CHAPTER XXXI
MARYE, THE QUEENE
Thus day followed day, whilst in the great world without, England waspreparing to see her premier lord arraigned before his peers on a chargeof murder. And in one of the smaller chambers of her own privateapartments at Hampton Court, Mary Tudor sat alone, praying and thinking,thinking and praying again.
Not a queen now, not a proud and wilful Tudor, passionate, cruel, orcapricious, but only a middle-aged, broken-hearted woman, with eyesswollen with weeping, and brain heavy with eternally reiterated desires.
To save him! to save him!
But how?
That he had committed so foul a crime as to stab an enemy in the back,this in the very face of his own confession Mary still obstinatelyrefused to believe. The rumours anent the presence of a woman in thatpart of the Palace and at that fatal hour had of course reached herears. Jealousy and hatred, which had raged within her, had readilyfastened on Ursula Glynde as the cause, if not the actual perpetrator ofthe dastardly crime.
That a woman was somehow or other connected with the terrible events ofthat night, every one was of course ready to admit, but in what mannerno one was able to conjecture.
A murder had been committed. Of that there could be no doubt. Don Miguelde Suarez had been stabbed in the back! Not in fair fight, butbrutally, callously stabbed! and he a guest at the English Court!
Of this barbarous, abominable act the Duke of Wessex stoodself-convicted.
Impossible, of course! Preposterous! pronounced his friends. He! thefirst gentleman in England, brave to a fault, fastidious, artistic, anda perfect swordsman to boot! The very accusation was ridiculous.
Yet he stood self-convicted.
Why? in the name of Heaven! Why?
"To shield a woman," said His Grace's friends.
"What woman?" retorted his enemies.
The name of Lady Ursula Glynde had been faintly whispered, yet it seemedalmost as preposterous to suppose that a beautiful young girl--refined,gentle, poetic, scarce out of her teens--would have the physicalstrength to commit so foul a deed, as to think of His Grace inconnection with it.
Yet, in spite of that, the idea had gained ground, that the Lady UrsulaGlynde could, an she would, throw some light on the mystery whichsurrounded the events of that terrible night, and no one brooded overthat idea more determinedly than did Mary Tudor.
The young girl had of course denied all knowledge of what had or had notoccurred. There was not a single definite fact that might even remotelyconnect her with the supposed enmity between Wessex and Don Miguel.
The Cardinal was not likely to speak, for the present turn of eventssuited his own plans to perfection.
My lord of Everingham was away in Scotland, and news travelled slowlythese days. As for the Queen, she had nothing on which to found hersuspicions, save her own hatred of the girl and the firm conviction thaton that same night, an hour or two before the murder, Ursula and Wessexhad met. She had then seen and upbraided the girl in the presence of mylord Cardinal and the ladies; His Grace was not there then, but whathappened immediately afterwards?
Had she but dared, Mary Tudor would have submitted her rival to mentaland bodily torture, until she had extracted a confession from her. Allshe could do was to confine her to her own room in the Palace; she wouldnot lose sight of her, although the young girl had begged for permissionto quit the Court and retire to a convent, for the silence and peace ofwhich she felt an unutterable longing.
The Duke's trial by his peers was fixed for the morrow.
It was but a fortnight since that fateful evening. His Grace had been inthe Tower since then, and by virtue of his high influence and of hisexceptional position had demanded and readily obtained a speedy trial.
Twenty-four hours in which a queen might perchance still save the manshe loved from a shameful and ignominious death. And she had thought andschemed and suffered during fourteen days, as perhaps no other woman hadever thought and suffered before. She was queen, yet felt herselfpowerless to accomplish the one desire of her life, which she would havebartered her kingdom to obtain: the life of the man she loved.
But to-day she had pluckily dried her tears. The whole morning she hadspent at her toilette, carefully selecting--with an agitation whichwould have been ridiculous, considering her age and appearance, had itnot been so intensely pathetic--the raiment which she thought wouldbecome her most. She had a burning desire to appear attractive.
