Chapter XXVII. In prison.
The cells were all crowded; so the two friends were
chained in a large room where persons charged with trifling
offences were commonly kept. They had company, for there
were some twenty manacled and fettered prisoners here, of
both sexes and of varying ages,—an obscene and noisy gang.
The King chafed bitterly over the stupendous indignity thus
put upon his royalty, but Hendon was moody and taciturn. He
was pretty thoroughly bewildered; he had come home, a
jubilant prodigal, expecting to find everybody wild with joy
over his return; and instead had got the cold shoulder and a
jail. The promise and the fulfilment differed so widely
that the effect was stunning; he could not decide whether it
was most tragic or most grotesque. He felt much as a man
might who had danced blithely out to enjoy a rainbow, and
got struck by lightning.
But gradually his confused and tormenting thoughts
settled down into some sort of order, and then his mind
centred itself upon Edith. He turned her conduct over, and
examined it in all lights, but he could not make anything
satisfactory out of it. Did she know him—or didn't she know
him? It was a perplexing puzzle, and occupied him a long
time; but he ended, finally, with the conviction that she
did know him, and had repudiated him for interested reasons.
He wanted to load her name with curses now; but this name
had so long been sacred to him that he found he could not
bring his tongue to profane it.
Wrapped in prison blankets of a soiled and tattered condition, Hendon
and the King passed a troubled night. For a bribe the
jailer had furnished liquor to some of the prisoners;
singing of ribald songs, fighting, shouting, and carousing
was the natural consequence. At last, a while after
midnight, a man attacked a woman and nearly killed her by
beating her over the head with his manacles before the
jailer could come to the rescue. The jailer restored peace
by giving the man a sound clubbing about the head and
shoulders—then the carousing ceased; and after that, all had
an opportunity to sleep who did not mind the annoyance of
the moanings and groanings of the two wounded people.
During the ensuing week, the days and nights were of a
monotonous sameness as to events; men whose faces Hendon
remembered more or less distinctly, came, by day, to gaze at
the 'impostor' and repudiate and insult him; and by night
the carousing and brawling went on with symmetrical
regularity. However, there was a change of incident at
last. The jailer brought in an old man, and said to him—
"The villain is in this room—cast thy old eyes about and
see if thou canst say which is he."
Hendon glanced up, and experienced a pleasant sensation
for the first time since he had been in the jail. He said
to himself, "This is Blake Andrews, a servant all his life
in my father's family—a good honest soul, with a right heart
in his breast. That is, formerly. But none are true now;
all are liars. This man will know me—and will deny me, too,
like the rest."
The old man gazed around the room, glanced at each face
in turn, and finally said—
"I see none here but paltry knaves, scum o' the streets.
Which is he?"
The jailer laughed.
"Here," he said; "scan this big animal, and grant me an
opinion."
The old man approached, and looked Hendon over, long and earnestly,
then shook his head and said—
"Marry, THIS is no Hendon—nor ever was!"
"Right! Thy old eyes are sound yet. An' I were Sir
Hugh, I would take the shabby carle and—"
The jailer finished by lifting himself a-tip-toe with an
imaginary halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise
in his throat suggestive of suffocation. The old man said,
vindictively—
"Let him bless God an' he fare no worse. An' _I_ had the
handling o' the villain he should roast, or I am no true
man!"
The jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said—
"Give him a piece of thy mind, old man—they all do it.
Thou'lt find it good diversion."
Then he sauntered toward his ante-room and disappeared.
The old man dropped upon his knees and whispered—
"God be thanked, thou'rt come again, my master! I
believed thou wert dead these seven years, and lo, here thou
art alive! I knew thee the moment I saw thee; and main hard
work it was to keep a stony countenance and seem to see none
here but tuppenny knaves and rubbish o' the streets. I am
old and poor, Sir Miles; but say the word and I will go
forth and proclaim the truth though I be strangled for it."
"No," said Hendon; "thou shalt not. It would ruin thee,
and yet help but little in my cause. But I thank thee, for
thou hast given me back somewhat of my lost faith in my
kind."
The old servant became very valuable to Hendon and the
King; for he dropped in several times a day to 'abuse' the
former, and always smuggled in a few delicacies to help out
the prison bill of fare; he also furnished the current news.
Hendon reserved the dainties for the King; without them his
Majesty might not have survived, for he was not able to eat
the coarse and wretched food provided by the jailer.
Andrews was obliged to confine himself to brief visits, in
order to avoid suspicion; but he managed to impart a fair
degree of information each time—information delivered in a
low voice, for Hendon's benefit, and interlarded with
insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice for the
benefit of other hearers.
