What see you in that old oak more than in any other tree, except that its trunk is white with age, and that gray lichens hang in tufts from out the interstices of the bark? That tree, stranger, was a silent witness of scenes long past. It stood when England was rent asunder during the fearful contest of the Roses; and beside its noble trunk met those, in all the pride of chivalry and loveliness of beauty, who now are resting from life’s weary pilgrimage beneath the tomb of Quentin Matsys.

Who has not heard concerning the Duchess Dowager of Bedford, how she left her high estate to wed a simple squire, and to dwell with him in the beautiful solitude of her dower castle of Grafton, far from the scene of her former greatness! The noble trees that grouped around the castle wall, mingled with those of the wide forest of Whittlebury, a royal chase, on the verge of which, and at no great distance from the castle, stood this aged tree, then in all the pride of sylvan majesty; and far as the eye could reach, extended one vast sweep of woodland scenery, with breaks of lawn and thicket. The inhabitants of Grafton Castle passed the first years of their wedded life in comparative obscurity, exercising hospitality, according to the manners of the age, yet keeping as much as possible apart from the dangers and excitements of public life. At length the necessity of providing for the elder branches of an increasing family, rendered it desirable to strengthen their connexions, and the Duchess of Bedford, whose rank was more exalted than her fortune, resolved to introduce them at the court of her friend, Queen Margaret, to whom her eldest daughter, the beautiful Elizabeth Woodville, was appointed maid of honour.[40]Years passed on, and Elizabeth was united to John Gray, son and heir to Lord Ferrars of Groby, possessor of the ancient domain of Bradgate,[41] by reason of his descent from Petronilla, daughter of Grantmesnil, one of the proudest of our Norman nobility. Withdrawn from her quiet home by the stirring incidents that attended the fierce contest between the rival houses of York and Lancaster, Elizabeth accompanied her husband during the campaign, and shared with him in many of its perils. It was even said that Queen Margaret persuaded her to visit king-making Warwick in his camp, under the pretence of requesting some little favour, for the stout earl was ever kind to her; but in reality to make observations relative to the number and condition of his troops. This was on the eve of the great battle of St. Albans, which took place at a short distance from the abbey. The abbey stood, in peaceable times, like a vast granary, which continually received and gave out its produce, into which was gathered both corn, and wine, and oil, barley, and the fruits of the earth, and to which not fewer than twelve cells and hospitals were appended. And scarcely was there a forest, chase, or wood throughout the greatest part of England, which did not in some measure contribute a supply to the abbey of its timber or venison. Successive monarchs banquetted within its walls, and while the abbots were distinguished for their extensive hospitality, the poor were not forgotten. Thus stood St. Albans, often in stormy times a place of refuge, into which the peasants drove their cattle and were secure, and while the storm of war raged furiously without, there was safety and abundance within. But it was not always so, and St. Albans was sacked more than once. The infuriated followers of Wat Tyler set fire to the papers and written records of the abbey, and in after times it was exposed to all the horrors of civil war, when the rival houses of York and Lancaster battled close beside its walls, and beneath the floor of our Lady’s chapel rest the remains of many who fought and fell in those murderous conflicts. Showers and warm sunbeams contribute their aid ofttimes to repair the ravages which war has made in the aspect of nature. The trodden fields were again covered with corn; dwellings which had been set on fire, were speedily rebuilt, and all went on as before. Tributes of corn, and wine, and oil, were brought into the abbey, and the poor and destitute received their daily doles. But men had not yet learned that war and misery are synonymous. The second battle of St. Albans, at which the forces of Queen Margaret were, for a brief space, triumphant, was deeply felt within the abbey. Wounded men, borne by their companions from the fray, were continually brought in; and when the battle ceased, it was fearful to hear the continual tolling of the bell, sounding daily from morning till night, while the dead were being interred; if holding rank among the living, within the precincts of the monastery, if otherwise, in an adjoining field.[42] The husband of Elizabeth Woodville, Gray Lord Ferrars, was then in the twenty-fifth year of his age. Handsome, valorous, and intrepid, and devotedly attached to the cause of Henry VI.; he was appointed commander of the Red-rose cavalry, and, while leading on the memorable onset by which the field was won, he received a mortal wound, of which he died a few days after, at the village of Colney, on the twenty-eighth of February 1461.[43] Henry VI. visited and endeavoured to console the dying youth, and sought, with the usual kindliness of his nature, to reconcile him to the thought of death, by pointing to the only Refuge, on whom his own hopes rested. Some chroniclers relate, that, according to the fashion of the age, he conferred the honour of knighthood on the wounded earl, for the sake of his sons, for although his father, Lord Ferrars, had died two months before, the distracted condition of the country had prevented the young nobleman from taking his place in the house of peers. A deep and rancorous feeling seems to have existed against the memory of this brave and devoted adherent of King Henry; his harmless children, the eldest of whom was not more than four years of age, were deprived of their inheritance, and his widow was not permitted to remain on the family estate; the fine old mansion, with its broad lands, was confiscated; it became the property of another, who repaired thither to take possession, and with him his family and dependents, who filled all the offices and places of trust and profit which the adherents of the house of Gray had hitherto enjoyed. Elizabeth, therefore, sought again the paternal roof. Sad was the day of her return, yet she only was changed. The avenue of noble trees waved in the breeze, fresh and shady as when last she passed; the fields, too, looked as green and lovely, and through them lay the pathway, fringed with wild flowers, where she had often gathered, with her young companions, fresh garlands of sweet flowers, with which to bedeck themselves. The mansion had not been altered, since the family returned from court, at the accession of Edward IV. There was the open door, down the steps of which the train of sisters had followed their stately mother, when they set forth a few years before, at the invitation of Queen Margaret, to visit her court; the eldest, appointed to be her maid of honour;[44] the others, with promises of favour and promotion. They had now returned, for there was neither favour nor promotion for adherents of the Red-rose, and Catherine, and Anne, and Mary, were waiting to receive Elizabeth with blended feelings of joy and sorrow; joy, to welcome back their sister; sorrow, to see her widow’s weeds and orphan children. Time had not changed them, nor were the faithful servants, who had seen, a few years back, their young mistress depart, with tears and blessings, yet broken down. Here, then, at a short distance from this time-worn tree, Elizabeth continued to reside in Grafton Castle, devoted to the education of her sons; for whom, as well as for herself, she was dependent on the bounty of her father.

