Earl Douglas, Gardiner, and Wriothesley, had accompanied the king into his cabinet.
At last the great blow was to be struck, and the plan of the three enemies of the queen, so long matured and well-considered, was to be at length put in execution. Therefore, as they followed the king, who with unwonted activity preceded them, they exchanged with each other one more look of mutual understanding.
By that look Earl Douglas said, “The hour has come. Be ready!”
And the looks of his friends responded, “We are ready!”
John Heywood, who, hidden behind the hangings, saw and observed everything, could not forbear a slight shudder at the sight of these four men, whose dark and hard features seemed incapable of being touched by any ray of pity or mercy.
There was first the king, that man with the Protean countenance, across which storm and sunshine, God and the devil traced each minute new lines; who could be now an inspired enthusiast, and now a bloodthirsty tyrant; now a sentimental wit, and anon a wanton reveler; the king, on whose constancy nobody, not even himself, could rely; ever ready, as it suited his caprice or his interest, to betray his most faithful friend, and to send to the scaffold to-day those whom but yesterday he had caressed and assured of his unchanging affection; the king, who considered himself privileged to indulge with impunity his low appetites, his revengeful impulses, his bloodthirsty inclinations; who was devout from vanity, because devotion afforded him an opportunity of identifying himself with God, and of regarding himself in some sort the patron of Deity.
There was Earl Douglas, the crafty courtier with ever-smiling face, who seemed to love everybody, while in fact he hated all; who assumed the appearance of perfect harmlessness, and seemed to be indifferent to everything but pleasure, while nevertheless secretly he held in his hand all the strings of that great net which encompassed alike court and king—Earl Douglas, whom the king loved for this alone, because he generally gave him the title of grand and wise high-priest of the Church, and who was, notwithstanding this, Loyola’s vicegerent, and a true and faithful adherent of that pope who had damned the king as a degenerate son and given him over to the wrath of God.
Lastly, there were the two men with dark, malignant looks, with inflexible, stony faces, which u ere never lighted up by a smile, or a gleam of joy; who always condemned, always punished, and whose countenances never brightened save when the dying shriek of the condemned, or the groans of some poor wretch upon the rack, fell upon their ears; who were the tormentors of humanity, while they called themselves the ministers and servants of God.
“Sire,” said Gardiner, when the king had slowly taken his seat upon the ottoman—“sire, let us first ask the blessing of the Lord our God on this hour of conference. May God, who is love, but who is wrath also, may He enlighten and bless us!”
The king devoutly folded his hands, but it was only a prayer of wrath that animated his soul.
“Grant, O God, that I may punish Thine enemies, and everywhere dash in pieces the guilty!”
“Amen!” said Gardiner, as he repeated with solemn earnestness the king’s words.
“Send us the thunderbolt of Thy wrath,” prayed Wriothesley, “that we may teach the world to recognize Thy power and glory!”
Earl Douglas took care not to pray aloud. What he had to request of God was not allowed to reach the ear of the king.
“Grant, O God,” prayed he in his heart, “grant that my work may prosper, and that this dangerous queen may ascend the scaffold, to make room for my daughter, who is destined to bring back into the arms of our holy mother, the Church—guilty and faithless king.”
“Now my lords,” said the king, fetching a long breath, “now tell me how stand matters in my kingdom, and at my court?”
“Badly,” said Gardiner. “Unbelief again lifts up its head. It is a hydra. If you strike off one of its heads, two others immediately spring up in its place. This cursed sect of reformists and atheists multiplies day by day, and our prisons are no longer sufficient to contain them; and when we drag them to the stake, their joyful and courageous death always makes fresh proselytes and fresh apostates.”
“Yes, matters are bad,” said the Lord Chancellor Wriothesley; “in vain have we promised pardon and forgiveness to all those who would return penitent and contrite; they laugh to scorn our offers of pardon, and prefer a death of torture to the royal clemency. What avails it that we have burnt to death Miles Coverdale, who had the hardihood to translate the Bible? His death appears to have been only the tocsin that aroused other fanatics, and, without our being able to divine or suspect where all these books come from, they have overflowed and deluged the whole land; and we now already have more than four translations of the Bible. The people read them with eagerness; and the corrupt seek of mental illumination and free-thinking waxes daily more powerful and more pernicious.”
“And now you, Earl Douglas?” asked the king, when the lord chancellor ceased. “These noble lords have told me how matters stand in my kingdom. You will advise me what is the aspect of things at my court.”
“Sire,” said Earl Douglas, slowly and solemnly—for he wished each word to sink into the king’s breast like a poisoned arrow—“sire, the people but follow the example which the court sets them. How can you require faith of the people, when under their own eyes the court turns faith to ridicule, and when infidels find at court aid and protection?”
“You accuse, but give no names,” said the king, impatiently. “Who dares at my court be a protector of heretics?”
“Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury!” said the three men, as with one mouth. The signal-word was spoken, the standard of a bloody struggle set up.
“Cranmer?” repeated the king thoughtfully. “He has, however, always been a faithful servant and an attentive friend to me. It was he who delivered me from the unholy bond with Catharine of Aragon: it was he too who warned me of Catharine Howard, and furnished me with proofs of her guilt. Of what misdemeanor do you accuse him?”
“He denies the six articles,” said Gardiner, whose malicious face now glowed with bitter hatred. “He reprobates auricular confession, and believes not that the voluntarily taken vows of celibacy are binding.”
“If he does that, then he is a traitor!” cried the king, who was fond of always throwing a reverence for chastity and modesty, as a kind of holy mantle, over his own profligate and lewd life; and whom nothing more embittered than to encounter another on that path of vice which he himself, by virtue of his royal prerogative, and his crown by the grace of God, could travel in perfect safety.
