Kitabı oku: «The Armourer's Prentices», sayfa 6

CHAPTER VII
YORK HOUSE

 
“Then hath he servants five or six score,
Some behind and some before;
A marvellous great company
Of which are lords and gentlemen,
With many grooms and yeomen
And also knaves among them.”
 

Contemporary Poem on Wolsey.

Early were hammers ringing on anvils in the Dragon Court, and all was activity.  Master Headley was giving his orders to Kit Smallbones before setting forth to take the Duke of Buckingham’s commands; Giles Headley, very much disgusted, was being invested with a leathern apron, and entrusted to Edmund Burgess to learn those primary arts of furbishing which, but for his mother’s vanity and his father’s weakness, he would have practised four years sooner.  Tibble Steelman was superintending the arrangement of half a dozen corslets, which were to be carried by three stout porters, under his guidance, to what is now Whitehall, then the residence of the Archbishop of York, the king’s prime adviser, Thomas Wolsey.

“Look you, Tib,” said the kind-hearted armourer, “if those lads find not their kinsman, or find him not what they look for, bring them back hither, I cannot have them cast adrift.  They are good and brave youths, and I owe a life to them.”

Tibble nodded entire assent, but when the boys appeared in their mourning suits, with their bundles on their backs, they were sent back again to put on their forest green, Master Headley explaining that it was reckoned ill-omened, if not insulting, to appear before any great personage in black, unless to enhance some petition directly addressed to himself.  He also bade them leave their fardels behind, as, if they tarried at York House, these could be easily sent after them.

They obeyed—even Stephen doing so with more alacrity than he had hitherto shown to Master Headley’s behests; for now that the time for departure had come, he was really sorry to leave the armourer’s household.  Edmund Burgess had been very good-natured to the raw country lad, and Kit Smallbones was, in his eyes, an Ascapart in strength, and a Bevis in prowess and kindliness.  Mistress Headley too had been kind to the orphan lads, and these two days had given a feeling of being at home at the Dragon.  When Giles wished them a moody farewell, and wished he were going with them, Stephen returned, “Ah! you don’t know when you are well off.”

Little Dennet came running down after them with two pinks in her hands.  “Here’s a sop-in-wine for a token for each of you young gentlemen,” she cried, “for you came to help father, and I would you were going to stay and wed me instead of Giles.”

“What, both of us, little maid?” said Ambrose, laughing, as he stooped to receive the kiss her rosy lips tendered to him.

“Not but what she would have royal example,” muttered Tibble aside.

Dennet put her head on one side, as considering.  “Nay, not both; but you are gentle and courteous, and he is brave and gallant—and Giles there is moody and glum, and can do nought.”

“Ah! you will see what a gallant fellow Giles can be when thou hast cured him of his home-sickness by being good to him,” said Ambrose, sorry for the youth in the universal laughter at the child’s plain speaking.

And thus the lads left the Dragon, amid friendly farewells.  Ambrose looked up at the tall spire of St. Paul’s with a strong determination that he would never put himself out of reach of such words as he had there drunk in, and which were indeed spirit and life to him.

Tibble took them down to the St. Paul’s stairs on the river, where at his whistle a wherry was instantly brought to transport them to York stairs, only one of the smiths going any further in charge of the corslets.  Very lovely was their voyage in the brilliant summer morning, as the glittering water reflected in broken ripples church spire, convent garden, and stately house.  Here rows of elm-trees made a cool walk by the river side, there strawberry beds sloped down the Strand, and now and then the hooded figures of nuns might be seen gathering the fruit.  There, rose the round church of the Temple, and the beautiful gardens surrounding the buildings, half monastic, half military, and already inhabited by lawyers.  From a barge at the Temple stairs a legal personage descended, with a square beard, and open, benevolent, shrewd face, before whom Tibble removed his cap with eagerness, saying to Ambrose, “Yonder is Master More, a close friend of the dean’s, a good and wise man, and forward in every good work.”

Thus did they arrive at York House.  Workmen were busy on some portions of it, but it was inhabited by the great Archbishop, the king’s chief adviser.  The approach of the boat seemed to be instantly notified, as it drew near the stone steps giving entrance to the gardens, with an avenue of trees leading up to the principal entrance.

Four or five yeomen ran down the steps, calling out to Tibble that their corslets had tarried a long time, and that Sir Thomas Drury had been storming for him to get his tilting armour into order.

Tibble followed the man who had undertaken to conduct him through a path that led to the offices of the great house, bidding the boys keep with him, and asking for their uncle Master Harry Randall.

