HOW DERRICK CARVER FULFILLED HIS PROMISE.
HOW DERRICK CARVER FULFILLED HIS PROMISE.
HOW DERRICK CARVER FULFILLED HIS PROMISE.
Three days afterwards, Derrick Carver, upon whom the Cardinal’s goodness had operated like a sovereign cordial, giving him new life and energy, announced that he was strong enough to avail himself of the permission he had received, and, accordingly, the door of his cell was unlocked by Mallet, who accompanied him to the palace gates, and there let him go, never expecting, as he frankly avowed, to behold him again.
“It may be well to follow him and see what he is about,” observed Rodomont, who was standing by.
“Nay, his Eminence has strictly forbidden that,” said Mallet. “The man is to be left to his own devices. If he come back, I shall esteem him a greater fool than heretic.”
“Tut, he will return,” said Rodomont. “His Eminence understands him better than you do.”
“Well, we shall see,” rejoined the other.
On that very day, it chanced that Bishop Bonner came to Lambeth Palace, and proceeding straightway to the Lollards’ Tower, inquired for the prisoner. On learning that he had been allowed to go forth, he flew into a violent passion, and declared he would have the keeper punished for his gross breach of duty. Mallet excused himself, and referred the infuriated bishop to the Cardinal, but Bonner could not obtain an audience till his rage had had time to subside. Pole listened to his complaints and then replied, calmly,—
“It is true, I have let the man go on his promise to return in the evening.”
“But what is the promise of such a false knave worth?” cried Bonner, contemptuously. “He will infallibly break it.”
“I do not think so,” rejoined the Cardinal. “But tarry with me till eventide, and you will see.”
Bonner agreed, dined with the Cardinal in the banqueting-hall, and, as there were many other important guests that day, he made merry, and thought no more about the prisoner. While he was sitting, however, with his host and Priuli, Rodomont Bittern entered, and, bowing to the Cardinal said,—
“Your Eminence desired to be informed when Derrick Carver came back. As the clock struck five, he returned to his cell.”
Pole smiled, and, turning to the Bishop, observed,—
“I was right in my judgment of him, you perceive.”
“I cannot deny it,” replied Bonner. “Nevertheless, I would advise your Eminence to recall your permission. Most assuredly he will do much mischief out of doors.”
“If it turn out so, he shall be kept within his cell,” rejoined Pole.
Shortly after this, Bonner took leave of the Cardinal, but, before quitting the palace, he satisfied himself, by personal inspection, that Carver was safe in his cell. He found him, as usual, reading the Bible, and, if he had dared, would have vented his rage upon him by causing him to be tied to the whipping-post in the chamber beneath and scourged.
“I will have him burnt as soon as possible,” he observed to Mallet. “It is monstrous that such a vile wretch should be treated with so much leniency. And what of the Cardinal’s other cade-lamb, Mistress Constance Tyrrell? Has she been brought back from her apostacy?”
“I cannot say, in sooth, my lord,” replied Mallet. “But I incline to think not, seeing she doth not attend mass.”
“Not attend mass! Then she is still defiled by heresy,” cried Bonner. “We will have her at Smithfield in spite of the Cardinal.” And with this amiable resolve he departed.
Next morning Carver went forth again, returning punctually at five o’clock in the evening, and he pursued thesame course for nearly a week, rather anticipating his time than staying beyond it. One evening, however, he did not appear as usual. Three hours more went by, and still he came not, and then Mallet thought it right to acquaint the Cardinal with his prolonged absence. The information caused Pole to look grave.
“Something must have happened to him,” he said. “I do not believe he would have stayed away of his own accord, still less do I deem he has any design of evasion. Send Rodomont Bittern to me.”
On Rodomont’s arrival, the Cardinal ordered him to make immediate inquiries after the prisoner, and to take any persons with him who might aid in the quest.
“My own opinion is that the man has fallen into a snare.” Pole said. “But I leave it to your shrewdness to discover what has become of him.”
“In obedience to your Eminence’s injunctions, his movements have not been watched,” replied Rodomont, “so that we have no clue to guide us. Nevertheless, I will essay to find him.”
