Robin Tremayne Part 1

Robin Tremayne.

by Emily Sarah Holt.

Emily Holt was a historian of no mean calibre. Many of her books are set in the Middle Ages or a little later. This one is set in the 1550s, and a little before and after. This was the time when the Catholic Mary was on the throne, and Catholicism was enforced as the official religion. It was also the time when Protestantism, which had been on the rise, was checked, and many Protestants burnt at the stake. When Elizabeth came to the throne this was reversed, and Protestantism was once more the official religion.

This book, which is quite largely based on well-researched fact, tells of the family life of a few people who were Protestants, and who preached the Gospel unerringly throughout, despite in the end some of them being imprisoned, including Robin Tremayne himself. His account of the prison in which he was held is quite amazing--how wickedly unkind people can be to one another. At one stage in the story people were being burnt at the stake quite wholesale. When Elizabeth came to the throne all the Bishops were Catholic, and at first none could be persuaded to officiate at the Coronation. Eventually the Bishop of Carlisle agreed to do it, but as he hadn't any suitable vestments he had to borrow some from Bonner, the Bishop of London, who wouldn't do the Coronation himself.

Full of anecdotes like this, based on fact, the book is fascinating.

There is a watered-down version of Elizabethan speech, a few decades before Shakespearean English, and so reasonably understandable. The footnotes are there to explain the more unusual words and phrases.

ROBIN TREMAYNE, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.

PREFACE.

More than three hundred years have rolled away since the events narrated in the following pages stirred the souls of men; since John Bradford sat down to his "merry supper with the Lord;" since Lawrence Saunders slept peacefully at the stake, lifted over the dark river in the arms of G.o.d; since Ridley and Latimer, on that autumn morning at Oxford, lighted that candle in England which they trusted by G.o.d's grace should never be put out.

And how stands it with England now? For forty-three years, like a bird fascinated by the serpent, she has been creeping gradually closer to the outstretched arms of the great enchantress. Is she blind and deaf? Has she utterly forgotten all her history, all the traditions of her greatness? It is not quite too late to halt in her path of destruction; but how soon may it become so? How soon may the dying scream of the bird be hushed in the jaws of the serpent?

The candle which was lighted on that autumn morning is burning dim. It burns dimmer every year, as England yields more and more to Rome. And every living soul of us all is responsible to G.o.d for the preservation of its blessed light. O sons and daughters of England, shall it be put out?

CHAPTER ONE.

THE FOLDING OF THE LAMB.

"And then she fell asleep; but G.o.d Knew that His Heaven was better far, Where little children angels are; And so, for paths she should have trod Through thorns and flowers, gave her this sod.

"He gave her rest for troublousness, And a calm sleep for fitful dreams Of what is, and of more that seems For tossings upon earth and seas Gave her to see Him where He is."

W.M. Rossetti.

"Arbel, look forth and see if thy father and Robin be at hand. I fear the pie shall be overbaken."

The speaker was a woman of about forty years of age, of that quiet and placid demeanour which indicates that great provocation would be needed to evoke any disturbance of temper. Gathering up the garment on which she was at work, Arbel [Note 1] crossed the long, low room to a wide cas.e.m.e.nt, on the outer mullions of which sundry leafless boughs were tapping as if to ask shelter from the cold; and after standing there for two or three minutes, announced that the missing members of the family were approaching.

"And a third party withal," added she; "that seemeth me, so far as I may hence discern, to be Doctor Thorpe."

"He is very welcome, an' it be he," returned her mother, still calmly spinning. "I trust to ask his counsel touching Robin."

Figuratively speaking, for more than a century was yet to elapse ere George Fox founded the Society of Friends, it might be said that Custance [Note 2] Tremayne was born a Quakeress. It had hitherto proved impossible, through all the annals of the family experience, to offend or anger her. She was an affectionate wife and mother, but nothing roused in her any outward exhibition of anxiety or annoyance. The tenor of her way was very even indeed.

