Chapter XXIV: At Greenwich

IT was a pleasant meal that was served in Sir Harry Guildford's keeping-room,—a meal rather more stately and ceremonious than at Woodstock, where Sir Miles kept up the old fashion of having all his household servants gathered at the same board. Here at Greenwich, however, it had been found more convenient to follow the usage set by the Court lately, and only his own family and friends sat down to dinner now in the Guildford household. As soon as the dishes were set on the table, the servants left the room, until they were again required; and by this means the family could talk more freely than they could have done with servants present. There was a good deal of pleasant chitchat, from which Lady Paton learned that the practical outcome of the more general reading of the New Testament by the people, was different from that which had taken place among them at quiet Woodstock.

Queen Anne Boleyn had made herself very popular, and the upper classes of society had been ready enough to adopt the more quiet and sedate fashion in dress she had introduced. Lady Paton heard, to her surprise, that nearly every one had adopted this fashion, unless they wished to proclaim to the world that they still adhered to the old form of faith.

This, however, was growing dangerous now, for it implied that they did not acknowledge the King's right to assume the headship of the Church, which, springing as it did out of Henry's determination to get rid of his first queen, that he might marry Ann Boleyn, had caused a good deal of strife and bitterness, even among private friends and relatives.

"I often wish we could have the old times back again," said Lady Guildford, speaking to Cicely in an undertone. "Your father and many others say that to be able to read God's Word in peace, and without fear, is worth all the cost. But I do not know; I am only a witless woman, of course, but when I think of your sister Maud," and Lady Guildford shook her head sadly as she mentioned her younger daughter's name.

"What is it, mother? What is the matter?" asked Lady Paton. "You told me Maud was well, and that we should see her, and her husband, too, before the end of the day."

"Yes; but I thought they would have been at this meal with us. I sent to tell her you were coming, as soon as your messenger arrived, and she sent word that she should follow shortly, but she has not come, and I fear that it is her husband that has hindered it."

"But—but why should he?" asked Cicely.

Her mother could not say, "Because he now deems your marriage unlawful, and would not let his wife meet you at all if he could help it." But Lady Paton had an inkling of this, when her mother told her how passionately Mr. Marvin had taken up the cause of Queen Catherine, and how the King's divorce had divided people, and severed friendships that nothing else could have touched.

"I do not wonder at it," said Lady Paton. "My dear mistress was a good woman, and a faithful wife, and why should she be set aside for my Lady Anne?"

"Hush, hush, my child! You must not talk like that, or you will bring us all into trouble with the Vicar-General," said Lady Guildford, in a tone of suppressed terror, as she stealthily looked round the room to make sure that no servant was present to hear the dangerous words. "We cannot trust one of them," she whispered, "now that we know the ways of the Vicar-General and his agents. Times are hard, and taxes are heavy; and who can wonder that the witless knaves and wenches are glad to earn a groat by repeating what you or I may say. They are told no harm will happen through it, the King only wants to know what his people think, that he may please them so the little bits of gossip are reported to the spies, and in crafty hands are woven into a rope that will presently move the headsman's axe; and here we are living close to this terrible peril."

"Oh, my mother! Why should you stay here, then? Why not come and live with us, or at Oxford? Ask father to retire from the Court at once," said Lady Paton.

Her mother shook her head. "To do that would inevitably bring trouble. Your father is a favourite with the King, and, because of that, we dare not think of retiring from his service; for it would certainly bring down suspicion if we only asked to be allowed to give up this service. I tell you, the King is not the good-tempered easy-going man he once was. It is whispered, too, that he is growing tired of the new queen. She brought him a daughter—the little Lady Elizabeth—which disappointed him, and he will put her away somehow." This was said in a whisper, for fear a servant should enter the room unawares; but the lady wanted to convince her daughter, that it would not be safe for them to rouse the anger of the King, that she might not urge her father to retire from the Court.

When the meal was concluded, Sir Harry said: "Now I have something to show you. I have made myself a withdrawing-room, somewhat after the pattern of one at the Palace. I never allow a servant to enter it, for I have to write for the King many things that are private." As he spoke Sir Harry led the way to a distant wing of the house, and admitted them to a room on the upper floor.

Instead of being hung with arras, behind which listeners could conceal themselves, this room was hung with stamped leather, lined with a thick padding of wool, that was securely fastened to the walls; and, when they had entered, an overlapping piece was drawn over the door, so that no one could hear a word that passed within.

Lady Guildford breathed a sigh of relief as the door was secured. "Now we can talk freely and without fear," she said.

