They had come down in one of the Cardinal's private barges, and the men had gone to enjoy themselves at one of the alehouses in the neighbourhood of the river.
But the old man declared he must go back at once, and Miles was compelled to go in search of the boatmen, and ask them to have the barge in readiness the moment the tide turned. As he went back he met his father, to his great surprise, and once more he explained that they must wait a little longer—a half-an-hour at least—and so they might as well go back to Sir Harry Guildford's.
"You shall never enter that house again!" stormed the old man. Miles looked at him in dumb amazement, but as they were in the street, he drew him towards the park, where they could have their talk with fewer listeners passing.
Miles began to think his father had gone crazy on the subject of this marriage, for it seemed that Sir Thomas had discovered what Miles himself scarcely knew until the fact was stated to him. And then it seemed that the knowledge flooded over him, making him almost oblivious of what his father was saying, in the rush of joyful enlightenment that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him.
"This Cicely Guildford is no match for you," Sir Thomas was saying, when Miles stopped him with an imperative "Hush, father! You know not what you are saying."
"Ah you take me for a blind fool then, I suppose," foamed the old man in his wrath. "You bring me here to see this girl, and think I shall see no more than if she was her sister Elizabeth."
"I know not what you have seen, sir," said Miles, his voice trembling, "but I can assure you—"
"And I say you are a liar, if you are my son, for it is plain as the nose on your face that you are in love with the wench, and she with you!"
"Father! father! remember you are speaking of a lady who is quite a stranger to you."
"And you would have me believe she is a stranger to you too, I suppose," sneered Sir Thomas.
"Nay, father—did I not tell you that Sir Harry Guildford had been good enough to welcome me as a friend of his family? I told you that I came to Greenwich sometimes to visit these friends, as well as when my duty of attending the Cardinal brought me to the Court."
"But you did not tell me that you were in love with this girl!"
Miles was about to say that he did not know it himself, until his father made the discovery; but he thought it would be wiser to be silent about this, until he had had the opportunity of seeing Mistress Cicely again, when perhaps he might be better able to judge whether his father's surmise was correct as to her feeling towards him.
Now, however, in the confusion and tumult of his feelings—hopes and fears—he could only feel thankful that he was not obliged to go back at once and face his friends, for how could he speak calmly to Mistress Cicely, until he had time to put his own thoughts in order? So he was not sorry when the barge was pushed off from the Palace stairs: and the presence of the rowers at one end, though it did not prevent talking, hindered his father from scolding and raving, as he might have done.
The old knight, however, was no less earnest in pressing upon him the claims of Lady Audrey; until at last, for peace sake, Miles agreed that the case of such a marriage should be submitted to some learned priest, that an independent opinion might be obtained upon that point before any more was said about it; though he was careful at the same time to guard against giving any hope, that he would follow the royal example in this matter of his marriage.
But having conceded this much, he was allowed to sit in silence and think of Mistress Cicely Guildford, and wonder he had not discovered the secret of his own heart before. Rude fingers had torn away the veil that hid it from himself, yet, he could not but feel thankful that he had taken his father to pay this visit; though he felt equally thankful that the business which had brought his father to London was well-nigh settled, and that he would go back to Woodstock in a few days.
But Sir Thomas was determined to have some legal, as well as Church opinion, about the proposed marriage with Lady Audrey; and, if it should be favourable to his wishes, then he would take a house in London, and send for the young widow and her mother, that the marriage might be brought about with as little delay as possible. So, while Miles sat and dreamed of the sweet pure face he had learned to love, his father was wondering where he had better go for advice for the delicate business he was contemplating.
Hitherto Miles had been at his service in every emergency; but Miles was not to be trusted in this matter, and so he sought counsel of a chance acquaintance he had made during his stay.
"You need a learned priest, and a man well versed in the law," said his new friend.
"Well now, there is a priest who preaches sometimes at St. Dunstan's, and I have heard the gossips say that there is not another in London like him for learning. Why not seek him out, and lay the matter before him? The man of law is more easily found, and I will take you to one on whose judgment you can rely."
So Miles was told the next day that this friend was going to take his father to see some other part of London; and the two went together to lay the matter before the lawyer first.
But when the client stated the case the man of law was too wary to give a direct opinion.
"Marriage is a Sacrament of the Church, and therefore can only be decided by the Church," he said. "We have a royal example that such marriages can be made legal by help of the Pope, and therefore I cannot say they are illegal for others."
It was small comfort, perhaps, to Sir Thomas, but he was glad enough of it, and, as he had no idea that Master William Tyndale was a friend of his son's, he went without scruple to "The Sign of the Golden Fleece," and asked to see the priest Master William Tyndale.
But Sir Thomas thought he would be more cautious this time, and not give his name, so he simply told Monmouth, whom he saw at the door of his shop, that he wanted to see the priest on a matter of conscience, and he was taken upstairs, and Master William Tyndale sent for to see this grim-looking old penitent, as the merchant thought him. He was not the first who had come on the same errand, for here in London there were many strangers coming and going, who had not their own parish priest at hand, upon whom the burden troubling their conscience could be laid; so that from preaching in St. Dunstan's Master Tyndale had become the recipient of many strange confessions.
Owing to these visits having been paid before, a little room had been set apart for this use, so that strangers were not taken to the little bare closet where his work of translation was being done; and to this room Master Tyndale was summoned.
The stranger placed before him the case of Miles and Lady Audrey, but carefully suppressed all names, or any allusion to that of the King. The priest, however, at once pointed out that the two were almost precisely similar, further observing,—"And I do not hesitate to say that such marriages are against the law of the Church and the law of the land. For State policy this royal marriage was allowed to take place, but God bath not prospered it, for the King has no heir to live. There is but the Lady Mary, and how know we that the distaff can rule in this realm of England?"
"I care not who rules England so that my son may rule a goodly estate by-and-bye," growled the old man. He was by no means grateful for such an outspoken opinion upon the matter, and he rose from his seat and went down the winding stair, forgetting to leave the customary gift for the priest in his anger.
He only vouchsafed a grunt to the merchant, as he asked if he had seen Master Tyndale, and then hurried away towards Temple Bar.
Nothing seemed to come of these enquiries, but men's minds were turned to consider the King's marriage with his deceased brother's widow, and thus prepare the way for events in the future which at present were undreamed of by any, unless it was the man who ruled England both in Church and State matters.
