threw them into a state of alarm not less than that of the king. They
knew what it meant to offend the crown. The progenitor of the family,
the Duke of Somerset, had lost his head through some offence to a king,
and his descendants had no ambition to be similarly curtailed of their
natural proportions. Francis Seymour wrote to his uncle, the Earl of
Hertford, then distant from London, telling the story of the flight of
his brother and the lady. This letter still exists, and its appearance
indicates the terror into which it threw the earl. It reached him at
midnight. With it came a summons to attend the privy council. He read it
apparently by the light of a taper, and with such agitation that the
sheet caught fire. The scorched letter still exists, and is burnt
through at the most critical part of its story. The poor old earl
learned enough to double his terror, and lost the section that would
have alleviated it. He hastened up to London in a state of doubt and
fear, not knowing but that he was about to be indicted for high
treason.
Meanwhile, what had become of the disconsolate Lady Arabella? The poor
bride found herself alone upon the seas, mourning for her lost Seymour,
imploring her attendants to delay, straining her eyes in hopes of seeing
some boat bearing to her him she so dearly loved. It was in vain. No
Seymour appeared. And the delay in her flight proved fatal. The French
ship which bore her was overtaken in Calais roads by one of the king's
vessels which had been so hastily despatched in pursuit, and the lady
was taken on board and brought back, protesting that she cared not what
became of her if her dear Seymour should only escape.
The story ends mournfully. The sad-hearted bride was consigned to an
imprisonment that preyed heavily upon her. Never very strong, her sorrow
and depression of spirits reduced her powers, while, with the hope that
she might die the sooner, she refused the aid of physicians. Grief,
despair, intense emotion, in time impaired her reason, and at the end of
four years of prison life she died, her mind having died before. Rarely
has a simple and innocent marriage produced such sad results through the
uncalled-for jealousy of kings. The sad romance of the poor Lady
Arabella's life was due to the fact that she had an unreasonable woman
to deal with in Elizabeth, and a suspicious fool in James. Sound
common-sense must say that neither had aught to gain from this
persecution of the poor lady, who they were so obstinately determined
should end life a maid.
Seymour spent some years abroad, and then was permitted to return to
England. His wife was dead; the king had naught to fear. He lived
through three successive reigns, distinguishing himself by his loyalty
to James and his two successors, and to the day of his death retaining
his warm affection for his first love. He married again, and to the
daughter born from this match he gave the name of Arabella Stuart, in
token of his undying attachment to the lady of his life's romance.
_LOVE'S KNIGHT-ERRANT._
On the 18th of February, 1623, two young men, Tom and John Smith by
name, plainly dressed and attended by one companion in the attire of an
upper-servant, rode to the ferry at Gravesend, on the Thames. They wore
heavy beards, which did not look altogether natural, and had pulled
their hats well down over their foreheads, as if to hide their faces
from prying eyes. They seemed a cross between disguised highwaymen and
disguised noblemen.
The ancient ferryman looked at them with some suspicion as they entered
his boat, asking himself, "What lark is afoot with these young bloods?
There's mischief lurking under those beards."
His suspicions were redoubled when his passengers, in arbitrary tones,
bade him put them ashore below the town, instead of at the usual
landing-place. And he became sure that they were great folks bent on
mischief when, on landing, one of them handed him a gold-piece for his
fare, and rode away without asking for change.
"Aha! my brisk lads, I have you now," he said, with a chuckle. "There's
a duel afoot. Those two youngsters are off for the other side of the
Channel, to let out some angry blood, and the other goes along as second
or surgeon. It's very neat, but the law says nay; and I know my duty. I
am not to be bought off with a piece of gold."
Pocketing his golden fare, he hastened to the nearest magistrate, and
told his story and his suspicion. The magistrate agreed with him, and at
once despatched a post-boy to Rochester, with orders to have the
doubtful travellers stopped. Away rode the messenger at haste, on one of
the freshest horses to be found in Gravesend stables. But his steed was
no match for the thoroughbreds of the suspected wayfarers, and they had
left the ancient town of Rochester in the rear long before he reached
its skirts.
