by Mary Shelley
CHAPTER IV.
Farewell, Erin! farewell all
Who live to weep our fall!
— MOORE.
On the height of the tower of Ardmore, the White Rose of young Richard kept her vigils, and looked across the calm sea, and along the passes of the mountains of Drum, in anxious expectation of the event of the expedition. Sad forebodings oppressed her; the sentiment that mastered every other, was that her lord should require her presence, her assistance, while she was far. He had promised to send a post each day; when these failed, her heart sank within her. The only change that occurred, was when she saw the Adalid proceed slowly in the calm towards Waterford.
One sunny morn she from her watch-tower perceived several straggling groupes descending the mountains. She strained her eyes: no banners waved; no martial music spoke of victory. That was secondary in her eyes; it was for Richard’s safety that she was solicitous; yet she would not, did not fear; for there is an instinctive sense in human nature which, in time of doubt, sallies forth from the ark of refuge, and brings back tidings of peace or sorrow to the expectant on the perilous flood; a prophetic spirit which, when it despairs — woe the while! — the omen proves not false. The Lady Katherine watched anxiously but not in despair. At length heavy footsteps ascended the tower-stairs; and, to answer the beatings of her heart, Edmund Plantagenet and the Mayor of Cork presented themselves; they eagerly asked, “Is he not here?”
“Nay, he has not fled?” she replied, while for the first time she grew pale.
“Weigh our words as mere air,” said O’Water; “for we know nothing, gentle dame, but that I must to Cork, to bar out the men of Waterford. His Highness left us for the fleet; and the filling up of those cursed ponds of Kilbarry — ill luck to them! — cut off his return. Last night — Saint Patrick knows the deeds of the last night! — weary from our labour the day before, we were all too carelessly asleep, when our camp was assaulted. Earl Maurice had ridden to Lismore to hasten his cousin, the Knight of the Valley. There was some report of an attack upon the town from the ships. Havock was the cry that roused the welkin from east to west. The sum I know not, save that we are runaways — the siege of Waterford is raised.”
“What skiff is that?” interrupted the Duchess. Round the point of Minehead first peeped the bowsprit, then the prow; and last the complete form of a vessel in full sail, yet scarcely touched by the wind, weathered the promontory. “Haste we, my friends,” she continued; “the Duke may be on board; at least we shall have intelligence.”
“I know that craft full well,” said O’Water; “her captain is a converted Moorish pagan.”
“The White Rose waves from her mast-top,” cried Katherine; “oh, he is there!”
“Holy angels!” exclaimed Edmund; “it is the Adalid! I will on board on the instant.”
Already the Duchess was descending the steep narrow stairs; the villagers of Ardmore, with many of the soldiers who had fled from Waterford, were on the shingles, watching the caravel, now full in sight, yet fearful to venture too near the shelving shore. “They are bound for Cork,” cried a man.
“Oh, not till I first speak to them,” said Katherine; “the day is fair; the sea calm; put off a boat. Ah, my cousin Edmund, take me with thee.”
Plantagenet had already got a boat from its moorings. O’Water was beside the Princess to beseech vainly that she would be patient; and poor Astley, who had been left in special attendance on her, waited near with blanched cheeks. Accompanied by these dear or humble friends, the White Rose was borne with the speed of ten oars towards the Adalid. On the deck, half reclining on a rude bed, very pale, yet with lively, wakeful eyes, lay the Prince of England. In a moment Katherine was assisted on board. There was no death for Richard; she was there, life of his life; so young, so beautiful, and true; the celestial goodness that beamed in her eyes, and dimpled her cherub countenance, was not like that of an inhabitant of this sad planet; except that spirits of beauty and love ever and anon do animate the frames of the earth-born; so that we behold in the aspects of our fellow-beings glances and smiles bright as those of angels. De Faro himself looked with admiration on the bending form of this lovely one, till accosted by Edmund, whose first question was, “Don Hernan here — where then is—”
“My beloved Monina you would ask for,” said De Faro; “she, who to please her vagrant father, would have crossed the wild Atlantic to visit the savage Western Isles. Poor child, even at the threshold of this adventure we were nearly wrecked. She is now in England; she sent me here — to tell of rebellion against King Henry; to invite Duke Richard to his kingdom.”
