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<h4>CHAPTER XXIV.</h4><div class="poem0" style="margin-left:20%"> This hour's the very crisis of your fate: Your good or ill, your infamy or fame, And all the colour of your life depends On this important now.--The Spanish Friar. </div> If any one will look at the almanac for the year 1520, he will find marked, opposite the 4th day of May, the following curious piece of information: "High-water at London Bridge at half-past three;" and, if he calculate rightly, he will discover that as Wolsey set out from what was then called the Cardinal's Bridge[15] at high noon, he had the most favourable tide in the world for carrying him to Richmond. His rowers, too, plied their oars with unceasing activity; and his splendid barge, with its carved and gilded sides, cut rapidly through the water, but still not rapidly enough for his impatience. Siting under an awning, with a table before him, at which was placed a clerk, he sometimes read parts of the various papers that had been presented during the morning, and sometimes dictated to the secretary; but more frequently gave himself up to thought, suffering his mind to range in the wild chaos of political intrigue, which was to him like the labyrinth a man makes in his own garden, in which a stranger might lose his way, but where he himself walks for his ease and pleasure. Not that Wolsey's mind was one that soared above the pains of political life; for his were all the throbbing anxieties of precarious power, his was all the irritation of susceptible pride and insatiable vanity; while jealous envy, avarice, and ambition, at once made the world a desert, and tormented him with unquenchable thirst. No surer road to Wolsey's hatred existed than the king's favour; and since his return to London, though but one evening had passed, yet often had his heart rankled at hearing from those who watched for him in his absence, that a young stranger, named Sir Osborne Maurice, had won the king's regard and become the sharer of all his pleasures. The information given him by Sir Payan Wileton had placed in his hand arms against this incipient rival, as he deemed him, which were sure to crush him; and, with a sort of pride in the conquest he anticipated, he muttered to himself, as he saw the narrowing banks of the river, approaching towards Richmond, "Now, Sir Osborne Maurice! now!" The boat touched the shore; and while the chief yeoman of the barge, as his privilege, supported the arm of the cardinal, the two stout priests bearing the crosses hurried to land with the other attendants, and ranged themselves in order to proceed before him. Two of his running footmen sped on to announce his approach, and the rest, with the form and slowness of a procession, traversed the small space that separated them from the court, reached the gate, and entering the palace, Wolsey, more like an equal prince than a subject, passed towards the king's privy-chamber, amidst the profound bows and reverences of all the royal attendants, collected to do honour to his arrival. Many had been the rumours in the palace during the morning respecting the king's health, and it was generally reported that the accident of the day before had thrown him into a fever. This, however, was evidently not the case; for a little before noon Sir Osborne Maurice had received a message by one of the royal pages, to the effect that at three o'clock the king would expect him in his privy-chamber. That hour had nearly approached, and the young knight was preparing to obey Henry's commands, when a note was put into his hands by Mistress Margaret, the waiting-woman of Lady Constance de Grey. It was a step which Sir Osborne well knew she would not have taken had it not been called for by some particular circumstance, and with some alarm he opened the paper and read-- The lord cardinal is here: remember your promise. Tarry not rashly, if you love Constance. As Wolsey had ever been a declared enemy to his father, and a steady supporter of Sir Payan Wileton, Sir Osborne felt that the prospect was certainly in some degree clouded by his arrival; and while at the court, he had heard enough of the jealousy that the favourite entertained towards all who often approached the king, to make him uneasy with regard to the future. But yet he could not imagine that the regard of Henry would be easily taken from him, nor the service he he had rendered immediately forgotten; and strong in the integrity of his own heart, he would not believe that any serious evil could befall him; yet the warning of Sir Cesar still rung in his ears, and made an impression which he could not overcome. It would be very easy to represent our hero as free from every failing and weakness, even from those of the age he lived in; easy to make him as perfect as ever man was drawn, and more perfect than ever man was known: but then we should be writing a romance, and not a true history. Sir Osborne was not perfect; and living