9025
N the 10th of July, 1553, about two hours after noon, a loud discharge
of ordnance burst from the turrets of Durham House, then the residence
of the Duke of Northumberland, grand-master of the realm, and occupying
the site of the modern range of buildings, known as the Adelphi; and,
at the signal, which was immediately answered from every point along the
river where a bombard or culverin could be planted,—from the adjoining
hospital of the Savoy,—the old palace of Bridewell, recently converted
by Edward VI., at the instance of Ridley, bishop of London, into a
house of correction,—Baynard’s Castle, the habitation of the Earl of
Pembroke,—the gates of London-bridge,—and, lastly, from the batteries
of the Tower,—a gallant train issued from the southern gateway of the
stately mansion abovenamed, and descended the stairs leading to the
water’s edge, where, appointed for their reception, was drawn up a
squadron of fifty superbly-gilt barges,—some decorated with banners
and streamers,—some with cloth-of-gold and arras, embroidered with the
devices of the civic companies,—others with innumerable silken pennons
to which were attached small silver bells, “making a goodly noise and a
goodly sight as they waved in the wind,”—while others, reserved for the
more important personages of the ceremony, were covered at the sides
with shields gorgeously emblazoned with the armorial bearings of the
different noblemen and honourable persons composing the privy council,
amid which the cognizance of the Duke of Northumberland,—a lion rampant,
or, double quevée, vert,—appeared proudly conspicuous. Each barge was
escorted by a light galley, termed a foist or wafter, manageable either
by oar or sail as occasion demanded, and attached to its companion by a
stout silken tow-line. In these galleys, besides the rowers, whose oars
were shipped, and in readiness to be dropped, at an instant’s notice,
into the tide, and the men-at-arms, whose tall pikes, steel caps, and
polished corslets flashed in the sun-beams, sat bands of minstrels
provided with sackbuts, shalms, cornets, rebecs, and other forgotten
musical instruments. The conduct of the whole squadron was entrusted to
six officers, whose business it was to prevent confusion, and who, in
the small swift wherries appointed to their use, rowed rapidly from
place to place, endeavouring by threats and commands to maintain order,
and keep off the crowd of boats and craft of all sorts hurrying towards
them from every quarter of the river. It was a brilliant and busy scene,
and might be supposed a joyous and inspiriting one—more especially, as
the object which had called together this assemblage was the conveyance
of a young and lovely sovereign to her throne within the Tower. But
it was not so. Young and lovely as was that sovereign,—rich,—richer,
perhaps, than any of her sex,—in endowments of mind and
person,—illustrious and royal in birth,—professing and supporting a
faith, then newly established throughout the country, and which it was
feared, and with reason, might be greatly endangered, if not wholly
subverted, if another and nearer claimant of the crown, the Princess
Mary, had succeeded to the inheritance; still, with all these high
recommendations,—though her rights were insisted upon by the ablest
and most eloquent divines from the pulpit, though her virtues, her
acquirements, and her beauty were the theme of every tongue;—as she was
not first in the succession, and, above all, as she had been invested
with regal authority by one who, from his pride, was obnoxious to
all men,—her father-in-law, the Duke of Northumberland,—the Lady Jane
Dudley’s accession was viewed by all ranks and all parties with mistrust
and apprehension. In vain had the haughty duke brought her with a
splendid cavalcade from Sion House to his own palace. No cheers greeted
her arrival—no rejoicings were made by the populace, but a sullen and
ominous silence prevailed amongst those who witnessed her entrance into
the capital. It is true that her youth and surpassing beauty excited
the greatest interest. Murmurs of irrepressible admiration arose at
her appearance; but these were immediately checked on the approach of
Northumberland, who, following closely behind her, eyed the concourse as
if he would enforce their applauses; and it was emphatically said, that
in pity of the victim of his soaring ambition, more tears were shed on
that occasion, than shouts were uttered. On the 9th of July, Lady Jane
Dudley—better known by her maiden title of Lady Jane Grey—had been
made acquainted with her exalted, but, as she herself (with a sad
presentiment of calamity) pronounced it, her fatal destiny. Edward the
Sixth had breathed his last, three days previously. His death had been
kept carefully concealed by Northumberland, who hoped, by despatching
false messages, to have secured the persons of the princesses Mary
and Elizabeth. But intelligence of her brother’s death having been
communicated to the latter, she avoided the snare; and the duke, finding
further dissimulation useless, resolved at once to carry his plan into
execution, and proclaim his daughter-in-law queen. With this view, and
accompanied by several members of the privy-council, he proceeded to
Sion House, where she was then living in retirement, and announced to
her that the late monarch had declared her by his letters-patent (an
