“A Warwick! a Warwick!” they shouted. “God bless the people’s friend!”
Edward, startled and aghast, drew sullenly into the rear of the tent.
De la Roche grew pale; but with the promptness of a practised statesman, he hastily advanced, and drew the curtain. “Shall varlets,” he said to Richard, in French, “gloat over the quarrels of their lords?”
“You are right, Sir Count,” murmured Richard, meekly; his purpose was effected, and leaning on his riding staff, he awaited what was to ensue.
A softer shade had fallen over the earl’s face, at the proof of the love in which his name was held; it almost seemed to his noble though haughty and impatient nature, as if the affection of the people had reconciled him to the ingratitude of the king. A tear started to his proud eye; but he twinkled it away, and approaching Edward (who remained erect, and with all a sovereign’s wrath, though silent on his lip, lowering on his brow), he said, in a tone of suppressed emotion,—
“Sire, it is not for me to crave pardon of living man, but the grievous affront put upon my state and mine honour hath led my words to an excess which my heart repents. I grieve that your Grace’s highness hath chosen this alliance; hereafter you may find at need what faith is to be placed in Burgundy.”
“Darest thou gainsay it?” exclaimed De la Roche.
“Interrupt me not, sir!” continued Warwick, with a disdainful gesture. “My liege, I lay down mine offices, and I leave it to your Grace to account as it lists you to the ambassadors of France,—I shall vindicate myself to their king. And now, ere I depart for my hall of Middleham, I alone here, unarmed and unattended, save at least by a single squire, I, Richard Nevile, say, that if any man, peer or knight, can be found to execute your Grace’s threat, and arrest me, I will obey your royal pleasure, and attend him to the Tower.” Haughtily he bowed his head as he spoke, and raising it again, gazed around—“I await your Grace’s pleasure.”
“Begone where thou wilt, earl. From this day Edward IV. reigns alone,” said the king. Warwick turned.
“My Lord Scales,” said he, “lift the curtain; nay, sir, it misdemeans you not. You are still the son of the Woodville, I still the descendant of John of Gaunt.”