by Mary Shelley
It is the fortune of those hurried into crime by violent passion, that they can seldom find accomplices as wicked as themselves. Thus was it with Trangmar. The men whose assistance he relied upon, the enthusiasm of their fellow-sailors for their noble passenger. After they had again set sail, the wind blowing gently from the south, bore them onwards with a favourable navigation, till, shifting a few points eastward, it began to freshen. It was then, that the Franciscan, not wholly betraying his purpose, but hinting that their presence would be necessary, ordered his men to contrive that the rest of the crew should be below, and they near at hand, while he that night should be alone with Richard upon deck. One of the men replied by stoutly declaring that if any evil was threatened the Prince, he would not be a party in it. “You possess King Henry’s warrant,” he said, “to make this Fitzroy a prisoner. I will not oppose his Majesty’s command. You have him safely; what would you more?”
The other apparently yielded an assent to his employer’s commands, and then found a speedy opportunity to warn Richard of his danger. A veil fell from the Prince’s eyes. “Surely I knew this before,” he thought; “ever since I was in Saint Mary’s chapel, I must have known that this dastard monk was my enemy. I am indeed betrayed, alone, friendless, on board an English vessel, surrounded by an English crew. Now let the trial be made, whether simple honesty be not of more avail than cruelty and craft. But first let me fathom the full intention of this man, and learn whether he have a worse design than that of delivering me over defenceless to my adversary. It cannot be that he would really murder me.”
The breeze had rather sunk towards sunset, but it arose again with the stars; the vessel’s prow struck against the light waves, and danced gaily on through the sea. One man stood at the helm; another, one of the Friar’s hirelings, loitered near; the other kept out of the way. Still, beneath the thousand stars of cloudless night, the little bark hurried on, feeling the freshening of the wind; her larboard beam was deep in the water, and close at the deck’s leeward edge, Meiler and his intended victim paced. One thoughtless boy, high among the shrouds, whistled in answer to the winds. There was at once solitude and activity in the scene. “This is the hour,” thought Richard; “surely if man’s sinful heart was ever touched with remorse, this man’s may now. God’s throne, visible in all its beauty above us — beneath, around, the awful roaring waters, from which we lately so miraculously escaped.” He began to speak of England, of his mother, of the hopes held out to him by his companion; eager in his desire of winning a traitor to the cause of truth, he half forgot himself, and then started to find that, ever as he walked, his companion got him nearer to the brink of the slant, slippery deck. Seized with horror at this manifestation of the worst designs, yet scarcely daring to credit his suspicions, he suddenly stopt, seizing a rope that swung near, and steadying himself by winding his arm round it, an act that escaped his enemy’s observation, for, as he did it, he spoke: “Do you know, Father Meiler, that I suspect and fear you. I am an inexperienced youth, and if I am wrong, forgive me; but you have changed towards me of late, from the kind friend you once were. Strange doubts have been whispered: do you reply to them. Are you my friend, or are you a treacherous spy? — the agent of the noble Yorkists, or Henry Tudor’s hireling murderer?”
As he spoke the Friar drew still nearer, and the Prince recoiled further from him: he got on the sheer edge of the deck. “Rash boy!” cried Trangmar, “know that I am no hireling: sacred vengeance pricks me on! Son of the murderer! tell me, where is sainted Henry? where Prince Edward? where all the noble martyrs of his cause? Where my brave and lost sons? There, even where thou shalt be: quick, look back, thy grave yawns for thee!”
With the words he threw himself furiously on the Prince: the stripling sprung back with all the force lent him by the rope he held, and pushed at the same time Trangmar violently from him, as he cried aloud on the sailors, “What, ho! treason is among us!” A heavy splash of the falling Meiler answered his call: the strong man was cast down in his very pride; the waters divided, and sucked him in. In a moment the crew were on deck; Trangmar’s hireling, scared, cried out, “He is King Henry’s prisoner! seize him!” thus increasing the confusion. The friar, his garments floating, now appeared struggling among the waves; a rope was thrown to him; the vessel sped on meanwhile, and it fell far short; Richard, horror-struck, would have leapt in to save his enemy; but the time was gone. One loud shriek burst on the ear of night, and all was still; Trangmar, his misery, his vengeance, and his crimes lay buried in the ocean’s hoary caves.
