CHAPTER XXVIII
CONCLUSION
When we reached our destination we handed Catesby over to the proper authorities, and from that time we had naught to do with his fate.
We hastened by the shortest way to the Grey Friars' Church, and from there, when we had been directed, we went to the Sanctuary.
Catesby had spoken the truth; the ring that I had taken from his finger gained for us admittance.
At first Hazel refused to see us, and prayed protection of the church folk.
Then I remembered me, and sent unto her our names. Instantly then were we admitted into her presence, and happy reunion took the place of torturous separation and maddening anxiety.
"Come now, art happy and content?" I asked, when our joyous greeting had gone the rounds.
"Yes, yes, so happy now, dear;—but how are thine ears?" she broke in suddenly.
"Tush! 'twas a mere nothing; he but cut off the skin."
However, she would not be content until I had taken off my helm and she had redressed the slight wounds.
"But what became of him?" she asked, as a shudder ran through her frame. "I have not seen him since he was torturing thee. The next I knew I was within a closed, wheeled litter, travelling at a fearful pace, and this woman here, beside me. I tried to get out, but could not. Armed men rode all around the litter. Steadily did we travel on, stopping but seldom to get fresh horses, food, and some little rest, until we reached this place. Here have I been locked up and treated as a mad woman."
"The fiend!" I cried.
"Yes, Catesby had evidently been here and told them that I was his mad sister, which thought I was another, and this woman here hath been my keeper since I came."
I walked over to where the woman—an old hag—was crouched on a bench in a corner, trembling with fear.
"Thou mayest leave this place at once, madam," I said, "and thank God, which made thee so, that thou hast at least the sex of a woman.
"Your master is now the prisoner of our new King Henry, and, unless the aforesaid King be of more forgiving nature than I think, Catesby shall soon be with his master, the usurping tyrant, Richard, which is even now in Hell's consuming fire."
"Oh, poor Sir William!" she wailed. "Ah, sir! I nursed him at my breast, and ever since have I been his servant. Oh! save him, sir! I know he did have his faults; but still do I love and serve him, as though he were mine own. For God's sake, sir, speak but a word to your new King, and thou canst save him! Return good for evil, now that thou hast the power!" and she knelt at my feet and threw her arms about my legs.
"Strange," thought I, "that even such a villain as is Catesby hath some one who loves him." Then aloud I said:—"It must not be. My wrongs are not the only ones that he must answer for. Catesby hath writ a volume of misdeeds, and the whole world hath perused them. No man can stop the bad effects of these in other ways than by the suppression of the one that doeth them."
"Wilt thou not have mercy on him, Walter dear?" asked the tender-hearted maid which now clung to my side.
I started in surprise. "What! dost thou plead for Catesby?" I asked.
"Nay, not for him; but for this old woman here. She hath done naught but obey her master. Save the knave, Walter, for this old woman's sake. We can now afford to be generous, Walter dear; now that all danger is past. Besides, he can do no harm, and mayhap your generosity will show him the evil of his acts, and he will then repent," and she stroked my cheek coaxingly.
Truly, a woman is the most unfathomable work of God. Here was this maid, quick as a hornet to resent a wrong, and yet forgiving as a dove when the danger had passed.
I hesitated; but her tender eyes were on me, and I could not resist their wondrous charm.
"Well,—I will see what may be done," I replied slowly, and with great reluctance. "But remember, I have little thought that he can avoid the block, or halter."
Then I went unto the King's headquarters and told him my request.
"What, Bradley! spare the life of Catesby; the man that so hath wronged thee? By the light of Heaven! my long sojourn across the channel hath made me to forget the nature of an English gentleman! But may I ask your reason for this strange request?" he asked more seriously.
I told him.
"'Tis but an old woman's whim; but even so I had been glad to grant thee this request; but thou art too late. His head was stricken off but a few moments before thou earnest."
"Thank Gawd!" growled Michael from the door, whither he had followed, as faithful as my shadow.
