The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “How so?” cried the king.

  “Your highness will be pleased to take this key,” said the cardinal; “it is the key of the cellar.”

  “You have some choice wine there,” cried Henry significantly; “given you by some religious house, or sent you by some foreign potentate, ha!”

  “It is wine that a king might prize,” replied the cardinal. “Your majesty will find a hundred hogsheads in that cellar, and each hogshead filled with gold.”

  “You amaze me!” cried the king, feigning astonishment. “And all this you freely give me?”

  “Freely and fully, sire,” replied Wolsey. “Nay, I have saved it for you. Men think I have cared for myself, whereas I have cared only for your majesty. Oh! my dear liege, by the devotion I have just approved to you, and which I would also approve, if needful, with my life, I beseech you to consider well before you raise Anne Boleyn to the throne. In giving you this counsel, I know I hazard the favour I have just regained. But even at that hazard, I must offer it. Your infatuation blinds you to the terrible consequences of the step. The union is odious to all your subjects, but most of all to those not tainted with the new heresies and opinions. It will never be forgiven by the Emperor Charles the Fifth, who will seek to avenge the indignity offered to his illustrious relative; while Francis will gladly make it a pretext for breaking his truce with you. Add to this the displeasure of the Apostolic See, and it must be apparent that, powerful as you are, your position will be one of infinite peril.”

  “Thus far advanced, I cannot honourably abandon the divorce,” said Henry.

  “Nor do I advise its abandonment, sire,” replied Wolsey; “but do not let it be a means of injuring you with all men. Do not let a mal-alliance place your very throne in jeopardy; as, with your own subjects and all foreign powers against you, must necessarily be the case.”

  “You speak warmly, cardinal,” said Henry.

  “My zeal prompts me to do so,” replied Wolsey. “Anne Boleyn is in no respect worthy of the honour you propose her.”

  “And whom do you think more worthy?” demanded Henry.

  “Those whom I have already recommended to your majesty, the Duchess d’Alencon, or the Princess Renee,” replied Wolsey; “by a union with either of whom you would secure the cordial co-operation of Francis, and the interests of the see of Rome, which, in the event of a war with Spain, you may need.”

  “No, Wolsey,” replied Henry, taking a hasty turn across the chamber; “no considerations of interests or security shall induce me to give up Anne. I love her too well for that. Let the lion Charles roar, the fox Francis snarl, and the hydra-headed Clement launch forth his flames, I will remain firm to my purpose. I will not play the hypocrite with you, whatever I may do with others. I cast off Catherine that I may wed Anne, because I cannot otherwise obtain her. And shall I now, when I have dared so much, and when the prize is within my grasp, abandon it? — Never! Threats, expostulations, entreaties are alike unavailing.”

  “I grieve to hear it, my liege,” replied Wolsey, heaving a deep sigh. “It is an ill-omened union, and will bring woe to you, woe to your realm, and woe to the Catholic Church.”

  “And woe to you also, false cardinal,” cried Anne Boleyn, throwing aside the arras, and stepping forward. “I have overheard what has passed; and from my heart of hearts I thank you, Henry, for the love you have displayed for me. But I here solemnly vow never to give my hand to you till Wolsey is dismissed from your counsels.”

  “Anne!” exclaimed the king.

  “My own enmity I could forego,” pursued Anne vehemently, “but I cannot forgive him his duplicity and perfidy towards you. He has just proffered you his splendid palace of Hampton, and his treasures; and wherefore? — I will tell you: because he feared they would be wrested from him. His jester had acquainted him with the discovery just made of the secret hoard, and he was therefore compelled to have recourse to this desperate move. But I was apprized of his intentions by Will Sommers, and have come in time to foil him.”

  “By my faith, I believe you are right, sweetheart,” said the king.

  “Go, tell your allies, Francis and Clement, that the king’s love for me outweighs his fear of them,” cried Anne, laughing spitefully. “As for you, I regard you as nothing.”

  “Vain woman, your pride will be abased,” rejoined Wolsey bitterly.

