Бесплатный фрагмент - Red and White: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses

“If loving hearts were never lonely, If all they wish might always be,
Accepting what they look for only, They might be glad, but not in Thee.” — ANNA L. WARING.

PREFACE.

It is a proverbial truth that thunderstorms clear the air. And it would seem as though that eventful and terrible period of English history, known as the Wars of the Roses, had cleared the political air for the coming Reformation. How little those who took part in it realised the time to follow! To the men of that day it was either a wrestle for personal fame, or a passionate enthusiasm for the establishment of Right. To the women with whom it was not the latter, it must have been a meaningless agony — a passion with no visible end, and with no conceivable moral purpose. Alas for him who loses his faith in the providence of God, for the key of the world has dropped out of his hand. And happy are they who can calmly walk on in the dark by the side of the Father, it may be feeling the atmosphere painfully oppressive, yet willing to wait His time, and knowing that when they come forth into the light of the Golden City, they will be satisfied with it.

CHAPTER I

THE FLEDGLINGS LEAVE THE NEST.

“Ah, God will never let us plant
Our tent-poles in the sand,
But ever, e’er the blossom buds,

We hear the dread command, —
“Arise and get thee hence away,

Unto another land.””

“Frid!” said little Dorathie in a whisper.

Frid held up a hushing finger with a smile.

“Frid!” came again; in a tone which showed that tears were not very far from Dorathie’s blue eyes.

Frid’s hand was held out in reply, and little Dorathie, understanding the gesture, sidled along the window-seat until she reached her sister in the opposite corner. There, nestled up close to Frideswide, and held fast by her arm, Dorathie put the melancholy question which was troubling her repose.

“Frid, be you going hence? — verily going?”

The answering nod was a decided affirmative.

“But both of you? — both thee and Agnes?”

Another silent, uncompromising nod from Frideswide.

“O Frid, I shall be all alone! Whatever must I do?”

And the tears came running from the blue eyes.

“Serve my Lady my grandmother,” Frideswide whispered back.

“But that is — only — being useful,” sobbed Dorathie, “and I — want to — be happy.”

“Being useful is being happy,” said her sister.

“I would being happy were being useful,” was Dorathie’s lugubrious answer. “They never go together — not with me.”

“So do they alway with me,” replied Frideswide.

“Oh, thou! Thou art a woman grown,” said Dorathie with a pout.

“Right an old woman,” said Frideswide with a sparkle of fun in her eyes, for she was not quite twenty. Dorathie was only eight, and in her estimation Frideswide had attained a venerable age. “But list, Doll! My Lady calleth thee.”

Dorathie’s sobs had attracted the notice of one of the four grown-up persons assembled round the fire. They were two ladies and two gentlemen, and the relations which they bore to Dorathie were father, mother, grandmother, and grand-uncle.

It was her grandmother who had called her — the handsome stately old lady who sat in a carved oak chair on the further side of the fire. Her hair was silvery white, but her eyes, though sunken, were lively, flashing dark eyes still.

Dorathie slipped down from the window-seat, crossed the large room, and stood before her grandmother with clasped hands and a deferential bob. She was not much afraid of a scolding, for she rarely had one from that quarter: still, in the days when girls were expected to be silent statues in the august presence of their elders, she might reasonably have feared for the result of her whispered colloquy with Frideswide.

“What ails my little Doll?” gently asked the old lady.

“An’t please your good Ladyship, you said Frid and Annis [#] should both go away hence.”

[#] Annis, or more correctly Anneyse, is the old French form of Agnes, and appears to have been used in the Middle Ages, in England, as an affectionate diminutive. Some have supposed Annis to be a variety of Anne, and have therefore concluded that Anne and Agnes were considered the same name. This, I think, is a mistake. Annas is the Scottish spelling.

“We did, my little maid. Is our Doll very sorry therefor?”

“I shall be all alone!” sobbed Dorathie.

“‘All alone!’” repeated her grandmother with a smile, which was pitying and a little sympathetic. “Little Doll, there be fourteen in this house beside Frideswide and Agnes.”

“But they are none of them them!” said Dorathie.

“Aye. There is the rub,” answered her grandmother. “But, little maid, we all have to come to that some time.”

““Tis as well to begin early, Doll,” said her uncle.

“Please it you, Uncle Maurice,” replied Dorathie, rubbing the tears out of her eyes with her small hands, “I’d rather begin late!”

Her father laughed. “Folks must needs go forth into the world, Doll,” said he. “Thou mayest have to do the like thine own self some day.”

“Shall I so?” asked Dorathie, opening her eyes wide. “Then, an’ it like your good Lordship, may I go where Frid and Annis shall be?”

“Thou wilt very like go with Frid or Annis, it we can compass it,” replied her father; “but they will not be together, Doll.”

“Not together!” cried Dorathie in a tone of disappointed surprise.

“Nay: Frideswide goeth to my good Lady of Warwick at Middleham; and Agnes to London town, to serve my Lady’s Grace of Exeter in her chamber.”

“Then they’ll be as unhappy as me!” said Dorathie, with a very sorrowful shake of her head. “I thought they were going to be happy.”

“They shall be merry as crickets!” answered her father. “My Lady of Warwick hath two young ladies her daughters, and keepeth four maidens in her bower; and my Lady’s Grace of Exeter hath likewise a daughter, and keepeth other four maids to wait of her. They are little like to be lonely.”

Her grandmother understood the child’s feeling, but her father did not. And Dorathie was dimly conscious that it was so. She dropped another courtesy, and crept back to Frideswide in the window-seat, — not comforted at all. There they sat and listened to the conversation of their elders round the fire. Frideswide was sewing busily, but Dorathie’s hands were idle.

The season was early autumn, and the trees outside were just beginning to show the yellow leaf here and there. The window in which the two girls sat, a wide oriel, opened on a narrow courtyard, in front of which lay a garden of tolerable size, wherein pinks, late roses, and other flowers were bowing their heads to the cool breeze of the Yorkshire wolds. The court-yard was paved with large round stones, not pleasant to walk on, and causing no small clatter from the hoofs of the horses. A low parapet wall divided it from the garden, which was approached by three steps, thus making the court into a wide terrace. Beyond the garden, a crenellated wall some twelve feet high shut out the prospect.

What it shut out beside the prospect was a great deal, of which little was known to Frideswide, and much less to Dorathie. They lived at a period of which we, sheltered in a country which has not known war for two hundred years, can barely form an adequate idea. For fourteen years — namely, since Frideswide was five years old, and longer than Dorathie’s life — England had been torn asunder by civil warfare. Nor was it over yet. The turbulent past had been sad enough, but the worst was yet to come.

Never, since the cessation of the Heptarchy, had a more terrible time been seen than the Wars of the Roses. In this struggle above all others, family convictions were divided, and family love rent asunder. Father and son, brother and brother, uncle and nephew, constantly took opposite sides: and every warrior on each side was absolutely sure that all shadow of right lay with his candidate, and that the “rebel and adversary” of his chosen monarch had not an inch of ground to stand on.

Nor was the question of right so clear and indisputable as in this nineteenth century we are apt to think. To our eyes, regarding the matter in the light of modern law, it appears certain that Edward IV. was the rightful heir of the crown, and that there was no room for dispute in the matter. But the real point in dispute was the very important one, what the law of succession really was. Was it any bar that Edward claimed through a female? The succession of all the kings from the Empress Maud might be fairly held to settle this item in Edward’s favour. But the real difficulty, which lay beyond, was not so easily solved.

Very little understood at present is the law of non-representation, the old “custom of England,” which was also the custom of Artois, and several other provinces. According to this law, if a son of the king should predecease his father, leaving issue, that issue was barred from the throne. They were not to be allowed to represent their dead father. The right of succession passed at once to the next son of the monarch.

Several of our kings tried to alter this law, but it was so dear to the hearts of the English people that up to 1377 they invariably failed. The most notable instance is that of Richard I., who tried hard to secure the succession of Arthur, the son of his deceased brother Geoffrey, in preference to his youngest brother John. But the “custom of England” was too strong for him: and though John was personally neither liked nor respected by any one, England preferred his rule to making a change in her laws.

It was Edward III. who succeeded in making the alteration. His eldest son, the famed Black Prince, had died leaving a son behind him, and the old King strongly desired to secure the peaceable succession of his grandson. He succeeded, partly because of the popularity of the deceased Prince, partly on account of the unpopularity of the next heir, but chiefly because the next heir himself was willing to assist in the alteration. His reward for this self-abnegation is that modern writers are perpetually accusing him of unbridled ambition, and of a desire to snatch the crown from that nephew who would assuredly never have worn it had he withheld his consent.

But though John of Gaunt was perfectly willing to be subject instead of sovereign, his son Henry did not share his feelings. He always considered that he had been tricked out of his rights: and he never forgave his father for consenting to the change. After sundry futile attempts to eject his cousin from the throne, he at last succeeded in effecting his purpose. The succession returned to the right line according to the old “custom of England”; and since King Richard II., for whom it had been altered, left no issue, matters might have gone on quietly enough had it been suffered to remain there.

They were quiet enough until the death of Henry V. But a long minority of the sovereign has nearly always been a misfortune to the country: and the longest of all minorities was that of Henry VI., who was only eight months old when he came to the throne. Then began a restless and weary struggle for power among the nobles, and especially the three uncles of the baby King. The details of the struggle itself belong to general history: but there are one or two points concerning which it will be best to make such remarks as are necessary at once, in order to save explanations which would otherwise be constantly recurring.

