by Mary Shelley
As he reflected on these things, a scheme developed itself in his mind, on which he resolved to act. The enemy was distant, obscure, almost unknown; were it possible to seize upon his person where he then was, to prevent his proposed journey to Ireland, to prepare for him an unsuspected but secure prison — no cloud would remain to mar his prospect; and, as to the boy himself, he could hope for nothing better than his cousin Warwick’s fate, unless he had preferred, to the hazardous endeavour of dethroning his rival, a private and innocuous life in the distant clime where chance had thrown him. This was to be thought of no more: already he was preparing for the bound, but ere he made it he must be crushed for ever.
In those times, when recent civil war had exasperated the minds of men one against the other, it was no difficult thing for a Lancastrian King to find an instrument willing and fitting to work injury against a Yorkist. During Henry’s exile in Britany, he had become acquainted with a man, who had resorted to him there for the sole purpose of exciting him against Richard the Third; he had been a favourite page of Henry the Sixth, he had waited on his son, Edward, Prince of Wales, that noble youth whose early years promised every talent and virtue; he had idolized the heroic and unhappy Queen Margaret. Henry died a foul death in the Tower; the gracious Edward was stabbed at Tewkesbury; the royal Margaret had given place to the widow Woodville; while, through the broad lands of England, the sons of York rioted in the full possession of her wealth. Meiler Trangmar felt every success of theirs as a poisoned arrow in his flesh — he hated them, as the mother may hate the tiger, whose tusks are red with the life-blood of her first-born — he hated them, not with the measured aversion of a warlike foe, but the dark frantic vehemence of a wild beast deprived of its young. He had been the father of three sons; the first had died at Prince Edward’s feet, ere he was taken prisoner; another lost his head on the scaffold; the third — the boy had been nurtured in hate, bred amid dire curses and bitter imprecations, all levelled against Edward the Fourth and his brothers — his mind had become distorted by the ill food that nurtured it — he brooded over the crimes of these men, till he believed that he should do a good deed in immolating them to the ghosts of the murdered Lancastrians. He attempted the life of the King — was seized — tortured to discover his accomplices: he was tortured, and the father heard his cries beneath the dread instrument, to which death came as a sweet release. Real madness for a time possessed the unhappy man, and when reason returned, it was only the dawn of a tempestuous day, which rises on the wrecks of a gallant fleet and its crew, strewn on the dashing waves of a stormy sea. He dedicated himself to revenge; he had sought Henry in Britany; he had fought at Bosworth, and at Stoke. The success of his cause, and the peace that followed, was at first a triumph, at last almost a pain to him. He was haunted by memories which pursued him like the hell-born Eumenides; often he uttered piercing shrieks, as the scenes, so pregnant with horror, recurred too vividly to his mind. The priests, to whom he had recourse as his soul’s physicians, counselled him the church’s discipline; he assumed the Franciscan habit, but found sack-cloth and ashes no refuge from the greater torture of his mind. This man, in various ways, had been recalled to Henry’s mind, and now he selected him to effect his purpose.
To any other he would have feared to entrust the whole secret; but the knowledge that the destined victim was the son and rightful heir of King Edward, would add to his zealous endeavours to crush him. Besides that Trangmar had a knowledge of the fact, from having been before employed to extract in his priestly character this secret from a Yorkist, Sir George Nevil, who had been entrusted by Sir Thomas Broughton. Every thing yielded in this wretch’s mind to his hatred of York; and he scrupled not to hazard his soul, and betray the secrets of the confessional. Nevil fortunately was informed in time of the danger that menaced him, and had fled; while Trangmar, thunderstruck by the magnitude of his discovery, hastened to reveal it to the King. It were long to detail each act of the crafty sovereign, and his scarcely human tool. By his order, the friar introduced himself to the Dowager Queen, at Bermondsey, with a plausible tale, to which she, in spite of her caution, was induced to give ear, and entrusted a message by him, as he said that he was on his way to Spain, to seek and exhort to action the dilatory Prince. He then departed. Henry had rather to restrain than urge his furious zeal. The scheme projected, was, that Richard should be entrapped on board a vessel, and brought with secrecy and speed to England, where he might be immured for life in some obscure castle in Wales. Trangmar promised that either he would accomplish this, or that the boy should find a still more secret prison, whence he could never emerge to disturb the reign of Henry, or put in jeopardy the inheritance of his son.
