“Say not so, madam,” rejoined Cranmer. “You can do anything you please with the King.”
“Were that literally true,” observed Catherine, “I would bring him back to the communion of the Apostolic See.”
A slight flush dyed the Archbishop’s pale countenance.
“You do well not to make the attempt, madam,” he said, very gravely. “The King will never be reconciled to Rome.”
“Perhaps,” observed the Queen, with a singular smile.
“Never!” repeated the Archbishop. “Be not deceived. The rupture is too complete to be restored.
His Majesty’s hostility to the Papal rule is as strong as ever; and he is unrelaxing in his endeavours to detach both the King of Prance and the Emperor from the communion of Rome. But let us not discuss this further. My prayer to your Highness is for the protection of the Protestant party, so that further calamities may be averted. Drive us not to extremities. In the hope that you may listen to our supplications, and that further evil may be averted, I humbly take my leave.”
With a profound obeisance, he withdrew.
The Archbishop had not been gone along, when Norfolk and Gardiner entered the Queen’s cabinet; and on learning what Cranmer had said, they expressed great indignation at his audacity.
“He shall not long have the power of using such menacing language towards your Highness!” said Gardiner. “The welfare of our Church, and your own personal safety, demand his immediate removal. Your influence with the King cannot be better employed than in causing his immediate arrest, and committal to the Tower. Leave us to deal with him. He shall win his martyr’s crown at Smithfield!”
“Oh, no, my lord!” exclaimed Catherine. “I cannot aid in his destruction.”
“What means this!” said Norfolk. “He is our worst enemy. We must crush him, in self-defence.”
“Do not expect me to do aught against him with the King,” said Catherine. “I have promised to protect him, and I will keep my word, at all hazards.”
“You will repent this mistaken clemency, madam,” said Gardiner. “Cranmer is not to be trusted. We know that he has been secretly corresponding with the Duke of Cleves — holding out hopes that you may be divorced, and the Princess taken back.”
“I fear him not,” said the Queen. “Let him do his worst against me. I will not injure him.”
The two councillors regarded each other in dismay.
Subsequently, when they were alone together, Gardiner remarked, “What can be the Queen’s motive for thus befriending Cranmer? He may have essayed to make a convert of her; but she is too good a Catholic to listen to him.”
“I cannot understand it,” rejoined Norfolk. “But if she refuses to aid our designs, she shall not thwart them.”
IV. The Queen receives a Visit from the old Duchess of Norfolk.
SINCE her marriage, Catherine had seen nothing of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. She had not been to the mansion at Lambeth, and the old dame could not be induced to quit her retirement, and come to Court.
It was therefore, a pleasurable surprise to her, when, one day, she received a visit from her aged relative.
The Duchess’s deportment was as formal as if there had been no relationship between them. On approaching the Queen, she made a profound reverence, and would have remained at a distance, and in a respectful attitude, if Catherine had not sprung forward and embraced her.
“Can I have a few words in private with your Highness?” said the Duchess.
Catherine signed to her attendants, who immediately withdrew, and left her alone with the Duchess.
She then led her aged relative to a fauteuil, and knelt down beside her on an embroidered velvet cushion.
“Ah! now you look like my own dear grandchild,” said the Duchess, with tears starting to her eyes.
“I would never look otherwise,” cried Catherine. “You must not treat me as Queen, dear grandam.”
“Nay, I know my duty better,” rejoined the old Duchess; “but your Highness is exceedingly gracious.”
“A truce to this formality, dear grandam,” cried Catherine, embracing her. “I owe respect to you, and shall never fail to pay it. And now, what have you to say to me? — what can I do for you?”
