Agnes, as you ever loved any human soul, that you will win for me privy
speech of the only one that loveth me--the Lady Anne, my daughter."
Agnes looked up, and saw the yearning, passionate hunger in the poor
father's eyes. She saw nothing more for a minute.
"Sir," she said then, "if I do it not, be assured that it shall be only
because I can no way compass it."
"God go with you!" was the reply.
Agnes hastened back to the room where she had left Lady Anne alone with
Marion, and heard to her dismay the sharp tones of the Duchess as she
came near the door.
"Heard any ever the like!" cried Her Royal Highness. "'An' it please
me!' I do you plainly to wit, my dainty mistress, that it doth not
please me. I will have thee come down and speak with Master Grey. And
I will have thee don a better gown for it, belike.--Agnes Marston, go
this minute and lay out the Lady Anne's gown of purple velvet.--And go
thou and don it. Dost hear?"
Lady Anne said no more, but her whole face betrayed intense dislike to
the task imposed upon her, when she caught the eye of Agnes. The
language of the eye was well understood at that time, when the language
of the lips was often dangerous. Lady Anne saw in an instant that Agnes
knew of some reason why she had better leave the room, and she followed
her without another word.
Meanwhile the Duke of Exeter stood below, waiting to know the result of
his appeal. Could Agnes convey it at all? and if she did, would Anne
come? Last and saddest question of all, if she came, would it be the
child he knew, altered of course in person, but unchanged in heart? At
last he could keep still no longer. Plantagenet blood was in his veins,
and it was a habit of all the race, when suffering from mental
excitement, to pace up and down like caged tigers. He had sufficient
excuse in the cold of a February evening, and he yielded to the impulse,
pausing at every sound to listen--till the door was flung open suddenly,
and a tall, slight maiden, robed in violet velvet and decked with
jewels, dashed into the room, and flung herself into his arms with a
burst of passionate tears. Enough! Enough for the father's heart! His
little Nan had come back to him.
When the first wave had broken, he lifted the young head with one hand,
and looked long and tenderly on the beloved face. And at the first
glance his heart sank down, lower than it had ever been.
Come, but not to stay. Bound on a longer journey than from England to
France--than from earth to stars. He held his darling close clasped in
his arms, but it was probably for the last time. Verily for her the
Bridegroom waited, but the bridal was not of earth.
"Nan!" broke from the 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."
"I never was," was the sad answer. "I only came near enough to see that
I could have been. If it had been God's will!"
"It will be, my Lord," replied Anne, brightly. "'_Satiabor cum
apparuerit gloria tua_.[#]'"
[#] Psalm xvii. 15.
"Dost know, little Nan, that thou didst learn that Psalm at mine
instance? But when will it be, my darling?--when? It is such a long
dark night without thee."
Yet as he said the words, the thought smote him to the heart,--Not long,
not long for one of them!
"When God's will is," she responded simply. "We must wait, my Lord. Oh,
this awful war! had it never begun!"
She did not realise that they were parted by any but political
reasons--mournful necessities, which might come to an end some time. It
was better she should not.
"Little Nan," said the Duke, "I love not 'my Lord' from thy lips. Call
me Father."
The request was an unusual one. But she looked up and responded as he
wished, with tears glistening in the violet eyes.
"You will come and see me again, Father?"
"I will come and see thee again," he echoed--well knowing, as he spoke,
that the interview was not likely to be held on the earthly side of the
cold river. But surely he would meet her again; and it would be he that
should come to her. There would be room in the halls above, and no need
to employ a third person, nor to use secrecy and stratagem in order to
meet. Up from the core of his soul went the passionate cry, "Let us go
together! Make no tarrying, O my God!" He knew now at least, if he had
never known it before, that there was to be no paradise for him outside
the Paradise of God.
"My Lady!" said the rather nervous voice of Agnes at the door. "I cry
you verily mercy, but--Her Grace is calling for you."
None of them dared to disregard that summons.
One more last embrace! One more last look! From the Duke's eyes
"No tears fell, but a gaze fixed, long,
That memory might print the face
On the heart's ever-vacant space
With a sun-finger, sharp and strong."
