by Mary Shelley
Clifford had fostered the belief that this vilest act of his life, to which he had been driven rather by fierce revenge than hope of reward, was a secret. A moment before he had advanced with hasty and furious glances towards his enemy. Scarcely had the words passed York’s lips, than a kind of paralysis came over him. His knees knocked together: his arms fell nerveless to his side.
“O, man!” continued York, “arouse thy sleeping faculties. Bid the fiend who tortures thee, Avaunt! Even now, at the word, he feels his power over thy miserable soul waver. By Him who died on the Cross, I conjure him to leave thee. Say thou ‘amen’ to my adjuration, and he departs. Cast off the huge burthen of guilt: deliver thy soul into the care of holy men. As thy first act, depart this spot: leave me. It is I who command — Richard of York, thy sovereign. Begone; or kneeling at my feet, seek the grace thou hast so dearly forfeited.”
For a moment it almost seemed as if the wretched man were about to obey; but at the moment his groom came from the spring, where he had been watering his horse. The sight of another human being, to witness his degradation, awoke him to phrenzy. He called aloud, “How now, Sirrah! Why, unbit Dragon? Bring him here. I must begone.”
“He can’t carry your honour a mile,” said the fellow.
“A miracle,” cried Richard; “you repent, Sir Robert.”
“As Lucifer in hell! Look to the prisoner.” Clifford vaulted on his horse: his head was bare, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Clapping spurs to the jaded animal’s side, he put him to his speed, and was gone.
“His fit is on him!” cried his attendant, “and what are we to do? He rides a race with the fiend, leaving us to do both their works.” More whisperingly he muttered, “Hold Duke Richard in bonds against his will may I not. He gave me gold in Flanders; he is a King’s son and a belted Knight, and I a poor servitor.”
Richard had conceived a faint hope of working on Clifford’s manifest remorse, and enlisting him again under the banner of the White Rose. His wonder was great when he saw him flying through the forest with uncovered head and dishevelled hair; the bridle of his horse in the groom’s hand, while the wearied animal, spurred to speed, threw up his head, snorting with fear. Not a moment was to be lost, the Prince flew to his comrades in captivity. Already Heron and O’Water had their bonds cut by the sword of which he possessed himself. Heron, in whose two arms lay his chief strength, and O’Water, at home in a fray, fired with the desire of liberty and life, got speedy hold of battle-axes, and stood at bay. Skelton, the next made free, began to run; but finding his flight was solitary, he secured a bow and arrows, and betook himself to a short, sure aim from behind a tree, while he offered up another sigh to the memory of Trereife. Astley threw himself foremost before his master, unarmed. The weapons of their guard were chiefly in a heap, and these, defended by the enfranchised prisoners, were useless to them. Headed by Clifford’s groom, who stood in salutary awe of shedding royal blood, a parley commenced. He entreated Richard to submit; he told him that the whole country was in arms against him, his way back to his army beset, the sea-coasts strictly guarded. What then could he do?
“Die, in arms and at liberty. Stand back, sirs; what would you do with me? Your guilty captain has deserted you; is there one of your number who will raise his accursed weapon against a King and a Knight?”
Clym of the Lyn, and another outlawed forester, (Clifford in mustering a troop had gathered together all manner of wild companions) now appeared dragging in a fat buck. Clym grinned when he saw the altered state of things: “Come, my men,” he said, “it is not for us to fight King Henry’s battles; the more Majesties there be in England, the merrier for us, I trow; and the wider and freer the range of the King of the New Forest. Put up your rapiers, and let us feast like brethren; ye may fall to with your weapons afterwards. Or, if it please your Grace to trust to me, I will lead you where none of the King’s men will follow.”
“Wilt thou guide me back to Taunton?” asked the Prince.
“Not for my cap full of rose nobles,” replied the outlaw; “the way is beset: and trust me your worship’s men are scattered far and wide ere this. You are a tall fellow, and I should ill like to see you in their gripe. Be one of us; you shall be King of the Greenwood-shade; and a merrier, freer monarch than he who lives at Westminster.”