“I want nothing for myself,” replied the Duchess; “I seek your interest in behalf of the dearest and best friend I ever possessed, who is now a prisoner in the Tower. I allude to the Countess of Salisbury, mother of the illustrious Cardinal Pole. The Countess is the last of the Plantagenets in the direct line, being daughter of the ill-fated Duke of Clarence, and niece to King Edward the Fourth. Furthermore, she is his Majesty’s cousin. She is incapable of any criminal act. Yet she has been attainted of treason, and condemned to death. Already, she has suffered deeply. Her son, Lord Montague, was beheaded for an alleged conspiracy against the King, together with her nephew, the Marquis of Exeter. They were wrongfully put to death. Men more loyal never breathed. I come not from the Countess, who is too proud to solicit pardon; but loving and honouring her as I do, I would save her from most unmerited punishment. She is innocent of all offence against the King.”
“Her chief offence in his Majesty’s eyes is that she is the mother of Cardinal Pole,” observed Catherine. “He holds her as a hostage for the Cardinal; and should any provocation be given, her fate would be sealed.”
“That is what I dread,” said the Duchess. “The best and noblest woman in England may be sacrificed for no fault of her own. Save her while it is yet time. I have heard it whispered that emissaries from Pole have been seen in Yorkshire, and that an insurrection is likely to take place in that county. Should it be so, the Countess is lost. I have spoken to the Duke of Norfolk, and the Bishop of Winchester, but neither of them will interfere in her behalf. They dare not brook the King’s displeasure. I, therefore, come to you. By a word, you can obtain the Countess’s liberation.”
“Were it so, dear grandam, she should be free within an hour,” replied Catherine. “But the King is so violently incensed against Cardinal Pole, that he will not part with the means he possesses of wreaking his vengeance upon him.”
“Then there is no escape for the Countess,” groaned the old dame.
“You think a rising will take place in Yorkshire?” inquired Catherine.
“I much fear it,” replied the Duchess.
“In that case, no time must be lost, if she is to be saved. At all hazards, I will make the attempt. The King goes to the Tower to-morrow, and I shall accompany him. I will ask his permission to see the Countess in her prison-chamber. When I have conversed with her, I shall be better able to plead her cause.”
“Heaven crown your efforts with success!” exclaimed the Duchess. “Now that my errand is fulfilled, I shall not tarry longer.”
“Nay, dear grandam, you shall not depart thus,” cried Catherine; “you must see the King.”
“His Majesty cares not for an old woman like me,” rejoined the Duchess. “I am out of place at so gay a Court.”
No persuasions could induce her to remain. Quitting Windsor Castle forthwith, she returned to her mansion at Lambeth.
V. The old Countess of Salisbury.
IN the upper chamber of the Bowyer’s Tower, one of the chain of fortifications in the inner ballium walls of the Tower of London, then used as a state-prison, knelt an ancient dame.
She had just come forth from a small cell, contrived in the thickness of the stone wall, wherein her pallet was placed, and was prostrated before a crucifix set in a little niche. Such light as the barred windows afforded fell upon her noble countenance, which, in spite of the ravages of time and affliction, still wore a very proud expression.
Lofty in stature and grandly proportioned, she was wasted almost to a skeleton, not merely by long imprisonment, but by severe self-imposed penance. The extreme meagreness of her person was discernible through her furred velvet gown. Her snow-white locks escaped from beneath a black silk coif. A rosary hung from her girdle, and she counted the beads
while devoutly reciting her prayers.
This venerable dame was Margaret, Countess of Salisbury. She was of royal descent, being daughter of George, Duke of Clarence, and niece of King Edward the Fourth. Her high qualities will be understood when we mention that she had been Catherine of Arragon’s chosen friend and confidante, and that the education of the Princess Mary was entrusted to her care.
A sad fatality had attended her family. Within the chamber in which we find her, had been imprisoned her brother, Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick, who was beheaded by Henry the Seventh, lest he should lay claim to the Crown. In the lower chamber of the same tower, her father, the Duke of Clarence, was strangely and mysteriously murdered. Henry the Eighth’s relentless hatred of the youngest and most illustrious of her sons, Cardinal Pole, caused him to wreak his vengeance upon all those of her family who were within his reach. The Lord Montague was beheaded, and she herself, attainted and condemned, was kept within the Tower as a hostage for the Cardinal.