Miles was startled by the announcement that his father made to him a day or two after their visit to Greenwich. Sir Thomas sent for him one day, and announced that he was going home at once. He had met with a party of gentlemen who were to start with their servants from "The Magpie" the next morning, and Sir Thomas had decided to journey with them as far as Oxford.
"But why should you be in such haste, father?" said Miles. "The business that brought you to the Chancellor's Court is not quite settled yet,—why not stay a day or two longer? There is no lack of travellers going from 'The Magpie' to Oxford."
But Sir Thomas shook his head. "I must get back," he said, "for it may be I shall have business with the Pope."
"Then it will go through my master's hand," said Miles, "for, as Cardinal Legate, he has the settlement of all disputes, and the granting of all dispensations for this realm. But, my father, be wary how you invoke the help of the law in any quarrel. You say our estate is sorely impoverished by the changes that are going on; do not waste the substance that remains for any shadow the law can give you of future benefits." Miles ventured to say this much, because he knew how many poor men were made poorer by seeking the help they thought the law ought to give them. His father said nothing of having visited a lawyer and Master Tyndale on the subject of his marriage, but Miles shrewdly guessed that he had been somewhere, and that the advice he had received had not been in accordance with his wishes; and the Lady Audrey was not mentioned during their last interview.
Sir Thomas had succeeded in getting some abatement in his taxes, but the old man would rather the business had failed and the marriage proposals prospered, for now he would most certainly have to hand over the dowry of the Lady Audrey, and this would compel him to sell a good many sheep, for it was to stock the farms that had been turned into pasture that the lady's money had been expended, and he had not been able to save more than half of it by the sale of the wool the sheep had produced. And it was for the sake of this money he was so anxious Miles should marry the young widow.
IT was a relief to Miles when his father left him, and later that day he was able to pay Master William Tyndale a call, and almost the first news he heard was of the visit of the stranger, who came to have a matter of conscience settled, the question being about a marriage that was exactly parallel with that of the King. "And what was Master Tyndale's judgment upon the matter?" asked Miles, anxiously, for he had no doubt but that it concerned himself and Lady Audrey.
He had not mentioned his friend, or the translation of the New Testament to his father, for he felt sure he would not approve of such a thing being done, and so he did not know that his father had ever heard the name of Master Tyndale, though he had taken him to St. Dunstan's Church to hear him preach.
It was therefore some relief, and a source of amusement too, when he heard what Master Tyndale had said about the proposed marriage, and there was some hearty laughter at Sir Thomas Paton's expense when the Monmouth family heard the news.
It made a talk, too, in city circles, but, when the King was mentioned as having made just such a marriage, men spoke with bated breath, though they thought the more, perhaps, upon the matter.
Feeling assured now that his father was not likely to press forward this plan, Miles was the more eager to see Mistress Cicely Guildford again, and ascertain for himself whether his father's surmise was correct,—that the young lady felt kindly towards him.
But autumn was deepening into winter before he could go to Greenwich again, and then he went in attendance upon his master, for the Cardinal never went anywhere without a train of servants and several secretaries in attendance upon him; and it was not until they had been at the palace two or three days that he was free to go into the town and visit his friends.
When he got there he found one of the younger girls in the garden, gathering the last of the dill, and tarragon, and other herbs that were in such continual demand for cookery.
Miles looked round, expecting to see the elder sister at this task, for he knew that Cicely always took the lead in these matters.
Saucy Mistress Maud saw the look, and said instantly, "Cicely is not here; she has gone to the Convent of St. Francis."
"Gone to the convent!" repeated Miles. "When will she be back?"
It was the girl's turn to exclaim now, "Whenever does a girl come back from a convent?"
"But you mean she has gone to pay a visit for the day to one of the lay sisters," said Miles, in a tone of trembling anxiety.
The tremble in the young man's voice arrested the girl's attention, and, though she was only a girl, she felt there was trouble in store for the friend whom they had all learned to love. She put down the herbs she had been gathering, and came close to where he was standing. "I don't think Cicely liked it," she whispered; "at the very last I saw her crying several times, and I wished you would come, for I thought, perhaps, if you knew you might—"
"Yes, yes; but tell me, she has not gone to become a nun?" panted Miles.
The girl nodded. "You see the Queen liked her, and that is always what she wishes for her favourites,—that they should join a sisterhood. She would become a nun herself if she could."
"Well, I heartily wish she would then, and perhaps when she knew what it was like she would leave young girls to live a natural life."
He spoke very bitterly; and Maud Guildford could only look and wonder, for she had never seen the young secretary in this mood before.
While they were standing there Lady Guildford came into the garden; and, when Miles had bowed and greeted her, he asked quickly why Cicely had gone to the convent.
A shadow passed over the lady's face. "It was not to please herself," she said, "but it was in fulfilment of a promise given to the Queen several years ago. We postponed its fulfilment as long as we could," she added, "for we did not like parting with our home bird, Cicely being such a help and comfort to us at home."
"Yes, yes, I know; and now you have sent her away," groaned Miles.
The lady looked at him, as Maud had done. Surely there was more than mere friendship here, she thought; and then she wondered whether her darling had carried this secret love with her to the convent, to make her life bitter with regrets through all the slow years that must pass over her head.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she still held the young man's hand as she said, "Life is full of such sorrows!"
"Yes, it may be," said Miles, bitterly, "but who sends them? Who makes them? Who has condemned Cicely and me to a life-long sorrow? I came to-day to tell you that I loved your daughter better than life, and to ask if I might win her love in return, and I am told that only death can give her to me now! Is this fair? Is this just? You say my Cicely did not go to please herself, but the Queen. What right has even Queen Catherine to blight two young lives? She is a good woman all are agreed, but it is also said she would be happier in the convent than at the Court. Yet what right has she to condemn another to such a life?"
In his bitter disappointment Miles forgot where he was, or to whom he was speaking, but the lady knew that incautious words were often carried to the Court, and even to the Queen and young Princess, and so, for fear mischief should follow upon it, she drew Miles into the house, where they could at least talk over the matter without fear of being overheard.