What explanation could follow this tremendous incident? The Prince spoke of his life attacked; the men of the warrant their master had for his seizure: what was his crime none knew; “That will I declare freely,” said the royal youth; “that unhappy man has sealed my truth by his death. In my childhood I was nurtured in a palace, and bore the title of the Duke of York. Edward the Fourth was my father, Edward the Fifth my brother.”
“Why this is foulest treason,” cried the trembling captain.
“Aye, or fairest loyalty; speak, my friends; which of you will lay hands on your liege, on Richard the Fourth of England?”
The reckless and ignorant sailors, riotously and with one acclaim, swore to die for him; but their commander shuddered at the peril that beset him: while his men were hanging round their idolized Prince, he retired with his mate to lament the ugly chance of Trangmar’s death, and to express terror at the very name of York. If the captain was a coward-friend of Tudor, the mate was a sturdy Lancastrian; he recommended his chief to seize the boy, and convey him a welcome gift to his sovereign; the clamours of the delighted crew showed that this was vain advice. He had said to them, with all the ingenuousness of youth, “My life is in your hands, and I know that it is safe.” Yet, when they spoke of seizing their unwilling commander, and of delivering the vessel in his hands, he said, “My good friends, I will not make lawless acts the stepping-stones to my throne; it is grief enough for me that my young hands have unwittingly destroyed the life of one who, not as an armed knight, but in holy garb set himself against me. I myself will persuade your captain to do me all the service I require.”
This poor man was willing enough to hear what he called reason; at first he would fain have entreated Richard to suffer himself to be carried a prisoner to England; and, when he found his discourse vain, he yielded timid obedience to York’s wishes, in spite of the lowering brow of his mate: thus, at least, his cargo would be saved, and his crew preserved from mutiny. Richard simply requested to be set on shore in Cork harbour, suddenly relinquishing every thought of England, now that he saw the treachery that awaited him there, and recurring to the former plans of Lord Barry. In Ireland, in the county of the Desmonds, he should find friends, adherents, almost prepared for his arrival; and there also, if Barry forgot not his promise, this staunch partizan would speedily join him; the captain gladly assented to any project, that did not force him to land this dangerous pretender on the English shores.
For one week they ran before the wind; and Ireland, far and low, was discernible on the horizon; the dear land of promise to the weary exile, the betrayed, but high-hearted Prince: during this short navigation it had required all his fortitude to banish from his mind the image of the friar struggling in the waves, of a man precipitated in the very act of crime “unhouseled, unanointed, unannealed,” into the life-quenching waters. Besides all other expectations, Richard longed to get on shore, that in a confessional he might lift this burthen of involuntary guilt from his soul.
At length the iron-bound coast was right a-head; the ponderous rocky jaws of the creek were open, and they sailed up Passage, past beautiful and woody islands, under forest-crowned hills, till they cast anchor before the picturesque and hill-set city of Cork, whose quay was crowded by multitudes, gazing on the newly-arrived vessel.
The Duke of York stood on the prow of his skiff, reflecting on the first step he ought to take. He knew little of Ireland, and that little had been gle
aned from Lord Barry: he heard from him of its warlike chiefs, its uncivilized septs, and English settlers, scarce less wild, and quite as warlike as its aboriginal inhabitants. He called to mind the names most familiar to him — the Earl of Kildare, abettor of Simnel, pardoned by Henry, and continued in his office of Lord Deputy; the Earl of Desmond, whom Lord Barry had particularly interested in his favour, who affected the state of an Irish chieftain, or rather king, and who, in his remote abode in Munster, disdained to attend the Dublin parliament, or to make one of the lawful governors of the land. Other names he remembered of less note: Plunket, the Lord Chief Justice, whom, with infinite reluctance, Henry had pardoned; Keating, Prior of Kilmainham, who had been constable of Dublin Castle, and who, ejected from his office after the battle of Stoke, had saved himself by flight, and was now concealed in an Abbey near Buttevant. Much however of what he had heard, escaped his memory; and he stood on the threshold of this unknown land, vainly seeking in his recollection for the dim and shadowy forms, which were to guide him in the new and unexplored world before him. Another reflection also presented itself: Lord Barry had quited Ireland the year before, and communication there had been none since then — was Kildare still Deputy? did incursions of the natives, or turbulence among themselves, occupy the Lords of the Pale? Should he find a band of nobles and their followers ready to assist him, or the motley population of a barbarous wild, whose sole ideas were internal struggles for power, whose watch-words for enterprize were names and things in which he had no portion?
