Bitterly, with an angry smile, he recalled how she had found it difficult to say that she loved him. Even to her, this Scottish traitress, that cozening affirmation had not been easily spoken. He had believed her modest — she, that icy wanton, modest! that shameless witch of the moon, who like any whore, had sealed a bargain with a man she did not love, and then not kept the bargain, call her modest! — and he had marvelled -that love could have wrought that miracle, poor simpleton in a she-dragon’s bed! while all the time she had been smirking at his simplicity.
What now was to be done? to row to London with these good fellows who had shown such patience through the chilling hours? A bolt-hole awaited him. there should he wish to take it. And after that? A wandering existence, the mock of the great world, a beggar in tattered dreams whom nobody would welcome. Kings would not open their doors to Ishmael as they had to Prince Richard in the past; the duchess would set the dogs on him; and his own father and mother — -ay, pretence was now useless: the Warbecks were his father and mother — would curse him for his neglect and for his unfilial ingratitude in having rejected them for the witchery of a crown. In all the world there was no place where he could hide. To this had the ambitions of others and his own young dreams brought him at the end. He was alone and must remain forever alone, mateless, parentless, naked in a hostile world.
“Nay,” said he, smiling sadly when again the helmsman asked if he would go, “I will stay here.”
“But, master, they will catch you,” cried the helmsman, a little active man whose breath went hissing through his teeth. “Anon the palace will be astir and you’ll be missed.”
Perkin shrugged. “I cannot leave without my wife,” he said. “Thank those good folk who sent you, and I would to God I could reward you for your patience, but I have nothing, nothing that is my own. Tell them that I stay to seek my lady. Surely they will understand?”
“What can you do alone, sir? Come, pray, come with us and, once we’re safe in London, we’ll soon hear what made her tarry. Later, can she be brought to you.”
“You are kind,” said Perkin, “and I will not forget but I cannot do it. My destiny lies here.”
“For the last time,” hissed the helmsman. “Come with us.”
“Nay,” said Perkin, and he waved his hand in farewell.
Under the willows he stood and watched the boat glide into the stream. He heard the helmsman cursing quietly and the squeak of the rowlocks, and almost he called to them to return. But he stamped down the weakness and hurriedly moved away and began to stride back to the palace.
It was unlikely that he had been missed. No one had come seeking him; he had seen and heard no commotion in the palace and the guard would have been out, bells would have been rung in warning, had it been discovered that he was gone. In the garden he would linger as though he had risen early to see the-dawn and he would cheerfully greet the servants stumbling out of sleep. Later, he would startle Kate with his unexpected presence, stealing suddenly on her like a ghost. She had believed, had she? that he would be cowardly enough to run off without her once the opportunity were offered, and thus would she have been quit of him? He smiled, savouring thought of that meeting, and pushed at the door.
It did not open. Suddenly, he shivered and his skin seemed to harden. It did not open to the turn of his key. The key turned, yea, but the door stuck fast. On the other side, somebody must have bolted it. The watch, mayhap, had found it open and had swung the bolt. Or, having made him her gull, Kate, or one of her lovers, had locked him out that he might be taken by the guard and accused of having tried to escape. Perhaps the king, weary of paying for his bouge, had plotted with Kate to have him snared thus in the open; yea, he was snared like a coney that finds its warren blocked. What explanation could he give for having stolen out of the palace? No matter what he said, he would not be believed because he could not tell the truth, betraying the queen and her friends. Ah! Cleverly had he been entangled, such being Tydder’s way.
As suddenly as it had risen in him, his anger went. No longer did he have even sufficient spirit to hate anyone for long and it was useless to spit into the wind, to rail at fate. He was, after all, a weakling, a liar, a cheat; and Katherine was right to spurn him who had stolen into her bed on false pretences. Better for him to die that she might choose a safer husband. While he lived, there would be no peace for her or for any of those unfortunates allied-to him. Ashley, Heron, and Skelton, and countless others lay dead because of his dreams. He was a moral leper who tainted or slew those whom he touched.
