The house of the wizard

It was the first of May; the trees in Greenwich Park were budding with the tender tints of spring, and the short turf was studded with the little daisies, pink and white, and the hawthorns were in bloom, while from the hedgerows came the music of the birds. In the lists at Greenwich the silver trumpets blew. The heralds proclaimed the names of the challengers and challenged in the tournament. The royal gallery was hung with cloth of gold, and the king and queen sat there together, in apparent concord; yet there were dark whispers in the palace, there had been a secret session of the privy council at Whitehall a few days before, and a gentleman of the king’s household had been committed to the Tower. But outwardly all was gay for the great festival of May Day. Banners floated over the lists, pennants of dyes as varied as the rainbow, while from the galleries hung rich tapestries and wreaths of flowers. Garlands decorated the canopy above the head of Anne Boleyn, garlands lay on the gallery balustrade before her, and she was robed in all the splendor of a queen. Her surcoat was of scarlet and gold brocade, and her mantle of cloth of gold was lined with ermine, while on her coif was a circlet of rubies, the same which she had worn on that Whitsunday when she received the crown. Unusually pale, but beautiful, the queen leaned forward in her chair to watch the tilting, while beside her sat the king, seeming to share her interest in the games. He also was arrayed in a regal fashion, his dress of purple velvet slashed with white satin and his breast covered with jewels, which sparkled also in his low-crowned velvet hat, in which were set white ostrich plumes. The strong face of the king was slightly clouded, though he smiled, and his tawny eyes flashed with the fiery spirit of his race. About the queen stood her maids of honor, Mistress Wyatt, Mistress Gaynsford, Betty Carew, and many more; and in the rear was the tall, square-shouldered Lady Crabtree, who had that day asked Anne’s leave to take Betty away to Wildrick, pleading some excuse in response to the queen’s inquiries. Permission had been given, and when the festivities were ended, Mistress Carew would depart for a while from court.

With the braying of trumpets and the sound of music, challenger and challenged rode into the lists,—the queen’s brother, Lord Rochford, and Sir Henry Norris, who had been one of the witnesses of Henry’s secret marriage with the Marchioness of Pembroke in the attic turret of Whitehall. Both the contestants were fine riders, and expert with sword and lance; the first encounter called forth a burst of applause. Men shouted, women waved their handkerchiefs, and the queen let hers fall from her hand into the lists. Before the eager host of sycophants could reach it, Norris had it, and pressing it to his face, presented it on the point of his lance to Anne. There was a moment of silence; the king rose with a dark frown and, followed by a few of his confidential attendants, left the gallery without a word or a glance at his consort. At the barrier of the lists, the royal officers arrested Lord Rochford and Sir Henry Norris upon the charge of high treason. In an instant the bright scene was changed; the trumpets ceased to sound, men flocked together, speaking low, the jousts were stayed, the women stared affrighted at the queen.

“The king! the king!” was whispered; “what doth ail the king? Something has happened, some mischief is ripe! The Northern Counties must have risen! My lord privy seal is murdered! These gentlemen have poisoned the Princess Elizabeth!”

Almost a panic reigned below, while in the gallery the queen rose with a white face and withdrew, followed by her women. In half an hour the lists were vacant, the garlands hung wilting in the sunshine, the idle crowd trailing off full cry after some new scandal. The news had spread that the king was gone to Whitehall and with him the prisoner Norris. Tales that had been whispered began now to be told aloud; fingers were pointed at the windows of the queen’s rooms; idle gossips watched upon the water-stairs for possible arrivals from London, and the superstitious remembered signs and sounds. A step had been heard upon the palace stair at midnight, yet no one ascended, though the heavy tread came through the gallery before the door of Anne Boleyn; it had so walked at that of Catherine, and at the threshold of the hapless Anne of Warwick, queen of Richard III. One old wife had seen Death riding on a tall white horse through the park in the full light of noonday. Another, who had heard the Bishop of Worcester’s great sermon at Paul’s Cross, had been in terror ever since, lest England should fall away to the Bishop of Rome, so valiantly had his lordship preached against friars and abbots, and the like.

Meanwhile the queen was in her own apartments. Although deeply disturbed by the king’s anger and abrupt departure, she bore herself with composure, talking quietly with her women, speaking not at all of the arrest of her brother. Her maids flocked about her startled, dismayed, and each suspicious of the other’s fidelity, except the few who were close to the person of the queen. Never was a May Day so full of trouble since the Ill May Day when the poor apprentices of London rose in Queen Catherine’s time to be butchered by the Duke of Norfolk.

