A LONDON HOLIDAY
“Up then spoke the apprentices tall
Living in London, one and all.”
_Old Ballad_.
Another of the many holidays of the Londoners was enjoyed on the
occasion of the installation of Thomas Wolsey as Cardinal of St.
Cecilia, and Papal Legate.
A whole assembly of prelates and “lusty gallant gentlemen” rode out to
Blackheath to meet the Roman envoy, who, robed in full splendour, with
St. Peter’s keys embroidered on back and breast and on the housings of
his mule, appeared at the head of a gallant train in the papal
liveries, two of whom carried the gilded pillars, the insignia of
office, and two more, a scarlet and gold-covered box or casket
containing the Cardinal’s hat. Probably no such reception of the
dignity was ever prepared elsewhere, and all was calculated to give
magnificent ideas of the office of Cardinal and of the power of the
Pope to those who had not been let into the secret that the messenger
had been met at Dover; and thus magnificently fitted out to satisfy the
requirements of the butcher’s son of Ipswich, and of one of the most
ostentatious of courts.
Old Gaffer Martin Fulford had muttered in his bed that such pomp had
not been the way in the time of the true old royal blood, and that
display had come in with the upstart slips of the Red Rose—as he still
chose to style the Tudors; and he maundered away about the beauty and
affability of Edward IV. till nobody could understand him, and Perronel
only threw in her “ay, grandad,” or “yea, gaffer,” when she thought it
was expected of her.
Ambrose had an unfailing appetite for the sermons of Dean Colet, who
was to preach on this occasion in Westminster Abbey, and his uncle had
given him counsel how to obtain standing ground there, entering before
the procession. He was alone, his friends Tibble and Lucas both had
that part of the Lollard temper which loathed the pride and wealth of
the great political clergy, and in spite of their admiration for the
Dean they could not quite forgive his taking part in the pomp of such a
rare show.
But Ambrose’s devotion to the Dean, to say nothing of youthful
curiosity, outweighed all those scruples, and as he listened, he was
carried along by the curious sermon in which the preacher likened the
orders of the hierarchy below to that of the nine orders of the Angels,
making the rank of Cardinal correspond to that of the Seraphim, aglow
with love. Of that holy flame, the scarlet robes were the type to the
spiritualised mind of Colet, while others saw in them only the relic of
the imperial purple of old Rome; and some beheld them as the token that
Wolsey was one step nearer the supreme height that he coveted so
earnestly. But the great and successful man found himself personally
addressed, bidden not to be puffed up with his own greatness, and
stringently reminded of the highest Example of humility, shown that he
that exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself be
exalted. The preacher concluded with a strong personal exhortation to
do righteousness and justice alike to rich and poor, joined with truth
and mercy, setting God always before him.
The sermon ended, Wolsey knelt at the altar, and Archbishop Wareham,
who, like his immediate predecessors, held legatine authority,
performed the act of investiture, placing the scarlet hat with its many
hoops and tassels on his brother primate’s head, after which a
magnificent _Te Deum_ rang through the beautiful church, and the
procession of prelates, peers, and ecclesiastics of all ranks in their
richest array formed to escort the new Cardinal to banquet at his
palace with the King and Queen.
Ambrose, stationed by a column, let the throng rush, tumble, and jostle
one another to behold the show, till the Abbey was nearly empty, while
he tried to work out the perplexing question whether all this pomp and
splendour were truly for the glory of God, or whether it were a
delusion for the temptation of men’s souls. It was a debate on which
his old and his new guides seemed to him at issue, and he was drawn in
both directions—now by the beauty, order, and deep symbolism of the
Catholic ritual, now by the spirituality and earnestness of the men
among whom he lived. At one moment the worldly pomp, the mechanical and
irreverent worship, and the gross and vicious habits of many of the
clergy repelled him; at another the reverence and conservatism of his
nature held him fast.
Presently he felt a hand on his shoulder, and started, “Lost in a stud,
as we say at home, boy,” said the jester, resplendent in a bran new
motley suit. “Wilt come in to the banquet? ’Tis open house, and I can
find thee a seat without disclosing the kinship that sits so sore on
thy brother. Where is he?”
