by Mary Shelley
“Be it so,” said Fitzwater, “to-morrow at dawn you shall depart hence; but you must not refuse my proffered hospitality. I shall introduce you to my household as one who ere long will be admitted into it, and show my friend, Sir Lalayne, who is now here, what gentle boors our Flanders breeds.”
“I can return to-morrow, my good Lord,” Richard began; but the noble not heeding him, added, “Stay till my return; I now go to hear mass,” and passed hastily from the chamber.
The Prince’s first impulse was to reproach Frion’s knavery, assert his freedom, and, ere any measures had been taken to secure his person, to quit his new prison. But he did not know how deep-laid the plot might be; he was inclined to think that all was prepared for his reception and safe custody, so that any open attempt to regain his liberty would be resisted by force; while, through the assistance of his friend Clifford, he might hope to escape, if, giving in to the stratagem, he took occasion by the curb, and forced it to his purpose. “Are you mad,” said Frion, “my rustic, that you resist the proffers of a high and powerful man of your native land?”
Richard wondered, when he beheld Frion’s sneer and crafty glance, how he had not mistrusted him from the moment he beheld him; the double meaning of his words, and the familiar tone in which they were uttered, grated him like a personal insult. He repressed the angry reply rising to his lips, and said:—”It seems I must submit, yet I should be beholden to you if you contrived an excuse, and lent me your horse, that I might ride back and inform Dame Madeline. To-morrow I might return.”
Frion opposed this intention, and led the Prince to a chamber at some distance from any other, at the end of a corridor, saying, “that it had been assigned to him;” and after a short conversation left him. Richard heard the shooting of the bolt as the door closed: “Son of King Edward,” he thought, “thy folly disgraces thy parentage: thus at once to have run into the gin. Yet I am of good cheer, and my heart tells me that I shall relate the merry tale of my escape to Madeline and my sweet coz, and dry this night the tears my disappearance has caused them to shed.” It soon appeared, by the long absence of his betrayer, that it was not intended to continue the farce longer; but that, from the moment he had entered that chamber, he was in treatment as well as in fact a prisoner. After several weary hours had elapsed, his blithe spirit began to sink; he reflected that Clifford had probably promised more than he could perform: but courage awoke with the sense of danger; he resolved to be true to himself, and to effect his escape singly, if he could gain no assistance. “Men have ears and hearts,” he thought, “and I can work on these; or they may be neglectful while I am on the alert, and I can profit by their carelessness. In all forms my fortune may take, I will not fail to myself; and there is small danger in any change for a true man. With my light spirit and resolved will, I could, I doubt not, persuade an armed band to make way for me, or open prison bolts with charming words, though my witchcraft be only that of gentle courtesy, moulding with skilful hand the wax of soft humanity.” Pacing the apartment, he continued these meditations, imagining every circumstance that might and would arise, and how he was to turn all to the best advantage. He framed persuasive speeches, wily answers to ensnaring questions, cautious movements, by which he might withdraw himself from the hands of his enemies; and while he thus occupied himself, his eyes gleamed, and his cheeks glowed, as if the moment of action had come, and his life and liberty depended on instant deed.
At two hours past noon the door was unclosed, and a servant entered bearing food; impatient to begin his plans of escape, Richard was about to speak to him, when, in the doorway, he beheld the slight, stunted figure of Clifford, whose forefinger was pressed on his lips, and who, after exchanging one glance with his friend, cast aside his stealthy expression of countenance, entering with a half-swaggering look, and saying, in French, “my Lord, young Sir, has sent me on a pleasant embassage, even that of dining with your pageship, saying, two boys like us were better and merrier together, than in the great hall with the arrogant serving-men.” Richard felt no great appetite; but taking the tone from his friend, he thanked him, and they fell to on the viands. “Now, kind Thomas,” said Clifford, “of your bounty bring us a stoup of wine; the day is rainy, and we cannot abroad; so my gossip and I will tell long stories over our bottle, and lay some plan of merry mischief which you and your fellows may in good time rue.”
