“ah, would we but only leave
all things to our father!
would we only cease to grieve,
wait his mercy rather!
meek resigning childish choice,
graceless, thankless pressing—
listen for his gentle voice,
‘child, receive this blessing!’
faithless, foolish hearts! see you
seeds’ earth-hidden growing?
what our god for us will do,
he himself is knowing.”
it was on the 4th of november 1555, that annis holland came home from spain. queen juana was dead, and she had no longer any tie to a country in which she had certainly not been happy.
“please it you, mistress!” said ursula’s voice at the chamber door, where isoult sat sewing.
“well, ursula?” replied her mistress.
“mistress holland would have speech of you, mistress,” said she.
of course isoult supposed her visitor to be roger holland’s wife, and thanked god in her heart that she was better off than bessy; but she came down into the chamber—not to see bessy. on another face her eyes lighted, and a cry of gladness broke from her.
“what, annis!”
when the first welcomings were over, and they sat down again, isoult thought she saw a grave, sad look on annis’ face that was not wont to be there.
“i trusted to have seen thee home ere this, dear annis,” she said, “for we heard that the queen thy mistress was dead, and i thought thou wouldst not be like to tarry yonder.”
“ay,” she said, sadly. “she is gone to god; and laud be to him for it! no, isoult, i had no mind to abide there.”
she shuddered, as with very horror, so that isoult answered—“methinks, sweet heart, thy lord marquis of denia could be no worser than bishop gardiner.”
“there be eviller things in spain than even he is,” said she, and shook her head.
“and where wilt thou go, annis?” asked isoult, “for my lady’s grace of suffolk is out of this kingdom. i would have loved dearly to have thee hither till thou mightest fit thyself with a service, but verily all my chambers be full filled, and i would not lodge thee in the nursery, where be already esther and the childre, except for a short space.”
a little smile played about the lips of annis.
“isoult,” she said, “after all i have said and writ touching spain (and in good sooth may yet say and write), i fear thou shalt think me a marvellous contrarious maid, if i own to thee that i am about to wed a spanish gentleman.”
“well,” answered her friend, “that hangeth upon the spanish gentleman’s particular.”
“truth,” replied she; “and if i did not verily believe the grace of god to be in his heart, trust me, isoult, i would never have him.”
“but wilt thou, then, go back to dwell in spain?”
“god forbid!” cried she, heartily.
“i am afeard, sweet heart,” suggested isoult, “thou shalt find this country little better. there be nigh every week burnings some whither.”
“o isoult, isoult!” cried she, vehemently. “there may be any thing of horrible and evil; but that all were not so much as worthy to be cast into the scale against the inquisition!”
“well,” said she, “i have not dwelt there as thou hast; but i have dwelt here these last three years, the which thou hast not. but who, prithee, is thy servant (suitor)? he is not in the king’s house, trow?”
“no, nor like to be,” said annis. “it is don juan de alameda, brother’s son to doña isabel, of whom i writ to thee.”
“thou wrotest marvellous little to me, annis,” said isoult, smilingly.
“nay, i writ twice in every year, as i promised,” answered she.
“then know thou,” said isoult, “that i never had those thy letters, saving two, which were (as i judge) the first thou didst write, and one other, two years gone or more, writ on the 14th day of august.”
“i writ thee three beside them,” answered she. “i suppose they were lost at sea, or maybe they lie in the coffers of the inquisition. any way, let them be now. i thank god i am come safe out of that land, where, if any whither, satan hath his throne.”
“then,” said dr thorpe, who had come in while she was speaking, “he must have two; for i am assured there is one set up at westminster, nor is he oft away from it.”
annis passed the rest of the day with isoult, and don juan came in the evening to escort her to the inn where she was staying.
“i must needs allow don juan a very proper gentleman, and right fair in his ways; but i would annis’ husband had been an englishman. i feel not to trust any spaniard at all,” said isoult, after annis was gone.
“why,” said marguerite rose, “they are like us women. some of the good ones may be very good; but all the bad ones be very bad indeed.”
austin bernher brought full news of the death of ridley and latimer. isoult asked especially “if they had great suffering, and if they abode firm in the truth.”
“to the abiding firm,” said he, “yea, firm as the mount zion, that standeth fast for ever. for the suffering, it seemed me that my dear master suffered nothing at all, but with dr ridley (i sorrow to say it) it was far otherwise. but hearken, and you shall wit all.
“the night afore they suffered, dr ridley was very pleasant at supper, and bade them all that were at the table to his wedding; ‘for,’ saith he, ‘i must be married to-morrow. and though my breakfast be somewhat sharp and painful, yet i am sure my supper shall be more pleasant and sweet.’ then saith mr shipside, his brother (note 1), ‘i will bide with you this night.’ ‘nay,’ answered he, ‘not so, for i mean to go to bed, and sleep as quietly as ever i did in my life.’
“the stake was made ready on the north side of the town, in the town-ditch, over against balliol college; and my lord williams of thame had the ordering thereof. as dr ridley passed bocardo, he looked up, thinking to have seen my lord archbishop at the glass-window; but they had provided against that, by busying him in disputation with a spanish friar. then dr ridley, looking back, espied my master coming after. ‘oh!’ saith he, ‘be you there?’—‘yea,’ saith my master; ‘have after as fast as i can follow.’ so when they came to the stake, dr ridley embraced him, saying, ‘brother, be of good heart, for god will either assuage the fury of the flame, or else strengthen us to abide it.’ then they knelt and prayed; and after, talked a little to each other, but what they said none heard. dr smith (robert smith, a renegade from lutheranism) preached the sermon, from ‘though i give my body to be burned,’ and so forth, but his discourse lasted but a few minutes, and was nought save railing against heretics. then dr ridley entreated of my lord williams leave of speech; which he would have given, but mr vice-chancellor and the bailiffs would not suffer it, only that they might speak if they would recant, dr ridley cried then, ‘i will never deny my lord christ!’ and arising from his knees, he cried again with a loud voice, ‘well, then, i commit our cause to almighty god, who shall indifferently judge all.’ whereto my master added his old posy (motto, maxim), ‘well, there is nothing hid but it shall be opened.’ so that after they made them ready, and were fastened to the stake; and mr shipside brought two bags of gunpowder and tied around their necks. then they brought a lighted faggot, and laid it at dr ridley’s feet. then said my master, ‘be of good comfort, master ridley, and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle, by god’s grace, in england, as i trust shall never be put out.’
