THE
FORTUNES
OF
PERKIN WARBECK.
A Romance.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"FRANKENSTEIN."
J'ai veu filz d'Angleterre, Richard d'Yore nommé,
Que l'on disoit en terre, estinct et consommé,
Endurer grant souffrance; et par nobles exploitz,
Vivre en bonne esperance, d'estre Roy des Angloys.
_Old French Chronicle._
LONDON:
G. ROUTLEDGE & CO. FARRINGDON STREET;
NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET.
1857
CONTENTS
Chapters
Preface
Chapter I--THE FLIGHT FROM BOSWORTH FIELD
Chapter II--THE CONFERENCE
Chapter III--ELIZABETH OF YORK
Chapter IV--LADY BRAMPTON
Chapter V--THE INTERVIEW
Chapter VI--LAMBERT SIMNEL
Chapter VII--THE BATTLE OF NEWARK
Chapter VIII--THE DISCOVERY
Chapter IX--THE DECOY
Chapter X--THE ESCAPE
Chapter XI--THE EXILES
Chapter XII--THE CHALLENGE
Chapter XIII--TEMPTATION
Chapter XIV--THE TRAITOR PUNISHED
Chapter XV--THE LANDING AT CORK
Chapter XVI--NEW FRIENDS
Chapter XVII--THE FRENCH COURT
Chapter XVIII--THE TOKEN
Chapter XIX--CLIFFORD'S RESOLVE
Chapter XX--THE CONSPIRACY
Chapter XXI--TREASON
Chapter XXII--HERMAN DE FARO
Chapter XXIII--THE TRAITOR UNMASKED
Chapter XXIV--THE TOWER
Chapter XXV--THE RESCUE
Chapter XXVI--THE EARL OF SURREY
Chapter XXVII--THE LANDING AT HYTHE
Chapter XXVIII--THE PARTING
Chapter XXIX--WELCOME TO SCOTLAND
Chapter XXX--THE COURT OF SCOTLAND
Chapter XXXI--THE MARRIAGE
Chapter XXXII--THE MARCH TOWARDS ENGLAND
Chapter XXXIII--THE ASSASSIN
Chapter XXXIV--DISAPPOINTMENT
Chapter XXXV--THE RETREAT
Chapter XXXVI--TIDINGS FROM IRELAND
Chapter XXXVII--TREACHERY
Chapter XXXVIII--DEPRESSION
Chapter XXXIX--SIEGE OF WATERFORD
Chapter XL--AN ESCAPE
Chapter XLI--ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND
Chapter XLII--RECEPTION IN CORNWALL
Chapter XLIII--MISGIVINGS
Chapter XLIV--A CHALLENGE
Chapter XLV--ARRIVAL AT TAUNTON
Chapter XLVI--A PRISONER
Chapter XLVII--A DILEMMA
Chapter XLVIII--CAPTURE OF KATHERINE
Chapter XLIX--RICHARD SURRENDERS
Chapter L--A PROCESSION
Chapter LI--AN ESCAPE
Chapter LII--TREASON
Chapter LIII--DEATH OF CLIFFORD
Chapter LIV--IMPRISONMENT IN THE TOWER
Chapter LV--ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE
Chapter LVI--THE TRIAL
Chapter LVII--THE PRISON OF LUDGATE
Chapter LVIII--CONCLUSION
PREFACE
The story of Perkin Warbeck was first suggested to me as a subject for
historical detail. On studying it, I became aware of the romance which
his story contains, while, at the same time, I felt that it would be
impossible for any narration, that should be confined to the
incorporation of facts related by our old Chroniclers, to do it justice.
It is not singular that I should entertain a belief that Perkin was, in
reality, the lost duke of York. For, in spite of Hume, and the later
historians who have followed in his path, no person who has at all
studied the subject but arrives at the same conclusion. Records exist in
the Tower, some well known, others with which those who have access to
those interesting papers are alone acquainted, which put the question
almost beyond a doubt.
