The Last of the Barons — Complete

“And what brings ye hither, young truants?” said the earl, as Anne, leaving her sister, clung lovingly to his side (for it was ever her habit to cling to some one), while Isabel kissed her mother’s hand, and then stood before her parents, colouring deeply, and with downcast eyes. “What brings ye hither, whom I left so lately deep engaged in the loom, upon the helmet of Goliath, with my burgonet before you as a sample? Wife, you are to blame,—our rooms of state will be arrasless for the next three generations, if these rosy fingers are suffered thus to play the idlers.”

“My father,” whispered Anne, “guests are on their way hither,—a noble cavalcade; you note them not from this part of the battlements, but from our turret it was fair to see how their plumes and banners shone in the setting sun.”

“Guests!” echoed the earl; “well, is that so rare an honour that your hearts should beat like village girls at a holiday? Ah, Isabel! look at her blushes. Is it George of Clarence at last? Is it?”

“We see the Duke of Gloucester’s cognizance,” whispered Anne, “and our own Nevile Bull. Perchance our cousin George, also, may—”

Here she was interrupted by the sound of the warder’s horn, followed a moment after by the roar of one of the bombards on the keep.

“At least,” said Warwick, his face lighting up, “that signal announces the coming of king’s blood. We must honour it,—for it is our own. We will go forth and meet our guests—your hand, countess.”

And gravely and silently, and in deep but no longer gloomy thought, Warwick descended from the terrace, followed by the fair sisters; and who that could have looked upon that princely pair and those lovely and radiant children, could have foreseen that in that hour, Fate, in tempting the earl once more to action, was busy on their doom!

CHAPTER II. COUNCILS AND MUSINGS

The lamp shone through the lattice of Warwick’s chamber at the unwonted hour of midnight, and the earl was still in deep commune with his guests. The archbishop, whom Edward, alarmed by the state of the country and the disaffection of his barons, had reluctantly commissioned to mediate with Warwick, was, as we have before said, one of those men peculiar to the early Church. There was nothing more in the title of Archbishop of York than in that of the Bishop of Osnaburg (borne by the royal son of George III.) [The late Duke of York.] to prevent him who enjoyed it from leading armies, guiding States, or indulging pleasure. But beneath the coxcombry of George Nevile, which was what he shared most in common with the courtiers of the laity, there lurked a true ecclesiastic’s mind. He would have made in later times an admirable Jesuit, and no doubt in his own time a very brilliant Pope. His objects in his present mission were clear and perspicuous; any breach between Warwick and the king must necessarily weaken his own position, and the power of his House was essential to all his views. The object of Gloucester in his intercession was less defined, but not less personal: in smoothing the way to his brother’s marriage with Isabel, he removed all apparent obstacle to his own with Anne. And it is probable that Richard, who, whatever his crimes, was far from inaccessible to affection, might have really loved his early playmate, even while his ambition calculated the wealth of the baronies that would swell the dower of the heiress and gild the barren coronet of his duchy. [Majerns, the Flemish chronicler, quoted by Bucke (“Life of Richard III”), mentions the early attachment of Richard to Anne. They were much together, as children, at Middleham.]

“God’s truth!” said Warwick, as he lifted his eyes from the scroll in the king’s writing, “ye know well, princely cousin, and thou, my brother, ye know well how dearly I have loved King Edward; and the mother’s milk overflows my heart when I read these gentle and tender words which he deigns to bestow upon his servant. My blood is hasty and over-hot, but a kind thought from those I love puts out much fire. Sith he thus beseeches me to return to his councils, I will not be sullen enough to hold back; but, oh, Prince Richard! is it indeed a matter past all consideration that your sister, the Lady Margaret, must wed with the Duke of Burgundy?”

“Warwick,” replied the prince, “thou mayest know that I never looked with favour on that alliance; that when Clarence bore the Bastard’s helmet, I withheld my countenance from the Bastard’s presence. I incurred Edward’s anger by refusing to attend his court while the Count de la Roche was his guest. And therefore you may trust me when I say now that Edward, after promises, however rash, most solemn and binding, is dishonoured forever if he break off the contract. New circumstances, too, have arisen, to make what were dishonour danger also. By the death of his father, Charolois has succeeded to the Duke of Burgundy’s diadem. Thou knowest his warlike temper; and though in a contest popular in England we need fear no foe, yet thou knowest also that no subsidies could be raised for strife with our most profitable commercial ally. Wherefore we earnestly implore thee magnanimously to forgive the past, accept Edward’s assurance of repentance, and be thy thought—as it has been ever—the weal of our common country.”

