Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  Once more the fleeting soul came back T' inspire the mortal frame, And in the body took a doubtful stand, Hovering like expiring flame, That mounts and falls by turns.--Dryden.

  The painful situation of Lady Constance de Grey had not lost anyportion of its sorrow, or gained any ray of hope, on the first ofJune, three days after we last left her, at which period we again takeup her story. She was then sitting in a small, poor cottage betweenWhitesand Bay and Boulogne, watching the slumber of the excellent oldman whose regard for her had brought upon his head so much pain anddanger. Ever since he had been removed to the hut where they now were,he had lingered in great agony, except at those times when a state ofstupor fell upon him, under which he would remain for many hours, andonly wake from it again to acute pain. He had, however, that morningfulfilled the last duties of his religion, with the assistance of agood monk of Boulogne, who now sat with Lady Constance, watching thesweet sleep into which he had fallen for the first time since theirshipwreck.

  Across the little window, to keep out the light, Constance had drawnone of her own dresses, which had been saved by the sailor Bradfordhaving tied the leathern case that contained them to the plank whichhad brought herself to shore; but still through the casement,notwithstanding this sort of extemporaneous curtain, the soft breathof the early morning flowed in; and the murmuring voice of thetreacherous ocean was heard softly from afar, filling up every pausein the singing of the birds and the busy hum of all the light childrenof the summer.

  The calmness of the old man's slumber gave Constance hope; and with asweet smile she sat beside him, listening to the mingled voice ofcreation, and joining mentally in the song of praise that all thingsseemed raising towards the great Creator. Indeed, if ever mortal beingmight be supposed to resemble those pure spirits who, freed from alltouch of clay, adore the Almighty in his works, she then looked likean angel, in form, in feature, and in expression, while, robed all inwhite, and watching the sick bed of her ancient friend, she lookedupon his tranquil slumber with that bland smile of hope and gratitude.

  In the mean while the old monk sat on the other side of his bed,regarding him with more anxiety; for long experience in visiting thosewho hung upon the brink of another world tad taught him, that sleeplike that into which the clergyman had fallen as often precedes deathas recovery. It had continued thus till towards mid-day, the cottagebeing left in solitude and silence; for the sailor Bradford had goneto seek remedies from a simpler at Boulogne, and Jekin Groby hadstolen away for a visit to Calais, while the people to whom thecottage belonged were absent upon their daily occupations. At length,however, a slight sort of convulsive motion passed over the featuresof the old man, and, opening his eyes, he said in a faint, low voice,"Constance, my dear child, where are you? My eyes are dim."

  "I am here, my dear sir," replied Constance. "You have been sleepingvery sweetly. I hope you feel better."

  "It is over, Constance!" replied Dr. Wilbraham, calmly, but feebly. "Iam dying, my child. Let me see the sunshine." Constance withdrew thecurtain, and the fresh air blowing on the sick man's face seemed togive him more strength. "It is bright," cried he; "it is very bright.I feel the sweet summer air, and I hear the glad singing of the birds;but I go fast, dear daughter, where there are things brighter andsweeter; for surely, surely, God, who has clothed this world with suchsplendour, has reserved far greater for the world to come."

  The tears streamed down Constance's cheeks, for there was in the oldman's face a look of death not to be mistaken; that look, theinevitable precursor of dissolution to man, when it seems as if theavenging angel had come between him and the sun of being, and cast hisdark shadow over him for ever.

  "Weep not, Constance," said the old man, with faint and brokenefforts; "for no storms will reach me in my Redeemer's bosom. In hismercy is my hope, in his salvation is my reliance. Soon, soon shall Ibe in the place of peace, where joy reigneth eternally. Could I have afear, my dear child, it would be for you, left alone in a wide anddesolate world, with none to protect you. But, no; I have no fear: Godis your protector; and never, never, my child, doubt his goodness, northink that he does not as surely watch over the universe as he thatcreated it at first. Everything is beneath his eye, from the smallestgrain of sand to the great globe itself; and his will governs all, andguides all, though we see neither the beginning nor the end.Constance, I am departing," he continued, more faintly: "God'sblessing be upon you, my child! and, oh! if He in his wisdom everpermits the spirit of the dead to watch over those they loved whenliving, I will be with you and Darnley when this frail body is dust."

