# The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck/Chapter 16

CHAPTER XVI.
NEW FRIENDS.
Sisters, I from Ireland came.
Coleridge.
The duke, immediately on his arrival at the Castle of Buttevant, despatched Hubert Burgh to the prior of Kilmainham, with a message from himself and a token from Lord Barry, announcing his intention of visiting him at the abbey the next day. But Keating feared thus to draw the eyes of some enemy upon him, and appointed a meeting in a secluded dell, near the bank of the Mullagh, or Awbeg, the river which Spenser loves to praise. Early in the morning Richard repaired alone to this rural presence-chamber, and found Keating already there. Hearing of the priest's haughty pride, Richard, with a sensation of disgust, had figured a man something like the wretched Trangmar, strong of limb, and with a ferocious expression of countenance. Keating appeared in his monk's humble guise; his light eyes were still lively, though his hair and beard were snowy white; his brow was deeply delved by a thousand lines; his person short, slender, bent; his step infirm; his voice was silver-toned; he was pale, and his aspect in its lower part sweetly serene. Richard looked with wonder on this white, withered leaf—a comparison suggested by his frail tenuity; and again he almost quailed before the eager scrutiny of the prior's eye. A merchant at a Moorish mart he had seen thus scan a slave he was about to purchase. At length, with a look of great satisfaction, the monk said, "This fits exactly; our friends will not hesitate to serve so goodly a gentleman. The daughter of York might in sooth mistake thee for a near kinsman. Thou comest from Portugal, yet that could not have been thy native place?"
Richard started. This was the first time he had heard an expression of doubt of his veracity. How could he reply? His word alone must support his honour; his sword must remain sheathed, for his injurer was a priest. Keating caught his ​haughty glance, and perceived his mistake. It was with an effort that he altered his manner, for he exchanged with pain a puppet subject to his will, for a man (prince or pretender) who had objects and a state of his own to maintain. "Pardon the obscure vision of an old man," he said; "my eyes were indeed dim not to see the true marks of a Plantagenet in your appearance. I was but a boy when your princely grandsire fell; nor has it been my fortune to visit England or to see your royal father. But the duke of Clarence honoured me with his friendship, and your cousin De la Poole ackowledged my zeal in furthering his projects. I am now neither prior nor commander; but, poor monk as I am become, I beseech your highness to command my services."
This swift change of language but ill satisfied the pride of Richard, and in reply, he briefly recounted such facts as established his right to the name he claimed. The noble artlessness of his tone conquered the priest's lurking suspicions: in a more earnest manner he besought the duke's pardon; and a cordial intercourse was established between them.
The place where they met was secluded and wild; a bower of trees hid it from the view of the river, and an abrupt rock sheltered it behind. It was apparently accessible by the river only, and it was by its bank that the duke and prior had arrived. Nothing could equal the picturesque solitude around them. The waving of the leafy boughs, the scream of the water-fowl, or the splashing they made as they sprung from among the sedge and darted across the stream, alone interrupted the voiceless calm; yet, at every moment, in his speech, Keating stopped, as if listening, and cast his keen eyes, which he libelled much in calling dim, up the steep crag, as if among its herbage and shrubs some dreaded spy or expected messenger might appear. Then again he apologized to the duke for having selected this wild spot for their interview. A price, he observed, had been set upon his head, and his only safety lay in perpetual watchfulness and never-sleeping caution. "My zeal in your highness's cause," he added, with a courtier smile, "cannot be deemed a strange frenzy, since your success will not only assure my restoration to the dignity of which I have been unjustly deprived, but prevent an old man from perpetually dreaming of the sword of the slayer, or the more frightful executioner's axe."
