CHAPTER XXII.

On arriving at the palace, Sir Osborne found that he had been sent for by the king; and hurrying his steps towards the privy chamber, he was met by Henry himself, bearing a hawk upon his hand, and armed with a stout leaping-pole, as if prepared for the field. "Come, sir knight," cried the king, "if you would see sport, follow quick. Bennet has just marked a heron go down by the side of the river, and I am resolved to fly young Jacob here, that his wings may not rust. Follow quick!"

Thus speaking, the king made all speed out of the palace; and cutting partly across the park, and round the base of the hill, soon reached the edge of the river, where slower progress became necessary, and he could converse with the young knight without interrupting his sport. Their conversation, however, was solely about hawking and its accessories; and winding along by the side of the sedges with which the bank was lined, they tried to raise the game by cries, and by beating the rushes with the leaping-pole.

For a long way no heron made its appearance; and Henry was beginning to get impatient, just in the same proportion as he had been eager in setting out. Unwilling, however, to yield his sport, after persisting some time in endeavouring, with the aid of Sir Osborne, to make the prey take flight, he sent back the only attendant that had followed him for a dog, and went on slowly with the knight, pursuing the course of the river. When they had proceeded about two hundred yards, and had arrived at a spot where the bank rose into a little mound, the knight paused, while Henry, rather crossed with not having instantly met with the amusement he expected, sauntered on, bending his eyes upon the ground.

"Hist, your grace! hist!" cried Sir Osborne: "I have him!"

"Where, man? where?" cried Henry, looking round without seeing anything. "'Odslife, where?"

"Here, your grace! here!" replied the knight. "Do you not see him, with one leg raised and the claw contracted, gazing on the water as intently as a lady in a looking-glass, by that branch of a tree that is floating down?"

"Ha! yes, yes!" cried Henry. "The long neck and the blue back! 'Tis he. Whoop! sir heron! whoop! Cry him up, Maurice! cry him up!"

Sir Osborne joined his voice to the king's; and their united efforts reaching the ears of the long-legged fowl they were in search of, he speedily spread his wings, stretched out his neck, and rose heavily from the water. With a whoop and a cry the king slipped the jesses of his falcon, and flew him after the heron, who, for a moment, not perceiving the adversary that pursued him, took his flight over the fields, instead of rising high. On went the heron, on went the falcon, and on went Henry after them; till, coming to a little muddy creek, which thereabouts found its way into the river, the king planted his pole with his accustomed activity, and threw himself forward for the leap. Unfortunately, however, at the very moment that his whole weight was cast upon the pole, in the midst of the spring, the wood snapped, and in an instant Sir Osborne saw the king fall flat on his face, and nearly disappear in the ooze and water with which the creek was filled. Henry struggled to free himself, but in vain; for the tenacity of the mud prevented his raising his head, so that in another minute he must inevitably have been drowned, had not Sir Osborne plunged in to his aid, and lifted his face above the water, thus giving him room to breathe. Short as had been the time, however, that respiration had been impeded, the king's powers were nearly exhausted, and even with the knight's assistance he could not raise himself from the position in which he had fallen.

Though an unsafe experiment for both, considering the mud and slime with which they were entangled, nothing remained for Sir Osborne but to take the king in his arms, and endeavour to carry him to the bank; and this at length he accomplished, sometimes slipping, and sometimes staggering, from the uncertain nature of the footing and the heavy burden that he carried; but, still supported by his vast strength, he contrived to keep himself from falling, proceeding slowly and carefully forward, and assuring himself of the firmness of each step before he took another.^[14]

With a feeling of inexpressible gladness, he seated Henry on the bank, and kneeling beside him expressed his hopes that he had received no injury. "No," said the king, faintly; "no. But, Maurice, you have saved my life. Thank God, and thank you!"

A pause now ensued, and the young knight endeavoured, as well as circumstances would permit, to cleanse the countenance and hands of the monarch from the effects of the fall. While he was thus employed, the king gradually recovered his breath and strength, and from time to time uttered a word or two of thanks or directions, till at last Bennet, the attendant, was seen approaching with the dog.

"Stay, stay, Sir Osborne," said the monarch; "here comes Bennet. We will send him for fresh clothes. Where is the falcon? By my faith, I owe you much; ay, as much as life! Whistle for the falcon; I have not breath."

Sir Osborne uttered a long falconer's whistle, and in a moment the bird hovered above them, and perched upon the hand the monarch extended to it, showing by its bloody beak and claws that it had struck the prey. Nearly at the same time came up Bennet, who, as may be supposed, expressed no small terror and surprise at beholding the king in such a situation, and was preparing to fill the air with ejaculations and lamentations, when Henry stopped him in the midst.

"No, Bennet, no!" cried he; "keep all that for when I am dead quite! Ha, man! 'twill be time enough then. Thanks to Sir Osborne, I am not dead at present. Here, take this bird. I have lost both hood and jesses in that foul creek. Hie to the manor, Bennet, and fetch me a large cloak with a hood, and another for Sir Osborne. We will not return all draggled with the ooze; ha, Maurice! Quick, Bennet! But mind, man; not a word of this misadventure, on your life!"

"Ah! your grace knows that I am discreet," replied the footman.

"Ay, as discreet as the babbling echo, or a jay, or a magpie," cried Henry; "but get thee gone, quick! and return by the path we came, for we follow slowly. Lend me your arm, Sir Osborne. We will round by yon little bridge. A curse upon the leaping-pole, say I! By my fay, I will have all the creeks in England stopped. I owe my life to you, but hereafter we will speak of that: I will find means to repay it."