“when dr ridley saw the fire flaming up towards him, he cried, with a wondrous loud voice, ‘into thy hands, o lord, i commend my spirit!’ and oft afterwards, ‘lord, lord, receive my spirit!’ my master, on the other side, did as vehemently cry, ‘o father of heaven, receive my soul!’ who (latimer) received the flame as it were embracing it, and after he had stroked his face, and bathed his hands a little in the fire, soon died, to the sight of all present having no pain. dr ridley’s suffering, on the contrary side, was fearful, and only to compare with bishop hooper. ask me not to say more touching it. but at last the flame reached the gunpowder, and after that he was seen to stir no more, only to fall down at mr latimer’s feet. i will but say more, that hundreds of them which saw the sight shed tears thereover.”
no one spoke when austin ended.
at last, john said softly, “‘never to be put out!’ lord, grant this word of thy martyr, and let that bright lamp lighted unto thee give light for ever!”
three hundred years have run out since that dread october day, when the candle was lighted at oxford which should never be put out. and put out it has never been. satan and all his angels may blow against it, but god holds it in the hollow of his hand, and there it is safe.
yet there is a word of warning, as well as a word of hope. to the church at ephesus saith our lord, “i know thy works,”—yea, “and thy labour,”—yea, “and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are evil; and thou hast tried them which say they are apostles, and are not, and hast found them liars; and hast borne, and hast patience, and for my name’s sake hast laboured, and hast not fainted.” can more than this be said to our church? nay, can all this be said to her? god grant it. “nevertheless”—nevertheless!—“i have somewhat against thee, because thou hast left thy first love.” o lord, how tenderly thou dealest! not “left thy love:” it was not so bad as that. yet see how he notes the leaving of the first love! a little colder; a little deader; a little less ready to put on the coat, to defile the feet, to rise and open to the beloved. only a little; but how that little grieves his heart, who hath never left his first love. and what is the end? “i will come unto thee quickly, and will remove thy candlestick out of his place, except thou repent.”
“o earth,” and o england, “hear the word of the lord!” art thou yet warm in thy first love? has there been no looking back to sodom, no longing for the flesh-pots of egypt, no eyes wandering toward the house of baal? god grant that thou mayest not lose thy candle! it was wrought of blood and in tears: is it a light thing that thou shouldst let it be put out?
one night in november came in mr underhill, and an hour after him, mr ferris.
“welcome, george!” said mr underhill. “any news abroad?”
“have you heard none to-night?” said he.
“not so much as would go by the eye of a needle,” he answered. “is there tidings?”
“the bishop of winchester is dead.”
mr underhill sprang to his feet with a cry of exultation.
“‘glory to god in the highest!’ yea, i might go further—‘on earth peace!’ jack, let us sing the te deum.”
“not in my house,” said john, quietly.
“thou recreant faint-heart! what meanest?”
“i am ready enough to sing the te deum, ned,” pursued john, “but not for so terrible a thing as the casting of that poor sinner, with the blood of god’s saints red upon his soul, into the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone.”
“how can you stay to think of it?” cried mr underhill in his ringing voice. “is that blood even now not crying unto god? are rogers and bradford, are ridley and latimer, yet avenged? shall not the saints wash their feet in the blood of the ungodly? yea, let them fall, and never rise up again! shall we be thus slack to praise god for freedom?”
“wait till we are free,” said john, drily.
“and moderate your voice, ned underhill,” added mr ferris, “if you would be free long.”
mr underhill laid his hands upon john’s shoulders.
“look me in the face, john avery,” answered he, “and tell me what you mean. think you this great palace of cruelty and injustice built up by him shall not crumble to dust along with stephen gardiner?”
“i doubt it very greatly,” he replied.
“assuredly not,” said marguerite rose, “so long as the king philip is in this country, and the bishop of london. it might ask dr gardiner to build the palace, but i think they shall be able to keep it standing.”
“but king philip is not in this country,” said mr underhill.
“he is master of it,” said john.
“alas for my te deum, then!” sighed mr underhill, shrugging his shoulders. “but i hope you may yet find you mistaken, jack avery.”
“not more than i, ned,” said john, sadly.
john avery did not find himself mistaken; but it was not long ere mr underhill did so. he allowed that his te deum had been too soon, when on the 18th of december archdeacon philpot was burned. and the burnings in smithfield were then not half over.
on the 12th of january, at mr underhill’s house in wood street, by mr carter, was christened little anne underhill, born on epiphany eve (see note in appendix). her sponsors were mr ferris, helen ive, and isoult avery.
ere this, a few days before christmas, mr rose’s first letter had reached his wife’s hands. it brought the welcome tidings that he had arrived safely at geneva, yet through such perils that he would not advise her to follow. when isoult had read the letter, she remarked—
“i do see mr rose accounteth not himself to be lawfully divorced, for he maketh account of her as his wife all through the letter, and signeth himself at the end thereof, her loving and faithful husband.”
“doth that astonish thee?” said john, laughing.
“well, of a truth,” she answered, “i had thought the worse of him for any other dealing.”
annis holland came again in march to spend a day at the lamb. on this occasion she told the rest of her story, or, it may rather be called, the story of queen juana. for many months after that first accidental meeting, she told them, she never again saw her royal mistress. but doña leonor gomez, who was exceedingly loquacious when she had no fear of consequences, and sometimes when she had, told her that so long as she was in her right senses, nothing would ever induce the queen to attend mass. to persuade her to do any thing else, they would tell her they acted under command of the king her father (who had in reality been dead many years); and she, loving him dearly, and not having sufficient acuteness left to guess the deceit practised upon her, would assent readily to all they wished, except that one thing. even that influence failed to induce her to be present at mass.
