THE ABBESS OF SAINT MARY.
THE ABBESS OF SAINT MARY.
THE ABBESS OF SAINT MARY.
Philip next proceeded to the castle, in the principal court of which he found his arquebusiers drawn up. Long before this, the treasure had been locked up in one of the strongest chambers of the donjon. Not being familiar with a Norman castle, the Prince examined the ancient fortress with much interest, and, ascending to the summit of the keep, enjoyed the magnificent view commanded from it.
His inspection of the castle completed, Philip was conducted to a public place in the centre of the town, which derived its name of Saint Michael’s Place, from a venerable and beautiful church standing in the midst of it. Facing the east end of this reverend pile was the habitation designed for his temporary abode.
In Saint Michael’s Place, as elsewhere, a large crowd had congregated, who cheered the Prince lustily on his appearance, and did not seem inclined to disperse even when he had dismounted and entered his lodgings.
The quaint architecture of the habitation, the bay-windows filled with painted glass, the low-raftered roofs, the walls panelled with oak darkened by age, the numerous small apartments, the stiff cumbrous furniture—all so different from the vast gilded saloons and open courts suited to another clime, with which he was familiar—were far from displeasing to Philip, and when the Earl of Arundel apologised for the scant accommodation of the place, the Prince courteouslyassured him that the house was very much to his taste. “What sufficed for your great monarch, Henry VIII.,” he said, “may well suffice for me.”
Pleading fatigue, he then retired to a private chamber, and was not disturbed until the return of the Count D’Egmont and Osbert Clinton from Winchester, when they were immediately admitted to his presence.
D’Egmont brought a letter from the Queen, which he delivered to the Prince, but, without manifesting any impatience to ascertain its contents, Philip laid it on the table beside which he was seated, and proceeded to question the Count as to his visit.
“Pass by all other matters,” he said, “and come to the point. What did her Majesty think of my nocturnal adventure? Was she satisfied with the explanation offered her?”
“Not entirely, I fear, your Highness,” replied D’Egmont, “though she said little to warrant such a conclusion.”
“You were careful not to alarm her?” said Philip, turning to Osbert.
“She pressed me very shrewdly,” replied the young man, “but I trust I succeeded in allaying her suspicions, which were evidently aroused by the description I was obliged to give of your fair deliverer, Constance Tyrrell. Her Majesty inherits something of the disposition of her august sire, and is inclined to jealousy.”
“That does not augur well for my future comfort. Jealousy in a wife is intolerable,” replied Philip. “Let us see what is said in her letter,” he added, opening it. “There is nothing here but congratulations on my safe arrival, and deep concern at the attack upon my person. Not a word as to my intended visit to Winchester. Apparently, her Majesty does not attach much credence to that part of the story.”
“She is not easily imposed upon,” observed D’Egmont. “It must be admitted that your Highness has given her just cause for suspicion. She will not believe that eagerness to behold her induced you to quit the ship privily at night. Her penetration pointed to a different motive, and all she heard seemed to confirm her doubts. At one moment she had resolved to come over to Southampton, but fortunatelyshe relinquished that design. Mischief might else have been made by the opponents to the marriage.”
“Pshaw! I have no fears on that score,” said Philip. “But I am glad she did not come. She might have interfered with my plans.”
At this moment an usher entered, stating that Mistress Constance Tyrrell was without, and besought an audience of the Prince.
“By Saint Iago! this is better than I expected,” cried Philip, overjoyed. “Is she alone?”
“No, your Highness,” replied the usher. “The lady abbess of St. Mary, Winchester, is with her.”
“I would the lady abbess were in her nunnery, or anywhere but here!” exclaimed Philip, in a tone of pique. “Admit them.”
On this the usher withdrew, and the next moment Constance entered the room, accompanied by a religious dame of very stately deportment. The abbess of Saint Mary was attired in a long black gown, the ample folds of which swept the ground. The sleeves of her robe were loose, and over her shoulders was spread a sable mantle, with a hood attached to it. A barbe of plaited linen covered the lower part of her face, and, with the close-drawn hood, effectually concealed her features. On the entrance of the two ladies, D’Egmont and Osbert retired.
Stepping quickly towards Constance, Philip took her hand, preventing her from making the lowly obeisance she contemplated. After greeting her very courteously, he turned to the abbess, and saluting her respectfully, said,—
“Holy mother, to what am I indebted for this visit? Can I serve you in aught?”
“For myself I seek nothing, Prince,” replied the abbess, in a voice that vibrated through Philip’s breast, occasioning him an uneasy feeling. “I am a messenger from the Queen to this young maiden. Her Majesty, having been informed that, under Heaven, the chief instrument of your preservation from a great peril was Mistress Constance Tyrrell, who heroically shielded you from the weapons of assassins, has sent me to bring the damsel to Winchester. This is my mission, which I was enjoined to execute without delay; but I have consented to defer my departure for a short space,as Mistress Constance hath a request to prefer to your Highness.”
“I thank you for your consideration, holy mother,” replied Philip. “The fair Constance can ask nothing of me that I will not readily grant.”
“Make no rash promises, Prince,” remarked the abbess. “First hear her request.”
