Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XXI.

Would I a house for happiness erect,
Nature alone should be the architect.--Cowley.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay.--Donne.

We must now pass over a brief space of time with but little commemoration.

It was a bright and beautiful morning in the beginning of the month of May, when the sky was of that soft, tender blue which it possesses in the early year, ere the ardent rays of summer have dyed it with a deeper tint; and yet there was nothing of that misty faintness of hue which foretels that the blue eye of heaven may be filled with tears before nightfall. It was clear, though it was soft; and the light white clouds that, winged by the breeze, sped quickly over the wide expanse, gave to the earth no trace of their passing, except the fleeting shadows that followed them, which, hurrying rapidly over the distant fields and woods, made each spot as they left it look brighter than before. Every object that met the eye spoke of spring. The bright green of the trees, and the fields, and the woods, clearly told that they had not known the burning touch of summer, which, like manhood and the world's experience, coming o'er the fresh dreams of youth, withers while it ripens, and with its very first approach steals somewhat of the refreshing hue of early nature. The wild singing of the birds, rejoicing in the return of brightness to the earth, and making the whole air vocal with the bursting happiness of their renewed enjoyment; the busy hum of animated being rising up from hill, and dale, and wood, and joining with their song upon the breeze; all spoke of refreshed existence. Flowers painted the fields, and blossoms hung upon the trees, and perfume shook its light wings in the morning air and sprinkled it with balm.

It was one of those mornings when the heart opens, and when every vein thrills with glad existence; when we feel, as it were, the Deity on the morning's breath; when we hear Him in the voice of creation; when we worship Him in his works, and adore Him in the temple He himself has raised. The scene, too, was lovely. It was in a wide open park, where the rich thick grass spread like velvet over every slope and lawn; so rich, so thick, its elasticity almost raised the foot that trod it. On its luxuriant bosom the wide old trees, scattered in clumps, or gathered together in broad sweeping woods, cast a deep shadow, defined and clear, making the glossy softness and the vivid green shine out more strongly for the contrast. It was the elm and the oak that principally tenanted that park, though occasionally a hawthorn or a beech would interpose; and wherever they congregated in a wood there was to be found every sort of shrub and brushwood clinging round their roots. Many a glade, however, appeared, and many a lawn between; and where the trees broke away, there a wide extended view presented itself, showing a rich and fertile country beyond, full of green hedgerows and fields, broken and diversified by the lines of hamlets and villages, mingling an air of wealth, prosperity, and living gladness, with the bright sweetness of the morning and the calm tranquillity of the park itself.

At the foot, then, of one of the old oaks in Richmond Park sat Lady Constance de Grey, while her woman Margaret stood at a little distance with a page, and Sir Osborne Maurice leaned by her side. They had met by chance--really by chance--at that early hour in that remote part of the park; though it is more than probable that the same thoughts, acting on hearts so nearly allied, had led them both forth to meditate on their fate. And even after they had met, the stillness of the scene seemed to have found its way to their souls, for they remained almost in silence watching the clouds and gazing at the view, content to feel that they enjoyed together the same sweet morning and the same lovely scene.

It may be as well, however, before proceeding further, to give some slight sketch of what had occurred since the close of the last chapter; though were we to account for every day, it would be but detail of just after just, tourney after tourney, revel upon revel, wearisome from their repetition, and sickening from their vain splendour. Suffice it that Sir Osborne still maintained his place in the king's favour. His lance was always held by the judges of the field as next to the king's: his grace in the hall, or at the court, his dexterity in martial exercises, his clerkly learning, and his lighter accomplishments, won him much admiration; while a sort of unassumingness, which seemed to hold his own high qualities as light, silenced much envy. In short, it became the fashion to praise him; and it is so easy for courtiers to applaud or to decry, as the veering breath of favour changes, that to believe the outward semblance, Sir Osborne Maurice, next to the king himself, and Charles Brandon Duke of Suffolk, was the god of the court's idolatry.

There was, however, many a curious whisper of--Who was he? Whence did he come? What was his family? And some of the knights who had served abroad, and had been with the king at Terouenne and Tournay, conferred together, and shook the wise head; but still it was remarked that they were amongst those who most praised and sought the young knight. Sir Osborne marked with a keen and observing eye all that passed about him; and seeing that he was recognised by more than one, he felt that he must hasten to prevent his secret being communicated to the king by any lips but his own; and now high in favour, he only waited a fitting opportunity to hazard all by the avowal of his name and rank.