Edward came at length to hunt in the forest of Whittlebury, for this great forest was a royal chase, abounding with shady coverts and open spaces, where the fern grew wild and high, and dancing lights and shadows seemed to sport over a wilderness of broken ground and coppice-wood. Elizabeth heard that he would pass at a short distance from her mother’s dower castle, and she resolved to wait for him under the shade of the tall tree, which bears her name. The mingled sound of hounds and horns, with the trampling of horses on the green turf, soon reached her ear, and presently the monarch passed that way with his gallant train of hunters. She was then, for such is the tradition of the neighbourhood,[45] with her fatherless boys, on this very spot, for she had thrown herself on the ground, and besought him, with many tears, to have pity on her impoverished and bereaved children. The sight of beauty in affliction softened the stern heart of the monarch, while the anxiety of a mother for her children seemed to awaken in his heart feelings of kindliness and compassion, to which he had been long a stranger, and he raised her from the ground, with assurances of favour and consideration.

Legends tell, that they met again under the same old tree, for that Edward seemed to prefer that their interviews should take place where he had first seen and loved the beautiful Elizabeth. History relates that the espousals were privately solemnised early in the morning of the first of May 1464, at the town of Grafton, near Stony Stratford. None were present excepting the Duchess of Bedford, the priest, and two gentlewomen, with a young man, who assisted in singing. The priest who wedded them lies buried before the altar, in the church of the Minoresses at London-bridge.[46]

O what a mingled throng are passing now,
As in a mirror, which time seems to hold
For men to gaze in! Actors in all scenes,
Mingled, and yet distinct, with names on each,
Given by Him who sent them forth to bless
Their homes or kindred—dwelling where they may.
Kings, with their crowned heads, and he who serves—
The anxious tradesman, and the gentle one
Who walks with peace, looking on meads and streams—
Loving the sound of whispering winds at eve,
Of warbling birds, and prattling streams that gush
’Mid flowers and ferns, and green hills meeting round;
For such are seen, e’en near the deadly fray
Of battle fields, where meet the sire and son.
The Red-rose conquering now—and then the Pale;
And he, who skulks in forest haunt, or cave
When morning dawns, walks as a chief at eve.

Look, then, at the strange eventful scenes in the life of Elizabeth Woodville, as they pass before the mental vision, now in brightness and in beauty, and now in shade and sadness.

