RED AND WHITE (continued 2)

Frideswide looked up into the pleasant face of a man of some thirty years of age, who wore the royal livery of England. Livery, it must be remembered, was not at that time any badge of servitude; all the King's equerries, household officers, and gentlemen ushers, wore his livery. This man was of fine proportions, had bright, dark, intelligent eyes, and wore—what few then did—a long beard and moustache. There was a kind, friendly expression in his face which made Frideswide feel at her ease. She answered the sympathising inquiry by a smiling affirmative.

"Well, here may you find good rest," said he. "At the least, after all these stairs be clomb, which I fear shall yet weary you somewhat. Shall we, of your good pleasure, make acquaintance? I am the Queen's henchman."

"Master Combe?" asked Frideswide, looking up.

"John Combe, and your servant," said he. "Truly a lowly name—it could scarce be shorter—but it hath serven me these thirty years, and yet shall, if it please God."

The name was no unknown sound to Frideswide Marston, for John Combe had been Queen Marguerite's personal attendant—equerry, secretary, confidant, friend—ever since that dark and evil day when, stung by Warwick's cruel stab in the dark, the beautiful young Queen, to avoid all ground for evil surmisings, had selected a boy of fourteen to ride before her. Truest of the true had John Combe proved to his royal lady. He was low down, indeed, in her household—no peerage ever adorned his name, nor order glittered on his breast—but there was not a man about her whom Marguerite would have trusted as she trusted him. His feeling towards her was one of reverential tenderness—the sentiment of a devotee towards his chosen saint. In fact, it was John Combe's nature to look out for, to protect, to love, whatever he found in need of it. "The man who wanted him was the man he wanted." A timid, shrinking girl, who looked frightened and uncomfortable, would have won John Combe's notice, though a dozen luxuriously-appointed beauties were fluttering about him in vain. What had originally attracted him to Marguerite herself was not the beauty nor the Queen, but the lonely, helpless, calumniated woman.

The world holds a few John Combes. Would there were more!

The long stretch of stairs came to an end at last, and John Combe led Frideswide into the private closet of Queen Marguerite. It was the first time she had ever seen the royal lady who to her was the incarnation of every thing that was fair and noble. While the Queen was occupied with the Countess and her daughters, Frideswide had time to look at her.

Marguerite of Anjou was now just forty years of age, but she still retained, in every item but one, that wonderful beauty which had won her the reputation of the loveliest woman in Europe. The once brilliant complexion was dimmed and faded by long years of anxiety and privation. But the graceful figure, lithe and slender, was not changed—the gracious bearing was no less fascinating than of old—the blue eyes were bright and sparkling still, and the golden hair held its own without a silver thread. She received the Countess with the affectionate concern of an old friend who was sorry for her recent suffering, and her daughters with motherly kindness. Perhaps there was just a shade more of it for the Lady Anne than her sister. But Anne was the younger, and was at that moment looking the more wearied of the two. Then the Queen turned to the suite, greeted Mother Bonham as she might have done her own old nurse, and gave her hand to kiss to Frideswide and Avice. The Earl, who had been first to wait on King Louis, made his appearance last. Marguerite received him with cold civility, very different from her manner to the ladies. But she condescended to converse with him on political affairs, though it was in a grave and distant style. Marguerite showed to most advantage when she spoke, for then her face lighted up, her eyes were animated, and her natural vivacity made itself apparent. Let her be silent, and the face grew grave and sad, as she had good cause to be.

Before much of this political converse had gone on, the Queen, by a motion of her hand, summoned John Combe, who, whatever he might be doing, always seemed to keep one eye upon every act and gesture of his royal mistress. She desired him to call the Lady de Vivonne, and a plump, lively, gesticulating Frenchwoman accordingly sailed into the room. To her care the Queen committed the ladies who had accepted her hospitality, desiring her to see that they wanted for nothing: and the Lady de Vivonne carried them off to the apartments already prepared for them. Here were several other women, both French and English, who busied themselves in offering help. One of the latter, a girl of about their own age, devoted herself to Frideswide and Avice.

"Gramercy, my damsels, but you must be a-weary!" said she. "I wis I was when we hither came. You shall yet have seen none, as I reckon, save our own Queen?"

"None at all," answered Avice. "I would right fain see my Lord Prince."

"And the King and Queen of France—be they here?" said Frideswide.

"They be so," replied Christian, as they found the girl was named: "but, gramercy! they be not much to look at."

"Ill-favoured both?"

Christian pulled an affirmative face. She was evidently ready to continue the conversation to any extent; but both the chamberers were so tired that when their duties were over, they were only too thankful to lie down in bed. Only, before they dropped asleep, Frideswide said,—

"What shall be the next move?"

"God wot," said Avice, gravely.

"Know you if the Queen hath or no any leaning toward our doctrine?"

"Hush, prithee! I cannot tell, in any wise. The King is good man and holy—men say, holy as any saint. The Queen, I have heard, is a great almsgiver—or so were, when she had alms to give. Poor lady! now 'tis well nigh come to asking alms, with her."

"Poor lady!" echoed Frideswide.

And then they went to sleep.

CHAPTER IV.

SCENE-SHIFTING.

"What a world this is!—a cur of a world, which fawns on its master, and bites the beggar. Ha, ha! it fawns on me now, for the beggar has bought the cur."—EDWARD, EARL LYTTON.

A brilliant spring morning greeted Frideswide's eyes when she opened her curtains in the little turret-room at Amboise where the chamberers were lodged. Avice was still asleep, but Frideswide, hearing sounds of life without, and fearing it might be late, roused her, and they dressed quickly, and hastened to the Countess's rooms. They found that lady refreshed by her night's rest, and in the highest spirits. From the sanguine tone of her conversation, it might have been supposed that the conquest of England was only a thing to ask and have. They would soon be back at Warwick or Middleham,—there could not be the least doubt of it: King Henry would be restored amid the acclamations of a delighted and loyal people, that rebel would have his head cut off, and all would be smooth as a looking-glass, and sweet as a bouquet of roses, for ever thenceforward.

It was not Frideswide's place to utter a word. But in her heart she thought that she had no wish to return to Middleham. Were it in her power to return to Lovell Tower, that would have been a different matter.

The process of dressing over, the ladies descended to Queen Marguerite's drawing-room, there to wait till the chapel bell rang for matins. The Queen herself appeared in a few minutes, and gave them a kindly greeting. She was accompanied by a youth of seventeen years, in whom it was easy to recognise the Prince of Wales.

Edward Prince of Wales was "only the child of his mother." Neither in person nor character did he bear any resemblance to the King. He was tall for his age, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and superlatively handsome. His beauty, nevertheless, was of rather too feminine a cast—though there was no shade of weakness in his character, unless too great a tendency to fiery rashness be considered in that light.

It may be said that the Prince did not enter the room unattended. A little allegorical person accompanied him, Cupid by name, who is said to take great delight in the making of mischief and the breaking of hearts. In this instance he certainly came for the latter pursuit. Well would it have been for Warwick's youngest and sweetest daughter if the electric spark had not been shot that day from heart to heart, which was to end in so soon making her a widow indeed, with a heart which could throb no more to any human love.

The King of France was now on his way to the chapel, as a loud ringing of bells and a trumpet-blast informed every body within hearing. Queen Marguerite marshalled her guests, giving her own hand to Clarence, the Prince conducting the Duchess. In pairs they slowly filed down the stairs of the tower, and crossed the court-yard to the chapel, where the English Queen and Prince sat in the royal traverse, the former on the right hand of King Louis, and the latter on the left of Queen Carlotta.

Frideswide felt quite ready to echo Christian's opinion that neither King nor Queen of France was much worth looking at. King Louis had strong and by no means beautiful features, and he stooped in the shoulders to an extent which approached an appearance of deformity. The Queen's features were more regular, but her face had a horse-like length, and every thing about her was on a large and rather coarse scale. From the constant glances of fear cast by the Queen upon her husband, Frideswide readily guessed that her married life was not a happy one. In truth, poor Carlotta's brains had been frightened out of her. She was not naturally at all deficient in intellectual power: but eighteen years spent under the influence of unceasing terror had so completely broken her spirit and crushed her capacities of all kinds, that Carlotta was now a simple nonentity—good to sit, clad in robes and jewels, at a pageant, but in all other respects, outside her children's nursery, good for nothing at all.

After matins, breakfast was served in the Queen's drawing-room. Breakfast was only now beginning to be considered a social meal. Hitherto it had been much what afternoon tea is now—a light repast, to which people came or not as they chose, and chiefly affected by women and invalids. It had, therefore, mainly consisted of bread or cakes. Now fish and meat made their appearance in addition, and also the acceptable novelty of butter—novel, that is to say, in its new form of bread and butter. It had long been used in cooking: but about this time it permanently took the place of dripping as a relish to bread. Wine, ale, and milk, were the beverages used.

Never, perhaps, to the same extent as at this time, did the staff of life appear under so many different forms. The more delicate kinds were termed simnel and pain de main: wassel was the best kind of common bread; cocket was a spongy loaf of cheaper flour; maslin was made of wheat mixed with oats and barley. Griddle-cakes were peculiar to Wales and the counties bordering thereon. Spice-bread was plum-cake in all varieties of richness. There was also brown bread, and Christmas bread, which last was made of fine flour, milk, and eggs. Manchet bread, which was of high class, seems to have borne its distinctive name rather in reference to shape than to material, and probably resembled a Yorkshire tea-cake.[#] There were beside all these, rolls, biscuits and cakes of all sorts, maccaroons, gingerbread, and marchpane—a sweet cake of the maccaroon type.

