by Mary Shelley
To such a speech, so unexpected, so portentous, what answer? Richard felt inclined to laugh, as he heard himself spoken to, in terms which seemed to say that the discovery of who he really was, would occasion his release; but he quickly discerned a hidden meaning beneath this incomprehensible language, and he contented himself with graciously thanking the Earl for his interference, while this noble turned to address the wondering Sir John.
“Sir Lieutenant,” said he, “I have a strange story to tell, fitter for his Majesty’s ears than those of a subject; but his Grace is absent, and it were not well that this noble gentleman should be kept in durance while messengers go to and fro. Rather dismiss your followers, and I will confide a weighty secret to you, and bring such arguments as will induce you to entrust the high-born youth to my care and escort.”
Digby was not much of a statesman; he had a simple heart, and considerable veneration for rank. He knew that the Earl of Desmond had been well received at court, and complied with his desire. The noble then began a long explanation of parties and tumults in Scotland; of the frightful death of James the Third; the accession of James the Fourth; the discontent of several chief nobles, who wished to set up the younger brother of the new king in opposition to him. “Your Highness,” continued Desmond, addressing Richard, “will pardon me for thus introducing your name — this, Sir Lieutenant, is the Duke of Rosse, who has come, and not vainly, to seek the assistance of our liege.”
Sir John bowed low and looked puzzled, while Desmond continued to speak of disguise and secresy, of friendship for Stanley, and of the rash design of Lord Barry of Buttevant and the young Duke to liberate him, chiefly under the idea that thus they should best serve King Henry, who must in his heart be loth to have his zealous friend put to death through the falsehood of faction. “And now, gentle Sir,” he continued, “be guided by me; the King loves peace; he loves state privacy; the very presence of the Duke in this country is a mystery; you will do agreeable service by hushing up this youthful frolic. Permit his Highness to accompany me; I will make fitting report to his Majesty, who will be grateful withal.”
There was a kind of confused tallying in the story; for Richard’s mysterious words were at no discord with Desmond’s explanations; and his excessively youthful and perfectly noble appearance were further corroboration. Digby liked not the responsibility of keeping him: he spoke of sending for the Bishop of Durham. Desmond exclaimed, “A soldier have recourse to a priest — this England is a strange country! Do as you will; only until the thumber of missals arrive, this is no place of entertainment for the Prince. We will receive you and your clericus at Walbrook; and I will entertain the royal gentleman till you come.”
Digby still looked blank and uncertain. Richard, who had remained silent, now spoke: “Farewell, good Sir; in truth, I need your excuse for my impertinent visit; but here it ends. When I travel to Scotland, I will report the favour I met at your hands.”
This sufficed. Sir John sullenly yielded: with a mixture of fear and deference, he attended his visitors to the court; they crossed the draw-bridge; and ere the Tower-gates closed behind them, they heard the lieutenant order out a guard and his own horse, that without loss of time he might communicate with the Bishop.
The Duke and his preserver rode gently enough down Tower Hill: scarce had they reached the foot, before the Earl gave a sudden command to his followers, who turned one way, as he, York, and Monina, who had left the Tower at the same time, and was mounted on one of Desmond’s attendants’ horses, went another. “Au galoppe, dear, my lord!” cried the Earl, “we have but a short hour’s grace — this way — still the river to our left.”
They galloped along with loosened reins. Arriving at the vale of Holborn, they followed the upward course of the Fleet, so to reach the open country; and many a wild field they crossed, and briary lane they threaded — the country was flat, marshy, wild; skirted in various directions by brown wintry woods, rarely interspersed by hamlets. The river was their only guide; they followed its course for several miles, till they reached the shelter of Caen Wood. “Thank St. Patrick for this cover!” cried the Irish chieftain; “may my cousin Barry find no let nor hindrance — you troubled stream will guide him well. We have done a daring deed: for me, I have not ridden so far since my father, God sain him! died — I am well nigh hors de combat.”
The Prince assisted both his companions to dismount. Lord Desmond’s tale was soon told, of how Lord Barry had sought him and suggested this mode of effecting York’s escape. “With the help of your Moorish friend,” said the Earl, “no ill wind betide me — I shall be in Munster before the riddle be half told; that is, if ever we reach the vessel. By my faith! I would rather be knee-deep in a bog in Thomond, than dry shod where I am!”
