THE TRAITOR PUNISHED
This friar boasteth that he knoweth hell,
And God it wot that is but litel wonder;
Friars and fiends ben but litel asonder.
CHAUCER.
Richard meanwhile sailed fearlessly, with treachery for his nearest
mate. Trangmar had at once exhibited audacity and prudence in the
arrangement of his plan. He had made no great preparation, nor confided
to any the real object of his intents. His only care had been, that the
duke should sail on board an English vessel; and chance had brought into
the Tagus one whose captain was inclined to the party of Lancaster. He
also contrived to have two hirelings of his own engaged on board as part
of the crew, who knew that it was their employer's design to carry to
England a prisoner for the king. He was besides provided with a warrant
from Henry, empowering him to seize on his rebel subject--the name a
blank, for the monk to fill up--alive or dead. The paper ran thus; so,
in case of struggle, to afford warranty for his darker purpose.
Richard was now a prisoner. The vessel belonging to any country is a
portion of that country; and the deck of this merchantman was virtually
a part of the British soil. The prince, not heeding his position, was so
far from fearing his enemy's power, that he felt glad to find himself
among his countrymen. He looked on the weather-beaten countenances of
the honest sailors, and believed that he should find friends and
partisans in all. He spoke to Trangmar of his purpose of declaring
himself, and gaining them over; making this tiny offshoot of wide
England his first conquest. Trangmar had not anticipated this. He was
ignorant of the versatile and active spirit of the youth with whom he
had to deal; nor had he, by putting himself in imagination in the
prince's place, become aware how the project of acquiring his own was
his sleepless incentive to every action, and how he saw in every event a
stepping-stone in the prosecution of his enterprise. He started at the
proposal, and in his own heart said, "I must lose no time; that which I
thought to do next week, were better done to-morrow." With Richard he
argued against this measure: he showed how the captain was bound to the
present English government by his fortunes; how far more likely it was
that, instead of gaining him and his crew, he would be made a prisoner
by them, and delivered up to his enemy. Richard lent no great credence
to this, but he yielded to the authority of the elder and the priest.
It was not in the power of his wily adversary to prevent him from
ingratiating himself in the hearts of all around him. Besides his
gentleness, his unaffected sympathy, and noble demeanour, his gay and
buoyant spirit was congenial to the reckless sailors, who, during the
dead calm that succeeded their first day's sail after quitting the
Tagus, were glad of amusement to diversify their monotonous lives. He
interceded with their captain when any fault was committed; he learned
their private histories, promised his assistance, and scattered money
among them. Sometimes he called them around him to teach him their art,
discoursing about the stars, the magnet, the signs of the weather; he
climbed the shrouds, handled the ropes, became an adept in their
nautical language. At other times he listened to tales of dreadful
shipwrecks and sailors' hardships, and recounted in turn De Faro's
adventures. This made them talk of the new African discoveries, and
descant on the wild chimeras or sage conclusions of Columbus, who at
last, it was said, was to be sent by the sovereigns of Spain in quest of
the western passage to India, over the slant and boundless Atlantic. All
this time, with flapping sails, they lay but a short distance off the
mouth of the Tagus; and Trangmar, impatient of delay, yet found it
prudent to postpone his nefarious purpose.
