The King's Daughters Part 31

Not many minutes later, Wastborowe entered the dungeon with the writ in his hand. The prisoners were conversing over their supper, but the sight of that doc.u.ment brought silence without any need to call for it.

"Hearken!" said Wastborowe. "At six o'clock in the morning, on the waste piece by Lexden Road, shall suffer the penalty of the law these men and women underwritten:--William Bongeor, Thomas Benold, Robert _alias_ William Purcas, Agnes Silverside _alias_ Downes _alias_ Smith _alias_ May, Helen Ewring, Elizabeth Foulkes, Agnes Bowyer."

With one accord, led by Mr Benold, the condemned prisoners stood up and thanked G.o.d.

"'Agnes Bowyer'," repeated Wastborowe in some perplexity. "Your name's not Bowyer; it's Bongeor."

"Bongeor," said its bearer. "Is my name wrong set down? Pray you, Mr Wastborowe, have it put right without delay, that I be not left out."

"I should think you'd be uncommon glad if you were!" said he.

"Nay, but in very deed it should grieve me right sore," she replied earnestly. "Let there not be no mistake, I do entreat you."

"I'll see to it," said Wastborowe, as he left the prison.

The prisoners had few preparations to make. Each had a garment ready--a long robe of white linen, falling straight from the neck to the ankles, with sleeves which b.u.t.toned at the wrist. There were many such robes made during the reign of Mary--types of those fairer white robes which would be "given to every one of them," when they should have crossed the dark valley, and come out into the light of the glory of G.o.d. Only Agnes Bongeor and Helen Ewring had something else to part with. With Agnes in her prison was a little baby only a few weeks old, and she must bid it good-bye, and commit it to the care of some friend. Helen Ewring had to say farewell to her husband, who came to see her about four in the morning; and to the surprise of Elizabeth Foulkes, she found herself summoned also to an interview with her widowed mother and her uncle Holt.

"Why, Mother!" exclaimed Elizabeth in astonishment, "I never knew you were any where nigh."

"Didst thou think, my la.s.s, that aught 'd keep thy mother away from thee when she knew? I've been here these six weeks, a-waiting to hear. Eh, my pretty mawther, [see note 1] but to see this day! I've looked for thee to be some good man's wife, and a happy woman,--such a good maid as thou always wast!--and now! Well, well! the will of the Lord be done!"

"A happy woman, Mother!" said Elizabeth with her brightest smile. "In all my life I never was so happy as this day! This is my wedding day-- nay, this is my crowning day! For ere the sun be high this day, I shall have seen the Face of Christ, and have been by Him presented faultless before the light of the glory of G.o.d. Mother, rejoice with me, and rejoice for me, for I can do nothing save rejoice. Glory be to G.o.d on high, and on earth peace, good-will towards men!"

There was glory to G.o.d, but little good-will towards men, when the six prisoners were marched out into High Street, on their way to martyrdom.

Yet only one sorrowful heart was in the dungeon of the Moot Hall, and that was Agnes Bongeor's, who lamented bitterly that owing to the mis-spelling of her name in the writ, she was not allowed to make the seventh. She actually put on her robe of martyrdom, in the _hope_ that she might be reckoned among the sufferers. Now, when she learned that she was not to be burned that day, her distress was poignant.

"Let me go with them!" she cried. "Let me go and give my life for Christ! Alack the day! The Lord counts me not worthy."

The other six prisoners were led, tied together, two and two, through High Street and up to the Head Gate. First came William Bongeor and Thomas Benold; then Mrs Silverside and Mrs Ewring; last, Robert Purcas and Elizabeth Foulkes. They were led out of the Head Gate, to "a plot of ground hard by the town wall, on the outward side," beside the Lexden Road. There stood three great wooden stakes, with a chain affixed to each. The clock of Saint Mary-at-Walls struck six as they reached the spot.

Around the stakes a mult.i.tude were gathered to see the sight. Mr Ewring, with set face, trying to force a smile for his wife's encouragement; Mrs Foulkes, gazing with clasped hands and tearful eyes on her daughter; Thomas Holt and all his family; Mr Ashby and all his; Ursula Felstede, looking very unhappy; Dorothy Denny, looking very sad; old Walter Purcas, leaning on his staff, from time to time shaking his white head as if in bitter lamentation; a little behind the others, Mrs Clere and Amy; and in front, busiest of the busy, Sir Thomas Tye and Nicholas Clere. There they all were, ready and waiting, to see the Moot Hall prisoners die.

Note 1. Girl. This is a Suffolk provincialism.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

HOW THEY WENT HOME.

