The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “The torture will force nothing from me,” replied Hugh Calveley. “But I tell thee, tyrant, that I would have slain thee, had not my hand been stayed.”

  “Heard ye ever the like o’ that?” exclaimed James, his ruddy cheek blanched with fright, and his voice quavering. “Why, he exceedeth in audacity the arch-traitor Fawkes himsel’. And what stayed thy hand, villain?” he demanded,— “what stayed thy hand, thou blood-thirsty traitor?”

  “The presence of this youth, Jocelyn Mounchensey,” rejoined Hugh Calveley. “Had he not come between us when he did, and checked my purpose, I had delivered my country from oppression. I told thee, tyrant, thou hadst been marvellously preserved. Thy preserver stands before thee.”

  “Heaven defend us!” exclaimed James, trembling. “What an escape we hae had. There hath been a special interposition o’ Providence in our behoof. Our gratitude is due to Him who watcheth ower us.”

  “And in some degree to him who hath been made the instrument of your Majesty’s preservation,” observed the Conde de Gondomar, who formed one of the group near the King. “Since the foul traitor hath proclaimed the name of my young protegé”, there can be no need for further concealment. Master Jocelyn Mounchensey hath been singularly fortunate in rendering your Majesty a service, and may for ever congratulate himself on his share — accidental though it be — in this affair.”

  “By my halidame! he shall have reason for congratulation,” cried James, graciously regarding the young man.

  “Ay, let him rise by my fall. ’Tis meet he should,” cried the Puritan, bitterly. “Shower thy honours upon him, tyrant. Give him wealth and titles. I could not wish him worse misfortune than thy favour.”

  “Hold thy scurril tongue, villain, or it shall be torn out by the roots,” said James. “Thou shalt see that I can as promptly reward those that serve me, as thou shalt presently feel I can severely punish those that seek to injure me. Hark ye, Count!” he added to the Spanish Ambassador, while those around drew back a little, seeing it was his Majesty’s pleasure to confer with him in private, “this youth — this Jocelyn Mounchensey, hath gentle bluid in his veins? — he comes of a good stock, ha?”

  “He is the representative of an old Norfolk family,” De Gondomar replied.

  “What! the son of Sir Ferdinando?” demanded James, a shade crossing his countenance, which did not escape the wily ambassador’s notice.

  “You have guessed right, Sire,” he said. “This is Sir Ferdinando’s son; and, if I may be permitted to say so, your Majesty owes him some reparation for the wrongs done his father.”

  “How! Count!” exclaimed James, with a look of slight displeasure. “Do you venture to question our judgments on hearsay — for ye can know naething o’ your ain knowledge?”

  “I know enough to be satisfied that misrepresentations were made to your Majesty respecting this young man’s father,” De Gondomar replied; “for I am well assured that if you ever erred at all, it must have been through ignorance, and want of due information. This was what I designed to explain more fully than I can well do now, when I availed myself of your Majesty’s gracious permission to bring the young man into your presence; and I should then have taken leave to express how much he merited your Majesty’s favour and protection. Fortune, however, has outrun my wishes, and given him a stronger claim upon you than any I could urge.”

  “Ye are right, Count,” rejoined James cautiously. “He hath the strongest claim upon us, and he shall not find us ungrateful. We will confer wi’ Steenie — wi’ Buckingham, we mean — about him.”

  “Pardon me, Sire,” said De Gondomar, “if I venture to suggest that your Majesty hath an admirable opportunity, which I should be sorry to see neglected, of showing your goodness and clemency, and silencing for ever the voice of calumny, which will sometimes be raised against you.”

  “What mean ye, Count?” cried James. “Ye wad na hae me pardon yon traitor?”

  “Most assuredly not, Sire,” De Gondomar rejoined. “But I would urge some present mark of favour for him who hath saved you from the traitor’s fell designs. And I am emboldened to ask this, because I feel assured it must be consonant to your Majesty’s own inclinations to grant the request.”

