Pendower: a story of Cornwall in the time of Henry the Eighth

Front matter

■ LIST OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA SERIES. Crown Svo, Cloth. Price 6s. 6d. each; or, \2s. Elegantly Bound in Morocco. i. CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. ii. SKETCHES OF CHRISTIAN LIFE IN ENGLAND IN THE OLDEN TIME. ill. WANDERINGS OVER BIBLE LANDS AND SEAS. IV. THE DIARY OF MRS. KITTY TREVYLYAN : A Story of the Times of Whitefiekl and the Wesleys. V. "WINIFRED BERTRAM AND THE WORLD SHE LIVED IN. vr. THE DRAYTONS AND THE DAVENANTS : A Story of the Civil Wars VII. ON BOTH SIDES OF THE SEA ; A Story of the Commonwealth and the Restoration. VIII. poems:— the women of the gospels— the three wakings— songs and Hymns— Memorial Verses. IX. WATCHWORDS FOR THE WARFARE OF LIFE— (From the Writings of Luther). X. THE MARTYRS OF SPAIN AND THE LIBERATORS OF HOLLAND : The Story of the Sisters Dolores and Costanza Cazalla. xi.

DIARY OF EROTHER BARTHOLOMEW. AND OTHER TALES AND SKETCHES OF CHRISTIAN LIFE IN DIFFERENT LANDS AND AGES. XII, THE VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. A Tale of the First Century. XIII. THE COTTAGE BY THE CATHEDRAL, AND OTHER PARABLES. XIV. THE VOICE OF CHRISTIAN LIC£ IN SONG -o 1. KELSON AND SONS, LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK. PENDOWER: A STORY OF CORNWALL IN THE TIME OF HENRY THE EIGHTH. By M. F1LLEUL LONDON: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW: EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. l877. CONTENTS I. INTRODUCTORY-, ... ... ... ... 7 II. MOTHER THERESA, ... ... ... ... ... _ft III. VIVIAN HALL, ... ... ... ... ... _6 IV. EDMUND AND THEODORE, ... ... ... ... 37 V. FATHER CYPRIAN, ... ... ... ... ... 49 VI. QUESTIONINGS THAT ARE NOT FOR PEACE, ... ... 62 VII. A NOBLE KNIGHT, ... ... ... ... ... 74 VTII. MARRIAGE BELLS, ... ... ... ... ... 88 IX.

DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES, ... ... ... ... IOI X. A DISCOVERY, ... ... ... ... . . ,,6 XI. THE MANOR-HOUSE OF PENDOWER, ... ... ... I3_ XII. THE COTTAGE ON THE MOORS, ... ... ... i4_ XIII. THE NEW VICAR OF ST. EDEL's, ... ... ... _53 XIV. OLD TIMES AND NEW, ... ... ... ... ,65 XV. THE NEW BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER, ... ... ... i79 XVI. ANOTHER CONFESSION, ... ... ... ... igi XVII. MIGHT IS RIGHT, ... ... ... ... ... 203 XVIII. STILL WATERS, ... ... ... ... ... 218 XIX. GATHERING CLOUDS, ... ... ... ... ... 231 XX. GHOSTLY TERRORS, ... ... ... ... ... VI CONTENTS. XXI. PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS, ... ... •.. ■•■ 255 XXII. THE SQUIRE'S EXPEDIENT, .... ... ... ... .263 XXIII. THE SQUIRE AT BAY, ... ■. ••• ••■ 283 XXIV. CECILY'S DECISION, ... ... ... •■ ■ ■■■ =98 XXV. NOCTURNAL ALARMS, ... ... . . ■ ■ 3°9 XXVI. THE FUGITIVES, ... ... .. " ■ ■. •■• 321 XXVII. FAREWELL, ... ... ... .- •- •■ 33° PENDOWER.

