CHAPTER XXIV.

If any one will look at the almanac for the year 1520, he will find marked, opposite the 4th day of May, the following curious piece of information: "High-water at London Bridge at half-past three;" and, if he calculate rightly, he will discover that as Wolsey set out from what was then called the Cardinal's Bridge^[15] at high noon, he had the most favourable tide in the world for carrying him to Richmond. His rowers, too, plied their oars with unceasing activity; and his splendid barge, with its carved and gilded sides, cut rapidly through the water, but still not rapidly enough for his impatience.

Siting under an awning, with a table before him, at which was placed a clerk, he sometimes read parts of the various papers that had been presented during the morning, and sometimes dictated to the secretary; but more frequently gave himself up to thought, suffering his mind to range in the wild chaos of political intrigue, which was to him like the labyrinth a man makes in his own garden, in which a stranger might lose his way, but where he himself walks for his ease and pleasure. Not that Wolsey's mind was one that soared above the pains of political life; for his were all the throbbing anxieties of precarious power, his was all the irritation of susceptible pride and insatiable vanity; while jealous envy, avarice, and ambition, at once made the world a desert, and tormented him with unquenchable thirst.

No surer road to Wolsey's hatred existed than the king's favour; and since his return to London, though but one evening had passed, yet often had his heart rankled at hearing from those who watched for him in his absence, that a young stranger, named Sir Osborne Maurice, had won the king's regard and become the sharer of all his pleasures. The information given him by Sir Payan Wileton had placed in his hand arms against this incipient rival, as he deemed him, which were sure to crush him; and, with a sort of pride in the conquest he anticipated, he muttered to himself, as he saw the narrowing banks of the river, approaching towards Richmond, "Now, Sir Osborne Maurice! now!"

The boat touched the shore; and while the chief yeoman of the barge, as his privilege, supported the arm of the cardinal, the two stout priests bearing the crosses hurried to land with the other attendants, and ranged themselves in order to proceed before him. Two of his running footmen sped on to announce his approach, and the rest, with the form and slowness of a procession, traversed the small space that separated them from the court, reached the gate, and entering the palace, Wolsey, more like an equal prince than a subject, passed towards the king's privy-chamber, amidst the profound bows and reverences of all the royal attendants, collected to do honour to his arrival.

Many had been the rumours in the palace during the morning respecting the king's health, and it was generally reported that the accident of the day before had thrown him into a fever. This, however, was evidently not the case; for a little before noon Sir Osborne Maurice had received a message by one of the royal pages, to the effect that at three o'clock the king would expect him in his privy-chamber. That hour had nearly approached, and the young knight was preparing to obey Henry's commands, when a note was put into his hands by Mistress Margaret, the waiting-woman of Lady Constance de Grey. It was a step which Sir Osborne well knew she would not have taken had it not been called for by some particular circumstance, and with some alarm he opened the paper and read--

The lord cardinal is here: remember your promise. Tarry not rashly, if you love Constance.

As Wolsey had ever been a declared enemy to his father, and a steady supporter of Sir Payan Wileton, Sir Osborne felt that the prospect was certainly in some degree clouded by his arrival; and while at the court, he had heard enough of the jealousy that the favourite entertained towards all who often approached the king, to make him uneasy with regard to the future. But yet he could not imagine that the regard of Henry would be easily taken from him, nor the service he he had rendered immediately forgotten; and strong in the integrity of his own heart, he would not believe that any serious evil could befall him; yet the warning of Sir Cesar still rung in his ears, and made an impression which he could not overcome.

It would be very easy to represent our hero as free from every failing and weakness, even from those of the age he lived in; easy to make him as perfect as ever man was drawn, and more perfect than ever man was known: but then we should be writing a romance, and not a true history. Sir Osborne was not perfect; and living in an age whose weakness it was to believe implicitly in judicial astrology, he shared in that weakness, though but in a degree; and might, indeed, have shared still less, had not the very man who seemed to take such an interest in his fate acquired in the court where he lived a general reputation for almost unerring perception of approaching events. No one that the young knight met, no one that he heard of, doubted for a moment that Sir Cesar possessed knowledge superhuman: to have doubted of the possibility of acquiring such knowledge, would have been in those times a piece of scepticism fully equal in criminality to doubting the sacred truths of religion; and therefore we cannot be surprised that he felt a hesitation, an uneasiness, a sort of presentiment of evil, as he approached the privy chamber of the king.

At the door of the ante-chamber, however, he found stationed a page, who respectfully informed him that the king was busy on affairs of state with the cardinal lord chancellor, and that his grace had bade him say, that as soon as he was at leisure he would send for him to his presence.

Sir Osborne returned to his own apartment, and after calling for Longpole, walked up and down the room for a moment or two, while some curious, vague feelings of doubt and apprehension passed through his mind.

