CHAPTER II.
IN THE BISHOP'S ROOM.
Chancellor was lodged in the great chamber on the southern side of thecourtyard, a room which we called the Tapestried Chamber, and in whichtradition said that King Henry the Sixth had once slept. It was on theupper floor, and for this reason free from the damp air which inautumn and winter rose from the moat and hung about the lower range ofrooms. It was besides, of easy access from the hall, a door in thegallery of the latter leading into an anteroom, which again openedinto the Tapestried Chamber; while a winding staircase, starting froma dark nook in the main passage of the house, also led to this stateapartment, but by another and more private door.
I reached the antechamber with a stout heart in my breast, though alittle sobered by my summons, and feeling such a reaction from theheat of a few minutes before as follows a plunge into cold water. Inthe anteroom I was bidden to wait while the great man's will wastaken, which seemed strange to me, then unused to the mummery of Courtfolk. But before I had time to feel much surprise, the inner door wasopened, and I was told to enter.
The great room, which I had seldom seen in use, had now an appearancequite new to me. A dull red fire was glowing comfortably on thehearthstone, before which a posset stool was standing. Near this,seated at a table strewn with a profusion of papers and documents, wasa secretary writing busily. The great oaken bedstead, with its noddingtester, lay in a background of shadows, which played about the figuresbroidered on the hangings, or were lost in the darkness of thecorners; while near the fire, in the light cast by the sconces fixedabove the hearth, lay part of the Chancellor's equipment. The fur rugsand cloak of sable, the saddle-bags, the dispatch-boxes, and thesilver chafing-dish, gave an air of comfort to this part of the room.Walking up and down in the midst of these, dictating a sentence atevery other turn, was Stephen Gardiner.
As I entered the clerk looked up, holding his pen suspended. Hismaster, by a quick nod, ordered him to proceed. Then, signaling to mein a like silent fashion his command that I should stand by thehearth, the Bishop resumed his task of composition.
For some minutes my interest in the man, whom I had now an opportunityof scrutinizing unmarked and at my leisure, took up all my attention.He was at this time close on seventy, but looked, being still tall andstout, full ten years younger. His face, square and sallow, was indeedwrinkled and lined; his eyes lay deep in his head, his shoulders werebeginning to bend, the nape of his neck to become prominent. He hadlost an inch of his full height. But his eyes still shone brightly,nor did any trace of weakness mar the stern character of his mouth, orthe crafty wisdom of his brow. The face was the face of a man austere,determined, perhaps cruel; of a man who could both think and act.
My curiosity somewhat satisfied, I had leisure, first to wonder why Ihad been sent for, and then to admire the prodigious number of booksand papers which lay about, more, indeed, than I had ever seentogether in my life. From this I passed to listening, idly at first,and with interest afterward, to the letter which the Chancellor wasdictating. It seemed from its tenor to be a letter to some person inauthority, and presently one passage attracted my attention, so that Icould afterward recall it word for word.
"I do not think"--the Chancellor pronounced, speaking in a sonorousvoice, and the measured tone of one whose thoughts lie perfectlyarranged in his head--"that the Duchess Katherine will venture to takethe step suggested as possible. Yet Clarence's report may be ofmoment. Let the house, therefore, be watched if anything savoring offlight be marked, and take notice whether there be a vessel in thePool adapted to her purpose. A vessel trading to Dunquerque would bemost likely. Leave her husband till I return, when I will deal withhim roundly."
I missed what followed. It was upon another subject, and my thoughtslagged behind, being wholly taken up with the Duchess Katherine andher fortunes. I wondered who she was, young or old, and what this stepcould be she was said to meditate, and what the jargon about the Pooland Dunquerque meant. I was still thinking of this when I was arousedby an abrupt silence, and looking up found that the Chancellor wasbending over the papers on the table. The secretary was leaving theroom.
As the door closed behind him, Gardiner rose from his stooping postureand came slowly toward me, a roll of papers in his hand. "Now," hesaid tranquilly, seating himself in an elbow-chair which stood infront of the hearth, "I will dispose of your business, Master Cludde."
