This hour's the very crisis of your fate:
Your good or ill, your infamy or fame,
And all the colour of your life depends
On this important _now_.--The Spanish Friar.
If any one will look at the almanac for the year 1520, he will find
marked, opposite the 4th day of May, the following curious piece of
information: "High-water at London Bridge at half-past three;" and, if
he calculate rightly, he will discover that as Wolsey set out from
what was then called the Cardinal's Bridge[15] at high noon, he had
the most favourable tide in the world for carrying him to Richmond.
His rowers, too, plied their oars with unceasing activity; and his
splendid barge, with its carved and gilded sides, cut rapidly through
the water, but still not rapidly enough for his impatience.
Siting under an awning, with a table before him, at which was placed a
clerk, he sometimes read parts of the various papers that had been
presented during the morning, and sometimes dictated to the secretary;
but more frequently gave himself up to thought, suffering his mind to
range in the wild chaos of political intrigue, which was to him like
the labyrinth a man makes in his own garden, in which a stranger might
lose his way, but where he himself walks for his ease and pleasure.
Not that Wolsey's mind was one that soared above the pains of
political life; for his were all the throbbing anxieties of precarious
power, his was all the irritation of susceptible pride and insatiable
vanity; while jealous envy, avarice, and ambition, at once made the
world a desert, and tormented him with unquenchable thirst.
No surer road to Wolsey's hatred existed than the king's favour; and
since his return to London, though but one evening had passed, yet
often had his heart rankled at hearing from those who watched for him
in his absence, that a young stranger, named Sir Osborne Maurice, had
won the king's regard and become the sharer of all his pleasures. The
information given him by Sir Payan Wileton had placed in his hand arms
against this incipient rival, as he deemed him, which were sure to
crush him; and, with a sort of pride in the conquest he anticipated,
he muttered to himself, as he saw the narrowing banks of the river,
approaching towards Richmond, "Now, Sir Osborne Maurice! now!"
The boat touched the shore; and while the chief yeoman of the barge,
as his privilege, supported the arm of the cardinal, the two stout
priests bearing the crosses hurried to land with the other attendants,
and ranged themselves in order to proceed before him. Two of his
running footmen sped on to announce his approach, and the rest, with
the form and slowness of a procession, traversed the small space that
separated them from the court, reached the gate, and entering the
palace, Wolsey, more like an equal prince than a subject, passed
towards the king's privy-chamber, amidst the profound bows and
reverences of all the royal attendants, collected to do honour to his
arrival.
Many had been the rumours in the palace during the morning respecting
the king's health, and it was generally reported that the accident of
the day before had thrown him into a fever. This, however, was
evidently not the case; for a little before noon Sir Osborne Maurice
had received a message by one of the royal pages, to the effect that
at three o'clock the king would expect him in his privy-chamber. That
hour had nearly approached, and the young knight was preparing to obey
Henry's commands, when a note was put into his hands by Mistress
Margaret, the waiting-woman of Lady Constance de Grey. It was a step
which Sir Osborne well knew she would not have taken had it not been
called for by some particular circumstance, and with some alarm he
opened the paper and read--
The lord cardinal is here: remember your promise. Tarry not rashly, if
you love Constance.
As Wolsey had ever been a declared enemy to his father, and a steady
supporter of Sir Payan Wileton, Sir Osborne felt that the prospect was
certainly in some degree clouded by his arrival; and while at the
court, he had heard enough of the jealousy that the favourite
entertained towards all who often approached the king, to make him
uneasy with regard to the future. But yet he could not imagine that
the regard of Henry would be easily taken from him, nor the service he
he had rendered immediately forgotten; and strong in the integrity of
his own heart, he would not believe that any serious evil could befall
him; yet the warning of Sir Cesar still rung in his ears, and made an
impression which he could not overcome.
It would be very easy to represent our hero as free from every failing
and weakness, even from those of the age he lived in; easy to make him
as perfect as ever man was drawn, and more perfect than ever man was
known: but then we should be writing a romance, and not a true
history. Sir Osborne was not perfect; and living in an age whose
weakness it was to believe implicitly in judicial astrology, he shared
in that weakness, though but in a degree; and might, indeed, have
shared still less, had not the very man who seemed to take such an
interest in his fate acquired in the court where he lived a general
reputation for almost unerring perception of approaching events. No
one that the young knight met, no one that he heard of, doubted for a
moment that Sir Cesar possessed knowledge superhuman: to have doubted
of the possibility of acquiring such knowledge, would have been in
those times a piece of scepticism fully equal in criminality to
doubting the sacred truths of religion; and therefore we cannot be
surprised that he felt a hesitation, an uneasiness, a sort of
presentiment of evil, as he approached the privy chamber of the king.