  His lips began gradually to lose their power of utterance, and hishead fell back upon the pillow. The monk saw that the good man's endwas approaching fast, and placing the crucifix in his dying hand, hepoured the words of consolation in his ear; but Dr. Wilbraham slightlymotioned with his hand, to signify that he was quite prepared, andfixing his eyes upon the cross, murmured to himself, "I come, O Lord,I come! Be thou merciful unto me, O King of mercy! Deliver speedilyfrom the power of death, O Lord of life!"

  The sounds gradually ceased, but yet his lips continued to move; hislips lost their motion, but his eyes were fixed, full of hope, uponthe cross; a film came over them; it passed away, and the light beamedup again--shone brightly for a moment--waned--vanished--and all wasdeath. The eyes were still fixed upon the cross, but that brightthing, life, was there no more. To look at them, no one could say whatwas gone between that minute and the one before; and yet it wasevident that they were now but dust: the light was extinguished, thewine was poured out, and it was but the broken lamp, the empty urn,that remained to go down into the tomb.

  Constance closed his eyes, and weeping bitterly, knelt down with theold monk, and joined in the prayer that he addressed to heaven. Shethen rose, and seated herself by all that remained of her dead friend,feeling alone in all the world, solitary, friendless, desolate; andstraining her sweet eyes upon the cold, unresponsive countenance ofthe dead, she seemed bitterly to drink to the dregs the cup ofhopelessness which that sight offered.

  No one spoke. The monk himself was silent, seeming to think that theprayer he had offered to the Deity was the only fitting language forthe presence of the dead; when a sound was heard without, and thedoor, gently opening, admitted the form of Jekin Groby. The goodclothier thought the old man still slept, as when he had left thecottage, and advanced on tiptoe for fear of waking him; but the liftedhand of the monk, the streaming eyes of Constance, and the cold, rigidstiffness of the face before him, warned him of what had happened; andpausing suddenly, he clasped his hands with a look of unaffectedsorrow. "Good God!" cried he, "he is dead! Alas the day!" Constance'stears streamed afresh. "Lady," said the worthy man, in a kindly tone,"take comfort! He is gone to a better place than we have here, poorhapless souls! And surely, if all were as well fitted for that placeas he was, we should have little cause to fear our death, and ourgossips little cause to weep. Take comfort, sweet lady! take comfort!Our God is too good for us to murmur when he cuts our measure short."

  There was something in the homely consolation of the honest Englishmanthat touched Constance to the heart, and yet she could not refrainfrom weeping even more than before.

  "Nay, nay, dear lady," continued Jekin, affected almost to tearshimself; "you must come away from here. I cannot bear to see you weepso; and though I am but a poor clothier, and little fitted to putmyself in his place that is gone, I will never leave you till I seeyou safe. Indeed I won't! Come, lady, into the other cottage hard by,and we will send some one to watch here in your place. Lord, Lord! tothink how soon a fellow-creature is gone! Sure I thought to find himbetter when I came back. Come, lady, come!"

  "Perhaps I had better," replied Constance, drying her tears. "My caresfor him are useless; yet, though I murmur not at God's will, I muste'en weep, for I have lost as good a friend, and the world has lost asgood a man, as ever it possessed. But I will go; for it is in vain tostay here and en
courage unavailing grief." She then addressed a fewsentences to the monk in French, thanking him for his charitableoffices towards her dead friend, and begging him to remain there tillshe could send some one to watch the body; adding, that if he wouldcome after that to the adjoining cottage, she would beg him to conveyto his convent a small gift on her part.

  The monk bowed his head, and promised to obey; and Constance, givingone last look to the inanimate form of the excellent being she hadjust lost, followed Jekin Groby to the cottage hard by, where, beggingto be left alone, she once more burst into tears, and let both hersorrow and despondency have way, feeling that sort of oppression ather heart which can be relieved but by weeping.

  It is needless to follow farther such sad scenes; to tell the bluntgrief of Bradford, when he returned and found that his errand had beenin vain; or to describe the funeral of good Dr. Wilbraham, which tookplace the next day (for so custom required) in the little cemetery ofWhitesand Bay.

