The Yule-log had been noisily dragged in “to the firing,” and as the big sparks raced up the wide chimney, the boar’s head and the tankard of sack, the great Christmas candle and the Christmas pie, were escorted around the room to the flourish of trumpets and welcoming shouts; the Lord of Misrule, with a wave of his staff, was about to give the order for all to unmask, when suddenly there appeared in the circle a new character—a great green dragon, as fierce and ferocious as well could be, from his pasteboard jaws to his curling canvas tail. The green dragon of Wantley! Terrified urchins backed hastily away from his horrible jaws, and the Lord of Misrule gave a sudden and visible start. The dragon himself, scarce waiting for the surprise to subside, waved his paw for silence, and said, in a hollow, pasteboardy voice:
“Most noble Lord of Misrule, before your feast commences and the masks are doff’d, may we not as that which should give good appetite to all,—with your lordship’s permit and that of my lady’s grace,—tell each some wonder-filling tale as suits the goodly time of Yule? Here be stout maskers can tell us strange tales of fairies and goblins, or, perchance, of the foreign folk with whom they have trafficked in Calicute and Affrica, Barbaria, Perew, and other diverse lands and countries over-sea. And after they have ended, then will I essay a tale that shall cap them all, so past belief shall it appear.”
The close of the dragon’s speech, of course, made them all the more curious; and the Lady Elizabeth did but speak for all when she said: “I pray you, good Sir Dragon, let us have your tale first. We have had enow of Barbaria and Perew. If that yours may be so wondrous, let us hear it even now, and then may we decide.”
“As your lady’s grace wishes,” said the dragon. “But methinks when you have heard me through, you would that it had been the last or else not told at all.”
“Your lordship of Misrule and my lady’s grace must know,” began the dragon, “that my story, though a short, is a startling one. Once on a time there lived a king, who, though but a boy, did, by God’s grace, in talent, industry, perseverance, and knowledge, surpass both his own years and the belief of men. And because he was good and gentle alike and conditioned beyond the measure of his years, he was the greater prey to the wicked wiles of traitorous men. And one such, high in the king’s court, thought to work him ill; and to carry out his ends did wantonly awaken seditious and rebellious intent even among the king’s kith and kin, whom lie traitorously sought to wed,—his royal and younger sister,—nay, start’ not my lady’s grace!” exclaimed the dragon quickly, as Elizabeth turned upon him a look of sudden and haughty surprise. “All is known! And this is the ending of my wondrous tale. My Lord Seymour of Sudleye is this day taken for high treason and haled(1) to the Tower. They of your own household are held as accomplice to the Lord Admiral’s wicked intent, and you, Lady Elizabeth Tudor, are by order of the council to be restrained in prison wards in this your manor of Hatfield until such time as the king’s Majesty and the honorable council shall decide. This on your allegiance!”
(1) Haled—dragged, forcibly conveyed.
The cry of terror that the dragon’s words awoke, died into silence as the Lady Elizabeth rose to her feet, flushed with anger.
“Is this a fable or the posy of a ring, Sir Dragon?” she said, sharply. “Do you come to try or tempt me, or is this perchance but some part of my Lord of Misrule’s Yule-tide mumming? ‘Sblood, sir; only cravens sneak behind masks to strike and threaten. Have off your disguise, if you be a true man; or, by my word as Princess of England, he shall bitterly rue the day who dares to befool the daughter of Henry Tudor!”
“As you will, then, my lady,” said the dragon. “Do you doubt me now?” and, tearing off his pasteboard wrapping, he stood disclosed before them all as the grim Sir Robert Trywhitt, chief examiner of the Lord Protector’s council. “Move not at your peril,” he said, as a stir in the throng seemed to indicate the presence of some brave spirits who would have shielded their young princess. “Master Feodary, bid your varlets stand to their arms.”
And at a word from Master Avery Mitchell, late Lord of Misrule, there flashed from beneath the cloaks of certain tall figures on the circle’s edge the halberds of the guard. The surprise was complete. The Lady Elizabeth was a prisoner in her own manor-house, and the Yule-tide revels had reached a sudden and sorry ending.