THE SOLDIER
“Of a worthy London prentice
My purpose is to speak,
And tell his brave adventures
Done for his country’s sake.
Seek all the world about
And you shall hardly find
A man in valour to exceed
A prentice’ gallant mind.”
_The Homes of a London Prentice_.
Six more years had passed over the Dragon court, when, one fine summer
evening, as the old walls rang with the merriment of the young boys at
play, there entered through the gateway a tall, well-equipped,
soldierly figure, which caught the eyes of the little armourer world in
a moment. “Oh, that’s a real Milan helmet!” exclaimed the one lad.
“And oh, what a belt and buff coat!” cried another.
The subject of their admiration advanced muttering, “As if I’d not been
away a week,” adding, “I pray you, pretty lads, doth Master Alderman
Headley still dwell here?”
“Yea, sir, he is our grandfather,” said the elder boy, holding a lesser
one by the shoulder as he spoke.
“Verily! And what may be your names?”
“I am Giles Birkenholt, and this is my little brother, Dick.”
“Even as I thought. Wilt thou run in to your grandsire, and tell him?”
The bigger boy interrupted, “Grandfather is going to bed. He is old and
weary, and cannot see strangers so late. ’Tis our father who heareth
all the orders.”
“And,” added the little one, with wide open grave eyes, “Mother bade us
run out and play and not trouble father, because uncle Ambrose is so
downcast because they have cut off the head of good Sir Thomas More.”
“Yet,” said the visitor, “methinks your father would hear of an old
comrade. Or stay, where be Tibble Steelman and Kit Smallbones?”
“Tibble is in the hall, well-nigh as sad as uncle Ambrose,” began Dick;
but Giles, better able to draw conclusions, exclaimed, “Tibble! Kit!
You know them, sir! Oh! are you the Giles Headley that ran away to be a
soldier ere I was born? Kit! Kit! see here—” as the giant, broader and
perhaps a little more bent, but with little loss of strength, came
forward out of his hut, and taking up the matter just where it had been
left fourteen years before, demanded as they shook hands, “Ah! Master
Giles, how couldst thou play me such a scurvy trick?”
“Nay, Kit, was it not best for all that I turned my back to make way
for honest Stephen?”
By this time young Giles had rushed up the stair to the hall, where, as
he said truly, Stephen was giving his brother such poor comfort as
could be had from sympathy, when listening to the story of the
cheerful, brave resignation of the noblest of all the victims of Henry
VIII. Ambrose had been with Sir Thomas well-nigh to the last, had
carried messages between him and his friends during his imprisonment,
had handed his papers to him at his trial, had been with Mrs. Roper
when she broke through the crowd and fell on his neck as he walked from
Westminster Hall with the axe-edge turned towards him; had received his
last kind farewell, counsel, and blessing, and had only not been with
him on the scaffold because Sir Thomas had forbidden it, saying, in the
old strain of mirth, which never forsook him, “Nay, come not, my good
friend. Thou art of a queasy nature, and I would fain not haunt thee
against thy will.”
All was over now, the wise and faithful head had fallen, because it
would not own the wrong for the right; and Ambrose had been brought
home by his brother, a being confounded, dazed, seeming hardly able to
think or understand aught save that the man whom he had above all loved
and looked up to was taken from him, judicially murdered, and by the
King. The whole world seemed utterly changed to him, and as to thinking
or planning for himself, he was incapable of it; indeed, he looked
fearfully ill. His little nephew came up to his father’s knee, pausing,
though open-mouthed, and at the first token of permission, bursting
out, “Oh! father! Here’s a soldier in the court! Kit is talking to him.
And he is Giles Headley that ran away. He has a beauteous Spanish
leathern coat, and a belt with silver bosses—and a morion that Phil
Smallbones saith to be of Milan, but I say it is French.”
Stephen had no sooner gathered the import of this intelligence than he
sprang down almost as rapidly as his little boy, with his welcome. Nor
did Giles Headley return at all in the dilapidated condition that had
been predicted. He was stout, comely, and well fleshed, and very
handsomely clad and equipped in a foreign style, with nothing of the
lean wolfish appearance of Sir John Fulford. The two old comrades
heartily shook one another by the hand in real gladness at the meeting.
Stephen’s welcome was crossed by the greeting and inquiry whether all
was well.
“Yea. The alderman is hale and hearty, but aged. Your mother is tabled
at a religious house at Salisbury.”
“I know. I landed at Southampton and have seen her.”
“And Dennet,” Stephen added with a short laugh, “she could not wait for
you.”
