The Man On a Donkey

by H. F. M. Prescott

But when he had shut the door of Paradise behind him he found that there was a light already in the room, and the very man he had hoped to avoid was flipping over the pages of a book with an impatient hand.

  ‘Well?’ cried Thomas Percy.

  ‘He will not.’

  Then Thomas began, and Aske, having tried to soothe him, was caught into an argument. Both were angry, and Aske was angry with himself too, because there was much in what Thomas Percy said that he himself had said to Earl Henry, and as Thomas now stormed at him, so had he stormed at the Earl, as he lay tossing miserably in bed. So it was manifestly unfair that he should take the contrary part now; and yet he must, for Thomas wanted to break into the Earl’s chamber, ‘and then see will he still refuse. And I can do it,’ he cried, ‘with my folk and those you have with you, maugre any men of his here that will withstand us.’ But Aske would not have it so.

  As they grew hotter the argument ranged wider. Thomas said Aske cared nothing for his old friends but only for the new. Aske told him not to talk so like a shrewish chiding woman. Thomas cried, ‘Friends? Sinister back friends I’ll call them that’ll do you a shrewd turn one day,’ and began to rail on Lord Darcy, raking back over the old Lord’s past years, into what was hearsay for both of them – how it had been said that he had tricked old Lord Monteagle, and wasted the heir’s wealth when the lad was his ward and Hussey’s. ‘And here is this same man, but older, and you take him in Pomfret like a bird in a gin, and he swears an oath perforce, and you think that he will stand to it, and not escape away to the King if he might.’

  ‘Fie!’ Aske shouted then. ‘God’s Blood! Say that to his face, for I’ll not hear it of him!’ And he went out slamming the door, and only remembered when he stood in the black dark of the stairway that he had left behind him his candle standing on the desk.

  So he began to feel his way down, and, as if by the touch of the cold stone against his fingers, his anger began to cool. He had not gone half-way when he stopped to argue with himself whether he should go up again. Just then he heard the latch of the room above lift with a click, and saw the stair and the newel and the curve of the wall swing unsteadily in the light of the candle which Thomas Percy carried.

  ‘Tom,’ he cried, speaking on an impulse, ‘to-morrow I’ll speak again with the Earl. Perhaps I may move him.’

  Sir Thomas answered only by a grunt. But in a moment he said: ‘Here, take your candle that you left behind you.’ So Aske waited for him on the stair, and they went down together, in silence but with dwindling enmity.

  November 2

  The Duke of Norfolk, Sir Rafe Ellerker and Master Robert Bowes waited together in a window at Windsor. Close to them gentlemen and yeomen of the King’s Guard stood at the door of the King’s Privy Chamber. This end of the long room was almost empty except for the Guard, the three gentlemen, and a few grave pacing couples, who looked soberly with frowning faces and spoke quietly to each other. Further away the crowd talked more cheerfully and louder; among the men’s voices could be heard women’s too, and. their light sweet laughter above the deeper hum of talk.

  The Duke was discoursing, well and wittily. The two younger men listened, or seemed to listen, and tried to think collectedly of what they must say to the King when they had their audience. Sir Rafe kept his long, pale, placid face bent; yet it was neither so placid as usual, nor so pale, but a little flushed and frowning. Robert Bowes’ heavy features and half-shut, guarded eyes did not easily betray either his feelings or the keen brain behind them, but even he was restless, shifting his shoulders inside his dark blue doublet that looked far less fine here, in spite of all its gold buttons, than it did at home in the North. Only Norfolk was, it seemed, at ease, chatting on about horses.

  Somewhere beyond the room a little bell jangled softly. The Duke, leaving a favourite and much vaunted black gelding in the midst of one of its most remarkable jumps, stopped speaking, and turned his head over his shoulder to listen.

  A quiet-stepping, round man in grey velvet came out of the King’s Chamber; he was carrying a great many papers in a red leather pouch. He went away down the room, with pursed lips, and absent, calculating eyes; yet to Bowes it seemed that he had taken in the three of them in one sliding glance.

  ‘Who is that?’ he asked, and Norfolk told him, ‘Privy Seal.’

  Bowes nodded. He had never seen Cromwell before, yet he had hardly needed to ask the question. One of the gentlemen was coming towards them,

  ‘If you show yourself humble and penitent I make no doubt His Grace will use you with mercy and his customary benignity,’ Norfolk said, speaking hastily. ‘But if you stand stiffly—’

  He moved to meet the Gentleman Usher who drew near.

