by Mary Shelley
This was the Tower! Ten years before he had escaped from its gloomy walls; and had he done this only to return again, when maturer years gave him a bitterer feeling of the ills he must endure? He had visited England, guided by the traitor-spirit of Clifford it seemed; for he had returned but to render himself a prisoner: yet at first these thoughts were hardly so painful as the memory of his childhood. The superstitious fears of the Tower, which haunted poor Edward, had made it an abode of terror for both: how often had they lain in that bed, curdling each other’s young blood with frightful tales! His brother had pined, and died. Now, true to the pious usage of the times, he knelt to say a paternoster for his soul; he said another for his own perilous state; and then, having, with entire faith committed himself to the protection of his Father in Heaven, he rose with a cheered heart and sustained courage.
What was he to do? He was in the Tower; a fortress so well guarded, that of the unhappy beings confined there for life, none had ever made their escape: high walls, numerous courts, and grated windows, opposed his egress. The clock chimed one. It were as well to remain where he was, as to go on. But it were better still to turn back: quiet would soon be restored; he might attain the same room, the same window, and leap thence into the waters below. He remembered wherefore he had come; the hazardous enterprise of Monina, and the imprisonment of Stanley. Now that he had attained this chamber, the whole Tower presented itself, as in a map, to his memory: he knew where the rooms allotted to state prisoners were situated: confident in his knowledge, his feelings underwent an entire change; instead of considering himself a prisoner in the Tower, he felt lord of its labyrinths. Darkness was his wand of office; the ignorance of all that he was there, was his guard; and his knowledge of the place, better than the jailor’s key, might aid him to liberate the victims of his enemy.
In this temper of mind he rejoiced that he had been unable to follow his first impulse in leaping from the window; and he resolved on making his way immediately to the part of the fortress inhabited by the state prisoners. Blindfold, setting out from the point where he was, he could have found his way; yet several images of barred and locked doors presented themselves to his recollection, as intervening between the spot where he then was, and that which he desired to visit. He descended again into the court — he skirted the edifice, keeping close to the shadowy wall — he saw the door but a few paces distant, which led to the prison-chambers. At dead of night it must be locked and barred, guarded by a sentinel, quite inaccessible to him. He paused — he saw no soldier near — he walked on a few steps quickly; the door was wide open — this looked like success — he sprung up the steps; a man below cried, “Who goes there?” adding, “Is it you, sir? My light is puffed out; I will bring one anon.” Above he heard another voice — there was no retreat — he went on, relying on some chance, that might afford him a refuge under cover of mirky night from the two-fold danger that beset him. A man stood at the door-way of the nearest chamber; it was not possible to pass him — as he hesitated he heard the words, “Good rest visit your Lordship — I grieve to have disturbed you.” Richard retired a few steps — the man closed, locked the door—”A light, ho!” he exclaimed, and the Prince feared to see the servitor ascend the stairs. The moon just beginning to show its clouded rays threw a brief ray upon the landing, where Richard stood, and he moved out of the partial radiance; the slight movement he made attracted notice, which was announced by a challenge of “Who goes there? is it you, Fitzwilliam? How is this? the word, sir!”
The Duke knew that, among the numerous and various inhabitants of the Tower, many were personally unknown to each other; and that any stranger visitor was not entrusted with the word — so he replied immediately, as his best safeguard. “I was roused by the calling of the guard. I knew not that such reveilles were usual; good night, sir.”
Those pay little attention to the impression of their senses, who are not aware, that family resemblance developes itself in nothing so much as the voice; and that it is difficult in the dark to distinguish relatives. In confirmation of this I heard a sagacious observer remark, and have proved the observation true, that the formation of the jaw, and setting of the teeth is peculiar, and the same in families. But this is foreign — enough, that, caught by the voice, hardly able to distinguish the obscure outline of the speaker in the almost blackness of night — the man replied, “I crave pardon, my good Lord, you forget yourself, this way is your chamber. What, ho! a light!”
“It needs not,” said the Prince; “the glare would offend mine eyes — I shall find the door.”
