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 CHAPTER II.

THE HALT AT NEWGATE.

t was a day of triumph to Bonner, and his heart swelled with pride and
gratified vengeance as he marched along. The precincts of the
cathedral were crowded with spectators, as indeed were all the streets
traversed by the cortége on its way to Smithfield. The majority of the
beholders being Romanists, they prostrated themselves devoutly as the host
went by, while the priests accompanying the bishop sprinkled them with holy
water.
However, there were many who refused to kneel, and who were only
restrained by fear from giving utterance to their abhorrence of the ceremony. As
the train was passing through Ludgate, a man called out in a stentorian voice,
“So, my masters, at last we have got the Inquisition in England!” But scarcely
had the words escaped him, when he was seized and dragged off.
Arrived at Newgate, where Prebend Rogers had been kept since his
condemnation, the cortége came to a halt, and, after a short delay, the prisoner
was brought forth. He was a man of middle age, tall of stature, thin, but well-
built, dark-complexioned, and possessing a grave, intelligent countenance.
He looked perfectly composed, and remarked, as he noticed the extent of the
cortége, “Ye make as great a show as if ye were about to conduct me to a
festival, and not to the stake.”
While the sheriffs, who had charge of the doomed man, and who wore their
robes and chains, were mounting their horses, a painful incident occurred. With
loud cries, that ought to have moved every breast, a woman, having a young
child in her arms, and with several other terrified children clinging to her, burst
through the ranks of the halberdiers, exclaiming, “For Christ our Saviour’s sake,
let me bid a last farewell to my husband!”
“Get hence, importunate and troublesome woman!” cried one of the sheriffs,
named Woodrooffe, in loud and harsh tones. “This man is not thy husband.”
“I protest to you he is, Sir,” she rejoined, in extremity of anguish, “my lawful
husband, and these are our children.”
“Spawn of the devil!” shouted Woodrooffe. “Away with all thy brood of Satan,
or the men shall drive you hence with their halberds. You ought to know that a
priest cannot marry.”
“We have been married these fourteen years, Sir,” said Rogers. “I pray you
suffer her to come to me. ’Twill be a comfort to her and to the children to say
farewell, and receive my blessing. Our parting will be short. If you are a husband
and a father yourself, you will not be deaf to my appeal.”
“I am both, yet will I not suffer her or her base-born brats to come near thee,”
roared Woodrooffe. “Push them away with your pikes if they will not retire
peaceably,” he added to the guard.
“Heaven forgive you!” exclaimed Rogers, as his wife and children were thrust
aside. “’Twas the sole consolation I asked, and that is denied me.”
Shortly after this interruption, the cortége moved forward again, the
condemned, closely attended by the sheriffs and their officers, following next
after Bonner.
On either side of the doomed man walked a priest with a crucifix in his hand,
one or other of whom was constantly dinning exhortations to repentance into his
ears. To these he would not listen, but recited aloud the Miséréré. His firm
deportment and serene countenance—for he speedily recovered his composure—
produced a strong effect upon the beholders.
The bell of Saint Sepulchre’s tolled solemnly as the procession wended its way
along Giltspur Street, and the bells of the two churches dedicated to Saint
Bartholomew filled the air with the like dismal clangour, as the head of the
cavalcade rode into Smithfield.
 CHAPTER III.
SMITHFIELD IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

o part of London is richer in historical recollections of various kinds than

Smithfield. In this enclosure, which in old times was a broad and
pleasant field, lying without the City walls on the north-west, were held
jousts and tournaments on the most splendid scale, and attended by
kings, foreign potentates and ambassadors, nobles, knights, and dames of the
highest rank and peerless beauty. Barriers were frequently set up in Smithfield by
Edward III., and here a grand tournament, which lasted for a week, was given
by the same monarch, in the latter part of his reign, in honour of the beautiful
Alice Perrars, by whose charms he was bewitched. Another grand tournament
was held here by Richard II., on which occasion sixty knights on richly-
caparisoned coursers, and each attended by a lady of honour mounted upon a
palfrey, rode from the Tower to Smithfield, where, in the presence of the King
and Queen and chief nobles, many commendable courses were run. In the same
reign, the Earl of Mar came from Scotland to challenge the Earl of Nottingham,
and the trial of skill took place at Smithfield, resulting in the overthrow of Mar,
who was so severely hurt by his opponent that he died on the way back. In the
time of Henry IV., the Earl of Somerset, Sir John Cornwall, Sir Richard Arundel,
and others, tilted with certain Frenchmen; and in the same reign a duel took
place between Gloucester and Arthur, which would have terminated fatally but
for the King’s interference. In the succeeding reign, Sir Robert Carey fought an
Aragonese knight at Smithfield, and slew him. Several desperate combats
occurred here in the reign of Henry VI., but we cannot dwell upon them, and
must conclude our brief summary by allusion to the famous encounter between
Lord Scales and the Bastard of Burgundy, held before Edward IV., at which the
English noble had the advantage, both mounted and on foot, with poleaxe as
well as with spear.
Many judicial combats were likewise fought at Smithfield, and here it was that
the armourer was slain by his false servant—a picturesque incident introduced
with admirable effect by Shakespeare in the Second Part of “Henry VI.” Other
occurrences of a yet more tragical character are not wanting to deepen the
interest of the spot. At the north of the field, and between a large pool and a
track of marshy land, grew some gigantic elms, and amidst these stately trees
stood a permanent gallows, at which the great Scottish hero, William Wallace,
was barbarously hanged, and, while yet breathing, disembowelled and
quartered. In the centre of the field the Lollards were burnt, and on the same
spot, at a later date, numberless victims of the tyrant Henry’s rage perished in
the same fearful manner.
The darkest page, however, in the annals of Smithfield, belongs to the period
under consideration.
But Smithfield has lively as well as sombre traditions. Here the famous
Bartholomew Fair was held, the humours of which have been painted by Ben
Jonson. Though the amusements of this annual City carnival might scandalise
the present decorous generation, they suited our forefathers, who had no
objection to a little riotous excess. In the last century, when Bartholomew Fair
was at its zenith, excellent theatrical representations were given there, and
Fielding himself had a booth at Smithfield.[A] However, tastes changed.
Bartholomew Fair lost its attraction, was voted a nuisance, and finally abolished,
though it lingered on till within the last few years.

