LOVE AND MARRIAGE--DOUBTS OF CONSCIENCE--DOMESTIC JEALOUSY--AND
HOUSEHOLD TREASON.
The events that followed this tempestuous interview were such as the
position of the parties necessarily compelled. The craft of Louis,
the energy and love of Prince Edward, the representations of all her
kindred and friends, conquered, though not without repeated struggles,
Margaret's repugnance to a nearer union between Warwick and her son.
The earl did not deign to appear personally in this matter. He left
it, as became him, to Louis and the prince, and finally received from
them the proposals, which ratified the league, and consummated the
schemes of his revenge.
Upon the Very Cross [Miss Strickland observes upon this interview: "It
does not appear that Warwick mentioned the execution of his father,
the Earl of Salisbury, which is almost a confirmation of the
statements of those historians who deny that he was beheaded by
Margaret."] in St. Mary's Church of Angers, Lord Warwick swore without
change to hold the party of King Henry. Before the same sacred
symbol, King Louis and his brother, Duke of Guienne, robed in canvas,
swore to sustain to their utmost the Earl of Warwick in behalf of King
Henry; and Margaret recorded her oath "to treat the earl as true and
faithful, and never for deeds past to make him any reproach."
Then were signed the articles of marriage between Prince Edward and
the Lady Anne,--the latter to remain with Margaret, but the marriage
not to be consummated "till Lord Warwick had entered England and
regained the realm, or most part, for King Henry,"--a condition which
pleased the earl, who desired to award his beloved daughter no less a
dowry than a crown.
An article far more important than all to the safety of the earl and
to the permanent success of the enterprise, was one that virtually
took from the fierce and unpopular Margaret the reins of government,
by constituting Prince Edward (whose qualities endeared him more and
more to Warwick, and were such as promised to command the respect and
love of the people) sole regent of all the realm, upon attaining his
majority. For the Duke of Clarence were reserved all the lands and
dignities of the duchy of York, the right to the succession of the
throne to him and his posterity,--failing male heirs to the Prince of
Wales,--with a private pledge of the viceroyalty of Ireland.
Margaret had attached to her consent one condition highly obnoxious to
her high-spirited son, and to which he was only reconciled by the
arguments of Warwick: she stipulated that he should not accompany the
earl to England, nor appear there till his father was proclaimed king.
In this, no doubt, she was guided by maternal fears, and by some
undeclared suspicion, either of the good faith of Warwick, or of his
means to raise a sufficient army to fulfil his promise. The brave
prince wished to be himself foremost in the battles fought in his
right and for his cause. But the earl contended, to the surprise and
joy of Margaret, that it best behooved the prince's interests to enter
England without one enemy in the field, leaving others to clear his
path, free himself from all the personal hate of hostile factions, and
without a drop of blood upon the sword of one heralded and announced
as the peace-maker and impartial reconciles of all feuds. So then
(these high conditions settled), in the presence of the Kings Rene and
Louis, of the Earl and Countess of Warwick, and in solemn state, at
Amboise, Edward of Lancaster plighted his marriage-troth to his
beloved and loving Anne.
It was deep night, and high revel in the Palace of Amboise crowned the
ceremonies of that memorable day. The Earl of Warwick stood alone in
the same chamber in which he had first discovered the secret of the
young Lancastrian. From the brilliant company, assembled in the halls
of state, he had stolen unperceived away, for his great heart was full
to overflowing. The part he had played for many days was over, and
with it the excitement and the fever. His schemes were crowned,--the
Lancastrians were won to his revenge; the king's heir was the
betrothed of his favourite child; and the hour was visible in the
distance, when, by the retribution most to be desired, the father's
hand should lead that child to the throne of him who would have
degraded her to the dust. If victory awaited his sanguine hopes, as
father to his future queen, the dignity and power of the earl became
greater in the court of Lancaster than, even in his palmiest day,
amidst the minions of ungrateful York; the sire of two lines,--if
Anne's posterity should fail, the crown would pass to the sons of
Isabel,--in either case from him (if successful in his invasion) would
descend the royalty of England. Ambition, pride, revenge, might well
exult in viewing the future, as mortal wisdom could discern it. The
House of Nevile never seemed brightened by a more glorious star: and
yet the earl was heavy and sad at heart. However he had concealed it
from the eyes of others, the haughty ire of Margaret must have galled
him in his deepest soul. And even as he had that day contemplated the
holy happiness in the face of Anne, a sharp pang had shot through his
breast. Were those the witnesses of fair-omened spousailles? How
different from the hearty greeting of his warrior-friends was the
measured courtesy of foes who had felt and fled before his sword! If
aught chanced to him in the hazard of the field, what thought for his
child ever could speak in pity from the hard and scornful eyes of the
imperious Anjouite?
