CHAPTER IX
THE KING'S DEATH
Mine arm was quite sore and stiff for some weeks; but as I had at that time no duties to attend to, it did attract but little attention. I kept to my rooms most of the time, but occasionally took a walk through the park with my fair Hazel by my side.
She was greatly alarmed when she learned that I had been wounded; and she lectured me most severely for so exposing myself to such "foolish dangers," as she was pleased to call them.
"For you know," said she, looking up at me with her head held to the one side, and her face most serious, "if thou shouldst be killed, it would kill me too; so, for my sake, promise me that thou wilt fight no more those fearful duels. Heaven knows 'tis bad enough when thou, as a soldier, hast to fight battles; but this murder should not be permitted in a Christian land."
"But, my darling," I replied, "when one man doth insult another the one which is insulted must avenge himself."
"Yes, but if men would ever learn not to insult each other there should be then no cause for these horrible affairs."
I attempted to argue the point with her; but found it of no avail. Had I been the age I now am I might have saved my breath.
"However," she said, after I had given up the task of trying to convince her that I was right, "I am glad that thou didst wound him."
"Why?" I asked.
"Well," she said, slowly, and at the same time watching me closely, "that night of the ball—" and she stopped there long enough for a very pretty blush to cover her face, as a veil, "the impudent fellow had the temerity to try and make love to me."
"What?" I cried, as I grasped my scabbard, and started my wound to pain afresh. "I'll kill the knave the first time I see his sneering face!"
"No, no, Walter, do nothing of the kind. That was the reason I did not tell thee ere this; I knew it would set thee mad. Oh, dear! thou hast such an evil temper. He is now punished enough; so promise me that thou wilt do nothing to bring about another duel;" and she laid her hand on mine arm, and coaxed me so nicely that I had to make the promise; though later I did regret it.
Since the night of the ball the King's health had been getting worse with every day that passed. His Majesty, seeing that he had not long to live, now called a meeting of the different factions who were ever jangling with each other, for the purpose of reconciling them; for he feared, that when he should be dead, their quarrels might lead to great strife in the kingdom, and endanger the rule of his son.
These parties, as ye must all know, were, first—the Queen and her favorites, secondly—Buckingham and the most powerful of the ancient nobility—to which party belonged my Lord Hastings—and thirdly,—Gloucester himself, for the reason that he did not wish to be connected with—and so be dependent on—either of the other parties.
When all these were come unto his bedside, the King addressed them thus:—"You all must know that I am about to leave this fair kingdom, where I have had such strife and yet such happiness, to join that other land to which spirits alone can go. Before I leave it is my pleasure to have ye all at peace with one another. In case this strife should continue, it will surely lead to great troubles for poor England, which we all do love so dearly. Therefore, my faithful subjects and friends, bethink ye of your duty. Here in this room, before ye leave my presence, I wish to see ye all embrace each other and swear by my death-bed to live in peace together.
"My brother Richard, I charge thee to look after my children, which shall soon be fatherless, and may God deal with thee as thou dost deal with them. I wish thee to be the protector of my son Edward, and to assist him in his government until such time as he doth come unto years of discretion."
So there by his bedside they went through the forms which the King did ask of them. I say, went through the forms; for that was all they did. I do not believe that one of those present ever intended to keep the oath he there made to the King; for their conduct after his death is sufficient evidence of their insincerity.
'Twas told to me afterwards, by one which saw all that which I have here described, that as Richard left the room, with his handkerchief to his eyes, it was to hide his laughter rather than his tears. And I do believe this to be so; for I consider it impossible for that man ever to have had the tenderness of heart necessary to produce one tear. Be that as it may, he was not long in demonstrating his love and charity towards his brother's children.
One morning, some days after this bedside gathering, when I met Hazel in the park, as was now my wont, her eyes were red with weeping.
"Come, come, my fair one, thou must not look so unhappy, or else I shall fear that thou hast ceased to love me. Now tell me what is the matter, that I may console thee."
"Hast thou then not heard the news?" she asked.
"I have not," I replied, "it must be evil news indeed, to make thee so unhappy."
"The King is dead," she said.
"When did he die?"
"About an hour since;" and then she wiped her eyes again.
"Why dost thou weep so for the King?" I asked; for I did not like to see Hazel weeping because another man had died.
"Oh, thou stupid!" she cried out impatiently; "cannot you see that it is on the poor Queen's account? I love her as I did my own dear, and now dead, mother; and when I see her in such sorrow it maketh me to feel as if 'twere mine own."