Again the prior fixed his eyes on a fissure in the rock, adding, "I had oppointed to meet one in this place before your message was communicated to me—and in good time; for, methinks, the object of your visit may be furthered by the intelligence I hope soon to receive. Your highness must have heard at Cork of the ​war carried on by the great earl of Desmond and a native sept of this region. Macarthy, their chief, fell during the struggle, but his successor and Tanist mustered his broken forces to avenge him. The earl is impatient of this resistance, for his presence is necessary in Thomond to drive the O'Carrols from that district. At his invitation he and Macarthy meet this day to parley but a few miles hence. I was to have made one among them, but a boding raven told me that danger was abroad."
The tidings of the near presence of the earl of Desmond were unexpected, and most welcome to the duke. He immediately resolved not to lose the golden hour. He eagerly asked where the meeting was to be, and how speedily he might reach the spot.
As he was thus earnestly expressing his desire, a slight rustling caught the prior's ear: he looked up; a human form hovered as in mid-air, scarcely, as it were, alighting on the precipitous rock; quickly, but cautiously, it threaded its steep and tortuous path. A large mantle was wrapt round the mountaineer, a large white kerchief enveloped the head in the manner of a turban, yet the prince caught the outline of a female figure, which soon descended to the little plain on which they stood, and advanced towards them; she was evidently very young, but weather-worn even in youth: her wild, picturesque dress concealed the proportions of her form; her large white sleeves hid her arm, but the emaciated appearance of her face and hands, and bare feet, struck Richard with pity. She seemed astonished at seeing him, and spoke to his companion in the language of the country, which he did not understand: the prior's face darkened as she spoke: there dwelt on it a mixture of disappointment and ferocity, of which it could hardly have been deemed capable by one who had hitherto seen it only bland and smiling; swiftly, however, he dismissed these indications of passion, and addressed the prince calmly. "I cannot go," he said; "my time is still to be deferred, though it shall not be for ever lost. How does your courage hold? if you are not afraid of going alone with a guide whose very dialect is a mystery to you, through a country torn by opposing factions; if you do not fear presenting yourself friendless to a haughty noble, who deems himself sovereign in this domain, I will contrive that, ere four hours elapse, you shall find yourself in Desmond's presence."
"Fear!" the prince repeated. His eye glanced with some contempt on the priest's cowl, which alone could suggest pardon for such a thought; yet he checked himself from any angry disclaiming of the accusation, as he said, "Whatever in my presumption I may hope, sage forethought tells me that I walk ​a road strewn with a thousand dangers, leading, it may be, to an early death. Not for that will I deviate one furlong from my path. Sir Prior, where is the guide you promise?"
Keating, after a few minutes' reflection, instead of replying, conversed again with the girl, and then addressed the duke: "This hapless child is a victim of the wars; she was born far hence, and is the last surviving of my foster-sister's once blooming family. Her mother saved my life. This child, barefoot as she is, guided me hither. Is not a Keating fallen, when he cannot give succour to an offspring of his fosterer's house? And she, poor girl! she has walked far for me to-day; but she will not slacken in her toil when I bid her proceed. She shall be your guide, and your grace may rely upon her; the dog you fed from its birth were less faithful. Now, at the hour of noon, Desmond meets Macarthy of Muskerry, on Ballahourah. But for the bogs and streams that cross your path, it is not far; at the worst, you can reach Mallow, where the earl will lie to-night. It is best not to delay; for, if there is peace in Munster, very speedily Desmond will be on his way to Thomond."
This was a fresh spur to Richard. He accepted the proffered guide, who listened attentively to Keating's instructions given in her native tongue. He followed the girl but a short distance ere he looked back; the prior was gone; the solitude of the wild crags and shrubs alone met his eye. Meanwhile his companion stepped forward, motioning him to follow. They plunged into the brake; the sun rose high; the birds winged their glad flight among the trees. Now toiling up a steep, now wading a stream, now entangled in a thicket, now stepping lightly over boggy earth: now meditating on Andalusia, and now wondering at his present position, Richard followed his swift and silent guide through the wild country between Buttevant and Mallow.
