THE PROTO-MARTYR OF THE PROTESTANT CHURCH.
THE PROTO-MARTYR OF THE PROTESTANT CHURCH.
THE PROTO-MARTYR OF THE PROTESTANT CHURCH.
The solemn proceedings we have described as taking place in the conventual church of Saint Bartholomew occupied more than an hour, and during this time the concourse within Smithfield had considerably increased. Every available inch of ground commanding a view of the place of execution was by this time occupied. The roofs and windows of all the habitations overlooking the enclosure were filled, and the giant elm-trees near the pool had hundreds among their branches. Romanists and Protestants could be readily distinguished from each other by their looks—the countenances of the former being fierce and exulting in expression, while those of the other bespoke sorrow and indignation.
On the left of the gangway leading to the priory and opposite the stake, a large scaffold had been erected. It was covered with black cloth, and in front was an immense cross embroidered in silver, underneath which was inscribed,Unus Dominus, una fides, unum baptisma. This scaffold was intended for the recusants and Protestant divines, and was guarded by mounted arquebusiers.
On the right of the gateway was reared a long covered gallery, hung with crimson cloth of gold, and emblazoned with the royal arms. This gallery was approached from the upper windows of the mansion against which it was set, and was reserved for the King, the bishops, and the council. It was likewise guarded by mounted men-at-arms.
The patience of the densely-packed crowd, eager for the exciting spectacle it had come to witness, was well-nigh exhausted, when the solemn tolling of the bell of the conventual church announced that, at last, the intended martyr was coming forth. Then all noise and tumult suddenly ceased, and deep silence fell upon the throng.
In the midst of this hush the doleful hymn chanted by the monks could be distinctly heard. Every eye was then directed towards the gateway. Presently the priests emerged, carrying the crucifixes and banners, and mounting the scaffold, they ranged themselves in front of it. They were followed by the recusants with lighted torches, who were placed at the back of the scaffold, while the middle seats were allotted to the Protestant divines.
All these proceedings were watched with deep interest by the spectators. Many an eye was then cast towards the royal gallery, but it was still vacant.
As yet nothing had been seen of the doomed man, but now the sheriffs rode forth from the gateway, and in another moment Rogers came after them, still maintaining his firmness of deportment. He was preceded by half-a-dozen halberdiers, and followed by two officers, with drawn swords in their hands.
At this moment Philip came forth, and sat down in the fauteuil prepared for him in the centre of the gallery. Close behind him stood Father Alfonso, while on his right were Gardiner and Bonner, and other prelates, and on his left the principal members of the council.
As Philip appeared, a half-suppressed murmur arose among the spectators, and had not their attention been diverted by what was going on below, stronger manifestations of dislike might have been made. Philip frowned as these murmurs greeted him, but made no remark.
Meanwhile, Rogers continued to march resolutely towards the place of execution—some of the spectators pitying and comforting him, others flouting and reviling him. His firmness, however, was exposed to a sore trial at the last. His unhappy and half-distracted wife having followed him with her children to Smithfield, had managed to force her way close up to the ring of halberdiers encircling the stake; and as he came up, aided by some charitable persons near her,who drew aside to let her pass, she burst forth, and ere she could be prevented, flung herself into his arms, and was strained to his breast, while his children clung to his knees.
But this agonising scene, which moved most of those who beheld it, whatever their religious opinions might be, was of brief duration. Seeing what had occurred, Sheriff Woodrooffe turned fiercely round, and roared out, “What! here again, thou pestilent woman! Pluck her from him, and take her and her children from the ground.”
“Go, dear wife and children,” cried Rogers. “We shall meet again in a better world, where none will trouble us. Farewell for a little while—only a little while! My blessing be upon you!”
“I will not leave you. I will die with you,” shrieked his unhappy wife.
“Let these cruel men kill us also,” cried one of the younger children—a little girl. “We do not desire to live.”
“Pluck them away instantly, I say,” roared Woodrooffe. “Why do you hesitate? Do you sympathise with these heretics?”
“Gently Sirs, gently,” said Rogers. “See ye not she faints. Farewell, dear wife,” he continued, kissing her marble cheek. “You can take her now. She will not struggle more. Be of good cheer, my children. We shall meet again in heaven. Once more, farewell.”
As his swooning wife and weeping children were taken away, he covered his face with his hands, and wept aloud, but, roused by the angry voice of the sheriff, he lifted up his head, and, brushing the tears from his eyes, marched with firm footsteps into the ring, in the midst of which was planted the stake. No sooner had he come there than a priest advanced towards him, and, holding up a crucifix, besought him to repent.
