IN THE BISHOP'S ROOM.
Chancellor was lodged in the great chamber on the southern side of the
courtyard, a room which we called the Tapestried Chamber, and in which
tradition said that King Henry the Sixth had once slept. It was on the
upper floor, and for this reason free from the damp air which in
autumn and winter rose from the moat and hung about the lower range of
rooms. It was besides, of easy access from the hall, a door in the
gallery of the latter leading into an anteroom, which again opened
into the Tapestried Chamber; while a winding staircase, starting from
a dark nook in the main passage of the house, also led to this state
apartment, but by another and more private door.
I reached the antechamber with a stout heart in my breast, though a
little sobered by my summons, and feeling such a reaction from the
heat of a few minutes before as follows a plunge into cold water. In
the anteroom I was bidden to wait while the great man's will was
taken, which seemed strange to me, then unused to the mummery of Court
folk. But before I had time to feel much surprise, the inner door was
opened, and I was told to enter.
The great room, which I had seldom seen in use, had now an appearance
quite new to me. A dull red fire was glowing comfortably on the
hearthstone, before which a posset stool was standing. Near this,
seated at a table strewn with a profusion of papers and documents, was
a secretary writing busily. The great oaken bedstead, with its nodding
tester, lay in a background of shadows, which played about the figures
broidered on the hangings, or were lost in the darkness of the
corners; while near the fire, in the light cast by the sconces fixed
above the hearth, lay part of the Chancellor's equipment. The fur rugs
and cloak of sable, the saddle-bags, the dispatch-boxes, and the
silver chafing-dish, gave an air of comfort to this part of the room.
Walking up and down in the midst of these, dictating a sentence at
every other turn, was Stephen Gardiner.
As I entered the clerk looked up, holding his pen suspended. His
master, by a quick nod, ordered him to proceed. Then, signaling to me
in a like silent fashion his command that I should stand by the
hearth, the Bishop resumed his task of composition.
For some minutes my interest in the man, whom I had now an opportunity
of scrutinizing unmarked and at my leisure, took up all my attention.
He was at this time close on seventy, but looked, being still tall and
stout, full ten years younger. His face, square and sallow, was indeed
wrinkled and lined; his eyes lay deep in his head, his shoulders were
beginning to bend, the nape of his neck to become prominent. He had
lost an inch of his full height. But his eyes still shone brightly,
nor did any trace of weakness mar the stern character of his mouth, or
the crafty wisdom of his brow. The face was the face of a man austere,
determined, perhaps cruel; of a man who could both think and act.
My curiosity somewhat satisfied, I had leisure, first to wonder why I
had been sent for, and then to admire the prodigious number of books
and papers which lay about, more, indeed, than I had ever seen
together in my life. From this I passed to listening, idly at first,
and with interest afterward, to the letter which the Chancellor was
dictating. It seemed from its tenor to be a letter to some person in
authority, and presently one passage attracted my attention, so that I
could afterward recall it word for word.
"I do not think"--the Chancellor pronounced, speaking in a sonorous
voice, and the measured tone of one whose thoughts lie perfectly
arranged in his head--"that the Duchess Katherine will venture to take
the step suggested as possible. Yet Clarence's report may be of
moment. Let the house, therefore, be watched if anything savoring of
flight be marked, and take notice whether there be a vessel in the
Pool adapted to her purpose. A vessel trading to Dunquerque would be
most likely. Leave her husband till I return, when I will deal with
him roundly."
I missed what followed. It was upon another subject, and my thoughts
lagged behind, being wholly taken up with the Duchess Katherine and
her fortunes. I wondered who she was, young or old, and what this step
could be she was said to meditate, and what the jargon about the Pool
and Dunquerque meant. I was still thinking of this when I was aroused
by an abrupt silence, and looking up found that the Chancellor was
bending over the papers on the table. The secretary was leaving the
room.
As the door closed behind him, Gardiner rose from his stooping posture
and came slowly toward me, a roll of papers in his hand. "Now," he
said tranquilly, seating himself in an elbow-chair which stood in
front of the hearth, "I will dispose of your business, Master Cludde."
