The Story of Francis Cludde

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER I.

  "HE, SIRE ANE, HE!"

  On the boundary line between the two counties of Warwick and Worcesterthere is a road very famous in those parts, and called the Ridgeway.Father Carey used to say--and no better Latinist could be found for ascore of miles round in the times of which I write--that it was madeby the Romans. It runs north and south along the narrow spine of thecountry, which is spread out on either side like a map, or a picture.As you fare southward you see on your right hand the green orchardsand pastures of Worcestershire stretching as far as the Malvern Hills.You have in front of you Bredon Hill, which is a wonderful hill, forif a man goes down the Avon by boat it goes with him--now before, andnow behind--a whole day's journey--and then stands in the same place.And on the left hand you have the great Forest of Arden, and not muchbesides, except oak trees, which grow well in Warwickshire.

  I describe this road, firstly, because it is a notable one, and fortyyears ago was the only Queen's highway, to call a highway, in thatcountry. The rest were mere horse-tracks. Secondly, because the chasewall of Coton End runs along the side of it for two good miles; andthe Cluddes--I am Francis Cludde--have lived at Coton End by theRidgeway time out of mind, probably--for the name smacks of thesoil--before the Romans made the road. And thirdly, because fortyyears ago, on a drizzling February day in 1555--second year of Mary,old religion just reestablished--a number of people were collected onthis road, forming a group of a score or more, who stood in an orderedkind of disorder about my uncle's gates and looked all one way, as ifexpecting an arrival, and an arrival of consequence.

  First, there was my uncle Sir Anthony, tall and lean. He wore his bestblack velvet doublet and cloak, and had put them on with an air ofhuge importance. This increased each time he turned, staff in hand,and surveyed his following, and as regularly gave place to a "Pshaw!"of vexation and a petulant glance when his eye rested on me. Closebeside him, looking important too, but anxious and a little frightenedas well, stood good Father Carey. The priest wore his silk cassock,and his lips moved from time to time without sound, as though hewere trying over a Latin oration--which, indeed, was the fact. At amore respectful distance were ranged Baldwin Moor, the steward,and a dozen servants; while still farther away lounged as manyragamuffins--landless men, who swarmed about every gentleman's doorin those times, and took toll of such abbey lands as the king mighthave given him. Against one of the stone gate-pillars I leanedmyself--nineteen years and six months old, and none too wise, thoughwell grown, and as strong as one here and there. And perched on thetop of the twin post, with his chin on his knees, and his handsclasped about them, was Martin Luther, the fool.

  Martin had chosen this elevated position partly out of curiosity, andpartly, perhaps, under a strong sense of duty. He knew that, whetherhe would or no, he must needs look funny up there. His nose was red,and his eyes were running, and his teeth chattering; and he did lookfunny. But as he felt the cold most his patience failed first. Thesteady, silent drizzle, the mist creeping about the stems of the oaktrees, the leaden sky proved too much for him in the end. "A watchedpot never boils!" he grumbled.

  "Silence, sirrah!" commanded my uncle angrily. "This is no time foryour fooling. Have a care how you talk in the same breath of pots andmy Lord Bishop!"

  "_Sanctae ecclesiae_," Father Carey broke out, turning up his eyes in akind of ecstasy, as though he were knee to knee with the prelate--"_tedefensorem inclytum atque ardentem----_"

  "_Pottum!_" cried I, laughing loudly at my own wit.

  It was an ill-mannered word, but I was cold and peevish. I had beenforced to this function against my will. I had never seen the guestwhom we were expecting, and who was no other than the Queen'sChancellor, Stephen Gardiner, but I disliked him as if I had. Intruth, he was related to us in a peculiar fashion, which my uncle andI naturally looked at from different standpoints. Sir Anthony viewedwith complacence, if not with pride, any connection with the powerfulBishop of Winchester, for the knight knew the world, and couldappreciate the value it sets on success, and the blind eyes it has forspots if they do but speckle the risen sun. I could make no suchallowance, but, with the pride of youth and family, at once despisedthe great Bishop for his base blood, and blushed that the shame lay onour side. I hated this parade of doing honor to him, and would fainhave hidden at home with Petronilla, my cousin, Sir Anthony'sdaughter, and awaited our guest there. The knight, however, had notpermitted this, and I had been forced out, being in the worst ofhumors.

  So I said "_Pottum!_" and laughed.