"'Tis very foolish!" said he, at length; "and yet 'tis no harm to be prepared. Longpole, saddle the horses, and have my armour ready. 'Tis no harm to be prepared;" and quitting his own chambers, he turned his steps towards those of Lady Constance, which here, not like the former ones in the palace at Greenwich, were situated at the other extremity of the building. His path led him again past the royal lodgings; and as he went by, Sir Osborne perceived that the page gave entrance to a priest, whose figure was in some degree familiar to his eye. Where he had seen him he did not know; but, however, he staid not to inquire, and proceeded onward to the door of Lady Constance's apartments. One of her women gave him entrance, and he soon reached her sitting-chamber, where he found her calmly engaged in embroidery. But there, also, was good Dr. Wilbraham, who of late had shrewdly begun to suspect a thing that was already more than suspected by half the court; namely, that Sir Osborne Maurice was deeply in love with Constance de Grey, and that the lady was in no degree insensible to his affection. Now, though the good doctor had thought in the first instance that Lady Constance's marriage with Lord Darby would be the very best scheme on earth, he now began to think that the present arrangement would be a great deal better: his reasoning proceeding in the very inverse of Wolsey's, and leading him to conclude that as Lord Darby had quite enough of his own, it would be much better for Lady Constance to repair, with her immense wealth, the broken fortunes of the ancient house of Fitzbernard, and at the same time secure her own happiness by marrying the best and the bravest of men. Notwithstanding all this, he could not at all comprehend, and never for a moment imagined, that either Constance or her lover might in the least wish his absence; and therefore, with great satisfaction at beholding their mutual love, he remained all the time that Sir Osborne dared to stay, and conducted him to the door with that affectionate respect which he always showed towards his former pupil. While the old clergyman stood bidding Sir Osborne farewell, a man habited like a yeoman approached, inquiring for the lodging of Lady Constance de Grey; and on being told that it was before him, he put a folded note into the hands of Dr. Wilbraham, begging him to deliver it to the lady, which the chaplain promised to do.

And now, leaving the good clergyman to perform this promise, and Sir Osborne to return to his apartment, somewhat mortified at not having had an opportunity of conversing privately with Constance, even for a moment, we will steal quietly into the privy-chamber of the king, and seating ourselves on a little stool in the corner, observe all that passes between him and his minister.

"God save your royal grace!" said Wolsey, as he entered, "and make your people happy in your long and prosperous reign!"

"Welcome back again, my good lord cardinal," replied the king; "you have been but a truant of late. We have in many things wanted your good counsel. But your careful letters have been received, and we have to thank you for the renewed quiet of the West Riding."

"Happily, your grace, all is now tranquil," replied the cardinal, "and the kingdom within itself blessed with profound peace; but yet, my lord, even when this was accomplished, it was necessary to discover the cause and authors of the evil, that the fire of discord and sedition might be totally extinguished, and not, being only smothered, burst out anew where we least expected it. This has been done, my liege. The authors of all these revolts, the instigators of their fellow-subjects' treason, have been discovered; and if your grace have leisure for such sad business, I will even now crave leave to lay before you the particulars of a most daring plot, which, through the activity of good Sir Payan Wileton, I have been enabled to detect."

"Without there!" cried the king, somewhat impatiently. "See that we are not interrupted. Tell Sir Osborne Maurice that we will send for him when we are free. Sit, sit, my Wolsey!" he continued. "Now, by the holy faith, it grieves me to hear such things! I had hoped that, tranquillity being restored, I should have sped over to France to meet my royal brother Francis, with nothing but joy upon my brow. However, you are thanked, my good lord, for your zeal and for your diligence. We must not let the poisonous root of treason spread, lest it grow too great a tree to be hewn down. Who are these traitors? Ha! Have you good proof against them?"

"Such proof, my liege, that, however willing I be to doubt, uncertainty, the refuge of hope, is denied me, and I must needs believe. When we have nourished anything with our grace, fostered it with kindly care, taught it to spread and become great, heaped it with favours, loaded it with bounty, we naturally hope that, having sowed all these good things, our crop will be rich in gratitude and love; but sorry I am to say, that your grace's royal generosity has fallen upon a poisoned soil, and that Edward Duke of Buckingham, who might well believe himself the most favoured man in the realm, now proves himself an arrant traitor."

"By heaven!" cried the king, "I have lately much doubted of his loyalty. He has, as you once before made me observe, much absented himself from the court, keeping, as I hear, an almost royal state in the counties; and lately, on the pretence that he is sick, that his physicians command him quiet, he refuses to accompany us to Guisnes. I fear me, I fear me, 'tis his loyalty is sick. But let me hear your reasons, my good lord cardinal. Fain would I still behold him with an eye of favour; for he is in many things a noble and a princely peer, and by nature richly endowed with all the shining qualities both of the body and the mind. 'Tis sad, indeed 'tis sad, that such a man should fall away and lose his high renown! But your reasons, Wolsey! Give me the history."

It were needless in this place to recapitulate all that we have seen, in the last chapter, advanced by Sir Payan Wileton to criminate the Duke of Buckingham. Suffice it that Wolsey related to the king the very probable tale that had been told him by the knight: namely, that Buckingham, aspiring to the throne, affected an undue degree of popularity with the commons, and by his secret agents rendered them dissatisfied with the existing government, exciting them to various tumults and revolts, of which he cited many an instance; and that, still further, he had contrived to introduce one of the most active agents of his treason into the court, and near to the king's own person.

"Whom do you aim at?" cried the king. "Quick! give me his name. I know of no such person. All about me are men of trust."

"Alas! no, my liege," answered Wolsey: "the man I mean calls himself Sir Osborne Maurice."

"Ha!" cried Henry, starting; and then, after thinking for a moment, he burst into a fit of laughter. "Nay, nay, my good Wolsey," he said, shaking his head: "nay, nay, nay; Sir Osborne saved my life no longer ago than yesterday, which looks not like treason;" and he related to the cardinal the accident that had befallen him while hawking.

Wolsey was somewhat embarrassed; but he replied, "We often see that, taken by some sudden accident, men act not as they proposed to do; and there is such a nobility in your grace's nature, that he must be a hardened traitor indeed who could see you in danger, and not by mere impulse hasten to save you. Perhaps such may have been the case with this Sir Osborne, or perhaps his master's schemes may not yet be ripe for execution: at all events, my liege, doubt not that he is a most assured traitor."

"I cannot believe it!" cried Henry, striking the table with his hand. "I will not believe it! By heaven! the very soul of honour sparkles in his eye! But your proofs, lord cardinal! your proofs! I will not have such things advanced against my faithful subjects, without full and sufficient evidence."

