by Mary Shelley
It was at the hour of vespers that the priest introduced Lady Brampton into the Queen’s cabinet. Elizabeth was assured that she had secrets of importance to communicate, and she designed by affability to win her to a full disclosure of them. Yet her heart and manner grew cold as she entered the closet where the lady and her guide already were, and bending her head slightly, she said, “The Lady Brampton desired an audience with me — I grant it.”
With all her vivacity and consciousness of the importance of her disclosures, the lady felt herself awed and chilled; and the memory of Edward came across her, who had before shielded her from such unkindness, and filled her eyes with tears. A long pause ensued; the Queen looked as in expectation, and Richard Simon, who had retired to an embrasure of a window, was about to come forward, when Lady Brampton, conquering her emotion, said, “Your Grace is the happy mother of the Queen of England, and the hope of an heir, which you now entertain, may make my intelligence distasteful.”
“Say on,” replied Elizabeth haughtily; “I listen to your words.”
The lady felt much inclined not to say another word, but assuming almost equal coldness of manner, she continued, “Would your Grace prefer that your fair daughter should still bear the sceptre, or that Richard the Fourth should wrest it from the husband’s grasp?”
Now indeed the Queen started, and cried impetuously, “I charge you, trifle with me no longer! Explain your words; who would supplant my child?”
“Her brother,” Lady Brampton replied; and seeing the Queen lost in a mixture of amazement and terror, she added, “The Duke of York still lives: he is now, I trust, at the head of forces sufficient to enforce his rights. In a few days England will acknowledge him as sovereign.”
In reply to these words, spoken with rapidity, as if they were pregnant with supreme delight to their auditress, the Queen with an angry look, said, “I shall league with no plotters to establish an impostor.”
“Beware,” said Lady Brampton indignantly; “let your Majesty bethink yourself, before you consign your son to misery and an early grave. Will his mother be his chief enemy?”
“Who vouches for him?”
“Himself! He is the very Edward who once was yours: his young features are but the miniature mirror of his royal father; his princely grace, his wit, his courage, are all derived from him.”
“I must see the boy,” said the Queen, “to end at once this silly masque. How do you pretend that he escaped from the Tower?”
The independence and sensibility of Lady Brampton’s disposition would not permit her to answer a question asked thus ironically. Had she looked at the Queen, she might have seen, by her change of countenance, that it was nearly all put on by the jealous instinct that would not permit her to acknowledge herself under so great an obligation to her rival. Lady Brampton turned to Simon, saying, “I am ready to depart, Sir Priest; I see her Grace sorrows that the same cold bed does not entomb Richard of York and Edward the Fifth. Poor prince! My Lord of Lincoln counselled well, and I was to blame in not acting on his advice.”
“Stay,” cried Elizabeth, “speak again. Is the Earl of Lincoln a party to this tale?”
“Your Majesty insults me,” said the lady; “I came here to please a mother’s ear by assurances of her child’s safety, and to conduct the tempest-tost fortunes of this ill-starred boy into the safe harbour of maternal love. I came with a full heart and an ardent desire to serve you; no other motive could have led me hither. You receive me with disdain; you dismiss me with contumely. I fear that so much you hate me, that, for my sake, your heart is steeled against your princely son. But as you already know so much as to make it necessary that you should know all, I will hasten to London, and intreat the noble de la Poole to communicate with you, and to avert a mother’s enmity from her child. I take my leave.”
She was about to depart; but Simon, who knew that a feud between the prince’s partizans must ruin his cause, entreated her to remain; and then addressing the Queen, tried to sooth her, for she was pacing the rushes of her chamber in excessive agitation. “Peace, good friend,” said she, “I will speak to Lincoln; I will ask him why I, who was deemed by his honoured uncle fit partaker of his councils, am kept by him in ignorance of the alleged existence of this poor boy? Even now he might be sitting on the throne, had I been consulted: instead of this, to what has this distrust brought him? He is a crownless king, a fugitive prince, branded as an impostor; a seal is put on his fate, which nothing probably will ever remove. I, even I, have called my son, if such he be, a counterfeit!”