"I am more than repaid, your grace," said Sir Osborne, "by the knowledge that, but for my poor aid, England might have lost her king, and within a few hours the whole realm might have been drowned in tears."

"Ay, poor souls! I do believe they would regret me," said the monarch; "for, heaven knows, it is my wish to see them happy. A king's best elegy is to be found in the tears of his subjects, Sir Osborne; and every king should strive to merit their love when living and their regret when dead."

Strange as it may seem, to those accustomed to picture themselves Henry the Eighth as the sanguinary and remorseless tyrant which he appeared in later years, such were the sentiments with which he set out in his regal career, while youth, prosperity, and power were all in their first freshness: 'twas the tale of the spoiled child, which was always good-humoured when it was pleased. Now the first twelve years of Henry's reign offered nought but pleasure, and during their lapse he appeared a gay, light-hearted, gallant monarch, fit to rule and win the hearts of a brave people; for nothing yet had arisen to call into action the mighty vices that lay latent in his nature. Gradually, however, luxury produced disease, and disease pain, and pain called up cruelty; while long prosperity and uncontradicted sway made him imperious, irascible, and almost frantic under opposition. But such was not the case now, and it was only the close observer of human nature that could at all perceive in the young and splendid monarch the traits that promised what he would afterwards become.

Discoursing on the unlucky termination of their sport, Henry proceeded with Sir Osborne into the park, and there awaited the coming of the servant with their cloaks; feeling a sort of foppish unwillingness to enter the palace in the state in which his fall had left him, his whole dress being stiff with mud, and both face and hands in anything but a comely condition. Many men might have taken advantage of Sir Osborne's situation to urge their suit; but notwithstanding the very great claim that the accident of the morning had given him upon Henry, the knight was hardly satisfied that it had occurred. He deemed that, in common decency, he should be obliged to delay the communication which he had proposed to make that very evening, and thereby allow Wolsey to arrive before the event was decided, which for every reason he had hoped to avoid. Were he to press his suit now, it would seem, he thought, surprising from the king's gratitude what his justice might have denied, and indelicately to solicit a high reward for an accidental service. His great hope, however, was that in the course of the evening the king might himself renew the subject, and, by offering some token of his thanks, afford him an opportunity of pleading for justice for his father and himself.

The discomfited falconers waited not long in the park before they were rejoined by the servant bearing the cloaks which the king had commanded; but although they soon reached the palace, the clammy wetness of his whole dress caused several slight shiverings to pass over the limbs of Henry, and after some persuasion by Sir Osborne he was induced to ask the counsel of his surgeon, who recommended him instantly to bathe, and then endeavour to sleep.

This was, of course, a signal for the young knight to withdraw; and taking leave of the king, he retired to his apartments to change his own dress, which was not in a much more comfortable state than that of the monarch. Our old friend Longpole soon answered to his call; and while aiding him in his arrangements, without any comment upon the state of his clothes, which he seemed to regard as nothing extraordinary, the honest custrel often paused to give a glance at his master's face, as one who has something to communicate, the nature of which may not be very palatable to the hearer.

"Well, Longpole," said the knight, after observing several of these looks, "when you have trussed these three points, you shall tell me what is the matter, for I see you have something on your mind."

"I only wished to ask your worship," said the custrel, "if you had seen him; for he's lurking about here, like a blackbird under a cherry-tree."

"Seen whom?" demanded the knight.

"Why, the devil, your worship," replied Longpole. "I've seen him twice."

"Indeed!" said Sir Osborne; "and pray what did his infernal highness say to you when you did see him? Or rather, what do you mean?"

"Why, I mean, sir," replied the other, "that I have seen Sir Payan Wileton twice here in the park during yesterday, if it was not his ghost; for he looked deadly pale, and I fancied I could smell a sort of brimstony smell. Now, I wot, a cunning priest would have told by the flavour whether 'twas purgatory half and half, or unadulterated hell: though, if he's not there, hell's empty."

"Hush!" said Sir Osborne; "speak not so lightly. When was this?"

"The first time I saw him, sir," answered the yeoman, "was yesterday in the forenoon, soon after the justs, when I took a stroll out into the park with Mistress Geraldine, the Lady Katrine's maid, for a little fresh air after the peck of dust I had broken my fast upon in the field. We had got, I don't know how, your worship, into that lonely part under the hill, when beneath one of the trees hard by I saw Sir Payan standing stock-still, with his hand in the bosom of his doublet. His colour was always little better than that of a turnip, but now it looked like a turnip boiled."

"Did he speak to you?" demanded Sir Osborne, "or give any sign that he recognised you?"

"He did not speak," replied Longpole; "but when he saw me, he quietly slipped his hand out of the bosom of his doublet, and getting it down to the hilt of his poniard, kept fingering it with a sort of affectionate squeeze, as much as to say, 'Dearly beloved, how I should like to pluck you out of your leathern case, and furnish you with one of flesh and blood!' He was ever fond of playing with his poniard; and when he spoke to you, if it were but of sousing a toast, he would draw it in and out of the scabbard all the time, as though he were afraid of losing the acquaintance if he did not keep up the intimacy."

"You neither spoke nor took any notice, I hope," said Sir Osborne.

"Oh, no, your worship!" answered the custrel; "I did not even give him bon jour, though he was fond of talking French to me when he wished to say something privately. I only twitched Mistress Geraldine over to the other side, and passed him by close; thinking to myself, 'If I see your dagger in the air, I'll go nigh to sweep your head off with my broadsword, if I have to run to France for it;' but seeing that I looked him in the face, he turned him round upon his heel, with a draw down of the corner of his mouth, which meant a great deal if it were rightly read.

