CHAPTER XXXI.
There is nothing which should teach man virtue, if not religion, more than the study of history; not by showing that the result of evil action is punishment to the ill-doer, for such is frequently not the case, in this world at least, unless we take into account the moral suffering which the consciousness of wickedness must produce: but by showing in the strongest possible light the vanity of human wishes, the futility of human efforts, when directed in any other course than that which leads to imperishable happiness hereafter. We often see the man who lies, and cheats, and grinds the poor, and deceives the unwary, and wrongs the confiding, obtain the pitiful yellow dust which has caused so much misery on earth. We see the grander knave who plots, and fights, and overcomes, and triumphs, who desolates fertile lands, and sheds the blood of thousands, obtain power, that phantom which has led statesmen, priests, and kings, through oceans of fraud, falsehood, and gore. We see them all passing away like a vain shadow, snatched from the midst of trickery or strife, of disappointment or success, of prosperity or adversity, before the cup of joy is tasted, before effort has been crowned by fruition. A few lines of history, a brief record of censure or panegyric; then the page is turned, and all is over. The mighty and the good things last; and the spirits of those who wrought them are gone on high.
Richard walked in the gallery of the castle at York, his arms crossed upon his chest, his eyes bent down upon the ground, his brain busy, rejoining the broken threads of policy; as great a man perhaps as a bad man can ever be. He was mighty as a soldier, mighty as a politician, almost sublime in the vast wide-stretching reach of his subtlety. Through life he had played a game almost against all odds; and he had won every stake. He had seen those who stood between him and the light swept away; he had contrived to remove obstacle after obstacle; he had crushed or aided to crush all the enemies of his house; he had imposed the silence of death, or the chains of exile, upon all personal opponents; and he had often succeeded in the still more perilous strife with the passions and the feelings of his own heart; for, because he was ambitious, and all things gave place to ambition, we have no right to conclude that his heart was without feelings even of a gentle and a kindly nature. Ambition was the idol, and to it the heart sacrificed its children.
As he thus walked, a man in a black robe, with a velvet cap upon his head, which he doffed as soon as he saw the king, entered the gallery. His step roused Richard from his reverie; and, looking up, he exclaimed:
"Ha! How is the queen?"
"No better, I grieve to say, your grace," replied the physician.
"And when no better--worse," replied Richard, thoughtfully, "because a day nearer the grave. These days, these days, they are but the fevered pulses of the great malady, which, in the end, slays us all.--No better?--What is her complaint?"
"'Tis a pining wasting sickness, sire," replied the physician, "proceeding from the spirits more than the blood. It has consumed her ever since the death of the prince was announced to her so rashly, which may have occasioned a curdling of the juices, and rendered them no longer fit to support life. I grieve to say, the case is one of serious danger, if her grace cannot be persuaded to take more nourishment, and to cast off this black melancholy."
"How long may it last?" asked Richard, gravely.
"Not very long," replied the physician; "I trust art may do something to correct and alleviate; but cure nothing can, unless the lady use her own powers to overcome this despondency and gloom."
"Well!" said Richard; and, at the same time, he bowed his head as an indication that the physician might depart.
"It is strange," he thought, as soon as he was alone again. "Not long since, I should have heard such tidings with a sigh. Ann is dying, that is clear. How beautiful I remember her--how sweetly beautiful! Yet weak, very weak. The white and red roses might have adorned her cheek; but she should not have entwined them in her marriage bed. I loved her--yes, I loved her well--I love her still, though her weakness frets me. Yet England must have heirs. The crown must not become a football at my death, to be kicked from John de la Pole to Harry of Richmond. At my death! When will that be, I wonder? Ay, who can say? There hangs the cloud. No eye can penetrate it. Turn which way we will, fate's thick dark curtain is around us, and no hand can raise it up; but we must go on till we touch it. 'Tis well, perchance. Yet did one but know when that hour of death is to come, how many things might we not do, how many things might we leave undone. Laborious plans, vast enterprises, schemes that require long long years to perfect, might all be laid aside, and our energies fixed upon the period that is ours. We work in the dark, and half our work is vain. Well, well, time will show; and our labours must not be imperfect, because we know not the result. Yes, with this ever-ready fate yawning before me, nought must be delayed. Ann is dying, that is clear. Had it not been so, perhaps it might have been necessary to put her from me. Rome is an indulgent mother; and the sacrifice of a few dozen lollards, together with some small share of gold, would have found favour for a divorce. But she is dying, and that at least is spared. My brother's daughter must be her successor. I will move at Rome for the dispensation at once. And the lady too? But no fear of her. She is ready and coming enough. She will have children surely, or she will belie her father and mother. Heaven, what a progeny of them, while I had but one son! Who goes there without?"