But Rogers pushed him aside, and, turning to the assemblage, called out with a loud voice,—
“Good people, having taught you nothing but God’s holy word, and such lessons as I have learnt from His blessed book, the Holy Bible, I am come hither to seal my faith with my blood.”
“Have done, thou false knave!” cried Woodrooffe, “or Iwill have thy lying tongue torn from thy throat. Make ready. Thou hast detained us long enough.”
“Nay, treat him not thus harshly,” interposed the priest.“Again“Again, I implore you to renounce your errors.”
“You waste time with him, good father,” cried the sheriff.
“Not so,” rejoined the priest. “Perchance, even now, Heaven may soften his heart.”
“I pray you let me be,” said Rogers, taking a Prayer-book from his breast, and turning the leaves.
“Thou shalt not read that book,” cried the sheriff, snatching it from him. “I will cast it into the fire with thee. Make ready, I say.”
On this Rogers went up to the stake, and pressing his lips fervently to it, exclaimed, “Welcome the cross of Christ! Welcome eternal life!”
On turning round, he would have addressed a few more words to the people, but the sheriff, perceiving his design, authoritatively forbade him.
Then one of the men standing near the stake came up and besought his forgiveness.
“Forgiveness for what?” rejoined Rogers. “Thou hast done me no injury that I know of.”
“I am one of those appointed to burn you,” replied the man.
“Nay, then, I freely forgive thee, good fellow,” replied Rogers. “And I will give thee thanks also, if thou wilt heap plenty of wood about me.”
With that he took off his gown and doublet, and bestowed them upon the man. Then, kneeling down by the stake, he passed a few moments in deep and earnest prayer; after which he arose, and said, in a firm voice, “I am ready.”
Thereupon, a smith and his man, who were in attendance with the sheriffs, stepped forward, and putting the chain around him, fastened it at the back of the stake. An iron hoop was likewise passed around his body, and nailed to the post.
Then the men with the prongs began to pile the faggots around him, mingling them with bundles of reeds.
“Are your fagots dry?” he inquired, as they were thus engaged.
“Ay, marry are they,” replied the man to whom he hadgiven his cloak and doublet. “You shall not be long a-burning, I’ll warrant you.”
When sufficient fagots had been heaped around him, Sheriff Woodrooffe called for torches, which were brought, but ere they could be applied, the priest again interposed.
“Hold yet a moment,” he exclaimed.
Then advancing towards the martyr, who, chained to the stake and half covered by the fagots, regarded him steadily, he displayed a warrant to him, and said, “Here is the Queen’s pardon. Recant, I conjure thee, and thou shalt be spared.”
“Away with thee, tempter!” exclaimed Rogers. “I take you all to witness,” he added, with a loud voice, “that I die in the Protestant faith.”
“Kindle the pile instantly!” vociferated the sheriff.
Three blazing torches were then applied to the bundles of reeds, and the next moment the flames leaped up and enveloped the martyr.
Many of the beholders shouted and exulted at the terrific spectacle, but groans and lamentations burst from others.
Then the flame fell for a moment, and the serene countenance of the martyr could be descried, his lips moving in prayer. But not a groan or a cry escaped him.
The fagots now began to crackle and blaze. The flames mounted higher and higher, and again wrapt the martyr from view.
At this moment the sheriff threw the Prayer-book into the fire, commanding the assistants to heap on fresh fagots as fast as the others were consumed; and this was continued till the sufferer was reduced to ashes.
Thus died the Proto-martyr of the Protestant Church.
End of the Fourth Book.
End of the Fourth Book.
End of the Fourth Book.
BOOK V.THE INSURRECTION.
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN OSBERT AND CONSTANCE IN THESACRISTY.
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN OSBERT AND CONSTANCE IN THESACRISTY.
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN OSBERT AND CONSTANCE IN THE
SACRISTY.
On the King’s departure from the sacristy, as previously narrated, Constance immediately released Osbert from the ambry, and the unhappy lovers, rushing into each other’s arms, forgot for a short space the perilous position in which they were placed. At last, Osbert, partially disengaging himself from the mistress of his heart, exclaimed with bitterness,—
“What have we done that we should suffer thus severely? Heaven seems never weary of persecuting us. Yet we have committed no fault save that of loving each other.”
“Alas!” cried Constance, “it would seem that we are never to be united on earth, since we meet only for a moment, to be torn asunder. We must look for happiness beyond the grave.”
“That is but cold comfort, Constance,” cried Osbert. “I cling to life and hope. I yet hope to make you my bride, and to spend years in your society—happy, happy years, which shall make amends for all the misery we have undergone.”
