The Grateful Indian, and Other Stories

by William Henry Giles Kingston

Much of Henry’s time was spent in solitude, as he watched his flocks feeding on the mountains, and being of a meditative disposition, he thought much and deeply of the beautiful works of the Great Creator that he beheld around him. Though wholly unlettered, though he could neither read nor write, he possessed a native nobleness of mind that raised him far above the class to which he seemingly belonged; yet his manners were plain and simple, nor did the knowledge of his high birth ever lead him to assume an air of superiority over the peasants with whom he was associated. In his solitary musings he thought so much about the wonders of the earth, the sea, and the skies, that he became quite a natural philosopher; but his chief delight was in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies, and he would watch the moon in her course, or gaze for hours on the myriads of stars that shone in the blue vault above him, until he acquired an ardent taste for the sublime study of astronomy, in which he indulged to the full at a later period of his existence.

And so the time passed on, bringing no change to Henry de Clifford, save the gradual increase of years, that transformed the slight delicate youth into the well-grown, powerful man, whose fine form, handsome face, and gentle manners won the hearts of the rustic maidens, and matrons too, of Threlkeld.

His foster-brothers and sisters, one by one, married amongst the villagers belonging to Sir Lancelot’s estate, so that, at last, Henry was left alone with the worthy pair he called his father and mother.

In the meanwhile many stirring events were passing in England, though little was heard about them in the remote and quiet regions of Threlkeld. The wars of the Roses had never wholly ceased. There had been some peaceful intervals, but they had not lasted for long together, as Queen Margaret, assisted by the great Earl of Warwick, the most powerful baron in the kingdom, had resolved never to give up the cause so long as the least chance remained of replacing her husband on the throne, and securing the right of succession to her son. The Earl of Warwick had at first fought for the Duke of York, and it was through his power and influence that Edward the Fourth was made king, for he had more men and more money at his command than any other nobleman in the country. However, King Edward was unwise enough to quarrel with this high and mighty earl, who thereupon went over to the queen’s party, and actually restored the poor, weak-minded King Henry the Sixth to the throne; on which Edward went over to Holland to get assistance of the Duke of Burgundy, his brother-in-law, who placed an army of foreigners at his command, with which he came back to England, and being joined by many of his partisans, a great battle was fought, in which the Earl of Warwick was slain. This event took place exactly ten years after the battle of Towton, where Lord Clifford fell. King Henry was then sent back a prisoner to the Tower, where he soon died; but Queen Margaret, who had just arrived from France, with Prince Edward, her son, who was then seventeen years old, resolved for his sake to make one more effort; but it would have been better for him and for her too, if they had given up this hopeless cause, and gone back to the court of her father, who was King of Anjou in France, for the battle was lost, the young prince was made prisoner, and being taken into the royal tent, the king spoke to him so rudely that he was provoked to answer with more spirit than he had been expected, on which some of the nobles who were standing by fiercely drew their daggers and killed him on the spot.

The unhappy queen having no one to care for, gave up the contest, and went to end her days in France, and for thirteen years afterwards there was no more open warfare in England; but there were still two parties, so that the White and the Red Rose were badges of enmity as before, for it was natural enough that all who, like the De Cliffords, had suffered from the success of the Yorkists, should wish to see the line of Lancaster restored. The existing heir of that family was Henry, Earl of Richmond, who was an exile in France, when Edward the Fourth died, leaving two sons, the eldest only eleven years of age. These were the two little princes that were sent to the Tower by their cruel, ambitious uncle, Richard the Third, who contrived that they should both die there, that he might wear the crown himself; but he had reigned very little more than two years when some of the great nobles, disgusted by his tyranny, sent word to the Earl of Richmond that, if he came to England, with a view to dethrone the usurper, he would find plenty of friends ready to assist him. The earl was soon here at the head of a large army, and met King Richard at Bosworth in Leicestershire, where the great battle was fought that put an end to the War of the Roses and to the life of Richard the Third.

You remember that when Edward the Fourth deprived the Cliffords of their lands and honours, the great manor of Skipton, with its fine old castle, was given to Sir William Stanley. This brave knight had remained faithful to King Edward, but he was amongst those who turned against Richard; and it was he who, when the fight was over and the victory won, took up the crown, which it appears, Richard had worn on the field, and placed it on Richmond’s head, calling out aloud, “Long live King Henry the Seventh!” And this cry passed from one to another till the air resounded with the shouts of the victors, who thus proclaimed the new sovereign on the battle plain. When this momentous event took place Henry de Clifford was about thirty years of age. He had now dwelt for sixteen years amongst the mountains of Cumberland, and one thing only had occurred to disturb the even tenor of his peaceful life.

A gentleman of noble family and good estate, Sir John Saint John, of Bletso, in Bedfordshire, came on a visit to Threlkeld with his daughter Anne, a fair girl in the bloom of youth and beauty. Henry, who had seen her riding out over the hills with her father and Sir Lancelot, thought he had never beheld so lovely a maiden; and he was right, for in all England there were few to compare with Anne of Bletso. She had seen him too, and had observed how far superior he was in appearance to other rustic swains, for the shepherd’s frock of homely grey could not conceal the graces of his person, which also attracted the notice of the worthy knight, her father, who, on one occasion, said to Sir Lancelot—

“That is a well-favoured youth of yours; I have seen a face like his before, but I cannot bethink me where or when, yet it is no common face either.”

“He is the son of my chief shepherd,” replied Sir Lancelot; “he was always a good-looking lad, and is an excellent servant.”

Then, anxious to divert Sir John’s attention from Henry, whose handsome features he feared might remind the knight of the late Lord Clifford, whom his son strongly resembled, he began to talk of other things. But Henry did not forget the sweet face of the young lady, or the beautiful eyes he had seen fixed intently upon him, eyes as bright as the stars he was so fond of gazing upon, and he could not help feeling sad to think the fates had placed him in a sphere so much beneath her.