A. See Mr. Morley’s “Memoirs of Bartholomew Fair”—a work full of curious

research and delightfully written.
At the period of our history, Smithfield retained most of its original features. It
was still an open field without the walls, resorted to by the citizens for purposes
of recreation, and was constantly used, as at an earlier date, for grand military
displays and for public executions. The grove of giant elms, with the gallows in
the midst, was still standing near the pool, and no part of the broad enclosure
had as yet been encroached upon.
On the east side of the area, partially screened by a large mansion, stood the
Priory of Saint Bartholomew, a noble religious institution, founded in the time of
Henry I., by Rahere, the King’s minstrel, and which flourished until the
dissolution of the monasteries, when it was granted by Henry VIII. to his
Attorney-General, Sir Richard Rich. The size and importance of the priory will be
understood, when it is stated that in addition to the abode and dormitories of the
prior and monks, the establishment comprised a large conventual church,
refectory, hall, cloisters, courts, and numerous offices, together with extensive
gardens—among which was a mulberry-garden. The splendid church was
partially pulled down, and the materials sold, but, on the accession of Queen
Mary, the remnant of the sacred pile, together with other portions of the
monastery, were restored to the brotherhood of Black Canons, from whom they
had been wrested, and continued in their hands till the time of Elizabeth, when
the fraternity was ejected.
In front of the priory, as above stated, was a large and picturesque mansion,
which delighted the eye with its high pointed roof, carved gables, richly-
sculptured portals, and mullioned windows. Adjacent to this habitation was an
ancient gateway, leading to the conventual church, over the pointed arch of
which was a tabernacle containing a statue of Saint Bartholomew holding a knife.
On the north of the priory ran a long narrow lane, with detached houses and
gardens on either side of it, communicating with Aldersgate Street.
On the south side of Smithfield stood the old hospital belonging to the priory,
at the rear of which was the church of Saint Bartholomew the Less. On the west
of the area were a few scattered habitations, amongst which were three
renowned hostels, the Saint Catherine’s Wheel, the King’s Head, and the Rose.
Here another narrow lane, skirted by small tenements, ran down to Holborn.
The best view of Smithfield was from the ground near the old elm-trees.
Standing there, and looking towards the City, the prospect was exceedingly
striking. On the left was the priory, surmounted by the square tower of the
conventual church, and contiguous to it the ancient hospital—a highly
picturesque structure. Further on was Saint Sepulchre’s. The north-western angle
of the ancient City walls, with its ramparts and battlements, was seen to great
advantage from this point. Hundreds of lofty and slender spires, graceful
steeples, crocketed pinnacles, and embattled towers, long since destroyed, met
the gaze. But the grand object of all was the venerable Gothic cathedral, with its
spire, upwards of five hundred feet in height, which could here be surveyed in all
its majesty and beauty.
 CHAPTER IV.
WHAT PASSED IN SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’S CHURCH.

great crowd had assembled in Smithfield to witness the sad spectacle,

but a circular space was kept clear in the centre of the area exactly
opposite the ancient gateway leading to the priory.
Within this ring, which was guarded by a double line of halberdiers,
stood a stout square oak post, about nine feet high, driven securely into the
ground, and having a heavy iron chain attached to it by a staple. Hard by was an
immense pile of fagots, with some blocks of wood. A little further off there was
another pile, consisting of bundles of dried reeds.
Close by the stake stood three men, of savage and repulsive aspect, clothed in
leathern jerkins and tight-fitting hose of blood-red hue, having long iron prongs
in their hands.
As the cortége entered Smithfield, and the intended martyr was descried, a
murmur of commiseration rose from those who sympathised with him, but it was
instantly drowned by a hurricane of fierce and exulting yells from the Romanists.
Meantime, the mounted arquebusiers having cleared a passage through the
crowd, the long line of priests with their banners and crosses, the recusants with
the tapers, the deprived Protestant divines, Bonner and the condemned, passed
through the gateway, and, traversing the court, proceeded to the ancient
conventual church, the bell of which sounded dolefully the while.
At the portal they were met by the prior of the Black Canons, with several of
the brethren in their sable robes, and conducted to the places appointed for
them in the sacred edifice.
 The recusants were ranged on one side, and the Protestant divines on the
other, while the Romish priests proceeded to the presbytery. A chair opposite the
pulpit was assigned to the doomed man, on which he sat down, with two
halberdiers standing behind him.
On a faldstool near the altar sat Philip, who had come there quite privately,
and was only attended by his confessor, Father Alfonso de Castro. In the choir
sat Gardiner, with some members of the council.
Beneath a circular arch, resting on massive cylindrical pillars, near the north
transept, stood Osbert Clinton, who, having accompanied the cortége from Saint
Paul’s, had entered the church at the same time with it, and stationed himself
where he could best see Constance without being observed by the King. She
soon became aware of his presence, but only ventured occasionally to look
towards him, and then her glances yielded him little comfort.
After a brief delay, Bonner ascended the pulpit, and taking for his text Saint
Paul’s words to the Galatians, “I would they were cut off that trouble you,” he
preached a violent sermon on the necessity of punishing heretics and false
brethren with death, citing many authorities in favour of his views, and asserting
that to maintain that heresy ought to go unpunished would be to maintain that
the worst crimes should be unchastised. “Heresy,” he said, “being treason against
Heaven, deserves the punishment of treason. As such a traitor,” he added,
turning to Rogers, “thou wilt be consigned to a fire, which will be to thee a
foretaste of the flames in which thou shalt burn everlastingly. Thy fate will be a
terrible lesson to all who think with thee.”
“It will be a lesson to them how to testify to their faith,” rejoined the prebend.
Bonner having descended from the pulpit, a votive mass for taking away
schism was performed by Gardiner, who solemnly pronounced the oration:—Deus
qui errata corrigis, et dispersa congregas, et congregata conservas; quæsumus,
super populum Christianum tuæ unionis gratiam clementer infunde: ut divisione
rejecta, vero Pastori Ecclesiæ tuæ se venies, tibi dignè valeat famulari.
Mass ended, the Dies Iræ was sung by the choir of the Black Canons, and,
while this was proceeding, the cortége began to move, passing slowly before the
altar, preparatory to quitting the church.
As before, a long array of priests with banners walked with noiseless tread,
bowing reverently as they passed the altar. Then came the recusants, carrying
their lighted tapers, but not a knee was bent amongst them, not a head inclined.
Last amongst these walked Constance, alone. She had to pass close by Philip,
who was seated on the faldstool, with Gardiner and Father Alfonso beside him,
and as she approached him, her strength began to fail, and her knees tottered.
She tried to summon all her energies, but in vain. In another moment she felt
she must sink. Philip’s gaze was fixed steadily upon her. A desperate effort to
pass deprived her of the little strength left, and with a cry she let fall the taper,
and would have sunk upon the pavement if the King himself had not caught her.
 “Oh that I could die!” she gasped.
“No, you must live for me, Constance,” whispered Philip, passionately.
She looked at him for a moment with mingled fear and aversion, and then
closed her eyes.
“She has swooned,” said the King, consigning her to Rodomont, who had been
marching behind her. “Take her where she can be tended.”
In obedience to the injunction, Rodomont bore her to the sacristy, where
restoratives were applied by a monk, who acted as physician to the brotherhood
of the Black Canons.
This incident, as may be supposed, had not passed unnoticed by Osbert
Clinton, whose eyes had never quitted Constance for a moment. As she tottered
and fell into the King’s arms, his agony became almost insupportable; and when
she was borne to the sacristy by Rodomont, he would have flown instantly to her
assistance if he had dared.
Meanwhile the cortége continued to pass slowly by the King. The Protestant
divines made him an obeisance as they passed, but sedulously abstained from
bowing to the altar. Lastly came the intended martyr, who walked with a firm
step, and head erect.
As he came near, Gardiner commanded him to stop, and thus addressed him:
“John Rogers, somewhile priest, but now an excommunicate person, we have
striven to convert thee, and by wholesome admonitions to reduce thee again
unto the true faith and unity of the universal Catholic Church, but we have found
thee obstinate and stiff-necked, stedfastly continuing in thy damnable opinions
and heresies, and refusing to return to the lap of the holy mother church.
Wherefore, not being willing that thou shouldst infect the Lord’s flock with thine
heresy, we have cast thee out from the Church as an obstinate, impenitent
sinner, and have left thee to the judgment of the secular power, by whom thou
hast been justly condemned to perish by fire. The punishment is inflicted upon
thee for the salvation of thine own soul, and as a step towards the extirpation of
heresy.”
“What consequences may follow my punishment, my lord, none of us can tell,”
rejoined Rogers; “but I am fully prepared to die.”
“Sinner as thou art, wilt thou be converted and live?” cried Gardiner. “Here is
her Majesty’s pardon,” he added, showing him a scroll.
“I reject it,” said Rogers, stoutly. “I maintain that the Catholic Church of Rome
is the Church of Antichrist. Item, that in the sacrament of the altar——”
“A truce to thy blasphemies,” interrupted Gardiner, furiously. “Away with him to
the stake!”
“I am ready,” said Rogers. “I bid you all to my funeral pile. You shall see how a
true believer can die. If I blench, proclaim me a renegade.”
Hereupon, the Protestant divines, who had listened with great satisfaction,
moved on, and Rogers followed them with a firm step.
 While this occurred, Osbert Clinton had contrived to steal unperceived to the
sacristy. Constance had just recovered from her swoon. Luckily, no one was with
her but Rodomont, the monk who had tended her having just quitted the
chamber.
“Why have you come here, Sir?” cried Rodomont. “Matters were bad enough
before, but your imprudence will make them ten times worse. If the King
discovers you, you are lost.”
“I care not what happens to me,” replied Osbert. “I could not keep away. Fear
nothing, Constance,” he added, “I will not quit you more.”
“This is madness,” cried Rodomont. “The King is certain to come hither, and
then you will be arrested. Hide yourself in this cupboard,” he added, opening the
door of a large oak ambry reared against the wall. “It only contains a few priestly
vestments, and you can stand upright within it.”
But Osbert refused to move.
“Do as he recommends, I implore you,” said Constance to him. “You will throw
away your life by staying with me.”
“To be sure he will,” rejoined Rodomont, dragging him away, and forcing him
into the ambry, the door of which he shut.
The step was only just taken in time. In another moment, the King came into
the sacristy, and seeing that Constance had recovered, he signed to Rodomont to
leave the chamber.
“I have much to say to you, Constance,” he began, “but this is not the moment
for it. Are you still in the same mood as when I saw you last? Has no change
been wrought in your sentiments?”
“None, Sire,” she replied. “I am quite happy in the life I lead with the good
Cardinal, and only pray it may continue.”
“But you still maintain your heretical opinions?” said the King.
“Firmly as ever, Sire.”
“And does not this awful ceremonial shake you?”
“On the contrary, it strengthens my convictions.”
“All heretics are alike—all obstinate and contumacious,” muttered Philip.
“Constance, you cannot go back to the Cardinal. He is much too lenient to you. I
shall deliver you to Bishop Bonner, who will treat you very differently.”
“Oh! Sire, do not deliver me to that cruel man. Let me go back to the good
Cardinal, who has been as a father to me. Have compassion upon me.”
“You have no compassion upon me, Constance,” rejoined Philip. “You care not
for my sufferings. Relent towards me, and I will be less rigorous towards you.”
“It cannot be, Sire,” she rejoined.
“Be not hasty. Reflect. If I consign you to Bonner, your fate is certain. After the
execution, the sight of which I will spare you, I will return for your answer. A
guard will be placed at the door to prevent your exit, but no one shall disturb
you. Again, I say, reflect. On your own decision hangs your fate.”
So saying, he quitted the sacristy, the door of which was locked outside.
 CHAPTER V.
THE PROTO-MARTYR OF THE PROTESTANT CHURCH.