“About the business forthwith, and with a good heart,” said the Cardinal. “You are quick-witted, and your penetration will put you on the right track.”
Taking with him his lieutenants, Jack Holiday and Nick Simnel, Rodomont set out on his mission. Revolving what the Cardinal had said while dismissing him, he came to the conclusion that he should get on the right track by going to Bonner, who, he suspected, had a strong motive for keeping the prisoner out of the way.
Accordingly, he entered the Cardinal’s barge with his friends, bidding the oarsmen row them with all possible dispatch to the stairs at Paul’s chain, where, landing, they made the best of their way to the palace of the Bishop of London—a large edifice, which then stood on the north-west side of the cathedral.
From the porter at the palace gate they ascertained that Bonner was attending vespers in Saint Paul’s, where they could speak with him on the conclusion of the service. Rodomont then inquired from the porter whether any heretics had been arrested that day. The man replied that several had been taken at a conventicle in Foster-lane, andthat the chief sacramentary, who had been holding forth to the others, was detained in a strong-room in the gate till the lord bishop should decide what was to be done with him.
Rodomont then explained to the porter that he was an officer in Cardinal Pole’s household, and with his companions was in search of an heretical prisoner named Derrick Carver, and this perchance might be he.
“Marry, ’tis the very man,” replied the porter.
Whereupon, he unlocked the door of the strong-room, and showed them Carver within it, seated on a bench, with his hands tied behind his back with cords. Rodomont would fain have carried him off at once, but this the porter would not permit, saying they must tarry till the bishop returned from Saint Paul’s.
Half an hour elapsed before Bonner made his appearance, and when he found Rodomont and his comrades there he was exceedingly wroth, and refused to give up the prisoner.
“The knave was taken at a conventicle in Foster-Lane,” he said, “where he was preaching heretical doctrines, praying against her Majesty, and giving the communion according to the prohibited book of service. I greatly marvel that the Cardinal should allow such a pestilent wretch to go forth to spread contagion abroad. Depart now, and tell his Eminence that I will bring back the man to himto-morrowto-morrow. He is safe here, as ye can bear witness.”
“Our orders are to bring him back wherever we may find him,” rejoined Rodomont, “and those we must obey.”
“What!” cried Bonner. “Will ye take him from me by force?”
“We trust your lordship will not drive us to that extremity,” replied Rodomont. “We claim this man as the Lord Cardinal’s prisoner, and we require your lordship to deliver him up to us. If you resist, the fault will rest with you.”
“E’en take him, then,” rejoined Bonner furiously. “But ye may rest assured I will not be robbed of my prey. He is a preacher of heresy and sedition, a blasphemer and traitor, and I will burn him in spite of the Cardinal. It shall go hard if I burn not Mistress Constance Tyrrell at the same time.”
Rodomont and his comrades stayed to hear no more, but carried off the prisoner, and placing him in the barge, conveyed him to Lambeth Palace. On arriving there they took him at once before the Cardinal, and Rodomont explained what had occurred.
“Your Eminence will perceive that I was forcibly detained,” said Carver. “Had it not been so, I should have returned at the appointed hour.”
“I sent you not forth to propagate heresy and sedition,” said Pole, severely. “You have broken the compact between us, and abused my confidence. You can go forth no more.”
Carver bowed his head in submission, and was taken to his cell in the Lollards’ tower.
End of the Third Book.
End of the Third Book.
End of the Third Book.
BOOK IV.SMITHFIELD.
HOW A SOLEMN PROCESSION WAS FORMED AT SAINT PAUL’S,AND SET FORTH TOWARDS SMITHFIELD.
HOW A SOLEMN PROCESSION WAS FORMED AT SAINT PAUL’S,AND SET FORTH TOWARDS SMITHFIELD.
HOW A SOLEMN PROCESSION WAS FORMED AT SAINT PAUL’S,
AND SET FORTH TOWARDS SMITHFIELD.
