THE PROCESSION TO THE CALVARY.
THE PROCESSION TO THE CALVARY.
THE PROCESSION TO THE CALVARY.
A lovely morning dawned upon Lewes. The sun, which ere it reached its meridian was destined to shine upon a terrible ceremonial, rose brilliantly over Mount Caburn, glittering upon the brow of that majestic eminence, and on the smooth summits of the adjacent hill, and filling the wide valley, watered by the meandering Ouse, with radiance. Kingston Hill with the heights, enclosing the valley on the west, and extending to Newhaven, glowed with roseate lustre, as did lordly Mount Harry and his subject hills at the rear of the town. The noble amphitheatre of downs, by which the town is surrounded, were seen in all their beauty, and no one unacquainted with what was passing, would have supposed that a morn so auspicious could usher in other than a joyous day.
At an early hour the bells of the different churches began to toll solemnly, announcing to the inhabitants that a sad ceremonial was about to take place, and shortly after six o’clock a religious procession, consisting of a number of Cluniac monks, with the clergy and authorities of the place, the high sheriff, the under-sheriffs, the chief burgesses, with the headborough and constables, assembled in the High Street, and proceeded to the Star Inn, where Derrick Carver was brought out, and ordered to join it. The train was headed by the Cluniac monks, who were attired in thehabits of their order, and after them walked the prisoner, with Father Josfrid beside him. Next came the sheriff with Captain Brand, then the local clergy and authorities, while the head-borough and constables brought up the rear. The procession descended the steep street leading to the East Gate, through which it passed, and then, turning off on the right, and skirting the old walls, which were thronged with spectators, crossed the valley to Southover, and shaped its course towards the singular mount rising on the east of the ruined priory of St. Pancras. On the summit of this eminence, a large crucifix, with the figure of the Saviour nailed to it, was then reared, forming, from its commanding position, a conspicuous object for miles around.
On reaching the summit of the mount, the monks prostrated themselves at the foot of the cross, and began to recite a prayer, while the rest of the procession assumed an equally reverential posture. Derrick Carver, however, refused to kneel, and on this occasion his prejudices were respected. As he remained standing amidst the kneeling assemblage, he cast his eyes around, and surveyed the fair scene of which he was about to take leave for ever. To one less firmly constituted, it might have seemed hard to quit so lovely a world. But his thoughts were fixed on heaven, and though nature put on her most tempting aspect, she could not lure him back to earth.
Immediately beneath him lay the ruins of the once noble priory of St. Pancras, demolished by the Vicar-General Cromwell, in the reign of Henry VIII., and as he looked at the fragments of this vast and stately pile, Carver rejoiced in its destruction. Adjoining these ruins was an immense dovecot, built in the form of a cross, above which thousands of pigeons were circling or alighting on its roof. On his right, across a woody valley, climbing the side of a hill, and with its picturesque habitations intermingled with trees, was the town with whose annals his name was thenceforward to be associated. Beautiful it looked on that bright clear morning, and proudly towered its old Norman castle—grey walls, quaint houses, and church-towers, glittering in the sunbeams, and all seeming to claim attention; but Carver turned from them to gaze at the downs, and as his eyewandered over those fair hills, thoughts of other days rushed upon him.
Many and many a happy hour had he spent upon those downs. Familiar with all their beauties, his imagination carried him from point to point, till it brought him to the little fishing-town where he was born, and where the greater part of his life had been spent. For a moment only did he yield to the emotions awakened within his breast. They were sharp and poignant, but he instantly checked them, and resumed his former stoicism.
Just then, the monks having finished their prayer, arose, and began to chant a hymn to the blessed Virgin, in which all those with them joined. Many of the inhabitants of the town had followed the procession to the calvary, and by this time a large concourse had assembled on the sides and at the base of the mount. All these persons joined in the choral hymn; and the effect of so many voices linked together in harmony was inexpressibly fine.
At the conclusion of the hymn the monks began slowly to descend the mount, chanting lugubrious strains as they moved along. The others followed in the same order as before. As Derrick Carver marched on, many of the spectators expressed their sympathy for him, but no one was suffered to approach him, or exchange a word with him.
Amongst those who had followed the procession to the mount were some half-dozen young men on horseback, who had hitherto kept aloof from the crowd; but just as Derrick Carver reached the foot of the mount, one of them suddenly dismounted, and leaving his steed with his companions, forced himself into a front place amid the line of spectators.
The movement attracted the attention of the prisoner, who instantly recognised Osbert Clinton, and signified to him by his gestures that no change had taken place in his sentiments.
Osbert’s imprudent movement, however, had not escaped the notice of Captain Brand, who, moreover, detected the glance of intelligence that passed between the young man and Carver. When Osbert shortly afterwards rejoined his companions and remounted his horse, Brand directed thesheriff’s attention to the group, and inquired if he knew the young men.
De Warren replied in the negative, declaring they must be strangers.
