from the bottom of my heart, and will faithfully obey your injunctions.”
“It will be a period of probation, that is all,” said the Queen. “You
will be better and happier for it in the end—at least, I trust so. And
now, child, you may retire. Remember what I have said about Osbert
Clinton.”
“I shall not fail, gracious Madam,” she replied. And kissing the hand
extended to her by the Queen, she withdrew.
Some further conversation then took place between Mary and the Cardinal,
which had the effect of restoring the Queen to comparative cheerfulness,
and she declared that she now felt quite able to return to Whitehall. By
her desire, Pole then summoned her ladies, and, on their appearance,
quitted her to communicate the glad intelligence of her recovery to the
King.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
THE FRANCISCAN.
Philip remained for some little time in the banqueting-chamber,
expecting the Cardinal’s return, but as Pole did not appear, the King at
last sallied forth into the court, where several of the Cardinal’s
retinue were assembled. Perceiving Rodomont Bittern among them, he
signed to him to approach, and then walking apart with him, said, with a
certain significance—
“Since Constance Tyrrell has been imprisoned in the Lollards’ Tower, no
communication has passed between her and Osbert Clinton?—ha!”
“Access to her while shut up in yon tower were impossible without
consent of the keeper, Sire,” replied Rodomont; “and he is faithful.”
“Difficult it may be, but not impossible,” rejoined the King. “Yon ivied
wall would not be difficult to scale. Her prison-chamber has a window
which might be reached by a rope ladder.”
“Can he suspect?” thought Rodomont, uneasily.
“Such plans are common enough in Spain, where walls, bolts, and bars,
and even watchful gaolers, cannot shut out lovers,” pursued Philip.
“Osbert Clinton is rash enough—enamoured enough to attempt anything.”
“Your Majesty is a better judge of such matters than I can pretend to
be,” said Rodomont; “but I would risk life and limb for no woman, were
she twice as lovely as Constance Tyrrell. The danger of the enterprise
would effectually cool my ardour. Osbert Clinton well knows that he
would incur your Majesty’s severe displeasure were he to make any such
attempt.”
“Danger, I repeat, will not deter him,” said the King. “It is not enough
that Constance is shut up in yon tower—that the doors of her cell are
locked, and the windows barred. I tell you, he will find a way to her—if
he has not done so already.”
“I dare not contradict your Majesty,” replied Rodomont. “It may be as
you suspect. What more would you have done?”
“That tower must be strictly watched at night,” said Philip, “and you
must be the watcher.”
“I am ready to obey your Majesty,” replied Rodomont; “but such an office
will somewhat interfere with my duties to the Cardinal.”
“Heed not that!” said Philip. “I will hold you excused with his
Eminence. You will commence the watch to-night.”
“To-night, Sire?”
“Should Osbert Clinton venture hither, arrest him, and keep him in close
confinement till you learn my pleasure.”
“May I make bold to inquire if your Majesty has any reason to suspect
that he will come?” said Rodomont.
“It matters not what I suspect. Do as I command you.”
“Your injunctions shall be obeyed, Sire,” returned Rodomont. “And for
his own sake I hope Master Osbert Clinton may keep away.”
At this moment a tall Franciscan friar, with the cowl of his grey robe
drawn over his head, was seen marching slowly along the court-yard. He
directed his steps towards the Lollards’ Tower, and on reaching it
stayed at the doorway, where he remained in converse with Mallet, the
keeper.
“Who is yon monk, and what is his errand?” demanded the King, who had
been watching him with some curiosity.
“I know him not, Sire—he is a stranger,” replied Rodomont. “Apparently
he is seeking admittance to one of the prisoners, which Mallet, the
keeper, is unwilling to grant. Perchance, it may be Mistress Constance
Tyrrell whom he desires to see.”
“Bring him before me, I will question him,” said Philip.
Rodomont instantly obeyed, and shortly afterwards returned with the
friar and Mallet. The Franciscan made a humble obeisance to the King,
but did not attempt to raise his hood.
“An please your Majesty, this holy man is from Winchester,” said Mallet.
“He is charged by Father Jerome of Saint Catherine’s Chapel on the Hill,
with a message to Mistress Constance Tyrrell. Is it not so?” he added to
the monk.
The Franciscan bowed his head.
“Is Father Jerome aware that she to whom he has sent you has lapsed from
the faith?” said the King.
“He is, Sire,” replied the monk, in tones that sounded strangely hollow,
“but he hopes she may still be reclaimed. With the design of rendering
some aid in the good work, I have come hither. Great success has
hitherto attended my efforts; and therefore it is that good Father
Jerome, who is deeply interested in Mistress Constance’s spiritual
welfare, hath selected me for the office.”
“An opportunity shall be afforded you of making the attempt,” said the
King. “There can be no reason why this holy man should not be admitted
to her,” he added to Mallet. “Take him to her cell.”
“Mistress Constance is not in her cell at present, Sire,” observed
Mallet.
“Where is she, then?” cried the King, sharply.
“She is with her Majesty, Sire,” replied Mallet.
“With the Queen?” exclaimed Philip, surprised. “Go into the tower, good
father, and await her return.”
“Ha, here comes Mistress Constance,” exclaimed Rodomont, as the damsel,
escorted by Simnel and Holiday, issued from the palace, and made her way
towards the Lollards’ Tower. Bowing humbly to the King, she would have
passed on, had he not stopped her.
“You have been with her Majesty, as I understand?” he said. “How fares
it with her now?”
“As well as you could desire, Sire,” she replied. “Her Majesty has quite
recovered.”
“I would fain reward you for your good tidings,” said Philip. “It rests
with yourself whether your imprisonment in this tower shall be
prolonged.”
“My term of durance is at an end, Sire,” she rejoined. “I am a prisoner,
it is true, but only restricted to the limits of the palace. I desire no
greater freedom. The Queen has conferred this grace upon me.”
“Her Majesty has only anticipated my intentions,” said Philip. “It
grieved me to think you should have been confined within that dreary
cell. But why did you not appeal to me, when you well knew that a word
would have procured you full liberty?”
“But I could not utter that word, Sire,” she rejoined, coldly.
“Tarry a moment,” said the King, checking her departure. “This holy man
has been sent by Father Jerome, to whose ghostly counsels you once gave
heed, in the hope that he may restore you to the Catholic Church.”
“I am much beholden to Father Jerome for his kindly concern in my
behalf,” she rejoined; “and it pains me to dismiss the good friar he has
sent without a hearing. But a conference would be profitable to neither
of us, and I must therefore decline it.”
“How know you that such a conference would be unprofitable, daughter?”
said the friar, in tones that trembled with emotion. “I pray you send me
not away unheard.”
At the sound of his voice Constance started, and was seized with a
trepidation which she could hardly conceal.
“Can he have ventured here in this disguise?” she murmured. “Imprudent
that he is, he will sacrifice himself by his rashness! No, no,” she
added aloud, “I cannot consent to a conference with you without the
Cardinal’s sanction. I am under his charge.”
“If that be all, his Eminence’s sanction can be readily procured, for
here he comes,” said Philip.
“The Cardinal here, then he is lost!” mentally ejaculated Constance.
“You have come on a vain errand,” she added, to the monk.
“Nay, let us hear what his Eminence has to say to the matter,” observed
Philip. And, as Pole came up at the moment, he told him what had
occurred.
“Father Jerome must have much confidence in this friar if he imagines he
will succeed where we have failed,” remarked Pole. “I will question him,
and judge of his fitness for the task. Bring him to me anon,” he added
to Rodomont.
“I do not desire to confer with him,” cried Constance, distractedly.
“Send him away!—Send him away!”
“What means this strange emotion?” thought the Cardinal. “A word with
you, daughter,” he added, taking her aside. “Who is this monk? I must
know the truth. Attempt to deceive me, and I will compel him to raise
his hood.”
“In mercy spare him,” she rejoined, “If the King beholds his features he
is lost.”
“Then it is Osbert Clinton,” said the Cardinal. “I will not betray him,
but you must promise to hold no converse with him.”
“I do—I do,” she rejoined.
“Control yourself, or you will excite the King’s suspicions,” pursued
the Cardinal. “I am glad I made this discovery in time. I shall warn
this rash youth not to come here again. If he does, he must not count on
my protection. And now,” he added, so as to be heard by the King,
“retire to your cell till a chamber can be prepared for you in the
palace. I will speak with this friar anon, and act as may seem best to
me in regard to him.”
Thanking him for his goodness, and making an obeisance to the King,
Constance withdrew.
Philip and the Cardinal then hastened to the Queen, and shortly
afterwards the royal pair embarked in the barge awaiting them, and
returned to Whitehall.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
OF THE COUNSEL GIVEN TO OSBERT CLINTON BY THE
CARDINAL.
Their Majesties had not long quitted Lambeth Palace, when the Franciscan
friar was summoned by Rodomont to the presence of the Cardinal.
While crossing the court with the monk, Rodomont paused for a moment,
and directed his companion’s attention to the Lollards’ Tower.
“You would imagine the prisoners must be secure in that tower, holy
father,” he remarked.
“Unquestionably so, my son,” replied the friar.
“His Majesty, however, is not of that opinion,” rejoined Rodomont. “He
is under the impression that a certain young gallant, whose brain seems
turned by love, would be rash enough to climb, by means of a
rope-ladder, to the window of the cell wherein his mistress is
confined.”
“Does the King suspect this?” inquired the monk, uneasily.
“So shrewdly, that he has ordered me to keep strict watch to-night, and
to arrest the love-sick gallant should he appear. The task is not to my
liking, but I must obey his Majesty’s orders. Some men will run any risk
for those they love—but you, father, cannot understand such matters. You
would reprove Osbert Clinton—for so the gallant is named—for his
rashness and folly.”
“I should pity him, rather than blame him,” said the friar.
“And you would not deem it wrong if I were to aid him, eh, father?
Certes, I should be loth to betray him—but he is so imprudent that he
might betray himself. ’Tis a miracle that he ’scaped detection by the
King just now.”
“What mean you, my son?” cried the monk, alarmed.
“I mean that Master Osbert Clinton has been rash enough to venture
hither,” said Rodomont; “and though luckily his Majesty did not see
through his disguise, I was not equally blind.”
“You knew me, then?” said Osbert Clinton.
“My suspicions of the truth were roused from the first, and were
speedily changed to certainty,” rejoined Rodomont. “’Twas marvellous, I
repeat, that you imposed upon the quick-sighted King, but I do not think
the Cardinal was deceived. However, you have not much to fear from his
Eminence, who is too kind-hearted to do more than chide you for your
indiscretion. Had things continued as they were, and Mistress Constance
been kept a prisoner in yon tower, I would have helped you to liberate
her. But a change for the better has occurred. The doors of her cell are
opened, and she is free to go where she lists within the palace. Let
that content you. And now I must bring you before his Eminence.”
With this they entered the palace, and after passing through the
vestibule, where a number of persons belonging to the household were
collected, they proceeded to a spacious chamber, with a carved oak
ceiling, windows filled with painted glass, and walls furnished with
book-shelves stored with goodly tomes, where they found the Cardinal
seated at a table. He was writing at the moment, and only suspended his
task to look up, and then resumed it. When he had finished his letter
and sealed it, he delivered it to Rodomont, bidding him give it to Lord
Montague’s messenger, who was waiting to receive it. As soon as they
were alone, he turned to Osbert, and assuming a grave and severe
expression of countenance, ordered him to throw back his hood; and, as
the young man complied, he said, “’Tis as I suspected. You are Osbert
Clinton.”
“Yes, I am he,” replied the other. “It was my intention to avow myself
to your Eminence—to explain my motives in coming hither, and to crave
your pardon.”
