by Mary Shelley
The first guest that arrived came in a close litter, attended by a Moorish servant, and Clifford himself on horseback. Monina had forgotten her Flemish home: bright Andalusia, its orange groves, myrtle and geranium hedges, the evergreen forests which embowered Alcala, and the fertile laughing Vega of Granada, formed her image of such portions of fair earth, as, unincumbered by houses, afforded on its green and various surface sustenance to its inhabitants. She shivered before the northern blast, and gazed appalled on the white plain, where the drifting snow shifted in whole showers, as the wind passed over it. The looks of the people, sallow, ill-clothed, and stupid, made her turn from contemplating them, as she yet answered the contemptuous and plaintive remarks of her Spanish attendant in a cheerful, deprecating voice.
For two successive days other guests continued to arrive. They were chiefly men of note, yet came atended by few domestics. There was Lord Fitzwater, dissatisfied at the part of rebel he was forced he thought to play; and on that account he was louder than any against King Henry. Sir Simon Mountford was a Yorkist of the days of Edward the Fourth, he personally hated Richmond, and looked on Richard’s as a sacred cause. Sir Thomas Thwaites had been a friend of the Earl of Rivers, and gladly seized this occasion to avenge his death, attributable to the dastardly policy of Henry. William Daubeny was attached to the Earl of Warwick, and entered warmly into projects whose success crowned his freedom. Sir Robert Ratcliffe, cousin of Lord Fitzwater, had lived in poor disguise since the battle of Stoke, and gladly threw off his peasant’s attire to act the soldier again in a new war of the Roses. Sir Richard Lessey had been Chaplain to the household of Edward the Fourth. Sir William Worseley, Dean of St. Paul’s, was a rare instance of gratitude outliving the period of receiving benefits; he had been a creature, and was a sincere mourner, of the late Queen. Many others, clergy and laity, entered the plot; a thousand different motives impelled them to one line of conduct, and brought them to Clifford’s moated-house, to conspire the overthrow of Tudor, and the exaltation of the Duke of York to the throne. One only person invited to this assembly failed, Sir William Stanley; each voice was loud against his tergiversation, and Clifford’s whispered sarcasm cut deeper than all.
The debates and consultations lasted three days. After infinite confusion and uncertainty, the deliberations brought forth conclusions that were resolved upon unanimously. First, the house they then occupied, and the village, was to be a repository for arms, a rendezvous for the recruits of the cause. The conspirators levied a tax on themselves, and collected some thousand pounds to be remitted to the Prince. They regulated a system, whose object was to re-awaken party-spirit in England, and to quicken into speedy growth the seeds of discontent and sedition, which Henry’s avarice and extortion had sown throughout the land. Those who possessed estates and followers were to organize troops. And last, they deputed two of their number to go over to the Duchess of Burgundy, and to carry their offers of service to her royal nephew. The two selected for this purpose were, first Sir Robert Clifford, who had known the Duke formerly, and who it was supposed would be peculiarly welcome to him; and secondly, Master William Barley, a man advanced in years; he had combated in nearly all the twelve pitched and sanguinary battles that were fought between York and Lancaster. He had been a boy-servitor to the old Duke of York; a yeoman of Edward’s guard; an halberdier in Richard the Third’s time. He had been left for dead on the field of Bosworth, but came to life again to appear at the battle of Stoke. He had risen in the world, and was a man of substance and reputation: he was not noble; but he was rich, zealous, and honest. The meeting lasted three days, and then gradually dispersed. All had gone well. An assembly, whose individuals were noble, wealthy, or influential, united to acknowledge Richard as their liege. Foreign potentates declared for him; and hope was high in every bosom at all these forerunners of success. Monina’s enthusiastic heart beat with ecstacy. Young — the innocent child of unsophisticated impulse, her gladness showed itself in wild spirits and unconstrained expressions of exultation. She and Clifford returned to London together, for he contrived tacitly and unsuspected by her, to instal himself as her habitual escort. Happy in expectation of her beloved friend’s success, she talked without reserve; and the genius, which was her soul’s essence, gave power and fascination to every thing she said. She spoke of Spain, of Richard’s adventures there, of her father and his voyages. The name of Columbus was mentioned; and the New World — source of wondrous conjecture. They spoke of the desolate waste of waters that hems in the stable earth — of the golden isles beyond: to all these subjects Monina brought vivid imagery, and bright painting, creations of her own quick fancy. Clifford had never before held such discourse. In hours of sickness or distaste, at moments of wild exhilaration, when careering on a high-mettled horse beneath the stars of night, fanned by a strong but balmy wind, he had conceived ideas allied to the lofty aspirations of our nature; but he cast them off as dreams, unworthy of a wise man’s attention. The melodious voice of Monina, attuned by the divine impulses of her spirit, as the harp of the winds by celestial breezes, raised a commotion in his mind, such as a prophetess of Delphi felt, when the oracular vapour rose up to fill her with sacred fury. A word, a single word, was a potent northern blast to dash aside the mist, and to re-apparel the world in its, to him, naked, barren truth: So fervently, and so sweetly did she speak of Richard, that Clifford’s burning heart was in a moment alight with jealousy; and the love he despised, and thought he mastered, became his tyrant, when it allied itself to his evil passions. He looked angry, he spoke sharply — Monina was astonished; but his libellous insinuations fell innocuous on her pure mind: she only felt that she feared him, half disliked him, and, trembling and laughing as she spoke, said, “Well, well; I will not care for your angry mood. You are going soon: ere you return, our Prince will, by his own bright example, have taught you better things. Learn from him diligently, Sir Knight, for he is all courtesy and nobleness.”
