A CHALLENGE
Oh, that stern, unbending man!
In this unhappy marriage what have I
Not suffered--not endured!
SCHILLER'S WALLENSTEIN.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
SHAKSPEARE.
The lapse of years had confirmed Henry on his throne. He was
extortionate and severe, it is true; and thus revolts had been frequent
during the earlier portion of his reign; but they took their rise in a
class which, even in modern days, it is difficult to keep within the
boundaries of law. The peasantry, scattered and dependent on the nobles,
were tranquil: but artificers, such as the miners of Cornwall, who met
in numbers, and could ask each other, "Why, while there is plenty in the
land, should we and our children starve? Why pay our hard earnings into
the regal coffers?" and, still increasing in boldness, demand at last,
"Why should these men govern us?"
"We are many--they are few!"
Thus sedition sprung from despair, and assumed arms; to which Henry had
many engines to oppose, bulwarks of his power. A commercial spirit had
sprung up during his reign, partly arising from the progress of
civilization, and partly from so large a portion of the ancient nobility
having perished in the civil wars. The spirit of chivalry, which
isolates men, had given place to that of trade, which unites them in
bodies.
Among these the White Rose of England had not a single partizan--the
nobles who once had upheld the house of York were few; they had for the
last eight years been intent upon restoring their fortunes, and were
wholly disinclined to the endangering them afresh for a stranger youth.
When Fitzwater, Stanley, and their numerous fellow-conspirators and
fellow-victims, sided with the duke of York, nearly all England
entertained a timid belief in his identity with lung Edward's lost
son--but those times were changed. Many were glad to soothe their
consciences by declaring him an impostor; many so desired to curry
favour with Henry; a still greater number either feared to say their
thought, or were averse to disturb the tranquillity of their country by
a contest which could benefit one man alone, and which must entail on
them another war like that so lately ended. Abroad, in France, Burgundy,
and Scotland, the prince might be discountenanced from political
motives; but he was treated with respect, and spoken of as being the man
he named himself: in England it was otherwise--contempt followed hard
upon fear, giving birth to derision, the best weapon against the
unhappy, which Henry well knew how to wield. He had two motives in
this--one was, that by affixing disgrace and scorn to his adversary, he
took away the glitter of his cause, and deterred the young and ambitious
from any desire to share in his obloquy. The other was a feeling
deeper-rooted in his mind--an intense hatred of the house of York--an
exultation in its overthrow and disgrace--a gloating over every
circumstance that blotted it with ignominy. If Richard had really been
an impostor, Henry had not used half the pains to stigmatize him as
low-born--to blast his pride with nicknames, nor have looked forward
with the joy he now did, to having him in his power--to the
degradation--the mortal stain of infamy he intended to taint him with
for ever.
Secure in power--fearless of the result, Henry heard with unfeigned joy
that his young rival had landed in England, and was advancing into the
interior of the island, at the head of the Cornish insurgents. He
himself announced the rising to his nobles. Laughing, he said, "I have
tidings for you, gentlemen, a flight of wild geese clad in eagles'
feathers, are ready to pounce upon us. Even now they hover over our good
city of Exeter, frighting the honest burghers with their dissonance."
"Blackheath will witness another victory," said Lord Oxford.
"And my kitchen receive a new scullion," replied the king; "since
Lambert Simnel became falconer, our roast meat thinks itself dishonoured
at not being spitted by a pretender to my crown; for no Audley heads
these fellows, but the king of Rakehells himself, the most noble Perkin,
who, to grace the more the unwashed rogues, calls himself Richard the
Fourth for the nonce. I have fair hope to see his majesty this bout, if
he whiz not away in a fog, or sink underground like Lord Lovel, to the
disappointment of all merry fellows who love new masks and gaudy
mumming."
"Please your majesty," said the young Lord William Courtney, "it is for
the honour of our house that not a stone of Exeter be harmed. With your
good leave, my father and myself will gather in haste what force we may:
if fortune aid us, we may present your grace with your new servitor."
