Sir William Carew could not forgive the doubt of his packet expressed by Simon, and he turned a deaf ear to Betty’s entreaties. He would not move a finger in the cause. In fact, the stout-hearted gentleman doubted Lord Raby. The evidence was so plain, as Cromwell unfolded it, Simon’s accusation of Sir William’s documents so childish, the outbreak of the insurrection so convincing, that Carew felt certain that the nobleman had been led into dabbling with conspiracy and had committed himself to the cause of Mary Tudor and the papists.
Mistress Betty, indignant at her uncle, distressed for Lord Raby, and helpless to combat the course of events, remained with Lady Crabtree. She was unable even to see the king in regard to the matter. Having been one of Anne Boleyn’s maids, she was unacceptable to Queen Jane, and her petitions to the king remained unanswered. She lived in seclusion at Wildrick, having no heart for the festivities at Hampton Court, where Jane held her court, and being unwelcome, she stayed away. She could not even obtain leave to see her lover; after the outbreak of the rebellion, she was denied access to him; he was kept in solitary confinement and under rigorous military discipline. The suspense told on the young girl’s nerves, and before winter was over she was pale and thin; but her eyes gained in beauty as her color faded, and her striking face drew many a glance of admiration when she went upon her pilgrimages to Cromwell’s house. Lady Crabtree, though sharing some of Carew’s doubts of Raby’s innocence, had a warm regard for him, and was ever Mistress Betty’s companion, her untiring energy accomplishing as much as the young girl’s devotion. The two figures, so strangely contrasted,—the gaunt old woman, with her long stride, and the graceful girl,—were familiar in Cromwell’s anterooms, but their efforts to win better treatment or an open trial for Lord Raby were alike in vain. The privy seal, conscious that in the magician he had a master traitor, saw in Raby a probable accomplice. There was one also, always about Cromwell, whose offices boded ill for Simon. Sir Barton Henge was active in working for the government, tireless upon the scent of traitors, a conspicuously zealous loyalist. Yet, though he and the two women, old Madam and Betty, travelled often upon the same errand, they never met. The sting of Mistress Carew’s whip was still upon his face although the mark had faded, and he watched his opportunity with that feline patience which belongs to the panther tribe, whether walking on two legs or four, for the kinship to the beast is strong in some human beings.
There were many anxious hearts in England through that long year of trouble, and the enemies of the king rejoiced. On Christmas Eve, at the great mass at St. Peter’s, the darkness of the church was illumined by a thousand tapers, while the marvellous cap and sword were laid upon the altar, consecrated for James of Scotland to unite the enemies of the faith. And in Flanders, Cardinal Pole looked eagerly for the opportunity to overthrow Henry VIII., and for the return of the supremacy of Rome. Across the Channel, plot and counter-plot were hatched, took their course, and died fruitless; while in England, the one man with an iron will, the privy seal, held on his even course, though the waves of popular fury, beating on the ship of state, threatened to overwhelm the pilot. Norfolk, whose heart was doubtless more with the rebels than with the king, was driven against them. The unhappy Northumberland died faithful to Henry, although the fate of Anne Boleyn had prostrated him. The great rebellion spent itself; one after another of its leaders were brought to the Tower. The unfortunate Darcy died, charging it all on Cromwell, and at last, in July, Robert Aske suffered a felon’s death. The Pilgrimage of Grace was over; it had ended in a futile loss of life to the cause of the old religion. “Twice the children of Israel went up against Benjamin,” wrote Cardinal Pole, “and twice they were put to confusion.”
In the midst of trials and executions, Raby yet lingered in the Tower untried. Either overlooked in the great pressure of trouble, or held for stronger proof, he and the wizard languished, each in solitary confinement. The king’s officers had taken possession of the strange house on the Thames and searched it, finding many curious contrivances for the execution of the mummeries which had confused the imagination of the magician’s clients. Yet, so exuberant was the superstition of the times, that the exposure of paltry methods of deceit failed to destroy the dread of the small man who had held such sway there. Even the royal officers shrank from their duty, and no one occupied the house; the official seal was affixed to the doors and it remained empty. The shutters, taken down to admit the light for the search, remained so, and the windows blinked in the afternoon sun like evil eyes suddenly unveiled. No man ventured near it after sundown, and many who passed it, even at high noon, made the sign of the cross. A baleful influence seemed to issue from it; the vine that tried to climb up the door-post hung blasted in midsummer, and the grass did not grow, although no footsteps wore the ground about it. There was not an old wife in the neighborhood who had not a tale of how the wizard visited it every night, and how the smoke came from the chimney of his laboratory at the very hour when he had been in the habit of brewing the devil’s tea.
Summer passed; Michaelmas came and went; all England waited in hope and fear for news of the birth of an heir to the throne, and on the twelfth of October, the vigil of Saint Edward’s day, the bells rang out in wild peals of joy, the bonfires blazed from Land’s End to the Tweed, the guns were fired. A prince was born; the hope of England lived.