he solemn proceedings we have described as taking place in the

conventual church of Saint Bartholomew occupied more than an hour,
and during this time the concourse within Smithfield had considerably
increased. Every available inch of ground commanding a view of the
place of execution was by this time occupied. The roofs and windows of all the
habitations overlooking the enclosure were filled, and the giant elm-trees near
the pool had hundreds among their branches. Romanists and Protestants could
be readily distinguished from each other by their looks—the countenances of the
former being fierce and exulting in expression, while those of the other bespoke
sorrow and indignation.
On the left of the gangway leading to the priory and opposite the stake, a
large scaffold had been erected. It was covered with black cloth, and in front was
an immense cross embroidered in silver, underneath which was inscribed, Unus
Dominus, una fides, unum baptisma. This scaffold was intended for the recusants and
Protestant divines, and was guarded by mounted arquebusiers.
On the right of the gateway was reared a long covered gallery, hung with
crimson cloth of gold, and emblazoned with the royal arms. This gallery was
approached from the upper windows of the mansion against which it was set,
and was reserved for the King, the bishops, and the council. It was likewise
guarded by mounted men-at-arms.
The patience of the densely-packed crowd, eager for the exciting spectacle it
had come to witness, was well-nigh exhausted, when the solemn tolling of the
bell of the conventual church announced that, at last, the intended martyr was
coming forth. Then all noise and tumult suddenly ceased, and deep silence fell
upon the throng.
In the midst of this hush the doleful hymn chanted by the monks could be
distinctly heard. Every eye was then directed towards the gateway. Presently the
priests emerged, carrying the crucifixes and banners, and mounting the scaffold,
they ranged themselves in front of it. They were followed by the recusants with
lighted torches, who were placed at the back of the scaffold, while the middle
seats were allotted to the Protestant divines.
All these proceedings were watched with deep interest by the spectators.
Many an eye was then cast towards the royal gallery, but it was still vacant.
As yet nothing had been seen of the doomed man, but now the sheriffs rode
forth from the gateway, and in another moment Rogers came after them, still
maintaining his firmness of deportment. He was preceded by half-a-dozen
halberdiers, and followed by two officers, with drawn swords in their hands.
At this moment Philip came forth, and sat down in the fauteuil prepared for
him in the centre of the gallery. Close behind him stood Father Alfonso, while on
his right were Gardiner and Bonner, and other prelates, and on his left the
principal members of the council.
As Philip appeared, a half-suppressed murmur arose among the spectators,
and had not their attention been diverted by what was going on below, stronger
manifestations of dislike might have been made. Philip frowned as these
murmurs greeted him, but made no remark.
Meanwhile, Rogers continued to march resolutely towards the place of
execution—some of the spectators pitying and comforting him, others flouting
and reviling him. His firmness, however, was exposed to a sore trial at the last.
His unhappy and half-distracted wife having followed him with her children to
Smithfield, had managed to force her way close up to the ring of halberdiers
encircling the stake; and as he came up, aided by some charitable persons near
her, who drew aside to let her pass, she burst forth, and ere she could be
prevented, flung herself into his arms, and was strained to his breast, while his
children clung to his knees.
But this agonising scene, which moved most of those who beheld it, whatever
their religious opinions might be, was of brief duration. Seeing what had
occurred, Sheriff Woodrooffe turned fiercely round, and roared out, “What! here
again, thou pestilent woman! Pluck her from him, and take her and her children
from the ground.”
“Go, dear wife and children,” cried Rogers. “We shall meet again in a better
world, where none will trouble us. Farewell for a little while—only a little while!
My blessing be upon you!”
“I will not leave you. I will die with you,” shrieked his unhappy wife.
 “Let these cruel men kill us also,” cried one of the younger children—a little
girl. “We do not desire to live.”
“Pluck them away instantly, I say,” roared Woodrooffe. “Why do you hesitate?
Do you sympathise with these heretics?”
“Gently Sirs, gently,” said Rogers. “See ye not she faints. Farewell, dear wife,”
he continued, kissing her marble cheek. “You can take her now. She will not
struggle more. Be of good cheer, my children. We shall meet again in heaven.
Once more, farewell.”
As his swooning wife and weeping children were taken away, he covered his
face with his hands, and wept aloud, but, roused by the angry voice of the
sheriff, he lifted up his head, and, brushing the tears from his eyes, marched
with firm footsteps into the ring, in the midst of which was planted the stake. No
sooner had he come there than a priest advanced towards him, and, holding up
a crucifix, besought him to repent.
But Rogers pushed him aside, and, turning to the assemblage, called out with
a loud voice,—
“Good people, having taught you nothing but God’s holy word, and such
lessons as I have learnt from His blessed book, the Holy Bible, I am come hither
to seal my faith with my blood.”
“Have done, thou false knave!” cried Woodrooffe, “or I will have thy lying
tongue torn from thy throat. Make ready. Thou hast detained us long enough.”
“Nay, treat him not thus harshly,” interposed the priest. “Again, I implore you
to renounce your errors.”
“You waste time with him, good father,” cried the sheriff.
“Not so,” rejoined the priest. “Perchance, even now, Heaven may soften his
heart.”
“I pray you let me be,” said Rogers, taking a Prayer-book from his breast, and
turning the leaves.
“Thou shalt not read that book,” cried the sheriff, snatching it from him. “I will
cast it into the fire with thee. Make ready, I say.”
On this Rogers went up to the stake, and pressing his lips fervently to it,
exclaimed, “Welcome the cross of Christ! Welcome eternal life!”
On turning round, he would have addressed a few more words to the people,
but the sheriff, perceiving his design, authoritatively forbade him.
Then one of the men standing near the stake came up and besought his
forgiveness.
“Forgiveness for what?” rejoined Rogers. “Thou hast done me no injury that I
know of.”
“I am one of those appointed to burn you,” replied the man.
“Nay, then, I freely forgive thee, good fellow,” replied Rogers. “And I will give
thee thanks also, if thou wilt heap plenty of wood about me.”
 With that he took off his gown and doublet, and bestowed them upon the
man. Then, kneeling down by the stake, he passed a few moments in deep and
earnest prayer; after which he arose, and said, in a firm voice, “I am ready.”
Thereupon, a smith and his man, who were in attendance with the sheriffs,
stepped forward, and putting the chain around him, fastened it at the back of
the stake. An iron hoop was likewise passed around his body, and nailed to the
post.
Then the men with the prongs began to pile the faggots around him, mingling
them with bundles of reeds.
“Are your fagots dry?” he inquired, as they were thus engaged.
“Ay, marry are they,” replied the man to whom he had given his cloak and
doublet. “You shall not be long a-burning, I’ll warrant you.”
When sufficient fagots had been heaped around him, Sheriff Woodrooffe called
for torches, which were brought, but ere they could be applied, the priest again
interposed.
“Hold yet a moment,” he exclaimed.
Then advancing towards the martyr, who, chained to the stake and half
covered by the fagots, regarded him steadily, he displayed a warrant to him, and
said, “Here is the Queen’s pardon. Recant, I conjure thee, and thou shalt be
spared.”
“Away with thee, tempter!” exclaimed Rogers. “I take you all to witness,” he
added, with a loud voice, “that I die in the Protestant faith.”
“Kindle the pile instantly!” vociferated the sheriff.
Three blazing torches were then applied to the bundles of reeds, and the next
moment the flames leaped up and enveloped the martyr.
Many of the beholders shouted and exulted at the terrific spectacle, but groans
and lamentations burst from others.
Then the flame fell for a moment, and the serene countenance of the martyr
could be descried, his lips moving in prayer. But not a groan or a cry escaped
him.
The fagots now began to crackle and blaze. The flames mounted higher and
higher, and again wrapt the martyr from view.
At this moment the sheriff threw the Prayer-book into the fire, commanding
the assistants to heap on fresh fagots as fast as the others were consumed; and
this was continued till the sufferer was reduced to ashes.
Thus died the Proto-martyr of the Protestant Church.