Clifford laughed bitterly, and a base resolve of lowering the high-hearted York to his own degrading level arose in his breast: it was all chaos there as yet; but the element, which so lately yielded to a regular master-wind of ambition, was tossed in wild and hideous waves by — we will not call the passion love — by jealousy, envy, and growing hate. Short interval was allowed for the gathering of the storm; he was soon called upon to fulfil his commission, and to accompany Master William Barley on their important embassy to Brussels.
The scene here presented, operated a considerable change on these personages; arriving from England, where the name of the White Rose was whispered, and every act in his favour was hid in the darkness of skulking conspiracy, to his court at Brussels, where noble followers clustered round him, and the Duchess, with a woman’s tact and a woman’s zeal, studied how best to give importance and splendour to his person and pretensions. The spirit of the Yorkist party, in spite of her natural mildness, still glowed in the bosom of this daughter of Henry the Sixth’s unhappy rival, — the child of disaster, and bride of frantic turbulence. Opposed to the remorseless Louis the Eleventh, struggling with the contentious insolence of the free towns of Flanders, war appeared to her the natural destiny of man, and she yielded to its necessity, while her gentle heart sorrowed over the misery which it occasioned.
She first received Clifford and Barley; and with the winning grace of a sovereign, solicited for her nephew their affection and support: then she presented them to him — this was the fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, whom Clifford saved, the gentle, noble-looking being, whose simplicity awed him; whose bright smile said, “I reign over every heart.” The Knight shrunk into himself: how had he dyed his soul in a worldliness which painted his countenance in far other colours. — He was not deficient in grace: his dark-grey eyes, veiled by long lashes, were in themselves exceedingly handsome: the variableness of his face, traced with many unseasonable lines, yet gave him the power of assuming a pleasing expression; and his person, though diminutive, was eminently elegant, while his se
lf-possession and easy address, covered a multitude of faults. Now, his first resolve was to insinuate himself into Richard’s affections; to become a favourite; and consequently to lead him blindly on the path he desired he should tread.
The Prince’s spirits were high; his soul exulted in the attachment of others, in the gratitude that animated him. Until Clifford’s arrival (Edmund was for the time in England), Sir George Neville, among his new friends, held the first place. He was proud and reserved; but his aristocracy was so blended with honour, his reserve with perfect attention and deference to the feelings of others, that it was impossible not to esteem him, and find pleasure in his society. Clifford and Neville made harsh discord together. Richard, inexperienced in the world, sought to harmonize that which never could accord: Neville drew back; and Clifford’s good humour, and apparent forbearance, made him appear to advantage.
At this period ambassadors from Henry arrived at Brussels: they had been expected; and as a measure of precaution, Richard left that place before their arrival, and took up his temporary abode at Audenarde, a town which made part of the dowry of the Duchess Margaret. All the English, save Lady Brampton, attended him to his retreat. The ambassadors, in their audience with the Archduke, demanded the expulsion of Richard from the Low Countries, taunting the Duchess with her support of the notorious impostor, Lambert Simnel, and speaking of the Duke of York as a fresh puppet of her own making. They received the concise reply — that the gentleman she recognized as her nephew, inhabited the territory of her dowry, of which she was sovereign, and over which the Archduke had no jurisdiction: however, that no disturbance might occur in their commercial relations, which would have roused all Flanders to rebellion, Maximilian was obliged to temporize, and to promise to afford no aid to the illustrious exile.
