“Reflect,” he said, as he drew him apart, “that, when on this spot

landed Henry of Bolingbroke, he gave not out that he was marching to the

throne of Richard II. He professed but to claim his duchy,--and men were

influenced by justice, till they became agents of ambition. This be

your policy; with two thousand men you are but Duke of York; with ten

thousand men you are King of England! In passing hither, I met with

many, and sounding the temper of the district, I find it not ripe to

share your hazard. The world soon ripens when it hath to hail success!”

“O young boy’s smooth face! O old man’s deep brain!” said Edward,

admiringly, “what a king hadst thou made!” A sudden flush passed over

the prince’s pale cheek, and, ere it died away, a flaming torch was

hurled aloft in the air; it fell whirling into the ship--a moment, and a

loud crash; a moment, and a mighty blaze! Up sprung from the deck, along

the sails, the sheeted fire,--

“A giant beard of flame.” [Aeschylus: Agamemnon, 314]

It reddened the coast, the skies, from far and near; it glowed on the

faces and the steel of the scanty army; it was seen, miles away, by the

warders of many a castle manned with the troops of Lancaster; it brought

the steed from the stall, the courier to the selle; it sped, as of old

the beacon fire that announced to Clytemnestra the return of the Argive

king. From post to post rode the fiery news, till it reached Lord

Warwick in his hall, King Henry in his palace, Elizabeth in her

sanctuary. The iron step of the dauntless Edward was once more pressed

upon the soil of England.

CHAPTER V. THE PROGRESS OF THE PLANTAGENET.

A few words suffice to explain the formidable arrival we have just

announced. Though the Duke of Burgundy had by public proclamation

forbidden his subjects to aid the exiled Edward, yet, whether moved

by the entreaties of his wife, or wearied by the remonstrances of his

brother-in-law, he at length privately gave the dethroned monarch fifty

thousand florins to find troops for himself, and secretly hired Flemish

and Dutch vessels to convey him to England. [Comines, Hall, Lingard, S.

Turner] But so small was the force to which the bold Edward trusted his

fortunes, that it almost seemed as if Burgundy sent him forth to his

destruction. He sailed from the coast of Zealand; the winds, if less

unmanageable than those that blew off the seaport where Margaret and her

armament awaited a favouring breeze, were still adverse. Scared from the

coast of Norfolk by the vigilance of Warwick and Oxford, who had filled

that district with armed men, storm and tempest drove him at last to

Humber Head, where we have seen him land, and whence we pursue his

steps.

The little band set out upon its march, and halted for the night at a

small village two miles inland. Some of the men were then sent out on

horseback for news of the other vessels, that bore the remnant of the

invading force. These had, fortunately, effected a landing in various

places; and, before daybreak, Anthony Woodville, and the rest of the

troops, had joined the leader of an enterprise that seemed but the

rashness of despair, for its utmost force, including the few sailors

allured to the adventurer’s standard, was about two thousand men.

[Fifteen hundred, according to the Croyland historian.] Close and

anxious was the consultation then held. Each of the several detachments

reported alike of the sullen indifference of the population, which

each had sought to excite in favour of Edward. Light riders [Hall]

were despatched in various directions, still further to sound the

neighbourhood. All returned ere noon, some bruised and maltreated by the

stones and staves of the rustics, and not a voice had been heard to echo

the cry, “Long live King Edward!” The profound sagacity of Gloucester’s

guileful counsel was then unanimously recognized. Richard despatched a

secret letter to Clarence; and it was resolved immediately to proceed

to York, and to publish everywhere along the road that the fugitive had

returned but to claim his private heritage, and remonstrate with the

parliament which had awarded the duchy of York to Clarence, his younger

brother.

“Such a power,” saith the Chronicle, “hath justice ever among men, that

all, moved by mercy or compassion, began either to favour or not

to resist him.” And so, wearing the Lancastrian Prince of Wales’s

cognizance of the ostrich feather, crying out as they marched, “Long

live King Henry!” the hardy liars, four days after their debarkation,

arrived at the gates of York.

Here, not till after much delay and negotiation, Edward was admitted

only as Duke of York, and upon condition that he would swear to be a

faithful and loyal servant to King Henry; and at the gate by which he

was to enter, Edward actually took that oath, “a priest being by to

say Mass in the Mass tyme, receiving the body of our blessed Saviour!”

[Hall.]

Edward tarried not long in York; he pushed forward. Two great nobles

guarded those districts,--Montagu and the Earl of Northumberland, to

whom Edward had restored his lands and titles, and who, on condition of

retaining them, had re-entered the service of Lancaster. This last, a

true server of the times, who had sided with all parties, now judged it

discreet to remain neutral. [This is the most favourable interpretation

of his conduct: according to some he was in correspondence with Edward,

who showed his letters.] But Edward must pass within a few miles of

Pontefract castle, where Montagu lay with a force that could destroy him

at a blow. Edward was prepared for the assault, but trusted to deceive

the marquis, as he had deceived the citizens of York,--the more for the

strong personal love Montagu had ever shown him. If not, he was prepared

equally to die in the field rather than eat again the bitter bread of

the exile. But to his inconceivable joy and astonishment, Montagu,

like Northumberland, lay idle and supine. Edward and his little troop

threaded safely the formidable pass. Alas! Montagu had that day received

a formal order from the Duke of Clarence, as co-protector of the realm,

[Our historians have puzzled their brains in ingenious conjectures

of the cause of Montagu’s fatal supineness at this juncture, and have

passed over the only probable solution of the mystery, which is to be

found simply enough stated thus in Stowe’s Chronicle: “The Marquess

Montacute would have fought with King Edward, but that he had received

letters from the Duke of Clarence that he should not fight till hee

came.” This explanation is borne out by the Warkworth Chronicler and

others, who, in an evident mistake of the person addressed, state that

Clarence wrote word to Warwick not to fight till he came. Clarence could

not have written so to Warwick, who, according to all authorities, was

mustering his troops near London, and not in the way to fight Edward;

nor could Clarence have had authority to issue such commands to his

colleague, nor would his colleague have attended to them, since we have

the amplest testimony that Warwick was urging all his captains to attack

Edward at once. The duke’s order was, therefore, clearly addressed to

Montagu.] to suffer Edward to march on, provided his force was small,

and he had taken the oaths to Henry, and assumed but the title of Duke

of York,--“for your brother the earl hath had compunctious visitings,

and would fain forgive what hath passed, for my father’s sake, and unite

all factions by Edward’s voluntary abdication of the throne; at all

hazards, I am on my way northward, and you will not fight till I come.”

The marquis,--who knew the conscientious doubts which Warwick had

entertained in his darker hours, who had no right to disobey the

co-protector, who knew no reason to suspect Lord Warwick’s son-in-law,

and who, moreover, was by no means anxious to be, himself, the

executioner of Edward, whom he had once so truly loved,--though a little

marvelling at Warwick’s softness, yet did not discredit the letter, and

the less regarded the free passage he left to the returned exiles, from

contempt for the smallness of their numbers, and his persuasion that

if the earl saw fit to alter his counsels, Edward was still more in his

power the farther he advanced amidst a hostile population, and towards

the armies which the Lords Exeter and Oxford were already mustering.

But that free passage was everything to Edward! It made men think that

Montagu, as well as Northumberland, favoured his enterprise; that

the hazard was less rash and hopeless than it had seemed; that Edward

counted upon finding his most powerful allies among those falsely

supposed to be his enemies. The popularity Edward had artfully acquired

amongst the captains of Warwick’s own troops, on the march to Middleham,

now bestead him. Many of them were knights and gentlemen residing in the

very districts through which he passed. They did not join him, but they

did not oppose. Then rapidly flocked to “the Sun of York,” first the

adventurers and condottieri who in civil war adopt any side for pay;

next came the disappointed, the ambitious, and the needy. The hesitating

began to resolve, the neutral to take a part. From the state of

petitioners supplicating a pardon, every league the Yorkists marched

advanced them to the dignity of assertors of a cause. Doncaster first,

then Nottingham, then Leicester,--true to the town spirit we have before

described,--opened their gates to the trader prince.

Oxford and Exeter reached Newark with their force. Edward marched on

them at once. Deceived as to his numbers, they took panic and fled.

When once the foe flies, friends ever start up from the very earth!

Hereditary partisans--gentlemen, knights, and nobles--now flocked fast

round the adventurer. Then came Lovell and Cromwell and D’Eyncourt, ever

true to York; and Stanley, never true to any cause. Then came the brave

knights Parr and Norris and De Burgh; and no less than three thousand

retainers belonging to Lord Hastings--the new man--obeyed the summons of

his couriers and joined their chief at Leicester.

Edward of March, who had landed at Ravenspur with a handful of brigands,

now saw a king’s army under his banner. [The perplexity and confusion

which involve the annals of this period may be guessed by this,--that

two historians, eminent for research (Lingard and Sharon Turner), differ

so widely as to the numbers who had now joined Edward, that Lingard

asserts that at Nottingham he was at the head of fifty or sixty thousand

men; and Turner gives him, at the most, between six and seven thousand.

The latter seems nearer to the truth. We must here regret that Turner’s

partiality to the House of York induces him to slur over Edward’s

detestable perjury at York, and to accumulate all rhetorical arts to

command admiration for his progress,--to the prejudice of the salutary

moral horror we ought to feel for the atrocious perfidy and violation

of oath to which he owed the first impunity that secured the after

triumph.] Then the audacious perjurer threw away the mask; then, forth

went--not the prayer of the attainted Duke of York--but the proclamation

of the indignant king. England now beheld two sovereigns, equal in their

armies. It was no longer a rebellion to be crushed; it was a dynasty to

be decided.

CHAPTER VI. LORD WARWICK, WITH THE FOE IN THE FIELD AND THE TRAITOR AT

THE HEARTH.

Every precaution which human wisdom could foresee had Lord Warwick taken

to guard against invasion, or to crush it at the onset. [Hall.] All the

coasts on which it was most probable Edward would land had been strongly

guarded. And if the Humber had been left without regular troops, it was

because prudence might calculate that the very spot where Edward did

land was the very last he would have selected,--unless guided by fate to

his destruction,--in the midst of an unfriendly population, and in face

of the armies of Northumberland and of Montagu. The moment the earl

heard of Edward’s reception at York,--far from the weakness which the

false Clarence (already in correspondence with Gloucester) imputed to

him,--he despatched to Montagu, by Marmaduke Nevile, peremptory orders

to intercept Edward’s path, and give him battle before he could advance

farther towards the centre of the island. We shall explain presently why

this messenger did not reach the marquis. But Clarence was some hours

before him in his intelligence and his measures.

When the earl next heard that Edward had passed Pontefract with

impunity, and had reached Doncaster, he flew first to London, to arrange

for its defence; consigned the care of Henry to the Archbishop of

York, mustered a force already quartered in the neighbourhood of the

metropolis, and then marched rapidly back towards Coventry, where he

had left Clarence with seven thousand men; while he despatched new

messengers to Montagu and Northumberland, severely rebuking the former

for his supineness, and ordering him to march in all haste to attack

Edward in the rear. The earl’s activity, promptitude, all-provident

generalship, form a mournful contrast to the errors, the pusillanimity,

and the treachery of others, which hitherto, as we have seen, made all

his wisest schemes abortive. Despite Clarence’s sullenness, Warwick had

discovered no reason, as yet, to doubt his good faith. The oath he had

taken--not only to Henry in London, but to Warwick at Amboise--had been

the strongest which can bind man to man. If the duke had not gained all

he had hoped, he had still much to lose and much to dread by desertion

to Edward. He had been the loudest in bold assertions when he heard of

the invasion; and above all, Isabel, whose influence over Clarence

at that time the earl overrated, had, at the tidings of so imminent a

danger to her father, forgot all her displeasure and recovered all her

tenderness.

During Warwick’s brief absence, Isabel had indeed exerted her utmost

power to repair her former wrongs, and induce Clarence to be faithful to

his oath. Although her inconsistency and irresolution had much weakened

her influence with the duke, for natures like his are governed but

by the ascendancy of a steady and tranquil will, yet still she so far

prevailed, that the duke had despatched to Richard a secret courier,

informing him that he had finally resolved not to desert his

father-in-law.

This letter reached Gloucester as the invaders were on their march to

Coventry, before the strong walls of which the Duke of Clarence lay

encamped. Richard, after some intent and silent reflection, beckoned to

him his familiar Catesby.

“Marmaduke Nevile, whom our scouts seized on his way to Pontefract, is

safe, and in the rear?”

“Yes, my lord; prisoners but encumber us; shall I give orders to the

provost to end his captivity?”

“Ever ready, Catesby!” said the duke, with a fell smile. “No; hark ye,

Clarence vacillates. If he hold firm to Warwick, and the two forces

fight honestly against us, we are lost; on the other hand, if Clarence

join us, his defection will bring not only the men he commands, all of

whom are the retainers of the York lands and duchy, and therefore free

from peculiar bias to the earl, and easily lured back to their proper

chief; but it will set an example that will create such distrust and

panic amongst the enemy, and give such hope of fresh desertions to our

own men, as will open to us the keys of the metropolis. But Clarence,

I say, vacillates; look you, here is his letter from Amboise to King

Edward; see, his duchess, Warwick’s very daughter, approves the promise

it contains! If this letter reach Warwick, and Clarence knows it is in

his hand, George will have no option but to join us. He will never dare

to face the earl, his pledge to Edward once revealed--”

“Most true; a very legal subtlety, my lord,” said the lawyer Catesby,

admiringly.

“You can serve us in this. Fall back; join Sir Marmaduke; affect to

sympathize with him; affect to side with the earl; affect to make terms

for Warwick’s amity and favour; affect to betray us; affect to have

stolen this letter. Give it to young Nevile, artfully effect his escape,

as if against our knowledge, and commend him to lose not an hour--a

moment--in gaining the earl, and giving him so important a forewarning

of the meditated treason of his son-in-law.”

“I will do all,--I comprehend; but how will the duke learn in time that

the letter is on its way to Warwick?”