  Immediately this was over, Lady Constance prepared to set out forBoulogne, hoping to find a refuge in the heart of France till she hadtime to consider and execute some plan for her future conduct. We havetwice said, that the sailor, in tying her to the plank on which shehad floated from the shipwrecked vessel, had fastened to the end ofthe board nearest her feet one of her own leathern cases, for thepurpose of keeping her head raised above the water; and in this, as itluckily happened, were all the jewels and the money which she hadbrought with her from London.

  It would doubtless have rendered her situation much more critical andinteresting if she had been deprived of all such resources; but as thefact was so, it is necessary to state it. No difficulty, therefore,seemed likely to present itself in her journey to her own estates,except that which might arise in procuring a litter to convey her onher way, or in meeting with some female attendant willing to accompanyher. The latter of these was soon done away with; for the daughter ofthe cottagers where she had lodged, a gay, good-humoured Picarde,gladly undertook the post of waiting-woman to the sweet lady, whosegentleness had won them all; and Bradford, who, from a soldier, asailor, a shipwright, and a Rochester rioter, had now become a squireof dames, was despatched to Boulogne to see if he could buy or hire alitter and horses.

  In the midst of all these proceedings, poor Jekin Groby was sadlyagitated by many contending feelings. In his first fit of sympathywith Constance on the death of Dr. Wilbraham, he had, as we have seen,promised to accompany her to the end of her journey, whithersoever itmight be; but the thoughts of dear little England, and his ownfireside, and his bales of cloth, and his bags of angels, called himvehemently across the Channel, while curiosity, with a certain touchof mercantile calculation, pulled him strongly towards the court atCalais. Notwithstanding, he resolved, above all things, to acthandsomely, as he said, towards the lady; and accordingly heaccompanied Bradford to Boulogne, to ascertain if he could by any wayget off trudging after her the Lord knew where, as he expressed it,though he vowed he was very willing to go if he could be of anyservice.

  After the sailor and his companion had been absent about six hours,Constance began to be impatient, and proceeded to the door of thecottage to see if she could perceive them coming. Gazing for a fewminutes on the road to Boulogne, she beheld, rising above the brow ofthe hill before her, a knight's pennon, and presently half-a-dozenspears appeared bristling up behind it. Judging that it was someaccidental party proceeding towards Whitesand Bay, Constance retiredinto the cottage, and was not a little surprised when she heard thehorses halt before the door. In a moment after, a gallant cavalier, inpeaceful guise, armed only with his sword and dagger, entered the hut,and, doffing his plumed mortier to the lady, with a low inclination ofthe head, he advanced towards her, saying in French, "Have I thehonour of speaking to the noble Lady de Grey, Countess of Boissy andthe Val de Marne?"

  "The same, sir knight," replied the lady. "To what, may I ask, do Iowe the honour of your presence?"

  "His highness Francis King of France, now in the city of Boulogne,"replied the knight, "hearing that a lady, and his vassal, though bornan English subject, had been shipwrecked on this shore, has chosen mefor the pleasing task of inviting, in his name, the Countess de Boissyto repair to his royal court, not as a sovereign commanding the homageof his vassal, but as a gracious and a noble friend, offering serviceand good-will. His highness's sister, also, the Princess Marguerite ofAlen?on, has sent her own litter for your convenience, with suchescort as may suit your quality."

  Constance could only express her thanks. Had she possessed the powerof choice, she would of course have preferred a thousand times to haveretired to the Val de Marne, without her coming being known to theFrench king or his court, till such time, at least, as the meetingbetween him and the King of England had taken place. However, as itwas known, she could not refuse to obey, and she signified herreadiness to accompany the French knight, begging him merely to waittill the return of a person she had sent to Boulogne for a litter.

  "He will not return, lady," replied the chevalier. "It was through hissearch for a litter at Boulogne, where none are to be had, all beingbought for the court's progress to Ardres, that his highness becameacquainted with your arrival within his kingdom."

  The knight was proceeding to inform her of the circumstances which hadoccurred, when the quick sound of horses' feet was heard without,joined to the clanging of arms, the jingling of spurs and trappings,and various rough cries in the English tongue.