instrument which he had artfully obtained) his successor. Jane refused
the proffered dignity, urging the prior claims of Edward’s sisters; and
adding, “I am not so young, nor so little read in the guiles of fortune,
to suffer myself to be taken by them. If she enrich any, it is but to
make them the subject of her spoil. If she raise others, it is but to
pleasure herself with their ruins. What she adorned but yesterday, is
to-day her pastime: and if I now permit her to adorn and crown me, I
must to-morrow suffer her to crush and tear me to pieces. Nay, with
what crown does she present me? A crown which has been violently and
shamefully wrested from Catherine of Arragon, made more unfortunate by
the punishment of Anne Boleyn, and others who wore it after her; and why
then would you have me add my blood to theirs, and be the third victim
from whom this fatal crown may be ravished, with the head that wears
it?” In this forcible and feeling language she couched her refusal;
and for some time she adhered to her resolution, until at length, her
constancy being shaken by the solicitations of her relatives, and above
all by the entreaties of her husband Lord Guilford Dudley, to whom
she was passionately attached, she yielded a reluctant assent. On the
following morning, she was conveyed, as has been just stated, with great
pomp to Durham House, in the Strand, where she received the homage of
her subjects, partook of a magnificent banquet, and tarried sufficiently
long to enable the duke to collect his retinue to conduct her in state
to the Tower: it being then the custom for the monarchs of England to
spend the first few days of their reign within this ancient fortress.
It is with the moment of her departure for this palace and prison of
crowned heads, that this chronicle commences.
The advanced guard of the procession was formed by a troop of
halberdiers dressed in striped hose of black and tawny, velvet caps
decked at the side with silver roses, and doublets of murrey and blue
cloth, embroidered on the front and at the back with the royal blazon,
woven in gold. Their halbert staves were covered with crimson velvet,
fastened with gilt nails, and ornamented with golden tassels. Filing oft
on the right and left, they formed two long lines, extending from the
gateway of the palace to the foot of the plank communicating with the
barge nearest the shore. A thick rayed cloth was then unfolded, and laid
down between them by several attendants in the sumptuous liveries of the
Duke of Northumberland. This done, a flourish of trumpets resounded from
within; a lively prelude arose from the musicians on the water; and
two ushers with white wands marched at a slow and stately pace from the
portal. They were followed by an officer bearing the mace; after whom
came another carrying the sword of state; then several serjeants of
the city guard, in their full accoutrements, and with badges on their
sleeves; then the garter king-at-arms in his tabard; then several
knights of the Bath, each having a white laco on his sleeve; then their
esquires; then the judges, in their robes of scarlet and coifs; then
the bishop of Ely, who, in his character of lord high chancellor, wore
a robe of scarlet, open before, and purfled with minever; then the
aldermen, likewise in cloaks of scarlet; the sheriffs; and, finally, the
lord mayor, Sir George Beame, in a gown of crimson velvet, and wearing
the collar of SS.
Sufficient time having been allowed for the embarkation of these
important personages, who, with their attendants, filled several barges,
another flourish of trumpets was heard, fresh symphonies resounded from
the river, and the heads of the different civic companies, in their
robes of state, descended and departed. Many an eye tracked their course
along the river, which flamed like a sheet of molten gold beneath its
glittering burthens. Many an ear listened to the measured sweep of
their oars, and the softening cadences of their minstrelsy; lingering,
enchanted, on the sight and sound till both faded away in the distance.
Still, though a thousand pulses beat high, and a thousand hearts
throbbed, not an acclamation was raised, not a. cap thrown in the air,
not a scarf waved. The same silence, that had prevailed during the
morning, prevailed now. Queen Jane, it was evident, was not the choice
of her people.
Meanwhile, two venerable persons had presented themselves on the
stair-head. These were Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, and Ridley,
bishop of London. They were attired in the scarlet simar, and surplice
with its snowy lawn sleeves, proper to their order, and were engaged in
deep converse together. The austere course of life prescribed to, and
pursued by, the fathers of the Reformed Church, had stamped itself in
lines of unusual severity on their countenances. Their demeanour was
grave and singularly dignified, and such as well beseemed their high
ecclesiastical rank. Arrived at the last step, Cranmer raised his eyes,
and, after glancing around as if in expectation of some greeting from
the multitude, observed to his companion, “This silence of the people
likes me not, my lord: disaffection, I fear, is abroad. This is not the
way in which our good citizens are wont to receive a triumph such as his
Grace of Northumberland has prepared.”