Rochester passed, they rode briskly onward, conversing with the gay
freedom of frolicsome youth; when, much to their alarm as it seemed,
they saw in the road before them a stately train. It consisted of a
carriage that appeared royal in its decorations and in the glittering
trappings of its horses, beside which rode two men dressed like
noblemen, following whom came a goodly retinue of attendants.
The young wayfarers seemed to recognize the travellers, and drew up to a
quick halt, as if in alarm.
"Lewknor and Mainwaring, by all that's unlucky!" said the one known as
Tom Smith.
"And a carriage-load of Spanish high mightiness between them; for that's
the ambassador on his way to court," answered John Smith. "It's all up
with our escapade if they get their eyes on us. We must bolt."
"How and whither?"
"Over the hedge and far away."
Spurring their horses, they broke through the low hedge that bordered
the road-side, and galloped at a rapid pace across the fields beyond.
The approaching party viewed this movement with lively suspicion.
"Who can they be?" queried Sir Lewis Lewknor, one of the noblemen.
His companion, who was no less a personage than Sir Henry Mainwaring,
lieutenant of Dover Castle, looked questioningly after the fugitives.
"They are well mounted and have the start on us. We cannot overtake
them," he muttered.
"You know them, then?" asked Lewknor.
"I have my doubt that two of them are the young Barneveldts, who have
just tried to murder the Prince of Orange. They must be stopped and
questioned."
He turned and bade one of his followers to ride back with all speed to
Canterbury, and bid the magistrates to detain three suspicious
travellers, who would soon reach that town. This done, the train moved
on, Mainwaring satisfied that he had checked the runaways, whoever they
were.
The Smiths and their attendant reached Canterbury in good time, but this
time they were outridden. Mainwaring's messenger had got in before them,
and the young adventurers found themselves stopped by a mounted guard,
with the unwelcome tidings that his honor, the mayor, would like to see
them.
Being brought before his honor, they blustered a little, talked in big
tones of the rights of Englishmen, and asked angrily who had dared order
their detention. They found master mayor cool and decided.
"Gentlemen, you will stay here till I know better who you are," he said.
"Sir Henry Mainwaring has ordered you to be stopped, and he best knows
why. Nor do I fancy he has gone amiss, for your names of Tom and John
Smith fit you about as well as your beards."
At these words, the one that claimed the name of John Smith burst into a
hearty laugh. Seizing his beard, he gave it a slight jerk, and it came
off in his hand. The mayor started in surprise. The face before him was
one that he very well knew.
"The Marquis of Buckingham!" he exclaimed.
"The same, at your service," said Buckingham, still laughing.
"Mainwaring takes me for other than I am. Likely enough he deems me a
runaway road-agent. You will scarcely stop the lord admiral, going in
disguise to Dover to make a secret inspection of the fleet?"
"Why, that certainly changes the case," said the mayor. "But who is your
companion?" he continued, in a low tone, looking askance at the other.
"A young gallant of the court, who keeps me company," said Buckingham,
carelessly.
"The road is free before you, gentlemen," said the mayor, graciously. "I
will answer to Mainwaring."
He turned and bade his guards to deliver their horses to the travellers.
But his eyes followed them with a peculiar twinkle as they left the
room.
"A young gallant of the court!" he muttered. "I have seen that gallant
before. Well, well, what mad frolic is afoot? Thank the stars, I am not
bound, by virtue of my office, to know him."
The party reached Dover without further adventure. But the inspection of
the fleet was evidently an invention for the benefit of the mayor.
Instead of troubling themselves about the fleet, they entered a vessel
that seemed awaiting them, and on whose deck they were joined by two
companions. In a very short time they were out of harbor and off with a
fresh wind across the Channel. Mainwaring had been wrong,--was the
ferryman right?--was a duel the purpose of this flight in disguise?
No; the travellers made no halt at Boulogne, the favorite
duelling-ground of English hot-bloods, but pushed off in haste for
Montreuil, and thence rode straight to Paris, which they reached after a
two-days' journey.
It seemed an odd freak, this ride in disguise for the mere purpose of a
visit to Paris. But there was nothing to indicate that the two young men
had any other object as they strolled carelessly during the next day
about the French capital, known to none there, and enjoying themselves
like school-boys on a holiday.
