I was, I must confess,
Great Albion's queen in former golden days;
But now mischance hath trod my title down,
And with dishonour laid me on the ground;
Where I must take like seat unto my fortune,
And to my humble seat conform myself.
_Henry VI. Part III._
The hostelry of the Flying Stag, in Strasburg, was, like every inn in
the empire at the period, conducted much with the same discourteous
inattention to the wants and accommodation of the guests as that of
John Mengs. But the youth and good looks of Arthur Philipson,
circumstances which seldom or never fail to produce some effect where
the fair are concerned, prevailed upon a short, plump, dimpled,
blue-eyed, fair-skinned yungfrau, the daughter of the landlord of the
Flying Stag (himself a fat old man, pinned to the oaken chair in the
_stube_), to carry herself to the young Englishman with a degree of
condescension which, in the privileged race to which she belonged, was
little short of degradation. She not only put her light buskins and
her pretty ankles in danger of being soiled by tripping across the
yard to point out an unoccupied stable, but, on Arthur's inquiry after
his father, condescended to recollect that such a guest as he
described had lodged in the house last night, and had said he expected
to meet there a young person, his fellow-traveller.
"I will send him out to you, fair sir," said the little yungfrau with
a smile, which, if things of the kind are to be valued by their rare
occurrence, must have been reckoned inestimable.
She was as good as her word. In a few instants the elder Philipson
entered the stable, and folded his son in his arms.
"My son--my dear son!" said the Englishman, his usual stoicism broken
down and melted by natural feeling and parental tenderness,--"Welcome
to me at all times--welcome, in a period of doubt and danger--and most
welcome of all, in a moment which forms the very crisis of our fate.
In a few hours I shall know what we may expect from the Duke of
Burgundy.--Hast thou the token?"
Arthur's hand first sought that which was nearest to his heart, both
in the literal and allegorical sense--the small parcel, namely, which
Anne had given him at parting. But he recollected himself in the
instant, and presented to his father the packet which had been so
strangely lost and recovered at La Ferette.
"It hath run its own risk since you saw it," he observed to his
father, "and so have I mine. I received hospitality at a castle last
night, and behold a body of lanzknechts in the neighbourhood began in
the morning to mutiny for their pay. The inhabitants fled from the
castle to escape their violence, and, as we passed their leaguer in
the grey of the morning, a drunken Baaren-hauter shot my poor horse,
and I was forced, in the way of exchange, to take up with his heavy
Flemish animal, with its steel saddle, and its clumsy chaffron."
"Our road is beset with perils," said his father. "I too have had my
share, having been in great danger [he told not its precise nature] at
an inn where I rested last night. But I left it in the morning, and
proceeded hither in safety. I have at length, however, obtained a safe
escort to conduct me to the Duke's camp near Dijon; and I trust to
have an audience of him this evening. Then, if our last hope should
fail, we will seek the seaport of Marseilles, hoist sail for Candia or
for Rhodes, and spend our lives in defence of Christendom, since we
may no longer fight for England."
Arthur heard these ominous words without reply; but they did not the
less sink upon his heart, deadly as the doom of the judge which
secludes the criminal from society and all its joys, and condemns him
to an eternal prison-house. The bells from the cathedral began to toll
at this instant, and reminded the elder Philipson of the duty of
hearing mass, which was said at all hours in some one or other of the
separate chapels which are contained in that magnificent pile. His son
followed, on an intimation of his pleasure.
In approaching the access to this superb cathedral, the travellers
found it obstructed, as is usual in Catholic countries, by the number
of mendicants of both sexes, who crowded round the entrance to give
the worshippers an opportunity of discharging the duty of alms-giving,
so positively enjoined as a chief observance of their Church. The
Englishmen extricated themselves from their importunity by bestowing,
as is usual on such occasions, a donative of small coin upon those who
appeared most needy, or most deserving of their charity. One tall
woman stood on the steps close to the door, and extended her hand to
the elder Philipson, who, struck with her appearance, exchanged for a
piece of silver the copper coins which he had been distributing
amongst others.
