“Nay, my Lord Duke, but he is in the place of one, my near kinsman and godson, and so soon as his time be up, bound to wed my only child! I pray you to hear his cause, ere cutting off the heir of an old and honourable house.”

Norfolk and his sons murmured something about the Headley skill in armour, and the Lord Mayor was willing enough for mercy, but Sir John Mundy here rose: “My Lord Duke, this is the very young man who was first to lay hands on me! Yea, my lords and sirs, ye have already heard how their rude sport, contrary to proclamation, was the cause of the tumult. When I would have bidden them go home, the one brawler asks me insolently, ‘Wherefore?’ the other smote me with his sword, whereupon the whole rascaille set on me, and as Master Alderman Headley can testify, I scarce reached his house alive. I ask should favour overcome justice, and a ringleader, who hath assaulted the person of an alderman, find favour above others?”

“I ask not for favour,” returned Headley, “only that witnesses be heard on his behalf, ere he be condemned.”

Headley, as a favourite with the Duke, prevailed to have permission to call his witnesses; Christopher Smallbones, who had actually rescued Alderman Mundy from the mob, and helped him into the Dragon court, could testify that the proclamation had been entirely unheard in the din of the youths looking on at the game. And this was followed up by Lucas Hansen declaring that so far from having attacked or plundered him and the others in Warwick Inner Yard, the two, Giles Headley and Stephen Birkenholt, had come to their defence, and fallen on those who were burning their goods.

On this a discussion followed between the authorities seated at the upper end of the hall. The poor anxious watchers below could only guess by the gestures what was being agitated as to their fate, and Stephen was feeling it sorely hard that Giles should be pleaded for as the master’s kinsman, and he left to so cruel a fate, no one saying a word for him but unheeded Lucas. Finally, without giving of judgment, the whole of the miserable prisoners, who had been standing without food for hours, were marched back, still tied, to their several prisons, while their guards pointed out the gibbets where they were to suffer the next day.

Master Headley was not quite so regardless of his younger apprentice as Stephen imagined. There was a sort of little council held in his hall when he returned—sad, dispirited, almost hopeless—to find Hal Randall anxiously awaiting him. The alderman said he durst not plead for Stephen, lest he should lose both by asking too much, and his young kinsman had the first right, besides being in the most peril as having been singled out by name; whereas Stephen might escape with the multitude if there were any mercy. He added that the Duke of Norfolk was certainly inclined to save one who knew the secret of Spanish sword-blades; but that he was fiercely resolved to be revenged for the murder of his lewd priest in Cheapside, and that Sir John Mundy was equally determined that Giles should not escape.

“What am I to say to his mother? Have I brought him from her for this?” mourned Master Headley. “Ay, and Master Randall, I grieve as much for thy nephew, who to my mind hath done nought amiss. A brave lad! A good lad, who hath saved mine own life. Would that I could do aught for him! It is a shame!”

“Father,” said Dennet, who had crept to the back of his chair, “the King would save him! Mind you the golden whistle that the grandame keepeth?”

“The maid hath hit it!” exclaimed Randall. “Master alderman! Let me but have the little wench and the whistle to-morrow morn, and it is done. How sayest thou, pretty mistress? Wilt thou go with me and ask thy cousin’s life, and poor Stephen’s, of the King?”

“With all my heart, sir,” said Dennet, coming to him with outstretched hands. “Oh! sir, canst thou save them? I have been vowing all I could think of to our Lady and the saints, and now they are going to grant it!”

“Tarry a little,” said the alderman. “I must know more of this. Where wouldst thou take my child? How obtain access to the King’s Grace?”

“Worshipful sir, trust me,” said Randall. “Thou know’st I am sworn servant to my Lord Cardinal, and that his folk are as free of the Court as the King’s own servants. If thine own folk will take us up the river to Richmond, and there wait for us while I lead the maid to the King, I can well-nigh swear to thee that she will prevail.”

