has been my earnest endeavour to strengthen you for such an hour, and I
trust my efforts have not been in vain, but that you may be equal to
whatever trial you are subjected. Nay, even should you be called upon to
attest your devotion to the Gospel by enduring fiery torments, I am
assured your courage will not forsake you, but that you will earn a
crown of martyrdom.”
“Heaven, in its mercy, grant she may be spared any such terrible trial!”
exclaimed Osbert, shuddering.
“Rather than deny my faith, and return to that which I have abjured, I
will suffer death in any shape,” said Constance, “even accompanied by
the most cruel torments.”
“Your words fill me with joy, daughter,” rejoined Carver, “and prove
that my teaching has not been thrown away. Thus prepared, you need have
no fear.”
“I am resigned to whatever may happen,” said Constance.
“Self-preservation is as much a duty as any other,” said Osbert, “and
ought not to be neglected. Though prepared for the worst, you must not
expose yourself to needless risk.”
“I have said I am ready to depart whenever you may enjoin me to do so,”
replied Constance, “and will go wheresoever you may direct.”
“I neither oppose her going, nor counsel her tarrying here,” said
Derrick Carver. “Act as we may, Heaven’s designs will be fulfilled.”
After some further discourse to the like effect, Osbert took leave,
promising to return at the same hour on the following night.
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
HOW CONSTANCE’S RETREAT WAS DISCOVERED.
The next day passed as usual with Constance. At night she was alone in
the room, the windows of which have been described as opening upon the
garden, and anxiously expecting Osbert’s coming.
She was seated at a small table, perusing by the light of a single
taper, which dimly illuminated the large but scantily-furnished
apartment, one of the controversial tracts of the day, and essaying, but
in vain, to fix her thoughts on what she read. Ever and anon she arose,
and, going to the window, looked forth. The night was profoundly dark,
and nothing was discernible except the trees skirting the lawn.
“He is later than usual,” she thought, as time went on. “Will he not
come?”
Scarcely had she asked herself the question, when she distinctly heard
footsteps without, and, concluding it must be Osbert, she passed through
the window, and flew to meet him. She could just descry a figure wrapped
in a mantle, advancing towards her from beneath a tree.
In another moment this person, whom she took to be her lover, reached
her, and seized her hand. Startled by the proceeding, she involuntarily
exclaimed, “Is it you?”
“Yes, ’tis I—Osbert,” rejoined the other, under his breath.
“I had almost given you up,” she returned. “I feared something had
occurred to prevent your coming.”
The person she addressed made no reply. He had recognised her voice, and
mentally ejaculated, “Can it be possible that it is Constance Tyrrell!”
“You do not answer,” she said, after a pause, “and your manner seems
strange—very strange.”
“’Tis she, by all the saints!” muttered the other. “Let us go in!” he
added, drawing her through the open window into the room.
No sooner were they within the influence of the light than the
countenance of him she most dreaded on earth was revealed to Constance.
“The King!” she exclaimed, in accents of affright.
“Ay, the King,” rejoined Philip, regarding her with fierce exultation.
“So, I have found you at last, and where I looked for you least. Little
did I deem you were the beauty secluded with such jealous care by Osbert
Clinton. Little did I expect, when I took the trouble to ascertain who
he kept concealed, that I should be so richly rewarded. Never for a
moment did I suppose that he would dare to rob me of my chief treasure.
But he shall pay dearly for his audacity and treachery.”
“Be not unjust towards him, Sire,” rejoined Constance. “In Osbert’s
place, you would have acted as he has acted. He loved me, and seeing the
peril in which I stood, did not hesitate to deliver me.”
“And you have not proved ungrateful for the service,” retorted Philip,
bitterly. “You have requited his devotion. The love refused to me has
been bestowed freely on him.”
“Osbert’s love for me was not dishonourable, Sire,” she replied, “and in
requiting it I committed no crime. I could not return your Majesty’s
love without guilt. By this time the passion I was unhappy enough to
inspire you with must have subsided, and you will view my conduct less
harshly.”
“You are mistaken, Madam,” rejoined Philip, sternly. “I have never
ceased to love you. I cannot regard you with indifference—even though
you deserve that I should do so. You are necessary to my happiness. You
must—you shall be mine.”
“Never!” exclaimed Constance, energetically.
“Hear me,” pursued the King; “you are now wholly in my power. Having
found you, be assured I shall not part with you again. I am willing to
excuse your conduct—to pardon your lover’s disobedience and deceit—nay,
more, to continue my favour towards him—but this consideration on my
part must be met by complaisance on yours.”
“I reject the proposal without a moment’s hesitation, Sire,” cried
Constance, with scorn.
“Then mark what I have to say further,” rejoined Philip. “I repeat, you
are wholly in my power. Nothing can deliver you. On your decision hangs
your lover’s life. You—you will cause his immediate arrest—his
imprisonment, torture—ay, torture—and death.”
“Oh, say not so, Sire!” she cried, all her firmness deserting her. “What
has he done to deserve such barbarous treatment?”
“He has dared to disobey me,” rejoined Philip. “He has stepped between
me and the object of my desires. But for your sake I am content to
forego revenge—nay, to heap greater favours on his head. Will you cast
him into a dungeon? Will you doom him to torture and death?”
“I cannot save him by the sacrifice you propose, Sire,” she rejoined, in
tones of anguish. “Neither would he consent to be so saved.”
“You have avouched the truth, Constance,” exclaimed Osbert, springing
through the open window, and placing himself between her and the King.
“A thousand deaths rather than such a sacrifice.”
“My clemency, I find, is thrown away,” said Philip, haughtily. “Yet I
will give you a few minutes for reflection. Perhaps your resolution may
change.” And he moved towards the window.
“It is needless, Sire,” rejoined Osbert. “Our determination is taken.”
“Then prepare to part for ever,” said Philip, sternly. “As to you,
audacious and insensate traitor, you shall learn whose anger you have
braved. It will be small alleviation, methinks, to your imprisonment to
know that your mistress is in my power.”
“Fear not the threat, Osbert,” said Constance. “I will never yield to
him.”
“I do not ask your consent,” rejoined Philip, derisively. “You are
caught in a net from which there is no escape.”
“Sooner than this shall be, my sword shall free the country from a
tyrant,” cried Osbert, plucking his rapier from its sheath.
“Ha! do you dare to raise your hand against me, traitor?” exclaimed
Philip, stepping towards him, while Constance flung her arms about her
lover, so as to prevent any movement on his part.
“Let him go,” continued the King, after a pause, during which he sternly
regarded the pair. “He wants the courage to play the assassin.”
“You are right, Sire,” rejoined Osbert. “Draw, and defend your life.”
“Peace, madman!” cried Philip, disdainfully. “Think you I will deign to
cross swords with you?”
“Heaven grant me patience, I am driven to the verge of frenzy!”
ejaculated Osbert, distractedly.
“At last you are beginning to comprehend your true position,” observed
Philip, in a taunting tone, “and perceive that you are utterly without
help.”
“Not utterly,” cried a deep voice. And Derrick Carver strode into the
room. “Heaven will not desert them in their need. Thou hast uttered
threats against them which thou wilt never live to execute. Thou has
ventured into this dwelling, but wilt never return from it. My hand
failed me when I first struck at thee, but it will not fail me now.”
“Make the attempt, then, if thou think’st so, assassin!” cried Philip,
keeping his eye steadily upon him.
“Hold!” exclaimed Osbert. “His life is sacred.”
“Not in my eyes,” rejoined Carver. “It were a crime to my country and to
my religion to spare their deadliest foe. He shall die by my hand.”
“I say it must not be,” cried Osbert. “No harm must be done him.
Persist, and I come to his defence.”
“Fool! you destroy yourself, and her who should be dearer to you than
life, by this mistimed weakness,” rejoined Derrick Carver. “Leave him to
me.”
“Again I say, forbear!” cried Osbert.
“I owe you no obedience, and will show none,” retorted Carver, fiercely.
“Have at thy heart, tyrant!” he exclaimed, drawing his sword.
But ere he could make the meditated attack, Philip placed a silver
whistle to his lips, and sounding it, Rodomont Bittern, with his sword
drawn in his hand, and followed by half a dozen halberdiers, entered
through the window. The party instantly fell upon Derrick Carver, and,
after a brief struggle, disarmed him.
“By Saint Thomas!” exclaimed Rodomont, regarding the enthusiast with
surprise, “this is the murtherous villain whom we caught at Southampton.
I cannot be mistaken in his ill-favoured visage.”
“I will not deny myself,” rejoined the other. “I am Derrick Carver.
Heaven has permitted thee to thwart my righteous purpose for the second
time.”
“A plain proof that thy purpose is damnable, and that Heaven is against
thee, thou bloodthirsty villain,” rejoined Rodomont. “What is your
Majesty’s pleasure concerning him?” he asked of the King.
“Take him to the Tower,” said Philip.
“It shall be done, Sire. Have you any further commands?”
“Ay,” replied Philip. “An hour ago I would not have believed that Osbert
Clinton would raise his hand against me, but he has done so, and his
life is forfeit. Take him also with you.”
“Here is my sword, Sir,” said Osbert, delivering it to Rodomont. “I am
ready to attend you.”
Seating himself at the table, on which writing materials were placed,
Philip took a paper from his doublet and proceeded to sign it. Just as
he was about to consign the warrant to Rodomont, Constance, who had
appeared transfixed with terror, rushed forward and threw herself at his
feet.
“Have mercy on him, Sire!” she cried. “Full well I know what will be his
fate if sent to the Tower. Oh spare him! spare him!”
“I cannot listen to your entreaties,” rejoined Philip, coldly. “He has
been guilty of high treason, and must pay the penalty of his offence.”
“Do not intercede for me, Constance,” said Osbert. “It is useless; he
has no pity in his nature.”
“I have none for those who deceive me,” rejoined Philip, sternly. “Take
him hence, Sir,” he added to Rodomont. “Here is your warrant.”
“Oh no! let him not go thus!” shrieked Constance, starting to her feet,
and falling into her lover’s arms, “You will not separate us, Sire?”
“Wherefore not?” demanded Philip. “Is he your husband?”
“Ay, in the eyes of Heaven. I am affianced to him,” she replied.
“Even were you wedded to him you could not accompany him,” rejoined the
King. “But no marriage will ever take place between you. Bid him a
lasting farewell. You will meet no more on earth.”
“No more! You cannot mean it, Sire. Oh, unsay those terrible words!”
shrieked Constance.
Philip remained inflexible.
“Calm yourself, Constance,” said Osbert. “I heed not what may happen to
myself. My sole distress is in leaving you.”
“Fear nothing on my account,” she rejoined, in a low tone. “Heaven will
protect me. Yet I will make one last effort to save you. Oh, Sire,” she
added, approaching the King, “as you are great and powerful, be generous
and merciful. Forgive him. He will offend no more. I am the cause of his
disobedience. When I am gone he will be faithful as ever.”
“On one condition I will spare him,” said Philip, in a low tone.
“I dare not ask your Majesty what that condition is?” rejoined
Constance, trembling.
“You may easily guess it,” returned Philip. “Be mine.”
“Then all hope is over,” sighed Constance. “I will die rather than
assent.”
“So you think now,” muttered Philip; “but I will find means to shake
your stubbornness. Take hence the prisoners,” he added aloud to
Rodomont.
“I am equally guilty—if guilt there be,” cried Constance, with a loud
voice. “I take all present to witness that I utterly reject the
doctrines of the Romish Church, and hold its ceremonies to be vain,
superfluous, superstitious, and abominable.”
“Be silent, imprudent girl,” cried Philip.
“Be not afraid to speak out, daughter,” cried Derrick Carver. “Truly you
have profited by my exhortations.”
“I will never forsake my opinions,” cried Constance, firmly, “but will
maintain them at any tribunal before which I may be brought. After this
declaration and confession, your Majesty must send me with the other
prisoners.”
“You have indeed put it out of my power to befriend you,” rejoined
Philip, angrily. “Since you ask to be brought before a religious
tribunal, you shall have your wish.”
“I have succeeded in my design,” whispered Constance to Osbert. “I shall
not be separated from you. Your Majesty has conferred a boon upon me by
this decision,” she added to the King, “and I humbly thank you for it.
Now, Sir,” to Rodomont, “you can take me to the Tower with my friends.”
“Is such your Majesty’s pleasure?” demanded Rodomont.
“No,” replied Philip. “Let her be conveyed to some place of
imprisonment, but not to the Tower.”
“An please your Majesty, there is the Lollards’ Tower at Lambeth Palace,
where heretics are oft confined,” observed Rodomont. “No better prison
lodgings can be found than the cells therein.”
“Are the cells strong and secure?” demanded the King.
