must have reached Edward, for he sent a peremptory order to Lord Welles
to come to him. It was obeyed; and the old man was then commanded to
write a letter to his son, charging him instantly to forsake Warwick and
to join his father. The command was accompanied by a hint that the
writer's head would be the forfeit of his failure. Sir Robert, who
seems to have been of an obstinate temper, since we are told that he
knew his power was too weak to grapple with Edward, refused to obey, and
moved southward to give battle. Edward kept his word, and the father's
life paid for the son's imprudence. Then he marched northwards, and the
two armies met at Stamford, on a place afterwards known as Loosecoat
Field. Welles had no chance against the overwhelming superiority of
Edward's forces, and Warwick was not there. Sir Robert was taken, and
beheaded at Doncaster on the 13th of March. Hearing that Warwick was
encamped about twenty miles from Doncaster, Edward went on to the latter
town. The next morning, March 20, "at nine of the bell," Edward took
the field at Estrefield, and Warwick met him. "Never were seen in
England so many goodly men, and so well arranged." But no sooner did
Warwick and Clarence perceive that fortune was against them than they
fled the field, and went to seek succour from Lord Stanley. They halted
first at a little town, so obscure that it was necessary to say that it
was in Lancashire, as otherwise few would have known whereabouts
Manchester might be. Thence they sent messengers to Lathom, but my Lord
Stanley, most cautious of men, showed them little favour. "And so men
say they went northward, and thence, men deem, to London."[#]
[#] Paston Letters.
Perceiving that his chief adversaries had escaped him, Edward stopped
pursuit of their troops, and went on to York. He and his men had
probably had thirsty work, for we learn that "York was drunk dry when
the King was there."[#] He was wise enough to send to Middleham for
Lord Montague. When that trustworthy gentleman appeared, it was to be
created Marquis Montague, the earldom of Northumberland being now taken
from him and restored to its rightful owner. It might have been
supposed that an earl would scarcely deem it a deplorable occurrence
that he should be made a marquis: but my gracious Lord of Montague was
evidently in an exceedingly bad temper. He growled and grumbled as if
he were a deeply injured man,--managing, however, to keep up a contented
face in the presence of his master, who appears to have fancied that he
had secured Montague's fidelity. Never were there more men than at that
time who were able to "smile, and smile, and be a villain": and all the
Warwick brothers were certainly of the number.
[#] Paston Letters.
From York was issued a long and curious proclamation, in which Edward
showed that he had at last fully realised that Warwick and Clarence were
his open enemies. If the words of Edward were to be relied on to the
exclusion of his deeds, it would certainly be supposed that he was a man
of the tenderest and most affectionate nature. In this respect he
somewhat resembled his predecessor, Henry III. Both could use very
touching language--which the actions of both sorely contradicted. In
this document the tone taken by Edward is that of a well-deserving man
who had been injured in his deepest affections. He sets forth that "the
King granted to George Duke of Clarence and Richard Earl of Warwick his
pardon general for all offences before Christmas last," trusting thereby
to have caused them to have "shewed unto him their naturall loue,
ligeance, and duetee," for which purpose he had authorised them to
assemble his subjects in certain shires. "Yet the said Duke and Earl,
unnaturally, unkindly, and truly intending his destruction and the
subversion of the kingdom, ... and to make the said Duke king of this
the said realm, against God's law, man's law, all reason, and
conscience, dissimuled with his said Highness." Their proceedings are
then detailed, as deposed in the confessions of Sir Robert Welles and
others, concluding with their flight "with all their fellaship into
Lancastreshire, so as his said Highness with his hoste for lack of
vitayll might not follow." Notwithstanding all these offences, "our
sovereign Lord considered the nighness of blood,[#] and tender love
which he hath aforetime borne to them, and was therefore loth to have
lost them if they would have submitted them to his grace." Having
disobeyed the writs which allowed them to present themselves, under
promise of pardon, up to the 28th of March, the Duke and Earl are now
solemnly proclaimed rebels, to whom loyal subjects of King Edward are to
give no aid, favour, nor assistance, with meat, drink, money, or
otherwise, but are to take them and bring them to the King, upon pain of
death and forfeiture. The reward announced for the capture of either is
L100 in land by the year, to the captor and his heirs, or L1000 in ready
money, at his election. The capture of any knight of their following is
to be rewarded by L20 in land or a hundred marks in cash; and of a
squire, L10 in land or forty in money.[#]
[#] The Countess of Warwick was Edward's second cousin, and the Earl his
third cousin.