The yeoman shook his head.  He knew no such person in the household, and did not think there ever had been such.  Sir Thomas Drury was found in the stable court, trying the paces of the horse he intended to use in the approaching joust.  “Ha! old Wry-mouth,” he cried, “welcome at last!  I must have my new device damasked on my shield.  Come hither, and I’ll show it thee.”

Private rooms were seldom enjoyed, even by knights and gentlemen, in such a household, and Sir Thomas could only conduct Tibble to the armoury, where numerous suits of armour hung on blocks, presenting the semblance of armed men.  The knight, a good-looking personage, expatiated much on the device he wished to dedicate to his lady-love, a pierced heart with a forget-me-not in the midst, and it was not until the directions were finished that Tibble ventured to mention the inquiry for Randall.

“I wot of no such fellow,” returned Sir Thomas, “you had best go to the comptroller, who keeps all the names.”  Tibble had to go to this functionary at any rate, to obtain an order for payment for the corslets he had brought home.  Ambrose and Stephen followed him across an enormous hall, where three long tables were being laid for dinner.

The comptroller of the household, an esquire of good birth, with a stiff little ruff round his neck, sat in a sort of office inclosed by panels at the end of the hall.  He made an entry of Tibble’s account in a big book, and sent a message to the cofferer to bring the amount.  Then Tibble again put his question on behalf of the two young foresters, and the comptroller shook his head.  He did not know the name.  “Was the gentleman” (he chose that word as he looked at the boys) “layman or clerk?”  “Layman, certainly,” said Ambrose, somewhat dismayed to find how little, on interrogation, he really knew.

“Was he a yeoman of the guard, or in attendance on one of my lord’s nobles in waiting?”

“We thought he had been a yeoman,” said Ambrose.

“See,” said the comptroller, stimulated by a fee administered by Tibble, “’tis just dinner time, and I must go to attend on my Lord Archbishop; but do you, Tibble, sit down with these striplings to dinner, and then I will cast my eye over the books, and see if I can find any such name.  What, hast not time?  None ever quits my lord’s without breaking his fast.”

Tibble had no doubt that his master would be willing that he should give up his time for this purpose, so he accepted the invitation.  The tables were by this time nearly covered, but all stood waiting, for there flowed in from the great doorway of the hall a gorgeous train—first, a man bearing the double archiepiscopal cross of York, fashioned in silver, and thick with gems—then, with lofty mitre enriched with pearls and jewels, and with flowing violet lace-covered robes came the sturdy square-faced ruddy prelate, who was then the chief influence in England, and after him two glittering ranks of priests in square caps and richly embroidered copes, all in accordant colours.  They were returning, as a yeoman told Tibble, from some great ecclesiastical ceremony, and dinner would be served instantly.

“That for which Ralf Bowyer lives!” said a voice close by, “He would fain that the dial’s hands were Marie bones, the face blancmange, wherein the figures should be grapes of Corinth!”

Stephen looked round and saw a man close beside him in what he knew at once to be the garb of a jester.  A tall scarlet velvet cap, with three peaks, bound with gold braid, and each surmounted with a little gilded bell, crowned his head, a small crimson ridge to indicate the cock’s comb running along the front.  His jerkin and hose were of motley, the left arm and right leg being blue, their opposites, orange tawny, while the nether stocks and shoes were in like manner black and scarlet counterchanged.  And yet, somehow, whether from the way of wearing it, or from the effect of the gold embroidery meandering over all, the effect was not distressing, but more like that of a gorgeous bird.  The figure was tall, lithe, and active, the brown ruddy face had none of the blank stare of vacant idiocy, but was full of twinkling merriment, the black eyes laughed gaily, and perhaps only so clearsighted and shrewd an observer as Tibble would have detected a weakness of purpose about the mouth.

There was a roar of laughter at the gibe, as indeed there was at whatever was uttered by the man whose profession was to make mirth.

“Thou likest thy food well enough thyself, quipsome one,” muttered Ralf.

“Hast found one who doth not, Ralf?  Then should he have a free gift of my bauble,” responded the jester, shaking on high that badge, surmounted with the golden head of an ass, and jingling with bells.  “How now, friend Wry-mouth?  ’Tis long since thou wert here!  This house hath well-nigh been forced to its ghostly weapons for lack of thy substantial ones.  Where hast thou been?”

“At Salisbury, good Merryman.”

“Have the Wilts men raked the moon yet out of the pond?  Did they lend thee their rake, Tib, that thou hast raked up a couple of green Forest palmer worms, or be they the sons of the man in the moon, raked out and all astray?”

“Mayhap, for we met them with dog and bush,” said Tibble, “and they dropped as from the moon to save my poor master from the robbers on Bagshot heath!  Come now, mine honest fellow, aid me to rake, as thou sayest, this same household.  They are come up from the Forest, to seek out their uncle, one Randall, who they have heard to be in this meiné.  Knowest thou such a fellow?”