"'Tis I, sire," replied Sir Richard Ratcliffe; appearing at the door.
"Ah, Ratcliffe, come hither," said the king. "The queen is very ill, Ratcliffe--dying, her physicians tell me."
"Your Grace must bear Heaven's will patiently," replied the courtier.
"I will so," answered Richard; "but we must foresee events, Ratcliffe. The queen is dying. Men will say that I poisoned her; think you not so, Ratcliffe?"
"It matters little what men say, sire," answered the other, "since we well know that half they say is false."
"More than half," answered Richard. "Let a man look devout, and do some seemly acts of charity, till he has made a name for the trumpet of the multitude, and he may be luxurious, treacherous, false, avaricious, if he pleases, he shall still have a multitude to speak his praises to the sky. But let another, for some great object, do a doubtful deed, though justified perhaps by the end in view, the whole world will be upon his track, baying like hounds till they have run him down. Every accident that favours him, every event, the mere fruit of chance, that he takes advantage of, will be attributed to design and to his act. No man will die, whom he could wish removed, but what mankind will say, he poisoned him; no enemy will fall by the sword of justice, but it will be a murder; no truth will be told favouring him, but a falsehood will be found in it, and his best acts and highest purposes will be made mean by the mean multitude. Well, it matters not. We must keep on our course. While I hold the truncheon I will rule; and these turbulent nobles shall find that, slander me as they will, they have a master still. Oh, if Heaven but grant me life, I will so break their power, and sap their influence, that the common drudges of the cities, the traders who toil and moil after their dirty lucre, shall stamp upon the coronets of peers, and leave them but the name of the power which they have so long misused. But I must secure my house upon the throne. The queen is dying, Ratcliffe--I must have heirs, man, heirs."
Ratcliffe smiled meaningly, but replied not; for to mistake his purposes, while seeming to divine them, was somewhat dangerous with Richard.
The king remained in thought for a moment or two, and then enquired, in an altered tone--
"Who is in the castle?"
Ratcliffe looked at him in some surprise; for his question was not as definite as usual, and Richard went on to say--
"I heard that the princess Mary, of Scotland, had arrived last night. I sent too for Lord Fulmer. I will not have that marriage go forward till I am sure; and, if they dare to disobey me, let them beware."
"He is not yet arrived, sire," answered Ratcliffe; "but there has been hardly time. The princess, however, came last night. She went first to London by sea, it seems, and has since followed your grace hither. She has just returned to her apartments from visiting the queen."
"Ha! Has she been there?" said Richard. "That had been better not; but I will go and see her. Let some one go forward to say I wait upon her highness. We must have this marriage concluded speedily, betwixt the Duke of Rothsay and my niece Anne. Then, Harry of Richmond, thou hast lost a hand; and a Scotch hand is hard, as we have found sometimes. Go, good Ratcliffe, go to her yourself."
Ratcliffe immediately retired; and, after meditating for a few minutes longer, Richard followed him. He found two servants waiting at the door of the room to which he directed his steps, together with his attached though somewhat unscrupulous friend and counsellor, Ratcliffe, who had delivered his message and retired from the presence of the princess. The door was immediately thrown open, one of the servants saying, in a loud voice, "The king;" and Richard entered with a calm, quiet, graceful step, as unlike the man which the perverted statements of his enemies have taught us to imagine him as possible.
