SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.
VII.
“This is very singular!” cried Sir Roger Lassels, master of the earl’s household, as they passed the edge of the wood. “I had made a bet with myself that we would follow the road on the bank of the river. At all events, the expedition will not be a very long one, since they have given me no order for provisions. It is true, however, that our poor young lord’s head is not as sound as it might be. Ah! well, in the time of the late duke things were not managed in this fashion. When they were going into the country, the duke would send for me eight days in advance. ‘Lassels,’ he would say—‘my dear Lassels,’ slapping me on the shoulder, ‘above all take great care that we shall want for nothing. Prepare everything in advance; because in matters of cooking, you know, I hate nothing so much as the uncertainty of the ‘fortune of the pot.’ He was right, very right, was the duke. The duchess used always to say on seeing our wagons passing by: ‘With Roger Lassels they carry everything with them.’”
In the meantime the first rays of the sun were not slow in dissipating the heavy mists of morning; the air became pure and exhilarating, and the northern pines, which grew in great profusion in that portion of the forest, imparted to the atmosphere a sweet, pungent odor. Myriads of dewdrops, more brilliant than diamonds, were suspended from the points of the leaves,
which the slightest breath of air was sufficient to call down in a laughing shower. Creeping vines, thickly laden with blossoms, crossed and recrossed the road, almost hidden by the thick verdure with which it was overgrown. The birds saluted the return of day with a thousand joyous songs; the deer and young fawns bounded beneath the heavy shade of the forest. All nature wore an air of majestic beauty, calm and tranquil; the heart of man is alone found to remain always in a state of agitation and unrest.
“Oh! what a beautiful shot,” cried a voice from the crowd, on seeing a large grouse, its wings dripping with the dew, flying slowly above their heads.
“Take it, then!” cried another.
“For what purpose?” exclaimed Northumberland.
Sir Walsh, hearing the voice of Lord Percy, took advantage of that moment to urge his horse beside him, and declare the pain it caused him to see his friend so deeply depressed.
“What could you expect?” replied Percy. “All is ended with me. I have renounced everything. I am detached from everything earthly. A single moment has dissipated all the illusions of my short and miserable life—illusions in which so many others remain for ever enveloped. I believed that henceforth a word would be sufficient to answer my every thought; to suffer alone,
while awaiting death, which is only the beginning of life. Might I not thus believe myself to be almost shielded by evils, since I was determined to endure them all? One evil only I had not foreseen—that of being made the cause of suffering to others; of becoming, in the hands of an unjust and barbarous ruler, an instrument destined to destroy my friends! Ah! it is this that makes me rebel, that bows me to the earth and surpasses everything that I have yet been made to suffer. I go at this moment to arrest the Archbishop of York—to conduct him, doubtless, on the road to execution; and the day will come when those who loved him will exclaim, while they point the finger of scorn at my abode: ‘There lives the man who arrested the great Wolsey, the venerable friend who had reared and educated him in his own house!’”
“The great Wolsey!” replied Walsh, astonished.
“Yes, great,” said Northumberland. “When he will be no more, then will they forget his faults and appreciate his great qualities. He has known how to keep the lion chained, so that you have only seen him lap; but you will know him better if he ever gets the chance to use his teeth.”
“Who is this lion?” asked Walsh.
“I cannot name his name,” replied Northumberland angrily; “he is one whose claws tear the heart and destroy the innocent; one who is—But never mind!” And he abruptly ceased speaking.
After riding for some time through the forest, they at last emerged into a vast plain, in the midst of which appeared several villages; and very soon they found themselves near a church, whose ringing chimes announced the beginning of the divine Office.
“Ah!” said Sir Roger Lassels to himself, “there is to be Mass at the chapel of Sir William Harrington.”
At that moment the Earl of Northumberland turned to Sir Walsh. “If agreeable to you,” he said, “we will stop and hear Mass. We shall, at any rate, arrive soon enough at Cawood. You will have an opportunity, if you are curious, of visiting the monuments Sir William Harrington has had erected to the memory of his parents in this chapel, founded by him in order that prayers may every day be offered for the repose of their souls.”[77]
“I ask nothing better,” replied Sir Walsh.
