THE TRAITOR UNMASKED
Shall I be the slave
Of--what? a word? which those of this false world
Employ against each other, not themselves,
As men wear daggers not for self offence.
But if I am mistaken, where shall I
Find the disguise to hide me from myself?
As now I skulk from every other eye.
SHELLEY.
One of the surest results of guilt is to deprive the criminal of belief
in the goodness of others. Clifford was discovered. Even, if Richard
continued true to his promise of pardon, his adherents and counsellors
might force him to another line of conduct. A dungeon and death floated
terribly before his confused vision. Flight, instant flight to England,
where, by a full confession of many things he had reserved, and the
disclosure of an important unsuspected name, he might still receive
welcome and reward from Henry, was the only course left him to pursue.
His thoughts were chaos. Shame and indignation raged in his heart. He
was a convicted traitor, a dishonoured man. "Oh, my envied father!" in
his wretchedness he exclaimed, "you died gloriously for Lancaster. I
live, steeped in obloquy, for the same cause. Abhorred Plantagenet! what
misery has been mine since first your name came to drug me with racking
poison! What have I not endured while I cringed to the fair-haired boy!
Thank the powers of hell, that time is past! Devil as I have stamped
myself, his arch crime, lying, is no more my attribute. To the winds and
men's thirsty ears I may cry aloud--I hate Plantagenet!"
It was some relief to this miserable man to array his thoughts in their
darkest garb, soothing his evil passions with words, which acted on them
as a nurse's fondling talk to a querulous child. His line of conduct was
fixed: he remembered Neville's sudden appearance and departure the night
before; he had brought the letter; he was waiting for him at Ostend to
seize on him, to turn to mockery the prince's promised pardon. Those
were days of violence and sudden bloodshed: the enemy a man could not
visit with legal punishment, he thought himself justified in destroying
with his own hand; the passions of the Yorkists, who found they had been
driven into shambles instead of a fold, must be fierce and dangerous.
Without delay, he resolved to embark in one of the vessels then in the
roads; he hurried to the beach; the wind seemed fair; there was a poor
kind of hostelry, the common resort of sailors near, from whence a
signal could be given for a boat to be sent off for him. While waiting
for it, he quitted the noisy vulgarity of the inn, and walked towards a
kind of ruined tower, that once perhaps had served as a lighthouse. In
all the panic of guilt, a roof, however desolate, appeared a shelter,
and he sought it: it was dilapidated and dark; there were some rude,
narrow stairs leading to the upper story,--these he ascended, and
entered what had been a kind of guard-room, and started at the vision he
beheld: leaning against the aperture that had served for a casement,
looking on the wide green sea, was Monina. Her lustrous eyes turned on
him--eyes before whose full softness his violence, his insolence
quailed; till shame, despair, and rage, and the deep-seated arrogance of
his nature, conquered his better feelings. She knew his crime, witnessed
his disgrace; there was no more to lose in the world. What more could he
win? His presence occasioned her much emotion. She had just quitted
Neville, who somewhat angrily remarked upon the prince's ill-timed
lenity, and spoke bitterly of all the ill Clifford, thus let loose,
might do in England. And here he was, about to embark for that very
island, where one at least, Sir William Stanley, was at his mercy.
Gladly Monina seized on this opportunity to dive into his projects, and
to inspire by her energetic words the traitor's bosom with some sense of
right. She, alas! inspired passion only, and jealousy, that now at last
his rival would see her love-lighted eyes turned affectionately on him;
while all the reproach of which they were capable was his meed. What
such men as Clifford feel is not love: he had no real friendship for the
innocent girl; each feeling that expresses the sympathy of our
intellectual nature was never associated to him with the name of woman.
As she spoke therefore of his duties to God and man, violated, but not
irretrievably, and with soft persuasion entreated him to spare those
whose lives hung upon his word, he recovered his obduracy, and replied
in a tone whose hollow vaunting was at discord with the music that fell
from her lips--"My pretty maiden, I thank thee for thy good intentions,
and if thou wilt wholly undertake my instruction, will prove an apt
scholar. Honesty and I are too poor to be messmates; but if thou wilt
join us--by God, Monina, I mean what I say--the priest shall say grace
for us, and we will partake life's feast or fast together. I will sail
with thee to thy Spain, to the Indies of the West. England shall be a
forgotten name; the White or Red Rose, neither worse nor better in our
eyes than any blooms that smell as sweet: if thou refusest this, here
ends the last chance for honesty; and be the victim who it may, I care
not so my fortunes thrive."
"Unworthy man!" cried Monina; "farewell! I go to England also: I to
save, you to destroy. Bounteous Heaven will look on our several
intentions, and shape our course accordingly. Henry will visit with poor
thanks your blighted purpose, barren now of its ill fruit. Mine will be
the harvest; yours the unlamented loss."
She would have passed him, but he seized her slender wrist. "We will run
no race," he cried; "if we go to England, it will be together: listen to
the splash of oars, it is my boat among the breakers. We enter it
together; it is vain for you to resist; you are my prisoner."
