THE SACRED PURPLE
It was a bright morning a few days later when the Bishop of Rochester
suffered on Tower Hill.
Chris was there early, and took up his position at the outskirts of the
little crowd, facing towards the Tower itself; and for a couple of hours
watched the shadows creep round the piles of masonry, and the light
deepen and mellow between him and the great mass of the White Tower a
few hundred yards away. There was a large crowd there a good while
before nine o’clock, and Chris found himself at the hour no longer on
the outskirts but in the centre of the people.
He had served the Prior’s mass at six o’clock, and had obtained leave
from him the night before to be present at the execution; but the Prior
himself had given no suggestion of coming. Chris had begun to see that
his superior was going through a conflict, and that he wished to spare
himself any further motives of terror; he began too to understand that
the visit to the bishop had had the effect of strengthening the Prior’s
courage, whatever had been the intention on the part of the authorities
in allowing him to go. He was still wondering why Ralph had lent himself
to the scheme; but had not dared to press his superior further.
* * * * *
The bishop had made a magnificent speech at his trial, and had
protested with an extraordinary pathos, that called out a demonstration
from the crowd in court, against Master Rich’s betrayal of his
confidence. Under promise of the King that nothing that he said to his
friend should be used against him, the bishop had shown his mind in a
private conversation on the subject of the Supremacy Act, and now this
had been brought against him by Rich himself at the trial.
“Seeing it pleased the King’s Highness,” said the bishop, “to send to me
thus secretly to know my poor advice and opinion, which I most gladly
was, and ever will be, ready to offer to him when so commanded, methinks
it very hard to allow the same as sufficient testimony against me, to
prove me guilty of high treason.”
Rich excused himself by affirming that he said or did nothing more than
what the King commanded him to do; and the trial ended by the bishop’s
condemnation.
* * * * *
As Chris waited by the scaffold he prayed almost incessantly. There was
sufficient spur for prayer in the menacing fortress before him with its
hundred tiny windows, and the new scaffold, some five or six feet high,
that stood in the foreground. He wondered how the bishop was passing his
time and thought he knew. The long grey wall beyond the moat, and the
towers that rose above it, were suggestive in their silent strength.
From where he stood too he could catch a glimpse of the shining reaches
of the river with the green slopes on the further side; and the freedom
and beauty of the sight, the delicate haze that hung over the water, the
birds winging their way across, the boats plying to and fro, struck a
vivid contrast to the grim fatality of the prison and the scaffold.
A bell sounded out somewhere from the Tower, and a ripple ran through
the crowd. There was an immensely tall man a few yards from Chris, and
Chris could see his face turn suddenly towards the lower ground by the
river where the gateway rose up dark against the bright water. The man’s
face suddenly lighted with interest, and Chris saw his lips move and his
eyes become intent. Then a surging movement began, and the monk was
swept away to the left by the packed crowd round him. There were faces
lining the wall and opposite, and all were turned one way. A great
murmur began to swell up, and a woman beside him turned white and began
to sob quietly.
His eyes caught a bright point of light that died again, flashed out,
and resolved itself into a gleaming line of halberds, moving on towards
the right above the heads, up the slope to the scaffold. He saw a horse
toss his head; and then a feathered cap or two swaying behind.
Then for one instant between the shifting heads in front he caught sight
of a lean face framed in a flapped cap swaying rhythmically as if borne
on a chair. It vanished again.
The flashing line of halberds elongated itself, divided, and came
between the scaffold and him; and the murmur of the crowd died to a
heart-shaking silence. A solemn bell clanged out again from the interior
of the prison, and Chris, his wet hands knit together, began to count
the strokes mechanically, staring at the narrow rail of the scaffold,
and waiting for the sight that he knew would come. Then again he was
swept along a yard or two to the right, and when he had recovered his
feet a man was on the scaffold, bending forwards and gesticulating.
Another head rose into the line of vision, and this man too turned
towards the steps up which he had come, and stood, one hand
outstretched.
Again a murmur and movement began; Chris had to look to his foothold,
and when he raised his head again a solemn low roar was rising up and
swelling, of pity and excitement, for, silhouetted against the sunlit
Tower behind, stood the man for whose sake all were there.
He was in a black gown and tippet, and carried his two hands clasped to
his breast; and in them was a book and a crucifix. His cap was on his
head, and the white face, incredibly thin, looked out over the heads of
the crowd.
Chris hardly noticed that the scaffold was filling with people, until a
figure came forward, in black, with a masked face, and bowed
deferentially to the bishop; and in an instant silence fell again.
He saw the bishop turn and bow slightly in return, and in the stillness
that wonderful voice sounded out, with the clear minuteness of words
spoken in the open air, clear and penetrating over the whole ground.
“I forgive you very heartily; and I hope you will see me overcome this
storm lustily.”
The black figure fell back, and the bishop stood hesitating, looking
this way and that as if for direction.
The Lieutenant of the Tower came forward; but Chris could only see his
lips move, as a murmur had broken out again at the bishop’s answer; but
he signed with his hand and stepped behind the prisoner.