At the door of the ante-chamber, however, he found stationed a page,
who respectfully informed him that the king was busy on affairs of
state with the cardinal lord chancellor, and that his grace had bade
him say, that as soon as he was at leisure he would send for him to
his presence.
Sir Osborne returned to his own apartment, and after calling for
Longpole, walked up and down the room for a moment or two, while some
curious, vague feelings of doubt and apprehension passed through his
mind.
"'Tis very foolish!" said he, at length; "and yet 'tis no harm to be
prepared. Longpole, saddle the horses, and have my armour ready. 'Tis
no harm to be prepared;" and quitting his own chambers, he turned his
steps towards those of Lady Constance, which here, not like the former
ones in the palace at Greenwich, were situated at the other extremity
of the building. His path led him again past the royal lodgings; and
as he went by, Sir Osborne perceived that the page gave entrance to a
priest, whose figure was in some degree familiar to his eye. Where he
had seen him he did not know; but, however, he staid not to inquire,
and proceeded onward to the door of Lady Constance's apartments.
One of her women gave him entrance, and he soon reached her
sitting-chamber, where he found her calmly engaged in embroidery. But
there, also, was good Dr. Wilbraham, who of late had shrewdly begun to
suspect a thing that was already more than suspected by half the
court; namely, that Sir Osborne Maurice was deeply in love with
Constance de Grey, and that the lady was in no degree insensible to
his affection. Now, though the good doctor had thought in the first
instance that Lady Constance's marriage with Lord Darby would be the
very best scheme on earth, he now began to think that the present
arrangement would be a great deal better: his reasoning proceeding in
the very inverse of Wolsey's, and leading him to conclude that as Lord
Darby had quite enough of his own, it would be much better for Lady
Constance to repair, with her immense wealth, the broken fortunes of
the ancient house of Fitzbernard, and at the same time secure her own
happiness by marrying the best and the bravest of men. Notwithstanding
all this, he could not at all comprehend, and never for a moment
imagined, that either Constance or her lover might in the least wish
his absence; and therefore, with great satisfaction at beholding their
mutual love, he remained all the time that Sir Osborne dared to stay,
and conducted him to the door with that affectionate respect which he
always showed towards his former pupil. While the old clergyman stood
bidding Sir Osborne farewell, a man habited like a yeoman approached,
inquiring for the lodging of Lady Constance de Grey; and on being told
that it was before him, he put a folded note into the hands of Dr.
Wilbraham, begging him to deliver it to the lady, which the chaplain
promised to do.
And now, leaving the good clergyman to perform this promise, and Sir
Osborne to return to his apartment, somewhat mortified at not having
had an opportunity of conversing privately with Constance, even for a
moment, we will steal quietly into the privy-chamber of the king, and
seating ourselves on a little stool in the corner, observe all that
passes between him and his minister.
"God save your royal grace!" said Wolsey, as he entered, "and make
your people happy in your long and prosperous reign!"
"Welcome back again, my good lord cardinal," replied the king; "you
have been but a truant of late. We have in many things wanted your
good counsel. But your careful letters have been received, and we have
to thank you for the renewed quiet of the West Riding."
"Happily, your grace, all is now tranquil," replied the cardinal, "and
the kingdom within itself blessed with profound peace; but yet, my
lord, even when this was accomplished, it was necessary to discover
the cause and authors of the evil, that the fire of discord and
sedition might be totally extinguished, and not, being only smothered,
burst out anew where we least expected it. This has been done, my
liege. The authors of all these revolts, the instigators of their
fellow-subjects' treason, have been discovered; and if your grace have
leisure for such sad business, I will even now crave leave to lay
before you the particulars of a most daring plot, which, through the
activity of good Sir Payan Wileton, I have been enabled to detect."