They all entered the chapel, where Mass had already begun. A great number of the inhabitants of the surrounding country were assembled, and Lord Percy found himself close beside a woman, still very young, but whose features seemed to have been entirely changed by misery and suffering. Two small children knelt beside her and held to her coarse, black woollen gown.
“Mother, I am very hungry yet!” said the eldest in a voice as sweet as that of a young dove. “Brother has eaten up all the bread.” And he laid his head against her shoulder.
The young woman looked at the child, and her eyes filled with tears.
“My dear child,” she replied in a low, choking voice, “I have nothing more to give you; this evening, may be, I shall find something to buy bread with. If your father were living, we would be very happy; but, my son, a poor widow is cast
off by all the world, even though she is too feeble to work for bread for her children.”
Tears streamed from her eyes as she pressed the starving child close to her bosom.
Northumberland listened to the woman’s mournful complaint, observing especially that she did not murmur; she only wept. The expression of her pale and suffering face, as well as the feeling she had expressed of entire abandonment, filled his soul with pity.
“Such as these,” he said to himself—“such as these indeed have a right to complain of life and its miseries. I have ignored them. Shut up in my castle, I have even forgotten the orphan. Of no possible service to my kind, the earth supports me like an arid, sterile plant. Cruel selfishness! Is it, then, essential for all to smile around me before I can think of those who are crushed by poverty and misfortune? My tears, my sighs, my regrets, have all been in vain, have vanished into thin air; there remains for me nothing but duty to my neighbor, and that I have not done!”
Greatly agitated, he remained for an instant motionless, then, leaning over toward the woman, he requested her to leave the chapel for a moment.
Surprised that any one should think of speaking to her, she raised her eyes, all streaming with tears, to his face, while astonishment was painted on her emaciated features.
She arose, however, and followed him out, and they stopped a short distance from the chapel.
“You weep!” said Northumberland compassionately. “You are a widow, it seems. Are you not able to support your children?”
“Alas! sir,” replied the young woman without hesitation, “my
husband died in a strange land while on a voyage which would have secured us a living; and I, a stranger in this country where he has left me, and where I have no relations, no friends, to assist me, have been brought down to extreme poverty. My work has scarcely sufficed to keep us alive, and to-day it has failed entirely.”
“Poor woman!” said Northumberland, putting some pieces of gold in her hand, “hereafter have no fears; I will take care of you and your young children.”
“My God!” cried the woman, falling on her knees—“bread, bread for my children! Are you an angel sent from heaven to save us? O sir! who will thank you for me? Ah! it shall be my poor children and your own! May they love and bless you as I do this moment.”
“Alas!” replied Lord Percy, “I have no children; I shall never have any! But you, poor mother, can at least rejoice in the happiness of possessing children to love and cherish you.”
In spite of the painful recollections awakened in his soul, when Percy returned to the chapel his heart was overflowing with a secret and sweet consolation; he felt that henceforth he would find brothers and friends in these unfortunates, whose father he would replace by taking upon himself their support.
When the Mass was ended, they all remounted their horses to continue their journey. They had scarcely started when they were joined by a troop of horsemen as numerous as it was brilliant, being composed of a great number of the most distinguished gentlemen in the province, who were proceeding to York to assist at the installation of their archbishop. At their head
rode old Robert Ughtred, chief of one of the oldest Yorkshire families, whose valor and merit had been admired by all his contemporaries. Six of his sons accompanied him. At his side rode Clifton, Lord d’Humanby, his friend and relative; Thomas Wentworth, of Nettlestead; Sir Arthur Ingram de Temple, Lord of Newsam; Walter Vavassour; John de Hothum, Lord of Cramwick and of Bierly; William Aytoun, Swillington; Meynill, Lord of Semer and Duerteton, together with a crowd of others. They recognized with astonishment the Earl of Northumberland, and eagerly approached to salute him.
This meeting, but little agreeable at first, became still less so when informed of the object of their journey. Percy, however, deemed it inexpedient to let this opportunity pass of creating for himself a sort of justification for the future. On being told, therefore, that they would spend two days at the little village of Cawood before going to salute the archbishop, he assured them he would be most happy to do the same and not separate from their company; but he was forced to go where he had been ordered, and that it was a mission on which he proceeded with the greatest reluctance and sorrow.