“I am certain I have seen that young man before,” observed Brand, “though I cannot, for the moment, give him a name. Ha! I have it!” he exclaimed, quickly. “It is Osbert Clinton.”
“What! he who was engaged in the last rising?” cried the sheriff, surprised.
“The same,” replied Brand. “I am sure of it. And now I look at the others, I cannot doubt but that they are the ringleaders in that treasonable affair. A heavy price is set on all their heads, and I must call upon you to aid me in their capture, Sir Richard.”
“I will readily do so,” replied De Warren; “but even supposing you are right in your suspicions, we must act with prudence. They are all well mounted, and on the slightest movement will be off, and easily baffle pursuit upon these downs. Alarm them not. They are following the procession. Once in the town, we can easily secure them.”
“They are evidently come to witness the execution,” said Brand, “and may design to rescue the prisoner.”
“Fear nothing; we shall have them safe enough if we proceed with caution,” rejoined the sheriff. “I will presently give instructions concerning them to Master Piddinghoe, the headborough.”
“Leave the matter to me, I pray you, Sir Richard,” said Brand. “I can manage it without the headborough’s aid.”
“You desire to obtain the whole reward, eh, Captain Brand?” observed De Warren. “Well, as you please.”
The whole of this conversation had reached the ears of Derrick Carver, who marched in front of the speakers, and the danger incurred by Osbert and his friends caused him great uneasiness. Fain would he have warned them of their peril by look or gesture, but no opportunity of doing so occurred.
Meantime, the procession moved on, and, pursuing adifferent course on its return, entered the town by the Water-gate, and then ascending the steep and narrow thoroughfare called Saint Mary’s Lane, came forth into the High Street, exactly opposite the Star Inn. To his great satisfaction, Captain Brand remarked that Osbert Clinton and his companions had likewise passed through the Water-gate.
HOW CAPTAIN BRAND SOUGHT TO CAPTURE THECONSPIRATORS.
HOW CAPTAIN BRAND SOUGHT TO CAPTURE THECONSPIRATORS.
HOW CAPTAIN BRAND SOUGHT TO CAPTURE THE
CONSPIRATORS.
On being brought back to the hostel, Derrick Carver was again conducted to the vault, there to remain till the hour appointed for his execution. He was so much troubled in spirit, owing to his anxiety for the safety of Osbert Clinton and his companions, that he could not address himself to prayer, and was pacing to and fro, when the door was unlocked, and the hostess entered. Her first business was to set down a little basket which she had concealed under her mantle, and she then informed Carver that she had brought him some wine and food. “I have prevailed on Master Piddinghoe to grant me admittance to you,” she said, “and I have managed to bring in this basket unperceived by the guard. Eat, I pray you, if only a morsel, and drink a cup of wine. It will strengthen you.”
“I thank you heartily, good mistress,” replied Carver, “but I shall eat and drink no more. There is, however, one great service which you can render me, if you are so minded.”
And he looked at her wistfully.
“What is it?” she replied. “Tell me, and I will do it. You may perfectly confide in me.”
Carver then, in a few words, informed her of the danger of Osbert Clinton and his friends, and after describing their appearance, entreated her to warn them speedily.
“I will do your bidding without an instant’s delay,” she replied. “I have seen the gentlemen you describe, and will find them out, and urge them to instant flight. This accounts for the orders I heard given to Master Piddinghoe by Sir Richard de Warren, that all the town gates are to be closed, and no one allowed to go forth without a password. Luckily, I overheard it, and will give it to your friends.”
“You have removed a load of anxiety from my breast, good mistress,” said Carver. “If they are safe, I shall die content.”
“Then let no anxiety on their account trouble you further,” she rejoined. “Ere many minutes they shall be out of Lewes. Farewell!”
“Farewell, sister; my blessing go with you.”
Hereupon the hostess quitted the vault, and Carver, whose bosom was no longer oppressed, knelt down and resumed his devotions.
Meanwhile, Dame Dunster, quitting the hostel privily, went in search of Osbert and his companions; but she could discover nothing of them, and at last came to the conclusion that they had already flown. She ascertained, however, that in obedience to the sheriff’s orders, all the town gates where shut and guarded.
The hour appointed for the execution was now at hand. The bell of Saint Michael’s Church began to toll solemnly. A great crowd was already collected in front of the Star Inn, but a clear space was kept by the constables around the stake.
The din and confusion in the street, though it reached his ears, did not distract the prisoner from his devotions, and he continued in earnest prayer, until at last the door of his cell was thrown open, and the sheriff, with Captain Brand, Father Josfrid, and two officers provided with halberds, entered the vault. On seeing them, Derrick Carver immediately arose from his knees, and told them in a firm voice, that he was ready.
“I cannot hold out any hope of pardon to you,” said De Warren, “but I would fain hope that you will not die impenitent.”
“I shall die, Sir, as I have lived, in the faith I have professed and defended,” replied Carver.
“Peradventure, you are of opinion that an attempt will be made to liberate you?” observed Brand. “It is well you should be undeceived. The dangerous rebels who have ventured here have fallen into a snare.”