He paused, looking at me in a shrewd, masterful way, much as if--Ithought at the time, little knowing how near the truth my fancywent--I were a beast he was about to buy; and then he went on. "I havesent for you, Master Francis," he said dryly, fixing his piercing eyeson mine, "because I think that this country does not suit your health.You conform, but you conform with a bad grace, and England is nolonger the place for such. You incite the commonalty against theQueen's allies, and England is not the place for such. Do notcontradict me; I have heard you myself. Then," he continued, grimlythrusting out his jaw in a sour smile, "you misname those whom theQueen honors; and were Dr. Stephens--you take me, Master Malapert?such a man as his predecessors, you would rue the word. For a triflescarce weightier Wolsey threw a man to rot six years in a dungeon,boy!"
I changed color, yet not so much in fear--though it were vain to say Idid not tremble--as in confusion. I had called him Dr. Stephensindeed, but it had been to Petronilla only. I stood, not knowing whatto say, until he, after lingering on his last words to enjoy mymisery, resumed his subject. "That is one good and sufficientreason--mind you, sufficient, boy--why England is no place for you.For another, the Cluddes have always been soldiers; and you--thoughreadier-witted than some, which comes of your Spanish grandmother--arequicker with a word than a thought, and a blow than either. Of whichafterward. Well, England is going to be no place for soldiers. PleaseGod, we have finished with wars at home. A woman's reign should be areign of peace."
I hardened my heart at that. A reign of peace, forsooth, when the weekbefore we had heard of a bishop burned at Gloucester! I hardened myheart. I would not be frightened, though I knew his power, and knewhow men in those days misused power. I would put a bold face on thematter.
He had not done with me yet, however. "One more reason I have," hecontinued, stopping me as I was about to speak, "for saying thatEngland will not suit your health, Master Cludde. It is that I do notwant you here. Abroad, you may be of use to me, and at the same timecarve out your own fortune. You have courage and can use a sword, Ihear. You understand--and it is a rare gift with Englishmen--someSpanish, which I suppose your father or your uncle taught you. Youcan--so Father Carey says--construe a Latin sentence if it be not toodifficult. You are scarcely twenty, and you will have me for yourpatron. Why, were I you, boy, with your age and your chances, I woulddie Prince or Pope! Ay, I would!" He stopped speaking, his eyes onfire. Nay, a ring of such real feeling flashed out in his last wordsthat, though I distrusted him, though old prejudices warned me againsthim, and, at heart a Protestant, I shuddered at things I had heard ofhim, the longing to see the world and have adventures seized upon me.Yet I did not speak at once. He had told me that my tongue outran mythoughts, and I stood silent until he asked me curtly, "Well, sirrah,what do you say?"
"I say, my Lord Bishop," I replied respectfully, "that the prospectyou hold out to me would tempt me were I a younger son, or withoutthose ties of gratitude which hold me to my uncle. But, my fatherexcepted, I am Sir Anthony's only heir."
"Ah, your father!" he said contemptuously. "You do well to remind meof him, for I see you are forgetting the first part of my speech inthinking of the last! Should I have promised first and threatenedlater? You would fain, I expect, stay here and woo MistressPetronilla? Do I touch you there? You think to marry the maid and bemaster of Coton End in God's good time, do you? Then listen, FrancisCludde. Neither one nor the other, neither maid nor meadow will beyours should you stay here till Doomsday!"
I started, and stood glowering on him, speechless with anger andaston
ishment.
"You do not know who you are," he continued, leaning forward with asudden movement, and speaking with one claw-like finger extended, anda malevolent gleam in his eyes. "You called me a nameless child awhile ago, and so I was; yet have I risen to be ruler of England,Master Cludde! But you--I will tell you which of us is base-born. Iwill tell you who and what your father, Ferdinand Cludde, was. He was,nay, he is, my tool, spy, jackal! Do you understand, boy? Your fatheris one of the band of foul creatures to whom such as I, base-bornthough I be, fling the scraps from their table! He is the vilest ofthe vile men who do my dirty work, my lad."
