Chapter 35

THE RETREAT

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o’ertake me on the way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

SHAKSPEARE.

It was York’s characteristic to be sanguine beyond all men. Pain impressed him more deeply and sorely, than could be imagined by the cold of spirit; but show him the remedy, teach him the path to redress, and he threw off the clogging weight of care, and rose free and bright as in earliest youth. His impatience to behold his royal friend, to speak the little word, which he felt assured would recall the Scots from their ravages, and take from him the guilt of his subjects’ blood, grew like a torrent in the spring:—he outspeeded his main troop; he left all but his chiefest friends behind; one by one even these grew fewer; he mounted a fresh horse, it was the third that day—”May-flower is worse than blown,” said Neville; “will not your highness repose till to-morrow?”

“Repose!”—this echo was his only answer, and already he was far and alone upon his way.

The Scottish lines were passed, and the embattled walls of Norham, grey and impenetrable as rock, were before him; the royal pavilion occupied the centre of the camp. The wearied steed that bore York dropt on one knee as he reined him up before it, flushed, with, every mark of travel and haste—he threw himself from his saddle, and entered the tent: it was thronged; he saw not one face, save that of the monarch himself, who was conversing with a churchman, whose dark foreign countenance Richard had seen before; now it was like a vision before him. James, in an accent of surprise, cried, “My lord, this is an unexpected visit.”

“Excuse ceremony, my dear cousin,” said York; “I come not to speak to the majesty of Scotland: man to man—a friend to his dearest friend—I have a suit to urge.”

James, who was aware that his actual occupation of listening and even acceding to the suggestions of his foreign visitant, in favour of peace with Henry, was treason to York’s cause, thought that news of Don Pedro D’Ayala’s arrival was the secret of these words: he blushed as he replied, “As friend to friend, we will hear anon—to-morrow.”

“There is no anon to my dear plea,” said York; “even now the hellish work is about which you must check. Oh, what am I, king of Scotland, that I am to be made the curse and scourge of my own people? The name of Richard is the bye-word of hate and terror, there, where I seek for blessings and filial love. You know not the mischief your fierce Borderers achieve—it is not yet too late; recall your men; bid them spare my people; let not the blood of my subjects plead against my right; rather would I pine in exile for ever, than occasion the slaughter and misery of my countrymen, my children.”