The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Such were the elements of which the vast assemblage was composed. Differ as they might on matters of faith, they all agreed on one point — Cromwell had been justly condemned.

  Two large galleries were reared on the brow of the hill, near the scaffold, and long before the hour appointed for the dread ceremonial all the seats in these structures were occupied, except a space in front set apart for the members of the Council, and other important personages.

  Draped in black, protected by barriers, and surrounded by halberdiers, the scaffold produced a striking effect.

  A double line of rails, running from the Bulwark Gate of the fortress to the place of execution, ensured a passage for the prisoner and his escort.

  Inside the rails mounted arquebusiers were stationed at short intervals to keep back the crowd, and the precaution was not unnecessary.

  As yet, no one was upon the scaffold, except the headsman’s assistant, Botolph — a broad-shouldered, redheaded varlet, clad in a huff jerkin; and as he had completed his preparations, adjusted the block, and strewn the blood-stained boards with straw, he was lounging against the rails, and jesting with the halberdiers.

  Botolph had assisted at many executions, but had never seen such a crowd before. Viewed from the scaffold, the sight was extraordinary. Not merely the whole area of Tower Hill was filled with people, but the ramparts and gates commanding the place of execution were covered with spectators.

  Within the fortress the passing-bell was ringing, and it continued to toll till all was over. But the solemn sound could scarcely be heard amid the ceaseless rear of the multitude.

  Some confusion was caused by the arrival of the Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs. They were on horseback, and were preceded by the mounted civic guard, who cleared the way for them through the dense masses.

  Shortly afterwards the crowd was again disturbed by the Council, conspicuous among whom were Cromwell’s enemies, Norfolk, Suffolk, and Wriothesley. These were lustily cheered, being accounted the friends of the people.

  At length, the rolling of a muffled drum was heard, and all eyes were turned towards the Bulwark Gate, from which the advanced guard of the melancholy procession — halberdiers marching four abreast — now issued.

  Next came the Lieutenant of the Tower, on horseback; then more halberdiers; and then Mauger, the headsman, walking by himself, with the fatal axe upon his shoulder, and his features concealed by a hideous black mask.

  Then came the unfortunate minister, to witness whose sad end so many thousands had assembled.

  Beside him walked the Chaplain of the Tower, a venerable man, who was reciting the prayers for the dying.

  Then followed the rear-guard.

  Cromwell was robed in the black velvet gown, furred with jennet, which he had habitually worn, and had a black velvet cap on his head. He was so much changed that those who had known him well, scarcely recognised him.

  But his white looks, pallid features, and bent form excited no compassion. His appearance was greeted with terrible outcries. The monks pressed forward on either side of the rails, and stretching out their hands as if they would tear him in pieces, fiercely anathematized him, and doomed him to endless torment.

  Vainly did the halberdiers try to silence them, and thrust them back. Their fury could not be restrained.

  Nor were the citizens less violent. All the offences laid to the unhappy man’s charge were enumerated, and the long catalogue of those he had been instrumental in bringing to the block, was re-echoed again and again.

  The venerable chaplain appealed to his persecutors for compassion, and held up the cross to them.

  Cromwell bore the storm to which he was exposed courageously, and then resolutely averting his gaze from his tormentors, and fixing it upon the crucifix held out by the chaplain, he appeared to become insensible to the outcries.

  But he had another and yet more trying ordeal to undergo.

  A small open space had been kept clear by the halberdiers near the scaffold. Within it stood his chief enemy, the Duke of Norfolk, conversing with Sir William Kingston, who had just dismounted.

  Never did Cromwell display more dignity than on this occasion. After he had been formally delivered to the Sheriffs by the lieutenant, Norfolk advanced and bowed gravely to him, but he did not return the salutation.

  Looking haughtily and sternly at his enemy, he marched on, attended by the Sheriffs, to the scaffold.

  Before he reached the steps, he was overtaken by Sir William Kingston.

