THE EXAMINATION.
After consulting the Prince by a look, Osbert caused the litter to be
set down in the middle of the chamber. As the curtains were drawn aside
by Rodomont, and the livid features of Derrick Carver were fully
revealed to view, Philip narrowly watched the effect of the ghastly
spectacle on De Noailles; but he stood the ordeal firmly.
“Raise thyself, Carver,” cried Rodomont to the prisoner.
“Where am I?” groaned the wretched man.
“In the presence of the Prince of Spain,” rejoined Rodomont. “Art thou
prepared to answer his interrogations?”
“I am too feeble to talk,” replied Derrick Carver, sinking backwards.
“I have a potent elixir with me which will restore his natural forces,”
said Malwood.
“Give me the phial. I will administer the dose,” cried Rodomont, pouring
a few drops down the prisoner’s throat.
“Enough!—enough!” exclaimed Malwood, staying his hand.
“By the girdle of Saint Francis! it acts like magic,” cried Rodomont.
“The colour is coming to his cheeks, and his eyes look brighter.”
“His pulse begins to beat firmly,” said Malwood. “He is now able to
answer any question your Highness may desire to put to him,” he added to
the Prince.
At a sign from Philip, Father de Castro here approached the litter.
“Who art thou?” demanded Derrick Carver, slightly raising himself, and
regarding the priest sternly.
“I am the confessor of the Prince of Spain,” replied the other; “and
lost as thou now art, steeped in sin, it will gladden me to reconcile
thee to Heaven. Dire as is thine offence, and justly as it calls for
condign punishment, I will strive to intercede for thee with his
Highness, provided thou wilt make clean thy breast and recant thine
errors.”
“Think not to move me,” replied Derrick Carver. “I have the stuff in me
of which martyrs are made, as you will find. If I be doomed to a death
of torture, Heaven will give me constancy to bear it. I grieve not for
myself, but for my fellow countrymen, who have much bitter persecution
to endure.”
“Pity is wasted on him, Father,” said Rodomont.
“No, my son,” rejoined De Castro. “Our Church is never without
commiseration for the most hardened sinner, who may be received into its
bosom even at the last hour.”
“You prate of pity, yet would enforce obedience to your doctrines by
torture and burnings,” said Derrick Carver. “If I mistake not, you are
the ruthless Father de Castro, who hath written and preached on the
punishment of heretics, and hath been the means of consigning many true
believers in the Gospel to the flames.”
“I am he you suppose, unhappy man,” replied De Castro. “I am a physician
to those who are sick of soul. If the only remedy for their disease be
fire, ought I to hesitate to prescribe it?”
“Then treat me as thou hast treated others, merciless priest,” rejoined
Derrick Carver. “Thou wilt see what will ensue. Cast abroad my ashes to
the winds, and they will cause a tempest which will crush thee and the
Prince thy master.”
“Hold thy peace, thou crazy fellow! Thou ravest,” cried Rodomont.
“Not at thy bidding, base hireling of Spain,” rejoined Derrick Carver.
“I hold thee in utter contempt. I am an Englishman, and will bend to no
foreign yoke—a Protestant, and will never abandon my faith. I give my
life for my country and my religion. Wilt thou give thy dog’s life for
either?”
“My patriotism and religious zeal do not lead me to turn assassin,
Carver,” rejoined Rodomont. “Neither doth it become thee, who hath sold
thyself for French gold, to talk of subserviency. I am a loyal subject
to the Queen, and a foe to traitors, of whom thou, Derrick, art the
vilest.”
“Thou accusest me falsely,” rejoined Carver. “No French gold has ever
touched my hand.”
“Answer the question I am about to put,” said the Prince, approaching;
“and beware! for thy life depends upon thy truthfulness. It is useless
to deny that thou wert hired for this deed. Name thy employer, and I
will obtain thy pardon from the Queen. I promise it on my royal word.”
“You will not credit what I say,” rejoined Carver. “Why, therefore,
should I speak?”
“Look round this assembly,” pursued Philip, “and say whether anyone
within it is known to thee.”
“I see none but Spanish nobles and priests,” rejoined Carver, in accents
of contempt.
“Look again, Derrick,” said Rodomont “They are not all Spaniards. There
is a Frenchman among them.”
“It may be,” replied the wounded man. “What is that to me?”
“Much,” replied Rodomont.
“I pray your excellency to approach the litter,” said Philip to the
French ambassador.
“Readily,” replied De Noailles, advancing. “Have you ever beheld me
before?” he said to the prisoner.
“Equivocate not, but answer plainly, Derrick,” said Rodomont. “Have you
ever beheld his excellency before?”
“I have,” replied the prisoner. “I saw him last night, in a house near
the West-gate.”
“You are mistaken, Sirrah; you cannot have seen me!” cried De Noailles.
“Truth only will avail you,” said the Prince to the prisoner. “What
passed between you and his excellency?”
“Not a word—not a look. I do not think he even noticed me,” rejoined
Carver.
“But there were others with you whom he did notice?” said the Prince.
“Trifle not with me. It imports me to know who they were, and what
occurred.”
“The villain’s statement respecting me is utterly false,” cried De
Noailles. “I did not stir from my lodgings last night.”
“Your excellency must needs be in error there,” remarked Rodomont,
“since you were seen and recognised in the High Street, about half an
hour before this murtherous attack took place, thus allowing ample time
for its concoction. Moreover, this letter found on the body of the
ruffian slain by the Prince, may serve to prove your share in the dark
transaction.”
“I deny the charge altogether,” cried De Noailles. “’Tis a device of my
enemies. When the matter is regularly investigated, and before a
competent tribunal, I can easily clear myself.”
“Justice shall be done you, Sir, of that you need not doubt,” said
Philip, sternly. “As to you, fellow,” he added to the prisoner, “little
as you deserve it, you shall have a pardon. But understand. You owe life
and freedom to Mistress Constance Tyrrell—not to me.”
“Are no conditions annexed to the pardon?” inquired Derrick Carver.
“None; it is unconditional,” replied the Prince. “Here is her Majesty’s
order,” he added, giving Rodomont the paper, signed by the abbess. “Are
you content?” he added to Constance, who had approached at the moment.
“I am,” she replied, with a look of unutterable gratitude.
“With your Highness’s permission,” said Rodomont, “the prisoner shall be
taken to the hospital of the Domus Dei, where he can remain till his
wounds be healed, and if there be a spark of gratitude in his breast,
the residue of his life will be devoted to extolling your Highness’s
clemency.”
“I trust he may become a good Catholic through your instrumentality,”
said the Prince to Constance. “Take him away,” he added to Rodomont.
Upon this Rodomont directed the bearers to remove the litter, and making
a profound obeisance to the Prince, he followed it out of the room.
“My part in this strange performance is now over, I presume,” observed
De Noailles to the Prince.
“Your excellency is at liberty to depart,” rejoined Philip, coldly.
“Attend him,” he added, glancing at Alva and D’Egmont.
The look was so significant that it did not escape the ambassador, and
caused him to pause.
“No treachery, I trust, is intended?” he said. “Your Highness will bear
in mind that my person is sacred.”
“So is mine,” rejoined Philip, sternly. “Yet that circumstance did not
save me from attack.”
“Your Highness would not insinuate——”
“I insinuate nothing,” said Philip. “Go, Sir, Heaven go with you!”
Seriously alarmed, the ambassador did not dare to stir a step. The
terrible looks of the Duke of Alva froze the blood in his veins. While
he stood irresolute, the lady abbess went up to him, and said, “I will
go with you.”
“It seems, then, that I am really in danger,” stammered De Noailles.
“Without me you will never quit this place alive,” replied the abbess.
And signing to Constance to follow her, she left the room with the
ambassador, the Duke of Alva and the Count D’Egmont having gone out
before them.
As De Noailles and the two ladies entered the ante-chamber, they found
it full of armed men, while both the Duke and D’Egmont had drawn their
swords.
“Pass on, holy mother, and take your charge with you,” said Alva to the
abbess and Constance. “We must have a word with his excellency.”
“I will not affect to misunderstand your purpose, my lord Duke,” said
the abbess, “but it must not be. I forbid it.”
“You, holy mother!”
“Yes, I, the Queen!” she rejoined.
“The Queen!” exclaimed Alva, sheathing his sword. “Nay, then, we must
needs obey. Your excellency will excuse this momentary interruption.
Pray pass on.”
As may be supposed, the ambassador was not slow to avail himself of the
permission.
[Illustration]
BOOK II.
THE ROYAL NUPTIALS.
CHAPTER I.
OLD WINCHESTER FROM SAINT CATHERINE’S HILL.
Know you the fair hill, crowned by a clump of trees, with a zone around
its waist, and a carpet of smooth turf spread out upon its banks,
arising from the well-wooded and well-watered meads in the immediate
vicinity of the ancient city of Winchester? If you are a Wykehamist, you
know it well. Graven on the brow of the hill is a labyrinth, or maze,
the work of a poor student, who, being debarred from the delights of
home during the holiday season, occupied his weary hours in this strange
task, while his heart-sickness found relief in a ditty, still sung by
his successors at Wykeham’s famous school. The legend goes on to relate
that the hapless youth, who thus carved a memorial on the hill, pined
away and died beneath one of the trees on its summit. If so, his gentle
spirit must still haunt the spot! Lower down, an entrenchment, deeply
cut in the chalk, and attributed to the Dane, encompasses the hill. The
base of the mount is washed by the silver Itchen—a stream dear to old
Izaak Walton, whose remains have rested, ever since his “ninety years
and more” were told, in the adjacent cathedral. Other hills there are
hard by—as Saint Giles’s, whereon the greatest fair in England was
annually held from the period of the Conquest to the reign of Henry VI.;
and Saint Mary Magdalene’s, on which the Empress Maud and the valorous
prelate Henry de Blois, brother of King Stephen, met to treat—but
neither of these eminences are comparable in beauty of form, or in charm
of situation, to fair Saint Catherine’s Hill.
If you are a Wykehamist, we repeat, you well know Saint Catherine’s
Hill. Oft, in happy, bygone days—far too soon flown—have you wended,
with a joyous band of your schoolfellows, across the meadows and by the
brink of the meandering Itchen towards your favourite hill. Oft, in
summer-tide, have you plunged into the deep pool hard by the mill—oft
have you thrown the line upon the glassy water and dragged forth the
speckled trout—oft have you lingered on the rustic bridge and watched
the light skiff, rowed by a comrade, shoot swiftly under it—oft have you
joined the merry groups seated on the banks at the foot of the hill, or
started in the mimic chase with the fleetest runners of the crew—oft
have you climbed the steep sides of the eminence, have tracked its
circling trench, threaded the intricacies of its maze, or, reclining
beneath the shade of its tree, enjoyed the glorious prospect of the
ancient city commanded from the point. Oft thence have you gazed upon
the turrets and crocketed pinnacles of the venerable pile, erected by
your benefactor, the revered William of Wykeham. Deep is the debt you
owe him. Nobler seat of learning there cannot be than Winchester
College; second only in architectural beauty to regal Eton. Well-nigh
five hundred years has your famous school endured. May it last five
hundred more!
Beautiful, most beautiful, is, now-a-days, the view from Saint
Catherine’s Hill; but in the middle of the 16th century, when we must
now regard it, it was infinitely more so. From this height, the fine old
city, skirted on the south by lordly trees, was beheld in its highest
perfection. Thronged with convents, colleges, hospitals, churches, and
other buildings of ancient date, and great beauty of architecture, and
boasting one of the grandest cathedrals in the kingdom, Winchester had
then a grave, monastic air—something of which it yet retains, despite
the many and grievous changes it has undergone. True, its religious
communities and charitable establishments had been suppressed by Henry
VIII., and their revenues seized upon, but the spoiler had spared the
edifices. Most of these monasteries and convents were restored by Mary,
and the long exiled monks and nuns had just got back to their old
abodes.
The aspect of Winchester, however, at the epoch in question, was
martial, as well as monastic. Besides well-fortified walls, flanked by
numerous towers, and defended by bastions, the city possessed two large
castles, one of which, built by William the Conqueror, occupied a
commanding position on the south-west, and covered a vast area with its
works and outworks. This fine old Norman castle, eventually demolished
by Cromwell, was besieged and taken by the Dauphin of France in the
reign of John, but it held out gallantly against Simon de Montfort and
the barons in the days of Henry III. In Mary’s time it was in good
repair, and well supplied with ordnance and men.