The bishop nodded, lifted his hand and took off his cap; and his white
hair appeared; then he fumbled at his throat, holding the book and
crucifix in his other hand; and, with the Lieutenant’s help, slipped off
his tippet and loose gown; and as he freed himself, and stood in his
doublet and hose, a great sobbing cry of horror and compassion rose from
the straining faces, for he seemed scarcely to be a living man, so
dreadful was his emaciation. Above that lean figure of death looked out
the worn old face, serene and confident. He was again holding the book
and crucifix clasped to his breast, as he stepped to the edge of the
scaffold.
The cry died to a murmur and ceased abruptly as he began his speech,
every word of which was audible.
“Christian people,” he began, “I am come hither to die for the faith of
Christ’s holy Catholic Church.” He raised his voice a little, and it
rang out confidently. “And I thank God that hitherto my stomach hath
served me very well thereunto, so that yet I have not feared death.
Wherefore I desire you all to help and assist with your prayers, that at
the very point and instant of death’s stroke I may in that very moment
stand steadfast, without fainting in any one point of the Catholic
Faith, free from any fear.”
He paused again; his hands closed one on the other. He glanced up.
“And I beseech the Almighty God of His infinite goodness and mercy, to
save the King and this realm; and that it may please Him to hold His
hand over it, and send the King’s Highness good counsel.”
He ceased abruptly; and dropped his head.
A gentle groan ran through the crowd.
Chris felt his throat contract, and a mist blinded his eyes for a
moment.
Then he saw the bishop slip the crucifix into his other hand, and open
the book, apparently at random. His lean finger dropped upon the page;
and he read aloud softly, as if to himself.
“This is life eternal, that they might know Thee, the one true God, and
Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent. I have glorified Thee on the earth; I
have finished the work which Thou gavest me to do.”
Again there was silence, for it seemed as if he was going to make a
sermon, but he looked down at the book a moment or two. Then he closed
it gently.
“Here is learning enough for me,” he said, “to my life’s end.”
There was a movement among the silent figures at the back of the
scaffold; and the Lieutenant stepped forward once more. The bishop
turned to meet him and nodded; handing him the book; and then with the
crucifix still in his hands, and with the officer’s help, sank on to his
knees.
* * * * *
It seemed to Chris as if he waited an eternity; but he could not take
his eyes off him. Round about was the breathing mass of the crowd,
overhead the clear summer sky; up from the river came the sounds of
cries and the pulse of oars, and from the Tower now and again the call
of a horn and the stroke of a bell; but all this was external, and
seemed to have no effect upon the intense silence of the heart that
radiated from the scaffold, and in which the monk felt himself
enveloped. The space between himself and the bishop seemed annihilated;
and Chris found himself in company with a thousand others close beside
the man’s soul that was to leave the world so soon. He could not pray;
but he had the sensation of gripping that imploring spirit, pulsating
with it, furthering with his own strained will that stream of effort
that he knew was going forth.
Meanwhile his eyes stared at him; and saw without seeing how the old man
now leaned back with closed eyes and moving lips; now he bent forward,
and looked at the crucified figure that he held between his hands, now
lifted it and lingeringly kissed the pierced feet. Behind stood the
stiff line of officers, and in front below the rail rose the glitter of
the halberds.
The minutes went by and there was no change. The world seemed to have
grown rigid with expectancy; it was as if time stood still. There fell
upon the monk’s soul, not suddenly but imperceptibly, something of that
sense of the unseen that he had experienced at Tyburn. For a certain
space all sorrow and terror left him; he knew tangibly now that to which
at other times his mere faith assented; he knew that the world of spirit
was the real one; that the Tower, the axe, the imminent shadow of death,
were little more than illusions; they were part of the staging,
significant and necessary, but with no substance of reality. The eternal
world in which God was all, alone was a fact. He felt no longer pity or
regret. Nothing but the sheer existence of a Being of which all persons
there were sharers, poised in an eternal instant, remained with him.
This strange sensation was scarcely disturbed by the rising of the lean
black figure from its knees; Chris watched him as he might have watched
the inevitable movement of an actor performing his pre-arranged part.
The bishop turned eastward, to where the sun was now high above the
Tower gate, and spoke once more.
“_Accedite ad eum, et illuminamini; et facies vestræ non confundentur_.”
Then once more in the deathly stillness he turned round; and his eyes
ran over the countless faces turned up to his own. But there was a
certain tranquil severity in his face--the severity of one who has taken
a bitter cup firmly into his hand; his lips were tightly compressed, and
his eyes were deep and steady.
Then very slowly he lifted his right hand, touched his forehead, and
enveloped himself in a great sign of the cross, still looking out
unwaveringly over the faces; and immediately, without any hesitation,
sank down on his knees, put his hands before him on to the scaffold, and
stretched himself flat.
He was now invisible to Chris; for the low block on which he had laid
his neck was only a few inches high.
There was again a surge and a murmur as the headsman stepped forward
with the huge-headed axe over his shoulder, and stood waiting.
Then again the moments began to pass.
* * * * *
Chris lost all consciousness of his own being; he was aware of nothing
but the objective presence of the scaffold, of an overpowering
expectancy. It seemed as if something were stretched taut in his brain,
at breaking point; as if some vast thing were on the point of
revelation. All else had vanished,--the scene round him, the sense of
the invisible; there was but the point of space left, waiting for an
explosion.
There was a sense of wrenching torture as the headsman lifted the axe,
bringing it high round behind him; the motion seemed shockingly slow,
and to wring the strained nerves to agony....
* * * * *
Then in a blinding climax the axe fell.