THE RESCUE
Let all the dukes and all the devils roar,
He is at liberty! I've ventured for him;
And out I've brought him to a little wood
A mile hence.
TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
Morning, cold and wintry, dawned upon the gloomy chambers of the Tower.
York became eager to put in execution some plan of escape in which
Warwick should share; but Warwick was full of timidity and fear. His
prison was a frightful den; yet all without was a wide, pathless,
tiger-infested jungle. He besought his cousin to regard his own safety
only. Richard refused; yet the more he meditated, the more did obstacles
crowd upon him. After the lapse of an hour, Warwick was called upon to
attend early mass, as usual, in the chapel of the fortress. Here he saw
Stanley and the disguised shrinking Monina; and, the service ended,
attended them to the prison-chamber of the chamberlain, relating as he
went, in quick low whispers, the history of the preceding night. Both
his hearers grew pale: one feared for her friend, the other for himself;
though on that score all cause of dread was well nigh at an end. All
three entered Stanley's cell, and found there Prince Richard himself,
whose active mind had led him to watch his opportunity to pass hither
unseen from Warwick's apartment.
The young earl of March, arming for the battle of Northampton, looked
not so young, so blooming, and so frankly erect, as his uncrowned son.
Stanley saw at once who was before him, and, never forgetting the
courtier, addressed his prince with a subject's respect. York was struck
by the placid, though somewhat worldly physiognomy of the man, devoted
to die, at the age when human beings are most apt to cling to life;
when, having weathered the storms and passions of youth, they desire to
repose awhile on the sun-enlightened earth, before they enter the gloomy
gates of the tomb.
The prince spoke eagerly of escape--of safety--of life: Warwick, even
timid Warwick, urged an attempt at flight; while Monina kissed her aged
friend's hand, and turned her sweet eyes on him, saying: "You will
listen to him, though you were deaf to me."
Stanley alone was unmoved--"A thousand heartfelt, useless thanks, my
dear and honoured Lord, your poor servant renders; and even when prayer
for himself is most needed, earnestly he prays that harm to you arise
not from your unexampled generosity. I cannot fly; I do believe that I
would not, if I could: and I will spare myself the disgrace of further
endangering you, and of being seized myself in the coward's act. Ask me
not, with your beseeching eyes, my gentle, venturous child, for it must
not be. I die to-morrow; and this fate you would have me avoid. Whither
would you drag me from the block? To poverty? to an unhonoured old age?
a traitor's reputation, and miserable dependence? I am a sinful man; but
I trust in God's mercy, and he holds out better hopes after the brief
spasm of death, than you after the torture of difficult escape."
More he would have said; but they were interrupted. They had not been
aware of any one's approach; and suddenly Sir John Digby, lieutenant of
the Tower, entered. He was aghast to see one more than he expected--one
whose demeanour spoke nobility. Silence followed his entrance; nor did
words readily present themselves to the blunt soldier. At length,
addressing the cause of this wonder, he, in an ironical tone of voice,
asked, "May I, lieutenant of this fortress, delegated by his majesty to
its keeping, be permitted to ask, fair sir, the name, station, and
designs of my unbidden guest?"
"My answer to your two first questions," replied York, "would little
satisfy you. My design was to facilitate the escape of this virtuous and
unhappy gentleman."
"The king is infinitely your debtor; and I shall prove unmannered in
marring your intent."
"You do not mar it. Sir John," said the prince. "My Lord Chamberlain is
a true man, and would rather lay his head on the block, at his liege's
bidding, than carry it in security at the prayer of any other. Sir
William has refused to fly; and, my mission ended, I was about to take
my leave."
"Do so, young man; take leave--an eternal one--of Sir William, and
follow me. My lord of Warwick, this is an unmeet scene for you to be
present at. This holy man comes to bestow the last words of pious
comfort my noble prisoner can receive in this world: please your
lordship to leave them together uninterrupted. I am sorry," continued
the lieutenant, addressing Monina, "to retract the permission I gave you
yesterday; but this strange incident must be my excuse. Say a last
farewell to him you have named your father."
Monina dreaded too much the fate that might befall her friend to entreat
for any change in this decree. Soon poor Sir William found himself
separated from the busy scene of life, shut up with the chaplain. He was
bid to remember and repent, and to prepare to die. A dark veil fell
before the vista of coming years, which was apparent to the eyes of his
late companions. He saw in the present hour--one only, almost
superfluous, added to the closing account. They beheld in it the arbiter
of their undivined destinies.
It is an awful emotion when we feel that the "very shoal of time" on
which we stand is freighted with the good and ill of futurity--that the
instant birth of the hour inherits our entire fortunes. Yet Richard was
proof against this rough testimony of our powerless mortality. The ill
had not yet arrived with which he did not believe he could cope; and
more--now he was bent upon endeavouring to save Stanley; for his own
fate, though about to expose it to the most unquestioned shape of peril,
he had no fears.