The domestic obeyed, nor till the wine was brought, the servant fairly dismissed, and the door closed, did Clifford put aside the character he had assumed of a stripling page, in a noble master’s abode, entertaining a stranger visitant of his own years. At length, when they were quite alone, the merry boy put his hands to his sides and indulged in so gay a peal of laughter, that the Prince, who at first stared in wonder, at last caught the infection, and laughed too, while tears from superabundant glee, streamed down their cheeks. Once, twice, and thrice, did Richard check himself, and turn seriously to enquire the cause of this merriment, and Clifford strove to answer, but laughter bubbling up choked his voice, and both again yielded in accord to the overpowering fit. At last gasping, holding their sides, and by degrees commanding their muscles, the Duke said, “I would ask you, friend Robin, what this means? but at the word, lo, you! your very voice is lost. Now prithee feel half as weary as I do of this folly, and you will be as grave as tumble-down Dick. Do you remember the simpering fellow we made good sport of in the Tower?”
“You have broke the spell, my Lord,” said Clifford; “that word suffices to make me as grave as Brakenbury himself, when he looked on your brother’s corpse. Ah dear, your Highness, the name of the Tower is worse than a raven’s croak! God and St. Thomas preserve you from ever getting the other side of its moat!”
“Amen, Robin, with all my heart,” said Richard; “a shudder runs through my limbs down to my finger tips, making the skin on my head creep, when I think there is any chance of my passing long years in those dreary cells, with their narrow deep windows; the court yards, which the sun seldom visits; the massy dark walls, whose black stones seemed to frown angrily, if our childs’ voices were ever heard in sport.”
“There your cousin, my Lord of Warwick, pines out his melancholy days,” replied Clifford, “and that is your destined abode. My grandfather was slain by Queen Margaret’s side, and stained the Red Rose with a blood-red die, falling in its cause. Your father and his brothers did many a Clifford much wrong, and woe and mourning possessed my house till the line of Lancaster was restored. I cannot grieve therefore for the exaltation of the Earl of Richmond; yet I will not passively see my playmate mewed up in a cage, nor put in danger of having his head laid on that ungentle pillow in Tower Yard. The daughter of Warwick, our Edward’s affianced bride, your crook-backed uncle’s wife, loved my pranks and nurtured my youth; and by her good leave, many a mirthful hour I spent in the dark place you name. May neither of us ever see it more!”
“You will then assist my escape?” asked Richard.
“As faithfully, gossip Dickon, as God his grace shall await me at the last day! — and now I will tell you a merry tale.”
CHAPTER X.
— It is thy merit
To make all mortal business ebb and flow
By roguery.
— HOMER’S HYMN TO MERCURY.
And then, with you, my friends, and the old man.
We’ll load the hollow depth of our black ship.
And row with double strokes from this dread shore.
— THE CYCLOPS.
Notwithstanding the promise Clifford made of a merry tale, both he and his auditor looked grave as he commenced. Richard expected, with some anxiety, an explanation from his friend, and the other assumed the self-consequence resulting from having achieved a victory. No two beings ever displayed, in their way, a greater contrast than these youths. The prince was many inches taller than his companion, and his slim make promised increase of height. His brow was smooth as infancy, candid as day; his bright blue eyes were lighted up with intelligence, yet t
here was a liquid lustre in them that betokened tenderness; nor did his lips, that nest of the heart’s best feelings, bely his eyes. They were full, a little curled, can we say in pride, or by what more gentle word can we name a feeling of self-elevation and noble purpose, joined to benevolence and sweetness? His oval cheeks were rounded by the dimpled chin, and his golden hair clustered on a throat of marble whiteness, which, as the white embroidered collar thrown back over the doublet, permitted the out-line to be seen, sustained his head as the Ionic flute rears its graceful capital. Clifford was shorter, but firm set and more manlike in form, his grey eyes were bright or dull as his soul spoke in them; his brow slightly scowled, pending over, and, even thus early, lines were delved in it, hardly seen when he was in repose, but which, as he spoke, showed deep and distorted; his smile was tinctured by a sneer, his voice attracted no confidence, yet Richard now hung intently on it as he spoke:
