“You shall carry it to him, my lord. I doubt not he will approve it.”
“You will not fare the worse for this ready compliance with his Majesty’s wishes,” said Wriothesley. “How highly he esteems you will be apparent, when I inform you that he has sent you five hundred marks in gold, which we will pay to your cofferer. He has also sent you certain rich stuffs for your apparel, and a princely gift of jewels.”
“Jewels!” exclaimed Anne. “He is most gracious. I pray you let me see them.”
By this time, she had quite recovered her spirits, and manifested the greatest delight in examining the diamonds and rich stuffs which the King’s messengers had brought her, but which they had prudently kept back till they had ascertained her sentiments.
Well satisfied with the result of their mission, they returned to Greenwich.
“Is she content?” demanded Henry, when they presented themselves before him.
“More than content, sire — she is overjoyed,” replied Norfolk.
“How? — overjoyed!” exclaimed the King, frowning. “Has she no regrets at her separation from me?”
“None that I could discover, sire. She seemed delighted at regaining her freedom, and escaping with her head. I never saw her display so much vivacity as she did while inspecting your presents. You would scarce have known her.”
“Said she aught of Cromwell?” demanded the King.
“She did not utter a single word that could displease you, sire,” replied the Duke. “She conforms entirely to your wishes. She has written submissively to you; and she has also written, as you enjoined, to the Duke of Cleves. Here are both letters.”
“Here is her wedding-ring, which she returns you, sire,” said Southampton.
“I do not care to see it,” replied Henry. And he muttered to himself, “She is a good woman. Had she been fairer, she might have continued Queen.”
VII. How Catherine regained the Ring.
ALL obstacles, as he deemed, to his union with Catherine Howard being removed by the divorce which he had obtained from his slavish Parliament, Henry would brook no delay.
His pleasure was that the marriage should be solemnized privately at Winchester House by Gardiner. Catherine had no desire for a public ceremonial, accompanied by pageants and processions like those that had lent a false glitter to Anne of Cleves’s ill-starred nuptials.
Much popular sympathy had been excited for the repudiated Queen; and if rejoicings had been attempted for her successor, they might have occasioned disturbances.
As the time approached when the irretrievable step must be taken, Catherine’s uneasiness increased. Often did she resolve to throw herself at Henry’s feet, and acknowledge all; but the terror he inspired her with was so great, that her courage always forsook her. It was her fate, and she could not avoid it.
On the night before the wedding-day, she was alone in her own room in the palace, completely worn out by the ceremonious attentions she had been compelled to pay to the numerous Court dames who had visited her.
Painful thoughts oppressed her. At that supreme moment, when her heart ought to have been closed against him, her love for Adrian Culpepper revived, and with greater intensity than ever.
Bitterly — most bitterly — did she reproach herself for deserting him. She uttered his name aloud, coupled with the tenderest epithets. Had any of her attendants appeared at that moment, discovery would have been inevitable, for she was utterly unable to control herself.
At last, she proceeded to a little oratory adjoining the apartment, and fell on her knees before the Madonna.
Her serenity being partially restored, she returned to the room she had left.
Some one was there. Could it be Adrian? She sprang towards him, but recoiled on discovering that it was Francis Dereham.
“You are mistaken,” he said. “It is not he you called upon in your anguish, but one who, despite your falsehood and perfidy, still loves you. I was behind the arras just now, and your cries, although addressed to another, pierced my heart. I pity you, Catherine, and will save you. I would rather you became Adrian’s bride, than the victim of the tyrant to whom you are about to sacrifice yourself to-morrow. Fly with me, while there is yet time.”
“I will not trust you,” she rejoined. “Depart instantly, or I will summon the attendants.”
And she made as if she would strike the silver bell upon the table.
