The Palace of Greenwich, which, in Henry the Eighth’s time was of vast extent, as well as of remarkable architectural beauty, was originally built by Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, who, from its charming site, named it Placentia. It was greatly enlarged by Henry, the Seventh, and completed by his son, who loved it, as we have seen. The fine old structure, which had become ruinous from neglect, was pulled down by Charles the Second, who commenced the magnificent edifice, known as Greenwich Hospital, on the spot.
As lovers of antiquity, we may be allowed to regret the picturesque old Tudor palace, in which Mary and Elizabeth were born, and in which Edward the Sixth was born, and died. The beautiful park, with its woody acclivities which surrounded the palace, was full of deer; and Henry, in his active days, used often to continue the chase through the forests fringing Blackheath, as far as Dartford and Gravesend.
The gardens of Greenwich Palace were enchanting. A charming terrace ran along the banks of the river, and on this terrace Cromwell was now walking. He was alone, and so pre-occupied, that he neither noted the many vessels on the river, nor bestowed a single glance at the stately palace close at hand.
Cromwell was a great politician, and the principles he professed and acted up to were thoroughly Machiavellian. “The great art,” as he confessed to Cardinal Pole, “was to penetrate through the disguise with which sovereigns are wont to veil their inclinations, and then to devise expedients for their gratification, without appearing to outrage morality or religion.” He was now thinking over his last stroke of policy, by which he hoped to destroy the Romish party.
Cromwell had long passed the meridian of life, but there were few marks of age about him. His features were large, strongly accentuated, and austere in expression. He was as carefully shaven as a priest, but wore his hair long. His costume, which accorded well with the gravity of his looks and deportment, consisted of a doublet and hose of black Genoa velvet, and a cap of the same material. The sole ornament that he wore was the collar of the Garter, which was suspended from his neck. Over all he had a gown of russet velvet, furred with sables.
Many curious eyes were watching him from the Palace windows, as he paced to and fro on the terrace. His arrogant manner rendered him unpopular with the royal household; and sneering remarks on his obscure origin were constantly made behind his back.
He was vexed that the King had gone to Rochester; and fearing that mischief would ensue from the visit, was preparing for it, when the approach of the usher roused him from his reverie.
Notwithstanding his habitual command over himself, Cromwell slightly started, and his sallow cheek flushed, when he heard that the King desired to see him instantly.
“Already returned!” he exclaimed.
“Ay, my lord; and I fear his Grace has not been well pleased by his visit. I never saw him in a worse humour, and heaven knows I have often seen him angered.”
“What can have happened to displease him?” demanded Cromwell, uneasily.
“I know not, my lord,” replied the usher; “unless he is dissatisfied with his bride.”
“Dissatisfied with her! — impossible!” cried Cromwell, frowning. “Lead me to him.”
The room to which Henry had withdrawn, and where Cromwell found him, was called the Gilt Chamber, on account of its sumptuous decorations. On one side was a long table, covered with plate, which the King had received from Wolsey, and on the opposite side was a similar table, laden with the spoils from Becket’s shrine. Instead of arras, the walls were hung with cloths of gold, tissue, and baudkin of various hues.
At the further end was a chair of estate, the canopy of which was embroidered with the royal arms. But Henry had now contented himself with a large easy chair, covered with crimson velvet. In this he sat, resting his foot upon a cushion. With him were all those who had accompanied him to Rochester. He wished them to be present while he vented his displeasure upon Cromwell.
Somewhat athirst after his ride, he had just refreshed himself with a deep draught of Rhenish, and was in the act of giving back the goblet to the page who served him, when Cromwell entered the presence.
“Soh! you are come!” he exclaimed, in a deep, derisive tone. “Accept our hearty thanks for the lovely bride you have procured us. Her charms exceed the rapturous descriptions you gave of them. Even Hans Holbein has failed to do her justice. She is a wonder!”
Affecting to take the King’s observations literally, Cromwell replied, “I am glad to find your Majesty so well pleased.”