Their audience accomplished, the ambassadors had only to return. They remained but one night at Brussels: on this night, Sir Edward Poynings and Doctor Wattam, who fulfilled this mission, were seated over a cup of spiced wine, in discourse concerning these strange events, the Lady Margaret’s majestic demeanour, and the strangeness of her supporting this young man, if indeed he were an impostor; when a cavalier, whose soiled dress and heated appearance bespoke fatigue and haste, entered the room. It was Sir Robert Clifford: they received him as liege subjects may receive a traitor, with darkened brows and serious looks. Clifford addressed them in his usual careless style:—”Saint Thomas shield me, my masters; can you not afford one benizon to your gossip! Good Sir Edward, we have ruffled together, when we wore both white and red in our caps; and does the loss of a blood-stained rag degrade me from your friendship?”
The bitter accusations of the Knight, and the Doctor’s sarcasms, which were urged in reply, awoke a haughty smile. “Oh, yes!” he cried, “ye are true men, faithful liege subjects! I, an inheritance of the block, already marked for quartering, because I am for the weak right, you for the strong might. Right, I say — start not — the Mother of God be my witness! Duke Richard is Duke Richard — is lord of us all — true son of the true king, Ned of the White Rose, whom you swore to protect, cherish, and exalt; you, yes, even you, Sir Knight. Where is now your oath? cast from heaven, to pave the hell where you will reap the meed of your lying treachery!”
Clifford, always insolent, was doubly so now that he felt accused of crimes of which he did not deem himself guilty; but which would (so an obscure presentiment told him) hereafter stain his soul. Doctor Wattam interposed before Poyning’s rising indignation: “Wherefore come you here, Sir Robert?” he asked. “Though we are envoys of the king you have betrayed, we may claim respect: Sir Edward, as a gentleman and a cavalier — I as an humble servitor of the Lord Jesus, in whose name I command you not to provoke to a bloody deed the messengers of peace.”
“Cease to taunt me with a traitor’s name,” replied Sir Robert, “and I will chafe no further the kindling blood of my sometime friend. Let us rather leave all idle recrimination. I came hither to learn how wagged the world in London town, and, as a piece of secret intelligence, to assure you that you wrongfully brand this stripling for an impostor. Be he sovereign of our land or not — be it right or wrong to side with York against Lancaster — York he is, the son of Edward and Elizabeth; so never fail me my good sword or my ready wits!”
The best of us are inclined to curiosity. A little fearful of each other, the Ambassadors exchanged looks, to know whether either would accuse the other of treachery if they heard further. “Good Sir,” said the Doctor, gravely, “methinks we do our liege service in listening to this gentleman. We can the better report to his Majesty on what grounds the diabolic machination is founded.”
So, over another goblet, Clifford sat telling them how Richard had long lived as Perkin Warbeck, in the neighbourhood of Tournay, under the guardianship of Madeline de Faro; and he recounted the history of his escape from the hands of Frion. Doctor Wattam carefully conned these names; and then, in reply, he set forth how unworthy it was of a Clifford to desert from Lancaster; how unlikely, even if it were true, which after all his tale hardly proved, it was, that the outcast boy could compete with success with the sage possessor of England’s throne. Poynings asked him how it pleased him to find himself at the same board with a Neville and a Taylor, and hinted that, an exile from his country and a traitor to his sovereign, this was hardly the way to replenish his purse, or to gain anew the broad lands he had lost. The service he might do Henry by a return to his duty, gratitude and reward, were then urged by the priest, while Clifford listened in dogged silence. His brow became flushed; his lips worked with internal commotion. He felt, he knew, that he hated the very man whose cause he espoused; but he was pledged to so many, a whole array of noble and respected names came before him. Could he, in the eyes of these, become a false, foul traitor? He refilled, and quaffed again and again his cup; and at last so wound himself up, as to begin, “My friends, you speak sooth, though I may not listen; yet, if you name one so humble and distasteful, say to my liege—”
A page in green and white — the colours of Lady Brampton, entered, announcing her speedy arrival. Clifford’s wits were already disturbed by wine; instinct made him fear in such a state to come in contact with the subtle lady; he drew his cap over his eyes, his cloak around his person, and vanished from the hall, ere his friends were aware of his intention.