He paused, looking at me in a shrewd, masterful way, much as if--I
thought at the time, little knowing how near the truth my fancy
went--I were a beast he was about to buy; and then he went on. "I have
sent for you, Master Francis," he said dryly, fixing his piercing eyes
on mine, "because I think that this country does not suit your health.
You conform, but you conform with a bad grace, and England is no
longer the place for such. You incite the commonalty against the
Queen's allies, and England is not the place for such. Do not
contradict me; I have heard you myself. Then," he continued, grimly
thrusting out his jaw in a sour smile, "you misname those whom the
Queen honors; and were Dr. Stephens--you take me, Master Malapert?
such a man as his predecessors, you would rue the word. For a trifle
scarce weightier Wolsey threw a man to rot six years in a dungeon,
boy!"
I changed color, yet not so much in fear--though it were vain to say I
did not tremble--as in confusion. I had called him Dr. Stephens
indeed, but it had been to Petronilla only. I stood, not knowing what
to say, until he, after lingering on his last words to enjoy my
misery, resumed his subject. "That is one good and sufficient
reason--mind you, sufficient, boy--why England is no place for you.
For another, the Cluddes have always been soldiers; and you--though
readier-witted than some, which comes of your Spanish grandmother--are
quicker with a word than a thought, and a blow than either. Of which
afterward. Well, England is going to be no place for soldiers. Please
God, we have finished with wars at home. A woman's reign should be a
reign of peace."
I hardened my heart at that. A reign of peace, forsooth, when the week
before we had heard of a bishop burned at Gloucester! I hardened my
heart. I would not be frightened, though I knew his power, and knew
how men in those days misused power. I would put a bold face on the
matter.
He had not done with me yet, however. "One more reason I have," he
continued, stopping me as I was about to speak, "for saying that
England will not suit your health, Master Cludde. It is that I do not
want you here. Abroad, you may be of use to me, and at the same time
carve out your own fortune. You have courage and can use a sword, I
hear. You understand--and it is a rare gift with Englishmen--some
Spanish, which I suppose your father or your uncle taught you. You
can--so Father Carey says--construe a Latin sentence if it be not too
difficult. You are scarcely twenty, and you will have me for your
patron. Why, were I you, boy, with your age and your chances, I would
die Prince or Pope! Ay, I would!" He stopped speaking, his eyes on
fire. Nay, a ring of such real feeling flashed out in his last words
that, though I distrusted him, though old prejudices warned me against
him, and, at heart a Protestant, I shuddered at things I had heard of
him, the longing to see the world and have adventures seized upon me.
Yet I did not speak at once. He had told me that my tongue outran my
thoughts, and I stood silent until he asked me curtly, "Well, sirrah,
what do you say?"
"I say, my Lord Bishop," I replied respectfully, "that the prospect
you hold out to me would tempt me were I a younger son, or without
those ties of gratitude which hold me to my uncle. But, my father
excepted, I am Sir Anthony's only heir."
"Ah, your father!" he said contemptuously. "You do well to remind me
of him, for I see you are forgetting the first part of my speech in
thinking of the last! Should I have promised first and threatened
later? You would fain, I expect, stay here and woo Mistress
Petronilla? Do I touch you there? You think to marry the maid and be
master of Coton End in God's good time, do you? Then listen, Francis
Cludde. Neither one nor the other, neither maid nor meadow will be
yours should you stay here till Doomsday!"
I started, and stood glowering on him, speechless with anger and
astonishment.
"You do not know who you are," he continued, leaning forward with a
sudden movement, and speaking with one claw-like finger extended, and
a malevolent gleam in his eyes. "You called me a nameless child a
while ago, and so I was; yet have I risen to be ruler of England,
Master Cludde! But you--I will tell you which of us is base-born. I
will tell you who and what your father, Ferdinand Cludde, was. He was,
nay, he is, my tool, spy, jackal! Do you understand, boy? Your father
is one of the band of foul creatures to whom such as I, base-born
though I be, fling the scraps from their table! He is the vilest of
the vile men who do my dirty work, my lad."