"Without there!" cried the king, somewhat impatiently. "See that we
are not interrupted. Tell Sir Osborne Maurice that we will send for
him when we are free. Sit, sit, my Wolsey!" he continued. "Now, by the
holy faith, it grieves me to hear such things! I had hoped that,
tranquillity being restored, I should have sped over to France to meet
my royal brother Francis, with nothing but joy upon my brow. However,
you are thanked, my good lord, for your zeal and for your diligence.
We must not let the poisonous root of treason spread, lest it grow too
great a tree to be hewn down. Who are these traitors? Ha! Have you
good proof against them?"
"Such proof, my liege, that, however willing I be to doubt,
uncertainty, the refuge of hope, is denied me, and I must needs
believe. When we have nourished anything with our grace, fostered it
with kindly care, taught it to spread and become great, heaped it with
favours, loaded it with bounty, we naturally hope that, having sowed
all these good things, our crop will be rich in gratitude and love;
but sorry I am to say, that your grace's royal generosity has fallen
upon a poisoned soil, and that Edward Duke of Buckingham, who might
well believe himself the most favoured man in the realm, now proves
himself an arrant traitor."
"By heaven!" cried the king, "I have lately much doubted of his
loyalty. He has, as you once before made me observe, much absented
himself from the court, keeping, as I hear, an almost royal state in
the counties; and lately, on the pretence that he is sick, that his
physicians command him quiet, he refuses to accompany us to Guisnes. I
fear me, I fear me, 'tis his loyalty is sick. But let me hear your
reasons, my good lord cardinal. Fain would I still behold him with an
eye of favour; for he is in many things a noble and a princely peer,
and by nature richly endowed with all the shining qualities both of
the body and the mind. 'Tis sad, indeed 'tis sad, that such a man
should fall away and lose his high renown! But your reasons, Wolsey!
Give me the history."
It were needless in this place to recapitulate all that we have seen,
in the last chapter, advanced by Sir Payan Wileton to criminate the
Duke of Buckingham. Suffice it that Wolsey related to the king the
very probable tale that had been told him by the knight: namely, that
Buckingham, aspiring to the throne, affected an undue degree of
popularity with the commons, and by his secret agents rendered them
dissatisfied with the existing government, exciting them to various
tumults and revolts, of which he cited many an instance; and that,
still further, he had contrived to introduce one of the most active
agents of his treason into the court, and near to the king's own
person.
"Whom do you aim at?" cried the king. "Quick! give me his name. I know
of no such person. All about me are men of trust."
"Alas! no, my liege," answered Wolsey: "the man I mean calls himself
Sir Osborne Maurice."
"Ha!" cried Henry, starting; and then, after thinking for a moment, he
burst into a fit of laughter. "Nay, nay, my good Wolsey," he said,
shaking his head: "nay, nay, nay; Sir Osborne saved my life no longer
ago than yesterday, which looks not like treason;" and he related to
the cardinal the accident that had befallen him while hawking.
Wolsey was somewhat embarrassed; but he replied, "We often see that,
taken by some sudden accident, men act not as they proposed to do; and
there is such a nobility in your grace's nature, that he must be a
hardened traitor indeed who could see you in danger, and not by mere
impulse hasten to save you. Perhaps such may have been the case with
this Sir Osborne, or perhaps his master's schemes may not yet be ripe
for execution: at all events, my liege, doubt not that he is a most
assured traitor."
"I cannot believe it!" cried Henry, striking the table with his hand.
"I will not believe it! By heaven! the very soul of honour sparkles in
his eye! But your proofs, lord cardinal! your proofs! I will not have
such things advanced against my faithful subjects, without full and
sufficient evidence."
The more eagerness that Henry showed in defending his young friend,
the more obnoxious did Sir Osborne become to Wolsey, and he laid
before the king, one by one, the deposition of Wilson, Sir Payan's
bailiff; several letters which Buckingham had written in favour of the
young knight; and lastly, the duke's letter to Sir Thomas Morton,
where, either by a forgery of Sir Payan Wileton's, or by some strange
chance, it appeared that Sir Osborne Maurice had promised that within
a year the duke's head should be the highest in the realm.
While he read, Henry's brow knit into a heavy frown, and, biting his
lip, he went back to the beginning, and again read over the papers.
"Cardinal," said he, at length, "bid the page seek Pace, my secretary,
and ask him for the last letter from the Duke of Buckingham."
