THE CONSPIRACY
Like one lost in a thorny wood,
That rents the thorns, and is rent with the thorns,
Seeking a way, and straying from the way;
Not knowing how to find the open air,
But toiling desperately to find it out.
SHAKESPEARE.
In the days of our earlier history, our commerce led us to have more
intercourse with Flanders than with France. That which journeyed slowly
and doubtfully from Paris came in all the heat of a first impression
from the Low Countries. A train had been laid before, which now took
light and blazed through the kingdom. The duchess of Burgundy's
reception of the duke of York, the honours rendered him at her court,
the glad gathering together of the fugitive English, gave pledge of his
truth, and promise of glorious results. Sedition began to spring up in
England on every side; even as, after a mild rain in the birth of the
year, a black, ploughed field is suddenly verdant with the young blades
of wheat. All who had, since the battles of Bosworth and of Stoke, lived
in seclusion or fear; all who from whatever reason had taken sanctuary;
men of ruined fortunes, who desired to escape bondage; came singly or in
small companies to the coast, embarked for the continent, and hastened
to the court of the dowager of Burgundy. All discontented men, who felt
themselves looked coldly on by Tudor, to whom they had yielded the
throne of their native land; many, whom it grieved and vexed to see the
world stagnate in changeless peace, desirous of novelty and glad of any
pretence that called them into activity, dashed headlong into revolt;
nor were there few, chiefly indeed among the nobility, who had lamented
the fall of the House of York, and hailed gladly this promise of its
resuscitation. The common adventurers and soldiers of fortune acted on
their single separate resolves; the noble adherents of the White Rose
drew together, that there might be plan and strength in their schemes.
They were cautious, for their enemy was crafty and powerful; they were
resolute, for they hated him.
Out, far in the low flats bordering the river Lea, there stood, in a
marshy hollow, a straggling village, now effaced from the landscape. At
its extremity was a solid, but gloomy, square brick house, surrounded by
a moat, which the low watery soil easily filled, even to overflow; and
the superfluity was received in a deep stagnant pool at the back of the
mansion. The damp atmosphere had darkened the structure, and thrown a
mantle of green moss and speckled lichen over the bricks. Its
fantastically carved and heavy portal yawned like a black cavern's
mouth, and added to the singularly desolate appearance of the mansion.
The village was but half inhabited, and looked as struck by poverty and
discomfort. The house belonged to the Clifford family. It had been
built, it was said, in Henry the Fifth's time, when Sir Roger Clifford,
a stern old man, following his sovereign to the wars, shut up here his
beautiful young wife, so to insure her fidelity during his absence.
Among her peers and gentle companions, the Lady Clifford had doubtless
been true to the bond that linked her to her lord; but, alone in this
solitary mansion, surrounded by ill-natured peasants, pining for her
father's pleasant halls, and her girlish enjoyments, no wonder that she
found her state intolerable. Age and jealousy are ill mates for youth
and sprightliness, and suspicion easily begets that which it abhors even
to imagine. One who had loved her in her virgin days introduced himself
into her suite; the brief months of stolen happiness passed by, and the
green stagnant pool was, they said, the cold sepulchre of the betrayed
lovers. Since then, during the wars of York and Lancaster, this house
had been the resort of Clifford's followers: and, when the White Rose
became supreme, that alone of the family possessions had not been
forfeited to the crown: it was the last relic of Sir Robert's fortunes.
His few tenantry, hard pressed for rent to satisfy his necessities, had
deserted their abodes; the green acres had passed into other hands; a
band of poor cotters alone remained, and this old house haunted by the
ghosts of those who slept beneath the waveless pool, dilapidated,
disfurnished. Yet here the wild knight had held lawless carousals;
hither he sometimes fled to hide after some ruinous loss, or when he was
pursued by those who sought to avenge insults committed during drunken
brawls.