He had raised his voice and hand in passion, real or assumed. Hedropped them as I sprang forward. "You lie!" I cried, trembling allover.
"Easy! easy!" he said. He stopped me where I was by a gesture of sterncommand. "Think!" he continued, calmly and weightily. "Has any oneever spoken to you of your father since the day seven years ago, whenyou came here, a child, brought by a servant? Has Sir Anthony talkedof him? Has any servant named his name to you. Think, boy. IfFerdinand Cludde be a father to be proud of, why does his brother makenaught of him?"
"He is a Protestant," I said faintly. Faintly, because I had askedmyself this very question not once but often. Sir Anthony so seldommentioned my father that I had thought it strange myself. I hadthought it strange, too, that the servants, who must well rememberFerdinand Cludde, never talked to me about him. Hitherto I had alwaysbeen satisfied to answer, "He is a Protestant"; but face to face withthis terrible old man and his pitiless charge, the words came butfaintly from my lips.
"A Protestant," he replied solemnly. "Yes, this comes of schism, thatvillains cloak themselves in it, and parade for true men. A Protestantyou call him, boy? He has been that, ay, and all things to all men;and he has betrayed all things and all men. He was in the greatCardinal's confidence, and forsook him, when he fell, for Cromwell.Thomas Cromwell, although they were of the same persuasion, hebetrayed to me. I have here, here"--and he struck the letters in hishand a scornful blow--"the offer he made to me, and his terms. Theneight years back, when the late King Edward came to the throne, I toofell on evil days, and Master Cludde abandoned me for my LordHertford, but did me no great harm. But he did something which blastedhim--blasted him at last."
He paused. Had the fire died down, or was it only my imaginationthat the shadows thickened round the bed behind him, and closed inmore nearly on us, leaving his pale grim face to confront me--hisface, which seemed the paler and grimmer, the more saturnine andall-mastering, for the dark frame which set it off?
"He did this," he continued slowly, "which came to light and blastedhim. He asked, as the price of his service in betraying me, hisbrother's estate."
"Impossible!" I stammered. "Why, Sir Anthony----"
"What of Sir Anthony, you would ask?" the Chancellor replied,interrupting me with savage irony. "Oh, he was a Papist! an obstinatePapist! He might go hang--or to Warwick Jail!"
"Nay, but this at least, my lord, is false!" I cried. "Palpably false!If my father had so betrayed his own flesh and blood, should I behere? Should I be at Coton End? You say this happened eight years ago.Seven years ago I came here. Would Sir Anthony----"
"There are fools everywhere," the old man sneered. "When my LordHertford refused your father's suit, Ferdinand began--it is hisnature--to plot against him. He was found out, and execrated byall--for he had been false to all--he fled for his life. He left youbehind, and a servant brought you to Coton End, where Sir Anthony tookyou in."
I covered my face. Alas! I believed him; I, who had always been soproud of my lineage, so proud of the brave traditions of the house andits honor, so proud of Coton End and all that belonged to it! Now, ifthis were true, I could never again take pleasure in one or the other.I was the son of a man branded as a turncoat and an informer, of onewho was the worst of traitors! I sank down on the settle behind me andhid my face. Another might have thought less of the blow, or, withgreater knowledge of the world, might have made light of it as a thingnot touching himself. But on me, young as I was, and proud, and as yettender, and having done nothing myself, it fell with crushing force.
It was years since I had seen my father, and I could not stand forthloyally and fight his battle, as a son his father's friend andfamiliar for years might have fought it. On the contrary, there was somuch which seemed mysterious in my past life, so much that bore outthe Chancellor's accusation, that I felt a dread of its truth evenbefore I had proof. Yet I would have proof. "Show me the letters!" Isaid harshly; "show me the letters, my lord!"
"You know your father's handwriting?"
"I do."
