Then, turning to Catherine, he added, “Very painful duties are enforced upon me by my office; but, however painful they may be, I must not shrink from them.”
“I understand, Sir William,” said the Queen, composedly. “You have come to bid me prepare for death.”
“’Tis so, indeed, madam,” he replied sorrowfully. “To-morrow, you and Lady Rochford will bid adieu to the world.”
“I shall be ready,” said Lady Rochford.
Catherine made no reply. She could no longer struggle against the effect of the powerful narcotic.
“Look to the Queen!” cried the Duchess, alarmed by Catherine’s deadly pallor. “You have killed her by this sudden announcement, Sir William.”
“No, no, it is not that!” said Catherine, sinking into Lady Rochford’s arms.
A terrible suspicion crossed the lieutenant as the Queen was borne to a couch.
“What ails you, madam?” he inquired, anxiously.
But as she did not answer, and as her symptoms became each moment more alarming, he rushed out of the room to summon aid.
When he returned, in a few minutes, with Borlase, he found Catherine extended on the couch, apparently lifeless, with Lady Rochford kneeling beside her.
The melancholy group was completed by the old Duchess, who stood contemplating the pallid features of her granddaughter with an expression that had more in it of joy than of sorrow.
“Heaven be thanked, she hath escaped the tyrant’s vengeance!” she exclaimed, almost in a tone of exultation, as the lieutenant and his companion drew nigh.
“Dead!” ejaculated Kingston, appalled by the spectacle. “I cannot believe it. Recall her to life, Borlase, or we shall all pay dearly for the terrible mischance.”
Stepping forward, the chirurgeon placed his hand upon the Queen’s heart, and declared that it beat no longer.
A feather was then laid on her lips, but it remained motionless.
These proceedings were watched with intense anxiety by the lieutenant.
“It passes my skill to revive her, Sir William,” said Balthazar. “The spark of life is extinguished.”
“What has caused her death?” demanded Kingston.
“Poison, unquestionably!” replied the chirurgeon.
The lieutenant looked aghast.
“If this be so, you must have had a hand in it,” he said to Lady Rochford. “Whence did she obtain the poison?”
“She had it with her,” was the reply.
“’Tis a most untoward circumstance!” said Kingston, who was greatly troubled. “How shall I communicate it to his Majesty?”
“Would that the task devolved on me!” cried the old Duchess. “I would fain be present when he learns the news!”
Just then, a fresh personage appeared on the scene. It was the Archbishop of Canterbury. He instantly perceived that something terrible had happened.
“What ails the Queen?” he exclaimed. “I have been sent by his Majesty to receive her last confession.”
“Your Grace has come too late!” rejoined the Duchess of Norfolk, pointing to the motionless form. “This is all that remains of Catherine Howard, some-while Queen of England!”
“Alas! that I should find her thus!” ejaculated Cranmer.
“Pity her not!” said the Duchess. “Her troubles are over! Not even your royal master can molest her now!”
“How did she die?” inquired Cranmer.
“From some subtle poison, which she must have had concealed about her person, my lord,” replied Borlase.
“Not half an hour ago she was alive, and conversing with the Duchess of Norfolk,” said Kingston. “But when I warned her that her last hour was near at hand, she sank.”
“Perchance the shock killed her?” observed the Archbishop.
“Not so, your Grace; ’twas poison!” said Borlase, confidently.
“This will be ill news for the King,” remarked Cranmer.
“Ay, marry will it!” said the lieutenant. “And I like not to be the bearer of it.”
“I will relieve you from that duty, good master lieutenant,” said Cranmer. “I will return at once to Greenwich, where I left his Majesty, and tell him what I have seen and heard.”
“I humbly thank your Grace,” replied Kingston. “I pray you to assure his Majesty that the thing hath happened from no neglect of mine. ’Tis as vexatious to me as it can be to him. I shall await his orders; but, meanwhile, all such preparations as may be necessary shall be made. I will attend your Grace to the gates.”
