A PRINCE’S BAPTISM
IT was the hour appointed for the prince’s baptism. It was night at
Hampton Court; the king’s equerries ran to and fro, the ladies of the
queen were crowding the anterooms of the royal chamber. They had made
elaborate toilets for the great occasion, and farthingales of satin
and brocade spread wide on every hand; and more than one slender waist
was girdled with costly pearls, while the great headdresses loomed up
above fair faces, flushed and agitated with the haste and the unusual
presence of the king; for Henry sat beside the state couch on which
lay the young mother of England’s future king. Pages quarrelled over
comfits on the staircases; gentlemen-in-waiting ran against each other
in their eagerness to excel in service at that hour; the doctors and
nurses forgot the queen in their zeal for the prince. The heralds,
armed with silver trumpets, stood waiting to proclaim the glad event;
the sponsors were come, laden with gifts, the Archbishop Cranmer,
the Princess Mary, the Duke of Norfolk--a strange company. My lord of
Canterbury’s spoons and Mary Tudor’s golden cup stood side by side;
the day was not yet ripe when she would sign the warrant to send the
archbishop to the flames of martyrdom.
Into this scene of confusion came my Lady Crabtree and Mistress Betty
Carew. It was an hour when all guests were welcome, and the opportunity
to reach the royal presence was too valuable to be lost. Betty came
with a secret hope; she did not speak of it even to her companion,
but it was in her heart. She had arrayed herself with more than usual
care, and she looked like a stately white rose as she stood in the
chapel waiting for the entrance of the great procession. Her gown was
of pure white brocade, and on her head was the five-pointed hood of
white velvet, such as Anne Boleyn had often worn; around her throat
was a single string of pearls. Months of anxiety had stolen the color
from her cheeks, but her brown eyes were larger and more lustrous, and
there was a purpose, a resolution in her face which made it beautiful
in its intense animation. Old Madam, in a singularly ugly garment of
copper-colored satin with a marvellous headdress of black velvet, made
a strange foil for the beauty, and many a curious glance was cast in
their direction as they stood aside, watching, but taking no part in
the festivities.
The torches flared in the royal chapel, the light shining red on
the altar and on the solid silver font, which was guarded by four
gentlemen, one of these Sir Francis Bryan, the cousin of Anne Boleyn.
These four grand personages wore aprons, and towels were tied around
their necks. There were Bryan, Sir John Russel, Sir Nicholas Carew,
the master of horse, who was to lose his head in the matter of the
Marquis of Exeter, and Sir Anthony Browne. The silver trumpets blew
in the very chamber where Jane Seymour lay, and the procession came
up between the torches to the silver font. There was the glitter of
gold, the flash of jewels, the sheen of satin. Noble lords, great
ladies, the peers of England walked in solemn company. The smoke from
the many torches floated up to the roof and hung like a veil; below,
the blaze of splendor dazzled the eye. Under a glittering canopy came
the prince of England, borne in the arms of the Marchioness of Exeter,
and behind walked the humble Mother Jack, the prince’s nurse. The
Princess Mary and the Duke of Norfolk, Seymour, the queen’s brother,
bearing in his arms the little Princess Elizabeth, who held in her
hands a chrisom, her gift to her infant brother. The father of Anne
Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire, came with a towel about his neck and
bearing a taper of virgin wax. Behind these, the lords and ladies of
the court; a long and goodly procession, sweeping into the chapel and
filling it with a gorgeous display of costly silks and jewels. And
the music of the silver trumpets filled the air, while on every side
beauty and magnificence vied with each other, and the blaze of many
torches made the chapel light as day. The solemn service over, his
serene highness, Prince Edward, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester,
was proclaimed by Garter, and the glittering procession took its way
back to the chamber of the queen, where King Henry had remained all
the while. It was midnight when, with the music of many trumpets, the
throng came in to the great apartment where the pale-faced queen lay
on a state bed with a canopy above it, resplendent with cloth of gold.
There was the rustle of many sweeping skirts, the jingle of swords
and chains, the flare of many lights, and all the room full of faces,
looking eagerly toward the royal couch. The Marchioness of Exeter bore
the little prince to receive his mother’s blessing; the king stood up,
looking on, boisterous in his joy. Behind him were the pale, gentle
face of Cranmer, the stalwart form of Norfolk, the sad and cold-looking
Princess Mary, the daughter of Catherine of Arragon, and the little
golden-haired Elizabeth, the child of such bright hopes, and now
stamped with the mark of illegitimacy and shadowed by the fearful death
of Anne Boleyn. The little princess, though only four years old, had a
train borne by Lady Herbert as she walked into the room. The king had
increased in corpulence, and the ulcers on his legs made his movements
painful, but he was very merry.
“Sweetheart,” he said to the queen as she kissed the child, after
giving it her blessing, “the boy hath thine eyes and will have thy
beauty.”
“My lord,” replied Jane, meekly, “I would rather that he looked like
your grace.”
“Nay,” said the king, laughing, “I am willing that my successor should
excel me in looks. What say you, my lords and ladies, is he not a
goodly boy?”
There was a chorus of assent; it would have been a strange time to
criticise the Prince of England. Only one or two of the older women
looked anxiously at the pale face and shining eyes of the queen, and
nodded their heads at each other. Henry, overflowing with joy at the
birth of a boy, moved about among the nobles present, talking freely
to all, and with little thought of the nervous strain upon the young
mother. His face softened by his happiness and his rich dress becoming
his large and stately figure, the king recalled to many the handsome
presence of his earlier manhood. He came down the long room, speaking
familiarly and kindly to all whom he recognized, and showing his
wonderful memory for small matters by his words to each one.
