passed, while two gentleman ushers, each bearing a white wand,
marshalled him ceremoniously towards the entrance of the Queen’s
apartments, before which stood a couple of tall yeomen of the guard with
halberds in their hands.
As he approached this door, Sir John Gage came forth, and Philip
inquired if the Queen was alone. The Lord Chamberlain replied in the
affirmative, but added that Cardinal Pole was momentarily expected, and
that he himself had come forth to receive his Eminence.
“It is well,” replied Philip. “When the Cardinal comes, do not mention
to him that I am with her Majesty. I pray your Lordship to remain here
till you are summoned,” he added to Bonner.
With this he passed through the door, which was thrown open by the
ushers, and entered the Queen’s chamber—a spacious apartment, richly
furnished, hung with tapestry, and adorned with many noble pictures,
chief among which were portraits of the Queen’s ill-fated mother by
Holbein, and of her royal husband by Sir Antonio More.
Mary was seated at a table placed near a deep bay-window. She occupied a
large armed-chair, and was reading a book of devotions. Her attire was
of purple velvet, and a coif set with precious stones adorned her head.
A smile lighted up her pallid countenance on the King’s entrance.
“I give your Majesty good-day,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure
of this visit?”
“You expect the Cardinal,” rejoined Philip, abruptly and sternly. “Do
you know what brings him here?”
“I do not,” she answered, “But I shall be glad to see him, as I desire
to consult him as to the restitution of the Church property vested in
the crown during the King my father’s reign.”
“Reserve that for another occasion, Madam,” said Philip. “The Cardinal’s
errand relates to Constance Tyrrell.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Mary, startled. “What has he to say concerning her?”
“That you will learn on his arrival,” rejoined Philip. “But it is my
pleasure that she be removed from his custody and delivered to Bishop
Bonner.”
“Then his Eminence has failed to reclaim her?”
“Signally. Nothing remains but to try extreme rigour, and if that will
not effect her conversion, the laws she has offended must deal with
her.”
“I pity this unhappy maiden, albeit she continues obstinate,” said Mary.
“Be not angry if I tell you that I designed to marry her to your
secretary, Osbert Clinton, to whom she is betrothed.”
“She shall never wed him,” said Philip, harshly. “Why should you meddle
in the matter? Has Osbert Clinton dared to prefer this request to you?”
“No, on my soul,” replied Mary. “But I know the girl loves him tenderly,
and, had she recanted, it was my design to reward her with the husband
of her choice.”
“But she does not recant, I tell you, Madam,” cried Philip, “so it is
idle to speculate on what might have been. It is my will that she be
delivered up to Bonner. But the order must proceed from yourself, not
from me. Thus, when the Cardinal comes, you will be prepared with an
answer to him.”
“But let me first hear what he has to urge,” objected the Queen.
“No matter what he urges,” rejoined Philip. “Lay your commands upon him,
as I have intimated. Nay, I will be obeyed,” he added, authoritatively.
Mary sighed, but made no further remonstrance.
“The Cardinal must be at hand,” continued Philip. “By your leave, I will
be an unseen witness of the interview.”
And he stepped behind the arras, near which the Queen was seated.
“He distrusts me,” murmured Mary; “and, in sooth, he has imposed a most
painful task upon me.”
Shortly afterwards, the Cardinal was announced, and, greeting him
kindly, the Queen begged him to take a seat by her side.
“If your Majesty has heard what occurred yesterday in Saint
Bartholomew’s Church at Smithfield,” premised Pole, “you will guess the
object of my visit. Constance Tyrrell, whom you confided to my charge,
and whom I yet hope to reclaim, is to be wrested from me. But I shall
refuse to deliver her up.”
“Your Eminence must needs comply with my order,” said Mary.
“True, Madam,” replied the Cardinal. “But I do not believe you will give
any such order, when I say that in surrendering her I shall only be
consigning her to infamy and dishonour.”
“I pray your Eminence to explain yourself,” said Mary.
“It is painful to me to speak out,” replied Pole, “but I cannot allow
this unhappy maiden to be sacrificed. She has opened her heart to me,
and has confessed all. Blinded by an insane and wicked passion for her,
the King, since his first accidental meeting with her at Southampton,
has never ceased to persecute her with his dishonourable solicitations.
Yesterday, during that dread ceremonial, when, terrified and fainting,
she was borne into the sacristy of Saint Bartholomew’s Church, he
renewed his unholy suit, and bade her choose between his love and
deliverance up to Bishop Bonner. I doubt not that she would sustain this
trial, as she has sustained others. I do not think that imprisonment or
torture would shake her. But why should she be exposed to such
treatment? Madam, this is not the case of an heretical offender.
Constance Tyrrell is to be imprisoned, is to be tortured, is perhaps to
suffer a fiery death, not on account of her religious opinions, but
because she has virtue enough to resist the King. Madam, such wrong
shall not be, while I can raise my voice against it.”
“It shall not be,” said Mary. “Is Bonner a party to this foul
transaction? If so, as I live, I will strip him of his priestly robes.”
“No, Madam,” replied Pole. “I must acquit Bonner of any complicity in
the affair. He merely looks for a victim.”
“He shall not find one in Constance Tyrrell,” said Mary. “My heart
bleeds for her.”
“Well it may, Madam,” replied Pole. “A sad fatality has rested upon her
ever since the King’s arrival in Southampton, when her marvellous beauty
attracted his attention, and excited a passion which nothing apparently
can subdue.”
“He saw her before he beheld me, and loved her better than he loved me!”
cried Mary, bitterly. “Something of this I suspected, but I thought I
had removed her from his influence by taking her with me to Winchester.”
“Ay, but the King contrived to obtain a secret interview with the damsel
before your departure,” said Pole, “and this is the only part of her
conduct that deserves censure. Moved by his passionate words and
captivating manner, which few could resist, she listened to him, and at
last owned she loved him, or thought she loved him.”
“Oh, I know his power!” cried Mary. “He exercised the same fascination
over me.”
“But withdrawn from his baneful influence, poor Constance bitterly
repented of the error into which she had been led, and, by the advice of
Father Jerome, the good priest of Saint Catherine’s chapel at
Winchester, to whom she confessed her fault, she left with him a tablet
of gold, enriched with precious stones, which had been given her by the
King as a gage of love. By Father Jerome’s advice, also, she quitted
Winchester and returned to her father at Southampton, the good priest
dreading lest, if she remained with your Majesty, she might be exposed
to further temptation.”
“Father Jerome did right,” said Mary; “and, perchance, he saved her from
dishonour.”
“Up to this time, Constance had been a zealous Catholic,” pursued Pole;
“but, while attending Derrick Carver at the Hospital of the Domus Dei at
Southampton, she imbibed his pernicious doctrines, and embraced the
Reformed faith. This deplorable change, I fear, is attributable to the
King.”
“Methinks your Eminence is unjust there,” observed Mary.
“My grounds for the opinion are these,” replied Pole. “Constance’s
nature is devout and impressionable. Full of grief and remorse, she was
thrown into the way of Carver, who took advantage of her troubled state
of mind to accomplish her conversion. Had I met her at that time she
would not have been lost to us, and I still trust she may be recovered.
With the rest of her history your Majesty is acquainted. It is a series
of misfortunes; neither does it seem likely she will ever be wedded to
him she loves. Happy had it been for her that she had never excited the
King’s love! Happy had it been for her that her faith had not been
unsettled, and that she had been able to pass her life in holy and
tranquil retirement. But her destiny was otherwise. She has abjured her
religion—she has lost her father’s affection—she has endured
imprisonment—but, though sorely tempted, she has not sinned. Be it
yours, gracious Madam, to preserve her from further suffering—from
further temptation.”
“What can I do?” cried Mary. “I have promised the King an order for her
removal from your Eminence, and deliverance up to Bonner.”
“Madam, if that order be given and acted upon, I shall resist it,”
replied Pole.
“Heaven aid me!” exclaimed the Queen. “I am sorely perplexed, and know
not how to act for the best.”
“Consult the King, your husband, Madam,” rejoined the Cardinal. “Tell
him what I have told you, and of my resolution.”
“I shall not need to be told,” said Philip, coming from behind the
arras. “I have heard all that has passed between you and her Majesty.”
“I shrink from nothing I have uttered, Sire,” rejoined Pole. “I should
have spoken with equal freedom had you stood before me. But I beseech
you pursue not this matter further. Consequences you may not foresee
will flow from it. You will array against you a force stronger than you
can resist. I may be compelled to yield, but my voice will be heard, and
its echoes may shake your throne to its foundations.”
“Your Eminence menaces me,” cried Philip, sternly.
“No, Sire, I warn you,” rejoined the Cardinal, with dignity. “You are on
a perilous path, from which it were wise to turn back.”
[Illustration: CARDINAL POLE COUNSELS THE QUEEN.
P. 300.]
“Your Eminence seems to have forgotten your former experiences, and how
you fared in your struggle with her Majesty’s royal father,” observed
Philip. “In those days the priesthood received a lesson from the crown
which it would be well if they remembered. The proudest of them, Wolsey,
was hurled from his high place. I warn you, therefore, of your danger
before you enter upon a conflict with me. What Henry VIII. accomplished
may be done again. If the priesthood wax insolent they may be crushed.
The Papal authority has been just restored, but it can be easily shaken
off again. Your Eminence has but recently returned from a long exile,
and you may have to endure a second banishment.”
“I shall do my duty without fear, Sire,” replied Pole, firmly. “I well
know what my resistance to the will of King Henry cost me. Because he
could not reach me he struck at those most dear to me—at my sainted
mother, the Countess of Salisbury, at my beloved brother, the Lord
Montague, at my friends the Marquis of Exeter and Sir Edward Nevil, and
at the young and gallant Earl of Surrey. On all these he wreaked the
vengeance which ought to have alighted on my head. But I shall not fly
now. I shall stay to answer for my acts in person.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Philip, changing his tone. “Your Eminence takes the
matter too seriously. I desire no quarrel with you, or with the Church.
It would be idle to do so on an affair so trifling as the present.”
“The affair is not trifling, Sire,” rejoined Pole. “The liberty, the
honour, the life of a poor damsel are at stake.”
“That is your Eminence’s version of the business,” said Philip. “You are
simply protecting a heretic. I counsel you to give up the girl
peaceably. ’Twill be best.”
“I have already stated my determination, Sire,” rejoined Pole. “Madam, I
take my leave.”
“Stop, my Lord Cardinal,” cried Mary. “Depart not thus, I beseech you.
For my sake, tarry a few minutes longer. Perchance his Majesty may
relent.”
“I would tarry till midnight if I thought so,” replied Pole. “Oh, Sire,”
he added to Phillip, “let me make a final appeal to the latent
generosity and goodness of your nature. You have many high and noble
qualities, inherited from your august father. Let me sway you now. Be
not governed by wild and unhallowed passions, the gratification of which
will endanger your eternal welfare. If you sin, you must not hope to
escape chastisement; and as your sin will be great, so will your
chastisement be severe. Wrongs, such as you would inflict upon her
Majesty, are visited with Heaven’s direst wrath, and years of prayer and
penance will not procure you pardon. Cast off these delusions and
snares. You are fortunately united to a Queen as eminent for virtue as
for rank, whose heart is entirely given to you, and who has just proved
that she will obey you in all things. In every respect she is worthy of
your love. She is your equal in birth, devout and pure, a loving wife,
and a great Queen. To sacrifice her true and holy affection for lighter
love would be unpardonable ingratitude. In all the highest
qualifications of a woman, as purity, piety, judgment, discretion,
dignity, none can surpass your consort, and you must be insensible
indeed not to estimate her merits aright.”
“I do estimate them—estimate them at their true worth,” cried Philip.
“Your Eminence has roused the better nature in me, and made me sensible
of my faults, and ashamed of them. Forgive me, Madam,” he added to Mary.
And as he spoke he approached the Queen, who threw her arms fondly about
his neck, exclaiming, “Oh, my good Lord Cardinal, I owe this happiness
to you.”
“I am equally beholden to his Eminence,” said Philip. “He has spoken the
truth to me, and awakened me to a sense of my folly.”