“I will seek the duke in his own tent.”

“And how shall I effect Sir Marmaduke’s escape?”

“Send hither the officer who guards the prisoner; I will give him orders

to obey thee in all things.”

The invaders marched on. The earl, meanwhile, had reached Warwick,

hastened thence to throw himself into the stronger fortifications of

the neighbouring Coventry, without the walls of which Clarence was

still encamped; Edward advanced on the town of Warwick thus vacated;

and Richard, at night, rode along to the camp of Clarence. [Hall, and

others.]

The next day, the earl was employed in giving orders to his lieutenants

to march forth, join the troops of his son-in-law, who were a mile from

the walls, and advance upon Edward, who had that morning quitted Warwick

town, when suddenly Sir Marmaduke Nevile rushed into his presence, and,

faltering out, “Beware, beware!” placed in his hands the fatal letter

which Clarence had despatched from Amboise.

Never did blow more ruthless fall upon man’s heart! Clarence’s

perfidy--that might be disdained; but the closing lines, which revealed

a daughter’s treachery--words cannot express the father’s anguish.

The letter dropped from his hand, a stupor seized his senses, and, ere

yet recovered, pale men hurried into his presence to relate how, amidst

joyous trumpets and streaming banners, Richard of Gloucester had led

the Duke of Clarence to the brotherly embrace of Edward. [Hall. The

chronicler adds: “It was no marvell that the Duke of Clarence with so

small persuasion and less exhorting turned from the Earl of Warwick’s

party, for, as you have heard before, this marchandise was laboured,

conducted, and concluded by a damsell, when the duke was in the French

court, to the earl’s utter confusion.” Hume makes a notable mistake in

deferring the date of Clarence’s desertion to the battle of Barnet.]

Breaking from these messengers of evil news, that could not now

surprise, the earl strode on, alone, to his daughter’s chamber.

He placed the letter in her hands, and folding his arms said, “What

sayest thou of this, Isabel of Clarence?” The terror, the shame, the

remorse, that seized upon the wretched lady, the death-like lips, the

suppressed shriek, the momentary torpor, succeeded by the impulse which

made her fall at her father’s feet and clasp his knees,--told the earl,

if he had before doubted, that the letter lied not; that Isabel had

known and sanctioned its contents.

He gazed on her (as she grovelled at his feet) with a look that her eyes

did well to shun.

“Curse me not! curse me not!” cried Isabel, awed by his very silence.

“It was but a brief frenzy. Evil counsel, evil passion! I was maddened

that my boy had lost a crown. I repented, I repented! Clarence shall yet

be true. He hath promised it, vowed it to me; hath written to Gloucester

to retract all,--to--”

“Woman! Clarence is in Edward’s camp!”

Isabel started to her feet, and uttered a shriek so wild and despairing,

that at least it gave to her father’s lacerated heart the miserable

solace of believing the last treason had not been shared. A softer

expression--one of pity, if not of pardon--stole over his dark face.

“I curse thee not,” he said; “I rebuke thee not. Thy sin hath its own

penance. Ill omen broods on the hearth of the household traitor! Never

more shalt thou see holy love in a husband’s smile. His kiss shall have

the taint of Judas. From his arms thou shalt start with horror, as from

those of thy wronged father’s betrayer,--perchance his deathsman! Ill

omen broods on the cradle of the child for whom a mother’s ambition

was but a daughter’s perfidy. Woe to thee, wife and mother! Even my

forgiveness cannot avert thy doom!”

“Kill me! kill me!” exclaimed Isabel, springing towards him; but seeing

his face averted, his arms folded on his breast,--that noble breast,

never again her shelter,--she fell lifeless on the floor. [As our

narrative does not embrace the future fate of the Duchess of Clarence,

the reader will pardon us if we remind him that her first-born (who bore

his illustrious grandfather’s title of Earl of Warwick) was cast into

prison on the accession of Henry VII., and afterwards beheaded by that

king. By birth, he was the rightful heir to the throne. The ill-fated

Isabel died young (five years after the date at which our tale has

arrived). One of her female attendants was tried and executed on the

charge of having poisoned her. Clarence lost no time in seeking to

supply her place. He solicited the hand of Mary of Burgundy, sole

daughter and heir of Charles the Bold. Edward’s jealousy and fear

forbade him to listen to an alliance that might, as Lingard observes,

enable Clarence “to employ the power of Burgundy to win the crown of

England;” and hence arose those dissensions which ended in the secret

murder of the perjured duke.]

The earl looked round, to see that none were by to witness his weakness,

took her gently in his arms, laid her on her couch, and, bending over

her a moment, prayed to God to pardon her.

He then hastily left the room, ordered her handmaids and her litter, and

while she was yet unconscious, the gates of the town opened, and forth

through the arch went the closed and curtained vehicle which bore the

ill-fated duchess to the new home her husband had made with her father’s

foe! The earl watched it from the casement of his tower, and said to

himself,--

“I had been unmanned, had I known her within the same walls. Now forever

I dismiss her memory and her crime. Treachery hath done its worst, and

my soul is proof against all storms!”

At night came messengers from Clarence and Edward, who had returned

to Warwick town, with offers of pardon to the earl, with promises of

favour, power, and grace. To Edward the earl deigned no answer; to the

messenger of Clarence he gave this: “Tell thy master I had liefer be

always like myself than like a false and a perjured duke, and that I

am determined never to leave the war till I have lost mine own life, or

utterly extinguished and put down my foes.” [Hall.]

After this terrible defection, neither his remaining forces, nor the

panic amongst them which the duke’s desertion had occasioned, nor

the mighty interests involved in the success of his arms, nor the

irretrievable advantage which even an engagement of equivocal result

with the earl in person would give to Edward, justified Warwick in

gratifying the anticipations of the enemy,--that his valour and wrath

would urge him into immediate and imprudent battle.

Edward, after the vain bravado of marching up to the walls of Coventry,

moved on towards London. Thither the earl sent Marmaduke, enjoining the

Archbishop of York and the lord mayor but to hold out the city for three

days, and he would come to their aid with such a force as would insure

lasting triumph. For, indeed, already were hurrying to his banner

Montagu, burning to retrieve his error, Oxford and Exeter, recovered

from, and chafing at, their past alarm. Thither his nephew, Fitzhugh,

led the earl’s own clansmen of Middleham; thither were spurring Somerset

from the west, [Most historians state that Somerset was then in London;

but Sharon Turner quotes “Harleian Manuscripts,” 38, to show that he had

left the metropolis “to raise an army from the western counties,” and

ranks him amongst the generals at the battle of Barnet.] and Sir Thomas

Dymoke from Lincolnshire, and the Knight of Lytton, with his hardy

retainers, from the Peak. Bold Hilyard waited not far from London, with

a host of mingled yeomen and bravos, reduced, as before, to discipline

under his own sturdy energies and the military craft of Sir John

Coniers. If London would but hold out till these forces could unite,

Edward’s destruction was still inevitable.

BOOK XII. THE BATTLE OF BARNET.

CHAPTER I. A KING IN HIS CITY HOPES TO RECOVER HIS REALM--A WOMAN IN HER

CHAMBER FEARS TO FORFEIT HER OWN.

Edward and his army reached St. Alban’s. Great commotion, great joy,

were in the Sanctuary of Westminster! The Jerusalem Chamber, therein,

was made the high council-hall of the friends of York. Great commotion,

great terror, were in the city of London. Timid Master Stokton had been

elected mayor; horribly frightened either to side with an Edward or

a Henry, timid Master Stokton feigned or fell ill. Sir Thomas Cook, a

wealthy and influential citizen, and a member of the House of Commons,

had been appointed deputy in his stead. Sir Thomas Cook took fright

also, and ran away. [Fabyan.] The power of the city thus fell into the

hands of Ureswick, the Recorder, a zealous Yorkist. Great commotion,

great scorn, were in the breasts of the populace, as the Archbishop of

York, hoping thereby to rekindle their loyalty, placed King Henry

on horseback, and paraded him through the streets from Chepeside to

Walbrook, from Walbrook to St. Paul’s; for the news of Edward’s arrival,

and the sudden agitation and excitement it produced on his enfeebled

frame, had brought upon the poor king one of the epileptic attacks to

which he had been subject from childhood, and which made the cause of

his frequent imbecility; and, just recovered from such a fit,--his eyes

vacant, his face haggard, his head drooping,--the spectacle of such

an antagonist to the vigorous Edward moved only pity in the few and

ridicule in the many. Two thousand Yorkist gentlemen were in the various

Sanctuaries; aided and headed by the Earl of Essex, they came forth

armed and clamorous, scouring the streets, and shouting, “King Edward!”

with impunity. Edward’s popularity in London was heightened amongst the

merchants by prudent reminiscences of the vast debts he had incurred,

which his victory only could ever enable him to repay to his good

citizens. [Comines.] The women, always, in such a movement, active

partisans, and useful, deserted their hearths to canvass all strong arms

and stout hearts for the handsome woman-lover. [Comines.] The Yorkist

Archbishop of Canterbury did his best with the ecclesiastics, the

Yorkist Recorder his best with the flat-caps. Alwyn, true to his

anti-feudal principles, animated all the young freemen to support the

merchant-king, the favourer of commerce, the man of his age! The city

authorities began to yield to their own and the general metropolitan

predilections. But still the Archbishop of York had six thousand

soldiers at his disposal, and London could be yet saved to Warwick, if

the prelate acted with energy and zeal and good faith. That such was his

first intention is clear, from his appeal to the public loyalty in King

Henry’s procession; but when he perceived how little effect that pageant

had produced; when, on re-entering the Bishop of London’s palace, he

saw before him the guileless, helpless puppet of contending factions,

gasping for breath, scarcely able to articulate, the heartless prelate

turned away, with a muttered ejaculation of contempt.

“Clarence had not deserted,” said he to himself, “unless he saw greater

profit with King Edward!” And then he began to commune with himself, and

to commune with his brother-prelate of Canterbury; and in the midst

of all this commune arrived Catesby, charged with messages to the

archbishop from Edward,--messages full of promise and affection on the

one hand, of menace and revenge upon the other. Brief: Warwick’s cup of

bitterness had not yet been filled; that night the archbishop and the

mayor of London met, and the Tower was surrendered to Edward’s friends.

The next day Edward and his army entered, amidst the shouts of the

populace; rode to St. Paul’s, where the archbishop [Sharon Turner. It is

a comfort to think that this archbishop was, two years afterwards,

first robbed, and then imprisoned, by Edward IV.; nor did he recover

his liberty till a few weeks before his death, in 1476 (five years

subsequently to the battle of Barnet).] met him, leading Henry by the

hand, again a captive; thence Edward proceeded to Westminster Abbey,

and, fresh from his atrocious perjury at York, offered thanksgiving for

its success. The Sanctuary yielded up its royal fugitives, and, in joy

and in pomp, Edward led his wife and her new-born babe, with Jacquetta

and his elder children, to Baynard’s Castle.

The next morning (the third day), true to his promise, Warwick marched

towards London with the mighty armament he had now collected. Treason

had done its worst,--the metropolis was surrendered, and King Henry in

the Tower.

“These things considered,” says the Chronicler, “the earl saw that all

calculations of necessity were brought to this end,--that they must now

be committed to the hazard and chance of one battle.” [Hall.] He halted,

therefore, at St. Alban’s, to rest his troops; and marching thence

towards Barnet, pitched his tents on the upland ground, then called the

Heath or Chase of Gladsmoor, and waited the coming foe.

Nor did Edward linger long from that stern meeting. Entering London on

the 11th of April, he prepared to quit it on the 13th. Besides the force

he had brought with him, he had now recruits in his partisans from the

Sanctuaries and other hiding-places in the metropolis, while London

furnished him, from her high-spirited youths, a gallant troop of bow

and bill men, whom Alwyn had enlisted, and to whom Edward willingly

appointed, as captain, Alwyn himself,--who had atoned for his submission

to Henry’s restoration by such signal activity on behalf of the young

king, whom he associated with the interests of his class, and the weal

of the great commercial city, which some years afterwards rewarded his

affection by electing him to her chief magistracy. [Nicholas Alwyn,

the representative of that generation which aided the commercial and

anti-feudal policy of Edward IV. and Richard III., and welcomed its

consummation under their Tudor successor, rose to be Lord Mayor of

London in the fifteenth year of the reign of Henry VII.--FABYAN.]

It was on that very day, the 13th of April, some hours before the

departure of the York army, that Lord Hastings entered the Tower, to

give orders relative to the removal of the unhappy Henry, whom Edward

had resolved to take with him on his march.

And as he had so ordered and was about to return, Alwyn, emerging from

one of the interior courts, approached him in much agitation, and

said thus: “Pardon me, my lord, if in so grave an hour I recall your

attention to one you may haply have forgotten.”

“Ah, the poor maiden; but you told me, in the hurried words that we have

already interchanged, that she was safe and well.”

“Safe, my lord,--not well. Oh, hear me. I depart to battle for your

cause and your king’s. A gentleman in your train has advised me that you

are married to a noble dame in the foreign land. If so, this girl whom

I have loved so long and truly may yet forget you, may yet be mine. Oh,

give me that hope to make me a braver soldier.”

“But,” said Hastings, embarrassed, and with a changing countenance, “but

time presses, and I know not where the demoiselle--”

“She is here,” interrupted Alwyn; “here, within these walls, in yonder

courtyard. I have just left her. You, whom she loves, forgot her! I,

whom she disdains, remembered. I went to see to her safety, to counsel

her to rest here for the present, whatever betides; and at every word I

said, she broke in upon me with but one name,--that name was thine! And

when stung, and in the impulse of the moment, I exclaimed, ‘He deserves

not this devotion. They tell me, Sibyll, that Lord Hastings has found a

wife in exile.’ Oh, that look! that cry! they haunt me still. ‘Prove it,

prove it, Alwyn,’ she cried. ‘And--’ I interrupted, ‘and thou couldst

yet, for thy father’s sake, be true wife to me?’”

“Her answer, Alwyn?”

