ILL MAY DAY
“With two and two together tied,
Through Temple Bar and Strand they go,
To Westminster, there to be tried,
With ropes about their necks also.”
_Ill May Day_.
And where was Stephen? Crouching, wretched with hunger, cold,
weariness, blows, and what was far worse, sense of humiliation and
disgrace, and terror for the future, in a corner of the yard of
Newgate—whither the whole set of lads, surprised in Warwick Inner Court
by the law students of the Inns of Court, had been driven like so many
cattle, at the sword’s point, with no attention or perception that he
and Giles had been struggling _against_ the spoilers.
Yet this fact made them all the more forlorn. The others, some forty in
number, their companions in misfortune, included most of the Barbican
prentices, who were of the Eagle faction, special enemies alike to
Abenali and to the Dragon, and these held aloof from Headley and
Birkenholt, nay, reviled them for the attack which they declared had
caused the general capture.
The two lads of the Dragon had, in no measured terms, denounced the
cruelty to the poor old inoffensive man, and were denounced in their
turn as friends of the sorcerer. But all were too much exhausted by the
night’s work to have spirit for more than a snarling encounter of
words, and the only effect was that Giles and Stephen were left
isolated in their misery outside the shelter of the handsome arched
gateway under which the others congregated.
Newgate had been rebuilt by Whittington out of pity to poor prisoners
and captives. It must have been unspeakably dreadful before, for the
foulness of the narrow paved court, shut in by strong walls, was
something terrible. Tired, spent, and aching all over, and with boyish
callousness to dirt, still Giles and Stephen hesitated to sit down, and
when at last they could stand no longer, they rested, leaning against
one another. Stephen tried to keep up hope by declaring that his master
would soon get them released, and Giles alternated between despair, and
declarations that he would have justice on those who so treated his
father’s son. They dropped asleep—first one and then the other—from
sheer exhaustion, waking from time to time to realise that it was no
dream, and to feel all the colder and more camped.
By and by there were voices at the gate. Friends were there asking
after their own Will, or John, or Thomas, as the case might be. The
jailer opened a little wicket-window in the heavy door, and, no doubt
for a consideration, passed in food to certain lads whom he called out,
but it did not always reach its destination. It was often torn away as
by hungry wolves. For though the felons had been let out, when the
doors were opened; the new prisoners were not by any means all
apprentices. There were watermen, husbandmen, beggars, thieves, among
them, attracted by the scent of plunder; and even some of the elder
lads had no scruple in snatching the morsel from the younger ones.
Poor little Jasper Hope, a mischievous little curly-headed idle fellow,
only thirteen, just apprenticed to his brother the draper, and rushing
about with the other youths in the pride of his flat cap, was one of
the sufferers. A servant had been at the door, promising that his
brother would speedily have him released, and handing in bread and
meat, of which he was instantly robbed by George Bates and three or
four more big fellows, and sent away reeling and sobbing, under a heavy
blow, with all the mischief and play knocked out of him. Stephen and
Giles called “Shame!” but were unheeded, and they could only draw the
little fellow up to them, and assure him that his brother would soon
come for him.
The next call at the gate was Headley and Birkenholt—“Master Headley’s
prentices—Be they here?”
And at their answer, not only the window, but the door in the gate was
opened, and stooping low to enter, Kit Smallbones came in, and not
empty-handed.
“Ay, ay, youngsters,” said he, “I knew how it would be, by what I saw
elsewhere, so I came with a fee to open locks. How came ye to get into
such plight as this? And poor little Hope too! A fine pass when they
put babes in jail.”
“I’m prenticed!” said Jasper, though in a very weak little voice.
“Have you had bite or sup?” asked Kit.