Wearily, he turned from the palace and strolled by the river’s edge and watched the dawn break the grey clouds above the tree-tops, waking the birds to song. Very beautiful was the world in that milk of dawn, the dew diamonding the grass and the river as it moved shimmering like a dragon’s coat. Before he was taken, he wanted to enjoy this brief freedom, to forget both past and future while he tried to think of himself as a boy again with all the adventure of life before him. Well, it had. been a good life, for a time. He had slept with a great lady, a king’s sib, and he had eaten and drunk of the best. Why, then, should he fear to die?
O, he did not want to die! Dear God, hear him: he did not want to die! The thought shook him to such panic that he began to run, leaving clear footprints in the dew, while he listened for the Sound of men pursuing; but everything was silent save for an occasional bird, the lapping of the river nearby and the murmur of wind among leaves. Later, he would have time in which to fear; he would have reason enough, God help him, then to fear; let him, therefore, try to enjoy his freedom while he could. Only, sweating, he prayed that he might not be tortured lest he blab the names of Katherine and the queen. Let him, at least, die with honour, like a gentleman, like a prince.
At times, he had believed himself a prince; he had thought and acted like a prince, so strong had grown that fantasy. Now that he was again certain that he was only Perkin Warbeck, he was without ambition beyond the wish to idle and to die without pain. Had he been able to continue the lie, he might have acted bravely; and had Katherine fled with him last night, as she had promised, he might have managed to believe, if only for her pride’s sake, that one day he would return to England to claim the. throne again. •Without her, he knew himself base-born, the mammet of others’ plotting, and no gentleman. Yet even the base-born were of flesh and blood and they, too, could dream and suffer and love; only, being of coarser clay, with no thought of honour and courtesy to uphold them, their flesh was weaker and they had no armour against fate.
As though he were alone in the world, he walked the green ways through the summer woods and he washed his hands and face in the river and licked the dew from leaves, being thirsty. Soon, soldiers would arrive to take him; sweet therefore were these minutes of freedom, had it not been for the hunger which began to gnaw behind his girdle. The carnal belly needed stronger nourishment than liberty, and a man’s courage often depended on such human needs. Soon do the hungry lose heart, and then they cannot fight.
With the growth of hunger, his fears became more clamorous until behind each tree he thought he spied an archer, bow ready bent; and every sound, run of rabbit or rustle of wind, he thought was the guard seeking him. To remain thus like an outlaw, lurking in the woods and sleeping God knew where, was only to await capture and to be dragged back, dirty and unshaven, for Katherine and his enemies to jeer at. If only he had known that that, door would be locked behind him, he would have sprung into the boat and by now he would have been safely hidden in the city. But he had not known about the door and therefore had been left without a way of retreat. All roads would be watched and the river would be guarded. His capture was foredoomed …
Between the trees he saw stone walls and he wandered closer and found that this was a church, nay! a priory, the Charterhouse, that he had stumbled on, and here he could find sanctuary for a time. At least, he would be fed.
The moment he saw him, the fat porter knew who he
was. Tidings of the escape must have been sent abroad, judging by the gleeful manner in which the fellow grinned and called him Perkin.
“Prince Peterkin,” the rascal jeered, twirling his cudgel, “we have been waiting for you, your highness.”
“I have come to ask for sanctuary,” said. Perkin.
“Nor could I refuse you if I would, your most highness,” grinned the man. “Although, your most highness, it is my sad duty to tell you that we have not perpetual sanctuary at Sheen. Only for a time can you take refuge here.”
“I ask merely a couch, some wine and bread,” said Perkin; “and I’ll dally no longer.”
“Your most highness shall have all three. The prior himself, God bless his noble heart, has given orders that you be carried before him should you ask it. Will you come this way, my noble prince?”
Mockery could no longer touch Perkin. If it amused this clown, let him have his poor jest. Misfortune, indeed, always brought Perkin a certain strength because it took away fear, once the fall was over, while kindness might have weakened him. Head erect, yet with a casual air, he followed the porter into the cool gloom of the priory and he took no heed of the monks grinning and laughing around him. He scarcely saw them, so sunk was he in his own despair; and not until he was in the prior’s chamber did he look up to see an elderly man with gentle eyes who greeted him with fingers raised in blessing.
