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

“I will seek the duke in his own tent.”

“And how shall I effect Sir Marmaduke’s escape?”

“Send hither the officer who guards the prisoner; I will give him orders to obey thee in all things.”

The invaders marched on. The earl, meanwhile, had reached Warwick, hastened thence to throw himself into the stronger fortifications of the neighbouring Coventry, without the walls of which Clarence was still encamped; Edward advanced on the town of Warwick thus vacated; and Richard, at night, rode along to the camp of Clarence. [Hall, and others.]

The next day, the earl was employed in giving orders to his lieutenants to march forth, join the troops of his son-in-law, who were a mile from the walls, and advance upon Edward, who had that morning quitted Warwick town, when suddenly Sir Marmaduke Nevile rushed into his presence, and, faltering out, “Beware, beware!” placed in his hands the fatal letter which Clarence had despatched from Amboise.

Never did blow more ruthless fall upon man’s heart! Clarence’s perfidy—that might be disdained; but the closing lines, which revealed a daughter’s treachery—words cannot express the father’s anguish.

The letter dropped from his hand, a stupor seized his senses, and, ere yet recovered, pale men hurried into his presence to relate how, amidst joyous trumpets and streaming banners, Richard of Gloucester had led the Duke of Clarence to the brotherly embrace of Edward. [Hall. The chronicler adds: “It was no marvell that the Duke of Clarence with so small persuasion and less exhorting turned from the Earl of Warwick’s party, for, as you have heard before, this marchandise was laboured, conducted, and concluded by a damsell, when the duke was in the French court, to the earl’s utter confusion.” Hume makes a notable mistake in deferring the date of Clarence’s desertion to the battle of Barnet.]

Breaking from these messengers of evil news, that could not now surprise, the earl strode on, alone, to his daughter’s chamber.

He placed the letter in her hands, and folding his arms said, “What sayest thou of this, Isabel of Clarence?” The terror, the shame, the remorse, that seized upon the wretched lady, the death-like lips, the suppressed shriek, the momentary torpor, succeeded by the impulse which made her fall at her father’s feet and clasp his knees,—told the earl, if he had before doubted, that the letter lied not; that Isabel had known and sanctioned its contents.

He gazed on her (as she grovelled at his feet) with a look that her eyes did well to shun.

“Curse me not! curse me not!” cried Isabel, awed by his very silence. “It was but a brief frenzy. Evil counsel, evil passion! I was maddened that my boy had lost a crown. I repented, I repented! Clarence shall yet be true. He hath promised it, vowed it to me; hath written to Gloucester to retract all,—to—”

“Woman! Clarence is in Edward’s camp!”

Isabel started to her feet, and uttered a shriek so wild and despairing, that at least it gave to her father’s lacerated heart the miserable solace of believing the last treason had not been shared. A softer expression—one of pity, if not of pardon—stole over his dark face.

“I curse thee not,” he said; “I rebuke thee not. Thy sin hath its own penance. Ill omen broods on the hearth of the household traitor! Never more shalt thou see holy love in a husband’s smile. His kiss shall have the taint of Judas. From his arms thou shalt start with horror, as from those of thy wronged father’s betrayer,—perchance his deathsman! Ill omen broods on the cradle of the child for whom a mother’s ambition was but a daughter’s perfidy. Woe to thee, wife and mother! Even my forgiveness cannot avert thy doom!”

“Kill me! kill me!” exclaimed Isabel, springing towards him; but seeing his face averted, his arms folded on his breast,—that noble breast, never again her shelter,—she fell lifeless on the floor. [As our narrative does not embrace the future fate of the Duchess of Clarence, the reader will pardon us if we remind him that her first-born (who bore his illustrious grandfather’s title of Earl of Warwick) was cast into prison on the accession of Henry VII., and afterwards beheaded by that king. By birth, he was the rightful heir to the throne. The ill-fated Isabel died young (five years after the date at which our tale has arrived). One of her female attendants was tried and executed on the charge of having poisoned her. Clarence lost no time in seeking to supply her place. He solicited the hand of Mary of Burgundy, sole daughter and heir of Charles the Bold. Edward’s jealousy and fear forbade him to listen to an alliance that might, as Lingard observes, enable Clarence “to employ the power of Burgundy to win the crown of England;” and hence arose those dissensions which ended in the secret murder of the perjured duke.]

The earl looked round, to see that none were by to witness his weakness, took her gently in his arms, laid her on her couch, and, bending over her a moment, prayed to God to pardon her.

He then hastily left the room, ordered her handmaids and her litter, and while she was yet unconscious, the gates of the town opened, and forth through the arch went the closed and curtained vehicle which bore the ill-fated duchess to the new home her husband had made with her father’s foe! The earl watched it from the casement of his tower, and said to himself,—

“I had been unmanned, had I known her within the same walls. Now forever I dismiss her memory and her crime. Treachery hath done its worst, and my soul is proof against all storms!”

At night came messengers from Clarence and Edward, who had returned to Warwick town, with offers of pardon to the earl, with promises of favour, power, and grace. To Edward the earl deigned no answer; to the messenger of Clarence he gave this: “Tell thy master I had liefer be always like myself than like a false and a perjured duke, and that I am determined never to leave the war till I have lost mine own life, or utterly extinguished and put down my foes.” [Hall.]

After this terrible defection, neither his remaining forces, nor the panic amongst them which the duke’s desertion had occasioned, nor the mighty interests involved in the success of his arms, nor the irretrievable advantage which even an engagement of equivocal result with the earl in person would give to Edward, justified Warwick in gratifying the anticipations of the enemy,—that his valour and wrath would urge him into immediate and imprudent battle.

Edward, after the vain bravado of marching up to the walls of Coventry, moved on towards London. Thither the earl sent Marmaduke, enjoining the Archbishop of York and the lord mayor but to hold out the city for three days, and he would come to their aid with such a force as would insure lasting triumph. For, indeed, already were hurrying to his banner Montagu, burning to retrieve his error, Oxford and Exeter, recovered from, and chafing at, their past alarm. Thither his nephew, Fitzhugh, led the earl’s own clansmen of Middleham; thither were spurring Somerset from the west, [Most historians state that Somerset was then in London; but Sharon Turner quotes “Harleian Manuscripts,” 38, to show that he had left the metropolis “to raise an army from the western counties,” and ranks him amongst the generals at the battle of Barnet.] and Sir Thomas Dymoke from Lincolnshire, and the Knight