I felt abashed for not having seen this for myself; but men are so thick headed, in these matters, that they can never know the way a woman looks at things until she doth explain herself. Now I had rather face a regiment, single handed, than see a woman weep; so I stood there as on a pillory, saying nothing, but feeling uncommon uncomfortable.
Presently she looked up sharply, and said,—"Well, what art thou staring at? Is there anything about me that does not please thee?"
To this I made no reply, as I knew silence to be the best remedy for these little outbursts of temper. Remember, my dears, at that time Hazel had considerable fire in her make up. And I would not give an old gauntlet for a maid which had not; for this I do consider to be the very salt of one's character; and what is a fine dish without it be seasoned properly.
When I had stood quietly for some moments, I saw some signs of relenting begin to betray themselves in a softening of the face. "Is the storm passed?" I asked. This brought a smile. All the temper had vanished, and she was more loving than ever.
"Thou must not think badly of me because I was cross with thee, dear," she said, looking up at my face in the most coaxing and bewitching manner—of which she so well knew the power: "I felt so sorrowful when I saw the dear Queen weeping and wringing her hands in despair, that I did not know myself. Thou wilt forgive me, wilt thou not, Walter?"
Then I made a great show of granting her pardon, that I might have a good reason for a certain show of tenderness.
'Twas like a little whirlwind in a dusty road, when the particles of sparkling sand have settled back to their proper level the way is more smooth than ever.
When we were seated upon a bench beneath a fine old oak, which stood in a place more private than its brethren, as though its dignity had made it to hold itself aloof from their society, like the head of some most ancient house keeps ever from the vulgar herd, she asked me how I thought the King's death should affect the kingdom.
"Ah! my dear," I replied, "that is the question which I have been trying to answer since some time before his Majesty did leave us. If Gloucester can be honest all shall be well; for he is a man of great ability and can, if he will, keep the little King firmly seated on the throne. What I do fear is, that, when he tastes the sweets of ruling, he may not be willing to give it up; but like a tiger, when he once hath tasted blood, must needs have more. Young Edward, in his hands, will be as wax, and moulded to the form that best suits Gloucester. The King need not fear his humbler subjects, but must still hold a wary eye upon his uncle."
I did not think it well to tell her the conversation I had overheard the night of the great ball; for it could have done no good, and should but have alarmed her.
"And dost thou then think that the Duke of Gloucester is not honest?" asked Hazel. "Why, he seems to be most honourable and just, so far as I have seen."
"So far as thou hast seen," I replied. "That distance is not great. My father—rest his soul—saw this same Richard stab to the heart, without provocation, and in the coldest blood, young Edward, son of Henry. I've heard my father, with tears upon his cheeks, tell the tale of that foul deed.
"The young Prince, after Tewkesbury, was brought before King Edward and his brothers.
"'What meanest thou, so to rebel against the laws of England and her Sovereign, by thus taking up arms to disturb the peace of this thy native land?' asked our now dead King.
"'Proud and rebellious York,' replied the youth; 'by what right dost thou question us, thy true and lawful Sovereign? Hadst thou the loyalty equal to thine impertinence, thou wouldst now be at our feet, craving our pardon for this show of force before us, England's only King.'
"My father said 'twas grand to see the young Prince, as he did finish this speech, so full of dignity and power. His face was flushed with excitement, and with pride; and as he raised his hand to Heaven, as though asking of the powers there to bear him out, he looked as though he were inspired.
"Then Richard of Gloucester, now our pro tem. ruler, unable to look upon this righteous indignation, with his steel gauntlet, struck young Edward on that tender cheek. This proud bud of the noble flower of Lancaster could ill brook this insult; especially from one of a rival house. His hand flew to his dagger. Gloucester, who knew full well that this was but an impulse, pounced on the Prince, as doth the tiger on its tender prey, buried his weapon in that noble flesh, and, as the body fell upon the ground, he spurned it with his armoured foot. This," I continued, "doth show the tenderness of Richard, and the treatment that they may expect, which do not please his Highness, the Protector. His words and his actions are of but distant kin."
"Then dost thou not think he will be bound by his oath, made to the King before his Majesty deceased?" asked Hazel.
"Indeed who can tell?" I replied. "Mayhap a year will show, mayhap two. He may be honest, and he may be not. Which course he doth find to be most profitable, it is mine opinion, he will follow."
Thus we spent most of the morning, discussing the policy of the new Protector; and methinks the surmises we made that morning in the park turned out to be as true as the great majority of the prophecies which are, even now, so prevalent in this glorious and enlightened reign of his most gracious Majesty, King Henry, of that name the eighth, which, despite his faults—and we all must have our own—is a most noble master.