CHAPTER X.
WHERE CONSTANCE FOUND A PLACE OF REFUGE.
WHERE CONSTANCE FOUND A PLACE OF REFUGE.
WHERE CONSTANCE FOUND A PLACE OF REFUGE.
An old habitation situated on the banks of the river between the gardens of Durham-place and the Savoy Hospital, then recently restored by Mary, served Constance as an asylum. Thither she had been brought, after remaining a few days in a little hostel near Richmond.
The house had been long uninhabited, and was in a very dilapidated state. At the back there was a tolerablyextensiveextensivegarden, facing the river, and containing several fine trees, but, like the house to which it appertained, it was much neglected. Three or four back rooms, looking upon the garden, had been hastily furnished; but no change was made in the front of the habitation, for fear of exciting suspicion. Luckily, the garden was not overlooked, being bounded on the west by the high walls of Durham-place.
Though shut out from the world, Constance was far from finding her present mode of existence wearisome. Her time was fully employed either in her devotions, in reading, or in some feminine occupation. She never ventured forth except into the garden, and only took exercise there at night.
Of necessity, Osbert’s visits were rare, and stealthily paid. As the safest course, he approached the house by water, landed in a wherry at the stairs of Durham-place, and then scaled the garden wall. These short and stolen visits, which were always paid at night, could not be otherwise than agreeable to Constance, and she looked forward to hiscoming with interest; and if, as sometimes chanced, he did not appear at the usual hour, she retired sadly.
Under such circumstances, it will not appear surprising that the gratitude felt by the damsel for her preserver should ripen into a warmer feeling. After the first ardent declaration of his passion made to her, Osbert refrained for a while from renewing his suit; but at length, emboldened by the evident change in her manner, he ventured again, with as much impassioned earnestness as before, to pour forth his protestations of affection, coupled with entreaties to her consent to a speedy union.
To these oft-repeated solicitations she at last replied that she would not attempt to disguise her feelings, but would frankly own that he was now absolute master of her heart, yet still there was a serious obstacle to their marriage.
“An obstacle?” exclaimed Osbert. “Of what nature? Can it not be overcome? Speak! speak!”
“Herein, then, it lies,” she rejoined. “Our creeds are different. I have abjured the errors and idolatries of Rome, while you still cling to them.”
“Granted,” replied Osbert; “but this need be no hindrance to our union. I shall not quarrel with you on account of your religion. Who knows,” he added lightly, “but that in due time you may convert me?”
“Heaven grant me power to do so!” she exclaimed, fervently. “Oh! that I could withdraw you from the paths of error, and bring you to those of truth. But much as I love you—much as I owe you—till you are converted, I never can be yours. I have scruples of conscience which cannot be overcome. I should not be happy if I felt there was a barrier between us which neither could pass. Better far we should never come together than be hereafter estranged. I could not respect you—could not love you with my whole heart, if you continued a papist.”
“But I have said I may possibly be converted,” said Osbert.
“Your conversion must take place before our marriage,” rejoined Constance. “On that condition alone will I consent.”
“Well, then, commence the good work,” he said. “I promise to be a patient listener, and will strive to profit by your exhortations.”
Gladly she obeyed, and proceeded to employ the arguments which had proved so prevailing in her own case, and with every prospect of success, her influence over her hearer being unbounded.
But though this difficulty was overcome, another arose. Constance declared that her father’s sanction to her marriage was indispensable. In vain Osbert remonstrated. She remained firm, and finding she could not be moved, he at last set out for Southampton, to see Master Tyrrell on the subject.
The old merchant was indisposed to listen to him. He was deeply offended with his daughter. He bewailed her apostacy, and declared he would neither receive her under his roof, nor hold any intercourse with her, so long as she entertained heretical opinions. If she returned, he should deliver her to the Queen, in fulfilment of his pledge. As a staunch Romanist, he could not conscientiously support a heretic, even though she were his own flesh and blood. Let Constance recant the religious opinions she had so imprudently adopted, and he would receive her with open arms. Till such time, she must not come near him. He concluded his tirade by refusing consent to the marriage.
Deeply disappointed at his want of success, Osbert returned to London. On seeking Constance’s place of shelter, he found to his surprise, that there was a guest in the house. This was Derrick Carver, who it will be remembered, disappeared from Southampton just before the order for his arrest arrived, and had escaped, as was supposed, to France. Instead of flying his country, however, Carver had proceeded along the coast to his native place, Brightelmstone, where he remained for a short time, but, fearing discovery, he removed to Lewes, and thence to London.
Being nearly destitute, he had endured great hardship, and was driven almost to extremity, when he accidentally met old Dorcas, who was purchasing provisions, and following her, made himself known, as soon as he could do so with safety. Touched by his miserable condition, the kind-hearted old dame took him home with her. He was joyfully received by Constance, and offered an asylum, which he gratefully accepted.