King Henry was remarkably devoid of relatives, and the nearest he had were not of his own rank. He was the only child of his father, and on the father’s side his only living connections beside distant cousins were an uncle — Humphrey Duke of Gloucester — and a grand-uncle — Cardinal Beaufort — both of whom were, though different from each other, equally diverse from the King in temperament and aim. On the mother’s side he had two half-brothers and a sister, with whom he was scarcely allowed to associate at all. He wanted a wife: and he took the means to obtain one which in his day princes usually took. He sent artists to the various courts of Europe, to bring to him portraits of the unmarried Princesses. King Henry’s truth-loving nature comes out in the instructions given to these artists. They were to be careful not to flatter any of the royal ladies, but to draw their portraits just as they were. Of the miniatures thus brought to him, the King’s fancy was attracted by the lovely face of a beautiful blonde of sixteen — the Princess Marguerite of Anjou, second daughter of René, the dispossessed King of Naples. An embassy, at the head of which was William Duke of Suffolk, was sent over to demand, and if accepted, to bring home the young Princess.

The girl-Queen found herself a very lonely creature, flung into the midst of discordant elements. She loved her husband, as she afterwards showed beyond question, and she must have felt deep respect for his pure, gentle, truthful, saintly soul. Yet, excellent as he was, he was no adviser for her. It was simply impossible for her brilliant intellect and brave heart to lean upon his dulled brain and timid nature. How could he, with the uttermost will to aid her, help his young wife to keep out of snares laid for her which he could not even see, or counsel her to beware of false friends whose falsehood he never so much as suspected? Is it any wonder that Marguerite in this sore emergency turned to Suffolk, her first friend, a man almost old enough to be her grandfather, with a wise head and a tender heart, and thoroughly desirous to do his duty? Poor, innocent girl! she paid dearly for it. One word of cruel, contemptuous surmise dropped from the lips of a young nobleman, — who very possibly had wished the fair young Queen to make him her chief adviser — and all over the land, as with wings, the wicked falsehood sped, till there was no possibility of undoing the evil, and Marguerite woke up in horror to find her name defamed, and her innocent friendship with Suffolk believed to be criminal. She did not discover for some time who was the author of this cruel slander: but when she did, she never forgave Warwick.

There is not the shadow of probability that it was true. Suffolk was about fifty years of age [#] when Marguerite was married, and he had been for nearly fifteen years the husband of one of the loveliest women in England, to whom he was passionately attached. His character is shown further by the farewell letter written to his son, [#] one of the most touching and pious farewell letters ever penned by man.

[#] He was born at Cotton, in Suffolk, and baptized in that church on “The Feast of St. Michael in Monte Tumba” [Oct. 16] 1396. (Prob. Ætatit Willielmi Ducis Suffolk, 5 H. V. 63.)

[#] Published among the Paston Letters.

But now another and a more serious complication was added to those already existing. The dispossessed heir of the elder branch, Richard Duke of York, had much to forgive the House of Lancaster. He had the memory of a murdered father and a long-imprisoned mother ever fresh before him. His claim was only through the female line, as the son of a daughter of the son of a daughter of Lionel Duke of Clarence, the second son of Edward III. who attained manhood, and who had predeceased his father. In respect of the male line, he was descended from a younger brother [#] of the grandfather of Henry VI. It was therefore only as the representative of Duke Lionel that he could put forward any claim at all. But Richard was not good at forgiving. And when, as if for the purpose of further entangling matters, and suggesting to Richard the very idea which he afterwards carried into action, Henry VI. was seized with an attack of that temporary insanity which he inherited from his maternal grandfather, Richard, as his next male relative, was placed in the position of Regent: a state of things so entirely suited to his wishes that when, the King having recovered, he was summoned to resign his charge, Richard coolly expressed his perfect satisfaction with the position of governor, and his intention to remain such, since he considered himself to be, as heir general of Duke Lionel, much more rightfully King of England than the cousin who had displaced him.

[#] Edmund Duke of York.

The first sensation of Henry VI., on hearing this calm assertion of Richard, was simply one of unbounded amazement.

“My grandfather,” said he, “held the crown for twelve years, and my father for ten, and I have held it for twenty-three: and all that time you and your fathers have kept silence, and not one word of this have I ever heard before. What mean you, fair cousin, to prefer such a claim against the Lord’s Anointed?”

It was not quite the fact that Richard’s fathers had kept absolute silence, since his uncle, Edmund Earl of March, had been put forward as a claimant for the throne, just fifty years before: [#] but in all probability the King was entirely justified in stating that the idea was new to him. It is not likely that those about him from infancy would have allowed him to become familiar with it, since his delicate sense of right and justice was — in their eyes — the most tiresome thing about him. But the question was not in his hands for decision. Had it been so, no man would ever have heard of the Wars of the Roses. King Henry “had no sense of honour,” which probably means that ambition, self-seeking, and aggressiveness were feelings utterly unknown to him. “Yea, let him take all,” would have been the language of his lips and heart, so long as he had left to him a quiet home in some green nook of England, the wife and child whom he dearly loved, a few books, and peace. At times God’s providence decrees peace as the lot of such men. At other rimes it seems to be the one thing with which they must not be trusted. They are tossed perpetually on the waves of this troublesome world, “emptied from vessel to vessel,” never suffered to rest. This last was the destiny of Henry VI. For him, it was the way home to the Land of Peace, where there is no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying. For four hundred years his spirit has dwelt in the eternal peace of Paradise; God has comforted him for ever.

[#] A full account of this transaction will be found in “The White Rose of Langley.”

It was an unfortunate thing for Richard of York that he had married a woman who acted toward his ambitious aspirations not as a bridle, but as a spur. Cicely Neville, surnamed from her great beauty The Rose of Raby, was a woman who, like two of her descendants, would have “died to-morrow to be a queen to-day,” and would have preferred “to eat dry bread at a king’s table, rather than feast at the board of an elector.”[#] Of all members of the royal family of England, this lady is to my knowledge the only one who ever styled herself in her own charters “the right high and right excellent Princesse.” The Rose of Raby was not the only title given her. To the vulgar in the neighbourhood where her youth was spent she was also known as Proud Cis. And every act of her life tends to show the truth of the title.

[#] The words first quoted were spoken by Anne Princess of Orange, eldest daughter of George II.; the latter by Elizabeth Queen of Bohemia, eldest daughter of James I.

It was at the battle of St. Albans — the first fought between the rival Roses — that Dorathie’s grandfather had been killed; the husband of the stately old lady who remained head of the household at Lovell Tower. His barony descended to his only daughter Margery, who, after a good deal of hesitation among rival suitors who greatly admired her title and fortune, had gradually awoke to the discovery that she liked nobody quite so well as her old friend John Marston, though he was nearly twice her age, and a widower with three children. So on him, with the full consent of her mother, she bestowed hand and heart, title and fortune; the former being in his eyes, alone of all her lovers, more valuable than the latter. In her right he became Lord Marnell of Lymington, for until a comparatively recent period the title of a peeress in her own right was held to become the property of her husband as absolutely as her goods, and was conferred by courtesy, as a matter of necessity, upon any second wife whom he might marry. Two more children — Dorathie and Ralph — were added to the family: but only the former now survived. It will thus be seen that Frideswide and Agnes were half-sisters of Dorathie. The other member of the family not yet introduced was Walter, the eldest son. He was at present a young squire in the household of Queen Marguerite.

Every soul at Lovell Tower was passionately Lancastrian. To them Henry VI. was The King, and Edward IV. was “the rebel.” In the house of the next knight, half a mile away, the conditions were reversed: and the two families, who had been old and firm friends, now passed each other on the road with no notice whatever. Very painful was this state of things to the Lady Idonia, the only sister of four brothers thus placed at variance. Her two younger brothers, Maurice and William, were still on good terms with her, for they were Lancastrians like herself. But the Carew family was one of those which the political earthquake had shattered, and Hugh and Thomas were determined Yorkists. It was the sadder — or should have been, — since the younger Lady Marnell had been educated under the roof of her Uncle Hugh, during the prolonged residence of her parents at the Court of Scotland. Fortunately or unfortunately, Uncle Hugh and Aunt Mabel had contrived to impress themselves on the mind of young Margery in no other character than that of live barricades against the accomplishment of all her wishes. To be otherwise than on speaking terms with them, therefore, was a much smaller calamity to Margery than to her mother. The Lady Idonia used to sigh heavily when their names were mentioned. Yet to keep up the friendship would have been no easy matter. Hugh Carew was granite where his convictions were concerned; and not content with following them himself, he insisted on imposing them on every body who came near him. It would have been in his eyes a matter of principle not to allow his sister or his niece to speak of “the King” or “the rebel,” without letting them see that he wilfully misunderstood the allusion. Idonia merely sighed ever this piece of perversity, while yet their intercourse remained unbroken: but Margery was apt to flare up and make an open breach of the peace. It certainly was trying, when she spoke of the King (meaning Henry VI.) as in Scotland, to be reminded in a cold, precise tone, slightly astonished, that she had unaccountably forgotten that His Highness was at Westminster. It is not therefore to be wondered at, if Margery felt the open hostility rather a relief than a burden, while her mother grieved over it in secret.

““Tis strange gear,” the Lady Idonia would sometimes say, “that men cannot think alike.”

“Nay, fair Sister, why should they so?” was her brother William’s answer. “This were tame world if no man saw by his own eyes, but all after a pattern.”