End of the Fourth Book.

 BOOK V.
THE INSURRECTION.

CHAPTER I.
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN OSBERT AND CONSTANCE IN THE
SACRISTY.

n the King’s departure from the sacristy, as previously narrated,

Constance immediately released Osbert from the ambry, and the
unhappy lovers, rushing into each other’s arms, forgot for a short space
the perilous position in which they were placed. At last, Osbert,
partially disengaging himself from the mistress of his heart, exclaimed with
bitterness,—
“What have we done that we should suffer thus severely? Heaven seems never
weary of persecuting us. Yet we have committed no fault save that of loving
each other.”
“Alas!” cried Constance, “it would seem that we are never to be united on
earth, since we meet only for a moment, to be torn asunder. We must look for
happiness beyond the grave.”
“That is but cold comfort, Constance,” cried Osbert. “I cling to life and hope. I
yet hope to make you my bride, and to spend years in your society—happy,
happy years, which shall make amends for all the misery we have undergone.”
“It would indeed be bliss to dwell together as you say,” replied Constance; “but
fate opposes us, and to struggle against our destiny would be vain. The trials we
experience are given us for our benefit, and ought to be borne cheerfully. At this
very moment, within a short distance of us, a martyr is purchasing, by a cruel
death, a crown of glory and a place in heaven. Hark to those cries!” she
exclaimed, as shouts were heard without; “perchance he is now bound to the
stake. I am thankful to be spared the frightful spectacle, but I can pray for him
here.”
And she knelt down on the pavement, and prayed aloud.
 While she was thus engaged, Osbert glanced anxiously around in search of
some means of escape, but could discover none. The sacristy was lighted by two
lancet-shaped windows, but they were narrow, and barred outside.
“Despair!” he exclaimed, in half-frenzied accents, as his search concluded.
“Flight is impossible. We are lost.”
But Constance’s thoughts were with the martyr in Smithfield, and the appalling
scene seemed to be passing before her eyes. Suddenly she shrieked out, “The
fire is kindled. I can see the red reflection of the flames through yonder
windows. Oh, it is horrible. Would I were back with the good Cardinal!”
“Would you were!” ejaculated Osbert. “But I fear you will never behold him
more. The King will be here presently, and will require an answer. What will you
say to him?”
“Say! What shall I say?” cried Constance, bewildered.
“Ask me not,” rejoined Osbert, in a sombre voice. “Take this dagger,” he added,
placing a poignard in her hand. “Conceal it about your person. You may need it.”
“This dagger!” she cried, regarding the weapon. “What am I to do with it?”
“Should the worst befall, plunge it in the King’s heart, or your own,” he
rejoined.
“I cannot,” she replied, letting the poignard fall upon the pavement. “I will not
commit a crime that would doom me to perdition. Were I, in a moment of
desperation, to do as you suggest, all hope of our reunion in a better world
would be over. Then, indeed, I should be lost to you for ever.”
“But this inexorable demon will be here anon,” cried Osbert, picking up the
dagger. “The thought drives me mad. Would that these strong walls would crack
asunder to let us pass, or the floor yawn and swallow us up. Anything to avoid
him.”
“Fresh shouts! more light against yon windows! They are adding fuel to the
fire!” cried Constance. “’Twill be over soon.”
“And then the King will come hither,” said Osbert. “Are you prepared for him?”
“Fully prepared,” she rejoined. “Return to your place of concealment, lest he
should appear suddenly.”
“No, I will remain here, and brave his anger,” said Osbert.
“Oh, do not act thus rashly!” she exclaimed. “You can render me no aid, and
will only place yourself in needless peril.”
“I have no desire to live. Let the tyrant wreak his utmost vengeance upon me
if he will. Ha! he comes,” he cried, as the key grated in the lock, and the door
opened.
It was not the King, however, but Rodomont Bittern who entered.
“Just as I expected!” exclaimed Rodomont. “Prudence is not to be looked for in
a lover. I was certain I should find you talking to your mistress, and therefore I
came to warn you that the King will be here directly. Back to the ambry at once.”
“No more hiding for me,” returned Osbert. “I shall remain where I am.”
 “And be sent to the Tower, and have your head chopped off for your pains,”
observed Rodomont. “What service will that do to Mistress Constance?”
“It will only tend to make me more wretched,” she rejoined. “If you love me,”
she added to Osbert, “you will not expose yourself to this great danger.”
“There, you cannot resist that!” cried Rodomont. “Back to the ambry at once,”
he continued, pushing him towards it. “And as you value your head, do not stir
till the coast is clear.”
“I cannot answer for myself,” remarked Osbert, as he got into the cupboard. “A
word from the King will bring me forth.”
“Then I’ll answer for you,” said Rodomont, locking the ambry, and taking away
the key. “That’s the only chance of keeping him out of harm’s way. Be not cast
down, fair mistress,” he added to Constance. “The Cardinal will protect you.”
“Were I with him, I should have no fear,” she replied. “He would shield me
against all wrong; but I am now in the King’s power, and he has threatened to
deliver me to Bishop Bonner.”
“And if his Majesty should so dispose of you, ’twill be but a brief confinement,
for the Cardinal will speedily have you back. So be of good cheer. But hist! there
is a stir within the church. The dread ceremony is over. I must leave you, or the
King will find me here. Keep up your courage, I say.”
With this he quitted the chamber, and made fast the door outside.
 CHAPTER II.
HOW FATHER ALFONSO INTERPOSED IN CONSTANCE’S BEHALF.

