inquire for her defender. One who had given such timely help and who
was suffering so much on her account was surely worth a little
solicitude; but not a word did she ask. She did not come near me, but
made a point of avoidance, as I could plainly see. The next morning
she, with Jane, went over to Scotland Palace without so much as a
breath of inquiry from either of them. This heartless conduct enraged
me; but I was glad to learn afterward that Jane's silence was at
Mary's command--that bundle of selfishness fearing that any
solicitude, however carefully shown upon her part, might reveal her
secret.
It seems that Mary had recent intelligence of the forward state of
affairs in the marriage negotiations, and felt that a discovery by her
brother of what she had done, especially in view of the disastrous
results, would send her to France despite all the coaxing she could do
from then till doomsday.
It was a terrible fate hanging over her, doubly so in view of the fact
that she loved another man; and looking back at it all from the
vantage point of time, I cannot wonder that it drove other things out
of her head and made her seem selfish in her frightened desire to save
herself.
About twelve o'clock of the following night I was awakened by a knock
at my door, and, upon opening, in walked a sergeant of the sheriff of
London, with four yeomen at his heels.
The sergeant asked if one Charles Brandon was present, and upon my
affirmative answer demanded that he be forthcoming. I told the
sergeant that Brandon was confined to his bed with illness, whereupon
he asked to be shown to his room.
It was useless to resist or to evade, so I awakened Brandon and took
the sergeant in. Here he read his warrant to arrest Charles Brandon,
Esquire, for the murder of two citizens of London, perpetrated, done
and committed upon the night of such and such a day, of this year of
our Lord, 1514. Brandon's hat had been found by the side of the dead
men, and the authorities had received information from a high source
that Brandon was the guilty person. That high source was evidently
Buckingham.
When the sergeant found Brandon covered with wounds there was no
longer any doubt, and although hardly able to lift his hand he was
forced to dress and go with them. A horse litter was procured and we
all started to London.
While Brandon was dressing, I said I would at once go and awaken the
king, who I knew would pardon the offense when he heard my story, but
Brandon asked the sergeant to leave us to ourselves for a short time,
and closed the door.
"Please do nothing of the sort, Caskoden," said he; "if you tell the
king I will declare there is not one word of truth in your story.
There is only one person in the world who may tell of that night's
happenings, and if she does not they shall remain untold. She will
make it all right at once, I know. I would not do her the foul wrong
to think for one instant that she will fail. You do not know her; she
sometimes seems selfish, but it is thoughtlessness fostered by
flattery, and her heart is right. I would trust her with my life. If
you breathe a word of what I have told you, you may do more harm than
you can ever remedy, and I ask you to say nothing to any one. If the
princess would not liberate me ... but that is not to be thought of.
Never doubt that she can and will do it better than you think. She is
all gold."
This, of course, silenced me, as I did not know what new danger I
might create, nor how I might mar the matter I so much wished to mend.
I did not tell Brandon that the girls had left Greenwich, nor of my
undefined, and, perhaps, unfounded fear that Mary might not act as he
thought she would in a great emergency, but silently helped him to
dress and went to London along with him and the sheriff's sergeant.
Brandon was taken to Newgate, the most loathsome prison in London at
that time, it being used for felons, while Ludgate was for debtors.
Here he was thrown into an underground dungeon foul with water that
seeped through the old masonry from the moat, and alive with every
noisome thing that creeps. There was no bed, no stool, no floor, not
even a wisp of a straw; simply the reeking stone walls, covered with
fungus, and the windowless arch overhead. One could hardly conceive a
more horrible place in which to spend even a moment. I had a glimpse
of it by the light of the keeper's lantern as they put him in, and it
seemed to me a single night in that awful place would have killed me
or driven me mad. I protested and begged and tried to bribe, but it
was all of no avail; the keeper had been bribed before I arrived.
Although it could do no possible good, I was glad to stand outside the
prison walls in the drenching rain, all the rest of that wretched
night, that I might be as near as possible to my friend and suffer a
little with him.