“and one day,” said annis, “about the christmastide, two years gone, i was sitting and sewing in my chamber, maria being forth, and i had been chanting to myself the hymn, ‘christe redemptor omnium.’ when i had ended and was silent, thinking me alone, a voice from the further end of the chamber saith, ‘sing again, doña ines.’ i looked up in very terror, for here was the queen’s highness herself. i marvelled how she should have come forth of her chamber, and what my lord of denia should say. ‘señora,’ said i, ‘i kiss the soles of your feet. but allow me to entreat your highness to return to your chamber.’—‘i will not return till you have sung to me,’ saith she. and she sat right down on the floor, and clasped her hands around her knees. so i had no choice but to sing my hymn over again. when i ended, she saith, ‘what means it, doña ines? is it somewhat of our lord?’—‘ay, señora,’ i made answer, ‘it is all touching him,’—‘i understood the church hymns once,’ she said; ‘but that was before the cuerda. sing some more.’ then i sang ‘victimae paschali!’ ‘miserere!’ she repeated, dreamily, as if that word had woke some old echoes in her memory. ‘ay de mi! child, i lack the mercy very sorely.’—‘he knoweth that, señora,’ said i gently. ‘and his time is the best time.’ and she answered, as she had aforetime,—‘i would he would come!’ i knew scarce what to answer; but i had no time to answer at all, ere the door opened, which the queen had closed behind her, and my dread lord of denia stood before me. ‘what is this, señora?’ he said to her highness. ‘your highness here!’ and turning to me, ‘doña ines,’ quoth he, ‘explain it if you can.’ i thought the wisest thing should be to speak very truth, as well as the right, and i told him even how matters stood with me. ‘i see,’ he answered. ‘you have not been to blame, except that you should have called immediately for help, and have put her back into her chamber. rise, señora!’ the queen clasped her hands closer around her knees. ‘i am at ease here,’ she said. ‘and i want doña ines to sing.’ the marquis took a step nearer her. ‘alteza,’ he said, ‘i desire your highness to rise. you should be ashamed—you, a queen!’ she looked up on him with a look i had not seen in her eyes aforetime. ‘am i a queen?’ she said. ‘if so, a queen captive in the enemy’s hands! if i be your queen, obey me—depart from this chamber when you hear my “yo la reyna.” (note 2.) begone, señor marques! leave me in peace.’ ‘señora!’ he answered, unmoving, ‘i am surprised. you are in your own palace, where your father detains you; and you call it captivity! rise at once, señora, and return to your chamber.’ he spoke sternly and determinedly. the captive lioness heard the keeper’s voice, and obeyed. ‘my father—ay don fernando!’ she said only. and holding out both her hands to him, as a child should do, he led her away. after that, i saw her no more for many weary months. at times the terrible screams would arouse me from sleep, and then i prayed for her, that god would strengthen her, and ease the torment to her; but, above all, that god would take her. i trust it were not sin in me, isoult. but if thou hadst seen her as i saw her!
“well, i saw her no more until this last april. then there came a night when the shrieks awoke me, more terrible than i had ever heard them yet. when doña leonor came into my chamber on the morrow, which was good friday, i asked if she knew the cause. she told me ay. her highness lay dying, and had refused to receive (that is, to receive the sacrament). fray domingo de soto would not suffer her to depart without the host. while she yet talked with me, entered doña ximena de lara, that had never been in my chamber afore, and alway seemed to hold her much above me. ‘doña ines,’ quoth she, ‘my lord of denia commands you to follow me quickly. the queen is in a fearful frenzy, and sith she hath alway much loved music, and divers times hath desired you should be fetched to sing to her, my lord marquis would have you try whether that will serve to abate her rage.’
“‘and they gave her the cuerda?’ said i, as i followed doña ximena. ‘ay, for two hours and more,’ saith she, ‘but alas! to no end. she refuseth yet to receive his majesty.’ know thou, isoult, that these strange folk call the wafer ‘his majesty’—a title that they give at once to god and the king. ‘they gave her the premia early last night,’ saith she, ‘but it was to no good; wherefore it was found needful to repeat the same, more severely, near dawn. her screams must have been heard all over the town. a right woeful frenzy followed, wherein (she being ignorant of what she did) they caused her to swallow his majesty. whereupon, in the space of some few minutes, by the power of our lord, she calmed; but the frenzy is now returned, and they think her very near her departing.’ in her highness’ chamber a screen was drawn afore the bed, that i could not see her; but her struggles and her cries could too well be heard. my lord of denia stood without the screen, and i asked what it was his pleasure i should sing. he answered, what i would, but that it should be soft and soothing. and methought the hymn for the dead should be the best thing to sing for the dying.
“‘rex tremendae majestatis,
qui salvandos salvas gratis,
salve me, fons pietatis!’
“i had sung but one verse when her crying ceased; and ere i had sung two, she saith with a deep sigh, ‘ay jesus!’ and lay quiet. then, when i paused, she said, ‘is it doña ines?’—‘speak to her,’ quoth my lord marquis. ‘señora,’ i answered, ‘i am your highness’ servant ines, that kisseth your feet.’—‘come hither to me,’ the queen said. ‘child, god hath looked on long in silence, but he is come at last.’ my lord of denia made me a sign to pass within the screen. there lay she, her snow-white hair scattered over the pillow; her ladies standing or kneeling around the bed. ‘it is over!’ she said, speaking slowly, and with pauses. ‘i shall suffer no longer. i shall go to god.’—‘señora,’ quoth my lord marquis, ‘i entreat your highness to be silent. you have received his majesty, and cannot be allowed to soil your soul by evil words, when christ is within you.’—‘ye forced me, did ye?’ she answered, a quick flash of anger breaking the calm of her face. ‘ah! well, god knoweth. i did it not. god knoweth. and god will receive me. he witteth what i have been, and what ye.’ she lay silent a season; and then, slowly, as if it pained her, she drew her hands together, and folded them as if she prayed, fray domingo began a latin prayer. ‘silence!’ saith the queen, royally. and for this once—the last time—her gaolers obeyed her. she fetched a long weary sigh, and laid her hands one over the other on her breast. then, in low, calm, quiet tones, her last words were spoken. ‘father, into thine hands i commit my spirit. jesus christ, the crucified, be with me! i thank god that my life is over.’ it was over, only a few minutes later. and i think he was with her through the valley of the shadow of death.” (note 2.)