And on their reply, telling how those who had had supplies from home
had been treated, Smallbones observed, “Let them try it,” and stood, at
all his breadth, guarding the two youths and little Jasper, as they
ate, Stephen at first with difficulty, in the faintness and foulness of
the place, but then ravenously. Smallbones lectured them on their folly
all the time, and made them give an account of the night. He said their
master was at the Guildhall taking counsel with the Lord Mayor, and
there were reports that it would go hard with the rioters, for murder
and plunder had been done in many places, and he especially looked at
Giles with pity, and asked how he came to embroil himself with Master
Mundy? Still his good-natured face cheered them, and he promised
further supplies. He also relieved Stephen’s mind about his brother,
telling of his inquiry at the Dragon in the morning. All that day the
condition of such of the prisoners as had well-to-do friends was
improving. Fathers, brothers, masters, and servants, came in quest of
them, bringing food and bedding, and by exorbitant fees to the jailers
obtained for them shelter in the gloomy cells. Mothers could not come,
for a proclamation had gone out that none were to babble, and men were
to keep their wives at home. And though there were more material
comforts, prospects were very gloomy. Ambrose came when Kit Smallbones
returned with what Mrs. Headley had sent the captives. He looked sad
and dazed, and clung to his brother, but said very little, except that
they ought to be locked up together, and he really would have been left
in Newgate, if Kit had not laid a great hand on his shoulder and almost
forced him away.
Master Headley himself arrived with Master Hope in the afternoon.
Jasper sprang to his brother, crying, “Simon! Simon! you are come to
take me out of this dismal, evil place?” But Master Hope—a tall,
handsome, grave young man, who had often been much disturbed by his
little brother’s pranks—could only shake his head with tears in his
eyes, and, sitting down on the roll of bedding, take him on his knee
and try to console him with the hope of liberty in a few days.
He had tried to obtain the boy’s release on the plea of his extreme
youth, but the authorities were hotly exasperated, and would hear of no
mercy. The whole of the rioters were to be tried three days hence, and
there was no doubt that some would be made an example of, the only
question was, how many?
Master Headley closely interrogated his own two lads, and was evidently
sorely anxious about his namesake, who, he feared, might be recognised
by Alderman Mundy and brought forward as a ringleader of the
disturbance; nor did he feel at all secure that the plea that he had no
enmity to the foreigners, but had actually tried to defend Lucas and
Abenali, would be attended to for a moment, though Lucas Hansen had
promised to bear witness of it. Giles looked perfectly stunned at the
time, unable to take in the idea, but at night Stephen was wakened on
the pallet that they shared with little Jasper, by hearing him weeping
and sobbing for his mother at Salisbury.
Time lagged on till the 4th of May. Some of the poor boys whiled away
their time with dreary games in the yard, sometimes wrestling, but more
often gambling with the dice, that one or two happened to possess, for
the dinners that were provided for the wealthier, sometimes even
betting on what the sentences would be, and who would be hanged, or who
escape.
Poor lads, they did not, for the most part, realise their real danger,
but Stephen was more and more beset with home-sick longing for the
glades and thickets of his native forest, and would keep little Jasper
and even Giles for an hour together telling of the woodland adventures
of those happy times, shutting his eyes to the grim stone walls, and
trying to think himself among the beeches, hollies, cherries, and
hawthorns, shining in the May sun! Giles and he were chose friends now,
and with little Jasper, said their Paters and Aves together, that they
might be delivered from their trouble. At last, on the 4th, the whole
of the prisoners were summoned roughly into the court, where
harsh-hooking men-at-arms proceeded to bind them together in pairs to
be marched through the streets to the Guildhall. Giles and Stephen
would naturally have been put together, but poor little Jasper cried
out so lamentably, when he was about to be bound to a stranger, that
Stephen stepped forward in his stead, begging that the boy might go
with Giles. The soldier made a contemptuous sound, but consented, and
Stephen found that his companion in misfortune, whose left elbow was
tied to his right was George Bates.
The two lads looked at each other in a strange, rueful manner, and
Stephen said, “Shake hands, comrade. If we are to die, let us bear no
ill-will.”
George gave a cold, limp, trembling hand. He looked wretched, subdued,
tearful, and nearly starved, for he had no kinsfolk at hand, and his
master was too angry with him, and too much afraid of compromising
himself, to have sent him any supplies. Stephen tried to unbutton his
own pouch, but not succeeding with his left hand, bade George try with
his right. “There’s a cake of bread there,” he said. “Eat that, and
thou’lt be able better to stand up like a man, come what will.”
