The Last of the Barons — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (books to read for self improvement TXT) 📕

on space. Suddenly recovering himself as from a revery, he turned, with his wonted sleek and gracious aspect, to the startled Montagu, and said, “I was but quoting from Italian history, good my lord,—wise lore, but terrible and murderous. Return we to the point. Thou seest Clarence could not reign, and as well,” added the prince, with a slight sigh,—“as well or better (for, without vanity, I have more of a king’s mettle in me), might I—even I—aspire to my brother’s crown!” Here he paused, and glanced rapidly and keenly at the marquis; but whether or not in these words he had sought to sound Montagu, and that glance sufficed to show him it were bootless or dangerous to speak more plainly, he resumed with an altered voice, “Enough of this: Warwick will discover the idleness of such design; and if he land, his trumpets must ring to a more kindling measure. John Montagu, thinkest thou that Margaret of Anjou and the Lancastrians will not rather win thy brother to their side? There is the true danger to Edward,—none elsewhere.”

“And if so?” said Montagu, watching his listener’s countenance. Richard started, and gnawed his lip. “Mark me,” continued the marquis, “I repeat that I would fain hope yet that Edward may appease the earl; but if not, and, rather than rest dishonoured and aggrieved, Warwick link himself with Lancaster, and thou join him as Anne’s betrothed and lord, what matters who the puppet on the throne?—we and thou shall be the rulers; or, if thou reject,” added the marquis, artfully, as he supposed, exciting the jealousy of the duke, “Henry has a son—a fair, and they say, a gallant prince—carefully tutored in the knowledge of our English laws, and who my lord of Oxford, somewhat in the confidence of the Lancastrians, assures me would rejoice to forget old feuds, and call Warwick ‘father,’ and my niece ‘Lady and Princess of Wales.’”

With all his dissimulation, Richard could ill conceal the emotions of fear, of jealousy, of dismay, which these words excited.

“Lord Oxford!” he cried, stamping his foot. “Ha, John de Vere, pestilent traitor, plottest thou thus? But we can yet seize thy person, and will have thy head.”

Alarmed at this burst, and suddenly made aware that he had laid his breast too bare to the boy, whom he had thought to dazzle and seduce to his designs, Montagu said falteringly, “But, my lord, our talk is but in confidence: at your own prayer, with your own plighted word of prince and of kinsman, that whatever my frankness may utter should not pass farther. Take,” added the nobleman, with proud dignity—“take my head rather than Lord Oxford’s; for I deserve death, if I reveal to one who can betray the loose words of another’s intimacy and trust!”

“Forgive me, my cousin,” said Richard, meekly; “my love to Anne transported me too far. Lord Oxford’s words, as you report them, had conjured up a rival, and—but enough of this. And now,” added the prince, gravely, and with a steadiness of voice and manner that gave a certain majesty to his small stature, “now as thou hast spoken openly, openly also will I reply. I feel the wrong to the Lady Anne as to myself; deeply, burningly, and lastingly, will it live in my mind; it may be, sooner or later, to rise to gloomy deeds, even against Edward and Edward’s blood. But no, I have the king’s solemn protestations of repentance; his guilty passion has burned into ashes, and he now sighs—gay Edward—for a lighter fere. I cannot join with Clarence, less can I join with the Lancastrians. My birth makes me the prop of the throne of York,—to guard it as a heritage (who knows?) that may descend to mine,—nay, to me! And, mark me well if Warwick attempt a war of fratricide, he is lost; if, on the other hand, he can submit himself to the hands of Margaret, stained with his father’s gore, the success of an hour will close in the humiliation of a life. There is a third way left, and that way thou hast piously and wisely shown. Let him, like me, resign revenge, and, not exacting a confession and a cry of peccavi, which no king, much less King Edward the Plantagenet, can whimper forth, let him accept such overtures as his liege can make. His titles and castles shall be restored, equal possessions to those thou hast lost assigned to thee, and all my guerdon (if I can so negotiate) as all my ambition, his daughter’s hand. Muse on this, and for the peace and weal of the realm so limit all thy schemes, my lord and cousin!”

With these words the prince pressed the hand of the marquis, and walked slowly towards the king’s pavilion.

“Shame on my ripe manhood and lore of life,” muttered Montagu, enraged against himself, and deeply mortified. “How sentence by sentence and step by step yon crafty pigmy led me on, till all our projects, all our fears and hopes, are revealed to him who but views them as a foe. Anne betrothed to one who even in fiery youth can thus beguile and dupe! Warwick decoyed hither upon fair words, at the will of one whom Italy (boy, there thou didst forget thy fence of cunning!) has taught how the great are slain not, but disappear! no, even this defeat instructs me now. But right, right! the reign of Clarence is impossible, and that of Lancaster is ill-omened and portentous; and after all, my son stands nearer to the throne than any subject, in his alliance with the Lady Elizabeth. Would to Heaven the king could yet—But out on me! this is no hour for musing on mine own aggrandizement; rather let me fly at once and warn Oxford—imperilled by my imprudence—against that dark eye which hath set watch upon his life.”

At that thought, which showed that Montagu, with all his worldliness, was not forgetful of one of the first duties of knight and gentleman, the marquis hastened up the alley, in the opposite direction to that taken by Gloucester, and soon found himself in the courtyard, where a goodly company were mounting their haquenees and palfreys, to enjoy a summer ride through the neighbouring chase. The cold and half-slighting salutations of these minions of the hour, which now mortified the Nevile, despoiled of the possessions that had rewarded his long and brilliant services, contrasting forcibly the reverential homage he had formerly enjoyed, stung Montagu to the quick.

“Whither ride you, brother Marquis?” said young Lord Dorset (Elizabeth’s son by her first marriage), as Montagu called to his single squire, who was in waiting with his horse. “Some secret expedition, methinks, for I have known the day when the Lord Montagu never rode from his king’s palace with less than thirty squires.”

“Since my Lord Dorset prides himself on his memory,” answered the scornful lord, “he may remember also the day when, if a Nevile mounted in haste, he bade the first Woodville he saw hold the stirrup.”

And regarding “the brother marquis” with a stately eye that silenced and awed retort, the long-descended Montagu passed the courtiers, and rode slowly on till out of sight of the palace; he then pushed into a hand-gallop, and halted not till he had reached London, and gained the house in which then dwelt the Earl of Oxford, the most powerful of all the Lancastrian nobles not in exile, and who had hitherto temporized with the reigning House.

Two days afterwards the news reached Edward that Lord Oxford and Jasper of Pembroke—uncle to the boy afterwards Henry VII.—had sailed from England.

The tidings reached the king in his chamber, where he was closeted with Gloucester. The conference between them seemed to have been warm and earnest, for Edward’s face was flushed, and Gloucester’s brow was