in an age whose weakness it was to believe implicitly in judicial astrology, he shared in that weakness, though but in a degree; and might, indeed, have shared still less, had not the very man who seemed to take such an interest in his fate acquired in the court where he lived a general reputation for almost unerring perception of approaching events. No one that the young knight met, no one that he heard of, doubted for a moment that Sir Cesar possessed knowledge superhuman: to have doubted of the possibility of acquiring such knowledge, would have been in those times a piece of scepticism fully equal in criminality to doubting the sacred truths of religion; and therefore we cannot be surprised that he felt a hesitation, an uneasiness, a sort of presentiment of evil, as he approached the privy chamber of the king. At the door of the ante-chamber, however, he found stationed a page, who respectfully informed him that the king was busy on affairs of state with the cardinal lord chancellor, and that his grace had bade him say, that as soon as he was at leisure he would send for him to his presence. Sir Osborne returned to his own apartment, and after calling for Longpole, walked up and down the room for a moment or two, while some curious, vague feelings of doubt and apprehension passed through his mind. "'Tis very foolish!" said he, at length; "and yet 'tis no harm to be prepared. Longpole, saddle the horses, and have my armour ready. 'Tis no harm to be prepared;" and quitting his own chambers, he turned his steps towards those of Lady Constance, which here, not like the former ones in the palace at Greenwich, were situated at the other extremity of the building. His path led him again past the royal lodgings; and as he went by, Sir Osborne perceived that the page gave entrance to a priest, whose figure was in some degree familiar to his eye. Where he had seen him he did not know; but, however, he staid not to inquire, and proceeded onward to the door of Lady Constance's apartments. One of her women gave him entrance, and he soon reached her sitting-chamber, where he found her calmly engaged in embroidery. But there, also, was good Dr. Wilbraham, who of late had shrewdly begun to suspect a thing that was already more than suspected by half the court; namely, that Sir Osborne Maurice was deeply in love with Constance de Grey, and that the lady was in no degree insensible to his affection. Now, though the good doctor had thought in the first instance that Lady Constance's marriage with Lord Darby would be the very best scheme on earth, he now began to think that the present arrangement would be a great deal better: his reasoning proceeding in the very inverse of Wolsey's, and leading him to conclude that as Lord Darby had quite enough of his own, it would be much better for Lady Constance to repair, with her immense wealth, the broken fortunes of the ancient house of Fitzbernard, and at the same time secure her own happiness by marrying the best and the bravest of men. Notwithstanding all this, he could not at all comprehend, and never for a moment imagined, that either Constance or her lover might in the least wish his absence; and therefore, with great satisfaction at beholding their mutual love, he remained all the time that Sir Osborne dared to stay, and conducted him to the door with that affectionate respect which he always showed towards his former pupil. While the old clergyman stood bidding Sir Osborne farewell, a man habited like a yeoman approached, inquiring for the lodging of Lady Constance de Grey; and on being told that it was before him, he put a folded note into the hands of Dr. Wilbraham, begging him to deliver it to the lady, which the chaplain promised to do. And now, leaving the good clergyman to perform this promise, and Sir Osborne to return to his apartment, somewhat mortified at not having had an opportunity of conversing privately with Constance, even for a moment, we will steal quietly into the privy-chamber of the king, and seating ourselves on a little stool in the corner, observe all that passes between him and his minister. "God save your royal grace!" said Wolsey, as he entered, "and make your people happy in your long and prosperous reign!" "Welcome back again, my good lord cardinal," replied the king; "you have been but a truant of late. We have in many things wanted your good counsel. But your careful letters have been received, and we have to thank you for the renewed quiet of the West Riding." "Happily, your grace, all is now tranquil," replied the cardinal, "and the kingdom within itself blessed with profound peace; but yet, my lord, even when this was accomplished, it was necessary to discover the cause and authors of the evil, that the fire of discord and sedition might be totally extinguished, and not, being only smothered, burst out anew where we least expected it. This has been done, my liege. The authors of all these revolts, the instigators of their fellow-subjects' treason, have