"And is this a friend of thine?" asked the King.
"Ay, your Majesty, he is my noble squire. To him, your Grace, do I owe my life a score of times." And then I told him of the worthy Irishman.
When I came to the part that Michael had played that day the King exclaimed:—
"What! captured Catesby! Kneel down my faithful subject. What is thy name?"
"Moichael O'Brien, yer Majesty."
The King drew forth his sword and laid it upon the mighty shoulder. "Arise, Sir Michael O'Brien."
Still did not Michael stand; but merely raised his head and stared in bewilderment at the King.
"Come, Sir Michael, let me be the first to congratulate thee on thy distinction," said I, as I grasped his hand and raised him to his feet.
He could not speak, but looked his surprise and thanks more eloquently than could have been expressed by a whole volume of words.
When we reached the Sanctuary I informed the old hag that I had been too late to save Catesby.
How she howled and chattered like a mad creature, and Hazel, like the dear forgiving angel that she hath ever been, comforted this old woman with soft, soothing words, and at last succeeded in quieting her. The old woman was then led off to another room, and since that day I never have beheld her. And for this I am thankful; for I could not look upon her without mixed emotions of hate and sympathy struggling within my heart.
The next morning the dead tyrant was buried, and Frederick, Michael, and I went to Grey Friars' Church to look the last upon the one on which the result of our oath made to his brother had fallen. I touched his hand. In death he was as cold as a salamander, and 'tis like his soul was in that place where this peculiar beast best flourishes.
"Richard succeeded better than I thought possible, when he drew in the ship of power," said Harleston. "But when the sailors found what kind of captain they did have to rule them they mutinied and killed their tyrant master."
"His tower of crime did fall, and it crushed its builder, as thou saidst it should," said I.
"Yes," replied Frederick.
Then he continued in his musing way; his head bowed in thought.
"We are all but dry leaves, lying upon the ground of time. The gust of life doth come along, and it hurls us some distance from the earth. On we travel for a short space; some of us sailing higher than the others. The breeze dies out, and we all do fall back to the same low level."
The truth of Harleston's words was made most clear to me then, as I gazed upon the corpse of him who had been, but a short time since, a King, and now was a cold lump of earth, such as we all must be.
We then went to ask the King for his permission for us to return to Westminster with the Lady Hazel.
His Majesty received us in a most friendly manner, and granted us the desired permission.
"I suppose," said he, as we were leaving his presence, "that I need not ask thee, Sir Walter, nor thee, Sir Frederick, to remain at my court when I do reach London; for I have heard of two fair maidens which ye do intend to make your wives. Well, ye are both right, and, when the Government hath been set in order, I do intend to follow your worthy example, and wed the fair, budding young Elizabeth. Ye both have my heartiest wishes of the happiness that ye have won through many dark days of misery, and by your gallant acts in the liberating of England from a rule of tyranny. Never doubt but that ye ever shall live in my memory, or that I ever will neglect some small reward for noble service rendered."
"Thanks, thanks, your Majesty!" we replied.
"And if your Grace doth ever require—the which pray God ye never may—two trusty swords, thou shalt never be compelled to send an order for them," said Harleston with a heartiness that could not be mistaken.
"Well do I know that, sirs." Then turning to the gigantic fresh-dubbed knight, he said:—
"Sir Michael, thou hast no love that will keep thee from remaining with us at the Palace?"
The mighty man started, and looked imploringly at the King, and then hopelessly at me; yet spoke he not a word.
"Come, Sir Michael," said I, "speak freely your mind to his Majesty. He is not the tyrant Richard, that ever hated men to give their honest thoughts expression."
Still did he hesitate and grew more confused with each breath.
"Ah! I see the trouble, and I think none the less of thee for thy feeling," said the King, with admiration in his voice and manner, as he walked to where Michael stood and put his hand upon the honest shoulder. "Thou dost still wish to abide with your old master, and yet fear to displease me with refusing my request. Come, am I not right?"
