did not cure the uneasy sense, weighing like lead upon her heart, that
she should take up chance with this man's life, and should put no
further weight of sacrifice upon him, but should go to the king and
tell him a straightforward story, let it hurt where it would. With
a little meditation, however, came a thought which decided the
question and absolutely made everything bright again for her, so great
was her capability for distilling light. She would go at once to
Windsor with Jane, and would dispatch a note to Brandon, at Newgate,
telling him upon his escape to come to her. He might remain in hiding
in the neighborhood of Windsor, and she could see him every day. The
time had come to Mary when to "see him every day" would turn Plutonian
shades into noonday brightness and weave sunbeams out of utter
darkness. With Mary, to resolve was to act; so the note was soon
dispatched by a page, and one hour later the girls were on their road
to Windsor.
Buckingham went to Newgate, expecting to make a virtue, with Mary, out
of the necessity imposed by the king's command, in freeing Brandon. He
had hoped to induce Brandon to leave London stealthily and
immediately, by representing to him the evil consequences of a break
between the citizens and the king, liable to grow out of his release,
and relied on Brandon's generosity to help him out; but when he found
the note which Mary's page had delivered to the keeper of Newgate, he
read it and all his plans were changed.
He caused the keeper to send the note to the king, suppressing the
fact that he, Buckingham, had any knowledge of it. The duke then at
once started to Greenwich, where he arrived and sought the king a few
minutes before the time he knew the messenger with Mary's note would
come. The king was soon found, and Buckingham, in apparent anger, told
him that the city authorities refused to deliver Brandon except upon
an order under the king's seal.
Henry and Buckingham were intensely indignant at the conduct of the
scurvy burghers, and an immense amount of self-importance was
displayed and shamefully wasted. This manifestation was at its highest
when the messenger from Newgate arrived with Mary's poor little note
as intended by the duke.
The note was handed to Henry, who read aloud as follows:
"_To Master Charles Brandon_":
"Greeting--Soon you will be at liberty; perhaps ere this is to
your hand. Surely would I not leave you long in prison. I go to
Windsor at once, there to live in the hope that I may see you
speedily.
"MARY."
"What is this?" cried Henry. "My sister writing to Brandon? God's
death! My Lord of Buckingham, the suspicions you whispered in my ear
may have some truth. We will let this fellow remain in Newgate, and
allow our good people of London to take their own course with him."
Buckingham went to Windsor next day and told Mary that arrangements
had been made the night before for Brandon's escape, and that he had
heard that Brandon had left for New Spain.
Mary thanked the duke, but had no smiles for any one. Her supply was
exhausted.
She remained at Windsor nursing her love for the sake of the very pain
it brought her, and dreading the battle for more than life itself
which she knew she should soon be called upon to fight.
At times she would fall into one of her old fits of anger because
Brandon had not come to see her before he left, but soon the anger
melted into tears, and the tears brought a sort of joy when she
thought that he had run away from her because he loved her. After
Brandon's defense of her in Billingsgate, Mary had begun to see the
whole situation differently, and everything was changed. She still saw
the same great distance between them as before, but with this
difference, she was looking up now. Before that event he had been
plain Charles Brandon, and she the Princess Mary. She was the princess
still, but he was a demi-god. No mere mortal, thought she, could be so
brave and strong and generous and wise; and above all, no mere mortal
could vanquish odds of four to one. In the night she would lie on
Jane's arm, and amid smothered sobs, would softly talk of her lover,
and praise his beauty and perfections, and pour her pathetic little
tale over and over again into Jane's receptive ear and warm responsive
heart; and Jane answered with soft little kisses that would have
consoled Niobe herself. Then Mary would tell how the doors of her
life, at the ripe age of eighteen, were closed forever and forever,
and that her few remaining years would be but years of waiting for the
end. At other times she would brighten, and repeat what Brandon had
told her about New Spain; how fortune's door was open there to those
who chose to come, and how he, the best and bravest of them all, would
surely win glory and fortune, and then return to buy her from her
brother Henry with millions of pounds of yellow gold. Ah, she would
wait! She would wait! Like Bayard she placed her ransom at a high
figure, and honestly thought herself worth it. And so she was--to
Brandon, or rather had been. But at this particular time the market
was down, as you will shortly hear.
