consolation in his own heart, no hope in the future, and no repose in
the past; and, why he knew not, despairing where he had never
despaired, trembling where he had never known fear.

Often he questioned himself upon the strange depression of his mind;
and the more he did so, the more he became convinced that it was a
supernatural warning of approaching fate. Many were the resolutions
that he made to shake it off, to struggle still, to seek the court,
and urge his claim on the estates of Constance de Grey, as he would
have done in former days; but in vain: a leaden power lay heavy upon
his heart, and crushed all its usual energies; and the only effort he
could make was to send out servants in every direction to seek Sir
Cesar the astrologer, weakly hoping to brace up his relaxed confidence
by some predictions of success. But the old man was not easily to be
found. No one knew his abode, and, ever strange and erratic in his
motions, he seemed now agitated by some extraordinary impulse, so that
even when they had once found his track, the servants of Sir Payan had
often to trace him to ten or twelve houses in the course of a day.
Sometimes it was in the manor of the peer, sometimes in the cottage of
the peasant, that they heard of him; but in none did he seem to
sojourn for above an hour, hurrying on wildly to the dwelling of some
other amongst the many that he knew in all classes.

At length they overtook him on the road near Sandgate, and delivered
Sir Payan's message; whereupon, without any reply, he turned his horse
and rode towards Chilham, where he arrived in the evening. Springing
to the ground without any appearance of fatigue, the old man sought
Sir Payan in the park, to which the servants said he had retired; and,
winding through the various long alleys, found him at length walking
backwards and forwards, with his arms crossed on his bosom and his
eyes fixed upon the ground. The evening sunshine was streaming
brightly upon the spot, pouring a mellow misty light through the
western trees, on the tall dark figure of Sir Payan, who, bending down
his head, paced along with gloomy slowness, like some bad spirit
oppressed and tormented by the smile of heaven.

It was a strange sight to see his meeting with Sir Cesar; both were
pale and haggard; for some cause, only known to himself, had worn the
keen features of the astrologer till the bones and cartilages seemed
starting through the skin; and Sir Payan's ashy cheek had lately
acquired a still more deadly hue than it usually wore. Both, too,
looked wild and fearful; the keen black eyes of the old man showing
with a terrific brightness in his thin and livid face, and the stern
features of Sir Payan appearing full of a sort of ferocious light,
which his attendants had remarked, ever since he had been overthrown
in the tilt by the lance of Sir Osborne. Meeting thus, in the full
yellow sunshine, while Sir Cesar fixed his usual intense and
scrutinising glance upon the countenance of the other, and Sir Payan
strove to receive him with a smile that but mocked the lips it shone
upon, they looked like two beings of another world, met for the first
time in upper air, to commune of things long past.

"Well, unhappy man," said Sir Cesar at length, "what seekest thou with
me?"

"That I am unhappy," replied Sir Payan, knitting his brow, as he saw
that little consolation was to be expected from the astrologer, "I do
not deny; and it is to know why I am unhappy that I have asked you to
come hither."

"You are unhappy," answered Sir Cesar, "because you have plundered the
widow and the orphan, because you have wronged the friendless and the
weak, because you have betrayed the confident and the generous. You
are unhappy because there is not one in the wide world that loves you,
and because you even despise, and hate, and reprobate yourself."

"Old man! old man!" cried Sir Payan, half unsheathing his dagger,
"beware, beware! Those men only," he added, pushing back the weapon
into its sheath, "ought to be unhappy that are unsuccessful; the rest
is all a bugbear set up by the weak to frighten away the strong. But I
have been successful, am successful. Why then am I unhappy?"

"Because your success is at an end," replied the astrologer: "because
you tremble to your fall; because your days are numbered, and late
remorse is gnawing your heart in spite of your vain boasting. Nay, lay
not your hand on the hilt of your dagger! Over me, murderer, you have
no power! That dagger took the life of one that had never wronged you.
Remember the rout at Taunton; remember the youth murdered the night
after he surrendered!" Sir Payan trembled like an aspen leaf while the
old man spoke. "Yes, murderer!" continued Sir Cesar; "though you
thought the deed hid in the bowels of the earth, I know it all. That
hand slew all that was dearest to me on earth!--the child that unhappy
fortune forced me to leave upon this cursed shore; and long, long ago
should his fate have been avenged in your blood, had not I seen, had
not I known, that heaven willed it otherwise. I have waited patiently
for the hour that is now come; I have broken your bread, and I have
drunk of your wine; but while I did so, I have seen you gathering
curses on your head, and accumulating sins to sink you to perdition,
and that has taught me to endure. I would not have saved you one hour
of crime, I would not have robbed my revenge of one single sin--no,
not for an empire! But I have watched you go on, gloriously,
triumphantly, in evil and in wickedness, till heaven can bear no more;
till you have eaten up your future; and soon, with all your crimes
upon your head, hated, despised, condemned by all mankind, your black
soul shall be parted from your body, and my eyes shall see you die."

Sir Payan had listened with varied emotions as the old man spoke.
Surprise, remorse, and fear had been the first; but gradually the more
tempestuous feelings of his nature hurried away the rest, and, rage
gaining mastery of all, he drew his poniard and sprang upon Sir Cesar.
But in the very act, as his arm was raised to strike, he was caught by
two powerful men, who threw him back upon the ground and disarmed him;
one of them exclaiming, "Ho, ho! we have just come in time. Sir Payan
Wileton, you are attached in the king's name. Lo, here is the warrant
for your apprehension. You must come with us, sir, to Calais."

One would attempt in vain to describe the rage that convulsed the form
of Sir Payan Wileton, more especially when he beheld Sir Cesar smile
upon him with a look of triumphant satisfaction.

"Seize him!" exclaimed he, with furious violence, pointing to the
astrologer; "seize him, if you love your king and your country! He is
a marked and obnoxious traitor. I impeach him, and you do not your
duty if you let him escape; or are you his confederates, and come up
to prevent my punishing him for the treasons he has just
acknowledged?"

"Sir Payan Wileton," replied the sergeant-at-arms, "this passion is
all in vain. I am sent here with a warrant from the king's privy
council to attach you for high treason; but I have no authority to
arrest any one else."

"But I am a magistrate," cried the baffled knight; "let him not
escape, I enjoin you, till I have had time to commit him. He is a
traitor, I say, and if you seize him not, you art the king's enemies."

"Attached for high treason, sir, you are no longer a magistrate,"
replied the sergeant. "At all events, I do not hold myself justified
in apprehending anybody against whom I have no warrant, more
especially when I found you raising your hand illegally against the
very person's life whom you now accuse. I can take no heed of the
matter: you must come."

"He shall be satisfied," said Sir Cesar. "Venomless serpent! I will
follow thee now till thy last hour. But think not that thou canst hurt
me, for thy power has gone from thee; and though wicked as a demon,
thou art weak as a child. I know that we are doomed to pass the same
gate, but not to journey on the same road. Lead on, sergeant; I will
go on with you; and then, if this bad man have aught to urge against
me, let him do it."

"Go if you will, sir," replied the officer; "but remember, you act
according to your own pleasure; I make no arrest in your case: you are
free to come with us or to stay, as you think fit."

Sir Payan was now led back to the house, which was in possession of
the king's archers; and as he passed through his own hall, with a
burning heart, the hasty glance that he cast around amongst his
servants showed him at once, that though there were none to pity or
befriend, there were many full ready to betray. Then rushed upon his
mind the accusations that they might pile upon his head, now that they
saw him sinking below the stream. The certainty of death; the dread of
something after death; doubts of his own scepticism; the innate,
all-powerful conviction of a future state--a state growing dreadfully
perceptible to his eye as he approached the brink of that yawning gulf
which his own acts had peopled with strange fears; all that he had
scoffed at, all that he had despised, now assumed a new and fearful
character: even the world's opinion, the world's contemned opinion,
came across his thought: that there was not one heart on all the earth
would mourn his end, that hatred and abhorrence would go with him to
the grave, and that his memory would only live with infamy in the
records of crime and punishment. Burying his face in his hands, he sat
in deep, despairing, agonising silence while his horse was being
prepared, and while the officer put his seal upon the various doors
which he thought it necessary to secure.

A few hours brought the whole party to Dover, and the next day saw
their arrival at Calais; but by that time the court had removed to
Guisnes; and the sergeant, having no orders to bring his prisoner
farther, sent forward a messenger to announce his arrival and demand
instructions.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

     Once more the fleeting soul came back
       T' inspire the mortal frame,
     And in the body took a doubtful stand,
       Hovering like expiring flame,
     That mounts and falls by turns.--Dryden.

The painful situation of Lady Constance de Grey had not lost any
portion of its sorrow, or gained any ray of hope, on the first of
June, three days after we last left her, at which period we again take
up her story. She was then sitting in a small, poor cottage between
Whitesand Bay and Boulogne, watching the slumber of the excellent old
man whose regard for her had brought upon his head so much pain and
danger. Ever since he had been removed to the hut where they now were,
he had lingered in great agony, except at those times when a state of
stupor fell upon him, under which he would remain for many hours, and
only wake from it again to acute pain. He had, however, that morning
fulfilled the last duties of his religion, with the assistance of a
good monk of Boulogne, who now sat with Lady Constance, watching the
sweet sleep into which he had fallen for the first time since their
shipwreck.

Across the little window, to keep out the light, Constance had drawn
one of her own dresses, which had been saved by the sailor Bradford
having tied the leathern case that contained them to the plank which
had brought herself to shore; but still through the casement,
notwithstanding this sort of extemporaneous curtain, the soft breath
of the early morning flowed in; and the murmuring voice of the
treacherous ocean was heard softly from afar, filling up every pause
in the singing of the birds and the busy hum of all the light children
of the summer.

The calmness of the old man's slumber gave Constance hope; and with a
sweet smile she sat beside him, listening to the mingled voice of
creation, and joining mentally in the song of praise that all things
seemed raising towards the great Creator. Indeed, if ever mortal being
might be supposed to resemble those pure spirits who, freed from all
touch of clay, adore the Almighty in his works, she then looked like
an angel, in form, in feature, and in expression, while, robed all in
white, and watching the sick bed of her ancient friend, she looked
upon his tranquil slumber with that bland smile of hope and gratitude.

In the mean while the old monk sat on the other side of his bed,
regarding him with more anxiety; for long experience in visiting those
who hung upon the brink of another world tad taught him, that sleep
like that into which the clergyman had fallen as often precedes death
as recovery. It had continued thus till towards mid-day, the cottage
being left in solitude and silence; for the sailor Bradford had gone
to seek remedies from a simpler at Boulogne, and Jekin Groby had
stolen away for a visit to Calais, while the people to whom the
cottage belonged were absent upon their daily occupations. At length,
however, a slight sort of convulsive motion passed over the features
of the old man, and, opening his eyes, he said in a faint, low voice,
"Constance, my dear child, where are you? My eyes are dim."

"I am here, my dear sir," replied Constance. "You have been sleeping
very sweetly. I hope you feel better."

"It is over, Constance!" replied Dr. Wilbraham, calmly, but feebly. "I
am dying, my child. Let me see the sunshine." Constance withdrew the
curtain, and the fresh air blowing on the sick man's face seemed to
give him more strength. "It is bright," cried he; "it is very bright.
I feel the sweet summer air, and I hear the glad singing of the birds;
but I go fast, dear daughter, where there are things brighter and
sweeter; for surely, surely, God, who has clothed this world with such
splendour, has reserved far greater for the world to come."

The tears streamed down Constance's cheeks, for there was in the old
man's face a look of death not to be mistaken; that look, the
inevitable precursor of dissolution to man, when it seems as if the
avenging angel had come between him and the sun of being, and cast his
dark shadow over him for ever.

"Weep not, Constance," said the old man, with faint and broken
efforts; "for no storms will reach me in my Redeemer's bosom. In his
mercy is my hope, in his salvation is my reliance. Soon, soon shall I
be in the place of peace, where joy reigneth eternally. Could I have a
fear, my dear child, it would be for you, left alone in a wide and
desolate world, with none to protect you. But, no; I have no fear: God
is your protector; and never, never, my child, doubt his goodness, nor
think that he does not as surely watch over the universe as he that
created it at first. Everything is beneath his eye, from the smallest
grain of sand to the great globe itself; and his will governs all, and
guides all, though we see neither the beginning nor the end.
Constance, I am departing," he continued, more faintly: "God's
blessing be upon you, my child! and, oh! if He in his wisdom ever
permits the spirit of the dead to watch over those they loved when
living, I will be with you and Darnley when this frail body is dust."

His lips began gradually to lose their power of utterance, and his
head fell back upon the pillow. The monk saw that the good man's end
was approaching fast, and placing the crucifix in his dying hand, he
poured the words of consolation in his ear; but Dr. Wilbraham slightly
motioned with his hand, to signify that he was quite prepared, and
fixing his eyes upon the cross, murmured to himself, "I come, O Lord,
I come! Be thou merciful unto me, O King of mercy! Deliver speedily
from the power of death, O Lord of life!"