Was not I, too, greatly indebted to him? Had he not imperiled his life
and given his blood to save the honor of Jane as well as of
Mary--Jane, dearer to me a thousand-fold than the breath of my
nostrils? And was he not suffering at that moment because of this
great service, performed at my request and in my place? If my whole
soul had not gone out to him I should have been the most ungrateful
wretch on earth; worse even than a pair of selfish, careless girls.
But it did go out to him, and I believe I would have bartered my life
to have freed him from another hour in that dungeon.
As soon as the prison gates were opened next morning, I again
importuned the keeper to give Brandon a more comfortable cell, but his
reply was that such crimes had of late become so frequent in London
that no favor could be shown those who committed them, and that men
like Brandon, who ought to know and act better, deserved the maximum
punishment.
I told him he was wrong in this case; that I knew the facts, and
everything would be clearly explained that very day and Brandon
released.
"That's all very well," responded the stubborn creature; "nobody is
guilty who comes here; they can every one prove innocence clearly and
at once. Notwithstanding, they nearly all hang, and frequently, for
variety's sake, are drawn and quartered."
I waited about Newgate until nine o'clock, and as I passed out met
Buckingham and his man Johnson, a sort of lawyer-knight, going in. I
went down to the palace at Greenwich, and finding that the girls were
still at Scotland Palace, rode over at once to see them.
Upon getting Mary and Jane to myself, I told them of Brandon's arrest
on the charge of murder, and of his condition, lying half dead from
wounds and loss of blood, in that frightful dungeon. The tale moved
them greatly, and they both gave way to tears. I think Mary had heard
of the arrest before, as she did not seem surprised.
"Do you think he will tell the cause of the killing?" she asked.
"I know he will not," I answered; "but I also know that he knows you
will," and I looked straight into her face.
"Certainly we will," said Jane; "we will go to the king at once," and
she was on the _qui vive_ to start immediately.
Mary did not at once consent to Jane's proposition, but sat in a
reverie, looking with tearful eyes into vacancy, apparently absorbed
in thought. After a little pressing from us she said: "I suppose it
will have to be done; I can see no other way; but blessed Mother
Mary!... help me!"
The girls made hasty preparations, and we all started back to
Greenwich that Mary might tell the king. On the road over, I stopped
at Newgate to tell Brandon that the princess would soon have him out,
knowing how welcome liberty would be at her hands; but I was not
permitted to see him.
I swallowed my disappointment, and thought it would be only a matter
of a few hours' delay--the time spent in riding down to Greenwich and
sending back a messenger. So, light-hearted enough at the prospect, I
soon joined the girls, and we cantered briskly home.
After waiting a reasonable time for Mary to see the king, I sought her
again to learn where and from whom I should receive the order for
Brandon's release, and when I should go to London to bring him.
What was my surprise and disgust when Mary told me she had not yet
seen the king--that she had waited to "eat, and bathe, and dress," and
that "a few moments more or less could make no difference."
"My God! your highness, did I not tell you that the man who saved your
life and honor--who is covered with wounds received in your defense,
and almost dead from loss of blood, spilled that you might be saved
from worse than death--is now lying in a rayless dungeon, a place of
frightful filth, such as you would not walk across for all the wealth
of London Bridge; is surrounded by loathsome, creeping things that
would sicken you but to think of; is resting under a charge whose
penalty is that he be hanged, drawn and quartered? And yet you stop to
eat and bathe and dress. In God's name, Mary Tudor, of what stuff are
you made? If he had waited but one little minute; had stopped for the
drawing of a breath; had held back for but one faltering thought from
the terrible odds of four swords to one, what would you now be? Think,
princess, think!"
I was a little frightened at the length to which my feeling had driven
me, but Mary took it all very well, and said slowly and
absent-mindedly:
"You are right; I will go at once; I despise my selfish neglect. There
is no other way; I have racked my brain--there _is_ no other way. It
must be done, and I will go at once and do it."
"And I will go with you," said I.
"I do not blame you," she said, "for doubting me, since I have failed
once; but you need not doubt me now. It shall be done, and without
delay, regardless of the cost to me. I have thought and thought to
find some other way to liberate him, but there is none; I will go this
instant."
"And I will go with you, Lady Mary," said I, doggedly.
She smiled at my persistency, and took me by the hand, saying,
"Come!"