Observe that gallant gentleman, holding a lady by the hand, in a large and antique apartment, for the scene has changed from Grafton Castle to the old palace of Reading. That gentleman is Edward IV., and standing round, are peers and princes of the realm, adherents of the house of York, whom the king has convened in council, that he may present to them the lady Elizabeth as his rightful queen,—one whom he had wedded because of her exalted worth, for he could never hope to espouse a foreign princess, on account of the house of Lancaster.[47] The queen is apparently little more than twenty-eight years of age, and her delicate and modest beauty is not impaired by either time or sorrow. Her head is encircled with a high crown of peculiar richness, the numerous points of which are finished by fleur-de-lis. Rich pearls, strung in an elaborate pattern, encircle her beautiful neck, while a small ring, in the middle of her forehead, divides her pale yellow tresses, which descend in waving curls of great length and profusion. Her face is exceedingly fair, and her eyes are timidly cast down. She is royally attired in a splendid kind of gold brocade, woven in stripes of blue and gold, of which the wearing is restricted to the royal reigning family, with a close boddice and tight sleeves, and ermine robings, turned back over the shoulders, and the whole dress is girded round the waist with a crimson scarf. Her skirt is full and flowing, with a broad ermine border, and a train of many yards in length, held up by a trainbearer, a fair and gentle-looking damsel, most probably one of the queen’s sisters, who has gracefully folded the extremity around her arms. A rich blue satin petticoat is seen beneath the drapery, and the shoes that peep forth occasionally are of a pointed form.[48]

From that old room of state, where stands the fair young queen, thus regally attired, passes on the pageant of king and lady, and bearded counsellors, in solemn pomp, to the stately abbey church of Reading, the lady led by the young Duke of Clarence, where she is publicly declared queen; and where having made her offering, she is receiving the congratulations of the assembled nobility, among whom, some people say, is the Earl of Warwick. Brilliant fÊtes and tournaments succeed, such as have not been seen in England, since the gorgeous days of Edward III., when he held high state in Windsor Castle. Elizabeth presides in all, with her lovely train of sisters, and around them gather, as shepherds to “the star of Arcady, or Tyrian cynosure,” many a gallant knight and noble, proud to tilt in honour of those fair damsels, and to receive from them the prize that beauty awards to valour. Listen now to the loud hum that mighty London sends through all her gates, for sights and sounds of revelry pertain to this bright act in the life of our sovereign lady. Knights, and citizens, and throngs of people are filling every street, and crowding every window. The queen is passing through the city to her palace of Westminster, in a litter borne on poles, and supported by stately prancing steeds; and right and left, behind and in advance, ride valiant men, whom the king has deputed to this honour. The queen has come from Eltham Palace, where the hawthorn-trees are all in blossom, and the little birds are singing blithely, as if to hail their queen on the day of her coronation. And when the train of knights and citizens is seen passing beneath the lofty portal of the ancient abbey, sweet sounds greet them, not of joyous birds that warble their harmonious concerts among the trees in Eltham park, but deep solemn music, and glorious human voices chanting in unison; and thus welcomed and attended, enters Elizabeth, to pass forth again a crowned and anointed woman. And with her is Count James, of St. Pol, uncle to the Duchess of Bedford, with a hundred knights and their attendants; a sovereign prince, and near kinsman of the queen, whom Charles the Bold had deputed to be present at the coronation. King Edward desired that the peers of England and the citizens of London should be assured that the lady whom he married was worthy, by her high descent, to share his throne, and he had requested the French king to induce some of the princes of the house of Luxemburg to visit England, and claim kindred with his wife. Count James set forth accordingly, for now that his fair cousin wore a crown, he was proud to acknowledge the connexion. It was otherwise a few years before with the house of Luxemburg: they had not only chosen to forget the mother of Elizabeth, because she married a private gentleman, “though he was the handsomest man in all England, and the duchess was an exceeding handsome gentlewoman.” They had not only chosen to withold their countenance, but had even spoken such harsh words, that neither the knight nor lady dared to claim kindred with them on the continent, for the father of that same count, who was now in England, would have slain them both, had they ventured within his reach. All was now forgotten, and he who looks with the mental eye through the long, long vista of past ages, may discern in the dim distance, gorgeous pageants, and tilts and tournaments, ladies coming forth from their old Gothic castles to grace the court, with chevaliers of France and England, each from their baronial residences, mingling in feats of arms and festivals. And then, beside the small couch of a fair infant, are seen standing the haughty Cicely of York, and the royally descended Jaquetta of Bedford, grandmothers of the young scion, made friends that day, as they bend with looks of love over the unconscious sleeping one. Sleep on, fair child, thy brow shall wear a crown, but weary years of woes and wanderings are before thee.[49]

The hand of the reaper,
Cuts the ears that are hoary:
But the voice of the weeper,
Wails manhood in glory.—Scott.