Five Protestant divines, amongst whom were Hooper, the deprived Bishop of Gloucester, and Rogers, a prebend of Saint Paul’s, having beenexcommunicatedexcommunicatedand delivered to the sheriffs, and continuing firm in the maintenance of their opinions, they were doomed to death at the stake. It was appointed that Hooper should suffer at Gloucester, and Rogers at Smithfield, and it was furthermore appointed that Rogers should be the first to die. Rogers, we may mention, was one of the first theological scholars of the age, and had assisted Tyndal in translating the Bible in the time of Henry VIII.
At the earnest solicitation of Gardiner and Bonner, the King consented to be present at the celebration of this act of faith, but Cardinal Pole refused to attend it, stating that he would not countenance such a proceeding. Enraged at his opposition, the two prelates took the only revenge in their power, and procured a warrant from the Queen, authorising them to compel the attendance at the terrible ceremonial of any heretical prisoners they might designate.Armed with this warrant, on the night previous to the execution they gave notice to the Cardinal that they should send for Derrick Carver and Constance Tyrrell at an early hour on the morrow.
That night, as enjoined by the Cardinal, and as her own feelings would have prompted without the injunction, Constance never sought her couch, but spent the hours in prayer and meditation. Before daybreak she awoke old Dorcas, who was slumbering tranquilly, and with her aid attired herself carefully in dark habiliments, and, thus prepared, patiently awaited the anticipated summons. Ere long, a gentle tap was heard without, and the door being opened by Dorcas, the Cardinal entered.
“I have come to see you before you set out, daughter,” he said. “My own heart is sad. I have passed the night in vigil and prayer, yet I do not feel comforted. I cannot divest myself of the dread that this day will be prejudicial to our religion. A just man is about to be sacrificed, and his blood will cry out for vengeance. But here come the guard,” he added, as Rodomont and his companions appeared at the doorway. “Are you ready?”
“Quite ready,” she replied. “But before I leave, let me crave a blessing from your Eminence.”
“You have it, daughter,” he replied, extending his arms over her. “May Heaven sustain you during the awful scene you will be compelled to witness!”
Quitting the room, she followed Rodomont and the others to the outer court. At the Lollards’ Tower they were joined by Derrick Carver, who was brought forth by Mallet. On beholding Constance, the enthusiast uttered a joyful exclamation, but he was not permitted to converse with her, and the party proceeded in silence to the wharf without the palace gate, where lay a barge, which had been sent for the prisoners by Bonner.
Within this vessel were two Dominicans, an officer of the guard, and a couple of halberdiers. At the prow was displayed a black banner, on which was inscribed the words:Exurge, Domine, et judica causam tuam, et dissipentur inimici Fidei.
The prisoners having entered the barge with Rodomont Bittern, who had been enjoined by the Cardinal to attendthem, the vessel was pushed off, and moved down the stream.
The morning was dark and raw. A fog hung over the river, partly concealing the objects on its banks. Officers and men maintained a moody silence, and the only sound heard was a doleful hymn chanted by the Dominicans, and taken up by the occupants of some skiffs that had accompanied the barge from Lambeth.
At Paul’s Wharf the prisoners were landed, and conducted thence up Bennet’s Hill and Paul’s Chain to the Cathedral.
Matins were just over, and within the broad nave of the noble fane a great number of priests, attired in their robes, were assembled, prior to marching in solemn procession to Smithfield.
In the aisles, guarded by halberdiers, were collected groups of recusants of both sexes, brought thither to give effect to the ceremonial. Apart from these, but likewise brought from prison to grace the procession, were several deprived divines of the Protestant Church, some of whom afterwards testified to their faith at the stake, while others were starved in their cells, or died from ill treatment. Many who then met on that melancholy morn, and exchanged a friendly greeting, or a few words of comfort, saw each other for the last time on earth. But in the faces of these stout-hearted champions of the Protestant Church no traces of doubt or discouragement could be discerned. They were evidently prepared to meet their fate with resolution. Neither did they manifest sorrow for the brother about to suffer, regarding him as one whose trials were well-nigh over, and who was certain of meeting his reward.
Within the nave and aisles were congregated a vast number of spectators of the solemn scene.
Close to one of the enormous columns lining the south aisle of the magnificent fane stood Constance. She was looking with a wistful eye at the deprived Protestant divines, when her own name was breathed in her ear by some one close behind.
