The wonderful flower of Woxindon. An historical romance of the time of Queen Elizabeth

Preface

HE following narrative is an historical romance,

JL not a pure work of fiction. The events recorded are true, and careful, thorough research has been bestowed on them to ensure historical accuracy ; and if in the colouring of the scenes, the bye-play of the drama, imagination has had a part, it has only been with the object of placing the truth of facts more vividly before the reader.

The subject chosen is in itself one which cannot fail to be attractive and interesting. Babington’s ill-fated conspiracy, which was the means of bringing Mary Stuart to the scaffold, and thus crushing the hopes of English Catholics in the 16th century, forms the background of the whole, and no pains have been spared to render the account given of it as ample and as historically true as possible. Thus the title: “Babington’s Conspiracy” would perhaps be as suitable as any other for the work.

The principal authority from which the facts are drawn is the Protestant historian John Hosack, in his work, Mary Queen of Scots and her Accusers . In contradistinction to Froude’s flagrant misrepresentations, he unsparingly exposes the barbarous statecraft of which the guiltless Queen of Scots was

IV

PREFACE.

the victim. His chief merit is that of having proved convincingly, that the correspondence between Mary Stuart and Babington, on which the accusation alone rested, was a palpable forgery. That the chief acts, as well as the chief actors are correctly portrayed, may be seen by referring to the authors quoted. The character of “the Virgin Queen” and the unedifying dissensions of the various Protestant sects, have only been touched on lightly, for obvious reasons.

The fortunes of an old Catholic family, whose members*, by no fault of their own, were involved in Babington’s ill-advised enterprise, hold a prominent place in the narrative. Only in a few, unimportant details, has the author permitted himself to deviate from the account given in The Troubles of our Catholic Forefathers, edited by Father John Morris, S. J. (Series II, p. 44 seq.)

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V

Contents

Chapter I. Prologue, in which the reader is informed how it came to pass that the following history was written, at the express desire of her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Isabella Clara Eugenia, and he is introduced to the three persons who act

as narrators

Chapter II. An account is given by my Wife of Wox- •indon and its wonderful flower; also of a guest, about whom there will be much to tell later on.... Chapter III. My Wife speaks of some other visitors who came to Woxindon, and of the important

Chapter I

Prologue, in which the reader is informed how it came to pas’s that the following history was written, at the express desire of her Imperial Highness, the Archduchess Isabella Clara Eugenia, and he is introduced to the three persons who act as narrators.

It is the custom of musicians, when they are about to execute some melodious symphony, to commence with an introduction or prelude, to dispose the mind of their audience, whether by the sound of trumpet and drum, or with the gentler strains of flute and violin, for the leading air, which will recur with runs and variations ever and anon throughout the composition. Orators and preachers too, say a few words to introduce their subject, and even the hardheaded philosopher does the same. It is not my intention to deviate from such excellent examples, therefore I will prefix a few suitable explanatory remarks to the sorrowful, but true history which I shall record in these pages, in obedience to the desire of my most gracious mistress, her Imperial Highness Isabella Clara Eugenia, the consort of our Stadtholder. And the task shall be performed to the best of my ability, according to the canons of art, that no one may apply to me the words of Yirgil: Rusticus es Corydon! Thou art country-bred, O Corydon!

a)

Full well do I remember the day on which the Archduchess enjoined on me to undertake the work. It was one day last May, when, with Mary, my dear wife, I had the honour of accompanying her Imperial Highness, as was our wont, from the Castle at Tervueren to the monastery of the Capuchin Fathers which she had erected, and to Whose chapel she went almost daily, when the Court was moved from the neighbouring town of Brussels to our little hermitage in the wood.

