by Mary Shelley
“And is it to head men like these we have been drawn from our Irish friends?” cried Edmund; “better return. Alas! our path is besieged; the very sea is subject to our enemy; in the wide world the King of England has no refuge.”
“That he is King of England,” said Monina, “let not him, let none of us forget. The very name is powerful: let him, on his native shores, assume it. Surely, if their liege King stand singly in the land of his forefathers, at his sacred name thousands will congregate. He has dared too little, when he had power: at the worst, even now, let him dare all, and triumph.”
Her bold, impetuous language had its effect on Edmund: it echoed his own master passion, which ever cried aloud, “He is a King! and, once give himself that sacred name, submission and allegiance from his subjects must follow.” Buoyed up by these thoughts, his report on board the Adalid was free from those humiliating details, which, even if he had wished, he would have found no voice to communicate to his royal cousin.
Monina’s task of imparting to her friends the destitute condition in which their sovereign arrived, was even easier, “He is come among tall men,” said the pompous Heron, “who can uphold him for the better king, even to the satin of his doublet.”
“And fight for him, even to the rending of our own,” cried Skelton.
“And die for him, as he must too, when all’s done,” said Trereife. “A soldier’s death is better than a dastard’s life.”
“We will have out our men in goodly array,” said Heron. “Master Skelton, are the doublets cut from that piece of sad-coloured velvet, last of my wares, slashed with white, as I directed?”
“Slash me no doublets but with a Spanish rapier,” squeaked Skelton, “Have I not cast away the shears? Yet, look you now, good lack! I lie. Here in my pouch be a sharp pair, to clip Master Walter of Horneck’s ears — if by the help of the saints we can lay him as flat on the field as his own grey suit was on my board when a shaping; by the same token that he never paid for it.”
“In good hour, Sir Taylor,” said Monina: “but the talk now is, how duly to receive his Grace, how induce him to accept your aid.”
“Aye, by Saint Dunstan!” cried Trereife, “he has ruffled in France and Burgundy, my masters, and will look on you as clowns and base-born burghers; but no man has more to give than his life, and if he waste that heartily, time was and time may be when villains trod on the necks of knights, as the ghost of Charles of Burgundy could tell us. Courage is the beginning aud end of a soldier’s catechism.”
Such were the chiefs Monina found desirous, and in their own conceit capable, of placing England’s diadem on Duke Richard’s head. Heron, the bankrupt mercer, who fancied himself the base-born offspring of the late Earl of Devonshire, and whose first deed of arms would find him Heron no more, but Sir John Courtney; Skelton, a luckless wight, whose shears ever went astray, (the true cause why Walter of Hornbeck paid not for his misshapen suit,) and who, therefore, believed himself born for greater things; and Trereife, the younger prodigal son of a rural franklin, who, cast off and disinherited, had served in the wars in Flanders, gaining in that country no small reverence for the good Duchess Margaret, and ready therefore to right her nephew; besides, like a true hero, he abhorred this silken time of peace, and hoped to gather spoil, if not laurels, in the meditated insurrection.
The noble passengers disembarked from the Adalid. “Welcome to England, sweet Kate! welcome to the country of which thou art Queen,” said York; “and even if her reception be cold or rough, love her for my sake, for she is my mother.”
“A step-mother I will not call her, dear my Lord,” replied the Princess, “but the maternal embrace is strangely wanting on these deserted sands: the narrow deck of yonder caravel were, methinks, a kindlier home: may we go on and prosper; but, if we fail, my Lord will pardon me, if I welcome the day when I embark again on board the Adalid; to find, when the wide earth proves false, safety and happiness on the free waves of ocean.”
CHAPTER VI.
Skelton. ‘Tis but going to sea and leaping ashore, cut ten or twelve thousand unnecessary throats, fire seven or eight towns, take half a dozen cities, get into the market-place, crown him Richard the Fourth, and the business is finished.
— FORD.
Am I not king?
Awake, thou coward Majesty! thou sleepest.
Is not the King’s name forty thousand names?