Not doubting who spoke, she partly turned her head, and perceived Osbert Clinton, who, screened from the guard by the pillar, had contrived to approach her. The only person who noticed the manœuvre was Rodomont, but the kind-heartedfellow looked another way, and tried not to hear what was passing.
Not much was said—but the few words spoke of the young man’s wretchedness at the protracted separation from her he loved.
“Be patient,” she said. “All will be well in the end.”
“Talk not to me of patience,” he rejoined. “I am unable to practice it. My heart will burst in the effort. I cannot live without you, Constance. Commit yourself to me, and I will free you. You will be gone before the guard can notice your absence; and once mingled with the throng, you will be safe. Come!”
“I cannot—dare not go,” she replied. “What would the good Cardinal think of me if I complied?”
“Heed him not, but think of me, whom you doom to misery by hesitation. Do not throw away this chance. Another may not occur.”
“Pass if you will,” interposed the friendly Rodomont, in a low voice. “I shall hear and see nothing.”
Squeezing his arm by way of thanks, Osbert renewed his entreaties to Constance.
“No, I cannot do it,” she rejoined. “My word to the Queen restrains me.”
“What? not gone!” exclaimed Rodomont, looking round. “Peste! it is now too late.”
Just then a movement took place in the nave, and the attention of the guard was drawn to the prisoners.
Clad in his full robes, wearing his mitre, and carrying his crosier, Bonner issued from the sacristy. Before him were borne two large silver crosses, and the pix under a rich canopy. At the same time, the procession was marshalled by the priests. Long wax tapers were lighted and distributed among the recusants, who were compelled to carry them; the Protestant divines being alone exempted from this degrading office.
As soon as the procession was formed, the halberdiers at the head of it marched through the great western portal of the cathedral, and were followed by a long line of recusants, men and women, bearing lighted tapers. Amongst these were Constance and Derrick Carver.
Then came the deprived Protestant clergy, walking twoand two. They were succeeded by monks and friars in the habits of their orders. Then came priests in their robes, and lastly Bonner himself, attired as we have described, and preceded by the large silver crosses and the pix. On either side of the sacramentaries were halberdiers to keep off the crowd. Nor was this the only precaution taken. Outside the cathedral there was a detachment of mounted arquebusiers to clear the way for the train, while a band of archers brought up the rear.
As the procession issued forth from Saint Paul’s, the bells of Saint Martin’s, Ludgate, and other churches on the line of way, began to toll slowly and solemnly.
CHAPTER II.
THE HALT AT NEWGATE.
THE HALT AT NEWGATE.
THE HALT AT NEWGATE.
It was a day of triumph to Bonner, and his heart swelled with pride and gratified vengeance as he marched along. The precincts of the cathedral were crowded with spectators, as indeed were all the streets traversed by thecortégeon its way to Smithfield. The majority of the beholders being Romanists, they prostrated themselves devoutly as the host went by, while the priests accompanying the bishop sprinkled them with holy water.
However, there were many who refused to kneel, and who were only restrained by fear from giving utterance to their abhorrence of the ceremony. As the train was passing through Ludgate, a man called out in a stentorian voice, “So, my masters, at last we have got the Inquisition in England!” But scarcely had the words escaped him, when he was seized and dragged off.
Arrived at Newgate, where Prebend Rogers had been kept since his condemnation, thecortégecame to a halt, and, after a short delay, the prisoner was brought forth. He was a man of middle age, tall of stature, thin, but well-built, dark-complexioned, and possessing a grave, intelligent countenance.
He looked perfectly composed, and remarked, as he noticed the extent of thecortége, “Ye make as great a showas if ye were about to conduct me to a festival, and not to the stake.”
While the sheriffs, who had charge of the doomed man, and who wore their robes and chains, were mounting their horses, a painful incident occurred. With loud cries, that ought to have moved every breast, a woman, having a young child in her arms, and with several other terrified children clinging to her, burst through the ranks of the halberdiers, exclaiming, “For Christ our Saviour’s sake, let me bid a last farewell to my husband!”