We at once went off to find the king, but the smile had faded from
Mary's face, and she looked as if she were going to execution. Every
shade of color had fled, and her lips were the hue of ashes.
We found the king in the midst of his council, with the French
ambassadors, discussing the all-absorbing topic of the marriage
treaty; and Henry, fearing an outbreak, refused to see the princess.
As usual, opposition but spurred her determination, so she sat down in
the ante-room and said she would not stir until she had seen the king.
After we had waited a few minutes, one of the king's pages came up and
said he had been looking all over the palace for me, and that the king
desired my presence immediately. I went in with the page to the king,
leaving Mary alone and very melancholy in the ante-chamber.
Upon entering the king's presence he asked, "Where have you been, Sir
Edwin? I have almost killed a good half-dozen pages hunting you. I
want you to prepare immediately to go to Paris with an embassy to his
majesty, King Louis. You will be the interpreter. The ambassador you
need not know. Make ready at once. The embassy will leave London from
the Tabard Inn one hour hence."
Could a command to duty have come at a more inopportune time? I was
distracted; and upon leaving the king went at once to seek the Lady
Mary where I had left her in the ante-room. She had gone, so I went
to her apartments, but could not find her. I went to the queen's
salon, but she was not there, and I traversed that old rambling palace
from one end to the other without finding her or Lady Jane.
The king had told me the embassy would be a secret one, and that I was
to speak of it to nobody, least of all to the Lady Mary. No one was to
know that I was leaving England, and I was to communicate with no one
at home while in France.
The king's command was not to be disobeyed; to do so would be as much
as my life was worth, but besides that, the command of the king I
served was my highest duty, and no Caskoden ever failed in that. I may
not be as tall as some men, but my fidelity and honor--but you will
say I boast.
I was to make ready my bundle and ride six miles to London in one
hour; and almost half that time was spent already. I was sure to be
late, so I could not waste another minute.
I went to my room and got together a few things necessary for my
journey, but did not take much in the way of clothing, preferring to
buy that new in Paris, where I could find the latest styles in pattern
and fabric.
I tried to assure myself that Mary would see the king at once and tell
him all, and not allow my dear friend Brandon to lie in that terrible
place another night; yet a persistent fear gnawed at my heart, and a
sort of intuition, that seemed to have the very breath of certainty
in its foreboding, made me doubt her.
As I could find neither Mary nor Jane, I did the next best thing: I
wrote a letter to each of them, urging immediate action, and left them
to be delivered by my man Thomas, who was one of those trusty souls
that never fail. I did not tell the girls I was about to start for
France, but intimated that I was compelled to leave London for a time,
and said: "I leave the fate of this man, to whom we all owe so much,
in your hands, knowing full well how tender you will be of him."
I was away from home nearly a month, and as I dared not write, and
even Jane did not know where I was, I did not receive, nor expect, any
letters. The king had ordered secrecy, and if I have mingled with all
my faults a single virtue it is that of faithfulness to my trust. So I
had no news from England and sent none home.
During all that time the same old fear lived in my heart that Mary
might fail to liberate Brandon. She knew of the negotiations
concerning the French marriage, as we all did, although only by an
indefinite sort of hearsay, and I was sure the half-founded rumors
that had reached her ears had long since become certainties, and that
her heart was full of trouble and fear of her violent brother. She
would certainly be at her coaxing and wheedling again and on her best
behavior, and I feared she might refrain from telling Henry of her
trip to Grouche's, knowing how severe he was in such matters and how
furious he was sure to become at the discovery. I was certain it was
this fear which had prevented Mary from going directly to the king on
our return to Greenwich from Scotland Palace, and I knew that her
eating, bathing and dressing were but an excuse for a breathing spell
before the dreaded interview.
This fear remained with me all the time I was away, but when I
reasoned with myself I would smother it as well as I could with
argumentative attempts at self-assurance. I would say over and over to
myself that Mary could not fail, and that even if she did, there was
Jane, dear, sweet, thoughtful, unselfish Jane, who would not allow her
to do so. But as far as they go, our intuitions--our "feelings," as we
call them--are worth all the logic in the world, and you may say what
you will, but my presentiments--I speak for no one else--are well to
be minded. There is another sense hidden about us that will develop as
the race grows older. I speak to posterity.
