Читать книгу Red and White: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses - Emily Sarah Holt - Страница 5

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"Ah, God will never let us plant

Our tent-poles in the sand,

But ever, e'er the blossom buds,

We hear the dread command,—

'Arise and get thee hence away,

Unto another land.'"

"Frid!" said little Dorathie in a whisper.

Frid held up a hushing finger with a smile.

"Frid!" came again; in a tone which showed that tears were not very far from Dorathie's blue eyes.

Frid's hand was held out in reply, and little Dorathie, understanding the gesture, sidled along the window-seat until she reached her sister in the opposite corner. There, nestled up close to Frideswide, and held fast by her arm, Dorathie put the melancholy question which was troubling her repose.

"Frid, be you going hence?—verily going?"

The answering nod was a decided affirmative.

"But both of you?—both thee and Agnes?"

Another silent, uncompromising nod from Frideswide.

"O Frid, I shall be all alone! Whatever must I do?"

And the tears came running from the blue eyes.

"Serve my Lady my grandmother," Frideswide whispered back.

"But that is—only—being useful," sobbed Dorathie, "and I—want to—be happy."

"Being useful is being happy," said her sister.

"I would being happy were being useful," was Dorathie's lugubrious answer. "They never go together—not with me."

"So do they alway with me," replied Frideswide.

"Oh, thou! Thou art a woman grown," said Dorathie with a pout.

"Right an old woman," said Frideswide with a sparkle of fun in her eyes, for she was not quite twenty. Dorathie was only eight, and in her estimation Frideswide had attained a venerable age. "But list, Doll! My Lady calleth thee."

Dorathie's sobs had attracted the notice of one of the four grown-up persons assembled round the fire. They were two ladies and two gentlemen, and the relations which they bore to Dorathie were father, mother, grandmother, and grand-uncle.

It was her grandmother who had called her—the handsome stately old lady who sat in a carved oak chair on the further side of the fire. Her hair was silvery white, but her eyes, though sunken, were lively, flashing dark eyes still.

Dorathie slipped down from the window-seat, crossed the large room, and stood before her grandmother with clasped hands and a deferential bob. She was not much afraid of a scolding, for she rarely had one from that quarter: still, in the days when girls were expected to be silent statues in the august presence of their elders, she might reasonably have feared for the result of her whispered colloquy with Frideswide.

"What ails my little Doll?" gently asked the old lady.

"An't please your good Ladyship, you said Frid and Annis[#] should both go away hence."

[#] Annis, or more correctly Anneyse, is the old French form of Agnes, and appears to have been used in the Middle Ages, in England, as an affectionate diminutive. Some have supposed Annis to be a variety of Anne, and have therefore concluded that Anne and Agnes were considered the same name. This, I think, is a mistake. Annas is the Scottish spelling.

"We did, my little maid. Is our Doll very sorry therefor?"

"I shall be all alone!" sobbed Dorathie.

"'All alone!'" repeated her grandmother with a smile, which was pitying and a little sympathetic. "Little Doll, there be fourteen in this house beside Frideswide and Agnes."

"But they are none of them them!" said Dorathie.

"Aye. There is the rub," answered her grandmother. "But, little maid, we all have to come to that some time."

"'Tis as well to begin early, Doll," said her uncle.

"Please it you, Uncle Maurice," replied Dorathie, rubbing the tears out of her eyes with her small hands, "I'd rather begin late!"

Her father laughed. "Folks must needs go forth into the world, Doll," said he. "Thou mayest have to do the like thine own self some day."

"Shall I so?" asked Dorathie, opening her eyes wide. "Then, an' it like your good Lordship, may I go where Frid and Annis shall be?"

"Thou wilt very like go with Frid or Annis, it we can compass it," replied her father; "but they will not be together, Doll."

"Not together!" cried Dorathie in a tone of disappointed surprise.

"Nay: Frideswide goeth to my good Lady of Warwick at Middleham; and Agnes to London town, to serve my Lady's Grace of Exeter in her chamber."

"Then they'll be as unhappy as me!" said Dorathie, with a very sorrowful shake of her head. "I thought they were going to be happy."

"They shall be merry as crickets!" answered her father. "My Lady of Warwick hath two young ladies her daughters, and keepeth four maidens in her bower; and my Lady's Grace of Exeter hath likewise a daughter, and keepeth other four maids to wait of her. They are little like to be lonely."

