THE EXILES
A day will come when York shall claim his own;
Then York be still awhile, till time do serve.
SHAKSPEARE.
The further Edmund journeyed from the late abode of his lost cousin, the
more he felt displeased at the step he had taken; but on his arrival in
Paris his uncertainty ended. Warbeck had received intimation of the
hurried embarkation of his sister, and here also he found Lady Brampton,
whose husband had taken refuge in Paris after the battle of Stoke. Like
the queen dowager, the fate of Margaret of Anjou's son haunted this
lady, and she warmly espoused the idea of bringing the duke of York up
in safe obscurity, until his own judgment might lead him to choose
another line of action, or the opposing politics of Europe promised some
support to his cause. She agreed to repair herself to Brussels, to take
counsel with the duchess, to use all her influence and arts, and, as
soon as time was ripe, to proceed herself to Spain to announce it to the
prince. Meanwhile, Plantagenet, following his former purpose, would take
up his abode with Richard in Spain; teach him the science of arms, and
the more difficult lessons of courage, self-command, and prudent
conduct. In pursuance of this plan, Edmund lost no time in going to
Bordeaux, whence he embarked for Malaga, and following his friend's
steps, arrived shortly after him at the retreat De Faro had chosen among
the foldings of the mountains on the borders of Andalusia.[1]
De Faro's was a singular history. In those days, that park of Andalusia
which comprised the kingdom of Granada, was the seat of perpetual wars,
and even when armies did not meet to deluge its fertile plains and
valleys with their blood, troops led by noble cavaliers and illustrious
commanders overran its districts in search of plunder and glory. During
one of these incursions, in the year 1452, some impulse of religion or
humanity made a Spanish soldier snatch from a couch in the country-house
of a noble wealthy Moor, already half consumed, an infant hardly a year
old; the band was already in full retreat, and, fortunately, this
incident took place on the very frontiers of Granada, or the benevolence
of the soldier would hardly have been proof against the trouble his
little charge occasioned him. Toiling up the mountains on their return
to the kingdom of Jaen, they entered the little town of Alcala-la-Real,
where, on the side of the mountainous road, rose the walls of a
monastery. "How better," thought the soldier, "save the soul of this boy
than by giving him to the monks?" It was not, perhaps, the present they
would most readily have selected, but compassion and piety forbade them
to refuse it: the little Moor became a Christian by the name of Hernan,
and was brought up within the sacred precincts of the convent. Though
the monks were able to make a zealous Catholic of their nursling, they
did not succeed so well in taming his fiery spirit, nor could they
induce him to devote himself to the inactive and mortifying life of a
priest. Yet he was generous and daring, and thus acquired their
affection; next to being a recluse vowed to God, the vocation of a
soldier for the faith, in the eyes of these holy men, was to be
selected. Hernan advancing in life, and shooting up into strong and
premature manhood, was recommended by the abbot to his cousin, the
illustrious Don Rodrigo Ponce de Leon, marquess of Cadiz. He fought
several times under his banners, and in the year 1471 entered with him
the kingdom of Granada, and was wounded at the taking of Cardela. In
this last action it was, that a sudden horror of taking up arms against
his countrymen sprung up in Hernan's breast. He quitted Spain in
consequence; and, visiting Lisbon, he was led to embrace a sea-faring
life, and entered the marine service of the king of Portugal; at one
time, visiting Holland, where he sought and won the hand of Madeline:
and afterwards, with Bartholomew Diaz, he made one of the crew that
discovered the Cape of Good Hope. He sailed with three vessels, one of
which lost company of the others, and its crew underwent various and
dreadful perils at sea, and from the blacks on land: after nine months
they again fell in with their companions, three sailors only remaining.
One of these was Hernan de Faro; his skill, valour, and fortitude, had
saved the vessel; he was exalted to its command, and now, in safer
voyage over seas more known, he had freighted it with the fugitives
from Tournay.
During all his wanderings, even in the gay and rich Portugal, Hernan
turned with fond regret to his mountain home. To its rugged peaks, its
deep and silent dells; its torrents, its verdure, its straggling and
precipitous paths; its prospect over the rich and laughing Vega of
Granada. He had promised himself, after weary toils, a long repose in
this beloved spot; and hither he now led his wife, resolving to set up
his tent for ever in the land of his childhood, his happy childhood. It
was a strange place to choose, bordering on Granada, which at that time
was as lists in which Death and Havock sat umpires. But the situation of
Alcala-la-Real preserved it secure, notwithstanding its dangerous
neighbourhood. It was perched high upon the mountain, overlooking a
plain which had been for many years the scene of ruthless carnage and
devastation, being in itself an asylum for fugitives--a place of rest
for the victor--an eagle's nest, unassailable by the vultures of the
plain.