“That were well, Ida,” replied the graver Maurice, “could all men see through God’s eyes.”

“Aye, and who shall dare say how He looketh on these matters?” rejoined William.

“Know we not that?” said Maurice. “‘The righteous Lord delighteth in righteousness; His countenance beholdeth equity.’”[#]

[#] Psalm xi. 8.

“On which side is the equity?” asked his brother with a shrug of his shoulders. “Somewhat scant on both, as methinks. My Lords of Warwick and Somerset are scarce they which, before giving battle, should look through a speculation glass [#] to find the righteousness of the matter.”

[#] Magnifier.

“Perhaps it were hardly so small as to need the same,” was Maurice’s dry answer.

“Nay, fair Uncle William, but I cry you mercy!” broke in Margery. “It seems me you be but half-hearted toward our good King. Surely his, and none other, is the cause of right and justice.”

“Gramercy, Madge! I am well assured I never said they lay with that rebel,” returned her uncle, laughing.

“Methinks,” said Maurice quietly, “that King David was the wisest, which committed his cause unto God. Never, truly, had king so clear and perfect title as he. But we find not that he laid siege to King Saul, in order to come by it the sooner.”

“Dear heart! prithee go tell that to the Queen,” said William, still laughing. “Such reasoning were right after the King’s heart.”

“The Queen fights not for herself,” responded Maurice. “It is easier to trust our own lot in God’s hands, than the lot of them we love most. But mind ye not, Will and Ida, what our Philip were wont to say — ‘They that God keepeth be the best kept’?”

William made no reply. He was silenced by the allusion to the dead brother, on whom the Carews looked much as those around them did upon the saints.

The interval between the battles of St. Albans and Wakefield — five years and a half — had changed most of the dramatis personæ, but had not in any degree altered the sanguinary character of the struggle. Richard Duke of York was gone — killed at Wakefield: Suffolk was gone, a victim to popular fury. King Henry and Queen Marguerite were still the prominent figures on the Lancastrian side, joined now by their son Prince Edward. On the York side were the three sons of Duke Richard, — Edward, George, and Richard, whose ages when the story opens were twenty-eight, nineteen, and seventeen. Which of these three young men possessed the worst character it is difficult to judge, though that evil eminence is popularly assigned to Richard. Edward was an incorrigible libertine; not a bad organiser, nor devoid of personal bravery, though it usually appeared by fits and starts. He could do a generous action, but he was irremediably lazy, and far weaker in character than either of his brothers. One redeeming point he had — his personal love for his blood relations. But it was not pure love, for much selfishness was mixed with it. Perhaps really the worst of the three was George, for he was not merely an ingrained self-seeker, but also false to the heart’s core. No atom of trust could ever be placed in him. The most solemn oath taken to-day was no guarantee whatever against his breaking through every engagement to-morrow. The Dutchman’s maxim, “Every man for mineself,” was the motto of George’s life. Each of the brothers spent his life in sowing seeds of misery, and in each case the grain came to perfection: though most of the harvest of George and Richard was reaped by themselves, while Edward’s was left for his innocent sons to gather.

It may reasonably be asked why Warwick is counted among the Lancastrians, when to a great extent Edward owed his throne to him, and he had been a consistent Yorkist for years. It is because, at the period when the story opens, Warwick thought proper so to account himself. King Henry, never able to see through a schemer or a traitor, had complacently welcomed him back to his allegiance: Queen Marguerite, who saw through him to the furthest inch, and held him in unmitigated abhorrence, felt that he was necessary at this moment to her husband’s cause, and locking her own feelings hard within her, allowed it to be supposed that she was able to trust him, and kept sharp watch over every movement.

It has already been said that the decision for peace or war was not left in the hands of King Henry. The woman who sat by his side on the throne was no longer the timid, lonely dove of their early married life. Marguerite of Anjou was now a woman of middle age, and a mother whose very soul was wrapped around that bright-haired boy who alone shared her heart with his father. Could she but have looked forward a few years, and have seen that for that darling son war meant an early and bloody end, she might have been more ready to acquiesce in King Henry’s preference for an obscure but peaceful life. What she saw was something very different. How was she to know that the golden vision which rose so radiantly before her entranced eyes was but a mirage of the desert, and that the silver stream which seemed to spread so invitingly before her would only mock her parched lips with burning sand?

The fatal choice was made for war, and the war had now been raging for fourteen years. The wheel of Fortune had turned rapidly and capriciously, but York had on the whole been uppermost. To the majority of ordinary Englishmen who cared at least as much for peace and prosperity as politics, “the King” had meant Edward IV. since 1461. England at that weary hour cared more for rest than she cared to know who gave it to her. Edward, on his part, had “indulged himself in ease and pleasure”[#] — which was what he most valued — and might have continued to do so if he had kept on good terms with Warwick. For let Edward or Henry be termed the King, it was Warwick who “had all Englond at his bedyng,” and the man who offended this master of kings was not likely to be king much longer. Edward had sent Warwick to France to negotiate for his marriage to Bona of Savoy, the Queen’s sister, and while the envoy was away, the master fell into the toils of the fair face and golden hair and sweet purring ways of the Lady Grey of Groby. As Edward had passed his life on the easy principle of never denying himself any thing, he acted consistently in marrying the lady. Considering how few ever do so, he had probably not realised that this easy principle is apt to turn in later life into the sharpest of scourges. Warwick came home in a furious passion, and carried his power, influence, and army instantly over to the side of Lancaster. No man likes being made to “look small,” and least of all could it be brooked by a man of Warwick’s character and position. Edward paid very dearly for his golden-haired bride, and whether the purchase was worth the amount it cost may be considered extremely doubtful. Elizabeth Grey was not like Marguerite of Anjou, a far-seeing, self-less, large-hearted woman. Her mental horizon was exceedingly minute. She was chiefly concerned, like the creature she most resembled, to obtain the warmest spot of the hearthrug for herself. Very delightful to stroke and pet when all goes well, such quadrupeds — and such women — are capable of becoming extremely uncomfortable companions in certain combinations of circumstances.

[#] Comines.

Edward was not the only person who paid that heavy bill which he ran up with so light a heart. Only one small instalment of it was discharged by him. A heavier one was due from Queen Elizabeth, wrung out through long years of anguish and desolation: another from their innocent boys, discharged in their life’s blood. The least amount, perhaps, was exacted from the most undeserving sharer in the penalty — that young Warwickshire girl who was Edward’s real wife by canon law, and whose strong love proved equal to the fiery ordeal of saving his honour and ensuring what seemed his happiness at the cost of all her own. It cost her life as well. Edward had the cruelty and baseness to call her into court to deny their marriage. He knew her well enough to dare to do it. And she came, calm and self-restrained, and perjured her soul because she thought it would make him happier and save his good name. Hers was of no moment. Then she passed out of sight, and the overstrained string snapped, and nothing was left to vex the triumphant monarch. Only God saw a nameless green grave in a country churchyard. And when He comes to make inquisition for blood, when every thing that was hidden shall be known, I think it will be found that He did not forget Elizabeth Lucy.

Yet Edward did not escape quite without reproach. One person endeavoured to prevent this sin and shame, and it was a very unlikely person. The voice of Proud Cis was the only one raised against it, and her interference, futile though it was, is the best action of her life. From the far north Edward received the passionate reproaches of his mother for this dastardly action. They did not deter him from its accomplishment: but let the fact be remembered to Cicely’s honour. [#]

[#] Some writers have disputed, and more have ignored, these miserable transactions. Surely the interference of Cicely, and the language of Comines, who was a personal acquaintance of the royal family, may fairly be held to prove the point.

Two months before the story begins, Warwick had taken advantage of some quarrel between Edward and his brother George of Clarence to allure the latter to the Lancastrian cause. He offered him an enormous bribe to come over, being his elder daughter Isabel, with one half of her mother’s vast inheritance. It must not be forgotten that all Warwick’s titles were derived from females. He was Earl of Salisbury in succession to his mother, and Earl of Warwick only by courtesy, in right of his wife. His two daughters, Isabel and Anne, were his only children, and the richest heiresses in the kingdom. They were both extremely beautiful girls, but Isabel was considered the lovelier. Clarence, who kept neither a heart nor a conscience, was ready to do any thing, good, bad, or indifferent, which promised to promote his own advancement in this world. He accepted Warwick’s offer; and was now therefore in arms against his brother, and a member of Warwick’s household at Middleham Castle, of which household Frideswide Marston was about to form an item.

CHAPTER II

LILIES AMONG THE THORNS

“Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart.” —

WORDSWORTH.

“Aye, perchance that may serve. What cost it by the yard?”

That was a piece of superb purple satin, which the tailor was holding up for inspection, in the best way to catch the light.

“Five nobles, an’ it please my Lady.”

Five nobles amounted to one pound thirteen and fourpence, and was the price of the very best quality. It is not easy to reduce it into modern value, since authorities are disagreed on the multiple required. Some would go as high as sixteen times the value, while others would reduce it to five. Mv own opinion inclines to the highest number.

“And wherewith wouldst line it, good Whityngham?”

“With velvet, Madam?” suggested the tailor interrogatively.

“Aye. Let it be black.”

“At your Ladyship’s pleasure.”

“And I will have the cloak well furred with Irish fox. Is my broched [#] cloth of gold gown made ready?”

[#] Figured.

“Madam, it shall be meet for your Ladyship’s wearing to-morrow.”

“Well, see thou fail me not, for I would have it for our Lady Day in harvest. — Well, Avice Hilton, what wouldst?”