Now it would seem some orgie was meditated: liveried servants, one or
two only bearing Clifford's coat, the rest wearing different badges, as
belonging to different masters, had arrived during the previous day.
Some of the ruined huts were pulled down to supply firewood, and the old
chimnies sent out volumes of smoke; various carts, laden, some with
eatables, fat bucks, young calves, pheasants, hares, and partridges,
piles of bread, seven hooped casks of wine, were unladen in the
mildew-stained hall. Other carts followed the first, bearing bedding,
apparel, furniture, and, it was whispered by the idling villagers, arms.
Several apartments were strewed thick with rushes, and the blazing
fires, in spite of the tattered plaster and stained ceilings, imparted
cheerfulness to the rooms. There was need of internal warmth; a thick
snow-storm fell, sheeting the low fields, which, uninterspersed by
trees, now looked doubly wild and drear. The waters of the moat and pool
were frozen; a sharp north wind whistled round the house. For the first
time for many years its poor dependents were cheered during the severe
season by the crumbs, or rather large portions of superfluous food, from
the mansion of their landlord.
The first guest that arrived came in a close litter, attended by a
Moorish servant, and Clifford himself on horseback. Monina had forgotten
her Flemish home: bright Andalusia--its orange groves, myrtle and
geranium hedges, the evergreen forests which embowered Alcala, and the
fertile laughing Vega of Granada, formed her image of such portions of
fair earth, as, unencumbered by houses, afforded on its green and
various surface sustenance to his inhabitants. She shivered before the
northern blast, and gazed appalled on the white plain, where the
drifting snow shifted in whole showers as the wind passed over it. The
looks of the people, sallow, ill-clothed, and stupid, made her turn from
contemplating them, as she yet answered the contemptuous and plaintive
remarks of her Spanish attendant in a cheerful, deprecating voice.
For two successive days other guests continued to arrive. They were
chiefly men of note, yet came attended by few domestics. There was Lord
Fitzwater, dissatisfied at the part of rebel he was forced, he thought,
to play; and on that account he was louder than any against King Henry.
Sir Simon Mountford was a Yorkist of the days of Edward the Fourth; he
personally hated Richmond, and looked on Richard's as a sacred cause.
Sir Thomas Thwaites had been a friend of the earl of Rivers, and gladly
seized this occasion to avenge his death, attributable to the dastardly
policy of Henry. William Daubeny was attached to the earl of Warwick,
and entered warmly into projects whose success crowned his freedom. Sir
Robert Ratcliffe, cousin of Lord Fitzwater, had lived in poor disguise
since the battle of Stoke, and gladly threw off his peasant's attire to
act the soldier again in a new war of the Roses. Sir Richard Lessey had
been chaplain to the household of Edward the Fourth. Sir William
Worseley, dean of St. Paul's, was a rare instance of gratitude outliving
the period of receiving benefits; he had been a creature, and was a
sincere mourner, of the late queen. Many others, clergy and laity,
entered the plot; a thousand different motives impelled them to one line
of conduct, and brought them to Clifford's moated house, to conspire the
overthrow of Tudor, and the exaltation of the duke of York to the
throne. One only person invited to this assembly failed. Sir William
Stanley; each voice was loud against his tergiversation, and Clifford's
whispered sarcasm cut deeper than all.
The debates and consultations lasted three days. After infinite
confusion and uncertainty, the deliberations brought forth conclusions
that were resolved upon unanimously. First, the house they then
occupied, and the village, was to be a repository for arms, a rendezvous
for the recruits of the cause. The conspirators levied a tax on
themselves, and collected some thousand pounds to be remitted to the
prince. They regulated a system, whose object was to re-awaken
party-spirit in England, and to quicken into speedy growth the seeds of
discontent and sedition, which Henry's avarice and extortion had sown
throughout the land. Those who possessed estates and followers were to
organize troops. At last, they deputed two of their number to go over to
the duchess of Burgundy, and to carry their offers of service to her
royal nephew. The two selected for this purpose were, first, Sir Robert
Clifford, who had known the duke formerly, and who, it was supposed,
would be peculiarly welcome to him; and secondly, Master William Barley,
a man advanced in years; he had combated in nearly all the twelve
pitched and sanguinary battles that were fought between York and
Lancaster. He had been a boy-servitor to the old duke of York, a yeoman
of Edward's guard, a halberdier in Richard the Third's time. He had been
left for dead on the field of Bosworth, but came to life again to appear
at the battle of Stoke. He had risen in the world, and was a man of
substance and reputation: he was not noble; but he was rich, zealous,
and honest.
