CHAPTER VI THE STAR CHAMBER

The Star Chamber was a part of a range of buildings on the east side of Palace Yard at Westminster.

Its peculiar name did not find its origin in any distinctive feature of the building, but rather from the fact that, by order of King Richard I, the "Starra," or Jewish Covenants, were deposited there.

In the reign of Edward III large additions were made to the Palace at Westminster, including St. Stephen's Chapel, and a new council chamber henceforth to be known as the Court of the Star Chamber.

This was the popular name of the building; the Court itself was known officially as "The Lords of the Council sitting in the Star Chamber."

It was instituted in the reign of Henry VII (A.D. 1487), and the number of judges varied, from time to time, from twenty-six to forty-two; the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Keeper, was the President.

It took cognizance of perjury, riot, and conspiracy. The building was large, and richly decorated. The walls were panelled to the ceiling, great bow windows admitted light and air.

The ceiling was ornamented with carved wood-work, and was richly painted.

It was in this building, and before this august tribunal, that William Jefferay appeared, in the month of September, A.D. 1557, on the charge of riot and assault.

A fortnight had passed since the warrant had been duly served by the Sheriff, and for the past three days William had been an inmate of the Fleet prison.

The boys had rapidly regained their health, though William still carried his arm in a bandage, and the pallor of his handsome face showed the stress through which he had passed.

As soon as the state of their health had permitted it, their uncle had revealed to them the dangerous position in which William stood.

As Susan had surmised, "the brothers had no secrets," and Ralph's adventure in the Chiddingly woods was well known to William.

But to both of them the news that William, and not Ralph, was deemed the culprit, was a matter of profound amazement, and, on Ralph's part, of intense indignation.

"Oh, uncle," he cried, "this may not be! Mine was the folly, if folly it was, and on my head must fall the consequences, be they what they may!"

An approving smile lit up Sir John's noble and dignified face as he replied—

"I knew that would be your first thought, and you may yet have to pay the penalty of your wild freak—Heaven only knows! But in this mistake of identity lies, perhaps, the path of safety, and the Master of the Rolls agrees with me that it is our wisest course to let the matter proceed."

With great reluctance Ralph consented, with the assurance of his uncle that if aught went amiss, and William was not acquitted, the whole truth should be told.

Three days later the Sheriff appeared at Gray's Inn with much ceremony, and Ralph saw his brother carried off a prisoner to the Fleet.

It was the first moment of real anguish in his young life, and but for the sweet influence of his sister, Ralph would have then proclaimed himself the offender and demanded the release of his brother.

From the library window Ralph and Susan had seen the departure of William under the escort of the Sheriff's guard, and the boy's pale face was wrung with so intense an agony that Susan's fears were strongly aroused.

"Oh, Ralph," she cried, "for the love of God do nothing rashly, bring not your uncle's plans to confusion; have faith that all will come right in Heaven's good time."

She laid her hand upon his shoulder and drew him lovingly towards her, seeing that he was irresolute.

"Have you no pity for me?" she said. "Think you that I do not suffer with you, and with our beloved uncle also?"

A moment more, and the crisis was past; the prisoner and his escort had moved out of sight, and Ralph sank exhausted upon a couch: his barely recovered strength had failed him.

Three days had passed since William had been committed to the Fleet prison, where, thanks to the Sheriff, the prisoner had been granted a private room, and every alleviation of his hard lot which the Governor could give to him.

He had been permitted to receive visitors, and each day Sir John and Susan had spent some hours with him. On the evening of the third day Simon Renard, the Spanish Ambassador, had brought the great news to Gray's Inn that the Council of the Star Chamber would meet on the morrow, and that William's fate would be then decided.

That night the friends of the unhappy boy met in the library at Gray's Inn to decide on their course of action.

The day had been hot, the evening was sultry, and the windows of the fine room were thrown open to admit the little air that stirred the leaves of the plane-trees in the square.

The room was somewhat dimly lit by wax candles, and small silver lamps, fed with perfumed oil, sent forth a languorous odour.

Don Simon Renard had much to tell the gentlemen who sat around him, among whom were the Lord Mayor of London, the Master of the Rolls, and, of course, Sir John Jefferay.

To all of these men the constitution of the Star Chamber and the course of procedure at the Council Meeting were perfectly well known, and the personal characteristics of every member of that dread tribunal (each of whom acted as a judge) were equally familiar to them.