Already the meeting between the earl of Desmond and Macarthy, the chief of Muskerry, was at an end. They parted with fair words and exasperated thoughts. The native lord could ill brook the settler's haughty assumptions; nor Geraldine endure the obstinate pride of the conquered native. Still their relative positions enforced a peace.
They had separated, and after a hasty repast, spread on the heathy side of Ballahourah, the earl proceeded towards Mallow. He was surrounded by warriors, who all claimed the Geraldine name, and who variously distinguished themselves as the White Knight, the Knight of Kerry, and the Knight of the Glen. There was Lord Fermoy, his father-in-law, and others of the Roches. Nor did all the native chiefs absent themselves. One sister of the earl had married Macarthy Reagh; another, an ​O'Brien, whose daughter had intermarried with an O'Carroll—all this in defiance of the English law, which forbade such alliances, through which, the father of the present earl was beheaded in the year 1467. Their antique costume, tight truise, saffron tunics, and flowing robes, distinguished them from the Saxons; yet these had not followed the fashions of the times, but dressed in the garb used by the courtiers of Edward the Third.
Maurice, tenth earl of Desmond, was brave even to a proverb. He loved war, and deemed himself rather king of Desmond, than a chief of English descent. To extend and secure his possessions, rendering them at once independent of his sovereign and of the native chieftains, was the aim of his life. He now meditated the invasion of Thomond; but Macarthy's angry demeanour showed that he must not be left unchecked in his rear. "Where is my cousin Barry—where the lord of Buttevant—the chief of the Barrymores? Flying before a slip of parchment indited in far London, as if my sword held not better sway in these regions than a Parliament attainder! Were he here, the O'Carrolls should hear the thunder of my arms ere this moon waned. Muskerry could make no gathering in the vales, while Barry sat on his perch at Buttevant."
The earl had time to waste in thought, as he was borne along—at the age of fifteen, pushing rashly forward in an assault, he received a wound in his leg, which lamed him for life, so that he was carried about in a litter, and went by the name of Claudus; yet he was not deemed the less an experienced and gallant warrior. With the virtues of a chieftain he possessed the defects: Munster was his world; his universe was peopled by the Geraldines, the Macarthys, the Barrys, Donegans, Barretts, Roches, O'Briens, O'Carrolls, and the rest; he disdained his noble brethren of the pale. He considered it a mark of distinction to be exempted by a law from attendance of Parliament and the government of the land; he saw in the king of England, not his monarch, but the partizan of Ormond, and therefore an enemy. This, and an ancient alliance, linked him to the cause of the English outcast prince, who solicited his aid; he had replied favourably to his request; but his interests and the conquest of a kingdom must be delayed, while he subdued the half-naked septs who insulted his power.
While thus busied, reflecting upon the events of the day, the earl sat silent and thoughtful. Suddenly, at a turn in the road, he called on his followers to stop; his eye lighted up,—he saw two horsemen swiftly approaching—Lord Barry was the foremost rider. Forgetting his lameness in his joy, the noble ​warrior almost threw himself from the litter, as he cried, "Jesu speed you, my loving cousin! spur on! spur on! remember your badge, Boutez en avant! No enemy ever turned his back on your sword to avoid, so eagerly as my arms will open to receive you! "Were you bound for Mallow?"
"No, my noble coz," replied Lord Barry, "I am for Kilnemullagh; an eaglet I have nursed has winged its way thither, and I fear may suffer injury in my absence; for he is young, and his pinions all untried."
"Leave him to his fate, my lord," said the earl; "if he be a faithful bird he will find his way back to his fosterer; meanwhile the king of eagles, thy cousin Desmond himself, has need of thee."
"One word, dear Maurice, will explain the greater duty that I owe my princely fowl. The White Hose of England, missing him, loses all; you, I, each, and every one of us, are his servants and must become his soldiers."