The sounds gradually ceased, but yet his lips continued to move; his
lips lost their motion, but his eyes were fixed, full of hope, upon
the cross; a film came over them; it passed away, and the light beamed
up again--shone brightly for a moment--waned--vanished--and all was
death. The eyes were still fixed upon the cross, but that bright
thing, life, was there no more. To look at them, no one could say what
was gone between that minute and the one before; and yet it was
evident that they were now but dust: the light was extinguished, the
wine was poured out, and it was but the broken lamp, the empty urn,
that remained to go down into the tomb.

Constance closed his eyes, and weeping bitterly, knelt down with the
old monk, and joined in the prayer that he addressed to heaven. She
then rose, and seated herself by all that remained of her dead friend,
feeling alone in all the world, solitary, friendless, desolate; and
straining her sweet eyes upon the cold, unresponsive countenance of
the dead, she seemed bitterly to drink to the dregs the cup of
hopelessness which that sight offered.

No one spoke. The monk himself was silent, seeming to think that the
prayer he had offered to the Deity was the only fitting language for
the presence of the dead; when a sound was heard without, and the
door, gently opening, admitted the form of Jekin Groby. The good
clothier thought the old man still slept, as when he had left the
cottage, and advanced on tiptoe for fear of waking him; but the lifted
hand of the monk, the streaming eyes of Constance, and the cold, rigid
stiffness of the face before him, warned him of what had happened; and
pausing suddenly, he clasped his hands with a look of unaffected
sorrow. "Good God!" cried he, "he is dead! Alas the day!" Constance's
tears streamed afresh. "Lady," said the worthy man, in a kindly tone,
"take comfort! He is gone to a better place than we have here, poor
hapless souls! And surely, if all were as well fitted for that place
as he was, we should have little cause to fear our death, and our
gossips little cause to weep. Take comfort, sweet lady! take comfort!
Our God is too good for us to murmur when he cuts our measure short."

There was something in the homely consolation of the honest Englishman
that touched Constance to the heart, and yet she could not refrain
from weeping even more than before.

"Nay, nay, dear lady," continued Jekin, affected almost to tears
himself; "you must come away from here. I cannot bear to see you weep
so; and though I am but a poor clothier, and little fitted to put
myself in his place that is gone, I will never leave you till I see
you safe. Indeed I won't! Come, lady, into the other cottage hard by,
and we will send some one to watch here in your place. Lord, Lord! to
think how soon a fellow-creature is gone! Sure I thought to find him
better when I came back. Come, lady, come!"

"Perhaps I had better," replied Constance, drying her tears. "My cares
for him are useless; yet, though I murmur not at God's will, I must
e'en weep, for I have lost as good a friend, and the world has lost as
good a man, as ever it possessed. But I will go; for it is in vain to
stay here and encourage unavailing grief." She then addressed a few
sentences to the monk in French, thanking him for his charitable
offices towards her dead friend, and begging him to remain there till
she could send some one to watch the body; adding, that if he would
come after that to the adjoining cottage, she would beg him to convey
to his convent a small gift on her part.

The monk bowed his head, and promised to obey; and Constance, giving
one last look to the inanimate form of the excellent being she had
just lost, followed Jekin Groby to the cottage hard by, where, begging
to be left alone, she once more burst into tears, and let both her
sorrow and despondency have way, feeling that sort of oppression at
her heart which can be relieved but by weeping.

It is needless to follow farther such sad scenes; to tell the blunt
grief of Bradford, when he returned and found that his errand had been
in vain; or to describe the funeral of good Dr. Wilbraham, which took
place the next day (for so custom required) in the little cemetery of
Whitesand Bay.

Immediately this was over, Lady Constance prepared to set out for
Boulogne, hoping to find a refuge in the heart of France till she had
time to consider and execute some plan for her future conduct. We have
twice said, that the sailor, in tying her to the plank on which she
had floated from the shipwrecked vessel, had fastened to the end of
the board nearest her feet one of her own leathern cases, for the
purpose of keeping her head raised above the water; and in this, as it
luckily happened, were all the jewels and the money which she had
brought with her from London.

It would doubtless have rendered her situation much more critical and
interesting if she had been deprived of all such resources; but as the
fact was so, it is necessary to state it. No difficulty, therefore,
seemed likely to present itself in her journey to her own estates,
except that which might arise in procuring a litter to convey her on
her way, or in meeting with some female attendant willing to accompany
her. The latter of these was soon done away with; for the daughter of
the cottagers where she had lodged, a gay, good-humoured Picarde,
gladly undertook the post of waiting-woman to the sweet lady, whose
gentleness had won them all; and Bradford, who, from a soldier, a
sailor, a shipwright, and a Rochester rioter, had now become a squire
of dames, was despatched to Boulogne to see if he could buy or hire a
litter and horses.

In the midst of all these proceedings, poor Jekin Groby was sadly
agitated by many contending feelings. In his first fit of sympathy
with Constance on the death of Dr. Wilbraham, he had, as we have seen,
promised to accompany her to the end of her journey, whithersoever it
might be; but the thoughts of dear little England, and his own
fireside, and his bales of cloth, and his bags of angels, called him
vehemently across the Channel, while curiosity, with a certain touch
of mercantile calculation, pulled him strongly towards the court at
Calais. Notwithstanding, he resolved, above all things, to act
handsomely, as he said, towards the lady; and accordingly he
accompanied Bradford to Boulogne, to ascertain if he could by any way
get off trudging after her the Lord knew where, as he expressed it,
though he vowed he was very willing to go if he could be of any
service.

After the sailor and his companion had been absent about six hours,
Constance began to be impatient, and proceeded to the door of the
cottage to see if she could perceive them coming. Gazing for a few
minutes on the road to Boulogne, she beheld, rising above the brow of
the hill before her, a knight's pennon, and presently half-a-dozen
spears appeared bristling up behind it. Judging that it was some
accidental party proceeding towards Whitesand Bay, Constance retired
into the cottage, and was not a little surprised when she heard the
horses halt before the door. In a moment after, a gallant cavalier, in
peaceful guise, armed only with his sword and dagger, entered the hut,
and, doffing his plumed mortier to the lady, with a low inclination of
the head, he advanced towards her, saying in French, "Have I the
honour of speaking to the noble Lady de Grey, Countess of Boissy and
the Val de Marne?"

"The same, sir knight," replied the lady. "To what, may I ask, do I
owe the honour of your presence?"

"His highness Francis King of France, now in the city of Boulogne,"
replied the knight, "hearing that a lady, and his vassal, though born
an English subject, had been shipwrecked on this shore, has chosen me
for the pleasing task of inviting, in his name, the Countess de Boissy
to repair to his royal court, not as a sovereign commanding the homage
of his vassal, but as a gracious and a noble friend, offering service
and good-will. His highness's sister, also, the Princess Marguerite of
Alençon, has sent her own litter for your convenience, with such
escort as may suit your quality."

Constance could only express her thanks. Had she possessed the power
of choice, she would of course have preferred a thousand times to have
retired to the Val de Marne, without her coming being known to the
French king or his court, till such time, at least, as the meeting
between him and the King of England had taken place. However, as it
was known, she could not refuse to obey, and she signified her
readiness to accompany the French knight, begging him merely to wait
till the return of a person she had sent to Boulogne for a litter.

"He will not return, lady," replied the chevalier. "It was through his
search for a litter at Boulogne, where none are to be had, all being
bought for the court's progress to Ardres, that his highness became
acquainted with your arrival within his kingdom."

The knight was proceeding to inform her of the circumstances which had
occurred, when the quick sound of horses' feet was heard without,
joined to the clanging of arms, the jingling of spurs and trappings,
and various rough cries in the English tongue.

"Have her! but I will have her, by the Lord!" cried a voice near the
door; and in a moment after, a knight, armed at all points, strode
into the cottage. "How now! how now!" cried he; "what is all this? Ah,
Monsieur de Bussy," he continued, changing his language to broken,
abominable French, "what are you doing with this lady?"

"I come, Sir John Hardacre," answered the Frenchman, "to invite her to
the court of Francis of France, whose vassal the lady is."

"And I come," replied the Englishman, "to claim her for Henry King of
England, whose born subject she is, and ward of the crown; and so I
will have her, and carry her to Guisnes, as I am commanded."

"That depends upon circumstances, sir," answered the Frenchman,
offended at the tone of the other. "You are governor of Calais, but
you do not command here. You are off the English pale, sir; and I say
that unless the lady goes with you willingly and by preference, you
shall not take her."

"I shall not!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Who the devil shall stop
me?"

"That will I," answered the French knight; "and I tell you so to your
beard."

The Englishman laid his hand upon his sword, and the Frenchman was not
slack to follow his example; but Constance interposed. "Hold, hold,
gentlemen!" cried she; "I am not worthy of such contention. Monsieur
de Bussy, favour me by offering every expression of my humble duty to
his highness your noble king; and show him that I intended instantly
to have obeyed his commands, and followed you to his court, but that I
am compelled, against my will, to do otherwise. Sir John Hardacre, I
am ready to accompany you."

"If such be your will, fair lady," replied the French knight, "I have
nothing but to execute your charge. However, I must repeat, that
without your full consent you shall not be taken from French ground,
or I am no true knight."

An angry replication trembled on the lip of the English captain, but
Constance stopped its utterance by once more declaring her willingness
to go; and the French officer, bowing low, thrust back his sword into
the sheath, and left the cottage, somewhat out of humour with the
event of his expedition.

When he and his followers had ridden away, Sir John Hardacre called up
a lady's horse, which one of his men-at-arms led by the bridle; and
after permitting Constance to make some change of her apparel, and to
pay the good folks of the cottage for her entertainment, he placed her
in the saddle, and holding the bridle himself, led her away at a quick
pace towards Guisnes. He was a rough old soldier, somewhat hardened by
long military service; but the beauty and gentleness of his fair
prisoner (for such indeed may we consider poor Constance to have been)
somewhat softened his acerbity; and after riding on for near an hour
in silence, during which he revolved at least twenty ways of
addressing the lady, without pleasing himself with any, he began by a
somewhat bungling excuse, both for his errand and his manner of
executing it.

"I suppose, sir," replied Constance, coldly, "that you have done your
duty. Whether you have done it harshly or not is for you to consider."

This quite put a stop to all the knight's intentions of conversation,
and did not particularly soothe his humour; so that for many miles
along the road he failed not every moment to turn round his head, and
vent his spleen upon his men in various high-seasoned curses, for
faults which they might or might not have committed, as the case
happened; the knight's powers of objurgation not only extending to the
cursing itself, but also to supplying the cause.

It was nearly seven o'clock when they began to approach the little
town of Guisnes, but at that season of the year the full light of day
was still shining upon all the objects round about; and Constance
might perceive, as they rode up, all the bustle, and crowding, and
idle activity caused by the arrival of the court.

Her heart sank when she saw it, and thought of all she might there
have to endure. Under any other circumstances, however, it would have
been a gay and a pleasing sight; so full of life and activity, glitter
and show, was everything that met the eye.

To the southward of the town of Guisnes, upon the large open green
that extended on the outside of the walls, were to be seen a vast
number of tents, of all kinds and colours, with a multitude of busy
human beings employed in raising fresh pavilions on every open space,
or in decorating those already spread with streamers, pennons, and
banners, of all the bright hues under the sun. Long lines of horses
and mules loaded with armour or baggage, and ornamented with gay
ribbons, to put them in harmony with the scene, were winding about,
all over the plain, some proceeding towards the town, some seeking the
tents of their several lords; while, mingled amongst them, appeared
various bands of soldiers, on horseback and on foot, with the rays of
the declining sun glancing upon the heads of their bills and lances,
and, together with the white cassock and broad red cross, marking them
out from all the other objects. Here and there, too, might be seen a
party of knights and gentlemen cantering over the plain, and enjoying
the bustle of the scene, or standing in separate groups, issuing their
orders for the erection and garnishing of their tents; while couriers,
and pursuivants, and heralds, in all their gay dresses, mingled with
mule-drivers, lacqueys, and peasants, armourers, pages, and
tent-stretchers, made up the living part of the landscape.

Behind lay the town of Guisnes, with the forest at its back; and a
good deal nearer, the castle, with its protecting guns pointed over
the plain; but the most striking object, and that which instantly
caught the eye, was a building raised immediately in front of the
citadel, on which all that art could devise, or riches could procure,
had been lavished, to render it a palace fit for the luxurious king
who was about to make it his temporary residence.

From the distance at which they were when it first struck her sight,
Constance could only perceive that it was a vast and splendid edifice,
apparently square, and seeming to offer a façade of about four hundred
feet on every side, while the sun, reflected from the gilding with
which it was covered, and the immense quantity of glass that it
contained, rendered it like some great ornament of gold enriched with
brilliants.

Although her heart was sad, and nothing that she saw tended to
dispel its gloom, she could not refrain from gazing round with a
half-curious, half-anxious glance upon all the gay objects that
surrounded her; almost fearing to be recognised by some one who had
known her at the court, now that she was led along as a kind of
prisoner; a single woman amidst a band of rude soldiers. Sir John
Hardacre, however, spurred on towards the bridge, which was nearly
impassable from the number of beasts of burden and their drivers by
which it was covered; and standing on but little ceremony with his
fellow-lieges, he dashed through the midst of them all, cursing one,
and striking another, and overturning a third, much to Constance's
horror and dismay. Having reached the other side, and created by his
haste as much confusion and discomfort as he could in his passage, the
surly captain slackened his pace, muttering something about dignity,
and turned his rein towards the temporary palace of the king.
Proceeding slowly amidst a multitude, many of whom had seen her
before, and whose notice she was very willing to escape, Constance's
only resource was to fix her eyes upon the palace, and to busy herself
in the contemplation of its splendour.