"Why, first, it meant--I hate you sufficiently to pretend to despise you. Then--I'll murder you whenever I can do so safely; and again it went to say--Give my best love to your master, and tell him he'll hear more of me soon."

"By my faith! a good reading, and, I doubt not, a true one," replied the knight; "but we must try and render his malice of no avail. And now, tell me, when did you see him the second time?"

"The second time was after dinner, sir," said Longpole, "when his grace the king, yourself, and the Duke of Suffolk kept the barriers against all comers."

"He did not try the field, did he?" demanded Sir Osborne.

"Oh, no!" replied Longpole; "he stood looking on at a good distance, wrapped up in a cloak, so that it needed sharp eyes to recognise him; but I saw him all the time fix his eyes upon you, so like a cat before a mouse-hole, that I thought every minute to see him overspring the barrier and take you by the throat. Depend upon it that good and honest knight, like his german-cousin, Satan, never travels for any good, and we shall hear more of him."

"I doubt it not," answered Sir Osborne; "and we must guard against him. But now, Longpole, a word or two to you. Did you give the packet, as I directed you, to Mistress Geraldine, Lady Katrine's woman?"

"I did, your worship," answered Longpole, somewhat surprised at the serious air that came over his lord's countenance: "I gave it immediately I received it from your hands."

"That was right," replied Sir Osborne. "And now, let me say to you, my good Heartley, that I have remarked you often with this same girl Geraldine, and it seems to me that you are seeking her love."

"Oh! good now! your worship," cried Longpole; "if you prohibit me from making love, it's all over with me. Indeed, your worship, I could not do without it. It is meat, drink, and sleep to me; better than a stirrup-cup when I rise in the morning, or a sleeping cup when I go to bed at night. 'Faith I could not sleep without being in love. There, when I was with Sir Payan, where there was nothing to fall in love with but the portrait of his grandmother against the wall, I could not sleep o' nights at all, and was forced to take to deer-stealing, just for amusement. 'Odslife! your worship is hard on me. There, you have a bellyful of love, all day long, from the highest ladies of the court, and you would deny me as much as will lie in the palm of a serving-woman."

"Nay, nay, Longpole!" said Sir Osborne, laughing; "you have taken me up too hastily. All I meant to say was, merely, that seeing you are evidently seeking this poor girl's love, you must not play her false. I do not wish to imply that you would wrong her virtue: of that I am sure you are incapable; but I mean you must not win her love, and then leave her for another."

"Dear heart, no!" cried Longpole; "I would not for the world. Poor little soul! she has suffered enough; so I'm now consoling her, your worship. It's wonderful how soon a broken heart is patched up with a little of the same stuff that broke it. It is the very reverse of piecing a doublet; for in love you mend old love with new, and it's almost as good as ever. However, some day soon we intend to ask your worship's leave and the priest's blessing, and say all those odd little words that tie two folks together."

"My leave and good wishes you shall have, Longpole," replied the knight, "and all I can do to assist your purse. Hark! is not that the trumpet to dinner? Give me my bonnet; I will down and dine at the board of estate to-day, as I was not there yesterday."

On descending to the hall, Sir Osborne was instantly assailed by a thousand questions respecting the accident which had befallen the king; for, what between the diligent exertions of the attendants and those of the surgeon, the news had already spread through the whole court. In reply, the knight gave as brief and exact an account of the whole occurrence as possible, endeavouring to stop the lying tongue of Rumour by furnishing her with the truth at least. After dinner he returned to his own apartments, and only left them once for a momentary visit to Constance de Grey, remaining in hopes all the evening that the king might send for him when he arose. Such hopes, however, were in vain: day waned and night fell, and the knight's suit was no farther advanced than when Sir Cesar warned him to hasten it in the morning.

CHAPTER XXIII.

We must now for a while change our place of action, and endeavour to carry the mind of the reader from the sweeter and more tranquil scenes of Richmond Park, one of the most favoured residences of Henry the Eighth, to York Place, the magnificent dwelling of that pampered child of fortune, Cardinal Wolsey.

His progress, his power, and his fall; his arrogance, his splendour, and his vices; all the many changes that may be traced to his government of the realm, or to his artifices with the king, and of which to this day we feel the influence--changes which, though beneficial in their effects, like many of our most excellent institutions, originated in petty passions or egregious errors; in short, all his vast faults and his vast powers have so often called the eyes of the world to the proud prelate, that he seems hardly one of those remote beings which the cloud of past centuries has shadowed with misty indistinctness. His image, as well as his history, is familiar to the mind's eye. He lives, he moves before us, starting out from the picture of the times of old to claim acquaintance with our memory, as something more tangibly real than the vague, undefined forms that float upon the sea of history. Such skilful pens also have depicted him in every scene and situation, that it becomes almost unnecessary, and, perhaps, somewhat presumptuous, to say more concerning him than that which strictly interweaves itself with the web of this tale.

York Place, which, as every one knows, was afterwards called Whitehall, though it offered an appearance very different from the building at present known by that name, stood nearly on the same spot which it now occupies. Surrounded by splendid gardens, and ornamented with all that the arts of the day could produce of luxurious or elegant, so far from yielding in any degree to the various residences of the king, it surpassed them all in almost every respect. The combination, also, of ecclesiastical pomp with the magnificence of a lay prince, created in the courts and round the gates of the palace a continual scene of glitter and brilliancy. Whether it were deputations from abbeys and monasteries, the visits of other bishops, the attendance of noblemen and gentlemen come to pay their court, the halt of military leaders with their armed bands, prepared for service and waiting for command, still bustle, activity, and splendour were always to be met with in the open space before the building on every morning when the fineness of the weather permitted such display. There were to be seen passing to and fro the rich embroidered robes of the clergy, in all the hues of green and purple and of gold; the splendid liveries of the cardinal's own attendants, and of the followers of his visitors; the white dresses of the soldiery, traversed with the broad red cross of England; the arms of the leaders, and the many-coloured housings of the horses; while above the crowd was often displayed the high-wrought silver cross or the glittering crook of bishop or mitred abbot, borne amongst banners, and pennons, and fluttering plumes.