Avice Hilton, who was a young lady of about eighteen years, had been waiting the pleasure of her mistress for some minutes.

“An’t like you, Madam, your new chamberer that shall be, is now come.”

“The Lord Marnell his daughter?”

“She, Madam.”

“Hath she eaten aught?”

“Aye, Madam, in the hall.”

“Good. Bring her hither.”

Frideswide Marston was not a timid or nervous girl by any means, but her heart beat somewhat faster as Avice Hilton introduced her to the presence of the Countess of Warwick, the woman who had more of the reality of queenship than either of those ladies whom the partisans of the rival Roses termed the Queen.

She saw a pleasant upper chamber, about twenty feet square, whose windows looked over the beautiful vale of Wensleydale. It was hung with tapestry on which scenes from the Quest of the Sangraal were delineated. At the lower end three young ladies were busily at work of various kinds: on the daïs, or raised step at the further end, nearest the windows, stood the tailor with his roll of satin over his arm, and two ladies were seated, the elder in a chair of carved wood, the younger in a more elaborate one inlaid with ivory. In those days people did not take the seat they found most comfortable, but were carefully restricted to a certain fashion of chair, according to delicate gradations of rank. Frideswide, being a well-educated young person, as education went in the fifteenth century, had no difficulty in perceiving that she was in the presence of the Countess of Warwick and her daughter, the bride of the royal Clarence.

The Countess of Warwick was a rather slightly-made woman, but tall, with a long pale face, haggard features bearing traces of great former beauty, and a particularly prominent pair of blue eyes. [#] As is often the case with persons who exhibit the last-named feature, she was at no loss for language. She was the daughter, and now the only surviving child, of that Earl of Warwick who had held a conspicuous place in the burning of the Maid of Orleans, and of Isabel, heiress of Le Despenser. All the old prestige and associations of the House of Warwick centred in her, not her husband. How far her influence over him may have been for good or evil, is not an easy question. What evidence there is, is mostly negative, and tends to show that the Countess Anne exercised but little influence of any kind, and was of a type likely to be more concerned about the burning of the marchpane in her own oven, than about the burning of a city at some distance. If this be so, she is much to be pitied: for of the seed of future misery which Warwick sowed, the heaviest portion of the harvest was reaped by her and by the best and dearest of her daughters.

[#] All the members of the Warwick family, and also those of the royal family, are described so far as is practicable from contemporary portraits.

The young Duchess of Clarence, who was in her nineteenth year, was a woman cast in another mould. She resembled her father in character, and her mother in features: but she was more beautiful than the Countess had ever been, and was accounted “the finest young lady in England.” She was fair, with blue eyes and shining light hair, over which she wore the new head-dress, which consisted of a most elaborate erection of wire-work, surmounted by a veil of transparent gauze, so that the hair, for many years concealed, was left fully visible.

Head-dresses were now, and for a long time had been, the most important portion of the female costume. The variety was nearly as astounding as the size. Hearts, horns, crowns, and steeples, were all represented: and a full-dressed lady, in all her paraphernalia, was a formidable object both as to cost and dimensions.

Frideswide found herself put through a lively fire of interrogatories by the Countess, who might have been projecting the writing of memoirs of the whole Marnell family, to judge from the minute and numerous details into which she descended. The Duchess sat generally a silent listener, but occasionally interjected a query. At last the Countess looked across the room, and summoned Avice.

“There, take the new maid to you, and show her what shall be her duty,” said she. “See that she wants for nought, and say to Bonham ‘tis my desire she be set a-work.”

Frideswide followed Avice to the further end of the room, where she was introduced to her remaining fellow-chamberers as Theobalda Salvin and Eleanor Farley. Beyond them, and hitherto concealed by a chair, she suddenly perceived a fourth person, in the shape of a little old lady, so very little as to be almost a dwarf, with the cheeriest and brightest of faces.

“Mother Bonham,” said Avice, “‘tis my Lady’s good pleasure you set Mistress Frideswide a-work.”

“Well, my lass, there’s no pleasure in idlesse,” was the answer. “See you here, my maid: would you rather a white seam, or some matter of broidery?”

Frideswide, whose tastes inclined her rather to the useful than the ornamental, chose the plain work, and sitting down among the chamberers, was soon as busy as any of them.

Mother Bonham was the most important person at Middleham Castle, in the sense that without her every thing would have gone furthest wrong. She was “mother,” or official chaperone, to the chamberers, which accounted for the title bestowed on her; she was general housekeeper to the Countess; she had been nurse and governess to the young ladies; and she was adviser in general to all the younger inmates of the house. She was as great a hand at proverbs as Sancho Panza himself: she mixed marvellous puddings and concocted unimaginable cakes; she drew patterns for embroidery, told stories of all kinds, nursed every body who was ill (which often included prescribing for them), praised every body who did well, smiled on, at, and through every thing that happened to her. Only one thing there was, as Eleanor confided to Frideswide, which Mother Bonham could not do. She was totally incapable of scolding! The most severe thing she ever said was a solemn proverb, prefaced by both Christian and surname of the offender. The use of both names instantly informed a chamberer that she had fallen under Mother Bonham’s grave displeasure. But so dearly loved was the little old lady that except in strong emergencies, this was quite enough to recall the person addressed to a sense of her delinquencies.

Frideswide was rather amused to find that she had again to run the gauntlet of inquiries concerning her antecedents from the chamberers. She certainly had never talked so much about herself and her relatives, as she did that first afternoon of her stay at Middleham Castle. The fire of interrogations had slightly slackened, when a door opened in the wall behind the tapestry, and pushing aside the latter, a girl of fifteen came forward and sat down by Mother Bonham, who moved some embroidery from a carved chair to make room for her. The chair taken, and the style of her dress, sufficiently pointed her out as one of the Earl’s daughters.

Though strongly resembling her mother and sister in colour and features, the expression of her face was entirely different from either. The piquancy of the elder sister was wholly absent in the younger, and was replaced by a mixture of gentleness and dignity. Very queenly she was — not in the false sense of pride, of which there was none about her: but in the true sense of that innate kingliness of soul which can tolerate nothing evil, and can stoop to nothing mean. A lily among thorns was sweet Anne Neville. And the thorns sprang up, and choked it. She stood now just

“Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet” —

but in the path to be pursued a turn as yet hid the river from view, and she who was so soon to be borne down it could see nothing of the roaring cascade and the black pool beneath, where the young life was to be crushed out, and the fair soul to be set free. As Frideswide glanced at her, where she sat with her head slightly bent over the broidery, and a sunbeam lighting up her shining hair, she thought no face so attractive had ever yet crossed her path in life.

“Tib, draw thou the curtain across,” said Mother Bonham. “The sun cometh too hot on my Lady Anne, I reckon.”

Theobalda obeyed in silence, while Lady Anne looked up and smiled thanks.

“Tib is the best to do it,” remarked Eleanor, laughing a little, “for she is highest of all us. I do believe she should mete to twice of you, Mother.”

“‘Good stuff’s lapped up in little parcels,’ Nell,” was Mother Bonham’s good-tempered answer.

Conversation flagged after this. Perhaps work went on the better for it. Supper was announced in an hour, which was served in the hall, Frideswide, as the newest arrival, being seated last of the chamberers, and next to the Earl’s squires. She found her neighbour decidedly communicative. From him she learned that the Countess was not ill to please, which was more than could be said for my Lady of Clarence; but my Lady Anne was the sweetest maid in the world. As to my Lord, — with a little shrug of the squire’s shoulders — why, he was in his element in the midst of a battle, and not anywhere else. Rather just a little queer-tempered — you had to find out in a morning whether he had got out of bed on the right side or the wrong. In the former case, he could be very pleasant indeed: but in the latter — well, least said was soonest mended.

Frideswide looked up at the potent nobleman thus described to her. She saw a man of moderate height and breadth, with strong features, a florid complexion, rather dark hair and eyes, and a very quick, lively, intelligent expression. His limbs were well-knit and in good proportion, giving the idea of great muscular strength. It may be added, though Frideswide of course could only learn this by degrees, that Warwick was an extremely clever man, with that sort of serpentine cleverness which regards any means as sanctified by the end proposed; full of physical courage, but looking upon tenderness and compassion as contemptible weaknesses only fit for a woman, and indicative of the consummate inferiority of her sex. He was one of those men in whose eyes a good woman is simply a woman who has hitherto found no opportunity of being otherwise. When the opportunity comes in her way, she must be expected to take advantage of it, as a matter of course. Clear-sighted as Warwick was in some matters, he was strangely obtuse in others.

A good deal of further information Frideswide heard from her next neighbour, who told her that his name was John Wright. [#] He informed her that the King (by whom he meant Henry VI.) was in the Tower of London, a prisoner in the hands of “Edward that rebel,” who was not permitted by zealous Lancastrians to enjoy even his ancestral title of Duke of York. The Queen was abroad, seeking fresh help, and intending to take the first good opportunity afterwards to land in England. The Prince of Wales was with her.

[#] Name historical, character imaginary.

As for “that rebel,” he of course was enjoying himself to the utmost, residing in the palaces and squandering the finances which did not belong to him: and as for “that witch his wife,” Mr. Wright was ready to believe anything of her — by which of course he meant, anything the reverse of complimentary.

