own. Sir William Carew, the head of the Devon branch of the family, held noble sway at Mohun’s Ottery, and day by day a hundred poor and more were fed by his open hand, for in those times there was no niggardly charity, although the king’s laws spared not the valiant beggar. Every gentleman’s house was in itself a tavern, and men of all conditions came unbidden to the board, finding, too, a night’s lodging, even though it might be but a bed of straw upon the stone floor of the hall. The food was neither scanty nor of mean order; cooks who fed a hundred or so at one meal were accustomed to serving in a day beef, mutton, venison, pigs, geese, plovers, curlews, besides pike, bream, and porpoise, and of ale and wine there was no lack. A plentiful, free feast that drew a multitude of pensioners; the odors that floated from the kitchens, even on a fast day, brought a retinue of visitors to the doors, and after meal time the sounds of revelry told their own story, giving ample proof that there were no empty stomachs.

[8]

[9]It was Shrove Tuesday in the year 1535, and the midday dinner was over at Mohun’s Ottery, as great a company as usual having been entertained. Upon the doorstep stood Sir William Carew and his guest, Master Raleigh, the father of Sir Walter, who was then unborn. These two worthies were engaged in deep and grave converse upon public matters, for the Act of the Supremacy had been followed by the Treason Act, and Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher were in the Tower, having refused to take the oath without conditions. So there was no lack of matter for discussion, and the faces of these two were neither unruffled nor jolly, though they had so lately dined. However, their conversation was doomed to a sharp interruption. A horse and rider came suddenly in sight upon the high-road, advancing at so mad a gait that both men paused in their talk to watch the approach. A great bay horse, flecked with foam and with blood upon his flank, showing a cruel spur, and on his back a large and handsome man, gayly dressed, his velvet cloak embroidered with gold and his hat beplumed, but reeling in his saddle, keeping his seat, as it seemed, only by a miracle.

[9]

“It is Sir Thomas,” Raleigh remarked, after a second glance at the red face of the rider.

[10]“Ay,” retorted Carew, bitterly, “my worthy brother and, as usual, in his cups. A naughty rogue it is, and like to be a disgrace to his blood.”

[10]

 Prev. P 4/169 next