It was on a morning when the scene before the palace was full of more than usual life, owing to the arrival of the cardinal the night before from York (which was, be it remarked, one day earlier than he had been expected), that Sir Payan Wileton rode through the crowd to the grand entrance. He was followed by ten armed attendants, the foremost of whom were Cornishmen, of that egregious stature which acquired for their countrymen in the olden time the reputation of sprouting out into giants. These two Sir Payan had sent for expressly from his estates in Cornwall, not without a purpose; and now, having dressed them in splendid liveries, he gave orders for his train to halt at such a distance as to be plainly visible from the windows of the palace.

Dismounting from his horse at the door, he gave him to his page, and entering the hall passed through the crowd of attendants with which it was tenanted, and mounted the grand staircase with that sort of slow, determined step which is almost always to be found in persons whose reliance on their own powers of mind is founded in long experience and success.

The number of people whom he met running up and down the wide staircase, with various papers in their hands, announced at once the multitude of affairs which the cardinal was obliged to despatch after his long absence at York, and foreshowed some difficulty in obtaining an audience. Here was a sandalled monk, slowly descending from what seemed some disappointed suit; there, a light courtier hurrying forward in fear of being too late; now, the glad look of a satisfied applicant; now, the vexed mien of one whose expectations were delayed; while, ever between, the familiar servants of the place glided to and fro on their various errands, passing coldly amongst that crowd of throbbing bosoms as beings apart, whose feelings had no community with the hopes, the fears, the wishes, and all the thronged emotions which were then excited or destroyed.

Following one of these into the waiting-hall at the top of the staircase, Sir Payan found it crowded almost to suffocation with persons staying for an audience, either from Wolsey himself or from one of his secretaries. Above their heads appeared a misty atmosphere of condensed human breath, and all around was heard the busy buzz of many voices murmuring in eager but whispered consultation.

The hall was a large chamber, cutting directly through the centre of the house, with a high Gothic window at each end, to the right and left of which, at both extremities, appeared a door. The one opposite to that by which Sir Payan entered stood open, though a small wooden bar prevented the entrance of the crowd into the room beyond, which was occupied by six or seven ordinary clerks, busily employed in filling up various papers, and speaking from time to time to the persons who presented themselves on business. At each of the doors, at the other end of the room, stood an usher with his rod and a marshal with his staff, opposing the ingress of any but such as the highest rank or personal interest entitled to enter beyond the porch of the temple; for there the right-hand path led to the privy chambers of Wolsey himself, and the left to the offices of his principal secretaries. It was round this left-hand door that the crowd took its densest aspect; for many, who were hopeless of obtaining a hearing from the cardinal himself, fondly flattered themselves that their plaint or petition might reach his ear through his secretary, if, either by bribe or flattery, they could secure the interest of the secondary great man.

Winding in and out through the meandering path left by the various groups in the hall, Sir Payan approached the door which led to the cardinal's apartments, and demanded admission. There was something in his tone which implied right, and the usher said, if he would give his name he would inquire, though an applicant who had remained long unlistened to audibly murmured his indignation, and claimed to be admitted first.

Sir Payan turned to look at him while the usher was gone, and at once encountered the eyes of a near neighbour of his own, who, under his fostering care, had dwindled from a rich landholder to a poor farmer, and thence had sunk to beggary, while his possessions, one by one, had merged into the property of Sir Payan, which, like the Norwegian whirlpool, seemed to absorb everything that came within its vortex. No sooner did the old man's eyes fall upon his countenance, and behold who it was that kept him from the light, than, giving way to his rage, he clasped his hands, and, stamping upon the ground, cursed him before all the multitude, with the energy of despair.

Sir Payan cast upon him a cold look, mingled of pity and contempt, and passed through the door, which the usher now held open for his entrance. The room at which he arrived was a large ante-room, occupied by various groups of lords and gentlemen attached to the household of the cardinal, who, prouder than royalty ever needs to be, would at least be equal with the king himself in the rank of his various officers. These were scattered about in various parts of the room talking with the select visitors whom the ushers had permitted to enter, or staring vacantly at the figures on the rich tapestry by which they were surrounded, wherein, though scrutinised a thousand times, they still found sufficient to occupy their idle eyes, while waiting till the minister should go forth. With almost every one he saw Sir Payan was in some degree acquainted; but in their bow or gratulation, as he passed, there was none of the frank, cordial welcome of regard or esteem: it was simply the acknowledgment of a rich, powerful man, whose only title to reverence was in his influence and his wealth.

About the centre stood Lord Darby, and to him Sir Payan approached with a "Good morrow, my good lord!"

"Sir!" said the earl, looking him steadfastly in the face for a moment; then, turning on his heel, he walked to the other end of the room. Nothing abashed, Sir Payan kept his ground, tracing the young lord with his eyes, in which no very amicable expression was visible; and then, after a moment, he approached a small table, near the door of the minister's cabinet, whereat was seated a clerk, whom, as it so happened, Sir Payan himself had recommended to the cardinal.

"Can his grace be spoken with, Master Taylor?" demanded the knight, as the clerk bowed low at his approach.