“It was this, ‘For my father’s sake only, then, could I live on; and--’

her sobs stopped her speech, till she cried again, ‘I believe it not!

thou hast deceived me. Only from his lips will I hear the sentence.’ Go

to her, manfully and frankly, as becomes you, high lord,--go! It Is but

a single sentence thou hast to say, and thy heart will be the lighter,

and thine arm the stronger for those honest words.”

Hastings pulled his cap over his brow, and stood a moment as if in

reflection; he then said, “Show me the way; thou art right. It is due to

her and to thee; and as by this hour to-morrow my soul may stand before

the Judgment-seat, that poor child’s pardon may take one sin from the

large account.”

CHAPTER II. SHARP IS THE KISS OF THE FALCON’S BEAR.

Hastings stood in the presence of the girl to whom he had pledged his

truth. They were alone; but in the next chamber might be heard the

peculiar sound made by the mechanism of the Eureka. Happy and lifeless

mechanism, which moves, and toils, and strives on, to change the destiny

of millions, but hath neither ear nor eye, nor sense nor heart,--the

avenues of pain to man! She had--yes, literally--she had recognized her

lover’s step upon the stair, she had awakened at once from that dull and

icy lethargy with which the words of Alwyn had chained life and soul.

She sprang forward as Hastings entered; she threw herself in delirious

joy upon his bosom. “Thou art come, thou art! It is not true, not true.

Heaven bless thee! thou art come!” But sudden as the movement was the

recoil. Drawing herself back, she gazed steadily on his face, and said,

“Lord Hastings, they tell me thy hand is another’s. Is it true?”

“Hear me!” answered the nobleman. “When first I--”

“O God! O God! he answers not, he falters! Speak! Is it true?”

“It is true. I am wedded to another.”

Sibyll did not fall to the ground, nor faint, nor give vent to noisy

passion. But the rich colour, which before had been varying and fitful,

deserted her cheek, and left it of an ashen whiteness; the lips, too,

grew tightly compressed, and her small fingers, interlaced, were clasped

with strained and convulsive energy, so that the quivering of the very

arms was perceptible. In all else she seemed composed, as she said,

“I thank you, my lord, for the simple truth; no more is needed. Heaven

bless you and yours! Farewell!”

“Stay! you shall--you must hear me on. Thou knowest how dearly in youth

I loved Katherine Nevile. In manhood the memory of that love haunted me,

but beneath thy sweet smile I deemed it at last effaced; I left thee

to seek the king, and demand his assent to our union. I speak not of

obstacles that then arose; in the midst of them I learned Katherine was

lone and widowed,--was free. At her own summons I sought her

presence, and learned that she had loved me ever,--loved me still. The

intoxication of my early dream returned; reverse and exile followed

close; Katherine left her state, her fortunes, her native land, and

followed the banished man; and so memory and gratitude and destiny

concurred, and the mistress of my youth became my wife. None other could

have replaced thy image; none other have made me forget the faith I

pledged thee. The thought of thee has still pursued me,--will pursue me

to the last. I dare not say now that I love thee still, but yet--” He

paused, but rapidly resumed, “Enough, enough! dear art thou to me, and

honoured,--dearer, more honoured than a sister. Thank Heaven, at least,

and thine own virtue, my falsehood leaves thee pure and stainless. Thy

hand may yet bless a worthier man. If our cause triumphs, thy fortunes,

thy father’s fate, shall be my fondest care. Never, never will my sleep

be sweet, and my conscience laid to rest, till I hear thee say, as

honoured wife--perchance, as blessed and blessing mother--‘False one, I

am happy!’”

A cold smile, at these last words, flitted over the girl’s face,--the

smile of a broken heart; but it vanished, and with that strange mixture

of sweetness and pride,--mild and forgiving, yet still spirited and

firm,--which belonged to her character, she nerved herself to the last

and saddest effort to preserve dignity and conceal despair. “Farther

words, my lord, are idle; I am rightly punished for a proud folly. Let

not woman love above her state. Think no more of my destiny.”

“No, no,” interrupted the remorseful lord, “thy destiny must haunt me

till thou hast chosen one with a better right to protect thee.”

At the repetition of that implied desire to transfer her also to

another, a noble indignation came to mar the calm for which she had

hitherto not vainly struggled. “Oh, man!” she exclaimed, with

passion, “does thy deceit give me the right to deceive another? I--I

wed!--I--I--vow at the altar--a love dead, dead forever--dead as my own

heart! Why dost thou mock me with the hollow phrase, ‘Thou art pure and

stainless?’ Is the virginity of the soul still left? Do the tears I have

shed for thee; doth the thrill of my heart when I heard thy voice;

doth the plighted kiss that burns, burns now into my brow, and on my

lips,--do these, these leave me free to carry to a new affection the

cinders and ashes of a soul thou hast ravaged and deflowered? Oh, coarse

and rude belief of men, that naught is lost if the mere form be pure!

The freshness of the first feelings, the bloom of the sinless thought,

the sigh, the blush of the devotion--never, never felt but once! these,

these make the true dower a maiden should bring to the hearth to which

she comes as wife. Oh, taunt! Oh, insult! to speak to me of happiness,

of the altar! Thou never knewest, lord, how I really loved thee!” And

for the first time, a violent gush of tears came to relieve her heart.

Hastings was almost equally overcome. Well experienced as he was in

those partings when maids reproach and gallants pray for pardon, but

still sigh, “Farewell,”--he had now no words to answer that burst of

uncontrollable agony; and he felt at once humbled and relieved, when

Sibyll again, with one of those struggles which exhaust years of

life, and almost leave us callous to all after-trial, pressed back the

scalding tears, and said, with unnatural sweetness: “Pardon me, my lord,

I meant not to reproach; the words escaped me,--think of them no more. I

would fain, at least, part from you now as I had once hoped to part

from you at the last hour of life,--without one memory of bitterness and

anger, so that my conscience, whatever its other griefs, might say, ‘My

lips never belied my heart, my words never pained him!’ And now then,

Lord Hastings, in all charity, we part. Farewell forever, and forever!

Thou hast wedded one who loves thee, doubtless, as tenderly as I had

done. Ah, cherish that affection! There are times even in thy career

when a little love is sweeter than much fame. If thou thinkest I have

aught to pardon thee, now with my whole heart I pray, as while life is

mine that prayer shall be murmured, ‘Heaven forgive this man, as I do!

Heaven make his home the home of peace, and breathe into those now near

and dear to him, the love and the faith that I once--’” She stopped, for

the words choked her, and, hiding her face, held out her hand, in sign

of charity and of farewell.

“Ah, if I dared pray like thee,” murmured Hastings, pressing his

lips upon that burning hand, “how should I weary Heaven to repair,

by countless blessings, the wrong which I have done thee! And Heaven

will--oh, it surely will!” He pressed the hand to his heart, dropped it,

and was gone.

In the courtyard he was accosted by Alwyn--

“Thou hast been frank, my lord?”

“I have.”

“And she bears it, and--”

“See how she forgives, and how I suffer!” said Hastings, turning his

face towards his rival; and Alwyn saw that the tears were rolling

down his cheeks--“Question me no more.” There was a long silence.

They quitted the precincts of the Tower, and were at the river-side.

Hastings, waving his hand to Alwyn, was about to enter the boat which

was to bear him to the war council assembled at Baynard’s Castle, when

the trader stopped him, and said anxiously,--

“Think you not, for the present, the Tower is the safest asylum

for Sibyll and her father? If we fail and Warwick returns, they are

protected by the earl; if we triumph, thou wilt insure their safety from

all foes?”

“Surely; in either case, their present home is the most secure.”

The two men then parted. And not long afterwards, Hastings, who led the

on-guard, was on his way towards Barnet; with him also went the foot

volunteers under Alwyn. The army of York was on its march. Gloucester,

to whose vigilance and energy were left the final preparations, was

necessarily the last of the generals to quit the city. And suddenly,

while his steed was at the gate of Baynard’s Castle, he entered, armed

cap-a-pie, into the chamber where the Duchess of Bedford sat with her

grandchildren.

“Madame,” said he, “I have a grace to demand from you, which will,

methinks, not be displeasing. My lieutenants report to me that an alarm

has spread amongst my men,--a religious horror of some fearful bombards

and guns which have been devised by a sorcerer in Lord Warwick’s pay.

Your famous Friar Bungey has been piously amongst them, promising,

however, that the mists which now creep over the earth shall last

through the night and the early morrow; and if he deceive us not, we may

post our men so as to elude the hostile artillery. But, sith the friar

is so noted and influential, and sith there is a strong fancy that the

winds which have driven back Margaret obeyed his charm, the soldiers

clamour out for him to attend us, and, on the very field itself,

counteract the spells of the Lancastrian nigromancer. The good friar,

more accustomed to fight with fiends than men, is daunted, and resists.

As much may depend on his showing us good will, and making our fellows

suppose we have the best of the witchcraft, I pray you to command his

attendance, and cheer up his courage. He waits without.”

“A most notable, a most wise advice, beloved Richard!” cried the

duchess. “Friar Bungey is, indeed, a potent man. I will win him at once

to your will;” and the duchess hurried from the room.

The friar’s bodily fears, quieted at last by assurances that he should

be posted in a place of perfect safety during the battle, and his

avarice excited by promises of the amplest rewards, he consented to

accompany the troops, upon one stipulation,--namely, that the atrocious

wizard, who had so often baffled his best spells,--the very wizard who

had superintended the accursed bombards, and predicted Edward’s previous

defeat and flight (together with the diabolical invention, in which all

the malice and strength of his sorcery were centred),--might, according

to Jacquetta’s former promise, be delivered forthwith to his mercy, and

accompany him to the very spot where he was to dispel and counteract

the Lancastrian nigromancer’s enchantments. The duchess, too glad to

purchase the friar’s acquiescence on such cheap terms, and to whose

superstitious horror for Adam’s lore in the black art was now added a

purely political motive for desiring him to be made away with,--inasmuch

as in the Sanctuary she had at last extorted from Elizabeth the dark

secret which might make him a very dangerous witness against the

interests and honour of Edward,--readily and joyfully consented to this

proposition.

A strong guard was at once despatched to the Tower with the friar

himself, followed by a covered wagon, which was to serve for conveyance

to Bungey and his victim.

In the mean while, Sibyll, after remaining for some time in the chamber

which Hastings had abandoned to her solitary woe, had passed to the room

in which her father held mute commune with his Eureka.

The machine was now thoroughly completed,--improved and perfected,

to the utmost art the inventor ever could attain. Thinking that the

prejudice against it might have arisen from its uncouth appearance,

the poor philosopher had sought now to give it a gracious and imposing

appearance. He had painted and gilt it with his own hands; it looked

bright and gaudy in its gay hues; its outward form was worthy of the

precious and propitious jewel which lay hidden in its centre.

“See, child, see!” said Adam; “is it not beautiful and comely?”

“My dear father, yes!” answered the poor girl, as still she sought to

smile; then, after a short silence, she continued, “Father, of late,

methinks, I have too much forgotten thee; pardon me, if so. Henceforth,

I have no care in life but thee; henceforth let me ever, when thou

toilest, come and sit by thy side. I would not be alone,--I dare not!

Father, Father! God shield thy harmless life! I have nothing to love

under heaven but thee!”

The good man turned wistfully, and raised, with tremulous hands, the sad

face that had pressed itself on his bosom. Gazing thereon mournfully, he

said, “Some new grief hath chanced to thee, my child. Methought I heard

another voice besides thine in yonder room. Ah, has Lord Hastings--”

“Father, spare me! Thou wert too right; thou didst judge too wisely.

Lord Hastings is wedded to another! But see, I can smile still, I am

calm. My heart will not break so long as it hath thee to love and pray

for!”

She wound her arms round him as she spoke, and he roused himself from

his world out of earth again. Though he could bring no comfort, there

was something, at least, to the forlorn one, in his words of love, in

his tears of pity.

They sat down together, side by side, as the evening darkened,--the

Eureka forgotten in the hour of its perfection! They noted not the

torches which flashed below, reddened at intervals the walls of their

chamber, and gave a glow to the gay gilding and bright hues of the gaudy

model. Yet those torches flickered round the litter that was to convey

Henry the Peaceful to the battlefield, which was to decide the dynasty

of his realm! The torches vanished, and forth from the dark fortress

went the captive king.

Night succeeded to eve, when again the red glare shot upward on the

Eureka, playing with fantastic smile on its quaint aspect. Steps and

voices, and the clatter of arms, sounded in the yard, on the stairs,

in the adjoining chamber; and suddenly the door was flung open, and,

followed by some half score soldiers, strode in the terrible friar.

“Aha, Master Adam! who is the greater nigromancer now? Seize him! Away!

And help you, Master Sergeant, to bear this piece of the foul fiend’s

cunning devising. Ho, ho! see you how it is tricked out and furbished

up,--all for the battle, I warrant ye!”

The soldiers had already seized upon Adam, who, stupefied by

astonishment rather than fear, uttered no sound, and attempted no

struggle. But it was in vain they sought to tear from him Sibyll’s

clinging and protecting arms. A supernatural strength, inspired by a

kind of superstition that no harm could chance to him while she was

by, animated her slight form; and fierce though the soldiers were, they

shrunk from actual and brutal violence to one thus young and fair. Those

small hands clung so firmly, that it seemed that nothing but the edge of

the sword could sever the child’s clasp from the father’s neck.

“Harm him not, harm him at your peril, friar!” she cried, with flashing

eyes. “Tear him from me, and if King Edward win the day, Lord Hastings

shall have thy life; if Lord Warwick, thy days are numbered, too.

Beware, and avaunt!”

The friar was startled. He had forgotten Lord Hastings in the zest of

his revenge. He feared that, if Sibyll were left behind, the tale she

might tell would indeed bring on him a powerful foe in the daughter’s

lover; on the other hand, should Lord Warwick get the better, what

vengeance would await her appeal to the great protector of her father!