Don Renard told them that the Chancellor himself, the Earl of Arundel, would preside, and that with him would sit the Earl of Pembroke, the Lords Paget and Rochester, Sir William Petre, and many others.

Cardinal Pole rarely sat at the Council—yet, at the Ambassador's especial solicitation, he had promised attendance on the morrow.

No strangers had a right to be present in the Court. Nevertheless, the Chancellor had granted the Ambassador's request that Sir Philip Broke and Sir John Jefferay might be admitted on this occasion.

The accused person was not allowed the privilege of the assistance of "Counsel," excepting upon the special invitation of the President.

"Our chief hope," said the Ambassador, "lies in the fact that the Master of the Rolls and the Treasurer of Gray's Inn can give in evidence that William was, at the time of the assault, actually with them in the Library of Gray's Inn, which should conclusively prove that he cannot possibly be guilty of the offence now charged against him."

"Beyond a doubt," answered Sir John; "yet my mind misgives me on one point. The Pursuivant," he continued, "may fail to identify William as his assailant; he may have heard of the extraordinary resemblance of the twin brothers. And if William be acquitted, he may shift the charge to Ralph and demand his arrest."

"I think you are distressing yourself needlessly, my friend," answered the Ambassador, "for let me tell you that this very day the Pursuivant was taken to the Fleet that he might see the prisoner as he took his daily exercise in the yard. He saw him, and was instantly convinced that William was the man who had assaulted him in Chiddingly wood. Moreover, we have no reason to suppose that he is aware of Ralph's existence."

"I am afraid that the last-named circumstance is too well known both in London and at Lewes," interposed the Lord Mayor, "especially since the occurrence of the gallant episode on the Thames. I begin to think that Sir John's fears are well founded, and that after all our wisest course would be to send Ralph across the water, and that instantly; he is now quite strong enough to travel."

Sir John smiled sadly as he replied—

"You do not know my two nephews sufficiently well, my Lord Mayor, if you think that scheme possible. Let me tell you that they are so linked together in brotherly love that Ralph would never consent to save his own life if thereby he endangered William's safety. Nay, more, let me assure you that if our plans failed, and William were condemned, Ralph would at once make a full confession to the authorities."

"They are two noble boys," cried Don Renard, with generous enthusiasm, "equally great in love and strife; have no fear for them, my dear Sir John. Heaven will not suffer them to pass their young lives in a prison cell!"

Thus the friendly conclave debated until the hour grew late, and the heavy air within the library became oppressive.

As night had deepened the sultry atmosphere had given place to storm and tempest, and a heavy rain was falling.

The lights had grown dim, but the noble proportions of the library were almost continuously lit up by the flashes of lightning, and the deep diapason of the rolling thunder shook the ancient Inn.

The serving men of the friends in Council were awaiting their masters with carriages in the Square, and as St. Paul's clock struck the hour of midnight Sir John's guests took their departure.

The day had already begun which was "big with fate" for the twin brothers!

The storm was abating, and Sir John stood at the open window watching the fleeting clouds and the occasional glimmer of stars emerging from the gloom. A light step across the thickly carpeted floor did not catch his ear, but a caressing arm thrown round his neck told him that Susan was there.

"To rest, dear uncle, to rest," said she; "for this day will bring thee labour and toil for body and mind! Yet tell me briefly, does all go well—do our friends give us cause to hope for the best?"

Then Sir John comforted her distressed heart by telling her in a few words their schemes for the great event in the Star Chamber, and their hopes for a joyful delivery from their cares, and Susan at length sought her chamber somewhat cheered.

The day broke fine and cloudless.

The sun shone through the painted windows of the great Court House of the Star Chamber, casting a thousand richly tinted shadows on the marble floor. The gilt stars in the roof glittered, and rich beams of light fell on the beautiful panelling which lined the walls of the noble hall.

It was yet early morn, and the only occupants of the Court were the ushers, attendants and servants who were making preparations for the meeting of the Court. At ten o'clock armed warders took up their positions within the hall; a few minutes later the Sheriff with a strong force of javelin men made his entry; he had brought up the prisoner, William Jefferay, from the Fleet prison.