"He is busied, honoured sir," replied the man, with a second profound reverence, "in conversation with the prior of his abbey of St. Albans on matters of deep importance----" A loud laugh from the chamber within reached Sir Payan's ear, through the door by which he stood; but he took no notice of this comment on the important business which Wolsey was transacting, and the clerk went on. "I am sorry to say, sir, also, that there are five or six persons of distinction who have waited on his grace's leisure for near an hour."

"But the cardinal sent for me," said Sir Payan; "and besides----" And he whispered something to his former servant which seemed convincing. In a minute or two after, the door opened, and the prior of St. Albans issued forth. Rustling up to the table in his rich silk robes, he said to the clerk, in a low and important voice, "His grace commands you to send in the person of the highest rank that came next."

"Well, holy father," said the clerk rising; and then, appearing to search the room with his eyes, he waited till the prior was gone, when, turning to Sir Payan, he added in a loud voice, "Sir Payan Wileton, the lord cardinal is waiting for you."

The knight instantly proceeded to the door, which was opened by one of the ushers who stood near; and passing on, he found himself directly in the presence of the cardinal, who, seated in a chair of state, waited the next comer, with a countenance prepared to yield a good or bad reception, according to his rank and purpose.

He was, at that time, not apparently much above fifty-five; tall, erect, and dignified; with a face replete with thought and mind, and a carriage at once haughty and graceful. His dark eye was piercing and full of fire; and lurking about the corners of his mouth might be seen the lines of unbounded pride, striven against and repressed, but still existing with undiminished force. The robes of bright scarlet satin, which he wore without any other relief than a tippet of rich sables, made his cheek look almost ashy pale; and the shade of the broad hat which covered his brow gave an air of pensive solemnity to his features, which, joined with the fire of his eye, the pride of his lip, and the knowledge of his power, invested his presence with an impressiveness not devoid of awe.

As Sir Payan entered, Wolsey's brow gradually contracted into a frown; and fixing his glance full upon him, he let him stand for several moments before he motioned him to a seat. At length, however, he spoke.

"Sir Payan Wileton," said he, "I have sent for you to speak on many subjects that may not be very agreeable for you to discuss. However, as they concern the welfare of society and the fame of the king's justice, they must be inquired into; nor must any man's rank or wealth shelter him from the even eye of equity."

"Your grace hardly does me justice," replied Sir Payan, resolving to keep to vague professions till he had ascertained, as far as possible, what was passing in Wolsey's mind. "Had I been unwilling to discuss any part of my conduct with your grace, should I have importuned your gates every day for the last week in hopes of your return? and if, on the most minute investigation, I found any of my acts which would not meet the eye of equity itself, should I voluntarily present myself before the Cardinal of York?"

"You were sent for, Sir Payan," replied Wolsey. "Last night the messenger set out."

"By your grace's pardon," said the knight, "if you but calculate, you will find that I could not have come from a far part of Kent in so short a space of time. It is true that I have received the packet, but that was only by sending last night to know if you had then returned. My servant met your messenger at the very door, and received the letter intended to be sent to Chilham. But every day, as I have told your grace, since I have risen from a bed of sickness, where a cross accident had thrown me, I have not ceased to seek your presence on business of some import."

Wolsey, long accustomed to encounter every species of wily art, was not to be led away by the exhibition of a new subject; and pursuing his first object, he proceeded:--

"We will speak of that anon. At present, it is my task to inform you, sir, that various are the complaints, petitions, and accusations against you, that daily reach my hand. And many prayers have been addressed to his royal grace the king, by the very best and noblest of the land, to induce him to re-establish the house of Fitzbernard in the lordship and estates of Chilham Castle. All these things have led me to inquire--as indeed is but my duty as chancellor of this kingdom--into the justice of your title to these estates, when I find that the case stands thus: the Earl of Fitzbernard, in the last year of his late majesty's reign, was accused by those two infamous commissioners, Empson and Dudley, and was, upon the premises, condemned to the enormous fine of one hundred thousand pounds, under the penal statutes; and, as a still further punishment for some words lightly spoken, the king, then upon his death-bed, recalled the stewardship of Dover Castle, which involved, as was supposed, the forfeiture of Chilham Castle and its lands. Was it not so?"

"It was so far, your grace," replied Sir Payan; "but allow me to observe----"

"Hush!" said the cardinal, waving his hand; "hear me, and then your observations, if you please. Such being the case, as I have said, and the wide barony of Chilham supposed to be vacant, the stewardship of Dover Castle, with those estates annexed, is bestowed upon you: how, or why, is not very apparent, though the cause alleged is service rendered in the time of Perkyn Warbeck. Now it appears, from some documents placed in the hands of Lord Dacre, of the north, by the Duke of Buckingham, that Chilham Castle was granted to Fulbert de Douvre, at a period much subsequent to the grant of the stewardship of Dover; that it was totally distinct, and held by tenure of chivalry, in fee and unalienable, except under attainder or by breach of tenure. What say you now, Sir Payan?"

"Why, simply this, your grace," replied Sir Payan, boldly: "that the good Duke of Buckingham--the noble Duke of Buckingham, as the commons call him--seems to be nearly as much my good friend as he is to the king, his royal master, or to your grace;" and, knitting his brow and clenching his teeth, he fixed his eyes upon the rose in his shoe, remaining sternly silent, to let what he had said, and what he had implied, work fully on the mind of the cardinal.