"A marvel!" she said, in the English language, but in a tone
calculated only to be heard by him alone, although his son also caught
the sound and sense of what she said,--"Ay, a miracle!--An Englishman
still possesses a silver piece, and can afford to bestow it on the
poor!"
Arthur was sensible that his father started somewhat at the voice or
words, which bore, even in his ear, something of deeper import than
the observation of an ordinary mendicant. But after a glance at the
female who thus addressed him, his father passed onwards into the body
of the church, and was soon engaged in attending to the solemn
ceremony of the mass, as it was performed by a priest at the altar of
a chapel divided from the main body of the splendid edifice, and
dedicated, as it appeared from the image over the altar, to St.
George; that military saint, whose real history is so obscure, though
his popular legend rendered him an object of peculiar veneration
during the feudal ages. The ceremony was begun and finished with all
customary forms. The officiating priest, with his attendants,
withdrew, and though some of the few worshippers who had assisted at
the solemnity remained telling their beads, and occupied with the
performance of their private devotions, far the greater part left the
chapel, to visit other shrines, or to return to the prosecution of
their secular affairs.
But Arthur Philipson remarked that, whilst they dropped off one after
another, the tall woman who had received his father's alms continued
to kneel near the altar; and he was yet more surprised to see that his
father himself, who, he had many reasons to know, was desirous to
spend in the church no more time than the duties of devotion
absolutely claimed, remained also on his knees, with his eyes resting
on the form of the veiled devotee (such she seemed from her dress), as
if his own motions were to be guided by hers. By no idea which
occurred to him was Arthur able to form the least conjecture as to his
father's motives--he only knew that he was engaged in a critical and
dangerous negotiation, liable to influence or interruption from
various quarters; and that political suspicion was so generally awake,
both in France, Italy, and Flanders, that the most important agents
were often obliged to assume the most impenetrable disguises, in order
to insinuate themselves without suspicion into the countries where
their services were required. Louis XI., in particular, whose singular
policy seemed in some degree to give a character to the age in which
he lived, was well known to have disguised his principal emissaries
and envoys in the fictitious garbs of mendicant monks, minstrels,
gypsies, and other privileged wanderers of the meanest description.
Arthur concluded, therefore, that it was not improbable that this
female might, like themselves, be something more than her dress
imported; and he resolved to observe his father's deportment towards
her, and regulate his own actions accordingly. A bell at last
announced that mass, upon a more splendid scale, was about to be
celebrated before the high altar of the cathedral itself, and its
sound withdrew from the sequestered chapel of St. George the few who
had remained at the shrine of the military saint, excepting the father
and son, and the female penitent who kneeled opposite to them. When
the last of the worshippers had retired, the female arose and advanced
towards the elder Philipson, who, folding his arms on his bosom, and
stooping his head, in an attitude of obeisance which his son had never
before seen him assume, appeared rather to wait what she had to say,
than to propose addressing her.
There was a pause. Four lamps, lighted before the shrine of the saint,
cast a dim radiance on his armour and steed, represented as he was in
the act of transfixing with his lance the prostrate dragon, whose
outstretched wings and writhing neck were in part touched by their
beams. The rest of the chapel was dimly illuminated by the autumnal
sun, which could scarce find its way through the stained panes of the
small lanceolated window, which was its only aperture to the open air.
The light fell doubtful and gloomy, tinged with the various hues
through which it passed, upon the stately yet somewhat broken and
dejected form of the female, and on those of the melancholy and
anxious father, and his son, who, with all the eager interest of
youth, suspected and anticipated extraordinary consequences from so
singular an interview.
At length the female approached to the same side of the shrine with
Arthur and his father, as if to be more distinctly heard, without
being obliged to raise the slow solemn voice in which she had spoken.
"Do you here worship," she said, "the St. George of Burgundy, or the
St. George of merry England, the flower of chivalry?"
"I serve," said Philipson, folding his hands humbly on his bosom, "the
saint to whom this chapel is dedicated, and the Deity with whom I hope
for his holy intercession, whether here or in my native country."
"Ay--you," said the female, "even you can forget--you, even you, who
have been numbered among the mirror of knighthood--can forget that you
have worshipped in the royal fane of Windsor--that you have there bent
a _gartered_ knee, where kings and princes kneeled around you--you can
forget this, and make your orisons at a foreign shrine, with a heart
undisturbed with the thoughts of what you have been,--praying, like
some poor peasant, for bread and life during the day that passes over
you."