The mist which till then had clouded his mind, or left visible to his
gaze but one stern idea of retribution, melted into air. He beheld
the fearful crisis to which his life had passed,--he had reached the
eminence to mourn the happy gardens left behind. Gone, forever gone,
the old endearing friendships, the sweet and manly remembrances of
brave companionship and early love! Who among those who had
confronted war by his side for the House of York would hasten to clasp
his hand and hail his coming as the captain of hated Lancaster? True,
could he bow his honour to proclaim the true cause of his desertion,
the heart of every father would beat in sympathy with his; but less
than ever could the tale that vindicated his name be told. How stoop
to invoke malignant pity to the insult offered to a future queen?
Dark in his grave must rest the secret no words could syllable, save
by such vague and mysterious hint and comment as pass from baseless
gossip into dubious history. [Hall well explains the mystery which
wrapped the king's insult to a female of the House of Warwick by the
simple sentence, "The certainty was not, for both their honours,
openly known!"] True, that in his change of party he was not, like
Julian of Spain, an apostate to his native land. He did not meditate
the subversion of his country by the foreign foe; it was but the
substitution of one English monarch for another,--a virtuous prince
for a false and a sanguinary king. True, that the change from rose to
rose had been so common amongst the greatest and the bravest, that
even the most rigid could scarcely censure what the age itself had
sanctioned. But what other man of his stormy day had been so
conspicuous in the downfall of those he was now as conspicuously to
raise? What other man had Richard of York taken so dearly to his
heart, to what other man had the august father said, "Protect my
sons"? Before him seemed literally to rise the phantom of that
honoured prince, and with clay-cold lips to ask, "Art thou, of all the
world, the doomsman of my first-born?" A groan escaped the breast of
the self-tormentor; he fell on his knees and prayed: "Oh, pardon, thou
All-seeing!--plead for me, Divine Mother! if in this I have darkly
erred, taking my heart for my conscience, and mindful only of a
selfish wrong! Oh, surely, no! Had Richard of York himself lived to
know what I have suffered from his unworthy son,--causeless insult,
broken faith, public and unabashed dishonour; yea, pardoning, serving,
loving on through all, till, at the last, nothing less than the
foulest taint that can light upon 'scutcheon and name was the cold,
premeditated reward for untired devotion,--surely, surely, Richard
himself had said, 'Thy honour at last forbids all pardon!'"
Then, in that rapidity with which the human heart, once seizing upon
self-excuse, reviews, one after one, the fair apologies, the earl
passed from the injury to himself to the mal-government of his land,
and muttered over the thousand instances of cruelty and misrule which
rose to his remembrance,--forgetting, alas, or steeling himself to the
memory, that till Edward's vices had assailed his own hearth and
honour, he had been contented with lamenting them, he had not ventured
to chastise. At length, calm and self-acquitted, he rose from his
self-confession, and leaning by the open casement, drank in the
reviving and gentle balm of the summer air. The state apartments he
had left, formed as we have before observed, an angle to the wing in
which the chamber he had now retired to was placed. They were
brilliantly illumined, their windows opened to admit the fresh, soft
breeze of night; and he saw, as if by daylight, distinct and gorgeous,
in their gay dresses, the many revellers within. But one group caught
and riveted his eye. Close by the centre window he recognized his
gentle Anne, with downcast looks; he almost fancied he saw her blush,
as her young bridegroom, young and beautiful as herself, whispered
love's flatteries in her ear. He saw farther on, but yet near, his
own sweet countess, and muttered, "After twenty years of marriage, may
Anne be as dear to him as thou art now to me!" And still he saw, or
deemed he saw, his lady's eye, after resting with tender happiness on
the young pair, rove wistfully around, as if missing and searching for