Earnestly she studied the lines of her face, covered incipient wrinklesand faded cheeks with cosmetics, spent nigh on an hour in thearrangement of her coif. Then she repaired to a small room, which washung with tapestry of a dull red, and into which the fading afternoonlight would only peep very gently and discreetly.
Since then she had paced that narrow room incessantly and impatiently.Every few moments she rang a handbell, and to the stolid page orservitor in attendance she repeated the same anxious query--
"Is the guard in sight yet?"
"Not yet, Your Majesty," reiterated the page for the tenth time thatday.
It was nigh on three o'clock in the afternoon when the Duchess ofLincoln at last came with the welcome news.
"The captain of the guard desires to report to Your Majesty that theTower Guard, with His Grace the Duke of Wessex, are at the gates of thePalace."
Mary, with her usual characteristic gesture, pressed her hand to herheart, unable to speak with the sudden emotion which had sent the bloodthrobbing in her veins. The kind old Duchess, her wrinkled faceexpressive of the deepest sorrow and the most respectful sympathy,waited patiently until the Queen had recovered herself.
"'Tis well," said Mary, after a while. "I pray you. Duchess, to see thatHis Grace is introduced in here at once."
When she was alone she fell upon her knees, a great sob shook herdelicate frame. She took her rosary from her girdle and with passionatefervour kissed the jewelled beads.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God!" she murmured amidst her tears, "make himlisten to me! . . . pray for me . . . intercede for me, Queen of Heaven,mystic rose, tower of ivory, holy virgin, our mother . . . pray for menow . . . I would save him, and I would make him King. . . . Queen ofHeaven, aid me . . . Mother of God, make him to love me . . . make him. . . to love me! . . ."
After that she rose, and carefully wiped her tears. She cast a glanceat a small mirror which stood on the table, smoothed her hair and coifand forced her lips to smile.
The next moment there was a knock at the door, a clash of arms, thesound of voices, and two minutes later His Grace of Wessex was in thepresence of the Queen.
She held out her hand to him and he stooped to kiss it. This gave hertime to recover outward composure. Her fond heart ached at sight of him,for he seemed so altered. All the gaiety, the joy of life, that buoyancyof youth and ever-ready laughter which had always been his own peculiarcharm, had completely gone from him: he looked older too, she thought,whilst his step even had lost its elasticity.
Mary motioned him to a seat close beside her. She herself had wiselychosen so to place her chair that the light from the window, whilstfalling full on him, left her own figure in shadow.
"I trust, my lord," she began with a trembling voice, "that my guard atthe Tower are showing you all the deference and doing you all the honourwhich I have commanded, and that your every comfort in that abode ofevil hath been well looked to?"
"Your Majesty is ever gracious," replied Wessex, "far more than Ideserve. The kindness shown me by every one at the Tower hath been asource of the deepest happiness to me."
"Nay! if I could . . ." began Mary impulsively.
Then she checked herself, determined not to let emotion get the betterof her, ere she had told him all that she wished to say.
"My lord of Wessex," she resumed more firmly, "will you try to thinkthat you are before a sincere and devoted friend; not before your Queen,but beside a woman who hath naught so much at heart as . . . yourhappiness? . . . Will you try?"
"The effort will n
ot be great," he replied with a smile. "Your Majesty'skindness hath oft shamed me ere this."
"Then, if you value my friendship, my lord," rejoined Mary vehemently,"give me some assurance that to-morrow, before your judges and yourpeers, you will refute this odious charge which is brought against you."
"I crave Your Majesty's most humble pardon," said Wessex. "I have madeconfession of the crime imputed to me and can refute nothing."
"Nay, my lord, this is madness. You, the most gallant gentleman inEngland, you, to have done a deed so foul as would shame the lowestchurl! Bah!" she added, with a bitter laugh, "'twere a grim farce, if itwere not so terrible a tragedy!"
"Nay! not a tragedy, Your Majesty. Better men than I have made a failureof their lives. So I pray you, think no more of me."
"Think no more of you, dear lord," said Mary, with an infinity ofreproach in her voice. "Ah me, I think of naught else since that awfulnight when they came and told me that you . . ."
There was a catch in her throat and perforce she had to pause. Oh! theirony of fate! The bitter satire of that wanton god, called Love!