"Lady," replied Philipson, "in my proudest hours, I was, before the
Being to whom I preferred my prayers, but as a worm in the dust--In
His eyes I am now neither less nor more, degraded as I may be in the
opinion of my fellow-reptiles."
"How canst thou think thus?" said the devotee; "and yet it is well
with thee that thou canst. But what have thy losses been, compared to
mine!"
She put her hand to her brow, and seemed for a moment overpowered by
agonising recollections.
Arthur pressed to his father's side, and inquired, in a tone of
interest which could not be repressed, "Father, who is this lady?--Is
it my mother?"
"No, my son," answered Philipson;--"peace, for the sake of all you
hold dear or holy!"
The singular female, however, heard both the question and answer,
though expressed in a whisper.
"Yes," she said, "young man--I am--I should say I was--your mother;
the mother, the protectress, of all that was noble in England--I am
Margaret of Anjou."
Arthur sank on his knees before the dauntless widow of Henry the
Sixth, who so long, and in such desperate circumstances, upheld, by
unyielding courage and deep policy, the sinking cause of her feeble
husband; and who, if she occasionally abused victory by cruelty and
revenge, had made some atonement by the indomitable resolution with
which she had supported the fiercest storms of adversity. Arthur had
been bred in devoted adherence to the now dethroned line of Lancaster,
of which his father was one of the most distinguished supporters; and
his earliest deeds of arms, which, though unfortunate, were neither
obscure nor ignoble, had been done in their cause. With an enthusiasm
belonging to his age and education, he in the same instant flung his
bonnet on the pavement, and knelt at the feet of his ill-fated
sovereign.
Margaret threw back the veil which concealed those noble and majestic
features, which even yet,--though rivers of tears had furrowed her
cheek,--though care, disappointment, domestic grief, and humbled pride
had quenched the fire of her eye, and wasted the smooth dignity of her
forehead,--even yet showed the remains of that beauty which once was
held unequalled in Europe. The apathy with which a succession of
misfortunes and disappointed hopes had chilled the feelings of the
unfortunate Princess was for a moment melted by the sight of the fair
youth's enthusiasm. She abandoned one hand to him, which he covered
with tears and kisses, and with the other stroked with maternal
tenderness his curled locks, as she endeavoured to raise him from the
posture he had assumed. His father, in the meanwhile, shut the door of
the chapel, and placed his back against it, withdrawing himself thus
from the group, as if for the purpose of preventing any stranger from
entering, during a scene so extraordinary.
"And thou, then," said Margaret, in a voice where female tenderness
combated strangely with her natural pride of rank, and with the calm,
stoical indifference induced by the intensity of her personal
misfortunes; "thou, fair youth, art the last scion of the noble stem,
so many fair boughs of which have fallen in our hapless cause. Alas,
alas! what can I do for thee? Margaret has not even a blessing to
bestow. So wayward is her fate, that her benedictions are curses, and
she has but to look on you and wish you well, to insure your speedy
and utter ruin. I--I have been the fatal poison-tree, whose influence
has blighted and destroyed all the fair plants that arose beside and
around me, and brought death upon every one, yet am myself unable to
find it!"
"Noble and royal mistress," said the elder Englishman, "let not your
princely courage, which has borne such extremities, be dismayed, now
that they are passed over, and that a chance at least of happier times
is approaching to you and to England."
"To England, to _me_, noble Oxford!" said the forlorn and widowed
Queen.--"If to-morrow's sun could place me once more on the throne of
England, could it give back to me what I have lost? I speak not of
wealth or power--they are as nothing in the balance--I speak not of
the hosts of noble friends who have fallen in defence of me and
mine--Somersets, Percys, Staffords, Cliffords--they have found their
place in fame, in the annals of their country--I speak not of my
husband, he has exchanged the state of a suffering saint upon earth
for that of a glorified saint in heaven--But oh, Oxford! my son--my
Edward!--Is it possible for me to look on this youth, and not remember
that thy countess and I on the same night gave birth to two fair boys?