“Marry, as strong and secure as the dungeons of the Tower, Sire,”
replied Rodomont.
“I have heard of those prison chambers in the Lollards’ Tower,” rejoined
Philip, “but did not bethink me of them at the moment. Take Mistress
Constance Tyrrell forthwith to Lambeth Palace, and see her safely
bestowed—safely, I say, but with all comfort and convenience that the
prison will admit of—d’ye heed? Take Derrick Carver also thither, and
let him be securely lodged. The ecclesiastical court shall deal with
him. No intercourse whatever must be allowed between the prisoners.”
“Your injunctions shall be strictly obeyed, Sire,” replied Rodomont.
“I have changed my mind in regard to Osbert Clinton,” pursued Philip.
“In consideration of the important services he has heretofore rendered
me, I am disposed to overlook the grave offence he has committed. He is
pardoned.”
There was a brief pause, but no word of gratitude escaped Osbert.
“Do you not hear, Sir?” said Rodomont, as he gave back the sword to
Osbert. “Have you no thanks for the grace vouchsafed you by his
Majesty?”
“The grace is unsolicited by me, and claims no thanks,” rejoined Osbert,
almost fiercely.
“Leave him alone,” said Philip; “his mind is disordered. When the fit
has passed, and he is become calm, he will think differently. Away at
once to Lambeth Palace with the prisoners.”
“Constance!” exclaimed Osbert, rushing towards her.
“Farewell for ever!” she rejoined. “Do not grieve for me. Now I know you
are free, I can bear any sufferings that may be inflicted upon me.”
“My freedom shall be employed for your preservation,” he whispered. “I
will accomplish your liberation, or perish in the attempt.”
“I forbid it,” she returned. “Henceforward I shall strive to shake off
all earthly ties, and fix my thoughts entirely upon Heaven. Farewell for
ever!”
With this she disengaged herself from him, and passed forth from the
room with Derrick Carver, attended by the guard, and followed by
Rodomont. Two armed attendants, stationed near the window, remained with
the King.
“A word before I go,” said Philip, approaching Osbert, and speaking in a
tone so low and deep as to be inaudible by the attendants. “On peril of
your life, I charge you to hold no further intercourse of any kind with
Constance. Look upon her as dead—for dead she is to you. Return to your
duty, and I will think no more of what has just occurred.”
So saying, he quitted the room with his attendants, leaving Osbert
overwhelmed by despair.
While Philip returned in his barque to Whitehall Palace, a barge
conveyed the two prisoners to Lambeth Palace.
On arriving there, they were detained for a short time in the guard-room
of the ancient gateway, and as soon as all had been made ready, they
were lodged in the prison chambers assigned them in the Lollards’ Tower.
End of the Second Book.
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[Illustration]
BOOK III.
LAMBETH PALACE.
CHAPTER I.
HOW CARDINAL POLE ARRIVED IN ENGLAND, AND HOW HE
WAS WELCOMED BY THE KING AND QUEEN.
The court returned to Whitehall in November, Parliament being about to
meet in the middle of that month.
One morning, as the royal pair were walking together in the west gallery
overlooking the garden, the Lord Chancellor presented himself with a
despatch in his hand. It was easy to perceive, from the joyous
expression of his countenance, that he brought good tidings.
“Welcome, my good lord,” said Mary. “I see you have satisfactory
intelligence to communicate. Have you heard from Rome?”
“I have just received this transcript of the decree which has been sent
to Cardinal Pole by the Pope,” replied Gardiner, “in which his Holiness,
after due deliberation, has agreed to extend the privileges of the
Legate, so as to enable him to act on all occasions with the same
plentitude of power as the Pope himself. In regard to church revenues
and goods, his Holiness fully recognises the great difficulty of the
question, feeling it to be the main obstacle to the nation’s recognition
of the Papal supremacy, and he therefore invests his Eminence with the
most ample power to agree and compound with the present owners; to
assure to them their possessions, on whatever title they may hold them;
and to exempt them from any duty of restitution.”
“This is glad news indeed!” exclaimed the Queen. “Parliament meets in a
few days. Your first business must be to repeal the attainder of the
Cardinal, who will then be free to return to his own country, and aid us
with his counsels. Hasten his arrival, I pray you, my lord, by all means
in your power. I shall not feel perfectly happy till I behold him!”
“There shall not be a moment’s needless delay, rely upon it, gracious
Madam,” replied Gardiner. “The repeal of the attainder may be considered
as already accomplished, since no opposition will now be made to the
measure. Meantime, an escort shall be immediately despatched to Brussels
to bring over his Eminence with all honour to this country.”
Having nothing more to lay before their Majesties, he then bowed and
withdrew.
Parliament was opened by the King and Queen in person, a sword of state
and a cap of maintenance being borne before each of them as they went in
state to the House of Lords. Everything proceeded as satisfactorily as
had been anticipated by Gardiner. The first bill brought before the
Lords was that for reversing Pole’s attainder, which, being quickly
passed, was sent down to the Commons, and read thrice in one day; after
which it received the royal assent, the impression of the great seal
being taken off in gold.
Meantime, in confident anticipation of this event, a brilliant escort,
comprising Lord Paget, Sir Edward Hastings, Sir William Cecil, and forty
gentlemen of good birth, had been despatched to Brussels, to bring back
the illustrious exile to his own country. As soon as intimation was
received by Pole that he was free to return, he took leave of the
Emperor, and set out with his escort for England.
Among the Cardinal’s suite was one of whom some account may be
necessary. Years ago, while studying at the celebrated university of
Padua, Pole contracted a friendship with Ludovico Priuli, a young
Venetian noble, distinguished for his personal accomplishments, refined
manners, and love of learning. From this date the two friends became
inseparable. Possessed of an ample fortune, Priuli, from his position,
might have filled the highest offices in the Venetian Republic, but he
preferred sharing Pole’s labours, and proved a most valuable coadjutor
to him. Chosen as successor to the Bishop of Brescia by Pope Julius
III., Priuli declined to exercise his functions, and even refused the
purple rather than quit his friend. He had remained with Pole during his
retirement at the convent of Maguzano, had attended him to Brussels and
to Paris, whither the Cardinal went to negotiate terms of peace between
Spain and France, and of course accompanied him to England. Besides the
Lord Priuli, Pole was attended by his secretary, Floribello, an
excellent scholar, together with the Signori Stella and Rollo, both men
of learning and piety, though somewhat advanced in years.
Owing to the infirm state of his health, the Cardinal was unable to
proceed far without resting, and after a week’s slow travel he reached
Calais (then, it need scarcely be said, in possession of England, though
soon afterwards lost), where he was received by the governor with a
distinction rarely shown to any other than a crowned head.
Pole attended high mass at the cathedral, and the populace clad in
holiday attire, flocked thither to receive his blessing. One
circumstance occurred which was regarded as a most favourable omen. For
more than a week strong adverse winds had prevailed in the Channel, but
a favourable change suddenly took place, promising a swift and pleasant
passage to the Cardinal.
A royal vessel awaited him, in which he embarked with his train, and
escorted by six men-of-war, well armed, and under the command of the
Lord High Admiral, he sailed on a bright sunny day for England, and,
impelled by a fresh wind, arrived in a few hours at Dover.
A royal salute was fired from the guns of the castle as the Cardinal
landed, and he was received by his nephew, Lord Montague, son of his
elder brother, who had been put to death by Henry VIII. With Lord
Montague were several other noblemen and gentlemen, amongst whom were
the mayor and the town authorities, and besides these there was a vast
miscellaneous concourse.
No sooner did the Cardinal set foot on the mole, closely followed by his
other nephew, Sir Edward Hastings, and Lord Priuli, than the whole
assemblage prostrated themselves before him. Spreading his arms over
them, Pole gave them his solemn benediction. All eyes were fixed on the
venerable and majestic figure before them—all ears were strained to
catch his words. The noble cast of the Cardinal’s countenance,
proclaiming his royal descent—his reverend air, increased by the long
grey beard that descended to his waist—the benignity and sweetness of
his looks—the stateliness of his deportment—all produced an
indescribable effect on the spectators. Lofty of stature, and spare of
person—the result of frequent fastings—Pole, notwithstanding the
ailments under which he laboured, carried himself erect, and ever
maintained a most dignified deportment. To complete the picture we
desire to present, it may be necessary to say that his garments were
those proper to his eminent ecclesiastical rank, namely, a scarlet
soutane, rochet, and short purple mantle. His silk gloves and hose were
scarlet in hue, and from his broad red hat depended on either side long
cords, terminating in tassels of two knots each. These garments became
him well, and heightened the imposing effect of his presence.
Behind him stood his friend, Lord Priuli, who was nearly of his own age,
though he looked full ten years younger, and appeared scarcely past the
prime of life. The noble Venetian had a countenance which Titian would
have delighted to paint, so handsome was it, so grave and full of
thought. Priuli was attired in black taffetas, over which he wore a long
silk gown of the same colour, and had a black skull-cap on his head.
Signor Floribello, Pole’s secretary, was a Roman, and had a massive and
antique cast of countenance, which might have become one of his
predecessors of the Augustan age. He had a grave, scholar-like aspect,
and was attired in dark habiliments. With him were the Cardinal’s other
attendants, Stella and Rolla, neither of whom merit special description.
The former was the Cardinal’s steward, and the latter his comptroller,
and each wore a gold chain around his neck.
Lord Montague was a very goodly personage, and bore such a remarkable
resemblance to his ill-fated father, that Pole exclaimed, as he tenderly
embraced him, “I could almost fancy that my long-lost and much-lamented
brother had come to life again. I doubt not you possess your father’s
excellent qualities of head and heart, as well as his good looks.”
“I trust I am no degenerate son, dear and venerated uncle,” replied
Montague. “But I would my father had lived to see this day, and to
welcome you back to the land from which you have been so long and so
unjustly exiled.”
“Heaven’s will be done!” ejaculated Pole, fervently. “I do not repine,
though I have never ceased to lament the calamities and afflictions I
have brought upon my family.”
“Think not of them now, dear uncle,” rejoined Lord Montague. “They are
passed and gone. The tyrant who inflicted these injuries is in his
grave. Happier days have dawned upon us. Your brother yet lives in me,
to honour and serve you. Perchance your martyred mother now looks down
from that heaven which her destroyer shall never enter, and joys at her
son’s return.”
“It may be,” replied the Cardinal, glancing upwards, “and ere long I
hope to join her, for my sojourn in this Vale of Tears is nearly ended;
but I have much to do while I tarry here. Oh! my good nephew! what mixed
emotions of joy and sorrow agitate my breast—joy at returning to the
country of my birth—sorrow for the relatives and friends I have lost.
Many a time and oft, during my long banishment, have I besought Heaven
to allow me to return and lay my bones in my native land; and now that
my prayers have been granted, I tremble and am sad, for I feel like a
stranger.”
“You will not be a stranger long, dear uncle,” returned Lord Montague.
“There is not one of this throng who does not feel that Heaven has sent
you to us to give us a blessing, of which we have so long been
deprived.”
As he spoke, the crowd, which had been pressing on them, could no longer
be kept back, but completely surrounded the Cardinal; those nearest him
throwing themselves at his feet, kissing his garments, trying to embrace
his knees, and making every possible demonstration of reverence. Little
children were held up to him; old men struggled to approach him; and it
was long before he could extricate himself from the throng, which he did
with great gentleness and consideration.
Graciously declining the hospitality proffered by the mayor, the
Cardinal proceeded with his suite to the Priory of Saint Martin, where
he tarried for the night.
On the next day, attended by an immense _cortége_, and having two great
silver crosses, two massive silver pillars, and two silver pole-axes
borne before him, as emblems of his Legantine authority, he journeyed to
Canterbury. Here he heard mass in the magnificent cathedral, of which he
was so soon to become head, and rested at the palace.
On the second day he proceeded to Rochester, his escort increasing as he
went on; and on the third day he reached Gravesend, where he was met by
the Bishop of Durham, the Earl of Shrewsbury, and other important
personages, who had been dispatched by their Majesties to offer him
their congratulations on his safe arrival in England, and at the same
time to present him with a copy of the act by which his attainder was
reversed.
At Gravesend he again tarried for the night, and next morning entered a
royal barge, richly decorated, lined with tapestry, and containing a
throne covered with gold brocade. At the prow of this barge a silver
cross was fixed, which attracted universal attention as he passed up the
river, attended by several other gorgeous barges conveying his retinue.
As the Cardinal approached the metropolis, the river swarmed with boats
filled with persons of all ranks eager to welcome him, while crowds
collected on the banks to gaze at his barge with the great silver cross
at the prow.