  "Silence, boy!" cried Sir Anthony fiercely. He loved an orderlyprocession, and to arrange things decently. "Silence!" he repeated,darting an angry glance first at me and then at his followers, "or Iwill warm that jacket of yours, lad! And you, Martin Luther, see toyour tongue for the next twenty-four hours, and keep it off my LordBishop! And, Father Carey, hold yourself ready----"

  "For here Sir Hot-Pot cometh!" cried the undaunted Martin, skippingnimbly down from his post of vantage; "and a dozen of London saucepanswith him, or may I never lick the inside of one again!"

  A jest on the sauciness of London serving-men was sure to tell withthe crowd, and there was a great laugh at this, especially among thelandless men, who were on the skirts of the party, and well shelteredfrom Sir Anthony's eye. He glared about him, provoked to find at thiscritical moment smiles where there should have been looks ofdeference, and a ring round a fool where he had marshaled aprocession. Unluckily, he chose to visit his displeasure upon me. "Youwon't behave, won't you, you puppy!" he cried. "You won't, won't you!"and stepping forward he aimed a blow at my shoulders, which would havemade me rub myself if it had reached me. But I was too quick. Istepped back, the stick swung idly, and the crowd laughed.

  And there the matter would have ended, for the Bishop's party were nowclose upon us, had not my foot slipped on the wet grass and I fallenbackward. Seeing me thus at his mercy, the temptation proved too muchfor the knight. He forgot his love of seemliness and even that hisvisitors were at his elbow--and, stooping a moment to plant home acouple of shrewd cuts, cried, "Take that! Take that, my lad!" in avoice that rang as crisply as his thwacks.

  I was up in an instant; not that the pain was anything, and before ourown people I should have thought as little of shame, for if the oldmay not lay hand to the young, being related, where is to be anyobedience? Now, however, my first glance met the grinning faces ofstrange lackeys, and while my shoulders still smarted, the laughter ofa couple of soberly-clad pages stung a hundred times more sharply. Iglared furiously round, and my eyes fell on one face--a face longremembered. It was that of a man who neither smiled nor laughed; a manwhom I recognized immediately, not by his sleek hackney or his purplecassock, which a riding-coat partially concealed, or even by hisjeweled hand, but by the keen glance of power which passed over me,took me in, and did not acknowledge me; which saw my humiliationwithout interest or amusement. The look hurt me beyond smarting ofshoulders, for it conveyed to me in the twentieth part of a second howvery small a person Francis Cludde was, and how very great a personagewas Stephen Gardiner, whom in my thoughts I had presumed to belittle.

  I stood irresolute a moment, shifting my feet and glowering at him, myface on fire. But when he raised his hand to give the Benediction, andthe more devout, or those with mended hose, fell on their knees in themud, I turned my back abruptly, and, climbing the wall, flung awayacross the chase.

  "What, Sir Anthony!" I heard him say as I stalked off, his voiceringing clear and incisive amid the reverential silence which followedthe Latin words; "have we a heretic here, cousin? How is this? So nearhome too!"

  "It is my nephew, my Lord Bishop," I could hear Sir Anthony answer,apology in his tone; "and a willful boy at times. You know of him; hehas queer notions of his own, put into his head long ago."

  I caught no more, my angry strides carrying me out of earshot. Fuming,I hurried across the long damp grass, avoiding here and there thefallen limb of an elm
or a huge round of holly. I wanted to get out ofthe way, and be out of the way; and made such haste that before theslowly moving cavalcade had traversed one-half of the interval betweenthe road and the house I had reached the bridge which crossed themoat, and, pushing my way impatiently through the maids and scullionswho had flocked to it to see the show, had passed into the courtyard.

  The light was failing, and the place looked dark and gloomy in spiteof the warm glow of burning logs which poured from the lower windows,and some show of green boughs which had been placed over the doorwaysin honor of the occasion. I glanced up at a lattice in one of thegables--the window of Petronilla's little parlor. There was no face atit, and I turned fretfully into the hall--and yes, there she was,perched up in one of the high window-seats. She was looking out on thechase, as the maids were doing.

  Yes, as the maids were doing. She too was watching for his HighMightiness, I muttered, and that angered me afresh. I crossed therushes in silence, and climbed up beside her.

  "Well," I said ungraciously, as she started, hearing me at hershoulder, "well, have you seen enough of him yet, cousin? You will, Iwarrant you, before he leaves. A little of him goes far."