Sir John Digby, followed by his new prisoners, paced back to his own
chamber, and then addressed his uninvited guest. "Fair gentleman," he
said, "again I crave to be informed of your name and degree, that his
majesty may be duly made acquainted on whom to bestow his thanks. Your
speech and appearance are English?"
"Whoever I may be," replied York, "I will reveal nothing except to your
king. If he is willing to listen to disclosures nearly touching his
throne and safety, I will rouse him by a tale to shake sleep from one
who has steeped his eyes in poppy-juice. To no other will I vouchsafe a
word."
Monina listened in terror. She would have given her life to beseech her
friend to retract that foolish word: but it was too late; while his
questioner, startled by his unforeseen reply, said, "You make a bold
demand. Think you that his grace is of such common use, that it is an
easy matter to attain his presence?"
"I have said it, Sir John," answered York. "Your liege may hereafter
visit with poor thanks the denial you give me."
The lieutenant fixed his eyes on him: his youth and dignity impressed
him favourably; but he hesitated, confused by doubts of who and what he
might be. At last he said, "His majesty is at present at his palace of
Shene, ten miles hence.
"The less reason, Sir Lieutenant," replied Richard, "that you should
dally in the execution of your duty. The life of your prisoner, the
fortunes of your king, depend upon this interview."
This was a riddle difficult for Sir John to solve; and he was about to
order his enigmatical visitant to the guard-room, while he should
consult upon the fitting conduct to pursue; when a beating at the gates,
the letting down of the drawbridge, and the clatter of hoofs announced
fresh arrivals at the fortress.
The attention of every one was suspended, till, the usher announcing the
excellent prince, the earl of Desmond, that noble, attended by
followers, almost with regal pomp, entered. He cast his penetrating
glance around, and then unbonneting to the duke, he said respectfully,
"Your highness will believe that as soon as I heard of the position into
which, pardon me, your generous rashness has betrayed you, I hastened
hither to vouch for you, and deliver you from it."
To such a speech, so unexpected, so portentous, what answer? Richard
felt inclined to laugh, as he heard himself spoken to, in terms which
seemed to say that the discovery of who he really was, would occasion
his release; but he quickly discerned a hidden meaning beneath this
incomprehensible language, and he contented himself with graciously
thanking the earl for his interference, while this noble turned to
address the wondering Sir John.
"Sir Lieutenant," said he, "I have a strange story to tell, fitter for
his majesty's ears than those of a subject; but his grace is absent, and
it were not well that this noble gentleman should be kept in durance
while messengers go to and fro. Rather dismiss your followers, and I
will confide a weighty secret to you, and bring such arguments as will
induce you to intrust the high-born youth to my care and escort."
Digby was not much of a statesman; he had a simple heart, and
considerable veneration for rank. He knew that the earl of Desmond had
been well received at court, and complied with his desire. The noble
then began a long explanation of parties and tumults in Scotland; of the
frightful death of James the Third; the accession of James the Fourth;
the discontent of several chief nobles, who wished to set up the younger
brother of the new king in opposition to him. "Your highness," continued
Desmond, addressing Richard, "will pardon me for thus introducing your
name--this, Sir Lieutenant, is the duke of Rosse, who has come, and not
vainly, to seek the assistance of our liege."
Sir John bowed low and looked puzzled, while Desmond continued to speak
of disguise and secrecy, of friendship for Stanley, and of the rash
design of Lord Barry of Buttevant and the young duke to liberate him,
chiefly under the idea that thus they should best serve King Henry, who
must in his heart be loth to have his zealous friend put to death
through the falsehood of faction. "And now, gentle sir," he continued,
"be guided by me; the king loves peace; he loves state privacy; the very
presence of the duke in this country is a mystery; you will do agreeable
service by hushing up this youthful frolic. Permit his highness to
accompany me; I will make fitting report to his majesty, who will be
grateful withal."
There was a kind of confused tallying in the story; for Richard's
mysterious words were at no discord with Desmond's explanations; and his
excessively youthful and perfectly noble appearance were further
corroboration. Digby liked not the responsibility of keeping him: he
spoke of sending for the bishop of Durham. Desmond exclaimed, "A soldier
have recourse to a priest--this England is a strange country! Do as you
will; only until the thumber of missals arrive, this is no place of
entertainment fur the prince. We will receive you and your clericus at
Walbrook; and I will entertain the royal gentleman till you come."
Digby still looked blank and uncertain. Richard, who had remained
silent, now spoke: "Farewell, good sir: in truth, I need your excuse for
my impertinent visit; but here it ends. When I travel to Scotland, I
will report the favour I met at your hands."