“I have not seen him this day.”
“That did I,” returned Randall, “as I rode by on mine ass. He was
ruffling it so lustily that I could not but give him a wink, the which
my gentleman could by no means stomach! Poor lad! Yet there be times,
Ambrose, when I feel in sooth that mine office is the only honourable
one, since who besides can speak truth? I love my lord; he is a kind,
open-handed master, and there’s none I would so willingly serve,
whether by jest or earnest, but what is he but that which I oft call
him in joke—the greater fool than I, selling peace and ease, truth and
hope, this life and the next, for yonder scarlet hat, which is after
all of no more worth than this jingling head-gear of mine.”
“Deafening the spiritual ears far more, it may be,” said Ambrose,
“since _humiles exallaverint_.”
It was no small shock that there, in the midst of the nave, the answer
was a bound, like a ball, almost as high as the capital of the column
by which they stood. “There’s exaltation!” said Randall in a low voice,
and Ambrose perceived that some strangers were in sight. “Come, seek
thy brother out, boy, and bring him to the banquet. I’ll speak a word
to Peter Porter, and he’ll let you in. There’ll be plenty of fooling
all the afternoon, before my namesake King Hal, who can afford to be an
honester man in his fooling than any about him, and whose laugh at a
hearty jest is goodly to hear.”
Ambrose thanked him and undertook the quest. They parted at the great
west door of the Abbey, where, by way of vindicating his own character
for buffoonery, Randall exclaimed, “Where be mine ass?” and not seeing
the animal, immediately declared, “There he is!” and at the same time
sprang upon the back and shoulders of a gaping and astonished clown who
was gazing at the rear of the procession.
The crowd applauded with shouts of coarse laughter, but a man, who
seemed to belong to the victim, broke in with an angry oath, and “How
now, sir?”
“I cry you mercy,” quoth the jester; “’twas mine own ass I sought, and
if I have fallen on thine, I will but ride him to York House and then
restore him. So ho! good jackass,” crossing his ankles on the poor
fellow’s chest so that he could not be shaken off.
The comrade lifted a cudgel, but there was a general cry of “My Lord
Cardinal’s jester, lay not a finger on him!”
But Harry Randall was not one to brook immunity on the score of his
master’s greatness. In another second he was on his feet, had wrested
the staff from the hands of his astounded beast of burden, flourished
it round his head after the most approved manner of Shirley champions
at Lyndhurst fair, and called to his adversary to “come on.”
It did not take many rounds before Hal’s dexterity had floored his
adversary, and the shouts of “Well struck, merry fool!” “Well played,
Quipsome Hal!” were rising high when the Abbot of Westminster’s yeomen
were seen making way through the throng, which fell back in terror on
either side as they came to seize on the brawlers in their sacred
precincts.
But here again my Lord Cardinal’s fool was a privileged person, and no
one laid a hand on him, though his blood being up, he would, spite of
his gay attire, have enjoyed a fight on equal terms. His quadruped
donkey was brought up to him amid general applause, but when he looked
round for Ambrose, the boy had disappeared.
The better and finer the nature that displayed itself in Randall, the
more painful was the sight of his buffooneries to his nephew, and at
the first leap, Ambrose had hurried away in confusion. He sought his
brother here, there, everywhere, and at last came to the conclusion
that Stephen must have gone home to dinner. He walked quickly across
the fields separating Westminster from the City of London, hoping to
reach Cheapside before the lads of the Dragon should have gone out
again; but just as he was near St. Paul’s, coming round Amen Corner, he
heard the sounds of a fray. “Have at the country lubbers! Away with the
moonrakers! Flat-caps, come on!” “Hey! lads of the Eagle! Down with the
Dragons! Adders Snakes—s-s s-s-s!”
There was a kicking, struggling mass of blue backs and yellow legs
before him, from out of which came “Yah! Down with the Eagles! Cowards!
