"The church-bells are making music in mine ears as I sit to write. An
hour gone, Frances and Mr Monke went forth, no longer twain, but one.
God go with her, and bless her, this dear sister of mine heart, and
comfort her for all she hath lost--ay, as `one whom his mother
comforteth!'"
The ink was scarcely dry from this entry when Philippa Basset marched
in, with unrecognised step, for her shoes were new.
"Why, Mrs Philippa! your new shoes wrought that I knew not your step,"
said Isoult, with a smile.
"New shoes!" said she, "yea, in good sooth. I flung both mine old ones
after Frank; and had I had an hundred pairs in my cupboard, I had sent
them all flying."
The thought of a hundred pairs of shoes falling about, was too much for
Isoult's gravity.
"One of them smote the nag on his tail," continued Philippa; "I warrant
you it gave him a smart, for I sent it with all my might. 'Tis a good
omen that--saving only that it might cause the beast to be restive."
"Believe you in omens, Mrs Philippa?" answered Isoult.
"Not one half so much as I do believe in mine own good sense," said she.
"Yet I have known some strange things in my time. Well, what thinkest
thou of this match of Frank's?"
"I trust with all mine heart she may find it an happy and a
comfortable," was the reply.
"Ay, maybe a scrap of happiness shall not hurt her overmuch," said
Philippa in her dry way. "As to Mr Monke, I will wish him none, for
methought from his face he were as full as he could hold; and an' he had
some trouble, he demeriteth it, for having away Frank."
And so away she went, both laughing.
News that stirred _every_ Gospeller's heart reached Bradmond ere the
Christmas of 1547. The Bloody Statute was repealed; and in every parish
church, by royal order, a Bible and a copy of the Paraphrases of Erasmus
were set open, for all the people to read.
But the repeal of the Bloody Statute, ardently as she desired it, was
not without sad memories to Isoult Avery. The Act now abrogated had
brought death, four years before, to one very dear to her heart; and it
was not in human nature for her to hear of its destruction without a
sigh given to the memory of Grace Rayleigh. In the churchyard at Bodmin
were two nameless graves--of a husband and wife whom that Bloody Statute
had parted, and who had only met at last in its despite, and to die.
And when Grace had closed the eyes of her beloved, she lay down to her
own long rest. Her work was finished in this world; and very welcome
was the summons to her--"Come up higher."
"From her long heart-withering early gone,
She hath lived--she hath loved--her task is done."
Yet how was it possible to wish her back? Back to pain, and sorrow, and
fear, and mournful memory of the far-off husband and the dead child!
Back from the lighted halls of the Father's Home, to the bleak, cold,
weary wilderness of earth! Surely with Christ it was far better.
When Isoult came in comforted after her visit to Grace's grave, Barbara,
her parlour-maid, met her at the door.
"Mistress, a letter came for you in all haste shortly after you went
forth," said she. "I had come unto you withal, had I known whither you
were gone."
Isoult took the letter from Barbara's hand. On the outside was
written--the energetic ancient form of our mild direction "To be
delivered immediately"--a rather startling address to the postman.
"Haste, haste, for thy life, haste!"
With forebodings travelling in more than one direction, Isoult cut the
ribbon which fastened the letter and broke the seal. There were not a
dozen lines written within; but her heart sank like lead ere she had
read half of them.
The letter was from Crowe, and was signed by Mr George Basset, the
eldest surviving son of Lady Lisle. He desired John Avery and his wife
to hasten with all speed to Crowe, for Lady Lisle had been taken ill
suddenly and dangerously, and they feared for her life. There was also
an entreaty to bring Dr Thorpe, if he could possibly come; for at Crowe
there was only an apothecary. Doctors, regularly qualified, were scarce
in those days. All the scattered members of the family within
reasonable distance had been summoned.