“It would indeed be bliss to dwell together as you say,” replied Constance; “but fate opposes us, and to struggle against our destiny would be vain. The trials we experience are given us for our benefit, and ought to be borne cheerfully. At this very moment, within a short distance of us, a martyr is purchasing, by a cruel death, a crown of glory and a place in heaven. Hark to those cries!” she exclaimed, as shouts were heard without; “perchance he is now bound to the stake. I am thankful to be spared the frightful spectacle, but I can pray for him here.”
And she knelt down on the pavement, and prayed aloud.
While she was thus engaged, Osbert glanced anxiously around in search of some means of escape, but could discover none. The sacristy was lighted by two lancet-shaped windows, but they were narrow, and barred outside.
“Despair!” he exclaimed, in half-frenzied accents, as his search concluded. “Flight is impossible. We are lost.”
But Constance’s thoughts were with the martyr in Smithfield, and the appalling scene seemed to be passing before her eyes. Suddenly she shrieked out, “The fire is kindled. I can see the red reflection of the flames through yonder windows. Oh, it is horrible. Would I were back with the good Cardinal!”
“Would you were!” ejaculated Osbert. “But I fear you will never behold him more. The King will be here presently, and will require an answer. What will you say to him?”
“Say! What shall I say?” cried Constance, bewildered.
“Ask me not,” rejoined Osbert, in a sombre voice. “Take this dagger,” he added, placing a poignard in her hand. “Conceal it about your person. You may need it.”
“This dagger!” she cried, regarding the weapon. “What am I to do with it?”
“Should the worst befall, plunge it in the King’s heart, or your own,” he rejoined.
“I cannot,” she replied, letting the poignard fall upon the pavement. “I will not commit a crime that would doom me to perdition. Were I, in a moment of desperation, to do as you suggest, all hope of our reunion in a better world would be over. Then, indeed, I should be lost to you for ever.”
“But this inexorable demon will be here anon,” criedOsbert, picking up the dagger. “The thought drives me mad. Would that these strong walls would crack asunder to let us pass, or the floor yawn and swallow us up. Anything to avoid him.”
“Fresh shouts! more light against yon windows! They are adding fuel to the fire!” cried Constance. “’Twill be over soon.”
“And then the King will come hither,” said Osbert. “Are you prepared for him?”
“Fully prepared,” she rejoined. “Return to your place of concealment, lest he should appear suddenly.”
“No, I will remain here, and brave his anger,” said Osbert.
“Oh, do not act thus rashly!” she exclaimed. “You can render me no aid, and will only place yourself in needless peril.”
“I have no desire to live. Let the tyrant wreak his utmost vengeance upon me if he will. Ha! he comes,” he cried, as the key grated in the lock, and the door opened.
It was not the King, however, but Rodomont Bittern who entered.
“Just as I expected!” exclaimed Rodomont. “Prudence is not to be looked for in a lover. I was certain I should find you talking to your mistress, and therefore I came to warn you that the King will be here directly. Back to the ambry at once.”
“No more hiding for me,” returned Osbert. “I shall remain where I am.”
“And be sent to the Tower, and have your head chopped off for your pains,” observed Rodomont. “What service will that do to Mistress Constance?”
“It will only tend to make me more wretched,” she rejoined. “If you love me,” she added to Osbert, “you will not expose yourself to this great danger.”
“There, you cannot resist that!” cried Rodomont. “Back to the ambry at once,” he continued, pushing him towards it. “And as you value your head, do not stir till the coast is clear.”
“I cannot answer for myself,” remarked Osbert, as he got into the cupboard. “A word from the King will bring me forth.”
“Then I’ll answer for you,” said Rodomont, locking the ambry, and taking away the key. “That’s the only chance of keeping him out of harm’s way. Be not cast down, fair mistress,” he added to Constance. “The Cardinal will protect you.”
“Were I with him, I should have no fear,” she replied. “He would shield me against all wrong; but I am now in the King’s power, and he has threatened to deliver me to Bishop Bonner.”
“And if his Majesty should so dispose of you, ’twill be but a brief confinement, for the Cardinal will speedily have you back. So be of good cheer. But hist! there is a stir within the church. The dread ceremony is over. I must leave you, or the King will find me here. Keep up your courage, I say.”
With this he quitted the chamber, and made fast the door outside.
HOW FATHER ALFONSO INTERPOSED IN CONSTANCE’S BEHALF.
HOW FATHER ALFONSO INTERPOSED IN CONSTANCE’S BEHALF.
