AN ESCAPE
Thou, God of winds, that reignest in the seas,
That reignest also in the continent,
At last blow up some gentle gale of ease,
The which may bring my ship, ere it be rent,
Unto the gladsome port of her intent.
SPENSER.
During the winter and the untoward late spring, Richard had endured his
captivity. The warm happy summer season, calling all nature to a
jubilee, at first saddened, then animated him to contrive new projects
of escape. The promised interview with his White Rose tempted him to
delay; while an inner spirit rebelled even against this dear enticement,
and bade him fly.
On the evening of the ninth of June, he was permitted to attend vespers
in a secluded chapel of Westminster Abbey. During the short passage from
the palace to the cathedral, it seemed to him as if a new life were
awake everywhere; an unknown power, on the eve of liberating him. Never
before had he prayed so fervently for freedom: the pealing organ, the
dim arched venerable vault above, acted as stimulants to his roused and
eager soul; he stood tiptoe, as on the eve of the accomplishment of his
desire.
A deep and awful sound suddenly shook the building; a glaring, lurid
flash, filled with strange brilliancy the long, dark aisle. A clap of
thunder, loud, and swiftly repeated, reverberated along the heavens;
the shrill scream of women answered the mighty voice. The priest who
read the service, saw his sacred book glared on by so keen a flash, as
blinded him to the dimmer light that succeeded. Every being in the
church sank on their knees, crossing themselves, and striving to repeat
their Paternosters and Aves; while Richard stood fearless, enjoying the
elemental roar, exulting in the peal, the flash, the tempestuous havock,
as powers yet rebellious to his conqueror. Freedom was victorious in the
skyey plains; there was freedom in the careering clouds, freedom in the
sheeted lightning, freedom in the cataract of sound that tore its way
along. On his poor heart, sick of captivity, and enforced obedience, the
sweet word liberty hung as a spell: every bird and tiny fly he had
envied as being free; how much more things more powerful, the chainless
destructions of nature. The voice of God speaking in his own consecrated
abode was terrible to all; soothing to himself alone. He walked to the
southern entrance of the edifice to mark the splashing shower, as it
ploughed the stones: two of his keepers remained on their knees,
paralyzed by terror; the two others followed trembling. At that moment a
louder, a far, far louder clap burst right above them, succeeding so
instantaneously the blinding flash, that, while every object was wrapped
inflame, the pavement and fretted roof of the abbey shook with the
sound. A bolt had fallen; the priest at the altar was struck; with
mingled horror and curiosity one of York's remaining guards rushed
towards the spot; the only remaining one was kneeling in an agony of
terror. York stood on the threshold of the porch; he advanced a few
steps beyond; a new fear possessed the fellow. "He will
escape!--halloo!--James!--Martin!" The very words imparted the
thought to the prince, who filled erewhile with wonder and religious
awe, had forgotten his own sad plight. He turned to the man, who was
doubtful whether to rush into the chapel for his comrades, or singly to
seize his prisoner--his dagger was drawn. "Put up that foolish steel,"
said York, "it cannot harm one whom God calls to freedom--listen, he
speaks;--farewell!" The lightning again flashed; with blue and forked
flame it ran along the blade of the weapon raised against him; with a
shriek the man dashed it to the earth. Richard was already out of sight.
The rain poured in torrents: it came down in continuous cataracts from
the eaves of the houses. On this sunny festival few had remained at
home; and those, terror-stricken now, were on their knees; no creature
was in the streets as the fugitive sped on, ignorant whither he should
go. London was a vast, unknown labyrinth to him: as well as he could
divine, he directed his flight eastward, and that with such velocity,
that he might compete with a horse in full career. If any saw him, as
thus with winged heels he flew along, they did not wonder that a person
should hasten to shelter out of the storm. It was of slight regard to
him that rain and hail ploughed the earth, and continued thunder echoed
through the sky; that alone and friendless he fled through the streets
of his victor's chief city. His exulting heart, his light, glad spirit
told him that he was free; if for a few minutes only, he would joyfully
purchase with his life those few minutes' emancipation from his
frightful thraldom. No words could speak, no thought image the supreme
gladness of that moment.