"Is it possible that such a room as this is necessary in a gentleman's private house here in England?" said Sir Miles Paton, in a serious tone. "Of course I have heard of such rooms being needful in Italy and other outlandish places, but—"

"Aye, but our Vicar-General has lived in Italy, and seems to have brought many of the Italian methods with him to govern our English folk," answered Sir Harry.

"But the Parliament?" said Sir Miles. "I know my master, the Cardinal, would fain have governed the kingdom without the help of Parliaments, but the want of money for the King's wars and pleasures compelled him to summon them; and is not Parliament defence enough?"

Sir Harry shook his head. "Wolsey hated the Parliament and all its ways, but Master Cromwell has now gone a step further, and made the Parliament a means to do his will, and crush out all that remains of English liberty."

"And yet this same man has given to the English people the right to read God's Word in their own tongue! I cannot understand it," said Sir Miles Paton.

"Aye, I trow many are puzzled by Thomas Cromwell's doings. He has been everything by turns,—from a mercenary in the army of Italy to the man next in power to the King of England, whom he has made equal to the Pope in all matters of faith and belief, and absolute ruler in Church and State. No other king in this realm has ever dared to assume such power as our present lord; and with this growing power he grows more evil, and arrogant, and selfish every day."

At this moment a knocking was heard at the door, and Sir Harry went to open it. "It is Maud, I trow," he said, and it was Dame Marvin who entered the room as soon as the door was unlocked. Lady Paton rose and hurried forward to meet her sister, but the younger lady drew back, and held up her hand as if to ward off a blow, while she said, in a piteous tone,—

"I cannot help it, mother; I may not touch you, dear Cicely, and yet my heart aches to throw my arms round you as in the old days. Oh, mother, mother!" and the young matron threw herself into her mother's arms, to seek relief in tears there.

Lady Paton sank back in her seat with a gasp, while her husband looked on in amazement.

"I feared it might be thus," muttered Sir Harry, and he turned to Sir Miles to explain. "You see, when Maud married Walter Marvin the King's divorce was only being talked about, and he, like many others, could make a joke of the matter, never supposing it would be carried out. He was as much interested in the study of Tyndale's Testament as we were in those days, and we all supposed we should be of one heart and one mind in matters of faith. But the divorce of Queen Catherine seemed to set men by the ears, and Walter Marvin took up her quarrel, until we feared he would bring himself to the Tower if he did not moderate his zeal on her behalf."

"She has been shamefully treated, father," protested Cicely.

"We all admit that, but still it was the King's will that she should be put away, and if our present Queen, the Lady Anne Boleyn, had refused his suit, it would have made little difference. But now that all trouble is over for Queen Catherine, surely we may cease to quarrel about the wrongs she suffered."

"All trouble over?" repeated Lady Paton. "What do you mean, father? Surely my dear mistress is not dead?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed her sister and mother in the same breath, "Queen Catherine died early in January of this year of grace 1536."

"Why, I sent my last letter to you by the King's messenger, who was sent with the news to Oxford," remarked Sir Harry.

"But we have had no letter from you," said Sir Miles, quickly. "No letters have reached us from London or Greenwich since Oxford Autumn Fair—more than six months ago—and Cicely and I had grown anxious concerning you, seeing no answer came to our letters."

"I have had no letter from you since last summer, and would fain have journeyed to see how it fared with you all, if my duties at Court would have suffered me to be absent. But I am never sure that the King will not need my service at any moment, for he grows more impetuous and impatient every day, and none would dare to say to him: 'Guildford hath departed on a journey,' if he should call for me."

"The King's service is no light burden, I trow," said Sir Miles; "but what of our letters, my father?" he asked.

"They are doubtless safe in the hands of one of Cromwell's agents, to be brought forward against one or other of us, if ever we should be caught tripping in word or deed in any matter concerning the King's supremacy."

"And it is really true, my father, that the Queen, my mistress, is dead," said Cicely with a sigh. "I wonder whether she ever forgave me for leaving the convent and embracing a secular life," she added.

"You had no choice in the matter, sweetheart," said her husband, with a smile, thinking of her rescue in the streets of Oxford.

"I am afraid I was only too willing to be taken captive, and hidden by you," answered his wife with a smile.

"Aye! You may have been the first novice in England to break her vows concerning the monastic life, but there have been many since, I trow, who have gladly followed in your steps; for this breaking up of the monasteries and convents has been hard and cruel to the helpless women folk who have lived a sheltered life."

"Aye, we have heard of this," said Sir Miles, "for many of the monks have come to us asking for a piece of bread, and this has increased the numbers of beggars enormously."

"Yes, and this is done in the name of the Reformation, and makes good men like Walter Marvin say they detest it," put in Lady Guildford, who was always trying to find some excuse for her younger daughter's husband when she was present.