HOW FATHER ALFONSO INTERPOSED IN CONSTANCE’S BEHALF.
After a brief interval, but which appeared like an age to Constance, the door was again thrown open, and Philip entered the sacristy. To judge by his looks, no one would have supposed that he was fresh from the terrible spectacle he had just witnessed.
“One would think that burning must be pleasant to those tainted with heresy,” he observed. “The wretch who has just suffered for his contumely smiled as the pile was lighted. But it was not to speak of him that I came here, but of yourself, Constance. Have you reflected?”
“I did not need to reflect, Sire. My determination was instantly formed, and is unalterable.”
“You will regret it, Constance—bitterly regret it. Consider what you sacrifice—life, and all that can render life attractive—for a solitary cell, and a fiery death in Smithfield.”
“I require no consideration, Sire. I choose the dungeon and the stake.”
“Yet a moment,” urged Philip. “Bishop Bonner is without, but I am unwilling to summon him.”
“Do not hesitate, Sire. I have said that my determination is unalterable.”
After regarding her stedfastly for a few moments, and perceiving that she manifested no symptoms of relenting, Philip moved slowly towards the door, and, on reaching it, paused, and again looked at her fixedly. But, as she stillcontinued firm, he summoned Bonner, who immediately afterwards entered with Father Alfonso. The bishop’s features were flushed with triumph, but the Spanish friar appeared grave and sad, and his cheeks were almost livid in hue.
“Here is another obstinate heretic for you, my lord,” said the King, pointing to Constance. “Take her, and see what you can do with her.”
“If the Lord Cardinal and your Majesty have failed in bringing her to reason, I shall stand but a poor chance of doing so,” replied Bonner. “Nevertheless, I will essay. You must not expect the same gentle treatment from me, mistress,” he added, in a harsh voice, to Constance, “that you have lately experienced from the Cardinal.”
“I do not expect it, my lord,” she rejoined.
“He has been far too indulgent,” pursued Bonner. “You have been free to roam about the palace gardens—have had your own attendants and your own chamber, as if you were the Cardinal’s guest, and not his prisoner—have been exempted from mass, and other privileges, wholly inconsistent with your state. None of these immunities will you enjoy with me. You will have no garden to walk in, but a prison court with high walls—no dainty and luxurious chamber, but a close cell—no better fare than bread and water—no attendant save the gaoler—none to converse with except the priest. This is the plan I shall pursue with you. If it fails, and you continue obstinate, you need not be reminded of your doom.”
For a moment there was a pause. Constance then addressed herself to the King, and, speaking with a spirit which she had never previously displayed before him, said, “I protest against this course, Sire. If I am a prisoner at all, I am the Lord Cardinal’s prisoner. I was placed in his Eminence’s charge by the Queen’s Majesty, and I demand to be taken back to him. If I be not, but be illegally and unjustly detained by the bishop, let his lordship look to it, for assuredly he will have to render a strict account to the Cardinal. I have been brought hither in virtue of a warrant from her Majesty, which compels my attendance at this execution, but the warrant declares that I am to be taken back, and this the bishop engaged to do.”
“Is this so?” demanded Philip.
“I cannot deny it,” replied Bonner; “but your Majesty can overrule the order.”
“The King will not follow such ill counsel,” said Constance. “If I be not taken back in accordance with the warrant, both her Majesty and the Cardinal will be sore displeased.”
“The damsel speaks boldly yet truthfully, Sire,” interposed Father Alfonso, “and has right on her side. The bishop admits that she was brought here under her Majesty’s warrant, and does not deny that he undertook to take her back to the Cardinal. If this be not done, his Eminence will have just ground of displeasure. Furthermore, since Mistress Constance was placed by the Queen under the Cardinal’s charge, her Majesty’s consent must be obtained ere she can be removed.”
“But the King can set at nought the warrant,” cried Bonner, “and can remove the damsel from the Cardinal’s charge if he thinks fit.”
“Doubtless his Majesty can act as he may deem meet,” rejoined Father Alfonso; “but your lordship can scarce expect to escape blame in the affair. The Queen is certain to resent the disrespect shown to her authority, and the Cardinal will be equally indignant at the interference with him. Both will visit their displeasure on your head.”
“But you will hold me harmless, Sire?” said Bonner.
“Nay, my lord, I care not to quarrel with the Cardinal,” rejoined Philip. “You must bear the brunt of his anger.”