The travellers, astonished at his singular explanation, looked inquiringly at each other; but as they regarded the Earl of Northumberland with great deference because of his rank, his well-known worth, and the affection they cherished for the memory of his father, they held their peace, and continued their journey until within a very short distance of Cawood.
* * * * *
Notwithstanding the resolution taken by Cardinal Wolsey that the
ceremony of his installation should be attended by the least possible éclat, he could not prevent the entire nobility of the province from assembling to do him honor and to express on this solemn occasion their affection and joy. The little village of Cawood and the castles around it were crowded with visitors. The archbishop’s courtyard was constantly filled with carts laden with game, fruits, and all kinds of provisions, sent to him from every direction to assist in doing honor to the entertainment it was customary to give on these occasions.
Wolsey felt touched to the heart by these testimonials of friendship and esteem, in which there was no reason to suspect that self-interest mingled its destructive poison. Nevertheless, he felt more than ever depressed, and his spirit was overshadowed by dark and terrible presentiments, in spite of all his efforts to dispel them.
It was the hour for the repast taken by our fathers at noon, and Wolsey found himself seated opposite the salt-cellar which divided the table, and served also to designate the rank of the guests. In those remote times a common expression prevailed: “It takes place above or below the salt.”
The chaplains were seated around him, quietly discussing the foundation of the cathedral of York. Some of them stated that the Venerable Bede alleged in his writings that it was Edwin the Saxon, King of Northumberland, who, having embraced the Christian faith in the year 627, was the first to build a wooden church, which he afterwards rebuilt of stone. But the others contended, the monument having been pillaged and devastated by the Danes, then burned by the Normans, together with a portion
of the city, the title of founder could only be accorded to Archbishop Roger, who commenced the erection of the superb edifice in 1171, and to his successors, John of Romagna and William of Melton, who had the honor of completing it after forty years’ labor. They insisted that it would assuredly be just to include among them Robert Percy, Lord of Bolton, who had all the wood cut employed in the construction, and Robert Vavassour, who had furnished the stone.
The archbishop for a long while had finished eating. He had listened patiently to their lengthy discussions. When he saw at last they had nearly concluded, he arose to say grace; but at the moment they were standing with bowed heads awaiting the act of thanksgiving, the black velvet robe of Dr. Augustine, his physician, became entangled in the foot of the large silver cross that was carried before the archbishop. This cross was standing in one corner, resting against the tapestry, and the robe made it fall with its entire weight on the head of Dr. Bonner, who sat on the opposite side of the table. He uttered a piercing cry.
They all rushed toward him.
“What is the matter with him?” demanded the archbishop, who had seen nothing of the accident.
“The cross,” explained Cavendish, his master of the horse—“the cross, which was leaning against the wall, has fallen in Dr. Bonner’s face.”
“In his face! Is he bleeding?” cried Wolsey.
“Yes,” replied several of those who surrounded the wounded man, “but it is nothing serious; the skin only is broken.”
“Ah!” said Wolsey, and he stood motionless; his head sank on
his breast, as though he had suddenly fallen into a profound reverie.
“Woe is me!” he at length exclaimed, “woe is me!” And the tears coursed down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away and retired immediately to his bedroom, where no one dared follow him without being summoned.
The attendants of the cardinal, however, were extremely apprehensive, having remarked the sudden change in his manner and the extreme pallor which had overspread his countenance. Dr. Bonner especially earnestly insisted that Cavendish should go to him at once.
He finally resolved to do so. On entering the apartment he found the archbishop on his knees, and remarked that the floor of his chamber was wet with tears.
Wolsey made a sign for him to retire; but the faithful servitor stood near the door and hesitated to obey him. The cardinal then called him to assist him in rising to his feet, feeling, he said, extremely feeble.
“Alas! my dear lord,” said Cavendish, “what is it that so deeply grieves you? and why will you withdraw from your trusty servitors, if it is in their power to assist you?”
“I thank you, Cavendish,” replied the cardinal, inclining his head, “but listen to me. My poor friend, I am going to die very soon—I have a presentiment of it; and God, in his mercy, often sends us these warnings, in order that we may not be surprised by death. The cross of York has fallen: it represents myself.”