"Aye, it is all very well, good dame, to try and find excuses for Master Walter Marvin," said Sir Harry, "but there is another side to that question, and none can deny that these monks and nuns lived an idle, useless, often vicious life, caring neither for God nor man. The Parliament would not have presented the picture they did, in their petition to the King that helped on this royal supremacy, if the clergy at large, and the monks in particular, had led clean, honest lives,—doing their duty to their fellows. Look at the rules passed by Convocation, and at the command of the bishops, for the guidance of the clergy and reformation of the Church. It was decreed that priests should no longer keep shops or taverns, play at dice or other forbidden games, pass the night in suspected places, be present at disreputable shows, go about with sporting-dogs, or go about with hawks, falcons, and other birds of prey on their wrists. If a priest is found doing any of these things now, he is liable to be fined; but there is very little change as yet, and with such a clergy how are the people to be instructed in the Word of God?" asked Sir Harry.

But Lady Paton and her sister were not so interested in public affairs. They had not met for some years, and now, as Maud pathetically said, if she dare not kiss her sister she could talk to her; and so the sisters drew aside, and Lady Paton told her all about her children, and how both the elder ones had been taught to read the New Testament, and commit portions of it to memory.

"I taught them when we were obliged to keep the books hidden away, for fear of the friars and monks, for the precious Word of God had done so much for Miles and me, that we were resolved our children should be taught its precious truths as soon as they could understand anything about it."

"But you had to take them to church; and people are saying now that all the old service is idolatry. How did you manage about the Mass?"

"Ah! that was a difficulty; not only for our children, but for our people too, until I thought it over, and prayed God to guide and teach us what to say, though I think Sister Margery helped me to the thought a great deal. Of course many of our poor people know bitterly the want of bread. If only they had bread to eat they used to think themselves rich, they have said to me; and so I told them that the piece of bread that the priest lifted up in the Mass, was to remind them that Christ was to be to their souls what bread was to their bodies. And I believe this was the first meaning that men attached to the elevation of the Host, and that they had no intention of worshipping it as they have come to do; but the first meaning being lost sight of in course of time, all the rest about transubstantiation has followed and corrupted it."

"Oh, that dreadful word," sighed Maud. "That is what the fight rages over; and men and women have been burned at Smithfield, after being terribly tortured, because they said the Mass was idolatry, and because they would not bow to the Host. Oh, Cicely, if your thought is right, why don't the reformers teach the people to think of it in your way, and stop all this terrible suffering?"

But Lady Paton could only shake her head doubtfully. "How do I know what would be right for wise and learned men to teach? You see, Miles had set himself to create a little Utopia by the help of God, and what he could learn from His Word. And what we set ourselves to teach our poor people was to do to one another as they would have their neighbours do to them if they changed places. Miles said when we had got them to learn and live this first rule, we might find time for the next, but our people are slow to learn it, and so we have had no time to think of the things that may come after. Margery and I have taught, or tried to teach them that Christ, as He is shown in the New Testament, is as real as the bread held out by the priest, and so we have made the Mass a help to them as far as we could. Of course we are always very busy, for we make our ploughs as well as use them, and build our looms to weave the wool in the winter time, so that there is little time for questioning this and that. Our dear Margery has most time for thought, and she is really our household priest, and God teaches her through His Word, and gives her many helpful thoughts, which she gives to Miles, and me, and the children; and they are always helpful, happy thoughts, fitted to help us in the place we are living, and not great, high thoughts that could only be useful in London, or here at the Court of Placentia, where grave, learned men meet to talk over affairs of State."

"Dear Margery! I wish we could all have a household priest like her. Now, it seems to me she has the true vocation for a religious life, and I used to think when I was staying with you that if Margery had been in your place she would not have left the convent, even for Miles."

But Cicely laughed aloud at her sister's suggestion. "Why, Margery would never hear of being a nun," she said; "she has told me that her mother asked her more than once if she would like to join the sisterhood at the convent near Woodstock. But Margery said she was always too fond of minding other people's business for them, ever to be content with a nun's life; and she says if she could have chosen, she could not have had a happier life than she has now, for with Miles, and me, and the children, and the village folk, who bring all their troubles to her, she always has her hands full, and plenty to think about and plan for, when she is obliged to lie still on her couch for days together. This active life is good for her too, Miles says, for she is stronger and better able to walk about with her stick than ever she was before. And Aunt Margery's room is the choicest, and sweetest, and best in the house, where Miles and I get rested if we are tired and cross. Oh, no, the world could never get on without our Margery—at least our busy little world could not," added Lady Paton.