THE CAPTIVITY.
Oh, the long and tedious hours of imprisonment! how they weigh down
the stoutest heart! How soul and mind seem fettered as well as body;
and how the chain grows heavier every hour we wear it! Days and weeks
passed by; weeks and months flew away; and, strictly confined to one
small chamber in the castle of Montl'herry, Richard of Woodville
remained a prisoner.
The Count of Vaudemont, courteous in words, showed himself aught but
courteous in deeds. Every tone had been knightly and generous while he
stayed in the chateau; but no results had followed. He would never fix
the ransom of his captive; he would never hold out any prospect of
liberty; and ere long he departed for Paris, leaving Woodville in the
hands of the Chatelain of the place, who, severely blamed for the
escape of the young Lord of Croy, revenged himself upon him, by whose
aid it had been accomplished. To that one little room, high up in the
chateau, was Woodville restricted; no exercise was permitted to him,
but the pacing up and down of its narrow limits: no relaxation but to
sing snatches of the old ballads of which he was so fond, or to gaze
from under the pointed arch of the window over the changing scene
below. No one was permitted to see him but his own page, who had been
captured with him, and one of the soldiers of the castle; no book
existed within the walls; and materials for writing, purchased with
difficulty in the town, were only granted him in order to write to the
Lord of Vaudemont concerning his ransom.
At first he remonstrated mildly; but when no other answer arrived, but
that the Count would think of it, he took another tone, reproached him
for his want of courtesy, and reminded him, that though he had
surrendered rescue or no rescue, the refusal of reasonable ransom,
justified him in making his escape whenever the opportunity might
occur.
The Count's reply consisted of but four words, "Escape if you can,"
and from that hour the guard kept upon him became more strict than
before. The weary hours dragged heavily on. Summer succeeded to
spring, and autumn to summer, without anything occurring to cheer the
lonely vacancy of his captivity, but an occasional rumour, brought by
the page or the soldier who acted as jailer, either of the great
events which were then agitating Europe, or of efforts made for his
own liberation. The reports, however, were all vague and uncertain. He
heard of war between France and Burgundy, but could with difficulty
obtain any means of judging which party had gained the ascendancy.
Then he heard of a new peace, as hollow as those which had preceded
it; and with that intelligence came the tidings, which the page gained
from the soldiers of the garrison, that a large ransom had been
offered for him; but whether by the Duke of Burgundy himself, or the
Lord of Croy, he could not correctly ascertain. Next came a rumour of
dissensions between France and England, and of a probable war; but
none of the particulars could be learnt, except that the demands of
Henry V. were in the opinion of the Frenchmen extravagant, and that
the greater part of the nation looked forward with delight to an
opportunity of wiping away the disgrace of Cressy and Poitiers, and
blotting out for ever the treaty of Bretigny.
Oh, what would he have given for his liberty then! All his aspirations
for glory and renown, all his hopes of winning praise and advancement,
all the dreams of young ambition, all the bright imaginations of love,
rose up before him as memories of the dead. Those prison walls were
their cold sepulchre, that solitary chamber the tomb of all the
energies within him. He had well nigh become frantic with
disappointment; but he struggled successfully with the despair of his
own thoughts, as every man of a really powerful mind will do. No one
can obtain full mastery of the minds of others, without having full
mastery of his own. He would not suffer his fancy to dwell upon sad
things; he strove to create for himself objects of interest; and from
the arched window he made himself acquainted as a friend with every
object in the wide-spread scene beneath his eyes. Every church spire,
every castle tower, every belt of wood, every stream and every road,
every hamlet and every house, for miles around, were described and
marked as if he had been mapping the country in his own mind. But it
was only that he was seeking for objects of interest; and he found
them; and variety too, he found; for every hour and every season
brought its change. The varying shadows as day rose or declined; the
different hues of summer and of winter, of autumn and of spring; the
changeful aspect of the April day; the frowning sublimity of the
thunder storm; the cold, stern, desolate gloom of the wintry air, all
gave food to nourish fancy with, and from which he extracted thought
and occupation.
