IN THE LORD CHANCELLOR'S COURT
The great Hall at Westminster was already thronged with people at an
early hour of the morning, and the servants of the Knight Marshal and
the Lord Warden of the Fleet had much ado to keep the crowd back with
their tipstaves.
All London was taking a holiday to-day: an enforced holiday as far as
the workers and merchants were concerned, for there surely would be no
business doing in the City when such great goings-on were occurring at
Westminster.
The trial of His Grace the Duke of Wessex on a charge of murder! A trial
which, seeing that the accused had confessed to the crime, could but end
in a sentence of death.
It is not every day that it is given to humbler folk to see so proud a
gentleman arraigned as any common vagabond might be, and to note how a
great nobleman may look when threatened with the hangman's rope.
Is there aught in the world half so cruel as a crowd?
And His Grace had been very popular: always looked upon, even by the
meanest in the land, as the most perfect embodiment of English pride and
English grandeur, he had always had withal that certain graciousness of
manner which the populace will love, and which disarms envy.
But with the exception of his own friends, people of his own rank and
station, who knew him and his character intimately, the people at large
never for a moment questioned his guilt.
He had confessed! surely that was enough! The loutish brains of the
lower proletariat did not care to go beyond that obvious self-evident
fact. The meaner the nature of a man, the more ready is he to
acknowledge evil, he seeks it out, recognizes it under every garb. Who,
among the majority of people, cared to seek for sublime self-sacrifice
in an ordinary confession of crime?
The wiseacres and learned men, the more wealthy burgesses, and people of
more consideration, were content with a few philosophical reflections
anent the instability of human nature and the evil influences of Court
life and of great wealth.
No one cared about the man! it was the pageant they all liked. What
thought had the mob of the agonizing rack to which a proud soul would
necessarily be subjected during the course of a wearisome and elaborate
trial? They only wanted to see a show, the robes of the judges, the
assembly of peers, and that one central figure, the first gentleman in
England, once almost a king--now a felon!
A fine sight, my masters! His Grace of Wessex in a criminal dock!
Places in the Hall were at a premium. The 'prentices were well to the
fore as usual; like so many eel-like creatures, they had slipped into
the front rank as soon as the great doors had been opened. Some few
waifs and vagrants--acute and greedy of gain--were making good trade
with small wooden benches, which they sold at threepence the piece to
those who desired a better view.
The women were all wearing becoming gowns, sombre of hue as befitted the
occasion. His Grace of Wessex was noted for his avowed admiration for
the beautiful sex. They had all brought large white kerchiefs, for they
anticipated some exquisite emotions. His Grace was so handsome! there
was sure to be an occasion for tears.
But only as a pleasurable sentiment! Like one feels at the play, where
the actor expresses feelings, yet is himself cold and unimpassioned.
What His Grace himself would feel was never considered. The crowd had
come to see, some had paid threepence for a clearer sight of the
accused, and all meant to enjoy themselves this day.
Proud Wessex! thou hast sunk to this, a spectacle for a common holiday!
Thy face will be scanned lest one twitch escape! thy shoulders if they
stoop, thy neck if it bend! A thousand eyes will be fixed upon thee in
curiosity, in derision--perchance in pity!
Ye gods, what a fall!
The Lord High Steward of England was expected to arrive at ten o'clock.
In the centre of the great court a large scaffold had been erected, not
far from the Lord Chancellor's Court. In the middle of this there was
placed a chair higher than the rest and covered with a cloth, which bore
the royal arms embroidered at the four corners.
This was for my Lord High Steward.
Each side of him were the seats for the peers who were to be the triers.
Great names were whispered, as the servants of the Knight Marshal
arranged these in their respective places. There was the chair for the
Earl of Kent, and my lord of Sussex, the Earl of Hertford, and Lord
Saint John of Basing, and a score of others, for there were twenty-four
triers in all.
On a lower form were the seats for the judges, and in a hollow place cut
in the scaffold itself, and immediately at the feet of my Lord High
Steward, the Clerk of the Crown would sit with his secondary.
And facing the judges and the peers was the bar, where presently the
exalted prisoner would stand.
