by Mary Shelley
Meanwhile, Henry was not sleeping at his post. He saw the full extent of his danger, and exerted all his energy to provide against it. His immediate attention was chiefly directed to two points. In the first place it was desirable to forge some tale, to account for the circumstances that spoke so loudly for the truth of York’s story, and thus to degrade him from the high esteem in which he was universally held; secondly, it became necessary to certify to the public the death of Edward the Fifth and his brother in the Tower. We may well wonder at his ill success as to the first point: — there never was concocted so ill-fangled, so incongruous, and so contradictory a fable, as that put together by Henry, purporting to be the history of the pretender. He was himself ashamed of it, and tried to call it in. History has in its caprice given more credence to this composition, than its contemporaries gave; it was ridiculed and despised at the time even by the partizans of Lancaster.
He was equally unfortunate in his second effort. To explain his attempts we must go back to the time of Richard the Third. On repeated reports being made to him of his unhappy imprisoned nephew’s illness, this monarch had commissioned Sir James Tirrel to visit him. The young Prince had languished without any appearance of immediate danger, and then suddenly drooped even to the grave. Tirrel arrived at the Tower late in the evening, and the first intelligence he received was, that the Lord Edward was dying. At the midnight hour he was admitted into his sick room: his two attendants followed him no further than the ante-chamber. He entered. The glazed eye and death-pale cheek of the victim spoke of instant dissolution: a few slight convulsions, and it was over — Edward was no more! With wild, loud cries poor little York threw himself on his brother’s body. Tirrel’s servants, affrighted, entered: they found one of the Princes, whose illness had been represented as trivial, dead; the other was carried off, struggling and screaming, by their master and an attendant priest, the only two persons in the chamber. They departed two hours afterwards from the Tower. Tirrel seemed disturbed, and was silent. They would perhaps have thought less about it; but hearing subsequently of the disappearance and supposed death of the young Duke, wonder grew into suspicion, and in thoughtless talk they laid the foundation of a dire tale out of these fragments. Henry had heard it before; now he endeavoured to trace its origin. Tirrel, who for some time had lived obscurely in the country, came to London — he was immediately seized, and thrown into prison. Emissaries were set to work to find the three others, the priest and Sir James’s two servants. Only one was to be found; and, when Tirrel was asked concerning this man, by name John Dighton, he told a tale of ingratitude punished by him, which was soothing sweet to King Henry’s ear: he was speedily discovered and imprisoned. Both master and follower underwent many examinations; and it was suggested to each, that reward would follow their giving countenance to a tale of midnight murder. Tirrel was indignant at the proposal; Dighton, on the contrary — a needy, bad man — while he told the story so as to gloss his own conduct, was very ready to inculpate his master; and it grew finely under his fosterage. Henry saw that without Tirrel’s connivance he could not authenticate any account; but he gave all the weight he could to these reports. Few persons believed them, yet it served to confuse and complicate events; and, while people argued, some at least would take his side of the question, and these would be interested to spread their belief abroad: — Duke Richard must be the loser in every way.
The spies, the traitor-emissaries of the fear-struck monarch, were all busy; there was a whole army of them dispersed in England and Flanders — none could know the false man from the true. To obviate every suspicion, he caused his own hirelings to be proclaimed traitors, and cursed at St. Paul’s Cross.
The priests, ever his friends, were impiously permitted to violate the sacrament of confession; and thus several unsuspecting men betrayed their lives, while they fancied that they performed a religious duty. A few names still escaped him — he tampered with Clifford and Frion for them: the former was not yet quite a villain; the latter found that he enjoyed more credit, honour, and power, as the Duke’s Secretary, than he could do as Henry’s spy; besides, his vanity was hurt — he wished to revenge himself on the master who had discarded him.
In nothing did Henry succeed better than in throwing an impenetrable veil over his manoeuvres. Most people thought, so tranquil and unconcerned he seemed, that he did not suspect the existence of an actual conspiracy, fostered in England itself, containing many influential persons among its numbers. All were sure that he was entirely ignorant of their names and actual purposes. The many months which intervened while he waited patiently, corroborated this belief, and the conspirators slept in security. The winter passed, and they continued to scheme, apparently unobserved; spring came — they prepared for York’s landing — for a general rising — for a sudden seizing on many walled towns and fortresses — for the occupation of London itself. A few brief weeks, and Henry’s prosperity would be shaken to its centre — his power uprooted — he and his children would wander exiles in a foreign land; and another king, the gallant descendant of the true Plantagenets, reign in his stead.
