CHAPTER XXIII.
There was an expression of both sorrow and care on the fine and winningfeatures of the Princess Joan, Countess of Gloucester, as she sat busiedin embroidery in an apartment of Carlisle Castle, often pausing to resther head upon her hand, and glance out of the broad casement near whichshe sat, not in admiration of the placid scene which stretched beyond,but in the mere forgetfulness of uneasy thought. Long the favoritedaughter of King Edward, perchance because her character more resembledthat of her mother, Queen Eleanor, than did either of her sisters, shehad till lately possessed unbounded influence over him. Not only hisaffection but his pride was gratified in her, for he saw much of his ownwisdom, penetration, and high sense of honor reflected upon her, farmore forcibly than in his weak and yielding son. But lately, the changewhich had so painfully darkened the character and actions of her fatherhad extended even to her. Her affection for a long time blinded her tothis painful truth, but by slow degrees it became too evident to bemistaken, and she had wept many bitter tears, less perhaps for herselfthan for her father, whom she had almost idolized. His knightlyqualities, his wisdom, the good he had done his country, all weretreasured up by her and rejoiced in with never-failing delight. Hisreputation, his popularity, were dear to her, even as her noblehusband's. She had not only loved, she had reverenced him as somesuperior being who had come but to do good, to leave behind him throughsucceeding ages an untarnished name, enshrined in such love, Englandwould be long ere she spoke it without tears. And now, alas! she hadoutlived such dreams; her reverence, lingering still, had been impairedby deeds of blood her pride in him crushed; naught but a daughter's loveremaining, which did but more strongly impress upon her heart the fatalchange. And now the last blow was given; he shunned her, scarcely eversummoned her to his presence, permitted the wife of a day to tend him inhis sufferings, rather than the daughter of his former love, onehallowed by the memories of her mother, the beloved and faithful partnerof his youth.
It was not, however, these thoughts which entirely engrossed her nownot undivided sorrows. Her sister Elizabeth, the Countess of Hereford,had just left her, plunged in the deepest distress, from theextraordinary fact that her husband, summoned seemingly in all amity bythe king, had been arrested by the Lord Marshal of England as an aiderand abettor of treason, and was now in strict confinement within thecastle; not permitted to embrace his wife and children, whom he had notseen since his arrival from Scotland, where he had so gallantly assistedthe cause of Edward, and whence he had but just returned in triumph. Noother cause was assigned saving having given countenance to treason and_leze majeste_, but that the irritation of the king had prohibited allhope of present pardon;--she, Lady Hereford, though his own daughter,having been refused admission to his presence. Both the Earl andCountess of Gloucester had anxiously striven to comfort the anxiouswife, conquering their own fears to assure her that hers weregroundless; that though from some mysterious cause at present irritated,as they knew too well a trifle made him now, Hereford was too good andloyal a subject for the king to proceed to extremities, whatever mighthave been his fault. Rumors of the confusion at Berwick had indeedreached Carlisle, and it was to have them confirmed or denied, orconnected with some appearance of veracity, the Earl of Gloucester hadquitted the royal sisters, determining to use his influence with hissovereign, even to dare his wrath, for the release of Hereford, whosegood services in Scotland deserved a somewhat different recompense. LadyHereford, too anxious and dispirited to remain long in one place, soondeparted to seek the youthful Margaret of France, her father's beautifulwife, and beseech her influence with him, either for the pardon of herhusband, or at least communication with him.
It was these sad thoughts which engrossed the Princess Joan, and theylingered too on Hereford's prisoner, the brave, and noble Nigel, forboth to her husband and herself he had been in his boyhood an object notonly of interest but of love. His beauty, his extraordinary talents, hadirresistibly attracted them; and yet scarcely could they now believe theyouthful knight, with whose extraordinary valor not only Scotland butEngland rung, could be that same enthusiast boy. That he had been taken,was now a prisoner in Berwick Castle, on whom sentence of death sooneror later would be passed, brought conviction but too sadly to theirhearts, and made them feel yet more bitterly their influence with Edwardwas of no account.
"Hast thou succeeded, Gilbert? Oh, say that poor Elizabeth may at leastbe permitted access to her husband," was the countess's eager salutationto her husband, as he silently approached her. He shook his headsorrowfully.
"Alas! not even this. Edward is inexorable, possessed by I know not whatspirit of opposition and wrath, furiously angered against Hereford, tothe utter forgetfulness of all his gallant deeds in Scotland."
