"And five hundred harnessed men are called to take the field against Wyatt. We Pensioners go down to White Hall to guard the Queen."

And Mr Underhill shut the door, and they saw no more of him.

There was some trouble. On the 30th of January, the old Duke of Norfolk and others marched against Sir Thomas Wyatt, but the same night they came back in disorder, flying over London Bridge with only a fourth part of their company. Mr Brent, the Lamb's next neighbour, who was one of the little army, came home with his "coat turned, and all ruinated, and not a string to his bow." They brought news that Wyatt was coming fast on Southwark.

On the 1st of February came the Queen herself to Guild Hall, her sceptre in her hand, which was a token of peace; and Bishop Gardiner attending her, which was a token of blood. She made an oration to the people, which she had learned without book; and when it was done,--"O how happy are we," cried Bishop Gardiner, "to whom G.o.d hath given such a wise and learned Queen!" Which outcry Dr Thorpe said was "as good as proof that the Bishop himself writ the oration."

Wyatt and his company entered Southwark on the eve of Quinquagesima Sunday, by four o'clock; and before five he had made a bulwark at the bridge-foot, and fortified himself; but the Queen's men still held the bridge against him. The next morning, Mr Rose, with Mrs Rose and Thekla, came to the Lamb, read the service out of the Prayer Book, and preached: but they were afraid to sing. At nine o'clock on Tuesday morning Wyatt drew off his men, seeing that he could not take the bridge, and turned towards Kingston.

In the evening came in Mr Underhill, in armour, with his pole-axe in his hand, which he set down in a corner, and sat down and talked for an hour.

"So Wyatt is gone?" said Dr Thorpe.

"Gone about to strengthen himself," answered Mr Underhill. "He is coming back, take my word for it. He said unto his soldiers that he would pay them the next time in Cheapside; and unto the men that held the bridge quoth he,--'Twice have I knocked, and not been suffered to enter; if I knock the third time I will come in, by G.o.d's grace!'"

"What did you at the Court?" said Dr Thorpe. "Is good watch kept?"

Mr Underhill laughed.

"Marry, I did nothing," said he, "for I was not suffered. I put on mine harness, and went up into the Queen's chamber of presence, where were all her women weeping and wringing their hands, like foolish fluttering birds, and crying they should all be destroyed that night. And then Mr Norris, the Queen's chief usher, which was appointed to call the watch, read over the names from the book which Moore (the clerk of our check) gave him; but no sooner came he to my name than quoth he,--'What! what doth he here?'--'Sir,' saith the clerk, 'he is here ready to serve as the rest be.'--'Nay!' saith he, and sware a great oath, 'that heretic shall not watch here! give me a pen.' And so strake my name off the book. So Moore cometh to me, and 'Mr Underhill,' saith he, 'you are not to watch; you may depart to your lodging.'--'May I?' said I; 'I would be glad of that,'--thinking I had been favoured because I was not recovered of my sickness; but I did not well trust him, because he was also a Papist. 'Marry, I depart indeed,' said I; 'will you be my discharge?'--'I tell you true,' said he, 'Mr Norris hath stricken you out of the book, saying these words--That heretic shall not watch here: I tell you true what he said.'--'Marry, I thank him,' said I, 'and you also; you could not do me a greater pleasure.'--'Nay, burden not me withal,' said he, 'it is not my doing.' So away went I, with my men and a link. And when I come to the Court gate, I fell in with Mr Clement Throgmorton (that was come post from Coventry to the Queen with tidings of the taking of the Duke of Suffolk) and George Ferris,--both my friends, and good Protestants. So away went we three to Ludgate, which was fast locked, for it was past eleven of the clock, and the watch set within, but none without. And lo' you, for all our calling, and declaring of our names, and the like, would they not open the gate. Mr Throgmorton cried to them that he would go to his lodging within, and Mr Ferris said he was sent with weighty affairs to my Lord Will Howard within: but they did nought but laugh, and at long last said they had not the keys. 'What shall I do?' said Mr Throgmorton; 'I am weary and faint, and I wax now cold. I am not acquainted hereabout, nor no man dare open his doors in this dangerous time, nor I am not able to go back again to the Court; I shall perish this night.'--'Well,' said I, 'let us go to Newgate; I think I shall get in there.'--'Tush!' said he, 'it is but in vain; we shall be answered there as we are here.'--'Well,' said I, 'and the worst fall, I can lodge ye in Newgate: you know what acquaintance I have there, and the keeper's door is without the gate.'--'That were a bad shift!' said he; 'I had almost as lief die in the streets; yet I will rather wander again to the Court.' Howbeit, I did persuade them to try at Newgate; and there found we my friend Newman to be constable of the watch, which saith, 'Mr Underhill! what news, that you walk so late?' So he let us through the gate with a good will, and at long last we reached each man to his lodging."