The alderman looked greatly distressed. Ambrose threw himself on his knees before him, and in an agony entreated him to consent, assuring him that Master Randall could do what he promised. The alderman was much perplexed. He knew that his mother, who was confined to her bed by rheumatism, would be shocked at the idea. He longed to accompany his daughter himself, but for him to be absent from the sitting of the court might be fatal to Giles, and he could not bear to lose any chance for the poor youths.

Meantime an interrogative glance and a nod had passed between Tibble and Randall, and when the alderman looked towards the former, always his prime minister, the answer was, “Sir, meseemeth that it were well to do as Master Randall counselleth. I will go with Mistress Dennet, if such be your will. The lives of two such youths as our prentices may not lightly be thrown away, while by God’s providence there is any means of striving to save them.”

Consent then was given, and it was further arranged that Dennet and her escort should be ready at the early hour of half-past four, so as to elude the guards who were placed in the streets; and also because King Henry in the summer went very early to mass, and then to some out-of-door sport. Randall said he would have taken his own good woman to have the care of the little mistress, but that the poor little orphan Spanish wench had wept herself so sick, that she could not be left to a stranger.

Master Headley himself brought the child by back streets to the river, and thence down to the Temple stairs, accompanied by Tibble Steelman, and a maid-servant on whose presence her grandmother had insisted. Dennet had hardly slept all night for excitement and perturbation, and she looked very white, small, and insignificant for her thirteen years, when Randall and Ambrose met her, and placed her carefully in the barge which was to take them to Richmond. It was somewhat fresh in the very early morning, and no one was surprised that Master Randall wore a large dark cloak as they rowed up the river. There was very little speech between the passengers; Dennet sat between Ambrose and Tibble. They kept their heads bowed. Ambrose’s brow was on one hand, his elbow on his knee, but he spared the other to hold Dennet. He had been longing for the old assurance he would once have had, that to vow himself to a life of hard service in a convent would be the way to win his brother’s life; but he had ceased to be able to feel that such bargains were the right course, or that a convent necessarily afforded sure way of service, and he never felt mere insecure of the way and means to prayer than in this hour of anguished supplication.

When they came beyond the City, within sight of the trees of Sheen, as Richmond was still often called, Randall insisted that Dennet should eat some of the bread and meat that Tibble had brought in a wallet for her. “She must look her best,” he said aside to the foreman. “I would that she were either more of a babe or better favoured! Our Hal hath a tender heart for a babe and an eye for a buxom lass.”

He bade the maid trim up the child’s cap and make the best of her array, and presently reached some stairs leading up to the park. There he let Ambrose lift her out of the boat. The maid would fain have followed, but he prevented this, and when she spoke of her mistress having bidden her follow wherever the child went, Tibble interfered, telling her that his master’s orders were that Master Randall should do with her as he thought meet. Tibble himself followed until they reached a thicket entirely concealing them from the river. Halting here, Randall, with his nephew’s help, divested himself of his long gown and cloak, his beard and wig, produced cockscomb and bauble from his pouch, and stood before the astonished eyes of Dennet as the jester!

She recoiled upon Tibble with a little cry, “Oh, why should he make sport of us? Why disguise himself?”

“Listen, pretty mistress,” said Randall. “’Tis no disguise, Tibble there can tell you, or my nephew. My disguise lies there,” pointing to his sober raiment. “Thus only can I bring thee to the King’s presence! Didst think it was jest? Nay, verily, I am as bound to try to save my sweet Stevie’s life, my sister’s own gallant son, as thou canst be to plead for thy betrothed.” Dennet winced.

“Ay, Mistress Dennet,” said Tibble, “thou mayst trust him, spite of his garb, and ’tis the sole hope. He could only thus bring thee in. Go thou on, and the lad and I will fall to our prayers.”

Dennet’s bosom heaved, but she looked up in the jesters dark eyes, saw the tears in them, made an effort, put her hand in his, and said, “I will go with him.”

Hal led her away, and they saw Tibble and Ambrose both fall on their knees behind the hawthorn bush, to speed them with their prayers, while all the joyous birds singing their carols around seemed to protest against the cruel captivity and dreadful doom of the young gladsome spirits pent up in the City prisons.