He had raised his voice and hand in passion, real or assumed. He
dropped them as I sprang forward. "You lie!" I cried, trembling all
over.
"Easy! easy!" he said. He stopped me where I was by a gesture of stern
command. "Think!" he continued, calmly and weightily. "Has any one
ever spoken to you of your father since the day seven years ago, when
you came here, a child, brought by a servant? Has Sir Anthony talked
of him? Has any servant named his name to you. Think, boy. If
Ferdinand Cludde be a father to be proud of, why does his brother make
naught of him?"
"He is a Protestant," I said faintly. Faintly, because I had asked
myself this very question not once but often. Sir Anthony so seldom
mentioned my father that I had thought it strange myself. I had
thought it strange, too, that the servants, who must well remember
Ferdinand Cludde, never talked to me about him. Hitherto I had always
been satisfied to answer, "He is a Protestant"; but face to face with
this terrible old man and his pitiless charge, the words came but
faintly from my lips.
"A Protestant," he replied solemnly. "Yes, this comes of schism, that
villains cloak themselves in it, and parade for true men. A Protestant
you call him, boy? He has been that, ay, and all things to all men;
and he has betrayed all things and all men. He was in the great
Cardinal's confidence, and forsook him, when he fell, for Cromwell.
Thomas Cromwell, although they were of the same persuasion, he
betrayed to me. I have here, here"--and he struck the letters in his
hand a scornful blow--"the offer he made to me, and his terms. Then
eight years back, when the late King Edward came to the throne, I too
fell on evil days, and Master Cludde abandoned me for my Lord
Hertford, but did me no great harm. But he did something which blasted
him--blasted him at last."
He paused. Had the fire died down, or was it only my imagination
that the shadows thickened round the bed behind him, and closed in
more nearly on us, leaving his pale grim face to confront me--his
face, which seemed the paler and grimmer, the more saturnine and
all-mastering, for the dark frame which set it off?
"He did this," he continued slowly, "which came to light and blasted
him. He asked, as the price of his service in betraying me, his
brother's estate."
"Impossible!" I stammered. "Why, Sir Anthony----"
"What of Sir Anthony, you would ask?" the Chancellor replied,
interrupting me with savage irony. "Oh, he was a Papist! an obstinate
Papist! He might go hang--or to Warwick Jail!"
"Nay, but this at least, my lord, is false!" I cried. "Palpably false!
If my father had so betrayed his own flesh and blood, should I be
here? Should I be at Coton End? You say this happened eight years ago.
Seven years ago I came here. Would Sir Anthony----"
"There are fools everywhere," the old man sneered. "When my Lord
Hertford refused your father's suit, Ferdinand began--it is his
nature--to plot against him. He was found out, and execrated by
all--for he had been false to all--he fled for his life. He left you
behind, and a servant brought you to Coton End, where Sir Anthony took
you in."
I covered my face. Alas! I believed him; I, who had always been so
proud of my lineage, so proud of the brave traditions of the house and
its honor, so proud of Coton End and all that belonged to it! Now, if
this were true, I could never again take pleasure in one or the other.
I was the son of a man branded as a turncoat and an informer, of one
who was the worst of traitors! I sank down on the settle behind me and
hid my face. Another might have thought less of the blow, or, with
greater knowledge of the world, might have made light of it as a thing
not touching himself. But on me, young as I was, and proud, and as yet
tender, and having done nothing myself, it fell with crushing force.
It was years since I had seen my father, and I could not stand forth
loyally and fight his battle, as a son his father's friend and
familiar for years might have fought it. On the contrary, there was so
much which seemed mysterious in my past life, so much that bore out
the Chancellor's accusation, that I felt a dread of its truth even
before I had proof. Yet I would have proof. "Show me the letters!" I
said harshly; "show me the letters, my lord!"
"You know your father's handwriting?"
