THE PARTING
Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot:
And then the power of Scotland and of York
To join----
In faith it is exceedingly well aimed!
SHAKSPEARE.
The duke of York found Lord Barry, Sir George Neville, Plantagenet, and
several other distinguished friends, on board his vessel. In
consultation with them, it was agreed to sail immediately for Cork. The
loss of many brave friends, killed or prisoners, on the Kentish coast,
saddened them: while the diminution of their numbers forbade the idea of
a second descent upon England. Towards Ireland they sailed, with such
alternation of calm and contrary winds as made them linger for several
weeks upon their way. Here, for the first time, Richard heard from Frion
of Clifford's machinations, and of his message and insolent threat to
Monina. Every drop of blood in his veins was alive with indignation:
before, he had despised Sir Robert as a traitor; and, while he looked on
him as the cause of all his disasters, and of the death of so many of
his noble and gallant adherents, his abhorrence was mingled with
contemptuous pity. The unchivalrous wrong offered to a woman, that woman
his sweet sister-friend, animated him with other feelings: to avenge
her, and chastise the arrogant braggart, was his knightly duty, his
fervent, impatient wish. He saw her not meanwhile; she was in one of
those dark hulls, among which love alone taught him to discern the
lighter build and more sea-worn frame of the _Adalid_.
Ireland was at this time very differently situated from when the prince
first landed on her shores. After Lambert Simnel's success there, still
the king of England had neglected its internal policy. A more terrible
name awakened his caution; and he sent Sir Edward Poynings, as the
deputy of his infant son Henry, whom he had nominally appointed to the
government. Poynings was resolute and successful. He defeated the
natives, quelled the earl of Kildare, and forced the earl of Desmond to
renew his oaths of allegiance. A free pardon was afterwards granted to
all, with the exception of Lord Barry.
York was received at Cork most cordially by his old friend O'Water, and
immediately, at the earl of Desmond's invitation, repaired to Ardfinnin.
The earl had found no great difficulty in escaping from England, and
returning to his native island. The timely assistance he had afforded
Henry's enemy in the Tower was an impenetrable mystery, though the
consciousness of it had made him more yielding than he would otherwise
have been in his concessions to Poynings. He received York with the
hospitality of an Irish chieftain, and the kindness of a friend. But he
held out no inducement for him to remain: on the contrary, he was the
first to counsel him to turn his eyes, where a new and brighter prospect
presented itself. Sir Patrick Hamilton had left Munster a few months
before, with a firm belief in Richard's truth; he had assured the earl
of the favourable reception his adventurous friend would obtain from his
royal master, and had declared his intention of proceeding to Brussels
to see the prince, and personally to enforce his invitation. York was
absent; but the duchess gave a cordial reception to the renowned
Scottish cavalier. He had been present at the sailing of the fleet; and
his last words were wishes for their success, and an offer of secure and
honourable refuge in Edinburgh, in case of failure. It had been agreed,
that on his own return thither, he should be accompanied by messengers
from the duchess, to thank the king of Scotland for the interest he
manifested towards her beloved nephew. Sir Edward Brampton was chosen as
the chief of these, accompanied, of course, by his lady, York's
long-tried and zealous friend.
All these circumstances were decisive of the course it became the exile
to pursue. He was at that moment in a condition to appear under
advantageous circumstances at the Scottish court. He had lost several
valued friends during the late attempt; but many remained of noble birth
and good renown. Above a hundred knights graced his train. The treasure
his aunt had bestowed for his English struggle remained, besides a
considerable sum of money, services of valuable plate and valuable
jewels, the munificent gift of the dowager duchess of Norfolk. In fine,
not a dissentient voice was raised; and the attention of every one was
turned towards preparations for the voyage. York continued to be the
earl of Desmond's guest: in his princely halls he received all the
honour due to his rank and pretensions. The countess, a lady of the
noble family of Roche, distinguished him by her kindness, and conceived
a peculiar friendship for the Spanish maiden, Monina.