So, little by little, the story of the family came out. Arthur had
been dead six years. This loss, with the absence of news
from Hendon, impaired the father's health; he believed he
was going to die, and he wished to see Hugh and Edith
settled in life before he passed away; but Edith begged hard
for delay, hoping for Miles's return; then the letter came
which brought the news of Miles's death; the shock
prostrated Sir Richard; he believed his end was very near,
and he and Hugh insisted upon the marriage; Edith begged for
and obtained a month's respite, then another, and finally a
third; the marriage then took place by the death-bed of Sir
Richard. It had not proved a happy one. It was whispered
about the country that shortly after the nuptials the bride
found among her husband's papers several rough and
incomplete drafts of the fatal letter, and had accused him
of precipitating the marriage—and Sir Richard's death,
too—by a wicked forgery. Tales of cruelty to the Lady Edith
and the servants were to be heard on all hands; and since
the father's death Sir Hugh had thrown off all soft
disguises and become a pitiless master toward all who in any
way depended upon him and his domains for bread.
There was a bit of Andrew's gossip which the King
listened to with a lively interest—
"There is rumour that the King is mad. But in charity
forbear to say _I_ mentioned it, for 'tis death to speak of
it, they say."
His Majesty glared at the old man and said—
"The King is NOT mad, good man—and thou'lt find it to thy
advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern
thee than this seditious prattle."
"What doth the lad mean?" said Andrews, surprised at this
brisk assault from such an unexpected quarter. Hendon gave
him a sign, and he did not pursue his question, but went on
with his budget—
"The late King is to be buried at Windsor in a day or
two—the 16th of the month—and the new King will be crowned
at Westminster the 20th."
"Methinks they must needs find him first," muttered his
Majesty; then added, confidently, "but they will look to
that—and so also shall I."
"In the name of—"
But the old man got no further—a warning sign from Hendon
checked his remark. He resumed the thread of his gossip—
"Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation—and with grand hopes.
He confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high
in favour with the Lord Protector."
"What Lord Protector?" asked his Majesty.
"His Grace the Duke of Somerset."
"What Duke of Somerset?"
"Marry, there is but one—Seymour, Earl of Hertford."
The King asked sharply—
"Since when is HE a duke, and Lord Protector?"
"Since the last day of January."
"And prithee who made him so?"
"Himself and the Great Council—with help of the King."
His Majesty started violently. "The KING!" he cried.
"WHAT king, good sir?"
"What king, indeed! (God-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?) Sith we have
but one, 'tis not difficult to answer—his most sacred
Majesty King Edward the Sixth—whom God preserve! Yea, and a
dear and gracious little urchin is he, too; and whether he
be mad or no—and they say he mendeth daily—his praises are
on all men's lips; and all bless him, likewise, and offer
prayers that he may be spared to reign long in England; for
he began humanely with saving the old Duke of Norfolk's
life, and now is he bent on destroying the cruellest of the
laws that harry and oppress the people."
This news struck his Majesty dumb with amazement, and
plunged him into so deep and dismal a reverie that he heard
no more of the old man's gossip. He wondered if the 'little
urchin' was the beggar-boy whom he left dressed in his own
garments in the palace. It did not seem possible that this
could be, for surely his manners and speech would betray him
if he pretended to be the Prince of Wales—then he would be
driven out, and search made for the true prince. Could it
be that the Court had set up some sprig of the nobility in
his place? No, for his uncle would not allow that—he was
all-powerful and could and would crush such a movement, of
course. The boy's musings profited him nothing; the more he
tried to unriddle the mystery the more perplexed he became,
the more his head ached, and the worse he slept. His
impatience to get to London grew hourly, and his captivity
became almost unendurable.
Hendon's arts all failed with the King—he could not be
comforted; but a couple of women who were chained near him
succeeded better. Under their gentle ministrations he found
peace and learned a degree of patience. He was very
grateful, and came to love them dearly and to delight in the
sweet and soothing influence of their presence. He asked
them why they were in prison, and when they said they were
Baptists, he smiled, and inquired—
"Is that a crime to be shut up for in a prison? Now I
grieve, for I shall lose ye—they will not keep ye long for
such a little thing."
They did not answer; and something in their faces made
him uneasy. He said, eagerly—
"You do not speak; be good to me, and tell me—there will
be no other punishment? Prithee tell me there is no fear of
that."
They tried to change the topic, but his fears were
aroused, and he pursued it—
"Will they scourge thee? No, no, they would not be so
cruel! Say they would not. Come, they WILL not, will
they?"
The women betrayed confusion and distress, but there was
no avoiding an answer, so one of them said, in a voice
choked with emotion—
"Oh, thou'lt break our hearts, thou gentle spirit!—God
will help us to bear our—"
"It is a confession!" the King broke in. "Then they WILL
scourge thee, the stony-hearted wretches! But oh, thou must
not weep, I cannot bear it. Keep up thy courage—I shall
come to my own in time to save thee from this bitter thing,
and I will do it!"
When the King awoke in the morning, the women were gone.