Before Arbel had done much more than resume her seat and her needle, the room was entered by two men and a lad of sixteen years. The master of the house, Mr Anthony Tremayne, [Note 3] who came in first, was a man of more demonstrative manners than his quiet partner. He who entered second was shorter and stronger-built, and had evidently seen a longer term of life. His hair, plentifully streaked with grey, was thinned to slight baldness on the summit of the head; his features, otherwise rather strong and harsh, wore an expression of benevolence which redeemed them; his eyes, dark grey, were sharp and piercing. When he took off his hat, he carefully drew forth and put on a black skull-cap, which gave him a semi-priestly appearance. The lad, who entered with a slow and almost languid step, though in face resembling his father, was evidently not without an element of his mother in his mental composition. His hair was dark, and his eyes brown: but the same calm placidity of expression rested on his features as on hers, and his motions were quiet and deliberate.

"Good morrow, Dr Thorpe," [Note 4] said Mistress Tremayne, rising from her work.

"The like to you, my mistress," was the response. "Well, how fare you all? Be any of you sick? or can you do without me for a se'nnight?"

"Whither go you, Doctor?" gently asked Custance.

The Doctor's brow grew graver. "On a sorrowful errand, friend," he replied. "Our n.o.ble friends at Crowe are in sore trouble, for their little maid is grievous sick."

"What, little Honor?" cried Arbel, pityingly.

"Ay, methinks the Master is come, and hath called for her. We might thank G.o.d, if we could see things as He seeth. The sorrows of her House shall never trouble her."

"Poor child!" said Custance in her quiet voice. "Why, good Doctor, we be none of us truly sick, I thank G.o.d; but in sooth I did desire you should step in hither, touching Robin."

"Touching whom?" asked Dr Thorpe with a faint sound of satire in his tone.

But the tone had no effect on Custance.

"Touching Robin," she repeated. "I would fain have you to send him some physic, an' it like you."

"What shall I send him?" said the Doctor with a grim smile. "A bottle of cider? He lacketh naught else."

"Nay, but I fear me he groweth too fast for his strength," answered his mother.

"Then give him more meat and drink," was the rather contemptuous reply.

"The lad is as strong as a horse: he is only a trifle lazy. He lacketh but stirring up with a poker."

"Send us the poker," said his father, laughing.

"I am not an ironmonger," retorted the Doctor, again with the same grim smile. "But the boy is all right; women be alway looking out for trouble and taking thought."

"But I count you know a mother's fears," answered Custance calmly.

"How should I?" said he. "I was never a woman, let alone a mother. I know all women be fools, saving a handful, of whom Isoult Avery, at Bradmond yonder, is queen."

Mr Anthony Tremayne laughed heartily. His wife merely replied as quietly as before. "So be it, Doctor. I suppose men do fall sick at times, and then they use not to think so for a little while at the least."

"Well, I said not you were not in the handful," said he, smiling again.

"All that you yourself do know make the handful, I count," said Tremayne. "Ah! Doctor, your bark did alway pa.s.s your bite. But who goeth yonder? Come within!"

The door opened in answer to his call, and disclosed a good-looking man in the prime of life, whose dark hair and beard were particularly luxuriant in growth.

"Ah! Jack Avery, G.o.d save thee!" resumed Tremayne, heartily. "Thou art right welcome. What news?"

"Such news," was the response, in a clear, musical voice, "as we be scarce like to hear twice this century. May I pray you of a cup of wine, to drink the health of the King?"

"Fetch it, Robin," said Tremayne. "But what hath the King's Grace done, Avery? Not, surely, to repeal the b.l.o.o.d.y Statute, his sickness making him more compatient [Note 5] unto his poor subjects? That were good news!"

"I sorrow to say it," replied Avery, "but this is better news than that should be." And holding up the cup of wine which Robin offered him, he said solemnly,--"The King's Majesty, Edward the Sixth! G.o.d save him!"