YORK HOUSE
“Then hath he servants five or six score,
Some behind and some before;
A marvellous great company
Of which are lords and gentlemen,
With many grooms and yeomen
And also knaves among them.”
_Contemporary Poem on Wolsey_.
Early were hammers ringing on anvils in the Dragon Court, and all was
activity. Master Headley was giving his orders to Kit Smallbones before
setting forth to take the Duke of Buckingham’s commands; Giles Headley,
very much disgusted, was being invested with a leathern apron, and
entrusted to Edmund Burgess to learn those primary arts of furbishing
which, but for his mother’s vanity and his father’s weakness, he would
have practised four years sooner. Tibble Steelman was superintending
the arrangement of half a dozen corslets, which were to be carried by
three stout porters, under his guidance, to what is now Whitehall, then
the residence of the Archbishop of York, the king’s prime adviser,
Thomas Wolsey.
“Look you, Tib,” said the kind-hearted armourer, “if those lads find
not their kinsman, or find him not what they look for, bring them back
hither, I cannot have them cast adrift. They are good and brave youths,
and I owe a life to them.”
Tibble nodded entire assent, but when the boys appeared in their
mourning suits, with their bundles on their backs, they were sent back
again to put on their forest green, Master Headley explaining that it
was reckoned ill-omened, if not insulting, to appear before any great
personage in black, unless to enhance some petition directly addressed
to himself. He also bade them leave their fardels behind, as, if they
tarried at York House, these could be easily sent after them.
They obeyed—even Stephen doing so with more alacrity than he had
hitherto shown to Master Headley’s behests; for now that the time for
departure had come, he was really sorry to leave the armourer’s
household. Edmund Burgess had been very good-natured to the raw country
lad, and Kit Smallbones was, in his eyes, an Ascapart in strength, and
a Bevis in prowess and kindliness. Mistress Headley too had been kind
to the orphan lads, and these two days had given a feeling of being at
home at the Dragon. When Giles wished them a moody farewell, and wished
he were going with them, Stephen returned, “Ah! you don’t know when you
are well off.”
Little Dennet came running down after them with two pinks in her hands.
“Here’s a sop-in-wine for a token for each of you young gentlemen,” she
cried, “for you came to help father, and I would you were going to stay
and wed me instead of Giles.”
“What, both of us, little maid?” said Ambrose, laughing, as he stooped
to receive the kiss her rosy lips tendered to him.
“Not but what she would have royal example,” muttered Tibble aside.
Dennet put her head on one side, as considering. “Nay, not both; but
you are gentle and courteous, and he is brave and gallant—and Giles
there is moody and glum, and can do nought.”
“Ah! you will see what a gallant fellow Giles can be when thou hast
cured him of his home-sickness by being good to him,” said Ambrose,
sorry for the youth in the universal laughter at the child’s plain
speaking.
And thus the lads left the Dragon, amid friendly farewells. Ambrose
looked up at the tall spire of St. Paul’s with a strong determination
that he would never put himself out of reach of such words as he had
there drunk in, and which were indeed spirit and life to him.
Tibble took them down to the St. Paul’s stairs on the river, where at
his whistle a wherry was instantly brought to transport them to York
stairs, only one of the smiths going any further in charge of the
corslets. Very lovely was their voyage in the brilliant summer morning,
as the glittering water reflected in broken ripples church spire,
convent garden, and stately house. Here rows of elm-trees made a cool
walk by the river side, there strawberry beds sloped down the Strand,
and now and then the hooded figures of nuns might be seen gathering the
fruit. There, rose the round church of the Temple, and the beautiful
gardens surrounding the buildings, half monastic, half military, and
already inhabited by lawyers. From a barge at the Temple stairs a legal
personage descended, with a square beard, and open, benevolent, shrewd
face, before whom Tibble removed his cap with eagerness, saying to
Ambrose, “Yonder is Master More, a close friend of the dean’s, a good
and wise man, and forward in every good work.”
Thus did they arrive at York House. Workmen were busy on some portions
of it, but it was inhabited by the great Archbishop, the king’s chief
adviser. The approach of the boat seemed to be instantly notified, as
it drew near the stone steps giving entrance to the gardens, with an
avenue of trees leading up to the principal entrance.
Four or five yeomen ran down the steps, calling out to Tibble that
their corslets had tarried a long time, and that Sir Thomas Drury had
been storming for him to get his tilting armour into order.
Tibble followed the man who had undertaken to conduct him through a
path that led to the offices of the great house, bidding the boys keep
with him, and asking for their uncle Master Harry Randall.
The yeoman shook his head. He knew no such person in the household, and
did not think there ever had been such. Sir Thomas Drury was found in
the stable court, trying the paces of the horse he intended to use in
the approaching joust. “Ha! old Wry-mouth,” he cried, “welcome at last!
