"But of all sad words by tongue or pen,
The saddest are these--`It might have been!'"
Though the majority of the nation were comparatively indifferent to the
religious changes that had been effected, there were certain political
occurrences which they viewed with less equanimity. One of these was
the vast number of Spaniards brought over by Philip. It was reckoned--
doubtless with some exaggeration--that in September, 1554, three
Spaniards might be seen in London to every Englishman. The rumour ran
that five thousand more were on the way. The nation was both vexed and
alarmed. Was England to be reduced, like the Netherlands, to the
condition of a mere outlying province of Spain?
Before eight weeks had run out from the day of Philip's arrival in
London, his hand upon the reins was plainly visible. He had been heard
to say that if he believed a member of his own body to be tainted with
heresy, he would amputate it immediately and without remorse. The
Gospellers were not left quite ignorant of what they might reasonably
expect.
It was on a quiet morning in October that Agnes was on her way to
Horsepool, when she was overtaken by Cicely Marvell, carrying a yoke of
water-pails like herself.
"Good morrow, Mistress Marvell!" said the former. "Dear heart! but you
look something troubled belike. Is any sick with you?"
Cicely and Agnes were quite aware that their religious sentiments were
alike. It is in the cloudy and dark day that those who fear the Lord
speak often one to another.
"Heavy news, my maid!" said Cicely in a low voice, and shaking her head.
"Yesternight sixty folk were arrest in London for reading of Lutheran
books."
"Poor folk, trow?"
"All manner, as I do hear."
Neither high nor low, in those days, were safe, if suspicion of heresy
were once roused against them. The higher class were the more likely to
be detected; yet there was a little more hesitation in bringing them to
the stake. But it was easy to see, then as now, that as a rule it was
the poor of this world whom God had chosen to be rich in faith. For
every rich man or titled lady who incurred bodily danger through
faithfulness to the truth, there were at least fifty of those whom the
world regards as "nobody."
There was a strange mixture of comedy and tragedy in the events of those
days. The miracle-play alternated with the pillory, and the sight-seers
went from the burning of a heretic in the morning to see the new
athletic games, introduced by the Spaniards, in the afternoon in Palace
Yard. A grand tournament at Court preceded, and a bear-baiting
followed, the humiliating spectacle of the Parliament of England
kneeling at the feet of Cardinal Pole, and abjectly craving absolution
from Rome. One man--Sir Ralph Bagenall--stood out, and stood up, when
all his co-senators were thus prostrate in the dust. He was religiously
a Gallio, not a Gospeller; but he was politically a sturdy Englishman,
and no coward. Strange to say, no harm came to him. Nay, is it
strange, when we read, "Them that honour Me, I will honour," and
"Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake and the Gospel's, the same
shall save it?"
There were no longer any sermons preached at the Cross that a Gospeller
cared to hear. One was forthcoming regularly every Sunday; but the
preachers were Pendleton the renegade, Feckenham the suave, or Gardiner
the man of blood. The uneasy feeling of a section at least of the
populace was shown by frays at Charing Cross, incipient insurrections in
Suffolk, assaults on priests at the altar, and unaccountable
iconoclasms. The image of Becket was twice found broken by mysterious
means; and a cat, tonsured, and arrayed in miniature vestments, was
discovered hanging on the gallows in Cheapside, while the offer of a
large reward failed to reveal the offender.
During this time, Mistress Winter's piety had been blooming in a
wonderful manner. She kept Saint Thomas of Canterbury on a small table,
with a lamp burning before it, and every morning diligently courtesied
to this stock and stone. When her hands were not otherwise busied, a
rosary was pretty sure to be found in them, on which she recounted
Paters and Aves with amazing celerity. The bitterness of her tongue
kept pace with her show of religiousness. Ugly adjectives, and uglier
substantives, were flung at Agnes all the day long, and whether she
deserved reproof or not appeared to make no difference. But though
words and even blows were not spared, Mistress Winter went no further.
Agnes was much too useful to be denounced as a heretic, at least so long
as she remained at her post in Cow Lane. She did all the unpleasant
work in the house, besides filling the convenient offices of a vent for
Joan's temper, and a butt for Dorothy's ridicule. But though getting
rid of her was not to be thought of, words were cheap, however peppery,
and a box on the ear was a great relief to the feelings of the giver--
those of the recipient not being taken into account. So Agnes got
plenty of both.
"Sweet-heart, how earnest by yonder black eye?" anxiously demanded John
Laurence, on the last Sunday afternoon in January, when Agnes and he
were coming back from their favourite stroll towards Clerkenwell.
"'Tis nought new, belike," said she with a smile.
"Please God," returned he, "it shall be ancient matter and by-gone, very
soon."
He stood still a moment, looking over the crowded chimneys of the City,
just beyond the green field through which they were walking.
"Doth the thought e'er come to thy mind, Agnes," asked he, "how soon all
things shall be bygones? At the most afore many years,--yea, afore many
days, it may be,--thou and I shall be away hence from this world. And
even this great city, that doth look thus firm and substantial, ere long
shall not be left thereof one trace. Yea, heaven and earth shall pass
away: but Christ's words shall not pass away."
Agnes listened with interest, but gave no answer beyond a gesture of
assent.
"I have fallen to think much of late," said the Black Friar, "of one
word of His,--assuredly not to pass away, nor be forgotten--`Whosoever
shall deny Me before men, him will I also deny before My Father which is
in Heaven.' Verily, it were awful matter, to draw down on a man's head
this public denying of Jesu Christ."
"Dear heart!" said Agnes, at once sympathetically and deprecatingly.
"Ah!" he replied, with a sigh of self-distrust: "hope is one matter, and
belief another."