“If he does that, then he is a traitor! My arm of vengeance will smite him!” repeated the king again. “It was I who gave my people the six articles, as a sacred and authoritative declaration of faith; and I will not suffer this only true and right doctrine to be assailed and obscured. But you are mistaken, my lords. I am acquainted with Cranmer, and I know that he is loyal and faithful.”
“And yet it is he,” said Gardiner, “who confirms these heretics in their obduracy and stiff-neckedness. He is the cause why these lost wretches do not, from the fear of divine wrath at least, return to you, their sovereign and high-priest. For he preaches to them that God is love and mercy; he teaches them that Christ came into the world in order to bring to the world love and the forgiveness of sins, and that they alone are Christ’s true disciples and servants who emulate His love. Do you not see then, sire, that this is a covert and indirect accusation against yourself, and that while he praises pardoning love, he at the same time condemns and accuses your righteous and punitory wrath?”
The king did not answer immediately, but sat with his eyes fixed, grave and pondering. The fanatical priest had gone too far; and, without being aware of it, it was he himself who was that very instant accusing the king.
Earl Douglas felt this. He read in the king’s face that he was just then in one of those moments of contrition which sometimes came over him when his soul held involuntary intercourse with itself. It was necessary to arouse the sleeping tiger and point out to him some prey, so as to make him again bloodthirsty.
“It would be proper if Cranmer preached only Christian love,” said he. “Then would he be only a faithful servant of his Lord, and a follower of his king. But he gives to the world an abominable example of a disobedient and perfidious servant; he denies the truth of the six articles, not in words, but in deeds. You have ordered that the priests of the Church remain single. Now, then, the Archbishop of Canterbury is married!”
“Married!” cried the king, his visage glowing with rage. “Ah, I will chastise him, this transgressor of my holy laws! A minister of the Church, a priest, whose whole life should be naught but an exhibition of holiness, an endless communion with God, and whose high calling it is to renounce fleshly lusts and earthly desires! And he is married! I will make him feel the whole weight of my royal anger! He shall learn from his own experience that the king’s justice is inexorable, and that in every case he smites the head of the sinner, be he who he may!”
“Your majesty is the embodiment of wisdom and justice,” said Douglas, “and your faithful servants well know, if the royal justice is sometimes tardy in smiting guilty offenders, this happens not through your will, but through your servants who venture to stay the arm of justice.”
“When and where has this happened?” asked Henry; and his face flushed with rage and excitement. “Where is the offender whom I have not punished? Where in my realm lives a being who has sinned against God or his king, and whom I have not dashed to atoms?”
“Sire,” said Gardiner solemnly, “Anne Askew is yet alive.”
“She lives to mock at your wisdom and to scoff at your holy creed!” cried Wriothesley.
“She lives, because Bishop Cranmer wills that she should not die,” said Douglas, shrugging his shoulders. The king broke out into a short, dry laugh. “Ah, Cranmer wills not that Anne Askew die!” said he, sneering. “He wills not that this girl, who has so fearfully offended against her king, and against God, should be punished!”
“Yes, she has offended fearfully, and yet two years have passed away since her offence,” cried Gardiner—“two years which she has spent in deriding God and mocking the king!”
“Ah,” said the king, “we have still hoped to turn this young, misguided creature from the ways of sin and error to the path of wisdom and repentance. We wished for once to give our people a shining example of our willingness to forgive those who repent and renounce their heresy, and to restore them to a participation of our royal favor. Therefore it was that we commissioned you, my lord bishop, by virtue of your prayers and your forcible and convincing words, to pluck this poor child from the claws of the devil, who has charmed her ear.”
“But she is unbending,” said Gardiner, grinding his teeth. “In vain have I depicted to her the pains of hell, which await her if she return not to the faith; in vain have I subjected her to every variety of torture and penance; in vain have I sent to her in prison other converts, and had them pray with her night and day incessantly; she remains unyielding, hard as stone, and neither the fear of punishment nor the prospect of freedom and happiness has the power to soften that marble heart.”
“There is one means yet untried,” said Wriothesley—“a means, moreover, which is a more effective preacher of repentance than the most enthusiastic orators and the most fervent prayers, and which I have to thank for bringing back to God and the faith many of the most hardened heretics.”
“And this means is—”
“The rack, your majesty.”
“Ah, the rack!” replied the king, with an involuntary shudder.
“All means are good that lead to the holy end!” said Gardiner, devoutly folding his hands.
“The soul must be saved, though the body be pierced with wounds!” cried Wriothesley.
“The people must be convinced,” said Douglas, “that the lofty spirit of the king spares not even those who are under the protection of influential and might personages. The people murmur that this time justice is not permitted to prevail, because Archbishop Cranmer protects Anne Askew, and the queen is her friend.”
“The queen is never the friend of a criminal!” said Henry, vehemently.
“Perchance she does not consider Anne Askew a criminal,” responded Karl Douglas, with a slight smile. “It is known, indeed, that the queen is a great friend of the Reformation; and the people, who dare not call her a heretic—the people call her ‘the Protestant.’”
“Is it, then, really believed that it is Catharine who protects Anne Askew, and keeps her from the stake?” inquired the king, thoughtfully.
“It is so thought, your majesty.”