George devoured it eagerly. “Ah!” he said, in a stronger voice,
“Stephen Birkenholt, thou art an honest fellow. I did thee wrong. If
ever we get out of this plight!”
Here they were ordered to march, and in a long and doleful procession
they set forth. The streets were lined with men-at-arms, for all the
affections and sympathies of the people were with the unfortunate boys,
and a rescue was apprehended.
In point of fact, the Lord Mayor and aldermen were afraid of the King’s
supposing them to have organised the assault on their rivals, and each
was therefore desirous to show severity to any one’s apprentices save
his own; while the nobility were afraid of contumacy on the part of the
citizens, and were resolved to crush down every rioter among them, so
that they had filled the city with their armed retainers. Fathers and
mothers, masters and dames, sisters and fellow prentices, found their
doors closely guarded, and could only look with tearful, anxious eyes,
at the processions of poor youths, many of them mere children, who were
driven from each of the jails to the Guildhall. There when all
collected the entire number amounted to two hundred and seventy-eight,
though a certain proportion of these were grown men, priests, wherrymen
and beggars, who had joined the rabble in search of plunder.
It did not look well for them that the Duke of Norfolk and his son, the
Earl of Surrey, were joined in the commission with the Lord Mayor. The
upper end of the great hall was filled with aldermen in their robes and
chains, with the sheriffs of London and the whole imposing array, and
the Lord Mayor with the Duke sat enthroned above them in truly awful
dignity. The Duke was a hard and pitiless man, and bore the City a
bitter grudge for the death of his retainer, the priest killed in
Cheapside, and in spite of all his poetical fame, it may be feared that
the Earl of Surrey was not of much more merciful mood, while their
men-at-arms spoke savagely of hanging, slaughtering, or setting the
City on fire.
The arraignment was very long, as there were so large a number of names
to be read, and, to the horror of all, it was not for a mere riot, but
for high treason. The King, it was declared, being in amity with all
Christian princes, it was high treason to break the truce and league by
attacking their subjects resident in England. The terrible punishment
of the traitor would thus be the doom of all concerned, and in the
temper of the Howards and their retainers, there was little hope of
mercy, nor, in times like those, was there even much prospect that, out
of such large numbers, some might escape.
A few were more especially cited, fourteen in number, among them George
Bates, Walter Ball, and Giles Headley, who had certainly given cause
for the beginning of the affray. There was no attempt to defend George
Bates, who seemed to be stunned and bewildered beyond the power of
speaking or even of understanding, but as Giles cast his eyes round in
wild, terrified appeal, Master Headley rose up in his alderman’s gown,
and prayed leave to be heard in his defence, as he had witnesses to
bring in his favour.
“Is he thy son, good Armourer Headley?” demanded the Duke of Norfolk,
who held the work of the Dragon court in high esteem.
“Nay, my Lord Duke, but he is in the place of one, my near kinsman and
godson, and so soon as his time be up, bound to wed my only child! I
pray you to hear his cause, ere cutting off the heir of an old and
honourable house.”
Norfolk and his sons murmured something about the Headley skill in
armour, and the Lord Mayor was willing enough for mercy, but Sir John
Mundy here rose: “My Lord Duke, this is the very young man who was
first to lay hands on me! Yea, my lords and sirs, ye have already heard
how their rude sport, contrary to proclamation, was the cause of the
tumult. When I would have bidden them go home, the one brawler asks me
insolently, ‘Wherefore?’ the other smote me with his sword, whereupon
the whole rascaille set on me, and as Master Alderman Headley can
testify, I scarce reached his house alive. I ask should favour overcome
justice, and a ringleader, who hath assaulted the person of an
alderman, find favour above others?”
“I ask not for favour,” returned Headley, “only that witnesses be heard
on his behalf, ere he be condemned.”