  "A little of whom, Francis?" she asked simply.

  Though her voice betrayed some wonder at my rough tone, she was somuch engaged with the show that she did not look at me immediately.This of course kept my anger warm, and I began to feel that she was inthe conspiracy against me.

  "Of my Lord of Winchester, of course," I answered, laughing rudely;"of Sir Hot-Pot!"

  "Why do you call him that?" she remonstrated in gentle wonder. Andthen she did turn her soft dark eyes upon me. She was a slender,willowy girl in those days, with a complexion clear yet pale--a maidenall bending and gracefulness, yet with a great store of secretfirmness, as I was to learn. "He seems as handsome an old man," shecontinued, "as I have ever met, and stately and benevolent, too, as Isee him at this distance. What is the matter with you, Francis? Whathas put you out?"

  "Put me out!" I retorted angrily. "Who said anything had put me out?"

  But I reddened under her eyes; I was longing to tell her all, and becomforted, while at the same time I shrank with a man's shame fromsaying to her that I had been beaten.

  "I can see that something is the matter," she said sagely, with herhead on one side, and that air of being the elder which she oftenassumed with me, though she was really the younger by two years. "Whydid you not wait for the others? Why have you come home alone?Francis," [with sudden conviction] "you have vexed my father! That isit!"

  "He has beaten me like a dog!" I blurted out passionately; "and beforethem all! Before those strangers he flogged me!"

  She had her back to the window, and some faint gleam of wintrysunshine, passing through the gules of the shield blazoned behind her,cast a red stain on her dark hair and shapely head. She was silent,probably through pity or consternation; but I could not see her face,and misread her. I thought her hard, and, resenting this, bragged onwith a lad's empty violence.

  "He did; but I will not stand it! I give you warning, I won't standit, Petronilla!" and I stamped, young bully that I was, until the dustsprang out of the boards, and the hounds by the distant hearth jumpedup and whined. "No! not for all the base bishops in England!" Icontinued, taking a step this way and that. "He had better not do itagain! If he does, I tell you it will be the worse for some one!"

  "Francis," she exclaimed abruptly, "you must not speak in that way!"

  But I was too angry to be silenced, though instinctively I changed myground.

  "Stephen Gardiner!" I cried furiously. "Who is Stephen Gardiner, Ishould like to know? He has no right to call himself Gardiner at all!Dr. Stephens he used to call himself, I have heard. A child with noname but his godfather's; that is what he is, for all his airs and hisbishopric! Who is he to look on and see a Cludde beaten? If my uncledoes not take care----"

  "Francis!" she cried again, cutting me short ruthlessly. "Be silent,sir!" [and this time I was silent], "You unmanly boy," she continued,her face glowing with indignation, "to threaten my father before myface! How dare you, sir? How dare you? And who are you, you poorchild," she exclaimed, with a startling change from invective tosarcasm--"who are you to talk of bishops, I should like to know?"

  "One," I said sullenly, "who thinks less of cardinals and bishops thansome folk, Mistress Petronilla!"

  "Ay, I know," she retorted scathingly--"I know that you are a kind ofhalf-hearted Protestant--neither fish, flesh, nor fowl!"

  "I am what my father made me!" I muttered.

  "At any rate," she replied, "you do not see how small you are, or youwould not talk of bishops. Heaven help us! That a boy who has donenothing and seen nothing, should talk of the Queen's Chancellor! Go!Go on, you foolish boy, and rule a country, or cut off heads, and thenyou may talk of such men--men who could unmake you and yours with astroke of the pen! You, to talk so of Stephen Gardiner! Fie, fie, Isay! For shame!"

  I looked at her, dazed and bewildered, and had long afterward in mymind a picture of her as she stood above me, in the window bay, herback to the light, her slender figure drawn to its full height, herhand extended toward me. I could scarcely understand or believe thatthis was my gentle cousin. I turned without a word and stole away, notlooking behind me. I was cowed.

  It happened that the servants came hurrying in at the moment with aclatter of dishes and knives, and the noise covered my retreat. I hada fancy afterward that, as I moved away, Petronilla called to me. Butat the time, what with the confusion and my own disorder, I paid noheed to her, but got myself blindly out of the hall, and away to myown attic.