Maternal tenderness touched to the quick the royal lady’s heart, and she wept. Lady Brampton was all impulse and goodness of disposition: she felt that Elizabeth had wronged her, but in a moment she forgave the offence: she advanced, and kneeling at her feet, touched her hand gently, as she said, “Let not your Grace judge too harshly of our proceedings. We poor faulty human beings, hurried hither and thither by passion, are for ever jostling against and hurting each other, where more perfect natures would coalesce, and thus succeed where we fail. Forgive, forget the past: it cannot now be changed. Forgive the Earl, who, long bound by an oath to his uncle Gloucester, could only save your son’s life by feigning his death. Forgive the humblest of your servants, even myself, who acted under his commands, and who now, in disobedience to them, attempts to bring the royal exile to his mother’s arms. Would that my humility could appease your displeasure, and that you would acknowledge me your faithful follower. My life should be at the disposal of you and the princely York.”
Lady Brampton, full of vivacity, energy, and even of imperiousness, had so much grace in her manner and sweetness in her voice, when she laid these keen weapons aside to assume those of gentleness and love, that she was irresistible. The Queen, at once softened, stretched out her hand, which the lady pressed respectfully to her lips; then, as friends bent on one design, they conversed unreservedly together. Lady Brampton entered into long details concerning the past history of the Duke of York, and the schemes then on foot for his advancement. This was not their sole interview; they met again and again, and mutual affection confirming the link which the fate of Richard caused to exist between them, the Queen named the Lady Brampton one of her ladies, and henceforth they lived together under the same roof.
CHAPTER V.
Poor orphan! in the wide world scattered.
As budding branch rent from the native tree.
— Spenser.
England, farewell! thou, who hast been my cradle.
Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave!
— Shelley.
The historical account of Lord Lovel’s insurrection is contained in a few words. While the two Staffords besieged Worcester, this nobleman advanced against Henry in York. The Duke of Bedford was sent against him, who published a general pardon for all the rebels who should submit. The soldiers of Lord Lovel had no powerful watch-word to ensure their union; the existence of Edward the Fourth’s son was a profound secret; they were therefore easily induced to abandon an almost nameless cause; and in three weeks Lord Lovel found himself with only one hundred adherents, or rather personal friends, who at his earnest entreaty disbanded, while he, chiefly bent on saving the life of his princely charge, felt greater security in being left singly with him.
He had promised to traverse England, and to conduct him to Winchester; but the hot pursuit on foot forced him to delay this journey. Meanwhile a present refuge was to be sought. He had a staunch friend in a zealous Yorkist, Sir Thomas Broughton, who resided in Lancashire, to whose residence he directed his steps. Still, even during this short journey, great precaution was necessary. Lord Lovel and his charge travelled disguised, avoiding high roads and great towns. On the second evening, when the red aspect of the setting sun threatened an inclement night, they took shelter in a lone cot on one of the wild moors of that county.
A long habit of personal attendance had instilled into Lovel’s mind a parental affection for the little prince. They had journeyed f
ar that day, and Richard was overpowered by fatigue; his friend strewed for him a bed of leaves — he stretched himself on it, and quickly fell into a sound sleep, while the noble kept up the fire he had lighted, and paced the hut, revolving in his mind a thousand schemes. It was a chill February evening; and, as night came on, a thick sleet beat against the windows, while the wind, sweeping over the wide heath, howled round the miserable shepherd’s cot. Some time passed thus, and fear in Lovel’s mind gave place to the sense of security, inspired by the desolation of the spot and the inclemency of the elements. He needed rest, and as soon as he had thrown himself on the ground, drowsiness overpowered him — the wind sang a wild lullaby to both the sleepers.