It is the middle of corn harvest, and reapers are cutting down the rich brown ears, on the verge of the great forest, where first met the Lady Elizabeth and King Edward. All around the Queen’s Oak, the oak of Whittlebury Chase, is one vast joyous solitude of woods and waters, lonely, yet cheerful; without any habitation, yet not unpeopled, for noble antlers are seen emerging from the brushwood, and joyous birds and butterflies fly in and out among the trees, or flit from one flower to another. All is stillness, and beauty, and luxuriance; and let him who has found a covert within the woody range, venture not far away, for there are fearful doings in the land.

Gradually melt away the mists of time, that have hidden for a while the court of Westminster, but the king is not there, nor yet the queen, nor the couch on which the young child lay; but instead of these, strange men are seen hurrying from room to room, as if in quest of plunder. The moon is up, and her pale beams shine on the white sails of a small vessel, that urges its way, as in fear, from the shores of Lynn, in Norfolk.[50] They shine, likewise, on a mother with three little girls, and a noble looking dame, the Lady Scrope, who have taken refuge in a strong and gloomy building at the end of St. Margaret’s church-yard. That lone mother is the beautiful Queen of England, she has fled to sanctuary on the approach of Warwick’s army, for the ship, whose white sails glisten in the clear cold moonbeams, conveys her husband abroad in quest of succour. Stern men are prowling round the gloomy building, but no one dares to go within, for the queen has registered herself and her three children, Elizabeth, Mary, and Cicely, and the Lady Scrope, as inmates of sanctuary. That gloomy place has sheltered murderers and robbers, men, too, who were in peril of their lives, for treason against their king; but in the present evil times, ladies and young children often find a home within its walls, when all other homes are broken up. And thus, all comfortless and forlorn, is waiting the Queen of England, for the birth of that fair child, who first saw light within the sanctuary of Westminster.[51] No distinction is there between the kindred of a prince or peasant, when the crown is put aside, no royal spell with which to chace away either want or sorrow. The Queen of England soon began to be in need, and must have been constrained to surrender to the army of Queen Margaret, had not provisions been secretly conveyed to her by a kind-hearted butcher of the name of Gould, who could not bear, he said, to think that the lady and her children should be distressed for lack of food.The infant prince is about to be baptized, and this with no greater ceremony than if he had been a poor man’s child. A poor man’s child might have more to gladden him, smiling faces and fresh air, but around this son of a throneless monarch are sad countenances and gloomy walls. No costly gifts are presented, and for attendants there remain but one or two kind friends, faithful among faithless thousands. No cloth of gold adorns the Gothic font of hewn stone, round which the little band of fond and faithful friends are gathered, while the sacred ceremony is performed by the sub-prior, who gives to the young prince the name of his father. Those who promise for him, poor child, that he shall renounce the pomps and pleasures of the world, when his noble patrimony seems lost to him, are his grandmother and the Lady Scrope, that devoted woman, who adheres to the queen in all her trials. The good abbot, Thomas Milling, performs the office of godfather, no other man being either willing or at hand to do the desolate one that service.

Hark now to the sound of cheerful voices. They come from those who no longer fear to be regarded as adherents of the house of York. King Edward is returned, and with him a gallant company of gentlemen are seen pressing onward to the sanctuary. One moment more, the bolted doors fly open, and the king and queen, with their three little girls, are preparing to leave the sanctuary; the infant prince, borne in the arms of his nurse, and his blithe and gladsome sisters, making the old walls resound with their joyous voices. Men speak much concerning the valorous conduct of Queen Margaret, and all which she has done and suffered in order to replace her husband on the throne. But they speak more of the gentle Elizabeth; how she had sat down in meekness and in patience within the walls of that dismal place, where murderers and traitors had harboured in other times, waiting quietly till it pleased the Most High to send her better days, sojourning, indeed, in trouble, heaviness, and sorrow, yet sustaining it as became a Christian woman, having much to fear, yet hoping against hope.[52]