CHAPTER XXVI
A PRINCE’S BAPTISM
It was the hour appointed for the prince’s baptism. It was night at Hampton Court; the king’s equerries ran to and fro, the ladies of the queen were crowding the anterooms of the royal chamber. They had made elaborate toilets for the great occasion, and farthingales of satin and brocade spread wide on every hand; and more than one slender waist was girdled with costly pearls, while the great headdresses loomed up above fair faces, flushed and agitated with the haste and the unusual presence of the king; for Henry sat beside the state couch on which lay the young mother of England’s future king. Pages quarrelled over comfits on the staircases; gentlemen-in-waiting ran against each other in their eagerness to excel in service at that hour; the doctors and nurses forgot the queen in their zeal for the prince. The heralds, armed with silver trumpets, stood waiting to proclaim the glad event; the sponsors were come, laden with gifts, the Archbishop Cranmer, the Princess Mary, the Duke of Norfolk—a strange company. My lord of Canterbury’s spoons and Mary Tudor’s golden cup stood side by side; the day was not yet ripe when she would sign the warrant to send the archbishop to the flames of martyrdom.
Into this scene of confusion came my Lady Crabtree and Mistress Betty Carew. It was an hour when all guests were welcome, and the opportunity to reach the royal presence was too valuable to be lost. Betty came with a secret hope; she did not speak of it even to her companion, but it was in her heart. She had arrayed herself with more than usual care, and she looked like a stately white rose as she stood in the chapel waiting for the entrance of the great procession. Her gown was of pure white brocade, and on her head was the five-pointed hood of white velvet, such as Anne Boleyn had often worn; around her throat was a single string of pearls. Months of anxiety had stolen the color from her cheeks, but her brown eyes were larger and more lustrous, and there was a purpose, a resolution in her face which made it beautiful in its intense animation. Old Madam, in a singularly ugly garment of copper-colored satin with a marvellous headdress of black velvet, made a strange foil for the beauty, and many a curious glance was cast in their direction as they stood aside, watching, but taking no part in the festivities.
The torches flared in the royal chapel, the light shining red on the altar and on the solid silver font, which was guarded by four gentlemen, one of these Sir Francis Bryan, the cousin of Anne Boleyn. These four grand personages wore aprons, and towels were tied around their necks. There were Bryan, Sir John Russel, Sir Nicholas Carew, the master of horse, who was to lose his head in the matter of the Marquis of Exeter, and Sir Anthony Browne. The silver trumpets blew in the very chamber where Jane Seymour lay, and the procession came up between the torches to the silver font. There was the glitter of gold, the flash of jewels, the sheen of satin. Noble lords, great ladies, the peers of England walked in solemn company. The smoke from the many torches floated up to the roof and hung like a veil; below, the blaze of splendor dazzled the eye. Under a glittering canopy came the prince of England, borne in the arms of the Marchioness of Exeter, and behind walked the humble Mother Jack, the prince’s nurse. The Princess Mary and the Duke of Norfolk, Seymour, the queen’s brother, bearing in his arms the little Princess Elizabeth, who held in her hands a chrisom, her gift to her infant brother. The father of Anne Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire, came with a towel about his neck and bearing a taper of virgin wax. Behind these, the lords and ladies of the court; a long and goodly procession, sweeping into the chapel and filling it with a gorgeous display of costly silks and jewels. And the music of the silver trumpets filled the air, while on every side beauty and magnificence vied with each other, and the blaze of many torches made the chapel light as day. The solemn service over, his serene highness, Prince Edward, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, was proclaimed by Garter, and the glittering procession took its way back to the chamber of the queen, where King Henry had remained all the while. It was midnight when, with the music of many trumpets, the throng came in to the great apartment where the pale-faced queen lay on a state bed with a canopy above it, resplendent with cloth of gold. There was the rustle of many sweeping skirts, the jingle of swords and chains, the flare of many lights, and all the room full of faces, looking eagerly toward the royal couch. The Marchioness of Exeter bore the little prince to receive his mother’s blessing; the king stood up, looking on, boisterous in his joy. Behind him were the pale, gentle face of Cranmer, the stalwart form of Norfolk, the sad and cold-looking Princess Mary, the daughter of Catherine of Arragon, and the little golden-haired Elizabeth, the child of such bright hopes, and now stamped with the mark of illegitimacy and shadowed by the fearful death of Anne Boleyn. The little princess, though only four years old, had a train borne by Lady Herbert as she walked into the room. The king had increased in corpulence, and the ulcers on his legs made his movements painful, but he was very merry.
“Sweetheart,” he said to the queen as she kissed the child, after giving it her blessing, “the boy hath thine eyes and will have thy beauty.”