THE DISCOVERY
Our king he kept a false stewarde,
Sir Aldingar they him call;
A falser stewarde than he was one,
Served not in bower nor hall.
OLD BALLAD.
Whoever writes concerning the actions of the men of the olden time, must
sadden the reader by details of war, descriptions of fields of battle,
narrations of torture, imprisonment, and death. But here also we find
records of high virtues and exalted deeds. It is at first sight strange
that men whose trade was murder, who habitually wore offensive weapons,
whose chief happiness was derived from the glory they acquired by
inflicting misery on others, should be among those who live in our
memories as examples of what is most graceful and excellent in human
nature. Too great security destroys the spirit of manhood, while the
habit of hazardous enterprise strengthens and exalts it. It was not
because they destroyed others, that the warriors of old were famous for
honour, courage, and fidelity; but because, from some motive springing
from the unselfish part of our nature, they exposed themselves to danger
and to death.
It was at times such as these that friendship formed the chief solace of
man's life. The thought of his lady-love supported the knight during his
wanderings, and rewarded him on his return; but the society of his
brothers in arms shortened the weary hours, and made peril pleasure.
Death, the severer of hearts and destroyer of hope, is, in its actual
visitation, the great evil of life--the ineffaceable blot, the
tarnisher of the imagination's brightest hues; but if he never came, but
only hovered, the anticipation of his advent might be looked upon as the
refiner of our nature. To go out under the shadow of his dark banner,
hand in hand, to encounter a thousand times his grim likeness; to travel
on through unknown ways, during starless nights, through forests beset
with enemies, over mountains, whose defiles hid him but to assure his
aim; to meet him arrayed in his full panoply on the field of battle; to
separate in danger; to meet on the verge of annihilation; and still,
through every change, to reap joy, because every peril was mutual, every
emotion shared, was a school for heroic friendship that does not now
exist. In those times, also, man was closer linked with nature than now;
and the sublimity of her creations exalted his imagination, and elevated
his enthusiasm--dark woods, wild mountains, and the ocean's vast
expanse, form a stage on which, when we act our parts, we feel that
mightier natures than our own witness the scenes we present, and our
hearts are subdued by awe to resignation.
Edmund Plantagenet, the forest-bred son of Richard the Third, the late
companion of the illustrious Lincoln and gallant Lovel, lay long
insensible on the field of battle, surrounded by the dead--he awoke
from his swoon to the consciousness that they lay strewed around him
dead, whom he had worshipped as heroes, loved as friends. Life became a
thankless boon; willingly would he have closed his eyes, and bid his
soul also go on her journey to the unknown land, to which almost all
those to whom he had been linked during his past existence had preceded
him. He was rescued by a charitable friar from this sad state--his
wound was dressed--life, and with it liberty, restored to him. After
some reflection, the first use he resolved to make of these gifts was to
visit the young duke of York at Tournay.
Edmund's mind, without being enterprising, was full of latent energy,
and contemplative enthusiasm. The love of virtue reigned paramount in
it; nor could he conceive happiness unallied to some pursuit, whose
origin was duty, whose aim was the good of others. His father, his
ambition and his downfall, were perpetual subjects for reflection; to
atone for the first and redeem the last, in the person of his nephew,
became, in his idea, the only fitting end of his life. Fostering this
sentiment, he speedily formed the determination of attaching himself to
the exiled duke of York: first, to devote himself to the preserving and
educating him during childhood--and secondly, to fight and die for him,
when the time was ripe to assert his rights.
During his hazardous journey to Flanders, Edmund was supported by that
glowing sensation which borrows the hues and sometimes the name of
happiness; it was an ecstatic mood that soared above the meaner cares of
life, and exalted him by the grandeur of his own ideas. Self-devotion
is, while it can keep true to itself, the best source of human
enjoyment: there is small alloy when we wholly banish our own wretched
clinging individuality, in our entire sacrifice at the worshipped
shrine. Edmund became aware of the value of his own life, as he planned
how in future he should be the guardian and protector of his unfriended,
peril-encircled orphan cousin. A religious sentiment of filial love also
influenced him; for thus he could in some sort repair the wrongs
committed by his father. There was much in Edmund's temperament that
might have rendered him a mere dreamer. The baser ends of common men
possessed no attractions for him; but a lofty purpose developed the best
points of his character.
It was early dawn, when, a month after the battle of Stoke, Plantagenet,
in pursuance of his design, arrived at the cottage of Madeline de Faro,
where, under the lowly name of Perkin Warbeck, dwelt the noble scion of
the house of York. It was a lovely spot--trees embowered the cot, roses
bloomed in the garden, and jessamine and woodbine were twined round the
porch. The morning breeze and rising sun filled the atmosphere with
sweets. Already the cottagers were enjoying its fragrance, and Edmund,
as he alighted, beheld the object of his journey--the fair-haired
stripling prince and his protectress Madeline. Edmund was
one-and-twenty, but his brow was more bent, his eye more thoughtful, his
cheek more pale and sunk than befitted his age; it was only when he
smiled that frankness displayed solemnity, and those who conversed with
him were ever eager to call forth those smiles, which, like sunbeams
that chase the shadows on a green hill-side, made darkness light.