In a hurried manner, York resolved on his plan of action. He had, on their approach to land, arrayed himself in gay and rich apparel. The Spain from which he came was parent of this act: there embroidery, housings inlaid with gold, and arms encrusted with jewels, formed the pride of the high-born Cavaliers. He stood prepared to land; he thanked the captain for his enforced courtesy; he held out his hand to the crew who gathered round him with their prayers and blessings. “My own!” was his first thought as he set his foot on shore: “Hail, realm of my fathers! Hear the vow of the fugitive who claims your sway! Justice, mercy, and paternal love, are the gifts with which I will repay your obedience to my call; your submission to my rule.”
“Heave the anchor, and away!” thus spoke the captain of the craft he had left.
“For England; to warn our king of this springal’s insolent presumption;” said the mate.
“To any quarter of the wide world, save England,” replied the timid captain: “Would you have me run my neck into the noose for not having clapped under hatches this mercurial spark? Master mate, learn from an old sailor, that the best you can do with kings and grandees, is to have nought to do with them.”
CHAPTER XIV.
Then Paridell, in whom a kindly pride
Of gracious speech, and skill his words to frame
Abounded, being glad of so fit tide
Him to commend to them, thus spake, of all well eyed.
— SPENSER.
Cork was an asylum for civilization in the centre of a savage district. The cautious burghers, made wealthy by trade, and ever in fear of incursions from the surrounding septs, kept the strictest guard upon their city, as if they had a continual siege laid to it. They forbade all intercourse or intermarriage between those within and without the walls, till every citizen became linked together by some sort of kindred. It is true, that the country around was peopled to a great degree by English lords; but they were the degenerate English, as they were styled, who imitated the state and independance of the native chiefs. Such was the Earl of Desmond, of the family of the Geraldines, who ruled as a king over Munster, and with whom the Barrys, the De Courcys, the Barretts, and the Mac Carthys, Mac Swineys, and other native chiefs, were connected by marriage, or struggling with him for “Chieferie” in the mutable chance of war.
There was no appearance of timidity in the frank and assured aspect of the unfriended adventurer, as without entering the city, but merely passing through its suburbs, he proceeded to the cathedral church. It was twelve o’clock on the twenty-fourth of June, the feast of Saint John the Baptist; and high mass was celebrating. The Duke of York entered the church — his soul was filled with pious gratitude for his escape from the dangers of the sea, and the craft of his enemies; and, as he knelt, he made a vow to his sainted Patroness, the Virgin, to erect a church on the height which first met his eyes as he approached shore, and to endow a foundation of Franciscans — partly, because of all monkish orders they chiefly venerate her name, partly to atone for his involuntary crime in the death of Meiler Trangmar, who wore that habit. The appearance of this young, silken-suited, and handsome Cavalier, drew the eyes of Erin’s blue-eyed daughters: — the men whispered together that he must be some Spanish grandee or English noble; but wherefore, unannounced and unattended, he came and knelt in their church before the shrine of Saint Finbar, was matter of vague conjecture. The congregation passed out; then, impelled by curiosity, formed a wide semicircle round the gates of the cathedral, watching the motions of the graceful stranger. Master John Lavallan the Mayor, John O’Water the wealthiest citizen, and former Mayor of the town, and other rich burghers, stood close to the Round Tower within the walls of the Garth, in expectation of being addressed by their distinguished visitor. The Duke of York cast a quick glance around; and then, as the Mayor advanced, the youth stept forward to meet him. The citizen, as one habituated to exercise hospitality, bade the knight welcome, beseeching him to honour his abode with his presence, and to command his services. The Duke frankly accepted the invitation, and descended with the Mayor into the main street, where that officer resided; and here again Richard was made welcome to the city of Cork.
