Chapter Twenty Eight.
The song of triumph.
Elizabeth Foulkes was the last prisoner tried in the Moot Hall. The Commissioners then adjourned to the Castle. Here there were six prisoners, as before. The first arraigned was William Mount. He was asked, as they all were—it was the great test question for the Marian martyrs—what he had to say of the Sacrament of the altar, which was another name for the mass.
“I say that it is an abominable idol,” was his answer.
“Wherefore comest thou not to confession?”
“Sirs, I dare not take part in any Popish doings, for fear of God’s vengeance,” said the brave old man.
Brave! ay, for the penalty was death. But what are they, of whom there are so many, whose actions if not words say that they dare not refuse to take part in Popish doings, for fear of man’s scorn and ridicule? Poor, mean cowards!
It was not worth while to go further. William Mount was sentenced to death, and John Johnson was brought to the bar. Neither were they long with him, for he had nothing to say but what he had said before. He too was sentenced to die.
Then Alice Mount was brought up. She replied to their questions exactly as her husband had done. She was satisfied with his answers: they should be hers. Once more the sentence was read, and she was led away.
Then Rose Allen was placed at the bar. So little had the past daunted her, that she did more than defy the Commissioners: she made fun of them. Standing there with her burnt hand still in its wrappings, she positively laughed Satan and all his servants to scorn.
They asked her what she had to say touching the mass.
“I say that it stinketh in the face of God! (see Note 1) and I dare not have to do therewith for my life.”
“Are you not a member of the Catholic Church?”
“I am no member of yours, for ye be members of Antichrist, and shall have the reward of Antichrist.”
“What say you of the see of the Bishop of Rome?”
“I am none of his. As for his see, it is for crows, kites, owls, and ravens to swim in, such as you be; for by the grace of God I will not swim in that sea while I live, neither will I have any thing to do therewith.”
Nothing could overcome the playful wit of this indomitable girl. She punned on their words, she laughed at their threats, she held them up to ridicule. This must be ended.
For the fourth time Dr Chedsey assumed the black cap. Rose kept silence while she was condemned to death. But no sooner had his voice ceased than, to the amazement of all who heard her, she broke forth into song. It was verily:
“The shout of them that triumph,
The song of them that feast.”
She was led out of the court and down the dungeon steps, singing, till her voice filled the whole court.
“Yea, though I walk through death’s dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill;
Thy rod, Thy staff doth comfort me,
And Thou art with me still.”
Which was the happier, do you think, that night? Dr Chedsey, who had read the sentence of death upon ten martyrs? or young Rose Allen, who was to be burned to death in five weeks?
When Rose’s triumphant voice had died away, the gaoler was hastily bidden to bring the other two prisoners. The Commissioners were very much annoyed. It was a bad thing for the people who stood by, they thought, when martyrs insisted on singing in response to a sentence of execution. They wanted to make the spectators forget such scenes.
“Well, where be the prisoners?” said Sir John Kingston.
“Please, your Worships, they be at the bar!” answered the gaolor, with a grin.
“At the bar, man? But I see nought. Be they dwarfs?”
“Something like,” said the gaoler.
He dragged up a form to the bar, and lifted on it, first, Will Johnson, and then Cissy.
“Good lack! such babes as these!” said Sir John, in great perplexity.
He felt it really very provoking. Here was a girl of twenty who had made fun of him in the most merciless manner, and had the audacity to sing when condemned to die, thus setting a shocking example, and awakening the sympathy of the public: and here, to make matters worse, were two little children brought up as heretics! This would never do. It was the more awkward from his point of view, that Cissy was so small that he took her to be much younger than she was.
“I cannot examine these babes!” said he to Chedsey.
Dr Chedsey, in answer, took the examination on himself.
“How old art thou, my lad?” said he to Will.
Will made no answer, and his sister spoke up for him.
“Please, sir, he’s six.”
“And what dost thou believe?” asked the Commissioner, half scornfully, half amused.
“Please, we believe what Father told us.”
“Who is their father?” was asked of the gaoler.
“Johnson, worshipful Sirs: Alegar, of Thorpe, that you have sentenced this morrow.”
“Gramercy!” said Sir John. “Take them down, Wastborowe,—take them down, and carry them away. Have them up another day. Such babes!”
Cissy heard him, and felt insulted, as a young woman of her age naturally would.
“Please, Sir, I’m not a baby! Baby’s a baby, but Will’s six, and I’m going in ten. And we are going to be as good as we can, and mind all Father said to us.”
“Take them away—take them away!” cried Sir John.
Wastborowe lifted Will down.
“But please—” said Cissy piteously—“isn’t nothing to be done to us? Mayn’t we go ’long of Father?”
“Ay, for the present,” answered Wastborowe, as he took a hand of each to lead them back.
“But isn’t Father to be burned?”
“Come along! I can’t stay,” said the gaoler hastily. Even his hard heart shrank from answering yes to that little pleading face.
“But please, oh please, they mustn’t burn Father and not us! We must go with Father.”
“Wastborowe!” Sir John’s voice called back.
“Take ’em down, Tom,” said Wastborowe to his man,—not at all sorry to go away from Cissy. He ran back to court.
“We are of opinion, Wastborowe,” said Dr Chedsey rather pompously, “that these children are too young and ignorant to be put to the bar. We make order, therefore, that they be discharged, and set in care of some good Catholic woman, if any be among their kindred; and if not, let them be committed to the care of some such not akin to them.”
“Please, your Worships, I know nought of their kindred,” said the gaoler scratching his head. “Jane Hiltoft hath the babe at this present.”
“What, is there a lesser babe yet?” asked Dr Chedsey, laughing.
“Ay, there is so: a babe in arms.”
“Worshipful Sirs, might it please you to hear a poor woman?”
“Speak on, good wife.”
“Sirs,” said the woman who had spoken, coming forward out of the crowd, “my name is Ursula Felstede, and I dwell at Thorpe, the next door to Johnson. The babes know me, and have been in my charge aforetime. May I pray your good Worships to set them in my care? I have none of mine own, and would bring them up to mine utmost as good subjects and honest folks.”
“Ay so? and how about good Catholics?”
“Sirs, Father Tye will tell you I go to mass and confession both.”
“So she doth,” said the priest: “but I misdoubt somewhat if she be not of the ‘halting Gospellers’ whereof we heard this morrow in the Moot Hall.”
“Better put them in charge of the Black Sisters of Hedingham,” suggested Dr Chedsey. “Come you this even, good woman, to the White Hart, and you shall then hear our pleasure. Father Tye, I pray you come with us to supper.”
Dr Chedsey had quite recovered from his emotions of the morning.
“Meanwhile,” said Sir John, rising, “let the morrow of Lammas be appointed for the execution of those sentenced.” (See note 2.)
Note 1. Rose’s words are given as she spoke them: but it must be remembered that they would not sound nearly so strong to those who heard them as they do to us.
Note 2. Lammas is the second of August.