Wolvesey Castle, as the other fortress was called, stood in the lower
part of the city, to the south-east of the cathedral. Though less
advantageously situated than the upper strong-hold, it rivalled it in
magnitude. The two giants tried their strength in the time of the
warlike Henry de Blois, but were too well matched for any decided result
to ensue. Wolvesey Castle was built by the valiant prelate we have just
mentioned on the site of the old Saxon palace wherein Egbert, Alfred,
Edgar, and Canute had dwelt, and derived its name from the tribute of
wolves’ heads exacted from the Welsh princes by Edgar, and paid at the
palace gates. Soon after the completion of Wolvesey by De Blois, it was
attacked by the Empress Maud, who had possession of the upper fortress,
and was invested at the same time by the Earl of Gloucester, and David,
King of Scotland, but it held out against all its assailants. During
this conflict the city suffered much from the contending parties, but
especially from the adherents of Stephen. Fire-balls thrown from
Wolvesey Castle caused a tremendous conflagration, whereby the Abbey of
Saint Mary, the royal palace, the suburb of Hyde, with its superb
monastery of Saint Grimbald, commenced by Alfred the Great, and a
multitude of churches were destroyed. Dismantled by Henry II., who
dreaded its strength, Wolvesey was restored and refortified at a later
period, and afforded shelter from the barons to the half-brothers of
Henry III. During all this time, and for upwards of another century,
Wolvesey was occupied by bishops, who belonging to the church militant,
kept it in a good state of defence. Later on, it became less of a
fortress, and more of an episcopal palace, and such it was at the period
of our history, for though none of its fortifications were destroyed,
and its walls, towers, and donjon were still standing, the buildings
were devoted to pacific purposes. Great trees were allowed to grow up in
its courts, and fair gardens were laid out beneath its walls. The
principal apartments were in the keep, and here Mary was now lodged,
while her large retinue found ample accommodation in the numerous towers
and outbuildings. Gardiner had fitted up the palace splendidly for his
royal mistress’s reception. During her stay at Wolvesey, unbounded
hospitality reigned there; and never at any time—not even in 1522, when
Henry VIII. feasted the Emperor Charles V. in its halls—had greater
profusion been displayed within the castle. Of this vast and stately
pile, demolished by Cromwell, some picturesque ruins, o’ergrown with
ivy, are still left, attesting its former extent and grandeur.
Wolvesey Castle was connected by a subterranean passage with the
cathedral, so that communication could be kept up with that edifice
during a siege. Opposite the gate-tower was the noble entrance to
Wykeham’s College. Near at hand was another college, founded by John de
Pontissara, and still nearer, the hospital called “La Carité,”
appertaining to the cathedral. Tall trees sheltered these edifices, and
added to their beauty. Indeed, this part of the city was so densely
planted with timber, that it looked like a grove.
The most striking object in old Winchester, as in the existing city, was
the cathedral. This ancient and splendid structure demands a far more
lengthened description than we are able to afford it. The scene of many
highly important events, it has been the place of coronation of our
earlier kings, and their mausoleum. Egbert, Edmund the son of Alfred the
Great, Edred, Canute, and Hardicanute, found here a sepulchre. Alfred’s
honoured remains, temporarily deposited within the cathedral, were
afterwards removed to the adjacent abbey of Hyde, which he commenced,
but did not live to complete. Here, amongst other holy personages, Saint
Swithun, Bishop of Winchester in the ninth century, the patron saint of
the city and the cathedral, found a grave. Here, also, lie the bones of
many an illustrious prelate—Bishops Walkelin, Edyngton, and Wykeham;
Bishops de Blois and Waynflete, Cardinal Beaufort, Prior Silkstede,
Bishop Fox, and Gardiner himself, of whom our story treats. Built at
different epochs, Winchester Cathedral offers examples of various styles
of architecture, which, though dissimilar, produce a magnificent whole.
Upon its site stood a more ancient church, reared by the Saxon king,
Kenewalch, which was partially pulled down in the 11th century, when the
present edifice was commenced by Bishop Walkelin, who preserved such
portions of the original fabric as suited his design. The greater part
of the east end of the existing structure, including the massive central
tower, is Walkelin’s work; and that tower, though somewhat heavy, is a
noble specimen of Norman architecture. Considerable alterations were
next made, towards the close of the 12th century, by Bishop Godfrey de
Lucy, who rebuilt the Lady Chapel. About 1350, a new nave was commenced
by Bishop Edyngton, and the work was continued by the illustrious
William of Wykeham, and after him by Cardinal Beaufort, and brought to a
completion by Bishop Waynflete. The vast and lofty columns on either
side of the nave, each pillar being about twelve feet in diameter,
produce a grand effect, and the _coup d’œil_ of the interior from the
great western portal is superb beyond description. The transepts,
wherein may still be seen the huge round pillars and vast circular
arches, piled one upon another to the roof—the original work of
Walkelin—constitute, perhaps, the most interesting part of the edifice.
Brief allusion can only be made to the marvels of the choir; to its
elaborately carved stalls with their _miserères_, canopies, pinnacles,
and other ornaments; to the magnificent carved screen behind the
altar-piece; to the glories of the great east and west windows; to the
superb chantries of Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop Waynflete, and Bishop Fox,
all of extraordinary beauty and richness. On the south side of the nave,
and exhibiting infinite richness of ornament and extreme delicacy of
carving, is the mortuary chapel of William of Wykeham, in which may be
seen a recumbent marble statue of that venerated personage, his head
supported by angels, and three kneeling figures at his feet. In the
north aisle, near the presbytery, is the mortuary chapel of Bishop
Gardiner. In the Silkstede Chapel, in the south transept, will be found
the lowly grave of gentle Izaak Walton.
And now a word in regard to the city itself. The early history of Venta,
Caer Gwent, or the White City, as Winchester was originally called, is
lost in obscurity, but the remote antiquity of the place is
unquestionable. The Celt, the Roman, the Saxon, the Dane, and the
Norman, have successively occupied the spot. Whether good King Arthur
held his court in the White City, and banqueted his peerless knights at
the Round Table, still preserved in the castle hall, may be doubted. But
it is certain that, as the residence of our great Saxon kings, and the
seat of their government, Winchester was the most important city in the
island. In the days of Cerdic it was the capital of the West Saxons,
and, on the dissolution of the Heptarchy, it became the metropolis of
England. The most illustrious name connected with Winchester is that of
Alfred the Great. Compelled to abandon the city for a while to the
Danes, this great monarch and lawgiver retook it, restored it to its
pristine splendour, and dwelt within it to his latest day. Canute also
had his palace in Winchester, and died there. From Egbert to Edward the
Confessor—a period of two hundred and forty years—all our old Saxon
kings were crowned within the cathedral, and most of them found graves
in its vaults. William the Conqueror loved Winchester, and strengthened
it by the proud castle on the hill. William Rufus was buried in the
cathedral, and the saints deposited there, resenting the intrusion of so
impious a monarch upon their resting-place, caused the great tower to
fall down. During the usurpation of Stephen, Winchester became, as we
have shown, the scene of dire conflicts between the Empress Maud and
Bishop de Blois. Henry III., surnamed of Winchester, was born within the
city; and so was Arthur, eldest son of Henry VII., but the latter died
too young to do credit to his birth-place. Edward I. held divers
parliaments in the city, and partially restored its consequence. Great
feasting occurred in Wolvesey Castle, with jousting and triumphs, when
the Emperor Charles V., as we have previously related, was for a week
the guest of Henry VIII. Of the crushing effect produced upon the city
by the Reformation we have already spoken. It was now just recovering
from the blow. Modern Winchester comes not within our scope. But the
city is still beautiful, still picturesque. Though reft of more than
half of its olden attractions, it still boasts its grand cathedral, its
famous college, and its exquisite and unique hospital of Saint Croix.
Retaining these, the city of Egbert, of Alfred, and Canute, must ever be
one of the most interesting in the kingdom.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL.
At the period of our history the finishing-point to the beauty of Saint
Catherine’s Hill was given by an exquisite Gothic chapel placed upon its
summit. Erected in the 13th century, this little temple was much
resorted to by the devout on account of the reliques it contained of
Saints Birinus, Swithun, and Ethelwold. Within in might also be seen a
ploughshare which, while red hot, had been trodden upon without injury
by the beautiful Queen Emma, mother of Edward the Confessor. Constant
pilgrimages were made to the shrine, and on the festival of Saint
Catherine, to whom the chapel was dedicated, a long procession of
religious personages of both sexes, headed by the Bishop of Winchester,
and accompanied by an immense concourse, came forth from the city and
ascended the hill, when the Bishop and those with him entering the
chapel, placed rich gifts upon the altar. At such times, the spectacle
of the vast assemblage kneeling around the little fane, or raising the
choral hymn to heaven, must have been highly impressive. Formerly, Saint
Catherine’s Chapel had been well endowed, but its revenues were
appropriated by Wolsey to his “twins of learning,” Ipswich and Oxford.
From this time, until the return to the old worship under Mary, the
place was completely neglected. Restored by Gardiner, an aged priest,
Father Jerome, who had officiated within it in former days, was
appointed to its care. At the same time its precious reliques were
brought back. Luckily, during the season of its desecration, it had
sustained no material injury—its extraordinary reputation for sanctity
having probably saved it—and it was now nearly as beautiful as ever. As
least, its custodian, good Father Jerome, thought so.
In the olden time, it had been customary with devotees, after early
immersion in the clear waters of the Itchen, to repair to Saint
Catherine’s Chapel, hear matins, and perform other devotional exercises.
This practice, healthful alike to body and soul, was now revived.
Welcome to Father Jerome were all who came there to pray.
At an early hour on the morning of the third day after the Prince of
Spain’s public entry into Southampton, a remarkably handsome young
gallant—tall, graceful in figure and deportment, and very becomingly
attired in a doublet of green velvet, slashed with white silk, and
wearing a small velvet beret of the some colour, adorned with a white
plume, on his head—issued from the south gate of Winchester, and passing
through the grove of stately elms, colonised by rooks, then environing
this side of the ancient city, struck across the charming valley watered
by the Itchen.
The morning was lovely enough to have tempted the veriest sluggard to
quit his couch, and our handsome young galliard seemed fully alive to
its beauties. The sun had but just o’ertopped sweet Saint Catherine’s
Hill. The grass was heavy with dew, and a thin haze hung in some parts
of the valley, but this quickly disappeared. All nature looked bright
and smiling. The warblers of the grove carolled blithely, the larks
soared aloft rejoicingly, and a cloud of clamorous rooks, quitting the
tall trees near the city, winged their way towards the marsh lands
further south. Scared by the young man’s approach, the stately heron
started from the river in which he was fishing, while other aquatic fowl
dived beneath the green water-weeds and disappeared.
At no time are we so susceptible to Nature’s beauties as at early morn.
Our senses of delight are quicker then than at any other season, and
invigorated by the freshness of the atmosphere, we find something to
charm in every object we behold. So it was with the young gallant in
question. He was familiar with the scene around him, yet he discovered
beauties in it of which he had been hitherto unconscious. His eye ranged
along the valley through which strayed the winding Itchen, pleased with
all it encountered, until his gaze settled on the secluded hospital of
Saint Croix.
Never before, it seemed to him, had the ancient edifice looked so
lovely, so sequestered, as it did now. Though partially screened by
trees, enough was visible to evidence its size and architectural
beauty—the lofty gateway, the roofs of the quadrangular courts, and the
square tower of the reverend church. A slight mist, enveloping but not
hiding the outline of the pile, gave it a dreamlike character.
The hospital of Saint Croix was even then more than three hundred years
old, having been erected in 1136 by Bishop Henry de Blois, of whom
previous mention has been made. It was subsequently enlarged by Cardinal
Beaufort, and is still, we are happy to say, in an admirable state of
preservation. Here the hospitality of monkish times is still practised
on a small scale. Like many other similar institutions in Winchester and
elsewhere, Saint Croix was deprived of its rents and revenues by Henry
VIII., but sufficient was fortunately saved from the spoiler’s grasp to
preserve it from utter extinction. New life was communicated to the
decaying old hospital by Mary, and it was the thought of its unexpected
revival that gave it special interest in the eyes of the young man who
now gazed upon it. Contrasting its present condition with the past, he
rejoiced that a fabric so lovely, and designed for such benevolent
purposes, should have escaped destruction.
After indulging in these reflections for a brief space, he walked on,
bestowing a glance as he crossed the wooden bridge over the Itchen at
the trout shooting through the clear stream. He had now reached the foot
of Saint Catherine’s Hill, whither, apparently, he was bound, and
disdaining to take the easy but circuitous path conducting to the little
chapel, he speeded up the steepest part of the acclivity, across the
Danish entrenchment, and did not halt for a moment till he gained the
summit of the hill. He then turned to enjoy the splendid prospect
commanded from the spot of the ancient city and its environs, which we
have already endeavoured to bring before the reader.
While he was thus occupied, the door of the little chapel was opened by
a priest of venerable and benevolent aspect, who stepped towards him,
bade him a kindly good morrow, and bestowed a benison upon him.
“What brings Master Osbert Clinton to Saint Catherine’s Hill so early?”
inquired the old priest.
“Nothing more than to hear matins in your chapel, good Father Jerome,”
replied Osbert. “I trust I am in time.”
“You are in ample time, my son,” replied the old priest, smiling.
“Matins have not yet been said, and will not commence for half an hour.
Except myself, you are the first on Saint Catherine’s Hill this blessed
morning. Indeed, I marvel to see you here so soon. That a young gallant
like Master Osbert Clinton, engaged in all the gaieties of court, should
have come to this little chapel to pray at so early an hour, argues a
strength of devotion for which, I own, I scarcely give him credit.”
“I will not attempt to deceive you, good father,” returned Osbert. “It
is not merely the desire to pray within your chapel that has brought me
here, but the hope of meeting a fair maiden——”
“Dare you make such an avowal to me, young Sir?” interrupted Father
Jerome, in a tone of stern rebuke.
“Nay Father, be not angry with me,” said Osbert. “You will pardon me, I
am sure, when you know my motive. My object is to caution the damsel,
and this is the only opportunity I may have of doing so.”
“Methinks I know the damsel you allude to, my son,” returned Father
Jerome. “Mistress Constance Tyrrell, is it not? She was here yesterday,
and after performing her devotions, poured forth the secrets of her
heart to me, and besought my counsel.”