"They are saved!" he said, joyfully; then added,
despondently, "but woe is me!—for they were my comforters."
Each of them had left a shred of ribbon pinned to his
clothing, in token of remembrance. He said he would keep
these things always; and that soon he would seek out these
dear good friends of his and take them under his protection.
Just then the jailer came in with some subordinates, and
commanded that the prisoners be conducted to the jail-yard.
The King was overjoyed—it would be a blessed thing to see
the blue sky and breathe the fresh air once more. He
fretted and chafed at the slowness of the officers, but his
turn came at last, and he was released from his staple and
ordered to follow the other prisoners with Hendon.
The court or quadrangle was stone-paved, and open to the
sky. The prisoners entered it through a massive archway of
masonry, and were placed in file, standing, with their backs
against the wall. A rope was stretched in front of them, and
they were also guarded by their officers. It was a chill and
lowering morning, and a light snow which had fallen during
the night whitened the great empty space and added to the
general dismalness of its aspect. Now and then a wintry wind
shivered through the place and sent the snow eddying hither
and thither.
In the centre of the court stood two women, chained to posts. A glance
showed the King that these were his good friends. He
shuddered, and said to himself, "Alack, they are not gone
free, as I had thought. To think that such as these should
know the lash!—in England! Ay, there's the shame of it—not
in Heathennesse, Christian England! They will be scourged;
and I, whom they have comforted and kindly entreated, must
look on and see the great wrong done; it is strange, so
strange, that I, the very source of power in this broad
realm, am helpless to protect them. But let these miscreants
look well to themselves, for there is a day coming when I
will require of them a heavy reckoning for this work. For
every blow they strike now, they shall feel a hundred then."
A great gate swung open, and a crowd of citizens poured
in. They flocked around the two women, and hid them from
the King's view. A clergyman entered and passed through the
crowd, and he also was hidden. The King now heard talking,
back and forth, as if questions were being asked and
answered, but he could not make out what was said. Next
there was a deal of bustle and preparation, and much passing
and repassing of officials through that part of the crowd
that stood on the further side of the women; and whilst this
proceeded a deep hush gradually fell upon the people.
Now, by command, the masses parted and fell aside, and
the King saw a spectacle that froze the marrow in his bones.
Faggots had been piled about the two women, and a kneeling
man was lighting them!
The women bowed their heads, and covered their faces with
their hands; the yellow flames began to climb upward among
the snapping and crackling faggots, and wreaths of blue
smoke to stream away on the wind; the clergyman lifted his
hands and began a prayer—just then two young girls came
flying through the great gate, uttering piercing screams,
and threw themselves upon the women at the stake. Instantly
they were torn away by the officers, and one of them was
kept in a tight grip, but the other broke loose, saying she
would die with her mother; and before she could be stopped
she had flung her arms about her mother's neck again. She
was torn away once more, and with her gown on fire. Two or
three men held her, and the burning portion of her gown was
snatched off and thrown flaming aside, she struggling all
the while to free herself, and saying she would be alone in
the world, now; and begging to be allowed to die with her
mother. Both the girls screamed continually, and fought for
freedom; but suddenly this tumult was drowned under a volley
of heart-piercing shrieks of mortal agony—the King glanced
from the frantic girls to the stake, then turned away and
leaned his ashen face against the wall, and looked no more.
He said, "That which I have seen, in that one little
moment, will never go out from my memory, but will abide
there; and I shall see it all the days, and dream of it all
the nights, till I die. Would God I had been blind!"
Hendon was watching the King. He said to himself, with satisfaction,
"His disorder mendeth; he hath changed, and groweth gentler.
If he had followed his wont, he would have stormed at these
varlets, and said he was King, and commanded that the women
be turned loose unscathed. Soon his delusion will pass away
and be forgotten, and his poor mind will be whole again.
God speed the day!"
That same day several prisoners were brought in to remain
over night, who were being conveyed, under guard, to various
places in the kingdom, to undergo punishment for crimes
committed. The King conversed with these—he had made it a
point, from the beginning, to instruct himself for the
kingly office by questioning prisoners whenever the
opportunity offered—and the tale of their woes wrung his
heart. One of them was a poor half-witted woman who had
stolen a yard or two of cloth from a weaver—she was to be
hanged for it. Another was a man who had been accused of
stealing a horse; he said the proof had failed, and he had
imagined that he was safe from the halter; but no—he was
hardly free before he was arraigned for killing a deer in
the King's park; this was proved against him, and now he was
on his way to the gallows. There was a tradesman's
apprentice whose case particularly distressed the King; this
youth said he found a hawk, one evening, that had escaped
from its owner, and he took it home with him, imagining
himself entitled to it; but the court convicted him of
stealing it, and sentenced him to death.