“Why think you so?” asked Cavendish earnestly. “This cross fell because it was struck; nothing could have been more natural than such an accident.”
“No! no!” exclaimed Wolsey,
“it was not at all natural, but it is only too true. York is overthrown! Augustine is my accuser; he makes my own blood flow in making Bonner bleed, the master of my faculties and spiritual jurisdiction. My destiny is accomplished. My doom is sealed. Cavendish, if you doubt it, you will soon be convinced. My shadow, the sound of my name alone, is sufficient to alarm them; already I am no more, and yet this remnant of life makes them tremble, even in the midst of their triumphs. It is necessary for their peace that my last breath be extinguished; they have resolved and they will accomplish it!”
“No! no!” cried Cavendish, deeply moved. “The king loves you; he will defend you! All love you,” he continued warmly. “See with what eagerness they hasten hither to give you the most earnest assurances of their devotion.”
“That is true,” replied Wolsey, who was becoming more calm, and was greatly relieved by the presence of Cavendish. “It is the only feeling of joy I have experienced in a long time; but I am grieved not to have received any token of remembrance from the young Earl of Northumberland. His intellect, goodness, and his many amiable qualities have always made me regard him with the greatest esteem and affection. They say he loves solitude, and I am well assured that he receives no visitors; but I very much fear he cherishes bitter recollections of the court and Anne Boleyn. However, he should not take it ill that I have helped to prevent him from marrying such a woman!”
Whilst Wolsey was speaking a great noise was heard in the courtyard. Cavendish, at the cardinal’s request, immediately went out to ascertain the cause.
He had advanced but a few steps when he encountered another equerry, coming in all haste to announce the arrival of the Earl of Northumberland.
Overjoyed at hearing the name, Cavendish at once returned to inform the archbishop.
“Here is Lord Percy himself, who also comes to congratulate your grace!” he exclaimed the instant he came in sight of Wolsey.
“The dear child!” cried the cardinal, his heart overflowing with a gush of tenderness. “Cavendish, you are not mistaken. Eh? Ah! I shall never forget him! Let us go and receive him, Cavendish.”
He advanced with a tottering step, and more rapidly than he was able, toward the staircase which Northumberland had just ascended. On seeing the archbishop approaching to meet him Lord Percy felt his heart suddenly throb with a sensation of inexpressible wretchedness.
“He comes to meet me!” he exclaimed.
He found him so much changed, so old and worn, that without his vestments he would scarcely have recognized him.
“He also has found the cup of life embittered!” said Northumberland. “Sorrow carves deep furrows on the brow, and with her haggard finger impresses every feature.”
He turned anxiously to look for Walsh, but found he was no longer near him. In the meantime Wolsey advanced rapidly toward him, and, taking him in his arms, pressed him closely to his heart.
“You are most welcome, my dear lord! How happy I am to see you!” he exclaimed. “But why have I not been informed of your coming? I should, at least, have
been prepared to give you a better reception; for you must know that what formerly required but a moment to effect I am now scarcely able to execute at all. But you will, I hope, appreciate my good intentions; and if I am ever so happy as to be re-established in my fortune, I shall then be able to express more worthily the joy I feel at receiving you in my house.”
“I thank your lordship,” answered Northumberland.
But he was unable to utter another word. However, he embraced Wolsey, though with great excitement of manner, his hands trembling visibly in those of the archbishop.
“Let us go,” continued Wolsey glancing at the followers of Lord Percy. “I am glad to see you have remembered the advice I gave you in your youth, to love and take care of all your father’s old domestics; that is why, I suppose, you have brought so many of them with you.”
“Yes, I prefer them,” replied Northumberland. And Wolsey went and took them each by the hand, praising their fidelity and recommending them to love their young master as he himself had always done.
The more Wolsey exerted himself to assure Northumberland of the gratification he experienced at his coming, the less strength Percy felt to thank him. However, the cardinal begged to be allowed to accompany him to his bed-chamber, where they might be alone, except Cavendish, who remained near the door, as his duty required him.