Among the sights which they managed to see were the king, Louis XIII.,
and his royal mother, Marie de Medicis. That evening a mask was to be
rehearsed at the palace, in which the queen and the Princess Henrietta
Maria were to take part. On the plea of being strangers in Paris, the
two young Englishmen managed to obtain admittance to this royal
merrymaking, which they highly enjoyed. As to what they saw, we have a
partial record in a subsequent letter from one of them.
"There danced," says this epistle, "the queen and madame, with as many
as made up nineteen fair dancing ladies; amongst which the queen is the
handsomest, which hath wrought in me a greater desire to see her
sister."
This sister was then at Madrid, for the queen of France was a daughter
of Philip III. of Spain. And, as if Spain was the true destination of
the travellers, and to see the French queen's sister their object, at
the early hour of three the next morning they were up and on horseback,
riding out of Paris on the road to Bayonne. Away they went, pressing
onward at speed, he whom we as yet know only as Tom Smith taking the
lead, and pushing forward with such youthful eagerness that even the
seasoned Buckingham looked the worse for wear before they reached the
borders of Spain.
Who was this eager errant knight? All London by this time knew, and it
is time that we should learn. Indeed, while the youthful wayfarers were
speeding away on their mad and merry ride, the privy councillors of
England were on their knees before King James, half beside themselves
with apprehension, saying that Prince Charles had disappeared, that the
rumor was that he had gone to Spain, and begging to know if this wild
rumor were true.
"There is no doubt of it," said the king. "But what of that? His father,
his grandfather, and his great-grandfather all went into foreign
countries to fetch home their wives,--why not the prince, my son?"
"England may learn why," was the answer of the alarmed councillors, and
after them of the disturbed country. "The king of Spain is not to be
trusted with such a royal morsel. Suppose he seizes the heir to
England's throne, and holds him as hostage! The boy is mad, and the king
in his dotage to permit so wild a thing." Such was the scope of general
comment on the prince's escapade.
While England fumed, and King James had begun to fret in chorus with the
country, his "sweet boys and dear venturous knights, worthy to be put in
a new romanso," as he had remarked on first learning of their flight,
were making their way at utmost horse-speed across France. A few miles
beyond Bayonne they met a messenger from the Earl of Bristol, ambassador
at Madrid, bearing despatches to England. They stopped him, opened his
papers, and sought to read them, but found the bulk of them written in a
cipher beyond their powers to solve. Baffled in this, they bade Gresley,
the messenger, to return with them as far as Irun, as they wished him to
bear to the king a letter written on Spanish soil.
No great distance farther brought them to the small river Bidassoa, the
Rubicon of their journey. It formed the boundary between France and
Spain. On reaching its southern bank they stood on the soil of the land
of the dons, and the truant prince danced for joy, filled with delight
at the success of his runaway prank. Gresley afterwards reported in
England that Buckingham looked worn from his long ride, but that he had
never seen Prince Charles so merry.
Onward through this new kingdom went the youthful scapegraces, over the
hills and plains of Spain, their hearts beating with merry
music,--Buckingham gay from his native spirit of adventure, Charles
eager to see in knight-errant fashion the charming infanta of Spain, of
whom he had seen, as yet, only the "counterfeit presentment," and a view
of whom in person was the real object of his journey. So ardent were the
two young men that they far outrode their companions, and at eight
o'clock in the evening of March 7, seventeen days after they had left
Buckingham's villa at Newhall, the truant pair were knocking briskly at
the door of the Earl of Bristol at Madrid.
Wilder and more perilous escapade had rarely been adventured. The king
had let them go with fear and trembling. Weak-willed monarch as he was,
he could not resist Buckingham's persuasions, though he dreaded the
result. The uncertain temper of Philip of Spain was well-known, the
preliminaries of the marriage which had been designed between Charles
and the infanta were far from settled, the political relations between
England and Spain were not of the most pacific, and it was within the
bounds of probability that Philip might seize and hold the heir of
England. It would give him a vast advantage over the sister realm, and
profit had been known to outweigh honor in the minds of potentates.