He resolved, therefore, on the instant, to take Sibyll as well as her

father; and if the fortune of the day allowed him to rid himself of

Warner, a good occasion might equally occur to dispose forever of the

testimony of Sibyll. He had already formed a cunning calculation

in desiring Warner’s company; for while, should Edward triumph, the

sacrifice of the hated Warner was resolved upon, yet, should the earl

get the better, he could make a merit to Warner that he (the friar) had

not only spared, but saved, his life, in making him his companion. It

was in harmony with this double policy that the friar mildly answered to

Sibyll,--

“Tusk, my daughter! Perhaps if your father be true to King Edward, and

aid my skill instead of obstructing it, he may be none the worse for the

journey he must take; and if thou likest to go with him, there’s room in

the vehicle, and the more the merrier. Harm them not, soldiers; no doubt

they will follow quietly.”

As he said this, the men, after first crossing themselves, had already

hoisted up the Eureka; and when Adam saw it borne from the room, he

instinctively followed the bearers. Sibyll, relieved by the thought

that, for weal or for woe, she should, at least, share her father’s

fate, and scarce foreboding much positive danger from the party which

contained Hastings and Alwyn, attempted no further remonstrance.

The Eureka was placed in the enormous vehicle,--it served as a barrier

between the friar and his prisoners.

The friar himself, as soon as the wagon was in motion, addressed himself

civilly enough to his fellow-travellers, and assured them there was

nothing to fear, unless Adam thought fit to disturb his incantations.

The captives answered not his address, but nestled close to each other,

interchanging, at intervals, words of comfort, and recoiling as far

as possible from the ex-tregetour, who, having taken with him a more

congenial companion in the shape of a great leathern bottle, finally

sunk into the silent and complacent doze which usually rewards the

libations to the Bromian god.

The vehicle, with many other baggage-wagons in the rear of the army in

that memorable night-march, moved mournfully on; the night continued

wrapped in fog and mist, agreeably to the weatherwise predictions of the

friar. The rumbling groan of the vehicle, the tramp of the soldiers, the

dull rattle of their arms, with now and then the neigh of some knight’s

steed in the distance, were the only sounds that broke the silence, till

once, as they neared their destination, Sibyll started from her father’s

bosom, and shudderingly thought she recognized the hoarse chant and the

tinkling bells of the ominous tymbesteres.

CHAPTER III. A PAUSE.

In the profound darkness of the night and the thick fog, Edward had

stationed his men at a venture upon the heath at Gladsmoor, [Edward “had

the greater number of men.”--HALL, p. 296.] and hastily environed

the camp with palisades and trenches. He had intended to have rested

immediately in front of the foe, but, in the darkness, mistook the

extent of the hostile line; and his men were ranged only opposite to

the left side of the earl’s force (towards Hadley), leaving the right

unopposed. Most fortunate for Edward was this mistake; for Warwick’s

artillery, and the new and deadly bombards he had constructed, were

placed on the right of the earl’s army; and the provident earl,

naturally supposing Edward’s left was there opposed to him, ordered

his gunners to cannonade all night. Edward, “as the flashes of the

guns illumined by fits the gloom of midnight, saw the advantage of

his unintentional error; and to prevent Warwick from discovering it,

reiterated his orders for the most profound silence.” [Sharon Turner.]

Thus even his very blunders favoured Edward more than the wisest

precautions had served his fated foe.

Raw, cold, and dismal dawned the morning of the fourteenth of April, the

Easter Sabbath. In the fortunes of that day were involved those of all

the persons who hitherto, in the course of this narrative, may have

seemed to move in separate orbits from the fiery star of Warwick. Now,

in this crowning hour, the vast and gigantic destiny of the great earl

comprehended all upon which its darkness or its light had fallen: not

only the luxurious Edward, the perjured Clarence, the haughty Margaret,

her gallant son, the gentle Anne, the remorseful Isabel, the dark guile

of Gloucester, the rising fortunes of the gifted Hastings,--but on the

hazard of that die rested the hopes of Hilyard, and the interests of the

trader Alwyn, and the permanence of that frank, chivalric, hardy, still

half Norman race, of which Nicholas Alwyn and his Saxon class were the

rival antagonistic principle, and Marmaduke Nevile the ordinary type.

Dragged inexorably into the whirlpool of that mighty fate were even

the very lives of the simple Scholar, of his obscure and devoted child.

Here, into this gory ocean, all scattered rivulets and streams had

hastened to merge at last.

But grander and more awful than all individual interests were those

assigned to the fortunes of this battle, so memorable in the English

annals,--the ruin or triumph of a dynasty; the fall of that warlike

baronage, of which Richard Nevile was the personation, the crowning

flower, the greatest representative and the last,--associated with

memories of turbulence and excess, it is true, but with the proudest and

grandest achievements in our early history; with all such liberty as had

been yet achieved since the Norman Conquest; with all such glory as had

made the island famous,--here with Runnymede, and there with Cressy; the

rise of a crafty, plotting, imperious Despotism, based upon the growing

sympathy of craftsmen and traders, and ripening on the one hand to the

Tudor tyranny, the Republican reaction under the Stuarts, the slavery,

and the civil war, but on the other hand to the concentration of all

the vigour and life of genius into a single and strong government, the

graces, the arts, the letters of a polished court, the freedom, the

energy, the resources of a commercial population destined to rise above

the tyranny at which it had first connived, and give to the emancipated

Saxon the markets of the world. Upon the victory of that day all these

contending interests, this vast alternative in the future, swayed and

trembled. Out, then, upon that vulgar craving of those who comprehend

neither the vast truths of life nor the grandeur of ideal art, and

who ask from poet or narrator the poor and petty morality of “Poetical

Justice,”--a justice existing not in our work-day world; a justice

existing not in the sombre page of history; a justice existing not

in the loftier conceptions of men whose genius has grappled with the

enigmas which art and poetry only can foreshadow and divine,--unknown

to us in the street and the market, unknown to us on the scaffold of the

patriot or amidst the flames of the martyr, unknown to us in the Lear

and the Hamlet, in the Agamemnon and the Prometheus. Millions upon

millions, ages upon ages, are entered but as items in the vast account

in which the recording angel sums up the unerring justice of God to man.

Raw, cold, and dismal dawned the morning of the fourteenth of April. And

on that very day Margaret and her son, and the wife and daughter of Lord

Warwick, landed, at last, on the shores of England. [Margaret landed at

Weymouth; Lady Warwick, at Portsmouth.] Come they for joy or for woe,

for victory or despair? The issue of this day’s fight on the heath of

Gladsmoor will decide. Prank thy halls, O Westminster, for the triumph

of the Lancastrian king,--or open thou, O Grave, to receive the

saint-like Henry and his noble son. The king-maker goes before ye,

saint-like father and noble son, to prepare your thrones amongst the

living or your mansions amongst the dead!

CHAPTER IV. THE BATTLE.

Raw, cold, and dismal dawned the morning of the fourteenth of April. The

heavy mist still covered both armies, but their hum and stir was already

heard through the gloaming,--the neighing of steeds, and the clangour

of mail. Occasionally a movement of either force made dim forms, seeming

gigantic through the vapour, indistinctly visible to the antagonistic

army; and there was something ghastly and unearthlike in these ominous

shapes, suddenly seen, and suddenly vanishing, amidst the sullen

atmosphere. By this time, Warwick had discovered the mistake of his

gunners; for, to the right of the earl, the silence of the Yorkists was

still unbroken, while abruptly, from the thick gloom to the left, broke

the hoarse mutter and low growl of the awakening war. Not a moment was

lost by the earl in repairing the error of the night: his artillery

wheeled rapidly from the right wing, and, sudden as a storm of

lightning, the fire from the cannon flashed through the dun and heavy

vapour, and, not far from the very spot where Hastings was marshalling

the wing intrusted to his command, made a deep chasm in the serried

ranks. Death had begun his feast!

At that moment, however, from the centre of the Yorkist army, arose,

scarcely drowned by the explosion, that deep-toned shout of enthusiasm,

which he who has once heard it, coming, as it were, from the one

heart of an armed multitude, will ever recall as the most kindling

and glorious sound which ever quickened the pulse and thrilled the

blood,--for along that part of the army now rode King Edward. His mail

was polished as a mirror, but otherwise unadorned, resembling that which

now invests his effigies at the Tower, [The suit of armour, however,

which the visitor to the Royal Armoury is expected to believe King

Edward could have worn, is infinitely too small for such credulity.

Edward’s height was six feet two inches.] and the housings of his steed

were spangled with silver suns, for the silver sun was the cognizance on

all his banners. His head was bare, and through the hazy atmosphere the

gold of his rich locks seemed literally to shine. Followed by his body

squire, with his helm and lance, and the lords in his immediate staff,

his truncheon in his hand, he passed slowly along the steady line, till,

halting where he deemed his voice could be farthest heard, he reined

in, and lifting his hand, the shout of the soldiery was hushed; though

still, while he spoke, from Warwick’s archers came the arrowy shower,

and still the gloom was pierced and the hush interrupted by the flash

and the roar of the bombards.

“Englishmen and friends,” said the martial chief, “to bold deeds go

but few words. Before you is the foe! From Ravenspur to London I have

marched, treason flying from my sword, loyalty gathering to my standard.

With but two thousand men, on the fourteenth of March, I entered

England; on the fourteenth of April, fifty thousand is my muster roll.

Who shall say, then, that I am not king, when one month mans a monarch’s

army from his subjects’ love? And well know ye, now, that my cause is

yours and England’s! Those against us are men who would rule in despite

of law,--barons whom I gorged with favours, and who would reduce this

fair realm of King, Lords, and Commons to be the appanage and property

of one man’s measureless ambition,--the park, forsooth, the homestead to

Lord Warwick’s private house! Ye gentlemen and knights of England, let

them and their rabble prosper, and your properties will be despoiled,

your lives insecure, all law struck dead. What differs Richard of

Warwick from Jack Cade, save that if his name is nobler, so is his

treason greater? Commoners and soldiers of England, freemen, however

humble, what do these rebel lords (who would rule in the name of

Lancaster) desire? To reduce you to villeins and to bondsmen, as your

forefathers were to them. Ye owe freedom from the barons to the just

laws of my sires, your kings. Gentlemen and knights, commoners and

soldiers, Edward IV. upon his throne will not profit by a victory more

than you. This is no war of dainty chivalry,--it is a war of true men

against false. No quarter! Spare not either knight or hilding. Warwick,

forsooth, will not smite the Commons. Truly not,--the rabble are his

friends! I say to you--” and Edward, pausing in the excitement and

sanguinary fury of his tiger nature,--the soldiers, heated like himself

to the thirst of blood, saw his eyes sparkle, and his teeth gnash, as he

added in a deeper and lower, but not less audible voice, “I say to you,

SLAY ALL! [Hall.] What heel spares the viper’s brood?”

“We will! we will!” was the horrid answer, which came hissing and

muttered forth from morion and cap of steel.

“Hark! to their bombards!” resumed Edward. “The enemy would fight from

afar, for they excel us in their archers and gunners. Upon them, then,

hand to hand, and man to man! Advance banners, sound trumpets! Sir

Oliver, my bassinet! Soldiers, if my standard falls, look for the plume

upon your king’s helmet! Charge!”

Then, with a shout wilder and louder than before, on through the hail

of the arrows, on through the glare of the bombards, rather with a rush

than in a march, advanced Edward’s centre against the array of Somerset;

but from a part of the encampment where the circumvallation seemed

strongest, a small body of men moved not with the general body.

To the left of the churchyard of Hadley, at this day, the visitor may

notice a low wall; on the other side of that wall is a garden, then but

a rude eminence on Gladsmoor Heath. On that spot a troop in complete

armour, upon destriers pawing impatiently, surrounded a man upon a sorry

palfrey, and in a gown of blue,--the colour of royalty and of servitude;

that man was Henry the Sixth. In the same space stood Friar Bungey,

his foot on the Eureka, muttering incantations, that the mists he had

foretold, [Lest the reader should suppose that the importance of Friar

Bungey upon this bloody day has been exaggerated by the narrator, we

must cite the testimony of sober Allerman Fabyan: “Of the mists and

other impediments which fell upon the lords’ party, by reason of the

incantations wrought by Friar Bungey, as the fame went, me list not to

write.”] and which had protected the Yorkists from the midnight guns,

might yet last, to the confusion of the foe. And near him, under a

gaunt, leafless tree, a rope round his neck, was Adam Warner, Sibyl

still faithful to his side, nor shuddering at the arrows and the guns,

her whole fear concentrated upon the sole life for which her own was

prized. Upon this eminence, then, these lookers-on stood aloof. And

the meek ears of Henry heard through the fog the inexplicable, sullen,

jarring clash,--steel had met steel.

“Holy Father!” exclaimed the kingly saint, “and this is the Easter

Sabbath, Thy most solemn day of peace!”

“Be silent,” thundered the friar; “thou disturbest my spells.

Barabbarara, Santhinoa, Foggibus increscebo, confusio inimicis,

Garabbora, vapor et mistes!”

We must now rapidly survey the dispositions of the army under Warwick.

In the right wing, the command was entrusted to the Earl of Oxford

and the Marquis of Montagu. The former, who led the cavalry of that

division, was stationed in the van; the latter, according to his usual

habit--surrounded by a strong body-guard of knights and a prodigious

number of squires as aides-de-camp--remained at the rear, and directed

thence by his orders the general movement. In this wing the greater

number were Lancastrian, jealous of Warwick, and only consenting to the

generalship of Montagu because shared by their favourite hero, Oxford.