The more eagerness that Henry showed in defending his young friend, the more obnoxious did Sir Osborne become to Wolsey, and he laid before the king, one by one, the deposition of Wilson, Sir Payan's bailiff; several letters which Buckingham had written in favour of the young knight; and lastly, the duke's letter to Sir Thomas Morton, where, either by a forgery of Sir Payan Wileton's, or by some strange chance, it appeared that Sir Osborne Maurice had promised that within a year the duke's head should be the highest in the realm.

While he read, Henry's brow knit into a heavy frown, and, biting his lip, he went back to the beginning, and again read over the papers. "Cardinal," said he, at length, "bid the page seek Pace, my secretary, and ask him for the last letter from the Duke of Buckingham."

Wolsey obeyed; and, while waiting for the return of the page, Henry remained with his eyes averted, as if in deep thought, beating the papers with his fingers, and gnawing his lip in no very placable mood; while the cardinal wisely abstained from saying a word, leaving the irritation of the king's mind to expend itself, without calling it upon himself. As soon as the letter was brought, Henry laid it side by side with those that Wolsey had placed before him, and seemed to compare every word, every syllable, to ascertain the identity of the handwriting. "True, by my life!" cried he, casting down the papers. "The writing is the same; and now, my lord cardinal, what have you farther to say? Are there any farther proofs, ha?"

"Were there none other, your grace," replied Wolsey, "than the duke's handwriting, and the deposition of a disinterested and respectable witness, who can have no enmity whatever against this Sir Osborne Maurice, and who probably never saw him but on the two occasions he mentions, I think it would be quite sufficient to warrant your grace in taking every measure of precaution. But there is another witness, whom, indeed, I have not seen, but who can give evidence, I understand, respecting the conduct of the person accused towards the Rochester rioters. Knowing how much your grace's wisdom passeth that of the best in the realm, I have dared to have this witness (a most honourable priest) brought hither, hoping that the exigency of the case might lead you to examine him yourself, when, perhaps, your royal judgment may elicit more from him than others could do."

"You have done wisely, my good lord cardinal," replied Henry, whose first irritation had now subsided. "Let him be called, and bid your secretary take down his deposition, for 'tis not fitting that mine be so employed."

At the command of Wolsey, one of the pages went instantly to seek the priest, who, by the care and despatch of Sir Payan, had been sent down with all speed, and was now waiting with the cardinal's attendants in no small surprise and agitation, not being able to conceive why he was thus hurried from one place to another, and breathing also with some degree of alarm in the unwonted atmosphere of a court. On being ushered into the royal presence, the worthy man fell down upon both his knees before Henry, and, clasping his hands, prayed for a blessing on his head with such fervour and simplicity that the monarch was both pleased and amused.

"Rise, rise, good man!" said the king, holding out his hand for him to kiss: "we would speak with you on a business of import. Nay, do not be alarmed. We know your worth, and purpose to reward you. Place yourself here, master secretary, and take down his replies. Sit, my good lord cardinal; we beg you to be seated."

As soon as Wolsey had taken a low seat near the king, and the secretary, kneeling on one before the table, was prepared to write, Henry again proceeded, addressing the priest, who stood before him the picture of a disquieted spirit.

"Say, do you know one Sir Osborne Maurice?" demanded the king.

"Yes, surely, please your royal grace," replied the priest. "At least that was the name which his attendants gave to the noble and courageous knight that saved me from the hands of the Rochester shipwrights."

"First," said Wolsey, "give us your name, and say how you came to fall into the hands of these rebellious shipwrights."

"Alas! your grace," answered the priest, "I am a poor priest of Dartford, my name John Timeworthy; and hearing that these poor misguided men at Rochester were in open rebellion against the government, from lack of knowledge and spiritual teaching, I resolved to go down amongst them and preach to them peace and submission. I will not stay to say how and where I found them; but getting up upon a bench that stood hard by, under an apple-tree, I gathered them round me like a flock of sheep, and began my discourse, saying, 'Woe! woe! woe! Woe unto ye, shipwrights of Rochester, that you should arm yourselves against the king's grace! You are like children, that must fain eat hot pudding, and burn their mouths withal; for ye will cry, and ye will cry, till the sword fall upon you; and then, when Lord Thomas comes down with his men-at-arms, ye will turn about and fly; and the spears will stick in your hinder parts, and ye shall be put to shame: for though he have but hundreds, and ye have thousands, his are all men of the bow and of the spear, and ye know no more of either than a jackass does of the harp and psaltery.' And thereupon, your grace, they that I took for strayed sheep showed themselves to be a pack of ravening wolves, for they haled me down from the bench, and beat me unmercifully, and putting a halter round my neck, led me along to hang me up, as they vowed, in sight of Rochester Castle; when, just as they were dragging me along, more dead than alive, across a little green, the knight, Sir Osborne Maurice, came up, and, as I said, rescued me; and for a surety he is a brave and generous knight, and well deserving your grace's favour."

"By my faith, I have always thought so," said Henry. "What say you now, cardinal? Question him yourself, man."

Wolsey eagerly snatched at the permission, for he plainly saw that the matter was not proceeding to his wish. "Pray, my good Master Timeworthy," said he, "how was it that this Sir Osborne rescued you? Did he put his lance in rest, and charge the whole multitude, and deliver you from their hands?"

