DISAPPOINTMENT
Methinks I see Death and the Furies waiting
What we will do, and all the Heaven at leisure
For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords!
BEN JONSON.
Faster than the airy slave quicksilver is influenced by the changes of
the atmosphere, does the subtle essence of the mind of one, who from
love or gratitude hangs upon the smile or frown of another, feel the
sunshine or frost of that other's countenance; and an independent
disposition speedily revolts from servile obedience to such alteration.
On the following day, and afterwards on the succeeding ones, Richard
felt that the heart of James was no longer the same. He was courteous,
kind--his friend's interests formed the sole topic of their
conversations--but York could neither say the thing he wished, nor do
that which he desired; the same objects were before him, apparently the
same colouring was upon them; yet a pale sickly hue was cast over the
before glowing picture; a chill had penetrated the summer warmth in
which he basked; the wave was yet calm, but it was clouded, and no
longer showed in its limpid depths that sympathy and affection which
made the White Rose's fortunes seem truly and intrinsically Scotland's
own.
Friendship was now professed, service tendered; before words had seemed
superfluous--the thing was there. James assured his guest that he would
not turn back, nor give ear to Henry's propositions; and York felt, with
a start, that ear had been, given to them, or this conclusion had not
been noted. The disunion and continued separation of the camps was
another circumstance that spoke loudly of division of thought and
counsel.
Frion believed that he should now resume his ancient position with his
royal master: he bore his reproofs humbly, and strove to regain his
favour by the importance of his services. The arcana of the Tudor party
were, to a great degree, revealed to York; and it was easy to mark the
ascendancy it was gaining. The presence of Lady Jane Kennedy might
explain the ceremony and regulations observed in the intercourse between
the king and his friend; but it was Frion's part to disclose the enmity
this lady entertained for the White Rose, and the influence she exerted
to its detriment. Moray and Lord Buchan were her friends, and they were
frequent visitors in the royal pavilion.
A short time somewhat changed this state of things. The army drew near
the frontier; and the king separated himself from the fair mistress of
his heart. On the third day they arrived on the banks of the Tweed. It
was but crossing a little river--but stepping from one stone to
another, and Richard would stand on English ground.
The troops had passed the day before; some had proceeded southward;
others were even now to be seen defiling in long lines on the distant
plain. The sun was up cheerily; the fresh pleasant green of spring had
stolen, more like a tinted atmosphere, than in the guise of foliage,
over tree and bush; field flowers and crocusses peeped from under the
mossy turf. The scene was a wide moor, varied by broken ground; clumps
of trees, where many a bird nestled; and here and there thick underwood,
where the wild deer made his lair; this had been the scene of a thousand
conflicts, and of mortal carnage between Scot and Englishman, but the
skylark above sang of nature's bounty and nature's loveliness, an
immemorial and perennial hymn, while nothing spoke of the butchery and
wretchedness which once had made the landscape a tragic corpse-strewn
stage.
Reining in his pawing courser, King James, in all the gay array of a
high-born knight, paused on the Scottish bank--his lips, proud as the
Apollo's--spoke of struggle and victory,
"In his eye
And nostril, beautiful disdain and might
And majesty flashed their full lightnings by."
Here was he who, in a later day, led the flower of Scotland to die on
the English plains; who himself was doomed to lie with mangled limbs,
and in blank, cold extinction, a trophy of victory to his enemy, on
Flodden Field: he was alive now, and in his strength; he drank in with
buoyant spirit every glorious anticipation, and laughed with fond
delight; spurring on his horse, he crossed the ford, and entered
England.