Raised upon a high platform, it was not only visible from every part
of the plain, but itself commanded a view of the whole gay scene
below, with its tents and its multitudes, standing as a sort of
nucleus to all the magnificence around.

Before the gate to which Sir John Hardacre took his way, and which was
itself a massy arch, flanked by two towers raised upon the platform,
there stood two objects not unworthy of remark, as exemplifying the
tastes of the day: the one was a magnificent fountain, richly wrought
with arches and arabesques, painted in fine gold and blue, supporting
a figure of Bacchus crowned with vine leaves, over whose head appeared
inscribed, in letters of gold, "_Faites bonne chère qui voudra_." No
unmeaning invitation, for the fountain below ceased not to pour forth
three streams of various coloured wines, supplied by reservoirs in the
interior of the palace. On the other side of the gate were seen four
golden lions supporting a pillar of bronze, round the shaft of which
twined up various gilt wreaths, interlaced together; while on the
summit stood a statue of Venus's "purblind son and heir," pointing his
arrows at those who approached the gate.

Nevertheless, it was not on the charmed cup of the one, or the bended
bow of the other chicken deity, that the battlemented arch above
mentioned relied for defence; for in the several windows were placed
gigantic figures of men in armour, apparently in the act of hurling
down enormous rocks upon the head of whatever venturous stranger
should attempt to pass the prescribed bound. At the same time appeared
round about various goodly paintings of the demigods of story: the
Herculeses, the Theseuses, the Alexanders, fabulous and historical;
while, showing strangely enough in such company, many a fat porter and
yeoman of the lodge loitered about in rich liveries, as familiar with
the gods and goddesses as if they had been born upon Olympus and
swaddled in Tempé.

At the flight of steps which led to this gate Sir John Hardacre
dismounted, and lifting Lady Constance from her horse, passed on into
the inner court of the palace, which would indeed have been not only
splendid, but elegant, had it not been for a few instances of the same
refined taste which we have just noticed. The four inner faces of the
building were perfectly regular, consisting of two stories, the lower
one of which was almost entirely of glass, formed into plain and bow
windows alternately, each separated from the other by a slight column
of gold, and surrounded by a multitude of arabesques and garlands.
Exactly opposite to the gate appeared a vestibule, thrown a little
forward from the building, and surmounted by four large bow windows,
supported on trimmers, the corbels of which represented a thousand
strange gilt faces, looking out from a screen of olive branches, cast
in lead and painted green; while various tall statues in silver armour
were ranged on each side, as guards to the entrance.

It was towards this sort of hall that Sir John Hardacre led poor
Constance de Grey, to whose heart all the gaiety and splendour of the
scene seemed but to communicate a more chilling sensation of
friendless loneliness; while the very gaze and whispering of the royal
servants, who had all known of her flight, and now witnessed her
return, made the quick blood mount into her beautiful cheek, as she
was hurried along by the brutal soldier, without any regard to her
feelings or compassion for her fears.

"You must wait here, Mistress Constance," said he, having led her into
the vestibule, which was full of yeomen and grooms, "while I go and
tell the right reverend father the lord cardinal that I have brought
you."

"Here!" exclaimed Constance, casting her eyes around; "surely you do
not mean me to wait here amongst the servants?"

"Why, where would you go?" demanded he, roughly: "I've no other place
to put you. Wait here, wait here, and mind you don't run away again."

Constance could support no more, and covering her face with her hands,
she burst into a violent flood of tears. At that moment a voice that
she knew struck her ear. "This to my cousin, sir!" exclaimed Lord
Darby, who had heard what passed as he descended a flight of stairs
which led away to the left; "this to my cousin, Sir John Hardacre! You
would do better to jump off the donjon of Rochester Castle than to
leave her here with lacqueys and footboys."

"And why should I not?" demanded the soldier, his eyes flashing fire.
"Mind your own affairs, my Lord Darby, and let me mind mine."

"You are an unfeeling old villain, sir!" answered the earl, passing
him and taking Constance by the hand. "Yes, sir! stare your fill! I
say you are an unfeeling villain, and neither knight nor gentleman."

The soldier laid his hand upon his sword and drew it half out of its
sheath. "Knock him down! knock him down!" cried a dozen voices. "The
precincts of the court! out with him! Have his hand off!" Sir John
Hardacre thrust his weapon back into the sheath, gazing, however,
grimly around, as if he would fain have used it upon some one.

"Your brutal violence, sir," said Lord Darby, "will bring upon you, if
you heed not, a worse punishment than I can inflict; yet you will not
find me, in a proper place, unwilling to give you a lesson on what is
due to a lady. Come, Constance, I will lead you to her highness, where
you will meet, I am sure, a kind reception. You, sir, do your errand
to my lord cardinal, who shall be informed by me of your noble and
knightly treatment of the Lady de Grey."

Thus saying, he led Constance through a long corridor to an
ante-chamber, wherein stood two of the queen's pages. Here Lord Darby
paused, and sent one of the attendants to request an audience, taking
the opportunity of the time they waited to soothe the mind of his fair
cousin by informing her of all that had passed in her absence, and
assuring her that the queen had ever been her warmest defender.

All the news that he gave her, yof course, took a heavy weight from
Constance's mind; and drying her eyes, she congratulated him gladly on
his approaching marriage, and would fain, very fain, have asked if he
could give her any such consolatory information in regard to Darnley;
but the earl had never once mentioned his name, and she knew not how
to begin the subject herself. While considering, and hesitating
whether to ask boldly or not, the queen's page returned and ushered
them to her presence. Constance was still much agitated, and even the
kind and dignified sweetness, the motherly tenderness, with which
Katherine received her--a tenderness which she had not known for so
long--overcame her, and she wept as much as if she had been most
unhappy.

The queen understood it all, and sending Lord Darby away, she soon won
Constance to her usual placid mood; and then, questioning her of all
the dangers and sorrows she had undergone, she gave her the best of
all balms, sympathy; trembling at her account of the shipwreck, and
melted even to tears by the death of the good clergyman.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

                           Men might say
     Till this time pomp was single, but now married
     To one above itself.--Shakspere.

Many were the anxious eyes turned towards the sky on the morning of
the seventh of June, the day appointed for the meeting of the two
kings of France and England; for some inauspicious clouds had ushered
in the dawn, and several of those persons who take a delight in
prognosticating evil, whenever they can find occasion; who enjoy
mingling the sour with whatever is sweet in life--in short, the
lemon-squeezers of society--had taken care to affirm that they had
felt several drops of rain, and to prophesy that it would pour before
night. To put their vaticinations out of joint, however, the jolly
summer sun came like a cleanly housemaid, towards eight o'clock, and
with his broom of rays swept all the dirty clouds from the floor of
heaven. By this time the bustle of preparation had begun at the town
of Guisnes. All was in activity amongst the tents, and many a lord and
gentleman was already on his horse arraying his men in order of battle
under the walls of the castle, from the gates of which presently
issued forth the archer-guard of the king of England, and took the
front of the array. Not long after, Lord Essex, the earl marshal,
appeared on the plain, and riding along the line of foot, gave the
strictest orders to the various officers for maintaining regularity
and tranquillity through the day; well knowing that the excited
hilarity of such occasions often creates more serious evils than do
infinitely worse feelings. Another cause, however, seemed likely to
have interrupted the general good-humour; for, in the midst of his
injunctions to maintain order and propriety of demeanour towards their
French allies, an officer was seen spurring at full speed from the
side of Ardres, and as he rode up, it was very evident by his
countenance that the good captain, Richard Gibson, was not the best
pleased man in the world. All eyes were turned upon him, and a dead
silence ensued amidst the archers, while the earl demanded, "Why! how
now, Gibson? what is the matter?"

"So please you, my lord," replied the officer, "the four pennons of
white and green, which, by your command, I set up on the edge of the
hill, above the valley of Andern, have been vilely thrown down by the
French lord châtelaine, who says, that as the French have none on the
other hill, he wills not that we have any either."

A loud murmuring made itself heard at this news amongst the footmen;
and one of the young gallants, riding near the earl, put spurs to his
horse, as if to ride away to the scene of the dispute.

"Silence!" cried the earl, over whose cheek also an angry flush had
passed at the first, but who speedily recovered his temper. "Brian,
come back! come back, I say, sir! let not a man stir!"

"What! must we stand tamely and be insulted by the French?" cried the
youth, unwillingly reining in his horse.

"They do not insult us, sir," replied Lord Essex, wisely determined
not to let any trifling punctilio disturb the harmony of the meeting,
yet knowing how difficult it was to rule John Bull from his surly
humour. "They do not insult us. The pennons were set up for their
convenience, to show them the place of meeting, which is within the
English pale. If they choose to be such fools as to risk missing the
way, and go a mile round, why, let them; we shall but laugh at them
when they come."

The matter thus turned off, he whispered a few words to Gibson, and
sending him back to the vale of Andern, proceeded, with the aid of
heralds and other officers at arms, to arrange all the ceremonies of
the march. However, various were the reports that spread amongst the
people concerning the intentions of the French, some declaring openly
that they believed they intended to surround the field with a great
force, and take the king of England prisoner. Others shook the wise
head, and implied much more than they ventured to say; and many a poor
rogue, amongst those who "talk of court news as if they were God's
spies," pretended that they had been with the French power and heard
all about it; so that they would tell you the very cunning of the
thing, and its fashion, and when it was to be.

While rumour was thus exercising her hundred tongues, and, as usual,
lying with them all, the warning-gun was fired from the castle of
Guisnes, giving notice that the King of England was ready to set out,
and all hurried to place themselves in order. In a few minutes the
distant roar of another large piece of artillery was heard from
Ardres, answering the first; and for the five minutes before the
procession was formed, like the five minutes of tuning before a
concert, all was noise, clamour, and confusion. The sounding of the
trumpets to horse, the shouts of the various leaders, the loud cries
of the marshals and heralds, and the roaring of the artillery from the
castle, as the king put his foot in the stirrup, all combined to make
one general outcry, rarely equalled.

Gradually the tumult subsided; gradually also the confused assemblage
assumed a regular form. Flags, and pennons, and banderols, embroidered
banners and scutcheons, silver pillars, and crosses, and crooks,
ranged themselves in long line, and the bright procession, an
interminable stream of living gold, began to wind across the plain.
First came about five hundred of the gayest and wealthiest gentlemen
of England, below the rank of baron; squires, knights, and bannerets,
rivalling each other in the richness of their apparel and the beauty
of their horses; while the pennons of the knights fluttered above
their heads, marking the place of the English chivalry. Next appeared
the proud barons of the realm, each with his banner borne before him,
and followed by a custrel with the shield of his arms. To these again
succeeded the bishops, not in the simple robes of the Protestant
clergy, but in the more gorgeous habits of the church of Rome; while
close upon their steps rode the higher nobility, surrounding the
immediate person of the king, and offering the most splendid mass of
gold and jewels that the summer sun ever shone upon.

Slowly the procession moved forward, to allow the line of those on
foot to keep an equal pace. Nor did this band offer a less gay and
pleasing sight than the cavalcade; for here might be seen the athletic
forms of the sturdy English yeomanry, clothed in the various splendid
liveries of their several lords, with the family cognizance
embroidered on the bosom or the arm, and the banners and banderols of
their particular houses carried in the front of each company. Here
also was to be seen the picked guard of the King of England,
magnificently dressed for the occasion, with the royal banner carried
in their centre by the deputy standard-hearer, and the banner of their
company by their own ancient. In the rear of all, marshalled by
officers appointed for the purpose, came the band of those whose rank
did not entitle them to take place in the cavalcade, but who had
sufficient interest at court to be admitted to the meeting. Though of
an inferior class, this company was not the least splendid in the
field; for here were all the wealthy tradesmen of the court, habited
in many a rich garment, furnished by the extravagance of those that
rode before; and many a gold chain hung round their necks, that not
long ago had lain in the purse of some prodigal customer.

Thus marched on the procession at a walking pace, with steeds
neighing, with trumpets sounding, banners and plumes fluttering in the
wind, and gold and jewels sparkling in the sunshine; while loud
acclaim, and the waving of hats, and hands, and handkerchiefs, from
those that stayed behind, ushered it forth from the plain of Guisnes.

They had ridden on some way, when a horseman spurred up to the spot
where the king rode, and doffing his high plumed hat, bent to his
saddle-bow, saying, "My king and my sovereign, I have just been with
the French party, and I hold myself bound, as your liege, to inform
you that they are at least twice as numerous as we are. Your grace
will act as in your wisdom you judge fit; but as a faithful and loving
subject I could not let such knowledge sleep in my bosom."

An instant halt took place through the whole cavalcade, and the king
for a moment consulted with Wolsey, who rode on his left hand; but
Lord Shrewsbury, the lord steward, interposed, assuring the king that
he had been amongst the French nobles the night before, and that
amongst them the same reports prevailed concerning the English.
"Therefore, sir," continued he, "if I were worthy to advise, your
grace would march forward without hesitation; for sure I am that the
French mean no treachery."