Thus occupied, thus prepared, were the Yorkists in England; at Brussels, things were carried on more openly, and wore a more promising appearance. The Duchess, Lady Brampton, Plantagenet, triumphed. Sir George Neville anticipated with proud joy a restoration of the fallen race of Warwick, and regarded himself already as another king-maker of that house. Every exile looked northward, and grew joyful with the thought of home. Frion became more busy and important than ever; he had lately gone disguised to England, in pursuance of some project. In another week they expected Lord Barry to join them from Ireland: Clifford was amazed, vacillating, terrified. He knew that Henry was far from idle; he was aware that some of the loudest speakers in Richard’s favour in Brussels were his hirelings, whom he would not betray, because he half felt himself one among them, though he could not quite prevail on himself to join their ranks. He believed that the King was in eager expectation of his decision in his favour; that nothing could be done till he said the word; he proposed conditions; wished to conceal some names; exempt others from punishment. Messengers passed continually between him and Bishop Morton, Henry’s chief counsellor and friend, and yet he could not determine to be altogether a traitor.
Thus stood affairs; a consummation, all thought to be nigh at hand. It was the spring of 1494, and the coming summer was to decide the fate of York. A ball was given by the Duchess, in honour of her nephew; it was splendidly and gaily attended. Clifford had been conversing with the Prince, when suddenly he left the apartment: it was long ere he came back, and slowly joined the principal groupe in the room, consisting of the Duchess, the Prince, Lady Brampton, Neville, Plantagenet, Taylor, and several others. Clifford’s countenance was marked by horror and surprise; so much so, that Lady Brampton looked at him a moment without knowing him. Suddenly she started up and seized his arm—”Holy Virgin!” she cried, “what had dressed your face, Sir Robert, in this pale livery? what tale of death have you heard?”
The brow of Clifford became flushed, his lips grew whiter, as quivering they refused to form the words he attempted to utter. Barley had before this quitted the apartment: he rushed in now, crying aloud, “Treason!”
“Treason!” Neville repeated, laying his hand heavily on Clifford’s shoulder; “hear you that word, Sir Knight? Where is the traitor?”
Clifford in a moment recovered himself, answering, composedly, “Aye, would I could point out the man — would that I could drag him forth, the mark, the very target for the shafts of vengeance. We are lost; the cause is lost; our friends; the good Lord Fitzwater. I would have hid his name in the bowels of the earth!”
Already the festal hall was deserted; already the guests were dispersed, to learn how wide the destruction had spread. By the Prince’s orders, the messenger from England was introduced before himself and his principal friends: it was Adam Floyer, Sir Simon Mountford’s chaplain; escaped himself, he was the bearer
of a frightful tale. On one day, almost at the same hour, the Yorkist conspirators were arrested. Lord Fitzwater, Sir Simon Mountford, Sir Thomas Thwaites, Robert Ratcliffe, William Daubeny, Thomas Cressenor, Thomas Astwood, two Dominicans, by name William Richford and Thomas Poyns, Doctor William Sutton, Worseley the Dean of Saint Paul’s, Robert Langborne, and Sir William Lessey, were all seized and cast into prison. Others had escaped: young Gilbert Daubeny, brother of William, and Sir Edward Lisle, had arrived in Flanders. Others made good speed and had fled to Ireland.
CHAPTER IV.
Oh, Clifford! but bethink thee once again.
And in thy thought oerrun my former time.
And if thou can’st for blushing, view this face!
— SHAKSPEARE.
“Where is the traitor?” Neville’s question resounded through Flanders, and was reechoed in groans from the English shores. Each man feared the other; and saw the mark of Henry’s malice on the brow of all. It was a worse scene in England; executions followed imprisonment; the scaffolds flowed with blood, and suspicion was still greedy of prey. Among the papers seized by the King, there was found a letter from Clifford to Lord Fitzwater, containing these words: “I do protest, my Lord, that the proof of York’s truth is most pertinent. You know this; and yet he who cut the crooked rose-bush to the roots, still doubts: forsooth, he is still at his ‘ifs’—’if he were sure that that young man were King Edward’s son, he would never bear arms against him.’ Pray, deprive my Lord of his ‘if;’ for arms he must never bear: he is too principal to any cause.”
Henry tormented himself to find who this doubter might be: again he sought to bribe Clifford, who was at first dogged that so much was done without him, and then tried to barter his intelligence for Lord Fitzwater’s life. Such grace had he left, that he was ready to exert his wits to save his former patron; this was granted. This noble alone of the conspirators, who were laymen, was spared; he was sent prisoner to Calais.