One full gush of a thrush’s song in especial made Dennet’s eyes overflow, which the jester perceived and said, “Nay, sweet maid, no tears. Kings brook not to be approached with blubbered faces. I marvel not that it seems hard to thee to go along with such as I, but let me be what I will outside, mine heart is heavy enough, and thou wilt learn sooner or later, that fools are not the only folk who needs must smile when they have a load within.”

And then, as much to distract her thoughts and prevent tears as to reassure her, he told her what he had before told his nephews of the inducements that had made him Wolsey’s jester, and impressed on her the forms of address.

“Thou’lt hear me make free with him, but that’s part of mine office, like the kitten I’ve seen tickling the mane of the lion in the Tower. Thou must say, ‘An it please your Grace,’ and thou needst not speak of his rolling in the mire, thou wottest, or it may anger him.”

The girl showed that her confidence became warmer by keeping nearer to his side, and presently she said, “I must beg for Stephen first, for ’tis his whistle.”

“Blessings on thee, fair wench, for that, yet seest thou, ’tis the other springald who is in the greater peril, and he is closer to thy father and to thee.”

“He fled, when Stephen made in to the rescue of my father,” said Dennet.

“The saints grant we may so work with the King that he may spare them both,” ejaculated Randall.

By this time the strange pair were reaching the precincts of the great dwelling-house, where about the wide-open door loitered gentlemen, grooms, lacqueys, and attendants of all kinds. Randall reconnoitred.

“An we go up among all these,” he said, “they might make their sport of us both, so that we might have time. Let us see whether the little garden postern be open.”

Henry VIII. had no fears of his people, and kept his dwellings more accessible than were the castles of many a subject. The door in the wall proved to be open, and with an exclamation of joy, Randall pointed out two figures, one in a white silken doublet and hose, with a short crimson cloak over his shoulder, the other in scarlet and purple robes, pacing the walk under the wall—Henry’s way of holding a cabinet council with his prime minister on a summer’s morning.

“Come on, mistress, put a brave face on it!” the jester encouraged the girl, as he led her forward, while the king, catching sight of them, exclaimed, “Ha! there’s old Patch. What doth he there?”

But the Cardinal, impatient of interruption, spoke imperiously, “What dost thou here, Merriman? Away, this is no time for thy fooleries and frolics.”

But the King, with some pleasure in teasing, and some of the enjoyment of a schoolboy at a break in his tasks, called out, “Nay, come hither, quipsome one! What new puppet hast brought hither to play off on us?”

“Yea, brother Hal,” said the jester, “I have brought one to let thee know how Tom of Norfolk and his crew are playing the fool in the Guildhall, and to ask who will be the fool to let them wreak their spite on the best blood in London, and leave a sore that will take many a day to heal.”

“How is this, my Lord Cardinal?” said Henry; “I bade them make an example of a few worthless hinds, such as might teach the lusty burghers to hold their lads in bounds and prove to our neighbours that their churlishness was by no consent of ours.”

“I trow,” returned the Cardinal, “that one of these same hinds is a boon companion of the fool’s—hinc illæ lachrymæ, and a speech that would have befitted a wise man’s mouth.”

“There is work that may well make even a fool grave, friend Thomas,” replied the jester.

“Nay, but what hath this little wench to say?” asked the King, looking down on the child from under his plumed cap with a face set in golden hair, the fairest and sweetest, as it seemed to her, that she had ever seen, as he smiled upon her. “Methinks she is too small to be thy love. Speak out, little one. I love little maids, I have one of mine own. Hast thou a brother among these misguided lads?”

“Not so, an please your Grace,” said Dennet, who fortunately was not in the least shy, and was still too young for a maiden’s shamefastness. “He is to be my betrothed. I would say, one of them is, but the other—he saved my father’s life once.”

The latter words were lost in the laughter of the King and Cardinal at the unblushing avowal of the small, prim-faced maiden.

“Oh ho! So ’tis a case of true love, whereto a King’s face must needs show grace. Who art thou, fair suppliant, and who may this swain of thine be?”