No one was here yet of the greater personages, the servants were still
busy putting everything to right, but some gentlemen of the Queen's
household had already arrived, and several noble lords who would be mere
spectators. His Grace's friends could easily be distinguished by the
sombreness of their garb and the air of grief upon their faces. Mr.
Thomas Norton, the Queen's printer, was sorting his papers and cutting
his pens, and two gentlemen ushers were receiving final instructions
from Garter King-at-Arms.
There was indeed plenty for the idlers to see. Great ropes had been
drawn across the further portions of the Hall, leaving a wide passage
from the main entrance right down the centre and up to the Lord High
Steward's seat. Behind these ropes the crowd was forcibly kept back. And
the gossip and the noise went on apace. Laughter too and merry jests,
for this was a holiday, my masters, presently to be brought to a
close--after the death sentence had been passed and every one
dispersed--with lively jousts and copious sacks of ale.
But of all this excitement and bustle not a sound penetrated within the
precincts of the Lord Chancellor's Court, where His Eminence the
Cardinal de Moreno sat patiently waiting.
Desirous above all things of escaping observation, he had driven over
from Hampton Court in the early dawn, and wrapped in a flowing black
cloak, which effectually hid his purple robes, he had slipped into the
Hall and thence into the Inner Court, even before the crowd had begun to
collect. Since then he had sat here quietly buried in thoughts, calmly
looking forward to the interview, which was destined finally to unravel
the tangled skein of his own diplomacy. Once more the destinies of
Europe were hanging on a thread: a girl's love for a man.
Well! so be it! His Eminence loved these palpitating situations, these
hairbreadth escapes from perilous positions which were the wine and salt
of his existence. He was ready to stake his whole future career upon a
woman's love! He, who had scoffed all his life at sentimental passions,
who had used every emotion of the human heart, aye! and its every
suffering, merely as so many assets in the account of his far-reaching
policy, he now saw his whole future depending on the strength of a
girl's feelings.
That she would certainly come, he never for a moment held in doubt. In
these days the commands of a sovereign were akin to the dictates of God;
to disobey was a matter of treason. Aye! she would come, sure enough!
not only because of her allegiance to the Queen, but because of her
intense, vital interest in the great trial of the day.
So His Eminence waited patiently in the Lord Chancellor's Court, which
gave straight into the great Hall itself, until the appointed time.
Exactly at half-past nine the door of the room was opened, and Ursula
Glynde walked in. The Cardinal rose from his seat and would have
approached her, but she retreated a step or two as he came near and said
coldly--
"'Tis Your Eminence who desired my presence?"
"And 'tis well that you came, my daughter," he replied kindly.
"I was commanded by Her Majesty to attend; I had not come of my own free
will."
She spoke quietly but very stiffly, as one who is merely performing a
social duty, without either pleasure or dislike. The Cardinal studied
her face keenly, but obviously she had been told nothing by the Queen as
to the precise object of this interview.
She looked pale and wan: there was a look of acute suffering round the
childlike mouth, which would have seemed pathetic to any one save to
this callous dissector of human hearts. Her eyes appeared unnaturally
large, with great dilated pupils and dry eyelids. She was dressed in
deep black, with a thick veil over her golden hair, which gave her a
nunlike appearance, and altogether made her look older, and strangely
different from the gay and girlish figure so full of life and animation
which had been one of the brightest ornaments of old Hampton Court
Palace. The Cardinal motioned her to a seat, which she took, then she
waited with perfect composure until His Eminence chose to speak.
"My child," he said at last, bringing his voice down to tones of the
greatest gentleness, "I would wish you to remember that it is an old man
who speaks to you: one who has seen much of the world, learnt much,
understood much. Will you try and trust him?"
"What does Your Eminence desire of me?" she rejoined coldly.
"Nay! 'tis not a question of desire, my daughter, I would merely wish to
give you some advice."
"I am listening to Your Eminence."
[Illustration: "I am listening to Your Eminence."]
The Cardinal had taken the precaution of placing himself with his back
to the light which entered, grey and mournful, through the tall leaded
window above. He was sitting near a table covered with writing
materials, and in a large high-backed tapestried chair, which further
enhanced the ponderous dignity of his appearance, whilst helping to
envelop his face in complete shadow. Ursula sat opposite to him on a low
stool, that same grey light falling full upon her pale face, which was
turned serenely, quite impassively upon her interlocutor.
