CHAPTER VIII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
Both now kept silent for a long time. Lord Douglas had leaned back on the ottoman, and, respiring heavily, seemed to breathe a little from the exertion of his long discourse. But while he rested, his large, piercing eyes were constantly turned to Jane, who, leaning back on the cushion, was staring thoughtfully into the empty air, and seemed to be entirely forgetful of her father’s presence.
A cunning smile played for a moment over the countenance of the earl as he observed her, but it quickly disappeared, and now deep folds of care gathered on his brow. As he saw that Lady Jane was plunging deeper and deeper into reverie, he at length laid his hand on her shoulder and hastily asked, “What are you thinking of, Jane?”
She gave a sudden start, and looked at the earl with an embarrassed air.
“I am thinking of all that you have been saying to me, my father,” replied she, calmly. “I am considering what benefit to our object I can draw from it.”
Lord Douglas shook his head, and smiled incredulously. At length he said solemnly: “Take care, Jane, take care that your heart does not deceive your head. If we would reach our aim here, you must, above all things, maintain a cool heart and a cool head. Do you still possess both, Jane?”
In confusion she cast down her eyes before his penetrating look. Lord Douglas noticed it, and a passionate word was already on his lips. But he kept it back. As a prudent diplomat, he knew that it is often more politic to destroy a thing by ignoring it, than to enter into an open contest with it. The feelings are like the dragons’ teeth of Theseus. If you contend with them, they always grow again anew, and with renewed energy, out of the soil. Lord Douglas, therefore, was very careful not to notice his daughter’s confusion. “Pardon me, my daughter, if, in my zeal and my tender care for you, I go too far. I know that your dear and beautiful head is cool enough to wear a crown. I know that in your heart dwell only ambition and religion. Let us, then, further consider what we have to do in order to attain our end.
“We have spoken of Henry as a husband, of Henry as a man; and I hope you have drawn some useful lessons from the fate of his wives. You have learned that it is necessary to possess all the good and all the bad qualities of woman in order to control this stiff-necked and tyrannical, this lustful and bigoted, this vain and sensual man, whom the wrath of God has made King of England. You must, before all things, be perfect master of the difficult art of coquetry. You must become a female Proteus—today a Messalina, to-morrow a nun; to-day one of the literati, to-morrow a playful child; you must ever seek to surprise the king, to keep him on the stretch, to enliven him. You must never give way to the dangerous feeling of security, for in fact King Henry’s wife is never safe. The axe always hangs over her head, and you must ever consider your husband as only a fickle lover, whom you must every day captivate anew.”
“You speak as though I were already queen,” said Lady Jane, smiling; “and yet I cannot but think that, in order to come to that, many difficulties are to be overcome, which may indeed perhaps be insuperable.”
“Insuperable!” exclaimed her father with a shrug of the shoulders. “With the aid of the holy Church, no hinderance is insuperable. Only, we must be perfectly acquainted with our end and our means. Do not despise, then, to sound the character of this king ever and again, and be certain you will always find in him some new hidden recess, some surprising peculiarity. We have spoken of him as a husband and the father of a family, but of his religious and political standing I have as yet told you nothing. And yet that, my child, is the principal point in his whole character.
“In the first place, then, Jane, I will tell you a secret. The king, who has constituted himself high-priest of his Church—whom the pope once called ‘the Knight of the Truth and the Faith’—the king has at the bottom of his heart no religion. He is a wavering reed, which the wind turns this way to-day, and that way to-morrow. He knows not his own will, and, coquetting with both parties, to-day he is a heretic, in order to exhibit himself as a strong, unprejudiced, enlightened man; to-morrow a Catholic, in order to show himself an obedient and humble servant of God, who seeks and finds his happiness only in love and piety. But for both confessions of faith he possesses at heart a profound indifference; and had the pope at that time placed no difficulties in his way, had he consented to his divorce from Catharine, Henry would have always remained a very good and active servant of the Catholic Church. But they were imprudent enough to irritate him by contradiction; they stimulated his vanity and pride to resistance; and so Henry became a church reformer, not from conviction, but out of pure love of opposition. And that, my child, you must never forget, for, by means of this lever, you may very well convert him again to a devout, dutiful, and obedient servant of our holy Church. He has renounced the pope, and usurped the supremacy of the Church, but he cannot summon up courage to carry out his work and throw himself wholly into the arms of the Reformation. However much he has opposed the person of the pope, still he has always remained devoted to the Church, although perhaps he does not know it himself. He is no Catholic, and he hears mass; he has broken up the monasteries, and yet forbids priests to marry; he has the Lord’s supper administered under both kinds, and believes in the real transubstantiation of the wine into the Redeemer’s holy blood. He destroys the convents, and yet commands that vows of chastity, spoken by man or woman, must be faithfully kept; and lastly, auricular confession is still a necessary constituent of his Church. And these he calls his six articles, [Footnote: Burnet, vol. I, p. 259. Tytler, p. 402. Mioti, vol. I, p. 134.] and the foundation of his English Church. Poor, short-sighted and vain man! He knows not that he has done all this, only because he wanted to be the pope himself, and he is nothing more than an anti-pope of the Holy Father at Rome, whom he, in his blasphemous pride, dares call ‘the Bishop of Rome.’”
“But, for this audacity,” said Jane, with looks of burning rage, “the anathema has struck him and laid a curse upon his head, and given him up to the hatred, contempt, and scorn of his own subjects. Therefore, the Holy Father has justly named him ‘the apostate and lost son, the blaspheming usurper of the holy Church.’ Therefore, the pope has declared his crown forfeited, and promised it to him who will vanquish him by force of arms. Therefore, the pope has forbidden any of his subjects to obey him, and respect and recognize him as king.”