"Not so! not so!" cried the priest. "He did far more wisely, for there would have been much blood spilt; but he sent forward one, who seemed to be his shield-bearer, who shook hands with the chief of the rioters, and spoke him fair; and then the knight came forward himself, and spoke to him; and the chief of the rioters cried with a loud voice to his people, that this was not Lord Thomas, as they had thought, but a friend and well-beloved of the good Duke of Buckingham; and it was wonderful how soon the eloquence of that young man worked upon the multitude, and made them let me go. He was, indeed, a youth of a goodly presence, and fair to look upon, and had something noble and commanding in his aspect; and his words moved the rioters in the twinkling of an eye, and made them wholly change their purpose."

Henry's brow, which had cleared during the former part of the priest's narration, now grew doubly dark and cloudy; and he muttered to himself, "Too clear! too clear!" while Wolsey proceeded to question the priest more closely.

"Indeed, your grace," replied he, in answer to the cardinal's more minute questions, "I can tell you no more than I have told; for, as I said, I was more dead than alive all the time, till they gave me up to the knight, and did not hear half that passed."

"And what did you remark after you were with the knight?" demanded Wolsey. "Was there no particular observation made on the whole transaction?"

"Not that I can call to mind," answered the priest. "All I remember is, that they seemed a very merry party, and laughed and joked about it; which I, being frightened, thought almost wicked, God forgive me! for it was all innocency and high blood of youth."

"Well, sir," said Wolsey, "you may go. Go with him, secretary; and see that he be well tended, but allowed to have speech of no one."

The priest and the secretary withdrew in silence; and no sooner were they gone, than, abandoning his kingly dignity, Henry started from his seat, and strode up and down the room in one of those fits of passion which, even then, would sometimes take possession of him. At length, stopping opposite Wolsey, who stood up the moment the king rose, he struck the table with his clenched hand. "He shall die!" cried he; "by heaven, he shall die! Let him be attached, my Wolsey."

"My sergeant-at-arms is with me, your grace," replied the cardinal, "and shall instantly execute your royal will. Better arrest him directly, lest he fear and take flight."

"Whom mean you?" cried the king. "Ha! I say attach Edward Bohun, Duke of Buckingham."

"In regard to the Duke of Buckingham, my liege," replied Wolsey, less readily than he had before spoken, "will you take into your royal consideration whether it may not be better to suffer him to proceed a while with his treasonous schemes? for I question if the evidence we have at present against him would condemn him with the peers."

"But he is a traitor," cried Henry; "an evident traitor; and, by my faith! shall suffer a traitor's death."

"Most assuredly he is a black and heinous traitor," answered Wolsey. "And yet your grace will think what a triumph it would be for him if his peers should pronounce him innocent. He has store of friends among them. Far better let him proceed yet a while, and, with our eyes upon him, watch every turn of his dark plot, and seize him in the midst, when we shall have such proof that even his kindred must, for very shame, pronounce his guilt. In the mean time, I will ensure that he be so strictly guarded that he shall have power to do no evil."

"You are right, my Wolsey; you are right!" cried the king, seating himself, and laying his hand upon the papers; "let it be conducted as you say. But see that he escape not, for his ingratitude adds another shade to what is black itself. As to this Sir Osborne Maurice, 'tis a noble spirit perverted by that villain Buckingham. I have seen and watched the seeds of many virtues in him."

"It must be painful, then, for your grace to command his arrest," said Wolsey; "and yet he is so near your royal person, and his treason is so manifest, that the very love of your subjects requires that he should suffer death."

"And yet," replied Henry, fixing his eye upon the cardinal, and speaking emphatically; "and yet, even now I feel the warm blood of the English kings flowing lightly in my veins, which but for him would have been cold and motionless: and shall I take his life that has saved mine? No, Wolsey, no! It must not be! He has been misled, but is not wicked."

"Still, your grace's justice requires," said Wolsey (pardon me my boldness), "that he should undergo his trial. Then, if condemned, comes in your royal mercy to save him; saying to him, You are judged for having been a traitor, you are pardoned for having saved your king."

"But be assured, my Wolsey," replied Henry, "that if his trial were to take place now, the great traitor Buckingham will take alarm, and either endeavour to do away all evidence of his treason, or take to flight and shelter himself from justice."

"No need that his trial be immediate," answered the cardinal; "if your grace permits, he shall be committed privately to the Tower, and there await your return from France; by which time, depend on it, the Duke of Buckingham will have given further tokens of his mad ambition, and both may be tried together. Then let the greater traitor suffer and the lesser find grace, so that your royal justice and your clemency be equally conspicuous."

"Be it so, then," said the king; "though in truth, good cardinal, it grieves me to lose this youth. He is, without exception, the best lance in Christendom, and would have done our realm much credit in our journey to France: I say it grieves me! Ay, heartily it grieves me!"

"Nay, your grace," said Wolsey, "you will doubtless find a thousand as good as he."

"Not so! not so, lord cardinal!" cried Henry; "these are things not so easily acquired as you churchmen think. I never saw a better knight. When his lance breaks in full course, you shall behold his hand as steady as if it held a straw: nor knee, nor thigh, nor heel shall shake; and when the toughest ash splinters upon his casque, he shall not bend even so much as a strong oak before a summer breeze. But his guilt is clear, so the rest is all nought."

"Then I have your grace's commands," said Wolsey, "to commit him to the Tower. He shall be attached directly by the sergeant-at-arms, and sent down by the turn of the tide."

"Hold, hold!" cried the king; "not to-night, good Wolsey. Before we fly our hawk we cry the heron up, and he shall have the same grace. To-morrow, if he be still found, arrest him where you will; but for to-night he is safe, nor must his path be dogged. He shall have free and fair start, mark me, till tomorrow at noon; then slip your greyhounds on him, if you please."

"But, your grace," cried Wolsey, "if you let him----"

"It is my will," said the king, his brow darkening. "Who shall contradict it? Ha! See that it be obeyed exactly, my lord!"