His Eminence rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and his head in
his delicate white hands. The purple robes fell round him in majestic
folds, the gold crucifix at his breast sparkled with jewels: he was a
past master in the art of _mise-en-scene_, and knew the full value of
impressive pauses and of effective attitudes during a momentous
conversation, more especially when he had to deal with a woman. His
present silence helped to set the young girl's aching nerves on edge,
and he noticed with a sense of inward satisfaction that her composure
was not as profound as she would have him think: there was a distinct
tremor in the delicate nostrils, a jerkiness in the movements of her
hand, as she smoothed out the folds of her sombre gown.
"My dear child," he began once more, and this time in tones of more
pronounced severity, "a brave man, a good and chivalrous gentleman, is
about to suffer not only death, but horrible disgrace. . . . On the
other side of these thin walls the preparations are ready for his trial
by a group of men, whose duty it will be anon to allow the justice of
this realm to take its relentless course. The accused will stand
self-convicted, yet innocent, before them."
Once more the Cardinal paused: only for a second this time. He noticed
that the young girl had visibly shuddered, but she made no attempt to
speak.
"Innocent, I repeat it," he resumed after a while. "His Grace has many
friends; not one of them will believe that he could be capable of so
foul a crime. But he has confessed to it. He will be condemned, and
he--the proudest man in England--will die a felon's death. . . ."
"I knew all that, Your Eminence," she said quietly. "Why should you
repeat it now?"
"Only because . . ." said the Cardinal with seeming hesitation, "you
must forgive an old man, my child . . . methought you loved His Grace of
Wessex and . . ."
"Why does Your Eminence pause?" she rejoined. "You thought that I loved
His Grace of Wessex . . . and . . . ?"
"And yet, my child, through a strange, nay, a culpable obstinacy, you,
who could save him not only from death, but also from dishonour, you
remain silent!"
"Your Eminence errs, as every one else has erred," she replied with the
same cold placidity; "I am silent because I have naught to say."
The Cardinal smiled with kind indulgence, like a father who understands
and forgives the sins of his child.
"Let us explain, my daughter," he said. "That fatal night, when the
Marquis de Suarez was killed, a woman was seen to fly from that part of
the Palace where the tragedy had just taken place. . . ."
"Well?"
"Do you not see that if that woman came forward fearlessly and owned the
truth, that it was from jealousy or even to defend her honour that His
Grace killed Don Miguel, do you not see that no judge then will find him
guilty of a wilful and premeditated crime?"
"Then why does not that woman come forward?" she retorted with the first
sign of vehemence, noticeable in the quiver of her voice and the sudden
flash in her pale cheeks, "why does she not speak? she for whose sake
His Grace of Wessex not only took a man's life but is willing to
sacrifice his honour?"
"She seems to have disappeared," said His Eminence softly, "perhaps she
is dead. . . . Some say it was you," he added, leaning slightly forward
and dropping his voice to a whisper.
"They lie," she replied. "I was not there. 'Tis not for me His Grace of
Wessex will suffer both death and disgrace in silence."
This time His Eminence did not smile. There had been a sudden flash in
his eyes at this quick, sharp retort--a sudden flash as suddenly veiled
again. Then his heavy lids drooped; once more he looked paternal,
benevolent, only just with a soupcon of sternness in his impassive face,
the aloofness of an austere man towards the weaknesses of more mundane
creatures.
Never for a moment did he reveal to the unwary young girl all that he
had guessed through her last unguarded speech.
Her love for Wessex! that he knew already! Its depth alone was a
revelation to him. But her jealousy! How her lips had trembled and her
hand twitched when speaking of another, an unknown woman who had called
forth in Wessex that spirit of noble self-sacrifice, that immolation of
his own honour and dignity, which had finally landed him in a criminal
dock.
A woman's passion and a woman's jealousy! Two precious assets in His
Eminence's present balance. He pondered over what he had learned, and
victory loomed more certain than before. He loved this present
situation, the acute tension of this palpitating moment, when he seemed
to hold this beautiful woman's soul, bare and fettered, writhing with
agony and self-torture.