While passing the Tower, and gazing at the gloomy fortress where the
terrible tragedies connected with his family had been enacted, the
Cardinal became a prey to saddening thoughts. But these were dispelled
as he approached London Bridge, and heard the shouts of the spectators,
who greeted him from the windows of the lofty habitations. The next
objects that attracted his attention were Baynard’s Castle and Saint
Paul’s, and he uttered aloud his thanksgivings that the ancient rites of
worship were again performed in the cathedral.
Sweeping up the then clear river, past the old palace of Bridewell,
Somerset House—built in the preceding reign by the Lord Protector, and
which the Cardinal had never before seen—past Durham-place and York
House, attended by hundreds of barques, he at length approached the
palace of Whitehall, and was taken to the privy stairs.
At the head of the stairs stood Gardiner, ready to receive him, and
after they had interchanged a most amicable greeting, and Pole had
presented his friend Priuli, Gardiner conducted the Cardinal through two
lines of attendants apparelled in the royal liveries, all of whom bowed
reverentially as Pole passed on to the principal entrance of the palace,
where the King, with the chief personages of his court, awaited his
coming.
As the Lord Legate slowly approached, supported by Gardiner, Philip
advanced to meet him, and, embracing him affectionately, bade him
welcome, saying how anxiously both the Queen and himself had looked for
his coming. To these gracious expressions Pole replied:
“I have rejoiced at the union her Majesty has formed, Sire, because I
regard it as a presage of my country’s future felicity. Inasmuch as a
nuptial disagreement between an English monarch and a Spanish queen led
to a most lamentable breach with the Holy See, so the marriage of a
Spanish king and an English princess will serve to heal the breach. Most
assuredly my countrymen will reap the benefit of this auspicious
alliance, and so far from finding any yoke placed upon them, as they
once apprehended, will recognise the difference between your Majesty and
that Prince who chastised them with so heavy a rod.”
“With the aid of your Eminence in all spiritual matters, and with that
of the Lord Chancellor in temporal affairs,” replied Philip, “I doubt
not I shall be able, through the Queen’s Highness, to contribute to the
welfare and prosperity of the realm. Such has been my constant endeavour
since I have been here. And now suffer me to lead you to her Majesty,
who is all impatience to behold you.”
Hereupon they ascended the grand staircase, the King graciously giving
his arm to the Lord Legate. At the head of the staircase they found the
Queen, who exhibited the liveliest marks of delight on seeing the
Cardinal, and gave him a most affectionate greeting.
Pole could not fail to be deeply moved by so much kindness, and with
streaming eyes, and in broken accents, sought to express his gratitude.
He soon, however, regained his customary serenity, and attended the
Queen to the privy-chamber, whither they were followed by the King and
the Lord Chancellor. He then delivered his credentials to her Majesty,
and they had a long discourse together, in which both the King and the
Lord Chancellor took part.
Before withdrawing, Pole besought permission to present his friend Lord
Priuli, and Mary kindly assenting, the noble and learned Venetian was
introduced to their Majesties, and very graciously received by both.
After this the Cardinal took leave, and, attended by Gardiner,
re-entered his barge, and was conveyed in it to Lambeth Palace, which
had been prepared for his residence.
On the same day a grand banquet was given at Whitehall in honour of the
Lord Legate, at which all the nobles vied with each other in paying him
attention. Indeed, since Wolsey’s palmiest days no such distinction had
been shown to an ecclesiastic. Priuli, also, came in for some share of
the tribute of respect paid to his illustrious friend.
On the following day, in order to celebrate Pole’s arrival publicly, a
grand tournament was held in the court of the palace, where galleries
were erected, adorned with rich hangings, having two canopies of crimson
cloth of silver, embroidered with the royal arms, prepared for their
Majesties—a chair for the Cardinal being set near that of the Queen.
Precisely at two o’clock her Majesty issued from the palace in company
with the Cardinal, attended by her ladies, and took her place beneath
the canopy, Pole seating himself beside her. The galleries on either
side presented a magnificent sight, being thronged with all the beauty
and chivalry of the court—high-born dames and noble gallants, all richly
apparelled.
The lists were under the governance of the Lord Chamberlain, Sir John
Gage, who was clad in russet armour, and mounted on a powerful and
richly-caparisoned steed; and as soon as the Queen and the Cardinal had
taken their places, loud fanfares were blown by a bevy of trumpeters
stationed on the opposite side of the court.
At this summons two champions immediately rode into the ring, attracting
great attention. One of them was the King. He was clad in a suit of
richly chased armour inlaid with gold, and his helm was adorned with a
panache of red ostrich plumes. His courser was trapped with purple
satin, broached with gold. As he rode round the tilt-yard and saluted
the Queen, a buzz of applause followed his course.
His opponent was Osbert Clinton, whom his Majesty had challenged to a
trial of skill. Osbert wore a suit of black armour, with a white plume,
and was mounted on a powerful charger, with bases and bards of black
cloth of gold of damask.
As soon as the champions had taken their places, the signal was given by
Sir John Gage, and dashing vigorously against each other, they met in
mid-career, both their lances being shivered by the shock. As no
advantage had been gained on either side, fresh lances were brought, and
they immediately ran another course. In this encounter, Osbert had the
best of it, for he succeeded in striking off the King’s helmet, and was
consequently proclaimed the victor, and received a costly owche as a
prize from the hands of the Queen.
Other courses were then run, and spears broken, all the combatants
demeaning themselves valiantly and like men of prowess. Amongst the
Spaniards, those who most distinguished themselves were Don Ruy Gomez de
Silva, Don Frederic de Toledo, and Don Adrian Garcias; whilst amongst
the Englishmen the best knights were accounted the Lord Admiral and Sir
John Perrot. The King was more fortunate in other courses than in those
he had run with Osbert Clinton, and received a diamond ring from her
Majesty, amid the loud plaudits of the spectators.
After this, Sir John Gage called upon them to disarm, the trumpets
sounded, and graciously bowing to the assemblage, the Queen withdrew
with the Cardinal.
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
OF THE RECONCILIATION OF THE REALM WITH THE SEE
OF ROME.
A few days afterwards, in consequence of the Queen’s indisposition,
which, however, was not supposed to be of a nature to inspire
uneasiness, both Houses of Parliament were summoned to the palace of
Whitehall, and assembled in the presence-chamber. Mary, who was so weak
at the time that she had to be carried to her throne, was placed on a
hautpas, beneath a rich canopy embroidered with the royal arms in gold.
On her left hand was seated the King, attired in black velvet, over
which he wore a robe of black cloth of gold, bordered with pearls and
diamonds. The collar of the Garter was round his neck, and the lesser
badge studded with gems, beneath his knee.
On the Queen’s right, and on the hautpas, but not beneath the canopy,
sat Cardinal Pole. His robes were of the richest scarlet, and he wore a
mantle of fine sables about his neck. He was attended by four gentleman
ushers, all richly clad, and having heavy chains of gold round their
necks. Two of these carried the large silver crosses, and the other two
bore the silver pillars. Behind the Queen stood Sir John Gage, in his
robes of office as Grand Chamberlain, and holding a white wand, and with
him were the Vice-Chamberlain and other officers of the royal household.
All the Queen’s ladies were likewise grouped around the throne.
Near to the Lord Legate stood Gardiner, and as soon as all were in their
places, and the doors had been closed by the ushers, he addressed both
Houses, informing them that the Right Reverend Father in God, the Lord
Cardinal Pole, legate _a latere_, who was now present before them, had
come as ambassador from Pope Julius III. to the King and Queen’s
Majesties on a matter of the utmost importance, not only to their
Highnesses, but to the whole realm. As representatives of the nation,
they were called there to listen to the declaration about to be made to
them by the Lord Legate.
When Gardiner concluded his address and retired, every eye was fixed
upon the Cardinal, and a hush of expectation fell upon the assemblage.
After a moment’s pause, Pole arose, and with a dignified bow to their
Majesties, commenced his address, in tones that vibrated through every
breast.
“Long excluded from this assembly,” he said, “and exiled from my native
country by laws upon the severity and injustice of which I will not
dwell, I have most heartily to thank you, my Lords of the Upper House,
and you, good Sirs, of the Nether House, for reversing the sentence
pronounced upon me, and enabling me to appear before you once more. I
rejoice that I am able to requite the great service you have rendered
me. You have restored me to my country and to my place amongst the
highest nobility upon earth. I can restore you to a heavenly kingdom,
and to a Christian greatness, which you have unhappily forfeited by
renouncing a fealty annexed to the true Church. Bethink you of the many
evils that have occurred to this land since its lamentable defection.
Estimate aright the great boon now offered you. Until the late most
unhappy schism, the English nation ever stood foremost in the regard of
the See of Rome, abundant proofs of which I can offer you. While
reminding you of your past errors, let me exhort you to a sincere
repentance, and to receive with a deep and holy joy the reconciliation
with the Church of Rome, which I, as Legate, am empowered to impart to
you. To reap this great blessing it only needs that you should repeal
whatever you have enacted against the Holy See, and those laws by which
you have severed yourselves from the body of the faithful.”
Delivered in tones of mellifluous sweetness and persuasion, this
discourse was listened to with profound attention, and produced an
unmistakeable effect upon the auditors. As the Cardinal resumed his
seat, Gardiner advanced towards him.
“I thank your Eminence,” he said, “in the name of their Majesties and
the Parliament, for the good offices you have rendered the nation. The
members of both Houses will at once deliberate upon what you have
proposed, and will speedily acquaint you with their determination,
which, I nothing doubt, will be favourable to the cause of our holy
religion.”
Upon this, the Lord Legate arose and retired with his attendants into an
adjoining chamber, there to await the decision of the Parliament.
As soon as he was gone, Gardiner again addressed the assemblage in these
terms: “Heaven hath spoken to you by the lips of the holy man to whom
you have just listened. I can confirm the truth of all he has uttered. I
acknowledge myself to be a great delinquent, but I have deeply and
sincerely repented of my errors, and I beseech you to do so likewise.
Rise from your fallen estate, and dispose yourselves to a complete
reconciliation with the Catholic Church, and a return to its communion.
Are ye all agreed to this?”
“We are all agreed,” replied the whole assemblage, without a moment’s
hesitation.
“I rejoice to hear it,” replied Gardiner. “If you have erred, you at
least make amends for your error.”
The promptitude and unanimity of this decision gave great satisfaction
to their Majesties, and the King, calling Gardiner to him, held a brief
conference with him, after which Sir John Gage, with the Earl of
Arundel, six knights of the Garter, and the like number of bishops, were
sent to summon the Lord Legate. As Pole again entered the
presence-chamber, the whole of the assemblage arose. The Cardinal having
resumed his seat, Gardiner called out, in a loud voice,—
“I again ask you, in the presence of the Lord Legate, whether you
sincerely desire to return to the unity of the Church, and the obedience
due to her chief pastor?”
“We do!—we do!” cried the entire assemblage.
A radiant smile passed over Pole’s benign countenance at these
exclamations, and he raised up his hands in thankfulness to Heaven.
“This moment repays me for all I have suffered,” he murmured.
Then Gardiner turned towards the King and Queen, and, making a profound
obeisance to them, said:—
“On behalf of the members of both Houses of Parliament, representatives
of the whole realm, I have to express to your Majesties their sorrow for
the former schism, and for whatever they have enacted against the See of
Rome and the Catholic religion, all which they now annul; and would
humbly beseech you to obtain from the Lord Legate pardon and restoration
to that body from which they had separated themselves by their
misdeeds.”
“We pray your Eminence to grant the pardon and reconciliation thus
humbly sued for?” said Philip, turning towards the Cardinal.
“Right joyfully will I accede to your Majesty’s request,” replied Pole.
The Cardinal’s assent having been communicated to the assemblage by
Gardiner, they all advanced towards Pole, who arose as they approached,
and said:—
“Thanks are due to Divine goodness for granting you this opportunity of
cancelling your past offences. If your repentance be answerable to the
importance of the occasion and the heinousness of the fault, great,
indeed, must be the joy of the saints at your conversion.”
It being now evident that the Cardinal was about to pronounce the
absolution, the whole assemblage, with the exception of the King and
Queen, fell upon their knees. Extending his arms over them, Pole, in a
clear and distinct voice, said:—
“As representative of Christ’s Vicegerent, I here absolve all those
present, and the whole nation, and the whole dominion thereof, from all
heresy and schism, and all judgments, censures, for that cause incurred,
and restore them to the communion of the Holy Church, in the name of the
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
To this the whole assemblage responded “Amen!”
Nothing could be more solemn and impressive than the Cardinal’s manner
while pronouncing this absolution, and his words penetrated all hearts.
The Queen and most of her ladies shed tears. As the assembly rose from
their kneeling posture, they embraced each other, and gave utterance to
their satisfaction.