Wessex looked at this proud Tudor Queen with a deep reverence, in whichthere was almost a thought of pity. This lonely, middle-aged woman,passionate, self-willed, who loved him with all the tenderness ofpent-up motherhood! yet, try how he might! he could only respond to hertrue affection with cold respect and deep but unimpassioned gratitude!Yet was not her worth ten thousandfold more great than that of thewanton, whose image still filled his heart?
The one woman he honoured, the other he must perforce despise, andyet--such is the heart of man--he was more ready than ever to give uplife, honour, a great name, and still greater destiny, so that theworthless object of his whole-hearted affection should be spared publicdisgrace.
He would not have named Ursula Glynde in this chaste, virgin Queen'spresence, the very remembrance of that awful night was a pollution, butproud and haughty as he was, he dwelt on that memory, for it was thelast which he had of her.
Mad, foolish, criminal, sublime Love! The sin of the loved one wasdearer to him than all the virtues of which other women were capable,and whilst Mary Tudor would have given him a crown, he found it sweeterfar to accept ignominy for Ursula's sake.
Perhaps something of all these thoughts which went on in his mind wasreflected in his face, for Mary, who had been watching him keenly, saidafter a while with a tone of bitter resentment--
"My lord, I know that your silence over this mysterious affair ismaintained out of a chivalrous desire to shield another . . . a woman.. . . Ah, consider. . . ."
"I have considered," replied Wessex firmly, "and I entreat Your Majesty. . ."
"Nay! 'tis I who entreat," she interrupted him vehemently. "Let us lookfacts in the face, my lord. Think you we are all fools to believe inyour cock-and-bull story? A woman was seen that night flying from thePalace across the terrace . . . who was she? . . . whence did she come?. . . None of the watch could see her face, and the louts were toostupid to run after her . . . but there are those within this Court atthis moment who will swear that that woman was Ursula Glynde."
Strangely enough this was the first time, since that fatal night, thatthis name was actually spoken in Wessex' hearing: it seemed to sting himlike the cut of a lash across his face. For that one brief instant helost his icy self-control, and Mary saw him wince.
"Ursula has been questioned," she continued, "but she remains obduratelysilent. Believe me, my lord, you waste your chivalry in defence of awanton."
But already Wessex had recovered himself.
"Your Majesty is mistaken," he rejoined calmly. "I know naught of LadyUrsula Glynde, and I defend no one by confessing my crime."
"You'll not persist in that insensate confession."
"'Twill not be necessary, Your Majesty, my judges have it in full, writby mine own hand."
"You'll recant it."
"Why should I? 'Twas done willingly, in full possession of my faculties,under no compulsion."
"You'll recant it!" she persisted obstinately.
"Why should I?"
"Because I ask it of you," she said with great gentleness, "because I. . ."
She rose from her chair, and came closer to him. Then as he,respectfully, would have risen too, she placed a detaining hand upon hisshoulder.
"Listen, my lord," she said, "for I've thought of it all. . . . This isnot a moment when foolish prejudices and mock modesty should stand inthe way of so great an issue. . . . I would throw my soul, my futurelife, my chances of paradise on that one stake--your innocence. . . ."
"Your Majesty . . ."
"Nay, I pray you, do not waste these few valuable minutes in vainprotestations, which I'll not believe. . . . There's not a sane man inthis country who thinks you guilty. . . . Yet on this confession yourjudges and peers will condemn you to death . . . must condemn you, sothat the law of England is satisfied--and you, my lord, will sufferdeath with a lie upon your lips."
"The truth," rejoined Wessex firmly; "'twas I killed the Marquis deSuarez."
"A lie, my lord, a lie," protested Mary passionately; "the first you'veever told, the last you'll be allowed to breathe. . . . But let it pass.. . . I'll not torture your pride by forcing you to repeat thatmonstrous tale again. Would I could wrench her secret from the cowardlylips of that hussy. . . . Oh! if I were a man . . . a king like myfather! . . . I'd have her broken on the wheel, tortured on the rack,whipped, lacerated, burnt, but I'd have the truth from her!"