“I pray you speak, then, fair mistress,” said Philip, in an encouraging tone to Constance. “You need not apprehend a refusal.”
“The boon is greater than I ought to ask,” said Constance, trembling. “Yet I must summon courage to make it. In a word, then, your Highness, I would solicit pardon for the miserable wretch who dared to raise his sacrilegious hand against your royal person.”
“Pardon for that miscreant!” exclaimed the abbess. “Impossible!”
“For myself I would willingly grant your request,” replied Philip, in a troubled tone, “but I have not the power. The Queen alone can pardon this offender against her laws. You must appeal to her.”
“But your Highness will second me,” observed Constance. “A word from you, and it will be done.”
“Be not too sure of that,” said the abbess, sternly. “The Queen is compassionate, but just. To pardon a wretch like this would be fraught with evil consequences. It may not be.”
The force and decision with which these words were pronounced struck the Prince, and he looked hard at the abbess. But her features were wholly undistinguishable.
“The lady abbess is right,” he said, after a pause. “I fear the appeal to the Queen will be in vain. Yet say to her that, if possible, I would have the man spared.”
“The man is a heretic, as I understand,” remarked the abbess. “If he will abjure his errors, and discover his accomplices, mercy may, perchance, be shown him—not otherwise.”
“I fear, then, he must die,” replied Constance. “He is obstinate in his opinions.”
“Then he deserves to perish,” rejoined the abbess, “and you are wrong in seeking to save him.”
“My hope is to make him profitable to the Catholic Church,” said Constance. “If he be put to death now, he will be deemed a martyr by those of his own faith. In time I may bring about his recantation.”
“’Twere a good act, if you could accomplish it, fair Constance,” observed Philip; “but I fear you deal with impracticable material. But how comes it you take so much interest in this Derrick Carver, for such, if I recollect aright, is the caitiff’s name?”
“I know not whence my compassion for him springs,” she replied. “But I have visited him in his cell, and fancy I can discern something of good in him.”
“Be not deceived, damsel,” said the abbess. “There can be no good in one capable of the crime which this man hath attempted. But if you are in earnest as to his conversion, I promise you you shall have an opportunity of attempting the work. I have interest enough with the Queen for that.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, holy mother,” observed the Prince. “And I shall rejoice if the fair Constance succeeds in her attempt. But be this as it may, I do not feel relieved from the weight of obligation I am under to her. When you present her to the Queen, say I shall be well pleased if her Majesty can place her among her gentlewomen.”
“I will do more,” rejoined the abbess. “I will use all the influence I possess with her Majesty to see the damsel well bestowed in marriage.”
“Not if I can prevent it,” thought Philip.
A suspicion in regard to the abbess, which the Prince had begun to entertain, being confirmed, he begged a word with her in private, and on her ready assent, led her into the deep recess of a bay-window.
Entirely changing his manner towards her, he then said, “I know not how to account for it, holy mother, but while talking to you I could almost imagine myself engaged in converse with her Majesty.”
“A strange supposition,” observed the abbess, in a blander tone than before.
“It is the highest compliment I could pay you,” pursued Philip. “That you should resemble so admirable a sovereign is the best proof of your merit.”
“I am much flattered by your Highness’s good opinion,” returned the abbess, still more blandly; “but how can you tell that I am like the Queen, since you have never beheld her Majesty?”
“I can perfectly judge by the many descriptions given me of her,” said the Prince. “In disposition I am sure you are exactly like her. Remove your hood, I pray you, that I may see whether the resemblance extends to feature.”
“I cannot comply with your Highness’s request, as I have a vow which prohibits me from disclosing my countenance to any of your sex,” she replied; “but I will own that I am like the Queen.”
“I was quite sure of it,” said Philip. “Permit me for a moment to address you as her Majesty.”
“’Tis a strange whim,” replied the abbess, complacently, “and I ought not to consent to it. But your Highness is singularly persuasive. I am not without curiosity to know what you would say to the Queen.”
“What I have to say may sound like the language of passion, and may not suit your ears,” rejoined Philip.
“But, as the Queen, I may listen to it,” she rejoined, with something of tenderness in her tones.
“Then I would throw myself at your feet, as I do now,” cried Philip, kneeling as he spoke. “I would press your hand to my lips, and assure you of my unalterable love and fidelity. I would tell you how I have burned with impatience to behold you—how I have counted the hours of my long voyage, and have rejoiced as each day brought me nearer to you. In the strongest terms I could employ I would express my sense of the honour you have conferred upon me in choosing me for your husband, and I would endeavour to convince you that it will be the chief business of my life to increase your felicity and to extend your power. Not a cloud shall overshadow your future existence if I can drive it away—but all shall be serenity and sunshine. This is what I would say to the Queen,” he added, rising.
“Your language is so impassioned, Prince,” she returned, “that I am almost as much moved as her Majesty could beby your words. For the moment, I will suppose myself the Queen——”
“It is so understood,” interrupted Philip.
“I fear you feign this passion, Prince,” she continued. “To love one unknown, unseen, with the ardour you profess, is impossible, and yet I ought not to say so, for though I have never beheld you till now, your image has long occupied my breast. I hope you may not be disappointed in me. It shall be my anxious study to win your affection by entire devotion and submission to your will, and I trust, with Heaven’s grace, to succeed.”