At four o'clock on the morning of Ash Wednesday, London was awoke by drums beating all through the streets of the city. John and Robin rose hastily, and went out to ascertain the cause. They came in shortly, saying that the drums beat for all soldiers to arm and repair to Charing Cross, for that Wyatt was seeking to come in by Westminster, and had reached as far as Brentford. About one or two o'clock, Wyatt came, and marched past Charing Cross, without hindrance (except that as he pa.s.sed Saint James's the Earl of Pembroke fell upon his rear), and so marched along the Strand, and up Fleet Street, until he came before Ludgate.

There they knocked to come in, falsely saying that the Queen had granted their request and pardoned them; but Lord William Howard was not to be thus deceived, as others had been on the way. His answer was a stern cry of "Avaunt, traitor! thou shalt not come in here." For a little while Wyatt rested upon a seat at the Belle Sauvage gate; but at last, being weary of this pastime, he turned back on Charing Cross. When he reached Temple Bar the Queen's hors.e.m.e.n met him, and the battle began.

When he saw the fight going against him, Wyatt yielded. And so Sir Maurice Berkeley and others brought him and his chief captains to Court, and at five o'clock they were taken to the Tower by water. And as they pa.s.sed in, Sir John Bridges, the Lieutenant, ungenerously upbraided the prisoner, saying that "if it were not that the law must justly pa.s.s upon him, he would strike him with his dagger." To whom Wyatt answered, "with a grim and grievous look"--"It were no mastery now." And so they pa.s.sed on.

Thus was Wyatt's rebellion quashed. The stars in their courses fought against him.

Note 1. In addition to his cruel persecution of the Gospellers, he had been a notorious libertine.

Note 2. Cott. Ms., Appendix, twenty-eight, folio 93, 94.--Miss Strickland says (Lives of the Queens, three, page 459), that this was Mary, wife of James Ba.s.set; but the Tallies Roll for 2-3 Philip et Mary distinctly names this lady as one of Queen Mary's maids of honour, in recording the payment of her pension--"_Anna_ Ba.s.set, virginis Reginae."

Note 3. Harl. Ms. 425, folio 92, 93.

Note 4. Underhill is a Warwickshire family, but Anne Wynter, the mother of Edward Underhill, was a Worcestershire woman.

Note 5. Notes on this poem. See Harl. Ms. 424, folio 9. Plags means plagues. "Wealthe" means "personal interest." "Wreche" means "wretch."

"Lake" means "lack." "Wrake" means "wrack."

CHAPTER NINE.

WHO PAID THE PENALTY.

"And make me die the thrall of Margaret's curse-- Nor mother, wife, nor England's counted Queen."

Shakespeare.

Few hours had been tolled on the great clock of Saint Paul's, or had rung across the water from the Tower guns, ere England knew what was the vengeance to be taken. Once more royal blood was shed upon Tower Hill; once more England stooped to commit murder at the dictation of a foreign power. The white dove was sacrificed.