“They shall soon see that they are mistaken, and that Henry the Eighth well deserves to be called the Defender of the Faith and the Head of his Church!” cried the king, with burning rage. “For when have I shown myself so long-suffering and weak in punishing, that people believe me inclined to pardon and deal gently? Have I not sent to the scaffold even Thomas More and Cromwell, two renowned and in a certain respect noble and high-minded men, because they dared defy my supremacy and oppose the doctrine and ordinance which I commanded them to believe? Have I not sent to the block two of my queens—two beautiful young women, in whom my heart was well pleased, even when I punished them—because they had provoked my wrath? Who, after such brilliant examples of our annihilating justice, who dare accuse us of forbearance?”
“But at that time, sire,” said Douglas, in his soft, insinuating voice, “but at that time no queen as yet stood at your side who called heretics true believers, and favored traitors with her friendship.”
The king frowned, and his wrathful look encountered the friendly and submissive countenance of the earl. “You know I hate these covert attacks,” said he. “If you can tax the queen with any crime, well now, do so. If you cannot, hold your peace!”
“The queen is a noble and virtuous lady,” said the earl, “only she sometimes permits herself to be led away by her magnanimous spirit. Or how, your majesty, can it possibly be with your permission that my lady the queen maintains a correspondence with Anne Askew?”
“What say you? The queen in correspondence with Anne Askew?” cried the king in a voice of thunder. “That is a lie, a shameless lie, hatched up to ruin the queen; for it is very well known that the poor king, who has been so often deceived, so often imposed upon, believes himself to have at last found in this woman a being whom he can trust, and in whom he can put faith. And they grudge him that. They wish to strip him of this last hope also, that his heart may harden entirely to stone, and no emotion of pity evermore find access to him. Ah, Douglas, Douglas, beware of my wrath, if you cannot prove what you say!”
“Sire, I can prove it! For Lady Jane herself, no longer ago than yesterday, was made to give up a note from Anne Askew to the queen.”
The king remained silent for a while, and gazed fixedly on the ground. His three confidants observed him with breathless, trembling expectation.
At length the king raised his head again, and turned his gaze, which was now grave and steady, upon the lord chancellor. “My Lord Chancellor Wriothesley,” said he, “I empower you to conduct Anne Askew to the torture-room, and try whether the torments which are prepared for the body are perchance able to bring this erring soul to an acknowledgment of her faults. My Lord Bishop Gardiner, I promise my word that I will give attention to your accusation against the Archbishop of Canterbury, and that, if it be well founded, he shall not escape punishment. My Lord Douglas, I will give my people and all the world proof that I am still God’s righteous and avenging vice-gerent on earth, and that no consideration can restrain my wrath, no after-thought stay my arm, whenever it is ready to fall and smite the head of the guilty. And now, my lords, let us declare this session at an end. Let us breathe a little from these exertions, and seek some recreation for one brief hour.
“My Lords Gardiner and Wriothesley, you are now at liberty. You, Douglas, will accompany me into the small reception-room. I want to see bright and laughing faces around me. Call John Heywood, and if you meet any ladies in the palace, of course I beg them to shed on us a little of that sunshine which you say is peculiarly woman’s.”
He laughed, and, leaning on the earl’s arm, left the cabinet.
Gardiner and Wriothesley stood there in silence, watching the king, who slowly and heavily traversed the adjacent hall, and whose cheery and laughing voice came ringing back to them.
“He is a weathercock, turning every moment from side to side,” said Gardiner, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
“He calls himself God’s sword of vengeance, but he is nothing more than a weak tool, which we bend and use at our will,” muttered Wriothesley, with a hoarse laugh. “Poor, pitiful fool, deeming himself so mighty and sturdy; imagining himself a free king, ruling by his sovereign will alone, and yet he is but our servant and drudge! Our great work is approaching its end, and we shall one day triumph. Anne Askew’s death is the sign of a new covenant, which will deliver England and trample the heretics like dust beneath our feet. And when at length we shall have put down Cranmer, and brought Catharine Parr to the scaffold, then will we give King Henry a queen who will reconcile him with God and the Church, out of which is no salvation.”
“Amen, so be it!” said Gardiner; and arm in arm they both left the cabinet.
Deep stillness now reigned in that little spot, and nobody saw John Heywood as he now came from behind the hanging, and, completely worn out and faint, slipped for a moment into a chair.
“Now I know, so far at least, the plan of these blood-thirsty tiger-cats,” muttered he. “They wish to give Henry a popish queen; and so Cranmer must be overthrown, that, when they have deprived the queen of this powerful prop, they may destroy her also and tread her in the dust. But as God liveth, they shall not succeed in this! God is just, and He will at last punish these evil-doers. And supposing there is no God, then will we try a little with the devil himself. No, they shall not destroy the noble Cranmer and this beautiful, high-minded queen. I forbid it—I, John Heywood, the king’s fool. I will see everything, observe everything, hear everything. They shall find me everywhere on their path; and when they poison the king’s ear with their diabolical whisperings, I will heal it again with my merry deviltries. The king’s fool will be the guardian angel of the queen.”
After so much care and excitement, the king needed an hour of recreation and amusement. Since the fair young queen was seeking these far away in the chase, and amid the beauties of Nature, Henry must, no doubt, be content to seek them for himself, and in a way different from the queen’s. His unwieldiness and his load of flesh prevented him from pursuing the joys of life beyond his own halls; so the lords and ladies of his court had to bring them hither to him, and station the flitting goddess of Joy, with her wings fettered, in front of the king’s trundle-chair.
The gout had that day again overcome that mighty king of earth; and a heavy, grotesque mass it was which sat there in the elbow-chair.