The King and Queen, with their attendants, then proceeded to the royal
chapel to return thanks, and were followed by the Cardinal, Gardiner,
and the entire assemblage. A solemn mass was then performed, and _Te
Deum_ sung.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
OF THE EVENTS THAT FOLLOWED THE RESTORATION OF
THE PAPAL AUTHORITY.
No sooner was the nation’s reconciliation with the See of Rome
completed, than an express was sent by Cardinal Pole to Pope Julius
III., acquainting his Holiness with the joyful event. On receipt of the
intelligence, public rejoicings on the grandest scale were held at Rome,
religious processions paraded the streets, masses were performed in all
the churches, and a solemn service was celebrated at Saint Peter’s by
the Pontiff in person. The event, indeed, was a signal triumph to the
Pope, and in reply to Cardinal Pole he thanked him heartily for the
great service he had rendered the Church, and warmly commended his zeal
and diligence. Moreover, he issued a bull granting indulgences to all
such persons as should openly manifest their satisfaction at the
restoration of the Papal authority in England.
Public rejoicings also took place in London, and in other towns, but
they were productive of mischief rather than good, as they led to many
serious brawls and disturbances. Though compelled to submit to their
opponents, who were now in the ascendant, the Reformers were far from
subdued, but were quite ready for outbreak, should a favourable
opportunity occur for attempting it. The triumphant demonstrations of
the Romanists were abhorrent to them, and constant collisions, as we
have said, took place between the more violent adherents of the opposing
creeds. In these encounters, the Protestants, being the less numerous,
got the worst of it, but they promised themselves revenge on a future
day.
On the Sunday after the reconciliation, a sermon was preached by
Gardiner at Paul’s Cross, before the King and Cardinal Pole. A large
crowd collected to hear him. On this occasion, in spite of the presence
of a strong guard, some interruptions occurred, proving that there were
dissentients among the auditors. Evidently there was a growing feeling
of dislike to Philip and the Spaniards, fostered by the malcontents, and
many a fierce glance was fixed upon the King, many a threat breathed
against him, as, surrounded by a band of halberdiers, he listened to
Gardiner’s discourse.
But if Philip was hated even by the Romanists, who after all were as
true lovers of their country as those of the adverse sect, and equally
hostile to the Spaniards, the universal feeling was favourable to
Cardinal Pole, whose benevolent countenance pleased the Reformers, as
much as his dignified deportment commanded their respect. He and the
King rode together to Saint Paul’s, and after hearing the sermon,
returned in the same way to Whitehall. Philip had the sword of state
borne before him, but the Cardinal contented himself with the silver
cross.
A few days afterwards, intimation was sent by the council to Bonner,
Bishop of London, that the Queen was in a condition to become a mother.
Command was given at the same time that there should be a solemn
procession to Saint Paul’s, in which the Lord Mayor, the aldermen, and
all the City companies, in their liveries, should join, to offer up
prayers for her Majesty’s preservation during her time of travail,
coupled with earnest supplications that the child might be a male.
This announcement, which, as may be supposed, was quickly bruited abroad
throughout the City, gave great satisfaction to the Romanists, but it
was anything but welcome or agreeable to the Reformers, who saw in it an
extension of power to their enemies, and an increase of danger to
themselves. If an heir to the throne should be born, Philip’s authority
in England would be absolute. Such was the general impression, and its
correctness was confirmed by a petition made to the King by both Houses,
which prayed “that if it should happen otherwise than well to the Queen,
he would take upon himself the government of the realm during the
minority of her Majesty’s issue.” As may be supposed, Philip readily
assented, and an act was immediately passed carrying out the provisions
above mentioned, and making it high treason to compass the King’s death,
or attempt to remove him from the government and guardianship confided
to him.
Under these circumstances the solemn procession to Saint Paul’s took
place. Vast crowds encumbered the streets as the civic authorities
proceeded from Guildhall to the cathedral, headed by ten bishops in
their robes, the pix being borne before them under a canopy. This gave
such offence, that had not a strong military force kept the populace in
awe, it is certain that the procession would have been molested. As it
was, expressions of antipathy to Philip could not be checked. “England
shall never be ruled by the Spaniard,” was the indignant outcry, which
found an echo in many a breast, whether of Romanist or Reformer.
In spite of all these clamours, the procession reached Saint Paul’s in
safety, and high mass was celebrated by Bonner and the other bishops,
after which prayers were offered up for the Queen, in accordance with
the council’s mandate. The mass of the assemblage joined heartily in
these supplications, but there were some who refused to recite them, and
secretly prayed that Philip’s hopes of an heir might be frustrated.
The reader is already aware that Cardinal Pole, immediately on his
arrival in London, had been put in possession of Lambeth Palace. This
noble residence, with the revenues of the Archbishopric of Canterbury,
confiscated on the condemnation of Cranmer for high treason, was
bestowed on the Cardinal by the King and Queen; but Pole could not be
promoted to the archiepiscopal see while Cranmer lived.
One of the Cardinal’s first acts on taking possession of the palace was
to summon all the bishops and principal clergy before him, and, after
listening to their expressions of penitence for the perjuries, heresies,
and schisms they had committed during the late reigns, he gave them
absolution.
And now, before proceeding further, it may be desirable to give a brief
description of the ancient edifice occupied by the Cardinal.
The present vast and irregular pile, known as Lambeth Palace, was
preceded by a much smaller mansion, wherein the archbishops of
Canterbury were lodged, and to which a chapel was attached. This
building was pulled down in 1262 by the turbulent Archbishop Boniface,
and a new and more important structure erected in its place. Of
Boniface’s palace little now remains save the chapel and crypt. So many
additions were made to the palace by successive archbishops, and so much
was it altered, that it may almost be said to have become another
structure. A noble hall, subsequently destroyed in the time of the
Commonwealth, was built by Archbishop Chichely, who flourished in the
reign of Edward IV.; while the chief ornament of the existing pile, the
gateway, was reared by Cardinal Archbishop Morton, towards the end of
the 15th century. The Steward’s Parlour, a chamber of large dimensions,
was added by Cranmer, and a long gallery and other buildings were
erected by Cardinal Pole.
Before entering the palace, let us pause to examine the gateway, a
structure of almost unrivalled beauty, and consisting of two large
square towers, built of fine brick, embattled, and edged with stone. The
archway is pointed, and has a groined roof springing from four pillars,
one in each corner. Spiral stone staircases lead to the upper chambers,
and from the leads of the roof a wonderful prospect of the surrounding
metropolis is obtained. Connected with the porter’s lodge is a small
prison-chamber, having a double door, and high, narrow-grated windows.
The walls are cased with stone, and of prodigious thickness, while three
heavy iron rings fixed in them attest the purpose to which the room was
formerly applied.
Passing through the principal court, we enter the great hall, rebuilt by
Archbishop Juxon on the exact model of the old hall, demolished during
the Protectorate, so that it may be considered a counterpart of
Archbishop Chichely’s banqueting-chamber. Nearly a hundred feet in
length, proportionately wide and lofty, this noble room has a superb
pendant timber roof, enriched with elaborate carvings, and lighted by a
louvre. In the great bay-window, amidst the relics of stained glass,
recovered from the original hall, may be discerned the arms of Philip of
Spain, painted by order of Cardinal Pole. At the present day the hall is
used as the palace library, and its space is somewhat encroached upon by
projecting bookcases, filled with works of divinity. At the upper end is
the archbishop’s seat.
From the great hall we may proceed to the gallery and guard-chamber, the
latter of which was once used as the armoury of the palace. It has an
ancient timber roof, with pendants, pointed arches, and pierced
spandrels. Here are portraits of many of the archbishops of Canterbury,
among which may be seen that of Cardinal Pole, copied from the original
by Raffaelle, preserved in the Barberini Palace at Rome.
Pass we by the presence-chamber and other state-rooms, and let us enter
the long gallery erected by Cardinal Pole—a noble room, lighted by
windows enriched with stained glass.
Hence we will proceed to the chapel erected by Boniface. Lighted by
three lancet-shaped windows on either side, and divided by an
elaborately carved screen, on the inner side of which is the
archiepiscopal stall, this chapel contains but little of its pristine
character, and is disfigured by a flat-panelled ceiling, added by
Archbishop Laud.
Beneath the chapel, and corresponding with it in size, is an ancient
crypt, with a groined roof, once used as a place of worship. In this
part of the palace is a large room built by Cranmer, and now called the
Steward’s Parlour, and close to it are the servants’ hall and the great
kitchen.
We now come to a part of the palace to which interest of a peculiar
nature attaches. This is the Lollards’ Tower, a large stone structure,
erected by Archbishop Chichely, which derives its name from being used
as a place of imprisonment for the followers of Wickliffe, called
Lollards. This time-worn tower faces the river, and on its front is a
small niche or tabernacle, formerly occupied by an image of Thomas à
Becket.
In the lower part of the Lollard’s Tower is a gloomy chamber of singular
construction, the heavy timber roof being supported by a strong wooden
pillar standing in the centre of the chamber, whence the place is called
the Post Room. Tradition asserts that the unfortunate Lollards, confined
in the chamber above, were tied to this pillar and scourged. The Post
Room is lighted by three low pointed windows looking towards the Thames,
and its flat-panelled ceiling is ornamented at the intersections with
grotesque carvings.
Ascending by a narrow spiral stone staircase, we reach the
prison-chamber just referred to, which is guarded by an inner and outer
door of stout oak, studded with broad-headed nails. A strange, strong
room, that cannot fail powerfully to impress the visitor. Wainscot,
ceiling, floor, every part of the chamber is boarded with dark oak of
great thickness. Fixed to the wainscot, breast-high from the ground, are
eight massive rings. The boards adjoining them are covered with
inscriptions—mementoes of the many unfortunates confined there. The
prison-chamber is lighted by two small grated windows, narrowing
outwardly, one of which looks upon the river.
Attached to the palace are a park and gardens of considerable extent,
and in the olden time of great beauty. Within the gardens, up to the
commencement of the present century, grew two singularly fine fig trees,
planted by Cardinal Pole, and trained against that part of the palace
which he erected.
Lambeth Palace came into Pole’s hands in a very habitable condition,
having been well kept up by his predecessor, Cranmer. So well pleased
was the Cardinal with the mansion, that he not only embellished it in
many ways, but enlarged it, as we have previously mentioned. He also
took great delight in the gardens, and laid them out in the Italian
style.
Unostentatious of character, and simple in his tastes and habits, Pole
felt it due to his elevated position to maintain princely state in the
residence assigned to him by their Majesties, and employ his large
revenues in hospitality and charity. When complete, which it was within
a month after his occupation of the Palace, Pole’s household was as
numerous and magnificent as Wolsey’s, and comprised a high-chamberlain
and vice-chamberlain, twelve gentlemen ushers, steward, treasurer,
comptroller, cofferer, three marshals, two grooms, and an almoner. In
his chapel he had a dean, a sub-dean, twelve singing-priests, and the
like number of quiristers. Besides these, there were his cross-bearers,
his pillar-bearers, and two yeomen to bear his poleaxes. The inferior
officers were almost too numerous to particularise, comprehending
purveyors, cooks, sewers, cup-bearers, yeomen of the larder, of the
buttery, of the ewery, the cellar, the laundry, the bakehouse, the
wardrobe, the chandry, the wood yard, and the garden. Of gardeners,
indeed, there were several. Besides these, there were a multitude of
pages and grooms, a sumpter-man, a muleteer, and sixteen grooms of the
stable, each of whom had four horses. Then there were tall porters at
the gate, yeomen of the chariot, and yeomen of the barge. Nor were these
all. In addition to those previous enumerated, there were a physician,
two chaplains, and two secretaries.
Such was the magnificent establishment maintained by Pole during his
residence at Lambeth Palace. His hospitality may be judged of by the
fact that three long tables were daily laid in the great hall,
abundantly supplied with viands, and ever thronged with guests. At the
upper table sat the Cardinal, generally surrounded by nobles or
ecclesiastical dignitaries. A place at this table, not far from his
illustrious friend, was always reserved for Lord Priuli.
Apartments in the palace were, of course, assigned to Priuli, who had
likewise his own attendants. The entire control of the vast
establishment devolved upon the noble Venetian, who undertook the office
in order to relieve the Cardinal of a portion of his labours.
Amidst all this profusion the poor were not forgotten. Dole was daily
distributed at the palace gate, under the personal superintendence of
Pole and Priuli. The wants of the necessitous were relieved, and
medicines were delivered to the sick. None who deserved assistance were
ever sent empty-handed away by the Cardinal.