  ‘His Grace hath sent for me?’ His voice was cheerful, and he went briskly towards the door of the King’s Chamber. The two Yorkshire gentlemen envied his confidence; they had been too preoccupied with their own apprehensions to notice how, at the pretty silver note of the bell, the Duke’s chin had jerked, and his voice died.

  Inside the Privy Chamber the King stood before the fire; he wore velvet the colour of flame, his feet were set wide apart, his head was bent and his chin sank into roll upon roll of bristled fat above the gold-stitched collar. His bulk, blocking out the firelight on that darkly overcast forenoon, seemed enormous; Norfolk could hear something – perhaps it was the King’s belt – which lightly creaked every time he breathed. Himself a man of a very spare habit of body he felt a qualm both of disgust and dread at the physical grossness of the King. He knelt; he kissed the King’s hand, and, as the King did not raise him, he continued to kneel.

  ‘Well?’

  This, and no better, was the sort of welcome that Norfolk was prepared for. To meet it he had already resolved to use a cheerful, soldierly frankness.

  ‘By the Mass,’ said he, ‘here am I a true loyal man imploring pardon for that which was no fault of mine, since neither for case nor danger have I spared this little poor carcass that you see. Yet with a good will I would be prisoner in Turkey rather than to have had the matter at the point it is now. Fie! Fie! upon the Lord Darcy, the most arrant traitor living.’

  The King did not speak, but he moved sharply, and that shook Norfolk from his cheerful vein.

  ‘Woe! woe worth the time!’ he cried, ‘that my Lord of Shrewsbury went so far forth. An he had not done, you should have had other news.’

  ‘Cousin,’ said the King, and from his quiet voice the Duke knew that this was going to be an audience of the worst sort; for the King was at his cruellest when he spoke like that—

  ‘Cousin, we have called to our remembrance the whole discourse and progress of this matter, with your advertisements made in the time of the same; which we find so repugnant and contrarious, the one and the other, that we cannot forbear frankly to make a recapitulation of the same; to the only intent, that you shall perceive that you have not therein observed that gravity and circumspection that in your person towards Us was requisite.’

  ‘Sir,’ cried the Duke, but the King held up his hand. He went away from Norfolk and sat down on a big velvet gold-fringed chair beside the hearth and from there continued his rebuke. So the Duke was left kneeling before the fire, ridiculous, humiliated; what with anger, fear, and the heat of the flames, now no longer masked from him by the King’s person, the veins of his temples began to throb as if they would burst.

  ‘Alas!’ he cried, in his agitation interrupting the King. ‘Alas! for I have served Your Highness many times without reproach, and now, having been enforced to appoint with the rebels, my heart is near broken!’ And he felt that indeed it was, and wrung his hands together.

  ‘Suffer me,’ said the King, with a yet more deadly gentleness, ‘to speak my whole mind,’ and he continued to speak it.

  ‘And now,’ he said at last, and paused to shift one leg over the other, ‘now We have uttered unto you, as to him that We love and trust, Our whole stomach, which if you do, in your person, weigh towards Us, as We do utter
Our love in the declaration thereof to you, We doubt not but you will both humbly thank Us for the same, and with your deeds give Us cause to thank you accordingly.’

  Norfolk could not raise his eyes; for one thing he dared not; for another, if he did, the King would see in them that anguish of rage that shook him in time with his heart beats; so that again he dared not. Looking only upon the King’s broad, black velvet shoe, he mumbled that surely he was thankful, and if the King’s Gracious Highness of His benignity—

  He looked up, saw that the King was raking his face with a slant, secret look, and found that words died on his tongue.

  ‘There is,’ said the King, ‘another matter which must be touched on.’

  Norfolk waited.

  ‘You said that in Our service you would esteem no promise you made to the rebels. Was that truth?’

  ‘Very truth.’

  ‘Saying also that you would not think your honour touched in the breach and violation of any such promise. Are ye yet in that same mind?’

  Norfolk cried that surely, and God help him, he was in that very mind, ‘and most humbly I pray You, Sir, to take it in good part that I think and repute none oath nor promise can distain me, so that it be made for policy, and to serve You, mine only master and sovereign. For,’ he plucked at the breast of his doublet, cleared his throat, and declared, ‘I shall be torn into a million of pieces, rather than to show one point of cowardice or untruth to Your Majesty.’