"But wherefore? What can have chanced in this brief period to occasionthis? but a few days since he spoke of Hereford as most loyal anddeserving."
"Aye, that was on the news of Kildrummie's surrender; now forgotten,from anger at a deed which but a few years back he would have been thefirst to have admired. That rash madman, Nigel Bruce, hath not onlytrebly sealed his own fate, but hurled down this mishap on his captor,"and briefly he narrated all he had learned.
"It was, indeed, a rash action, Gilbert; yet was it altogetherunnatural? Alas, no! the boy had had no spark of chivalry or patriotismabout him, had he stood tamely by; and Gloucester," she added, withbitter tears, "years back would my father have given cause forthis--would he thus have treated an unhappy woman, thus have addedinsult to misery, for an act which, shown to other than his rival, hewould have honored, aye, not alone the deed, but the doer of it? If we,his own children, feel shamed and indignant at this cruelty, oh, whatmust be the feelings of her countrymen, her friends?"
"Then thou believest not the foul slander attached to the Countess ofBuchan, my Joan?"
"Believe it!" she answered, indignantly; "who that has looked on thatnoble woman's face can give it the smallest credence? No, Gilbert, no.'Tis published by those base spirits so utterly incapable of honor,knighthood, and patriotism themselves, that they cannot conceive thesequalities in others, particularly in a female breast, and thereforeassign it to motives black as the hearts which thought them; and even ifit were true, is a kingly conqueror inflicting justice for treasonagainst himself, to assign other motives for that justice? Doth he notlower himself--his own cause?"
"Alas, yes!" replied her husband, sorrowfully; "he hath done hischaracter more injury by this last act than any which preceded. Thoughmen might wish less blood were shed, yet still, traitors taken in armsagainst his person justice must condemn; but a woman, a sad and grievingwoman--but do not weep thus, my gentle wife," he added, tenderly.
"Can a daughter of Edward do other than weep, my husband? Oh, if I lovedhim not, if my very spirit did not cling round him so closely that thefibres of both seem entwined, and his deeds of wrath, of exactingjustice, fall on me as if I had done them, and overwhelm me with theirshame, their remorse, then indeed I might not weep; but as it is, do notchide me, Gilbert, for weep I must."
"Thou art too noble-hearted, Joan," he said, kindly, as he circled herwaist with his arm, "only too noble-hearted for these fearful times.'Tis but too sad a proof of the change in thy royal father, that heshuns thy presence now even as he once loved it."
A confusion in the passage and ante-room disturbed their converse, andGloucester turned towards the door to inquire the cause.
"Tis but a troublesome boy, demanding access to her highness thecountess, my lord," was the reply. "I have asked his name and business,questions he deigns not, forsooth, to answer, and looks so wild anddistracted, that I scarce think it accords with my duty to afford himadmittance. He is no fit recipient of my lady's bounty, good my lord;trust me, he will but fright her."
"I have no such fear, my good Baldwin," said the princess, as, onhearing her name, she came forward to the centre of the chamber; "thouknowest my presence is granted to all who seek it, an this poor childseems so wild, he is the fitter object of
my care. They are usingviolence methinks; give him entrance instantly."
The attendant departed, and returned in a very brief space, followed bya lad, whose torn and muddy garments, haggard features, and dishevelledhair indeed verified the description given. He glanced wildly round hima moment, and then flinging himself at the feet of the princess, claspedher robe and struggled to say something, of which the words "mercy,protection," were alone audible.
"Mercy, my poor child! what mercy dost thou crave? Protection I may givethee, but how may I show thee mercy?"
"Grant me but a few moments, lady, let me but speak with thee alone. Ibear a message which I may not deliver to other ears save thine," saidor rather gasped the boy, for he breathed with difficulty, either fromexhaustion or emotion.
"Alone!" replied the countess, somewhat surprised. "Leave us, Baldwin,"she added, after a moment's pause. "I am privately engaged for the nexthour, denied to all, save his grace the king." He withdrew, with arespectful bow. "And now, speak, poor child, what wouldst thou? Nay, Ihear nothing which my husband may not hear," she said, as the eyes ofher visitor gazed fearfully on the earl, who was looking at him withsurprise.
"Thy husband, lady--the Earl of Gloucester? oh, it was to him too Icame; the brother-in-arms of my sovereign, one that showed kindnessto--to Sir Nigel in his youth, ye will not, ye will not forsake himnow?"