“Doubt it not,” replied the Prince, fervently. “You are sole mistress of my heart, and will ever maintain paramount sway over it.”
“I am foolish to ask it,” she said, “yet I would fain have your assurance that it is not my crown that has enticed you hither?”
“Rest easy on that score,” rejoined the Prince. “You yourself are the magnet that has attracted me. You would have been as much prized without your kingdom as with it.”
“I cannot believe you; yet the assurance is so sweet, that I will yield to the delusion,” she rejoined. “But I must listen to these honeyed words no longer. Once more I must become the abbess.”
“To others, but not to me,” rejoined Philip.
On this, they left the recess, and returned to where Constance was standing.
“What shall be done for this damsel?” said Philip. “It pains me that I cannot grant her request.”
“Her request is most unreasonable. Still, she has a great claim upon you,” replied the abbess. “I make no promise, but order the prisoner to be brought here for examination, and I will consider what can be done.”
Thanking her with a smile, Philip instantly summoned Osbert Clinton, and bade him bring Derrick Carver before him with all possible dispatch. He likewise ordered the immediate attendance of the Bishop of Cuença and Father de Castro.
With a profound obeisance, Osbert departed on his mission.
While this was passing, the abbess proceeded to the table,on which writing materials were placed, and wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, which she folded up, and, delivering it to the Prince, observed, in a significant tone, “You may need this anon. Not a word,” she added, with a gesture of caution.
After glancing at the paper, Philip placed it within his doublet.
FATHER ALFONSO DE CASTRO.
FATHER ALFONSO DE CASTRO.
FATHER ALFONSO DE CASTRO.
Shortly afterwards, the usher announced the Bishop of Cuença and Father Alfonso de Castro. No fitting opportunity having hitherto occurred of describing these two personages, we will now say a few words respecting them. The Bishop of Cuença was a perfect courtier, polished in manner, witty, sarcastic, and abon vivant. His features were handsome, and his looks intelligent, but wily. His attire was as elegant as his position as an ecclesiastic permitted. His person was tall, well formed, his complexion olive, his eyes dark and intelligent.
A far more striking personage than the bishop was Father Alfonso de Castro. He possessed one of those austere countenances in which the old Spanish painters delighted. In age he was about sixty, and his long life seemed to have been spent in practices of penance and devotion. A few scattered locks, marked by the tonsure, clothed his reverend head. His figure, once tall and erect, was now bent, and his gait feeble and slow. His complexion was sickly, and his eyes deep sunken, but still full of lustre.
Father de Castro was a profound theologian, and had written much against heresy, menacing the professors of the new doctrines with such severe punishments, that he had not unjustly acquired the title of “Hæresio-mastrix acerrimus.”
A grave salutation passed between the Bishop of Cuença and the abbess, but, when the Prince presented his confessor to her, she said,—
“I am already acquainted with Father de Castro through his writings. I have perused his learned commentary on the Twelve Minor Prophets, and his homilies on the Psalms. I have also read his three books on the Just Punishment of Heresy, and I entirely agree with him. But the work that has afforded me the deepest gratification is his masterly treatise on the Validity of the Marriage between Henry VIII. and Katherine of Aragon. That treatise has been the Queen their daughter’s constant companion, and has solaced her during many an hour of affliction.”
“I grieve to hear that so excellent a Princess has endured so much,” replied Father de Castro; “but it was the consciousness that truth and justice were on her side, and not my poor production, that sustained her during her trials. Yet I must rejoice that I have been able to pour balm into her soul. However, her sorrows are now over, and she will reap the reward of her long suffering and patience. Heaven’s blessing will descend upon her head and upon her people. She will be happy in her marriage, and from her loins princes shall spring, who shall govern this realm wisely and well, and maintain it in the true faith.”
“Heaven grant it may be so!” exclaimed the abbess, fervently. “As the old religion has been restored by the Queen, her most earnest desire is that it should be so firmly established that no fears need be entertained of a relapse into schism.”
“Having read my treatise on the Punishment of Heretics, holy mother, you know the measures I recommend,” replied Father de Castro. “To prevent the further spreading of this pestilence, it must be thoroughly rooted out.”
“That will be a work of much time and difficulty, Father,” replied the abbess, with a sigh. “But I do not despair of its full accomplishment.”
“An Auto-da-Fé, such as we have in Spain, of frequent occurrence, would soon sweep off the tainted,” observed the Bishop of Cuença. “I trust to see the Holy Inquisition established in this country.”
“That can never be, my lord,” replied the abbess.
“Wherefore not, good sister?” demanded the bishop.
“Because Englishmen would never submit to it,” rejoined the abbess. “Such an attempt would cause a rebellionwhich nothing could put down. On this point, Romanists and Protestants would unite. The throne would not be secure, and in the confusion heresy might again become triumphant. Heaven avert such acontingency!contingency!But there is nothing to apprehend. The Queen will never yield to such counsels.”
“You appear to be in Her Majesty’s confidence, holy mother,” observed the bishop, drily.