On the day in question our diurnal pilgrimage had to be postponed until a late hour in the afternoon, because about noon, a heavy storm, with thunder and lightning, broke over Tervueren. I am thankful to say nothing was struck by the lightning, nor were the crops, which had just come into ear, beaten down by the hail, although a few large hailstones fell, and the aspect of the sky led one to fear much damage might be done. The blest bells of the parish church were duly rung by the sexton, and the little bell of our St. Hubert’s chapel chimed in amid the roll of the thunder, like the voice of a little child raised in prayer. Thus we were protected by the power the Church possesses over the spirits of evil, as the old proverb says: fulgura frango.

Towards evening, the wind having driven away the clouds, the rays of the setting sun shone out brightly, and the varied hues of a beautiful rainbow appeared upon the arch of heaven. The Archduchess, who is well read in the classics, recalled to mind the lines :

Only this time it was not the pagan goddess Juno, who sent this token of peace to the dwellers on earth, but the glorious Queen of Heaven, invoked by Christians in the hour of danger.

Which lights up the heavens with her manycoloured robe,

And spreads her vast bow beneath the clouds in their flight.

In a little while we stood in an oriel window of the Castle, admiring the bow which God set in the heavens as a pledge of His mercy to Noe, when my gracious mistress remarked that the storm had passed over towards Louvain. “In a few minutes the rain will cease,” she said. “Then we can pay our accustomed visit to Our Lady of Dolours in the chapel of the Capuchin Fathers ; it is only right to return thanks for the protection we have experienced.” She then called for her cloak, which was similar in shape to those worn by the Beguines , and we three went down the stairs, followed by two maid servants. In addition to these attendants, the captain of the guard, Count Robiano, a Milanese, who had come to the Netherlands in the suite of the Prince of Parma, a good and prudent man, ordered two pikesmen of the guard to accompany us, as there were a good many tramps about in the wood through which our way led us.

After a short prayer in the chapel of St. Hubert, attached to the Castle, the Archduchess began to recite the Rosary, as was her custom, while w r e and the two maids, answered the responses, as we walked along the path by the side of the large pond, leading to the beech wood. The foliage had to some extent suffered from the recent storm ; here and there a few sprigs of tender green leaves lay in our way, and some drops were now and again showered down on us, as the wind shook the overhanging branches. My lady paid no heed to this but continued to say her beads aloud, while in the copse on either side the little birds trilled their evening lay as joyously as if no storm had ever disturbed the tranquility of their happy state, and the spring dowers emitted their delicious fragrance. As we recited the glorious mysteries who but must raise his heart in prayer to our risen Lord and His glorious Mother, that after all the changes and troubles of this, stormy life, we might be taken up to the everlasting peace of their kingdom above. On reaching the end of the beech walk, where the path slopes downward through the pinewood to the valley below, we heard the bell of the Capuchin monastery close by ringing for vespers. Thus we arrived just at the right moment to join in the simple but devotional service of the Fathers.

When vespers were ended, we went as usual into the monastery garden, which the Archduchess, as a member of the Imperial House, had received permission from the Pope to enter whenever she wish, together with all her suite. There we seated ourselves beneath a spreading oak, and my old friend and fellow countryman, Brother Anselm, brought us fresh milk in wooden bowls, and slices of home-baked bread with delicious butter. Having set this refreshment before us, he was about to withdraw, with a deep obeisance, for his humble manner betrayed to no one that he was a son of the noble family of St. Bar be. But this her Imperial Highness would not permit, she made him sit down upon the bench beside the Father Guardian, while she began to converse about England, my unhappy country, where under king James, Catholic priests were still cruelly butchered for the Faith. In that year of which I speak, the year of Grace 1616, no less than five priests had been put to death, although the persecution was somewhat less violent than in the days of his predecessor on the throne. At the solicitation of the Archduchess Brother Anselm, with the permission of Father Guardian, related some reminiscences of his uncle, Sir Francis Walsingham (of unblest memory) telling us of the snares spread by that famous politician for the Queen of Scots, snares craftily and cruelly woven, in which, as will presently be seen, not only that illustrious Princess was entrai>ped, but a considerable number of my best friends were taken. In fact it was only by a hair’s-breadth that I myself and my wife escaped falling into his toils. Brother Anselm interested us all so much in his narrative that we remained sitting under the oak until the monastery bell rang for compline; when her Imperial Highness instantly rose, and taking leave in the most gracious manner of the two monks, invited them both to visit her at an early hour on the morrow at the Castle, as she had a proposal to make to them. I did not know at the moment to what she referred, but I was destined soon to learn.