"It shall, your grace," said Wolsey, bending his head with a profound inclination. "Your will is law to all your faithful servants; but only let your noble goodness attribute to my deep love for your royal person the fear I have that this traitorous agent of a still greater traitor may be tempted in despair, if he find that he is discovered, to attempt some heinous crime against your grace."

"Fear not, man! fear not!" replied the king. "He, that when he might have let me die, risked his own life to save mine, will never arm his hand against me: I fear not, cardinal. So be you at ease. But return to London; see that Buckingham be closely watched; and be sure that no preparation be wanting for the meeting with Francis of France. Be liberal, be liberal, lord cardinal! I would not that the nobles of France should say they had more gold than we. Let everything be abundant, be rich, and in its flush of newness; and as to Sir Osborne Maurice, arrest him to-morrow, if he be still here. Let him be fairly tried, and if he come out pure, well. Yet still, if he be condemned, his own life shall be given him as a reward for mine. However, till tomorrow let it rest. It is my will!"

Though Wolsey would have been better pleased to have had the knight safely in the Tower, yet, even in case of his making his escape before the next morning, his great object was gained, that of banishing from the court for ever one whose rapid progress in the king's regard bade fair, with time, to leave every one behind in favour. He therefore ceased to press the king upon the subject, especially as he saw, by many indubitable signs, that Henry was in one of those imperious moods which would bear no opposition. A few subjects of less import still remained to be discussed, but the monarch bore these so impatiently, that Wolsey soon ceased to importune him upon them; and resolving to reserve all further business for some more auspicious day, he rose, and taking leave with one of those refined, yet high-coloured, compliments which no man was so capable of justly tempering as himself, he left the royal presence, and proceeded to another part of the palace on business whose object is intimately allied to the present history, as we shall see hereafter.

CHAPTER XXV.

Who would be a king if he could help it? When Wolsey had left him, Henry once more raised the papers which lay upon the table, and read them through; then leant his head upon his hand, and passed some moments in deep and frowning meditation. "No!" said he, "no! I will not show them to him, lest he warn the traitor Buckingham. Ho, without! Tell Pace to come to me;" and again falling into thought, he remained musing over the papers with bent brows and an absent air, till the secretary had time to obey his summons. On his approach, the good but timid Pace almost trembled at the angry glow he saw upon the king's face; but he was relieved by Henry placing in his hands the papers which Wolsey had left, bidding him have good care thereof.

Pace took the papers in respectful silence, and waited an instant to see whether the king had further commands; but Henry waved his hand, crying, "Begone! leave me, and send the page."

The page lost not a moment in appearing; for the king's hasty mood was easily discernible in his aspect, and no one dared, even by an instant's delay, to add fuel to the fire which was clearly burning in his bosom; but still Henry allowed him to wait for several minutes. "Who waits in the ante-chamber?" demanded he, at length.

"Sir Charles Hammond, so please your grace," replied the page.

"And where is Denny?" asked the king. "Where is Sir Anthony Denny, ha?"

"He has been gone about an hour, your grace," replied the page.

"They hold me at nought!" cried Henry. "Strike his name from the list! By my life, I will teach him to wait! Go call Sir Osborne Maurice to my presence," and rising from his seat, he began again to pace the apartment.

The page, as he conducted the young knight to the hall in which Henry awaited him, took care to hint that he was in a terrific mood, with that sort of eagerness which all vulgar people have to spread evil tidings. The knight, however, asked no question and made no comment, and passing through the door which he had seen give admission to the priest about an hour before, he entered the ante-chamber, in which was seated Sir Charles Hammond, who saluted him with a silent bow. Proceeding onward, the page threw open the door of the privy-chamber, and Sir Osborne approached the king, in the knitting of whose brow, and in the curling of whose lip, might be plainly seen the inward irritation of his impetuous spirit. As he came near, Henry turned round, and fixed his eye upon him; and the knight, not knowing what might be the cause or what the consequence of his anger, bent his knee to the ground, and bowing his head, said, "God save your grace!"

"Marry, thou sayest well!" cried Henry. "We trust he will, and guard us ever against traitors! What say you?"

"If ever there be a man so much a traitor to himself," replied Sir Osborne, "as to nourish one thought against so good a king, oh, may his treason fall back upon his own head, and crush him with the weight!"

"Well prayed again," said Henry, more calmly. "Rise, rise, Sir Osborne; we must speak together. Give me your arm. We cannot sit and speak when the heart is so busy. We will walk. This hall has space enough," and with a hurried pace he took one or two turns in the chamber, fixing his eyes upon the ground, and biting his lip in silence. "Now, by our Lady!" cried he at length, "there are many men in this kingdom, Sir Osborne Maurice, who, seeing us here, holding your arm and walking by your side, would judge our life in peril."

Sir Osborne started, and gazed in Henry's face with a look of no small surprise.

"Did I but know of any one," said he, at length, "who could poison your royal ear with such a tale, were it other than a churchman or a woman, he should either confess his falsehood or die upon my sword. But your grace is noble, and believes them not. However," he continued, unbuckling his sword and laying it on the table as far away as possible, "on all accounts I will put that by. There lays the sword that was given me by an emperor, and here is the hand that saved a king's life; and here," he continued, kneeling at the king's feet, "is a heart as loyal as any in this realm, ready to shed its best blood if its king command it. But tell me, only tell me, how I have offended."

"Rise, sir knight," said the king. "On my life, I believe you so far, that if you have done wrong, you have been misled; and that your heart is loyal I am sure: yet listen. You came to this court a stranger; in you I found much of valour and of knightly worth. I loved you, and I favoured you; yet now I find that you have in much deceived me. Speak not, for I will not see in you any but the man who has saved my life; I will know you for none other. Say, then, Sir Osborne, is not life a good return for life? It is? ha?"