Her devotions finished, the venerable Countess, seating herself at a table, opened a small casket containing some sacred relics and a miniature.
The miniature was that of Catherine of Arragon, and had been given her years ago by the unhappy Queen. After contemplating it for a few minutes, and apostrophizing it affectionately, she restored it to the casket.
A deep melancholy then came over her, and she experienced that utter desolation of heart which no solitary captive can escape. She essayed to read her primer, but was obliged to desist. A chill like death came over her, and damps gathered upon her pallid brow.
She had just recovered from this crisis, and was about to resume her devotions, when she was disturbed by unwonted sounds without. Footsteps were heard on the spiral stone staircase. Could the officers be coming to take her to execution? It might be so, but she was prepared.
Next moment the ponderous door was unbarred, and the tall figure of the Lieutenant of the Tower could be distinguished. Then she felt certain her last hour was come.
What was her amazement when Sir William Kingston, advancing a few steps, announced the Queen. He then retired, and closing the heavy door, remained outside with the guard, leaving Catherine standing like a radiant vision in the midst of the gloomy chamber.
The Countess, who had risen on the lieutenant’s entrance, regarded her with wonder and admiration.
On her part, Catherine was inexpressibly touched by the woful spectacle presented to her. Such a wreck of greatness she had never before beheld. She was so pained, so awe-struck, that she could not speak.
“Are you indeed the Queen?” asked the Countess, breaking silence. “Pardon the inquiry — I am old, and may not have heard aright — yet you answer to the description I have received of the King’s new consort, Catherine Howard. You are very young — very beautiful! My royal mistress was Catherine of Arragon. She was not so fair as you, but she made up in worth for her lack of personal charms. If you are the Queen, you are cousin to Anne Boleyn.”
“True, Countess,” replied Catherine; “but I am also granddaughter to your old friend, the Duchess of Norfolk, who has sent me to you. Let it not offend you to be told that I am the Queen.”
The Countess made her a profound obeisance, and said, “Such homage as one in my position may render, I offer to your Highness.”
“I accept your homage, noble Countess,” replied Catherine, raising her. “I entirely believe in your innocence.”
For a moment, the proud old dame seemed almost overcome. But conquering her emotion by a great effort, she reared herself to her full height, and said: —
“No one ever questioned my duty and allegiance, until my son, the Cardinal, incurred his Majesty’s displeasure. I am nearest the King in blood of all his relatives, except his children.”
“I know you are the last of the royal line of Plantagenet, Countess,” observed the Queen.
“As such, could I be wanting in loyalty to the King? No! But his mind was poisoned by Cromwell, the worst minister that ever directed a monarch’s councils, or oppressed a nation. I have had many wrongs — wrongs that might have shaken a loyalty less fervent than mine, but I endured them patiently.
“Charges were forged against me by Cromwell. Cowdray, my country seat, whither I had retired, was filled with his emissaries. My servants were seized and interrogated. Nothing could be extracted from them. My house was searched for proofs of my criminality. Some Papal dispensations were found, together with a few unimportant letters from my son, the Cardinal. The sole evidence of treason that could be discovered was a small silken banner, embroidered with the five wounds of our Blessed Redeemer. This being the symbol of the Pilgrimage of Grace, was held to connect me with that rebellion. But the accusation was false — utterly false.
“Unable to wrest an admission of guilt from me, Cromwell had recourse to another expedient, and devised an infamous process — the Bill of Attainder — by means of which I was attainted and condemned without trial, and all my lands and revenues confiscated to the King.