“You are aware, then, of the perilous position in which she is placed,
and of the necessity of extricating her from it without delay?”
“I know she is beloved by some exalted personage, and that she is full
of apprehension——”
“Well may she be so, holy Father,” said Osbert. “I dare not tell you by
whom she is beloved. Suffice it, that her position at court is fraught
with peril. But it shall be my business to guard her.”
“You love her, then, my son?” observed Father Jerome.
“Passionately,” replied Osbert. “But I have not yet ventured to tell her
of my love.”
“You are encouraging a hopeless passion, my son, and I beseech you to
check it while you can. But what tidings do you bring of the Prince of
Spain? When comes he from Southampton?”
“This very day,” returned Osbert. “I am to form part of the train which
will escort his Highness hither. We shall set forth at noon, at which
hour the Prince, with a large cavalcade, will leave Southampton, so we
shall meet him midway.”
“I am told he is a well-favoured Prince, but haughty and reserved of
manner,” remarked Father Jerome.
“I have not found him so,” replied Osbert. “To me he has been singularly
condescending, and, indeed, he is gracious to all.”
“I am right glad to hear it. That speaks well for him. Long and
earnestly have I prayed that our good Queen’s union may be happy. Much
does our holy Church owe her. Look down upon that city, my son. Regard
those monasteries, convents, and hospitals. They have all been restored
by her. Once more within yon noble cathedral mass is celebrated, and all
the rites of the Romish Church performed. To Queen Mary we owe this
blessed change. By her Saint Croix has likewise been restored, and it is
to her benign influence that this little chapel has been again opened
for worship—that the reliques of the saints have been brought back to
it—and that I, myself, am enabled to officiate within it. By Queen Mary
heresy and schism have been overthrown, and our holy Church delivered
from bondage. May Heaven long preserve her! She is our hope and
strength—our pillar and defence.”
“I cry ‘Amen’ to that prayer with all my heart,” said Osbert. “Heaven
grant the Prince may prove a good husband to her!”
“You speak as if you doubted it, my son,” rejoined Father Jerome. “But I
cannot tarry for further converse. I must leave you now. The hour for
matins is at hand. After prayers, if you have aught further to say to
me, I shall be at your service.”
With this, he re-entered the chapel, and presently a bell began to ring.
Many persons, chiefly country-folk, obeyed the summons, coming from
different parts of the valley, and entered the chapel, the door of which
now stood open.
Osbert, however, did not enter with them, as he had caught sight of two
female devotees slowly ascending the hill, in whom he recognised
Constance Tyrrell and her old attendant, Dorcas. He waited till they
gained the brow of the eminence, and then advancing towards the damsel,
respectfully saluted her. Her appearance surprised and distressed him.
She looked sad and pale, and traces of recent tears were on her cheeks.
Scarcely returning his salutation, she entered the chapel, followed by
old Dorcas, who appeared to be as full of affliction as her young
mistress. Osbert went in after them, and knelt down by the side of
Constance at the altar. But she did not once look towards him, and,
indeed, seemed wholly unconscious of his presence.
At the close of the service, Osbert quitted the chapel with the
country-folk, and waited outside, thinking Constance would soon come
forth. But he was doomed to disappointment. More than an hour elapsed,
and she did not appear. At the expiration of that time the chapel door
was opened by Father Jerome, who looked very grave. Addressing Osbert,
the old priest said, “Do not tarry here longer, my son. Mistress
Constance Tyrrell has much to say to me, and seeks my ghostly counsel.”
“But I will wait for her, good Father,” cried Osbert. “I care not how
long I stay. I _must_ speak with her.”
“Impossible! my son,” replied Father Jerome. “I enjoin you to depart.
Constance does not desire to see you. Stifle the unfortunate passion you
have conceived for her. It can never be requited.”
“In Heaven’s name what has happened, good Father? Tell me, I adjure
you?” cried Osbert.
“Question me not, but go!” said Father Jerome, authoritatively.
“Constance will not come forth while you remain here. I myself will
accompany her to Winchester.”
“But will you tell me nothing more? Will you not give me a hope?”
ejaculated Osbert, despairingly.
The old priest shook his head, and, with a compassionate glance at him,
closed the door, and bolted it inside.
Osbert was half inclined to force an entrance into the chapel, but
feeling the impropriety of such a proceeding, he tore himself away, and
rushed wildly down the hill, scarcely knowing whither he went.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
HOW THE PRINCE OF SPAIN RODE FROM SOUTHAMPTON TO WINCHESTER; HOW HE
HEARD HIGH MASS AT THE CATHEDRAL, AND VISITED THE QUEEN PRIVATELY AT
WOLVESEY CASTLE.
Philip prolonged his stay at Southampton from Friday, the 20th of July,
1554, the day on which he made his public entry into the town, till the
following Monday. Before leaving, he dismissed his fleet, which set sail
for Cadiz, under the command of the Admiral of Castile. The Flemish
squadron also departed at the same time. Nothing was allowed to
transpire publicly in regard to the Queen’s secret visit to Southampton.
After protecting the French ambassador from the Prince’s vengeance, in
the manner previously related, Mary returned to Winchester, taking
Constance Tyrrell with her. Next day, the Count D’Egmont, attended by
Osbert Clinton, brought her Majesty a set of diamonds, of inestimable
value, as a present from Philip. Somewhat later in the same day, the
noble Spanish dames, the Duchess of Medina Celi, the Marchionesses
Pescara, de Farria, and del Valle, the Countesses Olivares, de Saldana,
and de Modica, with several other gentlewomen, who had accompanied their
consorts to be present at the approaching solemnity, arrived at Wolvesey
Castle in magnificent chariots and litters provided for them by the
Queen.
Meantime, Southampton continued in a fever of excitement, nothing being
thought of in the town but revelry and rejoicing. On Sunday, Philip
heard mass in Saint Michael’s Church, and rode forth afterwards with his
train to Netley Abbey, then in possession of the Marquis of Winchester,
Lord High Treasurer, to whom it had been granted on the dissolution of
the monasteries, and after being sumptuously entertained by his noble
host, he returned, in the cool of a most delicious evening, by water to
Southampton.
About noon on Monday, the 22nd, the Prince quitted Southampton, attended
by a magnificent escort, comprising, in addition to his own suite, the
Duke of Norfolk, the Marquis of Winchester, the Earls of Arundel, Derby,
Worcester, Bedford, Rutland, Pembroke, and Surrey; with the Lords
Clinton, Cobham, Darcie, Matravers, Talbot, and many others, numbering,
with their gentlemen and esquires, upwards of two thousand horse. Never
before had such a vast and splendid cavalcade passed through the
Bar-gate. Stationed at the gate were Sir Bevis, with the Princess Josyan
seated behind him on the broad back of Arundel, Ascapart, Canute, and
Xit—the latter mounted on his little piebald horse—and when the royal
_cortége_ had passed by, these personages followed it at a short
distance. Hundreds of persons on foot accompanied the cavalcade, which
proceeded at a slow pace, half way to Winchester, when it encountered
another large company of noblemen and gentlemen sent to meet it by the
Queen. Amongst these were the Count D’Egmont and Osbert Clinton. Swelled
by this addition, the cavalcade, which had now assumed the proportions
of an army, pursued its course towards Winchester, the trees by which
the valley of the Itchen was shaded affording protection from the
scorching sunbeams. Ere long Philip came upon the hospital of Saint
Croix, the secluded beauty of which might have attracted more of his
attention had not Winchester itself, at the same moment, burst upon his
view. Cries of admiration broke from the Spaniards as they caught sight
of the ancient and picturesque city.
From Saint Croix to the South-gate the road was lined on either side by
well-dressed spectators of both sexes, who cheered the Prince loudly as
he rode by on his Andalusian barb. A roar of artillery from the castle
batteries announced his entrance into the city to the Queen.
Philip was now close to the cathedral, which rose before him in all its
majesty. Passing through a gateway, he reached the great western
entrance, in the wide place in front of which some fifteen hundred
horsemen were now drawn up, forming a most imposing spectacle.
Beneath the central portico, with its noble arch supported by clustered
columns, and its tabernacles containing statues of the saints Peter and
Paul, stood Gardiner, in his full pontificals, mitre, stole, chasuble,
rochet, alb, and amice. His crosier was borne by a priest, who stood
behind him. Beetle-browed, swarthy of complexion, hook-nosed, and harsh
of feature, Gardiner, notwithstanding his forbidding looks and stern,
searching glances, which seemed to read the hearts of those he looked
upon, and inspired more dread than love, had a countenance replete with
intelligence, while his imperious looks and manner, untamed by reverse
of fortune, showed the confidence he felt in his own mental powers and
resources. With Gardiner were Bonner, Bishop of London, Tonstal, Bishop
of Durham, Day, Bishop of Chichester, Thirlby, Bishop of Ely, Heath,
Bishop of Worcester, and other prelates, all in mitres and copes. Behind
the bishops were the clergy belonging to the cathedral in their
vestments.
As Philip dismounted before the porch, and bent the knee to Gardiner,
who advanced to meet him, the bishop spread his arms over him,
pronouncing a solemn benediction upon his head.
After bowing with profound respect to the other prelates, all of whom
reverently returned his salutation, the Prince entered the cathedral and
proceeded towards the choir, Gardiner and the other bishops leading the
way. Ere many minutes, the nave was half filled by the nobles and
gentlemen composing Philip’s retinue. The furthest stall on the right of
the choir was assigned to the Prince by Gardiner. Every other stall had
a noble occupant; the one next to Philip being tenanted by the Duke of
Norfolk.
High mass was then celebrated, Gardiner and the bishops officiating at
the altar. After _Te Deum_ had been solemnly sung, Philip retired into
the sacristy adjoining the Silkstede Chapel with Gardiner, where a
brief, but very kindly, conference took place between them. To the
Prince’s inquiries as to when he might be permitted to see the Queen,
Gardiner replied, that the public presentation could not, according to
court etiquette, take place till the morrow, but that he would engage to
procure his Highness a private interview with her Majesty that evening.
On quitting the cathedral, the Prince was ceremoniously conducted by the
Earl of Arundel to the deanery, which had been prepared for his
reception. Here a grand banquet was subsequently served, at which the
Lord Chancellor and all the principal English and Spanish nobles sat
down.
In the evening, while Philip was alone, the Earl of Arundel and the
Grand Chamberlain, Sir John Gage, were introduced, and informed him that
they were enjoined by her Majesty to conduct him to her presence.
Expressing the liveliest satisfaction, the Prince said he was ready to
accompany them at once, and, immediately arising, he went forth with
them into the deanery garden, whence, by a private way, he was brought
to a postern in the walls of Wolvesey Castle. Of this postern Sir John
Gage possessed the key, and the door being unlocked, gave them
admittance to the gardens of the castle.
After tracking a long arcade of formally clipped yew-trees, they came
upon a wide glass-plot, soft as velvet to the foot, laid out in front of
the keep-tower, wherein, as we have already stated, were the Queen’s
apartments. Close to this charming lawn were parterres, embellished with
knots of flowers, in the taste of the period. At the farther end stood
the stately donjon reared by stout Henry de Blois, between which and the
grass-plot lay a broad terrace-walk. This scene, beautiful at all times,
was now rendered doubly beautiful by the light of a full summer moon
hanging right above the keep, and flooding the place with radiance.
As the Prince and his attendants entered this fairy region, three
persons were walking upon the grass-plot. These were the Queen,
Gardiner, and one of her Majesty’s ladies—the latter, however, being at
some distance from the other two.
“There is her Majesty,” observed the Lord Chamberlain. “Shall I announce
your Highness?”
Receiving Philip’s prompt assent, Sir John Gage advanced towards Mary,
and after an instant’s consultation with her, Philip was formally
presented—the Lord Chamberlain withdrawing as soon as he had performed
his office. Gardiner also retired with the lady in attendance, and the
royal pair were left alone together. Mary was very richly attired, and,
viewed by this witching light, really looked attractive. Some excuse may
therefore be found for the impassioned admiration which Philip expressed
on beholding her features, now for the first time revealed to his gaze.
Mary was small of stature, with beautiful hands and feet. Her person was
well made, but too thin, and her carriage, though majestic, was
exceedingly stiff, and lacked the grace which ease alone can impart. In
her younger days she had been accounted good-looking, but she could
scarcely be considered so now. Her eyes were large and grey, and her
glances keen and steady. Her face was round, her tresses inclining to
red, if they did not even actually attain that hue, and the nose too
flat and large. Her lips, too, were thin and compressed. Altogether,
there was a hardness and severity about her face that destroyed its
pleasing character, while premature wrinkles about the eyes and brow
gave her age.
If Mary did not inherit the beauty either of her father or mother, she
had many of the qualities by which both were characterised. She had the
courage, firmness, and obstinacy of Henry VIII., and she had all the
virtues belonging to the unfortunate Katherine of Aragon. Her conduct
under the trials to which she was exposed was most exemplary, and even
her enemies could find no fault with it. Firmly attached to the
principles of the Catholic religion, in which she had been brought up,
she never wavered for a moment in her adherence to her faith, but would
have suffered martyrdom rather than renounce it. When commanded by the
council under Edward VI., to desist from the performance of mass, she
still continued to celebrate it in private.