"Dost fear some ill work, trow?" she asked doubtfully.
John Laurence did not answer at once. He spoke after a minute,
dreamily, as if to himself; a habit to which Agnes was now quite
accustomed.
"`Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more
that they can do. But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear Him,
which after that He hath killed hath power to cast into Hell.'"
The Friar walked on for a few seconds with his usual rapidity, and then
suddenly stopped again.
"Men think lightly of these things, dear heart," said he. "Most men
have a far greater care lest they break a limb, or lose an handful of
gold, than lest they be cast into Hell. Yet see thou how Christ took
the same. And He knew,--as we cannot know,--what is Hell."
"The good Lord keep us!" ejaculated Agnes fervently.
"Amen!" responded the Black Friar. "`He shall keep the feet of His
saints.' It is not we that keep ourselves. 'Tis not we that hold Him,
no more than the babe holdeth himself in his mother's arms. And the
mother were more like to leave the babe fall into the fire or the water,
than He to loose hold upon His trustful child."
He was trying to prepare her for what might come. But she was not
prepared.
Cold though it was, they had a pleasant walk that afternoon. The time
of release was drawing so near, that Agnes felt almost as bright and
glad as if it were already come. At Cow Cross, her betrothed bade her
farewell, saying with his grave smile that he would not come further,
lest it should cost her an extra taunt from Mistress Dorothy.
Agnes was quite satisfied to be saved the small torment in question.
She did not realise how soon the time might come when it would seem to
her a lighter thing to endure Dorothy's ridicule for a calendar year,
than to miss one glimpse of that face.
We recognise such facts as these--when they come.
The next day passed over uneventfully. The Tuesday morning rose,
bright, clear, and frosty. Agnes was in spirits perfectly marvellous,
considering what she had to endure. She was making melody in her heart
as she carried her pails to the pump, thinking gladly how short her time
of trial was growing, and how bright her future would be. It mattered
nothing to her that she would have to work as hard as ever; nothing,
that she must live in a single room of a crowded street in the heart of
the City; nothing, that John Laurence was a worn, gaunt man of more than
twice her years, and utterly unattractive in the eyes of the world;
nothing, that the day was bitterly cold, and her thin bed-gown a very
insufficient protection. Everything was rose-colour to her. Had she
not Christ in Heaven, and one honest heart that loved her upon earth?
When Agnes came in sight of the pump, she perceived a little child
sitting crouched upon the step of the trough, and evidently crying. Her
heart was not hard to touch, and setting down her pails she laid her
hand on the boy's shoulder. He had been too much absorbed in his grief
to notice her approach, but when she spoke he looked up, showing the now
tear-stained face of little Will Flint.
"Why, Will, my little lad!--what matter now?"
Will burst into a fresh paroxysm without answering.
"Metrusteth thou hast not been an ill lad?"
Will shook his curly head.
"Nay, what then? Is Mother sick?"
Another shake.
"Come, tell me what it is. Mayhap we shall find some remedy."
"O Mistress Agnes!" came with a multitude of sobs.
"Nay, then, tell me now!" pleaded Agnes.
"O Mistress Agnes, they have ta'en him!"
"Ta'en whom, my lad? Sure, thy little brother Dickon is not stole
away?"
"No!" sobbed Will. "But, O Mistress!--they've ta'en him to yon ugly
prison, afore those wicked folk, and they call him an here--heretic, and
they say he'll ne'er come out again--nay, never!"
This was manifestly something serious.
"But ta'en whom, Will, dear?--not thy father?"
"Oh nay, nay!--the Black Friar."
"What Black Friar, Will?" Agnes hardly knew her own voice.
"Why, our Black Friar--Father Laurence. There was only one."
For a minute there was dead silence in reply--a minute, during which the
rose-colour died out of sky and earth, and the glad music was changed to
funeral bells. Then Agnes rose from her stooping position.
"There was only one!" she repeated, with a far-away look in her eyes,
which were fixed on the tower of the Cathedral, but saw nothing.
"He was so good to me and Dickon!" sobbed Will.
"Child, wilt do thy best to find out whither they have ta'en him, and
when he is to be had afore the Bishops, and then come and tell me?"
Will, occupied in rubbing his eyes with his small sleeve, nodded assent.
Agnes filled her pails mechanically, and carried them home. The world
must go on, if the sun would never rise any more for her.
Early the next morning Will brought her news that the six prisoners, of
whom John Laurence was one, had been taken to the Counter, and that on
the eighth of February they were to appear before Bishop Gardiner at
Winchester Palace, Southwark. Knowing that Mistress Winter would soon
hear of the arrest, if she had not already done so, Agnes made no
attempt to conceal the news. She told it herself, and requested
permission to go and hear the examination.
"What, on a brewing-day!" cried Mistress Winter. "Good sooth, nay!
They be right sure to be put by to another day. If that be not brewing,
nor baking, nor cleaning, nor washing-day, may be thou canst be let go
for an half-hour then."
"Prithee, Mistress Sacramentary, don thy velvet gown!" spitefully added
Dorothy.
The hall of the Bishop's Palace was crowded that morning. The six
prisoners were led out in order, according to their social rank:--first,
William Hunter, the apprentice-boy of Brentford, only sixteen years of
age; then Thomas Tomkins, the weaver; Stephen Knight, the barber of
Maldon; William Pygot, the butcher of Braintree; John Laurence, the
Black Friar; lastly, Thomas Hawkes, the only one in the group who wrote
himself "gentleman." They were such common, contemptible people, that
Gardiner thought them beneath his august notice, and scornfully referred
them to Bonner's jurisdiction. They were marched at once to the
Consistory sitting in Saint Paul's Chapter-House, whither the crowd
followed.