— SHAKSPEARE.
These doughty leaders drew out their followers in a plain just without Bodmin. There were about two hundred men decently clad from the remnants of the mercer’s wares, tolerably well armed and disciplined by Trereife; this troop obtained the distinction of being selected as King Richard’s body guard. Skelton was their captain, a rare commander, whose real merit was that he felt happiest when stuck close as a burr to Trereife; for at heart he was an errant coward, though a loud braggart, and talked of slaying his thousands, while the very wounding of his doublet had made him wince.
Heron was brave in his way; a true Cornishman, he could wrestle and cast his antagonist with the strength of a lion; he loved better, it is true, to trust to his arm than to his sword, which, in spite of his strength, Trereife always made fly from his hand in their fencing lessons: not the less did he consider himself a gallant knight, and had cut up many a yard of crimson cramoisy to make a rich suit for himself. He wore Monina’s glove in his cap and large yellow roses at his knees; he called himself generalissimo, and marshalled under him full three thousand men, who in truth had
never set a squadron in the field
Nor the division of a battle knew
More than a spinster; but they were sturdy discontented spirits, who valued life at its worth, which was even nothing to them, who had laboured with all their hearts, till labour was of no avail, and who then left the mine and the furrow to carry their loud complaints to the foot of Henry’s throne — they were better pleased with the prospect of overthrowing it.
“Now, my masters, make yourselves heard,” cried Heron, as he shuffled down a little eminence on a short-legged Welch pony, the only steed he found he could back in safety. “His Grace is within ear-shot, so you be loud. Long life to King Richard! — down with the taxes — Saint Michael and Cornwall for ever!”
The din was prolonged, ended, began, went on, as the Prince arrived at the summit of the hill with his little train — Fair Katherine was at his side. Plantagenet, O’Water, De Faro, with some dozen soldiers who fled from Waterford; sure never invader came so ill equipped. On the hill-top the illustrious wanderers paused. Richard hastily scanned the rough-suited multitude — then, turning to Plantagenet, “Cousin,” he said, “You told me that the insurgent army would be drawn out for my view; is it not strange that yonder rabble should hide it from us? As far as my eye can reach, I see no martial discipline, no banners, no lordly crest; fie on those drums! they have no touch of military concord. What makes our army so slack of duty, Cousin?”
Though no fault of his, Edmund blushed deeply in very shame — the approach of Heron, Skelton, Trereife, and three or four other principal rebels, cut off his reply. It had been agreed that Skelton, who had a gift of eloquence, should speak, and many words he used to welcome his liege—”We will have every man with a Red Rose in his cap, in a drag chain, please your Grace, and give a sound lesson to the saucy burghers of Exeter withall. Not a knight shall live in the land, but of your Majesty’s dubbing. We have but to put to rout King Henry’s army, to hang the false loon for a traitor, and to set fire to London and the Parliament. Such nobles as please to doff their silken cloaks, and don miners’ jackets, may work, the rest shall hang. Their mere wardrobes, bless the day will find us and your Grace in cloth of gold, embroidery, and other rich garniture to the end of our lives.”
“We thank your zeal, my worthy master,” said Richard, courteously, “if our good troops do half your saying, King Henry must look to it.”
“Are those men to be worse than their word?” cried Skelton. “There is not on
e among us but has the arms of ten. We are of a race of giants, please your Majesty, and could knock the walls of Exeter down with our fists. Please you to enter Bodmin, whose very stones will cry for King Richard louder than King Hal’s cannon; — to-morrow, God willing, we are for the wars.”
The royal party passed on — the dark ferocity or sturdy obstinacy painted on the faces of the ill-armed rout, struck Richard as he passed — he became meditative, while Edmund, shamed and angry, his cheeks burning, his eyes on the ground, listened in indignant silence to Master Skelton, who fastened on him with such talk, that whether a soldier spoke of killing doublets, or a tailor prattled of fashioning a field of slaughter, was a riddle ill to be devised. At length they passed the gates of Bodmin; and here was a louder cry of welcome from the shrill voices of women, who held up their thin hands and half-starved children, crying for vengeance on Tudor, blessing the sweet faces of Richard and his lovely wife. York’s eyes flashed again with their wonted fires; his creative spirit had found materials here to work some project, all poor and rude as they might seem.