[#] Close Roll, 10 Edw. IV.; dated York, March 24, 1470.
The day after this proclamation, Montague received his marquis's
coronet, and was, in appearance at least, one of the most faithful
subjects of King Edward. The news he brought on his return to Middleham
caused no little excitement there. The Countess ordered instant
preparations for departure. Some of the household were left behind at
Middleham: some were suffered to return to their friends, among whom
were Theobalda and Eleanor. The only ladies she took with her, beside
her daughters, were Mother Bonham, Frideswide, and Avice. There was
also a dresser, or lady's maid, and a scullion-girl.
About midnight, when the ladies were trying to get a little sleep before
their early journey on the morrow, the porter was awoke by small pebbles
thrown up at his window.
"Who goes there?" he inquired, opening the casement about an inch.
"It is I, John Wright," answered the familiar voice of the young squire.
"Pray thee, good Thomas, be hasteful and let me in privily, with all
silence, for I bring word from my Lord unto my Lady."
The porter cautiously unbarred the small wicket, and Wright stepped
inside. He did not wait to satisfy the porter's curiosity, but sped
across the court-yard, and by means of a key which he carried, let
himself into the tower which contained the apartments of the Countess.
A minute later, he was softly rapping at the outer door of her rooms,
and Mother Bonham admitted him.
The Countess sent for him at once to her bedside. She guessed that his
message was one of imminent import.
"Noble Lady," said Wright, with a low courtesy--for the courtesy was a
gentleman's reverence in those days,--"behold here my Lord's token, who
greets you well by me, and desires you to come unto him, and my young
ladies withal, at Dartmouth, in Devon, so speedily and secretly as you
may."
He held forth a diamond ring, which the Countess recognised as one
usually worn by her husband, and not sent as a token except on occasions
of serious moment. She sent Mother Bonham at once to communicate the
news to her daughters, and to desire them to be ready to set forth two
hours earlier than the time originally fixed. Her idea had been to seek
the Earl at Warwick Castle, though she hoped to receive more exact news
before her departure. But she deemed it quite as well that that very
reliable person, the Marquis Montague, should be left in a little
uncertainty touching her departure. She had already taken advantage of
a conveniently smoky chimney to move the Marquis into a tower which did
not overlook her own. She now gave further orders that the horses were
to be in waiting outside the Castle, on the grass, so as to avoid noise,
and in a position where they could not be seen from Montague's windows.
At two o'clock, wrapped in long travelling cloaks, and wearing list
slippers, the ladies crept out of the Castle into the fresh April night
air, and mounted their horses in silence. Sir John Clare rode before
the Countess, Sir Walter Wretill before the Duchess of Clarence, and
John Wright before the Lady Anne. Slowly and silently, at first, the
procession filed off from the Castle, not breaking into a trot till they
thought themselves beyond sight and hearing. The Archbishop (just then
to be trusted) was keeping watch over his brother, and with him
Warwick's servant, Philip Strangeways, who was to follow an hour later,
in order to gallop on and warn the ladies if any pursuit were attempted.
Once out of Wensleydale, and joined by Philip, the journey changed into
a rapid flight. They travelled by night. They were afraid of being
pursued, not only on their own account, but on that of Warwick, to whose
locality theirs would give a clue, as it would instantly be surmised
that they were going to join him. They kept as much as possible to the
bye-ways and moor roads, which were less frequented, and also less
capable of ambush, than the high roads: but they could not keep
altogether out of human sight and hearing. Many a cottager woke up in
the dark to hear a rush of horses, and to see the flash of the lanterns
as the fugitives fled past. It was a wretched journey, especially for
the Duchess, who was by no means in health to stand it. But the Duchess
had a spirit which carried her above all pain and languor. She would
have no halts made for her. She entertained a strong dislike and fear
of Edward personally, and if report spoke truly, not without good
reason.