His very soul seemed to dissolve itself upon her head as he gave her the
last blessing. She tore herself away, and stumbling with tear-blinded
eyes over her velvet train, went up to receive a sharp scolding for
loitering from the Duchess, and some very cold ceremonial speeches from
her affianced.
All was over. There was nothing left for that desolate man. Nothing to
which he could look forward! There had been just that one hope, and it
was gone. Nothing was left now to hope or fear.
He had come on foot and unattended, in order to avoid recognition.
Mechanically he turned to the river stairs, called a boat, and was rowed
up to Westminster. As he wearily mounted the Palace stairs, the Earl of
Pembroke met him.
"Ah, my very good Lord of Exeter! Whither away?"
"I know not, and care less."
"Gramercy! what aileth you this starlight even?"
"Is it starlight?" and the Duke lifted his eyes to the glowing heavens,
clear in the frosty atmosphere. "I had not observed it."
"Good lack! you must be in the blues to-night. More shame for you! Here
is nought but making ready for the Queen, whom my Lord of Warwick rideth
for to meet as to-morrow. 'Tis thought the wind may give her leave to
come across to-night."
"I do desire it, right heartily."
"Heigh-ho! do you desire anything right heartily, with that face?" said
Earl Jaspar, laughing. "Come, my good Lord, what aileth you?"
"My Lord, I cry you mercy, for I wis well I am not merry company. I
have this night spoken, as I think, a long farewell to mine only child.
Let me pass, I pray you, till I can be more like my fellows, and come
into your company without spoiling your mirth--if I ever can."
Jaspar stood looking at his friend with eyes of utter want of
comprehension. Exeter "spoke to him who never had a child," and who,
moreover, had but little sympathy with human sorrow. It was
inconceivable to Jaspar why a man should bring his private sorrows into
his political rejoicings, while to Exeter the difficulty would have been
to allow the political joy to temper the private sorrow. Nor was Warwick
a whit more sympathising. To weep for a woman, or anything that
concerned one, was his emblem for masculine weakness of the extremest
type. Exeter passed on, and sought refuge in his own chamber, where he
lay down, but did not sleep, that night.
But when, the next morning, he presented himself as usual in the
presence-chamber, he found that the Palace of Westminster held one
Christ-like heart--a heart more at home in the house of mourning than in
the house of feasting,--
"A heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathise."
Through the score of eager, triumphant faces in the presence-chamber,
the face upon which grief was written was instantly visible to those
eyes which were worth so little for earthly foresight, and were so rich
toward God.
"My Lord of Exeter! The King calls for you."
The King himself was that day at his happiest--with the last earthly
happiness which he was ever to know. He was at home again--and his was
a nature which clung to accustomed things; and he was expecting the
daily arrival of his wife and son, when--as he and every body
believed--all would again flow smoothly, and they would live happily
ever after. But Henry was one of those rare souls who cannot be happy
till they have made others so.
"I pray you, come this way, my good Lord," said the King. "There is
trouble in your eyes. Is it aught I may remedy?"
"I thank your Highness heartily; but I fear not. There be evils that
none save the King of kings may deal withal."
Exeter had not meant to say another word. But in five minutes--he
scarcely knew how--he found himself telling the whole story of his
sorrow to the tender soul which shone in those royal eyes.
"I need not tell you, my good Lord," said the gentle comforter, "that he
were an ill soldier that should lie down to sleep ere the battle were
won. It will not be long ere the battle is over. It seems to me at
times"--and the dark eyes grew dreamy, as they were very wont to do--"as
if it were only such a little while! And then God shall give us back to
each other. We have only to wait for Him."
"My Lord, I cry your Highness mercy, but it looks to me this night a
very, very long while."
The King smiled on his godson. The spiritual relationship between them
made it only natural that the one should offer instruction and comfort
to the other. He said, "_Unus dies apud Dominum sicut mille anni, et
mille anni sicut dies unus_."[#]
[#] 2 Peter iii. 8.
"Ah, Sire!" said Exeter sadly, "the one day for Him, but for us the
thousand years."
The response came quickly. "'_Ego vobiscum sum omnibus dielus_.'"[#]
[#] Matt. xxviii. 20.
"We cannot see our Lord, Sire."
"He can see us."