[#] This is the explanation usually given by antiquaries; but in Lancashire, within living memory, a manchet was a small square loaf of very white bread. Some writers make manchet (afterwards termed chet bread) the name of the simnel loaf; this is perhaps the true explanation.

After breakfast, Queen Marguerite proceeded to business. She held a long sitting of her council—for the King being a prisoner, she was virtually and unavoidably the Lancastrian Sovereign. The Prince was yet too young to assume this position, though circumstances had forced him to the front so early that his intellect was beyond his years. He had inherited nothing of the mental weakness of his father.

The council consisted of the Prince, Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, Jaspar Tudor Earl of Pembroke (brother of King Henry by the mother's side), Walter Lyhart Bishop of Norwich (the Queen's Confessor), Ralph Mackarell, her Chancellor, and several gentlemen of less note who were in the Queen's suite. The only ladies admitted in attendance on the Queen were the Countess of Warwick and the Lady de Vivonne, the latter of whom understood no English. Any thing of serious consequence could therefore be said in that tongue.

English had now almost entirely taken the place so many centuries held by French as the Court language, and there is very little difference between the English of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. During the reign of Elizabeth a polishing process was slowly progressing, which has never ceased,—though how far all changes in this respect are improvements, may reasonably be open to question.

The idea of a new campaign was now mooted. Marguerite was sure of help from King Louis. The Duke of Burgundy was a more doubtful ally, who vacillated between the rivals as inclination or policy led him, and who was at that time recently married to the youngest sister of Edward IV., and yet entertaining and pensioning a number of the Lancastrian fugitive nobles. Just now the Red Rose was in the ascendant at his Court. His personal liking for Edward was doubtful, and his fear and dislike of Warwick were not doubtful. Two of the most prominent Lancastrian nobles, the Dukes of Exeter and Somerset, both of whom were at his Court, did their utmost to incline him in their own direction, and the result was that he openly offered his assistance to Queen Marguerite, while he privately sent underhand information to Edward of all her plans so far as they were known to him. This, at least, is generally believed. It is, nevertheless, very possible, that the Duchess Margaret may be really responsible for much of her lord's apparent treachery. She was a woman to whose soul conspiracy and scheming were as the breath of life.

The preparations for the campaign were quietly maturing as the summer advanced. It was arranged that Warwick was to precede the Queen, landing about September, and she was to follow with more troops, two months later. But in the mean time it was desirable that some means should be found to make the interests of Warwick identical with those of King Henry. No one knew better than Marguerite that Warwick's fidelity was an article that had its price, and that he might be expected to serve any cause just so long as that cause served him. He was perpetually at see-saw, and a very little additional pressure at either end would hoist or depress him in an instant. The fact of his daughter's marriage to Clarence made him more dubious than ever. True, Clarence himself was at the present moment a Lancastrian: but how long would he remain so? He was even less to be trusted of the two: for while solid advantage was required to weigh with Warwick, caprice was enough at any time to sway the actions of Clarence. Something, therefore, must be done to provide a make-weight for Warwick's family connection with Edward: and while the Queen was considering how it could be done, King Louis made a suggestion to her which showed the best way to do it.

Human hearts will break through all state trappings, and will insist on being heard even through the roar of revolution. The young Prince of Wales, barely seventeen, had fallen passionately in love with the Lady Anne Neville, Warwick's youngest daughter, who was a year younger than himself. But people were grown up at that age in the eventful fifteenth century, which acted like a hot-bed upon the intellect and judgment of its children. That the Prince should marry the Lady Anne Neville was politically most devoutly to be wished: it was ardently desired by both the parties most concerned, by Warwick himself, and by every body but the one person into whose hands the matter had to come for decision. But so well were the feelings of Queen Marguerite known to all around her, that no one but the King of France himself dared to suggest to her the marriage of her son with Warwick's daughter. And when suggested, the proposal was at first received by the Queen with a blaze of indignation. The wrath was all for Warwick,—certainly not for the innocent Anne, whom she loved dearly for her own sake.

"What!" cried the Queen passionately, "does he ask to marry his daughter to the son of the woman he traduced? The wounds that he has inflicted on me will bleed till the day of judgment."[#]

[#] These are the Queen's own words.

King Louis had need of all his craft and cajolery (in both which he was an adept when he chose) to bring the insulted woman to what he considered reason. Perhaps, after all, she yielded rather to the pleading eyes of her darling than to any political argument. But she did yield: and usually, when Marguerite resolved to do any thing, she did it graciously.

The marriage of the Prince of Wales and the Lady Anne was celebrated in the chapel of Amboise, in July or August, 1470. It was attended by the usual ludicrous stratagems on the part of King Louis, who loved grand pageants only less than he detested paying bills for them. Accordingly, when hangings were to be put up, he bought new velvet for those parts where they could be seen, and made old serve wherever they could not. On the present occasion, His Majesty had new robes made for himself and the Queen, but the fronts only were of previously unused material,—for, as the King very truly observed, "when we are sitting in the traverse in chapel, who will see the backs of our clothes?" On this economical principle, the gold trimmings on Queen Carlotta's dress were gold in front, but at the back tinsel was employed. A splendid diamond served as a button to fasten the ostrich feather in His Majesty's hat (which was of a round form turned up with fur, like a tall "pork-pie" hat), but the velvet of which the back portion was composed was creased and worn, and the back fur had been cut from an old cloak of the Queen's.

Queen Marguerite practised her economies in another fashion. Economy was far more necessary to her than to Louis, for she literally lived upon alms: but when she found velvet beyond her purse, she dressed herself in honest camlet, or, had it come to that, in uncompromising serge. In truth, Marguerite was too high-souled to measure a man's worth by that of his clothes. In velvet or in serge, she was still the Queen of England. By a little pinching, in this instance, velvet was obtained for the bridegroom's dress: but there was not enough for the Queen also, and she therefore appeared contentedly in sendal, which cost less, nor was she so mean a soul as to feel one pang in doing so. Warwick, who acquired wealth not as he ought, but as he could, had cash enough, and exhibited the fact by showering jewellery on the bride.

The ceremony over, congratulations were offered in abundance, and all the suite knelt to kiss the hand of the Princess. It was the general opinion that a splendid future lay before the young pair,—how could it be otherwise? They were already dowered with rank, beauty, intellect, and devoted love. What did they lack except wealth and success, which the approaching campaign would undoubtedly confer on them? O blind eyes, which saw not the Angel of Death stand with folded wings behind the bridegroom!—which read not the scroll, written within and without, with desolation, and mourning, and woe, to be crushed into those few and evil years which were the portion of the bride! Woe unto them that laughed now, for they should weep!

The remainder of the summer was busily filled with preparations for the approaching campaign. On an early day in September, the Duke of Clarence, and the Earls of Warwick and Oxford, took leave of the ladies, and with banners flying, at the head of a mercenary host, set out for England.

"God guard you, my Lady!" said Warwick, with his last kiss to his wife. "Farewell, my pretty ones!" to his daughters. "Only a short farewell. We meet at Westminster, two months hence, if His will be."

It was not. Never again were they to see his face.

Queen Marguerite did not remain long at Amboise after Warwick's departure. She removed to Paris, to be nearer the scene of action, accompanied by the Prince and Princess, the Countess of Warwick, the Countess of Wiltshire, and the rest of her ladies. A very comical story is told of the husband of this Countess of Wiltshire at the battle of St. Albans, where, says the sly old chronicler, "the said James set the King's banner again an house end, and fought manly with the heels, for he was afeared of losing of beauty, for he was named the fairest knight of this land."[#]

[#] Gregory's Chronicle.

On the thirteenth of September, Warwick and his army landed at Plymouth, some at Dartmouth and Exmouth. The Duke of Burgundy tried in vain to intercept him, his vessels being scattered by a great storm through which Warwick passed safely. Burgundy, however, sent word to Edward of the port and time of Warwick's choice: but Edward was on a hunting expedition, and, true to his character, he left matters to look out for themselves. A man of no foresight, vigilance, nor strength of character, but capable of sudden rushes of violent bravery, it was Edward's habit to trust to the chapter of circumstances, which hitherto had usually turned in his favour. Moreover, he had in this instance a secret source of hopefulness, of which Warwick was not aware. Private overtures had been going on between him and Clarence, by means of a lady in the household of the Duchess, whom Edward had sent over primed with instructions. Ostensibly she came, of her own accord, to join her mistress, and her rôle of envoy was never suspected, for "she was no fool, nor loquacious."[#] Beyond this, Edward placed trust in Warwick's brothers, of whose fidelity he felt no doubt. The past was apparently forgotten.

[#] Comines.—Who this ambassadress was is not known.

Warwick had not landed a week when he found the whole country pouring in to aid him. He set his face towards Bristol, where he had left his heavy baggage when he fled to France. Here he was well received; and after three days spent in collecting forces, he marched upon Nottingham at the head of sixty thousand men.

