The Project Gutenberg eBook, Cardinal Pole, by William Harrison Ainsworth, Illustrated by Frederick Gilbert

Transcriber’s Note:

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s [note] at the end of this text for details.

Corrected text will appear in the text with a gray underline. Placing the cursor over the text will display the original version. A brief explanation can be found by consulting the endnotes for the relevant page.

Corrected text will appear in the text as a link to the corresponding explanatory entry in the endnotes.

There was no Table of Contents in this text. The following table was prepared for the reader's convenience.

Cardinal Pole

OR THE

DAYS OF PHILIP AND MARY

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE

BY

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY FREDERICK GILBERT.

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL

NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET

1880

BY W. HARRISON AINSWORTH.

Uniform with this Volume.

INSCRIBED

TO

My Friend

EDWARD WATKIN EDWARDS, Esq.

CARDINAL POLE.

BOOK I.

PHILIP OF SPAIN.

CHAPTER I.

HOW A MARRIAGE WAS AGREED UPON BETWEEN MARY QUEEN OF ENGLAND, AND DON PHILIP, PRINCE OF SPAIN.

No sooner was Mary, eldest daughter of Henry VIII., securely seated on the throne left vacant by the premature death of her brother, Edward VI., than the Emperor Charles V., already related to her through his aunt, Katherine of Aragon, determined to bring about a marriage between the Queen of England and his son Philip. By the accomplishment of this project, which had been conceived by the Emperor during Edward’s last illness, the preponderance obtained in Europe by the House of Austria would be largely increased, and Charles’s dream of universal dominion might eventually be realised.

Philip, who was then a widower—his wife, Doña Maria, Princess of Portugal, having died in 1545, in giving birth to a son, the unfortunate Don Carlos—readily acquiesced in his father’s scheme, as he fully recognised the vast importance of the match, and Mary alone had to be consulted. But little apprehension could be entertained of her refusal. All the advantages were on the Prince’s side. Eleven years younger than the Queen, who was then thirty-eight, Philip was not merely in the very flower of manhood, but extremely handsome, and, as heir to a mighty monarchy, unquestionably the greatest match in Europe. No princess, however exalted, on whom he deigned to smile, would refuse him her hand.

But there were difficulties in the way of the projected alliance, only to be overcome by prudential management. For many reasons the match was certain to be obnoxious to the English nation, which would not unnaturally be apprehensive of being brought under a foreign yoke. Neither was the Queen altogether her own mistress. Governed by her council—especially by the Lord Chancellor, Gardiner—she could not act in contradiction to their decisions; and some of her ministers would infallibly be hostile to the alliance. However, the Emperor did not despair of silencing the objectors. Neither treasure nor pains should be spared to effect his darling scheme.

The moment, however, for entering upon public negotiations of the marriage had not yet arrived. The realm was still agitated by Northumberland’s abortive attempt to seize the crown for his daughter-in-law, the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey; religious dissensions prevailed, rendering the meditated re-establishment of the old worship extremely hazardous; while the violent opposition certain to be experienced from the whole Protestant party, might intimidate the Queen and deter her from following her own inclinations.

Proceeding with the caution required by the circumstances, the Emperor enjoined his ambassador at the English court, Simon Renard, a man of great subtlety, in whom he had entire confidence, to sound the Queen warily as to the marriage, but not to propose it to her formally until assured of her assent. Acting upon these instructions, Renard soon discovered that Mary’s affections were fixed on her young kinsman, Courtenay, Earl of Devonshire, who had been long held captive in the Tower during the reign of Edward, and whom she herself had liberated on her accession. The wily ambassador instantly set to work to undo this knot, and by his machinations succeeded in convincing the Queen that the indiscreet and fickle young Earl was wholly undeserving of her regard, as he had become enthralled by the superior fascinations of her sister Elizabeth. Courtenay was therefore quickly discarded.

But another obstacle arose, which Renard had not foreseen. Ashamed of the weakness she had just exhibited, the Queen began seriously to think of uniting herself with Cardinal Pole, at that time attainted with treason by an act passed in the reign of Henry VIII., and banished from the realm. Regarding the Cardinal, she said, with feelings akin to veneration, and owing him reparation for the many and grievous injuries he had endured from her father, she would make him amends by bestowing upon him her hand. As he was only a cardinal deacon, a dispensation for his marriage with her could be easily procured from the Pope. She would implore his Holiness to grant her request, and to send Pole as legantine ambassador to England, when the nuptials might be solemnised. The union was sure to meet with the approval of the Holy See, which would perceive in it an earnest of the complete return of the realm to obedience to the Church. Renard did not attempt to dissuade the Queen from her design, feeling his efforts would then only be thrown away, and might serve to confirm her in her purpose, but contented himself with acquainting the Emperor with her Majesty’s design, suggesting that Pole should be detained until after the marriage which they sought to bring about should have taken place.

The hint was not lost upon Charles. At the hazard of incurring the displeasure of the Sovereign Pontiff, Julius III., he determined to prevent the Cardinal from passing into England.

No man of his time possessed higher and nobler qualities than the illustrious Reginald Pole. Sanctity of manners, erudition, wisdom, eloquence, combined to render him one of the most shining lights of the age. Devout without bigotry, tolerant, strictly conscientious, and pure-minded, he was utterly free from debasing passions. Guile and hypocrisy formed no part of his character. Self-denying, abstinent, and laborious, he was ever generous and charitable. Descended from the royal house of York, his mother being Margaret, Countess of Salisbury daughter of the Duke of Clarence, brother to Edward IV., Pole attached no undue importance to this adventitious circumstance, but maintained an almost apostolic meekness of deportment. At the advanced period of life he had attained at the period of our history, his looks were in the highest degree venerable and impressive, offering a complete index to his character. A master of the Latin language, which he spoke and wrote with facility and classical elegance, he had delighted in earlier years in the Greek poets and philosophers, but of late had confined his studies wholly to theology. At one time he had enjoyed the favour of Henry VIII., who was fully alive to his great merits, but he incurred the displeasure of the tyrant by the bold opinions he delivered as to the injustice of Katherine of Aragon’s divorce and the King’s marriage with Anne Boleyn. This opposition to his will was never forgiven by the implacable monarch, and unable to get Pole, who had taken refuge in Italy, into his power, he deprived him of his benefice and possessions, declared him guilty of high treason, laid a price on his head, and sought to procure his assassination. At last, unable to accomplish his fell purpose, Henry wreaked his vengeance on the Cardinal’s mother, the venerable Countess of Salisbury—the last of the whole blood of the royal line of Plantagenet—on his brother Henry Pole, Lord Montague, Sir Edward Nevil, Sir Nicholas Carew, and other of his friends, all of whom were attainted of high treason, and brought to the block. The slaughter of the aged and unoffending Countess, who was only put to death because she was Pole’s mother, is perhaps the deepest stain on Henry’s character. These wholesale murders deeply afflicted Pole, and cast a gloom over the rest of his days; but he did not cry out for vengeance upon the perpetrator of the foul crimes, knowing that Heaven would requite him in due season. That the snares spread by the tyrant had failed to catch him—that the daggers aimed at his breast had been turned aside—convinced him he had work to do for which he was miraculously preserved. So he resigned himself to the heavy calamity that had befallen him, but though there was no show of grief on his countenance, the deep-seated wound in his heart never healed. Raised to the Purple by Paul III., on the death of that Pontiff, in 1549 (five years before the date of our history), the eminent and virtuous Cardinal appeared the most fitting person in the conclave to assume the tiara, and, in spite of the intrigues against him, he was elected to the Pontifical throne; but when the news was brought him at a late hour, he modestly bade the messengers wait till the morrow, and his answer being construed into a refusal, another election took place, when the choice fell upon Cardinal del Monte, who took the title of Julius III.

This occurrence caused a little disappointment to Pole. He retired to the Benedictine convent of Maguzano, on the margin of the Lago di Garda, where he was visited by Commendone, a secret envoy from the Pope to England, and made acquainted by this discreet messenger with the Queen’s gracious intentions towards him. But with characteristic humility he declined them, alleging that, apart from any other considerations, his age and infirmities forbade him to think of marriage. Her majesty, however, he added, might count upon his zealous assistance in the great work she had before her, and the rest of his life should be devoted to her service.

Appointed legate from the Holy See to the Queen of England, the Emperor, and Henri II., King of France, with full powers and credentials, Pole set forth on his mission, but by the Emperor’s order he was stayed at Dillinghen on the Danube. After some delay, he was suffered to proceed as far as Brussels, where he received a letter from Mary, telling him that matters were not yet ripe for his advent, and that his appearance in England might lead to a religious war. The Emperor also peremptorily enjoined him to remain where he was, but assigned no reason for the mandate.

Anxious to obtain some explanation, Pole besought an interview with Charles, which, at last, was reluctantly accorded. When the Bishop of Arras brought him word that his Imperial Majesty would receive him, alleging some excuse for the delay, Pole replied, “Truly, I find it more easy to obtain access to Heaven in behalf of the Emperor, than to have access to the Emperor himself, for whom I daily pray.” The Cardinal gained nothing by the interview, and could not even learn the cause of his detention. Charles feigned anger, and taxing Pole with unnecessary impatience, reiterated his orders to him not to leave Brussels.

Having secured Pole, who he fancied might interfere with his plans if suffered to go into England, the Emperor wrote to the Queen, expressing his entire approval of her rejection of Courtenay, and hypocritically regretting that the Cardinal’s extraordinary indifference to worldly honours rendered him insensible to the great dignity she designed for him, concluded by offering her his son.

The proposal was well timed, Mary being in the mood to receive it. She did not waste much time in consideration, but sent for Renard, who was fully prepared for the summons, and saw at once by the Queen’s looks that his point was gained. She entered upon the business in a very straightforward manner, told him that, having always regarded the Emperor as a father, since his Majesty had graciously deigned to choose a husband for her, she should not feel at liberty to reject the proposal, even if it were not altogether agreeable to her. So far, however from that being the case, no one could please her better than the Prince of Spain. She, therefore, charged his excellency to acquaint the Emperor that she was ready in all things to obey him, and thanked him for his goodness. Thereupon, she dismissed Renard, who hastened to communicate the joyful intelligence to his imperial master.