Mary spoke well in public, and possessed a voice so sonorous that she
could be distinctly heard by a large assemblage. Her stirring address to
the citizens at Guildhall gave the _coup de grace_ to Wyat’s formidable
rebellion. She also possessed many accomplishments, playing so well upon
the lute and spinet as to astonish and delight professed musicians by
her skill. She also greatly excelled in embroidery, and in other female
work. Her intellectual accomplishments were of a high order, though they
did not excite so much astonishment in those days of learned ladies as
they would in our own. She spoke French and Spanish perfectly, and read
Italian with ease, though she did not speak it. She was also mistress of
Latin. At the request of Catherine Parr, she translated into English
Erasmus’s Paraphrase of the Gospel of St. John. Since her accession to
the throne, all her time, except the hours of devotion, had been given
to affairs of state. She arose at daybreak, performed her religious
duties, heard mass, and thenceforward devoted herself to public
business, being easy of access to all who desired to approach her.
Bigoted Mary was, intolerant and severe towards those who differed with
her on points of faith; but she had many redeeming qualities, which
should have saved her from the obloquy to which she has been subjected.
Such was Mary when she met her affianced husband on that lovely
moonlight night in the garden of Wolvesey Castle—a night ever after
cherished in her memory as the happiest of her existence. Blissful,
indeed, were her feelings as she paced to and fro upon that soft sward
with her royal lover, listening to the vows he breathed in low and
passionate tones, and believing all he said. Philip felt his power, and
exercised it. From that moment to the latest of her existence, she
fondly loved him. Ingrate that he was, he but poorly requited her
affection.
We shall not record the words he uttered. Idle words were they, such as
feigned passion has ever at command, but they produced the effect
designed. Suspicious as Mary was by nature, she had no suspicion now.
She persuaded herself that Heaven had rewarded her at last for all her
sufferings by bestowing upon her a fond and faithful spouse.
Two hours elapsed before their moonlight walk was over—two happy, happy
hours to the Queen. Then she re-entered the keep, while Philip, attended
by the Earl of Arundel and Sir John Gage, returned to the deanery.
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
OF THE PUBLIC MEETING BETWEEN THE ROYAL PAIR.
It having been arranged that the public meeting between the royal pair
should take place on the following day, six richly carved and gilt
chariots, covered with cloth of gold, drawn by horses trapped in white
velvet embroidered with silver lions, and ridden by pages of honour
attired in the royal liveries, were sent to convey the Prince and his
suite to Wolvesey Castle. Attendant upon the chariots were a number of
henchmen, likewise habited in the royal liveries, and mounted on
richly-caparisoned horses, and besides these there was a guard of two
hundred arquebusiers, fully equipped.
Precisely at noon Philip came forth from the deanery, attended by all
his grandees, gorgeously attired, and glittering with jewels, and
entered the chariot appointed for him. The Dukes of Alva and Medina Celi
had places beside him. Preceded by mounted trumpeters and kettle-drums,
making a loud bruit, the train moved towards Wolvesey Castle, the Prince
being everywhere greeted by acclamations from those who witnessed his
progress. At the noble gateway of Wykeham’s College were stationed the
warden and fellows in their gowns, and ranged by the side of the walls
in files two deep stood the scholars, who shouted lustily and waved
their caps as the Prince passed by. The young Wykehamists were still
vociferating as the chariot containing the Prince passed beneath the
arched gate-tower then forming the main entrance to Wolvesey Castle. At
this gate, above which floated the royal standard, stood Og, Gog, and
Magog, towering by the head and shoulders above the other halberdiers.
The giants had now resumed their ordinary garb of yeomen of the guard,
but were instantly recognised by the Prince.
Before the principal entrance of the keep stood a vast number of
gentlemen, esquires, and pages, all splendidly apparelled, and, as
Philip’s chariot drew up, Sir John Gage, Grand Chamberlain, with Sir
Henry Jerningham, Vice-Chamberlain, bearing their wands of office, came
forth to assist his Highness to alight. The entrance-hall was filled
with noble personages, amongst whom were the Lord Chancellor, the Duke
of Norfolk, the Earls of Arundel and Derby, Sir Edward Hastings, Master
of the Horse, the Earl of Bedford, Lord Privy Seal, the Lord Paget and
Sir William Petre, both Secretaries of State, with many others. Bowing
graciously as he passed through this splendid throng, the Prince was
conducted by Gardiner to the great hall, where he found the Queen
surrounded by a bevy of lovely dames. Mingled with the English ladies
and contrasting strongly with them, from their rich Southern complexion,
dark eyes and jet-black tresses, were the noble Spanish dames, making
altogether a most dazzling group. At the further end of the hall, which
was hung with costly arras, and otherwise gorgeously decorated, was a
cloth of estate, embroidered with the arms of England and Spain. Under
it were two velvet fauteuils.
On perceiving the Queen, Philip flew towards her, and, without tarrying
for a formal presentation by Sir John Gage, embraced her, kissing her
lovingly, to the amusement of all the ladies around, and then, taking
her hand, led her towards the canopy at the further end of the hall, no
one presuming to follow them. As the royal pair seated themselves on the
fauteuils, and entered into tender converse, many a curious eye was
directed towards them. However, they heeded not observation, but seemed
entirely engrossed by each other.
Thus they continued discoursing for more than an hour. The Queen then
rose, and the Prince rising likewise, Sir John Gage and Sir Henry
Jerningham marshalled them into an adjoining chamber, where a grand
banquet was laid out. Here they both sat down at the high table, and
were waited upon by Gardiner, the rest of the company occupying the
lower tables. Near the royal pair stood a cupboard filled with splendid
salvers, flagons, and other vessels of gold and silver. In the course of
the banquet, a goblet of wine being filled for the Queen by Gardiner,
she drank from it to Philip; after which, the Prince pledged her in
return from the same loving cup. At the close of the banquet, the Queen
and Prince, attended by all the company, adjourned to the grass plot,
where they walked for some time, enjoying the cool air. A concert in the
great hall, at which many skilful musicians and singers assisted,
brought the evening to an end. Attended by his grandees, Philip then
returned to the deanery.
No meeting took place between the royal pair next day, the Queen being
occupied in preparations for the marriage ceremonial, which was
appointed for the morrow.
Philip passed his time in visiting several places in and about the city.
At Wykeham’s College, whither he first repaired, he was received by the
warden and fellows, and shown over the ancient structure, appearing to
be much struck by the great hall, the beautiful chapel, the cloisters,
and the refectory. In the hall the whole of the students were assembled,
and a Latin address was recited to him by the senior scholar. On his
departure, the Prince ordered the contents of a well-filled purse to be
distributed amongst the youths, and the walls of the old quadrangle
resounded with the joyous shouts of the recipients of the gift.
Accompanied by the Bishop of Cuença and Father de Castro, Philip next
visited “La Carité,” with several other religious establishments and
hospitals, and left large presents behind him. This done, at the head of
a brilliant retinue, consisting of the chief English and Spanish nobles,
he rode up to William the Conqueror’s Castle, and examined it
throughout, mounting to the top of the donjon, whence he beheld
Southampton, and the Isle of Wight in the far distance. In the great
hall of the fortress he was shown King Arthur’s Round Table, at which
his august sire, the Emperor Charles V., had sat when he was the guest
of Henry VIII.
“I was honoured with a seat at the Round Table on that ever-memorable
occasion, your Highness,” observed the old Duke of Norfolk. “Seldom hath
such a party assembled—not perhaps since the days of good King Arthur
himself. Both your royal father and my late gracious master—whose soul
God preserve!—played the boon companion, and bandied so many merry
jests, that we could scarce contain ourselves for laughter. And yet they
were nowise displeased, for state was banished from the Round Table, no
one being able to say who sat above the other. On yonder wall, I mind
me, was inscribed this distich in letters of gold:
‘Carolus, Henricus vivant; defensor uterque,
Henricus fidei, Carolus ecclesiæ.’”
“You describe an enviable banquet, my lord Duke,” replied Philip; “and I
marvel not it lives in your memory. But you shall sit again at that
board, and as my guest; and though I cannot hope to rival my father, or
your late royal master, as a boon companion, I will put no constraint
upon your mirth.”
The Duke of Norfolk bowed his thanks, and they quitted the hall. From
the castle, Philip rode with his train to the Hospital of Saint Croix,
with the beautiful and secluded situation of which he had been much
struck as he approached Winchester. Passing through the ancient gateway,
he dismounted in the court, where were drawn up the brotherhood in their
long dark gowns, adorned with a silver cross—vestments and badges still
retained by the fraternity. After examining the Hundred Men’s Hall, and
noting the statue of Cardinal Beaufort in a niche in the upper part of
the chamber, Philip proceeded to the venerable church, where he heard
mass. Well pleased with his visit, he caused a piece of gold to be given
to each of the brethren.
On quitting Saint Croix, the Prince did not return at once to
Winchester, but crossing the valley, and fording the Itchen at a place
pointed out to him by Osbert Clinton, who acted as his guide, he rode up
Saint Catherine’s Hill. Good Father Jerome, who had watched the train
ascending the mount, advanced to meet him. Courteously saluting the old
priest, Philip put several questions to him respecting the chapel.
“Will it please your Highness to alight and view the reliques?” said
Father Jerome.
Readily assenting, Philip dismounted, Osbert holding his bridle the
while.
The Prince then entered the chapel with Father Jerome, leaving all his
suite outside to contemplate the magnificent prospect of the city. His
first act was to prostrate himself before the altar, and in this pious
posture he remained for several minutes, fervently occupied in prayer.
“Apparently he is devout,” thought Father Jerome, as he stood behind
him, with his hands meekly folded upon his breast. “And yet unholy
passions rule his heart.”
When Philip had concluded his devotions, Father Jerome unlocked a
casket, and exhibited the various saintly reliques it contained, which
the Prince regarded with due reverence. The old priest next displayed
the wonderful ploughshare which had proved harmless to Queen Emma, and
related the legend connected with it. While looking about the chapel,
Philip noticed upon the credence-table near the altar a little tablet of
gold, with an agate on either side, garnished with rubies, and having a
large pearl pendant.
“How came this trinket here, father?” he inquired, fixing a stedfast
look on the old priest. “It was my gift to a damsel who preserved my
life.”
“I know it, Highness,” replied Father Jerome. “But the maiden felt she
could not keep the tablet, and hath left it as an offering to Saint
Catherine’s shrine. In my humble mind she has done well.”
“Has she confessed to you, father?” demanded Philip.
“I am not bound to answer that question, even to your Highness,” replied
Father Jerome. “Nevertheless, I will answer it. She has confessed.”
“Then you know all?”
“All, Highness. And I pity her from my soul.”
“And you blame me?”
“I said not so, Highness,” replied the priest, somewhat evasively.
“Where is she?” asked Philip, after a pause, and in tones of deep
emotion.
“Highness,” replied Father Jerome, “she has returned to Southampton,
where she is about to bury her woes in a convent. I applaud her
determination.”
“Father, this step must be prevented,” rejoined Philip. “She must not
take the vows.”
“I do not think she will yield to any persuasions to the contrary,”
replied Father Jerome. “Her resolution is taken.”
“Make the attempt—I command you,” cried Philip, imperiously. “See her
without delay. Use all the arguments you can employ. If you succeed,
count on my gratitude.”
“Your Highness shall be obeyed, although I confess I like not the task,”
said Father Jerome, bowing his reverend head.
“And as an earnest of my good will, take this purse, and employ its
contents as you list.”
“I take it, only to bestow its contents on the poor,” said the priest,
as Philip quitted the chapel.
Philip then mounted his jennet, and rode down the hill with his train.
The changed expression of his countenance did not escape notice, but no
one ventured to remark upon it. Under the guidance of Osbert Clinton,
the prince made his way along the banks of the Itchen, to the old stone
bridge, said to be the work of St. Swithun, and crossing it, re-entered
the city by the eastern gate, and proceeded to the deanery, halting by
the way to examine the ancient City Cross.
While Philip was making the various visits we have described, most of
the inhabitants had opportunities of beholding him, and all were
favourably impressed by his youth, his handsome person, his proud yet
affable deportment, and, above all, by the grace and skill with which he
managed his fiery Andalusian barb.
That evening, the Prince had a long conference with Simon Renard, the
Spanish ambassador, and Don Juan de Figueroa, Regent of the Council of
Aragon, a nobleman much in the Emperor’s confidence, and who had been
sent to England, charged with a most important mission, which he had
hitherto kept secret, but which he now proceeded to disclose to the
Prince. The revelation then made seemed to yield Philip extraordinary
satisfaction.
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
HOW THE ROYAL NUPTIALS WERE CELEBRATED IN
WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.
Saint James’s day had been appointed for the marriage, that saint being
the patron of Spain. Brighter or more beautiful morning never rose on
Winchester than on this auspicious day. Magnificent preparations had
been made for the event. Two triumphal arches spanned the High-street,
and all the houses were hung with cloths of gold and silver, velvet and
arras, while minstrels were everywhere engaged. The pinnacles of the
graceful Cross, which belongs to the time of Henry VI., and still adorns
the city, were hung with garlands of flowers, and the statue of Saint
Lawrence, placed under its exquisite canopied niche, was garnished with
beads, chains, and other articles of goldsmith’s work. The conduits ran
with white and red wines. All the poor were publicly feasted; and at
night great bon-fires were lighted on the adjacent hills.