“I have called your Majesty’s good feelings into play, that is all,”
rejoined Pole. “Henceforth, I trust that nothing will disturb the good
understanding that ought to subsist between you and your royal consort.
Pardon me if I press you further, Sire. Your heart being opened to
kindly emotions, you will not refuse to listen to me. It is in your
power to make ample amends to poor Constance Tyrrell for the misery she
has endured, by giving your consent to her marriage with Osbert
Clinton.”
“I will add my entreaties to those of the Cardinal,” said the Queen.
“Let it be so. I pray you.”
“If your Eminence will reclaim her from heresy I will not refuse my
consent,” replied Philip.
“I ask no more,” rejoined Pole; “and I trust their nuptials will not
long be delayed.”
“They shall never take place,” mentally ejaculated Philip. “Your Majesty
may desire some private converse with his Eminence,” he added to the
Queen. “I will go and dismiss Bonner, who is waiting without. He will
not trouble your Eminence further.”
And he quitted the chamber.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
HOW THE QUEEN CONSULTED WITH THE CARDINAL.
Praying the Cardinal to resume his seat by her, Mary said, “There is a
matter on which I desire to consult your Eminence. I cannot reconcile it
to my conscience to retain the revenues arising from the Church lands,
which were unlawfully vested in the crown during the late schism; but
the Lord Chancellor, to whom I have spoken on the subject, seeks to
dissuade me from my purpose, and declares that if I part with these
large revenues, which amount to well-nigh a hundred thousand pounds a
year, I shall not be able to maintain my dignity. To this objection, I
replied in all sincerity, that I value my salvation more than ten crowns
like that of England, and that I would not endanger my heavenly
inheritance for all the wealth the world can offer. Still Gardiner
opposes me, and says that the giving up of my revenues will be taken ill
by those who are in possession of the abbey lands and other property of
the Church, possession of which has been secured to them by the papal
bull sent to your Eminence. But I see not why I should not set the
holders of these ill-gotten treasures a good example. Peradventure some
of them may follow it.”
“I trust so, Madam,” replied Pole; “and I applaud your resolution, for
though you may impoverish your exchequer, yet you will lay up a far
greater treasure for future enjoyment in heaven. The bull to which you
refer was sent by the Pope at the solicitation of Gardiner, to prevent
the opposition of certain nobles to reconciliation with the See of Rome,
but his Holiness’s real sentiments may be judged by another bull which
he has just sent into Germany, excommunicating all who may keep any
abbey or church lands, and placing under the like ban all princes,
prelates and magistrates, who shall refuse to assist in the execution of
the bull. Though the bull is addressed to Germany, it undoubtedly
applies to this country as well, since his Holiness can never regard
those with favour who have enriched themselves with the spoils of the
Church. Moreover, the Church is poor, and some provision must be made
for its wants.”
“Provision _shall_ be made for it,” replied Mary. “I feel with horror
that I myself may be excommunicated. But the load shall be removed from
my soul. All the crown revenues, derived from the source I have
mentioned, shall be relinquished, and placed at the disposal of your
Eminence, to be applied in such manner as you may deem fit, for the
benefit of the clergy, and the augmentation of small livings.”
“Your Majesty will do a great and disinterested act, which will for ever
redound to your credit, and secure you the prayers of the whole Church,”
said Pole. “I will take care that the revenues entrusted to me are
properly applied.”
“I would I could go still further,” observed Mary, “and procure an act
to compel the restoration of Church property, in whatever hands it may
be. Think you it could be done?”
“I do not believe such an act could be procured, Madam,” replied Pole.
“Certain I am that it would not be prudent to attempt to obtain it at
this juncture. Let us wait to see the effect of your own great action.”
“I yield to your judgment,” said Mary. “It is my intention to
re-establish three monasteries dissolved by the King, my father—namely,
the Grey Friars at Greenwich, the Carthusians at Sheen, and the
Briggittines at Sion.”
“Heaven has stirred your heart to much good work, Madam,” said the
Cardinal. “The Church will have cause to bless your name.”
“Yet another matter,” observed the Queen. “I desire to have masses said
for the repose of my father’s soul, and would fain endow a church for
that especial purpose.”
“Alas! Madam, I cannot aid you there,” replied Pole. “His Holiness will
never permit the endowment of a church for the benefit of the soul of so
determined a foe to the See of Rome as Henry VIII. No priest will pray
for him.”
“But I can pray for him, and do so daily,” rejoined Mary. “I trust his
heavily-laden soul is not beyond the reach of intercession. Since I may
not endow a church to say masses for him, I will augment the revenues of
the college he re-founded at Cambridge, in the hope that those who are
taught there may pray for the soul of their benefactor.”
“A pious act, Madam,” said Pole, “and I trust it may be profitable to
your father’s soul.”
“All these things I do, my Lord Cardinal,” pursued Mary, “in preparation
for my hour of travail, when I may be called away suddenly from this
transitory life. If I should be, you will religiously fulfil my
designs.”
“By Heaven’s grace, Madam, I will accomplish the work you confide to
me,” said the Cardinal. “The goods of the Church shall be restored to
holy uses, and all other things done as you have appointed.”
“One question more, and I have done,” said Mary. “I am about to make my
will, and propose to settle the crown on the King my husband, after my
decease.”
“Is his Majesty aware of your intention, Madam,” inquired the Cardinal.
“It is his wish that I should do so,” replied Mary.
“So I suspected,” said Pole. “Madam, as your kinsman and faithful
counsellor, as your loyal and loving subject, I implore you not to make
the will you propose. Englishmen will never accept a Spaniard as their
sovereign, and if you bequeath your kingdom to your husband, your will
will assuredly be set aside.”
“But the King has caused the will to be prepared,” said Mary.
“Ha! has it gone so far as that?” cried Pole.
“It will be brought to me this very day for my signature,” replied Mary.
“Have you consulted the Lord Chancellor and the council, Madam?”
demanded Pole.
“I have consulted no one,” she replied. “The King enjoined me not to do
so. But I could not help confiding the matter to your Eminence, knowing
your affection for me.”
“By that affection, of which you know the depth and sincerity, I charge
you not to execute that will, Madam,” said Pole. “Your ministers, if
consulted, will agree with me. This is no light question. The welfare of
your kingdom is at stake.”
At this moment a side-door opened, and Father Alfonso appeared at it,
with a packet in his hand. On seeing the Cardinal, he would have
retired, but the Queen signed to him to come forward, and he was
compelled to obey.
“It is the will,” she observed in an under tone to Pole.
“It is providential that I am here,” he replied.
Meanwhile, Father Alfonso advanced, and, bowing reverently to the Queen
and the Cardinal, laid the packet on the table.
“Here is the document for your Majesty’s signature,” he said. “The
witnesses await your summons without.”
“The scheme is carefully planned, but I will thwart it,” mentally
ejaculated Pole. “The witnesses may be dismissed. The Queen will not
sign this document,” he added, aloud.
“What do I hear, Madam,” cried Father Alfonso. “His Majesty expects——”
“I say the Queen will not sign it,” interrupted Pole, taking up the
will, “nor any other document to the like effect.”
Making a profound obeisance to the Queen, he quitted the room, taking
the packet with him.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
OF THE MIDNIGHT MEETING IN THE CRYPT BENEATH THE
CHAPTER-HOUSE.
It was on the stroke of midnight that Osbert Clinton, muffled in a long
black cloak, and armed with rapier and dagger, arrived at the place of
rendezvous appointed by De Noailles. The night was bright and beautiful,
and the moon, nearly at the full, and hanging above the north side of
the noble Gothic fane, silvered its hoary battlements and buttresses,
and glittered upon the tinted panes of the great pointed windows.
Passing through an arched doorway, he entered the cloisters, and marched
slowly along the south ambulatory. No one was there. Having thus tracked
one side of the square, and glanced down the alley on the left, he stood
still and listened, but no sound reached his ears, until shortly
afterwards the deep bell of the abbey tolled forth the hour of midnight.
Then all again relapsed into solemn silence, and had there been even a
light footfall on the pavement, Osbert must have heard it.
Again he moved slowly on. His thoughts were too much occupied with the
business he had on hand, or he might have noted the vaulted and
richly-ornamented ceiling overhead, or the pillared openings at the
side, through which the moonlight streamed upon the pavement, but though
he was not wholly unconscious of these architectural beauties, they
produced little effect upon him, neither did the serene loveliness of
the night, or the hushed tranquility of the spot, soothe his perturbed
spirits.
He had reached another angle of the cloisters, and was proceeding along
the alley, which was here plunged in gloom, when he fancied he discerned
a dark figure advancing towards him, upon which he quickened his steps,
and soon reached the person, who, on seeing him, remained stationary. It
was De Noailles. Like Osbert he was muffled in a cloak, and his
broad-leaved hat was pulled over his brows.
“You have not changed your mind, I perceive,” observed De Noailles, “but
are resolved to go on with the enterprise.”
“I am,” replied Osbert.
“Follow me, then,” rejoined the French ambassador, “and I will introduce
you to those in league with us.”
Marching quickly but noiselessly along, he conducted Osbert towards the
chapter-house. On reaching it, they descended a flight of stone steps
which seemed to lead to a vault, but further progress was arrested by a
door, against which De Noailles tapped gently. At this summons the door
was cautiously opened by a man, who appeared to be well-armed, and they
were admitted into a large subterranean chamber.
This crypt, for such it was, was dimly illumined by an iron lamp fixen
to a pillar standing in the centre of the vault. The stone walls were of
great solidity, in order to sustain the weight of the chapter-house, and
the roof, which likewise formed the floor of the superstructure, was of
stone, ribbed, and groined, and supported by the pillar to which the
lamp was fixed.
In this crypt were assembled some eight or nine young men, all of good
condition, judging from their attire and deportment As De Noailles and
Osbert entered the vault, a tall, richly-dressed man detached himself
from the group with whom he was conversing, and advanced to meet them.
As he advanced, Osbert instantly knew him to be Thomas Stafford, second
son to Lord Stafford, and grandson of the Duke of Buckingham, a
disaffected personage who had been engaged in Wyat’s rebellion, but had
escaped owing to want of proof of his complicity in the affair.
“Your excellency is welcome,” said Stafford to the ambassador. “I am
glad to find you bring us a recruit. What! Osbert Clinton, is it you?”
he added, as the young man unmuffled his countenance. “You are, indeed,
an important accession to our ranks. But you must take the oath of
fidelity. Our object is to deliver our country from the tyranny of
Spain, to depose Mary, to place Elizabeth on the throne and wed her to
Courtenay, and to restore the Protestant faith.”
“I will be true to you to the death,” replied Osbert emphatically, “and
will aid you to the utmost of my power—this I solemnly swear.”
“Enough,” replied Stafford; “and now I will present you to my associates
in this great and holy cause. Some of them you know.”
“I know Sir Henry Dudley, Sir Anthony Kingston, and Sir Nicholas
Throckmorton,” replied Osbert, saluting the three persons he named, “but
the rest are strangers to me.”
“This is honest Master Udal, and this bold Master Staunton, both good
Protestants, and hearty haters of the Spaniard and Popish idolatry,”
said Sir Henry Dudley. And after salutations had passed by Osbert and
the persons indicated, he went on: “These gentlemen,” bringing forward
two others, “are Masters Peckham and Werne. You have heard of them, I
make no doubt?”
“Ay, marry have I, oftentimes,” replied Osbert. “They are officers to
the Princess Elizabeth. I am glad to see them here.”
“They bring us messages from the Princess approving of our design,” said
Dudley. “Her Highness will not write, after the danger she incurred from
her intercepted correspondence with Wyat.”
“Her Grace is very favourable to your cause, as I have already stated,
Sir Henry,” observed Peckham, “and wishes it all possible success.”
“She has need to do,” said Sir Anthony Kingston. “If we succeed, we
shall place the crown upon her head.”
“There is yet another gentleman whom you have not made known to me, Sir
Henry,” said Osbert, indicating a dark, sinister-looking personage, in a
philemot-coloured mantle and doublet, who stood aloof from the others.