“And also of the Queen’s displeasure,” remarked Father Alfonso. “Her Majesty takes great interest in this damsel, and had a special design in placing her under the Cardinal’s care. If her plan be thwarted——”
“Enough, good father, enough!” interrupted Bonner. “Unsupported by your Majesty, I dare not act in opposition to the Queen and the Cardinal, and consequently Mistress Constance must go back to Lambeth Palace.”
“Thank Heaven I am saved!” exclaimed Constance, clasping her hands fervently.
“Be not too sure of that,” muttered Bonner, with the growl of a tiger robbed of his prey.
“Your lordship is right,” observed Philip, who for amoment had been buried in thought. “Direct opposition to the Cardinal might be fraught with ill consequences. Let Mistress Constance go back to Lambeth Palace. But ere many days—perchance to-morrow—the Cardinal shall be compelled to yield her up to you. The Queen herself shall give you the order.”
“I do not think her Majesty will sign such an order,” observed Father Alfonso.
“Be content, my lord, you shall have it,” said the King significantly to Bonner.
“There is another prisoner in the Lollards’ Tower whom I would fain have, Sire,” observed the bishop.
“You mean the crazy fanatic, Derrick Carver,” rejoined Philip. “He shall be given up to you at the same time as Constance. Come to Whitehall betimes to-morrow, and I will procure you the warrant from her Majesty. Meanwhile, let Constance go back.”
“Your injunctions shall be obeyed, Sire. Ere long, I hope to offer your Majesty a grandauto-da-féat Smithfield.”
“If his Majesty will be guided by me, he will not attend another such dreadful execution as we have this day witnessed,” observed Father Alfonso.
“Why so, father?” demanded the King.
“Because you will infallibly lose your popularity with the nation, Sire,” said Father Alfonso. “The odium of these executions will attach to you, instead of to their authors.”
“There is something in this,” observed Philip, thoughtfully. “We will talk of it anon. Farewell, my lord. To-morrow morning at Whitehall.” And with a glance at Constance, he quitted the sacristy, attended by his confessor.
After addressing a few harsh words to Constance, for whom he seemed to have conceived an extraordinary antipathy, Bonner likewise quitted the chamber.
Shortly afterwards Rodomont entered, and hurrying to the ambry, unlocked it, and set Osbert free.
Again the unhappy lovers rushed into each other’s arms, but Rodomont thought it necessary to interpose, saying there was no time for the indulgence of such transports now, but urging them to bid each other farewell.
“You heard what has passed just now,” remarked Constanceto Osbert; “I am to be taken back to the good Cardinal.”
“True; but to-morrow he will be compelled to surrender you to Bonner,” rejoined Osbert.
“Do not believe it, fair mistress,” said Rodomont. “His Eminence will protect you. You have escaped many difficulties, and may be equally fortunate now. You are to return with the procession to Saint Paul’s, after which you will be taken to Lambeth Palace.”
“Farewell, Constance,” said Osbert, straining her to his breast.
“Make haste!” cried Rodomont, impatiently, “or we shall have the guard here, and then there will be a fresh entanglement. Methinks I hear their footsteps. Quick! quick!”
“I come,” rejoined Constance.
And tearing herself from her lover, she followed him out of the sacristy. The door being left open, Osbert allowed a brief interval to elapse, and then issued forth into the church, which by this time was well-nigh deserted.
HOW OSBERT WAS INDUCED TO JOIN A CONSPIRACY.
HOW OSBERT WAS INDUCED TO JOIN A CONSPIRACY.
HOW OSBERT WAS INDUCED TO JOIN A CONSPIRACY.
Amongst those who witnessed the burning of Rogers was the French ambassador. On quitting Smithfield, he repaired to the court adjoining the conventual church, and was watching the religious procession set out on its return to Saint Paul’s, when he noticed Osbert Clinton, whose eyes were following the retreating figure of Constance. Approaching him, De Noailles said, in a low voice, “I am sorry to see poor Constance Tyrrell among those recusants. Has she been delivered over to Bonner’schambre ardente?”
“Not as yet,” rejoined Osbert, in a troubled tone.
“I trust she never may be,” said De Noailles, “for Bonner has no pity for a heretic. Youth and beauty weigh very little with him. ’Tis enough to drive one mad to think that so lovely a creature should be his victim!”
“She never shall be!” exclaimed Osbert, moodily.
“How will you hinder it?” said De Noailles. “Can you snatch her from his grasp if he once secures her? Can you unlock the prison in which she will be immured? Dare you even approach her now? How, then, will you be able to free her, when she is led to the stake, escorted by a guard as strong as that which accompanied the poor wretch who has just been sacrificed?”
“Torture me not thus!” cried Osbert. “I feel as though I could sell myself to perdition to accomplish her deliverance.”