I knew it, not from any correspondence my father had held with me, butbecause I had more than once examined with natural curiosity thewrappers of the dispatches which at intervals of many months,sometimes of a year, came from him to Sir Anthony. I had never knownanything of the contents of the letters, all that fell to my sharebeing certain formal messages, which Sir Anthony would give me,generally with a clouded brow and a testy manner that grew genialagain only with the lapse of time.
Gardiner handed me the letters, and I took them and read one. One wasenough. That my father! Alas! alas! No wonder that I turned my face tothe wall, shivering as with the ague, and that all about me--exceptthe red glow of the fire, which burned into my brain--seemed darkness!I had lost the thing I valued most. I had lost at a blow everything ofwhich I was proud. The treachery that could flush that worn faceopposite to me, lined as it was with statecraft, and betray the wilytongue into passion, seemed to me, young and impulsive, a thing sovile as to brand a man's children through generations.
Therefore I hid my face in the corner of the settle, while theChancellor gazed at me a while in silence, as one who had made anexperiment might watch the result.
"You see now, my friend," he said at last, almost gently, "that youmay be base-born in more ways than one. But be of good cheer; you areyoung, and what I have done you may do. Think of Thomas Cromwell--hisfather was naught. Think of the old Cardinal--my master. Think of theDuke of Suffolk--Charles Brandon, I mean. He was a plain gentleman,yet he married a queen. More, the door which they had to open forthemselves I will open for you--only, when you are inside, play theman, and be faithful."
"What would you have me do?" I whispered hoarsely.
"I would have you do this," he answered. "There are great thingsbrewing in the Netherlands, boy--great changes, unless I am mistaken.I have need of an agent there, a man, stout, trusty, and, inparticular, unknown, who will keep me informed of events. If you willbe that agent, I can procure for you--and not appear in the mattermyself--a post of pay and honor in the Regent's Guards. What say youto that, Master Cludde? A few weeks and you will be making history,and Coton End will seem a mean place to you. Now, what do you say?"
I was longing to be away and alone with my misery, but I forced myselfto reply patiently.
"With your leave I will give you my answer to-morrow, my lord," Isaid, as steadily as I could; and I rose, still keeping my face turnedfrom him.
"Very well," he replied, with apparent confidence. But he watched mekeenly, as I fancied. "I know already what your answer will be. Yetbefore you go I will give you a piece of advice which in the newlife you begin to-night will avail you more than silver, more thangold--ay, more than steel, Master Francis. It is this: Be prompt tothink, be prompt to strike, be slow to speak! Mark it well! It is asimple recipe, yet it has made me what I am, and may make you greater.Now go!"
He pointed to the little door opening on the staircase, and I bowedand went out, closing it carefully behind me. On the stairs, movingblindly in the dark, I fell over some one who lay sleeping there, andwho clutched at my leg. I shook him off, however, with an exclamationof rage, and, stumbling down the rest of the steps, gained the openair. Excited and feverish, I shrank with aversion from the confinementof my room, and, hurrying over the drawbridge, sought at random thelong terrace by the fish-pools, on which the moonlight fell, a sheetof silver, br
oken only by the sundial and the shadows of the rosebushes. The night air, weeping chill from the forest, fanned my cheeksas I paced up and down. One way I had before me the manor-house--thesteep gable-ends, the gateway tower, the low outbuildings andcornstacks and stables--and flanking these the squat tower and nave ofthe church. I turned. Now I saw only the water and the dark line oftrees which fringed the further bank. But above these the stars wereshining.
Yet in my mind there was no starlight. There all was a blur of wildpassions and resolves. Shame and an angry resentment against those whohad kept me so long in ignorance--even against Sir Anthony--were myuppermost feelings. I smarted under the thought that I had been livingon his charity. I remembered many a time when I had taken much onmyself, and he had smiled, and the remembrance stung me. I longed toassert myself and do something to wipe off the stain.