The queen is playing now with her ladies at a courtly game called the marteaux, while others are amusing themselves as best befit them, according to the fashion of the times. King Edward is dancing with the Lady Elizabeth, his eldest daughter, and all is mirth and revelry, and joyousness, and well may those rejoice, who but a few days before knew not where to find a hiding-place. Who is that stately gentleman, whose dress and accent bespeak him from foreign parts, on whom all eyes are turned, and even the king salutes with more than kingly courtesy? The Lord of Grauthuse, Louis of Bruges. At once a nobleman, a merchant, and a man of letters, acting as deputy in the Low Countries for his master, Charles the Bold. He received and welcomed his royal guest, when in the preceding year the king fled from England, with a few attendants, “the most distressed company of creatures that were ever seen,” for Edward had left his military coat, lined with martin’s fur, with the master of the ship, having no other means of paying him, and was put on shore in his waistcoat. Unlike many in those days, who made the exiles of either faction, whether of the red or paler rose, pay dearly for their prison-houses, or hard fare, the Lord of Grauthuse fed and clothed the king and his attendants. He lent him ships and money, without which he could not have returned to his family, and afforded him every facility for making good his landing on the shores of Britain.[53] The minstrel has ceased now, and night and silence pervade the castle. The moon, which looked down on the white sail of King Edward, passing in its swiftness and its loneliness over the dark waters, shines now on the ancient turrets of Windsor Castle, wherein the king is sleeping. And there, too, his wife and children, his courtiers and his guards, are resting, and no sound is heard except the heavy tramp of the warders as they go their rounds, or perchance the deep bay of some listening hound, which the leveret’s light step on the damp grass has roused from his slumber.

Morning returns, and the cheerful sights and sounds of busy life. St. George’s Chapel, with its painted windows and knights’ banners are brightening in the sunbeams, while our lady’s mass is sung, with the full harmony of the choristers’ sweet voices. The king is there, Lady Elizabeth and the Lord Grauthuse, for it seems as if his late deliverance from so much peril had wrought good thoughts within him.

Again the scene is changed, from the chapel to the quadrant. The innocent young prince is being carried by Sir Richard Vaughan. He can hardly speak as yet, but his chamberlain has taught him to bid the Lord Grauthuse welcome, who saved his father, and brought himself from his dolorous birth-place, to enjoy at once his liberty, and the sun’s cheering light. That faithful chamberlain who carries the young prince everywhere, after his father’s footsteps, will yet be called upon to act in a very different scene. He is attending the king and count from place to place, now in the lodge at Windsor Park, where the royal family dine together, afterwards through the garden and vineyard of pleasure, for the king desires to show his guest the many and varied excellencies of his kingly dwelling.

Pageants sweep by, and nobles are presiding in halls of state. See the monarch, too, in his kingly robes, with his cap of maintenance, and right and left his lords, both spiritual and temporal. And list to that grave man, who declares before the king and nobles, the intent and the desire of the commons, with regard to the queen and Lord Grauthuse; upon the one is bestowed all honour and commendation of her womanly behaviour and great constancy during the nation’s peril; to the other, is conveyed that nation’s gratitude for his kindness and humanity to her sovereign lord, by the king, creating him Earl of Winchester. And surely the ceremony of that creation is one of no ordinary interest. The king is passing now into Whitehall, and thither too goes the queen from her own apartment, wearing a crown upon her head, with the young prince in his small robes of state, borne after her in the arms of Master Vaughan. And thus the king and queen, and that fair child, proceed through the abbey church, to the shrine of St. Edward, where their offerings are presented. Next, in the review of pageantries and banquet-halls, hunting scenes and revels, in the beautiful bowers of Eltham Palace, rises from out the mingled scene, the rich and gorgeous spectacle of the betrothing of the young Duke of York with Anne Mowbray, the infant heiress of the duchy of Norfolk. St. Stephen’s chapel is being hung with arras of gold, and men are employed both day and night in putting up the drapery, which standing in its richness, must yet be gracefully arranged in broad folds around the pillars and the columns. All this is done, and the closed doors are opened for the entrance of stately ladies and train-bearers, great lords and their attendants, the beauty and the chivalry of the house of York. And now the flourish of loud trumpets and the clang of cymbals announce the king’s approach, and the full quire is pealing forth its melody of mingled voices and high minstrelsy. The king is entering with the young Prince of Wales and the three princesses, Elizabeth, Mary, and Cicely; the queen follows, leading the small bridegroom of five years’ old, her brother, Earl Rivers, conducts the baby bride, who looks awestruck and wondering, at the unusual sights and sounds. Thus striking its roots deep, with young scions rising round, stands the red rose of England in all its richness and luxuriance.