“Summon them,” cried Dereham, “and you will be transferred from this palace to the Tower. You do not love Adrian, or you would not reject my offer. You are dazzled by the splendour of a throne, and rush, like the moth, to the flame that will consume you. Yet the terrible consequences of the step you are about to take might well deter you. From the moment you become Henry’s bride, your punishment will begin. Terrors you dream not of will disturb you. Henry is enamoured of you now, but he will tire of you as he has tired of the others. Some new enchantress will captivate him. Anne Boleyn’s fate will be your fate. The axe will be employed to sever the knot that cannot be untied. At that dread hour he will seek for proofs of your criminality, and he will find them.”
“My criminality!” she exclaimed, indignantly.
“Do you recognise this ruby ring. ’Tis the King’s gift. He bade you keep it. Being in my possession, it will suffice to condemn you.”
“Mary Lassells will prove that I gave it to her.”
“Ay! as a love-token to me.”
“’Tis false! I had no thought of you,” returned Catherine.
“Will the King believe your professions of innocence, with such evidence against you as this ring affords? You know he will not. His suspicions are already aroused. He has asked for the gem, and you have been unable to produce it. Be sure he will bear the circumstance in mind.”
“You will destroy yourself by your villany.”
“I care not. I shall have revenge. Now you comprehend that you are in my power. But I am not utterly devoid of pity. I cannot resist your tears. You shall have the ring on one condition.”
“Name it,” she cried, eagerly.
“The infatuated King will refuse you nothing at this moment. Ask Cromwell’s pardon. He is condemned to death, as you know. All intercession — even Cranmer’s — has proved fruitless. But you will prevail, for, as I have just said, the King will refuse you nothing.”
“I cannot do this, Dereham. I dare not act in opposition to the Duke of Norfolk and the Bishop of Winchester. They would never forgive me.”
“Reflect. You had better comply.”
“I cannot — I dare not.”
“As you will. Hereafter, you will regret your decision.”
“Hold! I agree. Give me the ring.”
“Take it. I have your promise.”
“Now I am safe!” she mentally ejaculated, as she slipped the ring on her finger.
“The pardon must be obtained without delay,” said Dereham. “If the death-warrant be signed, the King will not revoke it.”
“I will seize the first favourable moment. Now begone. Your presence here endangers all.”
“I have something more to say,” he remarked, evidently loth to depart.
“Not now — not now!” she exclaimed.
Just then, Mary Lassells entered, alarm depicted on her countenance.
“A company of masquers is coming hither,” she cried. “Do you not hear the strains of minstrelsy?”
And as she spoke, the sound of lively music was heard without.
“They are in the corridor. The King is with them.”
“Oh, heavens! I am lost! You have destroyed me!” cried Catherine to Dereham.
“Fear nothing,” he rejoined. “The King shall not find me here. Now you can fulfil your promise.”
And as he spoke, he passed quickly into the oratory, and concealed himself behind the arras with which the walls were covered.
VIII. The Masque.
SCARCELY had Dereham disappeared, when the door was thrown open by a portly personage, whom
Catherine doubted not was the King, though his features were hidden by a vizard.
Henry was in masquing attire, as Mary Lassells had stated, and wore a splendid mantle of cloth of silver, lined with blue velvet, the silver being pounced in letters, so that the velvet could be seen through it. His doublet and hose were of the like rich stuff.
A blaze of wax torches, carried in staffs, showed a troop of masquers behind him — gallants in splendid mantles like his own, and dames in gowns of blue velvet, lined with cloth of gold, and headgear of burnished gold.
All were masked.
Comprehending, at once, that this was intended as a pleasant surprise to her, Catherine stepped forward, and without appearing to recognise the chief masquer as the King begged him to bring in his company.
Thereupon he signed to the others, who instantly flocked in, and ranged themselves for a bransle.
At the same time the apartment was brilliantly lighted up by the torch-bearers; while the minstrels stationed themselves in the rear. As the company came in, Mary Lassells quitted the room.
The chief masquer did not offer his hand to Catherine for the dance, but sent a gay and agile gallant as his substitute.
The music then struck up, and the bransle commenced, and was danced with great spirit.