But the more Miles said, the more convinced the lady became that Cicely fully reciprocated his affection, and that it was the hope of seeing her lover once more that had made the girl watch so often and so wistfully at the windows for a day or two before she went away. She told Miles of this now, but it seemed rather to increase his distress than to comfort him, to hear that Cicely might really have loved him, as his father said she did; and he held up his hand, and said in a hoarse whisper, "Do not make my burden harder than I can bear. To think that she, my darling Cicely, is in the convent. But giving all her mind and strength to its duties is bad enough, but to think of her pining for the life we might have lived together, would be more than I could endure. Certainly I shall try every means to get her released, and I have much influence now, and the vows are not irrecoverable."
The lady shuddered. Hard as her child's lot might be, it would be harder for everybody if she should dare to draw back, even though she was as yet only a novice; for in the sight of the Queen she had been a pledged nun for several years. Cicely had rather enjoyed the little distinction this gave her among the immediate circle of the Queen's ladies, and it had not been difficult for her to leave the more merry of the Court festivities, for she loved the quiet of her own home far more than the glare, and glitter, and gossip of the Court—even that which surrounded the Queen, which was far more sedate than where the King held undivided rule.
So she had been called "the little nun" for several years past, because of her quiet domestic ways and pleasures, and it seemed to those who only knew her about the Court that it was only natural that she should become a nun in reality when she was old enough to take the vows; and they rather wondered that this had been delayed so long, than that Cicely had gone so early to the convent.
But this Court gossip had not reached her home, where Miles alone knew her, and where she was always a merry, happy girl, while thoughtful and careful to spare her mother trouble, and take her full share in the domestic work that fell to the share of all ladies in those days.
It was this carefulness to be at hand when any domestic work was going forward that made Miles look for her expectantly, when he saw her sister in the garden gathering herbs, for it was this side of Cicely's character that he knew. It was the quiet thoughtfulness that reminded him of his sister, and had won his attention and regard, which so slowly and imperceptibly changed into love, that he knew not that it was there until his father's over-anxious eyes detected it.
It may have been that some prying Court gossip had also penetrated their secret, and warned the Queen that if her little nun of the Court was ever to be a veritable nun of the convent, there was no time to lose in placing her within its shadow; for the arrangements had been pressed on by the Queen in great haste at last, and there was little time given to consider the momentous step that was to be taken.
When Sir Harry came home from his duties at the palace, and heard from his wife the state of affairs, he was greatly concerned.
"Witless knave that I am!" he exclaimed, "I might have guessed that the little wench would smile on such a gallant as Master Miles."
"But what good would it have served?" asked his wife, "even if Master Miles had told us three months agone that he loved her; you forget our word to the Queen, that she should go to the convent as soon as time served."
"I am not likely to forget my duty to the Queen, good dame; but my duty to my child lies even closer than that, and I should have made suit to the Queen, that my promise and yours was given without Cicely's consent, and how she had by her own unwitting love for this man made it impossible for me to carry it out."
"But you are not sure that Cicely does love him," said his wife.
"Ah dame, I wish I could believe she did not, for what you now tell me has made clear to me several things that I noticed in our little wench before she went away. Would to God I had known of this earlier, and I would have saved her from our rash promise, even though I offended the Queen, and had to give up my post at Court for it."
Lady Guildford looked at her husband, and wondered whether she was prepared to go to such a length as this. They were not wealthy people, and their rank imposed upon them many expenses they could not afford before they came to Greenwich, where they could now live in ease and luxury, instead of almost pinching poverty, as they had to do before.
This might be the price they would have had to pay for holding their daughter back from the convent, in the face of the Queen's wish that she should go there; and in the silence that followed both were asking themselves whether they were prepared to pay such a price for their child's future happiness.
Possibly if they had thought it likely that the Cardinal's young secretary would ask for her hand in marriage, they might have delayed a little longer sending her to the convent, but no such thought had crossed the minds of either mother or father. To them Cicely was already appropriated to the service of the Church, and there the matter ended so far as they were concerned.
They would gladly have welcomed Miles as a son-in-law, if they had known his secret in time, but now they could only think with sorrow that it had come too late. "Too late!" Ah, bitter, bitter words when their thoughts turned to the convent, where their child was shut away from the joys of life, as wife and mother; and where there was only too good reason to fear she would ever be looking back with vain regret to the time when she and Miles met in free and happy friendship, that had grown deeper and more lasting, until it changed to love's supreme joy and sorrow.
Miles had been left for Maud and the younger children to entertain, while Sir Harry and Lady Guildford had been talking; and before they went to join the young people, the lady said, "Do not speak of what you think concerning Cicely."
"Why not, good dame? It may comfort the lad to know that she cared for him before she went away, though it were sin for such a thought to be encouraged now. I will be wary though, do not doubt, for the lad has sorrow enough just now."
Sir Harry Guildford had no intention of doing more than speaking a few kindly courteous words, that should let the young man know that his suit would have prospered if Cicely had not been beyond their reach. Somehow the children got an idea that they were not wanted just then, and so Miles was left alone with his host; and the kindly words and sympathetic tone were too much for his firmness just then, and before he was aware of it, Miles was telling Cicely's father a good deal of what he might have told her if she had been at home; and the baronet listened, and at last told Miles that he believed Cicely fully returned his love, although no words had been spoken between them.
When he heard this, a marvellous change seemed to come over Miles.
"You tell me truly, Sir Harry?" he almost demanded in his eager impulsiveness, for all at once the sorrow that was almost tearful in its tenderness, had changed to something that was akin to desperation, as he said, "This has changed all things for me!"
"What do you mean?" asked Sir Harry, looking up in surprise, for Miles had started from his seat, and looked as though he would storm the convent itself to rescue Cicely.
"Sit down lad, sit down, there is nothing to be done," said Cicely's father sadly.
"Nothing to be done!" repeated Miles. "I thought so a few minutes ago when I believed I was the only one to suffer this heartache, but now you tell me my Cicely has suffered, and will suffer the same, do you think I can say there is nothing to be done? She is but a novice as yet, and there is time for her to change her mind, and if she will only say she does not fully assent to take the vows required of her, my master will absolve her from all that has been done, and she will be free to leave the convent."
"Yes, as a foresworn nun, whom all men will despise," said Sir Harry, in a tone of bitterness.