“And yet he remains King of England, and his subjects still obey him in slavish submission,” exclaimed Earl Douglas, shrugging his shoulders. “It is very unwise to go so far in threats, for one should never threaten with punishment which he is not likewise able to really execute. This Romish interdict has rather been an advantage to the king, than done him harm, for it has forced the king into haughtier opposition, and proved to his subjects that a man may royally be under an interdict, and yet in prosperity and the full enjoyment of life.”
“The pope’s excommunication has not hurt the king at all; his throne has not felt the slightest jar from it, but the apostasy of the king has deprived the Holy See at Rome of a very perceptible support; therefore we must bring the faithless king back to the holy Church, for she needs him. And this, my daughter, is the work that God and the will of His holy representative have placed in your hands. A noble, glorious, and at the same time profitable work, for it makes you a queen! But I repeat, be cautious, never irritate the king by contradiction. Without their knowing it, we must lead the wavering where salvation awaits them. For, as we have said, he is a waverer; and in the haughty pride of his royalty, he has the presumption to wish to stand above all parties, and to be himself able to found a new Church, a Church which is neither Catholic nor Protestant, but Ms Church; to which, in the six articles, the so-called ‘Bloody Statute’ he has given its laws.
“He will not be Protestant nor Catholic, and, in order to show his impartiality, he is an equally terrible persecutor of both parties. So that it has come to pass that we must say, ‘In England, Catholics are hanged, and those not stich are burned.’ [Footnote: Leti, vol. I, p. 144. f Tytler, p. 38.] It gives the king pleasure to hold with steady and cruel hand the balance between the two parties, and on the same day that he has a papist incarcerated, because he has disputed the king’s supremacy, he has one of the reformed put upon the rack, because he has denied the real transubstantiation of the wine, or perhaps has disputed concerning the necessity of auricular confession. Indeed, during the last session of Parliament, five men were hanged because they disputed the supremacy, and five others burned because they professed the reformed views! And this evening, Jane—this, the king’s wedding-night—by the special order of the king, who wanted to show his impartiality as head of the church, Catholics and Protestants have been coupled together like dogs, and hurried to the stake, the Catholics being condemned (as traitors, and the others as heretics!)
“Oh,” said Jane, shuddering and turning pale, “I will not be Queen of England. I have a horror of this cruel, savage king, whose heart is wholly without compassion or love.”
Her father laughed. “Do you not then know, child, how you can make the hyena gentle, and the tiger tame? You throw them again and again a fresh prey, which they may devour, and since they love blood so dearly, you constantly give them blood to drink, so that they may never thirst for it. The king’s only steady and unchanging peculiarity is his cruelty and delight in blood; one then must always have some food ready for these, then he will ever be a very affectionate and gracious king and husband.
“And there is no lack of objects for this bloodthirstiness. There are so many men and women at his court, and when he is precisely in a bloodthirsty humor, it is all the same to Henry whose blood he drinks. He has shed the blood of his wives and relatives; he has executed those whom he called his most confidential friends; he has sent the noblest men of his kingdom to the scaffold.
“Thomas More knew him very well, and in a few striking words he summed up the whole of the king’s character. Ah, it seems to me that I see now the quiet and gentle face of this wise man, as I saw him standing in yonder bay-window, and near him the king, his arms around the neck of High-Chancellor More, and listening to his discourse with a kind of reverential devotion. And when the king had gone, I walked up to Thomas More and congratulated him on the high and world-renowned favor in which he stood with the king. ‘The king really loves you,’ said I. ‘Yes,’ replied he, with his quiet, sad smile, ‘yes, the king truly loves me. But that would not for one moment hinder him from giving my head for a valuable diamond, a beautiful woman, or a hand’s breadth of land in France.’ [Footnote: Leti, vol. i, p 194.] He was right, and for a beautiful woman, the head of this sage had to fall, of whom the most Christian emperor and king, Charles V., said: ‘Had I been the master of such a servant, of whose ability and greatness we have had so much experience for many years; had I possessed an adviser so wise and earnest as Thomas More was, I would rather have lost the best city of my realm, than so worthy a servant and counsellor.’ [Footnote: Tytler, p. 354.]
“No, Jane, be that your first and most sacred rule, never to trust the king, and never reckon on the duration of his affection and the manifestations of his favor. For, in the perfidy of his heart, it often pleases him to load with tokens of his favor those whose destruction he has already resolved upon, to adorn and decorate with orders and jewels to-day those whom to-morrow he is going to put to death. It flatters his self-complacency, like the lion, to play a little with the puppy he is about to devour. Thus did he with Cromwell, for many years his counsellor and friend, who had committed no other crime than that of having first exhibited to the king the portrait of the ugly Anne of Cleves, whom Holbein had turned into a beauty. But the king took good care not to be angry with Cromwell, or to reproach him for it. Much more—in recognition of his great services, he raised him to the earldom of Essex, decorated him with the Order of the Garter and appointed him lord chamberlain; and then, when Cromwell felt perfectly secure and proudly basked in the sunshine of royal favor, then all at once the king had him arrested and dragged to the tower, in order to accuse him of high treason. [Footnote: Ibid, p. 423.] And so Cromwell was executed, because Anne of Cleves did not please the king, and because Hans Holbein had flattered her picture.
“But now we have had enough of the past, Jane. Now let us speak of the present and of the future, my daughter. Let us now first of all devise the means to overthrow this woman who stands in our way. When she is once overthrown, it will not be very difficult for us to put you in her place. For you are now here, near the king. The great mistake in our earlier efforts was, that we were not present and could work only through go-betweens and confidants. The king did not see you, and since the unlucky affair with Anne of Cleves he mistrusts likenesses; I very well knew that, for I, my child, confide in no one, not even in the most faithful and noblest friends. I rely upon nobody but ourselves. Had we been here, you would now be Queen of England instead of Catharine Parr. But, to our misfortune, I was still the favorite of the Regent of Scotland, and as such, I could not venture to approach Henry. It was necessary that I should fall into disgrace there, in order to be again sure of the king’s favor here.