Headley, as a favourite with the Duke, prevailed to have permission to
call his witnesses; Christopher Smallbones, who had actually rescued
Alderman Mundy from the mob, and helped him into the Dragon court,
could testify that the proclamation had been entirely unheard in the
din of the youths looking on at the game. And this was followed up by
Lucas Hansen declaring that so far from having attacked or plundered
him and the others in Warwick Inner Yard, the two, Giles Headley and
Stephen Birkenholt, had come to their defence, and fallen on those who
were burning their goods.
On this a discussion followed between the authorities seated at the
upper end of the hall. The poor anxious watchers below could only guess
by the gestures what was being agitated as to their fate, and Stephen
was feeling it sorely hard that Giles should be pleaded for as the
master’s kinsman, and he left to so cruel a fate, no one saying a word
for him but unheeded Lucas. Finally, without giving of judgment, the
whole of the miserable prisoners, who had been standing without food
for hours, were marched back, still tied, to their several prisons,
while their guards pointed out the gibbets where they were to suffer
the next day.
Master Headley was not quite so regardless of his younger apprentice as
Stephen imagined. There was a sort of little council held in his hall
when he returned—sad, dispirited, almost hopeless—to find Hal Randall
anxiously awaiting him. The alderman said he durst not plead for
Stephen, lest he should lose both by asking too much, and his young
kinsman had the first right, besides being in the most peril as having
been singled out by name; whereas Stephen might escape with the
multitude if there were any mercy. He added that the Duke of Norfolk
was certainly inclined to save one who knew the secret of Spanish
sword-blades; but that he was fiercely resolved to be revenged for the
murder of his lewd priest in Cheapside, and that Sir John Mundy was
equally determined that Giles should not escape.
“What am I to say to his mother? Have I brought him from her for this?”
mourned Master Headley. “Ay, and Master Randall, I grieve as much for
thy nephew, who to my mind hath done nought amiss. A brave lad! A good
lad, who hath saved mine own life. Would that I could do aught for him!
It is a shame!”
“Father,” said Dennet, who had crept to the back of his chair, “the
King would save him! Mind you the golden whistle that the grandame
keepeth?”
“The maid hath hit it!” exclaimed Randall. “Master alderman! Let me but
have the little wench and the whistle to-morrow morn, and it is done.
How sayest thou, pretty mistress? Wilt thou go with me and ask thy
cousin’s life, and poor Stephen’s, of the King?”
“With all my heart, sir,” said Dennet, coming to him with outstretched
hands. “Oh! sir, canst thou save them? I have been vowing all I could
think of to our Lady and the saints, and now they are going to grant
it!”
“Tarry a little,” said the alderman. “I must know more of this. Where
wouldst thou take my child? How obtain access to the King’s Grace?”
“Worshipful sir, trust me,” said Randall. “Thou know’st I am sworn
servant to my Lord Cardinal, and that his folk are as free of the Court
as the King’s own servants. If thine own folk will take us up the river
to Richmond, and there wait for us while I lead the maid to the King, I
can well-nigh swear to thee that she will prevail.”
The alderman looked greatly distressed. Ambrose threw himself on his
knees before him, and in an agony entreated him to consent, assuring
him that Master Randall could do what he promised. The alderman was
much perplexed. He knew that his mother, who was confined to her bed by
rheumatism, would be shocked at the idea. He longed to accompany his
daughter himself, but for him to be absent from the sitting of the
court might be fatal to Giles, and he could not bear to lose any chance
for the poor youths.
Meantime an interrogative glance and a nod had passed between Tibble
and Randall, and when the alderman looked towards the former, always
his prime minister, the answer was, “Sir, meseemeth that it were well
to do as Master Randall counselleth. I will go with Mistress Dennet, if
such be your will. The lives of two such youths as our prentices may
not lightly be thrown away, while by God’s providence there is any
means of striving to save them.”