But though the Queen had been thus won, much yet remained to be accomplished, and all Renard’s skill was required to bring the affair on which he was engaged to a triumphant issue.

Informed of the proposal of marriage which their royal mistress had received from the Prince of Spain, the council, with the exception of the old Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Arundel, and Lord Paget, arrayed themselves against it; and Gardiner, who had supported Courtenay, earnestly remonstrated with Mary, showing her that the alliance would be distasteful to the country generally, would alienate many of her well-disposed subjects, and infallibly involve her in a war with France. Finding it, however, vain to reason with her, or oppose her will—for she was as firm of purpose as her royal sire—the Chancellor desisted, and being really solicitous for the welfare and safety of the realm, proceeded to frame such a marriage-treaty as should ensure the government from all danger of Spanish interference, and maintain inviolate the rights and liberties of the people.

So much obloquy having been heaped upon the memory of this great prelate and statesman, it is right that his conduct in this important transaction, and the care taken by him to guard the country from foreign intervention, should be clearly understood. That Bishop Gardiner was subsequently led into acts of unjustifiable severity towards the adherents of the new doctrines, and became one of the chief instruments in the terrible persecution of the Protestant martyrs, cannot be denied. But it should be borne in mind, that he himself had suffered much for his religious opinions, and the harshness and injustice with which he had been treated in the late reign, chiefly at the instigation of his enemy, Cranmer, the sequestration of his revenues, and long imprisonment in the Tower, had not tended to soften his heart. Neither side when in power showed much pity for its opponents. But whatever judgment may be formed of Gardiner’s acts towards the Protestant party, and his desire to extirpate heresy and schism by fire and blood, it must be conceded that he was one of the ablest statesmen of the day, and that Mary was singularly fortunate in choosing him for her chancellor and prime minister. He speedily replenished an exhausted treasury, repealed obnoxious taxes, and conducted the administration of the kingdom with so much zeal and ability, that, making himself both feared and respected, he obtained the greatest influence at home and abroad. The best proof of his capacities is to be found in the confusion that reigned after his death, and the impossibility on the moment of finding an adequate successor. Even Cardinal Pole, who was by no means favourably disposed towards him, declared that, as a minister, his loss was irreparable.

All-powerful as he was in the government, and high as he stood in the Queen’s favour, Gardiner was not free from jealousy and distrust, and Pole’s appointment as legate from the Holy See to England filled him with uneasiness lest he should be superseded on the Cardinal’s arrival. Like the Emperor, he did not give that lowly-minded man entire credit for disinterestedness and disdain of worldly honours. Persuading his royal mistress that the legate’s presence in the kingdom at a juncture when nothing was settled, would be fraught with infinite peril to herself and to the Church, Gardiner induced her to write to Pole to delay his coming to a more convenient season; and her letter furnished the Emperor with a plausible pretext for continuing to detain Pole at Brussels.

Obviously it was Charles’s interest to win over Gardiner, who, if so minded, might unquestionably mar the marriage-project, even though it had gone thus far, and Renard was, therefore, instructed to spare no pains, and to hesitate at no promises calculated to propitiate the Chancellor. By the wily arts of the imperial ambassador, a certain understanding was arrived at with Gardiner, who thenceforward withdrew his opposition, and warmly promoted the match; satisfied he could do so without sacrificing the interests of the country. The concurrence of others was procured by promises of pensions and gifts, and Charles V. remitted the vast sum of four hundred thousand crowns of the sun to his ambassador for this purpose.

Matters, therefore, being in good train, an extraordinary embassy, consisting of the Counts D’Egmont and Lalain, the Lord of Courrières, and the Sieur de Nigry, were despatched by the Emperor to the English Court, to demand formally the Queen’s hand in marriage. In anticipation of their arrival, a treaty was prepared by Gardiner, its terms having been already discussed with Renard.

The chief stipulations of this treaty were, that the government of the realm should remain, as heretofore, absolutely and entirely with the Queen, so that, although Philip would have the name of King, he would have no regal authority whatever, and no power to dispose of lands, offices, revenues, and benefices. Spaniards were to be strictly excluded from the government, and from all court offices. The Queen could not be taken out of her kingdom save at her own desire. A jointure of sixty thousand pounds a year, secured on lands in Spain and the Netherlands, was to be settled on her Majesty by Philip. If there should be no issue, and Philip should survive his consort, he engaged to make no claim to the succession. The crown was to descend as provided by the laws of the country. A perpetual league was agreed upon between England and Spain, and the league already subsisting between the former country and France was not to be disturbed.

These conditions, insisted upon by Gardiner, and submitted to by the imperial ambassador, were, it must be owned, sufficiently advantageous to England. Count D’Egmont and his companions returned with the treaty to the Emperor, who was well enough content with it, being determined to obtain the throne of England for his son at any price.

So far all had gone tolerably smoothly, but a storm was brewing, and soon afterwards burst forth, threatening to dash to pieces this well-planned fabric.

Amongst the powers dissatisfied with the projected match, the most adverse to it was France. Henri II., the reigning monarch of that country, and the Emperor’s inveterate foe, had already secured the youthful Queen of Scotland, Mary Stuart, for his eldest son; but the union between Philip and the Queen of England would be more than a counterpoise to his own anticipated aggrandisement. At all hazards, Henri was determined to thwart the alliance.

He therefore secretly instructed his ambassador at the English court, Antoine de Noailles, whose genius for intrigue eminently qualified him for the task, to stir up a revolt among the discontented nobles, the object of which should be to depose Mary, and place the Princess Elizabeth on the throne. De Noailles was authorised to assure all such as entered into the plan, that France and Scotland would lend them aid. By this adroit intriguer’s machinations, aided by those of the Venetian ambassador, an extensive conspiracy was soon formed to oppose Philip’s landing, to marry Courtenay to the Princess Elizabeth, and proclaim them King and Queen of England. Already indisposed to the match, the people were easily set violently against it. Every imputation that could be cast upon Philip and on the Spanish nation, was employed by the conspirators to excite the popular animosity. An army of imperialists, it was asserted, was about to invade the English shores and enslave the people. The terrible Inquisition would be introduced into the country, and atrocities worse than those committed by Torquemada, the first inquisitor-general, who burnt eight thousand, eight hundred heretics and Jews, would be perpetrated. By such representations as these, aided by the undisguised hostility of the Protestant party, the nation became greatly disturbed, and an insurrection seemed imminent.

The Duke of Suffolk, father of Lady Jane Grey, with his brothers, the Lords John and Thomas Grey, entered into the plot. Courtenay, dazzled by the prospect of a crown and the hope of wedding Elizabeth, engaged to put himself at the head of the rebels, but, as the hour approached, he shrunk from the perilous enterprise, and confessed the design to Gardiner. Thus betrayed, the conspirators were obliged to precipitate their plans, which were not intended to have been put into execution till the arrival of Philip. A rising was attempted at Exeter by Sir Peter Carew, but met with little support, and was quickly suppressed by the Earl of Bedford. Several of the conspirators were apprehended, and Carew fled to France. The Duke of Suffolk and his brothers were equally unfortunate, and after a futile attempt to make a stand in Leicestershire, were arrested and lodged in the Tower.

A far more successful attempt was made by Sir Thomas Wyat in Kent. Speedily rallying a large force round his standard, he marched towards London, and defeated the veteran Duke of Norfolk, who was sent to oppose him. The rebellion had now assumed a formidable aspect. Wyat was in Southwark, at the head of fifteen thousand men, menacing the metropolis, in which he expected to find an immense number of supporters.

Undismayed by the danger, the Queen repaired to Guildhall, addressed the Lord Mayor and citizens in language so stirring and energetic, that they promised to defend her to the last; and when Wyat, designing to take the city by assault, was prevented by the Tower batteries from crossing London Bridge, but subsequently effected a passage higher up the river, and so approached the capital from the west, his partisans became alarmed at the vigorous preparations made for their reception, and began to desert him. An engagement took place at Charing Cross, which resulted in the defeat of the insurgents, and though Wyat gallantly fought his way with a few followers to Ludgate, none rose to join him, and he was compelled to retreat to Temple Bar, where he surrendered to Sir Maurice Berkeley, by whom he was taken to the Tower.

By this rebellion, in which she had no share, the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey was sacrificed with her husband. Even Elizabeth was placed in great jeopardy. Both she and Courtenay were sent to the Tower, the dungeons of which were crowded with those implicated in the conspiracy. The Emperor counselled severe measures, representing to the Queen, through his ambassador, that she would never be safe while those who could be put forward by the disaffected as claimants of the crown were permitted to live. But Mary, though thus urged by Charles, and by the imperial faction in the council, was reluctant to put her sister to death, and Gardiner encouraged her feelings of clemency, as well towards Elizabeth as Courtenay. Neither of them, therefore, though their complicity in the plot was indubitable, were brought to trial, but Elizabeth, after a brief confinement, was sent under a strong guard, and in charge of Sir Henry Bedingfield, to Woodstock, and Courtenay was taken to Fotheringay Castle. The Duke of Suffolk, with his brothers, paid the penalty of their treasonable acts with their lives, dying unpitied. But Wyat’s fate excited much commiseration, his daring and gallantry having won him the sympathy even of his opponents. Many rebels of lesser note were hanged in different parts of the country, but multitudes received pardon on expressing contrition for their offence.

In this manner was the insurrection crushed. Its contriver, De Noailles, remained unmolested, though Renard denounced him to the council, declaring that he had forfeited his privilege as an ambassador by fomenting rebellion. But the Queen did not desire war with France, which would have certainly followed the plotting minister’s arrest. Emboldened by this apparent immunity from personal risk, and utterly regardless of the calamities he might bring on others, De Noailles continued his secret intrigues as actively as ever, encouraging faction, and hoping to the last to defeat the alliance.

The rebellion, however, was serviceable to Mary. It confirmed her authority, and enabled her to perform many acts which she had not hitherto ventured upon. Above all, it elicited undoubted manifestations of loyalty from the great body of the people, and though the dislike to the Spanish match could not be extinguished, the Queen’s emphatic declaration that regard for her husband should never interfere with her duties to her subjects, was held a sufficient guarantee for the security of the country.