  It was a sharp lesson. But my feelings when, being alone, I had timeto feel, need not be set down. After events made them of no moment,for I was even then on the verge of a change so great that all thethreats and misgivings, the fevers and agues, of that afternoon, realas they seemed at the time, became in a few hours as immaterial as thedew which fell before yesterday's thunderstorm.

  The way the change began to come about was this. I crept in late tosupper, facing the din and lights, the rows of guests and the hurryingservants, with a mixture of shame and sullenness. I was sitting downwith a scowl next the Bishop's pages--my place was beside them,half-way down the table, and I was not too careful to keep my feetclear of their clothing--when my uncle's voice, raised in a harshertone than was usual with him, even when he was displeased, summonedme.

  "Come here, sirrah!" he cried roundly. "Come here, Master Francis! Ihave a word to speak to you!"

  I went slowly, dragging my feet, while all looked up, and there was apartial silence. I was conscious of this, and it nerved me. For amoment indeed, as I stepped on to the dais I had a vision of scores ofcandles and rushlights floating in mist, and of innumerable bodilessfaces all turned up to me. But the vision and the mistiness passedaway, and left only my uncle's long, thin face inflamed with anger,and beside it, in the same ring of light, the watchful eyes and stern,impassive features of Stephen Gardiner. The Bishop's face and his eyeswere all I saw then; the same face, the same eyes, I remembered, whichhad looked unyielding into those of the relentless Cromwell and hadscarce dropped before the frown of a Tudor. His purple cap andcassock, the lace and rich fur, the chain of office, I rememberedafterward.

  "Now, boy," thundered Sir Anthony, pointing out the place where Ishould stand, "what have you to say for yourself? why have you somisbehaved this afternoon? Let your tongue speak quickly, do you hear,or you will smart for it. And let it be to the purpose, boy!"

  I was about to answer something--whether it was likely to make thingsworse or better, I cannot remember--when Gardiner stayed me. He laidhis hand gently on Sir Anthony's sleeve, and interposed. "One moment,"he said mildly, "your nephew did not stay for the Church's blessing, Iremember. Perhaps he has scruples. There are people nowadays who have.Let us hear if it be so."

  This time it was Sir Anthony who did not let me answer.

  "No, no," he cried hastily; "no, no; it is n
ot so. He conforms, mylord, he conforms. You conform, sir," he continued, turning fiercelyupon me, "do you not? Answer, sir."

  "Ah!" the Bishop put in with a sneer, "you conform, do you?"

  "I attend mass--to please my uncle," I replied boldly.

  "He was ill brought up as a child," Sir Anthony said hastily, speakingin a tone which those below could not hear. "But you know all that, mylord--you know all that. It is an old story to you. So I make, and Ipray you to make for the sake of the house, some allowance. Heconforms; he undoubtedly conforms."

  "Enough!" Gardiner assented. "The rest is for the good priest here,whose ministrations will no doubt in time avail. But a word with thisyoung gentleman, Sir Anthony, on another subject. If it was not to theholy office he objected, perhaps it was to the Queen's Chancellor, orto the Queen?" He raised his voice with the last words and bent hisbrows, so that I could scarcely believe it was the same man speaking."Eh, sir, was that so?" he continued severely, putting aside SirAnthony's remonstrance and glowering at me. "It may be that we have arebel here instead of a heretic."

  "God forbid!" cried the knight, unable to contain himself. It wasclear that he repented already of his ill-timed discipline. "I willanswer for it that we have no Wyatts here, my lord."

  "That is well!" the Chancellor replied. "That is well!" he repeated,his eyes leaving me and roving the hall with so proud a menace intheir glance that all quailed, even the fool. "That is very well," hesaid, drumming on the table with his fingers; "but let Master Francisspeak for himself."

  "I never heard," said I boldly--I had had a moment for thought--"thatSir Thomas Wyatt had any following in this country. None to myknowledge. As for the Queen's marriage with the Prince of Spain, whichwas the ground, as we gathered here, of Wyatt's rising with theKentish folk, it seems a matter rather for the Queen's grace than hersubjects. But if that be not so, I, for my part, would rather haveseen her married to a stout Englishman--ay, or to a Frenchman."

  "And why, young gentleman?"

  "Because I would we kept at peace with France. We have more to gain byfighting Spain than fighting France," I answered bluntly.

  My uncle held up his hands. "The boy is clean mad!" he groaned. "Whoever heard of such a thing? With all France, the rightful estate ofher Majesty, waiting to be won back, he talks of fighting Spain! Andhis own grandmother was a Spaniard!"