I must have my new device damasked on my shield. Come hither, and I’ll
show it thee.”
Private rooms were seldom enjoyed, even by knights and gentlemen, in
such a household, and Sir Thomas could only conduct Tibble to the
armoury, where numerous suits of armour hung on blocks, presenting the
semblance of armed men. The knight, a good-looking personage,
expatiated much on the device he wished to dedicate to his lady-love, a
pierced heart with a forget-me-not in the midst, and it was not until
the directions were finished that Tibble ventured to mention the
inquiry for Randall.
“I wot of no such fellow,” returned Sir Thomas, “you had best go to the
comptroller, who keeps all the names.” Tibble had to go to this
functionary at any rate, to obtain an order for payment for the
corslets he had brought home. Ambrose and Stephen followed him across
an enormous hall, where three long tables were being laid for dinner.
The comptroller of the household, an esquire of good birth, with a
stiff little ruff round his neck, sat in a sort of office inclosed by
panels at the end of the hall. He made an entry of Tibble’s account in
a big book, and sent a message to the cofferer to bring the amount.
Then Tibble again put his question on behalf of the two young
foresters, and the comptroller shook his head. He did not know the
name. “Was the gentleman” (he chose that word as he looked at the boys)
“layman or clerk?” “Layman, certainly,” said Ambrose, somewhat dismayed
to find how little, on interrogation, he really knew.
“Was he a yeoman of the guard, or in attendance on one of my lord’s
nobles in waiting?”
“We thought he had been a yeoman,” said Ambrose.
“See,” said the comptroller, stimulated by a fee administered by
Tibble, “’tis just dinner time, and I must go to attend on my Lord
Archbishop; but do you, Tibble, sit down with these striplings to
dinner, and then I will cast my eye over the books, and see if I can
find any such name. What, hast not time? None ever quits my lord’s
without breaking his fast.”
Tibble had no doubt that his master would be willing that he should
give up his time for this purpose, so he accepted the invitation. The
tables were by this time nearly covered, but all stood waiting, for
there flowed in from the great doorway of the hall a gorgeous
train—first, a man bearing the double archiepiscopal cross of York,
fashioned in silver, and thick with gems—then, with lofty mitre
enriched with pearls and jewels, and with flowing violet lace-covered
robes came the sturdy square-faced ruddy prelate, who was then the
chief influence in England, and after him two glittering ranks of
priests in square caps and richly embroidered copes, all in accordant
colours. They were returning, as a yeoman told Tibble, from some great
ecclesiastical ceremony, and dinner would be served instantly.
“That for which Ralf Bowyer lives!” said a voice close by, “He would
fain that the dial’s hands were Marie bones, the face blancmange,
wherein the figures should be grapes of Corinth!”
Stephen looked round and saw a man close beside him in what he knew at
once to be the garb of a jester. A tall scarlet velvet cap, with three
peaks, bound with gold braid, and each surmounted with a little gilded
bell, crowned his head, a small crimson ridge to indicate the cock’s
comb running along the front. His jerkin and hose were of motley, the
left arm and right leg being blue, their opposites, orange tawny, while
the nether stocks and shoes were in like manner black and scarlet
counterchanged. And yet, somehow, whether from the way of wearing it,
or from the effect of the gold embroidery meandering over all, the
effect was not distressing, but more like that of a gorgeous bird. The
figure was tall, lithe, and active, the brown ruddy face had none of
the blank stare of vacant idiocy, but was full of twinkling merriment,
the black eyes laughed gaily, and perhaps only so clearsighted and
shrewd an observer as Tibble would have detected a weakness of purpose
about the mouth.
There was a roar of laughter at the gibe, as indeed there was at
whatever was uttered by the man whose profession was to make mirth.
“Thou likest thy food well enough thyself, quipsome one,” muttered
Ralf.
“Hast found one who doth not, Ralf? Then should he have a free gift of
my bauble,” responded the jester, shaking on high that badge,
surmounted with the golden head of an ass, and jingling with bells.
“How now, friend Wry-mouth? ’Tis long since thou wert here! This house
hath well-nigh been forced to its ghostly weapons for lack of thy
substantial ones. Where hast thou been?”
“At Salisbury, good Merryman.”
“Have the Wilts men raked the moon yet out of the pond? Did they lend
thee their rake, Tib, that thou hast raked up a couple of green Forest
palmer worms, or be they the sons of the man in the moon, raked out and
all astray?”
“Mayhap, for we met them with dog and bush,” said Tibble, “and they
dropped as from the moon to save my poor master from the robbers on
Bagshot heath! Come now, mine honest fellow, aid me to rake, as thou
sayest, this same household. They are come up from the Forest, to seek
out their uncle, one Randall, who they have heard to be in this meiné.