Such a guest, it will be easily conceived, was by no meansagreeable to Osbert, and he would gladly have got rid of him, had it been possible. Carver’s presence introduced a new element of danger by increasing the chances of discovery, while his society had a very perceptible effect upon Constance’s spirits and manner. Before his arrival, she had quite regained her serenity. But the sternness and austerity of the religious fanatic had cast a gloom over her, which could not be dispelled. The greater part of her time was passed in prayer, in the perusal of godly books, or in listening to Carver’s exhortations.
Osbert was obliged to inform her that he had failed in obtaining her father’s consent, but he earnestly besought her to fulfil her promise, and make him happy by becoming his bride.
Before assenting, she consulted Derrick Carver, who at once decided that under such circumstances the marriage could not take place. She must perforce wait. The enthusiast’s aim seemed to be to alienate her thoughts from things of this world, and wean her, as he said, from all carnal affections. No wonder Osbert regarded him with dislike.
But the unhappy lover had another and more serious cause of disquietude. He had trusted that distractions of various kinds would efface Constance’s image from the King’s breast. But he was deceived. Though constantly engaged in some little affair of gallantry, concerning which he made no secret to Osbert, Philip often spoke of her, and in terms showing that his passion was unabated. Osbert’s jealous rage at these confidences well-nigh caused him to betray himself, and his anger was not lessened when the King expressed his firm conviction that Constance must sooner or later fall into his power. Though Osbert deemed such a mischance improbable, the apprehension of it filled him with uneasiness.
One day Philip, who treated him with great familiarity, jestingly remarked:—
“So you have got some secret love affair on hand, I hear, and nightly visit your inamorata.”
“Who can have told your Majesty this absurd story?” rejoined Osbert, trying to hide his confusion by a laugh.
“No matter how I learnt it,” said Philip. “Your manner convinces me it is true. But why should you be ashamed to confess the affair? Most of the young court gallants plume themselves upon their successes, and talk openly of them.”
“I am not one of those senseless boasters,” observed Osbert, gravely.
“Now, by my faith, you take the matter so seriously, that I am satisfied there is more in it than I supposed,” cried the King. “My curiosity is piqued. I must know who has thus enslaved you. Does she belong to the city or the court?”
“Your Majesty will pardon me, but I cannot answer these questions.”
“As you please, Sir. I will press you no further. But take care. I shall find out the lady. Nothing escapes me, as you well know. Had you told me who she is, I should have been satisfied, but since you attempt concealment, look to yourself—ha! ha!”
Though Philip laughed while saying this, there was a half-menace in his tone that increased Osbert’s alarm.
Apprehensive that his movements might be watched, Osbert refrained that night from his customary visit to Constance, but embarking as usual, instead of proceeding to Durham-place, crossed to the other side of the river. That he had acted wisely, was proved by the fact of another boat following him; and it soon became evident that he was watched. Next night he acted with like caution, but nothing occurred to excite his suspicions.
On the following night, therefore, he ventured to repair to Constance’s hiding-place. But, instead of proceeding thither by water, he took a circuitous route, so as to mislead those who watched him, if any such there were.
Constance, who had been extremely uneasy at his unwonted absence, was yet more alarmed when she learned the cause of it; but he succeeded in allaying her fears, by telling her he would speedily find her another and yet more secure asylum, where she would be free from all risk of molestation.
“Methinks you magnify the peril,” observed Derrick Carver. “Howbeit, if Mistress Constance elects to quit thishouse, and seek another place of refuge, I will go with her. You may trust her to my care.”
“I am content to do so,” replied Osbert. “The danger is greater than you seem to imagine. After what has occurred, I do not think she can tarry longer in London; but by to-morrow night I will have arranged some definite plan, and, meantime, you must prepare for departure.”
“I am ready at any moment,” cried Constance. “Now—if you deem it expedient.”
“Nay, there is no such haste,” rejoined Osbert. “By flying without due preparation, you would incur yet greater risk. Two days hence you shall be in perfect safety.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Constance, “my mind misgives me, and I fear some dire calamity is in store for me.”
“If it be so, you must bear it with fortitude,” said Derrick Carver. “It has been my earnest endeavour to strengthen you for such an hour, and I trust my efforts have not been in vain, but that you may be equal to whatever trial you are subjected. Nay, even should you be called upon to attest your devotion to the Gospel by enduring fiery torments, I am assured your courage will not forsake you, but that you will earn a crown of martyrdom.”
“Heaven, in its mercy, grant she may be spared any such terrible trial!” exclaimed Osbert, shuddering.
“Rather than deny my faith, and return to that which I have abjured, I will suffer death in any shape,” said Constance, “even accompanied by the most cruel torments.”
“Your words fill me with joy, daughter,” rejoined Carver, “and prove that my teaching has not been thrown away. Thus prepared, you need have no fear.”
“I am resigned to whatever may happen,” said Constance.
“Self-preservation is as much a duty as any other,” said Osbert, “and ought not to be neglected. Though prepared for the worst, you must not expose yourself to needless risk.”
“I have said I am ready to depart whenever you mayenjoin me to do so,” replied Constance, “and will go wheresoever you may direct.”