“Get hence, importunate and troublesome woman!” cried one of the sheriffs, named Woodrooffe, in loud and harsh tones. “This man is not thy husband.”
“I protest to you he is, Sir,” she rejoined, in extremity of anguish, “my lawful husband, and these are our children.”
“Spawn of the devil!” shouted Woodrooffe. “Away with all thy brood of Satan, or the men shall drive you hence with their halberds. You ought to know that a priest cannot marry.”
“We have been married these fourteen years, Sir,” said Rogers. “I pray you suffer her to come to me. ’Twill be a comfort to her and to the children to say farewell, and receive myblessing.blessing.Our parting will be short. If you are a husband and a father yourself, you will not be deaf to my appeal.”
“I am both, yet will I not suffer her or her base-born brats to come near thee,” roared Woodrooffe. “Push them away with your pikes if they will not retire peaceably,” he added to the guard.
“Heaven forgive you!” exclaimed Rogers, as his wife and children were thrust aside. “’Twas the sole consolation I asked, and that is denied me.”
Shortly after this interruption, thecortégemoved forward again, the condemned, closely attended by the sheriffs and their officers, following next after Bonner.
On either side of the doomed man walked a priest with a crucifix in his hand, one or other of whom was constantly dinning exhortations to repentance into his ears. To these he would not listen, but recited aloud theMiséréré. His firm deportment and serene countenance—for he speedilyrecovered his composure—produced a strong effect upon the beholders.
The bell of Saint Sepulchre’s tolled solemnly as the procession wended its way along Giltspur Street, and the bells of the two churches dedicated to Saint Bartholomew filled the air with the like dismal clangour, as the head of the cavalcade rode into Smithfield.
SMITHFIELD IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
SMITHFIELD IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
SMITHFIELD IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
No part of London is richer in historical recollections of various kinds than Smithfield. In this enclosure, which in old times was a broad and pleasant field, lying without the City walls on the north-west, were held jousts and tournaments on the most splendid scale, and attended by kings, foreign potentates and ambassadors, nobles, knights, and dames of the highest rank and peerless beauty. Barriers were frequently set up in Smithfield by Edward III., and here a grand tournament, which lasted for a week, was given by the same monarch, in the latter part of his reign, in honour of the beautiful Alice Perrars, by whose charms he was bewitched. Another grand tournament was held here by Richard II., on which occasion sixty knights on richly-caparisoned coursers, and each attended by a lady of honour mounted upon a palfrey, rode from the Tower to Smithfield, where, in the presence of the King and Queen and chief nobles, many commendable courses were run. In the same reign, the Earl of Mar came from Scotland to challenge the Earl of Nottingham, and the trial of skill took place at Smithfield, resulting in the overthrow of Mar, who was so severely hurt by his opponent that he died on the way back. In the time of Henry IV., the Earl of Somerset, Sir John Cornwall, Sir Richard Arundel, and others, tilted with certain Frenchmen; and in the same reign a duel took place between Gloucester and Arthur, which would have terminated fatally but for the King’s interference. In the succeeding reign, Sir RobertCarey fought an Aragonese knight at Smithfield, and slew him. Several desperate combats occurred here in the reign of Henry VI., but we cannot dwell upon them, and must conclude our brief summary by allusion to the famous encounter between Lord Scales and the Bastard of Burgundy, held before Edward IV., at which the English noble had the advantage, both mounted and on foot, with poleaxe as well as with spear.
Many judicial combats were likewise fought at Smithfield, and here it was that the armourer was slain by his false servant—a picturesque incident introduced with admirable effect by Shakespeare in the Second Part of “Henry VI.” Other occurrences of a yet more tragical character are not wanting to deepen the interest of the spot. At the north of the field, and between a large pool and a track of marshy land, grew some gigantic elms, and amidst these stately trees stood a permanent gallows, at which the great Scottish hero, William Wallace, was barbarously hanged, and, while yet breathing, disembowelled and quartered. In the centre of the field the Lollards were burnt, and on the same spot, at a later date, numberless victims of the tyrant Henry’s rage perished in the same fearful manner.
The darkest page, however, in the annals of Smithfield, belongs to the period under consideration.