“So I fell into disgrace and fled with you hither. Now, then, here we are, and let the fight begin. And you have to-day already taken an important step toward our end. You have attracted the notice of the king, and established yourself still more securely in the favor of Catharine. I confess, Jane, I am charmed with your prudent conduct. You have this day won the hearts of all parties, and it was wonderfully shrewd in you to come to the aid of the Earl of Surrey, as you at the same time won to you the heretical party, to which Anne Askew belongs. Oh, it was indeed, Jane, a stroke of policy that you made. For the Howard family is the most powerful and greatest at court, and Henry, Earl of Surrey, is one of its noblest representatives. Therefore we have now already a powerful party at court, which has in view only the high and holy aim of securing a victory for the holy Church, and which quietly and silently works only for this—to again reconcile the king to the pope. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, like his father, the Duke of Norfolk, is a good Catholic, as his niece Catharine Howard was; only she, besides God and the Church, was a little too fond of the images of God—fine-looking men. It was this that gave the victory to the other party, and forced the Catholic to succumb to the heretical party at court. Yes, for the moment, Cranmer with Catharine has got the better of us, but soon Gardiner with Jane Douglas will overcome the heretics, and send them to the scaffold. That is our plan, and, God permitting, we will carry it out.”
“But it will be a difficult undertaking,” said Lady Jane, with a sigh. “The queen is a pure, transparent soul; she has a shrewd head and a clear glance. She is, moreover, guileless in her thoughts, and recoils with true maidenly timidity from every sin.”
“We must cure her of this timidity, and that is your task, Jane. You must despoil her of these strict notions about virtue. With flattering voice you must ensnare her heart, and entice it to sin.”
“Oh, that is an infernal plot!” said Lady Jane, turning pale. “That, my father, would be a crime, for that would be not only destroying her earthly happiness, but also imperilling her soul. I must entice her to a crime; that is your dishonorable demand! But I will not obey you! It is true, I hate her, for she stands in the way of my ambition. It is true I will destroy her, for she wears the crown which I wish to possess; but never will I be so base as to pour into her very heart the poison by which she shall fall. Let her seek the poison for herself; I will not hold back her hand; I will not warn her. Let her seek the ways of sin herself: I will not tell her that she has erred; but I will, from afar, dog her, and watch each step, and listen for every word and sigh, and when she has committed a crime, then I will betray her, and deliver her up to her judges. That is what I can and will do. I will be the demon to drive her from paradise in God’s name, but not the serpent to entice her in the devil’s name to sin.”
She paused, and, panting for breath, sunk back upon the cushion; but her father’s hand was laid upon her shoulder with a convulsive grip, and pale with rage and with eyes flashing with anger, he stared at her.
A cry of terror burst from Lady Jane. She, who never had seen her father but smiling and full of kindness, scarcely recognized that countenance, distorted with rage. She could scarcely convince herself that this man, with eyes darting fire, scowling eyebrows and lips quivering with rage, was really her father.
“You will not?” exclaimed he, with a hollow, threatening voice. “You dare rebel against the holy commands of the Church? Have you, then, forgotten what you promised to the Holy Fathers, whose pupil you are? Have you forgotten that the brothers and sisters of the Holy League are permitted to have no other will than that of their masters! Have you forgotten the sublime vow which you made to our master, Ignatius Loyola? Answer me, unfaithful and disobedient daughter of the Church! Repeat to me the oath which you took when he received you into the holy Society of the Disciples of Jesus! Repeat your oath, I say!”
As if constrained by an invisible power, Jane had arisen, and now stood, her hands folded across her breast, submissive and trembling before her father, whose erect, proud, and wrathful form towered above her.
“I have sworn,” said she, “to subject my own thought, and will, my life, and endeavors, obediently to the will of the Holy Father. I have sworn to be a blind tool in the hands of my masters, and to do only what they command and enjoin. I have vowed to serve the holy Church, in which alone is salvation, in every way and with all the means at my command; and I will despise none of these means, consider none trifling, disdain none, provided it leads to the end. For the end sanctifies the means, and nothing is a sin which is done for the honor of God and the Church!”
“Ad majorem Dei gloriam!” said her father, devoutly folding his hands. “And you know what awaits you, if you violate your oath?”
“Earthly disgrace and eternal destruction await me. The curse of all my brethren and sisters awaits me—eternal damnation and punishment. With thousands of torments and tortures of the rack, will the Holy Fathers put me to death; and as they kill my body and throw it as food to the beasts of prey, they will curse my soul and deliver it over to purgatory.”
“And what awaits you if you remain faithful to your oath, and obey the commands given you?”
“Honor and glory on earth, besides eternal blessedness in heaven.”
“Then you will be a queen on earth and a queen in heaven. You know, then, the sacred laws of the society, and you remember your oath?”
“I remember it.”
“And you know that the holy Loyola, before he left us, gave the Society of Jesus, in England, a master and general, whom all the brethren and sisters must serve and submit to, to whom they owe blind obedience and service without questioning?”
“I know it.”
“And you know, likewise, by what sign the associates may recognize the general?”
“By Loyola’s ring, which he wears on the forefinger of his right hand.”
“Behold here this ring!” said the earl, drawing his hand out of his doublet.
Lady Jane uttered a cry, and sank almost senseless at his feet.