But the courtiers still called him a fine-looking and fascinating man; and the ladies still smiled on him and said, by their sighs and by their looks, that they loved him; that he was ever to them the same handsome and captivating man that he was twenty years before, when yet young, fine-looking, and slim. How they smile upon him, and ogle him! How Lady Jane, the maiden otherwise so haughty and so chaste, does wish to ensnare him with her bright eyes as with a net! How bewitchingly does the Duchess of Richmond, that fair and voluptuous woman, laugh at the king’s merry jests and double entendres!
Poor king! whose corpulency forbids him to dance as he once had done with so much pleasure and so much dexterity! Poor king! whose age forbids him to sing as once he had done to the delight both of the court and himself!
But there are yet, however, pleasant, precious, joyous hours, when the man revives some little in the king; when even youth once more again awakes within him, and smiles in a few dear, blessed pleasures. The king still has at least eyes to perceive beauty, and a heart to feel it.
How beautiful Lady Jane is, this white lily with the dark, star-like eyes! How beautiful Lady Richmond, this full-blown red rose with the pearl-white teeth!
And they both smile at him; and when the king swears he loves them, they bashfully cast down their eyes and sigh.
“Do you sigh, Jane, because you love me?”
“Oh, sire, you mock me. It would be a sin for me to love you, for Queen Catharine is living.”
“Yes, she is living!” muttered the king; and his brow darkened; and for a moment the smile disappeared from his lips.
Lady Jane had committed a mistake. She had reminded the king of his wife when it was yet too soon to ask for her death.
John Heywood read this in the countenance of his royal master, and resolved to take advantage of it. He wished to divert the attention of the king, and to draw it away from the beautiful, captivating women who were juggling him with their bewitching charms.
“Yes, the queen lives!” said he, joyfully, “and God be praised for it! For how tedious and dull it would be at this court had we not our fair queen, who is as wise as Methuselah, and innocent and good as a new-born babe! Do you not, Lady Jane, say with me, God be praised that Queen Catharine is living?”
“I say so with you!” said Jane, with ill-concealed vexation.
“And you, King Henry, do you not say it too?”
“Of course, fool!”
“Ah, why am I not King Henry?” sighed John Heywood. “King, I envy you, not your crown, or your royal mantle; not your attendants or your money. I envy you only this, that you can say, ‘God be praised that my wife is still alive!’ while I never know but one phrase, ‘God have pity, my wife is still alive!’ Ah, it is very seldom, king, that I have heard a married man speak otherwise! You are in that too, as in all things else, an exception, King Henry; and your people have never loved you more warmly and purely than when you say, ‘I thank God that my consort is alive!’ Believe me, you are perhaps the only man at your court who speaks after this manner, however ready they may be to be your parrots, and re-echo what the lord high-priest says.”
“The only man that loves his wife?” said Lady Richmond. “Behold now the rude babbler! Do you not believe, then, that we women deserve to be loved?”
“I am convinced that you do not.”
“And for what do you take us, then?”
“For cats, which God, since He had no more cat-skin, stuck into a smooth hide!”
“Take care, John, that we do not show you our claws!” cried the duchess, laughing.
“Do it anyhow, my lady! I will then make a cross, and ye will disappear. For devils, you well know, cannot endure the sight of the holy cross, and ye are devils.”
John Heywood, who was a remarkably fine singer, seized the mandolin, which lay near him, and began to sing.
It was a song, possible only in those days, and at Henry’s voluptuous and at the same time canting court—a song full of the most wanton allusions, of the most cutting jests against both monks and women; a song which made Henry laugh, and the ladies blush; and in which John Heywood had poured forth in glowing dithyrambics all his secret indignation against Gardiner, the sneaking hypocrite of a priest, and against Lady Jane, the queen’s false and treacherous friend.
But the ladies laughed not. They darted flashing glances at John Heywood; and Lady Richmond earnestly and resolutely demanded the punishment of the perfidious wretch who dared to defame women. The king laughed still harder. The rage of the ladies was so exceedingly amusing.
“Sire,” said the beautiful Richmond, “he has insulted not us, but the whole sex; and in the name of our sex, I demand revenge for the affront.”
“Yes, revenge!” cried Lady Jane, hotly.
“Revenge!” repeated the rest of the ladies.
“See, now, what pious and gentle-hearted doves ye are!” cried John Heywood.
The king said, laughingly: “Well, now, you shall have your will—you shall chastise him.”
“Yes, yes, scourge me with rods, as they once scourged the Messiah, because He told the Pharisees the truth. See here! I am already putting on the crown of thorns.”
He took the king’s velvet cap with solemn air, and put it on.
“Yes, whip him, whip him!” cried the king, laughing, as he pointed to the gigantic vases of Chinese porcelain, containing enormous bunches of roses, on whose long stems arose a real forest of formidable-looking thorns.
“Pull the large bouquets to pieces; take the roses in your hand, and whip him with the stems!” said the king, and his eyes glistened with inhuman delight, for the scene promised to be quite interesting. The rose-stems were long and hard, and the thorns on them pointed and sharp as daggers. How nicely they would pierce the flesh, and how he would yell and screw his face, the good-natured fool!
“Yes, yes, let him take off his coat, and we will whip him!” cried the Duchess of Richmond; and the women, all joining in the cry, rushed like furies upon John Heywood, and forced him to lay aside his silk upper garment. Then they hurried to the vases, snatched out the bouquets, and with busy hands picked out the longest and stoutest stems. And loud were their exclamations of satisfaction, if the thorns were right and sharp, such as would penetrate the flesh of the offender right deeply. The king’s laughter and shouts of approval animated them more and more, and made them more excited and furious. Their cheeks glowed, their eyes glared; they resembled Bacchantes circling the god of riotous joviality with their shouts of “Evoe! evoe!”