In the mid-space lay the chief strength of the bowmen, with a goodly

number of pikes and bills, under the Duke of Somerset; and this division

also was principally Lancastrian, and shared the jealousy of Oxford’s

soldiery. The left wing, composed for the most part of Warwick’s

yeomanry and retainers, was commanded by the Duke of Exeter, conjointly

with the earl himself. Both armies kept a considerable body in reserve,

and Warwick, besides this resource, had selected from his own retainers

a band of picked archers, whom he had skilfully placed in the outskirts

of a wood that then stretched from Wrotham Park to the column that now

commemorates the battle of Barnet, on the high northern road. He had

guarded these last-mentioned archers (where exposed in front to Edward’s

horsemen) by strong tall barricades, leaving only such an opening

as would allow one horseman at a time to pass, and defending by a

formidable line of pikes this narrow opening left for communication, and

to admit to a place of refuge in case of need. These dispositions made,

and ere yet Edward had advanced on Somerset, the earl rode to the front

of the wing under his special command, and, agreeably to the custom of

the time, observed by his royal foe, harangued the troops. Here were

placed those who loved him as a father, and venerated him as something

superior to mortal man; here the retainers who had grown up with him

from his childhood, who had followed him to his first fields of war, who

had lived under the shelter of his many castles, and fed, in that rude

equality of a more primeval age which he loved still to maintain, at his

lavish board. And now Lord Warwick’s coal-black steed halted, motionless

in the van. His squire behind bore his helmet, overshadowed by the eagle

of Monthermer, the outstretched wings of which spread wide into sable

plumes; and as the earl’s noble face turned full and calm upon the

bristling lines, there arose not the vulgar uproar that greeted the

aspect of the young Edward. By one of those strange sympathies which

pass through multitudes, and seize them with a common feeling, the whole

body of those adoring vassals became suddenly aware of the change which

a year had made in the face of their chief and father. They saw the

gray flakes in his Jove-like curls, the furrows in that lofty brow, the

hollows in that bronzed and manly visage, which had seemed to their rude

admiration to wear the stamp of the twofold Divinity,--Beneficence and

Valour. A thrill of tenderness and awe shot through the veins of every

one, tears of devotion rushed into many a hardy eye. No! there was not

the ruthless captain addressing his hireling butchers; it was the chief

and father rallying gratitude and love and reverence to the crisis of

his stormy fate.

“My friends, my followers, and my children,” said the earl, “the field

we have entered is one from which there is no retreat; here must your

leader conquer or here die. It is not a parchment pedigree, it is not a

name derived from the ashes of dead men, that make the only charter of a

king. We Englishmen were but slaves, if, in giving crown and sceptre

to a mortal like ourselves, we asked not in return the kingly virtues.

Beset of old by evil counsellors, the reign of Henry VI. was obscured,

and the weal of the realm endangered. Mine own wrongs seemed to me

great, but the disasters of my country not less. I deemed that in the

race of York, England would know a wiser and happier rule. What was, in

this, mine error, ye partly know. A prince dissolved in luxurious vices,

a nobility degraded by minions and blood-suckers, a people plundered by

purveyors, and a land disturbed by brawl and riot. But ye know not all:

God makes man’s hearth man’s altar: our hearths were polluted, our wives

and daughters were viewed as harlots, and lechery ruled the realm. A

king’s word should be fast as the pillars of the world. What man ever

trusted Edward and was not deceived? Even now the unknightly liar stands

in arms with the weight of perjury on his soul. In his father’s town

of York, ye know that he took, three short weeks since, solemn oath

of fealty to King Henry. And now King Henry is his captive, and King

Henry’s holy crown upon his traitor’s head. ‘Traitors’ calls he Us? What

name, then, rank enough for him? Edward gave the promise of a brave man,

and I served him. He proved a base, a false, a licentious, and a cruel

king, and I forsook him; may all free hearts in all free lands so serve

kings when they become tyrants! Ye fight against a cruel and atrocious

usurper, whose bold hand cannot sanctify a black heart; ye fight not

only for King Henry, the meek and the godly,--ye fight not for him

alone, but for his young and princely son, the grandchild of Henry of

Agincourt, who, old men tell me, has that hero’s face, and who, I know,

has that hero’s frank and royal and noble soul; ye fight for the freedom

of your land, for the honour of your women, for what is better than any

king’s cause,--for justice and mercy, for truth and manhood’s virtues

against corruption in the laws, slaughter by the scaffold, falsehood

in a ruler’s lips, and shameless harlotry in the councils of ruthless

power. The order I have ever given in war I give now; we war against

the leaders of evil, not against the hapless tools; we war against our

oppressors, not against our misguided brethren. Strike down every plumed

crest, but when the strife is over, spare every common man! Hark! while

I speak, I hear the march of your foe! Up standards!--blow trumpets! And

now, as I brace my bassinet, may God grant us all a glorious victory,

or a glorious grave! On, my merry men! show these London loons the stout

hearts of Warwickshire and Yorkshire. On, my merry men! A Warwick! A

Warwick!”

As he ended, he swung lightly over his head the terrible battle-axe

which had smitten down, as the grass before the reaper, the chivalry of

many a field; and ere the last blast of the trumpets died, the troops of

Warwick and of Gloucester met, and mingled hand to hand.

Although the earl had, on discovering the position of the enemy, moved

some of his artillery from his right wing, yet there still lay the great

number and strength of his force. And there, therefore, Montagu, rolling

troop on troop to the aid of Oxford, pressed so overpoweringly upon

the soldiers under Hastings, that the battle very soon wore a most

unfavourable aspect for the Yorkists. It seemed, indeed, that the

success which had always hitherto attended the military movements of

Montagu was destined for a crowning triumph. Stationed, as we have said,

in the rear, with his light-armed squires, upon fleet steeds, around

him, he moved the springs of the battle with the calm sagacity which at

that moment no chief in either army possessed. Hastings was thoroughly

outflanked, and though his men fought with great valour, they could not

resist the weight of superior numbers.

In the midst of the carnage in the centre, Edward reined in his steed as

he heard the cry of victory in the gale.

“By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “our men at the left are cravens! they fly!

they fly!--Ride to Lord Hastings, Sir Humphrey Bourchier, bid him defile

hither what men are left him; and now, ere our fellows are well

aware what hath chanced yonder, charge we, knights and gentlemen, on,

on!--break Somerset’s line; on, on, to the heart of the rebel earl!”

Then, visor closed, lance in rest, Edward and his cavalry dashed through

the archers and billmen of Somerset; clad in complete mail, impervious

to the weapons of the infantry, they slaughtered as they rode, and their

way was marked by corpses and streams of blood. Fiercest and fellest of

all was Edward himself; when his lance shivered, and he drew his knotty

mace from its sling by his saddlebow, woe to all who attempted to stop

his path. Vain alike steel helmet or leathern cap, jerkin or coat of

mail. In vain Somerset threw himself into the melee. The instant Edward

and his cavalry had made a path through the lines for his foot-soldiery,

the fortunes of the day were half retrieved. It was no rapid passage,

pierced and reclosed, that he desired to effect,--it was the wedge in

the oak of war. There, rooted in the very midst of Somerset’s troops,

doubling on each side, passing on but to return again, where helm could

be crashed and man overthrown, the mighty strength of Edward widened the

breach more and more, till faster and faster poured in his bands,

and the centre of Warwick’s army seemed to reel and whirl round the

broadening gap through its ranks, as the waves round some chasm in a

maelstrom.

But in the interval, the hard-pressed troops commanded by Hastings were

scattered and dispersed; driven from the field, they fled in numbers

through the town of Barnet; many halted not till they reached London,

where they spread the news of the earl’s victory and Edward’s ruin.

[Sharon Turner.]

Through the mist, Friar Bungey discerned the fugitive Yorkists under

Hastings, and heard their cries of despair; through the mist, Sibyll

saw, close beneath the intrenchments which protected the space on which

they stood, an armed horseman with the well-known crest of Hastings on

his helmet, and, with lifted visor, calling his men to the return, in

the loud voice of rage and scorn. And then she herself sprang forwards,

and forgetting his past cruelty in his present danger, cried his

name,--weak cry, lost in the roar of war! But the friar, now fearing he

had taken the wrong side, began to turn from his spells, to address the

most abject apologies to Adam, to assure him that he would have been

slaughtered at the Tower but for the friar’s interruption; and that

the rope round his neck was but an insignificant ceremony due to the

prejudices of the soldiers. “Alas, Great Man,” he concluded, “I see

still that thou art mightier than I am; thy charms, though silent, are

more potent than mine, though my lungs crack beneath them! Confusio

Inimicis Taralorolu, I mean no harm to the earl. Garrabora, mistes et

nubes!--Lord, what will become of me!”

Meanwhile, Hastings--with a small body of horse, who being composed of

knights and squires, specially singled out for the sword, fought

with the pride of disdainful gentlemen, and the fury of desperate

soldiers--finding it impossible to lure back the fugitives, hewed their

own way through Oxford’s ranks to the centre, where they brought fresh

aid to the terrible arm of Edward.

CHAPTER V. THE BATTLE.

The mist still continued so thick that Montagu was unable to discern

the general prospects of the field; but, calm and resolute in his post,

amidst the arrows which whirled round him, and often struck, blunted,

against his Milan mail, the marquis received the reports of his

aides-de-camp (may that modern word be pardoned?) as one after one they

emerged through the fog to his side.

“Well,” he said, as one of these messengers now spurred to the spot, “we

have beaten off Hastings and his hirelings; but I see not ‘the Silver

Star’ of Lord Oxford’s banner.” [The Silver Star of the De Veres had its

origin in a tradition that one of their ancestors, when fighting in

the Holy Land, saw a falling star descend upon his shield. Fatal to men

nobler even than the De Veres was that silver falling star.]

“Lord Oxford, my lord, has followed the enemy he routed to the farthest

verge of the heath.”

“Saints help us! Is Oxford thus headstrong? He will ruin all if he be

decoyed from the field! Ride back, sir! Yet hold!”--as another of the

aides-de-camp appeared. “What news from Lord Warwick’s wing?”

“Sore beset, bold marquis. Gloucester’s line seems countless; it already

outflanks the earl. The duke himself seems inspired by hell! Twice has

his slight arm braved even the earl’s battle-axe, which spared the boy

but smote to the dust his comrades!”

“Well, and what of the centre, sir?” as a third form now arrived.

“There rages Edward in person. He hath pierced into the midst. But

Somerset still holds on gallantly!” Montagu turned to the first

aide-de-camp.

“Ride, sir! Quick! This to Oxford--No pursuit! Bid him haste, with all

his men, to the left wing, and smite Gloucester in the rear. Ride, ride,

for life and victory! If he come but in time the day is ours!” [Fabyan.]

The aide-de-camp darted off, and the mist swallowed up horse and

horseman.

“Sound trumpets to the return!” said the marquis. Then, after a moment’s

musing, “Though Oxford hath drawn off our main force of cavalry, we have

still some stout lances left; and Warwick must be strengthened. On to

the earl! Laissez aller! A Montagu! a Montagu!” And lance in rest,

the marquis and the knights immediately around him, and hitherto not

personally engaged, descended the hillock at a hand-gallop, and were met

by a troop outnumbering their own, and commanded by the Lords D’Eyncourt

and Say.

At this time Warwick was indeed in the same danger that had routed the

troops of Hastings; for, by a similar position, the strength of the

hostile numbers being arrayed with Gloucester, the duke’s troops had

almost entirely surrounded him [Sharon Turner]; and Gloucester himself

wondrously approved the trust that had consigned to his stripling

arm the flower of the Yorkist army. Through the mists the blood-red

manteline he wore over his mail, the grinning teeth of the boar’s head

which crested his helmet, flashed and gleamed wherever his presence was

most needed to encourage the flagging or spur on the fierce. And there

seemed to both armies something ghastly and preternatural in the savage

strength of this small slight figure thus startlingly caparisoned, and

which was heard evermore uttering its sharp war-cry, “Gloucester to the

onslaught! Down with the rebels, down!”

Nor did this daring personage disdain, in the midst of his fury, to

increase the effect of valour by the art of a brain that never ceased

to scheme on the follies of mankind. “See, see!” he cried, as he shot

meteor-like from rank to rank, “see, these are no natural vapours!

Yonder the mighty friar, who delayed the sails of Margaret, chants his

spells to the Powers that ride the gale. Fear not the bombards,--their

enchanted balls swerve from the brave! The dark legions of Air fight

for us! For the hour is come when the fiend shall rend his prey!” And

fiendlike seemed the form thus screeching forth its predictions from

under the grim head-gear; and then darting and disappearing amidst the

sea of pikes, cleaving its path of blood!

But still the untiring might of Warwick defied the press of numbers

that swept round him tide upon tide. Through the mist, his black armour,

black plume, black steed, gloomed forth like one thundercloud in the

midst of a dismal heaven. The noble charger bore along that mighty

rider, animating, guiding all, with as much ease and lightness as the

racer bears its puny weight; the steed itself was scarce less terrible

to encounter than the sweep of the rider’s axe. Protected from arrow and

lance by a coat of steel, the long chaffron, or pike, which projected

from its barbed frontal dropped with gore as it scoured along. No line

of men, however serried, could resist the charge of that horse and

horseman. And vain even Gloucester’s dauntless presence and thrilling

battle-cry, when the stout earl was seen looming through the vapour, and

his cheerful shout was heard, “My merry men, fight on!”

For a third time, Gloucester, spurring forth from his recoiling and

shrinking followers, bending low over his saddle-bow, covered by his

shield, and with the tenth lance (his favourite weapon, because the one

in which skill best supplied strength) he had borne that day, launched

himself upon the vast bulk of his tremendous foe. With that dogged

energy, that rapid calculation, which made the basis of his character,

and which ever clove through all obstacles at the one that, if

destroyed, destroyed the rest,--in that, his first great battle, as in

his last at Bosworth, he singled out the leader, and rushed upon the

giant as the mastiff on the horns and dewlap of the bull. Warwick, in

the broad space which his arm had made around him in the carnage, reined

in as he saw the foe and recognized the grisly cognizance and scarlet

mantle of his godson. And even in that moment, with all his heated blood

and his remembered wrong and his imminent peril, his generous and lion

heart felt a glow of admiration at the valour of the boy he had trained

to arms,--of the son of the beloved York. “His father little thought,”

muttered the earl, “that that arm should win glory against his old

friend’s life!” And as the half-uttered word died on his lips, the

well-poised lance of Gloucester struck full upon his bassinet, and,

despite the earl’s horsemanship and his strength, made him reel in his

saddle, while the prince shot by, and suddenly wheeling round, cast away

the shivered lance, and assailed him sword in hand.