“Ha! this is a very useful person,” replied Dudley. “This is M. de
Freitville, a secret agent of the King of France, who promises to aid
our enterprise with men and money.”
“I hope he will fulfil his promises better than those made by him to
Wyat,” remarked Osbert, regarding Freitville distrustfully.
“Had Wyat held out a few days longer, he would not have lacked support,”
rejoined Freitville. “My royal master afforded an asylum and gave
pensions to all those implicated in the rebellion who fled to France.
His Excellency M. de Noailles will tell you that his Majesty has ever
been hostile to this Spanish alliance, and that, failing in preventing
it, he is now determined to drive the Queen and her husband from the
throne, and set up the Princess Elizabeth in their stead.”
“Has he no other views?” said Osbert.
“None averse to this country,” said De Noailles, “that I can declare
emphatically. It would be idle to assert that my royal master is
influenced by the same motives that you are; but the end is the same.
You both seek the dissolution of this marriage and the overthrow of
Philip—he as the avowed enemy of Spain, you as suffering from the
tyranny of Philip, and anxious to restore the Reformed religion. Our
interests, therefore, are identical, and we make common cause together
against the foe. For my own part, I have a personal antipathy to Philip.
He has done me a grievous injury, and I will never rest till I requite
him. Some day or other his life will be in my hands and then he shall
feel my vengeance.”
“My wrongs are greater than yours,” cried Osbert. “I have thrown off all
allegiance to him, and am henceforth his deadly foe. He has stepped
between me and her whom I love dearer than life, and has sought to
sacrifice her to his unhallowed desires. He is unworthy to be the
Queen’s consort—unworthy to govern Englishmen. I will shed my heart’s
blood in the attempt to drive him from the throne.”
“Why not plunge a dagger in his breast,” said Freitville, “and so rid
the country of a tyrant?”
“I am no assassin,” replied Osbert. “Deeply as I hate him, I would not
slay him save in fair fight. No, we must rouse our countrymen to a sense
of their danger, and rise in arms against him, and put him justly to
death, or drive him from the country.”
“His design is to subjugate England, and reduce us to the condition of
Flanders and Burgundy,” cried Stafford. “If he is allowed to remain on
the throne for another year, he will become absolute master of our
liberties. The twelve strongest fortresses in England—the Tower itself
included—are to be delivered up to him by the misguided and unworthy
Queen, and garrisoned by twenty thousand Spaniards.”
“I can scarce think the Queen would be thus false to her country,” said
Osbert.
“It is so, Sir, and I will tell you more,” pursued Stafford. “Alva is to
be governor of the Tower, and ere he has been there many months more
noble English blood will drench the scaffold than ever dyed it in King
Harry’s days. The Inquisition, also, is to be established.”
“It is already established among us,” cried Sir Henry Dudley. “We had
our _auto-da-fé_ in Smithfield yesterday.”
“The Queen is so infatuated by her love for the King,” pursued Stafford,
“that she can deny him nothing. You, Sir,” he added to Osbert, “who have
been in attendance upon him, must know how shamefully he abuses her
regard, and the scandalous infidelities he practises.”
“It is true,” replied Osbert. “It is true, also, that her Majesty can
refuse him nothing. He has incited her to settle her crown upon him by
her will in the event of her decease during her time of travail.”
“Can she be so blind as not to perceive that by making such a will she
ensures her own death by poison?” observed De Noailles. “But her
senseless passion deprives her of all judgment.”
“Now is the time to strike,” cried Stafford. “Men’s minds are so excited
that a single spark will set the whole city of London in a flame. All
the Protestants are ripe for outbreak. Let us raise the standard of
revolt in Smithfield, on the very spot where Rogers was martyred,
proclaim the Princess Elizabeth Queen, the deposition of Philip and
Mary, and restoration of the Reformed religion. We can only number a
handful of men at first, but what matters that? Thousands will soon
rally round us, and ere night we shall be masters of the City.”
“The enterprise is desperate,” said Osbert, “but the moment is
propitious. I am with you.”
“So are we all!” cried the others.
“Our cry shall be, ‘Down with Philip and Mary! Down with the mass and
idolatry! Long live Queen Elizabeth, the head and defender of the
Protestant Church!’” said Stafford. “Every Protestant will respond to
the call.”
“If we fail, we throw away our lives in a righteous cause,” rejoined
Osbert.
“We shall not fail,” cried Sir Henry Dudley. “I was at Smithfield
yesterday, and spoke with hundreds, who are ready for an outbreak.”
“So did I,” added Sir Anthony Kingston. “I can vouch for the detestation
with which the King is regarded. Let not the attempt be delayed.”
“It shall be made to-morrow,” said Stafford. “I can muster fifty well
armed men.”
“And I half that number,” said Dudley.
“And I twenty,” said Kingston.
“I can bring no one with me,” said Osbert. “But I will gain a thousand
followers before the day is over.”
“At what hour shall we meet to-morrow?” said Dudley.
“At noon,” replied Stafford. “Give me your hand upon it, Osbert
Clinton.”
“Readily,” rejoined the other, grasping the hand stretched out to him.
At this moment the lamp was suddenly thrown down, and the crypt plunged
in darkness.
“Traitors, before to-morrow you shall be all clapped in the Tower!”
cried a voice.
“’Tis the King!” mentally ejaculated Osbert Clinton. And he sprang
towards the door.
“Perdition! we have a spy among us,” cried Stafford. “Seize him and put
him to death!”
And, as he spoke, swords were drawn by the conspirators.
“Let no one go forth, but let each man answer for himself. Where is
Osbert Clinton?”
“Here,” he replied, from the door.
“Where is Sir Henry Dudley?”
“Here,” answered the person designated.
While Stafford was pursuing these inquiries, Osbert heard some one
approaching, and stepped a little aside. It was well he did so, as
otherwise a rapier would have transfixed him. As it was, the point of
the weapon merely pierced the side of his doublet, without doing him any
injury. But at the same moment Osbert seized the arm that had dealt the
blow. After vainly struggling to free himself from the iron grasp in
which he was held, the King (for it was he) whispered, “Release me, Sir,
I command you.”
“Your commands are of no weight here, Sire,” replied Osbert. “But I will
not see you assassinated. Save yourself!”
And letting go his hold as he spoke, the King instantly passed through
the door, and made good his retreat.
At the noise occasioned by his exit, all was confusion and alarm among
the conspirators. Amid fierce shouts and exclamations a general rush was
made to the door, and had they not reached it quickly, the whole party
would have been made prisoners without the possibility of escape, for
some one was trying to lock them in.
Made aware of their approach by the noise, this person fled, without
having accomplished his purpose, but, while hastily mounting the steps,
he became entangled in his gown—for his garments were those of a
monk—and fell. The first of the conspirators to issue from the crypt,
were Stafford and Dudley, and on catching sight of the monk, who was
getting up as quickly as he could, they recognised Father Alfonso de
Castro.
“By Heaven! it is the King’s confessor who has been playing the spy upon
us,” exclaimed Stafford.
“He shall not escape to tell the tale,” roared Dudley. “My sword shall
stop his preaching in future.”
And they dashed up the steps. Ere they could reach him, however, Father
Alfonso had regained his feet, and speeded across the court, shouting
lustily for help.
His object was to gain a small tower, then standing near the cloisters,
on the summit of which tower, under a wooden pent-house, hung the
alarm-bell. As Father Alfonso was aware, the door of this building was
always left open, and if he could only reach it, he would be safe. Fear
lent him wings, and he had passed through the door, shut it, and barred
it inside before his pursuers came up.
While they were venting their disappointment in maledictions, he ran up
a narrow spiral stone staircase, and, reaching a small chamber, seized a
rope that dangled from a hole in the ceiling, and began to ring the
alarm-bell.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHAT MANNER THE OUTBREAK COMMENCED.
Meantime, all the conspirators had come forth from the crypt, and were
gathered together in the court, considering what should be done under
the circumstances. The sudden and violent ringing of the alarm-bell
seemed to leave them no alternative but flight.
“We must separate and beat a retreat,” cried Stafford. “The meeting must
not take place as appointed to-morrow at Smithfield, but must be
deferred to some other opportunity. That cursed Spanish friar has
overheard our plans, and will reveal them. You will all best consult
your safety by keeping out of the way for the present. The great
enterprise has been thwarted for the moment, but it will not be
abandoned.”
“Assuredly not,” cried Dudley. “Would there were some means of silencing
that infernal clatter.”
“If it goes on it will rouse up half the town,” cried Sir Anthony
Kingston.
“Why should it not serve as the signal for the rising?” cried Osbert,
who felt the necessity of immediate action. “Why should we not commence
the great enterprise now? To-morrow we shall all be proscribed, and a
price set upon our heads. Let us act to-night. That bell will spread
alarm through all this quarter of the town, and the people will soon
come flocking hither to learn its import. Let us tell them that a rising
takes place this night against the Spanish domination.”
“Agreed!” exclaimed several voices.
“I approve of the plan,” said De Noailles, who was evidently much
alarmed; “but I cannot be seen in the matter. You know where to find me,
gentlemen. Success attend you!”
And he hastily retired with Freitville.
Meanwhile, the alarm-bell continued to ring violently, and it was
evident, from the shouts and noises heard without, that the people were
roused, and were flocking towards the spot.
“I hear them. They are coming now,” cried Stafford. “Let us forth to
meet them. Ring that bell as loudly as thou canst, thou pestilent friar!
It shall bring those together who shall aid us to dethrone thy master.”
And, as if in compliance with the request, the alarm-bell was rung more
violently than ever.
The conspirators then marched, sword in hand, into the Dean’s-yard,
where some of that dignitary’s servants were collected, but on seeing
them these persons immediately retreated. But the next moment there
burst through the gateway a troop of citizens, hastily and imperfectly
attired, and armed with various weapons, swords, pikes, and arquebuses.
“What ho, my masters!” shouted the foremost of these. “Why rings the
alarm-bell?”
“It rings to call you to arms,” replied Osbert, “in defence of your
liberties and religion. A rising is about to take place to depose Philip
and Mary, place the Princess Elizabeth on the throne, and restore the
Reformed Religion, as established by King Edward VI., of blessed
memory.”
“Hear you that, my masters?” cried the man. “The mass is to be put down,
and the Protestant faith restored.”
It so chanced that the whole of the persons addressed were Protestants,
so they cheered lustily, and shouted, “Down with the mass!”
Meanwhile, the bell never for a moment ceased its clamour, and numbers
of other persons, armed like those who had first appeared, answered the
summons. Many of these joined in the cries against Popery, but others
being Romanists, retorted furiously, and struggles immediately began to
take place between the opposing sects. As the crowd was continually on
the increase, the hubbub and disturbance grew louder and louder, and a
general engagement was threatened.
Just then, a party of twenty-five or thirty men, armed with pikes and
carrying lanterns, came up, shouting, “Down with the mass! Down with
Antichrist!” Thus reinforced, the Protestants laid about them stoutly,
and soon drove off their opponents.
This victory gained, they began to shout lustily, and called out for a
leader, whereupon Osbert Clinton leaped upon a stone bench, and waving
his sword above his head, cried out in a loud voice, so as to be heard
by all, “I am ready to lead you, and if you will stand firmly by me and
my associates, we will deliver you from Spanish tyranny and oppression,
and re-establish your religion. No more inquisitorial practices—no more
ecclesiastical commissions—no more burnings at Smithfield. We will
release all those imprisoned for heresy.”
“We will release our preachers and pastors,” cried Stafford, leaping
upon the bench, “and punish their judges. We will hang Gardiner and
Bonner.”
Shouts and terrific yells responded to this proposition.
“Here come the arquebusiers!” shouted several voices, as the trampling
of horses and the clanking of arms were heard.
“Close up, and stand firm!” cried Osbert, springing from the bench and
making his way towards the head of the crowd, which now, in obedience to
his commands, had formed itself into a compact mass.
The next moment a troop of arquebusiers galloped up, with their swords
drawn, and drew up in front of the mob.
After commanding a halt, their captain rode up to the front ranks of the
crowd, and called out, “In the Queen’s name, as good and loyal subjects
of her Majesty, I command you to disperse, and go peaceably to your
homes.”