Though still lost to the outer world, a change passed over Lovel’s countenance — again his features relaxed into sleep, and again expressed disquietude. The tramp of horses’ feet was around the hut — voices mingled alien sounds with the raging blast; — at last a loud knocking at the door caused the noble at once to start on his feet wide awake. Richard still slept on. Lord Lovel cautiously withdrew into the shadow behind the door, listening intently to divine the motives of these unwelcome intruders. He felt assured that they were emissaries of Henry, who had traced him hither; he endeavoured to form in his mind some plan of conduct to save the duke, whom he was about to awaken and put on his guard, when a woman’s voice struck upon his ear. The knocking at the door was changed into a violent beating, the rude hinges gave way, and it swung back. The fugitive’s heart beat quick; it was a moment full of fate; such a one, as when passed, we seem to have concentrated a life into its small space. The man that entered calmed his fears; low in stature, broadly built, a cloak lined with furs added to his bulk, and a Flemish hat completed his peaceable appearance; though he was too much muffled to shew his face. Glancing at Lovel a look which was, doubtless, intended to convey reproach, he muttered some words in a foreign guttural language, and went back to his companions. Two women now entered, both enveloped in furs. One stept lightly on, and drew the bench which had lately pillowed the head of Lovel, closer to the fire, while the other, bending under the burthen in her arms, approached slower, and sitting down on the seat prepared for her, threw back her cloak, and discovered that she bore in her arms a sleeping child, about six years of age. The first, meanwhile, disencumbered herself of her rich furs, and then leaning over the child, kissed its little hands, and regarded its sleeping form with mingled anxiety and tenderness, speaking to the other in a foreign dialect, evidently about the risk the poor babe had ran from exposure to the weather. Lovel remained a mute spectator; he resolved not to come forward, till he should see who their male attendants were. After a brief interval the first intruder again entered; he threw off his cloak, and looking round with keen eyes, the fugitive discovered the well-known features of a friend-His heart now relieved, his countenance lighted up, and he stept forward, saying: “Mynheer Jahn Warbeck, God be with you! you travel on a stormy night.”
“And you, Lord Lovel,” replied the moneylender, angrily, “are sufficiently discourteous to wanderers at such a season. Why even vipers are harmless during a storm.”
“But fair weather returns, and they again find their sting. I might bare my own breast, but—” he pointed to the bed of leaves, on which, in spite of the tumult, young Richard still slept.
Warbeck started: but before he could reply one of his companions turned to speak to him, and a conversation ensued, begun in Dutch, and continued in French, concerning the circumstances which had divided them from their attendants, and their fatiguing wanderings during the storm. A small saddle-bag was produced by Warbeck, containing a few provisions. A bed for the sleeping child was formed, and the travellers sat round the fire, enjoying their simple fare. From time to time the fair blue eyes of the younger lady, who was evidently the mistress, and the other an attendant, turned to look on the chivalric form and manly beauty of Lovel; a few smiling observations escaped her in her native language, which Warbeck answered drily and succinctly. The bench on which the lady sat was soon sacrificed for firing — the cloaks of the party were dried, and the women, wrapt in them, sought repose on the bare ground, which was the sole flooring of the hut, the younger drawing to her bosom the sleeping child. Lovel and Warbeck kept silence, till the deep breathing of their companions shewed that they slept: then, in reply to the Fleming’s questions, Lovel related the history of the last months, and at the conclusion frankly asked his advice and assistance in accomplishing his design of conveying the Duke of York to Winchester. Warbeck looked thoughtful on this demand, and after a pause said “I cannot say wherefore this unfortunate prince excites so strong an interest in me; for in truth my heart yearns towards him as if he were akin to me. Is it because he bore for a time my poor boy’s name?”
Warbeck paused; his hard features were strongly marked by grief—”I and my sister,” he continued, “crossed the country to visit my Peterkin, who was ill — who is lost to me now for ever.”
A pause again ensued: the young soldier respected too much the father’s grief to interrupt it. At length the Fleming said, “Lord Lovel I will — I trust I can — save Duke Richard’s life. My sister is kind-hearted; and the silence you have observed concerning the very existence of King Edward’s son, makes the task more easy. Madeline is about to return to her own country; she was to have taken my Peterkin with her. Let the Prince again assume that name: it shall be my care to escort him in this character to Winchester; and at Portsmouth they may embark, while you follow your own plans, and take refuge with the friends you mention in these parts.”
As Warbeck spoke, Lovel motioned to him to observe his sister, who, unable to sleep, was observing them with attention. “Madeline does not understand our English,” said her brother; “but it were well that she joined our counsels, which may continue in French. I have your leave, my Lord, to disclose your secret to her? Fear her not: she would die rather than injure one hair of that poor child’s head.”