“Back, Richard! boy, back!” said the earl, in a voice that sounded

hollow through his helmet; “it is not against thee that my wrongs call

for blood,--pass on!”

“Not so, Lord Warwick,” answered Richard, in a sobered and almost solemn

voice, dropping for the moment the point of his sword, and raising his

visor, that he might be the better heard,--“on the field of battle all

memories sweet in peace must die! Saint Paul be my judge, that even in

this hour I love you well; but I love renown and glory more. On the

edge of my sword sit power and royalty, and what high souls prize

most,--ambition; these would nerve me against my own brother’s breast,

were that breast my barrier to an illustrious future. Thou hast given

thy daughter to another! I smite the father to regain my bride. Lay on,

and spare not!--for he who hates thee most would prove not so fell a foe

as the man who sees his fortunes made or marred, his love crushed or yet

crowned, as this day’s battle closes in triumph or defeat. REBEL, DEFEND

THYSELF!”

No time was left for further speech; for as Richard’s sword descended,

two of Gloucester’s followers, Parr and Milwater by name, dashed from

the halting lines at the distance, and bore down to their young prince’s

aid. At the same moment, Sir Marmaduke Nevile and the Lord Fitzhugh

spurred from the opposite line; and thus encouraged, the band on either

side came boldly forward, and the melee grew fierce and general. But

still Richard’s sword singled out the earl, and still the earl, parrying

his blows, dealt his own upon meaner heads. Crushed by one sweep of the

axe fell Milwater to the earth; down, as again it swung on high, fell

Sir Humphrey Bourchier, who had just arrived to Gloucester with messages

from Edward, never uttered in the world below. Before Marmaduke’s lance

fell Sir Thomas Parr; and these three corpses making a barrier between

Gloucester and the earl, the duke turned fiercely upon Marmaduke, while

the earl, wheeling round, charged into the midst of the hostile line,

which scattered to the right and left.

“On! my merry men, on!” rang once more through the heavy air. “They give

way, the London tailors,--on!” and on dashed, with their joyous cry, the

merry men of Yorkshire and Warwick, the warrior yeomen! Separated thus

from his great foe, Gloucester, after unhorsing Marmaduke, galloped off

to sustain that part of his following which began to waver and retreat

before the rush of Warwick and his chivalry.

This, in truth, was the regiment recruited from the loyalty of London;

and little accustomed, we trow, were the worthy heroes of Cockaigne to

the discipline of arms, nor trained to that stubborn resistance which

makes, under skilful leaders, the English peasants the most enduring

soldiery that the world has known since the day when the Roman sentinel

perished amidst the falling columns and lava floods [at Pompeii], rather

than, though society itself dissolved, forsake his post unbidden. “Saint

Thomas defend us!” muttered a worthy tailor, who in the flush of his

valour, when safe in the Chepe, had consented to bear the rank of

lieutenant; “it is not reasonable to expect men of pith and substance

to be crushed into jellies and carved into subtleties by horse-hoofs

and pole-axes. Right about face! Fly!”--and throwing down his sword and

shield, the lieutenant fairly took to his heels as he saw the charging

column, headed by the raven steed of Warwick, come giant-like through

the fog. The terror of one man is contagious, and the Londoners actually

turned their backs, when Nicholas Alwyn cried, in his shrill voice and

northern accent, “Out on you! What will the girls say of us in East-gate

and the Chepe? Hurrah for the bold hearts of London! Round me, stout

‘prentices! let the boys shame the men! This shaft for Cockaigne!” And

as the troop turned irresolute, and Alwyn’s arrow left his bow, they saw

a horseman by the side of Warwick reel in his saddle and fall at once

to the earth; and so great evidently was the rank of the fallen man that

even Warwick reined in, and the charge halted midway in its career.

It was no less a person than the Duke of Exeter whom Alwyn’s shaft had

disabled for the field. This incident, coupled with the hearty

address of the stout goldsmith, served to reanimate the flaggers, and

Gloucester, by a circuitous route, reaching their line a moment after,

they dressed their ranks, and a flight of arrows followed their loud

“Hurrah for London Town!”

But the charge of Warwick had only halted, and (while the wounded Exeter

was borne back by his squires to the rear) it dashed into the midst of

the Londoners, threw their whole line into confusion, and drove them,

despite all the efforts of Gloucester, far back along the plain. This

well-timed exploit served to extricate the earl from the main danger of

his position; and, hastening to improve his advantage, he sent forthwith

to command the reserved forces under Lord St. John, the Knight of

Lytton, Sir John Coniers, Dymoke, and Robert Hilyard, to bear down to

his aid.

At this time Edward had succeeded, after a most stubborn fight, in

effecting a terrible breach through Somerset’s wing; and the fog

continued still so dense and mirk, that his foe itself--for Somerset had

prudently drawn back to re-form his disordered squadron--seemed vanished

from the field. Halting now, as through the dim atmosphere came from

different quarters the many battle-cries of that feudal-day, by which

alone he could well estimate the strength or weakness of those in

the distance, his calmer genius as a general cooled, for a time, his

individual ferocity of knight and soldier. He took his helmet from his

brow to listen with greater certainty; and the lords and riders round

him were well content to take breath and pause from the weary slaughter.

The cry of “Gloucester to the onslaught!” was heard no more. Feebler

and feebler, scatteringly as it were, and here and there, the note had

changed into “Gloucester to the rescue!”

Farther off rose, mingled and blent together, the opposing shouts, “A

Montagu! a Montagu! Strike for D’Eyncourt and King Edward!”--“A Say! A

Say!”

“Ha!” said Edward, thoughtfully, “bold Gloucester fails, Montagu is

bearing on to Warwick’s aid, Say and D’Eyncourt stop his path. Our doom

looks dark! Ride, Hastings,--ride; retrieve thy laurels, and bring up

the reserve under Clarence. But hark ye, leave not his side,--he may

desert again! Ho! ho! Again, ‘Gloucester to the rescue!’ Ah, how lustily

sounds the cry of ‘Warwick!’ By the flaming sword of Saint Michael, we

will slacken that haughty shout, or be evermore dumb ourself, ere the

day be an hour nearer to the eternal judgment!”

Deliberately Edward rebraced his helm, and settled himself in his

saddle, and with his knights riding close each to each, that they might

not lose themselves in the darkness, regained his infantry, and led

them on to the quarter where the war now raged fiercest, round the black

steed of Warwick and the blood-red manteline of the fiery Richard.

CHAPTER VI. THE BATTLE.

It was now scarcely eight in the morning, though the battle had endured

three hours; and, as yet, victory so inclined to the earl that nought

but some dire mischance could turn the scale. Montagu had cut his way to

Warwick; Somerset had re-established his array. The fresh vigour

brought by the earl’s reserve had well-nigh completed his advantage

over Gloucester’s wing. The new infantry under Hilyard, the unexhausted

riders under Sir John Coniers and his knightly compeers, were dealing

fearful havoc, as they cleared the plain; and Gloucester, fighting inch

by inch, no longer outnumbering but outnumbered, was driven nearer and

nearer towards the town, when suddenly a pale, sickly, and ghostlike ray

of sunshine, rather resembling the watery gleam of a waning moon than

the radiance of the Lord of Light, broke through the mists, and showed

to the earl’s eager troops the banner and badges of a new array hurrying

to the spot. “Behold,” cried the young Lord Fitzhugh, “the standard and

the badge of the Usurper,--a silver sun! Edward himself is delivered

into our hands! Upon them, bill and pike, lance and brand, shaft and

bolt! Upon them, and crown the day!”

The same fatal error was shared by Hilyard, as he caught sight of the

advancing troop, with their silvery cognizance. He gave the word, and

every arrow left its string. At the same moment, as both horse and foot

assailed the fancied foe, the momentary beam vanished from the heaven,

the two forces mingled in the sullen mists, when, after a brief

conflict, a sudden and horrible cry of “Treason! Treason!” resounded

from either band. The shining star of Oxford, returning from the

pursuit, had been mistaken for Edward’s cognizance of the sun.

[Cont. Croyl., 555; Fabyan, Habington, Hume, S. Turner.] Friend was

slaughtering friend, and when the error was detected, each believed the

other had deserted to the foe. In vain, here Montagu and Warwick, and

there Oxford and his captains, sought to dispel the confusion, and unite

those whose blood had been fired against each other. While yet in

doubt, confusion, and dismay, rushed full into the centre Edward of York

himself, with his knights and riders; and his tossing banners, scarcely

even yet distinguished from Oxford’s starry ensigns, added to the

general incertitude and panic. Loud in the midst rose Edward’s trumpet

voice, while through the midst, like one crest of foam upon a roaring

sea, danced his plume of snow. Hark! again, again--near and nearer--the

tramp of steeds, the clash of steel, the whiz and hiss of arrows, the

shout of “Hastings to the onslaught!” Fresh, and panting for glory and

for blood, came on King Edward’s large reserve; from all the scattered

parts of the field spurred the Yorkist knights, where the uproar, so

much mightier than before, told them that the crisis of the war was

come. Thither, as vultures to the carcass, they flocked and wheeled;

thither D’Eyncourt and Lovell, and Cromwell’s bloody sword, and

Say’s knotted mace; and thither, again rallying his late half-beaten

myrmidons, the grim Gloucester, his helmet bruised and dinted, but the

boar’s teeth still gnashing wrath and horror from the grisly crest. But

direst and most hateful of all in the eyes of the yet undaunted earl,

thither, plainly visible, riding scarcely a yard before him, with the

cognizance of Clare wrought on his gay mantle, and in all the pomp and

bravery of a holiday suit, came the perjured Clarence. Conflict now it

could scarce be called: as well might the Dane have rolled back the sea

from his footstool, as Warwick and his disordered troop (often and aye,

dazzled here by Oxford’s star, there by Edward’s sun, dealing random

blows against each other) have resisted the general whirl and torrent

of the surrounding foe. To add to the rout, Somerset and the on-guard

of his wing had been marching towards the earl at the very time that the

cry of “treason” had struck their ears, and Edward’s charge was made;

these men, nearly all Lancastrians, and ever doubting Montagu, if not

Warwick, with the example of Clarence and the Archbishop of York fresh

before them, lost heart at once,--Somerset himself headed the flight of

his force.

“All is lost!” said Montagu, as side by side with Warwick the brothers

fronted the foe, and for one moment stayed the rush.

“Not yet,” returned the earl; “a band of my northern archers still guard

yon wood; I know them,--they will fight to the last gasp! Thither, then,

with what men we may. You so marshal our soldiers, and I will make good

the retreat. Where is Sir Marmaduke Nevile?”

“Here!”

“Horsed again, young cousin! I give thee a perilous commission. Take the

path down the hill; the mists thicken in the hollows, and may hide thee.

Overtake Somerset; he hath fled westward, and tell him, from me, if

he can yet rally but one troop of horse--but one--and charge Edward

suddenly in the rear, he will yet redeem all. If he refuse, the ruin of

his king and the slaughter of the brave men he deserts be on his head!

Swift, a tout bride, Marmaduke. Yet one word,” added the earl, in

a whisper,--“if you fail with Somerset, come not back, make to the

Sanctuary. You are too young to die, cousin! Away! keep to the hollows

of the chase.”

As the knight vanished, Warwick turned to his comrades “Bold nephew

Fitzhugh, and ye brave riders round me,--so we are fifty knights! Haste

thou, Montagu, to the wood! the wood!”

So noble in that hero age was the Individual MAN, even amidst the

multitudes massed by war, that history vies with romance in showing how

far a single sword could redress the scale of war. While Montagu,

with rapid dexterity, and a voice yet promising victory, drew back the

remnant of the lines, and in serried order retreated to the outskirts

of the wood, Warwick and his band of knights protected the movement

from the countless horsemen who darted forth from Edward’s swarming

and momently thickening ranks. Now dividing and charging singly, now

rejoining, and breast to breast, they served to divert and perplex and

harass the eager enemy. And never in all his wars, in all the former

might of his indomitable arm, had Warwick so excelled the martial

chivalry of his age, as in that eventful and crowning hour. Thrice

almost alone he penetrated into the very centre of Edward’s body-guard,

literally felling to the earth all before him. Then perished by his

battle-axe Lord Cromwell and the redoubted Lord of Say; then, no longer

sparing even the old affection, Gloucester was hurled to the ground. The

last time he penetrated even to Edward himself, smiting down the king’s

standard-bearer, unhorsing Hastings, who threw himself on his path;

and Edward, setting his teeth in stern joy as he saw him, rose in his

stirrups, and for a moment the mace of the king, the axe of the earl,

met as thunder encounters thunder; but then a hundred knights rushed

into the rescue, and robbed the baffled avenger of his prey. Thus

charging and retreating, driving back with each charge farther and

farther the mighty multitude hounding on to the lion’s death, this

great chief and his devoted knights, though terribly reduced in number,

succeeded at last in covering Montagu’s skilful retreat; and when they

gained the outskirts of the wood, and dashed through the narrow opening

between the barricades, the Yorkshire archers approved their lord’s

trust, and, shouting, as to a marriage feast, hailed his coming.

But few, alas! of his fellow-horsemen had survived that marvellous

enterprise of valour and despair. Of the fifty knights who had shared

its perils, eleven only gained the wood; and, though in this number

the most eminent (save Sir John Coniers, either slain or fled) might

be found, their horses, more exposed than themselves, were for the most

part wounded and unfit for further service. At this time the sun again,

and suddenly as before, broke forth,--not now with a feeble glimmer, but

a broad and almost a cheerful beam, which sufficed to give a fuller view

than the day had yet afforded of the state and prospects of the field.

To the right and to the left, what remained of the cavalry of Warwick

were seen flying fast,--gone the lances of Oxford, the bills of

Somerset. Exeter, pierced by the shaft of Alwyn, was lying cold and

insensible, remote from the contest, and deserted even by his squires.

