by Mary Shelley
An idea, dim at first as a star on the horizon’s verge, struggling through vapours, but growing each second brighter and clearer, dawned upon his mind. All then was over! his prophetic soul had proved false in its presumed fore-knowledge; defeat, dishonour, disgrace tracked his steps To lead his troops forth, and then to redeem them at Henry’s hand, by the conditionless surrender of himself, was the thought, child of despair and self-devotion, that still struggling with the affections and weaknesses of his nature, presented itself, not yet full fledged, but about to become so.
He had been several times interupted during his meditations by the arrival of scouts, with various reports of the situation and proceedings of the enemy: Richard, better than these untaught recruits, knew the meaning of the various operations. As if on a map, he saw the stationing of a large and powerful army in expectation of battle; and was aware how incapable he was to cope with their numbers and force. At last Astley announced the arrival of two men: one was a Fleming, known to Richard as one of Lalayne’s men, but the fellow was stupidly drunk; the other was an English peasant. “Please your worship,” he said, “I am this man’s guide, and must act as his interpreter besides; nothing would serve the spungy fellow but he must swallow ale at every tavern on the way.”
“Speak, then,” said Richard; “what is the purport of his journey?”
“Please you, Sir, last night three hundred of them came right pop upon us afore we were aware; sore afraid they made us with their tall iron-shafted poles, steel caps, and short swords, calling each one for bread and beer.”
“Do you mean,” cried the Prince, his eye brightening as he spoke, “that three hundred men, soldiers, armed like yonder fellow, are landed in England?”
So the countryman averred; and that even now they were but at the distance of twenty miles from Richard’s encampment. They were still advancing, when the report was spread that the Prince’s forces were dispersed, himself taken prisoner. The rustic drew from the Fleming’s pocket a letter, in French, signed by Swartz, a son of him who fell at Stoke, a man in high favour with the Lady Margaret of Burgundy. It said how he had been dispatched by her Grace to his succour; how intelligence of the large army of Henry, and his defeat, had so terrified his men, that they refused to proceed, nay, by the next morning would take their way back to Poole, where they had landed, unless Richard himself came to re-assure them, and to lead them on. Every word of the letter lighted up to forgotten joy young Richard’s elastic spirit. With these men to aid him, giving weight and respectability to his powers, he might hope to enforce the conditions of his challenge. All must be decided on the morrow: that very hour he would set forth, to return before morning with these welcome succours.
It was near midnight; his camp was still; the men, in expectation of the morrow’s struggle, had retired to repose; their leaders had orders to visit their commander in his tent at the hour which now the empty hour-glass told was come. Hastily, eagerly, Richard announced the arrival of these German mercenaries; he directed them to accompany him, that with some show of attendance he might present himself to Schwartz. The camp was not to be disturbed; two or three men alone among them were awakened, and ordered to keep guard — in five hours assuredly he must return. In a brief space of time, the troop who were to accompany him, Heron, Skelton, O’Water, and Astley, with some forty more, led their horses to his tent in silence: — there were few lights through all the camp; their honest hearts which beat within slept, while he was awake to succour and save them. This was Richard’s last thought, as, mounted on his good steed, he led the way across the dim heath towards Yeovil.
It was such a night as is frequent at the end of September; a warm but furious west-wind tore along the sky, shaking the dark tresses of the trees, and chasing the broad shadows of the clouds across the plains. The moon, at the beginning of her third quarter, sped through the sky with rapid, silvery wings; now cutting the dark, sea-like ether; now plunging deep amidst the clouds; now buried in utter darkness; anon spreading a broad halo among the thinner woof of vapours. The guide was at the Prince’s side; Heron, upon his short sturdy pony, was just behind; Skelton tried to get his tall mare to an even pace with Richard’s horse, but she fell back continually: the rushing, howling wind, and rustling trees drowned the clatter of the hoofs. They reached the extreme edge of the common; Richard turned his head — the lights of his little camp burnt dim in the moonshine, its poor apparel of tents was lost in the distance: they entered a dark lane, and lost sight of every trace of it; still they rode fleetly on. Night, and the obscure shapes of night around — holy, blinding, all-seeing night! when we feel the power of the Omnipotent as if immediately in contact with us; when religion fills the soul, and our very fears are unearthly; when familiar images assume an unknown power to thrill our hearts; and the winds and trees and shapeless clouds, have a voice not their own, to speak of all that we dream or imagine beyond our actual life. Through embowered lanes, whose darkness seemed thick and palpable — over open, moonshiny fields, where the airy chase of clouds careered in dimmer shapes upon the earth — Richard rode forward, fostering newly-awakened hope; glad in the belief that while he saved all who depended on him, he would not prove a mere victim led in tame submission, an unrighteous sacrifice to the Evil Spirit of the World.