Here, then, Plantagenet found his cousin; here, in lovely and romantic
Spain. Though defaced and torn by war, Andalusia presented an aspect of
rich and various beauty, intoxicating to one whose life had been spent
in the plains of England, or the dull flats of Flanders. The purple
vineyards; the olive plantations clothing the burning hill-side; the
groves of mulberry, cork, pomegranate, and citron, that diversified the
fertile vegas or plains; the sweet flowing rivers, with their banks
adorned by scarlet geranium or odoriferous myrtle, made this spot
Nature's own favoured garden--a paradise unequalled upon earth. On such
a scene did the mountain-home of the exiles look down. Alcala, too, had
beauties of her own. Ilex and pine woods clothed the defiles of the
rugged Sierra, which stretched far and wide, torn by winter torrents
into vast ravines; variegated by a thousand intersecting lines, formed
by the foldings of the hills; the clouds found a home on the lofty
summits; the wandering mists crept along the abrupt precipices;
alternate light and shadow, rich in purple and golden hues, arrayed each
rocky peak or verdant slope in radiance all their own.
All this fair land had been under the dominion of the Moors. Now, town
by town, stronghold by stronghold, they had lost it; the riches of the
land belonged to the Christians, who still, by military conquest or
policy, pressed the realm of the Moorish sovereign into a narrower
compass; while, divided in itself, the unhappy kingdom fell piecemeal
into their hands. De Faro was a devout Catholic; but, with all his
intrepidity, more humanity than belonged to that age warmed his manly
heart. He remembered that he was a Moor: whenever he saw a Moslem
prisoner in chains, or a cavalgada of hapless women driven from their
native towns to slavery, the blood in his veins moved with instinctive
horror; and the idea that among them might pine and groan his parents,
his own relatives, burned like living coal in his breast. He had half
forgotten this when he came to Alcala, bringing his wife and child, and
resolved to set up here his home; but when, in the succeeding spring,
the Spanish army assembled on the frontiers of Murcia, and swept on
towards the south--when deeds of Moorish valour and Moorish suffering
reached Alcala--when the triumph of the Christians and their ravages
were repeated--the gallant mariner could endure no longer. "It is a
fruitless struggle," he said; "Granada must fall; and God, who searches
hearts, knows that his victory will be dear to me when the cross floats
from the towers of the Alhambra. But I cannot behold the dark,
blood-stained advances of the invader. I will go--go where man destroys
not his brother, where the wild winds and waves are the armies we
combat. In a year or two every sword will be sheathed; the peace of
conquest will reign over Andalusia. One other voyage, and I return."
He went without fear, for Alcala appeared a safe retreat, and left his
family spectators of the war. What a school for Richard! Edmund rejoiced
that he would be accomplished in knightly exercise in the land of
chivalry; but he was not prepared for the warlike enthusiasm that sprung
up in his cousin's heart, and even in his own. It was the cause of God
that armed the gentlemen of Spain, that put daring into the politic
Ferdinand's heart, and inspired with martial ardour the magnanimous
Isabella. The veteran cavaliers had lost many relatives and companions
in arms, in various defeats under the rocky castles, or within the
pathless defiles of Andalusia; and holy zeal possessed them to avenge
their deaths, or to deliver those who pined in bondage. The younger
knights, under the eye of their sovereigns, emulated each other in
gallantry and glory. They painted war with pomp, and adorned it by their
virtues.
Not many months before, the earl of Rivers, with a band of Englishmen,
aided at the siege of Loxa, and distinguished himself by his undaunted
bravery; his blunt but gay humour; his eager emulation with the Spanish
commanders. The duke of York heard, with a leaping heart, his mother's
brother's name. Had he still been there; but no, he had returned to fall
in affray in Britany, the victim of Tudor's heartless desertion--this
circumstance had given distinction and honour to the name of Englishmen;
nor did Edmund feel inclined to lower the national character by keeping
away from the scene of glory. What was to be done? York was a mere boy;
yet when Plantagenet spoke of serving under one of the illustrious
Catholic chieftains, York said, "I follow you; I will be your squire,
your page, your stirrup-boy; but I follow!"