Few and well-nigh inarticulate as were those broken words, they betrayedmuch which at once excited interest in both the earl and countess, andtold the reason of the lad's earnest entreaty to see them alone.
"Forsake him!" exclaimed the earl, after carefully examining that thedoor was closed; "would to heaven I could serve him, free him! thatthere was but one slender link to lay hold of, to prove him innocent andgive him life, I would do it, did it put my own head in jeopardy."
"And is there none, none?" burst wildly from the boy's lips, as hesprung from his knees, and grasped convulsively the earl's arm. "Oh,what has he done that they should slay him? why do they call him guilty?He was not Edward's subject, he owed him no homage, no service, he hasbut fought to free his country, and is there guilt in this? oh, no, no,save him, in mercy save him!"
"Thou knowest not what thou askest, boy, how wholly, utterly impossibleit is to save him. He hath hurled down increase of anger on his own headby his daring insult of King Edward's herald; had there been hope beforethere is none now."
A piercing cry escaped the boy, and he would have fallen had he not beensupported by the countess; he looked at her pitying face, and againthrew himself at her feet.
"Canst _thou_ not, wilt _thou_ not save him?" he cried; "art thou notthe daughter of Edward, his favorite, his dearly beloved, and will henot list to thee--will he not hear thy pleadings? Oh, seek him, kneel tohim as I to thee, implore his mercy--life, life, only the gift of life;sentence him to exile, perpetual exile, what he will, only let him live:he is too young, too good, too beautiful to die. Oh! do not look as ifthis could not be. He has told me how you both loved him, not that Ishould seek ye. It is not at his request I come; no, no, no, he spurnslife, if it be granted on conditions. But they have torn me from him,they have borne him to the lowest dungeon, they have loaded him withfetters, put him to the torture. I would have clung to him still, butthey spurned me, trampled on me, cast me forth--to die, if I may notsave him! Wilt thou not have mercy, princess? daughter of Edward, oh,save him, save him!"
It is impossible in the above incoherent words to convey to the readereven a faint idea of the agonized wildness with which they were spoken;the impression of unutterable misery they gave to those who listened tothem, and marked their reflection in the face of the speaker.
"Fetters--the lowest dungeon--torture," repeated Gloucester, pacing upand down with disordered steps. "Can these things be? merciful heaven,how low hath England fallen! Boy, boy, can it be thou speakest truth?"
"As there is a God above, it is truth!" he answered, passionately. "Oh,canst thou not save him from this? is there no justice, no mercy?Rise--no, no; wherefore should I rise?" he continued, clingingconvulsively to the knees of the princess, as she soothingly sought toraise him. "I will kneel here till thou hast promised to plead for himwith thy royal father, promised to use thine influence for his life. Oh,canst thou once have loved him and yet hesitate for this?"
"I do not, I would not hesitate, unhappy boy," replied the princess,tenderly. "God in heaven knows, were there the slenderest chance ofsaving him, I would kneel at my father's feet till pardon was obtained,but angered as he is now it would irritate him yet more. Alas! alas!poor child, they told thee wrong who bade thee come to Joan forinfluence with Edward; I have none now, less than any of his court," andthe large tears fell from the eyes of the princess on the boy's upturnedface.
"Then let me plead for him; give me access to Edward. Oh, I will sobeseech, conjure him, he cannot, he will not say me nay. Oh, if hisheart be not of steel, he will have mercy on our wretchedness; he willpardon, he will spare my husband!"
The sob with which that last word was spoken shook that slight frame,till it bowed to the very ground, and the supporting arm of the countessalone preserved her from falling.
"Thy husband!--Gracious heaven! who and what art thou?" exclaimed theearl, springing towards her, at the same instant that his wife raisedher in her arras, and laid her on a couch beside them, watching with thesoothing tenderness of a sister, till voice and strength returned.
"Alas! I feared there was more in this deep agony than we might see,"she said; "but I imagined not, dared not imagine aught like this. Poorunhappy sufferer, the saints be praised thou hast come to me! thyhusband's life I may not save, but I can give protection, tenderness tothee--aye weep, weep, there is life, reason in those tears."