CHAPTER X.
Art thou he, traitor! that with treason vile
Hast slain my men in this unmanly manner.
And now triumphest in the piteous spoil
Of these poor folk; whose souls with black dishonour
And foul defame do deck thy bloody banner?
The meed whereof shall shortly be thy shame.
And wretched end which still attendeth on her.
With that himself to battle he did frame;
So did his forty yeomen which there with him came.
— SPENSER.
Some miles to the east of Yeovil there was a deep stream, whose precipitous banks were covered by a thick underwood that almost concealed the turbid waters, which undermined and bared the twisted and gnarled roots of the various overhanging trees or shrubs. The left side of the stream was bounded by an abrupt hill, at the foot of which was a narrow pathway; on the green acclivity flourished a beech grove, whose roots were spread in many directions to catch the soil, while their trunks, some almost horizontal, were all fantastically grown, and the fairy tracery of the foliage shed such soft, mellowed, chequered light as must incline the heart of the wanderer beneath the leafy bower, to delicious musings.
Now the moon silvered the trees, and sometimes glimmered on the waters, whose murmurs contended with the wind that sung among the boughs: and was this all? A straggling moonbeam fell on something bright amid the bushes, and a deep voice cried, “Jack of the Wynd, if thou can’st not get to thicker cover, pluck darnels to cover that cursed steel cap of thine.”
“Hush!” repeated another lower voice, “Your bawling is worse than his headpiece; you outroar the wind. How high the moon is, and our friends not come; — he will be he here before them.”
“Hark! a bell!”
“Matins, by the Fiend! may he seize that double-tongued knave! I much suspect Master Frion; I know him of old.”
“He cannot mar us now, though it be he who made this ambushment.”
“Oh, by your leave! he has the trick of it, and could spring a mine in the broadest way; he can turn, and twist, and show more faces than a die. He laughed this morn — I know the laugh — there is mischief in ‘t.”
“But, your Worship, now, what can he do?”
“Do! darken the moon; set these trees alive and dancing; do! so play the Will o’ the Wisp that the King shall be on Pendennis and the Duke at Greenwich, and each fancy he is within bow-shot of the other; do! ask the Devil what is in his compact, for he is but the Merry Andrew of Doctor Frion. Hush!”
“It is he,” said the other speaker.
A breathless pause ensued; the wind swept through the trees — another sound — its monotonous recurrence sh
owed that it was a dashing waterfall — and yet again it grew louder.
“It is he.”
“No, Gad’s mercy, it comes westward — close, my merry fellows, close, and mind the word! close, for we have but half our number, and yet he may escape.”
Again the scene sank into silence and darkness: such silence as is nature’s own, whose voice is ever musical; such darkness as the embowering trees and vast island-clouds made, dimming and drinking up the radiance of the moon.
The stillness was broken by the tramp of horses drawing near, men’s voices mingled with the clatter, and now several cavaliers entered the defile; they rode in some disorder, and so straggling, that it was probable that many of their party lagged far behind: the principal horseman had reached midway the ravine, when suddenly a tree, with all its growth of green and tangled boughs, fell right across the path; the clatter of the fall deafened the screech which accompanied it, for one rider was overthrown; it was succeeded by a flight of arrows from concealed archers. “Ride for your lives,” cried Richard: but his path was crossed by six horsemen, while, starting from the coppice, a band of near forty men engaged with the van of his troop, who tried to wheel about: some escaped, most fell. With his sword drawn, the Prince rushed at his foremost enemy; it was a mortal struggle, for life and liberty, for hatred and revenge. Richard was the better swordsman, but his horse was blown, and half sunk upon his haunches, when pressed closely by the adversary. Richard saw his danger, and yet his advantage, for his foe, over-eager to press him down, forgot the ward; he rose on his stirrups, and grasped his sword with both hands, when a blow from behind, a coward’s blow, from a battle-axe, struck him; it was repeated, and he fell lifeless on the earth.