“I am so far in her confidence, my lord,” replied the abbess, “that I know her to be decidedly adverse to the Inquisition, and that she will never authorise its introduction in her kingdom.”
“Possibly the Prince her husband may incline her to different views,” remarked the bishop.
“No, my lord,” replied the abbess; “the Queen is not accustomed to change her mind, and will never act contrary to her judgment.”
The bishop looked surprised at the vivacity of the abbess, but Philip hastened to interpose, and said, “The lady abbess is right, my lord. I shall never seek to influence her Majesty’s opinions in aught that concerns her kingdom. That I have sworn—and by my oath I shall abide.”
“Unless his Holiness shall grant you absolution,” muttered the bishop.
Philip then briefly explained to the bishop and to his confessor why he had sent for them, and had just made an end, when Count D’Egmont entered, and said that M. de Noailles was without, and besought a moment’s audience of his Highness.
“What! the perfidious assassin! how dares he approach me? But he shall rue his temerity,” cried Philip, placing his hand on his sword. Then instantly becoming calm, he added, “but he could not have come more opportunely for my purpose. Admit him, D’Egmont. Once within this chamber, he is my prisoner. Place a guard at the door, and let him not go forth without my order.”
“No harm must be done him,” said the abbess, in a low, deep voice.
“I have not sent for him,” rejoined Philip. “If he rushes to his own destruction it is not my fault.”
“It was madness in him to come here at all,” saidD’Egmont. “The Duke of Alva, who has heard of the attempt, and suspects De Noailles of its contrivance, is in the ante-chamber.”
“I am glad to hear it,” replied Philip. “The Duke will know how to act,” he added, with a significant glance at D’Egmont.
“If any injury be done the ambassador, there will be war with France,” observed the abbess, in the same low, deep tone as before.
“No harm shall befal him, if he be not proved guilty of this foul plot,” rejoined Philip. “But, if it be his contrivance, he shall not escape the punishment he merits. Admit him, Count.”
CHAPTER XV.
THE FRENCH AMBASSADOR.
THE FRENCH AMBASSADOR.
THE FRENCH AMBASSADOR.
D ’Egmont withdrew, and almost instantly reappeared with the French ambassador.
M. de Noailles made a very gallant appearance, being splendidly attired in white and silver. He removed his plumed and jewelled cap as he entered the room, and advanced with a very smiling and confident air towards Philip. While he was being presented to the Prince by the Count D’Egmont, the Duke of Alva entered the room. At the same time, two Spanish halberdiers stationed themselves near the door.
Philip received the ambassador with freezing politeness.
“Considering the relations unfortunately subsisting between my father, the Emperor, and the King, your master, I scarcely expected this visit from your excellency,” he said.
“I do not appear before your Highness in my quality of ambassador, but as a simple gentleman,” replied De Noailles. “I could not hear of the felon attack made upon you last night without desiring to offer my congratulations on your escape; but I might have hesitated to do so if rumour, with its customary malice, had not sought to fix the contrivance of the dark deed on me.”
“No one who knows your excellency could for a moment suspect you of planning such an affair,” rejoined Philip. “You would never strike a dishonourable and cowardly blow. Others may suspect you—I do not.”
“He does not suspect him, because he is sure of his guilt,” muttered Alva.
“Having received this most gratifying assurance from your Highness, I will retire,” said De Noailles, slightly alarmed, “entreating you to believe that though placed by circumstances in an inimical position, I rejoice in your auspicious arrival in this country, and trust that Heaven may guard you from all ill, and shed its blessings upon you and her Majesty.”
“Perfidious villain! I marvel that lies of such magnitude choke him not,” exclaimed the Duke of Alva, involuntarily clutching his poniard.
“I thank your excellency for your good wishes, which I am convinced are as sincere as your vehement denial of all complicity in this black affair,” rejoined Philip. “But I must detain you a few minutes longer. You have come mostà propos. I am about to interrogate one of my assailants, and shall be glad that you should be present during the examination.”
“The villain, as I have heard, is confined in the dungeon of the Bar-gate,” replied De Noailles. “I will attend there whenever your Highness may desire.”
“He is uneasy, and would fain get away,” muttered Alva, who was watching the ambassador narrowly.
“I shall not need to give you that trouble,” remarked Philip. “The examination will take place here.”
“In this chamber,” exclaimed De Noailles, startled. “I thought the man was desperately wounded and like to die.”
“It is true he is badly hurt, but he hath life enough in him to speak, as your excellency will find. He will be here anon,” observed Philip.
“But the scene will be disagreeable to me,” cried the ambassador. “I must crave your permission to withdraw.”
And without waiting for consent, he turned to depart; but D’Egmont and Alva planted themselves in his way.
“A prisoner,” he ejaculated, in consternation.
“Ay, a prisoner at his Highness’s pleasure,” rejoined Alva.
“I protest against such violation of my privilege,” cried De Noailles, with mingled terror and anger.
“You can claim no privilege,” rejoined the Duke, sternly.“You stated expressly that you came here as a private gentleman, and not as an ambassador. Back Sir, at your peril.”
