The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck: a Romance
Copyright© 2025 by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
Chapter 46
A PRISONER
Art thou he, traitor! that with treason vile
Hast slain my men in this unmanly manner,
And now triumphest in the piteous spoil
Of these poor folk; whose souls with black dishonour
And foul defame do deck thy bloody banner?
The meed whereof shall shortly be thy shame,
And wretched end which still attendeth on her.
With that himself to battle he did frame;
So did his forty yeomen which there with him came.
SPENSER.
Some miles to the east of Yeovil there was a deep stream, whose precipitous banks were covered by a thick underwood that almost concealed the turbid waters, which undermined and bared the twisted and gnarled roots of the various overhanging trees or shrubs. The left side of the stream was bounded by an abrupt hill, at the foot of which was a narrow pathway; on the green acclivity flourished a beech grove, whose roots were spread in many directions to catch the soil, while their trunks, some almost horizontal, were all fantastically grown, and the fairy tracery of the foliage shed such soft, mellowed, chequered light as must incline the heart of the wanderer beneath the leafy bower to delicious musings.
Now the moon silvered the trees, and sometimes glimmered on the waters, whose murmurs contended with the wind that sung among the boughs: and was this all? A straggling moonbeam fell on something bright amid the bushes, and a deep voice cried, “Jack of the Wynd, if thou can’st not get to thicker cover, pluck darnels to cover that cursed steel cap of thine.”
“Hush!” repeated another lower voice, “your bawling is worse than his head-piece; you outroar the wind. How high the moon is, and our friends not come;—he will be here before them.”
“Hark! a bell!”
“Matins, by the Fiend! may he seize that double-tongued knave! I much suspect Master Frion; I know him of old.”
“He cannot mar us now, though it be he who made this ambushment.”
“Oh, by your leave! he has the trick of it, and could spring a mine in the broadest way; he can turn and twist, and show more faces than a die. He this morn—I know the laugh—there is mischief in ‘t.”
“But, your worship, now, what can he do?”
“Do! darken the moon; set these trees alive and dancing; do! so play the Will o’ the Wisp that the king shall be on Pendennis and the duke at Greenwich, and each fancy he is within bow-shot of the other; do! ask the devil what is in his compact, for he is but the Merry Andrew of Doctor Frion. Hush!”
“It is he,” said the other speaker.
A breathless pause ensued; the wind swept through the trees—another sound—its monotonous recurrence showed that it was a dashing waterfall—and yet again it grew louder.
“It is he.”
“No, Gad’s mercy, it comes westward—close, my merry fellows, close, and mind the word! close, for we have but half our number, and yet he may escape.”
Again the scene sank into silence and darkness: such silence as is nature’s own, whose voice is ever musical: such darkness as the embowering trees and vast island-clouds made, dimming and drinking up the radiance of the moon.
The stillness was broken by the tramp of horses drawing near, men’s voices mingled with the clatter, and now several cavaliers entered the defile; they rode in some disorder, and so straggling, that it was probable that many of their party lagged far behind: the principal horseman had reached midway the ravine, when suddenly a tree, with all its growth of green and tangled boughs, fell right across the path; the clatter of the fall deafened the screech which accompanied it, for one rider was overthrown; it was succeeded by a flight of arrows from concealed archers. “Ride for your lives,” cried Richard: but his path was crossed by six horsemen, while, starting from the coppice, a band of near forty men engaged with the van of his troop, who tried to wheel about: some escaped, most fell. With his sword drawn, the prince rushed at his foremost enemy; it was a mortal struggle for life and liberty, for hatred and revenge. Richard was the better swordsman, but his horse was blown, and half sunk upon his haunches, when pressed closely by the adversary. Richard saw his danger, and yet his advantage, for his foe, over-eager to press him down, forgot the ward; he rose on his stirrups, and grasped his sword with both hands, when a blow from behind, a coward’s blow, from a battle-axe, struck him; it was repeated, and he fell lifeless on the earth.