“Ah, John,” he said to one tall nobleman, “how is that lame boy of
yours? I will send my physician to look at his leg; the prince must
have sound subjects.”
Without waiting for thanks, he turned to another.
“Lady Harriet, you and I grow old; we are both limping; but we must
mend our paces now.” And to a younger matron, “Alice, I hear thy baby
is a beauty; we must see if it can match mine.”
A little farther on, he stopped beside a young couple who were standing
together. “I have heard of your parents’ opposition,” he said with
boisterous kindness; “I will see to it that it is ended; we must have a
merry wedding before Christmas. Trouble ceased at this court when the
prince was born!”
In his genial progress he had reached the end of the room where stood
Betty Carew. Her tall, white figure and beautiful, sad face arrested
his attention at once. It may be that he remembered her as an attendant
of Queen Anne, for his own face clouded slightly and he looked at her
with manifest interest. It was the opportunity for which Betty had
waited, and she advanced with a beating heart. Her great beauty and
something in her manner made a little stir as she came forward. A page
was holding a torch near where the king stood, and the boy, attracted
by her beauty, held his light so that the full radiance fell on her
figure, outlining it in the white glistening folds of satin draperies
and casting a wonderful glow in her eyes. She came forward with perfect
dignity, pausing a little way from the king, her beauty causing a
whisper of amazement to run around the circle. Henry, who was ever
quick to recognize loveliness in woman, looked at her with evident
admiration.
“’Tis Mistress Carew, and I mistake not,” he said graciously. “What
will you ask of me to-night?”
“Your grace,” she replied gently, “I have a petition, albeit a strange
one for so joyous an occasion, yet I pray you hear it in the name of
Prince Edward.”
“My girl, thou hast used an appeal to which we may not turn a deaf
ear,” said Henry; “say on.”
Mistress Betty drew a long breath; she was summoning all her strength
to plead her cause.
“Sire,” she said, “there is a prisoner in the Tower wrongfully charged
with treason; an innocent man whom some enemy hath entangled. I pray
your grace to hear his cause, to end this great suspense. Long, long
he hath languished a prisoner without the opportunity to establish his
innocence. And he is innocent!” she clasped her hands together with a
passionate gesture, “Simon Raby is innocent!” she cried; “and oh, my
lord the king, I pray you to think of the terrible strain of this long
suspense!”
“Simon Raby?” repeated the king; “once my equerry, I think.”
“Ay, your grace,” replied the Duke of Norfolk, “the son of old Lord
Raby of Sussex; an honest gentleman, who died nearly two years ago.”
“An honest gentleman; ay, I remember him; he served my father well,”
said the king, thoughtfully. “Cromwell hath been eager trapping his
mice, but I would not keep a true man in jail. Hath he not been tried,
Mistress Carew?” he added, looking again at Betty.
“Nay, your highness,” she replied sadly; “he has languished long, and
with no hope, nor have they let his friends see him.”
“How long hath he been in the Tower?” asked Henry, gravely.
“Fourteen months and more, Sire,” she answered.
“’Tis too long,” said the king, frowning. “I have no will to keep a
poor gentleman without a trial; this shall be looked into.”
Betty’s heart beat high with hope, but she had yet a petition to make,
and Henry saw it in her expression. Her beauty, her evident loyalty to
the prisoner interested him.
“Speak, sweetheart,” he said kindly; “what is in thy mind?”
“I pray your grace to give me warrant to see the wizard, Zachary
Sanders, who is also in the Tower,” she said; “they let no man see him,
but I know that if he will, he can surely clear Lord Raby; and oh, I
beseech your highness, to let me plead with him!”
Henry smiled. “You are not like to plead in vain, fair mistress,” he
said lightly; “for the sake of this blessed night, your petitions are
both granted. Norfolk, bid my lord privy seal to give this pretty
beggar a warrant to go into the Tower. But hark you, my wench, I charge
you not to leave your heart behind you there,” and with a laugh at his
own jest, the king passed on, surrounded by an ever-increasing throng
of courtiers until the apartment of the queen was gradually deserted,
save by her own attendants.
The first white streaks of dawn were showing at the eastern horizon
when Lady Crabtree and Betty left Hampton Court, and the mists of night
obscured the scene.
“Thou didst have rare luck, my girl,” said old Madam, drawing her
mantle closer in the chill air; “and now there is a hope to end the
matter.”
“The king’s grace was kind,” replied Betty, “and I have good hope, for
I believe that now they will hear Simon’s cause; and if they do, all
will be well.”
“Mayhap it will,” retorted Lady Crabtree dryly, unwilling to cast down
the young girl’s new-born hopes; “at least, Cromwell shall do more
than shake his head at us. ’Tis well that you struck while the iron was
hot and the king was happy; for if they keep up that rout, they will
kill both mother and child. Mercy on us, what a baptism! My lord of
Canterbury and Mary Tudor walking together, and Norfolk, who loves the
papists with all his heart. That ambitious prig, too, my Lord Seymour,
who will rise on his sister’s petticoats. It went to my heart to see
Anne Boleyn’s baby decked out to march behind this new toy! Well-a-day,
’tis strange!”
A little farther on, she burst out laughing; a scornful laugh, too,
which startled Betty.
“What makes you so merry, madam?” she asked quietly.
“Saw you not that fool, the Earl of Wiltshire,” old Madam asked, “with
a towel tied around his neck, and carrying my Lord Cranmer’s silver
pots, the christening present? Lord! why did he not go fetch his
daughter’s head? The drivelling idiot would dance at his own funeral,
if he could crook his legs, with the hope to please the king’s grace.
’Tis such a courtier that upsets an honest stomach. Were I the king,
I’d send him home with a merry flogging, as an ass.”