Wolsey had been absent for nearly a month in his diocese at York, and, removed from the influence of his presence, Lord Darby and Lady Katrine Bulmer, Sir Osborne and Constance de Grey, seemed to have forgot his stern authority, and given course to the feelings of their hearts. The knight had seen Lady Constance almost every day; and good Mistress Margaret, her woman, with whom Sir Osborne was no small favourite, took care not to exercise towards him that strict etiquette which she practised upon all other visitors, leaving them full opportunity to say all that the heart sought to communicate, as she very well perceived what feelings were busy in their breasts.

Thus everything between them was explained, everything was known: there was no coldness, there was no reserve, there was none of that idle and base coquetry which delights in teasing a heart that loves. Constance de Grey loved sincerely, openly, and she had too high an esteem for the man she had chosen, to suppose that the acknowledgment of that love could make it less worthy in his eyes. Happy indeed it was for them both that the most perfect confidence did exist between them, for Henry had conceived the project of marrying the young knight to Lady Katrine; and though the queen, with the instinctive perception of a woman in those matters, soon saw that such a plan would very ill accord with the feelings of either party, and quickly discouraged it, yet Henry, giving way to all his own impetuosity, hurried it on with precipitation, took every occasion to force them together, and declared that he would have them married as soon as the court returned from the meeting with the French king at Guisnes.

The situation of Sir Osborne was not a little embarrassing, the more especially as Lady Katrine, in her merry malice, often seemed to give in entirely to the king's schemes, having a threefold object in so doing, if object can be attributed to such heedless gaiety; namely, to coquet a little with Sir Osborne, which she did not dislike with anybody, to enjoy his embarrassment, and, at the same time, to tease Lord Darby.

With these three laudable motives she might have contrived to make Sir Osborne and Lady Constance unhappy, had not that mutual confidence existed between them which set all doubts at defiance. Nor, indeed, was it Lady Katrine's wish to do harm: whimsical, gay, and thoughtless, she gave way to the impulse of the moment. If she was in good humour, she was all liveliness and spirit, running as close to the borders of direct flirtation as possible with whomsoever happened to be near; but, on the contrary, if anything went wrong with her, she would be petulant and irritable, showing forth a thousand little airs of affected dignity and reserve which were not natural to her. No one's good regard did she seek more than that of Lady Constance de Grey; and yet she seemed to take every way to lose it. But Constance, though so different herself, understood her character, appreciated the good, made allowance for the faults, and secure in Darnley's affection, forgave her little coquetry with her lover.

In regard to Lord Darby, he knew Lady Katrine too; and if ever he gave himself a moment's uneasiness about her waywardness, he did not let it appear. If she flirted, he flirted too; if she was gay, he took care not to be a whit behind; if she was affectionate, he was gentle; and if she was cross, he laughed at her. She never could put him out of humour, though, to do her all manner of justice, she tried hard; and thus finding her attempts to tease ineffectual, she gradually relaxed in the endeavour.

In the mean time, the days of Sir Osborne and Lady Constance flew by in a sweet calm, that had something ominous in its tranquillity. He had almost forgotten Sir Payan Wileton; and in the mild flow of her happiness, Constance scarcely remembered the schemes with which the avaricious and haughty Wolsey threatened to trouble the stream of her existence. But, nevertheless, it was to be expected that if the dispensation had not yet arrived from Rome, it could not be delayed more than a few days; and that, at the return of the minister from York, the command would be renewed for her to bestow her hand upon Lord Darby. Such thoughts would sometimes come across Constance's mind with a painful sensation of dread; and then, with a spirit which so fair and tender an exterior hardly seemed to announce, she would revolve in her mind a plan for baffling the imperious prelate at all risks, and yet not implicate her lover at the very moment that his "fortunes were a-making."

Then, again, she would often hope that the extraordinary preparations that were going forward for the speedy meeting of the two courts of France and England, all the ceremonies that were to be arranged, and the many important questions that were to be discussed, would divert the mind of the cardinal from herself, at least till after that meeting had taken place; during which interval chance might produce many circumstances more favourable to her hopes. At all events, her resolution was taken: she felt, too, that no power on earth was adequate to combat that determination; and thus, with fixed purpose, she turned her mind from the contemplation of future dangers to the enjoyment of her present happiness.