Miles stared at him as though he did not understand. "Do you wish your daughter to languish out her days in this convent that is but little better than a prison? I believe that women as well as men, can serve God better in doing the work of the world, be it ever so humble, than in being shut away from their fellows to brood and pine for the sunlight of God's love, and human love, which is as sunlight in this dark world. No! no! Sir Harry, I must fight for the sunlight now—fight for it for my Cicely as well as for myself. You have given me something to work and strive for, and with it has come the strength. We may have to wait long and work hard, before we can hope to see each other again; but from this hour I shall hope, and that will nerve me to struggle against all difficulties. Now will you tell me all you know about the convent. If I may not see my Cicely, I may at least look upon the roof that covers her."
But Sir Harry feared that Miles would commit some rash deed in his present temper—climb the convent wall perhaps, and bring trouble and disgrace upon Cicely as well as upon himself.
So instead of telling him just where the convent was situated, he persuaded him to go back with him to the Palace of Placentia at once, as he had heard the Cardinal enquiring for one of his secretaries before he left.
Miles had little fear that he was the secretary wanted, but still he was specially desirous of pleasing his master just now, and so he readily gave up the idea of going to the convent, and returned to the palace with the King's controller, talking, as they went, of the steps that must be taken, if Cicely was to be rescued before the first year of her novitiate was at an end.
Sir Harry was in favour of approaching the Queen and laying the whole matter before her, while Miles thought it would be wiser to seek the counsel and help of his master. As Cardinal Legate he would have the power to grant a dispensation dissolving the preliminary vows already taken, and the sooner the business could be set on foot the better.
Miles knew, though he did not tell his friend, that his master would be ready to do anything that was likely to vex the Queen; for the Papal Crown had again eluded his grasp, mainly through the duplicity of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, the nephew of the Queen; and great as he was, the Cardinal was not above paying off such slights and affronts. And so to hear that Cicely was one of the Queen's ladies, who had been half forced, half persuaded, to enter the convent by the Queen, would powerfully aid in getting her out again, if the Cardinal was to be the person approached upon the subject.
So, without stating the reason why he thought so, Miles said he was sure the Cardinal would be more ready to help them on Cicely's behalf than the Queen was likely to be; and so it was settled that Miles should seek an opportunity of laying the whole matter before his master.
IN a splendidly-furnished chamber in the Palace of Placentia sat the Cardinal Chancellor, who held the destinies of England in his hand, but looking sadly perturbed and anxious. Earlier in the day his private messenger from the continent had arrived; bringing full particulars of how his master had been cheated of the popedom once more by the Queen's nephew, Charles the Fifth.
"It was not for myself that I wanted it, but for England," he muttered. "England should be the friend and adviser of both the French king and German sovereign, and by holding the balance even between the two, be superior to both; but the King grows more wilful every day, and this war with France, which he is bent upon pursuing, spoils all my dreams of power for him and England, and yet I cannot make him see it. Now, if I could have been made Pope I could have held this sway for England, and, by a due reform of the Church, could make it greater even than the power of the King, though the people well-nigh adore him, as they well may, for he is their hope against civil war, and a most goodly and amiable prince," and again the Cardinal heaved a deep sigh, that told of the pain that had begun to mingle with the sweetness of the love he undoubtedly felt for his young master.
We, who only know of Henry the Eighth as the cruel, despotic tyrant which he proved himself in his later middle life, can have no idea of the almost adoring love he inspired in his subjects and courtiers during the early years of his reign. Wolsey, who knew him before he came to the throne, was one of his most devoted admirers, and, there is no doubt, truly loved the King, even while he pursued his own ambitions.
Henry was a tall, handsome young man, with most winning manners, and a suave, gracious demeanour to all who came in his way. Then he was one of the most learned among his contemporaries, for his astute father, seeing he was the second son, had educated him for the Church, so that he was able to hold his own in a discussion with the great thinkers and theologians who came to his Court. Added to this, he was the one hope of the nation against the renewal of a civil war that had devastated the country, and in which scarcely a family lived but had some tradition of cruel suffering endured through the war.
All these causes combined made the people willing to yield to the King's wishes in a fashion that is almost inconceivable to us. And he had been almost as wax in the hands of his Chancellor, who ruled the kingdom in his name, but now saw, for the first time, that the power over this accomplished, winsome king was slipping from his hand, and that a young girl of sixteen, who had lately come to Court in attendance on the Queen, was likely to prove a formidable rival to his power.
It was in the midst of these thoughts that one of his pages came to tell him that Master Miles Paton had returned.
"Send him to me at once," said the Cardinal, shortly; and the next minute Miles bowed before him, and apologised for being absent when he was wanted.
Something in the appearance of the young secretary arrested the attention of the Cardinal, and, instead of telling him the business he wanted him for, he said, abruptly, "Have you too received bad news?"
"I have had my life blighted beyond remedy, unless your Eminence can help me," said Miles, in a tone of trembling earnestness.
The Cardinal slowly shook his head. "Unless it is some Church affair, I fear I may be powerless," he said, sadly, for just now he was in a very despondent mood as to his power with the King.
"It is an affair of the Church," said Miles, eagerly. "A young girl has been forced to enter a convent to please the Queen, against her wish, and thereby our lives are both made sad and barren of all good," and as he spoke he fell on one knee, and poured out the whole story of his love for Cicely Guildford, almost forgetting, in the eagerness of his tale, that the Cardinal might have but trifling interest in such a small affair.
But Wolsey, who was a student of men as well as affairs, was noting, with an interest that drew his mind from his own anxieties for a time, the change that a few hours had wrought in his young secretary. He was a man now, ready to do and dare anything for the sake of the woman he loved, and, in spite of himself, the Cardinal could not help showing that he was greatly interested in what he heard.
"Ah! would that I were Pope, and I would put down half the convents and monasteries that now exist. There are far too many of these houses for the lazy and incompetent."
"Nay, but my Lady Cicely is not lazy. She is a most useful handmaid to her mother and father," interjected Miles, rather indignantly.
The Cardinal smiled, and said, "How long think you she will be either a useful or an industrious wench, shut up in a convent, which, you say, she hates?"
"She will fret herself ill," said Miles, "and then slowly pine away and die."
"Or else get into mischief and lead other sisters astray. Truly she has little vocation for the life of a nun I should say. But be silent about this matter, and of your having conferred with me upon it. I say not that you shall have the maiden for your wife, but I will see what can be done. Meanwhile, I want those letters answered with all despatch, for the messenger returns at daybreak, and they must be ready."
