CHAPTER XIII
PRISONER AND PRINCE
The sun sank lower and had begun to throw long shadows before the dooropened again and the Prior beckoned. As Chris had stood there staringout of the window at the green water of the moat and the shadowed wallbeyond, with the warder standing a few steps below, now sighing at thedelay, now humming a line or two, he had heard voices now and again fromthe room above, but it had been no more than a murmur that died oncemore into silence.
* * * * *
Chris was aware of a dusty room as he stepped over the threshold, barewalls, one or two solid pieces of furniture, and of the Prior's figurevery upright in the light from the tiny window at one side; and then heforgot everything as he looked at the man that was standing smiling bythe table.
It was a very tall slender figure, dressed in a ragged black gownturning green with age; a little bent now, but still dignified; the facewas incredibly lean, with great brown eyes surrounded by wrinkles, and alittle white hair, ragged, too, and long, hung down under the oldflapped cap. The hand that Chris kissed seemed a bundle of reeds boundwith parchment, and above the wrist bones the arm grew thinner stillunder the loose, torn sleeve.
Then the monk stood up and saw those kindly proud eyes looking into hisown.
The Prior made a deferential movement and said a word or two, and thebishop answered him.
"Yes, yes, my Lord Prior; I understand--God bless you, my son."
The bishop moved across to the chair, and sat down, panting a little,for he was torn by sickness and deprivation, and laid his long handstogether.
"Sit down, brother," he said, "and you too, my Lord Prior."
Chris saw the Prior move across to an old broken stool, but he himselfremained standing, awed and almost terrified at that worn face in whichthe eyes alone seemed living; so thin that the cheekbones stood outhideously, and the line of the square jaw. But the voice was wonderfullysweet and penetrating.
"My Lord Prior and I have been talking of the times, and what is best tobe done, and how we must all be faithful. You will be faithful,brother?"
Chris made an effort against the absorbing fascination of that face andvoice.
"I will, my lord."
"That is good; you must follow your prior and be obedient to him. Youwill find him wise and courageous."
The bishop nodded gently towards the Prior, and Chris heard a sobbingindrawn breath from the corner where the broken stool stood.
"It is a time of great moment," went on the bishop; "much hangs on howwe carry ourselves. His Grace has evil counsellors about him."
There was silence for a moment or two; Chris could not take his eyesfrom the bishop's face. The frightful framework of skin and bones seemedluminous from within, and there was an extraordinary sweetness on thosetightly drawn lips, and in the large bright eyes.
"His Grace has been to the Tower lately, I hear, and once to theMarshalsea, to see Dom Sebastian Newdegate, who, as you know, was atCourt for many years till he entered the Charterhouse; but I have had novisit from him, nor yet, I should think, Master More--you must not judgehis Grace too hardly, my son; he was a good lad, as I knew very well--avery gallant and brave lad. A Frenchman said that he seemed to have comedown from heaven. And he has always had a great faith and devotion, anda very strange and delicate conscience that has cost him much pain. Buthe has been counselled evilly."
Chris remembered as in a dream that the bishop had been the King's tutoryears before.
"He is a good theologian too," went on the bishop, "and that is hismisfortune now, though I never thought to say such a thing. Perhaps hewill become a better one still, if God has mercy on him, and he willcome back to his first faith. But we must be good Catholics ourselves,and be ready to die for our Religion, before we can teach him."
Again, after another silence, he went on.
"You are to be a priest, I hear, my son, and to take Christ's yoke moreclosely upon you. It is no easy one in these days, though love will makeit so, as Himself said. I suppose it will be soon now?"
"We are to get a dispensation, my lord, for the interstices," said thePrior.
Chris had heard that this would be done, before he left Lewes, and hewas astonished now, not at the news, but at the strange softness of thePrior's voice.
"That is very well," went on the bishop. "We want all the faithfulpriests possible. There is a great darkness in the land, and we needlights to lighten it. You have a brother in Master Cromwell's service,sir, I hear?"
Chris was silent.
"You must not grieve too much. God Almighty can set all right. It may behe thinks he is serving Him. We are not here to judge, but to give ourown account."
The bishop went on presently to ask a few questions and to talk ofMaster More, saying that he had managed to correspond with him for awhile, but that now all the means for doing so had been taken away fromthem both, as well as his own books.
"It is a great grief to me that I cannot say my office, nor say nor hearmass: I must trust now to the Holy Sacrifice offered by others."
He spoke so tenderly and tranquilly that Chris was hardly able to keepback his tears. It seemed that the soul still kept its serene poise inthat wasted body, and was independent of it. There was no weakness norpeevishness anywhere. The very room with its rough walls, its cobwebbedroof, its uneven flooring, its dreadful chill and gloom, seemed alivewith a warm, redolent, spiritual atmosphere generated by this keen, puresoul. Chris had never been near so real a sanctity before.
"You have seen nothing of my Rochester folk, I suppose?" went on thebishop to the Prior.
The Prior shook his head.
