Henry VIII. was
a match for the best bowman in his kingdom. His accomplishment was
hereditary, and distinguished alike his wise father and his pious
son.] The young man thus addressed, and whose honest, open, handsome,
hardy face augured a frank and fearless nature, bowed his head in
silence, and then slowly advancing to the umpires, craved permission
to essay his skill, and to borrow the loan of a shaft and bow. Leave
given and the weapons lent, as the young gentleman took his stand, his
comely person, his dress, of a better quality than that of the
competitors hitherto, and, above all, the Nevile badge worked in
silver on his hat, diverted the general attention from Nicholas Alwyn.
A mob is usually inclined to aristocratic predilections, and a murmur
of goodwill and expectation greeted him, when he put aside the
gauntlet offered to him, and said, "In my youth I was taught so to
brace the bow that the string should not touch the arm; and though
eleven score yards be but a boy's distance, a good archer will lay his
body into his bow ["My father taught me to lay my body in my bow,"
etc., said Latimer, in his well-known sermon before Edward VI.,--1549.
The bishop also herein observes that "it is best to give the bow so
much bending that the string need never touch the arm. This," he
adds, "is practised by many good archers with whom I am acquainted."]
as much as if he were to hit the blanc four hundred yards away."
"A tall fellow this!" said Montagu; "and one I wot from the North," as
the young gallant fitted the shaft to the bow. And graceful and
artistic was the attitude he assumed,--the head slightly inclined, the
feet firmly planted, the left a little in advance, and the stretched
sinews of the bow-hand alone evincing that into that grasp was pressed
the whole strength of the easy and careless frame. The public
expectation was not disappointed,--the youth performed the feat
considered of all the most dexterous; his arrow, disdaining the white
mark, struck the small peg which fastened it to the butts, and which
seemed literally invisible to the bystanders.
"Holy Saint Dunstan! there's but one man who can beat me in that sort
that I know of," muttered Nicholas, "and I little expected to see him
take a bite out of his own hip." With that he approached his
successful rival.
"Well, Master Marmaduke," said he, "it is many a year since you showed
me that trick at your father, Sir Guy's--God rest him! But I scarce
take it kind in you to beat your own countryman!"
"Beshrew me!" cried the youth, and his cheerful features brightened
into hearty and cordial pleasure, "but if I see in thee, as it seems
to me, my old friend and foster-brother, Nick Alwyn, this is the
happiest hour I have known for many a day. But stand back and let me
look at thee, man. Thou! thou a tame London trader! Ha! ha! is it
possible?"
"Hout, Master Marmaduke," answered Nicholas, "every crow thinks his
own baird bonniest, as they say in the North. We will talk of this
anon an' thou wilt honour me. I suspect the archery is over now. Few
will think to mend that shot."
And here, indeed, the umpires advanced, and their chief--an old
mercer, who had once borne arms, and indeed been a volunteer at the
battle of Towton--declared that the contest was over,--"unless," he
added, in the spirit of a lingering fellow-feeling with the Londoner,
"this young fellow, whom I hope to see an alderman one of these days,
will demand another shot, for as yet there hath been but one prick
each at the butts."
"Nay, master," returned Alwyn, "I have met with my betters,--and,
after all," he added indifferently, "the silver arrow, though a pretty
bauble enough, is over light in its weight."
"Worshipful sir," said the young Nevile, with equal generosity, "I
cannot accept the prize for a mere trick of the craft,--the blanc was
already disposed of by Master Alwyn's arrow. Moreover; the contest
was intended for the Londoners, and I am but an interloper, beholden
to their courtesy for a practice of skill, and even the loan of a bow;
wherefore the silver arrow be given to Nicholas Alwyn."
"That may not be, gentle sir," said the umpire, extending the prize.
"Sith Alwyn vails of himself, it is thine, by might and by right."
The Lord Montagu had not been inattentive to this dialogue, and he now
said, in a loud tone that silenced the crowd, "Young Badgeman, thy
gallantry pleases me no less than thy skill. Take the arrow, for thou
hast won it; but as thou seemest a new comer, it is right thou
shouldst pay thy tax upon entry,--this be my task. Come hither, I
pray thee, good sir," and the nobleman graciously beckoned to the
mercer; "be these five nobles the prize of whatever Londoner shall
acquit himself best in the bold English combat of quarter-staff, and
the prize be given in this young archer's name. Thy name, youth?"
"Marmaduke Nevile, good my lord."
Montagu smiled, and the umpire withdrew to make the announcement to
the bystanders. The proclamation was received with a shout that
traversed from group to group and line to line, more hearty from the
love and honour attached to the name of Nevile than even from a sense
of the gracious generosity of Earl Warwick's brother. One man alone,
a sturdy, well-knit fellow, in a franklin's Lincoln broadcloth, and
with a hood half-drawn over his features, did not join the popular
applause. "These Yorkists," he muttered, "know well how to fool the
people."
Meanwhile the young Nevile still stood by the gilded stirrup of the
great noble who had thus honoured him, and contemplated him with that
respect and interest which a youth's ambition ever feels for those who
have won a name.
The Lord Montagu bore a very different character from his puissant
brother. Though so skilful a captain that he had never been known to
lose a battle, his fame as a warrior was, strange to say, below that
of the great earl, whose prodigious strength had accomplished those
personal feats that dazzled the populace, and revived the legendary
renown of the earlier Norman knighthood. The caution and wariness,
indeed, which Montagu displayed in battle probably caused his success
as a general, and the injustice done to him (at least by the vulgar)
as a soldier. Rarely had Lord Montagu, though his courage was
indisputable, been known to mix personally in the affray. Like the
captains of modern times, he contented himself with directing the
manoeuvres of his men, and hence preserved that inestimable advantage
of coolness and calculation, which was not always characteristic of
the eager hardihood of his brother. The character of Montagu differed
yet more from that of the earl in peace than in war. He was supposed
to excel in all those supple arts of the courtier which Warwick
neglected or despised; and if the last was on great occasions the
adviser, the other in ordinary life was the companion of his
sovereign. Warwick owed his popularity to his own large, open,
daring, and lavish nature. The subtler Montagu sought to win, by care
and pains, what the other obtained without an effort. He attended the
various holiday meetings of the citizens, where Warwick was rarely
seen. He was smooth-spoken and courteous to his equals, and generally
affable, though with constraint, to his inferiors. He was a close
observer, and not without that genius for intrigue, which in rude ages
passes for the talent of a statesman. And yet in that thorough
knowledge of the habits and tastes of the great mass, which gives
wisdom to a ruler, he was far inferior to the earl. In common with
his brother, he was gifted with the majesty of mien which imposes on
the eye; and his port and countenance were such as became the prodigal
expense of velvet, minever, gold, and jewels, by which the gorgeous
magnates of the day communicated to their appearance the arrogant
splendour of their power.
"Young gentleman," said the earl, after eying with some attention the
comely archer, "I am pleased that you bear the name of Nevile.
Vouchsafe to inform me to what scion of our House we are this day
indebted for the credit with which you have upborne its cognizance?"
"I fear," answered the youth, with a slight but not ungraceful
hesitation, "that my lord of Montagu and Northumberland will hardly
forgive the presumption with which I have intruded upon this assembly
a name borne by nobles so illustrious, especially if it belong to
those less fortunate branches of his family which have taken a
different side from himself in the late unhappy commotions. My father
was Sir Guy Nevile, of Arsdale, in Westmoreland."
Lord Montagu's lip lost its gracious smile; he glanced quickly at the
courtiers round him, and said gravely, "I grieve to hear it. Had I
known this, certes my gipsire had still been five nobles the richer.
It becomes not one fresh from the favour of King Edward IV. to show
countenance to the son of a man, kinsman though he was, who bore arms
for the usurpers of Lancaster. I pray thee, sir, to doff, henceforth,
a badge dedicated only to the service of Royal York. No more, young
man; we may not listen to the son of Sir Guy Nevile.--Sirs, shall we
ride to see how the Londoners thrive at quarter-staff?"
With that, Montagu, deigning no further regard at Nevile, wheeled his,
palfrey towards a distant part of the ground, to which the multitude
was already pressing its turbulent and noisy way.
"Thou art hard on thy namesake, fair my lord," said a young noble, in
whose dark-auburn hair, aquiline, haughty features, spare but powerful
frame, and inexpressible air of authority and command, were found all
the attributes of the purest and eldest Norman race,--the Patricians
of the World.
"Dear Raoul de Fulke," returned Montagu, coldly, "when thou hast
reached my age of thirty and four, thou wilt learn that no man's
fortune casts so broad a shadow as to shelter from the storm the
victims of a fallen cause."
"Not so would say thy bold brother," answered Raoul de Fulke, with a
slight curl of his proud lip. "And I hold, with him, that no king is
so sacred that we should render to his resentments our own kith and
kin. God's wot, whosoever wears the badge and springs from the stem
of Raoul de Fulke shall never find me question over much whether his
father fought for York or Lancaster."
"Hush, rash babbler!" said Montagu, laughing gently; "what would King
Edward say if this speech reached his ears? Our friend," added the
courtier, turning to the rest, "in vain would bar the tide of change;
and in this our New England, begirt with new men and new fashions,
affect the feudal baronage of the worn-out Norman. But thou art a
gallant knight, De Fulke, though a poor courtier."
"The saints keep me so!" returned De Fulke. "From overgluttony, from
over wine-bibbing, from cringing to a king's leman, from quaking at a
king's frown, from unbonneting to a greasy mob, from marrying an old
crone for vile gold, may the saints ever keep Raoul de Fulke and his
sons! Amen!" This speech, in which every sentence struck its
stinging satire into one or other of the listeners, was succeeded by
an awkward silence, which Montagu was the first to break.
"Pardieu!" he said, "when did Lord Hastings leave us, and what fair
face can have lured the truant?"
"He left us suddenly on the archery-ground," answered the young
Lovell. "But as well might we track the breeze to the rose as Lord
William's sigh to maid or matron."
While thus conversed the cavaliers, and their plumes waved, and their
mantles glittered along the broken ground, Marmaduke Nevile's eye
pursued the horsemen with all that bitter feeling of wounded pride and
impotent resentment with which Youth regards the first insult it
receives from Power.
CHAPTER II.
THE BROKEN GITTERN.
Rousing himself from his indignant revery, Marmaduke Nevile followed
one of the smaller streams into which the crowd divided itself on
dispersing from the archery-ground, and soon found himself in a part
of the holiday scene appropriated to diversions less manly, but no
less characteristic of the period than those of the staff and arrow.
Beneath an awning, under which an itinerant landlord dispensed cakes
and ale, the humorous Bourdour (the most vulgar degree of minstrel, or
rather tale-teller) collected his clownish audience; while seated by
themselves--apart, but within hearing--two harpers, in the king's
livery, consoled each other for the popularity of their ribald rival,
by wise reflections on the base nature of common folk. Farther on,
Marmaduke started to behold what seemed to him the heads of giants at
least six yards high; but on a nearer approach these formidable
apparitions resolved themselves to a company of dancers upon stilts.
There, one joculator exhibited the antics of his well-tutored ape;
there, another eclipsed the attractions of the baboon by a marvellous
horse that beat a tabor with his forefeet; there, the more sombre
Tregetour, before a table raised upon a lofty stage, promised to cut
off and refix the head of a sad-faced little boy, who in the mean time
was preparing his mortal frame for the operation by apparently larding
himself with sharp knives and bodkins. Each of these wonder-dealers
found his separate group of admirers, and great was the delight and
loud the laughter in the pastime-ground of old Cockaigne.
While Marmaduke, bewildered by this various bustle, stared around him,
his eye was caught by a young maiden, in evident distress, struggling
in vain to extricate herself from a troop of timbrel-girls, or
tymbesteres (as they were popularly called), who surrounded her with
mocking gestures, striking their instruments to drown her
remonstrances, and dancing about her in a ring at every effort towards
escape. The girl was modestly attired as one of the humbler ranks,
and her wimple in much concealed her countenance; but there was,
despite her strange and undignified situation and evident alarm, a
sort of quiet, earnest self-possession,--an effort to hide her terror,
and to appeal to the better and more womanly feelings of her
persecutors. In the intervals of silence from the clamour, her voice,
though low, clear, well-tuned, and impressive, forcibly arrested the
attention of young Nevile; for at that day, even more than this
(sufficiently apparent as it now is), there was a marked distinction
in the intonation, the accent, the modulation of voice, between the
better bred and better educated and the inferior classes. But this
difference, so ill according with her dress and position, only served
to heighten more the bold insolence of the musical Bacchantes, who,
indeed, in the eyes of the sober, formed the most immoral nuisance
attendant on the sports of the time, and whose hardy license and
peculiar sisterhood might tempt the antiquary to search for their
origin amongst the relics of ancient Paganism. And now, to increase
the girl's distress, some half-score of dissolute apprentices and
journeymen suddenly broke into the ring of the Maenads, and were
accosting her with yet more alarming insults, when Marmaduke, pushing
them aside, strode to her assistance. "How now, ye lewd varlets! ye
make me blush for my countrymen in the face of day! Are these the
sports of merry England,--these your manly contests,--to strive which
can best affront a poor maid? Out on ye, cullions and bezonians!
Cling to me, gentle donzel, and fear not. Whither shall I lead thee?"
The apprentices were not, however, so easily daunted. Two of them
approached to the rescue, flourishing their bludgeons about their
heads with formidable gestures. "Ho, ho!" cried one, "what right hast
thou to step between the hunters and the doe? The young quean is too
much honoured by a kiss from a bold 'prentice of London."
Marmaduke stepped back, and drew the small dagger which then formed
the only habitual weapon of a gentleman. [Swords were not worn, in
peace, at that period.] This movement, discomposing his mantle,
brought the silver arrow he had won (which was placed in his girdle)
in full view of the assailants. At the same time they caught sight of
the badge on his hat. These intimidated their ardour more than the
drawn poniard.
"A Nevile!" said one, retreating. "And the jolly marksman who beat
Nick Alwyn," said the other, lowering his bludgeon, and doffing his
cap. "Gentle sir, forgive us, we knew not your quality. But as for
the girl--your gallantry misleads you."
"The Wizard's daughter! ha, ha! the Imp of Darkness!" screeched the
timbrel-girls, tossing up their instruments, and catching them again
on the points of their fingers. "She has enchanted him with her
glamour. Foul is fair! Foul fair thee, young springal, if thou go to
the nets. Shadow and goblin to goblin and shadow! Flesh and blood to
blood and flesh!"--and dancing round him, with wanton looks and bare
arms, and gossamer robes that brushed him as they circled, they
chanted,--
"Come, kiss me, my darling,
Warm kisses I trade for;
Wine, music, and kisses
What else was life made for?"
With some difficulty, and with a disgust which was not altogether
without a superstitious fear of the strange words and the outlandish
appearance of these loathsome Delilahs, Marmaduke broke from the ring
with his new charge; and in a few moments the Nevile and the maiden
found themselves, unmolested and unpursued, in a deserted quarter of
the ground; but still the scream of the timbrel-girls, as they
hurried, wheeling and dancing, into the distance, was borne ominously
to the young man's ear. "Ha, ha! the witch and her lover! Foul is
fair! foul is fair! Shadow to goblin, goblin to shadow,--and the
devil will have his own!"
"And what mischance, my poor girl," asked the Nevile, soothingly,
"brought thee into such evil company?"
"I know not, fair sir," said the girl, slowly recovering her self;
"but my father is poor, and I had heard that on these holiday
occasions one who had some slight skill on the gittern might win a few
groats from the courtesy of the bystanders. So I stole out with my
serving-woman, and had already got more than I dared hope, when those
wicked timbrel-players came round me, and accused me of taking the
money from them. And then they called an officer of the ground, who
asked me my name and holding; so when I answered, they called my
father a wizard, and the man broke my poor gittern,--see!"--and she
held it up, with innocent sorrow in her eyes, yet a half-smile on her
lips,--"and they soon drove poor old Madge from my side, and I knew no
more till you, worshipful sir, took pity on me."
"But why," asked the Nevile, "did they give to your father so unholy a
name?"
"Alas, sir! he is a great scholar, who has spent his means in studying
what he says will one day be of good to the people."
"Humph!" said Marmaduke, who had all the superstitions of his time,
who looked upon a scholar, unless in the Church, with mingled awe and
abhorrence, and who, therefore, was but ill-satisfied with the girl's
artless answer,
"Humph! your father--but--" checking what he was about, perhaps
harshly, to say, as he caught the bright eyes and arch, intelligent
face lifted to his own--"but it is hard to punish the child for the
father's errors."
"Errors, sir!" repeated the damsel, proudly, and with a slight disdain
in her face and voice. "But yes, wisdom is ever, perhaps, the saddest
error!"
This remark was of an order superior in intellect to those which had
preceded it: it contrasted with the sternness of experience the
simplicity of the child; and of such contrasts, indeed, was that
character made up. For with a sweet, an infantine change of tone and
countenance, she added, after a short pause, "They took the money!
The gittern--see, they left that, when they had made it useless."
"I cannot mend the gittern, but I can refill the gipsire," said
Marmaduke.
The girl coloured deeply. "Nay, sir, to earn is not to beg."
Marmaduke did not heed this answer; for as they were now passing by
the stunted trees, under which sat several revellers, who looked up at
him from their cups and tankards, some with sneering, some with grave
looks, he began, more seriously than in his kindly impulse he had
hitherto done, to consider the appearance it must have to be thus seen
walking in public with a girl of inferior degree, and perhaps doubtful
repute. Even in our own day such an exhibition would be, to say the
least, suspicious; and in that day, when ranks and classes were
divided with iron demarcations, a young gallant, whose dress bespoke
him of gentle quality, with one of opposite sex, and belonging to the
humbler orders, in broad day too, was far more open to censure. The
blood mounted to his brow, and halting abruptly, he said, in a dry and
altered voice: "My good damsel, you are now, I think, out of danger;
it would ill beseem you, so young and so comely, to go farther with
one not old enough to be your protector; so, in God's name, depart
quickly, and remember me when you buy your new gittern, poor child!"
So saying, he attempted to place a piece of money in her hand. She
put it back, and the coin fell on the ground. "Nay, this is foolish,"
said he.
"Alas, sir!" said the girl, gravely, "I see well that you are ashamed
of your goodness. But my father begs not. And once--but that matters
not."
"Once what?" persisted Marmaduke, interested in her manner, in spite
of himself.
"Once," said the girl, drawing herself up, and with an expression that
altered the whole character of her face--"the beggar ate at my
father's gate. He is a born gentleman and a knight's son."
"And what reduced him thus?"
"I have said," answered the girl, simply, yet with the same half-scorn
on her lip that it had before betrayed; "he is a scholar, and thought
more of others than himself."
"I never saw any good come to a gentleman from those accursed books,"
said the Nevile,--"fit only for monks and shavelings. But still, for
your father's sake, though I am ashamed of the poorness of the gift--"
"No; God be with you, sir, and reward you." She stopped short, drew
her wimple round her face, and was gone. Nevile felt an uncomfortable
sensation of remorse and disapproval at having suffered her to quit
him while there was yet any chance of molestation or annoyance, and
his eye followed her till a group of trees veiled her from his view.
The young maiden slackened her pace as she found herself alone under
the leafless boughs of the dreary pollards,--a desolate spot, made
melancholy by dull swamps, half overgrown with rank verdure, through
which forced its clogged way the shallow brook that now gives its name
(though its waves are seen no more) to one of the main streets in the
most polished quarters of the metropolis. Upon a mound formed by the
gnarled roots of the dwarfed and gnome-like oak, she sat down and
wept. In our earlier years, most of us may remember that there was
one day which made an epoch in life,--that day that separated
Childhood from Youth; for that day seems not to come gradually, but to
be a sudden crisis, an abrupt revelation. The buds of the heart open
to close no more. Such a day was this in that girl's fate. But the
day was not yet gone! That morning, when she dressed for her
enterprise of filial love, perhaps for the first time Sibyll Warner
felt that she was fair--who shall say whether some innocent, natural
vanity had not blended with the deep, devoted earnestness, which saw
no shame in the act by which the child could aid the father? Perhaps
she might have smiled to listen to old Madge's praises of her winsome
face, old Madge's predictions that the face and the gittern would not
lack admirers on the gay ground; perhaps some indistinct, vague
forethoughts of the Future to which the sex will deem itself to be
born might have caused the cheek--no, not to blush, but to take a
rosier hue, and the pulse to beat quicker, she knew not why. At all
events, to that ground went the young Sibyll, cheerful, and almost
happy, in her inexperience of actual life, and sure, at least, that
youth and innocence sufficed to protect from insult. And now she sat
down under the leafless tree to weep; and in those bitter tears,
childhood itself was laved from her soul forever.
"What ailest thou, maiden?" asked a deep voice; and she felt a hand
laid lightly on her shoulder. She looked up in terror and confusion,
but it was no form or face to inspire alarm that met her eye. It was
a cavalier, holding by the rein a horse richly caparisoned; and though
his dress was plainer and less exaggerated than that usually worn by
men of rank, its materials were those which the sumptuary laws
(constantly broken, indeed, as such laws ever must be) confined to
nobles. Though his surcoat was but of cloth, and the colour dark and
sober, it was woven in foreign looms,--an unpatriotic luxury, above
the degree of knight,--and edged deep with the costliest sables. The
hilt of the dagger, suspended round his breast, was but of ivory,
curiously wrought, but the scabbard was sown with large pearls. For
the rest, the stranger was of ordinary stature, well knit and active
rather than powerful, and of that age (about thirty-five) which may be
called the second prime of man. His face was far less handsome than
Marmaduke Nevile's, but infinitely more expressive, both of
intelligence and command,--the features straight and sharp, the
complexion clear and pale, and under the bright gray eyes a dark shade
spoke either of dissipation or of thought.
"What ailest thou, maiden,--weepest thou some faithless lover? Tush!
love renews itself in youth, as flower succeeds flower in spring."
Sibyll made no reply; she rose and moved a few paces, then arrested
her steps, and looked around her. She had lost all clew to her way
homeward, and she saw with horror, in the distance, the hateful
timbrel-girls, followed by the rabble, and weaving their strange
dances towards the spot.
"Dost thou fear me, child? There is no cause," said the stranger,
following her. "Again I say, What ailest thou?" This time his voice
was that of command, and the poor girl involuntarily obeyed it. She
related her misfortunes, her persecution by the tymbesteres, her
escape,--thanks to the Nevile's courtesy,--her separation from her
attendant, and her uncertainty as to the way she should pursue.
The nobleman listened with interest: he was a man sated and wearied by
pleasure and the world, and the evident innocence of Sibyll was a
novelty to his experience, while the contrast between her language and
her dress moved his curiosity. "And," said he, "thy protector left
thee, his work half done; fie on his chivalry! But I, donzel, wear
the spurs of knighthood, and to succour the distressed is a duty my
oath will not let me swerve from. I will guide thee home, for I know
well all the purlieus of this evil den of London. Thou hast but to
name the suburb in which thy father dwells."
Sibyll involuntarily raised her wimple, lifted her beautiful eyes to
the stranger, in bewildered gratitude and surprise. Her childhood had
passed in a court, her eye, accustomed to rank, at once perceived the
high degree of the speaker. The contrast between this unexpected and
delicate gallantry and the condescending tone and abrupt desertion of
Marmaduke affected her again to tears.
"Ah, worshipful sir!" she said falteringly, "what can reward thee for
this unlooked-for goodness?"
"One innocent smile, sweet virgin!--for such I'll be sworn thou art."
He did not offer her his hand, but hanging the gold-enamelled rein
over his arm, walked by her side; and a few words sufficing for his
guidance, led her across the ground, through the very midst of the
throng. He felt none of the young shame, the ingenious scruples of
Marmaduke, at the gaze he encountered, thus companioned. But Sibyll
noted that ever and anon bonnet and cap were raised as they passed
along, and the respectful murmur of the vulgar, who had so lately
jeered her anguish, taught her the immeasurable distance in men's
esteem between poverty shielded by virtue, and poverty protected by
power.
But suddenly a gaudy tinsel group broke through the crowd, and
wheeling round their path, the foremost of them daringly approached
the nobleman, and looking full into his disdainful face, exclaimed,
"Tradest thou, too, for kisses? Ha, ha! life is short,--the witch is
outwitched by thee! But witchcraft and death go together, as
peradventure thou mayest learn at the last, sleek wooer." Then
darting off, and heading her painted, tawdry throng, the timbrel-girl
sprang into the crowd and vanished.
This incident produced no effect upon the strong and cynical intellect
of the stranger. Without allusion to it, he continued to converse
with his young companion, and artfully to draw out her own singular
but energetic and gifted mind. He grew more than interested,--he was
both touched and surprised. His manner became yet more respectful,
his voice more subdued and soft.
On what hazards turns our fate! On that day, a little, and Sibyll's
pure but sensitive heart had, perhaps, been given to the young Nevile.
He had defended and saved her; he was fairer than the stranger, he was
more of her own years and nearer to her in station; but in showing
himself ashamed to be seen with her, he had galled her heart, and
moved the bitter tears of her pride. What had the stranger done?
Nothing but reconciled the wounded delicacy to itself; and suddenly he
became to her one ever to be remembered, wondered at,--perhaps more.
They reached an obscure suburb, and parted at the threshold of a
large, gloomy, ruinous house, which Sibyll indicated as her father's
home.
The girl lingered before the porch; and the stranger gazed, with the
passionless admiration which some fair object of art produces on one
who has refined his taste, but who has survived enthusiasm, upon the
downcast cheek that blushed beneath his gaze. "Farewell!" he said;
and the girl looked up wistfully. He might, without vanity, have
supposed that look to imply what the lip did not dare to say,--"And
shall we meet no more?"
But he turned away, with formal though courteous salutation; and as he
remounted his steed, and rode slowly towards the interior of the city,
he muttered to himself, with a melancholy smile upon his lips, "Now
might the grown infant make to himself a new toy; but an innocent
heart is a brittle thing, and one false vow can break it. Pretty
maiden! I like thee well eno' not to love thee. So, as my young
Scotch minstrel sings and plays,--
'Christ keep these birdis bright in bowers,
Sic peril lies in paramours!'"
[A Scotch poet, in Lord Hailes's Collection, has the following lines
in the very pretty poem called "Peril in Paramours:"--
"Wherefore I pray, in termys short,
Christ keep these birdis bright in bowers,
Fra false lovers and their disport,
Sic peril lies in paramours."]
We must now return to Marmaduke. On leaving Sibyll, and retracing his
steps towards the more crowded quarter of the space, he was agreeably
surprised by encountering Nicholas Alwyn, escorted in triumph by a
legion of roaring apprentices from the victory he had just obtained
over six competitors at the quarter-staff.
When the cortege came up to Marmaduke, Nicholas halted, and fronting
his attendants, said, with the same cold and formal stiffness that had
characterized him from the beginning, "I thank you, lads, for your
kindness. It is your own triumph. All I cared for was to show that
you London boys are able to keep up your credit in these days, when
there's little luck in a yard-measure, if the same hand cannot bend a
bow, or handle cold steel. But the less we think of the strife when
we are in the stall, the better for our pouches. And so I hope we
shall hear no more about it, until I get a ware of my own, when the
more of ye that like to talk of such matters the better ye will be
welcome,--always provided ye be civil customers, who pay on the nail,
for as the saw saith, 'Ell and tell makes the crypt swell.' For the
rest, thanks are due to this brave gentleman, Marmaduke Nevile, who,
though the son of a knight-banneret who never furnished less to the
battle-field than fifty men-at-arms, has condescended to take part and
parcel in the sports of us peaceful London traders; and if ever you
can do him a kind turn--for turn and turn is fair play--why, you will,
I answer for it. And so one cheer for old London, and another for
Marmaduke Nevile. Here goes! Hurrah, my lads!" And with this pithy
address Nicholas Alwyn took off his cap and gave the signal for the
shouts, which, being duly performed, he bowed stiffly to his
companions, who departed with a hearty laugh, and coming to the side
of Nevile, the two walked on to a neighbouring booth, where, under a
rude awning, and over a flagon of clary, they were soon immersed in
the confidential communications each had to give and receive.
CHAPTER III.
THE TRADER AND THE GENTLE; OR, THE CHANGING GENERATION.
"No, my dear foster-brother," said the Nevile, "I do not yet
comprehend the choice you have made. You were reared and brought up
with such careful book-lere, not only to read and to write--the which,
save the mark! I hold to be labour eno'--but chop Latin and logic and
theology with Saint Aristotle (is not that his hard name?) into the
bargain, and all because you had an uncle of high note in Holy Church.
I cannot say I would be a shaveling myself; but surely a monk with the
hope of preferment is a nobler calling to a lad of spirit and ambition
than to stand out at a door and cry, 'Buy, buy,' 'What d'ye lack?' to
spend youth as a Flat-cap, and drone out manhood in measuring cloth,
hammering metals, or weighing out spices?"
"Fair and softly, Master Marmaduke," said Alwyn, "you will understand
me better anon. My uncle, the sub-prior, died,--some say of
austerities, others of ale,--that matters not; he was a learned man
and a cunning. 'Nephew Nicholas,' said he on his death-bed, 'think
twice before you tie yourself up to the cloister; it's ill leaping
nowadays in a sackcloth bag. If a pious man be moved to the cowl by
holy devotion, there is nothing to be said on the subject; but if he
take to the Church as a calling, and wish to march ahead like his
fellows, these times show him a prettier path to distinction. The
nobles begin to get the best things for themselves; and a learned
monk, if he is the son of a yeoman, cannot hope, without a specialty
of grace, to become abbot or bishop. The king, whoever he be, must be
so drained by his wars, that he has little land or gold to bestow on
his favourites; but his gentry turn an eye to the temporalities of the
Church, and the Church and the king wish to strengthen themselves by
the gentry. This is not all; there are free opinions afloat. The
House of Lancaster has lost ground, by its persecutions and burnings.
Men dare not openly resist, but they treasure up recollections of a
fried grandfather, or a roasted cousin,--recollections which have done
much damage to the Henries, and will shake Holy Church itself one of
these days. The Lollards lie hid, but Lollardism will never die.
There is a new class rising amain, where a little learning goes a
great way, if mixed with spirit and sense. Thou likest broad pieces
and a creditable name,--go to London and be a trader. London begins
to decide who shall wear the crown, and the traders to decide what
king London shall befriend. Wherefore, cut thy trace from the
cloister, and take thy road to the shop.' The next day my uncle gave
up the ghost.--They had better clary than this at the convent, I must
own; but every stone has its flaw."
"Yet," said Marmaduke, "if you took distaste to the cowl, from reasons
that I pretend not to judge of, but which seem to my poor head very
bad ones, seeing that the Church is as mighty as ever, and King Edward
is no friend to the Lollards, and that your uncle himself was at least
a sub-prior--"
"Had he been son to a baron, he had been a cardinal," interrupted
Nicholas, "for his head was the longest that ever came out of the
north country. But go on; you would say my father was a sturdy
yeoman, and I might have followed his calling?"
"You hit the mark, Master Nicholas."
"Hout, man. I crave pardon of your rank, Master Nevile. But a yeoman
is born a yeoman, and he dies a yeoman--I think it better to die Lord
Mayor of London; and so I craved my mother's blessing and leave, and a
part of the old hyde has been sold to pay for the first step to the
red gown, which I need not say must be that of the Flat-cap. I have
already taken my degrees, and no longer wear blue. I am headman to my
master, and my master will be sheriff of London."
"It is a pity," said the Nevile, shaking his head; "you were ever a
tall, brave lad, and would have made a very pretty soldier."
"Thank you, Master Marmaduke, but I leave cut and thrust to the
gentles. I have seen eno' of the life of a retainer. He goes out on
foot with his shield and his sword, or his bow and his quiver, while
Sir Knight sits on horseback, armed from the crown to the toe, and the
arrow slants off from rider and horse, as a stone from a tree. If the
retainer is not sliced and carved into mincemeat, he comes home to a
heap of ashes, and a handful of acres, harried and rivelled into a
common; Sir Knight thanks him for his valour, but he does not build up
his house; Sir Knight gets a grant from the king, or an heiress for
his son, and Hob Yeoman turns gisarme and bill into ploughshares.
Tut, tut, there's no liberty, no safety, no getting on, for a man who
has no right to the gold spurs, but in the guild of his fellows; and
London is the place for a born Saxon like Nicholas Alwyn."
As the young aspirant thus uttered the sentiments, which though others
might not so plainly avow and shrewdly enforce them, tended towards
that slow revolution, which, under all the stormy events that the
superficial record we call HISTORY alone deigns to enumerate, was
working that great change in the thoughts and habits of the people,
--that impulsion of the provincial citywards, that gradual formation
of a class between knight and vassal,--which became first
constitutionally visible and distinct in the reign of Henry VII.,
Marmaduke Nevile, inly half-regretting and half-despising the
reasonings of his foster-brother, was playing with his dagger, and
glancing at his silver arrow.
"Yet you could still have eno' of the tall yeoman and the stout
retainer about you to try for this bauble, and to break half a dozen
thick heads with your quarter-staff!"
"True," said Nicholas; "you must recollect we are only, as yet,
between the skin and the selle,--half-trader, half-retainer. The old
leaven will out,--'Eith to learn the cat to the kirn,' as they say in
the North. But that's not all; a man, to get on, must win respect
from those who are to jostle him hereafter, and it's good policy to
show those roystering youngsters that Nick Alwyn, stiff and steady
though he be, has the old English metal in him, if it comes to a
pinch; it's a lesson to yon lords too, save your quality, if they ever
wish to ride roughshod over our guilds and companies. But eno' of
me.--Drawer, another stoup of the clary--Now, gentle sir, may I make
bold to ask news of yourself? I saw, though I spake not before of it,
that my Lord Montagu showed a cold face to his kinsman. I know
something of these great men, though I be but a small one,--a dog is
no bad guide in the city he trots through."
"My dear foster-brother," said the Nevile, "you had ever more brains
than myself, as is meet that you should have, since you lay by the
steel casque,--which, I take it, is meant as a substitute for us
gentlemen and soldiers who have not so many brains to spare; and I
will willingly profit by your counsels. You must know," he said,
drawing nearer to the table, and his frank, hardy face assuming a more
earnest expression, "that though my father, Sir Guy, at the
instigation of his chief, the Earl of Westmoreland, and of the Lord
Nevile, bore arms at the first for King Henry--"
"Hush! hush! for Henry of Windsor!"
"Henry of Windsor!--so be it! yet being connected, like the nobles I
have spoken of, with the blood of Warwick and Salisbury, it was ever
with doubt and misgiving, and rather in the hope of ultimate
compromise between both parties (which the Duke of York's moderation
rendered probable) than of the extermination of either. But when, at
the battle of York, Margaret of Anjou and her generals stained their
victory by cruelties which could not fail to close the door on all
conciliation; when the infant son of the duke himself was murdered,
though a prisoner, in cold blood; when my father's kinsman, the Earl
of Salisbury, was beheaded without trial; when the head of the brave
and good duke, who had fallen in the field, was, against all knightly
and king-like generosity, mockingly exposed, like a dishonoured
robber, on the gates of York, my father, shocked and revolted,
withdrew at once from the army, and slacked not bit or spur till he
found himself in his hall at Arsdale. His death, caused partly by his
travail and vexation of spirit, together with his timely withdrawal
from the enemy, preserved his name from the attainder passed on the
Lords Westmoreland and Nevile; and my eldest brother, Sir John,
accepted the king's proffer of pardon, took the oaths of allegiance to
Edward, and lives safe, if obscure, in his father's halls. Thou
knowest, my friend, that a younger brother has but small honour at
home. Peradventure, in calmer times, I might have bowed my pride to
my calling, hunted my brother's dogs, flown his hawks, rented his
keeper's lodge, and gone to my grave contented. But to a young man,
who from his childhood had heard the stirring talk of knights and
captains, who had seen valour and fortune make the way to distinction,
and whose ears of late had been filled by the tales of wandering
minstrels and dissours, with all the gay wonders of Edward's court,
such a life soon grew distasteful. My father, on his death-bed (like
thy uncle, the sub-prior), encouraged me little to follow his own
footsteps. 'I see,' said he, 'that King Henry is too soft to rule his
barons, and Margaret too fierce to conciliate the commons; the only
hope of peace is in the settlement of the House of York. Wherefore,
let not thy father's errors stand in the way of thy advancement;' and
therewith he made his confessor--for he was no penman himself, the
worthy old knight!--indite a letter to his great kinsman, the Earl of
Warwick, commending me to his protection. He signed his mark, and set
his seal to this missive, which I now have at mine hostelrie, and died
the same day. My brother judged me too young then to quit his roof;
and condemned me to bear his humours till, at the age of twenty-three,
I could bear no more! So having sold him my scant share in the
heritage, and turned, like thee, bad land into good nobles, I joined a
party of horse in their journey to London, and arrived yesterday at
Master Sackbut's hostelrie in Eastchepe. I went this morning to my
Lord of Warwick; but he was gone to the king's, and hearing of the
merry-makings here, I came hither for kill-time. A chance word of my
Lord of Montagu--whom Saint Dunstan confound!--made me conceit that a
feat of skill with the cloth-yard might not ill preface my letter to
the great earl. But, pardie! it seems I reckoned without my host, and
in seeking to make my fortunes too rashly, I have helped to mar them."
Wherewith he related the particulars of his interview with Montagu.
Nicholas Alwyn listened to him with friendly and thoughtful interest,
and, when he had done, spoke thus,--
"The Earl of Warwick is a generous man, and though hot, bears little
malice, except against those whom he deems misthink or insult him; he
is proud of being looked up to as a protector, especially by those of
his own kith and name. Your father's letter will touch the right
string, and you cannot do better than deliver it with a plain story.
A young partisan like thee is not to be despised. Thou must trust to
Lord Warwick to set matters right with his brother; and now, before I
say further, let me ask thee, plainly, and without offence, Dost thou
so love the House of York that no chance could ever make thee turn
sword against it? Answer as I ask,--under thy breath; those drawers
are parlous spies!"
And here, in justice to Marmaduke Nevile and to his betters, it is
necessary to preface his reply by some brief remarks, to which we must
crave the earnest attention of the reader. What we call PATRIOTISM,
in the high and catholic acceptation of the word, was little if at all
understood in days when passion, pride, and interest were motives
little softened by reflection and education, and softened still less
by the fusion of classes that characterized the small States of old,
and marks the civilization of a modern age. Though the right by
descent of the House of York, if genealogy alone were consulted, was
indisputably prior to that of Lancaster, yet the long exercise of
power in the latter House, the genius of the Fourth Henry, and the
victories of the Fifth, would no doubt have completely superseded the
obsolete claims of the Yorkists, had Henry VI. possessed any of the
qualities necessary for the time. As it was, men had got puzzled by
genealogies and cavils; the sanctity attached to the king's name was
weakened by his doubtful right to his throne, and the Wars of the
rival Roses were at last (with two exceptions, presently to be noted)
the mere contests of exasperated factions, in which public
considerations were scarcely even made the blind to individual
interest, prejudice, or passion.
Thus, instances of desertion, from the one to the other party, even by
the highest nobles, and on the very eve of battle, had grown so common
that little if any disgrace was attached to them; and any knight or
captain held an affront to himself an amply sufficient cause for the
transfer of his allegiance. It would be obviously absurd to expect in
any of the actors of that age the more elevated doctrines of party
faith and public honour, which clearer notions of national morality,
and the salutary exercise of a large general opinion, free from the
passions of single individuals, have brought into practice in our more
enlightened days. The individual feelings of the individual MAN,
strong in himself, became his guide, and he was free in much from the
regular and thoughtful virtues, as well as from the mean and plausible
vices, of those who act only in bodies and corporations. The two
exceptions to this idiosyncrasy of motive and conduct were, first, in
the general disposition of the rising middle class, especially in
London, to connect great political interests with the more popular
House of York. The commons in parliament had acted in opposition to
Henry the Sixth, as the laws they wrung from him tended to show, and
it was a popular and trading party that came, as it were, into power
under King Edward. It is true that Edward was sufficiently arbitrary
in himself; but a popular party will stretch as much as its
antagonists in favour of despotism,--exercised, on its enemies. And
Edward did his best to consult the interests of commerce, though the
prejudices of the merchants interpreted those interests in a way
opposite to that in which political economy now understands them. The
second exception to the mere hostilities of individual chiefs and
feudal factions has, not less than the former, been too much
overlooked by historians. But this was a still more powerful element
in the success of the House of York. The hostility against the Roman
Church and the tenets of the Lollards were shared by an immense part
of the population. In the previous century an ancient writer computes
that one half the population were Lollards; and though the sect were
diminished and silenced by fear, they still ceased not to exist, and
their doctrines not only shook the Church under Henry VIII., but
destroyed the throne by the strong arm of their children, the
Puritans, under Charles I. It was impossible that these men should
not have felt the deepest resentment at the fierce and steadfast
persecution they endured under the House of Lancaster; and without
pausing to consider how far they would benefit under the dynasty of
York, they had all those motives of revenge which are mistaken so
often for the counsels of policy, to rally round any standard raised
against their oppressors. These two great exceptions to merely
selfish policy, which it remains for the historian clearly and at
length to enforce, these: and these alone will always, to a sagacious
observer, elevate the Wars of the Roses above those bloody contests
for badges which we are at first sight tempted to regard them. But
these deeper motives animated very little the nobles and the knightly
gentry; [Amongst many instances of the self-seeking of the time, not
the least striking is the subservience of John Mowbray, the great Duke
of Norfolk, to his old political enemy, the Earl of Oxford, the moment
the last comes into power, during the brief restoration of Henry VI.