About ten o'clock on the morning of the 12th of February, Lord Guilford Dudley was beheaded on Tower Hill. It is plain that he died a Protestant, seeing that no priest was present at his death. And like the fiends they were, his executioners brought him, both going to the scaffold, and his dead body in returning, past the windows of Partridge's house, where his poor young wife had her lodging. They let her--that tender bird of seventeen short summers--from her chamber lattice see all the horror she could see, and feel all the agony she could feel; and then they brought her forth, to die also.

Calmly and quietly, as though she had been going to her forfeited throne, she came forth to her death. And she was going to her throne.

For she was one of Christ's martyrs, and sat upon His throne with Him.

She spoke very little on the scaffold; only saying that "though she had consented unto the setting up of herself against the Queen's Highness, yet was she innocent of all procurement or desire thereof: and that she died a true Christian woman, looking for eternal life unto the pa.s.sion of Jesus Christ only, and to none other; and she thanked G.o.d, that had given her s.p.a.ce to repent; for when she was younger, and did know the word of G.o.d, she had neglected the same, and had loved her own self and the world." And then she said to Dr f.e.c.kenham, "Shall I say this Psalm?"

f.e.c.kenham--a man of the Jesuitical type, renowned for the softness and sweetness of his manners--bowed a.s.sent. Then the victim prayed through the Fifty-first Psalm, and prepared herself for the sacrifice. The hangman knelt down and asked her forgiveness: she replied, "Most willingly," and "I pray you, despatch me quickly. Will you take it off before I lay me down?" Poor child! The executioner was the one who dealt with her most gently and respectfully. He said, "No, Madam." So she handed her gloves to one of her women, and her book to Sir John Bridges, and tied the handkerchief over her eyes. Feeling about with her hands for the block, she said,--"What shall I do? Where is it?

Where is it?" One of the bystanders guided her hand to it. Then she laid down her head; and saying, "Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!" her head fell with one stroke. She was out of Philip's way now. And the angels of G.o.d, for whose company she exchanged a society somewhat less angelic, were not so likely to account her in their way.

A fearful day was that from dawn to dusk. Half an hour after the execution of Lady Jane, Lord Courtenay (but a few days before made Earl of Devon) was brought into the Tower; he would not declare the cause of his coming there, saying he could not tell; "but," added he, "let the world judge." All the evening the noise of hammers was going in the City, for the gallows were set up everywhere. There was one at every gate of the City, and at the bridge-foot one; four in Southwark, one at Leadenhall two in Cheapside, six or eight in Fleet Street and Charing Cross--nor were these all.

Throughout London all the prisons were so full that the less important prisoners were kept in the churches, by eighty in a group. Dr Thorpe said, "If they hang all the Queen's subjects, there will be small fear of a new rebellion." Men greeted each other fearfully, scarcely knowing if they should ever meet again. But the worst fears of all were awakened for the Archbishop, Bishop Ridley, and Mr Latimer, within the Tower, and for Mr Rose outside it. On the 15th of February, Isoult Avery wrote in her diary--

"In Southwark all this day were the gallows at work, till I am sick at heart for every sound I hear. The gallows at Aldgate, I thank G.o.d, cannot be seen from our windows, being hid by the gate. If it could, I scantly know what should come of us. I dare not go forth of the door, lest I meet some awful sight that I may not forget to my dying day.

"G.o.d Himself showeth His displeasure by fearful sights from Heaven. Two suns should this morrow be seen in the sky, and this even was a rainbow over London, turned the diverse way, the arch on the ground, and the points on high. I dare not think what shall come next, either on earth or in Heaven, unless Christ Himself (that scarce ever was more wanted) would rend the heavens and come down to save us. Yea, Amen, Lord Jesus, come Thou quickly!"

But no sign of the Son of Man flashed on that weary land. Not yet was accomplished the number of the elect; and until the last sheep was gathered into the fold, there could be no hastening of the kingdom.