"True: yet, my gracious Lord"----
"My son," said the King tenderly, "He hath written down a word of set
purpose for thee. '_Quomodo miseretur pater jiliorum, misertus est
Dominus timentibus se_.' Muse thou thereon, and God lead thee into His
peace."[#]
[#] Psalm ciii. 13.
He had said enough, for the Word of God in his lips had reached the
heart of the mourner. It was nothing new--it had been sung in Exeter's
hearing a hundred times--but it came this time with power. Did God feel
for him just as he felt for that one darling child over whom he was
yearning and lamenting? It said just that. What right had he to water
it down, and make it mean something vague and metaphysical? At last he
had found the man who understood him. The King was a father himself,
and a very loving one. And had he not at last found the God who
understood him?--who was indeed his Father, who loved him as he loved
his little Nan?
Yes, it would be only a little while. Ah, how little for him who spoke!
Three short months, into which was to be poured an ocean of living
agony, and then he should see God, and be at peace for ever. And to him
who heard, only a little longer. He had but to wait for God.
*CHAPTER VI.*
*THE MIST ON EASTER DAY.*
"Such a day,
An old man sees but once in all his time."
--EDWIN ARNOLD.
In vain the "King-Maker" waited at Dover for the Queen. The west wind
which had fallen a little in London, and thus excited their hopes, set
in with more violence than before, and Marguerite, notwithstanding her
agony of impatience, was bound hopelessly at Harfleur.
But though winds and waves fought against the coming of her who was so
sorely needed, they seemed powerless to deter him against whose return
all Lancastrians were praying. Backed by the secret machinations of the
Duke of Burgundy, Edward embarked at Ter Veere on the second of March:
and after twelve days' tossing, landed at Ravenspur on the fourteenth of
that month. Did it strike him as a parallel coincidence that under the
same circumstances, and at the same place, seventy years before, Henry
of Lancaster had landed, softly announcing to the populace that he had
no designs upon the Crown, and came only to recover his own inheritance?
Probably it did, for he imitated his predecessor's tactics in every
particular. He came only to secure his duchy of York, as he sweetly
assured the people of Holderness when they opposed his landing. Surely
they would allow him to proceed to his own property--to his own city? He
was the truest subject King Henry had, nor would he ever have been
otherwise but for the inciting of that wicked Earl of Warwick. He stuck
the ostrich feather in his cap--the badge of Prince Edward,--and
solemnly swore eternal allegiance to King Henry. The honest folks in
Holderness were completely won by this fine-spoken man. They fell back,
and let him ride on to York.
But York was held by a Clifford,--sternest of all families adherent to
the House of Lancaster. It was the head of that House--the "Bloody
Clifford,"--who, just ten years before, had gleefully cut off the head
of Edward's father, had crowned it with a paper crown, and set it high
on Micklegate Bar. He, too, had stabbed young Rutland--the best of the
York brothers--in cold blood after the battle of Wakefield. As Edward
came up to York, the ghastly heads upon Micklegate Bar, the foremost of
which was his own father's, seemed to be the only friends to welcome
him. But though Edward could assume sentiment exquisitely, when he
expected it to pay, he was not in reality much under its influence.
There was no softening at his heart when he rode up to Micklegate, and
sounded his horn for a parley, and proudly desired York to open her
gates to her Duke. The old Lord Clifford would have known better than
to rest any faith on the fair words of the Rose of Rouen. But his
kinsman Mr. Thomas was not so wary. He consented to a parley. And when
Edward, at the close of his eloquent and well-studied speech, ended by
flinging up the ostrich-feathered cap into the air, with the loyal cry
of "A, King Harry! A, King and Prince Edward!" the Governor and
citizens of York were won. Beguiled, not conquered, they offered to let
him pass southward on condition that he would swear his allegiance.
Edward, Jesuit to the core, was ready to swear any thing. Had they
promised to escort him to London with an army on condition of his
swearing to restore the worship of Jupiter, the probability is that he
would have accepted the oath with graceful complacency. Micklegate was
thrown open, and Edward with his band passed through, and marched
towards London.
The reconquest of England was an easier matter to Edward of York than it
had been to Henry of Lancaster. Three months had elapsed between the
landing and coronation of the former; one was enough for the latter.