This is not the place for a discussion of the question. The principal
thing that I should wish to be impressed on my reader's mind is, that
whether my hero was or was not an impostor, he was believed to be the
true man by his contemporaries. The partial pages of Bacon, of Hall, and
Holinshed, and others of that date, are replete with proofs of this
fact. There are some curious letters, written by Sir John Ramsay, laird
of Balmayne, calling himself Lord Bothwell, addressed to Henry the
Seventh himself, which, though written by a spy and hireling of that
monarch, tend to confirm my belief, and even demonstrate that in his
eagerness to get rid of a formidable competitor, Henry did not hesitate
to urge midnight assassination. These letters are printed in the
Appendix to Pinkerton's "History of Scotland." The verses which form the
motto to these volumes, are part of a rhythmical chronicle, written by
two subjects of Burgundy, who lived in those days; it is entitled,
"Recollection des Merveilles, advenues en nostre temps, commencée par
très élégant orateur, Messire Georges Chastellan, et continuée par
Maistre Jean Molinet."
In addition to the unwilling suffrage of his enemies, we may adduce the
acts of his friends and allies. Human nature in its leading features is
the same in all ages. James the Fourth of Scotland was a man of great
talent and discernment: he was proud; attached, as a Scot, to the
prejudices of birth; of punctilious honour. No one can believe that he
would have bestowed his near kinswoman, nor have induced the earl of
Huntley to give his daughter in marriage to one who did not bear evident
signs of being of royal blood.
The various adventures of this unfortunate prince in many countries, and
his alliance with a beautiful and high-born woman, who proved a
faithful, loving wife to him, take away the sting from the ignominy
which might attach itself to his fate; and make him, we venture to
believe, in spite of the contumely later historians have chosen, in the
most arbitrary way, to heap upon him, a fitting object of interest--a
hero to ennoble the pages of a humble tale.
CHAPTER I
THE FLIGHT FROM BOSWORTH FIELD
He seemed breathless, heartless, faint and wan,
And all his armour sprinkled was with blood,
And soil'd with dirty gore, that no man can
Discern the hue thereof. He never stood,
But bent his hasty course towards the idle flood.
SPENSER.
After a long series of civil dissension--after many battles, whose
issue involved the fate of thousands--after the destruction of nearly
all the English nobility in the contest between the two Roses, the
decisive battle of Bosworth Field was fought on the 22nd of August,
1415, whose result was to entwine, as it was called, the white and red
symbols of rivalship, and to restore peace to this unhappy country.
The day had been sunny and warm: as the evening closed in, a west wind
rose, bringing along troops of fleecy clouds, golden at sunset, and then
dun and grey, veiling with pervious network the many stars. Three
horsemen at this hour passed through the open country between Hinckley
and Welford in Leicestershire. It was broad day when they descended from
the elevation on which the former stands, and the villagers crowded to
gaze upon the fugitives, and to guess, from the ensigns they bore, to
which party they belonged, while the warders from the near castle
hastened out to stop them, thus to curry favour with the conqueror; a
design wholly baffled. The good steeds of the knights, for such their
golden spurs attested them to be, bore them fast and far along the Roman
road, which still exists in those parts to shame our modern builders. It
was dusk when, turning from the direct route to avoid entering Welford,
they reached a ford of the Avon. Hitherto silence had prevailed with the
party--for until now their anxiety to fly had solely occupied their
thoughts. Their appearance spoke of war, nay, of slaughter. Their cloaks
were stained and torn; their armour was disjointed, and parts of it were
wanting; yet these losses were so arbitrary, that it was plain that the
pieces had been hacked from their fastenings. The helm of the foremost
was deprived of its crest; another wore the bonnet of a common soldier,
which ill accorded with the rest of his accoutrements; while the third,
bareheaded, his hair fallings on his shoulders, lank and matted from
heat and exercise, gave more visible tokens of the haste of flight. As
the night grew darker, one of them, and then another, seemed willing to
relax somewhat in their endeavours: one alone continued, with
unmitigated energy, to keep his horse at the same pace they had all
maintained during the broad light of day.
When they reached the ford, the silence was broken by the hindmost
horseman; he spoke in a petulant voice, saying:--"Another half mile at
this pace, and poor Flœur-de-Luce founders; if you will not slacken
your speed, here we part, my friends. God save you till we meet again!"
"Evil betide the hour that separates us, brother!" said the second
fugitive, reining in; "our cause, our peril, our fate shall be the same.
You, my good lord, will consult your own safety." The third cavalier had
already entered the stream: he made a dead halt while his friends spoke,
and then replied:--"Let us name some rendezvous where, if we escape, we
may again meet. I go on an errand of life and death: my success is
doubtful, my danger certain. If I succeed in evading it, where shall I
rejoin you?"