“Are they taken?” cried Carver.
“They soon will be,” replied Brand. “Thou thyself mayst possibly behold their capture. We hold them in our hands. Their retreat is cut off. It will be my business to convey them to the Tower.”
“Alas! why did they come hither?” groaned Carver.
“That is bestknownknownto themselves,” rejoined Brand; “but they have done me a good turn by coming.”
“Have you aught to confess or declare concerning them?” demanded the sheriff.
“An idle question,” rejoined Carver. “Think you I would say aught to their detriment?”
Thereupon, the sheriff, bidding the officers bring forth the prisoner, quitted the cell, and was presently followed by the others. Several persons were assembled in the inn-yard, and amongst them were Dame Dunster and her handmaidens, weeping bitterly, to whom Carver bade an eternal adieu, bidding them be comforted.
The gates, which had been hitherto kept closed, were then thrown open, and the prisoner becoming visible to a portion of the vast assemblage collected in the street, loud cries arose.
The stake, as we have already mentioned, was planted in the middle of the High-street, exactly opposite the Star Inn, where the throughfare was widest. Around the place of execution a large circular space was kept clear by the constables and other officers armed with halberds, and within this ring was heaped up a great pile of fagots with bundles of dried gorse. In front of the stake stood the large empty tar-barrel, commanded by Captain Brand. It was reared on end, and the top had been staved in. Such were the preparations made for the terrible ceremonial.
Into this ring Derrick Carver marched with firm footstep, and his appearance was greeted with outcries of various kinds from the beholders. He was closely attended by Father Josfrid, who continued to press exhortations upon him, to which he refused to listen. At this juncture CaptainBrand came up to him, and said, “Thy life shall be spared for a few minutes, that thou mayst know the fate of thy friends.” He then added to the officers: “Chain him not to the stake till you receive the sheriff’s signal from yonder window.”
And he pointed, as he spoke, to a large open window on the first floor of the inn, which, unlike all the other windows of the house, was destitute of spectators. Every spot, indeed, commanding a view of the place of execution was occupied. The entrance to St. Mary’s-lane was blocked up by a small party of horsemen, who, it need scarcely be said, were Osbert Clinton and his friends. They had stationed themselves at this point in order to secure a retreat in case of need, but were wholly unaware that a party of armed men were slowly ascending the narrow throughfare in their rear.
On quitting Derrick Carver, Captain Brand returned to the inn-yard, where he had left his officers, and, putting himself at their head, was about to sally forth and make the arrest he meditated, when his plan was most unexpectedly thwarted by Dame Dunster, who, suddenly appearing at the open window which we have described as reserved for the high sheriff and his attendants, leaned from it, and waving a kerchief to attract the attention of Osbert and his friends, called out to them in a loud voice,—
“Save yourselves!—save yourselves!—you are betrayed!”
Thus warned, the horsemen turned instantly to ride down the hill, but at once perceived that their retreat in this direction was cut off. Osbert did not hesitate a moment, but calling out lustily to the crowd, “Make way, friends!—make way!” a passage was instantly opened for him and his companions, and, ere any hindrance could be offered them, they were all within the ring, and close to the prisoner.
“You will not see this good man barbarously put to death, my masters,” cried Osbert, “but will aid him to escape.”
Several voices instantly answered the appeal, and a great tumult arose amid the crowd.
“Think not of me, but save yourself!” cried Carver to Osbert. “I shall not quit this spot.”
So suddenly had the daring deed we have described been executed, that surprise took away the power of opposition from the constables and halberdiers, but they now took heart, and encircled the horsemen, who had drawn their swords, and kept them off. At the same time, Captain Brand, who was issuing from the inn-yard with his men, vociferated,—
“Stay them, in the Queen’s name!—let them not pass!—they are rebels andtraitorstraitors!”
“Touch us not, good friends,” cried Osbert. “We are true men, and would deliver you from Spanish bondage and Popish thraldom.”
Upon this several of the crowd called out,—
“We are for you, masters. This way!—this way!”
And, seconding their words by deeds, they threw themselves upon the constables in front of them, and speedily opened a passage, through which Osbert and his companions got out of the ring, and dashed up the High-street.
A number of persons instantly started in pursuit, and as the West-gate was closed, it was thought that the fugitives must infallibly be captured; but those who entertained the notion were wrong, since instead of seeking an exit by that gate, Osbert and his companions turned off on the left, and dashing down another thoroughfare as steep and narrow as St. Mary’s-lane, descended it in safety, and on reaching the bottom of the hill, found that the Water-gate was open, and rode through it ere the warder had time to shut it. Being now out of the town, and all admirably mounted, they set pursuit at defiance, and in less than an hour were safe on the other side of Kingston Hill.
THE MARTYRDOM OF DERRICK CARVER.
THE MARTYRDOM OF DERRICK CARVER.
THE MARTYRDOM OF DERRICK CARVER.