John Paston, whose family had been sufficiently harassed by this great
duke, says, with some glee, "The Duke and Duchess (of Norfolk) sue to
him (Lord Oxford) as humbly as ever I did to them."--Paston Letters,
cccii.] and with them the governing principles were, as we have just
said, interest, ambition, and the zeal for the honour and advancement
of Houses and chiefs.
"Truly," said Marmaduke, after a short and rather embarrassed pause,
"I am little beholden as yet to the House of York. There where I see
a noble benefactor, or a brave and wise leader, shall I think my sword
and heart may best proffer allegiance."
"Wisely said," returned Alwyn, with a slight but half sarcastic smile;
"I asked thee the question because--draw closer--there are wise men in
our city who think the ties between Warwick and the king less strong
than a ship's cable; and if thou attachest thyself to Warwick, he will
be better pleased, it may be, with talk of devotion to himself than
professions of exclusive loyalty to King Edward. He who has little
silver in his pouch must have the more silk on his tongue. A word to
a Westmoreland or a Yorkshire man is as good as a sermon to men not
born so far north. One word more, and I have done. Thou art kind and
affable and gentle, my dear foster-brother, but it will not do for
thee to be seen again with the goldsmith's headman. If thou wantest
me, send for me at nightfall; I shall be found at Master Heyford's, in
the Chepe. And if," added Nicholas, with a prudent reminiscence,
"thou succeedest at court, and canst recommend my master,--there is no
better goldsmith,--it may serve me when I set up for myself, which I
look to do shortly."
"But to send for thee, my own foster-brother, at nightfall, as if I
were ashamed!"
"Hout, Master Marmaduke, if thou wert not ashamed of me, I should be
ashamed to be seen with a gay springal like thee. Why, they would say
in the Chepe that Nick Alwyn was going to ruin. No, no. Birds of a
feather must keep shy of those that moult other colours; and so, my
dear young master, this is my last shake of the hand. But hold: dost
thou know thy way back?"
"Oh, yes,--never fear!" answered Marmaduke; "though I see not why so
far, at least, we may not be companions."
"No, better as it is; after this day's work they will gossip about
both of us, and we shall meet many who know my long visage on the way
back. God keep thee; avise me how thou prosperest."
So saying, Nicholas Alwyn walked off, too delicate to propose to pay
his share of the reckoning with a superior; but when he had gone a few
paces he turned back, and accosting the Nevile, as the latter was
rebuckling his mantle, said,--
"I have been thinking, Master Nevile, that these gold nobles, which it
has been my luck to bear off, would be more useful in thy gipsire than
mine. I have sure gains and small expenses; but a gentleman gains
nothing, and his hand must be ever in his pouch, so--"
"Foster-brother," said Marmaduke, haughtily, "a gentleman never
borrows,--except of the Jews, and with due interest. Moreover, I too
have my calling; and as thy stall to thee, so to me my good sword.
Saints keep thee! Be sure I will serve thee when I can."
"The devil's in these young strips of the herald's tree," muttered
Alwyn, as he strode off; "as if it were dishonest to borrow a broad
piece without cutting a throat for it! Howbeit, money is a prolific
mother: and here is eno' to buy me a gold chain against I am alderman
of London. Hout, thus goes the world,--the knight's baubles become
the alderman's badges--so much the better!"
CHAPTER IV.
ILL FARES THE COUNTRY MOUSE IN THE TRAPS OF TOWN.
We trust we shall not be deemed discourteous, either, on the one hand,
to those who value themselves on their powers of reflection, or, on
the other, to those who lay claim to what, in modern phrenological
jargon, is called the Organ of Locality, when we venture to surmise
that the two are rarely found in combination; nay, that it seems to us
a very evident truism, that in proportion to the general activity of
the intellect upon subjects of pith and weight, the mind will be
indifferent to those minute external objects by which a less
contemplative understanding will note, and map out, and impress upon
the memory, the chart of the road its owner has once taken. Master
Marmaduke Nevile, a hardy and acute forester from childhood, possessed
to perfection the useful faculty of looking well and closely before
him as he walked the earth; and ordinarily, therefore, the path he had
once taken, however intricate and obscure, he was tolerably sure to
retrace with accuracy, even at no inconsiderable distance of time,--
the outward senses of men are usually thus alert and attentive in the
savage or the semi-civilized state. He had not, therefore, over-
valued his general acuteness in the note and memory of localities,
when he boasted of his power to refind his way to his hostelrie
without the guidance of Alwyn. But it so happened that the events of
this day, so memorable to him, withdrew his attention from external
objects, to concentrate it within. And in marvelling and musing over
the new course upon which his destiny had entered, he forgot to take
heed of that which his feet should pursue; so that, after wandering
unconsciously onward for some time, he suddenly halted in perplexity
and amaze to find himself entangled in a labyrinth of scattered
suburbs, presenting features wholly different from the road that had
conducted him to the archery-ground in the forenoon. The darkness of
the night had set in; but it was relieved by a somewhat faint and
mist-clad moon, and some few and scattered stars, over which rolled,
fleetly, thick clouds, portending rain. No lamps at that time cheered
the steps of the belated wanderer; the houses were shut up, and their
inmates, for the most part, already retired to rest, and the suburbs
did not rejoice, as the city, in the round of the watchman with his
drowsy call to the inhabitants, "Hang out your lights!" The
passengers, who at first, in various small groups and parties, had
enlivened the stranger's way, seemed to him, unconscious as he was of
the lapse of time, to have suddenly vanished from the thoroughfares;
and he found himself alone in places thoroughly unknown to him, waking
to the displeasing recollection that the approaches to the city were
said to be beset by brawlers and ruffians of desperate characters,
whom the cessation of the civil wars had flung loose upon the skirts
of society, to maintain themselves by deeds of rapine and plunder. As
might naturally be expected, most of these had belonged to the
defeated party, who had no claim to the good offices or charity of
those in power. And although some of the Neviles had sided with the
Lancastrians, yet the badge worn by Marmaduke was considered a pledge
of devotion to the reigning House, and added a new danger to those
which beset his path. Conscious of this--for he now called to mind
the admonitions of his host in parting from the hostelrie--he deemed
it but discreet to draw the hood of his mantle over the silver
ornament; and while thus occupied, he heard not a step emerging from a
lane at his rear, when suddenly a heavy hand was placed on his
shoulder. He started, turned, and before him stood a man, whose
aspect and dress betokened little to lessen the alarm of the
uncourteous salutation. Marmaduke's dagger was bare on the instant.
"And what wouldst thou with me?" he asked.
"Thy purse and thy dagger!" answered the stranger.
"Come and take them," said the Nevile, unconscious that he uttered a
reply famous in classic history, as he sprang backward a step or so,
and threw himself into an attitude of defence. The stranger slowly
raised a rude kind of mace, or rather club, with a ball of iron at the
end, garnished with long spikes, as he replied, "Art thou mad eno' to
fight for such trifles?"
"Art thou in the habit of meeting one Englishman who yields his goods
without a blow to another?" retorted Marmaduke. "Go to! thy club does
not daunt me." The stranger warily drew back a step, and applied a
whistle to his mouth. The Nevile sprang at him, but the stranger
warded off the thrust of the poniard with a light flourish of his
heavy weapon; and had not the youth drawn back on the instant, it had
been good-night and a long day to Marmaduke Nevile. Even as it was,
his heart beat quick, as the whirl of the huge weapon sent the air
like a strong wind against his face. Ere he had time to renew his
attack, he was suddenly seized from behind, and found himself
struggling in the arms of two men. From these he broke, and his
dagger glanced harmless against the tough jerkin of his first
assailant. The next moment his right arm fell to his side, useless
and deeply gashed. A heavy blow on the head--the moon, the stars
reeled in his eyes--and then darkness,--he knew no more. His
assailants very deliberately proceeded to rifle the inanimate body,
when one of them, perceiving the silver badge, exclaimed, with an
oath, "One of the rampant Neviles! This cock at least shall crow no
more." And laying the young man's head across his lap, while he
stretched back the throat with one hand, with the other he drew forth
a long sharp knife, like those used by huntsmen in despatching the
hart. Suddenly, and in the very moment when the blade was about to
inflict the fatal gash, his hand was forcibly arrested, and a man, who
had silently and unnoticed joined the ruffians, said in a stern
whisper, "Rise and depart from thy brotherhood forever. We admit no
murderer."
The ruffian looked up in bewilderment. "Robin--captain--thou here!"
he said falteringly.
"I must needs be everywhere, I see, if I would keep such fellows as
thou and these from the gallows. What is this?--a silver arrow--the
young archer--Um."
"A Nevile!" growled the would-be murderer.
"And for that very reason his life should be safe. Knowest thou not
that Richard of Warwick, the great Nevile, ever spares the commons?
Begone! I say." The captain's low voice grew terrible as he uttered
the last words. The savage rose, and without a word stalked away.
"Look you, my masters," said Robin, turning to the rest, "soldiers
must plunder a hostile country. While York is on the throne, England
is a hostile country to us Lancastrians. Rob, then, rifle, if ye
will; but he who takes life shall lose it. Ye know me!" The robbers
looked down, silent and abashed. Robin bent a moment over the youth.
"He will live," he muttered. "So! he already begins to awaken. One
of these houses will give him shelter. Off, fellows, and take care of
your necks!"
When Marmaduke, a few minutes after this colloquy, began to revive, it
was with a sensation of dizziness, pain, and extreme cold. He strove
to lift himself from the ground, and at length succeeded. He was
alone; the place where he had lain was damp and red with stiffening
blood. He tottered on for several paces, and perceived from a
lattice, at a little distance, a light still burning. Now reeling,
now falling, he still dragged on his limbs as the instinct attracted
him to that sign of refuge. He gained the doorway of a detached and
gloomy house, and sank on the stone before it to cry aloud; but his
voice soon sank into deep groans, and once more, as his efforts
increased the rapid gush of the blood, became insensible. The man
styled Robin, who had so opportunely saved his life, now approached
from the shadow of a wall, beneath which he had watched Marmaduke's
movements. He neared the door of the house, and cried, in a sharp,
clear voice, "Open, for the love of Christ!"
A head was now thrust from the lattice, the light vanished; a minute
more, the door opened; and Robin, as if satisfied, drew hastily back,
and vanished, saying to himself, as he strode along, "A young man's
life must needs be dear to him; yet had the lad been a lord, methinks
I should have cared little to have saved for the people one tyrant
more."
After a long interval, Marmaduke again recovered, and his eyes turned
with pain from the glare of a light held to his face.
"He wakes, Father,--he will live!" cried a sweet voice. "Ay, he will
live, child!" answered a deeper tone; and the young man muttered to
himself, half audibly, as in a dream, "Holy Mother be blessed! it is
sweet to live." The room in which the sufferer lay rather exhibited
the remains of better fortunes than testified to the solid means of
the present possessor. The ceiling was high and groined, and some
tints of faded but once gaudy painting blazoned its compartments and
hanging pendants. The walls had been rudely painted (for arras [Mr.
Hallam ("History of the Middle Ages," chap. ix. part 2) implies a
doubt whether great houses were furnished with hangings so soon as the
reign of Edward IV.; but there is abundant evidence to satisfy our
learned historian upon that head. The Narrative of the "Lord of
Grauthuse," edited by Sir F. Madden, specifies the hangings of cloth
of gold in the apartments in which that lord was received by Edward
IV.; also the hangings of white silk and linen in the chamber
appropriated to himself at Windsor. But long before this period (to
say nothing of the Bayeux Tapestry),--namely, in the reign of Edward
III. (in 1344),--a writ was issued to inquire into the mystery of
working tapestry; and in 1398 Mr. Britton observes that the celebrated
arras hangings at Warwick Castle are mentioned. (See Britton's
"Dictionary of Architecture and Archaelogy," art. "Tapestry.")] then
was rare, even among the wealthiest); but the colours were half
obliterated by time and damp. The bedstead on which the wounded man
reclined was curiously carved, with a figure of the Virgin at the
head, and adorned with draperies, in which were wrought huge figures
from scriptural subjects, but in the dress of the date of Richard
II.,--Solomon in pointed upturned shoes, and Goliath, in the armour of
a crusader, frowning grimly upon the sufferer. By the bedside stood a
personage, who, in reality, was but little past the middle age, but
whose pale visage, intersected with deep furrows, whose long beard and
hair, partially gray, gave him the appearance of advanced age:
nevertheless there was something peculiarly striking in the aspect of
the man. His forehead was singularly high and massive; but the back
of the head was disproportionately small, as if the intellect too much
preponderated over all the animal qualities for strength in character
and success in life. The eyes were soft, dark, and brilliant, but
dreamlike and vague; the features in youth must have been regular and
beautiful, but their contour was now sharpened by the hollowness of
the cheeks and temples. The form, in the upper part, was nobly
shaped, sufficiently muscular, if not powerful, and with the long
throat and falling shoulders which always gives something of grace and
dignity to the carriage; but it was prematurely bent, and the lower
limbs were thin and weak, as is common with men who have sparely used
them; they seemed disproportioned to that broad chest, and still more
to that magnificent and spacious brow. The dress of this personage
corresponded with the aspect of his abode. The materials were those
worn by the gentry, but they were old, threadbare, and discoloured
with innumerable spots and stains. His hands were small and delicate,
with large blue veins, that spoke of relaxed fibres; but their natural
whiteness was smudged with smoke-stains, and his beard--a masculine
ornament utterly out of fashion among the younger race in King
Edward's reign, but when worn by the elder gentry carefully trimmed
and perfumed--was dishevelled into all the spiral and tangled curls
displayed in the sculptured head of some old Grecian sage or poet.
On the other side of the bed knelt a young girl of about sixteen, with
a face exquisitely lovely in its delicacy and expression. She seemed
about the middle stature, and her arms and neck, as displayed by the
close-fitting vest, had already the smooth and rounded contour of
dawning womanhood, while the face had still the softness, innocence,
and inexpressible bloom of a child. There was a strong likeness
between her and her father (for such the relationship, despite the
difference of sex and years),--the same beautiful form of lip and
brow, the same rare colour of the eyes, dark-blue, with black fringing
lashes; and perhaps the common expression, at that moment, of gentle
pity and benevolent anxiety contributed to render the resemblance
stronger.
"Father, he sinks again!" said the girl.
"Sibyll," answered the man, putting his finger upon a line in a
manuscript book that he held, "the authority saith, that a patient so
contused should lose blood, and then the arm must be tightly bandaged.
Verily we lack the wherewithal."
"Not so, Father!" said the girl, and blushing, she turned aside, and
took off the partelet of lawn, upon which holiday finery her young
eyes perhaps that morning had turned with pleasure, and white as snow
was the neck which was thus displayed; "this will suffice to bind his
arm."
"But the book," said the father, in great perplexity--"the book
telleth us not how the lancet should be applied. It is easy to say,
'Do this and do that;' but to do it once, it should have been done
before. This is not among my experiments."
Luckily, perhaps, for Marmaduke, at this moment there entered an old
woman, the solitary servant of the house, whose life, in those warlike
times, had made her pretty well acquainted with the simpler modes of
dealing with a wounded arm and a broken head. She treated with great
disdain the learned authority referred to by her master; she bound the
arm, plastered the head, and taking upon herself the responsibility to
promise a rapid cure, insisted upon the retirement of father and
child, and took her solitary watch beside the bed.
"If it had been any other mechanism than that of the vile human body!"
muttered the philosopher, as if apologizing to himself; and with that
he recovered his self-complacency and looked round him proudly.
CHAPTER V.
WEAL TO THE IDLER, WOE TO THE WORKMAN.
As Providence tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, so it possibly might
conform the heads of that day to a thickness suitable for the blows
and knocks to which they were variously subjected; yet it was not
without considerable effort and much struggling that Marmaduke's
senses recovered the shock received, less by his flesh-wound and the
loss of blood, than a blow on the seat of reason that might have
despatched a passable ox of these degenerate days. Nature, to say
nothing of Madge's leechcraft, ultimately triumphed, and Marmaduke
woke one morning in full possession of such understanding as Nature
had endowed him with. He was then alone, and it was with much simple
surprise that he turned his large hazel eyes from corner to corner of
the unfamiliar room. He began to retrace and weave together sundry
disordered and vague reminiscences: he commenced with the
commencement, and clearly satisfied himself that he had been
grievously wounded and sorely bruised; he then recalled the solitary
light at the high lattice, and his memory found itself at the porch of
the large, lonely, ruinous old house; then all became a bewildered and
feverish dream. He caught at the vision of an old man with a long
beard, whom he associated, displeasingly, with recollections of pain;
he glanced off to a fair face, with eyes that looked tender pity
whenever he writhed or groaned under the tortures that, no doubt, that
old accursed carle had inflicted upon him. But even this face did not
dwell with pleasure in his memory,--it woke up confused and labouring
associations of something weird and witchlike, of sorceresses and
tymbesteres, of wild warnings screeched in his ear, of incantations
and devilries and doom. Impatient of these musings, he sought to leap
from his bed, and was amazed that the leap subsided into a tottering
crawl. He found an ewer and basin, and his ablutions refreshed and
invigorated him. He searched for his raiment, and discovered it all
except the mantle, dagger, hat, and girdle; and while looking for
these, his eye fell on an old tarnished steel mirror. He started as
if he had seen his ghost; was it possible that his hardy face could
have waned into that pale and almost femininely delicate visage? With
the pride (call it not coxcombry) that then made the care of person
the distinction of gentle birth, he strove to reduce into order the
tangled locks of the long hair, of which a considerable portion above
a part that seemed peculiarly sensitive to the touch had been
mercilessly clipped; and as he had just completed this task, with
little satisfaction and much inward chafing at the lack of all
befitting essences and perfumes, the door gently opened, and the fair
face he had dreamed of appeared at the aperture.
The girl uttered a cry of astonishment and alarm at seeing the patient
thus arrayed and convalescent, and would suddenly have retreated; but
the Nevile advanced, and courteously taking her hand--
"Fair maiden," said he, "if, as I trow, I owe to thy cares my tending
and cure--nay, it may be a life hitherto of little worth, save to
myself--do not fly from my thanks. May Our Lady of Walsingham bless
and reward thee!"
"Sir," answered Sibyll, gently withdrawing her hands from his clasp,
"our poor cares have been a slight return for thy generous protection
to myself."
"To thee! ah, forgive me--how could I be so dull? I remember thy face
now; and, perchance, I deserve the disaster I met with in leaving thee
so discourteously. My heart smote me for it as my light footfall
passed from thy side."
A slight blush, succeeded by a thoughtful smile--the smile of one who
recalls and caresses some not displeasing remembrance--passed over
Sibyll's charming countenance, as the sufferer said this with
something of the grace of a well-born man, whose boyhood had been
taught to serve God and the Ladies.
There was a short pause before she answered, looking down, "Nay, sir,
I was sufficiently beholden to you; and for the rest, all molestation
was over. But I will now call your nurse--for it is to our servant,
not us, that your thanks are due--to see to your state, and administer
the proper medicaments."
"Truly, fair damsel, it is not precisely medicaments that I hunger and
thirst for; and if your hospitality could spare me from the larder a
manchet, or a corner of a pasty, and from the cellar a stoup of wine
or a cup of ale, methinks it would tend more to restore me than those
potions which are so strange to my taste that they rather offend than
tempt it; and, pardie, it seemeth to my poor senses as if I had not
broken bread for a week!"
"I am glad to hear you of such good cheer," answered Sibyll; "wait but
a moment or so, till I consult your physician."
And, so saying, she closed the door, slowly descended the steps, and
pursued her way into what seemed more like a vault than a habitable
room, where she found the single servant of the household. Time,
which makes changes so fantastic in the dress of the better classes,
has a greater respect for the costume of the humbler; and though the
garments were of a very coarse sort of serge, there was not so great a
difference, in point of comfort and sufficiency, as might be supposed,
between the dress of old Madge and that of some primitive servant in
the North during the last century. The old woman's face was thin and
pinched; but its sharp expression brightened into a smile as she
caught sight, through the damps and darkness, of the gracious form of
her young mistress. "Ah, Madge," said Sibyll, with a sigh, "it is a
sad thing to be poor!"
"For such as thou, Mistress Sibyll, it is indeed. It does not matter
for the like of us. But it goes to my old heart when I see you shut
up here, or worse, going out in that old courtpie and wimple,--you, a
knight's grandchild; you, who have played round a queen's knees, and
who might have been so well-to-do, an' my master had thought a little
more of the gear of this world. But patience is a good palfrey, and
will carry us a long day. And when the master has done what he looks
for, why, the king--sith we must so call the new man on the throne--
will be sure to reward him; but, sweetheart, tarry not here; it's an
ill air for your young lips to drink in. What brings you to old
Madge?"
"The stranger is recovered, and--"
"Ay, I warrant me, I have cured worse than he. He must have a
spoonful of broth,--I have not forgot it. You see I wanted no dinner
myself--what is dinner to old folks!--so I e'en put it all in the pot
for him. The broth will be brave and strong."
"My poor Madge, God requite you for what you suffer for us! But he
has asked"--here was another sigh, and a downcast look that did not
dare to face the consternation of Madge, as she repeated, with a half-
smile--"he has asked--for meat, and a stoup of wine, Madge!"
"Eh, sirs! And where is he to get them? Not that it will be bad for
the lad, either. Wine! There's Master Sancroft of the Oak will not
trust us a penny, the seely hilding, and--"
"Oh, Madge, I forgot!--we can still sell the gittern for something.
Get on your wimple, Madge--quick,--while I go for it."
"Why, Mistress Sibyll, that's your only pleasure when you sit all
alone, the long summer days."
"It will be more pleasure to remember that it supplied the wants of my
father's guest," said Sibyll; and retracing the way up the stairs, she
returned with the broken instrument, and despatched Madge with it,
laden with instructions that the wine should be of the best. She then
once more mounted the rugged steps, and halting a moment at
Marmaduke's door, as she heard his feeble step walking impatiently to
and fro, she ascended higher, where the flight, winding up a square,
dilapidated turret, became rougher, narrower, and darker, and opened
the door of her father's retreat.
It was a room so bare of ornament and furniture that it seemed merely
wrought out of the mingled rubble and rough stones which composed the
walls of the mansion, and was lighted towards the street by a narrow
slit, glazed, it is true,--which all the windows of the house were
not,--but the sun scarcely pierced the dull panes and the deep walls
in which they were sunk. The room contained a strong furnace and a
rude laboratory. There were several strange-looking mechanical
contrivances scattered about, several manuscripts upon some oaken
shelves, and a large pannier of wood and charcoal in the corner. In
that poverty-stricken house, the money spent on fuel alone, in the
height of summer, would have comfortably maintained the inmates; but
neither Sibyll nor Madge ever thought to murmur at this waste,
dedicated to what had become the vital want of a man who drew air in a
world of his own. This was the first thing to be provided for; and
Science was of more imperative necessity than even Hunger.
Adam Warner was indeed a creature of remarkable genius,--and genius,
in an age where it is not appreciated, is the greatest curse the iron
Fates can inflict on man. If not wholly without the fond fancies
which led the wisdom of the darker ages to the philosopher's stone and
the elixir, he had been deterred from the chase of a chimera by want
of means to pursue it! for it required the resources or the patronage
of a prince or noble to obtain the costly ingredients consumed in the
alchemist's crucible. In early life, therefore, and while yet in
possession of a competence derived from a line of distinguished and
knightly ancestors, Adam Warner had devoted himself to the surer and
less costly study of the mathematics, which then had begun to attract
the attention of the learned, but which was still looked upon by the
vulgar as a branch of the black art. This pursuit had opened to him
the insight into discoveries equally useful and sublime. They
necessitated a still more various knowledge; and in an age when there
was no division of labour and rare and precarious communication among
students, it became necessary for each discoverer to acquire
sufficient science for his own collateral experiments.
In applying mathematics to the practical purposes of life, in
recognizing its mighty utilities to commerce and civilization, Adam
Warner was driven to conjoin with it, not only an extensive knowledge
of languages, but many of the rudest tasks of the mechanist's art; and
chemistry was, in some of his researches, summoned to his aid. By
degrees, the tyranny that a man's genius exercises over his life,
abstracted him from all external objects. He had loved his wife
tenderly, but his rapid waste of his fortune in the purchase of
instruments and books, then enormously dear, and the neglect of all
things not centred in the hope to be the benefactor of the world, had
ruined her health and broken her heart. Happily Warner perceived not
her decay till just before her death; happily he never conceived its
cause, for her soul was wrapped in his. She revered, and loved, and
never upbraided him. Her heart was the martyr to his mind. Had she
foreseen the future destinies of her daughter, it might have been
otherwise. She could have remonstrated with the father, though not
with the husband. But, fortunately, as it seemed to her, she (a
Frenchwoman by birth) had passed her youth in the service of Margaret
of Anjou, and that haughty queen, who was equally warm to friends and
inexorable to enemies, had, on her attendant's marriage, promised to
ensure the fortunes of her offspring. Sibyll at the age of nine--
between seven and eight years before the date the story enters on, and
two years prior to the fatal field of Towton, which gave to Edward the
throne of England--had been admitted among the young girls whom the
custom of the day ranked amidst the attendants of the queen; and in
the interval that elapsed before Margaret was obliged to dismiss her
to her home, her mother died. She died without foreseeing the
reverses that were to ensue, in the hope that her child, at least, was
nobly provided for, and not without the belief (for there is so much
faith in love!) that her husband's researches, which in his youth had
won favour of the Protector Duke of Gloucester, the most enlightened
prince of his time, would be crowned at last with the rewards and
favours of his king. That precise period was, indeed, the fairest
that had yet dawned upon the philosopher. Henry VI., slowly
recovering from one of those attacks which passed for imbecility, had
condescended to amuse himself with various conversations with Warner,
urged to it first by representations of the unholy nature of the
student's pursuits; and, having satisfied his mind of his learned
subject's orthodoxy, the poor monarch had taken a sort of interest,
not so much, perhaps, in the objects of Warner's occupations, as in
that complete absorption from actual life which characterized the
subject, and gave him in this a melancholy resemblance to the king.
While the House of Lancaster was on the throne, the wife felt that her
husband's pursuits would be respected, and his harmless life safe from
the fierce prejudices of the people; and the good queen would not
suffer him to starve, when the last mark was expended in devices how
to benefit his country:--and in these hopes the woman died!
A year afterwards, all at court was in disorder,--armed men supplied
the service of young girls, and Sibyll, with a purse of broad pieces,
soon converted into manuscripts, was sent back to her father's
desolate home. There had she grown a flower amidst ruins, with no
companion of her own age, and left to bear, as her sweet and
affectionate nature well did, the contrast between the luxuries of a
court and the penury of a hearth which, year after year, hunger and
want came more and more sensibly to invade.
Sibyll had been taught, even as a child, some accomplishments little
vouchsafed then to either sex,--she could read and write; and Margaret
had not so wholly lost, in the sterner North, all reminiscence of the
accomplishments that graced her father's court as to neglect the
education of those brought up in her household. Much attention was
given to music, for it soothed the dark hours of King Henry; the
blazoning of missals or the lives of saints, with the labours of the
loom, were also among the resources of Sibyll's girlhood, and by these
last she had, from time to time, served to assist the maintenance of
the little family of which, child though she was, she became the
actual head. But latterly--that is, for the last few weeks--even
these sources failed her; for as more peaceful times allowed her
neighbours to interest themselves in the affairs of others, the dark
reports against Warner had revived. His name became a by-word of
horror; the lonely light at the lattice burning till midnight, against
all the early usages and habits of the day; the dark smoke of the
furnace, constant in summer as in winter, scandalized the religion of
the place far and near. And finding, to their great dissatisfaction,
that the king's government and the Church interfered not for their
protection, and unable themselves to volunteer any charges against the
recluse (for the cows in the neighbourhood remained provokingly
healthy), they came suddenly, and, as it were by one of those common
sympathies which in all times the huge persecutor we call the PUBLIC
manifests when a victim is to be crushed, to the pious resolution of
starving where they could not burn. Why buy the quaint devilries of
the wizard's daughter?--no luck could come of it. A missal blazoned
by such hands, an embroidery worked at such a loom, was like the
Lord's Prayer read backwards. And one morning, when poor Sibyll stole
out as usual to vend a month's labour, she was driven from door to
door with oaths and curses.
Though Sibyll's heart was gentle, she was not without a certain
strength of mind. She had much of the patient devotion of her mother,
much of the quiet fortitude of her father's nature. If not
comprehending to the full the loftiness of Warner's pursuits, she
still anticipated from them an ultimate success which reconciled her
to all temporary sacrifices. The violent prejudices, the ignorant
cruelty, thus brought to bear against existence itself, filled her
with sadness, it is true, but not unmixed with that contempt for her
persecutors, which, even in the meekest tempers, takes the sting from
despair. But hunger pressed. Her father was nearing the goal of his
discoveries, and in a moment of that pride which in its very contempt
for appearances braves them all, Sibyll had stolen out to the pastime-
ground,--with what result has been seen already. Having thus
accounted for the penury of the mansion, we return to its owner.
Warner was contemplating with evident complacency and delight the
model of a machine which had occupied him for many years, and which he
imagined he was now rapidly bringing to perfection. His hands and
face were grimed with the smoke of his forge, and his hair and beard,
neglected as usual, looked parched and dried up, as if with the
constant fever that burned within.
"Yes, yes!" he muttered, "how they will bless me for this! What Roger
Bacon only suggested I shall accomplish! How it will change the face
of the globe! What wealth it will bestow on ages yet unborn!"
"My father," said the gentle voice of Sibyll, "my poor father, thou
hast not tasted bread to-day."
Warner turned, and his face relaxed into a tender expression as he saw
his daughter.
"My child," he said, pointing to his model, "the time comes when it
will live! Patience! patience!"
"And who would not have patience with thee, and for thee, Father?"
said Sibyll, with enthusiasm speaking on every feature. "What is the
valour of knight and soldier--dull statues of steel--to thine? Thou,
with thy naked breast, confronting all dangers,--sharper than the
lance and glaive, and all--"
"All to make England great!"
"Alas! what hath England merited from men like thee? The people, more
savage than their rulers, clamour for the stake, the gibbet, and the
dungeon, for all who strive to make them wiser. Remember the death of
Bolingbroke, [A mathematician accused as an accomplice, in sorcery, of
Eleanor Cobham, wife of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and hanged upon
that charge. His contemporary (William Wyrcestre) highly extols his
learning.]--a wizard, because, O Father!--because his pursuits were
thine!"
Adam, startled by this burst, looked at his daughter with more
attention than he usually evinced to any living thing. "Child," he
said at length, shaking his head in grave reproof, "let me not say to
thee, 'O thou of little faith!' There were no heroes were there no
martyrs!"
"Do not frown on me, Father," said Sibyll, sadly; "let the world
frown,--not thou! Yes, thou art right. Thou must triumph at last."
And suddenly, her whole countenance changing into a soft and caressing
endearment, she added, "But now come, Father. Thou hast laboured well
for this morning. We shall have a little feast for thee in a few
minutes. And the stranger is recovered, thanks to our leechcraft. He
is impatient to see and thank thee."
"Well, well, I come, Sibyll," said the student, with a regretful,
lingering look at his model, and a sigh to be disturbed from its
contemplation; and he slowly quitted the room with Sibyll.
"But not, dear sir and father, not thus--not quite thus--vill you go
to the stranger, well-born like yourself? Oh, no! your Sibyll is
proud, you know,--proud of her father." So saying, she clung to him
fondly, and drew him mechanically, for he had sunk into a revery, and
heeded her not, into an adjoining chamber, in which he slept. The
comforts even of the gentry, of men with the acres that Adam had sold,
were then few and scanty. The nobles and the wealthy merchants,
indeed, boasted many luxuries that excelled in gaud and pomp those of
their equals now. But the class of the gentry who had very little
money at command were contented with hardships from which a menial of
this day would revolt. What they could spend in luxury was usually
consumed in dress and the table they were obliged to keep. These were
the essentials of dignity. Of furniture there was a woful stint. In
many houses, even of knights, an edifice large enough to occupy a
quadrangle was composed more of offices than chambers inhabited by the
owners; rarely boasting more than three beds, which were bequeathed in
wills as articles of great value. The reader must, therefore, not be
surprised that Warner's abode contained but one bed, properly so
called, and that was now devoted to Nevile. The couch which served
the philosopher for bed was a wretched pallet, stretched on the floor,
stuffed with straw,--with rough say, or serge, and an old cloak for
the coverings. His daughter's, in a room below, was little better.
The walls were bare; the whole house boasted but one chair, which was
in Marmaduke's chamber; stools or settles of rude oak elsewhere
supplied their place. There was no chimney except in Nevile's room,
and in that appropriated to the forge.
To this chamber, then, resembling a dungeon in appearance, Sibyll drew
the student, and here, from an old worm-eaten chest, she carefully
extracted a gown of brown velvet, which his father, Sir Armine, had
bequeathed to him by will,--faded, it is true, but still such as the
low-born wore not, [By the sumptuary laws only a knight was entitled
to wear velvet.] trimmed with fur, and clasped with a brooch of gold.
And then she held the ewer and basin to him, while, with the docility
of a child, he washed the smoke-soil from his hands and face. It was
touching to see in this, as in all else, the reverse of their natural
position,--the child tending and heeding and protecting, as it were,
the father; and that not from his deficiency, but his greatness; not
because he was below the vulgar intelligences of life, but above them.
And certainly, when, his patriarchal hair and beard smoothed into
order, and his velvet gown flowing in majestic folds around a figure
tall and commanding, Sibyll followed her father into Marmaduke's
chamber, she might well have been proud of his appearance; and she
felt the innocent vanity of her sex and age in noticing the half-start
of surprise with which Marmaduke regarded his host, and the tone of
respect in which he proffered him his salutations and thanks. Even
his manner altered to Sibyll; it grew less frank and affable, more
courtly and reserved: and when Madge came to announce that the
refection was served, it was with a blush of shame, perhaps, at his
treatment of the poor gittern-player on the pastime-ground, that the
Nevile extended his left hand, for his right was still not at his
command, to lead the damsel to the hall.
This room, which was divided from the entrance by a screen, and,
except a small closet that adjoined it, was the only sitting-room in a
day when, as now on the Continent, no shame was attached to receiving
visitors in sleeping apartments, was long and low; an old and very
narrow table, that might have feasted thirty persons, stretched across
a dais raised upon a stone floor; there was no rere-dosse, or
fireplace, which does not seem at that day to have been an absolute
necessity in the houses of the metropolis and its suburbs, its place
being supplied by a movable brazier. Three oak stools were placed in
state at the board, and to one of these Marmaduke, in a silence
unusual to him, conducted the fair Sibyll.
"You will forgive our lack of provisions," said Warner, relapsing into
the courteous fashions of his elder days, which the unwonted spectacle
of a cold capon, a pasty, and a flask of wine brought to his mind by a
train of ideas that actively glided by the intervening circumstances,
which ought to have filled him with astonishment at the sight, "for my
Sibyll is but a young housewife, and I am a simple scholar, of few
wants."
"Verily," answered Marmaduke, finding his tongue as he attacked the
pasty, "I see nothing that the most dainty need complain of; fair
Mistress Sibyll, your dainty lips will not, I trow, refuse me the
waisall. [I.e. waissail or wassal; the spelling of the time is
adopted in the text.] To you also, worshipful sir! Gramercy! it
seems that there is nothing which better stirs a man's appetite than a
sick bed. And, speaking thereof, deign to inform me, kind sir, how
long I have been indebted to your hospitality. Of a surety, this
pasty hath an excellent flavour, and if not venison, is something
better. But to return, it mazes me much to think what time hath
passed since my encounter with the robbers."
"They were robbers, then, who so cruelly assailed thee?" observed
Sibyll.
"Have I not said so--surely, who else? And, as I was remarking to
your worshipful father, whether this mischance happened hours, days,
months, or years ago, beshrew me if I can venture the smallest guess."
Master Warner smiled, and observing that some reply was expected from
him, said, "Why, indeed, young sir, I fear I am almost as oblivious as
yourself. It was not yesterday that you arrived, nor the day before,
nor--Sibyll, my child, how long is it since this gentleman hath been
our guest?"
"This is the fifth day," answered Sibyll.
"So long! and I like a senseless log by the wayside, when others are
pushing on, bit and spur, to the great road. I pray you, sir, tell me
the news of the morning. The Lord Warwick is still in London, the
court still at the Tower?"
Poor Adam, whose heart was with his model, and who had now satisfied
his temperate wants, looked somewhat bewildered and perplexed by this
question. "The king, save his honoured head," said he, inclining his
own, "is, I fear me, always at the Tower, since his unhappy detention,
but he minds it not, sir,--he heeds it not; his soul is not on this
side Paradise."
Sibyll uttered a faint exclamation of fear at this dangerous
indiscretion of her father's absence of mind; and drawing closer to
Nevile, she put her hand with touching confidence on his arm, and
whispered, "You will not repeat this, Sir! my father lives only in his
studies, and he has never known but one king!"
Marmaduke turned his bold face to the maid, and pointed to the salt-
cellar, as he answered in the same tone, "Does the brave man betray
his host?"
There was a moment's silence. Marmaduke rose. "I fear," said he,
"that I must now leave you; and while it is yet broad noon, I must
indeed be blind if I again miss my way."
This speech suddenly recalled Adam from his meditations; for whenever
his kindly and simple benevolence was touched, even his mathematics
and his model were forgotten. "No, young sir," said he, "you must not
quit us yet; your danger is not over. Exercise may bring fever.
Celsus recommends quiet. You must consent to tarry with us a day or
two more."
"Can you tell me," said the Nevile, hesitatingly, "what distance it is
to the Temple-gate, or the nearest wharf on the river?"
"Two miles, at the least," answered Sibyll.
"Two miles!--and now I mind me, I have not the accoutrements that
beseem me. Those hildings have stolen my mantle (which, I perceive,
by the way, is but a rustic garment, now laid aside for the super-
tunic), and my hat and dague, nor have they left even a half groat to
supply their place. Verily, therefore, since ye permit me to burden
your hospitality longer, I will not say ye nay, provided you,
worshipful sir, will suffer one of your people to step to the house of
one Master Heyford, goldsmith, in the Chepe, and crave one Nicholas
Alwyn, his freedman, to visit me. I can commission him touching my
goods left at mine hostelrie, and learn some other things which it
behooves me to know."
"Assuredly. Sibyll, tell Simon or Jonas to put himself under our
guest's order."
Simon or Jonas! The poor Adam absolutely forgot that Simon and Jonas
had quitted the house these six years! How could he look on the
capon, the wine, and the velvet gown trimmed with fur, and not fancy
himself back in the heyday of his wealth?
Sibyll half smiled and half sighed, as she withdrew to consult with
her sole counsellor, Madge, how the guest's orders were to be obeyed,
and how, alas! the board was to be replenished for the evening meal.
But in both these troubles she was more fortunate than she
anticipated. Madge had sold the broken gittern, for musical
instruments were then, comparatively speaking, dear (and this had been
a queen's gift), for sufficient to provide decently for some days;
and, elated herself with the prospect of so much good cheer, she
readily consented to be the messenger to Nicholas Alwyn. When with a
light step and a lighter heart Sibyll tripped back to the hall, she
was scarcely surprised to find the guest alone. Her father, after her
departure, had begun to evince much restless perturbation. He
answered Marmaduke's queries but by abstracted and desultory
monosyllables; and seeing his guest at length engaged in contemplating
some old pieces of armour hung upon the walls, he stole stealthily and
furtively away, and halted not till once more before his beloved
model.
Unaware of his departure, Marmaduke, whose back was turned to him,
was, as he fondly imagined, enlightening his host with much soldier-
like learning as to the old helmets and weapons that graced the hall.
"Certes, my host," said he, musingly, "that sort of casque, which has
not, I opine, been worn this century, had its merits; the vizor is
less open to the arrows. But as for these chain suits, they suited
only--I venture, with due deference, to declare--the Wars of the
Crusades, where the enemy fought chiefly with dart and scymetar. They
would be but a sorry defence against the mace and battle-axe;
nevertheless, they were light for man and horse, and in some service,
especially against foot, might be revived with advantage. Think you
not so?"
He turned, and saw the arch face of Sibyll.
"I crave pardon for my blindness, gentle damsel," said he, in some
confusion, "but your father was here anon."
"His mornings are so devoted to labour," answered Sibyll, "that he
entreats you to pardon his discourtesy. Meanwhile if you would wish
to breathe the air, we have a small garden in the rear;" and so
saying, she led the way into the small withdrawing-room, or rather
closet, which was her own favourite chamber, and which communicated,
by another door, with a broad, neglected grassplot, surrounded by high
walls, having a raised terrace in front, divided by a low stone Gothic
palisade from the green sward.