“I am Dennet Headley, so please your Grace; my father is Giles Headley the armourer, Alderman of Cheap Ward,” said Dennet, doing her part bravely, though puzzled by the King’s tone of banter; “and see here, your Grace!”

“Ha! the hawk’s whistle that Archduke Philip gave me! What of that? I gave it—ay, I gave it to a youth that came to mine aid, and reclaimed a falcon for me! Is’t he, child?”

“Oh, sir, ’tis he who came in second at the butts, next to Barlow, ’tis Stephen Birkenholt! And he did nought! They bore no ill-will to strangers! No, they were falling on the wicked fellows who had robbed and slain good old Master Michael, who taught our folk to make the only real true Damascus blades welded in England. But the lawyers of the Inns of Court fell on them all alike, and have driven them off to Newgate, and poor little Jasper Hope too. And Alderman Mundy bears ill-will to Giles. And the cruel Duke of Norfolk and his men swear they’ll have vengeance on the Cheap, and there’ll be hanging and quartering this very morn. Oh! your Grace, your Grace, save our lads! for Stephen saved my father.”

“Thy tongue wags fast, little one,” said the King, good-naturedly, “with thy Stephen and thy Giles. Is this same Stephen, the knight of the whistle and the bow, thy betrothed, and Giles thy brother?”

“Nay, your Grace,” said Dennet, hanging her head, “Giles Headley is my betrothed—that is, when his time is served, he will be—father sets great store by him, for he is the only one of our name to keep up the armoury, and he has a mother, Sir, a mother at Salisbury. But oh, Sir, Sir! Stephen is so good and brave a had! He made in to save father from the robbers, and he draws the best bow in Cheapside, and he can grave steel as well as Tibble himself, and this is the whistle your Grace wots of.”

Henry listened with an amused smile that grew broader as Dennet’s voice all unconsciously became infinitely more animated and earnest, when she began to plead Stephen’s cause.

“Well, well, sweetheart,” he said, “I trow thou must have the twain of them, though,” he added to the Cardinal, who smiled broadly, “it might perchance be more for the maid’s peace than she wots of now, were we to leave this same knight of the whistle to be strung up at once, ere she have found her heart; but in sooth that I cannot do, owing well nigh a life to him and his brother. Moreover, we may not have old Headley’s skill in weapons lost!”

Dennet held her hands close clasped while these words were spoken apart. She felt as if her hope, half granted, were being snatched from her, as another actor appeared on the scene, a gentleman in a lawyer’s gown, and square cap, which he doffed as he advanced and put his knee to the ground before the King, who greeted him with “Save you, good Sir Thomas, a fair morning to you.”

“They told me your Grace was in Council with my Lord Cardinal,” said Sir Thomas More; “but seeing that there was likewise this merry company, I durst venture to thrust in, since my business is urgent.”

Dennet here forgot court manners enough to cry out, “O your Grace! your Grace, be pleased for pity’s sake to let me have the pardon for them first, or they’ll be hanged and dead. I saw the gallows in Cheapside, and when they are dead, what good will your Grace’s mercy do them?”

“I see,” said Sir Thomas. “This little maid’s errand jumps with mine own, which was to tell your Grace that unless there be speedy commands to the Howards to hold their hands, there will be wailing like that of Egypt in the City. The poor boys, who were but shouting and brawling after the nature of mettled youth—the most with nought of malice—are penned up like sheep for the slaughter—ay, and worse than sheep, for we quarter not our mutton alive, whereas these poor younglings—babes of thirteen, some of them—be indicted for high treason! Will the parents, shut in from coming to them by my Lord of Norfolk’s men, ever forget their agonies, I ask your Grace?”

Henry’s face grew red with passion. “If Norfolk thinks to act the King, and turn the city into a shambles,”—with a mighty oath—“he shall abye it. Here, Lord Cardinal—more, let the free pardon be drawn up for the two lads. And we will ourselves write to the Lord Mayor and to Norfolk that though they may work their will on the movers of the riot—that pestilent Lincoln and his sort—not a prentice lad shall be touched till our pleasure be known. There now, child, thou hast won the lives of thy lads, as thou callest them. Wilt thou rue the day, I marvel? Why cannot some of their mothers pluck up spirit and beg them off as thou hast done?”