This sufficed. Sir John sullenly yielded: with a mixture of fear and
deference, he attended his visitors to the court; they crossed the
drawbridge; and ere the Tower-gates closed behind them, they heard the
lieutenant order out a guard and his own horse, that without loss of
time he might communicate with the bishop.
The duke and his preserver rode gently enough down Tower Hill: scarce
had they reached the foot, before the earl gave a sudden command to his
followers, who turned one way, as he, York, and Monina, who had left the
Tower at the same time, and was mounted on one of Desmond's attendant's
horses, went another. "_Au galoppe_, dear my lord!" cried the earl, "we
have but a short hour's grace--this way--still the river to our left."
They galloped along with loosened reins. Arriving at the Vale of
Holborn, they followed the upward course of the Fleet, so as to reach
the open country; and many a wild field they crossed, and briary lane
they threaded--the country was flat, marshy, wild; skirted in various
directions by brown wintry woods, rarely interspersed by hamlets. The
river was their only guide; they followed its course for several miles,
till they reached the shelter of Caen Wood. "Thank St. Patrick for this
cover!" cried the Irish chieftain; "may my cousin Barry find no let nor
hindrance--yon troubled stream will guide him well. We have done a
daring deed: for me, I have not ridden so far, since my father, God sain
him! died--I am well nigh _hors de combat_."
The prince assisted both his companions to dismount. Lord Desmond's tale
was soon told, of how Lord Barry had sought him and suggested this mode
of effecting York's escape. "With the help of your Moorish friend," said
the earl, "no ill wind betide me--I shall be in Munster before the
riddle be half told; that is, if ever we reach the vessel. By my faith!
I would rather be knee-deep in a bog in Thomond, than dry-shod where I
am!"
As day advanced, the situation of the fugitives became still more
disquieting. All was tranquil in the leafless wood; but, in spite of the
sun, it was very cold. Besides, they were in an unknown spot, without
guide; their sole hope being, that each passing minute would bring Lord
Barry to their assistance. Earl Maurice was thoroughly disabled; he
grumbled at first, and at last, wearied out, lay on the cold ground, and
fell into a slumber. Monina, serious, timid, and yet, in spite of
herself, happy in her friend's safety, and in her own being near him,
was silent; while Richard, to escape from his own thoughts, talked to
her. When, for a moment, his conversation languished, his eyes were
fondly fixed upon her downcast face, and a strife of sentiment, of
ardent, long-restrained love, and a tortuous, but severe resolve to
protect her, even from himself, battled in his heart; so that, in
all-engrossing love, every sense of danger was lost.
Desmond at last roused himself: "The shadows grow long; herbage there is
little for our horses, pasture for ourselves there is none--if we stay,
we starve; if we stir, we----"
He was interrupted; strange voices came upon the wind; then the cracking
of boughs, and the sound of steps. Through the vista of bare trees the
intruders at length appeared, in strange array. There was a band of
ill-attired, ruffian-looking men, followed by women and children; their
swart visages, their picturesque, but scant and ragged garb, their black
hair, and dark flashing eyes, were not English. Some were on foot, some
on asses, some in a cart drawn by two rough ill-assorted colts--their
very language was foreign. Richard and Monina recognized a horde of
Gitani, Bohemians, or Gipsies; while Desmond looked in wonder on
something almost wilder than the Irish kern.
The savage wanderers were surprised to perceive the previous guests the
barren woods had received--they paused and looked round in some fear;
for the noble appearance of the gentlemen made them imagine that they
must be accompanied by numerous attendants. York's quick wit suggested
to him in a moment of what good use such humble friends might be. He
addressed them; told them that they were travellers who had lost their
way, "And so we have encroached on your rightful domain; but, like
courteous hosts, I beseech you, gentlemen, welcome us to your green-wood
palace, and make happy as you will grateful guests of us."
Thus invited, the whole horde gathered round--the women, fancying all
three of an opposite sex, were forward with their prophetic art.
"My fortune," cries Desmond, "shall not be told before supper; it is an
ill one, by the rood! at this hour. I have fasted since yesternight."
Preparations were speedily made for a repast, while Richard, alive to
his situation, looked around for the most fitting object to address;
whose charity and aid he could hope to solicit with the greatest
success. One laughing-eyed girl glanced at him with peculiar favour; but
near her stood and scowled a tall handsome countryman of her own. York
turned to another, fairer, who sat retired apart; she looked more gentle
and even refined than the rest. He addressed her in courtly phrase, and
her reply, though ready, was modest. The acquaintance was a little in
progress, when one of the oldest among the sibyls, with white hair, and
a face of wrinkled parchment, hobbled up, muttering, "Ay, ay, the
fairest flower is aye the dearest to pluck; any of those gaudy weeds
might serve his turn; but no, my young master must needs handle the
daintiest bloom of the garden." Notwithstanding this interruption,
Richard still stood his ground, bandying pretty speeches with one not
the less pleased, because, strictly guarded by her duenna, she was
unaccustomed to the language of flattery.