been discovered; and if your grace have leisure for such sad business, I will even now crave leave to lay before you the particulars of a most daring plot, which, through the activity of good Sir Payan Wileton, I have been enabled to detect." "Without there!" cried the king, somewhat impatiently. "See that we are not interrupted. Tell Sir Osborne Maurice that we will send for him when we are free. Sit, sit, my Wolsey!" he continued. "Now, by the holy faith, it grieves me to hear such things! I had hoped that, tranquillity being restored, I should have sped over to France to meet my royal brother Francis, with nothing but joy upon my brow. However, you are thanked, my good lord, for your zeal and for your diligence. We must not let the poisonous root of treason spread, lest it grow too great a tree to be hewn down. Who are these traitors? Ha! Have you good proof against them?" "Such proof, my liege, that, however willing I be to doubt, uncertainty, the refuge of hope, is denied me, and I must needs believe. When we have nourished anything with our grace, fostered it with kindly care, taught it to spread and become great, heaped it with favours, loaded it with bounty, we naturally hope that, having sowed all these good things, our crop will be rich in gratitude and love; but sorry I am to say, that your grace's royal generosity has fallen upon a poisoned soil, and that Edward Duke of Buckingham, who might well believe himself the most favoured man in the realm, now proves himself an arrant traitor." "By heaven!" cried the king, "I have lately much doubted of his loyalty. He has, as you once before made me observe, much absented himself from the court, keeping, as I hear, an almost royal state in the counties; and lately, on the pretence that he is sick, that his physicians command him quiet, he refuses to accompany us to Guisnes. I fear me, I fear me, 'tis his loyalty is sick. But let me hear your reasons, my good lord cardinal. Fain would I still behold him with an eye of favour; for he is in many things a noble and a princely peer, and by nature richly endowed with all the shining qualities both of the body and the mind. 'Tis sad, indeed 'tis sad, that such a man should fall away and lose his high renown! But your reasons, Wolsey! Give me the history." It were needless in this place to recapitulate all that we have seen, in the last chapter, advanced by Sir Payan Wileton to criminate the Duke of Buckingham. Suffice it that Wolsey related to the king the very probable tale that had been told him by the knight: namely, that Buckingham, aspiring to the throne, affected an undue degree of popularity with the commons, and by his secret agents rendered them dissatisfied with the existing government, exciting them to various tumults and revolts, of which he cited many an instance; and that, still further, he had contrived to introduce one of the most active agents of his treason into the court, and near to the king's own person. "Whom do you aim at?" cried the king. "Quick! give me his name. I know of no such person. All about me are men of trust." "Alas! no, my liege," answered Wolsey: "the man I mean calls himself Sir Osborne Maurice." "Ha!" cried Henry, starting; and then, after thinking for a moment, he burst into a fit of laughter. "Nay, nay, my good Wolsey," he said, shaking his head: "nay, nay, nay; Sir Osborne saved my life no longer ago than yesterday, which looks not like treason;" and he related to the cardinal the accident that had befallen him while hawking. Wolsey was somewhat embarrassed; but he replied, "We often see that, taken by some sudden accident, men act not as they proposed to do; and there is such a nobility in your grace's nature, that he must be a hardened traitor indeed who could see you in danger, and not by mere impulse hasten to save you. Perhaps such may have been the case with this Sir Osborne, or perhaps his master's schemes may not yet be ripe for execution: at all events, my liege, doubt not that he is a most assured traitor." "I cannot believe it!" cried Henry, striking the table with his hand. "I will not believe it! By heaven! the very soul of honour sparkles in his eye! But your proofs, lord cardinal! your proofs! I will not have such things advanced against my faithful subjects, without full and sufficient evidence." The more eagerness that Henry showed in defending his young friend, the more obnoxious did Sir Osborne become to Wolsey, and he laid before the king, one by one, the deposition of Wilson, Sir Payan's bailiff; several letters which Buckingham had written in favour of the young knight; and lastly, the duke's letter to Sir Thomas Morton, where, either by a forgery of Sir Payan Wileton's, or by some strange chance, it appeared that Sir Osborne Maurice had promised that within a year the duke's head should be the highest in the realm. While he read, Henry's brow knit into a heavy frown, and, biting his lip, he went back to the beginning, and again read over