Wolsey obeyed; and, while waiting for the return of the page, Henry
remained with his eyes averted, as if in deep thought, beating the
papers with his fingers, and gnawing his lip in no very placable mood;
while the cardinal wisely abstained from saying a word, leaving the
irritation of the king's mind to expend itself, without calling it
upon himself. As soon as the letter was brought, Henry laid it side by
side with those that Wolsey had placed before him, and seemed to
compare every word, every syllable, to ascertain the identity of the
handwriting. "True, by my life!" cried he, casting down the papers.
"The writing is the same; and now, my lord cardinal, what have you
farther to say? Are there any farther proofs, ha?"
"Were there none other, your grace," replied Wolsey, "than the duke's
handwriting, and the deposition of a disinterested and respectable
witness, who can have no enmity whatever against this Sir Osborne
Maurice, and who probably never saw him but on the two occasions he
mentions, I think it would be quite sufficient to warrant your grace
in taking every measure of precaution. But there is another witness,
whom, indeed, I have not seen, but who can give evidence, I
understand, respecting the conduct of the person accused towards the
Rochester rioters. Knowing how much your grace's wisdom passeth that
of the best in the realm, I have dared to have this witness (a most
honourable priest) brought hither, hoping that the exigency of the
case might lead you to examine him yourself, when, perhaps, your royal
judgment may elicit more from him than others could do."
"You have done wisely, my good lord cardinal," replied Henry, whose
first irritation had now subsided. "Let him be called, and bid your
secretary take down his deposition, for 'tis not fitting that mine be
so employed."
At the command of Wolsey, one of the pages went instantly to seek the
priest, who, by the care and despatch of Sir Payan, had been sent down
with all speed, and was now waiting with the cardinal's attendants in
no small surprise and agitation, not being able to conceive why he was
thus hurried from one place to another, and breathing also with some
degree of alarm in the unwonted atmosphere of a court. On being
ushered into the royal presence, the worthy man fell down upon both
his knees before Henry, and, clasping his hands, prayed for a blessing
on his head with such fervour and simplicity that the monarch was both
pleased and amused.
"Rise, rise, good man!" said the king, holding out his hand for him to
kiss: "we would speak with you on a business of import. Nay, do not be
alarmed. We know your worth, and purpose to reward you. Place yourself
here, master secretary, and take down his replies. Sit, my good lord
cardinal; we beg you to be seated."
As soon as Wolsey had taken a low seat near the king, and the
secretary, kneeling on one before the table, was prepared to write,
Henry again proceeded, addressing the priest, who stood before him the
picture of a disquieted spirit.
"Say, do you know one Sir Osborne Maurice?" demanded the king.
"Yes, surely, please your royal grace," replied the priest. "At least
that was the name which his attendants gave to the noble and
courageous knight that saved me from the hands of the Rochester
shipwrights."
"First," said Wolsey, "give us your name, and say how you came to fall
into the hands of these rebellious shipwrights."
"Alas! your grace," answered the priest, "I am a poor priest of
Dartford, my name John Timeworthy; and hearing that these poor
misguided men at Rochester were in open rebellion against the
government, from lack of knowledge and spiritual teaching, I resolved
to go down amongst them and preach to them peace and submission. I
will not stay to say how and where I found them; but getting up upon a
bench that stood hard by, under an apple-tree, I gathered them round
me like a flock of sheep, and began my discourse, saying, 'Woe! woe!
woe! Woe unto ye, shipwrights of Rochester, that you should arm
yourselves against the king's grace! You are like children, that must
fain eat hot pudding, and burn their mouths withal; for ye will cry,
and ye will cry, till the sword fall upon you; and then, when Lord
Thomas comes down with his men-at-arms, ye will turn about and fly;
and the spears will stick in your hinder parts, and ye shall be put to
shame: for though he have but hundreds, and ye have thousands, his are
all men of the bow and of the spear, and ye know no more of either
than a jackass does of the harp and psaltery.' And thereupon, your
grace, they that I took for strayed sheep showed themselves to be a
pack of ravening wolves, for they haled me down from the bench, and
beat me unmercifully, and putting a halter round my neck, led me along
to hang me up, as they vowed, in sight of Rochester Castle; when, just
as they were dragging me along, more dead than alive, across a little
green, the knight, Sir Osborne Maurice, came up, and, as I said,
rescued me; and for a surety he is a brave and generous knight, and
well deserving your grace's favour."