So great was the confusion in the High Street after the flight of Osbert Clinton and his companions, and so threatening were the language and attitude of the populace, that it became a question with the sheriff whether it would not be prudent to postpone the execution to the following day. As a matter of precaution, Derrick Carver was taken into the entrance-hall of the hostel, the door of which was closed, and a guard placed before it.
Here he was kept for nearly an hour, when Captain Brand returned with the intelligence that he had failed in capturing the rebels. These were joyful tidings to Derrick Carver, and he exclaimed, “Now I shall die content!”
After a brief consultation between the sheriff and Brand, it was decided that the execution should be proceeded with, upon which Brand went forth with his men, and soon succeeded in clearing a space, as before, round the stake.
This done, Derrick Carver was again brought forth, and when he appeared on the threshold of the inn, a great cry arose from the people, and it became evident from the violence of their gestures and vociferations that another disturbance was at hand.
Alarmed by these menacing demonstrations, Sir Richard de Warren, who was of a somewhat timid nature, ordered the prisoner to be taken back, but Brand insisted that the sentence must be carried out.
“We must not yield to intimidation,” he said. “The law must be carried out at all risks.”
Still the sheriff hesitated, when Derrick Carver interposed:—
“I pray you, Sirs, let me speak to them,” he said. “They will listen to me.”
“Speak to them if thou wilt,” rejoined Brand. “But say nought to inflame them further, or it shall be worse for thee.”
Having obtained this permission, Carver called out in a loud voice to the assemblage, that he desired to address them, upon which the tumult and clamour instantly ceased.
“Hear me, good friends,” he cried, amidst the sudden silence. “I am come here to give testimony by my death to truth and pure religion against Antichrist and false doctrines, and I beseech you, if you hold with me in the faith, to let me die in peace. I would have my ending profitable to you, and not the cause of bloodshed and destruction even of my enemies.”
This address produced the effect desired, and from that moment the crowd became tranquil, and offered no further interruption to the proceedings.
Seeing that order was restored, the sheriff committed the further conduct of the ceremonial to Brand, and withdrew to the upper window overlooking the street, whence he could contemplate the tragical spectacle as from a tribune.
Meantime, Derrick Carver, pushing aside Father Josfrid, marched up to the stake, and after embracing it tenderly, knelt down, and in tones of the utmost fervour prayed for strength and heavenly grace that he might by his death glorify the Saviour’s holy name, ratify his Gospel, comfort the hearts of the weary, confirm his Church, and convert such as were to be converted. He further prayed for support during the grievous torments to which he was about to be subjected, offering himself up as a willing sacrifice and burnt-offering, and concluded by imploring that the blessing of the Word, of which the realm was at present unhappily deprived, might be once more vouchsafed to it. This prayer, uttered aloud and with great earnestness, produced a profound impression on all who heard it.
Seeing this, and anxious to efface the impression, Father Josfrid advanced towards him and said,—
“Wretched man, thy last hour is arrived; but there isyet time to save thy soul if thou wilt recant thine heresies, and return to the Church thou hast abandoned, but which is willing to receive thee.”
“Hence with thee, tempter!” cried Carver, rising to his feet. “Wert thou to offer me all the riches of the earth, I would not become an idolater.”
Thus rebuked, Father Josfrid withdrew, and his place was taken by two rough-looking men, one of whom rudely ordered the prisoner to make ready.
Upon this, Carver proceeded to divest himself of a portion of his apparel, and while he was thus employed, several persons among the crowd called out to him for a memorial, upon which he threw his garments amongst them, and they were instantly seized upon by a hundred eager hands, and rent in pieces, the fragments being carefully preserved by those who were fortunate enough to secure them.
As he was taking off his doublet, the sacred volume which had been the solace of his long imprisonment, and which he had kept about him to this moment, fell to the ground; seeing which, Captain Brand, who was standing by, picked it up, and with a look of disdain, tossed it into the tar-barrel near the stake.
The two rough-looking men, who had remained near the prisoner, now took hold of him, and raising him in their arms, set him within the barrel. Thus disposed, Carver’s first business was to take up the Bible, and after pressing his lips to it, he threw it amidst the crowd.
Greatly enraged by the act, Captain Brand called out in a furious voice to the person who had secured the prize to restore it instantly on pain of death, whereupon it was flung back, and was subsequently consigned to the flames.
A heavy chain was then passed around Carver’s body and made fast to the stake. Left to himself for a moment, the martyr then called out in a loud voice, “Farewell, dear brethren, farewell! Our Church is encompassed about by deadly enemies, who seek its destruction, and it is for the restoration of that Church that my blood is this day freely poured forth. It will not be shed in vain. Comfort ye amid your troubles, and remain stedfast in your faith! Happier days shall soon dawn upon you. Farewell, O, farewell!”
No sooner had he concluded this valediction which wasresponded to by loud lamentations from the majority of the assemblage, than the men began to heap fagots around him, filling the barrel with dry gorse and brushwood.