Monina trembled in every joint: she felt that in very truth she was in
Clifford's power. There rode her father's caravel; but he could not
guess her pressing danger: he would behold her depart, ignorant of the
violence she was suffering, ignorant that she was there. No help!--no
form of words was there, that might persuade the ill-minded knight to
free her: her proud spirit disdained to bend; her cheek was flushed; she
strove to withdraw her hand. "Pardon me," said Clifford; "if my fingers
press too roughly; the slight pain you endure will hardly counterbalance
the fierce torture your words inflicted. Be patient, my fellows are
already here. Let us not act a silly mime before them; do not oblige me
to demonstrate too unkindly, that you are wholly in my power."
Hardly had he spoken the words when with a scream she sprang from him.
He turned; but before even he could see the gigantic form of De Faro, a
blow was struck which made him reel against the wall. It would have been
instantly followed by another, but that Monina had flung herself on her
father's breast, and he, supporting her, forgot his enemy, who recovered
himself, and drew his sword. He met the fierce glare of the injured
parent's eye, and shook. "We meet again, recreant!" were the only words
spoken by De Faro; and, as an elephant might snatch a youngling antelope
from the pursuit of a tiger, he took his daughter in his arms, descended
the steps with her, and, as Clifford stood gazing on the sea, in such
bitter mood as is the fruit of baffled malice, he saw the mariner lift
his daughter into the boat. It pushed from the shore; and, with long,
measured strokes, it swept the waves towards the caravel, whose sails
were again unfurled, while everything bespoke the readiness and anxiety
of the crew to depart.
Ere the Adalid had reached the open sea, Clifford in his vessel was but
little astern. It was a race they ran. The caravel at first had the
best. Night concealed them from each other's view; and, in the morning,
already on the tranquil bosom of the Thames Sir Robert's vessel was
sailing alone towards London. By one of those strange turns of fortune
by which our purposes swim or are wrecked, De Faro, without a pilot,
unacquainted with the coast, missed the channel; he grounded on a
sand-bank at the river's mouth; and the tide which carried Clifford so
swiftly towards London had several hours to run before it reached a
height sufficient to float the other's vessel; the situation was not
without peril, and no boat even could be lowered to carry the anxious
Monina to shore.
The very day (it was now the month of January) that Henry heard of
Clifford's arrival in London, he removed his court from Westminster to
the Tower. Already he divined that his Lord Chamberlain was to be
criminated by Sir Robert; and, as Stanley possessed considerable
influence in the state, he wished to make his arrest as unexpected as
possible. Another motive worked upon the avaricious sovereign; seized
thus, without preparation or forethought, his jewels, his rich plate,
his valuable moveables, which might otherwise be secreted, now fell the
indiscriminate prey of confiscation; the Tower, at once a palace and a
prison, favoured this purpose. Here he received Clifford; Urswick had
already conversed with the traitor knight, and represented to him the
necessity of ample confession. There was something in the priest's
manner that, like iron, entered Clifford's soul; he felt himself, too
truly, to be the abject slave, the despised tool of power; there was but
little need to use cajoleries or bribes with him now; he was there, to
be executed as a felon or pardoned as a spy, according as his
disclosures satisfied or not the callous-hearted king.
For his greater punishment, there clung to this unfortunate man a sense
of what he ought to and might have been, and a burning consciousness of
what he was. Hitherto he had fancied that he loved honour, and had been
withheld, as by a hair, from overstepping the demarcation between the
merely reprehensible and the disgraceful. The good had blamed him; the
reckless wondered at his proficiency in their own bad lessons; but
hitherto he had lifted his head haughtily among them, and challenged any
man to accuse him of worse than greater daring in a career all travelled
at a slower and more timid pace.
But that time was gone by. He was now tainted by leprous treachery; his
hands were stained by the blood of his deceived confederates; honour
disowned him for her son; men looked askance on him as belonging to a
pariah race. He felt this; and even Monina, who had last conversed with
him in the summer-house of the inn at Ostend, would hardly have
recognized him. He was then a bold-faced villain; his step was haughty;
his manner insolent. Now his gait was shuffling, his appearance mean,
his speech hesitating and confused. Urswick had known him a gay ruffler;
he started back: was this Sir Robert Clifford? He was obliged to use
with him the usual style of speech adopted towards men in his situation;
to speak of his duty towards his liege; the propriety of delivering up
the guilty to condign punishment: hackneyed phrases, which sounded cold
to the unhappy man.
There was no resource. At Henry's feet, kneeling before a king who used
him as a tool, but who hated him as the abettor of his rival, and
despised him as the betrayer of his friend, Clifford spoke the fatal
word which doomed the confiding Stanley to instant death, himself to the
horrors of conscious guilt, or, what as yet was more bitter to the
worldling, relentless outlawry from the society and speech of all,
however depraved, who yet termed themselves men of honour.