King Edward was now at Lynn, in a fortified house, to which there was no access except by one bridge. He had "begun to look about him" when he heard of Warwick's approach, but he does not appear to have done much beyond it.[#] As he sat at dinner, news was brought to him that his trusted partisan, the Marquis Montague, had mounted his horse, and was crying, along with others, "God save King Henry!" Edward treated the first rumour as mere nonsense: but when it was repeated, and Lord Rivers shook his head with the remark that "things did not look well," Edward despatched Lord Hastings to see if it were true. He returned with the news that it was less than the truth. Nearly the whole army had deserted to Warwick, as represented by his brother Montague. If Edward meant to save himself at all, he must escape now.

[#] Several chroniclers state that Edward fled from Nottingham to Lynn when he heard of Warwick's coming: but no hint of this movement is given by Comines, who tells us that he received his version of the narrative from Edward's own lips.

At anchor off Lynn lay one English and two Dutch ships, ready to sail, having come laden with provisions for Edward's army. He hastily summoned such of his nobles as were faithful to him, and about seven hundred of the army, and fled on board one of the Dutch ships. Lord Hastings stayed behind to give a piece of deceitful advice to his men—namely, that they should join Warwick, but retain their allegiance to King Edward and himself—and then followed his master. So hurried was the flight that Edward had no money, and no clothes but those he wore, and a cloak "lined with beautiful martens," which he had probably caught up in departing. The three ships sailed away from Lynn with all the speed they could make, and the day, which had opened on the tenth year of Edward IV., closed on the forty-ninth of Henry VI.

Once more—and though he knew it not, for the last time—Warwick "had all England at his bidding." He was king in all but name, for King Henry still lay a prisoner in the Tower, and Queen Marguerite was in France. Warwick sent off Sir John Clare with hasty triumphant despatches to the Queen, and himself marched on London.

Of course the news of his coming reached the capital before him, and the citizens turned out to greet their favourite. Warwick's popularity with them is said to have been due to three causes: first, he flattered them; secondly, he allowed them to engage in any acts of piracy they pleased with impunity; and lastly, he took care to be always heavily in debt to various citizens.[#] It became therefore the interest of London that Warwick should triumph.

[#] Comines.

Warwick's first act was to march on the Tower, and summon it to surrender. The terrified Constable delivered his keys to the Lord Mayor, who opened the gates for Warwick. Jaspar Earl of Pembroke and John Earl of Oxford entered with him. They went straight to the chamber in which the King was confined, and found that simple-minded man calmly reading his Psalter, and not more disturbed by the tumult than to look up and say,—"Pray you, Master Gaoler, what noise is this without?"

But Henry's tone changed the next instant, and the prisoner became the king.

"Ha! my Lord of Warwick here!—and Jaspar—my dear brother!" and he gave him his hand affectionately. "My Lord of Oxford—God give you good morrow all! What means this?"

Warwick knelt at the feet of the King.

"It means, my Lord, that God hath saved King Henry."

And from all around rose the chorus. The King gazed from one to another as though he scarcely believed the evidence of his senses.

"Where are my wife and son?" was his next query.

"At Paris, my Lord, and soon to come hither, if God be serven."

"And the Earl of March?"

This was Edward's proper title in the eyes of a Lancastrian.

"Fled, my Lord,—fled the realm: and his wife is in sanctuary with her childre."

It would not have been Henry VI. if he had not answered, "Poor souls!"

"All is o'er of the rebellion," broke in Oxford, always fiery and rash: "all is o'er, your Highness; and we pray you give us leave to conduct you to your own lodging."

"Nay," said the King, kneeling down at the table; "tarry till I have thanked God."

Then, the rest kneeling around bareheaded, he poured forth a fervent thanksgiving. Very simple as this man was in worldly wisdom, he was eloquent when he spoke to God. Then they took from him the prison garb, and attired him in royal robes, and led him to "the King's lodgings" in the White Tower.

Here a singular ceremony took place. Warwick and his colleagues were not content with merely restoring King Henry, but deemed it a better safeguard to give him the additional advantage of popular election. Accordingly they held a formal plébiscite—of whom composed we are not told,—whether simply of the little group of Lancastrian nobles, or of their army of four thousand men, or generally of the citizens of London. This process completed, the King was set on horseback, and conducted to the Bishop of London's palace.

But Warwick soon discovered that he had an account to settle with his intensely discontented son-in-law. The deposition of Edward, in the eyes of Clarence, was not at all equivalent to the restoration of Henry. He had been ready enough to displace his brother, but his intention—which Warwick had frustrated—had been to set himself, not Henry, on the vacant throne. Clarence was in a very sulky temper, and required a tiresome amount of smoothing. This desirable end was at last accomplished; and having been joined by his excellent brother, the Archbishop of York, who was always constant to one side—the winning one—Warwick proceeded to get up a splendid procession to St. Paul's Cathedral, which King Henry entered in state on the thirteenth of October. He wore his crown, and Warwick carried his train, while Oxford bore the sword before him. After the procession, Edward of March was solemnly proclaimed a usurper through London.

Meanwhile, Edward, deserted and destitute, chased by Esterlings across the sea, ran his vessel into Alkmaar, and landed, accompanied by his brother Richard and his few faithful adherents. He had no money to pay the captain, and he gave him all that he had, his fur-lined cloak. The Lord of Gruthuse, Governor of Holland for the Duke of Burgundy, received the fugitives kindly, provided them with clothing, and conducted them to the Hague, whence Edward sent a messenger to the Duke to notify his arrival. This news was by no means a source of pleasure to that royal trimmer, Duke Charles, whose endeavours to keep in with both parties are as amusing to readers of history as they were troublesome to himself. He did, however, grant to his brother-in-law a pension of five hundred crowns per month; but he gave him little encouragement to come on to his court, whither Edward nevertheless proceeded at once, as soon as he had money to do so. When Edward presented himself at St. Pol, where the Court was then residing, the poor Duke was in a ludicrous state of indecision. On his one hand was his wife Margaret, to whom he was really attached, as he showed by marrying her as soon as he became his own master—his father having set his face against the marriage for political reasons: on the other side, the Lancastrian Dukes of Exeter and Somerset, who had resided for some years at his Court, and were his chosen friends. On both sides, as it seemed, was his own interest. At last he contrived to find a way out of the difficulty, which, as usual in such circumstances, was a crooked one. He publicly proclaimed his intention of giving no assistance to Edward, and forbade any of his subjects to enlist with him: while privately he presented him with fifty thousand florins, and quietly made ready at Ter Veere four or five large ships of his own navy, and fourteen more hired from the Esterlings, or merchants of the Hanse Towns.

These preparations of course took time; and during that time Queen Marguerite would have been energetically working in England, had she found it possible. But winds and waves were against her. She came down to the French coast in November, as had been agreed with Warwick: but she could go no further. In an agony of impatience and longing, she was compelled to waste at Harfleur time more precious than jewels. Her husband wanted her, in every sense of the word. The Lancastrian party, deprived of her, was a body without a soul. Even Warwick, clever man as he was, and little love as was lost between him and her, condescended to express a wish for the Queen's presence.

On the fourth of November, 1470, while things were in this condition, a little life began in the sanctuary at Westminster, which was to end, fifteen years later, as sorrowfully as it had opened, in the Tower of London. The long wished for son of Edward IV. came at last. But the news does not seem to have lightened the discouraged hearts of the Yorkists. Before the month was over, Sir Richard Widville, Queen Elizabeth's own brother, had made his submission to King Henry.

The King was residing, quietly enough, at Westminster Palace, which he never quitted during his short tenure of power. Large grants were made to the three Warwick brothers; and Henry, who could not conceive the idea of any body playing him false, seems to have placed himself entirely in their hands. His sagacious wife would have taken a truer view of the situation. But she was a virtual prisoner on the French coast, bound there by the winds and waves of God.

Warwick was created afresh Lord High Admiral of England, Ireland, and Aquitaine, with enormous powers: Clarence was made Viceroy of Ireland, and letters patent granted enabling him to do any thing he chose. The whole tone of the grants shows them to have really proceeded from the persons to whom they were ostensibly made, and in whose hands the King was an innocent toy, skilfully moved at pleasure. O for the wise head and the true heart of his one real friend!—of her who loved him first, and the crown and sceptre second. There were other friends, true in a sense: but to them the crown was the point of importance, and Henry was interesting merely as the man who ought to be wearing it.

One of these last was with him—his brother Jaspar,—and early in February, another fought his way to his side. The winds and waves, soon to have so dire a message for him, yielded now to the eager importunity of Exeter. The sight of Edward at the Court of Burgundy was more than his Lancastrian heart could bear. The bitter cruelty which he had received at the hands of Edward's sister, his own wife, came back upon him too vividly to be endured. Half driven by the one reason, half drawn by the other, he hastily left St. Pol, and journeyed across France to the port where Queen Marguerite waited for a fair wind from the east. And then it was that Frideswide Marston first saw the face which she should never forget again.

Henry Duke of Exeter was a Holand, but not one of the handsome Holands of Kent, who were characterised by their lofty height, their stately carriage, and their magnificent beauty. His grandfather, John de Holand, the first Duke of Exeter, had stepped out of the family ranks in respect of personal appearance, being a short, dark-haired man, with pendulous cheeks and no good looks of any kind. Duke Henry had improved upon this pattern, having inherited some of the attractiveness of his beautiful grandmother, the Princess Elizabeth of Lancaster. Two Holand qualities were his, derived from his grandfather—the fiery fervour and the silver tongue. From both sides of his ancestry came his impulsive bravery; from the Plantagenet side his chivalrous generosity, his delicate courtesy: from all, the unswerving loyalty and faithfulness which formed the most prominent feature of his character. Yet they were joined by that shrinking from pain, and that despondent hopelessness, which an eminent psychologist tells us are manly, not womanly characteristics, inconsistently mingled with weakness of a type much more feminine than masculine. A strangely complex and inconsistent character was this: a brave man who never feared disgrace nor death; a true man, who would have died with his hand upon his banner and his face to the foe; a man with distinct convictions, and courage to avow them—yet a weak man. A voice that he loved would lead him in the teeth of his own convictions, though a voice that he did not love could not make him swerve for an instant. In this respect he was unlike all his family,—most of all unlike his bluff and cruel father, the last act of whose life had been the invention of the rack, long popularly known in England as "The Duke of Exeter's daughter."