When, on onr homeward way, we emerged from the forest and came out into the meadows, the scene which met our view was one which I have seldom seen equalled in splendour. The sun was just setting behind the hills of Cortenbergh, and masses of cloud, driven by the wind into fantastic forms, glowed crimson and gold in the evening light, while the tender green of the wood was tinged with that peculiar roseate hue than which nothing more lovely can be imagined. The Archduchess, who had hitherto been walking along in silence, stood still to gaze on the beauteous spectacle, manifesting to man God’s power and greatness. At that moment the Angelas rang out from the church tower, and we all devoutly repeated the angelical salutation. As the sound of the bell died away, one of the many nightingales which each year make the wood melodious with their music, began its evening song. Knowing that her Highness had a fancy for classical allusions, I was on the point of quoting the lines :

As in the shade of the poplars Philomel pours forth her plaintive note,

when she turned to me unexpectedly and addressed me in the following words:

“Do you know, my dear Windsor, what I have been thinking of whilst walking through the silent wood, and contemplating this beautiful sunset'? Perhaps it is hardly fair to make you guess. I have been thinking of you, and your dear wife, and good Brother Anselm. It seems to me this day may be taken as typical of your life; the morning, one of chequered sunshine and shade, followed by a fearful tempest with thunder and lightning, which wrought sad havoc, but which passed over your heads, leaving you, by God’s mercy, comparatively unscathed, and even bringing happiness and blessing in its train, and when the fury of the storm had subsided, it gave place to a fair and peaceful eventide, so that you can truly say: post nubila Phoebus; when the clouds have passed the sun shines forth.”

Thereupon I respectfully kissed my patroness’ hand, and replied that the comparison she had just made did equal credit to her qualities of heart and of head, and that a rhymster was wanted to clothe in verse so j)oetic an idea. It was indeed true that a cruel storm had overclouded the bright prospect of our early lives, and threatened to destroy them before they came to maturity. And if the evening of our lives was sweet and calm, like the quiet hours of the day now declining, it was exclusively due, under God, to the kindness of our illustrious mistress. Thus I could say with the shepherd Tityrus : Deus nobis haec otia fecit ; the allmerciful God had granted us this time of rest before the grave, that we might close our days in tranquility and freedom from care.

The Archduchess smiled pleasantly, and said she thought the leisure I enjoyed was hardly as complete as that of the individual to whom I compared myself, who had nothing to do but blow his shepherd’s pipe to his heart’s content. If my duties as Court physician were light, owing to her excellent health, my post of secretary was by no means a sinecure. And she was just going to propose that I should undertake a work, which would require many days and weeks for its completion. The idea that had suggested itself to her was this. My good wife, Brother Anselm and I myself, had from time to time, either when gathered round the hearth on the . long winter evenings, or whilst seated under the shady oak in the monastery garden, related to her tales of the awful persecution that had overwhelmed us in England, and of the wonderful flower that blossomed at Woxindon, now it was her great desire to have these narratives, which were told in a fragmentary manner and by word of month, committed to writing, in consecutive order, and so as to form a complete whole. She desired moreover, that if I consented to undertake this labour of love, I should trim my pen and set to work the very next day, with the help of God ; because during my sojourn in Tervueren I should have far more leisure and quiet for my task than whilst resident in Brussels.