Arrived at the spot where they were to suffer, the prisoners knelt down to pray: "but not in such sort as they would, for the cruel tyrants would not suffer them." Foremost of their tormentors at this last moment was Nicholas Clere, who showed an especial spite towards Elizabeth Foulkes, and interrupted her dying prayers to the utmost of his power. When Elizabeth rose from her knees and took off her outer garments--underneath which she wore the prepared robe--she asked the Bailiff's leave to give her petticoat to her mother; it was all the legacy in her power to leave. Even this poor little comfort was denied her. The clothes of the sufferers were the perquisite of the Sheriffs'

men, and they would not give them up. Elizabeth smiled--she did nothing but smile that morning--and cast the petticoat on the ground.

"Farewell, all the world!" she said. "Farewell, Faith! farewell, Hope!"

Then she took the stake in her arms and kissed it. "Welcome, Love!"

Ay, faith and hope were done with now. A few moments, and faith would be lost in sight; hope would be lost in joy; but love would abide for ever and ever.

Her mother came up and kissed her.

"My blessed dear," she said, "be strong in the Lord!"

They chained the two elder men at one stake; the two women at another: Elizabeth and Robert together at the last. The Sheriff's men put the chain round them both, and hammered the other end fast, so that they should not attempt to escape.

Escape! none of them dreamed of such a thing. They cared neither for pain nor shame. To their eyes Heaven itself was open, and the Lord Christ, on the right hand of the Father, would rise to receive His servants. Nor did they say much to each other. There would be time for that when all was over! Were they not going the journey together? would they not dwell in happy company, through the long years of eternity?

The man who was nailing the chain close to where Elizabeth stood accidentally let his hammer slip. He had not intended to hurt her; but the hammer came down heavily upon her shoulder and made a severe wound.

She turned her head to him and smiled on him. Then she lifted up her eyes to heaven and prayed. Her last few moments were spent in alternate prayer and exhortation of the crowd.

The torch was applied to the firewood and tar-barrels heaped around them. As the flame sprang up, the six martyrs clapped their hands: and from the bystanders a great cry rose to heaven,--

"The Lord strengthen them! the Lord comfort them! the Lord pour His mercies upon them!"

Ah, it was not England, but Rome, who burned those Marian martyrs! The heart of England was sound and true; she was a victim, not a persecutor.

Just as the flame reached its fiercest heat, there was a slight cry in the crowd, which parted hither and thither as a girl was borne out of it insensible. She had fainted after uttering that cry. It was no wonder, said those who stood near: the combined heat of the August sun and the fire was scarcely bearable. She would come round shortly if she were taken into the shade to recover.

Half-an-hour afterwards nothing could be seen beside the Lexden Road but the heated and twisted chains, with fragments of charred wood and of grey ashes. The crowd had gone home.

And the martyrs had gone home too. No more should the sun light upon them, nor any heat. The Lamb in the midst of the Throne had led them to living fountains of water, and they were comforted for evermore.

"Who was that young woman that swooned and had to be borne away?" asked a woman in the crowd of another, as they made their way back into the town.

The woman appealed to was Audrey Wastborowe.

"Oh, it was Amy Clere of the Magpie," said she. "The heat was too much for her, I reckon."

"Ay, it was downright hot," said the neighbour.

Something beside the heat had been too much for Amy Clere. The familiar face of Elizabeth Foulkes, with that unearthly smile upon it, had gone right to the girl's heart. For Amy had a heart, though it had been overlaid by a good deal of rubbish.

The crowd did not disperse far. They were gathered again in the afternoon in the Castle yard, when the Mounts and Johnson and Rose Allen were brought out to die. They came as joyfully as their friends had done, "calling upon the name of G.o.d, and exhorting the people earnestly to flee from idolatry." Once more the cry rose up from the whole crowd,--

"Lord, strengthen them, and comfort them, and pour Thy mercy upon them!"

And the Lord heard and answered. Joyfully, joyfully they went home and the happy company who had stood true, and had been faithful unto death, were all gathered together for ever in the starry halls above.

To two other places the cry penetrated: to Agnes Bongeor weeping in the Moot Hall because she was shut out from that blessed company; and to Margaret Thurston in her "better lodging" in the Castle, who had shut herself out, and had bought life by the denial of her Lord.

The time is not far-off when we too shall be asked to choose between these two alternatives. Not, perhaps, between earthly life and death (though it may come to that): but between faith and unfaithfulness, between Christ and idols, between the love that will give up all and the self-love that will endure nothing. Which shall it be with you? Will you add your voice to the side which tamely yields the priceless treasures purchased for us by these n.o.ble men and women at this awful cost? or will you meet the Romanising enemy with a firm front, and a shout of "No fellowship with idols!--no surrender of the liberty which our fathers bought with their heart's blood!" G.o.d grant you grace to choose the last!

When Mrs Clere reached the Magpie, she went up to Amy's room, and found her lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall.

"Amy! what ailed thee, my maid?--art better now?"

"Mother, we're all wrong!"

"Dear heart, what does the child mean?" inquired the puzzled mother.