After the calm had continued for nearly a week, signs of bad weather
manifested themselves; squalls assailed the ship, settling at last in a
gale, which grew into a tempest. Their little vessel was decked, yet
hardly able to resist the lashing waves of the Bay of Biscay. A leak,
which had shown itself even during the calm, increased frightfully; the
men were day and night employed at the pumps, exposed to the beating
rain, and to the waves, which perpetually washed the deck, drenching
their clothes and bedding; each hour the wind became more furious, dark
water-spouts dipping into the boiling sea, and churning it to fury,
swept past them, and the steep sides of the mountain-high billows were
ready at every moment to overwhelm them. Their tiny bark, which in these
days would scarcely receive a more dignified name than a skiff, was
borne as a leaf on the stream of the wind, its only safety consisting in
yielding to its violence. Often at the worst the men despaired. The
captain himself, frightened at the danger--and, strange inconsistency,
still more fearful of the ruin that must attend him if his vessel were
wrecked--lost all presence of mind. The prince displayed, meanwhile,
all his native energy; he commanded the men, and they obeyed him,
looking on him as a superior being; when, by following his orders, the
progress of the leak was checked, and the tossed bark laboured less
among the surges. "Sailors have short prayers," he said; "but if they
are sincere ones, the saints will not the less intercede for us before
God. Join me, my men, in a pious vow. I swear, by our Lady's precious
name, to walk barefoot to her nearest shrine the first land we touch,
and there to make a gift of incense and candles at her altar. This, if
we escape; if not, here is Father Meiler, a holy Franciscan, to give us
short shrift; so that, like devout Catholics, we may recommend our souls
to the mercy of Jesus. And now to the pump, the ropes; bring me a
hatchet--our mast must overboard."
Three days and nights they worked unremittingly; the lull that then
succeeded was followed by another tempest, and the exhausted mariners
grew desperate. They had been borne far into the Atlantic, and now the
wind shifting, drove them with the same fury into the Bay of Biscay.
Every moment in expectation of death, the heart of Trangmar softened
towards his victim in spite of himself; he was forced to admire his
presence of mind, his unvanquishable courage; his light, yet gentle
spirit, which made him bear up under every difficulty, yet pity those
who sunk beneath, cheering them with accents at once replete with
kindness and fearless submission to the decree of Providence. Feeling
the crew bound to him as his natural subjects, he extended towards them
a paternal love, and felt called upon to guard and save them. After, for
a fortnight, they had thus been the sport of the elements, the gale
decreased; the violent breakers subsided into one long swell, which bore
them into a sheltered cove, in the wild coast that surrounds the Bay of
Biscay. The men disembarked, the vessel was drawn up; all hands were
employed in unlading and repairing her. "Ye do ill," said Richard; "do
you not remember our vow? Doubtless some village is near which contains
a shrine where we may pay it."
This piety was in accord with the spirit of the times; and the men,
rebuked, revered still more the youth who had saved them in danger, and
who now in safety paid, with religious zeal, the debt incurred towards
their heavenly patroness. A little village lay secluded near the creek,
and above it, on a high rock, was a chapel dedicated to Saint Mary of
the Ascension, erected by a noble, who had vowed such offering on
escaping, as the prince of England had, from death on those perilous
seas. Bareheaded, barefooted, bearing lights, following the Franciscan
who led the way, the crew of the St. George proceeded towards the
shrine. Next to the Blessed Virgin, Richard claimed their gratitude; and
after due Aves had been said at the altar, still in the sacred place
they gathered round him, offering their property and their lives,
imploring him to accept from them some pledge of their thankfulness. The
heart of the outcast sovereign swelled within him. "I reign here, in
their breasts I reign," was the thought that filled his bright eyes with
a dew springing from the fulness of his soul. With a smile of triumph he
looked towards Father Meiler, as if to appeal to his judgment, whether
now he might not declare himself, and claim these men's allegiance. He
was startled by the dark and even ferocious expression of Trangmar's
countenance. His coarse brown Franciscan dress, belted in by a rope; the
cowl thrown back, displaying the monkish tonsure; the naked feet: these
were symbols of humility and Christian virtue, in strong contrast with
the deep lines of his face, and the glare of his savage eyes. He met the
glance of his victim, and became confused, while the prince in wonder
hastened to ask what strange thoughts occupied him, painting his visage
with every sign of fierce passion.
"I was thinking," said Trangmar, hesitating; "I was deliberating, since
God has cast us back on the land, whether it were not wiser to continue
our journey through France, bidding farewell to the perils of the ocean
sea?"
"That will I not," cried the prince. "Father Meiler, I watched you
during the storm; you acted no coward's part then; why do you now?"
