The Last of the Barons — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (reading an ebook .TXT) 📖

provant, was at the head or the tail of this matter, we were contented to wait a while; but devil a groat hath yet gone into my gipsire; and as for pillage, what is a farm or a homestead? an’ it were a church or a castle there might be pickings.”

“There is much plate of silver, and a sack or so of marks and royals, in the stronghold of the Baron of Bullstock,” quoth the Saxon squire, doggedly hounding on to his revenge.

“You see, my friends,” said Coniers, with a smile, and shrugging his shoulders, “that men cannot gird a kingdom with ropes of sand. Suppose we conquer and take captive—nay, or slay—King Edward, what then?”

“The Duke of Clarence, male heir to the throne,” said the heir of Latimer, “is Lord Warwick’s son-in-law, and therefore akin to you, Sir John.”

“That is true,” observed Coniers, musingly.

“Not ill thought of, sir,” said Sir Geoffrey Gates; “and my advice is to proclaim Clarence king and Warwick lord protector. We have some chance of the angels then.”

“Besides,” said the heir of Fitzhugh, “our purpose once made clear, it will be hard either for Warwick or Clarence to go against us,—harder still for the country not to believe them with us. Bold measures are our wisest councillors.”

“Um!” said the Lollard, “Lord Warwick is a good man, and has never, though his brother be a bishop, abetted the Church tyrannies. But as for George of Clarence—”

“As for Clarence,” said Hilyard, who saw with dismay and alarm that the rebellion he designed to turn at the fitting hour to the service of Lancaster, might now only help to shift from one shoulder to the other the hated dynasty of York—“as for Clarence, he hath Edward’s vices without his manhood.” He paused, and seeing that the crisis had ripened the hour for declaring himself, his bold temper pushed at once to its object. “No!” he continued, folding his arms, raising his head, and comprehending the whole council in his keen and steady gaze,—“no! lords and gentlemen, since speak I must in this emergency, hear me calmly. Nothing has prospered in England since we abandoned our lawful king. If we rid ourselves of Edward, let it not be to sink from a harlot-monger to a drunkard. In the Tower pines our true lord, already honoured as a saint. Hear me, I say,—hear me out! On the frontiers an army that keeps Gloucester at bay hath declared for Henry and Margaret. Let us, after seizing Olney, march thither at once, and unite forces. Margaret is already prepared to embark for England. I have friends in London who will attack the Tower, and deliver Henry. To you, Sir John Coniers, in the queen’s name, I promise an earldom and the garter; to you, the heirs of Latimer and Fitzhugh, the high posts that beseem your birth; to all of you, knights and captains, just share and allotment in the confiscated lands of the Woodvilles and the Yorkists; to you, brethren,” and addressing the Lollards, his voice softened into a meaning accent that, compelled to worship in secret, they yet understood, “shelter from your foes and mild laws; and to you, brave soldiers, that pay which a king’s coffers alone can supply. Wherefore I say, down with all subject-banners! up with the Red Rose and the Antelope, and long live Henry the Sixth!”

This address, however subtle in its adaptation to the various passions of those assembled, however aided by the voice, spirit, and energy of the speaker, took too much by surprise those present to produce at once its effect.

The Lollards remembered the fires lighted for their martyrs by the House of Lancaster; and though blindly confident in Hilyard, were not yet prepared to respond to his call. The young heir of Fitzhugh, who had, in truth, but taken arms to avenge the supposed wrongs of Warwick, whom he idolized, saw no object gained in the rise of Warwick’s enemy, Queen Margaret. The mercenaries called to mind the woful state of Henry’s exchequer in the former time. The Saxon squire muttered to himself, “And what the devil is to become of the castle of Bullstock?” But Sir Henry Nevile (Lord Latimer’s son), who belonged to that branch of his House which had espoused the Lancaster cause, and who was in the secret councils of Hilyard, caught up the cry, and said, “Hilyard doth not exceed his powers; and he who strikes for the Red Rose shall carve out his own lordship from the manors of every Yorkist that he slays.” Sir John Coniers hesitated: poor, long neglected, ever enterprising and ambitious, he was dazzled by the proffered bribe; but age is slow to act, and he expressed himself with the measured caution of gray hairs.

“A king’s name,” said he, “is a tower of strength, especially when marching against a king; but this is a matter for general assent and grave forethought.”

Before any other (for ideas did not rush at once to words in those days) found his tongue, a mighty uproar was heard without. It did not syllable itself into distinct sound; it uttered no name; it was such a shout as numbers alone could raise; and to such a shout would some martial leader have rejoiced to charge to battle, so full of depth and fervour, and enthusiasm and good heart, it seemed, leaping from rank to rank, from breast to breast, from earth to heaven. With one accord the startled captains made to the entrance of the tent, and there they saw, in the broad space before them, inclosed by the tents which were grouped in a wide semicircle,—for the mass of the hardy rebel army slept in the open air, and the tents were but for leaders,—they saw, we say, in that broad space, a multitude kneeling, and in the midst, upon his good steed Saladin, bending graciously down, the martial countenance, the lofty stature, of the Earl of Warwick. Those among the captains who knew him not personally recognized him by the popular description,—by the black war-horse, whose legendary fame had been hymned by every minstrel; by the sensation his appearance had created; by the armourial insignia of his heralds, grouped behind him, and whose gorgeous tabards blazed with his cognizance and quarterings in azure, or, and argent. The sun was slowly setting, and poured its rays upon the bare head of the mighty noble, gathering round it in the hazy atmosphere like a halo. The homage of the crowd to that single form, unarmed, and scarce attended, struck a death-knell to the hopes of Hilyard,—struck awe into all his comrades! The presence of that one man seemed to ravish from them, as by magic, a vast army; power, and state, and command left them suddenly to be absorbed in HIM! Captains, they were troopless,—the wielder of men’s hearts was amongst them, and from his barb assumed reign, as from his throne!

“Gads my life!” said Coniers, turning to his comrades, “we have now, with a truth, the earl amongst us; but unless he come to lead us on to Olney, I would as lief see the king’s provost at my shoulder.”

“The crowd separates, he rides this way!” said the heir of Fitzhugh. “Shall we go forth to meet him?”

“Not so!” exclaimed Hilyard, “we are still the leaders of this army; let him find us deliberating on the siege of Olney!”

“Right!” said Coniers; “and if there come dispute, let not the rabble hear it.”

The captains re-entered the tent, and in grave silence awaited the earl’s coming; nor was this suspense long. Warwick, leaving the multitude in the rear, and taking only one of the subaltern officers