To dissect a human heart! to watch its every quiver, to note the effect
of every searing iron applied with a skilful hand! then to achieve
success in the end through subtle arts and devices seemingly so full of
benevolence, yet instinct with the most refined, most far-reaching
cruelty! This was the form of enjoyment which more than any other
appealed to the jaded mind of this blase diplomatist. The feline nature
within him loved this game with the trembling mouse.
But outwardly he sighed, a deep sigh of disappointment.
"Ah! if they lie!" he said, a gentle tone of melancholy pervading his
entire attitude, "if indeed it was not you, my daughter, who were with
Don Miguel that night . . . then naught can save His Grace. . . . He has
suffered in silence. . . . He will die to-morrow in silence . . . and
innocent."
He had risen from his chair, and began wandering about the narrow
room--aimlessly--as if lost in thought. Ursula was staring straight
before her. The first revelation of her present danger had suddenly
come to her. As in a flash she had suddenly realized that this man had
sent for her in order to use her for his own ends. She felt that she was
literally in the position of the mouse about to be sacrificed to the
greedy ambition of this feline creature, who had neither rectitude nor
compunction where his ambition was at stake.
Yet after that one betrayal of her emotions she had made a vigorous
effort to regain her self-control. Every instinct of self-preservation
was on the alert now, and yet she knew already that she was bound to
succumb. To what she could not guess, but she felt herself the weaker
vessel of the two. He was calm and cruel, passionless and tortuous,
whilst she _felt_ with all her heart and soul and with all her senses.
And though he could not now see her face the Cardinal studied her every
movement. He could see her figure stiffen with the iron determination to
retain her self-possession, and inwardly he smiled, for he knew that the
next moment all that rigidity would vanish, the marble statue would
become living clay, the palsied nerves would quiver with horror, and she
herself would fall, a weeping, wailing creature, supplicating at his
feet.
And this by such a simple method!
Just the opening of a door! gently, noiselessly, until the sound from
the Great Hall entered into this inner room, and voices clearly detached
themselves from the confusing hubbub.
Then His Eminence whispered, "Hush, my daughter! listen! my Lord High
Steward is speaking."
At first perhaps she did not hear, certainly she did not understand, for
her attitude did not relax its uncompromising stiffness.
Lord Chandois was delivering his first speech.
"My lords and gentlemen," he said, "ye are here assembled this day that
ye may try Robert d'Esclade, Duke of Wessex, for a grievous and heinous
crime, which he hath wilfully committed."
It was just the opening and shutting of a door--the claw of the cat upon
the neck of the mouse. At first sound of Wessex' name Ursula had risen
to her feet, straight and rigid like a machine. She did not look towards
the door, but fixed her eyes on him--her tormentor--fascinated as a
bird, to whom a snake has beckoned and bade it to come nigh.
The colour rose to her cheeks, the reality was gradually dawning upon
her. That man who spoke in the Great Hall beyond was a judge--there were
other judges there too. When she arrived at Westminster she had seen a
great concourse of people, heard the names of great legal dignitaries
whispered round her, and of peers who had been summoned for a great
occasion.
That occasion was the trial of the Duke of Wessex on a charge of murder.
"No, no, no," she whispered hoarsely, somewhat wildly, as she took a
step forward; "no, no, no . . . not yet . . . it is not true . . . not
yet----"
The thin crust of ice which had enveloped her heart was melting in the
broad garish light of the actual, awful fact--the commencement of
Wessex' trial.
She tottered and might have fallen but for the table close beside her,
against which she leant.
Her calm and composure were flying from her bit by bit. She had at last
begun to understand--to realize. Up to now it had all been so shadowy,
so remote, almost like a dream. She had not seen Wessex since that last
happy moment when he had pressed her against his heart . . . since then
she had only heard rumours . . . wild statements . . . she knew of his
self-accusation--the terrible crime which had been committed--but her
heart had been numbed through the very appalling nature of the
catastrophe following so closely upon her budding happiness . . . it had
all been intangible all this while . . . whilst now . . .
"The Duke hath made confession," said the Cardinal, and his voice seemed
to come as if in direct answer to her thoughts. "In an hour at most
judgment will be pronounced against him, and then sentence of death."
