A ROYAL LOVE TOKEN
THAT strange house upon the Thames, with its receding upper stories
and its many windows, had strange visitors. Not in the daytime; then
its numerous eyes were often blinded with iron shutters, and only the
owl’s head above the door, which opened on the street, indicated the
office of its master, as did the owl upon the water-gate. At nightfall
came the never-ending stream of visitors, and usually by the river
entrance, though there were other doors; one, indeed, opening through a
labyrinth of cellars into a subterranean passage which had its outlet
somewhere by the water’s edge, and whose key was hidden in the wizard’s
breast. The master of the house quite naturally was much sought, being,
by repute, the greatest necromancer in England and shrewd enough to
work upon the fancies of the common people, dealing out philters and
horoscopes with a liberal hand; but his real business was of a deeper
and darker nature. Men of all conditions came by night to that silent
house, and often one party dreamed not of the presence of the other,
although the strange, small man held intercourse with both. In the
lower portion of the building, with no communication with the stairs
by which the queen had entered, was a large plain room, furnished with
a long table and many chairs; and the ceiling was dark blue, set with
gilded stars, so it was called the wizard’s Star Chamber. Here were
frequently assembled a large company, and here the dealings were free
from sorcery; they savored of a deeper and more subtle matter. Here,
sometimes, were peers of the realm, the vacillating Lord Hussey, Darcy,
and, less frequently, my lord of Exeter, and, once or twice, the master
of horse, Sir Nicholas Carew. On one occasion, too, appeared the pale,
fanatical face of a poorer gentleman, Robert Aske, who was to lead in
the Pilgrimage of Grace. In this secret chamber of the secret house
festered conspiracy, undiscovered even by the falcon eye of Cromwell.
Here were represented the remnant of the party of the White Rose, the
infatuated followers of the Nun of Kent and the papists, who flocked
to the secret meetings where Pole’s book against the king was known,
before the king saw it, and was eagerly devoured; where the pope’s
bulls were quoted, while the name of Mary Tudor was coupled first with
the dauphin and then with Charles V. The possibilities of resistance to
the crown, the downfall of Cromwell and the Archbishop of Canterbury,
the king’s increasing corpulence and the sores upon his legs,--all
these matters were fruitful of discussion, and in the midst of the
malcontents, the dwarfish figure of the master of the house flitted
about with fiendish activity. It was in his nature to love the brewing
of so evil a caldron, and he was happiest when he could count the
greatest number of the peers caught in his net. Yet, if he was sincere
in anything, he was in his devotion to the hope of a revival of the
old régime. Through the length and breadth of the kingdom spread the
tendrils of conspiracy, while the strong hand of the king was on the
helm of the ship of state, guiding it through troubled waters to a
liberty of which he, despot that he was, had no conception.
Through the months of that short winter, the procession to the wizard’s
Star Chamber continued and waxed nightly larger, while at Greenwich
the king and queen lived estranged, and the gossips of the court were
busy with a matter that they whispered only on the back-stairs or in
the chimney-corners, while the beauty of the queen waned under the
frown of fortune. A cloud hung over the gayeties of the court, while
she was nervous, anxious, ever suspicious of those about her, and time
passed heavily with the young maids and court rufflers, and there was
much secret grumbling. Master Raby was still in Sussex; his father was
dead, but the new Lord Raby could not leave the estates unsettled, and
he had not yet returned. My Lady Crabtree, however, had published such
an account of the affair in the park that Henge was forced to keep in
retirement, and for a while, at least, Betty was free from annoyance.
April came, and Latimer, the Bishop of Worcester, was at Greenwich
for a time, and in the chapel preached a mighty sermon to the unhappy
queen. The king was absent, and the suite of Anne Boleyn filled the
space around the pulpit. The great bishop spoke in a clear voice,
bearing fearless witness to the queen of the errors and the sins of a
worldly life and the penitence by which alone she might hope to enter
the Kingdom of Heaven, where her earthly majesty would be a shackle
to her immortal soul. The preacher lifted his voice courageously to
call an erring woman to repentance. Latimer saw the truth too plainly,
and was too honest to bear false witness,--a great man whom the great
cardinal plucked from the burning, seeing those qualities of soul which
a strong mind recognizes even in a foe, and Wolsey saved him to be the
martyr of bloody Mary.
Queen Anne left the chapel weeping, and going to her apartments, bade
Mary Wyatt bring her Tyndale’s translation of the Bible, the book
that her intercession with the king had saved from the fagots. About
her stood her maids of honor, and while she sat thus with the open
Testament before her, tears in her eyes and her whole manner full of
agitation, the door opened to admit a young and beautiful woman. In
contrast to the pale face of the queen, the luxuriant beauty of the
new-comer seemed dazzling; her features were perfectly regular, while
her eyes have been called “starry” in their luster. At the sight of
her, Anne’s face changed instantly; she rose, and advancing to the
center of the room, looked at her haughtily. The young woman was
splendidly dressed, and wore a girdle of pearls at her waist, and on
her neck a great jewel, which attracted the eye of the queen.
“What have you there, Mistress Seymour?” she exclaimed sharply,
indicating the gem.
Jane Seymour drew back with a flush of mingled embarrassment and
indignation.
“’Tis but a gift, madam,” she said, faltering under Anne’s searching
glance; “’tis naught of importance. I--”
The blush, the stammering tone were alike fatal to an attempt at
evasion; the queen snatched at the jewel and tore it from her rival’s
throat with such vehemence that she cut her hand upon the clasp and
the blood dropped on her dress. She took the ornament, and looking on
the reverse side, found a curiously contrived spring, which opened
to reveal a beautifully painted portrait of the king. For one moment
she stood transfixed, such an expression on her haggard face that her
attendants shrank back and the fair Seymour was covered with confusion.
Then the furious nature of Anne Boleyn roused her from her womanly
dismay; she turned upon the maid of honor like a lioness at bay, her
wrath bringing a terrible beauty to her face and her eyes blazing with
fury. She hurled the bauble at Jane Seymour with such force that it
fell shattered at her feet.
“Go!” cried the queen, pointing to the door, “get from my sight, you
accursed traitress, and take the image of your paramour away with you!”
“Madam, I pray you--” began Jane.
“Begone!” said Anne, her impassioned voice ringing through the room;
“doubtless the king awaits thee. Lie not to me! let me not see thy face
again!”
In her resistless fury the queen towered like an avenging spirit, and
Jane Seymour could only gather up the fragments of her sovereign’s love
token and retreat in deep confusion. Anne Boleyn watched her until
the door closed behind her, her own pose full of queenly dignity and
injured womanhood; but when the rival beauty had withdrawn, a great
change swept over Anne’s features; she turned, and seeing her favorite
friend near her with a face full of sympathy and indignation, she fell
weeping on her neck.
“Oh, Mary, I have sinned!” she cried in a voice of anguish; “oh, my
God! is my punishment to be administered in like measure with my sin?”