"Be it so, my lord," replied the king, "and use good despatch. We
ourselves will not tarry: so that, with less harm to all, we may tread
out these hasty lighted embers. Above all, let not Duke Perkin escape;
it is my dearest wish that he partake our hospitality."
"Yes," so ran Henry's private thoughts; "he must be mine, mine alive,
mine to deal with as I list." With even more care than he put in the
mustering his army, he ordered that the whole of the southern sea-coast
of England should be guarded; every paltry fishing village had its
garrison, which permitted no boat to put off to sea, nor any to land,
without the strictest investigation; not content with this, he committed
it to the care of his baser favourites to forge some plot which might
betray his enemy without a blow into his hands.
"Give me your benison, good Bess," said the monarch, with unwonted
gaiety of manner; "with daylight I depart on the ungentle errand of
encountering your brother Perkin."
Elizabeth, not less timid than she had ever been, was alarmed by his
show of mirth, and by this appellation bestowed on one she knew to be so
near of kin. That very morning she had seen Monina--the enthusiastic
Monina, who, confiding in her royal friend's success, visited London to
watch over the fate of Elizabeth and her children. The queen smiled at
her offers of service; she felt that no such army could endanger Henry's
reign; but she feared for Richard, for her ill-fated brother, who had
now entered the net, for whom she felt assured there was no escape.
Trembling at her own boldness, she answered the king, "Whoever he may
be, you will not destroy him in cold blood?"
"You would have me spare the impostor?" asked Henry. "Spare him who
claims your son's throne? By Our Lady of Walsingham, the maternal
virtues of the daughter of York deserve high praise."
Elizabeth, dreading more to offend, horror-struck at the idea that her
husband should shed her brother's blood, burst into tears. "Silly girl,"
said Henry, "I am not angry; nay, more, I grant your prayer. Perkin, if
not slain by a chance blow, shall live. My word is passed, trust to it;
I neither inquire nor care whether he be the godson or the base brat of
the libertine Edward. In either case, my revenge stoops not so low as
his paltry life: does this content you?"
"May the saints bless your grace," said Elizabeth, "you have eased my
every fear."
"Remember then that you prove no ingrate," continued the king, "no dupe
of report, no traducer of your children's birth. Betray no interest in
the knave's downfall, save as he is my enemy. If you display any emotion
that awakens a doubt that this canker rose be aught in your eyes except
a base pretender--if you mark any feeling but stern contempt for one so
vile--tremble. My vengeance will fall on him; and his blood be on your
head."
"Magnanimous prince!" thought Elizabeth, in bitter scorn, when he had
left her: "this is your mercy. You fear! My poor Richard--your sister,
a monarch's daughter, is finely taught by this earl's son. But you will
live; then let him do his worst: the queen of England is not quite a
slave; if Henry can bind, Elizabeth may loose; and the duke of York
laugh in another land at the malice of his enemy."
We return to this prince, whose lofty spirit was sustained by an aim, an
object dearer than a kingdom in his eyes. He arrived before Exeter at
the head of seven thousand men. All the discontented in Cornwall and
Devonshire joined him. Some of these were younger brothers; some
men-at-arms who repined at peace; chiefly they were needy, oppressed
men, roused by a sense of wrong, as destitute, but not so hardy as the
kerns of Ireland. Still they were many, they were valiant; Exeter was
ungarrisoned, unprepared for defence, and there was a possibility that
by sudden assault, he might possess himself of the town. With this
intent he did not allow his troops time to repose, but at once set on
for the attack, endeavouring to scale the lofty walls; unaided by any
fitting machinery, scarcely possessed of a single scaling ladder, he was
driven back with loss. Foiled, but not vanquished, for his heart was set
upon this prize, for three days, though unpossessed of artillery or any
warlike engine, he exerted his utmost force to win the city; he
contrived rude machinery to cast stones, he planted the ladders himself,
he multiplied himself to appear everywhere, flattering, encouraging,
leading his troops again and again to the assault. When they found the
walls impregnable, he made an attempt on the gates; with fascines and
hewed trees he set one of them on fire; his men shouted as they heard
the stout oak crackle, and saw it split and crumble, offering a large
opening; but the citizens, made desperate, fearful of the ravages this
untamed multitude might commit, were true to themselves; they resisted
fire by fire, keeping up a fierce blaze within, till with piles of brick
and rubbish they had blocked the passage. Richard saw his last hope
fail. "This is not the work of the burghers," he cried, "a soldier's
skill is here."