"We shall follow your advice, lord steward," replied the king; "let us
march on."

"On before! On before!" cried the heralds at the word. The trumpets
again sounded, and the procession, moving forward, very soon reached
the brow of the hill that looks into the vale of Andern. A gentle
slope, of not more than three hundred yards, led from the highest part
of each of the opposite hills into the centre of the valley, in the
midst of which was pitched the most magnificent tent that ever a
luxurious imagination devised. The canopy, the walls, the hangings,
were all of cloth of gold; the posts, the cones, the cords, the
tassels, the furniture, were all of the same rare metal. Wherever the
eye turned, nothing but that shining ore met its view, so that it
required no very brilliant fancy to name it at once, the _Field of the
Cloth of Gold_.

On reaching the verge of the descent, the cavalcade spread out, lining
the side of the hill for some way down, and facing the line of the
valley. Each cavalier placed himself unhesitatingly in the spot
assigned him by the officers at arms, while the body of foot was drawn
up in array to the left by the captains of the king's guard, so that
not the least confusion or tumult took place; and the whole multitude,
in perfect order, presented a long and glittering front to the
opposite hill, before any of the French party appeared, except a few
straggling horsemen sent to keep the ground.

As soon as the whole line was formed, and when, by the approaching
sound of the French trumpets, it was ascertained that the Court of
France was not far distant, Henry himself drew out from the ranks,
ready to descend to the meeting; and never did a more splendid or more
princely monarch present himself before so noble a host. Tall,
stately, athletic, with a countenance full of imperial dignity, and
mounted on a horse that seemed proudly conscious of the royalty of its
rider, Henry rode forward to a small hillock, about twenty yards in
advance of his subjects; and halting upon the very edge of the hill,
with his attendants grouped behind him, and a clear background of
sunny light throwing nil figure out from all the other objects, he
offered a subject on which Wouvermans might well have exercised his
pencil. Over his wide chest and shoulders he wore a loose vest of
cloth of silver, damasked and ribbed with gold. This was plaited, and
bound tightly towards the waist, while it was held down from the neck
by the golden collars of many a princely order, and the broad baldrick
studded with jewels, to which was suspended his sword. His jewelled
hat was also of the same cloth; and in the only representation of this
famous meeting that I have met with, which can be relied upon, having
been executed at the time, he appears with a vast plume of feathers,
rising from the left side of his hat, and falling over to his saddle
behind. Nor was the horse less splendidly attired than the rider. Its
housings, its trappers, its headstall, and its reins, were all
curiously wrought and embossed with bullion, while a thousand fanciful
ornaments of gold filigree-work hung about it in every direction.

Behind the king appeared Sir Henry Guilford, master of the horse,
leading a spare charger for the monarch; not indeed with any
likelihood of the king's using it, but more as a piece of state
ornament than anything else, in the same manner as the sword of state
was borne by the Marquis of Dorset. A little behind appeared nine
youths of noble family, as the king's henchmen, mounted on beautiful
horses trapped with golden scales, and sprinkled throughout their
housings with loose bunches of spangles, which, twinkling in the
sunshine, gave an inconceivable lightness and brilliancy to their
whole appearance.

Shortly after this glittering group had taken its station in front of
the English line, the first parties of the French nobility began to
appear on the opposite hill, and spreading out upon its side, offered
a corresponding mass of splendour to that formed by the array of
England. Very soon the whole of Francis's court had deployed; and
after a pause of a few minutes, during which the two hosts seemed to
consider each other with no small admiration, and in profound silence,
the trumpets from the French side sounded, and the constable Duke of
Bourbon, bearing a naked sword upright, began to descend the hill.
Immediately behind him followed the French monarch superbly arrayed,
and mounted on a magnificent Barbary horse, covered from head to foot
with gold. Instantly on beholding this, the English trumpets replied,
and the Marquis of Dorset, unsheathing the sword of state, moved
slowly forward before the king. Henry, having the lord cardinal on his
left, and followed by his immediate suite, now descended the hill, and
arrived in the valley exactly at the same moment as Francis. The two
sword-bearers who preceded them fell back each to the right of his own
sovereign; and the monarchs, spurring forward their highly-managed
horses, met in the midst and embraced each other on horseback.
Difficult and strange as such a man[oe]uvre may seem, it was performed
with ease and grace, both the kings being counted amongst the most
skilful horsemen in Europe; and in truth, as the old historian
expresses it, it must have been a marvellous sweet and goodly sight to
see those two princes, in the flower of their age, in the height of
their strength, and in the dignity of their manly beauty, commanding
two great nations, that had been so long rivals and enemies, instead
of leading hostile armies to desolate and destroy, meet in that
peaceful valley, and embrace like brothers in the sight of the choice
nobility of either land.

Two grooms and two pages, who had followed on foot, now ran to hold
the stirrup and the rein, each of his own monarch; and springing to
the ground, the kings embraced again; after which, clasped arm in arm,
they passed the barrier, and entered the golden tent, wherein two
thrones were raised beneath one canopy.

"Henry of England, my dear brother," said the King of France, as soon
as they were seated, "thus far have I travelled to see you and do you
pleasure; willing to hold you to my heart with brotherly love, and to
show you that I am your friend: and surely I believe that you esteem
me as I am. The realms that I command, and the powers that I possess,
are not small; but if they may ever be of aid to my brother, of
England, I shall esteem them greater than before."

"The greatness of your realms, sir, and the extent of your power,"
replied Henry, "weigh as nothing in my eyes, compared with your high
and princely qualities; and it is to interchange regard with you, and
renew in person our promises of love, that I have here passed the seas
and come to the very verge of my dominions."

With such greetings commenced the interview of the two kings, who soon
called to them the cardinal, and seating him beside them, with much
honour, they commanded him to read the articles which he had drawn up
for the arrangement and ordering of their future interviews. Wolsey
complied; and all that he proposed seemed well to please both the
monarchs, till he proceeded to stipulate, that when the King of
England should go over to the town of Ardres, to revel with the queen
and ladies of France, the King of France should at the same time
repair to the town of Guisnes, there to be entertained by the Queen of
England. At this Francis mused: "Nay, nay, my good lord cardinal,"
said he, "faith, I fear not to trust myself with my brother of England
at his good castle of Guisnes, without holding him as a hostage in my
court for my safe return; and, marry, I am sure he would put equal
confidence in me, though I stayed not in his city till he was on his
journey back."

"This clause is not inserted, most noble sovereign," replied Wolsey,
"from any doubt or suspicion that one gracious king has of the other;
for surely all trust and amicable confidence exist between ye: but it
is for the satisfaction of the minds of your liege subjects, who, not
understanding the true nature of princely friendship, might be filled
with black apprehensions, were they to see their monarch confide
himself, without warrant of safety, in the power of another nation."

"Well, well, my good lord," replied Francis, "let it be; time will
show us." And from that moment he seemed to pay little attention to
all the precautionary measures by which the cautious Wolsey proposed
to secure the future meetings of the two kings from the least danger
to either party. The generous mind of the French monarch revolted at
the suspicious policy of the cardinal; and agreeing to anything that
the other thought proper, he mentally revolved his own plans for
shaming the English monarch and his minister out of their cold and
injurious doubts.

The arrangement of these articles was the only displeasing
circumstance that cast a shadow upon the meeting: all the rest passed
in gaiety and joy. A sumptuous banquet was soon placed before them,
and various of the nobles of England and France were called to mingle
in the royal conversation while the monarchs were at table.

In the meanwhile the two courts and their retainers remained arranged
on the opposing sides of the hill; the Englishmen, with their
characteristic rigidity, standing each man in his place as immoveable
as a statue, while the livelier Frenchmen, impatient of doing nothing,
soon quitted their ranks, and, falling into broken masses, amused
themselves as best they might; many of them crossing the valley, and
with national facility beginning to make acquaintance with their new
allies, nothing repulsed by the blunt reception they met with. Not
that the English were inhospitable; for having, as usual, taken good
care that no provision should be wanting against the calls of hunger
or thirst, they communicated willingly to their neighbours of the
comforts they had brought with them, sending over many a flagon of
wine and hypocras, much to the consolation of the French, who had
taken no such wise precautions against the two great internal enemies.

In about an hour, the hangings of the tent were drawn back, and the
two kings re-appeared; ready to separate for the day. The grooms led
up the horses; and Francis and Henry, embracing with many professions
of amity, mounted and turned their steps each to his several dwelling.

The English procession marched back in the same order as it came, and
arrived without interruption at the green plain of Guisnes, where
Henry, ordering the band of footmen to halt, rode along before them,
making them a gay and familiar speech, and bidding them be merry if
they loved their king. Shouts and acclamations answered the monarch's
speech, and the nobles, joining in his intent, showered their largesse
upon their retainers as they followed along the line. The last band
that Henry came to was that of the privileged tradesmen of the court,
most of whom he recognised, possessing, in a high degree, that truly
royal quality of never forgetting any one he had once known. To each
he had some frank, bluff sentence to address; while they, with heads
uncapped and bending low, enjoyed with proud hearts the honour of
being spoken to by the king, and thought how they could tell it to all
their neighbours and gossips when they got to England. As he rode on,
Henry perceived in the second rank a face that he remembered, which,
being attached to a very pliable neck, kept bending down with manifold
reverences, not unlike the nodding of a mandarin cast in china-ware.

"Ha! my good clothier, Jekin Groby!" cried the king; "come forth, man!
What! come forth, I say!"

Jekin Groby rushed forward from behind, knocking on one side the royal
honey merchant, and fairly throwing down the household fishmonger who
stood before him; then, casting himself on his knees by the side of
the king's horse, he clasped the palms of his hands together, and
turned up his eyes piteously to the monarch's countenance, exclaiming,
"Justice! justice! your grace's worship, if your royal stomach be full
of justice, as folks say, give me justice."

"Justice!" cried Henry, laughing at the sad and deplorable face poor
Jekin thought necessary to assume for the purpose of moving his
compassion. "Justice on whom, man--ha? Faith, if any man have done
thee wrong, he shall repent it, as I am a king; though, good Jekin, I
sent for thee a month ago to furnish cloth for all the household, and
thou wert not to be found."

"Lord 'a mercy!" cried Jekin, "and I've missed the job! but it ought
all to be put in the bill. Pray, your grace's worship, put it in the
bill against that vile Sir Payan Wileton, who kidnapped me on your own
royal highway, robbed me of my bagfull of angels, and sent me to sea,
where I was so sick, your grace; you can't think how sick! And then
they beat me with ropes' ends, and made me go up aloft, and damned me
for a land-lubber, and a great deal more: all on account of that Sir
Payan Wileton!"

"Ha!" cried the king; "Sir Payan Wileton again! I had forgot him.
However, good Jekin, I cannot hear you now; come to my chamber
to-morrow before I rise--ha, man! then I will hear and do you justice,
if it be on the highest man in the land. There is my signet: the page
will let you in. At six o'clock, man, fail not!"

"I told you so!" cried Jekin, starting upon his feet, and looking
round him with delight as the king rode away; "I told you he would
make that black thief give me back my angels. I knew his noble heart;
Lord 'a mercy! 'tis a gracious prince, surely."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

                Let some o' the guard be ready.
       _Cran_.--For me?
     Must I go like a traitor then?--Shakspere.

And where was Osborne Darnley all this while?

Wait a little, dearly-beloved, and you shall hear more. It was not yet
five o'clock in the morning, and a sweet morning it was; the sun had
just risen, and, spreading all over the eastern sky, there was that,
soft, lustrous tint of early light that surely ought to be called
hope-colour, it promises so many bright moments for the coming day. It
was not yet five o'clock in the morning when the western sally-port of
the castle of Ardres was opened by a little page not higher than my
thumb, as the old story-book goes, who looked cautiously about, first
to the right and then to the left, to see if any one was abroad and
stirring; but the only person who had risen was the matutinal sun, so
that the page could see nothing but the blue sky, and the green
fields, and the grey stone walls of the castle, whose great age, like
the antiquity of a beggar's coat, had plastered them all over with
patches of green and yellow lichens. Having looked to his heart's
content, he next listened; but no sound could he hear save the light
singing of the lark and the loud snoring of the sentinel on the
neighbouring bastion, who, with head propped on his halberd, kept
anything but silent watch, while the vigilant sun, looking over the
wall, spied out all the weaknesses of the place; and now, having
listened as well as looked, the boy withdrew once more within the
walls. He left, however, the door open, and in a few minutes two
horsemen rode forth, each wrapped up in a large Spanish cloak, with a
chaperon, at Fleurange calls it, or, in other words, an immense hood,
which covered the whole head and disguised the person completely.

As soon as they were fairly out, the page who had accompanied them so
far returned and closed the sally-port, and the two travellers
cantered lightly over the green to a little wood that lay before the
castle. When they were fully concealed by the trees, among which they
wound along, following the sinuosities of a little sandy road, wherein
two, but only two, might ride abreast, they both, as by common
consent, threw back their hoods, and, letting their cloaks fall upon
their horses' cruppers, discovered the two powerful forms of the good
knight Osborne Lord Darnley, and Francis the First King of France.