  "Have her! but I will have her, by the Lord!" cried a voice near thedoor; and in a moment after, a knight, armed at all points, strodeinto the cottage. "How now! how now!" cried he; "what is all this? Ah,Monsieur de Bussy," he continued, changing his language to broken,abominable French, "what are you doing with this lady?"

  "I come, Sir John Hardacre," answered the Frenchman, "to invite her tothe court of Francis of France, whose vassal the lady is."

  "And I come," replied the Englishman, "to claim her for Henry King ofEngland, whose born subject she is, and ward of the crown; and so Iwill have her, and carry her to Guisnes, as I am commanded."

  "That depends upon circumstances, sir," answered the Frenchman,offended at the tone of the other. "You are governor of Calais, butyou do not command here. You are off the English pale, sir; and I saythat unless the lady goes with you willingly and by preference, youshall not take her."

  "I shall not!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Who the devil shall stopme?"

  "That will I," answered the French knight; "and I tell you so to yourbeard."

  The Englishman laid his hand upon his sword, and the Frenchman was notslack to follow his example; but Constance interposed. "Hold, hold,gentlemen!" cried she; "I am not worthy of such contention. Monsieurde Bussy, favour me by offering every expression of my humble duty tohis highness your noble king; and show him that I intended instantlyto have obeyed his commands, and followed you to his court, but that Iam compelled, against my will, to do otherwise. Sir John Hardacre, Iam ready to accompany you."

  "If such be your will, fair lady," replied the French knight, "I havenothing but to execute your charge. However, I must repeat, thatwithout your full consent you shall not be taken from French ground,or I am no true knight."

  An angry replication trembled on the lip of the English captain, butConstance stopped its utterance by once more declaring her willingnessto go; and the French officer, bowing low, thrust back his sword intothe sheath, and left the cottage, somewhat out of humour with theevent of his expedition.

  When he and his followers had ridden away, Sir John Hardacre called upa lady's horse, which one of his men-at-arms led by the bridle; andafter permitting Constance to make some change of her apparel, and topay the good folks of the cottage for her entertainment, he placed herin the saddle, and holding the bridle himself, led her away at a quickpace towards Guisnes. He was a rough old soldier, somewhat hardened bylong military service; but the beauty and gentleness of his fairprisoner (for such indeed may we consider poor Constance to have been)somewhat softene
d his acerbity; and after riding on for near an hourin silence, during which he revolved at least twenty ways ofaddressing the lady, without pleasing himself with any, he began by asomewhat bungling excuse, both for his errand and his manner ofexecuting it.

  "I suppose, sir," replied Constance, coldly, "that you have done yourduty. Whether you have done it harshly or not is for you to consider."

  This quite put a stop to all the knight's intentions of conversation,and did not particularly soothe his humour; so that for many milesalong the road he failed not every moment to turn round his head, andvent his spleen upon his men in various high-seasoned curses, forfaults which they might or might not have committed, as the casehappened; the knight's powers of objurgation not only extending to thecursing itself, but also to supplying the cause.

  It was nearly seven o'clock when they began to approach the littletown of Guisnes, but at that season of the year the full light of daywas still shining upon all the objects round about; and Constancemight perceive, as they rode up, all the bustle, and crowding, andidle activity caused by the arrival of the court.

  Her heart sank when she saw it, and thought of all she might therehave to endure. Under any other circumstances, however, it would havebeen a gay and a pleasing sight; so full of life and activity, glitterand show, was everything that met the eye.

  To the southward of the town of Guisnes, upon the large open greenthat extended on the outside of the walls, were to be seen a vastnumber of tents, of all kinds and colours, with a multitude of busyhuman beings employed in raising fresh pavilions on every open space,or in decorating those already spread with streamers, pennons, andbanners, of all the bright hues under the sun. Long lines of horsesand mules loaded with armour or baggage, and ornamented with gayribbons, to put them in harmony with the scene, were winding about,all over the plain, some proceeding towards the town, some seeking thetents of their several lords; while, mingled amongst them, appearedvarious bands of soldiers, on horseback and on foot, with the rays ofthe declining sun glancing upon the heads of their bills and lances,and, together with the white cassock and broad red cross, marking themout from all the other objects. Here and there, too, might be seen aparty of knights and gentlemen cantering over the plain, and enjoyingthe bustle of the scene, or standing in separate groups, issuing theirorders for the erection and garnishing of their tents; while couriers,and pursuivants, and heralds, in all their gay dresses, mingled withmule-drivers, lacqueys, and peasants, armourers, pages, andtent-stretchers, made up the living part of the landscape.