Look at that desolate woman, who is sitting all sorrowful and dismayed on the rushes that strew the floor of a large and antique apartment. Her long hair, once her richest ornament, has fallen from beneath her widow’s cap, and flowing in all its wonted beauty, over her slight form, is resting on the pavement. Fearful scenes have passed before the view of England’s queen since her proud day in St. Stephen’s chapel—her husband’s couch of death, his deep remorse for sins committed or duties passed over; his funeral, his empty throne, murder, and usurpation. There is the sound of many footsteps treading heavily and in haste, and the putting down of boxes; men are seen busy in conveying household stuff, and chests and packages, but that desolate woman does not seem to heed them—she is thinking only of her sorrows, and the dangers that surround her family, for intelligence was brought to her at midnight that the Duke of Gloucester had intercepted the young king on his way from Ludlow to the metropolis; that he had seized his person, and caused the arrest of her brother, Earl Rivers, and Lord Gray, her son, together with the faithful Vaughan, who used to carry prince Edward when an infant.[54]

Bitterly does she lament having listened to the evil counsellors, who prevented her from placing a strong escort around the person of her son; but she remembered, even in the midst of her exceeding grief, that herself and her young family had before been saved by taking refuge in the sanctuary, and she resolved to go thither without delay. Rising up, therefore, in the midst of the dark night, she caused her innocent children to be brought to her, and hastened with them from the palace of Westminster to the residence of the good abbot. She knew that if able to keep her second son in safety, it would ensure the life of the young king; but she did not go as heretofore into the ancient sanctuary, for the whole of the abbey, with its rooms of state and spacious gardens, was equally privileged, and she felt that she was welcome. Never yet has the right of sanctuary been violated, even in the worst of times; and, perhaps, a ray of hope is lighting up in the breast of that lone woman; but now the door is opening, and the venerable Archbishop Rotherham, who resides in York-place, beside the abbey, enters, with a cheerful countenance, and communicates a message, sent him by Lord Hastings in the night, and which he believed to be of good import. Bourchier, the primate, accompanies him, and they come in full credence of the duke’s good faith, who has endeavoured, with much sophistry, to convince the privy council that his designs are just and honourable.

The queen seems unwilling to receive their message; her just apprehensions are not to be removed by the hopes which they endeavour to excite. The good archbishop seeks to comfort her by saying that he trusts the matter is none so sore as she takes it for, and that he is in good hope, and relieved from fear by the message sent from the Lord Chamberlain Hastings. “Ah, woe worth him,” replies the queen, “for he is one of them that labours to destroy me and my children.” “Madam,” rejoins the bishop, “be of good cheer: I do assure you, if they crown any other king than your son, whom they now have with them, we shall, on the morrow, crown his brother, whom you have with you. And here is the great seal, which, in likewise, as that noble prince, your husband, delivered unto me, so here I deliver it unto you, to the use and behoof of your son.”[55]

This sad scene, like others of joy and sorrow in the life of poor Elizabeth, is fading from before the view, but, while it lingers, look well at the spacious hall wherein the queen has taken refuge, with its circular hearthstone in the centre, and an opening in the roof above, through which the smoke escapes in winter. The further end is nobly screened with oak panelling, laticed at the top, and having several doors of ancient workmanship, that open on winding stairs, leading to numerous small stone chambers, with carved windows and stone mullions. There are also state apartments, of which the walls are covered with richly carved oak; an organ-room, and the abbot’s grand reception-room, with its Gothic window of painted glass, but with such we have no concern.

May, sweet May is come, and the hearth-stone is decked with green branches and bright flowers; the birth of the young day, but withering before its close. Emblems of the failing hopes of her who sits all desolate beside them, and with her are two beautiful and serious-looking maidens, the princesses Elizabeth and Mary, and four young children, from three to eleven years of age; Richard, Duke of York, Anne, Catherine, and Bridget. At one time the terrified children hide in the folds of their mother’s robe; at another, their cheerful voices are heard, calling to each other as they run from room to room; now in the state apartment, and now in some winding passage, or asking leave to wander forth among the bees and flowers in the quiet garden of the abbey. Poor children, your grief is light, and it passes soon, like an April shower; but darker clouds are gathering, and their crushing rain will fall heavily even upon you.

An aged man is seen advancing towards the abbey, and with him a deputation, apparently of no mean rank. His robes and crosier denote his dignity, for it is the Archbishop of Canterbury, who is about to pay a visit to the queen, with a message from the Lord Protector, who has placed the young king in the Tower, under the pretence of awaiting his coronation, and who also desires to gain possession of his brother. A long and stormy debate had taken place in the star-chamber, close to Elizabeth’s retreat. It was argued there, that men and women might remain in sanctuary, but that young children had no need, they being guileless of all crimes that might affect the state; that consequently the Duke of Gloucester might possess himself of his nephew whenever it pleased him. The archbishop was extremely concerned when he heard all this, and he proferred his services to speak with the queen, rather than force should be used.[56]

The scene has changed from the great hall, with its fresh flowers around the hearthstone, and its floor strewed with green rushes, to the great Jerusalem chamber, with its Gothic window of richly stained and painted glass, its curious tapestry, and ancient picture of King Richard. Observe the venerable man, beneath the surface of whose placid and pale features deep feelings are at work. He knows not what to say, nor how to prepare the mind of the poor queen for the stern resolve of the hunchbacked protector, with regard to the young prince. At length he began by urging that the king required the company of his brother, being much cast down for the want of a playfellow.

