Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "Nan!" broke from her father's lips, in tones more
eloquent than a volume would have been. "Little Nan!" "I would I were
your little Nan again," she said. "We were happy then, my Lord--at
least I was." P. 140.]
_Red and White_
_A Tale of
The Wars of the Roses_
BY
EMILY SARAH HOLT
AUTHOR OF "THE WHITE ROSE OF LANGLEY," ETC.
"If loving hearts were never lonely,
If all they wish might always be,
Accepting what they look for only,
They might be glad, but not in Thee."
--ANNA L. WARING.
_NEW EDITION_
LONDON
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW
1882
*PREFACE.*
It is a proverbial truth that thunderstorms clear the air. And it would
seem as though that eventful and terrible period of English history,
known as the Wars of the Roses, had cleared the political air for the
coming Reformation. How little those who took part in it realised the
time to follow! To the men of that day it was either a wrestle for
personal fame, or a passionate enthusiasm for the establishment of
Right. To the women with whom it was not the latter, it must have been a
meaningless agony--a passion with no visible end, and with no
conceivable moral purpose. Alas for him who loses his faith in the
providence of God, for the key of the world has dropped out of his hand.
And happy are they who can calmly walk on in the dark by the side of the
Father, it may be feeling the atmosphere painfully oppressive, yet
willing to wait His time, and knowing that when they come forth into the
light of the Golden City, they will be satisfied with it.
*CONTENTS.*
CHAP.
I. THE FLEDGLINGS LEAVE THE NEST
II. LILIES AMONG THE THORNS
III. FLIGHT
IV. SCENE-SHIFTING
V. HIS LITTLE NAN
VI. THE MIST ON EASTER DAY
VII. THE LAST BATTLE OF THE RIVAL ROSES
VIII. THE END OF A WEDDING-DAY
IX. DRAWING NEARER
X. AT THE PARCHMENT-MAKER'S
XI. A LAST INTERVIEW
XII. IDONIA UNDERSTANDS
XIII. THE LAST OF THE SILVER RING
HISTORICAL APPENDIX
*RED AND WHITE.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*THE FLEDGLINGS LEAVE THE NEST.*
"Ah, God will never let us plant
Our tent-poles in the sand,
But ever, e'er the blossom buds,
We hear the dread command,--
'Arise and get thee hence away,
Unto another land.'"
"Frid!" said little Dorathie in a whisper.
Frid held up a hushing finger with a smile.
"Frid!" came again; in a tone which showed that tears were not very far
from Dorathie's blue eyes.
Frid's hand was held out in reply, and little Dorathie, understanding
the gesture, sidled along the window-seat until she reached her sister
in the opposite corner. There, nestled up close to Frideswide, and held
fast by her arm, Dorathie put the melancholy question which was
troubling her repose.
"Frid, be you going hence?--verily going?"
The answering nod was a decided affirmative.
"But both of you?--both thee and Agnes?"
Another silent, uncompromising nod from Frideswide.
"O Frid, I shall be all alone! Whatever must I do?"
And the tears came running from the blue eyes.
"Serve my Lady my grandmother," Frideswide whispered back.
"But that is--only--being useful," sobbed Dorathie, "and I--want to--be
happy."
"Being useful is being happy," said her sister.
"I would being happy were being useful," was Dorathie's lugubrious
answer. "They never go together--not with me."
"So do they alway with me," replied Frideswide.
"Oh, thou! Thou art a woman grown," said Dorathie with a pout.
"Right an old woman," said Frideswide with a sparkle of fun in her eyes,
for she was not quite twenty. Dorathie was only eight, and in her
estimation Frideswide had attained a venerable age. "But list, Doll!
My Lady calleth thee."
Dorathie's sobs had attracted the notice of one of the four grown-up
persons assembled round the fire. They were two ladies and two
gentlemen, and the relations which they bore to Dorathie were father,
mother, grandmother, and grand-uncle.
It was her grandmother who had called her--the handsome stately old lady
who sat in a carved oak chair on the further side of the fire. Her hair
was silvery white, but her eyes, though sunken, were lively, flashing
dark eyes still.
Dorathie slipped down from the window-seat, crossed the large room, and
stood before her grandmother with clasped hands and a deferential bob.
She was not much afraid of a scolding, for she rarely had one from that
quarter: still, in the days when girls were expected to be silent
statues in the august presence of their elders, she might reasonably
have feared for the result of her whispered colloquy with Frideswide.
"What ails my little Doll?" gently asked the old lady.
"An't please your good Ladyship, you said Frid and Annis[#] should both
go away hence."
[#] Annis, or more correctly Anneyse, is the old French form of Agnes,
and appears to have been used in the Middle Ages, in England, as an
affectionate diminutive. Some have supposed Annis to be a variety of
Anne, and have therefore concluded that Anne and Agnes were considered
the same name. This, I think, is a mistake. Annas is the Scottish
spelling.
"We did, my little maid. Is our Doll very sorry therefor?"
"I shall be all alone!" sobbed Dorathie.
"'All alone!'" repeated her grandmother with a smile, which was pitying
and a little sympathetic. "Little Doll, there be fourteen in this house
beside Frideswide and Agnes."
"But they are none of them _them_!" said Dorathie.