Consent then was given, and it was further arranged that Dennet and her
escort should be ready at the early hour of half-past four, so as to
elude the guards who were placed in the streets; and also because King
Henry in the summer went very early to mass, and then to some
out-of-door sport. Randall said he would have taken his own good woman
to have the care of the little mistress, but that the poor little
orphan Spanish wench had wept herself so sick, that she could not be
left to a stranger.
Master Headley himself brought the child by back streets to the river,
and thence down to the Temple stairs, accompanied by Tibble Steelman,
and a maid-servant on whose presence her grandmother had insisted.
Dennet had hardly slept all night for excitement and perturbation, and
she looked very white, small, and insignificant for her thirteen years,
when Randall and Ambrose met her, and placed her carefully in the barge
which was to take them to Richmond. It was somewhat fresh in the very
early morning, and no one was surprised that Master Randall wore a
large dark cloak as they rowed up the river. There was very little
speech between the passengers; Dennet sat between Ambrose and Tibble.
They kept their heads bowed. Ambrose’s brow was on one hand, his elbow
on his knee, but he spared the other to hold Dennet. He had been
longing for the old assurance he would once have had, that to vow
himself to a life of hard service in a convent would be the way to win
his brother’s life; but he had ceased to be able to feel that such
bargains were the right course, or that a convent necessarily afforded
sure way of service, and he never felt mere insecure of the way and
means to prayer than in this hour of anguished supplication.
When they came beyond the City, within sight of the trees of Sheen, as
Richmond was still often called, Randall insisted that Dennet should
eat some of the bread and meat that Tibble had brought in a wallet for
her. “She must look her best,” he said aside to the foreman. “I would
that she were either more of a babe or better favoured! Our Hal hath a
tender heart for a babe and an eye for a buxom lass.”
He bade the maid trim up the child’s cap and make the best of her
array, and presently reached some stairs leading up to the park. There
he let Ambrose lift her out of the boat. The maid would fain have
followed, but he prevented this, and when she spoke of her mistress
having bidden her follow wherever the child went, Tibble interfered,
telling her that his master’s orders were that Master Randall should do
with her as he thought meet. Tibble himself followed until they reached
a thicket entirely concealing them from the river. Halting here,
Randall, with his nephew’s help, divested himself of his long gown and
cloak, his beard and wig, produced cockscomb and bauble from his pouch,
and stood before the astonished eyes of Dennet as the jester!
She recoiled upon Tibble with a little cry, “Oh, why should he make
sport of us? Why disguise himself?”
“Listen, pretty mistress,” said Randall. “’Tis no disguise, Tibble
there can tell you, or my nephew. My disguise lies there,” pointing to
his sober raiment. “Thus only can I bring thee to the King’s presence!
Didst think it was jest? Nay, verily, I am as bound to try to save my
sweet Stevie’s life, my sister’s own gallant son, as thou canst be to
plead for thy betrothed.” Dennet winced.
“Ay, Mistress Dennet,” said Tibble, “thou mayst trust him, spite of his
garb, and ’tis the sole hope. He could only thus bring thee in. Go thou
on, and the lad and I will fall to our prayers.”
Dennet’s bosom heaved, but she looked up in the jesters dark eyes, saw
the tears in them, made an effort, put her hand in his, and said, “I
will go with him.”
Hal led her away, and they saw Tibble and Ambrose both fall on their
knees behind the hawthorn bush, to speed them with their prayers, while
all the joyous birds singing their carols around seemed to protest
against the cruel captivity and dreadful doom of the young gladsome
spirits pent up in the City prisons.
One full gush of a thrush’s song in especial made Dennet’s eyes
overflow, which the jester perceived and said, “Nay, sweet maid, no
tears. Kings brook not to be approached with blubbered faces. I marvel
not that it seems hard to thee to go along with such as I, but let me
be what I will outside, mine heart is heavy enough, and thou wilt learn
sooner or later, that fools are not the only folk who needs must smile
when they have a load within.”
And then, as much to distract her thoughts and prevent tears as to
reassure her, he told her what he had before told his nephews of the
inducements that had made him Wolsey’s jester, and impressed on her the
forms of address.