Before Dartmouth was reached, Frideswide Marston had most heartily
wished herself, a score of times at least, within the safe shelter of
Lovell Tower. Oh, if she could wake up from this hurried snatch of
sleep under an elderbush, to find herself in that little white bed in
the turret chamber, with Dorathie's head beside her on the pillow! It
seemed to Frideswide as if, that wish granted, she could never complain
of any thing again.
Along the wild hill-passes of "the back-bone of England," winding round
the Peak, keeping clear of Stafford Castle, where the Yorkist Duke of
Buckingham had his home, skirting Shropshire and Hereford, taking the
ferry over the Severn, down through Somerset, avoiding alike the
uncivilised neighbourhood of Exmoor, where bandits loved to congregate,
and the too civilised neighbourhood of Exeter, they came into those
safer parts of Devon where the exiled Courtenays were lords of the
hearts, though they had lost the lands,--where once more "the King" was
Henry VI., and his adherents would meet with honour and help. Near
Totness they were met by William Newark, Warwick's nuncio, who conducted
them to boats moored in the river awaiting them. It was a great relief
to change their weary saddles for the boats in which they dropped down
the lovely Dart, and found Warwick's fleet, of eighty ships, ready to
weigh anchor the moment they arrived, lying off Kingswear.
The voyage, however, had not been long before they discovered that the
saddles had been the safer mode of conveyance. The wind, though low,
was not unfavourable: but they had scarcely passed Portland when they
were met by the very enemy from whom they were endeavouring to escape.
As they rounded the little peninsula, ships of war stood before them,
with King Edward's standard and Lord Rivers' pennon flying from the
masthead.
An evil augury for Warwick was that pennon. With any weaker commander,
the fleet would have obeyed its Lord High Admiral, as Warwick had been
created a year before. But Lord Rivers was a conscientious man of one
idea, and he thoroughly believed in Edward's right. The ships joined
battle, and the ladies of course were kept below.
Oh for that little white bed and Dorathie!
Never till then had Frideswide Marston looked death in the face, and
never after that day could she be as she had been, again.
Warwick was a less honest and true-hearted man than Rivers, but he was
also a better general. The battle was short and sharp, but the victory
remained in the hands of Warwick. His ships got safely away, but they
were not by any means out of their troubles. It seemed as though both
God and man were against them that night. Before they could reach
Beachy Head, there came on them a terrific tempest, and they were tossed
up and down in the Channel like toys of the storm. To add to all other
distresses, the Duchess of Clarence, whose mental energy had hitherto
borne her through her physical sufferings, sank beneath them at last,
and became alarmingly ill. It was not until the morning of the fourth
day that they found themselves off Calais, and a few hours before, the
Duchess had given birth to a child which had not survived the event many
minutes. But Calais was Warwick's old home; he had been Governor of the
town for years. Here, at least, he might hope for rest and aid.
They cast anchor under shelter of Cape Grisnez, and sent John Wright
ashore in a little boat to notify to Vauclere, Warwick's deputy in
command, that his master was about to land.
Warwick himself paced the quarter-deck impatiently. What were those
sluggards ashore doing, that his own state barge was not sent off at
once to land the ladies? Why did Vauclere not appear, cap in hand, to
express his satisfaction at the return of his master? When at last he
saw his squire return alone, Warwick's patience, never very extensive,
failed him utterly.
"What means all this?" he roared in a passion.
"My Lord," shouted John Wright back from the boat, "Messire de Vauclere
begs your Lordship will not essay a landing, for the townsmen will not
receive you."
"Not receive _me_!" cried the Earl in amazement. "Me, their own
Governor! Lad, didst hear aright? Is Vauclere beside himself?"
"In good sooth, nay, my Lord, and he is sore aggrieved to have no better
welcome for your Lordship than so. 'Tis the townsmen, not he, as he
bade me for to say, and he earnestly desires your Lordship to make for
some other French port."
Warwick could hardly believe his ears.
"But surely," he answered in a rather crestfallen tone, "they will never
refuse to receive my Lady Duchess? Have you told Vauclere in what case
she now is?"
"My Lord, I told him all things: and he replied that he was sore
troubled it should so fall out, but he had no power. He hath, howbeit,
sent two flagons of wine for Her Grace."
