The Last of the Barons — Complete

Thus appealed to, and wounded to the quick by Isabel’s tone and eye, Anne at last with a strong effort suppressed her tears, and, taking her sister’s hand, said in a voice of touching solemnity, “Promise, then, that the secret shall be ever holy; and, since I know that it will move thine anger—perhaps thy scorn—strive to forget what I will confess to thee.”

Isabel for answer pressed her lips on the hand she held; and the sisters, turning under the shadow of a long row of venerable oaks, placed themselves on a little mound, fragrant with the violets of spring. A different part of the landscape beyond was now brought in view; calmly slept in the valley the roofs of the subject town of Middleham, calmly flowed through the pastures the noiseless waves of Ure. Leaning on Isabel’s bosom, Anne thus spake, “Call to mind, sweet sister, that short breathing-time in the horrors of the Civil War, when a brief peace was made between our father and Queen Margaret. We were left in the palace—mere children that we were—to play with the young prince, and the children in Margaret’s train.”

“I remember.”

“And I was unwell and timid, and kept aloof from the sports with a girl of my own years, whom I think—see how faithful my memory!—they called Sibyll; and Prince Edward, Henry’s son, stealing from the rest, sought me out; and we sat together, or walked together alone, apart from all, that day and the few days we were his mother’s guests. Oh, if you could have seen him and heard him then,—so beautiful, so gentle, so wise beyond his years, and yet so sweetly sad; and when we parted, he bade me ever love him, and placed his ring on my finger, and wept,—as we kissed each other, as children will.”

“Children! ye were infants!” exclaimed Isabel, whose wonder seemed increased by this simple tale.

“Infant though I was, I felt as if my heart would break when I left him; and then the wars ensued; and do you not remember how ill I was, and like to die, when our House triumphed, and the prince and heir of Lancaster was driven into friendless exile? From that hour my fate was fixed. Smile if you please at such infant folly, but children often feel more deeply than later years can weet of.”

“My sister, this is indeed a wilful invention of sorrow for thine own scourge. Why, ere this, believe me, the boy-prince hath forgotten thy very name.”

“Not so, Isabel,” said Anne, colouring, and quickly, “and perchance, did all rest here, I might have outgrown my weakness. But last year, when we were at Rouen with my father—”

“Well?”

“One evening on entering my chamber, I found a packet,—how left I know not, but the French king and his suite, thou rememberest, made our house almost their home,—and in this packet was a picture, and on its back these words, Forget not the exile who remembers thee!”

“And that picture was Prince Edward’s?”

Anne blushed, and her bosom heaved beneath the slender and high-laced gorget. After a pause, looking round her, she drew forth a small miniature, which lay on the heart that beat thus sadly, and placed it in her sister’s hands.

“You see I deceive you not, Isabel. And is not this a fair excuse for—”

She stopped short, her modest nature shrinking from comment upon the mere beauty that might have won the heart. And fair indeed was the face upon which Isabel gazed admiringly, in spite of the stiff and rude art of the limner; full of the fire and energy which characterized the countenance of the mother, but with a tinge of the same profound and inexpressible melancholy that gave its charm to the pensive features of Henry VI.,—a face, indeed, to fascinate a young eye, even if not associated with such remembrances of romance and pity.

Without saying a word, Isabel gave back the picture; but she pressed the hand that took it, and Anne was contented to interpret the silence into sympathy.

“And now you know why I have so often incurred your anger by compassion for the adherents of Lancaster; and for this, also, Richard of Gloucester hath been endeared to me,—for fierce and stern as he may be called, he hath ever been gentle in his mediation for that unhappy House.”

“Because it is his policy to be well with all parties. My poor Anne, I cannot bid you hope; and yet, should I ever wed with Clarence, it may be possible—that—that—but you in turn will chide me for ambition.”

“How?”

“Clarence is heir to the throne of England, for King Edward has no male children; and the hour may arrive when the son of Henry of Windsor may return to his native land, not as sovereign, but as Duke of Lancaster, and thy hand may reconcile him to the loss of a crown.”

“Would love reconcile thee to such a loss, proud Isabel?” said Anne, shaking her head, and smiling mournfully.

“No,” answered Isabel, emphatically.

“And are men less haught than we?” said Anne. “Ah, I know not if I could love him so well could he resign his rights, or even could he regain them. It is his position that gives him a holiness in my eyes. And this love, that must be hopeless, is half pity and half respect.”