In 1489 the siege of Baza was formed. It was defended with desperate
valour by the Moors, while every noble Spaniard capable of bearing arms
assembled in Ferdinand's camp, which glittered in silks and gay
caparisons; yet the very luxury of the warriors was ennobled by their
valour. The sallies on the part of the besieged were furious; the
repulse they sustained, determined and successful. When closely hemmed
in, the Moors relaxed in their desperate efforts. The younger Christian
cavaliers used the leisure so afforded them to unite in making
incursions in the surrounding country, to cut off supplies, and to
surprise the foraging-parties of the enemy. Two youths became
conspicuous in these exploits; both proclaimed their English origin. One
bore a knight's golden spurs (Edmund had been knighted on the eve of the
battle of Stoke by the earl of Lincoln), and boasted of his royal,
though illegitimate, descent; the other, a beardless, fair-haired,
blooming boy, was nameless, save by the Christian appellation of
Ricardo, to which was added the further designation of El Muchacho, from
his extreme youth. It was a lovely yet an awful sight to behold this
pair. The elder, whose dark eyes and dun complexion gave him a greater
resemblance to his southern comrades, never lost sight of his young
friend; side by side, his shield before Richard's breast, they went to
the field. When Edmund would otherwise have pressed forward, he hung
back to guard his cousin; and when the boy was hurried forward in the
ardour of fight, still his kinsman's gaze was on him--his sword
protecting him in every aspect of danger. If the stripling were
attacked, Edmund's eyes flashed fire, and mortal vengeance fell upon his
foe. They became the discourse of the camp; and Plantagenet's modesty,
and Richard's docility in all, save avoiding peril, advanced them still
further in the favour of the grave, courteous Spaniards. "Art thou,
then, motherless?" Isabel asked; "if thou art not, thy gentle parent
must pass many wakeful nights for thee!" At length, in one skirmish,
both the youths got surrounded by the foe. Richard's young arm, wearied
by the very sword he bore, gave ineffectual blows. Forgetting that he
left himself unguarded, Edmund rushed between him and his assailant;
others came to their assistance; but Plantagenet was already struck to
the ground; and for many weeks York forgot even the glorious emulation
of arms, while watching over his best and dearest friend. Meanwhile Baza
surrendered; and the cousins returned to Alcala, to Madeline and her
fair child; and domestic peace succeeded to the storms of war. Richard
loved Madeline as his mother; her daughter was his sister, his angel
sister, whose tenderness and heroism of character commanded deep
affection.
Monina de Faro was, even in childhood, a being to worship and to love.
There was a dreamy sweetness in her countenance, a mystery in the
profound sensibility of her nature, that fascinated beyond all compare.
Her characteristic was not so much the facility of being impressed, as
the excess of the emotion produced by every new idea or feeling. Was she
gay?--her large eyes laughed in their own brightness, her lovely
countenance became radiant with smiles, her thrilling voice was attuned
to lightest mirth, while the gladness that filled her heart overflowed
from her as light does from the sun, imparting to all around a share of
its own essence. Did sorrow oppress her?--dark night fell upon her
mind, clouding her face, oppressing her whole person, which staggered
and bent beneath the freight. Had she been susceptible of the stormier
passions, her subtle and yielding soul would have been their unresisting
victim--but though impetuous--wild--the slave of her own sensations,
her soft bosom could harbour no emotion unallied to goodness: and the
devouring appetite of her soul, was the desire of benefiting all around
her. Her countenance was the mirror of her mind. Its outline resembled
those we see in Spanish pictures, not being quite oval enough for a
northern beauty. It seemed widened at the forehead, to give space for
her large, long eyes, and the canopy of the darkly fringed and veined
lid: her hair was not black, but of a rich sunny chesnut, finer than
carded silk, and more glossy; her skin was delicate, somewhat pale,
except when emotion suffused it with a deep pink. In person, she was not
tall, but softly rounded; and her taper, rosy-tipped fingers, and little
feet, bespoke the delicate proportion that moulded her form to a beauty,
whose every motion awakened admiration and love.
With these companions Richard passed the winter. The following spring
brought war still nearer to the English exiles--Baza had fallen; one of
the kings of Granada, surnamed El Zagal, the Valiant, had submitted to
the Spaniards: and now Ferdinand commanded his former ally, Boabdil el
Chico, to deliver up to him proud Granada, the loved city of the Moors.