The King was furious over these inhumanities, and wanted Hendon to
break jail and fly with him to Westminster, so that he could
mount his throne and hold out his sceptre in mercy over
these unfortunate people and save their lives. "Poor
child," sighed Hendon, "these woeful tales have brought his
malady upon him again; alack, but for this evil hap, he
would have been well in a little time."
Among these prisoners was an old lawyer—a man with a
strong face and a dauntless mien. Three years past, he had
written a pamphlet against the Lord Chancellor, accusing him
of injustice, and had been punished for it by the loss of
his ears in the pillory, and degradation from the bar, and
in addition had been fined 3,000 pounds and sentenced to
imprisonment for life. Lately he had repeated his offence;
and in consequence was now under sentence to lose WHAT
REMAINED OF HIS EARS, pay a fine of 5,000 pounds, be branded
on both cheeks, and remain in prison for life.
"These be honourable scars," he said, and turned back his
grey hair and showed the mutilated stubs of what had once
been his ears.
The King's eye burned with passion. He said—
"None believe in me—neither wilt thou. But no
matter—within the compass of a month thou shalt be free; and
more, the laws that have dishonoured thee, and shamed the
English name, shall be swept from the statute books. The
world is made wrong; kings should go to school to their own
laws, at times, and so learn mercy." {1}
Chapter XXVIII. The sacrifice.
Meantime Miles was growing sufficiently tired of
confinement and inaction. But now his trial came on, to his
great gratification, and he thought he could welcome any
sentence provided a further imprisonment should not be a
part of it. But he was mistaken about that. He was in a
fine fury when he found himself described as a 'sturdy
vagabond' and sentenced to sit two hours in the stocks for
bearing that character and for assaulting the master of
Hendon Hall. His pretensions as to brothership with his
prosecutor, and rightful heirship to the Hendon honours and
estates, were left contemptuously unnoticed, as being not
even worth examination.
He raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it
did no good; he was snatched roughly along by the officers,
and got an occasional cuff, besides, for his irreverent
conduct.
The King could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed
behind; so he was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from
his good friend and servant. The King had been nearly
condemned to the stocks himself for being in such bad
company, but had been let off with a lecture and a warning,
in consideration of his youth. When the crowd at last
halted, he flitted feverishly from point to point around its
outer rim, hunting a place to get through; and at last,
after a deal of difficulty and delay, succeeded. There sat
his poor henchman in the degrading stocks, the sport and
butt of a dirty mob—he, the body servant of the King of
England! Edward had heard the sentence pronounced, but he
had not realised the half that it meant. His anger began to
rise as the sense of this new indignity which had been put
upon him sank home; it jumped to summer heat, the next
moment, when he saw an egg sail through the air and crush
itself against Hendon's cheek, and heard the crowd roar its
enjoyment of the episode. He sprang across the open circle
and confronted the officer in charge, crying—
"For shame! This is my servant—set him free! I am the—"
"Oh, peace!" exclaimed Hendon, in a panic, "thou'lt
destroy thyself. Mind him not, officer, he is mad."
"Give thyself no trouble as to the matter of minding him,
good man, I have small mind to mind him; but as to teaching
him somewhat, to that I am well inclined." He turned to a
subordinate and said, "Give the little fool a taste or two
of the lash, to mend his manners."
"Half a dozen will better serve his turn," suggested Sir
Hugh, who had ridden up, a moment before, to take a passing
glance at the proceedings.
The King was seized. He did not even struggle, so
paralysed was he with the mere thought of the monstrous
outrage that was proposed to be inflicted upon his sacred
person. History was already defiled with the record of the
scourging of an English king with whips—it was an
intolerable reflection that he must furnish a duplicate of
that shameful page. He was in the toils, there was no help
for him; he must either take this punishment or beg for its
remission. Hard conditions; he would take the stripes—a
king might do that, but a king could not beg.
But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty.
"Let the child go," said he; "ye heartless dogs, do ye not
see how young and frail he is? Let him go—I will take his
lashes."
"Marry, a good thought—and thanks for it," said Sir Hugh,
his face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. "Let the
little beggar go, and give this fellow a dozen in his
place—an honest dozen, well laid on." The King was in the
act of entering a fierce protest, but Sir Hugh silenced him
with the potent remark, "Yes, speak up, do, and free thy
mind—only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he shall
get six strokes the more."
Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and whilst
the lash was applied the poor little King turned away his
face and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks
unchecked. "Ah, brave good heart," he said to himself, "this
loyal deed shall never perish out of my memory. I will not
forget it—and neither shall THEY!" he added, with passion.
Whilst he mused, his appreciation of Hendon's magnanimous
conduct grew to greater and still greater dimensions in his
mind, and so also did his gratefulness for it. Presently he
said to himself, "Who saves his prince from wounds and
possible death—and this he did for me—performs high service;
but it is little—it is nothing—oh, less than nothing!—when
'tis weighed against the act of him who saves his prince
from SHAME!"
Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the
heavy blows with soldierly fortitude. This, together with
his redeeming the boy by taking his stripes for him,
compelled the respect of even that forlorn and degraded mob
that was gathered there; and its gibes and hootings died
away, and no sound remained but the sound of the falling
blows. The stillness that pervaded the place, when Hendon
found himself once more in the stocks, was in strong
contrast with the insulting clamour which had prevailed
there so little a while before. The King came softly to
Hendon's side, and whispered in his ear—
"Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for
One who is higher than kings hath done that for thee; but a
king can confirm thy nobility to men." He picked up the
scourge from the ground, touched Hendon's bleeding shoulders
lightly with it, and whispered, "Edward of England dubs thee
Earl!"
Hendon was touched. The water welled to his eyes, yet at
the same time the grisly humour of the situation and
circumstances so undermined his gravity that it was all he
could do to keep some sign of his inward mirth from showing
outside. To be suddenly hoisted, naked and gory, from the
common stocks to the Alpine altitude and splendour of an
Earldom, seemed to him the last possibility in the line of
the grotesque. He said to himself, "Now am I finely
tinselled, indeed! The spectre-knight of the Kingdom of
Dreams and Shadows is become a spectre-earl—a dizzy flight
for a callow wing! An' this go on, I shall presently be
hung like a very maypole with fantastic gauds and
make-believe honours. But I shall value them, all valueless
as they are, for the love that doth bestow them. Better
these poor mock dignities of mine, that come unasked, from a
clean hand and a right spirit, than real ones bought by
servility from grudging and interested power."
The dreaded Sir Hugh wheeled his horse about, and as he spurred away,
the living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as
silently closed together again. And so remained; nobody
went so far as to venture a remark in favour of the
prisoner, or in compliment to him; but no matter—the absence
of abuse was a sufficient homage in itself. A late comer
who was not posted as to the present circumstances, and who
delivered a sneer at the 'impostor,' and was in the act of
following it with a dead cat, was promptly knocked down and
kicked out, without any words, and then the deep quiet
resumed sway once more.
Chapter XXIX. To London.
When Hendon's term of service in the stocks was finished,
he was released and ordered to quit the region and come back
no more. His sword was restored to him, and also his mule
and his donkey. He mounted and rode off, followed by the
King, the crowd opening with quiet respectfulness to let
them pass, and then dispersing when they were gone.
Hendon was soon absorbed in thought. There were questions of high
import to be answered. What should he do? Whither should
he go? Powerful help must be found somewhere, or he must
relinquish his inheritance and remain under the imputation
of being an impostor besides. Where could he hope to find
this powerful help? Where, indeed! It was a knotty
question. By-and-by a thought occurred to him which pointed
to a possibility—the slenderest of slender possibilities,
certainly, but still worth considering, for lack of any
other that promised anything at all. He remembered what old
Andrews had said about the young King's goodness and his
generous championship of the wronged and unfortunate. Why
not go and try to get speech of him and beg for justice?
Ah, yes, but could so fantastic a pauper get admission to
the august presence of a monarch? Never mind—let that matter
take care of itself; it was a bridge that would not need to
be crossed till he should come to it. He was an old
campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and expedients: no
doubt he would be able to find a way. Yes, he would strike
for the capital. Maybe his father's old friend Sir Humphrey
Marlow would help him—'good old Sir Humphrey, Head
Lieutenant of the late King's kitchen, or stables, or
something'—Miles could not remember just what or which. Now
that he had something to turn his energies to, a distinctly
defined object to accomplish, the fog of humiliation and
depression which had settled down upon his spirits lifted
and blew away, and he raised his head and looked about him.
He was surprised to see how far he had come; the village
was away behind him. The King was jogging along in his
wake, with his head bowed; for he, too, was deep in plans
and thinkings. A sorrowful misgiving clouded Hendon's
new-born cheerfulness: would the boy be willing to go again
to a city where, during all his brief life, he had never
known anything but ill-usage and pinching want? But the
question must be asked; it could not be avoided; so Hendon
reined up, and called out—
"I had forgotten to inquire whither we are bound. Thy
commands, my liege!"
"To London!"
Hendon moved on again, mightily contented with the
answer—but astounded at it too.
The whole journey was made without an adventure of importance. But it
ended with one. About ten o'clock on the night of the 19th
of February they stepped upon London Bridge, in the midst of
a writhing, struggling jam of howling and hurrahing people,
whose beer-jolly faces stood out strongly in the glare from
manifold torches—and at that instant the decaying head of
some former duke or other grandee tumbled down between them,
striking Hendon on the elbow and then bounding off among the
hurrying confusion of feet. So evanescent and unstable are
men's works in this world!—the late good King is but three
weeks dead and three days in his grave, and already the
adornments which he took such pains to select from prominent
people for his noble bridge are falling. A citizen stumbled
over that head, and drove his own head into the back of
somebody in front of him, who turned and knocked down the
first person that came handy, and was promptly laid out
himself by that person's friend. It was the right ripe time
for a free fight, for the festivities of the
morrow—Coronation Day—were already beginning; everybody was
full of strong drink and patriotism; within five minutes the
free fight was occupying a good deal of ground; within ten
or twelve it covered an acre of so, and was become a riot.
