The Last of the Barons — Complete

  CHAPTER III. THE SISTERS.

  The next morning, at an hour when modern beauty falls into its firstsickly sleep, Isabel and Anne conversed on the same terrace, and nearthe same spot, which had witnessed their father's meditations theday before. They were seated on a rude bench in an angle of the wall,flanked by a low, heavy bastion. And from the parapet their gaze mighthave wandered over a goodly sight, for on a broad space, covered withsand and sawdust, within the vast limits of the castle range, thenumerous knights and youths who sought apprenticeship in arms andgallantry under the earl were engaged in those martial sports which,falling elsewhere in disuse, the Last of the Barons kinglily maintained.There, boys of fourteen, on their small horses, ran against each otherwith blunted lances. There, those of more advanced adolescence, eachfollowing the other in a circle, rode at the ring; sometimes (at theword of command from an old knight who had fought at Agincourt, and wasthe preceptor in these valiant studies) leaping from their horses atfull speed, and again vaulting into the saddle. A few grim old warriorssat by to censure or applaud. Most skilled among the younger was the sonof Lord Montagu; among the maturer, the name of Marmaduke Nevile was themost often shouted. If the eye turned to the left, through the barbicanmight be seen flocks of beeves entering to supply the mighty larder;and at a smaller postern, a dark crowd of mendicant friars, and the moredestitute poor, waited for the daily crumbs from the rich man's table.What need of a poor-law then? The baron and the abbot made the parish!But not on these evidences of wealth and state turned the eyes, sofamiliar to them, that they woke no vanity, and roused no pride.

  With downcast looks and a pouting lip, Isabel listened to the silvervoice of Anne.

  "Dear sister, be just to Clarence. He cannot openly defy his king andbrother. Believe that he would have accompanied our uncle and cousin hadhe not deemed that their meditation would be more welcome, at least toKing Edward, without his presence."

  "But not a letter! not a line!"

  "Yet when I think of it, Isabel, are we sure that he even knew of thevisit of the archbishop and his brother?"

  "How could he fail to know?"

  "The Duke of Gloucester last evening told me that the king had sent himsouthward."

  "Was it about Clarence that the duke whispered to thee so softly by theoriel window?"

  "Surely, yes," said Anne, simply. "Was not Richard as a brother to uswhen we played as children on yon greensward?"

  "Never as a brother to me,--never was Richard of Gloucester one whomI could think of without fear and even loathing," answered Isabel,quickly.

  It was at this turn in the conversation that the noiseless stepof Richard himself neared the spot, and hearing his own name thusdiscourteously treated, he paused, screened from their eyes by thebastion in the angle.

  "Nay, nay, sister," said Anne; "what is there in Richard that misbeseemshis princely birth?"

  "I know not, but there is no youth in his eye and in his heart. Evenas a child he had the hard will and the cold craft of gray hairs. PraySaint Mary you give me not Gloucester for a brother!"

  Anne sighed and smiled. "Ah, no," she said, after a short pause, "whenthou art Princess of Clarence may I--"

  "May thou what?"

  "Pray for thee and thine in the house of God! Ah, thou knowest not,sweet Isabel, how often at morn and even mine eyes and heart turn to thespires of yonder convent!" She rose as she said this, her lip quivered,and she moved on in the opposite direction to that in which Richardstood, still unseen, and no longer within his hearing. Isabel rose also,and hastening after her, threw her arms round Anne's neck, and kissedaway the tears that stood in those meek eyes.

  "My sister, my Anne! Ah, trust in me, thou hast some secret, I know itwell,--I have long seen it. Is it possible that thou canst have placedthy heart, thy pure love--Thou blushest! Ah, Anne! Anne! thou canst nothave loved beneath thee?"

  "Nay," said Anne, with a spark of her ancestral fire lighting her meekeyes through its tears, "not beneath me, but above. What do I say!Isabel, ask me no more. Enough that it is a folly, a dream, and that Icould smile with pity at myself to think from what light causes love andgrief can spring."

  "Above thee!" repeated Isabel, in amaze; "and who in England is abovethe daughter of Earl Warwick? Not Richard of Gloucester? If so, pardonmy foolish tongue."