Sickness, and faintness, and throbbing pain were the first tokens of life that visited his still failing sense; sight and the power of motion seemed to have deserted him, but memory reviving told him that he was a prisoner. Moments were stretched to ages while he strove to collect his sensations; still it was night; the view of fields and uplands and of the varied moon-lit sky, grew upon his languid senses; he was still on horseback, bound to the animal, and supported on either side by men. As his movements communicated his returning strength, one of these fellows rode to impart the tidings to their leader, while the other stayed to guide his horse; the word “gallop!” was called aloud, and he was urged along at full speed, while the sudden motion almost threw him back into his swoon.
Dawn, which at first seemed to add to the dimness and indistinctness of the landscape, struggling through the clouds, and paling the moon, slowly stole upon them. The Prince became sufficiently alive to make observations; he and his fellow-prisoners were five in number only, their guards were ten; foremost among them was one, whom in whatever guise he could not mistake. Each feeling in Richard’s heart stimulated him to abhor that man, yet he pitied him more. Gallant, bold Robin, the frolicksome page, the merry-witted sharer of a thousand pleasures. Time, thou art a thief; how base a thief — when thou stealest not only our friends, our youth, our hopes, but, besides, our innocence; giving us in the place of light-hearted confidence — guile, distrust, the consciousness of evil deeds. In these thoughts, Richard drew the louring of the picture, from the fresh and vivid tints that painted his own soul. Clifford’s breast had perhaps never been free from the cares of guilt: he had desired honour; he had loved renown; but the early developement of passion and of talent had rendered him even in boyhood, less single-hearted than Richard now.
Clifford was triumphant; he possessed Monina’s beloved — the cause of his disgrace — bound, a prisoner and wounded. Why then did pain distort his features, and passion flush his brow? No triumph laughed in his eye, or sat upon his lip. He hated the prince; but he hated and despised himself. He played a dastardly and a villain’s part; and shame awaited even success. The notoriety and infamy that attended on him (exaggerated as those things usually are, in his own eyes), made him fear to meet in the neighbouring villages or towns, any noble cavalier who might recognise him; even if he saw a party of horsemen on the road, he turned out of it, and thus got entangled among byepaths in an unfrequented part of the country: They continued the same fast career for several hours, till they entered a wild dark forest, where the interminable branches of the old oaks met high-arched over head, and the paths were beset with fern and underwood. The road they took was at first a clear and open glade, but it quickly narrowed, and branched off in various directions; they followed one of its windings, till it abruptly closed: the leader then reined in, and Clifford’s voice was heard. Years had elapsed since it had met Richard’s ear; the mere, as it were, abstract idea of Clifford was mingled with crime and hate; his voice, his manner, his look were associated with protestations of fidelity; or, dearer still, the intercourse of friendship and youthful gaiety; no wonder that it seemed a voice from the grave to betrayed York.
“Halloo!” cried Clifford, “Clim of the Lyn, my merry man, thou art to track us through the New Forest to Southampton.”
“Please your knightship,” said a shaggy-headed fellow, “our way is clear, I am at home now: but, by Saint George, we must halt; a thirty miles ride since matins, his fast unbroken, would have made Robin Hood a laggard.”
“What would you eat here?” cried Clifford; “a stoup of canary and beef were blessings for the nonce; but we must get out of this accursed wilderness into more Christian neighbourhood, before we find our hostelry.”
Clim of the Lyn grinned. “To a poor forester,” said he, “the green-wood is a royal inn; vert and venison, your worship, sound more savoury than four smoky walls, and a platter of beef brought in mine host’s left hand, while his right already says—’Pay!”’