In a moment, as by impulse, York, who had lingered, dashed after him;
allies they were; friends in seeming, nay, in truth; for the glance of
proud enmity Richard cast on the Scot was perhaps the more factitious
feeling: it sprang from patriotism, but its energy was borrowed from the
deadly feuds of their ancestors, that natural hate which is said to
exist now between the French and English, and which was far more
envenomed between the near-rival people. Notwithstanding James's change
towards him, York felt in the core of his affectionate heart, all that
was due to him who had raised him when he was fallen; given him state,
power--Katherine; he saw in him his kinsman--his benefactor. But the
pride of a son of England rose in his breast, when he beheld the haughty
Scot caracol in arrogant triumph on her soil. What was he? What had he
done? He was born king and father of this realm: because he was
despoiled of his high rights, was he to abjure his natural duty to her,
as her child? Yet here he was an invader; not arming one division of her
sons against the other, but girt with foreigners, aided by the ancient
ravagers of her smiling villages and plenteous harvests. He looked on
each individual Scot, and on their gallant king, and felt his bosom
swell with rage and hate. These were unwise, nay, ungrateful sentiments;
but he could not repel them. His first commands were to his cousin, to
hasten to Randal of Dacre, to learn what Yorkists had gathered together
to receive him. "If there be any large company," he said, "without more
ado we will thank our kind cousin, invite him to recross the Tweed, and
leave us to fight our battles by ourselves."
The satisfaction and triumph James felt made him, so far from
participating in York's feelings, turn with renewed cordiality towards
him. It was his first care to have the standard of the White Rose set up
with martial pomp, to disperse his proclamations, and to invite, by his
own manner, the Scottish nobles to increase in observance towards the
prince. Lord Huntley, believing that the prophecy of his daughter's
elevation was on the eve of its accomplishment, was prodigal of his
shows of honour and service to his son-in-law. For some days the
pavilions of the brother kings were pitched side by side, and James each
hour thought to hear of the arrival of the Yorkist nobility of England:
he had expected so many that he had given orders that care should be
taken to recall his own troops, when the English visitants outnumbered
his own guard. Day after day passed, and not one came--not one: even
Randal of Dacre, Lord Dacre's brother, who had visited Richard in
Scotland, seized with panic, had gone southward. Nothing came, save
intelligence that the Cornish insurgents had been defeated on
Blackheath, their ringleaders taken and executed; among them Lord Audley
perished.
Another life!--how many more to complete the sad hecatomb, a useless
offering to obdurate fate in Richard's favour! Sir George Neville,
gathered up in all the cold pride of disappointed ambition, disdained to
regret. Plantagenet saw the hopes and purpose of his life crushed, but
dared not give words to his despair; Sir Roderick sneered; Lord Barry
was loud in his laments; while the Scots grew taller and prouder, and
ceased to frequent the tents of the English exiles. Councils were held
by James, in which York had no part; it was only afterwards, that he
learnt it had been commanded to the Scotch army to lay waste the
country. Now indeed all the Englishman was alive in his heart--he gave
sudden orders to raise his camp, and to march forward; he had sat still
too long; he would enter the kingdom he claimed; discover for himself
his chance of success--and, if there were none, his rights should not
be made the pretence of a Scotch invasion.
None cried, "Long live King Richard!" as he passed along. How did his
noble, youthful spirit droop at finding that not only he did not meet
with, but was judged not to deserve success. It ranks among the most
painful of our young feelings, to find that we are justly accused of
acting wrong. Our motives--we believed them disinterested or
justifiable; we have advanced a wondrous step in life before we can
concede even to ourselves that alloy may be mingled with what we deemed
pure gold: ignorant of the soil and culture of our own hearts, we feel
sure that no base mixture can form a part of what we fancy to be a mine
of virgin ore, Richard would have stood erect and challenged the world
to accuse him--God and his right, was his defence. His right! Oh,
narrow and selfish was that sentiment that could see, in any right
appertaining to one man the excuse for the misery of thousands.
