A PROCESSION
They are noble sufferers. I marvel
How they'd have looked, had they been victors, that
With such a constant nobility enforce
A freedom out of bondage.
TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
The vulgar rabble, fond of any sort of show, were greedy of this new
one. In all parts the name of the duke of York, of the counterfeit
Perkin, drew a concourse of gazers. The appetite was keenest in London;
and many a tawdry masque and mime was put in motion, to deck the streets
through which the defeated youth was to pass. Vainly; he entered London
at night, and was conducted privately to Westminster. What strange thing
was this? What mark of reality did his very forehead wear, that Henry,
so prodigal of contumely on his foes, dared not bring him forward for
the public gaze? One man was put in the stocks for a similar remark; and
on the following day it was suddenly proclaimed, that Perkin would go in
procession from Westminster to Saint Paul's, and back again. A troop of
horse at the appointed hour left the palace: in the midst of them rode a
fair young gentleman, whose noble mien and gallant bearing gave lustre
to his escort: his sweet aspect, his frank soft smile and lively but
calm manner, had no trace of constraint or debasement, "He is
unarmed--is that Perkin? No, the earl of Warwick--he is a prince
sure--yet that is he!" Such murmurs sped around; at some little
distance followed another burlesque procession; a poor fellow, a
Cornishman, was tied to an ass, his face to the tail, and the beast now
proceeding lazily, now driven by sticks, now kicking, now galloping,
made an ill-fashioned mirth for the multitude. Whether, as York was not
to be disgraced in his own person, the contumely was to reach him
through this poor rogue, or whether the eyes of men were to be drawn
from him to the rude mummery which followed, could only be guessed: the
last was the effect produced. Richard heard mass at Saint Paul's, and
returned to Westminster unmolested by insult. It seemed but as if some
young noble made short pilgrimage from one city to the other, to
accomplish a vow. The visit of ill-fated Warwick to the cathedral,
before the battle of Stoke, had more in it of humiliating ostentation.
He returned to the palace of Westminster. A few weeks he spent in
mingled curiosity and anxiety concerning his future destiny. It was
already accomplished. Modern times could not present anything more
regular and monotonous than the way of life imposed upon him. It was
like the keeping of a lunatic, who, though now sane, might be
momentarily expected to break out in some dangerous explosion, rather
than the confining of a state-prisoner. Four armed attendants, changed
every eight hours, constantly guarded him, never moving, according to
the emphatic language of the old chroniclers, the breadth of a nail from
his side. He attended early mass each morning: he was permitted to take
one hour's ride on every evening that was not a festival. Two large
gloomy chambers, with barred windows, were allotted him. Among his
guards, he quickly perceived that the same faces seldom appeared; and
the most rigorous silence, or monosyllabic discourse, was imposed upon
them. Harsher measures were perhaps spared, from respect to his real
birth, or his alliance with the king of Scotland: yet greater severity
had been less tantalizing. As it was, the corpse in the grass-grown
grave was not more bereft of intercourse with the sunny world, than the
caged duke of York. From his windows, he looked upon a deserted
court-yard; in his rides, purposely directed to unfrequented spots, he
now and then saw a few human beings--such name could be hardly bestowed
on his stony-faced, stony-hearted guards.
Richard was the very soul of sympathy; he could muse for hours in
solitude, but it must be upon dear argument, that had for its subject
the pleasures, interests or affections of others. He could not entertain
a heartless intercourse. Wherever he saw the human countenance, he
beheld a fellow-creature; and, duped a thousand times, and a thousand
times deceived, "still he must love." To spend the hour in sportive
talk; fondly to interchange the gentle offices of domestic life; to meet
peril and endure misery with others; to give away himself, and then
return to his inner being, laden like a bee with gathered sweets: to
pile up in his store-house, memory, the treasured honey of friendship
and love, and then away to nestle in the bosom of his own dear flower,
and drink up more, or gaily to career the golden fields; such was his
nature: and now--this was worse loneliness; this commune with the mutes
of office; to be checked by low-born men; to feel that he must obey the
beck of an hireling. A month, interspersed with hopes of change, he had
endured the degradation; now he began to meditate escape. Yet he paused.
Where was Katherine? where his many zealous friends?