In a popular ballad of the day, wherein the state is described under the figure of a ship, Exeter is selected as the lantern at the mast-head. The idea was doubtless originally taken from his badge—the fiery cresset set aloft upon the pole—yet it was equally true to the fervent, devoted, transparent character of the man.

"The ship hath closèd hym a lyght

To kepe her course in way of ryght,

A fyrè cressant that bernethe bryght,

With fawte was never spyed.

That good lyght that is so clere

Call Y the Duke of Exceter,

Whos name in trouthè shyned clere,

His worship spryngethe wyde."

The memory of the wife at whose hands he had endured what few husbands would have borne, much less have pardoned, was to Exeter one of unmixed pain and bitterness. It could scarcely be said that he had loved her. He had liked her, and he would have loved her with very little encouragement. But so far from encouraging the affection, she had smothered it in its cradle. She gave him no chance to love her. Repulsed and mortified, his heart—to which love of something was an absolute necessity—had turned to their one child, the fair-haired little daughter who resembled her mother in face, but her father in character. For her sake he had borne all this suffering inflicted by her mother; for her sake he had continued to live in the same house with his wife, long after her company had become intolerable. Nay, not to be parted from Anne, he had done, and would have done, almost any thing required from him. They were parted now. The Duchess knew her daughter's power over her husband, and she therefore insisted on keeping the daughter by her side. She might become a useful tool some day, if she received proper training, which her mother meant to give her.

All that Exeter knew was that the only creature whom he loved, and who loved him, was in the hands of enemies who would try hard to make her hate him. She was his one comfort in all the world, and she was kept away from him. This was the bitterest drop in his bitter cup—and his wife meant it to be so. Few men had suffered in the Wars of the Roses as he had. To-day in prison, and to-morrow in sanctuary; forsaken by his own soldiers, reduced to beg his bread barefooted until the Duke of Burgundy took compassion upon him, robbed of every penny of his inheritance by the woman who had sworn in God's presence to love and cherish him—all these painful memories were less to Exeter than the cruel separation from his only child. Deep down in his heart, scarcely confessed even to himself, was the hope that would break out of that passionate longing for her. If he could cross the Channel, if he could get to London, perhaps, some day, at a window or through the curtains of a litter, he might catch a glimpse of Anne. Even a wilder hope than this he cherished; for it might be possible to bribe one of his own servants to obtain for him a secret and stolen interview with his own child. But would he ever find his child again? He might see the Lady Anne de Holand: but would she be the little Nan that he had left years ago—the little Nan that used to climb upon his knee and kiss him and tell him that she "loved him so"? Better to keep that sweet remembrance undimmed, though it called up such hopeless yearning, than to meet a cold, haughty maiden who would courtesy to him and call him "my gracious Lord," and take the first opportunity of getting away from him. That would be to lose his darling indeed, in a far worse sense than he had lost her now.

It was not for Frideswide Marston to read all this. But she saw the weary, wistful look in the dark eyes, and she wondered whence it came.

How Exeter contrived to do what the Queen could not do, and make his way to England, has not been explained. We only know that he did it, and that on the fourteenth of February, 1471, he rode into London—where King Henry VI. reigned in the Palace of Westminster, where Queen Elizabeth Widville pined in the Sanctuary, and where the Duchess Anne of Exeter held royal state at Coldharbour—safe from both rival Roses, for what Lancastrian would harm the wife of his King's most faithful councillor, and what Yorkist would dare to touch the favourite sister of his sovereign?

In anticipation of the Duke's journey, Queen Marguerite had kindly suggested that any of the suite who wished to do so might send letters by him. Frideswide, who was longing for communication with home, undertook the tremendous task of writing both to her father and sister. The Duke turned over the letters which were put into his hands, and paused suddenly when he came to the one addressed to his own home.

"Who writ this?" he asked of John Combe, who had brought the letters to him.

Combe glanced at the address—"To the hands of Mistress Agnes Marston, at Coldharbour, in the City of London, le these delivered."

"I reckon, my gracious Lord, it shall be Mistress Frideswide Marston, that is of my Lady of Warwick's following."

"Pray you, desire Mistress Frideswide to come hither, for I would fain have speech of her."

She came, and stood courtesying within the doorway.

"Come nigh, I pray you, Mistress," said the Duke, "and tell me, is this fair dame of your kin?"

He held up her letter to Agnes, as he spoke.

"An' it like you, aye, my gracious Lord: it is my sister, that is chamberer unto your Lady."

The Duke looked thoughtfully at the letter.

"Think not my words strange," said he, "but answer me, if this your good sister be of gent and pitying kind?"

"That is she, right surely."

"One that should do a kind deed for a man in need, an' it fell in her way?"

"I am assured of that, my gracious Lord."

"Then pray you, Mistress Frideswide, do me so much grace as to write outside your letter, that you do beseech her, for the love of you, to grant that the bearer thereof shall ask of her."

Frideswide looked, as she felt, astonished.

"Mistress Frideswide," said the Duke sadly, "you are here, as I, cut off from home and friends. But you have hope to return thither when God will, and I have none. My maid, I have one only child, that is the very jewel of my heart, and they keep her from me. (He did not say who "they" were.) If you will do so much for me, I will myself deliver your letter, an' it may be compassed, and pray your good sister to let me have a word with my darling."

Frideswide Marston looked up into the sad earnest eyes, and then, without another word, stooped down and added the request to her letter. There was more wet on the cover than ink, when she had done.

CHAPTER V.

HIS LITTLE NAN.

"Some feelings are to mortals given

With less of earth in them than Heaven;

And if there be a human tear

From passion's dross refined and clear,

A tear so limpid and so meek

It would not stain an angel's cheek,

'Tis that which pious fathers shed

Upon a duteous daughter's head."

—SIR WALTER SCOTT.

"Be sure, Jane, to tell Valentine that I will have my gown of motley velvet ready for my wearing on the morrow; and bid him set silver buttons thereto—and good plenty."

"Please it your Grace, Master Valentine did desire of me that I should say unto you that he could not make ready the gown of motley as to-morrow, nor afore Thursday come."

"Could not?" The Duchess of Exeter's chiselled eyebrows were slightly raised. "Could not? But he must."

"Please it your Grace, thus said he."

"Tell him it skills not[#] what he can. I say he shall."

[#] Matters not.

"Then belike there shall be more tailors had?"

"I care not how it be done, so it cost no money."

"But, an't like your Grace, the tailors will not work without money: and unless more be had, Master Valentine can never, his own self—without he sit up all night, nor scarce then—make an end of your Grace's gown by to-morrow."

"Let him sit up, then. Good lack! what ado is here over a sely[#] tailor!"

[#] Simple, mean.

"Your Grace mindeth, maybe, that you were set to have the murrey[#] gown by next Sunday?—and both two cannot be done."

[#] Plum-coloured.

"Cannot! always at cannot! Hold thine idle tongue. Of course it can be done if I will have it so."

"Doubtless, Madam, if it please your Grace to pay more tailors."

"I will pay nobody. Ye will clean ruin me amongst you. "'Twas but yesterday I paid four thousand marks to a Lombard for jewelling. Ye would leave me never a cross[#] in my purse."

[#] Penny, divided by a cross that it might be easily broken into fourthings=farthings.

"Then, an' it please your Grace, what is to be done?" demanded the practical Jane, who was one of the four chamberers of the Duchess.

"Gramercy, maid, burden not me withal!" testily exclaimed her royal mistress. "Go and ask at Dame Elizabeth Darcy, an' thou wist not what to do. I tell thee, the motley must be made ready for to-morrow, and the murrey by Sunday next: and how it shall be is no business of mine, so it cost not money. It shall be. See to it."

Poor Jane, who felt herself ordered to do the impossible, made one more faint struggle with destiny.

"It should not like your Grace to bear that gown to-morrow?"

"This?" returned the Duchess contemptuously, glancing down at her dress, which was of dark blue satin, heavily trimmed with minever. "'Tis not fit to be seen. Hast lost thy wit? I tell thee, I must have a decent gown to put on. That idle Valentine hath left me never a one in my wardrobe. He is the laziest tyke that ever set needle."

"Please it your Grace, there is the broched[#] cloth of silver"——

[#] Figured.

"'Tis all frayed at the bottom. I warrant he hath not hemmed it anew."

"And the tawny velvet"——

"The which yon rascal Fulk spilt a glass of malmsey o'er. Tell Dame Elizabeth it must be docked of his wages."

"And the changeable[#] green velvet"——

[#] We retain changeable silk, under the name of shot silk; but changeable velvet is lost.

"With a rent across the front breadth as wide as mine arm, and none of you idle hussies hath thought to mend it."

"And the russet figury velvet"——

"All the pile worn off—as shabby as can be."