"Aye. There is the rub," answered her grandmother. "But, little maid,
we all have to come to that some time."
"'Tis as well to begin early, Doll," said her uncle.
"Please it you, Uncle Maurice," replied Dorathie, rubbing the tears out
of her eyes with her small hands, "I'd rather begin late!"
Her father laughed. "Folks must needs go forth into the world, Doll,"
said he. "Thou mayest have to do the like thine own self some day."
"Shall I so?" asked Dorathie, opening her eyes wide. "Then, an' it like
your good Lordship, may I go where Frid and Annis shall be?"
"Thou wilt very like go with Frid or Annis, it we can compass it,"
replied her father; "but they will not be together, Doll."
"Not together!" cried Dorathie in a tone of disappointed surprise.
"Nay: Frideswide goeth to my good Lady of Warwick at Middleham; and
Agnes to London town, to serve my Lady's Grace of Exeter in her
chamber."
"Then they'll be as unhappy as me!" said Dorathie, with a very sorrowful
shake of her head. "I thought they were going to be happy."
"They shall be merry as crickets!" answered her father. "My Lady of
Warwick hath two young ladies her daughters, and keepeth four maidens in
her bower; and my Lady's Grace of Exeter hath likewise a daughter, and
keepeth other four maids to wait of her. They are little like to be
lonely."
Her grandmother understood the child's feeling, but her father did not.
And Dorathie was dimly conscious that it was so. She dropped another
courtesy, and crept back to Frideswide in the window-seat,--not
comforted at all. There they sat and listened to the conversation of
their elders round the fire. Frideswide was sewing busily, but
Dorathie's hands were idle.
The season was early autumn, and the trees outside were just beginning
to show the yellow leaf here and there. The window in which the two
girls sat, a wide oriel, opened on a narrow courtyard, in front of which
lay a garden of tolerable size, wherein pinks, late roses, and other
flowers were bowing their heads to the cool breeze of the Yorkshire
wolds. The court-yard was paved with large round stones, not pleasant
to walk on, and causing no small clatter from the hoofs of the horses.
A low parapet wall divided it from the garden, which was approached by
three steps, thus making the court into a wide terrace. Beyond the
garden, a crenellated wall some twelve feet high shut out the prospect.
What it shut out beside the prospect was a great deal, of which little
was known to Frideswide, and much less to Dorathie. They lived at a
period of which we, sheltered in a country which has not known war for
two hundred years, can barely form an adequate idea. For fourteen
years--namely, since Frideswide was five years old, and longer than
Dorathie's life--England had been torn asunder by civil warfare. Nor
was it over yet. The turbulent past had been sad enough, but the worst
was yet to come.
Never, since the cessation of the Heptarchy, had a more terrible time
been seen than the Wars of the Roses. In this struggle above all
others, family convictions were divided, and family love rent asunder.
Father and son, brother and brother, uncle and nephew, constantly took
opposite sides: and every warrior on each side was absolutely sure that
all shadow of right lay with his candidate, and that the "rebel and
adversary" of his chosen monarch had not an inch of ground to stand on.
Nor was the question of right so clear and indisputable as in this
nineteenth century we are apt to think. To our eyes, regarding the
matter in the light of modern law, it appears certain that Edward IV.
was the rightful heir of the crown, and that there was no room for
dispute in the matter. But the real point in dispute was the very
important one, what the law of succession really was. Was it any bar
that Edward claimed through a female? The succession of all the kings
from the Empress Maud might be fairly held to settle this item in
Edward's favour. But the real difficulty, which lay beyond, was not so
easily solved.
Very little understood at present is the law of non-representation, the
old "custom of England," which was also the custom of Artois, and
several other provinces. According to this law, if a son of the king
should predecease his father, leaving issue, that issue was barred from
the throne. They were not to be allowed to represent their dead father.
The right of succession passed at once to the next son of the monarch.
Several of our kings tried to alter this law, but it was so dear to the
hearts of the English people that up to 1377 they invariably failed.
The most notable instance is that of Richard I., who tried hard to
secure the succession of Arthur, the son of his deceased brother
Geoffrey, in preference to his youngest brother John. But the "custom
of England" was too strong for him: and though John was personally
neither liked nor respected by any one, England preferred his rule to
making a change in her laws.
It was Edward III. who succeeded in making the alteration. His eldest
son, the famed Black Prince, had died leaving a son behind him, and the
old King strongly desired to secure the peaceable succession of his
grandson. He succeeded, partly because of the popularity of the
deceased Prince, partly on account of the unpopularity of the next heir,
but chiefly because the next heir himself was willing to assist in the
alteration. His reward for this self-abnegation is that modern writers
are perpetually accusing him of unbridled ambition, and of a desire to
snatch the crown from that nephew who would assuredly never have worn it
had he withheld his consent.
But though John of Gaunt was perfectly willing to be subject instead of
sovereign, his son Henry did not share his feelings. He always
considered that he had been tricked out of his rights: and he never
forgave his father for consenting to the change. After sundry futile
attempts to eject his cousin from the throne, he at last succeeded in
effecting his purpose. The succession returned to the right line
according to the old "custom of England"; and since King Richard II.,
for whom it had been altered, left no issue, matters might have gone on
quietly enough had it been suffered to remain there.