How oft we endeavoured to prophesy their future fortunes, and to
persuade ourselves that the same constellation which shone on their
birth would influence their succeeding life, and hold a friendly and
equal bias till they reached some destined goal of happiness and
honour! Thy Arthur lives; but, alas! my Edward, born under the same
auspices, fills a bloody grave!"
She wrapped her head in her mantle, as if to stifle the complaints and
groans which maternal affection poured forth at these cruel
recollections. Philipson, or the exiled Earl of Oxford as we may now
term him, distinguished in those changeful times by the steadiness
with which he had always maintained his loyalty to the line of
Lancaster, saw the imprudence of indulging his sovereign in her
weakness.
[Illustration: ARTHUR BEFORE THE QUEEN.
Drawn and Etched by R. de los Rios.]
"Royal mistress," he said, "life's journey is that of a brief winter's
day, and its course will run on, whether we avail ourselves of its
progress or no. My sovereign is, I trust, too much mistress
of herself to suffer lamentation for what is passed to deprive
her of the power of using the present time. I am here in obedience to
your command; I am to see Burgundy forthwith, and if I find him pliant
to the purpose to which we would turn him, events may follow which
will change into gladness our present mourning. But we must use our
opportunity with speed as well as zeal. Let me know then, madam, for
what reason your Majesty hath come hither, disguised and in danger?
Surely it was not merely to weep over this young man that the
high-minded Queen Margaret left her father's court, disguised herself
in mean attire, and came from a place of safety to one of doubt at
least, if not of danger?"
"You mock me, Oxford," said the unfortunate Queen, "or you deceive
yourself, if you think you still serve that Margaret whose word was
never spoken without a reason, and whose slightest action was
influenced by a motive. Alas! I am no longer the same firm and
rational being. The feverish character of grief, while it makes one
place hateful to me, drives me to another in very impotence and
impatience of spirit. My father's residence, thou say'st, is safe; but
is it tolerable for such a soul as mine? Can one who has been deprived
of the noblest and richest kingdom of Europe--one who has lost hosts
of noble friends--one who is a widowed consort, a childless
mother--one upon whose head Heaven hath poured forth its last vial of
unmitigated wrath,--can she stoop to be the companion of a weak old
man, who, in sonnets and in music, in mummery and folly, in harping
and rhyming, finds a comfort for all that poverty has that is
distressing; and, what is still worse, even a solace in all that is
ridiculous and contemptible?"
"Nay, with your leave, madam," said her counsellor, "blame not the
good King René (_a_),[5] because, persecuted by fortune, he has been
able to find out for himself humbler sources of solace, which your
prouder spirit is disposed to disdain. A contention among his
minstrels has for him the animation of a knightly combat; and a crown
of flowers, twined by his troubadours and graced by their sonnets, he
accounts a valuable compensation for the diadems of Jerusalem, of
Naples, and of both Sicilies, of which he only possesses the empty
titles."
"Speak not to me of the pitiable old man," said Margaret; "sunk below
even the hatred of his worst enemies, and never thought worthy of
anything more than contempt. I tell thee, noble Oxford, I have been
driven nearly mad with my forced residence at Aix, in the paltry
circle which he calls his court. My ears, tuned as they now are only
to sounds of affliction, are not so weary of the eternal tinkling of
harps, and squeaking of rebecks, and snapping of castanets;--my eyes
are not so tired of the beggarly affectation of court ceremonial,
which is only respectable when it implies wealth and expresses
power,--as my very soul is sick of the paltry ambition which can find
pleasure in spangles, tassels, and trumpery, when the reality of all
that is great and noble hath passed away. No, Oxford. If I am doomed
to lose the last cast which fickle fortune seems to offer me, I will
retreat into the meanest convent in the Pyrenean hills, and at least
escape the insult of the idiot gaiety of my father.--Let him pass from
our memory as from the page of history, in which his name will never
be recorded. I have much of more importance both to hear and to
tell.--And now, my Oxford, what news from Italy? Will the Duke of
Milan afford us assistance with his counsels, or with his treasures?"