“Thou’lt hear me make free with him, but that’s part of mine office,
like the kitten I’ve seen tickling the mane of the lion in the Tower.
Thou must say, ‘An it please your Grace,’ and thou needst not speak of
his rolling in the mire, thou wottest, or it may anger him.”
The girl showed that her confidence became warmer by keeping nearer to
his side, and presently she said, “I must beg for Stephen first, for
’tis his whistle.”
“Blessings on thee, fair wench, for that, yet seest thou, ’tis the
other springald who is in the greater peril, and he is closer to thy
father and to thee.”
“He fled, when Stephen made in to the rescue of my father,” said
Dennet.
“The saints grant we may so work with the King that he may spare them
both,” ejaculated Randall.
By this time the strange pair were reaching the precincts of the great
dwelling-house, where about the wide-open door loitered gentlemen,
grooms, lacqueys, and attendants of all kinds. Randall reconnoitred.
“An we go up among all these,” he said, “they might make their sport of
us both, so that we might have time. Let us see whether the little
garden postern be open.”
Henry VIII. had no fears of his people, and kept his dwellings more
accessible than were the castles of many a subject. The door in the
wall proved to be open, and with an exclamation of joy, Randall pointed
out two figures, one in a white silken doublet and hose, with a short
crimson cloak over his shoulder, the other in scarlet and purple robes,
pacing the walk under the wall—Henry’s way of holding a cabinet council
with his prime minister on a summer’s morning.
“Come on, mistress, put a brave face on it!” the jester encouraged the
girl, as he led her forward, while the king, catching sight of them,
exclaimed, “Ha! there’s old Patch. What doth he there?”
But the Cardinal, impatient of interruption, spoke imperiously, “What
dost thou here, Merriman? Away, this is no time for thy fooleries and
frolics.”
But the King, with some pleasure in teasing, and some of the enjoyment
of a schoolboy at a break in his tasks, called out, “Nay, come hither,
quipsome one! What new puppet hast brought hither to play off on us?”
“Yea, brother Hal,” said the jester, “I have brought one to let thee
know how Tom of Norfolk and his crew are playing the fool in the
Guildhall, and to ask who will be the fool to let them wreak their
spite on the best blood in London, and leave a sore that will take many
a day to heal.”
“How is this, my Lord Cardinal?” said Henry; “I bade them make an
example of a few worthless hinds, such as might teach the lusty
burghers to hold their lads in bounds and prove to our neighbours that
their churlishness was by no consent of ours.”
“I trow,” returned the Cardinal, “that one of these same hinds is a
boon companion of the fool’s—_hinc illæ lachrymæ_, and a speech that
would have befitted a wise man’s mouth.”
“There is work that may well make even a fool grave, friend Thomas,”
replied the jester.
“Nay, but what hath this little wench to say?” asked the King, looking
down on the child from under his plumed cap with a face set in golden
hair, the fairest and sweetest, as it seemed to her, that she had ever
seen, as he smiled upon her. “Methinks she is too small to be thy love.
Speak out, little one. I love little maids, I have one of mine own.
Hast thou a brother among these misguided lads?”
“Not so, an please your Grace,” said Dennet, who fortunately was not in
the least shy, and was still too young for a maiden’s shamefastness.
“He is to be my betrothed. I would say, one of them is, but the
other—he saved my father’s life once.”
The latter words were lost in the laughter of the King and Cardinal at
the unblushing avowal of the small, prim-faced maiden.
“Oh ho! So ’tis a case of true love, whereto a King’s face must needs
show grace. Who art thou, fair suppliant, and who may this swain of
thine be?”
“I am Dennet Headley, so please your Grace; my father is Giles Headley
the armourer, Alderman of Cheap Ward,” said Dennet, doing her part
bravely, though puzzled by the King’s tone of banter; “and see here,
your Grace!”
[Illustration: “And see here, your Grace!”]
“Ha! the hawk’s whistle that Archduke Philip gave me! What of that? I
gave it—ay, I gave it to a youth that came to mine aid, and reclaimed a
falcon for me! Is’t he, child?”