War, held in leash during the army's march from Edinburgh, was now let
loose; swift and barbarous he tore forward on his way; a thousand
destructions waited on him; his track was marked by ruin: the words of
Lord Surrey were fulfilled. What a sight for one, whose best hope in
acquiring his kingdom, was to bestow the happiness of which the usurper
deprived it. The English troops, about five hundred men, crossed the
wide-spread plains in the immediate vicinity of Scotland; they entered a
beaten track, where the traces of cultivation spoke of man; a village
peeped from among the hedge-row trees--York's heart beat high. Would
the simple inhabitants refuse to acknowledge him? A few steps disclosed
the truth--the village had been sacked by the Scotch: it was half
burnt, and quite deserted; one woman alone remained--she sat on a pile
of ashes wailing aloud. The exiles dared not read in each other's eyes
the expression of their horror; they walked on like men rebuked. This
was England, their country, their native home; and they had brought the
fierce Scot upon her. Passing forward, they met trains of waggons laden
with spoil, droves of cattle and sheep. They overtook a troop roasting
an ox by the burning rafters of a farm-house, whose green palings, trim
orchard, and shaved grass-plat, spoke of domestic comfort; the house-dog
barked fearfully--a Lowland archer transfixed him with his arrow.
The English marched on; they dared not eye the ravagers; shame and hate
contended--these were their allies; while the sarcasm and scornful
laugh which followed them, drugged with wormwood the bitter draught. In
vain, west or east or south, did they turn their eyes, a sad variety of
the same misery presented itself on every side. A stout yeoman, gashed
by an Highlander's claymore, was sometimes the ghastly stepping-stone
passed over to enter his own abode; women and children had not been
spared, or were only left to perish for want. Often during apparent
silence, a fearful shriek, or the voice of lamentation, burst upon the
air: now it was a woman's cry, now the shrill plaint of infancy. With
the exception of these sufferers, the landscape was a blank. Where were
the troops of friends Richard had hoped would hail him? Where the
ancient Yorkists? Gone to augment the army which Surrey was bringing
against the Scot; attached to these ill-omened allies, how could the
prince hope to be met by his partizans? He had lost them all; the first
North Briton who crossed the Tweed trampled on and destroyed for ever
the fallen White Rose.
Resolutely bent on going forward till he should have advanced beyond the
Scotch, on the following day York continued his march. They entered the
ruins of another village; the desolation here was even more complete,
although more recent; the flame was hardly spent upon the blackened
rafters; the piles which the day before had been smiling dwellings,
still smoked; a few domestic animals were skulking about. There was a
church at the end of what had been a street; this was not spared. The
English entered the desecrated aisle; an aged bleeding monk was lying at
the altar's foot, who scowled even in death upon the soldiery; suddenly
he recognized his countrymen; pleasure gleamed in his sunken eyes, "Ye
will avenge us! Deliver the land!--The hand of God will lead ye on!"
Plantagenet rushed forward--"Father!" he cried, "do I find you here?"
The old man spoke, looked faintly; Edmund bent over him: "My father, it
is I, Edmund, your boy, your murde----"
"My son," said the monk, "I behold you again, and die content! You are
in arms, but by the blessing of the saints your sword's point is turned
against the cruel invader. Not one, oh! not one Englishman will fall by
his brother's hand, for not one will fight for that base deceit, the
ill-nurtured Perkin, to whom God in his wrath has given such show of
right as brings the Scot upon us. Once I thought--but no son of York
would ally himself to these cruel border-robbers. God of my country, oh
curse, curse him and his cause!"
The dying man spoke with difficulty; a few moments more, a spasm crossed
his features, and they settled into stony insensibility. Edmund threw
himself on the body; a deathlike silence reigned in the building; every
heart beat with breathless horror; the curse uttered by the murdered man
was even then breathed before God, and accepted. York spoke first with a
calm, firm voice, "Arise, my cousin," he said; "do not thou fix yet more
deeply the barbed arrow, which has entered my heart."