"Though the event of this day has been fatal to the king," answered the
other, "our fortunes are not decided. I propose taking refuge in some
sanctuary, till we perceive how far the earl of Richmond is inclined to
mercy."
"I knew the earl when a mere youth, Sir Humphrey Stafford," said the
foremost rider, "and heard more of him when I visited Brittany, at the
time of King Louis's death, two years ago. When mercy knocks at his
heart, suspicion and avarice give her a rough reception. We must fly
beyond sea, unless we can make further stand. More of this when we meet
again. Where shall that be?"
"I have many friends near Colchester," replied the elder Stafford, "and
St. Mary boasts an asylum there which a crowned head would not dare
violate. Thence, if all else fail, we can pass with ease to the Low
Countries."
"In sanctuary at Colchester--I will not fail you. God bless and
preserve you the while!"
The noble, as he said these words, put spurs to his horse, and without
looking back, crossed the stream, and turning on the skirts of a copse,
was soon out of sight of his companions. He rode all night, cheering his
steed with hand and voice; looking angrily at the early dawning east,
which soon cast from her cloudless brow the dimness of night. Yet the
morning air was grateful to his heated cheeks. It was a perfect summer's
morn. The wheat, golden from ripeness, swayed gracefully to the light
breeze; the slender oats shook their small bells in the air with
ceaseless motion; the birds, twittering, alighted from the full-leaved
trees, scattering dew-drops from the branches. With the earliest dawn,
the cavalier entered a forest, traversing its depths with the hesitation
of one unacquainted with the country, and looked frequently at the sky,
to be directed by the position of the glowing east. A path more worn
than the one he had hitherto followed now presented itself, leading into
the heart of the wood. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then, with a
word of cheer to his horse, pursued his way into the embowering thicket.
After a short space the path narrowed, the meeting branches of the trees
impeded him, and the sudden angle it made from the course he wished to
follow, served to perplex him still farther; but as he vented his
impatience by hearty Catholic exclamations, a little tinkling bell spoke
of a chapel near, and of the early rising of the priest to perform the
matin service at its altar. The horse of the fugitive, a noble
war-steed, had long flagged; and hunger gnawed at the rider's own
heart, for he had not tasted food since the morning of the previous day.
These sounds, therefore, heard in so fearless a seclusion, bore with
them pleasant tidings of refreshment and repose. He crossed himself in
thankfulness; then throwing himself from his horse (and such change was
soothing to his stiffened limbs), he led him through the opening glade
to where a humble chapel and a near adjoining hut stood in the bosom of
the thicket, emblems of peace and security.
The cavalier tied his horse to a tree, and entered the chapel. A
venerable priest was reading the matin service; one old woman composed
his congregation, and she was diligently employed telling her beads. The
bright rays of the newly-risen sun streamed through the eastern window,
casting the chequered shadow of its lattice work on the opposite wall.
The chapel was small and rustic; but it was kept exquisitely clean: the
sacred appurtenances of the altar also were richer than was usual, and
each shrine was decked with clusters of flowers, chiefly composed of
white roses. No high praise, indeed, was due to the rude picture of the
Virgin of the Annunciation, or of the Announcing Angel, a representation
of whom formed the altar-piece; but in barbaric England, in those days,
piety stood in place of taste, and that which represented Our Lady
received honour, however unworthy it might be of the inspiress of
Raphael or Correggio. The cavalier took his disornamented casque from
his head, placed it on the ground, and knelt reverentially on the bare
earth. He had lately escaped from battle and slaughter, and he surely
thought that he had especial motive for thanksgiving; so that if his
lips uttered a mere soldier's "Ave," still it had the merit of fervour
and sincerity.
Had he been less occupied by his own feelings, he might have remarked
the many glances the priest cast on him, who dishonoured his learning
and piety by frequent mistakes of language, as his thoughts wandered
from his breviary, to observe with deep attention his unexpected
visitor. At length the service ended: the old dame rose from her knees,
and satisfied her curiosity, which she had excited by many a look
askance, by a full and long gaze on the cavalier. His hewn armour, torn
cloak, and, unseemly for the sacred spot, the dread stains on his
garments and hands, were all minutely scanned. Nor did his personal
appearance escape remark. His stature was tall, his person well knit,
showing him to be a man of about thirty years of age. His features were
finely moulded, his grey eyes full of fire, his step had the dignity of
rank, and his look expressed chivalrous courage and frankness. The good
woman had not been long engaged in surveying the stranger, when her
pastor beckoned her to retire, and himself advanced, replying to the
soldier's salute with a benedicite, and then hastily inquiring if he
came from the field.