They were quiet enough until the death of Henry V. But a long minority
of the sovereign has nearly always been a misfortune to the country: and
the longest of all minorities was that of Henry VI., who was only eight
months old when he came to the throne. Then began a restless and weary
struggle for power among the nobles, and especially the three uncles of
the baby King. The details of the struggle itself belong to general
history: but there are one or two points concerning which it will be
best to make such remarks as are necessary at once, in order to save
explanations which would otherwise be constantly recurring.
King Henry was remarkably devoid of relatives, and the nearest he had
were not of his own rank. He was the only child of his father, and on
the father's side his only living connections beside distant cousins
were an uncle--Humphrey Duke of Gloucester--and a grand-uncle--Cardinal
Beaufort--both of whom were, though different from each other, equally
diverse from the King in temperament and aim. On the mother's side he
had two half-brothers and a sister, with whom he was scarcely allowed to
associate at all. He wanted a wife: and he took the means to obtain one
which in his day princes usually took. He sent artists to the various
courts of Europe, to bring to him portraits of the unmarried Princesses.
King Henry's truth-loving nature comes out in the instructions given to
these artists. They were to be careful not to flatter any of the royal
ladies, but to draw their portraits just as they were. Of the
miniatures thus brought to him, the King's fancy was attracted by the
lovely face of a beautiful blonde of sixteen--the Princess Marguerite of
Anjou, second daughter of Rene, the dispossessed King of Naples. An
embassy, at the head of which was William Duke of Suffolk, was sent over
to demand, and if accepted, to bring home the young Princess.
The girl-Queen found herself a very lonely creature, flung into the
midst of discordant elements. She loved her husband, as she afterwards
showed beyond question, and she must have felt deep respect for his
pure, gentle, truthful, saintly soul. Yet, excellent as he was, he was
no adviser for her. It was simply impossible for her brilliant intellect
and brave heart to lean upon his dulled brain and timid nature. How
could he, with the uttermost will to aid her, help his young wife to
keep out of snares laid for her which he could not even see, or counsel
her to beware of false friends whose falsehood he never so much as
suspected? Is it any wonder that Marguerite in this sore emergency
turned to Suffolk, her first friend, a man almost old enough to be her
grandfather, with a wise head and a tender heart, and thoroughly
desirous to do his duty? Poor, innocent girl! she paid dearly for it.
One word of cruel, contemptuous surmise dropped from the lips of a young
nobleman,--who very possibly had wished the fair young Queen to make him
her chief adviser--and all over the land, as with wings, the wicked
falsehood sped, till there was no possibility of undoing the evil, and
Marguerite woke up in horror to find her name defamed, and her innocent
friendship with Suffolk believed to be criminal. She did not discover
for some time who was the author of this cruel slander: but when she
did, she never forgave Warwick.
There is not the shadow of probability that it was true. Suffolk was
about fifty years of age[#] when Marguerite was married, and he had been
for nearly fifteen years the husband of one of the loveliest women in
England, to whom he was passionately attached. His character is shown
further by the farewell letter written to his son,[#] one of the most
touching and pious farewell letters ever penned by man.
[#] He was born at Cotton, in Suffolk, and baptized in that church on
"The Feast of St. Michael in Monte Tumba" [Oct. 16] 1396. (_Prob.
AEtatit Willielmi Ducis Suffolk_, 5 H. V. 63.)
[#] Published among the Paston Letters.
But now another and a more serious complication was added to those
already existing. The dispossessed heir of the elder branch, Richard
Duke of York, had much to forgive the House of Lancaster. He had the
memory of a murdered father and a long-imprisoned mother ever fresh
before him. His claim was only through the female line, as the son of a
daughter of the son of a daughter of Lionel Duke of Clarence, the second
son of Edward III. who attained manhood, and who had predeceased his
father. In respect of the male line, he was descended from a younger
brother[#] of the grandfather of Henry VI. It was therefore only as the
representative of Duke Lionel that he could put forward any claim at
all. But Richard was not good at forgiving. And when, as if for the
purpose of further entangling matters, and suggesting to Richard the
very idea which he afterwards carried into action, Henry VI. was seized
with an attack of that temporary insanity which he inherited from his
maternal grandfather, Richard, as his next male relative, was placed in
the position of Regent: a state of things so entirely suited to his
wishes that when, the King having recovered, he was summoned to resign
his charge, Richard coolly expressed his perfect satisfaction with the
position of governor, and his intention to remain such, since he
considered himself to be, as heir general of Duke Lionel, much more
rightfully King of England than the cousin who had displaced him.
[#] Edmund Duke of York.
The first sensation of Henry VI., on hearing this calm assertion of
Richard, was simply one of unbounded amazement.
"My grandfather," said he, "held the crown for twelve years, and my
father for ten, and I have held it for twenty-three: and all that time
you and your fathers have kept silence, and not one word of this have I
ever heard before. What mean you, fair cousin, to prefer such a claim
against the Lord's Anointed?"
It was not quite the fact that Richard's fathers had kept absolute
silence, since his uncle, Edmund Earl of March, had been put forward as
a claimant for the throne, just fifty years before:[#] but in all
probability the King was entirely justified in stating that the idea was
new to him. It is not likely that those about him from infancy would
have allowed him to become familiar with it, since his delicate sense of
right and justice was--in their eyes--the most tiresome thing about him.