Her grandmother understood the child's feeling, but her father did not. And Dorathie was dimly conscious that it was so. She dropped another courtesy, and crept back to Frideswide in the window-seat,—not comforted at all. There they sat and listened to the conversation of their elders round the fire. Frideswide was sewing busily, but Dorathie's hands were idle.

The season was early autumn, and the trees outside were just beginning to show the yellow leaf here and there. The window in which the two girls sat, a wide oriel, opened on a narrow courtyard, in front of which lay a garden of tolerable size, wherein pinks, late roses, and other flowers were bowing their heads to the cool breeze of the Yorkshire wolds. The court-yard was paved with large round stones, not pleasant to walk on, and causing no small clatter from the hoofs of the horses. A low parapet wall divided it from the garden, which was approached by three steps, thus making the court into a wide terrace. Beyond the garden, a crenellated wall some twelve feet high shut out the prospect.

What it shut out beside the prospect was a great deal, of which little was known to Frideswide, and much less to Dorathie. They lived at a period of which we, sheltered in a country which has not known war for two hundred years, can barely form an adequate idea. For fourteen years—namely, since Frideswide was five years old, and longer than Dorathie's life—England had been torn asunder by civil warfare. Nor was it over yet. The turbulent past had been sad enough, but the worst was yet to come.

Never, since the cessation of the Heptarchy, had a more terrible time been seen than the Wars of the Roses. In this struggle above all others, family convictions were divided, and family love rent asunder. Father and son, brother and brother, uncle and nephew, constantly took opposite sides: and every warrior on each side was absolutely sure that all shadow of right lay with his candidate, and that the "rebel and adversary" of his chosen monarch had not an inch of ground to stand on.

Nor was the question of right so clear and indisputable as in this nineteenth century we are apt to think. To our eyes, regarding the matter in the light of modern law, it appears certain that Edward IV. was the rightful heir of the crown, and that there was no room for dispute in the matter. But the real point in dispute was the very important one, what the law of succession really was. Was it any bar that Edward claimed through a female? The succession of all the kings from the Empress Maud might be fairly held to settle this item in Edward's favour. But the real difficulty, which lay beyond, was not so easily solved.

Very little understood at present is the law of non-representation, the old "custom of England," which was also the custom of Artois, and several other provinces. According to this law, if a son of the king should predecease his father, leaving issue, that issue was barred from the throne. They were not to be allowed to represent their dead father. The right of succession passed at once to the next son of the monarch.

Several of our kings tried to alter this law, but it was so dear to the hearts of the English people that up to 1377 they invariably failed. The most notable instance is that of Richard I., who tried hard to secure the succession of Arthur, the son of his deceased brother Geoffrey, in preference to his youngest brother John. But the "custom of England" was too strong for him: and though John was personally neither liked nor respected by any one, England preferred his rule to making a change in her laws.

It was Edward III. who succeeded in making the alteration. His eldest son, the famed Black Prince, had died leaving a son behind him, and the old King strongly desired to secure the peaceable succession of his grandson. He succeeded, partly because of the popularity of the deceased Prince, partly on account of the unpopularity of the next heir, but chiefly because the next heir himself was willing to assist in the alteration. His reward for this self-abnegation is that modern writers are perpetually accusing him of unbridled ambition, and of a desire to snatch the crown from that nephew who would assuredly never have worn it had he withheld his consent.

But though John of Gaunt was perfectly willing to be subject instead of sovereign, his son Henry did not share his feelings. He always considered that he had been tricked out of his rights: and he never forgave his father for consenting to the change. After sundry futile attempts to eject his cousin from the throne, he at last succeeded in effecting his purpose. The succession returned to the right line according to the old "custom of England"; and since King Richard II., for whom it had been altered, left no issue, matters might have gone on quietly enough had it been suffered to remain there.

They were quiet enough until the death of Henry V. But a long minority of the sovereign has nearly always been a misfortune to the country: and the longest of all minorities was that of Henry VI., who was only eight months old when he came to the throne. Then began a restless and weary struggle for power among the nobles, and especially the three uncles of the baby King. The details of the struggle itself belong to general history: but there are one or two points concerning which it will be best to make such remarks as are necessary at once, in order to save explanations which would otherwise be constantly recurring.