“Permit me,” said the other, going forward, “I will wait on your Lordship so far. I wonder not you were roused; there was an alarm at the river postern, and the whole guard roused. Sir John thought it might concern poor Sir William; and I was fain to see all right with him. It irked me truly to break in on his repose; the last he may ever have.”
They approached a door; the man’s hand was on the lock — Richard’s heart beat so loud and fast, that it seemed to him that that alone must be perceived and excite suspicion — if the door were fastened on the inside he were lost; but the man was in no hurry to try — he talked on: —
“The Lieutenant was the more suspicious, because he gave credit and easy entrance to his pretended stripling son, who craved for it even with tears: yet when they met, we all thought that the Lord Chamberlain did not greet him as a parent would a child at such a time; the truth, indeed, we saw with half an eye, be she his daughter, or his light-of-love; yet not the last, methinks, for she seemed right glad to be accommodated for the night in a separate chamber — she is a mere girl besides, and in spite of her unmeet garb, modest withal.”
“When goes she? With the dawn?” Richard hazarded these questions, for his silence might be more suspected than his speech; and the information he sought, imported to him.
“Nay, she will stay to the end for me,” said the man: “Sir William was a kind gentleman, as I can testify, in his prosperity; and it is little to let him have the comfort of this poor child’s company for a day longer: he dies on the morrow.”
“Could I see this fair one?”
“By my troth, fair she is not, though lovely to look on, but somewhat burnt, as if her mother had been a dweller in the south. If you visit and take leave of Sir Stanley to-morrow, you may chance to behold her: but I detain you, my Lord; a good night, rather, a good morning to your lordship.”
He unclosed the door; all was dark within, save that the chamber opened into another at the further end, in which evidently a lamp was burning. Kind thanks and a benison passed; Richard stepped within the apartment, and the door shut on him.
What could this mean? Glad, confused, yet still fearful, the Prince was almost deprived of the power of motion. Recovering himself with a strong effort, he passed on to the inner chamber: it was a bed-room, tapestried, strewed thick with rushes, a silver lamp suspended by a silver chain to the grim claws of a gilt eagle, which was fixed in the ceiling, gave token of rank, as well as the rich damask of the bed-furniture and the curious carving of the couch and seats; the articles of dress also strewed about belonged to the noble born: strange, as yet Richard had not conjectured for whom he had been mistaken! He drew near the bed, and gazed fixedly on its occupier. The short, clustering, auburn curls were tinged with grey, yet the sleeper was young, though made untimely old by suffering; his cheeks were wasted and fallen in; the blue veins on his brow were conspicuous, lifting the clear skin which clung almost to the bones; he was as pale as marble, and the heavy eye-lids were partly raised even in sleep by the large blue ball that showed itself beneath; one hand lay on the coverlid, thin to emaciation. What manner of victim was this to Henry’s tyranny? nay, the enigma was easily solved: it must be the Earl of Warwick. “And such, but for my cousin Lincoln, would have been my fate,” thought Richard. He remembered his childhood’s imprisonment; he thought of the long days and nights of confinement, the utter hopelessness, the freezing despair, blighting the buddi
ng hopes of youth, the throes of intolerable, struggling agony, which had reduced poor Warwick to this shadow of humanity; he felt a choking sensation in his throat as he bent over him; large drops gathered in his eyes; they fell, ere he was aware, on the sleeper’s wan cheek.
Warwick turned uneasily, opened his eyes, and half started up, “Whom have we here?” he cried; “why am I disturbed?”
“Your pardon, fair gentleman,” Richard began —
“My pardon!” repeated Warwick bitterly; “were that needed, you were not here. What means this intrusion — tell me, and be gone?”
“I am not what you take me for, cousin Edward,” said the Prince.
Now indeed did Warwick start: shading his eyes from the lamp he gazed earnestly on the speaker, murmuring, “That voice, that name — it cannot be — In the name of sweet charity speak again; tell me what this means, and if you are — why this visit, why that garb?”