The negotiations in regard to the marriage, so rudely interrupted by the outbreak, were now renewed, and Count D’Egmont and the other ambassadors returned to the English court, with the treaty duly ratified and signed by the Emperor. Introduced by the Lord High Admiral and the Earl of Pembroke to the royal oratory, they there found her Majesty surrounded by the lords of the council. After an address from the Queen, delivered with a dignity and feeling that powerfully moved the auditors, she exchanged the ratification of the treaty with the Count D’Egmont, who now acted as Philip’s proxy. No better representative of the proud Prince of Spain could have been chosen than D’Egmont, himself one of the first lords of the Low Countries, and as distinguished for graces of person as he was for military genius and prowess in the field.

Kneeling at the altar beside the Queen, D’Egmont espoused her on the part of the Prince; and at the close of the ceremonial, which was performed by Gardiner, the Count placed on her Majesty’s finger a diamond ring of great value, sent to her by the Emperor.

His mission completed, Count D’Egmont repaired to Spain to confer with Philip, who was then at Valladolid.

Gardiner’s next step was to have an act confirming the marriage-treaty passed by both Houses of Parliament, and this was accomplished without delay. Lords and Commons were equally satisfied with the provisions of the treaty, and unanimously agreed to it, assuring the Queen that the Prince of Spain would be heartily welcomed on his arrival by all her dutiful subjects.

All being now arranged, the Earl of Bedford, lord privy-seal, and Lord Fitzwaters, with other noblemen and gentlemen, were sent to Spain to conduct Philip to England. Landing at Corunna, the ambassadors proceeded to Santiago, then the capital of Galicia, where they waited for the Prince, who was journeying towards them, with a large train of attendants, by easy stages from Valladolid. During their stay at Santiago, the ambassadors were sumptuously entertained by the Marquis de Sara, and by others of the Spanish nobility.

On Philip’s arrival at Santiago, high mass having been performed in the ancient cathedral, containing the shrine of St. James of Compostella—the patron saint of Spain—the Prince, in the presence of a large assemblage of grandees, dignitaries of the Church, and other important officials, received the treaty of marriage from the Earl of Bedford, ratified it, and solemnly vowed to abide by its conditions.

After a day or two devoted to feasting and pastime, Philip set out for Corunna, and on the 13th July, 1554, all being ready for his departure, he embarked for England in the “Santissima Trinidada,” the finest vessel in the Spanish navy. He was escorted by a hundred and fifty ships, well provided with men and ordnance, and had with him many of the chief nobility of Spain.

During all this time, De Noailles continued his intrigues, vainly endeavouring to excite a fresh revolt, and to his agency may be traced an imposture, which created an extraordinary sensation in London, and might—if it had not been speedily detected—have led to dangerous popular tumults.

A man and his wife, occupying an old tenement in the heart of the city, forming part of a despoiled religious establishment, declared that from a stone wall adjoining their habitation an unearthly voice was heard to issue, proclaiming many strange and terrible things. Ere long, as may be supposed, a curious crowd collected within the court, and the assemblage was gratified by hearing the spirit denounce the approaching marriage of the Queen, which it declared would be full of bale and mischief to the realm. Some of the bystanders called out, “God save Queen Mary!” whereupon the spirit was silent. When they mentioned the Prince of Spain, a deep groan was the response; but when Elizabeth was named, the voice loudly replied, “So be it!” Furthermore, on the question being propounded, “What is the mass?” it discreetly answered, “Idolatry;” with many other utterances to the same purpose.

A report of this wondrous circumstance quickly spread throughout the city, and on the following day, upwards of seventeen thousand persons assembled in the neighbourhood of the structure whence the mysterious voice proceeded. Such as were able to get near the wall heard many treasonable speeches against the Queen, and fresh denunciations of her marriage, which they repeated to those further off, so that the sayings of the spirit were circulated amongst the immense crowd. Much excitement being caused and tumults apprehended, the persons belonging to the house were arrested, and strict search being made, a girl, named Elizabeth Crofts, was discovered, artfully hidden in a hole contrived in the thickness of the wall, whence she had managed to speak through a crevice, with the help of a small trumpet. The impostor was very leniently dealt with, being only made to do public penance for the offence at Saint Paul’s.

Another incident occurred about the same time, which, though ridiculous in itself, is worthy of note, as showing that aversion to the Spanish match pervaded all classes, and was even shared by the young. Some three hundred boys, armed with clubs and staves, assembled in Finsbury Fields, and got up a mock fight, which they styled “The Queen against Wyat.” Though intended as a sport, the conflict was carried on with so much good will, that several were wounded on either side, and the boy who represented Philip of Spain, being taken prisoner by the opposite party, was hanged to a tree, and only cut down just in time to save his life.

Calculating on the unconquerable antipathy to the match manifested in so many ways, De Noailles pursued his schemes, persuaded that, when Philip set foot on the English shores, the people by whom he was so much detested would rise against him, and massacre him and his attendants.

Meanwhile, Lord Clinton, the Lord High Admiral, who himself had no special liking for the Spaniards, or for the Spanish match, though he was full of loyalty towards the Queen, was cruising about the Channel, with eight-and-twenty of the tallest ships in the English navy, to protect the Prince, in case any attempt should be made by the French to attack him on his way, it being reported that four Gascon regiments had been ordered to Rouen, to attempt a descent upon the Isle of Wight and Portsmouth. Lord Clinton was accompanied by the Count de la Chapelle, the Vice-Admiral of the Low Countries, with some fifteen ships, which, however, the rough Englishman did not rate very highly, but called them in derision “mussel-shells.”

As the time drew nigh when the Prince’s arrival might be expected, Mary exhibited an impatience foreign to her character, but by no means unnatural under the circumstances. Sumptuous presents had been provided for her intended husband by her order, and preparations on a magnificent scale were made for the marriage ceremonial, which it was arranged should take place at Winchester. All the principal nobility were bidden to the solemnity, and the chief officers of the royal household, and, indeed, all connected with the court, had parts assigned them in the grand reception to be given to the Prince, and in the celebration of the nuptials.

Many, therefore, shared in the Queen’s anxiety for Philip’s safe and speedy arrival. Up to this time the breezes had been propitious, but contrary winds might arise, and delay the royal bridegroom on his voyage. Some, indeed, prayed that the vessel that bore him might founder, and would have exulted in such a catastrophe, and deemed it a special interference of Providence.

Their prayers were unheard. Tidings were brought by the Marquis de las Naves, the Prince’s avant-courier, who landed at Plymouth, to the effect that his royal master might be daily looked for, and this welcome intelligence was immediately communicated to the Queen, and served to allay her anxiety.

Escorted by a strong guard, and attended by a sumptuous retinue, she forthwith proceeded to Guildford, where the Marquis de las Naves was presented to her by Renard, and gave her most satisfactory accounts of the Prince. Next day she continued her journey, and, on reaching Winchester, the loyal inhabitants of that fine old city welcomed her with every[every] demonstration of joy. Well pleased by her reception she took up her abode at the Bishop’s palace, which had been prepared for her by Gardiner.

At the same time, De Noailles, accompanied by some trusty agents, whom he required for a dark scheme he had hatched, journeyed secretly to Southampton, where the Prince meant to disembark.

CHAPTER II.

HOW THE SPANISH FLEET ENTERED THE SOLENT SEA.

Early on the morning of the 19th of July, 1554, the long-looked-for Spanish fleet, conveying the royal bridegroom to our shores, was descried from the loftiest hill of the Isle of Wight, and presented a most magnificent spectacle as it neared that lovely island.

Consisting, as we have intimated, of a hundred and fifty sail—a third of the number being vessels of large size—the fleet formed a wide half-moon, in the midst of which rode the stately ship bearing Philip and the principal nobles of his suite. The “Santissima Trinidada” rose like a towered castle from the water. From the lofty crenellated turret at the stern floated a broad banner, embroidered in gold, with the arms of Castile and Aragon; its masts, and the turret at the forecastle, corresponding with that at the stern, were gaudily painted; and the sides elaborately carved and covered with devices, were so richly burnished, that the waves shone with their glow. Armed with the heaviest guns then in use, this splendid vessel had on board, besides her crews and the Prince’s suite, three hundred fully equipped arquebusiers.

Other ships there were scarcely inferior to the “Santissima Trinidada” in size and splendour, displaying banners and streamers, and richly painted and decorated according to the Spanish fashion, and all well provided with men and ordnance.

Never before had such a superb fleet ploughed those waters; and when, at a later hour in the day, the Lord High Admiral caught sight of it, he was sore angered, and internally vowed to lower the Spaniard’s pride.

A soft westerly breeze filling the sails, impelled the ships gently on their way, though the surface of the sea was but little agitated. Having risen with the dawn, Philip was now on deck with the Duke of Alva, enjoying the ravishing beauty of the morning, and gazing at the land he was approaching. He could not help being struck by the bold outline and precipitous cliffs of the island in his immediate vicinity, and noted with wonder the tall sharp-pointed rocks, detached from these cliffs, that sprang like pinnacles from the sea.

Passing the Needles, the fleet entered the Solent Sea. On a far-projecting causeway on the left was Hurst Castle, a fortress erected by Henry VIII., and on the right loomed Yarmouth, with its castle. Salutes were fired from both forts. The scenery of the coast now possessed great beauty. On the mainland, noble woods, forming part of the New Forest, at that time of great extent, and full of deer, grew down to the very margin of the lake-like sea; occasional creeks and openings exhibiting sylvan scenes of extraordinary loveliness, and affording glimpses of ancient towns or sequestered habitations. On the other hand, the verdant slopes and groves of the island formed a delicious picture wholly different from that presented by the bold cliffs on its southern coast. Here all was softness and beauty, and to eyes accustomed to the arid and sunburnt shores of Spain, such verdure had an inexpressible charm.

For some time Philip remained wrapped in contemplation of the enchanting scenery of the island, unable to withdraw his eyes from it. At last he exclaimed, “And this is England! the land I have so longed to behold. How deliciously green is yonder island, and what a contrast it offers to our own coasts! And yon noble woods on the left, which they say are those of the New Forest, where William Rufus hunted and was slain! What magnificent timber! We have nothing like those oaks.”