Such was the man who, in the month of April, 1492, following Lady Brampton’s steps, arrived at Lisbon, and found to his wish the Prince there also, and easy access afforded him to his most secret counsels. He brought letters from the Dowager Queen, and some forged ones from other partizans of York, inviting the Prince without application to any foreign sovereigns, or aid from distant provinces, at once to repair to England, and to set up his standard in the midst of his native land, where, so these letters asserted, the Earl of Surrey, and many other powerful lords anxiously awaited him. All this accorded too well with the wishes of the little conclave not to ensure assent; nay, more, when Trangmar urged the inexpediency of the Duke’s being accompanied by such notorious Yorkists as Plantagenet and Lady Brampton; it was suddenly agreed that Richard should embark on board a merehantman, to sail with the next fair wind for England, while his friends dispersed themselves variously for his benefit. De Faro, in his caravel, was to convey Lord Barry to Cork. Plantagenet resolved to visit the Duchess of Burgundy, at Brussels. Lady Brampton departed for the court of France, to engage the King at once to admit young Richard’s claim, and aid him to make it good. “You, sweet, will bear me company;” and Monina, her whole soul — and her eyes expressed that soul’s devotion to Richard’s success — remembered starting, that the result of these consultations was to separate her from her childhood’s companion, perhaps for ever. As if she had tottered on the brink of a precipice, she shuddered; but all was well again. It was not to be divided from the Prince, to remain with Lady Brampton, to proceed to Paris with her; on his earliest triumph to make a part of it, and to join his court in London. All these words, king, victory, and court, wove a golden tissue before the ardent girl’s eyes; she had not yet
“Lifted the painted veil, which men call life;”
as a child who chases the glories of the west, she knew not that night was falling upon her, while still she fancied that she advanced towards the ever-retreating splendour of the sky.
Lady Brampton and Plantagenet trembled, as they committed their beloved charge to other hands; they importuned Trangmar with their injunctions — their entreaties, their thousand last words of care and love — the Friar heard, and smiled assent to all. Monina had need of all her courage for the hour, which she knew not that she dreaded till it came. He was going; the truth flashed suddenly upon her — he, from whom since childhood she had scarcely been absent for a day. So blind had she been to her own sensations, that it was not until he leaped into the boat, and put off from shore, that she became aware of the overwhelming tide of grief, disquiet, almost of despair, that inundated her heart. Where was her gaiety, her light etherial spirit, flown? Why lagged the hours thus? Why did ceaseless reverie seem her only refuge from intolerable wretchedness?
She had one other solace; she was still with his friends, whose whole thoughts were spent upon him; his name enriched their discourse; the chances of his voyage occupied their attention. Little knew they the strange and tragic drama that was acting on board the skiff that bore afar the idol of their hopes.
CHAPTER XIII.
This Friar boasteth that he knoweth hell.
And God it wot that is but litel wonder;
Friars and fiends ben but litel asonder.
— CHAUCER.
Richard meanw
hile sailed fearlessly, with treachery for his nearest mate. Trangmar had at once exhibited audacity and prudence in the arrangement of his plan. He had made no great preparation, nor confided to any the real object of his intents. His only care had been, that the Duke should sail on board an English vessel; and chance had brought into the Tagus one whose captain was inclined to the party of Lancaster. He also contrived to have two hirelings of his own engaged on board as part of the crew, who knew that it was their employers design to carry to England a prisoner for the King. He was besides provided with a warrant from Henry, empowering him to seize on his rebel subject — the name a blank, for the Monk to fill up — alive or dead. The paper ran thus; so, in case of struggle, to afford warranty for his darker purpose.