fter a brief interval, but which appeared like an age to Constance, the
door was again thrown open, and Philip entered the sacristy. To judge
by his looks, no one would have supposed that he was fresh from the
terrible spectacle he had just witnessed.
“One would think that burning must be pleasant to those tainted with heresy,”
he observed. “The wretch who has just suffered for his contumely smiled as the
pile was lighted. But it was not to speak of him that I came here, but of yourself,
Constance. Have you reflected?”
“I did not need to reflect, Sire. My determination was instantly formed, and is
unalterable.”
“You will regret it, Constance—bitterly regret it. Consider what you sacrifice—
life, and all that can render life attractive—for a solitary cell, and a fiery death in
Smithfield.”
“I require no consideration, Sire. I choose the dungeon and the stake.”
“Yet a moment,” urged Philip. “Bishop Bonner is without, but I am unwilling to
summon him.”
“Do not hesitate, Sire. I have said that my determination is unalterable.”
After regarding her stedfastly for a few moments, and perceiving that she
manifested no symptoms of relenting, Philip moved slowly towards the door, and,
on reaching it, paused, and again looked at her fixedly. But, as she still continued
firm, he summoned Bonner, who immediately afterwards entered with Father
Alfonso. The bishop’s features were flushed with triumph, but the Spanish friar
appeared grave and sad, and his cheeks were almost livid in hue.
“Here is another obstinate heretic for you, my lord,” said the King, pointing to
Constance. “Take her, and see what you can do with her.”
“If the Lord Cardinal and your Majesty have failed in bringing her to reason, I
shall stand but a poor chance of doing so,” replied Bonner. “Nevertheless, I will
essay. You must not expect the same gentle treatment from me, mistress,” he
added, in a harsh voice, to Constance, “that you have lately experienced from
the Cardinal.”
“I do not expect it, my lord,” she rejoined.
“He has been far too indulgent,” pursued Bonner. “You have been free to roam
about the palace gardens—have had your own attendants and your own
chamber, as if you were the Cardinal’s guest, and not his prisoner—have been
exempted from mass, and other privileges, wholly inconsistent with your state.
None of these immunities will you enjoy with me. You will have no garden to
walk in, but a prison court with high walls—no dainty and luxurious chamber, but
a close cell—no better fare than bread and water—no attendant save the gaoler
—none to converse with except the priest. This is the plan I shall pursue with
you. If it fails, and you continue obstinate, you need not be reminded of your
doom.”
For a moment there was a pause. Constance then addressed herself to the
King, and, speaking with a spirit which she had never previously displayed before
him, said, “I protest against this course, Sire. If I am a prisoner at all, I am the
Lord Cardinal’s prisoner. I was placed in his Eminence’s charge by the Queen’s
Majesty, and I demand to be taken back to him. If I be not, but be illegally and
unjustly detained by the bishop, let his lordship look to it, for assuredly he will
have to render a strict account to the Cardinal. I have been brought hither in
virtue of a warrant from her Majesty, which compels my attendance at this
execution, but the warrant declares that I am to be taken back, and this the
bishop engaged to do.”
“Is this so?” demanded Philip.
“I cannot deny it,” replied Bonner; “but your Majesty can overrule the order.”
“The King will not follow such ill counsel,” said Constance. “If I be not taken
back in accordance with the warrant, both her Majesty and the Cardinal will be
sore displeased.”
“The damsel speaks boldly yet truthfully, Sire,” interposed Father Alfonso, “and
has right on her side. The bishop admits that she was brought here under her
Majesty’s warrant, and does not deny that he undertook to take her back to the
Cardinal. If this be not done, his Eminence will have just ground of displeasure.
Furthermore, since Mistress Constance was placed by the Queen under the
Cardinal’s charge, her Majesty’s consent must be obtained ere she can be
removed.”
 “But the King can set at nought the warrant,” cried Bonner, “and can remove
the damsel from the Cardinal’s charge if he thinks fit.”
“Doubtless his Majesty can act as he may deem meet,” rejoined Father
Alfonso; “but your lordship can scarce expect to escape blame in the affair. The
Queen is certain to resent the disrespect shown to her authority, and the
Cardinal will be equally indignant at the interference with him. Both will visit their
displeasure on your head.”
“But you will hold me harmless, Sire?” said Bonner.
“Nay, my lord, I care not to quarrel with the Cardinal,” rejoined Philip. “You
must bear the brunt of his anger.”
“And also of the Queen’s displeasure,” remarked Father Alfonso. “Her Majesty
takes great interest in this damsel, and had a special design in placing her under
the Cardinal’s care. If her plan be thwarted——”
“Enough, good father, enough!” interrupted Bonner. “Unsupported by your
Majesty, I dare not act in opposition to the Queen and the Cardinal, and
consequently Mistress Constance must go back to Lambeth Palace.”
“Thank Heaven I am saved!” exclaimed Constance, clasping her hands
fervently.
“Be not too sure of that,” muttered Bonner, with the growl of a tiger robbed of
his prey.
“Your lordship is right,” observed Philip, who for a moment had been buried in
thought. “Direct opposition to the Cardinal might be fraught with ill
consequences. Let Mistress Constance go back to Lambeth Palace. But ere many
days—perchance to-morrow—the Cardinal shall be compelled to yield her up to
you. The Queen herself shall give you the order.”
“I do not think her Majesty will sign such an order,” observed Father Alfonso.
“Be content, my lord, you shall have it,” said the King significantly to Bonner.
“There is another prisoner in the Lollards’ Tower whom I would fain have,
Sire,” observed the bishop.
“You mean the crazy fanatic, Derrick Carver,” rejoined Philip. “He shall be given
up to you at the same time as Constance. Come to Whitehall betimes to-morrow,
and I will procure you the warrant from her Majesty. Meanwhile, let Constance
go back.”
“Your injunctions shall be obeyed, Sire. Ere long, I hope to offer your Majesty
a grand auto-da-fé at Smithfield.”
“If his Majesty will be guided by me, he will not attend another such dreadful
execution as we have this day witnessed,” observed Father Alfonso.
“Why so, father?” demanded the King.
“Because you will infallibly lose your popularity with the nation, Sire,” said
Father Alfonso. “The odium of these executions will attach to you, instead of to
their authors.”
 “There is something in this,” observed Philip, thoughtfully. “We will talk of it
anon. Farewell, my lord. To-morrow morning at Whitehall.” And with a glance at
Constance, he quitted the sacristy, attended by his confessor.
After addressing a few harsh words to Constance, for whom he seemed to
have conceived an extraordinary antipathy, Bonner likewise quitted the chamber.
Shortly afterwards Rodomont entered, and hurrying to the ambry, unlocked it,
and set Osbert free.
Again the unhappy lovers rushed into each other’s arms, but Rodomont
thought it necessary to interpose, saying there was no time for the indulgence of
such transports now, but urging them to bid each other farewell.
“You heard what has passed just now,” remarked Constance to Osbert; “I am
to be taken back to the good Cardinal.”
“True; but to-morrow he will be compelled to surrender you to Bonner,”
rejoined Osbert.
“Do not believe it, fair mistress,” said Rodomont. “His Eminence will protect
you. You have escaped many difficulties, and may be equally fortunate now. You
are to return with the procession to Saint Paul’s, after which you will be taken to
Lambeth Palace.”
“Farewell, Constance,” said Osbert, straining her to his breast.
“Make haste!” cried Rodomont, impatiently, “or we shall have the guard here,
and then there will be a fresh entanglement. Methinks I hear their footsteps.
Quick! quick!”
“I come,” rejoined Constance.
And tearing herself from her lover, she followed him out of the sacristy. The
door being left open, Osbert allowed a brief interval to elapse, and then issued
forth into the church, which by this time was well-nigh deserted.
 CHAPTER III.
HOW OSBERT WAS INDUCED TO JOIN A CONSPIRACY.