"Even so, father," said the cavalier; "I come from the field of the
bloody harvest. Has any intelligence of it travelled hither so speedily?
If so, I must have wandered from the right road, and am not so far on my
journey as I hoped."
"I have only heard that a battle was expected," said the priest, "and
your appearance tells me that it is over. The fortunes, nay, perhaps the
life of a dear friend are involved in its issue, and I fear that it is
adverse--for you fly from pursuit, and methinks, though stained with
dust and blood, that emblem on your breast is the White Rose."
The warrior looked on the old man, whose dignity and language were at
variance with his lowly destination; he looked partly in wonder, and
partly to assure himself of his questioner's sincerity. "You are weary,
Sir Knight," added the monk, whose experienced eyes had glanced to the
golden spurs of his visitant; "come to my hermitage, there to partake of
such refreshment as I can bestow. When your repast is ended, I will, by
confidence on my part, merit yours."
This invitation was that of worldly courtesy, rather than the rustic
welcome of a recluse monk. The cavalier thanked him cordially, adding,
that he must first provide food and water for his horse, and that
afterwards he would gratefully accept his host's invitation. The old man
entered with the spirit of a soldier into his guest's anxiety for his
steed, and assisted in purveying to its wants, ingratiating himself
meanwhile with its master, by discovering and praising scientifically
its points of beauty. The poor animal showed tokens of over fatigue, yet
still he did not refuse his food, and the cavalier marked with joy that
his eye grew brighter and his knees firmer after feeding.
They then entered the cottage, and the soldier's eye was attracted from
more sacred emblems by a sword which was suspended over a picture of the
Virgin:--"You belong to our Chivalry!" he exclaimed, while his
countenance lighted up with joyful recognition.
"Now I belong to the holy order whose badge I wear," the monk replied,
pointing to his Benedictine dress. "In former days I followed a brave
leader to the field, and, in his service, incurred such guilt, as I now
try to expiate by fasting and prayer."
The monk's features were convulsed by agitation as he spoke, then
crossing his arms on his breast, he was absorbed in thought for a few
moments, after which he raised his head and resumed the calm and even
serene look that characterized him. "Sir Knight," said he, motioning to
the table now spread for the repast, "I have but poor fare to offer, but
a soldier will not disdain its meagreness. My wine I may praise, as
being the produce of a generous vintage; I have kept it sealed, to open
it on occasions like the present, and rejoice that your strength will be
recruited by it."
Bread, fruits, cheese, and a flagon of the wine, which merited the
giver's eulogium, composed the fugitive's breakfast, whose fatigue
required cordial and repose. As he was occupied by his repast, his host
eyed him with evident agitation, eager yet fearful to question him on
the subject of the battle. At length he again asked, "You come from the
field on which the forces of the king and of the earl of Richmond met?"
"I do."
"You fought for the White Rose, and you fly?"
"I fought for the White Rose till it was struck to the ground. The king
has fallen with his chief nobility around him. Few Yorkists remain to
mourn the success of the Lancastrians."
Deep grief clouded the old man's countenance, but accustomed to subdue
his feelings, as one on whom, being stricken by an overwhelming misery,
all subsequent disasters fall blunted, he continued with greater
calmness: "Pardon me, noble gentleman, if I appear to ask an indiscreet
question. You are of lordly bearing, and probably filled a place near
the royal person. Did you hear, on the night before last, aught of the
arrival of a stranger youth at the king's tent?"
The knight eyed the old man with a quick glance, asking, in his turn,
"Are you, then, the foster-father of King Richard's son?"
"Did you see my boy?" cried the priest. "Did his father acknowledge
him?--Where is he now?--Did he enter the ranks to fight and fall for
his parent?"
"On the night of which you speak," said the stranger, evading the
immediate question, "the king placed his son's hand in mine, as I vowed
to protect and guard him if ill befell our party, as it has befallen."