Before the pile, which was heaped up to his shoulders, could be lighted, the martyr exclaimed, “Blessed are they who die in the Lord. Thrice blessed are they who die in the Lord’s cause. Fear not them that kill the body, for they cannot kill the soul. He that shall lose his life for my sake shall find it, saith our blessed Saviour, in the which hope I now die. Again, dear brethren, I bid you farewell!”
“A truce to thy blasphemy!” cried Brand, seizing a torch and applying it to the pile.
Fast and fierce burnt the fire, and quickly mounted the flame, but, to judge from the serene expression of his countenance, it might have been as innocuous to the martyr as was the blaze of the burning fiery furnace to the three Israelites. Not a groan escaped Derrick Carver, and his last words were, “I go to obtain my reward.”
Captain Brand was as good as his word. A rare bonfire was seen that day at Lewes. Fagots and brushwood were heaped upon the pile till the flames rose up higher than the upper windows of the old hostel, and the heat was so great, that those nearest the blazing mass drew back half scorched.
When the fire had burnt out, all that remained was a heap of ashes, in the midst of which stood a charred stake with an iron chain attached to it.
Such was the martyrdom of Derrick Carver.
His memory is not forgotten in Lewes; and on the fifth of November in each year, a great torchlight procession, composed of men in fantastic garbs and with blackened visages, and dragging blazing tar-barrels after them, parades the High Street, while an enormous bonfire is lighted opposite the Star Inn, on the exact spot where Derrick Carver perished, into which, when at its highest, various effigies are cast. A more extraordinary spectacle than is presented by this commemoration of the Marian persecutions in Lewes it has never been our lot to witness.
End of the Sixth Book.
End of the Sixth Book.
End of the Sixth Book.
BOOK VII.THE TREASURE-CHESTS.
THE LOVES OF OG AND LILIAS.
THE LOVES OF OG AND LILIAS.
THE LOVES OF OG AND LILIAS.
It will probably be recollected under what singular circumstances the acquaintance began between Og the gigantic and Lilias the fair. From the very moment when the damsel, seated behind the giant on the broad back of Arundel, passed her arm round his waist, a flame was kindled in his breast never afterwards to be extinguished.
A magnetic influence was exercised over him by Lilias, and he speedily became so much enthralled by her fascinations as was Sir Bevis of Southampton, whom he then represented, by the charms of the peerless Princess Josyan. When he and his gigantic brothers, with Sir Narcissus and Lady le Grand, proceeded to Winchester to take part in the pageants displayed there during the royal nuptials, Lilias accompanied them, and, before many days had elapsed, her conquest of Og was complete.She had him, as Gog confidentially remarked to Magog, “entirely under her thumb.”
“Will he be fool enough to marry her, think you, brother?” observed Magog, shrugging his shoulders, and thinking of Dame Placida.
“Hum! I cannot say, but I shall do my best to dissuade him from the step,” rejoined Gog.
So the brothers laid their huge heads together, and the result was that they devised a plan by which they hoped to get rid altogether of the fair syren, and cure Og of his ridiculous passion, as they deemed it. Their plan was to send back Lilias to Southampton, and persuade Og that she had left him of her own accord to return to her former admirer, and they managed the matter so adroitly, that Og was completely duped, and, after a tremendous burst of indignation against the fickleness of the sex, vowed he would never think of the false jillflirt again. His brothers commended his resolution, and told him he had had a narrow escape.
“If you are wise, you will take warning by me, and never marry,” said Magog.
“If he must needs marry, let him choose a buxom widow, and not a tricksome girl like Lilias.”
“I don’t mean to marry at all,” cried Og, resolutely.
But the fangs of disappointment gnawed his heart. He grew moody and dull, and avoided the society of his brothers.
After a month’s absence from the Tower, the three gigantic warders returned there, and resumed their ordinary duties. But Og’s melancholy increased, and his brothers at last began to feel uneasy about him, and to regret the part they had played.
“It would be a grievous thing were he to break his heart for this silly girl,” remarked Gog. “He seems pining away for her.”
“He may be pining away,” observed Magog; “but he is in good case still, and his appetite is not amiss, judging by the havoc he made with the cold chine of beef and lumbar-pie at breakfast this morning, to say nothing of the stoup of ale which he managed to empty. Nevertheless, I agree with you, brother Gog, that he is not himself, and hath quite lost his old pleasant humour. He never jests, as was his wont,and I have not heard a hearty laugh from him since we sent Lilias away.”
“I begin to think we did wrong in meddling in the matter,” observed Gog. “I shall never cease to reproach myself if anything should happen to him.”
“Well, we acted for the best,” said Magog. “I only wish my marriage had been prevented,” he added, with a groan. “Let us see how he goes on. Perchance, he may recover.”
But Og didnotrecover, and, although he did not exhibit any of the usual symptoms of despairing love, as loss of appetite, or flesh, a lacklustre eye, and disordered manner, still he became more gloomy and sullen than ever, and rarely exchanged a word with his brothers.