“I may add, also,” said the archbishop, observing how much Warwick was touched and softened,—“that in returning to the helm of state, our gracious king permits me to say, that, save only in the alliance with Burgundy, which toucheth his plighted word, you have full liberty to name conditions, and to ask whatever grace or power a monarch can bestow.”

“I name none but my prince’s confidence,” said Warwick, generously; “in that, all else is given, and in return for that, I will make the greatest sacrifice that my nature knoweth, or can conceive,—I will mortify my familiar demon, I will subdue my PRIDE. If Edward can convince me that it is for the good of England that his sister should wed with mine ancient and bitter foe, I will myself do honour to his choice. But of this hereafter. Enough now that I forget past wrongs in present favour; and that for peace or war, I return to the side of that man whom I loved as my son before I served him as my king.”

Neither Richard nor the archbishop was prepared for a conciliation so facile, for neither quite understood that peculiar magnanimity which often belongs to a vehement and hasty temper, and which is as eager to forgive as prompt to take offence,—which, ever in extremes, is not contented with anything short of fiery aggression or trustful generosity, and where it once passes over an offence, seeks to oblige the offender. So, when, after some further conversation on the state of the country, the earl lighted Gloucester to his chamber, the young prince said to himself, musingly,—

“Does ambition besot and blind men? Or can Warwick think that Edward can ever view him but as one to be destroyed when the hour is ripe?”

Catesby, who was the duke’s chamberlain, was in attendance as the prince unrobed.

“A noble castle this,” said the duke, “and one in the midst of a warlike population,—our own countrymen of York.”

“It would be no mean addition to the dowry of the Lady Isabel,” said Catesby, with his bland, false smile.

“Methinks rather that the lordships of Salisbury (and this is the chief) pass to the Lady Anne,” said Richard, musingly. “No, Edward were imprudent to suffer this stronghold to fall to the next heir to his throne. Marked you the Lady Anne?—her beauty is most excellent.”

“Truly, your Highness,” answered Catesby, unsuspiciously, “the Lady Isabel seems to me the taller and the statelier.”

“When man’s merit and woman’s beauty are measured by the ell, Catesby, Anne will certainly be less fair than Isabel, and Richard a dolt compared to Clarence. Open the casement; my dressing-robe; good-night to you!”

CHAPTER III. THE SISTERS

The next morning, at an hour when modern beauty falls into its first sickly sleep, Isabel and Anne conversed on the same terrace, and near the same spot, which had witnessed their father’s meditations the day before. They were seated on a rude bench in an angle of the wall, flanked by a low, heavy bastion. And from the parapet their gaze might have wandered over a goodly sight, for on a broad space, covered with sand and sawdust, within the vast limits of the castle range, the numerous knights and youths who sought apprenticeship in arms and gallantry under the earl were engaged in those martial sports which, falling elsewhere in disuse, the Last of the Barons kinglily maintained. There, boys of fourteen, on their small horses, ran against each other with blunted lances. There, those of more advanced adolescence, each following the other in a circle, rode at the ring; sometimes (at the word of command from an old knight who had fought at Agincourt, and was the preceptor in these valiant studies) leaping from their horses at full speed, and again vaulting into the saddle. A few grim old warriors sat by to censure or applaud. Most skilled among the younger was the son of Lord Montagu; among the maturer, the name of Marmaduke Nevile was the most often shouted. If the eye turned to the left, through the barbican might be seen flocks of beeves entering to supply the mighty larder; and at a smaller postern, a dark crowd of mendicant friars, and the more destitute poor, waited for the daily crumbs from the rich man’s table. What need of a poor-law then? The baron and the abbot made the parish! But not on these evidences of wealth and state turned the eyes, so familiar to them, that they woke no vanity, and roused no pride.