“Oh, sir, ’tis he who came in second at the butts, next to Barlow, ’tis
Stephen Birkenholt! And he did nought! They bore no ill-will to
strangers! No, they were falling on the wicked fellows who had robbed
and slain good old Master Michael, who taught our folk to make the only
real true Damascus blades welded in England. But the lawyers of the
Inns of Court fell on them all alike, and have driven them off to
Newgate, and poor little Jasper Hope too. And Alderman Mundy bears
ill-will to Giles. And the cruel Duke of Norfolk and his men swear
they’ll have vengeance on the Cheap, and there’ll be hanging and
quartering this very morn. Oh! your Grace, your Grace, save our lads!
for Stephen saved my father.”
“Thy tongue wags fast, little one,” said the King, good-naturedly,
“with thy Stephen and thy Giles. Is this same Stephen, the knight of
the whistle and the bow, thy betrothed, and Giles thy brother?”
“Nay, your Grace,” said Dennet, hanging her head, “Giles Headley is my
betrothed—that is, when his time is served, he will be—father sets
great store by him, for he is the only one of our name to keep up the
armoury, and he has a mother, Sir, a mother at Salisbury. But oh, Sir,
Sir! Stephen is so good and brave a lad! He made in to save father from
the robbers, and he draws the best bow in Cheapside, and he can grave
steel as well as Tibble himself, and this is the whistle your Grace
wots of.”
Henry listened with an amused smile that grew broader as Dennet’s voice
all unconsciously became infinitely more animated and earnest, when she
began to plead Stephen’s cause.
“Well, well, sweetheart,” he said, “I trow thou must have the twain of
them, though,” he added to the Cardinal, who smiled broadly, “it might
perchance be more for the maid’s peace than she wots of now, were we to
leave this same knight of the whistle to be strung up at once, ere she
have found her heart; but in sooth that I cannot do, owing well nigh a
life to him and his brother. Moreover, we may not have old Headley’s
skill in weapons lost!”
Dennet held her hands close clasped while these words were spoken
apart. She felt as if her hope, half granted, were being snatched from
her, as another actor appeared on the scene, a gentleman in a lawyer’s
gown, and square cap, which he doffed as he advanced and put his knee
to the ground before the King, who greeted him with “Save you, good Sir
Thomas, a fair morning to you.”
“They told me your Grace was in Council with my Lord Cardinal,” said
Sir Thomas More; “but seeing that there was likewise this merry
company, I durst venture to thrust in, since my business is urgent.”
Dennet here forgot court manners enough to cry out, “O your Grace! your
Grace, be pleased for pity’s sake to let me have the pardon for them
first, or they’ll be hanged and dead. I saw the gallows in Cheapside,
and when they are dead, what good will your Grace’s mercy do them?”
“I see,” said Sir Thomas. “This little maid’s errand jumps with mine
own, which was to tell your Grace that unless there be speedy commands
to the Howards to hold their hands, there will be wailing like that of
Egypt in the City. The poor boys, who were but shouting and brawling
after the nature of mettled youth—the most with nought of malice—are
penned up like sheep for the slaughter—ay, and worse than sheep, for we
quarter not our mutton alive, whereas these poor younglings—babes of
thirteen, some of them—be indicted for high treason! Will the parents,
shut in from coming to them by my Lord of Norfolk’s men, ever forget
their agonies, I ask your Grace?”
Henry’s face grew red with passion. “If Norfolk thinks to act the King,
and turn the city into a shambles,”—with a mighty oath—“he shall abye
it. Here, Lord Cardinal—more, let the free pardon be drawn up for the
two lads. And we will ourselves write to the Lord Mayor and to Norfolk
that though they may work their will on the movers of the riot—that
pestilent Lincoln and his sort—not a prentice lad shall be touched till
our pleasure be known. There now, child, thou hast won the lives of thy
lads, as thou callest them. Wilt thou rue the day, I marvel? Why cannot
some of their mothers pluck up spirit and beg them off as thou hast
done?”