mongst those who witnessed the burning of Rogers was the French
ambassador. On quitting Smithfield, he repaired to the court adjoining
the conventual church, and was watching the religious procession set
out on its return to Saint Paul’s, when he noticed Osbert Clinton, whose
eyes were following the retreating figure of Constance. Approaching him, De
Noailles said, in a low voice, “I am sorry to see poor Constance Tyrrell among
those recusants. Has she been delivered over to Bonner’s chambre ardente?”
“Not as yet,” rejoined Osbert, in a troubled tone.
“I trust she never may be,” said De Noailles, “for Bonner has no pity for a
heretic. Youth and beauty weigh very little with him. ’Tis enough to drive one
mad to think that so lovely a creature should be his victim!”
“She never shall be!” exclaimed Osbert, moodily.
“How will you hinder it?” said De Noailles. “Can you snatch her from his grasp
if he once secures her? Can you unlock the prison in which she will be immured?
Dare you even approach her now? How, then, will you be able to free her, when
she is led to the stake, escorted by a guard as strong as that which accompanied
the poor wretch who has just been sacrificed?”
“Torture me not thus!” cried Osbert. “I feel as though I could sell myself to
perdition to accomplish her deliverance.”
“You shall not need to do that,” observed De Noailles, perceiving that Osbert
was in the right frame of mind for his purpose. “Now listen to me. A plot is
hatching, having for its object the overthrow of Philip, the deposition of Mary,
and the restoration of the Protestant faith, as a guarantee for which the Princess
Elizabeth is to be proclaimed Queen. With this movement all the heads of the
Protestant party are connected, and only await a favourable moment for an
outbreak. That moment is at hand. The execution which has just taken place is
but the prelude to others equally dreadful. In a few days Bishop Hooper will be
burnt at Gloucester, Saunders at Coventry, and Taylor at Hadley; and, ere the
month be out, others will swell the fearful catalogue. Thoroughly alarmed, the
Protestants feel that, if they do not offer prompt and effectual resistance, they
will be exterminated. It is certain, therefore, that they will all rise when called
upon, and, if well managed, the scheme cannot fail of success.”
“What has this plot to do with Constance Tyrrell?” demanded Osbert.
“Much,” replied the other. “Join us, and I will engage to procure her liberation.”
“On those terms I will join you,” said Osbert. “What would you have me do?”
“I cannot explain our plans now. But meet me to-morrow, at midnight, in the
cloisters of Westminster Abbey, and I will introduce you to the chief
conspirators.”
“I will be there at the hour appointed,” said Osbert. “Till then, farewell!”
And moving away, he followed the procession to Saint Paul’s, leaving De
Noailles well satisfied with his manœuvre.
 CHAPTER IV.
WHAT PHILIP HEARD WHILE CONCEALED BEHIND
THE ARRAS.