  ‘Well!’ said the King. ‘That is well,’ and he smiled. Norfolk, glancing up, caught the end of the smile, and it was the bitterest and most searching torment of all to see that look on the King’s face, a look satisfied, contemptuous.

  ‘And now,’ said the King, ‘as to that villain Aske. Have you used any means with Lord Latimer or other of those lords to induce them to contain the wretch?’

  Norfolk protested that at Doncaster was no time; that the rebels stood so stiffly to their demands; that all policy was needed to persuade them to disperse. ‘And besides,’ said he, ‘this Aske was manifestly leader over them all, lords and commons alike.’

  It seemed to Norfolk that rage puffed the King out to a larger bulk than ever.

  ‘So,’ he said, speaking with the utmost gentleness, ‘so you think it no marvel that the nobility of the North suffer such a vile villain to be ruler over them? What was he in Our Courts but a common pedlar of the law? Is it aught but his filed tongue hath brought him in such estimation?’

  Norfolk muttered that indeed the North parts were mad in these days.

  ‘Yet,’ said the King, ‘you have done nothing against this wretch, though We and all Our Nobles that are here with Us think Our honour greatly touched in that he abideth free.’

  In the silence Norfolk heard the first gusts of a windy shower strike against the window panes. He cried, his hands straining upon the brim of his cap, that to know his gracious Prince so used by ungracious naughty subjects was death to him.

  ‘If I have done nothing,’ he protested, ‘yet I have thought – If great policy should be used – If one of the lords might be brought to deliver him up by promise of favour—’

  At that he saw the King lean forward.

  ‘A way,’ said Norfolk, ‘might be found. If I wrote to—’

  The King’s hand checked him. ‘How, shall be your concern.’

  And then – ‘Where are those two of the rebels that have come to ask Our pardon?’

  Norfolk said that they were without, that he had brought them with him, that he had so wrought with them that they were, he conceived, most truly penitent.

  ‘Go and fetch them.’

  The Duke got up, in haste to do the office of an usher.

  November 10

  Lord Darcy was sitting in the little garden at Templehurst, which lay between the house, the jutting chapel wall, and the moat. Always a very sheltered place, except when the south wind blew, to-day – a day of St. Martin’s little summer – it was so warm that even a bee or two worked among the last carnations. As well as Lord Darcy’s gentlemen, strolling to and fro along the paved walk, and my Lord, who, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, sat at a table dictating to a clerk, there were half a dozen or so of yeomen or squires from round about Templehurst. They had heard that a messenger had reached Doncaster and had sent asking for a safe conduct. They meant to know what letters and what news that messenger brought so they hung about in the lower part of the garden where it dipped to the moat, eating my Lord’s apples from his trees, and throwing the cores into the water, where the silly fish rose at them. Sometimes a few would come unobtrusively nearer, but if they hoped to catch any words of moment from my Lord’s lips they were disappointed, for all they heard was ‘Charcoal for the Great Chamber fire, because the smoke of sea-coal will hurt my Arras,’ or again, ‘Great wood for fires too, because coals will not burn without wood.’

  But at last the door at the top of the stairs leading down to the garden was opened, and servants in green coats came out, bringing with them a small grey man, who looked stupid, but who was only very weary with hard riding.

  ‘Ha!’ cried Darcy, and got up. ‘Welcome, Perce Creswell.’

  Creswell, who had been Lord Hussey’s servant, and now was Norfolk’s, came down the steps stiffly as though his legs were made of wood and not well jointed. He said, speaking hoarsely because his throat was dry, that he had a letter. He put one into Darcy’s hand.

  Darcy turned it over, looking at the seal. ‘The ermine and the bows,’ he said. ‘It is from Sir Robert Bowes?’

  ‘And Sir Rafe Ellerker.’

  ‘And you bring news? And good news, I hope.’

  ‘Good enough, my Lord, for I trust all will be well.’ Creswell added then so that only Darcy could hear, ‘I have a privy letter.’ Darcy turned. He knew that his gentlemen had stopped their pacing and were listening; he knew that the commons were edging nearer, listening too.