He had withal, one grand support and consolation: the best after the
voice of religion, a conscience clear of offence. He could look back
upon the past and say, I have done well. There was no reproach within
him for opportunities missed, advantages wasted, or ill deeds done;
and often and often, he thought of the first song that poor Ella Brune
had sung him, and of that stanza in which she said,
"In hours of pain and grief,
If such thou must endure,
Thy breast shall know relief
In honour tried and pure;
For the true heart and kind,
Its recompence shall find;
Shall win praise,
And golden days,
And live in many a tale."
In the meanwhile his treatment varied greatly at different times.
Sometimes the Chatelain was harsh and severe, refusing him almost
everything that was necessary to his comfort; at others, with the
caprice which is so common amongst rude and uncivilized people, he
would seem joyous and good-humoured: would visit his prisoner, talk
with him, and send him dishes from his own table, permitting many a
little alleviation of his grief, which on former occasions he denied.
In one of these happier moods he allowed the page to buy his master a
cithern, which proved one of the prisoner's greatest comforts and
resources; and not long after, in the summer of 1415, a still greater
change of conduct took place towards him. His table became supplied
with princely liberality; rich wines and dainty meats were daily set
before him; and the page was suffered to go at large about the town to
procure anything his master might require.
One day the boy returned very much heated with exercise, and moved
with what seemed pleasurable feelings; and looking round the room
eagerly, he closed the door with care.
"You have tidings, Will," said the young knight, "and joyful tidings,
too, or I am mistaken."
"I have better than tidings," replied the boy. "I have a letter. Read
it quick, and then hide it. I will go out into the passage, and watch,
lest Joachim come up. He was lolling at the foot of the stairs."
Richard of Woodville took the letter from the boy eagerly, and read
what was written in the outer cover. The words were few, and in a hand
he did not know. "Nothing has been left undone," the writer said, "to
set you free. A baron's ransom has been offered for you and refused.
The Duke of Burgundy required your liberation as one of the terms of
peace, but could not obtain it. The Lord of Croy offered two prisoners
of equal rank, and a ransom besides, but did not succeed. But fear
not; friends are gathering round you. Be prepared to depart at a
moment's notice, and you shall be set free as others have been. The
moment you are free, hasten to England; for you have been belied."
Within this was a short letter from Mary Grey, full of tenderness and
affection, with words and avowals which she might have scrupled to
utter for any other purpose but the generous one of consoling and
supporting him she loved, in sorrow and adversity. Beneath her name
were written a few words from her father, expressive of more kindness,
confidence, and regard, than he had ever previously shown; but he,
too, spoke of the young knight's return to England, as absolutely
necessary for his own defence; and he too alluded to the rumours
against him, without stating what those rumours were.
If there was much to cheer, there was much to distress and grieve; and
Woodville paused for several minutes to think over the contents of
these letters, and to consider what could be the nature of the
calumnies referred to, believing that he had fully refuted the charge
of having neglected to obey the King's command to return to England,
before he set out on the expedition which had been attended by such an
unfortunate result. At length the page looked in, to see if he had
done; and Woodville, bidding him shut the door, inquired from whom he
had received the letters.
"It was from the young clerk, noble sir," replied the boy, "who was
with Sir John Grey at Charleville. I saw a youth in a black gown
wandering about the castle gates some days since; and as I stood alone
upon the drawbridge, about half an hour ago, he passed me again, and
seeing that there was no one there, made me a sign to follow. I walked
after him into the church, and then he gave me the letter for you; but
bade me tell you to be upon your guard, for that there are enemies
near as well as friends. To make sure that you were not deceived, he
said, you were to put trust in no one who did not give you the word,
'Mary Markham.'"
"Hark!" cried Woodville, rising and going to the window. "There are
trumpets sounding!"
