THE RETREAT
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me on the way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
SHAKSPEARE.
It was York's characteristic to be sanguine beyond all men. Pain
impressed him more deeply and sorely, than could be imagined by the cold
of spirit; but show him the remedy, teach him the path to redress, and
he threw off the clogging weight of care, and rose free and bright as in
earliest youth. His impatience to behold his royal friend, to speak the
little word, which he felt assured would recall the Scots from their
ravages, and take from him the guilt of his subjects' blood, grew like a
torrent in the spring:--he outspeeded his main troop; he left all but
his chiefest friends behind; one by one even these grew fewer; he
mounted a fresh horse, it was the third that day--"May-flower is worse
than blown," said Neville; "will not your highness repose till
to-morrow?"
"Repose!"--this echo was his only answer, and already he was far and
alone upon his way.
The Scottish lines were passed, and the embattled walls of Norham, grey
and impenetrable as rock, were before him; the royal pavilion occupied
the centre of the camp. The wearied steed that bore York dropt on one
knee as he reined him up before it, flushed, with, every mark of travel
and haste--he threw himself from his saddle, and entered the tent: it
was thronged; he saw not one face, save that of the monarch himself, who
was conversing with a churchman, whose dark foreign countenance Richard
had seen before; now it was like a vision before him. James, in an
accent of surprise, cried, "My lord, this is an unexpected visit."
"Excuse ceremony, my dear cousin," said York; "I come not to speak to
the majesty of Scotland: man to man--a friend to his dearest friend--I
have a suit to urge."
James, who was aware that his actual occupation of listening and even
acceding to the suggestions of his foreign visitant, in favour of peace
with Henry, was treason to York's cause, thought that news of Don Pedro
D'Ayala's arrival was the secret of these words: he blushed as he
replied, "As friend to friend, we will hear anon--to-morrow."
"There is no anon to my dear plea," said York; "even now the hellish
work is about which you must check. Oh, what am I, king of Scotland,
that I am to be made the curse and scourge of my own people? The name of
Richard is the bye-word of hate and terror, there, where I seek for
blessings and filial love. You know not the mischief your fierce
Borderers achieve--it is not yet too late; recall your men; bid them
spare my people; let not the blood of my subjects plead against my
right; rather would I pine in exile for ever, than occasion the
slaughter and misery of my countrymen, my children."
Richard spoke impetuously; his eyes filled with tears, his accents were
fraught with passionate entreaty, and yet with a firm persuasion that he
spoke not in vain: but his address had the very worst effect. James
believed that, hearing that he was in treaty with his foe, he had come
to re-urge his suit, to enforce the many promises given, to demand a
continuation of the war. James, a Scotchman, bred in civil strife among
fierce Highlanders and ruthless Borderers, saw something contemptible in
this pity and supplication for cottagers and villains: the shame he had
felt, or feared to feel, at the idea of being accused of treachery by
his guest, was lightened; his lips were curled even to scorn, as in a
cold tone he replied, "Sir, methinketh you take much pains, and very
much strive to preserve the realm of another prince, which, I do
believe, never will be yours."
A momentary surprise set open wide York's eyes; he glanced round him;
the earl of Huntley's brow was clouded; a smile curled Lord Buchan's
lips; the emotion that had convulsed the prince's features, gave place
to the calmest dignity. "If not mine," he said, "let me yield the sway
to the lady Peace: the name and presence of a Plantagenet shall no
longer sanction the devastation of his country. I would rather be a
cotter on your wild Highlands, than buy the sovereignty of my fair
England by the blood of her inhabitants."
The warm, though capricious heart of James, was quietly recalled by the
look and voice of his once dearest friend, to a sense of the
ungraciousness of his proceeding: he frankly stretched out his hand; "I
was wrong, cousin, forgive me, we will confer anon. Even now, orders
have been issued to recall the troops; a few words will explain
everything."
York bent his head in acquiescence. The king dismissed his nobles, and
committed to the care of one among them the reverend D'Ayala. With a
strong sentiment of self-defence, which was self-accusation--a half
return of his ancient affection, which acted like remorse--James set
himself to explain his proceedings. Fearful, unaided by any of the
natives, of proceeding with an inadequate force farther into the heart
of the country, he had set down before the castle of Norham, which was
defended undauntedly by the bishop of Durham. He had wasted much time
here; and now the Cornish insurgents being quelled, the earl of Surrey
was marching northwards, at the head of forty thousand men. Surrey,
Howard, might he not be a masked friend? "who," continued James, "has
surely some personal enmity to your highness; for the reverend Father
D'Ayala, an ambassador from Spain, visited him on his journey northward,
and it seems the noble indulged in despiteful language; saying, that he
who could bring the fell Scot (I thank him) into England, wore manifest
signs of--I will not say--I remember not his words; they are of no
import. The sum is, my dear lord, I cannot meet the English army in the
open field; walled town--even those paltry towers--I cannot win: with
what shame and haste I may, I must retreat over the border."
Many more words James, in the heat of repentant affection, said to
soothe his English friend. York's blood boiled in his veins; his mind
was a chaos of scorn, mortification, and worse anger against himself.
The insult inflicted by James before his assembled lords, the bitter
speech of Surrey; he almost feared that he deserved the one, while he
disdained to resent the other; and both held him silent. As speedily as
he might, he took leave of the king: he saw signs in the encampment of
the return of the foragers; they were laden with booty: his heart was
sick; to ease his pent-up burning spirit, when night brought solitude,
though not repose, he wrote thus to the Lady Katherine:--
"Wilt thou, dear lady of my heart, descend from thy lofty state, and
accept an errant knight, instead of a sceptered king, for thy mate?
Alas! sweet Kate, if thou wilt not, I may never see thee more: for not
thus, oh not thus, my God, will Richard win a kingdom! Poor England
bleeds: our over-zealous cousin has pierced her with dismal wounds; and
thou wouldst in thy gentleness shed a thousand tears, hadst thou beheld
the misery that even now, grim and ghastly, floats before my sight. What
am I, that I should be the parent of evil merely? Oh, my mother, my too
kind friends, why did ye not conceal me from myself? Teaching me lessons
of humbleness, rearing me as a peasant, consigning me to a cloister, my
injuries would have died with me; and the good, the brave, the innocent,
who have perished for me, or through me, had been spared!
"I fondly thought that mine was no vulgar ambition. I desired the good
of others; the raising up and prosperity of my country. I saw my
father's realm sold to a huckster--his subjects the victims of
low-souled avarice. What more apparent duty, than to redeem his crown
from Jew-hearted Tudor, and to set the bright jewels, pure and sparkling
as when they graced his brow, on the head of his only son? Even now I
think the day will come when I shall repair the losses of this sad
hour--is it the restless ambitious spirit of youth that whispers future
good, or true forebodings of the final triumph of the right?
"Now, O sweetest Kate, I forget disgrace, I forget remorse; I bury every
sorrow in thought of thee. Thy idea is as a windless haven to some
way-worn vessel--its nest in a vast oak-tree to a tempest-baffled
bird--hope of Paradise to the martyr who expires in pain. Wilt thou
receive me with thine own dear smile? My divine love, I am not worthy of
thee; yet thou art mine--Lackland Richard's single treasure. The stars
play strange gambols with us--I am richer than Tudor, and but that thy
husband must leave no questioned name, I would sign a bond with
fate--let him take England, give me Katherine. But a prince may not
palter with the holy seal God affixes to him--nor one espoused to thee
be less than king; fear not, therefore, that I waver though I
pause--Adieu!"