The moment arrived for York's embarkation. He had visited his vessels,
and seen that all was in readiness; but his surprise was excited by
perceiving that no preparations were made for sailing on board the
_Adalid_. This was explained on his return, by the countess telling him
that a friend of his desired to take leave of him before he sailed, and
that she had been besought by her to explain in some measure the reasons
of their separation. De Faro's whole soul was set upon becoming one of
those immortal pioneers who opened new paths across the unexplored west.
He could be of no use to Richard in Scotland; but he could not prevail
on himself to leave his lovely, unprotected girl behind. She had at last
consented to accompany him in his far and dangerous voyage.
Many had been this poor child's struggles, sad her reflections, ere she
wrought herself to this purpose. "Alas!" such were her reveries, "that
innocence should be no safeguard in this ill world! If indeed I loved
him sinfully, or he sought me wrongfully, I should simply obey the laws
of God in flying him; but he is noble, and I know my own heart. Spotless
Mother of God, thou knowest it!--there is no single feeling in my
woman's soul that I dare not avouch to thy all-blessed gentleness! I ask
only to live in the same land, to breathe the same air, to serve him at
his need, to associate with his friends; so that when I see him not, I
may feed upon discourse of him. This is all I ask--all!--and this must
not be! I cannot bear a tainted name; I cannot endure that, linked with
any slightest stain of calumny, my image should haunt his dreams; nor
that he or any human being should suffer through me, which may so easily
happen: for if words like those Frion reported should reach my father's
ears, he would clothe his tempest-shaken limbs in arms, and expose his
breast to the sharp sword's point, to vindicate my honour. No!--no
tragedy shall be associated with poor Monina's name; nor agony nor woe
shall visit those I love, through me: they shall not even commiserate my
sufferings; these shall be garnered up in my own heart, watched with a
miser's care. I will not enrich the tell-tale air by one sigh; nor
through my broken heart shall the gloom of my despair appear. I will
paint my face with joy's own hue; put sunshine in my eyes: my hapless
love shall be no tale of pity for any, save my own desolate thoughts.
Nor let me forget every lesson of resignation, nor the dear belief I
cherish in the protection and goodness of my sainted guardianess. Let me
rejoice at much that exalts my destiny in my own eyes. The prince's
friendship, affection, gratitude, and esteem are mine: I have been able
to serve him I love--am I not sufficiently fortunate? He needs me no
more; but I am no alien upon earth. I shall give delight to my dear
father by accompanying him over the untrod watery deserts: through
me--for, if I went not, he would remain behind--the name of De Faro
will be added to the list of those who bestow a new creation of supernal
beauty on our out-worn world. He will call me the partner of his glory;
and, though that be a vain word, his dark eyes will flash with joy. My
dear, dear father! Should the prince succeed and ascend his rightful
throne, more impassable than that wide sea would be the gulph which
ceremony would place between us; and if he fall--ah! mine is no
summer's day voyage; the tornados of that wild region may wreck me; the
cold sea receive me in her bosom; and I shall never hear of Richard's
overthrow, nor endure the intolerable pang of knowing that he dies."
Fortified in some degree by such thoughts, anxious to conceal her
sorrows from one who might compassionate, yet not wholly share them,
Monina met Richard with an air of gaiety: glad, in spite of his
involuntary mortification, that she should be spared any pain, he copied
her manner; and a spectator would have thought, that either they parted
for a few hours, or were indifferent to each other. He could not help
betraying some anxiety however, when Lady Desmond, who was present,
solicited him to make his friend change her purpose, and drew a
frightful picture of the hazardous voyage, the storms, the likelihood
that they might be driven far, far away, where no land was, where they
would perish of famine on the barren, desolate ocean. Monina
laughed--she endeavoured thus to put aside her friend's serious
entreaties; and, when she found that she failed, she spoke of the
Providence that could protect her even on the wastes of innavigable
ocean; and proudly reminded him, that she would trust her father, whose
reputation as a mariner stood foremost among those in the king of
Portugal's employ. Richard looked perplexed--sorrow and pain spoke in
his own countenance; while she, true to herself to the last, said, "I
have now told you my purpose--but this is no farewell; to-morrow we
meet again; and another to-morrow will come also, when I bring treasure
from my Indian isle to dazzle the monarch of fair, happy England."