"When danger is near, I can meet it as a man of courage," said Trangmar;
"when it is far, I can avoid it like a prudent one."
"A good clerical distinction, fit for a monk," replied the duke; "but I,
who am a cavalier, father, love rather to meet danger, than to avoid it
like a woman or a priest."
"Insulting boy!" cried Meiler; "dare you taunt me with cowardice? That I
was a soldier ere I was a monk, some of your race dearly rued!"
Before these words were fully uttered, Trangmar recollected himself; his
voice died away, so that his last expression was inaudible. The duke
only beheld his burst of passion and sudden suppression of it, and said
gently, "Pardon me, father; it is my fault that you forgot the respect
due to me. I forgot the reverence meet from youth to age--most meet
from a sinful boy to a holy monk."
"I thank your highness," said the friar, "for recalling to my memory a
truth that had half escaped it. Henceforth be assured that I will not
forget that you are the undoubted offspring of the earl of March--of
Edward of England."
Fate thus urged this wicked and miserable man to his fiend-like purpose.
Awakened again to deadly vengeance, he resolved to delay no longer; to
trust no more to chance: he saw now all the difficulties of his former
scheme of taking his enemy a prisoner to England; and this soothed his
conscience as he recurred to more fatal designs. During the short delay
that intervened before they again put out to sea, he watched an
opportunity, but found none. At length they weighed anchor; and with a
favourable wind, bore down the coast of France. The time was come, he
surely thought: for during this long voyage he could frame an
opportunity; during some dark night, when the ship sailed cheerily
before a fair breeze, he would engage the prince in engrossing talk
concerning the conduct he should pursue when in England, taking
advantage of his victim's incautiousness to allure him near the brink,
and then push him overboard. His single strength was more than a match
for his slight adversary; but to render his scheme doubly sure, he would
have the two men in his pay near him, to assist, in the case of
struggle, and vouch for his innocence if he were accused of foul play.
It is the fortune of those hurried into crime by violent passion, that
they can seldom find accomplices as wicked as themselves. Thus was it
with Trangmar. The men whose assistance he relied upon, the enthusiasm
of their fellow-sailors for their noble passenger. After they had again
set sail, the wind blowing gently from the south, bore them onwards with
a favourable navigation, till, shifting a few points eastward, it began
to freshen. It was then that the Franciscan, not wholly betraying his
purpose, but hinting that their presence would be necessary, ordered his
men to contrive that the rest of the crew should be below, and they near
at hand, while he that night should be alone with Richard upon deck. One
of the men replied by stoutly declaring that if any evil was threatened
the prince, he would not be a party in it. "You possess King Henry's
warrant," he said, "to make this Fitzroy a prisoner. I will not oppose
his majesty's command. You have him safely; what would you more?"
The other apparently yielded an assent to his employer's commands, and
then found a speedy opportunity to warn Richard of his danger A veil
fell from the prince's eyes. "Surely I knew this before," he thought;
"ever since I was in Saint Mary's Chapel, I must have known that this
dastard monk was my enemy. I am indeed betrayed, alone, friendless, on
board an English vessel, surrounded by an English crew. Now let the
trial be made, whether simple honesty be not of more avail than cruelty
and craft. But first let me fathom the full intention of this man, and
learn whether he have a worse design than that of delivering me over
defenceless to my adversary. It cannot be that he would really murder
me."