As day advanced, the situation of the fugitives became still more disquieting. All was tranquil in the leafless wood; but, in spite of the sun, it was very cold. Besides, they were in an unknown spot, without guide; their sole hope being, that each passing minute would bring Lord Barry to their assistance. Earl Maurice was thoroughly disabled; he grumbled at first, and at last wearied out, lay on the cold ground, and fell into a slumber. Monina, serious, timid, and yet in spite of herself happy in her friend’s safety, and in her own being near him, was silent; while Richard, to escape from his own thoughts, talked to her. When, for a moment, his conversation languished, his eyes were fondly fixed upon her downcast face, and a strife of sentiment, of ardent long-restrained love, and a torturous, but severe resolve to protect her even from himself, battled in his heart; so that, in all-engrossing love, every sense of danger was lost.
Desmond at last roused himself: “The shadows grow long; herbage there is little for our horses, pasture for ourselves there is none — if we stay we starve; if we stir, we—”
He was interrupted; strange voices came upon the wind; then the crackling of boughs, and the sound of steps. Through the vista of bare trees the intruders at length appeared, in strange array. There was a band of ill-attired, ruffian-looking men, followed by women and children; their swart visages, their picturesque, but scant and ragged garb, their black hair and dark flashing eyes were not English. Some were on foot, some on asses, some in a cart, drawn by two rough ill-assorted colts — their very language was foreign. Richard and Monina recognised a horde of Gitani, Bohemians, or Gypsies; while Desmond looked in wonder on something almost wilder than the Irish kern.
The savage wanderers were surprised to perceive the previous guests the barren woods had received — they paused and looked around in some fear; for the noble appearance of the gentlemen made them imagine that they must be accompanied by numerous attendants. York’s quick wit suggested to him in a moment of what good use such humble friends might be. He addressed them; told them that they were travellers who had lost their way, “And so we have encroached on your rightful domain; but, like courteous hosts, I beseech you, gentlemen, welcome us to your green-wood palace, and make happy, as you will grateful, guests of us.”
Thus invited, the whole horde gathered round — the women, fancying all three of an opposite sex, were forward with their prophetic art.
“My fortune,” cried Desmond, “shall not be told before supper; it is an ill one, by the rood! at this hour. I have fasted since yesternight.”
Preparations were speedily made for a repast, while Richard, alive to his situation, looked around for the most fitting object to address; whose charity and aid he could hope to solicit with the greatest success. One laughing-eyed girl glanced at him with peculiar favour; but near her stood and scowled a tall handsome countryman of her own. York turned to another, fairer, who sat retired apart; she looked more gentle and even refined than the rest. He addressed her in courtly phrase, and her reply, though ready, was modest. The acquaintance was a little in progress, when one of the oldest among the sibyls, with white hair, and a face of wrinkled parchment, hobbled up, muttering, “Aye, aye, the fairest flower is aye the dearest to pluck; any of those gaudy weeds might serve h
is turn; but no, my young master must needs handle the daintiest bloom of the garden.” Notwithstanding this interruption, Richard still stood his ground, bandying pretty speeches with one, not the less pleased, because, strictly guarded by her duenna, she was unaccustomed to the language of flattery.
“Hast never a word for me, fair sir,” said the crone, at last; “no comparison of star and gems for one, who in her day has flaunted with silk-clad dames — whose lips have been pressed even by a king?”
His father’s reputation for gallantry, thus alluded to, brought the blood into York’s cheeks; forgetful of what import his words bore, he replied hastily, “Sleep King Edward’s faults with him, mother; it is neither wise nor well to speak irreverently of those gone to their doom — may God assoilzie him!”
“What voice is that?” cried the old woman; “if I boast, Heaven forgive me, of his Grace’s slight favour, your mother may take shame—” “Your words are naught,” cried York, interrupting her, “my mother’s is a sacred name — yet, tell me in very truth, and give me some sign that indeed you knew my father.”
The word passed his lips before he was aware, but being spoken, he felt that it were best not to recede. Seizing the old woman’s shrivelled hand, he said, “Look — use thy art — read my palm: read rather my features, and learn indeed who I am: I am in danger; you may betray, or you may save me, choose which you will — I am the Duke of York.”
An exclamation checked, a look of boundless surprise, changed into a cautious glance around, attested the Gypsy’s wish to serve the venturous youth. “Rash boy,” she answered, in a low voice, “what idle, or what mortal words are these! How art thou here? With what hope? What aid?”