"Well, my friend and my deliverer," said the king, as they rode on,
"'twill go hard but I will restore you to your king's favour; and even
should he remain inexorable, which I will not believe, you must make
France your country. We will try to win your fair Constance for you
from that suspicious cardinal, of which fear not, for I know a certain
way to gain him to anything; and then I see no cause why, in so fair a
land as France, and favoured by her king, you may not be as happy as
in that little seabound spot called England."

Before proceeding farther, however, it may be necessary to say a few
words concerning the events which had occurred since the knight's
courage and skill had saved the king's life from Shoenvelt and his
adventurers. One may well imagine what anxiety had reigned amongst the
monarch's followers in the forest near Lillers, when they found that
Francis, after having separated from their party, did not rejoin them
on the track appointed for the hunt. Such occurrences, however, having
several times happened before, and the king having always returned in
safety, they concluded that he and Count William of Firstenberg must
have taken the other road to Aire, and that they would find him there
on their arrival. When they did reach that town, their inquiries
immediately discovered that the king was missing.

The news spread rapidly to the whole court, and soon reached the ears
of his mother the Duchess of Angoulême, who became almost frantic on
hearing it, giving him up for lost from that moment, as she had good
reasons to believe that Count William entertained designs against his
life. Her active spirit it was that first discovered the treachery of
the Burgundian, which she had instantly communicated to the king; but
the generous mind of Francis refused all credit to the news, and he
continued his confidence towards Firstenberg without the slightest
alteration, till at length more certain proofs of his designs were
obtained, which induced the monarch to act with that fearless
magnanimity which we have seen him display towards his treacherous
favourite in the forest of Lillers.

Immediately that the king's absence was known, bands of horsemen were
sent out in various directions to obtain news of him, but in vain.
Convinced, by the account of the hunters, that he had quitted the
wood, and that if he were therein they could not find him by night,
they searched in every other place than that in which they were likely
to be successful; so that, the whole night that Francis spent sleeping
tranquilly in the charbonier's cottage, his guards were out towards
Pernès, Fruges, and St. Pol, searching for him without success. When
morning came, however, fresh parties were sent off to examine every
part of the forest, and it was one of these that came up to the spot
not long after the defeat of Shoenvelt and his companions.

The joy occasioned by the king's safe return was not a little
heightened by the danger he had undergone; and every one to whom his
life was precious contended who should do most honour to his gallant
deliverer. Francis himself knew not what recompense to offer Sir
Osborne for the signal service he had rendered him; and, with the
delicacy of a truly generous mind, he exacted from him a particular
account of his whole life, that he might adapt the gift or honour he
wished to confer exactly to the situation of the knight. Darnley
understood the motive of the noble-hearted monarch, and told him all
without reserve; and Francis, now furnished with the best means of
showing his gratitude, resolved not to lose the opportunity.

Thus, for the few days that preceded the meeting between Guisnes and
Ardres, the king highly distinguished the knight, made him many
magnificent presents, called a chapter of the order of St. Michael,
and had him installed in form; but knowing the jealous nature of his
own nobles, he offered him no employment in his service; and even when
the constable de Bourbon, who knew and appreciated Darnley's military
talents, proposed to the king to give him a company of men-at-arms, as
a reward for the great service he had rendered to the whole nation,
Francis negatived it at once, saying openly that the Lord Darnley was
but a visiter at the court of France.

Having premised thus much, we will now take up the travellers again at
the moment of their entering into the wood near Ardres, through which
they passed, conversing over the various circumstances of Sir
Osborne's situation.

"It is strange!" said Francis, as the knight repeated the manner of
his dismissal from the English court; "I do not comprehend it. It is
impossible that your going there under a feigned name, to win King
Henry's favour, should be construed as a crime and made matter of such
strong accusation against you." After musing for a moment, he
proceeded: "Do not think I would imply, good knight, that you could be
really guilty of any higher offence against your king; but be you sure
something has been laid to your charge more than you imagine."

"On my honour as a knight," replied Darnley, "I have accused myself to
your highness of the worst crimes upon my conscience, as if your grace
were my confessor; though I will own that it appears to me also most
strange and inexplicable. I have heard, indeed, that the lord cardinal
never suffers any one to be too near the king's regard; and that if he
sees any especial favour shown, he is sure to find some accusation
against his object; but I can hardly believe that so great a man would
debase himself to be a false accuser."

"I know not! I know not!" answered Francis, quickly: "there is no one
so jealous as a favourite; and what will not jealousy do? My diadem
against a Spanish crown,"[18] he continued laughingly, referring to
his contention with the Emperor Charles, "Henry of England knows you
under no other name than that of Sir Osborne Maurice. However, I will
be polite, and know the whole before I speak. Do you put your honour
in my hands? and will you abide by what I shall undertake for you?"

"Most willingly, your highness," replied the knight: "whatever you say
for me, that will I maintain, on horseback or on foot, with sword or
lance, as long as my life do hold."

Thus conversing they rode on, following the windings of the woody lane
in which they were, till the forest, skirting on to the north-west of
Ardres, opened out upon the plain of Guisnes. As soon as the castle
and town were in sight, the French monarch put his horse into a quick
pace, saying with a smile to Sir Osborne, "Your prudent Wolsey and my
good brother Henry will be much surprised to see me in their castle
alone, after all their grave precautions. By heaven! did kingly
dignity imply suspicion of all the world like theirs, I would throw
away my crown and feed my mother's sheep."

The night after the first meeting of the kings, Henry had retired to
sleep in the fortress, rather than in his palace without the walls;
part of which, comprising his private apartments, had been found
insecure, from the hurry in which it had been built. Of this
circumstance the King of France had been informed by some of his
court, who had passed their evening at Guisnes, and it was therefore
to the castle that he turned his rein.

Passing amidst the tents, in most of which Somnus still held
undisturbed dominion, Francis and Sir Osborne galloped up to the
drawbridge, on which an early party of the guard were sunning
themselves in the morning light; some looking idly over into the moat,
some gazing with half-closed eyes towards the sky; some playing at an
antique and classical game with mutton-bones, while their captain
stood by the portcullis, rubbing his hands and enjoying the sweetness
of the morning.

No sooner did Francis perceive them, than, drawing his sword, he
galloped in amongst them, crying, "_Rendez vous, messieurs! rendez
vous! La place est à moi!_"

At first, the archers scattered back confused, and some had their
hands on their short swords; but several, who had seen the king the
day before, almost instantly recognised him, and the cry became
general of "The King of France! the King of France!" In the mean time,
Francis rode up to the captain, and, putting his sword's point to the
officer's throat, "Yield!" cried he, "rescue or no rescue, or you are
a dead man!"

"I yield, I yield, my lord!" cried the captain, entering into the
king's humour, and bending his knee. "Rescue or no rescue, I yield
myself your grace's prisoner."

"A castle soon taken!" cried Francis, turning to Sir Osborne. "Now,"
added he to the officer, "since the place is mine, lead me to the
chamber of my good brother the King of England."

"His grace is at present asleep," replied the captain, hesitating. "If
your highness will repose yourself in the great hall, he shall be
informed instantly of your presence."

"No, no," cried the king; "show me his chamber. Nothing will serve me
but that I will sound his _réveillez_ myself. Come, Darnley!" and
springing from his horse he followed the officer, who, now forced to
obey, led him into the castle, and up the grand staircase towards the
king's bed-chamber.

All was silence as they went. Henry and the whole court had revelled
late the night before, so that few even of the serving-men had thought
fit to quit their truckle-beds so early in the morning. A single page,
however, was to be seen as they entered a long corridor, which took up
one whole side of the large square tower in the centre of the castle.
He was standing before a door at the farther extremity, and to him the
captain pointed. "The king's ante-room, your highness, is where you
see that page," said he; "and let me beg your gracious forgiveness if
I leave you here, for indeed I dare conduct you no farther."

"Go, go!" cried the king, good-humouredly. "I will find it now myself.
You, Darnley, stay here. I doubt not soon to send for you with good
news."

With his sword still drawn in his hand, the king now advanced to the
page, who, seeing a stranger come forward with so menacing an air,
might have entertained some fears, had he not beheld the captain of
the guard conduct him thither; not at all knowing the person of
Francis, however, as he had not been present at the meeting of the
kings, he closed the door of the ante-room, which had before been open
behind him, and placing himself in the way, prepared to oppose the
entrance of any one.

"Which is the chamber of my brother the King of England?" demanded
Francis, as he came up; but the page, not understanding a word of
French, only shook his head, keeping his back, at the same time,
firmly against the door, thinking that it was some wild French lord,
who knew not what was due to royalty.

"It is the King of France," said Sir Osborne, advancing, as he beheld
the page's embarrassment. "Let him pass. It is the King of France."

The page stared and hesitated; but Francis, taking him by the
shoulder, twisted him round as he had been a child, and, opening the
door, passed in. The page immediately closed it again, putting himself
before the knight, whose face he now remembered. "I must not let your
worship in," said he, thinking Sir Osborne wished to follow the
monarch. "The King of France, of course, I dared not stop, but it is
as much as my life is worth to suffer any one else to pass."

"I seek not to enter, good Master Snell," said the knight. "Unless his
grace sends for me, I shall not intrude myself on his royal presence."
This said, with busy thoughts he began to walk up and down the
gallery; and the page, presently after, retiring into the
ante-chamber, left him for the time to his own contemplations.

Much subject had the knight for thought, though it was of that nature
that profiteth not; for little signified it, as it seemed, how much
soever he took counsel with himself: his fate was in the hands of
others, and beyond his power to influence or determine.

He could not help musing, however, over all the turns which his
fortune had taken within the brief space of the last three months; and
strangely mingled were his sensations, on finding himself, at the end
of the review, standing there, once more within the precincts of the
court of England, from which he had been driven hardly fifteen days
before. A thousand collateral ideas also presented themselves to his
mind, suggesting a thousand doubts and fears for those he loved best.
What had become of Constance de Grey? he asked himself; and though
never had her image for one moment left his mind in his wanderings,
though it had been his companion in the journey, his solace in his
waking hours, his dream by night, and his object in every thought and
hope, still there was something in being amongst those objects, and
near those beings, amidst whom he had been accustomed to see her, that
rendered his anxiety about her more impatient; and he would have given
no small sum for the presence of one of the newsmongers of the court:
those empty idle beings always to be found near the presence of
princes, who, like scavengers' carts, make themselves the common
receptacles for all the drift of the palace, and, hurrying on from one
to another, at once receive and spatter forth the rakings of all
kennels as they go along.

Time, ever long to those who wait, seemed doubly long to Sir Osborne,
to whom so much was in suspense; and so little bustle and activity did
there seem in the castle, that he began to fancy its denizens must
have had their eyes touched with Hermes' wand to make them sleep so
soundly. He walked up and down the corridor, he gazed out of the
window into the court-yard, he listened for every opening door. But it
was all in vain; no one came. Could Francis have forgotten him? he
asked himself, at last; and then he thought how quickly from the light
memories of the great pass away the sorrows or the welfare of their
fellow-creatures; how hardly they can remember, and how happily they
can forget. But no, he would not believe it. If ever man was renowned
for that best and rarest quality of a great man, a heedful remembrance
of those who served him, a thoughtful care of those he esteemed, it
was Francis of France; and Darnley would not believe that in his case
he had forgotten.

Still no one came. Though the various noises and the bustle he began
to hear in distant parts of the building announced that the world was
more awake than when he arrived, yet the corridor in which he was
seemed more deserted than ever.

At first it was nearly vacant, a few listless soldiers being its only
occupants; but soon there was opened on the other side a door which
communicated with a sort of barrack, situated near the chapel in the
inner ballium, and from this proceeded a troop of soldiers and
officers at arms, with one or two persons mingled amongst them that
Sir Osborne imagined to be prisoners. The height at which he was
placed above them prevented his perceiving whether this was certainly
the case, or seeing their faces; for all that he could discern was the
foreshortened figures of the soldiers and sergeants-at-arms,
distinguished from the others by their official habiliments; and
passing along, surrounded by the rest, some persons in darker attire,
round whom the guard appeared to keep with vigilant care. An instant
brought them to the archway just beneath the spot where he stood, and
they were then lost to his sight.

The castle clock struck seven; but so slowly did the hammer fall upon
the bell, he thought it would never have done. He now heard a sound of
much speaking not far off, and thought that surely it was Francis
taking leave of the King of England; but suddenly it ceased, and all
was again silence. Taking patience to his aid, he recommenced his
perambulations; and for another quarter of an hour walked up and down
the corridor, hearing still, as he passed the door of the anteroom, a
low and indistinct murmuring, which might be either the page speaking
in a subdued tone to some person therein, or some other voices
conversing much more loudly in the chamber beyond. The knight's
feelings were wound up to the highest pitch of impatience, when
suddenly a deep groan, and then a heavy fall, met his ear. He paused,
listened, and could plainly distinguish a door within open, and
various voices speaking quick and high, some in French, some in
English; but among them was to be heard distinctly the tongue of Henry
and that of Francis, though what they said was not sufficiently
audible to be comprehended. His curiosity, as may be conceived, was
not a little excited; but, satisfied of the safety of the two kings,
and fearful of being suspected of eaves-dropping if any one came
forth, he once more crossed his arms upon his breast, and began pacing
backwards and forwards as before.