"I do."
I knew it, not from any correspondence my father had held with me, but
because I had more than once examined with natural curiosity the
wrappers of the dispatches which at intervals of many months,
sometimes of a year, came from him to Sir Anthony. I had never known
anything of the contents of the letters, all that fell to my share
being certain formal messages, which Sir Anthony would give me,
generally with a clouded brow and a testy manner that grew genial
again only with the lapse of time.
Gardiner handed me the letters, and I took them and read one. One was
enough. That my father! Alas! alas! No wonder that I turned my face to
the wall, shivering as with the ague, and that all about me--except
the red glow of the fire, which burned into my brain--seemed darkness!
I had lost the thing I valued most. I had lost at a blow everything of
which I was proud. The treachery that could flush that worn face
opposite to me, lined as it was with statecraft, and betray the wily
tongue into passion, seemed to me, young and impulsive, a thing so
vile as to brand a man's children through generations.
Therefore I hid my face in the corner of the settle, while the
Chancellor gazed at me a while in silence, as one who had made an
experiment might watch the result.
"You see now, my friend," he said at last, almost gently, "that you
may be base-born in more ways than one. But be of good cheer; you are
young, and what I have done you may do. Think of Thomas Cromwell--his
father was naught. Think of the old Cardinal--my master. Think of the
Duke of Suffolk--Charles Brandon, I mean. He was a plain gentleman,
yet he married a queen. More, the door which they had to open for
themselves I will open for you--only, when you are inside, play the
man, and be faithful."
"What would you have me do?" I whispered hoarsely.
"I would have you do this," he answered. "There are great things
brewing in the Netherlands, boy--great changes, unless I am mistaken.
I have need of an agent there, a man, stout, trusty, and, in
particular, unknown, who will keep me informed of events. If you will
be that agent, I can procure for you--and not appear in the matter
myself--a post of pay and honor in the Regent's Guards. What say you
to that, Master Cludde? A few weeks and you will be making history,
and Coton End will seem a mean place to you. Now, what do you say?"
I was longing to be away and alone with my misery, but I forced myself
to reply patiently.
"With your leave I will give you my answer to-morrow, my lord," I
said, as steadily as I could; and I rose, still keeping my face turned
from him.
"Very well," he replied, with apparent confidence. But he watched me
keenly, as I fancied. "I know already what your answer will be. Yet
before you go I will give you a piece of advice which in the new
life you begin to-night will avail you more than silver, more than
gold--ay, more than steel, Master Francis. It is this: Be prompt to
think, be prompt to strike, be slow to speak! Mark it well! It is a
simple recipe, yet it has made me what I am, and may make you greater.
Now go!"
He pointed to the little door opening on the staircase, and I bowed
and went out, closing it carefully behind me. On the stairs, moving
blindly in the dark, I fell over some one who lay sleeping there, and
who clutched at my leg. I shook him off, however, with an exclamation
of rage, and, stumbling down the rest of the steps, gained the open
air. Excited and feverish, I shrank with aversion from the confinement
of my room, and, hurrying over the drawbridge, sought at random the
long terrace by the fish-pools, on which the moonlight fell, a sheet
of silver, broken only by the sundial and the shadows of the rose
bushes. The night air, weeping chill from the forest, fanned my cheeks
as I paced up and down. One way I had before me the manor-house--the
steep gable-ends, the gateway tower, the low outbuildings and
cornstacks and stables--and flanking these the squat tower and nave of
the church. I turned. Now I saw only the water and the dark line of
trees which fringed the further bank. But above these the stars were
shining.
Yet in my mind there was no starlight. There all was a blur of wild
passions and resolves. Shame and an angry resentment against those who
had kept me so long in ignorance--even against Sir Anthony--were my
uppermost feelings. I smarted under the thought that I had been living
on his charity. I remembered many a time when I had taken much on
myself, and he had smiled, and the remembrance stung me. I longed to
assert myself and do something to wipe off the stain.