"Surely some presentiment of evil haunted the king's mind."
"I do believe it; for his manner was solemn and affecting. He bade the
youth remember that he was a Plantagenet, and spoke proudly of the
lineage from which he sprung. The young esquire listened intently,
looking at his father with such an ingenuous and thoughtful expression,
that he won my heart to love him."
"Now bless thee, Sir Knight, whoever thou art, for this praise of my
poor Edmund. I pray you, hasten to tell me what more passed."
The cavalier continued his account; but his manner was serious, as if
the conclusion of his tale would afflict his auditor. He related how, on
quitting the royal tent, he had led Edmund Plantagenet to his own,
there to converse with him awhile, the better to learn whether his
bearing and speech showed promise of future merit. King Richard had
enjoined his son to return to his seclusion early on the following
morning; but as soon as he entered his conductor's tent, he knelt to him
and asked a boon, while tears gathered in his eyes, and his voice was
broken by the fervour of his desire. The noble was moved by his
entreaties, and promised to grant his request, if it did not militate
against his honour and allegiance. "It is for honour that I speak," said
Plantagenet; "I am older in years than in seeming, for already I number
twenty summers; and, spite of my boyish look, I am familiar with martial
exercises, and the glorious promise of war. Let me draw my sword for my
father to-morrow--let me, at your side, prove myself a worthy
descendant of the conquerors of France! Who will fight for King Richard
with greater courage, fidelity, and devotion, than his acknowledged and
duteous son?" The cavalier yielded to his noble yearnings. Clothed in
armour he entered the ranks, and hovered a protecting angel near his
parent during the bloody contest. And now, as his venerable guardian
watched with trembling eagerness the countenance of his guest while he
told his tale, and the stranger, with bitter regret, was about to relate
that he had seen Plantagenet felled to the ground by a battle-axe, quick
steps, and then a knocking, was heard at the cottage door. The stranger
started on his feet, and put his hand upon his sword; but a bright smile
illuminated the monk's face, as the very youth of whom they spoke,
Edmund Plantagenet, rushed into the apartment. His soiled garments and
heated brow spoke of travel and fatigue, while his countenance wore an
expression of wildness and even of horror. He started when he saw the
stranger, but quickly recognized him as his new friend. "Thank God!" he
cried, "that you, my dear lord, have not fallen into the hands of, the
sacrilegious usurper! It is my father's spirit that has saved you for
his son's sake, that I may not be utterly abandoned and an orphan."
With milder accost he bent his knee to his holy guardian, and then
turned to answer the cavalier's questions of how he had escaped death
from the blow he had received, and what new events had occurred since he
had quitted the field early on the preceding day?--while the monk chid
him for his disobedience to his father's commands, in having mingled
with the fray. The eyes of Plantagenet flashed fire at this
reproach.--"Could I know that my father's crown and life," he exclaimed
impetuously, "depended on the combat, and not bring to his aid my weak
arm? God of Heaven! had there been five hundred true as I, we might all
have fallen round him: but never, never, should I have seen the sight
which last night I saw--nor heard the sounds I last night heard!"
The youth covered his face with his hands, and the boiling tears
trickled between his fingers. "Tell me," cried the noble, "what has
happened?--and swiftly tell me, for I loiter here too long."
Almost suffocated by emotion, Plantagenet related, that when he
recovered from the trance into which the fearful blow he had received
had thrown him, the earl's camp-followers were busy among the slain: and
that he had seen the body of King Richard--of his father--thrown
half-naked across a mule, thus to be borne to be exposed to the public
gaze and mockery in Leicester, where, but the day before, he had ridden
with the royal crown on his head, the acknowledged sovereign of England.
And that crown, base, ill-bartered bauble, having been found in the tent
by Lord Stanley, he had brought and placed on Richmond's head, while the
soldiers, with one acclaim, hailed him Henry the Seventh, King of
England.
The last words more than the others, for the death of his royal master
was already known to him, moved the knight:--"Is this the end of our
hopes?" he cried. "Am I then too late? Farewell, my friends!
Plantagenet, I shall never forget my oath to the king; I shall become, I
fear, an outcast and a soldier of fortune, even if I escape worse fate;
but claim when you will, and it shall be yours, whatever protection I
can afford you."