ext day in the forenoon, Bishop Bonner repaired to Whitehall Palace,

and found the King in a cabinet communicating with the great gallery.
Philip was seated at a table covered with dispatches, and near him
stood Rodomont Bittern, with whom he was conversing.
“I am glad you are come, my lord,” said the King to Bonner, as the latter
entered the cabinet. “This gentleman is the bearer of a letter from the Lord
Cardinal to her Majesty, in which his Eminence solicits an audience of her on a
matter of importance. The Cardinal will be here at noon, and the important
matter on which he comes relates to the delivery of Constance Tyrrell to your
lordship. Is it not so, Sir?” he added to Rodomont.
“It is, my liege,” replied the other. “His Eminence is unwilling to give up the
maiden, and desires to ascertain the Queen’s pleasure on the subject. As I have
already told your Majesty, the Cardinal was much troubled on learning from
Mistress Constance what had befallen her, and he declared that unless he had
the Queen’s positive commands to that effect he would not surrender her to the
ecclesiastical commissioners. I do not think I ever saw him more moved.”
“I make no doubt that his Eminence blamed me, Sir,” remarked Bonner.
“To speak truth, my lord, he did,” replied Rodomont; “and he said plainly to
Lord Priuli that you should not have the damsel.”
“Your Majesty hears that?” cried Bonner. “This proud Cardinal defies your
authority.”
 “Nay, there was no defiance on his Eminence’s part of the King’s Highness,”
observed Rodomont, “but only of your lordship. The representative of his
Holiness, he said, should not be insulted with impunity, and he added some
words which I care not to repeat, but they spoke of reprimands, censures, and
possible privation of dignity.”
“His Eminence takes up the matter with great warmth,” observed Bonner,
uneasily.
“I have never known him so put out before,” said Rodomont. “He paced to and
fro within his chamber for an hour, and the Lord Priuli could scarce pacify him.
This morning, after an interview with Mistress Constance, his anger broke out
afresh, and he dispatched me with a letter to her Majesty, craving an audience at
noon. This is all I have to state. I have thought it right to warn your lordship that
if you think fit to persist in the matter, you may know what to expect.”
“Enough, Sir,” observed the King. “You may withdraw.”
Rodomont bowed and retired, laughing in his sleeve at the fright he had given
Bonner. “Heaven forgive me for making a bugbear of the good Cardinal,” he
muttered; “but the trick seems to have succeeded.”
“So, the Cardinal is determined to try his strength with us,” observed Philip, as
soon as he and Bonner were left alone.
“I must beg to retire from the contest, Sire,” replied the bishop. “Whoever
wins, I am sure to lose by it.”
“Tut! I will bear you harmless,” rejoined the King. “But the Cardinal will be here
anon. I must prepare the Queen for his arrival.”
“I would your Majesty could be prevailed upon to abandon this design,”
observed Bonner. “It will lead to nothing save trouble and confusion. Ever after I
shall have the Cardinal for an enemy.”
“You alarm yourself needlessly,” rejoined Philip. “That knave purposely
exaggerated his master’s anger. The Cardinal knows full well that the act is mine,
and not your lordship’s.”
With this, he passed through a side-door, and, accompanied by the bishop,
entered a large and magnificently furnished apartment, embellished with
portraits of Henry VIII. and his family. No one was within this superb room, and
after traversing it, the King and Bonner reached an ante-chamber, in which were
assembled a number of pages, esquires, and ushers in the royal livery.
On seeing the King, these personages drew up and bowed reverently as he
passed, while two gentleman ushers, each bearing a white wand, marshalled him
ceremoniously towards the entrance of the Queen’s apartments, before which
stood a couple of tall yeomen of the guard with halberds in their hands.
As he approached this door, Sir John Gage came forth, and Philip inquired if
the Queen was alone. The Lord Chamberlain replied in the affirmative, but added
that Cardinal Pole was momentarily expected, and that he himself had come
forth to receive his Eminence.
 “It is well,” replied Philip. “When the Cardinal comes, do not mention to him
that I am with her Majesty. I pray your Lordship to remain here till you are
summoned,” he added to Bonner.
With this he passed through the door, which was thrown open by the ushers,
and entered the Queen’s chamber—a spacious apartment, richly furnished, hung
with tapestry, and adorned with many noble pictures, chief among which were
portraits of the Queen’s ill-fated mother by Holbein, and of her royal husband by
Sir Antonio More.
Mary was seated at a table placed near a deep bay-window. She occupied a
large armed-chair, and was reading a book of devotions. Her attire was of purple
velvet, and a coif set with precious stones adorned her head. A smile lighted up
her pallid countenance on the King’s entrance.
“I give your Majesty good-day,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of
this visit?”
“You expect the Cardinal,” rejoined Philip, abruptly and sternly. “Do you know
what brings him here?”
“I do not,” she answered, “But I shall be glad to see him, as I desire to consult
him as to the restitution of the Church property vested in the crown during the
King my father’s reign.”
“Reserve that for another occasion, Madam,” said Philip. “The Cardinal’s errand
relates to Constance Tyrrell.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Mary, startled. “What has he to say concerning her?”
“That you will learn on his arrival,” rejoined Philip. “But it is my pleasure that
she be removed from his custody and delivered to Bishop Bonner.”
“Then his Eminence has failed to reclaim her?”
“Signally. Nothing remains but to try extreme rigour, and if that will not effect
her conversion, the laws she has offended must deal with her.”
“I pity this unhappy maiden, albeit she continues obstinate,” said Mary. “Be not
angry if I tell you that I designed to marry her to your secretary, Osbert Clinton,
to whom she is betrothed.”
“She shall never wed him,” said Philip, harshly. “Why should you meddle in the
matter? Has Osbert Clinton dared to prefer this request to you?”
“No, on my soul,” replied Mary. “But I know the girl loves him tenderly, and,
had she recanted, it was my design to reward her with the husband of her
choice.”
“But she does not recant, I tell you, Madam,” cried Philip, “so it is idle to
speculate on what might have been. It is my will that she be delivered up to
Bonner. But the order must proceed from yourself, not from me. Thus, when the
Cardinal comes, you will be prepared with an answer to him.”
“But let me first hear what he has to urge,” objected the Queen.
“No matter what he urges,” rejoined Philip. “Lay your commands upon him, as
I have intimated. Nay, I will be obeyed,” he added, authoritatively.
 Mary sighed, but made no further remonstrance.
“The Cardinal must be at hand,” continued Philip. “By your leave, I will be an
unseen witness of the interview.”
And he stepped behind the arras, near which the Queen was seated.
“He distrusts me,” murmured Mary; “and, in sooth, he has imposed a most
painful task upon me.”
Shortly afterwards, the Cardinal was announced, and, greeting him kindly, the
Queen begged him to take a seat by her side.
“If your Majesty has heard what occurred yesterday in Saint Bartholomew’s
Church at Smithfield,” premised Pole, “you will guess the object of my visit.
Constance Tyrrell, whom you confided to my charge, and whom I yet hope to
reclaim, is to be wrested from me. But I shall refuse to deliver her up.”
“Your Eminence must needs comply with my order,” said Mary.
“True, Madam,” replied the Cardinal. “But I do not believe you will give any
such order, when I say that in surrendering her I shall only be consigning her to
infamy and dishonour.”
“I pray your Eminence to explain yourself,” said Mary.
“It is painful to me to speak out,” replied Pole, “but I cannot allow this
unhappy maiden to be sacrificed. She has opened her heart to me, and has
confessed all. Blinded by an insane and wicked passion for her, the King, since
his first accidental meeting with her at Southampton, has never ceased to
persecute her with his dishonourable solicitations. Yesterday, during that dread
ceremonial, when, terrified and fainting, she was borne into the sacristy of Saint
Bartholomew’s Church, he renewed his unholy suit, and bade her choose
between his love and deliverance up to Bishop Bonner. I doubt not that she
would sustain this trial, as she has sustained others. I do not think that
imprisonment or torture would shake her. But why should she be exposed to
such treatment? Madam, this is not the case of an heretical offender. Constance
Tyrrell is to be imprisoned, is to be tortured, is perhaps to suffer a fiery death,
not on account of her religious opinions, but because she has virtue enough to
resist the King. Madam, such wrong shall not be, while I can raise my voice
against it.”
“It shall not be,” said Mary. “Is Bonner a party to this foul transaction? If so, as
I live, I will strip him of his priestly robes.”
“No, Madam,” replied Pole. “I must acquit Bonner of any complicity in the
affair. He merely looks for a victim.”
“He shall not find one in Constance Tyrrell,” said Mary. “My heart bleeds for
her.”
“Well it may, Madam,” replied Pole. “A sad fatality has rested upon her ever
since the King’s arrival in Southampton, when her marvellous beauty attracted
his attention, and excited a passion which nothing apparently can subdue.”
 “He saw her before he beheld me, and loved her better than he loved me!”
cried Mary, bitterly. “Something of this I suspected, but I thought I had removed
her from his influence by taking her with me to Winchester.”
“Ay, but the King contrived to obtain a secret interview with the damsel before
your departure,” said Pole, “and this is the only part of her conduct that deserves
censure. Moved by his passionate words and captivating manner, which few
could resist, she listened to him, and at last owned she loved him, or thought
she loved him.”
“Oh, I know his power!” cried Mary. “He exercised the same fascination over
me.”
“But withdrawn from his baneful influence, poor Constance bitterly repented of
the error into which she had been led, and, by the advice of Father Jerome, the
good priest of Saint Catherine’s chapel at Winchester, to whom she confessed her
fault, she left with him a tablet of gold, enriched with precious stones, which had
been given her by the King as a gage of love. By Father Jerome’s advice, also,
she quitted Winchester and returned to her father at Southampton, the good
priest dreading lest, if she remained with your Majesty, she might be exposed to
further temptation.”
“Father Jerome did right,” said Mary; “and, perchance, he saved her from
dishonour.”
“Up to this time, Constance had been a zealous Catholic,” pursued Pole; “but,
while attending Derrick Carver at the Hospital of the Domus Dei at Southampton,
she imbibed his pernicious doctrines, and embraced the Reformed faith. This
deplorable change, I fear, is attributable to the King.”
“Methinks your Eminence is unjust there,” observed Mary.
“My grounds for the opinion are these,” replied Pole. “Constance’s nature is
devout and impressionable. Full of grief and remorse, she was thrown into the
way of Carver, who took advantage of her troubled state of mind to accomplish
her conversion. Had I met her at that time she would not have been lost to us,
and I still trust she may be recovered. With the rest of her history your Majesty
is acquainted. It is a series of misfortunes; neither does it seem likely she will
ever be wedded to him she loves. Happy had it been for her that she had never
excited the King’s love! Happy had it been for her that her faith had not been
unsettled, and that she had been able to pass her life in holy and tranquil
retirement. But her destiny was otherwise. She has abjured her religion—she has
lost her father’s affection—she has endured imprisonment—but, though sorely
tempted, she has not sinned. Be it yours, gracious Madam, to preserve her from
further suffering—from further temptation.”
“What can I do?” cried Mary. “I have promised the King an order for her
removal from your Eminence, and deliverance up to Bonner.”
“Madam, if that order be given and acted upon, I shall resist it,” replied Pole.
 “Heaven aid me!” exclaimed the Queen. “I am sorely perplexed, and know not
how to act for the best.”
“Consult the King, your husband, Madam,” rejoined the Cardinal. “Tell him
what I have told you, and of my resolution.”
“I shall not need to be told,” said Philip, coming from behind the arras. “I have
heard all that has passed between you and her Majesty.”
“I shrink from nothing I have uttered, Sire,” rejoined Pole. “I should have
spoken with equal freedom had you stood before me. But I beseech you pursue
not this matter further. Consequences you may not foresee will flow from it. You
will array against you a force stronger than you can resist. I may be compelled to
yield, but my voice will be heard, and its echoes may shake your throne to its
foundations.”
“Your Eminence menaces me,” cried Philip, sternly.
“No, Sire, I warn you,” rejoined the Cardinal, with dignity. “You are on a
perilous path, from which it were wise to turn back.”
 Cardinal Pole counsels the Queen.
P. 300.