"Hast never a word for me, fair sir," said the crone, at last; "no
comparison of star and gems for one, who in her day has flaunted with
silk-clad dames--whose lips have been pressed even by a king?"
His father's reputation for gallantry, thus alluded to, brought the
blood into York's cheeks; forgetful of what import his words bore, he
replied lastly, "Sleep King Edward's faults with him, mother; it is
neither wise nor well to speak irreverently of those gone to their
doom--may God assoilzie him!"
"What voice is that?" cried the old woman; "if I boast, Heaven forgive
me, of his grace's slight favour, your mother may take shame----"
"Your words are naught," cried York, interrupting her, "my mother's is a
sacred name--yet, tell me in very truth, and give me some sign that,
indeed, you knew my father."
The word passed his lips before he was aware, but being spoken, he felt
that it were best not to recede. Seizing the old woman's shrivelled
hand, he said, "Look--use thy art--read my palm: read rather my
features, and learn indeed who I am: I am in danger; you may betray, or
you may save me: choose which you will--I am the duke of York."
An exclamation checked, a look of boundless surprise changed into a
cautious glance around, attested the gipsy's wish to serve the venturous
youth. "Rash boy," she answered, in a low voice, "what idle, or what
mortal words are these! How art thou here? With what hope--what aid?"
"Frankly, none but what I derive from your bounty. I have escaped worse
peril, so do not fear but that God will protect me, and even turn to
profit my parent's sin, if his kiss purchase his son's life."
"Young sir," said the gipsy, with great seriousness, "the flower of love
is gay--its fruit too often bitter. So does she know on whose account I
wickedly and shamelessly did the foul fiend's bidding, and ruined a
sinless soul to gratify the pleasure-loving king. But thou hast paid the
penalty: thou and thine, who have been called by the ill-word, thrust
from thy place by thy crook-back uncle; and now art nearer a dungeon
than a throne through thy father's fault. I will serve and save thee;
tell me quickly, who are thy companions--whither thou wouldst go--that
I may judge the best to be done."
It is to be observed, that at the very beginning of this colloquy, the
young girl, whom York had first addressed, had stolen away. Now he
replied by mentioning the lameness of his elder friend, and his resolve
not to be divided from the other. He spoke of the Adalid, and of his
further wish to be awhile concealed in England. The old woman continued
silent, wrapped in thought. At length she raised her head--"It can be
done, and it shall," she said, half to herself. "Come now, they are
serving our homely fare. You, who are young, and ill-apt for penance,
must eat before you go."
The savoury steams of the well-filled and rustic _marmite_, gave force to
her words, and to Richard's appetite. The repast was plentiful and gay,
and even too long. Evening was far advanced, the fire grew light in the
dusk, and threw its fitful rays upon the strange and incongruous
feasters. Monina had cowered close to Richard; the cup went round;
scarcely did she put it to her lips; a rude companion of the crew made
some rough jest on her sobriety. Richard's face lighted up with anger:
his watchful old friend stepped forward, in her own jargon she made some
communication to her associates, which caused a universal pause, and
then a stir: it was evident some movement was intended. She meanwhile
drew the three fugitives aside:
"In a few minutes," she said, "we shall all be on our way hence; listen
how I would provide for your safeties." She then proposed that Desmond
should assume the disguise of one of the horde, and so be conveyed in
safety to the banks of the Thames, and on board the Adalid. She promised
herself to conduct the prince and his young friend to a secure refuge.
The earl, accustomed to find fidelity and rags near mates, readily
acceded to this proposal. In the solitary unknown spot to which, chance
had directed them, environed by every danger, no step was more perilous
than the remaining where they were. York and Monina were familiar with
the reports of the gipsy character--its savage honour and untractable
constancy. The season was such, though the day had been unusually sunny
and warm, as to make a night in the open air no agreeable anticipation;
and Richard had a thousand fears on his lovely friend's account. They
all readily acceded to the old woman's plan. Desmond was quickly
disguised, his visage stained deep brown, his whole person transformed;
he was placed in the caravan, and the horde was speedily in movement;
the sound of their departing steps died away. They had left a rude cart,
to which York's horse, a strong hack, was harnessed. The sibyl undertook
to guide it. Richard and Monina ascended the jumbling fabric. Soon they
were on their journey, none but their conductress knew in what
direction; but they submitted to her, and through copse and over field
they wound their darkling way.