Meanwhile, dark night, aided by the thick clouds which still poured down
torrents of rain, had crept over the dim twilight, and began to
imbarrier with doubt the path of the rejoicing fugitive. He found at
last that the lines of houses receded, and that he was in an open space,
in the midst of which rose a gigantic shadow, stretching itself in
stillness and vastness on the summit of the rising ground before
him;--it was the cathedral of St. Paul's. Now, cloaked by the dark and
inclement night, he began to reflect on his actual situation: London
might swarm with his partizans, but he knew not where to find one.
Probably all those who were occupied by his fate resided in Westminster,
whence he had precipitately fled; whither assuredly he would not return.
These reflections perplexed him, but in no way allayed his transport at
finding himself free; he felt that if he wandered to the wide fields,
and died of hunger there, it were bliss enough to see the sky "unclouded
by his dungeon roof;" to behold the woods, the flowers, and the dancing
waves; nor be mocked with man's shape, when those who wore it had sold
man's dearest privilege--that of allowing his actions to wait upon the
free impulses of his heart.
Still, therefore, he hurried along, and finally became completely
bewildered in some swampy, low fields, intersected by wide ditches. The
night was pitchy dark; nor was there any clue afforded him by which he
could even guess whether he might not be returning on his path. Suddenly
a small ray of light threaded the gloom; it went and came, and at last
remained stationary. With wavering will and irregular steps the prince
proceeded towards it; for he would rather have died where he stood, than
discover himself, so to fall again into captivity. Once or twice he lost
sight of this tiny earth-star, which evidently shone through some low
casement; and, as at last he caught sight of the solitary miserable hut
where it was sphered, the recollection of his former asylum, of
ill-fated Jane Shore's penurious dwelling, flashed across him: with
speedy, reassured pace he hurried on, leaping a ditch that obstructed
his path, careless of every physical obstacle, when the malice of man
was no longer to be apprehended. "Poor Jane!" he ejaculated: and again
he reflected with some wonder that, in every adversity, women had been
his resource and support; their energies, their undying devotion and
enthusiasm, were the armour and weapons with which he had defended
himself from and attacked fortune. Even one so fallen and so low as poor
Jane Shore, was, through the might of fidelity and affection, of more
avail than all his doughty partizans, who, in the hour of need, were
scattered and forgetful.
The low-roofed cot was before him unmistaken. The crevice whence the
light emanated was too small to admit his inquiring glance; amid the
driving, pattering rain he fancied that he distinguished voices within;
but, with a boldness which bade him fear nothing, he lifted the latch,
and beheld in truth a sight of wonder;--Monina, with a shriek started
from her seat; she folded him with wild joy in her fair arms, and then,
blushing and trembling, threw herself on the neck of Lady Brampton; and
Jane herself rose from her couch of straw, more wan, more emaciated than
ever;--yet even over her sad pale face a smile wandered, showing in yet
more ghastly hues the ruin it illumined.
Questions, ejaculations, wonder and delight, burst from every lip: "He
is here to our wish; the means of escape are secured, and he is here!
Oh, dearest Lady Brampton, do not the blessed angels guard him?" Monina
spoke, and her soft luminous eyes were fixed on him, as if not daring to
believe the vision; it was not the chastened delight of age, but the
burning, ardent joy of a young heart, who had but one thought, one
desire, and that about to be accomplished; her flushed cheeks betokened
her rapture: "I have repined, despaired, almost blasphemed; yet he is
here: how good is Almighty God! Listen, dear my lord, how wondrously
opportune your arrival is: Lady Brampton will tell you all. Oh, this new
miracle is the blessed Virgin's own achievement--you are free!"
Scarcely less animated, the zealous lady detailed the circumstances that
united so favourably for him. She had been for some time at Brussels
with the Duchess Margaret, who was more grieved than could be imagined
at the capture of her beloved nephew. She lived in a state of terror on
his account. That his life was awhile spared, availed little to pacify
her; the midnight murders and prison-assassinations, so rife during the
wars of York and Lancaster were present to her imagination. She
exhausted every device, every bribe, to gain partizans for him to
achieve his freedom. Among others, most liberal of promises, was the
false Clifford. After Richard had escaped from him in the New Forest, he
fell in with Frion, whose double plot being defeated, he strove to
capture and accuse the accomplice whom, in fact, he had deceived. The
knight fled; he escaped to the Low Countries; and by a glozing tale
easily gained the ear of the duchess. Lost in England, perhaps he wished
to rebuild his fallen fortunes; aided by her munificence, perhaps he
prepared some new treachery; however it might be, he was trusted, and
was the soul of the present enterprise. De Faro's vessel, refitted and
well manned, was now anchored in the mouth of the Thames. Clifford
undertook the task of foisting some creature of his own, or even
himself, disguised, of undertaking the part of one of Richard's keepers,
when he doubted not to be able to secure his flight.
