Chapter XXIII: After Many Days

ONE evening in the early spring of 1536, a party of travellers rode through the fields of St. Martin towards Westminster. There was a lady riding on a pillion behind her husband, and several men and maid servants, with one or two children mounted in a similar fashion, besides a couple of mules laden with stores and baggage for the whole party.

Passengers hurrying homeward to London or Westminster in the pleasant dusk of the evening glanced at the wayfarers; and one or two of these, seeing that the travellers were undoubtedly well-to-do country folk, who probably knew nothing of the dangers of the streets and suburbs of the city, with kindly solicitude for the children, called to suggest that they should hurry to their hostelry without delay. For swarms of desperate beggars crept out of their lurking places at sunset, to rob unwary travellers who had not been fortunate enough to gain a place of refuge before the rogues set upon them; and this party would fall an easy prey to a large gang of these roughs, thought the passers by.

The gentleman nodded pleasantly in acknowledgment of the warning. "Oh, I know the ways of the town, and the poor wretches who are a terror to all honest men," he said reassuringly to his wife. "I did not live with the great cardinal, in the palace yonder, without knowing something of the perils of the streets of London. Be content, sweetheart, we are close to our hostelry now; and to-morrow I hope we shall all be safely lodged under your father's roof at Greenwich."

It was more than ten years since Lady Paton had seen her old home in the royal town; and although her father and sister had been to visit her more than once, Lady Guildford had never been able to travel so far, and an unconquerable longing to see her mother once more had driven Lady Paton to face all the perils and discomforts of the journey from Woodstock, that she might bring her two elder children to see their grandmother, and the dear home and noble Park where so many of her happy days had been spent.

It had not been deemed advisable that she should visit Greenwich while Queen Catherine held her Court there; but since she had been compelled to leave her husband's roof, and men were ordered to speak of her as the dowager Princess of Wales, and she was no longer Queen, it was thought that Lady Paton's wish to visit her old home might now be gratified, without risk of danger either to herself or her friends. Thoughts of the terrible dangers she had incurred through her marriage were pressing upon the lady now as she jolted along on her pillion, and made her cling to her husband involuntarily for protection, not so much from the thieves and beggars of the road, as from that sense of intangible danger that had crept over her for the last hour or two.

Sir Miles bade his servants quicken their pace as he noticed how people were running to gain the shelter of the city gates before it grew dark; and he muttered under his breath, "things must have gone from bad to worse since I was here last."

It was with a feeling of intense relief that Sir Miles at length helped his wife down from her pillion at the door of the inn near Westminster Stairs; for the cry of "Watch! Watch!" in a tone of terrible distress, proclaimed that some unfortunate traveller had been set upon by the thieves, and at no great distance either.

Sir Miles hurried his party into the shelter of the house, where rooms had been secured for their accommodation; and it was not long before Lady Paton and her children were sound asleep in their beds; while Sir Miles went to have a chat with his host, and learn the latest news of the town, and about public affairs in general.

But to his surprise the landlord did not seem disposed to talk about anything, or express an opinion on any matter he might mention. To all his questions and suggestions about this or that, the man simply shook his head in an owl-like fashion, and muttered, "It may be as you say, sir; but it is not for the likes of me to talk about the King and my Lord Privy Seal. He has made it plain to all men that it is by the King's grace that we live and earn enough to pay taxes; and more than that no man dare covet."

Sir Miles looked at the inn-keeper curiously; but the man looked stolidly solemn, as though he was speaking what was his own settled belief in the matter.

"Were you not mine host of this inn ten or a dozen years ago, when the great Cardinal lived close by, in the Palace of Whitehall or York House?"

The mask of stolidity seemed to break-up for a minute, as he said in answer to this question, "I thought I had seen your face before, sir. You were one of my Lord Cardinal's gentlemen, I trow."

"Yes! I think I knew him better than most," said Sir Miles, with a sigh of regret for his dead master. "He was a great man, take him for all in all," he added.

"Come this way, sir," said the man, with a suspicious look round at his other customers; and he led the way to his own especial little room, the door of which he carefully locked as soon as they had entered. "I believe I may trust you, sir," said the landlord; "and it will be a relief to speak without fearing that my Lord Privy Seal's spies will report what I have said, if I should make a slip."

Sir Miles wondered for a minute whether the inn-keeper was mad; but he reflected that they were not far from help if he was, so he sat down to listen to what the man had to say.

"If you have been living in the country secure among your own people, and know nought of what things are like in London, I should advise you to go back with all the speed you can, for it is not safe for you to be abroad among my Lord's spies."

"Spies!" repeated Sir Miles. And then he suddenly remembered that Wolsey was not above employing this un-English means of attaining his ends; but as he listened to the inn-keeper's account of what was the known practice of the present Lord Privy Seal, Thomas Cromwell, who practically ruled the kingdom as Wolsey had done, he was almost aghast; for it seemed that no man's life or liberty were safe if they stood in the way of this man's plans, which were to make the king such an absolute ruler, that neither the Law nor the Church should stand in the way of his power.