“No,” replied the Archbishop; “you have business, which I will not interrupt. I know not what the King may determine upon; but you will hear ere long.”
So saying, he bowed gravely to the Duchess and Lady Rochford, and departed, the lieutenant attending him to the door.
“Borlase,” said Kingston, beckoning the chirurgeon to him, “I am sore perplexed by this unlooked-for occurrence!”
“I do not wonder at it, Sir William. Can I lend you aid? In my humble opinion, the deceased Queen ought not to be disturbed in any way till you receive his Majesty’s orders. With your permission, I will send my wife to watch over the body.”
“Do so,” replied the lieutenant.
“It may be that his Majesty will enjoin the immediate interment,” pursued the wily chirurgeon. “The coffin is ready. Shall I cause it to be brought hither?”
“Ay,” replied Kingston; “and let the corpse be placed within it.”
“Just as it is?” asked Borlase.
“Ay; just as it is,” responded the lieutenant. “In anticipation of to-morrow, I have already directed Botolph to dig a grave in St. Peter’s Chapel.”
“I will bid him use despatch,” said Borlase. “So that any orders you receive may be promptly executed.”
“’Tis well,” said the lieutenant.
This colloquy was overheard by Lady Rochford, who was listening attentively.
When it was ended, the lieutenant went up to her. “I can hold out no hopes, madam, that your execution will be postponed, owing to this sad occurrence,” he said.
“I did not think it would be,” she replied. “All I ask is to be allowed to pass the brief remnant of my life near her whom I have loved and served.”
“That request is granted,” said Kingston.
He then proceeded to the old Duchess of Norfolk, who was kneeling by the couch, and, touching her shoulder, said, “I am sorry to disturb your Grace, but you must now return with me to your own chamber.”
“I am ready to attend you,” she replied, rising. Kissing Catherine’s pallid cheek, she followed him with a firm step out of the chamber.
Borlase lingered for a moment.
“All goes well,” he muttered to Lady Rochford. “I will send my wife instantly to your ladyship.”
XXXI. The Midnight Exequies in St. John’s Chapel.
IT was midnight, and, by the King’s command, sad and solemn rites were performed in St. John’s Chapel, in the White Tower.
Never had a scene so striking, so impressive, been presented in that sacred structure. In front of the altar, which was fully dressed and lighted by many tapers, was placed an open coffin on a bier. In it lay the motionless and apparently lifeless form of the young Queen, still arrayed in the vestments she had worn when she sank in death-like insensibility. On her breast was laid a silver crucifix.
The coffin was not sculptured, like that of a royal personage, nor adorned by a ‘scutcheon, but it reposed on a black velvet pall, deeply bordered with silver.
Near it stood a priest, habited in a black stole, sprinkling the body with holy water, and reciting the antiphon, “Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine, Domine, quis sustenebit?”
Another priest was stationed at the altar, and an acolyte was swinging a thurible, that filled the chapel with powerful odour.
Around were a few kneeling figures, and among them were the Duchess of Norfolk, Lady Rochford, and Agnes. The old Duchess had so earnestly besought Sir William Ki
ngston for permission to attend the ceremonial, that he could not refuse her.
The round, massive columns, with the semicircular arches springing from them, and the coved ceiling of the chapel, illumined by the tapers, formed an admirable frame to the striking picture at the altar.
In the gallery were three spectators of the scene, all of whom gazed at it with strangely-mingled feelings.
Mass was then said, and the Dies Iras chanted, after which the priest took the aspersorium from the acolyte, and again thrice sprinkled the body. These sacred observances derived additional solemnity from the occasion, but their length alarmed Borlase, who was stationed behind one of the pillars.
During the prayer that followed, he crept softly forth, and, approaching Lady Rockford, whispered anxiously, —
“’Tis to be hoped this ceremonial will soon be over. That sprinkling with holy-water may revive her.”
Lady Rochford entertained the same fear, and trembled inwardly.
At last, their apprehensions were allayed. The prayer was over, and the concluding verses were chanted by the priests, as they gathered around the bier:— “In paradisum deducant te Angeli, in tuo adventu suscipiant te Martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Hiermalem.”