“Yea,” said Wolsey. “That were the right course. If the Queen were moved to pray your Grace to pity the striplings then could the Spaniards make no plaint of too much clemency being shown.”

They were all this time getting nearer the palace, and being now at a door opening into the hall, Henry turned round. “There, pretty maid, spread the tidings among thy gossips, that they have a tender-hearted Queen, and a gracious King. The Lord Cardinal will presently give thee the pardon for both thy lads, and by and by thou wilt know whether thou thankest me for it!” Then putting his hand under her chin, he turned up her face to him, kissed her on each cheek, and touched his feathered cap to the others, saying, “See that my bidding be done,” and disappeared.

“It must be prompt, if it be to save any marked for death this morn,” More in a how voice observed to the Cardinal. “Lord Edmund Howard is keen as a blood-hound on his vengeance.”

Wolsey was far from being a cruel man, and besides, there was a natural antagonism between him and the old nobility, and he liked and valued his fool, to whom he turned, saying, “And what stake hast thou in this, sirrah? Is’t all pure charity?”

“I’m scarce such a fool as that, Cousin Red Hat,” replied Randall, rallying his powers. “I leave that to Mr. More here, whom we all know to be a good fool spoilt. But I’ll make a clean breast of it. This same Stephen is my sister’s son, an orphan lad of good birth and breeding—whom, my lord, I would die to save.”

“Thou shalt have the pardon instantly, Merriman,” said the Cardinal, and beckoning to one of the attendants who clustered round the door, he gave orders that a clerk should instantly, and very briefly, make out the form. Sir Thomas More, hearing the name of Headley, added that for him indeed the need of haste was great, since he was one of the fourteen sentenced to die that morning.

Quipsome Hal was interrogated as to how he had come, and the Cardinal and Sir Thomas agreed that the river would be as speedy a way of returning as by land; but they decided that a King’s pursuivant should accompany him, otherwise there would be no chance of forcing his way in time through the streets, guarded by the Howard retainers.

As rapidly as was in the nature of a high officer’s clerk to produce a dozen lines, the precious document was indicted, and it was carried at last to Dennet, bearing Henry’s signature and seal. She held it to her bosom, while, accompanied by the pursuivant, who—happily for them—was interested in one of the unfortunate fourteen, and therefore did not wait to stand on his dignity, they hurried across to the place where they had left the barge—Tibble and Ambrose joining them on the way. Stephen was safe. Of his life there could be no doubt, and Ambrose almost repented of feeling his heart so light while Giles’s fate hung upon their speed.

The oars were plied with hearty good-will, but the barge was somewhat heavy, and by and by coming to a landing-place where two watermen had a much smaller and lighter boat, the pursuivant advised that he should go forward with the more necessary persons, leaving the others to follow. After a few words, the light weights of Tibble and Dennet prevailed in their favour, and they shot forward in the little boat.

They passed the Temple—on to the stairs nearest Cheapside—up the street. There was an awful stillness, only broken by heavy knells sounding at intervals from the churches. The back streets were thronged by a trembling, weeping people, who all eagerly made way for the pursuivant, as he called “Make way, good people—a pardon!”

They saw the broader space of Cheapside. Horsemen in armour guarded it, but they too opened a passage for the pursuivant. There was to be seen above the people’s heads a scaffold. A fire burnt on it—the gallows and noosed rope hung above.

A figure was mounting the ladder. A boy! Oh, Heavens! would it be too late? Who was it? They were still too far off to see. They might only be cruelly holding out hope to one of the doomed.

The pursuivant shouted aloud—“In the King’s name, Hold!” He lifted Dennet on his shoulder, and bade her wave her parchment. An overpowering roar arose. “A pardon! a pardon! God save the King!”

Every hand seemed to be forwarding the pursuivant and the child, and it was Giles Headley, who, loosed from the hold of the executioner, stared wildly about him, like one distraught.