Amongst the Cardinal’s officers were our old acquaintances Rodomont
Bittern, Nick Simnel, and Jack Holiday, the first of whom had been
recommended to Pole by the King himself. Rodomont was appointed captain
of the palace guard, and his two friends were made lieutenants. On state
occasions they formed part of the Cardinal’s body-guard.
One fine morning, at an early hour, these three personages had scaled
the lofty gate-tower, in order to enjoy the goodly prospect it
commanded. Before them flowed the Thames, then a clear and unpolluted
stream, its smooth surface speckled, even at that early hour, by many
barques. A ferry-boat, laden with passengers and horses, was crossing at
the time from Lambeth to Westminster. On the opposite side stood the
ancient Abbey, with the Parliament House, the Star Chamber, the
beautiful gates of Whitehall, designed by Holbein, the royal gardens,
and the palace. Further on could be observed the exquisite cross at
Charing, subsequently destroyed by fanatical fury. Then following the
course of the river, the eye lighted upon York-place, Durham-place, the
Savoy, and the splendid mansion then but recently completed by the
aspiring Duke of Somerset. Further on was the ancient palace of
Bridewell, and beyond, Baynard’s Castle, while above the clustering
habitations of the City rose the massive tower and lofty spire of old
Saint Paul’s.
London at the period of which we treat was singularly picturesque and
beautiful. The walls encircling it were well fortified and in good
repair, and most of its oldest and most remarkable edifices were still
standing, no terrible conflagration having as yet touched them.
Numberless towers, churches, and picturesque habitations, with high
roofs and quaint gables, excited the admiration of those who stood that
morn on the gateway of Lambeth Palace; but perhaps the object that
pleased them best was London-bridge, which, with its gates, its
drawbridges, its church, and lofty habitations, proudly bestrode the
Thames. Having gazed their fill at this wondrous structure, or rather
collection of structures, they turned towards the Surrey side of the
river, and noted Saint Mary Overy’s fine old church, the palace of the
Bishop of Winchester, the Ring, at that time much frequented, in which
bulls and bears were baited, and the adjacent theatre, wherein, at a
later date, many of the plays of our immortal bard were represented.
Content with this distant survey, they then looked nearer home, and
allowed their gaze to wander over the park and gardens of the palace,
and finally to settle upon the various courts, towers, and buildings
composing the pile.
“By my faith, ’tis a stately edifice, this palace of Lambeth!” exclaimed
Rodomont. “Our lord and master the Cardinal is as well lodged as the
King and Queen at Whitehall.”
“Were it not for yonder ague-bringing marshes the palace would be a
marvellous pleasant residence,” observed Nick Simnel.
“Why should a sturdy fellow like you, Nick, fear ague?” cried Rodomont.
“Lord Priuli tells me that his Eminence enjoys better health here than
he has done since he left the Lago di Garda—a plain proof that the place
cannot be insalubrious, as you would have it.”
“Follow my example, Nick, and fortify yourself against the morning mists
with a thimbleful of aqua vitæ,” remarked Jack Holiday, with a laugh.
“’Tis a sovereign remedy against ague. But see! yonder are the Cardinal
and the Lord Priuli, taking an early walk in the garden. They seem
engaged in earnest discourse.”
“I warrant their discourse relates to the recusant Protestant divines,
who have just been excommunicated by the ecclesiastical commissioners,
and are to be burnt,” observed Rodomont. “There will be rare doings at
Smithfield ere long, if Gardiner and Bonner have their way. But our good
lord the Cardinal is averse to persecution, and may succeed in checking
it.”
“Heaven grant he may!” exclaimed Jack Holiday. “If once the fires are
lighted at Smithfield, there’s no saying when they may be extinguished,
or who may perish by them. ’Tis a marvel to me that the late occupant of
this palace, Cranmer, has so long been spared. If the ecclesiastical
commissioners desire to deal a heavy blow against the Reformers, why not
strike their leader now they have him in their power?”
“I will tell you why,” rejoined Rodomont. “In this high place none can
overhear us, so we may talk freely. Gardiner would fain be Archbishop of
Canterbury, but he knows that if Cranmer be burnt, our lord the Cardinal
will at once be appointed to the archiepiscopal see. Therefore Cranmer
is allowed to live, in the hope that Pole may be recalled to Rome by his
Holiness. But the crafty Bishop of Winchester will be disappointed, for
the Cardinal is not likely to leave his native country again.”
“I am rejoiced to hear it,” said Simnel. “We could ill spare him. The
Cardinal is the pillar of the Romish church in England.”
“By our Lady, he is a pattern to all,” cried Rodomont. “There lives not
a better man than his Eminence. Even the Queen, they say, is governed by
his advice. He has more influence with her than the King himself.”
“Like enough,” observed Jack Holiday, “for they do say that the royal
couple, like other married folk, have an occasional quarrel. Her Majesty
is plaguily jealous.”
“And not without reason,” said Rodomont, with a laugh. “It was not to be
expected that the King, who is of an amorous complexion, as all the
world knows, should continue faithful to a woman eleven years older than
himself, and ill-favoured into the bargain. He wants something younger
and better-looking.”
“Like poor Constance Tyrrell,” said Nick Simnel; “she who is shut up
yonder,” he added, pointing to the Lollard’s Tower.
“Ay, and she will never get out unless she yields to the King’s wishes,”
observed Jack Holiday.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” rejoined Rodomont. “It will be her own
fault if she remains here another twenty-four hours.”
“How so?—who will unlock the door for her?—not her gaoler?” said
Holiday.
“Not her gaoler, fool,” rejoined Rodomont, “but her lover, Osbert
Clinton. Since he can’t unlock the door, he will unbar the window. You
are both too generous to betray him, I know, and therefore I’ll e’en
tell you what occurred last night. While making my rounds, a little
after midnight, I entered the outer court, and was standing near the
Water Tower, when looking up, I espied a head above yon ivied wall,
which divides the court from the river. In another moment a body became
visible as well as a head, and before I could count twenty a man dropped
from the top of the wall into the court. It was Osbert Clinton. I
recognised him even in that imperfect light, or I should have challenged
him. Guessing his purpose, I retired, placing myself so that I could
watch his movements without being perceived. As I expected, his errand
was to the Lollard’s Tower, though how he hoped to gain admittance to
Constance’s cell passed my comprehension.”
“And did he gain admittance to her?” inquired Holiday.
“You shall hear,” replied Rodomont “Yon small grated window in the upper
part of the tower belongs to her cell. How, think you, he contrived to
reach it?”
“Nay, I can’t say,” replied Holiday. “He could scarcely climb up to it.”
“Climb up a tower! No, I should think not. But for the ivy, he would
never have got over yonder wall. He reached the window by means of a
rope-ladder which he had brought with him. How the plan had been
preconcerted is more than I can tell you, but it was evident Constance
expected him. A slight cough served to announce her lover’s presence to
her. At the signal, a cord was immediately let down from the window of
the cell, and as soon as it came within Osbert’s reach, he caught it,
and fastening the rope-ladder to it, the cord was quickly drawn up
again, taking the ladder with it. In another minute the ladder was made
fast to the bars of the window, and this done, up sprang Osbert, and was
soon only separated from the object of his affections by the grating.”
“A pize upon the grating!” exclaimed Holiday. “I would there had been no
envious bars between them.”
“That was exactly my feeling,” said Rodomont. “Their discourse was in
whispers, but I heard enough to learn that Osbert proposed some means of
escape to her, but judged from his expressions of disappointment that
she would not consent to the plan. Fear of discovery compelled him to
cut short the interview, however he might have desired to prolong it,
but before descending he promised to come again to-night. The ladder
being unfastened, he was quickly over the wall, and in another minute
must have regained the boat, which I conclude was waiting for him. Now,
what say you, my masters? Shall we not aid him in his efforts to get
this poor girl away?”
“I will gladly do so,” replied Holiday.
“So will I,” said Simnel.
“Then we will forthwith set our wits to work, and something must come of
it,” rejoined Rodomont. “If she remains here, she is lost. But see! the
poor folk are beginning to crowd round the gate in expectation of their
dole. How many, think you, are daily fed by the Cardinal?”
“Fifty or sixty, it may be,” replied Simnel.
“Upwards of a hundred,” said Rodomont. “Yonder comes his Eminence, with
Lord Priuli. Let us go down. This keen morning has given me a rare
appetite, and I propose that we hie to the great hall, and break our
fast with a cold chine and a flagon of humming ale.”
“Agreed,” replied the others.
Whereupon they descended to the court, and bowing, reverentially to the
Cardinal and Lord Priuli as they passed them, proceeded to the
banqueting-chamber, where preparations were already made for a
substantial repast. Sitting down at a side-table, they fell to work with
right good will.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
OF THE UNCEREMONIOUS VISIT PAID BY THEIR MAJESTIES TO
CARDINAL POLE AT LAMBETH PALACE.
On the same day, at a late hour, in a large room of the palace, panelled
with dark oak, and lighted by a deep bay-window filled with stained
glass, beside a table covered with books and papers, sat Cardinal Pole
and Lord Priuli. They were engaged in conversation. Pole wore his
scarlet soutane and lawn rochet, and had a red silk calotte on his head.
Priuli was in black velvet, which set off his noble figure to great
advantage.
“An embassy is about to be dispatched in a few days to Rome,” observed
Pole. “It will consist of my nephew, Lord Montague, the Bishop of Ely,
and Sir Edward Carne. If you have any desire to return to your beloved
Italy, you can do so in their company. Do not let any consideration for
me weigh with you, I entreat. I am not without misgiving that this chill
climate, and, above all, the exhalations from the marshes near the
Palace, may be prejudicial to your health. I need not say how greatly I
shall miss you, but I shall be reconciled to the deprivation by feeling
that you are better off than with me.”
“If I can serve you by accompanying this embassy to Rome, I will readily
do so, dear friend,” rejoined Priuli; “but I have no desire to return to
Italy. It would be idle to say that I do not prefer sunshine and an
exhilarating atmosphere to a cold and brumous climate like that of
England. Undoubtedly, I would rather dwell in Rome than in London, but,
deprived of your society, Italy, with its blue sky and noble monuments,
would be a blank to me. I am happier here than I should be at the
Vatican without you. Say no more, therefore, to me on that head, I
beseech you. But you yourself may be compelled to return to Rome. Not
improbably you may be elected to the Pontifical Throne!”
“Should it be so, I should decline the dignity,” replied the Cardinal.
“You, my good friend, who know my sentiments perfectly, are aware that I
have little ambition, and that all my exertions have been directed to
the welfare of our holy Church. This cause I can best serve by remaining
here, and I trust Heaven may spare me for the complete fulfilment of my
task. I do not delude myself with any false hopes. I shall never behold
Rome again, and it is from this conviction that I would not hinder your
return.”
“I will remain with you to the last,” rejoined Priuli. “My life is
linked with yours. Nothing but death can divide us.”
At this juncture an usher announced the Lord Chancellor, and the next
moment Gardiner entered the room. Both the Cardinal and Priuli rose to
receive him. After courteous but grave salutations had passed between
them, Gardiner remarked, “Your Eminence desires to speak to me about
those recusants who were yesterday excommunicated by the ecclesiastical
tribunal, and delivered to the secular power. I may as well state at
once that nothing can be advanced in arrest of the judgment certain to
be passed upon them. They obstinately persisted in their heresy, and
firmly refused to subscribe to the doctrines of the Church.”
“I grieve to hear it,” replied Pole. “Yet I trust they will not be
severely dealt with.”
“They will be dealt with as they deserve—they will be burnt at the
stake,” rejoined Gardiner.
“But not without time allowed them for reflection, I trust, my lord,”
said the Cardinal. “Undue severity will injure our cause rather than
serve it. These men will be accounted martyrs, and held up as an example
to others. Policy, therefore, would dictate milder measures.”
“Mild measures have been tried, and have proved ineffectual,” rejoined
Gardiner. “We must now make a terrible example of these obstinate and
dangerous heretics.”
Again the usher entered, and this time to inform the Cardinal that their
Majesties had arrived at the palace, and were already in the courtyard.
Hereupon Pole instantly arose, and followed by Priuli, repaired to the
ante-chamber. Scarcely had he entered it, when the royal pair, preceded
by Sir John Gage, and attended by several officers of the court,
appeared at the outer door. The Cardinal immediately hurried forward to
bid them welcome, and thank them for the distinguished honour conferred
upon him by the visit.
“Had I been aware of your coming, gracious Madam,” he said to the Queen,
“I would have been at the gate to receive you.”
“It is not a visit of ceremony,” replied Mary, “therefore we did not
deem it necessary to send intimation of our design. If your Eminence is
at leisure, the King and myself will gladly pass an hour in your
society, and profit by your counsels.”
