Chapter Thirty Two.
“Ready! Ay, Ready!”
It was the evening of the first of August. The prisoners in the Castle, now reduced to four—the Mounts, Rose, and Johnson—had held their Bible-reading and their little evening prayer-meeting, and sat waiting for supper. John and Margaret Thurston, who had been with them until that day, were taken away in the morning to undergo examination, and had not returned. The prisoners had not yet heard when they were to die. They only knew that it would be soon, and might be any day. Yet we are told they remained in their dungeons “with much joy and great comfort, in continual reading and invocating the name of God, ever looking and expecting the happy day of their dissolution.”
We should probably feel more inclined to call it a horrible day. But they called it a happy day. They expected to change their prison for a palace, and their prison bonds for golden harps, and the prison fare for the fruit or the Tree of Life, and the company of scoffers and tormentors for that of Seraphim and Cherubim, and the blessed dead: and above all, to see His Face who had laid down His life for them.
Supper was late that evening. They could hear voices outside, with occasional exclamations of surprise, and now and then a peal of laughter. At length the door was unlocked, and the gaoler’s man came in with four trenchers, piled on each other, on each of which was laid a slice of rye-bread and a piece of cheese. He served out one to each prisoner.
“Want your appetites sharpened?” said he with a sarcastic laugh. “Because, if you do, there’s news for you.”
“Prithee let us hear it, Bartle,” answered Mount, quietly.
“Well, first, writs is come down. Moot Hall prisoners suffer at six to-morrow, on the waste by Lexden Road, and you’ll get your deserving i’ th’ afternoon, in the Castle yard.”
“God be praised!” solemnly responded William Mount, and the others added an Amen.
“Well, you’re a queer set!” said Bartle, looking at them. “I shouldn’t want to thank nobody for it, if so be I was going to be hanged: and that’s easier of the two.”
“We are only going Home,” answered William Mount. “The climb may be steep, but there is rest and ease at the end thereof.”
“Well, you seem mighty sure on’t. I know nought. Priests say you’ll find yourselves in a worser place nor you think.”
“Nay! God is faithful,” said Johnson.
“Have it your own way. I wish you might, for you seem to me a deal tidier folks than most that come our way. Howbeit, my news isn’t all told. Alegar, your brats be gone to Hedingham.”
“God go with them!” replied Johnson; but he seemed much sadder to hear this than he had done for his own doom.
“And Margaret Thurston’s recanted. She’s reconciled and had to better lodging.”
It was evident, though to Bartle’s astonishment, that the prisoners considered this the worst news of all.
“And John Thurston?”
“Ah, they aren’t so sure of him. They think he’ll bear a faggot, but it’s not certain yet.”
“God help and strengthen him!”
“And Mistress Wade, of the King’s Head, is had up to London to the Bishop.”
“God grant her His grace!”
“I’ve told you all now. Good-night.”
The greeting was returned, and Bartle went out. He was commissioned to carry the writ down to the Moot Hall.
Not many minutes later, Wastborowe entered the dungeon with the writ in his hand. The prisoners were conversing over their supper, but the sight of that document brought silence without any need to call for it.
“Hearken!” said Wastborowe. “At six o’clock in the morning, on the waste piece by Lexden Road, shall suffer the penalty of the law these men and women underwritten:—William Bongeor, Thomas Benold, Robert alias William Purcas, Agnes Silverside alias Downes alias Smith alias May, Helen Ewring, Elizabeth Foulkes, Agnes Bowyer.”
With one accord, led by Mr Benold, the condemned prisoners stood up and thanked God.
“‘Agnes Bowyer’,” repeated Wastborowe in some perplexity. “Your name’s not Bowyer; it’s Bongeor.”
“Bongeor,” said its bearer. “Is my name wrong set down? Pray you, Mr Wastborowe, have it put right without delay, that I be not left out.”
“I should think you’d be uncommon glad if you were!” said he.
“Nay, but in very deed it should grieve me right sore,” she replied earnestly. “Let there not be no mistake, I do entreat you.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Wastborowe, as he left the prison.
The prisoners had few preparations to make. Each had a garment ready—a long robe of white linen, falling straight from the neck to the ankles, with sleeves which buttoned at the wrist. There were many such robes made during the reign of Mary—types of those fairer white robes which would be “given to every one of them,” when they should have crossed the dark valley, and come out into the light of the glory of God. Only Agnes Bongeor and Helen Ewring had something else to part with. With Agnes in her prison was a little baby only a few weeks old, and she must bid it good-bye, and commit it to the care of some friend. Helen Ewring had to say farewell to her husband, who came to see her about four in the morning; and to the surprise of Elizabeth Foulkes, she found herself summoned also to an interview with her widowed mother and her uncle Holt.
“Why, Mother!” exclaimed Elizabeth in astonishment, “I never knew you were any where nigh.”
“Didst thou think, my lass, that aught ’d keep thy mother away from thee when she knew? I’ve been here these six weeks, a-waiting to hear. Eh, my pretty mawther, (see note 1) but to see this day! I’ve looked for thee to be some good man’s wife, and a happy woman,—such a good maid as thou always wast!—and now! Well, well! the will of the Lord be done!”
“A happy woman, Mother!” said Elizabeth with her brightest smile. “In all my life I never was so happy as this day! This is my wedding day—nay, this is my crowning day! For ere the sun be high this day, I shall have seen the Face of Christ, and have been by Him presented faultless before the light of the glory of God. Mother, rejoice with me, and rejoice for me, for I can do nothing save rejoice. Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, good-will towards men!”
There was glory to God, but little good-will towards men, when the six prisoners were marched out into High Street, on their way to martyrdom. Yet only one sorrowful heart was in the dungeon of the Moot Hall, and that was Agnes Bongeor’s, who lamented bitterly that owing to the mis-spelling of her name in the writ, she was not allowed to make the seventh. She actually put on her robe of martyrdom, in the hope that she might be reckoned among the sufferers. Now, when she learned that she was not to be burned that day, her distress was poignant.
“Let me go with them!” she cried. “Let me go and give my life for Christ! Alack the day! The Lord counts me not worthy.”
The other six prisoners were led, tied together, two and two, through High Street and up to the Head Gate. First came William Bongeor and Thomas Benold; then Mrs Silverside and Mrs Ewring; last, Robert Purcas and Elizabeth Foulkes. They were led out of the Head Gate, to “a plot of ground hard by the town wall, on the outward side,” beside the Lexden Road. There stood three great wooden stakes, with a chain affixed to each. The clock of Saint Mary-at-Walls struck six as they reached the spot.
Around the stakes a multitude were gathered to see the sight. Mr Ewring, with set face, trying to force a smile for his wife’s encouragement; Mrs Foulkes, gazing with clasped hands and tearful eyes on her daughter; Thomas Holt and all his family; Mr Ashby and all his; Ursula Felstede, looking very unhappy; Dorothy Denny, looking very sad; old Walter Purcas, leaning on his staff, from time to time shaking his white head as if in bitter lamentation; a little behind the others, Mrs Clere and Amy; and in front, busiest of the busy, Sir Thomas Tye and Nicholas Clere. There they all were, ready and waiting, to see the Moot Hall prisoners die.
Note 1. Girl. This is a Suffolk provincialism.