Chapter I. Introductory

KXSSK^jgsvalT was early on a lovely summer morning, in the year ngc 5Sh of our Lord 1539, when two young girls, apparently Pff*a%_i about fifteen and sixteen years of age, wandered to gether in the convent grounds of the Valley of Pendower. Tall, branching elm-trees mingled their boughs overhead, and a babbling stream rippled at their feet • whilst the rooks cawed in the trees, and the trout swam merrily in the waters. The two girls were carelessly sauntering down a winding path by the side of the rivulet ; there was just room for them to walk abreast amidst the bowering ferns and brushwood that grew in rich luxuriance beneath the ancient trees. The morning air was laden with sweet scents from the convent garden close at hand, and spangles of sunlight found their way at times to gem the rich herbage which clothed the banks of the stream.

The elder girl threw her arm lovingly around her companion, saying,— "What sweeter life can you dream of, my Evelyn, than we have led here together 1 What spot on earth can be fairer than INTRODUCTORY. this 1 What friends dearer than the lady mother and the gentle nuns 1 " " As for the life with you, dear Cecily, you well know that our sweet friendship is fair and steadfast as the lilies on the calm waters. It has been my one unfailing joy, ever since my mother placed me here, when first I left the nursery in my father's hall ; and yet — " " And yet — " echoed Cecily. " Well, if you must know my whole mind, the thought will come to me that life is too still, pent up in this narrow valley. The very air is burdensome ; and I long to climb the hills above us, or to follow the birds in their flight.

The lady mother is kind, but the sameness of her speeches wearies me ; as for the sisters, their pastimes seem of the dullest, when I bethink me of the merry sports I had when I was at home with my own little brothers ; and then I long to go where I shall never more see the face of priest or nun, always excepting the rosy face of the village priest whom I saw scattering sugar-plums for a scramble for the children. There is a breath of freshness about him, and I think he would not set me long penances were he my confessor." " You speak of things I know not," said Cecily, sighing. " To me, the convent child, no earthly memories belong. Orphaned and alone in the world, what should I have been without the mother and sisters I have found within these walls 1 And yet there have been times when I have had dreams and imaginings that have carried me beyond myself.

Have you not known — have you not felt — moments of ecstasy when your spirit has almost burst its earthly bonds and has lost itself in a sea of infinite delight 1 Sometimes it may be when the music on our solemn festivals is thrilling every soul as it bursts into triumphant INTRODUCTORY. 9 strains after subdued and sadder harmonies • or yet more wist fully does the spirit reach forth from its prison-house when the last sunbeam goes down beneath the shining waters at the open ing of our valley, for there we know is the mighty sea, the image of the Infinite. Ah, I love to see how the rosy clouds mantle and curl above the departed glory ! And then the hush that follows, how soothing and sweet ! Nothing to be heard but the tinkling of the sheep-bell upon the hills, and the voices of children rising from the village, until our own call comes, the vesper-bell summoning us to our evening devotion."

" Cecily," said Evelyn softly, " you always seem to me to have such beautiful and holy thoughts. I suppose it must be from always having lived in a religious house. But with me it is quite different. Somehow things will come into my head." "What things, for instance?" asked Cecily. " Oh, many things. Such things as you would never think of. But they will come; and then Father Cyprian seems to know by instinct that I have thought them, and at confession he draws them from me, and then of course follows a penance and a long lecture. I must say I think it is rather hard." " Oh, do not say so," said Cecily. " How much worse it would be for you if Father Cyprian did not thus probe your heart and discover your secret sins, for then the sin would still be there, only without pardon, without absolution."

"Well, Cecily, the worst is, that after all that is said and done, I do not find that it makes much difference." " Not much difference ! What can you mean 1 " "Why, that neither the confession, nor the lecture, nor the penance has made me change my mind. You look surprised, but I will give you an example of what I mean. You know Sister Martha. The sisters all say she is the greatest saint in INTRODUCTORY. the convent, and that the Holy Father will surely canonize her after her death. You know she never puts on anything but the oldest clothes, I may say rags, and wears them until they all but drop to pieces. I have considerable doubts, moreover, whether any water ever comes near her skin ; and it is only on the highest festivals that she joins the sisters in their recreation hour ; indeed, I have heard that she has frequently passed the whole forty days of Lent without breaking silence.