"No power!" repeated the Earl. "Wherefore then is he there? Leave me
but land in safety, and Messire de Vauclere, and my masters the
townsmen, shall soon behold if I have any power or no! No power,
quotha! Well! better luck next time. Get you up, lad, and bring the
wine, for 'tis sore needed. Bid the shipmaster stand southward. Were we
in better case, they should find their ears tingle ere they were much
older! Messire de Vauclere shall one day hear my name again, or I much
mistake!"
And away strode the Earl wrathfully, to communicate the disappointing
news to his suffering ladies.
Southwards, for two days more, they slowly sailed. The storm was over,
and the wind had dropped almost to a calm. But at the end of two days,
with much difficulty, the vessel containing the Earl and his family was
run into the mouth of the Seine, and between Harfleur and Honfleur they
landed on the soil of Normandy.
In France the scene was changed. Louis XI. had been pleased to take up
the Lancastrian cause--the cause of the King who had of old, as a child,
been made the rival of Louis's father, and whose troops had been so
ignominiously driven out of France by the Maid. In France, therefore,
Warwick was received with honour and material help. Every provision was
made for the wearied ladies at Valognes, where they took up their
temporary abode: but for some weeks nothing would tempt Warwick from
Honfleur--not even the remonstrances of his friend the Duke of Burgundy,
who sent to entreat him to come to his Court. One important point was
wanting--Queen Marguerite would make no move towards conciliation. In
vain King Louis assured her that Warwick's help was absolutely essential
to the Lancastrian cause. The Queen might have welcomed him, but the
cruel defamation of her name the woman knew not how to forgive. She
only relented after long importunity, and then on the stern condition
that in the presence of the Kings of France and Naples, Warwick should
solemnly retract all his accusations, and beg her pardon for his
infamous falsehoods. She also insisted on this retractation being
published in England. Finding that no better terms could be obtained
from his insulted sovereign, Warwick was compelled to eat this most
unpalatable piece of humble-pie with what appetite he might. He waited
on the Queen at Angers, where he begged her pardon on his knees, and
formally unsaid all the imputations which he had made upon her
character. Even then all present could see that Marguerite found it a
very bitter task to receive her enemy into favour. After this
humiliating scene, the Earl rejoined his ladies, and some weeks later
they travelled together to the Castle of Amboise, where their royal
hosts were then residing.
The Castle of Amboise stands on one of those natural platforms of rock
which in and about Touraine gem the vale of the Loire; the little town
clustering at its foot, between it and the river, while the Palace
towers above all. Were it not for them, the scenery would be as flat as
the sea. But wherever they stand up there is a little oasis of beauty,
for they are generally clad in verdure, as well as crowned with some
picturesque edifice of the Middle Ages.
It was after dark when the barge which bore the fugitives was moored at
Amboise. Royal footmen stood on each side of the landing-stage, bearing
large torches, and royal ushers handed the ladies from the barge, and
led them into the Castle. As Frideswide was modestly following her
mistress, the last of the group, rather to her surprise, a hand was
offered her, and a voice asked her in English if she were not very
tired.
Frideswide looked up into the pleasant face of a man of some thirty
years of age, who wore the royal livery of England. Livery, it must be
remembered, was not at that time any badge of servitude; all the King's
equerries, household officers, and gentlemen ushers, wore his livery.
This man was of fine proportions, had bright, dark, intelligent eyes,
and wore--what few then did--a long beard and moustache. There was a
kind, friendly expression in his face which made Frideswide feel at her
ease. She answered the sympathising inquiry by a smiling affirmative.
"Well, here may you find good rest," said he. "At the least, after all
these stairs be clomb, which I fear shall yet weary you somewhat. Shall
we, of your good pleasure, make acquaintance? I am the Queen's
henchman."
"Master Combe?" asked Frideswide, looking up.
"John Combe, and your servant," said he. "Truly a lowly name--it could
scarce be shorter--but it hath serven me these thirty years, and yet
shall, if it please God."
The name was no unknown sound to Frideswide Marston, for John Combe had
been Queen Marguerite's personal attendant--equerry, secretary,
confidant, friend--ever since that dark and evil day when, stung by
Warwick's cruel stab in the dark, the beautiful young Queen, to avoid
all ground for evil surmisings, had selected a boy of fourteen to ride
before her. Truest of the true had John Combe proved to his royal lady.