On that morrow Richard sought in vain among the countess of Desmond's
companions for his sweet Spaniard; he imaged her as he last saw her,
light, laughing, her soft-beaming eyes hardly daring to glance towards
him, while he fancied that a shower of precious drops was shaken from
their fringed lids. He had meant to say, "Ah! weep, Monina, weep for
Andalusia--for our happy childhood--for the hopes that leaves us: thy
tears will seem to me more glad than thy untrue smile." But she was not
there. Could he have seen her from the deck of his vessel, marking its
progress from the watch-tower of Youghall, he had been satisfied. The
anguish of bitter tears, the heart's agonizing gaspings, were hers, to
be succeeded by the dull starless night of despair, when his sail
vanished on the glittering plains of the sunny sea.
Farewell to her who mourned; to her who saw neither day nor joy, whose
heart lived with him, while she prepared for her melancholy separation
from the very world which he inhabited.
The scene shifts to Scotland; and hither, to a new country, a new
people, almost to a new language, our royal adventurer is transported.
Dark, tumultuous, stained with blood, and rendered foul by treason, are
the pages of early Scottish history. A wild and warlike people inhabited
its mountainous districts, whose occupation was strife, whose religion
was power and revenge. The Lowlanders, a wealthier race, were hardly
more cultivated or less savage. One course of rebellion against the
sovereign, and discord among themselves, flows, a sanguinary stream from
the hidden sources of things, threading a long track of years, or
overflowing it with its pernicious waves. Discord, hate, and murder were
the animating spirits of the scene.
James the Third was a weak, unhappy man. A prophecy had induced him to
distrust all the princes of his house--he extended this distrust to his
son, who was brought up consequently in a kind of honourable and obscure
imprisonment. He fostered unworthy favourites; and many bold and
sanguinary revolts had been the consequence. On one occasion, while
encamped during a foray into England, his nobles had seized on all his
personal friends and adherents, and hanged them over London Bridge. The
last rebellion cost him his life. The insurgents seized on, and placed
at their head, his eldest son, then only sixteen years of age--they met
their sovereign in the field--he fled before them; and his death was as
miserable and dastardly as his life.
James the Fourth succeeded to the throne. The mean jealousy of his
father had caused him to be untutored; but he was one of those beings,
who by nature inherit magnanimity refinement, and generosity. His faults
were those that belong to such a character. His imagination was active,
his impulses warm but capricious. He was benignant to every other,
severe only in his judgment of himself. His father's death, to which he
had been an unwilling accessary, weighed like parricide on his
conscience. To expiate it, in the spirit of those times, he wore
perpetually an iron girdle, augmenting the weight each year, as habit or
increasing strength lightened the former one. He devoted much of his
life to penance and prayer. Here ended, however, all of the ascetic in
his disposition. He was a gallant knight and an accomplished gentleman.
He encouraged tourneys and passages of arms, raising the reputation of
the Scottish cavaliers all over Europe, so that many noble foreigners
repaired to Edinburgh, to gain new trophies in contests with the heroes
of the north. He passed edicts to enforce the schooling of the children
of the nobles and lairds. His general love of justice, a little impaired
it is true by feudal prejudices, often led him to wander in disguise
over his kingdom; seeking hospitality from the poor, and listening with
a candid and generous mind to every remark upon himself and his
government.