So Mary remained at Windsor and grieved and wept and dreamed, and
longed that she might see across the miles of billowy ocean to her
love! her love! her love! Meanwhile Brandon had his trial in secret
down in London, and had been condemned to be hanged, drawn and
quartered for having saved to her more than life itself.
Put not your trust in princesses!
_CHAPTER X_
_Justice, O King!_
Such was the state of affairs when I returned from France.
How I hated myself because I had not faced the king's displeasure and
had not refused to go until Brandon was safely out of his trouble. It
was hard for me to believe that I had left such a matter to two
foolish girls, one of them as changeable as the wind, and the other
completely under her control. I could but think of the difference
between myself and Brandon, and well knew, had I been in his place, he
would have liberated me or stormed the very walls of London
single-handed and alone.
When I learned that Brandon had been in that dungeon all that long
month, I felt that it would surely kill him, and my self-accusation
was so strong and bitter, and my mental pain so great, that I resolved
if my friend died, either by disease contracted in the dungeon or by
execution of his sentence, that I would kill myself. But that is a
matter much easier sincerely to resolve upon than to execute when the
time comes.
Next to myself, I condemned those wretched girls for leaving Brandon
to perish--Brandon, to whom they both owed so much. Their selfishness
turned me against all womankind.
I did not dally this time. I trusted to no Lady Jane nor Lady Mary. I
determined to go to the king at once and tell him all. I did not care
if the wretched Mary and Jane both had to marry the French king, or
the devil himself. I did not care if they and all the host of their
perfidious sisterhood went to the nether side of the universe, there
to remain forever. I would retrieve my fault, in so far as it was
retrievable, and save Brandon, who was worth them all put together. I
would tell Mary and Jane what I thought of them, and that should end
matters between us. I felt as I did toward them not only because of
their treatment of Brandon, but because they had made me guilty of a
grievous fault, for which I should never, so long as I lived, forgive
myself. I determined to go to the king, and go I did within five
minutes of the time I heard that Brandon was yet in prison.
I found the king sitting alone at public dinner, and, of course, was
denied speech with him. I was in no humor to be balked, so I thrust
aside the guards, and, much to everybody's fright, for I was wild with
grief, rage and despair, and showed it in every feature, rushed to the
king and fell upon my knees at his feet.
"Justice, O king!" I cried, and all the courtiers heard. "Justice, O
king! for the worst used man and the bravest, truest soul that ever
lived and suffered." Here the tears began to stream down my face and
my voice choked in my throat. "Charles Brandon, your majesty's
one-time friend, lies in a loathsome, rayless dungeon, condemned to
death, as your majesty may know, for the killing of two men in
Billingsgate Ward. I will tell you all: I should be thrust out from
the society of decent men for not having told you before I left for
France, but I trusted it to another who has proved false. I will tell
you all. Your sister, the Lady Mary, and Lady Jane Bolingbroke were
returning alone, after dark, from a visit to the soothsayer Grouche,
of whom your majesty has heard. I had been notified of the Lady Mary's
intended visit to him, although she had enjoined absolute secrecy upon
my informant. I could not go, being detained upon your majesty's
service--it was the night of the ball to the ambassadors--and I asked
Brandon to follow them, which he did, without the knowledge of the
princess. Upon returning, the ladies were attacked by four ruffians,
and would have met with worse than death had not the bravest heart and
the best sword in England defended them victoriously against such
fearful odds. He left them at Bridewell without hurt or injury, though
covered with wounds himself. This man is condemned to be hanged, drawn
and quartered, but I know not your majesty's heart if he be not at
once reprieved and richly rewarded. Think, my king! He saved the royal
honor of your sister, who is so dear to you, and has suffered so
terribly for his loyalty and bravery. The day I left so hurriedly for
France the Lady Mary promised she would tell you all and liberate
this man who had so nobly served her; but she is a woman, and was born
to betray."
The king laughed a little at my vehemence.
"What is this you are telling me, Sir Edwin? I know of Brandon's death
sentence, but much as I regret it, I cannot interfere with the justice
of our good people of London for the murder of two knights in their
streets. If Brandon committed such a crime, and, I understand he does
not deny it, I cannot help him, however much I should like to do so.