The scene in Richmond Park, to which the court had now removed from Greenwich, as well as the bright gentleness of the May morning in which she met Sir Osborne there, was well calculated to nurse the most pleasing children of hope; and yet there was something melancholy even in the magnificent aspect of the day. I know not how, but often in those grand shining mornings the soul seems to swell too powerfully for the body; the spirit to feel galled, as it were, by the chain that binds it to mortality. Whatever be the cause, there is still, in such a scene, a pensiveness that steals upon the heart; a solemnity that makes itself felt in those innermost recesses of the mind where thought and sensation blend so intimately as to be hardly separable from each other. Constance and Darnley both felt it; but still it was not sorrow that it produced; for, mingling with their fervent love and their youthful hope, it gave their feelings something of divine.

"This is very, very lovely, Darnley," said Lady Constance, after they had long gazed in silence. "Oh, why are not all days like this! Why must we have the storm, and the tempest, and the cloud!"

"Perhaps," replied the knight, "if all days were so fair, we might not esteem them so much: we should be like those, Constance, who in the world have gone on in a long course of uninterrupted prosperity, and who have enjoyed so much that they can no longer enjoy."

"Oh, no, no!" cried she; "there are some pleasures that never cloy, and amongst them are those that we derive from contemplating the loveliness of nature. I cannot think that I should ever weary of scenes like these. No! let me have a fairy sky, where the sunshine scarcely knows a cloud, and where the air is always soft and sweet like this."

At this moment Mistress Margaret approached, with some consternation in her aspect. "Good now, lady!" cried she; "look! who is that coming? Such a strange-looking little man, no bigger than an atomy! Oh! I am glad the knight is with us; for it is something singular, I am sure."

"You are very right, Mistress Margaret," said Sir Osborne; "this is, indeed, a most singular being that approaches. Constance, you have heard the queen and her ladies speak of Sir Cesar, the famous alchymist and astrologer. He is well known to good Dr. Wilbraham, and seems, for some reason, to take a strange interest in all my proceedings. Depend on it, he comes to warn us of something that is about to happen, and his warning must not be slighted; for, from wheresoever his knowledge comes, it is very strange."

Lady Constance and the knight watched the old man as he came slowly over the green towards them, showing little of that vivacity of demeanour by which he was generally characterised. On approaching near, he bowed to Lady Constance with courtly ease, saluted the knight in a manner which might be called affectionate; and, without apology for his intrusion, seated himself at the lady's feet, and began a gay and easy conversation upon the justs of the day before.

"There is no court in the world," said he, after a little--"and there are few courts I have not seen--where such sports are carried to the height of luxury that they are here. I never saw the tournaments, the justs, the pageants of Henry the Eighth, King of England, excelled but once."

"And when was that, may I ask?" demanded Lady Constance, whose feelings towards the old man were strangely mingled of awe and curiosity, so much had she heard of him and his strange powers during her residence at the court.

"It was in Germany," replied Sir Cesar, "at the city of Ratisbon; and it was conducted as all such displays should ever be conducted. Each knight wore over his armour a motley suit, and on his casque a cap and bells; the hilt of his sword was ornamented with a bauble, and as they made procession to the lists, the court fools of all the electors in the empire followed behind the knights, and whipped them on with blown bladders."

"Nay, nay, you are a satirist," said Lady Constance; "such a thing, surely, could never happen in reality."

"In truth it did, lady," answered Sir Cesar; "it was called the Tournament of Fools, though I wot not to distinguish it from other tournaments, which are all foolish enough. Osborne," he continued, turning abruptly to the young knight, "you will ride no more at this court."

"How mean you?" demanded Sir Osborne: "why should I not?"

"I mean," replied the old man, "that I come to forewarn you of approaching evil. Perhaps you may turn it aside, but there is much that threatens you. Are you not losing time? The king's regard is gained; wherefore, then, do you delay? While Wolsey is absent--mark me! while Wolsey is absent--or you are lost for the moment."

"Oh! say not so," cried Lady Constance, clasping her hands; "oh! say not so, for I hear that he returns to-morrow."