A general refusal was the response.
“You had best not be obstinate,” retorted the captain of the guard.
“Mark what I say. You have got amongst you several traitors, who are
conspiring against their Majesties and against the safety of the realm.”
“We are all traitors and conspirators,” cried several voices. “We have
thrown off our allegiance to the Queen and the Pope. We will have no
Spaniard for King.”
“Hear me,” shouted the officer. “If you do not instantly deliver to us
Sir Henry Dudley, Sir Anthony Kingston, Thomas Stafford, Osbert Clinton,
and other traitors and conspirators whom ye have among you, we will cut
you to pieces, and take them.”
“Make good your threat, Sir,” rejoined Osbert. “I am one of those you
have named. Advance and take me if you can.”
The officer instantly pushed forward his horse, but at that moment a
bullet from an arquebuse, fired behind Osbert, crashed into his brain,
and he fell heavily to the ground.
On seeing their leader fall, the arquebusiers instantly charged the mob,
cutting at them with their swords and hewing down a considerable number.
Still, as the sturdy citizens, encouraged by their leaders, stood firm,
and received their assailants on their pikes, less mischief was done
them than might have been expected.
A dreadful _mêlée_ now took place, which endured for nearly a quarter of
an hour; and while it was going on fresh parties, both of Protestants
and Romanists, arrived at the scene of strife, and at once engaged in
the conflict.
At first, it seemed as if the insurgents must be speedily routed; but
though the arquebusiers did great damage in the early part of the fray,
they were completely discomfited in the end, most of their horses being
killed under them.
During the fight, all the leaders of the outbreak distinguished
themselves by their bravery. Osbert Clinton threw himself into the
thickest of the fight, encouraged his followers by word and deed, struck
down three of the horsemen, and mainly contributed to the victory
eventually gained by the insurgents. In little more than a quarter of an
hour after the commencement of the conflict, the arquebusiers were
dismounted and discomfited, and the Romanists driven off.
The alarm-bell, which had ceased during the raging of the conflict,
began to ring again more violently than ever.
A brief consultation was then held among the leaders of the outbreak as
to the course that should next be pursued, when it was agreed that they
should march on past Charing Cross and along the Strand, and if they
received sufficient accession to their forces, should break down Temple
Bar, enter the City, liberate the prisoners for religion from Newgate
and the Marshalsea, and march on to the Tower.
“I will lead on this party,” said Stafford.
“I will set free the prisoners from the Gate House here at Westminster,”
said Sir Henry Dudley.
“I will crave to be allowed to pass over to Lambeth Palace,” said
Osbert, “and set free Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver. This done, I
will cross London-bridge and join you. Let me have fifty men for the
enterprise.”
“Take double that number,” said Stafford. “We shall find plenty of
others as we march along. Harkye, my masters!” he called out to the
crowd. “I want a hundred men to go to Lambeth Palace.”
“What to do?” demanded a burly citizen. “Not to harm Cardinal Pole. He
is a just man, and against persecution. We will hang Bonner and
Gardiner, and the rest of the Romish prelates, but we won’t hurt a hair
of the good Cardinal’s head.”
“Right, Master Rufford, we won’t hurt Cardinal Pole,” cried a man near
him.
“I would not have him harmed,” replied Osbert. “My sole object is to
liberate two Protestant prisoners—Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver.”
“Derrick Carver is confined in the Lollard’s Tower,” said Rufford; “it
was he who spoke to me of the Cardinal’s goodness. If it be merely to
free him and Constance Tyrrell, we are with you.”
“Ay, any of us will go with you on that errand,” cried several voices.
“I also will go with you,” said Udal.
A hundred men were then told quickly off, all of whom were armed with
pikes and other weapons.
“How are we to get across the river?” demanded Rufford.
“We will make the best of our way to the Horseferry, where we shall find
boats enow,” replied Osbert.
“Ay, to the Horseferry! to the Horseferry!” cried several voices.
“We shall meet again ere daybreak, if all go well,” said Osbert to
Stafford and the others.
Then, putting himself at the head of his party, he led them at a quick
pace round the south-west precincts of the abbey, and quickly gaining
the banks of the river, proceeded to the Horseferry.
Up to this time they had been unopposed. The occupants of the scattered
habitations on the road opened their windows to watch them pass, but
none came forth to join them. As Osbert expected, they found the large
ferry-boat, two barges, and sufficient smaller craft to transport them
across the river, and the whole party having embarked in these boats,
they pushed off and began to row towards Lambeth.
Scarcely, however, had they got a bow-shot from the shore, when a band
of mounted archers rode up to the ferry station, and finding they were
too late, and that all the boats had been taken away by the insurgents,
they fired a volley at them, but without doing them any injury. Without
trying the effect of a second volley, the horsemen rode back to
Westminster, probably to find boats to enable them to cross the river.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
HOW THE INSURGENTS PROCEEDED TO LAMBETH PALACE.
Meantime, Osbert and his party were more than half across the Thames.
Before them rose the stately palace of Lambeth, with its tower and
gateway, looking like a black mass relieved against the clear sky. The
serene beauty of night, which contrasted forcibly with the agitating
events that were taking place, was not without effect upon Osbert. As he
stood at the prow of the barge, leaning upon his sword and contemplating
the scene, its holy calmness insensibly softened him, and he began to
feel compunction for what he had done. But it was now too late to
recede. The step was taken, and he must go on. He must either perish as
a traitor, or live as the liberator of his country. Stifling all
remorseful feelings, he tried to fix his thoughts on the latter
contingency.
As the insurgents approached Lambeth Palace, it was evident from the
lights gleaming from the windows, and the sounds heard from the courts,
that its inmates were alarmed and astir.
In another moment the little squadron reached the wharf. Osbert was the
first to land, and leaped ashore sword in hand. Udal and Rufford
followed him, but such expedition was used that only a few minutes
elapsed before the whole party had disembarked.
Meantime, their movements were watched from the battlements of the
gateway by Rodomont Bittern and his two lieutenants. As soon as the
insurgents had landed, and were drawn up, Osbert marched at their head
towards the gateway, but before he reached it, Rodomont called out in a
loud voice:—
“Who are ye, Sirs, and what seek ye, that ye approach the palace of the
Lord Cardinal in this hostile fashion? State your business without
parleying, that I may report it to his Eminence. But I warn you that you
can have no admittance at this hour.”
“We will obtain admittance for ourselves if our request be refused,”
replied Osbert. “We require Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver, both
detained within the palace, to be delivered up to us.”
“By whose warrant do you make this demand?” inquired Rodomont.
“By mine own,” replied the other, “which thus backed, shall answer as
well as any other, were it even the Queen’s.”
“None but her Majesty’s own order will procure their liberation,”
rejoined Rodomont; “and since you possess not that, you are likely to go
away empty-handed. Though I would fain disbelieve it, methinks it is
Master Osbert Clinton who speaks to me.”
“I am he you suppose,” replied Osbert. “Use dispatch, good Rodomont, and
convey my message to the Lord Cardinal.”
“If you are turned rebel, as I suspect from the tone you adopt, and the
armed rout at your heels,” rejoined Rodomont, “I must pray you to cease
all familiarity with me. But I will make your demand known to the Lord
Cardinal.”
“Fail not to add, that if they be not delivered up, we will enter the
palace and take them,” said Osbert.
“I will communicate your exact words,” rejoined Rodomont, “but I warn
you, that if you make the attempt you will assuredly be hanged.”
With this he quitted the battlements.
While he was gone, Osbert employed the time in explaining to the
insurgents what must be done in the event of the Cardinal’s refusal.
After a brief delay, a wicket in the gate was opened, and Rodomont
Bittern came forth.
“What answer bring you from the Lord Cardinal?” demanded Osbert, on
seeing him.
“His Eminence will answer you in person,” said Rodomont. “But if you
will take the advice of one who was once your friend, and is still your
well-wisher, you will pursue this matter no further.”
“A truce to this,” cried Osbert, sternly. “I must have the Cardinal’s
answer without delay, or I shall proceed to action. I have no time to
waste.”
“You are peremptory, Sir,” observed Rodomont dryly.
“So peremptory, that I _will_ have the prisoners,” rejoined Osbert,
fiercely.
“You must discuss that point with the Lord Cardinal himself,” rejoined
Rodomont.
As he spoke, the falling of heavy bars within-side proclaimed that the
gates were being unfastened, and in another moment the ponderous valves
swung aside and disclosed the Cardinal standing beneath the archway.
Close behind him stood Priuli with Constance Tyrrell, habited in black,
and looking deathly pale, and a little further removed was Derrick
Carver, with Mallet, the keeper of the Lollard’s Tower.
No guard was near the Cardinal; the only persons with him besides Simnel
and Holiday being some half-dozen attendants bearing torches. Pole’s
features wore a grave and somewhat severe expression. He manifested no
apprehension whatever, but fixed a searching though somewhat sorrowful
glance upon Osbert and the insurgent crew drawn up behind him.
Seen by the light of the torches which gleamed upon the Cardinal’s
majestic figure, upon Constance’s pallid but lovely features, upon
Priuli’s noble countenance, and Derrick Carver’s rugged physiognomy—upon
Osbert, who, sword in hand, confronted the Cardinal, and upon the
insurgents with their pikes—the whole picture was exceedingly striking.
The conference was opened by Pole, who, eyeing Osbert severely, and
speaking in a stern tone, said, “I have caused my gates to be thrown
open to you, Sir, in order to show you that I have no fear. By what
authority do you demand the liberation of the persons committed to my
charge?”
“I have no authority for the demand I make,” replied Osbert, “but I have
the power to enforce compliance, and that must suffice. You have done
well in throwing open your gates to us, Lord Cardinal, for we design you
no injury. Let Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver, both of whom I see
with you, be delivered up to us, and we will trouble you no further.”
“And what will you do if I refuse?” said the Cardinal, sternly.
“We will take them,” rejoined Osbert. “But I beseech your Eminence not
to compel us to have recourse to violence.”
“Hear me, misguided man,” said Pole; “and hear me all of ye,” he
continued, addressing the insurgents in a louder tone, “I will not
affect to misunderstand the character in which you come. You are rebels
and traitors to the Queen, and have risen in arms against her.”
“None would be more loyal and devoted subjects of her Majesty than we,
were our rights and liberties respected,” said Osbert: “but we have
thrown off our allegiance because we will not submit to be governed by a
Spanish king. We will not suffer our preachers and pastors to be burnt
at the stake as heretics and infidels, nor our country to be enslaved.
But we have not come hither to make known our grievances to your
Eminence, or to ask for redress, which we well know we cannot obtain
from you. We have not come hither to do you injury of any sort, for we
hold you in profound respect, and wish there were many of your creed
like you. Our object is to liberate all prisoners for religion, and we
therefore require the release of the two persons in your custody.”
“Before you proceed to extremities,” rejoined Pole, “let me counsel you
to pause and consider what you are about. You are engaged in a rash
enterprise, which will in no way benefit your cause, but will infallibly
lead to your destruction. By this outbreak you will give your rulers a
plea for further oppression. I do not hesitate to say that I am averse
to religious persecution, and would gladly see an end put to it, but
this is not the plan to pursue. In a few hours your outbreak will be
crushed, and then the party you represent will be worse off than ever.
To all such as are peaceably disposed among you, whose families are dear
to them, and who would avoid bloodshed and ignominious death, I would
say disperse quietly, go to your homes, and come not forth again on a
like pretext. To you, Osbert Clinton, who have been unwise enough to
place yourself at the head of this insurrection, I must hold other
language. Your only safety is in flight. A price will be set on your
head, and, if taken, you will die the death of a traitor.”
“I am aware of it,” replied Osbert. “But I have sworn to free my country
and my religion, or perish in the attempt. I have no thoughts of flight,
neither will my followers desert me. But we have talked long enough. You
know our determination. Are we to have the prisoners peaceably, or must
we take them by force?”
“I should be loth to provoke you to bloodshed,” replied the Cardinal.
“Here are the two prisoners, as you see. I will place no restraint upon
them. If they choose to go with you, it is well. If not, you will depart
without them.”