" Now this holy woman creates in me a feeling of dislike and repulsion, so that whilst I repeat the office in chapel, I can scarcely bear to be near her ; and once when Father Thomas was singing matins, it so happened that Father Cyprian saw me make a wry face at being near her, and the next day at confes sion he kept me upwards of two hours questioning and cross questioning — wanting to know whether I had been reading any new books, what news I had heard when last I was at home, whether I had not begun to feel any desire for a vocation, and so on, until I got so wearied out, that I told him my first and greatest desire was to go home and stay there, and that I would rather be a sinner in the world than a saint in a religious house, — thinking, of course, of Sister Martha." "You said all this?"

" Yes ; and a great deal more. I know that I told him that I loved Sister Lucy with her quirks and tricks, although she had no saintly ways about her, and that it grieved me to the heart to see her shining hair cut off when she made her profession ; indeed, that I would that no one made a profession at all, ex cept such as were old, and ugly, and dirty ! " " What did he say to this ? " " Oh, he struck his breast, and muttered a good deal that I could not understand. Something about ' the spirit of the age,' INTRODUCTORY. 11 and that I was 'ripe for heresy,' and should 'lose my soul.' But he set me penances, which I performed. And yet I think just the same thoughts as ever." Cecily was silent for a minute, then she said, — " My Evelyn, you know that ever since you entered these walls you have called me your mother.

Bear with me if I say that it seems to me you show a spirit of irreverence in speaking thus of our superiors. And surely, had your mind been occupied with the blessed words Father Thomas was singing, you had not been disturbed in your devotion by faithless thoughts about Sister Martha." " You forget, Cecily, that I do not understand Latin, as you do." " But you might learn if you would." " I have no taste that way. I would rather go into the kitchen and help Sister Francesca make pastry and comfits, or work at the embroidery with Sister Lucy. Ah, Cecily, you do not yet know your child. I fear you will not love me much longer if we go on talking thus." " I know," said Cecily, " that the good God has so created this wonderful world that no two flowers are exactly alike, much less two human creatures, and that my Evelyn, with some faults, has yet a noble spirit, and a soul which would never stoop to deceive, or think a mean or unworthy thought."

" Indeed, I hope such things are far from me. I should be unmeet to be my father's daughter were it thus with me. But now you speak of it, I would have you know that to tell the truth at all hazards, and utterly to abhor all falsehood, and even the shadow of deception, is a virtue less common within these nunnery walls than in the wicked world outside. My own father possesses no clerkly skill, and none of my brothers could INTRODUCTORY. either read or write at twelve years old, but yet their spoken word was all-sufficient, and the mirror of truth ; while here, in the convent, I never know what reservations the sisters may be allowed in their minds, which change and mystify the plainest and commonest things." Cecily was silent for a time, then she said, — " There are many things too hard for us to understand.

I would gladly know why it is that my confessor throws obstacles in the way of my entering upon my novitiate, not even allowing me to believe that I have a true vocation, whilst Father Cyprian, as it seems, is ever pressing you to renounce the world, and urging upon you the peculiar blessedness of the religious life." " This certainly is a marvel. But tell me, Cecily, is it not true that you were dedicated to religion from your birth 1 " " Not exactly so. You know that my grandfather, Sir Richard Pendower, died from the effects of his wounds on the field of Bosvvorth, leaving no son, but only my mother, then an infant, to inherit the family estate. On his death-bed he willed that the bulk of his property should be left to the Church, to provide a priest to sing for his soul for ever in the chantry of this convent.