Thus they were occupied on the sunny deck; the sea was calm, the keel almost stationary in the water; they were bound for Cork; Plantagenet and the Mayor gathered eagerly from De Faro the history of the combat. They learned that it had been expected that Desmond would have assaulted from land, while York invaded the city from the river; but the fellow sent with Richard’s missive had been taken, the city put on her guard. Nothing but the desire of the citizens to do too much, and his own desperate valour, had saved Richard; they resolved at once to receive and destroy him, and to sally unawares on the Earl’s camp: they hoped to make prisoners of all the chiefs. They failed in this, but succeeded in raising the siege of their city.
Towards evening a land-breeze sprung up, and two others of York’s vessels hove in sight, and passed them quickly; for the Adalid was much disabled, and made slow way. Soon in pursuit appeared a ship and two corvettes, which O’Water recognized as belonging to Waterford. The corvettes proceeded on their way; but the larger vessel spied out the Adalid, and, being now in advance of her, hove to, with the manifest resolve of attacking her on her watery way towards Cork. De Faro, with his keen eyes fixed on the enemy’s movements, stood on the forecastle in silence; while Plantagenet and O’Water eagerly demanded arms, and exhorted the sailors to a most vain resistance. From the vessel of the foe the Moorish mariner cast his eyes upwards; the wind was shifting to the west. With a loud voice he shouted to his crew to man the yards; then, seizing the rudder, gave the swift orders that made the caravel go about. Sailing near the wind, her canvas had flapped lazily, now it filled; the keel felt the impulse, and dashed merrily along, bounding forward like a courser in the race; the ship, which had furled its sails in expectation of the combat, was in an instant left far behind; the other vessels from Waterford were still further to the west, towards Cork.
All these manoeuvres were mysteries to the landsmen: they gladly hailed the distance placed between them and a superior enemy; but as with a freshening gale the Adalid still held her swift course towards the east, and the land began to sink on the horizon, O’Water asked with some eagerness whither they were bound.
“To safety,” De Faro replied, laconically.
“An idle answer,” said Edmund; “we must judge where our safety lies?”
“I have ever found best safety on the wide ocean sea,” cried the mariner, looking round proudly on his beloved element. “Your safeties and your Lord’s, are, methinks, English born; if this wind hold, on the third morning we shall see the coast of Cornwall.”
The mayor was aghast, exclaiming—”Cornwall! England! we are betrayed?”
De Faro looked on him with contempt:—”I do not command here,” he continued; “I obey the Prince of England; let him decide. Shall we engage superior force; be boarded; taken by the enemy: or land, be wrecked, perchance, upon this savage coast; alive with vengeful kerns — defeated men among a victorious angry people? Or go where we are called by your leader’s cause, where thousands of men are up in arms to receive you like brothers, to fight for you, with you; where England, the long desired kingdom, makes you welcome to her green, sunny shores? Ask ye your Prince this question; let his word be law.”
This statement, upheld by York, brought conviction to the minds of Plantagenet and O’Water. The latter was aware of the risk he ran from the awakened vengeance of Henry, to pursue his having fostered rebellion in the c
ity of which he was magistrate; and a moment’s reflection showed him that there was no security for him, except in flight from Ireland. Meanwhile the wind, increasing in its strength, and right astern, carried them over the foaming waters. The early dawn showed them far at sea: they had outrun or baffled their pursuers; and, though, now and then, with anxious thought, they reflected on the comrades left behind, on the poor equipage and diminished numbers with which they were about to land in England, still there was something so miraculous in their escape, so unforeseen in the destiny that cut them off, and carried them, a remnant merely of the war, away from its dangers, that they felt as if they were under the immediate direction of a ruling Providence, and so resigned themselves; greedily drinking in the while the highly coloured picture De Faro painted of the Yorkist army which awaited them in Cornwall.