Confidence readily springs up between the open-hearted and good; and
Edmund and the inhabitants of the cottage found no impediment to entire
reliance on each other. Madeline was overjoyed that her young charge
should find manly guardianship in his cousin, and mentioned how often
her fears had been awakened on his account, and how suspicions had got
abroad concerning him among the citizens of Tournay.
Madeline, the sister of the Fleming, John Warbeck, was married to a
Spaniard in the service of Portugal. In those days, just previous to the
discovery of America by Columbus, while that illustrious man was
offering his unesteemed services at Lisbon, the Portuguese were full of
the spirit of enterprise and maritime adventure. Each year new vessels
were sent southward along the unexplored shores of Africa, to discover
beyond the torrid zone a route to India. Hernan de Faro was a
mariner--it was during one of his voyages to Holland that he had seen
and married Madeline, and he left her in her native country, while he
pursued his fortunes down the Golden Coast as far as the Cape of Good
Hope. He had been absent longer than she had anticipated, and each day
might bring the wanderer back, when he purposed taking her with him to
his native Spain. What, then, must become of Richard? Plantagenet saw at
once the necessity of visiting the court of Burgundy, and of placing her
nephew at the disposition of the Duchess Margaret.
The young prince was now fourteen--he had shot up in height beyond his
years, beautiful in his boyhood, and of greater promise for the future.
His clear blue laughing eyes--his clustering auburn hair--his cheeks,
whose rosy hue contrasted with the milk-white of his brow--his tall and
slender but agile person, would have introduced him to notice among a
crowd of strangers.
His very youthful voice was attuned to sweetness. If Edmund found the
Lady Margaret lukewarm, he need only lead the noble boy into her
presence to interest her in his favour. Richard heard with tearful eyes
of the imprisonment of his mother, and the slaughter of his kinsmen and
friends. His heart for the moment desired vengeance; he would himself
seek his aunt of Burgundy, and aided by her, attack the usurper. With
difficulty he permitted his cousin to depart alone; but he was obliged
to yield, and Plantagenet set out for Brussels, promising a speedy
return.
About a week after Edmund's departure, another visitor arrived at the
cottage of the exile. A violent storm had overtaken Duke Richard and his
constant companion, Madeline's daughter, in one of their wanderings in
the fields near Tournay. As they stood for shelter under a half-ruined
building, a traveller came to share the asylum. He was a Frenchman--a
Provençal by his accent; for he immediately entered into conversation
with them. As he is a man spoken of in the Chronicles, he shall receive
his name at once; this apparently chance-traveller was Frion, Stephen
Frion, King Henry's secretary. He had been employed to search out the
young prince by such tokens as Richard Simon had given, and chance had
caused him to fall in with Edmund, whom he had before remarked in
attendance on the earl of Lincoln. Easily guessing that Edmund's journey
might have connection with his own, he tracked him to Tournay, and then
by some untoward chance lost sight of him. The indefatigable spy had
spent the last week in a particular survey of every spot round the town
and in the neighbouring cities, to discover his lost clue. Overtaken by
a storm on his return from Lisle, he suddenly found himself under a shed
with a youth whose appearance at once excited his strongest curiosity.
What Frion loved beyond all other things was power and craft. He had
been a subject of the poetical King René of Provence; but, despatched
on some occasion to Louis the Eleventh, he entered into the service of
that monarch, whose subtlety and faithlessness were a school of wisdom
to this man. On one subject did he love to dwell--the contrast between
Charles of Burgundy and Louis of France; the first commencing his reign
by combating and vanquishing the latter, and dying miserably at last by
a traitor's hand, his armies cut to pieces, his domains the unresisting
prey of his rival; while Louis, by serpent ways, by words--not
deeds--gained every point, won every follower, and established his rule
at last over the greater part of the wide territories of the fallen
duke. In a minor way Frion aimed at imitating Louis; but he was
naturally more fiery and rash. He had visited Italy also, and studied
there the wiles and cruelties of the Italian lords; crossing back to
Marseilles, he had been seized by corsairs and carried to Africa:--here
he put in practice some of his lessons, and contrived to make himself a
favourite with his Mahometan master, who afterwards crossed to Spain to
serve under the Moorish king of Granada. Frion was quickly distinguished
for his sagacity in the divided counsels of this distracted kingdom, and
became the trusty adviser of him called Boabdil el Chico. When this
unfortunate sovereign was taken prisoner by the Spaniards, Frion was a
chief mediator between them and the Sultana Ayza. At the court of
Ferdinand and Isabella he met several Frenchmen, who awakened in his
heart a keen desire to revisit his native country. He took advantage of
an embassy thither from the court of Spain, to fulfil his wishes, but
arrived at Plessis only in time to witness Louis' death. Two years
afterwards he was found in the train of the earl of Richmond--the
future secretary, spy, and favourite of Henry the Seventh--now
travelling by his order to find, seize, or destroy, the last blossom of
the uprooted White Rose.