But this nonsense about my sister! It cannot be true. It must be
trumped up out of your love in order to save your friend. Have a care,
good master, how you say such a thing. If it were true, would not
Brandon have told it at his trial?"
"It is as true as that God lives, my king! If the Lady Mary and Lady
Jane do not bear me out in every word I have said, let my life pay the
forfeit. He would not tell of the great reason for killing the men,
fearing to compromise the honor of those whom he had saved, for, as
your majesty is aware, persons sometimes go to Grouche's for purposes
other than to listen to his soothsaying. Not in this case, God knows,
but there are slanderous tongues, and Brandon was willing to die with
closed lips, rather than set them wagging against one so dear to you.
It seems that these ladies, who owe so much to him, are also willing
that he should die rather than themselves bear the consequences of
their own folly. Do not delay, I beseech your majesty. Eat not
another morsel, I pray you, until this brave man, who has so truly
served you, be taken from his prison and freed from his sentence of
death. Come, come, my king! this moment, and all that I have, my
wealth, my life, my honor, are yours for all time."
The king remained a moment in thought with knife in hand.
"Caskoden, I have never detected you in a lie in all the years I have
known you; you are not very large in body, but your honor is great
enough to stock a Goliath. I believe you are telling the truth. I will
go at once to liberate Brandon; and that little hussy, my sister,
shall go to France and enjoy life as best she can with her old beauty,
King Louis. I know of no greater punishment to inflict upon her. This
determines me; she shall coax me out of it no longer. Sir Thomas
Brandon, have my horses ready, and I will go to the lord mayor, then
to my lord bishop of Lincoln and arrange to close this French treaty
at once. Let everybody know that the Princess Mary will, within the
month, be queen of France." This was said to the courtiers, and was
all over London before night.
I followed closely in the wake of the king, though uninvited, for I
had determined to trust to no one, not even his majesty, until Brandon
should be free. Henry had said he would go first to the lord mayor and
then to Wolsey, but after we crossed the Bridge he passed down Lower
Thames street and turned up Fish-street Hill into Grace Church street
on toward Bishopsgate. He said he would stop at Mistress Cornwallis's
and have a pudding; and then on to Wolsey, who at that time lodged in
a house near the wall beyond Bishopsgate.
I well knew if the king once reached Wolsey's, it would be wine and
quoits and other games, interspersed now and then with a little
blustering talk on statecraft, for the rest of the day. Then the good
bishop would have in a few pretty London women and a dance would
follow with wine and cards and dice, and Henry would spend the night
at Wolsey's, and Brandon lie another night in the mire of his Newgate
dungeon.
I resolved to raise heaven and earth, and the other place, too, if
necessary, before this should happen. So I rode boldly up to the king,
and with uncovered head addressed him: "Your majesty gave me your
royal word that you would go to the lord mayor first, and this is the
road to my lord bishop of Lincoln. In all the years I have known your
majesty, both as gallant prince and puissant king, this is the first
request I ever proffered, and now I only ask of you to save your own
noble honor, and do your duty as man and king."
These were bold words, but I did not care one little farthing whether
they pleased him or not. The king stared at me and said:
"Caskoden, you are a perfect hound at my heels. But you are right; I
had forgotten my errand. You disturbed my dinner, and my stomach
called loudly for one of Mistress Cornwallis's puddings; but you are
right to stick to me. What a friend you are in case of need. Would I
had one like you."
"Your majesty has two of whom I know; one riding humbly by your royal
side, and the other lying in the worst dungeon in Christendom."
With this the king wheeled about and started west toward Guildhall.
Oh, how I hated Henry for that cold-blooded, selfish forgetfulness
worse than crime; and how I hoped the Blessed Virgin would forget him
in time to come, and leave his soul an extra thousand years in purging
flames, just to show him how it goes to be forgotten--in hell.
To the lord mayor we accordingly went without further delay. He was
only too glad to liberate Brandon when he heard my story, which the
king had ordered me to repeat. The only hesitancy was from a doubt of
its truth.
The lord mayor was kind enough to say that he felt little doubt of my
word, but that friendship would often drive a man to any extremity,
even falsehood, to save a friend.