The Lady Katherine was in an apartment of the palace, whose arched and
fretted roof, and thick buttresses, were well adapted to impart a
feeling of comfortable seclusion from the rough elements without. The
dulness of dark November was gladdened by a huge wood fire. The little
prince of Wales was narrating some strange story of fairyland; and bluff
Harry was setting two dogs to quarrel, and then beating his favourite
for not conquering, which seeing, his sister Margaret drew the animal
from him to console and caress it. The gentle queen bent over her
embroidery. Listening she was to her favourite Arthur, interrupting him
with playful questions and exclamations, while Katherine now kindly
attended to the boy, now turned anxiously at every sound. She rose at
last: "Surely vespers are ringing from the abbey. My lord the king
promised to see me before vespers."
"My lord the king is very gracious to you, sweet one," said Elizabeth.
"Methinks by nature he is gracious," replied the princess; "at least, I
have ever found him so. Surely the shackles of state are very heavy, or
ere this he would have granted my prayer, which he has listened to so
oft indulgently."
The queen smiled faintly, and again pursued her work with seeming
earnestness. Was it jealousy that dimmed the silk of her growing rosebud
by a tear--or what name shall we give to the feeling?--envy we may not
call it, she was too sweetly good--which now whispered, "Even he, the
cold, the stern, is kind to her; my brother loves her passionately; and
many a lance has been broken for her. Happy girl; happy in adversity;
while I, England's miserable queen, am forgotten even by my
fellow-prisoner of Sheriff Hutton, poor Warwick! he might have been my
refuge: for the rest, how hard and rocky seem all human hearts to me."
Her tears now flowed fast. Katherine saw them: she approached her,
saying, "Dear and royal lady, none should weep, methinks, but only I,
whose mate is caged and kept away; none sigh but poor Kate, whose more
than life hangs on state policy; or is it for _him_ these tears are shed?"
Still Elizabeth wept. Accustomed to the excess of self-restraint, timid,
schooled to patience, but with the proud, fiery spirit of a Plantagenet,
tamed, not dead within her, she could be silent, but not speak by
halves. The very natural vivacity of her nature made her disdain not to
have her will, when once it was awaked. She struggled against her rising
feeling; she strove to suppress her emotion; but at last she spoke; and
once again, after the ten years that had elapsed since her mother's
imprisonment, truth was imaged by her words. To none could she have
addressed herself better. The life of the Scottish princess had been
spent in administering balm to wounded minds: the same soft eloquence,
the same persuasive counsels, that took the sting of remorse from her
royal cousin's conscience, was spent upon the long-hidden sorrows of the
neglected wife, the humbled woman. From her own sensitive mind she
culled the knowledge which taught her where and how peace and
resignation were to be found. The piety that mingled with her talk was
the religion of love; her philosophy was mere love; and it was the
spirit of love, now kindling the balmy atmosphere of charity to many,
now concentred in one point, but ever ready to soothe human suffering
with its soft influence, that dwelt upon her lips, and modulated her
silver voice. Elizabeth felt as if she had wandered long in a
wolf-haunted wild, now suddenly changed to a fairy demesne, fresh and
beautiful as poet's dream. Timidly she feared to set her untaught feet
within the angel-guarded precincts. The first effect of her new friend's
eloquence was to make her speak. After years of silence, to utter her
very inner thoughts, her woman's fears, her repinings, her aversions,
her lost hopes and affections crushed: she spent her bitterest words;
but thus it was as if she emptied a silver chalice of its gall, to be
refilled by Katherine with heavenly dew.
The weeks of baffled expectation grew into months. It is a dreary
portion of our existence, when we set our hearts upon an object which
recedes as we approach, and yet entices us on. The kings courtesy and
smiles, and evident pleasure in her society, gave birth to warm hopes in
the bosom of the princess. She had asked to share her husband's prison;
she had besought to be permitted to see him; it seemed, from Henry's
vague but consolatory answers, that to-morrow she would receive even
more than her desires. The disappointment of the morrow, which she
lamented bitterly at first, then grew into the root whence fresh hopes
sprang again, to be felled by the cruel axe, again to shoot forth: the
sickening sensation of despair crept over her sometimes; her very
struggles to master it enfeebled her; and yet she did conquer all but
the hard purposes of the tyrant. Now a messenger was to be despatched to
Scotland; now he expected one thence; now an embassy from Burgundy: he
implored her patience, and talked back the smiles into her saddened
countenance. He was almost sincere at first, not in his excuses, but in
his desire to please her at any sacrifice; but this disinterested wish
grew soon into a mere grasping at self-gratification. In a little while
he hoped she would be persuaded how vain it was to expect that he should
set free so dangerous a rival: and yet he did not choose to extinguish
all her anticipations; for perhaps then she would desire to return to
her native country; and Henry would have sacrificed much to keep her
where he could command her society. Thus he encouraged her friendship
with the queen, though he wondered how one so wise, so full of
reflection and reason as Katherine, could love his feeble-minded wife.