"It is, my liege," replied Sir Osborne, believing his real name discovered. "Whatever I have done amiss has been but error of judgment, not of heart, and surely cannot be held as very deep offence in eyes so gracious as my noble king's."

"We find excuses for you, sir, which rigorous judges might not find," replied the monarch; "yet there are many who strive to make your faults far blacker than they are, and doubtless may urge much against you; but hitherto we stand between you and the law, giving you life for life. But see you use the time that is allowed you well, for to-morrow, at high noon, issues the warrant for your apprehension, and if you make not speed to leave this court and country, your fate upon your head, for you have warning."

Sir Osborne was struck dumb, and for a moment he gazed upon the king in silent astonishment. "I know not what to think," he cried, after a while; "I cannot believe that a king famous for his clemency, can see in my very worst crime aught but an error. Your grace has said that many strive to blacken me; still humbly at your feet let me beseech you to tell me of what they do accuse me."

"Of many rank offences, sir!" replied the king, somewhat impatiently; "offences of which you might find it hard to wash yourself so clear as not to leave enough to weigh you down. However, 'tis our will that you depart the court, without further sojourn; and if you are wise, you'll speed to leave a country where you may chance to find worse entertainment and a harder lodging if you stay. Go to the keeper of our private purse, who will give a thousand marks to clear your journey of all cost; and God befriend you for the time to come!"

"Nay, your grace," replied Sir Osborne, "poor as I came I'll go; but thus far richer, that for one short month I won a great king's love, and lost it without deserving; and if to this your grace will add the favour to let me once more kiss your royal hand, you'll send me grateful forth."

Henry held out his hand towards him. "By my faith," cried he, "I do believe him honest! But the proofs! the proofs! Go, go, Sir Osborne; I judge not harshly of you. You have been misled; but fly speedily, I command you; for your own sake, fly!"

Sir Osborne raised himself, took his sword from the table, and, with a low obeisance to the king, quitted the room, his heart far too full to speak with any measure what he felt.

His hopes all broken, his dream of happiness dispelled like a wreath of morning mist in the sunshine, the young knight sought his chamber, and casting himself in a seat, leant his head upon his hands, in an attitude of total despondency. He did not think; for the racking images of despair that hurried through his brain were very different from the defined shapes of the most busy thought. His bosom was a chaos of dark and gloomy feelings, and it was long before reason lent him any aid to arrange and disentangle his ideas. As it did so, however, the thought of whither he should fly presented itself, and his first resolution was to go to his father in Wales; but then, to be the bearer of such news! it was more than he could undertake. Besides, as he reflected, he saw that, use what speed he might, his course would be easily tracked in that direction, and that the facilities which the messengers of the government possessed of gaining fresh horses would soon enable them to overtake and arrest him if the warrant were issued the next day at noon, as the king had said, and followed up with any degree of alacrity. That it would be so he had no reason to doubt, attributing, as he did, the whole of his misfortune to the hatred and jealousy of Wolsey; whose haste to ruin him had been sufficiently evinced by his having begun and completed it within one day after his arrival from York. These thoughts brought on others; and not knowing the stinging impulse of a favourite's jealousy, he pondered over the malice of the cardinal, wondering whether in former days his father might have offered the then rising minister either offence or injury, and thus entailed his evil offices on himself and family. But still the question, whither he should fly, returned; and after much consideration he resolved that it should be to Flanders, once more to try the fortune of his sword; for though peace nominally subsisted between the French king and the new emperor, it was a peace which could be but of short duration, and it was even then interrupted by continual incursions upon each other's territories, and incessant violation of the frontier by the various garrisons of France and Burgundy. Once arrived, he would write, he thought, to his father, who would surely join him there, and they would raise their house and name in a foreign land. But Constance de Grey--could she ever be his? He knew not; but at her very name Hope relighted her torch, and he began to dream again.

As he thought thus, he raised his eyes, and perceived his faithful attendant Longpole watching him with a look of anxious expectation, waiting till his agitated reverie should end. "How! Longpole!" said he. "You here? I did not hear you come in."

"I have been here all the time, your worship," replied the yeoman. "And I've made some noise in the world, too, while you have been here, for I let all the armour fall in that closet."

"I did not hear you," said the knight. "My thoughts were very busy. But, my good Heartley, I am afraid the time is come that we must part."

"By my faith, it must be a queer time, then, your worship!" answered Longpole; "for it is not every-day weather that will make me quit you, especially when I see you in such a way as you were just now."

"But, my good Longpole," answered the knight, "I am ruined. The king has discovered who I really am; Wolsey has whetted his anger against me, and he has banished me his court, bidding me fly instantly, lest I be to-morrow arrested, and perhaps committed to the Tower. I must therefore quit this country without loss of time, and take my way to Flanders, for my hopes here are all at an end. Wolsey is too powerful to be opposed."

"Well, then, my lord," said Longpole, "I will call you by your real name now; and so I'll go and saddle our horses, pack up as much as I can, and we'll be off in a minute."

"But, my good Longpole," said his master, "you do not think what you are doing. Indeed, you must not leave your country and your friends, and that poor girl Geraldine, to follow a man ruined in fortune and expectations, going to travel through strange lands, where he knows not whether he may find friends or enemies."

"More reason he should have a companion on the road," replied Longpole. "But, my lord, my determination is made. Where you go, there will I go too; and as to little Mistress Geraldine, why, when we've made a fortune, which I am sure we shall do, I'll make her trot over after me. But, as I suppose there is but little time to spare, I will go get everything into order as fast as possible. Carpe diem, as good Dr. Wilbraham used to say to me when I was lazy. There is your lordship's harness. If you can manage to pop on the breast and back pieces, I will be back directly."