“It may be not, your Highness,” replied Alva; “but I prefer our olives and vines and chestnut-groves to those woods, and our bare brown mountains to those green slopes. If the sun scorches our herbage and burns our soil to brick-dust, it makes abundant compensation. We have oil and wine and a thousand luxuries that these English lack, to say nothing of our fiery men and dark-eyed women.”

“Your excellency is a true Spaniard,” replied the Prince; “but you forget that as soon as I set foot on these shores I shall become an Englishman.”

“Heaven forfend!” exclaimed Alva; then checking himself, he added, “I crave your Highness’s pardon. Inasmuch as the country will belong to you, you may be right to call yourself an Englishman.”

“But I shall be King of England only in name,” said Philip. “As you know, I am debarred by the marriage-treaty from any share in the government, neither can I appoint you, nor any of my nobles, to a post.”

“Out on the treaty!” cried Alva. “Your Highness, I trust, will little regard its terms. Once wedded to the Queen of England, the country will be under your control. This the Emperor well knew, or he would have spurned the conditions proposed to him by the wily Gardiner. Bind you as they may, the council cannot hold you fast, and ere long you will have supreme sway. In two years’ time England will be as much a province of Spain as the Netherlands is now. Then you will reap abundantly the harvest you are sowing. Moreover, by that time the crown of Spain and the imperial diadem may grace your brow.”

“Why do you think so, Alva?” demanded Philip, quickly. “My father suffers much from gout; but gout, physicians tell me, keeps off all other ailments, and those afflicted with it live long in consequence. When he last wrote to me, the Emperor reported himself in good case.”

“Saints keep him so!” cried the Duke. “Yet, as I have just said, ere two years are over, your Highness will surely be King of Spain and Emperor of Germany.”

“What means this prediction?” inquired Philip looking inquiringly at him.

“It means that the Emperor your father, tired with the cares of government, designs to surrender his kingdoms to you.”

“Has he said aught of his intent to you, Alva?—or is it mere surmise on your part?” demanded the Prince, unable to disguise the interest he took in the question.

“Your Highness will excuse me if I decline to state how I obtained the information,” rejoined the Duke; “but I will stake my life on its correctness.”

Philip said nothing more, but remained for some time with his hand upon his lips, absorbed in thought. The flush that overspread his cheeks showed he was much excited. Alva kept his keen eye fixed upon him, and seemed to read what was passing in his breast. After a while, Philip broke the silence.

“It may be as you say,” he remarked; “yet I do not think my father will part lightly with his crown. In a moment of weariness he may talk of abdicating in my favour—but when the fit is over, the design will pass away with it. How would he spend his days if not employed by state affairs?”

“In retirement and holy meditation—in preparation for eternity. Such is his Majesty’s intent.”

“If it be so it is a praiseworthy resolution; and it is to be hoped that Heaven may keep him in it. However, all is uncertain—the firmest man may change his mind.”

“Your Highness says right. Therefore, it will be well to secure a crown in case of accident. Neither do I despair of your doing so. The English nation, they say, hate us Spaniards. What matter? They cannot hate us worse than we hate them. They fear our yoke. Let[Let] us give them reason for their fears by ruling them so severely that they shall not dare to move hand or foot, save at our pleasure. With such a people nothing but hard and sanguinary measures will do. Their late King, Henry VIII., knew that well, and his subjects obeyed him, crouching at his feet like beaten hounds. But to impose our yoke upon them, we must go beyond the despot Henry. We must pour forth the blood of the English nobles like water, seize upon their possessions, and assume their titles. Do this, extirpate heresy, establish the Inquisition, and your Highness need fear no rebellion.”

Alva’s eyes blazed as he gave this counsel, and his countenance assumed an expression so terrible that even Philip regarded him with awe.

“The time is not yet come for acting thus,” observed the Prince. “I must first try to ingratiate myself with the people, and win over the council and the nobles by gifts and promises. If those fail, I may have recourse to other means.”

“There, to my mind, your Highness is wrong,” rejoined Alva. “Begin as you mean to go on. You cannot make yourself beloved by this perfidious nation, but you may easily make yourself dreaded. Hesitate not to shed blood—the best blood. Strike boldly, and at the highest. If you have any misgivings, let me do the work for you, and it shall be done effectually. I shall not object to be grand justiciary of the realm.”

And again his features wore the terrible look we have just noticed.

“It is too soon to talk of this,” said Philip. “We will speak of it hereafter.”

“It may then be too late,” rejoined Alva, in a sombre tone. “Once again, I counsel your Highness not to delay. As soon as you are fairly wedded, throw off the mask.”

“And be driven disgracefully from the kingdom,” cried Philip. “No; I shall adopt a safer course. A time may come—and that at no distant date—when I may profit by your counsels, and ask your aid.”

And he turned to watch the numerous white-sailed little barques steering towards him from Portsmouth.

CHAPTER III.

OF THE AFFRONT OFFERED TO THE SPANIARDS BY THE LORD HIGH ADMIRAL; AND OF THE PRINCE’S ARRIVAL AT SOUTHAMPTON.

Charles V. has been described as more of a Fleming than a Spaniard, and his son Philip as more of a Spaniard than a Fleming. But the Prince bore a strong resemblance to his sire, though he was not so tall as the Emperor, and more slightly and elegantly formed than that martial monarch. Apparently, Philip must have looked like a Scotsman, since he was compared by a Highlander, John Elder, “the Redshank,” who saw him on his entrance into London, to “John Hume, my Lord of Jedward’s kinsman.” The Redshank seems to have been greatly struck by the royal Spaniard’s personal appearance and deportment, for he says, “his pace is princely, and gait so straight and upright as he loses no inch of height;” adding, “he is so well-proportioned of body, arm, and leg, as nature cannot work a more perfect pattern.”

But we have Philip actually brought before us as he lived and moved at the period in question in the portraits of Titian and Sir Antonio More. There we see his slight and singularly elegant figure, and admire his striking costume. There we may peruse his remarkable lineaments, every trait of which has been preserved by the great painters with extraordinary fidelity. Philip’s face was a perfect oval, and all the features good, except the mouth, the lower lip of which was too full, and projected beyond the upper—a defect inherited by the Prince from his father, who was considerably under-jawed. Philip’s complexion was fair, of almost feminine delicacy and clearness, his eyes large and blue, and shaded by thick brows meeting over the nose. His hair, worn short, according to the Spanish mode, was of a golden yellow—a circumstance which, no doubt, caused the Redshank to liken him to “my Lord of Jedward’s kinsman;”—and his pointed beard of the same hue. His forehead was lofty, and white as marble, and his nose long, straight, and perfectly proportioned. In regard to his attire, he was extremely particular, affecting dark colours, as they best suited him; and he had the good taste to dispense with embroidery and ornament. On the present occasion he had in no wise departed from his rule. Black velvet haut-de-chausses, black taffetas hose, velvet buskins, doublet of black satin, all fitting to perfection, constituted his habiliments. Over all, he wore a short black damask mantle furred with sable. His neck was encircled by the collar of the Golden Fleece, and on his head sat a black velvet cap, having a small chain of gold as its sole ornament.

This costume, chosen with great judgment, was admirably calculated to display the graces of his person, and set off the extreme fairness of his complexion. Moreover, the Prince’s demeanour was marked by extraordinary loftiness, and an ineffable air of the highest breeding pervaded his every look and gesture.

Philip was only nineteen when he was first married. Doña Maria of Portugal, the Princess to whom he was then united, died in giving birth to a son, the half-crazed and savage-natured Don Carlos, whose fate is involved in mystery, though it is supposed he was poisoned by his father’s orders. It will be seen, as we proceed, how Philip treated his second consort; but we may mention that to neither of those who succeeded her—he was twice again married—did he manifest much affection. To his third wife, the young and beautiful Elizabeth de Valois, eldest daughter of Henri II. and Catherine de Medicis, he was unaccountably indifferent, repaying her tenderness and devotion by constant neglect and infidelities. At all times, he seems to have preferred any other female society to that of the one entitled to his regard. His fourth wife, Anne of Austria, was but little better treated than her predecessors. Philip long survived her, and would have married again if he could have found among the royal families of Europe an alliance sufficiently tempting. The sole being he entirely loved was the Infanta Isabella, his daughter by his third wife. She served him as his secretary, during his retirement in the Escurial in his latter days, and when dying, he commended her to his son and successor in these terms: “Philip, I charge you to have always the greatest care of the Infanta, your sister. She has been the light of my eyes.”

At the period under consideration, the darker qualities inherent in Philip’s nature had not become developed. He grew more impassive, sterner, and severer, as he gained power, and advanced in years. He was a profound dissembler, and his designs were inscrutable. None knew when they had forfeited his favour. He caressed those he meant to destroy; whence it was said that there was no difference between the King’s smile and the knife. His self-restraint offered a striking contrast to the fiery impetuosity of his father. His policy was subtle, perfidious, Machiavellian. He had not Charles’s sagacity, nor Charles’s towering ambition, but he had more craft and hypocrisy than the Emperor, equal love of power, and equal capacity for rule. His industry was astonishing, and when his mighty monarchy devolved upon him, comprehending Spain, Flanders, Burgundy, the Two Sicilies, the Indies, and the New World, he passed many hours of each day, and often of each night, in reading petitions, annotating upon memorials, writing dispatches, and other toils of the cabinet. No sovereign ever wrote so much as Philip. Everything was submitted to his inspection. In hatred implacable, in severity unrelenting, fickle in friendship—if, indeed, he could form a friendship—he was equally inconstant in love matters, so that no syren could long hold him in her thrall. His affairs of gallantry, like all the rest of his proceedings, were shrouded in mystery. To none did he give his full confidence, and not even his confessor was allowed to peer into the inmost recesses of his breast. More inflexible than his father, if he had once formed a resolution, whether for good or ill, it was unalterable. But he was slow in coming to a decision. In religion he was bigoted, and firmly believed he was serving the cause of the Romish Church by the rigour he displayed towards heretics. He declared he would rather put to death a hundred thousand people than the new doctrines should take root in his dominions. Throughout his reign the terrible tribunal of the Inquisition was constantly in action. Such was the detestation felt for him in the Low Countries and in England, that he was called the “Demon of the South;” while his Spanish subjects spoke of him, under their breath, as the “Father of Dissimulations.” Despite, however, his perfidy, his bigotry, and his severity, he was a great monarch, and raised the power of Spain to its highest point. After him its splendour began to decline.