“Not yet! do not strike yet!” cried the king. “You must first strengthen yourselves for the exertion, and fire your arms for a powerful blow!”
He took the large golden beaker which stood before him and, tasting it, presented it to Lady Jane.
“Drink, my lady, drink, that your arm may be strong!”
And they all drank, and with animated smiles pressed their lips on the spot which the king’s mouth had touched. And now their eyes had a brighter flame, and their cheeks a more fiery glow.
A strange and exciting sight it was, to see those beautiful women burning with malicious joy and thirst for vengeance, who for the moment had laid aside all their elegant attitudes, their lofty and haughty airs, to transform themselves into wanton Bacchantes, bent on chastising the offender, who had so often and so bitterly lashed them all with his tongue.
“Ah, I would a painter were here!” said the king. “He should paint us a picture of the chaste nymphs of Diana pursuing Actaeon. You are Actaeon, John!”
“But they are not the chaste nymphs, king; no, far from it,” cried Heywood; laughing, “and between these fair women and Diana I find no resemblance, but only a difference.”
“And in what consists the difference, John?”
“Herein, sire, that Diana carried her horn at her side; but these fair ladies make their husbands wear their horns on the forehead!”
A loud peal of laughter from the gentlemen, a yell of rage from the ladies, was the reply of this new epigram of John Heywood. They arranged themselves in two rows, and thus formed a lane through which John Heywood had to pass.
“Come, John Heywood, come and receive your punishment;” and they raised their thorny rods threateningly, and flourished them with angry gestures high above their heads.
The scene was becoming to John in all respects very piquant, for these rods had very sharp thorns, and only a thin linen shirt covered his back.
With bold step, however, he approached the fatal passage through which he was to pass.
Already he beheld the rods drawn back; and it seemed to him as if the thorns were even now piercing his back.
He halted, and turned with a laugh to the king. “Sire, since you have condemned me to die by the hands of these nymphs, I claim the right of every condemned criminal—a last favor.”
“The which we grant you, John.”
“I demand that I may put on these fair women one condition—one condition on which they may whip me. Does your majesty grant me this?”
“I grant it!”
“And you solemnly pledge me the word of a king that this condition shall be faithfully kept and fulfilled?”
“My solemn, kingly word for it!”
“Now, then,” said John Heywood, as he entered the passage, “now, then, my ladies, my condition is this: that one of you who has had the most lovers, and has oftenest decked her husband’s head with horns, let her lay the first stroke on my back.” [Footnote: Flogel’s “Geschichte der Hofnarren,” p.899]
A deep silence followed. The raised arms of the fair women sank. The roses fell from their hands and dropped to the ground. Just before so bloodthirsty and revengeful, they seemed now to have become the softest and gentlest of beings.
But could their looks have killed, their fire certainly would have consumed poor John Heywood, who now gazed at them with an insolent sneer, and advanced into the very midst of their lines.
“Now, my ladies, you strike him not?” asked the king.
“No, your majesty, we despise him too much even to wish to chastise him,” said the Duchess of Richmond.
“Shall your enemy who has injured you go thus unpunished?” asked the king. “No, no, my ladies; it shall not be said that there is a man in my kingdom whom I have let escape when so richly deserving punishment. We will, therefore, impose some other punishment on him. He calls himself a poet, and has often boasted that he could make his pen fly as fast as his tongue! Now, then, John, show us in this manner that you are no liar! I command you to write, for the great court festival which takes place in a few days, a new interlude; and one indeed, hear you, John, which is calculated to make the greatest growler merry, and over which these ladies will be forced to laugh so heartily, that they will forget all their ire!”
“Oh,” said John dolefully, “what an equivocal and lewd poem it must be to please these ladies and make them laugh! My king, we must, then, to please these dear ladies, forget a little our chastity, modesty, and maiden bashfulness, and speak in the spirit of the ladies—that is to say, as lasciviously as possible.”
“You are a wretch!” said Lady Jane; “a vulgar hypocritical fool.”
“Earl Douglas, your daughter is speaking to you,” said John Heywood, calmly. “She flatters you much, your tender daughter.”
“Now then, John, you have heard my orders, and will you obey them? In four days will this festival begin; I give you two days more. In six days, then, you have to write a new interlude. And if he fails to do it, my ladies, you shall whip him until you bring the blood; and that without any condition.” Just then was heard without a flourish of trumpets and the clatter of horse-hoofs.
“The queen has returned,” said John Heywood, with a countenance beaming with joy, as he fixed his smiling gaze full of mischievous satisfaction on Lady Jane.
“Nothing further now remains for you to do, but dutifully to meet your mistress upon the great staircase, for, as you so wisely said before, the queen still lives.”
Without waiting for an answer, John Heywood ran out and rushed through the anteroom and down the steps to meet the queen. Lady Jane watched him with a dark, angry look; and as she turned slowly to the door to go and meet the queen, she muttered low between her closely-pressed lips: “The fool must die, for he is the queen’s friend!”
The queen was just ascending the steps of the great public staircase, and she greeted John Heywood with a friendly smile.
“My lady,” said he aloud, “I have a few words in private to say to you, in the name of his majesty.”
“Words in private!” repeated Catharine, as she stopped upon the terrace of the palace. “Well, then, fall back, my lords and ladies; we wish to receive his majesty’s mysterious message.”
The royal train silently and respectfully withdrew into the large anteroom of the palace, while the queen remained alone with John Heywood on the terrace.
“Now, speak, John.”
