In a small, but rich and beautiful, Gothic chamber, splendidly
decorated, and splendidly furnished, sat a gentleman, in the very
prime of life, at a table covered with manifold papers. His dress was
gorgeous; but the eye rested hardly for a moment on the splendour of
his apparel, for there was something in his countenance which at once
fixed all attention upon itself. The features were delicate and
beautiful, the eyes dark, keen, and expressive. The lips were somewhat
thin, and apparently habitually compressed, though when they parted
they showed a row of teeth as white as snow. The long dark brown hair
was of silky fineness and gloss, bending in graceful waves about a
brow broad, high, and majestic, which would have been perfect in form,
had not habit or nature stamped a wrinkled frown upon it, while some
long lines, the traces of deep thought, furrowed the wide expanse
which age had not yet had time to touch. He was in the prime of life,
the early prime, for he had not yet seen three and thirty years, and
not a particle of bodily or mental energy had been lost; but yet his
form did not give any promise of great strength, for he was somewhat
below the middle height, and the limbs seemed small and delicate. One
shoulder was rather higher than the other, but not so much so as to be
a striking deformity; and the left arm seemed somewhat smaller than
its fellow. No means had been taken to conceal these defects; and yet
he might have passed anywhere for an exceedingly good-looking man, had
it not been for a certain expression of fierce and fiery passion which
occasionally came into his countenance, blending strangely with the
look of sarcastic acuteness which it usually bore. It was upon his
face at that moment, as he read a letter before him; but it passed
away speedily, and it was with a bitter smile he said--speaking to
himself, for there was no one else in the room--
"Not know? He must be made to know! We will pluck the heart of this
treason out;" and he wrote a few words hastily on the back of the
letter which he had been reading.
Then, however, he paused, laid his finger on his temple, and thought
deeply for a minute or two. "No," he said at length, "no! It must be
passed over. If they catch him in the abbey, the lad's fault shall be
passed over. He has served the purposes of a decoy--done good service
without knowing it; and we will not kill the bird that lures the game
to us, though it little thinks that it betrays its fellows--perhaps
imagines it is serving them, not us. I have heard there was friendship
between the bishop and his father; and we must alienate no friends
just now.--Friends!" he continued, with a bitter sneer. "What are
friends? I know but one, whom men can ever count upon; and he dwells
here;" and at the same time he laid his hand significantly on his own
broad forehead.
He then took the pen again, and struck out the words he had written on
the paper, pushed it aside, raised another, and, after glancing over
it, clapped his hands, exclaiming--
"Without, there!"
A servant instantly appeared; and the king, for it was Richard
himself, demanded--
"Did you not tell me that this man, John Radnor, had been killed by a
fail from his horse?"
"Yes, sire," answered the servant, "so the posts say, who brought your
grace the news that the earls of Richmond's fleet had been dispersed.
He was found dead upon the road, but with his purse and papers all
secure, so that they could not be thieves who slew him."
"I trust there are few such left in the land," said Richard. "I have
done something already to crush the lawless spirit engendered in this
country by long turbulence and domestic strife; and I will trample out
the last spark ere I have done. By Christ, the name of thief shall be
unknown in the land if I live long enough.--I grieve for this man," he
continued, musing. "He was a serviceable knave, and one to whose
dexterity we could trust instructions somewhat difficult to write, and
yet not make him an ambassador.--Send Sir John Thoresby to me," he
continued, "and as soon as Sir Charles Weinants comes, give him
admission."
With a low reverence, the man withdrew; and the king busied himself
with the papers again, till the door opened and a gentleman in black
entered the room.
"Let those be answered, Sir John," said the king, pushing some letters
to him, "and take order that lodging and entertainment be prepared at
York for the Princess Countess of Arran. Send off too, by a private
hand, which can be trusted, a letter to the king her brother, greeting
him well from us, and telling him that the secret note, sent with the
letters of the countess, has been received. Bid him set his mind at
ease, for that the matter is very sure, and that, search as she will,
search will be fruitless, so that she can come safely.--Have you seen
the queen?"
"I passed her but now, your grace, in the hall," replied the
gentleman; "and she enquired if there were any news from Middleham.
She seemed much alarmed on account of the prince's illness."
"Oh, it is nothing, it is nothing," answered the king. "It will soon
pass. Children are well and ill in a day. The next post will bring us
news that he is better; but women are full of fears. Yet it is strange
we have not heard to-day. I will go and see her, while you write
here;" and, with a slow pace and thoughtful air, he quitted the room.
