The Red Rose of Anjou - Plaidy Jean (книги онлайн полные версии бесплатно .TXT) 📗
And so the years were passing. The Prince was growing up and was a source of great joy to Margaret. He was the very reason for living as far as she was concerned. He was devoted to her and as he grew older he realized more and more all that she had done and was doing was for him.
Secretly he despised his father, but that only made his love for his mother more intense.
Watching events—as far as was possible in her remote village—looking after her son and seeing Sir John train him for kingship was her delight in those years. She never doubted—nor did Sir John—that one day Edward would be King of England.
Seasons came and seasons went...seven years passed by while Edward of York remained King of England and Margaret waited.
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Meanwhile Henry had fared even worse than Margaret. After Hexham he had become a fugitive, escaping capture so narrowly that his pages and his very cap of state had fallen into the enemy’s hands. He had flown from the battle with a few of his followers...riding through the night...anywhere.
He had his friends though. The North was faithful. There were many who believed that the anointed King was the true King and any who replaced him, however strong, whatever his claim, was the usurper. There was many a manor house to offer hospitality where he could rest and be fed and treated as a King. But after one or two narrow escapes when someone had betrayed him he would have to move on. There were many who wished to help him but who were afraid to do so, for King Edward would have little mercy on any whom he considered to be traitors and to harbour King Henry would be called a deed of treachery to Edward.
He was a fugitive. He marvelled. He who had been a King in his cradle was now pursued through his kingdom by one of his subjects. If only he could be left alone to pray, to meditate, to read his holy books, he would not care who ruled the kingdom. He just wanted peace.
But he did not think he would get that if they captured him.
At some of the houses where he was given hospitality he had stayed in more prosperous days during his progresses through England. He remembered the ceremony of welcome when all the servants were overawed and deeply respectful. How different it was now when he must creep in—very often be given a small room which his host would say was safe.
All he wanted was just enough room to kneel and pray to God and perhaps a pallet on which to lie for a few hours of necessary sleep.
One night they came to Crackenthorpe near Appleby in Westmorland. Riding through the night, they had passed a monastery. Henry had looked at it with eyes of longing. What would he not have given to be one of those happy monks. Fate had been cruel to make him a King.
John Machell, the owner of the manor of Crackenthorpe, came out to the courtyard after one of Henry’s friends had gone into the house to tell him he had visitors.
Taking the King’s hand John Machell kissed it assuring him of his loyal service at all times.
‘This is the time we need it, John,’ said Henry. ‘We are worn out with travelling. Can you give us a bed for the night?’
‘My lord, my house is at your service.’
‘Nay, nay John, that would not do. What comment there would be. Your King comes as a fugitive. There is another who calls himself King in England now.’
John Machell said there was one King as far as he was concerned and he would serve that King with his life.
‘There is need for caution,’ he was told.
He realized that and was persuaded to let his household believe that some travellers on their way to York were spending the night at the house.
There was a fine chamber for Henry. He sank to his knees and remained there for a long time. Food was sent to his apartment and he found great rest and comfort in the house of John Machell at Crackenthorpe.
He was able to rest there for a few days and then John noticed that one of the servants was regarding the King in a rather curious manner and he knew that it was time for him to move on.
He had an idea. The Abbot of the nearby monastery was known to him, and he believed him to be one who deplored the usurpation of the throne and was a true Lancastrian.
‘I will go to see him,’ he said. ‘Stay quietly in your chamber but be ready to leave if there should be any alarm. There may be people here who would betray you to the enemy. I will be back before nightfall.’
When he returned he was excited. He believed he had something to say which would give the King great pleasure.
His friend the Abbot had given him a monk’s habit. He suggested that at dawn the King and his friends leave the house. When they had gone a little way the King could change into the habit. He could then leave his friends and present himself to the Abbot. The Abbot would know who he was but no one else would. The Abbot would naturally offer hospitality and perhaps he could mingle with the monks and li>‘e as one of them.
Nothing could have delighted Henry more. He was all eagerness; his friends had never seen him so enthusiastic and ready to embrace a plan.
All went well. He arrived at the monastery, was welcomed by the Abbot and took his place with the monks.
He had not been wrong. This was the life for him. He fitted into it with ease. He lived by the bells. The silence preserved in the monastery was helpful to him and made it easier for him to hide his identity; and as he had often Lived Like a monk, no one would have guessed he was not one.
A few months passed in this happy state but as it was supposed that he was on a visit from another monastery he could not stay too long.
The Abbot however could warn an Abbot of another monastery of the King’s coming and he could rest there for another short period before he passed on.
Henry was happy to do this. He left the monastery with many protestations of gratitude; and then began his wandering life. He realized that none of his sojourns could be long but when he felt the walls of a monastery close about him, when he was in his austere cell he was happier than he had ever been anywhere else.
‘If I could have chosen this life,’ he said, ‘I should have been a happy man.’
The time was passing. Sometimes he thought of Margaret in France and Edward who was growing into a man. They seemed far away. Perhaps in his heart he did not want Margaret to come back. He did not want the conflict to start again.
At length he came to what was known as the Religious House of Whalley in Ribblesdale and here he found refuge as he had in other places of this kind. Eagerly he embraced the life; praying, working in the fields, whatever it was he was happy doing it. Sometimes he completely forgot that other life of ceremonies and arduous duties which he had never felt fit to perform.
‘Oh God,’ he prayed, ‘I thank Thee for bringing me to this rest. If it be Thy Will let me spend the rest of my days in such good life.’
Alas for Henry, his prayers were not to be answered.
Beside the religious house of Whalley was Waddington Hall and when Dr. Manning, Dean of Windsor, was visiting there he asked the honour of the King’s company. Henry accepted the invitation and set out in his monk’s robes for the Hall.
Had he been more observant he would have noticed that for some days one of the monks had been taking a great interest in him. The eyes of this monk were always on him, but Henry had not noticed this. The fact was that the monk was becoming more and more convinced of Henry’s identity, and it occurred to him that if the visiting monk were indeed the one-time King this fact should be made known to those it might interest. The country had been for some years under the rule of Edward the Fourth and no one was going to deny that life had not improved considerably. The French woman was heartily disliked throughout the country and there were constant rumours that she was awaiting an opportunity to return. If this were so this monk was playing a part. He was in hiding waiting for the time when his virago of a wife returned to plunge England into war again.