“I readily agree to the terms, and thank your Eminence for sparing me
the necessity of violence,” replied Osbert. “I do not think they will
hesitate. Derrick Carver, you have heard what has passed. We wait for
you.”
But, to Osbert’s great surprise, the enthusiast did not move.
“I cannot go unless I am set free by the Cardinal,” he said.
“How?” cried Osbert.
“His Eminence suffered me to go forth on my promise to return,” replied
Carver, “and I will now prove to him that I am to be relied on.”
“I cannot prevent your departure,” said Pole; “neither can I set you
free.”
“Then I stay,” replied Carver.
“I am not disappointed in you,” observed Pole, approvingly.
“If such be your determination when freedom is offered you, you must
have taken leave of your senses,” said Osbert. “Constance, I call upon
you—and shall not, I am sure, call in vain.”
“I cannot leave the good Cardinal, who has sheltered and protected me,
without his consent, even at your bidding, Osbert,” she replied.
“And my consent must be refused,” said Pole. “Alas! misguided man,” he
continued to Osbert. “You little know what you have done. Just as the
King has assented to your union with Constance, you yourself raise an
insuperable obstacle to it. Now Constance is lost to you for ever.”
“It is too true, Osbert!—it is too true,” she cried. “Why did you come
hither thus?”
“Ah! why?” he cried, striking his head with his clenched hand.
“Perdition on my folly!”
“Save yourself by instant flight—that is the best advice I can give
you,” said the Cardinal.
“Desert my friends—never!” exclaimed Osbert. “The die is cast, and I
must stand the issue. Constance, by all the love you profess to bear me,
I implore you to come with me.”
“Alas! alas! I cannot obey you,” she rejoined.
“Then I will carry you off in spite of your resistance,” cried Osbert.
“Forward, friends, forward!”
Some few advanced at the summons, but the majority, upon whom the
Cardinal’s harangue, combined with subsequent circumstances, had
produced a powerful impression, held back.
As Osbert stepped forward, Rodomont and his two comrades placed
themselves in his way.
“Back, misguided man!” cried the Cardinal. “Another step, and you rush
on certain destruction. The sanctity of this asylum shall not be
violated with impunity.”
Just then loud shouts were heard, and some of the insurgents rushing
forth to see what was the matter, immediately returned to say that a
large number of the royal guard were landing from boats, and that some
of them were already on the wharf.
“What shall we do?” cried several voices.
“Give them battle,” rejoined Osbert, in a loud voice. “Farewell,
Constance,” he added; “if I fall, think that I came to save you. Now,
friends, to the wharf!—to the wharf!”
Hereupon, all the insurgents, headed by Osbert, rushed forth
simultaneously from the archway, shouting, “Down with King Philip!—down
with the Pope!”
As soon as they were gone, the gates were closed by order of the
Cardinal.
Some thirty or forty archers had already disembarked from the boats that
had brought them, and others were leaping ashore, as Osbert and his
partisans appeared on the wharf. Fierce shouts were raised on both
sides, and in another instant a desperate conflict commenced. By a
sudden dash, Osbert hoped to drive the enemy into the river; but the
archers stood their ground well, and being quickly reinforced by their
comrades from the boats, they not only repelled the attack made upon
them, but forced the insurgents to retire.
It soon became evident to Rodomont and his lieutenants, who had mounted
to the summit of the gateway to watch the conflict, that it must
speedily terminate in favour of the archers, who were more than a match
for their brave but undisciplined opponents. And so it turned out. In
less than ten minutes the conflict was over, and the insurgents
dispersed or made captive. Osbert fought desperately to the last, but
finding it in vain to struggle longer, followed by three or four others,
among whom were Udal and Rufford, he leaped into a boat, and, pushing
off, was borne swiftly down the river.
Half-a-dozen other boats, manned by archers, instantly started in
pursuit, and frequent shots were fired at the fugitives. Whether any of
these took effect could not be ascertained by Rodomont and his comrades,
who watched the chase with great interest from the battlements; but, at
all events, the flying barque held on its course, and seemed to gain
upon the others. At last, pursued and pursuers disappeared from view.
“As the Queen’s loyal subject I ought not to wish well to a traitor and
a rebel,” remarked Rodomont, “and yet I cannot help hoping that Osbert
Clinton has escaped.”
In this wish both his comrades concurred.
End of the Fifth Book.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
BOOK VI.
THE LEWES MARTYR.
CHAPTER I.
OF THE PARTING BETWEEN DERRICK CARVER AND CONSTANCE.
The attempt made by the conspirators to cause a general rising proved
completely abortive. Stafford and his party received some accessions to
their numbers as they marched along, but before they reached Charing
Cross they were attacked and dispersed by a troop of mounted
arquebusiers, who issued from Whitehall. Several persons were arrested,
among whom were the two officers of the Princess Elizabeth’s household,
Peckham and Werne, but the ringleaders managed to escape. Next day,
Stafford, Dudley, Kingston, Udal, Osbert Clinton, and the rest of the
party, were publicly proclaimed as outlaws, rebels, traitors, and
disturbers of the peace, and a large reward offered for their capture.
Nothing, however, was said about the French ambassador. Only to Gardiner
did Philip avow that he had been secretly present with Father de Castro
at the meeting in the crypt, and the Chancellor counselled him not to
allow this circumstance to transpire publicly, as they had proof enough
against the conspirators without it; above all, Gardiner was opposed to
any proceedings being taken against De Noailles. Thus the wily
ambassador escaped with impunity as on previous occasions. A strict
watch, however, was kept upon his movements.
It was confidently anticipated, both by the King and Gardiner, that
before many days all the chief conspirators would be arrested, but in
this expectation they were disappointed. No traces of any of them could
be discovered. Some doubts were entertained as to the fate of Osbert
Clinton. Two persons were shot in the boat in which he escaped from
Lambeth, and their bodies thrown into the Thames, and it was thought he
was one of them; but this was by no means clear.
While the search for the leaders of the outbreak was thus being
actively, though unsuccessfully, prosecuted, Peckham and Werne were
taken to the Tower and put to the torture, in order to compel them to
accuse the Princess Elizabeth of complicity in the affair, but nothing
could be wrung from them, and, with twenty other luckless personages who
had been captured at the same time, they were hanged, drawn, and
quartered, and their heads set upon the north gateway of London Bridge.
Meanwhile, the religious persecution continued with unabated rigour.
Bishop Hooper, with two others, had undergone martyrdom at different
places, and six more prisoners, excommunicated by Bonner, and delivered
over to the civil power, were about to perish in the same manner.
Conscious of the odium attaching to these sanguinary measures, Gardiner
prudently resigned his post at the ecclesiastical tribunal to Bonner,
who thenceforward acted as supreme judge, and was undeterred by scruples
of any sort.
A momentary check was, however, given to his severity from an unexpected
quarter. From the various manifestations made towards him by the
Protestant party, and from other circumstances, Philip could not fail to
perceive that if he took any further part in these barbarous
proceedings, he should raise up a host of determined enemies, so he
caused Father Alfonso to preach publicly, before him and the court, a
sermon strongly condemnatory of religious persecution. The plan
completely answered the King’s expectations, it being felt that such a
sermon could not have been preached without his sanction, and it was
argued, therefore, that he must disapprove of the course pursued by
Bonner.
The effect of this remarkable discourse—remarkable, indeed, as emanating
from one who had been designated “The Scourge of Heresy”—was to stay the
bitter persecution for a while, but, though momentarily checked, it
revived with a greater fury than before. The six unfortunate persons
excommunicated by Bonner were consigned to the flames, and urged to
greater activity by the Marquis of Winchester, and other members of the
council, the zealous prelate looked out for fresh victims.
Bonner had long burned to wreak his vengeance upon Derrick Carver, and
was at last able to gratify his desire. Having procured a warrant from
the Queen for the deliverance up to him of the prisoner, who was still
confined in the Lollards’ Tower, he immediately acted upon it. Before he
was taken away, Carver, by permission of the Cardinal, was allowed to
bid farewell to Constance Tyrrell. The interview took place in the Post
Room in the Lollards’ Tower, and in order that there might be no check
upon their freedom of discourse, they were left alone together.
“Daughter,” said Carver, who appeared more subdued than usual, “I am
about to win the crown of martyrdom for which I have so long striven,
and to inscribe my name upon that scroll which shall hereafter be a
guide to our Church. In quitting you for a while, I expect you to remain
stedfast in the faith. Be not shaken by the arguments of the Cardinal,
who, though a good man, has been brought up in superstition and
idolatry, and cannot free himself from the errors of his creed.”
“Have no fear for me,” replied Constance. “I shall soon follow in the
same path you are about to tread.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Carver, with an irrepressible shudder. “Oh!
Constance, while alone in my cell, I have communed with myself, sounding
my breast to its depths, and weighing every thought and action, and I
reproach myself that I have led you too far. I have kindled a holy
fervour in your breast like that which animates my own, and which
incites you to bear witness to your faith by death.”
“True. But surely you should rejoice that you have kindled such a
flame,” she rejoined.
“No; I would quench it,” he cried. “Seek not martyrdom. Rush not upon
fiery torments—but live—live a godly life.”
“These words are strange from you, who have so often painted the glories
of martyrdom to me, and urged me to share them with you.”
“I repent that I did so,” he rejoined. “Were you to suffer with me, your
torments would afflict me a thousand times more than my own. ’Twere
terrible that a frame so fair as yours should be consumed by fire. It
must not be. You are young and beautiful. You love, and are beloved.
Live and be happy. Live for Osbert Clinton.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Constance, “I know not if Osbert still lives. It is
thought he perished on that fatal night when he came here to liberate
us. He has not been heard of since. But if he lives, it is as a
proscribed rebel, with a price set on his head, and if he be taken, his
doom is certain. I have nothing left but to die.”
“No, you must live,” said Carver, solemnly. “Osbert Clinton is not dead.
He did not perish on that disastrous night, as you suppose. I have seen
and spoken with him at the window of my cell, which he reached as he did
when you, dear daughter, were its occupant. He and his friends are not
disheartened by the ill success of their enterprise. It was rash and
precipitate, and failed in consequence. But they are planning another
insurrection, and I pray Heaven to crown it with success, since it has
for its aim the restoration of our religion and the downfall of Philip!”
“I rejoice to hear that Osbert still lives,” said Constance; “but I fear
these plots will eventually conduct him to the scaffold.”
“If he should so perish, then seek for a martyr’s crown, if you will,”
said Carver; “but while he lives, live for him. Something tells me you
will yet be united.”
“I dare not hope so,” she rejoined.
“If my last prayers will avail to ensure your happiness, you shall have
them,” said Carver. “And now we must part. Once more I exhort you to
continue stedfast in the faith. But be not influenced by the desire of
vain-glory, which, perchance, may be my own besetting sin. And now
receive my blessing!”
And as she bent before him, he spread his arms over her head, and
pronounced a solemn benediction.
There was then a deep silence, broken only by Constance’s sobs.
“Weep not, dear daughter,” he said. “Our parting ought to be joyous
rather than sad, seeing that my trials are well-nigh over, and I am
about to reap my reward. Farewell!” he added, taking her hand, and
pressing his lips to it. “Forget not what I have said to you.”
“Fear me not!” she rejoined, sinking upon a bench. “Farewell!”
Carver cast a compassionate look at her, and then striding resolutely
towards the door, he called out that he was ready, whereupon Mallet
instantly appeared.
Without hazarding another glance at Constance, he then quitted the
chamber, and was taken by Mallet to the gate, where he was delivered to
the officers sent for him by Bonner.
A barge awaited him, and in this conveyance he was taken to Paul’s
Wharf. Thence he was escorted to the consistory at Saint Paul’s, where
Bonner was sitting in judgment with the Lord Mayor, the sheriffs, and
several members of the council.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
HOW DERRICK CARVER WAS TAKEN TO LEWES.
When Derrick Carver was brought before the tribunal, Bonner eyed him
with a smile of malignant satisfaction, and observed to Sheriff
Woodrooffe, who was sitting near him,—
“At last I have got this pestilent fellow, whom the Cardinal has so long
screened from justice. He shall not escape now. I will deal roundly with
him.”