"And the crimson and blue damask, and the purple tartaryn,[#] and the mustredevilers,[#] and"——

[#] A kind of satinette, or satin Turk.

[#] A cloth, of which the name was derived either from moitié de velours, or from being manufactured at Villars.

"Go thy ways for an impudent ne'er-do-well! I tell thee I will have those two gowns—I will have them! Let me hear no more of thy foolery."

And away marched the Duchess, and left poor Jane standing in the middle of the room.

"It shall cost Master Valentine his place an' he do it not," muttered she to herself. "And he cannot do it—'tis not possible in the time."

"Then, were I Master Valentine, catch me essaying to compass it!" said a voice beside her.

"Dear heart, Marion! wouldst lose thy place?"

"I would lose this place, and be rare thankful to do it," responded the girl addressed as Marion, who was another of the chamberers. "I oft-times wish we were as the meynie,[#] and could be hence if we would."

[#] Household servants.

The expression of Jane's face indicated that she thought such a sentiment treasonable.

"What with her Grace, and what with Tamzine, it is not a dog's life we lead!" continued Marion. "If the thing lay in mine hands, you should see, but I would wed the first man that asked me, just to be out of it."

"So might you be worser off than now," suggested Jane.

"Could not!" said Marion expressively.

Jane shook her head as if she thought that very questionable.

"Men be queer matter," said she. "Now you can make out a woman."

"Good lack! think you making out is all?" replied Marion. "She is easy enough to make out, is Her Grace. So is Tamzine. But I love their company never a whit the more for that. Gramercy, there goeth my Lady's handbell! I must away."

In an upper room in the same house two other girls were sitting. One, who sat at work in the window-seat, was so like Frideswide that we can easily guess her to be Agnes Marston. She was a little quieter than her sister in manner, and a shade less good-looking.

The other girl sat in a large, handsome, curule chair, with an illuminated manuscript open on the table before her. Her face was a remarkable one. Her figure was extremely slender, thin almost to emaciation: but more striking than this was the wan white face, where two hectic spots burned in the hollow cheeks, and the large dark blue eyes seemed of unnatural size and brilliance. A long-drawn sigh made Agnes look up.

"Your Ladyship is weary, methinks," she said.

"I may well be thus," was the answer, as the head was leaned on the thin hand. "I was doing that which would weary an angel, for I was trying to understand God."

"How, dear my Lady?"

The white-faced girl lifted her head, and let her eyes meet those of Agnes.

"It were to no good to speak in riddles," she said. "Agnes, you have dwelt in this house a full year, and you know the sorrows thereof as well as I. Specially, you know my sorrows—you know that I live a life wherein there is nothing to make the present happy, and the future is all full of a great dread. There is only one in all the world that loves me, and I cannot go to him: and one that I love not, and that loves not me, is about to be forced upon me whether I will or no. Why should I try to hide these things from you? You know them all. In all the whole world that is, and in the life that is to be, there is not one ray of sunlight for me. Do you marvel, Agnes, if life looks black to mine eyes? Are you one of those surface seers, that reckon a woman should be comforted for a breaking heart by a necklace of pearl, and that she is a fool to weep for a lost friend if she have a new gown of crimson velvet?"

"No, indeed, Lady mine."

"Aye me!" sighed the Lady Anne. "If I had but been a carpenter's child, or of a gardener——that I could have welcomed him back at eve from his daily work, and kept his hearth bright, and might have loved and been loved! I could have done without the pearls and the velvet, Agnes. But I have them: and they be poor exchange for the other."

"Things will change one of these days, sweet my Lady. ''Tis a long lane has no turning.'"

"It has been a long one, and there be eight years now since it turned last. Eight years, Agnes—more than half my life! And folks think it strange that I care. They looked for me, it should seem, to set mine heart on gewgaws, and to think more of the bidding to a dance than of the loss of a father. If I could see an end to it, I might take less thought. But I can behold no turn coming save one, and that is for the worser."

Agnes knew that this allusion was to her approaching marriage. Certainly that was no source of congratulation. In the eyes of the waiting-woman no less than the mistress, the handsome young Baron of Groby, Thomas Grey, the eldest son of Queen Elizabeth, who had been chosen as the future husband of the Lady Anne de Holand, was not a man to be regarded with any other sentiment than repugnance. Agnes had seen him kick his dog out of the way, and never look whether he had hurt it, when the poor little spaniel, unaware of its master's mood, had presumed to request his attention when he was not disposed to give it.

"There is only one comfort thereanent. I shall, may-be, never live to be wedded."

"Dear my Lady, pray you"——

"Does it look likely, Agnes?" said Lady Anne with a quiet smile,—scarcely a sad one this time.

The tears came to Agnes's eyes. She could not say that it did.

"No," resumed Lady Anne, after a short pause, and in a low voice, "I never loved any thing yet that did not either die or go away from me."

"Except Jesus Christ," said Agnes softly. She knew that she was safe in saying it—that however the black clouds might hide the Sun of Righteousness, He had risen, with healing in His wings, upon the young lonely heart beside her.

"Except Jesus Christ," echoed the girl reverently. "And yet—O Agnes, does He not know how hard it is to see nothing? to have nothing at all that one can feel and touch, and clasp close to the heart? He had friends in this life—even He, the Man of Sorrows, was not quite without them."

"Yet they all forsook Him, and fled."

"Aye. That was worse. But they came back again."

There were tears behind the voice.

"Dear my Lady, what causeth you be thus sorrowful this even?"

She broke down when that was asked. Pushing away the book, she bent her head down on her clasped hands on the table, and sobbed as though her heart would break.

"Oh, it is all so dark!" she sobbed. "If we might have gone to Heaven together, and have had each other there! Why are we kept parted? Agnes, I hate these signs of mine high estate, which seem as if they came betwixt me and him—betwixt me and peace. If I had not been King Edward's niece—Oh, if this awful war had never begun!"

Agnes had dropped her work, and sat looking out of the window. She did not know what to say. Well enough she knew that religious platitudes would do no good here. The Lady Anne was nearer God than she was, but just now she was in the dark. She had dropped the conscious holding of the Father's hand, and she felt like a lost child left out in the cold. Agnes did not realise that much of her depression was physical; but she did feel the necessity for offering some cheerful diversion to her thoughts.

"Dear my Lady, pray you, think on pleasanter gear."

"Wilt find it for me, Agnes?"

That was not an easy task. Agnes hesitated. But in a few moments more the sorrowing girl had found it for herself.

"I suppose," she said more quietly, "I must lift up mine eyes unto the hills, above all the turns in the long road. We shall be together one day, and with God. I shall not be long first. And set down at Christ's feet in the light of the Golden City, I count it shall not seem long to wait for him."

The child was coming back into the light. Physically, the burst of tears had relieved her.

"And yet, after all," she said, "I shall miss him, till he comes. One cannot love one instead of another, even if God be that One. And to love once is to love for ever."

"You can tell the Lord so, dear my Lady."

Lady Anne looked up with an expression of child-like trust and simplicity in her eyes.

"Agnes, I am always telling Him."

"And is He not, then, always hearing you?"

Light came into the sad blue eyes.

"Aye, He must be always hearing. I thank thee."

The door opened, and Marion came in.

"Agnes, here is—O my Lady, I cry you mercy. I wist not you were hither."

"Make an end, Marion," said Lady Anne, with a smile.

"Under your Ladyship's pleasure.—Agnes, here is one that would have speech of you. He hath brought a letter, if I err not, and for some cause is desirous to deliver the same into your own hand."

"Go and see to it, Agnes," said Lady Anne kindly: and Agnes left the room, and descended a long flight of stairs to the base court, where the stranger awaited her.

The stranger! Ah, what a stranger he felt, standing there in the meanest part of his own house, among strange menials to whom his face was unknown, for whom his voice had no authority. Did he think of Another who was Lord and Master of all, and who came unto His own, and His own received Him not?

"You would speak with Agnes Marston, my master?" said a gentle voice close to him. "I am she."

The Duke turned quickly. He wore a long cloak, and a hat which could be pulled down so as to hide his face. For any eyes to recognise him would probably be fatal to his errand. Yet the sensation of utter isolation was oppressive, notwithstanding that.

"Gentle Mistress," said he, in a tone and manner which instantly revealed to Agnes that her visitor was of her own rank or above it, "I bring you a letter from Mistress Frideswide Marston, in France, and I pray you of your courtesy to give heed to that which is writ on the outside thereof."

Agnes held the letter up to the lamp, and read—

"Good Sister, I do beseech you to do that which this bearer shall request of you; and herein fail you not, for the love of me."

"My sister desires me that I will do what you shall ask," she said. "What ask you?"

"May I ask it with fewer ears by?" returned the Duke in a low tone.

Agnes nodded. That was a request only too intelligible in the fifteenth century. She took him aside to a small chamber where no other person was at that moment.

"Now, Master, your will with me?"

"I am the Duke of Exeter," he said simply. "And I pray you, Mistress Agnes, as you ever loved any human soul, that you will win for me privy speech of the only one that loveth me—the Lady Anne, my daughter."

Agnes looked up, and saw the yearning, passionate hunger in the poor father's eyes. She saw nothing more for a minute.

"Sir," she said then, "if I do it not, be assured that it shall be only because I can no way compass it."

"God go with you!" was the reply.