“Queen, heed well my words, and grave them deep on your memory! A conspiracy is forged against you, and in a few days, at the great festival, it will be ripe for execution. Guard well, therefore, every word you utter, ay, even your very thoughts. Beware of every dangerous step, for you may be certain that a listener stands behind you! And if you need a confidant, confide in no one but me! I tell you, a great danger lies before you, and only by prudence and presence of mind will you be able to avoid it.”
This time the queen did not laugh at her friend’s warning voice. She was serious; she even trembled.
She had lost her proud sense of security and her serene confidence—she was no longer guiltless—she had a dangerous secret to keep, consequently she felt a dread of discovery; and she trembled not merely for herself, but also for him whom she loved.
“And in what consists this plot?” asked she, with agitation.
“I do not yet understand it; I only know that it exists. But I will search it out, and if your enemies lurk about you with watchful eyes, well, then, I will have spying eyes to observe them.”
“And is it I alone that they threaten?”
“No, queen, your friend also.”
Catharine trembled. “What friend, John?”
“Archbishop Cranmer.”
“Ah, the archbishop!” replied she, drawing a deep breath.
“And is he all, John? Does their enmity pursue only me and him?”
“Only you two!” said John Heywood, sadly, for he had fully understood the queen’s sigh of relief, and he knew that she had trembled for another. “But remember, queen, that Cranmer’s destruction would be likewise your own; and that as you protect the archbishop, he also will protect you with the king—you, queen, and your FRIENDS.”
Catharine gave a slight start, and the crimson on her cheek grew deeper. “I shall always be mindful of that, and ever be a true and real friend to him and to you; for you two are my only friends: is it not so?”
“No, your majesty, I spoke to you of yet a third, of Thomas Seymour.”
“Oh, he!” cried she with a sweet smile. Then she said suddenly, and in a low quick voice: “You say I must trust no one here but you. Now, then, I will give you a proof of my confidence. Await me in the green summer-house at twelve o’clock to-night. You must be my attendant on a dangerous excursion. Have you courage, John?”
“Courage to lay down my life for you, queen!”
“Come, then, but bring your weapon with you.”
“At your command! and is that your only order for to-day?”
“That is all, John! only,” added she, with hesitation and a slight blush, “only, if you perchance meet Earl Sudley, you may say to him that I charged you to greet him in my name.”
“Oh!” sighed John Hey wood, sadly.
“He has to-day saved my life, John,” said she, as if excusing herself. “It becomes me well, then, to be grateful to him.”
And giving him a friendly nod, she stepped into the porch of the castle.
“Now let anybody say again, that chance is not the most mischievous and spiteful of all devils!” muttered John Heywood. “This devil, chance, throws in the queen’s way the very person she ought most to avoid; and she must be, as in duty bound, very grateful to a lover. Oh, oh, so he has saved her life? But who knows whether he may not be one day the cause of her losing it!”
He dropped his head gloomily upon his breast, when suddenly he heard behind him a low voice calling his name; and as he turned, he saw the young Princess Elizabeth hastening toward him with a hurried step. She was at that moment very beautiful. Her eyes gleamed with the fire of passion; her cheeks glowed; and about her crimson lips there played a gentle, happy smile. She wore, according to the fashion of the time, a close-fitting high-necked dress, which showed off to perfection the delicate lines of her slender and youthful form, while the wide standing collar concealed the somewhat too great length of her neck, and made her ruddy, as yet almost childish face stand out as it were from a pedestal. On either side of her high, thoughtful brow, fell, in luxurious profusion, light flaxen curls; her head was covered with a black velvet cap, from which a white feather drooped to her shoulders.
She was altogether a charming and lovely apparition, full of nobleness and grace, full of fire and energy; and yet, in spite of her youthfulness, not wanting in a certain grandeur and dignity. Elizabeth, though still almost a child, and frequently bowed and humbled by misfortune, yet ever remained her father’s own daughter. And though Henry had declared her a bastard and excluded her from the succession to the throne, yet she bore the stamp of her royal blood in her high, haughty brow; in her keen, flashing eye.
As she now stood before John Heywood, she was not, however, the haughty, imperious princess, but merely the shy, blushing maiden, who feared to trust her first girlish secret to another’s ear, and ventured only with trembling hand to draw aside the veil which concealed her heart.
“John Heywood,” said she, “you have often told me that you loved me; and I know that my poor unfortunate mother trusted you, and summoned you as a witness of her innocence. You could not at that time save the mother, but will you now serve Anne Boleyn’s daughter, and be her faithful friend?”
“I will,” said Heywood, solemnly, “and as true as there is a God above us, you shall never find me a traitor.”
“I believe you, John; I know that I may trust you. Listen then, I will now tell you my secret—a secret which no one but God knows, and the betrayal of which might bring me to the scaffold. Will you then swear to me, that you will never, under any pretext, and from any motive whatsoever, betray to anybody, so much as a single word of what I am now about to tell you? Will you swear to me, never to intrust this secret to any one, even on your death-bed, and not to betray it even in the confessional?”
“Now as regards that, princess,” said John, with a laugh, “you are perfectly safe. I never go to confession, for confession is a highly-spiced dish of popery on which I long since spoilt my stomach; and as concerns my deathbed, one cannot, under the blessed and pious reign of Henry the Eighth, altogether know whether he will be really a participant of any kind, or whether he may not make a far more speedy and convenient trip into eternity by the aid of the hangman.”
“Oh, be serious, John—do, I pray you! Let the fool’s mask, under which you hide your sober and honest face, not hide it from me also. Be serious, John, and swear to me that you will keep my secret.”
“Well, then, I swear, princess; I swear by your mother’s spirit to betray not a word of what you are going to tell me.”