"With his counsels willingly, madam; but how you will relish them I
know not, since he recommends to us submission to our hapless fate,
and resignation to the will of Providence."
"The wily Italian! Will not, then, Galeasso advance any part of his
hoards, or assist a friend, to whom he hath in his time full often
sworn faith?"
"Not even the diamonds which I offered to deposit in his hands,"
answered the Earl, "could make him unlock his treasury to supply us
with ducats for our enterprise. Yet he said, if Charles of Burgundy
should think seriously of an exertion in our favour, such was his
regard for that great prince, and his deep sense of your Majesty's
misfortunes, that he would consider what the state of his exchequer,
though much exhausted, and the condition of his subjects, though
impoverished by taxes and talliages, would permit him to advance in
your behalf."
"The double-faced hypocrite!" said Margaret. "If the assistance of the
princely Burgundy lends us a chance of regaining what is our own, then
he will give us some paltry parcel of crowns, that our restored
prosperity may forget his indifference to our adversity!--But what of
Burgundy? I have ventured hither to tell you what I have learned, and
to hear report of your proceedings--a trusty watch provides for the
secrecy of our interview. My impatience to see you brought me hither
in this mean disguise. I have a small retinue at a convent a mile
beyond the town--I have had your arrival watched by the faithful
Lambert--and now I come to know your hopes or your fears, and to tell
you my own."
"Royal lady," said the Earl, "I have not seen the Duke. You know his
temper to be wilful, sudden, haughty, and unpersuadable. If he can
adopt the calm and sustained policy which the times require, I little
doubt his obtaining full amends of Louis, his sworn enemy, and even of
Edward, his ambitious brother-in-law. But if he continues to yield to
extravagant fits of passion, with or without provocation, he may hurry
into a quarrel with the poor but hardy Helvetians, and is likely to
engage in a perilous contest, in which he cannot be expected to gain
anything, while he undergoes a chance of the most serious losses."
"Surely," replied the Queen, "he will not trust the usurper Edward,
even in the very moment when he is giving the greatest proof of
treachery to his alliance?"
"In what respect, madam?" replied Oxford. "The news you allude to has
not reached me."
"How, my lord? Am I then the first to tell you that Edward of York has
crossed the sea (_b_) with such an army as scarce even the renowned
Henry V., my father-in-law, ever transported from France to Italy?"
"So much I have indeed heard was expected," said Oxford; "and I
anticipated the effect as fatal to our cause."
"Edward is arrived," said Margaret, "and the traitor and usurper hath
sent defiance to Louis of France, and demanded of him the crown of
that kingdom as his own right--that crown which was placed on the head
of my unhappy husband, when he was yet a child in the cradle."
"It is then decided--the English are in France!" answered Oxford, in a
tone expressive of the deepest anxiety.--"And whom brings Edward with
him on this expedition?"
"All--all the bitterest enemies of our house and cause--The false, the
traitorous, the dishonoured George, whom he calls Duke of Clarence--the
blood-drinker, Richard--the licentious Hastings--Howard--Stanley--in a
word, the leaders of all those traitors whom I would not name, unless
by doing so my curses could sweep them from the face of the earth."
"And--I tremble to ask," said the Earl--"Does Burgundy prepare to join
them as a brother of the war, and make common cause with this Yorkish
host against King Louis of France?"
"By my advices," replied the Queen, "and they are both private and
sure, besides that they are confirmed by the bruit of common fame--No,
my good Oxford, no!"
"For that may the Saints be praised!" answered Oxford. "Edward of
York--I will not malign even an enemy--is a bold and fearless
leader--But he is neither Edward the Third, nor the heroic Black
Prince--nor is he that fifth Henry of Lancaster, under whom I won my
spurs, and to whose lineage the thoughts of his glorious memory would
have made me faithful, had my plighted vows of allegiance ever
permitted me to entertain a thought of varying, or of defection. Let
Edward engage in war with Louis without the aid of Burgundy, on which
he has reckoned. Louis is indeed no hero, but he is a cautious and
skilful general, more to be dreaded, perhaps, in these politic days,
than if Charlemagne could again raise the Oriflamme, surrounded by
Roland and all his paladins. Louis will not hazard such fields as
those of Cressy, of Poictiers, or of Agincourt. With a thousand lances
from Hainault, and twenty thousand crowns from Burgundy, Edward shall
risk the loss of England, while he is engaged in a protracted struggle
for the recovery of Normandy and Guienne. But what are the movements
of Burgundy?"