Wolsey's hatred to the princely Buckingham was well known, and Sir Payan easily understood that hatred to be the most maddening kind, called jealousy; so that not a word he had said but was meted to the taste and appetite of the cardinal with a skilful hand. The minister's cheek flushed while the knight spoke; and when, after implying by tone, and look, and manner, that he could say more, Sir Payan suddenly stopped, and bent his eyes upon the ground, Wolsey had nearly burst forth in that impatient strain of question which would have betrayed the deep anxiety he felt to snatch at any accusation against his noble rival. Checking himself, however, the politic churchman paused, and seemed to wait for some further reply, till, finding that Sir Payan still maintained his silent attitude of thought, he said--

"Have you any reason, sir, to suppose that the duke is ill-disposed towards his grace the king? Of myself I speak not. His envy touches me not personally; but where danger shows itself towards our royal master, it becomes a duty to inquire. Your insinuations, Sir Payan, were strong: you should be strongly able to support them."

"I know not, your grace," replied the knight, with the unhesitating daring that characterised all his actions, "how far a man's loyalty should properly extend; but this I know, that I am not the tame and quiet dog that fawns upon the hand that snatches its mess from before its muzzle. What I know, I know; what I suspect remains to be proved; but neither knowledge, nor suspicion, nor the clue to guide judgment through the labyrinth of wicked plotting, will I furnish to any one, with the prospect before my eyes of being deprived, for no earthly fault, of my rightful property, granted to me by the free will of our noble king Henry the Seventh."

An ominous frown gathered upon Wolsey's brow, and fain would he have possessed the thunder to strike dead the bold man who dared thus to withhold the information that he sought, and oppose him with conditions in the plenitude of his power.

"You are gifted with a strange hardihood, sir," cried he, in a voice, the slight trembling of whose tone told the boiling of the soul within. "Did you ever hear of misprision of treason--say?"

"I have, your grace," replied Sir Payan, whose bold and determined spirit was not made to quail even before that of Wolsey. Acting, however, coolly and shrewdly, he was moved by no heat as was the cardinal; and though calculating exactly the strength of his position, he knew that it was far from his interest to create an enemy in the powerful minister, who, sooner or later, would find means to avenge himself. At the same time, he saw that he must make his undisturbed possession of Chilham Castle the price of any information he could give, or that he might both yield his secret and lose his land. "I have heard, your grace," he said, "of misprision of treason, but I know not how such a thing can affect me. First, treason must be proved; then it must be shown that it was concealed with full knowledge thereof. Doubts and suspicions, your grace knows, are not within the meaning of the law."

Sir Payan paused, and Wolsey remained in silence, as if almost disdaining to reply. The knight clearly saw what was passing in his mind, and continued, after an affectation of thought, to give the appearance of a sudden return of affectionate submission to what he was about to say.

"But why, your grace, why," cried he, "cast away from you one of your most faithful servants? Why must it be, when I have waited at your door day after day, to give you some information, much for the state's and for your grace's benefit to know, that the very first time I am admitted to your presence, I find my zeal checked and my affection cooled by an express intention to deprive me of my estates?"

"Nay, Sir Payan," said Wolsey, glad of an opportunity of yielding, without compromising either pride or dignity, "no such intention was expressed. You have mistaken entirely: I only urged these reasons, that you might know what had been urged to me; and I was about to put it to you what I could do if the young Lord Darnley came over to this country and claimed these estates; for, probably, the old earl will not have energy enough to make the endeavour. What could I do, I say?"

"Let him proceed by due course of law, my lord," replied Sir Payan, the calculation in whose mind was somewhat to the following effect, though passing more rapidly than it could when embodied in words:--"Before his claim is made in law (thought he) he shall taste of the axe of the Tower, or I am mistaken. However, I will not let Wolsey know who he is, for then my interest in the business would be apparent, and I could claim no high recompense for ridding myself of my own enemy. No; I will crush him as Osborne Maurice, a perfect stranger to me: then will my zeal seem great. Pride will prevent him from owning his name till the death; and if he does own it, his coming here concealed, joined to the crimes that I will find means to prove against him, shall but make him appear the blacker." Such was the train of thought that passed instantly through his mind; while, with an affectation of candour, he replied, "Let him proceed by due course of law, my lord; then, if he succeed, let him have it, in God's name. All I ask is, that your grace will not moot the question; for one word of the great Wolsey throws more weight into one or other of the scales of justice than all the favour of a dozen kings."

Wolsey was flattered, but not deceived. However, it was his part not to see, at least for the time; and though he very well understood that Sir Payan would take special means to prevent the young lord from seeking justice by law, he replied, "All that I could ever contemplate, Sir Payan, was to do equal right to any one that should bring his cause before me. It is not for me to seek out occasions for men to plunge themselves in law; and be you very sure, that unless the matter be brought before me in the most regular manner, I shall never agitate the question, which is one that, even should it be discussed, would involve many, many difficulties. From what I say now you may see, sir, that your haste has hurried you into unnecessary disrespect, which, heaven knows, I feel not as regards my person, but as it touches my office I am bound to reprove you."

"Most deeply do I deplore it," replied Sir Payan, "if I have been guilty of any disrespect to one whom I reverence more than any other on the earth; but I think that the information which I have to communicate will at least be some atonement. I have then, my lord," he proceeded, lowering his voice--"I have then discovered, by a most singular and happy chance, as dangerous a conspiracy as ever stained the annals of any European kingdom; and I hold in my hand the most irrefragable proofs thereof, together with the names of the principal persons, the testimony of several witnesses which bears upon the subject, and various letters which are in themselves conviction. I will now, with your grace's leave----"

At that moment one of the ushers opened the door of the cabinet, and with a profound reverence informed Wolsey that the Earl of Knolles desired to know when he could have an audience, as he had been waiting long without.

"Ha! What!" exclaimed the cardinal, his eye flashing, and his lip quivering with anger at the interruption; "am I to be disturbed each moment? Tell him I cannot see him; I am busy; I am engaged; occupied on more important things. Were he a prince I would not see him. And you, beware how you intrude again! Now, Sir Payan, speak on. This is matter of moment indeed. What was the object of this conspiracy?"

