CAPTURE OF KATHERINE
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then, despite of space, I would be brought
To limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
SHAKSPEARE.
There is a terror whose cause is unrevealed even to its victim, which
makes the heart beat wildly, and we ask the voiceless thing wherefore;
when the beauty of the visible universe sickens the aching sense; when
we beseech the winds to comfort us, and we implore the Invisible for
relief, which is to speed to us from afar. We endeavour, in our impotent
struggle with the sense of coming evil, to soar beyond the imprisoning
atmosphere of our own identity; we call upon the stars to speak to us,
and would fain believe that mother earth, with inorganic voice,
prophesies. Driven on by the mad imaginings of a heart hovering between
life and death, we fancy that the visible frame of things is replete
with oracles. Or is it true; and do air and earth, divined by the
sorrow-tutored spirit, possess true auguries? At such dread hour we are
forced to listen and believe: nor can we ever afterwards, in common
life, forget our miserable initiation into the mysteries of the
unexplained laws of our nature. To one thus aware of the misfortune that
awaits her, the voice of consolation is a mockery. Yet, even while she
knows that the die is cast, she will not acknowledge her intimate
persuasion of ill; but sits smiling on any hope brought to her, as a
mother on the physician who talks of recovery while her child dies.
The Lady Katherine had yielded to Richard's wishes, because she saw that
he really desired her absence. Alone in a monastery, in a distant part
of Cornwall, she awaited the fatal tidings, which she knew must come at
last She was too clear-sighted not to be aware, that the armed power of
a mighty kingdom, such as England, must crush at once his ill-organized
revolt. She was prepared for, and ready to meet, all the disasters and
humiliations of defeat; but not to be absent from her husband at this
crisis. She ordered horses to be kept perpetually in readiness, that she
might proceed towards him on the first intimation of change and
downfall. She watched from the highest tower of her abode, the arrival
of messengers: before she dared open her letters, she read in their
faces, what news of Richard? It was a bitter pang to hear that
Plantagenet was dangerously wounded; that the prince had advanced
further forward, at the head of his rabble soldiers.
She had no friends, save humble ones, and very few of these: they
borrowed their looks from her, yet hoped more than she did. Quickly she
was aware of a change in them: they spoke in a low, subdued voice, as if
awe-struck by some visitation of destiny. That very day letters arrived
from the prince: they were of ancient date, nor could she lay his terms
of endearment and cheering to her heart and be consoled. In the
afternoon a torn, soiled billet was brought her from Edmund. In spite of
his wound, he had dragged himself as far as Launceston, on his way to
her. Forced to stop, he sent her tidings of all he knew--Richard's
mysterious flight, Henry's bloodless victory, the eagerness the king
expressed to learn where she was, and the despatching of troops in
search of her. He besought her to fly. It might be hoped that the prince
had escaped beyond sea, whither she must hasten; or falling into his
enemy's hands, she would never see him more.
Perplexed and agitated, knowing that dishonour would result from
Richard's strange disappearance, yet persuaded that he had some ulterior
view which it behoved her not to thwart, she hesitated what step to
take.
An incident occurred to end her uncertainty. Suddenly, in the evening,
Monina stood before her. Monina came with the safety-laden Adalid, to
bear her to the shores of Burgundy. She brought the history of the fraud
practised upon York, of the ambush laid for his life, of his escape, and
the arrival, immediately succeeding to hers, of his followers at the
Abbey of Beaulieu; how the pawing and trampling of a horse at the gates
had brought out the monks, who discovered the hapless prince senseless
on the dark sod. He was carried in, and through her care his name was
entered in the sanctuary. She had attended on his sick couch two days
and nights, when his first return to reason was to implore her to seek
Katherine, to carry her beyond Tudor's power, out of the island prison.
Her father's caravel was hovering on the coast. A favouring south-east
wind bore her to these shores: she came at his desire: the Adalid was
there, and she might sail, not to Burgundy, but even to the spot which
harboured Richard. She also could take sanctuary in Beaulieu.
The monastery in which the duchess of York had taken refuge was situated
on St. Michael's Mount, not far from the Land's End. The land projects
romantically into the sea, forming a little harbour called Mount's Bay.
Towards the land the acclivity is at first gradual, becoming precipitous
towards the summit: now, at high water, the tide flows between the rock
and the land, but it was in those days connected by a kind of natural,
rocky causeway. Towards the sea it is nearly perpendicular. A strong
fortress was connected with the church; and a stone lantern was attached
to one of the towers of the church. Not far from the castle, in a craggy
and almost inaccessible part of the cliff, is situated Saint Michael's
Chair, which, on account of its dangerous approach, and the traditions
attached to it, became the resort of the pious. Many a legend belonged
to this spot. Its thick woods, the hoar appearance of the crags, the
wide-spread sea, for ever warring against the land, which had thrust
itself out into the watery space, usurping a part of its empire, made it
singularly grand; while the placid beauty of the little bay formed by
the rock, and the picturesque grouping of the trees, the straggling
paths, and numerous birds, added every softer beauty to the scene.
Often did Katherine watch the changeful ocean, or turn her eyes to the
more grateful spectacle of umbrageous woods, and rifted rock, and seek
for peace in the sight of earth's loveliness. All weighed with tenfold
heaviness on her foreboding soul. For the first time, they wore to her
the aspect of beauty, when now she hoped to leave them. Hopes so soon to
fail. A south wind had borne the caravel swiftly into the bay, but the
breeze increased to a gale, and even while the ladies were making a few
hasty preparations, De Faro had been obliged to slip his moorings, and
run out to sea, to escape the danger of being wrecked on a lee shore.