“Thou liest, traitor!” cried Henry, starting up.
“Thou knowest full well that I could not he well pleased, unless I were a besotted fool. Thou hast played me false! Thou hast beguiled me by thy lying praises of the Princess; and Holbein, whom I trusted, has lent thee aid in thy perfidious design! But I will crush ye both as I crush this picture!” he added, dashing the miniature to the ground, and trampling it beneath his feet.
Cromwell did not quail beneath this furious outbreak, but maintained a firm and composed demeanour.
“I am unlucky in incurring your Majesty’s displeasure,” he said, “but I cannot regret what I have done. I have provided you with a consort — as amiable in disposition as she is richly endowed in person. Your Majesty must be hard to please, indeed, if you are not satisfied with her.”
“Hard to please!” roared Henry. “By St. Mary! thy assurance passes belief! Dost thou dare to maintain to my face that I can be mistaken in regard to the Princess? All present here have seen her; and if one among them will avouch that she is passably fair, or hath even a vestige of beauty left upon her cheeks, I will own myself in the wrong.”
As he spoke, he glanced at his attendants, expecting they would confirm his words, but all remained discreetly silent, except Will Sommers.
“Do not appeal to me, gossip Harry,” said the jester. “Her Highness hath one merit that ought to reconcile thee to a hundred defects. She is the largest woman I have ever seen!”
“Go to, knave!” cried Henry, with a look of ineffable disgust. “I can liken her to naught but a great Flanders mare!”
At this comparison a slight smile crossed the faces of all his auditors, except that of Cromwell.
“By St. Mary, I will not have her!” cried the King, emphatically. “You, my lord,” he added, to Cromwell, “who have made the match, must unmake it. Send her back, without delay, to her brother, the Duke of Cleves. He is as much to blame as yourself for seeking to impose such an ill-favoured woman upon me!”
“I cannot do your Majesty’s bidding,” replied Cromwell. “I will not give such provocation to the Duke of Cleves, who hath the power of making his resentment deeply felt, as to send back his sister to him. No, sire, the engagement you have entered into must be fulfilled. This is not the moment to embroil yourself with the princes of the German Confederacy. From the position of your affairs, you require their aid. You are on ill terms with the Emperor, Charles the Fifth. You have quarrelled with his most Christian Majesty, Francis the First You are threatened with excommunication by his Holiness, Pope Paul the Third. Will you convert your potent allies into foes, who may shake the stability of your throne?”
“Find some expedient to break off the match, or look to yourself,” said the King, in a menacing tone.
Cromwell made no reply, but the Duke of Suffolk interposed.
“A plan occurs to me, sire,” he said. “The precontract between the Princess Anne of Cleves and Francis, Marquis of Lorraine, of which we have heard, would constitute a legal impediment to the marriage.”
“It would! — it does!” exclaimed the King, eagerly grasping at the suggestion. “I thank you, my good brother. You have furnished me with an excellent pretext. I will act upon it. Go, my lord,” he added to Cromwell. “See the Duke’s ambassadors, Osliger and Hostoden, without delay, and raise the objection.”
“It were idle to do so, sire,” replied Cromwell. “The contract is void. Both the Princess and the Marquis were children of tender age when it was entered
into, and it has since been formally annulled.”
Seeing that the discussion was taking a dangerous turn, the Duke of Suffolk and the others withdrew to the further part of the room, leaving the angry King and his resolute minister together.
“Thou canst free me from this hateful match if thou wilt,” observed Henry, after a pause. “I desire to re-marry, but I will not wed this woman — by St. Mary, I will not!”
“You have no other choice, my liege,” rejoined Cromwell, boldly. “I must speak plainly. There is not a noble dame in your dominions who would consent to become your wife.”
So astonished was the King by this declaration, that he made no immediate reply, but remained staring at the Earl.
An impression had evidently been produced upon him, for he did not give vent to an explosion of wrath, as might have been anticipated.