“isoult,” said annis, as she ended her woeful story, “thinkest thou this were martyrdom—this daily dying for six and twenty years? was it any less, borne for our lord’s love, than any of his martyrs? they that are burned or beheaded, they do but suffer once, and then no more. it must be easier, methinks, than to die piecemeal, as she did. and she knew so little! isoult, dost thou think christ will count her in the number of his martyrs?”
“it soundeth very like, annis,” she answered.
“i do not fancy,” said john, “that the lord is so ill off for martyrs’ crowns that he will have none to spare for her.”
“well!” responded dr thorpe. “it should be no great wonder if they were used up, seeing how many must have been fetched within the last two years.”
“i could believe any thing of don carlos,” answered marguerite rose. “he that so ill used his aunt, that had been a mother unto him, the lady marguerite of savoy, that was governess of flanders,—he should not have much love for his own mother.”
and thekla said,—“i think the crown of the queen doña juana must have been a very bright one. it is so hard to watch and wait.”
“my poor thekla!” murmured isoult, “thou hast had much thereof.”
“i!” she answered, with a smile. “i have done nothing. i have not been forsaken and ill dealt withal, as she was, of my best beloved, throughout many years. compare me not with her! if i may sit down some whither in heaven where i can but see her on the heights, that would be too good for me.”
“but art thou willing to see christ only on the heights, thekla?” said john.
“no,” she said, again with her sweet smile. “i should want to be close to him. no, i could not be content to look on him afar off.”
“in that case,” said john, “there is no fear that he shall ask it of thee.”
no, there is no fear of his keeping us afar off. it is we who follow afar off. “father, i will that they also, whom thou hast given me, be with me where i am; that they may behold my glory, which thou hast given me.” with our dear master, it is never “go, and do this hard thing, go and suffer this heavy sorrow, go and bear this weary waiting.” it is always “come and do it;” or at least, “let us go.”
and now there came another martyrdom: the highest, and in some sense, the sorest of them all; yet, by many, not the last. there was room for many souls under the altar: ay, and on the throne.
on the 22nd of march, with great pomp and splendour, “the lord raynald pole, cardinal legate,” was consecrated archbishop of canterbury. it was therefore apparent that dr cranmer had been degraded. isoult said so to mr underhill, whom she met at the service at mr ferris’ lodging, and his answer troubled her no little.
“nay, mrs avery,” he replied; “’tis a sign that my lord archbishop is dead, for i do know by letter from bernher, which is now at oxford, that yesterday was appointed for his burning.”
and they had never heard one word after his recantation. dead, without recanting it! dead, denying christ at his end, after confessing him in his life! this was worse than many martyrdoms, for it was martyrdom of the soul. was there no hope? must this death be the second death? they knew that in the last hour, ay, even in the last minute, he might have repented unto life, and have again caught hold of christ: but should they who had prayed so fervently for the lost brother, have no word to say so—no “this thy brother is alive again?” must they never know whether to look for him on the right or the left hand of the king, till they should see him there in the last day?
“i told you too true, mrs avery; my lord archbishop is dead.”
these were the first words which isoult heard, when she came down the stairs on the following morning.
“but how died he, mr underhill?” she cried anxiously.
“gloriously! like a martyr and a prince of god’s church, as he was, publicly repenting the recantation whereto he had set his hand from fear, and confessing christ nobly before men, till at last they would not hear a word further—they haled and hurried him to the stake.”
“thank god!” her voice failed her; she could say no more.
“it was a foul and rainy day,” he went on; “so austin told me. my lord archbishop was led from bocardo to saint mary church, betwixt two friars that mumbled certain psalms, and at the church door they began the nunc dimittis. my lord was ill-favouredly clad, in a bare and ragged gown, and an old square cap. dr cole preached, and more than twenty times during the sermon, the archbishop was seen to have the water in his eyes. then they did desire him to get up into the pulpit, and openly to retract his preaching, and show all the people that he was become a true catholic.”
“and did he that?”
“‘fair and softly go far in a day.’ have a little patience, i pray you. well, he spake a long season, first, against the world; item, unto obedience; item, to brotherly love; item, against money-love; and lastly, he said over the creed. ‘and now (quoth he) i come to the great thing which so much troubleth my conscience.’ he said his hand had offended against god, in signing his recantation; and when he should come to the fire, it should be first burned. and so he spake bravely, renouncing the pope as antichrist, and christ’s enemy and his, and that he utterly abhorred all his false doctrine. and touching the sacrament, the doctrine ‘which (saith he) i have taught in my book is true, and will stand at the last day before the judgment of god, when the papistical doctrine contrary thereto shall be ashamed to show her head.’
“well, like paul, they gave him audience unto this word, and then cried out, away with such a fellow from the earth! they cried that he was false, and dissembled. ‘ah, my masters!’ quoth our good archbishop, ‘do you take it so? always since i lived hitherto, i have been a hater of falsehood, and a lover of simplicity, and never before this time have i dissembled.’ the water stood in his eyes; and he would have spoken more against the pope and the mass, but cole crieth out, ‘stop the heretic’s mouth! take him away!’ then the friars set upon him, and pulled him down out of the pulpit, and so hurried him away to the place where, five months before him, dr ridley had died.
“then there he knelt and prayed, and made him, ready; and stood on the stones robed in his long white shirt, barefoot, and his head (whenas his cap were off) without one hair thereon, though his beard was long and thick. then (he giving the hand to such as he knew about the stake), they bound the chain around him, and lit the fire. and until it was full burned, he held forth his right hand in the fire, crying ever and anon, ‘this unworthy right hand!’ at last he saith, ‘lord jesus, receive my spirit!’ and so he yielded it up to him. but afterward, when his ashes were cold, amid the charred faggots his heart was found entire.