“It is needless to explain your motives,” said Pole; “I am fully aware
of them. Neither, though I blame your rashness, shall I refuse you
pardon. But this indiscretion must not be repeated. If you come here
again, you must take the consequences of your folly. You are free to go
as you came—but again I say, you must not return.”
“Ere I go, your Eminence’s goodness emboldens me to ask your permission
for a brief interview with Constance Tyrrell.”
“I cannot grant your request,” replied the Cardinal, “though it pains me
to refuse it. I pity both you and Constance, but I cannot aid you in the
dilemma in which you are placed. Patience is difficult, especially to a
young and ardent lover; but you must perforce practise it. Be not cast
down. If Fortune refuses to smile on you now, she may do so hereafter.
Be hopeful, be courageous, be trustful; and if your love survives these
trials, you will be rewarded in due season. Rashness and precipitancy
will destroy all. Constance will be safe with me—safe as with her own
father; nay, safer, for I have more power than he can possess. If I
cannot give her to you—if I cannot even allow you to approach her—I can
protect her. Seek not then to disturb her, or to plunge yourself into
difficulties from which none can extricate you. I shall employ the same
arguments with Constance. I will tell her that your enforced separation
will only be for a time—that she must not despair, but may confidently
look forward to a meeting with you on some future day.”
“I am fully sensible of the wisdom of your Eminence’s counsel, and will
endeavour to profit by it,” said Osbert. “Though the separation will be
hard to bear, it will be shorn of much of its anguish by the reflection
that she has found a sanctuary with you.”
“And such, in truth, it is, for she will be protected from all danger,”
rejoined Pole. “Henceforth you may picture her, not as the inmate of a
narrow cell, condemned to pass her hours in seclusion, but as my guest,
free to go where she will within this mansion; not coerced in matters of
religion, though I shall try by all proper means to lead her back to her
former faith; subject to no harsh discipline or regulations; not
compelled to perform any severe penance, but left to her own free
will—such will be the course I shall pursue with her, and I trust it may
tend to her comfort and benefit.”
“It cannot fail,” said Osbert. “Under your Eminence’s benignant
influence she must be happy.”
“She will at least find a refuge from the terrible storm which is at
hand, and which might overwhelm her as it will many others,” said the
Cardinal. “Be thankful, therefore, that she is not exposed to this great
peril, and is not likely to be numbered amongst the victims of the
religious persecution, which, I fear, is at hand. And now fare you well,
Sir. Take my blessing with you. No words of gratitude are needed. You
shall thank me hereafter, when I restore Constance to you.”
With this, he struck a small silver bell which stood upon the table
beside him. Before the summons could be answered, Osbert had drawn the
cowl over his head.
“Conduct this monk to the gate,” said the Cardinal to Rodomont, as the
latter entered the room, “and suffer him not to talk with anyone by the
way.”
“It shall be done as your Eminence enjoins,” said Rodomont. “Come,
Father!”
And he quitted the room with Osbert.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
HOW CONSTANCE PASSED HER TIME IN LAMBETH PALACE.
The good Cardinal acted up to his promise in regard to Constance. An
apartment was assigned her in a wing of the palace overlooking the
garden, and that nothing might be wanting to her comfort, search was
made for her old attendant, Dorcas, whose retreat being discovered,
without much difficulty, by Rodomont, she was brought to the palace, and
reinstated in her former position with her young mistress.
Ever since the night when Constance had been carried off to the
Lollards’ Tower, the poor old woman had been inconsolable. Her joy,
therefore, on finding her young mistress again, may be imagined. She
strained her to her breast with all a mother’s affection, wept over her,
and could scarcely cease her demonstrations of regard. The Cardinal, who
witnessed the meeting, was much touched by it, but at last deemed it
proper to moderate the old woman’s transports of delight. But this only
turned the tide of her gratitude upon him. She fell down at his feet,
embraced his knees, and prayed that his goodness might be rewarded.
Treated with paternal kindness and consideration by the Cardinal,
Constance could not but feel profound gratitude towards him; and as the
virtues of his character became more fully revealed to her, she began to
regard him with feelings akin to veneration.
They had frequent discourses together on points of faith, and, though
Constance’s adherence to the new doctrines remained unshaken, she
listened with attention to the Cardinal’s able and profound exposition
of the tenets of the Church of Rome. The differences between their
respective creeds appeared slighter than she had at first supposed, and
if all Romish priests and prelates were like the Cardinal, lived as he
lived, and taught as he taught, she felt that there might, indeed, be
one universal Church.
The calmness of Pole’s manner, the clearness of his judgment, his
profound theological learning, contrasted strongly with the fanaticism
and fiery zeal of Derrick Carver, who had as little toleration for the
Romanists as they had for him. Her mind, over-excited by the stimulative
discourses of the enthusiast, acquired a healthier tone from the
exhortations of the Cardinal, and she felt like one who had recovered
from a fever.
Perfectly resigned to her position, strengthened in all her good
resolutions by Pole, and allowed the free exercise of her own religious
opinions, she became composed and cheerful, and, if not quite happy, was
at least free from despondency. Her personal appearance improved in the
same ratio, and, ere many weeks had flown, she had quite recovered her
beauty. Her life might appear dull and monotonous, but its very monotony
was not without a charm to her, who from early years had meditated the
seclusion of a convent. Caring little for the world, or its pleasures
and vanities, she was well content with her present existence, and
scarcely desired to change it. Not that the Cardinal’s palace, with its
princely establishment, its numerous and important guests, was devoid of
the stir and bustle of active life, but in this she took no part. She
did not mingle with the household, and was never seen by the Cardinal’s
numerous guests.
The garden was open to her, with its long terraces, its alleys and
groves, and therein she took her walks at morn. At such times she often
met Pole and Priuli, and discoursed with them. In argument Priuli
displayed the same moderation and clearness of judgment as his friend,
though he did not equal him in profundity of intellect or learning.
Perhaps Pole was disappointed that he did not produce a more sensible
impression upon his pupil, and bring her to express contrition for her
errors, and a desire for reconciliation with the Church of Rome, but he
did not manifest any impatience; still less did he employ harshness or
threats. Attendance at the chapel at matins or evensong, or during the
celebration of mass, was not compulsory on Constance, nor was she forced
to assist at any of the rites or observances of the Church of Rome.
Not unfrequently the Cardinal spoke to her of Osbert Clinton, and held
out to her, as he had done to her lover, the hope of a meeting at some
future day.
Shortly after Constance’s partial restoration to freedom, the Cardinal
dispatched Rodomont to Southampton to acquaint Master Tyrrell with the
steps he had taken in his daughter’s behalf, and inviting him to come
and see her.
Rodomont would fain have brought the old merchant back with him, but
Tyrrell declined. His anger against Constance had not yet abated. Unless
she renounced her errors, she need not hope to see him again, he
declared. He left her entirely in the Lord Cardinal’s hands, satisfied
that if her conversion could be accomplished it would be by his
Eminence. The old merchant, it was clear, was so apprehensive of being
implicated with his daughter, and suspected of heretical pravity
himself, that he was resolved not to go near her.
Rodomont seized the opportunity of ascertaining his sentiments in regard
to her union with Osbert Clinton. But on this point the old merchant was
equally obstinate. “I will not consent to her marriage—I will not give
her my blessing—I will not see her till she recants, and returns to the
faith of her forefathers,” he cried. “Then she shall be my daughter once
more.”
“It is well for her that she has found a father in the Cardinal, since
her own father deserts her in her need,” observed Rodomont.
“Why, what would you have me do?” cried Tyrrell.
“Go see her! comfort her! persuade her to conform,” rejoined Rodomont.
“And be suspected of heresy, and cited before the ecclesiastical
commissioners—mayhap burnt before my own door,” said Tyrrell. “No, I
thank you. I mean to keep out of harm’s way.”
“Well, if you can reconcile such conduct to your conscience, I have no
more to say,” observed Rodomont; “except, that if you escape burning in
this world, you stand a good chance of burning in the next. So you
positively decline to go back with me to Lambeth Palace—eh?”
“Positively,” replied Tyrrell. “As a good Catholic, the Cardinal will
applaud my conduct.”
“There you are mistaken,” rejoined Rodomont. “You little understand his
Eminence, if you suppose him dead to the feelings of human nature, as
you appear to be. He can but entertain one opinion of your
conduct—disgust.” So saying he left him.
On his return to Lambeth Palace, Rodomont informed the Cardinal what had
passed between himself and Master Tyrrell. Pole could scarcely credit
the relation, so astounded was he at the old merchant’s extraordinary
indifference to his daughter. However, the effect produced upon him by
Tyrrell’s stoical conduct, was to increase the fatherly concern he
already felt in Constance, and make him more anxious than ever for her
conversion.
How he prospered in his efforts we have already seen.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
HOW THE CARDINAL VISITED DERRICK CARVER IN HIS CELL
IN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.
But there was another person besides Osbert Clinton in whom Constance
took deep interest, and whose perilous position occasioned her profound
anxiety. This was Derrick Carver. True, since her intercourse with Pole,
her admiration of the enthusiast had somewhat abated, but she could not
forget the benefits he had conferred upon her. All that she could learn
respecting Carver was, that he had been removed from the underground
dungeon to the prison-chamber in the Lollards’ Tower, which she herself
had occupied, and that he was still confined there. She also
ascertained, by means of old Dorcas, that he had been several times
examined by Bonner, and had been severely handled by them for his
contumacy. Fain would she have obtained an interview with him—fain would
she have prayed with him and consoled him—but this was not permitted.
Pole, who considered the fanatic’s influence over her to be most
pernicious, refused her solicitations, and in a manner that did not
allow her to renew the request. The Cardinal declared that, finding
Carver impracticable, he had surrendered him to the ecclesiastical
commissioners, and he was now entirely in their hands.
Constance, therefore, had no hope of beholding the enthusiast again in
this world. Strange to say, she did not altogether deplore his fate, but
in moments of exaltation almost envied him the martyrdom which it
appeared certain he would have to endure.
Throughout this time of trial, Carver’s resolution had never deserted
him—had never even wavered. The prison chamber to which he had been
removed was a great improvement upon the dismal dungeon wherein he had
been previously immured. In fact, as his movements were not restrained,
and he was allowed writing materials, with a Bible and a book of prayer,
he was well enough content with his lodging. To the mementoes of the
many sufferers for conscience’ sake who had preceded him in this cell,
and had carved their names on the stout oak panels lining the walls, he
added his own name, with these words: “APPROVED BY STRIPES,
IMPRISONMENT, AND DEATH.”
His cell was by no means gloomy. Through the narrow grated window
looking upon the Thames, and at which Osbert had conversed with
Constance, he obtained a glimpse of the river, and of some structures on
its opposite banks, while he could hear the dash of oars in the water,
and the cheerful voices of the boatmen. But the stern enthusiast
bestowed but little thought on the external world. His time was now
entirely occupied in preparation for eternity, and in fortifying himself
for the fiery ordeal by which his faith was to be approved.
On several occasions, as we have already stated, he had been
interrogated by Bonner, but neither promises of grace, nor threats of
torture, could move him. He resolutely refused to subscribe the
recantation proffered him by the bishop; and when the latter,
exasperated by his obstinacy, had him taken to the Post Room, stripped
to the girdle, tied to the wooden pillar in the centre of the chamber,
and severely scourged, he uttered no cry, but persisted in his refusal.
Determined to try the effect of greater severity, and having means and
appliances at hand, Bonner ordered him to be chained to the walls of his
cell till he should show signs of submission.
This was done. The unfortunate captive was fastened to two of the
ponderous iron rings which may still be seen in the walls of the prison,
and kept in such a position that he could neither lie down nor stand
erect.