Amid the profound silence that ensued, two monks of the Order of St. Jerome, having their hoods drawn over the brow, advanced with noiseless footsteps towards the bier.
These were the bearers, who had remained in one of the side aisles during the solemn ceremonial.
“Whither shall we take the coffin?” inquired one of them, in a low tone, of Borlase.
“To the apartment in the Palace whence ye brought it,” replied the chirurgeon. “You will wait to transport it to St. John’s Chapel.”
The monk inclined his head, in token of acquiescence.
Just then, when he deemed all danger over, a noise at the back of the chapel startled the chirurgeon, and, looking round, to his astonishment and dismay, he beheld the King, attended by the lieutenant and Cranmer.
As it was evident that Henry was about to approach the coffin, all those near it, as well as those who had been kneeling in the nave, withdrew into the aisles.
Borlase, who had retreated behind one of the pillars, looked on with deepest anxiety.
For some minutes, Henry gazed fixedly at the pale features of the Queen. They were placid as those of a slumbering child.
His countenance betrayed no emotion, but painful thoughts agitated his breast. He had determined never to see her again in life. But now that all was over, as he deemed, he could look upon her once more. Such had been his idea when Cranmer brought him tidings of her death, and, yielding to the impulse, he had come privily to the Tower with that sole purpose.
During the whole of the solemn ceremonial, he had remained in the gallery of the chapel.
He could not remove his gaze from her, so struck was he by the angelic expression of her countenance. Could she have been guilty, and wear such a look in death? Purity itself seemed stamped on that marble brow.
Some compunction visited his breast, and he almost wished she still lived, when, as if to gratify his newborn desire, a slight glow began to chase away the mortal pallor from her features.
Scarcely believing what he saw, he bent towards her, and became convinced that it was no illusion.
A miracle had been wrought in his behalf.
“Merciful heaven,” he exclaimed, in tones that startled all the hearers. “She lives! — she breathes!”
Cranmer and Kingston, who were standing behind, advanced a few paces, and were struck with astonishment.
But the lieutenant instantly divined the truth, and whispered to the King, “She must have taken a sleeping-potion?”
“May be so,” rejoined Henry. “We shall see anon.”
Lady Rochford, Borlase and his wife, and all those who were in the secret, comprehended what had happened, and trembled with fear.
Henry continued intently watching the Queen.
By this time, sensibility had returned to her.
She heaved a profound sigh, which was distinctly heard amid the deep stillness that pervaded the place.
She next slowly raised herself, but being still only half conscious, she ejaculated, “Adrian, where are you?”
The exclamation made the King recoil.
It was as audible as the previous sigh had been throughout the chapel, and completed Lady Rochford’s distress.
“Alas, she has destroyed herself!” she mentally exclaimed.
“You heard that, my lord?” observed Henry, in a stern, deep tone, to Cranmer. “She calls on her paramour!”
Dazzled by the tapers, Catherine gazed around with a scared and bewildered look, till, at last, her eye settled upon the King, whose terrible aspect almost caused her to relapse into insensibility.
“You there, sire!” she ejaculated.
“Ay, ’tis not he you expected!” rejoined Henry, sternly. “Adrian is gone to his account!”
“I know it! — I know it!” she cried, pressing her hand to her throbbing temples. “I shall meet him in heaven!”
“Perchance, not there, if you die unanealed!” rejoined the King, still more sternly.
“I have confessed all my sins, Henry, and have received absolution for them!” she cried.
“You have not confessed the greatest of your crimes — the wrong you have done my honour!”
“I have never wronged you, Henry,” she exclaimed.
“Why, then, that cry? Why was your first thought for Adrian? Ha! you are self-convicted!”
“Aid me!” exclaimed Catherine, in a voice that brought Lady Rochford and Agnes instantly to her help.
Quickly released, she threw herself at the King’s feet.