“I am entirely at your Majesty’s disposal,” replied the Cardinal,
bowing. “I pray you enter. And you, too, Sire,” he added, conducting
them to the inner room.
Mary looked ill and languid, and moved slowly and with difficulty,
requiring the King’s support. But her illness being attributed to her
condition, occasioned no alarm.
On reaching the inner room, the Queen seated herself on a high, carved
oak chair proffered her by the Cardinal, while Philip occupied a
fauteuil on her left. As their Majesties would not allow the Cardinal to
remain standing, he took a seat on the other side of the Queen. At a
little distance from the royal pair stood Gardiner, Priuli, and Sir John
Gage. All the other attendants withdrew.
“I did not expect to find you here, my lord,” the Queen observed to
Gardiner, after bowing to him and Priuli.
“I was sent for, gracious Madam,” replied the Lord Chancellor. “The
Cardinal desired to confer with me on an important matter connected with
the maintenance of the Established Church, in which his Eminence and
myself differ in opinion. In most matters I should readily defer to his
Eminence’s better judgment. But I cannot do so in this instance. I am
glad your Majesty has come, as I feel certain you will support my
views.”
“Whence arises this difference of opinion?” demanded Mary. “I should
have thought your lordship and the Cardinal must infallibly agree on all
points touching the welfare of the Church.”
“The question between us, gracious Madam,” said Pole, “is whether, on
the score of humanity and policy, it would not be better to deal
leniently rather than severely with those who profess heretical
opinions. I allude particularly to the ministers of the Reformed Church
who have just been excommunicated and degraded, and delivered over to
the secular power, and who, unless mercy be shown them, will suffer a
dreadful death.”
Mary’s brow darkened.
“Surely your Eminence would not pardon them if they persist in their
heresies?” she cried.
“I would not put them to death,” rejoined Pole, “but would endeavour to
convince them of their errors by argument and instruction. Failing in
this, I would resort to such measures as might be deemed best adapted to
meet the exigencies of the case—but those measures should be tempered
with mercy.”
“I did not expect such opinions as these from your Eminence,” observed
Mary. “The enemies of our faith must be destroyed, or they will destroy
us. A single diseased sheep will taint the whole flock. If you have an
unsound limb, the surgeon will tell you that for the safety of the body
it must be cut off. The preservation, therefore, of the Catholic Church
requires that these tares amidst the corn be rooted up and cast into the
fire.”
“These false brethren are seditious as well as heretical,” said Philip
sternly; “rebels against the Queen, and enemies to the Church. No mercy
ought to be shown them.”
“Your Eminence perceives that their Majesties are of my opinion,” said
Gardiner to the Cardinal. “But has not our Church deep wrongs to avenge?
Have we not suffered stripes and persecution from these heretics when
they were in power? Have not I myself been deprived of my revenues, and
imprisoned within the Tower, with the sentence of death hanging over my
head, for years, until happily released by her Majesty?”
“At least, your life was spared,” observed Pole.
“It was spared more from fear than favour,” retorted Gardiner. “But had
King Edward lived another year, nay, a few months longer, I should not
have been here now to protest against leniency towards such bitter
enemies. One of the latest acts of Cranmer was to frame a sanguinary
code against the professors of the ancient faith, which had it been put
in force, would have been fraught with fearful consequences; but ere
that code became law, King Edward died, and the weapon sharpened for our
destruction fell from the maker’s hands.”
“To strike off his own head,” cried Philip, fiercely. “Your Eminence
would scarcely extend your clemency to this arch-offender?” he added to
the Cardinal.
“I would pardon him, if he recanted,” replied Pole.
“What, pardon Cranmer, the apostate and heretic!” exclaimed Gardiner.
“Pardon him who betrayed and enslaved the Church of which he ought to
have been the protector!—who manifested the most abject compliance with
the will of his royal master, flattering his passions, and humouring his
caprices! Pardon him who shamefully promoted and pronounced the divorce
between the King and her Majesty’s royal mother, casting thereby a
blemish on their daughter! Would you pardon him whose life has been one
of dissimulation, and who professed and practised what in his secret
heart he disbelieved and abhorred? Would you pardon a Reformer, who
subscribed the terrible Six Articles, though they were directed chiefly
against his own sect, and who would have subscribed any other articles
enjoined by his royal master—who on King Edward’s accession declared
himself in favour of the principles of Zuinglius and Calvin—who
abolished the ancient worship—attacked every article of our
Church—denied its traditions—stigmatised its rites—brought over foreign
sectaries, however anti-Christian their tenets, as Martin Bucer, Paul
Fagius, Peter Martyr, Ochinus, and others, procured them churches, and
recommended them to royal favour—and who filled up the measure of his
guilt by supporting the treasonable projects of Northumberland, helping
him to place a usurper on the throne, and preaching against the rightful
claims of our sovereign mistress? Would you spare this hypocrite, this
apostate, this heretic, this double-dyed traitor?”
“His crimes are many and indefensible, but I would leave their
punishment to Heaven,” rejoined Pole.
“I could forgive him every injury he has done me, except the divorce
pronounced against my sainted mother,” said Mary, her cheek flushing,
and her eyes kindling as she spoke. “In pronouncing that unjust
sentence, he uttered his own condemnation. His fate is sealed.”
“Why has the punishment he so richly merits been so long delayed?”
demanded Philip.
“His offences, Sire, are of so heinous a nature,” responded Gardiner,
“and so fraught with injury to our holy religion in its most vital part,
that it has been necessary to refer them to that supreme tribunal before
which such inquests can only properly be held. His case has been laid
before the Pope, who has appointed the Bishop of Gloucester and a
commission to try him. On their report, judgment will be pronounced in
solemn consistory by his Holiness. What that judgment will be, cannot
for a moment be doubted. Cranmer will be excommunicated and
anathematised, deprived of the archbishopric of Canterbury, and of all
ecclesiastical privileges. Furthermore he will be degraded and delivered
to the secular power, and your Majesties will be required by his
Holiness to proceed towards him as the law directs.”
“For his offences the law prescribes death by fire, and by that death he
shall die,” said Mary.
“Alas, that it should be so!” muttered Pole. “When will the true spirit
of the Gospel, which inculcates toleration, charity, and forgiveness of
injuries, be understood, and its principles practised? I would make a
last appeal to your Majesties in behalf of those unfortunates,” he added
to the Queen.
Before replying, Mary consulted the King by a look. His stern expression
of countenance confirmed her.
“It is in vain,” she replied. “My heart is steeled against them.”
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
BISHOP BONNER.
Shortly afterwards, the Bishop of London was announced by the usher. A
brief preliminary description of this remarkable prelate may be
necessary.
Edmond Bonner, Bishop of London, whose severity towards the Protestants
has caused his memory to be justly detested, was by no means the
savage-looking or repulsive personage generally supposed. Of middle
height, stout, and of fresh complexion, he had rather a jovial
countenance, being fond of good cheer, and his features, except when
inflamed by passion, as they not unfrequently were, had a pleasant
expression. But he was exceedingly hot-tempered, and when excited, lost
all control of himself, and became perfectly furious. Neither did his
anger, though easily roused, quickly subside. In some respects he
resembled his royal master, Henry VIII. His disposition was cruel and
vindictive, and he never forgot or forgave an injury. To the Reformers,
whom he bitterly hated, he proved, as is well known, a terrible scourge.
Born towards the close of the 15th century, Bonner was now near upon
sixty, but though he had undergone many hardships, and had endured more
than four years’ imprisonment in the Marshalsea, his spirit was
unbroken, and his health unimpaired. During his long captivity he had
been supported by the conviction that the ancient worship would be
restored, and his enemies be delivered into his hands. What he had hoped
for, and prayed for, having come to pass, he promised himself ample
compensation for the afflictions he had endured. Learned and acute,
Bonner had early attracted the attention of Wolsey, by whom he was much
employed; and being subsequently appointed chaplain to Henry VIII., he
rose rapidly in favour, as he accommodated himself without scruple to
the King’s caprices. Instrumental in furthering the divorce with
Katherine of Aragon, Bonner co-operated in the religious changes
accomplished by his royal master, and was also entrusted by him with
several missions of great delicacy, which he fulfilled very
satisfactorily, rendering himself altogether so useful, and continuing
so subservient, that, though often rebuffed by the monarch—as who was
not?—he never entirely lost his good graces.
But when Edward VI. mounted the throne, all was changed. Opposed to the
Reformation, though he did not dare openly to manifest his hostility to
it, Bonner was regarded with suspicion and dislike by the chiefs of the
Protestant party, who determined upon his overthrow. Cited before an
ecclesiastical commission, of which Cranmer was the head,
notwithstanding an energetic defence, appeals to the King against the
illegality of the tribunal, and the injustice of his sentence, Bonner,
at that time Bishop of London, was deprived of his see and benefices,
and imprisoned in the Marshalsea, whence he was only liberated on Mary’s
accession. Restored to his diocese, and reinstated in power, he burned
to avenge himself on his enemies, chief amongst whom he reckoned
Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer. But now that they were safe in prison, he
was content to wait. The cup of vengeance was too sweet to be hastily
drained.
Bonner’s appearance at this juncture was hailed with satisfaction by
Gardiner, who could count upon his support against Pole, and he
therefore remarked, after the bishop had made his obeisance to their
Majesties, “My associate in the ecclesiastical commission concurs with
me that no mercy whatever should be shown to heretics.”
“Mercy to heretics!” exclaimed Bonner, surprised. “It were mistaken
clemency to spare such dangerous offenders. Rigorous measures will alone
check the spread of the pestilence by which your kingdom is unhappily
affected, gracious Madam,” he added to the Queen. “Now is the time to
strike terror into the hearts of these false brethren—to exterminate
them by fire and sword.”
“The Lord Cardinal does not think so,” rejoined Mary. “He is of opinion
that those convicted of heretical pravity should be leniently dealt
with.”
“You amaze me, Madam,” cried Bonner.
“The object your Majesty has in view,” said Pole, “being to bring back
those who have strayed from the paths of truth, and not to drive them
yet further off, gentleness, and not force, should be employed. By
severity you will increase the evil instead of curing it. Fear will make
hypocrites, not converts.”
“No matter,” cried Bonner. “Let the sacramentarians conform outwardly.
We care not to search their hearts. Enough for us if they profess
themselves Catholics.”
“I grieve to hear you say so, my lord,” rejoined the Cardinal. “It is
better to have an open enemy than a false friend. Our Church does not
desire to encourage dissimulation, put to eradicate error and schism. I
beseech your Majesty to pause before you proceed further in a course
which I foresee is fraught with danger. Hitherto, all has gone well.
Your enemies are confounded. Your people are loving and loyal, willing
to make any sacrifices for you, save those of conscience. The faith of
your forefathers is restored in its integrity. Your kingdom is
reconciled to the Holy See. Is this an opportune moment for persecution?
Would you sully the snowy banner of the Church with blood? Would you
destroy a tithe of your subjects by fire and sword—by burning and
massacre? Yet this must be done if persecution once commences. Such
means of conversion are as unwarrantable as impolitic—contrary to the
will of Heaven, and likely to provoke its wrath. I defy the advocates of
severity towards heretics to produce a single passage from the Gospel
that would authorise Christians to burn their fellow-men for questions
purely of conscience. As, therefore, such rigour cannot be sustained by
appeal to Holy Writ, neither can it be upheld by any other
consideration. It will increase the evil complained of, rather than
mitigate it.”
“Your Eminence forgets how much we have suffered from the Reformers,”
remarked Bonner.
“If they have done ill, ought we to imitate them in ill-doing?” rejoined
Pole. “Let us prove to them that we are better Christians than they are.
Your Majesty may trust me, that the true way to convert the Protestants
is to reform our own clergy, whose ill-regulated conduct has led to
heresy and backsliding. Better this remedy than the stake.”
“All this shall to the Pope,” observed Gardiner, in a low tone, to
Bonner. “His Eminence will be speedily recalled.”
“It is high time he should be recalled, if he entertains these
opinions,” rejoined the other, in the same tone.
“Nothing that has been urged will shake my purpose,” said Mary. “I will
free my kingdom from the curse that has so long afflicted it, even
though I inundate the land with blood. But I agree with your Eminence
that much reform is needful in our own clergy, whose manners provoke
scandal, and encourage infidelity. I will address myself to the task. To
you, my Lord Chancellor, and to you, my Lord Bishop,” she added to
Gardiner and Bonner, “I commit the extirpation of heresy. Relax not in
your efforts.”
“Rest assured we will not, gracious Madam,” replied Gardiner.
“Your Eminence seems to think,” observed Bonner to the Cardinal, “that
the Lord Chancellor and myself have not used proper means of weaning
back these misguided men from their errors. As there are two prisoners
confined within the Lollards’ Tower for religious offences, may I
venture to inquire whether you have succeeded in accomplishing their
conversion?”