In front of the archers and such men as Montagu had saved from the

sword, halted the immense and murmuring multitude of Edward, their

thousand banners glittering in the sudden sun; for, as Edward beheld

the last wrecks of his foe, stationed near the covert, his desire of

consummating victory and revenge made him cautious, and, fearing an

ambush, he had abruptly halted.

When the scanty followers of the earl thus beheld the immense force

arrayed for their destruction, and saw the extent of their danger, and

their loss,--here the handful, there the multitude,--a simultaneous

exclamation of terror and dismay broke from their ranks.

“Children!” cried Warwick, “droop not! Henry at Agincourt had worse odds

than we!”

But the murmur among the archers, the lealest part of the earl’s

retainers, continued, till there stepped forth their captain, a gray old

man, but still sinewy and unbent, the iron relic of a hundred battles.

“Back to your men, Mark Forester!” said the earl, sternly.

The old man obeyed not. He came on to Warwick, and fell on his knees

beside his stirrup.

“Fly, my lord! escape is possible for you and your riders. Fly through

the wood, we will screen your path with our bodies. Your children,

father of your followers, your children of Middleham, ask no better fate

than to die for you! Is it not so?” and the old man, rising, turned to

those in hearing. They answered by a general acclamation.

“Mark Forester speaks well,” said Montagu. “On you depends the last hope

of Lancaster. We may yet join Oxford and Somerset! This way through the

wood,--come!” and he laid his hand on the earl’s rein.

“Knights and sirs,” said the earl, dismounting, and partially raising

his visor as he turned to the horsemen, “let those who will, fly with

Lord Montagu! Let those who, in a just cause, never despair of victory,

nor, even at the worst, fear to face their Maker, fresh from the

glorious death of heroes, dismount with me!” Every knight sprang from

his steed, Montagu the first. “Comrades!” continued the earl, then

addressing the retainers, “when the children fight for a father’s

honour, the father flies not from the peril into which he has drawn the

children. What to me were life, stained by the blood of mine own beloved

retainers, basely deserted by their chief? Edward has proclaimed that he

will spare none. Fool! he gives us, then, the superhuman mightiness

of despair! To your bows!--one shaft--if it pierce the joints of

the tyrant’s mail--one shaft may scatter yon army to the winds! Sir

Marmaduke has gone to rally noble Somerset and his riders; if we make

good our defence one little hour, the foe may be yet smitten in the

rear, and the day retrieved! Courage and heart then!” Here the earl

lifted his visor to the farthest bar, and showed his cheerful face--“Is

this the face of a man who thinks all hope is gone?”

In this interval, the sudden sunshine revealed to King Henry, where

he stood, the dispersion of his friends. To the rear of the palisades,

which protected the spot where he was placed, already grouped “the

lookers-on and no fighters,” as the chronicler [Fabyan] words it, who,

as the guns slackened, ventured forth to learn the news, and who now,

filling the churchyard of Hadley, strove hard to catch a peep of Henry

the saint, or of Bungey the sorcerer. Mingled with these gleamed the

robes of the tymbesteres, pressing nearer and nearer to the barriers,

as wolves, in the instinct of blood, come nearer and nearer round the

circling watch-fire of some northern travellers. At this time the friar,

turning to one of the guards who stood near him, said, “The mists are

needed no more now; King Edward hath got the day, eh?”

“Certes, great master,” quoth the guard, “nothing now lacks to the

king’s triumph except the death of the earl.”

“Infamous nigromancer, hear that!” cried Bungey to Adam. “What now

avail thy bombards and thy talisman! Hark yet--tell me the secret of the

last,--of the damnable engine under my feet, and I may spare thy life.”

Adam shrugged his shoulders in impatient disdain. “Unless I gave thee my

science, my secret were profitless to thee. Villain and numskull, do thy

worst.”

The friar made a sign to a soldier who stood behind Adam, and the

soldier silently drew the end of the rope which girded the scholar’s

neck round a bough of the leafless tree. “Hold!” whispered the friar,

“not till I give the word. The earl may recover himself yet,” he

added to himself; and therewith he began once more to vociferate his

incantations. Meanwhile the eyes of Sibyll had turned for a moment from

her father; for the burst of sunshine, lighting up the valley below, had

suddenly given to her eyes, in the distance, the gable-ends of the

old farmhouse, with the wintry orchard,--no longer, alas! smiling with

starry blossoms. Far remote from the battlefield was that abode of

peace,--that once happy home, where she had watched the coming of the

false one!

Loftier and holier were the thoughts of the fated king. He had turned

his face from the field, and his eyes were fixed upon the tower of the

church behind. And while he so gazed, the knoll from the belfry began

solemnly to chime. It was now near the hour of the Sabbath prayers, and

amidst horror and carnage, still the holy custom was not suspended.

“Hark!” said the king, mournfully, “that chime summons many a soul to

God!”

While thus the scene on the eminence of Hadley, Edward, surrounded by

Hastings, Gloucester, and his principal captains, took advantage of the

unexpected sunshine to scan the foe and its position, with the eye of

his intuitive genius for all that can slaughter man. “This day,” he

said, “brings no victory, assures no crown, if Warwick escape alive.

To you, Lovell and Ratcliffe, I intrust two hundred knights,--your sole

care the head of the rebel earl!”

“And Montagu?” said Ratcliffe.

“Montagu? Nay, poor Montagu, I loved him as well once as my own mother’s

son; and Montagu,” he muttered to himself, “I never wronged, and

therefore him I can forgive. Spare the marquis.--I mislike that wood;

they must have more force within than that handful on the skirts

betrays. Come hither, D’Eyncourt.”

And a few minutes afterwards, Warwick and his men saw two parties

of horse leave the main body, one for the right hand, one the left,

followed by long detachments of pikes, which they protected; and then

the central array marched slowly and steadily on towards the scanty foe.

The design was obvious,--to surround on all sides the enemy, driven to

its last desperate bay. But Montagu and his brother had not been idle in

the breathing-pause; they had planted the greater portion of the archers

skilfully among the trees. They had placed their pikemen on the verge of

the barricades made by sharp stakes and fallen timber, and where their

rampart was unguarded by the pass which had been left free for the

horsemen, Hilyard and his stoutest fellows took their post, filling the

gap with breasts of iron.

And now, as with horns and clarions, with a sea of plumes and spears and

pennons, the multitudinous deathsmen came on, Warwick, towering in the

front, not one feather on his eagle crest despoiled or shorn, stood,

dismounted, his visor still raised, by his renowned steed. Some of the

men had by Warwick’s order removed the mail from the destrier’s breast;

and the noble animal, relieved from the weight, seemed as unexhausted

as its rider; save where the champed foam had bespecked its glossy hide,

not a hair was turned; and the on-guard of the Yorkists heard its fiery

snort as they moved slowly on. This figure of horse and horseman

stood prominently forth amidst the little band. And Lovell, riding by

Ratcliffe’s side, whispered, “Beshrew me, I would rather King Edward had

asked for mine own head than that gallant earl’s!”

“Tush, youth,” said the inexorable Ratcliffe, “I care not of what steps

the ladder of mine ambition may be made!”

While they were thus speaking, Warwick, turning to Montagu and his

knights, said,--

“Our sole hope is in the courage of our men. And, as at Towton, when

I gave the throne to yon false man, I slew, with my own hand, my noble

Malech, to show that on that spot I would win or die, and by that

sacrifice so fired the soldiers, that we turned the day, so now--oh,

gentlemen, in another hour ye would jeer me, for my hand fails: this

hand that the poor beast hath so often fed from! Saladin, last of thy

race, serve me now in death as in life. Not for my sake, oh noblest

steed that ever bore a knight,--not for mine this offering!”

He kissed the destrier on his frontal, and Saladin, as if conscious

of the coming blow, bent his proud crest humbly, and licked his lord’s

steel-clad hand. So associated together had been horse and horseman,

that had it been a human sacrifice, the bystanders could not have been

more moved. And when, covering the charger’s eyes with one hand, the

earl’s dagger descended, bright and rapid, a groan went through the

ranks. But the effect was unspeakable! The men knew at once that to

them, and them alone, their lord intrusted his fortunes and his life;

they were nerved to more than mortal daring. No escape for Warwick--why,

then, in Warwick’s person they lived and died! Upon foe as upon friend,

the sacrifice produced all that could tend to strengthen the last refuge

of despair. Even Edward, where he rode in the van, beheld and knew the

meaning of the deed. Victorious Towton rushed back upon his memory with

a thrill of strange terror and remorse.

“He will die as he has lived,” said Gloucester, with admiration. “If I

live for such a field, God grant me such a death!”

As the words left the duke’s lips, and Warwick, one foot on his dumb

friend’s corpse, gave the mandate, a murderous discharge from the

archers in the covert rattled against the line of the Yorkists, and the

foe, still advancing, stepped over a hundred corpses to the conflict.

Despite the vast preponderance of numbers, the skill of Warwick’s

archers, the strength of his position, the obstacle to the cavalry made

by the barricades, rendered the attack perilous in the extreme.

But the orders of Edward were prompt and vigorous. He cared not for the

waste of life, and as one rank fell, another rushed on. High before

the barricades stood Montagu, Warwick, and the rest of that indomitable

chivalry, the flower of the ancient Norman heroism. As idly beat the

waves upon a rock as the ranks of Edward upon that serried front of

steel. The sun still shone in heaven, and still Edward’s conquest was

unassured. Nay, if Marmaduke could yet bring back the troops of Somerset

upon the rear of the foe, Montagu and the earl felt that the victory

might be for them. And often the earl paused, to hearken for the cry of

“Somerset” on the gale, and often Montagu raised his visor to look for

the banners and the spears of the Lancastrian duke. And ever, as the

earl listened and Montagu scanned the field, larger and larger seemed to

spread the armament of Edward. The regiment which boasted the stubborn

energy of Alwyn was now in movement, and, encouraged by the young

Saxon’s hardihood, the Londoners marched on, unawed by the massacre

of their predecessors. But Alwyn, avoiding the quarter defended by the

knights, defiled a little towards the left, where his quick eye, inured

to the northern fogs, had detected the weakness of the barricade in the

spot where Hilyard was stationed; and this pass Alwyn (discarding the

bow) resolved to attempt at the point of the pike, the weapon answering

to our modern bayonet. The first rush which he headed was so impetuous

as to effect an entry. The weight of the numbers behind urged on the

foremost, and Hilyard had not sufficient space for the sweep of the

two-handed sword which had done good work that day. While here the

conflict became fierce and doubtful, the right wing led by D’Eyncourt

had pierced the wood, and, surprised to discover no ambush, fell upon

the archers in the rear. The scene was now inexpressibly terrific; cries

and groans, and the ineffable roar and yell of human passion, resounded

demonlike through the shade of the leafless trees. And at this moment,

the provident and rapid generalship of Edward had moved up one of his

heavy bombards. Warwick and Montagu and most of the knights were called

from the barricades to aid the archers thus assailed behind; but an

instant before that defence was shattered into air by the explosion

of the bombard. In another minute horse and foot rushed through the

opening. And amidst all the din was heard the voice of Edward, “Strike,

and spare not; we win the day!” “We win the day! victory! victory!”

repeated the troops behind. Rank caught the sound from rank, and file

from file; it reached the captive Henry, and he paused in prayer; it

reached the ruthless friar, and he gave the sign to the hireling at his

shoulder; it reached the priest as he entered, unmoved, the church

of Hadley. And the bell, changing its note into a quicker and sweeter

chime, invited the living to prepare for death, and the soul to rise

above the cruelty and the falsehood, and the pleasure and the pomp,

and the wisdom and the glory of the world! And suddenly, as the

chime ceased, there was heard, from the eminence hard by, a shriek of

agony,--a female shriek,--drowned by the roar of a bombard in the field

below.

On pressed the Yorkists through the pass forced by Alwyn. “Yield thee,

stout fellow,” said the bold trader to Hilyard, whose dogged energy,

resembling his own, moved his admiration, and in whom, by the accent in

which Robin called his men, he recognized a north-countryman; “yield,

and I will see that thou goest safe in life and limb. Look round, ye are

beaten.”

“Fool!” answered Hilyard, setting his teeth, “the People are never

beaten!” And as the words left his lips, the shot from the recharged

bombard shattered him piecemeal.

“On for London and the crown!” cried Alwyn,--“the citizens are the

People!”

At this time, through the general crowd of the Yorkists, Ratcliffe and

Lovell, at the head of their appointed knights, galloped forward to

accomplish their crowning mission.

Behind the column which still commemorates “the great battle” of that

day, stretches now a trilateral patch of pasture-land, which faces a

small house. At that time this space was rough forest-ground, and

where now, in the hedge, rise two small trees, types of the diminutive

offspring of our niggard and ignoble civilization, rose then two huge

oaks, coeval with the warriors of the Norman Conquest. They grew close

together; yet, though their roots interlaced, though their branches

mingled, one had not taken nourishment from the other. They stood, equal

in height and grandeur, the twin giants of the wood. Before these

trees, whose ample trunks protected them from the falchions in the rear,

Warwick and Montagu took their last post. In front rose, literally,

mounds of the slain, whether of foe or friend; for round the two

brothers to the last had gathered the brunt of war, and they towered

now, almost solitary in valour’s sublime despair, amidst the wrecks of

battle and against the irresistible march of fate. As side by side they

had gained this spot, and the vulgar assailants drew back, leaving the

bodies of the dead their last defence from death, they turned their

visors to each other, as for one latest farewell on earth.

“Forgive me, Richard,” said Montagu,--“forgive me thy death; had I not

so blindly believed in Clarence’s fatal order, the savage Edward had

never passed alive through the pass of Pontefract.”

“Blame not thyself,” replied Warwick. “We are but the instruments of

a wiser Will. God assoil thee, brother mine. We leave this world to

tyranny and vice. Christ receive our souls!”

For a moment their hands clasped, and then all was grim silence.