"I am very downcast about them sometimes; I saw many of them at thecourt the other day. I forget that the Good Shepherd can guard His ownsheep. And they were so faithful to me that I know they will be faithfulto Him."
* * * * *
There came a sound of a key being knocked upon the door outside, and thebishop stood up, slowly and painfully.
"That will be Mr. Giles," he said, "hungry for supper."
The two monks sank down on their knees, and as Chris closed his eyes heheard a soft murmur of blessing over his head.
Then each kissed his hand and Chris went to the door, half blind withtears.
He heard a whisper from the bishop to the Prior, who still lingered amoment, and a half sob--
"God helping me!"--said the Prior.
There was no more spoken, and the two went down the stairs together intothe golden sunshine with the warder behind them.
Chris dared not look at the other. He had had a glimpse of his face ashe stood aside on the stairs to let him pass, and what he saw there toldhim enough.
* * * * *
There were plenty of boats rocking on the tide at the foot of the riverstairs outside the Tower, and they stepped into one, telling the man torow to Southwark.
It was a glorious summer evening now. The river lay bathed in the levelsunshine that turned it to molten gold, and it was covered with boatsplying in all directions. There were single wherries going to and fromthe stairs that led down on all sides into the water, and barges hereand there, of the great merchants or nobles going home to supper, with aline of oars on each side, and a glow of colour gilding in the stem andprow, were moving up stream towards the City. London Bridge stood outbefore them presently, like a palace in a fairy-tale, blue and romanticagainst the western glow, and above it and beyond rose up the tall spireof the Cathedral. On the other side a fringe of houses began a little tothe east of the bridge, and ran up to the spires of Southwark on theother side, and on them lay a glory of sunset with deep shadows barringthem where the alleys ran down to the water's edge. Here and therebehind rose up the heavy masses of the June foliage. A troop of swans,white patches on the splendour, were breasting up against theout-flowing tide.
The air was full of sound; the rattle and dash of oars, men's voicescoming clear and mi
nute across the water; and as they got out nearmid-stream the bell of St. Paul's boomed far from away, indescribablysolemn and melodious; another church took it up, and a chorus of mellowvoices tolled out the Angelus.
Chris was half through saying it to himself, when across the soft murmursounded the clash of brass far away beyond the bridge.
The boatman paused at his oars, turned round a moment, grasping them inone hand, and stared up-stream under the other. Chris could see amovement among the boats higher up, and there seemed to break out acommotion at the foot of the houses on London Bridge, and then far awaycame the sound of cheering.
"What is it?" asked the Prior sharply, lifting his head, as the boatmangave an exclamation and laid furiously to his oars again.
The man jerked his head backwards.
"The King's Grace," he said.
* * * * *
For a minute or two nothing more was to be seen. A boat or two near themwas seen making off to the side from mid-stream, to leave a clearpassage, and there were cries from the direction of the bridge wheresomeone seemed to be in difficulties with the strong stream and thepiers. A wherry that was directly between them and the bridge movedoff, and the shining water-way was left for the King's Grace to comedown.
Then, again, the brass horns sounded nearer.
Chris was conscious of an immense excitement. The dramatic contrast ofthe scene he had just left with that which he was witnessing overpoweredhim. He had seen one end of the chain of life, the dying bishop in theTower, in his rags; now he was to see the other end, the Sovereign atwhose will he was there, in all the magnificence of a pageant. The Priorwas sitting bolt upright on the seat beside him; one hand lay on hisknee, the knuckles white with clenching, the other gripped the side ofthe boat.
Then, again, the fierce music sounded, and the first boat appeared underone of the wider spans of the bridge, a couple of hundred yards away.
The stream was running out strongly by now, and the boatman tugged toget out of it into the quieter water at the side, and as he pulled anoar snapped. The Prior half started up as the man burst out into anexclamation, and began to paddle furiously with the other oar, but theboat revolved helplessly, and he was forced to change it to the oppositeside.
Meanwhile the boats were beginning to stream under the bridge, andChris, seeing that the boat in which he sat was sufficiently out of theway to allow a clear passage in mid-stream even if not far enoughremoved for proper deference, gave himself up to watching the splendidsight.
The sun had now dropped behind the high houses by the bridge, and ashadow lay across the water, but nearer at hand the way was clear, andin a moment more the leading boat had entered the sunlight.
There was no possibility of mistake as to whether this were the royalbarge or no. It was a great craft, seventy feet from prow to stem atthe very least, and magnificent with colour. As it burst out into thesun, it blazed blindingly with gold; the prow shone with blue andcrimson; the stern, roofed in with a crimson canopy with flying tassels,trailed brilliant coarse tapestries on either side; and the RoyalStandard streamed out behind.
Chris tried to count the oars, as they swept into the water with arhythmical throb and out again, flashing a fringe of drops and showing acoat painted on each blade. There seemed to be eight or ten a side. Acouple of trumpeters stood in the bows, behind the gilded carvedfigurehead, their trumpets held out symmetrically with the squarehangings flapping as they came.