“To seek a spider in a stubble-field!  Truly he needs my bauble who sent them on such an errand,” said the jester, rather slowly, as if to take time for consideration.  “What’s your name, my Forest flies?”

“Birkenholt, sir,” answered Ambrose, “but our uncle is Harry Randall.”

“Here’s fools enow to take away mine office,” was the reply.  “Here’s a couple of lads would leave the greenwood and the free oaks and beeches, for this stinking, plague-smitten London.”

“We’d not have quitted it could we have tarried at home,” began Ambrose; but at that moment there was a sudden commotion, a trampling of horses was heard outside, a loud imperious voice demanded, “Is my Lord Archbishop within?” a whisper ran round, “the King,” and there entered the hall with hasty steps, a figure never to be forgotten, clad in a hunting dress of green velvet embroidered with gold, with a golden hunting horn slung round his neck.

Henry VIII. was then in the splendid prime of his youth, in his twenty-seventh year, and in the eyes, not only of his own subjects, but of all others, the very type of a true king of men.  Tall, and as yet of perfect form for strength, agility, and grace; his features were of the beautiful straight Plantagenet type, and his complexion of purely fair rosiness, his large well-opened blue eyes full at once of frankness and keenness, and the short golden beard that fringed his square chin giving the manly air that otherwise might have seemed wanting to the feminine tinting of his regular lineaments.  All caps were instantly doffed save the little bonnet with one drooping feather that covered his short, curled, yellow hair; and the Earl of Derby, who was at the head of Wolsey’s retainers, made haste, bowing to the ground, to assure him that my Lord Archbishop was but doffing his robes, and would be with his Grace instantly.  Would his Grace vouchsafe to come on to the privy chamber where the dinner was spread?

At the same moment Quipsome Hal sprang forward, exclaiming, “How now, brother and namesake?  Wherefore this coil?  Hath cloth of gold wearied yet of cloth of frieze?  Is she willing to own her right to this?” as he held out his bauble.

“Holla, old Blister! art thou there?” said the King, good-humouredly.  “What! knowest not that we are to have such a wedding as will be a sight for sore eyes!”

“Sore! that’s well said, friend Hal.  Thou art making progress in mine art!  Sore be the eyes wherein thou wouldst throw dust.”

Again the King laughed, for every one knew that his sister Mary had secretly been married to the Duke of Suffolk for the last two months, and that this public marriage and the tournament that was to follow were only for the sake of appearances.  He laid his hand good-naturedly on the jester’s shoulder as he walked up the hall towards the Archbishop’s private apartments, but the voices of both were loud pitched, and bits of the further conversation could be picked up.  “Weddings are rife in your family,” said the jester, “none of you get weary of fitting on the noose.  What, thou thyself, Hal?  Ay, thou hast not caught the contagion yet!  Now ye gods forefend!  If thou hast the chance, thou’lt have it strong.”

Therewith the Archbishop, in his purple robes, appeared in the archway at the other end of the hall, the King joined him, and still followed by the jester, they both vanished.  It was presently made known that the King was about to dine there, and that all were to sit down to eat.  The King dined alone with the Archbishop as his host; the two noblemen who had formed his suite joined the first table in the higher hall; the knights that of the steward of the household, who was of knightly degree, and with whom the superior clergy of the household ate; and the grooms found their places among the vast array of yeomen and serving-men of all kinds with whom Tibble and his two young companions had to eat.  A week ago, Stephen would have contemned the idea of being classed with serving-men and grooms, but by this time he was quite bewildered, and anxious enough to be thankful to keep near a familiar face on any terms, and to feel as if Tibble were an old friend, though he had only known him for five days.

Why the King had come had not transpired, but there was a whisper that despatches from Scotland were concerned in it.  The meal was a lengthy one, but at last the King’s horses were ordered, and presently Henry came forth, with his arm familiarly linked in that of the Archbishop, whose horse had likewise been made ready that he might accompany the King back to Westminster.  The jester was close at hand, and as a parting shaft he observed, while the King mounted his horse, “Friend Hal! give my brotherly commendations to our Madge, and tell her that one who weds Anguish cannot choose but cry out.”

Wherewith, affecting to expect a stroke from the King’s whip, he doubled himself up, performed the contortion now called turning a coachwheel, then, recovering himself, put his hands on his hips and danced wildly on the steps; while Henry, shaking his whip at him, laughed at the only too obvious pun, for Anguish was the English version of Angus, the title of Queen Margaret’s second husband, and it was her complaints that had brought him to his counsellor.