Heedless of all this, sure that his appearance would dispel the clouds
that hung over the marriage compact and shed the sunshine of peace and
union over the two kingdoms, giddy with the hopefulness of youth, and
infected with Buckingham's love of gallantry and adventure, Charles
reached Madrid without a thought of peril, wild to see the infanta in
his new rôle of knight-errant, and to decide for himself whether the
beauty and accomplishments for which she was famed were as patent to his
eye as to the voice of common report, and such as made her worthy the
love of a prince of high degree.
Such was the mood and such the hopes with which the romantic prince
knocked at Lord Bristol's door. But such was not the feeling with which
the practised diplomat received his visitors. He saw at a glance the
lake of possible mischief before him; yet he was versed in the art of
keeping his countenance serene, and received his guests as cordially as
if they had called on him in his London mansion.
Bristol would have kept the coming of the prince to himself, if it had
been possible. But the utmost he could hope was to keep the secret for
that night, and even in this he failed. Count Gondomar, a Spanish
diplomat, called on him, saw his visitors, and while affecting ignorance
was not for an instant deceived. On leaving Bristol's house he at once
hurried to the royal palace, and, filled with his weighty tidings, burst
upon Count Olivares, the king's favorite, at supper. Gondomar's face was
beaming. Olivares looked at him in surprise.
"What brings you so late?" he asked. "One would think that you had got
the king of England in Madrid."
"If I have not got the king," replied Gondomar, "at least I have got the
prince. You cannot ask a rarer prize."
Olivares sat stupefied at the astounding news. As soon as he could find
words he congratulated Gondomar on his important tidings and quickly
hastened to find the king, who was in his bed-chamber, and whom he
astonished with the tale he had to tell.
The monarch and his astute minister earnestly discussed the subject in
all its bearings. On one point they felt sure. The coming of Charles to
Spain was evidence to them that he intended to change his religion and
embrace the Catholic faith. He would never have ventured otherwise. But,
to "make assurance doubly sure," Philip turned to a crucifix which stood
at the head of his bed, and swore on it that the coming of the Prince of
Wales should not induce him to take a step in the marriage not favored
by the pope, even if it should involve the loss of his kingdom.
"As to what is temporal and mine," he said, to Olivares, "see that all
his wishes are gratified, in consideration of the obligation under which
he has placed us by coming here."
Meanwhile, Bristol spent the night in the false belief that the secret
was still his own. He summoned Gondomar in the morning, told him, with a
show of conferring a favor, of what had occurred, and bade him to tell
Olivares that Buckingham had arrived, but to say nothing about the
prince. That Gondomar consented need not be said. He had already told
all there was to tell. In the afternoon Buckingham and Olivares had a
brief interview in the gardens of the palace. After nightfall the
English marquis had the honor of kissing the hand of his Catholic
Majesty, Philip IV. of Spain. He told the king of the arrival of Prince
Charles, much to the seeming surprise of the monarch, who had learned
the art of keeping his countenance.
During the next day a mysterious silence was preserved concerning the
great event, through certain unusual proceedings took place. Philip,
with the queen, his sister, the infanta, and his two brothers, drove
backward and forward through the streets of Madrid. In another carriage
the Prince of Wales made a similarly stately progress through the same
streets, the purpose being to yield him a passing glimpse of his
betrothed and the royal family. The streets were thronged, all eyes
were fixed on the coach containing the strangers, yet silence reigned.
The rumor had spread far and wide who those strangers were, but it was a
secret, and no one must show that the secret was afoot. Yet, though
their voices were silent, their hearts were full of triumph in the
belief that the future king of England had come with the purpose of
embracing the national faith of Spain.
At the end of the procession Olivares joined the prince and told him
that his royal master was dying to speak with him, and could scarcely
restrain himself. An interview was quickly arranged, its locality to be
the coach of the king. Meanwhile, Olivares sought Buckingham.
"Let us despatch this matter out of hand," he said, "and strike it up
without the pope."
"Very well," answered Buckingham; "but how is it to be done?"
"The means are very easy," said Olivares, lightly. "It is but the
conversion of the prince, which we cannot conceive but his highness
intended when he resolved upon this journey."