  "No, not Richard,--though I feel kindly towards him, and his sweet voicesoothes me when I listen,--not Richard. Ask no more."

  "Oh, Anne, speak, speak!--we are not both so wretched? Thou lovest notClarence? It is--it must be!"

  "Canst thou think me so false and treacherous,--a heart pledged to thee?Clarence! Oh, no!"

  "But who then--who then?" said Isabel, still suspiciously. "Nay, if thouwilt not speak, blame thyself if I must still wrong thee."

  Thus appealed to, and wounded to the quick by Isabel's tone and eye,Anne at last with a strong effort suppressed her tears, and, taking hersister's hand, said in a voice of touching solemnity, "Promise, then,that the secret shall be ever holy; and, since I know that it will movethine anger--perhaps thy scorn--strive to forget what I will confess tothee."

  Isabel for answer pressed her lips on the hand she held; and thesisters, turning under the shadow of a long row of venerable oaks,placed themselves on a little mound, fragrant with the violets ofspring. A different part of the landscape beyond was now brought inview; calmly slept in the valley the roofs of the subject town ofMiddleham, calmly flowed through the pastures the noiseless waves ofUre. Leaning on Isabel's bosom, Anne thus spake, "Call to mind, sweetsister, that short breathing-time in the horrors of the Civil War, whena brief peace was made between our father and Queen Margaret. We wereleft in the palace--mere children that we were--to play with the youngprince, and the children in Margaret's train."

  "I remember."

  "And I was unwell and timid, and kept aloof from the sports with a girlof my own years, whom I think--see how faithful my memory!--they calledSibyll; and Prince Edward, Henry's son, stealing from the rest, soughtme out; and we sat together, or walked together alone, apart from all,that day and the few days we were his mother's guests. Oh, if you couldhave seen him and heard him then,--so beautiful, so gentle, so wisebeyond his years, and yet so sweetly sad; and when we parted, he bade meever love him, and placed his ring on my finger, and wept,--as we kissedeach other, as children will."

  "Children! ye were infants!" exclaimed Isabel, whose wonder seemedincreased by this simple tale.

  "Infant though I was, I felt as if my heart would break when I left him;and then the wars ensued; and do you not remember how ill I was, andlike to die, when our House triumphed, and the prince and heir ofLancaster was driven into friendless exile? From that hour my fate wasfixed. Smile if you please at such infant folly, but children often feelmore deeply than later years can weet of."

  "My sister, this is indeed a wilful invention of sorrow for thine ownscourge. Why, ere this, believe me, the boy-prince hath forgotten thyvery name."

  "Not so, Isabel," said Anne, colouring, and quickly, "and perchance, didall rest here, I might have outgrown my weakness. But last year, when wewere at Rouen with my father--"

  "Well?"

  "One evening on entering my chamber, I found a packet,--how left I knownot, but the French king and his suite, thou rememberest, made our housealmost their home,--and in this packet was a picture, and on its backthese words, Forget not the exile who remembers thee!"

  "And that picture was Prince Edward's?"

  Anne blushed, and her bosom heaved beneath the slender and high-lacedgorget. After a pause, looking round her, she drew forth a smallminiature, which lay on the heart that beat thus sadly, and placed it inher sister's hands.

  "You see I deceive you not, Isabel. And is not this a fair excuse for--"

  She stopped short, her modest nature shrinking from comment upon themere beauty that might have won the heart. And fair indeed was the faceupon which Isabel gazed admiringly, in spite of the stiff and rudeart of the limner; full of the fire and energy wh
ich characterized thecountenance of the mother, but with a tinge of the same profound andinexpressible melancholy that gave its charm to the pensive featuresof Henry VI.,--a face, indeed, to fascinate a young eye, even if notassociated with such remembrances of romance and pity.

  Without saying a word, Isabel gave back the picture; but she pressed thehand that took it, and Anne was contented to interpret the silence intosympathy.

  "And now you know why I have so often incurred your anger by compassionfor the adherents of Lancaster; and for this, also, Richard ofGloucester hath been endeared to me,--for fierce and stern as he maybe called, he hath ever been gentle in his mediation for that unhappyHouse."

