THE ABBESS OF SAINT MARY.
Philip next proceeded to the castle, in the principal court of which he
found his arquebusiers drawn up. Long before this, the treasure had been
locked up in one of the strongest chambers of the donjon. Not being
familiar with a Norman castle, the Prince examined the ancient fortress
with much interest, and, ascending to the summit of the keep, enjoyed
the magnificent view commanded from it.
His inspection of the castle completed, Philip was conducted to a public
place in the centre of the town, which derived its name of Saint
Michael’s Place, from a venerable and beautiful church standing in the
midst of it. Facing the east end of this reverend pile was the
habitation designed for his temporary abode.
In Saint Michael’s Place, as elsewhere, a large crowd had congregated,
who cheered the Prince lustily on his appearance, and did not seem
inclined to disperse even when he had dismounted and entered his
lodgings.
The quaint architecture of the habitation, the bay-windows filled with
painted glass, the low-raftered roofs, the walls panelled with oak
darkened by age, the numerous small apartments, the stiff cumbrous
furniture—all so different from the vast gilded saloons and open courts
suited to another clime, with which he was familiar—were far from
displeasing to Philip, and when the Earl of Arundel apologised for the
scant accommodation of the place, the Prince courteously assured him
that the house was very much to his taste. “What sufficed for your great
monarch, Henry VIII.,” he said, “may well suffice for me.”
Pleading fatigue, he then retired to a private chamber, and was not
disturbed until the return of the Count D’Egmont and Osbert Clinton from
Winchester, when they were immediately admitted to his presence.
D’Egmont brought a letter from the Queen, which he delivered to the
Prince, but, without manifesting any impatience to ascertain its
contents, Philip laid it on the table beside which he was seated, and
proceeded to question the Count as to his visit.
“Pass by all other matters,” he said, “and come to the point. What did
her Majesty think of my nocturnal adventure? Was she satisfied with the
explanation offered her?”
“Not entirely, I fear, your Highness,” replied D’Egmont, “though she
said little to warrant such a conclusion.”
“You were careful not to alarm her?” said Philip, turning to Osbert.
“She pressed me very shrewdly,” replied the young man, “but I trust I
succeeded in allaying her suspicions, which were evidently aroused by
the description I was obliged to give of your fair deliverer, Constance
Tyrrell. Her Majesty inherits something of the disposition of her august
sire, and is inclined to jealousy.”
“That does not augur well for my future comfort. Jealousy in a wife is
intolerable,” replied Philip. “Let us see what is said in her letter,”
he added, opening it. “There is nothing here but congratulations on my
safe arrival, and deep concern at the attack upon my person. Not a word
as to my intended visit to Winchester. Apparently, her Majesty does not
attach much credence to that part of the story.”
“She is not easily imposed upon,” observed D’Egmont. “It must be
admitted that your Highness has given her just cause for suspicion. She
will not believe that eagerness to behold her induced you to quit the
ship privily at night. Her penetration pointed to a different motive,
and all she heard seemed to confirm her doubts. At one moment she had
resolved to come over to Southampton, but fortunately she relinquished
that design. Mischief might else have been made by the opponents to the
marriage.”
“Pshaw! I have no fears on that score,” said Philip. “But I am glad she
did not come. She might have interfered with my plans.”
At this moment an usher entered, stating that Mistress Constance Tyrrell
was without, and besought an audience of the Prince.
“By Saint Iago! this is better than I expected,” cried Philip,
overjoyed. “Is she alone?”
“No, your Highness,” replied the usher. “The lady abbess of St. Mary,
Winchester, is with her.”
“I would the lady abbess were in her nunnery, or anywhere but here!”
exclaimed Philip, in a tone of pique. “Admit them.”
On this the usher withdrew, and the next moment Constance entered the
room, accompanied by a religious dame of very stately deportment. The
abbess of Saint Mary was attired in a long black gown, the ample folds
of which swept the ground. The sleeves of her robe were loose, and over
her shoulders was spread a sable mantle, with a hood attached to it. A
barbe of plaited linen covered the lower part of her face, and, with the
close-drawn hood, effectually concealed her features. On the entrance of
the two ladies, D’Egmont and Osbert retired.