In as short a time as it was possible to be ready, John and Isoult set
forth with Dr Thorpe, who said he could accompany them without more than
temporary inconvenience to any of his patients. It was two days'
journey to Crowe; and Isoult's heart sank lower and lower as they
approached the house. But when they reached the end of the long lane
which led to it, they suddenly encountered, at a turn in the road, the
writer of the letter which had summoned them. It was an instant relief
to see Mr George Basset smile and hold out his hand in welcome.
"Better news, thank God!" he said at once. "My mother hath rested well
these two nights past, and is fairly amended this morrow. I am glad
with all mine heart this bout is well over. It hath feared us no
little, as I can tell you."
With lighter hearts they rode to the door, where Isoult had no sooner
alighted than she found herself drawn from behind into the arms of Lady
Frances Monke, who had arrived the day before. Isoult followed her into
the little parlour, where in a large carved chair she saw a very stiff
and rich silk dress; and on looking a little higher, she found that
chair and silk were tenanted by Mrs Wollacombe, Lady Lisle's youngest
daughter.
"Ah, Isoult, art thou come?" inquired that young lady, playing with her
chatelaine. "I hope thou hast left thy childre behind. These childre
be such plagues."
"Hand me thine for a silver groat," interrupted Philippa, coming in.
"Thou art welcome, an' thou choose to take them," replied her sister.
"They do but rumple my ruffs and soil my gowns. They be for ever in
some manner of mischievousness. I cannot keep them out thereof, for all
I have two nursemaids, and Jack to boot."
"Thou art little like, Mall, an' thou add not thyself to the bargain,"
answered Philippa, in her old mocking way. "Isoult, but for the
pleasure of seeing thee, I could be sorry I sent after thee. My Lady my
mother is so sweetly amending (thank all the saints for it!) that I am
little pleased to have put thee to such charges and labour."
"I pray you say no word of that, Mrs Philippa," said Isoult, "for in
very sooth it giveth me right hearty pleasure to see you."
"Dr Thorpe," continued Philippa, turning to him, "I am right glad to
welcome you, and I thank you with all mine heart that you are come.
Will you grant us the favour of your skill, though it be less needed
than we feared, and take the pain to come up with me to see my Lady?"
Dr Thorpe assenting, she took him up-stairs; and the next minute Mr
Monke, coming in, greeted his friends cordially. Then came Lady Ashley,
sweet and gentle as ever, and afterwards Sir Henry Ashley and Mr
Wollacombe.
"Mrs Philippa," said Isoult, when she returned, "we will not be a charge
on her Ladyship. Jack and I will lie at the inn, for assuredly she
cannot lodge all us in this her house."
"I thank thee truly, dear heart," responded Philippa affectionately.
"In good sooth, there is not room for all, howsoever we should squeeze
us together; wherefore we must need disparkle [scatter] us. Verily, an'
we had here but James and Nan, there were not one of us lacking."
"How fareth Mr James?" returned Isoult; "is he yet a priest?"
"He is now in London, with my Lord of Winchester," [Bishop Gardiner]
answered Philippa. "Nay, so far from priesthood that he is now on the
eve of his wedding, unto one Mrs Mary Roper [daughter of the well-known
Margaret Roper], grand-daughter of Sir Thomas More."
It was late in the evening before Isoult could contrive to speak with Dr
Thorpe in private; and then she asked him to tell her frankly how he
thought Lady Lisle.
"Better this time," said he, significantly.
"Think you as you did, then?" she asked.
"Ay, Mrs Avery," said he, sadly, "I think as I did."
After this, Isoult saw Lady Lisle herself, but only for a moment, when
she struck her as looking very ill; but Philippa assured her that there
could be no comparison with what she had been two days before.
The next morning, Isoult, with Lady Frances, Lady Ashley, and Philippa,
sat for an hour in the invalid's chamber. The conversation turned upon
public affairs; and at last they began to talk of the pulling down of
the roods, which Philippa opposed, while both Frances and Isoult
pronounced them idols.
"Fight it out an' ye will," said the sick lady, laughing feebly, "only
outside of my chamber."
"Go thou down, Kate, and fetch up Mr Monke first," responded Philippa;
"for I am well assured my first blow should kill Frank an' she had not
his help."
