Chapter Ten.
Glorifying the Lord in the Fires.
“Ah, little is all loss,
And brief the space ’twixt shore and shore,
If Thou, Lord Jesus, on us lay,
Through the dark waters of our way,
The burden which Christopheros bore—
To carry Thee across.”
Miss Muloch.
As Lord Marnell sat with Margery in her cell in the evening of the 1st of March, she begged him to grant her a favour. Her contrite husband bade her ask what she would. Margery replied that she greatly wished to write a last letter to her mother. Writing-materials were carefully kept from her. Could Lord Marnell supply her with the means of doing so? He said he would attempt it.
When Alice returned on the following day from Marnell Place, whither she had been to procure a change of linen for her mistress, she brought with her also a loaf of bread. The jailer demurred at this, but Alice urged that Lady Marnell did not like the bread made by the prison baker, and surely the jailer would not grudge her a loaf from home, for the few days she had to live. The jailer shook his head, but let it pass. When Alice was safe in the cell, she broke the loaf, and produced from it, cunningly imbedded in the soft crumb, several sheets of paper folded surprisingly small, a pen, and a little inkhorn. Margery’s eyes glistened when she saw these, and she wrote her letter secretly during the night. But how to get it out of the prison with safety? Alice was able to provide for this also. The letter was sewn in one of the pillows, which would be carried back to Marnell Place after the execution.
The last day of Lady Marnell’s life sped away as other less eventful days do, and the evening of the 5th of March arrived. Alice, having just returned from her usual journey to the house, was disposing of the articles which she had brought with her, when the jailer’s key grated in the lock, and the door was opened. Lady Marnell looked up, expecting to see her husband, though it was rather before his usual time for visiting her; but on looking up, she saw Abbot Bilson.
This feline ecclesiastic came forward with bent head and joined hands, vouchsafing no reply to Margery’s salutation of “Good even, father,” nor to Alice’s humble request for his blessing. He sat down on a chair, and for some minutes stared at Margery in silence—conduct so strange that at length she said, “Wherefore come you, father?”
“To look at thee, child of the devil!” was the civil answer.
Alice, who had just requested the blessing of the priest, was more angry than she could bear with the man. She was just on the point of saying something sharp, when Lord Marnell’s voice behind the Abbot interposed with—
“If thou wouldst see a child of the devil, I trow thou hast little need to look further than thy mirror!”
The Abbot rose calmly, and let Lord Marnell enter.
“It becometh not poor and humble monks, servitors of God, to lend themselves unto the vanity of mirrors,” said he, pulling out a large rosary, and beginning to tell his beads devoutly.
“‘Servitors of God!’” cried Lord Marnell, too angry to be prudent. “Dost call thyself a servitor of God? If God hath no better servitors than thou, I ween He is evil served!”
The Abbot cast a glance from the corner of his eye at Lord Marnell, but made no answer, save to tell his beads more devoutly than ever.
“Hast no other place to tell thy beads in?” asked that nobleman.
The Abbot rose without a word, and, pausing at the door, stretched his hand over the assembled trio, and muttered some words to himself.
“Away with thee, Lucifer, and thy maledictions!” exclaimed Lord Marnell. “There be here who are nearer to the angels than ever thou shalt be!”
Suddenly the Abbot was gone. Nobody had seen or heard him depart—he seemed to melt into the night, in some strange, mysterious way.
“He is gone, and Satan his master go with him!” said Lord Marnell. “Ho, jailer! lock the door, I pray, and leave us three alone together.”
The jailer obeyed; and Lord Marnell sat down by the side of Margery’s bed, and bade Alice lie down on her own pallet, and sleep if she could. He gave the same counsel to Margery; but the latter smiled, and said she would never sleep again in this world.
“Now, Madge!” said her husband, “hast aught on thy mind, good wife, that thou wouldst say ere morn? Aught that I can do for thee? Trust me, I will do the same right gladly.”
Margery thanked him fervently; there was a heartiness in his tone which was not often audible.
“There be a few matters, mine own good Lord, which under thy good pleasure I would willingly have done. I would that all my servants might have a year’s pay; and for Alice, poor lass! who hath tended me so well and truly, I pray that a small matter of money may be given her by the year: moreover, I would like, if she will—for I would not lay her under bond—that she should keep with Geoffrey while she liveth, or at least until he be a man. And, good husband, I would that thou wouldst teach my poor child to remember me, his mother, but above all, to remember the Lord for whom I die, and who, having loved me in the world, loveth me unto the end. (John xiii. 1) Tell him to count nought too good for Christ. I trust Christ hath set His heart upon him—I have prayed for him too much else—and He promised me that whatever thing I should ask the Father in His name He would do that thing.” (John xvi. 16).
“Hast thou prayed ever for me, good wife?” asked Lord Marnell.
“Many times, my good Lord, and I will do so till I die.”
“The Church teacheth that dying stoppeth not praying,” said he.
“I wis well that the Church so teacheth; but I saw it not in the book; however, if I find it to be so, I will pray God for thee there also.”
“Thou sayest well, Madge; but I trow thou art more angel presently than shall I be ever. I tell thee, Madge—for mayhap it will comfort thee to know it—thy dealings and sayings of late have caused me to think more on these things than ever did I afore. It seemeth but a small matter to thee, to go through the fire to the glory. I marvel an’ it could be so unto me.”