But Smithfield has lively as well as sombre traditions. Here the famous Bartholomew Fair was held, the humours of which have been painted by Ben Jonson. Though the amusements of this annual City carnival might scandalise the present decorous generation, they suited our forefathers, who had no objection to a little riotous excess. In the last century, when Bartholomew Fair was at its zenith, excellent theatrical representations were given there, and Fielding himself had a booth at Smithfield.[A]However, tastes changed. Bartholomew Fair lost its attraction, was voted a nuisance, and finally abolished, though it lingered on till within the last few years.
A. See Mr. Morley’s “Memoirs of Bartholomew Fair”—a work full of curious research and delightfully written.
A. See Mr. Morley’s “Memoirs of Bartholomew Fair”—a work full of curious research and delightfully written.
At the period of our history, Smithfield retained most of its original features. It was still an open field without thewalls, resorted to by the citizens for purposes of recreation, and was constantly used, as at an earlier date, for grand military displays and for public executions. The grove of giant elms, with the gallows in the midst, was still standing near the pool, and no part of the broad enclosure had as yet been encroached upon.
On the east side of the area, partially screened by a large mansion, stood the Priory of Saint Bartholomew, a noble religious institution, founded in the time of Henry I., by Rahere, the King’s minstrel, and which flourished until the dissolution of the monasteries, when it was granted by Henry VIII. to his Attorney-General, Sir Richard Rich. The size and importance of the priory will be understood, when it is stated that in addition to the abode and dormitories of the prior and monks, the establishment comprised a large conventual church, refectory, hall, cloisters, courts, and numerous offices, together with extensive gardens—among which was a mulberry-garden. The splendid church was partially pulled down, and the materials sold, but, on the accession of Queen Mary, the remnant of the sacred pile, together with other portions of the monastery, were restored to the brotherhood of Black Canons, from whom they had been wrested, and continued in their hands till the time of Elizabeth, when the fraternity was ejected.
In front of the priory, as above stated, was a large and picturesque mansion, which delighted the eye with its high pointed roof, carved gables, richly-sculptured portals, and mullioned windows. Adjacent to this habitation was an ancient gateway, leading to the conventual church, over the pointed arch of which was a tabernacle containing a statue of Saint Bartholomew holding a knife. On the north of the priory ran a long narrow lane, with detached houses and gardens on either side of it, communicating with Aldersgate Street.
On the south side of Smithfield stood the old hospital belonging to the priory, at the rear of which was the church of Saint Bartholomew the Less. On the west of the area were a few scattered habitations, amongst which were three renowned hostels, the Saint Catherine’s Wheel, the King’s Head, and the Rose. Here another narrow lane, skirted by small tenements, ran down to Holborn.
The best view of Smithfield was from the ground near the old elm-trees. Standing there, and looking towards the City, the prospect was exceedingly striking. On the left was the priory, surmounted by the square tower of the conventual church, and contiguous to it the ancient hospital—a highly picturesque structure. Further on was Saint Sepulchre’s. The north-western angle of the ancient City walls, with its ramparts and battlements, was seen to great advantage from this point. Hundreds of lofty and slender spires, graceful steeples, crocketed pinnacles, and embattled towers, long since destroyed, met the gaze. But the grand object of all was the venerable Gothic cathedral, with its spire, upwards of five hundred feet in height, which could here be surveyed in all its majesty and beauty.
WHAT PASSED IN SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’S CHURCH.
WHAT PASSED IN SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’S CHURCH.
WHAT PASSED IN SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’S CHURCH.
A great crowd had assembled in Smithfield to witness the sad spectacle, but a circular space was kept clear in the centre of the area exactly opposite the ancient gateway leading to the priory.
Within this ring, which was guarded by a double line of halberdiers, stood a stout square oak post, about nine feet high, driven securely into the ground, and having a heavy iron chain attached to it by a staple. Hard by was an immense pile of fagots, with some blocks of wood. A little further off there was another pile, consisting of bundles of dried reeds.
Close by the stake stood three men, of savage and repulsive aspect, clothed in leathern jerkins and tight-fitting hose of blood-red hue, having long iron prongs in their hands.