With her usual vivacity Lady Brampton gave this account; but no
explanations on her part could dissipate the horror York felt at the
name of Clifford, or inspire him with anything but distrust of his
intentions. Monina, before silenced by her sanguine associates, now gave
expression to the terror and abhorrence his interference occasioned; she
had come, exposing herself to a thousand perils and pains, merely that
she might watch over his acts, and awaken her too credulous friends to a
knowledge of his duplicity. But the danger was past; before Clifford
could know that he had escaped, York might reach the Adalid.
Almost as an answering echo to these words there was a sound of hurrying
steps. "It is he: the traitor comes. Oh, bar the door!" There was no
bar, no mode of securing this dwelling of penury; three women alone were
his guard: Monina, pale and trembling; Lady Brampton, endeavouring to
reassure her; while Richard stood forward, his gaze fixed on the opening
door, whose latch was already touched, resolved to meet, with perfect
show of frank reliance and intrepidity, the intruders.
Sir Robert Clifford entered. Confusion, attempted boldness, and, last,
sullen malice painted his aspect when he beheld the prince. He was much
changed, and looked almost an old man; his dark and profuse hair was
grizzled; his grey eyes hollow: and his dress, though that of a
cavalier, exhibited signs of habitual neglect. His person, always
slight, had been redeemed from insignificance by its exquisite grace and
elegance; every trace of this was flown; and his haggard countenance and
diminutive size made even York scarcely credit that this was indeed the
gay, reckless Robin. His resolve had been already made; he addressed him
kindly, saying, "Sir Robert, I hear that you are willing to renew to me
your broken vows: may you hereafter keep them more faithfully."
Clifford muttered a few words; he looked towards the door, as if
desirous of escape; he struggled with shame, guilt, and some other
emotion. As soon as a consultation began as to the means to be adopted
for the prince to reach the sea in safety, he conquered himself,
entering; into it with spirit and zeal. The plan he proposed was crafty,
his own part in it the principal. He spoke of disguising the prince as a
female attendant on Monina; of his and O'Water's accompanying them along
the river banks as soon as daylight.
"And wherefore not now? Or rather, wherefore even now do we not hasten
to the Thames, and seize a boat?"
"Because," said Clifford, interrupting Monina, "his highness's flight is
already known; a line of boats intersects the Thames below London
Bridge; and lower still every craft is on the alert."
Each one exchanged looks; the knight continued: "You all distrust me,
and I wonder not. I am in your power now; here are my unarmed hands;
even a woman may bind them. Go forth yourselves: seek the path to the
sea: before an hour elapses the duke will be again a prisoner. You may
in this wild spot plant your daggers in my heart to avenge, but that
will not save him; for I have no power here. But set me free, confide to
my care, and, by the God that made me, he walks the deck of the Adalid
ere the setting sun. I could tell you how this can be, and ye would not
the more trust me, if I spoke of such alliance with, such power over,
the rogues and vagabonds of this saintly city, as enables me to move
strange engines to execute my will; even if you credited me you would
disdain that your hero should owe his life to such base means. Be it as
you will: believe me; and I pledge my life that his grace will ride the
dancing waves beyond King Henry's reach to-morrow night."
"I accept the pledge," replied York, who had eyed him earnestly as he
spoke. "I commit myself to your care; act speedily, without fear of balk
or suspicion on my part."
Clifford's lips curled into a triumphant smile; because again he was
trusted, or because again he would betray, it was hard to divine. "I
must beseech your patience in the first place," said Sir Robert: "I
cannot get the fitting disguises during the night."
"Night is no more," replied Richard, throwing open the casement; and the
dusky room was illuminated by the day. In the east there was a very
fountain of light, which, welling up, flooded the flecked and broken
clouds with rosy hues: the stars were gone; a soft azure peeped between
the breaking vapours; the morning air was deliciously fresh; the birds
chirped; a distant watch-dog barked. Otherwise all was silent; and
security seemed to walk the earth.