Lord Douglas, smiling graciously, raised her in his arms. “You see, Jane, I am not merely your father, but your master also. And you will obey me, will you not?”
“I will obey!” said she, almost inaudibly, as she kissed the hand with the fatal ring.
“You will be to Catharine Parr, as you have expressed it, the serpent, that seduces her to sin?”
“I will.”
“You will beguile her into sin, and entice her to indulge a love which must lead her to destruction?”
“I will do it, my father.”
“I will now tell you whom she is to love, and who is to be the instrument of destruction. You will so manage the queen that she will love Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.”
Jane uttered a scream, and clung to the back of a chair to keep from falling.
Her father observed her with penetrating, angry looks. “What means this outcry? Why does this choice surprise you?” asked he.
Lady Jane had already gained her self-possession. “It surprised me,” said she, “because the earl is betrothed.”
A singular smile played about the earl’s lips. “It is not the first time,” said he, “that even a man already married has become dangerous to a woman’s heart, and often the very impossibility of possession adds fuel to the flames of love. Woman’s heart is ever so full of selfishness and contradiction.”
Lady Jane cast down her eyes, and made no reply. She felt that the piercing and penetrating look of her father was resting on her face. She knew that, just then, he was reading her soul, although she did not look at him.
“Then you no longer refuse?” asked he, at length. “You will inspire the young queen with love for the Earl of Surrey?”
“I will endeavor to do it, my father.”
“If you try, with a real and energetic determination to succeed, you will prevail. For, as you said, the queen’s heart is still free; it is, then, like a fruitful soil, which is only waiting for some one to sow the seed in it, to bring forth flowers and fruit. Catharine Parr does not love the king; you will, then, teach her to love Henry Howard.”
“Yet, my father,” said Lady Jane, with a sarcastic smile, “to bring about this result, one must, before all things, be acquainted with a magic spell, through the might of which the earl will first glow with love for Catharine. For the queen has a proud soul, and she will never so forget her dignity as to love a man who is not inflamed with an ardent passion for her. But the earl has not only a bride, but, as it is said, a mistress also.”
“Ah! you consider it, then, perfectly unworthy of a woman to love a man who does not adore her?” asked the earl, in a significant tone. “I am rejoiced to hear this from my daughter, and thus to be certain that she will not fall in love with the Earl of Surrey, who is everywhere else called ‘the lady-killer.’ And if you have informed yourself in so surprising a manner as to the earl’s private relations, you have done so, without doubt, only because your sagacious and subtle head has already guessed what commission I would give you with respect to the earl. Besides, my daughter, you are in error: and if a certain high, but not on that account the less very unfortunate lady, should happen to really love the Earl of Surrey, her lot will, perhaps, be the common one—to practise resignation.”
An expression of joyful surprise passed over the countenance of Lady Jane, while her father thus spoke; but it was forced to instantly give way to a deathly paleness, as the earl added: “Henry Howard is destined for Catharine Parr, and you are to help her to love so hotly this proud, handsome earl, who is a faithful servant of the Church, wherein alone is salvation, that she will forget all considerations and all dangers.”
Lady Jane ventured one more objection. She caught eagerly at her father’s words, to seek still for some way of escape.
“You call the earl a faithful servant of our Church,” said she, “and yet you would implicate him also in your dangerous plot? You have not, then, my father, considered that it is just as pernicious to love the queen as to be loved by her? And, without doubt, if love for the Earl of Surrey bring the queen to the scaffold, the head of the earl will fall at the same time, no matter whether he return her love or not.”
The earl shrugged his shoulders.
“When the question is about the weal of the Church and our holy religion, the danger which, thereby, it may be, threatens one of our number, must not frighten us back. Holy sacrifices must be always offered to a holy cause. Well and good, then, let the earl’s head fall, provided the only saving Church gains new vigor from this blood of martyrs. But see, Jane, the morning already begins to dawn, and I must hasten to leave you, lest these courtiers, ever given to slandering, may in some way or other take the father for a lover, and cast suspicion on the immaculate virtue of my Jane. Farewell, then, my daughter! We both, now, know our rôles, and will take care to play them with success. You are the friend and confidante of the queen, and I the harmless courtier, who tries, now and then, to gain a smile from the king by some kind and merry jest. That is all. Good-morning, then, Jane, and good-night. For you must sleep, my child, so that your cheeks may remain fresh and your eyes bright. The king hates pining pale-faces. Sleep, then, future Queen of England!”
He gently kissed her forehead, and left the room with lingering step.
Lady Jane stood and listened to the sound of his footsteps gradually dying away, when she sank on her knees, wholly crushed, utterly stunned.
“My God, my God!” murmured she, while streams of tears flooded her face, “and I am to inspire the queen with love for the Earl of Surrey, and I—I love him!”
CHAPTER IX. LENDEMAIN.
The great levée was over. Sitting beside the king on the throne, Catharine had received the congratulations of her court; and the king’s smiling look, and the tender words which, in undertone, he now and then addressed to the queen, had manifested to the prudent and expert courtiers that the king was to-day just as much enamored of his young consort as he had been yesterday of his bride. Therefore, every one exerted himself to please the queen, and to catch every look, every smile, which she let fall, like sunbeams, here and there, in order to see for whom they were intended, so that they might, perchance, by this means, divine who were to be the future favorites of the queen, and be the first to become intimate with them.
But the young queen directed her looks to no one in particular. She was friendly and smiling, yet one felt that this friendliness was constrained, this smile full of sadness. The king alone did not notice it. He was cheerful and happy, and it seemed to him, therefore, that nobody at his court could dare sigh when he, the king, was satisfied.