It was a gala day at the Mayor’s; and now, at the dinner hour, twelve o’clock, the long tables groaned under the weight of viands, and round the hospitable board were seated the principal families of the town. No questions were asked the visitor — his golden spurs bespoke his honourable rank; he was placed at the right hand of Lavallan: and, while the clatter of knives and trenchers went on, he was only remarked by the younger guests, who gazed even to the injury of their appetites, on his burnished ringlets, his fair, open brow, his bright, blue eyes, and smile of courteous affability: but time went on; the dishes were carried away, the goblets placed; when the Mayor, rising, drank welcome to the stranger, and asked, if no reason forbade him to reply, his name and mission. Already Richard had become acquainted with most of the countenances of his entertainers — that is, of those nearest him; for, far through the long hall, almost out of sight, the table extended, crowded by city retainers, and a few of the mere “Irishry,” whose long hair and loose saffron-coloured mantles, contrasted with the doublet, hose, and trimmed locks of the townsmen. Those near him bore the latter character, though their vivacious glances and quick gestures were more akin to the inhabitants of the South, among whom he had been accustomed to live, than to the steady, dull demeanour of English traders.
When Lavallan drank to the stranger, every eye turned to the object of the toast. Richard arose — his plumed cap was doffed; his shining hair, parted on his brow, clustered round his throat; his sunny countenance was full of confidence and courage—”Sir Mayor,” he said, “my most kind entertainer, and you, my friends, men of Cork, may the grateful thanks of the homeless adventurer be as kindly received by you, as they are gladly paid by him. Who am I? you ask. Wherefore do I come? My name is the best in the land; my coming is to claim your aid, to elevate it to its rightful place of pride and honour. Were I cravenhearted, or you less generous, I might dread to declare myself; but fear never entered the heart of a Plantagenet; and, when, unreservedly, I place my life in your hands, will you betray the trust?”
A murmur quickly hushed, the sound of suppressed emotion, as the winds of thought passed over the minds of those around, for an instant interupted the speaker —
“Neither is my name nor lineage unknown to you,” he continued: “you honour both and have obeyed them; will you refuse to submit
to me, their descendant and representative? Did you not vow fealty to Richard Duke of York, who, driven from his own England by false Lancaster, found refuge and succour here? Was not Clarence your ruler, and Edward of England monarch of your isle? In the name of these, in the name of the White Rose and Mortimer and Plantagenet — I, the son of Edward the Fourth, the victim of my uncle Gloster’s treachery, and low-born Tudor’s usurpation; I, named in my childhood Duke of York and Lord of Ireland, now, if rightly styled, Richard the Fourth of England, demand my lieges of Cork, to acknowledge my rights, to rise in my cause. I, a Prince and an outcast, place myself in their hands, through them to be a fugitive for ever, or a King.”
Had Richard planned this scene, with deep insight into the dispositions of those with whom he had to deal, he could not have projected a better arrangement. They had learned of his existence from Lord Barry, and were prepossessed in his favour. Their fiery hearts were lighted at the word — his name, with a thousand blessings attached to it, rang through the hall: by means of the servants and followers at the lower end of the table, it reached the outer apartments and avenues of the Mansion-house; while, with a kind of exalted rapture, the Mayor and his guests hung over their new-found Prince. The citizens began to gather without, and to call aloud for the White Rose of England; the day was finished in festal tumult; the Mayor led forth his princely visitor — he was hailed Lord of Ireland with one acclaim. Some elders, who had known his grandfather, or had been followers of the Duke of Clarence, and others who, visiting England, had seen Edward the Fourth, were struck by the likeness he bore to his progenitors, and enthusiastically vouched for his truth. To see and hear the mad exultation of the moment, an uninterested spectator must have thought, that a messenger from heaven had arrived, to bestow liberty on the groaning slaves of some blood-nurtured tyrant. The Duke was installed in the castle with princely state, a town-guard appointed him, and the night was far advanced, before he was permitted to repose, and wondering to collect his thoughts, and feel himself an acknowledged sovereign in the first town of his alienated dominions in which he had set foot.