“Frankly, none but what I derive from your bounty. I have escaped worse peril, so do not fear but that God will protect me; and even turn to profit my parent’s sin, if his kiss purchase his son’s life.”
“Young sir,” said the Gypsy, with great seriousness, “the flower of love is gay — its fruit too often bitter. So does she know on whose account I wickedly and shamelessly did the Foul Fiend’s bidding, and ruined a sinless soul to gratify the pleasure-loving king. But thou hast paid the penalty: thou and thine, who have been called by the ill-word; thrust from thy place by thy crook-back uncle; and now art nearer a dungeon than a throne, through thy father’s fault. I will serve and save thee; tell me quickly, who are thy companions — whither thou wouldst go? that I may judge the best to be done.”
It is to be observed, that at the very beginning of this colloquy, the young girl, whom York had first addressed, had stolen away. Now he replied by mentioning the lameness of his elder friend, and his resolve not to be divided from the other. He spoke of the Adalid, and of his further wish to be awhile concealed in England. The old woman continued silent, wrapt in thought. At length she raised her head—”It can be done, and it shall,” she said, half to herself, “Come now, they are serving our homely fare. You, who are young, and ill apt for penance, must eat before you go.”
The savoury steams of the well-filled and rustic marmite, gave force to her words, and to Richard’s appetite. The repast was plentiful and gay, and even too long. Evening was far advanced, the fire grew light in the dusk, and threw its fitful rays upon the strange and incongruous feasters. Monina had cowered close to Richard; the cup went round; scarcely did she put it to her lips; a rude companion of the crew made some rough jest on her sobriety. Richard’s face lighted up with anger: his watchful old friend stept forward, in her own jargon she made some communication to her associates, which caused a universal pause, and then a stir: it was evident some movement was intended. She meanwhile drew the three fugitives aside. “In a few minutes,” she said, “we shall all be on our way hence; listen how I would provide for your safeties.” She then proposed that Desmond should assume the disguise of one of the horde, and so be conveyed in safety to the banks of the Thames, and on board the Adalid. She promised herself to conduct the Prince and his young friend to a secure refuge. The Earl, accustomed to find fidelity and rags near mates, readily acceded to this proposal. In the solitary unknown spot to which chance had directed them, environed by every danger, no step was more perilous than the remaining where they were. York and Monina were familiar with the reports of the gypsy character — its savage honour and untractable constancy. The season was such, though the day had been unusually sunny and warm, as to make a night in the open air no agreeable anticipation; and Richard had a thousand fears on his lovely friend’s account. They all readily acceded to the old woman’s plan. Desmond was quickly disguised, his visage stained deep brown, his whole person transformed; he was placed in the caravan, and the horde was speedily in movement; the sound of their departing steps died away. They had left a rude cart, to which York’s horse, a strong hack, was harnessed. The sibyl undertook to guide it. Richard and Monina ascended the jumbling fabric. Soon they were on their journey, none but their conductress knew in what direction; but they submitted to her, and through copse and over field they wound their darkling way.
CHAPTER VIII.
So love did vanish with my state.
Which now my soul repents too late;
Then, maids and wives, in time amend.
For love and beauty will have end.
— BALLAD OF JANE SHORE.
Oh, it grieves my soul
That I must draw this metal from my side
To be a widow-maker!
— SHAKSPEARE.
Seated in the rude gypsy-cart, guided, protected, by the uncouth being into whose hands he had so strangely fallen, Richard for the first time felt the degradation and low fortune to which his aspirations, at variance with his means, made him liable. With a strong effort he dismissed these painful ideas, and fixed his contemplation on mightier objects, which gilded his mean estate, or were rather the “gold o’erdusted” by such extraneous poverty. To rise from this lowliness to a throne were an emprise worthy his ambition. Was he not a few hours ago a prisoner in the terror-striking Tower? And now he was free — free in his England; which, when the battle-day was come and past, would claim him for her own. A few words from Monina interrupted the silence: she sat at his feet, and they conversed in whispers in Spanish. Night had gathered round them; Monina, in all the innocence of her pure heart, was supremely happy: to be near her friend in his disasters, united to him in his peril, was a more rapturous destiny to her than the world’s best pomp, and he absent. No busy conscience, no untoward thought, disturbed in her soul the calm of perfect bliss. She grew weary at last; her head sunk on Richard’s knee, and, overworn with watching, she fell into a deep sleep. Richard heard her regular breathing; once or twice his fingers played among her dishevelled ringlets, while his heart whispered to him what a wondrous creation woman was — weak, frail, complaining when she suffers for herself; heroic fortitude and untired self-devotion are hers, when she sacrifices herself for him she loves.