"True as my old yard measure!" cried Heron. "It was but last night that
my cousin, the earl of Devon, clambered into the city; he came to the
northern wall, where Skelton keeps watch; when my valiant tailor heard
the noise, he ran to look for Master Trereife, who, poor fellow, lies
cold within the moat. The citizens heard and answered my cousin the
earl's call; but they were too frightened to let light through the
keyhole of a postern; and his lordship, God save him! was obliged to
climb the battlements."
"Climb the battlements, noble captain?" said Richard; "that is, a ladder
was let down!"
"It was a stone ladder he scaled, my liege," said Heron; "your grace may
walk up the same. It will scarce budge, seeing that it is the old part
of the wall itself."
"Who knows more of this?" asked the prince.
"I saw the whole," said Skelton; "That is the end. Master Trereife was
dead for the nonce, so I came back to lead my men to the fray. There was
the earl, perched like a crow, on the boughs of an old thorn-bush that
grows at the top of the wall. Surely he must have torn his cloak, for
the place is thick with all manner of weeds, and rough stones, and
brambles. But more than his broadcloth got a hole; for Clim of
Tregothius handled his bow, and let fly a cloth-yard shaft, which was
sticking in his shoulder as he got down the other side."
While the tailor talked, Richard was proceeding hastily to the spot. It
looked tranquil. The old crumbling wall was green with rank grass and
tangled weeds. He drew nearer, and then a whole shower of arrows was
discharged against him. The earl had expected that his success would
excite their curiosity, and prepared for them, with not the less zeal on
account of his own wound. Richard escaped unhurt; but Edmund, who was
scantily armed, received an arrow in his side--he fell. That same hour
tidings came of the advance of King Henry at the head of a formidable
army.
Plantagenet's wound was dressed; it showed signs of danger, and quite
disabled him. "My faithful fellows swear to preserve you in safety,
cousin," said Richard; "I must leave you."
"Do you retreat?" asked Edmund.
"No, by my soul! Truly, my hopes have somewhat quailed; yet it is but a
lucky blow, and I gain all. I leave you, my friend; but I will not leave
you in doubt and ignorance. Read this paper: it is to enforce its
contents--to oblige my haughty foe to lay aside his worst weapon,
detraction, that I, against all probability and wisdom, will urge my
cause to the last. My kingdom, it is his; my honour he must restore, and
I cry him quits. Now you have my secret. Pardon for my poor fellows;
pardon, and some alleviation of their cruel lot. For myself, as you will
find, I ask little, but I must show no fear, no retreating, to obtain
even that. I march forwards, then, towards Taunton: it is a less place
than Exeter. The smallest secure port gained, and Henry may grant my
boon."
Plantagenet unfolded the paper, and read these words:--
"Richard, legitimate and true son of Edward the Fourth, king of England
and France, and lord of Ireland, to Henry, the reigning sovereign of
these realms. In my infancy I was made a prisoner by a usurping uncle,
escaping from his thrall by aid of the most noble earl of Lincoln. This
uncle, this usurper, you conquered, and seized upon his crown. You claim
the same by right of Bolingbroke, and strengthen your title through your
union with my sister, the Lady Elizabeth. I am poor, and an
outcast--you a king. God has destroyed my house, and I submit. But I
will not submit to the vile slander that takes from me my name, and
brands me a dishonoured man.