" There was also a proviso made in his will, that, in conse quence of the large addition his bequest made to the estates of this religious house, shelter and maintenance should ever be afforded to one of his kin, and that free of dowry or further gratuity. My mother, as it was supposed, would be the first thus to enjoy this provision ; but after attaining her majority, she re fused the privilege, and engaged herself to my father, to whom she had given her heart whilst residing in the castle of an uncle with whose family she had been brought up. " My father was the youngest son of Sir Walter Tremaine, and as such had no heritage but his sword ; and my mother INTRODUCTORY. 13 being left with no worldly goods, their life after their marriage was, I believe, a constant struggle with poverty, and it was only by the kindness of relations that my mother had a home in their castles while my father went to the king's wars.

" He died, as my grandfather did, on the field of battle — in the border-wars under Lord Surrey. " I was but a few days old when the fatal news was brought to my mother. In her weak state it was enough to turn the balance between life and death, and she was speedily reunited to my father beyond the grave. " Thus I was left upon the hands of my father's eldest brother, in whose mansion my birth had taken place. He had already a large family of his own, and more daughters than it would be easy for him to find portions for. He therefore opened communication with the superior of this convent, and, in consequence of my grandfather's will, Mother Theresa agreed to receive me as soon as I was three years old, free of all charge, to be fed, clothed, and educated until I reached the age of eighteen years.

I am then to return to the world for one year, and should I at the end of that probation feel sure that I have a vocation, I shall be allowed to enter upon my novitiate, and finally assume the veil." Evelyn sighed • then brightening suddenly, she said, " Many things may yet happen before it comes to that. For instance, you will visit me at Vivian Hall during the year that you are in the world, and when once my father and mother have seen you, they will never let you go away again, and we shall live as sisters at home instead of here." " Dear Evelyn," said Cecily, " your love for me makes you think that every one will see me with your eyes. Squire Vivian would think twice in these troublous times before he cumbered ■4 INTRODUCTORY. himself with the charge of a portionless maiden. Was it not because of the war made against the king's grace by his subjects in the north, that your father left you here when he followed the Duke of Norfolk to quell the insurgents three years ago 1 And ever since that time, have not the rumours that have come to us from the outer world spoken of nought but plots and counter plots, heresy, and sedition 1 It is not so many months ago that my Lord of Exeter was taken, and your father again put off your return, not being willing to expose his treasure to the roughness of civil war.

Believe me, I am best in some safe and quiet re treat, where poverty and humility will be my portion in this life, and a high estate of glory in the next." " There again," said Evelyn, " everything is full of contradic tions. You talk of poverty and humility, yet it seems to me that our lady mother is neither poor nor lowly. If so, why does she thus have trains of servants and costly robes 1 Why are the daintiest dishes prepared for her use ? Why — " " Evelyn, forbear. You allow your tongue too much license. Do you not know that our good mother holds a dispensation from his Holiness the Pope to take such meats as suit her frail constitution, weakened, no doubt, by long fastings and vigils in her early days ? And under the costly clothing which, as the servant of the Church, she wears, does not a garment of hair cloth chastise the flesh in secret?

Should not her saintliness raise her above the slander of chattering tongues ? " "I have nothing to say against our lady mother," said Evelyn, blushing, "although it may be I do not think her so much of a saint as you do. Indeed, being near of kin to my mother, it were ill done of me if I did not love her well. More over, to me she has ever been indulgent and gentle, and has humoured me more than my own mother would have done. INTRODUCTORY. 15 Only, sometimes I have thought that if the king's grace were to send down his officers to see how our sisters kept their rule, there would be more of sinners than of saints found here." "Heaven forbid that the king should disturb the peace of this holy house," said Cecily. " Father Cyprian said that when the heretic queen was put to death, there was good hope that his Grace would cast away his evil advisers and restore the unity of the Church."