That Edward was squandering money, whether it were his own or not, was only too true. Never lived man in whose hands money melted in a more instantaneous manner. During that very summer, he had spent on dress materials and “other necessaries” upwards of twelve hundred pounds, and on jewellery and goldsmiths’ work £744, inclusive of a gold collar which cost £34. [#] Nor as we shall presently see, had his extravagance reached its highest point. No King of England ever spent like him. The degree to which he surpassed all his predecessors in this point was an enormous one. By most contemporary chroniclers, Richard II. is accused of having been a shocking waster of money: [#] but the Issue Rolls of Richard II. reveal a state of things which is economy itself when compared with those of Edward IV. Moreover, Richard’s extravagance, such as it was, was mainly in presents to other persons: but what Edward spent was on his beloved self. This was the more noticeable, as Henry VI. had not been at all given to spending money; and Queen Marguerite, while lavish enough in her charities, was singularly frugal in respect of her wardrobe. As for Edward’s Queen, her lord and master, as his Issue Rolls bear witness, took care she had not much to spend. May not this exhaustion of the royal treasury under the brothers of York, account to some extent for the parsimony of which Henry VII. is accused?

[#] Issue Roll, Michis. 9 Edw. IV.

[#] A supposition not at all borne out by his Issue Rolls.

After supper the hall was cleared for dancing. Then followed vespers in the Castle chapel, rear-supper, a little general conversation, cups of wine handed round, and the Countess retired to her oratory, and the Earl to his closet. Last came the Countess’s coucher, at which three of the chamberers were expected to be present, one being told off to assist the Lady Anne. The Duchess of Clarence had her separate household. Frideswide found herself summoned to the Countess’s chamber, where Theobalda instructed her in her duties, which were simply those of a lady’s maid. The chamberera were then free to seek their own beds.

It was not until the next morning that Frideswide saw the Duke of Clarence, who had been absent from the supper-table. He was the least good-looking of the handsome royal brothers. “A great alms-giver and a great builder” is the character given of him by the retainer of the House of Warwick: but a more skilful hand than his, a hundred years later, sketched a far truer portrait.

“False, fleeting, faithless Clarence!”

With the Duke came two other persons — the brothers of Warwick, John Lord Montague and George Archbishop of York. They were about as much given to tergiversation as their better-known brother, with the proviso that in their innermost hearts they were a shade more determinately Yorkist than he. Montague in particular was remarkable for his power of versatility. His personal convictions were in favour of Edward, but the least offence given to him by his chosen master was enough to make him veer round like a weathercock to the opposite quarter. At the present moment some such annoyance was rankling in his narrow mind, and he was therefore just in a fit state to lend an ear to the persuasive representations of his brother of Warwick. The marvel of the matter is how these three crafty, changeable, unprincipled men contrived to trust each other.

During two previous years, Warwick had been dexterously drawing his net around his brothers. But now matters were almost ripe for action. For the whole of the autumn he had kept quiet and matured his plans. His reverend brother was quite as ready to his hand as the secular one. Any thing which involved a plot or a tumult seems to have been to the taste of this gentleman, who in seeking holy orders had certainly not taken the course for which nature intended him.

The four chamberers of the Countess of Warwick slept in one room, into which opened the smaller one of Mother Bonham. The furniture of the chamber consisted of two beds, large square ones with a tester, or head, the one having curtains of verder, or tapestry, and the other of dark crimson say, which was a coarse silk chiefly used in upholstery. In the first bed slept Eleanor and Theobalda, in the second Frideswide and Avice. The remaining articles were a large chest at the bottom of each bed, with a division across it, each young lady having a half to herself; a chair, two stools, and a fire-fork. Wardrobes were then kept in a separate chamber; while dressing-tables and washstands were luxuries of the future. There was a mirror fixed to the wall, almost too high to see — a position adopted for the discouragement of personal vanity: while every morning a bowl of water and a towel (to serve all four) was brought up by a slip-shod girl, one of half-a-dozen who did the dirtiest work of the house.

One evening in November, after the lights were out, and Mother Bonham and Theobalda were peacefully asleep, while Eleanor was perpetrating a sound so nearly akin to snoring that her fastidious taste would have been shocked had she known it, Frideswide, whose eyes were disinclined to close, heard a soft whisper from Avice beside her.

“Are you waking?”

“Oh aye,” she said in a similar tone, and turning round towards Avice to hear the better what she wished to say.

“Your father, if I err not, is the Lord Marnell, that dwelleth at Lovell Tower, on the wolds?”

“Aye so,” said Frideswide.

“Were you loth I should know of what kin you be to the Lady Margery, that died, an old man’s life past, on Tower Hill?”

It was no wonder if Frideswide held her breath for a moment, and listened whether all the rest were safely asleep. The reference to a Lollard and a martyr, in the past of any family, had been safe enough during the latter half of Henry VI.‘s reign, but it had already been pretty plainly shown not to be equally wise in that of Edward IV.

“Look you,” she said, after that momentary pause, “it is my step-dame, not my father, that is verily a Marnell. The lady whom you wot of was her grandame — to wit, her father’s mother.”

“Of no kin to you, then?” asked Avice, in a tone in which Frideswide fancied she heard a shade of disappointment.

“Nay, that can I not rightly say,” was the reply: “for Dame Agnes Lovell, the Lady’s mother, which was by birth a Greenhalgh, was sister unto Mistress Ladreyne Clitheroe, whose daughter Maud was my grandmother. So you shall see we are near of kin.”

A cousin thrice removed would not now be thought a very near relation; but in past times much more was made of “kindly blood” than at present.

Avice did not answer, and Frideswide, having recovered her courage, spoke up boldly. For a hundred years her ancestors had been of the Lollard faith, and she was far more disposed to glory in the fact than to be ashamed of it.

“Wherefore? Are you of that learning?”

“Hush, gramercy!” cried Avice under her breath.

“Wherefore?” asked Frideswide again.

“Dear heart, if any should o’erhear us!” explained Avice. “Know you not that ‘tis a dangerous matter to speak thereof?”

“It may be worse to let be,” answered Frideswide thoughtfully. She was thinking of a story of twenty years ago, which she had heard most sorrowfully told by the lips of the Lady Idonia, how she had at one time fallen away for fear, and had never forgotten her defection nor forgiven herself.

“Ah, Frideswide,” said Avice earnestly, “you speak like to her that had dwelt in a sure place, and knew nought of the world on the outside. Look you, matters be no more as they were these twenty-five years back. So long as the King were in power and of good wit, never man were ill-used for speaking Lollardy, for he never would have creature harmed in his realm an’ he wist it, by his good-will. Have you ne’er heard how he bade remove down from the Micklegate at York the one quarter of a traitor there set, saying he would ne’er see Christian thus cruelly used for his sake? But the rebel is made of other metal. Heard you not of one Will Balowe, that was burned on Tower Hill scarce three years gone, for that he would not make confession to no priest, but only unto God, and had (said they) no conscience in eating of flesh during Lent? Both he and his wife had been afore abjured, so that he was a lapsed man. There were no burnings whenso as King Henry were in power. Nor know you not, about the same time, some pixes were stole for the silver, and one of them that stale them was heard for to say that he had a dainty morsel to his supper, for he had eaten nine gods — to wit, the hosts that were in the boxes? There is more Lollardy about the realm than ever afore, trust me: but ‘tis not so safe to speak thereof as when you and I were childre.”

“Methinks,” said Frideswide thoughtfully, “they were little credit unto Lollardy that should steal a pix for the silver.”

“There be men enough will make cloaks of new virtue to cover up old sins,” was the answer of Avice.

“You wot more hereof than I, as I may well see,” said Frideswide.

“Aye, I have seen and heard, and I can reckon so much as twice two,” replied Avice drily. “Look you, I have been with my Lady but half a year, and I came to her from London town, where I served my Lady of Exeter. So I saw and heard much, and I have not an ill memory.”

“Pray you, tell me somewhat touching that my Lady of Exeter,” said Frideswide. “My sister is but now entered of her chamber, and I would fain wit what manner of mistress she shall have.”

“Pray for her!” was the reply.

“Against what?” demanded Frideswide with considerable uneasiness.

“‘Shield us fro the foule thing,’” quoted Avice, under her breath.

“But, dear heart, what mean you?” returned Frideswide, rising on her elbow in her eager desire to comprehend these mysterious hints. “Is it my Lady of Exeter, or her Lord, or his squires, or where and what shall it be that is thus foul and fearful?”

“Her Lord? — No,” was the earnest answer.

“Herself?” repeated Frideswide.

“She and her Lord,” said Avice, in a low, sad tone, “have not dwelt of one house these seven years. He, as you must wot, is of the King’s side, and she (which is sister to the rebel) brake with him shortly after the war began. There were sore discontents betwixt them, for two years or more ere they parted for good: but now they never meet. His lands be all confiscate and granted to her, and he is the man that shall never win one penny of them at her hands. I think she alway hated him — they were wed being childre — but certes she hates him now. In all my life never saw I in one house so much of God, and so much of the Devil. But the Lord campeth round about them that fear Him. There is an angel in the house, as your sister will early find to her comfort. There are devils too.”

“And her Lady is of them?” asked Frideswide.

“She is not the angel,” drily responded Avice.

“And her Lord?” — said Frideswide.

“Ah, he is sore to be pitied,” answered Avice in a compassionate tone. “May-be he is not wholly an angel neither: yet methinks there is much in him that is good; and he might have been a better man — had she been a better woman. The first sin is an easy matter, but it is hard most times to see whither it will lead.”

“Be any here well-affectioned toward Lollardy?” suddenly asked Frideswide.