"Henry of Richmond, I neither admit nor combat your claim to the crown.
Lancaster has many partisans, and the victory is yours. But as duke of
York, I challenge and defy you. I call on you, either by person or by
champion, to meet me in the lists, that I may defend my honour and
maintain the right. Let us spare the people's blood. In single combat
let my pretensions be set at issue; and my good sword shall cut to
pieces the wicked lies and base traditions you have calumniously and
falsely forged to my disgrace.
"Body to body, I will meet you or your champion. Name the day, the hour,
and the place. With my lance and my sword, to the death I will maintain
my birth. If I fall, I ask that my wife, the Lady Katherine Gordon, be
permitted to return to her royal cousin, James of Scotland; that such of
my followers as desire it, may be allowed to go beyond seas; that those
of your subjects, who, goaded into rebellion by your exactions, have
taken up arms, receive free pardon and remission of their imposts. If I
conquer, I add but one other demand--that you confess to the wide world
how foully you have slandered me; revoke the lies you have published,
and acknowledge me to all men, the rightful duke of York.
"If you deny my just demands, be the blood spilt in defence of my honour
on your head; England ravaged, your towns destroyed, your realm subject
to all the calamities of war; these evils rest with you. I will not
sheathe my sword, nor tread one backward step in my undertaking; but as
in the lists, so on the dread battle-field, meet your abettors, and
conquer or die in defence of my name. Expecting a fitting answer to this
just defiance, I bid you heartily farewell.
"RICHARD.
"Written under the walls of Exeter, this twelfth day of September, in
the year of our Blessed Lord, 1497."
Plantagenet was deeply affected by his cousin's gallantry. He sighed,
saying, "Tudor has not, will not reply to your challenge?"
"He has not, but he may," replied Richard. "I have, I know not why, a
firm belief that good will come from it. If not, in a few days all will
be over. In a very few days you can be conveyed to St. Michael's Mount,
where the queen now is. The Adalid hovers near. Save her, save yourself:
save one other, less helpful than my Katherine--be a brother to
Monina."
Richard, erring in his mark, was animated by the most sanguine hopes, to
which he was seduced by a constant belief that his life was not near its
close, and therefore that his claims would be admitted: as otherwise he
had resolved to fall in the assertion of them. Leaving the sick couch of
his cousin, he prepared to advance to Taunton. A conversation meanwhile
which he dreamt not of, and would have scorned, had taken place in an
obscure and gloomy spot in London, fraught with fate to him.
After the base desertion of his royal master, Frion had sailed to
England with the other hirelings of Henry; among these was
Clifford--Clifford, whose need and whose malice armed him against
York's life, but who tried to hide his shame under an assumed
appellation. There had always been a false fellowship and a real enmity
between Frion and the knight. On his first arrival in Brussels, the
secretary looked on him as an interloper; and Clifford, while he used
the other, tried to force him into his place as an underling, and to
blind him to his own designs. When he betrayed his party, spreading
death among the partizans of York, and annihilating the cause, Frion,
whose fortunes depended on its success, was unmeasured in his
expressions of indignation and contempt. They had worked in direct
opposition the year before in Kent: and, when Frion saw the hand of this
reprobated man uplifted in midnight assassination, he triumphed in the
lowness of his fall. Both were traitors now, both baffled: Frion looked
on Clifford as the worse villain; and Clifford writhed under the
familiar impertinence of a menial. They arrived in London; Sir Robert
was dismissed with barren thanks, Frion thrown into prison; how far the
knight's account gave intimation of the Frenchman's double-dealing, and
so brought this severity upon him was not known, but for three months
this mercurial spirit had languished in confinement.