On the palisade sat droopingly, and half asleep, a solitary peacock;
but when Sibyll and the stranger appeared at the door, he woke up
suddenly, descended from his height, and with a vanity not wholly
unlike his young mistress's wish to make the best possible display in
the eyes of a guest, spread his plumes broadly in the sun. Sibyll
threw him some bread, which she had taken from the table for that
purpose; but the proud bird, however hungry, disdained to eat, till he
had thoroughly satisfied himself that his glories had been
sufficiently observed.
"Poor proud one," said Sibyll, half to herself, "thy plumage lasts
with thee through all changes."
"Like the name of a brave knight," said Marmaduke, who overheard her.
"Thou thinkest of the career of arms."
"Surely,--I am a Nevile!"
"Is there no fame to be won but that of a warrior?"
"Not that I weet of, or heed for, Mistress Sibyll."
"Thinkest thou it were nothing to be a minstrel, who gave delight; a
scholar, who dispelled darkness?"
"For the scholar? Certes, I respect holy Mother Church, which they
tell me alone produces that kind of wonder with full safety to the
soul, and that only in the higher prelates and dignitaries. For the
minstrel, I love him, I would fight for him, I would give him at need
the last penny in my gipsire; but it is better to do deeds than to
sing them."
Sibyll smiled, and the smile perplexed and half displeased the young
adventurer. But the fire of the young man had its charm.
By degrees, as they walked to and fro the neglected terrace, their
talk flowed free and familiar; for Marmaduke, like most young men full
of himself, was joyous with the happy egotism of a frank and careless
nature. He told his young confidante of a day his birth, his history,
his hopes, and fears; and in return he learned, in answer to the
questions he addressed to her, so much, at least, of her past and
present life, as the reverses of her father, occasioned by costly
studies, her own brief sojourn at the court of Margaret, and the
solitude, if not the struggles, in which her youth was consumed. It
would have been a sweet and grateful sight to some kindly bystander to
hear these pleasant communications between two young persons so
unfriended, and to imagine that hearts thus opened to each other might
unite in one. But Sibyll, though she listened to him with interest,
and found a certain sympathy in his aspirations, was ever and anon
secretly comparing him to one, the charm of whose voice still lingered
in her ears; and her intellect, cultivated and acute, detected in
Marmaduke deficient education, and that limited experience which is
the folly and the happiness of the young.
On the other hand, whatever admiration Nevile might conceive was
strangely mixed with surprise, and, it might almost be said, with
fear. This girl, with her wise converse and her child's face, was a
character so thoroughly new to him. Her language was superior to what
he had ever heard, the words more choice, the current more flowing:
was that to be attributed to her court-training or her learned
parentage?
"Your father, fair mistress," said he, rousing himself in one of the
pauses of their conversation--"your father, then, is a mighty scholar,
and I suppose knows Latin like English?"
"Why, a hedge-priest pretends to know Latin," said Sibyll, smiling;
"my father is one of the six men living who have learned the Greek and
the Hebrew."
"Gramercy!" cried Marmaduke, crossing himself. "That is awsome
indeed! He has taught you his lere in the tongues?"
"Nay, I know but my own and the French; my mother was a native of
France."
"The Holy Mother be praised!" said Marmaduke, breathing more freely;
"for French I have heard my father and uncle say is a language fit for
gentles and knights, specially those who come, like the Neviles, from
Norman stock. This Margaret of Anjou--didst thou love her well,
Mistress Sibyll?"
"Nay," answered Sibyll, "Margaret commanded awe, but she scarcely
permitted love from an inferior: and though gracious and well-governed
when she so pleased, it was but to those whom she wished to win. She
cared not for the heart, if the hand or the brain could not assist
her. But, poor queen, who could blame her for this?--her nature was
turned from its milk; and, when, more lately, I have heard how many
she trusted most have turned against her, I rebuked myself that--"
"Thou wert not by her side?" added the Nevile, observing her pause,
and with the generous thought of a gentleman and a soldier.
"Nay, I meant not that so expressly, Master Nevile, but rather that I
had ever murmured at her haste and shrewdness of mood. By her side,
said you?--alas! I have a nearer duty at home; my father is all in
this world to me! Thou knowest not, Master Nevile, how it flatters
the weak to think there is some one they can protect. But eno' of
myself. Thou wilt go to the stout earl, thou wilt pass to the court,
thou wilt win the gold spurs, and thou wilt fight with the strong
hand, and leave others to cozen with the keen head."
"She is telling my fortune!" muttered Marmaduke, crossing himself
again. "The gold spurs--I thank thee, Mistress Sibyll!--will it be on
the battle-field that I shall be knighted, and by whose hand?"
Sibyll glanced her bright eye at the questioner, and seeing his
wistful face, laughed outright.
"What, thinkest thou, Master Nevile, I can read thee all riddles
without my sieve and my shears?"
"They are essentials, then, Mistress Sibyll?" said the Nevile, with
blunt simplicity. "I thought ye more learned damozels might tell by
the palm, or the--why dost thou laugh at me?"
"Nay," answered Sibyll, composing herself. "It is my right to be
angered. Sith thou wouldst take me to be a witch, all that I can tell
thee of thy future" (she added touchingly) "is from that which I have
seen of thy past. Thou hast a brave heart, and a gentle; thou hast a
frank tongue, and a courteous; and these qualities make men honoured
and loved,--except they have the gifts which turn all into gall, and
bring oppression for honour, and hate for love."
"And those gifts, gentle Sibyll?"
"Are my father's," answered the girl, with another and a sadder change
in her expressive countenance. And the conversation flagged till
Marmaduke, feeling more weakened by his loss of blood than he had
conceived it possible, retired to his chamber to repose himself.
CHAPTER VI.
MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILE FEARS FOR THE SPIRITUAL WEAL OF HIS HOST AND
HOSTESS.
Before the hour of supper, which was served at six o'clock, Nicholas
Alwyn arrived at the house indicated to him by Madge. Marmaduke,
after a sound sleep, which was little flattering to Sibyll's
attractions, had descended to the hall in search of the maiden and his
host, and finding no one, had sauntered in extreme weariness and
impatience into the little withdrawing-closet, where as it was now
dusk, burned a single candle in a melancholy and rustic sconce;
standing by the door that opened on the garden, he amused himself with
watching the peacock, when his friend, following Madge into the
chamber, tapped him on the shoulder.
"Well, Master Nevile. Ha! by Saint Thomas, what has chanced to thee?
Thine arm swathed up, thy locks shorn, thy face blanched! My honoured
foster-brother, thy Westmoreland blood seems over-hot for Cockaigne!"
"If so, there are plenty in this city of cut-throats to let out the
surplusage," returned Marmaduke; and he briefly related his adventure
to Nicholas.
When he had done, the kind trader reproached himself for having
suffered Marmaduke to find his way alone. "The suburbs abound with
these miscreants," said he; "and there is more danger in a night walk
near London than in the loneliest glens of green Sherwood--more shame
to the city! An' I be Lord Mayor one of these days, I will look to it
better. But our civil wars make men hold human life very cheap, and
there's parlous little care from the great of the blood and limbs of
the wayfarers. But war makes thieves--and peace hangs them! Only
wait till I manage affairs!"
"Many thanks to thee, Nicholas," returned the Nevile; "but foul befall
me if ever I seek protection from sheriff or mayor! A man who cannot
keep his own life with his own right hand merits well to hap-lose it;
and I, for one, shall think ill of the day when an Englishman looks
more to the laws than his good arm for his safety; but, letting this
pass, I beseech thee to avise me if my Lord Warwick be still in the
city?"
"Yes, marry, I know that by the hostelries, which swarm with his
badges, and the oxen, that go in scores to the shambles! It is a
shame to the Estate to see one subject so great, and it bodes no good
to our peace. The earl is preparing the most magnificent embassage
that ever crossed the salt seas--I would it were not to the French,
for our interests lie contrary; but thou hast some days yet to rest
here and grow stout, for I would not have thee present thyself with a
visage of chalk to a man who values his kind mainly by their thews and
their sinews. Moreover, thou shouldst send for the tailor, and get
thee trimmed to the mark. It would be a long step in thy path to
promotion, an' the earl would take thee in his train; and the gaudier
thy plumes, why, the better chance for thy flight. Wherefore, since
thou sayest they are thus friendly to thee under this roof, bide yet a
while peacefully; I will send thee the mercer, and the clothier, and
the tailor, to divert thy impatience. And as these fellows are
greedy, my gentle and dear Master Nevile, may I ask, without offence,
how thou art provided?"
"Nay, nay, I have moneys at the hostelrie, an' thou wilt send me my
mails. For the rest, I like thy advice, and will take it."
"Good!" answered Nicholas. "Hem! thou seemest to have got into a poor
house,--a decayed gentleman, I wot, by the slovenly ruin!"
"I would that were the worst," replied Marmaduke, solemnly, and under
his breath; and therewith he repeated to Nicholas the adventure on the
pastime-ground, the warnings of the timbrel-girls, and the "awsome"
learning and strange pursuits of his host. As for Sibyll, he was
evidently inclined to attribute to glamour the reluctant admiration
with which she had inspired him. "For," said he, "though I deny not
that the maid is passing fair, there be many with rosier cheeks, and
taller by this hand!"
Nicholas listened, at first, with the peculiar expression of shrewd
sarcasm which mainly characterized his intelligent face, but his
attention grew more earnest before Marmaduke had concluded.
"In regard to the maiden," said he, smiling and shaking his head, "it
is not always the handsomest that win us the most,--while fair Meg
went a maying, black Meg got to church; and I give thee more
reasonable warning than thy timbrel-girls, when, in spite of thy cold
language, I bid thee take care of thyself against her attractions;
for, verily, my dear foster-brother, thou must mend and not mar thy
fortune, by thy love matters; and keep thy heart whole for some fair
one with marks in her gipsire, whom the earl may find out for thee.
Love and raw pease are two ill things in the porridge-pot. But the
father!--I mind me now that I have heard of his name, through my
friend Master Caxton, the mercer, as one of prodigious skill in the
mathematics. I should like much to see him, and, with thy leave (an'
he ask me), will tarry to supper. But what are these?"--and Nicholas
took up one of the illuminated manuscripts which Sibyll had prepared
for sale. "By the blood! this is couthly and marvellously blazoned."
The book was still in his hands when Sibyll entered. Nicholas stared
at her, as he bowed with a stiff and ungraceful embarrassment, which
often at first did injustice to his bold, clear intellect, and his
perfect self-possession in matters of trade or importance.
"The first woman face," muttered Nicholas to himself, "I ever saw that
had the sense of a man's. And, by the rood, what a smile!"
"Is this thy friend, Master Nevile?" said Sibyll, with a glance at the
goldsmith. "He is welcome. But is it fair and courteous, Master
Nelwyn--"
"Alwyn, an' it please you, fair mistress. A humble name, but good
Saxon,--which, I take it, Nelwyn is not," interrupted Nicholas.
"Master Alwyn, forgive me; but can I forgive thee so readily for thy
espial of my handiwork, without license or leave?"
"Yours, comely mistress!" exclaimed Nicholas, opening his eyes, and
unheeding the gay rebuke--"why, this is a master-hand. My Lord
Scales--nay, the Earl of Worcester himself--hath scarce a finer in all
his amassment."
"Well, I forgive thy fault for thy flattery; and I pray thee, in my
father's name, to stay and sup with thy friend." Nicholas bowed low,
and still riveted his eyes on the book with such open admiration, that
Marmaduke thought it right to excuse his abstraction; but there was
something in that admiration which raised the spirits of Sibyll, which
gave her hope when hope was well-nigh gone; and she became so
vivacious, so debonair, so charming, in the flow of a gayety natural
to her, and very uncommon with English maidens, but which she took
partly, perhaps, from her French blood, and partly from the example of
girls and maidens of French extraction in Margaret's court, that
Nicholas Alwyn thought he had never seen any one so irresistible.
Madge had now served the evening meal, put in her head to announce it,
and Sibyll withdrew to summon her father.
"I trust he will not tarry too long, for I am sharp set!" muttered
Marmaduke. "What thinkest thou of the damozel?" "Marry," answered
Alwyn, thoughtfully, "I pity and marvel at her. There is eno' in her
to furnish forth twenty court beauties. But what good can so much wit
and cunning do to an honest maiden?"
"That is exactly my own thought," said Marmaduke; and both the young
men sunk into silence, till Sibyll re-entered with her father.
To the surprise of Marmaduke, Nicholas Alwyn, whose less gallant
manner he was inclined to ridicule, soon contrived to rouse their host
from his lethargy, and to absorb all the notice of Sibyll; and the
surprise was increased, when he saw that his friend appeared not
unfamiliar with those abstruse and mystical sciences in which Adam was
engaged.
"What!" said Adam, "you know, then, my deft and worthy friend Master
Caxton! He hath seen notable things abroad--"
"Which, he more than hints," said Nicholas, "will lower the value of
those manuscripts this fair damozel has so couthly enriched; and that
he hopes, ere long, to show the Englishers how to make fifty, a
hundred,--nay even five hundred exemplars of the choicest book, in a
much shorter time than a scribe would take in writing out two or three
score pages in a single copy."
"Verily," said Marmaduke, with a smile of compassion, "the poor man
must be somewhat demented; for I opine that the value of such
curiosities must be in their rarity; and who would care for a book, if
five hundred others had precisely the same?--allowing always, good
Nicholas, for thy friend's vaunting and over-crowing. Five hundred!
By'r Lady, there would be scarcely five hundred fools in merry England
to waste good nobles on spoilt rags, specially while bows and mail are
so dear."
"Young gentleman," said Adam, rebukingly, "meseemeth that thou
wrongest our age and country, to the which, if we have but peace and
freedom, I trust the birth of great discoveries is ordained. Certes,
Master Alwyn," he added, turning to the goldsmith, "this achievement
maybe readily performed, and hath existed, I heard an ingenious
Fleming say years ago, for many ages amongst a strange people [Query,
the Chinese?] known to the Venetians! But dost thou think there is
much appetite among those who govern the State to lend encouragement
to such matters?"
"My master serves my Lord Hastings, the king's chamberlain, and my
lord has often been pleased to converse with me, so that I venture to
say, from my knowledge of his affection to all excellent craft and
lere, that whatever will tend to make men wiser will have his
countenance and favour with the king."
"That is it, that is it!" exclaimed Adam, rubbing his hands. "My
invention shall not die!"
"And that invention--"
"Is one that will multiply exemplars of books without hands; works of
craft without 'prentice or journeyman; will move wagons and litters
without horses; will direct ships without sails; will--But, alack! it
is not yet complete, and, for want of means, it never may be."
Sibyll still kept her animated countenance fixed on Alwyn, whose
intelligence she had already detected, and was charmed with the
profound attention with which he listened. But her eye glancing from
his sharp features to the handsome, honest face of the Nevile, the
contrast was so forcible, that she could not restrain her laughter,
though, the moment after, a keen pang shot through her heart. The
worthy Marmaduke had been in the act of conveying his cup to his lips;
the cup stood arrested midway, his jaws dropped, his eyes opened to
their widest extent, an expression of the most evident consternation
and dismay spoke in every feature; and when he heard the merry laugh
of Sibyll, he pushed his stool from her as far as he well could, and
surveyed her with a look of mingled fear and pity.
"Alas! thou art sure my poor father is a wizard now?"
"Pardie!" answered the Nevile. "Hath he not said so? Hath he not
spoken of wagons without horses, ships without sails? And is not all
this what every dissour and jongleur tells us of in his stories of
Merlin? Gentle maiden," he added earnestly, drawing nearer to her,
and whispering in a voice of much simple pathos, "thou art young, and
I owe thee much. Take care of thyself. Such wonders and derring-do
are too solemn for laughter."
"Ah," answered Sibyll, rising, "I fear they are. How can I expect the
people to be wiser than thou, or their hard natures kinder in their
judgment than thy kind heart?" Her low and melancholy voice went to
the heart thus appealed to. Marmaduke also rose, and followed her
into the parlour, or withdrawing-closet, while Adam and the goldsmith
continued to converse (though Alwyn's eye followed the young hostess),
the former appearing perfectly unconscious of the secession of his
other listeners. But Alwyn's attention occasionally wandered, and he
soon contrived to draw his host into the parlour.
When Nicholas rose, at last, to depart, he beckoned Sibyll aside.
"Fair mistress," said he, with some awkward hesitation, "forgive a
plain, blunt tongue; but ye of the better birth are not always above
aid, even from such as I am. If you would sell these blazoned
manuscripts, I can not only obtain you a noble purchaser in my Lord
Scales, or in my Lord Hastings, an equally ripe scholar, but it may be
the means of my procuring a suitable patron for your father; and, in
these times, the scholar must creep under the knight's manteline."
"Master Alwyn," said Sibyll, suppressing her tears, "it was for my
father's sake that these labours were wrought. We are poor and
friendless. Take the manuscripts, and sell them as thou wilt, and God
and Saint Mary requite thee!"
"Your father is a great man," said Alwyn, after a pause.
"But were he to walk the streets, they would stone him," replied
Sibyll, with a quiet bitterness.
Here the Nevile, carefully shunning the magician, who, in the nervous
excitement produced by the conversation of a mind less uncongenial
than he had encountered for many years, seemed about to address him--
here, I say, the Nevile chimed in, "Hast thou no weapon but thy
bludgeon? Dear foster-brother, I fear for thy safety."
"Nay, robbers rarely attack us mechanical folk; and I know my way
better than thou. I shall find a boat near York House; so pleasant
night and quick cure to thee, honoured foster-brother. I will send
the tailor and other craftsmen to-morrow."
"And at the same time," whispered Marmaduke, accompanying his friend
to the door, "send me a breviary, just to patter an ave or so. This
gray-haired carle puts my heart in a tremble. Moreover, buy me a
gittern--a brave one--for the damozel. She is too proud to take
money, and, 'fore Heaven, I have small doubts the old wizard could
turn my hose into nobles an' he had a mind for such gear. Wagons
without horses, ships without sails, quotha!"
As soon as Alwyn had departed, Madge appeared with the final
refreshment, called "the Wines," consisting of spiced hippocras and
confections, of the former of which the Nevile partook in solemn
silence.
CHAPTER VII.
THERE IS A ROD FOR THE BACK OF EVERY FOOL WHO WOULD BE WISER THAN HIS
GENERATION.
The next morning, when Marmaduke descended to the hall, Madge,
accosting him on the threshold, informed him that Mistress Sibyll was
unwell, and kept her chamber, and that Master Warner was never visible
much before noon. He was, therefore, prayed to take his meal alone.
"Alone" was a word peculiarly unwelcome to Marmaduke Nevile, who was
an animal thoroughly social and gregarious. He managed, therefore, to
detain the old servant, who, besides the liking a skilful leech
naturally takes to a thriving patient, had enough of her sex about her
to be pleased with a comely face and a frank, good-humoured voice.
Moreover, Marmaduke, wishing to satisfy his curiosity, turned the
conversation upon Warner and Sibyll, a theme upon which the old woman
was well disposed to be garrulous. He soon learned the poverty of the
mansion and the sacrifice of the gittern; and his generosity and
compassion were busily engaged in devising some means to requite the
hospitality he had received, without wounding the pride of his host,
when the arrival of his mails, together with the visits of the tailor
and mercer, sent to him by Alwyn, diverted his thoughts into a new
channel.
Between the comparative merits of gowns and surcoats, broad-toed shoes
and pointed, some time was disposed of with much cheerfulness and
edification; but when his visitors had retired, the benevolent mind of
the young guest again recurred to the penury of his host. Placing his
marks before him on the table in the little withdrawing parlour, he
began counting them over, and putting aside the sum he meditated
devoting to Warner's relief. "But how," he muttered, "how to get him
to take the gold. I know, by myself, what a gentleman and a knight's
son must feel at the proffer of alms--pardie! I would as lief Alwyn
had struck me as offered me his gipsire,--the ill-mannered,
affectionate fellow! I must think--I must think--"
And while still thinking, the door softly opened, and Warner himself,
in a high state of abstraction and revery, stalked noiselessly into
the room, on his way to the garden, in which, when musing over some
new spring for his invention, he was wont to peripatize. The sight of
the gold on the table struck full on the philosopher's eyes, and waked
him at once from his revery. That gold--oh, what precious
instruments, what learned manuscripts it could purchase! That gold,
it was the breath of life to his model! He walked deliberately up to
the table, and laid his hand upon one of the little heaps. Marmaduke
drew back his stool, and stared at him with open mouth.
"Young man, what wantest thou with all this gold?" said Adam, in a
petulant, reproachful tone. "Put it up! put it up! Never let the
poor see gold; it tempts them, sir,--it tempts them." And so saying,
the student abruptly turned away his eyes, and moved towards the
garden. Marmaduke rose and put himself in Adam's way. "Honoured
sir," said the young man, "you say justly what want I with all this
gold? The only gold a young man should covet is eno' to suffice for
the knight's spurs to his heels. If, without offence, you would--that
is--ahem!--I mean,--Gramercy! I shall never say it, but I believe my
father owed your father four marks, and he bade me repay them. Here,
sir!" He held out the glittering coins; the philosopher's hand closed
on them as the fish's maw closes on the bait. Adam burst into a
laugh, that sounded strangely weird and unearthly upon Marmaduke's
startled ear.
"All this for me!" he exclaimed. "For me! No, no, no! for me, for
IT--I take it--I take it, sir! I will pay it back with large usury.
Come to me this day year, when this world will be a new world, and
Adam Warner will be--ha! ha! Kind Heaven, I thank thee!" Suddenly
turning away, the philosopher strode through the hall, opened the
front door, and escaped into the street.
"By'r Lady," said Marmaduke, slowly recovering his surprise, "I need
not have been so much at a loss; the old gentleman takes to my gold as
kindly as if it were mother's milk. 'Fore Heaven, mine host's laugh
is a ghastly thing!" So soliloquizing, he prudently put up the rest
of his money, and locked his mails.
As time went on, the young man became exceedingly weary of his own
company. Sibyll still withheld her appearance; the gloom of the old
hall, the uncultivated sadness of the lonely garden, preyed upon his
spirits. At length, impatient to get a view of the world without, he
mounted a high stool in the hall, and so contrived to enjoy the
prospect which the unglazed wicker lattice, deep set in the wall,
afforded. But the scene without was little more animated than that
within,--all was so deserted in the neighbourhood,--the shops mean and
scattered, the thoroughfare almost desolate. At last he heard a
shout, or rather hoot, at a distance; and, turning his attention
whence it proceeded, he beheld a figure emerge from an alley opposite
the casement, with a sack under one arm, and several books heaped
under the other. At his heels followed a train of ragged boys,
shouting and hallooing, "The wizard! the wizard!--Ah! Bah! The old
devil's kin!" At this cry the dull neighbourhood seemed suddenly to
burst forth into life. From the casements and thresholds of every
house curious faces emerged, and many voices of men and women joined,
in deeper bass, with the shrill tenor of the choral urchins, "The
wizard! the wizard! out at daylight!" The person thus stigmatized, as
he approached the house, turned his face with an expression of wistful
perplexity from side to side. His lips moved convulsively, and his
face was very pale, but he spoke not. And now, the children, seeing
him near his refuge, became more outrageous. They placed themselves
menacingly before him, they pulled his robe, they even struck at him;
and one, bolder than the rest, jumped up, and plucked his beard. At
this last insult, Adam Warner, for it was he, broke silence; but such
was the sweetness of his disposition, that it was rather with pity
than reproof in his voice, that he said,--
"Fie, little one! I fear me thine own age will have small honour if
thou thus mockest mature years in me."
This gentleness only served to increase the audacity of his
persecutors, who now, momently augmenting, presented a formidable
obstacle to further progress. Perceiving that he could not advance
without offensive measures on his own part, the poor scholar halted;
and looking at the crowd with mild dignity, he asked, "What means
this, my children? How have I injured you?"
"The wizard! the wizard!" was the only answer he received. Adam
shrugged his shoulders, and strode on with so sudden a step, that one
of the smaller children, a curly-headed laughing rogue, of about eight
years old, was thrown down at his feet, and the rest gave way. But
the poor man, seeing one of his foes thus fallen, instead of pursuing
his victory, again paused, and forgetful of the precious burdens he
carried, let drop the sack and books, and took up the child in his
arms. On seeing their companion in the embrace of the wizard, a
simultaneous cry of horror broke from the assemblage, "He is going to
curse poor Tim!"
"My child! my boy!" shrieked a woman, from one of the casements; "let
go my child!"
On his part, the boy kicked and shrieked lustily, as Adam, bending his
noble face tenderly over him, said, "Thou art not hurt, child. Poor
boy! thinkest thou I would harm thee?" While he spoke a storm of
missiles--mud, dirt, sticks, bricks, stones--from the enemy, that
had now fallen back in the rear, burst upon him. A stone struck him
on the shoulder. Then his face changed; an angry gleam shot from his
deep, calm eyes; he put down the child, and, turning steadily to the
grown people at the windows, said, "Ye train your children ill;"
picked up his sack and books, sighed, as he saw the latter stained by
the mire, which he wiped with his long sleeve, and too proud to show
fear, slowly made for his door. Fortunately Sibyll had heard the
clamour, and was ready to admit her father, and close the door upon
the rush which instantaneously followed his escape. The baffled rout
set up a yell of wrath, and the boys were now joined by several foes
more formidable from the adjacent houses; assured in their own minds
that some terrible execration had been pronounced upon the limbs and
body of Master Tim, who still continued bellowing and howling,
probably from the excitement of finding himself raised to the dignity
of a martyr, the pious neighbours poured forth, with oaths and curses,
and such weapons as they could seize in haste, to storm the wizard's
fortress.
From his casement Marmaduke Nevile had espied all that had hitherto
passed, and though indignant at the brutality of the persecutors, he
had thought it by no means unnatural. "If men, gentlemen born, will
read uncanny books, and resolve to be wizards, why, they must reap
what they sow," was the logical reflection that passed through the
mind of that ingenuous youth; but when he now perceived the arrival of
more important allies, when stones began to fly through the wicker
lattice, when threats of setting fire to the house and burning the
sorcerer who muttered spells over innocent little boys were heard,
seriously increasing in depth and loudness, Marmaduke felt his
chivalry called forth, and with some difficulty opening the rusty
wicket in the casement, he exclaimed: "Shame on you, my countrymen,
for thus disturbing in broad day a peaceful habitation! Ye call mine
host a wizard. Thus much say I on his behalf: I was robbed and
wounded a few nights since in your neighbourhood, and in this house
alone I found shelter and healing."
The unexpected sight of the fair young face of Marmaduke Nevile, and
the healthful sound of his clear ringing voice, produced a momentary
effect on the besiegers, when one of them, a sturdy baker, cried out,
"Heed him not,--he is a goblin. Those devil-mongers can bake ye a
dozen such every moment, as deftly as I can draw loaves from the
oven!"
This speech turned the tide, and at that instant a savage-looking man,
the father of the aggrieved boy, followed by his wife, gesticulating
and weeping, ran from his house, waving a torch in his right hand, his
arm bare to the shoulder; and the cry of "Fire the door!" was
universal.
In fact, the danger now grew imminent: several of the party were
already piling straw and fagots against the threshold, and Marmaduke
began to think the only chance of life to his host and Sibyll was in
flight by some back way, when he beheld a man, clad somewhat in the
fashion of a country yeoman, a formidable knotted club in his hand,
pushing his way, with Herculean shoulders, through the crowd; and
stationing himself before the threshold and brandishing aloft his
formidable weapon, he exclaimed, "What! In the devil's name, do you
mean to get yourselves all hanged for riot? Do you think that King
Edward is as soft a man as King Henry was, and that he will suffer any
one but himself to set fire to people's houses in this way? I dare
say you are all right enough in the main, but by the blood of Saint
Thomas, I will brain the first man who advances a step,--by way of
preserving the necks of the rest!"
"A Robin! a Robin!" cried several of the mob. "It is our good friend
Robin. Harken to Robin. He is always right."
"Ay, that I am!" quoth the defender; "you know that well enough. If I
had my way, the world should be turned upside down, but what the poor
folk should get nearer to the sun! But what I say is this, never go
against law, while the law is too strong. And it were a sad thing to
see fifty fine fellows trussed up for burning an old wizard. So, be
off with you, and let us, at least all that can afford it, make for
Master Sancroft's hostelrie and talk soberly over our ale. For
little, I trow, will ye work now your blood's up."
This address was received with a shout of approbation. The father of
the injured child set his broad foot on his torch, the baker chucked
up his white cap, the ragged boys yelled out, "A Robin! a Robin!" and
in less than two minutes the place was as empty as it had been before
the appearance of the scholar. Marmaduke, who, though so ignorant of
books, was acute and penetrating in all matters of action, could not
help admiring the address and dexterity of the club-bearer; and the
danger being now over, withdrew from the casement, in search of the
inmates of the house. Ascending the stairs, he found on the landing-
place, near his room, and by the embrasure of a huge casement which
jutted from the wall, Adam and his daughter. Adam was leaning against
the wall, with his arms folded, and Sibyll, hanging upon him, was
uttering the softest and most soothing words of comfort her tenderness
could suggest.
"My child," said the old man, shaking his head sadly, "I shall never
again have heart for these studies,--never! A king's anger I could
brave, a priest's malice I could pity; but to find the very children,
the young race for whose sake I have made thee and myself paupers, to
find them thus--thus--" He stopped, for his voice failed him, and the
tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Come and speak comfort to my father, Master Nevile," exclaimed
Sibyll; "come and tell him that whoever is above the herd, whether
knight or scholar, must learn to despise the hootings that follow
Merit. Father, Father, they threw mud and stones at thy king as he
passed through the streets of London. Thou art not the only one whom
this base world misjudges."
"Worthy mine host!" said Marmaduke, thus appealed to, "Algates, it
were not speaking truth to tell thee that I think a gentleman of birth
and quality should walk the thoroughfares with a bundle of books under
his arm; yet as for the raptril vulgar, the hildings and cullions who
hiss one day what they applaud the next, I hold it the duty of every
Christian and well-born man to regard them as the dirt on the
crossings. Brave soldiers term it no disgrace to receive a blow from
a base hind. An' it had been knights and gentles who had insulted
thee, thou mightest have cause for shame. But a mob of lewd
rascallions and squalling infants--bah! verily, it is mere matter for
scorn and laughter."
These philosophical propositions and distinctions did not seem to have
their due effect upon Adam. He smiled, however, gently upon his
guest, and with a blush over his pale face, said, "I am rightly
chastised, good young man; mean was I, methinks, and sordid to take
from thee thy good gold. But thou knowest not what fever burns in the
brain of a man who feels that, had he wealth, his knowledge could do
great things,--such things!--I thought to repay thee well. Now the
frenzy is gone, and I, who an hour ago esteemed myself a puissant
sage, sink in mine own conceit to a miserable blinded fool. Child, I
am very weak; I will lay me down and rest."
So saying, the poor philosopher went his way to his chamber, leaning
on his daughter's arm.
In a few minutes Sibyll rejoined Marmaduke, who had returned to the
hall, and informed him that her father had lain down a while to
compose himself.
"It is a hard fate, sir," said the girl, with a faint smile,--"a hard
fate, to be banned and accursed by the world, only because one has
sought to be wiser than the world is."
"Douce maiden," returned the Nevile, "it is happy for thee that thy
sex forbids thee to follow thy father's footsteps, or I should say his
hard fate were thy fair warning."
Sibyll smiled faintly, and after a pause, said, with a deep blush,--
"You have been generous to my father; do not misjudge him. He would
give his last groat to a starving beggar. But when his passion of
scholar and inventor masters him, thou mightest think him worse than
miser. It is an overnoble yearning that ofttimes makes him mean."
"Nay," answered Marmaduke, touched by the heavy sigh and swimming eyes
with which the last words were spoken; "I have heard Nick Alwyn's
uncle, who was a learned monk, declare that he could not constrain
himself to pray to be delivered from temptation, seeing that he might
thereby lose an occasion for filching some notable book! For the
rest," he added, "you forget how much I owe to Master Warner's
hospitality."
He took her hand with a frank and brotherly gallantry as he spoke; but
the touch of that small, soft hand, freely and innocently resigned to
him, sent a thrill to his heart--and again the face of Sibyll seemed
to him wondrous fair.
There was a long silence, which Sibyll was the first to break. She
turned the conversation once more upon Marmaduke's views in life. It
had been easy for a deeper observer than he was to see that, under all
that young girl's simplicity and sweetness, there lurked something of
dangerous ambition. She loved to recall the court-life her childhood
had known, though her youth had resigned it with apparent
cheerfulness. Like many who are poor and fallen, Sibyll built herself
a sad consolation out of her pride; she never forgot that she was
well-born. But Marmaduke, in what was ambition, saw but interest in
himself, and his heart beat more quickly as he bent his eyes upon that
downcast, thoughtful, earnest countenance.
After an hour thus passed, Sibyll left the guest, and remounted to her
father's chamber. She found Adam pacing the narrow floor, and
muttering to himself. He turned abruptly as she entered, and said,
"Come hither, child; I took four marks from that young man, for I
wanted books and instruments, and there are two left; see, take them
back to him."
"My father, he will not receive them. Fear not, thou shalt repay him
some day."
"Take them, I say, and if the young man says thee nay, why, buy
thyself gauds and gear, or let us eat, and drink, and laugh. What
else is life made for? Ha, ha! Laugh, child, laugh!"
There was something strangely pathetic in this outburst, this terrible
mirth, born of profound dejection. Alas for this guileless, simple
creature, who had clutched at gold with a huckster's eagerness! who,
forgetting the wants of his own child, had employed it upon the
service of an Abstract Thought, and whom the scorn of his kind now
pierced through all the folds of his close-webbed philosophy and self
forgetful genius. Awful is the duel between MAN and THE AGE in which
he lives! For the gain of posterity, Adam Warner had martyrized
existence,--and the children pelted him as he passed the streets!
Sibyll burst into tears.
"No, my father, no," she sobbed, pushing back the money into his
hands. "Let us both starve rather than you should despond. God and
man will bring you justice yet."
"Ah," said the baffled enthusiast, "my whole mind is one sore now! I
feel as if I could love man no more. Go, and leave me. Go, I say!"
and the poor student, usually so mild and gall-less, stamped his foot
in impotent rage. Sibyll, weeping as if her heart would break, left
him.
Then Adam Warner again paced to and fro restlessly, and again muttered
to himself for several minutes. At last he approached his Model,--the
model of a mighty and stupendous invention, the fruit of no chimerical
and visionary science; a great Promethean THING, that, once matured,
would divide the Old World from the New, enter into all operations of
Labour, animate all the future affairs, colour all the practical
doctrines of active men. He paused before it, and addressed it as if
it heard and understood him: "My hair was dark, and my tread was firm,
when, one night, a THOUGHT passed into my soul,--a thought to make
Matter the gigantic slave of Mind. Out of this thought, thou, not yet
born after five-and-twenty years of travail, wert conceived. My
coffers were then full, and my name was honoured; and the rich
respected and the poor loved me. Art thou a devil, that has tempted
me to ruin, or a god, that has lifted me above the earth? I am old
before my time, my hair is blanched, my frame is bowed, my wealth is
gone, my name is sullied. And all, dumb idol of Iron and the Element,
all for thee! I had a wife whom I adored; she died,--I forgot her
loss in the hope of thy life. I have a child still--God and our Lady
forgive me! she is less dear to me than thou hast been. And now"--the
old man ceased abruptly, and folding his arms, looked at the deaf iron
sternly, as on a human foe. By his side was a huge hammer, employed
in the toils of his forge; suddenly he seized and swung it aloft. One
blow, and the labour of years was shattered into pieces! One blow!--
But the heart failed him, and the hammer fell heavily to the ground.
"Ay!" he muttered, "true, true! if thou, who hast destroyed all else,
wert destroyed too, what were left me? Is it a crime to murder Alan?
--a greater crime to murder Thought, which is the life of all men!
Come, I forgive thee!"
And all that day and all that night the Enthusiast laboured in his
chamber, and the next day the remembrance of the hooting, the pelting,
the mob, was gone,--clean gone from his breast. The Model began to
move, life hovered over its wheels; and the Martyr of Science had
forgotten the very world for which he, groaning and rejoicing, toiled!
CHAPTER VIII.
MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILE MAKES LOVE, AND IS FRIGHTENED.
For two or three days Marmaduke and Sibyll were necessarily brought
much together. Such familiarity of intercourse was peculiarly rare in
that time, when, except perhaps in the dissolute court of Edward IV.,
the virgins of gentle birth mixed sparingly, and with great reserve,
amongst those of opposite sex. Marmaduke, rapidly recovering from the
effect of his wounds, and without other resource than Sibyll's society
in the solitude of his confinement, was not proof against the
temptation which one so young and so sweetly winning brought to his
fancy or his senses. The poor Sibyll--she was no faultless paragon,--
she was a rare and singular mixture of many opposite qualities in
heart and in intellect! She was one moment infantine in simplicity
and gay playfulness; the next a shade passed over her bright face, and
she uttered some sentence of that bitter and chilling wisdom, which
the sense of persecution, the cruelty of the world, had already taught
her. She was, indeed, at that age when the Child and the Woman are
struggling against each other. Her character was not yet formed,--a
little happiness would have ripened it at once into the richest bloom
of goodness. But sorrow, that ever sharpens the intellect, might only
serve to sour the heart. Her mind was so innately chaste and pure,
that she knew not the nature of the admiration she excited; but the
admiration pleased her as it pleases some young child; she was vain
then, but it was an infant's vanity, not a woman's. And thus, from
innocence itself, there was a fearlessness, a freedom, a something
endearing and familiar in her manner, which might have turned a wiser
head than Marmaduke Nevile's. And this the more, because, while
liking her young guest, confiding in him, raised in her own esteem by
his gallantry, enjoying that intercourse of youth with youth so
unfamiliar to her, and surrendering herself the more to its charm from
the joy that animated her spirits, in seeing that her father had
forgotten his humiliation, and returned to his wonted labours,--she
yet knew not for the handsome Nevile one sentiment that approached to
love. Her mind was so superior to his own, that she felt almost as if
older in years, and in their talk her rosy lips preached to him in
grave advice.
On the landing, by Marmaduke's chamber, there was a large oriel
casement jutting from the wall. It was only glazed at the upper part,
and that most imperfectly, the lower part being closed at night or in
inclement weather with rude shutters. The recess formed by this
comfortless casement answered, therefore, the purpose of a balcony; it
commanded a full view of the vicinity without, and gave to those who
might be passing by the power also of indulging their own curiosity by
a view of the interior.
Whenever he lost sight of Sibyll, and had grown weary of the peacock,
this spot was Marmaduke's favourite haunt. It diverted him, poor
youth, to look out of the window upon the livelier world beyond. The
place, it is true, was ordinarily deserted, but still the spires and
turrets of London were always discernible,--and they were something.
Accordingly, in this embrasure stood Marmaduke, when one morning,
Sibyll, coming from her father's room, joined him.
"And what, Master Nevile," said Sibyll, with a malicious yet charming
smile, "what claimed thy meditations? Some misgiving as to the
trimming of thy tunic, or the length of thy shoon?"
"Nay," returned Marmaduke, gravely, "such thoughts, though not without
their importance in the mind of a gentleman, who would not that his
ignorance of court delicacies should commit him to the japes of his
equals, were not at that moment uppermost. I was thinking--"
"Of those mastiffs, quarrelling for a bone. Avow it."
"By our Lady, I saw them not, but now I look, they are brave dogs.
Ha! seest thou how gallantly each fronts the other, the hair
bristling, the eyes fixed, the tail on end, the fangs glistening? Now
the lesser one moves slowly round and round the bigger, who, mind you,
Mistress Sibyll, is no dullard, but moves, too, quick as thought, not
to be taken unawares. Ha! that is a brave spring! Heigh, dogs,
Neigh! a good sight!--it makes the blood warm! The little one hath
him by the throat!"
"Alack," said Sibyll, turning away her eyes, "can you find pleasure in
seeing two poor brutes mangle each other for a bone?"
"By Saint Dunstan! doth it matter what may be the cause of quarrel, so
long as dog or man bears himself bravely, with a due sense of honour
and derring-do? See! the big one is up again. Ah, foul fall the
butcher, who drives them away! Those seely mechanics know not the
joyaunce of fair fighting to gentle and to hound. For a hound, mark
you, hath nothing mechanical in his nature. He is a gentleman all
over,--brave against equal and stranger, forbearing to the small and
defenceless, true in poverty and need where he loveth, stern and
ruthless where he hateth, and despising thieves, hildings, and the
vulgar as much as e'er a gold spur in King Edward's court! Oh,
certes, your best gentleman is the best hound!"
"You moralize to-day; and I know not how to gainsay you," returned
Sibyll, as the dogs, reluctantly beaten off, retired each from each,
snarling and reluctant, while a small black cur, that had hitherto sat
unobserved at the door of a small hostelrie, now coolly approached and
dragged off the bone of contention. "But what sayst thou now? See!
see! the patient mongrel carries off the bone from the gentleman-
hounds. Is that the way of the world?"