“Not as yet,” replied Pole; “but I do not despair of ultimate success.”
“What prisoners do you refer to?” demanded Mary. “I have not heard of
them.”
The Cardinal was about to reply, when a look from the King stopped him.
“Who are they, I repeat?” cried Mary, somewhat sharply, surprised at
Pole’s disinclination to answer.
“One of them is the unhappy Constance Tyrrell, and the other the
half-crazed fanatic, Derrick Carver,” replied the Cardinal.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mary. “Was your Majesty aware that these persons are
confined here?” she added to the King.
“They were sent hither by my orders,” rejoined Philip, coldly.
“And why was I not informed of the matter?” asked Mary.
“Because I did not deem it needful,” replied the King.
“Not needful!” exclaimed Mary. “By my soul, but it was needful! ’Twas a
strange step to take without my knowledge or privity.”
“You heat yourself unnecessarily, Madam,” interrupted Philip. “’Twas to
spare you annoyance that I kept the matter secret from you.”
“How so?” demanded Mary. “The unaccountable disappearance of this girl
troubled me, as you know, and Carver’s supposed escape was equally
displeasing to me.”
“You would have been informed of all in good time,” said Philip. “How I
discovered their hiding-place, and why I sent them hither, shall be
explained anon.”
“I trust the explanation will prove satisfactory,” replied Mary.
“Meantime, I will see the prisoners myself, and interrogate them.”
“Shall they be brought before you?” inquired Pole.
“No,” returned the Queen; “I will proceed to the Lollards’ Tower. Your
Eminence will attend me thither.”
“’Twere better not, Madam,” said Philip. “Be ruled by me, and let alone
this visit.”
“You have some motive,” rejoined Mary, in a low tone—“some powerful
motive for wishing me not to see Constance Tyrrell. I will see her. I
will question her. I will learn the truth.”
“Well, then, learn the truth, Madam,” said Philip. “If you are pained by
it, it is not my fault.”
“You have deceived me,” continued Mary—“shamefully deceived me. Of that
I am convinced.”
“Reserve these remarks for a more fitting opportunity, Madam,” said the
King. “Since you are bent upon going to the Lollards’ Tower, I will not
interfere to prevent you. But at least put some guard upon yourself, and
breed not scandal by your causeless suspicions.”
Without making any reply, Mary arose. The King offered his arm, but she
rejected it, saying she needed not support. Philip, however, was
determined to accompany her, and they went forth together, attended by
the Cardinal. No one else ventured to follow them, and Gardiner and
Bonner, fearing the King might be offended with them, thought it best to
retreat, and hastily quitted the palace.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
HOW CONSTANCE TYRRELL WAS BROUGHT BEFORE THE
QUEEN IN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.
Preceded by Rodomont Bittern and others of the guard, and attended by
the Cardinal, their Majesties crossed the court to the Lollards’ Tower.
As the Queen was slowly ascending the steps leading to the entrance, a
sudden faintness seized her, and she paused.
“Better turn back, gracious Madam, if you feel ill,” observed the
Cardinal, noticing her extreme paleness.
“No, it will pass in a moment,” she replied.
Resolved not to give way, she went on; but the effort was too much for
her, and she had no sooner gained the Post Room than she sank on a chair
completely exhausted.
“What place is this?” she asked, in a feeble voice, and glancing around.
“It is called the Post Room, Madam, from that wooden pillar in the
centre,” replied Pole.
“It looks like a torture-chamber,” observed Philip.
“It has been put to a similar purpose, I fear,” said the Cardinal. “Yon
pillar has not served merely to support the roof.”
“Where is Constance Tyrrell?” demanded Mary.
“In the prison-chamber overhead,” replied Pole. “The staircase is steep
and difficult. ’Twould be hazardous to your Majesty to mount it.”
“Let her be brought down,” said the Queen.
Upon this, Rodomont Bittern, who, with Simon Mallet, keeper of the
tower, stood waiting for orders, immediately disappeared through an
arched doorway at the further end of the sombre apartment. Shortly
afterwards they returned, bringing with them Constance Tyrrell. This
done, they retired.
Constance looked thin and pale, but her colour heightened as she beheld
Philip seated near the Queen. The blush, however, quickly faded away,
and was succeeded by a death-like pallor, but she did not lose her
self-possession. Advancing towards her, the Cardinal said, in a low
tone,—
“Kneel to her Majesty. Peradventure, you may move her compassion.”
Constance did as she was bidden, and threw herself at the Queen’s feet,
crying,—
“If I have offended your Majesty, I implore your forgiveness.”
“What have I to forgive you, minion?—what have you done?” said Mary,
fixing a searching look upon her. “I know nothing of your proceedings
since you fled from Hampton Court. Where have you hidden yourself? Why
were you brought here? Speak!”
“It is a long story to tell, Madam,” cried Constance, troubled by the
stern gaze of the King.
“On peril of your life, I command you to conceal nothing from me!” cried
Mary, with a burst of uncontrollable fury. “Confess your guilt, or I
will wrest the avowal of it from you by torture. Speak out, and you have
nothing to fear—but hesitate, equivocate, palter with me, and you are
lost.”
“As I hope for salvation, Madam,” rejoined Constance, “I have nothing to
confess.”
“It is false!” cried the Queen, with increasing fury. “I read your guilt
in your looks. You cannot regard me in the face, and declare you have
not injured me.”
“I can look Heaven itself in the face, and declare I am innocent of all
offence towards your Majesty,” rejoined Constance.
“The King, no doubt, will confirm your assertions,” observed Mary,
bitterly.
“If I did not, I should belie the truth,” replied Philip.
“By whose contrivance did you fly from Hampton Court?” demanded Mary.
“Not by the King’s, Madam. I fled with Osbert Clinton.”
“Tut! Osbert Clinton was merely a tool,” exclaimed Mary, incredulously.
“Did his Majesty know of your hiding-place?”
“Assuredly not, Madam,” replied Constance. “He it was I dreaded most.”
“Ha! we are coming to it now,” cried Mary. “Why did you dread him?”
“Nay, Madam, persist not in these inquiries, I entreat you,” interposed
the Cardinal. “You will gain nothing by them, and will only torture
yourself.”
“Though each word should wound me to the quick, I will have it,” said
Mary. “Why did you fear the King?”
“Oh! bid me not answer that question, Madam—I cannot do it.”
“I will answer it for you,” said Mary. “Contradict me if you can. You
thought that the King loved you, and would pursue you.”
“If she believed so, her flight was justifiable, and merits not reproach
from your Majesty,” observed the Cardinal. “Pardon me if I say you are
unjust towards this maiden. I am satisfied you have no real ground of
complaint against her.”
“At least, she has been the cause of much trouble to me,” cried Mary.
“The innocent cause,” said Pole.
“Ay, truly so,” said Constance. “I have never wronged your Majesty in
act or thought. Beset by dangers, I fled from them, and, if I did wrong,
it was from error in judgment, and not from ill intent. Had I
stayed——But I will not dwell upon what might have happened. Your
Majesty’s reproaches cut me to the soul. I do not deserve them. Rather,
indeed, am I an object of pity than reproach. Six months ago I was
happy. My life was unclouded—but a change came suddenly, and since then
all has been darkness and misery.”
“You could not expect happiness, since you have fallen from your faith,”
said the Queen, severely. “You have justly provoked the wrath of Heaven,
and cannot wonder that you have felt the effects of its displeasure.
From what you have said, and from what his Eminence has urged in your
behalf, I do not believe you have been culpable towards me. But you have
cost me many a pang,” she added, placing her hand upon her breast.
“Yield to the pitying emotions which I can see sway your breast,
gracious Madam,” interceded Pole, “and forgive her.”
“For the affliction she has caused I do forgive her,” replied the Queen,
with an effort; “but if her conduct towards myself is free from blame,
as you represent it, in other respects it is reprehensible. She was
nurtured in the true faith, and was once a model of piety—nay, even
contemplated devoting herself to a religious life. But she has listened
to the baneful exhortations of one of these teachers of heresy, and has
become a proselyte to the new doctrines. What shall be done with her?”
“Leave her to me, Madam,” rejoined the Cardinal. “I do not despair of
accomplishing her cure. My hand shall lead you back,” he added to
Constance. “My voice shall direct you. It cannot be that one of a devout
nature like yourself, imbued from childhood in the principles of our
Holy Church, familiar with its rites and worship, can efface its
doctrines from your breast, and abandon them for another creed. Your
conscience must be troubled. The sure way to regain serenity is to
abjure your errors.”
“Time was when every word uttered by your Eminence would have found a
response in my breast,” rejoined Constance. “But the rites I formerly
practised seem to me idolatrous, and the doctrines then taught me
unwarranted by the Gospel. I cannot go back to the faith of Rome.”
“You shall be forced back, Mistress, if you continue perverse,” cried
the Queen, sharply.
“Hold, Madam!” exclaimed Pole. “In this instance let me have my way. I
would win back this maiden by gentleness, and not by coercion. I would
appeal to her reason and judgment, and not to her fears. Her cure may be
the work of time, because the disorder under which she labours is
obstinate, but I do not think it will baffle my skill.”
“If I could be persuaded by anyone to return to the faith I have
abjured, it would be by your Eminence,” said Constance, yielding to the
kindly influence of his manner.
“You see, Madam, I have already made some little impression,” observed
Pole to the Queen. “Mildness is more efficacious than violence. As she
was enticed from the fold, so must she be lured back to it.”
“Well, have your way with her,” replied Mary. “Where is the other
prisoner, Derrick Carver?”
“In a dungeon beneath this room,” replied Pole. “He was placed there in
order that no communication should take place between him and Constance
Tyrrell. They have not seen each other since they were brought to the
Lollards’ Tower.”
“Such were my orders,” observed Philip.
“It is well,” rejoined the Queen. “They shall see each other now. Let
him be brought before me.”
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
AN ACCUSER.
On being brought into the room by Rodomont and Mallet, Derrick Carver
made a profound reverence to the Queen, but none to Philip and the
Cardinal. Then addressing himself to Constance, he said, “Welcome,
daughter! is the time come for our deliverance from bondage?”
“Not yet,” she replied.
“How long, O Lord! wilt thou suffer thy saints to be persecuted?”
exclaimed the enthusiast. “It would be glad tidings to me to learn that
the end of my weary pilgrimage was near at hand.”
“Are you prepared to meet the death you seem to covet?” asked Pole.
“I trust so,” replied Carver. “I have prayed long and deeply.”
“And repented of your sins—of your murtherous designs against the life
of his Majesty?” pursued Pole.
“I do not regard that design as sinful,” said Carver. “Repentance,
therefore, is uncalled for.”
“And you believe yourself to be religious, mistaken man,” rejoined Pole.
“I tell you, if you die in this impenitent state, you will perish
everlastingly. You are so blinded by pride and vain-glory that you
cannot discern evil from good, and persuade yourself that you are
actuated by high and noble motives, when in reality your motives are
sinful and damnable. You are nothing more than an execrable assassin; so
hardened in guilt that your heart is inaccessible to virtuous and
honourable feelings. True religion you have none. You profess to believe
in the tenets of the Gospel, yet practise them not. Our blessed Saviour
would never number you among his followers, but would cast you off as an
unprofitable and faithless servant. You reject truths you do not
understand, treat sacred rites as superstitious, and revile those who
differ from you in opinion. Go to! you ask for death, and yet you are
unfit to die.”
“It is not for you to pass sentence upon me,” said Carver. “Heaven, to
whom my secret motives are known, will judge me.”
“And condemn you, if you repent not,” said Pole, “for your soul is
charged with heavy offences. As I am informed by those who have heard
you, you have prayed for her Majesty’s destruction.”
“I have prayed Heaven to touch her heart, so as to cause her to abandon
idolatry, or to abridge her days,” rejoined Carver. “Better she be
removed than false gods be set up in our temples.”
“And know you not that by giving utterance to such a prayer you incur
the doom of a traitor?” said Pole. “Your offences are so rank and
monstrous, that unless you exhibit some penitence, I cannot intercede in
your behalf with her Majesty.”
“I ask for no grace from her, and expect none,” replied Carver. “Had I
twenty lives, I would lay them down for my religion and for my country.
We have been delivered to a foreign yoke. But it will not bind us long.”
“Peace!” cried Rodomont. “Knowest thou not that thou art in the presence
of the King?”
“I know it well, and therefore I speak out,” rejoined Carver. “I tell
this proud Prince of Spain that England will never submit to his hateful
and tyrannous rule. The country will rise up against him, and cast him
off. He persuades himself that a son will be born to him, and that
through that son he will govern. But he is puffed up with vain hopes.