“I thank you, John. Now lean this way nearer to me, lest the breeze may catch a single word of mine and bear it farther. John, I love!”
She saw the half-surprised, half-incredulous smile which played around John Heywood’s lips. “Oh,” continued she, passionately, “you believe me not. You consider my fourteen years, and you think the child knows nothing yet of a maiden’s feelings. But remember, John, that those girls who live under a warm sun are early ripened by his glowing rays, and are already wives and mothers when they should still be dreaming children. Well, now, I too am the daughter of a torrid zone, only mine has not been the sun of prosperity, and it has been sorrow and misfortune which have matured my heart. Believe me, John, I love! A glowing, consuming fire rages within me; it is at once my delight and my misery, my happiness and my future.
“The king has robbed me of a brilliant and glorious future; let them not, then, grudge me a happy one, at least. Since I am never to be a queen, I will at least be a happy and beloved wife. If I am condemned to live in obscurity and lowliness, at the very least, I must not be prohibited from adorning this obscure and inglorious existence with flowers, which thrive not at the foot of the throne, and to illuminate it with stars more sparkling than the refulgence of the most radiant kingly crown.”
“Oh, you are mistaken about your own self!” said John Heywood, sorrowfully. “You choose the one only because the other is denied. You would love only because you cannot rule; and since your heart, which thirsts for fame and honor, can find no other satisfaction, you would quench its thirst with some other draught, and would administer love as an opiate to lull to rest its burning pains. Believe me, princess, you do not yet know yourself! You were not born to be merely a loving wife, and your brow is much too high and haughty to wear only a crown of myrtle. Therefore, consider well what you do, princess! Be not carried away by your father’s passionate blood, which boils in your veins also. Think well before you act. Your foot is yet on one of the steps to the throne. Draw it not back voluntarily. Maintain your position; then, the next step brings you again one stair higher up. Do not voluntarily renounce your just claim, but abide in patience the coming of the day of retribution and justice. Only do not yourself make it impossible, that there may then be a full and glorious reparation. PRINCESS Elizabeth may yet one day be queen, provided she has not exchanged her name for one less glorious and noble.”
“John Heywood,” said she, with a bewitching smile, “I have told you I love him.”
“Well, love him as much as you please, but do it in silence, and tell him not of it; but teach your love resignation.”
“John, he knows it already.”
“Ah, poor princess! you are still but a child, that sticks its hands in the fire with smiling bravery and scorches them, because it knows not that fire burns.”
“Let it burn, John, burn! and let the flames curl over my head! Better be consumed in fire than perish slowly and horribly with a deadly chill! I love him, I tell you, and he already knows it!”
“Well, then, love him, but, at least, do not marry him!” cried John Heywood, surlily.
“Marry!” cried she, with astonishment. “Marry! I had never thought of it.”
She dropped her head upon her breast, and stood there, silent and thoughtful.
“I am much afraid I made a blunder, then!” muttered John Heywood. “I have suggested a new thought to her. Ah, ah, King Henry has done well in appointing me his fool! Just when we deem ourselves the wisest, we are the greatest fools!”
“John,” said Elizabeth, as she raised her head again and smiled to him in a glow of excitement, “John, you are entirely right; if we love, we must marry.”
“But I said just the contrary, princess!”
“All right!” said she, resolutely. “All this belongs to the future; we will busy ourselves with the present. I have promised my lover an interview.”
“An interview!” cried John Heywood, in amazement. “You will not be so foolhardy as to keep your promise?”
“John Heywood,” said she, with an air of approaching solemnity, “King Henry’s daughter will never make a promise without fulfilling it. For better or for worse, I will always keep my plighted word, even if the greatest misery and ruin were the result!”
John Heywood ventured to offer no further opposition. There was at this moment something peculiarly lofty, proud, and truly royal in her air, which impressed him with awe, and before which he bowed.
“I have granted him an interview because he wished it,” said Elizabeth; “and, John, I will confess it to you, my own heart longed for it. Seek not, then, to shake my resolution; it is as firm as a rock. But if you are not willing to stand by me, say so, and I will then look about me for another friend, who loves me enough to impose silence on his thoughts.”
“But who, perhaps, will go and betray you. No, no, it has been once resolved upon, and unalterably; so no one but I must be your confidant. Tell me, then, what I am to do, and I will obey you.”
“You know, John, that my apartments are situated in yonder wing, overlooking the garden. Well, in my dressing-room, behind one of the large wall pictures, I have discovered a door leading into a lonely, dark corridor. From this corridor there is a passage up into yonder tower. It is unoccupied and deserted. Nobody ever thinks of entering that part of the castle, and the quiet of the grave reigns throughout those apartments, which nevertheless are furnished with a magnificence truly regal. There will I receive him.”
“But how shall he make his way thither?”
“Oh, do not be concerned; I have thought over that many days since; and while I was refusing my lover the interview for which he again and again implored me, I was quietly preparing everything so as to be able one day to grant it to him. Today this object is attained, and today have I fulfilled his wish, voluntarily and unasked; for I saw he had no more courage to ask again. Listen, then. From the tower, a spiral staircase leads down to a small door, through which you gain entrance into the garden. I have a key to this door. Here it is. Once in possession of this key, he has nothing further to do but remain behind in the park this evening, instead of leaving the castle; and by means of this he will come to me, for I will wait for him in the tower, in the large room directly opposite the staircase landing. Here, take the key; give it to him, and repeat to him all that I have said.”
“Well, princess, there remains for you now only to appoint the hour at which you will receive him there.”