Nearly eight months had now flown since he had beheld Lilias, and still her image was constantly before him, and the witchery she had practised upon him by her fascinations and allurements had not lost a jot of its power. He was still as much under her sway as if she had been with him all the time.
One evening, while he was taking a solitary walk upon the ramparts, and thinking of Lilias, he saw Xit hastening towards him, and would have avoided him, but the dwarf stopped him, saying,—
“Give thee good e’en, Og. I was looking for thee. I bring thee good news.”
“Out of my way,” rejoined the giant, gruffly. “I am in no humour for jesting.”
“I know thou art become as surly as a bear with a sore head,” replied Xit; “but thou hadst best not provoke a quarrel with me, or thou wilt rue it.”
“Pass on,” roared Og, “and exercise thy wit at the expense of those who are amused by it—my brothers for example. But meddle not with me. I am dangerous.”
“Big words do not terrify me,” rejoined Xit, with a mocking laugh. “Furious as thou art, I can tame thee with a word. I have but to pronounce the name of ‘Lilias Ringwood,’ and thou wilt straight become as gentle as a lamb. Ha ha! ha! Was I not right?”
“Hast thou aught to tell me concerning Lilias?” criedOg, suddenly becoming as meek as the animal to which he had been likened. “If so, speak quickly!”
“Soh! thou art in the mood for converse now, and my jests do not appear tiresome to thee,” rejoined Xit; “but I will not gratify thee. Thou art dull company. I will go to thy brothers.”
“Nay, but Xit, sweet Xit, if thou hast any love for me, tell me what thou knowest of Lilias.”
“Thou dost not deserve that I should tell thee aught, uncourteous giant,” said Xit. “Nevertheless, out of compassion for thy miserable state, I will speak. Know, then, most amorous Titan, that I have seen the lady of thy love——”
“Thou hast seen Lilias!” interrupted Og. “Oh! thou art my best friend. How doth she look? Is she comely as ever? Or is she changed and married to another? Tell me the worst. It may break my heart—but spare me not.”
“I will tell thee the best and the worst as quickly as may be,” rejoined Xit. “The best is, that Lilias is still true to thee, and looking lovelier than ever—and the worst is, that she is coming to the Tower in a few days, and therefore thou wilt soon behold her again.”
“Why, the worst is best of all!” cried Og, transported with delight.
“Nay, it is worst,” rejoined Xit; “because, when she comes, thou wilt be compelled to marry her.”
“But I say to thee again that it is best, for I desire nothing so much as marriage with her. But thou art not making merry with me all this while? ’Twere a sorry jest to trifle with me thus.”
“I am not trifling with thee, incredulous giant,” replied Xit. “If the hand of the fair Lilias will make thee happy, thou shalt have it. That I promise thee. Now listen. Compassionating thy woful condition, I have been to Southampton, and seen the mistress of thy affections, and finding her still unfettered by matrimonial ties, still amiably disposed towards thee, I proposed marriage to her in thy name, and the offer was—accepted.”
“Thou hast done me an incalculable service!” cried Og, taking him in his arms, and hugging him tightly.“And so thou hast been to Southampton, and seen Lilias, and won her for me—eh? I have missed thee for the last week, but fancied thou wert with her Majesty at Whitehall.”
“Set me down, and I will talk to thee,” replied Xit. “Thou hast almost squeezed the breath out of my body;” and as Og placed him gently on the ground, he continued, “I will now let thee into a secret. But first promise not to be angry.”
“I am far too happy to be angry with any one now,” rejoined Og. “Speak out. What hast thou to reveal?”
“I must set thee right upon one point. When Lilias quitted thee so suddenly at Winchester, it was not, as thou wert led to suppose, from a desire to be reconciled to her first lover. Her disappearance was contrived by Gog and Magog, who did not wish thee to wed the damsel.”
“Thunder and lightning! was it so?” roared Og, with sudden fury.
“Remember thy promise,” said Xit.
“Well, proceed,” cried Og, trying to calm himself.
“Perceiving the mischief they had occasioned, and despairing of remedying the matter, thy brothers applied to me, and out of my love for them and thee, I offered to go to Southampton to see what could be done with Lilias. Accordingly I went, and how I succeeded in my mission thou art already aware.”
“I am for ever beholden to thee,” said Og. “And so Lilias will certainly be here in a few days. Why didst thou not bring her with thee?”
“I would fain have done so,” replied Xit; “but she had preparations to make before her departure. However, she will be escorted by a young gentleman whom you may remember, Captain Rodomont Bittern, of Cardinal Pole’s household.”
“Rodomont Bittern!” exclaimed Og, knitting his bushy brow. “Why should he escort her?”
“Because he chances to be coming up to London at the same time—nothing more, thou jealous and suspicious fool,” rejoined Xit. “Captain Bittern’s errand to Southamptonwas very different from mine. He did not go to propose a marriage, but to attend a funeral. You remember Constance Tyrrell?”