“Hark!” the word, spoken in a voice of alarm, made the party all ear. There was a distant tramp — every now and then a breaking of bushes — and a whole herd of deer came bounding up the glade in flight. A forester who had rambled further than the rest, rushed back, saying, “Sixty yeomen of the royal guard! They are coming hitherward. Sir Harry de Vere leads them — I know his bright bay horse.”
“Away!”
CHAPTER XI.
He might have dwelt in green forest.
Under the shadows green;
And have kept both him and us at rest.
Out of all trouble and teen.
— OLD BALLAD.
It had been the policy of Richard’s captors, to have remained to deliver up their prisoners to a stronger force. But most of them were outlaws by profession, who held the King’s men in instinctive horror: these were the first to fly; the panic spread; those who had no cause to fear, fled because they saw others do so. In a moment the sward was cleared of all save the prisoners, who hastily bridled their horses, and followed York down a narrow path into a glen, in an opposite direction from the approaching troop. With what speed they might they made their way through the forest, penetrating its depths, till they got completely entangled in its intricacies. They proceeded for several hours, but their jaded horses one by one foundered: they were in the most savage part of the wood; there was no beginning nor end to the prospect of knotted trunks, which lifted their vast leafy burthen into the air; here was safety and needful repose. Richard, animated to a sudden effort, could now hardly keep his seat: the state of their animals was imperative for a halt; so here, in a wild brake, they alighted near a running brook: and here O’Water slew a buck, while Astley and Skelton unbridled their horses, and all set about preparing a most needful repast. Evening stole upon them before it was concluded: the slant sun-beams lay in golden glory on the twisted ivy-grown trunks, and bathed the higher foliage in radiance. By the time their appetites were satisfied, Heron and Skelton were discovered to be in a sound sleep; it were as well to follow their example; neither men and horses could proceed without repose; darkness also afforded best safety for travelling. It was agreed that they should pursue their way at midnight; and so, stretched on the grassy soil, peace and the beauty of nature around them, each gave himself up to a slumber, which, at that extremity of fatigue, needed no courting.
All slept, save the Prince; he lay in a state of feverish disquietude, looking at the sky through the leafy tracery overhead, till night massed and confused every object. Darkest thoughts thronged his mind; loss of honour, desertion of friends, the fate of his poor men: he was to have devoted himself to them, but a stream, driven by a thundering avalanche from its course, had as much power as he to oppose the circumstances that had brought him from his camp near Taunton, to this secluded spot. For an interval he gave himself up to a tumult of miserable ideas, till from the grim troop some assumed a milder aspect, some a brighter hue; and, after long and painful consideration, he arranged such a plan as promised at least to vindicate his own name, and to save the lives of his adherents. Calmed by these thoughts, soothed to repose by the gentle influence of a south wind, and the sweet monotony of rustling leaves and running water, he sank at last into a dreamless sleep.
A whispering of voices was the first thing that struck his wakening sense: it was quite dark. “Is Master O’Water come back?” asked Heron.
“I am here,” replied the Irishman.
“Hast discovered aught?”
“That the night is dark, and the forest wide,” replied O’Water; “had we a planet to guide us we might hope to reach its skirts. We are worse off, than the Spanish Admiral on the western sea, for the c
ompass was a star without a cloud to him.”
“Saint Mary save us!” said, or rather whined poor Skelton, “our fortunes are slit from top to toe, and no patch-work will make them whole.”
“There is hope at the mouth of a culverin,” said O’Water, “or at the foot of the gallows, so that a man be true to himself. I have weathered a worse day, when the Macarthys swore to revenge themselves on the Roches.”
“And by our Lady’s grace,” interrupted Richard, “shall again, worthy Mayor. My good fellows, fear nothing, I will save you, the ocean cannot be many miles off, for the sun set at our right hand, and blinded our eyes through the day; the wind by its mildness is southerly; we will face it. When once we reach the seaside, the shore of the free, wide ocean, Tudor’s power stops short, and ye are safe; of myself there will then be time to think. Say, shall we proceed now, or give another hour to repose?”