As thecortégeentered Smithfield, and the intended martyr was descried, a murmur of commiseration rose from those who sympathised with him, but it was instantly drowned by a hurricane of fierce and exulting yells from the Romanists.
Meantime, the mounted arquebusiers having cleared a passage through the crowd, the long line of priests with their banners and crosses, the recusants with the tapers, the deprived Protestant divines, Bonner and the condemned, passed through the gateway, and, traversing the court, proceededto the ancient conventual church, the bell of which sounded dolefully the while.
At the portal they were met by the prior of the Black Canons, with several of the brethren in their sable robes, and conducted to the places appointed for them in the sacred edifice.
The recusants were ranged on one side, and the Protestant divines on the other, while the Romish priests proceeded to the presbytery. A chair opposite the pulpit was assigned to the doomed man, on which he sat down, with two halberdiers standing behind him.
On a faldstool near the altar sat Philip, who had come there quite privately, and was only attended by his confessor, Father Alfonso de Castro. In the choir sat Gardiner, with some members of the council.
Beneath a circular arch, resting on massive cylindrical pillars, near the north transept, stood Osbert Clinton, who, having accompanied thecortégefrom Saint Paul’s, had entered the church at the same time with it, and stationed himself where he could best see Constance without being observed by the King. She soon became aware of his presence, but only ventured occasionally to look towards him, and then her glances yielded him little comfort.
After a brief delay, Bonner ascended the pulpit, and taking for his text Saint Paul’s words to the Galatians, “I would they were cut off that trouble you,” he preached a violent sermon on the necessity of punishing heretics and false brethren with death, citing many authorities in favour of his views, and asserting that to maintain that heresy ought to go unpunished would be to maintain that the worst crimes should be unchastised. “Heresy,” he said, “being treason against Heaven, deserves the punishment of treason. As such a traitor,” he added, turning to Rogers, “thou wilt be consigned to a fire, which will be to thee a foretaste of the flames in which thou shalt burn everlastingly. Thy fate will be a terrible lesson to all who think with thee.”
“It will be a lesson to them how to testify to their faith,” rejoined the prebend.
Bonner having descended from the pulpit, a votive mass for taking away schism was performed by Gardiner, whosolemnly pronounced the oration:—Deus qui errata corrigis, et dispersa congregas, et congregata conservas; quæsumus, super populum Christianum tuæ unionis gratiam clementer infunde: ut divisione rejecta, vero Pastori Ecclesiæ tuæ se venies, tibi dignè valeat famulari.
Mass ended, theDies Iræwas sung by the choir of the Black Canons, and, while this was proceeding, thecortégebegan to move, passing slowly before the altar, preparatory to quitting the church.
As before, a long array of priests with banners walked with noiseless tread, bowing reverently as they passed the altar. Then came the recusants, carrying their lighted tapers, but not a knee was bent amongst them, not a head inclined.
Last amongst these walked Constance, alone. She had to pass close by Philip, who was seated on the faldstool, with Gardiner and Father Alfonso beside him, and as she approached him, her strength began to fail, and her knees tottered. She tried to summon all her energies, but in vain. In another moment she felt she must sink. Philip’s gaze was fixed steadily upon her. A desperate effort to pass deprived her of the little strength left, and with a cry she let fall the taper, and would have sunk upon the pavement if the King himself had not caught her.
“Oh that I could die!” she gasped.
“No, you must live for me, Constance,” whispered Philip, passionately.
She looked at him for a moment with mingled fear and aversion, and then closed her eyes.
“She has swooned,” said the King, consigning her to Rodomont, who had been marching behind her. “Take her where she can be tended.”
In obedience to the injunction, Rodomont bore her to the sacristy, where restoratives were applied by a monk, who acted as physician to the brotherhood of the Black Canons.
This incident, as may be supposed, had not passed unnoticed by Osbert Clinton, whose eyes had never quitted Constance for a moment. As she tottered and fell into the King’s arms, his agony became almost insupportable; and when she was borne to thesacristysacristyby Rodomont, he would have flown instantly to her assistance if he had dared.