the papers. "Cardinal," said he, at length, "bid the page seek Pace, my secretary, and ask him for the last letter from the Duke of Buckingham." Wolsey obeyed; and, while waiting for the return of the page, Henry remained with his eyes averted, as if in deep thought, beating the papers with his fingers, and gnawing his lip in no very placable mood; while the cardinal wisely abstained from saying a word, leaving the irritation of the king's mind to expend itself, without calling it upon himself. As soon as the letter was brought, Henry laid it side by side with those that Wolsey had placed before him, and seemed to compare every word, every syllable, to ascertain the identity of the handwriting. "True, by my life!" cried he, casting down the papers. "The writing is the same; and now, my lord cardinal, what have you farther to say? Are there any farther proofs, ha?" "Were there none other, your grace," replied Wolsey, "than the duke's handwriting, and the deposition of a disinterested and respectable witness, who can have no enmity whatever against this Sir Osborne Maurice, and who probably never saw him but on the two occasions he mentions, I think it would be quite sufficient to warrant your grace in taking every measure of precaution. But there is another witness, whom, indeed, I have not seen, but who can give evidence, I understand, respecting the conduct of the person accused towards the Rochester rioters. Knowing how much your grace's wisdom passeth that of the best in the realm, I have dared to have this witness (a most honourable priest) brought hither, hoping that the exigency of the case might lead you to examine him yourself, when, perhaps, your royal judgment may elicit more from him than others could do." "You have done wisely, my good lord cardinal," replied Henry, whose first irritation had now subsided. "Let him be called, and bid your secretary take down his deposition, for 'tis not fitting that mine be so employed." At the command of Wolsey, one of the pages went instantly to seek the priest, who, by the care and despatch of Sir Payan, had been sent down with all speed, and was now waiting with the cardinal's attendants in no small surprise and agitation, not being able to conceive why he was thus hurried from one place to another, and breathing also with some degree of alarm in the unwonted atmosphere of a court. On being ushered into the royal presence, the worthy man fell down upon both his knees before Henry, and, clasping his hands, prayed for a blessing on his head with such fervour and simplicity that the monarch was both pleased and amused. "Rise, rise, good man!" said the king, holding out his hand for him to kiss: "we would speak with you on a business of import. Nay, do not be alarmed. We know your worth, and purpose to reward you. Place yourself here, master secretary, and take down his replies. Sit, my good lord cardinal; we beg you to be seated." As soon as Wolsey had taken a low seat near the king, and the secretary, kneeling on one before the table, was prepared to write, Henry again proceeded, addressing the priest, who stood before him the picture of a disquieted spirit. "Say, do you know one Sir Osborne Maurice?" demanded the king. "Yes, surely, please your royal grace," replied the priest. "At least that was the name which his attendants gave to the noble and courageous knight that saved me from the hands of the Rochester shipwrights." "First," said Wolsey, "give us your name, and say how you came to fall into the hands of these rebellious shipwrights." "Alas! your grace," answered the priest, "I am a poor priest of Dartford, my name John Timeworthy; and hearing that these poor misguided men at Rochester were in open rebellion against the government, from lack of knowledge and spiritual teaching, I resolved to go down amongst them and preach to them peace and submission. I will not stay to say how and where I found them; but getting up upon a bench that stood hard by, under an apple-tree, I gathered them round me like a flock of sheep, and began my discourse, saying, 'Woe! woe! woe! Woe unto ye, shipwrights of Rochester, that you should arm yourselves against the king's grace! You are like children, that must fain eat hot pudding, and burn their mouths withal; for ye will cry, and ye will cry, till the sword fall upon you; and then, when Lord Thomas comes down with his men-at-arms, ye will turn about and fly; and the spears will stick in your hinder parts, and ye shall be put to shame: for though he have but hundreds, and ye have thousands, his are all men of the bow and of the spear, and ye know no more of either than a jackass does of the harp and psaltery.' And thereupon, your grace, they that I took for strayed sheep showed themselves to be a pack of ravening wolves, for they haled me down from the bench, and beat me unmercifully, and putting a halter round my neck, led me along to hang me up, as they vowed, in sight of Rochester Castle; when, just as they were dragging