On this, he caused the minutes of the prisoner’s previous examinations
to be read to him by an officer in the court, which being done, Bonner
said, in a bitter and derisive tone.
“Such were the detestable and damnable opinions professed by thee,
Derrick Carver, when thou wert last interrogated in the Lollards’ Tower;
but doubtless the exhortations and persuasions of the Lord Cardinal have
wrought a beneficial change, and thou art now willing to confess thine
errors and abjure them.”
“My opinions have undergone no change,” replied Carver. “But if any
Romanist could have converted me, it would be Cardinal Pole.”
“Ah! you admit so much,” cried Bonner. “Why should Cardinal Pole prevail
with you more than others? Hath he more zeal—more devotion—more
theological learning than others have?”
“I know not whether he hath more zeal and learning than your lordship,
but he has more Christian charity,” replied Carver. “He understands the
Gospel, and is guided by its precepts, which you are not.”
“Belike you deem his Eminence less rigid, less orthodox than I am?” said
Bonner.
“My tenets are not _his_ tenets,” replied Carver; “yet I hold him to be
a good man, though, unhappily, blinded to the truth. Your lordship may
be the more orthodox Catholic of the two, but you are the worse man.”
“I thank thee for the admission, thou foul-mouthed knave,” cried Bonner.
“You all hear that he charges the Cardinal with unsoundness of opinion,”
he added to the court.
“I charge thee with attempting to pervert my words,” retorted Carver. “I
meant to say that Cardinal Pole is the chief living light and glory of
the Church of Rome, whereas thou art its shame and reproach. In after
times, when this bitter persecution of the faithful is spoken of,
Reginald Pole will be remembered for mildness and toleration, while thou
wilt be execrated as the ’bloody Bishop Bonner’—a name that shall cling
to thee for ever!”
“I would rather have thy censure than thy commendation,” rejoined
Bonner. “Had the Cardinal treated thee with due severity, thou wouldst
never have lauded his virtues. But thou hast said enough to convince us
thou art obstinate and impenitent. Therefore I shall not take up the
time of the court by questioning thee further. Down on thy knees while
sentence of excommunication is pronounced upon thee.”
“I kneel only to Heaven,” replied the prisoner, firmly.
At a sign from the bishop, two officers seized him, and, in spite of his
resistance, forced him upon his knees, detaining him in this posture
while the sentence was read to him by Bonner. This done, he was
permitted to rise, and the officers left him.
“Thou art now accursed,” pursued Bonner, “and henceforward, if any man
shall eat with thee, or drink with thee, or otherwise help thee or
comfort thee, he will be a partaker in the curse.”
“You have put me out of the communion of a Church which I have quitted
of my own accord for these ten years,” said Carver. “As to your
anathemas, they affright me not. May they recoil with added strength on
your own head.”
“Away, thou miserable blasphemer!” cried Bonner, furiously. “I have done
with thee for ever.”
“No, not for ever, thou unrighteous judge,” rejoined Carver. “I summon
thee to appear with me before the Judgment Throne of Heaven to answer
for the blood thou art about to shed.”
So awful was the tone in which these words were uttered, that a profound
impression was upon all the hearers, and even Bonner trembled. But he
quickly shook off his trepidation, and exclaimed,—
“The gates of Heaven will be fast closed to you, unless you repent. You
will now be delivered to the sheriffs, and by them will be taken to
Newgate, where you will remain until after your trial. If you are
condemned, as I nothing doubt you will be, you will be burned at Lewes,
from the neighbourhood of which place you come, and where we learn there
are many tainted with false doctrines, to whom your death may prove a
salutary warning.”
“It will strengthen them in their faith, when they see how a believer in
the Gospel can die,” rejoined Carver.
“Away with him!” cried Bonner, impatiently. “Away with him!”
On this, the prisoner was removed from the court, and conveyed with two
others, who had been examined before his arrival at the consistory, to
Newgate.
By command of Sheriff Woodrooffe, who accompanied him to the prison, he
was placed in a noisome dungeon, and only allowed bread and water. After
a few days’ confinement, he was brought up for trial, and, as had been
foretold by Bonner, condemned to death at the stake.
Orders were then given by Sheriff Woodrooffe that he should be taken to
Lewes, under a sufficient guard, for immediate execution, and on the
following day the little cavalcade set out on its journey, stopping for
the first night at Croydon. The inhabitants of the place flocked forth
to see the prisoner, and many of them expressed great commiseration for
him, but he was not permitted by the guard to speak to them, or to
receive any refreshments offered him.
“Avoid him!” cried Father Josfrid, a Dominican friar by whom he was
accompanied; “he is excommunicated, and if ye give him aught, ye will
share in the heavy curse under which he labours.”
From the exhortations of this zealous monk Carver was never for a moment
free, though they produced no other effect upon him than annoyance. The
escort was commanded by an officer named Brand, who had been selected
for the business by Sheriff Woodrooffe on account of his hatred to the
Protestant party. He was a sullen, sour-tempered personage, and showed
his ill will to the prisoner both by word and blow. Carver, however,
bore this harsh usage without a murmur.
On the second day the party reached East Grinstead, where they passed
the night, a cellar with a truss of straw laid on the floor being
allotted to Carver; and starting early on the following morning, they
reached Ditchling about noon, and, after an hour’s halt, commenced the
ascent of the downs.
On arriving at Ditchling, the prisoner earnestly besought Captain Brand
to take him to Brightelmstone, in order that he might bid farewell to
his wife and children, and aged mother; but the petition was refused,
the officer declaring he would not go half-a-dozen miles out of his way
to pleasure a heretic.
“They can come and see you burned at Lewes to-morrow, if they list,” he
added, with a savage grin.
Hearing what passed, a young man, mounted on a strong iron-grey horse,
who had entered the inn-yard almost immediately after the little
cavalcade, inquired the nearest road to Brightelmstone, and immediately
galloped off in that direction.
Having mounted the steep hill-side, and passed Ditchling Beacon, the
party proceeded along the brow of the downs, whence such magnificent
views of the weald of Sussex are obtained, though these now received
little attention, until they came to Mount Harry, on whose verdant
slopes was fought the great battle between Henry III. and the Barons
under Simon de Montfort, when the ancient and picturesque town of Lewes,
with its towering castle and ruined priory, its numerous churches,
gates, and circling walls, burst upon their view.
“Welcome! thou city of refuge,” exclaimed Carver, stretching out his
hands towards the town. “Thou art gladsome to mine eyes as was Ramoth
Gilead to the fugitives from Jordan. There shall I be at rest.”
“There will be a rare bonfire in that old town to-morrow,” observed
Captain Brand, in a jeering tone, to the prisoner—“a bonfire such as the
townsfolk have seldom seen, and which they are likely long to recollect.
’Twill be a grand spectacle to those who look on,” he added with stern
significance.
“I had rather be the chief actor in the spectacle than a beholder of
it,” replied Carver; “and I trust those who witness it will long
remember it.”
On this, Brand rode on, and Father Josfrid resumed the exhortation which
he had been obliged for the nonce to suspend.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
HOW DERRICK CARVER WAS PLACED IN A VAULT BENEATH
THE STAR INN AT LEWES.
At the period of our history, Lewes, as we have just intimated, was
surrounded by walls built of stone, and of considerable strength, though
few traces of these fortifications are now left. At the west gate of the
town the party was met by the high sheriff, Sir Richard de Warren, and
Master Piddinghoe, the headborough, attended by a large posse of men
armed with halberds. Besides these, there were many burgesses and
priests, who had come forth to see the prisoner. At this place Derrick
Carver was delivered over to the high sheriff by Captain Brand, who at
the same time handed to Sir Richard the warrant for the prisoner’s
execution.
“All shall be ready for the ceremonial to-morrow morning,” said De
Warren. “We cannot lodge him in the castle, but we will place him in a
vault beneath the Star Inn, where he will be perfectly secure.”
“I have fulfilled mine office in delivering him into your hands, Sir
Richard,” replied Brand. “But my orders from Sheriff Woodrooffe are to
tarry here till the sentence is carried out.”
“You will not be detained beyond to-morrow morning, Sir,” said De
Warren.
On this the party passed through the gate, and began to move slowly down
the High Street, which formed a gradual descent towards the centre of
the town. On either side the street were habitations of various sizes,
but all of quaint and picturesque architecture. As the train advanced,
the inhabitants came forth to see the prisoner, to many of whom he was
personally known, and these loudly expressed their commiseration, and
their abhorrence of his persecutors.
By the time the train had reached the massive Norman gate of the castle,
so large a crowd had collected that the progress of the party was
impeded, and the high sheriff’s attendants had to use the poles of their
halberds to effect a passage. In spite, however, of the exertions of the
officers and men, the throng could not be kept back, but forced
themselves up to the prisoner, and catching hold of his garments, and
clinging to his horse, besought his blessing.
“Stand back!—touch him not!” cried Father Josfrid. “He is
excommunicated.”
Little attention however, was paid to the priest. In vain Carver
besought those nearest him to retire—in vain the officers commanded them
to stand back—they would not stir. At last, force was employed, they
were thrust violently aside, and amid shrieks of terror and groans and
yells of indignation, Carver was hurried along, and finally conveyed
through a gateway into a large yard at the rear of the Star Inn. As soon
as this had been accomplished the gate was shut, and a guard placed in
front of it.
This ancient hostel, which still exists, though it has undergone many
transformations, was then a large and substantial structure, capable of
accommodating a great number of guests, and was managed by Dame Dunster,
a buxom widow, whose boast it was that the best mutton in Sussex, the
fattest capons, the most perfectly seasoned venison pasties, the most
delicious stewed eels, and the brightest sack and claret, were to be had
at the Star at Lewes. Besides these good things, and many others, those
who lodged with Dame Dunster had the luxury of linen white as snow, and
fragrant of lavender. Nothing, in short, was wanting at the Star—a
comely and good-humoured landlady, young and not ill-favoured
handmaidens, and active drawers—these for the guests, while for their
steeds there were good stables and good provender.
Beneath the hostel there existed, and indeed still exists, a large
vault, wherein, as the high sheriff had intimated to Captain Brand, it
was intended to place Derrick Carver for the night. The subterranean
chamber was of great strength, the roof high and arched, and the walls
of solid stone. It was of great antiquity, and had originally belonged
to a monastic edifice. On one side, at a considerable height from the
ground, was an unglazed window or aperture, contrived for the admission
of air and light. This aperture was placed on a level with the street,
and was secured by stout iron bars, fixed horizontally and close
together. This singular vault is still much in the same state as we have
described it, though it is now used for other purposes than as a place
of detention of prisoners, being, in fact, a very cool and commodious
cellar.
When Derrick Carver was taken into the inn-yard, as already related, he
became so faint that he was obliged to sit down on a horse-block for a
few minutes to recover himself. Noticing his feeble condition, Dame
Dunster who had come forth to look at him, kindly sent for a cup of
sack, and offered it to him. But Father Josfrid again interposed, and
bade her take the wine away, if she would not fall under the same ban as
the miserable wretch before her. But the kind-hearted hostess persisted,
whereupon the priest snatched the cup from her, and dashed its contents
on the ground.
“You must have a heart utterly void of compassion, or you could not act
thus,” cried Dame Dunster to Father Josfrid. “You would see the poor man
die, and not raise a hand to help him. It would be happy for him,
indeed, if he were to die, as in that case he would escape further
cruelty.”
“I am better now,” replied Derrick Carver, raising himself to his feet
by a great effort. “I lack not the wine you would have given me to
drink, but I thank you heartily for the kind intent, and invoke Heaven’s
blessings upon your house.”
“Thy blessings will prove curses, thou outcast from Heaven,” cried the
priest.
“Be not troubled by his words, good sister,” said Carver. “Be mindful of
what I say to you. Avoid idolatry and superstition. Place your faith in
the Gospel, and you shall live. Pray for me, sister, and I will pray for
you.”