The execution of Lady Jane's father quickly followed her own. He died, as men of his stamp often do, better than he had lived. The "subjection to bondage from fear of death," in which he had spent his trembling life, vanished before death came to him. Boldly and bravely this timid, shrinking soul stood forth at the last, telling all the world that he died in the faith of Christ, "trusting to be saved by His blood only, and by no other trumpery." Strange words from one of the weakest men that ever lived!--yet it is the special characteristic of Christ's strength that it is "made perfect in weakness." It may be chiefly when His children come to die that they understand the full meaning of that pa.s.sage, "He hath abolished death." For our faith, as it has been said, is a religion of paradoxes. Strength, whose perfection lies in weakness,--life, which is founded upon a death--glory, which springs out of shame and suffering. When the Twelve heard that, to draw all men unto Him, the Master should be lifted up from the earth, it probably never dawned upon their minds that the scene of that exaltation was to be the cross. News that made men tremble came before the end of February. The Lady Elizabeth had been summoned to Court--was it for life or death?--and Bishop Bonner had issued a commission of inquiry concerning all in his diocese, with orders to present all persons who had failed to frequent auricular confession and the ma.s.s. Many fell away in this time of temptation--Sir William Cecil (afterwards Lord Burleigh) and his wife Mildred, amongst others. The d.u.c.h.ess of Suffolk held on her way unwavering. Annis Holland's second letter, which had been delayed, reached Isoult Avery in the beginning of March.

"Unto my right entirely beloved friend, Mistress Avery, that dwelleth at the sign of the Lamb, in the Minories, next without Aldgate, beside London, be these delivered.

"My Very well beloved Isoult,--My most hearty and loving commendations remembered unto thee. Sithence my last writing have I made a most woeful discovery, the which I would almost I had not done. But thou shalt know the same.

"An even of late, I was alone in my chamber sewing, having sent Maria forth to buy certain gear I lacked. And being so alone, I began to sing lowly that hymn of Saint Bernard--'Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur,' [Note 1] when of a sudden I was aroused from my singing by a sound like a groaning, and that very near. I hearkened, and heard it again. One was surely moaning in the next chamber. Thinking that one of the bower-women might be evil at ease and lack one to help her, I crept forth from my chamber, and, listening at the door of the next, heard plainly the moaning again. I laid mine hand on the latch, and entered.

"It was a large chamber, airy, but not light. All the windows were high up in the wall. There was a bed, divers chairs, and a table; and by the table sat a woman apparelled in black, her arms laid thereon, and her head upon them. Her face showed much pain. She lifted her head slowly as I came towards her, and then I saw that she had the face of a stranger. 'Who is it?' she said in a whispered voice. 'My name, Senora, is Ines de Olanda,' said I. 'Meseemeth you lack ease. Could I in any wise bring it unto you?' 'Ay, I lack ease, _muchacha_' (which is to say, maiden), quoth she. 'I lack rest. But that lieth in--the grave.' She spake slowly and uncertainly. 'Whence comest thou?' she said again. 'Thy tone is not of these parts.'--'Senora,' said I, 'I am a stranger from England.'--'And how camest thou hither?' quoth she. 'As reader of English unto the Queen's Highness,' said I. 'How much hast thou read unto the Queen?' she asked, and smiled.

"Her smile lighted up her face marvellously. It was not a fair face. I mis...o...b.. if it were ever such. Her hair is near white now; but though her complexion were good, and her eyes shining and dark grey, her features must have been alway something harsh and strong. 'Nothing at all, Senora,' then said I; 'for it is now three months sithence my coming, and yet had I never the honour to see her Highness.'--'Traitors!' quoth she angrily; and her features grew harsher than ever. I stood in silence. 'Thou art not a Lutheran?' she said suddenly. 'Methinks it should fare ill, Senora, with any that were so here,' I made answer, desiring to be discreet. 'Is that any answer to my question?' she said, knitting her brows. 'Senora,' said I, trembling greatly, 'I cannot tell a lie, even though you may betray me. I am a Lutheran.'--'I betray thee!' she said pitifully. 'Poor child! whoso doth that, it will not be I. I am under the same ban.'--'Senora!' I cried, much astonied, 'you are a Lutheran? here, in the Queen's Palace.'--'Doth that amaze thee?' she answered with another smile.