This belief was a very natural one. The fact of Charles being a
Protestant had been the stumbling-block in the way of the match. A
dispensation for the marriage of a Catholic princess with the Protestant
prince of England had been asked from the pope, but had not yet been
given. Charles had come to Madrid with the empty hope that his presence
would cut the knot of this difficulty, and win him the princess out of
hand. The authorities and the people, on the contrary, fancied that
nothing less than an intention to turn Catholic could have brought him
to Spain. As for the infanta herself, she was an ardent Catholic, and
bitterly opposed to being united in marriage to a heretic prince. Such
was the state of affairs that prevailed. The easy pathway out of the
difficulty which the hopeful prince had devised was likely to prove not
quite free from thorns.
[Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE, MADRID.]
The days passed on. Buckingham declared to Olivares that Charles had no
thought of becoming a Catholic. Charles avoided the subject, and talked
only of his love. The Spanish ministers blamed Bristol for his
indecision, and had rooms prepared for the prince in the royal palace.
Charles willingly accepted them, and on the 16th of March rode through
the streets of Madrid, on the right hand of the king, to his new abode.
The people were now permitted to applaud to their hearts' desire, as no
further pretence of a secret existed. Glad acclamations attended the
progress of the royal cortége. The people shouted with joy, and all,
high and low, sang a song composed for the occasion by Lope de Vega, the
famous dramatist, which told how Charles had come, under the guidance of
love, to the Spanish sky to see his star Maria.
"Carlos Estuardo soy
Que, siendo amor mi guia,
Al cielo d'España voy
Por ver mi estrella Maria."
The palace was decorated with all its ancient splendor, the streets
everywhere showed signs of the public joy, and, as a special mark of
royal clemency, all prisoners, except those held for heinous crimes,
were set at liberty, among them numerous English galley-slaves, who had
been captured in pirate vessels preying upon Spanish commerce.
Yet all this merrymaking and clemency, and all the negotiations which
proceeded in the precincts of the palace, did not expedite the question
at issue. Charles had no thought of becoming a Catholic. Philip had
little thought of permitting a marriage under any other conditions. The
infanta hated the idea of the sacrifice, as she considered it. The
authorities at Rome refused the dispensation. The wheels of the whole
business seemed firmly blocked.
Meanwhile, Charles had seen the infanta again, somewhat more closely
than in a passing glance from a carriage, and though no words had passed
between them, her charms of face strongly attracted his susceptible
heart. He was convinced that he deeply loved her, and he ardently
pressed for a closer interview. This Spanish etiquette hindered, and it
was not until April 7, Easter Day, that a personal interview was granted
the ardent lover. On that day the king, accompanied by a train of
grandees, led the English prince to the apartments of the queen, who sat
in state, with the infanta by her side.
Greeting the queen with proper respect, Charles turned to address the
lady of his love. A few ceremonial words had been set down for him to
utter, but his English heart broke the bonds of Spanish etiquette, and,
forgetting everything but his passion, he began to address the princess
in ardent words of his own choice. He had not gone far before there was
a sensation. The persons present began to whisper. The queen looked with
angry eyes on the presuming lover. The infanta was evidently annoyed.
Charles hesitated and stopped short. Something seemed to have gone
wrong. The infanta answered his eager words with a few cold,
common-place sentences; a sense of constraint and uneasiness appeared to
haunt the apartment; the interview was at an end. English ideas of
love-making had proved much too unconventional for a Spanish court.
From that day forward the affair dragged on with infinite deliberation,
the passion of the prince growing stronger, the aversion of the infanta
seemingly increasing, the purpose of the Spanish court to mould the
ardent lover to its own ends appearing more decided.
While Charles showed his native disposition by prevarication, Buckingham
showed his by an impatience that soon led to anger and insolence. The
wearisome slowness of the negotiations ill suited his hasty and
arbitrary temper, he quarrelled with members of the State Council, and,
in an interview between the prince and the friars, he grew so incensed
at the demands made that, in disregard of all the decencies of
etiquette, he sprang from his seat, expressed his contempt for the
ecclesiastics by insulting gestures, and ended by flinging his hat on
the ground and stamping on it. That conference came to a sudden end.