When I perceived what was the drift of all the Archduchess’ prettily turned speeches, I tried to make my escape out of the net she had laid for me, but it was already too late, I was compelled to yield to her wishes. This I did the more readily, because she brought cogent reasons to bear on me, as for instance, that it was incumbent on me to write this record of the past, — called memoires by the French — not alone for my own sake, but to clear the memory of my friends, above all the unhappy

Queen of Scots, who had been unjustly put to death, and against whom the enemies of Holy Church had invented and published many slanderous stories. My wife too, threw her influence into the same scale, so that, had not gratitude to my patroness been a sufficient motive to actuate me. I should have taken up my pen for the sake of domestic peace, for Mary knows how to make me repent if I deny her any reasonable request.

Whilst walking home down the hill, therefore, we discussed the manner, in which the plan could best be carried out. The Archduchess said that as our respective narratives would mutually complete one another, we three, Brother Anselm, my wife and myself, should meet together and severally narrate the story of the events in chronological order, as they took place. It was with this object that she had invited the Capuchin Brother to come up to the Castle with Father Guardian on the morrow. After our conferences it was to be my part, for as much as Providence had gifted me with a good memory and a rapid pen, to commit to paper what had been related, and at the next meeting to read it over, for correction and amplification. After that it should be neatly transcribed in an elegant book, which she would order from Brussels.

This arrangement was accordingly carried out, only as Father Guardian was of opinion that it would be out of keeping with the simplicity of the Rule for a Capuchin to be a daily visitor at the Court, our conferences were for the most part held at the neighbouring seat of Count Robiano, who kindly placed at our disposal a room opening into the grounds of the mansion. There, or when the weather permitted, sitting under the beeches and elms of the meadow adjoining the garden, and not far from the monastery, we reciprocally related our respective reminiscences, almost exactly as they are transcribed in the following pages.

It appeared to me, recalling the comparison made by the Archduchess between my day of life and the day then drawing to its close, that an account of that day, the one on which I received the commission to write this history, would form the fittest prologue or introduction to my narrative. I have therefore laid it before the reader. I shall now turn from the present, from the peaceful repose of a quiet country life, and think myself back into the troubled past, the scenes of strife and bloodshed of some thirty years ago, amid which may Providence be my guide !

Chapter II

An account is given by my wife of Woxindon and of the wonderful flower ; also of a guest about whom there will be much to tell later on.

It is exactly thirty years ago this spring, that the wonderful flower, which my dear grandmother imagined to be a portend of happiness to us, nay even of a revival of religion in this land, blossomed in my parents’ house. Alas! that flower, far from being a harbinger of joy, was the forerunner of ruin to our house, and of a fierce outburst of persecution against our'holy Faith. But perhaps if it brought sorrow here, it brought the promise of felicity hereafter.

Before telling the story of this flower, I must say a few words about our dear old home. It was an estate called Woxindon, not far from Harrow-on-the-hill, about twelve miles from London ; somewhat farther, that is, than our own Tervueren is from Brussels, and separated from it by a wood, St. John’s Wood, just as we are shut off from the capital by the forest of Audreghem. From our watchtower we could look over the tops of the trees and descry the gray walls and gloomy turrets of the Tower on the other side of the city. Whenever wind and weather permitted, my dear grandmother, leaning on my sister Anne’s arm or on mine, used to ascend the winding stairs leading to the flat roof of the turret. There, looking across to the Tower in the far distance, we would kneel ( 11 )

down and recite a prayer for the many Catholics and Priests, venerated Confessors of the Faith, who were immured in its darksome dungeons. There were always about fifty there ; with a large proportion of these we were personally acquainted, for Woxindon was known to friend and foe, as the principal place of refuge for priests in the neighbourhood of London, in fact in the south of England. Seldom did a month pass without one receiving a domiciliary visit, generally at night, from Topcliffe and his myrmidons, who turned the castle upside-down, pulled down partitions and broke through walls, only to go away at last, cursing and swearing at the futility of their quest.