'Then a second thing I can tell thee will do so yet more:--I am the Queen.'

"I set myself upon my knees afore her Highness, so soon as my astonishment would give me leave. 'They do not burn me,' she said, in the slow uncertain way wherein she had spoken at first. 'I think they scarce liked to do that. But I had suffered less; for then it had been over long ago. They say I am mad. And it doth seem sometimes as if somewhat in my head were lost,' she saith, pressing her hands wearily upon her brow. 'It was Dona Isabel, my mother. She used to give me the _cuerda_!'--'Senora,' I answered, 'craving your Highness' pardon, I, being a maid from strange parts, know not that word _cuerda_!'--'Have they the thing in your land?' answered the Queen heavily. 'Did they try that on my poor sister, your Princess of Wales [Katherine of Aragon]?

_Ay de mi_!'--'I know not,' said I, 'under the gracious pleasure of your Highness, what the thing is.'--'Look!' she said, pointing with her thin, trembling hand.

"I looked whither she pointed, and in the further corner of the chamber I saw a frame of pulleys set in the ceiling. But it came not presently to my mind wherefore they were there. 'They set those short sticks under my arms,' the Queen said, speaking heavily as it were with sleep.

'Then they jerk up the pulleys, and I have to go up with them. It hurts very much. I think I scream sometimes, and then he beats me for disturbing people. They alway do it at night. They say I need it, and I am mad. I marvel if they cure mad people so in England. And I think if they did it sometimes in the day, it would not disturb people so much. You see, I understand it not--at least they say so. But I fancy I understood better before the _cuerda_.'

"I was silent from very horror, as the fearful truth dawned slowly upon me. '_Ay de mi_!' sighed the Queen again, leaving her head fall back upon her arms. 'My father never used to do so. They say 'tis by his command. I marvel if they tell me the truth.'--'Who dareth to do thus unto your Highness?' I said at last. 'Denia,' she said, in the same dreamy fashion, 'and them he bringeth with him. They want me to confess, and to hear ma.s.s. I think they make me go sometimes, when that thing in mine head is lost. But if I know it, I resist them.'

"Again she lifted her head, and her voice grew more resolute.

'_Muchacha_, I have been here twenty-six years. All that time, in this chamber! They left me two of my children at the first. Then they took the Infant Don Fernando from me. And all my heart twined round my little maid,--my last-born, my Catalina! So they took her. I never knew why. I never did know wherefore they began at all, save for listening to some French friars that came to see me. And they told me very good things. G.o.d was good, they said, and loved me, and Jesus our Lord had taken away all my sins. And it was good to think so. So then _they_ beat me, and set me in the _cuerda_; and they called me an heretic, and a Lutheran, and all the bad words they knew. I do not think the holy angels at the gates of Paradise will turn me away, nor call me an heretic, because I thought Jesus had taken away my sins. If this be Lutheranism, then I am a Lutheran--then I will be a Lutheran for ever! And those were good friars, that came from Paris. They say the Observants are the ones I should believe. The Queen Dona Isabel set Observants about me. But the Observants beat me, and put me in the _cuerda_; and the Good Men [Note 2]--the French friars--said Jesus our Lord loved me, and had taken away all my sins. That was the better Evangel of the two. That thing in my head goes wrong when they give me the _cuerda_. But when I can sit quiet like this, and they will let me alone a little while, I love to think of Jesus our Lord, and of His taking away all my sins. I know not wherefore I should be beaten for that. It is my head, thou seest.'

"Poor, poor lady! I felt great tears running down _my face_, and dropping on my gown as I knelt. '_Ay Senora mia_!' I said, so well as I could falter it, 'Jesus, our dear Lord, hath taken away all our sins that do believe in Him. He loveth your Highness, and if you will cling to Him, He will have you to dwell with Himself at the end of this life.'