The city was fuller of strangers than it had ever been known. Not only
were the hostels crowded to overflowing, but the religious houses and
colleges were thronged with guests. At an early hour of the day
thousands of persons, who had travelled all night, began to arrive from
various quarters—from Southampton, from Bishop’s Waltham, from
Alresford, from Stockbridge, from Romsey, and even from Salisbury—in
short, from every place within a circuit of twenty miles. These new
comers found scant accommodation, but booths were erected on Saint
Giles’s Hill, and on Saint Mary Magdalene’s Hill, as during fair-time,
to which they resorted.
Loud reports of ordnance were continually heard from the batteries of
the castle, and the bells of all the churches pealed joyfully. As the
hour appointed for the ceremony approached, a grand procession began to
enter the cathedral. First came the mayor and aldermen of Winchester, in
scarlet gowns, followed by the officers of the city, apparelled in
velvet and silk, carrying long staves. Then, after a short pause, came
thirty gentlemen belonging to the Spanish ambassadors, clad in doublets
of yellow velvet striped with red. These were followed by Simon Renard
and Don Juan de Figueroa, both sumptuously apparelled. Then came a
numerous body of sergeants and officers of arms, and after them
gentlemen, esquires, and knights, all richly attired, and ranged
according to their degrees. On reaching the steps leading to the choir,
all these passed into the north transept, which, ere long, was
completely filled. Then came another long train of gentlemen and
esquires belonging to various noblemen, all in rich liveries of divers
colours, and making a splendid show. Then came the Duke of Norfolk, the
Earls of Arundel, Sussex, Huntingdon, Shrewsbury, Pembroke, and Derby,
in their robes of estate of crimson velvet furred with ermine, and
powdered according to their degrees. All such as were Knights of the
Garter wore the collar and the lesser badge of the order. These were
followed by the lords of the council in robes of scarlet. After them
came the choir of the cathedral, solemnly singing as they passed along;
then the clergy, in their copes and gowns; then came the
incense-bearers, with great silver thuribles, censing the way. Then
followed the Bishops of London, Durham, Ely, Lincoln, Chichester, and
other prelates, in copes and mitres. After them came two priests, each
bearing a large silver cross, followed by another priest with a crosier.
Next came Gardiner himself, in his full pontificals.
Before proceeding, let us cast an eye around the interior of the
cathedral, and note the extraordinary splendour of its decorations. The
mighty pillars lining each side of the broad nave were covered to the
height of twelve feet with crimson velvet, entwined with golden wreaths,
while the intercolumniations were filled up with arras and rich
hangings. Every pillar was further decked with flags and pennons. The
aisles and transepts were likewise adorned with hangings, and the Lady
Chapel, wherein the marriage ceremony was about to be solemnised, was
hung with cloth of gold. Along the nave, as far as the choir, was
stretched a cloth of ray, with rails on either side. Over the high altar
was reared an immense silver cross, and the altar itself glittered with
silver and gems. From an early hour in the morning, all portions of the
cathedral allotted to the public were thronged to excess. Some thousands
were present on the occasion. The precincts of the sacred pile were
equally crowded, and the wide area in front of the grand western portal
presented a dense mass of human beings.
At ten o’clock the royal bridegroom left the deanery, attended by the
whole of his grandees, whose gorgeous habiliments glittered with
priceless jewels. Cloth of ray had been laid down from the deanery to
the great western entrance of the cathedral, and on this Philip and his
nobles walked. Their path was further protected by rails, outside of
which archers and halberdiers were stationed.
Philip’s bridal attire was magnificent, and attracted universal
admiration. His doublet and hose were of white satin, richly embroidered
with gold, and over all he wore a gorgeous mantle of cloth of gold,
presented to him by the Queen, and thickly covered with pearls and
precious stones. His white velvet cap was studded with diamonds, rubies,
and emeralds. Over his shoulders he wore the collar of the Garter, while
the lesser badge of the order encircled his knee. Splendid, however, as
was his attire, it hardly outshone the habiliments of his grandees, all
of whom wore the collar of the Golden Fleece, or the insignia of some
other order.
As Philip entered the cathedral with his train, trumpets were loudly
sounded, and the martial bruit continued as he advanced along the nave.
Midway he was met by the Earl of Arundel and other nobles, and
ceremoniously conducted to a traverse, prepared for him in the south
transept, where he awaited the Queen’s arrival.
This was not long delayed. A peal of artillery, accompanied by
reiterated shouts, announced that her Majesty had reached the precincts
of the cathedral. Already, indeed, the foremost of her immediate
attendants were passing through the grand portal. First came Garter King
at Arms in his gorgeous tabard, followed by the other heralds, and
attended by a band of trumpeters, with their silver clarions at their
lips. Then came the Grand Chamberlain, Sir John Gage, his lofty figure
seen to great advantage in a scarlet robe open before, and edged with
ermine. Sir John Gage had the collar of the Garter round his neck, and
carried his wand of office in his hand. He was accompanied by the
Vice-Chamberlain, Sir Henry Jerningham, likewise in his robes of office,
and bearing a white wand. Then followed a long train of pages attired in
liveries of white and blue satin, which had a charming effect. Then
followed the three gigantic yeomen of the guard, in scarlet, with the
royal badge embroidered at the front and back of their doublets.
Fresh acclamations from without, continued by the crowd within the
cathedral, proclaimed the entrance of the Queen. Mary walked beneath a
canopy of cloth of gold, the gilt staves of which were borne by four
knights, chosen for the purpose from their goodly presence, attired in
crimson satin, with points of blue and red on their sleeves.
The Queen was arrayed in a gown of white cloth of tissue, the stomacher
of which was encrusted with diamonds and precious stones, and her mantle
of crimson velvet, bordered with ermine, and embroidered with gold, was
borne by six noble dames, all magnificently attired. Her hair was
unbound, as was then the custom of brides—and a beautiful custom it
was—and on her head she wore a coif, encircled with gold, and studded
with orient pearls and gems. Mary marched with a firm step along the
nave, and really presented a very majestic appearance. She was followed
by a long train of ladies, whose sweeping velvet mantles, furred and
embroidered, were borne by pages in rich liveries.
As the Queen advanced along the body of the cathedral, Philip, who had
been apprised of her coming, and, indeed, could not be unaware of it
from the braying of trumpets and shouting, came from the traverse with
his retinue, and met her just as she reached the steps of the choir.
Saluting her with a warm demonstration of affection that savoured little
of ceremony, he took her hand, and they ascended the steps together, Sir
John Gage and the Vice-Chamberlain preceding them.
At this moment Gardiner and the other prelates came forth from the
choir, and while the royal pair were standing there with the Bishop of
Winchester, in full view of the immense assemblage, Don Juan de
Figueroa, attended by Simon Renard, came towards them, and, bending the
knee to Philip, presented a scroll to him.
“What means this, your excellency?” demanded the Prince, with a
well-feigned look of astonishment.
“It means, your Highness,” replied Figueroa, as he arose, “that your
august sire, the Emperor, deeming it beneath the dignity of so high and
mighty a sovereign as the Queen of England to wed with one of rank
inferior to her own, has by this act resigned to your Highness the crown
of Naples and Sicily, with the Duchy of Milan, and divers other seats
and signories. From this moment, Sire, you are King of Naples, and as
such her Majesty’s equal.”
“A right noble and gracious act, and worthy of my great father!”
exclaimed Philip. “Does not your Majesty think so?”
“Nobly done, indeed, Sire!” cried Mary. “I joy that you are King of
Naples, but you could not be dearer to me than as Prince of Spain.”
“The Emperor’s great and generous act must be made known to the entire
assemblage,” said Gardiner.
“Be that task mine,” rejoined Simon Renard.
Whereupon silence being called by sound of trumpet, the Spanish
ambassador advanced towards the edge of the steps, and in a loud voice,
distinctly heard by the thousands congregated within the nave, announced
what the Emperor had done for his son.
Tremendous acclamations followed, and the roof resounded with cries of
“Long live the Emperor! Long live the King of Naples!”
No sooner had Simon Renard retired than Garter King at Arms advanced
with a couple of trumpeters, and proclaimed the styles and titles of the
two sovereigns in the following formula:—
“Philip and Mary, by the grace of God, King and Queen of England,
France, Naples, Jerusalem, and Ireland; Defenders of the Faith; Princes
of Spain and Sicily; Archdukes of Austria; Dukes of Milan, Burgundy, and
Brabant; Counts of Hagsburg, Flanders, and Tyrol.”
This proclamation being made, the trumpets were sounded, and the
acclamations of the assemblage were renewed.
Preceded by Gardiner and the other prelates, ceremoniously marshalled by
the Grand Chamberlain and Vice-Chamberlain, and attended by the
principal nobles, English and Spanish, forming an assemblage of
unrivalled splendour, the royal pair—now equals in dignity—marched hand
in hand to the beautiful Lady Chapel built by Bishop Godfrey de Lucy,
where the marriage was solemnised by Gardiner, assisted by the other
prelates, the royal bride being given away in the name of the realm by
the Marquis of Winchester and the Earls of Pembroke and Derby.
In all respects the ceremony was admirably performed. The prelates
gathered round the richly-decked altar, the royal couple kneeling before
it on velvet faldstools, the grand assemblage of English and Spanish
nobles grouped around, the proud dames of both nations filling the
galleries on either side of the chapel—all constituted a superb picture.
The solemnity ended, the royal couple returned to the choir, where a
cloth of estate had been prepared for them, beneath which they sat while
_Te Deum_ was solemnly sung. Here the picture was even grander than that
exhibited in the Lady Chapel, because it comprehended so much more of
the cathedral. Fortunately, it could be seen by the vast crowd in the
nave.
All being concluded, the royal couple quitted the sacred edifice,
walking hand in hand beneath the canopy. Before them marched the Earls
of Pembroke and Derby, each bearing a sword of state.
In this manner, amid the thunder of artillery, the sounding of trumpets,
and the shouts of the crowd, they returned to Wolvesey Castle, where a
grand banquet was given, followed by a state ball.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
HOW PHILIP, WITH FOUR-AND-TWENTY NOBLE GUESTS, DINED AT ARTHUR’S ROUND
TABLE IN WINCHESTER CASTLE; AND HOW THE FEAST ENDED.
The royal couple sojourned at Wolvesey Castle for a week, and during
that time a series of grand entertainments were given to all the
nobility who had attended the marriage ceremony. Pageants were exhibited
in the city, and in the pleasant meads beyond the South-gate sports and
pastimes of various kinds took place—to wit, archery, horse-races,
foot-races, throwing of heavy weights, wrestling, rowing and swimming
matches in the Itchen, bear-baiting, badger-baiting, bull-running,
cock-fighting, duck-hunting in the river, and other diversions, in which
our ancestors delighted. These sports, many of which were novel to them,
afforded much amusement to Philip and the Spanish nobles.
Mindful of his promise to the Duke of Norfolk to feast his grace at
Arthur’s Round Table in Winchester Castle, Philip appointed the day
before his departure for the banquet. Twenty-four guests were invited,
half of whom were English nobles, and the other half Spanish grandees.
In the midst of the great hall of the castle, which was more than a
hundred and fifty feet long, and with a lofty roof of open rafters,
richly sculptured, was placed
“——the pride of warlike years,
Old Arthur’s board—”
in other words, the famous Round table, at which King Arthur and his
illustrious knights had often feasted.
Framed by Uter Pendragon, Arthur’s royal sire, who flourished early in
the 6th century, or more than twelve hundred years ago, this wondrous
table was given by him to King Leodegraunce of Camelyard, who held it in
high esteem. When Leodegraunce bestowed his fair daughter, the lovely
but erring Guenever, upon Arthur, he sent him at the same time, as the
richest present he could bestow, the royal table, causing it to be
conveyed by a hundred knights. Enchanted with the gift, Arthur forthwith
instituted the order of the Round Table (the earliest military order of
knighthood), and had the places appointed for himself and his
twenty-four knights blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury. So runs the
legend. But by whomsoever fashioned, the Round Table was at least
remarkable for antiquity in the time of Henry VIII., who had it fresh
painted for use at the banquet given by him to the Emperor Charles V. It
still exists, as we have already intimated, and is constructed of stout
oaken planks, painted in parti-coloured rays, on the borders of which
/* “Some British pen has sketched the names renowned, In marks obscure,
of Arthur’s deathless peers.” */
Obscure as are the characters, the names of Sir Tristram, Sir Launcelot,
Sir Galahad, Sir Percival, Sir Gawaine, Sir Ector, Sir Bors, and other
peerless knights, may be read upon this scroll of fame. In Cromwell’s
time the Round Table narrowly escaped destruction from the parliamentary
soldiers, who never lost an opportunity of committing sacrilege of some
kind. They set it up as a target, and perforated it with bullets. In the
centre of the board is the Tudor rose, and the sovereign’s place is
indicated by a full-length portrait of Henry VIII., seated under a
canopy with an ermine mantle over his shoulders, and holding the orb and
sword.
The great hall in which the Round Table was set was hung with ancient
and somewhat faded arras, representing in one place the interview of the
twelve Roman knights with Arthur, and in another the renowned British
king receiving his sword Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake.