"Pardie! it is a naught world, if so, and much changed from the time
of our fathers, the Normans. But these Saxons are getting uppermost
again, and the yard measure, I fear me, is more potent in these
holiday times than the mace or the battle-axe." The Nevile paused,
sighed, and changed the subject: "This house of thine must have been a
stately pile in its day. I see but one side of the quadrangle is
left, though it be easy to trace where the other three have stood."
"And you may see their stones and their fittings in the butcher's and
baker's stalls over the way," replied Sibyll.
"Ay!" said the Nevile, "the parings of the gentry begin to be the
wealth of the varlets."
"Little ought we to pine at that," returned Sibyll, "if the varlets
were but gentle with our poverty; but they loathe the humbled fortunes
on which they rise, and while slaves to the rich, are tyrants to the
poor."
This was said so sadly, that the Nevile felt his eyes overflow; and
the humble dress of the girl, the melancholy ridges which evinced the
site of a noble house, now shrunk into a dismal ruin, the remembrance
of the pastime-ground, the insults of the crowd, and the broken
gittern, all conspired to move his compassion, and to give force to
yet more tender emotions.
"Ah," he said suddenly, and with a quick faint blush over his handsome
and manly countenance,--"ah, fair maid--fair Sibyll--God grant that I
may win something of gold and fortune amidst yonder towers, on which
the sun shines so cheerly. God grant it, not for my sake,--not for
mine; but that I may have something besides a true heart and a
stainless name to lay at thy feet. Oh, Sibyll! By this hand, by my
father's soul, I love thee, Sibyll! Have I not said it before? Well,
hear me now,--I love thee!"
As he spoke, he clasped her hand in his own, and she suffered it for
one instant to rest in his. Then withdrawing it, and meeting his
enamoured eyes with a strange sadness in her own darker, deeper, and
more intelligent orbs, she said,--
"I thank thee,--thank thee for the honour of such kind thoughts; and
frankly I answer, as thou hast frankly spoken. It was sweet to me,
who have known little in life not hard and bitter,--sweet to wish I
had a brother like thee, and, as a brother, I can love and pray for
thee. But ask not more, Marmaduke. I have aims in life which forbid
all other love."
"Art thou too aspiring for one who has his spurs to win?"
"Not so; but listen. My mother's lessons and my own heart have made
my poor father the first end and object of all things on earth to me.
I live to protect him, work for him, honour him; and for the rest, I
have thoughts thou canst not know, an ambition thou canst not feel.
Nay," she added, with that delightful smile which chased away the
graver thought which had before saddened her aspect, "what would thy
sober friend Master Alwyn say to thee, if he heard thou hadst courted
the wizard's daughter?"
"By my faith," exclaimed Marmaduke, "thou art a very April,--smiles
and clouds in a breath! If what thou despisest in me be my want of
bookcraft, and such like, by my halidame I will turn scholar for thy
sake; and--"
Here, as he had again taken Sibyll's hand, with the passionate ardour
of his bold nature, not to be lightly daunted by a maiden's first
"No," a sudden shrill, wild burst of laughter, accompanied with a
gusty fit of unmelodious music from the street below, made both maiden
and youth start, and turn their eyes; there, weaving their immodest
dance, tawdry in their tinsel attire, their naked arms glancing above
their heads, as they waved on high their instruments, went the
timbrel-girls.
"Ha, ha!" cried their leader, "see the gallant and the witch-leman!
The glamour has done its work! Foul is fair! foul is fair! and the
devil will have his own!"
But these creatures, whose bold license the ancient chronicler
records, were rarely seen alone. They haunted parties of pomp and
pleasure; they linked together the extremes of life,--the grotesque
Chorus that introduced the terrible truth of foul vice and abandoned
wretchedness in the midst of the world's holiday and pageant. So now,
as they wheeled into the silent, squalid street, they heralded a
goodly company of dames and cavaliers on horseback, who were passing
through the neighbouring plains into the park of Marybone to enjoy the
sport of falconry. The splendid dresses of this procession, and the
grave and measured dignity with which it swept along, contrasted
forcibly with the wild movements and disorderly mirth of the timbrel-
players. These last darted round and round the riders, holding out
their instruments for largess, and retorting, with laugh and gibe, the
disdainful look or sharp rebuke with which their salutations were
mostly received.
Suddenly, as the company, two by two, paced up the street, Sibyll
uttered a faint exclamation, and strove to snatch her hand from the
Nevile's grasp. Her eye rested upon one of the horsemen, who rode
last, and who seemed in earnest conversation with a dame, who, though
scarcely in her first youth, excelled all her fair companions in
beauty of face and grace of horsemanship, as well as in the costly
equipments of the white barb that caracoled beneath her easy hand. At
the same moment the horseman looked up and gazed steadily at Sibyll,
whose countenance grew pale, and flushed, in a breath. His eye then
glanced rapidly at Marmaduke; a half-smile passed his pale, firm lips;
he slightly raised the plumed cap from his brow, inclined gravely to
Sibyll, and, turning once more to his companion, appeared to answer
some question she addressed to him as to the object of his salutation,
for her look, which was proud, keen, and lofty, was raised to Sibyll,
and then dropped somewhat disdainfully, as she listened to the words
addressed her by the cavalier.
The lynx eyes of the tymbesteres had seen the recognition; and their
leader, laying her bold hand on the embossed bridle of the horseman,
exclaimed, in a voice shrill and loud enough to be heard in the
balcony above, "Largess! noble lord, largess! for the sake of the lady
thou lovest best!"
The fair equestrian turned away her head at these words; the nobleman
watched her a moment, and dropped some coins into the timbrel.
"Ha, ha!" cried the tymbestere, pointing her long arm to Sibyll, and
springing towards the balcony,--
"The cushat would mate
Above her state,
And she flutters her wings round the falcon's beak;
But death to the dove
Is the falcon's love!
Oh, sharp is the kiss of the falcon's beak!"
Before this rude song was ended, Sibyll had vanished from the place;
the cavalcade had disappeared. The timbrel-players, without deigning
to notice Marmaduke, darted elsewhere to ply their discordant trade,
and the Nevile, crossing himself devoutly, muttered, "Jesu defend us!
Those she Will-o'-the-wisps are eno' to scare all the blood out of
one's body. What--a murrain on them!--do they portend, flitting round
and round, and skirting off, as if the devil's broomstick was behind
them! By the Mass! they have frighted away the damozel, and I am not
sorry for it. They have left me small heart for the part of Sir
Launval."
His meditations were broken off by the sudden sight of Nicholas Alwyn,
mounted on a small palfrey, and followed by a sturdy groom on
horseback, leading a steed handsomely caparisoned. In another moment,
Marmaduke had descended, opened the door, and drawn Alwyn into the
hall.
CHAPTER IX.
MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILE LEAVES THE WIZARD'S HOUSE FOR THE GREAT WORLD.
"Right glad am I," said Nicholas, "to see you so stout and hearty, for
I am the bearer of good news. Though I have been away, I have not
forgotten you; and it so chanced that I went yesterday to attend my
Lord of Warwick with some nowches [buckles and other ornaments] and
knackeries, that he takes out as gifts and exemplars of English work.
They were indifferently well wrought, specially a chevesail, of which
the--"
"Spare me the fashion of thy mechanicals, and come to the point,"
interrupted Marmaduke, impatiently.
"Pardon me, Master Nevile. I interrupt thee not when thou talkest of
bassinets and hauberks,--every cobbler to his last. But, as thou
sayest, to the point: the stout earl, while scanning my workmanship,
for in much the chevesail was mine, was pleased to speak graciously of
my skill with the bow, of which he had heard; and he then turned to
thyself, of whom my Lord Montagu had already made disparaging mention.
When I told the earl somewhat more about thy qualities and disposings,
and when I spoke of thy desire to serve him, and the letter of which
thou art the bearer, his black brows smoothed mighty graciously, and
he bade me tell thee to come to him this afternoon, and he would judge
of thee with his own eyes and ears. Wherefore I have ordered the
craftsman to have all thy gauds and gear ready at thine hostelrie, and
I have engaged thee henchmen and horses for thy fitting appearance.
Be quick: time and the great wait for no man. So take whatever thou
needest for present want from thy mails, and I will send a porter for
the rest ere sunset."
"But the gittern for the damozel?"
"I have provided that for thee, as is meet." And Nicholas, stepping
back, eased the groom of a case which contained a gittern, whose
workmanship and ornaments delighted the Nevile.
"It is of my lord the young Duke of Gloucester's own musical-vendor;
and the duke, though a lad yet, is a notable judge of all appertaining
to the gentle craft. [For Richard III.'s love of music, and patronage
of musicians and minstrels, see the discriminating character of that
prince in Sharon Turner's "History of England," vol. IV. p. 66.] So
despatch, and away!"
Marmaduke retired to his chamber, and Nicholas, after a moment spent
in silent thought, searched the room for the hand-bell, which then
made the mode of communication between the master and domestics. Not
finding this necessary luxury, he contrived at last to make Madge hear
his voice from her subterranean retreat; and on her arrival, sent her
in quest of Sibyll.
The answer he received was, that Mistress Sibyll was ill, and unable
to see him. Alwyn looked disconcerted at this intelligence, but,
drawing from his girdle a small gipsire, richly broidered, he prayed
Madge to deliver it to her young mistress, and inform her that it was
the fruit of the commission with which she had honoured him.
"It is passing strange," said he, pacing the hall alone,--"passing
strange, that the poor child should have taken such hold on me. After
all, she would be a bad wife for a plain man like me. Tush! that is
the trader's thought all over. Have I brought no fresher feeling out
of my fair village-green? Would it not be sweet to work for her, and
rise in life, with her by my side? And these girls of the city, so
prim and so brainless!--as well marry a painted puppet. Sibyll! Am I
dement? Stark wode? What have I to do with girls and marriage?
Humph! I marvel what Marmaduke still thinks of her,--and she of him."
While Alwyn thus soliloquized, the Nevile having hastily arranged his
dress, and laden himself with the moneys his mails contained, summoned
old Madge to receive his largess, and to conduct him to Warner's
chamber, in order to proffer his farewell.
With somewhat of a timid step he followed the old woman (who kept
muttering thanks and benedicites as she eyed the coin in her palm) up
the ragged stairs, and for the first time knocked at the door of the
student's sanctuary. No answer came. "Eh, sir! you must enter," said
Madge; "an' you fired a bombard under his ear he would not heed you."
So, suiting the action to the word, she threw open the door, and
closed it behind him, as Marmaduke entered.
The room was filled with smoke, through which mirky atmosphere the
clear red light of the burning charcoal peered out steadily like a
Cyclop's eye. A small, but heaving, regular, labouring, continuous
sound, as of a fairy hammer, smote the young man's ear. But as his
gaze, accustoming itself to the atmosphere, searched around, he could
not perceive what was its cause. Adam Warner was standing in the
middle of the room, his arms folded, and contemplating something at a
little distance, which Marmaduke could not accurately distinguish.
The youth took courage, and approached. "Honoured mine host," said
he, "I thank thee for hospitality and kindness, I crave pardon for
disturbing thee in thy incanta--ehem!--thy--thy studies, and I come to
bid thee farewell."
Adam turned round with a puzzled, absent air, as if scarcely
recognizing his guest; at length, as his recollection slowly came back
to him, he smiled graciously, and said: "Good youth, thou art richly
welcome to what little it was in my power to do for thee.
Peradventure a time may come when they who seek the roof of Adam
Warner may find less homely cheer, a less rugged habitation,--for look
you!" he exclaimed suddenly, with a burst of irrepressible enthusiasm
--and laying his hand on Nevile's arm, as, through all the smoke and
grime that obscured his face, flashed the ardent soul of the
triumphant Inventor,--"look you! since you have been in this house,
one of my great objects is well-nigh matured,--achieved. Come
hither," and he dragged the wondering Marmaduke to his model, or
Eureka, as Adam had fondly named his contrivance. The Nevile then
perceived that it was from the interior of this machine that the sound
which had startled him arose; to his eye the THING was uncouth and
hideous; from the jaws of an iron serpent, that, wreathing round it,
rose on high with erect crest, gushed a rapid volume of black smoke,
and a damp spray fell around. A column of iron in the centre kept in
perpetual and regular motion, rising and sinking successively, as the
whole mechanism within seemed alive with noise and action.
"The Syracusan asked an inch of earth, beyond the earth, to move the
earth," said Adam; "I stand in the world, and lo! with this engine the
world shall one day be moved."
"Holy Mother!" faltered Marmaduke; "I pray thee, dread sir, to ponder
well ere thou attemptest any such sports with the habitation in which
every woman's son is so concerned. Bethink thee, that if in moving
the world thou shouldst make any mistake, it would--"
"Now stand there and attend," interrupted Adam, who had not heard one
word of this judicious exhortation.
"Pardon me, terrible sir!" exclaimed Marmaduke, in great trepidation,
and retreating rapidly to the door; "but I have heard that the fiends
are mighty malignant to all lookers-on not initiated."
While he spoke, fast gushed the smoke, heavily heaved the fairy
hammers, up and down, down and up, sank or rose the column, with its
sullen sound. The young man's heart sank to the soles of his feet.
"Indeed and in truth," he stammered out, "I am but a dolt in these
matters; I wish thee all success compatible with the weal of a
Christian, and bid thee, in sad humility, good day:" and he added, in
a whisper--"the Lord's forgiveness! Amen!"
Marmaduke then fairly rushed through the open door, and hurried out of
the chamber as fast as possible.
He breathed more freely as he descended the stairs. "Before I would
call that gray carle my father, or his child my wife, may I feel all
the hammers of the elves and sprites he keeps tortured within that
ugly little prison-house playing a death's march on my body! Holy
Saint Dunstan, the timbrel-girls came in time! They say these wizards
always have fair daughters, and their love can be no blessing!"
As he thus muttered, the door of Sibyll's chamber opened, and she
stood before him at the threshold. Her countenance was very pale, and
bore evidence of weeping. There was a silence on both sides, which
the girl was the first to break.
"So, Madge tells me thou art about to leave us?"
"Yes, gentle maiden! I--I--that is, my Lord of Warwick has summoned
me. I wish and pray for all blessings on thee! and--and--if ever it
be mine to serve or aid thee, it will be--that is--verily, my tongue
falters, but my heart--that is--fare thee well, maiden! Would thou
hadst a less wise father; and so may the saints (Saint Anthony
especially, whom the Evil One was parlous afraid of) guard and keep
thee!"
With this strange and incoherent address, Marmaduke left the maiden
standing by the threshold of her miserable chamber. Hurrying into the
hall, he summoned Alwyn from his meditations, and, giving the gittern
to Madge, with an injunction to render it to her mistress, with his
greeting and service, he vaulted lightly on his steed; the steady and
more sober Alwyn mounted his palfrey with slow care and due caution.
As the air of spring waved the fair locks of the young cavalier, as
the good horse caracoled under his lithesome weight, his natural
temper of mind, hardy, healthful, joyous, and world-awake, returned to
him. The image of Sibyll and her strange father fled from his
thoughts like sickly dreams.
BOOK II.
THE KING'S COURT.
CHAPTER I.
EARL WARWICK THE KING-MAKER.
The young men entered the Strand, which, thanks to the profits of a
toll-bar, was a passable road for equestrians, studded towards the
river, as we have before observed, with stately and half-fortified
mansions; while on the opposite side, here and there, were straggling
houses of a humbler kind,--the mediaeval villas of merchant and trader
(for, from the earliest period since the Conquest, the Londoners had
delight in such retreats), surrounded with blossoming orchards, [On
all sides, without the suburbs, are the citizens' gardens and
orchards, etc.--FITZSTEPHEN.] and adorned in front with the fleur-de-
lis, emblem of the vain victories of renowned Agincourt. But by far
the greater portion of the road northward stretched, unbuilt upon,
towards a fair chain of fields and meadows, refreshed by many brooks,
"turning water-mills with a pleasant noise." High rose, on the
thoroughfare, the famous Cross, at which "the Judges Itinerant whilome
sate, without London." [Stowe.] There, hallowed and solitary, stood
the inn for the penitent pilgrims, who sought "the murmuring runnels"
of St. Clement's healing well; for in this neighbourhood, even from
the age of the Roman, springs of crystal wave and salubrious virtue
received the homage of credulous disease. Through the gloomy arches
of the Temple Gate and Lud, our horsemen wound their way, and finally
arrived in safety at Marmaduke's hostelrie in the East Chepe. Here
Marmaduke found the decorators of his comely person already assembled.
The simpler yet more manly fashions he had taken from the provinces
were now exchanged for an attire worthy the kinsman of the great
minister of a court unparalleled, since the reign of William the Red
King, for extravagant gorgeousness of dress. His corset was of the
finest cloth, sown with seed pearls; above it the lawn shirt, worn
without collar, partially appeared, fringed with gold; over this was
loosely hung a super-tunic of crimson sarcenet, slashed and pounced
with a profusion of fringes. His velvet cap, turned up at the sides,
extended in a point far over the forehead. His hose--under which
appellation is to be understood what serves us of the modern day both
for stockings and pantaloons--were of white cloth; and his shoes, very
narrow, were curiously carved into chequer work at the instep, and
tied with bobbins of gold thread, turning up like skates at the
extremity, three inches in length. His dagger was suspended by a
slight silver-gilt chain, and his girdle contained a large gipsire, or
pouch, of embossed leather, richly gilt.
And this dress, marvellous as it seemed to the Nevile, the tailor
gravely assured him was far under the mark of the highest fashion, and
that an' the noble youth had been a knight, the shoes would have
stretched at least three inches farther over the natural length of the
feet, the placard have shone with jewels, and the tunic luxuriated in
flowers of damacene. Even as it was, however, Marmaduke felt a
natural diffidence of his habiliments, which cost him a round third of
his whole capital; and no bride ever unveiled herself with more
shamefaced bashfulness than did Marmaduke Nevile experience when he
remounted his horse, and, taking leave of his foster-brother, bent his
way to Warwick Lane, where the earl lodged.
The narrow streets were, however, crowded with equestrians whose dress
eclipsed his own, some bending their way to the Tower, some to the
palaces of the Flete. Carriages there were none, and only twice he
encountered the huge litters, in which some aged prelate or some high-
born dame veiled greatness from the day. But the frequent vistas to
the river gave glimpses of the gay boats and barges that crowded the
Thames, which was then the principal thoroughfare for every class, but
more especially the noble. The ways were fortunately dry and clean
for London, though occasionally deep holes and furrows in the road
menaced perils to the unwary horseman. The streets themselves might
well disappoint in splendour the stranger's eye; for although, viewed
at a distance, ancient London was incalculably more picturesque and
stately than the modern, yet when fairly in its tortuous labyrinths,
it seemed to those who had improved the taste by travel the meanest
and the mirkiest capital of Christendom. The streets were
marvellously narrow, the upper stories, chiefly of wood, projecting
far over the lower, which were formed of mud and plaster. The shops
were pitiful booths, and the 'prentices standing at the entrance bare-
headed and cap in hand, and lining the passages, as the old French
writer avers, comme idoles, [Perlin] kept up an eternal din with their
clamorous invitations, often varied by pert witticisms on some
churlish passenger, or loud vituperations of each other. The whole
ancient family of the London criers were in full bay. Scarcely had
Marmaduke's ears recovered the shock of "Hot peascods,--all hot!" than
they were saluted with "Mackerel!" "Sheep's feet! hot sheep's feet!"
At the smaller taverns stood the inviting vociferaters of "Cock-pie,"
"Ribs of beef,--hot beef!" while, blended with these multi-toned
discords, whined the vielle, or primitive hurdy-gurdy, screamed the
pipe, twanged the harp, from every quarter where the thirsty paused to
drink, or the idler stood to gape. [See Lydgate: London Lyckpenny.]
Through this Babel Marmaduke at last slowly wound his way, and arrived
before the mighty mansion in which the chief baron of England held his
state.
As he dismounted and resigned his steed to the servitor hired for him
by Alwyn, Marmaduke paused a moment, struck by the disparity, common
as it was to eyes more accustomed to the metropolis, between the
stately edifice and the sordid neighbourhood. He had not noticed this
so much when he had repaired to the earl's house on his first arrival
in London, for his thoughts then had been too much bewildered by the
general bustle and novelty of the scene; but now it seemed to him that
he better comprehended the homage accorded to a great noble in
surveying, at a glance, the immeasurable eminence to which he was
elevated above his fellow-men by wealth and rank.
Far on either side of the wings of the earl's abode stretched, in
numerous deformity, sheds rather than houses, of broken plaster and
crazy timbers. But here and there were open places of public
reception, crowded with the lower followers of the puissant chief; and
the eye rested on many idle groups of sturdy swash-bucklers, some
half-clad in armour, some in rude jerkins of leather, before the doors
of these resorts,--as others, like bees about a hive, swarmed in and
out with a perpetual hum.
The exterior of Warwick House was of a gray but dingy stone, and
presented a half-fortified and formidable appearance. The windows, or
rather loop-holes, towards the street were few, and strongly barred.
The black and massive arch of the gateway yawned between two huge
square towers; and from a yet higher but slender tower on the inner
side, the flag gave the "White Bear and Ragged Staff" to the smoky
air. Still, under the portal as he entered, hung the grate of the
portcullis, and the square court which he saw before him swarmed with
the more immediate retainers of the earl, in scarlet jackets, wrought
with their chieftain's cognizance. A man of gigantic girth and
stature, who officiated as porter, leaning against the wall under the
arch, now emerged from the shadow, and with sufficient civility
demanded the young visitor's name and business. On hearing the
former, he bowed low as he doffed his hat, and conducted Marmaduke
through the first quadrangle. The two sides to the right and left
were devoted to the offices and rooms of retainers, of whom no less
than six hundred, not to speak of the domestic and more orderly
retinue, attested the state of the Last of the English Barons on his
visits to the capital. Far from being then, as now, the object of the
great to thrust all that belongs to the service of the house out of
sight, it was their pride to strike awe into the visitor by the extent
of accommodation afforded to their followers: some seated on benches
of stone ranged along the walls; some grouped in the centre of the
court; some lying at length upon the two oblong patches of what had
been turf, till worn away by frequent feet,--this domestic army filled
the young Nevile with an admiration far greater than the gay satins of
the knights and nobles who had gathered round the lord of Montagu and
Northumberland at the pastime-ground.
This assemblage, however, were evidently under a rude discipline of
their own. They were neither noisy nor drunk. They made way with
surly obeisance as the cavalier passed, and closing on his track like
some horde of wild cattle, gazed after him with earnest silence, and
then turned once more to their indolent whispers with each other.
And now Nevile entered the last side of the quadrangle. The huge
hall, divided from the passage by a screen of stone fretwork, so fine
as to attest the hand of some architect in the reign of Henry III.,
stretched to his right; and so vast, in truth, it was, that though
more than fifty persons were variously engaged therein, their number
was lost in the immense space. Of these, at one end of the longer and
lower table beneath the dais, some squires of good dress and mien were
engaged at chess or dice; others were conferring in the gloomy
embrasures of the casements; some walking to and fro, others gathered
round the shovel-board. At the entrance of this hall the porter left
Marmaduke, after exchanging a whisper with a gentleman whose dress
eclipsed the Nevile's in splendour; and this latter personage, who,
though of high birth, did not disdain to perform the office of
chamberlain, or usher, to the king-like earl, advanced to Marmaduke
with a smile, and said,--
"My lord expects you, sir, and has appointed this time to receive you,
that you may not be held back from his presence by the crowds that
crave audience in the forenoon. Please to follow me!" This said, the
gentleman slowly preceded the visitor, now and then stopping to
exchange a friendly word with the various parties he passed in his
progress; for the urbanity which Warwick possessed himself, his policy
inculcated as a duty on all who served him. A small door at the other
extremity of the hall admitted into an anteroom, in which some half
score pages, the sons of knights and barons, were gathered round an
old warrior, placed at their head as a sort of tutor, to instruct them
in all knightly accomplishments; and beckoning forth one of these
youths from the ring, the earl's chamberlain said, with a profound
reverence, "Will you be pleased, my young lord, to conduct your
cousin, Master Marmaduke Nevile, to the earl's presence?" The young
gentleman eyed Marmaduke with a supercilious glance.
"Marry!" said he, pertly, "if a man born in the North were to feed all
his cousins, he would soon have a tail as long as my uncle, the stout
earl's. Come, sir cousin, this way." And without tarrying even to
give Nevile information of the name and quality of his new-found
relation,--who was no less than Lord Montagu's son, the sole male heir
to the honours of that mighty family, though now learning the
apprenticeship of chivalry amongst his uncle's pages,--the boy passed
before Marmaduke with a saunter, that, had they been in plain
Westmoreland, might have cost him a cuff from the stout hand of the
indignant elder cousin. He raised the tapestry at one end of the
room, and ascending a short flight of broad stairs, knocked gently on
the panels of an arched door sunk deep in the walls.
"Enter!" said a clear, loud voice, and the next moment Marmaduke was
in the presence of the King-maker.
He heard his guide pronounce his name, and saw him smile maliciously
at the momentary embarrassment the young man displayed, as the boy
passed by Marmaduke, and vanished. The Earl of Warwick was seated
near a door that opened upon an inner court, or rather garden, which
gave communication to the river. The chamber was painted in the style
of Henry III., with huge figures representing the battle of Hastings,
or rather, for there were many separate pieces, the conquest of Saxon
England. Over each head, to enlighten the ignorant, the artist had
taken the precaution to insert a label, which told the name and the
subject. The ceiling was groined, vaulted, and emblazoned with the
richest gilding and colours. The chimneypiece (a modern ornament)
rose to the roof, and represented in bold reliefs, gilt and decorated,
the signing of Magna Charta. The floor was strewed thick with dried
rushes and odorous herbs; the furniture was scanty, but rich. The
low-backed chairs, of which there were but four, carved in ebony, had
cushions of velvet with fringes of massive gold; a small cupboard, or
beaufet, covered with carpetz de cuir (carpets of gilt and painted
leather), of great price, held various quaint and curious ornaments of
plate inwrought with precious stones; and beside this--a singular
contrast--on a plain Gothic table lay the helmet, the gauntlets, and
the battle-axe of the master. Warwick himself, seated before a large,
cumbrous desk, was writing,--but slowly and with pain,--and he lifted
his finger as the Nevile approached, in token of his wish to conclude
a task probably little congenial to his tastes. But Marmaduke was
grateful for the moments afforded him to recover his self-possession,
and to examine his kinsman.
The earl was in the lusty vigour of his age. His hair, of the deepest
black, was worn short, as if in disdain of the effeminate fashions of
the day; and fretted bare from the temples by the constant and early
friction of his helmet, gave to a forehead naturally lofty yet more
majestic appearance of expanse and height. His complexion, though
dark and sunburned, glowed with rich health. The beard was closely
shaven, and left in all its remarkable beauty the contour of the oval
face and strong jaw,--strong as if clasped in iron. The features were
marked and aquiline, as was common to those of Norman blood. The form
spare, but of prodigious width and depth of chest, the more apparent
from the fashion of the short surcoat, which was thrown back, and left
in broad expanse a placard, not of holiday velvet and satins, but of
steel polished as a mirror, and inlaid with gold. And now as,
concluding his task, the earl rose and motioned Marmaduke to a stool
by his side, his great stature, which, from the length of his limbs,
was not so observable when he sat, actually startled his guest. Tall
as Marmaduke was himself, the earl towered [The faded portrait of
Richard Nevile, Earl of Warwick, in the Rous Roll, preserved at the
Herald's College, does justice, at least, to the height and majesty of
his stature. The portrait of Edward IV. is the only one in that long
series which at all rivals the stately proportions of the King-maker.]
above him,--with his high, majestic, smooth, unwrinkled forehead,--
like some Paladin of the rhyme of poet or romancer; and, perhaps, not
only in this masculine advantage, but in the rare and harmonious
combination of colossal strength with graceful lightness, a more
splendid union of all the outward qualities we are inclined to give to
the heroes of old never dazzled the eye or impressed the fancy. But
even this effect of mere person was subordinate to that which this
eminent nobleman created--upon his inferiors, at least--by a manner so
void of all arrogance, yet of all condescension, so simple, open,
cordial, and hero-like, that Marmaduke Nevile, peculiarly alive to
external impressions, and subdued and fascinated by the earl's first
word, and that word was "Welcome!" dropped on his knee, and kissing
the hand extended to him, said, "Noble kinsman, in thy service and for
thy sake let me live and die!" Had the young man been prepared by the
subtlest master of courtcraft for this interview, so important to his
fortunes, he could not have advanced a hundredth part so far with the
great earl as he did by that sudden, frank burst of genuine emotion;
for Warwick was extremely sensitive to the admiration he excited,--
vain or proud of it, it matters not which; grateful as a child for
love, and inexorable as a woman for slight or insult: in rude ages,
one sex has often the qualities of the other.
"Thou hast thy father's warm heart and hasty thought, Marmaduke," said
Warwick, raising him; "and now he is gone where, we trust, brave men,
shrived of their sins, look down upon us, who should be thy friend but
Richard Nevile? So--so--yes, let me look at thee. Ha! stout Guy's
honest face, every line of it: but to the girls, perhaps, comelier,
for wanting a scar or two. Never blush,--thou shalt win the scars
yet. So thou hast a letter from thy father?"
"It is here, noble lord."
"And why," said the earl, cutting the silk with his dagger--"why hast
thou so long hung back from presenting it? But I need not ask thee.
These uncivil times have made kith and kin doubt worse of each other
than thy delay did of me. Sir Guy's mark, sure eno'! Brave old man!
I loved him the better for that, like me, the sword was more meet than
the pen for his bold hand." Here Warwick scanned, with some slowness,
the lines dictated by the dead to the priest; and when he had done, he
laid the letter respectfully on his desk, and bowing his head over it,
muttered to himself,--it might be an Ave for the deceased. "Well," he
said, reseating himself, and again motioning Marmaduke to follow his
example, "thy father was, in sooth, to blame for the side he took in
the Wars. What son of the Norman could bow knee or vail plume to that
shadow of a king, Henry of Windsor? And for his bloody wife--she knew
no more of an Englishman's pith and pride than I know of the rhymes
and roundels of old Rene, her father. Guy Nevile--good Guy--many a
day in my boyhood did he teach me how to bear my lance at the crest,
and direct my sword at the mail joints. He was cunning at fence--thy
worshipful father--but I was ever a bad scholar; and my dull arm, to
this day, hopes more from its strength than its craft."
"I have heard it said, noble earl, that the stoutest hand can scarcely
lift your battle-axe."
"Fables! romaunt!" answered the earl, smiling; "there it lies,--go
and lift it."
Marmaduke went to the table, and, though with some difficulty, raised
and swung this formidable weapon.
"By my halidame, well swung, cousin mine! Its use depends not on the
strength, but the practice. Why, look you now, there is the boy
Richard of Gloucester, who comes not up to thy shoulder, and by dint
of custom each day can wield mace or axe with as much ease as a jester
doth his lathesword. Ah, trust me, Marmaduke, the York House is a
princely one; and if we must have a king, we barons, by stout Saint
George, let no meaner race ever furnish our lieges. But to thyself,
Marmaduke--what are thy views and thy wishes?"
"To be one of thy following, noble Warwick."
"I thank and accept thee, young Nevile; but thou hast heard that I am
about to leave England, and in the mean time thy youth would run
danger without a guide." The earl paused a moment, and resumed: "My
brother of Montagu showed thee cold countenance; but a word from me
will win thee his grace and favour. What sayest thou, wilt thou be
one of his gentlemen? If so, I will tell thee the qualities a man
must have,--a discreet tongue, a quick eye, the last fashion in hood
and shoe-bobbins, a perfect seat on thy horse, a light touch for the
gittern, a voice for a love-song, and--"
"I have none of these save the horsemanship, gracious my lord; and if
thou wilt not receive me thyself, I will not burden my Lord of Montagu
and Northumberland."
"Hot and quick! No! John of Montagu would not suit thee, nor thou
him. But how to provide for thee till my return I know not."
"Dare I not hope, then, to make one of your embassage, noble earl?"
Warwick bent his brows, and looked at him in surprise. "Of our
embassage! Why, thou art haughty, indeed! Nay, and so a soldier's
son and a Nevile should be! I blame thee not; but I could not make
thee one of my train, without creating a hundred enemies--to me (but
that's nothing) and to thee, which were much. Knowest thou not that
there is scarce a gentleman of my train below the state of a peer's
son, and that I have made, by refusals, malcontents eno', as it is?--
Yet, bold! there is my learned brother, the Archbishop of York.
Knowest thou Latin and the schools?"
"'Fore Heaven, my lord," said the Nevile, bluntly, "I see already I
had best go back to green Westmoreland, for I am as unfit for his
grace the archbishop as I am for my Lord Montagu."
"Well, then," said the earl, dryly, "since thou hast not yet station
enough for my train, nor glosing for Northumberland, nor wit and lere
for the archbishop, I suppose, my poor youth, I must e'en make you
only a gentleman about the king! It is not a post so sure of quick
rising and full gipsires as one about myself or my brethren, but it
will be less envied, and is good for thy first essay. How goes the
clock? Oh, here is Nick Alwyn's new horologe. He tells me that the
English will soon rival the Dutch in these baubles. [Clockwork
appears to have been introduced into England in the reign of Edward
III., when three Dutch horologers were invited over from Delft. They
must soon have passed into common use, for Chaucer thus familiarly
speaks of them:--"Full sickerer was his crowing in his loge
Than is a clock or any abbey orloge."]
The more the pity!--our red-faced yeomen, alas, are fast sinking into
lank-jawed mechanics! We shall find the king in his garden within the
next half-hour. Thou shalt attend me."
Marmaduke expressed, with more feeling than eloquence, the thanks he
owed for an offer that, he was about to say, exceeded his hopes; but
he had already, since his departure from Westmoreland, acquired
sufficient wit to think twice of his words. And so eagerly, at that
time, did the youth of the nobility contend for the honour of posts
about the person of Warwick, and even of his brothers, and so strong
was the belief that the earl's power to make or to mar fortune was
all-paramount in England, that even a place in the king's household
was considered an inferior appointment to that which made Warwick the
immediate patron and protector. This was more especially the case
amongst the more haughty and ancient gentry since the favour shown by
Edward to the relations of his wife, and his own indifference to the
rank and birth of his associates. Warwick had therefore spoken with
truth when he expressed a comparative pity for the youth, whom he
could not better provide for than by a place about the court of his
sovereign!
The earl then drew from Marmaduke some account of his early training,
his dependence on his brother, his adventures at the archery-ground,
his misadventure with the robbers, and even his sojourn with Warner,--
though Marmaduke was discreetly silent as to the very existence of
Sibyll. The earl, in the mean while, walked to and fro the chamber
with a light, careless stride, every moment pausing to laugh at the
frank simplicity of his kinsman, or to throw in some shrewd remark,
which he cast purposely in the rough Westmoreland dialect; for no man
ever attains to the popularity that rejoiced or accursed the Earl of
Warwick, without a tendency to broad and familiar humour, without a
certain commonplace of character in its shallower and more every-day
properties. This charm--always great in the great--Warwick possessed
to perfection; and in him--such was his native and unaffected majesty
of bearing, and such the splendour that surrounded his name--it never
seemed coarse or unfamiliar, but "everything he did became him best."
Marmaduke had just brought his narrative to a conclusion, when, after
a slight tap at the door, which Warwick did not hear, two fair young
forms bounded joyously in, and not seeing the stranger, threw
themselves upon Warwick's breast with the caressing familiarity of
infancy.
"Ah, Father," said the elder of these two girls, as Warwick's hand
smoothed her hair fondly, "you promised you would take us in your
barge to see the sports on the river, and now it will be too late."
"Make your peace with your young cousins here," said the earl, turning
to Marmaduke; "you will cost them an hour's joyaunce. This is my
eldest daughter, Isabel; and this soft-eyed, pale-cheeked damozel--too
loyal for a leaf of the red rose--is the Lady Anne."
The two girls had started from their father's arms at the first
address to Marmaduke, and their countenances had relapsed from their
caressing and childlike expression into all the stately demureness
with which they had been brought up to regard a stranger. Howbeit,
this reserve, to which he was accustomed, awed Marmaduke less than the
alternate gayety and sadness of the wilder Sibyll, and he addressed
them with all the gallantry to the exercise of which he had been
reared, concluding his compliments with a declaration that he would
rather forego the advantage proffered him by the earl's favour with
the king, than foster one obnoxious and ungracious memory in damozels
so fair and honoured.
A haughty smile flitted for a moment over the proud young face of
Isabel Nevile; but the softer Anne blushed, and drew bashfully behind
her sister.
As yet these girls, born for the highest and fated to the most
wretched fortunes, were in all the bloom of earliest youth; but the
difference between their characters might be already observable in
their mien and countenance. Isabel; of tall and commanding stature,
had some resemblance to her father, in her aquiline features, rich,
dark hair, and the lustrous brilliancy of her eyes; while Anne, less
striking, yet not less lovely, of smaller size and slighter
proportions, bore in her pale, clear face, her dove-like eyes, and her
gentle brow an expression of yielding meekness not unmixed with
melancholy, which, conjoined with an exquisite symmetry of features,
could not fail of exciting interest where her sister commanded
admiration. Not a word, however, from either did Marmaduke abstract
in return for his courtesies, nor did either he or the earl seem to
expect it; for the latter, seating himself and drawing Anne on his
knee, while Isabella walked with stately grace towards the table that
bore her father's warlike accoutrements, and played, as it were,
unconsciously with the black plume on his black burgonet, said to
Nevile,
"Well, thou hast seen enough of the Lancastrian raptrils to make thee
true to the Yorkists. I would I could say as much for the king
himself, who is already crowding the court with that venomous faction,
in honour of Dame Elizabeth Gray, born Mistress Woodville, and now
Queen of England. Ha, my proud Isabel, thou wouldst have better
filled the throne that thy father built!"
And at these words a proud flash broke from the earl's dark eyes,
betraying even to Marmaduke the secret of perhaps his earliest
alienation from Edward IV.
Isabella pouted her rich lip, but said nothing. "As for thee, Anne,"
continued the earl, "it is a pity that monks cannot marry,--thou
wouldst have suited some sober priest better than a mailed knight.
'Fore George, I would not ask thee to buckle my baldrick when the war-
steeds were snorting, but I would trust Isabel with the links of my
hauberk."
"Nay, Father," said the low, timid voice of Anne, "if thou wert going
to danger, I could be brave in all that could guard thee!"
"Why, that's my girl! kiss me! Thou hast a look of thy mother now,--
so thou hast! and I will not chide thee the next time I hear thee
muttering soft treason in pity of Henry of Windsor."
"Is he not to be pitied?--Crown, wife, son, and Earl Warwick's stout
arm lost--lost!"
"No!" said Isabel, suddenly; no, sweet sister Anne, and fie on thee
for the words! He lost all, because he had neither the hand of a
knight nor the heart of a man! For the rest--Margaret of Anjou, or
her butchers, beheaded our father's father."
"And may God and Saint George forget me, when I forget those gray and
gory hairs!" exclaimed the earl; and putting away the Lady Anne
somewhat roughly, he made a stride across the room, and stood by his
hearth. "And yet Edward, the son of Richard of York, who fell by my
father's side--he forgets, he forgives! And the minions of Rivers the
Lancastrian tread the heels of Richard of Warwick."
At this unexpected turn in the conversation, peculiarly unwelcome, as
it may be supposed, to the son of one who had fought on the
Lancastrian side in the very battle referred to, Marmaduke felt
somewhat uneasy; and turning to the Lady Anne, he said, with the
gravity of wounded pride, "I owe more to my lord, your father, than I
even wist of,--how much he must have overlooked to--"
"Not so!" interrupted Warwick, who overheard him,--"not so; thou
wrongest me! Thy father was shocked at those butcheries; thy father
recoiled from that accursed standard; thy father was of a stock
ancient and noble as my own! But, these Woodvilles!--tush! my passion
overmasters me. We will go to the king,--it is time."
Warwick here rang the hand-bell on his table, and on the entrance of
his attendant gentleman, bade him see that the barge was in readiness;
then beckoning to his kinsman, and with a nod to his daughters, he
caught up his plumed cap, and passed at once into the garden.
"Anne," said Isabel, when the two girls were alone, "thou hast vexed
my father, and what marvel? If the Lancastrians can be pitied, the
Earl of Warwick must be condemned!"
"Unkind!" said Anne, shedding tears; "I can pity woe and mischance,
without blaming those whose hard duty it might be to achieve them."
"In good sooth cannot I! Thou wouldst pity and pardon till thou
leftst no distinction between foeman and friend, leife and loathing.
Be it mine, like my great father, to love and to hate!"
"Yet why art thou so attached to the White Rose?" said Anne, stung, if
not to malice, at least to archness. "Thou knowest my father's
nearest wish was that his eldest daughter might be betrothed to King
Edward. Dost thou not pay good for evil when thou seest no excellence
out of the House of York?"
"Saucy Anne," answered Isabel, with a half smile, "I am not raught by
thy shafts, for I was a child for the nurses when King Edward sought a
wife for his love. But were I chafed--as I may be vain enough to know
myself--whom should I blame?--Not the king, but the Lancastrian who
witched him!"