Thus playfully they chatted for a while, but Isoult fancied that Lady
Lisle was scarcely so angrily earnest in her opposition to the doctrines
of the Gospel as was generally her wont. Presently up came the untidy
Deb, in all her untidiness, to say that dinner was served; and was
parenthetically told by Philippa that she was a shame to the family.
"Which of us would you with you, Mother?" asked Frances.
"Why, none of you," she replied. "Go down all, children; I lack nought;
I am going to sleep."
And she laid back her head on the pillow of her chair.
"Shall I not abide, Madam?" suggested Lady Ashley.
"No, child," she answered. "When you come above ye shall find me
asleep, if all go well."
So, seeing she preferred to be left alone, they all went to dinner.
When they returned, Lady Frances, Lady Ashley, and Isoult, went towards
Lady Lisle's chamber. Lady Ashley opened the door softly, and put her
head in.
"Doth she sleep, Kate?" whispered Frances.
"Softly!" said Lady Ashley, withdrawing her head. "Let us not disturb
her--she is so sweetly sleeping."
Sleeping! ay, a sleep that should have no waking, From that sleep not
the roaring of the winds, not the thunder of the tempest, not even the
anguished voices of her children, should ever arouse her again.
"She had no priest, after all," said Frances under her breath to Isoult,
the same evening.
Lady Ashley added very softly, "She said we should find her asleep, if
all went well. We found her asleep. Is it an omen that all did go
well?"
Isoult could make no answer.
Where Honor Plantagenet was buried, no record remains to tell us, unless
it be some early entry in a parish register of Cornwall or Devon. It
might be in the family burying-place of her own kindred, the Grenvilles
of Stow; or it might be with her first husband, Sir John Basset, at
Umberleigh. Only it may be asserted without fear of contradiction, that
it was not with the royal lord whom she had so bitterly lamented, and
whose coffin lay, with many another as illustrious as his own, in the
old Norman Chapel of the Tower. No stranger admixture can there be on
earth, than among those coffins crowding that Norman Chapel,--from
traitors of the blackest dye, up to saints and martyrs.
The first news which the Averys heard after their return home, was not
encouraging to that religious party to which they belonged. Bishop
Gardiner had been set free, and had gone back to his Palace at Farnham,
Mr James Basset accompanying him. This was an evil augury; for wherever
Gardiner was, there was mischief. But it soon appeared that Somerset
kept his eye upon the wolf, and on his first renewed attempt upon the
fold, he was quietly placed again in durance. Meanwhile the leaven of
reformation was working slowly and surely. On Candlemas Day there were
no candles in the Chapel Royal; no ashes on Ash Wednesday; no palms on
Palm Sunday. At Paul's Cross, after eight years' silence, the earnest
voice of Hugh Latimer was heard ringing: and to its sound flocked such a
concourse, that the space round the Cross could not hold them, and a
pulpit was set up in the King's garden at Westminster Palace, where four
times the number of those at the Cross might assemble. For eight years
there had been "a famine of the word of the Lord" in England, and now
men and women came hungering and ready to be fed. Perhaps, if we had
borne eight years' famine, we should not quite so readily cry out that
the provisions are too abundant. An outcry for short sermons has always
hitherto marked the spiritual decadence of a nation. "Behold, what a
weariness is it!" There is another inscription on the reverse side of
the seal. "I have no pleasure in you, saith the Lord of Hosts."
The English service began with the following Easter. Confession--not
yet abolished, yet so far relaxed as to be required of none who
preferred to omit it--was made in English, and the Lord's Supper was
also celebrated in English at the King's Chapel.
Isoult Avery began to think that she was to spend the year 1548 in
visiting. She had not been long back from Crowe, when a letter reached
her from her own home at Wynscote, inviting her to the wedding of her
brother Hugh with Mrs Alice Wikes, which was to take place on the
fourteenth of May. Jennifer Trevor shook her head in her most ominous
style at the date. But Hugh, though a sailor, was nevertheless not at
all superstitious, so far as concerned the point in question; and he had
already sturdily declined to change the date selected by Alice, though
half the gossips round Wynscote prophesied all manner of consequent
evil. For a maiden of the sixteenth century, Alice also was remarkably
free from the believing in omens and the observing of times: so Hugh and
she were married on the fourteenth of May, and Isoult Avery was never
able to discover that any harm had come of it.