“Yea,” said Wolsey. “That were the right course. If the Queen were
moved to pray your Grace to pity the striplings then could the
Spaniards make no plaint of too much clemency being shown.”
They were all this time getting nearer the palace, and being now at a
door opening into the hall, Henry turned round. “There, pretty maid,
spread the tidings among thy gossips, that they have a tender-hearted
Queen, and a gracious King. The Lord Cardinal will presently give thee
the pardon for both thy lads, and by and by thou wilt know whether thou
thankest me for it!” Then putting his hand under her chin, he turned up
her face to him, kissed her on each cheek, and touched his feathered
cap to the others, saying, “See that my bidding be done,” and
disappeared.
“It must be prompt, if it be to save any marked for death this morn,”
More in a how voice observed to the Cardinal. “Lord Edmund Howard is
keen as a blood-hound on his vengeance.”
Wolsey was far from being a cruel man, and besides, there was a natural
antagonism between him and the old nobility, and he liked and valued
his fool, to whom he turned, saying, “And what stake hast thou in this,
sirrah? Is’t all pure charity?”
“I’m scarce such a fool as that, Cousin Red Hat,” replied Randall,
rallying his powers. “I leave that to Mr. More here, whom we all know
to be a good fool spoilt. But I’ll make a clean breast of it. This same
Stephen is my sister’s son, an orphan lad of good birth and
breeding—whom, my lord, I would die to save.”
“Thou shalt have the pardon instantly, Merriman,” said the Cardinal,
and beckoning to one of the attendants who clustered round the door, he
gave orders that a clerk should instantly, and very briefly, make out
the form. Sir Thomas More, hearing the name of Headley, added that for
him indeed the need of haste was great, since he was one of the
fourteen sentenced to die that morning.
Quipsome Hal was interrogated as to how he had come, and the Cardinal
and Sir Thomas agreed that the river would be as speedy a way of
returning as by land; but they decided that a King’s pursuivant should
accompany him, otherwise there would be no chance of forcing his way in
time through the streets, guarded by the Howard retainers.
As rapidly as was in the nature of a high officer’s clerk to produce a
dozen lines, the precious document was indicted, and it was carried at
last to Dennet, bearing Henry’s signature and seal. She held it to her
bosom, while, accompanied by the pursuivant, who—happily for them—was
interested in one of the unfortunate fourteen, and therefore did not
wait to stand on his dignity, they hurried across to the place where
they had left the barge—Tibble and Ambrose joining them on the way.
Stephen was safe. Of his life there could be no doubt, and Ambrose
almost repented of feeling his heart so light while Giles’s fate hung
upon their speed.
The oars were plied with hearty good-will, but the barge was somewhat
heavy, and by and by coming to a landing-place where two watermen had a
much smaller and lighter boat, the pursuivant advised that he should go
forward with the more necessary persons, leaving the others to follow.
After a few words, the light weights of Tibble and Dennet prevailed in
their favour, and they shot forward in the little boat.
They passed the Temple—on to the stairs nearest Cheapside—up the
street. There was an awful stillness, only broken by heavy knells
sounding at intervals from the churches. The back streets were thronged
by a trembling, weeping people, who all eagerly made way for the
pursuivant, as he called “Make way, good people—a pardon!”
They saw the broader space of Cheapside. Horsemen in armour guarded it,
but they too opened a passage for the pursuivant. There was to be seen
above the people’s heads a scaffold. A fire burnt on it—the gallows and
noosed rope hung above.
A figure was mounting the ladder. A boy! Oh, Heavens! would it be too
late? Who was it? They were still too far off to see. They might only
be cruelly holding out hope to one of the doomed.
The pursuivant shouted aloud—“In the King’s name, Hold!” He lifted
Dennet on his shoulder, and bade her wave her parchment. An
overpowering roar arose. “A pardon! a pardon! God save the King!”
Every hand seemed to be forwarding the pursuivant and the child, and it
was Giles Headley, who, loosed from the hold of the executioner, stared
wildly about him, like one distraught.