Again upon the sea — again impelled by winds and waves to new scenes — new hopes, tost here and there by Fortune, it was Richard’s fate to see one frustrated expectation give place to another, which, in its turn, faded and died. This constant succession of projects kept alive within him that sanguine spirit which never could be vanquished. Eagerly he passed from one idea to another, and almost welcomed the last disaster, which appeared but to pioneer the way to future success. During this voyage, weak as his wounds had made him, he talked of England as his own — the dearer, because he must spend his blood to win it. Circumstances had an exactly contrary effect upon Katherine. The continual change of schemes convinced her of the futility of all. She felt that, if the first appearance of the Duke of York, acknowledged and upheld by various sovereigns and dear highborn relatives, had not animated the party of the White Rose in his favour, it was not now, after many defeats and humiliations on his side, and after triumphs and arrogant assumptions on that of his enemy, that brilliant success could be expected. This conviction must soon become general among the Yorkists, Richard would learn the sad lesson, but she was there to deprive it of its sting; to prove to him, that tranquillity and Katherine were of more worth than struggles, even if they proved successful, for vain power.
It was strange that a girl of royal birth, bred in a palace, accustomed to a queen-like sovereignty over her father’s numerous vassals in the Highlands, should aim at restricting the ambitious York to mere privacy; while Monina, the humble daughter of a Moorish mariner, would have felt honour, reputation, all that is dear to man, at stake, if her friend had dreamed of renouncing his claims to the English crown. His cause was her life; his royalty the main spring of all her actions and thoughts. She had sacrificed love to it — she taught her woman’s soul to rejoice in his marriage with another, because his union with a princess was pledge to the world of his truth. Perhaps, had the time ever come when he renounced his struggles, she had felt with a pang that his lowly fortunes might not incongruously be shared by her, and self had mingled in the religion of her heart, which was virtuous devotion to him; but as it was, the idea never presented itself. He must win, or die. Did he win, her happiness would result from the contemplation of his glory; were he to die, the young hero’s grave would not be watered by her tears: she believed that in that hour her life would cease.
The Lady Katherine saw a vain mask in all the common-place pomp of palaces; she perceived that power failed most, when its end was good; she saw that in accomplishing its purpose in the cottage, or in halls of state, felicity resulted from the affections only. It was but being an actor in different scenes, to be a potentate or a peasant; the outward garb is not the livery of the mind: the refinement of taste, which enables us to gather pleasure from simple objects; the warmth of heart which necessitates the exercise of our affections, but which is content when they are satisfied; these, to her mind, were the only, but they were the complete ingredients of happiness; and it was rarer to find, and more difficult to retain them, among false-hearted, ambitious courtiers, and the luxury of palaces, than among simple-minded peasantry, and a plain natural style of living. There was some romance in this idea; Katherine felt that there was, and subdued herself not to lay too much store by any change or guise of outward circumstance. She taught herself to feel and know, that in the tumult of camps and war, in the anxieties of her present vagrant life, on the throne which she might possess, or in the prison she might share; by devoting herself to the happiness of him to whom she was united, whose heroism, goodness and love merited all her affection, she was performing the part assigned to her on earth, and securing a portion of happiness, far beyond the common lot of those whose colder harder natures require something beyond sympathy to constitute their misnamed felicity.
CHAPTER V.
From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right.
If I am not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet.
— SHAKSPEARE.