By this time Hendon and the King were hopelessly separated
from each other and lost in the rush and turmoil of the
roaring masses of humanity. And so we leave them.
Chapter XXX. Tom's progress.
Whilst the true King wandered about the land poorly clad,
poorly fed, cuffed and derided by tramps one while, herding
with thieves and murderers in a jail another, and called
idiot and impostor by all impartially, the mock King Tom
Canty enjoyed quite a different experience.
When we saw him last, royalty was just beginning to have
a bright side for him. This bright side went on brightening
more and more every day: in a very little while it was
become almost all sunshine and delightfulness. He lost his
fears; his misgivings faded out and died; his embarrassments
departed, and gave place to an easy and confident bearing.
He worked the whipping-boy mine to ever-increasing profit.
He ordered my Lady Elizabeth and my Lady Jane Grey into
his presence when he wanted to play or talk, and dismissed
them when he was done with them, with the air of one
familiarly accustomed to such performances. It no longer
confused him to have these lofty personages kiss his hand at
parting.
He came to enjoy being conducted to bed in state at night, and dressed
with intricate and solemn ceremony in the morning. It came
to be a proud pleasure to march to dinner attended by a
glittering procession of officers of state and
gentlemen-at-arms; insomuch, indeed, that he doubled his
guard of gentlemen-at-arms, and made them a hundred. He
liked to hear the bugles sounding down the long corridors,
and the distant voices responding, "Way for the King!"
He even learned to enjoy sitting in throned state in
council, and seeming to be something more than the Lord
Protector's mouthpiece. He liked to receive great
ambassadors and their gorgeous trains, and listen to the
affectionate messages they brought from illustrious monarchs
who called him brother. O happy Tom Canty, late of Offal
Court!
He enjoyed his splendid clothes, and ordered more: he
found his four hundred servants too few for his proper
grandeur, and trebled them. The adulation of salaaming
courtiers came to be sweet music to his ears. He remained
kind and gentle, and a sturdy and determined champion of all
that were oppressed, and he made tireless war upon unjust
laws: yet upon occasion, being offended, he could turn upon
an earl, or even a duke, and give him a look that would make
him tremble. Once, when his royal 'sister,' the grimly holy
Lady Mary, set herself to reason with him against the wisdom
of his course in pardoning so many people who would
otherwise be jailed, or hanged, or burned, and reminded him
that their august late father's prisons had sometimes
contained as high as sixty thousand convicts at one time,
and that during his admirable reign he had delivered
seventy-two thousand thieves and robbers over to death by
the executioner, {9} the boy was filled with generous
indignation, and commanded her to go to her closet, and
beseech God to take away the stone that was in her breast,
and give her a human heart.
Did Tom Canty never feel troubled about the poor little rightful prince
who had treated him so kindly, and flown out with such hot
zeal to avenge him upon the insolent sentinel at the
palace-gate? Yes; his first royal days and nights were
pretty well sprinkled with painful thoughts about the lost
prince, and with sincere longings for his return, and happy
restoration to his native rights and splendours. But as
time wore on, and the prince did not come, Tom's mind became
more and more occupied with his new and enchanting
experiences, and by little and little the vanished monarch
faded almost out of his thoughts; and finally, when he did
intrude upon them at intervals, he was become an unwelcome
spectre, for he made Tom feel guilty and ashamed.
Tom's poor mother and sisters travelled the same road out
of his mind. At first he pined for them, sorrowed for them,
longed to see them, but later, the thought of their coming
some day in their rags and dirt, and betraying him with
their kisses, and pulling him down from his lofty place, and
dragging him back to penury and degradation and the slums,
made him shudder. At last they ceased to trouble his
thoughts almost wholly. And he was content, even glad:
for, whenever their mournful and accusing faces did rise
before him now, they made him feel more despicable than the
worms that crawl.
At midnight of the 19th of February, Tom Canty was
sinking to sleep in his rich bed in the palace, guarded by
his loyal vassals, and surrounded by the pomps of royalty, a
happy boy; for tomorrow was the day appointed for his solemn
crowning as King of England. At that same hour, Edward, the
true king, hungry and thirsty, soiled and draggled, worn
with travel, and clothed in rags and shreds—his share of the
results of the riot—was wedged in among a crowd of people
who were watching with deep interest certain hurrying gangs
of workmen who streamed in and out of Westminster Abbey,
busy as ants: they were making the last preparation for the
royal coronation.