Agnes hastened back to the room where she had left Lady Anne alone with Marion, and heard to her dismay the sharp tones of the Duchess as she came near the door.

"Heard any ever the like!" cried Her Royal Highness. "'An' it please me!' I do you plainly to wit, my dainty mistress, that it doth not please me. I will have thee come down and speak with Master Grey. And I will have thee don a better gown for it, belike.—Agnes Marston, go this minute and lay out the Lady Anne's gown of purple velvet.—And go thou and don it. Dost hear?"

Lady Anne said no more, but her whole face betrayed intense dislike to the task imposed upon her, when she caught the eye of Agnes. The language of the eye was well understood at that time, when the language of the lips was often dangerous. Lady Anne saw in an instant that Agnes knew of some reason why she had better leave the room, and she followed her without another word.

Meanwhile the Duke of Exeter stood below, waiting to know the result of his appeal. Could Agnes convey it at all? and if she did, would Anne come? Last and saddest question of all, if she came, would it be the child he knew, altered of course in person, but unchanged in heart? At last he could keep still no longer. Plantagenet blood was in his veins, and it was a habit of all the race, when suffering from mental excitement, to pace up and down like caged tigers. He had sufficient excuse in the cold of a February evening, and he yielded to the impulse, pausing at every sound to listen—till the door was flung open suddenly, and a tall, slight maiden, robed in violet velvet and decked with jewels, dashed into the room, and flung herself into his arms with a burst of passionate tears. Enough! Enough for the father's heart! His little Nan had come back to him.

When the first wave had broken, he lifted the young head with one hand, and looked long and tenderly on the beloved face. And at the first glance his heart sank down, lower than it had ever been.

Come, but not to stay. Bound on a longer journey than from England to France—than from earth to stars. He held his darling close clasped in his arms, but it was probably for the last time. Verily for her the Bridegroom waited, but the bridal was not of earth.

"Nan!" broke from the father's lips, in tones more eloquent than a volume would have been. "Little Nan!"

"I would I were your little Nan again," she said. "We were happy then, my Lord—at least I was."

"I never was," was the sad answer. "I only came near enough to see that I could have been. If it had been God's will!"

"It will be, my Lord," replied Anne, brightly. "'Satiabor cum apparuerit gloria tua.[#]'"

[#] Psalm xvii. 15.

"Dost know, little Nan, that thou didst learn that Psalm at mine instance? But when will it be, my darling?—when? It is such a long dark night without thee."

Yet as he said the words, the thought smote him to the heart,—Not long, not long for one of them!

"When God's will is," she responded simply. "We must wait, my Lord. Oh, this awful war! had it never begun!"

She did not realise that they were parted by any but political reasons—mournful necessities, which might come to an end some time. It was better she should not.

"Little Nan," said the Duke, "I love not 'my Lord' from thy lips. Call me Father."

The request was an unusual one. But she looked up and responded as he wished, with tears glistening in the violet eyes.

"You will come and see me again, Father?"

"I will come and see thee again," he echoed—well knowing, as he spoke, that the interview was not likely to be held on the earthly side of the cold river. But surely he would meet her again; and it would be he that should come to her. There would be room in the halls above, and no need to employ a third person, nor to use secrecy and stratagem in order to meet. Up from the core of his soul went the passionate cry, "Let us go together! Make no tarrying, O my God!" He knew now at least, if he had never known it before, that there was to be no paradise for him outside the Paradise of God.

"My Lady!" said the rather nervous voice of Agnes at the door. "I cry you verily mercy, but—Her Grace is calling for you."

None of them dared to disregard that summons.

One more last embrace! One more last look! From the Duke's eyes

"No tears fell, but a gaze fixed, long,

That memory might print the face

On the heart's ever-vacant space

With a sun-finger, sharp and strong."

His very soul seemed to dissolve itself upon her head as he gave her the last blessing. She tore herself away, and stumbling with tear-blinded eyes over her velvet train, went up to receive a sharp scolding for loitering from the Duchess, and some very cold ceremonial speeches from her affianced.

All was over. There was nothing left for that desolate man. Nothing to which he could look forward! There had been just that one hope, and it was gone. Nothing was left now to hope or fear.

He had come on foot and unattended, in order to avoid recognition. Mechanically he turned to the river stairs, called a boat, and was rowed up to Westminster. As he wearily mounted the Palace stairs, the Earl of Pembroke met him.

"Ah, my very good Lord of Exeter! Whither away?"

"I know not, and care less."

"Gramercy! what aileth you this starlight even?"

"Is it starlight?" and the Duke lifted his eyes to the glowing heavens, clear in the frosty atmosphere. "I had not observed it."

"Good lack! you must be in the blues to-night. More shame for you! Here is nought but making ready for the Queen, whom my Lord of Warwick rideth for to meet as to-morrow. 'Tis thought the wind may give her leave to come across to-night."

"I do desire it, right heartily."

"Heigh-ho! do you desire anything right heartily, with that face?" said Earl Jaspar, laughing. "Come, my good Lord, what aileth you?"

"My Lord, I cry you mercy, for I wis well I am not merry company. I have this night spoken, as I think, a long farewell to mine only child. Let me pass, I pray you, till I can be more like my fellows, and come into your company without spoiling your mirth—if I ever can."

Jaspar stood looking at his friend with eyes of utter want of comprehension. Exeter "spoke to him who never had a child," and who, moreover, had but little sympathy with human sorrow. It was inconceivable to Jaspar why a man should bring his private sorrows into his political rejoicings, while to Exeter the difficulty would have been to allow the political joy to temper the private sorrow. Nor was Warwick a whit more sympathising. To weep for a woman, or anything that concerned one, was his emblem for masculine weakness of the extremest type. Exeter passed on, and sought refuge in his own chamber, where he lay down, but did not sleep, that night.

But when, the next morning, he presented himself as usual in the presence-chamber, he found that the Palace of Westminster held one Christ-like heart—a heart more at home in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting,—

"A heart at leisure from itself,

To soothe and sympathise."

Through the score of eager, triumphant faces in the presence-chamber, the face upon which grief was written was instantly visible to those eyes which were worth so little for earthly foresight, and were so rich toward God.

"My Lord of Exeter! The King calls for you."

The King himself was that day at his happiest—with the last earthly happiness which he was ever to know. He was at home again—and his was a nature which clung to accustomed things; and he was expecting the daily arrival of his wife and son, when—as he and every body believed—all would again flow smoothly, and they would live happily ever after. But Henry was one of those rare souls who cannot be happy till they have made others so.

"I pray you, come this way, my good Lord," said the King. "There is trouble in your eyes. Is it aught I may remedy?"

"I thank your Highness heartily; but I fear not. There be evils that none save the King of kings may deal withal."

Exeter had not meant to say another word. But in five minutes—he scarcely knew how—he found himself telling the whole story of his sorrow to the tender soul which shone in those royal eyes.

"I need not tell you, my good Lord," said the gentle comforter, "that he were an ill soldier that should lie down to sleep ere the battle were won. It will not be long ere the battle is over. It seems to me at times"—and the dark eyes grew dreamy, as they were very wont to do—"as if it were only such a little while! And then God shall give us back to each other. We have only to wait for Him."

"My Lord, I cry your Highness mercy, but it looks to me this night a very, very long while."

The King smiled on his godson. The spiritual relationship between them made it only natural that the one should offer instruction and comfort to the other. He said, "Unus dies apud Dominum sicut mille anni, et mille anni sicut dies unus."[#]

[#] 2 Peter iii. 8.

"Ah, Sire!" said Exeter sadly, "the one day for Him, but for us the thousand years."

The response came quickly. "'Ego vobiscum sum omnibus dielus.'"[#]

[#] Matt. xxviii. 20.

"We cannot see our Lord, Sire."

"He can see us."

"True: yet, my gracious Lord"——

"My son," said the King tenderly, "He hath written down a word of set purpose for thee. 'Quomodo miseretur pater jiliorum, misertus est Dominus timentibus se.' Muse thou thereon, and God lead thee into His peace."[#]

[#] Psalm ciii. 13.

He had said enough, for the Word of God in his lips had reached the heart of the mourner. It was nothing new—it had been sung in Exeter's hearing a hundred times—but it came this time with power. Did God feel for him just as he felt for that one darling child over whom he was yearning and lamenting? It said just that. What right had he to water it down, and make it mean something vague and metaphysical? At last he had found the man who understood him. The King was a father himself, and a very loving one. And had he not at last found the God who understood him?—who was indeed his Father, who loved him as he loved his little Nan?

Yes, it would be only a little while. Ah, how little for him who spoke! Three short months, into which was to be poured an ocean of living agony, and then he should see God, and be at peace for ever. And to him who heard, only a little longer. He had but to wait for God.

CHAPTER VI.

THE MIST ON EASTER DAY.

"Such a day,

An old man sees but once in all his time."

—EDWIN ARNOLD.

In vain the "King-Maker" waited at Dover for the Queen. The west wind which had fallen a little in London, and thus excited their hopes, set in with more violence than before, and Marguerite, notwithstanding her agony of impatience, was bound hopelessly at Harfleur.