In this woful plight he remained for three days and three nights,
debarred of his chief solace, the Bible, and unable to kneel in prayer
without putting himself to excruciating agony, but his constancy was
unsubdued, and when Bonner again visited him, thinking he must needs be
overcome, he found him unyielding as ever.
What further barbarities might have been practised by the savage prelate
upon the unfortunate captive can only be imagined, but happily his
victim was snatched from his clutches by Pole. Made aware how severely
the prisoner had been treated, the Cardinal instantly interfered, caused
the poor wretch’s chains to be taken off, and interdicted any further
application of torture. Bonner sullenly acquiesced, as indeed he was
obliged to do, but he promised himself to report the Cardinal’s culpable
leniency—for such he esteemed it—to their Majesties, and also to the
Pope.
“His Eminence is an abettor of heresy, instead of an uprooter of it,”
muttered the bishop. “If he be not recalled by the Pope, he will undo
all we have done.”
Not altogether satisfied with the report he had received of the
prisoner’s condition, Pole resolved to visit him in his cell, and was
accompanied in the errand of mercy by Priuli. The ascent of the narrow
spiral stone staircase leading from the Post Room to the prison-chamber
was somewhat painful to the Cardinal, and he was compelled to pause for
a few moments to recover himself as he reached the arched entrance of
the cell. This gave him an opportunity of examining the double doors,
which we have already described as of oak, bound with iron, and studded
with broad-headed nails; and he pointed out the immense thickness of the
planks to Priuli.
Neither of them had been before in the upper part of the Lollards’
Tower, and, as they entered the prison-chamber, they looked around it
with melancholy interest. The oak panels, dark almost as ebony, the
black boarded roof, the black boarded floor, the small grated windows,
the ponderous iron rings fastened in the walls, the prisoner seated on a
stool at a table of similar material and similar hue to the panels, all
constituted a picture that powerfully impressed them.
Derrick Carver was engaged in reading the Bible, and so profoundly
engrossed, that he did not raise his eyes on their entrance. The
Cardinal signed to Mallet, by whom they were attended, not to disturb
him. The rugged features and gaunt frame of the fanatic had undergone
little change, but his beard was grizzled, and his locks had become snow
white.
The Cardinal and Priuli contemplated him for some time with profound
interest, and in perfect silence, but at last an observation made by the
latter, though uttered in a low tone, reached the ears of the prisoner,
and caused him to look up. When he perceived who were in his cell, he
tried to rise, but was compelled by pain and weakness to relinquish the
attempt.
“The man is really too feeble to stand,” remarked Mallet. “Shall I bring
your Eminence a chair?”
Pole declined the offer, saying he could stand well enough.
“Leave the room, and remain without till you are summoned,” he added to
Mallet, who immediately obeyed the injunction, closing the door after
him as he went out.
“You are weak and ill, my poor friend,” said Pole, in a sympathetic
tone. “Wine and nourishing food shall be sent to recruit your strength.”
“I do not need them,” replied Carver. “Herein I find new life and
vigour,” he added, pointing to the Bible. “For three days and three
nights, while fastened to yon wall, was I deprived of this consolation,
and I account it the worst part of my suffering. I lack nothing now.”
“I am sorry you have been treated with so much severity,” observed the
Cardinal.
“I do not complain,” replied Carver. “I may not have been lawfully
punished with the scourge, or lawfully fastened to yon iron rings, but
there is little law or justice in England now, since we are under
Spanish rule.”
“You are mistaken, friend,” replied Pole. “The statutes against heresy
and schism, which were in force when this prison-chamber was built by
Archbishop Chicheley, in the time of Henry IV., more than a hundred
years ago, have been revived, and though your punishment has been
severe, it has not been contrary to law.”
“I have said I do not complain,” rejoined Carver. “We have provoked
Divine displeasure, and must endure our merited chastisement till the
wrath of Heaven be appeased. Were I called upon to suffer all the
persecutions endured by holy Paul, I would cheerfully bear them for the
sake of the Gospel.”
“I admire your resolution, friend,” said Pole; “but I beseech you to
consider well whether you may not be in error.”
“I cannot be in error, when I rely solely on the truths of Scripture,”
rejoined Carver.
“But there are doctrinal points upon which men are not agreed,” said the
Cardinal.
“There are,” replied Carver, “and my principles are those of the
Reformed Church. I abominate the Church of Rome, and regard it as the
synagogue of Satan, and the very sink of all heresy, superstition, and
idolatry. I will have no masses, no auricular confession with penance,
no image-worship. I deny the real presence in the sacrament. And I also
deny that the Pope is the head of the Christian Church, and utterly
reject his authority.”
“But if I can prove to you that you are wrong,” said Pole; “if I can
convince you that the Pope’s authority is derived from Saint Peter, and
through him from our Saviour himself, will you not admit that you have
formed erroneous conclusions?”
“I believe the Romish faith to be anti-Christian and naught,” rejoined
Carver. “I cannot worship at its altars, and were I to do so I should
place my soul in jeopardy. It is in vain to argue with me. Threats or
fair promises will be alike ineffectual. I am not be moved.”
“But if you obstinately close your ears, how can you ever learn the
truth?” said the Cardinal.
“I _have_ learnt the truth,” rejoined Carver, “and am proof against
fallacy and delusion. I have enough regard for your Eminence to wish you
were of my mind.”
“Well, try to convince me. Let me hear what you have to say in defence
of your faith,” observed Pole.
“’Twere to show him too much indulgence,” said Priuli.
“I could say much in defence of my faith,” observed Carver, “but I know
you would not listen to me, and I should therefore only throw away my
time. But let me not appear ungrateful. I am assured that your Eminence
is actuated by a sincere desire for my welfare.”
“I would save you, if possible, from the terrible death by which you are
menaced,” said the Cardinal. “Conform, and I will obtain your pardon.
Reflect on what I have said.”
“I need no reflection,” rejoined the other. “I could not conform with
hypocrisy, and I will never belie my conscience.”
“Have you no ties that bind you to earth?—none for whom you desire to
live?” said the Cardinal.
“I have a wife and children, and an aged mother,” replied Carver; “but I
gave up all when I entered the service of my Heavenly Master.”
“And would you leave them without a protector?” said Pole.
“Heaven will watch over them,” rejoined the other.
“This man appears callous to all human emotions and sympathies,”
observed Priuli.
“There you do not judge me rightly,” said Carver. “My breast is not
devoid of affection. I love my wife and children—I love my
mother—dearly—very dearly. But I am a soldier of Christ, and having been
summoned to the fight, must obey the call. If I die in His cause, those
dear to me will not be deserted. You cannot touch me. There is no weak
part in my armour.”
“Then you do not desire to confer with me further?” said Pole. “You have
nothing to ask of me?”
“There is one favour I would solicit,” said Carver. “Before I am taken
hence I would fain have a last interview with Constance Tyrrell.”
“I cannot grant it,” replied Pole. “I hope to accomplish her conversion,
and your influence might counteract my efforts.”
“But she continues stedfast in her faith?—Tell me that?” cried Carver,
anxiously.
“I cannot answer the question,” returned Pole; “would not, if I could.”
“She does!—I am sure she does!” exclaimed the enthusiast. “She is my
spiritual daughter. Her conversion was my work, and I glory in it.
Having opened her eyes to the light, she will not relapse into
darkness—never. No; I have no misgivings about Constance.”
“Be not too confident,” rejoined Pole. “My hope is to bring her back to
the fold from which she has strayed. You have preferred a request to me
which I am compelled to refuse, but I will grant you a favour which you
have not solicited. I desire to benefit you as far as I can, and will
lighten the irksomeness of your confinement. In a few days you will have
recovered your strength, and will be able to go forth. Pledge me your
word to return early in the evening, and you shall be allowed liberty
during the daytime.”
“What is this I hear?” cried Carver, astounded. “Is it possible that
your Eminence will allow me to go where I list during the daytime?”
“You shall go forth wholly unattended on your promise to return,”
rejoined the Cardinal.
“I never looked for such indulgence as this,” said Carver, much
affected. “When I have heard the voices of the boatmen on the river, and
other gladsome sounds, I have longed to join my fellow-men, but I have
checked the feeling, knowing it could not be gratified. But now your
Eminence offers me this great boon—a boon I should not have dared to
ask—and with no conditions annexed to it.”
“None save that I mentioned,” replied Pole. “You shall be free to go
forth, but you must come back to your cell at eventide.”
For a few moments Carver covered his face with his hands, and tears
trickled down his rugged cheeks. After a while he looked up and, in
broken accents, said, “I did not think to weep again either for joy or
grief. But your Eminence’s goodness has touched me to the heart, and
opened fountains which I deemed fast sealed. You shall not find me
unworthy of the confidence reposed in me. The promise you exact shall be
religiously fulfilled. If I am suffered to go abroad, I will assuredly
return.”
“Is it safe to let him out?” observed Priuli. “He is seditious and
perilous.”
“I will trust him,” replied Pole.
Upon this he called in Mallet, and informed him of the permission he had
granted the prisoner.
“But, your Eminence,” remonstrated the keeper, “I am responsible for his
safe custody to Bishop Bonner. If this unheard-of license be granted
him, the man will never come back.”
“Set your mind at ease on that score, good friend,” observed Carver. “I
have plighted my word to the Lord Cardinal, and I will die rather than
break it.”
“But what am I to say to the bishop? I shall never be able to face him.”
“Say that you act by my orders,” returned the Cardinal. “Refer the
bishop to me.”
“Such a thing was never done before,” said Mallet. “As well let loose a
ravening wolf among a flock of sheep as liberate this man.”
“Let my bidding be done,” said Pole. “If blame there be, it will rest on
my head.—Farewell, friend,” he added to Carver, “do not abuse the
license given you.”
“Your Eminence shall have no cause to repent your trust in me,” said
Carver.
On this the Cardinal and Priuli quitted the cell.
“Methinks you have shown too much consideration to this man,” observed
Priuli. “He does not deserve your kindness.”
“Time will show,” replied Pole. “I have faith in him—hope in his
conversion.”
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII.
HOW DERRICK CARVER FULFILLED HIS PROMISE.
Three days afterwards, Derrick Carver, upon whom the Cardinal’s goodness
had operated like a sovereign cordial, giving him new life and energy,
announced that he was strong enough to avail himself of the permission
he had received, and, accordingly, the door of his cell was unlocked by
Mallet, who accompanied him to the palace gates, and there let him go,
never expecting, as he frankly avowed, to behold him again.
“It may be well to follow him and see what he is about,” observed
Rodomont, who was standing by.
“Nay, his Eminence has strictly forbidden that,” said Mallet. “The man
is to be left to his own devices. If he come back, I shall esteem him a
greater fool than heretic.”
“Tut, he will return,” said Rodomont. “His Eminence understands him
better than you do.”
“Well, we shall see,” rejoined the other.
On that very day, it chanced that Bishop Bonner came to Lambeth Palace,
and proceeding straightway to the Lollards’ Tower, inquired for the
prisoner. On learning that he had been allowed to go forth, he flew into
a violent passion, and declared he would have the keeper punished for
his gross breach of duty. Mallet excused himself, and referred the
infuriated bishop to the Cardinal, but Bonner could not obtain an
audience till his rage had had time to subside. Pole listened to his
complaints and then replied, calmly,—
“It is true, I have let the man go on his promise to return in the
evening.”
“But what is the promise of such a false knave worth?” cried Bonner,
contemptuously. “He will infallibly break it.”
“I do not think so,” rejoined the Cardinal. “But tarry with me till
eventide, and you will see.”