After the grand presentation, at which all the great and noble of the realm had passed in formal procession before the royal pair, the king had, according to the court etiquette of the time, given his hand to his consort, led her down from the throne and conducted her to the middle of the hall, in order to present to her the personages in waiting at her court.
But this walk from the throne to the centre of the hall had greatly fatigued the king; this promenade of thirty steps was for him a very unusual and troublesome performance, and the king longed to change to something else more agreeable. So he beckoned to the chief master of ceremonies, and bade him open the door leading into the dining-room. Then he ordered his “house equipage” to be brought up, and, seating himself in it with the utmost stateliness, he had the sedan kept at the queen’s side, waiting impatiently till the presentation should at last conclude, and Catharine accompany him to lunch.
The announcements of the maids of honor and female attendants had been already made, and now came the gentlemen’s turn.
The chief master of ceremonies read from his list the names of those cavaliers who were, henceforth, to be in waiting near the queen, and which names the king had written down with his own hand. And at each new appointment a slight expression of pleased astonishment flitted across the faces of the assembled courtiers, for it was always one of the youngest, handsomest, and most amiable lords whom the master of ceremonies had to name.
Perhaps the king proposed to play a cruel game at hazard, in surrounding his consort with the young men of his court; he wished to plunge her into the midst of danger, either to let her perish there, or, by her avoiding danger, to be able to place the unimpeachable virtue of his young wife in the clearest light.
The list had begun with the less important offices, and, ever ascending higher, they now came to positions the highest and of greatest consequence.
Still the queen’s master of horse and the chamberlain had not been named, and these were without doubt the most important charges at the queen’s court. For one or the other of these officers was always very near the queen. When she was in the palace, the lord of the chamber had to remain in the anteroom, and no one could approach the queen but through his mediation. To him the queen had to give her orders with regard to the schemes and pleasures of the day. He was to contrive new diversions and amusements. He had the right of joining the queen’s narrow evening circle, and to stand behind the queen’s chair when the royal pair, at times, desired to sup without ceremony.
This place of chief chamberlain was, therefore, a very important one; for since it confined him a large part of the day in the queen’s presence, it was scarcely avoidable that the lord chamberlain should become either the confidential and attentive friend, or the malevolent and lurking enemy of the queen!
But the place of master of horse was of no less consequence. For as soon as the queen left the palace, whether on foot or in a carriage, whether to ride in the forest or to glide down the Thames in her gilded yacht, the master of horse must be ever at her side, must ever attend her. Indeed, this service was still more exclusive, still more important. For, though the queen’s apartments were open to the lord chamberlain, yet, however, he was never alone with her. The attending maids of honor were always present and prevented there being any têtes-à-têtes or intimacy between the queen and her chamberlain.
But with the master of horse it was different—since many opportunities presented themselves, when he could approach the queen unnoticed, or at least speak to her without being overheard. He had to offer her his hand to assist her in entering her carriage; he could ride near the door of her coach; he accompanied her on water excursions and pleasure rides, and these last were so much the more important because they afforded him, to a certain extent, opportunity for a tête-à-tête with the queen. For only the master of horse was permitted to ride at her side; he even had precedence of the ladies of the suite, so as to be able to give the queen immediate assistance in case of any accident, or the stumbling of her horse. Therefore, no one of the suite could perceive what the queen said to the master of horse when he rode at her side.
It was understood, therefore, how influential this place might be. Besides, when the queen was at Whitehall, the king was almost always near her; while, thanks to his daily increasing corpulency, he was not exactly in a condition to leave the palace otherwise than in a carriage.
It was therefore very natural that the whole company at court awaited with eager attention and bated breath the moment when the master of ceremonies would name these two important personages, whose names had been kept so secret that nobody had yet learned them. That morning, just before he handed the list to the master of ceremonies, the king had written down these two names with his own hand.
Not the court only, but also the king himself, was watching for these two names. For he wished to see the effect of them, and, by the different expression of faces, estimate the number of the friends of these two nominees. The young queen alone exhibited the same unconcerned affability; her heart only beat with uniform calmness, for she did not once suspect the importance of the moment.
Even the voice of the master of ceremonies trembled slightly, as he now read, “To the place of high chamberlain to the queen, his majesty appoints my Lord Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.”
An approving murmur was heard, and almost all faces manifested glad surprise.
“He has a great many friends,” muttered the king. “He is dangerous, then!” An angry look darted from his eyes upon the young earl, who was now approaching the queen, to bend his knee before her and to press to his lips the proffered hand.
Behind the queen stood Lady Jane, and as she beheld thus close before her the young man, so handsome, so long yearned for, and so secretly adored; and as she thought of her oath, she felt a violent pang, raging jealousy, killing hatred toward the young queen, who had, it is true, without suspecting it, robbed her of the loved one, and condemned her to the terrible torture of pandering to her.
The chief master of ceremonies now read in a loud solemn voice, “To the place of master of horse, his majesty appoints my Lord Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley.”
It was very well that the king had at that moment directed his whole attention to his courtiers, and sought to read in their appearance the impression made by this nomination.
Had he observed his consort, he would have seen that an expression of delighted surprise flitted across Catharine’s countenance, and a charming smile played round her lips.
But the king, as we have said, thought only of his court; he saw only that the number of those who rejoiced at Seymour’s appointment did not come up to that of those who received Surrey’s nomination with so much applause.
Henry frowned and muttered to himself, “These Howards are too powerful. I will keep a watchful eye upon them.”
Thomas Seymour approached the queen, and, bending his knee before her, kissed her hand. Catharine received him with a gracious smile. “My lord,” said she, “you will at once enter on service with me, and indeed, as I hope, in such manner as will be acceptable to the whole court. My lord, take the fleetest of your coursers, and hasten to Castle Holt, where the Princess Elizabeth is staying. Carry her this letter from her royal father, and she will follow you hither. Tell her that I long to embrace in her a friend and sister, and that I pray her to pardon me if I cannot give up to her exclusively the heart of her king and father, but that I also must still keep a place in the same for myself. Hasten to Castle Holt, my lord, and bring us Princess Elizabeth.”