her partner in her mother's joy. But what form sweeps by with so
haughty a majesty, then pauses by the betrothed, addresses them not,
but seems to regard them with so fixed a watch? He knew by her ducal
diadem, by the baudekin colours of her robe, by her unmistakable air
of pride, his daughter Isabel. He did not distinguish the expression
of her countenance, but an ominous thrill passed through his heart;
for the attitude itself had an expression, and not that of a sister's
sympathy and love. He turned away his face with an unquiet
recollection of the altered mood of his discontented daughter. He
looked again: the duchess had passed on, lost amidst the confused
splendour of the revel. And high and rich swelled the merry music
that invited to the stately pavon. He gazed still; his lady had left
her place, the lovers too had vanished, and where they stood, stood
now in close conference his ancient enemies, Exeter and Somerset. The
sudden change from objects of love to those associated with hate had
something which touched one of those superstitions to which, in all
ages, the heart, when deeply stirred, is weakly sensitive. And again,
forgetful of the revel, the earl turned to the serener landscape of
the grove and the moonlit green sward, and mused and mused, till a
soft arm thrown round him woke his revery. For this had his lady left
the revel. Divining, by the instinct born of love, the gloom of her
husband, she had stolen from pomp and pleasure to his side.
"Ah, wherefore wouldst thou rob me," said the countess, "of one hour
of thy presence, since so few hours remain; since, when the sun that
succeeds the morrow's shines upon these walls, the night of thine
absence will have closed upon me?"
"And if that thought of parting, sad to me as thee, suffice not, belle
amie, to dim the revel," answered the earl, "weetest thou not how ill
the grave and solemn thoughts of one who sees before him the emprise
that would change the dynasty of a realm can suit with the careless
dance and the wanton music? But not at that moment did I think of
those mightier cares; my thoughts were nearer home. Hast thou noted,
sweet wife, the silent gloom, the clouded brow of Isabel, since she
learned that Anne was to be the bride of the heir of Lancaster?"
The mother suppressed a sigh. "We must pardon, or glance lightly
over, the mood of one who loves her lord, and mourns for his baffled
hopes! Well-a-day! I grieve that she admits not even me to her
confidence. Ever with the favourite lady who lately joined her
train,--methinks that new friend gives less holy counsel than a
mother!"
"Ha! and yet what counsels can Isabel listen to from a comparative
stranger? Even if Edward, or rather his cunning Elizabeth, had
suborned this waiting-woman, our daughter never could hearken, even in
an hour of anger, to the message from our dishonourer and our foe."
"Nay, but a flatterer often fosters by praising the erring thought.
Isabel hath something, dear lord, of thy high heart and courage; and
ever from childhood, her vaulting spirit, her very character of
stately beauty, hath given her a conviction of destiny and power
loftier than those reserved for our gentle Anne. Let us trust to time
and forbearance, and hope that the affection of the generous sister
will subdue the jealousy of the disappointed princess."
"Pray Heaven, indeed, that it so prove! Isabel's ascendancy over
Clarence is great, and might be dangerous. Would that she consented
to remain in France with thee and Anne! Her lord, at least, it seems
I have convinced and satisfied. Pleased at the vast fortunes before
him, the toys of viceregal power, his lighter nature reconciles itself
to the loss of a crown, which, I fear, it could never have upheld.
For the more I have read his qualities in our household intimacy, the
more it seems that I could scarcely have justified the imposing on
England a king not worthy of so great a people. He is young yet, but
how different the youth of Lancastrian Edward! In him what earnest
and manly spirit! What heaven-born views of the duties of a king!
Oh, if there be a sin in the passion that hath urged me on, let me,
and me alone, atone! and may I be at least the instrument to give to
England a prince whose virtues shall compensate for all!"