“I neither oppose her going, nor counsel her tarrying here,” said Derrick Carver. “Act as we may, Heaven’s designs will be fulfilled.”
After some further discourse to the like effect, Osbert took leave, promising to return at the same hour on the following night.
HOW CONSTANCE’S RETREAT WAS DISCOVERED.
HOW CONSTANCE’S RETREAT WAS DISCOVERED.
HOW CONSTANCE’S RETREAT WAS DISCOVERED.
The next day passed as usual with Constance. At night she was alone in the room, the windows of which have been described as opening upon the garden, and anxiously expecting Osbert’s coming.
She was seated at a small table, perusing by the light of a single taper, which dimly illuminated the large but scantily-furnished apartment, one of the controversial tracts of the day, and essaying, but in vain, to fix her thoughts on what she read. Ever and anon she arose, and, going to the window, looked forth. The night was profoundly dark, and nothing was discernible except the trees skirting the lawn.
“He is later than usual,” she thought, as time went on. “Will he not come?”
Scarcely had she asked herself the question, when she distinctly heard footsteps without, and, concluding it must be Osbert, she passed through the window, and flew to meet him. She could just descry a figure wrapped in a mantle, advancing towards her from beneath a tree.
In another moment this person, whom she took to be her lover, reached her, and seized her hand. Startled by the proceeding, she involuntarily exclaimed, “Is it you?”
“Yes, ’tis I—Osbert,” rejoined the other, under his breath.
“I had almost given you up,” she returned. “I feared something had occurred to prevent your coming.”
The person she addressed made no reply. He hadrecognised her voice, and mentally ejaculated, “Can it be possible that it is Constance Tyrrell!”
“You do not answer,” she said, after a pause, “and your manner seems strange—very strange.”
“’Tis she, by all the saints!” muttered the other. “Let us go in!” he added, drawing her through the open window into the room.
No sooner were they within the influence of the light than the countenance of him she most dreaded on earth was revealed to Constance.
“The King!” she exclaimed, in accents of affright.
“Ay, the King,” rejoined Philip, regarding her with fierce exultation. “So, I have found you at last, and where I looked for you least. Little did I deem you were the beauty secluded with such jealous care by Osbert Clinton. Little did I expect, when I took the trouble to ascertain who he kept concealed, that I should be so richly rewarded. Never for a moment did I suppose that he would dare to rob me of my chief treasure. But he shall pay dearly for his audacity and treachery.”
“Be not unjust towards him, Sire,” rejoined Constance. “In Osbert’s place, you would have acted as he has acted. He loved me, and seeing the peril in which I stood, did not hesitate to deliver me.”
“And you have not proved ungrateful for the service,” retorted Philip, bitterly. “You have requited his devotion. The love refused to me has been bestowed freely on him.”
“Osbert’s love for me was not dishonourable, Sire,” she replied, “and in requiting it I committed no crime. I could not return your Majesty’s love without guilt. By this time the passion I was unhappy enough to inspire you with must have subsided, and you will view my conduct less harshly.”
“You are mistaken, Madam,” rejoined Philip, sternly. “I have never ceased to love you. I cannot regard you with indifference—even though you deserve that I should do so. You are necessary to my happiness. You must—you shall be mine.”
“Never!” exclaimed Constance, energetically.
“Hear me,” pursued the King; “you are now wholly inmy power. Having found you, be assured I shall not part with you again. I am willing to excuse your conduct—to pardon your lover’s disobedience and deceit—nay, more, to continue my favour towards him—but this consideration on my part must be met by complaisance on yours.”
“I reject the proposal without a moment’s hesitation, Sire,” cried Constance, with scorn.
“Then mark what I have to say further,” rejoined Philip. “I repeat, you are wholly in my power. Nothing can deliver you. On your decision hangs your lover’s life. You—you will cause his immediate arrest—his imprisonment, torture—ay, torture—and death.”
“Oh, say not so, Sire!” she cried, all her firmness deserting her. “What has he done to deserve such barbarous treatment?”
“He has dared to disobey me,” rejoined Philip. “He has stepped between me and the object of my desires. But for your sake I am content to forego revenge—nay, to heap greater favours on his head. Will you cast him into a dungeon? Will you doom him to torture and death?”
“I cannot save him by the sacrifice you propose, Sire,” she rejoined, in tones of anguish. “Neither would he consent to be so saved.”
“You have avouched the truth, Constance,” exclaimed Osbert, springing through the open window, and placing himself between her and the King. “A thousand deaths rather than such a sacrifice.”
“My clemency, I find, is thrown away,” said Philip, haughtily. “Yet I will give you a few minutes for reflection. Perhaps your resolution may change.” And he moved towards the window.
“It is needless, Sire,” rejoined Osbert. “Our determination is taken.”
“Then prepare to part for ever,” said Philip, sternly. “As to you, audacious and insensate traitor, you shall learn whose anger you have braved. It will be small alleviation, methinks, to your imprisonment to know that your mistress is in my power.”
“Fear not the threat, Osbert,” said Constance. “I will never yield to him.”