Sickness, and faintness, and throbbing pain were the first tokens of life that visited his still failing sense; sight and the power of motion seemed to have deserted him, but memory reviving told him that he was a prisoner. Moments were stretched to ages while he strove to collect his sensations; still it was night; the view of fields and uplands and of the varied moon-lit sky grew upon his languid senses; he was still on horseback, bound to the animal, and supported on either side by men. As his movements communicated his returning strength, one of these fellows rode to impart the tidings to their leader, while the other stayed to guide his horse; the word “gallop!” was called aloud, and he was urged along at full speed, while the sudden motion almost threw him back into his swoon.
Dawn, which at first seemed to add to the dimness and indistinctness of the landscape, struggling through the clouds, and paling the moon, slowly stole upon them. The prince became sufficiently alive to make observations; he and his fellow-prisoners were five in number only, their guards were ten; foremost among them was one whom, in whatever guise, he could not mistake. Each feeling in Richard’s heart stimulated him to abhor that man, yet he pitied him more. Gallant, bold Robin, the frolicksome page, the merry-witted sharer of a thousand pleasures. Time, thou art a thief; how base a thief—when thou stealest not only our friends, our youth, our hopes, but, besides, our innocence; giving us in the place of light-hearted confidence—guile, distrust, the consciousness of evil deeds. In these thoughts, Richard drew the colouring of the picture, from the fresh and vivid tints that painted his own soul. Clifford’s breast had perhaps never been free from the cares of guilt: he had desired honour; he had loved renown; but the early development of passion and of talent had rendered him, even in boyhood, less single-hearted than Richard now.
Clifford was triumphant; he possessed Monina’s beloved—the cause of his disgrace—bound, a prisoner, and wounded. Why then did pain distort his features, and passion flush his brow? No triumph laughed in his eye, or sat upon his lip. He hated the prince; but he hated and despised himself. He played a dastardly and a villain’s part; and shame awaited even success. The notoriety and infamy that attended on him (exaggerated as those things usually are, in his own eyes), made him fear to meet, in the neighbouring villages or towns, any noble cavalier who might recognise him; even if he saw a party of horsemen on the road he turned out of it, and thus got entangled among by-paths in an unfrequented part of the country. They continued the same fast career for several hours, till they entered a wild dark forest, where the interminable branches of the old oaks met high-arched overhead, and the paths were beset with fern and underwood. The road they took was at first a clear and open glade, but it quickly narrowed, and branched off in various directions; they followed one of its windings till it abruptly closed: the leader then reined in, and Clifford’s voice was heard. Years had elapsed since it had met Richard’s ear; the mere, as it were, abstract idea of Clifford was mingled with crime and hate; his voice, his manner, his look were associated with protestations of fidelity; or, dearer still, the intercourse of friendship and youthful gaiety; no wonder that it seemed a voice from the grave to betrayed York. “Halloo!” cried Clifford, “Clym of the Lyn, my merry man, thou art to track us through the New Forest to Southampton.”
“Please your knightship,” said a shaggy-headed fellow, “our way is clear, I am at home now: but, by Saint George, we must halt; a thirty miles’ ride since matins, his fast unbroken, would have made Robin Hood a laggard.”
“What would you eat here?” cried Clifford; “a stoup of canary and beef were blessings for the nonce; but we must get out of this accursed wilderness into more Christian neighbourhood before we find our hostelry.”
Clim of the Lyn grinned. “To a poor forester,” said he, “the green-wood is a royal inn; vert and venison, your worship, sound more savoury than four smoky walls, and a platter of beef brought in mine host’s left hand, while his right already says—’Pay!’”
“They would feed me with mine own venison in way of courtesy, even as the Lion Heart, my namesake and ancestor, was feasted of old; mine—each acre, each rood, and every noble stag that pastures thereon; but I am not so free as they; and, mine though this wild wood be, I must thank an outlaw ere I dine upon my own.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.