Bonner agreed, dined with the Cardinal in the banqueting-hall, and, as
there were many other important guests that day, he made merry, and
thought no more about the prisoner. While he was sitting, however, with
his host and Priuli, Rodomont Bittern entered, and, bowing to the
Cardinal said,—
“Your Eminence desired to be informed when Derrick Carver came back. As
the clock struck five, he returned to his cell.”
Pole smiled, and, turning to the Bishop, observed,—
“I was right in my judgment of him, you perceive.”
“I cannot deny it,” replied Bonner. “Nevertheless, I would advise your
Eminence to recall your permission. Most assuredly he will do much
mischief out of doors.”
“If it turn out so, he shall be kept within his cell,” rejoined Pole.
Shortly after this, Bonner took leave of the Cardinal, but, before
quitting the palace, he satisfied himself, by personal inspection, that
Carver was safe in his cell. He found him, as usual, reading the Bible,
and, if he had dared, would have vented his rage upon him by causing him
to be tied to the whipping-post in the chamber beneath and scourged.
“I will have him burnt as soon as possible,” he observed to Mallet. “It
is monstrous that such a vile wretch should be treated with so much
leniency. And what of the Cardinal’s other cade-lamb, Mistress Constance
Tyrrell? Has she been brought back from her apostacy?”
“I cannot say, in sooth, my lord,” replied Mallet. “But I incline to
think not, seeing she doth not attend mass.”
“Not attend mass! Then she is still defiled by heresy,” cried Bonner.
“We will have her at Smithfield in spite of the Cardinal.” And with this
amiable resolve he departed.
Next morning Carver went forth again, returning punctually at five
o’clock in the evening, and he pursued the same course for nearly a
week, rather anticipating his time than staying beyond it. One evening,
however, he did not appear as usual. Three hours more went by, and still
he came not, and then Mallet thought it right to acquaint the Cardinal
with his prolonged absence. The information caused Pole to look grave.
“Something must have happened to him,” he said. “I do not believe he
would have stayed away of his own accord, still less do I deem he has
any design of evasion. Send Rodomont Bittern to me.”
On Rodomont’s arrival, the Cardinal ordered him to make immediate
inquiries after the prisoner, and to take any persons with him who might
aid in the quest.
“My own opinion is that the man has fallen into a snare.” Pole said.
“But I leave it to your shrewdness to discover what has become of him.”
“In obedience to your Eminence’s injunctions, his movements have not
been watched,” replied Rodomont, “so that we have no clue to guide us.
Nevertheless, I will essay to find him.”
“About the business forthwith, and with a good heart,” said the
Cardinal. “You are quick-witted, and your penetration will put you on
the right track.”
Taking with him his lieutenants, Jack Holiday and Nick Simnel, Rodomont
set out on his mission. Revolving what the Cardinal had said while
dismissing him, he came to the conclusion that he should get on the
right track by going to Bonner, who, he suspected, had a strong motive
for keeping the prisoner out of the way.
Accordingly, he entered the Cardinal’s barge with his friends, bidding
the oarsmen row them with all possible dispatch to the stairs at Paul’s
chain, where, landing, they made the best of their way to the palace of
the Bishop of London—a large edifice, which then stood on the north-west
side of the cathedral.
From the porter at the palace gate they ascertained that Bonner was
attending vespers in Saint Paul’s, where they could speak with him on
the conclusion of the service. Rodomont then inquired from the porter
whether any heretics had been arrested that day. The man replied that
several had been taken at a conventicle in Foster-lane, and that the
chief sacramentary, who had been holding forth to the others, was
detained in a strong-room in the gate till the lord bishop should decide
what was to be done with him.
Rodomont then explained to the porter that he was an officer in Cardinal
Pole’s household, and with his companions was in search of an heretical
prisoner named Derrick Carver, and this perchance might be he.
“Marry, ’tis the very man,” replied the porter.
Whereupon, he unlocked the door of the strong-room, and showed them
Carver within it, seated on a bench, with his hands tied behind his back
with cords. Rodomont would fain have carried him off at once, but this
the porter would not permit, saying they must tarry till the bishop
returned from Saint Paul’s.
Half an hour elapsed before Bonner made his appearance, and when he
found Rodomont and his comrades there he was exceedingly wroth, and
refused to give up the prisoner.
“The knave was taken at a conventicle in Foster-Lane,” he said, “where
he was preaching heretical doctrines, praying against her Majesty, and
giving the communion according to the prohibited book of service. I
greatly marvel that the Cardinal should allow such a pestilent wretch to
go forth to spread contagion abroad. Depart now, and tell his Eminence
that I will bring back the man to him to-morrow. He is safe here, as ye
can bear witness.”
“Our orders are to bring him back wherever we may find him,” rejoined
Rodomont, “and those we must obey.”
“What!” cried Bonner. “Will ye take him from me by force?”
“We trust your lordship will not drive us to that extremity,” replied
Rodomont. “We claim this man as the Lord Cardinal’s prisoner, and we
require your lordship to deliver him up to us. If you resist, the fault
will rest with you.”
“E’en take him, then,” rejoined Bonner furiously. “But ye may rest
assured I will not be robbed of my prey. He is a preacher of heresy and
sedition, a blasphemer and traitor, and I will burn him in spite of the
Cardinal. It shall go hard if I burn not Mistress Constance Tyrrell at
the same time.”
Rodomont and his comrades stayed to hear no more, but carried off the
prisoner, and placing him in the barge, conveyed him to Lambeth Palace.
On arriving there they took him at once before the Cardinal, and
Rodomont explained what had occurred.
“Your Eminence will perceive that I was forcibly detained,” said Carver.
“Had it not been so, I should have returned at the appointed hour.”
“I sent you not forth to propagate heresy and sedition,” said Pole,
severely. “You have broken the compact between us, and abused my
confidence. You can go forth no more.”
Carver bowed his head in submission, and was taken to his cell in the
Lollards’ tower.
End of the Third Book.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
BOOK IV.
SMITHFIELD.
CHAPTER I.
HOW A SOLEMN PROCESSION WAS FORMED AT SAINT PAUL’S,
AND SET FORTH TOWARDS SMITHFIELD.
Five Protestant divines, amongst whom were Hooper, the deprived Bishop
of Gloucester, and Rogers, a prebend of Saint Paul’s, having been
excommunicated and delivered to the sheriffs, and continuing firm in the
maintenance of their opinions, they were doomed to death at the stake.
It was appointed that Hooper should suffer at Gloucester, and Rogers at
Smithfield, and it was furthermore appointed that Rogers should be the
first to die. Rogers, we may mention, was one of the first theological
scholars of the age, and had assisted Tyndal in translating the Bible in
the time of Henry VIII.
At the earnest solicitation of Gardiner and Bonner, the King consented
to be present at the celebration of this act of faith, but Cardinal Pole
refused to attend it, stating that he would not countenance such a
proceeding. Enraged at his opposition, the two prelates took the only
revenge in their power, and procured a warrant from the Queen,
authorising them to compel the attendance at the terrible ceremonial of
any heretical prisoners they might designate. Armed with this warrant,
on the night previous to the execution they gave notice to the Cardinal
that they should send for Derrick Carver and Constance Tyrrell at an
early hour on the morrow.
That night, as enjoined by the Cardinal, and as her own feelings would
have prompted without the injunction, Constance never sought her couch,
but spent the hours in prayer and meditation. Before daybreak she awoke
old Dorcas, who was slumbering tranquilly, and with her aid attired
herself carefully in dark habiliments, and, thus prepared, patiently
awaited the anticipated summons. Ere long, a gentle tap was heard
without, and the door being opened by Dorcas, the Cardinal entered.
“I have come to see you before you set out, daughter,” he said. “My own
heart is sad. I have passed the night in vigil and prayer, yet I do not
feel comforted. I cannot divest myself of the dread that this day will
be prejudicial to our religion. A just man is about to be sacrificed,
and his blood will cry out for vengeance. But here come the guard,” he
added, as Rodomont and his companions appeared at the doorway. “Are you
ready?”
“Quite ready,” she replied. “But before I leave, let me crave a blessing
from your Eminence.”
“You have it, daughter,” he replied, extending his arms over her. “May
Heaven sustain you during the awful scene you will be compelled to
witness!”
Quitting the room, she followed Rodomont and the others to the outer
court. At the Lollards’ Tower they were joined by Derrick Carver, who
was brought forth by Mallet. On beholding Constance, the enthusiast
uttered a joyful exclamation, but he was not permitted to converse with
her, and the party proceeded in silence to the wharf without the palace
gate, where lay a barge, which had been sent for the prisoners by
Bonner.
Within this vessel were two Dominicans, an officer of the guard, and a
couple of halberdiers. At the prow was displayed a black banner, on
which was inscribed the words: EXURGE, DOMINE, ET JUDICA CAUSAM TUAM, ET
DISSIPENTUR INIMICI FIDEI.
The prisoners having entered the barge with Rodomont Bittern, who had
been enjoined by the Cardinal to attend them, the vessel was pushed off,
and moved down the stream.
The morning was dark and raw. A fog hung over the river, partly
concealing the objects on its banks. Officers and men maintained a moody
silence, and the only sound heard was a doleful hymn chanted by the
Dominicans, and taken up by the occupants of some skiffs that had
accompanied the barge from Lambeth.
At Paul’s Wharf the prisoners were landed, and conducted thence up
Bennet’s Hill and Paul’s Chain to the Cathedral.
Matins were just over, and within the broad nave of the noble fane a
great number of priests, attired in their robes, were assembled, prior
to marching in solemn procession to Smithfield.
In the aisles, guarded by halberdiers, were collected groups of
recusants of both sexes, brought thither to give effect to the
ceremonial. Apart from these, but likewise brought from prison to grace
the procession, were several deprived divines of the Protestant Church,
some of whom afterwards testified to their faith at the stake, while
others were starved in their cells, or died from ill treatment. Many who
then met on that melancholy morn, and exchanged a friendly greeting, or
a few words of comfort, saw each other for the last time on earth. But
in the faces of these stout-hearted champions of the Protestant Church
no traces of doubt or discouragement could be discerned. They were
evidently prepared to meet their fate with resolution. Neither did they
manifest sorrow for the brother about to suffer, regarding him as one
whose trials were well-nigh over, and who was certain of meeting his
reward.
Within the nave and aisles were congregated a vast number of spectators
of the solemn scene.
Close to one of the enormous columns lining the south aisle of the
magnificent fane stood Constance. She was looking with a wistful eye at
the deprived Protestant divines, when her own name was breathed in her
ear by some one close behind.
Not doubting who spoke, she partly turned her head, and perceived Osbert
Clinton, who, screened from the guard by the pillar, had contrived to
approach her. The only person who noticed the manœuvre was Rodomont,
but the kind-hearted fellow looked another way, and tried not to hear
what was passing.
Not much was said—but the few words spoke of the young man’s
wretchedness at the protracted separation from her he loved.
“Be patient,” she said. “All will be well in the end.”
“Talk not to me of patience,” he rejoined. “I am unable to practice it.
My heart will burst in the effort. I cannot live without you, Constance.
Commit yourself to me, and I will free you. You will be gone before the
guard can notice your absence; and once mingled with the throng, you
will be safe. Come!”
“I cannot—dare not go,” she replied. “What would the good Cardinal think
of me if I complied?”
“Heed him not, but think of me, whom you doom to misery by hesitation.
Do not throw away this chance. Another may not occur.”
“Pass if you will,” interposed the friendly Rodomont, in a low voice. “I
shall hear and see nothing.”
Squeezing his arm by way of thanks, Osbert renewed his entreaties to
Constance.
“No, I cannot do it,” she rejoined. “My word to the Queen restrains me.”