A few minutes more elapsed in silence; but at length, when he was at
the farther extremity of the corridor, he heard the door of the
ante-chamber open, and, turning round, perceived a sergeant-at-arms,
followed by four halberdiers, come forth from within and advance
towards him. Sir Osborne turned and met them, when the guard drew up
across the passage, and the officer stepped forward. "Sir Osborne
Darnley!" said he, "commonly called Lord Darnley, I arrest you for
high treason, in the name of Henry the Eighth, King of England and
France and Lord of Ireland, and charge you to surrender to his
warrant."

The astonishment of Sir Osborne may more easily be conceived than
described. The first appearance of the halberdiers had struck him as
strange, and their drawing up across his path might have been some
warning, but still he was not at all prepared.

Trusting to the protection of the French king, who had virtually
rendered himself responsible for his safety, he had never dreamed of
danger; and for a moment or two he stood in silent surprise, till the
sergeant demanded, "Do you surrender, my lord?"

"Of course, of course!" replied the knight, "though I will own that
this has fallen upon me unexpectedly. Pr'ythee, good sergeant, if thou
knowest, tell me how this has come about, for to me it is
inexplicable."

"In truth, my lord, I Know nothing," replied the officer, "though I
believe that the whole arose from something that happened this morning
in his grace's bed-chamber. I was sent for by the back staircase, and
received orders to attach you here. It is an unpleasant duty, my lord,
but one which we are too often called to perform: I can, therefore,
but beg your forgiveness, and say that you must come with me."

Sir Osborne followed in silence, meditating more than ever over his
strange fate. His hopes had again been buoyed up, again to be cast
down in a more cruel manner than before. There was not now a shade of
doubt left: whatever he was accused of was aimed at him under his real
name; and it was evident, from the unremitted persecution which he
suffered, that Wolsey, or whosoever it was that thus pursued him, was
resolved on accomplishing his destruction by all or any means.

That Wolsey was the originator of the whole he could not doubt; and
the virulence of his jealousy was too well known to hope that justice
or clemency would be shown where his enmity had been incurred.
"However," thought the knight, "at last I can but die: I have fronted
death a hundred times in the battle-field, and I will not shrink from
him now." But to die as a traitor was bitter, he who had never been
aught but loyal and true; yet still his conscious innocence, he
thought, would rob the block and axe of their worst horror; the proud
knowledge that he had acted well in every relationship of life: to his
king, to his country, to those he loved. Then came the thought of
Constance de Grey, in all her summer beauty, and all her gentle
loveliness, and all her sweet smiles: was he never to see them again?
To be cut off from all those kind sympathies he had felt, to go down
into the cold dark grave where they could reach him never more--it was
too much.

While these thoughts were busy in his bosom, the sergeant-at-arms led
him down the great staircase, and across the hall on the ground-floor
of the castle; then, opening a door to the right, he entered into a
long narrow passage, but scantily lighted, that terminated in another
spiral staircase, down which one of the soldiers, who had procured a
lamp in the hall, proceeded first to light them. Sir Osborne followed
in silence, though his heart somewhat burned at the idea of being
committed to a dungeon. Arrived at the bottom of the steps, several
doors presented themselves; and, seeing the sergeant examining a large
bunch of keys, with whose various marks he did not seem very well
acquainted, the knight could not refrain from demanding, if it were by
the king's command that he was about to give him such a lodging.

"No, my lord," replied the sergeant, "the king did not direct me to
place you in a dungeon; but I must secure your lordship's person till
such time as the horses are ready to convey you to Calais, and every
other place in the castle but that where I am going to put you is
full.

"Well, sir," replied the knight, "only beware of what treatment you do
show me, lest you may be sorry for it hereafter."

"Indeed, my lord," answered the man, with a good-humoured smile,
rarely met with on the faces of his brethren, "I should be very sorry
to make your lordship any way uncomfortable; and, if you will give me
your word of honour, as a knight, neither to escape nor to make any
attempt to escape while you are there, I will lock you up in the
chapel of the new palace, which is empty enough, God knows, and for
half-an-hour you will be as well there as anywhere else better than in
a dungeon certainly."

The knight readily gave his promise, and the sergeant, after examining
the keys again, without better success than before, began to try them,
one after another, upon a small iron door in the wall, saying that
they could get out that way to the chapel. One of them at length
fitted the lock, and two enormous bolts and an iron bar being removed,
the door was swung back, giving egress from the body of the fortress
into a long lightsome passage, where the full sun shone through a long
row of windows on each side; while the gilded pillars and the
enamelled ornaments round the windows, the rich arras hangings between
them, and the fine carpets spread over the floor, formed a strange and
magical contrast with the place they had just quitted, with its rough,
damp stone walls, its dark and gloomy passages, and the massy rudeness
of all its features.

"This is the passage made for his grace, between the palace and the
castle," said the sergeant-at-arms. "Let us haste on, my lord, for
fear he should chance to come along it."

Proceeding onwards, catching every now and then a glance at the gay
scene of tents without, as they passed the different windows, the
officer conducted his prisoner to the end of the passage, where they
found a door on either hand; and, opening that to the left, he ushered
the knight into the beautiful little building that had been
constructed as a temporary chapel for the court, while inhabiting the
palace before Guisnes.

"I know, my lord," said the officer, "that I may trust to your
knightly word and promise not to make any attempt to escape; for I
must not even leave a guard at the door, lest his grace the king
should pass, and find that I have put you here, which might move his
anger. I therefore leave you for a while, reposing full confidence in
your honour, and will take care to have the horses prepared, and be
back again before the hour of mass." Thus saying, he ascertained that
the other door was fastened, and left Sir Osborne in the chapel,
taking heed, notwithstanding his professions of reliance, to turn the
key upon him as he went out.

It matters little whether it be a palace or a dungeon wherein he
passes the few last hours of life, to the prisoner condemned to die,
unless he possesses one of those happy spirits that can, by the aid of
external objects, abstract their thoughts from all that is painful in
their fate. If he do, indeed, the things around may give him some
relief. So, however, could not Darnley; and in point of any mental
ease, he might just as well have been in the lowest dungeon of the
castle as in the splendid oratory where he now was. Yet feeling how
fruitless was the contemplation of his situation, how little but pain
he could derive from thought, and how unnerving to all his energies
was the memory of Constance de Grey, under the unhappy circumstances
of the present, he strove not to think; and gazed around him to divert
his mind from his wayward fortunes, by occupying it with the
glittering things around.

Indeed, as far as splendour went, that chapel might have vied with
anything that ever was devised. In length it was about fifty feet;
and, though built of wood, its architecture was in that style which we
are accustomed to call Gothic. Nothing, however, of the mere walls
appeared, for from the roof to the ground it was hung with cloth of
gold, over which fell various festoons of silk, breaking the straight
lines of the hangings. To the right and left, Sir Osborne remarked two
magnificent closets, appropriated, as he supposed, to the use of the
king and queen, where the same costly stuff that lined the rest of the
building was further enriched by a thick embroidery of precious
stones; each also had its particular altar, loaded, besides the pix,
the crucifix, and the candlesticks, with twelve large images of gold,
and a crowd of other ornaments.

Sir Osborne advanced, and fixed his eyes upon all the splendid things
that were there called in to give pomp and majesty to the worship of
the Most High; but he felt more strongly than ever, at that moment,
how it was all in vain; and that the small, calm tabernacle of the
heart is that wherein man may offer up the fittest prayer to his
Maker.

Kneeling, however, on the step of the altar, he addressed his
petitions to heaven. He would not pray to be delivered from danger,
for that he thought cowardly; but he prayed that God would establish
his innocence and his honour; that God would protect and bless those
that he loved; and, if it were the Almighty's will he should fall
before his enemies, that God would be a support to his father and a
shield to Constance de Grey. Then rising from his knee, Darnley found
that his heart was lightened, and that he could look upon his future
fate with far more calmness than before.

At that moment the sound of trumpets and clarions met his ear from a
distance: gradually it swelled nearer and more near, with gay and
martial tones, and approached close to where he was, while shouts and
acclamations, and loud and laughing voices, mingled with the music,
strangely at discord with all that was passing in his heart. Presently
it grew fainter, and then ceased, though still he thought he could
hear the roar of the distant multitude, and now and then a shout; but
in a few minutes these also ceased, and, crossing his arms upon his
breast, he waited till the sergeant-at-arms should come to convey him
to Calais, to prison, perhaps ultimately to death.

In a few minutes some distant steps were heard; they came nearer,
nearer still; the key was turned in the lock, and the door opened.

CHAPTER XL.

             With shame and sorrow filled:
     Shame for his folly; sorrow out of time
     For plotting an unprofitable crime.--Dryden.

We must once more take our readers back, if it be but for the space of
a couple of hours, and introduce them into the bedchamber of a king: a
place, we believe, as yet sacred from the sacrilegious foot of any
novelist.

In the castle of Guisnes, then, and in the sleeping-room of Henry the
Eighth, King of England, stood, exactly opposite the window, a large
square bed, covered with a rich coverlet of arras, which, hanging down
on each side, swept the floor with its golden fringe. High overhead,
attached to the wall, was a broad and curiously-wrought canopy,
whereon the laborious needle of some British Penelope had traced, with
threads of gold, the rare and curious history of that famous knight,
Alexander the Great, who was there represented with lance in rest,
dressed in a suit of Almaine rivet armour, overthrowing King Darius;
who, for his part, being in a mighty fright, was whacking on his
clumsy elephant with his sceptre, while the son of Philip, with more
effect, appeared pricking him up under the ribs with the point of his
spear.

In one corner of the chamber, ranged in fair and goodly order, were to
be seen several golden lavers and ewers, together with fine diapers
and other implements for washing; while hard by was an open closet
filled with linen and plate of various kinds, with several Venice
glasses, a mirror, and a bottle of scented waters. In addition to
these pieces of furniture appeared four wooden settles of carved oak,
which, with two large rich chairs of ivory and gold, made up, at that
day, the furniture of a king's bed-chamber.

The square lattice window was half-open, letting in the sweet breath
of the summer morning upon Henry himself, who, with his head
half-covered with a black velvet nightcap, embroidered with gold,
still lay in bed, supporting himself on his elbow, and listening to a
long detail of grievances poured forth from the rotund mouth of honest
Jekin Groby, who, by the king's command, encumbered with his weighty
bulk one of the ivory chairs by the royal bedside.

Somewhat proud of having had a lord for the companion of his perils,
the worthy clothier enlarged mightily upon the seizure of himself and
Lord Darnley by Sir Payan Wileton, seasoning his discourse pretty
thickly with "_My lord did_," and "_My lord said_," but omitting
altogether to mention him by the name of Sir Osborne, thinking it
would be a degradation to his high companionship so to do; though, had
he done so but once, it would have saved many of the misfortunes that
afterwards befel.

Henry heard him calmly, till he related the threats which Sir Payan
held out to his prisoner, in that interview of which Jekin had been an
unperceived witness; then starting up, "Mother of God!" cried the
king, "what has become of the young gallant? Where is he? ha, man?
Now, heaven defend us! the base traitor has not murdered him! ha?"

"Lord 'a mercy! you've kicked all the clothes off your grace's
worship," cried Jekin: "let me kiver you up! you'll catch a malplexy,
you will!"

"God's life! answer me, man!" cried Henry. "What has become of the
young lord, Osborne Darnley?--ha?"

"Bless your grace! that's just what I cannot tell you," replied Jekin;
"for I never saw him after we got out."

"Send for the traitor! have him brought instantly!" exclaimed the
king. "See who knocks! Let no one in! Who dares knock so loud at my
chamber-door?"

Proceeding round the king's bed, Jekin opened the door, against which
some one had been thumping with very little ceremony; but in a moment
the valiant clothier started back, exclaiming, "Lord 'a mercy! it's a
great man with a drawn sword!"

"A drawn sword!" cried Henry, starting up, and snatching his own
weapon, which lay beside him. But at that moment Francis ran in, and,
holding his blade over the king, commanded him to surrender.

"I yield! I yield!" exclaimed Henry, delighted with the jest. "Now, by
my life, my good brother of France, thou has shown me the best turn
ever prince showed another. I yield me your prisoner; and, as sign of
my faith, I beg you to accept this jewel." So saying, he took from his
pillow, where it had been laid the night before, a rich bracelet of
emeralds, and clasped it on the French king's arm.

"I receive it willingly," answered Francis; "but for my love and
amity, and also as my prisoner, you must wear this chain;" and,
unclasping a jewelled collar from his neck, he laid it down beside the
English monarch.

Many were the civilities and reciprocations of friendly speeches that
now ensued; and Henry, about to rise, would fain have called an
attendant to assist him, but Francis took the office on himself.
"Come, I will be your valet for this morning," said he; "no one but I
shall give you your shirt; for I have come over alone to beg some
boons of you."

"They are granted from this moment," replied Henry. "But do you say
you came alone? Do you mean unattended?"

"With but one faithful friend," answered the French king; "one who not
a week ago saved my life by the valour of his arm. 'Tis the best
knight that ever charged a lance, and the noblest heart: he is your
subject, too."

"Mine!" cried Henry, with some surprise. "How is he called? What is
his name? Say, France, and we will love him for his service to you."