The boy's handsome face was deadly pale, forming a strong contrast with his dark, flashing eyes. There was no sign of fear or misgiving on the part of the youthful prisoner as he took his place in the dock, a warder standing on each side of him.

Presently a small group of gentlemen entered the hall to whom all present showed great deference, and they were shown to benches reserved for distinguished visitors who held permits from the Lord Chancellor.

William's eyes lit up with pleasure, and his pale face flushed as he recognized Don Simon Renard and his stepson Diego, Sir John Jefferay, and the Master of the Rolls among the group.

When all were seated a solemn silence ensued, shortly to be broken by the clarion tones of silver trumpets.

The Lords of the Council were entering the Chamber in a stately procession vested in their robes of office. Every point of the ancient form and ceremony was rigidly observed.

All men stood, cap in hand, until the Chancellor had taken his seat; then, at a sign from him, a richly bedizened herald stepped forth and proclaimed that the Court was opened.

On the Chancellor's right hand sat Cardinal Pole. Between these famous men there was a marked and striking contrast.

The Earl of Arundel was a dark-featured man of some fifty years of age; his black beard and moustache, worn in the Tudor style, was streaked with grey. A soldier, a statesman, a courtier of immense power and influence, he had steered his political barque with supreme skill through the stormy period of the English Reformation, when many greater than he, and more highly placed, had suffered shipwreck. Just now he was the acknowledged leader of the Spanish faction at Court, and no man stood higher than he in the favour of King Philip.

To-day his sombre face had a marked expression of sternness, which underwent a sudden change as the Cardinal bent towards him and whispered something in his ear. Arundel was listening to the Cardinal with unwonted deference, and his grim features relaxed into a friendly smile as he made reply in low tones.

From the bench where he sat Sir John's keen eyes had noted that both these illustrious judges were bending close, inquisitorial glances on the boy prisoner; he was evidently the subject of their secret discourse.

"The Chancellor seems to be in a stern frame of mind to-day," whispered Sir John to Sir Philip Broke.

"I have seen him look yet more fierce," replied the Master of the Rolls. "I was with him on the day when he arrested his brother-in-law the Duke of Northumberland, when the gleam of his dark eyes struck terror into the Duke's soul! But be of good courage, Sir John; mark how the Cardinal's gentle smile is thawing his icy reserve, and remember his Eminence hath promised Don Renard to give us all the aid in his power."

"Thank God for that!" whispered Sir John in reply.

Cardinal Reginald Pole, Archbishop of Canterbury, was perhaps the foremost Englishman of his age.

An aristocrat of the finest type, with the royal blood of the Plantagenets in his veins, he was, above all things, an ecclesiastic of stainless life and reputation.

Those who differed from him toto c?lo in religious matters were eager to acknowledge his incorruptibility and devotion to duty.

Men remembered how boldly he had withstood the threats and cajoleries of King Henry VIII; how, later, he had shown a bold front to the Vatican itself, and to the most dreaded tribunal in the world, the "Holy Office"!

There was something eminently pleasing and attractive in the face, bearing and physique of the great Cardinal. Notwithstanding his long sojourn in foreign lands, he was a typical Englishman.

He wore his hair long—it hung in profusion on his broad shoulders, and, like his long bushy beard, was of a rich brown colour.

His fine expressive face was somewhat colourless, but it was lit up by the deep-blue eyes of the Plantagenet race—eyes which at times gleamed with tenderness and pity.

He was spare in body, and his hands were as small and as delicately shaped as those of a woman.

The whispered conversation between the Chancellor and the Cardinal had come to an end, and for a moment a deep silence brooded in the Court.

Then, at a signal from Lord Arundel, the Clerk of the Court rose and "called on" the case which was occupying the minds of all men present.

"The Queen v. William Jefferay; prisoner at the bar," he cried in loud tones, "you are charged that on the 17th of July last you committed an assault upon the Queen's Pursuivant; how say you—are you guilty or not guilty?"

William bowed low to the Chancellor, and in subdued but distinct tones replied—

"Not guilty, my Lord."

"Let us hear the witnesses," said Lord Arundel, and thereupon the Pursuivant arose; behind him stood his assistants.

There was something vindictive and threatening in the attitude and voice of the Pursuivant—a note of triumph rang out with his words.

He felt sure of his case, and positively sure of the identity of the accused with his assailant in the woods of Chiddingly.