“Only one, to my knowing.”

“And that is?” —

“Mother Bonham.

“Avice Hilton!” came at this moment in clear tones from the closet.

“I cry you mercy, Mother!” was the natural reply.

“Days for talk, nights for sleep,” said the old lady sententiously.

With simply a “Good night, Frideswide,” Avice turned on her pillow, and no more was said.

This revelation by no means conduced to Frideswide’s happiness. She was uneasy about Agnes, whom she knew to be a girl who would say little, but suffer keenly. Yet what could she do? — beyond taking Avice’s counsel, and praying for her.

The idea of writing, either to her father or sister, did not occur to Frideswide. Letters were serious affairs in those days, more especially to women: and though Frideswide had learned to write, which was not too common an accomplishment in ladies, yet it was to her a very laborious and tedious business, requiring some decided reason to induce so great an effort. While there were at that time a sufficient number of women who could write, yet not to have acquired the art was considered no disgrace to a woman of any rank. In that interesting contemporaneous poem, “The Song of the Lady Bessy,” we find the daughter of Edward IV. assuring Lord Stanley that there is no need to send for a scribe to write his important private letters, for she could write as well as any scrivener.

“You shall not need none such to call, Good Father Stanley — hearken to me,
What my father, King Edward, that King royal, Did for my sister, my Lady Welles, [#] and me:
He sent for a scrivener to lusty London, He was the best in that citie;
He taught us both to write and read full soon — If it please you, full soon you shall see — Lauded be God, I had such speed
That I can write as well as he,
Both English and also French, And also Spanish, if you had need.”[#]

[#] The Princess Cicely.

[#] Humphrey Brereton, Lord Stanley’s squire, and the writer of the poem, was present at the conference, and we may therefore take him to record the exact statements made by the Princess Elizabeth.

Certainly, the black-letter hand was one requiring far more effort and pains than the modern running or Italian hand. The caligraphy of the Lady Bessy (afterwards Queen Elizabeth of York) which has descended to posterity, would lead to the melancholy conclusion that if she wrote as well as the best scriveners in London, the productions of inferior penmen must have been illegible indeed. It really is the case; for of all periods in English history (alas, excepting the present century!) the worst writing is found in that which runs from the close of the Wars of the Roses to the latter part of the reign of Elizabeth. A document dating from the reign of King John is like copper-plate in comparison with the atrocious scrawls of some writers of the Reformation period.

Before that year was ended, Pope Paul thought proper to confer upon Louis XI. of France the title of “Most Christian King.” It was no sooner heard of than it was gleefully seized by Edward IV., under his character of soi-disant King of France. We may also conclude that Proud Cis snatched at it with considerable self-gratulation, since a charter of hers, dated in this very year, adds it to her titles. She styles herself “the excellent Princess, mother of the Most Christian Prince, our Lord and son, Edward, and lately wife of the most excellent Prince Richard, by right King of England and of France, and Lord of Ireland.”[#] Further than this, even Cicely’s ambition dared not to venture; yet it seems almost surprising that she did not step across the very little gulf which lay between all these high-sounding epithets and the one which would have involved them all — the coveted name of Queen.

[#] Close Roll, 9 Edw. IV.

During this year, another daughter was born to Edward and Elizabeth. They had three now — Elizabeth, Mary, and Cicely — but no son. The eldest daughter, however, was treated as Princess of Wales in her own right. She is always styled “the Lady Princess” — a title which, until the accession of the Stuarts, appertained alone to the Princess of Wales, whether she were daughter or daughter-in-law of the monarch. The King’s daughters, apart from this, were simply addressed as “Lady.” The Princess had her own separate household, and judging from the amount of money spent upon her, was rather better provided for than the Queen.

Another occurrence was taking place this year, of no moment to any but the parties immediately concerned, yet which might have had very considerable influence on the future history of England. William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, had a boy of thirteen as his ward, the nephew of Henry VI., whom at that time it was desirable for his own sake to keep as much in obscurity as possible. This was Henry Tudor, the young Earl of Richmond, whose mother was next heir to the Crown after the descendants of Henry IV. The Earl, who liked his young ward, lent a kindly ear to his pleading when a love-story came before him. He was not altogether sorry to find that he could provide for the eldest of his very numerous family by betrothing her to the young Earl. Very young they both were; but boys and girls came early to the front, and blossomed rapidly into men and women in the time of the rival Roses. So the Earl of Richmond was formally affianced to the Lady Maud Herbert, in anticipation of a marriage which was never to be. Would it have been better if it had been? Humanly speaking, the course of English history would assuredly have been different. For Maud Herbert was a woman of strong character, and did not faint in the weary march, as Elizabeth Lucy had done. But one thing is certain: that the change for the worse which came over the character of Henry of Richmond dates from the time of his parting from Maud Herbert. He went into exile; and she wedded the Earl of Northumberland, years before his triumphant return to wear the crown of England. Which of the two was to blame must be left an open question. Perhaps it was not either: for Maud’s marriage was not improbably forced upon her, and Henry could not have returned to claim her without the most reckless risk of life. His marriage with “the Lady Princess” gave peace to England, but he died a lonely, unloved man, grown miserly and callous, — no longer the graceful and gallant Richmond of those early years when he and Maud had lived and loved at Pembroke Castle.

CHAPTER III

FLIGHT.

“My barque is wafted to the strand
By breath Divine:
And on the helm there rests a hand
Other than mine.” —

DEAN ALFORD.

The Lady Idonia sat writing at a small table in the hall of Lovell Tower. She was the best writer in the family — which does not by any means imply extraordinary fluency of diction or rapidity of penmanship. The letters grew slowly under her hand, and she frequently paused to look out of the window and think. What lay on the desk before her was the following unfinished letter.

“Jh’u. [#]

“MY NOWEN [#] DERE CHYLDE,

Thys shal be to give you to wyt, wt [#] all louyng comendac’ons from all us, that wee well fare, and do hope in God that you be the same. And we have not yett herde so much as one word from yr sistar. Matters here bee reasonable quyett at this present, onlie that Doratie has broke y’ powdre box of siluer, in good sooth a misaduenture and noe malice, wch shall be wel amended ere yow com home. The dun cowe hath a calfe of hir veraye coloure. And Lyard Carlile [#] and all the dogges fare wel. Maistres Henley hir littel lad lyethe sicke of a fevare, but the leech reckoneth he shal doe well. Dorathie ys merrie, and gode withal. Yr father thynkes to buy som pigges ayenst Xmas. [#] We shal bee fayn to here of yr newes, the rather if you can give us any tydynges of such as you wot of, [#] how they be now in men’s reckonings, and if thei be lyke to fare wel or noe. The gode Lorde of his mercie kepe us all, and make vs to bee hys trew seruantes. Annis, I wold haue you, when conueniencie serue, to sende mee from London towne viij ells gode clothe of skarlette for a goune for yr moder, and so moche of greene kersay as shall be a goun for Doratie: and dowlas to lyne the same, and silke frenge to guard the skarlett goun, and fur of rabetts to guard ye grene: alsoe siluer botons iij dozen, and black botons vj dosen and halfe. And sende ye same well packed vp to the Goldene Lyon by Powles, [#] to ye name of Maister Anthanie Milborne, yt is a frend of mye broder Will, and cometh into Yorksh: thys nexte monethe. And let him that berethe ye same aske of ye sayd Maister Anthanie for a token [#] yt he hath of mee for yow. Annis, wee trust in God yt yow shal be a discrete mayd and gode, and obedyent to yowr maistres, and kyndlie wt yr fellowes. [#] And above al, my dere harte, kepe yow ye fayth yt ve have ben learned, nor let not anie man beguile you therof.”

[#] A contraction of Jesus, commonly used at the head of a letter by pious persons.

[#] Mine own.

[#] With.

[#] The name of a horse.

[#] Against Christmas.

[#] The Lollards.

[#] St Paul’s Cathedral.

[#] Present.

[#] Fellow-chamberers.

The pen had been laid down at this point, and left so long that the ink was dry. The Lady Idonia was speaking now to Another than Agnes,

“O Lord, keep the child!” went up from her inmost heart. “Suffer the unfaithful handmaid to plead with Thee, that the faithful one may be preserved in the faith. I may give her wrong cautions — I may fancy dangers that will not assault her, and be blind to those that will. Thou, who seest the end from the beginning, hold the child up, and suffer her not, for any pains nor fears, to fall from Thee!”

She roused herself at last, and finished her letter.

“And so, with all louyng comendac’ons from al vs, I commend yow to God.

“Yr louyng grandame to my litel powar,

“IDONIA MARNELL.

“Writyn at Louell Towre, this Wensday.”

The letter was delivered by Mr. William Carew to a retainer of the Earl of Warwick, who was also one of his friends, and from whom he had understood that the Earl meant to go southwards before the week was over.