At the first word of discovery Monina’s friends had endeavoured to ensure her escape to Flanders; but her name was known to Henry, and there was none whom he was more desirous to get into his power. She remained concealed at a little distance from London; she grew mad in inaction; the work of death and misery around, wound up her tender spirit to torture; and the execution of her former friends filled her with such horror, as made day hateful, night the parent of frightful visions. After several weeks’ seclusion, she all at once resolved to visit London, to seek some one of her former friends; to learn whether the tragedy was over, and what further mischiefs despair might have engendered. She inhabited a solitary mansion, with one old woman, who opposed her going, but vainly. Monina was too young to bear uncertainty with any degree of patience. Some slight joy visited her as she found herself on her road to London: before she arrived a heavy rain fell, but she was not to be discouraged. Sir Edward Lisle, she knew, had not been arrested; she was unaware of his escape, and thought perhaps that he had not been discovered: she might get intelligence from him. His house was deserted and empty: another hope remained; Sir William Stanley. She knew his timidity, and resolved to be cautious as to the manner of her visit. Sir William had ever been peculiarly kind to the gentle maiden: fearing to see her openly, she had often come to him by water: his mansion, near the Palace at Westminster, had a garden upon the Thames: without exciting any remark, she could land here: it was already night, and this favoured secrecy. With some difficulty, in the city, where she then was, she contrived to find her way to an obscure wharf, and embarked in a wherry; fortunately, it was high water, and she landed without difficulty in the garden, and dismissed the men. Now she began to be puzzled as to how she should make her way, dripping with rain, unexpected, to Sir William’s presence. She had been accustomed to be admitted by a little door opening on stairs which led to her old friend’s library; this was shut now. Suddenly she thought she heard voices, and then perceived a thread of light that streamed through the keyhole of the summer-house in the garden: there was a noise on the water too, and a boat was paddled to the landing-place. Bewildered, yet believing that all this secresy was connected with the grand conspiracy, she moved towards the summer-house; the door was opened, and the light falling full upon her, she saw several figures within, and a female shriek burst upon her ear: quick steps were heard behind: to retreat or go forward equally terrified her; when one of the persons in the summer-house, a man in an uncouth foreign garb, cried—”Thou here, Monina! What miracle is this? Come, come in, there is danger in all we do.”
Monina recognized the voice of Frion, and entered; there she saw one, a lady richly attired, yet half disguised in a large black cloak. Fear was painted on her cheek; her blue eyes were cast up to Heaven. A female attendant with her seemed yet more terrified. About the room were scattered globes and astrolabes, and all the gear of an astrologer. In the lady, Monina recognized York’s sister, Tudor’s Queen, the fair Elizabeth of England. At once compassion and respect entered her heart; she addressed the royal lady with reverence, and all that touching grace that was her sweetest charm; she assured her of inviolable secrecy; she reminded her of their former interview. Elizabeth grew calmer as she recognized her visitor at Shene: she stretched out her hand to the Spaniard, saying—”I do indeed believe and trust thee; thou shalt hear again from me:” then folding her mantle round her, and leaning on her attendant, she quitted the house, and with trembling haste embarked.
For many weeks after this scene Monina continued concealed in Sir William Stanley’s mansion. When the arrest of the conspirators had taken place, Frion, balked in an attempt to escape, for safety’s sake had assumed the habit and character of an astrologer, and so far worked upon Stanley’s fears, and won him by his flattery, that he permitted him to take up his residence in his summer-house. Frion was a clever prophet, and too restless not to become notorious: it was a good mode, he averred, to put hope in the hearts of the Yorkists, by prognosticating all manner of success to them. His fame spread; the Queen questioned Stanley about his new astrologer, and the confusion the poor Chamberlain evinced, served only to excite her curiosity. She sent one of her attendants to see what manner of man he might be, and the subtle Frion profited by this little artifice, which Sir William in his terror divulged, to entice the Queen herself to his cell; she came, and the result of her visit was to bring Monina again before her.
Such were the agents still at work for York in London. Such the materials Clifford strove to mould into a purpose of his own. There was no reason, so many of the White Rose thought, to forego all their plans, because one had come to a fatal end. Still Richard might land in England, and make head against Tudor. On a smaller scale, with lessened hopes and diminished ardour, a scheme of this kind was canvassed. Clifford appeared its chief abettor, and encouraged it by every means in his power; none were averse; it was not an enterprize of such high expectation as the discovered one; but, undertaken with speed, and prosecuted with energy, it might turn out as wel. England was by no means tranquil; the metropolis itself was the scene of tumults: these were raised to a ferment by the embargo Henry had found it necessary to place on all communication with Holland, a measure fraught with ruin to many of the richest merchants in London.
At this time, towards the end of summer, the King came up from his palace at Shene, and held a court at Westminster. One of the immediate subjects that brought him up, was a tumult in the city, to which the embargo had given rise. A vast number of apprentices and journeymen belonging to the ruined merchants, were out of employ, while the traders from Hans, and other free German towns, who went among us by the name of the Easterlings, got the commerce into their own hands, and grew rich upon it. The sight of their prosperity was to the starving Londoners, as the pressed rowel of a spur in a horse’s side; with the usual barbarism of the untaught and rude, they visited on these men the fault of their governors — the discontent augmented till it became loud, furious, and armed. Multitudes of those deprived of their usual means, met, and, in a moment of rage, p
roceeded from words to acts. They endeavoured to force and rifle the warehouses of the Easterlings, who repulsed them with difficulty; nor did they disperse, till the Mayor arrived with men and weapons, from whom they fled like a flock of sheep. When tidings of this event was brought to Henry; he, who saw in all things the multiplied image of the abhorred White Rose, believed the Yorkists to be its secret cause. The day after his arrival he gave audience to the Mayor, who reported that, from every examination made, none appeared to have a part in it, except servants and apprentices, nearly a hundred of whom were imprisoned in the Tower.