All were eager to start, slowly leading their horses through the tangled paths they could find, the quarter whence the wind blew their only guide: morning found them toiling on, but morning diminished half their labours; and, as the birds twittered, and the east gleamed, their spirits rose to meet and conquer danger. O’Water was in his native element, that of hairbreadth escape and peril. As to Heron and Skelton, they might have flagged, but for Richard; he flattered their pride, raised their hopes, making weariness and danger a plaything and a jest. As the sun mounted in the sky, their horses showed many a sign of weariness; and, in spite of a store of venison, which the careful Skelton had brought away with him, they needed refreshment: each mile lengthened to ten; each glade grew interminable in their eyes; and the wide forest seemed to possess all England in its extent. Could the Prince’s body have conquered his mind, the White Rose had indeed drooped: he was parched with fever, and this, preying on his brain, made him the victim of conflicting thoughts: his heart, his imagination, were in his deserted camp; even fair Katherine, awaiting tidings of him in her far retreat, had not such power to awaken anguish in his heart, as the idea of Henry’s vengeance exercised on his faithful, humble friends, whose father and protector he had called himself. There was disease in the fire and rapidity with which these ideas coursed through his mind; with a strong will he overcame them, bent on accomplishing his present purpose, and rescuing these chief rebels, whose lives were most endangered, before he occupied himself with the safety of the rest.
At length, at noon, his quick ear caught a heavy, distant roar. The trees had begun to be more scattered: they reached the verge of the forest; they were too weary to congratulate each other; before them was a rising ground which bounded their view; some straggling cottages crowned the height; slowly they reached the hill-top, and there beheld stormy ocean, clipping in the circular coast with watery girdle; at a crow’s flight it might be a mile distant; a few huts, and a single black boat spotted in one place the else desert beach; a south wind swept the sea, and vast surges broke upon the sands; all looked bleak and deserted.
They stopped at a cottage-door inquiring the road; they heard there was one, which went three miles about, but that the plain at their feet was intersected by wide ditches, which their fagged animals could not leap. Moreover, what hope of putting out to sea, in opposition to the big noisy waves which the wind was hurrying towards shore! It were safest and best to take a short repose in this obscure village. Heron and Skelton entered the poor inn, while Richard waited on his horse, striving to win him by caresses to taste the food he at first refused. Heron, who was warm-hearted with all his bluster, brought the Prince out a flagon of excellent wine, such, as by some chance, it might be a wreck, the tide had wafted from the opposite coast: Richard was too ill to drink; but, as he stood, his arm on his poor steed’s neck, the creature looked wistfully up in his face, averting his mouth from the proffered grain; half playfully his master held out to him the wide mouthed flagon, and he drank with such eagerness, that Richard vowed he should have another bottle, and, buying the host’s consent with gold, filled a large can from the wine-cask; the beast drank, and, had he been a Christian man, could not have appeared more refreshed. The Prince, forgetful of his pains, was amusing himself thus, when Skelton, pale and gasping, came from the house, and voiceless through fear, laid one hand on his leader’s arm, and with the other pointed: too soon the hapless fugitive saw to what he called his attention. Along the shore of the sea a moving body was perceptible, approaching towards them from west to east, which soon showed itself to be a troop of horse soldiers. Richard gave speedy order that his friends should assemble and mount, while he continued to watch the proceedings of the enemy.
They were about two hundred strong — they arrived at the huts on the beach, and the Prince perceived that they were making dispositions to leave a part of their number behind. Fifty men were selected, and posted as patrole — the rest then moved forward, still towards the east. By this time the remaining fugitives had mounted, and gathered in one spot — the villagers also were collecting — Skelton’s teeth chattered — he asked an old woman if there were any sanctuary near.
“Aye, by our Lady, is there,” replied the dame, “sixteen miles along the coast is the monastery of Beaulieu. A sanctuary for Princes; by the same token that the Lady Margaret, Saint Henry’s Queen, lived safely there in spite of the wicked Yorkists, who would have taken her precious life.”