The breeze had rather sunk towards sunset, but it arose again with the
stars; the vessel's prow struck against the light waves, and danced
gaily on through the sea. One man stood at the helm; another, one of the
friar's hirelings, loitered near; the other kept out of the way. Still,
beneath the thousand stars of cloudless night, the little bark hurried
on, feeling the freshening of the wind; her larboard beam was deep in
the water, and close at the deck's leeward edge, Meiler and his intended
victim paced. One thoughtless boy, high among the shrouds, whistled in
answer to the winds. There was at once solitude and activity in the
scene. "This is the hour," thought Richard; "surely if man's sinful
heart was ever touched with remorse, this man's may now. God's throne,
visible in all its beauty above us--beneath, around, the awful roaring
waters, from which we lately so miraculously escaped." He began to speak
of England, of his mother, of the hopes held out to him by his
companion; eager in his desire of winning a traitor to the cause of
truth, he half forgot himself, and then started to find that, ever as he
walked, his companion got him nearer to the brink of the slant, slippery
deck. Seized with horror at this manifestation of the worst designs, yet
scarcely daring to credit his suspicions, he suddenly stopped, seizing a
rope that swung near, and steadying himself by winding his arm round it,
an act that escaped his enemy's observation, for, as he did it, he
spoke: "Do you know, Father Meiler, that I suspect and fear you? I am an
inexperienced youth, and if I am wrong, forgive me; but you have changed
towards me of late, from the kind friend you once were. Strange doubts
have been whispered: do you reply to them. Are you my friend, or are you
a treacherous spy?--the agent of the noble Yorkists, or Henry Tudor's
hireling murderer?"
As he spoke, the friar drew still nearer, and the prince recoiled
farther from him: he got on the sheer edge of the deck. "Rash boy!"
cried Trangmar, "know that I am no hireling: sacred vengeance pricks me
on! Son of the murderer! tell me, where is sainted Henry? where Prince
Edward? where all the noble martyrs of his cause? where my brave and
lost sons? There, even where thou shalt be: quick, look back, thy grave
yawns for thee!"
With the words he threw himself furiously on the prince: the stripling
sprung back with all the force lent him by the rope he held, and pushed
at the same time Trangmar violently from him, as he cried aloud on the
sailors, "What, ho! treason is among us!" A heavy splash of the falling
Meiler answered his call: the strong man was cast down in his very
pride; the waters divided, and sucked him in. In a moment the crew were
on deck; Trangmar's hireling, scared, cried out, "He is King Henry's
prisoner! seize him!" thus increasing the confusion. The friar, his
garments floating, now appeared struggling among the waves; a rope was
thrown to him; the vessel sped on meanwhile, and it fell far short;
Richard, horror-struck, would have leapt in to save his enemy; but the
time was gone. One loud shriek burst on the ear of night, and all was
still; Trangmar, his misery, his vengeance, and his crimes, lay buried
in the ocean's hoary caves.
What explanation could follow this tremendous incident? The prince spoke
of his life attacked; the men of the warrant their master had for his
seizure: what was his crime none knew. "That will I declare freely,"
said the royal youth; "that unhappy man has sealed my truth by his
death. In my childhood I was nurtured in a palace, and bore the title of
the duke of York. Edward the Fourth was my father, Edward the Fifth my
brother."
"Why this is foulest treason," cried the trembling captain.
"Ay, or fairest loyalty; speak, my friends; which of you will lay hands
on your liege, on Richard the Fourth of England?"
The reckless and ignorant sailors, riotously and with one acclaim, swore
to die for him; but their commander shuddered at the peril that beset
him: while his men were hanging round their idolized prince, he retired
with his mate to lament the ugly chance of Trangmar's death, and to
express terror at the very name of York. If the captain was a
coward-friend of Tudor, the mate was a sturdy Lancastrian; he
recommended his chief to seize the boy, and convey him a welcome gift to
his sovereign; the clamours of the delighted crew showed that this was
vain advice. He had said to them, with all the ingenuousness of youth,
"My life is in your hands, and I know that it is safe." Yet, when they
spoke of seizing their unwilling commander, and of delivering the vessel
in his hands, he said, "My good friends, I will not make lawless acts
the stepping-stones to my throne; it is grief enough for me that my
young hands have unwittingly destroyed the life of one who, not as an
armed knight, but in holy garb set himself against me. I myself will
persuade your captain to do me all the service I require."