There are periods when remorse and horror conquer by their intensity
every lesser impulse, and reign kings of the waste; this was no time for
words or tears. Oh! welcome the grief or crime, which the bitterest of
these could express or extenuate; it would insult this sad effigy of
death to imagine that the impiety could be expiated. In silence they
bore the reverend corpse to the vaults of the church, and then continued
their way; some of the under-officers and men whispered together; but
when again the chiefs conversed, they did not allude to this frightful
scene, or to the awful imprecation which they felt suspended over their
heads, shadowing their souls with unknown horror.
This was but the opening scene to worse wretchedness; hitherto they had
seen the waste of war, now they came upon its active atrocities. A dense
smoke, the flickering of pale flames, marked the progress of
devastation; fierceness gleamed in the open blue eyes of Richard; he bit
his lips, and at a quicker pace went forward; screams and horrid
shrieks, mixed with shouts--oh! may not a veil be drawn over such
horrors--flying children, mothers who stayed to die, fathers who
unarmed rushed upon the weapons of the foe; fire and sword, animated by
man's fellest spirit, were there to destroy. Kindled to fury, York and
his chief friends had outspeeded their troops: they came to save; they
called on the fierce Scot to spare; and, when their words were unheeded,
they drew their swords to beat back their allies. A fresh troop of
Borderers, headed by Sir John Ramsay, at this moment poured into the
village. The grey eye of the Scot was lighted up to the fiercest rage;
but when he saw who and how few were they who had assailed his men, a
demoniac expression, half exultation and joy, half deadly hate, animated
him. Richard was driving before him a whole troop of camp-followers,
cowardly and cruel fellows. Balmayne's hand was on his arm. "Your
Highness forgets yourself," he said; "or is the fable ended, and you
turned friend of Tudor?"
York's blood was up; his cheek, his brow were flushed; the word
"assassin" burst from his lips, as he wheeled round and assailed his
midnight foe. Thus a natural war began; English and Scotchmen, bent on
mutual destruction, spurred on by every feeling of revenge, abhorrence,
and national rivalship, dealt cruel blows one on the other. Richard's
troops began to arrive in greater numbers; they far out-told their
adversaries. Lord Bothwell, with his marauders, was obliged to retreat,
and York was left in possession of his strange conquest. The peasantry
gathered round him: they did not recognize the White Rose, they but
blessed him as their deliverer: yet the sufferers were many, and the
flames still raged. One woman with a wild shriek for her children, threw
herself into the very heart of her burning cot; while, statue-like,
amidst a little helpless brood, his wife at his feet a corpse, his
dwelling in ashes, a stout yeoman stood; tears unheeded flowing down his
weather-beaten cheeks. During the whole day Richard had striven against
his own emotions, trying to dispel by pride, and indignation, and
enforced fortitude, the softness that invaded his heart and rose to his
eyes, blinding them; but the sight of these miserable beings, victims of
his right, grew into a tragedy too sad to endure. One young mother laid
her infant offspring at his feet, crying, "Bless thee; thou hast saved
her!" and then sunk in insensibility before him; her stained dress and
pallid cheeks speaking too plainly of wounds and death. Richard burst
into tears, "Oh my stony and hard-frozen heart!" he cried, "which
breakest not to see the loss and slaughter of so many of thy
natural-born subjects and vassals!"
He spoke--he looked: Plantagenet was there, grief and horror seated in
his dark, expressive eyes; Neville, who had lost his lofty pride; it was
shame and self-abhorrence that painted their cheeks with blushes or
unusual pallor. "We must hasten, my lord," said Barry, "after those
evil-doers: they but quit one carcase, to pounce upon another."
"Do we fight the king of England's battles?" cried the Burgundian
Lalayne, in unfeigned astonishment: "this will be strange intelligence
for James of Scotland."
"So strange, Sir Roderick," said Richard, "that we will be the bearers
of it ourselves. Give orders for the retreat, gentlemen. His majesty is
engaged in the siege of Norham Castle. We will present us before him,
and demand mercy for our unhappy subjects."