  “His Grace the Duke of Norfolk would fain say a word to you, my lord,” observed the lieutenant.

  “He should have come to me before,” replied Cromwell. “I have no time now for talk with any man. If he seeks my forgiveness, tell him he has it.”

  Declining all offers of assistance from the Sheriffs, he then ascended the scaffold with a firm footstep.

  Mauger had preceded him, and was standing beside the block, leaning upon his axe. The venerable Chaplain of the Tower was likewise there, crucifix in hand.

  No sooner did Cromwell appear on the scaffold, than the fierce clamours of the crowd instantaneously subsided.

  The sudden silence was awful.

  Sir William Kingston then stepped up and said, “My lord, if you desire to address the people, they will listen to you. Their anger is past.”

  Thereupon, Cromwell advanced to the front of the scaffold, so that he could he distinctly seen, and for a few moments calmly surveyed the vast assemblage. Not a murmur was heard.

  While he spoke, all eyes were fixed upon him, all ears strained to catch his words.

  He did not attempt to question the justice of his sentence, but earnestly besought his hearers to bear record that he died in the Catholic faith, not doubting any of its articles, or any of its sacraments.

  “Many have slandered me,” he said, “and have reported that I have maintained evil opinions. That is false. Wrong I have done, but treason I have never committed. Where I have erred, it has been from excess of zeal for the King’s welfare. I have served him faithfully. Pray for me, I beseech you, and be sure that to the last I shall never waver in my faith.”

  The address caused much surprise, and the Romanists declared that the Protestant Vicar-General had pronounced his recantation.

  As he cast a valedictory look around, his eye alighted upon Dereham, whom he had not hitherto noticed, but who was standing immediately beneath him, inside the barriers.

  For a moment he gazed fixedly at him; and how much of caution did that brief parting glance convey! It dwelt for ever on Dereham’s memory — but, alas! he heeded not the warning.

  Cromwell then retired, and with the lieutenant’s aid divested himself of his velvet robe, appearing in a doublet and hose of black velvet. After bidding farewell to the lieutenant, who was greatly moved, he knelt down by the block, and joined in fervent prayer with the chaplain. His last act of devotion was to press his lips to the crucifix, which was extended towards him.

  Mauger then advanced, and bending the knee, solicited his forgiveness.

  “I will not only forgive thee, but thank thee, friend,” said Cromwell, “if thou will give me a quick death.”

  “I will not fail you, my lord,” replied Mauger. “No one ever complained of my want of skill.”

  “Perchance not,” said Cromwell.

  He then disposed himself to die, but refused to have his eyes bandaged.

  His neck being fitted to the block, he called out almost immediately to the executioner to do his devoir.

  Scarcely was the injunction given, than the axe descended, and the head of the ill-fated minister rolled upon the boards.

  Mauger instantly seized it, and holding it up, streaming with gore, to the assemblage, called out, in a loud voice, “Behold the head of a traitor!”

  END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

  BOOK THE THIRD. CATHERINE HOWARD.

  I. What passed between Catherine and Cranmer.

  HENRY THE EIGHTH, as already intimated, was private
ly married to his fifth consort, Catherine Howard, at Winchester House; the nuptial benediction being pronounced by Gardiner.

  No public announcement of the marriage was made for a month, when orders were issued that Catherine should he prayed for at all churches throughout the realm as Queen of England. At the same time, she was formally presented to the Court as his consort by the King.

  Their honeymoon (if so it may be styled) had been passed by the royal pair in comparative seclusion — partly at Greenwich Palace, partly at Hampton Court.

  Incomparably the loveliest of Henry’s spouses — not excepting even her cousin, Anne Boleyn — Catherine looked more charming after marriage than before.

  The magnificent attire which, as Queen, she had begun to assume, served to heighten her attractions, and she now looked resplendently beautiful. Acting upon Lady Rochford’s artful counsel, she exerted all her fascinations to rivet the King’s affections, and succeeded so well, that the shrewdest courtiers began to think that the capricious monarch was fast bound at last.