As the inn-keeper went on with his story of how one and another had been arrested and tortured, Sir Miles reflected with bitterness that his late master, the Cardinal, whose memory he revered, had first planted this seed. Wolsey had never ceased to teach other men, and, to the last, inculcate in his own acts, the doctrine that men only held their property at the will of the king, and that if he chose to recall it, he had a perfect right to do so. Wolsey had carried this doctrine into practice, too, by handing over to the king his palace of Whitehall, or York House, and Hampton Court—all the wealth in fact that he had gathered. Aye, surely the last words of the Cardinal were true; for if he had only served God by service to the people of England, instead of devoting all his great powers to the aggrandisement of the king, and the curtailment of English liberty, how much better it would have been for himself, and for the nation.

Painful as it was to listen to such a recital, Sir Miles could not but be thankful for the warning, for it seemed that an incautious word or joke might land him in prison, especially if it seemed to have any bearing on the king's supremacy in matters of faith and religious belief. So he went to his chamber feeling considerably saddened by his talk, but he was too tired with his wearisome journey to keep awake very long; and before he awoke the next morning, Lady Paton and the children were talking of all the wonderful things they were going to see and do when they reached the royal town of Greenwich.

There was no time or opportunity to indulge in gloomy thoughts this bright spring morning, for early as Sir Miles and his party were astir, they could see from their windows that boats and barges were already afloat on the river, and several gay parties of pleasure-seekers had started for Greenwich, or for the cherry gardens that were near, although no promise of cherries were to be seen yet.

"Oh, make haste! make haste!" exclaimed Muriel to her little sister. "There will not be a boat left for us, to go and see our granddame, if you are not quicker. Let us go, mother, now at once," she implored, as she saw another party put off from the shore.

Lady Paton smiled, although she was almost as impatient as her children to be on the river once more, and nearing her old home.

"We must have breakfast first," said their father, "and Bunce has not ridden forth more than an hour to tell the Greenwich folk that we are coming."

Sir Miles would have liked to take the old folks by surprise, not announcing that they were likely to pay them a visit, but Lady Paton thought it would be better to send on a messenger, lest her father should be in attendance on the Court elsewhere; in which case her mother, or whoever was left in charge of the old home, might be prepared for them. And so, having secured a boat and sufficient rowers, Sir Miles insisted that they should have a good meal before starting on their next journey.

Fashions did not change very frequently in those days; but when they got into their boat about ten o'clock, and were fairly afloat, Lady Paton was startled to see that she and her children were attracting the attention of other ladies; and after a time she discovered that the fashion in ladies' dress had changed since she left home.

The morning was unusually warm for the time of year, and the two little girls had thrown aside their mufflers, and sat, with bared necks, while her own was scarcely less exposed when she loosened her cloak. But she saw that, although the occupants of other boats had likewise doffed their outer garments, their gowns were close-fitting, and reaching to the throat, or almost to the throat, and everyone had a neat, trim appearance, that rendered them conspicuous in their elegant, but old-fashioned garments. "We must put our cloaks on again," she whispered to her husband, glancing at the occupants of another boat close at hand.

"Aye, aye; I ought to have told you. I heard last night that the new Queen has brought in a new fashion. Queen Anne Boleyn brought other notions from the French Court, as well as what she deemed the right of every man to read the Bible in a language he can understand."

"Then this change of fashion in dress is part of the 'Reformation,' as father called it in his last letter. It is a long time since that came, Miles. I hope no trouble has befallen them, that we have not heard tidings of them for so long."

"Keep up a good heart, Cicely; we shall soon know all about them," said her husband, cheerfully; and remembering his host's warning, he would not encourage any talk about the Reformation, for fear some passing breeze should bear their words to other boats, or that the boatmen he had engaged to row them down the stream were also in the pay of some of Master Cromwell's agents, as spies, to pick up any stray evidence of disloyalty to the king.

Lady Paton felt very little inclination to discuss public affairs just now, for her heart was full at the old familiar sight of the river, with its boats and barges, and the pleasant gardens of the citizens sloping down to the bank of the stream; many a one with its own private boat, moored to the steps leading down to the water, and some already manned by the liveried rowers, waiting for the company to appear.

To the children the scene was delightful, and they were in no hurry to reach Greenwich, however anxious their mother was to see her old home once more. There were many reasons why Lady Paton should be anxious, for she was going among old friends,—and how would they receive her? Would they regard her marriage as unlawful, and meet her coldly and distantly? Or would they ignore the past, now that the reformed faith had been sanctioned by Parliament, and it was no longer a penal offence to possess and read a New Testament?