"Nothing less, I can conceive, my lord, than to make the commons dissatisfied with the government under which they live; to incite them to various insurrections, and, if possible, into general rebellion, under favour of which my Lord Duke of Buckingham might find his way to the throne: at least, there are fixed his eyes."

"Ha, ha! my proud Lord of Buckingham!" cried Wolsey, with a triumphant smile. "What! hast thou wired thine own feet? But you say you have proofs, Sir Payan. We must have full proof; but you are not a man to tread on unsteady ground: your proofs are sure?" he reiterated, with a feverish sort of anxiety to ascertain that his rival was fully in his power.

"In the first place, read that, my lord," said Sir Payan, putting in his hand one out of a bundle of papers that he had brought with him. "That is the first step."

"Why, what is this?" cried Wolsey. "This is but 'the deposition of Henry Wilson, of Pencriton, in the duchy of Cornwall, who maketh oath and saith, that the prisoner Osborne Maurice, alias Sir Osborne Maurice, is the man whom he saw at the head of the Cornish miners in insurrection, on the 3rd of January last, and who incited them, by cries and words, to burn and destroy all that came in their way, till they should have satisfaction in everything that they required; but for the further acts of the said Osborne Maurice, he, the deponent, begs leave to refer to his former depositions, taken before Sir John Balham, knight, of the city of Penzance, in Cornwall; only upon oath he declareth, that the said Osborne Maurice, now present, is the ringleader or conductor of the mob mentioned in his former deposition, in witness whereof----' Ha!" said Wolsey, thoughtfully; "there is one, I find, of this same name, Sir Osborne Maurice, who, during my absence, has crept into the king's favour. Surely it may be the same!"

"On my life, my lord, the very same!" replied Sir Payan. "'Twas but the morning before last, that, at the justs at Richmond, I saw him with our noble king, his chosen companion, with the Duke of Suffolk, to keep the barriers against all comers; and there he ruffled it amongst the best, swimming, as 'twere, on the top of the wave."

"Then will we lay this on his head," said Wolsey, placing his forefinger emphatically on the paper, "and that shall sink him. But how does this touch the Duke of Buckingham?"

"Your grace shall hear," replied Sir Payan. "This Wilson, who made the deposition you there hold, came to me one day in the last of March--you must know he is my bailiff--and told me a sad story of his woeful plight; how in a cottage hard by he had met the man whom he had seen burn down his father's house in Cornwall, and who was there employed in the same devilish attempt to instigate the peasants to revolt. Wilson, it seems, accused him; whereon, being a most powerful and atrocious traitor, he struck the bailiff to the ground, and left him for dead. This being sworn on oath before me, as a magistrate, I sent forth and had the villain arrested, after a most desperate struggle. With the intention of sending him to Cornwall, I had him committed to the strong room of the manor; but somehow, during the night, he contrived to escape through a window, and made his way to the court----"

"But still, Sir Payan," interrupted the cardinal, "this does not implicate the Duke of Buckingham, who, as I have good reason to believe, is but a scant lover of our royal king, and towards myself bears most inveterate malice. I have heard many a rumour of his plots and schemes. But it is proof, Sir Payan; it is proof that we must have."

"And proof your grace shall have," replied the knight, counting the hatred that Wolsey bore towards the duke as his own gain, and enjoying the inveteracy of his malice not only with the abstract satisfaction of fellow-feeling, but as a fisherman delights to see the voracious spring of the trout at the fly he casts before his snout. "Let your grace listen to me; for my story, though somewhat long, is nevertheless conclusive. This Osborne Maurice, in his escape, left behind him the leathern horsebags with which he rode when he was taken, and, in my capacity as magistrate, I made free to open them----"

"You did right, you did right!" cried Wolsey, almost forgetting his dignity in eagerness. "What did you find? Say, Sir Payan! What did you find?"

"I found several letters from his grace the Duke of Buckingham," answered Sir Payan, "being principally written to bring this Sir Osborne Maurice to the knowledge of persons about the court, recommending him as one that may be trusted. Your grace will mark those words, 'may be trusted.' But amongst the rest was one which shows for what he may be trusted. Behold it here, my lord! You know the duke's hand and style;" and he presented the letter to Wolsey.

The cardinal snatched it eagerly; but remembering himself, he turned more composedly to the address, and read, "'Sir John Morton.' Ah!" cried he. "So! an old Perkyn Warbeckist! the last I believe alive. But for the contents: 'Trusty and well-beloved friend! '--um--um--um--'everlasting friendship!--of course, one traitor loves another. But let us see. How! the daring villain! 'to inform you, that before another year arrive, my head shall be the highest in the realm, at least so promises Sir Osborne Maurice, whose promises, as you know, are not such as fail!' Ha, Sir Payan! ha! Did you read it? This is treason, is it not? By my life, the duke's own hand! But what says he farther? Ha! 'The butcher's cur Wolsey has long wanted the lash, and he shall have it soon.' See you how rank is his malice! We will read no farther. This condemns him; and as for Sir Osborne Maurice, to-night he shall have his lodging in the Tower."