"They shall be ready, my lord," said Miles. But for the Cardinal interrupting him, he would have told him how he had given Mistress Cicely Guildford portions of the New Testament, which he had translated into English, and that the reading of God's Word would most certainly unfit her for such a life as she would be required to live as a nun.
If he had had time to tell this, he might have gone further and taken the Cardinal into his confidence as to the work going on in the city at "The Sign of the Golden Fleece," but fortunately the Cardinal's own action stopped this confidence, and Miles went to his own room, greatly cheered, for he knew that slight as was the hope that had been thus held out to him, his master would do his best to see that it was fulfilled. There was one difficulty that might prove very hard to overcome, and that was that Cicely had entered a convent the Queen was greatly interested in,—the Convent of St. Francis, at Greenwich.
Miles had also learned that prayer will often bring help and guidance when all other means fail, and so, before writing his despatches, he committed his care and anxiety for Cicely to God in prayer, and then he was better able to give his whole and undivided attention to the writing of his master's letters.
Not a thought outside these was allowed to obtrude, for fear some error should creep in and cause untold complications, as it might well do, for the Cardinal was in communication with so many different people, both in France and Germany, that a slip of the pen might lead to unheard-of disasters. Here, in one of these confidential letters, he was writing to a lady in France, asking her to use her influence that the Lady Anne Boleyn, who had lately come to Court with her father, might be invited to return to the Court of France with as little delay as possible, and to further this the writer (Cardinal Wolsey) would do all in his power to bring about an honourable peace as soon as possible.
Miles knew well enough that his master had always opposed the war with France, and laboured incessantly to maintain the peace both with France and Germany; and he often felt, when he heard his master decried, that if people only knew as much about State secrets as he did, they would see that the King they adored was responsible for the waste and extravagance that made taxation necessary, and for which the Chancellor was blamed, he choosing to stand between the King and the people for all purposes, and to willingly take the blame that belonged of right to Henry.
But Miles rubbed his eyes in astonishment when he read that Mistress Anne Boleyn was likely to cause grave trouble with the King and Court if she could not speedily be transferred to the Court of France again. Of course he knew the young lady from hearing her talked of by most of the young men who were in attendance upon the King. Full half-a-dozen were in love with the gay, sprightly girl, who knew so well how to use her Irish black eyes and raven locks, that half the Court were in love with her, or fancied they were.
The most favoured of the lady herself was Lord Percy, a son of the Duke of Northumberland. That much Miles had learned since he had come to Greenwich, but what he did not know was that the King was so jealous of young Lord Percy that he had actually told Wolsey he must try and get this intrusive lover out of the way for him, as he was enamoured of the Lady Anne himself!
Knowing all the difficulties of playing such a game as the King desired, it was not wonderful that Wolsey should feel depressed, for this was altogether a new element in the game of statecraft; and if Anne Boleyn could be sent back to France it would leave his hands so much more free to manipulate the other strings that he held, more especially now that he had become convinced that the reform of the Church must be the next step in his policy if England was even to hold her own in the councils of Europe.
It was hard to frame and follow a policy in these transitional times. A little time back, society as a whole was a much more simple thing. As the Pope was the spiritual head of the Church—receiving his authority and power from God, and handing it to the cardinals, and the cardinals to the bishops and other dignitaries—so there had been a corresponding State hierarchy, at the head of which was the Holy Roman Emperor, as he was called. To the Emperor all the sovereigns of Europe owed titular obedience, although it was of a somewhat shadowy kind, the kings receiving their power from the will of the Emperor, and granting it in turn to the feudal lords, who, in their turn, granted it to the people on condition of certain service rendered. But this old-fashioned feudal system was fast breaking up. Henry and the King of France had both put themselves forward for election as Emperor; and now that Charles of Spain had been chosen because he could bribe the electors more heavily than his rivals, there seemed an end of the old orderly handing down of power in the State, and who could tell how soon the same influence would be at work in the Church?
There was Luther clamouring in Germany, and the best men among the clergy in England were demanding reform of abuses of the Church. The Cardinal had thought by getting himself elected Pope he could effect these reforms in the Church without endangering the Papacy, and at the same time secure for England more substantial power in the councils of Europe.
But twice he had been disappointed of the tiara, and the chance was not likely to recur again, so he must bend all his energies to the reform of the Church, which his position as Cardinal Legate gave him, and to effect this he did not want to be bothered with the lovesick ravings of the King about Anne Boleyn, for whom he felt a profound contempt, if not actual dislike, she having already come between him and the King on more than one occasion.
It might be possible by-and-bye to set aside the King's marriage with his brother's widow, for Queen Catherine had evidently ceased to charm the King, much as he loved her at first. This, perhaps, would have been a small matter if the royal couple had a family of healthy sons and daughters, but the Queen's sons all died in a most mysterious fashion as soon as they were born. Wolsey was quite aware of the anxiety of the nation that there should speedily be an heir to the throne, about whose title there could be no dispute. At the present time there was only the Lady Mary,—a rather sad-looking girl,—who was being carefully educated it is true, but whoever heard of a woman ruling this turbulent English nation?
The idea was preposterous; and once again Wolsey wished, as many another had, that he could hear of a rosy, healthy boy being born to the King and Queen. It would set men's hearts at rest, and they would turn to their trade or their farm with confidence that their labour would not be wasted in another civil war. But, with no heir-apparent to the crown, there were a dozen doors where sedition and treachery might creep in; and Wolsey decided that unless Queen Catherine should present the King with a son, likely to live, the question of the legality of their marriage must be enquired into; and then, if possible, another wife chosen for the King without delay. Wolsey had almost made up his mind who this should be, but it was not the Lady Anne Boleyn. No! no! the lady must bring dynastic power in securing a lasting peace with France; and it might be in restoring the French crown to an English king; and for this purpose he had fixed his hope on the sister of the French king, the Lady Margaret of Valois, whose portrait he had had sent over from Paris that he might judge whether she was likely to prove a suitable partner for his master.
Of course that master knew nothing of the plans forming themselves in the mind of his minister. He was content to live a day at a time, and get as much enjoyment out of it as he could. He liked to be popular with his subjects as well as with his Court, and loved to display his skill in feats of arms, tournaments, and manly sports, that the people were free to witness in Greenwich Park.