While yet the last word trembled upon the earl's lips, a light flashed
along the floors, hitherto illumined but by the stars and the full
moon. And presently Isabel, in conference with the lady whom her
mother had referred to, passed into the room, on her way to her
private chamber. The countenance of this female diplomatist, whose
talent for intrigue Philip de Comines [Comines, iii. 5; Hall, Lingard,
Hume, etc.] has commemorated, but whose name, happily for her memory,
history has concealed, was soft and winning in its expression to the
ordinary glance, though the sharpness of the features, the thin
compression of the lips, and the harsh dry redness of the hair
corresponded with the attributes which modern physiognomical science
truly or erringly assigns to a wily and treacherous character. She
bore a light in her hand, and its rays shone full on the disturbed and
agitated face of the duchess. Isabel perceived at once the forms of
her parents, and stopped short in some whispered conversation, and
uttered a cry almost of dismay.
"Thou leavest the revel betimes, fair daughter," said the earl,
examining her countenance with an eye somewhat stern.
"My lady," said the confidant, with a lowly reverence, "was anxious
for her babe."
"Thy lady, good waiting-wench," said Warwick, "needs not thy tongue to
address her father. Pass on."
The gentlewoman bit her lips, but obeyed, and quitted the room. The
earl approached, and took Isabel's hand,--it was cold as stone.
"My child," said he, tenderly, "thou dost well to retire to rest; of
late thy cheek hath lost its bloom. But just now, for many causes, I
was wishing thee not to brave our perilous return to England; and now,
I know not whether it would make me the more uneasy, to fear for thy
health if absent or thy safety if with me!"
"My lord," replied Isabel, coldly, "my duty calls me to my husband's
side, and the more, since now it seems he dares the battle but reaps
not its rewards! Let Edward and Anne rest in safety, Clarence and
Isabel go to achieve the diadem and orb for others!"
"Be not bitter with thy father, girl; be not envious of thy sister!"
said the earl, in grave rebuke; then, softening his tone, he added,
"The women of a noble House should have no ambition of their own,--
their glory and their honour they should leave, unmurmuring, in the
hands of men! Mourn not if thy sister mounts the throne of him who
would have branded the very name to which thou and she were born!"
"I have made no reproach, my lord. Forgive me, I pray you, if I now
retire; I am so weary, and would fain have strength and health not to
be a burden to you when you depart."
The duchess bowed with proud submission, and moved on. "Beware!" said
the earl, in a low voice.
"Beware!--and of what?" said Isabel, startled.
"Of thine own heart, Isabel. Ay, go to thine infant's couch ere thou
seek thine own, and, before the sleep of innocence, calm thyself back
to womanhood."
The duchess raised her head quickly, but habitual awe of her father
checked the angry answer; and kissing, with formal reverence, the hand
the countess extended to her, she left the room. She gained the
chamber in which was the cradle of her son, gorgeously canopied with
silks, inwrought with the blazoned arms of royal Clarence;--and beside
the cradle sat the confidant.
The duchess drew aside the drapery, and contemplated the rosy face of
the infant slumberer.
Then, turning to her confidant, she said,--
"Three months since, and I hoped my first-born would be a king! Away
with those vain mockeries of royal birth! How suit they the destined
vassal of the abhorred Lancastrian?"
"Sweet lady," said the confidant, "did I not warn thee from the first
that this alliance, to the injury of my lord duke and this dear boy,
was already imminent? I had hoped thou mightst have prevailed with
the earl!"
"He heeds me not, he cares not for me!" exclaimed Isabel; "his whole
love is for Anne,--Anne, who, without energy and pride, I scarcely
have looked on as my equal! And now to my younger sister I must bow
my knee, pleased if she deign to bid me hold the skirt of her queenly
robe! Never,--no, never!"
"Calm thyself; the courier must part this night. My Lord of Clarence
is already in his chamber; he waits but thine assent to write to
Edward, that he rejects not his loving messages."
The duchess walked to and fro, in great disorder. "But to be thus
secret and false to my father?"
"Doth be merit that thou shouldst sacrifice thy child to him?
Reflect! the king has no son! The English barons acknowledge not in
girls a sovereign; [Miss Strickland ("Life of Elizabeth of York")
remarks, "How much Norman prejudice in favour of Salic law had
corrupted the common or constitutional law of England regarding the
succession!" The remark involves a controversy.] and, with Edward on
the throne, thy son is heir-presumptive. Little chance that a male
heir shall now be born to Queen Elizabeth, while from Anne and her
bridegroom a long line may spring. Besides, no matter what parchment
treaties may ordain, how can Clarence and his offspring ever be
regarded by a Lancastrian king but as enemies to feed the prison or
the block, when some false invention gives the seemly pretext for
extirpating the lawful race?"