Then I offered to go into custody myself and pay the penalty, death,
for helping a convicted felon to escape, if I told not the truth, to
be confirmed or denied by the princess and her first lady in waiting.
I knew Jane and was willing to risk her truthfulness without a
doubt--it was so pronounced as to be troublesome at times--and as to
Mary--well, I had no doubt of her, either. If she would but stop to
think out the right she was sure to do it.
I have often wondered how much of the general fund of evil in this
world comes from thoughtlessness. Cultivate thought and you make
virtue--I believe. But this is no time to philosophize.
My offer was satisfactory, for what more can a man do than pledge his
life for his friend? We have scripture for that, or something like it.
The lord mayor did not require my proffered pledge, but readily
consented that the king should write an order for Brandon's pardon and
release. This was done at once, and we, that is, I, together with a
sheriff's sergeant and his four yeomen, hastened to Newgate, while
Henry went over to Wolsey's to settle Mary's fate.
Brandon was brought up with chains and manacles at his ankles and
wrists. When he entered the room and saw me, he exclaimed: "Ah!
Caskoden, is that you? I thought they had brought me up to hang me,
and was glad for the change; but I suppose you would not come to help
at that, even if you have left me here to rot; God only knows how
long; I have forgotten."
I could not restrain the tears at sight of him.
"Your words are more than just," I said; and, being anxious that he
should know at once that my fault had not been so great as it looked,
continued hurriedly: "The king sent me to France upon an hour's
notice, the day after your arrest. I know only too well I should not
have gone without seeing you out of this, but you had enjoined silence
upon me, and--and I trusted to the promises of another."
"I thought as much. You are in no way to blame, my friend; all I ask
is that you never mention the subject again."
"My friend!" Ah! the words were dear to me as words of love from a
sweetheart's lips.
I hardly recognized him, he was so frightfully covered with filth and
dirt and creeping things. His hair and beard were unkempt and matted,
and his eyes and cheeks were lusterless and sunken; but I will
describe him no further. Suffering had well-nigh done its work, and
nothing but the hardihood gathered in his years of camp life and war
could have saved him from death. I bathed and reclothed him as well as
I could at Newgate, and then took him home to Greenwich in a horse
litter, where my man and I thoroughly washed, dressed and sheared the
poor fellow and put him to bed.
"Ah! this bed is a foretaste of paradise," he said, as he lay upon the
mattress.
It was a pitiful sight, and I could hardly refrain from tears. I sent
my man to fetch a certain Moor, a learned scholar, though a hated
foreigner, who lived just off Cheap and sold small arms, and very soon
he was with us. Brandon and I both knew him well, and admired his
learning and gentleness, and loved him for his sweet philosophy of
life, the leaven of which was charity--a modest little plant too
often overshadowed by the rank growth of pompous dogmatism.
The Moor was learned in the healing potions of the east, and insisted,
privately, of course, that all the shrines and relics in Christendom
put together could not cure an ache in a baby's little finger. This,
perhaps, was going too far, for there are some relics that have
undoubted potency, but in cases where human agency can cure, the
people of the east are unquestionably far in advance of us in
knowledge of remedies. The Moor at once gave Brandon a soothing drink,
which soon put him into a sweet sleep. He then bathed him as he slept,
with some strengthening lotion, made certain learned signs, and spoke
a few cabalistic words, and, sure enough, so strong were the healing
remedies and incantations that the next morning Brandon was another
man, though very far from well and strong. The Moor recommended
nutritious food, such as roast beef and generous wine, and, although
this advice was contrary to the general belief, which is, with
apparent reason, that the evil spirit of disease should be starved and
driven out, yet so great was our faith in him that we followed his
directions, and in a few days Brandon had almost regained his old-time
strength.
I will ask you to go back with me for a moment.
During the week, between Brandon's interview with Mary in the
ante-room of the king's bed-chamber and the tragedy at Billingsgate,
he and I had many conversations about the extraordinary situation in
which he found himself.