“What? not gone!” exclaimed Rodomont, looking round. “Peste! it is now
too late.”
Just then a movement took place in the nave, and the attention of the
guard was drawn to the prisoners.
Clad in his full robes, wearing his mitre, and carrying his crosier,
Bonner issued from the sacristy. Before him were borne two large silver
crosses, and the pix under a rich canopy. At the same time, the
procession was marshalled by the priests. Long wax tapers were lighted
and distributed among the recusants, who were compelled to carry them;
the Protestant divines being alone exempted from this degrading office.
As soon as the procession was formed, the halberdiers at the head of it
marched through the great western portal of the cathedral, and were
followed by a long line of recusants, men and women, bearing lighted
tapers. Amongst these were Constance and Derrick Carver.
Then came the deprived Protestant clergy, walking two and two. They were
succeeded by monks and friars in the habits of their orders. Then came
priests in their robes, and lastly Bonner himself, attired as we have
described, and preceded by the large silver crosses and the pix. On
either side of the sacramentaries were halberdiers to keep off the
crowd. Nor was this the only precaution taken. Outside the cathedral
there was a detachment of mounted arquebusiers to clear the way for the
train, while a band of archers brought up the rear.
As the procession issued forth from Saint Paul’s, the bells of Saint
Martin’s, Ludgate, and other churches on the line of way, began to toll
slowly and solemnly.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
THE HALT AT NEWGATE.
It was a day of triumph to Bonner, and his heart swelled with pride and
gratified vengeance as he marched along. The precincts of the cathedral
were crowded with spectators, as indeed were all the streets traversed
by the _cortége_ on its way to Smithfield. The majority of the beholders
being Romanists, they prostrated themselves devoutly as the host went
by, while the priests accompanying the bishop sprinkled them with holy
water.
However, there were many who refused to kneel, and who were only
restrained by fear from giving utterance to their abhorrence of the
ceremony. As the train was passing through Ludgate, a man called out in
a stentorian voice, “So, my masters, at last we have got the Inquisition
in England!” But scarcely had the words escaped him, when he was seized
and dragged off.
Arrived at Newgate, where Prebend Rogers had been kept since his
condemnation, the _cortége_ came to a halt, and, after a short delay,
the prisoner was brought forth. He was a man of middle age, tall of
stature, thin, but well-built, dark-complexioned, and possessing a
grave, intelligent countenance.
He looked perfectly composed, and remarked, as he noticed the extent of
the _cortége_, “Ye make as great a show as if ye were about to conduct
me to a festival, and not to the stake.”
While the sheriffs, who had charge of the doomed man, and who wore their
robes and chains, were mounting their horses, a painful incident
occurred. With loud cries, that ought to have moved every breast, a
woman, having a young child in her arms, and with several other
terrified children clinging to her, burst through the ranks of the
halberdiers, exclaiming, “For Christ our Saviour’s sake, let me bid a
last farewell to my husband!”
“Get hence, importunate and troublesome woman!” cried one of the
sheriffs, named Woodrooffe, in loud and harsh tones. “This man is not
thy husband.”
“I protest to you he is, Sir,” she rejoined, in extremity of anguish,
“my lawful husband, and these are our children.”
“Spawn of the devil!” shouted Woodrooffe. “Away with all thy brood of
Satan, or the men shall drive you hence with their halberds. You ought
to know that a priest cannot marry.”
“We have been married these fourteen years, Sir,” said Rogers. “I pray
you suffer her to come to me. ’Twill be a comfort to her and to the
children to say farewell, and receive my blessing. Our parting will be
short. If you are a husband and a father yourself, you will not be deaf
to my appeal.”
“I am both, yet will I not suffer her or her base-born brats to come
near thee,” roared Woodrooffe. “Push them away with your pikes if they
will not retire peaceably,” he added to the guard.
“Heaven forgive you!” exclaimed Rogers, as his wife and children were
thrust aside. “’Twas the sole consolation I asked, and that is denied
me.”
Shortly after this interruption, the _cortége_ moved forward again, the
condemned, closely attended by the sheriffs and their officers,
following next after Bonner.
On either side of the doomed man walked a priest with a crucifix in his
hand, one or other of whom was constantly dinning exhortations to
repentance into his ears. To these he would not listen, but recited
aloud the _Miséréré_. His firm deportment and serene countenance—for he
speedily recovered his composure—produced a strong effect upon the
beholders.
The bell of Saint Sepulchre’s tolled solemnly as the procession wended
its way along Giltspur Street, and the bells of the two churches
dedicated to Saint Bartholomew filled the air with the like dismal
clangour, as the head of the cavalcade rode into Smithfield.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
SMITHFIELD IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
No part of London is richer in historical recollections of various kinds
than Smithfield. In this enclosure, which in old times was a broad and
pleasant field, lying without the City walls on the north-west, were
held jousts and tournaments on the most splendid scale, and attended by
kings, foreign potentates and ambassadors, nobles, knights, and dames of
the highest rank and peerless beauty. Barriers were frequently set up in
Smithfield by Edward III., and here a grand tournament, which lasted for
a week, was given by the same monarch, in the latter part of his reign,
in honour of the beautiful Alice Perrars, by whose charms he was
bewitched. Another grand tournament was held here by Richard II., on
which occasion sixty knights on richly-caparisoned coursers, and each
attended by a lady of honour mounted upon a palfrey, rode from the Tower
to Smithfield, where, in the presence of the King and Queen and chief
nobles, many commendable courses were run. In the same reign, the Earl
of Mar came from Scotland to challenge the Earl of Nottingham, and the
trial of skill took place at Smithfield, resulting in the overthrow of
Mar, who was so severely hurt by his opponent that he died on the way
back. In the time of Henry IV., the Earl of Somerset, Sir John Cornwall,
Sir Richard Arundel, and others, tilted with certain Frenchmen; and in
the same reign a duel took place between Gloucester and Arthur, which
would have terminated fatally but for the King’s interference. In the
succeeding reign, Sir Robert Carey fought an Aragonese knight at
Smithfield, and slew him. Several desperate combats occurred here in the
reign of Henry VI., but we cannot dwell upon them, and must conclude our
brief summary by allusion to the famous encounter between Lord Scales
and the Bastard of Burgundy, held before Edward IV., at which the
English noble had the advantage, both mounted and on foot, with poleaxe
as well as with spear.
Many judicial combats were likewise fought at Smithfield, and here it
was that the armourer was slain by his false servant—a picturesque
incident introduced with admirable effect by Shakespeare in the Second
Part of “Henry VI.” Other occurrences of a yet more tragical character
are not wanting to deepen the interest of the spot. At the north of the
field, and between a large pool and a track of marshy land, grew some
gigantic elms, and amidst these stately trees stood a permanent gallows,
at which the great Scottish hero, William Wallace, was barbarously
hanged, and, while yet breathing, disembowelled and quartered. In the
centre of the field the Lollards were burnt, and on the same spot, at a
later date, numberless victims of the tyrant Henry’s rage perished in
the same fearful manner.
The darkest page, however, in the annals of Smithfield, belongs to the
period under consideration.
But Smithfield has lively as well as sombre traditions. Here the famous
Bartholomew Fair was held, the humours of which have been painted by Ben
Jonson. Though the amusements of this annual City carnival might
scandalise the present decorous generation, they suited our forefathers,
who had no objection to a little riotous excess. In the last century,
when Bartholomew Fair was at its zenith, excellent theatrical
representations were given there, and Fielding himself had a booth at
Smithfield.[A] However, tastes changed. Bartholomew Fair lost its
attraction, was voted a nuisance, and finally abolished, though it
lingered on till within the last few years.
Footnote A:
See Mr. Morley’s “Memoirs of Bartholomew Fair”—a work full of curious
research and delightfully written.
At the period of our history, Smithfield retained most of its original
features. It was still an open field without the walls, resorted to by
the citizens for purposes of recreation, and was constantly used, as at
an earlier date, for grand military displays and for public executions.
The grove of giant elms, with the gallows in the midst, was still
standing near the pool, and no part of the broad enclosure had as yet
been encroached upon.
On the east side of the area, partially screened by a large mansion,
stood the Priory of Saint Bartholomew, a noble religious institution,
founded in the time of Henry I., by Rahere, the King’s minstrel, and
which flourished until the dissolution of the monasteries, when it was
granted by Henry VIII. to his Attorney-General, Sir Richard Rich. The
size and importance of the priory will be understood, when it is stated
that in addition to the abode and dormitories of the prior and monks,
the establishment comprised a large conventual church, refectory, hall,
cloisters, courts, and numerous offices, together with extensive
gardens—among which was a mulberry-garden. The splendid church was
partially pulled down, and the materials sold, but, on the accession of
Queen Mary, the remnant of the sacred pile, together with other portions
of the monastery, were restored to the brotherhood of Black Canons, from
whom they had been wrested, and continued in their hands till the time
of Elizabeth, when the fraternity was ejected.
In front of the priory, as above stated, was a large and picturesque
mansion, which delighted the eye with its high pointed roof, carved
gables, richly-sculptured portals, and mullioned windows. Adjacent to
this habitation was an ancient gateway, leading to the conventual
church, over the pointed arch of which was a tabernacle containing a
statue of Saint Bartholomew holding a knife. On the north of the priory
ran a long narrow lane, with detached houses and gardens on either side
of it, communicating with Aldersgate Street.
On the south side of Smithfield stood the old hospital belonging to the
priory, at the rear of which was the church of Saint Bartholomew the
Less. On the west of the area were a few scattered habitations, amongst
which were three renowned hostels, the Saint Catherine’s Wheel, the
King’s Head, and the Rose. Here another narrow lane, skirted by small
tenements, ran down to Holborn.
The best view of Smithfield was from the ground near the old elm-trees.
Standing there, and looking towards the City, the prospect was
exceedingly striking. On the left was the priory, surmounted by the
square tower of the conventual church, and contiguous to it the ancient
hospital—a highly picturesque structure. Further on was Saint
Sepulchre’s. The north-western angle of the ancient City walls, with its
ramparts and battlements, was seen to great advantage from this point.
Hundreds of lofty and slender spires, graceful steeples, crocketed
pinnacles, and embattled towers, long since destroyed, met the gaze. But
the grand object of all was the venerable Gothic cathedral, with its
spire, upwards of five hundred feet in height, which could here be
surveyed in all its majesty and beauty.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT PASSED IN SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’S CHURCH.
A great crowd had assembled in Smithfield to witness the sad spectacle,
but a circular space was kept clear in the centre of the area exactly
opposite the ancient gateway leading to the priory.
Within this ring, which was guarded by a double line of halberdiers,
stood a stout square oak post, about nine feet high, driven securely
into the ground, and having a heavy iron chain attached to it by a
staple. Hard by was an immense pile of fagots, with some blocks of wood.
A little further off there was another pile, consisting of bundles of
dried reeds.
Close by the stake stood three men, of savage and repulsive aspect,
clothed in leathern jerkins and tight-fitting hose of blood-red hue,
having long iron prongs in their hands.
As the _cortége_ entered Smithfield, and the intended martyr was
descried, a murmur of commiseration rose from those who sympathised with
him, but it was instantly drowned by a hurricane of fierce and exulting
yells from the Romanists.
Meantime, the mounted arquebusiers having cleared a passage through the
crowd, the long line of priests with their banners and crosses, the
recusants with the tapers, the deprived Protestant divines, Bonner and
the condemned, passed through the gateway, and, traversing the court,
proceeded to the ancient conventual church, the bell of which sounded
dolefully the while.
At the portal they were met by the prior of the Black Canons, with
several of the brethren in their sable robes, and conducted to the
places appointed for them in the sacred edifice.