Knowest thou such a fellow?”
“To seek a spider in a stubble-field! Truly he needs my bauble who sent
them on such an errand,” said the jester, rather slowly, as if to take
time for consideration. “What’s your name, my Forest flies?”
“Birkenholt, sir,” answered Ambrose, “but our uncle is Harry Randall.”
“Here’s fools enow to take away mine office,” was the reply. “Here’s a
couple of lads would leave the greenwood and the free oaks and beeches,
for this stinking, plague-smitten London.”
“We’d not have quitted it could we have tarried at home,” began
Ambrose; but at that moment there was a sudden commotion, a trampling
of horses was heard outside, a loud imperious voice demanded, “Is my
Lord Archbishop within?” a whisper ran round, “the King,” and there
entered the hall with hasty steps, a figure never to be forgotten, clad
in a hunting dress of green velvet embroidered with gold, with a golden
hunting horn slung round his neck.
Henry VIII. was then in the splendid prime of his youth, in his
twenty-seventh year, and in the eyes, not only of his own subjects, but
of all others, the very type of a true king of men. Tall, and as yet of
perfect form for strength, agility, and grace; his features were of the
beautiful straight Plantagenet type, and his complexion of purely fair
rosiness, his large well-opened blue eyes full at once of frankness and
keenness, and the short golden beard that fringed his square chin
giving the manly air that otherwise might have seemed wanting to the
feminine tinting of his regular lineaments. All caps were instantly
doffed save the little bonnet with one drooping feather that covered
his short, curled, yellow hair; and the Earl of Derby, who was at the
head of Wolsey’s retainers, made haste, bowing to the ground, to assure
him that my Lord Archbishop was but doffing his robes, and would be
with his Grace instantly. Would his Grace vouchsafe to come on to the
privy chamber where the dinner was spread?
At the same moment Quipsome Hal sprang forward, exclaiming, “How now,
brother and namesake? Wherefore this coil? Hath cloth of gold wearied
yet of cloth of frieze? Is she willing to own her right to this?” as he
held out his bauble.
“Holla, old Blister! art thou there?” said the King, good-humouredly.
“What! knowest not that we are to have such a wedding as will be a
sight for sore eyes!”
“Sore! that’s well said, friend Hal. Thou art making progress in mine
art! Sore be the eyes wherein thou wouldst throw dust.”
Again the King laughed, for every one knew that his sister Mary had
secretly been married to the Duke of Suffolk for the last two months,
and that this public marriage and the tournament that was to follow
were only for the sake of appearances. He laid his hand good-naturedly
on the jester’s shoulder as he walked up the hall towards the
Archbishop’s private apartments, but the voices of both were loud
pitched, and bits of the further conversation could be picked up.
“Weddings are rife in your family,” said the jester, “none of you get
weary of fitting on the noose. What, thou thyself, Hal? Ay, thou hast
not caught the contagion yet! Now ye gods forefend! If thou hast the
chance, thou’lt have it strong.”
Therewith the Archbishop, in his purple robes, appeared in the archway
at the other end of the hall, the King joined him, and still followed
by the jester, they both vanished. It was presently made known that the
King was about to dine there, and that all were to sit down to eat. The
King dined alone with the Archbishop as his host; the two noblemen who
had formed his suite joined the first table in the higher hall; the
knights that of the steward of the household, who was of knightly
degree, and with whom the superior clergy of the household ate; and the
grooms found their places among the vast array of yeomen and
serving-men of all kinds with whom Tibble and his two young companions
had to eat. A week ago, Stephen would have contemned the idea of being
classed with serving-men and grooms, but by this time he was quite
bewildered, and anxious enough to be thankful to keep near a familiar
face on any terms, and to feel as if Tibble were an old friend, though
he had only known him for five days.
Why the King had come had not transpired, but there was a whisper that
despatches from Scotland were concerned in it. The meal was a lengthy
one, but at last the King’s horses were ordered, and presently Henry
came forth, with his arm familiarly linked in that of the Archbishop,
whose horse had likewise been made ready that he might accompany the
King back to Westminster. The jester was close at hand, and as a
parting shaft he observed, while the King mounted his horse, “Friend
Hal! give my brotherly commendations to our Madge, and tell her that
one who weds Anguish cannot choose but cry out.”
Wherewith, affecting to expect a stroke from the King’s whip, he
doubled himself up, performed the contortion now called turning a
coachwheel, then, recovering himself, put his hands on his hips and
danced wildly on the steps; while Henry, shaking his whip at him,
laughed at the only too obvious pun, for Anguish was the English
version of Angus, the title of Queen Margaret’s second husband, and it
was her complaints that had brought him to his counsellor.