Seated at the farther end of the room, with two or three young women standing round her, was a lady apparently of some six or seven and thirty years of age--perhaps older, but she seemed no more--whose beauty could hardly be said to have been touched by the hand of time. The expression of her face was mild and melancholy; but yet there was something high and commanding in it too. Her dress was very plain, without ornament of any kind; and the colour was sombre, though not exactly that of mourning. She rose when the king entered, and took a step forward in front of her attendants, while Richard hastened on at a quicker pace, and taking her hand courteously, pressed his lips upon it; after which he led her back to her chair. The ladies around hurried to bring forward a seat for the king of England; but he remained standing by the side of the princess, for a moment or two, inquiring after her health and her journey. She answered briefly, but with courtesy, saying, that she had preferred to travel by sea, rather than cross the border, on both sides of which were turbulent and lawless men.
"I have come, my lord the king," she continued, "with full powers to negociate and conclude the terms of the treaty already proposed between your grace and my beloved brother, for the marriage of my nephew and your niece. You may think it strange that he should choose a woman for an ambassador; but, as you know, I begged the office; and as you kindly seconded my views, by the hint contained in your letter, he was content to trust me."
"I could do no less than give the hint, as knight and gentleman, when I knew your wishes," replied Richard; "but, to say truth, dear lady, I almost feared to yield to them. It is nothing new to see princesses ruling states and guiding negociations; and, from all my own experience, I should say, that strong must be the head and resolute the heart which can resist their eloquence, their beauty, and their gentleness. I always therefore fear to meet a lady as a diplomatist; but I could not refuse when you laid on me your commands."
"Yet I fear," said Mary, "that those commands, as you term them, were somehow made known to my brother or his ministers; for I find that several messengers were sent to England before I departed myself; and, the day before I set out, an old servant of mine, John Radnor, whom I always fancied faithful, and whom your grace knew right well, left me, with letters or messages, I am told, for England, which were kept secret from me, and I have never seen him more."
"Nor have I," said Richard, gravely; "but when we are alone we will talk farther."
"These are faithful friends," said the princess, looking round to the young ladies who were with her; but, marking a slight smile which curled Richard's lip, she added: "If your grace has matters of secrecy, they shall go. Leave us, girls."
The king and the princess remained perfectly silent till the room was cleared; but then Richard said:
"We, in high stations, dear lady, never know who are really faithful friends, till we have tried them long and in many ways. You said but now, that you fancied this John Radnor was your faithful servant. Now this surprises me not," he added, in a tone of gallantry, not unmingled with sarcasm, "for I always looked upon him as mine; and he, who is my faithful servant, must be yours."
The princess gazed at him for a moment with a look of surprise; but she then bent her eyes down, saying, "I think I understand your highness. Was he a spy?"
"Nay, that is a harsh term," answered Richard. "He was not exactly a spy. Peasants and franklins, when there is a great man in the neighbourhood, will bring him presents or offerings of no great worth, on the sweet certainty of receiving something in return more valuable than that they bring. Thus did John Radnor with intelligence. When he learned aught that was likely to be well paid, he brought it to him who was likely to pay him best. But let us speak of him no more; for his tale-telling mouth is closed in the dull earth. He was killed by accident, on that very journey of which you speak; but his letters were brought on by some posts of mine, who followed close behind him. All the packets that you have sent me, within the last year, have reached me safely, I believe--those which Radnor brought, delicately fingered indeed, and those which came by other hands, either intact, or resealed with greater skill. I have executed your commands to the letter, however, without attending to the recommendations of others, which sometimes accompanied them. But I grieve to say I have had no success. Many are the inquiries I have made; but not a vestige, not a trace is to be found."