  "I am none the less an Englishman for that!" I said; whereon there wasa slight murmur of applause in the hall below. "And for France," Icontinued, carried away by this, "we have been fighting it, off andon, as long as men remember; and what are we the better? We have onlylost what we had to begin. Besides, I am told that France is fivetimes stronger than it was in Henry the Fifth's time, and we shouldonly spend our strength in winning what we could not hold. While as toSpain----"

  "Ay, as to Spain?" grumbled Sir Anthony, forgetting his formidableneighbor, and staring at me with eyes of wonder. "Why, my fatherfought the French at Guinegate, and my grandfather at Cherbourg, andhis father at Agincourt! But there! As to Spain, you popinjay?"

  "Why, she is conquering here," I answered warmly, "and colonizingthere among the newly-discovered countries of the world, and gettingall the trade and all the seaports and all the gold and silver; andSpain after all is a nation with no greater strength of men thanEngland. Ay, and I hear," I cried, growing more excited and raising myvoice, "that now is our time or never! The Spaniards and thePortuguese have discovered a new world over seas.

  "A Castilla y a Leon Nuevo mundo dio Coton!

  say they; but depend upon it, every country that is to be rich andstrong in the time that is coming must have part in it. We cannotconquer either Spain or France; we have not men enough. But we havedocks and sailors, and ships in London and Fowey, and Bristol and theCinque Ports, enough to fight Spain over the great seas, and I say,'Have at her!'"

  "What next?" groaned Sir Anthony piteously. "Did man ever hear suchcrackbrained nonsense?"

  But I think it was not nonsense, for his words were almost lost in thecry which ran through the hall as I ceased speaking--a cry of Englishvoices. One moment my heart beat high and proudly with a new sense ofpower; the next, as a shadow of a cloud falls on a sunny hillside, thecold sneer on the statesman's face fell on me and chilled me. His setlook had neither thawed nor altered, his color had neither come norgone. "You speak your lesson well, lad," he said. "Who taught youstatecraft?"

  I grew smaller, shrinking with each word he uttered; and faltered, andwas dumb.

  "Come," he said, "you see but a little way; yet country lads do nottalk of Fowey and Bristol! Who primed you?"

  "I met a Master Sebastian Cabot," I said reluctantly at last, when hehad pressed me more than once, "who stayed a while at a house not farfrom here, and had been Inspector of the Navy to King Edward. He hadbeen a seaman seventy years, and he talked----"

  "Too fast!" said Gardiner, with a curt nod. "But enough, I understand.I know the man. He is dead."

  He was silent then, and seemed to have fallen suddenly into thought,as a man well might who had the governing of a kingdom on hisshoulders.

  Seemingly he had done with me. I looked at Sir Anthony. "Ay, go!" hesaid irritably, waving me off. "Go!"

  And I went. The ordeal was over, and over so successfully that I feltthe humiliation of the afternoon cheap at the price of this triumph;for, as I stepped down, there was a buzz around me, a murmur ofcongratulation and pride and excitement. On every Coton face I markeda flush, in every Coton eye I read a sparkle, and every flush andevery sparkle was for me. Even the Chancellor's secretaries, grave,down-looking men, all secrecy and caution, cast curious glances at me,as though I were something out of the common; and the Chancellor'spages made way for me with new-born deference. "There is for countrywits!" I heard Baldwin Moor cry gleefully, while the man who put foodbefore me murmured of "the Cludde bull-pup!" If I read in FatherCarey's face, as indeed I did, solicitude as well as relief andgladness, I marked the latter only, and hugged a natural pride to mybreast. When Martin Luther said boldly that it was not only Bishopcould fill a bowl, it was by an effort I refrained from joining in thelaugh which followed.

  For an hour I enjoyed this triumph, and did all but brag of it.Especially I wished Petronilla had witnessed it. At the end of thattime--_Finis_, as the book says. I was crossing the courtyard,one-half of which was bathed in a cold splendor of moonlight, and wasfeeling the first sobering touch of the night air on my brow, when Iheard some one call out my name. I turned, to find one of theChancellor's servants, a sleek, substantial fellow, with a smug mouth,at my elbow.

  "What is it?" I said.

  "I am bidden to fetch you at once, Master Cludde," he answered, agleam of sly malice peeping through the gravity of his demeanor. "TheChancellor would see you in his room, young sir."