He could see now the heads of the watermen who rowed, with the caps ofthe royal livery moving together like clockwork at the swing of theoars.
Behind followed the other boats, some half dozen in all; and as eachpair burst out into the level sunlight with a splendour of gold andcolour, and the roar from London Bridge swelled louder and louder, for amoment the young monk forgot the bitter underlying tragedy of all thathe had seen and knew--forgot oozy Tower-hill and trampled Tyburn and theloaded gallows--forgot even the grim heads that stared out with deadtortured eyes from the sheaves of pikes rising high above him at thismoment against the rosy sky--forgot the monks of the Charterhouse andtheir mourning hearts; the insulted queen, repudiated and declared aconcubine--forgot all that made life so hard to live and understand atthis time--as this splendid vision of the lust of the eyes broke out inpulsating sound and colour before him.
But it was only for a moment.
There was a group of half-a-dozen persons under the canopy of theseat-of-state of the leading boat; the splendid centre of the splendidshow, brilliant in crimson and gold and jewels.
On the further side sat two men. Chris did not know their faces, but ashis eyes rested on them a moment he noticed that one was burly andclean-shaven, and wore some insignia across his shoulders. At the nearside were the backs of two ladies, silken clad and slashed with crimson,their white jewelled necks visible under their coiled hair and tightsquare cut caps. And in the centre sat a pair, a man and a woman; and onthese he fixed his eyes as the boat swept up not twenty yards away, forhe knew who they must be.
The man was leaning back, looking gigantic in his puffed sleeves andwide mantle; one great arm was flung along the back of the tapestriedseat, and his large head, capped with purple and feathers, was bendingtowards the woman who sat beyond. Chris could make out a fringe ofreddish hair beneath his ear and at the back of the flat head betweenthe high collar and the cap. He caught a glimpse, too, of a sedate facebeyond, set on a slender neck, with downcast eyes and red lips. And thenas the boat came opposite, and the trumpeters sent out a brazen crashfrom the trumpets at their lips, the man turned his head and staredstraight at the boat.
It was an immensely wide face, fringed with reddish hair, scanty aboutthe lips and more full below; and it looked the wider from the narrowdrooping eyes set near together and the small pursed mouth. Below, hischin swelled down fold after fold into his collar, and the cheeks werewide and heavy on either side.
It was the most powerful face that Chris had ever seen or dreamedof--the animal brooded in every line and curve of it--it would havebeen brutish but for the steady pale stare of the eyes and the tightlittle lips. It fascinated and terrified him.
The flourish ended, the roar of the rowlocks sounded out again like thebeating of a furious heart; the King turned his head again and saidsomething, and the boat swept past.
Chris found that he had started to his feet, and sat down again,breathing quickly and heavily, with a kind of indignant loathing thatwas new to him.
This then was the master of England, the heart of all theirtroubles--that gorgeous fat man with the broad pulpy face, in hiscrimson and jewels; and that was his concubine who sat demure besidehim, with her white folded ringed hands on her lap, her beautiful eyescast down, and her lord's hot breath in her ear! It was these that werepurifying the Church of God of such men as the Cardinal-bishop in theTower, and the witty holy lawyer! It was by the will of such as thesethat the heads of the Carthusian Fathers, bound brow and chin withlinen, stared up and down with dead eyes from the pikes overhead.
He sat panting and unseeing as the other boats swept past, full of theKing's friends all going down to Greenwich.
There broke out a roar from the Tower behind, and he started and turnedround to see the white smoke eddying up from the edge of the wall besidethe Traitor's gate; a shrill cheer or two, far away and thin, soundedfrom the figures on the wharf and the boatmen about the stairs.
The wherryman sat down again and put on his cap.
"Body of God!" he said, "there was but just time."
And he began to pull again with his single oar towards the shore.
Chris looked at the Prior a moment and down again. He was sitting withtight lips, and hands clasped in his lap, and his eyes were wild andpiteous.
They borrowed an oar presently from another boat, and went on up towardsSouthwark. The wherryman pawed once to spit on his hands as they nearedthe rush of the current below the bridge.
"That was Master Cromwell with His Grace," he sai
d.
Chris looked at him questioningly.
"Him with the gold collar," he added, "and that was Audley by him."
The Prior had glanced at Chris as Cromwell's name was mentioned; butsaid nothing for the present. And Chris himself was lost again inmusing. That was Ralph's master then, the King's right-hand man, fearednext in England after the King himself--and Chancellor Audley, too, andAnne, all in one wooden boat. How easy for God to put out His hand andfinish them! And then he was ashamed at his own thought, so faithlessand timid; and he remembered Fisher once more and his gallant spirit inthat broken body.
A minute or two later they had landed at the stairs, and were makingtheir way up to the hostel.
The Prior put out his hand and checked him as he stepped ahead to knock.
"Wait," he said. "Do you know who signed the order we used at theTower?"
Chris shook his head.
"Master Cromwell," said the Prior. "And do you know by whose hand itcame?"
Chris stared in astonishment.
"It was by your brother," he said.