The house of the wizard

That strange house upon the Thames, with its receding upper stories and its many windows, had strange visitors. Not in the daytime; then its numerous eyes were often blinded with iron shutters, and only the owl’s head above the door, which opened on the street, indicated the office of its master, as did the owl upon the water-gate. At nightfall came the never-ending stream of visitors, and usually by the river entrance, though there were other doors; one, indeed, opening through a labyrinth of cellars into a subterranean passage which had its outlet somewhere by the water’s edge, and whose key was hidden in the wizard’s breast. The master of the house quite naturally was much sought, being, by repute, the greatest necromancer in England and shrewd enough to work upon the fancies of the common people, dealing out philters and horoscopes with a liberal hand; but his real business was of a deeper and darker nature. Men of all conditions came by night to that silent house, and often one party dreamed not of the presence of the other, although the strange, small man held intercourse with both. In the lower portion of the building, with no communication with the stairs by which the queen had entered, was a large plain room, furnished with a long table and many chairs; and the ceiling was dark blue, set with gilded stars, so it was called the wizard’s Star Chamber. Here were frequently assembled a large company, and here the dealings were free from sorcery; they savored of a deeper and more subtle matter. Here, sometimes, were peers of the realm, the vacillating Lord Hussey, Darcy, and, less frequently, my lord of Exeter, and, once or twice, the master of horse, Sir Nicholas Carew. On one occasion, too, appeared the pale, fanatical face of a poorer gentleman, Robert Aske, who was to lead in the Pilgrimage of Grace. In this secret chamber of the secret house festered conspiracy, undiscovered even by the falcon eye of Cromwell. Here were represented the remnant of the party of the White Rose, the infatuated followers of the Nun of Kent and the papists, who flocked to the secret meetings where Pole’s book against the king was known, before the king saw it, and was eagerly devoured; where the pope’s bulls were quoted, while the name of Mary Tudor was coupled first with the dauphin and then with Charles V. The possibilities of resistance to the crown, the downfall of Cromwell and the Archbishop of Canterbury, the king’s increasing corpulence and the sores upon his legs,—all these matters were fruitful of discussion, and in the midst of the malcontents, the dwarfish figure of the master of the house flitted about with fiendish activity. It was in his nature to love the brewing of so evil a caldron, and he was happiest when he could count the greatest number of the peers caught in his net. Yet, if he was sincere in anything, he was in his devotion to the hope of a revival of the old régime. Through the length and breadth of the kingdom spread the tendrils of conspiracy, while the strong hand of the king was on the helm of the ship of state, guiding it through troubled waters to a liberty of which he, despot that he was, had no conception.

Through the months of that short winter, the procession to the wizard’s Star Chamber continued and waxed nightly larger, while at Greenwich the king and queen lived estranged, and the gossips of the court were busy with a matter that they whispered only on the back-stairs or in the chimney-corners, while the beauty of the queen waned under the frown of fortune. A cloud hung over the gayeties of the court, while she was nervous, anxious, ever suspicious of those about her, and time passed heavily with the young maids and court rufflers, and there was much secret grumbling. Master Raby was still in Sussex; his father was dead, but the new Lord Raby could not leave the estates unsettled, and he had not yet returned. My Lady Crabtree, however, had published such an account of the affair in the park that Henge was forced to keep in retirement, and for a while, at least, Betty was free from annoyance.

April came, and Latimer, the Bishop of Worcester, was at Greenwich for a time, and in the chapel preached a mighty sermon to the unhappy queen. The king was absent, and the suite of Anne Boleyn filled the space around the pulpit. The great bishop spoke in a clear voice, bearing fearless witness to the queen of the errors and the sins of a worldly life and the penitence by which alone she might hope to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, where her earthly majesty would be a shackle to her immortal soul. The preacher lifted his voice courageously to call an erring woman to repentance. Latimer saw the truth too plainly, and was too honest to bear false witness,—a great man whom the great cardinal plucked from the burning, seeing those qualities of soul which a strong mind recognizes even in a foe, and Wolsey saved him to be the martyr of bloody Mary.

Queen Anne left the chapel weeping, and going to her apartments, bade Mary Wyatt bring her Tyndale’s translation of the Bible, the book that her intercession with the king had saved from the fagots. About her stood her maids of honor, and while she sat thus with the open Testament before her, tears in her eyes and her whole manner full of agitation, the door opened to admit a young and beautiful woman. In contrast to the pale face of the queen, the luxuriant beauty of the new-comer seemed dazzling; her features were perfectly regular, while her eyes have been called “starry” in their luster. At the sight of her, Anne’s face changed instantly; she rose, and advancing to the center of the room, looked at her haughtily. The young woman was splendidly dressed, and wore a girdle of pearls at her waist, and on her neck a great jewel, which attracted the eye of the queen.

“What have you there, Mistress Seymour?” she exclaimed sharply, indicating the gem.

Jane Seymour drew back with a flush of mingled embarrassment and indignation.

“’Tis but a gift, madam,” she said, faltering under Anne’s searching glance; “’tis naught of importance. I—”

The blush, the stammering tone were alike fatal to an attempt at evasion; the queen snatched at the jewel and tore it from her rival’s throat with such vehemence that she cut her hand upon the clasp and the blood dropped on her dress. She took the ornament, and looking on the reverse side, found a curiously contrived spring, which opened to reveal a beautifully painted portrait of the king. For one moment she stood transfixed, such an expression on her haggard face that her attendants shrank back and the fair Seymour was covered with confusion. Then the furious nature of Anne Boleyn roused her from her womanly dismay; she turned upon the maid of honor like a lioness at bay, her wrath bringing a terrible beauty to her face and her eyes blazing with fury. She hurled the bauble at Jane Seymour with such force that it fell shattered at her feet.

“Go!” cried the queen, pointing to the door, “get from my sight, you accursed traitress, and take the image of your paramour away with you!”

“Madam, I pray you—” began Jane.

“Begone!” said Anne, her impassioned voice ringing through the room; “doubtless the king awaits thee. Lie not to me! let me not see thy face again!”

In her resistless fury the queen towered like an avenging spirit, and Jane Seymour could only gather up the fragments of her sovereign’s love token and retreat in deep confusion. Anne Boleyn watched her until the door closed behind her, her own pose full of queenly dignity and injured womanhood; but when the rival beauty had withdrawn, a great change swept over Anne’s features; she turned, and seeing her favorite friend near her with a face full of sympathy and indignation, she fell weeping on her neck.

“Oh, Mary, I have sinned!” she cried in a voice of anguish; “oh, my God! is my punishment to be administered in like measure with my sin?”