Chapter XXXI. The Recognition procession.
When Tom Canty awoke the next morning, the air was heavy
with a thunderous murmur: all the distances were charged
with it. It was music to him; for it meant that the English
world was out in its strength to give loyal welcome to the
great day.
Presently Tom found himself once more the chief figure in
a wonderful floating pageant on the Thames; for by ancient
custom the 'recognition procession' through London must
start from the Tower, and he was bound thither.
When he arrived there, the sides of the venerable
fortress seemed suddenly rent in a thousand places, and from
every rent leaped a red tongue of flame and a white gush of
smoke; a deafening explosion followed, which drowned the
shoutings of the multitude, and made the ground tremble; the
flame-jets, the smoke, and the explosions, were repeated
over and over again with marvellous celerity, so that in a
few moments the old Tower disappeared in the vast fog of its
own smoke, all but the very top of the tall pile called the
White Tower; this, with its banners, stood out above the
dense bank of vapour as a mountain-peak projects above a
cloud-rack.
Tom Canty, splendidly arrayed, mounted a prancing
war-steed, whose rich trappings almost reached to the
ground; his 'uncle,' the Lord Protector Somerset, similarly
mounted, took place in his rear; the King's Guard formed in
single ranks on either side, clad in burnished armour; after
the Protector followed a seemingly interminable procession
of resplendent nobles attended by their vassals; after these
came the lord mayor and the aldermanic body, in crimson
velvet robes, and with their gold chains across their
breasts; and after these the officers and members of all the
guilds of London, in rich raiment, and bearing the showy
banners of the several corporations. Also in the
procession, as a special guard of honour through the city,
was the Ancient and Honourable Artillery Company—an
organisation already three hundred years old at that time,
and the only military body in England possessing the
privilege (which it still possesses in our day) of holding
itself independent of the commands of Parliament. It was a
brilliant spectacle, and was hailed with acclamations all
along the line, as it took its stately way through the
packed multitudes of citizens. The chronicler says, 'The
King, as he entered the city, was received by the people
with prayers, welcomings, cries, and tender words, and all
signs which argue an earnest love of subjects toward their
sovereign; and the King, by holding up his glad countenance
to such as stood afar off, and most tender language to those
that stood nigh his Grace, showed himself no less thankful
to receive the people's goodwill than they to offer it. To
all that wished him well, he gave thanks. To such as bade
"God save his Grace," he said in return, "God save you all!"
and added that "he thanked them with all his heart."
Wonderfully transported were the people with the loving
answers and gestures of their King.'
In Fenchurch Street a 'fair child, in costly apparel,' stood on a stage
to welcome his Majesty to the city. The last verse of his
greeting was in these words—
'Welcome, O King! as much as hearts can think;
Welcome, again, as much as tongue can tell,—
Welcome to joyous tongues, and hearts that will not
shrink:
God thee preserve, we pray, and wish thee ever
well.' |
The people burst forth in a glad shout, repeating with
one voice what the child had said. Tom Canty gazed abroad
over the surging sea of eager faces, and his heart swelled
with exultation; and he felt that the one thing worth living
for in this world was to be a king, and a nation's idol.
Presently he caught sight, at a distance, of a couple of
his ragged Offal Court comrades—one of them the lord high
admiral in his late mimic court, the other the first lord of
the bedchamber in the same pretentious fiction; and his
pride swelled higher than ever. Oh, if they could only
recognise him now! What unspeakable glory it would be, if
they could recognise him, and realise that the derided mock
king of the slums and back alleys was become a real King,
with illustrious dukes and princes for his humble menials,
and the English world at his feet! But he had to deny
himself, and choke down his desire, for such a recognition
might cost more than it would come to: so he turned away
his head, and left the two soiled lads to go on with their
shoutings and glad adulations, unsuspicious of whom it was
they were lavishing them upon.
Every now and then rose the cry, "A largess! a largess!" and Tom
responded by scattering a handful of bright new coins abroad
for the multitude to scramble for.
The chronicler says, 'At the upper end of Gracechurch
Street, before the sign of the Eagle, the city had erected a
gorgeous arch, beneath which was a stage, which stretched
from one side of the street to the other. This was an
historical pageant, representing the King's immediate
progenitors. There sat Elizabeth of York in the midst of an
immense white rose, whose petals formed elaborate furbelows
around her; by her side was Henry VII., issuing out of a
vast red rose, disposed in the same manner: the hands of
the royal pair were locked together, and the wedding-ring
ostentatiously displayed. From the red and white roses
proceeded a stem, which reached up to a second stage,
occupied by Henry VIII., issuing from a red and white rose,
with the effigy of the new King's mother, Jane Seymour,
represented by his side. One branch sprang from this pair,
which mounted to a third stage, where sat the effigy of
Edward VI. himself, enthroned in royal majesty; and the
whole pageant was framed with wreaths of roses, red and
white.'
This quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the
rejoicing people, that their acclamations utterly smothered
the small voice of the child whose business it was to
explain the thing in eulogistic rhymes. But Tom Canty was
not sorry; for this loyal uproar was sweeter music to him
than any poetry, no matter what its quality might be.
Whithersoever Tom turned his happy young face, the people
recognised the exactness of his effigy's likeness to
himself, the flesh and blood counterpart; and new whirlwinds
of applause burst forth.
The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one
triumphal arch after another, and past a bewildering
succession of spectacular and symbolical tableaux, each of
which typified and exalted some virtue, or talent, or merit,
of the little King's. 'Throughout the whole of Cheapside,
from every penthouse and window, hung banners and streamers;
and the richest carpets, stuffs, and cloth-of-gold
tapestried the streets—specimens of the great wealth of the
stores within; and the splendour of this thoroughfare was
equalled in the other streets, and in some even surpassed.'
"And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome
me—me!" murmured Tom Canty.
The mock King's cheeks were flushed with excitement, his
eyes were flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of
pleasure. At this point, just as he was raising his hand to
fling another rich largess, he caught sight of a pale,
astounded face, which was strained forward out of the second
rank of the crowd, its intense eyes riveted upon him. A
sickening consternation struck through him; he recognised
his mother! and up flew his hand, palm outward, before his
eyes—that old involuntary gesture, born of a forgotten
episode, and perpetuated by habit. In an instant more she
had torn her way out of the press, and past the guards, and
was at his side. She embraced his leg, she covered it with
kisses, she cried, "O my child, my darling!" lifting toward
him a face that was transfigured with joy and love. The
same instant an officer of the King's Guard snatched her
away with a curse, and sent her reeling back whence she came
with a vigorous impulse from his strong arm. The words "I
do not know you, woman!" were falling from Tom Canty's lips
when this piteous thing occurred; but it smote him to the
heart to see her treated so; and as she turned for a last
glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was swallowing her from his
sight, she seemed so wounded, so broken-hearted, that a
shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to ashes, and
withered his stolen royalty. His grandeurs were stricken
valueless: they seemed to fall away from him like rotten
rags.
The procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting
splendours and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to
Tom Canty they were as if they had not been. He neither saw
nor heard. Royalty had lost its grace and sweetness; its
pomps were become a reproach. Remorse was eating his heart
out. He said, "Would God I were free of my captivity!"
He had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of
the first days of his compulsory greatness.
The shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and
interminable serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint
old city, and through the huzzaing hosts; but still the King
rode with bowed head and vacant eyes, seeing only his
mother's face and that wounded look in it.
"Largess, largess!" The cry fell upon an unheeding ear.
"Long live Edward of England!" It seemed as if the earth
shook with the explosion; but there was no response from the
King. He heard it only as one hears the thunder of the surf
when it is blown to the ear out of a great distance, for it
was smothered under another sound which was still nearer, in
his own breast, in his accusing conscience—a voice which
kept repeating those shameful words, "I do not know you,
woman!"
The words smote upon the King's soul as the strokes of a
funeral bell smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when
they remind him of secret treacheries suffered at his hands
by him that is gone.
New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders,
new marvels, sprang into view; the pent clamours of waiting
batteries were released; new raptures poured from the
throats of the waiting multitudes: but the King gave no
sign, and the accusing voice that went moaning through his
comfortless breast was all the sound he heard.
By-and-by the gladness in the faces of the populace
changed a little, and became touched with a something like
solicitude or anxiety: an abatement in the volume of the
applause was observable too. The Lord Protector was quick
to notice these things: he was as quick to detect the
cause. He spurred to the King's side, bent low in his
saddle, uncovered, and said—
"My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming. The people
observe thy downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take
it for an omen. Be advised: unveil the sun of royalty, and
let it shine upon these boding vapours, and disperse them.
Lift up thy face, and smile upon the people."
So saying, the Duke scattered a handful of coins to right and left,
then retired to his place. The mock King did mechanically
as he had been bidden. His smile had no heart in it, but
few eyes were near enough or sharp enough to detect that.
The noddings of his plumed head as he saluted his subjects
were full of grace and graciousness; the largess which he
delivered from his hand was royally liberal: so the
people's anxiety vanished, and the acclamations burst forth
again in as mighty a volume as before.
Still once more, a little before the progress was ended,
the Duke was obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance.
He whispered—
"O dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humours; the
eyes of the world are upon thee." Then he added with sharp
annoyance, "Perdition catch that crazy pauper! 'twas she
that hath disturbed your Highness."
The gorgeous figure turned a lustreless eye upon the Duke, and said in
a dead voice—
"She was my mother!"
"My God!" groaned the Protector as he reined his horse
backward to his post, "the omen was pregnant with prophecy.
He is gone mad again!"