Richard was now a prisoner. The vessel belonging to any country is a portion of that country; and the deck of this merchantman was virtually a part of the British soil. The Prince, not heeding his position, was so far from fearing his enemy’s power, that he felt glad to find himself among his countrymen. He looked on the weather-beaten countenances of the honest sailors, and believed that he should find friends and partizans in all. He spoke to Trangmar of his purpose of declaring himself, and gaining them over; making this tiny offshoot of wide England his first conquest. Trangmar had not anticipated this. He was ignorant of the versatile and active spirit of the youth with whom he had to deal; nor had he, by putting himself in imagination in the Prince’s place, become aware how the project of acquiring his own was his sleepless incentive to every action, and how he saw in every event a stepping stone in the prosecution of his enterprize. He started at the proposal, and in his own heart said, “I must lose no time; that which I thought to do next week, were better done to-morrow.” With Richard he argued against this measure: he showed how the captain was bound to the present English government by his fortunes; how far more likely it was that, instead of gaining him and his crew, he would be made a prisoner by them, and delivered up to his enemy. Richard lent no great credence to this, but he yielded to the authority of the elder and the priest.
It was not in the power of his wily adversary to prevent him from ingratiating himself in the hearts of all around him. Besides his gentleness, his unaffected sympathy, and noble demeanour, his gay and buoyant spirit was congenial to the reckless sailors, who, during the dead calm that succeeded their first day’s sail after quitting the Tagus, were glad of amusement to diversify their monotonous lives. He interceded with their captain when any fault was committed; he learned their private histories, promised his assistance, and scattered money among them. Sometimes he called them around him to teach him their art, discoursing about the stars, the magnet, the signs of the weather; he climbed the shrouds, handled the ropes, became an adept in their nautical language. At other times he listened to tales of dreadful shipwrecks and sailors’ hardships, and recounted in turn de Faro’s adventures. This made them talk of the new African discoveries, and descant on the wild chimeras, or sage conclusions of Columbus, who, at last, it was said, was to be sent by the sovereigns of Spain in quest of the western passage to India, over the slant and boundless Atlantic. All this time, with flapping sails, they lay but at a short distance off the mouth of the Tagus; and Trangmar, impatient of delay, yet found it prudent to postpone his nefarious purpose.
After the calm had continued for nearly a week, signs of bad weather manifested themselves; squalls assailed the ship, settling at last in a gale, which grew into a tempest. Their little vessel was decked, yet hardly able to resist the lashing waves of the Bay of Biscay. A leak, which had shewn itself even during the calm, increased frightfully; the men were day and night employed at the pumps, exposed to the beating rain, and to the waves, which perpetually washed the deck, drenching their clothes and bedding; each hour the wind became more furious; dark water-spouts dipping into the boiling sea, and churning it to fury, swept past them, and the steep sides of the mountain-high billows were ready at every moment to overwhelm them. Their tiny bark, which in these days would scarcely receive a more dignified name than a skiff, was borne as a leaf on the stream of the wind, its only safety consisting in yielding to its violence. Often at the worst the men despaired. The captain himself, frightened at the danger, and, strange inconsistency, still more fearful of the ruin that must attend him if his vessel were wrecked, lost all presence of mind. The Prince displayed meanwhile all his native energy; he commanded the men, and they obeyed him, looking on him as a superior being; when, by following his orders, the progress of the leak was checked, and the tost bark laboured less among the surges. “Sailors have short prayers,” he said; “but if they are sincere ones, the Saints will not the less intercede for us before God. Join me, my men, in a pious vow. I swear by our Lady’s precious name, to walk barefoot to her nearest shrine the first land we touch, and there to make a gift of incense and candles at her altar. This, if we escape; if not, here is Father Meiler, a holy Franciscan, to give us short shrift; so that, like devout Catholics, we may recommend our souls to the mercy of Jesus. And now to the pump, the ropes; bring me a hatchet, our mast must overboard.”
Three days and nights they worked unremittingly; the lull that then succeeded was followed by another tempest, and the exhausted mariners grew desperate. They had been borne far into the Atlantic, and now the wind shifting, drove them with the same fury into the Bay of Biscay. Every moment in expectation of death, the heart of Trangmar softened towards his victim in spite of himself; he was forced to admire his presence of mind, his unvanquishable courage; his light, yet gentle spirit, which made him bear up under every difficulty, yet pity those who sunk beneath, cheering them with accents at once replete with kindness and fearless submission to the decree of Providence. Feeling the crew bound to him as his natural subjects, he extended towards them a paternal love, and felt called upon to guard and save them. After, for a fortnight, they had thus been the sport of the elements, the gale decreased; the violent breakers subsided into one long swell, which bore them into a sheltered cove, in the wild coast that surrounds the Bay of Biscay. The men disembarked, the vessel was drawn up; all hands were employed in unlading and repairing her. “Ye do ill,” said Richard; “do you not remember our vow? Doubtless some village is near which contains a shrine where we may pay it.”