“They would feed me with mine own venison in way of courtesy, even as the Lion Heart, my namesake and ancestor, was feasted of old; mine — each acre, each rood, and every noble stag that pastures thereon; but I am not so free as they; and, mine though this wild wood be, I must thank an outlaw ere I dine upon my own.”
Thus thought Richard; and at that moment, with his limbs aching through their bondage, and with throbbing temples, liberty in the free forest seemed worth more than a kingdom. The bright sun was high — the sky serene — the merry birds were caroling in the brake — the forest basked in noon-day, while the party wound along the shady path beneath. The languid frame of York revived; at first to pain alone, for memory was serpent-fanged. What bird-lime was this to ensnare the royal eagle! but soon Despair, which had flapped her harpy wings across his face, blinding him, fled away; Hope awoke, and in her train, schemes of escape, freedom, and a renewal of the struggle.
Meanwhile they threaded many a green pathway, and, after another hour’s ride, arrived at the opening of a wide grassy dell; a deer, “a stag of ten,” leapt from his ferny bed and bounded away; a herd of timid fawns, just visible in the distance, hurried into the thicket; while many a bird flew from the near sprays. Here the party halted; first they unbitted their steeds, and then dismounted the prisoners, binding them for security’s sake to a tree. Richard was spared this degradation, for still he was a prince in Clifford’s eyes; and his extreme physical weakness, caused by his blow, made even the close watching him superfluous. He was lifted from his horse, and placed upon the turf, and there left. While some of his guards went to seek and slay their repast, others led their animals to a brook, which murmured near: all were variously and busily employed. Clifford alone remained; he called for water; evidently he was more weary than he chose to own; he took off his casque: his features were ghastly; there was a red streak upon his brow, which was knit as if to endurance, and his lips were white and quivering. Never had crime visited with such torment ill-fated man; he looked a Cain after the murder; the Abel he had killed was his own fair fame — the ancestral honour of his race. How changed from when Richard last saw him, but two years before; his hair was nearly grey, his eyes hollow, his cheeks fallen in; yet, though thin to emaciation, he had lost that delicacy and elegance of feature that had charact
erized him. Almost without reflection, forgetting his own position in painful compassion, the Prince exclaimed, “Thou art an unhappy man, Sir Robert!” The knight replied with a ghastly smile, which he meant to be disdainful. “But now,” continued Richard, “while thy visor screened thy face, I was on the point of taunting thee as a coward, of defying thee to mortal combat; but thou art miserable, and broken-hearted, and no match for me.”
Clifford’s eyes glared, his hand was upon his sword’s hilt: he recollected himself, replying, “You cannot provoke me, Sir, you are my prisoner.”
“Thy victim, Robin; though once saved by thee; but that is past, and there is no return. The blood of Stanley, and of a hundred other martyrs, rolls between us: I conquer my own nature, when even for a moment I look upon their murderer.”
The weakness of the prince gave a melancholy softness to his voice and manner; the deep pity he felt for his fallen friend, imparted a seraphic expression to his clear open countenance. Clifford writhed with pain. Clifford, who, though not quick to feel for others, was all sense and sensitiveness for himself: and how often in the world do we see sensibility attributed to individuals, whose show of feeling arises from excessive susceptibility to their own sorrows and injuries! Clifford wished to answer — to go away — he was spell-bound; his cowering look first animated Richard to an effort, which a moment before he would have ridiculed. “Wherefore,” said he, “have you earned all men’s hate, and your own to boot? Are you more honoured and loved than in Brussels? Scorn tracks you in your new career, and worst of all, you despise yourself.”
“By St. Sathanas and his brood!” fiercely burst from the Knight. Then he bit his lip, and was silent.
“Yet, Clifford, son of a noble father, spare yourself this crowning sin. I have heard from travelled men, that in Heathenesse the unbaptized miscreant is true to him whose hospitality he has shared. There was a time when my eyes brightened when I saw you; when the name of Robin was a benediction to me. You have changed it for the direst curse. Yours are no common crimes. Foremost in the chronicles, your name will stand as a type and symbol of ingratitude and treason, written with the blood of Fitzwater and Stanley. But this is not all. The young and defenceless you destroy: you have stood with uplifted dagger over the couch of a sleeping man.”