At the end of a short corridor, Richard opened a door, which gave him
admission to a large old hall, in one part of which were seated
several young ladies of high family, working busily at embroidery
frames. At one of the tall arched windows, gazing out on the prospect
below, with a look of restless anxiety on her face, stood the fair and
unfortunate daughter of the earl of Warwick, his youngest and his best
beloved, whom, with the prophetic spirit of parental affection, he had
endeavoured in vain to hide from the pursuit of him who never set his
eyes upon an object without sooner or later attaining it. She was
richly dressed, according to the mode of those times; and her slight
figure and her fair face still retained many traces of that delicate
and feminine beauty which had once so highly distinguished them.
The instant she heard her husband's step, she turned quickly round
with a timid and inquiring glance; but Richard was in one of his
milder moods. The subject of his thought and hers was one of common
affection; and he advanced tenderly towards her, and took her in his
arms, saying--
"I have heard nothing, Ann; but cast these fears from your mind. I
trust that this is nothing but one of those sicknesses of childhood
which come and pass away like spring showers."
The tears came into the queen's eyes, rising from very mingled
emotions. Her apprehension for her child, her husband's tenderness,
the feeling perhaps of her own failing health, the recollections of
early years, all moved her heart; and yet she feared that her emotions
might rouse an impatient spirit in Richard's breast.
It was not so, however; and, pressing her somewhat closer to him, he
said--
"Well, well, wipe away your tears, love. If we hear not better tidings
to-day, thou shalt go to Middleham, and I will go with thee."
"Thanks, my gracious lord, thanks," replied the queen. "Perhaps it is
but a weak woman's fears for her only one, that so sink my spirit; but
I feel to-day a sort of awe, as if of approaching fate."
"You give way, you give way," said Richard with a slight touch of
impatience. "However, there is good news abroad. This rash exiled earl
of Richmond, whom you have heard of, doubtless, has seen his Breton
ships--which the good doating duke now bitterly regrets he lent
him--dispersed and broken by a heavy tempest; and he himself has slunk
back to St. Maloes; but I have already limed some twigs for this light
bird, which will yet stick to his feet; and he may find conveyance
into England more speedy, though not so prosperous as that which he
has been contriving for himself.--How now, Lovel? You look perilous
grim, as if you and your cognizance had changed countenances."
"I grieve to be the bearer of bad tidings, gracious sire," replied
Lord Lovel, to whom these words were addressed, and who had entered
the room the moment before. "I did not know that either of your graces
were here, and was hastening to your closet."
"But the news, the news," cried Richard, eagerly. "Heavy tidings grow
doubly weighty by long carrying. Out with them, man. Is there a new
insurrection in the west?--Has Richmond landed?--Speak, speak at
once!"
"I had better have your grace's private ear for a few minutes,"
replied Lord Lovel, in a low and very sad tone, at the same time
giving a glance towards the queen. Her eyes were fixed upon his face,
and she caught the expression at once.
"My boy," she exclaimed. "He is worse. He is hopeless--I see it
there--I see it there;" and she pointed with her hand to his face.
Richard gazed at him in profound deathlike silence, with his brow
knitted over his fine keen eyes, and the thin pale lip quivering
fearfully. It was a terrible thing to see the traces of such deep and
unwonted emotion on that powerful and commanding countenance; and
Lovel felt almost afraid to proceed. Richard tried to speak, but, for
the first time in life, his voice found no utterance; and all he could
do was to make a vehement sign for his favourite to go on.
"Alas, sire," said Level, in a tone of unfeigned anguish, "your worst
fears are, I grieve to say--"
"No, no," cried Richard, in a broken voice, grasping his arm as if he
would have sunk the fingers into the flesh. "No, no, not the
worst--not the worst!--He is very ill, you would say--the physicians
have no hope--but we will find more, wiser, skilfuller! There are
simples of great power--there are--there are--no, not dead, not
dead--no, not dead, not dead!--Oh, Jesu!" and he fell headlong to the
ground.
The unhappy queen stood with her hands clasped together, her eyes bent
upon the floor, not a trace of colour in her cheeks or lips. She moved
not, she spoke not, she wept not, she uttered no cry, but remained
standing like a statue where the words had reached her ears with all
the terrible anguish of the moment concentrated in her heart.