Night came at last, but sleep visited but few in the palace, and the morning found many haggard faces about the queen. Yet the suspense continued; the daily life at Greenwich moved on as usual, men and women tried to smile and made ghastly jests. The king came not again, and noonday brought no tidings. Dinner was spread in the royal apartments, and Anne sat down, attended by her maids of honor and the servants of her own household. The customary greeting from the king, “Much good may it do you,” came not, and the queen’s face paled as she glanced at the sorrowful women about her. More than one had tearful eyes, and all failed to respond to her attempted pleasantry.

“Mary,” she said, turning to Mistress Wyatt, “what ails thee? One would think that a death’s head grinned upon the board. ’Tis a dull hour and my maids are red-eyed; truly, it seems that they might make some jest to entertain the queen.”

“Oh, madam!” exclaimed Mary Wyatt, bursting into tears, “I cannot—I am ill.”

“Ill?” repeated the queen, sadly; “nay, my girl, not ill, but fearful. I knew not that thy blood was so weak. When Anne Boleyn sees danger approaching, her heart beats with a bolder pulse; she feels that she is sprung of a warlike race which is not so ill a match for the Tudors. Come, come, Mary, dry thy tears; the May sun is shining; it is almost as fair a day as that first of June on which I made my progress through London.”

“I pray that it may shine on you with greater blessing, madam,” replied Mistress Wyatt, drying her eyes.

The queen looked down the long table; at the end one of her old servants stood weeping; on either hand were pale faces, even Betty Carew had lost her splendid coloring.

“Mistress Carew,” said Anne, “why is your face so long? I do not think you love me, yet your cheek is wan. Is my case, then, like the queen’s at Kimbolton?”

There was a rustle, a stir of amazement, but the words were spoken.

“Madam,” said Betty, in a low voice, “between the ill and suffering lady who died yonder and your grace’s youth and health there can be no comparison.”

“My Lady Crabtree takes you to Deptford,” said Anne, quietly; “’tis well. I would not bring disaster upon one so young, and who has no cause to love me.”

“I pray your grace to let me remain,” Betty cried, her generous spirit stirred; “I would not leave you in the hour of trouble.”

“Trouble!” the queen laughed hysterically, “who speaks of it? ’Tis gay, a festival at Greenwich. Hark!” she cried suddenly, “what is that?”

The stir of an arrival in the antechamber, the great doors thrown open, the voice of the usher announcing his grace of Norfolk and the lords of the Privy Council.

Anne rose from her seat with a low cry.

“’Tis a message from the king’s grace,” she cried joyfully; “my lord hath sent to comfort me for the arrest of my sweet brother.”

She stood with a white face, her splendid dress disordered, her beautiful hair unbound. Her ladies clustered about her, but leaving a space in which she stood alone; behind were her frightened servants. Toward this group came with slow steps, as if their errand was a heavy one, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, Cromwell, the Chancellor Audley, and others of the Council. The queen looked at them with dilated eyes, her breast heaving, and her expression changing from expectation to terror as her glance fell on Sir William Kingston, the Lieutenant of the Tower.

“My God!” she cried in a low voice, “there is death in their looks!”

Then she added aloud, “My lords, why come ye here?”

“Madam,” replied Cromwell, sadly, “we come at the king’s command to conduct you to the Tower, there to abide his highness’s pleasure.”

Mary Wyatt with a scream clutched at the queen’s robe, but in this supreme moment Anne regained her self-command. She put her devoted maid aside and stood alone.

“My lords, if it be the king’s pleasure,” she said, “I am willing to obey.”

The Duke of Norfolk ordered her attendants from the room that she might be examined privately by the Council.

“Uncle,” said the queen, sadly, “from thy hands I might look for more tender usage.”

Before she left the room, Betty Carew approached the unhappy woman; the young girl’s generous heart beat high and her dark eyes sparkled with anger. She saw here only a repetition of the blow that had smitten Catherine of Arragon.

“Madam,” she said in a low voice, “if it be your wish, I will go with you to the Tower; I would not leave you now!”

The queen was deeply touched; she took a ring from her finger and placed it in Betty’s hand.

“Nay, Mistress Carew,” she said gently, “I also can be generous; thou art young, go in peace. Mary Wyatt and my other maids may presently come to me; now I am the king’s prisoner. Farewell, fair girl, I pray thy beauty may not bring thee to so evil a case.”