"And yet," said Evelyn, "my heart was sore for the poor queen. Maybe she was not so great a heretic as men said. I have always thought the king was in overmuch haste to take another, when she was slain. If he had waited a while, it might have been found that poor Queen Anne had bitter enemies, who were doing her an ill turn. Anyway, the hand of Heaven fell heavily on the new queen who took her place, for she soon followed her mistress to the grave." " It is when we hear of such things doing in the great world that I feel I would gladly know nothing of it, but rather pray for the poor souls who are toiling in the midst of the turmoil. But listen ! Does it not seem to you that there is an unusual stir in the village this morning?" " Yes," replied Evelyn. " And all night long I was dream ing of battles, and this morning when I woke I thought I heard the tramp of armed men going and coming."

" Our Lady send that this is no evil omen," said Cecily, crossing herself devoutly ; " but the holy priest said in his sermon last Sunday that the wicked spirits were unchained, and were walking the earth at liberty. Let us go and pray. The bell will presently sound for matins ; and may the good angels guard our souls."

Chapter II. Mother Theresa

HE convent in which the speakers in this dialogue had been educated was one of those larger com munities which escaped dissolution in 1536, when the Act of Parliament which first sounded their death-knell became known through the length and breadth of England. It was not altogether unknown to the emissaries of the king ; but being situated in a remote part of Cornwall, and King Henry's visitors having their hands more than full with report ing on those monastic establishments where grosser abuses prevailed, the Convent of St. Bridget had been hitherto undis turbed by an inquisitorial visit from the commissioners appointed by the Crown. It was known, moreover, that both the convent and a smaller establishment for monks, situated higher up the same valley, the Priory of St. Wennon, were much resorted to as places of safe and quiet retreat for the children of the surrounding gentry when the country was disturbed by civil commotion ; and both communities bore a better name than was usual in those times, the numbers for whom the foundation was designed being always kept up, and the estates and endowments being applied to their maintenance and to the relief of the poor in the neighbourhood.

The three years that had passed since the dissolution of that Parliament which had given the first great impulse to the Reformation, had, however, been troublous and stormy ones. Even in the most distant counties the agitation had made itself felt, and the regular clergy instinctively were banding together in defence of their old superstitions, their power, and all that made power sweet, Within convent walls it was still possible to keep the enemy at bay ; and on account of the ignorance of their inmates, and the spiritual terrors they had at command, the priests still held their sway over the inhabitants of these retreats. But in the external world the course of events was speeding onwards with resistless energy. A new Parliament had assembled, and new decrees had been issued. The first Articles of Religion were put forth, in which the new heresy (as it was commonly considered) was plainly visible, and the newly translated English Bible was ordered to be read in every church.

It was true that Queen Anne Boleyn, whose influence with the king had been supposed to be dangerous to the old religion, had been executed, and Jane Seymour's short-lived royalty bad ended in death ; but then the arch-heretic, Thomas Cromwell, was prime minister, and Cranmer was primate, and, worst of all, the king being now declared to be supreme head of the Church, the appeal to the Bishop of Rome had ceased, and all those mysterious and extensive powers which the heads of the monastic orders in England derived from their foreign chiefs had come to an end. The king had, moreover, determined to press the question of his supremacy to the uttermost, and many had followed the example of Sir Thomas More, and had paid the penalty of their adherence to the Papacy with their lives. (571) The insurrection in the north had for a short time raised the hopes of the friends of the Papacy, and plots and intrigues with foreign Roman Catholics sprang up in all directions ; but the strong hand that was at the head of the nation put down all these, and sullen murmurs and discontented grumbling alone remained to the discomfited clergy.

Under these circumstances, it may be imagined that it was with no very pleasant feelings that the Abbess of St. Bridget's received the following epistle from the prior of the neighbour ing monastery. It was delivered on the evening before our story commences, being intrusted to some safe hand, and ran as follows : — ■ " The bloodhounds are upon us. Be up and doing, my sister." Mother Theresa — for so the abbess was named — was a large and corpulent woman of apparently an advanced age. Her rule in the convent had been one of love rather than of fear. She had never possessed much energj', but she had a considerable share of common sense, and had deemed it the part of wisdom to allow a free development of character to the inclosed nuns, provided that they^kept the rule of their order in all important points.