The meeting lasted three days, and then gradually dispersed. All had
gone well. An assembly, whose individuals were noble, wealthy, or
influential, united to acknowledge Richard as their liege. Foreign
potentates declared for him; and hope was high in every bosom at all
these forerunners of success. Monina's enthusiastic heart beat with
ecstasy. Young, the innocent child of unsophisticated impulse, her
gladness showed itself in wild spirits and unconstrained expressions of
exultation. She and Clifford returned to London together, for he
contrived tacitly and unsuspected by her, to install himself as her
habitual escort. Happy in expectation of her beloved friend's success,
she talked without reserve; and the genius, which was her soul's
essence, gave power and fascination to everything she said. She spoke of
Spain, of Richard's adventures there, of her father and his voyages. The
name of Columbus was mentioned; and the New World--source of wondrous
conjecture. They spoke of the desolate waste of waters that hems in the
stable earth--of the golden isles beyond: to all these subjects Monina
brought vivid imagery, and bright painting, creations of her own quick
fancy. Clifford had never before held such discourse. In hours of
sickness or distaste, at moments of wild exhilaration, when careering on
a high-mettled horse beneath the stars of night, fanned by a strong but
balmy wind, he had conceived ideas allied to the lofty aspirations of
our nature; but he cast them off as dreams, unworthy of a wise man's
attention. The melodious voice of Monina, attuned by the divine impulses
of her spirit, as the harp of the winds by celestial breezes, raised a
commotion in his mind, such as a prophetess of Delphi felt when the
oracular vapour rose up to fill her with sacred fury. A word, a single
word, was a potent northern blast to dash aside the mist, and to
re-apparel the world in its, to him, naked, barren truth. So fervently,
and so sweetly did she speak of Richard, that Clifford's burning heart
was in a moment alight with jealousy; and the love he despised, and
thought he mastered, became his tyrant, when it allied itself to his
evil passions. He looked angry, he spoke sharply--Monina was
astonished; but his libellous insinuations fell innocuous on her pure
mind: she only felt that she feared him, half-disliked him, and,
trembling and laughing as she spoke, said, "Well, well; I will not care
for your angry mood. You are going soon: ere you return, our prince
will, by his own bright example, have taught you better things. Learn
from him diligently, sir knight, for he is all courtesy and nobleness."
Clifford laughed bitterly, and a base resolve of lowering the
high-hearted York to his own degrading level arose in his breast: it was
all chaos there as yet; but the element, which so lately yielded to a
regular master-wind of ambition, was tossed in wild and hideous waves
by--we will not call the passion love--by jealousy, envy, and growing
hate. Short interval was allowed for the gathering of the storm; he was
soon called upon to fulfil his commission, and to accompany Master
William Barley on their important embassy to Brussels.
The scene here presented, operated a considerable change on these
personages; arriving from England, where the name of the White Rose was
whispered, and every act in his favour was hid in the darkness of
skulking conspiracy, to his court at Brussels, where noble followers
clustered round him, and the duchess, with a woman's tact and a woman's
zeal, studied how best to give importance and splendour to his person
and pretensions. The spirit of the Yorkist party, in spite of her
natural mildness, still glowed in the bosom of this daughter of Henry
the Sixth's unhappy rival,--the child of disaster, and bride of frantic
turbulence. Opposed to the remorseless Louis the Eleventh, struggling
with the contentious insolence of the free towns of Flanders, war
appeared to her the natural destiny of man, and she yielded to its
necessity, while her gentle heart sorrowed over the misery which it
occasioned.