CHAPTER X. THE KING’S FOOL.
Two years had passed away since the king’s marriage, and still Catharine Parr had always kept in favor with her husband; still her enemies were foiled in their attempts to ruin her, and raise the seventh queen to the throne.
Catharine had ever been cautious, ever discreet. She had always preserved a cold heart and a cool head. Each morning she had said to herself that this day might be her last; that some incautious word, some inconsiderate act, might deprive her of her crown and her life. For Henry’s savage and cruel disposition seemed, like his corpulency, to increase daily, and it needed only a trifle to inflame him to the highest pitch of rage, rage which, each time, fell with fatal stroke on him who aroused it.
A knowledge and consciousness of this had made the queen cautious. She did not wish to die yet. She still loved life so much. She loved it because it had as yet afforded her so little delight. She loved it because she had so much happiness, so much rapture and enjoyment yet to hope from it. She did not wish to die yet, for she was ever waiting for that life of which she had a foretaste only in her dreams, and which her palpitating and swelling heart told her was ready to awake in her, and, with its sunny, brilliant eyes, arouse her from the winter sleep of her existence.
It was a bright and beautiful spring day. Catharine wanted to avail herself of it, to take a ride and forget for one brief hour that she was a queen. She wanted to enjoy the woods, the sweet May breeze, the song of birds, the green meadows, and to inhale in full draughts the pure air.
She wanted to ride. Nobody suspected how much secret delight and hidden rapture lay in these words. No one suspected that for months she had been looking forward with pleasure to this ride, and scarcely dared to wish for it, just because it would be the fulfilment of her ardent wishes.
She was already dressed in her riding-habit, and the little red velvet hat, with its long, drooping white feather, adorned her beautiful head. Walking up and down the room, she was waiting only for the return of the lord chamberlain, whom she had sent to the king to inquire whether he wished to speak with her before her ride.
Suddenly the door opened, and a strange apparition showed itself on the threshold. It was a small, compact masculine figure, clad in vesture of crimson silk, which was trimmed in a style showy and motley enough, with puffs and bows of all colors, and which, just on account of its motley appearance, contrasted strangely enough with the man’s white hair, and earnest and sombre face.
“Ah, the king’s fool,” said Catharine, with a merry laugh. “Well, John, what is it that brings you here? Do you bring me a message from the king, or have you made a bold hit, and wish me to take you again under my protection?”
“No, queen,” said John Heywood, seriously, “I have made no bold hit, nor do I bring a message from the king. I bring nothing but myself. Ah, queen, I see you want to laugh, but I pray you forget for a moment that John Heywood is the king’s fool, and that it does not become him to wear a serious face and indulge sad thoughts like other men.”
“Oh, I know that you are not merely the king’s fool, but a poet also,” said Catharine, with a gracious smile.
“Yes,” said he, “I am a poet, and therefore it is altogether proper for me to wear this fool’s cap, for poets are all fools, and it were better for them to be hung on the nearest tree instead of being permitted to run about in their crazy enthusiasm, and babble things on account of which people of sense despise and ridicule them. I am a poet, and therefore, queen, I have put on this fool’s dress, which places me under the king’s protection, and allows me to say to him all sorts of things which nobody else has the courage to speak out. But to-day, queen, I come to you neither as a fool nor as a poet, but I come to you because I wish to cling to your knees and kiss your feet. I come because I wish to tell you that you have made John Heywood forever your slave. He will from this time forth lie like a dog before your threshold and guard you from every enemy and every evil which may press upon you. Night and day he will be ready for your service, and know neither repose nor rest, if it is necessary to fulfil your command or your wish.”
As he thus spoke, with trembling voice and eyes dimmed with tears, he knelt down and bowed his head at Catharine’s feet.
“But what have I done to inspire you with such a feeling of thankfulness?” asked Catharine with astonishment. “How have I deserved that you, the powerful and universally dreaded favorite of the king, should dedicate yourself to my service?”
“What have you done?” said he. “My lady, you have saved my son from the stake! They had condemned him—that handsome noble youth—condemned him, because he had spoken respectfully of Thomas More; because he said this great and noble man did right to die, rather than be false to his convictions. Ah, nowadays, it requires such a trifle to condemn a man to death! a couple of thoughtless words are sufficient! And this miserable, lick-spittle Parliament, in its dastardliness and worthlessness, always condemns and sentences, because it knows that the king is always thirsty for blood, and always wants the fires of the stake to keep him warm. So they had condemned my son likewise, and they would have executed him, but for you. But you, whom God has sent as an angel of reconciliation on this regal throne reeking with blood; you who daily risk your life and your crown to save the life of some one of those unfortunates whom fanaticism and thirst for blood have sentenced, and to procure their pardon, you have save my son also.”
“How! that young man who was to be burned yesterday, was your son?”
“Yes, he was my son.”
“And you did not tell the king so? and you did not intercede for him?”
“Had I done so, he would have been irretrievably lost! For you well know the king is so proud of his impartiality and his virtue! Oh, had he known that Thomas is my son he would have condemned him to death, to show the people that Henry the Eighth everywhere strikes the guilty and punishes the sinner, whatever name he may bear, and whoever may intercede for him. Ah, even your supplication would not have softened him, for the high-priest of the English Church could never have pardoned this young man for not being the legitimate son of his father, for not having the right to bear his name, because his mother was the spouse of another man whom Thomas must call father.”