Addicted to scheming, he had now full leisure to spend his whole
thoughts that way; a single, simple plot was too plain for his
industrious soul; he wore a whole web of them so intricate, that he
sometimes lost the clue himself; not the less did he do his endeavour to
put them in action. He intended either to lose Richard or make him;
either to be the cause of his overthrowing Henry, or of being overthrown
by him; in either case, to reap favour and advantage from the triumphant
party.
Sad as is ever a prison-house, it was worse in those days of
incivilization: this pen could ill describe the squalid figures and dire
visages that crowded its tumultuous court. Even here Frion reigned
umpire; but he broke from a knot of noisy squabblers, who held tattered
cards, and appealed to him on a question of fair-play, as he saw one
enter. Even he a wretch, yet many degrees better than the best of his
miserable companions; a scarlet suit, trimmed with gold lace, somewhat
tarnished, a cloak of ample folds, but threadbare, a dark plumed bonnet,
drawn over his brow, above all, a rapier at his side, distinguished him
from the prisoners. "This is kind, Sir Robert," said Frion in his
softest manner, "I half feared you were too proud or politic to visit a
disgraced man; for these last three days I have despaired of your
worship; by my fay! you are right welcome."
Clifford cast a shuddering look around the walls; his eyes were hollow;
his cheek sunk; he was the mere shadow of bold Robert. "Few words are
best thanks, Master Stephen," he replied; "I am kind to you because the
dice are cruel to me; you promise largely, and my wants are no dwarfs.
What are your designs?"
"This is no place for parley," said Frion; "follow me." He led the way
through several narrow passages to a miserable cell; straw was heaped in
one corner for a bed; the walls were dank and tattered; the floor broken
and filthy. "Welcome to my domicile, sir knight," said Frion: whether it
were compunction that he had brought him to this, or distrust that the
injury would be revenged, Clifford shrunk back and his lips grew livid.
"One would not live here from choice," said Frion, "I allow; yet do not
grudge me a few moments, it may stead us both."
"To the point then," said the knight; "it is not the place, Master
Frion; but at the hour of noon--"
"No excuses, you like the place as ill as I," said the Frenchman, with a
bland smile; "but you are more generous, for I would not dwell an
instant's space here of my own will to gain any man's salvation. Now,
what news from the west? Is it true that the duke of York is slain? or
Exeter taken? both reports are rife. Adam Wicherly and Mat Oldcraft made
their escape two days ago, to join the gallant. Mat was seized again,
and says that there were bonfires in Southwark for Richard the Fourth."
Clifford, by a brief detail, answered, and then after some hesitation
said, "He is not so low but that the king desires him to be lower: he
who could bring him, bound hand and foot, to London, would be made a
man. Empson saw Garthe yesterday; and he, who calls me Wiatt, came post
to consult with me; but it were hazardous to attempt him; he is ten
thousand strong."
"You know me, Sir Robert," said Frion; "there are few things I cannot
bring about, so that I have room to ruffle in. I have a plot, King
Richard is ours in three days, so one word be said; that word is liberty
to me. Take you the reward; I ask no further share in your gains than
free leave to set the channel between me and this dingy island."
Each despising, each mistrusting the other, these men conspired for the
prince's fall: like "mousing owls" they hawked at an eagle with too true
an aim. York's thoughts were of honour; but through them they were to be
drugged with ignominy and despair. It is melancholy that circumstance
and fortune should have power to reach the very shrine of our dearest
thoughts; degrading them from their original brightness to a likeness of
the foul aspect of the outer world. Richard's free and noble spirit was
to become plastic to the touch of such men as the fallen Clifford and
crafty Frion. Men, whom he had cast from him as unworthy his regard,
could besiege the citadel of his hopes, and garrison it with disgrace;
forcing him to occupy himself with ideas as base as those which
possessed their own minds. It is the high heart's curse to be obliged to
expend its deep and sacred emotions in hatred of, or struggle with
things so mean, so very alien to its own aspiring nature.