There were traitors in the Lancastrian camp, whose hearts were always
ready to desert, and who only required to hear that Edward had landed to
induce an immediate and public declaration in his behalf. Foremost of
these was the heavily perjured Clarence, with whom his sister of
Burgundy had been secretly tampering. Edward was now at the head of a
very small band, consisting of nine hundred English and three hundred
Flemings. With him were his faithful friend Lord Hastings, Lord Say,
and a few more distinguished persons. But by the time he came to
Nottingham, Sir William Stanley and Sir William Norris had joined him
with four hundred more; and with men slowly coming in to him along the
line of march, he arrived at Leicester. Here was Warwick waiting for
him. A battle was imminent, when letters from Clarence reached Warwick,
stating that he was on his way from London to join him, and begging him
not to fight until he came. Warwick committed the fatal blunder of
compliance. Humanly speaking, had he engaged in battle at once, the
probability is that Edward would have been easily driven out of England.
It was not until the 25th of March that the news of Edward's landing
reached London. The language of the grant of Tutbury and many other
manors to Clarence on the 23rd, intimates that no such information had
reached King Henry on that day. But on Lady Day a proclamation was
issued appointing Clarence, Warwick, and others, to gather the King's
subjects and to defend the kingdom, "against our enemies and adversaries
of Flanders, Burgundy, and other parts, by the excitation, procuration,
and inducement of our great adversary and rebel, Edward, of late the
false, traitorous, and usurping occupant of our crown and dignity."[#]
Two days later, the young Prince of Wales was created Viceroy of England
against "Edward our rebel, who, with subjects of Burgundy and Flanders,
has landed in the north."[#]
[#] Patent Roll, 49 Hen. VI.
[#] Patent Roll, 49 Hen. VI.
This is the only occasion on which the language used by, or in the name
of, Henry VI. departs from the calm dignity which characterises it on
all others in making mention of Edward IV. Edward can never allude to
Henry without a spiteful addition of "late in dede and nat of ryght
King:"[#] but Henry's allusions to Edward are always content with,
"Edward IV., late _de facto_ King of England." There is a kind of
feverish spite about Edward's notices of his rival, which is exchanged
for quiet matter-of-fact in his rival's notices of him. It is easy to
see that Henry had the better title--because he makes so little fuss
over it!
[#] Ib., 9 Edw. IV. and many others.
Late on the evening of the 10th of April, George Neville, Archbishop of
York, sat writing in the Bishop of London's Palace. To this place the
Court had been removed, under the impression that the City would be
easier to defend than the less protected town of Westminster. In an
adjoining chamber King Henry slept the quiet sleep of the just, with his
Latin Psalter[#] lying on the table beside his bed. The Archbishop had
paused in his writing, and was thinking deeply, his head resting on his
hand; "when a slight sound caused him to lift his eyes, and he looked up
into the unexpected face of Master John Shorter, sometime varlet of the
chamber to King Edward IV.
[#] This Latin Psalter, originally the property of Richard II., and
afterwards of Henry VI., is now in the British Museum (Cott. MS.,
Domit., A., xvii.), a beautifully illuminated and most interesting
volume.
"Whence camest thou?" was the astonished query.
"Out of the street," said Shorter, drily.
"To what end?"
"To tell your Lordship a thing."
"What thing? Prithee, have on with thy matters, and be done. I am
busy."
"Your Grace may yet be busier, when King Edward cometh."
"My Lady Saint Mary! What mean you?"
"I left him, my Lord, on the hither side of Herts."
"Gramercy! When?"
"This morrow at day-break."
"Is he on his way to London town?"
"Certes, my Lord."
The Archbishop's face might have furnished, not one, but several studies
for a painter, as successive and diverse emotions swept across it.
Foremost was the true Neville sentiment--How will this affect _me_? He
was silent for a moment, pondering that deeply interesting question.
"Did he send thee to me?"
"He did so, my good Lord."
"What would he have of me?"
Shorter came close to the desk, and quietly laid down before the
Archbishop a parchment to which a seal was affixed. It was a document,
couched in highly flattering terms, addressed by Edward, by the Grace of
God King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, to his dearly
beloved and faithful, the Most Reverend Father in God, George, by Divine
permission Archbishop of York, conveying his royal pardon to the said
Archbishop, for all treasons, felonies, and offences whatsoever,
committed before the thirteenth day of April, 1471. In other words, the
Archbishop was pardoned beforehand for the sins of the three days next
ensuing. Some people might have felt puzzled as to the ulterior meaning
of such a document. Not so Archbishop Neville. He comprehended to
perfection that he was expected to purchase that parchment, by some
tremendous act of service still to be performed, and requiring official
forgiveness from the _de facto_ sovereign.