With downcast looks and a pouting lip, Isabel listened to the silver voice of Anne.

“Dear sister, be just to Clarence. He cannot openly defy his king and brother. Believe that he would have accompanied our uncle and cousin had he not deemed that their meditation would be more welcome, at least to King Edward, without his presence.”

“But not a letter! not a line!”

“Yet when I think of it, Isabel, are we sure that he even knew of the visit of the archbishop and his brother?”

“How could he fail to know?”

“The Duke of Gloucester last evening told me that the king had sent him southward.”

“Was it about Clarence that the duke whispered to thee so softly by the oriel window?”

“Surely, yes,” said Anne, simply. “Was not Richard as a brother to us when we played as children on yon greensward?”

“Never as a brother to me,—never was Richard of Gloucester one whom I could think of without fear and even loathing,” answered Isabel, quickly.

It was at this turn in the conversation that the noiseless step of Richard himself neared the spot, and hearing his own name thus discourteously treated, he paused, screened from their eyes by the bastion in the angle.

“Nay, nay, sister,” said Anne; “what is there in Richard that misbeseems his princely birth?”

“I know not, but there is no youth in his eye and in his heart. Even as a child he had the hard will and the cold craft of gray hairs. Pray Saint Mary you give me not Gloucester for a brother!”

Anne sighed and smiled. “Ah, no,” she said, after a short pause, “when thou art Princess of Clarence may I—”

“May thou what?”

“Pray for thee and thine in the house of God! Ah, thou knowest not, sweet Isabel, how often at morn and even mine eyes and heart turn to the spires of yonder convent!” She rose as she said this, her lip quivered, and she moved on in the opposite direction to that in which Richard stood, still unseen, and no longer within his hearing. Isabel rose also, and hastening after her, threw her arms round Anne’s neck, and kissed away the tears that stood in those meek eyes.

“My sister, my Anne! Ah, trust in me, thou hast some secret, I know it well,—I have long seen it. Is it possible that thou canst have placed thy heart, thy pure love—Thou blushest! Ah, Anne! Anne! thou canst not have loved beneath thee?”

“Nay,” said Anne, with a spark of her ancestral fire lighting her meek eyes through its tears, “not beneath me, but above. What do I say! Isabel, ask me no more. Enough that it is a folly, a dream, and that I could smile with pity at myself to think from what light causes love and grief can spring.”

“Above thee!” repeated Isabel, in amaze; “and who in England is above the daughter of Earl Warwick? Not Richard of Gloucester? If so, pardon my foolish tongue.”

“No, not Richard,—though I feel kindly towards him, and his sweet voice soothes me when I listen,—not Richard. Ask no more.”

“Oh, Anne, speak, speak!—we are not both so wretched? Thou lovest not Clarence? It is—it must be!”

“Canst thou think me so false and treacherous,—a heart pledged to thee? Clarence! Oh, no!”

“But who then—who then?” said Isabel, still suspiciously. “Nay, if thou wilt not speak, blame thyself if I must still wrong thee.”

Thus appealed to, and wounded to the quick by Isabel’s tone and eye, Anne at last with a strong effort suppressed her tears, and, taking her sister’s hand, said in a voice of touching solemnity, “Promise, then, that the secret shall be ever holy; and, since I know that it will move thine anger—perhaps thy scorn—strive to forget what I will confess to thee.”

Isabel for answer pressed her lips on the hand she held; and the sisters, turning under the shadow of a long row of venerable oaks, placed themselves on a little mound, fragrant with the violets of spring. A different part of the landscape beyond was now brought in view; calmly slept in the valley the roofs of the subject town of Middleham, calmly flowed through the pastures the noiseless waves of Ure. Leaning on Isabel’s bosom, Anne thus spake, “Call to mind, sweet sister, that short breathing-time in the horrors of the Civil War, when a brief peace was made between our father and Queen Margaret. We were left in the palace—mere children that we were—to play with the young prince, and the children in Margaret’s train.”

“I remember.”