"I will go seek the needful dresses," said Clifford. "Your Grace will
await my return, even though my stay, lengthened beyond my expectation,
give some reason for the distrust I read in every eye."
"It is but too natural," said the prince, "that my kind friends should
suspect you; for myself, I have said the word; I place myself in your
hands: half measures were of no avail. If indeed you are a traitor,
bring Tudor's hirelings here to seize their prey. I cannot fear; I will
not doubt; and, if in my soul any suspicion lurk, my actions shall not
be guided by it. Go; let your return be speedy or otherwise, I await you
here."
Scarcely had the door closed, when Monina, whose eyes had been fixed on
Clifford's countenance during the whole scene, exclaimed:--"This moment
is our own! Fly, my prince; trust me--I know that bad man; if he find
you here when he returns, you are lost."
"Hist!" Jane spoke the word, and a dead silence fell upon the anxious
band. The steps of a horse were heard: Monina flew to the casement. "It
is our faithful Irish friend, my lord; it is O'Water." The door was
opened; and each one crowded round the visitant. He uttered a "By the
mischief!" which sounded like a benediction, when he saw the duke of
York, adding, "All is well, all in readiness; I left the Adalid, after
the storm yester evening, in safe anchorage."
"Oh yes, safety," cried the enthusiastic Spaniard; "safety or
death! Trust not false Clifford--seize the fleeting, precious
opportunity,--O'Water's horse----"
"Is blown," said Richard; "he cannot carry me."
"And the ways strangely beset," said the mayor. "Just now I saw a young
gentleman seized, much to his annoyance, by some patrol. He bribed
dearly, but they would not listen--the whole country is alarmed."
"I will wait for Clifford," continued York; "and trust in Providence.
Some kind friend only bestow a dagger on me: I would not be taken like
an unarmed girl."
"A tramp of steeds--they are coming, Clifford guides them hither; we
are lost!" cried Lady Brampton.
"Oh, fly--fly--my liege," said O'Water, "expose not these women to the
assault. Poor Rose Blanche can yet bear you fast and far."
The sound as of a troop of horse neared. The prince saw O'Water blocking
up the casement, and then draw his sword. Monina, wild with agony, fell
at his feet:--"Fly, my lord, fly for the Lady Katherine's sake: fly for
mine own: must I see you die? I, who have lived--alas! how vainly. Lady
Brampton--beseech--command--he must fly. O, they will be here--to
seize, to murder him!"
"Here is my dagger, my lord," said O'Water, coolly!--"Defend
yourself--meanwhile--now at our last hour--for surely it is come, Our
Lady recommend us to God's holy grace."
The gallop of a troop grew yet more distinct; Richard looked round: Jane
was kneeling, her face buried in her hands: Lady Brampton pale, but
resolved, was ready to sacrifice the life she had spent for him. O'Water
had resigned himself to the final act of a life of peril, sealed in his
blood. The lovely Spaniard alone lost all her self-possession; tears
streaming from her uplifted eyes; her arms twined round his knees: to
fly--fly! was the only thought she could express. "I yield," said York;
"throw open the door." O'Water's horse had been led within the hut; he
vaulted on his back; he placed the dagger in his belt. "That way," Lady
Brampton cried, "it leads to the river's side below."
A scream from Monina followed his swift departure. "He perishes--he
betrays us!" cried O'Water. Richard galloped on not across the field
away from town, but right into danger; there, whence the troop was
certainly approaching. He was lost to view on the instant, in a
straggling lane which stretched out half across the field. A moment
after coming from the other side, unobserved till in the hut, Clifford
entered alone. He bore a large bundle; his steps were cautious and
swift; his look told that he was intent only on the object of his
errand. "I have succeeded beyond my hope. My life on it all is safe.
Where have ye hid the prince? Oh, prithee, fear not, nor trifle: each
second is precious."
The confused wondering looks of all present replied to him. Clifford
laughed, a short, sarcastic, bitter laugh: and then, with a fiendlike
expression of face, he said, "The prince has done well; and ye have all
done well: and his Grace will thank you anon. Ye grudge me, maybe, the
Duchess Margaret's bounty. She promised largely; 'twere pity to share
the boon among so many. Now mark the event!"
These words displayed the baseness of his motive, yet vouched for his
sincerity. He threw a menacing glance around, and then quitted the hut;
and with hurried pace hastened across the field towards the town.