"Sure, that's the houle truth o' the thing, yer Majesty."
"Then go with Sir Walter, my good friend. Such loyalty doth raise thee in mine estimation. I know full well that should I ever need thee, thou wilt flash thy good sword betwixt the two of these good friends."
"Oi thank yer Majesty."
"Farewell, my faithful friends. In London soon I hope to see ye all."
As we left the room in which this interview took place I felt a great lump rise up in my throat, as I thought of my faithful Michael's loyalty. No word did I speak unto him; but I took his great hand in mine and pressed it hard.
Right after dinner we set out for Westminster and proceeded rapidly, until we reached the Sanctuary late in the second day following.
Joyous then was our reunion. The girls, the Queen and her daughters embraced, laughed and wept, whilst we men, which have no part in such scenes, stood and looked uncomfortably on.
The next day, without preparation, there took place in the chapel of the Sanctuary a double wedding, in which the fair-haired Mary and the gallant Frederick, and the dark-eyed Hazel and your most humble father and grandfather, played the important parts; whilst the ex-Queen and her daughters, together with the great Michael, lent right noble assistance. The priests prayed; the soft voices of the choir sang forth in tender harmony. We were blessed, and then walked from the chapel, with the sweet music lingering like a love kiss in our ears.
'Twas as we walked forth that Harleston and I both drew from our doublets—as we had foreplanned we would—the remembrances that the girls had given us long days before in the park at Windsor. These we returned to them, and they laughed and kissed them and re-gave them unto us.
Still have we both those tokens; and mine doth now lie before me as I pen these words. I take it up and kiss it tenderly, and a tear drops down upon it.
Place that small glove, my children, in my grave and on my death-stilled heart when I am gone.
The King forgot not the service we had rendered him upon that misty plain of Redmoor. A handsome wedding portion did he send to both the girls, although they did not need it. And when, later in his reign, he did acquire the habit of imposing heavy fines upon all of his subjects, both Harleston and myself escaped "as though by magic," as said some of our friends.
And now the tale is told, and all that for me remains to do is sit with folded hands beside that dear grey head before the blazing fire, and talk away the winter's day. And in the hot summer's evenings stroll, with that same dear trusting hand upon mine arm, that for sixty years hath been there, beneath the old oaks of dear Bradley House. And when your dear cousins, Harleston, and your Uncle Frederick and Aunt Mary—as ye do call them—come over to spend with us a quiet evening, we all do sit upon the great lawn and talk the setting sun into his rest.
And now but a word of the great Michael, which ye all do love so dearly. Mayhap ye never have heard the reason why we do not call him "Sir." It was at his own request that we did drop the distinction.
"Sure, yer honour," said he to me one day, "if ye playze, wouldst thou moind if Oi axed thee to not call me 'Sor'?"
"But for why, my good friend?"
"Uh! sure sor it doesn't sound roight to moy ears, and maketh me to fale a stranger to thee, sor. Playze, sor, give unto me back moy ould name and Oi'll fale more loike moysilf."
That, my dears, is the reason why the great man who hath ever lived with us, and carried ye all on his mighty shoulders, hath ever been known unto ye all as plain, old, faithful Michael.
And so, like the harmonious voices of a choir, we five are singing the last, sweet, trembling note. It is dying softly out; but with a tender, holy peacefulness.
THE END
NOTE.—Sir Walter Bradley's chronicle differs, in some parts, from the histories of the majority of the writers of his time. His most important contradictions of his contemporaries are:—
His description of the taking of Berwick—which place, the other authorities state, was besieged for several weeks, by land and sea, before it fell.
The death of King Edward—which event, other chroniclers state, took place at Westminster, not Windsor.
The escape to France of the little Duke of York, who, it is more generally believed, was murdered with his brother, in the Tower.
On all other important points Sir Walter's statements are corroborated by his contemporaries.
K.M.