Seeing there was no possibility of escape, De Noailles tried to assume a bold and unconcerned demeanour; but his nerves sustained another and yet severer shock as the door was thrown open, and a litter, the curtains of which were closely drawn, was borne into the room, under the conduct of Osbert Clinton. In attendance upon the wounded man was Malwood, the chirurgeon.
Behind the litter came Rodomont Bittern, and the four bearers were Rodomont’s friends, who had voluntarily undertaken the office, in order to be present at the examination.
THE EXAMINATION.
THE EXAMINATION.
THE EXAMINATION.
After consulting the Prince by a look, Osbert caused the litter to be set down in the middle of the chamber. As the curtains were drawn aside by Rodomont, and the livid features of Derrick Carver were fully revealed to view, Philip narrowly watched the effect of the ghastly spectacle on De Noailles; but he stood the ordeal firmly.
“Raise thyself, Carver,” cried Rodomont to the prisoner.
“Where am I?” groaned the wretched man.
“In the presence of the Prince of Spain,” rejoined Rodomont. “Art thou prepared to answer his interrogations?”
“I am too feeble to talk,” replied Derrick Carver, sinking backwards.
“I have a potent elixir with me which will restore his natural forces,” said Malwood.
“Give me the phial. I will administer the dose,” cried Rodomont, pouring a few drops down the prisoner’s throat.
“Enough!—enough!” exclaimed Malwood, staying his hand.
“By the girdle of Saint Francis! it acts like magic,” cried Rodomont. “The colour is coming to his cheeks, and his eyes look brighter.”
“His pulse begins to beat firmly,” said Malwood. “He is now able to answer any question your Highness may desire to put to him,” he added to the Prince.
At a sign from Philip, Father de Castro here approached the litter.
“Who art thou?” demanded Derrick Carver, slightly raising himself, and regarding the priest sternly.
“I am the confessor of the Prince of Spain,” replied the other; “and lost as thou now art, steeped in sin, it will gladden me to reconcile thee to Heaven. Dire as is thine offence, and justly as it calls for condign punishment, I will strive to intercede for thee with his Highness, provided thou wilt make clean thy breast and recant thine errors.”
“Think not to move me,” replied Derrick Carver. “I have the stuff in me of which martyrs are made, as you will find. If I be doomed to a death of torture, Heaven will give me constancy to bear it. I grieve not for myself, but for my fellow countrymen, who have much bitter persecution to endure.”
“Pity is wasted on him, Father,” said Rodomont.
“No, my son,” rejoined De Castro. “Our Church is never without commiseration for the most hardened sinner, who may be received into its bosom even at the last hour.”
“You prate of pity, yet would enforce obedience to your doctrines by torture and burnings,” said Derrick Carver. “If I mistake not, you are the ruthless Father de Castro, who hath written and preached on the punishment of heretics, and hath been the means of consigning many true believers in the Gospel to the flames.”
“I am he you suppose, unhappy man,” replied De Castro. “I am aphysicianphysicianto those who are sick of soul. If the only remedy for their disease be fire, ought I to hesitate to prescribe it?”
“Then treat me as thou hast treated others, merciless priest,” rejoined Derrick Carver. “Thou wilt see what will ensue. Cast abroad my ashes to the winds, and they will cause a tempest which will crush thee and the Prince thy master.”
“Hold thy peace, thou crazy fellow! Thou ravest,” cried Rodomont.
“Not at thy bidding, base hireling of Spain,” rejoined Derrick Carver. “I hold thee in utter contempt. I am an Englishman, and will bend to no foreign yoke—a Protestant, and will never abandon my faith. I give my life for mycountry and my religion. Wilt thou give thy dog’s life for either?”
“My patriotism and religious zeal do not lead me to turn assassin, Carver,” rejoined Rodomont. “Neither doth it become thee, who hath sold thyself for French gold, to talk of subserviency. I am a loyal subject to the Queen, and a foe to traitors, of whom thou, Derrick, art the vilest.”
“Thou accusest me falsely,” rejoined Carver. “No French gold has ever touched my hand.”
“Answer the question I am about to put,” said the Prince, approaching; “and beware! for thy life depends upon thy truthfulness. It is useless to deny that thou wert hired for this deed. Name thy employer, and I will obtain thy pardon from the Queen. I promise it on my royal word.”
“You will not credit what I say,” rejoined Carver. “Why, therefore, should I speak?”
“Look round this assembly,” pursued Philip, “and say whether anyone within it is known to thee.”
“I see none but Spanish nobles and priests,” rejoined Carver, in accents of contempt.
“Look again, Derrick,” said Rodomont “They are not all Spaniards. There is a Frenchman among them.”
“It may be,” replied the wounded man. “What is that to me?”
“Much,” replied Rodomont.
“I pray your excellency to approach the litter,” said Philip to the French ambassador.
“Readily,” replied De Noailles, advancing. “Have you ever beheld me before?” he said to the prisoner.
“Equivocate not, but answer plainly, Derrick,” said Rodomont. “Have you ever beheld his excellency before?”
“I have,” replied the prisoner. “I saw him last night, in a house near the West-gate.”
“You are mistaken, Sirrah; you cannot have seen me!” cried De Noailles.