“I do not ask your consent,” rejoined Philip, derisively. “You are caught in a net from which there is no escape.”
“Sooner than this shall be, my sword shall free the country from a tyrant,” cried Osbert, plucking his rapier from its sheath.
“Ha! do you dare to raise your hand against me, traitor?” exclaimed Philip, stepping towards him, while Constance flung her arms about her lover, so as to prevent any movement on his part.
“Let him go,” continued the King, after a pause, during which he sternly regarded the pair. “He wants the courage to play the assassin.”
“You are right, Sire,” rejoined Osbert. “Draw, and defend your life.”
“Peace, madman!” cried Philip, disdainfully. “Think you I will deign to cross swords with you?”
“Heaven grant me patience, I am driven to the verge of frenzy!” ejaculated Osbert, distractedly.
“At last you are beginning to comprehend your true position,” observed Philip, in a taunting tone, “and perceive that you are utterly without help.”
“Not utterly,” cried a deep voice. And Derrick Carver strode into the room. “Heaven will not desert them in their need. Thou hast uttered threats against them which thou wilt never live to execute. Thou has ventured into this dwelling, but wilt never return from it. My hand failed me when I first struck at thee, but it will not fail me now.”
“Make the attempt, then, if thou think’st so, assassin!” cried Philip, keeping his eye steadily upon him.
“Hold!” exclaimed Osbert. “His life is sacred.”
“Not in my eyes,” rejoined Carver. “It were a crime to my country and to my religion to spare their deadliest foe. He shall die by my hand.”
“I say it must not be,” cried Osbert. “No harm must be done him. Persist, and I come to his defence.”
“Fool! you destroy yourself, and her who should be dearer to you than life, by this mistimed weakness,” rejoined Derrick Carver. “Leave him to me.”
“Again I say,forbear!forbear!” cried Osbert.
“I owe you no obedience, and will show none,” retortedCarver, fiercely. “Have at thy heart, tyrant!” he exclaimed, drawing his sword.
But ere he could make the meditated attack, Philip placed a silver whistle to his lips, and sounding it, Rodomont Bittern, with his sword drawn in his hand, and followed by half a dozen halberdiers, entered through the window. The party instantly fell upon Derrick Carver, and, after a brief struggle, disarmed him.
“By Saint Thomas!” exclaimed Rodomont, regarding the enthusiast with surprise, “this is the murtherous villain whom we caught at Southampton. I cannot be mistaken in his ill-favoured visage.”
“I will not deny myself,” rejoined the other. “I am Derrick Carver. Heaven has permitted thee to thwart my righteous purpose for the second time.”
“A plain proof that thy purpose is damnable, and that Heaven is against thee, thou bloodthirsty villain,” rejoined Rodomont. “What is your Majesty’s pleasure concerning him?” he asked of the King.
“Take him to the Tower,” said Philip.
“It shall be done, Sire. Have you any further commands?”
“Ay,” replied Philip. “An hour ago I would not have believed that Osbert Clinton would raise his hand against me, but he has done so, and his life is forfeit. Take him also with you.”
“Here is my sword, Sir,” said Osbert, delivering it to Rodomont. “I am ready to attend you.”
Seating himself at the table, on which writing materials were placed, Philip took a paper from his doublet and proceeded to sign it. Just as he was about to consign the warrant to Rodomont, Constance, who had appeared transfixed with terror, rushed forward and threw herself at his feet.
“Have mercy on him, Sire!” she cried. “Full well I know what will be his fate if sent to the Tower. Oh spare him! spare him!”
“I cannot listen to your entreaties,” rejoined Philip, coldly. “He has been guilty of high treason, and must pay the penalty of his offence.”
“Do not intercede for me, Constance,” said Osbert. “It is useless; he has no pity in his nature.”
“I have none for those who deceive me,” rejoined Philip, sternly. “Take him hence, Sir,” he added to Rodomont. “Here is your warrant.”
“Oh no! let him not go thus!” shrieked Constance, starting to her feet, and falling into her lover’s arms, “You will not separate us, Sire?”
“Wherefore not?” demanded Philip. “Is he your husband?”
“Ay, in the eyes of Heaven. I am affianced to him,” she replied.
“Even were you wedded to him you could not accompany him,” rejoined the King. “But no marriage will ever take place between you. Bid him a lasting farewell. You will meet no more on earth.”
“No more! You cannot mean it, Sire. Oh, unsay those terrible words!” shrieked Constance.
Philip remained inflexible.
“Calm yourself, Constance,” said Osbert. “I heed not what may happen to myself. My sole distress is in leaving you.”
“Fear nothing on my account,” she rejoined, in a low tone. “Heaven will protect me. Yet I will make one last effort to save you. Oh, Sire,” she added, approaching the King, “as you are great and powerful, be generous and merciful. Forgive him. He will offend no more. I am the cause of his disobedience. When I am gone he will be faithful as ever.”
“On one condition I will spare him,” said Philip, in a low tone.
“I dare not ask your Majesty what that condition is?” rejoined Constance, trembling.
“You may easily guess it,” returned Philip. “Be mine.”