Dame Dunster and her maidens turned away weeping, while Carver descended
a flight of stone steps leading to the vault, the door of which being
unlocked he was rudely thrust into the subterranean chamber. A few
trusses of straw for a couch, with bread-and-water for sustenance, being
supplied him, he was left alone, and the door locked outside.
After glancing round the vault, noting its size, and the solidity of its
walls, Carver turned his attention to the barred opening, already
described as being on a level with the street. Through this opening
noises reached his ears, but no one was allowed to approach and hold
converse with him, a guard being placed outside the inn.
Carver took a few turns in the vault, and then sitting down upon a
wooden bench, which constituted its sole furniture, took out his Bible,
which had been happily spared him, and began to read it. He had been
occupied in this manner for some time, when the strokes of a pickaxe
dealt upon the stones in the street disturbed him, and he raised his
head to listen. By-and-by the clatter of a shovel was heard—then there
was a great noise as if several men were carrying a heavy mass, which
appeared to be plunged into a hole that had just been digged; and then
there was a dull, dead, thumping sound, as if the earth were being
beaten down by a ram.
Suspecting what was going forward, but desiring to know the truth,
Carver placed the bench immediately below the window, and, mounting upon
it, raised himself so that he could just look through the bars into the
street. He then found that his conjectures were correct, and that the
noises he had heard were caused by men who were planting the stake in
the ground to which he was to be attached on the morrow. With a mournful
curiosity he watched them at their work, and did not withdraw till the
stake was firmly secured, and a heavy iron chain attached to it. He had
just got down, when he heard Captain Brand, whose harsh voice he
instantly recognised, giving directions to the men.
“Take care that plenty of fagots are provided,” he said; “and,
furthermore, I must have an empty tar-barrel large enough to hold the
prisoner. He boasts of his firmness,” added Brand with a bitter laugh.
“We will see whether we cannot shake it.”
It would seem that he was likely to be disappointed in his expectation,
for Carver heard the order given without the slightest feeling of dread,
but calmly resumed the perusal of the sacred volume at the point where
he had laid it aside. Neither did he desist until it grew dark, and he
was unable to read longer.
He then knelt down and prayed fervently, continuing his vigils until
long after midnight, when weariness overcame him, and flinging himself
upon the straw, he presently fell asleep.
He was roused from his slumbers by a stone which fell upon the floor of
the vault not far from where he was lying, and as he stirred he heard a
voice calling to him from the barred window, and looking in that
direction, he could just distinguish the figure of a man.
“Who speaks?” he demanded rising to his feet.
“A friend,” replied the other. “Come nearer—quick!”
“The voice seems familiar to me,” observed Carver, “and if I did not
deem it impossible, I should say it was——”
“It is he you suppose,” interrupted the speaker. “Come as near me as you
can, and come quickly, for I may be discovered.”
Thus adjured, Carver mounted the bench, and was then only separated by
the bars from the person outside, whom he now recognised as Osbert
Clinton.
“Why have you incurred this danger on my account, oh, rash young man?”
he cried.
“I have somewhat to impart,” replied Osbert; “but I must be brief, for
though the man on guard has quitted his post, he may return. In a word,
then, I shall make an attempt to deliver you from these bloodthirsty
tigers to-morrow. I have half a dozen friends with me, and when you are
brought forth for execution, we will fall upon the guard and set you
free.”
“I forbid you to make the attempt, my son,” replied Carver. “I am fully
prepared to die, and would not accept a pardon from my enemies were it
offered me. By freeing me as you propose, you would wrest from me the
crown of martyrdom which I hope to win at yonder stake. My race is
almost run, and the goal is at hand. I have done with the world, and
would not be brought back to it. My last sufferings will be sharp, but
they will be speedily over, and I rejoice that I am able to bear them.
Again, I say, this attempt must not be made.”
“Since you will have it so, I must needs obey,” rejoined Osbert, in a
mournful tone. “And yet I would try to move you.”
“It would be in vain,” said Carver. “Our moments are precious. Let them
not be wasted in idle discussion. I will not fly from the death prepared
for me. The stake is ready, and shall not want the victim. I know you
will readily do me a service. Seek out my poor wife and children at
Brightelmstone, and bid them farewell for me.”
“I have already seen them,” replied Osbert. “Your wife is ill—too ill to
leave the house—and I enjoined her not to come here to-morrow.”
“You did right—quite right,” rejoined Carver. “What of my aged mother?”
he demanded, in a voice of profound emotion.
“I ought to have no concealment from you now,” said Osbert. “Your mother
is no more.”
“I thought so,” replied Carver, after a pause. “She appeared to me just
now during my slumber. Her countenance wore a heavenly smile, and
methought her lips opened to address me, but I could not catch the words
she uttered. Her spirit was still hovering nigh me when you woke me from
the blissful dream.”
There was a deep, solemn pause, after which Carver continued: “And now,
Osbert Clinton, I have some counsel to give you. The success of the
great enterprise on which you are engaged will depend on the prudence
with which it is conducted. Be not rash. Wait for a favourable
opportunity to strike the blow, and take heed that you do not place
confidence in traitors.”
“We expect men and money from France,” said Osbert.
“France will play you false, as she has done before,” replied Carver.
“But we are obliged to trust to that power, since we have now no other
resources,” said Osbert. “All our possessions have been seized and
sequestered, and we have not wherewithal to pay the host we could raise.
We have men, but not money. We lack as many chests of gold as were
brought from Spain by Philip when he landed at Southampton.”
“What became of that Spanish bullion?” demanded Carver.
“Part of it has been expended in bribes to our venal nobles,” replied
Osbert. “But the rest is deposited in the Tower.”
“Is there much of the treasure left?” inquired Carver.
“Half is left, as I understand,” replied Osbert.
“Why not seize upon it, then?” cried the other. “’Tis lawful spoil.
Instead of being employed to corrupt mercenary nobles to enslave their
country, let it be used to free the land from Spanish thraldom and
Popish tyranny. Have no scruples. Seize upon it, I say. It was brought
into England to forge golden fetters for our rulers, let it be turned
into avenging swords.”
“That treasure, indeed, would accomplish all we seek, if we could obtain
possession of it,” said Osbert. “But I have told you it is safely
deposited in the Tower.”
“And I say to you that it must be your business to get it thence,”
rejoined Carver.
“You would not have me lay siege to the Tower to obtain it?” said
Osbert.
“By stratagem you may accomplish what you desire,” returned Carver. “I
have no plan to suggest; but if you weigh the matter carefully over, one
is sure to occur to you.”
“I will give it due consideration,” said Osbert. “Have you aught more to
say?”
“Only to wish you happiness with her you love,” replied Carver. “My last
words to Constance were to urge her to look forward confidently to the
day when she will be united to you. For that day will come. It may not
come so soon as you anticipate and desire, but come it will. One word
more, and I have done. Should this insurrection prosper, and your
enemies fall into your hands, let no harm befal Cardinal Pole. And now
tarry no longer, my son. Take my blessing with you, and depart.”
“It is time,” replied Osbert. “I hear the footsteps of the guard. I
shall be near you at the stake. Adieu!”
So saying, he disappeared, while Carver, descending from the bench,
knelt down and prayed fervently.
His devotions ended, he arose, and bethinking him of the vision he had
seen during his slumber, he called out, “Spirit of her from whom I
derived my being, if thou art indeed permitted to visit me, and art nigh
me now, as I think, I adjure thee to manifest thyself to me in the same
angelic form, and with the same angelic aspect, as I beheld thee in my
dream. Appear before me in this celestial guise if thou canst, and cheer
and comfort me with thy smile!”
At the close of this invocation, which he uttered with great fervour, he
looked around, half hoping that the spirit would become visible, but
nothing met his gaze except the gloomy walls of his prison. He fancied,
however, that he heard something like a soft, low sigh, and felt a
breath of cool air upon his brow.
“It may not be,” he said. “Thou canst not reveal thyself to me, or mine
eyes are unable to discern thee. But I must have patience. In a few
short hours I shall be as thou art, and we can then hold the communion
together which is denied us now.”
He then resumed his devotions, and continued in earnest prayer till dawn
glimmered through the bars of the window, and ere long filled the vault
with light.
Then some slight stir began to be heard in the street, and by-and-by
those on guard peered in at the bars of the window. They beheld the
prisoner seated upon the bench, with the Bible open on his knee,
profoundly occupied in its perusal.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
THE PROCESSION TO THE CALVARY.
A lovely morning dawned upon Lewes. The sun, which ere it reached its
meridian was destined to shine upon a terrible ceremonial, rose
brilliantly over Mount Caburn, glittering upon the brow of that majestic
eminence, and on the smooth summits of the adjacent hill, and filling
the wide valley, watered by the meandering Ouse, with radiance. Kingston
Hill with the heights, enclosing the valley on the west, and extending
to Newhaven, glowed with roseate lustre, as did lordly Mount Harry and
his subject hills at the rear of the town. The noble amphitheatre of
downs, by which the town is surrounded, were seen in all their beauty,
and no one unacquainted with what was passing, would have supposed that
a morn so auspicious could usher in other than a joyous day.
At an early hour the bells of the different churches began to toll
solemnly, announcing to the inhabitants that a sad ceremonial was about
to take place, and shortly after six o’clock a religious procession,
consisting of a number of Cluniac monks, with the clergy and authorities
of the place, the high sheriff, the under-sheriffs, the chief burgesses,
with the headborough and constables, assembled in the High Street, and
proceeded to the Star Inn, where Derrick Carver was brought out, and
ordered to join it. The train was headed by the Cluniac monks, who were
attired in the habits of their order, and after them walked the
prisoner, with Father Josfrid beside him. Next came the sheriff with
Captain Brand, then the local clergy and authorities, while the
head-borough and constables brought up the rear. The procession
descended the steep street leading to the East Gate, through which it
passed, and then, turning off on the right, and skirting the old walls,
which were thronged with spectators, crossed the valley to Southover,
and shaped its course towards the singular mount rising on the east of
the ruined priory of St. Pancras. On the summit of this eminence, a
large crucifix, with the figure of the Saviour nailed to it, was then
reared, forming, from its commanding position, a conspicuous object for
miles around.
On reaching the summit of the mount, the monks prostrated themselves at
the foot of the cross, and began to recite a prayer, while the rest of
the procession assumed an equally reverential posture. Derrick Carver,
however, refused to kneel, and on this occasion his prejudices were
respected. As he remained standing amidst the kneeling assemblage, he
cast his eyes around, and surveyed the fair scene of which he was about
to take leave for ever. To one less firmly constituted, it might have
seemed hard to quit so lovely a world. But his thoughts were fixed on
heaven, and though nature put on her most tempting aspect, she could not
lure him back to earth.
Immediately beneath him lay the ruins of the once noble priory of St.
Pancras, demolished by the Vicar-General Cromwell, in the reign of Henry
VIII., and as he looked at the fragments of this vast and stately pile,
Carver rejoiced in its destruction. Adjoining these ruins was an immense
dovecot, built in the form of a cross, above which thousands of pigeons
were circling or alighting on its roof. On his right, across a woody
valley, climbing the side of a hill, and with its picturesque
habitations intermingled with trees, was the town with whose annals his
name was thenceforward to be associated. Beautiful it looked on that
bright clear morning, and proudly towered its old Norman castle—grey
walls, quaint houses, and church-towers, glittering in the sunbeams, and
all seeming to claim attention; but Carver turned from them to gaze at
the downs, and as his eye wandered over those fair hills, thoughts of
other days rushed upon him.
Many and many a happy hour had he spent upon those downs. Familiar with
all their beauties, his imagination carried him from point to point,
till it brought him to the little fishing-town where he was born, and
where the greater part of his life had been spent. For a moment only did
he yield to the emotions awakened within his breast. They were sharp and
poignant, but he instantly checked them, and resumed his former
stoicism.
Just then, the monks having finished their prayer, arose, and began to
chant a hymn to the blessed Virgin, in which all those with them joined.
Many of the inhabitants of the town had followed the procession to the
calvary, and by this time a large concourse had assembled on the sides
and at the base of the mount. All these persons joined in the choral
hymn; and the effect of so many voices linked together in harmony was
inexpressibly fine.