Five-and-twenty suits of armour of colossal size were placed on stands
against the walls, while the intervals were filled with trophies
composed of shields, spears, swords, battle-axes, maces, and other
weapons. The cushion of each chair was embroidered in letters of gold
with the name of its occupant. A curiously carved oak chair, in which
bluff King Hal had sat was assigned to Philip. On his right sat the Lord
Chancellor, and on the left the Duke of Norfolk. The place next to
Gardiner was allotted to the Duke of Alva, while Norfolk’s neighbour was
the Duke of Medina Celi. In this wise were the twenty-four guests
disposed—English and Spanish nobles alternately.
No diaper covered the capacious board. But it was loaded with salvers,
dishes, goblets, and plates of gold and silver. Sideboards, also,
glittering with plate and drinking vessels, were ranged around the hall.
A multitude of pages, esquires, and gentlemen were in attendance. The
banquet consisted of five courses, and comprised calvered salmon, stewed
lampries, slices of sturgeon, a porpoise in armour, soused pike and
bream, trout from the Itchen—pronounced delicious—roast cygnets, a roast
heron, wild-boar pie, a roast haunch of venison, a roast kid, ruffs,
dotterels, bitterns, and many other good things. No restraint was placed
upon his guests by the King, who, by his easy and jovial deportment,
seemed to invite familiarity. The Spanish grandees declared they had
never before seen their royal master so full of mirth, and the Duke of
Norfolk vowed that he equalled the Emperor in good fellowship. Certes,
his Majesty jested as much, and laughed as heartily as the rest of the
company. So infectious was the merriment, that even the stern features
of the Duke of Alva relaxed into a smile.
At the close of the repast, and as soon as the chargers and other dishes
had been removed, an immense silver bowl, covered by a lid, was placed
upon the table by the three gigantic yeomen of the guard, Og, Gog, and
Magog—a task not accomplished without some difficulty—amidst the
laughter of the guests, who eyed the stupendous vessel with
astonishment.
“If that bowl be filled with hippocras, Sire,” exclaimed the Duke of
Norfolk, “there must be enough liquor within it to drown us all, or to
float a man-of-war.”
Before any reply could be made, the attention of the company was
attracted by a ringing sound proceeding from the vessel.
All the guests looked towards their royal host as if for explanation.
“I know not what it means,” said the King, who appeared as much
surprised as the rest. “Take off the lid, and let us see.”
The order was obeyed by Og, whose countenance wore a broad grin, and as
he raised the cover, the cause of the strange sounds became manifest. In
the midst of a sea of hippocras floated a silver boat, in which was
seated Xit, in the guise of the Enchanter Merlin, and holding in his
hand a silver ladle, with which he had struck the sides of the bowl, to
intimate his presence. Raising himself carefully, so as not to upset the
frail barque in which he was placed, the dwarf bowed as gracefully as
circumstances would permit, to Philip, and said, “Doubtless your Majesty
is surprised to see me here, but I trust I shall not incur your
sovereign displeasure when I say that my desire to be present at your
banquet led me to adopt this expedient to gain admittance. Besides, I
may be useful,” he added, flourishing the ladle.
“Thou art welcome, thou sprightly imp,” replied Philip, laughing. “Keep
our goblets filled, that is all we require from thee.”
“Gramercy, Sire, I will endeavour to perform the office of butler to
your entire satisfaction,” replied Xit, filling the cup extended to him
by the King.
After all the guests had been served with great expedition and skill,
Philip said to the dwarf, “Now, Sirrah, a toast.”
“I am greatly honoured by the command, Sire,” replied Xit. “My toast, I
am well assured, will be drunk with enthusiasm, both by your Majesty and
your illustrious guests. I will give your royal consort, and our most
gracious mistress, the Queen. May Heaven shed its choicest blessings
upon her!”
“Well said, thou merry knave!” cried Philip. “No toast could be more
agreeable to us. My lords, we will dedicate this cup to the Queen.”
The toast was rapturously drunk by the assemblage, but just as the
goblets were emptied an unexpected incident occurred. In the excitement
of the moment, and while waving the ladle, Xit lost his balance, and
plunged head-foremost into the vinous flood beneath him. As he emerged
the next moment, his half-drowned appearance caused shouts of laughter
from the company, which were echoed by all the pages, esquires, and
other attendants.
“Marry, thou hast had a bath such as few men have enjoyed,” observed
Philip, laughing.
“I would rather it had been water, Sire,” spluttered Xit. “I shall never
enjoy the flavour of hippocras again. I pray you let me be taken hence.”
“There is no hurry,” cried the Duke of Norfolk, laughing immoderately.
“We cannot let thee go yet. Make the most of thy position, and quaff thy
fill. The wine is spoiled for all but thee.”
“Were I to quaff more than I have already done, I should become a sorry
spectacle, your grace, and might offend this noble company,” observed
Xit. “I have no desire to die the death of the Duke of Clarence.”
“Take him hence,” said Philip, who thought the jest had lasted long
enough; “but let him not out of the bowl till its contents be emptied.”
On this, the three giants, lifting the mighty bowl from the table,
conveyed it to another part of the hall, where they set it down. The
King’s commands were scrupulously obeyed. Notwithstanding Xit’s piteous
entreaties to be set free, he was detained a prisoner till the whole of
the hippocras had been drunk. To this end the giants lent their best
assistance, but before it could be fully accomplished, the King and his
noble guests had departed. So ended the banquet at Arthur’s Round Table.
Next day Philip and Mary, attended by their whole court, and by the
Spanish grandees, quitted Winchester, and proceeded by easy stages to
Windsor.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
OF PHILIP’S PUBLIC ENTRY INTO LONDON.
The court had not been long at Windsor Castle, ere most of the Spanish
grandees who had accompanied Philip, finding that owing to the terms of
the marriage-treaty, which were strictly enforced by Gardiner and the
council, no posts could be given them in the government, quitted England
in disgust. As the Duke of Alva took leave of the King, he observed, “I
am loth to leave your Majesty with this people, but as you have no
present need of my services, while I may be of use to the Emperor, I
deem it best to go.”
“Have no fears for me, my lord Duke,” replied Philip. “I am perfectly
secure. I have paid a heavy price for the support of the English
nobles—but I think I can count upon it.”
“Do not trust them, Sire. The English nobles are treacherous as corrupt,
and will fall off when most needed. Had your Majesty but listened to me,
and pursued the bold course I suggested, you might now be King of
England—not in name, merely, but in reality. It is not yet too late. Say
the word and I remain.”
“No; you must go, Alva. I grieve to part with you, as with my other
nobles, but your presence here is prejudicial to my plans.”
“I see not how that can be, Sire. You yield too much to English
prejudices. Pardon me for saying so, but you ought to be lord and master
in your own house, and not subject to your wife—albeit she is a Queen.”
“Why so I am, Alva,” replied the King, smiling. “Her Majesty refuses me
nothing.”
“Except the matrimonial crown, Sire,” said the Duke, bluntly. “She will
not give you that. Neither will she place the supreme power of
government in your hands, nor cause you to be declared presumptive heir
to the crown.”
“She dare not do so, Alva,” observed Philip, coldly.
“I know not that,” said the Duke. “For such a result all should be
dared.”
“Her Majesty will accede to my wishes in due time,” said the King.
“Should there be an heir to the throne, all difficulties will be
removed.”
“Ay, if there should—but the event may never occur,” cried Alva,
impatiently. “Again I say, why wait? With such a prize within your
grasp, why hesitate to seize it? Oh! that your Majesty would leave the
work to me.”
“I could not trust you,” said the King. “You would ruin all by
precipitancy. My plan is slow, but sure. Farewell, my lord Duke. The
saints give you a good journey to Brussels. Commend me in all love and
duty to the Emperor, and say that in due time I trust he will have a
grandson.”
“Would I could add that heresy were completely extirpated from the
realm, and the papal supremacy re-established,” observed Alva.
“That will follow immediately on the arrival of Cardinal Pole,” said
Philip. “Most of the English nobles and men of wealth, as you know, have
shared in the monstrous spoliation of the Church that occurred during
the two previous reigns, and these persons will never acknowledge the
supreme authority of the Pontiff, unless their ill-gotten possessions
are secured to them. Until this point be conceded by his Holiness, the
Lord Chancellor assures me it will be futile and even dangerous to
propose the measure. Mauriquez has been dispatched to Rome to argue the
matter with the Pope, and, till the question be decided, Cardinal Pole
must be detained at Brussels. This you will explain to the Emperor.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Alva. “I half hope the Pope may refuse your Majesty’s
request, and then you will be compelled to have recourse to me to force
these robbers to disgorge their plunder. ’Tis a dreadful wrong to the
Church.”
“I feel the injustice as keenly as you can do, Alva,” rejoined the King;
“but since the grievance cannot be redressed, it must be borne in
patience.”
“Well, we must hope for better days, when these plunderers will meet
their deserts on the scaffold and the gibbet,” said Alva. “I now take my
leave of your Majesty.” So saying, he departed.
That any assumption of regal power on the part of Philip would be
resisted, was shown by a slight incident which occurred shortly
afterwards. On the King’s installation as a Knight of the Garter, in
order to give greater importance to the proceeding, the royal arms of
England were taken down in St. George’s Chapel by the chief herald, at
the instance of Simon Renard, and the arms of Castile and Aragon set up
in their stead. But as soon as the change was discovered by the Earl of
Arundel and Sir John Gage, they sharply reprimanded the herald, and, at
the risk of offending Philip, caused the Spanish arms to be forthwith
taken down and those of England restored.
Philip had many secret enemies, but none so active or so dangerous as
the French ambassador. Notwithstanding the ill success of his previous
plot, and the narrow escape he had run, De Noailles continued his
intrigues among the factious and discontented. As Mary could not refuse
to receive him at court without embroiling herself with France, he had
opportunities of carrying out a design which he had conceived, of
occasioning a rupture between the King and Queen. Aware of Philip’s
infidelities, and of the Queen’s jealousy of disposition, he did not
despair of accomplishing this project. By means of spies, who were well
paid for the service, he kept a strict watch over the King’s
proceedings, hoping to make some discovery that might serve his purpose.
From a cause which we shall proceed to explain, Philip began to lose the
popularity he had acquired on his first arrival. Though he continued
extremely affable and condescending to the English nobles—far more so
than he was to those of his own nation—and though he made them large
gifts, in the hope of securing their friendship, he never could overcome
their distrust, which was kept alive by the subtle practices of the
French ambassador. Moreover, Spanish usages began to prevail at court,
and these were highly distasteful to the English. Greater etiquette and
formality were observed. The doors were not thrown open as they used to
be, and those who desired an audience of their Majesties, even on
matters of urgency, were detained long in the ante-chambers. So that
although the King did not meddle with the government—at all events not
directly—it was soon felt that the court was absolutely under his
control. None but those high in his favour were admitted to him without
much form and ceremony, which was especially irksome to the older
English nobles, who had enjoyed easy access to the sovereign in the
reign of Henry VIII. And there was every appearance that this strictness
would increase rather than diminish.
Philip’s public entry into London was not made until the latter end of
August. Preparatory to the ceremony, the royal pair removed to Richmond
Palace, where they stayed for two or three days, and then proceeded by
water in a state barge, attended by all their retinue in other barges,
to the Bishop of Winchester’s palace at Southwark. They were received
with great ceremony by Gardiner, and passed the night under his roof.
Next day, accompanied by a numerous and magnificent _cortége_,
comprising all the chief officers of the court, together with many of
the nobility, the royal pair passed over London Bridge into the City.
The Queen, whose splendid attire of cloth of gold blazed with jewels of
inestimable value, sat in a gilt chariot, drawn by six horses in
housings of white satin, embroidered with gold, ridden by pages of
honour in crimson satin. Her Majesty was accompanied by three of her
principal ladies. Mounted on his fiery Andalusian barb, which was
trapped with black taffetas, guarded with silver lace, Philip appeared
to great advantage in his black velvet doublet, short mantle bordered
with pearls, and berret with black and white plumes. He was attended by
fifty horsemen in trappings of crimson velvet, with the arms of Spain
embroidered on them in gold, with edges of silk and gold, and fringe of
the same. Besides these, there were fifty pages in liveries of carnation
satin, passmented with silver and black lace, and black silk caps,
adorned with carnation and black plumes. A troop of halberdiers in full
equipments formed the vanguard of the royal procession, and another
brought up the rear. In front of the _cortége_ rode a large band of
musicians, consisting of trumpets, clarions, kettle-drums, and other
martial instruments. These musicians were accoutred in scarlet
mandillions, guarded with gold, and had the royal badge on the front and
at the back. The pennons of the trumpets and clarions were likewise
embroidered with the royal arms, and all the horses were caparisoned in
scarlet satin, guarded with gold lace. As the procession passed over
London Bridge, a loud peal of ordnance burst from the Tower batteries,
and was continued by the guns of all the ships moored off the wharves.
At the gate then defending the entrance to the City from the bridge, the
three gigantic yeomen of the guard were stationed, who reverently
saluted the King and Queen as they passed by, and at the conduit of
Gracechurch Street, which had been newly decorated for the occasion, was
a large painting representing the nine Worthies. Noticeable amongst
these august personages was Henry VIII., who was portrayed in armour.
The idea of the artist had been to depict the great Defender of the
Faith in the act of presenting the Bible to his son and successor,
Edward VI., the sacred volume being inscribed in large characters
_Verbum Dei_; but the device gave great offence to Gardiner, who ordered
the limner, on pain of losing his ears, to obliterate this part of the
picture, which he accomplished more effectually than tastefully, by
brushing out the King’s right hand.