“You shall not need to do that,” observed De Noailles, perceiving that Osbert was in the right frame of mind for his purpose. “Now listen to me. A plot is hatching, having for its object the overthrow of Philip, the deposition of Mary, and the restoration of the Protestant faith, as a guarantee for which the Princess Elizabeth is to be proclaimed Queen. With this movement all the heads of the Protestant party are connected, and only await a favourable moment for an outbreak. That moment is at hand. The execution which has just taken place is but the prelude to others equally dreadful. In a few days Bishop Hooper will be burnt at Gloucester, Saunders at Coventry, and Taylor at Hadley; and, ere the month be out, others will swell the fearful catalogue. Thoroughly alarmed, the Protestants feel that, if they do not offer prompt and effectual resistance, they will be exterminated. It is certain, therefore, that they will all rise when called upon, and, if well managed, the scheme cannot fail of success.”
“What has this plot to do with Constance Tyrrell?” demanded Osbert.
“Much,” replied the other. “Join us, and I will engage to procure her liberation.”
“On those terms I will join you,” said Osbert. “What would you have me do?”
“I cannot explain our plans now. But meet me to-morrow, at midnight, in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, and I will introduce you to the chief conspirators.”
“I will be there at the hour appointed,” said Osbert. “Till then, farewell!”
And moving away, he followed the procession to Saint Paul’s, leaving De Noailles well satisfied with his manœuvre.
WHAT PHILIP HEARD WHILE CONCEALED BEHINDTHE ARRAS.
WHAT PHILIP HEARD WHILE CONCEALED BEHINDTHE ARRAS.
WHAT PHILIP HEARD WHILE CONCEALED BEHIND
THE ARRAS.
Next day in the forenoon, Bishop Bonner repaired to Whitehall Palace, and found the King in a cabinet communicating with the great gallery. Philip was seated at a table covered with dispatches, and near him stood Rodomont Bittern, with whom he was conversing.
“I am glad you are come, my lord,” said the King to Bonner, as the latter entered the cabinet. “This gentleman is the bearer of a letter from the Lord Cardinal to her Majesty, in which his Eminence solicits an audience of her on a matter of importance. The Cardinal will be here at noon, and the important matter on which he comes relates to the delivery of Constance Tyrrell to your lordship. Is it not so, Sir?” he added to Rodomont.
“It is, my liege,” replied the other. “His Eminence is unwilling to give up the maiden, and desires to ascertain the Queen’s pleasure on the subject. As I have already told your Majesty, the Cardinal was much troubled on learning from Mistress Constance what had befallen her, and he declared that unless he had the Queen’s positive commands to that effect he would not surrender her to the ecclesiastical commissioners. I do not think I ever saw him more moved.”
“I make no doubt that his Eminence blamed me, Sir,” remarked Bonner.
“To speak truth, my lord, he did,” replied Rodomont; “and he said plainly to Lord Priuli that you should not have the damsel.”
“Your Majesty hears that?” cried Bonner. “This proud Cardinal defies your authority.”
“Nay, there was no defiance on his Eminence’s part of the King’s Highness,” observed Rodomont, “but only of your lordship. The representative of his Holiness, he said, should not be insulted with impunity, and he added some words which I care not to repeat, but they spoke of reprimands, censures, and possible privation of dignity.”
“His Eminence takes up the matter with great warmth,” observed Bonner, uneasily.
“I have never known him so put out before,” said Rodomont. “He paced to and fro within his chamber for an hour, and the Lord Priuli could scarce pacify him. This morning, after an interview with Mistress Constance, his anger broke out afresh, and he dispatched me with a letter to her Majesty, craving an audience at noon. This is all I have to state. I have thought it right to warn your lordship that if you think fit to persist in the matter, you may know what to expect.”
“Enough, Sir,” observed the King. “You may withdraw.”
Rodomont bowed and retired, laughing in his sleeve at the fright he had given Bonner. “Heaven forgive me for making a bugbear of the good Cardinal,” he muttered; “but the trick seems to have succeeded.”
“So, the Cardinal is determined to try his strength with us,” observed Philip, as soon as he and Bonner were leftalone.alone.
“I must beg to retire from the contest, Sire,” replied the bishop. “Whoever wins, I am sure to lose by it.”
“Tut! I will bear you harmless,” rejoined the King. “But the Cardinal will be here anon. I must prepare the Queen for his arrival.”
“I would your Majesty could be prevailed upon to abandon this design,” observed Bonner. “It will lead to nothing save trouble and confusion. Ever after I shall have the Cardinal for an enemy.”