“so passed that great heart away from us, that perchance we knew not fully how to prize. beshrew my weak eyes! i am but a fool; yet ’tis hard to think that we shall see his reverend countenance no more.”
and mr underhill dashed away the tears from his eyes, much like philippa basset. isoult never had seen him thus affected before.
but on their knees in their chambers, the gospellers thanked god from their hearts that day, for this pouring forth of his spirit upon the dry ground; for his glory thus exalted in the awakening of that dear brother from sleep which seemed as though it might be death; for his strength, so gloriously shown forth in mortal weakness, that warmed and quickened the last beatings of the noble heart of archbishop cranmer.
“jack,” said isoult that night to her husband, “i would i had asked mr underhill if austin had yet heard anything of robin.”
“ah!” said he.
“thou art not used to answer so short,” she replied. “hast thou heard any thing, jack?”
“i have heard—nothing—certain,” he answered, hesitatingly.
“jack, what hast thou heard?” she cried in terror.
“with any surety, dear heart, nothing whatever,” he said, lovingly; “only that austin hath spoken to me touching him, and therefore i could not say i had heard nothing. and at most ’tis only a guess. i cry thee mercy not to have told thee, but seeing how unsure it were, i thought it more kindlier not to trouble thee. well, sweeting, what austin said was this: he hath made all search in every prison he hath visited, and spake unto divers prisoners, but no word of the dear lad may he have. and he is afeard, isoult—it is but a guess, thou wist!—that all is over already.”
before he had half finished, his meaning struck on her heart, like a passing bell. “all over!” she knew what that meant.
“o my god! wilt thou not give us one word that we may know? this watching and waiting is so hard to bear. i desire to be, to do, to suffer thy will; but, father, it is very weary work to wait! ‘if it be possible,’ send us some word of our lost darling! ‘make no long tarrying, o my god!’”
it was not to john, and not aloud, that this was spoken.
it is not only children who are afraid of the dark. we all love to walk by sight. we are rarely content to see only the next step we must take; yet it is all we need see, and often all that god will show us. the darkness and the light are both alike to him; and if only we would let him see for us, we should act the part of wise children. it is easy, when the light comes, to cry out at our past foolishness in being afraid of the dark. we never think so while the darkness is upon us.
a few days later came philippa basset, full of court news, which she had from her brother james.
“yesterday,” said she, “came a letter or messenger from king philip, denying his present return hither: whereupon the queen fell into so great a chafe, that she commanded his picture borne out of the privy chamber. thus far my brother; but jack throgmorton saith that she fetched a knife and scored the picture twice or thrice all the way down, and then kicked it out of the chamber. (throgmorton denied having said this, when a judicial inquiry was held.) ‘saint mary worshipped might she be!’ said i to james, ‘is her grace a woman like to do that?’ ‘nay,’ saith he, ‘not half so like as thou shouldst be in her place.’” whereat philippa laughed merrily.
isoult was in a mood for any thing rather than laughter. it was too near easter for mirth. easter, which should be the most blessed festival of the year, was now turned into an occasion of offence and of mourning to the servants of god.
in the evening all from the lamb were at mr underhill’s farewell supper, at his house in wood street, whence he purposed to set out for coventry the next day as soon as the gates were opened. he said he would not remain another easter in london.
the last day of june came a letter to john avery from mr underhill, saying that they had all arrived safely at coventry, and he had taken a house a mile out of the city, “in a wood side,” where he trusted to keep quiet until the tyranny were overpast.
the darkness was growing thicker.
in that month of june began the procession in every church, at which the bishop commanded the attendance of every child in london, bearing books or beads in hand, and of one adult from each house to take charge of them. “ours are not like to go,” said isoult, tenderly; “but ’tis harder work to set them in peril than to go therein one’s self.”
sir john gage died on the 18th of april, an old man full of years. it was he who had been on the commission to calais, and had brought isoult to england after lord lisle’s arrest; and he had also endeavoured to have mr underhill sent to newgate.
the search against lutheran books was now very strict (and laughable enough in less sorrowful circumstances). among these lutheran books the most strictly forbidden were my lord chancellor’s book “de vera obedientia” and one written by the queen herself when a girl, under the auspices of katherine parr,—a translation of a work of erasmus.
another letter came from mr rose in july, bringing good news of his welfare; and in august annis holland was married to don juan de alameda.
writing on the 21st of august, in her diary, isoult said—
“not one word more touching robin. there be times when i feel as though i could bear it no longer, though what i could do to end it, soothly i cannot tell. i conceive well what david signified, when he saith he did roar through the very disquietness of his heart. i dare not tell this to marguerite, for she is too nearly of the same complexion to give me any comfort; and to say a word to esther is no good, for she silenceth me at once with some passage of holy writ as ‘shall not the judge of all the earth do right?’ and what can i say to that but amen? jack is always loving and tender, but he can (i well perceive) see little comfort herein himself; and to do so much as name the thing to thekla were wanton cruelty, though i do fancy she should be the best comforter. so i must wait on, and cry unto god. it may be that is the very thing he would have of me.”
bad news came by austin, early in 1557—the death of the earl of sussex (note 4), mr rose’s chief friend in high places. poor marguerite was much downcast, saying they had now lost their best friend.
“no, mother dear,” answered thekla, “not our best friend. he is in an higher place; and he dieth no more.”
another easter came and passed; and king philip returned to england.
every now and then austin visited the lamb; but he brought no news of robin. isoult thought she had never realised how dearly she loved the lad till now. it was hard to thank god for such a blank in the home as this; and yet deep in the inmost heart she knew, as every christian knows, that the father was doing all things well, and that “there was no must be without a needs be.” to wait on the lord is no easy task to flesh and blood; but there is one thing yet harder, and that is to rest in the lord while waiting.
and meanwhile thekla drooped and faded, day by day. she never spoke now of robin; but it was easy to see that she had not forgotten him. slower and more languid grew her step, and her face whiter and graver, with an expression of sorrowful patience, which did not quit its hold upon the lips even when they smiled.