The princess cast down her eyes, and crushed a bright tear drop between their jetty fringes. "Nevertheless," she answered, after a moment's silence, "I will pursue the search myself, though not doubting either your grace's kindness or your diligence. It is hardly possible that his companions in arms should not mark the place where so distinguished a man lies, even by a stone."
"He was indeed," said Richard, "the flower of courtesy and the pride of knighthood. I remember the good earl well, just before he went to Denmark, to bring home your brother's bride; and seldom have I seen one so worthy to live in long remembrance, or to be mourned by the widowed heart with such enduring grief as your noble husband, the earl of Arran. Did I know where he lies, I myself would erect a monument to his memory, although he took part with the enemies of my house."
While he had been pronouncing this panegyric upon her dead husband, the eyes of the princess, countess of Arran, had overflowed with tears; but she answered when he ceased, saying--
"That were indeed generous; and I beseech you show to me equal generosity in assisting me to pursue my search."
"To the utmost of my power will I aid you," replied Richard, "although I am sure it must be in vain. Let me, however, ask what leads you to believe that he still lives?"
"Nay, I believe not," replied the princess. "It is something less than belief--a doubt, a clinging hope. Perchance, had I seen his dead corpse, I might have felt somewhat of the same. I might have fancied that there was warmth about the heart, and tried to bring back life into its seat, though life was quite extinct. Such is woman's love, my lord. But you may ask what has nourished even this faint hope, when twelve long years have passed, and when I received authentic news of his death in the last skirmish of the war. That man, John Radnor, swore that he saw him dead upon the field. The others who were with him, in some sort, corroborated the same story; but they were not quite so sure. My brother, all his court, affected to believe that it was true--to have no doubt thereof. But yet, if they were so thoroughly convinced, why, when they wanted me to wed another, did they press so eagerly for a divorce at the court of Rome--a divorce from a dead man! They must, at least, have doubted. Thus they taught me to doubt; and, ere I yield even to my king's authority, I must see and inquire for myself. All I ask is, let me find him living, or find where they buried him. His arms, his look, must have shown, whoever found the body, that he was no ordinary man, to be buried with the common herd on the spot where he fell."
Richard shook his head, saying, "Alas, lady, you know not what a field of battle is. The blows and bloody wounds, the trampling of the flying multitude, the horses' hoofs, will often deface every feature, and leave the dead body no resemblance to the living man; and, as for arms, there is always hovering round a field of battle a foul flock of human vultures, ready to despoil the dead, the moment that the tide of contest ebbs away."
"But this was a mere skirmish," replied the lady.
"I know, I know," said Richard. "He was hurrying across the country with a few score Lancastrian spears, to join Margaret at Tewksbury, when he was encountered by Sir Walter Gray, with a superior force. But think you, had he been alive, no tidings would have reached you from himself, no message, no letter?"
"That he should have sent none would indeed be strange," replied the lady; "but you know not, my lord, how I have been watched and guarded. I know that some of my letters from Denmark were actually stopped; and, till within the last two years, I have been almost a prisoner. Nay, more, I find they spread a report that I was married to the earl of Hamilton, amongst many other strokes of policy to bend me to their wishes. All these things have made me doubt. 'Tis true, I cannot fully give way to hope; but yet I perceive clearly they themselves do not feel sure Arran is dead."
"Well, lady, my best assistance you shall have," answered Richard. "All sheriffs of counties, and their officers, shall be commanded to give you aid--ay, and to prosecute the search themselves; and to monasteries and abbeys you will need no commendation."
"Thanks, gracious prince," replied the lady; and Richard, with an air of real kindness, answered:
"No thanks are merited, where the pleasure received is far more than that given. Would I could aid you farther!"
And then, changing the conversation, he added: "You have been to see my poor unhappy queen, I find. She is sadly ill, poor Anne; and the physicians give but very little hope."
"She looks ill indeed," replied the princess; "yet, I trust that care and skilful tending may restore her."
Richard shook his head, and fell into a fit of thought, or seemed to do so.