"He has menaced Germany," said Margaret, "and his troops are now
employed in overrunning Lorraine, of which he has seized the principal
towns and castles."
"Where is Ferrand de Vaudemont--a youth, it is said, of courage and
enterprise, and claiming Lorraine in right of his mother, Yolande of
Anjou, the sister of your Grace?"
"Fled," replied the Queen, "into Germany or Helvetia."
"Let Burgundy beware of him," said the experienced Earl; "for should
the disinherited youth obtain confederates in Germany, and allies
among the hardy Swiss, Charles of Burgundy may find him a far more
formidable enemy than he expects. We are strong for the present, only
in the Duke's strength, and if it is wasted in idle and desultory
efforts, our hopes, alas! vanish with his power, even if he should be
found to have the decided will to assist us. My friends in England
are resolute not to stir without men and money from Burgundy."
"It is a fear," said Margaret, "but not our worst fear. I dread more
the policy of Louis, who, unless my espials have grossly deceived me,
has even already proposed a secret peace to Edward, offering with
large sums of money to purchase England to the Yorkists, and a truce
of seven years."
"It cannot be," said Oxford. "No Englishman, commanding such an army
as Edward must now lead, dares for very shame to retire from France
without a manly attempt to recover his lost provinces."
"Such would have been the thoughts of a rightful prince," said
Margaret, "who left behind him an obedient and faithful kingdom. Such
may not be the thoughts of this Edward, misnamed Plantagenet, base
perhaps in mind as in blood, since they say his real father was one
Blackburn, an archer of Middleham--usurper, at least, if not
bastard--such will not be his thoughts.[6] Every breeze that blows
from England will bring with it apprehensions of defection amongst
those over whom he has usurped authority. He will not sleep in peace
till he returns to England with those cut-throats, whom he relies upon
for the defence of his stolen crown. He will engage in no war with
Louis, for Louis will not hesitate to soothe his pride by
humiliation--to gorge his avarice and pamper his voluptuous
prodigality by sums of gold--and I fear much we shall soon hear of
the English army retiring from France with the idle boast, that they
have displayed their banners once more, for a week or two, in the
provinces which were formerly their own."
"It the more becomes us to be speedy in moving Burgundy to decision,"
replied Oxford; "and for that purpose I post to Dijon. Such an army as
Edward's cannot be transported over the narrow seas in several weeks.
The probability is, that they must winter in France, even if they
should have truce with King Louis. With a thousand Hainault lances
from the eastern part of Flanders, I can be soon in the North, where
we have many friends, besides the assurance of help from Scotland. The
faithful West will rise at a signal--a Clifford can be found, though
the mountain mists have hid him from Richard's researches--the Welsh
will assemble at the rallying word of Tudor--the Red Rose raises its
head once more--and so, God save King Henry!"
"Alas!" said the Queen--"But no husband--no friend of mine--the son
but of my mother-in-law by a Welsh chieftain--cold, they say, and
crafty--But be it so--let me only see Lancaster triumph, and obtain
revenge upon York, and I will die contented!"
"It is then your pleasure that I should make the proffers expressed by
your Grace's former mandates, to induce Burgundy to stir himself in
our cause? If he learns the proposal of a truce betwixt France and
England, it will sting sharper than aught I can say."
"Promise all, however," said the Queen. "I know his inmost soul--it is
set upon extending the dominions of his House in every direction. For
this he has seized Gueldres--for this he now overruns and occupies
Lorraine--for this he covets such poor remnants of Provence as my
father still calls his own. With such augmented territories, he
proposes to exchange his ducal diadem for an arched crown of
independent sovereignty. Tell the Duke, Margaret can assist his
views--tell him, that my father René shall disown the opposition made
to the Duke's seizure of Lorraine--He shall do more--he shall declare
Charles his heir in Provence, with my ample consent--tell him, the old
man shall cede his dominions to him upon the instant that his
Hainaulters embark for England, some small pension deducted to
maintain a concert of fiddlers, and a troop of morrice-dancers. These
are René's only earthly wants. Mine are still fewer--Revenge upon
York, and a speedy grave!--For the paltry gold which we may need, thou
hast jewels to pledge--For the other conditions, security if
required."