The king underrated the talents of Elizabeth. This hapless woman had
perceived that contention was useless; she therefore conceded everything
without a struggle. Her energies, spent upon endurance, made her real
strength of mind seem tameness; but Katherine read with clearer eyes. We
are all and each of us riddles, when unknown one to the other. The plain
map of human powers and purposes, helps us not at all to thread the
labyrinth each individual presents in his involution of feelings,
desires, and capacities; and we must resemble, in quickness of feeling,
instinctive sympathy, and warm benevolence, the lovely daughter of
Huntley, before we can hope to judge rightly of the good and virtuous
among our fellow-creatures.
The strangest sight of all was to see Henry act a lover's part. At first
he was wholly subdued,
"So easy is t' appease the stormy wind
Of malice, in the calm of pleasant womankind."
Even generosity and magnanimity, disguises he sometimes wore the better
to conceal his inborn littleness of soul, almost possessed him; for a
moment he forgot his base exultation in crushing a foe, and for a moment
dwelt with genuine pleasure on the reflection, that it was in his power
to gratify her every wish, and to heap benefits on one so lovely and so
true. When first she was presented to him, in all the calm majesty of
her self-conquering mood, her stainless loveliness had such effect, that
surely he could deny her nothing; and when she asked that no foul
dishonour should be put upon her lord, he granted almost before she
asked: his expressions of service and care were heartfelt; and she lost
every fear as she listened. When custom, which, with man, is the
devourer of holy enthusiasm, changed his purer feelings into something
he dared not name, he continued to manifest the same feelings, which had
bested him so well at first, and to angle with his prey. Though he
scarcely knew what he wished, for a thousand worldly motives sufficed to
check any dishonourable approach, it was enough that she was there;
that, when she saw him, her countenance lighted up with pleasure; that
with the sweetest grace she addressed her entreaties to his ear; not in
abrupt demands, but in such earnest prayer, such yielding again, to
return with another and another argument; that often he thought, even if
he had wished to concede, he would hold out a little longer, that still
her sweet voice might address him, still her stately neck be bent
imploring as she fixed her blue eyes on him.
It was very long before the artless girl suspected that he had any other
intent but to consent at last to her supplications. As it was as easy to
him to lure her on with a greater as a lesser hope, she even fancied
that, under certain restrictions, York's freedom might be restored; and
that with him, in some remote country, she might bless Tudor as a
generous adversary. Elizabeth was afraid to discover the truth to her,
for she also dreaded to lose her, and was afraid that, on the failure of
her hopes, she would seek to return to Scotland; or at least seclude
herself from her husband's jailor. Monina first awoke her to the truth.
Monina, who had been to Brussels, to consult with the Duchess Margaret
and Lady Brampton, and who came back full of projects for her friend's
escape, heard with amazement and scorn the false lures held out by
Henry; she impatiently put aside every inducement for delay, and with
rash, but determined zeal, framed many a scheme for communicating with
him, and contriving means for his flight.
He himself--the chained eagle--was sick at heart. No word--no
breath--no hope! Had all forgotten him? Was he, yet living, erased from
the lists of memory? Cut off from the beloved beings in whom he had
confided, through their own act--no longer a part of their thoughts,
their lives, themselves? Stood he alone in this miserable world,
allied to it by hate only--the hate borne to him by his foe?