“Since then, this chamber has been my prison, nor shall I quit it till I am taken to my doom. By a refinement of cruelty, I have been lodged in the same tower wherein my brother, the Earl of Warwick, was imprisoned, and in which my father, the Duke of Clarence, was foully murdered. I have been treated with the utmost rigour, deprived of all the comforts, almost of the necessaries of life, and debarred from all correspondence with my beloved son, Cardinal Pole. How long I have been kept here I know not, for I have not counted the days, but it seems long — very long.”
After a pause, she added fiercely, “But retribution has overtaken the wretch who contrived my destruction. He has been caught in his own snare. Condemned unheard and unpitied, Cromwell has been brought to the block.”
“You shall not be detained here much longer, Countess, if I can procure your deliverance,” said Catherine, who had listened with the deepest sympathy to her narration. “Perchance I may prevail upon the King to extend his mercy towards you. Suffer me to bear a petition to him from you.”
“Never!” exclaimed the old dame, haughtily. “It is not for a daughter of the House of York to sue for mercy, in abject terms, like the base-born Cromwell. I would not ask my life from the King. Appeal to his sense of justice in my behalf, if you will; but I well know the appeal will be in vain.”
“I trust not,” replied the Queen; “at any rate, the attempt shall be made.”
Just then, a loud and imperious voice, which both Catherine and the Countess recognised too well, was heard without, commanding the lieutenant to throw open the door, and the next moment the King burst into the prison-chamber.
His furious looks filled the Queen with terror, but in no wise daunted the resolute old dame.
Glaring at the Countess as if he would annihilate her, he turned to the Queen, and vociferated, “How think you, Kate? We have rare news from the north! Another Catholic insurrection in Yorkshire — a second Pilgrimage of Grace, forsooth! — and headed by Sir John Neville — your kinsman, madam — your kinsman!” he added, in a taunting tone, to the Countess. “But this new rebellion will be as short-lived as the first.”
“Short-lived or not, I have naught to do with it,” observed the old dame, coldly.
“But your son, the Cardinal, has, if you have not, madam,” rejoined Henry. “He has been again inciting my subjects to rebellion.”
“Whoever said so, lied!” cried the Countess.
“I have proof of his treason under his own hand!” rejoined the King; “a letter from him to Sir John Neville has been intercepted, wherein he says that, ‘being excommunicated by the Pope, I may be lawfully deprived of my royal estate and dignity.’ What say you to that?”
“I have nothing to say to it,” replied the Countess. “The insurrection will be speedily suppressed,” pursued Henry; “and then will come the chastisement of the rebels. Sir John Neville shall be beheaded at York. Oh, that I had his adviser within my grasp! Oh, that the arch-traitor, Reginald Pole,
were here! But I can strike him,” he cried, with fierce exultation. “With the tidings of the failure of his design, he shall receive intelligence of his mother’s execution!”
“Oh, no, my dearest liege!” exclaimed Catherine, throwing herself at his feet. “Do not sacrifice this noble lady to your resentment against her son. She can have had no part in this rebellion; and to put her to death for the Cardinal’s fault would be unworthy of so just a monarch as yourself. Shame him by your magnanimity.”
“Desist, madam!” cried the Countess. “As well seek to move a rock, as this inexorable man. He is destitute of all feelings of humanity.”
“Rise, Kate!” cried Henry. “You ought to know that I have no pity for my enemies, and I account Cardinal Pole the worst of them. He has ever been secretly conspiring against me.”
“I deny it!” cried the Countess energetically.
“You judge him by yourself. Since he has eluded you, you have constantly sought to have him put to death by secret means. By whom were the three bravos hired at Viterbo? By whom were the English assassins sent to Cassali? But their fell designs were frustrated; heaven guarded my son from their poniards, as it will continue to guard him from your vengeance.”
“That remains to be seen,” rejoined Henry. “Meantime, you shall not escape. Make your shrift, madam; for, by my father’s head, you shall die to-morrow!”
Catherine uttered a cry, but did not dare to make another attempt to move him to compassion.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 629