"Fear not, lady," said Sir Cesar, who had now risen; "the danger will last but for a time, and then pass away. So that, whatever happens to either of you, let not your hearts sink; but be firm, steadfast, and true. All the advice I can give you is but the advice of an ordinary mortal like yourselves. Men judge rashly when they think that even those who see clearest can yet see clear. All that I know, all that I behold, is but a dim shadowing forth of what will be, like the indistinct memory of long gone years; a circumstance without a form. I see in both your fates an evil and a sorrowful hour approaching, and yet I cannot tell you how to avoid it; but I can descry that 'twill be but for a while, and that must console you."

"Good Sir Cesar," said the young knight, "I will ask you no questions, for I have now learned that you were a dear friend of my father, and I feel sure that you will give all knowledge that may be useful to me; and if you will tell me what is good to do in this conjuncture, I will follow it."

"Good, now!" said Sir Cesar, with a gratified look: "good! I see you are overcoming your old fault, though you have been a long while about it. Three thousand years! three thousand years to my remembrance."

Constance turned an inquiring look to her lover, who, however, was not capable of giving her any explanation. "Think you," demanded he, addressing Sir Cesar, "that it would be best to inform his grace of everything at once?"

"I think it would," said the old man; "I think it would, but I scarcely dare advise you. Osborne, there is a conviction pressing on my mind, which I have perhaps learned too late. Can it be that those who are permitted to read certain facts in the book of fate are blinded to the right interpretation of that which they discover? Perhaps it may be--I have reason to believe it. Nought that I have ever calculated has proved false; but often, often it has been verified in a sense so opposite to my expectations, yet so evident when it did appear, that it seems as if heaven held the search presumptuous, and baffled the searcher even with the knowledge he acquired. Never more will I presume to expound aught that I may learn. The fact I tell you: an evil and a bitter hour is coming for you both, but it shall not last, and then you shall be happy--when I am no more." And turning away without other farewell, he left them, and took the way to the palace.

Lady Constance gazed on the face of her lover with a look of apprehensive tenderness that banished all thought of himself. "Oh, my Constance!" said he, "to think of your having to undergo so much for me is too, too painful! But fear not, dear Constance; we are still in a land where laws are above all power, and they cannot, they dare not ill-treat you!"

"For myself, Darnley," replied Constance, "I have no fear. They may threaten, they may wrong me, they may do what they will, but they can never make me marry another. It is for you I fear. However, he said that we should be happy at last, though he hinted that you would be driven from the court. Oh, Darnley! if that be the case--if you find there be the least danger--fly without loss of time----"

"And leave behind me," said Darnley, "all I love in the world! Oh, Constance! would not the block and axe itself be preferable? It would, it would, a thousand times preferable to leaving you for ever!"

"It might," said Constance; "I myself feel it might, if you feel as I feel. But, Darnley, I tell you at once I boldly promise to follow."

"But still, Constance, dear, excellent girl!" said the knight, "would it be right, would it be honourable, in me to accept such a sacrifice?"

"Darnley," said Lady Constance, firmly, "my happiness is in your hands, and what is right and honourable is not to throw that happiness away. Now that my love is yours, now that my hand is promised to you, you have no right to think of rank, or fortune, or aught else. If I were obliged to fly, would you not follow me? and wheresoever you go, there will I find means to join you. All I ask, all I pray in return is, that if there be the least danger, you will instantly fly. Will you promise me? If you love me you will."

"I will," said Sir Osborne. "What would I not do to prove that love! But I trust, dear Constance, there may be no need of hasty flight. All they can do will be to banish me the court, for I have committed no crime but coming here under a feigned name."

"I know not; I know not," said the lady; "'tis easy, where no crime is, to forge an accusation; and, if report speak truth, such has been Wolsey's frequent policy, when any one became loved of our gracious king; so that even the favour you have gained may prove your ruin. But you have promised to fly upon the first threatening of danger, and I hold as a part of that promise that you will stay for no leave-taking."

"Well, well, Constance," replied the knight, "time will show us more. But, at all events, I will try to anticipate Wolsey's return, and, by telling Henry all, secure my fate."

"Do so, do so!" said Lady Constance; "and, oh! lose no time. Fly to him, Darnley; he must be risen by this time. Farewell! farewell!"

Sir Osborne would fain have lingered still, but Constance would not be satisfied till he went. At last then he left her, and proceeded with quick steps to the palace; while she, with a slower pace, pursued another path through the park, having been rejoined by Mistress Margaret, who, not liking the appearance of old Sir Cesar, had removed to a secure distance on his approach, and who now poured forth no inconsiderable vituperation on his face, his figure, and his apparel.