“Such will be your doom,” rejoined Philip, sternly.
“Your Majesty is too magnanimous to stoop to such an unworthy revenge,” said Osbert Clinton. “Let us die upon the scaffold. ’Tis the sole grace we ask of you.”
“Ay, spare them this ignominious ending, I beseech you, Sire,” said Mauger, advancing from the guard, among whom he was standing, “and let them fall by my hand.”
“I owe thee a guerdon,” rejoined Philip, “and will give thee their heads. As to you, Osbert Clinton,” he added, “I could devise no worse torture for you than your own bitter reflections will furnish. Had you not engaged in this last design, you might have been pardoned your former offences, have been restored to my favour, and have wedded Constance Tyrrell. Reflect upon this when you are alone in your dungeon.”
“This is only said to torture me!” cried Osbert.
“It is said that you may be aware of the happiness you have so recklessly thrown away,” rejoined the King. “At the intercession of Cardinal Pole, I had consented to pardon you, and, moreover, had promised his Eminence not to oppose your marriage with Constance. But there will be no pardon for you now—no Constance.”
Osbert made no reply, but covered his face with his hand.
After a brief pause, the King turned to Sir Henry Bedingfeld, and ordered him to remove the prisoners to their dungeons. “To-morrow[To-morrow] they will be privately interrogated,” he said, “after which their arraignment, condemnation, and execution will speedily follow. You will not have to wait long for your fees,” he added to Mauger.
“I humbly thank your Majesty,” replied the headsman.
On this, the conspirators were led off by the guard, and placed in different state prisons in the inner ward, a cell in the Flint Tower being assigned to Osbert Clinton. Shortly afterwards, the King rode back to Whitehall, attended by a mounted escort.