Kites! Cockneys!” There were plenty of boys, men, women with children
in their arms hallooing on, “Well done, Eagle!” “Go it, Dragon!”
The word Dragon filled the quiet Ambrose with hot impulse to defend his
brother. All his gentle, scholarly habits gave way before that cry, and
a shout that he took to be Stephen’s voice in the midst of the _mêlée_.
He was fairly carried out of himself, and doubling his fists, fell on
the back of the nearest boys, intending to break through to his
brother, and he found an unexpected ally. Will Wherry’s voice called
out, “Have with you, comrade!”—and a pair of hands and arms
considerably stouter and more used to fighting than his own, began to
pommel right and left with such good will that they soon broke through
to the aid of their friends; and not before it was time, for Stephen,
Giles, and Edmund, with their backs against the wall, were defending
themselves with all their might against tremendous odds; and just as
the new allies reached them, a sharp stone struck Giles in the eye, and
levelled him with the ground, his head striking against the wall.
Whether it were from alarm at his fall, or at the unexpected attack in
the rear, or probably from both causes, the assailants dispersed in all
directions without waiting to perceive how slender the succouring force
really was.
Edmund and Stephen were raising up the unlucky Giles, who lay quite
insensible, with blood pouring from his eye. Ambrose tried to wipe it
away, and there were anxious doubts whether the eye itself were safe.
They were some way from home, and Giles was the biggest and heaviest of
them all.
“Would that Kit Smallbones were here!” said Stephen, preparing to take
the feet, while Edmund took the shoulders.
“Look here,” said Will Wherry, pulling Ambrose’s sleeve, “our yard is
much nearer, and the old Moor, Master Michael, is safe to know what to
do for him. That sort of cattle always are leeches. He wiled the pain
from my thumb when ’twas crushed in our printing press. Mayhap if he
put some salve to him, he might get home on his own feet.”
Edmund listened. “There’s reason in that,” he said. “Dost know this
leech, Ambrose?”
“I know him well. He is a good old man, and wondrous wise. Nay, no
black arts; but he saith his folk had great skill in herbs and the
like, and though he be no physician by trade, he hath much of their
lore.”
“Have with thee, then,” returned Edmund, “the rather that Giles is no
small weight, and the guard might come on us ere we reached the
Dragon.”
“Or those cowardly rogues of the Eagle might set on us again,” added
Stephen; and as they went on their way to Warwick Inner Yard, he
explained that the cause of the encounter had been that Giles had
thought fit to prank himself in his father’s silver chain, and thus
George Bates, always owing the Dragon a grudge, and rendered specially
malicious since the encounter on Holy Rood Day, had raised the cry
against him, and caused all the flat-caps around to make a rush at the
gaud as lawful prey.
“’Tis clean against prentice statutes to wear one, is it not?” asked
Ambrose.
“Ay,” returned Stephen; “yet none of us but would stand up for our own
comrade against those meddling fellows of the Eagle.”
“But,” added Edmund, “we must beware the guard, for if they looked into
the cause of the fray, our master might be called on to give Giles a
whipping in the Company’s hall, this being a second offence of going
abroad in these vanities.”
Ambrose went on before to prepare Miguel Abenali, and entreat his good
offices, explaining that the youth’s master, who was also his kinsman,
would be sure to give handsome payment for any good offices to him. He
scarcely got out half the words; the grand old Arab waved his hand and
said, “When the wounded is laid before the tent of Ben Ali, where is
the question of recompense? Peace be with thee, my son! Bring him
hither. Aldonza, lay the carpet yonder, and the cushions beneath the
window, where I may have light to look to his hurt.”
Therewith he murmured a few words in an unknown tongue, which, as
Ambrose understood, were an invocation to the God of Abraham to bless
his endeavours to heal the stranger youth, but which happily were
spoken before the arrival of the others, who would certainly have
believed them an incantation.