“This is said to justify thy treacherous act,” he said. “But it will not avail thee. Let it confound thee to learn that I have heard of a paragon of beauty, whom I will wed as soon as I am rid of this detested Anne of Cleves.”
“To whom does your Majesty refer?” demanded Cromwell, somewhat uneasily.
“To one who is in all respects fitted to be my bride — to the Lady Catherine Howard, niece to the Duke of Norfolk.”
This was a thunder-clap to Cromwell. Nevertheless, his firmness was unshaken.
“Doubtless your Majesty has ascertained the Lady Catherine’s sentiments?” he remarked.
“Not yet,” replied the King.
“Then you have been misinformed. The Lady Catherine Howard would decline the great honour you design for her.”
“Thou think’st so,” said Henry. “Her cousin, Adrian Culpepper, who is here, will tell thee differently.”
“Question him, sire.”
With this, he signed to Culpepper to come forward, and the young man instantly obeyed.
“Let not the question I am about to put alarm thee, Adrian,” said the King. “The answer thou may’st give to it, be it what it may, shall not prejudice thee or any other person in my regard. Speak frankly and fearlessly. The Earl of Essex has just affirmed that if I were to offer my hand to thy fair cousin, Catherine Howard, she would decline it. Contradict it if thou canst.”
Adrian was visibly embarrassed.
“My liege, I cannot contradict his lordship,” he said, after some hesitation. “I entertain the same opinion.”
“I will not ask thy reasons,” rejoined the King, unable to conceal his chagrin. “Thou may’st retire.”
Adrian bowed, and stepped back.
Cromwell secretly enjoyed his triumph, but allowed no manifestation to escape him.
“This will convince your Majesty that I was right,” he said. “You had best not send back the Princess of Cleves.”
“Must I, then, thrust my neck into this yoke?” groaned the King.
“There is no help for it, sire,” replied Cromwell, with difficulty repressing a smile. “Hereafter, when the Princess’s many admirable qualities have become apparent, you will thank me for my pains. Suffer me to bear a gracious message to her Highness, and relieve the distress into which she cannot fail to have been thrown.”
“Do what you will — say what you please,” rejoined the King, in a tone of resignation.
“Since I have your Majesty’s authority,” said Cromwell, “the Princess shall set forth from Rochester tomorrow for Dartford. Your Majesty will give your own orders for her reception here, and for the solemnization of the nuptials.”
Bowing reverently, he withdrew.
As he went forth, he cast a look of triumph at Suffolk and the two other nobles, who had confidently expected his disgrace.
But his exultation would have been effectually checked, if he had seen the look that the King threw after him.
“Thou hast gained thy point,” muttered Henry. “Thou hast forced me into this marriage. But it will cost thee thy head.”
III. Francis Dereham.
THE shadows of night were falling on the Thames, as a small boat, rowed by a young and vigorous oarsman, shot past Lambeth, and kept close to the shore on that bank of the river, until it neared the gardens and park of an ancient mansion.
The young man then landed, and fastening his little bark to the roots of a tree, scaled a low wall, and gained the gardens of the mansion alluded to.
He was tall, and possessed a well-knit, sinewy frame. His handsome features were bronzed by exposure to the sun of a warmer clime than his own; his locks were black, and harmonized with his almost tawny complexion; and his eyes were likewise black and fierce, and lent a somewhat sinister expression to his countenance.
Nothing in his attire betokened a person of rank, and yet his bearing was haughty. His doublet and hose were of philimot-coloured cloth, and his cap was destitute of ornament of any kind. A poniard, hanging from his girdle, was the sole weapon he carried.
He was evidently well acquainted with the garden into which he had penetrated, for he unhesitatingly plunged into a yew-tree walk, which brought him near to the mansion, without exposing him to observation.
At last, after one or two turns, which he took with some caution, he reached a small green enclosure, surrounded by clipped hedges, in the midst of which stood a rustic temple. In this little building he quickly concealed himself.
Night came on.