At the conclusion of the hymn the monks began slowly to descend the
mount, chanting lugubrious strains as they moved along. The others
followed in the same order as before. As Derrick Carver marched on, many
of the spectators expressed their sympathy for him, but no one was
suffered to approach him, or exchange a word with him.
Amongst those who had followed the procession to the mount were some
half-dozen young men on horseback, who had hitherto kept aloof from the
crowd; but just as Derrick Carver reached the foot of the mount, one of
them suddenly dismounted, and leaving his steed with his companions,
forced himself into a front place amid the line of spectators.
The movement attracted the attention of the prisoner, who instantly
recognised Osbert Clinton, and signified to him by his gestures that no
change had taken place in his sentiments.
Osbert’s imprudent movement, however, had not escaped the notice of
Captain Brand, who, moreover, detected the glance of intelligence that
passed between the young man and Carver. When Osbert shortly afterwards
rejoined his companions and remounted his horse, Brand directed the
sheriff’s attention to the group, and inquired if he knew the young men.
De Warren replied in the negative, declaring they must be strangers.
“I am certain I have seen that young man before,” observed Brand,
“though I cannot, for the moment, give him a name. Ha! I have it!” he
exclaimed, quickly. “It is Osbert Clinton.”
“What! he who was engaged in the last rising?” cried the sheriff,
surprised.
“The same,” replied Brand. “I am sure of it. And now I look at the
others, I cannot doubt but that they are the ringleaders in that
treasonable affair. A heavy price is set on all their heads, and I must
call upon you to aid me in their capture, Sir Richard.”
“I will readily do so,” replied De Warren; “but even supposing you are
right in your suspicions, we must act with prudence. They are all well
mounted, and on the slightest movement will be off, and easily baffle
pursuit upon these downs. Alarm them not. They are following the
procession. Once in the town, we can easily secure them.”
“They are evidently come to witness the execution,” said Brand, “and may
design to rescue the prisoner.”
“Fear nothing; we shall have them safe enough if we proceed with
caution,” rejoined the sheriff. “I will presently give instructions
concerning them to Master Piddinghoe, the headborough.”
“Leave the matter to me, I pray you, Sir Richard,” said Brand. “I can
manage it without the headborough’s aid.”
“You desire to obtain the whole reward, eh, Captain Brand?” observed De
Warren. “Well, as you please.”
The whole of this conversation had reached the ears of Derrick Carver,
who marched in front of the speakers, and the danger incurred by Osbert
and his friends caused him great uneasiness. Fain would he have warned
them of their peril by look or gesture, but no opportunity of doing so
occurred.
Meantime, the procession moved on, and, pursuing a different course on
its return, entered the town by the Water-gate, and then ascending the
steep and narrow thoroughfare called Saint Mary’s Lane, came forth into
the High Street, exactly opposite the Star Inn. To his great
satisfaction, Captain Brand remarked that Osbert Clinton and his
companions had likewise passed through the Water-gate.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
HOW CAPTAIN BRAND SOUGHT TO CAPTURE THE
CONSPIRATORS.
On being brought back to the hostel, Derrick Carver was again conducted
to the vault, there to remain till the hour appointed for his execution.
He was so much troubled in spirit, owing to his anxiety for the safety
of Osbert Clinton and his companions, that he could not address himself
to prayer, and was pacing to and fro, when the door was unlocked, and
the hostess entered. Her first business was to set down a little basket
which she had concealed under her mantle, and she then informed Carver
that she had brought him some wine and food. “I have prevailed on Master
Piddinghoe to grant me admittance to you,” she said, “and I have managed
to bring in this basket unperceived by the guard. Eat, I pray you, if
only a morsel, and drink a cup of wine. It will strengthen you.”
“I thank you heartily, good mistress,” replied Carver, “but I shall eat
and drink no more. There is, however, one great service which you can
render me, if you are so minded.”
And he looked at her wistfully.
“What is it?” she replied. “Tell me, and I will do it. You may perfectly
confide in me.”
Carver then, in a few words, informed her of the danger of Osbert
Clinton and his friends, and after describing their appearance,
entreated her to warn them speedily.
“I will do your bidding without an instant’s delay,” she replied. “I
have seen the gentlemen you describe, and will find them out, and urge
them to instant flight. This accounts for the orders I heard given to
Master Piddinghoe by Sir Richard de Warren, that all the town gates are
to be closed, and no one allowed to go forth without a password.
Luckily, I overheard it, and will give it to your friends.”
“You have removed a load of anxiety from my breast, good mistress,” said
Carver. “If they are safe, I shall die content.”
“Then let no anxiety on their account trouble you further,” she
rejoined. “Ere many minutes they shall be out of Lewes. Farewell!”
“Farewell, sister; my blessing go with you.”
Hereupon the hostess quitted the vault, and Carver, whose bosom was no
longer oppressed, knelt down and resumed his devotions.
Meanwhile, Dame Dunster, quitting the hostel privily, went in search of
Osbert and his companions; but she could discover nothing of them, and
at last came to the conclusion that they had already flown. She
ascertained, however, that in obedience to the sheriff’s orders, all the
town gates where shut and guarded.
The hour appointed for the execution was now at hand. The bell of Saint
Michael’s Church began to toll solemnly. A great crowd was already
collected in front of the Star Inn, but a clear space was kept by the
constables around the stake.
The din and confusion in the street, though it reached his ears, did not
distract the prisoner from his devotions, and he continued in earnest
prayer, until at last the door of his cell was thrown open, and the
sheriff, with Captain Brand, Father Josfrid, and two officers provided
with halberds, entered the vault. On seeing them, Derrick Carver
immediately arose from his knees, and told them in a firm voice, that he
was ready.
“I cannot hold out any hope of pardon to you,” said De Warren, “but I
would fain hope that you will not die impenitent.”
“I shall die, Sir, as I have lived, in the faith I have professed and
defended,” replied Carver.
“Peradventure, you are of opinion that an attempt will be made to
liberate you?” observed Brand. “It is well you should be undeceived. The
dangerous rebels who have ventured here have fallen into a snare.”
“Are they taken?” cried Carver.
“They soon will be,” replied Brand. “Thou thyself mayst possibly behold
their capture. We hold them in our hands. Their retreat is cut off. It
will be my business to convey them to the Tower.”
“Alas! why did they come hither?” groaned Carver.
“That is best known to themselves,” rejoined Brand; “but they have done
me a good turn by coming.”
“Have you aught to confess or declare concerning them?” demanded the
sheriff.
“An idle question,” rejoined Carver. “Think you I would say aught to
their detriment?”
Thereupon, the sheriff, bidding the officers bring forth the prisoner,
quitted the cell, and was presently followed by the others. Several
persons were assembled in the inn-yard, and amongst them were Dame
Dunster and her handmaidens, weeping bitterly, to whom Carver bade an
eternal adieu, bidding them be comforted.
The gates, which had been hitherto kept closed, were then thrown open,
and the prisoner becoming visible to a portion of the vast assemblage
collected in the street, loud cries arose.
The stake, as we have already mentioned, was planted in the middle of
the High-street, exactly opposite the Star Inn, where the throughfare
was widest. Around the place of execution a large circular space was
kept clear by the constables and other officers armed with halberds, and
within this ring was heaped up a great pile of fagots with bundles of
dried gorse. In front of the stake stood the large empty tar-barrel,
commanded by Captain Brand. It was reared on end, and the top had been
staved in. Such were the preparations made for the terrible ceremonial.
Into this ring Derrick Carver marched with firm footstep, and his
appearance was greeted with outcries of various kinds from the
beholders. He was closely attended by Father Josfrid, who continued to
press exhortations upon him, to which he refused to listen. At this
juncture Captain Brand came up to him, and said, “Thy life shall be
spared for a few minutes, that thou mayst know the fate of thy friends.”
He then added to the officers: “Chain him not to the stake till you
receive the sheriff’s signal from yonder window.”
And he pointed, as he spoke, to a large open window on the first floor
of the inn, which, unlike all the other windows of the house, was
destitute of spectators. Every spot, indeed, commanding a view of the
place of execution was occupied. The entrance to St. Mary’s-lane was
blocked up by a small party of horsemen, who, it need scarcely be said,
were Osbert Clinton and his friends. They had stationed themselves at
this point in order to secure a retreat in case of need, but were wholly
unaware that a party of armed men were slowly ascending the narrow
throughfare in their rear.
On quitting Derrick Carver, Captain Brand returned to the inn-yard,
where he had left his officers, and, putting himself at their head, was
about to sally forth and make the arrest he meditated, when his plan was
most unexpectedly thwarted by Dame Dunster, who, suddenly appearing at
the open window which we have described as reserved for the high sheriff
and his attendants, leaned from it, and waving a kerchief to attract the
attention of Osbert and his friends, called out to them in a loud
voice,—
“Save yourselves!—save yourselves!—you are betrayed!”
Thus warned, the horsemen turned instantly to ride down the hill, but at
once perceived that their retreat in this direction was cut off. Osbert
did not hesitate a moment, but calling out lustily to the crowd, “Make
way, friends!—make way!” a passage was instantly opened for him and his
companions, and, ere any hindrance could be offered them, they were all
within the ring, and close to the prisoner.
“You will not see this good man barbarously put to death, my masters,”
cried Osbert, “but will aid him to escape.”
Several voices instantly answered the appeal, and a great tumult arose
amid the crowd.
“Think not of me, but save yourself!” cried Carver to Osbert. “I shall
not quit this spot.”
So suddenly had the daring deed we have described been executed, that
surprise took away the power of opposition from the constables and
halberdiers, but they now took heart, and encircled the horsemen, who
had drawn their swords, and kept them off. At the same time, Captain
Brand, who was issuing from the inn-yard with his men, vociferated,—
“Stay them, in the Queen’s name!—let them not pass!—they are rebels and
traitors!”
“Touch us not, good friends,” cried Osbert. “We are true men, and would
deliver you from Spanish bondage and Popish thraldom.”
Upon this several of the crowd called out,—
“We are for you, masters. This way!—this way!”
And, seconding their words by deeds, they threw themselves upon the
constables in front of them, and speedily opened a passage, through
which Osbert and his companions got out of the ring, and dashed up the
High-street.
A number of persons instantly started in pursuit, and as the West-gate
was closed, it was thought that the fugitives must infallibly be
captured; but those who entertained the notion were wrong, since instead
of seeking an exit by that gate, Osbert and his companions turned off on
the left, and dashing down another thoroughfare as steep and narrow as
St. Mary’s-lane, descended it in safety, and on reaching the bottom of
the hill, found that the Water-gate was open, and rode through it ere
the warder had time to shut it. Being now out of the town, and all
admirably mounted, they set pursuit at defiance, and in less than an
hour were safe on the other side of Kingston Hill.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
THE MARTYRDOM OF DERRICK CARVER.
So great was the confusion in the High Street after the flight of Osbert
Clinton and his companions, and so threatening were the language and
attitude of the populace, that it became a question with the sheriff
whether it would not be prudent to postpone the execution to the
following day. As a matter of precaution, Derrick Carver was taken into
the entrance-hall of the hostel, the door of which was closed, and a
guard placed before it.
Here he was kept for nearly an hour, when Captain Brand returned with
the intelligence that he had failed in capturing the rebels. These were
joyful tidings to Derrick Carver, and he exclaimed, “Now I shall die
content!”
After a brief consultation between the sheriff and Brand, it was decided
that the execution should be proceeded with, upon which Brand went forth
with his men, and soon succeeded in clearing a space, as before, round
the stake.
This done, Derrick Carver was again brought forth, and when he appeared
on the threshold of the inn, a great cry arose from the people, and it
became evident from the violence of their gestures and vociferations
that another disturbance was at hand.
Alarmed by these menacing demonstrations, Sir Richard de Warren, who was
of a somewhat timid nature, ordered the prisoner to be taken back, but
Brand insisted that the sentence must be carried out.
“We must not yield to intimidation,” he said. “The law must be carried
out at all risks.”
Still the sheriff hesitated, when Derrick Carver interposed:—
“I pray you, Sirs, let me speak to them,” he said. “They will listen to
me.”