“The hour,” said she, as she turned away her blushing face. “You understand, John, that it is not feasible to receive him there by day, because there is by day not a single moment in which I am not watched.”
“You will then receive him by night!” said John Heywood, sadly. “At what hour?”
“At midnight! And now you know all; and I beg you, John, hasten and carry him my message; for, look, the sun is setting, and it will soon be night.”
She nodded to him with a smile, and turned to go.
“Princess, you have forgotten the most important point. You have not yet told me his name.”
“My God! and you do not guess it? John Heywood, who has such sharp eyes, sees not that there is at this court but a single one that deserves to be loved by a daughter of the king!”
“And the name of this single one is—”
“Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley!” whispered Elizabeth, as she turned away quickly and entered the castle.
“Oh, Thomas Seymour!” said John Heywood, utterly astounded. As if paralyzed with horror, he stood there motionless, staring up at the sky and repealing over and over, “Thomas Seymour! Thomas Seymour! So he is a sorcerer who administers a love-potion to all the women, and befools them with his handsome, saucy face. Thomas Seymour! The queen loves him; the princess loves him; and then there is this Duchess of Richmond, who will by all means be his wife! This much, however, is certain, he is a traitor who deceives both, because to both he has made the same confession of love. And there again is that imp, chance, which compels me to be the confidant of both these women. But I will be well on my guard against executing both my commissions to this sorcerer. Let him at any rate become the husband of the princess; perhaps this would be the surest means of freeing the queen from her unfortunate love.”
He was silent, and still gazed up thoughtfully at the sky. “Yes,” said he then, quite cheerfully, “thus shall it be. I will combat the one love with the other. For the queen to love him, is dangerous. I will therefore so conduct matters that she must hate him. I will remain her confidant. I will receive her letters and her commissions, but I will burn her letters and not execute her commissions. I am not at liberty to tell her that the faithless Thomas Seymour is false to her, for I have solemnly pledged my word to the princess never to breathe her secret to any one; and I will and must keep my word. Smile and love, then; dream on thy sweet dream of love, queen; I wake for thee; I will cause the dark cloud resting on thee to pass by. It may, perhaps, touch thine heart; but thy noble and beautiful head—that at least it shall not be allowed to crush; that—”
“Now, then, what are you staring up at the sky for, as if you read there a new epigram with which to make the king laugh, and the parsons rave?” asked a voice near him; and a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder.
John Heywood did not look round at all; he remained in the same attitude, gazing up steadily at the sky. He had very readily recognized the voice of him who had addressed him; he knew very well that he who stood near him was no other than the bold sorcerer whom he was just then cursing at the bottom of his heart; no other than Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley.
“Say, John, is it really an epigram?” asked Thomas Seymour again. “An epigram on the hypocritical, lustful, and sanctimonious priestly rabble, that with blasphemous hypocrisy fawn about the king, and are ever watchful how they can set a trap for one of us honorable and brave men? Is that what Heaven is now revealing to you?”
“No, my lord, I am only looking at a hawk which hovers about there in the clouds. I saw him mount, earl, and only think of the wonder—he had in each talon a dove! Two doves for one hawk. Is not that too much—wholly contrary to law and nature?”
The earl cast on him a penetrating and distrustful look. But John Heywood, remaining perfectly calm and unembarrassed, continued looking at the clouds.
“How stupid such a brute is, and how much to his disadvantage will his very greediness be! For since he holds a dove in each claw, he will not be able to enjoy either of them; because he has no claw at liberty with which to tear them. Soon as he wishes to enjoy the one, the other will escape; when he grabs after that, the other flies away; and so at last he will have nothing at all, because he was too rapacious and wanted more than he could use.”
“And you are looking after this hawk in the skies? But you are perhaps mistaken, and he whom you seek is not above there at all, but here below, and perchance quite close to you?” asked Thomas Seymour significantly.
But John Heywood would not understand him.
“Nay,” said he, “he still flies, but it will not last long. For verily I saw the owner of the dovecot from which the hawk has stolen the two doves. He had a weapon; and he, be ye sure of it—he will kill this hawk, because he has robbed him of his pet doves.”
“Enough, enough!” cried the earl, impatiently. “You would give me a lesson, but you must know I take no counsel from a fool, even were he the wisest.”
“In that you are right, my lord, for only fools are so foolish as to hearken to the voice of wisdom. Besides, each man forges his own fortune. And now, wise sir, I will give you a key, which you yourself have forged, and behind which lies your fortune. There, take this key; and if you at midnight slip through the garden to the tower over yonder, this key will open to you the door of the same, and you can then without hesitation mount the spiral staircase and open the door which is opposite the staircase. Behind that you will find the fortune which you have forged for yourself, sir blacksmith, and which will bid you welcome with warm lips and soft arms. And so commending you to God, I must hasten home to think over the comedy which the king has commanded me to write.”
“But you do not so much as tell me from whom this message comes?” said Earl Sudley, retaining him. “You invite me to a meeting and give me a key, and I know not who will await me there in that tower.”
“Oh, you do not know? There is then more than one who might await you there? Well, then, it is the youngest and smallest of the two doves who sends you the key.”
“Princess Elizabeth?”
“You have named her, not I!” said John Heywood, as he disengaged himself from the earl’s grasp and hurried across the courtyard to betake himself to his lodgings.
Thomas Seymour watched him with a scowl, and then slowly directed his eyes to the key that Heywood had given him.
“The princess then awaits me,” whispered he, softly. “Ah, who can read it in the stars? who can know whither the crown will roll when it tumbles from King Henry’s head? I love Catharine, but I love ambition still more; and if it is demanded, to ambition must I sacrifice my heart.”