  “Vain man, you are already abased,” replied Anne. “A few weeks ago I would have made terms with you. Now I am your mortal enemy, and will never rest till I have procured your downfall.”

  “The king will have an amiable consort, truly,” sneered Wolsey.

  “He will have one who can love him and hate his foes,” replied Anne; “and not one who would side with them and thee, as would be the case with the Duchess d’Alencon or the Princess Renee. Henry, you know the sole terms on which you can procure my hand.”

  The king nodded a playful affirmative.

  “Then dismiss him at once, disgrace him,” said Anne.

  “Nay, nay,” replied Henry, “the divorce is not yet passed. You are angered now, and will view matters more coolly to-morrow.”

  “I shall never change my resolution,” she replied.

  “If my dismissal and disgrace can save my sovereign, I pray him to sacrifice me without hesitation,” said Wolsey; “but while I have liberty of speech with him, and aught of power remaining, I will use it to his advantage. I pray your majesty suffer me to retire.”

  And receiving a sign of acquiescence from the king, he withdrew, amid the triumphant laughter of Anne.

  CHAPTER IX.

  How Tristram Lyndwood was interrogated by the King.

  Anne Boleyn remained with her royal lover for a few minutes to pour forth her gratitude for the attachment he had displayed to her, and to confirm the advantage she had gained over Wolsey. As soon as she was gone, Henry summoned an usher, and giving him some instructions respecting Mabel Lyndwood, proceeded to the Curfew Tower.

  Nothing was said to him of the strange noise that had been heard in the upper chamber, for the arquebusiers were fearful of exciting his displeasure by a confession of their alarm, and he descended at once to the dungeon.

  “Well, fellow,” he cried, sternly regarding the captive, who arose at his entrance, “you have now had ample time for reflection, and I trust are in a better frame of mind than when I last spoke with you. I command you to declare all you know concerning Herne the Hunter, and to give me such information respecting the proscribed felon, Morgan Fenwolf, as will enable me to accomplish his capture.”

  “I have already told your highness that my mouth is sealed by an oath of secrecy,” replied Tristram, humbly, but firmly.

  “Obstinate dog! thou shalt either speak, or I will hang thee from the top of this tower, as I hanged Mark Fytton the butcher,” roared Henry.

  “You will execute your sovereign pleasure, my liege,” said the old man. “My life is in your hands. It is little matter whether it is closed now or a year hence. I have well nigh run out my term.”

  “If thou carest not for thyself, thou mayest not be equally indifferent to another,” cried the king. “What ho! bring in his granddaughter.”

  The old man started at the command, and trembled violently. The next moment, Mabel was led into the dungeon by Shoreditch and Paddington. Behind her came Nicholas Clamp. On seeing her grandsire, she uttered a loud cry and would have rushed towards him, but she was held back by her companions.

  “Oh grandfather!” she cried, “what have you done?-why do I find you here?”

  Tristram groaned, and averted his head.

  “He is charged with felony and sorcery,” said the king sternly, “and you, maiden, come under the same suspicion.”

  “Believe it not, sire,” cried the old man, flinging himself at Henry’s feet; “oh, believe it not. Whatever you may judge of me, believe her innocent. She was brought up most devoutly, by a lay sister of the monastery at Chertsey; and she knows nothing, save by report, of what passes in
the forest.”

  “Yet she has seen and conversed with Morgan Fenwolf,” the king.

  “Not since he was outlawed,” said Tristram.

  “I saw him to — day, as I was brought to the castle,” cried Mabel, “and—” but recollecting that she might implicate her grandfather, she suddenly stopped.

  “What said he? — ha!” demanded the king.

  “I will tell your majesty what passed,” interposed Nicholas Clamp, stepping forward, “for I was with the damsel at the time. He came upon us suddenly from behind a great tree, and ordered her to accompany him to her grandsire.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed the king.

  “But he had no authority for what he said, I am well convinced,” pursued Clamp. “Mabel disbelieved him and refused to go, and I should have captured him if the fiend he serves had not lent him a helping hand.”

  “What says the prisoner himself to this?” observed the king. “Didst thou send Fenwolf on the errand?”