The plot was ripe at last. Warwick left Middleham with the first dawn of 1470, and arrived in London without any suspicion of his proceedings being excited at Court. He left his brothers behind him in the north, with strict injunctions to George to keep John out of mischief. They were very necessary. Unfortunately (from Warwick’s point of view) just at that juncture King Edward took it into his head to create Lord Montague’s little son George a Duke — a title then shared by very few who were not Princes of the Blood — with the object of marrying him to the Princess Elizabeth, and thus making him, in case Edward himself left no son, virtually the future King. This high advancement for his boy sorely tried Montague’s new-born Lancastrian proclivities. He swung like a pendulum between the royal rivals: and all the efforts of his brother George were needed to prevent him from going off to Edward, and of course, revealing the plot in which Warwick was now engaged. One thing which had annoyed Warwick was the discovery, real or fancied, that his influence with Edward was less powerful than of old. But he went to work darkly, as was his wont. He was greatly assisted in his proceedings by the fact that he held Edward’s commission to raise troops for his service in the north, and no suspicion would therefore be excited by his gathering an army around him. [#] When he arrived in London, he reported himself at the Palace, and a long interview followed in Westminster Hall between Edward, Clarence, and Warwick. They parted “worse friends than they met,”[#] but Edward still does not appear to have suspected that Warwick was actually plotting against him, or he would hardly have let him go so calmly. Edward had left for Canterbury, and Warwick and Clarence prepared to return northwards and continue their amusement. Before leaving London, Clarence dispatched Sir John Clare to Lord Welles and his son Sir Robert, desiring them to “be ready with all the fellowship they could, whenever he should send word; but to tarry and not stir till my Lord of Warwick were come again from London, for fear of his destruction.”[#] In the mean time they assiduously spread a report that “the King was coming down with great power to Lincolnshire, and his judges should sit, and hang and draw great numbers of the commons.”[#] Of course this disposed the commons to rally round Warwick, who represented himself in the light of a protector from the impending terrors. He sent messenger after messenger to bid Sir Robert Welles be of good comfort, and go forward, promising to meet him at Leicester on the twelfth of February with nineteen thousand men. [#]

[#] A very varied tale is told of Warwick’s capturing Edward in his bed at Wolvey in 1469, and sending him prisoner to Middleham, whence he effected his escape in a romantic manner. The accounts given are contradictory, the story of the escape is disbelieved by Carte, and intimations on the Rolls seem to show that the King had never left Westminster; I therefore have thought it wiser to ignore this episode entirely beyond the present mention of it.

[#] Sandford.

[#] Confession of Sir Robert Welles, Harl. Ms. 283, fol. 2.

[#] Confession of Sir Robert Welles, Harl. Ms. 283, fol. 2.

Clarence, meanwhile, was playing his own little game, independently of his father-in-law. His messengers had private orders to “move the host, that at such time as the matter should come near the point of battle, they should call upon my Lord of Clarence to be King, and destroy the King that so was about to destroy them and all the realm.”[#]

[#] Confession of Sir Robert Welles, Harl. Ms. 283, fol. 2.

Meanwhile, Edward continued his favours to Montague — not because he trusted, but really because he suspected him, and was anxious to ensure his fidelity. A few days only after the meeting of Warwick and Welles, he granted to John, Earl of Northumberland and Baron Montague, the manors of Tiverton, Plympton, Okehampton, and many others in Devonshire, [#] being a portion of the confiscated lands of the Courtenays, Earls of Devon. Perhaps this timely gift prevented Montague from openly siding with Warwick until a later date: but he was not particularly grateful for it, since he contemptuously termed it “a ‘pie’s nest,” and plainly intimated that it was not so much as might have been expected. However, for the present, he held aloof from the actual struggle.

[#] Rot. Pat., 9 Edw. IV, Part 2. The earldom of Morthumberland was not immediately restored to the Percys on their submission in the previous October. A writer in the Paston Letters dates their restoration Mar. 25, 1470.

That was close at hand. Some rumour of the transactions with Welles must have reached Edward, for he sent a peremptory order to Lord Welles to come to him. It was obeyed; and the old man was then commanded to write a letter to his son, charging him instantly to forsake Warwick and to join his father. The command was accompanied by a hint that the writer’s head would be the forfeit of his failure. Sir Robert, who seems to have been of an obstinate temper, since we are told that he knew his power was too weak to grapple with Edward, refused to obey, and moved southward to give battle. Edward kept his word, and the father’s life paid for the son’s imprudence. Then he marched northwards, and the two armies met at Stamford, on a place afterwards known as Loosecoat Field. Welles had no chance against the overwhelming superiority of Edward’s forces, and Warwick was not there. Sir Robert was taken, and beheaded at Doncaster on the 13th of March. Hearing that Warwick was encamped about twenty miles from Doncaster, Edward went on to the latter town. The next morning, March 20, “at nine of the bell,” Edward took the field at Estrefield, and Warwick met him. “Never were seen in England so many goodly men, and so well arranged.” But no sooner did Warwick and Clarence perceive that fortune was against them than they fled the field, and went to seek succour from Lord Stanley. They halted first at a little town, so obscure that it was necessary to say that it was in Lancashire, as otherwise few would have known whereabouts Manchester might be. Thence they sent messengers to Lathom, but my Lord Stanley, most cautious of men, showed them little favour. “And so men say they went northward, and thence, men deem, to London.”[#]

[#] Paston Letters.

Perceiving that his chief adversaries had escaped him, Edward stopped pursuit of their troops, and went on to York. He and his men had probably had thirsty work, for we learn that “York was drunk dry when the King was there.”[#] He was wise enough to send to Middleham for Lord Montague. When that trustworthy gentleman appeared, it was to be created Marquis Montague, the earldom of Northumberland being now taken from him and restored to its rightful owner. It might have been supposed that an earl would scarcely deem it a deplorable occurrence that he should be made a marquis: but my gracious Lord of Montague was evidently in an exceedingly bad temper. He growled and grumbled as if he were a deeply injured man, — managing, however, to keep up a contented face in the presence of his master, who appears to have fancied that he had secured Montague’s fidelity. Never were there more men than at that time who were able to “smile, and smile, and be a villain”: and all the Warwick brothers were certainly of the number.

[#] Paston Letters.

From York was issued a long and curious proclamation, in which Edward showed that he had at last fully realised that Warwick and Clarence were his open enemies. If the words of Edward were to be relied on to the exclusion of his deeds, it would certainly be supposed that he was a man of the tenderest and most affectionate nature. In this respect he somewhat resembled his predecessor, Henry III. Both could use very touching language — which the actions of both sorely contradicted. In this document the tone taken by Edward is that of a well-deserving man who had been injured in his deepest affections. He sets forth that “the King granted to George Duke of Clarence and Richard Earl of Warwick his pardon general for all offences before Christmas last,” trusting thereby to have caused them to have “shewed unto him their naturall loue, ligeance, and duetee,” for which purpose he had authorised them to assemble his subjects in certain shires. “Yet the said Duke and Earl, unnaturally, unkindly, and truly intending his destruction and the subversion of the kingdom, … and to make the said Duke king of this the said realm, against God’s law, man’s law, all reason, and conscience, dissimuled with his said Highness.” Their proceedings are then detailed, as deposed in the confessions of Sir Robert Welles and others, concluding with their flight “with all their fellaship into Lancastreshire, so as his said Highness with his hoste for lack of vitayll might not follow.” Notwithstanding all these offences, “our sovereign Lord considered the nighness of blood, [#] and tender love which he hath aforetime borne to them, and was therefore loth to have lost them if they would have submitted them to his grace.” Having disobeyed the writs which allowed them to present themselves, under promise of pardon, up to the 28th of March, the Duke and Earl are now solemnly proclaimed rebels, to whom loyal subjects of King Edward are to give no aid, favour, nor assistance, with meat, drink, money, or otherwise, but are to take them and bring them to the King, upon pain of death and forfeiture. The reward announced for the capture of either is £100 in land by the year, to the captor and his heirs, or £1000 in ready money, at his election. The capture of any knight of their following is to be rewarded by £20 in land or a hundred marks in cash; and of a squire, £10 in land or forty in money. [#]

[#] The Countess of Warwick was Edward’s second cousin, and the Earl his third cousin.

[#] Close Roll, 10 Edw. IV.; dated York, March 24, 1470.

The day after this proclamation, Montague received his marquis’s coronet, and was, in appearance at least, one of the most faithful subjects of King Edward. The news he brought on his return to Middleham caused no little excitement there. The Countess ordered instant preparations for departure. Some of the household were left behind at Middleham: some were suffered to return to their friends, among whom were Theobalda and Eleanor. The only ladies she took with her, beside her daughters, were Mother Bonham, Frideswide, and Avice. There was also a dresser, or lady’s maid, and a scullion-girl.

About midnight, when the ladies were trying to get a little sleep before their early journey on the morrow, the porter was awoke by small pebbles thrown up at his window.

“Who goes there?” he inquired, opening the casement about an inch.

“It is I, John Wright,” answered the familiar voice of the young squire. “Pray thee, good Thomas, be hasteful and let me in privily, with all silence, for I bring word from my Lord unto my Lady.”

The porter cautiously unbarred the small wicket, and Wright stepped inside. He did not wait to satisfy the porter’s curiosity, but sped across the court-yard, and by means of a key which he carried, let himself into the tower which contained the apartments of the Countess. A minute later, he was softly rapping at the outer door of her rooms, and Mother Bonham admitted him.

The Countess sent for him at once to her bedside. She guessed that his message was one of imminent import.

“Noble Lady,” said Wright, with a low courtesy — for the courtesy was a gentleman’s reverence in those days, — “behold here my Lord’s token, who greets you well by me, and desires you to come unto him, and my young ladies withal, at Dartmouth, in Devon, so speedily and secretly as you may.”