The moon arose, and her beams glittered upon the vanes and gables of the gray old mansion, and upon its immense hay windows. The mansion, which was the noblest in Lambeth, except the Archiepiscopal Palace, was then occupied by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.
The patience of the young man ensconced within the temple was severely tried, and he began to fear that he was doomed to disappointment, when a slight sound revived his hopes.
Looking out cautiously, he perceived a female figure within the enclosure.
Yes, there she stood before him, in all her matchless beauty. The moonbeams poured down upon her, revealing the lovely outline of her countenance, rendering her pale complexion more pale, and heightening the lustre of her magnificent black eyes. Her form was slight, but exquisitely proportioned.
More than a year had flown since he had beheld her last, and during that interval her charms had developed — leaving nothing wanting to her beauty. Search England through and you could not have found one fairer than Catherine Howard, Stopping at a short distance from the temple, she called out, in a low, musical voice, that vibrated through the frame of him who heard it, “Are you there, Francis Dereham?”
He instantly responded to the summons, and throwing himself at her feet, seized her hand, and pressed it passionately to his lips.
But she received him very coldly, and instantly withdrawing her hand, with a haughty gesture, bade him rise.
“No more of this, Francis,” she said. “You must forget all that has passed between us. I have only consented to an interview, in order to tell you, with my own lips, that henceforward we must he strangers to each other.”
Her looks and words produced such an effect upon him, that for some moments he could not speak. His countenance betrayed inward agony.
“Is this my welcome after our long separation?” he said, in a tone of mingled reproach and anguish. “Is your heart changed towards me? Have you forgotten the troth you plighted to me in yonder temple? Have you forgotten your vows, Catherine?”
“I do not desire to remember them, Francis,” she rejoined, in a freezing tone. “I was a foolish girl when I made them. They are not binding upon me. I wish to he relieved from them.”
Each word she uttered pierced his heart like the point of a dagger, and again momentarily deprived him of the power of speech.
“You no longer love me, Catherine,” he faltered forth at last. “You have forsworn yourself. You have given your heart to another. What has happened during my absence? Tell me, I implore you?”
She averted her head, and remained silent.
Again he besought her piteously to afford him some explanatio
n of her changed manner.
“Be content, Francis,” she rejoined. “Do not press me further. Give me hack my troth-plight, and let us meet no more.”
“Give it you back, Catherine?” he exclaimed, with a sudden burst of fierceness. “No, no, no! You are bound to me by ties that no human power can sever, and which I will sooner die than unloose. You may have ceased to love me. You may have repented of your vows. No matter. I will force you to fulfil them!”
“Force me?” she exclaimed, with a disdainful laugh. “You are mistaken. The daughter of the proud Lord Edmund Howard, and the niece of the great Duke of Norfolk, the first peer of the realm, is no mate for the base-born Francis Dereham.”
For a moment he seemed humbled by her scorn, but said presently, in a menacing tone, “I may be base-born, Catherine. I may have been one of the Duchess’s retainers. But you are betrothed to me and if you will not wed me, I swear you shall wed no other. Think not to avoid the contract. I have a witness. You solemnly plighted your troth to me in the presence of your tirewoman, Mary Lassells!”
“Mary Lassells will never witness against me,” returned Catherine. “She has long since disappeared. Besides, the promise so foolishly given to you was not freely made.”
“Not freely made, Catherine!” he exclaimed. “Oh, this is enough to drive me distraught! Did I prompt the words you uttered? They came spontaneously from your heart. Deny it as you will, you loved me, then, Catherine, tenderly, devotedly. How often have we met, on evenings like the present, on this very spot! You would listen, then, to my impassioned words — ay, and respond to them. Have you no recollection of those stolen interviews?”
“I think of them only with shame and remorse, and would willingly efface them from my memory.”
“You cannot so efface them, Catherine, any more than you can liberate yourself from the solemn engagement into which you have entered with me. Mine you are, and mine you shall remain. Have you informed the Duchess, your grandmother, of your betrothal to me?”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 615