“Your Eminence seems to have forgotten your former experiences, and how
you fared in your struggle with her Majesty’s royal father,” observed Philip. “In
those days the priesthood received a lesson from the crown which it would be
well if they remembered. The proudest of them, Wolsey, was hurled from his
high place. I warn you, therefore, of your danger before you enter upon a
conflict with me. What Henry VIII. accomplished may be done again. If the
priesthood wax insolent they may be crushed. The Papal authority has been just
restored, but it can be easily shaken off again. Your Eminence has but recently
returned from a long exile, and you may have to endure a second banishment.”
 “I shall do my duty without fear, Sire,” replied Pole, firmly. “I well know what
my resistance to the will of King Henry cost me. Because he could not reach me
he struck at those most dear to me—at my sainted mother, the Countess of
Salisbury, at my beloved brother, the Lord Montague, at my friends the Marquis
of Exeter and Sir Edward Nevil, and at the young and gallant Earl of Surrey. On
all these he wreaked the vengeance which ought to have alighted on my head.
But I shall not fly now. I shall stay to answer for my acts in person.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Philip, changing his tone. “Your Eminence takes the matter
too seriously. I desire no quarrel with you, or with the Church. It would be idle to
do so on an affair so trifling as the present.”
“The affair is not trifling, Sire,” rejoined Pole. “The liberty, the honour, the life
of a poor damsel are at stake.”
“That is your Eminence’s version of the business,” said Philip. “You are simply
protecting a heretic. I counsel you to give up the girl peaceably. ’Twill be best.”
“I have already stated my determination, Sire,” rejoined Pole. “Madam, I take
my leave.”
“Stop, my Lord Cardinal,” cried Mary. “Depart not thus, I beseech you. For my
sake, tarry a few minutes longer. Perchance his Majesty may relent.”
“I would tarry till midnight if I thought so,” replied Pole. “Oh, Sire,” he added
to Phillip, “let me make a final appeal to the latent generosity and goodness of
your nature. You have many high and noble qualities, inherited from your august
father. Let me sway you now. Be not governed by wild and unhallowed passions,
the gratification of which will endanger your eternal welfare. If you sin, you must
not hope to escape chastisement; and as your sin will be great, so will your
chastisement be severe. Wrongs, such as you would inflict upon her Majesty, are
visited with Heaven’s direst wrath, and years of prayer and penance will not
procure you pardon. Cast off these delusions and snares. You are fortunately
united to a Queen as eminent for virtue as for rank, whose heart is entirely given
to you, and who has just proved that she will obey you in all things. In every
respect she is worthy of your love. She is your equal in birth, devout and pure, a
loving wife, and a great Queen. To sacrifice her true and holy affection for lighter
love would be unpardonable ingratitude. In all the highest qualifications of a
woman, as purity, piety, judgment, discretion, dignity, none can surpass your
consort, and you must be insensible indeed not to estimate her merits aright.”
“I do estimate them—estimate them at their true worth,” cried Philip. “Your
Eminence has roused the better nature in me, and made me sensible of my
faults, and ashamed of them. Forgive me, Madam,” he added to Mary.
And as he spoke he approached the Queen, who threw her arms fondly about
his neck, exclaiming, “Oh, my good Lord Cardinal, I owe this happiness to you.”
“I am equally beholden to his Eminence,” said Philip. “He has spoken the truth
to me, and awakened me to a sense of my folly.”
 “I have called your Majesty’s good feelings into play, that is all,” rejoined Pole.
“Henceforth, I trust that nothing will disturb the good understanding that ought
to subsist between you and your royal consort. Pardon me if I press you further,
Sire. Your heart being opened to kindly emotions, you will not refuse to listen to
me. It is in your power to make ample amends to poor Constance Tyrrell for the
misery she has endured, by giving your consent to her marriage with Osbert
Clinton.”
“I will add my entreaties to those of the Cardinal,” said the Queen. “Let it be
so. I pray you.”
“If your Eminence will reclaim her from heresy I will not refuse my consent,”
replied Philip.
“I ask no more,” rejoined Pole; “and I trust their nuptials will not long be
delayed.”
“They shall never take place,” mentally ejaculated Philip. “Your Majesty may
desire some private converse with his Eminence,” he added to the Queen. “I will
go and dismiss Bonner, who is waiting without. He will not trouble your Eminence
further.”
And he quitted the chamber.
 CHAPTER V.
HOW THE QUEEN CONSULTED WITH THE CARDINAL.

raying the Cardinal to resume his seat by her, Mary said, “There is a
matter on which I desire to consult your Eminence. I cannot reconcile it
to my conscience to retain the revenues arising from the Church lands,
which were unlawfully vested in the crown during the late schism; but
the Lord Chancellor, to whom I have spoken on the subject, seeks to dissuade
me from my purpose, and declares that if I part with these large revenues, which
amount to well-nigh a hundred thousand pounds a year, I shall not be able to
maintain my dignity. To this objection, I replied in all sincerity, that I value my
salvation more than ten crowns like that of England, and that I would not
endanger my heavenly inheritance for all the wealth the world can offer. Still
Gardiner opposes me, and says that the giving up of my revenues will be taken
ill by those who are in possession of the abbey lands and other property of the
Church, possession of which has been secured to them by the papal bull sent to
your Eminence. But I see not why I should not set the holders of these ill-gotten
treasures a good example. Peradventure some of them may follow it.”
“I trust so, Madam,” replied Pole; “and I applaud your resolution, for though
you may impoverish your exchequer, yet you will lay up a far greater treasure for
future enjoyment in heaven. The bull to which you refer was sent by the Pope at
the solicitation of Gardiner, to prevent the opposition of certain nobles to
reconciliation with the See of Rome, but his Holiness’s real sentiments may be
judged by another bull which he has just sent into Germany, excommunicating all
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