Wolsey too—a handsome man—if he did not actually take part in the spectacles, was not averse to showing off his magnificence as well as his master; and Henry was ready to welcome him at every frolic, for snatches of graver business could be settled in the tournament ground between the two, and save the trouble of discussion at the Council Board.
Between the rush of some great feats of arms, Henry would say to his minister, while the people were applauding his prowess, "Now, I want ten thousand crowns, and you must get it out of the pockets of these varlets." And the Chancellor knew that these light words meant a tax of some kind; and he had to rack his brains as to what he should put the tax upon, after the unheard-of rebuff he had received from the House of Commons in the summer.
Never before had such a thing occurred to a Chancellor of England, and the thought of it rankled in Wolsey's mind still, and he was not likely to forget it. Doubtless the revenue of bishoprics, held by Wolsey, often went to make up the deficit in the King's Exchequer. After this rebuff from the Commons, Henry was lavish and extravagant, and would squander money like water.
Not that he was a fool by any means. He was a keen-witted, capable man, and, if he had only been compelled to use the faculties with which he was endowed, would have made a better King in later life. But he was flattered to the top of his bent, and his chief minister was only too willing to take all the trouble of governing off his hands, that he might enjoy the pleasure of its shadow.
It was for a taste of this shadowy glory that he had declared war with France, but which he had small chance of carrying very far; and Wolsey foresaw that he would soon be called upon to patch up a peace.
Then would be his time to moot the affair of the Princess Margaret of Valois, and by this master stroke secure at once a lasting peace with France, an heir to the throne of England, and a possible right to the throne of France as well.
Secure of this, he could give his undivided attention to the reform of the Church, which should forestall any such tampering with the power of the Pope, as had occurred in the case of Germany.
He had not heard of the little room at "The Sign of the Golden Fleece," and the work going on there. Possibly, if he had heard that a thunderbolt was being forged there that should split the Papacy from root to crown, he would have shaken his head, and smiled at the credulity that could imagine any power great enough to effect this. And yet it was silently being brought to perfection, almost within sound of the Cardinal's chapel-bell, and no man was the wiser yet, or dreamed that such a thing could be!
THE Cardinal always took care that no listener should ever become possessed of his secrets, or what he might wish to communicate to his secretaries, so that it was not through anything that passed in the palace that Queen Catherine heard the next morning, before she left her closet, that her young favourite, who had recently gone to the convent, had not gone heart-whole, and that her parents might seek to delay or prevent her taking the vows of a nun when her novitiate was at an end.
The fact was that Miles had not been very careful to look about him when he went to the Controller's garden, or he would have seen that a dwarf, known about the palace as Saladin, had dogged his steps, and was hiding behind a convenient privet hedge while he was talking about Cicely to her sister.
Being of a prying, mischievous disposition, he crept close under the window when Miles went into the house, and with what he heard and what he surmised and added to the story, he went back to his friend in the palace with the tale that the little nun was to be rescued from the convent, and married to one of the King's gentlemen, for he had mistaken Miles for a young gallant who had often paid court to Mistress Cicely while she was in the service of the Queen.
Nominally, the dwarf was in the service of the girl Princess Mary, but he was allowed a good deal of freedom by his mistress, and had attached himself to the Queen's confessor, because he generally had some sweet dainty to give him when he carried him any tale of the doings of the ladies and gentlemen about the Court.
Saladin was the butt and plaything of everybody within the precincts of Placentia, and, while passing for half an idiot among those who only saw him as the dwarf to make game of, the priest was training him to become an acute observer and a careful retailer of all the sundry scraps of gossip that came in his way. From the miscellaneous collection poured out to him every evening, the watchful priest could select such as were likely to be useful to himself or his mistress, and reject the rest.
Already did this watchful friend of Queen Catherine know that grave danger threatened his mistress in the person of the merry, black-haired little lady, who had come recently from the Court of France, and who, though little more than a girl of sixteen, had sufficient strength of character to hold fast by the fashion in which the ladies dressed there, which was altogether more neat and becoming than the English fashion, which Queen Catherine had followed blindly, caring too little to approve or disapprove of the cut of a gown or wimple, so that it was splendid enough to please her husband. The Princess Margaret, the French king's sister, had done her best to teach her ladies greater simplicity in dress, which this English girl had adopted, and refused to give up now that she had returned to England. It was not the only thing either that she had learned at the French Court, he heard, for scraps of gossip had come to him, making him fear that the Lady Anne, in spite of her merry laugh and coquettish ways, had learned something of the heresy that was whispered the Princess encouraged, so that Saladin had been warned to collect all he could about the Lady Anne, and it had been a relief to the priest when he heard that Lord Percy would marry her presently.
Then, a day or two later, Saladin brought him the news that Lord Percy and Master Guildford together were going to break into the convent, and carry off Mistress Cicely, the little nun.
Father Dominic did not believe in the literal fact of this being attempted, but Saladin's story was too circumstantial not to be believed in its essential, and so he hastened to the Queen and told her that her favourite must be removed from the neighbourhood of Greenwich without delay if the King's waning affection was to be retained, and she become the mother of an heir to the English throne.
The fact was, Cicely had been devoted to the conventual life as a sort of hostage for the Queen herself. Catherine had grown very fond of the girl, and just because she was the sweetest thing about the Court to her, she must be sacrificed to the Church, that through this, and the prayers of the girl herself, the greatly desired gift of a son might be bestowed upon her, and her husband's heart turned towards her once more. If the Queen herself thought that the death of her babies was a proof of the anger of God against her, it was because she had chosen to become the Queen of England rather than the higher vocation of a nun; and so, in sending Cicely to the convent, surely heaven would pardon her sin, and accept the sweet, fresh life of the girl as an equivalent, while she would do all she could to further the power and glory of the Church through the exalted position which she occupied.
She knew nothing as yet of her husband's regard for Lady Anne, nor of the reputed love of Lord Percy for Cicely. Her confessor only gave her carefully assorted pieces of information, and so all she heard of the affair was that there was danger that her favourite might be removed forcibly from the convent if she was not sent to a distance, and this so alarmed the Queen that she gave orders that the girl should be removed at once to a place of safety at some distance from Greenwich.
The community had a branch establishment in the neighbourhood of Oxford, and the very next night, under cover of darkness, a party of nuns and guards set out on the journey thither, while Miles was fondly imagining that his beloved was walking behind the wall he knew so well, and listening to the rustle of the trees, under which they had often walked together, and he had read to her scraps of his beloved Greek Testament, or some of the notes that Erasmus had written to make the text quite clear.