“Welcome, my son,” said the prior, “and be seated. You must be weary and in need of food. Food will be brought you.”
Perkin bowed and sat on the stool; and once he had sat down, he realized how weary he was. Weary not only in body but in soul. He did not want ever to move again. If he could only have stayed here in this sanctuary by the river, he would have been content, he felt, away from the dangerous world forever; only, alas, Sheen had no rights of perpetual sanctuary, and after forty days and forty nights, he would be forced to leave its refuge to be seized by the king’s men waiting outside.
“Why did you run away, my son?” asked the prior, after watching him intently for some moments. “When we heard from the palace, we thought you must have arranged to have friends waiting and that by now you would have been far from us.”
“I was alone,” whispered Perkin. “I have no friends. I was alone and saw a door open in the garden. Opening it wider, I walked through, thinking I might find freedom on the other side. That is all, father.”
The prior sighed and folded his wrinkled hands in his lap. “Were you older, my boy,” he said, “I would read you an excellent sermon on open doors and the meaning of true liberty; but I take pity because you are tired and it is useless preaching to the young … You found no liberty out there, did you? You found only loneliness, hunger and thirst and fear, like a man shut out from God?”
“Yea,” said Perkin. “That is so.”
“In time you will learn that there is no such thing as freedom in this world, that there are no doors which open on to enduring happiness; save one … and that, too; you will find is no softer road, whatever glory meets you at the end. I mean the road to Christ, my child. For all your few years, you have suffered deeply and must have learned sooner than most men that all on earth is vanity. I pray that you will never forget that lesson.”
“I’ll be given little chance to forget,” said Perkin with a slow, sad smile.
“His highness,” said the prior, “is no revengeful man. He likes not blood and would be loved if the people would but love him. But the English are a stiff-necked people, a rebellious people. Nay, the king will not be cruel. You may have trust in his mercy.”
Perkin shrugged, not answering because he did not wish to argue with this good man; he knew what true mercy there was in Tydder’s shrivelled heart, however meek might sound the tyrant’s words.
“The cellarer will see to your wants,” said the prior, rising slowly, joints clicking, to his feet. “You must remain with us, my son, while I visit the king.”
“O! he’ll know by now that I am here …”
“I go,” said the prior, “not only to tell him of your presence but to plead your life and ask that you be not harshly punished. Never yet has he refused me any boon …”
No longer caring what they did to him, Perkin did not answer. Fear was gone with anger at Katherine’s treachery. Once life had lost its meaning, there was neither need nor wish to continue. Too great had been his sufferings, his hopes and disappointments, his delights and miseries, in so short a lifetime. Now, bereft of hope, he prayed only that God might forgive his sins and that his end should not be very painful. Even the desire to see Katherine again that he might upbraid her and reject her was no longer of importance. As though already dead and beyond the ills of the world, he ate and drank what a lay-brother brought and calmly awaited the prior’s return. That the king would forgive him, he could not believe. Being certain that the plot to entrap him had been inspired by Tydder, he could, he felt, expect only punishment and, most probably, death. While he lived he was a continual nuisance and might become the centre of future White Rose conspiracies, while to Katherine he remained a bar to-any second marriage. He was the dupe, the simpleton, who must be sacrificed for others’ comfort and their ease of mind.
When he looked up and saw the prior again before him, he was faintly surprised, not realizing that he had dozed.
“I have seen his highness,” said the old man, “and he was wrathful against you, my son. That you should have run from his protection, thus he argued, was an affront beyond his forgiveness, for it would set rumours going of his cruelty to be noised abroad. You must, this he demands, you must make open confession of your good handling.”
“Whatever he asks,” sighed Perkin, astonished to find that he was not to he killed, after all.