Stepping quickly towards Constance, Philip took her hand, preventing her
from making the lowly obeisance she contemplated. After greeting her
very courteously, he turned to the abbess, and saluting her
respectfully, said,—
“Holy mother, to what am I indebted for this visit? Can I serve you in
aught?”
“For myself I seek nothing, Prince,” replied the abbess, in a voice that
vibrated through Philip’s breast, occasioning him an uneasy feeling. “I
am a messenger from the Queen to this young maiden. Her Majesty, having
been informed that, under Heaven, the chief instrument of your
preservation from a great peril was Mistress Constance Tyrrell, who
heroically shielded you from the weapons of assassins, has sent me to
bring the damsel to Winchester. This is my mission, which I was enjoined
to execute without delay; but I have consented to defer my departure for
a short space, as Mistress Constance hath a request to prefer to your
Highness.”
“I thank you for your consideration, holy mother,” replied Philip. “The
fair Constance can ask nothing of me that I will not readily grant.”
“Make no rash promises, Prince,” remarked the abbess. “First hear her
request.”
“I pray you speak, then, fair mistress,” said Philip, in an encouraging
tone to Constance. “You need not apprehend a refusal.”
“The boon is greater than I ought to ask,” said Constance, trembling.
“Yet I must summon courage to make it. In a word, then, your Highness, I
would solicit pardon for the miserable wretch who dared to raise his
sacrilegious hand against your royal person.”
“Pardon for that miscreant!” exclaimed the abbess. “Impossible!”
“For myself I would willingly grant your request,” replied Philip, in a
troubled tone, “but I have not the power. The Queen alone can pardon
this offender against her laws. You must appeal to her.”
“But your Highness will second me,” observed Constance. “A word from
you, and it will be done.”
“Be not too sure of that,” said the abbess, sternly. “The Queen is
compassionate, but just. To pardon a wretch like this would be fraught
with evil consequences. It may not be.”
The force and decision with which these words were pronounced struck the
Prince, and he looked hard at the abbess. But her features were wholly
undistinguishable.
“The lady abbess is right,” he said, after a pause. “I fear the appeal
to the Queen will be in vain. Yet say to her that, if possible, I would
have the man spared.”
“The man is a heretic, as I understand,” remarked the abbess. “If he
will abjure his errors, and discover his accomplices, mercy may,
perchance, be shown him—not otherwise.”
“I fear, then, he must die,” replied Constance. “He is obstinate in his
opinions.”
“Then he deserves to perish,” rejoined the abbess, “and you are wrong in
seeking to save him.”
“My hope is to make him profitable to the Catholic Church,” said
Constance. “If he be put to death now, he will be deemed a martyr by
those of his own faith. In time I may bring about his recantation.”
“’Twere a good act, if you could accomplish it, fair Constance,”
observed Philip; “but I fear you deal with impracticable material. But
how comes it you take so much interest in this Derrick Carver, for such,
if I recollect aright, is the caitiff’s name?”
“I know not whence my compassion for him springs,” she replied. “But I
have visited him in his cell, and fancy I can discern something of good
in him.”
“Be not deceived, damsel,” said the abbess. “There can be no good in one
capable of the crime which this man hath attempted. But if you are in
earnest as to his conversion, I promise you you shall have an
opportunity of attempting the work. I have interest enough with the
Queen for that.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, holy mother,” observed the Prince. “And I
shall rejoice if the fair Constance succeeds in her attempt. But be this
as it may, I do not feel relieved from the weight of obligation I am
under to her. When you present her to the Queen, say I shall be well
pleased if her Majesty can place her among her gentlewomen.”
“I will do more,” rejoined the abbess. “I will use all the influence I
possess with her Majesty to see the damsel well bestowed in marriage.”
“Not if I can prevent it,” thought Philip.
A suspicion in regard to the abbess, which the Prince had begun to
entertain, being confirmed, he begged a word with her in private, and on
her ready assent, led her into the deep recess of a bay-window.