me along, more dead than alive, across a little green, the knight, Sir Osborne Maurice, came up, and, as I said, rescued me; and for a surety he is a brave and generous knight, and well deserving your grace's favour." "By my faith, I have always thought so," said Henry. "What say you now, cardinal? Question him yourself, man." Wolsey eagerly snatched at the permission, for he plainly saw that the matter was not proceeding to his wish. "Pray, my good Master Timeworthy," said he, "how was it that this Sir Osborne rescued you? Did he put his lance in rest, and charge the whole multitude, and deliver you from their hands?" "Not so! not so!" cried the priest. "He did far more wisely, for there would have been much blood spilt; but he sent forward one, who seemed to be his shield-bearer, who shook hands with the chief of the rioters, and spoke him fair; and then the knight came forward himself, and spoke to him; and the chief of the rioters cried with a loud voice to his people, that this was not Lord Thomas, as they had thought, but a friend and well-beloved of the good Duke of Buckingham; and it was wonderful how soon the eloquence of that young man worked upon the multitude, and made them let me go. He was, indeed, a youth of a goodly presence, and fair to look upon, and had something noble and commanding in his aspect; and his words moved the rioters in the twinkling of an eye, and made them wholly change their purpose." Henry's brow, which had cleared during the former part of the priest's narration, now grew doubly dark and cloudy; and he muttered to himself, "Too clear! too clear!" while Wolsey proceeded to question the priest more closely. "Indeed, your grace," replied he, in answer to the cardinal's more minute questions, "I can tell you no more than I have told; for, as I said, I was more dead than alive all the time, till they gave me up to the knight, and did not hear half that passed." "And what did you remark after you were with the knight?" demanded Wolsey. "Was there no particular observation made on the whole transaction?" "Not that I can call to mind," answered the priest. "All I remember is, that they seemed a very merry party, and laughed and joked about it; which I, being frightened, thought almost wicked, God forgive me! for it was all innocency and high blood of youth." "Well, sir," said Wolsey, "you may go. Go with him, secretary; and see that he be well tended, but allowed to have speech of no one." The priest and the secretary withdrew in silence; and no sooner were they gone, than, abandoning his kingly dignity, Henry started from his seat, and strode up and down the room in one of those fits of passion which, even then, would sometimes take possession of him. At length, stopping opposite Wolsey, who stood up the moment the king rose, he struck the table with his clenched hand. "He shall die!" cried he; "by heaven, he shall die! Let him be attached, my Wolsey." "My sergeant-at-arms is with me, your grace," replied the cardinal, "and shall instantly execute your royal will. Better arrest him directly, lest he fear and take flight." "Whom mean you?" cried the king. "Ha! I say attach Edward Bohun, Duke of Buckingham." "In regard to the Duke of Buckingham, my liege," replied Wolsey, less readily than he had before spoken, "will you take into your royal consideration whether it may not be better to suffer him to proceed a while with his treasonous schemes? for I question if the evidence we have at present against him would condemn him with the peers." "But he is a traitor," cried Henry; "an evident traitor; and, by my faith! shall suffer a traitor's death." "Most assuredly he is a black and heinous traitor," answered Wolsey. "And yet your grace will think what a triumph it would be for him if his peers should pronounce him innocent. He has store of friends among them. Far better let him proceed yet a while, and, with our eyes upon him, watch every turn of his dark plot, and seize him in the midst, when we shall have such proof that even his kindred must, for very shame, pronounce his guilt. In the mean time, I will ensure that he be so strictly guarded that he shall have power to do no evil." "You are right, my Wolsey; you are right!" cried the king, seating himself, and laying his hand upon the papers; "let it be conducted as you say. But see that he escape not, for his ingratitude adds another shade to what is black itself. As to this Sir Osborne Maurice, 'tis a noble spirit perverted by that villain Buckingham. I have seen and watched the seeds of many virtues in him." "It must be painful, then, for your grace to command his arrest," said Wolsey; "and yet he is so near your royal person, and his treason is so manifest, that the very love of your subjects requires that he should suffer death." "And yet," replied Henry, fixing his eye upon the cardinal, and speaking emphatically; "and yet, even now I feel the warm blood of the English kings flowing lightly in my veins, which but for him would