The jester then, much to the annoyance of the two boys, thought proper to follow them to the office of the comptroller, and as that dignitary read out from his books the name of every Henry, and of all the varieties of Ralf and Randolf among the hundred and eighty persons composing the household, he kept on making comments.  “Harry Hempseed, clerk to the kitchen; ay, Hempseed will serve his turn one of these days.  Walter Randall, groom of the chamber; ah, ha! my lads, if you want a generous uncle who will look after you well, there is your man!  He’ll give you the shakings of the napery for largesse, and when he is in an open-handed mood, will let you lie on the rushes that have served the hall.  Harry of Lambeth, yeoman of the stable.  He will make you free of all the taverns in Eastchepe.”

And so on, accompanying each remark with a pantomime mimicry of the air and gesture of the individual.  He showed in a second the contortions of Harry Weston in drawing the bow, and in another the grimaces of Henry Hope, the choir man, in producing bass notes, or the swelling majesty of Randall Porcher, the cross-bearer, till it really seemed as if he had shown off the humours of at least a third of the enormous household.  Stephen had laughed at first, but as failure after failure occurred, the antics began to weary even him, and seem unkind and ridiculous as hope ebbed away, and the appalling idea began to grow on him of being cast loose on London without a friend or protector.  Ambrose felt almost despairing as he heard in vain the last name.  He would almost have been willing to own Hal the scullion, and his hopes rose when he heard of Hodge Randolph, the falconer, but alas, that same Hodge came from Yorkshire.

“And mine uncle was from the New Forest in Hampshire,” he said.

“Maybe he went by the name of Shirley,” added Stephen, “’tis where his home was.”

But the comptroller, unwilling to begin a fresh search, replied at once that the only Shirley in the household was a noble esquire of the Warwickshire family.

“You must e’en come back with me, young masters,” said Tibble, “and see what my master can do for you.”

“Stay a bit,” said the fool.  “Harry of Shirley!  Harry of Shirley!  Methinks I could help you to the man, if so be as you will deem him worth the finding,” he added, suddenly turning upside down, and looking at them standing on the palms of his hands, with an indescribable leer of drollery, which in a moment dashed all the hopes with which they had turned to him.  “Should you know this minks of yours?” he added.

“I think I should,” said Ambrose.  “I remember best how he used to carry me on his shoulder to cull mistletoe for Christmas.”

“Ah, ha!  A proper fellow of his inches now, with yellow hair?”

“Nay,” said Ambrose, “I mind that his hair was black, and his eyes as black as sloes—or as thine own, Master Jester.”

The jester tumbled over into a more extraordinary attitude than before, while Stephen said—

“John was wont to twit us with being akin to Gipsy Hal.”

“I mean a man sad and grave as the monks of Beaulieu,” said the jester.

“He!” they both cried.  “No, indeed!  He was foremost in all sports.”  “Ah!” cried Stephen, “mind you not, Ambrose, his teaching us leap-frog, and aye leaping over one of us himself, with the other in his arms?”

“Ah! sadly changed, sadly changed,” said the jester, standing upright, with a most mournful countenance.  “Maybe you’d not thank me if I showed him to you, young sirs, that is, if he be the man.”

“Nay! is he in need, or distress?” cried the brothers.

“Poor Hal!” returned the fool, shaking his head with mournfulness in his voice.

“Oh, take us to him, good—good jester,” cried Ambrose.  “We are young and strong.  We will work for him.”

“What, a couple of lads like you, that have come to London seeking for him to befriend you—deserving well my cap for that matter.  Will ye be guided to him, broken and soured—no more gamesome, but a sickly old runagate?”

“Of course,” cried Ambrose.  “He is our mother’s brother.  We must care for him.”

“Master Headley will give us work, mayhap,” said Stephen, turning to Tibble.  “I could clean the furnaces.”

“Ah, ha!  I see fools’ caps must hang thick as beech masts in the Forest,” cried the fool, but his voice was husky, and he turned suddenly round with his back to them, then cut three or four extraordinary capers, after which he observed—“Well, young gentlemen, I will see the man I mean, and if he be the same, and be willing to own you for his nephews, he will meet you in the Temple Gardens at six of the clock this evening, close to the rose-bush with the flowers in my livery—motley red and white.”

“But how shall we know him?”

“D’ye think a pair of green caterpillars like you can’t be marked—unless indeed the gardener crushes you for blighting his roses.”  Wherewith the jester quitted the scene, walking on his hands, with his legs in the air.

“Is he to be trusted?” asked Tibble of the comptroller.

“Assuredly,” was the answer; “none hath better wit than Quipsome Hal, when he chooseth to be in earnest.  In very deed, as I have heard Sir Thomas More say, it needeth a wise man to be fool to my Lord of York.”