“Truth only will avail you,” said the Prince to the prisoner. “What passed between you and his excellency?”
“Not a word—not a look. I do not think he even noticed me,” rejoined Carver.
“But there were others with you whom he did notice?” said the Prince. “Trifle not with me. It imports me to know who they were, and what occurred.”
“The villain’s statement respecting me is utterly false,” cried De Noailles. “I did not stir from my lodgings last night.”
“Your excellency must needs be in error there,” remarked Rodomont, “since you were seen and recognised in the High Street, about half an hour before this murtherous attack took place, thus allowing ample time for its concoction. Moreover, this letter found on the body of the ruffian slain by the Prince, may serve to prove your share in the dark transaction.”
“I deny the charge altogether,” cried De Noailles. “’Tis a device of my enemies. When the matter is regularly investigated, and before a competent tribunal, I can easily clear myself.”
“Justice shall be done you, Sir, of that you need not doubt,” said Philip, sternly. “As to you, fellow,” he added to the prisoner, “little as you deserve it, you shall have a pardon. But understand. You owe life and freedom to Mistress Constance Tyrrell—not to me.”
“Are no conditions annexed to the pardon?” inquired Derrick Carver.
“None; it is unconditional,” replied the Prince. “Here is her Majesty’s order,” he added, giving Rodomont the paper, signed by the abbess. “Are you content?” he added to Constance, who had approached at the moment.
“I am,” she replied, with a look of unutterable gratitude.
“With your Highness’s permission,” said Rodomont, “the prisoner shall be taken to the hospital of the Domus Dei, where he can remain till his wounds be healed, and if there be a spark of gratitude in his breast, the residue of his life will be devoted to extolling your Highness’s clemency.”
“I trust he may become a good Catholic through your instrumentality,” said the Prince to Constance. “Take him away,” he added to Rodomont.
Upon this Rodomont directed the bearers to remove the litter, and making a profound obeisance to the Prince, he followed it out of the room.
“My part in this strange performance is now over, I presume,” observed De Noailles to the Prince.
“Your excellency is at liberty to depart,” rejoined Philip, coldly. “Attend him,” he added, glancing at Alva and D’Egmont.
The look was so significant that it did not escape the ambassador, and caused him to pause.
“No treachery, I trust, is intended?” he said. “Your Highness will bear in mind that my person is sacred.”
“So is mine,” rejoined Philip, sternly. “Yet that circumstance did not save me from attack.”
“Your Highness would not insinuate——”
“I insinuate nothing,” said Philip. “Go, Sir, Heaven go with you!”
Seriously alarmed, the ambassador did not dare to stir a step. The terrible looks of the Duke of Alva froze the blood in his veins. While he stood irresolute, the lady abbess went up to him, and said, “I will go with you.”
“It seems, then, that I am really in danger,” stammered De Noailles.
“Without me you will never quit this place alive,” replied the abbess.
And signing to Constance to follow her, she left the room with the ambassador, the Duke of Alva and the Count D’Egmont having gone out before them.
As De Noailles and the two ladies entered the ante-chamber, they found it full of armed men, while both the Duke and D’Egmont had drawn their swords.
“Pass on, holy mother, and take your charge with you,” said Alva to the abbess and Constance. “We must have a word with his excellency.”
“I will not affect to misunderstand your purpose, my lord Duke,” said the abbess, “but it must not be. I forbid it.”
“You, holy mother!”
“Yes, I, the Queen!” she rejoined.
“The Queen!” exclaimed Alva, sheathing his sword. “Nay, then, we must needs obey. Your excellency will excuse this momentary interruption. Pray pass on.”
As may be supposed, the ambassador was not slow to avail himself of the permission.
BOOK II.THE ROYAL NUPTIALS.
OLD WINCHESTER FROM SAINT CATHERINE’S HILL.
OLD WINCHESTER FROM SAINT CATHERINE’S HILL.
OLD WINCHESTER FROM SAINT CATHERINE’S HILL.
Know you the fair hill, crowned by a clump of trees, with a zone around its waist, and a carpet of smooth turf spread out upon its banks, arising from the well-wooded and well-watered meads in the immediate vicinity of the ancient city of Winchester? If you are a Wykehamist, you know it well. Graven on the brow of the hill is a labyrinth, or maze, the work of a poor student, who, being debarred from the delights of home during the holiday season, occupied his weary hours in this strange task, while his heart-sickness found relief in a ditty, still sung by his successors at Wykeham’s famous school. The legend goes on to relate that the hapless youth, who thus carved a memorial on the hill, pined away and died beneath one of the trees on its summit. If so, his gentle spirit must still haunt the spot! Lower down, an entrenchment, deeply cut in the chalk, and attributed to the Dane, encompasses the hill. The base of the mount is washed by the silver Itchen—a stream dear to old Izaak Walton, whose remains have rested, ever since his “ninetyyears and more” were told, in the adjacent cathedral. Other hills there are hard by—as Saint Giles’s, whereon the greatest fair in England was annually held from the period of the Conquest to the reign of Henry VI.; and Saint Mary Magdalene’s, on which the Empress Maud and the valorous prelate Henry de Blois, brother of King Stephen, met to treat—but neither of these eminences are comparable in beauty of form, or in charm of situation, to fair Saint Catherine’s Hill.