But the question was not in his hands for decision. Had it been so, no
man would ever have heard of the Wars of the Roses. King Henry "had no
sense of honour," which probably means that ambition, self-seeking, and
aggressiveness were feelings utterly unknown to him. "Yea, let him take
all," would have been the language of his lips and heart, so long as he
had left to him a quiet home in some green nook of England, the wife and
child whom he dearly loved, a few books, and peace. At times God's
providence decrees peace as the lot of such men. At other rimes it
seems to be the one thing with which they must not be trusted. They are
tossed perpetually on the waves of this troublesome world, "emptied from
vessel to vessel," never suffered to rest. This last was the destiny of
Henry VI. For him, it was the way home to the Land of Peace, where
there is no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying. For four hundred
years his spirit has dwelt in the eternal peace of Paradise; God has
comforted him for ever.
[#] A full account of this transaction will be found in "The White Rose
of Langley."
It was an unfortunate thing for Richard of York that he had married a
woman who acted toward his ambitious aspirations not as a bridle, but as
a spur. Cicely Neville, surnamed from her great beauty The Rose of Raby,
was a woman who, like two of her descendants, would have "died to-morrow
to be a queen to-day," and would have preferred "to eat dry bread at a
king's table, rather than feast at the board of an elector."[#] Of all
members of the royal family of England, this lady is to my knowledge the
only one who ever styled herself in her own charters "the right high and
right excellent Princesse." The Rose of Raby was not the only title
given her. To the vulgar in the neighbourhood where her youth was spent
she was also known as Proud Cis. And every act of her life tends to
show the truth of the title.
[#] The words first quoted were spoken by Anne Princess of Orange,
eldest daughter of George II.; the latter by Elizabeth Queen of Bohemia,
eldest daughter of James I.
It was at the battle of St. Albans--the first fought between the rival
Roses--that Dorathie's grandfather had been killed; the husband of the
stately old lady who remained head of the household at Lovell Tower.
His barony descended to his only daughter Margery, who, after a good
deal of hesitation among rival suitors who greatly admired her title and
fortune, had gradually awoke to the discovery that she liked nobody
quite so well as her old friend John Marston, though he was nearly twice
her age, and a widower with three children. So on him, with the full
consent of her mother, she bestowed hand and heart, title and fortune;
the former being in his eyes, alone of all her lovers, more valuable
than the latter. In her right he became Lord Marnell of Lymington, for
until a comparatively recent period the title of a peeress in her own
right was held to become the property of her husband as absolutely as
her goods, and was conferred by courtesy, as a matter of necessity, upon
any second wife whom he might marry. Two more children--Dorathie and
Ralph--were added to the family: but only the former now survived. It
will thus be seen that Frideswide and Agnes were half-sisters of
Dorathie. The other member of the family not yet introduced was Walter,
the eldest son. He was at present a young squire in the household of
Queen Marguerite.
Every soul at Lovell Tower was passionately Lancastrian. To them Henry
VI. was The King, and Edward IV. was "the rebel." In the house of the
next knight, half a mile away, the conditions were reversed: and the two
families, who had been old and firm friends, now passed each other on
the road with no notice whatever. Very painful was this state of things
to the Lady Idonia, the only sister of four brothers thus placed at
variance. Her two younger brothers, Maurice and William, were still on
good terms with her, for they were Lancastrians like herself. But the
Carew family was one of those which the political earthquake had
shattered, and Hugh and Thomas were determined Yorkists. It was the
sadder--or should have been,--since the younger Lady Marnell had been
educated under the roof of her Uncle Hugh, during the prolonged
residence of her parents at the Court of Scotland. Fortunately or
unfortunately, Uncle Hugh and Aunt Mabel had contrived to impress
themselves on the mind of young Margery in no other character than that
of live barricades against the accomplishment of all her wishes. To be
otherwise than on speaking terms with them, therefore, was a much
smaller calamity to Margery than to her mother. The Lady Idonia used to
sigh heavily when their names were mentioned. Yet to keep up the
friendship would have been no easy matter. Hugh Carew was granite where
his convictions were concerned; and not content with following them
himself, he insisted on imposing them on every body who came near him.
It would have been in his eyes a matter of principle not to allow his
sister or his niece to speak of "the King" or "the rebel," without
letting them see that he wilfully misunderstood the allusion. Idonia
merely sighed ever this piece of perversity, while yet their intercourse
remained unbroken: but Margery was apt to flare up and make an open
breach of the peace. It certainly was trying, when she spoke of the
King (meaning Henry VI.) as in Scotland, to be reminded in a cold,
precise tone, slightly astonished, that she had unaccountably forgotten
that His Highness was at Westminster. It is not therefore to be
wondered at, if Margery felt the open hostility rather a relief than a
burden, while her mother grieved over it in secret.
"'Tis strange gear," the Lady Idonia would sometimes say, "that men
cannot think alike."
"Nay, fair Sister, why should they so?" was her brother William's
answer. "This were tame world if no man saw by his own eyes, but all
after a pattern."