“Then all hope is over,” sighed Constance. “I will die rather than assent.”
“So you think now,” muttered Philip; “but I will find means to shake your stubbornness. Take hence the prisoners,” he added aloud to Rodomont.
“I am equally guilty—if guilt there be,” cried Constance, with a loud voice. “I take all present to witness that I utterly reject the doctrines of the Romish Church, and holdits ceremonies to be vain, superfluous, superstitious, and abominable.”
“Be silent, imprudent girl,” cried Philip.
“Be not afraid to speak out, daughter,” cried Derrick Carver. “Truly you have profited by my exhortations.”
“I will never forsake my opinions,” cried Constance, firmly, “but will maintain them at any tribunal before which I may be brought. After this declaration and confession, your Majesty must send me with the other prisoners.”
“You have indeed put it out of my power to befriend you,” rejoined Philip, angrily. “Since you ask to be brought before a religious tribunal, you shall have your wish.”
“I have succeeded in my design,” whispered Constance to Osbert. “I shall not be separated from you. Your Majesty has conferred a boon upon me by this decision,” she added to the King, “and I humbly thank you for it. Now, Sir,” to Rodomont, “you can take me to the Tower with my friends.”
“Is such your Majesty’s pleasure?” demanded Rodomont.
“No,” replied Philip. “Let her be conveyed to some place of imprisonment, but not to the Tower.”
“An please your Majesty, there is the Lollards’ Tower at Lambeth Palace, where heretics are oft confined,” observed Rodomont. “No better prison lodgings can be found than the cells therein.”
“Are the cells strong and secure?” demanded the King.
“Marry, as strong and secure as the dungeons of the Tower, Sire,” replied Rodomont.
“I have heard of those prison chambers in the Lollards’ Tower,” rejoined Philip, “but did not bethink me of them at the moment. Take Mistress Constance Tyrrell forthwith to Lambeth Palace, and see her safely bestowed—safely, I say, but with all comfort and convenience that the prison will admit of—d’ye heed? Take Derrick Carver also thither, and let him be securely lodged. The ecclesiastical court shall deal with him. No intercourse whatever must be allowed between the prisoners.”
“Your injunctions shall be strictly obeyed, Sire,” replied Rodomont.
“I have changed my mind in regard to Osbert Clinton,” pursued Philip. “In consideration of the important services he has heretofore rendered me, I am disposed to overlook the grave offence he has committed. He is pardoned.”
There was a brief pause, but no word of gratitude escaped Osbert.
“Do you not hear, Sir?” said Rodomont, as he gave back the sword to Osbert. “Have you no thanks for the grace vouchsafed you by his Majesty?”
“The grace is unsolicited by me, and claims no thanks,” rejoined Osbert, almost fiercely.
“Leave him alone,” said Philip; “his mind is disordered. When the fit has passed, and he is become calm, he will think differently. Away at once to Lambeth Palace with the prisoners.”
“Constance!” exclaimed Osbert, rushing towards her.
“Farewell for ever!” she rejoined. “Do not grieve for me. Now I know you are free, I can bear any sufferings that may be inflicted upon me.”
“My freedom shall be employed for your preservation,” he whispered. “I will accomplish your liberation, or perish in the attempt.”
“I forbid it,” she returned. “Henceforward I shall strive to shake off all earthly ties, and fix my thoughts entirely upon Heaven. Farewell for ever!”
With this she disengaged herself from him, and passed forth from the room with Derrick Carver, attended by the guard, and followed by Rodomont. Two armed attendants, stationed near the window, remained with the King.
“A word before I go,” said Philip, approaching Osbert, and speaking in a tone so low and deep as to be inaudible by the attendants. “On peril of your life, I charge you to hold no further intercourse of any kind with Constance. Look upon her as dead—for dead she is to you. Return to your duty, and I will think no more of what has just occurred.”
So saying, he quitted the room with his attendants, leaving Osbert overwhelmed by despair.
While Philip returned in his barque to Whitehall Palace, a barge conveyed the two prisoners to Lambeth Palace.
On arriving there, they were detained for a short time in the guard-room of the ancient gateway, and as soon as all had been made ready, they were lodged in the prison chambers assigned them in the Lollards’ Tower.
End of the Second Book.
End of the Second Book.
End of the Second Book.
BOOK III.LAMBETH PALACE.
HOW CARDINAL POLE ARRIVED IN ENGLAND, AND HOW HEWAS WELCOMED BY THE KING AND QUEEN.
HOW CARDINAL POLE ARRIVED IN ENGLAND, AND HOW HEWAS WELCOMED BY THE KING AND QUEEN.
HOW CARDINAL POLE ARRIVED IN ENGLAND, AND HOW HE
WAS WELCOMED BY THE KING AND QUEEN.
The court returned to Whitehall in November, Parliament being about to meet in the middle of that month.
One morning, as the royal pair were walking together in the west gallery overlooking the garden, the Lord Chancellor presented himself with a despatch in his hand. It was easy to perceive, from the joyous expression of his countenance, that he brought good tidings.