Poor Boabdil, whose misfortunes had been prophesied at his birth, and
whose whole career had been such as to affix to him the surname of el
Zogoybi, or the Unfortunate, was roused from his state of opprobrious
vassalage by this demand, and followed up his refusal by an inroad into
the Christian country, near Jaen. Count de Tendilla, a veteran warrior
of high reputation and brilliant exploits, commanded this district. His
headquarters were in the impregnable fortress of Alcala-la-Real itself;
and when the cry came, that the Moors had passed his border, he resolved
to stoop from his eagle's eyrie, and to pounce upon the insolent foe, as
they returned from their incursion. He chose one hundred and fifty men,
and lay in ambush for them. Plantagenet was of the number, and our young
warrior also; though with sage entreaties Edmund, and with tears
Madeline, had besought him to stay. The count succeeded to his
wish--the Moors fell into his toils--few escaped slaughter or capture:
but while the Christian hero exulted in victory, a messenger, pale with
horror, spent with weariness, came to tell that a band of Moors had
taken advantage of his absence, to fall upon Alcala. Indignation and
fury possessed the noble captain; he left half his troop to protect his
spoil, and with the rest, all weary as they were, he hurried back to
Alcala, eager to fall upon the marauders before they should have secured
their prey in a neighbouring fortress. Edmund and Richard were among the
foremost; their rage could only be calmed by the swiftness with which
they returned to deliver or avenge their friends. The sun was sinking in
the west when they arrived at the foot of the Sierra. At first Tendilla
desired that his wearied troop should repose; but several stragglers
among the enemy, perceiving them, gave the alarm to their comrades, who,
laden with booty, were preparing to depart. Harassed as the Christians
were, they had no choice, while their position, on the lower ground,
rendered their attack very disadvantageous. But nothing could check
their fury: with loud cries and flashing weapons they fell upon the
enemy, who, burthened by their prey and wearied by their very outrages,
could ill resist men fighting to avenge their desolated hearths. Still,
so accustomed to war, so innately brave was every soldier on either
side, that the combat was long and sanguinary. Night, the swift-walking
darkness of the nights of the south, came suddenly upon the combatants:
the casques of one party, and the turbans of the other, were scarce
perceptible, to guide the scimitar, or to serve as an aim for the
arquebus. The discomfited Moors, leaving their booty, dispersed along
the defiles, and, forgetful of their prisoners, availed themselves of
the obscurity to make good their flight. Alcala was retaken; and through
the shadows of night, husbands and fathers called aloud on their wives
and children to tell them if they were safe, while many a sound of
woman's wail arose over the corpse of him who had died to save her.
The troop, diminished in number, was drawn up the following morning in
the square of Alcala. "Where," asked the count, "are my two English
soldiers? I saw the elder leading five others across a steep
mountain-path, so as to fall on the enemy's rear; it was a sage measure,
and succeeded well. Ricardo I beheld contending with two bearded Moors,
who held in their fierce grasp a young and fainting girl. I sent Diego
to his rescue: Diego, they say, was slain: night prevented me from
knowing more: have both these strangers fallen? I would pay them a
Spaniard's thanks for their aid--a knight's praise for their
gallantry."
Alas! both thanks and praise would have visited their ears coldly. They
had forgotten Tendilla, his troop, the very Christian cause, in the
overwhelming calamity that had befallen them. Assisted by Diego, who was
cut down in the conflict, Richard had delivered Monina; and, forcing his
way through the enemy, now already scattered, clambered with her in his
arms to their mountain abode: he was guided towards it by the glaring
light of the flames that destroyed it. Meanwhile, the fight still raged;
York placed Monina in safety, and returned to share its perils.
The peace of desolation that came with the morning united the cousins;
and they sought the ruins of their home, and their miserable friend,
whose broken and harrowing tale recorded how Madeline had fallen a
victim to the savage cruelty of the enemy, as she strove to defend her
daughter from impending slavery.
This was the result of Moorish wars--death and misery. Richard's young
heart had bounded to the sound of trump and clarion; and he returned to
hear the melancholy bell that tolled for death. Their very home was in
ruins; but it was long before, amidst deeper woe, they remembered to
lament the destruction of many papers and hoarded objects, the relics
and the testimonies of Richard's royal descent.
[Footnote 1: I had originally entered more at large on a description of
Andalusia, and the history of the conquest of Granada. The subsequent
publication of Mr. Washington Irving's very interesting work has
superseded the necessity of this deviation from the straight path of my
story. Events which, in their romantic detail, were before only to be
found in old Spanish folios, are now accessible to every English reader,
adorned by the elegance of style, and arranged with the exquisite taste,
which characterize the very delightful "Chronicle of the Conquest of
Granada."]