"That were well, Ida," replied the graver Maurice, "could all men see
through God's eyes."
"Aye, and who shall dare say how He looketh on these matters?" rejoined
William.
"Know we not that?" said Maurice. "'The righteous Lord delighteth in
righteousness; His countenance beholdeth equity.'"[#]
[#] Psalm xi. 8.
"On which side is the equity?" asked his brother with a shrug of his
shoulders. "Somewhat scant on both, as methinks. My Lords of Warwick
and Somerset are scarce they which, before giving battle, should look
through a speculation glass[#] to find the righteousness of the matter."
[#] Magnifier.
"Perhaps it were hardly so small as to need the same," was Maurice's dry
answer.
"Nay, fair Uncle William, but I cry you mercy!" broke in Margery. "It
seems me you be but half-hearted toward our good King. Surely his, and
none other, is the cause of right and justice."
"Gramercy, Madge! I am well assured I never said they lay with that
rebel," returned her uncle, laughing.
"Methinks," said Maurice quietly, "that King David was the wisest, which
committed his cause unto God. Never, truly, had king so clear and
perfect title as he. But we find not that he laid siege to King Saul,
in order to come by it the sooner."
"Dear heart! prithee go tell that to the Queen," said William, still
laughing. "Such reasoning were right after the King's heart."
"The Queen fights not for herself," responded Maurice. "It is easier to
trust our own lot in God's hands, than the lot of them we love most. But
mind ye not, Will and Ida, what our Philip were wont to say--'They that
God keepeth be the best kept'?"
William made no reply. He was silenced by the allusion to the dead
brother, on whom the Carews looked much as those around them did upon
the saints.
The interval between the battles of St. Albans and Wakefield--five years
and a half--had changed most of the _dramatis personae_, but had not in
any degree altered the sanguinary character of the struggle. Richard
Duke of York was gone--killed at Wakefield: Suffolk was gone, a victim
to popular fury. King Henry and Queen Marguerite were still the
prominent figures on the Lancastrian side, joined now by their son
Prince Edward. On the York side were the three sons of Duke
Richard,--Edward, George, and Richard, whose ages when the story opens
were twenty-eight, nineteen, and seventeen. Which of these three young
men possessed the worst character it is difficult to judge, though that
evil eminence is popularly assigned to Richard. Edward was an
incorrigible libertine; not a bad organiser, nor devoid of personal
bravery, though it usually appeared by fits and starts. He could do a
generous action, but he was irremediably lazy, and far weaker in
character than either of his brothers. One redeeming point he had--his
personal love for his blood relations. But it was not pure love, for
much selfishness was mixed with it. Perhaps really the worst of the
three was George, for he was not merely an ingrained self-seeker, but
also false to the heart's core. No atom of trust could ever be placed
in him. The most solemn oath taken to-day was no guarantee whatever
against his breaking through every engagement to-morrow. The Dutchman's
maxim, "Every man for mineself," was the motto of George's life. Each
of the brothers spent his life in sowing seeds of misery, and in each
case the grain came to perfection: though most of the harvest of George
and Richard was reaped by themselves, while Edward's was left for his
innocent sons to gather.
It may reasonably be asked why Warwick is counted among the
Lancastrians, when to a great extent Edward owed his throne to him, and
he had been a consistent Yorkist for years. It is because, at the
period when the story opens, Warwick thought proper so to account
himself. King Henry, never able to see through a schemer or a traitor,
had complacently welcomed him back to his allegiance: Queen Marguerite,
who saw through him to the furthest inch, and held him in unmitigated
abhorrence, felt that he was necessary at this moment to her husband's
cause, and locking her own feelings hard within her, allowed it to be
supposed that she was able to trust him, and kept sharp watch over every
movement.
It has already been said that the decision for peace or war was not left
in the hands of King Henry. The woman who sat by his side on the throne
was no longer the timid, lonely dove of their early married life.
Marguerite of Anjou was now a woman of middle age, and a mother whose
very soul was wrapped around that bright-haired boy who alone shared her
heart with his father. Could she but have looked forward a few years,
and have seen that for that darling son war meant an early and bloody
end, she might have been more ready to acquiesce in King Henry's
preference for an obscure but peaceful life. What she saw was something
very different. How was she to know that the golden vision which rose
so radiantly before her entranced eyes was but a mirage of the desert,
and that the silver stream which seemed to spread so invitingly before
her would only mock her parched lips with burning sand?
The fatal choice was made for war, and the war had now been raging for
fourteen years. The wheel of Fortune had turned rapidly and
capriciously, but York had on the whole been uppermost. To the majority
of ordinary Englishmen who cared at least as much for peace and
prosperity as politics, "the King" had meant Edward IV. since 1461.
England at that weary hour cared more for rest than she cared to know
who gave it to her. Edward, on his part, had "indulged himself in ease
and pleasure"[#]--which was what he most valued--and might have
continued to do so if he had kept on good terms with Warwick. For let
Edward or Henry be termed the King, it was Warwick who "had all Englond
at his bedyng," and the man who offended this master of kings was not
likely to be king much longer. Edward had sent Warwick to France to
negotiate for his marriage to Bona of Savoy, the Queen's sister, and
while the envoy was away, the master fell into the toils of the fair
face and golden hair and sweet purring ways of the Lady Grey of Groby.