At one time, I remember, he said: "I was safe enough before that
afternoon. I believe I could have gone away and forgotten her
eventually, but our mutual avowal seems to have dazed me and paralyzed
every power for effort. I sometimes feel helpless, and, although I
have succeeded in keeping away from her since then, I often find
myself wavering in my determination to leave England. That was what I
feared if I allowed the matter to go to the point of being sure of her
love. I only wanted it before, and very easily made myself believe it
was impossible, and not for me. But now that I know she loves me it is
like holding my breath to live without her. I feel every instant that
I can hold it no longer. I know only too well that if I but see her
face once more I shall breathe. She is the very breath of life for me.
She is mine by the gift of God. Curses upon those who keep us apart."
Then musingly and half interrogatively: "She certainly does love me.
She could not have treated me as she did unless her love was so strong
that she could not resist it."
"Let no doubt of that trouble you," I answered.
"A woman like Mary cannot treat two men as she treated you. Many a
woman may love, or think she loves many times, but there is only one
man who receives the full measure of her best. Other women, again,
have nothing to give but their best, and when they have once given
that, they have given all. Unless I have known her in vain, Mary, with
all her faults, is such a woman. Again I say, let no doubt of that
trouble you."
Brandon answered with a sad little smile from the midst of his
reverie. "It is really not so much the doubt as the certainty of it
that troubles me." Then, starting to his feet: "If I thought she had
lied to me; if I thought she could wantonly lead me on to suffer so
for her, I would kill her, so help me God."
"Do not think that. Whatever her faults, and she has enough, there is
no man on earth for her but you. Her love has come to her through a
struggle against it because it was her master. That is the strongest
and best, in fact the only, love; worth all the self-made passions in
the world."
"Yes, I believe it. I know she has faults; even my partiality cannot
blind me to them, but she is as pure and chaste as a child, and as
gentle, strong and true as--as--a woman. I can put it no stronger. She
has these, her redeeming virtues, along with her beauty, from her
plebeian grandmother, Elizabeth Woodville, who, with them, won a royal
husband and elevated herself to the throne beside the chivalrous
Edward. This sweet plebeian heritage bubbles up in the heart of Mary,
and will not down, but neutralizes the royal poison in her veins and
makes a goddess of her." Then with a sigh: "But if her faults were a
thousand times as many, and if each fault were a thousand times as
great, her beauty would atone for all. Such beauty as hers can afford
to have faults. Look at Helen and Cleopatra, and Agnes Sorel. Did
their faults make them less attractive? Beauty covereth more sins than
charity--and maketh more grief than pestilence."
The last clause was evidently an afterthought.
After his month in Newgate with the hangman's noose about his neck all
because of Mary's cruel neglect, I wondered if her beauty would so
easily atone for her faults. I may as well tell you that he changed
his mind concerning this particular doctrine of atonement.
_CHAPTER XI_
_Louis XII a Suitor_
As soon as I could leave Brandon, I had intended to go down to Windsor
and give vent to my indignation toward the girls, but the more I
thought about it, the surer I felt there had, somehow, been a mistake.
I could not bring myself to believe that Mary had deliberately
permitted matters to go to such an extreme when it was in her power to
prevent it. She might have neglected her duty for a day or two, but,
sooner or later, her good impulses always came to her rescue, and,
with Jane by her side to urge her on, I was almost sure she would have
liberated Brandon long ago--barring a blunder of some sort.
So I did not go to Windsor until a week after Brandon's release, when
the king asked me to go down with him, Wolsey and de Longueville, the
French ambassador-special, for the purpose of officially offering to
Mary the hand of Louis XII, and the honor of becoming queen of France.
The princess had known of the projected arrangement for many weeks,
but had no thought of the present forward condition of affairs, or she
would have brought her energies to bear upon Henry long before. She
could not bring herself to believe that her brother would really force
her into such wretchedness, and possibly he would never have done so,
much as he desired it from the standpoint of personal ambition, had it
not been for the petty excuse of that fatal trip to Grouche's.
All the circumstances of the case were such as to make Mary's marriage
a veritable virgin sacrifice. Louis was an old man, and an old
Frenchman at that; full of French notions of morality and immorality;
and besides, there were objections that cannot be written, but of
which Henry and Mary had been fully informed. She might as well marry
a leper. Do you wonder she was full of dread and fear, and resisted
with the desperation of death?