Topcliffe was a thoroughly low, bad man, a Puritan in whose veins ran adders’ poison ; possessed not by one, but by a legion of devils breathing hatred against the Papacy. The mere sight of him made me shudder; not so my lightheaited sister Anne, who mocked and derided him, although my father repeatedly forbade her to do so. At the close of one of his fruitless searches she came forward and courtesied low, asking sarcastically when we might expect the great pleasure of another visit from his Honour, the Chief Master- Jailer? She would be glad to know, in order that some fitting preparation might be made to receive him, by the erection of a triumphal arch, something in the form of a gallows, perhaps. Thereupon Topcliffe cast a vicious glance, like a poisoned arrow, at the girl, saying: “You will not have much cause to rejoice, my young lady, when I come again. I hope ere long, with the help of

God, to wed you and a good many more inmates of this pestilential den to the hangman’s rope.”

Such was the cruel threat he flung at us as he rode off with his followers. And, sad to relate, the very next time he succeeded in capturing Father Thompson, or Blackburn (the name of his native town under which he sometimes passed) as he stood vested at the altar, delivering a stirring discourse upon the Holy Souls, for it was All Souls’ Day, 1585. At the time we could not conceive how Topcliffe had contrived to surprise us ; later on we discovered, to our sorrow, that a wretched traitor had given him a sign, by means of a cloth hung out of a window, and had also left a side door unbolted, so that the pursuivants were in the house, before the priest could slip into his cleverly contrived hiding place. You should only have heard the cries and lamentations of uswomen on the one hand, and on the other the mocking laughter of those devilish bloodhounds, as they pounced upon their prey. My father happened to be absent just then, so the sheriff's officer took my uncle Robert, the supposed master of the house, away to prison with the good priest, who gave us his blessing as he went, though his hands were tied together. My sister Anne made no courtesies and no mocking speeches this time.

From that day forth our grandmother went more often than ever to the top of the watchtower to pray and look towards the Tower of London, where the good priest was imprisoned, and Newgate, where her son Robert languished in confinement. And, truth to tell, I must confess that to my youthful impatience her prayers seemed terribly long. My eyes used to follow the wide bend of the Thames, as it flows by Whitehall, Westminster with its desolated abbey, Chelsea and Putney, where the river looses itself amongst the green hills in the west. Beautiful Woxindon ! the beloved scene where my happy youth was spent! How picturesque the little village of Harrow, and the little church with its ivy-clad walls and tower, looked nestling on the gentle slope of the hill opposite to the castle! There the ancestors of our race were interred, from Godelac, who received Woxindon in fief from Richard II, dowm to my grandfather, who died before the end of the reign of Queen Mary, by the Puritans called Bloody (a name befitting far better her sister Elizabeth). He was laid solemnly to rest in consecrated ground; the last of the Bellamys, alas! who will have this final consolation, in England, at least. For when my dear mother died, six years ago, we buried her in our garden. Far, far away over the hills one saw the fertile, undulating plains of Middlesex, dotted about with farms and hamlets innumerable, wdth noblemen’s seats, towns and villages, w r oods and meadow r s, stretching away until even my sharp eyes could no longer distinguish them in the blue haze of # the horizon. In the East, St. John’s Wood shut off the prospect. Among the green tree-tops, at no great distance, rose the so called “Old Castle”. This was a huge ruined stronghold, formerly the residence of our ancestors, until it was destroyed in the Wars of the Roses, and Woxindon was built on a more accessible spot. Not only on the east side did the lofty beeches and oaks reach almost to the walls of our garden, but on the south and west also. Our grounds, with their shady walks, neatly trimmed yew-hedges, verdant lawns, gravelled paths, fountains and terraces bespoke both the wealth and the taste of their OAvner. The Bellamys of Woxindon always ranked among the richest landed proprietors of Middlesex aristocracy. *)