The cart moved on, Richard saw not whither; they almost stuck in some flat low fields, and at last arrived at a solitary, miserable hut. Monina awoke, when they stopt, and the gypsy told them that this wretched dwelling was to be their asylum: the apartment they entered was poor beyond meanness — a bed of straw piled in one corner, a rude bench, formed the furniture; the walls were ragged and weather-stained, and the outer crumbling rafters were visible through the broken ceiling: there appeared to be neither food nor fire. The inhabitant of the hovel alone was there, a white-looking, emaciated female; yet with a look of such sweetness and patience, that she seemed the very enshrinement of Christian resignation, the type of sorrow and suffering, married to meek obedience to the supreme will. She had roused herself from slumber at the voice of the gypsy, and gathered her scant garments around her — scant and poor they were; her coarse woollen dress was tied by a girdle of rope round her slender waist; her head was wrapt in a kerchief; her feet were bare.
“Jane,” said the old woman, “you will not refuse the shelter of your roof to these poor wanderers?”
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br /> Such an address seemed strange, for the rich attire of her guests ill-accorded with her poverty-stricken home; but she turned with a smile — she spoke — and then a throb of agony seemed to convulse her frame — her head swam; Richard rushed forward to prevent her falling, but she shrunk from him, and leaned on the old woman, who said with a look of triumph, “I knew how it would be; it is vain to hide a bright light behind a veil of gauze! Yes, Jane, this is his son; and you may save him from danger and death.”
Jane Shore, the once lovely mistress of King Edward, now the miserable outcast of the world’s scorn, heard these words, as if they had been spoken to her in a dream. After the death of her royal lover, she had obeyed the impulse that made her cling to the soft luxuries of life, and yielded to solicitations which tended to guard her from the sharp visitation of the world. She had become the mistress of the Marquess of Dorset; but sorrow and penury were destined to pursue her in their worst shape — and wherefore? She had been good and humane; and in spite of her error, even the sternest moralist might have pitied her. But she was all woman, fearful of repulse, dreading insult; more willing to lie down and die, than, fallen and miserable, to solicit uncertain relief: squalid poverty, famine, and lonely suffering, were hers; yet in all she preserved an unalterable sweetness of disposition, which painted her wan face with its own soft colouring.
The old woman went forth to seek for food, and the two friends were left for several hours alone with Jane. She gazed affectionately on the youthful Duke; she looked more timidly on Monina, whose sex could not be said to be disguised by her page’s dress: the fallen woman fears women, their self-sufficient virtues and cold reprobation; yet the sensibility of Monina’s countenance, and the soft expression of her eyes, so all-powerful in their sweetness, could not be mistaken; and her first shrinking from censure was exchanged for even a more painful feeling. They were a lovely pair, these lone guests of poverty; innocence sat on the brow of each, yet love beamed in their aspect: — love! the two-edged sword, the flower-strewn poison, the dread cause of every misery! More than famine and sickness Jane feared love; for with it in her mind were linked shame and guilt, and the world’s unkindness, hard to bear to one, whose heart was “open as day to melting charity;” and she feared that she saw in this sweet girl a bright reflex of her early days. Oh, might the blotted mirror ne’er pourtray a change like hers! “I am a living lesson of the woes of love,” thought poor Jane; “may this chance-visit to my hut, which saves young Richard’s life, ensure her innocence!” Thus impelled, she spoke: she spoke of the danger of their solitary companionship; she adjured York to fly the delusive charm — for love’s own sake he ought to fly; for if he made her his victim, affection would be married to hate — joy to woe — her he prized to a skeleton, more grim than death. Richard strove to interrupt her, but she misunderstood his meaning; while Monina, somewhat bewildered, fancied that she only alluded to the dangers she incurred in his cause, and with her own beaming look cried, “Oh, Mother, is it not better to suffer for one so noble, than to live in the cold security of prosperity?”