But though winds and waves fought against the coming of her who was so sorely needed, they seemed powerless to deter him against whose return all Lancastrians were praying. Backed by the secret machinations of the Duke of Burgundy, Edward embarked at Ter Veere on the second of March: and after twelve days' tossing, landed at Ravenspur on the fourteenth of that month. Did it strike him as a parallel coincidence that under the same circumstances, and at the same place, seventy years before, Henry of Lancaster had landed, softly announcing to the populace that he had no designs upon the Crown, and came only to recover his own inheritance? Probably it did, for he imitated his predecessor's tactics in every particular. He came only to secure his duchy of York, as he sweetly assured the people of Holderness when they opposed his landing. Surely they would allow him to proceed to his own property—to his own city? He was the truest subject King Henry had, nor would he ever have been otherwise but for the inciting of that wicked Earl of Warwick. He stuck the ostrich feather in his cap—the badge of Prince Edward,—and solemnly swore eternal allegiance to King Henry. The honest folks in Holderness were completely won by this fine-spoken man. They fell back, and let him ride on to York.

But York was held by a Clifford,—sternest of all families adherent to the House of Lancaster. It was the head of that House—the "Bloody Clifford,"—who, just ten years before, had gleefully cut off the head of Edward's father, had crowned it with a paper crown, and set it high on Micklegate Bar. He, too, had stabbed young Rutland—the best of the York brothers—in cold blood after the battle of Wakefield. As Edward came up to York, the ghastly heads upon Micklegate Bar, the foremost of which was his own father's, seemed to be the only friends to welcome him. But though Edward could assume sentiment exquisitely, when he expected it to pay, he was not in reality much under its influence. There was no softening at his heart when he rode up to Micklegate, and sounded his horn for a parley, and proudly desired York to open her gates to her Duke. The old Lord Clifford would have known better than to rest any faith on the fair words of the Rose of Rouen. But his kinsman Mr. Thomas was not so wary. He consented to a parley. And when Edward, at the close of his eloquent and well-studied speech, ended by flinging up the ostrich-feathered cap into the air, with the loyal cry of "A, King Harry! A, King and Prince Edward!" the Governor and citizens of York were won. Beguiled, not conquered, they offered to let him pass southward on condition that he would swear his allegiance. Edward, Jesuit to the core, was ready to swear any thing. Had they promised to escort him to London with an army on condition of his swearing to restore the worship of Jupiter, the probability is that he would have accepted the oath with graceful complacency. Micklegate was thrown open, and Edward with his band passed through, and marched towards London.

The reconquest of England was an easier matter to Edward of York than it had been to Henry of Lancaster. Three months had elapsed between the landing and coronation of the former; one was enough for the latter. There were traitors in the Lancastrian camp, whose hearts were always ready to desert, and who only required to hear that Edward had landed to induce an immediate and public declaration in his behalf. Foremost of these was the heavily perjured Clarence, with whom his sister of Burgundy had been secretly tampering. Edward was now at the head of a very small band, consisting of nine hundred English and three hundred Flemings. With him were his faithful friend Lord Hastings, Lord Say, and a few more distinguished persons. But by the time he came to Nottingham, Sir William Stanley and Sir William Norris had joined him with four hundred more; and with men slowly coming in to him along the line of march, he arrived at Leicester. Here was Warwick waiting for him. A battle was imminent, when letters from Clarence reached Warwick, stating that he was on his way from London to join him, and begging him not to fight until he came. Warwick committed the fatal blunder of compliance. Humanly speaking, had he engaged in battle at once, the probability is that Edward would have been easily driven out of England.

It was not until the 25th of March that the news of Edward's landing reached London. The language of the grant of Tutbury and many other manors to Clarence on the 23rd, intimates that no such information had reached King Henry on that day. But on Lady Day a proclamation was issued appointing Clarence, Warwick, and others, to gather the King's subjects and to defend the kingdom, "against our enemies and adversaries of Flanders, Burgundy, and other parts, by the excitation, procuration, and inducement of our great adversary and rebel, Edward, of late the false, traitorous, and usurping occupant of our crown and dignity."[#] Two days later, the young Prince of Wales was created Viceroy of England against "Edward our rebel, who, with subjects of Burgundy and Flanders, has landed in the north."[#]

[#] Patent Roll, 49 Hen. VI.

[#] Patent Roll, 49 Hen. VI.

This is the only occasion on which the language used by, or in the name of, Henry VI. departs from the calm dignity which characterises it on all others in making mention of Edward IV. Edward can never allude to Henry without a spiteful addition of "late in dede and nat of ryght King:"[#] but Henry's allusions to Edward are always content with, "Edward IV., late de facto King of England." There is a kind of feverish spite about Edward's notices of his rival, which is exchanged for quiet matter-of-fact in his rival's notices of him. It is easy to see that Henry had the better title—because he makes so little fuss over it!

[#] Ib., 9 Edw. IV. and many others.

Late on the evening of the 10th of April, George Neville, Archbishop of York, sat writing in the Bishop of London's Palace. To this place the Court had been removed, under the impression that the City would be easier to defend than the less protected town of Westminster. In an adjoining chamber King Henry slept the quiet sleep of the just, with his Latin Psalter[#] lying on the table beside his bed. The Archbishop had paused in his writing, and was thinking deeply, his head resting on his hand; "when a slight sound caused him to lift his eyes, and he looked up into the unexpected face of Master John Shorter, sometime varlet of the chamber to King Edward IV.

[#] This Latin Psalter, originally the property of Richard II., and afterwards of Henry VI., is now in the British Museum (Cott. MS., Domit., A., xvii.), a beautifully illuminated and most interesting volume.

"Whence camest thou?" was the astonished query.

"Out of the street," said Shorter, drily.

"To what end?"

"To tell your Lordship a thing."

"What thing? Prithee, have on with thy matters, and be done. I am busy."

"Your Grace may yet be busier, when King Edward cometh."

"My Lady Saint Mary! What mean you?"

"I left him, my Lord, on the hither side of Herts."

"Gramercy! When?"

"This morrow at day-break."

"Is he on his way to London town?"

"Certes, my Lord."

The Archbishop's face might have furnished, not one, but several studies for a painter, as successive and diverse emotions swept across it. Foremost was the true Neville sentiment—How will this affect me? He was silent for a moment, pondering that deeply interesting question.

"Did he send thee to me?"

"He did so, my good Lord."

"What would he have of me?"

Shorter came close to the desk, and quietly laid down before the Archbishop a parchment to which a seal was affixed. It was a document, couched in highly flattering terms, addressed by Edward, by the Grace of God King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, to his dearly beloved and faithful, the Most Reverend Father in God, George, by Divine permission Archbishop of York, conveying his royal pardon to the said Archbishop, for all treasons, felonies, and offences whatsoever, committed before the thirteenth day of April, 1471. In other words, the Archbishop was pardoned beforehand for the sins of the three days next ensuing. Some people might have felt puzzled as to the ulterior meaning of such a document. Not so Archbishop Neville. He comprehended to perfection that he was expected to purchase that parchment, by some tremendous act of service still to be performed, and requiring official forgiveness from the de facto sovereign.

"What would he?"

An expressive pantomime from Shorter pointed first to the door of King Henry's chamber, then to a bunch of keys which lay on the desk, and lastly to the prelate himself. The latter pursed up his lips for a moment.

"Rather ugly work!" he muttered, as if to himself.

"Necessity," shortly suggested the messenger.

"Where?" was the equally short answer.

"Here. There is, of course, one unconvenient matter."

The Archbishop looked up for explanation.

"That all suspiciousness may be diverted from your Grace, it shall be needful to arrest you with the other."

A nod of intelligence from the Archbishop.

"Your captivity shall be matter but of a few days."

The prelate nodded again.

"Go you back to His Highness?"

"I have first to speak with Master Recorder, which hath promised me the key of Aldersgate."

"Ha!—when shall this matter be?"

"Maundy Thursday, in the even. 'The better day, the better deed.'"

The Archbishop received the wicked proverb with a grim smile. "Very good: I undertake it."

"I thank your Grace for my master. God give you good even."

"The peace of Christ be upon you! Amen."

Which benediction really meant the expression of a wish that the diabolical bargain just concluded might not be successful, for surely the last thing likely to come upon its actors was the peace of Christ.

Another sort of peace they had. The City was perfectly calm, and its guardians utterly unsuspicious, when on the following night, Mr. Urswick, the Recorder of London, came down with a few more to Aldersgate, and quietly let in about a dozen men who were waiting outside. They were wrapped in long cloaks, in which they muffled their faces; and, accompanied by Urswick, they took their way to the Bishop's Palace. Behind the postern door the Archbishop's servant was waiting, and they were allowed to enter as silently as possible.

Upstairs, in the royal chamber, King Henry sat with that devout prelate who has been already mentioned. They had been discussing political matters for a short time, and then the King, turning to a subject more congenial to himself, had requested the Archbishop's opinion as to the meaning of a passage in the Psalms. Both by intuition and education, George Neville was about as well fitted to judge of the meaning of King David as a snail to decide the intentions of an eagle. But he was a priest; therefore of course he must be competent to expound Scripture. The prelate began glibly to explain that of which he had not the remotest idea, and the King meekly to receive instruction on a subject with which he was far better acquainted than his instructor. The notion that he could be better than any body in any possible sense, outside the mere fact of social position, never occurred to the mind of King Henry, one of the humblest Christians that ever breathed.

A slight click of the door-lock made the prelate look up. The King was too much interested in his subject, and his head was bent over the Psalter. In the doorway stood the Recorder of London, and several others were dimly visible behind him. The traitor knew that the hour of his treachery had come.