In Cheapside there was another large picture, representing the “Five
Philips”—namely, Philip of Macedon, Philip the Emperor, Philip the Bold,
Philip the Good, and Philip, Prince of Spain and King of England.
Many pageants were exhibited to the King and Queen on their way through
the City. All the houses were decorated with cloth of gold and silver,
arras and velvet, while thousands flocked forth to welcome the Queen and
her royal consort. Owing to the frequent stoppages, the progress of the
_cortége_ was slow, and it did not reach Whitehall for some hours.
Philip was by no means satisfied with the reception he had met with. The
populace had cheered him but slightly; and murmurs against Spain, and
allusions to the Inquisition, occasionally reached his ears. Moreover,
he remarked that many persons regarded him with ill-concealed looks of
aversion.
“These citizens do not like me,” he thought. “Ere long, they shall be
taught to fear me.”
Soon after this, a gloom was thrown over the court by the death of the
Duke of Norfolk. The Queen went into mourning for the venerable
nobleman, to whom she was sincerely attached, and all festivities were
suspended. Their Majesties removed to Hampton Court, where Philip
environed himself more and more in Spanish form and etiquette. Difficult
of access before, he was now almost unapproachable.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
SHOWING HOW CONSTANCE TYRRELL EMBRACED THE
REFORMED FAITH.
We will now see what had befallen Constance Tyrrell. When Father Jerome,
in obedience to Philip’s injunctions, went over to Southampton to see
her, he found her in the Hospital of the Domus Dei, in attendance upon
Derrick Carver. So far from attempting to dissuade her from entering a
convent, and devoting her life to Heaven, the good priest urged her
strongly to carry out her design, but, to his great affliction, he found
that a sudden and most unexpected change had come over her. The earnest
exhortations addressed to her by the enthusiastic Derrick Carver had
already produced a sensible impression, and she seemed more than half
disposed to secede from the Church of Rome, and embrace the Reformed
Faith. In vain Father Jerome remonstrated with her, and urged her to fly
from the mischievous influence to which she was exposed. Failing in his
endeavours, he repaired to Master Tyrrell, and informed him of his
daughter’s danger; but the old merchant treated the matter with
indifference, and the worthy priest departed with a sad heart.
Sorely perplexed how to act for the best, Father Jerome, after much
hesitation and delay, caused a communication to be made to the Queen,
through her confessor, of the lamentable change that had taken place in
Constance’s religious opinions.
Mary manifested great surprise and displeasure at the intelligence, and
directed that Constance should be brought to Hampton Court, where her
Majesty was then sojourning, in order that she might confer with the
unhappy maiden in person, and see how far the mischief had proceeded,
and what could be done for its cure.
Constance accordingly was summoned from Southampton, and had several
private interviews with the Queen, who soon discovered that Derrick
Carver had succeeded in effecting her conversion. By the advice of her
Majesty’s confessor, who felt sure he could bring back the stray lamb to
the fold, Constance was detained for a time within the palace.
No mention having been made of this proceeding to Philip, it was only by
accident that he became aware that Constance was an inmate of the
palace. On making the discovery, he went, wholly unattended, to the
apartments wherein he had ascertained she was lodged. On entering the
ante-chamber, he found old Dorcas, who appeared terrified at the sight
of him, and who, without stopping to be questioned, exclaimed that her
young mistress was unable to see his Majesty.
“But I must see her,” rejoined Philip, authoritatively. “Go in at once,
mistress, and tell her I am here.”
Seeing from the King’s manner that remonstrance would be useless, the
old woman complied, and drawing aside a piece of tapestry, entered the
inner room. In another moment she returned, and prayed his Majesty to
step in.
Passing through the tapestry, Philip entered the room, where he found
Constance alone. She was attired in black, and looked pale as death, and
was evidently greatly agitated. She made the King a profound reverence,
but did not raise her eyes towards him.
“So you have been here for some days, I find,” cried Philip, “and have
allowed me to remain in ignorance of your presence, though you know how
anxious I have been to behold you again. I began to fear I had lost you
for ever, and that you had really carried your threat into execution,
and buried your charms in a convent.”
“A great change has come over me, Sire,” rejoined Constance. “I have
wholly abandoned that intention.”
[Illustration: QUEEN MARY DISCOVERS THE PERFIDY OF THE KING.
P. 155.]
“I rejoice to hear it,” cried the King. “I dispatched Father Jerome to
you, and I suppose his arguments prevailed?”
“No, Sire,” rejoined Constance. “I have been turned aside from my
purpose by better arguments than any Father Jerome could employ.”
“Nay, I care not who dissuaded you,” replied Philip, “I am content with
the resolution you have taken. I have been wretched—most wretched, since
we parted, Constance.”
“Your Majesty cannot have been half so wretched as I have been,” she
rejoined. “However, I have in some degree recovered my peace of mind,
and I beseech you not to plunge me into misery again.”
“I must tell you how passionately I adore you,” exclaimed the King. “The
love which you kindled in my breast when I first beheld you burns
fiercer than ever, and cannot be extinguished. By my hopes of Paradise,
fair Constance, I love you—only you.”
“Cease, Sire, cease!” cried Constance. “I cannot listen to you—I must
not.”
“But you must—you shall listen to me,” cried Philip, still more
passionately. “You _shall_ hear how constantly I have thought of you.
Your image has been ever before me. I have tried to stifle my love, but
without success. It has mastered me, as it masters me now. Behold me at
your feet, sweet Constance!” he added, prostrating himself before her;
“not the King—but your suppliant—your slave!”
“Rise, Sire, I intreat you, from this unworthy posture,” cried
Constance. “Think of your duty to the Queen—all your love should be
given to her.”
“Such love as I bear for you, sweet Constance, I cannot give to her
Majesty,” rejoined Philip, “for as I have just declared, you have sole
possession of my heart. You need fear no rival in the Queen.”
“Oh! hush, Sire—hush!” exclaimed Constance, with the utmost alarm. “You
are overheard! ha!—her Majesty!”
“The Queen here!” exclaimed Philip, springing to his feet.
And turning, he perceived that the Queen was pushing aside the hangings,
and about to enter the room. Close behind her Majesty, whose looks
proclaimed the depth of her indignation, came Sir John Gage. For a
moment, Philip seemed embarrassed, but he quickly recovered himself.
Mary regarded her faithless consort with flashing eyes, but repressed
the bitter reproaches that rose to her lips, though her heart swelled
almost to bursting, and the veins on her brow distended with rage.
It was an awful moment, and Sir John Gage looked greatly troubled. The
silence was broken by Constance, who flung herself at the Queen’s feet,
exclaiming:
“Do not judge me harshly, gracious Madam. Do not suppose that I have
failed in duty to your Majesty. Do not deem that I have been a
consenting party to this meeting. On my soul I have not. The King will
confirm my assertion. Speak, Sire, speak!”
Unable to resist this appeal, Philip said, “It is the truth, Madam. I
alone am to blame.”
“You hear, gracious Madam,” cried Constance, “his Majesty acquits me. My
sole crime is, that I have unhappily attracted his attention.”
“And that is crime enough, minion,” said Mary, regarding her fiercely.
“You shall expiate the offence with your life. I will show you no mercy.
Call in the guard, Sir John,” she added to Gage.
“Take heed how you obey that order, Sir John,” interposed Philip. “I am
equal in authority here, and I forbid you. Your Majesty will do well to
pause,” he added, with stern significance, to the Queen, “ere a breach
be made between us that cannot be closed.”
“Oh! do not let me be the cause of misunderstanding between yourself and
the King your consort, gracious Madam,” cried Constance. “I am not worth
it. If my life will restore the peace I have unhappily disturbed, take
it. I will lay it down freely.”
“It will be best to let her go, Madam,” observed Sir John Gage in a low
tone.
There was a pause, during which it was evident that Mary was struggling
hard with her feelings. Constance, who still remained in a kneeling
posture, watched her countenance with the keenest anxiety. Folding his
arms on his breast, Philip looked on coldly. Mary at length spoke.
“You have said truly, minion,” she observed. “You are not worth a
quarrel between the King and myself. His Majesty has sought to screen
you, by taking all blame upon himself, but I am not to be deceived. If
nothing more, you have been indiscreet.”
“Indiscretion is a very venial fault,” rejoined Philip. “But even that
cannot justly be laid to this damsel’s charge. Since her presence annoys
you, let her leave the palace and return to her family.”
“She _shall_ leave the palace, and that without delay,” rejoined Mary.
“But she will be more secure in some religious house than with her
family.”
“I pray you let me return to my father,” implored Constance, who had
risen to her feet. “I will die rather than give you further cause of
anxiety. But, as your Majesty is aware, I have quitted the Church of
Rome.”
“A heretic!” exclaimed Philip, aghast at the unexpected declaration. “To
what is this sad change attributable? When I first beheld you, you were
zealous and devout.”
“I am zealous and devout still, I trust, Sire,” rejoined Constance. “But
my eyes have been opened, and I reject as idolatrous and superstitious
the worship which I formerly practised.”
“I lament to hear it,” replied Philip, with a look of pious horror. “My
confessor, Father Alfonso, shall take you in hand. He will convince you
of your errors.”
“Nothing will shake me,” said Constance. “My belief is fixed. I would
rather endure martyrdom than peril my salvation.”
“Your firmness may be put to the test,” observed the Queen severely.
“Your Majesty, methinks,” she added to Philip, “will scarcely attempt to
defend her now.”
“I am horror-stricken!” exclaimed the King. “I could not have believed
in so sudden and sad a defection. Who is the author of this evil work?
To whose baneful counsel have you listened? Is it from the would-be
assassin, Derrick Carver, that you have imbibed these pernicious
opinions?”
“I have heard the truth from his lips, Sire,” returned Constance.
“I guessed as much,” said Philip; “and it is from this polluted source
that you expect the water of life to flow. I did not believe you capable
of such weakness. I can no longer oppose her Majesty’s design of placing
you in some religious house, where discipline and good counsel may bring
you back to the faith from which you have swerved.”
“If mild measures prove ineffectual, others must be adopted,” observed
Mary.
“Do with me as you will,” said Constance, resignedly. “I am in your
Majesty’s hands, and am prepared to seal my faith with my blood.”
“Were anything wanting to convince me of the necessity of utterly
extirpating heresy from the realm, I should now be satisfied,” remarked
Mary. “An example shall be made of this mischievous Derrick Carver. He
shall be delivered over to the religious tribunals, to be dealt with
according to his deserts. Prepare for immediate departure,” she added to
Constance. “I myself will give instructions respecting you.”
Constance bowed submissively.
By this time the Queen’s anger towards her consort had somewhat
subsided, and she said to him in a somewhat kindlier tone, “Your Majesty
can have no further business here. I will pray you to accompany me.”
Philip bowed. As he quitted the chamber with the Queen, he cast a
parting glance at Constance, who remained in the same humble attitude,
with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
IN WHAT MANNER CONSTANCE FLED FROM HAMPTON COURT
PALACE.
The unhappy girl was still alone in the chamber, having scarcely moved
since the departure of the royal pair, when the fold of tapestry that
masked the doorway was drawn quickly aside, and Osbert Clinton stood
before her, pale and agitated.
“I have come to save you,” he cried, abruptly. “I know what has
occurred. The Queen designs to send you to a convent.”
“True,” she rejoined, sadly. “Her Majesty may deal with me as she thinks
fit. But all efforts to compel me to return to the faith I have abjured
will prove ineffectual.”
“But this is not the real danger by which you are threatened,” he
continued. “The King will not permit her Majesty’s intentions to be
carried out, and has ordered me to convey you away privately to a secure
retreat, where there will be no risk of discovery by his jealous
consort. You will escape the convent, but only to encounter a worse
fate.”
“I will die rather than submit,” she cried, despairingly. “Pity me, kind
Heaven! pity me!”
“Hear me, Constance,” he cried. “The avowal I am about to make is wrung
from me by the circumstances in which you are placed. I love you to
desperation, and would plunge my sword in Philip’s heart rather than you
should fall a sacrifice to him. Dismiss all doubts, and trust yourself
with me. I will lay down my life for you.”
“If I consent, whither would you take me?” she demanded. “But no! I
cannot—dare not fly with you.”
“You wrong me by these suspicions, Constance,” he cried, half
reproachfully. “Loving you as I do, could I do aught to injure you?”
“But the King himself professes to love me——”
“He loves you not—his vows are false,” interrupted Osbert, bitterly.
“Shun him as you would shame and dishonour. If you have any love for
him, tear it from your breast—no matter what the pang!—it can only lead
to guilt and remorse.”
“I have no love for him now,” she rejoined; “and if for a moment I
yielded credence to his vows and passionate declarations, I have
expiated the offence by tears and contrition. My constant prayer has
been never to behold him more.”
“All further peril may be averted if you will confide in me. Give me a
husband’s right to defend you, and not all the world shall tear you from
me. You cannot return to your father. He would not dare to give you
shelter. And to enable me to watch over and protect you without damage
to your fair fame, we must be bound together by sacred ties.”
“Speak of this hereafter,” she rejoined. “You have convinced me of your
sincerity, and I will trust you. Take me hence—whither I care not—so I
am freed from the King.”
“Come then,” rejoined Osbert. “No one will stay us. I have an order from
the King, which will prevent all hindrance.”
“But you will endanger yourself by the step you are about to take,” she
said, hesitating.