For a moment they sat in silence. Wolsey regarded Lord Percy with astonishment on observing the latter change color and become every instant more and more embarrassed. At length, arousing himself
suddenly to a determined degree of resolution, he approached, and, laying his hand gently on the arm of the archbishop, said in a voice tremulous with emotion: “My lord, I arrest you on the charge of high treason!”
Wolsey sat so completely stupefied that he was incapable of uttering a word; they gazed at each other in mournful silence.
“Who has induced you to do this?” the cardinal at length exclaimed, “and by what authority do you it?”
“My lord,” replied Northumberland coldly, “I have a commission that authorizes me; or that compels me, rather,” he continued in a low voice.
“Where is this commission? Let me see it?”
“No, my lord, I cannot.”
“Then,” cried Wolsey, “I will not submit to your authority.”
As he said this, Sir Walsh pushed Dr. Augustine, whom he had arrested, rudely into the apartment. “Go in there, traitor,” he cried; but perceiving the cardinal, he fell on his knees before him, and, removing his cap, bowed almost to the floor.
Wolsey turned pale on seeing Walsh; he at once recognized him as being an officer of the king’s palace, and knew he would not be there without an express order.
“Sir,” he exclaimed, “rise, I implore you! My Lord of Northumberland comes to arrest me! If he has a commission, and you are with him for that purpose, you will be pleased to let me see it.”
“My lord,” answered Walsh, “if it please your grace, it is true that I have one; but we cannot permit you to see it. They have added to the paper on which it is written some instructions that we are bound not to make known.”
“Then,” cried Wolsey, melting into tears, “all is over with me! They deprive me even of the means of defending myself, and my cruel enemies behold all their schemes accomplished. It is well, sir,” continued the archbishop, turning his back on the Earl of Northumberland; “I consent to surrender myself to you, but not to my Lord of Northumberland, who comes here only to enjoy my discomfiture. As to you, I know you; your name is Walsh, and you are one of the officers of the king, my master. Therefore I do not demand your commission; his will is sufficient. I am perfectly aware that the greatest peer in the realm is liable to be arrested by the lowest subject, if such be his majesty’s good pleasure. This is why I shall obey you without delay. Begin, then, to put your orders into execution. If I had known them, I would have assisted you myself; but, at least, I submit.”
Saying this, the archbishop seated himself in silence; but the tears continued to flow rapidly down his cheeks.
Meanwhile, Lord Percy felt so deeply wounded by the suspicion manifested by the archbishop, and his believing him to be actuated by a principle of low revenge and cruelty in coming to arrest him, that he was about to withdraw without offering him a solitary word of consolation, as he had intended; but a sudden feeling of compassion induced him to return and take a seat by his side.
Wolsey was deeply moved by this.
“My lord,” he exclaimed, “I swear before God I am innocent of all the crimes my enemies impute to me, beyond doubt, for the purpose of securing my death!
I have committed many errors, I know; but it has been against God and against myself that I have committed them, and not against my king, whom I have always served with an inviolable fidelity. I have possessed great riches; but I employed them in founding great and useful establishments. I have held correspondence with foreign princes, and have acquired great influence in their councils, but I have always used it in the interests of my king and the state. And now he has abandoned me to the malice of my enemies, and does not hesitate an instant to believe all the calumnies they have heaped upon my head! No, I shall indulge in vain illusions no longer. I go now to my death; and it is my king who strikes the fatal blow! Ah!” continued Wolsey, transported by his feelings, “would I might appear before him, that I might justify myself in the face of heaven and earth! Then I should fear no man living under the sun. But, no; it will not be thus. I shall die without vindication, in the depths of some obscure prison, some noisome dungeon! Not a friend has remained faithful; not a single voice has been raised in my defence!”
“Friendship,” replied Northumberland, “is but a vain word, a beautiful sound that dissolves in the air, a shifting sand requiring the one who reposes on it always to remain on his guard, to beware; for one-half of the world is too frivolous and the other half too selfish for any confidence ever to be placed in them.”
“Therefore you yourself feel no compassion for me?” said Wolsey, looking at him.
“You are unjust!” replied Lord Percy. “God is my judge how deeply I have suffered in being
forced before you in my present capacity. But tell me, how am I to arrest the destroying tempest or turn aside the falling thunderbolt? Have they not crushed me also?”