“No, verily. Did I not wot well that she cared not a fico for me? I
hoped when I made off that thou wouldst be the winner, Steve, and I am
right glad thou art, man.”
“I can but thank thee, Giles,” said Stephen, changing to the familiar
singular pronoun. “I have oft since thought what a foolish figure I
should have cut had I met thee among the Badgers, after having given
leg bail because I might not brook seeing thee wedded to her. For I was
sore tempted—only thou wast free, and mine indenture held me fast.”
“Then it was so! And I did thee a good turn! For I tell thee, Steve, I
never knew how well I liked thee till I was wounded and sick among
those who heeded neither God nor man! But one word more, Stephen, ere
we go in. The Moor’s little maiden, is she still unwedded?”
“Yea,” was Stephen’s answer. “She is still waiting-maid to Mistress
Roper, daughter to good Sir Thomas More; but alack, Giles, they are in
sore trouble, as it may be thou hast heard—and my poor brother is like
one distraught.”
Ambrose did indeed meet Giles like one in a dream. He probably would
have made the same mechanical greeting, if the Emperor or the Pope had
been at that moment presented to him; but Dennet, who had been
attending to her father, made up all that was wanting in cordiality.
She had always had a certain sense of shame for having flouted her
cousin, and, as his mother told her, driven him to death and
destruction, and it was highly satisfactory to see him safe and sound,
and apparently respectable and prosperous.
Moreover, grieved as all the family were for the fate of the admirable
and excellent More, it was a relief to those less closely connected
with him to attend to something beyond poor Ambrose’s sorrow and his
talk, the which moreover might be perilous if any outsider listened and
reported it to the authorities as disaffection to the King. So Giles
told his story, sitting on the gallery in the cool of the summer
evening, and marvelling over and over again how entirely unchanged all
was since his first view of the Dragon court as a proud, sullen, raw
lad twenty summers ago. Since that time he had seen so much that the
time appeared far longer to him than to those who had stayed at home.
It seemed that Fulford had from the first fascinated him more than any
of the party guessed, and that each day of the free life of the
expedition, and of contact with the soldiery, made a return to the
monotony of the forge, the decorous life of a London citizen, and the
bridal with a child, to whom he was indifferent, seem more intolerable
to him. Fulford imagining rightly that the knowledge of his intentions
might deter young Birkenholt from escaping, enjoined strict secrecy on
either lad, not intending them to meet till it should be too late to
return, and therefore had arranged that Giles should quit the party on
the way to Calais, bringing with him Will Wherry, and the horse he
rode.
Giles had then been enrolled among the Badgers. He had little to tell
about his life among them till the battle of Pavia, where he had had
the good fortune to take three French prisoners; but a stray shot from
a fugitive had broken his leg during the pursuit, and he had been laid
up in a merchant’s house at Pavia for several months. He evidently
looked back to the time with gratitude, as having wakened his better
associations, which had been well-nigh stifled during the previous
years of the wild life of a soldier of fortune. His host’s young
daughter had eyes like Aldonza, and the almost forgotten possibility of
returning to his love a brave and distinguished man awoke once more.
His burgher thrift began to assert itself again, and he deposited a
nest-egg from the ransoms of his prisoners in the hands of his host,
who gave him bonds by which he could recover the sum from Lombard
correspondents in London.
He was bound by his engagements to join the Badgers again, or he would
have gone home on his recovery; and he had shared in the terrible
taking of Rome, of which he declared that he could not speak—with a
significant look at Dennet and her children, who were devouring his
words. He had, however, stood guard over a lady and her young children
whom some savage Spaniards were about to murder, and the whole family
had overpowered him with gratitude, lodged him sumptuously in their
house, and shown themselves as grateful to him as if he had given them
all the treasure which he had abstained from seizing.
The sickness brought on by their savage excesses together with the
Roman summer had laid low many of the Badgers. When the Prince of
Orange drew off the army from the miserable city, scarce seven score of
that once gallant troop were in marching order, and Sir John Fulford
himself was dying. He sent for Giles, as less of a demon than most of
the troop, and sent a gold medal, the only fragment of spoil remaining
to him, to his daughter Perronel. To Giles himself Fulford bequeathed
Abenali’s well-tested sword, and he died in the comfortable belief—so
far as he troubled himself about the matter at all—that there were
special exemptions for soldiers.