As Edward had passed his life on the easy principle of never denying
himself any thing, he acted consistently in marrying the lady.
Considering how few ever do so, he had probably not realised that this
easy principle is apt to turn in later life into the sharpest of
scourges. Warwick came home in a furious passion, and carried his
power, influence, and army instantly over to the side of Lancaster. No
man likes being made to "look small," and least of all could it be
brooked by a man of Warwick's character and position. Edward paid very
dearly for his golden-haired bride, and whether the purchase was worth
the amount it cost may be considered extremely doubtful. Elizabeth Grey
was not like Marguerite of Anjou, a far-seeing, self-less, large-hearted
woman. Her mental horizon was exceedingly minute. She was chiefly
concerned, like the creature she most resembled, to obtain the warmest
spot of the hearthrug for herself. Very delightful to stroke and pet
when all goes well, such quadrupeds--and such women--are capable of
becoming extremely uncomfortable companions in certain combinations of
circumstances.
[#] Comines.
Edward was not the only person who paid that heavy bill which he ran up
with so light a heart. Only one small instalment of it was discharged by
him. A heavier one was due from Queen Elizabeth, wrung out through long
years of anguish and desolation: another from their innocent boys,
discharged in their life's blood. The least amount, perhaps, was
exacted from the most undeserving sharer in the penalty--that young
Warwickshire girl who was Edward's real wife by canon law, and whose
strong love proved equal to the fiery ordeal of saving his honour and
ensuring what seemed his happiness at the cost of all her own. It cost
her life as well. Edward had the cruelty and baseness to call her into
court to deny their marriage. He knew her well enough to dare to do it.
And she came, calm and self-restrained, and perjured her soul because
she thought it would make him happier and save his good name. Hers was
of no moment. Then she passed out of sight, and the overstrained string
snapped, and nothing was left to vex the triumphant monarch. Only God
saw a nameless green grave in a country churchyard. And when He comes
to make inquisition for blood, when every thing that was hidden shall be
known, I think it will be found that He did not forget Elizabeth Lucy.
Yet Edward did not escape quite without reproach. One person endeavoured
to prevent this sin and shame, and it was a very unlikely person. The
voice of Proud Cis was the only one raised against it, and her
interference, futile though it was, is the best action of her life.
From the far north Edward received the passionate reproaches of his
mother for this dastardly action. They did not deter him from its
accomplishment: but let the fact be remembered to Cicely's honour.[#]
[#] Some writers have disputed, and more have ignored, these miserable
transactions. Surely the interference of Cicely, and the language of
Comines, who was a personal acquaintance of the royal family, may fairly
be held to prove the point.
Two months before the story begins, Warwick had taken advantage of some
quarrel between Edward and his brother George of Clarence to allure the
latter to the Lancastrian cause. He offered him an enormous bribe to
come over, being his elder daughter Isabel, with one half of her
mother's vast inheritance. It must not be forgotten that all Warwick's
titles were derived from females. He was Earl of Salisbury in
succession to his mother, and Earl of Warwick only by courtesy, in right
of his wife. His two daughters, Isabel and Anne, were his only
children, and the richest heiresses in the kingdom. They were both
extremely beautiful girls, but Isabel was considered the lovelier.
Clarence, who kept neither a heart nor a conscience, was ready to do any
thing, good, bad, or indifferent, which promised to promote his own
advancement in this world. He accepted Warwick's offer; and was now
therefore in arms against his brother, and a member of Warwick's
household at Middleham Castle, of which household Frideswide Marston was
about to form an item.
*CHAPTER II.*
*LILIES AMONG THE THORNS.*
"Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart."--WORDSWORTH.
"Aye, perchance that may serve. What cost it by the yard?"
_That_ was a piece of superb purple satin, which the tailor was holding
up for inspection, in the best way to catch the light.
"Five nobles, an' it please my Lady."
Five nobles amounted to one pound thirteen and fourpence, and was the
price of the very best quality. It is not easy to reduce it into modern
value, since authorities are disagreed on the multiple required. Some
would go as high as sixteen times the value, while others would reduce
it to five. Mv own opinion inclines to the highest number.
"And wherewith wouldst line it, good Whityngham?"
"With velvet, Madam?" suggested the tailor interrogatively.
"Aye. Let it be black."
"At your Ladyship's pleasure."
"And I will have the cloak well furred with Irish fox. Is my broched[#]
cloth of gold gown made ready?"
[#] Figured.
"Madam, it shall be meet for your Ladyship's wearing to-morrow."
"Well, see thou fail me not, for I would have it for our Lady Day in
harvest.--Well, Avice Hilton, what wouldst?"
Avice Hilton, who was a young lady of about eighteen years, had been
waiting the pleasure of her mistress for some minutes.
"An't like you, Madam, your new chamberer that shall be, is now come."
"The Lord Marnell his daughter?"
"She, Madam."
"Hath she eaten aught?"
"Aye, Madam, in the hall."
"Good. Bring her hither."
Frideswide Marston was not a timid or nervous girl by any means, but her
heart beat somewhat faster as Avice Hilton introduced her to the
presence of the Countess of Warwick, the woman who had more of the
reality of queenship than either of those ladies whom the partisans of
the rival Roses termed the Queen.