  “It is sae, Count,” rejoined James. “We only desired to consult wi’ Buckingham to ascertain whether he had ony objections; but as this is altogether unlikely, we will follow our ain inclinations and do as your Excellency suggests.”

  De Gondomar could scarcely conceal his satisfaction.

  At this moment Lord Roos pressed towards the King.

  “I have something to say in reference to this young man, my liege,” he cried.

  “In his favour?” demanded the King.

  “Yes, yes; in his favour, Sire,” said De Gondomar, looking hard at the young nobleman. “You need not trouble his Majesty further, my lord. He is graciously pleased to accede to our wishes.”

  “Ay, ay; nae mair need be said,” cried James. “Let the young man stand forward.”

  And as Jocelyn obeyed the injunction which was immediately communicated to him by De Gondomar, the King bade him kneel down, and taking Lord Roos’s sword, touched him with it upon the shoulder, exclaiming, “Arise! Sir Jocelyn.”

  “You are safe now,” whispered De Gondomar. “This is the first blow, and it has been well struck.”

  So confused was the new-made knight by the honour thus unexpectedly conferred upon him, that when he rose to his feet he could scarcely command himself sufficiently to make the needful obeisance, and tender thanks to the King. For a moment, his brow was flushed with pride, and his breast beat high; but the emotions were instantly checked, as he thought how the title had been purchased. Looking towards the prisoner, he beheld him in the hands of the warders, to whose custody he had been committed, with his arms bound behind him by thongs. His gaze had never quitted the young man during the ceremony which had just taken place, and he still regarded him sternly and reproachfully.

  “Let the prisoner be removed, and kept in a place of safety till our pleasure respecting him be made known,” cried James. “And now, my lords and ladies, let us forward to the palace.”

  And the cavalcade was once more put in motion, and passing through the great gateway entered the Fountain Court, where the nobility of both sexes dismounted, while their attendants and the falconers and varlets passed off to the offices.

  The prisoner was conveyed to the porter’s lodge, and strictly guarded, till some secure chamber could be prepared for him. On the way thither Jocelyn contrived to approach him, and to say in a low tone— “Can I do aught for Aveline?”

  “Concern not yourself about her, Sir Jocelyn,” rejoined Hugh Calveley, with stern contempt. “She is in a place of safety. You will never behold her more.”

  CHAPTER XXII.

  Wife and Mother-in-Law.

  Quick steps descended the narrow staircase — steps so light and cautious that they made no sound. Before drawing aside the arras that covered the secret entrance to the chamber, the lady paused to listen; and hearing nothing to alarm her, she softly raised a corner of the woof and looked in.

  What did she behold? A young man seated beside a carved oak table, with his back towards her. He was reading a letter, the contents of which seemed greatly to disturb him, for he more than once dashed it aside, and then compelled himself to resume its perusal. No one else was in the room, which was spacious and lofty, though somewhat sombre, being wholly furnished with dark oak; while the walls were hung with ancient tapestry. Heavy curtains were drawn before the deep bay windows, increasing the gloom. The chamber was lighted by a brass lamp suspended from the moulded ceiling, the ribs of which were painted, and the bosses, at the intersections, gilded. Near the concealed entrance where the lady stood was placed a large curiously-carved ebony cabinet, against which leaned a suit of tilting armour and a lance; while on its summit were laid a morion, a brigandine, greaves, gauntlets, and other pieces of armour. On the right of the cabinet the tapestry was
looped aside, disclosing a short flight of steps, terminated by the door of an anti-chamber.

  Almost as the lady set foot within the room, which she did after a brief deliberation, dropping the arras noiselessly behind her, the young man arose. Her entrance had not been perceived, so violently was he agitated. Crushing the letter which had excited him so much between his fingers, and casting it furiously from him, he gave vent to an incoherent expression of rage. Though naturally extremely handsome, his features at this moment were so distorted by passion that they looked almost hideous. In person he was slight and finely-formed; and the richness of his attire proclaimed him of rank.