Wessex took her hand in his. She was trembling from head to foot. Theinward, real Mary Tudor had risen to the surface for this one briefmoment. All the cruelty in her, which in after life made this wretchedwoman's name the byword of history, seemed just then to smother her verywomanhood, her every tender thought. At the touch of Wessex' hand shepaused suddenly, shamed and in tears, that he should have seen her likethis.
"Before she came you said many sweet words to me," she murmured, as iftrying to find an excuse for her terrible outburst. "Ah! I know . . . Iknow . . ." she added, with a bitter tone of melancholy, "you neverloved me . . . how could you? . . . Men like you do not love anill-favoured creature like me, old, bad-tempered . . . with something ofthe brute under the queenly robes. . . . But . . . you had affection forme once, my dear lord . . . and an unimpassioned love can bringhappiness sometimes. . . . I would soon make you forget these lastterrible days . . . and . . ."
Her voice had sunk down very low, almost to a whisper now, the hand,which he still held in his own, trembled violently and became burninghot.
"And no one would dare to whisper ill of the King Consort of England."
He turned to her; she was standing beside him, her hand imprisoned inhis, her face bent so that he could not meet her eyes. But there wassuch an infinity of pathos in the attitude of this domineering, haughtywoman wilfully humbling her pride before her love, that with a tenderfeeling of reverence he bent the knee before her and tenderly kissed herhand.
"Ah, my sweet Queen," he said with gentle sadness, "I am and always willbe your most devoted subject--but do you not see how impossible it isthat I should accept this great honour, which you would deign to conferupon me?"
"You refuse? Is it that you have not one spark of love for me?"
"I have far too much veneration for my Queen to allow her to sully herfair name. If being avowedly guilty I were acquitted by Your Majesty'sdesire, 'twould be said the Queen had saved her lover . . . and thenmarried a felon."
"I would stake mine honour, that no one shall dare . . ."
"Honour is already lost, my Queen, once it is at stake."
"But I will save you," cried Mary with ever-increasing vehemence, "inspite of yourself, in spite of your confessions, in spite of all theselies and deceptions. . . . I'll save you in the very teeth of yourjudges and your peers, and proclaim to the whole world that I savedyou--guilty or not guilty, proud gentleman or felon--because my name isMary Tudor, and that there is no law in England outside my will."
&n
bsp; Pride and passion almost beautified her. Her love for this man was theone soft, tender trait in her strange and complex character, butTudor-like she _would_ have her way, she would rule his destiny, commandhis fate, tear and destroy everything around her so long as her capriceheld sway. But he had suddenly risen to his feet, and stood confrontingher now, tall and erect, with a pride as great, as obstinate as her own,a haughty dignity which neither Queen nor destiny, neither sorrow,disgrace or fear had the power to bend.
"Ere that dishonour fall upon us both, Your Majesty," he said firmly,"the last Duke of Wessex will lie in a suicide's grave."
Her eyes were fixed upon his, and he, carried away by the poignancy ofthis supreme battle fought by his pride against her passion, allowed herto read his innermost thoughts. He had nothing to hide from her now, noteven his love, miserable and desperate as it was: but he wanted her toknow that not even at this fateful moment, when he stood 'twixt ascaffold and a crown, did he waver in the firm resolve which had guidedhim throughout his life.
He would _not_ become the tool and minion of a Tudor queen--lovingenough now, but endowed with all the vices and all the arrogance of herrace; he would not barter his life in order to become the butt ofcontending political factions, the toy of ambitious parties, flatteredby some, hated by most, despised by all. A courtier, a lapdog, aninvertebrate creature without power or dignity.
Bah! the hangman's rope was less degrading!
And Mary, as she read all this in the expressive eyes which met hersfully and unwaveringly, realized that her cause was lost. She had stakedeverything on this one final appeal, but she, a Tudor, had struckagainst an obstinacy greater than her own. She could not flatter, shecould not bribe, and he was--by the very hopelessness of his presentposition--beyond the reach of threats or punishment.
He saw that her heart was admitting that she was vanquished. Thehardness within him melted into pity.