While it was going on, the King seated himself in a fauteuil, and chatted with Will Sommers, who stood at his elbow.
Henry had taken off his vizard, but the rest of the company remained masked.
“How briskly they foot it,” remarked the jester. “’Tis a pity you and I, gossip Hal, cannot take part in the bransle. We must be content to look on.”
“Ay, marry!” rejoined the King. “And there is something worth looking at. Didst ever see aught so graceful as our bride?”
“Were I to give utterance to all I think, you might he jealous, gossip. Who is he that dances with her?”
“The only person worthy to be her partner, and our proxy — Adrian Culpepper,” replied Henry.
“I guessed ’twas he. But methinks he doth not dance with his customary spirit to-night.”
“Trouble me not about him,” observed Henry. “I have eyes for none but the mistress of my heart. Every moment I discover some new charm in her,” he added, rapturously.
“Certes, you will have the fairest spouse in Christendom, gossip,” said the jester.
“And the most loving,” rejoined the King.
“May be. Has she found the ruby ring you gave her?”
“Why dost ask?” cried the King, sharply.
“Nay, I had no special motive for the question. I heard you inquire for the ring — that is all.”
“I will see anon,” observed Henry.
Though Adrian did not unmask when, by the Kang’s command, he led Catherine to the dance, she did not fail to recognise him.
Not a word, however, passed between them till a pause ensued, and then she remarked, in a low tone, “I have something to say to you, Adrian.”
“Speak, madam,” he rejoined, coldly. “I am all attention.”
“If you knew how wretched I am, you would compassionate me.”
“You wretched, madam!” he exclaimed, in an incredulous tone. “Impossible! You have succeeded in your aim; you have reached the summit of your ambition. To-morrow you will be Queen of England.”
“I would give up all this grandeur to be back again at the old mansion at Lambeth.”
“Do you ever think of it?” he cried.
“Often — often; and with bitter regret.”
“Why did you leave it? Oh, Catherine—”
Then, suddenly checking himself, he added, “For an instant, I lived in the past One whom I had wooed, whose heart I fancied I had won, seemed to stand before me. She is gone, and in her place appears the Queen. Forgive me, madam; I will not so offend again.”
“You have not offended me, Adrian. ’Tis I who am to blame; ’tis I who ought to supplicate for forgiveness from you. Say you forgive me!”
“Take care, madam; you will be overheard. The King approaches.”
Almost as the caution was given, Henry came up. “You look fatigued, sweetheart,” he said.
“I feel so,” she replied. “Pray excuse me, sir; I can dance no more,” she added, to Adrian, who bowed and retired.
“Let us step into the oratory for a moment, sire,” she observed, to the King. “The odour of the torches is too much for me.”
Henry took her hand to conduct her thither, and as they entered the oratory, he said, “I must chide you, Kate.”
“Chide me, sire! For what?”
“You never wear the ring I gave you.”
“I wear it now,” she replied, showing it to him on her finger. “I treasure it beyond any of my jewels.”
His suspicions were instantly removed, and, with a gracious smile, he said, “Have you no boon to ask from me, Kate, on this the eve of our bridal? What would you, sweetheart?”
“I lack nothing. But your Majesty’s kindness emboldens me to address a petition to you, the granting of which will be the greatest favour you can confer upon me.”
“A petition!” he exclaimed; “in whose behalf?”
“In behalf of one condemned to death for treason,” she replied.
“Ha! would you supplicate for a traitor, Kate?”
“I would have our union sanctified by an act of mercy. He for whom I plead has been my bitter enemy, and for that very reason I would have you pardon him. I sue for Cromwell, sire! For my sake, spare him!”
“To ask the traitor’s life proves the goodness of your heart, Kate; for you have said truly that he was your enemy, and had I kept him in his post, he might have worked you ill. I have received a penitent letter from him from his prison in the Tower, in which he prays for mercy in most abject terms.”