"Yield, then. Lord Lovel," said the youth, "to my first request. You are
in peril, let me share it; permit me to accompany you. If you refuse, my
plan is already formed; I repair to the earl of Lincoln, whom King
Richard named his successor, and offer myself as a soldier in his
attempt to discrown the usurping Henry, and to raise again the White
Rose to its rightful supremacy."
"To the earl of Lincoln--the successor of Richard--to him you would
repair? It is well--come with me now, and I will present you to that
nobleman. If your foster-father consents, bid adieu to this seclusion
for a time, and accompany me to London, to new contests--to the combat
of right against might--to success and honour, or to defeat and death!"
The sun had risen high when, having taken leave of the venerable monk,
who would not oppose his pupil's gallant spirit of enterprise, Lord
Lovel and young Plantagenet threaded the forest paths, which, by a safer
and a shorter route than the highway, took them on their road to London.
For a time they led their horses with difficulty through the entangled
thicket, when at last reaching the open road, they mounted, and Lord
Lovel, who was desirous of estimating the abilities and disposition of
his companion, entered into conversation with him. They first conversed
on the sad changes which were the work of the eventful day of battle;
afterwards the cavalier led Edmund to speak of himself, his early life,
his acquirements, and his hopes.
When Plantagenet was but ten years old his mother died, and her last
request to the father of her boy, founded on a deep knowledge of the
world, was, that her son might be educated far from the court, nor be
drawn from the occupations and happier scenes of private life, to become
a hanger-on of princes and nobles. There was a man, a gentleman and a
knight, who had been a partizan of the White Rose, and who had fought
and bled for it in various battles between the duke of York and Henry
the Sixth. In one of these, the misery of the times, and horrible
consequences of civil dissension, caused him unwittingly to lift his
armed hand against his twin brother, nor did he discover the mistake
till, with his dying voice, that brother called on him to assist him
against his slayer. A life of seclusion, penance, and prayer, alone
blunted his sense of remorse, and quitting the world, he retired to a
monastery, where after due noviciate he took vows, and then shrinking
from commerce with his kind, followed by visions that spoke for ever to
him of his unnatural crime, he retreated to the forest of
Leicestershire, to dwell alone with his grief and his repentance.
His retreat was known to many of his friends, and chance had brought the
duke of Gloucester at one time to visit him; when the ancient warrior
rejoiced with enthusiasm at the exaltation of the party to which he was
attached. The death of the mother of Edmund had the effect of softening
the duke's heart, of making for a short interval worldly cares and
objects distasteful to him, and of filling him with a desire of
seclusion and peace. If he was unable to enjoy these himself, he
resolved that at least his child should not be drawn by him into the
thorny path of rivalship and ambition. His mother's last injunction
strengthened this feeling; and the duke, visiting again the hermit of
the wood, induced him to take charge of Edmund, and bringing him up in
ignorance of his real parentage, to bestow such education on him as
would enable him to fill with reputation an honourable, if not a
distinguished station in society. This order of things was not changed
by Richard's exaltation to the crown. On the contrary, the dangers he
incurred from his usurpation made him yet more anxious to secure a
peaceful existence for his offspring. When, however, his legitimate son,
whom he had created prince of Wales, died, paternal affection awoke
strong in his heart, and he could not resist his desire of seeing
Edmund: a memorable visit for the priest-bred nursling of the forest! It
gave him a link with society, with which before he had felt no
connexion: his imagination and curiosity were highly excited. His
revered friend, yielding to his eager demands, was easily enticed to
recur to the passed scenes of an eventful life. The commencement of the
wars of the two Roses, and their dreadful results, furnished
inexhaustible topics of discourse. Plantagenet listened with breathless
interest, although it was not till the eve of the battle of Bosworth,
that he knew how indissolubly his own fortunes were linked with those of
the house of York.
The events of the few last days had given him a new existence. For the
first time, feeling was the parent of action; and a foregoing event
drove him on to the one subsequent. He was excited to meditate on a
thousand schemes, while the unknown future inspired him with an awe that
thrilled his young heart with mingled pain and pleasure. He uttered his
sentiments with the ingenuousness of one who had never been accustomed
to converse with any but a friend; and as he spoke, his dark and
thoughtful eyes beamed with a tempered fire, that showed him capable of
deep enthusiasm, though utter want of knowledge of the world must make
him rather a follower than a leader.