She saw a pleasant upper chamber, about twenty feet square, whose
windows looked over the beautiful vale of Wensleydale. It was hung with
tapestry on which scenes from the Quest of the Sangraal were delineated.
At the lower end three young ladies were busily at work of various
kinds: on the dais, or raised step at the further end, nearest the
windows, stood the tailor with his roll of satin over his arm, and two
ladies were seated, the elder in a chair of carved wood, the younger in
a more elaborate one inlaid with ivory. In those days people did not
take the seat they found most comfortable, but were carefully restricted
to a certain fashion of chair, according to delicate gradations of rank.
Frideswide, being a well-educated young person, as education went in the
fifteenth century, had no difficulty in perceiving that she was in the
presence of the Countess of Warwick and her daughter, the bride of the
royal Clarence.
The Countess of Warwick was a rather slightly-made woman, but tall, with
a long pale face, haggard features bearing traces of great former
beauty, and a particularly prominent pair of blue eyes.[#] As is often
the case with persons who exhibit the last-named feature, she was at no
loss for language. She was the daughter, and now the only surviving
child, of that Earl of Warwick who had held a conspicuous place in the
burning of the Maid of Orleans, and of Isabel, heiress of Le Despenser.
All the old prestige and associations of the House of Warwick centred in
her, not her husband. How far her influence over him may have been for
good or evil, is not an easy question. What evidence there is, is
mostly negative, and tends to show that the Countess Anne exercised but
little influence of any kind, and was of a type likely to be more
concerned about the burning of the marchpane in her own oven, than about
the burning of a city at some distance. If this be so, she is much to
be pitied: for of the seed of future misery which Warwick sowed, the
heaviest portion of the harvest was reaped by her and by the best and
dearest of her daughters.
[#] All the members of the Warwick family, and also those of the royal
family, are described so far as is practicable from contemporary
portraits.
The young Duchess of Clarence, who was in her nineteenth year, was a
woman cast in another mould. She resembled her father in character, and
her mother in features: but she was more beautiful than the Countess had
ever been, and was accounted "the finest young lady in England." She
was fair, with blue eyes and shining light hair, over which she wore the
new head-dress, which consisted of a most elaborate erection of
wire-work, surmounted by a veil of transparent gauze, so that the hair,
for many years concealed, was left fully visible.
Head-dresses were now, and for a long time had been, the most important
portion of the female costume. The variety was nearly as astounding as
the size. Hearts, horns, crowns, and steeples, were all represented:
and a full-dressed lady, in all her paraphernalia, was a formidable
object both as to cost and dimensions.
Frideswide found herself put through a lively fire of interrogatories by
the Countess, who might have been projecting the writing of memoirs of
the whole Marnell family, to judge from the minute and numerous details
into which she descended. The Duchess sat generally a silent listener,
but occasionally interjected a query. At last the Countess looked
across the room, and summoned Avice.
"There, take the new maid to you, and show her what shall be her duty,"
said she. "See that she wants for nought, and say to Bonham 'tis my
desire she be set a-work."
Frideswide followed Avice to the further end of the room, where she was
introduced to her remaining fellow-chamberers as Theobalda Salvin and
Eleanor Farley. Beyond them, and hitherto concealed by a chair, she
suddenly perceived a fourth person, in the shape of a little old lady,
so very little as to be almost a dwarf, with the cheeriest and brightest
of faces.
"Mother Bonham," said Avice, "'tis my Lady's good pleasure you set
Mistress Frideswide a-work."
"Well, my lass, there's no pleasure in idlesse," was the answer. "See
you here, my maid: would you rather a white seam, or some matter of
broidery?"
Frideswide, whose tastes inclined her rather to the useful than the
ornamental, chose the plain work, and sitting down among the chamberers,
was soon as busy as any of them.
Mother Bonham was the most important person at Middleham Castle, in the
sense that without her every thing would have gone furthest wrong. She
was "mother," or official chaperone, to the chamberers, which accounted
for the title bestowed on her; she was general housekeeper to the
Countess; she had been nurse and governess to the young ladies; and she
was adviser in general to all the younger inmates of the house. She was
as great a hand at proverbs as Sancho Panza himself: she mixed
marvellous puddings and concocted unimaginable cakes; she drew patterns
for embroidery, told stories of all kinds, nursed every body who was ill
(which often included prescribing for them), praised every body who did
well, smiled on, at, and through every thing that happened to her. Only
one thing there was, as Eleanor confided to Frideswide, which Mother
Bonham could not do. She was totally incapable of scolding! The most
severe thing she ever said was a solemn proverb, prefaced by both
Christian and surname of the offender. The use of both names instantly
informed a chamberer that she had fallen under Mother Bonham's grave
displeasure. But so dearly loved was the little old lady that except in
strong emergencies, this was quite enough to recall the person addressed
to a sense of her delinquencies.
Frideswide was rather amused to find that she had again to run the
gauntlet of inquiries concerning her antecedents from the chamberers.