  “I did,” replied Tristram. “I sent him to prevent her from going to the castle.”

  Mabel sobbed audibly.

  “Thou art condemned by thy own confession, caitiff,” said the king, “and thou knowest upon what terms alone thou canst save thyself from the hangman, and thy grand-daughter from the stake.”

  “Oh, mercy, sire, mercy!” shrieked Mabel.

  “Your fate rests with your grandsire,” said the king sternly. “If he chooses to be your executioner he will remain silent.”

  “Oh, speak, grandsire, speak!” cried Mabel. “What matters the violation of an unholy vow?”

  “Give me till to-morrow for consideration, sire,” said the old man.

  “Thou shalt have till midnight,” replied the king; “and till then Mabel shall remain with thee.”

  “I would rather be left alone,” said Tristram.

  “I doubt it not,” replied the king; “but it shall not be.” And without bestowing a look at Mabel, whose supplications he feared might shake his purpose, he quitted the vault with his attendants, leaving her alone with her grandsire.

  “I shall return at midnight,” he said to the arquebusier stationed at the door; “and meanwhile let no one enter the dungeon — not even the Duke of Suffolk — unless,” he added, holding forth his hand to display a ring, “he shall bring this signet.”

  CHAPTER X.

  Of the Brief Advantage gained by the Queen and the Cardinal.

  As the king, wholly unattended — for he had left the archers at the Curfew Tower — was passing at the back of Saint George’s Chapel, near the north transept, he paused for a moment to look at the embattled entrance to the New Commons — a structure erected in the eleventh year of his own reign by James Denton, a canon, and afterwards Dean of Lichfield, for the accommodation of such chantry priests and choristers as had no place in the college. Over the doorway, surmounted by a niche, ran (and still runs) the inscription —

  “AEDES PRO SACELLANORUM CHORISTARUM COVIVIIS EXTRUCTA, A.D. 1519.”

  The building has since been converted into one of the canons’ houses.

  While he was contemplating this beautiful gateway, which was glimmering in the bright moonlight, a tall figure suddenly darted from behind one of the buttresses of the chapel, and seized his left arm with an iron grasp. The suddenness of the attack took him by surprise; but he instantly recovered himself, plucked away his arm, and, drawing his sword, made a pass at his assailant, who, however, avoided the thrust, and darted with inconceivable swiftness through the archway leading to the cloisters. Though Henry followed as quickly as he could, he lost sight of the fugitive, but just as he was about to enter the passage running between the tomb-house and the chapel, he perceived a person in the south ambulatory evidently anxious to conceal himself, and, rushing up to him and dragging him to the light he found it was no other than the cardinal’s jester, Patch.

  “What does thou here, knave?” cried Henry angrily.

  “I am waiting for my master, the cardinal,” replied the jester, terrified out of his wits.

  “Waiting for him here!” cried the king. “Where is he?”

  “In that house,” replied Patch, pointing to a beautiful bay-window, full of stained glass, overhanging the exquisite arches of the north ambulatory.

  “Why, that is Doctor Sampson’s dwelling,” cried Henry; “he who was chaplain to the queen, and is a strong opponent of the divorce. What doth he there?”

  “I am sure I know not,” replied Patch, whose terror increased each moment. “Perhaps I have mistaken the house. Indeed, I am sure it must be Doctor Voysey’s, the next door.”

  “Thou liest, knave!” cried Henry fiercely; “thy manner convinces me there is some treasonable practice going forward. But I will soon find it out. Attempt to give the alarm, and I will cut thy throat.”

  With this he proceeded to the back of the north ambulatory, and finding the door he sought unfastened, raised the latch and walked softly in. But before he got half-way down the passage, Doctor Sampson himself issued from an inner room with a lamp in his hand. He started on seeing the king, and exhibited great alarm.

  “The Cardinal of York is here — I know it,” said Henry in a deep whisper. “Lead me to him.”

  “Oh, go not forward, my gracious liege!” cried Sampson, placing himself in his path.

  “Wherefore not?” rejoined the king. “Ha! what voice is that I heard in the upper chamber? Is she here, and with Wolsey? Out of my way, man,” he added, pushing the canon aside, and rushing up the short wooden staircase.