“Poor Heywood! Yes, now I understand. The king would, indeed, never have forgiven this; and had he known it, your son would have inevitably been condemned to the stake.”
“You saved him, queen! Do you not believe now that I shall be forever thankful to you?”
“I do believe it,” said the queen, with a pleasant smile, as she extended her hand for him to kiss. “I believe you, and I accept your service.”
“And you will need it, queen, for a tempest is gathering over your head, and soon the lightning will flash and the thunders roll.”
“Oh, I fear not! I have strong nerves!” said Catharine, smiling. “When a storm comes, it is but a refreshing of nature, and I have always seen that after a storm the sun shines again.”
“You are a brave soul!” swirl John Heywood, sadly.
“That is, I am conscious of no guilt!”
“But your enemies will invent a crime to charge you with. Ah, as soon as it is the aim to calumniate a neighbor and plunge him in misery, men are all poets!”
“But you just now said that poets are crack-brained, and should be hung to the first tree. We will, therefore, treat these slanderers as poets, that is all.”
“No, that is not all!” said John Heywood, energetically. “For slanderers are like earth-worms. You cut them in pieces, but instead of thereby killing them, you multiply each one and give it several heads.”
“But what is it, then, that I am accused of?” exclaimed Catharine, impatiently. “Does not my life lie open and clear before you all? Do I ever take pains to have any secrets? Is not my heart like a glass house, into which you can all look, to convince yourselves that it is a soil wholly unfruitful, and that not a single poor little flower grows there?”
“Though this be so, your enemies will sow weeds and make the king believe that it is burning love which has grown up in your heart.”
“How! They will accuse me of having a love-affair?” asked Catharine, and her lips slightly trembled.
“I do not know their plans yet; but I will find them out. There is a conspiracy at work. Therefore, queen, be on your guard! Trust nobody, for foes are ever wont to conceal themselves under hypocritical faces and deceiving words.”
“If you know my enemies, name them to me!” said Catharine, impatiently. “Name them to me, that I may beware of them.”
“I have not come to accuse anybody, but to warn you. I shall, therefore, take good care not to point out your enemies to you; but I will name your friends to you.”
“Ah, then, I have friends, too!” whispered Catharine, with a happy smile.
“Yes, you have friends; and, indeed, such as are ready to give their blood and life for you.”
“Oh, name them, name them to me!” exclaimed Catharine, all of a tremble with joyful expectation.
“I name first, Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury. He is your true and staunch friend, on whom you can build. He loves you as queen, and he prizes you as the associate whom God has sent him to bring to completion, here at the court of this most Christian and bloody king, the holy work of the Reformation, and to cause the light of knowledge to illuminate this night of superstition and priestly domination. Build strongly on Cranmer, for he is your surest and most invariable supporter, and should he sink, your fall would inevitably follow. Therefore, not only rely on him, but also protect him, and look upon him as your brother; for what you do for him, you do for yourself.”
“Yes, you are right,” said Catharine, thoughtfully. “Cranmer is a noble and staunch friend; and often enough already he has protected me, in the king’s presence, against those little pin-prickings of my enemies, which do not indeed kill, but which make the whole body sore and faint.”
“Protect him, and thus protect yourself.”
“Well, and the other friends?”
“I have given Cranmer the precedence; but now, queen, I name myself as the second of your friends. If Cranmer is your staff, I will be your dog; and, believe me, so long as you have such a staff and so faithful a dog, you are safe. Cranmer will warn you of every stone that lies in your way, and I will bite and drive off the enemies, who, hidden behind the thicket, lurk in the way to fall upon you from behind.”
“I thank you! Really, I thank you!” said Catharine, heartily. “Well, and what more?”
“More?” inquired Heywood with a sad smile.
“Mention a few more of my friends.”
“Queen, it is a great deal, if one in a lifetime has found two friends upon whom he can rely, and whose fidelity is not guided by selfishness. You are perhaps the only crowned head that can boast of such friends.”
“I am a woman,” said Catharine, thoughtfully, “and many women surround me and daily swear to me unchanging faithfulness and attachment. How! are all these unworthy the title of friends? Is even Lady Jane Douglas unworthy; she, whom I have called my friend these many long years, and whom I trust as a sister? Tell me, John Heywood, you who, as it is said, know everything, and search out everything that takes place at court, tell me, is not Lady Jane Douglas my friend?”
John Heywood suddenly became serious and gloomy, and looked on the ground, absorbed in reflection. Then he swept his large, bright eyes all around the room, in a scrutinizing manner, as if he wished to convince himself that no listener was really concealed there, and stepping close up to the queen, he whispered: “Trust her not; she is a papist, and Gardiner is her friend.”
“Ah, I suspected it,” whispered Catharine, sadly.
“But listen, queen; give no expression to this suspicion by look, or words, or by the slightest indication. Lull this viper into the belief that you are harmless; lull her to sleep, queen. She is a venomous and dangerous serpent, which must not be roused, lest, before you suspect it, it bite you on the heel. Be always gracious, always confidential, always friendly toward her. Only, queen, do not tell her what you would not confide to Gardiner and Earl Douglas likewise. Oh, believe me, she is like the lion in the doge’s palace at Venice. The secrets that you confide to her will become accusations against you before the tribunal of blood.”
Catharine shook her head with a smile. “You are too severe, John Heywood. It is possible that the religion which she secretly professes has estranged her heart from me, but she would never be capable of betraying me, or of leaguing herself with my foes. No, John, you are mistaken. It would be a crime to believe thus. My God, what a wicked and wretched world it must be in which we could not trust even our most faithful and dearest friends!”
