The Last of the Barons — Complete

“Dare not!” interrupted Marmaduke. “Alas! you little know King Edward.”

At that name Anne shuddered, opened the door, and hurried down the stairs; Sibyll and Marmaduke followed her.

“Listen, Sir Marmaduke,” said Sibyll. “Close without the Tower is the house of a noble lady, the dame of Longueville, where Anne may rest in safety, while you seek Lord Warwick. I will go with you, if you can obtain egress for us both.”

“Brave damsel!” said Marmaduke, with emotion; “but your own safety—the king’s anger—no—besides a third, your dress not concealed, would create the warder’s suspicion. Describe the house.”

“The third to the left, by the river’s side, with an arched porch, and the fleur-de-lis embossed on the walls.”

“It is not so dark but we shall find it. Fare you well, gentle mistress.”

While they yet spoke, they had both reached the side of Anne. Sibyll still persisted in the wish to accompany her friend; but Marmaduke’s representation of the peril to life itself that might befall her father, if Edward learned she had abetted Anne’s escape, finally prevailed. The knight and his charge gained the outer gate.

“Haste, haste, Master Warder!” he cried, beating at the door with his dagger till it opened jealously,—“messages of importance to the Lord Warwick. We have the king’s signet. Open!”

The sleepy warder glanced at the ring; the gates were opened; they were without the fortress, they hurried on. “Cheer up, noble lady; you are safe, you shall be avenged!” said Marmaduke, as he felt the steps of his companion falter. But the reaction had come. The effort Anne had hitherto made was for escape, for liberty; the strength ceased, the object gained; her head drooped, she muttered a few incoherent words, and then sense and life left her. Marmaduke paused in great perplexity and alarm. But lo, a light in a house before him! That house the third to the river,—the only one with the arched porch described by Sibyll. He lifted the light and holy burden in his strong arms, he gained the door; to his astonishment it was open; a light burned on the stairs; he heard, in the upper room, the sound of whispered voices, and quick, soft footsteps hurrying to and fro. Still bearing the insensible form of his companion, he ascended the staircase, and entered at once upon a chamber, in which, by a dim lamp, he saw some two or three persons assembled round a bed in the recess. A grave man advanced to him, as he paused at the threshold.

“Whom seek you?”

“The Lady Longueville.”

“Hush?”

“Who needs me?” said a faint voice, from the curtained recess.

“My name is Nevile,” answered Marmaduke, with straightforward brevity. “Mistress Sibyll Warner told me of this house, where I come for an hour’s shelter to my companion, the Lady Anne, daughter of the Earl of Warwick.”

Marmaduke resigned his charge to an old woman, who was the nurse in that sick-chamber, and who lifted the hood and chafed the pale, cold hands of the young maiden; the knight then strode to the recess. The Lady of Longueville was on the bed of death—an illness of two days had brought her to the brink of the grave; but there was in her eye and countenance a restless and preternatural animation, and her voice was clear and shrill, as she said,—

“Why does the daughter of Warwick, the Yorkist, seek refuge in the house of the fallen and childless Lancastrian?”

“Swear by thy hopes in Christ that thou will tend and guard her while I seek the earl, and I reply.”

“Stranger, my name is Longueville, my birth noble,—those pledges of hospitality and trust are stronger than hollow oaths. Say on!”

“Because, then,” whispered the knight, after waving the bystanders from the spot, “because the earl’s daughter flies dishonour in a king’s palace, and her insulter is the king!”

Before the dying woman could reply, Anne, recovered by the cares of the experienced nurse, suddenly sprang to the recess, and kneeling by the bedside, exclaimed wildly,—“Save me! bide me! save me!”

“Go and seek the earl, whose right hand destroyed my house and his lawful sovereign’s throne,—go! I will live till he arrives!” said the childless widow, and a wild gleam of triumph shot over her haggard features.

CHAPTER VIII. THE GROUP ROUND THE DEATH-BED OF THE LANCASTRIAN WIDOW

The dawning sun gleamed through gray clouds upon a small troop of men, armed in haste, who were grouped round a covered litter by the outer door of the Lady Longueville’s house; while in the death-chamber, the Earl of Warwick, with a face as pale as the dying woman’s, stood beside the bed, Anne calmly leaning on his breast, her eyes closed, and tears yet moist on her long fringes.

“Ay, ay, ay!” said the Lancastrian noblewoman, “ye men of wrath and turbulence should reap what ye have sown! This is the king for whom ye dethroned the sainted Henry! this the man for whom ye poured forth the blood of England’s best! Ha! ha! Look down from heaven, my husband, my martyr-sons! The daughter of your mightiest foe flies to this lonely hearth,—flies to the death-bed of the powerless woman for refuge from the foul usurper whom that foe placed upon the throne!”