“Daughter of a wealthy Southampton merchant,” replied Og. “Yes, I remember her. It was whispered that the King was enamoured of her, but that she preferred young Osbert Clinton. She is now at Lambeth Palace, under the guardianship of Cardinal Pole.”
“I see you are well informed about her,” replied Xit. “Well, old Tyrrell, her father, is just dead, and has made a very singular will. Since his daughter has become tainted with heresy, he has lost all affection for her, and has now disinherited her, and left the whole of his immense riches to—whom think’st thou?”
“Nay, I cannot guess,” replied Og. “Not to Rodomont Bittern, I trust?”
“No, not to him,” returned Xit. “He has made Cardinal Pole his heir, and the sum he has bequeathed is such as not even a Cardinal need despise. This was the reason why Rodomont Bittern and others of the Cardinal’s household were sent down to Southampton to bury the old merchant and take possession of his property, and as I chanced to be there at the same time, I naturally came in contact with them, and on acquainting Captain Bittern with mine errand, he proffered his services, and accompanied me when I called on Lilias. It is but justice to him to add, that he pleaded thy cause with the damsel as warmly as I could do myself. When the affair was arranged, and Captain Bittern found that a longer stay at Southampton was inconvenient to me, he obligingly undertook to escort thy destined bride to London. Thus thou hast now the whole affair before thee. Methinks I have some little claim on thy gratitude. So if you will come with me to thy brothers, and assure them they are forgiven, I shall deem myself amply requited.”
Og readily assented, and quitting the ramparts, they proceeded to the Byward Tower, where they found Gog and Magog at supper, an immense pasty, with a cold ham, a mountainous loaf, and a mighty mazer filled with ale, being set before them.
As Og and Xit entered, they both rose from the table at which they were seated, and seeing there were no traces ofanger on their brother’s countenance, they held out their hands to him, which Og, so far from refusing, shook very cordially.
In a few moments all explanations were over, and the brothers amicably seated at the table, discussing the pasty, ever and anon applying to the mazer, and talking, when they were able to talk at all, of the approaching marriage.
OF THE MEETING BETWEEN OG AND LILIAS ON TOWER-GREEN.
OF THE MEETING BETWEEN OG AND LILIAS ON TOWER-GREEN.
OF THE MEETING BETWEEN OG AND LILIAS ON TOWER-GREEN.
Precisely at the time that Lilias was expected, the King paid a visit to the Tower. He came from Whitehall by water, and was attended by Sir John Gage and Sir Henry Jerningham. On landing, he was received by the Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Henry Bedingfeld, and a guard, among whom were the gigantic warders, and by his own desire was at once conducted to the Jewel House, where his chests of bullion were deposited.
This building was situated in a court belonging to the old palace, its precise position being on the south of the White Tower, between the Queen’s lodgings and the Cold Harbour Tower. At the door of the Jewel Tower, the King was received by Master Thomas Lovel, the keeper, who seemed to expect his Majesty, and took him forthwith to the strong-room containing the treasure. After satisfying himself that the coffers were safe, Philip informed Lovel that he was about to place them in the Exchequer, and gave him some directions respecting their removal.
Before leaving the Jewel House, the King had some private converse with Lovel, who, it appeared, had an important communication to make to him. Having given further instructions in secret to the keeper, Philip proceeded to the White Tower, where he ascended to the great council-chamber, and after surveying it with much curiosity, repaired to the ancient Norman chapel dedicated to Saint John the Evangelist, and passed some time in devotion within it.
His examination of the White Tower ended, the King was proceeding with Sir Henry Bedingfeld towards the lieutenant’s lodgings, and they had just reached the Tower Green, which was then, as now, shaded by noble trees, when lively strains greeted their ears, and other joyous sounds proclaimed that some festivities were going on. Turning to Sir Henry Bedingfeld, Philip inquired the cause of this rejoicing, but the latter looked perplexed, and being unable to obtain any information from those about him, despatched a warder to ascertain the meaning of the gleeful sounds. While the man was gone on his errand, Philip occupied himself in examining the exterior of the Beauchamp Tower, opposite which he had halted. In another minute the warder returned, with a broad grin upon his face, and imparted something to Sir Henry Bedingfeld, which at once caused a corresponding smile to illumine the lieutenant’s grave countenance.
“An please your Majesty,” said Sir Henry, addressing Philip, “I have just ascertained that those sounds of rejoicing are occasioned by the arrival from Southampton of the destined bride of one of our gigantic warders, Og—there he stands to answer for himself, if your Majesty will deign to question him.”
“From Southampton!” exclaimed Philip. “I should not be surprised if it were the fair damsel I beheld there at the time of my arrival, who enacted the part of the Princess, when the giant himself personated the redoubted Sir Bevis.”
“’Tis the very same, Sire,” replied Og, advancing towards the King, and making a profound obeisance. “’Tis Lilias Ringwood, whom your Majesty deigns to remember. It would appear she has just arrived, though I myself have not had the gratification of beholding her.”