The carpet though worn threadbare, was a beautiful old Moorish rug,
once glowing with brilliancy, and still rich in colouring, and the
cushion was of thick damask faded to a strange pale green. All in that
double-stalled partition, once belonging to the great earl’s
war-horses, was scrupulously clean, for the Christian Moor had retained
some of the peculiar virtues born of Mohammedanism and of high
civilisation. The apprentice lads tramped in much as if they had been
entering a wizard’s cave, though Stephen had taken care to assure
Edmund of his application of the test of holy water.
Following the old man’s directions, Edmund and Stephen deposited their
burden on the rug. Aldonza brought some warm water, and Abenali washed
and examined the wound, Aldonza standing by and handing him whatever he
needed, now and then assisting with her slender brown hands in a manner
astonishing to the youths, who stood by anxious and helpless, while
their companion began to show signs of returning life.
Abenali pronounced that the stone had missed the eyeball, but the cut
and bruise were such as to require constant bathing, and the blow on
the head was the more serious matter, for when the patient tried to
raise himself he instantly became sick and giddy, so that it would be
wise to leave him where he was. This was much against the will of
Edmund Burgess, who shared all the prejudices of the English prentice
against the foreigner—perhaps a wizard and rival in trade; but there
was no help for it, and he could only insist that Stephen should mount
guard over the bed until he had reported to his master, and returned
with his orders. Therewith he departed, with such elaborate thanks and
courtesies to the host, as betrayed a little alarm in the tall
apprentice, who feared not quarter-staff, nor wrestler, and had even
dauntlessly confronted the masters of his guild!
Stephen, sooth to say, was not very much at ease; everything around had
such a strange un-English aspect, and he imploringly muttered, “Bide
with me, Am!” to which his brother willingly assented, being quite as
comfortable in Master Michael’s abode as by his aunt’s own hearth.
Giles meanwhile lay quiet, and then, as his senses became less
confused, and he could open one eye, he looked dreamily about him, and
presently began to demand where he was, and what had befallen him,
grasping at the hand of Ambrose as if to hold fast by something
familiar; but he still seemed too much dazed to enter into the
explanation, and presently murmured something about thirst. Aldonza
came softly up with a cup of something cool. He looked very hard at
her, and when Ambrose would have taken it from her hand to give it to
him, he said, “Nay! _She_!”
And _she_, with a sweet smile in her soft, dark, shady eyes, and on her
full lips, held the cup to his lips far more daintily and dexterously
than either of his boy companions could have done; then when he moaned
and said his head and eye pained him, the white-bearded elder came and
bathed his brow with the soft sponge. It seemed all to pass before him
like a dream, and it was not much otherwise with his unhurt companions,
especially Stephen, who followed with wonder the movements made by the
slippered feet of father and daughter upon the mats which covered the
stone flooring of the old stable. The mats were only of English rushes
and flags, and had been woven by Abenali and the child; but loose
rushes strewing the floor were accounted a luxury in the Forest, and
even at the Dragon court the upper end of the hall alone had any
covering. Then the water was heated, and all such other operations
carried on over a curious round vessel placed over charcoal; the window
and the door had dark heavy curtains; and a matted partition cut off
the further stall, no doubt to serve as Aldonza’s chamber. Stephen
looked about for something to assure him that the place belonged to no
wizard enchanter, and was glad to detect a large white cross on the
wall, with a holy-water stoup beneath it, but of images there were
none.
It seemed to him a long time before Master Headley’s ruddy face, full
of anxiety, appeared at the door.
Blows were, of course, no uncommon matter; perhaps so long as no
permanent injury was inflicted, the master-armourer had no objection to
anything that might knock the folly out of his troublesome young
inmate; but Edmund had made him uneasy for the youth’s eye, and still
more so about the quarters he was in, and he had brought a mattress and
a couple of men to carry the patient home, as well as Steelman, his
prime minister, to advise him.
He had left all these outside, however, and advanced, civilly and
condescendingly thanking the sword-cutler, in perfect ignorance that
the man who stood before him had been born to a home that was an
absolute palace compared with the Dragon court. The two men were a
curious contrast. There stood the Englishman with his sturdy form
inclining, with age, to corpulence, his broad honest face telling of
many a civic banquet, and his short stubbly brown grizzled beard; his
whole air giving a sense of worshipful authority and weight; and
opposite to him the sparely made, dark, thin, aquiline-faced,
white-bearded Moor, a far smaller man in stature, yet with a
patriarchal dignity, refinement, and grace in port and countenance,
belonging as it were to another sphere.