With a pang of intense misery, Katherine saw its little hull hurry over
the blackening waters, and its single sail lose itself amidst the
sea-foam. The mariner had even, on anchoring, anticipated a storm; he
had informed his daughter of the probability there was, that he should
be driven to seek for safety in the open sea; but he promised with the
first favourable change of wind to return. When would this come? Fate
was in the hour, nor could even Katherine school herself to patience.
Evening shades gathering round them; the princess, growing each minute
more unquiet and miserable, sought in some kind of activity for relief
to her sufferings. "I will go to Saint Michael's Chair," she said; "good
spirits for ever hover near the sainted spot; they will hear and carry a
fond wife's prayer to the throne of the Eternal."
In silence Monina followed the lady. They were both mountain-bred, and
trod lightly along paths which seemed scarcely to afford footing to a
goat. They reached the seat of the rock; they looked over the sea, whose
dark surface was made visible by the sheets of foam that covered it; the
roar of waves was at their feet. The sun went down blood-red, and, in
its dying glories, the crescent moon showed first pale, then glowing;
the thousand stars rushed from among the vast clouds that blotted the
sky; and the wind tore fiercely round the crag, and howled among the
trees. O earth, and sea, and sky! strange mysteries! that look and are
so beautiful even in tumult and in storm; did ye feel pain then, when
the elements of which ye are composed battled together? Were ye tortured
by the strife of wind and wave, even as the soul of man when it is the
prey of passion? Or were ye unmoved, pain only being the portion of the
hearts of the two human beings, who, looking on the commotion, found
your wildest rage calm in comparison with the tempest of fear and grief
which had mastery over them.
Sickened by disappointment, impatient of despair, each remained,
brooding mutely over their several thoughts.
Poor Katherine; her dearest wish was set upon sharing in all its drear
minutiæ the fortune of her lord, her gallant knight, her most sweet
Richard. He was her husband; he had taken her, timid yet confiding,
from the shelter of her father's roof; they had entered the young
world of hope and hazard together. Custom, the gentle weaver
of soft woman's tenderness, had thrown its silken net over her;
his disasters became hers; his wishes, and their defeat, were
also hers. She only existed as a part of him; while enthusiastic
love made her fondly cling even to the worst that betided, as
better in its direst shape than any misnamed good fortune that
unlinked them.
"My love, my altar-plighted love! must I then wake and say no good day
to thee; and sleep, my rest unbenisoned by thy good night! The simple
word, the we, that symbolized our common fate, cut in two, each half a
nothing so disjoined."
While Katherine thus struggled with necessity, Monina was given up to
patience. The present hour had fulfilled its fear; her busy thoughts
fashioned a thousand plans for his escape, or tremblingly painted a dark
futurity. He was a part of her being, though no portion of herself was
claimed by him. She was not his, as a lover or a wife, but as a sister
might be; if in this ill world such heart's concord could exist: a
sharing of fate and of affection, combined with angelic purity. As
easily might she fancy animal life to survive in her body after the soul
had fled, as soon imagine that the beating of her heart could continue
when the living impulse which quickened its palpitations was still, as
that he, her childhood's playfellow, the golden dream of her youth, the
shrine at which she had sacrificed that youth, should die, and she live
on in the widowed world without him.
The stars glittered over their gentle heads, and the moon went down in
the west; fitful, thread-like rays were shed upon the raging sea, whose
heady billows foamed and roared at their feet: both these fair, gentle
creatures remained, careless of the wild wind that swept their limbs, or
the spray which, high as they stood, besprent their hair: both young,
both lovely, both devoted to one, yet confiding in the reality of virtue
and purity, trusting fully each other, the one accepting the heart's
sacrifice which the other unreservedly made, they watched for the
Adalid, which, a plaything of the waves, was carried afar. Day dawned
before they could resolve to quit this spot; then they took refuge in
the near monastery, and from its towers looked out over the sea.
A few anxious hours brought the dreaded consummation of their fears. The
ascent of a troop of horse up the steep, told Katherine that she was
discovered. Their sudden appearance before her proved that she was a
prisoner. For the first time she saw the White and Red Rose entwined;
the earl of Oxford was announced to her as their leader, and he soon
appeared to claim his prize.
Katherine received him with dignified sweetness; she conquered her ill
fate by smiling at its blows, and looked a queen, as she yielded herself
a slave. The watching of the night had all disordered her dress, and
deranged her golden tresses; but her wondrous fairness, the soft
moulding of her face, her regal throat, and arched open brow, bending
over her intelligent, yet soft, blue eyes; her person majestic, even in
its slim beauty, were tokens of a spirit, that in destitution must reign
over all who approached it.
Her first words, to ease the awe-struck earl, were an entreaty to be
conducted to the king. She showed more earnest desire than he to present
herself to her royal victor. In a very few hours they had descended the
Mount, and hastened out of hearing of the roar of the ocean, which had
so cruelly deceived her hopes. In her eyes could only be read the
mastery she had obtained over her thoughts; no lurking weakness betrayed
fear, or even disappointment, Surely yet she cherished some dear
expectation; yet how, lost to liberty, could she hope to attain it?
But thus we are, while untamed by years. Youth, elastic and bright,
disdains to be compelled. When conquered, from its very chains it forges
implements for freedom; it alights from one baffled flight, only again
to soar on untired wing towards some other aim. Previous defeat is made
the bridge to pass the tide to another shore; and, if that break down,
its fragments become stepping-stones. It will feed upon despair, and
call it a medicine which is to renovate its dying hopes.