* * * * *
After two long days had passed, during which the archbishop was entirely deprived of all communication with those around him, Northumberland came to inform him that everything was arranged for the journey and it was time to depart.
“Alas! where are you going to take me?” cried Wolsey, to whom this departure seemed the first step toward condemnation and death.
In that fatal moment he felt an attachment for every stone and every spot connected with the abode which, until this time, he had regarded as the most gloomy place of exile.
“Not to be able to die in peace!” he mournfully exclaimed. “Where are you going to take me, Lord Percy?”
“I cannot accompany you,” sadly replied Northumberland, who had endeavored during the preceding days to make him regard his condition with less terror; “but I know that Sir Walsh has orders to deliver you at Sheffield Park, and place you in the hands of my father-in-law, the Earl of Shrewsbury; and you need suffer no anxiety, nor doubt but that he will gladly exert himself to have you well treated as far as depends on him. To-night you will sleep at Pomfret.”
“At the castle?” demanded Wolsey.
“No, no,” replied Lord Percy: “at the abbey. I am certain of it. I swear it! I have myself sent the order for you to be received there. O my father!” continued Percy, who felt more and more deeply grieved, “I must now leave you.”
(And he fell on his knees before the archbishop.) “May God be with you! But first give me your blessing. I indeed have need of it! I have never forgotten the care you bestowed on me in my childhood.”
“My dear son,” said the archbishop, “may the Lord Almighty, the God of Israel and of Jacob, for ever bless you! We shall meet no more but in him.”
As the archbishop extended his hands and laid them on the head of Percy, and while he bent affectionately over him, Walsh entered, followed by a number of armed men; and the sound of smothered sighs and stifled cries was heard.
“What is that?” exclaimed Wolsey in alarm.
“Nothing, my lord,” answered Walsh in an imperious tone. “As you could only take four of your men with you, I feared the others would make too much disturbance at your departure; consequently, I had them shut up in the chapel.”
“Sir,” cried Wolsey indignantly, “I will not leave this place until I have seen and bade farewell to all my servants. You cannot have been authorized to treat me with such a degree of cruelty. My Lord Northumberland, since you have seized for the king’s benefit the little money I possessed, and have left me nothing to give them, at least permit me to thank them for their services and mingle my tears with theirs.”
“We thought it would be painful for you to witness their grief,” replied Northumberland, “and wished to spare you the infliction. But they shall be summoned.”
As soon as the door of the chapel was opened they gathered in a crowd around Wolsey, kissing his hands and his vestments.
“My children,” he said to them, “weep not; we shall meet again very soon, I hope. My Lord Northumberland, I recommend them to you! You will take care of them—I feel assured of it.”
He then hastened to depart, feeling his courage ready to desert him. At every step he took his anguish redoubled; and when he reached the great courtyard, he turned his eyes for a moment toward the high, black walls of the castle he was leaving, then glanced at the mule assigned him to ride. Cavendish followed with his almoner and two of his valets. But a new grief awaited Wolsey, already overwhelmed with sorrow. Scarcely had they opened the outer gate of the castle, when they perceived without a crowd of gentlemen of the province, whom Walsh had summoned, in the king’s name, to come and secure the arrest of the archbishop; because the whole country was in a state of commotion, and more than three thousand men had gathered along the route, in the plain, and as far as the moats of the castle, around which they assembled as soon as they were informed of his arrest. They were powerless to oppose his departure, but followed him for several miles, shouting incessantly: “God save his grace, and perish his enemies who have forced him from us!” They regarded the noblemen who surrounded him with wrathful scowls, without reflecting that, while feeling it necessary to obey the king, the lords were as deeply disaffected as themselves, and in their turn accused the Earl of Northumberland of having seconded Walsh in this enterprise.
During the journey they unceasingly manifested the greatest regard for the archbishop, and only left him after seeing him committed into the hands of the Earl of Shrewsbury, whose castle was situated near the confines of Yorkshire, a short distance from the town of Doncaster.
TO BE CONTINUED.
[77] The son has now ceased to invoke in this once hallowed spot the divine mercy on the souls of his fathers; the bells no more announce the vows nor the regrets of the heart; the august Sacrifice is never offered up but in the gloomy silence imposed by persecution.