Henry heard him with feigned amazement; and with grating words of
insulting unbelief, demanded evidence of his chamberlain's treason:
these were easily furnished, yet such as they were, they comprised such
irrefragable proof of the identity of the outcast duke, that Henry
found, that while they confirmed him more than ever in his resolve that
Stanley should suffer the severest penalty of his crime, it made it
difficult to bring forward the testimonials of his guilt. This was for
after consideration: Clifford was dismissed with cold thanks, with
promise of pardon and reward, and a haughty command neither to obtrude
himself again into the royal presence, nor to depart from London without
especial leave.
Henry's first act was to command Stanley not to quit his chamber in the
Tower. The next day before the hour of noon, the Bishop of Durham, Lord
Oxford, Lord Surrey, Urswick, and Lord Dawbeny, met in the fallen
chamberlain's apartment, for the purpose of examining him. A thousand
opposing feelings operated upon Stanley: accustomed to pay deference to
the king, even now he said nothing to displease him; and his expressions
rather spoke of compassion for him who very possibly was duke of York,
than any falling off from his allegiance to the then king of England.
This monarch was tormented by no doubts,--to be actuated by no pity.
Stanley's acknowledgment of the truth of the Burgundian pretender roused
his bitterest feelings. In addition, he was rich booty--which weighed
heavily against him; so that, when Bishop Fox remarked on the villany
and extent of his treason, Henry, off his guard, exclaimed--"I am glad
of it; the worse the better: none can speak of mercy now, and
confiscation is assured;"--nor did he in the interval before his trial,
nor after it, express one regret that the man was about to forfeit his
head, who had encircled his own with the regal diadem.
Tried, condemned; but a few days remained before on the fatal block the
rich, noble, prudent, royally-connected Sir William Stanley would
expiate his guilt to Henry. All wondered; many pitied; few thought of
soliciting for or aiding the fallen man; yet one or two there were, whom
this last blow against York filled with bitter regret. In a secluded
part of London Lord Barry, who had just arrived, Frion, and Monina met.
Barry came with intelligence that there had appeared in Ireland a
gentleman from Scotland, commissioned by its young monarch to inquire
into the truth of Richard's story; and, if indubitably he were the man
he pretended, to counsel him to visit Scotland, where he would find
friendship and aid. The Earl of Desmond also had just arrived in London,
and Lord Barry was in his company. This downfall of Stanley called their
minds from every other consideration. Monina was peculiarly agitated and
thoughtful. One evening she joined them late: she was full of some
project. "I can, I do believe, save our friend," she said: "the
assistance I need is small--you, Master Stephen, will hasten on board
the Adalid, and bid my father have all in readiness, for sailing, and to
drop down the river as far as Greenwich: you, my dear lord, must also
take a part in my scheme--keep watch on the river, right opposite the
Tower, during the coming night and the following: if you see a light
upon the shore beneath its dark walls, come towards it with a boat; the
blessed Virgin aiding my design, it shall be freighted with
disappointment to the Tudor, joy to us."
Lord Barry and Frion promised obedience, though they would have
dissuaded her from the risk; but she was devoted, enthusiastic, firm:
she left them, nor did they delay to execute her commission, and both
went down the river to De Faro's caravel. Here a new surprise awaited
them. The duke of York and his friends had not been idle in the interim.
Each design, as it failed, gave place to another. They were diminished
in numbers, but now no traitors were among them. Their hopes were few;
but, unless the present time were seized, there would be none. The false
expectations Clifford had held out to them of coalition and succour in
England were lost, but attachment to York was alive in many an English
bosom: the preparations of arms they had made still existed; it was
resolved therefore in early spring to descend on the English shores.
The duke of York, deeply grieved by the ruin that visited his friends,
stung to the heart by Clifford's treachery, resolved meanwhile to seek
relief in action. Could not his presence do much? Unknown in England, he
might visit the Yorkists, rouse their affection, and form such a union,
as, assisted afterwards by his friends and their little fleet, would
contribute to insure success. His friends did not approve of the hazard
to which he exposed himself; but everything they alleged on this score,
only confirmed his purpose. "All endanger themselves--all die for me,"
he cried; "shall I alone be ingloriously safe?" The first sight
therefore that presented itself to Lord Barry and Frion on the deck of
the Adalid, was Prince Richard and Edmund Plantagenet.
The duke's presence did not change the purpose of Frion's visit. De Faro
got his vessel in readiness for the voyage; and Lord Barry, as evening
closed in, prepared to take his stand--not singly: Richard insisted on
sharing his watch; docile as he usually was, remonstrance had now no
effect; hitherto he had given himself up to guarded safety, now he
seemed in love with peril, resolved to court her at every opportunity.
The risk to which Monina exposed herself, made him obstinate. He would
have thought himself untrue to the laws of chivalry, a recreant knight,
had he not hastened to protect her; and, more than this--for the inborn
impulses of the heart are more peremptory than men's most sacred
laws--he loved; and a mother draws not more instinctively her
first-born to her bosom, than does the true and passionate lover feel
impelled to hazard even life for the sake of her he loves, to shield her
from every danger, or to share them gladly with her.