  During the period of seclusion to which we have referred, Henry could not bear to be separated from his lovely young bride, even for an hour. Such time as he was compelled to devote to affairs of state appeared irksome to him, and he delegated everything he could to the Duke of Norfolk, who, since Cromwell’s fall, had become Prime Minister. No masks, no balls, no entertainments of any kind were given.

  That Catherine found this sort of life somewhat wearisome, is probable. But she seemed perfectly happy. Her manner was infinitely gayer than it had been, and her vivacity — whether feigned or not — enchanted the King. He believed she loved him; and if he was duped, what matter?

  Adrian Culpepper still enjoyed as much of the King’s favour as ever. As the Queen’s relative, he had an additional claim on Henry’s regard; and it seemed certain, if Catherine exerted her influence in his behalf, that he must rise to distinction. But Lady Rochford counselled prudence in regard to him.

  Not from choice, but in obedience to the King’s behests, Adrian was in constant attendance upon the Queen during the honeymoon. How much he suffered may be conceived, since his passion for her was not extinguished. He had to be ever on his guard, lest he should betray himself. As he possessed a good voice, he was sometimes called upon to accompany the Queen when she sang to the King and the few guests who were admitted to their private assemblies.

  The bridal month being over, Henry deemed it expedient that his subjects should be made acquainted with his marriage.

  Accordingly, it was announced, in the manner we have described, and a grand reception took place at Hampton Court, at which the foreign ambassadors and all the most important personages of the Court were presented to the Queen.

  The walls of the presence-chamber, in which the ceremony occurred, were hung with tapestry of gold and silver, and rich tissues of various colours; and when the vast hall was filled with nobles and highborn dames, all splendidly attired, and glittering with jewels, the effect was magnificent beyond description — the most charming figure in the gorgeous picture being the young Queen herself.

  At the upper end of the chamber was a canopy of state, on which was embroidered in pearl, the words VIVAT HENRICUS OCTAVUS. Beneath this canopy, which was elevated by several steps, above the assemblage, stood Catherine and her royal consort. The Queen’s robe was of cloth of silver, raised, thickly studded with gems, and she wore a diamond-shaped head-dress adorned with orient pearls. On her sleeve was worked this device, expressive of her devotion to the King: — Non autre volonté que la sienne.

  But it was not the splendour of her attire, but her marvellous beauty and grace, that enchanted the beholders. Her eyes shone brighter than the diamonds on her collar, and Henry was enchanted with the admiration she excited.

  Her household had just been formed, and the King took care it should comprehend all the most distinguished dames of the Court. Foremost in the list was his own niece, the Lady Margaret Douglas. After her may be named his daughter-in-law, the Duchess of Richmond, who was likewise cousin to the Queen. Next, we may mention the Duchess of Suffolk, the Countess of Sussex, the Lady Howard, and the Lady Clinton. The ladies of the Privy Chamber were the Countess of Rutland, the Lady Edgecombe, the Lady Boynton, and last, but not least in the Queen’s regard, her confidante and favourite, Lady Rochford.

  We do not deem it necessary to particularize the Maids of Honour, but they had all been chosen for their personal attractions. As they were grouped around the Queen, they formed a perfect galaxy of beauty.

  On the upper step of the canopy, immediately below the Queen, stood the youthful Princess Elizabeth. As the daughter of her ill-fated cousin, Anne Boleyn, Catherine manifested great affection for the charming young Princess, which the latter warmly returned.

  Again the Duke of Norfolk saw a niece upon the throne, with every prospect, as it seemed, of retaining her position. He was not without misgiving; but if no untoward circumstances occurred — which it would be his business to prevent — Catherine’s extraordinary influence must continue. It was perceptible to all how much the King doted upon her. Moreover, she had no such antecedents as Anne Boleyn, so there was no cause for alarm. Everything, therefore, disposed the Duke to augur favourably of the future.