King Henry was remarkably devoid of relatives, and the nearest he had were not of his own rank. He was the only child of his father, and on the father's side his only living connections beside distant cousins were an uncle—Humphrey Duke of Gloucester—and a grand-uncle—Cardinal Beaufort—both of whom were, though different from each other, equally diverse from the King in temperament and aim. On the mother's side he had two half-brothers and a sister, with whom he was scarcely allowed to associate at all. He wanted a wife: and he took the means to obtain one which in his day princes usually took. He sent artists to the various courts of Europe, to bring to him portraits of the unmarried Princesses. King Henry's truth-loving nature comes out in the instructions given to these artists. They were to be careful not to flatter any of the royal ladies, but to draw their portraits just as they were. Of the miniatures thus brought to him, the King's fancy was attracted by the lovely face of a beautiful blonde of sixteen—the Princess Marguerite of Anjou, second daughter of René, the dispossessed King of Naples. An embassy, at the head of which was William Duke of Suffolk, was sent over to demand, and if accepted, to bring home the young Princess.

The girl-Queen found herself a very lonely creature, flung into the midst of discordant elements. She loved her husband, as she afterwards showed beyond question, and she must have felt deep respect for his pure, gentle, truthful, saintly soul. Yet, excellent as he was, he was no adviser for her. It was simply impossible for her brilliant intellect and brave heart to lean upon his dulled brain and timid nature. How could he, with the uttermost will to aid her, help his young wife to keep out of snares laid for her which he could not even see, or counsel her to beware of false friends whose falsehood he never so much as suspected? Is it any wonder that Marguerite in this sore emergency turned to Suffolk, her first friend, a man almost old enough to be her grandfather, with a wise head and a tender heart, and thoroughly desirous to do his duty? Poor, innocent girl! she paid dearly for it. One word of cruel, contemptuous surmise dropped from the lips of a young nobleman,—who very possibly had wished the fair young Queen to make him her chief adviser—and all over the land, as with wings, the wicked falsehood sped, till there was no possibility of undoing the evil, and Marguerite woke up in horror to find her name defamed, and her innocent friendship with Suffolk believed to be criminal. She did not discover for some time who was the author of this cruel slander: but when she did, she never forgave Warwick.

There is not the shadow of probability that it was true. Suffolk was about fifty years of age[#] when Marguerite was married, and he had been for nearly fifteen years the husband of one of the loveliest women in England, to whom he was passionately attached. His character is shown further by the farewell letter written to his son,[#] one of the most touching and pious farewell letters ever penned by man.

[#] He was born at Cotton, in Suffolk, and baptized in that church on "The Feast of St. Michael in Monte Tumba" [Oct. 16] 1396. (Prob. Ætatit Willielmi Ducis Suffolk, 5 H. V. 63.)

[#] Published among the Paston Letters.

But now another and a more serious complication was added to those already existing. The dispossessed heir of the elder branch, Richard Duke of York, had much to forgive the House of Lancaster. He had the memory of a murdered father and a long-imprisoned mother ever fresh before him. His claim was only through the female line, as the son of a daughter of the son of a daughter of Lionel Duke of Clarence, the second son of Edward III. who attained manhood, and who had predeceased his father. In respect of the male line, he was descended from a younger brother[#] of the grandfather of Henry VI. It was therefore only as the representative of Duke Lionel that he could put forward any claim at all. But Richard was not good at forgiving. And when, as if for the purpose of further entangling matters, and suggesting to Richard the very idea which he afterwards carried into action, Henry VI. was seized with an attack of that temporary insanity which he inherited from his maternal grandfather, Richard, as his next male relative, was placed in the position of Regent: a state of things so entirely suited to his wishes that when, the King having recovered, he was summoned to resign his charge, Richard coolly expressed his perfect satisfaction with the position of governor, and his intention to remain such, since he considered himself to be, as heir general of Duke Lionel, much more rightfully King of England than the cousin who had displaced him.

[#] Edmund Duke of York.

The first sensation of Henry VI., on hearing this calm assertion of Richard, was simply one of unbounded amazement.

"My grandfather," said he, "held the crown for twelve years, and my father for ten, and I have held it for twenty-three: and all that time you and your fathers have kept silence, and not one word of this have I ever heard before. What mean you, fair cousin, to prefer such a claim against the Lord's Anointed?"