In slow and measured terms the Pursuivant gave his evidence, telling the tale of the assault in the woods in full detail.

His two halberdiers, as witnesses of the attack upon the Queen's officer, bore testimony to the truth of the charge made against the prisoner.

The Court was but thinly attended; the general public could only obtain admission by invitation, and this was rarely accorded.

Yet among those present were many—even in the rank of the august judges—who knew something of young Jefferay and had heard of his recent deed of daring on the Thames.

Among these a deep feeling of dismay and commiseration arose, so clear and undeniable appeared the evidence of the young prisoner's folly; already they seemed to see the executioner clipping the ears and slitting the nose of his victim!

It was at this critical moment that the Cardinal again turned towards the Chancellor and whispered something in his ear; Lord Arundel nodded assent to his suggestion.

Cardinal Pole thereupon addressed the Court. The Cardinal's voice was soft and musical; he spoke in low and gentle terms, yet was he distinctly audible even to the furthest extremity of that great hall.

"There is a mystery in this case," he said, "and it does not lie upon the surface. Some of us are not convinced as to the identity of the accused, notwithstanding the evidence of the Queen's officers. By permission of the Lord Chancellor I call upon the Treasurer of Gray's Inn, Sir John Jefferay, and the Master of the Rolls, Sir Philip Broke, to give evidence upon this vital point."

An excited murmur passed among the audience as Sir John Jefferay, in obedience to this command, rose in his place and proceeded to the witness-box, and addressing the Court, said—

"With your permission, my Lords, I will first ask for the date and the hour of the alleged assault."

Much marvelling, the Pursuivant rose and said in reply—

"It was on the seventeenth day of July, and the hour was about eight o'clock in the morning."

"Thank you, Mr. Pursuivant," replied Sir John, with great gravity; then, turning towards the Bench of Judges, he said—

"On that day, and at that hour, I held a consultation in the library of Gray's Inn with my honourable friend the Master of the Rolls, here present. My secretary took notes of our conference, and was with us all that morning. The secretary in question was Mr. William Jefferay, the prisoner at the Bar!

A thrill of emotion passed through the Court at these words, and but for the august presence in which they stood, the air would have been rent with cheers. The accusers of William Jefferay, and those that sided with them (for there were some), were petrified with astonishment.

Yet even at that supreme moment Sir John observed that one of the halberdiers clutched the Pursuivant by the shoulder and began to whisper eagerly to him, whereat his master's woebegone face began to light up with a grim smile.

A sudden hush fell on the Court as the Earl of Arundel spoke.

"Call the Master of the Rolls;" and as Sir Philip Broke entered the witness-box, the Chancellor said, "Do you corroborate the evidence of the last witness?"

Sir Philip Broke, bowing low, said—

"In every detail, my Lord."

"Then it only remains for us to dismiss the case, and we do hereby dismiss it," said the Chancellor.

"My Lord," cried the Pursuivant, rising hastily in his place, "my Lord, in this case——"

But the Chancellor instantly silenced the speaker.

"There is no case," he said; "the matter is at an end."

The Pursuivant sank back in his seat, but his eyes were full of malice and baffled rage.

Then the warders stood aside and beckoned to William to leave the dock.

As he descended, his friends clustered around him, and his pale face flushed with excitement as they poured forth their congratulations.

Foremost among them was the Spanish Ambassador and Don Diego; the latter flung his arms round his friend's neck and kissed him lovingly on both cheeks.

Presently, with Sir John and Sir Philip on either side of him, William emerged into the street, and there a great crowd of law students awaited him.

These were his "sodales"; with them the twin brothers were universally popular, and their recent exploit on the Thames had aroused that admiration to a frenzy.

So it was amid a cheering and uproariously excited escort that the party made its way to Gray's Inn, where Susan and Ralph awaited them.

They had not been permitted to attend the Court, where no ladies found a place, and as for Ralph, perhaps there were other reasons wherefore Sir John commanded him to abide at home!

Oh, it was a moment of bliss when Susan flung herself into the arms of her brother—such a moment as Heaven rarely grants to mortals!

"Oh, William!"

"Oh, Susan!"

Then the brothers embraced, and, after the manner of the times, kissed each other affectionately on the cheek. Hand in hand the three happy young people ascended to the library, where William related to eager listeners the moving scenes which had been enacted that morning in the Star Chamber.