  The lady who, unperceived, had witnessed his violent emotion was remarkably beautiful. Her figure was superb; and she had the whitest neck and arms imaginable, and the smallest and most delicately-formed hands. Her features derived something of haughtiness from a slightly aquiline nose and a short curled upper lip. Her eyes were magnificent — large, dark, and almost Oriental in shape and splendour. Jetty brows, and thick, lustrous, raven hair, completed the catalogue of her charms. Her dress was of white brocade, over which she wore a loose robe of violet-coloured velvet, with open hanging sleeves, well calculated to display the polished beauty of her arms. Her ruff was of point lace, and round her throat she wore a carcanet of pearls, while other precious stones glistened in her dusky tresses.

  This beautiful dame, whose proud lips were now more compressed than usual, and whose dark eyes emitted fierce rays — very different from their customary tender and voluptuous glances — was the Countess of Exeter. He whom she looked upon was Lord Roos, and the chamber she had just entered was the one assigned to the young nobleman in the Palace of Theobalds.

  She watched him for some time with curiosity. At length his rage found vent in words.

  “Perdition seize them both!” he exclaimed, smiting his forehead with his clenched hand. “Was ever man cursed with wife and mother-in-law like mine! They will, perforce, drive me to desperate measures, which I would willingly avoid; but if nothing else will keep them quiet, the grave must. Ay, the grave,” he repeated in a hollow voice; “it is not my fault if I am compelled to send them thither. Fools to torment me thus!”

  Feeling she had heard more than she ought, the Countess would have retired; but as retreat might have betrayed her, she deemed it better to announce her presence by saying,

  “You are not alone, my Lord.”

  Startled by her voice, Lord Roos instantly turned, and regarded her with haggard looks.

  “You here, Frances?” he exclaimed; “I did not expect you so soon.”

  “I came before the hour, because — but you seem greatly agitated. Has anything happened?”

  “Little more than what happens daily,” he replied. “And yet it is more; for the crisis has arrived, and a fearful crisis it is. O, Frances!” he continued vehemently, “how dear you are to me. To preserve your love I would dare everything, even my soul’s welfare. I would hesitate at no crime to keep you ever near me. Let those beware who would force you from me.”

  “What means this passion, my Lord?” inquired the Countess.

  “It means that since there are those who will mar our happiness; who, jealous of our loves, will utterly blight and destroy them; who will tear us forcibly asunder, recking little of the anguish they occasion: since we have enemies who will do this; who will mortally wound us — let us no longer hesitate, but strike the first blow. We must rid ourselves of them at any cost, and in any way.”

  “I will not affect to misunderstand you, my Lord,” the Countess replied, her beautiful features beginning to exhibit traces of terror. “But has it arrived at this point? Is the danger imminent and inevitable?”

  “Imminent, but not inevitable,” Lord Roos rejoined. “It can be avoided, as I have hinted, in one way, and in one way only. There is a letter I have just received from my wife; wherein, after her usual upbraidings, remonstrances, and entreaties, she concludes by saying, that if I continue deaf to her prayers, and refuse to break off entirely with you, and return to her, our ‘criminal attachment,’ — for so she terms our love — should be divulged to the deluded Earl of Exeter, who will know how to redress her wrongs, and avenge his own injured honour. What answer, save one, can be returned to that letter, Frances? If we set her at defiance, as we have hitherto done, she will act, for she is goaded on by that fury, her mother. We must gain a little time, in order that the difficulties now besetting us may be effectually removed.”

  “I shudder to think of it, William,” said the Countess, trembling and turning deathly pale. “No; it must not be. Rather than such a crime should be committed, I will comply with their demand.”

  “And leave me?” cried Lord Roos, bitterly. “Frances, your affection is not equal to mine, or you could not entertain such a thought for a moment. You almost make me suspect,” he added, sternly, “that you have transferred your love to another. Ah! beware! beware! I am not to be trifled with, like your husband.”