On arrival at Wynscote, they found the house full and running over. Not
only the family who ordinarily occupied it were there--namely, Mrs
Barry, the widowed mother; Henry Barry, the head of the house, who was
by calling a gentleman farmer, and by inclination the gentleman without
the farmer; his wife Margaret, who would have made a better farmer than
himself; and his three exceedingly noisy and mischievous boys, by name
Michael, William, and Henry. But these, as I have said, were not by any
means all. There was the bridegroom Hugh, who grumbled good-humouredly
at being banished to Farmer Northcote's for the night, for there was no
room for him except in the day-time; there was Bessy Dennis, the eldest
sister, and John Dennis her husband, and William, Nicholas, Anne, and
Ellen, their children. No wonder that Isoult told her husband in
confidence that she did not expect to lose her headache till she reached
home. Will Barry was the incarnation of mischief, and Will Dennis, his
cousin and namesake, followed him like his shadow. The discipline which
ensued was of doubtful character, for Bessy's two notions on the subject
of rearing children were embodied in cakes or slaps, as they were
respectively deserved, or rather, as she thought they were: while Mr
Barry's ideas of education lay in very oracular exhortations, stuffed
with words of as many syllables as he had the good fortune to discover.
His wife's views were hardly better. Her interference consisted only in
the invariable repetition of a formula--"Come, now, be good lads, do!"--
which certainly did not err on the side of severity. But the
grandmother, if possible, made matters worse. She had brought up her
own children in abject terror and unanswering submission; and Nature, as
usual, revenged herself by causing her never to cross the wills of her
grandchildren on any consideration. Accordingly, when Will set fire to
the barn, let the pony into the bean-field, and the cows into Farmer
Northcote's meadow, Grandmother only observed quietly that "Boys will be
boys"--an assertion which certainly could not be contradicted--and went
on spinning as before.
The amazement of Isoult Avery--who had not previously visited home for
some time--was intense. Her childhood had been a scene of obedience,
both active and passive; a birch-rod had hung behind the front door, and
nobody had ever known Anne Barry hesitate to whip a child, if there were
the slightest chance that he or she deserved it: the "benefit of the
doubt" being commonly given on the side of the birch-rod. And now, to
see these boys--wild men of the woods as they were--rush unreproached up
to the inaccessible side of Grandmother, lay violent hands upon her
inviolable hood, kiss her as if they were thinking of eating her, and
never meet with any worse penalty than a fig-cake [the Devonshire name
for a plum-cake]--this was the source of endless astonishment and
reflection to Isoult. On the whole, she congratulated herself that she
had left Kate and Walter at Bradmond.
The bride was a stranger to Isoult. She talked to Bessy about her, and
found that lady rather looked down upon her. "She was all very well,
but--"
Ah, these unended _buts_! what mischief they make in this world of ours!
Then Isoult talked to Hugh, and found that if his description were to be
trusted, Alice Wikes would be no woman at all, but an angel from Heaven.
Bessy offered to take her sister to visit the bride, and Isoult
accepted the offer. Meanwhile, she sketched a mental portrait of Alice.
She would be short, and round-faced, and merry: the colour of her hair
and eyes Isoult discreetly left blank.
So, three days before the wedding, her future sisters-in-law called upon
the bride.
They found Alice's mother, Mrs Wikes, busy with her embroidery; and as
soon as she saw who her guests were, she desired Mrs Alice to be
summoned. After a little chat with Mrs Wikes upon things in general,
the door opened to admit a girl the exact opposite of Isoult's imaginary
picture. Alice proved tall, oval-faced, and grave.