In proof of this statement, I now tell you that when I returned to
London I found Brandon still in the terrible dungeon; and, worse
still, he had been tried for murder, and had been condemned to be
hanged, drawn and quartered on the second Friday following. Hanged!
Drawn! Quartered! It is time we were doing away with such barbarity.
We will now go back a month for the purpose of looking up the doings
of a friend of ours, his grace, the Duke of Buckingham.
On the morning after the fatal battle of Billingsgate, the barber who
had treated Brandon's wounds had been called to London to dress a
bruised knee for his grace, the duke. In the course of the operation,
an immense deal of information oozed out of the barber, one item of
which was that he had the night before dressed nine wounds, great and
small, for Master Brandon, the king's friend. This established the
identity of the man who had rescued the girls, a fact of which
Buckingham had had his suspicions all along. So Brandon's arrest
followed, as I have already related to you.
I afterward learned from various sources how this nobleman began to
avenge his mishap with Brandon at Mary's ball when the latter broke
his sword point. First, he went to Newgate and gave orders to the
keeper, who was his tool, to allow no communication with the prisoner,
and it was by his instructions that Brandon had been confined in the
worst dungeon in London. Then he went down to Greenwich to take care
of matters there, knowing that the king would learn of Brandon's
arrest and probably take steps for his liberation at once.
The king had just heard of the arrest when Buckingham arrived, and the
latter found he was right in his surmise that his majesty would at
once demand Brandon's release.
When the duke entered the king's room Henry called to him: "My Lord,
you are opportunely arrived. So good a friend of the people of London
can help us greatly this morning. Our friend Brandon has been arrested
for the killing of two men night before last in Billingsgate ward. I
am sure there is some mistake, and that the good sheriff has the wrong
man; but right or wrong, we want him out, and ask your good offices."
"I shall be most happy to serve your majesty, and will go to London at
once to see the lord mayor."
In the afternoon the duke returned and had a private audience with the
king.
"I did as your majesty requested in regard to Brandon's release," he
said, "but on investigation, I thought it best to consult you again
before proceeding further. I fear there is no doubt that Brandon is
the right man. It seems he was out with a couple of wenches concerning
whom he got into trouble and stabbed two men in the back. It is a very
aggravated case and the citizens are much incensed about it, owing
partly to the fact that such occurrences have been so frequent of
late. I thought, under the circumstances, and in view of the fact that
your majesty will soon call upon the city for a loan to make up the
Lady Mary's dower, it would be wise not to antagonize them in this
matter, but to allow Master Brandon to remain quietly in confinement
until the loan is completed and then we can snap our fingers at
them."
"We will snap our fingers at the scurvy burghers now and have the
loan, too," returned Henry, angrily. "I want Brandon liberated at
once, and I shall expect another report from you immediately, my
lord."
Buckingham felt that his revenge had slipped through his fingers this
time, but he was patient where evil was to be accomplished, and could
wait. Then it was that the council was called during the progress of
which Mary and I had tried to obtain an audience of the king.
Buckingham had gone to pay his respects to the queen, and on his way
back espied Mary waiting for the king in the ante-room, and went to
her.
At first she was irritated at the sight of this man, whom she so
despised, but a thought came to her that she might make use of him.
She knew his power with the citizens and city authorities of London,
and also knew, or thought she knew, that a smile from her could
accomplish everything with him. She had ample evidence of his
infatuation, and she hoped that she could procure Brandon's liberty
through Buckingham without revealing her dangerous secret.
Much to the duke's surprise, she smiled upon him and gave a cordial
welcome, saying: "My lord, you have been unkind to us of late and have
not shown us the light of your countenance. I am glad to see you once
more; tell me the news."
"I cannot say there is much of interest. I have learned the new dance
from Caskoden, if that is news, and hope for a favor at our next ball
from the fairest lady in the world."
"And quite welcome," returned Mary, complacently appropriating the
title, "and welcome to more than one, I hope, my lord."