At this moment a loud shout arose from the youths in the yard, or sporting-ground, below, and the sisters, startled, and looking up, saw that the sound was occasioned by the sight of the young Duke of Gloucester, who was standing on the parapet near the bench the demoiselles had quitted, and who acknowledged the greeting by a wave of his plumed cap, and a lowly bend of his head; at the same time the figures of Warwick and the archbishop, seemingly in earnest conversation, appeared at the end of the terrace. The sisters rose hastily, and would have stolen away, but the archbishop caught a glimpse of their robes, and called aloud to them. The reverent obedience, at that day, of youth to relations left the sisters no option but to advance towards their uncle, which they did with demure reluctance.

“Fair brother,” said the archbishop, “I would that Gloucester were to have my stately niece instead of the gaudy Clarence.”

“Wherefore?”

“Because he can protect those he loves, and Clarence will ever need a protector.”

“I like George not the less for that,” said Warwick, “for I would not have my son-in-law my master.”

“Master!” echoed the archbishop, laughing; “the Soldan of Babylon himself, were he your son-in-law, would find Lord Warwick a tolerably stubborn servant!”

“And yet,” said Warwick, also laughing, but with a franker tone, “beshrew me, but much as I approve young Gloucester, and deem him the hope of the House of York, I never feel sure, when we are of the same mind, whether I agree with him, or whether he leadeth me. Ah, George! Isabel should have wedded the king, and then Edward and I would have had a sweet mediator in all our quarrels. But not so hath it been decreed.”

There was a pause.

“Note how Gloucester steals to the side of Anne. Thou mayst have him for a son-in-law, though no rival to Clarence. Montagu hath hinted that the duke so aspires.”

“He has his father’s face—well,” said the earl, softly. “But yet,” he added, in an altered and reflective tone, “the boy is to me a riddle. That he will be bold in battle and wise in council I foresee; but would he had more of a young man’s honest follies! There is a medium between Edward’s wantonness and Richard’s sanctimony; and he who in the heyday of youth’s blood scowls alike upon sparkling wine and smiling woman, may hide in his heart darker and more sinful fancies. But fie on me! I will not wrongfully mistrust his father’s son. Thou spokest of Montagu; he seems to have been mighty cold to his brother’s wrongs,—ever at the court, ever sleek with Villein and Woodville.”

“But the better to watch thy interests,—I so counselled him.”

“A priest’s counsel! Hate frankly or love freely is a knight’s and soldier’s motto. A murrain on all doubledealing!”

The archbishop shrugged his shoulders, and applied to his nostrils a small pouncet-box of dainty essences.

“Come hither, my haughty Isabel,” said the prelate, as the demoiselles now drew near. He placed his niece’s arm within his own, and took her aside to talk of Clarence; Richard remained with Anne, and the young cousins were joined by Warwick. The earl noted in silence the soft address of the eloquent prince, and his evident desire to please Anne. And strange as it may seem, although he had hitherto regarded Richard with admiration and affection, and although his pride for both daughters coveted alliances not less than royal, yet, in contemplating Gloucester for the first time as a probable suitor to his daughter (and his favourite daughter), the anxiety of a father sharpened his penetration, and placed the character of Richard before him in a different point from that in which he had hitherto looked only on the fearless heart and accomplished wit of his royal godson.

CHAPTER IV. THE DESTRIER

It was three days afterwards that the earl, as, according to custom, Anne knelt to him for his morning blessing in the oratory where the Christian baron at matins and vespers offered up his simple worship, drew her forth into the air, and said abruptly,—

“Wouldst thou be happy if Richard of Gloucester were thy betrothed?”

Anne started, and with more vivacity than usually belonged to her, exclaimed, “Oh, no, my father!”

“This is no maiden’s silly coyness, Anne? It is a plain yea or nay that I ask from thee!”

“Nay, then,” answered Anne, encouraged by her father’s tone,—“nay, if it so please you.”

“It doth please me,” said the earl, shortly; and after a pause, he added, “Yes, I am well pleased. Richard gives promise of an illustrious manhood; but, Anne, thou growest so like thy mother, that whenever my pride seeks to see thee great, my heart steps in, and only prays that it may see thee happy!—so much so, that I would not have given thee to Clarence, whom it likes me well to view as Isabel’s betrothed, for, to her, greatness and bliss are one; and she is of firm nature, and can rule in her own house; but thou—where out of romaunt can I find a lord loving enough for thee, soft child?”

Inexpressibly affected, Anne threw herself on her father’s breast and wept. He caressed and soothed her fondly; and before her emotion was well over, Gloucester and Isabel joined them.