“The world is indeed wicked and wretched, and one must despair of it, or consider it a merry jest, with which the devil tickles our noses. For me, it is such a jest, and therefore, queen, I have become the king’s fool, which at least gives me the right of spurting out upon the crawling brood all the venom of the contempt I feel for mankind, and of speaking the truth to those who have only lies, by dripping honey, ever on their lips. The sages and poets are the real fools of our day, and since I did not feel a vocation to be a king, or a priest, a hangman, or a lamb for sacrifice, I became a fool.”
“Yes, a fool, that is to say, an epigrammatist, whose biting tongue makes the whole court tremble.”
“Since I cannot, like my royal master, have these criminals executed, I give them a few sword-cuts with my tongue. Ah, I tell you, you will much need this ally. Be on your guard, queen: I heard this morning the first growl of the thunder, and in Lady Jane’s eyes I observed the stealthy lightning. Trust her not. Trust no one here but your friends Cranmer and John Heywood.”
“And you say, that in all this court, among all these brilliant women, these brave cavaliers, the poor queen has not a single friend, not a soul, whom she may trust, on whom she may lean? Oh, John Heywood, think again, have pity on the poverty of a queen. Think again. Say, only you two? No friend but you?”
And the queen’s eyes filled with tears, which she tried in vain to repress.
John Heywood saw it and sighed deeply. Better than the queen herself perhaps, he had read the depths of her heart, and knew its deep wound. But he also had sympathy with her pain, and wished to mitigate it a little.
“I recollect,” said he, gently and mournfully—“yes, I recollect, you have yet a third friend at this court.”
“Ah, a third friend!” exclaimed Catharine, and again her voice sounded cheery and joyous. “Name him to me, name him! For you see clearly I am burning with impatience to hear his name.”
John Heywood looked into Catharine’s glowing countenance with a strange expression, at once searching and mournful, and for a moment dropped his head upon his breast and sighed.
“Now, John, give me the name of this third friend.”
“Do you not know him, queen?” asked Heywood, as he again stared steadily in her face. “Do you not know him? It is Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley.”
There passed as it were a sunbeam over Catharine’s face, and she uttered a low cry.
John Heywood said, sadly: “Queen, the sun strikes directly in your face. Take care that it does not blind your bright eyes. Stand in the shade, your majesty, for, hark! there comes one who might report the sunshine in your face for a conflagration.”
Just then the door opened, and Lady Jane appeared on the threshold. She threw a quick, searching glance around the room, and an imperceptible smile passed over her beautiful pale face.
“Your majesty,” said she solemnly, “everything is ready. You can begin your ride when it pleases you. The Princess Elizabeth awaits you in the anteroom, and your master of horse already holds the stirrup of your steed.”
“And the lord chamberlain?” asked Catharine, blushing, “has he no message from the king to bring me?”
“Ay!” said the Earl of Surrey as he entered. “His majesty bids me tell the queen that she may extend her ride as far as she wishes. The glorious weather is well worth that the Queen of England should enjoy it, and enter into a contest with the sun.”
“Oh, the king is the most gallant of cavaliers,” said Catharine, with a happy smile. “Now come, Jane, let us ride.”
“Pardon me, your majesty,” said Lady Jane, stepping back. “I cannot to-day enjoy the privilege of accompanying your majesty. Lady Anne Ettersville is to-day in attendance.”
“Another time, then, Jane! And you, Earl Douglas, you ride with us?”
“The king, your majesty, has ordered me to his cabinet.”
“Behold now a queen abandoned by all her friends!” said Catharine cheerily, as with light, elastic step she passed through the hall to the courtyard.
“Here is something going on which I must fathom!” muttered John Heywood, who had left the hall with the rest. “A mousetrap is set, for the cats remain at home, and are hungry for their prey.”
Lady Jane had remained behind in the hall with her father. Both had stepped to the window, and were silently looking down into the yard, where the brilliant cavalcade of the queen and her suite was moving about in motley confusion.
Catharine had just mounted her palfrey; the noble animal, recognizing his mistress, neighed loudly, and, giving a snort, reared up with his noble burden.
Princess Elizabeth, who was close to the queen, uttered a cry of alarm. “You will fall, queen,” said she, “you ride such a wild animal.”
“Oh, no, indeed,” said Catharine, smiling; “Hector is not wild. It is with him as with me. This charming May air has made us both mettlesome and happy. Away, then, my ladies and lords! our horses must be to-day swift as birds. We ride to Epping Forest.”
And through the open gateway dashed the cavalcade. The queen in front; at her right, the Princess Elizabeth; at her left, the master of horse, Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley.
When the train had disappeared, father and daughter stepped back from the window, and looked at each other with strange, dark, and disdainful looks.
“Well, Jane?” said Earl Douglas, at length. “She is still queen, and the king becomes daily more unwieldy and ailing. It is time to give him a seventh queen.”
“Soon, my father, soon.”
“Loves the queen Henry Howard at last?”
“Yes, he loves her!” said Jane, and her pale face was now colorless as a winding-sheet.
“I ask, whether she loves him?”
“She will love him!” murmured Jane, and then suddenly mastering herself, she continued: “but it is not enough to make the queen in love; doubtless it would be still more efficient if some one could instill a new love into the king. Did you see, father, with what ardent looks his majesty yesterday watched me and the Duchess of Richmond?”
“Did I see it? The whole court talked about it.”
“Well, now, my father, manage it so that the king may be heartily bored to-day, and then bring him to me. He will find the Duchess of Richmond with me.”
“Ah, a glorious thought! You will surely be Henry’s seventh queen.”
“I will ruin Catharine Parr, for she is my rival, and I hate her!” said Jane, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. “She has been queen long enough, and I have bowed myself before her. Now she shall fall in the dust before me, and I will set my foot upon her head.”