“My dear Lord of Warwick,” said the Prince, “dismiss this inquietude, and if you will listen with patience to the story of an unhappy kinsman, you shall know all. I am Richard of York; those whose blood is akin to yours as well as mine, have y’cleped me the White Rose of England.”
The Earl of Warwick had heard of the Pretender set up by his aunt, the Duchess of Burgundy; he had often pondered over the likelihood of his really being his cousin, and the alteration it would occasion in his fortunes, if he were to succeed. Shut out from the world, as he had been so long, the victim of mere despair, he could not even imagine that good could betide to any one, save to the oppressor of his race; to see Perkin, for so he had been taught to call him, within the walls of the ill-fated Tower, appeared to disclose at once his defeat. Even when the Duke rapidly and briefly narrated the accidents that had brought him thither, and his strange position, Prince Edward believed only that he had been decoyed into the trap, which had closed on him for ever.
Still Richard talked on: his ardour, his confidence in his own measures, his vivacious anxiety already to put them into practice, his utter fearlessness, were not lost upon one who had been dead to outward impressions, not from want of sensibility, but from the annihilation of hope. Some of his cousin’s spirit overflowed into Warwick’s heart; and, in conclusion, he assented to all he said, promising to do whatever was required of him, though after ten years of lone imprisonment he almost shrunk from emerging from his listless state.
CHAPTER VII.
Let all the dukes and all the devils roar.
He is at liberty! I’ve ventured for him;
And out I’ve brought him to a little wood
A mile hence.
— TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
Morning, cold and wintry, dawned upon the gloomy chambers of the Tower. York became eager to put in execution some plan of escape in which Warwick should share; but Warwick was full of timidity and fear. His prison was a frightful den; yet all without was a wide, pathless, tiger-infested jungle. He besought his cousin to regard his own safety only. Richard refused; yet the more he meditated, the more did obstacles crowd upon him. After the lapse of an hour, Warwick was called upon to attend early mass, as usual, in the chapel of the fortress. Here he saw Stanley and the disguised shrinking Monina; and, the service ended, attended them to the prison-chamber of the Chamberlain, relating as he went, in quick low whispers, the history of the preceding night. Both his hearers grew pale: one feared for her friend, the other for himself; though on that score all cause of dread was well nigh at an end. All three entered Stanley’s cell, and found there Prince Richard himself, whose active mind had led him to watch his opportunity to pass hither unseen from Warwick’s apartment.
The young Earl of March, arming for the battle of Northampton, looked not so young, so blooming, and so frankly erect, as his uncrowned son. Stanley saw at once who was before him, and, never forgetting the courtier, addressed his Prince with a subject’s respect. York was struck by the placid, though somewhat worldly physiognomy of the man, devoted to die, at the age when human beings are most apt to cling to life; when, having weathered the storms and passions of youth, they desire to repose awhile on the sun-enlightened earth, before they enter the gloomy gates of the tomb.
The Prince spoke eagerly of escape — of safety — of life: Warwick, even timid Warwick, urged an attempt at flight; while Monina kissed her aged friend’s hand, and turned her sweet eyes on him, saying: “You will listen to him, though you were deaf to me.”
Stanley alone was unmoved—”A thousand heartfelt, useless thanks, my dear and honoured Lord, your poor servant renders; and even when prayer for himself is most needed, earnestly he prays that harm to you arise not from your unexampled generosity. I cannot fly; I do believe that I would not, if I could: and I will spare myself the disgrace of further endangering you, and of being seized myself in the coward’s act. Ask me not, with your beseeching eyes, my gentle, venturous child, for it must not be. I die to-morrow; and this fate you would have me avoid. Whither would you drag me from the block? To poverty? to an unhonoured old age? a traitor’s reputation, and miserable dependance? I am a sinful man; but I trust in God’s mercy, and he holds out better hopes after the brief spasm of death, than you after the torture of difficult escape.”