“My fair cousin,” said the duke, “hath promised to show me thy renowned steed, Saladin; and since, on quitting thy halls, I go to my apprenticeship in war on the turbulent Scottish frontier, I would fain ask thee for a destrier of the same race as that which bears the thunderbolt of Warwick’s wrath through the storm of battle.”

“A steed of the race of Saladin,” answered the earl, leading the way to the destrier’s stall, apart from all other horses, and rather a chamber of the castle than a stable, “were indeed a boon worthy a soldier’s gift and a prince’s asking. But, alas! Saladin, like myself, is sonless,—the last of a long line.”

“His father, methinks, fell for us on the field of Towton. Was it not so? I have heard Edward say that when the archers gave way, and the victory more than wavered, thou, dismounting, didst slay thy steed with thine own hand, and kissing the cross of thy sword, swore on that spot to stem the rush of the foe, and win Edward’s crown or Warwick’s grave.” [“Every Palm Sunday, the day on which the battle of Towton was fought, a rough figure, called the Red Horse, on the side of a hill in Warwickshire, is scoured out. This is suggested to be done in commemoration of the horse which the Earl of Warwick slew on that day, determined to vanquish or die.”—Roberts: York and Lancaster, vol. i. p. 429.]

“It was so; and the shout of my merry men, when they saw me amongst their ranks on foot—all flight forbid—was Malech’s death-dirge. It is a wondrous race,—that of Malech and his son Saladin,” continued the earl, smiling. “When my ancestor, Aymer de Nevile, led his troops to the Holy Land, under Coeur de Lion, it was his fate to capture a lady beloved by the mighty Saladin. Need I say that Aymer, under a flag of truce, escorted her ransomless, her veil never raised from her face, to the tent of the Saracen king? Saladin, too gracious for an infidel, made him tarry a while, an honoured guest; and Aymer’s chivalry became sorely tried, for the lady he had delivered loved and tempted him; but the good knight prayed and fasted, and defied Satan and all his works. The lady (so runs the legend) grew wroth at the pious crusader’s disdainful coldness; and when Aymer returned to his comrades, she sent, amidst the gifts of the soldan, two coal-black steeds, male and mare, over which some foul and weird spells had been duly muttered. Their beauty, speed, art, and fierceness were a marvel. And Aymer, unsuspecting, prized the boon, and selected the male destrier for his war-horse. Great were the feats, in many a field, which my forefather wrought, bestriding his black charger. But one fatal day, on which the sudden war-trump made him forget his morning ave, the beast had power over the Christian, and bore him, against bit and spur, into the thickest of the foe. He did all a knight can do against many (pardon his descendant’s vaunting,—so runs the tale), and the Christians for a while beheld him solitary in the melee, mowing down moon and turban. Then the crowd closed, and the good knight was lost to sight. ‘To the rescue!’ cried bold King Richard, and on rushed the crusaders to Aymer’s help; when lo! and suddenly the ranks severed, and the black steed emerged! Aymer still on the selle, but motionless, and his helm battered and plumeless, his brand broken, his arm drooping. On came man and horse, on,—charging on, not against Infidel but Christian. On dashed the steed, I say, with fire bursting from eyes and nostrils, and the pike of his chaffron bent lance-like against the crusaders’ van. The foul fiend seemed in the destrier’s rage and puissance. He bore right against Richard’s standard-bearer, and down went the lion and the cross. He charged the king himself; and Richard, unwilling to harm his own dear soldier Aymer, halted wondering, till the pike of the destrier pierced his own charger through the barding, and the king lay rolling in the dust. A panic seized the cross-men; they fled, the Saracens pursued, and still with the Saracens came the black steed and the powerless rider. At last, when the crusaders reached the camp, and the flight ceased, there halted, also, Aymer. Not a man dared near him. He spoke not, none spoke to him, till a holy priest and palmer approached and sprinkled the good knight and the black barb with holy water, and exorcised both; the spell broke, and Aymer dropped to the earth. They unbraced his helm,—he was cold and stark. The fierce steed had but borne a dead man.”

“Holy Paul!” cried Gloucester, with seeming sanctimony, though a covert sneer played round the firm beauty of his pale lips, “a notable tale, and one that proveth much of Sacred Truth, now lightly heeded. But, verily, lord earl, I should have little loved a steed with such a pedigree.”

“Hear the rest,” said Isabel. “King Richard ordered the destrier to be slain forthwith; but the holy palmer who had exorcised it forbade the sacrifice. ‘Mighty shall be the service,’ said the reverend man, ‘which the posterity of this steed shall render to thy royal race, and great glory shall they give to the sons of Nevile. Let the war-horse, now duly exorcised from infidel spells, live long to bear a Christian warrior!’”