“Welcome, my good lord,” said Mary. “I see you have satisfactory intelligence to communicate. Have you heard from Rome?”
“I have just received this transcript of the decree which has been sent to Cardinal Pole by the Pope,” replied Gardiner, “in which his Holiness, after due deliberation, has agreed to extend the privileges of the Legate, so as to enable him to act on all occasions with the same plentitude of power as the Pope himself. In regard to church revenues and goods, his Holiness fully recognises the great difficulty of the question, feeling it to be the main obstacle to the nation’srecognition of the Papal supremacy, and he therefore invests his Eminence with the most ample power to agree and compound with the present owners; to assure to them their possessions, on whatever title they may hold them; and to exempt them from any duty of restitution.”
“This is glad news indeed!” exclaimed the Queen. “Parliament meets in a few days. Your first business must be to repeal the attainder of the Cardinal, who will then be free to return to his own country, and aid us with his counsels. Hasten his arrival, I pray you, my lord, by all means in your power. I shall not feel perfectly happy till I behold him!”
“There shall not be a moment’s needless delay, rely upon it, gracious Madam,” replied Gardiner. “The repeal of the attainder may be considered as already accomplished, since no opposition will now be made to the measure. Meantime, an escort shall be immediately despatched to Brussels to bring over his Eminence with all honour to this country.”
Having nothing more to lay before their Majesties, he then bowed and withdrew.
Parliament was opened by the King and Queen in person, a sword of state and a cap of maintenance being borne before each of them as they went in state to the House of Lords. Everything proceeded as satisfactorily as had been anticipated by Gardiner. The first bill brought before the Lords was that for reversing Pole’s attainder, which, being quickly passed, was sent down to the Commons, and read thrice in one day; after which it received the royal assent, the impression of the great seal being taken off in gold.
Meantime, in confident anticipation of this event, a brilliant escort, comprising Lord Paget, Sir Edward Hastings, Sir William Cecil, and forty gentlemen of good birth, had been despatched to Brussels, to bring back the illustrious exile to his own country. As soon as intimation was received by Pole that he was free to return, he took leave of the Emperor, and set out with his escort for England.
Among the Cardinal’s suite was one of whom some account may be necessary. Years ago, while studying at the celebrated university of Padua, Pole contracted a friendship with Ludovico Priuli, a young Venetian noble, distinguished forhis personal accomplishments, refined manners, and love of learning. From this date the two friends became inseparable. Possessed of an ample fortune, Priuli, from his position, might have filled the highest offices in the Venetian Republic, but he preferred sharing Pole’s labours, and proved a most valuable coadjutor to him. Chosen as successor to the Bishop of Brescia by Pope Julius III., Priuli declined to exercise his functions, and even refused the purple rather than quit his friend. He had remained with Pole during his retirement at the convent of Maguzano, had attended him to Brussels and to Paris, whither the Cardinal went to negotiate terms of peace between Spain and France, and of course accompanied him to England. Besides the Lord Priuli, Pole was attended by his secretary, Floribello, an excellent scholar, together with the Signori Stella and Rollo, both men of learning and piety, though somewhat advanced in years.
Owing to the infirm state of his health, the Cardinal was unable to proceed far without resting, and after a week’s slow travel he reached Calais (then, it need scarcely be said, in possession of England, though soon afterwards lost), where he was received by the governor with a distinction rarely shown to any other than a crowned head.
Pole attended high mass at the cathedral, and the populace clad in holiday attire, flocked thither to receive his blessing. One circumstance occurred which was regarded as a most favourable omen. For more than a week strong adverse winds had prevailed in the Channel, but a favourable change suddenly took place, promising a swift and pleasant passage to the Cardinal.
A royal vessel awaited him, in which he embarked with his train, and escorted by six men-of-war, well armed, and under the command of the Lord High Admiral, he sailed on a bright sunny day for England, and, impelled by a fresh wind, arrived in a few hours at Dover.
A royal salute was fired from the guns of the castle as the Cardinal landed, and he was received by his nephew, Lord Montague, son of his elder brother, who had been put to death by Henry VIII. With Lord Montague were several other noblemen and gentlemen, amongst whomwere the mayor and the town authorities, and besides these there was a vast miscellaneous concourse.
No sooner did the Cardinal set foot on the mole, closely followed by his other nephew, Sir Edward Hastings, and Lord Priuli, than the whole assemblage prostrated themselves before him. Spreading his arms over them, Pole gave them his solemn benediction. All eyes were fixed on the venerable and majestic figure before them—all ears were strained to catch his words. The noble cast of the Cardinal’s countenance, proclaiming his royal descent—his reverend air, increased by the long grey beard that descended to his waist—the benignity and sweetness of his looks—the stateliness of his deportment—all produced an indescribable effect on the spectators. Lofty of stature, and spare of person—the result of frequent fastings—Pole, notwithstanding the ailments under which he laboured, carried himself erect, and ever maintained a most dignified deportment. To complete the picture we desire to present, it may be necessary to say that his garments were those proper to his eminent ecclesiastical rank, namely, a scarlet soutane, rochet, and short purple mantle. His silk gloves and hose were scarlet in hue, and from his broad red hat depended on either side long cords, terminating in tassels of two knots each. These garments became him well, and heightened the imposing effect of his presence.