“Heed not that,” he rejoined. “I am prepared for the worst. Come!”
They were about to quit the chamber, when they were stopped by old
Dorcas, to whom her mistress hastily explained the necessity of flight.
“I can help you in this extremity,” exclaimed the old woman. “I will
show you a ready means of leaving the palace without traversing the
corridor. While lifting the hangings against yon wall, I discovered a
secret door opening upon a staircase, which I had the curiosity to
examine, and found it led through a small postern to the garden. I meant
to tell you of my discovery.”
“You could not have reserved it for a better moment,” said Osbert “Adopt
this plan, it will be safest,” he added to Constance.
“Heaven be praised!” she exclaimed. “I can now escape without
imperilling you!”
“Think not of me,” he rejoined. “Pass through the secret door at once,
but do not enter the garden till night, when I will meet you in the
yew-tree alley. Meanwhile, I will make preparations for your conveyance
to a place of safety. Delay not, I beseech you. Each moment is
precious.”
Thus urged, Constance snatched up a mantle and a few other articles, and
declared she was ready to depart; whereupon Osbert drew back the
hangings, while old Dorcas touched the spring of the secret door, which
was artfully contrived in the oak panels. Casting a grateful look at her
preserver, Constance disappeared with her old attendant.
Another minute and it would have been too late. Scarcely had the
tapestry fallen to its place, when sounds proclaimed that several
persons had entered the ante-chamber, and the next moment Sir John Gage
presented himself, accompanied by Father Alfonso. They both looked
surprised on finding Osbert alone.
“You are too late, Sir John!” cried the young man, forcing a laugh. “The
bird has flown.”
“Flown! not out of the window, I presume; though I see not how she can
otherwise have escaped,” rejoined Gage. “She cannot have passed through
the corridor, or we must have met her. Where can she be?”
“Nay, I can give you no information, Sir John,” rejoined Osbert. “On my
arrival here a few moments ago, I found the room vacant, that is all I
know.”
“She appears to have taken her old attendant with her,” said Gage.
“However, we shall easily discover her hiding-place. She cannot have
quitted the palace.”
“Stay! is there no closet in the room?” said Father Alfonso, peering
round. “Ha! here is one—but it is empty,” he added, on opening it.
“We must seek her elsewhere,” observed Gage. “I shall not be sorry if
she has got away altogether,” he added in a low tone to Osbert, as they
quitted the room, followed by Father Alfonso. “But what will her Majesty
say to it?”
“Rather, what will the King say,” rejoined Osbert. “He will be furious.”
“It may be his contrivance,” remarked Gage. “I suspect you know more
about the matter than you choose to tell, and could find the damsel if
you thought proper.”
All search for the fugitives proved fruitless. The secret staircase was
not detected.
When Constance’s disappearance was reported to the Queen, her Majesty
was greatly irritated, and her suspicions fell upon the King. Philip was
equally angry, and equally at fault, attributing Constance’s evasion to
the Queen’s agency, and believing that her Majesty had had recourse to
this stratagem to baffle his designs.
Not until after midnight, and when all was still within the palace, did
Osbert Clinton venture into the garden. Fortunately the night was dark
and cloudy. On hearing his footsteps, Constance and her attendant came
from out the alley in which they were hidden, and followed him
noiselessly along various grassy paths to a gate opening upon the park.
In a few moments more the party had reached the banks of the Thames,
when Osbert gave a signal. Immediately the plash of oars was heard on
the other side of the river, and a wherry, rowed by two men, could be
descried through the gloom, pulling towards them.
Constance and her old attendant were quickly placed within the boat by
Osbert, and this was no sooner accomplished, than the boatman, without a
moment’s delay, pushed off, and dashed swiftly down the stream.
Osbert listened till the sound of the oars could no longer be heard, and
then returned with a light heart to the palace, entering it as secretly
as he had come forth.
As Osbert had foreseen, messengers were dispatched by the Queen to
Southampton, to ascertain whether Constance had sought refuge with her
father. If so, she was instantly to be brought back. After three days’
absence, the messengers returned, bringing with them Master Tyrrell. He
could give no account of his daughter, but pledged himself to deliver
her up at once to the Queen in case she might reappear. On this
understanding he was immediately released.
Another circumstance which occurred at this juncture contributed to
heighten the Queen’s displeasure. She had instructed the messengers sent
to Southampton to arrest Derrick Carver; but on the very day before
their arrival, the enthusiast, who by this time had recovered from his
wounds, had quitted the hospital of the Domus Dei, and, it was thought,
had passed over to France, as a vessel had just sailed thither from the
port. In whatever way it was accomplished, Carver’s escape was a source
of vexation to the Queen.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
WHERE CONSTANCE FOUND A PLACE OF REFUGE.
An old habitation situated on the banks of the river between the gardens
of Durham-place and the Savoy Hospital, then recently restored by Mary,
served Constance as an asylum. Thither she had been brought, after
remaining a few days in a little hostel near Richmond.
The house had been long uninhabited, and was in a very dilapidated
state. At the back there was a tolerably extensive garden, facing the
river, and containing several fine trees, but, like the house to which
it appertained, it was much neglected. Three or four back rooms, looking
upon the garden, had been hastily furnished; but no change was made in
the front of the habitation, for fear of exciting suspicion. Luckily,
the garden was not overlooked, being bounded on the west by the high
walls of Durham-place.
Though shut out from the world, Constance was far from finding her
present mode of existence wearisome. Her time was fully employed either
in her devotions, in reading, or in some feminine occupation. She never
ventured forth except into the garden, and only took exercise there at
night.
Of necessity, Osbert’s visits were rare, and stealthily paid. As the
safest course, he approached the house by water, landed in a wherry at
the stairs of Durham-place, and then scaled the garden wall. These short
and stolen visits, which were always paid at night, could not be
otherwise than agreeable to Constance, and she looked forward to his
coming with interest; and if, as sometimes chanced, he did not appear at
the usual hour, she retired sadly.
Under such circumstances, it will not appear surprising that the
gratitude felt by the damsel for her preserver should ripen into a
warmer feeling. After the first ardent declaration of his passion made
to her, Osbert refrained for a while from renewing his suit; but at
length, emboldened by the evident change in her manner, he ventured
again, with as much impassioned earnestness as before, to pour forth his
protestations of affection, coupled with entreaties to her consent to a
speedy union.
To these oft-repeated solicitations she at last replied that she would
not attempt to disguise her feelings, but would frankly own that he was
now absolute master of her heart, yet still there was a serious obstacle
to their marriage.
“An obstacle?” exclaimed Osbert. “Of what nature? Can it not be
overcome? Speak! speak!”
“Herein, then, it lies,” she rejoined. “Our creeds are different. I have
abjured the errors and idolatries of Rome, while you still cling to
them.”
“Granted,” replied Osbert; “but this need be no hindrance to our union.
I shall not quarrel with you on account of your religion. Who knows,” he
added lightly, “but that in due time you may convert me?”
“Heaven grant me power to do so!” she exclaimed, fervently. “Oh! that I
could withdraw you from the paths of error, and bring you to those of
truth. But much as I love you—much as I owe you—till you are converted,
I never can be yours. I have scruples of conscience which cannot be
overcome. I should not be happy if I felt there was a barrier between us
which neither could pass. Better far we should never come together than
be hereafter estranged. I could not respect you—could not love you with
my whole heart, if you continued a papist.”
“But I have said I may possibly be converted,” said Osbert.
“Your conversion must take place before our marriage,” rejoined
Constance. “On that condition alone will I consent.”
“Well, then, commence the good work,” he said. “I promise to be a
patient listener, and will strive to profit by your exhortations.”
Gladly she obeyed, and proceeded to employ the arguments which had
proved so prevailing in her own case, and with every prospect of
success, her influence over her hearer being unbounded.
But though this difficulty was overcome, another arose. Constance
declared that her father’s sanction to her marriage was indispensable.
In vain Osbert remonstrated. She remained firm, and finding she could
not be moved, he at last set out for Southampton, to see Master Tyrrell
on the subject.
The old merchant was indisposed to listen to him. He was deeply offended
with his daughter. He bewailed her apostacy, and declared he would
neither receive her under his roof, nor hold any intercourse with her,
so long as she entertained heretical opinions. If she returned, he
should deliver her to the Queen, in fulfilment of his pledge. As a
staunch Romanist, he could not conscientiously support a heretic, even
though she were his own flesh and blood. Let Constance recant the
religious opinions she had so imprudently adopted, and he would receive
her with open arms. Till such time, she must not come near him. He
concluded his tirade by refusing consent to the marriage.
Deeply disappointed at his want of success, Osbert returned to London.
On seeking Constance’s place of shelter, he found to his surprise, that
there was a guest in the house. This was Derrick Carver, who it will be
remembered, disappeared from Southampton just before the order for his
arrest arrived, and had escaped, as was supposed, to France. Instead of
flying his country, however, Carver had proceeded along the coast to his
native place, Brightelmstone, where he remained for a short time, but,
fearing discovery, he removed to Lewes, and thence to London.
Being nearly destitute, he had endured great hardship, and was driven
almost to extremity, when he accidentally met old Dorcas, who was
purchasing provisions, and following her, made himself known, as soon as
he could do so with safety. Touched by his miserable condition, the
kind-hearted old dame took him home with her. He was joyfully received
by Constance, and offered an asylum, which he gratefully accepted.
Such a guest, it will be easily conceived, was by no means agreeable to
Osbert, and he would gladly have got rid of him, had it been possible.
Carver’s presence introduced a new element of danger by increasing the
chances of discovery, while his society had a very perceptible effect
upon Constance’s spirits and manner. Before his arrival, she had quite
regained her serenity. But the sternness and austerity of the religious
fanatic had cast a gloom over her, which could not be dispelled. The
greater part of her time was passed in prayer, in the perusal of godly
books, or in listening to Carver’s exhortations.
Osbert was obliged to inform her that he had failed in obtaining her
father’s consent, but he earnestly besought her to fulfil her promise,
and make him happy by becoming his bride.
Before assenting, she consulted Derrick Carver, who at once decided that
under such circumstances the marriage could not take place. She must
perforce wait. The enthusiast’s aim seemed to be to alienate her
thoughts from things of this world, and wean her, as he said, from all
carnal affections. No wonder Osbert regarded him with dislike.
But the unhappy lover had another and more serious cause of disquietude.
He had trusted that distractions of various kinds would efface
Constance’s image from the King’s breast. But he was deceived. Though
constantly engaged in some little affair of gallantry, concerning which
he made no secret to Osbert, Philip often spoke of her, and in terms
showing that his passion was unabated. Osbert’s jealous rage at these
confidences well-nigh caused him to betray himself, and his anger was
not lessened when the King expressed his firm conviction that Constance
must sooner or later fall into his power. Though Osbert deemed such a
mischance improbable, the apprehension of it filled him with uneasiness.
One day Philip, who treated him with great familiarity, jestingly
remarked:—
“So you have got some secret love affair on hand, I hear, and nightly
visit your inamorata.”
“Who can have told your Majesty this absurd story?” rejoined Osbert,
trying to hide his confusion by a laugh.
“No matter how I learnt it,” said Philip. “Your manner convinces me it
is true. But why should you be ashamed to confess the affair? Most of
the young court gallants plume themselves upon their successes, and talk
openly of them.”
“I am not one of those senseless boasters,” observed Osbert, gravely.
“Now, by my faith, you take the matter so seriously, that I am satisfied
there is more in it than I supposed,” cried the King. “My curiosity is
piqued. I must know who has thus enslaved you. Does she belong to the
city or the court?”
“Your Majesty will pardon me, but I cannot answer these questions.”
“As you please, Sir. I will press you no further. But take care. I shall
find out the lady. Nothing escapes me, as you well know. Had you told me
who she is, I should have been satisfied, but since you attempt
concealment, look to yourself—ha! ha!”
Though Philip laughed while saying this, there was a half-menace in his
tone that increased Osbert’s alarm.
Apprehensive that his movements might be watched, Osbert refrained that
night from his customary visit to Constance, but embarking as usual,
instead of proceeding to Durham-place, crossed to the other side of the
river. That he had acted wisely, was proved by the fact of another boat
following him; and it soon became evident that he was watched. Next
night he acted with like caution, but nothing occurred to excite his
suspicions.
On the following night, therefore, he ventured to repair to Constance’s
hiding-place. But, instead of proceeding thither by water, he took a
circuitous route, so as to mislead those who watched him, if any such
there were.
Constance, who had been extremely uneasy at his unwonted absence, was
yet more alarmed when she learned the cause of it; but he succeeded in
allaying her fears, by telling her he would speedily find her another
and yet more secure asylum, where she would be free from all risk of
molestation.
“Methinks you magnify the peril,” observed Derrick Carver. “Howbeit, if
Mistress Constance elects to quit this house, and seek another place of
refuge, I will go with her. You may trust her to my care.”
“I am content to do so,” replied Osbert. “The danger is greater than you
seem to imagine. After what has occurred, I do not think she can tarry
longer in London; but by to-morrow night I will have arranged some
definite plan, and, meantime, you must prepare for departure.”
“I am ready at any moment,” cried Constance. “Now—if you deem it
expedient.”
“Nay, there is no such haste,” rejoined Osbert. “By flying without due
preparation, you would incur yet greater risk. Two days hence you shall
be in perfect safety.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Constance, “my mind misgives me, and I fear some dire
calamity is in store for me.”