Entirely changing his manner towards her, he then said, “I know not how
to account for it, holy mother, but while talking to you I could almost
imagine myself engaged in converse with her Majesty.”
“A strange supposition,” observed the abbess, in a blander tone than
before.
“It is the highest compliment I could pay you,” pursued Philip. “That
you should resemble so admirable a sovereign is the best proof of your
merit.”
“I am much flattered by your Highness’s good opinion,” returned the
abbess, still more blandly; “but how can you tell that I am like the
Queen, since you have never beheld her Majesty?”
“I can perfectly judge by the many descriptions given me of her,” said
the Prince. “In disposition I am sure you are exactly like her. Remove
your hood, I pray you, that I may see whether the resemblance extends to
feature.”
“I cannot comply with your Highness’s request, as I have a vow which
prohibits me from disclosing my countenance to any of your sex,” she
replied; “but I will own that I am like the Queen.”
“I was quite sure of it,” said Philip. “Permit me for a moment to
address you as her Majesty.”
“’Tis a strange whim,” replied the abbess, complacently, “and I ought
not to consent to it. But your Highness is singularly persuasive. I am
not without curiosity to know what you would say to the Queen.”
“What I have to say may sound like the language of passion, and may not
suit your ears,” rejoined Philip.
“But, as the Queen, I may listen to it,” she rejoined, with something of
tenderness in her tones.
“Then I would throw myself at your feet, as I do now,” cried Philip,
kneeling as he spoke. “I would press your hand to my lips, and assure
you of my unalterable love and fidelity. I would tell you how I have
burned with impatience to behold you—how I have counted the hours of my
long voyage, and have rejoiced as each day brought me nearer to you. In
the strongest terms I could employ I would express my sense of the
honour you have conferred upon me in choosing me for your husband, and I
would endeavour to convince you that it will be the chief business of my
life to increase your felicity and to extend your power. Not a cloud
shall overshadow your future existence if I can drive it away—but all
shall be serenity and sunshine. This is what I would say to the Queen,”
he added, rising.
“Your language is so impassioned, Prince,” she returned, “that I am
almost as much moved as her Majesty could be by your words. For the
moment, I will suppose myself the Queen——”
“It is so understood,” interrupted Philip.
“I fear you feign this passion, Prince,” she continued. “To love one
unknown, unseen, with the ardour you profess, is impossible, and yet I
ought not to say so, for though I have never beheld you till now, your
image has long occupied my breast. I hope you may not be disappointed in
me. It shall be my anxious study to win your affection by entire
devotion and submission to your will, and I trust, with Heaven’s grace,
to succeed.”
“Doubt it not,” replied the Prince, fervently. “You are sole mistress of
my heart, and will ever maintain paramount sway over it.”
“I am foolish to ask it,” she said, “yet I would fain have your
assurance that it is not my crown that has enticed you hither?”
“Rest easy on that score,” rejoined the Prince. “You yourself are the
magnet that has attracted me. You would have been as much prized without
your kingdom as with it.”
“I cannot believe you; yet the assurance is so sweet, that I will yield
to the delusion,” she rejoined. “But I must listen to these honeyed
words no longer. Once more I must become the abbess.”
“To others, but not to me,” rejoined Philip.
On this, they left the recess, and returned to where Constance was
standing.
“What shall be done for this damsel?” said Philip. “It pains me that I
cannot grant her request.”
“Her request is most unreasonable. Still, she has a great claim upon
you,” replied the abbess. “I make no promise, but order the prisoner to
be brought here for examination, and I will consider what can be done.”
Thanking her with a smile, Philip instantly summoned Osbert Clinton, and
bade him bring Derrick Carver before him with all possible dispatch. He
likewise ordered the immediate attendance of the Bishop of Cuença and
Father de Castro.
With a profound obeisance, Osbert departed on his mission.
While this was passing, the abbess proceeded to the table, on which
writing materials were placed, and wrote a few words on a sheet of
paper, which she folded up, and, delivering it to the Prince, observed,
in a significant tone, “You may need this anon. Not a word,” she added,
with a gesture of caution.
After glancing at the paper, Philip placed it within his doublet.
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