She first received Clifford and Barley; and with the winning grace of a
sovereign, solicited for her nephew their affection and support: then
she presented them to him--this was the fair-haired, blue-eyed boy,
whom Clifford saved, the gentle, noble-looking being, whose simplicity
awed him; whose bright smile said, "I reign over every heart." The
knight shrunk into himself: how had he dyed his soul in a worldliness
which painted his countenance in far other colours.--He was not
deficient in grace: his dark-grey eyes, veiled by long lashes, were in
themselves exceedingly handsome: the variableness of his face, traced
with many unseasonable lines, yet gave him the power of assuming a
pleasing expression; and his person, though diminutive, was eminently
elegant, while his self-possession and easy address, covered a multitude
of faults. Now, his first resolve was to insinuate himself into
Richard's affections; to become a favourite; and consequently to lead
him blindly on the path he desired he should tread.
The prince's spirits were high; his soul exulted in the attachment of
others, in the gratitude that animated him. Until Clifford's arrival
(Edmund was for the time in England), Sir George Neville, among his new
friends, held the first place. He was proud and reserved; but his
aristocracy was so blended with honour, his reserve with perfect
attention and deference to the feeling of others, that it was impossible
not to esteem him, and find pleasure in his society. Clifford and
Neville made harsh discord together. Richard, inexperienced in the
world, sought to harmonize that which never could accord: Neville drew
back; and Clifford's good humour, and apparent forbearance, made him
appear to advantage.
At this period ambassadors from Henry arrived at Brussels: they had been
expected; and as a measure of precaution, Richard left that place before
their arrival, and took up his temporary abode at Audenarde, a town
which made part of the dowry of the Duchess Margaret. All the English,
save Lady Brampton, attended him to his retreat. The ambassadors, in
their audience with the archduke, demanded the expulsion of Richard from
the Low Countries, taunting the duchess with her support of the
notorious impostor, Lambert Simnel, and speaking of the duke of York as
a fresh puppet of her own making. They received the concise reply--that
the gentleman she recognized as her nephew, inhabited the territory of
her dowry, of which she was sovereign, and over which the archduke had
no jurisdiction: however, that no disturbance might occur in their
commercial relations, which would have roused all Flanders to rebellion,
Maximilian was obliged to temporize, and to promise to afford no aid to
the illustrious exile.
Their audience accomplished, the ambassadors had only to return. They
remained but one night at Brussels: on this night. Sir Edward Poynings
and Doctor Wattam, who fulfilled this mission, were seated over a cup of
spiced wine, in discourse concerning these strange events, the Lady
Margaret's majestic demeanour, and the strangeness of her supporting
this young man, if indeed he were an impostor; when a cavalier, whose
soiled dress and heated appearance bespoke fatigue and haste, entered
the room. It was Sir Robert Clifford: they received him as liege
subjects may receive a traitor, with darkened brows and serious looks.
Clifford addressed them in his usual careless style:--"Saint Thomas
shield me, my masters; can you not afford one benison to your gossip!
Good Sir Edward, we have ruffled together, when we wore both white and
red in our caps; and does the loss of a blood-stained rag degrade me
from your friendship?"
The bitter accusations of the knight, and the doctor's sarcasms, which
were urged in reply, awoke a haughty smile. "Oh, yes!" he cried, "ye are
true men, faithful liege subjects! I, an inheritance of the block,
already marked for quartering, because I am for the weak right, you for
the strong might. Right, I say--start not--the mother of God be my
witness! Duke Richard is Duke Richard--is lord of us all--true son of
the true king, Ned of the White Rose, whom you swore to protect,
cherish, and exalt; you, yes, even you, sir knight. Where is now your
oath? cast from heaven, to pave the hell where you will reap the meed of
your lying treachery!"