"First, hear how he did serve me," replied Francis; and, while the
English monarch threaded the intricate mazes of the toilet, he
narrated the whole of his adventure with Shoenvelt, which not a little
interested Henry, the knight-errantry of whose disposition took fire
at the vivid recital of the French king, and almost made him fancy
himself on the spot.

"A gallant knight!" cried he at length, as the King of France detailed
the exploits of Sir Osborne; "a most gallant knight, on my life! But
say, my brother, what is his name? 'Slife, man! let us hear it. I long
to know him."

"His name," replied Francis, with an indifferent tone, but at the same
time fixing his eyes on Henry's face, to see what effect his answer
would produce; "his name is Sir Osborne Maurice."

A cloud came over the countenance of the English king. "Ha!" said he,
thoughtfully, jealous perhaps in some degree that the splendid
chivalrous qualities of the young knight should be transferred to the
court of France. "It is like him. It is very like him. For courage and
for feats of arms, I, who have seen many good knights, have rarely
seen his equal. Pity it is that he should be a traitor."

"Nay, nay, my good brother of England," answered Francis; "I will
avouch him no traitor, but of unimpeachable loyalty. All I regret is,
that his love for your noble person, and for the court of England,
should make him wish to quit me. But to the point. My first boon
regards him. He seeks not to return to your royal favour with honour
stained and faith doubtful, but he claims your gracious permission to
defy his enemies, and to prove their falsehood with his arm. If they
be men, let them meet him in fair field; if they be women or
churchmen, lame, or in any way incompetent according to the law of
arms, let them have a champion, the best in France or England. To
regain your favour and to prove his innocence, he will defy them be
they who they may; and here at your feet I lay down his gage of
battle, so confident in his faith and worth, that I myself will be his
godfather in the fight. He waits here in the corridor to know your
royal pleasure."

Henry thought for a moment. He was not at all willing that the court
of Francis, already renowned for its chivalry, should possess still
another knight of so much prowess and skill as he could not but admit
in Sir Osborne. Yet the accusations that had been laid against him,
and which nobody who considers them--the letter of the Duke of
Buckingham, and the evidence of Wilson the bailiff--can deny were
plausible, still rankled in the king's mind, notwithstanding the
partial explanation which Lady Katrine Bulmer had afforded respecting
the knight's influence with the Rochester rioters. Remembering,
however, that the whole or greater part of the information which
Wolsey had laid before him had been obtained, either directly or
indirectly, from Sir Payan Wileton, he at length replied, "By my
faith, I know not what to say: it is not wise to take the sword from
the hand of the law, and trust to private valour to maintain public
justice, more than we can avoid. But you, my royal brother, shall in
the present case decide. The accusations against this Sir Osborne
Maurice are many and heavy, but principally resting on the testimonies
produced by a certain wealthy and powerful knight, one Sir Payan
Wileton, who, though in other respects most assuredly a base and
disloyal villain, can have no enmity against Sir Osborne, and no
interest in seeking his ruin. Last night, by my order, this Sir Payan
was brought hither from Calais, on the accusations of that good fool
(pointing to Jekin Groby). You comprehend enough of our hard English
tongue to hear him examined yourself, and thus you shall judge. If you
find that there is cause to suspect Sir Payan and his witnesses,
though it be but in having given the slightest colour of falsehood to
their testimony, let Sir Osborne's arm decide his quarrel against the
other knight; but if their evidence be clear and indubitable, you
shall yield him to be judged by the English law. What say you? Is it
not just?"

The King of France at once agreed to the proposal, and Henry turned to
Jekin, who had stood by, listening with his mouth open, wonderfully
edified at hearing the two kings converse, though he understood not a
word of the language in which they spoke. "Fly to the page, man!"
cried the king; "tell him to bid those who have Sir Payan Wileton in
custody bring him hither instantly by the back-staircase; but first
send to the reverend lord cardinal, requiring his counsel in the
king's chamber. Haste! dally not, I say; I would have them here
directly."

Jekin hurried to obey; and after he had delivered the order, returned
to the king's chamber, where Henry, while he completed the adjustment
of his apparel, related to Francis the nature of the accusation
against Sir Osborne, and the proofs that had been adduced of it. The
King of France, however, with a mind less susceptible of suspicion,
would not believe a word of it, maintaining that the witnesses were
suborned and that the letter was a forgery; and contended it would
most certainly appear that Sir Payan had some deep interest in the
ruin of the knight.

The sound of many steps in the ante-chamber soon announced that some
one had arrived. "Quick!" cried Henry to Jekin Groby; "get behind the
arras, good Jekin. After we have despatched this first business, I
would ask the traitor some questions before he sees thee. Ensconce
thee, man! ensconce thee quick!"

At the king's command, poor Jekin lifted up the corner of the arras by
the side of the bed, and hid himself behind; but though a considerable
space existed between the hangings and the wall, the worthy clothier
having, as we have hinted, several very protuberant contours in his
person, his figure was somewhat discernible still, swelling out the
stomach of King Solomon and the hip of the Queen of Sheba, who were
represented in the tapestry as if one was crooked and the other had
the dropsy.

Scarcely was he concealed when the page threw open the door, and
Cardinal Wolsey entered in haste, somewhat surprised at being called
to the king's chamber at so early an hour; but the sight of the French
king sufficiently explained the summons, and he advanced, bending low
with a proud affectation of humility.

"God bless and shield your graces both!" said he. "I feared some evil
by this early call; but now that I find the occasion was one of joy, I
do not regret the haste that apprehension gave me."

"Still we have business, my good Wolsey," replied Henry, "and of some
moment. My brother of France here espouses much the cause of the Sir
Osborne Maurice who lately sojourned at the court, and won the
good-will of all, both by his feats of arms and his high-born and
noble demeanour; who, on the accusations given against him to you,
lord cardinal, by Sir Payan Wileton, was banished from the court; nay,
judged worthy of attachment for treason."

The king, in addressing Wolsey, instead of speaking in French, which
had been the language used between him and Francis, had returned to
his native tongue; and good Jekin Groby, hearing what passed
concerning Sir Osborne Maurice, was seized with an intolerable desire
to have his say too.

"Lord 'a mercy!" cried he, popping his head from behind the tapestry,
"your grace's worship don't know----"

"Silence!" cried Henry, in a voice that made poor Jekin shrink into
nothing: "said I not to stay there--ha?"

The worthy clothier drew back his head behind the arras, like a
frightened tortoise retracting its noddle within the shelter of its
shell; and Henry proceeded to explain to Wolsey, in French, what had
passed between himself and Francis.

The cardinal was, at that moment, striving hard for the King of
France's favour; nor was his resentment towards Sir Payan at all
abated, though the arrangements of the first meeting between the kings
had hitherto delayed its effects. Thus all at first seemed favourable
to Sir Osborne, and the minister himself began to soften the evidence
against him, when Sir Payan, escorted by a party of archers and a
sergeant-at-arms, was conducted into the king's chamber. The guard
drew up across the door of the anteroom; and the knight, with a pale
but determined countenance, and a firm heavy step, advanced into the
centre of the room, and made his obeisance to the kings. Henry, now
dressed, drew forward one of the ivory chairs for Francis, and the
sergeant hastened to place the other by its side for the British
monarch; when, both being seated, with Wolsey by their side, the whole
group would have formed as strange but powerful a picture as ever
employed the pencil of an artist. The two magnificent monarchs in the
pride of their youth and greatness, somewhat shadowed by the eastern
wall of the room; the grand and dignified form of the cardinal, with
his countenance full of thought and mind; the stern, determined aspect
of Sir Payan, his whole figure possessing that sort of rigidity
indicative of a violent and continued mental effort, with the full
light streaming harshly through the open casement upon his pale
cheek and haggard eye, and passing on to the king's bed, and the
dressing-robe he had cast off upon it, showing the strange scene in
which Henry's impetuosity had caused such a conclave to be held: these
objects formed the foreground; while the sergeant-at-arms standing
behind the prisoner, and the guard drawn up across the doorway,
completed the picture; till, gliding in between the arches, the
strange figure of Sir Cesar the astrologer, with his cheeks sunken and
livid, and his eye lighted up by a kind of wild maniacal fire, entered
the room, and, taking a place close on the right hand of Henry, added
a new and curious feature to the already extraordinary scene.

"Sir Payan Wileton," said Henry, "many and grievous are the crimes
laid to your charge, and of which your own conscience must accuse you
as loudly as the living voices of your fellow-subjects; at least, so
by the evidence brought forward against you, it appears to us at this
moment. Most of these charges we shall leave to be investigated by the
common course of law; but there are some points touching which, as
they involve our own personal conduct and direction, we shall question
you ourself: to which questions we charge you, on your allegiance, to
answer truly and without concealment."

"To your grace's questions," replied Sir Payan, boldly, "I will answer
for your pleasure, though I recognise here no established court of
law; but first, I will say that the crimes charged against me ought to
be heavier than I, in my innocence believe them, to justify the rigour
with which I have been treated."

An ominous frown gathered on the king's brow. "Ha!" cried he,
forgetting the calm dignity with which he had at first addressed the
knight. "No established court of law! Thou sayest well: we have not
the power to question thee! Ha! who then is the king? Who is the head
of all magistrates? Who holds in his hand the power of all the law? By
our crown! we have a mind to assemble such a court of law as within
this half-hour shall have thy head struck off upon the green!"

Sir Payan was silent, and Wolsey replied to the latter part of what he
had said with somewhat more calmness than Henry had done to the
former. "You have been treated, sir," said he, "with not more rigour
than you merited; nor with more than is justified by the usual current
of the law. It is on affidavit before me, as chancellor of this
kingdom, that you both instigated and aided the Lady Constance de
Grey, a ward of court, to fly from the protection and government of
the law; and, therefore, attachment issued against your person, and
you stand committed for contempt. You had better, sir, sue for grace
and pardon than aggravate your offence by such unbecoming demeanour."

"Thou hast said well and wisely, my good Wolsey," joined in the king,
whose heat had somewhat subsided. "Standing thus reproved, Sir Payan
Wileton, answer touching the charges you have brought against one Sir
Osborne Maurice; and if you speak truly, to our satisfaction, you
shall have favour and lenity at our hands. Say, sir, do you still hold
to that accusation?"

"All I have to reply to your grace," answered the knight, resolved,
even if he fell himself, to work out his hatred against Sir Osborne,
with that vindictive rancour that the injurer always feels towards the
injured; "all that I have to reply is, that what I said was true; and
that if I had stated all that I suspected, as well as what I knew, I
should have made his treason look much blacker than it does even now."

"Do you understand, France?" demanded Henry, turning to Francis:
"shall I translate his answers, to show you his true meaning?"

The King of France, however, signified that he comprehended perfectly;
and Sir Payan, after a moment's thought, proceeded.

"I should suppose your grace could have no doubt left upon that
traitor's guilt; for the charge against him rests, not on my
testimony, but upon the witness of various indifferent persons, and
upon papers in the handwriting of his friends and abettors."

"Villain!" muttered Sir Cesar, between his teeth; "hypocritical,
snake-like villain!" Both the king and Sir Payan heard him; but Henry
merely raised his hand, as if commanding silence, while the eyes of
the traitorous knight flashed a momentary fire, as they met the glance
of the old man, and he proceeded. "I had no interest, your grace, in
disclosing the plot I did; though, had I done wisely, I would have
held my peace, for it will make many my enemies, even many more than I
dreamed of then. I have since discovered that I then only knew one
half of those that are implicated. I know them all now," he continued,
fixing his eye on Sir Cesar; "but as I find what reward follows
honesty, I shall bury the whole within my own breast."

"On these points, sir, we will leave our law to deal with you,"
replied Henry: "there are punishments for those that conceal treason;
and, by my halidame, no favour shall you find in us, unless you make a
free and full confession! Then our grace may touch you, but not else.
But to the present question, my bold sir. Did you ever see Sir Osborne
Maurice before the day that he was arrested by your order, on the
charge of having excited the Cornishmen to revolt? And, before God, we
enjoin you--say, are you excited against him by feelings of interest,
hatred, or revenge?"

"On my life," replied Sir Payan, boldly, "I never saw him but on that
one day; and as I hope for salvation in heaven"--and here he made a
hypocritical grimace of piety--"I have no one reason, but pure
honesty, to accuse him of these crimes."

A low groan burst from behind the tapestry at this reply, and Henry
gave an angry glance towards the worthy clothier's place of
concealment; but Francis, calling back his attention, begged him to
ask the knight in English whether he had ever known Sir Osborne
Maurice by any other name, or in any other character.

Sir Cesar's eyes sparkled, and Sir Payan's cheek turned pale, as Henry
put the question; but he boldly replied, "Never, so help me heaven! I
never saw him, or heard of him, or knew him, by any other name than
Osborne Maurice."