The recusants were ranged on one side, and the Protestant divines on the
other, while the Romish priests proceeded to the presbytery. A chair
opposite the pulpit was assigned to the doomed man, on which he sat
down, with two halberdiers standing behind him.
On a faldstool near the altar sat Philip, who had come there quite
privately, and was only attended by his confessor, Father Alfonso de
Castro. In the choir sat Gardiner, with some members of the council.
Beneath a circular arch, resting on massive cylindrical pillars, near
the north transept, stood Osbert Clinton, who, having accompanied the
_cortége_ from Saint Paul’s, had entered the church at the same time
with it, and stationed himself where he could best see Constance without
being observed by the King. She soon became aware of his presence, but
only ventured occasionally to look towards him, and then her glances
yielded him little comfort.
After a brief delay, Bonner ascended the pulpit, and taking for his text
Saint Paul’s words to the Galatians, “_I would they were cut off that
trouble you_,” he preached a violent sermon on the necessity of
punishing heretics and false brethren with death, citing many
authorities in favour of his views, and asserting that to maintain that
heresy ought to go unpunished would be to maintain that the worst crimes
should be unchastised. “Heresy,” he said, “being treason against Heaven,
deserves the punishment of treason. As such a traitor,” he added,
turning to Rogers, “thou wilt be consigned to a fire, which will be to
thee a foretaste of the flames in which thou shalt burn everlastingly.
Thy fate will be a terrible lesson to all who think with thee.”
“It will be a lesson to them how to testify to their faith,” rejoined
the prebend.
Bonner having descended from the pulpit, a votive mass for taking away
schism was performed by Gardiner, who solemnly pronounced the
oration:—_Deus qui errata corrigis, et dispersa congregas, et congregata
conservas; quæsumus, super populum Christianum tuæ unionis gratiam
clementer infunde: ut divisione rejecta, vero Pastori Ecclesiæ tuæ se
venies, tibi dignè valeat famulari_.
Mass ended, the _Dies Iræ_ was sung by the choir of the Black Canons,
and, while this was proceeding, the _cortége_ began to move, passing
slowly before the altar, preparatory to quitting the church.
As before, a long array of priests with banners walked with noiseless
tread, bowing reverently as they passed the altar. Then came the
recusants, carrying their lighted tapers, but not a knee was bent
amongst them, not a head inclined.
Last amongst these walked Constance, alone. She had to pass close by
Philip, who was seated on the faldstool, with Gardiner and Father
Alfonso beside him, and as she approached him, her strength began to
fail, and her knees tottered. She tried to summon all her energies, but
in vain. In another moment she felt she must sink. Philip’s gaze was
fixed steadily upon her. A desperate effort to pass deprived her of the
little strength left, and with a cry she let fall the taper, and would
have sunk upon the pavement if the King himself had not caught her.
“Oh that I could die!” she gasped.
“No, you must live for me, Constance,” whispered Philip, passionately.
She looked at him for a moment with mingled fear and aversion, and then
closed her eyes.
“She has swooned,” said the King, consigning her to Rodomont, who had
been marching behind her. “Take her where she can be tended.”
In obedience to the injunction, Rodomont bore her to the sacristy, where
restoratives were applied by a monk, who acted as physician to the
brotherhood of the Black Canons.
This incident, as may be supposed, had not passed unnoticed by Osbert
Clinton, whose eyes had never quitted Constance for a moment. As she
tottered and fell into the King’s arms, his agony became almost
insupportable; and when she was borne to the sacristy by Rodomont, he
would have flown instantly to her assistance if he had dared.
Meanwhile the _cortége_ continued to pass slowly by the King. The
Protestant divines made him an obeisance as they passed, but sedulously
abstained from bowing to the altar. Lastly came the intended martyr, who
walked with a firm step, and head erect.
As he came near, Gardiner commanded him to stop, and thus addressed him:
“John Rogers, somewhile priest, but now an excommunicate person, we have
striven to convert thee, and by wholesome admonitions to reduce thee
again unto the true faith and unity of the universal Catholic Church,
but we have found thee obstinate and stiff-necked, stedfastly continuing
in thy damnable opinions and heresies, and refusing to return to the lap
of the holy mother church. Wherefore, not being willing that thou
shouldst infect the Lord’s flock with thine heresy, we have cast thee
out from the Church as an obstinate, impenitent sinner, and have left
thee to the judgment of the secular power, by whom thou hast been justly
condemned to perish by fire. The punishment is inflicted upon thee for
the salvation of thine own soul, and as a step towards the extirpation
of heresy.”
“What consequences may follow my punishment, my lord, none of us can
tell,” rejoined Rogers; “but I am fully prepared to die.”
“Sinner as thou art, wilt thou be converted and live?” cried Gardiner.
“Here is her Majesty’s pardon,” he added, showing him a scroll.
“I reject it,” said Rogers, stoutly. “I maintain that the Catholic
Church of Rome is the Church of Antichrist. Item, that in the sacrament
of the altar——”
“A truce to thy blasphemies,” interrupted Gardiner, furiously. “Away
with him to the stake!”
“I am ready,” said Rogers. “I bid you all to my funeral pile. You shall
see how a true believer can die. If I blench, proclaim me a renegade.”
Hereupon, the Protestant divines, who had listened with great
satisfaction, moved on, and Rogers followed them with a firm step.
While this occurred, Osbert Clinton had contrived to steal unperceived
to the sacristy. Constance had just recovered from her swoon. Luckily,
no one was with her but Rodomont, the monk who had tended her having
just quitted the chamber.
“Why have you come here, Sir?” cried Rodomont. “Matters were bad enough
before, but your imprudence will make them ten times worse. If the King
discovers you, you are lost.”
“I care not what happens to me,” replied Osbert. “I could not keep away.
Fear nothing, Constance,” he added, “I will not quit you more.”
“This is madness,” cried Rodomont. “The King is certain to come hither,
and then you will be arrested. Hide yourself in this cupboard,” he
added, opening the door of a large oak ambry reared against the wall.
“It only contains a few priestly vestments, and you can stand upright
within it.”
But Osbert refused to move.
“Do as he recommends, I implore you,” said Constance to him. “You will
throw away your life by staying with me.”
“To be sure he will,” rejoined Rodomont, dragging him away, and forcing
him into the ambry, the door of which he shut.
The step was only just taken in time. In another moment, the King came
into the sacristy, and seeing that Constance had recovered, he signed to
Rodomont to leave the chamber.
“I have much to say to you, Constance,” he began, “but this is not the
moment for it. Are you still in the same mood as when I saw you last?
Has no change been wrought in your sentiments?”
“None, Sire,” she replied. “I am quite happy in the life I lead with the
good Cardinal, and only pray it may continue.”
“But you still maintain your heretical opinions?” said the King.
“Firmly as ever, Sire.”
“And does not this awful ceremonial shake you?”
“On the contrary, it strengthens my convictions.”
“All heretics are alike—all obstinate and contumacious,” muttered
Philip. “Constance, you cannot go back to the Cardinal. He is much too
lenient to you. I shall deliver you to Bishop Bonner, who will treat you
very differently.”
“Oh! Sire, do not deliver me to that cruel man. Let me go back to the
good Cardinal, who has been as a father to me. Have compassion upon me.”
“You have no compassion upon me, Constance,” rejoined Philip. “You care
not for my sufferings. Relent towards me, and I will be less rigorous
towards you.”
“It cannot be, Sire,” she rejoined.
“Be not hasty. Reflect. If I consign you to Bonner, your fate is
certain. After the execution, the sight of which I will spare you, I
will return for your answer. A guard will be placed at the door to
prevent your exit, but no one shall disturb you. Again, I say, reflect.
On your own decision hangs your fate.”
So saying, he quitted the sacristy, the door of which was locked
outside.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
THE PROTO-MARTYR OF THE PROTESTANT CHURCH.
The solemn proceedings we have described as taking place in the
conventual church of Saint Bartholomew occupied more than an hour, and
during this time the concourse within Smithfield had considerably
increased. Every available inch of ground commanding a view of the place
of execution was by this time occupied. The roofs and windows of all the
habitations overlooking the enclosure were filled, and the giant
elm-trees near the pool had hundreds among their branches. Romanists and
Protestants could be readily distinguished from each other by their
looks—the countenances of the former being fierce and exulting in
expression, while those of the other bespoke sorrow and indignation.
On the left of the gangway leading to the priory and opposite the stake,
a large scaffold had been erected. It was covered with black cloth, and
in front was an immense cross embroidered in silver, underneath which
was inscribed, UNUS DOMINUS, UNA FIDES, UNUM BAPTISMA. This scaffold was
intended for the recusants and Protestant divines, and was guarded by
mounted arquebusiers.
On the right of the gateway was reared a long covered gallery, hung with
crimson cloth of gold, and emblazoned with the royal arms. This gallery
was approached from the upper windows of the mansion against which it
was set, and was reserved for the King, the bishops, and the council. It
was likewise guarded by mounted men-at-arms.
The patience of the densely-packed crowd, eager for the exciting
spectacle it had come to witness, was well-nigh exhausted, when the
solemn tolling of the bell of the conventual church announced that, at
last, the intended martyr was coming forth. Then all noise and tumult
suddenly ceased, and deep silence fell upon the throng.
In the midst of this hush the doleful hymn chanted by the monks could be
distinctly heard. Every eye was then directed towards the gateway.
Presently the priests emerged, carrying the crucifixes and banners, and
mounting the scaffold, they ranged themselves in front of it. They were
followed by the recusants with lighted torches, who were placed at the
back of the scaffold, while the middle seats were allotted to the
Protestant divines.
All these proceedings were watched with deep interest by the spectators.
Many an eye was then cast towards the royal gallery, but it was still
vacant.
As yet nothing had been seen of the doomed man, but now the sheriffs
rode forth from the gateway, and in another moment Rogers came after
them, still maintaining his firmness of deportment. He was preceded by
half-a-dozen halberdiers, and followed by two officers, with drawn
swords in their hands.
At this moment Philip came forth, and sat down in the fauteuil prepared
for him in the centre of the gallery. Close behind him stood Father
Alfonso, while on his right were Gardiner and Bonner, and other
prelates, and on his left the principal members of the council.
As Philip appeared, a half-suppressed murmur arose among the spectators,
and had not their attention been diverted by what was going on below,
stronger manifestations of dislike might have been made. Philip frowned
as these murmurs greeted him, but made no remark.
Meanwhile, Rogers continued to march resolutely towards the place of
execution—some of the spectators pitying and comforting him, others
flouting and reviling him. His firmness, however, was exposed to a sore
trial at the last. His unhappy and half-distracted wife having followed
him with her children to Smithfield, had managed to force her way close
up to the ring of halberdiers encircling the stake; and as he came up,
aided by some charitable persons near her, who drew aside to let her
pass, she burst forth, and ere she could be prevented, flung herself
into his arms, and was strained to his breast, while his children clung
to his knees.
But this agonising scene, which moved most of those who beheld it,
whatever their religious opinions might be, was of brief duration.
Seeing what had occurred, Sheriff Woodrooffe turned fiercely round, and
roared out, “What! here again, thou pestilent woman! Pluck her from him,
and take her and her children from the ground.”
“Go, dear wife and children,” cried Rogers. “We shall meet again in a
better world, where none will trouble us. Farewell for a little
while—only a little while! My blessing be upon you!”
“I will not leave you. I will die with you,” shrieked his unhappy wife.
“Let these cruel men kill us also,” cried one of the younger children—a
little girl. “We do not desire to live.”
“Pluck them away instantly, I say,” roared Woodrooffe. “Why do you
hesitate? Do you sympathise with these heretics?”