She paused a moment, and, looking away, added in a low tone, "Didst
thou hear, sister Anne, if the Duke of Clarence visited my father the
forenoon?"
"Ah, Isabel, Isabel!"
"Ah, sister Anne, sister Anne! Wilt thou know all my secrets ere I
know them myself?"--and Isabel, with something of her father's
playfulness, put her hands to Anne's laughing lips.
Meanwhile Warwick, after walking musingly a few moments along the
garden, which was formed by plots of sward, bordered with fruit-trees,
and white rose-trees not yet in blossom, turned to his silent kinsman,
and said, "Forgive me, cousin mine, my mannerless burst against thy
brave father's faction; but when thou hast been a short while at
court, thou wilt see where the sore is. Certes, I love this king!"
Here his dark face lighted up. "Love him as a king,--ay, and as a
son! And who would not love him; brave as his sword, gallant, and
winning, and gracious as the noonday in summer? Besides, I placed him
on his throne; I honour myself in him!"
The earl's stature dilated as he spoke the last sentence, and his hand
rested on his dagger hilt. He resumed, with the same daring and
incautious candour that stamped his dauntless, soldier-like nature,
"God hath given me no son. Isabel of Warwick had been a mate for
William the Norman; and my grandson, if heir to his grandsire's soul,
should have ruled from the throne of England over the realms of
Charlemagne! But it hath pleased Him whom the Christian knight alone
bows to without shame, to order otherwise. So be it. I forgot my
just pretensions,--forgot my blood, and counselled the king to
strengthen his throne with the alliance of Louis XI. He rejected the
Princess Bona of Savoy, to marry widow Elizabeth Gray; I sorrowed for
his sake, and forgave the slight to my counsels. At his prayer I
followed the train of his queen, and hushed the proud hearts of our
barons to obeisance. But since then, this Dame Woodville, whom I
queened, if her husband mated, must dispute this roiaulme with mine
and me,--a Nevile, nowadays, must vail his plume to a Woodville! And
not the great barons whom it will suit Edward's policy to win from the
Lancastrians--not the Exeters and the Somersets--but the craven
varlets and lackeys and dross of the camp--false alike to Henry and to
Edward--are to be fondled into lordships and dandled into power.
Young man, I am speaking hotly--Richard Nevile never lies nor
conceals; but I am speaking to a kinsman, am I not? Thou hearest,--
thou wilt not repeat?"
"Sooner would I pluck forth my tongue by the roots."
"Enough!" returned the earl, with a pleased smile. "When I come from
France, I will speak more to thee. Meanwhile be courteous to all men,
servile to none. Now to the king."
So speaking, he shook back his surcoat, drew his cap over his brow,
and passed to the broad stairs, at the foot of which fifty rowers,
with their badges on their shoulders, waited in the huge barge, gilt
richly at prow and stern, and with an awning of silk, wrought with the
earl's arms and cognizance. As they pushed off, six musicians, placed
towards the helm, began a slow and half Eastern march, which,
doubtless, some crusader of the Temple had brought from the cymbals
and trumps of Palestine.
CHAPTER II.
KING EDWARD THE FOURTH.
The Tower of London, more consecrated to associations of gloom and
blood than those of gayety and splendour, was, nevertheless, during
the reign of Edward IV., the seat of a gallant and gorgeous court.
That king, from the first to the last so dear to the people of London,
made it his principal residence when in his metropolis; and its
ancient halls and towers were then the scene of many a brawl and
galliard. As Warwick's barge now approached its huge walls, rising
from the river, there was much that might either animate or awe,
according to the mood of the spectator. The king's barge, with many
lesser craft reserved for the use of the courtiers, gay with awnings
and streamers and painting and gilding, lay below the wharfs, not far
from the gate of St. Thomas, now called the Traitor's Gate. On the
walk raised above the battlemented wall of the inner ward, not only
paced the sentries, but there dames and knights were inhaling the
noonday breezes, and the gleam of their rich dresses of cloth-of-gold
glanced upon the eye at frequent intervals from tower to tower. Over
the vast round turret, behind the Traitor's Gate, now called "The
Bloody Tower," floated cheerily in the light wind the royal banner.
Near the Lion's Tower, two or three of the keepers of the menagerie,
in the king's livery, were leading forth, by a strong chain, the huge
white bear that made one of the boasts of the collection, and was an
especial favourite with the king and his brother Richard. The
sheriffs of London were bound to find this grisly minion his chain and
his cord, when he deigned to amuse himself with bathing or "fishing"
in the river; and several boats, filled with gape-mouthed passengers,
lay near the wharf, to witness the diversions of Bruin. These folks
set up a loud shout of--"A Warwick! a Warwick!" "The stout earl, and
God bless him!" as the gorgeous barge shot towards the fortress. The
earl acknowledged their greeting by vailing his plumed cap; and
passing the keepers with a merry allusion to their care of his own
badge, and a friendly compliment to the grunting bear, he stepped
ashore, followed by his kinsman. Now, however, he paused a moment;
and a more thoughtful shade passed over his countenance, as, glancing
his eye carelessly aloft towards the standard of King Edward, he
caught sight of the casement in the neighbouring tower, of the very
room in which the sovereign of his youth, Henry the Sixth, was a
prisoner, almost within hearing of the revels of his successor; then,
with a quick stride, he hurried on through the vast court, and,
passing the White Tower, gained the royal lodge. Here, in the great
hall, he left his companion, amidst a group of squires and gentlemen,
to whom he formally presented the Nevile as his friend and kinsman,
and was ushered by the deputy-chamberlain (with an apology for the
absence of his chief, the Lord Hastings, who had gone abroad to fly
his falcon) into the small garden, where Edward was idling away the
interval between the noon and evening meals,--repasts to which already
the young king inclined with that intemperate zest and ardour which he
carried into all his pleasures, and which finally destroyed the
handsomest person and embruted one of the most vigorous intellects of
the age.
The garden, if bare of flowers, supplied their place by the various
and brilliant-coloured garbs of the living beauties assembled on its
straight walks and smooth sward. Under one of those graceful
cloisters, which were the taste of the day, and had been recently
built and gayly decorated, the earl was stopped in his path by a group
of ladies playing at closheys (ninepins) of ivory; [Narrative of Louis
of Bruges, Lord Grauthuse. Edited by Sir F. Madden, "Archaelogia,"
1836.] and one of these fair dames, who excelled the rest in her
skill, had just bowled down the central or crowned pin,--the king of
the closheys. This lady, no less a person than Elizabeth, the Queen
of England, was then in her thirty-sixth year,--ten years older than
her lord; but the peculiar fairness and delicacy of her complexion
still preserved to her beauty the aspect and bloom of youth. From a
lofty headgear, embroidered with fleur-de-lis, round which wreathed a
light diadem of pearls, her hair, of the pale yellow considered then
the perfection of beauty, flowed so straight and so shining down her
shoulders, almost to the knees, that it seemed like a mantle of gold.
The baudekin stripes (blue and gold) of her tunic attested her
royalty. The blue courtpie of satin was bordered with ermine, and the
sleeves, sitting close to an arm of exquisite contour, shone with seed
pearls. Her features were straight and regular, yet would have been
insipid, but for an expression rather of cunning than intellect; and
the high arch of her eyebrows, with a slight curve downward of a mouth
otherwise beautiful, did not improve the expression, by an addition of
something supercilious and contemptuous, rather than haughty or
majestic.
"My lord of Warwick," said Elizabeth, pointing to the fallen closhey,
"what would my enemies say if they heard I had toppled down the king?"
"They would content themselves with asking which of your Grace's
brothers you would place in his stead," answered the hardy earl,
unable to restrain the sarcasm.
The queen blushed, and glanced round her ladies with an eye which
never looked direct or straight upon its object, but wandered sidelong
with a furtive and stealthy expression, that did much to obtain for
her the popular character of falseness and self-seeking. Her
displeasure was yet more increased by observing the ill-concealed
smile which the taunt had called forth.
"Nay, my lord," she said, after a short pause, "we value the peace of
our roiaulme too much for so high an ambition. Were we to make a
brother even the prince of the closheys, we should disappoint the
hopes of a Nevile."
The earl disdained pursuing the war of words, and answering coldly,
"The Neviles are more famous for making ingrates than asking favours.
I leave your Highness to the closheys"--turned away, and strode
towards the king, who, at the opposite end of the garden, was
reclining on a bench beside a lady, in whose ear, to judge by her
downcast and blushing cheek, he was breathing no unwelcome whispers.
"Mort-Dieu!" muttered the earl, who was singularly exempt, himself,
from the amorous follies of the day, and eyed them with so much
contempt that it often obscured his natural downright penetration into
character, and never more than when it led him afterwards to underrate
the talents of Edward IV.,--"Mort-Dieu! if, an hour before the battle
of Towton, some wizard had shown me in his glass this glimpse of the
gardens of the Tower, that giglet for a queen, and that squire of
dames for a king, I had not slain my black destrier (poor Malech!),
that I might conquer or die for Edward Earl of March."
"But see!" said the lady, looking up from the enamoured and conquering
eyes of the king, "art thou not ashamed, my lord?--the grim earl comes
to chide thee for thy faithlessness to thy queen, whom he loves so
well."
"Pasque-Dieu! as my cousin Louis of France says or swears," answered
the king, with an evident petulance in his altered voice, "I would
that Warwick could be only worn with one's armour! I would as lief
try to kiss through my vizor as hear him talk of glory and Towton, and
King John and poor Edward II., because I am not always in mail. Go!
leave us, sweet bonnibel! we must brave the bear alone!" The lady
inclined her head, drew her hood round her face, and striking into the
contrary path from that in which Warwick was slowly striding, gained
the group round the queen, whose apparent freedom from jealousy, the
consequence of cold affections and prudent calculation, made one
principal cause of the empire she held over the powerful mind, but the
indolent temper, of the gay and facile Edward.
The king rose as Warwick now approached him; and the appearance of
these two eminent persons was in singular contrast. Warwick, though
richly and even gorgeously attired,--nay, with all the care which in
that age was considered the imperative duty a man of station and birth
owed to himself,--held in lofty disdain whatever vagary of custom
tended to cripple the movements or womanize the man. No loose flowing
robes, no shoon half a yard long, no flaunting tawdriness of fringe
and aiglet, characterized the appearance of the baron, who, even in
peace, gave his address a half-martial fashion.
But Edward, who, in common with all the princes of the House of York,
carried dress to a passion, had not only reintroduced many of the most
effeminate modes in vogue under William the Red King, but added to
them whatever could tend to impart an almost oriental character to the
old Norman garb. His gown (a womanly garment which had greatly
superseded, with men of the highest rank, not only the mantle but the
surcoat) flowed to his heels, trimmed with ermine, and broidered with
large flowers of crimson wrought upon cloth-of-gold. Over this he
wore a tippet of ermine, and a collar or necklace of uncut jewels set
in filigree gold; the nether limbs were, it is true, clad in the more
manly fashion of tight-fitting hosen, but the folds of the gown, as
the day was somewhat fresh, were drawn around so as to conceal the
only part of the dress which really betokened the male sex. To add to
this unwarlike attire, Edward's locks of a rich golden colour, and
perfuming the whole air with odours, flowed not in curls, but straight
to his shoulders, and the cheek of the fairest lady in his court might
have seemed less fair beside the dazzling clearness of a complexion at
once radiant with health and delicate with youth. Yet, in spite of
all this effeminacy, the appearance of Edward IV. was not effeminate.
From this it was preserved, not only by a stature little less
commanding than that of Warwick himself, and of great strength and
breadth of shoulder, but also by features, beautiful indeed, but pre-
eminently masculine,--large and bold in their outline, and evincing by
their expression all the gallantry and daring characteristic of the
hottest soldier, next to Warwick, and without any exception the ablest
captain, of the age.
"And welcome,--a merry welcome, dear Warwick, and cousin mine," said
Edward, as Warwick slightly bent his proud knee to his king; "your
brother, Lord Montagu, has but left us. Would that our court had the
same, joyaunce for you as for him."
"Dear and honoured my liege," answered Warwick, his brow smoothing at
once,--for his affectionate though hasty and irritable nature was
rarely proof against the kind voice and winning smile of his young
sovereign,--"could I ever serve you at the court as I can with the
people, you would not complain that John of Montagu was a better
courtier than Richard of Warwick. But each to his calling. I depart
to-morrow for Calais, and thence to King Louis. And, surely, never
envoy or delegate had better chance to be welcome than one empowered
to treat of an alliance that will bestow on a prince deserving, I
trust, his fortunes, the sister of the bravest sovereign in Christian
Europe."
"Now, out on thy flattery, my cousin; though I must needs own I
provoked it by my complaint of thy courtiership. But thou hast
learned only half thy business, good Warwick; and it is well Margaret
did not hear thee. Is not the prince of France more to be envied for
winning a fair lady than having a fortunate soldier for his brother-
in-law?"
"My liege," replied Warwick, smiling, "thou knowest I am a poor judge
of a lady's fair cheek, though indifferently well skilled as to the
valour of a warrior's stout arm. Algates, the Lady Margaret is indeed
worthy in her excellent beauties to become the mother of brave men."
"And that is all we can wring from thy stern lip, man of iron? Well,
that must content us. But to more serious matters." And the king,
leaning his hand on the earl's arm, and walking with him slowly to and
fro the terrace, continued: "Knowest thou not, Warwick, that this
French alliance, to which thou hast induced us, displeases sorely our
good traders of London?"
"Mort-Dieu!" returned Warwick, bluntly, "and what business have the
flat-caps with the marriage of a king's sister? Is it for them to
breathe garlic on the alliances of Bourbons and Plantagenets? Faugh!
You have spoiled them, good my lord king,--you have spoiled them by
your condescensions. Henry IV. staled not his majesty to
consultations with the mayor of his city. Henry V. gave the
knighthood of the hath to the heroes of Agincourt, not to the vendors
of cloth and spices."
"Ah, my poor knights of the Bath!" said Edward, good-humouredly, "wilt
thou never let that sore scar quietly over? Ownest thou not that the
men had their merits?"
"What the merits were, I weet not," answered the earl,--"unless,
peradventure, their wives were comely and young."
"Thou wrongest me, Warwick," said the king, carelessly; "Dame Cook was
awry, Dame Philips a grandmother, Dame Jocelyn had lost her front
teeth, and Dame Waer saw seven ways at once! But thou forgettest,
man, the occasion of those honours,--the eve before Elizabeth was
crowned,--and it was policy to make the city of London have a share in
her honours. As to the rest," pursued the king, earnestly and with
dignity, "I and my House have owed much to London. When the peers of
England, save thee and thy friends, stood aloof from my cause, London
was ever loyal and true. Thou seest not, my poor Warwick, that these
burgesses are growing up into power by the decline of the orders above
them. And if the sword is the monarch's appeal for his right, he must
look to contented and honoured industry for his buckler in peace.
This is policy,--policy, Warwick; and Louis XI. will tell thee the
same truths, harsh though they grate in a warrior's ear."
The earl bowed his haughty head, and answered shortly, but with a
touching grace, "Be it ever thine, noble king, to rule as it likes
thee, and mine to defend with my blood even what I approve not with my
brain! But if thou doubtest the wisdom of this alliance, it is not
too late yet. Let me dismiss my following, and cross not the seas.
Unless thy heart is with the marriage, the ties I would form are
threads and cobwebs."
"Nay," returned Edward, irresolutely: "in these great state matters
thy wit is elder than mine; but men do say the Count of Charolois is a
mighty lord; and the alliance with Burgundy will be more profitable to
staple and mart."
"Then, in God's name, so conclude it!" said the earl, hastily, but
with so dark a fire in his eyes that Edward, who was observing him,
changed countenance; "only ask me not, my liege, to advance such a
marriage. The Count of Charolois knows me as his foe--shame were mine
did I shun to say where I love, where I hate. That proud dullard once
slighted me when we met at his father's court, and the wish next to my
heart is to pay back my affront with my battle-axe. Give thy sister
to the heir of Burgundy, and forgive me if I depart to my castle of
Middleham."
Edward, stung by the sharpness of this reply, was about to answer as
became his majesty of king, when Warwick more deliberately resumed:
"Yet think well; Henry of Windsor is thy prisoner, but his cause lives
in Margaret and his son. There is but one power in Europe that can
threaten thee with aid to the Lancastrians; that power is France.
Make Louis thy friend and ally, and thou givest peace to thy life and
thy lineage; make Louis thy foe, and count on plots and stratagems and
treason, uneasy days and sleepless nights. Already thou hast lost one
occasion to secure that wiliest and most restless of princes, in
rejecting the hand of the Princess Bona. Happily, this loss now can
be retrieved. But alliance with Burgundy is war with France,--war
more deadly because Louis is a man who declares it not; a war carried
on by intrigue and bribe, by spies and minions, till some disaffection
ripens the hour when young Edward of Lancaster shall land on thy
coasts, with the Oriflamme and the Red Rose, with French soldiers and
English malcontents. Wouldst thou look to Burgundy for help?--
Burgundy will have enough to guard its own frontiers from the gripe of
Louis the Sleepless. Edward, my king, my pupil in arms, Edward, my
loved, my honoured liege, forgive Richard Nevile his bluntness, and
let not his faults stand in bar of his counsels."
"You are right, as you are ever, safeguard of England, and pillar of
my state," said the king, frankly, and pressing the arm he still held.
"Go to France and settle all as thou wilt."
Warwick bent low and kissed the hand of his sovereign. "And," said
he, with a slight, but a sad smile, "when I am gone, my liege will not
repent, will not misthink me, will not listen to my foes, nor suffer
merchant and mayor to sigh him back to the mechanics of Flanders?"
"Warwick, thou deemest ill of thy king's kingliness."
"Not of thy kingliness; but that same gracious quality of yielding to
counsel which bows this proud nature to submission often makes me fear
for thy firmness, when thy will is, won through thy heart. And now,
good my liege, forgive me one sentence more. Heaven forefend that I
should stand in the way of thy princely favours. A king's countenance
is a sun that should shine on all. But bethink thee well, the barons
of England are a stubborn and haughty race; chafe not thy most
puissant peers by too cold a neglect of their past services, and too
lavish a largess to new men."
"Thou aimest at Elizabeth's kin," interrupted Edward, withdrawing his
hand from his minister's arm, "and I tell thee once for all times,
that I would rather sink again to mine earldom of March, with a
subject's right to honour where he loves, than wear crown and wield
sceptre without a king's unquestioned prerogative to ennoble the line
and blood of one he has deemed worthy of his throne. As for the
barons, with whose wrath thou threatenest me, I banish them not. If
they go in gloom from my court, why, let them chafe themselves sleek
again."
"King Edward," said Warwick, moodily, "tried services merit not this
contempt. It is not as the kith of the queen that I regret to see
lands and honours lavished upon men rooted so newly to the soil that
the first blast of the war-trump will scatter their greenness to the
winds; but what sorrows me is to mark those who have fought against
thee preferred to the stout loyalty that braved block and field for
thy cause. Look round thy court; where are the men of bloody York and
victorious Towton?--unrequited, sullen in their strongholds, begirt
with their yeomen and retainers. Thou standest--thou, the heir of
York--almost alone (save where the Neviles--whom one day thy court
will seek also to disgrace and discard--vex their old comrades in arms
by their defection)--thou standest almost alone among the favourites
and minions of Lancaster. Is there no danger in proving to men that
to have served thee is discredit, to have warred against thee is
guerdon and grace?"
"Enough of this, cousin," replied the king, with an effort which
preserved his firmness. "On this head we cannot agree. Take what
else thou wilt of royalty,--make treaties and contract marriages,
establish peace or proclaim war; but trench not on my sweetest
prerogative to give and to forgive. And now, wilt thou tarry and sup
with us? The ladies grow impatient of a commune that detains from
their eyes the stateliest knight since the Round Table was chopped
into fire-wood."
"No, my liege," said Warwick, whom flattery of this sort rather
angered than soothed, "I have much yet to prepare. I leave your
Highness to fairer homage and more witching counsels than mine." So
saying, he kissed the king's hand, and was retiring, when be
remembered his kinsman, whose humble interests in the midst of more
exciting topics he had hitherto forgotten, and added, "May I crave,
since you are so merciful to the Lancastrians, one grace for my
namesake,--a Nevile whose father repented the side he espoused, a son
of Sir Guy of Arsdale?"
"Ah," said the king, smiling maliciously, "it pleaseth us much to find
that it is easier to the warm heart of our cousin Warwick to preach
sententiaries of sternness to his king than to enforce the same by his
own practice!"
"You misthink me, sire. I ask not that Marmaduke Nevile should
supplant his superiors and elders; I ask not that he should be made
baron and peer; I ask only that, as a young gentleman who hath taken
no part himself in the wars, and whose father repented his error, your
Grace should strengthen your following by an ancient name and a
faithful servant. But I should have remembered me that his name of
Nevile would have procured him a taunt in the place of advancement."
"Saw man ever so froward a temper?" cried Edward, not without reason.
"Why, Warwick, thou art as shrewish to a jest as a woman to advice.
Thy kinsman's fortunes shall be my care. Thou sayest thou hast
enemies,--I weet not who they be. But to show what I think of them, I
make thy namesake and client a gentleman of my chamber. When Warwick
is false to Edward, let him think that Warwick's kinsman wears a
dagger within reach of the king's heart day and night."
This speech was made with so noble and touching a kindness of voice
and manner, that the earl, thoroughly subdued, looked at his sovereign
with moistened eyes, and only trusting himself to say,--"Edward, thou
art king, knight, gentleman, and soldier; and I verily trow that I
love thee best when my petulant zeal makes me anger thee most,"--
turned away with evident emotion, and passing the queen and her ladies
with a lowlier homage than that with which he had before greeted them,
left the garden. Edward's eye followed him musingly. The frank
expression of his face vanished, and with the deep breath of a man who
is throwing a weight from his heart, he muttered,--
"He loves me,--yes; but will suffer no one else to love me! This must
end some day. I am weary of the bondage." And sauntering towards the
ladies, he listened in silence, but not apparently in displeasure, to
his queen's sharp sayings on the imperious mood and irritable temper
of the iron-handed builder of his throne.
CHAPTER III.
THE ANTECHAMBER.
As Warwick passed the door that led from the garden, he brushed by a
young man, the baudekin stripes of whose vest announced his
relationship to the king, and who, though far less majestic than
Edward, possessed sufficient of family likeness to pass for a very
handsome and comely person; but his countenance wanted the open and
fearless expression which gave that of the king so masculine and
heroic a character. The features were smaller, and less clearly cut,
and to a physiognomical observer there was much that was weak and
irresolute in the light blue eyes and the smiling lips which never
closed firmly over the teeth. He did not wear the long gown then so
much in vogue, but his light figure was displayed to advantage by a
vest, fitting it exactly, descending half-way down the thigh, and
trimmed at the border and the collar with ermine. The sleeves of the
doublet were slit, so as to show the white lawn beneath, and adorned
with aiglets and knots of gold.
Over the left arm hung a rich jacket of furs and velvet, something
like that adopted by the modern hussar. His hat, or cap, was high and
tiara-like, with a single white plume, and the ribbon of the Garter
bound his knee. Though the dress of this personage was thus far less
effeminate than Edward's, the effect of his appearance was infinitely
more so,--partly, perhaps, from a less muscular frame, and partly from
his extreme youth; for George Duke of Clarence was then, though
initiated not only in the gayeties, but all the intrigues of the
court, only in his eighteenth year. Laying his hand, every finger of
which sparkled with jewels, on the earl's shoulder--"Hold!" said the
young prince, in a whisper, "a word in thy ear, noble Warwick!"
The earl, who, next to Edward, loved Clarence the most of his princely
House, and who always found the latter as docile as the other (when
humour or affection seized him) was intractable, relaxed into a
familiar smile at the duke's greeting, and suffered the young prince
to draw him aside from the groups of courtiers with whom the chamber
was filled, to the leaning-places (as they were called) of a large
mullion window. In the mean while, as they thus conferred, the
courtiers interchanged looks, and many an eye of fear and hate was
directed towards the stately form of the earl. For these courtiers
were composed principally of the kindred or friends of the queen, and
though they dared not openly evince the malice with which they
retorted Warwick's lofty scorn and undisguised resentment at their new
fortunes, they ceased not to hope for his speedy humiliation and
disgrace, reeking little what storm might rend the empire, so that it
uprooted the giant oak, which still in some measure shaded their
sunlight and checked their growth. True, however, that amongst these
were mingled, though rarely, men of a hardier stamp and nobler birth,
--some few of the veteran friends of the king's great father; and
these, keeping sternly and loftily aloof from the herd, regarded
Warwick with the same almost reverential and yet affectionate
admiration which he inspired amongst the yeomen, peasants, and
mechanics,--for in that growing but quiet struggle of the burgesses,
as it will often happen in more civilized times, the great Aristocracy
and the Populace were much united in affection, though with very
different objects; and the Middle and Trading Class, with whom the
earl's desire for French alliances and disdain of commerce had much
weakened his popularity, alone shared not the enthusiasm of their
countrymen for the lion-hearted minister.
Nevertheless, it must here be owned that the rise of Elizabeth's
kindred introduced a far more intellectual, accomplished, and literary
race into court favour than had for many generations flourished in so
uncongenial a soil: and in this ante-chamber feud, the pride of
education and mind retaliated with juster sarcasm the pride of birth
and sinews.
Amongst those opposed to the earl, and fit in all qualities to be the
head of the new movement,--if the expressive modern word be allowed
us,--stood at that moment in the very centre of the chamber Anthony
Woodville, in right of the rich heiress he had married the Lord
Scales. As, when some hostile and formidable foe enters the meads
where the flock grazes, the gazing herd gather slowly round their
leader, so grouped the queen's faction slowly, and by degrees, round
this accomplished nobleman, at the prolonged sojourn of Warwick.
"Gramercy!" said the Lord Scales, in a somewhat affected intonation of
voice, "the conjunction of the bear and the young lion is a parlous
omen, for the which I could much desire we had a wise astrologer's
reading."
"It is said," observed one of the courtiers, "that the Duke of
Clarence much affects either the lands or the person of the Lady
Isabel."
"A passably fair damozel," returned Anthony, "though a thought or so
too marked and high in her lineaments, and wholly unlettered, no
doubt; which were a pity, for George of Clarence has some pretty taste
in the arts and poesies. But as Occleve hath it--
'Gold, silver, jewel, cloth, beddyng, array,'
would make gentle George amorous of a worse-featured face than high-
nosed Isabel; 'strange to spell or rede,' as I would wager my best
destrier to a tailor's hobby, the damozel surely is."
"Notest thou yon gaudy popinjay?" whispered the Lord of St. John to
one of his Towton comrades, as, leaning against the wall, they
overheard the sarcasms of Anthony, and the laugh of the courtiers, who
glassed their faces and moods to his. "Is the time so out of joint
that Master Anthony Woodville can vent his scurrile japes on the
heiress of Salisbury and Warwick in the king's chamber?"
"And prate of spelling and reading as if they were the cardinal
virtues?" returned his sullen companion. "By my halidame, I have two
fair daughters at home who will lack husbands, I trow, for they can
only spin and be chaste,--two maidenly gifts out of bloom with the
White Rose."
In the mean while, unwitting, or contemptuous, of the attention they
excited, Warwick and Clarence continued yet more earnestly to confer.
"No, George, no," said the earl, who, as the descendant of John of
Gaunt, and of kin to the king's blood, maintained, in private, a
father's familiarity with the princes of York, though on state
occasions, and when in the hearing of others, he sedulously marked his
deference for their rank--"no, George, calm and steady thy hot mettle,
for thy brother's and England's sake. I grieve as much as thou to
hear that the queen does not spare even thee in her froward and
unwomanly peevishness. But there is a glamour in this, believe me,
that must melt away soon or late, and our kingly Edward recover his
senses."
"Glamour!" said Clarence; "thinkest thou, indeed, that her mother,
Jacquetta, has bewitched the king? One word of thy belief in such
spells, spread abroad amongst the people, would soon raise the same
storm that blew Eleanor Cobham from Duke Humphrey's bed, along London
streets in her penance-shift."
"Troth," said the earl, indifferently, "I leave such grave questions
as these to prelate and priest; the glamour I spoke of is that of a
fair face over a wanton heart; and Edward is not so steady a lover
that this should never wear out."
"It amates me much, noble cousin, that thou leavest the court in this
juncture. The queen's heart is with Burgundy, the city's hate is with
France; and when once thou art gone, I fear that the king will be
teased into mating my sister with the Count of Charolois."
"Ho!" exclaimed Warwick, with an oath so loud that it rung through the
chamber, and startled every ear that heard it. Then, perceiving his
indiscretion, he lowered his tone into a deep and hollow whisper, and
griped the prince's arm almost fiercely as he spoke.
"Could Edward so dishonour my embassy, so palter and juggle with my
faith, so flout me in the eyes of Christendom, I would--I would--" he
paused, and relaxed his hold of the duke, and added, with an altered
voice--"I would leave his wife and his lemans, and yon things of silk,
whom he makes peers (that is easy) but cannot make men, to guard his
throne from the grandson of Henry V. But thy fears, thy zeal, thy
love for me, dearest prince and cousin, make thee misthink Edward's
kingly honour and knightly faith. I go with the sure knowledge that
by alliance with France I shut the House of Lancaster from all hope of
this roiaulme."
"Hadst thou not better, at least, see my sister Margaret? She has a
high spirit, and she thinks thou mightest, at least, woo her assent,
and tell her of the good gifts of her lord to be!"
"Are the daughters of York spoiled to this by the manners and guise of
a court, in which beshrew me if I well know which the woman and whom
the man? Is it not enough to give peace to broad England, root to her
brother's stem? Is it not enough to wed the son of a king, the
descendant of Charlemagne and Saint Louis? Must I go bonnet in hand
and simper forth the sleek personals of the choice of her kith and
House; swear the bridegroom's side-locks are as long as King Edward's,
and that he bows with the grace of Master Anthony Woodville? Tell her
this thyself, gentle Clarence, if thou wilt: all Warwick could say
would but anger her ear, if she be the maid thou bespeakest her."
The Duke of Clarence hesitated a moment, and then, colouring slightly,
said, "If, then, the daughter's hand be the gift of her kith alone,
shall I have thy favour when the Lady Isabel--"
"George," interrupted Warwick, with a fond and paternal smile, "when
we have made England safe, there is nothing the son of Richard of York
can ask of Warwick in vain. Alas!" he added mournfully, "thy father
and mine were united in the same murtherous death, and I think they
will smile down on us from their seats in heaven when a happier
generation cements that bloody union with a marriage bond!"
Without waiting for further parlance, the earl turned suddenly away,
threw his cap on his towering head, and strode right through the
centre of the whispering courtiers, who shrunk, louting low, from his
haughty path, to break into a hubbub of angry exclamations or
sarcastic jests at his unmannerly bearing, as his black plume
disappeared in the arch of the vaulted door.
While such the scene in the interior chambers of the palace,
Marmaduke, with the frank simpleness which belonged to his youth and
training, had already won much favour and popularity, and he was
laughing loud with a knot of young men by the shovel-board when
Warwick re-entered. The earl, though so disliked by the courtiers
more immediately about the person of the king, was still the favourite
of the less elevated knights and gentry who formed the subordinate
household and retainers; and with these, indeed, his manner, so proud
and arrogant to his foes and rivals, relapsed at once into the ease of
the manly and idolized chief. He was pleased to see the way made by
his young namesake, and lifting his cap, as he nodded to the group and
leaned his arm upon Marmaduke's shoulder, he said, "Thanks, and hearty
thanks, to you, knights and gentles, for your courteous reception of
an old friend's young son. I have our king's most gracious permission
to see him enrolled one of the court you grace. Ah, Master Falconer,
and how does thy worthy uncle?--braver knight never trod. What young
gentleman is yonder?--a new face and a manly one; by your favour,
present him. The son of a Savile! Sir, on my return, be not the only
Savile who shuns our table of Warwick Court. Master Dacres, commend
me to the lady, your mother; she and I have danced many a measure
together in the old time,--we all live again in our children. Good
den to you, sirs. Marmaduke, follow me to the office,--you lodge in
the palace. You are gentleman to the most gracious and, if Warwick
lives, to the most puissant of Europe's sovereigns. I shall see
Montagu at home; he shall instruct thee in thy duties, and requite
thee for all discourtesies on the archery-ground."
BOOK III.
IN WHICH THE HISTORY PASSES FROM THE KING'S COURT TO THE STUDENT'S
CELL, AND RELATES THE PERILS THAT BEFELL A PHILOSOPHER FOR MEDDLING
WITH THE AFFAIRS OF THE WORLD.
CHAPTER I.
THE SOLITARY SAGE AND THE SOLITARY MAID.
While such the entrance of Marmaduke Nevile into a court, that if far
less intellectual and refined than those of later days, was yet more
calculated to dazzle the fancy, to sharpen the wit, and to charm the
senses,--for round the throne of Edward IV. chivalry was magnificent,
intrigue restless, and pleasure ever on the wing,--Sibyll had ample
leisure in her solitary home to muse over the incidents that had
preceded the departure of the young guest. Though she had rejected
Marmaduke's proffered love, his tone, so suddenly altered, his abrupt,
broken words and confusion, his farewell, so soon succeeding his
passionate declaration, could not fail to wound that pride of woman
which never sleeps till modesty is gone. But this made the least
cause of the profound humiliation which bowed down her spirit. The
meaning taunt conveyed in the rhyme of the tymbesteres pierced her to
the quick; the calm, indifferent smile of the stranger, as he regarded
her, the beauty of the dame he attended, woke mingled and contrary
feelings, but those of jealousy were perhaps the keenest: and in the
midst of all she started to ask herself if indeed she had suffered her
vain thoughts to dwell too tenderly upon one from whom the vast
inequalities of human life must divide her evermore. What to her was
his indifference? Nothing,--yet had she given worlds to banish that
careless smile from her remembrance.
Shrinking at last from the tyranny of thoughts till of late unknown,
her eye rested upon the gipsire which Alwyn had sent her by the old
servant. The sight restored to her the holy recollection of her
father, the sweet joy of having ministered to his wants. She put up
the little treasure, intending to devote it all to Warner; and after
bathing her heavy eyes, that no sorrow of hers might afflict the
student, she passed with a listless step into her father's chamber.
There is, to the quick and mercurial spirits of the young, something
of marvellous and preternatural in that life within life, which the
strong passion of science and genius forms and feeds,--that passion so
much stronger than love, and so much more self-dependent; which asks
no sympathy, leans on no kindred heart; which lives alone in its works
and fancies, like a god amidst his creations.
The philosopher, too, had experienced a great affliction since they
met last. In the pride of his heart he had designed to show Marmaduke
the mystic operations of his model, which had seemed that morning to
open into life; and when the young man was gone, and he made the
experiment alone, alas! he found that new progress but involved him in
new difficulties. He had gained the first steps in the gigantic
creation of modern days, and he was met by the obstacle that baffled
so long the great modern sage. There was the cylinder, there the
boiler; yet, work as he would, the steam failed to keep the cylinder
at work. And now, patiently as the spider re-weaves the broken web,
his untiring ardour was bent upon constructing a new cylinder of other
materials. "Strange," he said to himself, "that the heat of the mover
aids not the movement;" and so, blundering near the truth, he laboured
on.
Sibyll, meanwhile, seated herself abstractedly on a heap of fagots
piled in the corner, and seemed busy in framing characters on the
dusty floor with the point of her tiny slipper. So fresh and fair and
young she seemed, in that murky atmosphere, that strange scene, and
beside that worn man, that it might have seemed to a poet as if the
youngest of the Graces were come to visit Mulciber at his forge.
The man pursued his work, the girl renewed her dreams, the dark
evening hour gradually stealing over both. The silence was unbroken,
for the forge and the model were now at rest, save by the grating of
Adam's file upon the metal, or by some ejaculation of complacency now
and then vented by the enthusiast. So, apart from the many-noised,
gaudy, babbling world without, even in the midst of that bloody,
turbulent, and semi-barbarous time, went on (the one neglected and
unknown, the other loathed and hated) the two movers of the ALL that
continues the airy life of the Beautiful from age to age,--the Woman's
dreaming Fancy and the Man's active Genius.
CHAPTER II.
MASTER ADAM WARNER GROWS A MISER, AND BEHAVES SHAMEFULLY.
For two or three days nothing disturbed the outward monotony of the
recluse's household. Apparently all had settled back as before the
advent of the young cavalier. But Sibyll's voice was not heard
singing, as of old, when she passed the stairs to her father's room.
She sat with him in his work no less frequently and regularly than
before; but her childish spirits no longer broke forth in idle talk or
petulant movements, vexing the good man from his absorption and his
toils. The little cares and anxieties, which had formerly made up so
much of Sibyll's day by forethought of provision for the morrow, were
suspended; for the money transmitted to her by Alwyn in return for the
emblazoned manuscripts was sufficient to supply their modest wants for
months to come. Adam, more and more engrossed in his labours, did not
appear to perceive the daintier plenty of his board, nor the purchase
of some small comforts unknown for years. He only said one morning,
"It is strange, girl, that as that gathers in life (and he pointed to
the model), it seems already to provide, to my fantasy, the luxuries
it will one day give to us all in truth. Methought my very bed last
night seemed wondrous easy, and the coverings were warmer, for I woke
not with the cold."
"Ah," thought the sweet daughter, smiling through moist eyes, "while
my cares can smooth thy barren path through life, why should I cark
and pine?"
Their solitude was now occasionally broken in the evenings by the
visits of Nicholas Alwyn. The young goldsmith was himself not
ignorant of the simpler mathematics; he had some talent for invention,
and took pleasure in the construction of horologes, though, properly
speaking, not a part of his trade. His excuse for his visits was the
wish to profit by Warner's mechanical knowledge; but the student was
so rapt in his own pursuits, that he gave but little instruction to
his visitor. Nevertheless Alwyn was satisfied, for he saw Sibyll. He
saw her in the most attractive phase of her character,--the loving,
patient, devoted daughter; and the view of her household virtues
affected more and more his honest English heart. But, ever awkward
and embarrassed, he gave no vent to his feelings. To Sibyll he spoke
little, and with formal constraint; and the girl, unconscious of her
conquest, was little less indifferent to his visits than her
abstracted father.
But all at once Adam woke to a sense of the change that had taken
place; all at once he caught scent of gold, for his works were brought
to a pause for want of some finer and more costly materials than the
coins in his own possession (the remnant of Marmaduke's gift) enabled
him to purchase. He had stolen out at dusk, unknown to Sibyll, and
lavished the whole upon the model; but in vain! The model in itself
was, indeed, completed; his invention had mastered the difficulty that
it had encountered. But Adam had complicated the contrivance by
adding to it experimental proofs of the agency it was intended to
exercise. It was necessary in that age, if he were to convince
others, to show more than the principle of his engine,--he must show
also something of its effects; turn a mill without wind or water, or
set in motion some mimic vehicle without other force than that the
contrivance itself supplied. And here, at every step, new obstacles
arose. It was the misfortune to science in those days, not only that
all books and mathematical instruments were enormously dear, but that
the students, still struggling into light, through the glorious
delusions of alchemy and mysticism, imagined that, even in simple
practical operations, there were peculiar virtues in virgin gold and
certain precious stones. A link in the process upon which Adam was
engaged failed him; his ingenuity was baffled, his work stood still;
and in poring again and again over the learned manuscripts--alas! now
lost--in which certain German doctors had sought to explain the
pregnant hints of Roger Bacon, he found it inculcated that the axle of
a certain wheel must be composed of a diamond. Now, in truth, it so
happened that Adam's contrivance, which (even without the appliances
which were added in illustration of the theory) was infinitely more
complicated than modern research has found necessary, did not even
require the wheel in question, much less the absent diamond; it
happened, also, that his understanding, which, though so obtuse in
common life, was in these matters astonishingly clear, could not trace
any mathematical operations by which the diamond axle would in the
least correct the difficulty that had suddenly started up; and yet the
accursed diamond began to haunt him,--the German authority was so
positive on the point, and that authority had in many respects been
accurate. Nor was this all,--the diamond was to be no vulgar diamond;
it was to be endowed, by talismanic skill, with certain properties and
virtues; it was to be for a certain number of hours exposed to the
rays of the full moon; it was to be washed in a primitive and wondrous
elixir, the making of which consumed no little of the finest gold.
This diamond was to be to the machine what the soul is to the body,--a
glorious, all-pervading, mysterious principle of activity and life.
Such were the dreams that obscured the cradle of infant science! And
Adam, with all his reasoning powers, big lore in the hard truths of
mathematics, was but one of the giant children of the dawn. The
magnificent phrases and solemn promises of the mystic Germans got firm
hold of his fancy. Night and day, waking or sleeping, the diamond,
basking in the silence of the full moon, sparkled before his eyes.