“Troweth the protector,” replies the queen, (heaven grant that he may prove a protector,) “that the king doth lack a playfellow? Can none be found to play with the king but only his brother, who hath no wish to play because of sickness? as though princes so young as they be, could not play without their peers, or children could not play without their kindred, with whom, for the most part, they agree worse than with strangers!” The archbishop knew not what to say in answer, he liked not to tell her that the protector was resolved to gain possession of the young prince, and he waited in the hope that she might be inclined to accede to his request. At length the queen, taking her son by the hand, said, in a compressed and solemn tone, “My lord, and all my lords now present, I will not be so suspicious as to mistrust your truth. Lo here is this gentleman whom, I doubt not, would be safely kept by me if I were permitted; and well do I know there be some such deadly enemies to my blood, that if they wist where any lay, they would let it out if they could. The desire of a kingdom knoweth no kindred; brothers have been brothers’ bane, and may the nephews be sure of the uncle? Each of these children are safe while they be asunder; notwithstanding, I here deliver him, and his brother’s life with him, into your hands, and of you I shall require them before God and man. Faithful ye be, I wot well, and power ye have, if ye list, to keep them safe; but if ye think I fear too much, yet beware ye fear not too little! Farewell, my own sweet son! God send you good keeping. Let me kiss you once ere you go, for God knoweth when we shall kiss together again.” Tenderly embracing the afflicted boy, she is seen “weeping bitterly over him, and he too is weeping as fast in his turn.”[57]

Fearful tragedies are acting now in the dim distance of time’s perspective. They flit before the mental view, fading, and seeming to appear again; yet not the same, though like in terror and in kind. The shadowy figures of Hastings, of Gray, and Rivers, are seen passing from the block, and then the innocent forms of two young children, emerging from the gloomy range of fortresses belonging to the Tower. And loud is heard the sobbing, and the pitiful screams of the poor mother, as she beats upon her breast, and calls her sweet babes by name; and, kneeling down, implores the vengeance of the Just One, on the guilty head of him who has thus cruelly deprived her of her sons.

The vaulted door of a spacious room is opening, and across the furthest end seems flitting a strange succession of sad scenes—a young child’s[58] funeral passes, and then a burst of anguish comes remotely to the ear, as if across wide waters, from a stern man, who yet cannot hide his sorrow; then a woman’s wail, but the wail soon dies away, and a death scene and a funeral pass in faint review.[59] Then the great fight of Bosworth, where a king is slain, and another takes his crown; a bridal follows and a coronation.

Thus they pass; events of other days are shadows now; terrible, indeed, at the period of their reality, but when ended, how soon forgotten! yet not forgotten by the aged woman, who is resting, as in a quiet home, within that spacious room in the Abbey of Bermondsey. It is her right to be there, for the prior and monks are bound by their charter to entertain, and that most hospitably, the representative of their great founder, Clare, Earl of Gloucester. Edward VI. was the sole heir of that family, and the queen dowager is privileged to occupy the nobly panelled halls, and state-chambers, that are expressly reserved for the descendants of the founder.[60]

The waves and billows of life’s deepest waters have passed over that aged woman who is sitting in a richly carved chair, at the great oriel-window, watching the summer clouds as they flit over the smiling landscape, and cast their shadows on the abbey fields. Her venerable figure, beautiful even in its decrepitude, though not with the beauty of sunny youth, yet such as the bright ray of the setting sun sheds over an autumn landscape, recalls the faint remembrance of a lovely woman who once stood, with two orphan boys beneath the oak of Whittlebury, to sue for the restitution of her broad lands, from the gallant Edward.

Hark to the toll of the convent bell. It is tolling for Elizabeth Woodville, late Queen Dowager of England, and the requiem is being sung, which breathes peace to the passing spirit. The moon is up, and yet the night is dark and gloomy, by reason of the heavy clouds that are rolling past, and he who looks narrowly on the deep dark waters of the river may discern a small boat gliding on, with the coffin of the queen on board, and four attendants, but when the moon shines out you can distinguish the prior of the Charterhouse by his robes, with two others in deep mourning, yet without insignia, by which to designate them, and one female figure. Now the rowers stop, and the coffin is being carried through the little park into Windsor Castle, a few torches serving to guide the bearers, which appear and disappear among the trees, like the twinkling lights of glow-worms in the grass.