Under the trees in Greenwich Park, too, he had given her the translation he had copied for her; and he wondered now whether she had taken this with her to the convent, or left it with her girlish trinkets for her sister to claim by-and-bye.
Miles would have liked to know what had become of this. Certainly, such a gift as his was not calculated to make her stay in the convent any happier, and he almost hoped she had left it at home, and that he should hear the next time he came that his gift had been found, with her rings and brooches, in the drawer which she said was not to be opened until she had been in the convent two years.
The removal of Cicely from Greenwich was effected so quietly that her father and mother knew nothing about it. But the Cardinal, sitting in his room at Placentia, knew the whole matter, and where they were going to take the lady; however, he was careful that no breath of this should reach the ears of Miles just now, for fear he should make some rash attempt to run away with her while they were upon the road. Such clumsy methods would not have fitted in with the purpose the Cardinal had at heart. He could watch and wait, and he hoped to be able to outwit the Queen, and her confessor too, though he was an astute man, and a Spaniard to boot. If he did not possess a dwarf like Saladin, he had other spies in his service, for he could not have been at the King's elbow at every crucial moment if he had not watchful and intelligent spies about the Court, who kept him informed of every move in the game that was going forward on the chessboard of European politics.
This system of espionage was rapidly growing in his hand, but it was nothing to what it became in the hands of his successor, Thomas Cromwell.
Cromwell governed England and the King through his army of paid spies, he having studied deeply the methods of Machiavelli. The whole system of English government was built up on this system, so that no man could tell but that his dearest friend, or even son or daughter, was not a paid agent of Cromwell, and that his most simple and confidential words and deeds would not be reported to the Chancellor; with the result that the very springs of social and private life were poisoned at their source by the infamous system that was now coming into vogue everywhere, and was so largely used by the Cardinal for the furtherance of his own plans.
As soon as his business with the King was finished, he and his retinue returned to York House, and early the following day Miles was summoned to his presence.
"I shall require you to go to Oxford on certain business connected with the new college, that is now well-nigh completed," he said.
Miles was full of grief and anxiety on Cicely's account, but he could not help feeling delighted at the thought of revisiting his Alma Mater, and seeing the friends whom he had left behind; and he thanked the Cardinal for selecting him for the service that would allow him to see these dear friends again.
"You have proved yourself wary and careful at York House and other places, but you will need to exercise the same discretion, as my commissioner, to enquire into the condition, revenue, and inmates of the smaller convents and monasteries of the diocese of Oxford. I appoint you to this post as Cardinal Legate," said Wolsey, in answer to the look of dumb amazement with which Miles received his master's news. He could not thank him, for he did not know what to think of such an offer, except that he was wholly unfitted for it, both on account of his youth, and also because he had had no previous training in such work. He, however, managed to say this, after a pause, during which the Cardinal had looked at him with an amused smile.
"As to experience—who has ever dared to interfere with these dirty nests of unclean birds?" said Wolsey. "But if ever the Church is to be reformed, the revenue that now goes to keep a lot of lazy men and women in dirt and idleness, must be used for the founding of schools and colleges. If you are in doubt as to whether these places are as I have described them, read Erasmus's 'Colloquies.' He will tell you something of what a monastic life is in reality, and he ought to know, for he took the vows and spent six years of his life in a monastery, and Erasmus is not a man to speak untruly."
"I have heard, too, that the father of Erasmus was a monk," Miles ventured to say.
"Aye, he was; he had left his girl-wife before our Erasmus was born, to go to Rome in search of learning, and before he got back he heard a false report of the death of his wife; and he went to a monastery to bury his sorrow, and only found out that he had been deceived, and that his wife and son were living, when it was too late. You may judge therefore how Erasmus likes these lazy hooded crows, whom he makes us laugh at, though it is no laughing matter for the Church to have these 'Colloquies' and the praise of folly so widely read as they are, unless she means to set about the cleansing of her houses; and therefore do I send you on this errand, for I know you to be one who has the reform of the Church at heart, though you may not have set about providing a remedy in the wisest fashion. Nov, however, I give you the authority to work for the purification of the Church; and the first step must be in the monasteries and convents, for these are the hot-beds of corruption. Now, having told you so much, I will prepare you for a surprise that may meet you at the outset of your work. I have reason to believe that Mistress Cicely Guildford has been removed from the Franciscan Convent of Greenwich to a smaller house of the same community at Oxford, and it will be the duty of you and your colleague to secure the names of all the inmates of the house, and, wherever it is possible, reduce the number of the inmates by sending back to their friends all who are not fully professed nuns, whether they wish it or not; and if any of those who have taken the vows desire to return to the world, encourage them to do so; and carefully note whether they have given wealth to the community, and in such cases tell them the half of what has been so given shall be returned, unless it has been otherwise disposed of. In this way make as many reductions in each house as you possibly can, and I need not tell you that I shall be glad to hear that Mistress Cicely is your wife."
The Cardinal rarely waited for anyone to speak to him when he was issuing orders, but in this case Miles did not know what to say. The news that this was to be for the rescue of Cicely banished from his mind any reluctance that he might otherwise have felt in undertaking such a task. That he was to have a colleague was also a relief to his mind; and, when later in the day he was introduced to an elderly, benevolent-looking man, Miles was glad that he had not expressed to his master all the reluctance he actually felt in undertaking such a responsible post.
With this grave, elderly man to guide and direct his movements while he acted as secretary and kept the Cardinal informed of all that took place, was a very different matter than being such a missionary himself.
Miles' first care was to write a letter to his sister, and ask her to meet him in Oxford. He had heard that her health had greatly improved during the last year, so that he hoped it would not be impossible for Margery to travel with her maid and one or two of the servants to the principal hostelry in Oxford, whither a messenger had been despatched to secure accommodation for the Cardinal's two commissioners and their servants.
In an ordinary way the monasteries themselves would entertain them in no grudging fashion, but it was scarcely to be expected that such an enquiry as they were about to make would be welcomed by any of the convents, and it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that the commissioners might meet with hard treatment if they accepted the hospitality usually offered to such guests. The Cardinal had therefore bidden both his commissioners to avoid either eating or drinking at these places, and to pay for their lodging, as other travellers did, at the best hostelry they could find.