“When I returned from doing my Lord’s bidding, I found him moving about the room, more like a parched pea than a stately noble; for now he stood still, and then shot off with a quick step, showing every sign of being ill at ease. Now, boy as I am, for I can number but sixteen summers, my Lord more than loves me, he trusts me, and not without cause — for when at hazard — but my story will be too long — enough that ere now I have done him service. Had I not known the cause of his disquiet I should have asked it, but, believing myself fully aware of what this all meant, I went to my post, and busied myself in making some flies for angling, seeming most intent upon my work. My Lord stood over me, and twice or thrice fetched a sigh, and then strode away, and came again, saying, “I am a fool, a dolt — the King can mean no ill to this lad — and yet — I cannot tell you how long this indecision lasted, while I patiently toiled at a fly of green and gold, bright as those which trouts love to snap at in clear streams during May. At length he asked me, ‘Robin, did you mark the boy that stood in the ante-chamber?’ ‘Aye, my good Lord!’ ‘And what thought you of him?’ ‘Thought, my Lord?’ I spoke enquiringly, for it suddenly came across me that he did not know you, and it was not for me to betray your secret. ‘Aye,’ he replied, ‘thought? Does he resemble any one you ever knew? Of what country do you divine him to be?’ ‘These Flemings are sandy-haired,’ I said, ‘yet he does not look of Flanders. Methinks he seems English born.’”
“‘You are right,’ said he, ‘English he is confessedly. This Frion calls him a natural son of De la Poole — of the late Earl of Lincoln. He says that he has knowledge of a secret treasure concealed by his father before this last rebellion, and the king wishes to get him into his hands, thus to secure the gold. The tale is not unlikely, for the Tudor ever loved the glitter — nay, the very dust of the precious metal, — and the boy resembles strangely the House of York. Yet, I care not for the task put upon me of kidnapping a child, and of betraying him into his enemy’s hands — perhaps of delivering him up a prisoner for life, for the sake of — Poor fellow! if he know aught of a concealed treasure, in God’s name, let him confess it while on this side the fatal channel that now divides him from tyranny or death.’ ‘Let me deal with him,’ I said, ‘let me throw out some toy, such as is this gold and green thread to a silly fish, and learn the truth; if he discover the hiding-place of this so coveted coin, we may spare him the trouble of his enforced journey.’ ‘I know not that,’ answered my patron; ‘Master Frion is earnest for his safe keeping; and no one is nearer our liege’s inner wishes than this Provencal, who served him in exile, and who followd him in his expedition thence; and yet there is a noble daring in the boy, a mountain freshness in his cheek, a springy freedom in his gait, that it were a thousand pities to fetter and limit within narrow prison bounds.’ Seeing that my lord was thus favorably inclined, I used all my poor eloquence to urge him further, and at last brought him to consent that I should converse with you; learn, if possible, your secret; inform you of your danger, and advise you to escape. One only difficulty remained: my Lord had promised this Master Secretary that none should be admitted to talk with you; but when the subtle fiend, the double-dealing Frenchman entered, I told him with a long visage, that our noble host, the Sire de Beverem, had heard that we were carrying off, by force, a Fleming; and that, considering his hospitable mansion stained by the act, he had commanded strict watch to be kept on the morrow, that if any of the English suite were unwilling to go, or appeared in durance, he should be rescued. It was advisable therefore, that you should be kept in good-humour till fairly beyond the gates of Lisle; and this my wisdomship offered to do, if admitted to parlance with you. You look grave, Sir Prince, but had you seen Frion’s sage look of hesitation, and heard his many exhortations that I would by no means betray my knowledge of who you really were; and how I, with a bow, careful as if my curls were white from years, promised discretion, you would laugh as I did, when, the mime over which I played before the servitor, I doffed my page’s seeming equality, and in duteous phrase to his Highness of York, offer my best services to liberate him.”