She passed her hand across her moist forehead, trying to collect her
scattered senses. She looked once or twice at him in helpless, appealing
misery, but his face now was stern and implacable, he seemed to her to
be the presentment of a relentless justice about to fall on an innocent
man. Her throat felt parched, her lips were dry, yet she tried to speak.
"It cannot be . . ." she repeated mechanically, "it cannot be . . . no,
no, my lord, you are powerful . . . you are great and clever . . . you
will find a means to save him . . . you will . . . you will . . . you
sent for me. . . . Oh! was it in order to torture me like this that you
sent for me?"
"My child. . . ."
"That woman?" she continued wildly, not heeding him, "that woman . . .
where is she? . . . find her, my lord . . . find her, and let me speak
to her. . . . Oh! I'll find the right words to melt her heart . . . she
must speak . . . she must tell the truth . . . she cannot let him die
. . . no, no . . . not like that. . . ."
Gone was all her pride, all her icy reserve, even jealousy had vanished
before the awful inevitableness of his dishonour and his death. She
would have dragged herself at the feet of those judges who were about to
condemn him, of this man who was taking a cruel delight in torturing
her; nay! she would have knelt and kissed the hands of that unknown
rival, for whose sake she had endured the terrible mental tortures of
the past few days, if only she could wrench from her the truth which
would set _him_ free from all this disgrace.
"That woman!" she repeated with agonizing passion, "that woman . . .
where is she? . . ."
"She stands now before me," said the Cardinal sternly, "repentant, I
hope, ready to speak the truth."
"No! no! it is false!" she protested vehemently, "false I tell you! It
was not I . . ."
Her voice broke in a pitiable, wistful sob, which would have melted a
heart less stony than that which beat in the Cardinal's ambitious
breast.
"Oh! have I not endured enough?" she murmured half to herself, half in
appealing misery to him. "Jealousy--hate for that woman whom he loves as
he never hath loved me . . . whom he loves better than his honour . . .
for whose sake he will stand there anon, branded with infamy. . . ."
Her knees gave way under her, she fell half prostrate on the floor at
the very feet of her tormentor.
"Find her, my lord," she sobbed passionately, "find her . . . you can
. . . you can. . . ."
But for sole answer he once more pushed the door ajar.
Another voice came from the body of the hall now, that of Mr. Barham,
the Queen's Serjeant--
"And having proved Robert d'Esclade, Duke of Wessex, guilty of this most
heinous murder, I, on behalf of the Crown, will presently ask you, my
lord, to pass sentence of death upon him."
"No, no, no--not death!" she moaned, "not death. . . . They are mad, my
lord--are they not mad? . . . He guilty of murder! Oh! will no one come
forward to prove him innocent?"
"No one can do that but you, my daughter," replied His Eminence sternly,
as he once more closed the door.
"But you do not understand. In God's name, what would you have me do? I
loved him, it is true, but . . . it was another woman . . . not I!
another woman, whose honour is dearer to him than his own . . . for
whose sake he killed . . . for whose sake he is silent . . . for whose
sake he will die . . . but that woman was not I . . . not I!"
"Alas!" he replied placidly, "then indeed nothing can save His Grace
from the block. . . ."
He sighed and returned to his former place beside the table, like a man
who has done all that duty demanded of him, and now is weary and ready
to let destiny take its course.
Ursula watched him dully, stupidly; she could not read just then what
went on behind that mask of suave benevolence. Could she have read the
Cardinal's innermost thoughts she would have seen that complete
satisfaction filled his ambitious heart. He knew that he had succeeded,
it was but a question of time . . . a few minutes, perhaps; but he had a
good quarter of an hour to spare, in which the tortured soul before him
would fight its last fight with despair. There was the long arraignment
to be read out by the Clerk of the Crown, then the names of the triers
to be called out in their order--all that, before the prisoner was
actually called to the bar. Oh yes! he had plenty of time, now that he
was sure of victory.
The girl wandered mechanically towards the door, her trembling hand
sought the latch, but was too weak to turn it. She glued her ear to the
lock and perchance heard a word or two, for even the Cardinal caught the
sound of a loud voice reading the deadly indictment.
"The prisoner hath confessed . . .
"This most heinous crime . . .
"For which sentence of death . . .