The jester then, much to the annoyance of the two boys, thought proper
to follow them to the office of the comptroller, and as that dignitary
read out from his books the name of every Henry, and of all the
varieties of Ralf and Randolf among the hundred and eighty persons
composing the household, he kept on making comments. “Harry Hempseed,
clerk to the kitchen; ay, Hempseed will serve his turn one of these
days. Walter Randall, groom of the chamber; ah, ha! my lads, if you
want a generous uncle who will look after you well, there is your man!
He’ll give you the shakings of the napery for largesse, and when he is
in an open-handed mood, will let you lie on the rushes that have served
the hall. Harry of Lambeth, yeoman of the stable. He will make you free
of all the taverns in Eastchepe.”
And so on, accompanying each remark with a pantomime mimicry of the air
and gesture of the individual. He showed in a second the contortions of
Harry Weston in drawing the bow, and in another the grimaces of Henry
Hope, the choir man, in producing bass notes, or the swelling majesty
of Randall Porcher, the cross-bearer, till it really seemed as if he
had shown off the humours of at least a third of the enormous
household. Stephen had laughed at first, but as failure after failure
occurred, the antics began to weary even him, and seem unkind and
ridiculous as hope ebbed away, and the appalling idea began to grow on
him of being cast loose on London without a friend or protector.
Ambrose felt almost despairing as he heard in vain the last name. He
would almost have been willing to own Hal the scullion, and his hopes
rose when he heard of Hodge Randolph, the falconer, but alas, that same
Hodge came from Yorkshire.
“And mine uncle was from the New Forest in Hampshire,” he said.
“Maybe he went by the name of Shirley,” added Stephen, “’tis where his
home was.”
But the comptroller, unwilling to begin a fresh search, replied at once
that the only Shirley in the household was a noble esquire of the
Warwickshire family.
“You must e’en come back with me, young masters,” said Tibble, “and see
what my master can do for you.”
“Stay a bit,” said the fool. “Harry of Shirley! Harry of Shirley!
Methinks I could help you to the man, if so be as you will deem him
worth the finding,” he added, suddenly turning upside down, and looking
at them standing on the palms of his hands, with an indescribable leer
of drollery, which in a moment dashed all the hopes with which they had
turned to him. “Should you know this minks of yours?” he added.
“I think I should,” said Ambrose. “I remember best how he used to carry
me on his shoulder to cull mistletoe for Christmas.”
“Ah, ha! A proper fellow of his inches now, with yellow hair?”
“Nay,” said Ambrose, “I mind that his hair was black, and his eyes as
black as sloes—or as thine own, Master Jester.”
The jester tumbled over into a more extraordinary attitude than before,
while Stephen said—
“John was wont to twit us with being akin to Gipsy Hal.”
“I mean a man sad and grave as the monks of Beaulieu,” said the jester.
“He!” they both cried. “No, indeed! He was foremost in all sports.”
“Ah!” cried Stephen, “mind you not, Ambrose, his teaching us leap-frog,
and aye leaping over one of us himself, with the other in his arms?”
“Ah! sadly changed, sadly changed,” said the jester, standing upright,
with a most mournful countenance. “Maybe you’d not thank me if I showed
him to you, young sirs, that is, if he be the man.”
“Nay! is he in need, or distress?” cried the brothers.
“Poor Hal!” returned the fool, shaking his head with mournfulness in
his voice.
“Oh, take us to him, good—good jester,” cried Ambrose. “We are young
and strong. We will work for him.”
“What, a couple of lads like you, that have come to London seeking for
him to befriend you—deserving well my cap for that matter. Will ye be
guided to him, broken and soured—no more gamesome, but a sickly old
runagate?”
“Of course,” cried Ambrose. “He is our mother’s brother. We must care
for him.”
“Master Headley will give us work, mayhap,” said Stephen, turning to
Tibble. “I could clean the furnaces.”
“Ah, ha! I see fools’ caps must hang thick as beech masts in the
Forest,” cried the fool, but his voice was husky, and he turned
suddenly round with his back to them, then cut three or four
extraordinary capers, after which he observed—“Well, young gentlemen, I
will see the man I mean, and if he be the same, and be willing to own
you for his nephews, he will meet you in the Temple Gardens at six of
the clock this evening, close to the rose-bush with the flowers in my
livery—motley red and white.”
“But how shall we know him?”
“D’ye think a pair of green caterpillars like you can’t be
marked—unless indeed the gardener crushes you for blighting his roses.”
Wherewith the jester quitted the scene, walking on his hands, with his
legs in the air.
“Is he to be trusted?” asked Tibble of the comptroller.
“Assuredly,” was the answer; “none hath better wit than Quipsome Hal,
when he chooseth to be in earnest. In very deed, as I have heard Sir
Thomas More say, it needeth a wise man to be fool to my Lord of York.”