The wealth of the establishment was great, and the whole machinery was well ordered and well appointed. Her adviser in all spiritual as well as all temporal matters was Father Cyprian, a Spanish monk, and the prior of the adjoining monastery of St. Wennon. He was an acute and worldly-minded man, devoted to his country and his order, but anxious to avoid scandal, and to administer the worldly affairs committed to his care with justice. In his anxiety to arouse in Mother Theresa a greater zeal and vigour in the internal government of the convent, he had induced her to appoint a countrywoman of his own, one Sister Maria, as mistress of the novices ; and this was the counsellor to whom in her perplexity Mother Theresa now betook herself, on receiving the prior's note. Vespers had been sung, and the evening shadows were play ing on the walls of the abbess's private room, when Sister Maria entered.

Her figure showed gaunt and bony through the scant dress of her order. She was far above the middle height ; and as she stood before her superior in absolute silence, with her eyes cast down, her thin lips firmly compressed, and her hands crossed upon her bosom, she appeared more like one of the sepulchral effigies from the convent chapel, supernaturally set up on its feet, than a living woman with a human soul still animating its earthly tenement. Mother Theresa nervously touched the paper she held in her hand, as if half fearing the apparition she had raised, and at a loss how to begin the colloquy. Clearing her throat two or three times, at last she said, " My sister, I have need of counsel, and I know of none so well fitted to give it as yourself." Sister Maria raised her eyelids for an instant, and after giving the abbess a searching glance with her keen hawk-like eyes, she replied, — " I would my reverend mother had a better counsellor than my unworthy self; but such obedience as I can render is vowed to her and to Heaven."

Yet even as she spoke an expression of scorn passed over her countenance, and died away on her mouth as her features resumed their wonted regularity. " It is not obedience I am speaking of," said the abbess, rather testily ; " but I need help in suggestion : I look to you for some cunning device to foil the enemy. I am old and feeble, the vigour has departed out of my life, and I know not what troubles are coming upon me and the community; but something tells me that I shall be the last Abbess of St. Bridget's. Oh ! I had thought to lay my bones with the holy dust of buried saints in our own peaceful chapel, where for so many years I have gathered my children at fast and festival ; but it may not be — it may not be." Here the poor old woman wept aloud, while the same look of sarcasm passed over the dark countenance of Sister Maria as she said, — " But my reverend mother has not yet told me the evil that she fears."

" Take this paper," said Mother Theresa ; " read it, and tell me then whether evil is not at hand — even now upon us." Sister Maria took the paper, and after hastily glancing at its contents, she said, — ■ " It is even so. Impiety and heresy are running riot in the land. Well did Father Cyprian say, when the holy brethren of the Charter House gained the crown of martyrdom, that the glory of this Church and nation had departed, and that it would be well for themselves if the faithful bestowed the treasures of the sanctuary in other lands before the spoiler came to desecrate it. But my mother could not see it then ! " she added, with something of a sneering drawl. Something like a flush passed over the face of Mother Theresa as she said, — " I judge not whether it were kindly done to bring up against me as if in reproach the judgment I formed for the welfare of my children.

Surely, I thought, holy St. Bridget could preserve her own. And the king, our gracious master, has an English heart ; and though his wrath may be aroused against idle monks and faithless nuns, who bring disgrace upon their sacred profession, yet surely he would respect communities such as ours, where the poor are clothed and fed, and the young are instructed and sheltered." " You forget, reverend mother, that we offend in one par ticular, which his Majesty neither forgets nor forgives." " And what is that, my daughter?" the abbess inquired. " Have not the great and the noble endowed our house with costly gifts ? " Sister Maria replied. " Is there not even in our shrines and chapels enough to tempt the greed of the godless and covetous minions of the king?" " It is true," said the abbess. " But how can defenceless women like ourselves keep off the hands of the ruthless plunderer ?