The Badgers now incorporated themselves with another broken body of
Landsknechts, and fell under the command of a better and more
conscientious captain. Giles, who had been horrified rather than
hardened by the experiences of Rome, was found trustworthy and rose in
command. The troop was sent to take charge of the Pope at Orvieto, and
thus it was that he had fallen in with the Englishmen of Gardiner’s
suite, and had been able to send his letter to Ambrose. Since he had
found the means of rising out of the slough, he had made up his mind to
continue to serve till he had won some honour, and had obtained enough
to prevent his return as a hungry beggar.
His corps became known for discipline and valour. It was trusted often,
was in attendance on the Emperor, and was fairly well paid. Giles was
their “ancient” and had charge of the banner, nor could it be doubted
that he had flourished. His last adventure had been the expedition to
Tunis, when 20,000 Christian captives had been set free from the
dungeons and galleys, and so grand a treasure had been shared among the
soldiery that Giles, having completed the term of service for which he
was engaged, decided on returning to England, before, as he said, he
grew any older, to see how matters were going.
“For the future,” he said, “it depended on how he found things. If
Aldonza would none of him, he should return to the Emperor’s service.
If she would go with him, he held such a position that he could provide
for her honourably. Or he could settle in England. For he had a good
sum in the hands of Lombard merchants; having made over to them spoils
of war, ransoms, and arrears when he obtained them; and having at times
earned something by exercising his craft, which he said had been most
valuable to him. Indeed he thought he could show Stephen and Tibble a
few fresh arts he had picked up at Milan.
Meantime his first desire was to see Aldonza. She was still at Chelsea
with her mistress, and Ambrose, to his brother’s regret, went thither
every day, partly because he could not keep away, and partly to try to
be of use to the family. Giles might accompany him, though he still
looked so absorbed in his trouble that it was doubtful whether he had
really understood what was passing, or that he was wanted to bring
about an interview between his companion and Aldonza.
The beautiful grounds at Chelsea, in their summer beauty, looked
inexpressibly mournful, deprived of him who had planted and cherished
the trees and roses. As they passed along in the barge, one spot after
another recalled More’s bright jests or wise words; above all, the very
place where he had told his son-in-law Roper that he was merry, not
because he was safe, but because the fight was won, and his conscience
had triumphed against the King he loved and feared.
Giles told of the report that the Emperor had said he would have given
a hundred of his nobles for one such councillor as More, and the
prospect of telling this to the daughters had somewhat cheered Ambrose.
They found a guard in the royal livery at the stairs to the river, and
at the door of the house, but these had been there ever since Sir
Thomas’s apprehension. They knew Ambrose Birkenholt, and made no
objection to his passing in and leaving his companion to walk about
among the borders and paths, once so trim, but already missing their
master’s hand and eye.
Very long it seemed to Giles, who was nearly despairing, when a female
figure in black came out of one of the side doors, which were not
guarded, and seemed to be timidly looking for him. Instantly he was at
her side.
“Not here,” she said, and in silence led the way to a pleached alley
out of sight of the windows. There they stood still. It was a strange
meeting of two who had not seen each other for fourteen years, when the
one was a tall, ungainly youth, the other well-nigh a child. And now
Giles was a fine, soldierly man in the prime of life, with a short,
curled beard, and powerful, alert bearing, and Aldonza, though the
first flower of her youth had gone by, yet, having lived a sheltered
and far from toilsome life, was a really beautiful woman, gracefully
proportioned, and with the delicate features and clear olive skin of
the Andalusian Moor. Her eyes, always her finest feature, were sunken
with weeping, but their soft beauty could still be seen. Giles threw
himself on his knee and grasped at her hand.
“My love!—my only love!” he cried.
“Oh! how can I think of such matters now—now, when it is thus with my
dear mistress,” said Aldonza, in a mournful voice, as though her tears
were all spent—yet not withholding her hand.
“You knew me before you knew her,” said Giles. “See, Aldonza, what I
have brought back to you.”
And he half drew the sword her father had made. She gave a gasp of
delight, for well she knew every device in the gold inlaying of the
blade, and she looked at Giles with eyes fall of gratitude.
“I knew thou wouldst own me,” said Giles. “I have fought and gone far
from thee, Aldonza. Canst not spare one word for thine old Giles?”
“Ah, Giles—there is one thing which if you will do for my mistress, I
would be yours from—from my heart of hearts.”
“Say it, sweetheart, and it is done.”
“You know not. It is perilous, and may be many would quail. Yet it may
be less perilous for you than for one who is better known.”
“Peril and I are well acquainted, my heart.” She lowered her voice as
her eyes dilated, and she laid her hand on his arm. “Thou wottest what
is on London Bridge gates?”
“I saw it, a sorry sight.”