“Mercy, sire!” she exclaimed. “I have endured the bitterness of death. Is not that punishment enough for a crime I have never committed?”
“Offended heaven would not permit your escape, but brought me hither to prevent it,” rejoined Henry, in a terrible voice. —
“Would that some pitying saint had stopped him!” muttered Borlase, groaning internally.
“Whence did you obtain the potion?” demanded Henry. “Answer that question.”
Borlase awaited the reply in mortal terror.
“From him whom you have unjustly sacrificed to your vengeance, sire,” returned Catherine, rising.
“Unjustly! Ha!” exclaimed Henry, in a furious tone.
“Unjustly, sire,” repeated Catherine, firmly. “You had no more loyal servant than Adrian.”
“I thought so once, but I now know otherwise,” rejoined the King.
And he turned to depart, but was stayed by Cranmer, who inclined before him.
“Sire,” said the Archbishop, “I beseech you to hear me. After what has happened, it will be most consistent with your dignity to pardon her who has offended you. You will thereby gain a character for clemency that will redound greatly to your honour, and exalt you in the esteem of all your subjects.”
“Cranmer, do you indeed urge this?” demanded Henry, surprised.
“I do, sire,” replied the Archbishop.
At that moment, a tall, thin figure issued from the side aisles, and approached the King. It was the old Duchess of Norfolk.
“Do you come to sue for mercy, madam?” said Henry.
“Not for myself, sire,” she replied. “I disdain to ask my life, since you deem it justly forfeited. But I would save you from the remorse that will inevitably be yours, if you now execute Catherine Howard.”
The King looked unmoved, and replied sternly, “I can feel no remorse for an act of justice, approved by my Council, by Parliament, and by the whole realm.”
“She has not been condemned by the law, but in defiance of the law,” said the Duchess, firmly. “Hear me, sire. The Duke, my husband, rendered you many signal services. He was the victor of Flodden. In consideration of that well-won fight, pardon his granddaughter.”
“In consideration of t
he Duke’s services, which I have not forgotten, I pardon you, madam,” said Henry.
“I do not thank you for your grace, sire,” replied the Duchess. “I would give my life for hers!”
“No more!” cried Henry, motioning her to retire.
“Kingston,” he added to the lieutenant, “I shall forthwith return to Greenwich. See that no further mishap occurs, or you shall answer for it with your head.”
“None shall occur, sire,” replied Kingston. “The scaffold is erected on the green, near St. Peter’s Chapel. When is it your pleasure that the execution shall take place?”
“To-morrow, at the hour previously appointed,” rejoined Henry.
“To-morrow!” exclaimed Catherine, in a faint voice.
And she fell into the arms of Lady Rochford.
“Are both to suffer, sire?” inquired the lieutenant.
“Both,” returned Henry. “Let me not hear from you again till all is over.”
And he quitted the chapel, followed by Cranmer.
XXXII. Catherine’s last Hours.
A GLOOMY morn arose on the Tower.
The Bulwark Gate was closed, and none were permitted to enter the fortress.
The few hours left them were passed by Catherine and Lady Rochford in fitting preparations for eternity.
The old Duchess of Norfolk remained with her granddaughter to the last, and helped to reconcile her to her fate. Long before the hour arrived, Catherine had become completely resigned:
The same scaffold that had been stained with the blood of Anne Boleyn, was reared on the self-same spot where it had stood on that melancholy occasion.
It was scarcely light, when Botolph was occupied in scattering straw on the boards, and in arranging the block.
While he was thus employed, a man wrapped in a long black gown hurried towards the scaffold, and quickly mounted the steps. It was Borlase.
“I have come to tell you that our scheme has failed,” said the chirurgeon.
“I guessed as much, when I heard the King had been at the Tower,” rejoined Botolph, shrugging his shoulders.
“Satan must have brought him to rob us of our reward,” said Borlase.
“I care not so much for the reward,” rejoined Botolph. “But I would fain have saved the poor Queen. ’Tis plain, the lieutenant must fear a rescue, or he would not have ordered the gates to be shut.”
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