“And I was unwell and timid, and kept aloof from the sports with a girl of my own years, whom I think—see how faithful my memory!—they called Sibyll; and Prince Edward, Henry’s son, stealing from the rest, sought me out; and we sat together, or walked together alone, apart from all, that day and the few days we were his mother’s guests. Oh, if you could have seen him and heard him then,—so beautiful, so gentle, so wise beyond his years, and yet so sweetly sad; and when we parted, he bade me ever love him, and placed his ring on my finger, and wept,—as we kissed each other, as children will.”

“Children! ye were infants!” exclaimed Isabel, whose wonder seemed increased by this simple tale.

“Infant though I was, I felt as if my heart would break when I left him; and then the wars ensued; and do you not remember how ill I was, and like to die, when our House triumphed, and the prince and heir of Lancaster was driven into friendless exile? From that hour my fate was fixed. Smile if you please at such infant folly, but children often feel more deeply than later years can weet of.”

“My sister, this is indeed a wilful invention of sorrow for thine own scourge. Why, ere this, believe me, the boy-prince hath forgotten thy very name.”

“Not so, Isabel,” said Anne, colouring, and quickly, “and perchance, did all rest here, I might have outgrown my weakness. But last year, when we were at Rouen with my father—”

“Well?”

“One evening on entering my chamber, I found a packet,—how left I know not, but the French king and his suite, thou rememberest, made our house almost their home,—and in this packet was a picture, and on its back these words, Forget not the exile who remembers thee!”

“And that picture was Prince Edward’s?”

Anne blushed, and her bosom heaved beneath the slender and high-laced gorget. After a pause, looking round her, she drew forth a small miniature, which lay on the heart that beat thus sadly, and placed it in her sister’s hands.

“You see I deceive you not, Isabel. And is not this a fair excuse for—”

She stopped short, her modest nature shrinking from comment upon the mere beauty that might have won the heart. And fair indeed was the face upon which Isabel gazed admiringly, in spite of the stiff and rude art of the limner; full of the fire and energy which characterized the countenance of the mother, but with a tinge of the same profound and inexpressible melancholy that gave its charm to the pensive features of Henry VI.,—a face, indeed, to fascinate a young eye, even if not associated with such remembrances of romance and pity.

Without saying a word, Isabel gave back the picture; but she pressed the hand that took it, and Anne was contented to interpret the silence into sympathy.

“And now you know why I have so often incurred your anger by compassion for the adherents of Lancaster; and for this, also, Richard of Gloucester hath been endeared to me,—for fierce and stern as he may be called, he hath ever been gentle in his mediation for that unhappy House.”

“Because it is his policy to be well with all parties. My poor Anne, I cannot bid you hope; and yet, should I ever wed with Clarence, it may be possible—that—that—but you in turn will chide me for ambition.”

“How?”

“Clarence is heir to the throne of England, for King Edward has no male children; and the hour may arrive when the son of Henry of Windsor may return to his native land, not as sovereign, but as Duke of Lancaster, and thy hand may reconcile him to the loss of a crown.”

“Would love reconcile thee to such a loss, proud Isabel?” said Anne, shaking her head, and smiling mournfully.

“No,” answered Isabel, emphatically.

“And are men less haught than we?” said Anne. “Ah, I know not if I could love him so well could he resign his rights, or even could he regain them. It is his position that gives him a holiness in my eyes. And this love, that must be hopeless, is half pity and half respect.”

At this moment a loud shout arose from the youths in the yard, or sporting-ground, below, and the sisters, startled, and looking up, saw that the sound was occasioned by the sight of the young Duke of Gloucester, who was standing on the parapet near the bench the demoiselles had quitted, and who acknowledged the greeting by a wave of his plumed cap, and a lowly bend of his head; at the same time the figures of Warwick and the archbishop, seemingly in earnest conversation, appeared at the end of the terrace. The sisters rose hastily, and would have stolen away, but the archbishop caught a glimpse of their robes, and called aloud to them. The reverent obedience, at that day, of youth to relations left the sisters no option but to advance towards their uncle, which they did with demure reluctance.

“Fair brother,” said the archbishop, “I would that Gloucester were to have my stately niece instead of the gaudy Clarence.”

“Wherefore?”

“Because he can protect those he loves, and Clarence will ever need a protector.”

“I like George not the less for that,” said Warwick, “for I would not have my son-in-law my master.”