More he would have said, but they were interrupted; they had not been aware of any one’s approach; and suddenly Sir John Digby, Lieutenant of the Tower, entered. He was aghast to see one more than he expected, one whose demeanour spoke nobility. Silence followed his entrance, nor did words readily present themselves to the blunt soldier; at length, addressing the cause of this wonder, he in an ironical tone of voice asked—”May I, Lieutenant of this Fortress, delegated by his Majesty to its keeping, be permitted to ask, fair sir, the name, station, and designs, of my unbidden guest?”
“My answer to your two first questions,” replied York, “would little satisfy you; my design was to facilitate the escape of this virtuous and unhappy gentleman.”
“The King is infinitely your debtor, and I shall prove unmannered in marring your intent.”
“You do not mar it, Sir John,” said the Prince; “my Lord Chamberlain is a true man, and would rather lay his head on the block at his liege’s bidding, than carry it in security at the prayer of any other. Sir William has refused to fly; and, my mission ended, I was about to take my leave.”
“Do so, young man; take leave — an eternal one — of Sir William, and follow me. My Lord of Warwick, this is an unmeet scene for you to be present at. This holy man comes to bestow the last words of pious comfort my noble prisoner can receive in this world: please your Lordship to leave them together uninterrupted. I am sorry,” continued the Lieutenant, addressing Monina, “to retract the permission I gave you yesterday; but this strange incident must be my excuse: say a last farewell to him you have named your father.”
Monina dreaded too much the fate that might befall her friend, to entreat for any change in this decree. Soon poor Sir William found himself separated from the busy scene of life, shut up with the chaplain. He was bid to remember and repent, and to prepare to die. A dark veil fell before the vista of coming years, which was apparent to the eyes of his late companions. He saw in the present hour — one only, almost superfluous, added to the closing account. They beheld in it the arbiter of their undivined destinies.
It is an awful emotion, when we feel that the “very shoal of time” on which we stand, is freighted with the good and ill of futurity — that the instant birth of the hour inherits our entire fortunes. Yet Richard was proof against this rough testimony of our powerless mortality. The ill had not yet arrived, with which he did not believe he could cope; and more — now he was bent upon endeavouring to save Stanley; for his own fate, though about to expose it to the most unquestioned shape of peril, he had no fears.
Sir John Digby, followed by his new prisoners, paced back to his own chamber, and then addressed his uninvited guest. “Fair gentleman,” he said, “again I crave to be informed of your name and degree, that his Majesty may be duly m
ade acquainted on whom to bestow his thanks. Your speech and appearance are English?”
“Whoever I may be,” replied York, “I will reveal nothing except to your King. If he is willing to listen to disclosures nearly touching his throne and safety, I will rouse him by a tale to shake sleep from one who has steeped his eyes in poppy juice. To no other will I vouch-safe a word.”
Monina listened in terror. She would have given her life to beseech her friend to retract that foolish word, but it was too late; while his questioner, startled by his unforeseen reply, said “You make a bold demand; think you that his Grace is of such common use, that it is an easy matter to attain his presence?”
“I have said it, Sir John,” answered York; “your liege may hereafter visit with poor thanks the denial you give me.”
The Lieutenant fixed his eyes on him; his youth and dignity impressed him favourably; but he hesitated, confused by doubts of who and what he might be. At last he said, “His Majesty is at present at his palace of Shene, ten miles hence.
“The less reason, Sir Lieutenant,” replied Richard, “that you should dally in the execution of your duty. The life of your prisoner, the fortunes of your King, depend upon this interview.”
This was a riddle difficult for Sir John to solve; and he was about to order his enigmatical visitant to the guard-room, while he should consult upon the fitting conduct to pursue; when a beating at the gates, the letting down of the draw-bridge, and the clatter of hoofs announced fresh arrivals at the fortress.
The attention of every one was suspended, till, the usher announcing the excellent Prince, the Earl of Desmond, that noble, attended by followers, almost with regal pomp, entered. He cast his penetrating glance around, and then unbonneting to the Duke, he said respectfully, “Your Highness will believe that as soon as I heard of the position into which, pardon me, your generous rashness has betrayed you, I hastened hither to vouch for you, and deliver you from it.”