She certainly had never talked so much about herself and her relatives,
as she did that first afternoon of her stay at Middleham Castle. The
fire of interrogations had slightly slackened, when a door opened in the
wall behind the tapestry, and pushing aside the latter, a girl of
fifteen came forward and sat down by Mother Bonham, who moved some
embroidery from a carved chair to make room for her. The chair taken,
and the style of her dress, sufficiently pointed her out as one of the
Earl's daughters.
Though strongly resembling her mother and sister in colour and features,
the expression of her face was entirely different from either. The
piquancy of the elder sister was wholly absent in the younger, and was
replaced by a mixture of gentleness and dignity. Very queenly she
was--not in the false sense of pride, of which there was none about her:
but in the true sense of that innate kingliness of soul which can
tolerate nothing evil, and can stoop to nothing mean. A lily among
thorns was sweet Anne Neville. And the thorns sprang up, and choked it.
She stood now just
"Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet"--
but in the path to be pursued a turn as yet hid the river from view, and
she who was so soon to be borne down it could see nothing of the roaring
cascade and the black pool beneath, where the young life was to be
crushed out, and the fair soul to be set free. As Frideswide glanced at
her, where she sat with her head slightly bent over the broidery, and a
sunbeam lighting up her shining hair, she thought no face so attractive
had ever yet crossed her path in life.
"Tib, draw thou the curtain across," said Mother Bonham. "The sun
cometh too hot on my Lady Anne, I reckon."
Theobalda obeyed in silence, while Lady Anne looked up and smiled
thanks.
"Tib is the best to do it," remarked Eleanor, laughing a little, "for
she is highest of all us. I do believe she should mete to twice of you,
Mother."
"'Good stuff's lapped up in little parcels,' Nell," was Mother Bonham's
good-tempered answer.
Conversation flagged after this. Perhaps work went on the better for
it. Supper was announced in an hour, which was served in the hall,
Frideswide, as the newest arrival, being seated last of the chamberers,
and next to the Earl's squires. She found her neighbour decidedly
communicative. From him she learned that the Countess was not ill to
please, which was more than could be said for my Lady of Clarence; but
my Lady Anne was the sweetest maid in the world. As to my Lord,--with a
little shrug of the squire's shoulders--why, he was in his element in
the midst of a battle, and not anywhere else. Rather just a little
queer-tempered--you had to find out in a morning whether he had got out
of bed on the right side or the wrong. In the former case, he could be
very pleasant indeed: but in the latter--well, least said was soonest
mended.
Frideswide looked up at the potent nobleman thus described to her. She
saw a man of moderate height and breadth, with strong features, a florid
complexion, rather dark hair and eyes, and a very quick, lively,
intelligent expression. His limbs were well-knit and in good
proportion, giving the idea of great muscular strength. It may be
added, though Frideswide of course could only learn this by degrees,
that Warwick was an extremely clever man, with that sort of serpentine
cleverness which regards any means as sanctified by the end proposed;
full of physical courage, but looking upon tenderness and compassion as
contemptible weaknesses only fit for a woman, and indicative of the
consummate inferiority of her sex. He was one of those men in whose
eyes a good woman is simply a woman who has hitherto found no
opportunity of being otherwise. When the opportunity comes in her way,
she must be expected to take advantage of it, as a matter of course.
Clear-sighted as Warwick was in some matters, he was strangely obtuse in
others.
A good deal of further information Frideswide heard from her next
neighbour, who told her that his name was John Wright.[#] He informed
her that the King (by whom he meant Henry VI.) was in the Tower of
London, a prisoner in the hands of "Edward that rebel," who was not
permitted by zealous Lancastrians to enjoy even his ancestral title of
Duke of York. The Queen was abroad, seeking fresh help, and intending
to take the first good opportunity afterwards to land in England. The
Prince of Wales was with her.
[#] Name historical, character imaginary.
As for "that rebel," he of course was enjoying himself to the utmost,
residing in the palaces and squandering the finances which did not
belong to him: and as for "that witch his wife," Mr. Wright was ready to
believe anything of her--by which of course he meant, anything the
reverse of complimentary.
That Edward was squandering money, whether it were his own or not, was
only too true. Never lived man in whose hands money melted in a more
instantaneous manner. During that very summer, he had spent on dress
materials and "other necessaries" upwards of twelve hundred pounds, and
on jewellery and goldsmiths' work L744, inclusive of a gold collar which
cost L34.[#] Nor as we shall presently see, had his extravagance
reached its highest point. No King of England ever spent like him. The
degree to which he surpassed all his predecessors in this point was an
enormous one. By most contemporary chroniclers, Richard II. is accused
of having been a shocking waster of money:[#] but the Issue Rolls of
Richard II. reveal a state of things which is economy itself when
compared with those of Edward IV. Moreover, Richard's extravagance,
such as it was, was mainly in presents to other persons: but what Edward
spent was on his beloved self. This was the more noticeable, as Henry
VI. had not been at all given to spending money; and Queen Marguerite,
while lavish enough in her charities, was singularly frugal in respect
of her wardrobe. As for Edward's Queen, her lord and master, as his
Issue Rolls bear witness, took care she had not much to spend. May not
this exhaustion of the royal treasury under the brothers of York,
account to some extent for the parsimony of which Henry VII. is accused?
[#] Issue Roll, Michis. 9 Edw. IV.
[#] A supposition not at all borne out by his Issue Rolls.