"Though other proof might be deemed superfluous," said Sir Payan, "yet, my lord, when I came to the part where he calls your grace a butcher's cur" (and the knight dwelt somewhat maliciously on the words), "my zeal and affection for your grace's service made me instantly resolve to track this Osborne Maurice on his journey, after escaping from prison. In person I could not do it, for a fall from my horse laid me in my bed for three weeks. But I took care that it should be done, and found that he returned straight to my Lord of Buckingham's; from thence he went to the Benedictine Abbey at Canterbury, where he seems to have been sent to escort a Lady Katrine Bulmer to the court. Then, passing by Rochester, he had an interview with the chief of the rioters at Hilham Green. Your grace will be at no loss to know how, and by whom, that memorable tumult was instigated. There he pretended to save a good simple priest from the mob; but, by the clergyman's own account, they gave him up at a single word from this Maurice, which shows what was his influence with them; for they were, the moment before, about to hang the man they yielded so quietly after. The priest is at my lodging here. This was the traitor's last adventure before arriving at the court, where, either by some sorcery or other damned invention, he has bewitched the better judgment of the king, so that none is so well loved as he. Perhaps he waits but an opportunity to put his dagger in our royal master."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Wolsey. "We will instantly set off for Richmond. Without there! Let the barge be prepared directly: Sir Payan, you have saved the realm, and may claim a high reward."

"The reward I most affect," replied the knight, in a well-acted tone of moderation, "is simply to remain in quiet possession of that which I have. Life is now wearing with me, your grace, and I covet not greater charges than those which I enjoy. Let me but be sure of them."

"Rest tranquil on that point," replied Wolsey. "I will look thereto."

"There are, indeed," continued Sir Payan, "some hereditary estates, which, though they should be mine, are held by another; and on that score I may claim your grace's assistance before I endeavour to recover them; for I put my whole actions in your grace's hands, that, like a mere machine, I may move but as you please."

"What estates are these, Sir Payan?" demanded Wolsey, with something very nearly approaching to a smile, at the peculiar line of the knight's cupidity. "If they be truly yours, doubt not but you shall have them."

"They are those estates in Cornwall," replied the knight, "lately held by my cousin, the Earl de Grey, which have since passed to Constance, his daughter; though, by all custom of succession, according to their tenure, I hold them to pass directly in the male line."

"Nay, nay, Sir Payan," cried Wolsey, with a curl of his lip; "this is too much! Constance de Grey is my ward, and shall not lose her estates lightly. She is, indeed," added he, thoughtfully, and speaking to himself more than to the knight, though not a word was lost to his attentive ears; "she is, indeed, somewhat wilful. That letter, in which she refuses to wed her cousin, though calm and humble, was full of rank obstinacy. The fear of losing her estates, however----. But we shall see. Sir Payan, I must hold my opinion suspended till such time as you lay before me some proofs of the matter. And now tell me: think you, in this plot of Buckingham's, is there any other person of high rank implicated? Indeed there must be, for he would never undertake such daring schemes without some sure abettors. Sir Payan, these lords are all too proud. We must find means to humble them. It may be as well to let this arch-traitor Buckingham proceed for some short time, till we find who are his accomplices. But, for this Sir Osborne Maurice, he shall to the Tower to-night, for therein is the king's life affected."

"Might it not be better, in your grace's good judgment," said Sir Payan, "to take the duke's person at once? For assuredly, as soon as he hears that his minion is committed, he will become alarmed, and find security in some foreign land."

"He shall be so well watched," said Wolsey, closing his hand tightly, as if he grasped his enemy, "that were he no larger than a meagre ermine, he should not escape me. No; we must let him condemn himself full surely. But, Sir Payan, are you prepared to accompany me to Richmond?"

"If by any chance this Maurice were to see me with your grace," replied Sir Payan, "he would lose no time, but fly instantly, before you had speech of his grace the king. If you think it necessary, my lord, that I should attend you, it may be well to arrest the traitor immediately on your arrival."

"Nay, nay, nay!" said Wolsey, shaking his head. "You know not Henry, Sir Payan; he is hard and difficult to rule, and, were I to arrest Sir Osborne, would take for insult what was meant as a service. But you shall not go: there is, indeed, no need. These papers are quite enough, with the testimony of the priest. Let him be sent down post-haste to Richmond after me."

"He shall, my lord," replied Sir Payan. "But one word more, your grace. If the Duke of Buckingham be condemned, his estates, of course, are forfeited to the crown. Near me lies his beautiful manor of the Hill, in Kent, and I know your grace will not forget your faithful servants." Wolsey paused, and Sir Payan went on. "To show how constantly present your grace is to all my thoughts, you told me some time ago that you desired to have two of the tallest men in the realm for porters of the gate. Cast your eyes through that window, my lord, and I think you will see two that no prince in Europe can match in his hall."

No service that Sir Payan could have rendered, either to the state or to himself, would have given half so much pleasure to Wolsey as the possession of the two gigantic Cornishmen we have before mentioned; for, amongst all his weaknesses, his passion for having tall men about him was one of the most conspicuous. As soon as for a moment or two he had considered them attentively through the window, and compared them with all the pigmy-looking race around, he thanked Sir Payan with infinite graciousness for his care; and hinted, though he did not promise, that Buckingham's manor in Kent might be the reward. While he yet spoke, a gentleman-usher entered, to announce that the barge was ready; and, giving some more directions to Sir Payan, in regard to sending the priest, Wolsey rose to proceed on his journey. The procession, without which he never moved, was already arranged in the ante-chamber, consisting of marshals and gentlemen-ushers, with two stout priests bearing the immense silver crosses of his archbishopric and his legacy; and the moment he moved towards the door, the ushers pressed forward, crying, "On before, my lords and masters! on before! Make way for the lord cardinal! Make way for my lord's grace! On before! on before!"

Wolsey immediately followed, and proceeded to his barge; while Sir Payan returned to his own house in Westminster, and despatched the priest to Richmond, after which he sat himself down to write. What he did write consisted of but a few lines, but they were of some import; and as soon as they were finished, he entrusted them to one of his shrewdest and most assured servants, with many a long direction, and many an injunction to speed.