Meanwhile all was at a stand. In the very last steps of his discovery
he was arrested. Then suddenly looking round for vulgar moneys to
purchase the precious gem, and the materials for the soluble elixir,
he saw that MONEY had been at work around him,--that he had been
sleeping softly and faring sumptuously. He was seized with a divine
rage. How had Sibyll dared to secrete from him this hoard; how
presumed to waste upon the base body what might have so profited the
eternal mind? In his relentless ardour, in his sublime devotion and
loyalty to his abstract idea, there was a devouring cruelty, of which
this meek and gentle scholar was wholly unconscious. The grim iron
model, like a Moloch, ate up all things,--health, life, love; and its
jaws now opened for his child. He rose from his bed,--it was
daybreak,--he threw on his dressing-robe, he strode into his
daughter's room; the gray twilight came through the comfortless,
curtainless casement, deep sunk into the wall. Adam did not pause to
notice that the poor child, though she had provoked his anger by
refitting his dismal chamber, had spent nothing in giving a less
rugged frown to her own.
The scanty worm-worn furniture, the wretched pallet, the poor attire
folded decently beside,--nothing save that inexpressible purity and
cleanliness which, in the lowliest hovel, a pure and maiden mind
gathers round it; nothing to distinguish the room of her whose
childhood had passed in courts from the but of the meanest daughter of
drudgery and toil! No,--he who had lavished the fortunes of his
father and big child into the grave of his idea--no--he saw nothing of
this self-forgetful penury--the diamond danced before him! He
approached the bed; and oh! the contrast of that dreary room and
peasant pallet to the delicate, pure, enchanting loveliness of the
sleeping inmate. The scanty covering left partially exposed the snow-
white neck and rounded shoulder; the face was pillowed upon the arm,
in an infantine grace; the face was slightly flushed, and the fresh
red lips parted into a smile,--for in her sleep the virgin dreamed,--a
happy dream! It was a sight to have touched a father's heart, to have
stopped his footstep, and hushed his breath into prayer. And call not
Adam hard--unnatural--that he was not then, as men far more harsh than
he--for the father at that moment was not in his breast, the human man
was gone--he himself, like his model, was a machine of iron!--his life
was his one idea!
"Wake, child, wake!" he said, in a loud but hollow voice. "Where is
the gold thou hast hidden from me? Wake! confess!"
Roused from her gracious dreams thus savagely, Sibyll started, and saw
the eager, darkened face of her father. Its expression was peculiar
and undefinable, for it was not threatening, angry, stern; there was a
vacancy in the eyes, a strain in the features, and yet a wild, intense
animation lighting and pervading all,--it was as the face of one
walking in his sleep, and, at the first confusion of waking, Sibyll
thought indeed that such was her father's state. But the impatience
with which he shook the arm he grasped, and repeated, as he opened
convulsively his other hand, "The gold, Sibyll, the gold! Why didst
thou hide it from me?" speedily convinced her that her father's mind
was under the influence of the prevailing malady that made all its
weakness and all its strength.
"My poor father!" she said pityingly, "wilt thou not leave thyself the
means whereby to keep strength and health for thine high hopes? Ah,
Father, thy Sibyll only hoarded her poor gains for thee!"
"The gold!" said Adam, mechanically, but in a softer voice,--"all--all
thou hast! How didst thou get it,--how?"
"By the labours of these hands. Ah, do not frown on me!"
"Thou--the child of knightly fathers--thou labour!" said Adam, an
instinct of his former state of gentle-born and high-hearted youth
flashing from his eyes. "It was wrong in thee!"
"Dost thou not labour too?"
"Ay, but for the world. Well, the gold!"
Sibyll rose, and modestly throwing over her form the old mantle which
lay on the pallet, passed to a corner of the room, and opening a
chest, took from it the gipsire, and held it out to her father.
"If it please thee, dear and honoured sir, so be it; and Heaven
prosper it in thy hands!"
Before Adam's clutch could close on the gipsire, a rude hand was laid
on his shoulder, the gipsire was snatched from Sibyll, and the gaunt,
half-clad form of old Madge interposed between the two.
"Eh, sir!" she said, in her shrill, cracked tone, "I thought when I
heard your door open, and your step hurrying down, you were after no
good deeds. Fie, master, fie! I have clung to you when all reviled,
and when starvation within and foul words without made all my hire;
for I ever thought you a good and mild man, though little better than
stark wode. But, augh! to rob your child thus, to leave her to starve
and pine! We old folks are used to it. Look round, look round! I
remember this chamber, when ye first came to your father's hall.
Saints of heaven! There stood the brave bed all rustling with damask
of silk; on those stone walls once hung fine arras of the Flemings,--a
marriage gift to my lady from Queen Margaret, and a mighty show to
see, and good for the soul's comforts, with Bible stories wrought on
it. Eh, sir! don't you call to mind your namesake, Master Adam, in
his brave scarlet hosen, and Madam Eve, in her bonny blue kirtle and
laced courtpie? and now--now look round, I say, and see what you have
brought your child to!"
"Hush! hush! Madge, bush!" cried Sibyll, while Adam gazed in evident
perturbation and awakening shame at the intruder, turning his eyes
round the room as she spoke, and heaving from time to time short, deep
sighs.
"But I will not hush," pursued the old woman; "I will say my say, for
I love ye both, and I loved my poor mistress who is dead and gone.
Ah, sir, groan! it does you good. And now when this sweet damsel is
growing up, now when you should think of saving a marriage dower for
her (for no marriage where no pot boils), do you rend from her the
little that she has drudged to gain!--She! Oh, out on your heart! And
for what,--for what, sir? For the neighbours to set fire to your
father's house, and the little ones to--"
"Forbear, woman!" cried Adam, in a voice of thunder; "forbear!
Heavens!" And he waved his hand as he spoke, with so unexpected a
majesty that Madge was awed into sudden silence, and, darting a look
of compassion at Sibyll, she hobbled from the room. Adam stood
motionless an instant; but when he felt his child's soft arms round
his neck, when he heard her voice struggling against tears, praying
him not to heed the foolish words of the old servant,--to take--to
take all, that it would be easy to gain more,--the ice of his
philosophy melted at once; the man broke forth, and, clasping Sibyll
to his heart, and kissing her cheek, her lips, her hands, he faltered
out, "No! no! forgive me! Forgive thy cruel father! Much thought has
maddened me, I think,--it has indeed! Poor child, poor Sibyll," and
he stroked her cheek gently, and with a movement of pathetic pity--
"poor child, thou art pale, and so slight and delicate! And this
chamber--and thy loneliness--and--ah! my life hath been a curse to
thee, yet I meant to bequeath it a boon to all!
"Father, dear father, speak not thus. You break my heart. Here,
here, take the gold--or rather, for thou must not venture out to
insult again, let me purchase with it what thou needest. Tell me,
trust me--"
"No!" exclaimed Adam, with that hollow energy by which a man resolves
to impose restraint on himself; "I will not, for all that science ever
achieved,--I will not lay this shame on my soul! Spend this gold on
thyself, trim this room, buy thee raiment,--all that thou needest,--I
order, I command it! And hark thee, if thou gettest more, hide it
from me, hide it well; men's desires are foul tempters! I never knew,
in following wisdom, that I had a vice. I wake and find myself a
miser and a robber!"
And with these words he fled from the girl's chamber, gained his own,
and locked the door.
CHAPTER III.
A STRANGE VISITOR.--ALL AGES OF THE WORLD BREED WORLD-BETTERS.
Sibyll, whose soft heart bled for her father, and who now reproached
herself for having concealed from him her little hoard, began hastily
to dress that she might seek him out, and soothe the painful feelings
which the honest rudeness of Madge had aroused. But before her task
was concluded, there pealed a loud knock at the outer door. She heard
the old housekeeper's quivering voice responding to a loud clear tone;
and presently Madge herself ascended the stairs to Warner's room,
followed by a man whom Sibyll instantly recognized--for he was not one
easily to be forgotten--as their protector from the assault of the
mob. She drew back hastily as he passed her door, and in some wonder
and alarm awaited the descent of Madge. That venerable personage
having with some difficulty induced her master to open his door and
admit the stranger, came straight into her young lady's chamber.
"Cheer up, cheer up, sweetheart," said the old woman; "I think better
days will shine soon; for the honest man I have admitted says he is
but come to tell Master Warner something that will redound much to his
profit. Oh, he is a wonderful fellow, this same Robin! You saw how
he turned the cullions from burning the old house!"
"What! you know this man, Madge! What is he, and who?"
Madge looked puzzled. "That is more than I can say, sweet mistress.
But though he has been but some weeks in the neighbourhood, they all
hold him in high count and esteem. For why--it is said he is a rich
man and a kind one. He does a world of good to the poor."
While Sibyll listened to such explanations as Madge could give her,
the stranger, who had carefully closed the door of the student's
chamber, after regarding Adam for a moment with silent but keen
scrutiny, thus began,--
"When last we met, Adam Warner, it was with satchells on our backs.
Look well at me!"
"Troth," answered Adam, languidly, for he was still under the deep
dejection that had followed the scene with Sibyll, "I cannot call you
to mind, nor seems it veritable that our schooldays passed together,
seeing that my hair is gray and men call me old; but thou art in all
the lustihood of this human life."
"Nathless," returned the stranger, "there are but two years or so
between thine age and mine. When thou wert poring over the crabbed
text, and pattering Latin by the ell, dost thou not remember a lack-
grace good-for-naught, Robert Hilyard, who was always setting the
school in an uproar, and was finally outlawed from that boy-world, as
he hath been since from the man's world, for inciting the weak to
resist the strong?"
"Ah," exclaimed Adam, with a gleam of something like joy on his face,
"art thou indeed that riotous, brawling, fighting, frank-hearted, bold
fellow, Robert Hilyard? Ha! ha!--those were merry days! I have known
none like them--" The old schoolfellows shook hands heartily.
"The world has not fared well with thee in person or pouch, I fear me,
poor Adam," said Hilyard; "thou canst scarcely have passed thy
fiftieth year, and yet thy learned studies have given thee the weight
of sixty; while I, though ever in toil and bustle, often wanting a
meal, and even fearing the halter, am strong and hearty as when I shot
my first fallow buck in the king's forest, and kissed the forester's
pretty daughter. Yet, methinks, Adam, if what I hear of thy tasks be
true, thou and I have each been working for one end; thou to make the
world other than it is, and I to--"
"What! hast thou, too, taken nourishment from the bitter milk of
Philosophy,--thou, fighting Rob?"
"I know not whether it be called philosophy, but marry, Edward of York
would call it rebellion; they are much the same, for both war against
rules established!" returned Hilyard, with more depth of thought than
his careless manner seemed to promise. He paused, and laying his
broad brown hand on Warner's shoulder, resumed, "Thou art poor, Adam!"
"Very poor,--very, very!"
"Does thy philosophy disdain gold?"
"What can philosophy achieve without it? She is a hungry dragon, and
her very food is gold!"
"Wilt thou brave some danger--thou went ever a fearless boy when thy
blood was up, though so meek and gentle--wilt thou brave some danger
for large reward?"
"My life braves the scorn of men, the pinchings of famine, and, it may
be, the stake and the fagot. Soldiers brave not the dangers that are
braved by a wise man in an unwise age!"
"Gramercy! thou hast a hero's calm aspect while thou speakest, and thy
words move me! Listen! Thou wert wont, when Henry of Windsor was
King of England, to visit and confer with him on learned matters. He
is now a captive in the Tower; but his jailers permit him still to
receive the visits of pious monks and harmless scholars. I ask thee
to pay him such a visit, and for this office I am empowered, by richer
men than myself, to award thee the guerdon of twenty broad pieces of
gold."
"Twenty!--A mine! a Tmolus!" exclaimed Adam, in uncontrollable glee.
"Twenty! O true friend, then my work will be born at last!"
"But hear me further, Adam, for I will not deceive thee; the visit
hath its peril! Thou must first see if the mind of King Henry, for
king he is, though the usurper wear his holy crown, be clear and
healthful. Thou knowest he is subject to dark moods,--suspension of
man's reason; and if he be, as his friends hope, sane and right-
judging, thou wilt give him certain papers, which, after his hand has
signed them, thou wilt bring back to me. If in this thou succeedest,
know that thou mayst restore the royalty of Lancaster to the purple
and the throne; that thou wilt have princes and earls for favourers
and protectors to thy learned life; that thy fortunes and fame are
made! Fail, be discovered,--and Edward of York never spares!--thy
guerdon will be the nearest tree and the strongest rope!"
"Robert," said Adam, who had listened to this address with unusual
attention, "thou dealest with me plainly, and as man should deal with
man. I know little of stratagem and polity, wars and kings; and save
that King Henry, though passing ignorant in the mathematics, and more
given to alchemists than to solid seekers after truth, was once or
twice gracious to me, I could have no choice, in these four walls,
between an Edward and a Henry on the throne. But I have a king whose
throne is in mine own breast, and, alack, it taxeth me heavily, and
with sore burdens."
"I comprehend," said the visitor, glancing round the room,--"I
comprehend: thou wantest money for thy books and instruments, and thy
melancholic passion is thy sovereign. Thou wilt incur the risk?"
"I will," said Adam. "I would rather seek in the lion's den for what
I lack than do what I well-nigh did this day."
"What crime was that, poor scholar?" said Robin, smiling.
"My child worked for her bread and my luxuries--I would have robbed
her, old schoolfellow. Ha, ha! what is cord and gibbet to one so
tempted?"
A tear stood in the bright gray eyes of the bluff visitor. "Ah,
Adam," he said sadly, "only by the candle held in the skeleton hand of
Poverty can man read his own dark heart. But thou, Workman of
Knowledge, hast the same interest as the poor who dig and delve.
Though strange circumstance hath made me the servant and emissary of
Margaret, think not that I am but the varlet of the great." Hilyard
paused a moment, and resumed,--
"Thou knowest, peradventure, that my race dates from an elder date
than these Norman nobles, who boast their robber-fathers. From the
renowned Saxon Thane, who, free of hand and of cheer, won the name of
Hildegardis, [Hildegardis, namely, old German, a person of noble or
generous disposition. Wotton's "Baronetage," art. Hilyard, or
Hildyard, of Pattrington.] our family took its rise. But under these
Norman barons we sank with the nation to which we belonged. Still
were we called gentlemen, and still were dubbed knights. But as I
grew up to man's estate, I felt myself more Saxon than gentleman, and,
as one of a subject and vassal race, I was a son of the Saxon people.
My father, like thee, was a man of thought and bookcraft. I dare own
to thee that he was a Lollard; and with the religion of those bold
foes to priest-vice, goes a spirit that asks why the people should be
evermore the spoil and prey of lords and kings. Early in my youth, my
father, fearing rack and fagot in England, sought refuge in the Hans
town of Lubeck. There I learned grave truths,--how liberty can be won
and guarded. Later in life I saw the republics of Italy, and I asked
why they were so glorious in all the arts and craft of civil life,
while the braver men of France and England seemed as savages by the
side of the Florentine burgess, nay, of the Lombard vine-dresser. I
saw that, even when those republics fell a victim to some tyrant or
podesta, their men still preserved rights and uttered thoughts which
left them more free and more great than the Commons of England after
all their boasted wars. I came back to my native land and settled in
the North, as my franklin ancestry before me. The broad lands of my
forefathers had devolved on the elder line, and gave a knight's fee to
Sir Robert Hilyard, who fell afterwards at Towton for the
Lancastrians. But I had won gold in the far countree, and I took farm
and homestead near Lord Warwick's tower of Middleham. The feud
between Lancaster and York broke forth; Earl Warwick summoned his
retainers, myself amongst them, since I lived upon his land; I sought
the great earl, and I told him boldly--him whom the Commons deemed a
friend, and a foe to all malfaisance and abuse--I told him that the
war he asked me to join seemed to me but a war of ambitious lords, and
that I saw not how the Commons were to be bettered, let who would be
king. The earl listened and deigned to reason; and when he saw I was
not convinced, he left me to my will; for he is a noble chief, and I
admired even his angry pride, when he said, 'Let no man fight for
Warwick whose heart beats not in his cause.' I lived afterwards to
discharge my debt to the proud earl, and show him how even the lion
may be meshed, and how even the mouse may gnaw the net. But to my own
tragedy. So I quitted those parts, for I feared my own resolution
near so great a man; I made a new home not far from the city of York.
So, Adam, when all the land around bristled with pike and gisarme, and
while my own cousin and namesake, the head of my House, was winning
laurels and wasting blood--I, thy quarrelsome, fighting friend--lived
at home in peace with my wife and child (for I was now married, and
wife and child were dear to me), and tilled my lands. But in peace I
was active and astir, for my words inflamed the bosoms of labourers
and peasants, and many of them, benighted as they were, thought with
me. One day--I was absent from home, selling my grain in the marts of
York--one day there entered the village a young captain, a boy-chief,
Edward Earl of March, beating for recruits. Dost thou heed me, Adam?
Well, man--well, the peasants stood aloof from tromp and banner, and
they answered, to all the talk of hire and fame, 'Robin Hilyard tells
us we have nothing to gain but blows,--leave us to hew and to delve.'
Oh, Adam, this boy, this chief, the Earl of March, now crowned King
Edward, made but one reply, 'This Robin Hilyard must be a wise man,--
show me his house.' They pointed out the ricks, the barns, the
homestead, and in five minutes all--all were in flames. 'Tell the
hilding, when he returns, that thus Edward of March, fair to friends
and terrible to foes, rewards the coward who disaffects the men of
Yorkshire to their chief.' And by the blazing rafters, and the pale
faces of the silent crowd, he rode on his way to battle and the
throne!"
Hilyard paused, and the anguish of his countenance was terrible to
behold.
"I returned to find a heap of ashes; I returned to find my wife a
maniac; I returned to find my child--my boy--great God!--he had run to
hide himself, in terror at the torches and the grim men; they had
failed to discover him, till, too late, his shrieks, amidst the
crashing walls, burst on his mother's ear,--and the scorched, mangled,
lifeless corpse lay on that mother's bosom!"
Adam rose; his figure was transformed. Not the stooping student, but
the knight-descended man, seemed to tower in the murky chamber; his
hand felt at his side, as for a sword; he stifled a curse, and
Hilyard, in that suppressed low voice which evinces a strong mind in
deep emotion, continued his tale.
"Blessed be the Divine Intercessor, the mother of the dead died too!
Behold me, a lonely, ruined, wifeless, childless wretch! I made all
the world my foe! The old love of liberty (alone left me) became a
crime; I plunged into the gloom of the forest, a robber-chief,
sparing--no, never-never--never one York captain, one spurred knight,
one belted lord! But the poor, my Saxon countrymen, they had
suffered, and were safe!
"One dark twilight--thou hast heard the tale, every village minstrel
sets it to his viol--a majestic woman, a hunted fugitive, crossed my
path; she led a boy in her hand, a year or so younger than my murdered
child. 'Friend!' said the woman, fearlessly, 'save the son of your
king; I am Margaret, Queen of England!' I saved them both. From that
hour the robber-chief, the Lollard's son, became a queen's friend.
Here opened, at least, vengeance against the fell destroyer. Now see
you why I seek you, why tempt you into danger? Pause, if you will,
for my passion heats my blood,--and all the kings since Saul, it may
be, are not worth one scholar's life! And yet," continued Hilyard,
regaining his ordinary calm tone, "and yet, it seemeth to me, as I
said at first, that all who labour have in this a common cause and
interest with the poor. This woman-king, though bloody man, with his
wine-cups and his harlots, this usurping York--his very existence
flaunts the life of the sons of toil. In civil war and in broil, in
strife that needs the arms of the people, the people shall get their
own."
"I will go," said Adam, and he advanced to the door. Hilyard caught
his arm. "Why, friend, thou hast not even the documents, and how
wouldst thou get access to the prison? Listen to me; or," added the
conspirator, observing poor Adam's abstracted air, "or let me rather
speak a word to thy fair daughter; women have ready wit, and are the
pioneers to the advance of men! Adam, Adam! thou art dreaming!"--He
shook the philosopher's arm roughly.
"I heed you," said Warner, meekly.
"The first thing required," renewed Hilyard, "is a permit to see King
Henry. This is obtained either from the Lord Worcester, governor of
the Tower, a cruel man, who may deny it, or the Lord Hastings,
Edward's chamberlain, a humane and gentle one, who will readily grant
it. Let not thy daughter know why thou wouldst visit Henry; let her
suppose it is solely to make report of his health to Margaret; let her
not know there is scheming or danger,--so, at least, her ignorance
will secure her safety. But let her go to the lord chamberlain, and
obtain the order for a learned clerk to visit the learned prisoner--
to--ha! well thought of--this strange machine is, doubtless, the
invention of which thy neighbours speak; this shall make thy excuse;
thou wouldst divert the prisoner with thy mechanical--comprehendest
thou, Adam?"
"Ah, King Henry will see the model, and when he is on the throne--"
"He will protect the scholar!" interrupted Hilyard. "Good! good!
Wait here; I will confer with thy daughter." He gently pushed aside
Adam, opened the door, and on descending the stairs, found Sibyll by
the large casement where she had stood with Marmaduke, and heard the
rude stave of the tymbesteres.
The anxiety the visit of Hilyard had occasioned her was at once
allayed, when he informed her that he had been her father's
schoolmate, and desired to become his friend. And when he drew a
moving picture of the exiled condition of Margaret and the young
prince, and their natural desire to learn tidings of the health of the
deposed king, her gentle heart, forgetting the haughty insolence with
which her royal mistress had often wounded and chilled her childhood,
felt all the generous and compassionate sympathy the conspirator
desired to awaken. "The occasion," added Hilyard, "for learning the
poor captive's state now offers! He hath heard of your father's
labours; he desires to learn their nature from his own lips. He is
allowed to receive, by an order from King Edward's chamberlain, the
visits of those scholars in whose converse he was ever wont to
delight. Wilt thou so far aid the charitable work as to seek the Lord
Hastings, and crave the necessary license? Thou seest that thy father
has wayward and abstract moods; he might forget that Henry of Windsor
is no longer king, and might give him that title in speaking to Lord
Hastings,--a slip of the tongue which the law styles treason."
"Certes," said Sibyll, quickly, "if my father would seek the poor
captive, I will be his messenger to my Lord Hastings. But oh, sir, as
thou hast known my father's boyhood, and as thou hopest for mercy in
the last day, tempt to no danger one so guileless!"
Hilyard winced as he interrupted her hastily,
"There is no danger if thou wilt obtain the license. I will say
more,--a reward awaits him, that will not only banish his poverty but
save his life."
"His life!"
"Ay! seest thou not, fair mistress, that Adam Warner is dying, not of
the body's hunger, but of the soul's? He craveth gold, that his toils
may reap their guerdon. If that gold be denied, his toils will fret
him to the grave!"
"Alas! alas! it is true."
"That gold he shall honourably win! Nor is this all. Thou wilt see
the Lord Hastings: he is less learned, perhaps, than Worcester, less
dainty in accomplishments and gifts than Anthony Woodville, but his
mind is profound and vast; all men praise him save the queen's kin.
He loves scholars; he is mild to distress; he laughs at the
superstitions of the vulgar. Thou wilt see the Lord Hastings, and
thou mayst interest him in thy father's genius and his fate!"
"There is frankness in thy voice, and I will trust thee," answered
Sibyll. "When shall I seek this lord?"
"This day, if thou wilt. He lodges at the Tower, and gives access, it
is said, to all who need his offices, or seek succour from his power."
"This day, then, be it!" answered Sibyll, calmly.
Hilyard gazed at her countenance, rendered so noble in its youthful
resignation, in its soft firmness of expression, and muttering,
"Heaven prosper thee, maiden; we shall meet tomorrow," descended the
stairs, and quitted the house.
His heart smote him when he was in the street. "If evil should come
to this meek scholar, to that poor child's father, it would be a sore
sin to my soul. But no; I will not think it. The saints will not
suffer this bloody Edward to triumph long; and in this vast chessboard
of vengeance and great ends, we must move men to and fro, and harden
our natures to the hazard of the game."
Sibyll sought her father; his mind had flown back to the model. He
was already living in the life that the promised gold would give to
the dumb thought. True that all the ingenious additions to the
engine--additions that were to convince the reason and startle the
fancy--were not yet complete (for want, of course, of the diamond
bathed in moonbeams); but still there was enough in the inventions
already achieved to excite curiosity and obtain encouragement. So,
with care and diligence and sanguine hope the philosopher prepared the
grim model for exhibition to a man who had worn a crown, and might
wear again. But with that innocent and sad cunning which is so common
with enthusiasts of one idea, the sublime dwellers of the narrow
border between madness and inspiration, Adam, amidst his excitement,
contrived to conceal from his daughter all glimpse of the danger he
ran, of the correspondence of which he was to be the medium,--or
rather, may we think that he had forgotten both! Not the stout
Warwick himself, in the roar of battle, thought so little of peril to
life and limb as that gentle student, in the reveries of his lonely
closet; and therefore, all unsuspicious, and seeing but diversion to
Adam's recent gloom of despair, an opening to all his bright
prospects, Sibyll attired herself in her holiday garments, drew her
wimple closely round her face, and summoning Madge to attend her, bent
her way to the Tower. Near York House, within view of the Sanctuary
and the Palace of Westminster, they took a boat, and arrived at the
stairs of the Tower.
CHAPTER IV.
LORD HASTINGS.
William Lord Hastings was one of the most remarkable men of the age.
Philip de Comines bears testimony to his high repute for wisdom and
virtue. Born the son of a knight of ancient lineage but scanty lands,
he had risen, while yet in the prime of life, to a rank and an
influence second, perhaps, only to the House of Nevile. Like Lord
Montagu, he united in happy combination the talents of a soldier and a
courtier. But as a statesman, a schemer, a thinker, Montagu, with all
his craft, was inferior to Hastings. In this, the latter had but two
equals,--namely, George, the youngest of the Nevile brothers,
Archbishop of York; and a boy, whose intellect was not yet fully
developed, but in whom was already apparent to the observant the dawn
of a restless, fearless, calculating, and subtle genius. That boy,
whom the philosophers of Utrecht had taught to reason, whom the
lessons of Warwick had trained to arms, was Richard, Duke of
Gloucester, famous even now for his skill in the tilt-yard and his
ingenuity in the rhetoric of the schools.
The manners of Lord Hastings had contributed to his fortunes. Despite
the newness of his honours, even the haughtiest of the ancient nobles
bore him no grudge, for his demeanour was at once modest and manly.
He was peculiarly simple and unostentatious in his habits, and
possessed that nameless charm which makes men popular with the lowly
and welcome to the great. [On Edward's accession so highly were the
services of Hastings appreciated by the party, that not only the king,
but many of the nobility, contributed to render his wealth equal to
his new station, by grants of lands and moneys. Several years
afterwards, when he went with Edward into France, no less than two
lords, nine knights, fifty-eight squires, and twenty gentlemen joined
his train.--Dugdale: Baronage, p. 583. Sharon Turner: History of
England, vol. iii. p. 380.] But in that day a certain mixture of vice
was necessary to success; and Hastings wounded no self-love by the
assumption of unfashionable purism. He was regarded with small favour
by the queen, who knew him as the companion of Edward in his
pleasures, and at a later period accused him of enticing her faithless
lord into unworthy affections. And certain it is, that he was
foremost amongst the courtiers in those adventures which we call the
excesses of gayety and folly, though too often leading to Solomon's
wisdom and his sadness. But profligacy with Hastings had the excuse
of ardent passions: he had loved deeply, and unhappily, in his earlier
youth, and he gave in to the dissipation of the time with the restless
eagerness common to strong and active natures when the heart is not at
ease; and under all the light fascination of his converse; or the
dissipation of his life, lurked the melancholic temperament of a man
worthy of nobler things. Nor was the courtly vice of the libertine
the only drawback to the virtuous character assigned to Hastings by
Comines. His experience of men had taught him something of the
disdain of the cynic, and he scrupled not at serving his pleasures or
his ambition by means which his loftier nature could not excuse to his
clear sense. [See Comines, book vi., for a curious anecdote of what
Mr. Sharon Turner happily calls "the moral coquetry" of Hastings,--an
anecdote which reveals much of his character.] Still, however, the
world, which had deteriorated, could not harden him. Few persons so
able acted so frequently from impulse; the impulses were for the most
part affectionate and generous, but then came the regrets of caution
and experience; and Hastings summoned his intellect to correct the
movement of his heart,--in other words, reflection sought to undo what
impulse had suggested. Though so successful a gallant, he had not
acquired the ruthless egotism of the sensualist; and his conduct to
women often evinced the weakness of giddy youth rather than the cold
deliberation of profligate manhood. Thus in his veriest vices there
was a spurious amiability, a seductive charm; while in the graver
affairs of life the intellectual susceptibility of his nature served
but to quicken his penetration and stimulate his energies, and
Hastings might have said, with one of his Italian contemporaries,
"That in subjection to the influences of women he had learned the
government of men." In a word, his powers to attract, and his
capacities to command, may be guessed by this,--that Lord Hastings was
the only man Richard III. seems to have loved, when Duke of
Gloucester, [Sir Thomas More, "Life of Edward V.," speaks of "the
great love" Richard bore to Hastings.] and the only man he seems to
have feared, when resolved to be King of England.
Hastings was alone in the apartments assigned to him in the Tower,
when his page, with a peculiar smile, announced to him the visit of a
young donzell, who would not impart her business to his attendants.
The accomplished chamberlain looked up somewhat impatiently from the
beautiful manuscripts, enriched with the silver verse of Petrarch,
which lay open on his table, and after muttering to himself, "It is
only Edward to whom the face of a woman never is unwelcome," bade the
page admit the visitor. The damsel entered, and the door closed upon
her.
"Be not alarmed, maiden," said Hastings, touched by the downcast bend
of the hooded countenance, and the unmistakable and timid modesty of
his visitor's bearing. "What hast thou to say to me?"
At the sound of his voice, Sibyll Warner started, and uttered a faint
exclamation. The stranger of the pastime-ground was before her.
Instinctively she drew the wimple yet more closely round her face, and
laid her hand upon the bolt of the door as if in the impulse of
retreat.
The nobleman's curiosity was roused. He looked again and earnestly on
the form that seemed to shrink from his gaze; then rising slowly, he
advanced, and laid his band on her arm. "Donzell, I recognize thee,"
he said, in a voice that sounded cold and stern. "What service
wouldst thou ask me to render thee? Speak! Nay! I pray thee,
speak."
"Indeed, good my lord," said Sibyll, conquering her confusion; and,
lifting her wimple, her dark blue eyes met those bent on her, with
fearless truth and innocence, "I knew not, and you will believe me,--I
knew not till this moment that I had such cause for gratitude to the
Lord Hastings. I sought you but on the behalf of my father, Master
Adam Warner, who would fain have the permission accorded to other
scholars, to see the Lord Henry of Windsor, who was gracious to him in
other days, and to while the duress of that princely captive with the
show of a quaint instrument he has invented."
"Doubtless," answered Hastings, who deserved his character (rare in
that day) for humanity and mildness--"doubt less it will pleasure me,
nor offend his grace the king, to show all courtesy and indulgence to
the unhappy gentleman and lord, whom the weal of England condemns us
to hold incarcerate. I have heard of thy father, maiden, an honest
and simple man, in whom we need not fear a conspirator; and of thee,
young mistress, I have heard also, since we parted."
"Of me, noble sir?"
"Of thee," said Hastings, with a smile; and, placing a seat for her,
he took from the table an illuminated manuscript. "I have to thank
thy friend Master Alwyn for procuring me this treasure!"
"What, my lord!" said Sibyll, and her eyes glistened, were you--you
the--the--"
"The fortunate person whom Alwyn has enriched at so slight a cost?
Yes. Do not grudge me my good fortune in this. Thou hast nobler
treasures, methinks, to bestow on another!"
"My good lord!"
"Nay, I must not distress thee. And the young gentleman has a fair
face; may it bespeak a true heart!"
These words gave Sibyll an emotion of strange delight. They seemed
spoken sadly, they seemed to betoken a jealous sorrow; they awoke the
strange, wayward woman-feeling, which is pleased at the pain that
betrays the woman's influence: the girl's rosy lips smiled
maliciously. Hastings watched her, and her face was so radiant with
that rare gleam of secret happiness,--so fresh, so young, so pure, and
withal so arch and captivating, that hackneyed and jaded as he was in
the vulgar pursuit of pleasure, the sight moved better and tenderer
feelings than those of the sensualist. "Yes," he muttered to
himself, "there are some toys it were a sin to sport with and cast
away amidst the broken rubbish of gone passions!"
He turned to the table, and wrote the order of admission to Henry's
prison, and as he gave it to Sibyll, he said, "Thy young gallant, I
see, is at the court now. It is a perilous ordeal, and especially to
one for whom the name of Nevile opens the road to advancement and
honour. Men learn betimes in courts to forsake Love for Plutus, and
many a wealthy lord would give his heiress to the poorest gentleman
who claims kindred to the Earl of Salisbury and Warwick."
"May my father's guest so prosper," answered Sibyll, "for he seems of
loyal heart and gentle nature!"
"Thou art unselfish, sweet mistress," said Hastings; and, surprised by
her careless tone, he paused a moment: "or art thou, in truth,
indifferent? Saw I not thy hand in his, when even those loathly
tymbesteres chanted warning to thee for loving, not above thy merits,
but, alas, it may be, above thy fortunes?"
Sibyll's delight increased. Oh, then, he had not applied that hateful
warning to himself! He guessed not her secret. She blushed, and the
blush was so chaste and maidenly, while the smile that went with it
was so ineffably animated and joyous, that Hastings exclaimed, with
unaffected admiration, "Surely, fair donzell, Petrarch dreamed of
thee, when he spoke of the woman-blush and the angel-smile of Laura.
Woe to the man who would injure thee! Farewell! I would not see thee
too often, unless I saw thee ever."
He lifted her hand to his lips with a chivalrous respect as he spoke;
opened the door, and called his page to attend her to the gates.
Sibyll was more flattered by the abrupt dismissal than if he had knelt
to detain her. How different seemed the world as her light step
wended homeward!
CHAPTER V.
MASTER ADAM WARNER AND KING HENRY THE SIXTH.
The next morning Hilyard revisited Warner with the letters for Henry.
The conspirator made Adam reveal to him the interior mechanism of the
Eureka, to which Adam, who had toiled all night, had appended one of
the most ingenious contrivances he had as yet been enabled (sans the
diamond) to accomplish, for the better display of the agencies which
the engine was designed to achieve. This contrivance was full of
strange cells and recesses, in one of which the documents were placed.
And there they lay, so well concealed as to puzzle the minutest
search, if not aided by the inventor, or one to whom he had
communicated the secrets of the contrivance.
After repeated warnings and exhortations to discretion, Hilyard then,
whose busy, active mind had made all the necessary arrangements,
summoned a stout-looking fellow, whom he had left below, and with his
aid conveyed the heavy machine across the garden, to a back lane,
where a mule stood ready to receive the burden.
"Suffer this trusty fellow to guide thee, dear Adam; he will take thee
through ways where thy brutal neighbours are not likely to meet and
molest thee. Call all thy wits to the surface. Speed and prosper!"
"Fear not," said Adam, disdainfully. "In the neighbourhood of kings,
science is ever safe. Bless thee, child," and he laid his hand upon
Sibyll's head, for she had accompanied them thus far in silence, "now
go in."
"I go with thee, Father," said Sibyll, firmly. "Master Hilyard, it is
best so," she whispered; "what if my father fall into one of his
reveries?"
"You are right: go with him, at least, to the Tower gate. Hard by is
the house of a noble dame and a worthy, known to our friend Hugh,
where thou mayest wait Master Warner's return. It will not suit thy
modesty and sex to loiter amongst the pages and soldiery in the yard.
Adam, thy daughter must wend with thee."
Adam had not attended to this colloquy, and mechanically bowing his
head, he set off, and was greatly surprised, on gaining the river-side
(where a boat was found large enough to accommodate not only the human
passengers, but the mule and its burden), to see Sibyll by his side.
The imprisonment of the unfortunate Henry, though guarded with
sufficient rigour against all chances of escape, was not, as the
reader has perceived, at this period embittered by unnecessary
harshness. His attendants treated him with respect, his table was
supplied more abundantly and daintily than his habitual abstinence
required, and the monks and learned men whom he had favoured, were, we
need not repeat, permitted to enliven his solitude with their grave
converse.
On the other hand, all attempts at correspondence between Margaret or
the exiled Lancastrians and himself had been jealously watched, and
when detected, the emissaries had been punished with relentless
severity. A man named Hawkins had been racked for attempting to
borrow money for the queen from the great London merchant, Sir Thomas
Cook. A shoemaker had been tortured to death with red-hot pincers for
abetting her correspondence with her allies. Various persons had been
racked for similar offences; but the energy of Margaret and the zeal
of her adherents were still unexhausted and unconquered.
Either unconscious or contemptuous of the perils to which he was
subjected, the student, with his silent companions, performed the
voyage, and landed in sight of the Fortress-Palatine. And now Hugh
stopped before a house of good fashion, knocked at the door, which was
opened by an old servitor, disappeared for a few moments, and
returning, informed Sibyll, in a meaning whisper, that the gentlewoman
within was a good Lancastrian, and prayed the donzell to rest in her
company till Master Warner's return.
Sibyll, accordingly, after pressing her father's hand without fear--
for she had deemed the sole danger Adam risked was from the rabble by
the way--followed Hugh into a fair chamber, strewed with rushes, where
an aged dame, of noble air and aspect, was employed at her broidery
frame. This gentlewoman, the widow of a nobleman who had fallen in
the service of Henry, received her graciously, and Hugh then retired
to complete his commission. The student, the mule, the model, and the
porter pursued their way to the entrance of that part of the gloomy
palace inhabited by Henry. Here they were stopped, and Adam, after
rummaging long in vain for the chamberlain's passport, at last happily
discovered it, pinned to his sleeve, by Sibyll's forethought. On this
a gentleman was summoned to inspect the order, and in a few moments
Adam was conducted to the presence of the illustrious prisoner.
"And what," said a subaltern officer, lolling by the archway of the
(now styled) "Bloody Tower," hard by the turret devoted to the
prisoner, [The Wakefield Tower] and speaking to Adam's guide, who
still mounted guard by the model,--"what may be the precious burden of
which thou art the convoy?"
"Marry, sir," said Hugh, who spoke in the strong Yorkshire dialect,
which we are obliged to render into intelligible English--"marry, I
weet not,--it is some curious puppet-box, or quiet contrivance, that
Master Warner, whom they say is a very deft and ingenious personage,
is permitted to bring hither for the Lord Henry's diversion."
"A puppet-box!" said the officer, with much animated curiosity.
"'Fore the Mass! that must be a pleasant sight. Lift the lid,
fellow!"
"Please your honour, I do not dare," returned Hugh,--"I but obey
orders."
"Obey mine, then. Out of the way," and the officer lifted the lid of
the pannier with the point of his dagger, and peered within. He drew
back, much disappointed. "Holy Mother!" said he, "this seemeth more
like an instrument of torture than a juggler's merry device. It looks
parlous ugly!"
"Hush!" said one of the lazy bystanders, with whom the various
gateways and courts of the Palace-Fortress were crowded, "hush--thy
cap and thy knee, sir!"
The officer started; and, looking round, perceived a young man of low
stature, followed by three or four knights and nobles, slowly
approaching towards the arch, and every cap in the vicinity was off,
and every knee bowed.
The eye of this young man was already bent, with a searching and keen
gaze, upon the motionless mule, standing patiently by the Wakefield
Tower; and turning from the mule to the porter, the latter shrunk, and
grew pale, at that dark, steady, penetrating eye, which seemed to
pierce at once into the secrets and hearts of men.
"Who may this young lord be?" he whispered to the officer.
"Prince Richard, Duke of Gloucester, man," was the answer. "Uncover,
varlet!"
"Surely," said the prince, pausing by the gate, "surely this is no
sumpter-mule, bearing provisions to the Lord Henry of Windsor. It
would be but poor respect to that noble person, whom, alas the day!
his grace the king is unwillingly compelled to guard from the
malicious designs of rebels and mischief-seekers, that one not bearing
the king's livery should attend to any of the needful wants of so
worshipful a lord and guest!"
"My lord," said the officer at the gate, "one Master Adam Warner hath
just, by permission, been conducted to the Lord Henry's presence, and
the beast beareth some strange and grim-looking device for my lord's
diversion."
The singular softness and urbanity which generally characterized the
Duke of Gloucester's tone and bearing at that time,--which in a court
so full of factions and intrigues made him the enemy of none and
seemingly the friend of all, and, conjoined with abilities already
universally acknowledged, had given to his very boyhood a pre-eminence
of grave repute and good opinion, which, indeed, he retained till the
terrible circumstances connected with his accession to the throne,
under the bloody name of Richard the Third, roused all men's hearts
and reasons into the persuasion that what before had seemed virtue was
but dissimulation,--this singular sweetness, we say, of manner and
voice, had in it, nevertheless, something that imposed and thrilled
and awed. And in truth, in our common and more vulgar intercourse
with life, we must have observed, that where external gentleness of
bearing is accompanied by a repute for iron will, determined
resolution, and a serious, profound, and all-inquiring intellect, it
carries with it a majesty wholly distinct from that charm which is
exercised by one whose mildness of nature corresponds with the outward
humility; and, if it does not convey the notion of falseness, bears
the appearance of that perfect self-possession, that calm repose of
power, which intimidates those it influences far more than the
imperious port and the loud voice. And they who best knew the duke,
knew also that, despite this general smoothness of mien, his
temperament was naturally irritable, quick, and subject to stormy
gusts of passion, the which defects his admirers praised him for
labouring hard and sedulously to keep in due control. Still, to a
keen observer, the constitutional tendencies of that nervous
temperament were often visible, even in his blandest moments, even
when his voice was most musical, his smile most gracious. If
something stung or excited him, an uneasy gnawing of the nether lip, a
fretful playing with his dagger, drawing it up and down from its
sheath, [Pol. Virg. 565] a slight twitching of the muscles of the
face, and a quiver of the eyelid, betokened the efforts he made at
self-command; and now, as his dark eyes rested upon Hugh's pale
countenance, and then glanced upon the impassive mule, dozing quietly
under the weight of poor Adam's model, his hand mechanically sought
his dagger-hilt, and his face took a sinister and sombre expression.