  ‘You hear that, my masters,’ he said loudly. ‘That all will be well.’ And then, ‘Who will bring the news to the Great Captain, and bring him here again?’

  ‘I’ll go.’ ‘And I.’ ‘And I.’ Three of the commons began to move away, then stopped and hung uncertain, when Darcy asked, ‘Where will you find him?’

  Someone said, ‘Wressel.’ Someone else said, ‘Hull.’ ‘Or any other town or castle in all Yorkshire.’ They all laughed at that; it was well known that the Great Captain was apt not to be long in one place, and that he covered the ground quickly.

  ‘Come, Perce,’ said Darcy, when they had gone, and put his hand on Creswell’s shoulder, and led him into the house. All the rest followed, the clerk coming first, bearing the cushions my Lord had used, the papers, rolls of accounts, bundle of pens and a pot of ink. In the way between the Chaundry and the Boiling House, just before they came out upon the passage beside the screens, Lord Darcy half turned, and slipping the big fur-lined cloak from his shoulders, tossed it to the clerk, but so maladroitly that the skirt of it flapped paper, ink and pens, cushion and all, out of the man’s hands.

  ‘Tchk!’ said Darcy, and went on with Creswell beside him, leaving the clerk and the others who came after to pick up what had been scattered. They could not know, when they came up again with my Lord and the messenger going through the Hall to the Great Chamber, that a letter sealed with the Duke of Norfolk’s seal lay snug in the long hanging sleeve of Darcy’s green damask velvet gown.

  Alone in his own Privy Chamber Darcy lingered for a minute before he shut the door. He had left Perce Creswell outside in the Great Chamber, with the others, to ease his stiffness by the fire, and to drink a cup of wine. Now Darcy could hear them begin to question him of Thomas Cromwell, Lord Privy Seal, and now to say what they themselves thought of him; that, Darcy conceived, would keep them busy long enough; he shut the door, latched it, and went away to the deep window on the far side of the room. There were cushions there on the stone seat, and the sweet smell of the herbs strawed on the floor came to him as he stirred them with his
feet. Outside the window the country stretched away, still and golden green, with blue above, and mist of a deeper blue lurking in the further trees. He opened the letter and read what Norfolk had written.

  Not till he came near to the end could he guess why for the delivery of this letter such secretness had been needed. Then he understood.

  He read the whole through not once, but three times, then laid it on his knee, upside down; yet he could not take his eyes off the Duke’s clerk’s neat, pretty penmanship. At last, after a very long time, he picked it up, and looked it all over, most narrowly, examining the writing, seal and all. Then he folded it, put it back into his sleeve, and opened the door into the Great Chamber.

  Perce Creswell was sitting by the fire, dandling an empty winecup in his hand. He looked a much nimbler man than when he had come in, and he swung round quickly as he heard the door open.

  His quickness was a mistake. The commons jumped up, as when one dog wakes, all wake. They boggled that Darcy should speak with Creswell alone; they thought they should hear it too. Yet when Darcy told them he would but speak a while with an old friend, reminding them too how Lord Hussey, whose servant Perce had been, was now a prisoner for the Lincolnshire rising, they consented. ‘And you shall hear all anon,’ said Darcy, as Perce followed him in.

  Darcy sat down again in the window-seat. Perce Creswell took a stool.

  Now, Darcy asked him, ‘What is your credence for this?’ and he swung the end of his long sleeve between them.

  ‘The same,’ said Creswell, ‘as is the effect of the letters. That my Lord of Norfolk, my master, bids you account him your true friend to follow his advice in this, that in order to declare yourself ye shall by your policy find the means to take, alive or dead, but specially alive if ye can, that most arrant traitor Aske. Which,’ said Creswell, ‘my Lord my master doubts not by your wise policy ye shall well find the means to do.’

  *

  Robert Aske was in the parlour of the Buck’s Head at Selby. Will Wall, still as thin as a straw, but now not quite transparent, was writing to his dictation at the table by the window; Aske would not sit, but went up and down between the hearth and the table. He had come from Wressel this morning and would return before dinner. At Wressel was Kit, and they had quarrelled before he left. And here at Selby a letter had reached him which said that the brethren of Watton would not hand over the Earl of Northumberland’s spice plate; the letter said much more than that – such things that Aske had first crumpled it in his hands, then torn it into pieces and thrown them into the fire.