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

Warwick rose from his knee; and the king, perceiving and compassionating the struggle which shook the strong man’s breast, laid his hand on the earl’s shoulder, and said, “Peace be with thee!—thou hast done me no real harm. I have been as happy in these walls as in the green parks of Windsor; happier than in the halls of state or in the midst of wrangling armies. What tidings now?”

“My liege, is it possible that you know not that Edward is a fugitive and a beggar, and that Heaven hath permitted me to avenge at once your injuries and my own? This day, without a blow, I have regained your city of London; its streets are manned with my army. From the council of peers and warriors and prelates assembled at my house, I have stolen hither alone and in secret, that I might be the first to hail your Grace’s restoration to the throne of Henry V.”

The king’s face so little changed at this intelligence, that its calm sadness almost enraged the impetuous Warwick, and with difficulty he restrained from giving utterance to the thought, “He is not worthy of a throne who cares so little to possess it!”

“Well-a-day!” said Henry, sighing, “Heaven then hath sore trials yet in store for mine old age! Tray, Tray!” and stooping, he gently patted his dog, who kept watch at his feet, still glaring suspiciously at Warwick, “we are both too old for the chase now!—Will you be seated, my lord?”

“Trust me,” said the earl, as he obeyed the command, having first set chair and footstool for the king, who listened to him with downcast eyes and his head drooping on his bosom—“trust me, your later days, my liege, will be free from the storms of your youth. All chance of Edward’s hostility is expired. Your alliance, though I seem boastful so to speak,—your alliance with one in whom the people can confide for some skill in war, and some more profound experience of the habits and tempers of your subjects than your former councillors could possess, will leave your honoured leisure free for the holy meditations it affects; and your glory, as your safety, shall be the care of men who can awe this rebellious world.”

“Alliance!” said the king, who had caught but that one word; “of what speakest thou, Sir Earl?”

“These missives will explain all, my liege; this letter from my lady the Queen Margaret, and this from your gracious son, the Prince of Wales.”

“Edward! my Edward!” exclaimed the king, with a father’s burst of emotion. “Thou hast seen him, then,—bears he his health well, is he of cheer and heart?”

“He is strong and fair, and full of promise, and brave as his grandsire’s sword.”

“And knows he—knows he well—that we all are the potter’s clay in the hands of God?”

“My liege,” said Warwick, embarrassed, “he has as much devotion as befits a Christian knight and a goodly prince.”

“Ah,” sighed the king, “ye men of arms have strange thoughts on these matters;” and cutting the silk of the letters, he turned from the warrior. Shading his face with his hand, the earl darted his keen glance on the features of the king, as, drawing near to the table, the latter read the communications which announced his new connection with his ancient foe.

But Henry was at first so affected by the sight of Margaret’s well-known hand, that he thrice put down her letter and wiped the moisture from his eyes.

“My poor Margaret, how thou hast suffered!” he murmured; “these very characters are less firm and bold than they were. Well, well!” and at last he betook himself resolutely to the task. Once or twice his countenance changed, and he uttered an exclamation of surprise. But the proposition of a marriage between Prince Edward and the Lady Anne did not revolt his forgiving mind, as it had the haughty and stern temper of his consort. And when he had concluded his son’s epistle, full of the ardour of his love and the spirit of his youth, the king passed his left hand over his brow, and then extending his right to Warwick, said, in accents which trembled with emotion, “Serve my son, since he is thine, too; give peace to this distracted kingdom, repair my errors, press not hard upon those who contend against us, and Jesu and His saints will bless this bond!”

The earl’s object, perhaps, in seeking a meeting with Henry so private and unwitnessed, had been that none, not even his brother, might hearken to the reproaches he anticipated to receive, or say hereafter that he heard Warwick, returned as victor and avenger to his native land, descend, in the hour of triumph, to extenuation and excuse. So affronted, imperilled, or to use his own strong word, “so despaired,” had he been in the former rule of Henry, that his intellect, which, however vigorous in his calmer moods, was liable to be obscured and dulled by his passions, had half confounded the gentle king with his ferocious wife and stern councillors, and he had thought he never could have humbled himself to the man, even so far as knighthood’s submission to Margaret’s sex had allowed him to the woman. But the sweetness of Henry’s manners and disposition, the saint-like dignity which he had manifested throughout this painful interview, and the touching grace and trustful generosity of his last words,—words which consummated the earl’s large projects of ambition and revenge,—had that effect upon Warwick which the preaching of some holy man, dwelling upon the patient sanctity of the Saviour, had of old on a grim Crusader, all incapable himself of practising such meek excellence, and yet all moved and penetrated by its loveliness in another; and, like such Crusader, the representation of all mildest and most forgiving singularly stirred up in the warrior’s mind images precisely the reverse,—images of armed valour and stern vindication, as if where the Cross was planted sprang from the earth the standard and the war-horse!

“Perish your foes! May war and storm scatter them as the chaff! My liege, my royal master,” continued the earl, in a deep, low, faltering voice, “why knew I not thy holy and princely heart before? Why stood so many between Warwick’s devotion and a king so worthy to command it? How poor, beside thy great-hearted fortitude and thy Christian heroism, seems the savage valour of false Edward! Shame upon one who can betray the trust thou hast placed in him! Never will I!—Never! I swear it! No! though all England desert thee, I will stand alone with my breast of mail before thy throne! Oh, would that my triumph had been less peaceful and less bloodless! would that a hundred battlefields were yet left to prove how deeply—deeply in his heart of hearts—Warwick feels the forgiveness of his king!”

“Not so, not so, not so! not battlefields, Warwick!” said Henry. “Ask not to serve the king by shedding one subject’s blood.”

“Your pious will be obeyed!” replied Warwick. “We will see if mercy can effect in others what thy pardon effects in me. And now, my liege, no longer must these walls confine thee. The chambers of the palace await their sovereign. What ho, there!” and going to the door he threw it open, and agreeably to the orders he had given below, all the officers left in the fortress stood crowded together in the small anteroom, bareheaded, with tapers in their hands, to conduct the monarch to the halls of his conquered foe.