The wedding was three days later, and on Sunday. Blue was the colour of
the bride's costume, and favel-colour--a bright yellowish-brown--that of
the bridesmaids. After the ceremony there was a banquet at Wynscote,
and dancing, and a Maypole, and a soaped pig, and barley-break--an old
athletic sport, to some extent resembling prisoner's base. Then came
supper, and the evening closed with hot cockles and blind-hoodman--the
latter being blindman's buff. And among all the company, to none but
John and Isoult Avery did it ever occur that in these occupations there
was the least incongruity with the Sabbath day. For they only were
Gospellers; and at that time the Gospellers alone remembered to keep it
holy. Rome strikes her pen through the third and fourth commandments,
if less notoriously, yet quite as really, as through the second.
The Averys returned home about the 20th of May. They had left all well,
and they found all well. And neither they nor any one else saw on the
horizon a little cloud like a man's hand, which was ere long to break in
a deluge of hail and fire upon Devonshire and Cornwall.
One evening in the beginning of June, when John Avery sat at the table
making professional notes from a legal folio before him, and Isoult, at
work beside him, was beginning to wonder why Barbara had not brought the
rear-supper, a knock came at the door. Then the latch was lifted, and
Mr Anthony Tremayne walked in.
"Heard you the news in Bodmin?" was the question which followed close
upon his greeting.
"No," answered John. "I have not been in Bodmin for nigh a week, nor
hath any thence been here."
"One Master Boddy, the King's Commissioner for Chantries," saith he,
"came hither o' Friday; and the folk be all up at Bodmin, saying they
will not have the chantries put down; and 'tis thought Father Giles is
ahead of them. I much fear a riot, for the people are greatly
aggrieved."
"I pray God avert the same, if His will is!" exclaimed Isoult.
This was the beginning of the first riots in Cornwall and Devon. There
were tumults elsewhere, but the religious riots were worst in these
parts. They began about the chantries, the people disliking the
visitation: and from that they went to clamouring for the re-enactment
of the Bloody Statute. On the 4th of June there were riots at Bodmin
and Truro; and Father Giles, then priest at Bodmin, and a "stout
Papist," helped them to the best of his ability. But on the 6th came
the King's troops to Bodmin, and took Father Giles and others of the
rioters, whom they sent to London to be tried; and about the 8th they
reached Truro, where Mr Boddy, the King's Commissioner for the
chantries, had been cruelly murdered five days before. For a little
while after this, all was quiet in Bodmin; but the end was not come yet.
Father Giles, the priest of Bodmin, was hanged at London on the 7th of
July for his share in the riots: and Government fondly imagined that the
difficulty was at an end. How fond that imagination was, the events of
the following year revealed.
Anthony Monke, the eldest child of Mr Monke and Lady Frances, was born
in the summer of 1548 [date unknown]. In June of that year, a civil
message from the Protector reached Bishop Gardiner at Farnham,
requesting him to preach at Court on the 29th, Saint Peter's Day,
following. This message perturbed Gardiner exceedingly. James Basset
found him walking up and down his chamber, his hands clasped behind him,
uttering incoherent words, indicative of apprehension; and this
continued for some hours. On the 28th the Bishop reached London; on the
29th he preached before the King; and on the 30th he was in the Tower.
Probably the wily prelate's conscience, never very clear, had already
whispered the cause before he quitted Farnham.
On the 8th of September, at Sudeley Castle, Gloucestershire, died the
Lutheran Queen, Katherine Parr. She had taken a false step, and had
lived to mourn it. Neglecting the command not to be unequally yoked
together with unbelievers, she had married Sir Thomas Seymour very
shortly after King Henry's death. It can be no lack of charity to call
a man an unbeliever, a practical Atheist at least, whose daily habit it
was to swear and walk out of the house when the summons was issued for
family prayers. Poor Katherine had all the piety on her own side, but
she had not to bear the penalty she had brought on herself long. She
left behind her a baby daughter, Mary Seymour, who was sent to the care
of the Duchess of Suffolk; for very soon after the Queen's death,
Seymour was arrested and committed to the Tower. He died on Tower Hill,
on the 20th of March following. That Seymour was a bad man there can be
no question; whether he really were a traitor is much more doubtful.