"What is this?" he exclaimed, with well feigned astonishment. "Master Urswick, who be these with you? The blessed saints be about us! Treachery, my gracious Lord, treachery! Here is my Lord of March!"

Aye, treachery enough! Henry lifted his head, rose, and confronted Edward with a steady gaze as he came forward boldly into the room.

They stood fronting each other, the two Kings, the cousins and rivals, each of whom saw in the other an unprincipled usurper. Only, in the one case, the conviction was a calm certainty that the thing was so, and in the other a feverish determination that it must and should be.

"What dost thou here in my place, thou rebel?" was the insolent demand of Edward, who had sworn many an oath of allegiance to the man whom he addressed.

"I am here in mine own, as God wot," was the dignified reply. "What would you with me?"

Edward turned to his followers without deigning a reply. "Take the rebel," said he, "and this priest with him."

The Archbishop, with well counterfeited terror, began to implore mercy. The King asked none, nor did he waste another word on Edward. He lifted his calm dark eyes heavenward, and merely said, to the sole Friend who was with him, "Fiat voluntas Tua!"

An hour later, he was once more secured in his old dungeon in the Tower.

The gates of London were thrown open, and the northern army of Edward poured into the City. The Sanctuary was visited, and the Countess of March and her infant son, now suddenly become the Queen and the Prince, were installed in Westminster Palace with fitting ceremony. The reign of Henry VI. was over, and the eleventh year of Edward IV. had begun.

The restored monarch was grace and graciousness to all around him. While he took care to propitiate and make friends of those who had hitherto been enemies, Edward did not, like his descendant Charles II., commit the fatal mistake of overlooking and neglecting to reward his friends. He gave away twenty tuns of wine (not forgetting to spend some £2800 on himself), replaced his old officers in their respective state positions, and made up for the forced abstinence and shabbiness of his recent life by buying a new service of plate, ordering twenty-one gold collars (doubtless for presents to his friends who had proved faithful in adversity), purchasing horses, and providing six new and gorgeous garments—a robe of tawny satin, a doublet of purple satin, two jackets of cloth of gold, and two "habits" of black damask and crimson velvet—for his wardrobe. He further expended in alms the munificent sum of £3 3*s*. 4*d*. The Queen does not appear to have required any new clothes, since provisions and wood are alone bought for her.[#]

[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV.

So quietly had this mighty reversion of state affairs been effected, that the citizens of London were unconscious that any thing was happening until they saw the army of Edward IV. marching along their streets. Then, of course, it was too late to express an adverse opinion, had they wished to do so.

The necessary imprisonment of that honourable man, Archbishop Neville, extended only to a few days. He was received into favour on the day to which his pardon reached, but was not released from the Tower until a little later.

And then, when it was too late, the wind changed. Three times had Queen Marguerite set forth from Harfleur, and three times was she driven back on the French coast. Now, just when all was over which her coming might have prevented, on the 24th of March, she was able to embark, and she landed at Weymouth on Saturday night, the 13th of April, which was Easter Eve. Can we come to any conclusion but that of the contemporary letter-writer, that "God hath showed Himself marvellously like Him that made us all, and can undo again when Him list?" It was not immediately upon landing that the mournful news of her husband's capture and deposition met her. The news was to be far worse before it should reach her. She proceeded inland about thirteen miles, as far as the Abbey of Cerne, and there awaited the ceremonies of Easter. The Prince was with her—unconscious of his proclamation as Viceroy of England, as well as of the downfall of all his hopes—the Princess, and their respective suites.

While Marguerite and her companions knelt at mass that Easter morning in the chancel of Cerne Abbey, with the last hope springing in their hearts which they were ever to know, scenes very unbefitting Easter-tide were taking place in and near the metropolis.

No sooner had Warwick heard of the return of Edward than he came dashing down from the north, and with Exeter,[#] Somerset, Montague, Oxford, and forty thousand men, marched to take the field at Barnet. Exeter and Somerset wished to wait until the Prince should come up, as they had heard of his landing: but this Warwick refused to do. He was doubtful of the good faith of Somerset, who had ere this shown himself remarkably devoid of that quality; to which motive on Warwick's part Comines adds another—"the hatred he bore to Queen Marguerite."

[#] Where and when Exeter had joined Warwick we have no information. It is only known that he was in London on the 14th of February, and that he came with Warwick from the north on the 13th of April.

As soon as Edward heard of Warwick's approach, he and his brother of Gloucester went out to meet him. They took with them carefully one person whom they might have been expected to leave behind. This was King Henry. Was there in the minds of the royal brothers of York any sinister intention of exposing their rival to the fate of Uriah the Hittite? Had Henry fallen, perchance by a stray shot from his own side, would the pair have mournfully and hypocritically condoled with each other on the fact that "the sword devoureth one as well as another?"

The little town of Barnet was occupied by Edward, Warwick remaining on the plain without.

Late on that Saturday night, without any previous despatch of a herald, as was usual, to request an interview, the Duke of Clarence, encamped on Gladmore Heath, received a visit from his brother of Gloucester. They held a long conversation; after which Clarence returned with Gloucester to the town, and humbly implored pardon from his brother Edward. He was likely to be welcomed and forgiven, for he brought with him twelve thousand men. This little business arranged, Clarence sent a message to Warwick, informing him of the very interesting occurrence which had just taken place, and offering to make peace for him also. The envoy returned with an answer from Warwick which breathed scorn in every syllable.

"I choose rather," said the King-Maker, "to be consistent with myself than to follow the example of thy perfidy!"

The night was now wearing towards morning—the morning of Easter Sunday. But no sun danced, nor even shone, upon that awful Easter Day. At four o'clock in the morning the armies met, but in so thick a mist that no man could see the banner of his feudal lord. Since the battle of Mortimer's Cross, where three mock suns had been considered a happy augury, Edward had borne as his badge a sun with rays: and the Earl of Oxford's men, mistaking this sun for the star of the Veres, made the blunder of the Midianites, and turned their arms against each other. They engaged with Warwick's men, and a cry of "Treachery!" was raised by both sides. Oxford fled, carrying with him eight hundred men. At this juncture Montague (another "honourable man"), who had been in private correspondence with Edward ever since he landed, thought it time to turn coat, and did so literally, donning Edward's livery under cover of the mist. But some of Warwick's men caught a glimpse of the hated blue and murrey, and falling upon Montague, exacted the penalty of his treachery in his life. Warwick saw that the field was lost. Montague was dead; Exeter was not to be found; Oxford had fled the field. He mounted his horse, and tried to make his own escape through the intricacies of a neighbouring wood. Even here fate met him in the persons of two of Edward's men, who after a short sharp struggle, unhorsed and slew the foremost man of their age—the man who, more or less, for twenty years had had all England at his bidding.

It was now four o'clock in the afternoon. King Edward—king in a sense he had never been till then,—as the first regal act of his restoration, took his revenge upon the commons of England for their Lancastrian proclivities. Hitherto, following the ancient humane custom peculiar to this country (a source of considerable astonishment to French generals), after a battle, Edward had been accustomed to mount his horse, and cry loudly over the field, "Quarter for the commons!" The nobles and gentry of the defeated side were of course put to the sword. But at Barnet Edward forsook his usual custom. He mounted, indeed, but he left the commons quarterless to the fury of his soldiers, and he spurred fast to London.

That evening, after Edward had entered his metropolis in triumph, King Henry was brought, attired in a long gown of blue velvet, from the fatal field of Gladmore Heath, to that silent dungeon in the Tower which he had occupied so long that it must have borne almost a homelike look to him, and which he was never to leave again, except for the better Home above.

When the military grave-diggers came to bury the dead, they found lying on Gladmore Heath the body of the Duke of Exeter. He had fought manfully, and had fallen at seven o'clock, since which time he had lain insensible on the field. They took him at first for dead: but on careful consideration they came to the conclusion that life was not quite extinct. The party of workers were either Lancastrians, or they were for their time inexplicably tolerant and humane. Instead of stamping out the little spark of life, they respected it, and carried the Duke to the house of one Ruthland, an old servant of his own, who nursed his master back to that life which was worth so little to him. He was then, on the 26th of May, carried a prisoner to Westminster, where he was allowed the service of a chaplain, cook, page, and varlet, with three servants to wait on them. He was detained in this captivity until the fifteenth of September.[#] Six shillings and eightpence per week were allowed for the Duke's board, two shillings for the chaplain, twenty pence each for the cook, page, and varlet, and sixteen pence each for the inferior domestics.

[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV.—Rymer is apparently under a mistake in stating that Exeter fled to Westminster Sanctuary, about two months after Barnet. The language of the Roll is decisive that Exeter was a prisoner, and not in sanctuary, between the dates named.

King Henry was rather better treated. Dispute his title as he might, Edward provided for him as for a captive prince. About half-a-crown per day was allowed for his "diet;" but a strong guard of thirty-six persons, afterwards gradually reduced to eleven, was thought necessary for his safe keeping.

The corpses of Warwick and Montague were exposed to popular view, with uncovered faces, in St. Paul's Cathedral, for four days: and on the eighteenth of April they were laid with their Montacute fathers in the church at Bisham. The day after their funeral, the royal pardon was renewed to their brother the Archbishop. His offence was that of "taking oath to Harry our great adversary, as to his Sovereign Lord, and to Margaret, calling her Queen, which if a French woman born, and daughter to him that is extreme adversary and mortal enemy to all this our land and people," and "assembling unto him numbers of French men beside other traitors and rebels."[#]