"I heard the Lord of Vaudemont was expected to-day," replied the boy.
"And there he is," said Richard of Woodville, watching a body of horse
coming up the hill. "On my honour, if I have speech with him, he shall
hear my full thoughts on his discourteous conduct. But now, hie thee
away, Will. Seek out this young clerk in the town, and ask if he can
convey my answer back to the letters which he brought. I will find
means to write if he can."
"Oh, I can find him," replied the boy, "for he told me where he
lodged: in the house of a widow woman, named Chatain."
"Away, then!" answered Woodville; "let them not find you here."
When he looked forth from the window again, the young knight could no
longer perceive the body of horse he had seen advancing; but the
noises which rose up from the court of the castle below, the clang of
arms, the gay tones of voices laughing and talking, the word of
command, and the shout of the warder, showed him that the party had
already arrived. About an hour passed without his hearing more; but
then came the sound of steps in the passage; the door opened, and
three gentlemen entered, of whom the first was the Count of Vaudemont.
The next was a man several years younger; and the third, a stout
ill-favoured personage, of nearly fifty years of age. None of them
were armed, except with a dagger, usually worn hanging from the waist;
and all were dressed in the extravagant style of the French court in
that day, with every merely ornamental part of dress exaggerated till
it became a monstrosity. Every colour, too, was the brightest that
could be found; each contrasted with the other in the most vivid and
inharmonious assortment, green and red, amber and blue, pink and
yellow, so that each man looked like some gaudy eastern bird new
feathered.
The Lord of Vaudemont was evidently in a light and merry mood, or, at
least, affected it; for he entered laughing, and at once held out his
hand to his prisoner, as if a familiar friend.
Richard of Woodville, however, drew back, saying, "Your pardon, my
good lord. I am a captive, for whom ransom has been refused.--You
forget!"
"Nay, I remember it well, sir knight," replied the Count, laughing
again; "and that you intend to escape. You have not succeeded yet, I
see. However, let me set myself right with you on that head. 'Tis not
I who refuse your ransom. 'Tis my lord, the Duke of Aquitaine, who
will not have you set free just yet, so that I risk my angels if you
have wit enough to find your way out. His commands, however, are
express, and I must obey. My lord the Duke of Orleans, here present,
will witness for me, as well as my lord of Armagnac, that I would far
rather have your gold in my purse, where it is much needed, than your
person in Montl'herry, where it could be well spared."
The young knight regarded the famous nobles, of whom he had heard so
much, with no slight interest; and the Duke of Orleans, drawing a
settle to the table, leaned his head upon his arm in a thoughtful
attitude, saying, "It is quite true, sir; but perhaps that may be
remedied ere long. If you be willing to renounce the cause of
Burgundy, and agree to serve no more against the crown of France, the
difficulty may be removed."
"I have no purpose, sir, to ride for that good lord, the Duke, any
more," answered Richard of Woodville; "I did but seek his Court to win
honour and renown; but now I am called to England by many motives, so
that I may well promise not to serve with him again; but if your
proposal goes farther, and you would have me give my knightly word,
not to fight for my Sovereign against any power on earth where he may
need my arm, I must at once say no. I am his vassal, and will do my
duty according to my oath, whenever he shall call upon me. He is my
liege lord; and--"
"There are some Englishmen, and not a few," said the Count of
Armagnac, in a harsh and grating tone of voice, "who do not hold him
to be such, but rather an usurper. Edmund, Earl of March, is your
liege lord, young knight."
"He has never claimed that title, noble sir," answered Richard of
Woodville; "and indeed, has renounced it, by swearing allegiance
himself to his great cousin."
"Compulsion, all compulsion," said the Duke of Orleans; "we shall yet
see him on the throne of England."
"I trust not, my lord the Duke," answered the English knight; "but if
the plea of compulsion can, in your eyes, justify the breach of an
oath, how could you expect me to keep a promise made, not to serve
against this crown of France, here in a prison?"
