Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by G. P. R. James

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.