They entered the town-hall; when, by some sudden revulsion in the tide of the crowd, every Cornishman fell back, closed the doors, and left the wanderers alone. Something was forgotten surely; for Heron had paced pompously up to Richard, when suddenly he turned on his heel, crying, “A word, my masters!” and all were gone. The Lady Katherine had marked their backing and hurrying with becoming gravity; but, when the door was fairly shut, she could restrain no longer a heart-felt laugh. Richard joined in her mirth, while Plantagenet strode through the hall angrily; muttering, “an army a rout of shirtless beggars; is this England’s reception for her King?”
“It were fine mumming,” said Richard, “under a hedge with the green sward for a stage.”
“By our Lady, this passes patience!” reiterated Edmund, “where are the gentlemen of England? Where the sons of those who fell for York? Are we to oppose these half-naked knaves to the chivalry of Henry?”
“It would seem that such is expected,” replied the Prince; “and, verily, Cousin, we might do worse. I pray you, treat the honest rogues well; better may come of it; keep we our secret, and have we not an army?”
“My Lord!” cried Plantagenet, in wonder.
“Patience, dear friend,” said York; “I have not been apprentice to adversity so many long years, without becoming an adept in my calling. I say, I have an army; bold, though poor — ragged truly, but exceeding faithful. Methinks it were more glorious to put Tudor down with such small means, than to meet him in equal terms, like a vulgar conqueror. I do beseech you, Edmund, put a good face on it; speak to our Cornish giants, as if they had souls of mettle, and bodies decked like Ponce de Leon and his peers, when they welcomed Queen Isabel to the Spanish camp. You remember the golden array of the knights, Cousin?”
Edmund was impatient of the Prince’s gay humour; while Katherine, seeing in his bright eyes heroism and lofty resolve, felt a dewy moisture gather in her own: there is something at once awful and affecting, when a man, the sport of fortune, meets her rudest blow unshrinking, and turns her very spite into arms against herself. The whole secret of Richard’s present thoughts she could not divine, but she saw that their scope was worthy of his birth, his aim; her respect — her love augmented; and her gentle heart at that moment renewed its vow to devote herself to him entirely and for ever.
In the same spirit, York answered the deputation that waited on him. He commanded a proclamation to be made, in which he assumed the title of Richard the Fourth. He announced his intention of immediately penetrating England, and seizing on some walled town or city, before Henry could be aware of his having landed. Nor did he confine his energy to words: he examined the state of his men; their arms and furniture; he provided for their better discipline, and animated his cousin to take an active part in marshalling them to order. He went among them, learned the causes of their dissatisfaction, promised them better days, and so raised a glad spirit in them, that their hearts overleaping both time and circumstance, paid him the honour and the love he might have claimed, had he already led them through fertile England, and planted his victorious standard on the Tower of London. Trereife swore by his beard, he was a proper youth; the old soldier awoke to the remembrance of harvests of spoil he had gathered in the Netherlands, the stern encounters and the joys of success; he gazed on the rough Cornish men, and wondered how they should withstand the nobility of England: but, when Richard glanced hope and triumph from his bright eyes, when he spoke of the omnipotence of resolved valour, when he drew a picture of their ghastly poverty, and showed them how, by standing firm merely, they might redeem themselves; — while the poor fellows answered with a prolonged shout, or better still, grasped their arms more fiercely, and trod the earth with free and decided steps; — a thousand facilities seemed to be discovered; a thousand resources for the war displayed, undreamt of before. Were these mere words? or at his voice did soldiers rise from the clods, and victory obey the sound?
Plantagenet, seeing his royal Cousin’s resolve, strove to second it. With a party of men he assaulted a near fortress, carried it, and seized on a store of arms. This success looked like a mighty victory; Richard exalted it as such; and the very fellows who handled awkwardly their booty, fancied themselves heroes at the mere sight of it.