"What would he?"
An expressive pantomime from Shorter pointed first to the door of King
Henry's chamber, then to a bunch of keys which lay on the desk, and
lastly to the prelate himself. The latter pursed up his lips for a
moment.
"Rather ugly work!" he muttered, as if to himself.
"Necessity," shortly suggested the messenger.
"Where?" was the equally short answer.
"Here. There is, of course, one unconvenient matter."
The Archbishop looked up for explanation.
"That all suspiciousness may be diverted from your Grace, it shall be
needful to arrest you with the other."
A nod of intelligence from the Archbishop.
"Your captivity shall be matter but of a few days."
The prelate nodded again.
"Go you back to His Highness?"
"I have first to speak with Master Recorder, which hath promised me the
key of Aldersgate."
"Ha!--when shall this matter be?"
"Maundy Thursday, in the even. 'The better day, the better deed.'"
The Archbishop received the wicked proverb with a grim smile. "Very
good: I undertake it."
"I thank your Grace for my master. God give you good even."
"The peace of Christ be upon you! Amen."
Which benediction really meant the expression of a wish that the
diabolical bargain just concluded might not be successful, for surely
the last thing likely to come upon its actors was the peace of Christ.
Another sort of peace they had. The City was perfectly calm, and its
guardians utterly unsuspicious, when on the following night, Mr.
Urswick, the Recorder of London, came down with a few more to
Aldersgate, and quietly let in about a dozen men who were waiting
outside. They were wrapped in long cloaks, in which they muffled their
faces; and, accompanied by Urswick, they took their way to the Bishop's
Palace. Behind the postern door the Archbishop's servant was waiting,
and they were allowed to enter as silently as possible.
Upstairs, in the royal chamber, King Henry sat with that devout prelate
who has been already mentioned. They had been discussing political
matters for a short time, and then the King, turning to a subject more
congenial to himself, had requested the Archbishop's opinion as to the
meaning of a passage in the Psalms. Both by intuition and education,
George Neville was about as well fitted to judge of the meaning of King
David as a snail to decide the intentions of an eagle. But he was a
priest; therefore of course he must be competent to expound Scripture.
The prelate began glibly to explain that of which he had not the
remotest idea, and the King meekly to receive instruction on a subject
with which he was far better acquainted than his instructor. The notion
that he could be better than any body in any possible sense, outside the
mere fact of social position, never occurred to the mind of King Henry,
one of the humblest Christians that ever breathed.
A slight click of the door-lock made the prelate look up. The King was
too much interested in his subject, and his head was bent over the
Psalter. In the doorway stood the Recorder of London, and several others
were dimly visible behind him. The traitor knew that the hour of his
treachery had come.
"What is this?" he exclaimed, with well feigned astonishment. "Master
Urswick, who be these with you? The blessed saints be about us!
Treachery, my gracious Lord, treachery! Here is my Lord of March!"
Aye, treachery enough! Henry lifted his head, rose, and confronted
Edward with a steady gaze as he came forward boldly into the room.
They stood fronting each other, the two Kings, the cousins and rivals,
each of whom saw in the other an unprincipled usurper. Only, in the one
case, the conviction was a calm certainty that the thing was so, and in
the other a feverish determination that it must and should be.
"What dost thou here in my place, thou rebel?" was the insolent demand
of Edward, who had sworn many an oath of allegiance to the man whom he
addressed.
"I am here in mine own, as God wot," was the dignified reply. "What
would you with me?"
Edward turned to his followers without deigning a reply. "Take the
rebel," said he, "and this priest with him."
The Archbishop, with well counterfeited terror, began to implore mercy.
The King asked none, nor did he waste another word on Edward. He lifted
his calm dark eyes heavenward, and merely said, to the sole Friend who
was with him, "_Fiat voluntas Tua!_"
An hour later, he was once more secured in his old dungeon in the Tower.