In the meantime, the embroidery frames were cast away. Her ladies
gathered round her, and drew her gently to her chair of state, in
which they placed her unresisting; but there she remained, precisely
as they had seated her, with her eyes still bent down, and her lips
still motionless. At the same time, Lovel raised the king, and called
loudly for assistance. Attendants hurried in, and amongst them the
messenger from Middleham, who had brought the tidings of the young
prince's death, and had been left at the door by Lord Lovel, when he
undertook to communicate the sad intelligence. But it was long ere
Richard could be brought to himself; and then he sat where they had
placed him, rubbing his brow with his hand, and muttering broken
sentences to himself. At length he looked up, and gazed with a curious
wild expression of countenance--still shrewd, still cunning, but
hardly sane; and then he laughed aloud, and, rising from his chair,
exclaimed:
"Why, this is well. Why, this is mighty well! We'll march ten thousand
men on York, to-morrow, and then to Middleham.--We'll have cannon too,
ay, cannon too, lest the usurper should refuse to give up the boy.
Why, he is the son of a king, a prince--a prince, I tell you, Lovel,
the dog--Ha, ha, ha! That was a merry distich--
'The cat, the rat, and Lovel, the dog,
Rule all England under the hog.'
But we paid the poet handsomely. Kings should be always bountiful to
poets. Good Sir John Collingburn, he little thought that he should be
hanged for the cat, drawn for the rat, and quartered for Lovel the
dog--Ha, ha, ha! It is very good."
At that moment, the queen's lips moved; and, raising her eyes towards
heaven, she began to sing a sweet and plaintive air, in a very musical
voice:
"The castle stood on a hill side,
Hey ho, hey ho,
And there came frost in the summer tide,
Hey ho, the wind and the snow.
"A boy looked from the casement there,
Hey ho, hey ho,
And his face was like an angel's fair;
Hey ho, how the violets grow.
"The snow, it fell on his golden hair,
Hey ho, hey ho,
And the wind has blighted the flower so fair,
Hey ho, the flower's laid low."
"I think I'll go to bed, ladies. It is growing dark; but this night
gear is somewhat stiff and cold, and I think it is dabbled with
blood--Blood, blood, blood! Yes it is blood!" and she uttered a loud
scream. [2]
---------------
[Footnote 2: For an account of the terrible effect--approaching to
madness--of the death of Edward, Prince of Wales, upon Richard III.
and his queen, see the history of Croyland Abbey.]
---------------
In the midst of this distressing scene Lord Lovel stood like one
bewildered; and he noted not that, while the king was speaking,
another person, none of the ordinary attendants had entered the room.
Now, however, Sir Charles Weinants pulled him by the sleeve, saying,
in a low voice: "I ought to speak with the king immediately; but he
seems in no fit state, my lord. What is all this?"
"Hush, hush," said Lovel, in a whisper. "Go into the closet. I will
come and speak with you, for I have full instructions. The king is
indisposed, with the sad news from Middleham. He will soon be better.
I will join you in a minute. Your business will bear no delay."
Thus saying, he turned to the king again; and Sir Charles Weinants,
with a slow and quiet step, crossed the hall, and, proceeding through
the short corridor I have mentioned, reached the king's closet. He
there found Sir John Thoresby, writing diligently; and the latter
merely raised his head for an instant, gave a brief nod, and resumed
his occupation. Sir Charles Weinants, ever discreet, walked to the
window, and looked out; for, as I have before said, there were
manifold papers and letters on the table, and he knew that it was
dangerous even to let the eye pause upon any of Richard's secrets. He
waited there with persevering patience, saying not a word to Sir John
Thoresby, and never turning round his head, till Lovel entered the
room, at the end of about ten minutes, and boldly dismissed the
secretary for a few moments.
"Now, Sir Charles," said the king's favourite. "His grace, thank
Heaven, is somewhat better, and will soon be well. We have persuaded
him to let blood; for his spirits are too much oppressed. This is a
severe blow, the death of the young prince, and will make many changes
in the realm. You received the king's letter?"
"In safety, my good lord," replied Sir Charles, "but not the letter
which was to have followed, informing me whether the Duke of Bretagne
would receive me on this errand or not."
"How is that?" exclaimed Lord Lovel. "We sent it to York, thinking to
find you there;" and he laid his hand upon his brow and thought.