“You alarm yourself needlessly,” rejoined Philip. “Thatknave purposely exaggerated his master’s anger. The Cardinal knows full well that the act is mine, and not your lordship’s.”
With this, he passed through a side-door, and, accompanied by the bishop, entered a large and magnificently furnished apartment, embellished with portraits of Henry VIII. and his family. No one was within this superb room, and after traversing it, the King and Bonner reached an ante-chamber, in which were assembled a number of pages, esquires, and ushers in the royal livery.
On seeing the King, these personages drew up and bowed reverently as he passed, while two gentleman ushers, each bearing a white wand, marshalled him ceremoniously towards the entrance of the Queen’s apartments, before which stood a couple of tall yeomen of the guard with halberds in their hands.
As he approached this door, Sir John Gage came forth, and Philip inquired if the Queen was alone. The Lord Chamberlain replied in the affirmative, but added that Cardinal Pole was momentarily expected, and that he himself had come forth to receive his Eminence.
“It is well,” replied Philip. “When the Cardinal comes, do not mention to him that I am with her Majesty. I pray your Lordship to remain here till you are summoned,” he added to Bonner.
With this he passed through the door, which was thrown open by the ushers, and entered the Queen’s chamber—a spacious apartment, richly furnished, hung with tapestry, and adorned with many noble pictures, chief among which were portraits of the Queen’s ill-fated mother by Holbein, and of her royal husband by Sir Antonio More.
Mary was seated at a table placed near a deep bay-window. She occupied a large armed-chair, and was reading a book of devotions. Her attire was of purple velvet, and a coif set with precious stones adorned her head. A smile lighted up her pallid countenance on the King’s entrance.
“I give your Majesty good-day,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“You expect the Cardinal,” rejoined Philip, abruptly and sternly. “Do you know what brings him here?”
“I do not,” she answered, “But I shall be glad to see him, as I desire to consult him as to the restitution of the Church property vested in the crown during the King my father’s reign.”
“Reserve that for another occasion, Madam,” said Philip. “The Cardinal’s errand relates to Constance Tyrrell.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Mary, startled. “What has he to say concerning her?”
“That you will learn on his arrival,” rejoined Philip. “But it is my pleasure that she be removed from his custody and delivered to Bishop Bonner.”
“Then his Eminence has failed to reclaim her?”
“Signally. Nothing remains but to try extreme rigour, and if that will not effect her conversion, the laws she has offended must deal with her.”
“I pity this unhappy maiden, albeit she continues obstinate,” said Mary. “Be not angry if I tell you that I designed to marry her to your secretary, Osbert Clinton, to whom she is betrothed.”
“She shall never wed him,” said Philip, harshly. “Why should you meddle in the matter? Has Osbert Clinton dared to prefer this request to you?”
“No, on my soul,” replied Mary. “But I know the girl loves him tenderly, and, had she recanted, it was my design to reward her with the husband of her choice.”
“But she does not recant, I tell you, Madam,” cried Philip, “so it is idle to speculate on what might have been. It is my will that she be delivered up to Bonner. But the order must proceed from yourself, not from me. Thus, when the Cardinal comes, you will be prepared with an answer to him.”
“But let me first hear what he has to urge,” objected the Queen.
“No matter what he urges,” rejoined Philip. “Lay your commands upon him, as I have intimated. Nay, I will be obeyed,” he added, authoritatively.
Mary sighed, but made no further remonstrance.
“The Cardinal must be at hand,” continued Philip. “By your leave, I will be an unseen witness of the interview.”
And he stepped behind the arras, near which the Queen was seated.
“He distrusts me,” murmured Mary; “and, in sooth, he has imposed a most painful task upon me.”
Shortly afterwards, the Cardinal was announced, and, greeting him kindly, the Queen begged him to take a seat by her side.
“If your Majesty has heard what occurred yesterday in Saint Bartholomew’s Church at Smithfield,” premised Pole, “you will guess the object of my visit. Constance Tyrrell, whom you confided to my charge, and whom I yet hope to reclaim, is to be wrested from me. But I shall refuse to deliver her up.”
“Your Eminence must needs comply with my order,” said Mary.
“True, Madam,” replied the Cardinal. “But I do not believe you will give any such order, when I say that in surrendering her I shall only be consigning her to infamy and dishonour.”
“I pray your Eminence to explain yourself,” said Mary.