If you are a Wykehamist, we repeat, you well know Saint Catherine’s Hill. Oft, in happy, bygone days—far too soon flown—have you wended, with a joyous band of your schoolfellows, across the meadows and by the brink of the meandering Itchen towards your favourite hill. Oft, in summer-tide, have you plunged into the deep pool hard by the mill—oft have you thrown the line upon the glassy water and dragged forth the speckled trout—oft have you lingered on the rustic bridge and watched the light skiff, rowed by a comrade, shoot swiftly under it—oft have you joined the merry groups seated on the banks at the foot of the hill, or started in the mimic chase with the fleetest runners of the crew—oft have you climbed the steep sides of the eminence, have tracked its circling trench, threaded the intricacies of its maze, or, reclining beneath the shade of its tree, enjoyed the glorious prospect of the ancient city commanded from the point. Oft thence have you gazed upon the turrets and crocketed pinnacles of the venerable pile, erected by your benefactor, the revered William of Wykeham. Deep is the debt you owe him. Nobler seat of learning there cannot be than Winchester College; second only in architectural beauty to regal Eton. Well-nigh five hundred years has your famous school endured. May it last five hundred more!
Beautiful, most beautiful, is, now-a-days, the view from Saint Catherine’s Hill; but in the middle of the 16th century, when we must now regard it, it was infinitely more so. From this height, the fine old city, skirted on the south by lordly trees, was beheld in its highest perfection. Thronged with convents, colleges, hospitals, churches, and other buildings of ancient date, and great beauty of architecture, and boasting one of the grandest cathedrals in the kingdom,Winchester had then a grave, monastic air—something of which it yet retains, despite the many and grievous changes it has undergone. True, its religious communities and charitable establishments had been suppressed by Henry VIII., and their revenues seized upon, but the spoiler had spared the edifices. Most of these monasteries and convents were restored by Mary, and the long exiled monks and nuns had just got back to their old abodes.
The aspect of Winchester, however, at the epoch in question, was martial, as well as monastic. Besides well-fortified walls, flanked by numerous towers, and defended by bastions, the city possessed two large castles, one of which, built by William the Conqueror, occupied a commanding position on the south-west, and covered a vast area with its works and outworks. This fine old Norman castle, eventually demolished by Cromwell, was besieged and taken by the Dauphin of France in the reign of John, but it held out gallantly against Simon de Montfort and the barons in the days of Henry III. In Mary’s time it was in good repair, and well supplied with ordnance and men.
Wolvesey Castle, as the other fortress was called, stood in the lower part of the city, to the south-east of the cathedral. Though less advantageously situated than the upper strong-hold, it rivalled it in magnitude. The two giants tried their strength in the time of the warlike Henry de Blois, but were too well matched for any decided result to ensue. Wolvesey Castle was built by the valiant prelate we have just mentioned on the site of the old Saxon palace wherein Egbert, Alfred, Edgar, and Canute had dwelt, and derived its name from the tribute of wolves’ heads exacted from the Welsh princes by Edgar, and paid at the palace gates. Soon after the completion of Wolvesey by De Blois, it was attacked by the Empress Maud, who had possession of the upper fortress, and was invested at the same time by the Earl of Gloucester, and David, King of Scotland, but it held out against all its assailants. During this conflict the city suffered much from the contending parties, but especially from the adherents of Stephen. Fire-balls thrown from Wolvesey Castle caused a tremendous conflagration, whereby the Abbey of Saint Mary, the royal palace, the suburb of Hyde, with its superbmonastery of Saint Grimbald, commenced by Alfred the Great, and a multitude of churches were destroyed. Dismantled by Henry II., who dreaded its strength, Wolvesey was restored and refortified at a later period, and afforded shelter from the barons to the half-brothers of Henry III. During all this time, and for upwards of another century, Wolvesey was occupied by bishops, who belonging to the church militant, kept it in a good state of defence. Later on, it became less of a fortress, and more of an episcopal palace, and such it was at the period of our history, for though none of its fortifications were destroyed, and its walls, towers, and donjon were still standing, the buildings were devoted to pacific purposes. Great trees were allowed to grow up in its courts, and fair gardens were laid out beneath its walls. The principal apartments were in the keep, and here Mary was now lodged, while her large retinue found ample accommodation in the numerous towers and outbuildings. Gardiner had fitted up the palace splendidly for his royal mistress’s reception. During her stay at Wolvesey, unbounded hospitality reigned there; and never at any time—not even in 1522, when Henry VIII. feasted the Emperor Charles V. in its halls—had greater profusion been displayed within the castle. Of this vast and stately pile, demolished by Cromwell, some picturesque ruins, o’ergrown with ivy, are still left, attesting its former extent and grandeur.
Wolvesey Castle was connected by a subterranean passage with the cathedral, so that communication could be kept up with that edifice during asiegesiege. Opposite the gate-tower was the noble entrance to Wykeham’s College. Near at hand was another college, founded by John de Pontissara, and still nearer, the hospital called “La Carité,” appertaining to the cathedral. Tall trees sheltered these edifices, and added to their beauty. Indeed, this part of the city was so densely planted with timber, that it looked like a grove.