He was singularly handsome, graceful, prepossessing, and yet dignified
in his manners. He loved pleasure, and was the slave of the sex, which
gives to pleasure all its elegance and refinement; he partook his
family's love for the arts, and was himself a poet and a musician; nay
more, to emulate the divine patron of these accomplishments, he was
well-skilled in surgery, and the science of healing. He was ambitious,
active, energetic. He ruminated many a project of future glory;
meanwhile his chief aim was to reconcile the minds of the alienated
nobles--his murdered father's friends--to himself; and, succeeding in
this, to abolish the feuds that raged among the peers of Scotland, and
civilize their barbarous propensities. He succeeded to a miracle. His
personal advantages attracted the affection of his subjects; they were
proud of him, and felt exalted by his virtues. His excellent government
and amiable disposition, both united to make his reign peaceful in its
internal policy, and beneficial to the kingdom. The court of Holyrood
vied with those of Paris, London, and Brussels; to which capitals many
of his high-born subjects, no longer engaged in the struggles of party,
travelled; bringing back with them the refinements of gallantry, the
poetry, learning, and science of the south of Europe. The feuds, last
flickerings of the dying torch of discord, which lately spread a fatal
glare through the land, ceased; if every noble did not love, they all
obeyed their sovereign--thus a new golden age might be said to have
dawned upon this eyrie of Boreas, this tempestuous Thule of the world.
We must remember that this was the age of chivalry; the spirit of
Edward the Third and the princely dukes of Burgundy yet survived. Louis
the Eleventh, in France, had done much to quench it; it burnt bright
again under the auspices of his son. Henry the Seventh was its bitter
enemy; but we are still at the beginning of his reign, while war and
arms were unextinguished by his cold avaricious policy. James of
Scotland laboured, and successfully, to pacify his subjects, children of
one common parent; but he, as well as they, disdained the ignoble arts
of peace. England formed the lists where they desired to display their
courage; war with England was a word to animate every heart to dreadful
joy: in the end, it caused the destruction of him and all his chivalry
in Flodden Field; now it made him zealous to upraise a disinherited
prince; so that under the idea of restoring the rightful sovereign to
the English throne, he might have fair pretext for invading the
neighbour kingdom. At the hope, the soldiers of Scotland--in other
words, its whole population--awakened, as an unhooded hawk, ready to
soar at its accustomed quarry.
Sir Patrick Hamilton, the most accomplished and renowned of the Scottish
cavaliers, and kinsman of the royal house, had returned laden with every
testimony of the White Rose's truth, and a thousand proofs of his
nobleness and virtue. Sir Edward Brampton delivered the duchess's
message of thanks; and his lady had already awakened the zeal of many a
gentleman, and the curiosity and interest of many a lady, for the pride
of York, the noble, valiant Plantagenet. Woman's sway was great at
Holyrood; as the bachelor king, notwithstanding his iron girdle, and his
strict attention to his religious duties, was a devout votary at the
shrine of feminine beauty.
There was a hawking party assembled in the neighbourhood of Stirling,
which he graced by his presence. All was, apparently, light-heartedness
and joy, till a dispute arose between two damsels upon the merits of
their respective falcons. One of these was fair Mary Boyd, daughter of
the laird of Bonshaw. Mary Boyd was the first-love of the young
sovereign, and the report went, that he was no unsuccessful suitor; it
spoke of offspring carefully concealed in a village of Fife, whom James
often visited. When, afterwards, this young lady's example was imitated
by others nobly born, this became no secret, and of her children, one
became archbishop of St. Andrew's--the other, a daughter, married the
earl of Morton.