"Believe me, my Queen," he said gently, "the memory of your kind wordswill accompany me to my life's end, it will cheer me to-morrow andsustain me to the last. And now for pity's sake," he added earnestly,"may I entreat Your Majesty to order the guard . . . and to let me go."
"That is not your last word, my lord," urged Mary with the insistence ofa desperate cause. "Think. . . ."
"I have thought--much," he replied quietly. "Life holds nothing verytempting at best, does it? The honour of the Queen of England and mineown self-esteem were too heavy a price to pay for so worthless atrifle."
Mary would have spoken again, but just then there was a discreet knockat the door twice repeated. She had perforce to say--
"Enter!" and the next moment a page-in-waiting stood bowing before her.
"What is it?" she demanded.
"The Lord High Steward has arrived at the Palace, Your Majesty,"announced the page, "and the Lieutenant of the Tower demands theprisoner."
"'Tis well! you may go."
"The Lieutenant of the Tower awaits Your Majesty's pleasure and HisGrace of Wessex in the next room."
"'Tis well. The Lieutenant may wait."
The page bowed again and retired.
Then only did Mary Tudor's self-control entirely desert her. Forgettingall her dignity and pride, her self-will and masterfulness, she clung tothe man she loved with passionate ardour, sobbing and entreating.
"No! no!--they shall not take you!--they dare not! Say but one word tome, my dear lord . . . what is it to you?--'twere all my life to me.. . . What should we care for the opinion of the world?--Am I not aboveit? . . . so will you be when you are King of England. . . ."
Wessex had need of all his firmness, and of all his courage, to freehimself as gently as he could from her clinging arms. He waited untilher half-hysterical paroxysm of grief had subsided, smoothing withtender hand her moist hair and burning forehead. She was a woman besideherself with grief, almost sublime in this hour of madness.
"I will not let you go!" she repeated persistently.
Through the door there came the sound of a slight clash of arms. TheLieutenant of the Tower and his guard were impatiently waiting for theirprisoner. Wessex saw Mary's whole figure stiffen at this muffled sound.Like an enraged animal she turned towards the door. For one second hewondered what she would do, how much humiliation her uncontrolledpassion would heap upon him, through some mad, impulsive action. Hejumped to his feet, and, regardless of all save the imminence of thiscritical moment, he seized both her wrists in an iron grip, strivingthrough the infliction of this physical pain to bring back her wanderingsenses.
She looked him straight in the face with a tender and appealing gaze
"Did you not know that I loved you even to humiliation?" she said.
"May God and all His angels bless you for that love," he repliedearnestly, "but before Him and them I swear to you that if you do notallow the justice of your realm to have its will with me, I'll notsurvive your own disgrace and mine."
She closed her eyes, trying to shut out that picture of unbendabledetermination expressed in his whole attitude, and which she at lastfelt that nothing would conquer. The rigidity of her figure relaxed,the fury died out from her heart, she only felt inexpressibly sorrowful,helpless and broken-hearted.
"God be with you, my dear lord," she whispered.
He kissed her hands: all the fever had gone out of them, they were icycold: there was neither arrogance nor obstinacy in her face now, hereyes were still closed, and one by one, heavy tears fell down her wancheeks.
The pathos of her helplessness and of her crushed pride made a strongappeal to the sentiments of tender loyalty which he had always felt forher, who was his Queen and Liege Lady. He saw that she was determinednot to break down, that she was gathering all her courage for thesupreme farewell.
"I beseech Your Majesty to allow me to order the guard," he urged.
She tottered and would have fallen, had he not put out his arm tosupport her.
"Do not forget that you are a Tudor and a Queen, and remember," he addedquaintly, as her head fell against his shoulder, "remember . . . I amonly a man!"
He led her back to her seat, then he touched the handbell, and when thepage appeared he said firmly--
"I am at the Lieutenant's service."
He knelt once more before the Queen and finally bade her farewell. Shecould neither speak nor move, and scarcely had the strength to take alast look at the loved one, as with a firm step he passed out of hersight.
There was a clash of steel against steel, a few words of command, thesound of retreating footsteps, then silence.
Queen Mary Tudor was alone with her grief.
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