They rode on meanwhile, the noble cavalier and gentle squire indulging
in short repose. The intense fatigue Edmund at first endured, seemed to
be subdued by the necessity of its continuance, nor did it prevent him
from conversing with Lord Lovel. He was anxious thoroughly to understand
the immediate grounds of the earl of Richmond's invasion, and to
ascertain the relative position of the remaining chiefs of the White
Rose: "Where," he asked, "are Edward the Fourth's children?"
"The elder of these," Lord Lovel replied, "the Lady Elizabeth, is, by
direction of her uncle, at Sheriff Hutton, in Yorkshire."
"And where are the princes? Edward, who was proclaimed king, and his
younger brother?"
"They were long imprisoned in the Tower. Young Edward died there more
than a year ago."
"And the Duke of York?"
"He is supposed to have died also: they were both sickly boys."
Lord Lovel said these words in a grave voice, and suspicion would have
been instilled into any but the unsuspecting Edmund, of some covert
meaning. After a short pause, he continued:--"the question of the
succession stands thus. Your father, the duke of Gloucester, threw the
stigma of illegitimacy on King Edward's children, and thus took from
them their right of inheriting the crown. The attainder of the duke of
Clarence was considered reason sufficient why his children should be
excluded from the throne, and their uncle, in consequence, became, by
right of birth, king of England: his son he created prince of Wales. We
submitted; for a child like Edward the Fifth could scarcely be supported
against an experienced warrior, a man of talent, a sage and just king,
but at the expense of much blood. The wounds inflicted by the opposing
houses of York and Lancaster were yet, as the late successful rebellion
proves, unhealed; and had the Yorkists contended among themselves, they
would yet sooner have lost the supremacy they so hardly acquired:
Richard therefore received our oaths of allegiance. When his son died,
the question of who was the heir to the crown became agitated; and the
king at first declared the earl of Warwick, the son of the duke of
Clarence, to be his successor. It was a dangerous step--and the
imprudent friends of the young earl made it more so--to name him to
succeed, who, if he were permitted at any time to wear the crown, might
claim precedence of him who possessed it. Poor Warwick paid the penalty
of youth and presumption: he is now a prisoner at Sheriff Hutton; and
John de la Poole, earl of Lincoln, son of Richard's sister, and by the
removal of the children of his elder brothers, his heir by law was
nominated to succeed his uncle. I am now proceeding to him. I am
ignorant of the conduct he will pursue; whether he will make head
against this Lancastrian king, or----. Lincoln is a noble cavalier; a
man whom bright honour clothes; he is brave, generous, and good. I shall
guide myself by his counsels and resolves; and you, it appears, will
follow my example."
After a pause, Lord Lovel continued: "After the death or disappearance
of his princely nephews, the king, wishing to confirm his title, was
ready to take the stigma thrown on their birth from his brother's
daughters, and to marry his niece, the Lady Elizabeth. Her mother at
first resisted, but the prospect of seeing her children restored to
their rights, and herself to her lost dignity, overcame her objections,
and the princess yielded a willing consent. Meanwhile, the Yorkists, who
joined the earl of Richmond, extorted from him a vow that he would make
King Edward's daughter his queen; and even the Lancastrians, thinking
thus to secure a king of their own, are eager for this union: yet the
earl hates us all so cordially that he was hardly brought to consent.
Should he, now that he has declared himself king, evade his promise, the
children of Elizabeth Woodville will suffer the stain of illegitimacy;
but if the marriage has place, and this unhappy race is restored to
their honours and rights, our self-named sovereign may find that his own
hands have dug the pit into which he will fall."
A long silence succeeded to these explanations. The last expression used
by Lovel inspired Edmund with wonder and curiosity; but the noble
pressing his horse to a swifter pace, did not hear his observations, or
hearing them, replied only by saying, "Three hours' good riding will
bring us to London. Courage, Plantagenet! slacken not your speed, my
good boy; soft ease will follow this hard labour."
The young moon in its first quarter was near its setting when they
arrived at London. They approached from Edgware: without entering the
town, they skirted its northern extremity, till Lord Lovel, checking his
horse, remarked to his companion, that he judged it fitting to delay
approaching the residence of the earl of Lincoln, until the setting of
the moon and subsequent darkness secured them from observation.