How happy our life might have been in the stately manor house of our beautiful estate, had it not been for the cruel persecution, which, increasing in ferocity from year to year, hung like a black cloud over its towers and smiling gardens. Already father found it almost impossible to pay the enormous fines imposed by Parliament, not merely for hearing mass, but for non-attendance at the Protestant service. These were increased nearly every year, and really amounted to hundreds, even thousands of pounds. To meet these demands, one piece of land after another had to be mortgaged or sold to the Pages, my grandmother’s nephews, who, for the sake of temporal advantage, acting against their conviction and conscience, had conformed to the new religion. This gave my father much sorrow and anxiety, insomuch that he repeatedly asked different priests, whether, in order to avert the ruin

1) For an account of this family vide Troubles of Our Catholic Forefathers, edited by Fr. J. Morris, Series II, p. 44, seq.

of the whole family, it was not permissible occasionally to assist at the Anglican sermons, thus conforming outwardly whilst still protesting inwardly. But every conscientious priest made the same reply, that such a thing could not be sanctioned by any means, since to be present at the Anglican service was considered by our antagonists as a sign of apostasy from the Catholic faith. His pious mother, too, entreated him rather to sacrifice his property to the last farthing, than be false to his creed. Thereupon he called us all together one day in the upper room which was used as an oratory, and explained to us clearly the state of the circumstances. He then bade us on the following morning, after due deliberation and earnest prayer, give him our opinion as to what course ought to be pursued.

This we did, and the result was that all unanimously declared they would rather, like good Lady Tregian, who was then under our roof, beg their bread from door to door throughout the length and breadth of the land, aye, and in foreign lands, too, than even outwardly and in appearance only forsake and deny the Holy Boman Catholic and Apostolic Church. The example of the good old Eleazar in the time of the Machabees, who preferred to die a cruel death sooner than even seem to have transgressed the law of God, was set before us by our good Bartholomew, (or Barty, as we called him for brevity’s sake). He was a childlike, simple soul, whom the country people 3 termed silly, but who certainly was wise in the sight of God. He related this history from Holy Scripture with pious fervour ; it was the longest speech I ever heard from his lips, and touched us all profoundly, so that the tears came into our eyes. Father’s youngest brother Jeremy, too, (Remy we called him) declared himself ready to quit his father’s house for the sake of the Faith. Uncle Remy loved a jol<e even about serious matters, so, being a very stout man, he announced his intention, since he had weight enough to carry without the addition of a beggar’s wallet, to cross the Channel and enter the Duke of Parma’s Light Cavalry, provided Queen Elizabeth was pleased to lay hands on Woxindon.

On hearing that, my sister Anne burst out laughing : “Uncle Remy in the Light Dragoons ! ” she exclaimed, “why he weighs twenty-five stone! I shall follow the regiment, too, to see such a wonderful sight.” Then suddenly turning grave, she added: “There is no need to ask Mary and me. We would rather die a thousand times over than deny our Faith.”

Of course I agreed to that heartily, though I did not add that the mere thought of leaving Woxindon made me cry. My little brother Frith, too, looked up gravely from under his clustering curls, , and said he would not mind going begging in the least ; only he should ask the Queen to let him take his pretty grey pony with him, so that grandmother, who could not walk far, might ride on it, as he had seen the gypsies doing, when they passed by the castle a few days ago, with horse and cart and dancing bear. Grandmother praised her little pet for his thoughtfulness and rewarded it with a picture of Our Lady. But father said we must be prepared to make the sacrifice not only in word but in deed ; meanwhile we must retrench as much as possible, and reduce our establishment. He and his brothers would help in the field-work and in the stables, and we, that is his two daughters, must occupy ourselves in the kitchen and in the garden ; but as far as the hospitality offered to strangers, especially to our persecuted fellowcatholics, was concerned, no alteration should be made, as long as he could call an acre of land and a stone of the manor house his own.