On the third day they were to proceed to Exeter, it being determined that they should besiege this city. De Faro offered to sail to Cork to invite the warlike chieftains of Munster to come over with their power; and at least himself to bring back in the Adalid, Neville, and the rest of the English exiles. While Edmund, who looked glad at the thought, counselled that they should entrench themselves in this corner of England, which was so entirely devoted to them, till these forces were added to their number, and till by discipline, they should have made regular troops of the rabble, by courtesy y’cleped an army.
“Wherefore, Cousin,” asked Richard, “do you desire others to share in our disasters?”
“My Lord!” cried Edmund, astounded.
“I have but one wish,” continued the Prince, “that you and my good O’Water were even now in Ireland; so that I might stand the brunt of this war alone. You look amazed. Yet it were more amazing if I expected to do battle against the Veres, the Howards, the Berkeleys, the Courtneys, and ten thousand other names of high renown, backed by their train of martial adherents, with ragged regiments like those we are about to lead to the field; — even though the kerns of Ireland made their number double, and the Geraldines, Barry and Neville added by their nobleness dignity to our victor’s conquest. Remember, Stoke, my cousin Edmund; you may well remember it. Remember my honoured kinsman the Earl of Lincoln and my lamented Lovel. Ah, that I did not now peril your life, then spared!”
“Yet, if your Grace fight at all,” said O’Water, bluntly; “methinks we were not the worse for being better appointed for the fray. For victims, even those poor honest varlets are too many.”
“That one other life should be wasted for me,” replied Richard fervently, “is my saddest thought. I fear it must be so; some few lives, each as dear to him that spends it, as is the life-blood to our own hearts. I can say no more. I have a secret purpose, I confess, in all I do. To accomplish it — and I do believe it to be a just one — I must strike one blow; nor fail. Tudor is yet unprepared; Exeter vacant of garrison; with stout hearts for the work, I trust to be able to seize that city. There the wars of York shall end. So far I confide in your discretions, that you may not deem me mad. More is the single property of my own soul. Will you help me so far, dear friends — so far hazard life — not to conquer a kingdom for Richard, but to redeem his honour?”
The warm-hearted, grey-headed Irish O’Water, with gushing eyes, swore to adhere to him to the last.
Edmund replied, “I am but a bit of thee; deal with me as with thyself; and I know thou wilt be no niggard in giving me away to danger.”
De Faro cried, “I am a sailor, and know better how to face death
on the waves than victory on shore; but, Santiago! may our blessed Lady herself look shy on me at the great day, if the Mariner of the Wreck prove false to your Grace.”
“Now then to our work,” cried York, “to speak fair to my faithful fellows and their braggart leaders. They at least shall be winners in our game; for my hand is on my prize; a spirit has whispered success to me; my hope and its consummation are married even at their birth.”
CHAPTER VII.
Dost thou hear, lady?
If from the field I shall return once more
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood;
I and my sword will earn our chronicle;
There is hope in it yet.
— SHAKSPEARE.
Richard was obliged to plead his cause yet once again. Katherine had watched all his movements; she had eyed curiously the army he mustered to the field; she talked to its leaders, and while they vaunted her affability, she was diving with earnest mind, into the truth of things. No fear that it could be hid from her; love for Richard was the bright light that dispelled every deceptive shadow from the scene. She saw the bare reality; some three thousand poor peasants and mechanics, whose swords were more apt to cut themselves than strike the enemy, were arrayed against the whole power and majesty of England. On the morrow they were to set forward. That night, while at the casement of his rude chamber, Richard gazed upon the congregated stars, trying to decipher in their intricate bright tracery the sure omen of the good he was told they charactered for him, Katherine, after a moment’s hesitation, with a quivering voice, and hand that shook as it pressed his, knelt on a cushion at his feet, saying, “My sweet Richard, hear me; hear your faithful friend — your true wife; call not my councils weak and feminine, but weigh them sagely ere you resolve. May I speak?”