"Thy name, friend?"
"Hugh Withers, please you, my lord duke."
"Um! North country, by thine accent. Dost thou serve this Master
Warner?"
"No, my lord, I was only hired with my mule to carry--"
"Ah, true! to carry what thy pannier contains; open it. Holy Paul! a
strange jonglerie indeed! This Master Adam Warner,--methinks, I have
heard his name--a learned man--um--let me see his safe conduct.
Right,--it is Lord Hastings's signature." But still the prince held
the passport, and still suspiciously eyed the Eureka and its
appliances, which, in their complicated and native ugliness of doors,
wheels, pipes, and chimney, were exposed to his view. At this moment,
one of the attendants of Henry descended the stairs of the Wakefield
Tower, with a request that the model might be carried up to divert the
prisoner.
Richard paused a moment, as the officer hesitatingly watched his
countenance before giving the desired permission. But the prince,
turning to him, and smoothing his brow, said mildly, "Certes! all that
can divert the Lord Henry must be innocent pastime. And I am well
pleased that he hath this cheerful mood for recreation. It gainsayeth
those who would accuse us of rigour in his durance. Yes, this warrant
is complete and formal;" and the prince returned the passport to the
officer, and walked slowly on through that gloomy arch ever more
associated with Richard of Gloucester's memory, and beneath the very
room in which our belief yet holds that the infant sons of Edward IV.
breathed their last; still, as Gloucester moved, he turned and turned,
and kept his eye furtively fixed upon the porter.
"Lovell," he said to one of the gentlemen who attended him, and who
was among the few admitted to his more peculiar intimacy, "that man is
of the North."
"Well, my lord?"
"The North was always well affected to the Lancastrians. Master
Warner hath been accused of witchcraft. Marry, I should like to see
his device--um; Master Catesby, come hither,--approach, sir. Go back,
and the instant Adam Warner and his contrivance are dismissed, bring
them both to me in the king's chamber. Thou understandest? We too
would see his device,--and let neither man nor mechanical, when once
they reappear, out of thine eye's reach. For divers and subtle are
the contrivances of treasonable men!"
Catesby bowed, and Richard, without speaking further, took his way to
the royal apartments, which lay beyond the White Tower, towards the
river, and are long since demolished.
Meanwhile the porter, with the aid of one of the attendants, had
carried the model into the chamber of the august captive. Henry,
attired in a loose robe, was pacing the room with a slow step, and his
head sunk on his bosom,--while Adam with much animation was enlarging
on the wonders of the contrivance he was about to show him. The
chamber was commodious, and furnished with sufficient attention to the
state and dignity of the prisoner; for Edward, though savage and
relentless when his blood was up, never descended into the cool and
continuous cruelty of detail.
The chamber may yet be seen,--its shape a spacious octagon; but the
walls now rude and bare were then painted and blazoned with scenes
from the Old Testament. The door opened beneath the pointed arch in
the central side (not where it now does), giving entrance from a small
anteroom, in which the visitor now beholds the receptacle for old
rolls and papers. At the right, on entering, where now, if our memory
mistake not, is placed a press, stood the bed, quaintly carved, and
with hangings of damascene. At the farther end the deep recess which
faced the ancient door was fitted up as a kind of oratory. And there
were to be seen, besides the crucifix and the Mass-book, a profusion
of small vessels of gold and crystal, containing the relics, supposed
or real, of saint and martyr, treasures which the deposed king had
collected in his palmier days at a sum that, in the minds of his
followers, had been better bestowed on arms and war-steeds. A young
man named Allerton--one of the three gentlemen personally attached to
Henry, to whom Edward had permitted general access, and who, in fact,
lodged in other apartments of the Wakefield Tower, and might be said
to share his captivity--was seated before a table, and following the
steps of his musing master, with earnest and watchful eyes.
One of the small spaniels employed in springing game--for Henry,
despite his mildness, had been fond of all the sports of the field--
lay curled round on the floor, but started up, with a shrill bark, at
the entrance of the bearer of the model, while a starling in a cage by
the window, seemingly delighted at the disturbance, flapped his wings,
and screamed out, "Bad men! Bad world! Poor Henry!"
The captive paused at that cry, and a sad and patient smile of
inexpressible melancholy and sweetness hovered over his lips. Henry
still retained much of the personal comeliness he possessed at the
time when Margaret of Anjou, the theme of minstrel and minne singer,
left her native court of poets for the fatal throne of England. But
beauty, usually so popular and precious a gift to kings, was not in
him of that order which commanded the eye and moved the admiration of
a turbulent people and a haughty chivalry. The features, if regular,
were small; their expression meek and timid; the form, though tall,
was not firm-knit and muscular; the lower limbs were too thin, the
body had too much flesh, the delicate hands betrayed the sickly
paleness of feeble health; there was a dreamy vagueness in the clear
soft blue eyes, and a listless absence of all energy in the habitual
bend, the slow, heavy, sauntering tread,--all about that benevolent
aspect, that soft voice, that resigned mien, and gentle manner, spoke
the exquisite, unresisting goodness, which provoked the lewd to taunt,
the hardy to despise, the insolent to rebel; for the foes of a king in
stormy times are often less his vices than his virtues.
"And now, good my lord," said Adam, hastening, with eager hands, to
assist the bearer in depositing the model on the table--"now will I
explain to you the contrivance which it hath cost me long years of
patient toil to shape from thought into this iron form."
"But first," said Allerton, "were it not well that these good people
withdrew? A contriver likes not others to learn his secret ere the
time hath come to reap its profits."
"Surely, surely!" said Adam, and alarmed at the idea thus suggested,
he threw the folds of his gown over the model.
The attendant bowed and retired; Hugh followed him, but not till he
had exchanged a significant look with Allerton. As soon as the room
was left clear to Adam, the captive, and Master Allerton, the last
rose, and looking hastily round the chamber, approached the
mechanician. "Quick, sir!" said he, in a whisper, "we are not often
left without witnesses."
"Verily," said Adam, who had now forgotten kings and stratagems, plots
and counterplots, and was all absorbed in his invention, "verily,
young man, hurry not in this fashion,--I am about to begin. Know, my
lord," and he turned to Henry, who, with an indolent, dreamy gaze,
stood contemplating the Eureka,--"know that more than a hundred years
before the Christian era, one Hero, an Alexandrian, discovered the
force produced by the vapour begot by heat on water. That this power
was not unknown to the ancient sages, witness the contrivance, not
otherwise to be accounted for, of the heathen oracles; but to our
great countryman and predecessor, Roger Bacon, who first suggested
that vehicles might be drawn without steeds or steers, and ships
might--"
"Marry, sir," interrupted Allerton, with great impatience, "it is not
to prate to us of such trivial fables of Man, or such wanton sports of
the Foul Fiend, that thou hast risked limb and life. Time is
precious. I have been prevised that thou hast letters for King Henry;
produce them, quick!"
A deep glow of indignation had overspread the enthusiast's face at the
commencement of this address; but the close reminded him, in truth, of
his errand.
"Hot youth," said he, with dignity, "a future age may judge
differently of what thou deemest trivial fables, and may rate high
this poor invention when the brawls of York and Lancaster are
forgotten."
"Hear him," said Henry, with a soft smile, and laying his hand on the
shoulder of the young man, who was about to utter a passionate and
scornful retort,--"hear him, sir. Have I not often and ever said
this same thing to thee? We children of a day imagine our contests
are the sole things that move the world. Alack! our fathers thought
the same; and they and their turmoils sleep forgotten! Nay, Master
Warner,"--for here Adam, poor man, awed by Henry's mildness into shame
at his discourteous vaunting, began to apologize,--"nay, sir, nay--
thou art right to contemn our bloody and futile struggles for a crown
of thorns; for--"
'Kingdoms are but cares,
State is devoid of stay
Riches are ready snares,
And hasten to decay.'
[Lines ascribed to Henry VI., with commendation "as a prettie verse,"
by Sir John Harrington, in the "Nugae Antiquate." They are also given,
with little alteration, to the unhappy king by Baldwin, in his tragedy
of "King Henry VI."]
"And yet, sir, believe me, thou hast no cause for vain glory in thine
own craft and labours; for to wit and to lere there are the same
vanity and vexation of spirit as to war and empire. Only, O would-be
wise man, only when we muse on Heaven do our souls ascend from the
fowler's snare!"
"My saint-like liege," said Allerton, bowing low, and with tears in
his eyes, "thinkest thou not that thy very disdain of thy rights makes
thee more worthy of them? If not for thine, for thy son's sake,
remember that the usurper sits on the throne of the conqueror of
Agincourt!--Sir Clerk, the letters."
Adam, already anxious to retrieve the error of his first
forgetfulness, here, after a moment's struggle for the necessary
remembrance, drew the papers from the labyrinthine receptacle which
concealed them; and Henry uttered an exclamation of joy as, after
cutting the silk, his eye glanced over the writing--
"My Margaret! my wife!" Presently he grew pale, and his hands
trembled. "Saints defend her! Saints defend her! She is here,
disguised, in London!"
"Margaret! our hero-queen! the manlike woman!" exclaimed Allerton,
clasping his hands. "Then be sure that--" He stopped, and abruptly
taking Adam's arm, drew him aside, while Henry continued to read--
"Master Warner, we may trust thee,--thou art one of us; thou art sent
here, I know; by Robin of Redesdale,--we may trust thee?"
"Young sir," replied the philosopher, gravely, "the fears and hopes of
power are not amidst the uneasier passions of the student's mind. I
pledged myself but to bear these papers hither, and to return with
what may be sent back."
"But thou didst this for love of the cause, the truth, and the right?"
"I did it partly from Hilyard's tale of wrong, but partly, also, for
the gold," answered Adam, simply; and his noble air, his high brow,
the serene calm of his features, so contrasted with the meanness
implied in the latter words of his confession, that Allerton stared at
him amazed, and without reply.
Meanwhile Henry had concluded the letter, and with a heavy sigh
glanced over the papers that accompanied it. "Alack! alack! more
turbulence, more danger and disquiet, more of my people's blood!" He
motioned to the young man, and drawing him to the window, while Adam
returned to his model, put the papers in his hand. "Allerton," he
said, "thou lovest me, but thou art one of the few in this distraught
land who love also God. Thou art not one of the warriors, the men of
steel. Counsel me. See: Margaret demands my signature to these
papers; the one, empowering and craving the levy of men and arms in
the northern counties; the other, promising free pardon to all who
will desert Edward; the third--it seemeth to me more strange and less
kinglike than the others--undertaking to abolish all the imposts and
all the laws that press upon the commons, and (is this a holy and
pious stipulation?) to inquire into the exactions and persecutions of
the priesthood of our Holy Church!"
"Sire!" said the young man, after he had hastily perused the papers,
"my lady liege showeth good argument for your assent to two, at least,
of these undertakings. See the names of fifty gentlemen ready to take
arms in your cause if authorized by your royal warrant. The men of
the North are malcontent with the usurper, but they will not yet stir,
unless at your own command. Such documents will, of course, be used
with discretion, and not to imperil your Grace's safety."
"My safety!" said Henry, with a flash of his father's hero soul in his
eyes--"of that I think not! If I have small courage to attack, I have
some fortitude to bear. But three months after these be signed, how
many brave hearts will be still! how many stout hands be dust! O
Margaret! Margaret! why temptest thou? Wert thou so happy when a
queen?" The prisoner broke from Allerton's arm, and walked, in great
disorder and irresolution, to and fro the chamber; and strange it was
to see the contrast between himself and Warner,--both in so much
alike, both so purely creatures out of the common world, so gentle,
abstract, so utterly living in the life apart: and now the student so
calm, the prince so disturbed! The contrast struck Henry himself! He
paused abruptly, and, folding his arms, contemplated the philosopher,
as, with an affectionate complacency, Adam played and toyed, as it
were, with his beloved model; now opening and shutting again its
doors, now brushing away with his sleeve some particles of dust that
had settled on it, now retiring a few paces to gaze the better on its
stern symmetry.
"Oh, my Allerton!" cried Henry, "behold! the kingdom a man makes out
of his own mind is the only one that it delighteth man to govern!
Behold, he is lord over its springs and movements; its wheels revolve
and stop at his bidding. Here, here, alone, God never asketh the
ruler, 'Why was the blood of thousands poured forth like water, that a
worm might wear a crown?'"
"Sire," said Allerton, solemnly, "when our Heavenly King appoints his
anointed representative on earth, He gives to that human delegate no
power to resign the ambassade and trust. What suicide is to a man,
abdication is to a king! How canst thou dispose of thy son's rights?
And what becomes of those rights if thou wilt prefer for him the
exile, for thyself the prison, when one effort may restore a throne!"
Henry seemed struck by a tone of argument that suited both his own
mind and the reasoning of the age. He gazed a moment on the face of
the young man, muttered to himself, and suddenly moving to the table,
signed the papers, and restored them to Adam, who mechanically
replaced them in their iron hiding-place.
"Now begone, Sir!" whispered Allerton, afraid that Henry's mind might
again change.
"Will not my lord examine the engine?" asked Warner, half-
beseechingly.
"Not to-day! See, he has already retired to his oratory, he is in
prayer!" and, going to the door, Allerton summoned the attendants in
waiting to carry down the model.
"Well, well, patience, patience! thou shalt have thine audience at
last," muttered Adam, as he retired from the room, his eyes fixed upon
the neglected infant of his brain.
CHAPTER VI.
HOW, ON LEAVING KING LOG, FOOLISH WISDOM RUNS A-MUCK ON KING STORK.
At the outer door of the Tower by which he had entered, the
philosopher was accosted by Catesby,--a man who, in imitation of his
young patron, exhibited the soft and oily manner which concealed
intense ambition and innate ferocity.
"Worshipful my master," said he, bowing low, but with a half sneer on
his lips, "the king and his Highness the Duke of Gloucester have heard
much of your strange skill, and command me to lead you to their
presence. Follow, sir, and you, my men, convey this quaint
contrivance to the king's apartments."
With this, not waiting for any reply, Catesby strode on. Hugh's face
fell; he turned very pale, and, imagining himself unobserved, turned
round to slink away. But Catesby, who seemed to have eyes at the back
of his head, called out, in a mild tone,--
"Good fellow, help to bear the mechanical--you, too, may be needed."
"Cog's wounds!" muttered Hugh, "an' I had but known what it was to set
my foot in a king's palace! Such walking may do for the silken shoon,
but the hobnail always gets into a hobble." With that, affecting a
cheerful mien, he helped to replace the model on the mule.
Meanwhile, Adam, elated, poor man! at the flattery of the royal
mandate, persuaded that his fame had reached Edward's ears, and chafed
at the little heed paid by the pious Henry to his great work, stalked
on, his head in the air. "Verily," mused the student, "King Edward
may have been a cruel youth, and over hasty; it is horrible to think
of Robert Hilyard's calamities! But men do say he hath an acute and
masterly comprehension. Doubtless, he will perceive at a glance how
much I can advantage his kingdom." With this, we grieve to say,
selfish reflection--which, if the thought of his model could have
slept a while, Adam would have blushed to recall, as an affront to
Hilyard's wrongs--the philosopher followed Catesby across the spacious
yard, along a narrow passage, and up a winding turret-stair, to a room
in the third story, which opened at one door into the king's closet,
at the other into the spacious gallery, which was already a feature in
the plan of the more princely houses. In another minute Adam and his
model were in the presence of the king. The part of the room in which
Edward sat was distinguished from the rest by a small eastern carpet
on the floor (a luxury more in use in the palaces of that day than it
appears to have been a century later); [see the Narrative of the Lord
Grauthuse, before referred to] a table was set before him, on which
the model was placed. At his right hand sat Jacquetta, Duchess of
Bedford, the queen's mother; at his left, Prince Richard. The
duchess, though not without the remains of beauty, had a stern,
haughty, scornful expression in her sharp aquiline features,
compressed lips, and imperious eye. The paleness of her complexion,
and the careworn, anxious lines of her countenance, were ascribed by
the vulgar to studies of no holy cast. Her reputation for sorcery and
witchcraft was daily increasing, and served well the purpose of the
discontented barons, whom the rise of her children mortified and
enraged.
"Approach, Master--What say you his name is, Richard?"
"Adam Warner," replied the sweet voice of the Duke of Gloucester; "of
excellent skill in the mathematics."
"Approach, sir, and show us the nature of this notable invention."
"I desire nothing better, my lord king," said Adam, boldly; "but first
let me crave a small modicum of fuel. Fire, which is the life of the
world, as the wise of old held it, is also the soul of this, my
mechanical."
"Peradventure," whispered the duchess, "the wizard desireth to consume
us."
"More likely," replied Richard, in the same undertone, "to consume
whatever of treasonable nature may lurk concealed in his engine."
"True," said Edward, and then, speaking aloud, "Master Warner," he
added, "put thy puppet to its purpose without fire,--we will it."
"It is impossible, my lord," said Adam, with a lofty smile. "Science
and nature are more powerful than a king's word."
"Do not say that in public, my friend," said Edward, dryly, "or we
must hang thee! I would not my subjects were told anything so
treasonable. Howbeit, to give thee no excuse in failure, thou shalt
have what thou needest."
"But surely not in our presence," exclaimed the duchess. "This may be
a device of the Lancastrians for our perdition."
"As you please, belle mere," said Edward, and he motioned to a
gentleman, who stood a few paces behind his chair, and who, from the
entrance of the mechanician, had seemed to observe him with intense
interest. "Master Nevile, attend this wise man; supply his wants, and
hark, in thy ear, watch well that he abstract nothing from the womb of
his engine; observe what he doeth; be all eyes." Marmaduke bowed low
to conceal his change of countenance, and, stepping forward, made a
sign to Adam to follow him.
"Go also, Catesby," said Richard to his follower, who had taken his
post near him, "and clear the chamber."
As soon as the three members of the royal family were left alone, the
king, stretching himself, with a slight yawn, observed, "This man
looks not like a conspirator, brother Richard, though his sententiary
as to nature and science lacked loyalty and respect."
"Sire and brother," answered Richard, "great leaders often dupe their
own tools; at least, meseemeth that they would reason well so to do.
Remember, I have told thee that there is strong cause to suppose
Margaret to be in London. In the suburbs of the city has also
appeared, within the last few weeks, that strange and dangerous
person, whose very objects are a mystery, save that he is our foe,--
Robin of Redesdale. The men of the North have exhibited a spirit of
insurrection; a man of that country attends this reputed wizard, and
he himself was favoured in past times by Henry of Windsor. These are
ominous signs when the conjunctions be considered!"
"It is well said; but a fair day for breathing our palfrey is half-
spent!" returned the indolent prince. "By'r Lady! I like the fashion
of thy super-tunic well, Richard; but thou hast it too much puffed
over the shoulders."
Richard's dark eye shot fire, and he gnawed his lip as he answered,
"God hath not given to me the fair shape of my kinsmen."
"Thy pardon, dear boy," said Edward, kindly; "yet little needest thou
our broad backs and strong sinews, for thou hast a tongue to charm
women and a wit to command men."
Richard bowed his face, little less beautiful than his brother's,
though wholly different from it in feature, for Edward had the long
oval countenance, the fair hair, the rich colouring, and the large
outline of his mother, the Rose of Raby. Richard, on the contrary,
had the short face, the dark brown locks, and the pale olive
complexion of his father, whom he alone of the royal brothers
strikingly resembled. [Pol. Virg. 544.]
The cheeks, too, were somewhat sunken, and already, though scarcely
past childhood, about his lips were seen the lines of thoughtful
manhood. But then those small features, delicately aquiline, were so
regular; that dark eye was so deep, so fathomless in its bright,
musing intelligence; that quivering lip was at once so beautifully
formed and so expressive of intellectual subtlety and haughty will;
and that pale forehead was so massive, high, and majestic,--that when,
at a later period, the Scottish prelate [Archibald Quhitlaw.--"Faciem
tuam summo imperio principatu dignam inspicit, quam moralis et
heroica, virtus illustrat," etc.--We need scarcely observe that even a
Scotchman would not have risked a public compliment to Richard's face,
if so inappropriate as to seem a sarcasm, especially as the orator
immediately proceeds to notice the shortness of Richard's stature,--a
comment not likely to have been peculiarly acceptable in the Rous
Roll, the portrait of Richard represents him as undersized, but
compactly and strongly built, and without any sign of deformity,
unless the inelegant defect of a short neck can be so called.]
commended Richard's "princely countenance," the compliment was not one
to be disputed, much less contemned. But now as he rose, obedient to
a whisper from the duchess, and followed her to the window, while
Edward appeared engaged in admiring the shape of his own long,
upturned shoes, those defects in his shape which the popular hatred
and the rise of the House of Tudor exaggerated into the absolute
deformity that the unexamining ignorance of modern days and
Shakspeare's fiery tragedy have fixed into established caricature,
were sufficiently apparent. Deformed or hunchbacked we need scarcely
say he was not, for no man so disfigured could have possessed that
great personal strength which he invariably exhibited in battle,
despite the comparative slightness of his frame. He was considerably
below the ordinary height, which the great stature of his brother
rendered yet more disadvantageous by contrast; but his lower limbs
were strong-jointed and muscular. Though the back was not curved, yet
one shoulder was slightly higher than the other, which was the more
observable from the evident pains that he took to disguise it, and the
gorgeous splendour, savouring of personal coxcombry--from which no
Plantagenet was ever free,--that he exhibited in his dress. And as,
in a warlike age, the physical conformation of men is always
critically regarded, so this defect and that of his low stature were
not so much redeemed as they would be in our day by the beauty and
intelligence of his face. Added to this, his neck was short, and a
habit of bending his head on his bosom (arising either from thought,
or the affectation of humility, which was a part of his character)
made it seem shorter still. But this peculiarity, while taking from
the grace, added to the strength of his frame, which, spare, sinewy,
and compact, showed to an observer that power of endurance, that
combination of solid stubbornness and active energy, which, at the
battle of Barnet, made him no less formidable to encounter than the
ruthless sword of the mighty Edward.
"So, prince," said the duchess, "this new gentleman of the king's is,
it seems, a Nevile. When will Edward's high spirit cast off that
hateful yoke?"
Richard sighed and shook his head. The duchess, encouraged by these
signs of sympathy, continued,--
"Your brother Clarence, Prince Richard, despises us, to cringe to the
proud earl. But you--"
"I am not suitor to the Lady Isabel; Clarence is overlavish, and
Isabel has a fair face and a queenly dowry."
"May I perish," said the duchess, "ere Warwick's daughter wears the
baudekin of royalty, and sits in as high a state as the queen's
mother! Prince, I would fain confer with thee; we have a project to
abase and banish this hateful lord. If you but join us, success is
sure; the Count of Charolois--"
"Dear lady," interrupted Richard, with an air of profound humility,
"tell me nothing of plot or project; my years are too few for such
high and subtle policy; and the Lord Warwick hath been a leal friend
to our House of York."
The duchess bit her lip--"Yet I have heard you tell Edward that a
subject can be too powerful?"
"Never, lady! you have never heard me."
"Then Edward has told Elizabeth that you so spoke."
"Ah," said Richard, turning away with a smile, "I see that the king's
conscience hath a discreet keeper. Pardon me, Edward, now that he
hath sufficiently surveyed his shoon, must marvel at this prolonged
colloquy. And see, the door opens."
With this, the duke slowly moved to the table, and resumed his seat.
Marmaduke, full of fear for his ancient host, had in vain sought an
opportunity to address a few words of exhortation to him to forbear
all necromancy, and to abstain from all perilous distinctions between
the power of Edward IV. and that of his damnable Nature and Science;
but Catesby watched him with so feline a vigilance, that he was unable
to slip in more than--"Ah, Master Warner, for our blessed Lord's sake,
recollect that rack and cord are more than mere words here!" To the
which pleasant remark, Adam, then busy in filling his miniature
boiler, only replied by a wistful stare, not in the least recognizing
the Nevile in his fine attire, and the new-fashioned mode of dressing
his long hair.
But Catesby watched in vain for the abstraction of any treasonable
contents in the engine, which the Duke of Gloucester had so shrewdly
suspected. The truth must be told. Adam had entirely forgotten that
in the intricacies of his mechanical lurked the papers that might
overthrow a throne! Magnificent Incarnation was he (in that oblivion)
of Science itself, which cares not a jot for men and nations, in their
ephemeral existences; which only remembers THINGS,--things that endure
for ages; and in its stupendous calculations loses sight of the unit
of a generation! No, he had thoroughly forgotten Henry, Edward, his
own limbs and life,--not only York and Lancaster, but Adam Warner and
the rack. Grand in his forgetfulness, he stood before the tiger and
the tiger-cat,--Edward and--Richard,--A Pure Thought, a Man's Soul;
Science fearless in the presence of Cruelty, Tyranny, Craft, and
Power.
In truth, now that Adam was thoroughly in his own sphere, was in the
domain of which he was king, and those beings in velvet and ermine
were but as ignorant savages admitted to the frontier of his realm,
his form seemed to dilate into a majesty the beholders had not before
recognized; and even the lazy Edward muttered involuntarily, "By my
halidame, the man has a noble presence!"
"I am prepared now, sire," said Adam, loftily, "to show to my king and
to this court, that, unnoticed and obscure, in study and retreat,
often live those men whom kings may be proud to call their subjects.
Will it please you, my lords, this way!" and he motioned so
commandingly to the room in which he had left the Eureka, that his
audience rose by a common impulse, and in another minute stood grouped
round the model in the adjoining chamber. This really wonderful
invention--so wonderful, indeed, that it will surpass the faith of
those who do not pause to consider what vast forestallments of modern
science have been made and lost in the darkness of ages not fitted to
receive them--was, doubtless, in many important details not yet
adapted for the practical uses to which Adam designed its application.
But as a mere model, as a marvellous essay, for the suggestion of
gigantic results, it was, perhaps, to the full as effective as the
ingenuity of a mechanic of our own day could construct. It is true
that it was crowded with unnecessary cylinders, slides, cocks, and
wheals--hideous and clumsy to the eye--but through this intricacy the
great simple design accomplished its main object. It contrived to
show what force and skill man can obtain from the alliance of nature;
the more clearly, inasmuch as the mechanism affixed to it, still more
ingenious than itself, was well calculated to illustrate practically
one of the many uses to which the principle was destined to be
applied.
Adam had not yet fathomed the secret by which to supply the miniature
cylinder with sufficient steam for any prolonged effect,--the great
truth of latent heat was unknown to him; but he had contrived to
regulate the supply of water so as to make the engine discharge its
duties sufficiently for the satisfaction of curiosity and the
explanation of its objects. And now this strange thing of iron was in
full life. From its serpent chimney issued the thick rapid smoke, and
the groan of its travail was heard within.
"And what propose you to yourself and to the kingdom in all this,
Master Adam?" asked Edward, curiously bending his tall person over the
tortured iron.
"I propose to make Nature the labourer of man," answered Warner.
"When I was a child of some eight years old, I observed that water
swelleth into vapour when fire is applied to it. Twelve years
afterwards, at the age of twenty, I observed that while undergoing
this change it exerts a mighty mechanical force. At twenty-five,
constantly musing, I said, 'Why should not that force become subject
to man's art?' I then began the first rude model, of which this is
the descendant. I noticed that the vapour so produced is elastic,--
that is, that as it expands, it presses against what opposes it; it
has a force applicable everywhere force is needed by man's labour.
Behold a second agency of gigantic resources! And then, still
studying this, I perceived that the vapour thus produced can be
reconverted into water, shrinking necessarily, while so retransformed,
from the space it filled as vapour, and leaving that space a vacuum.
But Nature abhors a vacuum; produce a vacuum, and the bodies that
surround rush into it. Thus, the vapour again, while changing back
into water, becomes also a force,--our agent. And all the while these
truths were shaping themselves to my mind, I was devising and
improving also the material form by which I might render them useful
to man; so at last, out of these truths, arose this invention!"
"Pardie," said Edward, with the haste natural to royalty, "what in
common there can be between thy jargon of smoke and water and this
huge ugliness of iron passeth all understanding. But spare us thy
speeches, and on to thy puppet-show."
Adam stared a moment at the king in the surprise that one full of his
subject feels when he sees it impossible to make another understand
it, sighed, shook his head, and prepared to begin.
"Observe," he said, "that there is no juggling, no deceit. I will
place in this deposit this small lump of brass--would the size of this
toy would admit of larger experiment! I will then pray ye to note, as
I open door after door, how the metal passes through various changes,
all operated by this one agency of vapour. Heed and attend. And if
the crowning work please thee, think, great king, what such an agency
upon the large scale would be to thee; think how it would multiply all
arts and lessen all labour; think that thou hast, in this, achieved
for a whole people the true philosopher's stone. Now note!"
He placed the rough ore in its receptacle, and suddenly it seemed
seized by a vice within, and vanished. He proceeded then, while
dexterously attending to the complex movements, to open door after
door, to show the astonished spectators the rapid transitions the
metal underwent, and suddenly, in the midst of his pride, he stopped
short, for, like a lightning-flash, came across his mind the
remembrance of the fatal papers. Within the next door he was to open,
they lay concealed. His change of countenance did not escape Richard,
and he noted the door which Adam forbore to open, as the student
hurriedly, and with some presence of mind, passed to the next, in
which the metal was shortly to appear.
"Open this door," said the prince, pointing to the handle. "No!
forbear! There is danger! forbear!" exclaimed the mechanician.
"Danger to thine own neck, varlet and impostor!" exclaimed the duke;
and he was about himself to open the door, when suddenly a loud roar,
a terrific explosion was heard. Alas! Adam Warner had not yet
discovered for his engine what we now call the safety-valve. The
steam contained in the miniature boiler had acquired an undue
pressure; Adam's attention had been too much engrossed to notice the
signs of the growing increase, and the rest may be easily conceived.
Nothing could equal the stupor and the horror of the spectators at
this explosion, save only the boy-duke, who remained immovable, and
still frowning. All rushed to the door, huddling one on the other,
scarcely knowing what next was to befall them, but certain that the
wizard was bent upon their destruction. Edward was the first to
recover himself; and seeing that no lives were lost, his first impulse
was that of ungovernable rage.
"Foul traitor!" he exclaimed, "was it for this that thou hast
pretended to beguile us with thy damnable sorceries? Seize him! Away
to the Tower Hill! and let the priest patter an ave while the doomsman
knots the rope."
Not a hand stirred; even Catesby would as lief have touched the king's
lion before meals, as that poor mechanician, standing aghast, and
unheeding all, beside his mutilated engine.
"Master Nevile," said the king, sternly, "dost thou hear us?
"Verily," muttered the Nevile, approaching very slowly, "I knew what
would happen; but to lay hands on my host, an' he were fifty times a
wizard--No! My liege," he said in a firm tone, but falling on his
knee, and his gallant countenance pale with generous terror, "my
liege, forgive me. This man succoured me when struck down and wounded
by a Lancastrian ruffian; this man gave me shelter, food, and healing.
Command me not, O gracious my lord, to aid in taking the life of one
to whom I owe my own."
"His life!" exclaimed the Duchess of Bedford,--"the life of this most
illustrious person! Sire, you do not dream it!"
"Heh! by the saints, what now?" cried the king, whose choler, though
fierce and ruthless, was as short-lived as the passions of the
indolent usually are, and whom the earnest interposition of his
mother-in-law much surprised and diverted. "If, fair belle-mere, thou
thinkest it so illustrious a deed to frighten us out of our mortal
senses, and narrowly to 'scape sending us across the river like a bevy
of balls from a bombard, there is no disputing of tastes. Rise up,
Master Nevile, we esteem thee not less for thy boldness; ever be the
host and the benefactor revered by English gentlemen and Christian
youth. Master Warner may go free."
Here Warner uttered so deep and hollow a groan, that it startled all
present.
"Twenty-five years of labour, and not to have seen this!" he
ejaculated. "Twenty and five years, and all wasted! How repair this
disaster? O fatal day!"
"What says he? What means he?" said Jacquetta.
"Come home!--home!" said Marmaduke, approaching the philosopher, in
great alarm lest he should once more jeopardize his life. But Adam,
shaking him off, began eagerly, and with tremulous hands, to examine
the machine, and not perceiving any mode by which to guard in future
against a danger that he saw at once would, if not removed, render his
invention useless, tottered to a chair and covered his face with his
hands.
"He seemeth mightily grieved that our bones are still whole!" muttered
Edward. "And why, belle-mere mine, wouldst thou protect this pleasant
tregetour?"
"What!" said the duchess, "see you not that a man capable of such
devices must be of doughty service against our foes?"
"Not I. How?"
"Why, if merely to signify his displeasure at our young Richard's
over-curious meddling, he can cause this strange engine to shake the
walls,--nay, to destroy itself,--think what he might do were his power
and malice at our disposing. I know something of these nigromancers."
"And would you knew less! for already the commons murmur at your
favour to them. But be it as you will. And now--ho, there! let our
steeds be caparisoned."
"You forget, sire," said Richard, who had hitherto silently watched
the various parties, "the object for which we summoned this worthy
man. Please you now, sir, to open that door."
"No, no!" exclaimed the king, hastily, "I will have no more provoking
the foul fiend; conspirator or not, I have had enough of Master
Warner. Pah! My poor placard is turned lampblack. Sweet mother-in-
law, take him under thy protection; and Richard, come with me."
So saying, the king linked his arm in that of the reluctant
Gloucester, and quitted the room. The duchess then ordered the rest
also to depart, and was left alone with the crest-fallen philosopher.
CHAPTER VII.
MY LADY DUCHESS'S OPINION OF THE UTILITY OF MASTER WARNER'S INVENTION,
AND HER ESTEEM FOR ITS--EXPLOSION.
Adam, utterly unheeding, or rather deaf to, the discussion that had
taken place, and his narrow escape from cord and gibbet, lifted his
head peevishly from his bosom, as the duchess rested her hand almost
caressingly on his shoulder, and thus addressed him,--
"Most puissant Sir, think not that I am one of those who, in their
ignorance and folly, slight the mysteries of which thou art clearly so
great a master. When I heard thee speak of subjecting Nature to Man,
I at once comprehended thee, and blushed for the dulness of my
kindred."
"Ah, lady, thou hast studied, then, the mathematics. Alack! this is a
grievous blow; but it is no inherent fault in the device. I am
clearly of mind that it can be remedied. But oh! what time, what
thought, what sleepless nights, what gold will be needed!"
"Give me thy sleepless nights and thy grand thoughts, and thou shalt
not want gold."
"Lady," cried Adam, starting to his feet, "do I hear aright? Art
thou, in truth, the patron I have so long dreamed of? Hast thou the
brain and the heart to aid the pursuits of science?"
"Ay! and the power to protect the students! Sage, I am the Duchess of
Bedford, whom men accuse of witchcraft,--as thee of wizardy. From the
wife of a private gentleman, I have become the mother of a queen. I
stand amidst a court full of foes; I desire gold to corrupt, and
wisdom to guard against, and means to destroy them. And I seek all
these in men like thee!"
Adam turned on her his bewildered eyes, and made no answer.
"They tell me," said the duchess, "that Henry of Windsor employed
learned men to transmute the baser metals into gold. Wert thou one of
them?"
"No."
"Thou knowest that art?"
"I studied it in my youth, but the ingredients of the crucible were
too costly."
"Thou shalt not lack them with me. Thou knowest the lore of the
stars, and canst foretell the designs of enemies,--the hour whether to
act or to forbear?"
"Astrology I have studied, but that also was in youth; for there
dwelleth in the pure mathematics that have led me to this invention--"
"Truce with that invention, whatever it be; think of it no more,--it
has served its end in the explosion, which proved thy power of
mischief. High objects are now before thee. Wilt thou be of my
household, one of my alchemists and astrologers? Thou shalt have
leisure, honour, and all the moneys thou canst need."
"Moneys!" said Adam, eagerly, and casting his eyes upon the mangled
model. "Well, I agree; what you will,--alchemist, astrologist,
wizard,--what you will. This shall all be repaired,--all; I begin to
see now, all! I begin to see; yes, if a pipe by which the too-
excessive vapour could--ay, ay!--right, right," and he rubbed his
hands.
Jacquetta was struck with his enthusiasm. "But surely, Master Warner,
this has some virtue you have not vouchsafed to explain; confide in
me, can it change iron to gold?"
"No; but--"
"Can it predict the future?"
"No; but--"
"Can it prolong life?"
"No; but--"
"Then, in God's name let us waste no more time about it!" said the
duchess, impatiently,--"your art is mine now. Ho, there!--I will send
my page to conduct thee to thy apartments, and thou shalt lodge next
to Friar Bungey, a man of wondrous lere, Master Warner, and a worthy
confrere in thy researches. Hast thou any one of kith and kin at home
to whom thou wilt announce thy advancement?"
"Ah, lady! Heaven forgive me, I have a daughter,--an only child,--my
Sibyll; I cannot leave her alone, and--"
"Well, nothing should distract thy cares from thine art,--she shall be
sent for. I will rank her amongst my maidens. Fare-thee-well, Master
Warner! At night I will send for thee, and appoint the tasks I would
have thee accomplish."
So saying, the duchess quitted the room, and left Adam alone, bending
over his model in deep revery.
From this absorption it was the poor man's fate to be again aroused.
The peculiar character of the boy-prince of Gloucester was that of one
who, having once seized upon an object, never willingly relinquished
it. First, he crept and slid and coiled round it as the snake. But
if craft failed, his passion, roused by resistance, sprang at his prey
with a lion's leap: and whoever examines the career of this
extraordinary personage, will perceive, that whatever might be his
habitual hypocrisy, he seemed to lose sight of it wholly when once
resolved upon force. Then the naked ferocity with which the
destructive propensity swept away the objects in his path becomes
fearfully and startlingly apparent, and offers a strange contrast to
the wily duplicity with which, in calmer moments, he seems to have
sought to coax the victim into his folds. Firmly convinced that
Adam's engine had been made the medium of dangerous and treasonable
correspondence with the royal prisoner, and of that suspicious,
restless, feverish temperament which never slept when a fear was
wakened, a doubt conceived, he had broke from his brother, whose more
open valour and less unquiet intellect were ever willing to leave the
crown defended but by the gibbet for the detected traitor, the sword
for the declared foe; and obtaining Edward's permission "to inquire
further into these strange matters," he sent at once for the porter
who had conveyed the model to the Tower; but that suspicious
accomplice was gone. The sound of the explosion of the engine had no
less startled the guard below than the spectators above. Releasing
their hold of their prisoner, they had some taken fairly to their
heels, others rushed into the palace to learn what mischief had
ensued; and Hugh, with the quick discretion of his north country, had
not lost so favourable an opportunity for escape. There stood the
dozing mule at the door below, but the guide was vanished. More
confirmed in his suspicions by this disappearance of Adam's companion,
Richard, giving some preparatory orders to Catesby, turned at once to
the room which still held the philosopher and his device. He closed
the door on entering, and his brow was dark and sinister as he
approached the musing inmate. But here we must return to Sibyll.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE OLD WOMAN TALKS OF SORROWS, THE YOUNG WOMAN DREAMS OF LOVE; THE
COURTIER FLIES FROM PRESENT POWER TO REMEMBRANCES OF PAST HOPES, AND
THE WORLD-BETTERED OPENS UTOPIA, WITH A VIEW OF THE GIBBET FOR THE
SILLY SAGE HE HAS SEDUCED INTO HIS SCHEMES,--SO, EVER AND EVERMORE,
RUNS THE WORLD AWAY!
The old lady looked up from her embroidery-frame, as Sibyll sat musing
on a stool before her; she scanned the maiden with a wistful and
somewhat melancholy eye.
"Fair girl," she said, breaking a silence that had lasted for some
moments, "it seems to me that I have seen thy face before. Wert thou
never in Queen Margaret's court?"
"In childhood, yes, lady."
"Do you not remember me, the dame of Longueville?" Sibyll started in
surprise, and gazed long before she recognized the features of her
hostess; for the dame of Longueville had been still, when Sibyll was a
child at the court, renowned for matronly beauty, and the change was
greater than the lapse of years could account for. The lady smiled
sadly: "Yes, you marvel to see me thus bent and faded. Maiden, I lost
my husband at the battle of St. Alban's, and my three sons in the
field of Towton. My lands and my wealth have been confiscated to
enrich new men; and to one of them--one of the enemies of the only
king whom Alice de Longueville will acknowledge--I owe the food for my
board and the roof for my head. Do you marvel now that I am so
changed?"