“Spare me,” muttered Warwick, in a low voice, and between his grinded teeth. The room had been cleared, and Dr. Godard (the grave man who had first accosted Marmaduke, and who was the priest summoned to the dying) alone—save the scarce conscious Anne herself—witnessed the ghastly and awful conference.

“Hush, daughter,” said the man of peace, lifting the solemn crucifix,—“calm thyself to holier thoughts.”

The lady impatiently turned from the priest, and grasping the strong right arm of Warwick with her shrivelled and trembling fingers, resumed in a voice that struggled to repress the gasps which broke its breath,—

“But thou—oh, thou wilt bear this indignity! thou, the chief of England’s barons, wilt see no dishonour in the rank love of the vilest of England’s kings! Oh, yes, ye Yorkists have the hearts of varlets, not of men and fathers!”

“By the symbol from which thou turnest, woman!” exclaimed the earl, giving vent to the fury which the presence of death had before suppressed, “by Him to whom, morning and night, I have knelt in grateful blessing for the virtuous life of this beloved child, I will have such revenge on the recreant whom I kinged, as shall live in the rolls of England till the trump of the Judgment Angel!”

“Father,” said Anne, startled by her father’s vehemence from her half-swoon, half-sleep—“Father, think no more of the past,—take me to my mother! I want the clasp of my mother’s arms!”

“Leave us,—leave the dying, Sir Earl and son,” said Godard. “I too am Lancastrian; I too would lay down my life for the holy Henry; but I shudder, in the hour of death, to hear yon pale lips, that should pray for pardon, preach to thee of revenge.”

“Revenge!” shrieked out the dame of Longueville, as, sinking fast and fast, she caught the word—“revenge! Thou hast sworn revenge on Edward of York, Lord Warwick,—sworn it in the chamber of death, in the ear of one who will carry that word to the hero-dead of a hundred battlefields! Ha! the sun has risen! Priest—Godard—thine arms—support—raise—bear me to the casement! Quick—quick! I would see my king once more! Quick—quick! and then—then—I will hear thee pray!”

The priest, half chiding, yet half in pity, bore the dying woman to the casement. She motioned to him to open it; he obeyed. The sun, just above the welkin, shone over the lordly Thames, gilded the gloomy fortress of the Tower, and glittered upon the window of Henry’s prison.

“There—there! It is he,—it is my king! Hither,—lord, rebel earl,—hither. Behold your sovereign. Repent, revenge!”

With her livid and outstretched hand, the Lancastrian pointed to the huge Wakefield tower. The earl’s dark eye beheld in the dim distance a pale and reverend countenance, recognized even from afar. The dying woman fixed her glazing eyes upon the wronged and mighty baron, and suddenly her arm fell to her side, the face became set as into stone, the last breath of life gurgled within, and fled; and still those glazing eyes were fixed on the earl’s hueless face, and still in his ear, and echoed by a thousand passions in his heart, thrilled the word which had superseded prayer, and in which the sinner’s soul had flown,—REVENGE!

BOOK IX. THE WANDERERS AND THE EXILES

CHAPTER I. HOW THE GREAT BARON BECOMES AS GREAT A REBEL

Hilyard was yet asleep in the chamber assigned to him as his prison, when a rough grasp shook off his slumbers, and he saw the earl before him, with a countenance so changed from its usual open majesty, so dark and sombre, that he said involuntarily, “You send me to the doomsman,—I am ready!”

“Hist, man! Thou hatest Edward of York?”

“An it were my last word, yes!”

“Give me thy hand—we are friends! Stare not at me with those eyes of wonder, ask not the why nor wherefore! This last night gave Edward a rebel more in Richard Nevile! A steed waits thee at my gates; ride fast to young Sir Robert Welles with this letter. Bid him not be dismayed; bid him hold out, for ere many days are past, Lord Warwick, and it may be also the Duke of Clarence, will join their force with his. Mark, I say not that I am for Henry of Lancaster,—I say only that I am against Edward of York. Farewell, and when we meet again, blessed be the arm that first cuts its way to a tyrant’s heart!”

Without another word, Warwick left the chamber. Hilyard at first could not believe his senses; but as he dressed himself in haste, he pondered over all those causes of dissension which had long notoriously subsisted between Edward and the earl, and rejoiced that the prophecy that he had long so shrewdly hazarded was at last fulfilled. Descending the stairs he gained the gate, where Marmaduke awaited him, while a groom held a stout haquenee (as the common riding-horse was then called), whose points and breeding promised speed and endurance.

“Mount, Master Robin,” said Marmaduke; “I little thought we should ever ride as friends together! Mount!—our way for some miles out of London is the same. You go into Lincolnshire, I into the shire of Hertford.”

“And for the same purpose?” asked Hilyard, as he sprang upon his horse, and the two men rode briskly on.

“Yes!”

“Lord Warwick is changed at last?”

“At last!”

“For long?”

“Till death!”

“Good, I ask no more!”