The interview between Lady Brampton and the gentlemen was of another sort. Sir Edward had in her younger days worn her colours. She was changed in person since then: but, when, after a short interval, he got over the shock consequent on the first perception of the sad traces of time on the cheek of beauty, he found that her eyes possessed the same fire, her voice the same thrilling tone, her smile the same enchantment. While the Doctor, who had loved her as a daughter, and she regarded him with filial reverence, rebuked her for what he termed her misdeeds; she replied with vivacity, and such true and zealous love for him whose cause she upheld, that they were both moved to listen with respect, if not conviction, to her asseverations. She could not gain her point, nor win them over to her side; but, when she departed, neither spoke of young Richard’s rights, unwilling to confess to one another that they were converts to his truth. She went. The next day they departed from Brussels, and it became subject of discussion, what step Henry would now take, and whether, by any new measure, he could disturb the ripening conspiracy against his throne.
CHAPTER III.
Oh, what excuse can my invention make? I do arrest ye of high treason here!
— SHAKSPEARE.
Henry’s ambassadors had wrought little change on any except Clifford. His words had been interrupted; they were nothing in themselves; but their spirit, the spirit of treason, was in his heart. He made up his mind to nothing; he looked forward to no certain project; but he felt that hereafter he might betray his present associates to their arch-enemy. As yet his conscience was not seared; the very anticipation of guilt tortured him, and he longed to fly from thought. Another blind impulse drove him on. He hated
the Prince, because he was his opposite; because, while he was a cankered bloom, his heart a waste, his soul crusted over by deceit, his very person sullied by evil deeds and thoughts, Duke Richard stood in all the pride of innocence. Could he degrade him to his own level, there would be a pang the less in his bosom; could he injure him in the eyes of his friends, render him, as he himself had ever been, an object of censure, he would satisfy the ill-cravings of his nature, and do Henry a wondrous benefit by tarnishing the high character his rival bore, causing him whom his adherents set up as an idol, to become a reproach to them.
Clifford thought that it would be an easy task to entice a gay young stripling into vice. Richard loved hawking, hunting, and jousting in the lists, almost more, some of his elder friends thought, than befitted one on the eve of a perilous enterprize. Governed by Edmund, attended by Neville, watched by the noble Duchess and vigilant Lady Brampton, it was no great wonder that he had hitherto escaped error: but Clifford went wilily to work, and hoped in some brief luckless hour to undo the work of years. Richard was glad to find in him a defender of his inclination for manly sports; an intimacy sprung up between them, which it would not be the Knight’s fault, if it did not bring about the catastrophe he desired.
What then perpetually opposed all his measures? What, when he thought he had caused the tide of temptation to flow, suddenly made it ebb and retreat back to its former banks? Clifford, an adept in every art, moulded himself to every needful form, and at last won the secret from the deep recess of Richard’s heart: he loved, — he loved Monina, that living emblem of innocent affection; never, he had vowed, would he disturb the sacred calm that reigned in her young heart, nor gift ignorance with fatal knowledge. She knew not the nature of her own feelings, and he would not withdraw the veil; but he was himself conscious of being swayed by the tenderest love. He could not marry her; his own misfortunes had arisen from the misalliance of his father; she herself would have refused to injure thus his cause, and have disdained him, if for her sake he had been inclined to abdicate his rights: he would be her friend, her brother. With passion came sorrow: he fled from sad reflection to the chase, to the exercise of arms. But other temptation became blunted by this very sentiment: his love grew more ardent by restraint; if he yielded in her absence to the contemplation of her image, his soul was filled with a voluptuous languour, from which he rouzed himself by attention to his duties or hardy pastimes; but to every other form of pleasure he was cold. This was a strange, incomprehensible picture to present to the world-worn Clifford; he fancied that it must be a delusion, but he found all the resistance of firm reality. To embitter his defeat came his own fierce passions, and the knowledge that Monina loved his rival; they would see each other, be happy in each other, and laugh him to scorn! He concealed his jealousy, his disappointment: but double, treble rage gnawed at his heart; hatred awoke in her most viperous shape, fanged by a sense of inferiority, envenomed by envy, sharpened by the torture of defeat. How little did any know — above all, how not at all did his innocent victim suspect — the storm that brooded in his heart! There was something in the very slightness and grace of his figure that was at variance with the idea of violence and crime; and his glossing tongue added to the deceit. Lady Brampton feared him a little; Frion saw something in him, that made him pay greater court to him than to any other — these were the only indications. Sunshine and calm brooded over the earthquake’s birth.