Sibyll rose and kissed the lady's hand, and the tear that sparkled on
its surface was her only answer.
"I learn," said the dame of Longueville, "that your father has an
order from the Lord Hastings to see King Henry. I trust that he will
rest here as he returns, to tell me how the monarch-saint bears his
afflictions. But I know: his example should console us all." She
paused a moment, and resumed, "Sees your father much of the Lord
Hastings?"
"He never saw him that I weet of," answered Sibyll, blushing; "the
order was given, but as of usual form to a learned scholar."
"But given to whom?" persisted the lady. "To--to me," replied Sibyll,
falteringly. The dame of Longueville smiled.
"Ah, Hastings could scarcely say no to a prayer from such rosy lips.
But let me not imply aught to disparage his humane and gracious heart.
To Lord Hastings, next to God and his saints, I owe all that is left
to me on earth. Strange that he is not yet here! This is the usual
day and hour on which he comes, from pomp and pleasurement, to visit
the lonely widow." And, pleased to find an attentive listener to her
grateful loquacity, the dame then proceeded, with warm eulogies upon
her protector, to inform Sibyll that her husband had, in the first
outbreak of the Civil War, chanced to capture Hastings, and, moved by
his valour and youth, and some old connections with his father, Sir
Leonard, had favoured his escape from the certain death that awaited
him from the wrath of the relentless Margaret. After the field of
Towton, Hastings had accepted one of the manors confiscated from the
attainted House of Longueville, solely that he might restore it to the
widow of the fallen lord; and with a chivalrous consideration, not
contented with beneficence, he omitted no occasion to show to the
noblewoman whatever homage and respect might soothe the pride, which,
in the poverty of those who have been great, becomes disease. The
loyalty of the Lady Longueville was carried to a sentiment most rare
in that day, and rather resembling the devotion inspired by the later
Stuarts. She made her home within the precincts of the Tower, that,
morning and eve, when Henry opened his lattice to greet the rising and
the setting sun, she might catch a dim and distant glance of the
captive king, or animate, by that sad sight, the hopes and courage of
the Lancastrian emissaries, to whom, fearless of danger, she scrupled
not to give counsel, and, at need, asylum.
While Sibyll, with enchanted sense, was listening to the praise of
Hastings, a low knock at the door was succeeded by the entrance of
that nobleman himself. Not to Elizabeth, in the alcoves of Shene, or
on the dais of the palace hall, did the graceful courtier bend with
more respectful reverence than to the powerless widow, whose very
bread was his alms; for the true high-breeding of chivalry exists not
without delicacy of feeling, formed originally by warmth of heart; and
though the warmth may lose its glow, the delicacy endures, as the
steel that acquires through heat its polish retains its lustre, even
when the shine but betrays the hardness.
"And how fares my noble lady of Longueville? But need I ask? for her
cheek still wears the rose of Lancaster. A companion? Ha! Mistress
Warner, I learn now how much pleasure exists in surprise!"
"My young visitor," said the dame, "is but an old friend; she was one
of the child-maidens reared at the court of Queen Margaret."
"In sooth!" exclaimed Hastings; and then, in an altered tone, he
added, "but I should have guessed so much grace had not come all from
Nature. And your father has gone to see the Lord Henry, and you rest,
here, his return? Ah, noble lady, may you harbour always such
innocent Lancastrians!" The fascinations of this eminent person's
voice and manner were such that they soon restored Sibyll, to the ease
she had lost at his sudden entrance. He conversed gayly with the old
dame upon such matters of court anecdote as in all the changes of
state were still welcome to one so long accustomed to court air; but
from time to time he addressed himself to Sibyll, and provoked replies
which startled herself--for she was not yet well aware of her own
gifts--by their spirit and intelligence.
"You do not tell us," said the Lady Longueville, sarcastically, "of
the happy spousailles of Elizabeth's brother with the Duchess of
Norfolk,--a bachelor of twenty, a bride of some eighty-two. [The old
chronicler justly calls this a "diabolical marriage." It greatly
roused the wrath of the nobles and indeed of all honourable men, as a
proof of the shameless avarice of the queen's family.] Verily, these
alliances are new things in the history of English royalty. But when
Edward, who, even if not a rightful king, is at least a born
Plantagenet, condescended to marry Mistress Elizabeth, a born
Woodville, scarce of good gentleman's blood, naught else seems strange
enough to provoke marvel."
"As to the last matter," returned Hastings, gravely, "though her grace
the queen be no warm friend to me, I must needs become her champion
and the king's. The lady who refused the dishonouring suit of the
fairest prince and the boldest knight in the Christian world thereby
made herself worthy of the suit that honoured her; it was not
Elizabeth Woodville alone that won the purple. On the day she mounted
a throne, the chastity of woman herself was crowned."
"What!" said the Lady Longueville, angrily, "mean you to say that
there is no disgrace in the mal-alliance of kite and falcon, of
Plantagenet and Woodville, of high-born and mud-descended?"
"You forget, lady, that the widow of Henry the Fifth, Catherine of
Valois, a king's daughter, married the Welsh soldier, Owen Tudor; that
all England teems with brave men born from similar spousailles, where
love has levelled all distinctions, and made a purer hearth, and
raised a bolder offspring, than the lukewarm likings of hearts that
beat but for lands and gold. Wherefore, lady, appeal not to me, a
squire of dames, a believer in the old Parliament of Love; whoever is
fair and chaste, gentle and loving, is, in the eyes of William de
Hastings, the mate and equal of a king!"
Sibyll turned involuntarily as the courtier spoke thus, with animation
in his voice, and fire in his eyes; she turned, and her breath came
quick; she turned, and her look met his, and those words and that look
sank deep into her heart; they called forth brilliant and ambitious
dreams; they rooted the growing love, but they aided to make it holy;
they gave to the delicious fancy what before it had not paused, on its
wing, to sigh for; they gave it that without which all fancy sooner or
later dies; they gave it that which, once received in a noble heart,
is the excuse for untiring faith; they gave it,--HOPE!
"And thou wouldst say," replied the lady of Longueville, with a
meaning smile, still more emphatically--"thou wouldst say that a
youth, brave and well nurtured, ambitious and loving, ought, in the
eyes of rank and pride, to be the mate and equal of--"
"Ah, noble dame," interrupted Hastings, quickly, "I must not prolong
encounter with so sharp a wit. Let me leave that answer to this fair
maiden, for by rights it is a challenge to her sex, not to mine."
"How say you, then, Mistress Warner?" said the dame. "Suppose a young
heiress, of the loftiest birth, of the broadest lands, of the
comeliest form--suppose her wooed by a gentleman poor and stationless,
but with a mighty soul, born to achieve greatness, would she lower
herself by hearkening to his suit?"
"A maiden, methinks," answered Sibyll, with reluctant but charming
hesitation, "cannot love truly if she love unworthily; and if she love
worthily, it is not rank nor wealth she loves."
"But her parents, sweet mistress, may deem differently; and should not
her love refuse submission to their tyranny?" asked Hastings.
"Nay, good my lord, nay," returned Sibyll, shaking her head with
thoughtful demureness. "Surely the wooer, if he love worthily, will
not press her to the curse of a child's disobedience and a parent's
wrath!"
"Shrewdly answered," said the dame of Longueville. "Then she would
renounce the poor gentleman if the parent ordain her to marry a rich
lord. Ah, you hesitate, for a woman's ambition is pleased with the
excuse of a child's obedience."
Hastings said this so bitterly that Sibyll could not but perceive that
some personal feeling gave significance to his words. Yet how could
they be applied to him,--to one now in rank and repute equal to the
highest below the throne?
"If the demoiselle should so choose," said the dame of Longueville,
"it seemeth to me that the rejected suitor might find it facile to
disdain and to forget."
Hastings made no reply; but that remarkable and deep shade of
melancholy which sometimes in his gayest hours startled those who
beheld it, and which had, perhaps, induced many of the prophecies that
circulated as to the untimely and violent death that should close his
bright career, gathered like a cloud over his brow. At this moment
the door opened gently, and Robert Hilyard stood at the aperture. He
was clad in the dress of a friar, but the raised cowl showed his
features to the lady of Longueville, to whom alone he was visible; and
those bold features were literally haggard with agitation and alarm.
He lifted his finger to his lips, and motioning the lady to follow
him, closed the door.
The dame of Longueville rose, and praying her visitors to excuse her
absence for a few moments, she left Hastings and Sibyll to themselves.
"Lady," said Hilyard, in a hollow whisper, as soon as the dame
appeared in the low hall, communicating on the one hand with the room
just left, on the other with the street, "I fear all will be detected.
Hush! Adam and the iron coffer that contains the precious papers have
been conducted to Edward's presence. A terrible explosion, possibly
connected with the contrivance, caused such confusion among the guards
that Hugh escaped to scare me with his news. Stationed near the gate
in this disguise, I ventured to enter the courtyard, and saw--saw--the
TORMENTOR! the torturer, the hideous, masked minister of agony, led
towards the chambers in which our hapless messenger is examined by the
ruthless tyrants. Gloucester, the lynx-eyed mannikin, is there!"
"O Margaret, my queen," exclaimed the lady of Longueville, "the papers
will reveal her whereabout."
"No, she is safe!" returned Hilyard; "but thy poor scholar, I tremble
for him, and for the heads of all whom the papers name."
"What can be done! Ha! Lord Hastings is here,--he is ever humane and
pitiful. Dare we confide in him?"
A bright gleam shot over Hilyard's face. "Yes, yes; let me confer
with him alone. I wait him here,--quick!" The lady hastened back.
Hastings was conversing in a low voice with Sibyll. The dame of
Longueville whispered in the courtier's ear, drew him into the hall,
and left him alone with the false friar, who had drawn the cowl over
his face.
"Lord Hastings," said Hilyard, speaking rapidly, "you are in danger,
if not of loss of life, of loss of favour. You gave a passport to one
Warner to see the ex-king Henry. Warner's simplicity (for he is
innocent) hath been duped,--he is made the bearer of secret
intelligence from the unhappy gentlemen who still cling to the
Lancaster cause. He is suspected, he is examined; he may be
questioned by the torture. If the treason be discovered, it was thy
hand that signed the passport; the queen, thou knowest, hates thee,
the Woodvilles thirst for thy downfall. What handle may this give
them! Fly! my lord,--fly to the Tower; thou mayst yet be in time; thy
wit can screen all that may otherwise be bare. Save this poor
scholar, conceal this correspondence. Hark ye, lord! frown not so
haughtily,--that correspondence names thee as one who hast taken the
gold of Count Charolois, and whom, therefore, King Louis may outbuy.
Look to thyself!"
A slight blush passed over the pale brow of the great statesman, but
he answered with a steady voice, "Friar or layman, I care not which,
the gold of the heir of Burgundy was a gift, not a bribe. But I need
no threats to save, if not too late, from rack and gibbet the life of
a guiltless man. I am gone. Hold! bid the maiden, the scholar's
daughter, follow me to the Tower."
CHAPTER IX.
HOW THE DESTRUCTIVE ORGAN OF PRINCE RICHARD PROMISES GOODLY
DEVELOPMENT.
The Duke of Gloucester approached Adam as he stood gazing on his
model. "Old man," said the prince, touching him with the point of his
sheathed dagger, "look up and answer. What converse hast thou held
with Henry of Windsor, and who commissioned thee to visit him in his
confinement? Speak, and the truth! for by holy Paul, I am one who can
detect a lie, and without that door stands--the Tormentor!"
Upon a pleasing and joyous dream broke these harsh words; for Adam
then was full of the contrivance by which to repair the defect of the
engine, and with this suggestion was blent confusedly the thought that
he was now protected by royalty, that he should have means and leisure
to accomplish his great design, that he should have friends whose
power could obtain its adoption by the king. He raised his eyes, and
that young dark face frowned upon him,--the child menacing the sage,
brute force in a pigmy shape, having authority of life and death over
the giant strength of genius. But these words, which recalled Warner
from his existence as philosopher, woke that of the gentle but brave
and honourable man which he was, when reduced to earth.
"Sir," he said gravely, "if I have consented to hold converse with the
unhappy, it was not as the tell-tale and the spier. I had formal
warrant for my visit, and I was solicited to render it by an early
friend and comrade, who sought to be my benefactor in aiding with gold
my poor studies for the king's people."
"Tut!" said Richard, impatiently, and playing with his dagger hilt;
"thy words, stealthy and evasive, prove thy guilt! Sure am I that
this iron traitor with its intricate hollows and recesses holds what,
unless confessed, will give thee to the hangman! Confess all, and
thou art spared."
"If," said Adam, mildly, "your Highness--for though I know not your
quality, I opine that no one less than royal could so menace--if your
Highness imagines that I have been intrusted by a fallen man, wrong me
not by supposing that I could fear death more than dishonour; for
certes!" continued Adam, with innocent pedantry, "to put the case
scholastically, and in the logic familiar, doubtless, to your
Highness, either I have something to confess or I have not; if I have--"
"Hound!" interrupted the prince, stamping his foot, "thinkest thou to
banter me,--see!" As his foot shook the floor, the door opened, and a
man with his arms bare, covered from head to foot in a black gown of
serge, with his features concealed by a hideous mask, stood ominously
at the aperture.
The prince motioned to the torturer (or tormentor, as he was
technically styled) to approach, which he did noiselessly, till he
stood, tall, grim, and lowering, beside Adam, like some silent and
devouring monster by its prey.
"Dost thou repent thy contumacy? A moment, and I render my
questioning to another!"
"Sir," said Adam, drawing himself up, and with so sudden a change of
mien, that his loftiness almost awed even the dauntless Richard,--
"sir, my fathers feared not death when they did battle for the throne
of England; and why?--because in their loyal valour they placed not
the interests of a mortal man, but the cause of imperishable honour!
And though their son be a poor scholar, and wears not the spurs of
gold; though his frame be weak and his hairs gray, he loveth honour
also well eno' to look without dread on death!"
Fierce and ruthless, when irritated and opposed, as the prince was, he
was still in his first youth,--ambition had here no motive to harden
him into stone. He was naturally so brave himself that bravery could
not fail to win from him something of respect and sympathy, and he was
taken wholly by surprise in hearing the language of a knight and hero
from one whom he had regarded but as the artful impostor or the
despicable intriguer.
He changed countenance as Warner spoke, and remained a moment silent.
Then as a thought occurred to him, at which his features relaxed into
a half-smile, he beckoned to the tormentor, said a word in his ear,
and the horrible intruder nodded and withdrew.
"Master Warner," then said the prince, in his customary sweet and
gliding tones, "it were a pity that so gallant a gentleman should be
exposed to peril for adhesion to a cause that can never prosper, and
that would be fatal, could it prosper, to our common country. For
look you, this Margaret, who is now, we believe, in London" (here he
examined Adam's countenance, which evinced surprise), "this Margaret,
who is seeking to rekindle the brand and brennen of civil war, has
already sold for base gold to the enemy of the realm, to Louis XI.,
that very Calais which your fathers, doubtless, lavished their blood
to annex to our possessions. Shame on the lewd harlot! What woman so
bloody and so dissolute? What man so feeble and craven as her lord?"
"Alas! sir," said Adam, "I am unfitted for these high considerations
of state. I live but for my art, and in it. And now, behold how my
kingdom is shaken and rent!" he pointed with so touching a smile, and
so simple a sadness, to the broken engine, that Richard was moved.
"Thou lovest this, thy toy? I can comprehend that love for some dumb
thing that we have toiled for. Ay!" continued the prince,
thoughtfully,--"ay! I have noted myself in life that there are
objects, senseless as that mould of iron, which if we labour at them
wind round our hearts as if they were flesh and blood. So some men
love learning, others glory, others power. Well, man, thou lovest
that mechanical? How many years hast thou been about it?"
"From the first to the last, twenty-five years, and it is still
incomplete."
"Um!" said the prince, smiling, "Master Warner, thou hast read of the
judgment of Solomon,--how the wise king discovered the truth by
ordering the child's death?"
"It was indeed," said Adam, unsuspectingly, "a most shrewd suggestion
of native wit and clerkly wisdom."
"Glad am I thou approvest it, Master Warner," said Richard. And as he
spoke the tormentor reappeared with a smith, armed with the implements
of his trade.
"Good smith, break into pieces this stubborn iron; bare all its
receptacles; leave not one fragment standing on the other! 'Delenda
est tua Carthago,' Master Warner. There is Latin in answer to thy
logic."
It is impossible to convey any notion of the terror, the rage, the
despair, which seized upon the unhappy sage when these words smote his
ear, and he saw the smith's brawny arms swing on high the ponderous
hammer. He flung himself between the murderous stroke and his beloved
model. He embraced the grim iron tightly. "Kill me!" he exclaimed
sublimely, "kill me!--not my THOUGHT!"
"Solomon was verily and indeed a wise king," said the duke, with a low
inward laugh. "And now, man, I have thee! To save thy infant, thine
art's hideous infant, confess the whole!"
It was then that a fierce struggle evidently took place in Adam's
bosom. It was, perhaps--O reader! thou whom pleasure, love, ambition,
hatred, avarice, in thine and our ordinary existence, tempt--it was,
perhaps, to him the one arch-temptation of a life. In the changing
countenance, the heaving breast, the trembling lip, the eyes that
closed and opened to close again, as if to shut out the unworthy
weakness,--yea, in the whole physical man,--was seen the crisis of the
moral struggle. And what, in truth, to him an Edward or a Henry, a
Lancaster or a York? Nothing. But still that instinct, that
principle, that conscience, ever strongest in those whose eyes are
accustomed to the search of truth, prevailed. So he rose suddenly and
quietly, drew himself apart, left his work to the Destroyer, and
said,--
"Prince, thou art a boy! Let a boy's voice annihilate that which
should have served all time. Strike!"
Richard motioned; the hammer descended, the engine and its
appurtenances reeled and crashed, the doors flew open, the wheels
rattled, the sparks flew. And Adam Warner fell to the ground, as if
the blow had broken his own heart. Little heeding the insensible
victim of his hard and cunning policy, Richard advanced to the
inspection of the interior recesses of the machinery. But that which
promised Adam's destruction saved him. The heavy stroke had battered
in the receptacle of the documents, had buried them in the layers of
iron. The faithful Eureka, even amidst its injuries and wrecks,
preserved the secret of its master.
The prince, with impatient hands, explored all the apertures yet
revealed, and after wasting many minutes in a fruitless search, was
about to bid the smith complete the work of destruction, when the door
suddenly opened and Lord Hastings entered. His quick eye took in the
whole scene; he arrested the lifted arm of the smith, and passing
deliberately to Gloucester, said, with a profound reverence, but a
half-reproachful smile, "My lord! my lord! your Highness is indeed
severe upon my poor scholar."
"Canst thou answer for thy scholar's loyalty?" said the duke,
gloomily.
Hastings drew the prince aside, and said, in a low tone, "His loyalty!
poor man, I know not; but his guilelessness, surely, yes. Look you,
sweet prince, I know the interest thou hast in keeping well with the
Earl of Warwick, whom I, in sooth, have slight cause to love. Thou
hast trusted me with thy young hopes of the Lady Anne; this new Nevile
placed about the king, and whose fortunes Warwick hath made his care,
hath, I have reason to think, some love passages with the scholar's
daughter,--the daughter came to me for the passport. Shall this
Marmaduke Nevile have it to say to his fair kinswoman, with the
unforgiving malice of a lover's memory, that the princely Gloucester
stooped to be the torturer of yon poor old man? If there be treason
in the scholar or in yon battered craft-work, leave the search to me!"
The duke raised his dark, penetrating eyes to those of Hastings, which
did not quail; for here world-genius encountered world-genius, and
art, art.
"Thine argument hath more subtlety and circumlocution than suit with
simple truth," said the prince, smiling. "But it is enough to Richard
that Hastings wills protection even to a spy!"
Hastings kissed the duke's hand in silence, and going to the door, he
disappeared a moment and returned with Sibyll. As she entered, pale
and trembling, Adam rose, and the girl with a wild cry flew to his
bosom.
"It is a winsome face, Hastings," said the duke, dryly. "I pity
Master Nevile the lover, and envy my Lord Chamberlain the protector."
Hastings laughed, for he was well pleased that Richard's suspicion
took that turn.
"And now," he said, "I suppose Master Nevile and the Duchess of
Bedford's page may enter. Your guard stopped them hitherto. They
come for this gentleman from her highness the queen's mother."
"Enter, Master Nevile, and you, Sir Page. What is your errand?"
"My lady, the duchess," said the page, "has sent me to conduct Master
Warner to the apartments prepared for him as her special multiplier
and alchemist."
"What!" said the prince, who, unlike the irritable Clarence, made it
his policy to show all decorous homage to the queen's kin, "hath that
illustrious lady taken this gentleman into her service? Why announced
you not, Master Warner, what at once had saved you from further
questioning? Lord Hastings, I thank you now for your intercession."
Hastings, in answer, pointed archly at Marmaduke, who was aiding
Sibyll to support her father. "Do you suspect me still, prince?" he
whispered.
The duke shrugged his shoulders, and Adam, breaking from Marmaduke and
Sibyll, passed with tottering steps to the shattered labour of his
solitary life. He looked at the ruin with mournful despondence, with
quivering lips. "Have you done with me?" then he said, bowing his
head lowlily, for his pride was gone; "may we--that is, I and this, my
poor device--withdraw from your palace? I see we are not fit for
kings!"
"Say not so," said the young duke, gently: "we have now convinced
ourselves of our error, and I crave thy pardon, Master Warner, for my
harsh dealings. As for this, thy toy, the king's workmen shall set it
right for thee. Smith, call the fellows yonder, to help bear this
to--" He paused, and glanced at Hastings.
"To my apartments," said the chamberlain. "Your Highness may be sure
that I will there inspect it. Fear not, Master Warner; no further
harm shall chance to thy contrivance."
"Come, sir, forgive me," said the duke. With gracious affability the
young prince held out his hand, the fingers of which sparkled with
costly gems, to the old man. The old man bowed as if his beard would
have swept the earth, but he did not touch the hand. He seemed still
in a state between dream and reason, life and death: he moved not,
spoke not, till the men came to bear the model; and he then followed
it, his arms folded in his gown, till, on entering the court, it was
borne in a contrary direction from his own, to the chamberlain's
apartment; then wistfully pursuing it with his eyes, he uttered such a
sigh as might have come from a resigned father losing the last glimpse
of a beloved son.
Richard hesitated a moment, loth to relinquish his research, and
doubtful whether to follow the Eureka for renewed investigation; but
partly unwilling to compromise his dignity in the eyes of Hastings,
should his suspicions prove unfounded, and partly indisposed to risk
the displeasure of the vindictive Duchess of Bedford by further
molestation of one now under her protection, he reluctantly trusted
all further inquiry to the well-known loyalty of Hastings. "If
Margaret be in London," he muttered to himself as he turned slowly
away, "now is the time to seize and chain the lioness! Ho, Catesby,--
hither (a valuable man that Catesby--a lawyer's nurturing with a
bloodhound's nature!)--Catesby, while King Edward rides for pleasure,
let thou and I track the scent of his foes. If the she-wolf of Anjou
hath ventured hither, she hides in some convent or monastery, be sure.
See to our palfreys, Catesby! Strange," added the prince, muttering
to himself, "that I am more restless to guard the crown than he who
wears it! Nay, a crown is a goodly heirloom in a man's family, and a
fair sight to see near--and near--and near--"
The prince abruptly paused, opened and shut his right hand
convulsively, and drew a long sigh.
BOOK IV.
INTRIGUES OF THE COURT OF EDWARD IV.
CHAPTER I.
MARGARET OF ANJOU.
The day after the events recorded in the last section of this
narrative, and about the hour of noon, Robert Hilyard (still in the
reverend disguise in which he had accosted Hastings) bent his way
through the labyrinth of alleys that wound in dingy confusion from the
Chepe towards the river.
The purlieus of the Thames, in that day of ineffective police,
sheltered many who either lived upon plunder, or sought abodes that
proffered, at alarm, the facility of flight. Here, sauntering in twos
or threes, or lazily reclined by the threshold of plaster huts, might
be seen that refuse population which is the unholy offspring of civil
war,--disbanded soldiers of either Rose, too inured to violence and
strife for peaceful employment, and ready for any enterprise by which
keen steel wins bright gold. At length our friend stopped before the
gate of a small house, on the very marge of the river, which belonged
to one of the many religious orders then existing; but from its site
and aspect denoted the poverty seldom their characteristic. Here he
knocked; the door was opened by a lay-brother; a sign and a smile were
interchanged, and the visitor was ushered into a room belonging to the
superior, but given up for the last few days to a foreign priest, to
whom the whole community appeared to consider the reverence of a saint
was due. And yet this priest, who, seated alone, by a casement which
commanded a partial view of the distant Tower of London, received the
conspirator, was clad in the humblest serge. His face was smooth and
delicate; and the animation of the aspect, the vehement impatience of
the gesture, evinced little of the holy calm that should belong to
those who have relinquished the affairs of earth for meditation on the
things of heaven. To this personage the sturdy Hilyard bowed his
manly knees; and casting himself at the priest's feet, his eyes, his
countenance, changed from their customary hardihood and recklessness
into an expression at once of reverence and of pity.
"Well, man--well, friend--good friend, tried and leal friend, speak!
speak!" exclaimed the priest, in an accent that plainly revealed a
foreign birth.
"Oh, gracious lady! all hope is over; I come but to bid you fly. Adam
Warner was brought before the usurper; he escaped, indeed, the
torture, and was faithful to the trust. But the papers--the secret of
the rising--are in the hands of Hastings."
"How long, O Lord," said Margaret of Anjou, for she it was, under that
reverend disguise, "how long wilt Thou delay the hour of triumph and
revenge?"
The princess as she spoke had suffered her hood to fall back, and her
pale, commanding countenance, so well fitted to express fiery and
terrible emotion, wore that aspect in which many a sentenced man had
read his doom,--an aspect the more fearful, inasmuch as the passion
that pervaded it did not distort the features, but left them locked,
rigid, and marble-like in beauty, as the head of the Medusa.
"The day will dawn at last," said Hilyard; "but the judgments of
Heaven are slow. We are favoured, at the least, that our secret is
confined to a man more merciful than his tribe." He then related to
Margaret his interview with Hastings at the house of the Lady
Lougueville, and continued: "This morning, not an hour since, I sought
him (for last evening he did not leave Edward, a council met at the
Tower), and learned that he had detected the documents in the recesses
of Warner's engine. Knowing from your Highness and your spies that he
had been open to the gifts of Charolois, I spoke to him plainly of the
guerdon that should await his silence. 'Friar,' he answered, 'if in
this court and this world I have found it were a fool's virtue to be
more pure than others, and if I know that I should but provoke the
wrath of those who profit by Burgundian gold, were I alone to disdain
its glitter, I have still eno' of my younger conscience left me not to
make barter of human flesh. Did I give these papers to King Edward,
the heads of fifty gallant men, whose error is but loyalty to their
ancient sovereign, would glut the doomsman; but,' he continued, 'I am
yet true to my king and his cause; I shall know how to advise Edward
to the frustrating all your schemes. The districts where you hoped a
rising will be guarded, the men ye count upon will be watched: the
Duke of Gloucester, whose vigilance never sleeps, has learned that the
Lady Margaret is in England, disguised as a priest. To-morrow all the
religious houses will be searched; if thou knowest where she lies
concealed, bid her lose not an hour to fly.'"
"I Will NOT fly!" exclaimed Margaret; "let Edward, if he dare,
proclaim to my people that their queen is in her city of London. Let
him send his hirelings to seize her. Not in this dress shall she be
found. In robes of state, the sceptre in her hand, shall they drag
the consort of their king to the prison-house of her palace."
"On my knees, great queen, I implore you to be calm; with the loss of
your liberty ends indeed all hope of victory, all chance even of
struggle. Think not Edward's fears would leave to Margaret the life
that his disdain has spared to your royal spouse. Between your prison
and your grave, but one secret and bloody step! Be ruled; no time to
lose! My trusty Hugh even now waits with his boat below. Relays of
horses are ready, night and day, to bear you to the coast; while
seeking your restoration, I have never neglected the facilities for
flight. Pause not, O gracious lady; let not your son say, 'My
mother's passion has lost me the hope of my grandsire's crown.'"
"My boy; my princely boy, my Edward!" exclaimed Margaret, bursting
into tears, all the warrior-queen merged in the remembrance of the
fond mother. "Ah, faithful friend! he is so gallant and so beautiful!
Oh, he shall reward thee well hereafter!"
"May he live to crush these barons, and raise this people!" said the
demagogue of Redesdale. "But now, save thyself!"
"But what! is it not possible yet to strike the blow? Rather let us
spur to the north; rather let us hasten the hour of action, and raise
the Red Rose through the length and breadth of England!"
"Ah, lady, if without warrant from your lord; if without foreign
subsidies; if without having yet ripened the time; if without gold,
without arms, and without one great baron on our side, we forestall a
rising, all that we have gained is lost; and instead of war, you can
scarcely provoke a riot. But for this accursed alliance of Edward's
daughter with the brother of icy-hearted Louis, our triumph had been
secure. The French king's gold would have manned a camp, bribed the
discontented lords, and his support have sustained the hopes of the
more leal Lancastrians. But it is in vain to deny, that if Lord
Warwick win Louis--"
"He will not! he shall not!--Louis, mine own kinsman!" exclaimed
Margaret, in a voice in which the anguish pierced through the louder
tone of resentment and disdain.
"Let us hope that he will not," replied Hilyard, soothingly; some
chance may yet break off these nuptials, and once more give us France
as our firm ally. But now we must be patient. Already Edward is fast
wearing away the gloss of his crown; already the great lords desert
his court; already, in the rural provinces, peasant and franklin
complain of the exactions of his minions; already the mighty House of
Nevile frowns sullen on the throne it built. Another year, and who
knows but the Earl of Warwick,--the beloved and the fearless, whose
statesman-art alone hath severed from you the arms and aid of France,
at whose lifted finger all England would bristle with armed men--may
ride by the side of Margaret through the gates of London?"
"Evil-omened consoler, never!" exclaimed the princess, starting to her
feet, with eyes that literally shot fire. "Thinkest thou that the
spirit of a queen lies in me so low and crushed, that I, the
descendant of Charlemagne, could forgive the wrongs endured from
Warwick and his father? But thou, though wise and loyal, art of the
Commons; thou knowest not how they feel through whose veins rolls the
blood of kings!"
A dark and cold shade fell over the bold face of Robin of Redesdale at
these words.
"Ah, lady," he said, with bitterness, "if no misfortune can curb thy
pride, in vain would we rebuild thy throne. It is these Commons,
Margaret of Anjou--these English Commons--this Saxon People, that can
alone secure to thee the holding of the realm which the right arm
wins. And, beshrew me, much as I love thy cause, much as thou hast
with thy sorrows and thy princely beauty glamoured and spelled my
heart and my hand,--ay, so that I, the son of a Lollard, forget the
wrongs the Lollards sustained from the House of Lancaster; so that I,
who have seen the glorious fruitage of a Republic, yet labour for
thee, to overshadow the land with the throne of ONE--yet--yet, lady--
yet, if I thought thou wert to be the same Margaret as of old, looking
back to thy dead kings, and contemptuous of thy living people, I would
not bid one mother's son lift lance or bill on thy behalf."
So resolutely did Robin of Redesdale utter these words, that the
queen's haughty eye fell abashed as he spoke; and her craft, or her
intellect, which was keen and prompt where her passions did not deafen
and blind her judgment, instantly returned to her. Few women equalled
this once idol of knight and minstrel, in the subduing fascination
that she could exert in her happier moments. Her affability was as
gracious as her wrath was savage; and with a dignified and winning
frankness, she extended her hand to her ally, as she answered, in a
sweet, humble, womanly, and almost penitent voice,--
"O bravest and lealest of friends, forgive thy wretched queen. Her
troubles distract her brain,--chide her not if they sour her speech.
Saints above! will ye not pardon Margaret if at times her nature be
turned from the mother's milk into streams of gall and bloody purpose,
when ye see, from your homes serene, in what a world of strife and
falsehood her very womanhood hath grown unsexed?" She paused a moment,
and her uplifted eyes shed tears fast and large. Then, with a sigh,
she turned to Hilyard, and resumed more calmly, "Yes, thou art right,
--adversity hath taught me much. And though adversity will too often
but feed and not starve our pride, yet thou--thou hast made me know
that there is more of true nobility in the blunt Children of the
People than in many a breast over which flows the kingly robe.
Forgive me, and the daughter of Charlemagne shall yet be a mother to
the Commons, who claim thee as their brother!"
Thoroughly melted, Robin of Redesdale bowed over the hand held to his
lips, and his rough voice trembled as he answered, though that answer
took but the shape of prayer.
"And now," said the princess, smiling, "to make peace lasting between
us, I conquer myself, I yield to thy counsels. Once more the
fugitive, I abandon the city that contains Henry's unheeded prison.
See, I am ready. Who will know Margaret in this attire? Lead on!"
Rejoiced to seize advantage of this altered and submissive mood, Robin
instantly took the way through a narrow passage, to a small door
communicating with the river. There Hugh was waiting in a small boat,
moored to the damp and discoloured stairs.
Robin, by a gesture, checked the man's impulse to throw himself at the
feet of the pretended priest, and bade him put forth his best speed.
The princess seated herself by the helm, and the little boat cut
rapidly through the noble stream. Galleys, gay and gilded, with
armorial streamers, and filled with nobles and gallants, passed them,
noisy with mirth or music, on their way. These the fallen sovereign
heeded not; but, with all her faults, the woman's heart beating in her
bosom--she who in prosperity had so often wrought ruin, and shame, and
woe to her gentle lord; she who had been reckless of her trust as
queen; and incurred grave--but, let us charitably hope, unjust--
suspicion of her faith as wife, still fixed her eyes on the gloomy
tower that contained her captive husband, and felt that she could have
forgotten a while even the loss of power if but permitted to fall on
that plighted heart, and weep over the past with the woe-worn
bridegroom of her youth.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH ARE LAID OPEN TO THE READER THE CHARACTER OF EDWARD THE
FOURTH AND THAT OF HIS COURT, WITH THE MACHINATIONS OF THE WOODVILLES
AGAINST THE EARL OF WARWICK.
Scarcely need it be said to those who have looked with some philosophy
upon human life, that the young existence of Master Marmaduke Nevile,
once fairly merged in the great common sea, will rarely reappear
before us individualized and distinct. The type of the provincial
cadet of the day hastening courtwards to seek his fortune, he becomes
lost amidst the gigantic characters and fervid passions that alone
stand forth in history. And as, in reading biography, we first take
interest in the individual who narrates, but if his career shall pass
into that broader and more stirring life, in which he mingles with men
who have left a more dazzling memory than his own, we find the
interest change from the narrator to those by whom he is surrounded
and eclipsed,--so, in this record of a time, we scarce follow our
young adventurer into the court of the brilliant Edward ere the scene
itself allures and separates us from our guide; his mission is, as it
were, well-nigh done. We leave, then, for a while this bold, frank
nature-fresh from the health of the rural life--gradually to improve,
or deprave itself, in the companionship it finds. The example of the
Lords Hastings, Scales, and Worcester, and the accomplishments of the
two younger Princes of York, especially the Duke of Gloucester, had
diffused among the younger and gayer part of the court that growing
taste for letters which had somewhat slept during the dynasty of the
House of Lancaster; and Marmaduke's mind became aware that learning
was no longer the peculiar distinction of the Church, and that Warwick
was behind his age when he boasted "that the sword was more familiar
to him than the pen." He had the sagacity to perceive that the
alliance with the great earl did not conduce to his popularity at
court; and even in the king's presence, the courtiers permitted
themselves many taunts and jests at the fiery Warwick, which they
would have bitten out their tongues ere they would have vented before
the earl himself. But though the Nevile sufficiently controlled his
native candour not to incur unprofitable quarrel by ill-mannered and
unseasonable defence of the hero-baron when sneered at or assailed, he
had enough of the soldier and the man in him not to be tainted by the
envy of the time and place,--not to lose his gratitude to his patron,
nor his respect for the bulwark of the country. Rather, it may be
said, that Warwick gained in his estimation whenever compared with the
gay and silken personages who avenged themselves by words for his
superiority in deeds. Not only as a soldier, but as a statesman, the
great and peculiar merits of the earl were visible in all those
measures which emanated solely from himself. Though so indifferently
educated, his busy, practical career, his affable mixing with all
classes, and his hearty, national sympathies made him so well
acquainted with the interests of his country and the habits of his
countrymen, that he was far more fitted to rule than the scientific
Worcester or the learned Scales. The Young Duke of Gloucester
presented a marked contrast to the general levity of the court, in
speaking of this powerful nobleman. He never named him but with
respect, and was pointedly courteous to even the humblest member of
the earl's family. In this he appeared to advantage by the side of
Clarence, whose weakness of disposition made him take the tone of the
society in which he was thrown, and who, while really loving Warwick,
often smiled at the jests against him,--not, indeed, if uttered by the
queen or her family, of whom he ill concealed his jealousy and hatred.
The whole court was animated and pregnant with a spirit of intrigue,
which the artful cunning of the queen, the astute policy of Jacquetta,
and the animosity of the different factions had fomented to a degree
quite unknown under former reigns. It was a place in which the wit of
young men grew old rapidly; amidst stratagem, and plot, and ambitious
design, and stealthy overreaching, the boyhood of Richard III. passed
to its relentless manhood: such is the inevitable fruit of that era in
civilization when a martial aristocracy first begins to merge into a
voluptuous court.
Through this moving and shifting web of ambition and intrigue the
royal Edward moved with a careless grace: simple himself, because his
object was won, and pleasure had supplanted ambition. His indolent,
joyous temper served to deaden his powerful intellect; or, rather, his
intellect was now lost in the sensual stream through which it flowed.
Ever in pursuit of some new face, his schemes and counterschemes were
limited to cheat a husband or deceive a wife; and dexterous and
successful no doubt they were. But a vice always more destructive
than the love of women began also to reign over him,--namely, the
intemperance of the table. The fastidious and graceful epicurism of
the early Normans, inclined to dainties but abhorring excess, and
regarding with astonished disdain the heavy meals and deep draughts of
the Saxon, had long ceased to characterize the offspring of that
noblest of all noble races. Warwick, whose stately manliness was
disgusted with whatever savoured of effeminacy or debauch, used to
declare that he would rather fight fifty battles for Edward IV. than
once sup with him! Feasts were prolonged for hours, and the banquets
of this king of the Middle Ages almost resembled those of the later
Roman emperors. The Lord Montagu did not share the abstemiousness of
his brother of Warwick. He was, next to Hastings, the king's chosen
and most favourite companion. He ate almost as much as the king, and
drank very little less. Of few courtiers could the same be said!
Over the lavish profligacy and excess of the court, however, a veil
dazzling to the young and high-spirited was thrown. Edward was
thoroughly the cavalier, deeply imbued with the romance of chivalry,
and, while making the absolute woman his plaything, always treated the
ideal woman as a goddess. A refined gallantry, a deferential courtesy
to dame and demoiselle, united the language of an Amadis with the
licentiousness of a Gaolor; and a far more alluring contrast than the
court of Charles II. presented to the grim Commonwealth seduced the
vulgar in that of this most brave and most beautiful prince, when
compared with the mournful and lugubrious circles in which Henry VI.
had reigned and prayed. Edward himself, too, it was so impossible to
judge with severe justice, that his extraordinary popularity in
London, where he was daily seen, was never diminished by his faults;
he was so bold in the field, yet so mild in the chamber; when his
passions slept, he was so thoroughly good-natured and social, so kind
to all about his person, so hearty and gladsome in his talk and in his
vices, so magnificent and so generous withal; and, despite his
indolence, his capacities for business were marvellous,--and these
last commanded the reverence of the good Londoners; he often
administered justice himself, like the caliphs of the East, and with
great acuteness and address. Like most extravagant men, he had a
wholesome touch of avarice. That contempt for commerce which
characterizes a modern aristocracy was little felt by the nobles of
that day, with the exception of such blunt patricians as Lord Warwick
or Raoul de Fulke. The great House of De la Pole (Duke of Suffolk),
the heir of which married Edward's sister Elizabeth, had been founded
by a merchant of Hull. Earls and archbishops scrupled not to derive
revenues from what we should now esteem the literal resources of
trade. [The Abbot of St. Alban's (temp. Henry III.) was a vendor of
Yarmouth bloaters. The Cistercian Monks were wool-merchants; and
Macpherson tells us of a couple of Iceland bishops who got a license
from Henry VI. for smuggling. (Matthew Paris. Macpherson's "Annals of
Commerce," 10.) As the Whig historians generally have thought fit to
consider the Lancastrian cause the more "liberal" of the two, because
Henry IV. was the popular choice, and, in fact, an elected, not an
hereditary king, so it cannot be too emphatically repeated, that the
accession of Edward IV. was the success of two new and two highly--
popular principles,--the one that of church reform, the other that of
commercial calculation. All that immense section, almost a majority
of the people, who had been persecuted by the Lancastrian kings as
Lollards, revenged on Henry the aggrieved rights of religious
toleration. On the other hand, though Henry IV., who was immeasurably
superior to his warlike son in intellect and statesmanship, had< |