He was low down, indeed, in her household--no peerage ever adorned his
name, nor order glittered on his breast--but there was not a man about
her whom Marguerite would have trusted as she trusted him. His feeling
towards her was one of reverential tenderness--the sentiment of a
devotee towards his chosen saint. In fact, it was John Combe's nature
to look out for, to protect, to love, whatever he found in need of it.
"The man who wanted him was the man he wanted." A timid, shrinking
girl, who looked frightened and uncomfortable, would have won John
Combe's notice, though a dozen luxuriously-appointed beauties were
fluttering about him in vain. What had originally attracted him to
Marguerite herself was not the beauty nor the Queen, but the lonely,
helpless, calumniated woman.
The world holds a few John Combes. Would there were more!
The long stretch of stairs came to an end at last, and John Combe led
Frideswide into the private closet of Queen Marguerite. It was the
first time she had ever seen the royal lady who to her was the
incarnation of every thing that was fair and noble. While the Queen was
occupied with the Countess and her daughters, Frideswide had time to
look at her.
Marguerite of Anjou was now just forty years of age, but she still
retained, in every item but one, that wonderful beauty which had won her
the reputation of the loveliest woman in Europe. The once brilliant
complexion was dimmed and faded by long years of anxiety and privation.
But the graceful figure, lithe and slender, was not changed--the
gracious bearing was no less fascinating than of old--the blue eyes were
bright and sparkling still, and the golden hair held its own without a
silver thread. She received the Countess with the affectionate concern
of an old friend who was sorry for her recent suffering, and her
daughters with motherly kindness. Perhaps there was just a shade more of
it for the Lady Anne than her sister. But Anne was the younger, and was
at that moment looking the more wearied of the two. Then the Queen
turned to the suite, greeted Mother Bonham as she might have done her
own old nurse, and gave her hand to kiss to Frideswide and Avice. The
Earl, who had been first to wait on King Louis, made his appearance
last. Marguerite received him with cold civility, very different from
her manner to the ladies. But she condescended to converse with him on
political affairs, though it was in a grave and distant style.
Marguerite showed to most advantage when she spoke, for then her face
lighted up, her eyes were animated, and her natural vivacity made itself
apparent. Let her be silent, and the face grew grave and sad, as she
had good cause to be.
Before much of this political converse had gone on, the Queen, by a
motion of her hand, summoned John Combe, who, whatever he might be
doing, always seemed to keep one eye upon every act and gesture of his
royal mistress. She desired him to call the Lady de Vivonne, and a
plump, lively, gesticulating Frenchwoman accordingly sailed into the
room. To her care the Queen committed the ladies who had accepted her
hospitality, desiring her to see that they wanted for nothing: and the
Lady de Vivonne carried them off to the apartments already prepared for
them. Here were several other women, both French and English, who
busied themselves in offering help. One of the latter, a girl of about
their own age, devoted herself to Frideswide and Avice.
"Gramercy, my damsels, but you must be a-weary!" said she. "I wis I was
when we hither came. You shall yet have seen none, as I reckon, save
our own Queen?"
"None at all," answered Avice. "I would right fain see my Lord Prince."
"And the King and Queen of France--be they here?" said Frideswide.
"They be so," replied Christian, as they found the girl was named: "but,
gramercy! they be not much to look at."
"Ill-favoured both?"
Christian pulled an affirmative face. She was evidently ready to
continue the conversation to any extent; but both the chamberers were so
tired that when their duties were over, they were only too thankful to
lie down in bed. Only, before they dropped asleep, Frideswide said,--
"What shall be the next move?"
"God wot," said Avice, gravely.
"Know you if the Queen hath or no any leaning toward our doctrine?"
"Hush, prithee! I cannot tell, in any wise. The King is good man and
holy--men say, holy as any saint. The Queen, I have heard, is a great
almsgiver--or so were, when she had alms to give. Poor lady! now 'tis
well nigh come to asking alms, with her."
"Poor lady!" echoed Frideswide.
And then they went to sleep.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*SCENE-SHIFTING.*
"What a world this is!--a cur of a world, which fawns on its master, and
bites the beggar. Ha, ha! it fawns on me now, for the beggar has bought
the cur."--EDWARD, EARL LYTTON.