“My mistress will not rest till that dear and sacred head, holy as any
blessed relic, be taken down so as not to be the sport of sun and wind,
and cruel men gaping beneath. She cannot sleep, she cannot sit or stand
still, she cannot even kiss her child for thinking of it. Her mind is
set on taking it down, yet she will not peril her husband. Nor verily
know I how any here could do the deed.”
“Ha! I have scaled a wall ere now. I bare our banner at Goletta, with
the battlements full of angry Moors, not far behind the Emperor’s.”
“You would? And be secret? Then indeed nought would be overmuch for
you. And this very night—”
“The sooner the better.”
She not only clasped his hand in thanks, but let him raise her face to
his, and take the reward he felt his due. Then she said she must
return, but Ambrose would bring him all particulars. Ambrose was as
anxious as herself and her mistress that the thing should be done, but
was unfit by all his habits, and his dainty, scholarly niceness, to
render such effectual assistance as the soldier could do. Giles offered
to scale the gate by night himself, carry off the head, and take it to
any place Mrs. Roper might appoint, with no assistance save such as
Ambrose could afford. Aldonza shuddered a little at this, proving that
her heart had gone out to him already, but with this he had to be
contented, for she went back into the house, and he saw her no more.
Ambrose came back to him, and, with something more like cheerfulness
than he had yet seen, said, “Thou art happy, Giles.”
“More happy than I durst hope—to find her—”
“Tush! I meant not that. But to be able to do the work of the holy ones
of old who gathered the remnants of the martyrs, while I have indeed
the will, but am but a poor craven! It is gone nearer to comfort that
sad-hearted lady than aught else.”
It appeared that Mrs. Roper would not be satisfied unless she herself
were present at the undertaking, and this was contrary to the views of
Giles, who thought the further off women were in such a matter the
better. There was a watch at the outer entrance of London Bridge, the
trainbands taking turns to supply it, but it was known by experience
that they did not think it necessary to keep awake after belated
travellers had ceased to come in; and Sir Thomas More’s head was set
over the opposite gateway, looking inwards at the City. The most
suitable hour would be between one and two o’clock, when no one would
be stirring, and the summer night would be at the shortest. Mrs. Roper
was exceedingly anxious to implicate no one, and to prevent her husband
and brother from having any knowledge of an act that William Roper
might have prohibited, as if she could not absolutely exculpate him, it
might be fatal to him. She would therefore allow no one to assist save
Ambrose, and a few more devoted old servants, of condition too low for
anger to be likely to light upon them. She was to be rowed with muffled
oars to the spot, to lie hid in the shadow of the bridge till a signal
like the cry of the pee-wit was exchanged from the bridge, then
approach the stairs at the inner angle of the bridge where Giles and
Ambrose would meet her.
Giles’s experience as a man-at-arms stood him in good stead. He
purchased a rope as he went home, also some iron ramps. He took a
survey of the arched gateway in the course of the afternoon, and
shutting himself into one of the worksheds with Ambrose, he constructed
such a rope ladder as was used in scaling fortresses, especially when
seized at night by surprise. He beguiled the work by a long series of
anecdotes of adventures of the kind, of all of which Ambrose heard not
one word. The whole court, and especially Giles number three, were very
curious as to their occupation, but nothing was said even to Stephen,
for it was better, if Ambrose should be suspected, that he should be
wholly ignorant, but he had—they knew not how—gathered somewhat. Only
Ambrose was, at parting for the night, obliged to ask him for the key
of the gate.
“Brother,” then he said, “what is this work I see? Dost think I can let
thee go into a danger I do not partake? I will share in this pious act
towards the man I have ever reverenced.”
So at dead of night the three men stole out together, all in the
plainest leathern suits. The deed was done in the perfect stillness of
the sleeping City, and without mishap or mischance. Stephen’s strong
hand held the ladder securely and aided to fix it to the ramps, and
just as the early dawn was touching the summit of St. Paul’s spire with
a promise of light, Giles stepped into the boat, and reverently placed
his burden within the opening of a velvet cushion that had been ripped
up and deprived of part of the stuffing, so as to conceal it
effectually. The brave Margaret Roper, the English Antigone, well
knowing that all depended on her self-control, refrained from aught
that might shake it. She only raised her face to Giles and murmured
from dry lips, “Sir, God must reward you!” And Aldonza, who sat beside
her, held out her hand.
Ambrose was to go with them to the priest’s house, where Mrs. Roper was
forced to leave her treasure, since she durst not take it to Chelsea,
as the royal officers were already in possession, and the whole family
were to depart on the ensuing day. Stephen and Giles returned safely to
Cheapside.