Clifford, always insolent, was doubly so now that he felt accused of
crimes of which he did not deem himself guilty; but which would (so an
obscure presentiment told him) hereafter stain his soul. Doctor Wattam
interposed before Poyning's rising indignation: "Wherefore come you
here, Sir Robert?" he asked. "Though we are envoys of the king you have
betrayed, we may claim respect: Sir Edward, as a gentleman and a
cavalier--I as an humble servitor of the Lord Jesus, in whose name I
command you not to provoke to a bloody deed the messengers of peace."
"Cease to taunt me with a traitor's name," replied Sir Robert, "and I
will chafe no further the kindling blood of my sometime friend. Let us
rather leave all idle recrimination. I came hither to learn how wagged
the world in London town, and, as a piece of secret intelligence, to
assure you that you wrongfully brand this stripling for an impostor. Be
he sovereign of our land or not--be it right or wrong to side with York
against Lancaster--York he is, the son of Edward and Elizabeth, so
never fail me my good sword or my ready wits!"
The best of us are inclined to curiosity. A little fearful of each
other, the ambassadors exchanged looks, to know whether either would
accuse the other of treachery if they heard further. "Good sir," said
the doctor, gravely, "methinks we do our liege service in listening to
this gentleman. We can the better report to his majesty on what grounds
the diabolic machination is founded."
So, over another goblet, Clifford sat telling them how Richard had long
lived as Perkin Warbeck in the neighbourhood of Tournay, under the
guardianship of Madeline de Faro; and he recounted the history of his
escape from the hands of Frion. Doctor Wattam carefully conned these
names; and then, in reply, he set forth how unworthy it was of a
Clifford to desert from Lancaster; how unlikely, even if it were true,
which, after all his tale hardly proved it was, that the outcast boy
could compete with success with the sage possessor of England's throne.
Poynings asked him how it pleased him to find himself at the same board
with a Neville and a Taylor, and hinted that an exile from his country
and a traitor to his sovereign, this was hardly the way to replenish his
purse, or to gain anew the broad lands he had lost. The service he might
do Henry by a return to his duty, gratitude and reward, were then urged
by the priest, while Clifford listened in dodged silence. His brow
became flushed; his lips worked with internal commotion. He felt, he
knew, that he hated the very man hose cause he espoused; but he was
pledged to so many, a whole array of noble and respected names came
before him.--Could he, in the eyes of these, become a false foul
traitor? He refilled, and quaffed again and again his cup; and at last
so wound himself up, as to begin, "My friends, you speak sooth, though I
may not listen; yet, if you name one so humble and distasteful, say to
my liege--"
A page in green and white--the colours of Lady Brampton--entered,
announcing her speedy arrival. Clifford's wits were already disturbed by
wine; instinct made him fear in such a state to come in contact with the
subtle lady; he drew his cap over his eyes, his cloak around his person,
and vanished from the hall, ere his friends were aware of his intention.
The interview between Lady Brampton and the gentlemen was of another
sort. Sir Edward had in her younger days worn her colours. She was
changed in person since then: but, when, after a short interval, he got
over the shock consequent on the first perception of the sad traces of
time on the cheek of beauty, he found that her eyes possessed the same
fire, her voice the same thrilling tone, her smile the same enchantment.
While the doctor, who had loved her as a daughter, and she regarded him
with filial reverence, rebuked her for what he termed her misdeeds; she
replied with vivacity, and such true and zealous love for him whose
cause she upheld, that they were both moved to listen with respect, if
not conviction, to her asseverations. She could not gain her point, nor
win them over to her side; but, when she departed, neither spoke of
young Richard's rights, unwilling to confess to one another that they
were converts to his truth. She went. The next day they departed from
Brussels, and it became subject of discussion, what step Henry would now
take, and whether, by any new measure, he could disturb the ripening
conspiracy against his throne.