  "Because it is his policy to be well with all parties. My poor Anne, Icannot bid you hope; and yet, should I ever wed with Clarence, it may bepossible--that--that--but you in turn will chide me for ambition."

  "How?"

  "Clarence is heir to the throne of England, for King Edward has no malechildren; and the hour may arrive when the son of Henry of Windsor mayreturn to his native land, not as sovereign, but as Duke of Lancaster,and thy hand may reconcile him to the loss of a crown."

  "Would love reconcile thee to such a loss, proud Isabel?" said Anne,shaking her head, and smiling mournfully.

  "No," answered Isabel, emphatically.

  "And are men less haught than we?" said Anne. "Ah, I know not if I couldlove him so well could he resign his rights, or even could he regainthem. It is his position that gives him a holiness in my eyes. And thislove, that must be hopeless, is half pity and half respect."

  At this moment a loud shout arose from the youths in the yard, orsporting-ground, below, and the sisters, startled, and looking up,saw that the sound was occasioned by the sight of the young Dukeof Gloucester, who was standing on the parapet near the bench thedemoiselles had quitted, and who acknowledged the greeting by a waveof his plumed cap, and a lowly bend of his head; at the same timethe figures of Warwick and the archbishop, seemingly in earnestconversation, appeared at the end of the terrace. The sisters rosehastily, and would have stolen away, but the archbishop caught a glimpseof their robes, and called aloud to them. The reverent obedience,at that day, of youth to relations left the sisters no option but toadvance towards their uncle, which they did with demure reluctance.

  "Fair brother," said the archbishop, "I would that Gloucester were tohave my stately niece instead of the gaudy Clarence."

  "Wherefore?"

  "Because he can protect those he loves, and Clarence will ever need aprotector."

  "I like George not the less for that," said Warwick, "for I would nothave my son-in-law my master."

  "Master!" echoed the archbishop, laughing; "the Soldan of Babylonhimself, were he your son-in-law, would find Lord Warwick a tolerablystubborn servant!"

  "And yet," said Warwick, also laughing, but with a franker tone,"beshrew me, but much as I approve young Gloucester, and deem him thehope of the House of York, I never feel sure, when we are of the samemind, whether I agree with him, or whether he leadeth me. Ah, George!Isabel should have wedded the king, and then Edward and I would have hada sweet mediator in all our quarrels. But not so hath it been decreed."

  There was a pause.

  "Note how Gloucester steals to the side of Anne. Thou mayst have him fora son-in-law, though no rival to Clarence. Montagu hath hinted that theduke so aspires."

  "He has his father's face--well," said the earl, softly. "But yet," headded, in an altered and reflective tone, "the boy is to me a riddle.That he will be bold in battle and wise in council I foresee; but wouldhe had more of a young man's honest follies! There is a medium betweenEdward's wantonness and Richard's sanctimony; and he who in the heydayof youth's blood scowls alike upon sparkling wine and smiling woman, mayhide in his heart darker and more sinful fancies. But fie on me! I willnot wrongfully mistrust his father's son. Thou spokest of Montagu; heseems to have been mighty cold to his brother's wrongs,--ever at thecourt, ever sleek with Villein and Woodville."

  "But the better to watch thy interests,--I so counselled him."

  "A priest's counsel! Hate frankly or love freely is a knight's andsoldier's motto. A murrain on all doubledealing!"

  The archbishop shrugged his shoulders, and applied to his nostrils asmall pouncet-box of dainty essences.

  "Come hither, my haughty Isabel," said the prelate, as the demoisellesnow drew near. He placed his niece's arm within his own, and took heraside to talk of Clarence; Richard remained with Anne, and the youngcousins were joined by Warwick. The earl noted in silence the softaddress of the eloquent prince, and his evident desire to please Anne.And strange as it may seem, although he had hitherto regarded Richardwith admiration and affection, and although his pride for both daughterscoveted alliances not less than royal, yet, in contemplating Gloucesterfor the first time as a probable suitor to his daughter (and hisfavourite daughter), the anxiety of a father sharpened his penetration,and placed the character of Richard before him in a different pointfrom that in which he had hitherto looked only on the fearless heart andaccomplished wit of his royal godson.