  When Wolsey returned from his interview with the king, which had been so unluckily interrupted by Anne Boleyn, he found his ante-chamber beset with a crowd of suitors to whose solicitations he was compelled to listen, and having been detained in this manner for nearly half an hour, he at length retired into an inner room.

  “Vile sycophants!” he muttered, “they bow the knee before me, and pay me greater homage than they render the king, but though they have fed upon my bounty and risen by my help, not one of them, if he was aware of my true position, but would desert me. Not one of them but would lend a helping hand to crush me. Not one but would rejoice in my downfall. But they have not deceived me. I knew them from the first — saw through their hollowness and despised them. While power lasts to me, I will punish some of them. While power lasts!” he repeated. “Have I any power remaining? I have already given up Hampton and my treasures to the king; and the work of spoliation once commenced, the royal plunderer will not be content till he has robbed me of all; while his minion, Anne Boleyn, has vowed my destruction. Well, I will not yield tamely, nor fall unavenged.”

  As these thoughts passed through his mind, Patch, who had waited for a favourable moment to approach him, delivered him a small billet carefully sealed, and fastened with a silken thread. Wolsey took it, and broke it open; and as his eye eagerly scanned its contents, the expression of his countenance totally changed. A flash of joy and triumph irradiated his fallen features; and thrusting the note into the folds of his robe, he inquired of the jester by whom it had been brought, and how long.

  “It was brought by a messenger from Doctor Sampson,” replied Patch, “and was committed to me with special injunctions to deliver it to your grace immediately on your return, and secretly.”

  The cardinal sat down, and for a few moments appeared lost in deep reflection; he then arose, and telling Patch he should return presently, quitted the chamber. But the jester, who was of an inquisitive turn, and did not like to be confined to half a secret, determined to follow him, and accordingly tracked him along the great corridor, down a winding staircase, through a private door near the Norman Gateway, across the middle ward, and finally saw him enter Doctor Sampson’s dwelling, at the back of the north ambulatory. He was reconnoitring the windows of the house from the opposite side of the cloisters in the hope of discovering something, when he was caught, as before mentioned, by the king.

  Wolsey, meanwhile, was received by Doctor Sampson at the doorw
ay of his dwelling, and ushered by him into a chamber on the upper floor, wainscoted with curiously carved and lustrously black oak. A silver lamp was burning the on the table, and in the recess of the window, which was screened by thick curtains, sat a majestic lady, who rose on the cardinal’s entrance. It was Catherine of Arragon.

  “I attend your pleasure, madam,” said Wolsey, with a profound inclination.

  “You have been long in answering my summons,” said the queen; “but I could not expect greater promptitude. Time was when a summons from Catherine of Arragon would have been quickly and cheerfully attended to; when the proudest noble in the land would have borne her message to you, and when you would have passed through crowds to her audience-chamber. Now another holds her place, and she is obliged secretly to enter the castle where she once ruled, to despatch a valet to her enemy, to attend his pleasure, and to receive him in the dwelling of an humble canon. Times are changed with me, Wolsey — sadly changed.”

  “I have been in attendance on the king, madam, or I should have been with you sooner,” replied Wolsey. “It grieves me sorely to see you here.”

  “I want not your pity,” replied the queen proudly. “I did not send for you to gratify your malice by exposing my abject state. I did not send for you to insult me by false sympathy; but in the hope that your own interest would induce you to redress the wrongs you have done me.”

  “Alas! madam, I fear it is now too late to repair the error I have committed,” said Wolsey, in a tone of affected penitence and sorrow.

  “You admit, then, that it was an error,” cried Catherine. “Well, that is something. Oh! that you had paused before you began this evil work — before you had raised a storm which will destroy me and yourself. Your quarrel with my nephew the Emperor Charles has cost me dear, but it will cost you yet more dearly.”

  “I deserve all your reproaches, madam,” said Wolsey, with feigned meekness; “and I will bear them without a murmur. But you have sent for me for some specific object, I presume?”