He held forth a diamond ring, which the Countess recognised as one usually worn by her husband, and not sent as a token except on occasions of serious moment. She sent Mother Bonham at once to communicate the news to her daughters, and to desire them to be ready to set forth two hours earlier than the time originally fixed. Her idea had been to seek the Earl at Warwick Castle, though she hoped to receive more exact news before her departure. But she deemed it quite as well that that very reliable person, the Marquis Montague, should be left in a little uncertainty touching her departure. She had already taken advantage of a conveniently smoky chimney to move the Marquis into a tower which did not overlook her own. She now gave further orders that the horses were to be in waiting outside the Castle, on the grass, so as to avoid noise, and in a position where they could not be seen from Montague’s windows. At two o’clock, wrapped in long travelling cloaks, and wearing list slippers, the ladies crept out of the Castle into the fresh April night air, and mounted their horses in silence. Sir John Clare rode before the Countess, Sir Walter Wretill before the Duchess of Clarence, and John Wright before the Lady Anne. Slowly and silently, at first, the procession filed off from the Castle, not breaking into a trot till they thought themselves beyond sight and hearing. The Archbishop (just then to be trusted) was keeping watch over his brother, and with him Warwick’s servant, Philip Strangeways, who was to follow an hour later, in order to gallop on and warn the ladies if any pursuit were attempted.

Once out of Wensleydale, and joined by Philip, the journey changed into a rapid flight. They travelled by night. They were afraid of being pursued, not only on their own account, but on that of Warwick, to whose locality theirs would give a clue, as it would instantly be surmised that they were going to join him. They kept as much as possible to the bye-ways and moor roads, which were less frequented, and also less capable of ambush, than the high roads: but they could not keep altogether out of human sight and hearing. Many a cottager woke up in the dark to hear a rush of horses, and to see the flash of the lanterns as the fugitives fled past. It was a wretched journey, especially for the Duchess, who was by no means in health to stand it. But the Duchess had a spirit which carried her above all pain and languor. She would have no halts made for her. She entertained a strong dislike and fear of Edward personally, and if report spoke truly, not without good reason.

Before Dartmouth was reached, Frideswide Marston had most heartily wished herself, a score of times at least, within the safe shelter of Lovell Tower. Oh, if she could wake up from this hurried snatch of sleep under an elderbush, to find herself in that little white bed in the turret chamber, with Dorathie’s head beside her on the pillow! It seemed to Frideswide as if, that wish granted, she could never complain of any thing again.

Along the wild hill-passes of “the back-bone of England,” winding round the Peak, keeping clear of Stafford Castle, where the Yorkist Duke of Buckingham had his home, skirting Shropshire and Hereford, taking the ferry over the Severn, down through Somerset, avoiding alike the uncivilised neighbourhood of Exmoor, where bandits loved to congregate, and the too civilised neighbourhood of Exeter, they came into those safer parts of Devon where the exiled Courtenays were lords of the hearts, though they had lost the lands, — where once more “the King” was Henry VI., and his adherents would meet with honour and help. Near Totness they were met by William Newark, Warwick’s nuncio, who conducted them to boats moored in the river awaiting them. It was a great relief to change their weary saddles for the boats in which they dropped down the lovely Dart, and found Warwick’s fleet, of eighty ships, ready to weigh anchor the moment they arrived, lying off Kingswear.

The voyage, however, had not been long before they discovered that the saddles had been the safer mode of conveyance. The wind, though low, was not unfavourable: but they had scarcely passed Portland when they were met by the very enemy from whom they were endeavouring to escape. As they rounded the little peninsula, ships of war stood before them, with King Edward’s standard and Lord Rivers’ pennon flying from the masthead.

An evil augury for Warwick was that pennon. With any weaker commander, the fleet would have obeyed its Lord High Admiral, as Warwick had been created a year before. But Lord Rivers was a conscientious man of one idea, and he thoroughly believed in Edward’s right. The ships joined battle, and the ladies of course were kept below.

Oh for that little white bed and Dorathie!

Never till then had Frideswide Marston looked death in the face, and never after that day could she be as she had been, again.

Warwick was a less honest and true-hearted man than Rivers, but he was also a better general. The battle was short and sharp, but the victory remained in the hands of Warwick. His ships got safely away, but they were not by any means out of their troubles. It seemed as though both God and man were against them that night. Before they could reach Beachy Head, there came on them a terrific tempest, and they were tossed up and down in the Channel like toys of the storm. To add to all other distresses, the Duchess of Clarence, whose mental energy had hitherto borne her through her physical sufferings, sank beneath them at last, and became alarmingly ill. It was not until the morning of the fourth day that they found themselves off Calais, and a few hours before, the Duchess had given birth to a child which had not survived the event many minutes. But Calais was Warwick’s old home; he had been Governor of the town for years. Here, at least, he might hope for rest and aid.

They cast anchor under shelter of Cape Grisnez, and sent John Wright ashore in a little boat to notify to Vauclere, Warwick’s deputy in command, that his master was about to land.

Warwick himself paced the quarter-deck impatiently. What were those sluggards ashore doing, that his own state barge was not sent off at once to land the ladies? Why did Vauclere not appear, cap in hand, to express his satisfaction at the return of his master? When at last he saw his squire return alone, Warwick’s patience, never very extensive, failed him utterly.

“What means all this?” he roared in a passion.

“My Lord,” shouted John Wright back from the boat, “Messire de Vauclere begs your Lordship will not essay a landing, for the townsmen will not receive you.”

“Not receive me!” cried the Earl in amazement. “Me, their own Governor! Lad, didst hear aright? Is Vauclere beside himself?”

“In good sooth, nay, my Lord, and he is sore aggrieved to have no better welcome for your Lordship than so. “Tis the townsmen, not he, as he bade me for to say, and he earnestly desires your Lordship to make for some other French port.”

Warwick could hardly believe his ears.

“But surely,” he answered in a rather crestfallen tone, “they will never refuse to receive my Lady Duchess? Have you told Vauclere in what case she now is?”

“My Lord, I told him all things: and he replied that he was sore troubled it should so fall out, but he had no power. He hath, howbeit, sent two flagons of wine for Her Grace.”

“No power!” repeated the Earl. “Wherefore then is he there? Leave me but land in safety, and Messire de Vauclere, and my masters the townsmen, shall soon behold if I have any power or no! No power, quotha! Well! better luck next time. Get you up, lad, and bring the wine, for ‘tis sore needed. Bid the shipmaster stand southward. Were we in better case, they should find their ears tingle ere they were much older! Messire de Vauclere shall one day hear my name again, or I much mistake!”

And away strode the Earl wrathfully, to communicate the disappointing news to his suffering ladies.

Southwards, for two days more, they slowly sailed. The storm was over, and the wind had dropped almost to a calm. But at the end of two days, with much difficulty, the vessel containing the Earl and his family was run into the mouth of the Seine, and between Harfleur and Honfleur they landed on the soil of Normandy.

In France the scene was changed. Louis XI. had been pleased to take up the Lancastrian cause — the cause of the King who had of old, as a child, been made the rival of Louis’s father, and whose troops had been so ignominiously driven out of France by the Maid. In France, therefore, Warwick was received with honour and material help. Every provision was made for the wearied ladies at Valognes, where they took up their temporary abode: but for some weeks nothing would tempt Warwick from Honfleur — not even the remonstrances of his friend the Duke of Burgundy, who sent to entreat him to come to his Court. One important point was wanting — Queen Marguerite would make no move towards conciliation. In vain King Louis assured her that Warwick’s help was absolutely essential to the Lancastrian cause. The Queen might have welcomed him, but the cruel defamation of her name the woman knew not how to forgive. She only relented after long importunity, and then on the stern condition that in the presence of the Kings of France and Naples, Warwick should solemnly retract all his accusations, and beg her pardon for his infamous falsehoods. She also insisted on this retractation being published in England. Finding that no better terms could be obtained from his insulted sovereign, Warwick was compelled to eat this most unpalatable piece of humble-pie with what appetite he might. He waited on the Queen at Angers, where he begged her pardon on his knees, and formally unsaid all the imputations which he had made upon her character. Even then all present could see that Marguerite found it a very bitter task to receive her enemy into favour. After this humiliating scene, the Earl rejoined his ladies, and some weeks later they travelled together to the Castle of Amboise, where their royal hosts were then residing.

The Castle of Amboise stands on one of those natural platforms of rock which in and about Touraine gem the vale of the Loire; the little town clustering at its foot, between it and the river, while the Palace towers above all. Were it not for them, the scenery would be as flat as the sea. But wherever they stand up there is a little oasis of beauty, for they are generally clad in verdure, as well as crowned with some picturesque edifice of the Middle Ages.

It was after dark when the barge which bore the fugitives was moored at Amboise. Royal footmen stood on each side of the landing-stage, bearing large torches, and royal ushers handed the ladies from the barge, and led them into the Castle. As Frideswide was modestly following her mistress, the last of the group, rather to her surprise, a hand was offered her, and a voice asked her in English if she were not very tired.

Frideswide looked up into the pleasant face of a man of some thirty years of age, who wore the royal livery of England. Livery, it must be remembered, was not at that time any badge of servitude; all the King’s equerries, household officers, and gentlemen ushers, wore his livery. This man was of fine proportions, had bright, dark, intelligent eyes, and wore — what few then did — a long beard and moustache. There was a kind, friendly expression in his face which made Frideswide feel at her ease. She answered the sympathising inquiry by a smiling affirmative.

“Well, here may you find good rest,” said he. “At the least, after all these stairs be clomb, which I fear shall yet weary you somewhat. Shall we, of your good pleasure, make acquaintance? I am the Queen’s henchman.”

“Master Combe?” asked Frideswide, looking up.