It was not quite the fact that Richard's fathers had kept absolute silence, since his uncle, Edmund Earl of March, had been put forward as a claimant for the throne, just fifty years before:[#] but in all probability the King was entirely justified in stating that the idea was new to him. It is not likely that those about him from infancy would have allowed him to become familiar with it, since his delicate sense of right and justice was—in their eyes—the most tiresome thing about him. But the question was not in his hands for decision. Had it been so, no man would ever have heard of the Wars of the Roses. King Henry "had no sense of honour," which probably means that ambition, self-seeking, and aggressiveness were feelings utterly unknown to him. "Yea, let him take all," would have been the language of his lips and heart, so long as he had left to him a quiet home in some green nook of England, the wife and child whom he dearly loved, a few books, and peace. At times God's providence decrees peace as the lot of such men. At other rimes it seems to be the one thing with which they must not be trusted. They are tossed perpetually on the waves of this troublesome world, "emptied from vessel to vessel," never suffered to rest. This last was the destiny of Henry VI. For him, it was the way home to the Land of Peace, where there is no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying. For four hundred years his spirit has dwelt in the eternal peace of Paradise; God has comforted him for ever.

[#] A full account of this transaction will be found in "The White Rose of Langley."

It was an unfortunate thing for Richard of York that he had married a woman who acted toward his ambitious aspirations not as a bridle, but as a spur. Cicely Neville, surnamed from her great beauty The Rose of Raby, was a woman who, like two of her descendants, would have "died to-morrow to be a queen to-day," and would have preferred "to eat dry bread at a king's table, rather than feast at the board of an elector."[#] Of all members of the royal family of England, this lady is to my knowledge the only one who ever styled herself in her own charters "the right high and right excellent Princesse." The Rose of Raby was not the only title given her. To the vulgar in the neighbourhood where her youth was spent she was also known as Proud Cis. And every act of her life tends to show the truth of the title.

[#] The words first quoted were spoken by Anne Princess of Orange, eldest daughter of George II.; the latter by Elizabeth Queen of Bohemia, eldest daughter of James I.

It was at the battle of St. Albans—the first fought between the rival Roses—that Dorathie's grandfather had been killed; the husband of the stately old lady who remained head of the household at Lovell Tower. His barony descended to his only daughter Margery, who, after a good deal of hesitation among rival suitors who greatly admired her title and fortune, had gradually awoke to the discovery that she liked nobody quite so well as her old friend John Marston, though he was nearly twice her age, and a widower with three children. So on him, with the full consent of her mother, she bestowed hand and heart, title and fortune; the former being in his eyes, alone of all her lovers, more valuable than the latter. In her right he became Lord Marnell of Lymington, for until a comparatively recent period the title of a peeress in her own right was held to become the property of her husband as absolutely as her goods, and was conferred by courtesy, as a matter of necessity, upon any second wife whom he might marry. Two more children—Dorathie and Ralph—were added to the family: but only the former now survived. It will thus be seen that Frideswide and Agnes were half-sisters of Dorathie. The other member of the family not yet introduced was Walter, the eldest son. He was at present a young squire in the household of Queen Marguerite.

Every soul at Lovell Tower was passionately Lancastrian. To them Henry VI. was The King, and Edward IV. was "the rebel." In the house of the next knight, half a mile away, the conditions were reversed: and the two families, who had been old and firm friends, now passed each other on the road with no notice whatever. Very painful was this state of things to the Lady Idonia, the only sister of four brothers thus placed at variance. Her two younger brothers, Maurice and William, were still on good terms with her, for they were Lancastrians like herself. But the Carew family was one of those which the political earthquake had shattered, and Hugh and Thomas were determined Yorkists. It was the sadder—or should have been,—since the younger Lady Marnell had been educated under the roof of her Uncle Hugh, during the prolonged residence of her parents at the Court of Scotland. Fortunately or unfortunately, Uncle Hugh and Aunt Mabel had contrived to impress themselves on the mind of young Margery in no other character than that of live barricades against the accomplishment of all her wishes. To be otherwise than on speaking terms with them, therefore, was a much smaller calamity to Margery than to her mother. The Lady Idonia used to sigh heavily when their names were mentioned. Yet to keep up the friendship would have been no easy matter. Hugh Carew was granite where his convictions were concerned; and not content with following them himself, he insisted on imposing them on every body who came near him. It would have been in his eyes a matter of principle not to allow his sister or his niece to speak of "the King" or "the rebel," without letting them see that he wilfully misunderstood the allusion. Idonia merely sighed ever this piece of perversity, while yet their intercourse remained unbroken: but Margery was apt to flare up and make an open breach of the peace. It certainly was trying, when she spoke of the King (meaning Henry VI.) as in Scotland, to be reminded in a cold, precise tone, slightly astonished, that she had unaccountably forgotten that His Highness was at Westminster. It is not therefore to be wondered at, if Margery felt the open hostility rather a relief than a burden, while her mother grieved over it in secret.