Speaking English perfectly, though with a foreign accent, Abenali
informed Master Headley that his young kinsman would by Heaven’s
blessing soon recover without injury to the eye, though perhaps a scar
might remain.
Mr. Headley thanked him heartily for his care, and said that he had
brought men to carry the youth home, if he could not walk; and then he
went up to the couch with a hearty “How now, Giles? So thou hast had
hard measure to knock the foolery out of thee, my poor lad. But come,
we’ll have thee home, and my mother will see to thee.”
“I cannot walk,” said Giles, heavily, hardly raising his eyes, and when
he was told that two of the men waited to bear him home, he only
entreated to be let alone. Somewhat sharply, Mr. Headley ordered him to
sit up and make ready, but when he tried to do so, he sank back with a
return of sickness and dizziness.
Abenali thereupon intreated that he might be left for that night, and
stepping out into the court so as to be unheard by the patient,
explained that the brain had had a shock, and that perfect quiet for
some hours to come was the only way to avert a serious illness,
possibly dangerous. Master Headley did not like the alternative at all,
and was a good deal perplexed. He beckoned to Tibble Steelman, who had
all this time been talking to Lucas Hansen, and now came up prepared
with his testimony that this Michael was a good man and true, a godly
one to boot, who had been wealthy in his own land and was a rare
artificer in his own craft.
“Though he hath no license to practise it here,” threw in Master
Headley, _sotto voce_; but he accepted the assurance that Michael was a
good Christian, and, with his daughter, regularly went to mass; and
since better might not be, he reluctantly consented to leave Giles
under his treatment, on Lucas reiterating the assurance that he need
have no fears of magic or foul play of any sort. He then took the purse
that hung at his girdle, and declared that Master Michael (the title of
courtesy was wrung from him by the stately appearance of the old man)
must be at no charges for his cousin.
But Abenali with a grace that removed all air of offence from his
manner, returned thanks for the intention, but declared that it never
was the custom of the sons of Ali to receive reward for the hospitality
they exercised to the stranger within their gates. And so it was that
Master Headley, a good deal puzzled, had to leave his apprentice under
the roof of the old sword-cutler for the night at least.
“’Tis passing strange,” said he, as he walked back; “I know not what my
mother will say, but I wish all may be right. I feel—I feel as if I had
left the lad Giles with Abraham under the oak tree, as we saw him in
the miracle play!”
This description did not satisfy Mrs. Headley, indeed she feared that
her son was likewise bewitched; and when, the next morning, Stephen,
who had been sent to inquire for the patient, reported him better, but
still unable to be moved, since he could not lift his head without
sickness, she became very anxious. Giles was transformed in her
estimate from a cross-grained slip to poor Robin Headley’s boy, the
only son of a widow, and nothing would content her but to make her son
conduct her to Warwick Inner Yard to inspect matters, and carry thither
a precious relic warranted proof against all sorcery.
It was with great trepidation that the good old dame ventured, but the
result was that she was fairly subdued by Abenali’s patriarchal
dignity. She had never seen any manners to equal his, not _even_ when
King Edward the Fourth had come to her father’s house at the Barbican,
chucked her under the chin, and called her a dainty duck!
It was Aldonza, however, who specially touched her feelings. Such a
sweet little wench, with the air of being bred in a kingly or knightly
court, to be living there close to the very dregs of the city was a
scandal and a danger—speaking so prettily too, and knowing how to treat
her elders. She would be a good example for Dennet, who, sooth to say,
was getting too old for spoilt-child sauciness to be always pleasing,
while as to Giles, he could not be in better quarters. Mrs. Headley,
well used to the dressing of the burns and bruises incurred in the
weapon smiths’ business, could not but confess that his eye had been
dealt with as skilfully as she could have done it herself.