“Gently Sirs, gently,” said Rogers. “See ye not she faints. Farewell,
dear wife,” he continued, kissing her marble cheek. “You can take her
now. She will not struggle more. Be of good cheer, my children. We shall
meet again in heaven. Once more, farewell.”
As his swooning wife and weeping children were taken away, he covered
his face with his hands, and wept aloud, but, roused by the angry voice
of the sheriff, he lifted up his head, and, brushing the tears from his
eyes, marched with firm footsteps into the ring, in the midst of which
was planted the stake. No sooner had he come there than a priest
advanced towards him, and, holding up a crucifix, besought him to
repent.
But Rogers pushed him aside, and, turning to the assemblage, called out
with a loud voice,—
“Good people, having taught you nothing but God’s holy word, and such
lessons as I have learnt from His blessed book, the Holy Bible, I am
come hither to seal my faith with my blood.”
“Have done, thou false knave!” cried Woodrooffe, “or I will have thy
lying tongue torn from thy throat. Make ready. Thou hast detained us
long enough.”
“Nay, treat him not thus harshly,” interposed the priest. “Again, I
implore you to renounce your errors.”
“You waste time with him, good father,” cried the sheriff.
“Not so,” rejoined the priest. “Perchance, even now, Heaven may soften
his heart.”
“I pray you let me be,” said Rogers, taking a Prayer-book from his
breast, and turning the leaves.
“Thou shalt not read that book,” cried the sheriff, snatching it from
him. “I will cast it into the fire with thee. Make ready, I say.”
On this Rogers went up to the stake, and pressing his lips fervently to
it, exclaimed, “Welcome the cross of Christ! Welcome eternal life!”
On turning round, he would have addressed a few more words to the
people, but the sheriff, perceiving his design, authoritatively forbade
him.
Then one of the men standing near the stake came up and besought his
forgiveness.
“Forgiveness for what?” rejoined Rogers. “Thou hast done me no injury
that I know of.”
“I am one of those appointed to burn you,” replied the man.
“Nay, then, I freely forgive thee, good fellow,” replied Rogers. “And I
will give thee thanks also, if thou wilt heap plenty of wood about me.”
With that he took off his gown and doublet, and bestowed them upon the
man. Then, kneeling down by the stake, he passed a few moments in deep
and earnest prayer; after which he arose, and said, in a firm voice, “I
am ready.”
Thereupon, a smith and his man, who were in attendance with the
sheriffs, stepped forward, and putting the chain around him, fastened it
at the back of the stake. An iron hoop was likewise passed around his
body, and nailed to the post.
Then the men with the prongs began to pile the faggots around him,
mingling them with bundles of reeds.
“Are your fagots dry?” he inquired, as they were thus engaged.
“Ay, marry are they,” replied the man to whom he had given his cloak and
doublet. “You shall not be long a-burning, I’ll warrant you.”
When sufficient fagots had been heaped around him, Sheriff Woodrooffe
called for torches, which were brought, but ere they could be applied,
the priest again interposed.
“Hold yet a moment,” he exclaimed.
Then advancing towards the martyr, who, chained to the stake and half
covered by the fagots, regarded him steadily, he displayed a warrant to
him, and said, “Here is the Queen’s pardon. Recant, I conjure thee, and
thou shalt be spared.”
“Away with thee, tempter!” exclaimed Rogers. “I take you all to
witness,” he added, with a loud voice, “that I die in the Protestant
faith.”
“Kindle the pile instantly!” vociferated the sheriff.
Three blazing torches were then applied to the bundles of reeds, and the
next moment the flames leaped up and enveloped the martyr.
Many of the beholders shouted and exulted at the terrific spectacle, but
groans and lamentations burst from others.
Then the flame fell for a moment, and the serene countenance of the
martyr could be descried, his lips moving in prayer. But not a groan or
a cry escaped him.
The fagots now began to crackle and blaze. The flames mounted higher and
higher, and again wrapt the martyr from view.
At this moment the sheriff threw the Prayer-book into the fire,
commanding the assistants to heap on fresh fagots as fast as the others
were consumed; and this was continued till the sufferer was reduced to
ashes.
Thus died the Proto-martyr of the Protestant Church.
End of the Fourth Book.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
BOOK V.
THE INSURRECTION.
CHAPTER I.
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN OSBERT AND CONSTANCE IN THE
SACRISTY.
On the King’s departure from the sacristy, as previously narrated,
Constance immediately released Osbert from the ambry, and the unhappy
lovers, rushing into each other’s arms, forgot for a short space the
perilous position in which they were placed. At last, Osbert, partially
disengaging himself from the mistress of his heart, exclaimed with
bitterness,—
“What have we done that we should suffer thus severely? Heaven seems
never weary of persecuting us. Yet we have committed no fault save that
of loving each other.”
“Alas!” cried Constance, “it would seem that we are never to be united
on earth, since we meet only for a moment, to be torn asunder. We must
look for happiness beyond the grave.”
“That is but cold comfort, Constance,” cried Osbert. “I cling to life
and hope. I yet hope to make you my bride, and to spend years in your
society—happy, happy years, which shall make amends for all the misery
we have undergone.”
“It would indeed be bliss to dwell together as you say,” replied
Constance; “but fate opposes us, and to struggle against our destiny
would be vain. The trials we experience are given us for our benefit,
and ought to be borne cheerfully. At this very moment, within a short
distance of us, a martyr is purchasing, by a cruel death, a crown of
glory and a place in heaven. Hark to those cries!” she exclaimed, as
shouts were heard without; “perchance he is now bound to the stake. I am
thankful to be spared the frightful spectacle, but I can pray for him
here.”
And she knelt down on the pavement, and prayed aloud.
While she was thus engaged, Osbert glanced anxiously around in search of
some means of escape, but could discover none. The sacristy was lighted
by two lancet-shaped windows, but they were narrow, and barred outside.
“Despair!” he exclaimed, in half-frenzied accents, as his search
concluded. “Flight is impossible. We are lost.”
But Constance’s thoughts were with the martyr in Smithfield, and the
appalling scene seemed to be passing before her eyes. Suddenly she
shrieked out, “The fire is kindled. I can see the red reflection of the
flames through yonder windows. Oh, it is horrible. Would I were back
with the good Cardinal!”
“Would you were!” ejaculated Osbert. “But I fear you will never behold
him more. The King will be here presently, and will require an answer.
What will you say to him?”
“Say! What shall I say?” cried Constance, bewildered.
“Ask me not,” rejoined Osbert, in a sombre voice. “Take this dagger,” he
added, placing a poignard in her hand. “Conceal it about your person.
You may need it.”
“This dagger!” she cried, regarding the weapon. “What am I to do with
it?”
“Should the worst befall, plunge it in the King’s heart, or your own,”
he rejoined.
“I cannot,” she replied, letting the poignard fall upon the pavement. “I
will not commit a crime that would doom me to perdition. Were I, in a
moment of desperation, to do as you suggest, all hope of our reunion in
a better world would be over. Then, indeed, I should be lost to you for
ever.”
“But this inexorable demon will be here anon,” cried Osbert, picking up
the dagger. “The thought drives me mad. Would that these strong walls
would crack asunder to let us pass, or the floor yawn and swallow us up.
Anything to avoid him.”
“Fresh shouts! more light against yon windows! They are adding fuel to
the fire!” cried Constance. “’Twill be over soon.”
“And then the King will come hither,” said Osbert. “Are you prepared for
him?”
“Fully prepared,” she rejoined. “Return to your place of concealment,
lest he should appear suddenly.”
“No, I will remain here, and brave his anger,” said Osbert.
“Oh, do not act thus rashly!” she exclaimed. “You can render me no aid,
and will only place yourself in needless peril.”
“I have no desire to live. Let the tyrant wreak his utmost vengeance
upon me if he will. Ha! he comes,” he cried, as the key grated in the
lock, and the door opened.
It was not the King, however, but Rodomont Bittern who entered.
“Just as I expected!” exclaimed Rodomont. “Prudence is not to be looked
for in a lover. I was certain I should find you talking to your
mistress, and therefore I came to warn you that the King will be here
directly. Back to the ambry at once.”
“No more hiding for me,” returned Osbert. “I shall remain where I am.”
“And be sent to the Tower, and have your head chopped off for your
pains,” observed Rodomont. “What service will that do to Mistress
Constance?”
“It will only tend to make me more wretched,” she rejoined. “If you love
me,” she added to Osbert, “you will not expose yourself to this great
danger.”
“There, you cannot resist that!” cried Rodomont. “Back to the ambry at
once,” he continued, pushing him towards it. “And as you value your
head, do not stir till the coast is clear.”
“I cannot answer for myself,” remarked Osbert, as he got into the
cupboard. “A word from the King will bring me forth.”
“Then I’ll answer for you,” said Rodomont, locking the ambry, and taking
away the key. “That’s the only chance of keeping him out of harm’s way.
Be not cast down, fair mistress,” he added to Constance. “The Cardinal
will protect you.”
“Were I with him, I should have no fear,” she replied. “He would shield
me against all wrong; but I am now in the King’s power, and he has
threatened to deliver me to Bishop Bonner.”
“And if his Majesty should so dispose of you, ’twill be but a brief
confinement, for the Cardinal will speedily have you back. So be of good
cheer. But hist! there is a stir within the church. The dread ceremony
is over. I must leave you, or the King will find me here. Keep up your
courage, I say.”
With this he quitted the chamber, and made fast the door outside.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
HOW FATHER ALFONSO INTERPOSED IN CONSTANCE’S BEHALF.
After a brief interval, but which appeared like an age to Constance, the
door was again thrown open, and Philip entered the sacristy. To judge by
his looks, no one would have supposed that he was fresh from the
terrible spectacle he had just witnessed.
“One would think that burning must be pleasant to those tainted with
heresy,” he observed. “The wretch who has just suffered for his
contumely smiled as the pile was lighted. But it was not to speak of him
that I came here, but of yourself, Constance. Have you reflected?”
“I did not need to reflect, Sire. My determination was instantly formed,
and is unalterable.”
“You will regret it, Constance—bitterly regret it. Consider what you
sacrifice—life, and all that can render life attractive—for a solitary
cell, and a fiery death in Smithfield.”
“I require no consideration, Sire. I choose the dungeon and the stake.”
“Yet a moment,” urged Philip. “Bishop Bonner is without, but I am
unwilling to summon him.”
“Do not hesitate, Sire. I have said that my determination is
unalterable.”
After regarding her stedfastly for a few moments, and perceiving that
she manifested no symptoms of relenting, Philip moved slowly towards the
door, and, on reaching it, paused, and again looked at her fixedly. But,
as she still continued firm, he summoned Bonner, who immediately
afterwards entered with Father Alfonso. The bishop’s features were
flushed with triumph, but the Spanish friar appeared grave and sad, and
his cheeks were almost livid in hue.
“Here is another obstinate heretic for you, my lord,” said the King,
pointing to Constance. “Take her, and see what you can do with her.”
“If the Lord Cardinal and your Majesty have failed in bringing her to
reason, I shall stand but a poor chance of doing so,” replied Bonner.
“Nevertheless, I will essay. You must not expect the same gentle
treatment from me, mistress,” he added, in a harsh voice, to Constance,
“that you have lately experienced from the Cardinal.”
“I do not expect it, my lord,” she rejoined.
“He has been far too indulgent,” pursued Bonner. “You have been free to
roam about the palace gardens—have had your own attendants and your own
chamber, as if you were the Cardinal’s guest, and not his prisoner—have
been exempted from mass, and other privileges, wholly inconsistent with
your state. None of these immunities will you enjoy with me. You will
have no garden to walk in, but a prison court with high walls—no dainty
and luxurious chamber, but a close cell—no better fare than bread and
water—no attendant save the gaoler—none to converse with except the
priest. This is the plan I shall pursue with you. If it fails, and you
continue obstinate, you need not be reminded of your doom.”