But should I accept the Bishop's offer? It never crossed my mind to do
so. He had humiliated me, and I hated him for it. Longing to cut
myself off from my old life, I could not support a patron who would
know, and might cast in my teeth the old shame. A third reason, too,
worked powerfully with me as I became cooler. This was the conviction
that, apart from the glitter which the old man's craft had cast about
it, the part he would have me play was that of a spy--an informer! A
creature like--I dared not say like my father, yet I had him in my
mind. And from this, from the barest suspicion of this, I shrank as
the burned puppy from the fire--shrank with fierce twitching of nerve
and sinew.
Yet if I would not accept his offer it was clear I must fend for
myself. His threats meant as much as that, and I smiled sternly as I
found necessity at one with inclination. I would leave Coton End at
once, and henceforth I would fight for my own hand. I would have no
name until I had made for myself a new one.
This resolve formed, I turned and went back to the house, and felt my
way to my own chamber. The moonlight poured through the lattice and
fell white on my pallet. I crossed the room and stood still. Down the
middle of the coverlet--or my eyes deceived me--lay a dark line.
I stooped mechanically to see what this was and found my own sword
lying there; the sword which Sir Anthony had given me on my last
birthday. But how had it come there? As I took it up something soft
and light brushed my hand and drooped from the hilt. Then I
remembered. A week before I had begged Petronilla to make me a
sword-knot of blue velvet for use on state occasions. No doubt she had
done it, and had brought the sword back this evening, and laid it
there in token of peace.
I sat down on my bed, and softer and kindlier thoughts came to me;
thoughts of love and gratitude, in which the old man who had been a
second father to me had part. I would go as I had resolved, but I
would return to them when I had done a thing worth doing; something
which should efface the brand that lay on me now.
With gentle fingers I disengaged the velvet knot and thrust it into my
bosom. Then I tied about the hilt the old leather thong, and began to
make my preparations; considering this or that route while I hunted
for my dagger and changed my doublet and hose for stouter raiment and
long, untanned boots. I was yet in the midst of this, when a knock at
the door startled me.
"Who is there?" I asked, standing erect.
For answer Martin Luther slid in, closing the door behind him. The
fool did not speak, but turning his eyes first on one thing and then
on another nodded sagely.
"Well?" I growled.
"You are off, master," he said, nodding again. "I thought so."
"Why did you think so?" I retorted impatiently.
"It is time for the young birds to fly when the cuckoo begins to
stir," he answered.
I understood him dimly and in part. "You have been listening," I said
wrathfully, my cheeks burning.
"And been kicked in the face like a fool for my pains," he answered.
"Ah, well, it is better to be kicked by the boot you love than kissed
by the lips you hate. But Master Francis, Master Francis!" he
continued in a whisper.
He said no more, and I looked up. The man was stooping slightly
forward, his pale face thrust out. There was a strange gleam in his
eyes, and his teeth grinned in the moonlight. Thrice he drew his
finger across his lean knotted throat. "Shall I?" he hissed, his hot
breath reaching me, "shall I?"
I recoiled from him shuddering. It was a ghastly pantomime, and it
seemed to me that I saw madness in his eyes.
"In Heaven's name, no!" I cried--"No! Do you hear, Martin? No!"
He stood back on the instant, as a dog might have done being reproved.
But I could hardly finish in comfort after that with him standing
there, although when I next turned to him he seemed half asleep and
his eyes were dull and fishy as ever.
"One thing you can do," I said brusquely. Then I hesitated, looking
round me. I wished to send something to Petronilla, some word, some
keepsake. But I had nothing that would serve a maid's purpose, and
could think of nothing until my eye lit on a house-martin's nest,
lying where I had cast it on the window-sill. I had taken it down that
morning because the droppings during the last summer had fallen on the
lead work, and I would not have it used when the swallows returned. It
was but a bit of clay, and yet it would serve. She would guess its
meaning.
I gave it into his hands. "Take this," I said, "and give it privately
to Mistress Petronilla. Privately, you understand. And say nothing to
any one, or the Bishop will flay your back, Martin."