"By my faith, I have always thought so," said Henry. "What say you
now, cardinal? Question him yourself, man."
Wolsey eagerly snatched at the permission, for he plainly saw that the
matter was not proceeding to his wish. "Pray, my good Master
Timeworthy," said he, "how was it that this Sir Osborne rescued you?
Did he put his lance in rest, and charge the whole multitude, and
deliver you from their hands?"
"Not so! not so!" cried the priest. "He did far more wisely, for there
would have been much blood spilt; but he sent forward one, who seemed
to be his shield-bearer, who shook hands with the chief of the
rioters, and spoke him fair; and then the knight came forward himself,
and spoke to him; and the chief of the rioters cried with a loud voice
to his people, that this was not Lord Thomas, as they had thought, but
a friend and well-beloved of the good Duke of Buckingham; and it was
wonderful how soon the eloquence of that young man worked upon the
multitude, and made them let me go. He was, indeed, a youth of a
goodly presence, and fair to look upon, and had something noble and
commanding in his aspect; and his words moved the rioters in the
twinkling of an eye, and made them wholly change their purpose."
Henry's brow, which had cleared during the former part of the priest's
narration, now grew doubly dark and cloudy; and he muttered to
himself, "Too clear! too clear!" while Wolsey proceeded to question
the priest more closely.
"Indeed, your grace," replied he, in answer to the cardinal's more
minute questions, "I can tell you no more than I have told; for, as I
said, I was more dead than alive all the time, till they gave me up to
the knight, and did not hear half that passed."
"And what did you remark after you were with the knight?" demanded
Wolsey. "Was there no particular observation made on the whole
transaction?"
"Not that I can call to mind," answered the priest. "All I remember
is, that they seemed a very merry party, and laughed and joked about
it; which I, being frightened, thought almost wicked, God forgive me!
for it was all innocency and high blood of youth."
"Well, sir," said Wolsey, "you may go. Go with him, secretary; and see
that he be well tended, but allowed to have speech of no one."
The priest and the secretary withdrew in silence; and no sooner were
they gone, than, abandoning his kingly dignity, Henry started from his
seat, and strode up and down the room in one of those fits of passion
which, even then, would sometimes take possession of him. At length,
stopping opposite Wolsey, who stood up the moment the king rose, he
struck the table with his clenched hand. "He shall die!" cried he; "by
heaven, he shall die! Let him be attached, my Wolsey."
"My sergeant-at-arms is with me, your grace," replied the cardinal,
"and shall instantly execute your royal will. Better arrest him
directly, lest he fear and take flight."
"Whom mean you?" cried the king. "Ha! I say attach Edward Bohun, Duke
of Buckingham."
"In regard to the Duke of Buckingham, my liege," replied Wolsey, less
readily than he had before spoken, "will you take into your royal
consideration whether it may not be better to suffer him to proceed a
while with his treasonous schemes? for I question if the evidence we
have at present against him would condemn him with the peers."
"But he is a traitor," cried Henry; "an evident traitor; and, by my
faith! shall suffer a traitor's death."
"Most assuredly he is a black and heinous traitor," answered Wolsey.
"And yet your grace will think what a triumph it would be for him if
his peers should pronounce him innocent. He has store of friends among
them. Far better let him proceed yet a while, and, with our eyes upon
him, watch every turn of his dark plot, and seize him in the midst,
when we shall have such proof that even his kindred must, for very
shame, pronounce his guilt. In the mean time, I will ensure that he be
so strictly guarded that he shall have power to do no evil."
"You are right, my Wolsey; you are right!" cried the king, seating
himself, and laying his hand upon the papers; "let it be conducted as
you say. But see that he escape not, for his ingratitude adds another
shade to what is black itself. As to this Sir Osborne Maurice, 'tis a
noble spirit perverted by that villain Buckingham. I have seen and
watched the seeds of many virtues in him."
"It must be painful, then, for your grace to command his arrest," said
Wolsey; "and yet he is so near your royal person, and his treason is
so manifest, that the very love of your subjects requires that he
should suffer death."