In his latter years, Philip led the life of a religious recluse, shutting himself up almost entirely in the Escurial, and performing devotional exercises, vigils, fastings, and penances, with as much zeal as a brother of some severe order. Yet, notwithstanding this austere life, he continued to the last to conduct the affairs of state from his closet. His end was a grand and solemn scene, of which full details have been left us.

After receiving extreme unction, Philip said to his son, “I have sent for you that you may know what death is.” He then caused his coffin, which had already been prepared, to be brought into the chamber where he lay, and the crown to be placed on a death’s head on a table beside him. Then taking from a coffer a priceless jewel, he said to the Infanta, “Isabella Eugenia Clara, my daughter, this jewel was given me by the Queen, your mother. It is my parting gift to you.” He next gave a paper to his son, saying, “You will see, from this, how you ought to govern your kingdom.” A blood-stained scourge was then brought him, and taking it in his hand, he said, “This blood is mine, yet it is not mine own, but that of my father, who used the discipline. I mention this, that the relic may be the more valued.” After another paroxysm, he again received extreme unction, and feeling his end approach, he asked for a crucifix, which the Emperor held in his hands when he breathed his last, and which he also desired to hold when dying. In another hour he became speechless, and so continued to the end, his dying gaze being fixed on a taper of Our Lady of Montserrat, burning on the high altar of the church, which was visible through the open door.

We have stood in the little chamber in the church of the Escurial in which Philip died, and have looked from it at the altar whereon burnt the sacred flame that attracted his last regards.

Philip’s suit, as we have already intimated, comprised several nobles of the highest importance, who had been ordered to attend upon him by the Emperor. Besides the Duke of Alva, there was the scarcely less important Duke de Medina Celi, Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, Prince of Eboli, the Admiral of Castile, who was in command of the fleet, the Marquis de Pescara, the Marquis del Valle, the Marquis D’Aguillara, the Conde de Feria, the Conde Olivares, the Conde de Saldana, the Count D’Egmont, and several others equally distinguished. Each of these haughty hidalgos had a train of attendants with him.

With the Prince, also, was the Alcalde of Galicia, the Bishop of Cuença, Father Alfonso de Castro, and several other priests.

Moreover, he had a great painter in his train, Sir Antonio More, who had been previously sent into England to take the Queen’s portrait (which may still be seen in the gallery at Madrid), and had now the honour of accompanying the Prince on his voyage.

Two other important personages had preceded Philip to England—namely, the Marquis de las Naves, previously referred to, and Don Juan Figueroa, Regent of the Council of Aragon, a nobleman much in the Emperor’s confidence, and to whom an important part had been assigned in the approaching ceremonial.

Shortly after his discourse with the Duke of Alva which we have reported, Philip withdrew to his state cabin to perform his orisons, and listen to a discourse from the Bishop of Cuença. On his reappearance, he found most of his nobles assembled on deck, making, as they were all superbly attired, a very gallant show. Only three or four of their number removed their plumed and jewelled caps on the Prince’s approach. The rest being grandees of Spain, and entitled to remain covered in the presence of royalty, asserted their privilege. Foremost in the group were the Duke of Alva, the Duke of Medina Celi, Ruy Gomez de Silva, and the valiant Marquis de Pescara—one of the great captains of the age. All these had the cross of Santiago on their mantles. Some of the assemblage were Knights of Calatrava, others Knights of St. Lazarus, or of St. John of Jerusalem, and all wore their orders. Numbering about fifteen, they presented a remarkable array of noble-looking figures, all more or less characterised by pride of look and haughtiness of deportment. It would have been easy to discern at a glance that they belonged to the most vain-glorious people then existing—a people, however, as valiant as they were vain-glorious.

As we cannot describe these haughty personages in detail, we shall select one or two from the group. The most striking among them was undoubtedly the Duke of Alva, whose remarkable sternness of look arrested attention, and acted like a spell on the beholder. There was a fatal expression in Alva’s regards that seemed to forbode the atrocities he subsequently committed in the Low Countries. His gaze was fierce and menacing, and the expression of his countenance truculent and bloodthirsty. His complexion was swarthy, and his short-clipped hair and pointed beard were jet-black. His figure was lofty, well proportioned, and strongly built, and his manner excessively arrogant and imperious. His attire was of deep-red velvet and damask. His mantle was embroidered with the Cross of Santiago,[Santiago,] and round his neck he wore the collar of the Golden Fleece.

Full as noble-looking as Alva, and far less arrogant, was the Count D’Egmont, whose tall and symmetrical figure was arrayed in a doublet of crimson damask. His hose were of black taffetas, and his boots of bronzed chamois. His black silk mantle was passmented with gold, and his velvet hat was adorned with a tall panache of black and white feathers. Like Alva, he wore the order of the Golden Fleece.

Next to D’Egmont stood Sir Antonio More, for whom the Count had a great friendship. The renowned painter was a man of very goodly appearance, and richly dressed, though not with the magnificence that characterised the hidalgos around him. A doublet of black satin, paned with yellow, with hose to match, constituted his attire; his hair and beard being trimmed in the Spanish fashion.

Such was the assemblage which met the Prince, as he came forth for the second time that morning. Returning their salutations with the dignity and solemnity of manner habitual to him, he seated himself on a throne-like chair, covered with purple velvet, which had been set for him on the raised deck.

By this time the fleet had passed the Solent Sea, and was off Cowes. The extreme beauty of the Isle of Wight, as seen from this point, might have excited Philip’s admiration, had not his attention been drawn to the English and Flemish fleets, which could now be seen advancing to meet him. On came the two armaments, proudly and defiantly, as if about to give him battle, or oppose his progress. When they got within a mile of the Prince, the English ships were ordered to heave to, and soon became stationary; but the Flemish squadron continued to advance until it met the Spaniards, when it wore round and came on with them.

As yet no salute had been fired by the Lord High Admiral.

“I do not understand such matters,” said the Duke of Alva, approaching the Prince; “but it seems to me that the English Admiral gives your Highness but a cold reception.”

Philip made no reply, but, after a moment, observed, “Those are fine ships.”

“They are so,” replied Alva; “but their commander should be taught to show due respect to his sovereign.”

Just then an incident occurred which caused the utmost astonishment, not unmixed with indignation, throughout the Spanish fleet. A shot was fired by the Lord High Admiral across the bows of the Spanish ship nearest him. Philip was made instantly aware of the occurrence, and for a moment exhibited unwonted emotion. His pale cheek flushed, and he sprang from his seat, seeming about to give an angry order, but he presently became calmer. Not so the grandees around him. They were furious; and the Duke of Alva counselled the Prince immediately to fire upon the insolent offender.

“I am as eager to resent the affront as the Duke,” said Count D’Egmont; “but first let an explanation be demanded.”

“Make the inquiry with our cannon,” said Alva, fiercely; adding, with a scornful look at D’Egmont, “timid counsels smack of treason.”

Regarding the Duke with a glance as disdainful as his own, D’Egmont said, “My loyalty to the Emperor has been often approved. His Highness will be better served by prudence than by rashness. There must be some mistake.”

“There can be no mistake, and no explanation ought to be accepted,” cried Alva, yet more fiercely. “The affront is a stain upon the honour of our country, and can only be avenged by the destruction of that insolent fleet. Count D’Egmont is not a Spaniard, and therefore does not feel it.”

“I should regard the matter differently, if I could believe that insult was intended,” rejoined D’Egmont. “But I cannot think so.”

“Here comes the explanation,” said Philip, as the Admiral of Castile approached. “How now, my lord?” he added to him. “What means this interruption? For what reason was that shot fired?”

“Because our topsails were not lowered in deference to the English navy in these narrow seas,” replied the Admiral. “It is the custom to exact this homage to the flag, and Lord Clinton will not abate a jot of his demands. I am come to ascertain your Highness’s pleasure.”

“Pour a broadside into the insolent fellow,” said Alva. “That is the only answer to return consistent with your Highness’s dignity.”

“It is not for me to offer counsel,” said D’Egmont; “but it is better, methinks, to submit to this affront, which, after all, may not be intended as such, than to hazard the loss of a prize that is so nearly gained.”

Philip looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, in an authoritative tone, “Let the topsails be lowered—in this ship—and throughout the fleet. Since the demand is warranted, we ought to comply with it.”

The Admiral instantly gave the requisite orders to the officers near him, and ere another minute the topsails were lowered, amid the murmurs of the Spanish grandees, whose glowing cheeks and flashing eyes proclaimed their wrath.

“I did not think this affront would have been endured,” cried Alva.

“Nor I,” cried the Marquis de Pescara, and some others.

“Be patient, my lords—be patient,” observed Philip, significantly. “Our turn will come anon.”

In another minute all the vessels in the Spanish fleet had followed the example of the “Santissima Trinidada.”

This was no sooner done than a loud salute was fired from all the guns in the English navy.

Before the smoke had rolled away, the Spanish fleet replied by a deafening roar of artillery. Lusty cheers were then given by the sailors thronging the ropes and cross-bars of the English ships, and amid the beating of drums and the shriller music of the fife, a large boat was lowered from the Lord High Admiral’s ship, in which Lord Clinton, attended by several officers of distinction, was rowed towards the “Santissima Trinidada.”

On coming on board, the Lord High Admiral was ceremoniously received by Count D’Egmont, who acted as the Prince’s major-domo, and, after a brief interchange of compliments, on the Admiral’s request to be presented to his Highness, he was ushered through two lines of bronze-visaged and splendidly-equipped harquebuzeros to the bulk-head, where Philip was seated, with his nobles drawn up on either side. By all the latter, Clinton was regarded haughtily and menacingly, but, apparently heedless of their displeasure, he made a profound reverence to the Prince, who received him with a graciousness that offered a marked contrast to the defiant looks of his entourage.

“In the Queen’s name, I bid your Highness welcome to her dominions,” said the Admiral; “and I trust I shall be excused if I have appeared uncourteous in the discharge of my duty, which is to maintain her Majesty’s sovereignty in these seas.”

“No need of apologies, my lord,” replied Philip. “The fault was ours, not yours. We ought to have recollected that we are now in English waters. How fares her Majesty?”