"'Tis strange gear," the Lady Idonia would sometimes say, "that men cannot think alike."

"Nay, fair Sister, why should they so?" was her brother William's answer. "This were tame world if no man saw by his own eyes, but all after a pattern."

"That were well, Ida," replied the graver Maurice, "could all men see through God's eyes."

"Aye, and who shall dare say how He looketh on these matters?" rejoined William.

"Know we not that?" said Maurice. "'The righteous Lord delighteth in righteousness; His countenance beholdeth equity.'"[#]

[#] Psalm xi. 8.

"On which side is the equity?" asked his brother with a shrug of his shoulders. "Somewhat scant on both, as methinks. My Lords of Warwick and Somerset are scarce they which, before giving battle, should look through a speculation glass[#] to find the righteousness of the matter."

[#] Magnifier.

"Perhaps it were hardly so small as to need the same," was Maurice's dry answer.

"Nay, fair Uncle William, but I cry you mercy!" broke in Margery. "It seems me you be but half-hearted toward our good King. Surely his, and none other, is the cause of right and justice."

"Gramercy, Madge! I am well assured I never said they lay with that rebel," returned her uncle, laughing.

"Methinks," said Maurice quietly, "that King David was the wisest, which committed his cause unto God. Never, truly, had king so clear and perfect title as he. But we find not that he laid siege to King Saul, in order to come by it the sooner."

"Dear heart! prithee go tell that to the Queen," said William, still laughing. "Such reasoning were right after the King's heart."

"The Queen fights not for herself," responded Maurice. "It is easier to trust our own lot in God's hands, than the lot of them we love most. But mind ye not, Will and Ida, what our Philip were wont to say—'They that God keepeth be the best kept'?"

William made no reply. He was silenced by the allusion to the dead brother, on whom the Carews looked much as those around them did upon the saints.

The interval between the battles of St. Albans and Wakefield—five years and a half—had changed most of the dramatis personæ, but had not in any degree altered the sanguinary character of the struggle. Richard Duke of York was gone—killed at Wakefield: Suffolk was gone, a victim to popular fury. King Henry and Queen Marguerite were still the prominent figures on the Lancastrian side, joined now by their son Prince Edward. On the York side were the three sons of Duke Richard,—Edward, George, and Richard, whose ages when the story opens were twenty-eight, nineteen, and seventeen. Which of these three young men possessed the worst character it is difficult to judge, though that evil eminence is popularly assigned to Richard. Edward was an incorrigible libertine; not a bad organiser, nor devoid of personal bravery, though it usually appeared by fits and starts. He could do a generous action, but he was irremediably lazy, and far weaker in character than either of his brothers. One redeeming point he had—his personal love for his blood relations. But it was not pure love, for much selfishness was mixed with it. Perhaps really the worst of the three was George, for he was not merely an ingrained self-seeker, but also false to the heart's core. No atom of trust could ever be placed in him. The most solemn oath taken to-day was no guarantee whatever against his breaking through every engagement to-morrow. The Dutchman's maxim, "Every man for mineself," was the motto of George's life. Each of the brothers spent his life in sowing seeds of misery, and in each case the grain came to perfection: though most of the harvest of George and Richard was reaped by themselves, while Edward's was left for his innocent sons to gather.

It may reasonably be asked why Warwick is counted among the Lancastrians, when to a great extent Edward owed his throne to him, and he had been a consistent Yorkist for years. It is because, at the period when the story opens, Warwick thought proper so to account himself. King Henry, never able to see through a schemer or a traitor, had complacently welcomed him back to his allegiance: Queen Marguerite, who saw through him to the furthest inch, and held him in unmitigated abhorrence, felt that he was necessary at this moment to her husband's cause, and locking her own feelings hard within her, allowed it to be supposed that she was able to trust him, and kept sharp watch over every movement.

It has already been said that the decision for peace or war was not left in the hands of King Henry. The woman who sat by his side on the throne was no longer the timid, lonely dove of their early married life. Marguerite of Anjou was now a woman of middle age, and a mother whose very soul was wrapped around that bright-haired boy who alone shared her heart with his father. Could she but have looked forward a few years, and have seen that for that darling son war meant an early and bloody end, she might have been more ready to acquiesce in King Henry's preference for an obscure but peaceful life. What she saw was something very different. How was she to know that the golden vision which rose so radiantly before her entranced eyes was but a mirage of the desert, and that the silver stream which seemed to spread so invitingly before her would only mock her parched lips with burning sand?