Frion was rather handsome in appearance, with bright black eyes and dark
hair, a complexion embrowned by the sun, a look of gaiety--unless when
controlled by the will of a superior, he was always laughing--a quiet
kind of sarcastic laugh; he looked not the man Cæsar would have feared,
except that his person was rather inclined to leanness; but he was
active and well versed in martial exercises, though better in clerkly
accomplishments. His early youth had been chiefly employed in copying
poetry for King René--he wrote beautifully, and his small white hands
were the objects of his own very great admiration. Such was his outward
look; he had stores of science and knowledge within, which he seldom
displayed, or, when necessary, let appear with all the modesty of one
who deemed such acquirements were of little worth--useful sometimes,
but fitter for a servitor than his lord. No words could describe his
wiliness, his power of being all things to all men, his flattery, his
knowledge of human nature, his unparalleled artifice, which, if it could
be described, would not have been the perfect thing it was: it was not
silken, it was not glossy, but it wound its way unerringly. Could it
fail--the rage and vengeance to follow were as certain as dire, for,
next to love of power, vanity ruled this man; all he did was right and
good, other pursuits contemptible and useless.
Such was the serpent-spirited man who contrived to partake Richard's
shelter; he eyed him keenly, he addressed him, and the prince replied to
his questions about an asylum for the night, by a courteous invitation
to his home. "The boy speaks not like a cotter: his eye beams with
nobleness. What a freak of nature, to make one in appearance a king's
son, the plodding offspring of a rude Fleming!" As these thoughts passed
through Frion's mind, the truth came not across him; and he even
hesitated for a moment whether he should not, now the storm had passed,
pursue his way: but his garments were wet, the ways miry, night at hand.
At a second thought he accepted the invitation, and leading his horse,
he accompanied the youthful pair to their cottage home.
Madeline, unsuspicious of one obviously a Frenchman, received him
without fear, and after a fire had dried the visitor's dress, they sat
down to a frugal supper. Frion, according to his usual manner, strove to
please his hosts. His gay discourse, the laughable, yet interesting
accounts he gave of various adventures that had befallen him, made all
three--the fair Madeline the ardent princely boy, and the dark-eyed
daughter of de Faro--sit in chained attention. When he heard that
Madeline was united to a Spaniard, he spoke of Spain, of Granada and the
Moorish wars; Richard's eyes flashed, and the dark orbs of the girl
dilated with wonder and delight.
At length he spoke of England, and his words implied that he had lately
come thence. "How fares the poor island?" asked the youth; "such stories
of its tyrant reach us here, that methinks its fields must be barren,
its people few."
"Had you been my comrade, young master, through merry Kent," said Frion,
"you would speak in another strain. Plenty and comfort, thanks to King
Harry and the Red Rose, flourish there. The earth is rich in corn, the
green fields peopled with fat kine, such as delight yon islanders. 'Give
an Englishman beef and mustard,' says our French proverb, 'and he is
happy;' they will find dearth of neither, while the sage Henry lives,
and is victorious."
"Yet we are told here," cried the youth, "that this Welsh earl, whom you
call king, grinds the poor people he has vanquished to the dust, making
them lament him they named Crookback, who, though an usurper, was a
munificent sovereign."
These words from a Fleming or a Frenchman sounded strange to Frion; the
doubt, which he wondered had not before presented itself, now came
full-fledged, and changed at its birth to certainty; yet, as the angler
plays with the hooked fish, he replied, "I, a stranger in the land, saw
its fair broad fields, and thought their cultivators prosperous; I heard
that the king was victorious over his foes, and deemed his subjects
happy. Yet, I bethink me, murmurs were abroad, of taxes and impositions.
They spoke, with regret, of the White Rose, and scowled when they said
that Elizabeth of York was rather a handmaiden in her husband's palace,
than queen of fertile England."
"Now, were I an English knight, with golden spurs," said the stripling,
"I would challenge to mortal combat that recreant Tudor, and force him
to raise fair Elizabeth to her fitting elevation: woe the while, all
England's good knights are slain, and the noble Lincoln, the last and
best of all, has perished!"
"You speak unwisely and unknowingly, of things you wot not of," said
Madeline, alarmed at the meaning glance of Frion; "good nephew Perkin,
your eyes see not even the English white cliffs, much less can your mind
understand its dangerous policy."
"Nay, dear mother," remarked her little daughter, "you have told me that
the noble earl and the good Lord Lovel had been kind guardians to my
cousin Peterkin: you chid him not when he wept their death, and you may
suffer him to reproach their foe."
"I know nothing of these lords," said Frion, "whose names are a
stumbling-block to a Frenchman's tongue. But methinks it is well for us
that they aim at each other's hearts, and make booty of their own
provender, no longer desolating the gay fields of France with their iron
hoofs."
And now, since that he had found him whom he sought, Frion talked again
of other matters, and, as before, his smooth and gay discourse gained
him pleased auditors. At length, the peaceful cottagers retired to rest,
and Frion sunk to sleep under their hospitable roof, after he had
thought of various plans by which he might possess himself of the
prince's person;--the readiest and safest way was to entice him to
accompany him alone some little space, no matter how short: he trusted
to his own skill to draw him still further and further on, till he
should be put on board the boat that would ferry him to his own revolted
England.