Richard turned quickly round as the woman spoke and heard her words, but again his eyes were attracted to the coast. As the troop were proceeding along the sands, the little knot of horsemen perched upon the hill, caught the attention of a soldier. He rode along the lines, and spoke to the commanding officer; a halt ensued, “We are lost,” cried Skelton, “we are taken, Lord! Lord! will they grant us our lives?”
“These trees are tempting, and apt for hanging,” said O’Water, with the air of a connoisseur.
“Oh, for Bewley — for Bewley, let us ride!” exclaimed Skelton, longing to go, yet afraid of separating himself from his companions.
Still the Prince watched the movements of the adverse party. Ten men were detached, and began to advance inland—”Oh, dear my Lord,” cried Astley, “betake yourself to the forest — there are a thousand ways of baffling these men. I will meet them, and put them to fault. Ride, for my lady’s sake, ride!”
“Master Astley is a cunning gentleman,” said Skelton; “our horses are a-weary, and a little craft would help us mightily.”
Still Richard’s eyes were fixed on the troopers — the men advanced as far as a broad, deep stream, which intersected the plain; here they hesitated; one of the best mounted leapt across, the others drew back, seeking along the steep, shelving banks for a ford, or a narrowing of the stream. The eyes of the troop on the shore were now turned upon their comrades. “Our time is come,” cried Richard; “back to the forest.” One step took them down the other side of the hill, hiding sea and beach and enemy from their eyes, and skreening them also from observation. They soon reached the forest, and entered its shade; and then proceeded along just within its skirts. “Whither?” respectfully O’Water asked, after Skelton had for some time been muttering many a hint concerning sanctuary.
“To Beaulieu,” said the Prince. “We are barred out from the ocean — we are beset at land — the little island, yeleped sanctuary, is all that is left to ye. God speed us safely hither.”
Richard’s horse was lively and refreshed after his generous draught, but those of the others flagged. The Prince exerted himself to keep up the spirits of all; he rallied Skelton, spoke comfort to Astley, and good hope to Heron. The sturdy apprentice of danger, flight and trouble, O’Water, treated it all as a matter of course — even hanging, if it so ehanced, was but a likely accident — the others needed more encouragement. Astley feared for his Lord, even to an appearance of timidity, which, though disinterested, had a bad effect on the others. Heron complained bitterly that his dinner had been left unfinished; while the poor tailor, now fancying that he would run away from all, now fearful of solitary misadventure, kept up a
garrulous barangue, of which terror was the burthen and the sum. Richard’s voice was cheerful, his manner gay; but, placing his hand on Astley, it felt scorching; every moment it required more energy to throw off the clinging lethargy that fell upon him. It was again evening — a circumstance that had caused them to enter deeper into the forest; and it was to be feared they had lost their way. All were weary — all, save Richard, hungry. The breeze had died away; the air was oppressive, and more and more it felt like a load intolerable to the Prince’s burning brow. Night began to close in so very dark, that the horses refused to go forward. Suddenly a roaring sound arose, which was not the sea; and, but that the atmosphere was so still, the wanderers would have said that it was a fierce wind among the trees. Such must it be, for now it came nearer; like living things, the vast giants of the forest tossed their branches furiously; and entire darkness and sudden, pouring rain revealed the tempest, which their leafy prison had before hidden — all was so instantaneous, that it would seem that nature was undergoing some great revulsion in her laws. The Prince’s horse snorted and reared, while O’Water’s dashed furiously on, striking against a tree, and throwing his rider, from whose lips there escaped a shriek. What would have been the last overflowing drop in the bitter cup to a weak mind, restored Richard — lassitude and despondency vanished. In an instant he was off his horse at O’Water’s side, speaking in his own cheerful, kind voice. “Waste no moment on me,” cried the generous Mayor. “My leg is broken — I can go no further — speed you, your Highness, to the sanctuary.”