“It is painful to me to speak out,” replied Pole, “but I cannot allow this unhappy maiden to be sacrificed. She has opened her heart to me, and has confessed all. Blinded by an insane and wicked passion for her, the King, since his first accidental meeting with her at Southampton, has never ceased to persecute her with his dishonourable solicitations. Yesterday, during that dread ceremonial, when, terrified and fainting, she was borne into the sacristy of Saint Bartholomew’s Church, he renewed his unholy suit, and bade her choose between his love and deliverance up to Bishop Bonner. I doubt not that she would sustain this trial, as she has sustained others. I do not think that imprisonment or torture would shake her. But why should she be exposed to suchtreatment?treatment?Madam, this is not the case of an heretical offender. Constance Tyrrell is to be imprisoned, is to be tortured, is perhaps to suffer a fiery death, not on account of her religious opinions, but because she has virtue enough to resist the King. Madam, such wrong shall not be, while I can raise my voice against it.”
“It shall not be,” said Mary. “Is Bonner a party to this foul transaction? If so, as I live, I will strip him of his priestly robes.”
“No, Madam,” replied Pole. “I must acquit Bonner ofany complicity in the affair. He merely looks for a victim.”
“He shall not find one in Constance Tyrrell,” saidMary.Mary.“My heart bleeds for her.”
“Well it may, Madam,” replied Pole. “A sad fatality has rested upon her ever since the King’s arrival in Southampton, when her marvellous beauty attracted his attention, and excited a passion which nothing apparently can subdue.”
“He saw her before he beheld me, and loved her better than he loved me!” cried Mary, bitterly. “Something of this I suspected, but I thought I had removed her from his influence by taking her with me to Winchester.”
“Ay, but the King contrived to obtain a secret interview with the damsel before your departure,” said Pole, “and this is the only part of her conduct that deserves censure. Moved by his passionate words and captivating manner, which few could resist, she listened to him, and at last owned she loved him, or thought she loved him.”
“Oh, I know his power!” cried Mary. “He exercised the same fascination over me.”
“But withdrawn from his baneful influence, poor Constance bitterly repented of the error into which she had been led, and, by the advice of Father Jerome, the good priest of Saint Catherine’s chapel at Winchester, to whom she confessed her fault, she left with him a tablet of gold, enriched with precious stones, which had been given her by the King as a gage of love. By Father Jerome’s advice, also, she quitted Winchester and returned to her father at Southampton, the good priest dreading lest, if she remained with your Majesty, she might be exposed to further temptation.”
“Father Jerome did right,” said Mary; “and, perchance, he saved her from dishonour.”
“Up to this time, Constance had been a zealous Catholic,” pursued Pole; “but, while attending Derrick Carver at the Hospital of the Domus Dei at Southampton, she imbibed his pernicious doctrines, and embraced the Reformed faith. This deplorable change, I fear, is attributable to the King.”
“Methinks your Eminence is unjust there,” observed Mary.
“My grounds for the opinion are these,” replied Pole. “Constance’s nature is devout and impressionable. Full of grief and remorse, she was thrown into the way of Carver, who took advantage of her troubled state of mind to accomplish her conversion. Had I met her at that time she would not have been lost to us, and I still trust she may be recovered. With the rest of her history your Majesty is acquainted. It is a series of misfortunes; neither does it seem likely she will ever be wedded to him she loves. Happy had it been for her that she had never excited the King’s love! Happy had it been for her that her faith had not been unsettled, and that she had been able to pass her life in holy and tranquil retirement. But her destiny was otherwise. She has abjured her religion—she has lost her father’s affection—she has endured imprisonment—but, though sorely tempted, she has not sinned. Be it yours, gracious Madam, to preserve her from further suffering—from further temptation.”
“What can I do?” cried Mary. “I have promised the King an order for her removal from your Eminence, and deliverance up to Bonner.”
“Madam, if that order be given and acted upon, I shall resist it,” replied Pole.
“Heaven aid me!” exclaimed the Queen. “I am sorely perplexed, and know not how to act for the best.”
“Consult the King, your husband, Madam,” rejoined the Cardinal. “Tell him what I have told you, and of my resolution.”
“I shall not need to be told,” said Philip, coming from behind the arras. “I have heard all that has passed between you and her Majesty.”
“I shrink from nothing I have uttered, Sire,” rejoined Pole. “I should have spoken with equal freedom had you stood before me. But I beseech you pursue not this matter further. Consequences you may not foresee will flow from it. You will array against you a force stronger than you can resist. I may be compelled to yield, but my voice will be heard, and its echoes may shake your throne to its foundations.”
“Your Eminence menaces me,” cried Philip, sternly.
“No, Sire, I warn you,” rejoined the Cardinal, with dignity.“You are on a perilous path, from which it were wise to turn back.”