  Behind lay the town of Guisnes, with the forest at its back; and agood deal nearer, the castle, with its protecting guns pointed overthe plain; but the most striking object, and that which instantlycaught the eye, was a building raised immediately in front of thecitadel, on which all that art could devise, or riches could procure,had been lavished, to render it a palace fit for the luxurious kingwho was about to make it his temporary residence.

  From the distance at which they were when it first struck her sight,Constance could only perceive that it was a vast and splendid edifice,apparently square, and seeming to offer a fa?ade of about four hundredfeet on every side, while the sun, reflected from the gilding withwhich it was covered, and the immense quantity of glass that itcontained, rendered it like some great ornament of gold enriched withbrilliants.

  Although her heart was sad, and nothing that she saw tended todispel its gloom, she could not refrain from gazing round with ahalf-curious, half-anxious glance upon all the gay objects thatsurrounded her; almost fearing to be recognised by some one who hadknown her at the court, now that she was led along as a kind ofprisoner; a single woman amidst a band of rude soldiers. Sir JohnHardacre, however, spurred on towards the bridge, which was nearlyimpassable from the number of beasts of burden and their drivers bywhich it was covered; and standing on but little ceremony with hisfellow-lieges, he dashed through the midst of them all, cursing one,and striking another, and overturning a third, much to Constance'shorror and dismay. Having reached the other side, and created by hishaste as much confusion and discomfort as he could in his passage, thesurly captain slackened his pace, muttering something about dignity,and turned his rein towards the temporary palace of the king.Proceeding slowly amidst a multitude, many of whom had seen herbefore, and whose notice she was very willing to escape, Constance'sonly resource was to fix her eyes upon the palace, and to busy herselfin the contemplation of its splendour.

  Raised upon a high platform, it was not only visible from every partof the plain, but itself commanded a view of the whole gay scenebelow, with its tents and its multitudes, standing as a sort ofnucleus to all the magnificence around.

  Before the gate to which Sir John Hardacre took his way, and which wasitself a massy arch, flanked by two towers raised upon the platform,there stood two objects not unworthy of remark, as exemplifying thetastes of the day: the one was a magnificent fountain, richly wroughtwith arches and arabesques, painted in fine gold and blue, supportinga figure of Bacchus crowned with vine leaves, over whose head appearedinscribed, in letters of gold, "_Faites bonne ch?re qui voudra_." Nounmeaning invitation, for the fountain below ceased not to pour forththree streams of various coloured wines, supplied by reservoirs in theinterior of the palace. On the other side of the gate were seen fourgolden lions supporting a pillar of bronze, round the shaft of whichtwined up various gilt wreaths, interlaced together; while on thesummit stood a statue of Venus's "purblind son and heir," pointing hisarrows at those who approached the gate.

  Nevertheless, it was not on the charmed cup of the one, or the bendedbow of the other chicken deity, that the battlemented arch abovementioned relied for defence; for in the several windows were placedgigantic figures of men in armour, apparently in the act of hurlingdown enormous rocks upon the head of whatever venturous strangershould attempt to pass the prescribed bound. At the same time appearedround about various goodly paintings of the demigods of story: theHerculeses, the Theseuses, the Alexanders, fabulous and historical;while, showing strangely enough in such company, many a fat porter andyeoman of the lodge loitered about in rich liveries, as familiar withthe gods and goddesses as if they had been born upon Olympus andswaddled in Temp?.