"Return his precept and bring forth the prisoner."
Ursula straightened out her girlish figure; with a firm hand now she
smoothed her veil over her hair, and rearranged the disordered folds of
her kerchief. She crossed the room with an unfaltering step, and once
more took a seat on the low stool opposite to His Eminence the Cardinal.
She seemed to have reassumed the same icy calm which she had worn
earlier in the interview; she was quite pale again, and all traces of
tears had disappeared from her eyes.
Quite instinctively, certainly against his will, the Cardinal failed to
return the steady gaze which she now fixed upon him. As she sat there
close to him, her great lustrous eyes trying to search his very soul, he
knew that at last she had guessed.
She _knew_ that he was fully aware of the fact that she was not the
woman for whose sake the Duke of Wessex was suffering condemnation at
this very moment. All the meshes of the base intrigue which had landed
the man she loved in a felon's dock escaped her utterly, but this much
she realized, that the Cardinal had worked for the Duke's undoing, that
he knew who her rival was, that he was wilfully shielding that woman,
whilst callously sacrificing her--Ursula Glynde--to the success of some
further scheme.
She knew all that, yet she did not hesitate. Her love for Wessex had
filled all her life--first as a child, then as an ignorant girl
worshipping an ideal. When she saw him, and in him saw the embodiment of
all her most romantic beliefs, she loved him with all the passionate
ardour of her newly awakened woman's heart. From the moment that his
touch had thrilled her, that his voice had set her temples throbbing,
that her pure lips had met his own, she had given him her whole love,
given herself to him body and soul for his happiness and her own.
So great was her love that jealousy had not killed it; it had changed
her joy into sorrow, her happiness into bitterness, but the heart which
she gave to him she was powerless to take away. He had fooled her, led
her to believe in his love for her, but his life was as precious to her
now as it had been that afternoon--which seemed so long ago--when she
first raised her eyes to his and met his ardent gaze.
She was face to face with the most cruel problem ever set before a human
heart, for she firmly believed that if through her self-sacrifice she
saved him from death and dishonour, he would nevertheless inevitably
turn to the other woman, for whose sake he was suffering now; yet she
was ready with the sacrifice, because of the selflessness of her love.
How well the Cardinal had managed the tragedy which had parted two noble
hearts! Each believed the other treacherous and guilty, yet each was
prepared to lay down life, honour, happiness for the sake of the loved
one.
"Your Eminence," said Ursula very quietly after a little while, "you
said just now that I could save His Grace of Wessex from unmerited
disgrace and death. Tell me now, what must I do?"
"It is simple enough, my daughter," he replied, still avoiding her
clear, steadfast gaze; "you have but to speak the truth."
"The truth, they say, oft lies hidden in a well, my lord," she rejoined.
"I pray Your Eminence to guide me to its depths."
"I can but guide your memory, my daughter, to the events of the fateful
night when Don Miguel was murdered."
"Yes?"
"You were there, in the Audience Chamber, were you not?"
"I was there," she repeated mechanically.
"With Don Miguel de Suarez, who, taking advantage of the late hour and
the loneliness of this part of the Palace . . . insulted you . . . or
. . ."
"Let us say that he insulted me. . . ."
"His Grace then came upon the scene?"
"Just as Your Eminence describes it."
"And 'twas to defend your honour that the Duke of Wessex killed Don
Miguel."
"To defend mine honour the Duke of Wessex killed Don Miguel."
"This you will swear to be true?"
"Without hope of absolution."
"And you will make this tardy confession, my daughter, to His Grace's
judges freely?"
"Whenever it is deemed necessary I will make the confession to His
Grace's judges freely."
She swayed as if her senses were leaving her. Instinctively the Cardinal
put out his arm to support her, but with a mighty effort she drew
herself together, and looked down upon him with all the regal majesty of
her own sublime self-sacrifice.
But, flushed with victory, His Eminence cared nothing for the contempt
of the vanquished. It had been a hard-fought battle. His Grace was saved
from death and Queen Mary Tudor could not help but keep her word. It was
a triumph indeed!
He touched a hand-bell, a servant appeared. A few whispered instructions
and the end was accomplished at last.
But, God in Heaven, at what terrible cost!