Stately figures are kneeling round the coffin, where it remains for a while, ready to be borne to its last resting-place, and among the mourners one is discerned in the dress of a nun. Again the coffin is upborne, and the queen’s daughters fall behind, with a train of shadowy forms, ladies, and earls, and viscounts, moving onward to St. George’s chapel. Strange it seems, that neither plumes nor scutcheons are to be seen; that when the dirge is being sung, the twelve old men, whose office it is to chant the requiem for the dead, are not even clad in sable vestments: appearing rather like a dozen old men indiscriminately and hastily brought together for the purpose, and permitted to retain the garments of poverty, in which they were found, and, instead of flambeaux, they light on the funeral with old torches and torches ends.[61] Some say, that the queen, when dying, expressed an earnest wish for a speedy and private funeral. If so, her request was punctually fulfilled. Yet still it is remarkable that no more of pomp should appertain to the obsequies of her who had been Queen of England—that scutcheons and nodding plumes, and other mourning tokens, were wanting to distinguish that illustrious one’s last sojourn on earth.

THE END.

Joseph Rickerby, Printer, Sherbourn Lane.

Footnotes:

[1] Gloucestershire.

[2] South Wales.

[3] Lingard.

[4] Southey’s visit to Godstow nunnery.—Camden.

[5] Roger de Hoveden.

[6] Hatcher’s Account of Salisbury.

[7] The Old Peerage, by Brooke.

[8] Dugdale incorrectly says months, instead of years, a mistake corrected by Bowles.

[9] History of Lacock Abbey. Monsieur de Saint Palage’s great work on the History of Troubadours.

[10] Book of Lacock.

[11] Close Rolls, May 2. Rhymer’s Foedore, 1207.

[12] Book of Lacock.

[13] A most beautiful copy was deposited, and may still be seen, in the chamber of Records at Salisbury Cathedral.

[14] Clause Rolls.

[15] Dugdale, from a MS. Oxon, in Bibl. Bodl. n. 11. f. 177, et 178. p. a.

[16] Matt. of Paris. Clause Rolls.

[17] Register of Osmund, among the MSS. of the Cathedral. Narrative, by William de Wanda, published in the first volume of Wilkins’s Concilia.

[18] Matt. Paris. Foedera.

[19] Matt. Paris.

[20] William de Wanda’s Church History.

[21] History of Lacock. Matt. Paris.

[22] History of Lacock Abbey.

[23] Matt. of Westminster.

[24] Chron. of W. de Wanda. Wilkin’s Concilia, vol. 1 page 559.

[25] Annals and Antiquities of Lacock Abbey.

[26] Book of Lacock Abbey.

[27] Annals of Lacock, p. 180.

[28] Madox’s History of the Exchequer, p. 218.

[29] Book of Lacock.

[30] Book of Lacock.

[31] Historian of Lacock Abbey.

[32] Marian is the legendary name of the Countess of Huntingdon.

[33] Rom. viii. 21.

[34] Rapin.

[35] M. Paris.

[36] Hen. Knyghton.

[37] A small silver cross of beautiful workmanship was found buried a few years since, near the fatal tree.

[38] Mentioned by Walter Hennyngforde, and quoted in Grafton’s Chronicle.

[39] The Palace of Bishops Hatfield, then a royal residence, where the Princess Elizabeth resided in a kind of honourable custody, though still rigorously guarded.

[40] Hall’s Chronicle, p. 365. Parliamentary History. Vol. II. 345.

[41] Afterwards the home of Lady Jane Gray.

[42] History of St. Albans.

[43] Whethemstede and Guthrie.

[44] Parliamentary History. Vol. II. p. 345.

[45] Baker’s Northamptonshire.

[46] Fragment Chronicle, printed by Heane, at the end of the Sprott. Chronicle.

[47] The Sprott. Chronicle.

[48] Lives of the Queens of England, by Alice Strickland.

[49] Monstrelet.

[50] Hall. Comines.

[51] It is conjectured that the prince was born in the Jerusalem Chamber, which the kind abbot relinquished to the queen.

[52] Fleetwood’s Chronicle.

[53] Narrative of Louis of Bruges, Lord Grauthuse, edited by Sir F. Madden.

[54] Cont. Hist. Croyl. Sir Thomas More. Hall.

[55] Sir Thomas More.

[56] Hall.

[57] Hall, 355. Sir Thomas Moore, 358.

[58] Only son of Richard III.

[59] Death and funeral of Richard’s Queen.

[60] Annals of the Abbey of Bermondsey.

[61] Arundel MSS. 30. referred to in the Lives of the Queens of England.