This piety was in accord with the spirit of the times, and the men rebuked, revered still more the youth who had saved them in danger, and who now in safety, paid, with religious zeal, the debt incurred towards their heavenly patroness. A little village lay secluded near the creek, and above it, on a high rock, was a chapel dedicated to Saint Mary of the Ascension, erected by a noble, who had vowed such offering, on escaping, as the Prince of England had, from death on those perilous seas. Bare-headed, bare-footed, bearing lights, following the Franciscan who led the way, the crew of the St. George proceeded towards the shrine. Next to the blessed Virgin, Richard claimed their gratitude; and after due Aves had been said at the altar, still in the sacred place they gathered round him, offering their property and their lives, imploring him to accept from them some pledge of their thankfulness. The heart of the outcast sovereign swelled within him. “I reign here, in their breasts I reign,” was the thought that filled his bright eyes with a dew springing from the fullness of his soul; with a smile of triumph, he looked towards Father Meiler, as if to appeal to his judgment, whether now he might not declare himself, and claim these men’s allegiance. He was startled by the dark and even ferocious expression of Trangmar’s countenance. His coarse brown Franciscan dress, belted in by a rope; the cowl thrown back, displaying the monkish tonsure; the naked feet; these were symbols of humility and Christian virtue in strong contrast with the deep lines of his face, and the glare of his savage eyes: he met the glance of his victim, and became confused, while the Prince in wonder hastened to ask what strange thoughts occupied him, painting his visage with every sign of fierce passion.
“I was thinking,” said Trangmar, hesitating, “I was deliberating, since God has cast us back on
the land, whether it were not wiser to continue our journey through France, bidding farewell to the perils of the ocean sea?”
“That will I not,” cried the Prince. “Father Meiler, I watched you during the storm; you acted no coward’s part then; why do you now?”
“When danger is near, I can meet it as a man of courage,” said Trangmar; “When it is far, I can avoid it like a prudent one.”
“A good clerical distinction, fit for a monk,” replied the Duke; “but I, who am a Cavalier, Father, love rather to meet danger, than to avoid it like a woman or a priest.”
“Insulting boy!” cried Meiler; “dare you taunt me with cowardice? That I was a soldier ere I was a monk, some of your race dearly rued!”
Before these words were fully uttered, Trangmar recollected himself; his voice died away, so that his last expression was inaudible. The Duke only beheld his burst of passion, and sudden suppression of it, and said gently:—”Pardon me, Father, it is my fault that you forgot the respect due to me. I forgot the reverence meet from youth to age, most meet from a sinful boy to a holy monk.”
“I thank your Highness,” said the Friar, “for recalling to my memory a truth that had half escaped it. Henceforth be assured that I will not forget that you are the undoubted offspring of the Earl of March — of Edward of England.”
Fate thus urged this wicked and miserable man to his fiendlike purpose. Awakened again to deadly vengeance, he resolved to delay no longer; to trust no more to chance: he saw now all the difficulties of his former scheme of taking his enemy a prisoner to England; and this soothed his conscience as he recurred to more fatal designs. During the short delay that intervened before they again put out to sea, he watched an opportunity, but found none. At length they weighed anchor; and, with a favourable wind, bore down the coast of France. The time was come he surely thought: for during this long voyage he could frame an opportunity; during some dark night, when the ship sailed cheerily before a fair breeze, he would engage the Prince in engrossing talk concerning the conduct he should pursue when in England, taking advantage of his victim’s incautiousness to allure him near the brink, and then push him overboard. His single strength was more than a match for his slight adversary; but to render his scheme doubly sure, he would have the two men in his pay near him, to assist in the case of struggle, and vouch for his innocence if he were accused of foul play.