“That seems already done,” said Richard; “usher me to the Lord Fitzwater. I will declare myself to him; his compassion already excited—”
“Would then be cool as snow at Christmas. Wise young Sir, Baron Fitzwater wears the blushing Rose; and for him there is wormwood in the name of York. Now, as a chance offshoot of the white thorn, he only sees in you a harmless boy, whom it were sin to injure; but give yourself a name whose very echo would bring St. Albans, Tewkesbury, Bosworth Field, and a thousand scaffolds streaming with his kinsmen’s blood before him, and without remorse he would let Frion have his will of you. Even I, Duke Richard, I am sprung from those who fell for Lancaster—”
“Enough,” replied the prince haughtily. “I am content to stand alone, to achieve my freedom singly, or to submit to my fate.”
“Not so, my noble playmate,” said the other. “I will not offer you my knee, my oath, my sword, for my allegiance belongs to the anointed King of England; but, I beseech you, suffer Robin Clifford to assist high-born Plantagenet to escape from a prison or from death; permit him to pay, if not the duty of a subject, yet that of a loving friend to the former companion of his childish sports.”
Richard listened somewhat sullenly to these offers; he ill brooked the thought that any of English parentage should, knowing who he was, refuse to acknowledge him for his liege; but Clifford would not be refused; while it was hardly worth while to contend with his light spirit, which appeared incapable of a serious or profound idea. After a short resistance, therefore, the duke entered willingly into a discussion of the best means of effecting his escape in such a way, that he should have several hours the start of Frion, and be distant from danger, before his seducer could discover that he was not still safe in his hands.
In the midst of this discussion, Frion suddenly entered. The stake for which he played was too momentous to trust it wholly to the stripling page, and distrust of the wily boy entered also into his calculations; he broke in therefore, not only unannounced, but with such stealthy quiet as shewed that he meant to pounce on his victim unawares. The youths sat, their stools drawn close; Clifford was leaning forward earnestly propounding his schemes, and Richard listened, his whole soul in his countenance. Frion was close upon them before he was perceived by either, his eyes glimmering with their usual suspicious look. The artless Richard started, and would with a conscious mien have drawn back; but Clifford, more used to the wiles and watchfulness of others, and his own double mode of action, continued to speak in the same tone the same words, without moving a muscle. The Prince wondered, and regained his self-possession; not from entering into the deceit of his companion, but from the haughty sentiment of his own dignity, which even in danger refused to cower.
Clifford had been saying—”I will hence to the Sire: a word to him, of whose secretary this Provencal is, and insinuation that he is now on a secret expedition to the Flemish towns, will awaken his curiosity; he will send for him; fortunately the good knight speaks so slow that a mass can be said
while he is introducing the subject of his enquiries; as each word expires, he pauses while a requiem might be sung for its death; our antagonist will writhe and—” and a glance askance informed the speaker that this man was at his side: he continued—”and strive vainly to escape; the heavy weight will be too much for him, he must submit. Such feints suit well us boys who have not strength nor skill for more declared warfare. Tomorrow’s dawn I will practise with you in the court of the castle ere you depart. But indeed, my gossip, you must promise to be at Calais on the sixteenth, when we shall see a combat of good knights fit for royal princesses to look on. And now, fair Sir, farewell; here is your friend. The Sire de Beverem commanded my presence at this hour. If I see you not again to-night, the saints have you in their keeping!”
When Clifford with his pagelike vivacity ran from the room singing a gay romance, Frion felt himself embarrassed; and more so when Richard said—”My guest, it is hard, after giving you harbourage last night, that I should be forced, whether I will or not, to tarry here, leaving my kinswoman in dread and doubt. Make you my excuse to the Chevalier, and delay me no longer, I beseech you.”
Frion, without directly replying, said, “Anon I will speak of that; meanwhile I have news for you:” — and he entered into a long account of an expected sedition in Flanders, and how the Sire de Beverem had promised to enlist Perkin Warbeck in his particular troop, when with courage and good fortune he could not fail to rise. While he was talking, one of the men at arms of the noble entered, and notified to Frion that his lord desired an instant interview with him. The Secretary hastened to obey; he thought that good-fortune itself provided this excuse for him to escape from his victim, and resolved not again to present himself before him. He was scarcely gone when Clifford returned—”Now quick,” he cried, “down the back staircase! My own steed stands saddled for you; ride fast and far — but whither — whither do you intend to go?”