"And yet," replied Henry, fixing his eye upon the cardinal, and
speaking emphatically; "and yet, even now I feel the warm blood of the
English kings flowing lightly in my veins, which but for him would
have been cold and motionless: and shall I take his life that has
saved mine? No, Wolsey, no! It must not be! He has been misled, but is
not wicked."
"Still, your grace's justice requires," said Wolsey (pardon me my
boldness), "that he should undergo his trial. Then, if condemned,
comes in your royal mercy to save him; saying to him, You are judged
for having been a traitor, you are pardoned for having saved your
king."
"But be assured, my Wolsey," replied Henry, "that if his trial were to
take place now, the great traitor Buckingham will take alarm, and
either endeavour to do away all evidence of his treason, or take to
flight and shelter himself from justice."
"No need that his trial be immediate," answered the cardinal; "if your
grace permits, he shall be committed privately to the Tower, and there
await your return from France; by which time, depend on it, the Duke
of Buckingham will have given further tokens of his mad ambition, and
both may be tried together. Then let the greater traitor suffer and
the lesser find grace, so that your royal justice and your clemency be
equally conspicuous."
"Be it so, then," said the king; "though in truth, good cardinal, it
grieves me to lose this youth. He is, without exception, the best
lance in Christendom, and would have done our realm much credit in our
journey to France: I say it grieves me! Ay, heartily it grieves me!"
"Nay, your grace," said Wolsey, "you will doubtless find a thousand as
good as he."
"Not so! not so, lord cardinal!" cried Henry; "these are things not so
easily acquired as you churchmen think. I never saw a better knight.
When his lance breaks in full course, you shall behold his hand as
steady as if it held a straw: nor knee, nor thigh, nor heel shall
shake; and when the toughest ash splinters upon his casque, he shall
not bend even so much as a strong oak before a summer breeze. But his
guilt is clear, so the rest is all nought."
"Then I have your grace's commands," said Wolsey, "to commit him to
the Tower. He shall be attached directly by the sergeant-at-arms, and
sent down by the turn of the tide."
"Hold, hold!" cried the king; "not to-night, good Wolsey. Before we
fly our hawk we cry the heron up, and he shall have the same grace.
To-morrow, if he be still found, arrest him where you will; but for
to-night he is safe, nor must his path be dogged. He shall have free
and fair start, mark me, till tomorrow at noon; then slip your
greyhounds on him, if you please."
"But, your grace," cried Wolsey, "if you let him----"
"It is my will," said the king, his brow darkening. "Who shall
contradict it? Ha! See that it be obeyed exactly, my lord!"
"It shall, your grace," said Wolsey, bending his head with a profound
inclination. "Your will is law to all your faithful servants; but only
let your noble goodness attribute to my deep love for your royal
person the fear I have that this traitorous agent of a still greater
traitor may be tempted in despair, if he find that he is discovered,
to attempt some heinous crime against your grace."
"Fear not, man! fear not!" replied the king. "He, that when he might
have let me die, risked his own life to save mine, will never arm his
hand against me: I fear not, cardinal. So be you at ease. But return
to London; see that Buckingham be closely watched; and be sure that no
preparation be wanting for the meeting with Francis of France. Be
liberal, be liberal, lord cardinal! I would not that the nobles of
France should say they had more gold than we. Let everything be
abundant, be rich, and in its flush of newness; and as to Sir Osborne
Maurice, arrest him to-morrow, if he be still here. Let him be fairly
tried, and if he come out pure, well. Yet still, if he be condemned,
his own life shall be given him as a reward for mine. However, till
tomorrow let it rest. It is my will!"
Though Wolsey would have been better pleased to have had the knight
safely in the Tower, yet, even in case of his making his escape before
the next morning, his great object was gained, that of banishing from
the court for ever one whose rapid progress in the king's regard bade
fair, with time, to leave every one behind in favour. He therefore
ceased to press the king upon the subject, especially as he saw, by
many indubitable signs, that Henry was in one of those imperious moods
which would bear no opposition. A few subjects of less import still
remained to be discussed, but the monarch bore these so impatiently,
that Wolsey soon ceased to importune him upon them; and resolving to
reserve all further business for some more auspicious day, he rose,
and taking leave with one of those refined, yet high-coloured,
compliments which no man was so capable of justly tempering as
himself, he left the royal presence, and proceeded to another part of
the palace on business whose object is intimately allied to the
present history, as we shall see hereafter.