"Ratcliff, in his last letter, received but this morning, assured me
that he had sent it on to you at Tamworth, by a trusty messenger, who
was passing from Scotland to the king. Now it should have reached you
some days ago, for Ratcliff thought we were at Coventry, and his
letter to me has gone round."
"It never reached me, my lord," replied Sir Charles Weinants, "and yet
I made known my name and quality wherever I came, and bade my servants
watch well, in order that no news from the court might miss me."
"It must be inquired into," replied Level; "but in the mean time you
must hasten your departure; for I have seen the reply from Bretagne,
and you will be received with all favour. Monsieur Landais is fully
gained; and all that is required is some one to confirm the king's
promises, and give an earnest of his goodwill towards the duke. You
must set out this very night. I trust by that time his grace will be
well enough to see you himself and give you his last instructions; for
his is not a mind to bend long, even under the burden cast upon it."
These words seemed intended to conclude the conversation; but Sir
Charles Weinants still stayed and mused. At length he looked up in
Lovel's face with a smile, saying, "I always love to be successful in
my negotiations; and methinks this young vapouring earl may take
fright when he hears of my coming. Were it not better to go with the
most perfect secrecy?"
"Nay, that would be hardly possible," answered Lovel; "but we have
been thoughtful. You must go in some sort as a fugitive. A report has
already been spread that you are suspected by the king. Measures will
be taken to strengthen the belief; and, while you bear full powers as
his envoy, and the money for Landais, you must quit the court suddenly
by dark; and with a small train affect to seek refuge in Britanny. The
news of your disgrace has gone before; but good Monsieur Landais is
made aware of the truth, and prepared to receive you."
Sir Charles Weinants was not altogether well pleased with the
arrangement; but he was discreet--very discreet; and he did not think
fit to make any objection. However, he knew there could be no harm in
establishing a claim where none previously existed; for he was well
aware that great men are ever ready enough to deny a claim, whether it
exists or not. He therefore said quietly, "The king's will, of course,
I submit to without a murmur, my good lord; but it is a very
unpleasant sort of reputation for an ambassador to appear with, that
of a fugitive and a traitor; and I trust that his grace will, remember
that I take upon myself such a character solely in obedience to his
commands."
"You shalt not be forgotten, Sir Charles," replied Lovel,
entertaining, but not uttering, precisely the same sentiment which was
afterwards boldly propounded by a vast-minded but little-spirited man
namely, that "to submit to indignities is the way to rise to
dignities."
"The king never neglects," he said, "those who place themselves in
painful situations for his service. And now, Sir Charles, prepare,
prepare--but quietly; never forgetting that your preparations are to
be those of a fugitive. The ambassador is to come after, you know.
When you have Harry of Richmond firm in your grasp, the splendour of
your train shall efface the memory of its scantiness now. Hark! There
is the king's voice, and his step coming hither. Do not wait or take
any notice. I dare say the barber is here to bleed him."[3]
---------------
[Footnote 3: Richard's attempt to obtain possession of the person of
Richmond by bribing Landais, the duke of Britanny's minister, is too
well known to need particular notice.]
---------------
The next instant Richard entered the closet, and Sir Charles Weinants
passed him, bowing low and reverently. But the king took no farther
notice of him than merely by giving a slow and inquiring glance, from
under his bent brows, at the face of his envoy; and then seating
himself in a chair, he suffered one of two persons who followed him
into the room to withdraw his arm from his doublet, the
barber-surgeon, who was close behind, directing the valet particularly
to give him the left arm, as that was nearest to the heart. The
servant then held a silver basin, while the operator made his
preparations and opened a vein. During all this time Richard uttered
not a word, but sat with his brows contracted, and his dark thoughtful
eyes fixed upon vacancy, till the sombre red bleed began to flow forth
from the vein; and then he turned his look upon the stream, and seemed
to watch it curiously. At length, he lifted his right hand to his
head, saying, "I am better--open the window. Give me air;" and the
servant instantly hurried to obey his commands. The barber suffered
the blood still to flow on, for a little while, and then bound up the
king's arm.
"I am better," said Richard. "I am better;" and, stretching forth his
hands, he added, in an imperative tone. "Leave me--all leave me! I am
better--I would be alone."
The whole party hastened to obey, and, as soon as they were gone,
Richard, the iron-spirited relentless Richard, placed his hands before
his eyes, and wept. It is a terrible sight to see a man weep at any
time. What must it have been to see tears forced from such a heart as
Richard's!