Meanwhile thecortégecontinued to pass slowly by the King. The Protestant divines made him an obeisance as they passed, but sedulously abstained from bowing to the altar. Lastly came the intended martyr, who walked with a firm step, and head erect.
As he came near, Gardiner commanded him to stop, and thus addressed him: “John Rogers, somewhile priest, but now an excommunicate person, we have striven to convert thee, and by wholesome admonitions to reduce thee again unto the true faith and unity of the universal Catholic Church, but we have found thee obstinate and stiff-necked, stedfastly continuing in thy damnable opinions and heresies, and refusing to return to the lap of the holy mother church. Wherefore, not being willing that thou shouldst infect the Lord’s flock with thine heresy, we have cast thee out from the Church as an obstinate, impenitent sinner, and have left thee to the judgment of the secular power, by whom thou hast been justly condemned to perish by fire. The punishment is inflicted upon thee for the salvation of thine own soul, and as a step towards the extirpation of heresy.”
“What consequences may follow my punishment, my lord, none of us can tell,” rejoined Rogers; “but I am fully prepared to die.”
“Sinner as thou art, wilt thou be converted and live?” cried Gardiner. “Here is her Majesty’s pardon,” he added, showing him a scroll.
“I reject it,” said Rogers, stoutly. “I maintain that the Catholic Church of Rome is the Church of Antichrist. Item, that in the sacrament of the altar——”
“A truce to thy blasphemies,” interrupted Gardiner, furiously. “Away with him to the stake!”
“I am ready,” said Rogers. “I bid you all to my funeral pile. You shall see how a true believer can die. If I blench, proclaim me a renegade.”
Hereupon, the Protestant divines, who had listened with great satisfaction, moved on, and Rogers followed them with a firm step.
While this occurred, Osbert Clinton had contrived to steal unperceived to the sacristy. Constance had just recovered from her swoon. Luckily, no one was with her butRodomont, the monk who had tended her having just quitted the chamber.
“Why have you come here, Sir?” cried Rodomont. “Matters were bad enough before, but your imprudence will make them ten times worse. If the King discovers you, you are lost.”
“I care not what happens to me,” replied Osbert. “I could not keep away. Fear nothing, Constance,” he added, “I will not quit you more.”
“This is madness,” cried Rodomont. “The King is certain to come hither, and then you will be arrested. Hide yourself in thiscupboardcupboard,” he added, opening the door of a large oak ambry reared against the wall. “It only contains a few priestly vestments, and you can stand upright within it.”
But Osbert refused to move.
“Do as he recommends, I implore you,” said Constance to him. “You will throw away your life by staying with me.”
“To be sure he will,” rejoined Rodomont, dragging him away, and forcing him into the ambry, the door of which he shut.
The step was only just taken in time. In another moment, the King came into the sacristy, and seeing that Constance had recovered, he signed to Rodomont to leave the chamber.
“I have much to say to you, Constance,” he began, “but this is not the moment for it. Are you still in the same mood as when I saw youlast?last?Has no change been wrought in your sentiments?”
“None, Sire,” she replied. “I am quite happy in the life I lead with the good Cardinal, and only pray it may continue.”
“But you still maintain your heretical opinions?” said the King.
“Firmly as ever, Sire.”
“And does not this awful ceremonial shake you?”
“On the contrary, it strengthens my convictions.”
“All heretics are alike—all obstinate and contumacious,” muttered Philip. “Constance, you cannot go back to the Cardinal. He is much too lenient to you. I shall deliver you to Bishop Bonner, who will treat you very differently.”
“Oh! Sire, do not deliver me to that cruel man. Let me go back to the good Cardinal, who has been as a father to me. Have compassion upon me.”
“You have no compassion upon me, Constance,” rejoined Philip. “You care not for my sufferings. Relent towards me, and I will be less rigorous towards you.”
“It cannot be, Sire,” she rejoined.
“Be not hasty. Reflect. If I consign you to Bonner, your fate is certain. After the execution, the sight of which I will spare you, I will return for your answer. A guard will be placed at the door to prevent your exit, but no one shall disturb you. Again, I say, reflect. On your own decision hangs your fate.”
So saying, he quitted the sacristy, the door of which was locked outside.