"Her heart has received a wound that will never heal," he answered, at length, with a sigh. "Man's nature resists these things; but woman's yields. Always a delicate flower, this last storm has crushed her. Our beautiful boy, our Edward, our only one, to be snatched from us in this sudden and fearful way! It was enough, surely it was enough, to break a heart so tender as hers. Alas, lady, I must not indulge in hope. But this conversation unmans me," he continued. "I am not fit now to discuss matters of urgent business. To-night, lady, to-night we will talk of the marriage of your nephew with my niece. At present, I can think of nothing but my dead boy, and my dying wife. Farewell, then, farewell for the present. Alas, poor lady! It has fallen hard upon her;" and, turning sharply away, he quitted the room, muttering words to himself, as if solely occupied with the fate of his wife, and the loss of his son.
The moment he had closed the door, however, he took the arm of Ratcliffe, who was still in waiting, and led him along the corridor, speaking to him in a low voice.
"We must conclude this matter speedily," he said--"the marriage, Ratcliffe. I mean the marriage. I will have you go yourself."
"I am ready this moment, sire," answered Ratcliffe. "But tell me where I am to go, and my foot shall be in the stirrup within half an hour."
"Where?" exclaimed Richard, in a tone of surprise, "why, to the sanctuary at Westminster, to be sure. I must have you deal with our good sister, Elizabeth of Woodville, the queen dowager, and persuade her to give her girls into my safe custody."
"That were difficult, very difficult, my lord," replied Ratcliffe.
"Not a whit," said Richard. "Be liberal of promises; say that I will wed her daughters to the noblest in the realm. Tell her, my own child being dead, my brother's children become objects of love and care, instead of fear. Assign them liberal pensions--ay, and give the same unto the queen their mother. Tell her, her kinsmen shall be well treated and restored to their estates and honours, and contrive to whisper in the ear of my fair niece Elizabeth, that, were Richard free, as he soon may be, he would set her on the throne of England. Dost thou understand me, Ratcliffe?"
"Ay, gracious lord, right well," replied Ratcliffe. "I have never wanted zeal; and, if zeal can do aught, within ten days the princesses shall be in your grace's hand."
"Zeal! Thou hast more than zeal, Ratcliffe," exclaimed Richard. "Zeal is the gallant horse that bears us on full speed. Wit is the hand that guides him. Why look'st thou thoughtful, man?"
"I was but thinking, sire," answered Ratcliffe, "that it were well to send off messengers to the pope. To wed your niece, you must have a dispensation. Rome has no pity for love's impatience, little consideration for exigencies of state. 'Twere well to have matters begun and carried on at once, with that slow court, or we shall have objections, and at first refusals."
"Refusals!" said Richard, with a bitter smile. "There are still lollards in England, Ratcliffe; and by St. Paul, if he delay or hesitate, his triple crown may lose its brightest gem. We are a devout son of the church, my friend; but still we must be tender to our subjects. See the bishop of London, when you are there, and bid him cease all flame and faggot denunciations. Tell him that reasons of state require us to be tolerant at least for the time, and insinuate that we intend to pass an act for the relief of men's consciences."
"He will send the news to Rome, sire," said Ratcliffe, with some hesitation.
"Let him," answered Richard, with a meaning smile; "'tis what I would have! I would provide something to give up, lest Rome's demands should be too unreasonable. A little fear, too, is salutary. So see him, see him, and put the matter as I have said, strongly enough to create alarm, not strongly enough to give offence. But the queen and her daughter must be first dealt with. Let me have her forth from sanctuary, and my wife no longer in the way between us; and I will pass over papal dispensations, and laugh at Roman thunders. You have your directions, away."
Thus saying, he turned to the door of his cabinet, round which several persons were waiting.
"Lord Fulmer has arrived, your grace, and is waiting below in the green chamber," said one of the attendants.
"Bring him hither," answered Richard; "and mark me, if any news come from the coast, give the messengers instant admission;" and he entered the cabinet.