"Nay," said the knight, "there is yet one person I must see. However, be not long, good fellow, for I shall not stay. Give me that wrapping cloak with the hood."

Longpole obeyed; and enveloping himself in a large mantle, which he had upon a former occasion used to cover his armour, in one of those fanciful justs where every one appeared disguised, the knight left his own apartments, and proceeded to those of Lady Constance de Grey. Many were the sounds of mirth and merriment which met his ears as he passed by the various ranges of apartments, jarring harshly with all his own sorrowful feelings, and in the despondency of his mind he marvelled that any but idiots or madmen could indulge in laughter in a world so full of care. Hurrying on to avoid such inharmonious tones, he approached the suite of rooms appropriated to Lady Constance, and was surprised at finding the door open. Entering, nothing but confusion seemed to reign in the ante-chamber, where her maids were usually found employed in various works. Here stood a frame for caul-work, there one for embroidery; here a cushion for Italian lace thrown upon the ground; there a chair overturned; while two of the maids stood looking out of the window (to make use of the homely term), crying their eyes out.

"Where is your mistress?" demanded Sir Osborne, as he entered; the agitation of his own feelings, and the alarm he conceived from the strange disarray of the apartment, making him stint his form of speech to the fewest words possible.

"We do not know, sir," replied one of the desolate damsels. "All that we know is, that she is gone."

"Gone!" cried Sir Osborne. "Gone! In the name of heaven, whither is she gone? Who is gone with her?"

"Jesu Maria, sir! don't look so wild," cried the woman, who thought herself quite pretty enough, even in her tears, to be a little familiar. "Dr. Wilbraham is with the Lady Constance, and so is Mistress Margaret, and therefore she is safe enough, surely."

"But cannot you say whither she is gone?" cried the knight. "When did she go? How?"

"She went but now, sir," replied the woman. "She was sent for about an hour or more ago to the little tapestry-hall, to speak with my lord cardinal; and after that she came back very grave and serious, and made Mistress Margaret pack up a great parcel of things, while she herself spoke with Dr. Wilbraham; and when that was done, they all three went away together; but before she went she gave each of us fifty marks a-piece, and said that she would give us news of her."

"Did she not drop any word in regard to her destination?" demanded Sir Osborne. "Anything that might lead you to imagine whither she was gone?"

"Mistress Margaret said they were going to London," said the other girl, turning round from the window, and speaking through her tears. "She said that they were going because such was my lord cardinal's will. But I don't believe it, for she said it like a lie; and I'm sure I shall never see my young lady again. I'm sure I shan't! So now, sir knight, go away and leave us, for we can tell you nothing more."

The knight turned away. "Oh, Constance! Constance!" thought he, as he paced back to his apartments; "will you ever be able to resist all the influence they may bring against you? When you hear, too, of your lover's disgrace! Well, God is good, and sometimes joy shines forth out of sorrow, like the sun that dispels the storm." As he thought thus, the prediction of Sir Cesar, that their misfortune should be but of short duration, came across his mind. "The evil part of his prophecy," thought he, "is already on my head. Why should I doubt the good? Come, I will be superstitious, and believe it fully; for hope is surely as much better than fear as joy is better than sorrow. Will Constance ever give her hand to another? Oh, no, no! And surely, surely, I shall win her yet."

Of all the bright gifts with which heaven has blessed our youth, there is none more excellent than that elasticity of spirit which rebounds strongly from the depressing load of a world's care, and after the heaviest weight of sorrow, or the severest stroke of disappointment, raises us lightly up, and gives us back to hope and to enjoyment. It is peculiar to youth, and it is peculiar to good conduct; for the reiterated burdens that years cast upon us as they fly gradually rob the spring of expectation of its flexibility, and vice feels within itself that it has not the same right to hope as virtue. Sir Osborne's spirit was all rebound; and though surrounded with doubts, with difficulties, and with dangers, it was not long before he was ready to try again the wide adventurous world, with unabated vigour of endeavour, though rebuffed in his first endeavours and disappointed in his brightest expectations.

On returning to his apartment he found his faithful attendant ready prepared; and there was a sort of easy, careless confidence in the honest yeoman's manner, that well seconded the efforts of reviving hope in his master's breast. It seemed as if he never thought for a moment that want of success was possible; and, besides, he was one of those over whom Fortune has little power. He himself had no extraneous wants or wishes. Happy by temperament, and independent by bodily vigour, he derived from nature all that neither Stoic nor Epicurean could obtain by art. He was a philosopher by frame; and more than a philosopher, as the word is generally used, for he had a warm heart and a generous spirit, and joined affection for others to carelessness about himself.

Such was the companion, of all others, fitted to cheer Sir Osborne on his way; far more so than if he had been one of equal rank or equal refinement, for he was always ready to assist, to serve, to amuse, or advise, without sufficient appreciation of finer feelings to encourage, even by understanding them, those thoughts upon which the knight might have dwelt painfully in conversation with any one else.

At the same time, Longpole was far above his class in every respect. He had some smattering of classical knowledge, which was all that rested with him of the laborious teaching which good Dr. Wilbraham had bestowed upon his youth; he not only could read and write, but had read all the books he could get at, while a prisoner in France, and had, on more than one occasion, contrived to turn a stanza, though neither the stuff nor the workmanship was very good; and he had, moreover, a strange turn for jesting, which he took care to keep in perpetual exercise. To these he joined all the thousand little serviceable qualifications of an old soldier, and an extraordinary fluency in speaking French, which had proved very useful to him in many instances. Thus equipped inwardly, he now stood before Sir Osborne, with his outward man armed in the plain harness of a custrel, or shield-bearer, with casque and corslet, cuissards, brassards, and gauntlets; and considering that he was nearly six feet three inches in height, he was the sort of man that a knight might not be sorry to see at his back in the mêlée or the skirmish.