“Master!” echoed the archbishop, laughing; “the Soldan of Babylon himself, were he your son-in-law, would find Lord Warwick a tolerably stubborn servant!”

“And yet,” said Warwick, also laughing, but with a franker tone, “beshrew me, but much as I approve young Gloucester, and deem him the hope of the House of York, I never feel sure, when we are of the same mind, whether I agree with him, or whether he leadeth me. Ah, George! Isabel should have wedded the king, and then Edward and I would have had a sweet mediator in all our quarrels. But not so hath it been decreed.”

There was a pause.

“Note how Gloucester steals to the side of Anne. Thou mayst have him for a son-in-law, though no rival to Clarence. Montagu hath hinted that the duke so aspires.”

“He has his father’s face—well,” said the earl, softly. “But yet,” he added, in an altered and reflective tone, “the boy is to me a riddle. That he will be bold in battle and wise in council I foresee; but would he had more of a young man’s honest follies! There is a medium between Edward’s wantonness and Richard’s sanctimony; and he who in the heyday of youth’s blood scowls alike upon sparkling wine and smiling woman, may hide in his heart darker and more sinful fancies. But fie on me! I will not wrongfully mistrust his father’s son. Thou spokest of Montagu; he seems to have been mighty cold to his brother’s wrongs,—ever at the court, ever sleek with Villein and Woodville.”

“But the better to watch thy interests,—I so counselled him.”

“A priest’s counsel! Hate frankly or love freely is a knight’s and soldier’s motto. A murrain on all doubledealing!”

The archbishop shrugged his shoulders, and applied to his nostrils a small pouncet-box of dainty essences.

“Come hither, my haughty Isabel,” said the prelate, as the demoiselles now drew near. He placed his niece’s arm within his own, and took her aside to talk of Clarence; Richard remained with Anne, and the young cousins were joined by Warwick. The earl noted in silence the soft address of the eloquent prince, and his evident desire to please Anne. And strange as it may seem, although he had hitherto regarded Richard with admiration and affection, and although his pride for both daughters coveted alliances not less than royal, yet, in contemplating Gloucester for the first time as a probable suitor to his daughter (and his favourite daughter), the anxiety of a father sharpened his penetration, and placed the character of Richard before him in a different point from that in which he had hitherto looked only on the fearless heart and accomplished wit of his royal godson.

CHAPTER IV. THE DESTRIER

It was three days afterwards that the earl, as, according to custom, Anne knelt to him for his morning blessing in the oratory where the Christian baron at matins and vespers offered up his simple worship, drew her forth into the air, and said abruptly,—

“Wouldst thou be happy if Richard of Gloucester were thy betrothed?”

Anne started, and with more vivacity than usually belonged to her, exclaimed, “Oh, no, my father!”

“This is no maiden’s silly coyness, Anne? It is a plain yea or nay that I ask from thee!”

“Nay, then,” answered Anne, encouraged by her father’s tone,—“nay, if it so please you.”

“It doth please me,” said the earl, shortly; and after a pause, he added, “Yes, I am well pleased. Richard gives promise of an illustrious manhood; but, Anne, thou growest so like thy mother, that whenever my pride seeks to see thee great, my heart steps in, and only prays that it may see thee happy!—so much so, that I would not have given thee to Clarence, whom it likes me well to view as Isabel’s betrothed, for, to her, greatness and bliss are one; and she is of firm nature, and can rule in her own house; but thou—where out of romaunt can I find a lord loving enough for thee, soft child?”

Inexpressibly affected, Anne threw herself on her father’s breast and wept. He caressed and soothed her fondly; and before her emotion was well over, Gloucester and Isabel joined them.

“My fair cousin,” said the duke, “hath promised to show me thy renowned steed, Saladin; and since, on quitting thy halls, I go to my apprenticeship in war on the turbulent Scottish frontier, I would fain ask thee for a destrier of the same race as that which bears the thunderbolt of Warwick’s wrath through the storm of battle.”

“A steed of the race of Saladin,” answered the earl, leading the way to the destrier’s stall, apart from all other horses, and rather a chamber of the castle than a stable, “were indeed a boon worthy a soldier’s gift and a prince’s asking. But, alas! Saladin, like myself, is sonless,—the last of a long line.”