  Some there were present who formed a very different conclusion, and confidently predicted that the young Queen’s star, now in the ascendant, would suddenly decline — perhaps, be quenched in blood. It was difficult to gaze at her, as she stood there in all the pride of her youth and matchless beauty, to witness the King’s devotion to her, and think that such might be her fate. Those who thought so were better judges than Norfolk, and had good reason for their opinion. True, they were her enemies — opposed to her because they deemed she would work mischief to their cause.

  The persons to whom we have just alluded as being so strongly hostile to her, were Cranmer, and the two great leaders of the Protestant party — Audeley, the Chancellor, and the Earl of Hertford.

  If smiles could have turned their hearts, they would have been won. But their animosity was not to be thus disarmed. They could not tolerate a Romanist Queen.

  Later on in the day, a sumptuous banquet was given, when the tables were garnished with the magnificent gold and silver plate which Cardinal Wolsey had been compelled to yield up to the King.

  The banquet was succeeded by a masque and music. While this entertainment was going on, Norfolk and Gardiner withdrew from the assemblage into a recess, where they could confer upon certain matters, in carrying which the Queen’s influence would he of vital importance to them. Norfolk undertook to secure her co-operation.

  Just as they came forth after their discussion, the three great Protestant leaders, to whom we have referred, passed them, and glances of hate were exchanged.

  Norfolk could not restrain himself; but fixing his eye upon Cranmer as he spoke, observed, in a tone loud enough to be heard by the Primate, “One of the Queen’s enemies is gone. The worst remains. Ere long, he shall he removed.”

  Cranmer did not doubt that the menace was intended for him-, and though he affected to deride it, he resolved to take immediate measures to defeat any scheme that might be forming against him.

  The masque was over; and Henry, who was fond of cards, as we know, had quitted his lovely consort to play at primero with the Duke of Suffolk and Marillac, the French Ambassador.

  Judging the moment favourable for his design, Cranmer separated himself from his companions, and, passing through the brilliant throng of nobles and dames, approached the Queen, and made her a profound obeisance.

  Those nearest her drew back respectfully as the Primate advanced. Catherine, who deemed it politic to stand well with the leaders of the Protestant party, received him with a gracious smile.

  “I am glad to find your Grace still here,” she said. “I fancied you had retired some time ago. These light diversions cannot be much to your taste.”

  “I could not retire without reiterating my heartfel
t wishes for your Highness’s happiness and prosperity,” he rejoined. “May you long continue to occupy the exalted position to which you have been raised! And may the affection which the King, your husband, bears you be strengthened!”

  “I thank your Grace for the benediction!” cried Catherine.

  “I have already rendered homage to you as Queen, madam,” continued the Archbishop; “but, as a woman, you have equal claims to my respect. You have given proof of the goodness of your heart, and the rare generosity of your nature, in interceding for the life of one whom you had been taught to regard as an enemy.”

  “Alas! my lord, I shall ever regret that my intercession was not successful!” she exclaimed.

  “It will, at least, be a satisfaction to your Highness to learn that the unfortunate Lord Cromwell was profoundly sensible of your goodness. While speaking of him, I may mention that he charged me with a singular injunction.”

  The peculiar significance given to the words caused Catherine to look at him.

  “It in some degree concerns your Highness,” pursued the Archbishop, lowering his voice almost to a whisper as he proceeded. “He bade me seek out a certain Mary Lassells, belonging to your Highness’s household.”

  Catherine with difficulty repressed an exclamation.

  The Archbishop perceived the impression he had produced, and went on, “This woman, the Lord Cromwell stated, could afford me important information, which might be used as a weapon — should one be needed — against my adversaries. I have done nothing as yet; but I have been threatened to-night with the Vicar-General’s fate, and must therefore take means to ensure my safety. Have I your Highness’s permission to see this Mary Lassells?”

  “There is no such person in my household,” replied Catherine, coldly.