"Longpole," said the knight, "give me my armour; I will put it on while you place what clothes you can in the large horsebags. But, my good custrel, we must put something over our harness: give me that surcoat. You have not barded my horse, I trust?"

"Indeed I have, my lord," replied he; "and depend on it you may have need thereof. Remember how dear the barding of a horse is: I speak of the steel, which is, in fact, the true bard, or bardo, as the Italians call it, for the cloth that covers it is not the bard; and if you carry the steel with you, you may as well have the silk too."

"But 'twill weary the horse," said Sir Osborne; "however, as 'tis on, let it stay: only it may attract attention, and give too good a track to any that follow; though, God knows, I can hardly determine which way to turn my rein."

"To London! to London, to be sure, your worship," cried Longpole; "that is the high road to every part on the earth, and off the earth, and under the earth. If a man want to go to heaven, he will there find guides; if he seek hell, he will find plenty going the same road; and if he love this world better, there shall he meet conveyance to every part of it. What would you think of just paying a visit to good Master William Hans, the merchant, to see if he cannot give us a cast over to Flanders? A thousand to one he has some vessel going, or knows some one that has."

"Well bethought," answered Sir Osborne, slowly buckling on his armour. "It will soon grow dusk, and then our arms will call no attention. My hands refuse to help me on with my harness: I am very slow. Nay, good Longpole, if you have already finished, take a hundred marks out of that bag, which will nearly empty it, and seek the three men the Duke of Buckingham gave me. Divide it between them for their service; and, good Longpole, when you have done that, make inquiries about the palace as to what road was taken by Lady Constance de Grey and Dr. Wilbraham. Do not mention the lady; name only Dr. Wilbraham, as if I sought to speak with him."

Longpole obeyed, and after about half-an-hour's absence returned, tolerably successful in his inquiries; but, much to his surprise and disappointment, he found his young lord very nearly in the same situation in which he had left him, sitting in his chair, half armed, with his casque upon his knee, his fine head bare, and his eye fixed upon the fading gleams of the evening sky, where some faint clouds just above the distant trees seemed as if lingering in the beams of the sun's bright eye, like man still tenacious of the last ray of hope.

"Well, Longpole," cried he, waking from his reverie, "what news? Have you heard anything of Lady Constance?" and, as if ashamed of his delay, he busied himself to finish the arrangement of his armour.

"Let me aid you, my lord," said Longpole, kneeling down, and soon completing, piece by piece, what his master had left unfinished, replying at the same time to his question. "I have spoken with the man who carried the baggage down to the boat, my lord; and he says that Dr. Wilbraham, Lady Constance, and one of her women, took water about half-an-hour after the lord cardinal, and seemed to follow his barge."

Sir Osborne fell into another reverie, from which, at last, he roused himself with a sigh. "Well, I can do nothing," said he; "like an angry child I might rage and struggle, but I could do no more. Were I to stay, 'twould but be committing me to the Tower, and then I must be still perforce----"

Longpole heard all this with an air of great edification; but when he thought that his master had indulged himself enough, he ventured to interrupt him by saying, "The sun, sir, has gone to bed; had not we better take advantage of his absence, and make our way to London? Remember, sir, he is an early riser at this time of year, and will be up looking after us tomorrow before we are well aware."

"Ay, Longpole, ay!" replied the knight; "I will linger no longer, for it is unavailing. The trumpet must have sounded to supper by this time; has it not? So we shall have no idlers to gaze at our departure."

"The trumpet sounded as I went down but now," said Longpole, "and I met the sewer carrying in a brawn's head so like his own, that I could not help thinking he had killed and cooked his brother: they must be hard at his grace's liege capons even now."

"Well, I am ready," said the knight; "give me the surcoat of tawny velvet. Now; no more feathers!" he continued, plucking from his casque the long plume that, issuing from the crest in graceful sweeps, fell back almost to his girdle, taking care, however, at the same time, to leave behind a small white glove wrought with gold, that had surrounded the insertion of the feather, and which he secured in its place with particular attention. "Some one will have rare pillage of this apartment," he added, looking round. "That suit of black armour is worth five hundred marks; but it matters not to think of it: we cannot carry them with us. The long sword and baldrick, Longpole, and the gold spurs: I will go as a knight, at least. Now, take the bags. I follow. Farewell, King Henry! you have lost a faithful subject!"

Thus saying, he proceeded down the stairs after Longpole, and following a corridor, passed by one of the small doors of the great hall, through the partial opening of which were to be heard the rattle and the clatter of plates, of dishes, and of knives, and the buzz of many busy jaws. A feeling of disgust came over Sir Osborne as he heard it, he scarce knew why, and stayed not to inquire, but striding on, came speedily to the stable-yard, and was crossing towards the building in which his horses stood, when he observed a man loitering near the door of the stable, whom he soon discovered to be one of the yeomen given him by the Duke of Buckingham.

"On, Longpole!" cried the knight; "on, and send him upon some errand, for I am in no fit mood to speak with him now." While Sir Osborne drew back into the doorway, Longpole advanced, and in a moment after the man was seen traversing the court in another direction. The knight then proceeded, the horses were brought forth, and springing into the saddle, Sir Osborne, with a sigh given to the recollection of lost hopes, touched his charger with the spur, and rode out of the gates. Longpole followed, and in a few minutes they were on the high road to London.