After a long silence in which he looked sadly on the tired young man, the prior said: “Why did you do it, my son? You had not been ill-treated, save that, as was right, your doings were watched. Few kings would have been so tender towards an enemy as his highness has been towards you. Into his peaceful realm you brought the sword and sent many poor men to their deaths; you threatened the peace of this country; yet he forgave you for it. Like a father, he forgave you and even cherished you, treating you like an honoured guest at his side. Yet you spat on this generosity, kicked mud into the face of the Samaritan … Again I ask you, why? How long, my boy, is it since you were shriven?”
Impatiently, Perkin turned his face away. He did not want to be pestered like this. He wanted to be left alone to die of his own sorrows undisturbed.
“Answer me,” insisted the prior, “when did you last confess?”
“A week, a few days since,” he muttered.
“You are lying; and how am I to help you if you lie? To turn away from God, my son, is ill work that cannot prosper. Had you confessed them a lie in your heart, you would have been given penance and made to forswear such ingratitude. I am waiting for you to speak, to tell me everything.”
“You come from the king,” cried Perkin. “You have been sent-to twist my secrets out of me. I have told you — I was alone. Nobody helped me. Nobody; do you understand!”
“You are right. I have come to hear your secrets,” said the prior, “I and you and God alone in this chamber. Do you believe that I would repeat aught you said, however wicked and treasonable. it might be? My son, you will feel a lifting of heavy weights from your unhappy soul, an uplifting of your spirit out of Satan’s grip towards God’s benediction, once you have opened your heart; and confessed your faults. While you keep secrets.in you, they will fester.”
“I have nothing to tell you,” growled Perkin, feeling tears close, “Nothing. I was alone in this.”
Sadly, the prior moved away and sat down again in his chair, and for some time he was silent, gravely watching his guest. With pity, he saw the sorrow in the lad’s eyes, the droop of the lip at the corners, the hang of the shoulders under the heavy cloak; and also he saw stubb
ornness in the set of the jaw and he knew by that that further questioning was useless.
“It saddens me to know that you are still impenitent,” he said at last. “Now you must be off back to the palace. Have no fears. The king has granted your life but he has withdrawn the favour of his countenance. What your future shall be, he does not know himself, being much perplexed, he told me, by your ingratitude. Meanwhile, you are to return under guard to the palace and must make public confession of your wickedness. This must you do both in London and Westminster.”
“Again?” groaned Perkin. “Is he not weary of tormenting me?”
“His highness was right,” sighed the prior. “He warned me that you were an ungracious dog, a child of the devil with no love in you, no gratitude. I am sorry, my son, that you should remain stiff in your wickedness. Now, begone. While you remain unshrived, I cannot say: God go with you …”
With relief, Perkin bowed and turned away. Had he remained with this kindly man he might have weakened and, once he had begun confessing, his anger against Katherine might easily have broken into words. This prior seemed gentle; but he no longer felt certain whom he could trust. He had thought to trust Katherine and the queen … That they deserved betrayal hardened his determination never to betray them. Let them sweat amidst, fears now that they must know that he had not run off as they had wanted him to run. He would show how generous he could be even towards those who most merited his hatred. Silent before the questioners, even though they tortured him, would he remain. By that, at least, would he prove his gentle blood. Even for the sake of his soul’s future, he would never tell the truth.
When he left the priors chamber, the friars and lay-brothers clustered about him, some mocking him, others watching sadly, according to their loyalties; and the soldiers waiting outside the gate treated him with a jovial kindness which touched him near to tears. They, at least, made no attempt to conceal their sympathy. Being fighting-men, it was natural that they should adore the memory of the rightful kings, Edward and Richard, those two great warriors, and should fret in service under the cowardly Tudor who kept from battles, preferring to win by bribes and treachery. The justice or no of Perkin’s claim troubled them little. They saw that he was. young and strong and in complexion and physiognomy not unlike the dead kings, and they had heard how he had led the battle into Exeter. Therefore they greeted him respectfully, calling him “my lord”, and one man sprang from his horse to help him into the saddle of the led-horse they had brought for him. With a smile Perkin thanked him and, unaided, leaped into the saddle.
A Princely Knave Page 24