The gentle voice of sympathy, of kindness, had come upon thatovercharged heart, and broke the icy agony which had closed it to therelief of tears. Mind and frame were utterly exhausted, and Agnes buriedher face in the hands of the princess, which she had claspedconvulsively within both hers, and wept, till the wildness of agonyindeed departed, but not the horrible consciousness of the anguish yetto come. Gradually her whole tale was imparted: from the resolution tofollow her betrothed even to England, and cling to him to the last; thefatal conclusion of that rite which had made them one; the anxiety andsuffering which had marked the days spent in effecting a completedisguise, ere she could venture near him and obtain Hereford's consentto her attending him as a page; the risks and hardships which hadattended their journey to Berwick, till even a prison seemed a reliefand rest; and then the sudden change, that a few days previous, the Earlof Berwick had entered Sir Nigel's prison, at the head of five or tenruffians, had loaded him with fetters, conveyed him to the lowest andfilthiest dungeon, and there had administered the torture, she knew notwherefore. Her shriek of agony had betrayed that she had followed them,and she was rudely and forcibly dragged from him, and thrust from thefortress. Her brain had reeled, her senses a brief while forsaken her,and when she recovered, her only distinct thought was to find her way toCarlisle, and there obtain access to the Earl and Countess ofGloucester, of whom her husband had spoken much during their journey toEngland, not with any wish or hope of obtaining mercy through theirinfluence, but simply as the friends of former years; he had spoken ofthem to while away the tedious hours of their journey, and besought her,if she should be parted from him on their arrival at Berwick, to seekthem, and implore their protection till her strength was restored. Ofherself, however, in thus seeking them, she had thought not; the onlyidea, the only thought clearly connected in her mind was to beseechtheir influence with Edward in obtaining her husband's pardon. Miseryand anxiety, in a hundred unlooked-for shapes, had already shown thefallacy of those dreams which in the hour of peril had strengthened her,and caused her to fancy that when once his wife she not only might abideby him, but that she might in some manner obtain his liberation. She didnot, indeed, lament her fate was joined to his--lament! she could notpicture herself other than she was, by her husband's si
de, but she felt,how bitterly felt, she had no power to avert his fate. Despair was uponher, cold, black, clinging despair, and she clung to the vain dream ofimploring Edward's mercy, feeling at the same moment it was but the_ignis fatui_ to her heart--urging lighting, impelling her on, but tosink in pitchy darkness when approached.
Gradually and painfully this narrative of anguish was drawn from herlips, often unconnectedly, often incoherently, but the earl and countessheard enough, to fill their hearts alike with pity and respect for thedeep, unselfish love unconsciously revealed. She had told, too, hermaiden name, had conjured them to conceal her from the power of herfather, at whose very name she shuddered; and both those noble heartsshared her anxiety, sympathized in her anguish; and speedily she felt,if there could be comfort in such deep wretchedness, she had told hertale to those ready and willing, and able to bestow it.
The following day the barons sat in judgment on Sir Nigel Bruce, andGloucester was obliged to join them. It was useless, both he and theprincess felt, to implore the king's mercy till sentence was passed;alas! it was useless at any time, but it must have been a colder andharder heart than the Princess Joan's to look upon the face of Agnes,and yet determine on not even making one effort in his favor. At firstthe unhappy girl besought the earl to permit her accompanying him backto Berwick, to attend her husband on his trial; but on his proving itwould but be uselessly harrowing the feelings of both, for it would notenable her to go back with him to prison, that it would be better forher to remain under the protection of the countess, endeavoring toregain strength for whatever she might have to encounter, either toaccompany him to exile, if grace were indeed granted, or to return toher friends in Scotland, she yielded mournfully, deriving some faintdegree of comfort in the earl's assurance that she should rejoin herhusband as soon as possible, and the countess's promise that if shewished it, she should herself be witness of her interview with Edward.It was indeed poor comfort, but her mind was well-nigh wearied out withsorrow, as if incapable of bearing more, and she acquiesced from veryexhaustion.
The desire that she herself should conjure the mercy of Edward had beennegatived even to her anxious heart by the assurance of both the earland the princess, that instead of doing good to her husband's cause shewould but sign her own doom, perchance be consigned to the power of herfather, and be compelled to relinquish the poor consolation of beingwith her husband to the last. It was better she should retain thedisguise she had assumed, adopting merely in addition the dress of oneof the princess's own pages, a measure which would save her from allobservation in the palace, and give her admittance to Sir Nigel,perchance, when as his own attendant it would be denied.
The idea of rejoining her husband would have reconciled Agnes to anything that might have been proposed, and kneeling at the feet of herprotectress, she struggled to speak her willingness and blessing on hergoodness, but her tongue was parched, her lips were mute, and theprincess turned away, for her gentle spirit could not read unmoved thesilent thankfulness of that young and breaking heart.
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