“Say not ‘to the glory,’ good husband, but to Christ. I would not have the glory and lack Christ. And for thee, I do rejoice and bless God heartily, if He will make my poor doings of any good service unto the welfare of thy soul. And believe me, that if thou art called unto my fiery ordeal, Christ will give thee grace and strength equal unto thy need. It is not much for them who love Christ, if they see Him stand beyond a little fire, to pluck up heart and go through the fire to Him. O good husband, take these as my dying words, and teach them to the child for the same, ‘Christ without everything is an hundredfold better than everything without Christ!’” Those last words were ringing in Lord Marnell’s ears when, about eight o’clock in the morning, he stood on the steps of Marnell Place, looking towards the Tower, and fancying the mournful preparations which were going on there. Margery had thought it best that she should be alone for her fiery trial. As Lord Marnell stood there, lost in thought, he suddenly heard his own name spoken. He turned round, and saw two men before him, in travellers’ attire. One of them was an old man, with venerable white head and beard; the other was much younger, and Lord Marnell recognised him at once.
“Master Pynson! I pray you what brings you here? Is the boy well?”
“He is well,” answered Richard, in a low tone, “and Dame Lovell likewise. We came hither on matters pertaining to my friend who here standeth, and a terrible bruit hath reached us that the Lady Marnell will suffer this morrow.”
“It is true,” said Lord Marnell, sorrowfully.
“Can no help be found?” cried Richard, in an agony. “I would put my life for hers—yea, an hundred times twice told!”
“And I likewise,” said her husband. “No—there is no help. The King will hear of no remittance.”
“When is it?”
“At nine o’ the clock. You will come into the house and eat?”
Richard declined. He had already secured a chamber at the “Blue Boar,” and would not trouble his Lordship.
“Come, Master Carew,” said he to his companion, “let us be on our way.”
“Go ye for to see her?” inquired Lord Marnell.
“I will not lose sight of her,” answered Richard, “until she be in the Paradise of God!”
Long before nine o’clock on the morning of that 6th of March, a large crowd was already gathered on Tower Hill. Some came there from a feeling of revenge—glad to see a Lollard burned. Among these was Archbishop Arundel. Some, from a feeling of deep pity for the poor young girl who was to be almost the proto-martyr of the new faith. Among these were Pynson and Carew. The chief part of the concourse, however, shared neither of these feelings to any great degree, but came simply to see a sight, just as they would have gone to see a royal procession, or any other pageant.
As nine o’clock struck on the great bell of the Tower, the martyr appeared, led forth between the sheriff and Abbot Bilson. She was clothed in one long white garment, falling from her throat to her feet; and, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, her head, arms, and feet were bare. No fastening confined her golden hair, which streamed freely over her shoulders and fell around her. She walked slowly, but quite calmly. Arrived at the place of execution, the sheriff urged her to confess.
“I will confess,” said Margery, “to Him who can alone absolve me.” And lifting up her eyes, she said, “O Lord God, who art above all things, and hast given Thy Son to die for us sely and sinful men, I confess to Thee that I am a vile sinner, utterly unworthy of Thy grace and mercy. That day by day, for twenty-three years, have I done what I ought not, and said what I ought not, and thought what I ought not. That all my life also have I left undone things the which I ought for to have done. Wherefore, O Father, let it please Thee of Thy goodness to forgive me, and to look not on me, but on Thy Son Christ, in whose rightwise-ness I am rightwise, and who hath loved me as Thou hast loved also Him. O Lord God, turn not away the face of Thy servant, whose heart Thou hast moved to pray thus unto Thee!”
The Abbot and the sheriff were extremely annoyed, but they did not dare to silence her, for the multitude hung breathlessly on her words.
“There’s none so much harm in that, any way!” said a woman who stood near Richard Pynson.
“Wilt thou confess, sinful heretic?” asked the Abbot.
“To God I will and have done,” answered Margery; “to man I will not.”
There was a short pause, while the sheriff’s men, under his direction, heaped the wood in the position most favourable for burning quickly. Then the sheriff read the indictment in a loud voice. It was a long document, and took upwards of twenty minutes to read. After this, they passed a chain round Margery’s body, and fastened her to the stake. The sheriff then, with a lighted torch, advanced to set the wood on fire.
“Will ye allow me that I may speak unto the people?” asked Margery of the Abbot.
“No, miserable reprobate!” said he, “thou hast spoken too much already!”
“I pray Christ forgive you all that you have done unto me!” was the martyr’s answer.
The sheriff now applied the torch. Meanwhile Margery stood on the pile of wood, with her hands clasped on her bosom, and her eyes lifted up to heaven. What means it? Does she feel no pain? How is it that, as the flames spring up and roar around her, there is no tremor of the clasped hands, no change in the rapturous expression of the white upturned face? And from the very midst of those flames comes a voice, the silver voice of Margery Lovell, as clear and melodious as if she stood quietly in the hall at Lovell Tower—
“Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to take virtue, and Godhead, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory—”
But the voice fails there, and the “blessing” is spoken to the angels of God.
And from the outskirts of the crowd comes another voice which is very like the voice of Richard Pynson—
“I am agen risyng and lyf; he that beleeueth in me, yhe though he be deed, he schal lyue; and ech that lyueth and bileueth into me, schal not dye withouten eende.” (John xi. 25).
“The noble army of martyrs praise Thee,” softly adds old Carew.
Thus did Margery Marnell glorify the Lord in the fires.