  “I forgive you the doubt, my Lord — unjust though it be — because your mind is disturbed; but were you calm enough to view the matter as it really is, you would perceive that my resolution has nothing in it inconsistent with affection for you; but rather that my very love for you compels me to the step. What I propose is best for both of us. The remedy you suggest would work our ruin here and hereafter; would drive us from society, and render us hateful to each other. My soul revolts at it. And though I myself have received a mortal affront from your wife’s mother, Lady Lake; though she has poured forth all the malice of which she is capable upon my devoted head; yet I would rather forgive her — rather sue for pity from her than go the fearful length you propose. No, William. The pang of parting from you will indeed be terrible, but it must be endured. Fate wills it so, and it is therefore useless to struggle against it.”

  “O, recall those words, Frances!” cried the young nobleman, throwing himself at her feet, and clasping her hands passionately. “Recall them, I implore’ of you. In uttering them you pronounce my doom — a doom more dreadful than death, which would be light in comparison with losing you. Plunge this sword to my heart,” he exclaimed, plucking the shining weapon from his side, and presenting it to her. “Free me from my misery at once, but do not condemn me to lingering agony.”

  “Rise, William! rise, I pray of you,” ejaculated the Countess, overcome by the intensity of his emotion, “and put up your sword. The love you display for me deserves an adequate return, and it shall meet it. Come what will, I will not leave you. But, O! let us not plunge deeper in guilt if it can be avoided.”

  “But how can it be avoided?” cried Lord Roos. “Will they listen to our prayers? Will they pity us? Will they hesitate at our destruction?”

  “I know not — I know not,” replied the Countess, bewildered; “but I stand appalled before the magnitude of the offence.”

  “They will not spare us,” pursued Lord Roos; “and therefore we cannot spare them.”

  “In my turn I bend to you, William,” said the Countess, sinking on her knee before him, and taking his hand. “By the love you bear me, I beseech you not to harm your wife! We have wronged her deeply — let us not have her death to answer for. If the blow must fall, let it be upon the mother’s head. I have less compassion for her.”

  “Lady Lake deserves no compassion,” replied Lord Roos, raising the Countess, and embracing her tenderly, “for she is the cause of all this mischief. It is to her agency we owe the storm which threatens us with ruin. But things have gone too far now to show compunction for either of them. Our security demands that both should be removed.”

  “I may now say as you have just said, William, and with, far greater reason,” cried the Countess, “that you love me not, or you would not refuse my request.”

  “How can I comply with it?” he rejoined. “Nothing were done, if only partly done. Know you the charge that Lady Roos means to bring against you? Though alike false and improbable, it is one to find easy c
redence with the King; and it has been framed with that view. You will understand this, when I tell you what it is. In this letter,” he added, picking up the paper he had thrown down, and unfolding it, “she accuses you of practising sorcery to enslave my affections. She declares you have bewitched me; and that she has proof of the manner in which it was done, and of the sinful compact you have entered into for the purpose.”

  “O William! this is false — utterly false!” exclaimed the Countess, in despair.

  “I know it,” he rejoined. “You have no need to practise other enchantments with me than those you possess by nature. But what I tell you will show you the extent of their malice, and steel your heart, as it hath already steeled mine, against them.”

  “But this accusation is too monstrous. It will not be believed,” cried the Countess.

  “Monstrous as it is, it is more likely to be believed — more certain to be maintained — than the other which they lay at our door. We may deny all their assertions; may intimidate or give the lie to the witnesses they may produce against us; may stamp as forgeries your letters which have unluckily fallen into their hands; but if this charge of witchcraft be once brought against you, it will not fall to the ground. The King will listen to it, because it flatters his prejudices; and even my voice would fail to save you from condemnation — from the stake.”

  “Horrible!” exclaimed Lady Exeter spreading her hands before her eyes, as if to exclude some dreadful object. “O to live in an age when such enormities can be perpetrated! when such frightful weapons can be used against the innocent — for I am innocent, at least of this offence. All seems against me; all doors of escape — save one — closed. And whither does that door lead? To the Bottomless Pit, if there be truth in aught we are told by Heaven.”