But should I accept the Bishop's offer? It never crossed my mind to doso. He had humiliated me, and I hated him for it. Longing to cutmyself off from my old life, I could not support a patron who wouldknow, and might cast in my teeth the old shame. A third reason, too,worked powerfully with me as I became cooler. This was the convictionthat, apart from the glitter which the old man's craft had cast aboutit, the part he would have me play was that of a spy--an informer! Acreature like--I dared not say like my father, yet I had him in mymind. And from this, from the barest suspicion of this, I shrank asthe burned puppy from the fire--shrank with fierce twitching of nerveand sinew.
Yet if I would not accept his offer it was clear I must fend formyself. His threats meant as much as that, and I smiled sternly as Ifound necessity at one with inclination. I would leave Coton End atonce, and henceforth I would fight for my own hand. I would have noname until I had made for myself a new one.
This resolve formed, I turned and went back to the house, and felt myway to my own chamber. The moonlight poured through the lattice andfell white on my pallet. I crossed the room and stood still. Down themiddle of the coverlet--or my eyes deceived me--lay a dark line.
I stooped mechanically to see what this was and found my own swordlying there; the sword which Sir Anthony had given me on my lastbirthday. But how had it come there? As I took it up something softand light brushed my hand and drooped from the hilt. Then Iremembered. A week before I had begged Petronilla to make me asword-knot of blue velvet for use on state occasions. No doubt she haddone it, and had brought the sword back this evening, and laid itthere in token of peace.
I sat down on my bed, and softer and kindlier thoughts came to me;thoughts of love and gratitude, in which the old man who had been asecond father to me had part. I would go as I had resolved, but Iwould return to them when I had done a thing worth doing; somethingwhich should efface the brand that lay on me now.
With gentle fingers I disengaged the velvet knot and thrust it into mybosom. Then I tied about the hilt the old leather thong, and began tomake my preparations; considering this or that route while I huntedfor my dagger and changed my doublet and hose for stouter raiment andlong, untanned boots. I was yet in the midst of this, when a knock atthe door startled me.
"Who is there?" I asked, standing erect.
For answer Martin Luther slid in, closing the door behind him. Thefool did not speak, but turning his eyes first on one thing and thenon another nodded sagely.
"Well?" I growled.
"You are off, master," he said, nodding again. "I thought so."
"Why did you think so?" I retorted impatiently.
"It is time for the young birds to fly when the cuckoo begins tostir," he answered.
I understood him dimly and in part. "You have been listening," I saidwrathfully, my cheeks burning.
"And been kicked in the face like a fool for my pains," he answered."Ah, well, it is better to be kicked by the boot you love than kissedby the lips you hate. But Master Francis, Master Francis!" hecontinued in a whisper.
He said no more, and I looked up. The man was stooping slightlyforward, his pale face thrust out. There was a strange gleam in hiseyes, and his teeth grinned in the moonlight. Thrice he drew hisfinger across his lean knotted throat. "Shall I?" he hissed, his hotbreath reaching me, "shall I?"
I recoiled from him shuddering. It was a ghastly pantomime, and itseemed to me that I saw madness in his eyes.
"In Heaven's name, no!" I cried--"No! Do you hear, Martin? No!"
He stood back on the instant, as a dog might have done being reproved.But I could hardly finish in comfort after that with him standingthere, although when I next turned to him he seemed half asleep andhis eyes were dull and fishy as ever.
"One thing you can do," I said brusquely. Then I hesitated, lookinground me. I wished to send something to Petronilla, some word, somekeepsake. But I had nothing that would serve a maid's purpose, andcould think of nothing until my eye lit on a house-martin's nest,lying where I had cast it on the window-sill. I had taken it down thatmorning because the droppings during the last summer had fallen on thelead work, and I would not have it used when the swallows returned. Itwas but a bit of clay, and yet it would serve. She would guess itsmeaning.
I gave it into his hands. "Take this," I said, "and give it privatelyto Mistress Petronilla. Privately, you understand. And say nothing toany one, or the Bishop will flay your back, Martin."
The Story of Francis Cludde Page 3