This graciousness would have looked suspicious to one with less vanity
than Buckingham, but he saw no craft in it. He did see, however, that
Mary did not know who had attacked her in Billingsgate, and he felt
greatly relieved.
The duke smiled and smirked, and was enchanted at her kindness. They
walked down the corridor, talking and laughing, Mary awaiting an
opportunity to put the important question without exciting suspicion.
At last it came, when Buckingham, half inquiringly, expressed his
surprise that Mary should be found sitting at the king's door.
"I am waiting to see the king," said she. "Little Caskoden's friend,
Brandon, has been arrested for a brawl of some sort over in London,
and Sir Edwin and Lady Jane have importuned me to obtain his release,
which I have promised to do. Perhaps your grace will allow me to
petition you in place of carrying my request to the king. You are
quite as powerful as his majesty in London, and I should like to ask
you to obtain for Master Brandon his liberty at once. I shall hold
myself infinitely obliged, if your lordship will do this for me." She
smiled upon him her sweetest smile, and assumed an indifference that
would have deceived any one but Buckingham. Upon him, under the
circumstances, it was worse than wasted. Buckingham at once consented,
and said, that notwithstanding the fact that he did not like Brandon,
to oblige her highness, he would undertake to befriend a much more
disagreeable person.
"I fear," he said, "it will have to be done secretly--by conniving at
his escape rather than by an order for his release. The citizens are
greatly aroused over the alarming frequency of such occurrences, and
as many of the offenders have lately escaped punishment by reason of
court interference, I fear this man Brandon will have to bear the
brunt, in the London mind, of all these unpunished crimes. It will be
next to impossible to liberate him, except by arranging privately with
the keeper for his escape. He could go down into the country and wait
in seclusion until it is all blown over, or until London has a new
victim, and then an order can be made pardoning him, and he can
return."
"Pardoning him! What are you talking of, my lord? He has done nothing
to be pardoned for. He should be, and shall be, rewarded." Mary spoke
impetuously, but caught herself and tried to remedy her blunder. "That
is, if I have heard the straight of it. I have been told that the
killing was done in the defense of two--women." Think of this poor
unconscious girl, so full of grief and trouble, talking thus to
Buckingham, who knew so much more about the affair than even she, who
had taken so active a part in it.
"Who told you of it?" asked the duke.
Mary saw she had made a mistake, and, after hesitating for a moment,
answered: "Sir Edwin Caskoden. He had it from Master Brandon, I
suppose." Rather adroit this was, but equidistant from both truth and
effectiveness.
"I will go at once to London and arrange for Brandon's escape," said
Buckingham, preparing to leave. "But you must not divulge the fact
that I do it. It would cost me all the favor I enjoy with the people
of London, though I would willingly lose that favor, a thousand times
over, for a smile from you."
She gave the smile, and as he left, followed his retiring figure with
her eyes, and thought: "After all, he has a kind heart."
She breathed a sigh of relief, too, for she felt she had accomplished
Brandon's release, and still retained her dangerous secret, the
divulging of which, she feared, would harden Henry's heart against her
blandishments and strand her upon the throne of France.
But she was not entirely satisfied with the arrangement. She knew that
her obligation to Brandon was such as to demand of her that she should
not leave the matter of his release to any other person, much less to
an enemy such as Buckingham. Yet the cost of his freedom by a direct
act of her own would be so great that she was tempted to take
whatever risk there might be in the way that had opened itself to her.
Not that she would not have made the sacrifice willingly, or would not
have told Henry all if that were the only chance to save Brandon's
life, but the other way, the one she had taken by Buckingham's help,
seemed safe, and, though not entirely satisfying, she could not see
how it could miscarry. Buckingham was notably jealous of his knightly
word, and she had unbounded faith in her influence over him. In short,
like many another person, she was as wrong as possible just at the
time when she thought she was entirely right, and when the cost of a
mistake was at its maximum.
She recoiled also from the thought of Brandon's "escape," and it hurt
her that he should be a fugitive from the justice that should reward
him, yet she quieted these disturbing suggestions with the thought
that it would be only for a short time, and Brandon, she knew, would
be only too glad to make the sacrifice if it purchased for her freedom
from the worse than damnation that lurked in the French marriage.
[Illustration]