"For these, madam, I can pledge my knightly word, in addition to your
royal faith; and if more is required, my son shall be a hostage with
Burgundy."
"Oh, no--no!" exclaimed the dethroned Queen, touched by perhaps the
only tender feeling, which repeated and extraordinary misfortunes had
not chilled into insensibility,--"Hazard not the life of the noble
youth--he that is the last of the loyal and faithful House of Vere--he
that should have been the brother in arms of my beloved Edward--he
that had so nearly been his companion in a bloody and untimely grave!
Do not involve this poor child in these fatal intrigues, which have
been so baneful to his family. Let him go with me. Him at least I
will shelter from danger whilst I live, and provide for when I am no
more."
"Forgive me, madam," said Oxford, with the firmness which
distinguished him. "My son, as you deign to recollect, is a De Vere,
destined, perhaps, to be the last of his name. Fall, he may, but it
must not be without honour. To whatever dangers his duty and
allegiance call him, be it from sword or lance, axe or gibbet, to
these he must expose himself frankly, when his doing so can mark his
allegiance. His ancestors have shown him how to brave them all."
"True, true," exclaimed the unfortunate Queen, raising her arms
wildly,--"All must perish--all that have honoured Lancaster--all that
have loved Margaret, or whom she has loved! The destruction must be
universal--the young must fall with the old--not a lamb of the
scattered flock shall escape!"
"For God's sake, gracious madam," said Oxford, "compose yourself!--I
hear them knock on the chapel door."
"It is the signal of parting," said the exiled Queen, collecting
herself. "Do not fear, noble Oxford, I am not often thus; but how
seldom do I see those friends, whose faces and voices can disturb the
composure of my despair! Let me tie this relic about thy neck, good
youth, and fear not its evil influence, though you receive it from an
ill-omened hand. It was my husband's, blessed by many a prayer, and
sanctified by many a holy tear; even my unhappy hands cannot pollute
it. I should have bound it on my Edward's bosom on the dreadful
morning of Tewkesbury fight; but he armed early--went to the field
without seeing me, and all my purpose was vain."
She passed a golden chain round Arthur's neck as she spoke, which
contained a small gold crucifix of rich but barbarous manufacture. It
had belonged, said tradition, to Edward the Confessor. The knock at
the door of the chapel was repeated.
"We must not tarry," said Margaret; "let us part here--you for Dijon,
I to Aix, my abode of unrest in Provence. Farewell--we may meet in a
better hour--yet how can I hope it? Thus I said on the morning before
the fight of St. Albans--thus on the dark dawning of Towton--thus on
the yet more bloody field of Tewkesbury--and what was the event? Yet
hope is a plant which cannot be rooted out of a noble breast, till the
last heart-string crack as it is pulled away."
So saying, she passed through the chapel door, and mingled in the
miscellaneous assemblage of personages who worshipped or indulged
their curiosity, or consumed their idle hours amongst the aisles of
the cathedral.
Philipson and his son, both deeply impressed with the singular
interview which had just taken place, returned to their inn, where
they found a pursuivant, with the Duke of Burgundy's badge and livery,
who informed them, that if they were the English merchants who were
carrying wares of value to the court of the Duke, he had orders to
afford them the countenance of his escort and inviolable character.
Under his protection they set out from Strasburg; but such was the
uncertainty of the Duke of Burgundy's motions, and such the numerous
obstacles which occurred to interrupt their journey, in a country
disturbed by the constant passage of troops and preparation for war,
that it was evening on the second day ere they reached the plain near
Dijon, on which the whole, or great part of his power, lay encamped.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] See Editor's Notes at the end of the Volume. Wherever a similar
reference occurs, the reader will understand that the same direction
applies.
[6] The Lancastrian party threw the imputation of bastardy (which was
totally unfounded) upon Edward IV.