But these were days of youthful bashfulness and reserve; the mind of
Mary Boyd balanced between pride in her lover, and shame for her fault;
a state of feeling that ill brooked the loss of what gilded her too
apparent frailty--the exclusive attention of the king. Mary was older
than the king; the dignity which had captivated the boy's imagination,
lost its charm when the tyranny of assumed right took the place of that
of tenderness. He grew cold, then absent, and at last, ventured to fix a
regard of admiration on another, sliding easily from the restraint to
which he at first submitted, into all of devotion, and soft, gallant
courtesy, by which kings win ladies' love, and in which none grew to be
a greater adept than James. The new object that attracted him was, the
young, gay, and lovely Lady Jane Kennedy, daughter of the earl of
Cassils. Her sparkling eyes, her "bonny brent brow," her dark,
clustering hair, contrasted with the transparency of her
complexion--her perfect good-humour, her vivacity, and her wit--made
her a chief beauty in the Scottish court, and in all this she was the
reverse of the fair, light-haired, sleepy-eyed Mary. Lady Jane saw and
gloried in her triumph over the king. Innocent then, she only desired
the reputation of such a conquest, fully resolved not to tread in the
steps of her rival. It is something of fool's play to strive to enchain
fire by links of straw, to throw silken fetters on abounding torrent, to
sport with the strong lion, Love, as he were a playful whelp: some,
secure in innocence and principle, may at last discover their mistake
and remain uninjured; but not the vain, heedless, self-willed, Lady
Jane. The courtiers were divided in their attentions; some for shame
would not forsake Mary Boyd; some thought that still she would regain
her power; one or two imagined that Lady Jane's resistance would restore
the king to her rival; but the greater number caught the light spirit of
the hour, and gathered round the laughing, happy girl.
The contention between these ladies made many smile. The king betted a
diamond against a Scotch pebble on Lady Jane's bird. Mary had thwarted
him, and forced him to her side during the first part of the day--now
he took his revenge. A heron rose from the river banks. The birds were
unhooded, and up soared Lady Jane's in one equal flight through the blue
air, cleaving the atmosphere with noiseless wing. Mary's followed
slower; but, when Lady Jane's pounced on the quarry, and brought it
screaming and flapping to the ground, the rival bird darted on the
conqueror, and a sharp struggle ensued. It was unequal; for the Lady
Jane's hawk would not quit its prey. "Let them fight it out," said Mary,
"and the survivor is surely the victor."
But the spectators cried shame--while Lady Jane, with a scream,
hastened to save her favourite. The other, fiery as a borderer, attacked
even her; and, in spite of her gloves, drops of blood from her fair
hand, stained her silken robe. James came to her rescue, and with one
blow put an end to the offender's life. Jane caressed her "tassel
gentle," while Mary looted on her "false carrion's" extinction with
unrepressed indignation. They returned to Stirling: immediately on their
arrival, they received tidings that the duke of York's fleet had been
descried, and was expected to enter the Frith on the following day. None
heard the words without emotion; the general sentiment was joy; for
Richard's landing was to be the signal of invasion. King Henry had one
or two friends among the Scottish nobles, and these alone smiled
contemptuously.
"We must have feasts and tourneys, fair mistress," said the king, "to
honour our royal visitor. Will your servant intrude unseemingly if,
while his arms extol your beauty, he wears your colours?"
Lady Jane smiled a reply, as she followed her father towards his
mansion. She smiled, while feminine triumph beamed in her eye, and
girlish bashfulness blushed in her cheek. "Has she not a bonny ee?"
cried James, to him who rode near him. It was Sir Patrick Hamilton, his
dear cousin and friend, to whom James often deferred, and respected,
while he loved. His serious look recalled the king. "This is not the
time, good sooth!" he continued, "for such sweet gauds--but for lance,
and broadsword:--the coming of this prince of Roses will bring our arms
into play, all rusty as they are. I wonder what presence our guest may
have!"
The friends then conversed concerning the projected war, which both
agreed would be well-timed. It would at once give vent to the fiery
impulses of the Scotch lords, otherwise apt to prey upon each other. But
lately a band of the Drummonds had burnt the kirk of Moulward, in which
were six-score Murrays, with their wives and children, all of whom were
victims. But foray in England--war with the land of their hate--the
defiance would be echoed in glad shouts from Tweed to Tay, from the
Lothians to the Carse of Gowrie; while it should be repeated in groans
from the Northumberland wilds.