“Right well,” said the Admiral, “and only anxious for your Highness’s safe arrival.”

“Is she at Southampton?” pursued Philip.

“No, my lord,” rejoined the Admiral. “Her Grace came these two days past to Winchester, where she will await your Highness’s coming. I had tidings of her so late as yester-morn, brought by my nephew, who is now with me.”

“Is this your nephew, my lord?” inquired Philip, glancing at a tall, well-proportioned young man, standing behind the Admiral.

The blooming complexion, clear blue eyes, brown waving locks, and features of this very handsome young man, proclaimed his Saxon origin.

“Ay, my lord, this is my nephew, Osbert Clinton,” replied the Admiral, eyeing the youth with a pride which the good looks and gallant bearing of the latter might perhaps justify. “He is fresh from her Majesty’s presence, as I have just declared to your Highness. Stand forward, Osbert, and tell the Prince all thou knowest.”

On this, the young man advanced, and bowing gracefully to Philip, gave him particulars of the Queen’s journey from London, of her stay at Guildford, of her meeting with the Marquis de las Naves, and of her arrival at Winchester—to all of which the Prince listened with apparent interest.

“What office do you fill at court, young Sir, for I conclude you have some post there?” demanded Philip, when young Clinton had done.

“I am merely one of her Majesty’s gentlemen,” replied Osbert.

“I would willingly have made a seaman of him,” interposed the Admiral, “and but that he dislikes the service, he might now be in command of one of yon gallant ships. Sorry am I to say that he prefers a court life.”

“He is in the right,” said Philip. “Unless I am mistaken, he has qualities which will be better displayed in that field than in the one your lordship would have chosen for him—qualities which, if properly employed, must lead to his distinction.”

“Your Highness judges me far too favourably,” said Osbert, bowing profoundly.

“Not a whit,” rejoined Philip; “and to prove my confidence in you, I will attach you—if you list—to my own person.”

“My nephew cannot quit the Queen’s service without her Majesty’s consent,” said the Admiral, in a tone which, though deferential, showed his dislike of the proposition.

“That is always implied,” said Philip. “But supposing her Majesty agreeable, what says the young man to the arrangement?”

“I am entirely at your Highness’s commands,” replied Osbert, overwhelmed with gratitude.

“And ready to become a Spaniard, and forswear your country, if need be, I make no doubt,” observed the Admiral, gruffly.

“I shall violate no duty to the Queen by serving her consort,” said his nephew; “and England and Spain will be so closely linked together by this most propitious union, that they will become as one land, wherein there will be no divided service or interests.”

“That time is not yet arrived, and never will arrive,” muttered the Admiral.

“You are doubtless anxious to return to your ship, my lord,” said Philip. “I will no longer detain you.”

“I thank your Highness,” replied the Admiral. “We will make all haste we can, but there is little wind, and I fear it will be somewhat late ere we can reach Southampton.”

“It matters not,” said Philip. “I shall not disembark till to-morrow.”

“Your Highness will exercise a wise discretion in the delay, as a better reception can be given you,” returned the Admiral. “I humbly take my leave. Come, nephew.”

“It is my pleasure that your nephew should remain with we, my lord,” said Philip.

“But I am about to despatch him in a swift galley to her Majesty,” remonstrated the Admiral.

“You must find a fresh messenger, my lord,” said Philip. “I have other business for him. However, I would place no constraint upon the young man. He can depart with your lordship if he is so minded.”

“Nay, I desire nothing so much as to remain with your Highness,” cried Osbert, eagerly.

“The Prince was right in saying he was born a courtier,” muttered the Admiral. “I can do nothing with him.”

Making another obeisance, he then quitted the Prince’s presence, and, being formally conducted by D’Egmont to the head of the vessel’s stairs, re-entered the boat, and was rowed back to his ship, in no very good humour.

On reaching it, he immediately issued orders to his fleet to make all way to Southampton, and the noble vessels were soon bending in that direction. The Spanish and Flemish fleets followed in the same track. But so slight was the breeze, that some time elapsed before they passed Calshot Castle and entered Southampton Water.

As the Admiral had predicted, evening was at hand ere the fleets had cleared the broad and beautiful estuary, at the northern end of which stood the ancient and then highly picturesque town of Southampton. The grey walls circling the town, the spires of the churches, and the castle on the hill, were glowing in the last rays of the setting sun.

Crowds could be seen gathered upon the quays, and upon every point of observation. A loud salvo was fired from the castle batteries, and from the ordnance placed on the walls and on the gates. Except the “Santissima Trinidada,” the Lord High Admiral’s ship, and that commanded by the Vice-Admiral of the Netherlands, all the other vessels now cast anchor. The three large vessels got as near the port as they could, and then came likewise to an anchor, the ship containing the Prince occupying the foremost position. These movements excited great interest amongst the spectators, whose shouts were loud and continuous.

Intimation having been given to the authorities of the town that the Prince’s disembarkation would not take place till next day, his Highness needing repose after his long voyage, no one went on board the royal ship. The ceremonial of the reception, and all public rejoicings and festivities connected with it, were postponed to the morrow; but it was not until it grew dusk, and they had in some measure satiated their curiosity by gazing at the superb vessel which had brought the illustrious stranger to their port, that the crowd on the quays began to disperse and return to their own dwellings.

It was at this hour that Philip called Osbert Clinton to his state cabin, and, dismissing his attendants, said to the young man, as soon as they were gone,—

“I intend to go ashore, incognito, to-night, and pass an hour in Southampton. I would judge with my own eyes of the people I shall have to govern. You shall go with me—I think I can trust myself with you.”

“I will guard your Highness with my life,” said Osbert, resolutely. “But I cannot conceal from you that it is a hazardous step you are about to take.”

“Hazardous or not, I am resolved upon it,” said Philip. “I like a nocturnal adventure, and the opportunity for one now offers, under circumstances that heighten its zest. My nobles would infallibly oppose my design, and therefore must know nothing of it. One person alone can be trusted, the Count D’Egmont, and he will lend me aid. I must about it at once, for it grows late.”

“Your Highness will be in time, for this will be a night of revel and rejoicing in the town,” said Osbert. “Pray Heaven no ill may come of the adventure!”

D’Egmont was then summoned, and on his appearance the Prince disclosed his plan to him. The Count strongly opposed it, representing its danger, as Osbert had done, but in the end he was obliged to yield.

“For an hour you and I will change parts,” pursued Philip to D’Egmont. “You shall be the Prince, and I the Count. The Count will remain here, and the Prince will go ashore with this young Englishman as if sent on some special errand. None will be the wiser—not even Alva or Ruy Gomez. Go, order a boat to be got ready instantly. Make some change in your attire. Put on the long dark mantle I have seen you wear at night, and a black cap without a plume. Speak to the attendants as you pass, and tell them you are going ashore.”

“It shall be done,” replied the Count, departing.

While he was gone, Philip retired into an inner chamber and made some change in his own apparel. Just as he had completed his preparations, D’Egmont returned, habited as the Prince had directed. Philip took the Count’s mantle, and wrapping himself in it, said, so as to be heard by the attendants, “See the Count D’Egmont and the English caballero to the boat, and let watch be kept for their return. Till then I would not be disturbed.”

Having uttered these words, he muffled up his features and went forth, followed by Osbert. The ushers took him for the person he represented, and attended him to the stairs.

In this manner the Prince and his companion got into the boat without stoppage of any kind, and were rowed to a landing-place at the quay near the South-gate of the town.

CHAPTER IV.

SOUTHAMPTON IN 1554.

Girded round by high embattled walls, flanked with numerous towers, all in good repair, and well ordnanced, old Southampton had a proud and defiant look, especially when viewed from the water. Within the walls, situated on an elevated point on the north-west, stood the castle, now totally destroyed, the donjon of which, erected at the time of the Conquest, if not before, commanded with its guns all the approaches to the harbour, as well as the country to the north. This strongly fortified town possessed no less than eight gates, besides posterns. It was defended on the north and east by a moat of extraordinary width and depth, crossed by drawbridges connected with the gates, and on the south and west by the sea, which washed the foot of its walls; and it contained many large and important mansions, amongst which may be noted the antique palace of Canute, besides several fine churches, hospitals, religious establishments, conduits, and great storehouses, together with a long and goodly street, described by old Leland, in his Itinerary, “as one of the fairest streets that is in any town of all England.”

From the summit of the castle magnificent views were obtained of the lovely Isle of Wight in the distance; of the vast woody region known as the New Forest; of the broad estuary spread out like a lake before it, almost always thronged with craft, and sometimes, as now, filled with larger vessels; of the ruthlessly-despoiled but still beauteous abbey of Netley, embosomed in its groves; of the course of the Itchen, on the one side, and of the Test on the other; or, looking inland towards the north of a marshy tract, caused by the overflowing waters of the Itchen; of more marshes on the low ground further on, then more forest scenery, with here and then a village and an ancient castellated mansion, until the prospect was terminated by Saint Catherine’s and Saint Giles’s hills near Winchester.

Situated at the point of a piece of high land lying between the confluence of the two rivers just mentioned, namely, the Itchen and the Test, old Southampton was completely insulated by the deep ditch connecting these streams on the north, and continued along the east side of the walls. Without the walls, on the east, lay an extensive suburb, occupying the site of a still older town, which had been sacked and in a great part burnt by French and Genoese pirates in the time of Edward III.—a disaster that caused the second town to be as strongly fortified as we have described it.

And now let us examine the gates, the noblest of which, the Bar-gate, happily still exists. Built at different epochs, the two semicircular towers composing the north frontage being added to the central arch, which dates back at least as far as the Conquest, this stately structure, which formed the sole entrance to the town from the north, surpassed all the other gates in size and grandeur. Even now, crowded as it is with habitations, and standing in the midst of a busy throughfare, it is very imposing. Its massive towers, reverent with age, and carrying back the mind of the beholder to a remote period, are strongly machiolated, and retain much of their pristine character, but the once beautiful pointed archway between them has been disfigured by enlargement. Anciently, there was a double moat on the north of this gate, crossed by a stone bridge and a drawbridge. On the parapets of the first of these bridges the lordly sitting lions now guarding the archway were set.