"But why say you, that you trust not to see him on the throne?" asked
the Count of Armagnac, evading the part of Woodville's reply which he
would have found difficult to answer. "He is surely a noble and
courteous gentleman, full of high virtues."
"Far inferior in all to his royal cousin," answered the knight; "but
it is not on that account alone I say so, but for many reasons. We
Englishmen believe that our crown is held by somewhat different rights
from yours of France. At the coronations of our kings, we by our free
voices confirm them on their throne. The people of England have a say
in the question of a monarch's title; and without that recognition
they are not kings of England. To our present sovereign, the nobles of
the land offered their homage ere the crown was placed upon his brow;
but he, as wise in this as in all else, would receive none till he was
proclaimed King, not by a herald's trumpet, but by the tongues of
Englishmen. Besides, I say, I trust I shall never see the Earl of
March wearing the English crown, because I hope never to see an
honourable nobleman forget his oath, nor a perjured monarch on the
throne."
"And yet your fourth Harry forgot his," said the Duke of Orleans.
"Not till intolerable wrongs and base injustice drove him to it,"
answered the knight; "not till the monarch so far forgot his compact
with the subject, as to free him from remembrance of his part of the
obligation. Besides, I was then a boy; I found a sovereign reigning by
the voice of the people; to him I pledged my first oath of fealty. I
have since pledged it to his son; and I will keep it."
The two Counts and the Duke looked at each other with a significant
glance; and after a moment's consideration, the Count of Vaudemont
changed the subject, saying, "Well, good knight, such are your
thoughts. We may judge differently. But say, how have you fared
lately? I heard that our worthy Chatelain here had been somewhat harsh
with you, resolving that you should not play him such a trick as the
boy of Croy; and I ordered that such treatment should be amended. Has
it been done? I would not have you used unworthily."
"It has been done in some points, my lord," replied Richard of
Woodville, "but not in all."
"Nay, good faith, with warning from your own lips that you sought to
escape," answered the Count, "he was right not to relax on all
points."
"But some he might have relaxed, yet held me safe," rejoined the young
knight. "I have been cut off from all means of holding any communion
with my friends, though it was most needful that I should urge them to
offer what terms might find favour for my liberation. I have been kept
more like some felon subject of this land, than a fair prisoner of
war."
"Nay, that must be changed," said the Duke of Orleans; "such was not
your intention, I am sure, De Vaudemont?"
"By no means, noble Duke," answered the Count. "I will take order that
it be so no more. You shall have liberty to write to whom you will,
sir knight; and, indeed, having a courier going soon to England, you
will have the means right soon, if you will, of sending letters. I
have heard," he added with a laugh, "that there is a certain noble
gentleman of the name of Grey, with whom you have some dear
relations--much in King Henry's confidence, if I mistake not.
Perchance, were he to use his influence with that Prince, something
might be done to mitigate the Dauphin's sternness. We are still
negotiating with England, though, by my faith, these preparations at
Southampton, and this purchase of vessels from the Hollanders, looks
more warlike than one might have wished."
"If my liberation, noble Count, depends on Sir John Grey's using his
influence for ought but his Sovereign's interests," replied Richard of
Woodville, "I fear I shall be long a captive. However, to him will be,
perchance, my only letter; for he can communicate with other friends."
"Do as you will, noble lords," cried the Count of Armagnac, who had
been sitting silent for some time, gnawing his nail in gloomy
meditation; "but were I you I would suffer no such letters to pass.
They will but tend to counteract all that you desire. Here you have in
your hands one of the hearty enemies of France: that is clear from
every word,--one who, at all risks, would urge his sovereign to deeds
of hostility against us, when we are already wrung by internal
discord. Why should you suffer him to pour such poison into the hearts
of his countrymen?"
"Nay, nay," replied the Count of Vaudemont; "my word is given, and I
cannot retract it. We are less harsh than you, my lord, and doubt not
that this noble knight will say nothing against the cause of those who
grant him this permission."