"Cousin," replied Desmond, "one son of York made my father, whose soul God assoilzie! Lord Deputy; another chopped off his head—so much for the White Rose! Still I allow this new Lancastrian king is a bitterer enemy: he is a friend of the Butlers, whom the fiend confound. We will first subdue the O'Carrolls, humble the Macarthys, take Coollong from Clan Cartie Reagh, and root out the Desies; and then, when we are kings of Munster, in good hour let us march with your duke of York, and set our foot on the necks of the Butlers in Dublin."
The earl spoke with rapidity and energy; all Munster spread before Lord Barry's mind—city, town, stronghold, held by ancestral enemies; and it was wonderful what a change was wrought in his mind by his cousin's eloquence, and the names of all these sons of Erin, with each of whom he had a mortal quarrel. He agreed, therefore, to go with the earl to Mallow that evening, postponing his visit to Buttevant till the following day.
Such were the wise counsels that stayed the mighty power Barry had promised York should rise at his name to vanquish England. It was better thus; so the royal boy thought himself, when, welcomed by Desmond at Mallow, he looked round on kern and gallowglass, hearing a language that was not English, viewing their strange attire and savage countenances. "It is not thus, my England, that I will seize on you. Your own nobles shall place the crown on my head; your people wield the sword that will injure only our common enemy. Shall I ​make a Granada of my native land, and shed Christian blood, better spilt in the cause of God against infidel dogs?"
When the earl of Desmond found that the prince, whom he regretted to receive with such cold hopes, was well content, nothing doubting that the good-will of the English would prove a better ally than the spears of the Irish, he conceived a sudden affection for him. It was no wonder; for the ingenuousness of untarnished youth is ineffably winning; and here it was added to a quick wit, a grace and gallantry, that shone as a vision of light in this wild region.
A few days brought still greater satisfaction to all parties. An embassy had arrived in Cork from the king of France to the duke of York to invite him to Paris. Desmond would not relinquish his guest: he carried him to his noble seat at Ardfinnin; and thither repaired in due time the messengers from Charles the Eighth.
The chief of these was our old friend Frion, besides a Frenchman called Lucas, and two Englishmen, Stephen Poytron and John Tiler. The duke was not well pleased with the selection of Frion; but, while this man by his singular arts of insinuation made good his cause, Barry showed how in two points his cause was benefitted by him. First, that having been secretary to Henry, he knew many secrets, and was acquainted with many circumstances that might be turned to use; and, secondly, that his very attempt to entrap the prince was a proof that he was fully aware of who he was; that he would prove a useful link between Perkin Warbeck, Richard Fitzroy, and the duke of York; that he need be no more trusted than was deemed expedient; but that meanwhile it were good to entertain him with fair words. Richard yielded; and Frion made good use of this standing-room by which he meant to move the world. Master of the arts of flattery, cunning and wise, he so ingratiated himself with the duke, and afterwards with his other friends, that by degrees he was admitted to their confidence; and at last succeeded in his chief wish, of becoming follower, secretary, counsellor, he called himself friend, of the English prince.
Urged by the earl of Desmond and Lord Barry, and sufficiently inclined in his own mind, the duke accepted the French king's invitation, and prepared to cross to France. On the very eve of his departure, he was surprised by a visit from John O'Water, of Cork. This warm-hearted old man had conceived a paternal love for the royal youth. He came to recommend his return to Cork—his taking up a kind of regal residence there—the not deserting a nook of his kingdom which ​acknowledged him. He came too late:—already the prince was on board the vessel in Youghall Harbour which was to convey him away. "One day you will return to us, my lord," said O'Water; "a future day will afford us opportunity to prove our zeal. I am old; I had given up public life: but I will take to the oar again. John O'Water will once more be mayor of Cork, and his right beloved Sovereign shall command him in his service."
The good man departed; with blessings, thanks, and glad prognostics, Desmond and Barry also took leave of him. The wind was fair, the sea smooth: before morning they lost sight of the hospitable shores of Ireland, and turned their thoughts from its quarrels, its chieftains, its warm hearts, and kind reception, to the civilized land of France, and the more influential protection promised by its king to the royal adventurer.