“she is worn to a shadow,” said marguerite, bitterly. “why cannot we go home to god? what profit is it to him that we do suffer?”
and isoult was silent; but she remembered robin’s words about “believers in the dark.”
on the 7th of june, which was whit monday, there was a passion play at court. isoult, coming in from a call upon her neighbour, mrs brent, observed in a rather disgusted tone—
“gillian brent must needs go to see this mystery. for me, i might as easily or as willingly go to see a martyrdom. she saith ’tis right sweet and devotional, and maketh her to feel so good she cannot tell how much. ’tis a sort of goodness i covet not. it were like murdering the son of god over again, to see his blessed name taken upon himself of a sinful man, and his bitter passion set forth to divert men. gillian saith none will see the thing as i do; but that cannot i help. perchance he may, when he looketh down upon it.”
at her house at chelsea, on the 16th of july, died anna of cleve, one of the two widows of henry the eighth. she came to england a lutheran, and died a papist. king philip went to flanders on the 5th of july; on the 14th of august came news of the great victory of saint quentin, which the king had won there; and the next day there were great thanksgivings and rejoicings over all the city. and on the 20th of october died mary countess of arundel, at arundel house; she was cousin of philippa basset, and when she was countess of sussex, isoult had lived for some time in her house with anne basset.
a fortnight previous, london was requested to rejoice again, for peace was concluded with the pope.
“verily,” said dr thorpe, “this is a marvellous thing, to bid us rejoice, and to give us cause for mourning.”
“marry,” responded mr ferris, “for me, when the war brake forth, i sang the te deum under my breath; now will i clothe me in sackcloth under my raiment, and so shall i have both sorrowed and rejoiced, and none can grudge against me.”
the year 1557 closed heavily. the burnings went on, but they were chiefly of poor men and women: sometimes, but not often, of children or girls. on the 12th of december a gospellers’ meeting was dispersed, and many taken by the sheriff; but no friends of the averys. all this time mr holland, with his wife and child, were at his father’s house in lancashire, and mr underhill with his household at coventry. isoult’s last entry in her diary for this year ran as follows:—
“austin came yesterday, to tell us my lady of suffolk and mr bertie did quit germany, where they had refuged, in april last, and be now safe in poland, at a town called crossen, and the king’s grace of poland hath set mr bertie over a province of his. i am glad to hear this. they had, nathless, many and great troubles in their journey, but sith ’tis all over, it is not worth grieving for.
“ah, faithless heart and foolish! and will not all troubles be so, when the last mile of the journey cometh? yea, may we not find we had most cause to thank god for the roughest parts of the way? so saith my sense and judgment: yet for all this will mine heart keep crying out, and will not be silent. o robin, robin! an other year!”
the gospellers never entered on any year with heavier hearts than on the year 1558. the year of all the century! the year that was to close so gloriously—to go out with trumpets, and bells, and bonfires, and te deums, and all england in a wild ferment of delight and thanksgiving! and how often do we enter on a year of mourning with our hearts singing anthems?
it is well that it should be so. we have abundant cause to thank god that he has hidden the future from us. it is enough for us to know that all things work together for good to them that love him, to them that are the called according to his purpose.
but very, very mournfully came this year in; for it opened with the loss of calais. isoult had dwelt there for two years with lady lisle; and there were few places nearer to her heart. perhaps we can hardly picture to ourselves how nearly that loss touched every english heart. it was as if each man in the land had lost a piece of his estate. calais belonged to every englishman.
“well, my friends in the monastery!” was the greeting of mr ferris, “that i promised underhill i would look to by times. hath your secluded ear been yet pierced with the tidings this morrow—that be making every man all over london to swear and curse, that loveth not his soul better than his anger?”
“what now?” said john. “nay, the courts be not yet opened again, so i have bidden at home.”
“and i am an old man, burdened with an access,” (a fit of the gout) said dr thorpe. “come, out with your news! what platform (note 5) toucheth it?”
“every platform in the realm. have it here—calais is lost.”
“calais!” they said no more.
but a vision rose before the eyes of isoult—of george bucker in the pulpit of the lady church, and lord and lady lisle in the nave below: of the market place, where his voice had rung out true and clear: of the lantern gate whereon his head had been exposed: of the gallows near saint pierre whereon he had died. his voice came back to her, and lord lisle’s—both which she had heard last in the tower, but both which were to her for ever bound up with calais. her eyes were swimming, and she could not speak. and before another word had been uttered by any one, the latch was lifted by philippa basset.
“there is not a man left in england!” she cried. “calais had never been lost, had i been there to fire the culverins.”
“no, madam,” said mr ferris (who did not know that she was a papist). “they have all been burned or beheaded.”
“upon my word, but i am coming to think so!” cried she. “shame upon every coward of them! were there not enough to fill the first breach with a wall of men’s bodies, rather than lose the fairest jewel of the crown? beshrew the recreants! but i had never come away from that breach alive! i would have died with calais!”
“i am sorry you were not there, madam,” said he, “for the sake of calais. for your own sake, ’tis well.”
“i am sorry all over,” answered she. “the queen taketh it most heavily of all. she said to her ladies that when she should be dead, they should find ‘calais’ graved upon her heart.”
hitherto the storm of persecution had not come inside the little walled circle of friends dear to the hearts of the averys. it had raged around them, had broken fiercely upon men whom they reverenced and loved as afar off. but now it was to come within. one whose eyes had looked into theirs, whose lips had smiled on them, whose voice had bidden god bless them,—ay, upon whose knee the children had sat, and chattered to him in childish wise,—was summoned from the midst of them, to go up in the chariot of fire into the presence of the lord.
austin and mr underhill came together, both very pensive, on the night of the 6th of may.
“there is ill news with you, i fear,” said john.
“there is ill news, and that right heavy,” answered mr underhill. “roger holland is taken.”
“where and how?” they asked.
“with six other, in a quiet close near saint john’s wood, where they were met to read god’s word and pray together, this last may day; and carried afore my lord of london. he had better have tarried at his father’s in lancashire, whence he was but newly come.”
“and bessy?” said isoult, compassionately.
“roger left her and the child in lancashire,” said he; “where, if she will take mine avisement, she will remain.”
mr holland was examined before bishop bonner, lord strange being present, with others of his lancashire kinsmen. austin reported that “he confessed christ right nobly, and kept up the bishop in a corner by his wise and gentle learning—such as i had not thought had been in him:” and at last, after much discussion, the bishop lost his patience (a commodity of which he never carried much to market), called mr holland a blasphemous heretic, and sentenced him to be burned.
mr holland replied, as the gaoler was about to remove him,—“my lord, i beseech you, suffer me to speak two words.”