“Show me the letter, sire — let me read it to you.”
“I grieve to refuse aught, sweet Kate, especially at a time like this; but I must be firm.”
“Mother of mercy, move his heart!” she cried, kneeling down upon the cushion, and raising her clasped hands towards the Madonna.
She was still in this attitude, with the King gazing at her, half disposed to yield, when Norfolk and Gardiner appeared at the door of the oratory.
They looked on in astonishment, wondering what had happened.
“You shall judge between the Lady Catherine and myself, my lords, and I will be guided by your decision,” said Henry. “How think you? — she would have me pardon Cromwell.”
“Pardon that corrupt traitor!” cried the Duke, glancing angrily at her. “What means this madness?”
“I knew I should incur your displeasure, my lord,” she rejoined. “But I would not have the unfortunate man sacrificed!”
“You know not what you ask!” cried Norfolk. “Cromwell is the vilest traitor that hath been known during his Majesty’s whole reign, and hath been most justly condemned!”
“To show him mercy would be to incense the people, who cry for his blood!” said Gardiner.
“Here is the warrant for his execution, sire!” observed Norfolk to the King.
“You will not sign it, if you love me, sire!” cried Catherine, approaching him.
Henry turned aside his head.
“Desist from further solicitation, daughter,” said Gardiner; “the King is inflexible.”
“How know you that, my lord?” she cried. “Let him answer for himself. Speak, sire!”
“You put me to great pain, Kate,” said Henry, regarding her. “But my determination is unalterable. I shall sign the warrant ere I sleep.”
Norfolk and Gardiner exchanged looks of triumph.
From his place of concealment behind the arras, Dereham overheard the King’s decision.
IX. The last Meeting between Cromwell and Cranmer.
ATTAINTED and convicted of heresy and lése-majesté Cromwell had been condemned as a traitor and a heretic.
His enemies, as the Duke of Norfolk threatened, had proceed
ed against him by Bill of Attainder — a most iniquitous practice, which he himself had introduced.
By this illegal process, no proofs were required of the charges made against him. No witnesses were called, nor could he speak in his own defence.
Condemnation, after this mock trial, followed as a matter of course; and it was left by the slavish Parliament to the King to deal with him as he thought fit, and either doom him to death by the headsman’s axe on Tower Hill, or consign him to the stake at Smithfield.
From his prison in the Tower, Cromwell addressed several piteous letters to the King, written, as he himself stated, “with a trembling hand, and most sorrowful heart.”
Fervently protesting that devotion to his royal master had been his ruling passion, he invoked heaven’s vengeance upon his own head if he had ever harboured a thought of treason. As he might have foreseen, these sad appeals for mercy were ineffectual.
Abandoned by all his friends, except Cranmer, the once powerful minister was left to languish in his prison without a word of consolation or sympathy.
His sufferings were aggravated by remorse. The groans and maledictions of those whom he had brought to a like fate, rang in his ears. His chamber was peopled with phantoms, and these dreadful visions scared away sleep.
A few days of this terrible mental torture did the work of years. When arrested at the Council-board, he had been strong and erect. Now he was an old man. Has form was bent, his cheeks sunken, his eyes hollow, his hair white.
His time passed miserably. He did little else than pace to and fro within his narrow chamber, vainly trying to shut out the frightful objects that rose before him, incessantly bemoaning his hopeless fate, and inveighing bitterly against his enemies.
Cranmer visited him almost daily, prayed with him, and strove to bring him to a better frame of mind; hut with very indifferent success. The unhappy man frequently gave way to violent outbursts of rage and grief.
“Your Grace enjoins me to forgive my enemies,” he said. “But how can I do so after the injuries they have inflicted upon me? The King trusted me, honoured me, ennobled me, enriched me. They have brought false charges against me, have procured my disgrace, have bereft me of my dignities, have confiscated my possessions, have condemned me unheard, and will bring me to the block, if mercy is not shown me. I were more than human if I could forgive them.”
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