"If aught of harm befell either of you, I should be compelled to make close enquiry, and this I do not want to do, because if it is possible I want a reform of these religious houses before the people know anything of what is going on. Therefore, I say to you once more, Master Miles: be silent and wary, watchful and quick to take any advantage that may offer, but do nothing to cause an outcry, or draw the attention of people to what you are doing, or my projects may be thwarted, and your hopes blighted so far as Mistress Cicely is concerned."
Saying this, the Cardinal left him to make the final arrangements for their journey, which was a much more elaborate business than when he came up from Oxford as the messenger of Master John Clark, Professor of Cardinal College.
Now he was one of the great Cardinal Legate's commissioners, sent to enquire into the whole monastic system of the Church in England; and who can wonder if Miles shrunk a little from such an ordeal.
He went to "The Sign of the Golden Fleece" to bid his friends farewell; and even Master Monmouth and the priest, William Tyndale, shook their heads dubiously, when they heard what the Cardinal had decided to do.
"'Tis easier to pluck down than to build up, Master Miles; and if the monks are to be turned out upon the highways, the number of beggars will be sorely increased," said the merchant.
"But you have the sturdy fellows bellowing for alms a dozen times a day now for the different monasteries," said Miles, who was determined to defend his master's action, on account of the hope it gave him that he might be able to rescue Cicely.
The merchant laughed when he was reminded how often the monk's wallet was seen at his door, and how seldom any went away without a supply of food in some form or other. It was a sort of tax the London citizen was used to paying, and did not grudge it. Besides, sometimes the jolly monk would stop and crack a joke, or drink a stoup of ale with the merchant, or tell a good story by way of payment for the alms bestowed; and so the notion that this side of London's social life might be disturbed, if the Cardinal succeeded in carrying out his plans, was not eagerly welcomed.
Of course they were willing to admit that the monks were, for the most part, a set of lazy rascals; and they were proud of such a school as Dean Colet's, where a boy could learn Greek and Latin, as well as other subjects; but they had not yet made up their minds that they wanted to get rid of the gossiping old monks, even for good grammar schools; for these same monks were such an integral part of the social life of London. While in the country, the connection with the gentry of the neighbourhood on the one hand, and the poor on the other, was so close, that Miles feared his master had put his hand to a task that might prove too great, even for him to carry out; and he saw the wisdom of confining their enquiries to the smaller and more insignificant monasteries at first, and not attempting to do more than curtail the number of inmates, and prevent, if possible, that any should be sent there against their will, as Cicely had undoubtedly been.
IF Miles could only have followed his own wishes he would have started on his journey to Oxford without a day's delay, but he was not master of the situation, and had to be guided by what the Cardinal deemed best under the circumstances; and so he had to wait until his master's messengers returned, bringing news of where Cicely had been lodged.
There was also other business to be transacted, that they might carry out their work of inspection as the duly accredited commissioners of His Eminence; so that it was nearly a week before they could start with a retinue befitting the office they had been invested with, and this involved a slower progress than was altogether pleasant to Miles, who was impatient to press on with all the speed possible.
But at last the scene for which his eyes had sorely longed gradually rose before him. The stately tower of Magdalen College was the first bit of the landscape that greeted his eager eyes, and the towers of the city, and then at last they were winding along by the river bank, and the walls of Magdalen were passed. Then Merton, and Balliol, and the stately Cardinal College were passed on their way to the hostelry where lodgings had been secured for them.
Here Miles met with his first disappointment, for the host had not heard of Mistress Margery Paton coming to his house, and Miles had made sure that she would be there before him, and his father with her; now he began to fear that his father might refuse to come himself, or allow Margery to come.
Fortunately he had little time to worry about this, for his master's orders had been explicit,—that they should at once commence the inquisition into the condition of the smaller monasteries around, and so at daybreak the next morning the two commissioners presented themselves at a monastery Miles had not heard mentioned until they arrived at its gates. Quite another convent was to be the first to receive them, he understood; and he was quite as much astonished as the lay sister herself, who peered through the wicket of the gate, and then hastened to open it, with trembling fingers, when she heard who were outside.
Master Baldock, his companion, gave the sister no time to warn the authorities inside, but the moment the gate was open he pushed his way in, and bade her keep her post at the door, saying he would announce himself to the Mother-Superior.
The next moment they found themselves in the midst of a group of novices passing through the corridor on their way to the garden, and one of these stood still, with bated breath, as her eyes fell upon Miles Paton, while he was scarcely less moved. But, quick as the glance had been between the two lovers, the older commissioner had seen it, and noted the girl as she passed, silent and depressed, with her companions into the garden.
The sight of the Cardinal's commissioners caused such a flutter among the nuns and novices that the Mother-Superior was waiting to receive them by the time they reached her parlour; and she met them suavely enough, but complained that she had not been informed of their coming, that the community might have received them with becoming respect, as they would have wished.
Master Baldock bowed, and was equally suave, but said he was bound to obey to the letter the commands of his master, and these had left him no time to announce his arrival, as they had but reached their lodging just before nightfall the previous day.
The Lady-Superior knew this as well as he did, for, suddenly as the commission had been despatched, notice had been given to the convent to be visited; for the system of espionage was not confined to the Cardinal, and he knew there were spies in his household, who reported all his movements to those whom it concerned, so that the monasteries and convents around Oxford were expecting the visit they were supposed to know nothing about.
But the commissioner's first words evidently took the lady by surprise: "You will summon all the novices resident in your house; I will examine these first," said Master Baldock. And he bade his assistant take out his ink-horn, and prepare to write down the names of the ladies as they appeared before him.
"Nay, but they are children, not used to the rough methods of men. I will answer for them that they may be spared, for the minds of some are over frivolous, and not much given to serious things, or to speak with men."
But Master Baldock was not disposed to bandy many words with this lady, or give her time to spirit away any of the girls; and so he cut short her argument by saying, "I am but the servant of the Cardinal Legate, and his orders I must obey with all the despatch possible, therefore summon the maidens here. My assistant will take down their names and condition, and where their friends dwell, and then I will give you a week to send them to their homes."
The lady almost screamed at the announcement "Send my children away from me!" she gasped, her strong masculine face working with passion, as she clenched her hands as though she would tear the hair of the man who dared to impose his will upon her.