How would these changes, which had all come about while she had been living quietly at Woodstock, affect her now that she was venturing into the great world once more? It was not herself alone either that would be affected, for her mother would be terribly pained if their old friends should refuse to receive her. There was her husband, too, and the children. And as they drew nearer to the stately Palace of Placentia, standing among its green lawns and gardens on the river bank, she almost wished she had not ventured on the hazardous journey, but had been content to let her husband come alone, as he had first proposed to do.

She looked up into his face with a wistful gaze, as they drew near the landing-stage at Greenwich, and he, surmising something of what she was thinking, passed his arm tenderly round her, and bade the servants in attendance take care of the children, for Sir Miles knew by the way in which his wife was trembling that she would need all his care and attention for the next few minutes. No word was spoken between husband and wife, but Lady Paton felt strengthened and comforted, able to bear this revisiting of old scenes and old friends; and with a silent thanksgiving to God for this human love and friendship with which He had blessed her, she smiled through her tears as the boat bumped against the steps leading up from the water, and almost at the same moment she caught sight of her mother and father waiting to receive her just above.

"Be calm, be calm, Cicely," whispered Sir Miles, and the next minute he had lifted her out of the boat, and placed her in her father's arms; and then turned to receive the children from the servants, and hand them on to waiting friends.

The welcome thus awaiting her reassured Lady Paton, and she kissed her mother, amid smiles and tears, when her father led her to where Lady Guildford was waiting to receive her.

As soon as the whole party had landed, Sir Harry Guildford hurried them away from the throng of waiting loungers, who had gathered to see the boat come in. "Not a word, mind, until we reach home," he had whispered to Cicely, as he led her to her mother, and so it was almost in silence that the little party met and walked through the well-remembered streets of the town. An air of subdued gaiety, touched with dignity and royal splendour, seemed to pervade the atmosphere—at least to Lady Paton—and the silence did not depress her, for it gave her time to recognise and once more enjoy the sense of being at home.

Scarcely a word was spoken as they walked through the streets and market-place, where the butchers' stalls stood, with their well-remembered display of meat, and the 'prentice lads bawling,—"Here's pork, a halfpenny a pound; beef, young and tender, halfpenny a pound; and mutton from the King's own sheep for three-farthings. Now then, who'll buy, buy, buy, buy?"

But they stopped their calling when they saw Sir Harry and the ladies, and doffed their caps, wondering what could have brought the gentlefolks that way.

In reality Cicely had expressed a wish to go through the market-place, but before she left it for the more aristocratic quarter of the town where her father lived, she turned a startled look upon her mother, as her eyes fell upon a blank, grassy space, where she knew the market Cross had always stood.

"Where has the old stone Cross gone?" she asked.

"It was removed some time ago by order of the Parliament," answered Lady Guildford in a stolid tone; she expressed no opinion as to it being a good or a bad thing that it had been taken away, but Cicely noticed that one old woman set down her basket near the centre, where the old Cross used to stand, and furtively take out her beads to count as she lifted her eyes, as she had done every market-day since she was a girl.

"Poor old creature! she misses the Cross," said Cicely, in a pitying tone, as her husband joined her, and looked towards the empty basket.

"Aye, we may be thankful that God has given us the right to read His Word without fear in these days, but the taking away the old symbols, which was all the people had to help them, will be a sore trial to many, I perceive," he said.

"But, Miles, how often I have heard you say that these crosses were traps and snares, leading the people to idolatry!"

Sir Miles nodded. "It is true, too true," he said, "and yet the removal of them will cause pain and bitterness, and, it may be, anger and enmity against the new light and knowledge that the reading of God's Word will certainly bring to those who learn to love and read it for themselves."

"Better leave talking of these matters until we reach home," whispered Lady Guildford, warningly. "We do not talk in the streets now," she added, in answer to her daughter's look of amazement, "it has ceased to be the fashion," and they walked some distance in silence.

Sir Miles, of course, understood Lady Guildford's caution, and he resolved to tell his wife, as soon as he could, that she must be upon her guard—but it would be safer to gain the shelter of her old home before a word of this matter was explained.

"Shall I see the new Queen?" asked Cicely, after a minute's silence, and forgetting her mother's words about not talking in the street.

"She often walks in the Park with her ladies," replied her mother; "we will tell you all about that when we reach home," she hastened to add, for she was in fear lest she should speak some word concerning the late Queen that might give an advantage to any spy that should be near, and Cicely, though she wondered, and certainly disapproved of the rule forbidding friends to talk when and where they pleased, did not attempt any further questions until they reached home, the dear old home she had left to please her mistress, Queen Catherine, whose ideas of life in the convent had filled her with vague longings for a monastic vocation.

Ah! what a bitter awakening the reality had proved! During the few months she had spent at that Franciscan convent overlooking Greenwich Park, she had passed through a lifetime of disappointment and disgust, from which she had been rescued almost by a miracle in the streets of Oxford. And at the thought of what her husband had been to her, she placed her hand in his as they re-entered the old home she had despaired of ever seeing again.