"On no such subjects will I treat, sirs," answered Richard of
Woodville; "the matter of my letter will be simple enough, my own
liberation being all the object."
"You must be quick, however," said the Lord of Vaudemont; "for, at
morning song, to-morrow, the messenger departs."
The young knight replied that his letters would be ready in an hour,
and the three noblemen withdrew for a moment; but he could hear that
they continued speaking together in the passage; and the next instant,
the Duke of Orleans and the Count of Armagnac returned. "We cannot
suffer long letters, sir knight," said the latter, as soon as he
entered; "if all you wish is to treat for your ransom, and to induce
your friends to exert themselves for your liberation, you can send
messages by word of mouth, which we can hear and judge of."
"But how will my friends know that such messages really come from me?"
demanded Woodville, with deep mortification.
"Why," replied the Count, after a moment's thought, "you may send a
few words in the French tongue, in our presence--for we have heard of
inks and inventions which escape the eye of all but the persons for
whom they are intended--you may send a few words, I say, merely
telling the gentlemen to whom you write, to give credit to what the
bearer shall speak."
Woodville paused and meditated; but then, having formed his
resolution, he replied, "Well, my good lord, if better may not be, so
will I do. Send me the messenger when you will, and I will give him
the credentials required."
"Call him now, my fair Lord of Armagnac," said the Duke of Orleans,
with a significant look. "He is below."
The count soon reappeared with a stout, plain-looking man, habited as
a soldier; and Woodville, after inquiring if he had ever been in
England before, and finding that such was not the case, gave him
directions for seeking out Sir John Grey in Winchester, from which
town the letters that had been conveyed to him were dated. He then
gave him messages to Mary's father; and, pointing out that it would be
better to lose any amount of money, rather than remain longer in
prison, he besought the knight to borrow a sum for him, to the value
of one-half of his estates, and offer it to the Lord of Vaudemont as
his ransom, adding, somewhat bitterly, "Tell the good knight that I
find, in France, the fine old spirit of chivalry is at an end, which
led each noble gentleman to fix at once a reasonable ransom for an
honourable prisoner, and that nothing but an excessive sum will gain a
captive's liberty."
The Duke of Orleans frowned, but made no observation in reply, merely
speaking a few words in a low tone to the Count of Armagnac, who went
to the door and called aloud for a strip of parchment and some ink.
What he required was soon brought; and he laid before the young knight
a narrow slip, not large enough to contain more than a sentence or
two, saying, "There, fair sir, you can write in the usual form, as
follows,"
Richard of Woodville took the pen and addressed the letter at the top
to Sir John Grey: the Duke of Orleans coming round and looking over
his shoulder, while the Count of Armagnac stood on the opposite side
of the table, and dictated what he was to write.
"You can say," he proceeded, "'These are to beg of you, by your love
and regard for me, to hear and believe what the bearer will tell you
on my part;' and then put your name."
Richard of Woodville wrote as he directed, word for word, till he came
to the conclusion, but then, he added rapidly, "touching my ransom,"
and affixed his signature so close, that nothing could be
interpolated.
"What, have you written more?" cried the Count, whose eye was fixed
upon his hand.
"Touching my ransom," said the Duke of Orleans, gazing across. The
Count snatched up the parchment, and read it with a frowning brow, as
if angry that his dictation had not been exactly followed; and then,
beckoning to the Duke of Orleans and the messenger, he hurried
abruptly out of the room. The door was not yet shut by the inferior
person, who went out last, when the young prisoner heard the Count of
Armagnac say to the Duke, in a low growling tone, "This will not do."
"Let me see," said the voice of the Lord of Vaudemont, who had
apparently been waiting behind the door. A blasphemous oath followed;
and Richard of Woodville heard no more; but a smile crossed his
countenance, for they had evidently sought to use him for some secret
purpose of their own, and had been frustrated.