Behind him stood his friend, Lord Priuli, who was nearly of his own age, though he looked full ten years younger, and appeared scarcely past the prime of life. The noble Venetian had a countenance which Titian would have delighted to paint, so handsome was it, so grave and full of thought. Priuli was attired in black taffetas, over which he wore a long silk gown of the same colour, and had a black skull-cap on his head.
Signor Floribello, Pole’s secretary, was a Roman, and had a massive and antique cast of countenance, which might have become one of his predecessors of the Augustan age. He had a grave, scholar-like aspect, and was attired in dark habiliments. With him were the Cardinal’s other attendants, Stella and Rolla, neither of whom merit special description. The former was the Cardinal’s steward, andthe latter his comptroller, and each wore a gold chain around his neck.
Lord Montague was a very goodly personage, and bore such a remarkable resemblance to his ill-fated father, that Pole exclaimed, as he tenderly embraced him, “I could almost fancy that my long-lost and much-lamented brother had come to life again. I doubt not you possess your father’s excellent qualities of head and heart, as well as his good looks.”
“I trust I am no degenerate son, dear and venerated uncle,” replied Montague. “But I would my father had lived to see this day, and to welcome you back to the land from which you have been so long and so unjustly exiled.”
“Heaven’s will be done!” ejaculated Pole, fervently. “I do not repine, though I have never ceased to lament the calamities and afflictions I have brought upon my family.”
“Think not of them now, dear uncle,” rejoined Lord Montague. “They are passed and gone. The tyrant who inflicted these injuries is in his grave. Happier days have dawned upon us. Your brother yet lives in me, to honour and serve you. Perchance your martyred mother now looks down from that heaven which her destroyer shall never enter, and joys at her son’s return.”
“It may be,” replied the Cardinal, glancing upwards, “and ere long I hope to join her, for my sojourn in this Vale of Tears is nearly ended; but I have much to do while I tarry here. Oh! my good nephew! what mixed emotions of joy and sorrow agitate my breast—joy at returning to the country of my birth—sorrow for the relatives and friends I have lost. Many a time and oft, during my long banishment, have I besought Heaven to allow me to return and lay my bones in my native land; and now that my prayers have been granted, I tremble and am sad, for I feel like a stranger.”
“You will not be a stranger long, dear uncle,” returned Lord Montague. “There is not one of this throng who does not feel that Heaven has sent you to us to give us a blessing, of which we have so long been deprived.”
As he spoke, the crowd, which had been pressing onthem, could no longer be kept back, but completely surrounded the Cardinal; those nearest him throwing themselves at his feet, kissing his garments, trying to embrace his knees, and making every possible demonstration of reverence. Little children were held up to him; old men struggled to approach him; and it was long before he could extricate himself from the throng, which he did with great gentleness and consideration.
Graciously declining the hospitality proffered by the mayor, the Cardinal proceeded with his suite to the Priory of Saint Martin, where he tarried for the night.
On the next day, attended by an immensecortége, and having two great silver crosses, two massive silver pillars, and two silver pole-axes borne before him, as emblems of his Legantine authority, he journeyed to Canterbury. Here he heard mass in the magnificent cathedral, of which he was so soon to become head, and rested at the palace.
On the second day he proceeded to Rochester, his escort increasing as he went on; and on the third day he reached Gravesend, where he was met by the Bishop of Durham, the Earl of Shrewsbury, and other important personages, who had been dispatched by their Majesties to offer him their congratulations on his safe arrival in England, and at the same time to present him with a copy of the act by which his attainder was reversed.
At Gravesend he again tarried for the night, and next morning entered a royal barge, richly decorated, lined with tapestry, and containing a throne covered with gold brocade. At the prow of this barge a silver cross was fixed, which attracted universal attention as he passed up the river, attended by several other gorgeous barges conveying his retinue.
As the Cardinal approached the metropolis, the river swarmed with boats filled with persons of all ranks eager to welcome him, while crowds collected on the banks to gaze at his barge with the great silver cross at the prow.
While passing the Tower, and gazing at the gloomy fortress where the terrible tragedies connected with his family had been enacted, the Cardinal became a prey to saddening thoughts. But these were dispelled as heapproached London Bridge, and heard the shouts of the spectators, who greeted him from the windows of the lofty habitations. The next objects that attracted his attention were Baynard’s Castle and Saint Paul’s, and he uttered aloud his thanksgivings that the ancient rites of worship were again performed in the cathedral.
Sweeping up the then clear river, past the old palace of Bridewell, Somerset House—built in the preceding reign by the Lord Protector, and which the Cardinal had never before seen—past Durham-place and York House, attended by hundreds of barques, he at length approached the palace of Whitehall, and was taken to the privy stairs.
