“Show it me!” he said impatiently; “I will know what it is.”
Aumerle must have laughed in his traitor heart, as with feigned reluctance he handed the document to his father. York read it through; and then rose from the table with one of his stormy bursts of anger.
“Saddle the horses!” he shouted forth to the grooms at the lower end of the hall. And, turning to his son,—“Ha, thou thief! False traitor! thou wert false to King Richard; well might it be looked for that thou shouldst be false to thy cousin King Henry. And thou well knowest, rascal! that I am pledged for thee in Parliament, and have put my body and mine heritage to pawn for thy fidelity. I see thou wouldst fain have me hanged; but, by Saint George! I had liefer thou wert hanged than I!”
York strode out of the hall, calling to the grooms to hasten. Aumerle gave him time to mount the stairs to assume his riding-suit, and then himself went quietly to the stable, saddled a fleet barb, and rode for his life to Windsor.
“Who goes there?” rang the royal warder’s challenge.
“The Lord of Rutland, to have instant speech of the King. Is my gracious Lord of York here?”
York had not arrived, and his son was safe. The warder had pushed to the great gates, and was leading the way to the court-yard, when to his astounded dismay, Aumerle’s dagger was at his throat.
“How have I offended, my Lord?” faltered the poor man.
“No hast,” was the response; “but if thou lock not up the gates incontinent, and give the keys to me—”
The keys were in Aumerle’s pocket the next minute. An hour later, when his story was told, and his pardon solemnly promised, York and his train came lumbering to the gate, to find his news forestalled. When Henry had read the agreement, which York brought with him, he set out immediately for London, while Aumerle calmly repaired to his tryst at Colnbrook. Here Exeter was the first to join him. Aumerle informed his friends that Henry was coming to meet them with a large army, but they determined nevertheless to advance. They passed Maidenhead Bridge in safety, but as soon as they crossed it, the vanguard of Henry’s army was visible. To the amazement of his colleagues, Aumerle, on whom they had counted as staunch and loyal, doffed his bonnet with a laugh, and, spurring forward, was received by the enemy as an expected ally. There could be no doubt now that he had betrayed his too trusting friends. Yet even then, the little band held the bridge till midnight. But by midnight all hope was over. There was left only one alternative—flight or death. The loyal six set spurs to their horses; and Surrey’s steed being fleetest, he soon outdistanced the others. All that night Surrey rode at a breathless gallop, and when morning broke he was dashing past Osney Abbey into the gates of Oxford. Exeter came up an hour or two later; the rest followed afterwards. But they did not mean to stop at Oxford for more than a few hours’ rest. Then they spurred on to Cirencester. On reaching the city gate, Surrey, with his usual impulsive eagerness, shouted to the Constable, “Arm for King Richard!” The Constable, supposing that “the luck had turned,” obeyed; but the next morning brought an archer from Henry, who must have discovered or guessed whither the fugitives had gone. Surrey received Henry’s message and messenger with sovereign contempt; but the Constable, finding that Henry was still in power, immediately went over to the winning side, and there was a town riot. The peers had taken up their temporary abode in an inn, which was surrounded and besieged by the mob. Surrey, impetuous as usual, rushed to the window to address the mob. He was received with a shower of arrows. His friends sprang forward to rescue him; but time and the things of time were over for the young, dauntless, gallant Surrey. They could only lay him gently down on the rushes to breathe out his life. It was a sad end. Fairest and almost highest of the nobles of England, of royal blood, of unblemished character, of great wealth, and only twenty-five—to die on the floor of an inn, in a mob riot!