“Thou shalt have the gratification anon,” returned Philip; “but where are thy brothers? They were with thee just now. Are they with Lilias?”
“I conclude so, Sire,” replied Og. “While your Majesty was in the White Tower, they were summoned by Xit, with what intent I knew not then, though I can guess it now. They are giving Lilias a joyful welcome preparatory to our meeting. Under these circumstances, may I crave your gracious permission to join my intended bride?”
“Control thine impatience for a moment, and answer me one question,” said Philip. “How long is it since thou hast seen her?”
“Not since your Majesty was espoused to the Queen at Winchester,” replied Og.
“And she has not changed her mind during that long interval? By my faith, she is a very model of constancy!” exclaimed Philip, laughing. “Sir Henry Bedingfeld,” he added to the lieutenant, “I would fain witness the meeting between this loving pair. Let the damsel be brought hither.”
Whereupon an order to that effect was instantly given by Bedingfeld.
Shortly afterwards the sound of a tabour and fife were heard, while the trampling of feet and other confused noises announced that a number of persons were coming up the road leading from the Bloody Tower to the Green, and in another moment a little procession came in view.
At the head of the train strutted Xit, in a jerkin and mantle of crimson velvet, embroidered with gold, and carrying in his hand a pole decorated with ribbons of various colours, and hung with bells. Behind the mannikin marched Gog and Magog, sustaining between them a chair, in which sat Lilias Ringwood, arrayed in a very becoming green kirtle, and her pretty countenance suffused with blushes. Some twenty or thirty persons in holiday attire followed the bride, amongst whom were Rodomont Bittern, and his friends Nick Simnel and Jack Holiday. Besides Lady le Grand and Magog’s wife, Dame Placida, there was a troop of young damsels, several of whom had considerable pretensions tobeauty.beauty.
As soon as the procession reached the green it came to a halt, and Xit advancing alone towards the King, and making a very ceremonious obeisance to his Majesty, desired to know his pleasure.
“Let the damsel approach,” said Philip.
Whereupon Xit signed to the two giants to advance with their fair burden, and as they drew near, the King bade Og go forward and help her to alight. It is needless to say that the command was promptly obeyed. With a few mighty strides Og cleared the space between him and his mistress,while his brothers elevated the chair on which she was seated, as if to place her out of his reach. Lilias, however, did not hesitate to spring from the giddy height into her gigantic lover’s outstretched arms, and was instantly clasped to his mighty breast. After gazing on her rapturously for a moment, and uttering a few passionate words, he deposited her gently on the ground, amid the shouts and laughter of the beholders.
“Welcome!—thrice welcome!” he cried. “This moment amply repays me for all the misery I have endured.”
“And have you really been unhappy without me?” inquired Lilias.
“Unhappy!” exclaimed Og; “I have been so wretched that it is a marvel I didn’t drown myself in the Tower moat. However, it’s all right now.”
“To be sure it is,” interposed Xit. “You will have plenty of time for explanations hereafter. Your first business is to present your bride to his Majesty.”
“Come, then,” said the giant, taking her hand, and leading her towards the king.
Lilias displayed no bashfulness, but tripped gracefully by the side of her gigantic admirer, and made a profound reverence to his Majesty as she was presented to him.
“By my faith, good fellow, thou art to be envied,” said Philip. “I would not advise thee to let this fair creature out of thy sight in future.”
“I do not intend to give him the opportunity, Sire,” replied Lilias, demurely.
“Wisely resolved,” rejoined Philip, laughing. “As I chanced to witness the commencement of your love affair, I am glad to see it brought to such a satisfactory conclusion. Make merry with your friends, and that you may do so without scruple, here is that shall help to pay for the wedding feast.”
So saying, he took a well-filled purse from the velvet pouch depending from his girdle, and gave it to Sir Henry Bedingfeld, by whom it was handed to Og.
“We thank you most heartily for your bounty, Sire,” said Og, bowing as he received the princely gift, “and shall not fail to drink long life to your Majesty.”
“Ay, long life to his Majesty,” cried Gog, in a stentorianvoice, “and may Heaven shower its choicest blessings on his head. Shout, friends, shout!” he added, turning to the others, who instantly responded by loud cries of “Long live the King!”
Bowing graciously in acknowledgment, Philip moved away with his attendants, and proceeding to the lower end of the Green, entered the lieutenant’s lodgings, where he remained for some little time.
No sooner was the King gone, then Xit called out, in his shrillest tones,—
“A dance! a dance! Let us not separate without some mirthful pastime suited to the occasion. A dance, I say, and as the merriest and best, let us begin with a brawl.”
The proposition meeting with general concurrence, the minstrels began to play a very lively air, while the entire assemblage, with three exceptions, took hands, and formed an immense ring. The three persons excepted were the giants, whose stature forbade them to join in the dance; but as the others wheeled round them, they found it impossible to keep their limbs quiet, and began to execute such grotesque movements that the dancers were scarcely able to proceed for laughter.