Wide and far, behind and before, in the gleam of the sun, stretched

the victorious armament, and that breathing-pause sufficed to show the

grandeur of their resistance,--the grandest of all spectacles, even in

its hopeless extremity,--the defiance of brave hearts to the brute force

of the many. Where they stood they were visible to thousands, but not a

man stirred against them. The memory of Warwick’s past achievements, the

consciousness of his feats that day, all the splendour of his fortunes

and his name, made the mean fear to strike, and the brave ashamed to

murder! The gallant D’Eyncourt sprang from his steed, and advanced to

the spot. His followers did the same.

“Yield, my lords, yield! Ye have done all that men could do!”

“Yield, Montagu,” whispered Warwick. “Edward can harm not thee. Life has

sweets; so they say, at least.”

“Not with power and glory gone.--We yield not, Sir Knight,” answered the

marquis, in a calm tone.

“Then die, and make room for the new men whom ye so have scorned!”

exclaimed a fierce voice; and Ratcliffe, who had neared the spot,

dismounted and hallooed on his bloodhounds.

Seven points might the shadow have traversed on the dial, and, before

Warwick’s axe and Montagu’s sword, seven souls had gone to judgment. In

that brief crisis, amidst the general torpor and stupefaction and awe of

the bystanders, round one little spot centred still a war.

But numbers rushed on numbers, as the fury of conflict urged on the

lukewarm. Montagu was beaten to his knee, Warwick covered him with his

body; a hundred axes resounded on the earl’s stooping casque, a hundred

blades gleamed round the joints of his harness. A simultaneous cry was

heard; over the mounds of the slain, through the press into the shadow

of the oaks, dashed Gloucester’s charger. The conflict had ceased, the

executioners stood mute in a half-circle. Side by side, axe and sword

still griped in their iron hands, lay Montagu and Warwick.

The young duke, his visor raised, contemplated the fallen foes in

silence. Then dismounting, he unbraced with his own hand the earl’s

helmet. Revived for a moment by the air, the hero’s eyes unclosed, his

lips moved, he raised, with a feeble effort, the gory battle-axe,

and the armed crowd recoiled in terror. But the earl’s soul, dimly

conscious, and about to part, had escaped from that scene of strife, its

later thoughts of wrath and vengeance, to more gentle memories, to such

memories as fade the last from true and manly hearts!

“Wife! child!” murmured the earl, indistinctly. “Anne! Anne! Dear ones,

God comfort ye!” And with these words the breath went, the head fell

heavily on its mother earth, the face set, calm and undistorted, as the

face of a soldier should be, when a brave death has been worthy of a

brave life.

“So,” muttered the dark and musing Gloucester, unconscious of the

throng, “so perishes the Race of Iron. Low lies the last baron who could

control the throne and command the people. The Age of Force expires with

knighthood and deeds of arms. And over this dead great man I see the New

Cycle dawn. Happy, henceforth, he who can plot and scheme, and fawn and

smile!” Waking with a start from his revery, the splendid dissimulator

said, as in sad reproof, “Ye have been over hasty, knights and

gentlemen. The House of York is mighty enough to have spared such noble

foes. Sound trumpets! Fall in file! Way, there,--way! King Edward comes.

Long live the king!”

CHAPTER VII. THE LAST PILGRIMS IN THE LONG PROCESSION TO THE COMMON

BOURNE.

The king and his royal brothers, immediately after the victory, rode

back to London to announce their triumph. The foot-soldiers still stayed

behind to recruit themselves after the sore fatigue. And towards the

eminence by Hadley church, the peasants and villagers of the district

had pressed in awe and in wonder; for on that spot had Henry (now sadly

led back to a prison, never again to unclose to his living form) stood

to watch the destruction of the host gathered in his name; and to that

spot the corpses of Warwick and Montagu were removed, while a bier was

prepared to convey their remains to London; [The bodies of Montagu and

the earl were exhibited bareheaded at St. Paul’s church for three days,

“that no pretence of their being alive might stir up any rebellion

afterwards;... they were then carried down to the Priory of Bisham, in

Berkshire, where among their ancestors by the mother’s side (the Earls

of Salisbury), the two unquiet brothers rest in one tomb.... The large

river of their blood, divided now into many streams, runs so small, they

are hardly observed as they flow by.” (Habington’s “Life of Edward IV.,”

one of the most eloquent compositions in the language, though incorrect

as a history).--“Sic transit gloria mundi.”] and on that spot had the

renowned friar conjured the mists, exorcised the enchanted guns, and

defeated the horrible machinations of the Lancastrian wizard.

And towards the spot, and through the crowd, a young Yorkist captain

passed with a prisoner he had captured, and whom he was leading to the

tent of the Lord Hastings, the only one of the commanders from whom

mercy might be hoped, and who had tarried behind the king and his royal

brothers to make preparations for the removal of the mighty dead.

“Keep close to me, Sir Marmaduke,” said the Yorkist; “we must look to

Hastings to appease the king: and, if he hope not to win your pardon, he

may, at least, after such a victory, aid one foe to fly.”

“Care not for me, Alwyn,” said the knight; “when Somerset was deaf save

to his own fears, I came back to die by my chieftain’s side, alas, too

late! too late! Better now death than life! What kin, kith, ambition,

love, were to other men was Lord Warwick’s smile to me!”

Alwyn kindly respected his prisoner’s honest emotion, and took advantage

of it to lead him away from the spot where he saw knights and

warriors thickest grouped, in soldier-like awe and sadness, round

the Hero-Brothers. He pushed through a humbler crowd of peasants and

citizens, and women with babes at their breast; and suddenly saw a troop

of timbrel-women dancing round a leafless tree, and chanting some wild

but mirthful and joyous doggerel.

“What obscene and ill-seasoned revelry is this?” said the trader to a

gaping yeoman.

“They are but dancing, poor girls, round the wicked wizard whom Friar

Bungey caused to be strangled, and his witch daughter.”

A chill foreboding seized upon Alwyn: he darted forward, scattering

peasant and tymbestere with his yet bloody sword. His feet stumbled

against some broken fragments; it was the poor Eureka, shattered, at

last, for the sake of the diamond! Valueless to the great friar, since

the science of the owner could not pass to his executioner,--valueless

the mechanism and the invention, the labour and the genius; but the

superstition and the folly and the delusion had their value, and the

impostor who destroyed the engine clutched the jewel!

From the leafless tree was suspended the dead body of a man; beneath,

lay a female, dead too; but whether by the hand of man or the mercy

of Heaven, there was no sign to tell. Scholar and Child, Knowledge

and Innocence, alike were cold; the grim Age had devoured them, as it

devours ever those before, as behind, its march, and confounds, in one

common doom, the too guileless and the too wise!

“Why crowd ye thus, knaves?” said a commanding voice.

“Ha, Lord Hastings! approach! behold!” exclaimed Alwyn.

“Ha, ha!” shouted Graul, as she led her sisters from the spot, wheeling,

and screaming, and tossing up their timbrels, “ha! the witch and her

lover! Ha, ha! Foul is fair! Ha, ha! Witchcraft and death go together,

as thou mayest learn at the last, sleek wooer.”

And, peradventure, when, long years afterwards, accusations of

witchcraft, wantonness, and treason resounded in the ears of Hastings,

and, at the signal of Gloucester, rushed in the armed doomsman, those

ominous words echoed back upon his soul!

At that very hour the gates of the Tower were thrown open to the

multitude. Fresh from his victory, Edward and his brothers had gone

to render thanksgivings at St. Paul’s (they were devout, those three

Plantagenets!), thence to Baynard’s Castle, to escort the queen and her

children once more to the Tower. And, now, the sound of trumpets stilled

the joyous uproar of the multitude, for in the balcony of the casement

that looked towards the chapel the herald had just announced that King

Edward would show himself to the people. On every inch of the courtyard,

climbing up wall and palisade, soldier, citizen, thief, harlot, age,

childhood, all the various conditions and epochs of multiform life,

swayed, clung, murmured, moved, jostled, trampled,--the beings of the

little hour!

High from the battlements against the weltering beam floated Edward’s

conquering flag,--a sun shining to the sun. Again, and a third time,

rang the trumpets, and on the balcony, his crown upon his head, but

his form still sheathed in armour, stood the king. What mattered to the

crowd his falseness and his perfidy, his licentiousness and cruelty? All

vices ever vanish in success! Hurrah for King Edward! THE MAN OF THE AGE

suited the age, had valour for its war and cunning for its peace, and

the sympathy of the age was with him! So there stood the king; at his

right hand, Elizabeth, with her infant boy (the heir of England) in her

arms, the proud face of the duchess seen over the queen’s shoulder. By

Elizabeth’s side was the Duke of Gloucester, leaning on his sword, and

at the left of Edward, the perjured Clarence bowed his fair head to the

joyous throng! At the sight of the victorious king, of the lovely queen,

and, above all, of the young male heir, who promised length of days to

the line of York, the crowd burst forth with a hearty cry, “Long

live the king and the king’s son!” Mechanically Elizabeth turned her

moistened eyes from Edward to Edward’s brother, and suddenly, as with

a mother’s prophetic instinct, clasped her infant closer to her bosom,

when she caught the glittering and fatal eye of Richard, Duke of

Gloucester (York’s young hero of the day, Warwick’s grim avenger in the

future), fixed upon that harmless life, destined to interpose a feeble

obstacle between the ambition of a ruthless intellect and the heritage

of the English throne!

NOTES.

I. The badge of the Bear and Ragged Staff was so celebrated in the

fifteenth century, that the following extract from a letter addressed

by Mr. Courthope, Rouge Croix, to the author, will no doubt interest

the reader, and the author is happy in the opportunity afforded of

expressing his acknowledgments for the courteous attention with which

Mr. Courthope has honoured his inquiries:--

“COLLEGE OF ARMS. As regards the badge of Richard Nevile, Earl of

Warwick,--namely, the Bear and Staff,--I agree with you, certainly, as

to the probability of his having sometimes used the whole badge, and

sometimes the Staff only, which accords precisely with the way in which

the Bear and Staff are set forth in the Rous Roll to the early earls

(Warwick) before the Conquest. We there find them figured with the Staff

upon their shields and the Bear at their feet, and the Staff alone is

introduced as a quartering upon their shields.

“The story of the origin of these badges is as follows:

“Arth, or Arthgal, is reputed to have been the first Earl of Warwick,

and being one of the knights of King Arthur’s Round Table, it behooved

him to have a cognizance; and Arth or Narth signifying in British

the same as Ursus in Latin, he took the Bear for such cognizance. His

successor, Morvidus, Earl of Warwick, in single combat, overcame a

mighty giant (who had encountered him with a tree pulled up from the

root, the boughs of which had been torn from it), and in token of his

success assumed the Ragged Staff. You will thus see that the origins

of the two were different, which would render the bearing of them

separately not unlikely, and you will likewise infer that both came

through the Beauchamps. I do not find the Ragged Staff ever attributed

to the Neviles before the match with Beauchamp.

“As regards the crest or cognizance of Nevile, the Pied Bull has been

the cognizance of that family from a very early time, and the Bull’s

head, its crest, and both the one and the other may have been used by

the king-maker, and by his brother, the Marquis Montagu; the said Bull

appears at the feet of Richard Nevile in the Rous Roll, accompanied by

the Eagle of Monthermer; the crests on either side of him are those of

Montagu and Nevile. Besides these two crests, both of which the Marquis

Montagu may have used, he certainly did use the Gryphon, issuant out

of a ducal coronet, as this appears alone for his crest, on his garter

plate, as a crest for Montagu, he having given the arms of that family

precedence over his paternal coat of Nevile; the king-maker, likewise,

upon his seal, gives the precedence to Montagu and Monthermer, and they

alone appear upon his shield.”

II. Hume, Rapin, and Carte, all dismiss the story of Edward’s actual

imprisonment at Middleham, while Lingard, Sharon Turner, and others,

adopt it implicitly. And yet, though Lingard has successfully grappled

with some of Hume’s objections, he has left others wholly unanswered.

Hume states that no such fact is mentioned in Edward’s subsequent

proclamation against Clarence and Warwick. Lingard answers, after

correcting an immaterial error in Hume’s dates, “that the proclamation

ought not to have mentioned it, because it was confined to the

enumeration of offences only committed after the general amnesty in

1469;” and then, surely with some inconsistency, quotes the attainder

of Clarence many years afterwards, in which the king enumerates it among

his offences, “as jeopardyng the king’s royal estate, person, and

life, in strait warde, putting him thereby from all his libertye

after procuring great commotions.” But it is clear that if the amnesty

hindered Edward from charging Warwick with this imprisonment only

one year after it was granted, it would, a fortiori, hinder him from

charging Clarence with it nine years after. Most probable is it that

this article of accusation does not refer to any imprisonment, real or

supposed, at Middleham, in 1469, but to Clarence’s invasion of England

in 1470, when Edward’s state, person, and life were jeopardized by his

narrow escape from the fortified house, where he might fairly be called

“in straite warde;” especially as the words, “after procuring great

commotions,” could not apply to the date of the supposed detention in

Middleham, when, instead of procuring commotions, Clarence had helped

Warwick to allay them, but do properly apply to his subsequent rebellion

in 1470. Finally, Edward’s charges against his brother, as Lingard

himself has observed elsewhere, are not proofs, and that king never

scrupled at any falsehood to serve his turn. Nothing, in short, can

be more improbable than this tale of Edward’s captivity,--there was no

object in it. At the very time it is said to have taken place, Warwick

is absolutely engaged in warfare against the king’s foes. The moment

Edward leaves Middleham, instead of escaping to London, he goes

carelessly and openly to York, to judge and execute the very captain of

the rebels whom Warwick has subdued, and in the very midst of Warwick’s

armies! Far from appearing to harbour the natural resentment so

vindictive a king must have felt (had so great an indignity been offered

to him), almost immediately after he leaves York, he takes the Nevile

family into greater power than ever, confers new dignities upon Warwick,

and betroths his eldest daughter to Warwick’s nephew. On the whole,

then, perhaps some such view of the king’s visit to Middleham which has

been taken in this narrative, may be considered not the least probable

compromise of the disputed and contradictory evidence on the subject.

THE END.