  At the flight of steps which led to this gate Sir John Hardacredismounted, and lifting Lady Constance from her horse, passed on intothe inner court of the palace, which would indeed have been not onlysplendid, but elegant, had it not been for a few instances of the samerefined taste which we have just noticed. The four inner faces of thebuilding were perfectly regular, consisting of two stories, the lowerone of which was almost entirely of glass, formed into plain and bowwindows alternately, each separated from the other by a slight columnof gold, and surrounded by a multitude of arabesques and garlands.Exactly opposite to the gate appeared a vestibule, thrown a littleforward from the building, and surmounted by four large bow windows,supported on trimmers, the corbels of which represented a thousandstrange gilt faces, looking out from a screen of olive branches, castin lead and painted green; while various tall statues in silver armourwere ranged on each side, as guards to the entrance.

  It was towards this sort of hall that Sir John Hardacre led poorConstance de Grey, to whose heart all the gaiety and splendour of thescene seemed but to communicate a more chilling sensation offriendless loneliness; while the very gaze and whispering of the royalservants, who had all known of her flight, and now witnessed herreturn, made the quick blood mount into her beautiful cheek, as shewas hurried along by the brutal soldier, without any regard to herfeelings or compassion for her fears.

  "You must wait here, Mistress Constance," said he, having led her intothe vestibule, which was full of yeomen and grooms, "while I go andtell the right reverend father the lord cardinal that I have broughtyou."

  "Here!" exclaimed Constance, casting her eyes around; "surely you donot mean me to wait here amongst the servants?"

  "Why, where would you go?" demanded he, roughly: "I've no other placeto put you. Wait here, wait here
, and mind you don't run away again."

  Constance could support no more, and covering her face with her hands,she burst into a violent flood of tears. At that moment a voice thatshe knew struck her ear. "This to my cousin, sir!" exclaimed LordDarby, who had heard what passed as he descended a flight of stairswhich led away to the left; "this to my cousin, Sir John Hardacre! Youwould do better to jump off the donjon of Rochester Castle than toleave her here with lacqueys and footboys."

  "And why should I not?" demanded the soldier, his eyes flashing fire."Mind your own affairs, my Lord Darby, and let me mind mine."

  "You are an unfeeling old villain, sir!" answered the earl, passinghim and taking Constance by the hand. "Yes, sir! stare your fill! Isay you are an unfeeling villain, and neither knight nor gentleman."

  The soldier laid his hand upon his sword and drew it half out of itssheath. "Knock him down! knock him down!" cried a dozen voices. "Theprecincts of the court! out with him! Have his hand off!" Sir JohnHardacre thrust his weapon back into the sheath, gazing, however,grimly around, as if he would fain have used it upon some one.

  "Your brutal violence, sir," said Lord Darby, "will bring upon you, ifyou heed not, a worse punishment than I can inflict; yet you will notfind me, in a proper place, unwilling to give you a lesson on what isdue to a lady. Come, Constance, I will lead you to her highness, whereyou will meet, I am sure, a kind reception. You, sir, do your errandto my lord cardinal, who shall be informed by me of your noble andknightly treatment of the Lady de Grey."

  Thus saying, he led Constance through a long corridor to anante-chamber, wherein stood two of the queen's pages. Here Lord Darbypaused, and sent one of the attendants to request an audience, takingthe opportunity of the time they waited to soothe the mind of his faircousin by informing her of all that had passed in her absence, andassuring her that the queen had ever been her warmest defender.

  All the news that he gave her, yof course, took a heavy weight fromConstance's mind; and drying her eyes, she congratulated him gladly onhis approaching marriage, and would fain, very fain, have asked if hecould give her any such consolatory information in regard to Darnley;but the earl had never once mentioned his name, and she knew not howto begin the subject herself. While considering, and hesitatingwhether to ask boldly or not, the queen's page returned and usheredthem to her presence. Constance was still much agitated, and even thekind and dignified sweetness, the motherly tenderness, with whichKatherine received her--a tenderness which she had not known for solong--overcame her, and she wept as much as if she had been mostunhappy.

  The queen understood it all, and sending Lord Darby away, she soon wonConstance to her usual placid mood; and then, questioning her of allthe dangers and sorrows she had undergone, she gave her the best ofall balms, sympathy; trembling at her account of the shipwreck, andmelted even to tears by the death of the good clergyman.