The most striking object in old Winchester, as in the existing city, was the cathedral. This ancient and splendid structure demands a far more lengthened description than we are able to afford it. The scene of many highly important events, it has been the place of coronation of ourearlier kings, and their mausoleum. Egbert, Edmund the son of Alfred the Great, Edred, Canute, and Hardicanute, found here a sepulchre. Alfred’s honoured remains, temporarily deposited within the cathedral, were afterwards removed to the adjacent abbey of Hyde, which he commenced, but did not live to complete. Here, amongst other holy personages, Saint Swithun, Bishop of Winchester in the ninth century, the patron saint of the city and the cathedral, found a grave. Here, also, lie the bones of many an illustrious prelate—Bishops Walkelin, Edyngton, and Wykeham; Bishops de Blois and Waynflete, Cardinal Beaufort, Prior Silkstede, Bishop Fox, and Gardiner himself, of whom our story treats. Built at different epochs, Winchester Cathedral offers examples of various styles of architecture, which, though dissimilar, produce a magnificent whole. Upon its site stood a more ancient church, reared by the Saxon king, Kenewalch, which was partially pulled down in the 11th century, when the present edifice was commenced by Bishop Walkelin, who preserved such portions of the original fabric as suited his design. The greater part of the east end of the existing structure, including the massive central tower, is Walkelin’s work; and that tower, though somewhat heavy, is a noble specimen of Norman architecture. Considerable alterations were next made, towards the close of the 12th century, by Bishop Godfrey de Lucy, who rebuilt the Lady Chapel. About 1350, a new nave was commenced by Bishop Edyngton, and the work was continued by the illustrious William of Wykeham, and after him by Cardinal Beaufort, and brought to a completion by Bishop Waynflete. The vast and lofty columns on either side of the nave, each pillar being about twelve feet in diameter, produce a grand effect, and thecoup d’œilof the interior from the great western portal is superb beyond description. The transepts, wherein may still be seen the huge round pillars and vast circular arches, piled one upon another to the roof—the original work of Walkelin—constitute, perhaps, the most interesting part of the edifice.
Brief allusion can only be made to the marvels of the choir; to its elaborately carved stalls with theirmiserères, canopies, pinnacles, and other ornaments; to the magnificentcarved screen behind the altar-piece; to the glories of the great east and west windows; to the superb chantries of Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop Waynflete, and Bishop Fox, all of extraordinary beauty and richness. On the south side of the nave, and exhibiting infinite richness of ornament and extreme delicacy of carving, is the mortuary chapel of William of Wykeham, in which may be seen a recumbent marble statue of that venerated personage, his head supported by angels, and three kneeling figures at his feet. In the north aisle, near the presbytery, is the mortuary chapel of Bishop Gardiner. In the Silkstede Chapel, in the south transept, will be found the lowly grave of gentle Izaak Walton.
And now a word in regard to the city itself. The early history of Venta, Caer Gwent, or the White City, as Winchester was originally called, is lost in obscurity, but the remote antiquity of the place is unquestionable. The Celt, the Roman, the Saxon, the Dane, and the Norman, have successively occupied the spot. Whether good King Arthur held his court in the White City, and banqueted his peerless knights at the Round Table, still preserved in the castle hall, may be doubted. But it is certain that, as the residence of our great Saxon kings, and the seat of their government, Winchester was the most important city in the island. In the days of Cerdic it was the capital of the West Saxons, and, on the dissolution of the Heptarchy, it became the metropolis of England. The most illustrious name connected with Winchester is that of Alfred the Great. Compelled to abandon the city for a while to the Danes, this great monarch and lawgiver retook it, restored it to its pristine splendour, and dwelt within it to his latest day. Canute also had his palace in Winchester, and died there. From Egbert to Edward the Confessor—a period of two hundred and forty years—all our old Saxon kings were crowned within the cathedral, and most of them found graves in its vaults. William the Conqueror loved Winchester, and strengthened it by the proud castle on the hill. William Rufus was buried in the cathedral, and the saints deposited there, resenting the intrusion of so impious a monarch upon their resting-place, caused the great tower to fall down. During the usurpation of Stephen, Winchesterbecame, as we have shown, the scene of dire conflicts between the Empress Maud and Bishop de Blois. Henry III., surnamed of Winchester, was born within the city; and so was Arthur, eldest son of Henry VII., but the latter died too young to do credit to his birth-place. Edward I. held divers parliaments in the city, and partially restored its consequence. Great feasting occurred in Wolvesey Castle, with jousting and triumphs, when the Emperor Charles V., as we have previously related, was for a week the guest of Henry VIII. Of the crushing effect produced upon the city by the Reformation we have already spoken. It was now just recovering from the blow. Modern Winchester comes not within our scope. But the city is still beautiful, still picturesque. Though reft of more than half of its olden attractions, it still boasts its grand cathedral, its famous college, and its exquisite and unique hospital of Saint Croix. Retaining these, the city of Egbert, of Alfred, and Canute, must ever be one of the most interesting in the kingdom.