The Armourer's Prentices. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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.”