"Cease, cease, cease!" cried Isabel, in terrible struggles with
herself.
"Lady, the hour presses! And, reflect, a few lines are but words, to
be confirmed or retracted as occasion suits! If Lord Warwick succeed,
and King Edward lose his crown, ye can shape as ye best may your
conduct to the time. But if the earl lose the day, if again he be
driven into exile, a few words now release you and yours from
everlasting banishment; restore your boy to his natural heritage;
deliver you from the insolence of the Anjouite, who, methinks, even
dared this very day to taunt your highness--"
"She did--she did! Oh that my father had been by to hear! She bade
me stand aside that Anne might pass,--'not for the younger daughter of
Lord Warwick, but for the lady admitted into the royalty of
Lancaster!' Elizabeth Woodville, at least, never dared this
insolence!"
"And this Margaret the Duke of Clarence is to place on the throne
which your child yonder might otherwise aspire to mount!"
Isabel clasped her hands in mute passion.
"Hark!" said the confidant, throwing open the door--
And along the corridor came, in measured pomp, a stately procession,
the chamberlain in front, announcing "Her Highness the Princess of
Wales;" and Louis XI., leading the virgin bride (wife but in name and
honour, till her dowry of a kingdom was made secure) to her gentle
rest. The ceremonial pomp, the regal homage that attended the younger
sister thus raised above herself, completed in Isabel's jealous heart
the triumph of the Tempter. Her face settled into hard resolve, and
she passed at once from the chamber into one near at hand, where the
Duke of Clarence sat alone, the rich wines of the livery, not
untasted, before him, and the ink yet wet upon a scroll he had just
indited.
He turned his irresolute countenance to Isabel as she bent over him
and read the letter. It was to Edward; and after briefly warning him
of the meditated invasion, significantly added, "and if I may seem to
share this emprise, which, here and alone, I cannot resist, thou shalt
find me still, when the moment comes, thy affectionate brother and
loyal subject."
"Well, Isabel," said the duke, "thou knowest I have delayed this till
the last hour to please thee; for verily, lady mine, thy will is my
sweetest law. But now, if thy heart misgives thee--"
"It does, it does!" exclaimed the duchess, bursting into tears.
"If thy heart misgives thee," continued Clarence, who with all his
weakness had much of the duplicity of his brothers, "why, let it pass.
Slavery to scornful Margaret, vassalage to thy sister's spouse,
triumph to the House which both thou and I were taught from childhood
to deem accursed,--why, welcome all! so that Isabel does not weep, and
our boy reproach us not in the days to come!"
For all answer, Isabel, who had seized the letter, let it drop on the
table, pushed it, with averted face, towards the duke, and turned back
to the cradle of her child, whom she woke with her sobs, and who
wailed its shrill reply in infant petulance and terror, snatched from
its slumber to the arms of the remorseful mother.
A smile of half contemptuous joy passed over the thin lips of the she-
Judas, and, without speaking, she took her way to Clarence. He had
sealed and bound his letter, first adding these words, "My lady and
duchess, whatever her kin, has seen this letter, and approves it, for
she is more a friend to York than to the earl, now he has turned
Lancastrian;" and placed it in a small iron coffer.
He gave the coffer, curiously clasped and locked, to the gentlewoman,
with a significant glance--"Be quick, or she repents! The courier
waits, his steed saddled! The instant you give it, he departs,--he
hath his permit to pass the gates."
"All is prepared; ere the clock strike, he is on his way." The
confidant vanished; the duke sank in his chair, and rubbed his hands.
"Oho, father-in-law, thou deemest me too dull for a crown! I am not
dull enough for thy tool. I have had the wit, at least, to deceive
thee, and to hide resentment beneath a smiling brow! Dullard, thou to
believe aught less than the sovereignty of England could have bribed
Clarence to thy cause!" He turned to the table and complacently
drained his goblet.
Suddenly, haggard and pale as a spectre, Isabel stood before him.
"I was mad--mad, George! The letter! the letter--it must not go!"
At that moment the clock struck.
"Bel enfant," said the duke, "it is too late!"