On Warbeck’s invitation, the lady rose; and he, taking her hand, led her to the low couch of the Duke of York. Sleep and gentle dreams spread an irradiation of beauty over him: his glowing cheek, his eyes hardly closed, the masses of rich auburn hair that clustered on a brow of infantine smoothness and candour, the little hand and arm, which, thrown above his head, gave an air of helplessness to his attitude, combined to form a picture of childish grace and sweetness, which no woman, and that woman a mother, could look on without emotions of tenderness. “What an angelic child,” said the fair sister of Warbeck, as she stooped to kiss his rosy cheek; “what a noble looking boy. Who is he?”
“One proscribed,” said the Cavalier, “one whom he who reigns over England would consign to a dungeon. Were he to fall into the hands of his enemies, they might not, indeed dare not cut him off violently; but they would consume and crush him, by denying him all that contributes to health and life.”
“Can this sweet boy have enemies” cried the lady: “Ah! if he have, has he not friends also to guard him from them?”
“With our lives!” he replied emphatically; “but that is a small sacrifice and a useless one; for to preserve him we must preserve ourselves. My life, — such acts deserve no record, — I have, and will again and again expose for him; but the will to save him is not enough without the power; and that power you possess, lady, to a far, far greater extent than I.”
“The will I have most certainly,” said the fair one, regarding the boy with anxious tenderness. “Command me, Sire Chevalier; my power, small as I must believe it to be, and my will, shall unite to preserve this sweet child.”
Warbeck disclosed briefly to his sister the secret of young Richard’s birth, and detailed his plan for his safe journey to Winchester; nay, and after that, for his crossing the sea, and continuing to personate, in Flanders, the nephew of Madeline, if so his royal mother deemed fitting, till the moment should arrive, when the schemes of his partizans being crowned with success, he could be restored to his country and his birthrigh
t. The fair Fleming joyfully assented to this proposition, and entered cordially into the details. Lovel was profuse of thanks: so suddenly and so easily to be relieved from his worst fears, appeared like the special interposition of some guardian saint. His heart overflowed with gratitude; and his glistening eyes gave token of greater thanks than even his emphatic words. Madeline felt all the excitement of being actively employed in a deed of benevolence: her calm features were animated with an angelic expression. The discussion of details, demanding the coolest prudence and most vigilant observation long occupied them; and the lady brought a woman’s tact and keen penetration to arrange the crude designs of her brother. All was rendered smooth; every obstacle foreseen and obviated; every pass of danger reconnoitred and provided for. When, at last, their plans were perfected, the lady again returned to her hard couch to seek repose: for some time the Cavalier and the Fleming kept watch, till they also, in such comfortless posture as they might, stretched on the bare ground, yielded to drowsiness; and grey morning found all the dwellers in the sheep cot sunk in profound sleep. Fear, charity, hope, and love, might colour their dreams; but quiet slumber possessed them all, driving care and thought from the heart and brain, to steep both in oblivion of all ill.
When Madeline awoke in the morning, the first sight that met her eyes was the lovely boy she had promised to protect, playing with her dark-eyed girl, who displayed all the extacy of childish glee with her new playmate. Madeline was a blonde Fleming, with light blue eyes and flaxen ringlets — she was about five-and-twenty years of age; an expression of angelic goodness animated her features, bestowing on them an appearance of loveliness, which of themselves they did not possess. It could hardly be guessed, that Richard’s playmate was the daughter of the fair-haired Fleming: but the husband of Warbeck’s sister was a Spaniard, and the child resembled her father in every thing except the soft mouth and sweet smile, which was all her mother’s: her large full dark eyes, gave to her infantine face a look of sensibility, far beyond her years. The little girl ran to her mother when she awoke; and Madeline caressed both her and the Prince with the greatest tenderness. They stood at the door of the cottage; the early sun shone brightly on the hoar frost that covered the moor; the keen air was bracing, though cold; the morning was cheerful, such as inspires hope and animation, a lively wit to understand, and a roused courage to meet difficulties.