Such gloomy misgivings were so alien to his nature, that they
visited him as cruel iron torture visits soft human flesh. That
she--the life of his life, should be false and cold! Each friend
forgetful--Monina--Plantagenet--all--all! Oh, to stretch his
quivering frame upon burning coals, had been to slumber on a bed of
roses, in comparison with the agony these thoughts administered. His
calmer moods, when he believed that, though tardy, they were true, were
scarcely less painful. Then the real state of things grew more galling:
the bluntness or silence of his keepers; their imperturbable or rude
resistance to his questions; the certainty that if one answered
graciously--that one he should see no more. Often he felt as if he
could not endure his present position one hour longer. Fits of hope,
meditations on escape, chequered his days; so that all was not so
dark--but the transition from one emotion to another, each to end in
blank despair, tasked his mercurial soul. Patience died within him--he
might perish in the attempt, but he would be free.
Urged by Monina, by her own awakening fears, and above all by the keen
burning desire of her heart, the Lady Katherine became very importunate
with the crafty monarch to be permitted an interview with her lord.
Henry was in no mood to grant her request: the thousand designs he had
meditated to disgrace his victim, he had given up for her sake, because
he would not refuse himself the pleasure of seeing her, and feared to
behold aversion and horror mark an aspect hitherto all smiles towards
him. The same fear, nurtured by the expressions of her tender affection,
made him hesitate, ere he should endeavour to convince her that she had
misallied herself to an impostor. Indeed, when at last he ventured to
frame a speech bearing such a meaning, her answer told him, that if he
could have changed the Royal York into base-born Perkin, the young and
innocent wife would still cling to him to whom she had pledged her rows;
to whom she had given himself; whose own, in Heaven's and her own eyes,
she unalienably was. But now Henry, grown more callous as time elapsed,
coined a new scheme, vile as his own soul: he resolved, by acting on her
woman's fears, tenderness, and weakness, to make her the instrument of
persuading her lord to some damning confession, that must stamp him as a
deceiver for ever. This bright project animated him to fresh endeavours
to please, and her with fresh hopes; yet he paused a little before he
sought to execute it.
Winter crept on into spring, and spring ripened into summer, and still
the various actors in this tragic drama were spending their lives, their
every thought and heart's pulsation on one object. Richard had latterly
received intimation that he would be permitted an interview with his
beloved White Rose; and a week or two more were patiently endured with
this expectation. Katherine each day believed, that on the morrow she
should see him, whom now she conversed with only in her nightly dreams,
and woke each morning to find him fled with them. Some change
approached: Henry's promises became more clear in their expression; his
assertions more peremptory: he would at last name his conditions, which
she was to communicate to her lord; even Elizabeth almost dared to hope.
Monina alone, deeply impressed with a belief in the malice of Tudor, was
incredulous, and reluctantly yielded to Katherine's request to suspend
yet a little while her plots.
Whitsuntide arrived, and Henry at last would decide. This estival was to
be spent at Shene: thither the royal family went, accompanied by the
princess, who vanquished her disappointment at further delay, not to
appear an ingrate to the fair-promising king. Indeed, in the secure hope
she cherished of again seeing him who was her earthly paradise, she
smiled through the very heart-gushing tears expectation caused to flow.
On Whit Sunday she awoke, resolving to discard the heavy load of
anticipated evil that involuntarily weighed at her heart. She knelt at
mass, and fervently strove to resign her dearest wishes to the direction
of her God; and yet that she should see him again soon--oh! how very
soon,--filled her with such dizzy rapture, that her orisons were forgot
midway--remembered, and turned to thanksgivings--till she recollected
that still her hope was unfulfilled; and fear awoke, and with tears and
prayer she again strove to ease her agitated heart.
That very night a thunder-storm roused her from slumber: with those
unexplained emotions, which, in fateful periods, make so large a portion
of our lives, she felt as if every clap spoke audibly some annunciation
which she could not interpret: as if every lurid flash were sent to
disclose a sight which yet she could not see. At length the rain ceased,
the thunder grew distant, the lightning faint; a load was lifted from
her soul; she slept, with the firm belief that on the morrow tidings,
not all evil, would be brought from London.
Some tidings surely came. What they were she was not permitted to know.
For the first time Henry made her a real prisoner; she was carefully
guarded, and none were allowed to speak to her. Overwrought by her
expectations, this seemed a frightful cruelty; and yet, where caution
was used, there must be fear: her--his enemy feared--then good had
occurred. She dared not permit her imagination to picture forth the
thing which yet was for ever present to it; and, while all else were
amazed to hear that York had escaped and fled, his lovely, anxious wife,
cut off from communication with all, knew only that she alone was
ignorant of what she would have given her life to learn.