The Lutheran party accused his brother the Protector of having brought
about his death. It might be so; yet any evidence beyond probability
and declamation is lacking. "It was Somerset's interest to get rid of
his brother; therefore he is responsible for his death." This may be
assertion, but it surely is not argument.
Meanwhile in high places there was a leaven quietly working, unperceived
as yet, which was ere long to pervade the whole mass. The government of
Edward the Sixth had come into power under the colours of the Gospel.
The Protector himself was an uncompromising Gospeller; and though many
Lords of the Council were Lutherans, they followed at first in his wake.
There was one member of the Council who never did so.
Nearly fifty years before that day, Henry the Seventh, whose
"king-craft" was at least equal to that of James the First, had
compelled the young heiress of Lisle, Elizabeth Grey, to bestow her hand
upon his unworthy favourite, Edmund Dudley. It is doubtful whether she
was not even then affianced to Sir Arthur Plantagenet (afterwards Lord
Lisle), whose first wife she eventually became; but Henry Tudor would
have violated all the traditions of his house, had he hesitated to
degrade the estate, or grieve the heart, of a son of the House of York.
This ill-matched pair--the covetous Edmund and the gentle Elizabeth--
were the parents of four children: the first being John Dudley, who was
born in 1502. It is of him I am about to speak.
His countenance, from a physiognomist's point of view, might be held to
announce his character. The thick, obstinate lips, the cruel, cold blue
eyes, intimated with sufficient accuracy the disposition of the man.
Like all men who succeed, Dudley set before him one single aim. In his
case, it was to dethrone Somerset, and step into his place. He held,
too, in practice if not in theory, the diabolical idea, that the end
sanctifies the means. And to hold that view is to say, in another form,
"I will be like the Most High."
Such was John Dudley, and such the goal at which he aimed. And he just
touched it. His hand was already stretched forth, to grasp the
glittering thing which was in his eyes the crown imperial of his world,
and then God's hand fell on him out of Heaven, and "he was brought down
to Hell, to the sides of the pit."
We shall see how this man prospered, as the tale advances: how he said
in his heart, "There is no God." But to Isoult Avery it was a standing
marvel, how John Dudley could be the brother of Frances Monke. And the
distance between them was as wide as from Hell to Heaven; for it was the
distance between a soul sold to the devil, and a temple of the Holy
Ghost.
The first introduction of Kate Avery to the grave and decorous behaviour
required in church, was made on the third of February, 1549. Suffice it
to say, that Isoult was satisfied with the result of the experiment.
The new priest's name was Edmund Prideaux; and he was a Lutheran.
Coming home from church, John and Isoult fell in with the Tremaynes; and
were told by Mr Tremayne that all was now settled, and there was no fear
of any further riots.
Some weeks later, Robin and Arbel Tremayne again rode over to Bradmond
for four-hours. Arbel's favourite was Walter, but Robin was fonder of
Kate, who on her part was greatly attached to him. While they were
there Dr Thorpe came in. When Robin and Arbel were gone home, the old
man remarked in confidence to John Avery, that he did not by any means
share Mr Tremayne's opinion that all was settled at Bodmin. He thought
rather that the present tranquillity was like the crust of a volcano,
through which the fiery force might at any moment burst with little
warning.
That which finally broke the crust seemed at first a very little matter.
A proclamation came from the King, permitting land-owners to enclose
the waste lands around, within certain limitations. And the old
Socialist spirit which is inherent in man rose up in arms at this favour
granted to the "bloated aristocrats"--this outrage upon "the rights of
the people." For the three famous tailors of Tooley Street, who began
their memorial, "We, the people of England," had many an ancestor and
many a successor.
Mr Tremayne enclosed a piece of common behind his garden; John Avery
enclosed nothing. The storm that fell swept away not only the guilty,
but as is generally the case, the innocent suffered with them.