At the head of the stairs stood Gardiner, ready to receive him, and after they had interchanged a most amicable greeting, and Pole had presented his friend Priuli, Gardiner conducted the Cardinal through two lines of attendants apparelled in the royal liveries, all of whom bowed reverentially as Pole passed on to the principal entrance of the palace, where the King, with the chief personages of his court, awaited his coming.
As the Lord Legate slowly approached, supported by Gardiner, Philip advanced to meet him, and, embracing him affectionately, bade him welcome, saying how anxiously both the Queen and himself had looked for his coming. To these gracious expressions Pole replied:
“I have rejoiced at the union her Majesty has formed, Sire, because I regard it as a presage of my country’s future felicity. Inasmuch as a nuptial disagreement between an English monarch and a Spanish queen led to a most lamentable breach with the Holy See, so the marriage of a Spanish king and an English princess will serve to heal the breach. Most assuredly my countrymen will reap the benefit of this auspicious alliance, and so far from finding any yoke placed upon them, as they once apprehended, will recognise the difference between your Majesty and that Prince who chastised them with so heavy a rod.”
“With the aid of your Eminence in all spiritual matters, and with that of the Lord Chancellor in temporal affairs,” replied Philip, “I doubt not I shall be able, through the Queen’s Highness, to contribute to the welfare and prosperity of the realm. Such has been my constant endeavour since Ihave been here. And now suffer me to lead you to her Majesty, who is all impatience to behold you.”
Hereupon they ascended the grand staircase, the King graciously giving his arm to the Lord Legate. At the head of the staircase they found the Queen, who exhibited the liveliest marks of delight on seeing the Cardinal, and gave him a most affectionate greeting.
Pole could not fail to be deeply moved by so much kindness, and with streaming eyes, and in broken accents, sought to express his gratitude. He soon, however, regained his customary serenity, and attended the Queen to the privy-chamber, whither they were followed by the King and the Lord Chancellor. He then delivered his credentials to her Majesty, and they had a long discourse together, in which both the King and the Lord Chancellor took part.
Before withdrawing, Pole besought permission to present his friend Lord Priuli, and Mary kindly assenting, the noble and learned Venetian was introduced to their Majesties, and very graciously received by both. After this the Cardinal took leave, and, attended by Gardiner, re-entered his barge, and was conveyed in it to Lambeth Palace, which had been prepared for his residence.
On the same day a grand banquet was given at Whitehall in honour of the Lord Legate, at which all the nobles vied with each other in paying him attention. Indeed, since Wolsey’s palmiest days no such distinction had been shown to an ecclesiastic. Priuli, also, came in for some share of the tribute of respect paid to his illustrious friend.
On the following day, in order to celebrate Pole’s arrival publicly, a grand tournament was held in the court of the palace, where galleries were erected, adorned with rich hangings, having two canopies of crimson cloth of silver, embroidered with the royal arms, prepared for their Majesties—a chair for the Cardinal being set near that of the Queen. Precisely at two o’clock her Majesty issued from the palace in company with the Cardinal, attended by her ladies, and took her place beneath the canopy, Pole seating himself beside her. The galleries on either side presented a magnificent sight, being thronged with all the beauty and chivalry of the court—high-born dames and noble gallants, all richly apparelled.
The lists were under the governance of the Lord Chamberlain, Sir John Gage, who was clad in russet armour, and mounted on a powerful and richly-caparisoned steed; and as soon as the Queen and the Cardinal had taken their places, loud fanfares were blown by a bevy of trumpeters stationed on the opposite side of the court.
At this summons two champions immediately rode into the ring, attracting great attention. One of them was the King. He was clad in a suit of richly chased armour inlaid with gold, and his helm was adorned with a panache of red ostrich plumes. His courser was trapped with purple satin, broached with gold. As he rode round the tilt-yard and saluted the Queen, a buzz of applause followed his course.
His opponent was Osbert Clinton, whom his Majesty had challenged to a trial of skill. Osbert wore a suit of black armour, with a white plume, and was mounted on a powerful charger, with bases and bards of black cloth of gold of damask.
As soon as the champions had taken their places, the signal was given by Sir John Gage, and dashing vigorously against each other, they met in mid-career, both their lances being shivered by the shock. As no advantage had been gained on either side, fresh lances were brought, and they immediately ran another course. In this encounter, Osbert had the best of it, for he succeeded in striking off the King’s helmet, and was consequently proclaimed the victor, and received a costly owche as a prize from the hands of the Queen.
Other courses were then run, and spears broken, all the combatants demeaning themselves valiantly and like men of prowess. Amongst the Spaniards, those who most distinguished themselves were Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, Don Frederic de Toledo, and Don Adrian Garcias; whilst amongst the Englishmen the best knights were accounted the Lord Admiral and Sir John Perrot. The King was more fortunate in other courses than in those he had run with Osbert Clinton, and received a diamond ring from her Majesty, amid the loud plaudits of the spectators.
After this, Sir John Gage called upon them to disarm, the trumpets sounded, and graciously bowing to the assemblage, the Queen withdrew with the Cardinal.