We may complete our description of the Bar-gate by mentioning that it contains the Guildhall of the town, or Domus Civica, as old Leland terms it. Underneath, below the level of the moat, there was formerly a dungeon.

It may be questioned whether the good folk of Southampton are half so proud of their noble gate as of two extraordinary paintings hanging on the right and left of the central arch, which represent the renowned[renowned] Sir Bevis, the legendary hero of the town, and the giant Ascapart, who, according to tradition, being conquered by the doughty Danish knight, became his squire. We do not quarrel with these paintings, or with their position, but why should not pictorial representations be likewise given of the peerless Princess Josyan, of whom Sir Bevis was enamoured, and of his marvellous charger, Arundel? The pictures, we venture to suggest, might serve to screen the grievous disfigurements on the south side of the Bar-gate.

The Water-gate and the South-gate, both of which faced the harbour, though inferior in size and grandeur of appearance to the Bar-gate, were very strongly built, machiolated, provided with double portcullises, and flanked by towers. The other five gates were nearly similar in character; the most important being the East and West-gates.

High, and of great solidity, the walls were further strengthened on the south and west sides by huge buttresses, as may still be seen in the picturesque remains left in these parts of the modern town. The parapets were embrasured, and had bastions at the angle of the walls. Towers were also built for the protection of the flood-gates required to admit the sea to the trenches.

All the fortifications, as we have said, were in good condition, having been repaired and strengthened by Henry VIII., who was a frequent visitor to the town, and, still more recently, in the reign of Edward VI. The batteries were furnished with fresh artillery by the former monarch, and a large piece of ordnance, graven with his name and title of “Fidei Defensor,” is still preserved.

Separated from the town by the broad deep moat which was traversed in this quarter by a couple of large drawbridges, the quay extended along the shore to some distance on the east, and was laid out in wharves, and provided with cranes and other machines for landing or embarking cargoes. The harbour was marked out by huge piles driven into the banks, like those which may be seen in the shallow lagunes of Venice. Ordinarily the quay was a very busy scene, but its busiest and blithest time was on the arrival of the Flanders galleys, which came twice or thrice a year, laden with rich freights. Then all the wealthy merchants of Southampton[Southampton], with their clerks and serving-men, and even with their wives and daughters, repaired to the platform eager to inspect the goods and rare articles brought by the fleet.

Inhabited by a body of merchants who traded largely with Venice and the East, and almost rivalled the merchants of London in wealth, Southampton gave abundant evidence in its buildings of power and prosperity. In English-street, now known as the High-street, dwelt the chief merchants of the place, and though their habitations were not marble palaces, like those of the Venetians with whom they traded, nor stately structures, like those of the Flemings, who brought rich cargoes to their port, they were substantial timber houses, with high roofs, picturesque gables, and bay-windows. Not only did these houses possess large entrance-halls, and spacious chambers panelled with black oak, hung with costly arras, and otherwise luxuriously furnished, according to the taste of their wealthy owners, but they boasted, in many cases, large, dry, well-arched vaults, stored with casks of good Bordeaux, Xerez, Malaga, Alicant, Malvoisie, and Gascoigne wines. Some of these famous old cellars yet exist. Let us hope they are as well stocked as of yore.

Most of the houses in English-street were remarkable for the elaborate carvings adorning their woodwork, while the handsome porches were embellished with shields and escutcheons charged with armorial bearings. In all cases the upper stories projected beyond the lower, so as to overhang the footways. It is satisfactory to add that the Southampton merchants of that day were noted for the liberality of their dealings, as well as for their princely hospitality to strangers.

About midway in English-street stood Holyrood Church, an antique pile, of which we shall have occasion to speak anon; and contiguous to the South-gate, which then formed one of the outlets to the harbour, was the Domus Dei, or God’s House, an ancient hospital, in the chapel of which, now used as a place of worship by French Protestants, were buried the three lords, Cambridge, Scrope, and Grey, beheaded for conspiring against Henry V., as that warlike prince was about to embark for France to win the glorious battle of Agincourt. And while on this theme, let us not forget that it was likewise from Southampton that the victors of Cressy sailed.

Such was Southampton in the middle of the sixteenth century. It was during the reign of Henry VIII. that its power and importance as a seaport culminated. At the period of which we treat it had begun to decline, though the vast wealth previously acquired by its merchants helped for a while to sustain it. But its trade continued sensibly to diminish in Elizabeth’s time, while its rival, Portsmouth, grew in consequence. However, a great future was in store for Southampton. The present century has witnessed its revival and restoration to far more than its mediæval prosperity. With its secure harbour and noble docks, wherein ride the superb steamers that connect it with the East and West Indies, and indeed with the whole world, few ports in the kingdom can now vie with that of fair Southampton.

CHAPTER V.

HOW THE PRINCE OF SPAIN OBTAINED A SIGHT OF SIR BEVIS OF SOUTHAMPTON AND HIS HORSE ARUNDEL, OF THE GIANT ASCAPART, THE PRINCESS JOSYAN, KING CANUTE, AND ANOTHER NOTABLE PERSONAGE.

The platform on which the Prince of Spain and young Clinton stood, after leaving the boat, was entirely deserted, the vast concourse, recently assembled there, having returned, as already stated, to the town. Here and there a sentinel, in steel cap and breastplate, and armed with a halberd, strode to and fro along the solitary quay. One of these sentinels challenged the Prince and his companion on their landing, but a word from Osbert caused the man to retire.

As Philip first set foot on English ground a thrill of exultation ran through his breast, but he allowed no outward manifestation of the feeling to escape him; but after a momentary halt, signified his desire to Osbert to enter the town.

The night was dark, but clear and perfectly calm. Behind, on the smooth sea, which reflected the stars shining brilliantly above, and the lights of the large lanterns hanging at the poops of the vessels, lay the “Santissima Trinidada,” with her scarcely less colossal companions beside her, looming like leviathans in the darkness. Here all seemed buried in repose, for no sound arose from the mighty ships, or from the squadron in their rear. But in front there was a strong light proceeding from a blazing barrel of pitch set on the top of the Water-gate, the flames of which, rising to a great height, illumined the battlements and keep of the castle, as well as the steeples of the churches and the roofs of the loftier buildings, casting a ruddy glare on the moat beneath, and making the adjacent walls and towers look perfectly black. Moreover, a loud hum, with other sounds arising from the interior of the town, showed that its inhabitants were still astir.

Traversing a drawbridge, near which another sentinel was stationed, Osbert and his royal companion speedily reached the Water-gate. Three or four halberdiers were standing beneath the archway, and advanced to question them, but satisfied with young Clinton’s explanation, one of them struck his pole against the massive door, whereupon a wicket was opened, and the pair entered the town.

They were now at the foot of English-street, with the principal features of which the reader is familiar. Active preparations of various kinds were here being made for the anticipated ceremonial of the morrow. Men were employed in decorating scaffolds erected near the gate, and other artificers were occupied in adorning the fronts of the houses. Though the hour was late, owing to the bustle of preparation, and the numerous strangers within the town, few of the inhabitants of this quarter had retired to rest. Festivities seemed to be going on in most of the houses. Lights streamed from the open casements, while joyous shouts, laughter, and strains of music resounded from within.

All was strange to Philip—the quaint and picturesque architecture of the habitations, the manners, and to some extent the very dresses of the people. But though he was amused by the novelty of the scene, the rudeness, noisy talk, boisterous merriment, and quarrels of the common folk, were by no means to his taste. Naturally, his own arrival in the harbour and expected disembarkation on the morrow formed the universal topics of discourse, and he heard remarks upon himself and his nation, such as he had not hitherto conceived that any one would venture to utter. Little did the heedless talkers imagine that the haughty-looking stranger, with his face closely muffled in his mantle, who passed them in the street, or lingered for a moment beneath a porch to watch their proceedings, was the Prince of Spain. Well was it, indeed, for Philip that he was not recognised, since there were some discontented folk abroad that night who might not have held his royal person sacred.

Philip took no notice of his opprobrious discourse to his conductor, who would fain have shut his ears to it, but he said within himself, “I begin to understand these people. They are insolent, audacious, and rebellious. Alva was right. They must be ruled with an iron hand.”

As he walked along, the Prince glanced through the open windows into the dining-chambers of some of the larger houses, and seeing the tables covered with flasks and flagons, and surrounded by guests, whose condition proclaimed that they had been drinking deeply, he inquired of Osbert whether his countrymen usually committed such excesses?

“They are somewhat prone to conviviality, I must admit,” replied the young man. “But joy at your Highness’s safe arrival has doubtless made them carouse longer than their wont to-night. Besides, there are many strangers in the town, and the hospitality of the Southampton merchants knows no limit.”

Whether this explanation was entirely satisfactory to the Prince may be doubted, but he made no further remark.

By this time, Philip and his conductor had arrived within a short distance of Holyrood Church. An arch had here been thrown across the street, which some young women were decorating with flowers and ribbons; while a knot of apprentices, in jerkins of grey or russet serge and flat caps, were superintending their operations, and holding torches for them.

All at once a great shouting was heard in the upper part of the street, whereupon the maidens suspended their task, and called out gleefully to the youths that Sir Bevis and Ascapart were coming. At this intimation the apprentices drew back, and with some others of the townsfolk who were assembled there, ranged themselves on either side of the arch.

Presently the clamour increased, showing that the knight of Southampton and his gigantic squire must be close at hand, and in order to get out of the way of the crowd, the Prince and his companion withdrew into a porch, whence they could see what was going on without molestation.

Scarcely had they thus ensconced themselves[themselves] when a tumultuous throng burst through the arch. These were followed by a troop of Moors—for such they seemed, from their white garments, turbans adorned with the crescent, and blackened features. The foremost of these Paynims bore torches, but three of them, who marched in the rear, had golden fetters on their wrists, and crowns on their heads. After these captive monarchs rode their conqueror, bestriding his mighty war-horse, Arundel. Sir Bevis, who was of gigantic proportions, was equipped in an enormous steel corslet, with greaves to match, and had on his head a white-plumed helm, the visor of which being raised, disclosed a broad, bluff, bearded visage. Arundel was of extraordinary size and strength, as he had need to be with such a rider, and had a tufted chamfron on his head, with housings of red velvet.

