From Kingdom to Colony. Devereux Mary
From Kingdom to Colony
PROLOGUE
When William, Duke of Normandy, invaded England in 1066, and achieved for himself the title of "Conqueror," one of those who accompanied him was Robert D'Evreux, younger son of Walter, Earl of Rosmar, feudal owner and ruler of the town of his name in Normandy.
After the battle of Hastings, in which William won so great a victory, he, wishing to honor the memory of the noblemen and knights by whose aid it had been accomplished, placed their names upon a roll which was suspended in a stately pile, called "Battle Abbey," erected by him upon the field of battle.
In the several exemplifications of "Battle Abbey Roll," as it was termed, the name of Robert D'Evreux is variously expressed as "Daveros," "Deverous," "Conte Devreux," and "Counte Devereux."
It was the close of an early May day in 1639. Charles I. was reigning monarch of England, and the Scotch Covenanters were disturbing his kingdom's peace.
Against these malcontents Charles had sent his army, and Robert Devereux, only son of the beheaded favorite of Elizabeth, and now third Earl of Essex, had been made Lieutenant-General, he having already, by his resolution and activity no less than by his personal courage, done good service to the King and won much honor for himself.
On this May day, in Warwick, far from all scenes of war or rumors from court, Bromwich Castle, the home of Sir Walter Devereux, Baronet – cousin and present heir of the King's unmarried Lieutenant-General – lifted its turrets, about whose clinging ivy the late afternoon sunshine played golden and warm.
It was a huge pile, massively irregular in architecture, and its thick walls bore traces of those times when a Baron of England was a power in the land, – monarch of his domain, and chief of his own people.
A rugged old tower was its keep, flanked by four symmetrical turrets, and crowned by a battlement overlooking the whole country around. About these clung ivy in a thousand thick wreaths; and here and there, where it was not, the centuries had woven a fantastic tracery of moss, green as the ivy itself, and delicate as frost-work.
What had been the moat was now but a pleasant grassy hollow, carpeted thickly with golden cowslips and fragrant violets, their growing lipped by a tiny stream of purest water.
The castle was surrounded almost to its walls by the forest of ancient oaks, spreading in all directions, and becoming denser and more wild as it stretched miles away. And here were the deer, numerous and fat, that well supplied the larder for Sir Walter's board, or cooled their sides amid the rankly growing brake and ferns, where naught troubled the intense silence of the dusky aisles save the whir of the pheasant, or the foot of the hare, light as the leaf dropping from the green arch overhead.
Sir Walter was in the forest this day, and with him were his three goodly sons, besides several retainers. The notes of the horn had come faintly to the castle now and again, as they pursued the chase; and up in her apartments Anne, the seventeen-year-old wife of Sir Walter's youngest son, sat watching for a first glimpse of the returning huntsmen.
Upon her knees lay an open volume, bound in white vellum, and with clasps of pearl. It was richly illuminated, every page presenting a picture gorgeous with color, and it was a carefully narrated story of travel and adventure in that far-away country across the ocean for which she and her young husband were soon to set sail.
She paused over one of the illustrations, and gazed at it long and earnestly, while her agate-gray eyes grew wide, and became filled with consternation. It was the picture of an Indian chief, in all the formidable toggery of war dress and paint; and his fierceness of mien brought to her young heart a hitherto unknown dread and terror.
The golden of the sun was turning to rose, when a clatter of hoofs and the sound of men's voices drew her eyes toward the courtyard below.
Resting her dimpled arms upon the rough stone of the window-ledge, she leaned over and smiled down into the upturned face of her twenty-two-year-old husband, whose dark eyes sought her casement ere he dismounted from his tired horse, which the esquire at its head had now little need to hold. He waved his hand to her, while a bright smile illumined his grave face, and she responded by blowing him a kiss from the tips of her taper fingers.
The old Baronet, who had been the first to dismount, looked up as well, and shook his hunting spear at her.
"Ah, rogue!" he called out. "Wait till I catch thee! With never a kiss to spare thy old father!"
Her fresh young laugh rang out gayly as she retorted, "But I have many an one, if you choose, good sir, as surely you wot right well."
"'T is a dear child, – a sweet lass, Jack," the old man said to his youngest son as the two entered the castle side by side. "My heart misgives me at thought of her going to the far-off heathen country, amongst savages and wild beasts; for, alack, who can tell what may befall there?"
Behind them followed Leicester, Sir Walter's eldest son, and beside him was young Will, – in his boyhood a page, and now the heir's special esquire. Walter, the next son, came after them, and then the retainers.
These latter bore the deer slain that afternoon, – a famous buck, with great spreading antlers; and the hounds were close by, sniffing about the carcass with repressed excitement.
The three sons of Sir Walter Devereux were much alike in coloring and stature, being tall and stalwart, with broad shoulders, deep chests, and martial bearing. Their faces were dark, with regular features and full rounded foreheads, and the narrow, strongly marked eyebrows arched over unusually large dark eyes.
But the eyes of these three young men were totally different in expression. Those of Leicester were apt to glow with over-haughtiness; for albeit proof was not lacking to show that he had done kind deeds and was a loyal friend and subject as well as a valiant soldier, he was feared, rather than liked, by his subordinates.
Walter's eyes bespoke his true nature, – a rollicking one. Indeed an enemy of "Wat" Devereux were a hard matter to find.
But, favorite though he was, his younger brother, John, went far beyond him in this respect. His was a quiet nature, much given to contemplation; one that drew the best from all hearts about him. He had been his mother's idol; and his face was the last her dying eyes sought three years before, as he sat, pale and silent, by her bedside, calmly and prayerfully awaiting her end. He it was to whom the old Baronet always opened his heart, when the elder son's haughty reserve perplexed or hurt him, or Walter's recklessness brought trouble.
Up in the dusking turret room, on the cushions by the open casement, John Devereux now sat, dressed for the evening meal.
Putting his strong arm about Anne, he drew her head to his shoulder, and laughed when she showed him the picture that had so affrighted her, while she confided to him her fears lest some such demon should work evil upon him in that strange land in which they were about to find a new home.
"Nay, sweetheart," he said earnestly, "never would I think to take thee to such perils. There be few, if any, such Indians in the country where we shall abide. These writings treat of long-ago days, when goodly English hearts were few on that shore. 'T is changed now; and albeit somewhat rougher than here in our father's castle, 't is every whit as safe. And think, sweetheart," he added proudly, "we shall be the head of our name in this new land, – the same as our brother Leicester here, in old England."
She clung to him silently, while he stroked her soft hair and bent his handsome head to see her face, now smiling, and looking more reassured.
"Art thou still fearful, little one?" he asked presently.
She lifted her face to look into his eyes, and clasped her arms about his neck.
"Fearful?" she repeated. "Nay, not I, so long as thou art with me."
He drew her head against his breast, and a brooding peace fell upon them, broken only by the cawing of the rooks circling about the tower, or the melancholy notes of the ringdoves ensconced amid the ivy on the ancient turrets.
Across the broad Atlantic, on the rocky shore of Marblehead, the May sun had been shining as golden and warm as in old England; and the new home, although lacking the renown which age and legend