“nay!” cried he, “i will not hear thee: have him away!”
lord strange interfered, and begged that his cousin might be heard.
“speak?” growled bonner, “what hast thou to say?”
mr holland answered, “even now i told you that your authority was from god, and by his sufferance; and now i tell you, god hath heard the prayer of his servants, which hath been poured forth with tears for his afflicted saints, whom you daily persecute, as now you do us. but this i dare be bold in god to say (by whose spirit i am moved), that god will shorten your hand of cruelty, that for a time you shall not molest his church. and this you shall in a short time well perceive, my dear brethren, to be most true. for after this day, in this place, there shall not be any by him put to the trial of fire and faggot.”
the bishop replied that “he should yet live to burn, yea, and he would burn, for all this prattling:” and so went his way, and mr holland was taken back to newgate.
but the bishop, like many another, laid his plans without reference to him who sat above the water-floods. roger holland had an unction from the holy one, and his prescience was true. the commandment was gone forth from the presence of the king—“hitherto shalt thou come, and no further.” after that once, by bonner, and in smithfield, there was never another “trial of fire and faggot.”
yet for that once, the devil and edmund bonner had their way. waiting for roger holland were the white robe and the martyr’s palm; and with his name the muster-roll of soldiers slain in the great battle of england was closed in heaven.
it is not entirely unedifying to note why this man was martyred. so long as he pursued the profligate course on which he had embarked in early youth, rome had not a word to say to him. sin does not come under her cognisance, except to be muffled up in absolution, and hidden from the eyes of the sinner—but not from the eyes of god. but the moment that holland’s course was altered, and he began to try so to walk as to please god, that moment he came under the ban of her who dares to stand up in the face of the world, and with unblushing effrontery to call herself the church of god.
very late on the 28th of june, augustine bernher brought the news of the last martyrdom. his face told, before he spoke, that he came to say something terrible. the first thoughts of those at the lamb, as usual, flew to robin and mr rose; but austin quickly turned them into a different channel.
“i am come,” he said, “from roger holland’s martyrdom.”
“eh, austin! is it over with mr holland?” cried isoult.
“it is over with him, and he shall suffer no more pains of death for ever. he and the other six taken with him were burned to-day in smithfield.”
“and how went it with him?”
“when he was come to the stake,” answered austin, “he embraced it, and looking up unto heaven, he saith:—‘lord, i most humbly thank thy majesty that thou hast called me from the state of death unto the light of thy heavenly word, and now unto the fellowship of thy saints, that i may sing and say, holy, holy, holy, lord god of hosts. and, lord, into thy hands i commit my spirit. lord, bless these thy people, and save them from idolatry.’ and so, looking up unto heaven, and praising god,—god stooped and took him.”
“alas, poor bessy!” said isoult, after a while.
“i must write unto her,” said austin. “i trust she is yet safe in lancashire.”
isoult did not forget her before god that night. it was easy for the mass of the gospellers to think of mr holland as he now was, at home, in the safe rest of the father’s house, and to praise god for him. but his bessy was not likely to do so as yet. when the night is very dark, we cannot always lift our heads to see how fair the light shines on the further side of the jordan; and to us who are in the thickness of the darkness, it is at times no lighter for that knowledge. and the night was very dark now.
and yet some tell us—ay, some of us, englishmen whose fathers passed through these dreadful scenes, leaving to their sons such awful memories,—they tell us it were better to leave those memories sleeping. “why rake up such disagreeable reminiscences? they belong to past ages. rome is different now, just as society is different. is this charity, peace, forbearance?”
i reply, it is charity, and of the highest type. when a man sees his friend in the grasp of a tiger, he does not drop his levelled gun on the plea of charity to the tiger. and rome is not different. she only looks so, because the wisdom of our fathers circumscribed her opportunities, just as the tiger looks harmless in a cage in the zoological gardens. shall we therefore open the cage door?
and we, who are bent on pulling down as fast as we can those bars which our fathers forged in tears and blood,—let us be a little more consistent. let us take away the locks from our doors, because for ten years there has been no attempt at burglary in that street. let us pull down the hurdles which surround our sheep-pens, because for some time no lamb has been lost from that particular flock. we are not such fools as to do these things. men’s bodies, and still more men’s property, are safely protected among us. but how is it about men’s souls? how will it be when the rulers of england shall stand at the bar whence there is no appeal, and hear from the great judge the awful requirement,—“where is thy flock that was given thee, thy beautiful flock?” shall we hear about “want of power”—which generally means want of will—about “the voice of the nation,” and “the spirit of the age,” and “respect to the opinions of others,” and the numberless little fictions with which men wile their souls to sleep, here and now? will the bishop who swore before god to “drive away all erroneous and strange doctrine contrary to his word,” offer to the judge then those convenient excuses with which he salves over his conscience now? will the statesman who followed the multitude to do evil, instead of leading them to do good, urge in his presence who seeth in secret the platitudes about majorities and the national will which he finds satisfactory now? there is a very solemn passage in god’s neglected and despised word, concerning him who knew his lord’s will, and did it not.
another easter passed away, and left them safe. the summer was a season, not so much of suffering, as of fear and waiting. they were tarrying the lord’s leisure. a few months later, isoult avery wrote in her diary—
“my birthday, and i am now forty-five years of age. it is not unmeet that i should tarry a while at the milestones, and look back on the way by which the lord hath led me. this last year hath been very woeful and weary. what shall the next be?
“o lord, thou knowest. all the way is of thine ordering, all guided by wisdom that never erreth, by love that never waxeth faint. i will trust thy wisdom to devise, and thy love to effect. father in heaven! let me not faint under thy correction, neither let me despise thy chastening. be merciful unto me, o lord, be merciful unto me! and thou (not i) knowest best how and when i need thy mercy. hear (and if need be, forgive) the cry which echoes in mine heart for ever—‘if it be possible,’ give us back our darling!”
the great emperor charles the fifth died on the 21st of september in this year, in the monastery of san yuste, whither he went to “make his salvation” in his old age.