Heaven will refuse him issue.”
“Ha! this passes all endurance,” cried Philip.
“Have I touched thee, tyrant?” pursued Carver, exultingly. “Heaven, I
repeat, will refuse thee issue. The support on which thou countest will
be taken from thee. Didst thou dare make the attempt, the accursed
Inquisition would at this moment be established amongst us. Thou hast it
in reserve for a future day, but ere that day arrives thy perfidy will
be discovered. False to thy oaths, faithless to thy Queen, treacherous
to all, thou shalt meet thy just reward.”
“Faithless to me!” exclaimed Mary. “What wouldst thou dare insinuate,
thou foul-mouthed villain?”
“That which I will dare maintain,” rejoined Carver—“that the consort you
have chosen and have placed on the throne beside you is false to his
marriage vows.”
“Away with him!” cried Philip, furiously.
“Stay!” exclaimed Mary. “I would question him further.”
“Forbear, I beseech you, Madam,” interposed Pole. “You only give him
power to level his poisonous shafts against you.”
“His tongue ought to be torn from his throat for giving utterance to the
lies his black heart has conceived!” cried Philip.
“My tongue has uttered no lies,” said Carver. “I have shown the Queen
how she has been deceived.”
“Thou hast simply proved thine own wickedness and malevolence,” said
Pole. “Her Majesty despises thy slander.”
“But it cannot pass unpunished.” said Philip. “Let the false villain
instantly retract the calumnies he has uttered, or he shall be tied to
yon post and scourged till he shall confess himself a liar and a
slanderer. Let him be forced to recite the prayer for her Majesty’s safe
deliverance, on pain of further torture. And, until he manifest
contrition for his offences, let his chastisement be daily repeated.”
“I will do none of these things,” rejoined Carver, resolutely. “Scourge
me to death, and I will not retract a single word I have uttered. I will
not pray that the Queen, whom thou hast deceived and wronged, may bear
thee a son, and so confirm thine authority. But I will pray to the last
that my country may be delivered from oppression, that the Papal power
may be overthrown, and the Protestant religion be re-established.”
“Thy resolution shall be tested,” said Philip.
“Your Majesty is justly incensed against this miserable man,” said Pole
to the King. “Yet would I step between him and your anger, and entreat
you to spare him the chastisement you have ordered to be inflicted upon
him. I do not seek to extenuate his offences, they are many and heinous,
and he must bear their punishment. But spare him additional suffering.
Spare him the scourge and the rack.”
“I will spare him nothing unless he retract,” replied Philip, sternly.
“I would accept no grace procured by thee,” said Carver to Pole. “As the
representative of Antichrist, I regard thee with loathing and
detestation, and will take nothing from thee.”
“Were not thy mind distraught, thou couldst have no antipathy to one who
would befriend thee,” replied the Cardinal. “My religion teaches me to
bless those that curse us, to pray for them that use us despitefully. Be
assured I shall not forget thee in my prayers.”
Carver regarded him steadily, but made no answer.
“I shall pray that thy heart may be softened,” pursued Pole, “that thou
mayst understand thy sinfulness, and truly repent of it ere it be too
late. Once more I beseech your Majesty to spare him the torture.”
“Be it as you will. I can refuse your Eminence nothing,” replied Philip.
“This is all the revenge I would take,” said Pole, turning to Carver.
“You have declared that you hate me—that you regard me as the
representative of Antichrist. You profess yourself to be a believer in
the Gospel. My practice is, at least, more conformable to its precepts
than yours.”
Carver made no reply, but his lip slightly quivered.
“Miserable man,” continued Pole, looking at him compassionately, “I pity
you, and would save you if I could. I see the struggle going on in your
breast. Wrestle with the demon who would gain the mastery over your
soul, and cast him from you. Pride stifles the better emotions of your
heart. Do not restrain them.”
“If I listen to him much longer, my resolution will fail me,” murmured
Carver. “I cannot resist his influence.”
“Ere long you will be in a better frame of mind,” continued Pole, “and
more accessible to the arguments I would employ.”
“Think it not,” interrupted Carver, at once recovering his sternness.
“You will never convert me to Popery and idolatry.”
“I may at least make you sensible of your errors, and lead you to
repentance,” said Pole. “The rest lies with Heaven.”
“He shall remain in your Eminence’s charge during a short space,” said
Mary, “in the hope that you may be able to bring him to a full sense of
his enormities, and prepare him for his end. His life is forfeited.”
“So the death to which I am doomed be the same as that wherewith the
staunchest adherents of our faith are menaced, I am content,” said
Carver.
“Thou shall have thy wish,” rejoined Mary. “Thy death shall be by fire.”
“Then I shall gain my crown of martyrdom,” cried Carver, exultingly.
“Fire will not purge out your sins,” said the Cardinal. “Those will
cling to the soul, which is indestructible. Therefore repent.”
“And speedily,” added Mary, “for thy time is short.”
Hereupon her Majesty arose, and, quitting the Post Room, proceeded to
the chapel, to which, as we have previously intimated, there was access
from the lower part of the Lollards’ Tower.
Here mass was performed, and, by the Queen’s express orders, both
Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver were brought into the chapel during
the service. At its close they were taken to the cells, while the royal
pair proceeded with the Cardinal to the banquetting chamber, where a
collation was prepared.
The Queen, however, declined to partake of the repast, saying she felt
faint and ill, and two ladies who had accompanied her to the palace
being hastily summoned, she retired with them.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
HOW THE QUEEN CONFIDED HER GRIEFS TO THE CARDINAL.
Philip, who exhibited little uneasiness at the Queen’s indisposition,
was still seated at table with Pole, when the Cardinal’s physician,
Doctor Forest, came in, and informed his Eminence that her Majesty
desired instant speech with him.
“The Queen is not seriously ill, I trust, Sir?” said Philip, alarmed by
the physician’s grave looks.
“She appears to have received a severe shock, Sire,” replied Forest,
“but I trust no ill consequences may ensue. Her Majesty wishes to see
your Eminence—alone,” he added to the Cardinal.
“Go to her at once,” said Philip. “If my hopes of succession should be
blighted, it will be grievous indeed. But you have no such fears, Sir?”
he added quickly to the physician.
“I shall have no fear if her Majesty’s mind can be tranquilised,”
replied Forest—“and that, I trust, his Eminence will be able to
accomplish.”
“My reliance, then, is upon you,” said Philip to the Cardinal. “A few
words from your lips will not fail to calm her.”
Thereupon Pole hastened to the apartment where the Queen had been
conveyed. On entering it, he found her reclining on a couch, and
attended by her ladies, who, on his appearance, immediately withdrew.
“I am much concerned to see your Majesty thus,” observed Pole. “It will
be a real affliction if your visit to me should be productive of ill
consequences to yourself.”
“I am sorry I came,” replied Mary. “The words of that malignant heretic
have sunk deep into my breast. He said that I shall never be a mother.”
“Let not his words trouble you for a moment, gracious Madam,” said Pole.
“They are of no account. He but gave utterance to the evil wishes of his
heart—nothing more. Dismiss all fears from your breast, and look
joyfully and confidently forward to the moment which will crown a
nation’s satisfaction in your marriage by giving it a prince.”
“Your words are comforting,” replied Mary, faintly; “but I cannot shake
off my fears. Something whispers in mine ear that the fond hopes I have
indulged will prove vain. And what will happen then?” she continued,
with a shudder. “I shall lose my husband.”
“Oh! think not so, gracious Madam—think not so!” cried Pole. “If the
consummation you dread were to happen—which Heaven, in its goodness,
avert!—and fill the land with sorrow—the King, your husband, would be
more devoted to you than ever.”
“Hear me, my Lord Cardinal,” said Mary, grasping his arm convulsively.
“I have already lost my husband’s love, if I ever possessed it, which I
more than doubt. Were I to disappoint his expectations now, he would
leave me.”
“Leave you, gracious Madam! Impossible!”
“I say he would,” rejoined the Queen. “This is the only tie that binds
us together. I cannot give him my kingdom, and if I fail to give him an
heir, through whom he may exercise the sovereignty, he will return to
Spain.”
“I cannot believe him so ungrateful,” cried Pole. “Your Majesty does him
injustice.”
“His conduct towards me leaves no doubt as to his intentions,” rejoined
Mary. “On our first meeting he vowed he loved me, but his vows were
false. I am not blind to my defects. I know that I have few charms of
person to attract him—that I have neither youth nor beauty. But I gave
him a deep, true love. Moreover, I gave him a kingdom. How has he
requited me?—by neglect, by harshness, by infidelity.”
“Oh! Madam, I would willingly discredit what I hear,” cried Pole. “If it
be as you represent, I pity you from the bottom of my heart.”
“My sainted mother, Queen Katharine of Aragon, was most unhappy,”
pursued Mary; “but I am little less unhappy. Neglected, injured, scorned
as I am by my husband, I cannot, despite the efforts I make, shake off
the love I bear him. I summon pride to my aid, but in vain. My heart is
wrung with jealousy, but I hide my torments. What shall I do if I lose
him?”
“You will not lose him, gracious Madam—fear it not,” exclaimed Pole. “I
will remonstrate with him. I will convince him of the wickedness of his
conduct.”
“Proceed with caution, or you will only make matters worse,” said Mary.
“Were I to lose him, I should die.”
“Do not distress yourself thus, Madam,” said Pole. “Exalted as is your
station, it does not exempt you from the ordinary sufferings of
humanity—nay, it exposes you to greater ills than fall to the lot of
those less loftily placed. The King is unworthy of your love, I grant,
but I counsel you not to resent his neglect, nor to reproach him. Bear
yourself ever gently towards him, ever maintaining your own dignity, and
if you win not back his love, you are certain to gain his esteem.”
“Perchance I have reproached him overmuch,” cried Mary. “But, as I have
already said, my heart has been wrung by jealousy.”
“Crush all such feelings, at whatever cost,” rejoined Pole. “Give him no
grounds of complaint.”
“But his unkindness makes me wretched,” cried Mary. “Would I could hate
him—despise him!”
“It is sad that love like yours should meet so poor a return,” sighed
Pole; “and the King is blind to his own happiness that he does not
estimate the treasure he casts away, to set up worthless baubles in its
place. Pray constantly and fervently to Heaven to bless you with a son,
and if your prayers are granted, you will be happy.”
“But if Heaven should deny me the blessing?”
“Heaven will compassionate you,” said the Cardinal. “It will not be deaf
to prayers like yours.”
“Yet my mother’s prayers were unheard, though her wrongs and sufferings
were greater than mine. She died neglected, heart-broken. Such may be my
fate.”
“The indulgence of these thoughts is like to bring about the very
calamity you would avert, Madam,” said Pole. “You know and feel how much
depends upon the event we so much desire, and your physician will tell
you that to a favourable issue freedom from agitation and anxiety are
essential. You will undo all the good if you harass yourself thus
unnecessarily.”
“I will try to follow your counsel,” replied Mary. “And now, my good
Lord Cardinal, answer me one question. Have I wrongfully suspected
Constance Tyrrell?”
“Madam, I truly think so,” replied Pole.
“Then send for her instantly, that I may repair the wrong I have done,”
cried Mary.
The Cardinal readily complied, and ere long Constance made her
appearance.
“Come hither, child,” said the Queen, in a kind voice, on seeing her. “I
have done you injustice. But I will make amends. You told me that you
fled from Hampton Court with Osbert Clinton. Why did you trust him?”
“I trusted him because—because he loved me, gracious Madam,” replied
Constance. “Since then we have been affianced.”
“Is the King aware of your betrothal?” inquired Mary.
“He is, Madam,” replied Constance. “But he has forbidden Osbert, on pain
of death, to see me again.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mary. “Then I cannot aid you as I should wish to do.
You must think of Osbert no more.”
“I cannot obey you in that respect, Madam,” replied Constance. “He is
never absent from my thoughts.”
“Poor child!” exclaimed Mary. “Your fate is as sad as my own. We are
both doomed to unhappiness.”
“But it is in your Majesty’s power to make me happy—to make Osbert
happy,” cried Constance.
“Alas! child, you give me credit for more power than I possess,”
rejoined Mary. “I dare not oppose the King in this matter. Osbert must
not see you again. Should he do so, I cannot save him from the King’s
resentment. But I will do all I can for you. You shall be released from
confinement, but you must remain for a time with the good Cardinal, who,
I am sure, will be a father to you.”
“I will willingly take charge of her,” said Pole. “She shall have free
range of the palace.”
“But she must not quit it without my consent,” said Mary. “Neither must
she see Osbert Clinton.”
“I will answer for her,” rejoined the Cardinal.