On the right and left of Sir Bevis strode two personages, whose frames were as gigantic as his own. One of these, clad in a tunic of chain armour, which fully developed his prodigious amplitude of chest, wore a conical helmet surmounted by a crown, and having a great nasal in front, which gave peculiar effect to his burly features. This was the Anglo-Danish King, Canute. His majesty bore on his hip a tremendous sword, the scabbard of which was inscribed with mystic characters, and carried in his hand a spear that would have suited Goliath. His shield was oval in form, with a spiked boss in the centre.

Loftier by half a head than the royal Dane was the giant Ascapart, who marched on the other side of the valorous knight of Southampton. Ascapart’s leathern doublet was studded with knobs of brass; a gorget of the same metal encircled a throat thick as that of a bull; his brawny legs were swathed with bands of various colours; and on his shoulders, which were even broader than those of Canute or of his master Sir Bevis, he carried a ponderous club, which it would have puzzled an ordinary man to lift. At his back hung a dragon’s head, no doubt that of the terrific monster slain by Sir Bevis. Despite his attire and formidable club, there was nothing savage in Ascapart’s aspect. On the contrary, his large face had a very good-humoured expression; and the same may be asserted both of Sir Bevis and Canute. It was evident from the strong family likeness distinguishing them that the three giants must be brothers.

As if to contrast with their extraordinary stature, these Anakim were followed by a dwarf, whose appearance was hailed with universal merriment by the spectators. A doublet and cloak of silk and velvet of the brightest hues, with a cap surmounted by a parti-coloured plume of ostrich feathers, formed the attire of this remarkable mannikin. A rapier, appropriate to his size, was girt to his thigh, and a dagger, tiny as a bodkin, hung from his girdle. He rode a piebald horse, and behind him on a pillion sat a plump little dame, representing the Princess Josyan, whose transcendant beauty had bewitched Sir Bevis, and softened the adamantine heart of the ferocious Ascapart. It can scarcely be affirmed that the Princess’s charms were calculated to produce such effects on men in general, but there was doubtless a sorcery about her, which operated more potently on certain subjects than on others. To ordinary eyes she appeared a fat little woman, neither very young nor very tempting, with a merry black eye and a comical expression of countenance. Princess Josyan’s gown was of green velvet, and her embroidered cap had long lappets covering the ears. In her hand she carried a fan made of peacock’s feathers.

In Sir Bevis and his companions Osbert Clinton at once recognised (as perhaps some of our readers may have done) three well-known gigantic warders of the Tower, yclept Og, Gog, and Magog, who, on account of their prodigious stature, were constantly employed in state pageants and ceremonials, while in the consequential looking pigmy riding behind them he did not fail to detect the Queen’s favourite dwarf, Xit, who of late, having received the honour of knighthood from her Majesty, had assumed the title of Sir Narcissus le Grand. The plump little occupant of the pillion, Osbert felt sure must be Lady le Grand, formerly Jane the Fool, whom the Queen had been graciously pleased to bestow in marriage upon Xit. While young Clinton was detailing these circumstances to the Prince, an incident occurred that brought a smile to Philip’s grave countenance.

As Og, the representative of Sir Bevis, was passing through the arch, which his plumed helmet well-nigh touched, he perceived a very comely damsel looking down from a ladder on which she was standing, and laughing at him. Without more ado, he raised himself in his stirrups, and putting his arm round her neck, gave her a sounding salute. Indignant at this proceeding, the damsel requited him with a buffet on the cheek, but in so doing she lost her balance, and would have fallen if the giant had not caught her, and placed her behind him on the broad back of Arundel, which done, he secured his prize by passing his belt round her waist.

Great was the amusement of the bystanders at this occurrence, and several of them clapped their hands and called out, “The Princess Josyan!—the Princess Josyan!” One young gallant, however, did not share the general mirth, but, shouting to Sir Bevis to set the damsel down, made an effort to release her. But he was thwarted in his purpose by Magog, or rather, we should say, by the terrible Ascapart, who, seizing him by the jerkin, notwithstanding his struggles, handed him to Sir Bevis, and by the latter he was instantly transferred to the highest step of the ladder which the damsel had just quitted. Satisfied with what he had done, Sir Bevis rode on, carrying away with him his fair captive, amid the plaudits and laughter of the spectators. Highly incensed at the treatment he had experienced, the youth was preparing to descend, when he perceived Xit beneath him, and stung to fury by the derisive laughter and gestures of the dwarf, who was mightily entertained by what had taken place, he pulled off his thick flat cap, and threw it with such force, and so true an aim, that hitting Xit on the head, it nearly knocked him off his horse.

Greatly ruffled by the indignity thus offered him, Xit, as soon as he recovered his equilibrium, drew his sword, and shrieking out to the apprentice that he should pay for his insolence with his life, bade him come down instantly. But the youth did not care to comply, but joined in the laughter of the spectators, all of whom were prodigiously entertained by the enraged dwarf’s cries and gesticulations. At last, Xit, who was preparing to scale the ladder and attack his foe, yielded to the solicitations of Lady le Grand, and rode on, delivering this parting menace: “We shall meet again, thou craven flat-cap, when I shall not fail to avenge the insult offered me.”

He then quickened his pace, for the laughter and jests of the bystanders displeased him, and speedily overtook the cavalcade. On coming up with it, he found that the damsel, who was universally saluted as the Princess Josyan, still maintained her position behind Sir Bevis, and, indeed, seemed perfectly reconciled to it, as she was now chatting in a very amicable manner with her captor. Perhaps her vanity was a little excited by the effect she evidently produced upon the lookers-on. This may account for the proffer she voluntarily made to Sir Bevis, to enact the Princess Josyan on the morrow—a proffer which the courteous knight readily accepted, provided the matter could be accommodated with Lady le Grand, who had a prior claim to the part.

Great was the tribulation of the luckless apprentice who had thus lost his sweetheart. From his elevated position he watched her progress down the street, and could perceive that she manifested no disposition to dismount. But he soon lost sight of her, since, before reaching the bottom of English-street, Sir Bevis and his cortége turned off on the right in the direction of the West-gate.

CHAPTER VI.

WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MASTER RODOMONT BITTERN AND

THE PRINCE.

As soon as the street was clear, Osbert inquired whether his Highness would proceed as far as the Bar-gate, but Philip having now seen enough, declined, and they began to retrace their steps. The tipplers in the houses were still at their cups. Some of them, it is true, had staggered to the windows on hearing Sir Bevis and his cortége pass, but by this time they had got back to the bottle. However, a party of half-inebriate guests issued from a large house so suddenly, that the Prince and Osbert had no time to get out of their way, but were instantly surrounded.

“Ah! who have we here?” cried one of these roysterers, struck by Philip’s haughty air. “By the life of the Emperor Charles V., a Spanish grandee! Perchance, one of the Prince’s suite.”

“You are right, Sir,” interposed Osbert; “this noble cavalier is but newly-arrived at Southampton with his Highness the Prince of Spain, and, having come ashore on business, is now returning to his ship.”

“How does the noble cavalier style himself?” demanded the other.

“Call me Don Philip—that will suffice,” said the Prince, haughtily.

“Bezo las manos, Señor Don Felipe,” rejoined the other, taking off his cap. “Your lordship is right welcome to Southampton. Suffer me to introduce myself to you as Master Rodomont Bittern, a caballero y hombre de honor, who will be proud to do your lordship a service. These are my friends, Nick Simnel and Jack Holiday—both caballeros like myself, and courageous and haughty as bulls. Be known to Don Philip, señores. If your lordship will permit us, we will escort you to the quay.”

“Ay, and go on board with his lordship, an he likes our company,” cried Simnel. “We are in the humour for an adventure.”

“I am ready for aught, save the couch,” said Jack Holiday. “Don Philip will find us jolly cocks, that I promise him.”

“Why should not Don Philip, if he be not pressed, enter worthy Master Tyrrell’s house, and crush a flask of Bourdeaux?” said another of the party. “He shall be welcome, I will answer for it.”

“Ah, that he shall, good Master Huttoft,” cried the host, who was standing in his doorway, and heard what was passing. “He shall have the best my cellar can produce. I pray you, noble Sir, come in.”

“Enter by all means,” said Rodomont to the Prince. “Master Tyrrell is well worth knowing. He is the richest merchant we have—richer than the Italian merchants Nicolini and Guidotti, who dwell near St. John’s. Master Tyrrell is a descendant of the famous brothers Gervase and Protasius, who founded the hospital of God’s House. His daughter, Constance, is surnamed the Pearl of Southampton. A ravishing creature, I vow. You will lose your heart the instant you behold her. Your Andalusian beauties are nothing to her.”

“What do you know of Andalusian beauties, Sir?” said Philip.

“By the mass! a good deal,” rejoined Rodomont, significantly; “as your lordship will guess, when I tell you I have been at Seville. That is how I knew you for a grandee. I could not be deceived. Enter, I pray you, and make Master Tyrrell’s acquaintance. You will find his daughter as I have described her—the fairest creature you ever clapped eyes on. Not, however, that you will see her to-night, for she is at her devotions. She is as pious as Saint Elizabeth. Had I the choice, I would take Constance Tyrrell in preference to our Queen, whom the Prince, your master, has come hither to marry—ha! ha!”

And the laughter in which he indulged was echoed by his companions.

“Heaven grant that the Prince may not have raised his expectations too high on the score of his consort’s beauty, or he is like enough to be disappointed,” pursued Rodomont. “Hath your lordship ever beheld her Majesty?”

“How could I, Sir?” replied Philip, “since I have never set foot in England before this hour. But I have seen her portrait by Sir Antonio More.”

“Sir Antonio is a court painter, and has doubtless flattered her,” said Rodomont. “By my beard! she is as thin as a whipping-post, and as sour as verjuice.”

This sally was followed by a shout of laughter from the party.

“Let me impress upon you the necessity of a little caution, Master Bittern,” said Osbert. “You seem to forget that Don Philip is attached to his Highness’s person.”

“But he is not going to marry the Queen, therefore the question of her good or ill looks can have no interest to him,” laughed Rodomont. “After all, tastes differ, and the Prince may think her Majesty charming, though I do not.”

“Are you allowed to talk thus freely of great personages in England, Sir?” demanded Philip, sternly.