“i trust,” said isoult, when she heard it, “that he repented him, among other sins, of his ill-using of his mother. there shall doubtless be many masses for him here.”
“il faut beaucoup prier!” said marguerite rose, drily.
the end was at hand now. the eventful november of 1558 had set in.
philippa told isoult that the queen suffered fearfully. she sat many days on the floor of her chamber, her knees higher than her head. the pain in her head was dreadful; and people began to say that she, who was originally accounted merciful, had been merciful all through, for that others had given orders for the burnings, and she, even in sceptring the acts, had scarcely known what she did. the last time that she went to the house of lords, she was too ill to walk, but was borne by her gentlemen in waiting to the throne. james basset told his sister, that “he counted all burned or beheaded in the queen’s reign had not suffered so much, body nor soul, as she.”
james basset, who had been ailing for some time, grew worse on the 16th, when the queen and the cardinal were both so ill, that it was thought doubtful which of them would die the sooner. all matters of state, and many of business, were held as it were in the air, waiting the queen’s death. many of the council had already set forth for hatfield. “that should not like me,” said isoult, “were i either the dying sister or the living.” and she who lay in that palace of white hall must have known (if she were not beyond knowing anything) that round her grave would be no mourners—that she had done little to cause england to weep for her, and much to cause rejoicing that she could harm england no more. did she know that men without were naming the day hope wednesday, because every hour they expected news of her end?
“god save queen elizabeth! long live the queen! yea, may the queen live for ever!”
these were the first sounds which isoult heard when she was awoke from sleep on the friday morning. indeed, there was far too much tumult for sleep. great crowds of men were pouring through aldgate; and as she looked from the window she saw men kissing, and embracing, and weeping, and laughing, and shouting, all at once, and all together. and but one was the burden of all—“the queen is dead! the lady elizabeth is queen! god save queen elizabeth!”
“hurrah!” said mr ferris, an hour later, flinging up his cap to the ceiling as he came in. “hurrah! now is come the golden age again! we may breathe now. long life to the queen of the gospellers!”
“i thought she were rather the queen of the lutherans,” suggested john.
“all one,” answered he. “lutherans burn not gospellers, nor clap them into prison neither. what have gospellers to fear from queen anne’s daughter?”
“they may have something from king henry’s,” answered john.
“jack, thou deservest—i cannot stay to tell thee what: and i have shouted and danced myself an hungered. mrs avery, have you to spare of that goodly round of beef?”
“pray you, sit down with us, mr ferris,” said she; “we shall not lack a shive for you.”
“ah, but if i lack half-a-dozen shives, how then?” said he.
“sit down, man,” responded john. “why, george ferris! you are in a fever!”
“pretty nigh,” answered he. “is there any man in london out of one this morrow?—except you.”
“i am too thankful to be merry,” he replied. “but how goes it with cardinal pole?”
“his death is hourly looked for,” said mr ferris.
that afternoon, at the cross and other places, was queen elizabeth proclaimed. even by night men scarcely seemed to have cooled down: so glad was england of her protestant queen, so freely she breathed when the hand of the oppressor was withdrawn. in the afternoon of friday died cardinal pole, outliving his cousin queen mary only twenty-four hours. john reported that the very faces he met in the streets looked freer and gladder, as if every man were now at his ease and king of himself. now, he thought, or, at the farthest, when the queen was crowned, would the prisons be opened. who would come out of them?—was a very anxious question; and yet more, who would not come? that day marguerite wrote to mr rose, by austin, who set out immediately to carry the news to the banished gospellers; and they looked forward hopefully to seeing him ere long (note 6). might they look, with any thing like hope, to see another? their judgment had given up hope long ago. but the heart will hope, even against all, until it knows assuredly that there can be hope no longer.
“isoult,” said her husband, when he came home in the evening, “i have heard tidings that methinks shall make thee a little sorry.”
“what be they, jack?” said she.
“the death of mr james basset,” he answered, “yestereven.”
isoult wrote a little loving note to philippa; but she heard nothing from her.
again on the 28th was all london in a ferment of eager joy: for the queen came to the tower, in readiness for her coronation. she came from the charter house, sitting in a rich chariot, arrayed in a riding-dress of purple velvet, and a scarf tied over her shoulder. all london wall was hung with tapestry; and beside her rode lord robert dudley, who had been made master of the horse.
“lack-a-daisy!” said dr thorpe, “must we be ridden with dudleys yet again? is the quotidian ague throughout england all this autumn not plague enough, that my lord robin dudley must needs bear the bell? a fig for all the dudleys—nor are they worth that!”
on the 4th of december the queen went through the city to somerset house. some trouble was feared concerning her coronation. the archbishop of york and all the popish bishops refused to crown her; nor would they consecrate any not of their way of thinking. thirteen bishops had died of the pestilence; but not dr bonner, to whom (alone of all of them) elizabeth refused her hand to kiss when they met her in progress. how differently this year had closed from the last! the gospellers looked back, indeed, with trembling, yet with great thankfulness; and there was no need to look forward (but for one thing) save with hope. they must know soon now the fate of the missing one. at least the waiting and fearing would be over. the knowledge might leave their hearts sick; yet, even at the worst, it would be no longer with hope deferred.
note 1. an interesting notice of george shipside, husband of alice ridley, with an account of his bible annotated by himself, will be found in the sunday at home, 1871, page 789 et seq.
note 2. spanish sovereigns sign in a manner peculiar to themselves, not by the christian name, but “i the king,” or “i the queen.”
note 3. with the exception of a few minor details, chiefly relating to others than herself, this account of queen juana’s gradual martyrdom is strictly true.
note 4. he died february 15, 1557, at “sir harry sydney’s house, chanon roo, westminster” (harl. ms. 897, folio 79).
note 5. this old english word for party we have so utterly lost, that we fancy it a new one recently introduced from america.
note 6. it might have been expected that the banished or escaped protestants would wait to see the line which elizabeth’s policy would take before venturing to return: but no such misgivings troubled their minds. so perfect was their confidence in her, that they flocked home like doves to their windows.