On the deck of the sea-worn Adalid, watching the renovated strength, and attending on the still remaining weakness of her lord, the soft heart of the Princess possessed to fulness all its desires; while Monina, among the wild rude Cornish rebels, exerted herself, to inspire zeal for his cause, and to increase the number of his partisans, winning them by her thrilling eloquence, ruling them by her beauty and enthusiasm. She had found the whole population ready to second him; but fitting leaders, noble and influential men, were absolutely wanting. She sent her father to urge Richard to this new attempt, and when he should appear, attended, as she fondly hoped, by a train of high-born Irish lords, of gallant Scotch cavaliers, and devoted English warriors; he would be able to give a martial form to the rout of Cornish insurgents, to discipline their wild, untamed valour, to attract others by name and rank, and Tudor at last must grow pale upon his throne. With eagerness she awaited the fleet that was to bring the chosen band of heroes; when, after a long and calm voyage, on the third of September, the Adalid ran into White Sand Bay, on the western coast of Cornwall, and Plantagenet, at Richard’s command, disembarked and proceeded forthwith to Bodmin.
It was strange that the chief partizan of the White Rose should, on his invasion of the island, find a Spanish girl the main source of information — the chief mover of the rebellion by which he was to profit. Yet Plantagenet almost forgot his mortal struggle for a kingdom, in the anticipation of seeing Monina. Plantagenet, prouder, more ambitious for his cousin, than Richard for himself — Plantagenet, who had but one object, to be the guardian, supporter, defender of York, now wandered in thought far back through many years to their Spanish home; to his tenderness for the sweet child of Madeline; to the development of the beauty and virtues of the lovely Moor. Thrown apart by their several destinies, he had scarcely seen her since then; and now, in place of the dark, laughing-eyed girl, he beheld a woman, bright with intelligence and sensibility; whose brow wore somewhat the sadtrace of suffering, whose cheek was a little sunk, but in whose eyes there was a soul, in whose smile an enchantment not to be resisted. She was all life, vivacity, and yet softness: all passion, yet yielding and docile. Her purpose was steady, stubborn; but the mode of its attainment, her conduct, she easily permitted to be guided. Edmund scarcely recognized her, but she instantly knew him; her elder brother, her kind but serious guardian, whom she had loved with awe, as the wisest and best of men. Now he bore a dearer name, as the unfailing friend of him she loved. To both their hearts this meeting was an unexpected joy. Monina had thought too much of Richard, to remember his cousin. He had half forgotten his own sensations; or, at least, was quite unprepared for the power and effect of her surpassing beauty.
After the first overflowing of affection, Monina eagerly detailed the forces raised, and dwelt on the spirit and courage of the insurgents. “They are poor fellows,” she said, “but true; burning with zeal to right themselves, and to avenge their losses at Blackheath. They are gathered together by thousands. They want merely leaders, discipline, arms, money, ammunition, and a few regular troops to show them the way: these, of course, you bring.”
“Alas! no,” said Edmund, “we bring merely ourselves.”
“Could Ireland, th
en, furnish no warlike stores?” continued the zealous girl. “But this can be remedied, doubtless. Yourself, your leader, Lord Desmond, Lord Barry, the gallant Neville; tell me who else — who from Burgundy — what Irish, what Scottish knights?”
The last word was said with difficulty: it made a pause in her rapid utterance; while Edmund, aghast, replied, “Indeed! none of all these, or very few: in a word, we have fled from Waterford in the Adalid. His Highness and myself are the sole English knights. The good old Mayor of Cork must represent all Ireland, gentle and simple, to your eyes — our fair Duchess, Scotland: her attendants will follow in due time, but these are but needy servitors.” Monina laughed. “We came to seek, not bring aid,” continued Plantagenet gravely.
“Do not be angry,” replied Monina. “There is more bitterness and sorrow in my laugh, than in, methinks, a widow’s tears. My dear friend, God send we are not utterly lost. Yet his Highness and yourself may work wonders. Only report truly our state, that the Duke be not too dissatisfied with our appearance. Tell him Lord Audley headed a worse organized troop: tell him that Master Heron, the mercer, has no silken soul — that Master Skelton, the taylor, disdains a smaller needle than a cloth-yard shaft.”