The fatal choice was made for war, and the war had now been raging for fourteen years. The wheel of Fortune had turned rapidly and capriciously, but York had on the whole been uppermost. To the majority of ordinary Englishmen who cared at least as much for peace and prosperity as politics, "the King" had meant Edward IV. since 1461. England at that weary hour cared more for rest than she cared to know who gave it to her. Edward, on his part, had "indulged himself in ease and pleasure"[#]—which was what he most valued—and might have continued to do so if he had kept on good terms with Warwick. For let Edward or Henry be termed the King, it was Warwick who "had all Englond at his bedyng," and the man who offended this master of kings was not likely to be king much longer. Edward had sent Warwick to France to negotiate for his marriage to Bona of Savoy, the Queen's sister, and while the envoy was away, the master fell into the toils of the fair face and golden hair and sweet purring ways of the Lady Grey of Groby. As Edward had passed his life on the easy principle of never denying himself any thing, he acted consistently in marrying the lady. Considering how few ever do so, he had probably not realised that this easy principle is apt to turn in later life into the sharpest of scourges. Warwick came home in a furious passion, and carried his power, influence, and army instantly over to the side of Lancaster. No man likes being made to "look small," and least of all could it be brooked by a man of Warwick's character and position. Edward paid very dearly for his golden-haired bride, and whether the purchase was worth the amount it cost may be considered extremely doubtful. Elizabeth Grey was not like Marguerite of Anjou, a far-seeing, self-less, large-hearted woman. Her mental horizon was exceedingly minute. She was chiefly concerned, like the creature she most resembled, to obtain the warmest spot of the hearthrug for herself. Very delightful to stroke and pet when all goes well, such quadrupeds—and such women—are capable of becoming extremely uncomfortable companions in certain combinations of circumstances.

[#] Comines.

Edward was not the only person who paid that heavy bill which he ran up with so light a heart. Only one small instalment of it was discharged by him. A heavier one was due from Queen Elizabeth, wrung out through long years of anguish and desolation: another from their innocent boys, discharged in their life's blood. The least amount, perhaps, was exacted from the most undeserving sharer in the penalty—that young Warwickshire girl who was Edward's real wife by canon law, and whose strong love proved equal to the fiery ordeal of saving his honour and ensuring what seemed his happiness at the cost of all her own. It cost her life as well. Edward had the cruelty and baseness to call her into court to deny their marriage. He knew her well enough to dare to do it. And she came, calm and self-restrained, and perjured her soul because she thought it would make him happier and save his good name. Hers was of no moment. Then she passed out of sight, and the overstrained string snapped, and nothing was left to vex the triumphant monarch. Only God saw a nameless green grave in a country churchyard. And when He comes to make inquisition for blood, when every thing that was hidden shall be known, I think it will be found that He did not forget Elizabeth Lucy.

Yet Edward did not escape quite without reproach. One person endeavoured to prevent this sin and shame, and it was a very unlikely person. The voice of Proud Cis was the only one raised against it, and her interference, futile though it was, is the best action of her life. From the far north Edward received the passionate reproaches of his mother for this dastardly action. They did not deter him from its accomplishment: but let the fact be remembered to Cicely's honour.[#]

[#] Some writers have disputed, and more have ignored, these miserable transactions. Surely the interference of Cicely, and the language of Comines, who was a personal acquaintance of the royal family, may fairly be held to prove the point.

Two months before the story begins, Warwick had taken advantage of some quarrel between Edward and his brother George of Clarence to allure the latter to the Lancastrian cause. He offered him an enormous bribe to come over, being his elder daughter Isabel, with one half of her mother's vast inheritance. It must not be forgotten that all Warwick's titles were derived from females. He was Earl of Salisbury in succession to his mother, and Earl of Warwick only by courtesy, in right of his wife. His two daughters, Isabel and Anne, were his only children, and the richest heiresses in the kingdom. They were both extremely beautiful girls, but Isabel was considered the lovelier. Clarence, who kept neither a heart nor a conscience, was ready to do any thing, good, bad, or indifferent, which promised to promote his own advancement in this world. He accepted Warwick's offer; and was now therefore in arms against his brother, and a member of Warwick's household at Middleham Castle, of which household Frideswide Marston was about to form an item.