have been cold and motionless: and shall I take his life that has saved mine? No, Wolsey, no! It must not be! He has been misled, but is not wicked." "Still, your grace's justice requires," said Wolsey (pardon me my boldness), "that he should undergo his trial. Then, if condemned, comes in your royal mercy to save him; saying to him, You are judged for having been a traitor, you are pardoned for having saved your king." "But be assured, my Wolsey," replied Henry, "that if his trial were to take place now, the great traitor Buckingham will take alarm, and either endeavour to do away all evidence of his treason, or take to flight and shelter himself from justice." "No need that his trial be immediate," answered the cardinal; "if your grace permits, he shall be committed privately to the Tower, and there await your return from France; by which time, depend on it, the Duke of Buckingham will have given further tokens of his mad ambition, and both may be tried together. Then let the greater traitor suffer and the lesser find grace, so that your royal justice and your clemency be equally conspicuous." "Be it so, then," said the king; "though in truth, good cardinal, it grieves me to lose this youth. He is, without exception, the best lance in Christendom, and would have done our realm much credit in our journey to France: I say it grieves me! Ay, heartily it grieves me!" "Nay, your grace," said Wolsey, "you will doubtless find a thousand as good as he." "Not so! not so, lord cardinal!" cried Henry; "these are things not so easily acquired as you churchmen think. I never saw a better knight. When his lance breaks in full course, you shall behold his hand as steady as if it held a straw: nor knee, nor thigh, nor heel shall shake; and when the toughest ash splinters upon his casque, he shall not bend even so much as a strong oak before a summer breeze. But his guilt is clear, so the rest is all nought." "Then I have your grace's commands," said Wolsey, "to commit him to the Tower. He shall be attached directly by the sergeant-at-arms, and sent down by the turn of the tide." "Hold, hold!" cried the king; "not to-night, good Wolsey. Before we fly our hawk we cry the heron up, and he shall have the same grace. To-morrow, if he be still found, arrest him where you will; but for to-night he is safe, nor must his path be dogged. He shall have free and fair start, mark me, till tomorrow at noon; then slip your greyhounds on him, if you please." "But, your grace," cried Wolsey, "if you let him----" "It is my will," said the king, his brow darkening. "Who shall contradict it? Ha! See that it be obeyed exactly, my lord!" "It shall, your grace," said Wolsey, bending his head with a profound inclination. "Your will is law to all your faithful servants; but only let your noble goodness attribute to my deep love for your royal person the fear I have that this traitorous agent of a still greater traitor may be tempted in despair, if he find that he is discovered, to attempt some heinous crime against your grace." "Fear not, man! fear not!" replied the king. "He, that when he might have let me die, risked his own life to save mine, will never arm his hand against me: I fear not, cardinal. So be you at ease. But return to London; see that Buckingham be closely watched; and be sure that no preparation be wanting for the meeting with Francis of France. Be liberal, be liberal, lord cardinal! I would not that the nobles of France should say they had more gold than we. Let everything be abundant, be rich, and in its flush of newness; and as to Sir Osborne Maurice, arrest him to-morrow, if he be still here. Let him be fairly tried, and if he come out pure, well. Yet still, if he be condemned, his own life shall be given him as a reward for mine. However, till tomorrow let it rest. It is my will!" Though Wolsey would have been better pleased to have had the knight safely in the Tower, yet, even in case of his making his escape before the next morning, his great object was gained, that of banishing from the court for ever one whose rapid progress in the king's regard bade fair, with time, to leave every one behind in favour. He therefore ceased to press the king upon the subject, especially as he saw, by many indubitable signs, that Henry was in one of those imperious moods which would bear no opposition. A few subjects of less import still remained to be discussed, but the monarch bore these so impatiently, that Wolsey soon ceased to importune him upon them; and resolving to reserve all further business for some more auspicious day, he rose, and taking leave with one of those refined, yet high-coloured, compliments which no man was so capable of justly tempering as himself, he left the royal presence, and proceeded to another part of the palace on business whose object is intimately allied to the present history, as we shall see hereafter. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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