For a moment there was a pause. Constance then addressed herself to the
King, and, speaking with a spirit which she had never previously
displayed before him, said, “I protest against this course, Sire. If I
am a prisoner at all, I am the Lord Cardinal’s prisoner. I was placed in
his Eminence’s charge by the Queen’s Majesty, and I demand to be taken
back to him. If I be not, but be illegally and unjustly detained by the
bishop, let his lordship look to it, for assuredly he will have to
render a strict account to the Cardinal. I have been brought hither in
virtue of a warrant from her Majesty, which compels my attendance at
this execution, but the warrant declares that I am to be taken back, and
this the bishop engaged to do.”
“Is this so?” demanded Philip.
“I cannot deny it,” replied Bonner; “but your Majesty can overrule the
order.”
“The King will not follow such ill counsel,” said Constance. “If I be
not taken back in accordance with the warrant, both her Majesty and the
Cardinal will be sore displeased.”
“The damsel speaks boldly yet truthfully, Sire,” interposed Father
Alfonso, “and has right on her side. The bishop admits that she was
brought here under her Majesty’s warrant, and does not deny that he
undertook to take her back to the Cardinal. If this be not done, his
Eminence will have just ground of displeasure. Furthermore, since
Mistress Constance was placed by the Queen under the Cardinal’s charge,
her Majesty’s consent must be obtained ere she can be removed.”
“But the King can set at nought the warrant,” cried Bonner, “and can
remove the damsel from the Cardinal’s charge if he thinks fit.”
“Doubtless his Majesty can act as he may deem meet,” rejoined Father
Alfonso; “but your lordship can scarce expect to escape blame in the
affair. The Queen is certain to resent the disrespect shown to her
authority, and the Cardinal will be equally indignant at the
interference with him. Both will visit their displeasure on your head.”
“But you will hold me harmless, Sire?” said Bonner.
“Nay, my lord, I care not to quarrel with the Cardinal,” rejoined
Philip. “You must bear the brunt of his anger.”
“And also of the Queen’s displeasure,” remarked Father Alfonso. “Her
Majesty takes great interest in this damsel, and had a special design in
placing her under the Cardinal’s care. If her plan be thwarted——”
“Enough, good father, enough!” interrupted Bonner. “Unsupported by your
Majesty, I dare not act in opposition to the Queen and the Cardinal, and
consequently Mistress Constance must go back to Lambeth Palace.”
“Thank Heaven I am saved!” exclaimed Constance, clasping her hands
fervently.
“Be not too sure of that,” muttered Bonner, with the growl of a tiger
robbed of his prey.
“Your lordship is right,” observed Philip, who for a moment had been
buried in thought. “Direct opposition to the Cardinal might be fraught
with ill consequences. Let Mistress Constance go back to Lambeth Palace.
But ere many days—perchance to-morrow—the Cardinal shall be compelled to
yield her up to you. The Queen herself shall give you the order.”
“I do not think her Majesty will sign such an order,” observed Father
Alfonso.
“Be content, my lord, you shall have it,” said the King significantly to
Bonner.
“There is another prisoner in the Lollards’ Tower whom I would fain
have, Sire,” observed the bishop.
“You mean the crazy fanatic, Derrick Carver,” rejoined Philip. “He shall
be given up to you at the same time as Constance. Come to Whitehall
betimes to-morrow, and I will procure you the warrant from her Majesty.
Meanwhile, let Constance go back.”
“Your injunctions shall be obeyed, Sire. Ere long, I hope to offer your
Majesty a grand _auto-da-fé_ at Smithfield.”
“If his Majesty will be guided by me, he will not attend another such
dreadful execution as we have this day witnessed,” observed Father
Alfonso.
“Why so, father?” demanded the King.
“Because you will infallibly lose your popularity with the nation,
Sire,” said Father Alfonso. “The odium of these executions will attach
to you, instead of to their authors.”
“There is something in this,” observed Philip, thoughtfully. “We will
talk of it anon. Farewell, my lord. To-morrow morning at Whitehall.” And
with a glance at Constance, he quitted the sacristy, attended by his
confessor.
After addressing a few harsh words to Constance, for whom he seemed to
have conceived an extraordinary antipathy, Bonner likewise quitted the
chamber.
Shortly afterwards Rodomont entered, and hurrying to the ambry, unlocked
it, and set Osbert free.
Again the unhappy lovers rushed into each other’s arms, but Rodomont
thought it necessary to interpose, saying there was no time for the
indulgence of such transports now, but urging them to bid each other
farewell.
“You heard what has passed just now,” remarked Constance to Osbert; “I
am to be taken back to the good Cardinal.”
“True; but to-morrow he will be compelled to surrender you to Bonner,”
rejoined Osbert.
“Do not believe it, fair mistress,” said Rodomont. “His Eminence will
protect you. You have escaped many difficulties, and may be equally
fortunate now. You are to return with the procession to Saint Paul’s,
after which you will be taken to Lambeth Palace.”
“Farewell, Constance,” said Osbert, straining her to his breast.
“Make haste!” cried Rodomont, impatiently, “or we shall have the guard
here, and then there will be a fresh entanglement. Methinks I hear their
footsteps. Quick! quick!”
“I come,” rejoined Constance.
And tearing herself from her lover, she followed him out of the
sacristy. The door being left open, Osbert allowed a brief interval to
elapse, and then issued forth into the church, which by this time was
well-nigh deserted.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
HOW OSBERT WAS INDUCED TO JOIN A CONSPIRACY.
Amongst those who witnessed the burning of Rogers was the French
ambassador. On quitting Smithfield, he repaired to the court adjoining
the conventual church, and was watching the religious procession set out
on its return to Saint Paul’s, when he noticed Osbert Clinton, whose
eyes were following the retreating figure of Constance. Approaching him,
De Noailles said, in a low voice, “I am sorry to see poor Constance
Tyrrell among those recusants. Has she been delivered over to Bonner’s
_chambre ardente_?”
“Not as yet,” rejoined Osbert, in a troubled tone.
“I trust she never may be,” said De Noailles, “for Bonner has no pity
for a heretic. Youth and beauty weigh very little with him. ’Tis enough
to drive one mad to think that so lovely a creature should be his
victim!”
“She never shall be!” exclaimed Osbert, moodily.
“How will you hinder it?” said De Noailles. “Can you snatch her from his
grasp if he once secures her? Can you unlock the prison in which she
will be immured? Dare you even approach her now? How, then, will you be
able to free her, when she is led to the stake, escorted by a guard as
strong as that which accompanied the poor wretch who has just been
sacrificed?”
“Torture me not thus!” cried Osbert. “I feel as though I could sell
myself to perdition to accomplish her deliverance.”
“You shall not need to do that,” observed De Noailles, perceiving that
Osbert was in the right frame of mind for his purpose. “Now listen to
me. A plot is hatching, having for its object the overthrow of Philip,
the deposition of Mary, and the restoration of the Protestant faith, as
a guarantee for which the Princess Elizabeth is to be proclaimed Queen.
With this movement all the heads of the Protestant party are connected,
and only await a favourable moment for an outbreak. That moment is at
hand. The execution which has just taken place is but the prelude to
others equally dreadful. In a few days Bishop Hooper will be burnt at
Gloucester, Saunders at Coventry, and Taylor at Hadley; and, ere the
month be out, others will swell the fearful catalogue. Thoroughly
alarmed, the Protestants feel that, if they do not offer prompt and
effectual resistance, they will be exterminated. It is certain,
therefore, that they will all rise when called upon, and, if well
managed, the scheme cannot fail of success.”
“What has this plot to do with Constance Tyrrell?” demanded Osbert.
“Much,” replied the other. “Join us, and I will engage to procure her
liberation.”
“On those terms I will join you,” said Osbert. “What would you have me
do?”
“I cannot explain our plans now. But meet me to-morrow, at midnight, in
the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, and I will introduce you to the
chief conspirators.”
“I will be there at the hour appointed,” said Osbert. “Till then,
farewell!”
And moving away, he followed the procession to Saint Paul’s, leaving De
Noailles well satisfied with his manœuvre.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT PHILIP HEARD WHILE CONCEALED BEHIND
THE ARRAS.
Next day in the forenoon, Bishop Bonner repaired to Whitehall Palace,
and found the King in a cabinet communicating with the great gallery.
Philip was seated at a table covered with dispatches, and near him stood
Rodomont Bittern, with whom he was conversing.
“I am glad you are come, my lord,” said the King to Bonner, as the
latter entered the cabinet. “This gentleman is the bearer of a letter
from the Lord Cardinal to her Majesty, in which his Eminence solicits an
audience of her on a matter of importance. The Cardinal will be here at
noon, and the important matter on which he comes relates to the delivery
of Constance Tyrrell to your lordship. Is it not so, Sir?” he added to
Rodomont.
“It is, my liege,” replied the other. “His Eminence is unwilling to give
up the maiden, and desires to ascertain the Queen’s pleasure on the
subject. As I have already told your Majesty, the Cardinal was much
troubled on learning from Mistress Constance what had befallen her, and
he declared that unless he had the Queen’s positive commands to that
effect he would not surrender her to the ecclesiastical commissioners. I
do not think I ever saw him more moved.”
“I make no doubt that his Eminence blamed me, Sir,” remarked Bonner.
“To speak truth, my lord, he did,” replied Rodomont; “and he said
plainly to Lord Priuli that you should not have the damsel.”
“Your Majesty hears that?” cried Bonner. “This proud Cardinal defies
your authority.”
“Nay, there was no defiance on his Eminence’s part of the King’s
Highness,” observed Rodomont, “but only of your lordship. The
representative of his Holiness, he said, should not be insulted with
impunity, and he added some words which I care not to repeat, but they
spoke of reprimands, censures, and possible privation of dignity.”
“His Eminence takes up the matter with great warmth,” observed Bonner,
uneasily.
“I have never known him so put out before,” said Rodomont. “He paced to
and fro within his chamber for an hour, and the Lord Priuli could scarce
pacify him. This morning, after an interview with Mistress Constance,
his anger broke out afresh, and he dispatched me with a letter to her
Majesty, craving an audience at noon. This is all I have to state. I
have thought it right to warn your lordship that if you think fit to
persist in the matter, you may know what to expect.”
“Enough, Sir,” observed the King. “You may withdraw.”
Rodomont bowed and retired, laughing in his sleeve at the fright he had
given Bonner. “Heaven forgive me for making a bugbear of the good
Cardinal,” he muttered; “but the trick seems to have succeeded.”
“So, the Cardinal is determined to try his strength with us,” observed
Philip, as soon as he and Bonner were left alone.
“I must beg to retire from the contest, Sire,” replied the bishop.
“Whoever wins, I am sure to lose by it.”
“Tut! I will bear you harmless,” rejoined the King. “But the Cardinal
will be here anon. I must prepare the Queen for his arrival.”
“I would your Majesty could be prevailed upon to abandon this design,”
observed Bonner. “It will lead to nothing save trouble and confusion.
Ever after I shall have the Cardinal for an enemy.”
“You alarm yourself needlessly,” rejoined Philip. “That knave purposely
exaggerated his master’s anger. The Cardinal knows full well that the
act is mine, and not your lordship’s.”
With this, he passed through a side-door, and, accompanied by the
bishop, entered a large and magnificently furnished apartment,
embellished with portraits of Henry VIII. and his family. No one was
within this superb room, and after traversing it, the King and Bonner
reached an ante-chamber, in which were assembled a number of pages,
esquires, and ushers in the royal livery.