"Oh, you villanous great liar! Oh, you hypocritical thief!" shouted
Jekin Groby, darting out from behind the tapestry, unable to contain
himself any longer. "I don't care, I don't care a groat for any one;
but I won't hear you tell his grace's worship such a string of lies,
all as fat and as well tacked together as Christmas sausages. Lord 'a
mercy! I'll tell your graces, both of you, how it was; for you don't
know, that's clear. This here Sir Osborne Maurice, that you are asking
about, is neither more nor less than that Lord Darnley that I was
telling your grace of this morning. Lord! now, didn't I hear him tell
that sweet young lady, Mistress Constance de Grey, all about it; how
he could not bear to live any longer abroad in these foreign parts,
and how he had come back under the name of Sir Osborne Maurice, all
for to get your grace's love as an adventurous knight? And then didn't
that Sir Payan--yes, you great thief! you did, for I heard you--didn't
he come and crow over him, and say that now he had got him in his
power? And then didn't he offer to let him go if he would sign some
papers? And then, when he would not, didn't he swear a great oath that
he would murther him, saying, 'he would make his tenure good by the
extinction of the race of Darnley?' You did, you great rogue! you know
you did! And, Lord 'a mercy! to think of your going about to tell his
grace such lies! your own king, too, who should never hear anything
but the truth! God forgive you, for you're a great sinner, and the
devils will never keep company with you when you go to purgatory, but
will kick you out into the other place, which is worse still, folks
say. And now, I humbly beg your grace's pardon, and will go back
again, if you like, behind the hangings; but I couldn't abear to hear
him cheat you like that."

The sudden appearance of Jekin Groby, and the light he cast upon the
subject, threw the whole party into momentary confusion. Sir Payan's
resolution abandoned him; his knees shook, and his very lips grew
pale. Sir Cesar gazed upon him with triumphant eyes, exclaiming, "Die,
die! what hast thou left but to die?" At the same time Wolsey
questioned Jekin Groby, who told the same straightforward tale; and
Henry explained the whole to Francis, whose comprehension of the
English tongue did not quite comprise the jargon of the worthy
clothier.

Sir Payan Wileton, however, resolved to make one last despairing
effort both to save himself and to ruin his enemies; for the
diabolical spirit of revenge was as deeply implanted in his bosom as
that of self-preservation. He thought then for a moment, glanced
rapidly over his situation, and cast himself on his knee before the
king. "Great and noble monarch!" said he, in a slow, impressive voice,
"I own my fault--I acknowledge my crime; but it is not such as you
think it. Hear me but out, and you yourself shall judge whether you
will grant me mercy or show me rigour. I confess, then, that I had
entered as deeply as others into the treasonable plot I have betrayed
against your throne and life; nay, more--that I would never have
divulged it, had I not found that the Lord Darnley had, under the name
of Sir Osborne Maurice, become the Duke of Buckingham's chief agent,
and was to be rewarded by the restitution of Chilham Castle, for which
some vague indemnity was proposed to me hereafter. On bearing it, I
dissembled my resentment; and pretending to enter more heartily than
ever into the scheme, I found that the ambitious duke reckoned as his
chief hope, in case of war, on the skill and chivalry of this Lord
Darnley, who promised by his hand to seat him on the throne. I
learned, moreover, the names of all the conspirators, amongst whom
that old man is one;" and he pointed to Sir Cesar, who gazed upon him
with a smile of contempt and scorn, whose intensity had something of
sublime. "Thirsting for revenge," proceeded Sir Payan, "and with my
heart full of rage, I commanded four of my servants to stop the
private courier of the duke, when I knew he was charged with letters
concerning this Sir Osborne Maurice, and thus I obtained those papers
I placed in the hands of my lord cardinal----"

"But how shall we know they are not forgeries?" cried Henry. "Your
honour, sir, is so gone, and your testimony so suspicious, that we may
well suppose those letters cunning imitations of the good duke's hand.
We have heard of such things--ay, marry have we."

"Herein, happily, your grace can satisfy yourself and prove my truth,"
replied Sir Payan; "send for the servants whose names I will give,
examine them, put them to the torture if 'you will; and if you wring
not from them that, on the twenty-ninth of March, they stopped, by my
command, the courier of the Duke of Buckingham, and took from him his
bag of letters, condemn me to the stake. But mark me, King of England!
I kneel before you pleading for life; grant it to me, with but my own
hereditary property, and Buckingham, with all the many traitors that
are now aiming at your life and striving for your crown, shall fall
into your hand, and you shall have full evidence against them. I will
instantly disclose all their names, and give you proof against their
chief, that to-morrow you can reward his treason with the axe, nor
fear to be called unjust. But if you refuse me your royal promise,
sacredly given here before your brother king--to yield me life, and
liberty, and lands, as soon as I have fulfilled my word--I will go to
my death in silence, like the wolf, and never will you be able to
prove anything against them; for that letter is nothing without my
testimony to point it aright."

"You are bold!" said Henry; "you are very bold! but our subjects' good
and the peace of our country may weigh with us. What think you,
Wolsey?" And for a moment or two he consulted in a low tone with the
cardinal and the King of France. "I believe, my liege," said Wolsey,
whose hatred towards Buckingham was of the blindest virulence; "I
believe that your grace will never be able to prove his treasons on
the duke without this man's help. Perhaps you had better promise."

Francis bit his lip and was silent; but Henry, turning to Sir Payan,
replied, "The tranquillity of our realm and the happiness of our
people overcome our hatred of your crimes; and therefore we promise,
that if by your evidence treason worthy of death be proved upon Edward
Duke of Buckingham, you shall be free in life, in person, and in
lands."

"Never!" cried the voice of Sir Cesar, mounting into a tone of
thunder; "never!" And springing forward, he caught Sir Payan by the
throat, grappled with him but for an instant, with a maniacal vigour,
and drawing the small dagger he always carried, plunged it into the
heart of the knight, with such force that one might have heard the
blow of the hilt against his ribs. The whole was done in a moment,
before any one was aware; and the red blood and the dark spirit
rushing forth together, with a loud groan the traitor fell prone upon
the ground; while Sir Cesar, without a moment's pause, turned the
dagger against his own bosom, and drove it in up to the very haft.

Wolsey drew back in horror and affright. Francis and Henry started up,
laying their hands upon their swords; Jekin Groby crept behind the
arras; and the guards rushed in to seize the slayer; but Sir Cesar
waved them back with the proud and dignified air of one who feels that
earthly power has over him no further sway. "What fear ye?" said he,
turning to the kings, and still holding the poniard tight against his
bosom, as if to restrain the spirit from breathing forth through the
wound. "There is no offence in the dead or in the dying. Hear me, King
of England! and hear the truth, which thou wouldst never have heard
from that false caitiff. Yet I have little time; the last moments of
existence speed with fast wings towards another shore: give me a seat,
for I am faint."

They instantly placed for him one of the settles; and after gazing
around for a moment with that sort of painful vacancy of eye that
speaks how the brain reels, he made an effort, and went on, though
less coherently. "All he has said is false. I am on the brink of
another world, and I say it is false as the hell to which he is gone.
Osborne Darnley, the good, the noble, and the true--the son of my best
and oldest friend--knew of no plot, heard of no treason. He was in
England but two days when he fell into that traitor's hands. He never
saw Buckingham but once. The Osborne Maurice named in the duke's
letter is not he; one far less worthy."

"Who then is he?" cried the king impatiently. "Give me to know him, if
you would have me believe. Never did I hear of such a name but in
years long past, an abettor of Perkyn Warbeck. Who then is this Sir
Osborne Maurice--ha? Mother of God! name him!"

"I--I--I--King of England!" cried the old man. "I, who, had he been
guided by me, would have taught Richard King of England, whom you
style Perkyn Warbeck, to wrench the sceptre from the hand of your
usurping father; I, whose child was murdered by that dead traitor, in
cold blood, after the rout at Taunton; I--I it was who predicted to
Edward Bohun that his head should be highest in the realm of England:
I it is who predict it still!" As he spoke the last words, the old man
suddenly drew forth the blade of the dagger from his breast, upon
which a full stream of blood instantly gushed forth and deluged the
ground. Still struggling with the departing spirit, he started
on his feet--put his hand to his brow. "I come! I come!" cried
he--reeled--shuddered--and fell dead beside his enemy.

CHAPTER XLI.

     They all, as glad as birds of joyous prime,
     Thence led her forth, about her dancing round.--Spenser.

The bustle, the confusion, the clamour, the questions, and the
explanations that ensued, we shall leave the reader to imagine,
satisfied that his vivid fancy will do far more justice to such a
scene than our worn-out pen. When the bodies of Sir Payan Wileton and
his companion in death had been removed from the chamber of the king,
and some sand strewed upon the ground to cover the gory memories that
such deeds had left behind, order and tranquillity began to regain
their dominion.

"By my faith! a bloody morning's entertainment have we had," said
Francis. "But you are happy, my good brother of England, in having
traitors that will thus despatch each other, and cheat the headsman of
his due. However, from what I have gathered, Osborne Darnley, the
Knight of Burgundy, can no longer seem a traitor in the eyes of any
one."

"No, truly, my gracious lord," replied Wolsey, willing to pleasure the
King of France. "He stands freed from all spot or blemish, and well
deserves the kingly love of either noble monarch."

"'Slife! my good lord cardinal," cried Henry, "speak for yourself
alone! Now, I say, on my soul, he is still a most deep and egregious
traitor; not only, like that Sir Payan Wileton, in having planned his
treason, but in having executed it."

"Nay, how so?" cried Francis, startled at this new charge. "In what is
he a traitor now?"

"In having aided Francis King of France," replied Henry, smiling, "to
storm our castle of Guisnes, and take his liege lord and sovereign
prisoner."

"Oh! if that be the case," cried Francis, "I give him up to your royal
indignation; but still we have a boon to ask, which our gracious
brother will not refuse."

"Name it! name it!" exclaimed Henry. "By St. Mary! it shall go to pay
our ransom, whatever it be."

"You have in your court," replied Francis, "one Lady Constance de
Grey, who, though your born subject, is no less vassal to the crown of
France; owing homage for the counties of Boissy and the Val de Marne,
assured to your late subject the Lord de Grey by Charles the Eighth
when he gave him in marriage Constance Countess of Boissy, as a reward
for services rendered in Italy----"

"We see your object, oh most Christian king!" cried Henry, laughing.
"We see your object! What a messenger of Cupid are you! Well, have
your wish. We give her to your highness so to dispose of as you may
think fit; but at the same time claim Lord Osborne Darnley at your
hands, to punish according to his demerits. What say you? ha!"

"Agreed, agreed!" replied the King of France. "He waits me, as I said,
even now, in the corridor without, and doubtless thinks I sue for him
in vain. Those guards must have passed him in the corridor."

"No, no; they came the other way," said Henry. "Ho! without there!
Sergeant-at-arms, take four stout halberdiers, and, going into the
west corridor, attach me for high treason the Lord Osborne Darnley,
whom you will there find waiting. Hist! hear me, man! Use him with all
gentleness (we do but jest with him), and make some fair excuse to
shut him up in one of the chambers of the new palace, the nearer to
the great hall the better. Away! make speed! and above all return
quick, and let me know where you have put him; but take heed, and let
him not see that we mock him: haste! My good lord cardinal," he
continued, turning to Wolsey, "though it be an unmeet task for one of
your grave dignity to bear a message to a lady, yet on this day of
joy, when our good brother France comes here to greet us in brotherly
love, even wise men shall forget their seriousness and be as gay as
boys. Hie then, good Wolsey, to our lady queen. Tell her to call all
the fair flowers of England round about her in our great hall, to
welcome Francis of France, and that I will be there immediately upon
your steps."

The cardinal bowed low, and instantly obeyed; and Henry proceeded
in whispering consultation with Francis till the return of the
sergeant-at-arms; then turning to the worthy clothier, who, when he
found all the killing and slaying was over, had come out from behind
the arras to enjoy the air of royalty, "Come, good Jekin," cried
Henry, "now a task for thee. Hark, man!" and he whispered something to
honest Groby, who instantly replied, "Lord 'a mercy! yes, your grace!
I know Wilson Goldsmith well; I'll go to him directly; no trouble in
life. Lord! I guess how it's going to be. Well, I'm vastly glad, I do
declare. Lord 'a mercy! I hope your grace's worship will let me be
there!"

"Ay, man, ay!" cried the king; "make speed and come with him. Ho,
Snell! give me a gown of tissue; bid the guard be ready: we will cross
the green to the palace. Let the marshals be called to clear the way."

In a very few minutes all was prepared; and as the two kings were
descending the grand staircase of the castle, news was brought that a
band of French nobles, anxious for the safety of their king, had come
over from Ardres at all speed to seek him. Francis sent his commands
that they should dismount in the court; and on issuing out of the
castle, the monarch found a splendid party of the English and French
nobility mingled together, waiting to give them the good morrow.

"Ha, Alençon! what fear you, man?" cried the King of France. "We are
all safe. Sir Richard Heartley, look not for Lord Darnley; he is in
security: follow, and you will see him presently."

"Gentlemen all, you are most welcome," said Henry; "follow us, all
that love us, to our poor palace here without, and we will make you
better cheer, where ladies' words shall replace this summer air, and
their sweet looks the sunshine. Sound 'On before!'"

The trumpets sounded, and, the ushers and marshals clearing the way
for the two kings, they passed out of the castle gate, and traversed
the green on foot, amidst the shouts and acclamations of the crowd
that the arrival of the French nobles, together with various rumours
of something extraordinary having happened, had collected in the
neighbourhood of the royal lodging.

Arm-in-arm with Francis, Henry, delighting with ostentatious