This poor man was willing enough to hear what he called reason; at first
he would fain have entreated Richard to suffer himself to be carried a
prisoner to England; and, when he found his discourse vain, he yielded
timid obedience to York's wishes, in spite of the lowering brow of his
mate: thus, at least, his cargo would be saved, and his crew preserved
from mutiny. Richard simply requested to be set on shore in Cork
harbour, suddenly relinquishing every thought of England, now that he
saw the treachery that awaited him there, and recurring to the former
plans of Lord Barry. In Ireland, in the county of the Desmonds, he
should find friends, adherents, almost prepared for his arrival; and
there also, if Barry forgot not his promise, this stanch partisan would
speedily join him: the captain gladly assented to any project that did
not force him to land this dangerous pretender on the English shores.
For one week they ran before the wind; and Ireland, far and low, was
discernible on the horizon; the dear land of promise to the weary exile,
the betrayed, but high-hearted prince: during this short navigation it
had required all his fortitude to banish from his mind the image of the
friar struggling in the waves, of a man precipitated in the very act of
crime "unhouseled, unanointed, unannealed," into the life-quenching
waters. Besides all other expectations, Richard longed to get on shore,
that in a confessional he might lift this burthen of involuntary guilt
from his soul.
At length the iron-bound coast was right ahead; the ponderous rocky jaws
of the creek were open, and they sailed up Passage, past beautiful and
woody islands, under forest-crowned hills, till they cast anchor before
the picturesque and hill-set city of Cork, whose quay was crowded by
multitudes, gazing on the newly-arrived vessel.
The duke of York stood on the prow of his skiff, reflecting on the first
step he ought to take. He knew little of Ireland, and that little had
been gleaned from Lord Barry: he heard from him of its warlike chiefs,
its uncivilized septs, and English settlers, scarce less wild, and quite
as warlike as its aboriginal inhabitants. He called to mind the names
most familiar to him--the earl of Kildare, abettor of Simnel, pardoned
by Henry, and continued in his office of Lord Deputy; the earl of
Desmond, whom Lord Barry had particularly interested in his favour, who
affected the state of an Irish chieftain, or rather king, and who, in
his remote abode in Munster, disdained to attend the Dublin parliament,
or to make one of the lawful governors of the land. Other names he
remembered of less note: Plunket, the lord chief justice, whom, with
infinite reluctance, Henry had pardoned; Keating, prior of Kilmainham,
who had been constable of Dublin Castle, and who, ejected from his
office after the battle of Stoke, had saved himself by flight, and was
now concealed in an abbey near Buttevant. Much, however, of what he had
heard, escaped his memory; and he stood on the threshold of this unknown
land, vainly seeking in his recollection for the dim and shadowy forms
which were to guide him in the new and unexplored world before him.
Another reflection also presented itself: Lord Barry had quitted Ireland
the year before, and communication there had been none since then--Was
Kildare still deputy? did incursions of the natives, or turbulence among
themselves, occupy the lords of the Pale? Should he find a band of
nobles and their followers ready to assist him, or the motley population
of a barbarous wild, whose sole ideas were internal struggles for power,
whose watchwords for enterprise were names and things in which he had no
portion?
In a hurried manner, York resolved on his plan of action. He had, on
their approach to land, arrayed himself in gay and rich apparel. The
Spain from which he came was parent of this act: there embroidery,
housings inlaid with gold, and arms encrusted with jewels, formed the
pride of the high-born cavaliers. He stood prepared to land; he thanked
the captain for his enforced courtesy; he held out his hand to the crew,
who gathered round him with their prayers and blessings. "My own!" was
his first thought as he set his foot on shore: "Hail, realm of my
fathers! Hear the vow of the fugitive who claims your sway! Justice,
mercy, and paternal love, are the gifts with which I will repay your
obedience to my call; your submission to my rule."
"Heave the anchor, and away!" thus spoke the captain of the craft he had
left.
"For England; to warn our king of this springal's insolent presumption,"
said the mate.
"To any quarter of the wide world, save England," replied the timid
captain: "Would you have me run my neck into the noose for not having
clapped under hatches this mercurial spark? Master mate, learn from an
old sailor, that the best you can do with kings and grandees, is to have
nought to do with them."