“Your Grace is in the right,” replied Ridley. “The assemblage before
whom I pronounced a solemn exhortation this morning at St. Paul’s
Cross,—when I proved, as I trust, satisfactorily, that Mary
and Elizabeth are excluded from the succession on the score of
illegitimacy,—received my discourse with murmurs of disapprobation.
Vainly did I tell them if they accepted Mary they would relapse into
darkness and idolatry: vainly did I enlarge on our young queen’s
virtues, and show them that she was prepared to carry into effect the
wise ordinations of her pious predecessor. They made no answer,—but
departed, as men resolved not to be convinced of their error.”
“These are signs indeed of troublous times,” sighed Cranmer; “and,
though it is not given to us to foresee the future, I cannot but fear
that a season of bitter persecution of our church is at hand. Heaven
avert the day! Heaven preserve queen Jane, who will prove our surest
safeguard! Had Mary ruled——”
“Had that false bigot ruled,” interrupted Ridley, frowning at the idea,
“your grace and I should, ere this, have changed places in the Tower
with Gardiner and Bonner. But should what you fear come to pass; should
evil times arise, and Rome and her abominations again prevail; should
our church need a martyr, she shall find one in me.”
“And in me,” rejoined Cranmer, fervently.
While this was passing, twelve French gentlemen in splendid habiliments,
consisting of pourpoints of white damask, barred with gold,
short mantles of crimson velvet, lined with violet taffeta, and
carnation-coloured hauts-de-chausses, took their way down the steps.
These galliards, who formed the suite of M. Antoine de Noailles,
ambassador from Henry the Second of France, were succeeded by a like
number of Spanish cavaliers, the attendants of M. Simon Renard, who
fulfilled the like high office for the emperor Charles the Fifth.
Dressed in suits of black velvet, entirely without ornament, the
Spaniards differed as much from the airy and elegant Frenchmen in
gravity and reserve of manner, as in simplicity of apparel. Their
leader, Simon Renard, was as plainly attired as his followers, his sole
decoration being the Toison d’Or: but of all that brilliant assemblage,
perhaps there was none so likely to arrest and rivet attention as this
remarkable man; and as he is destined to play no inconsiderable part
in this history, it may be worth while to take a narrower survey of his
personal appearance. Somewhat above the middle height, and of a spare
but muscular frame, he had a dark complexion, rendered yet more sombre
in its colour from the contrast it presented to his grizzled board and
moustaches. His eye was black and flaming, his nose long and hooked,
and he had astern searching glance, which few could withstand. There
was something mysterious both in his manner and character which made him
universally dreaded; and as he never forgave an offence, nor scrupled at
any means of gratifying his vengeance, it was not without reason that
he was feared. A subtle politician and skilful diplomatist, high in
the favour of the most powerful sovereign in Europe, with apparently
inexhaustible funds at his command; inexorable in hatred, fickle in
friendship, inconstant in affairs of gallantry, suspected of being mixed
up in every political intrigue or conspiracy, Simon Renard had been for
some time the terror and wonder of Edward’s court, and had been regarded
with suspicion and jealousy by Northumberland, who looked upon him as
a dangerous opponent. During Edward’s lifetime frequent quarrels had
occurred between these two crafty statesmen; but now, at this desperate
conjuncture, the duke deemed it prudent to forget his animosity, and
to conciliate his antagonist. More of a courtier, and not less of a
diplomatist, but without the skill, the resolution, or the cunning of
his brother ambassador, De Noailles would have been no match for Renard
had they been opposed: and, indeed, his inferiority was afterwards
signally manifested. But they were now united by common bonds of
animosity: both were determined enemies of Northumberland—both resolved
upon his overthrow, and that of the queen he had placed upon the throne.
No sooner had the ambassadors entered their barge, than withdrawing out
of earshot of their attendants, they commenced a conversation in a low
tone.
“How long will this farce last, think you?” inquired De Noailles, with a
laugh.
“Not a day—not an hour,” rejoined Simon Renard, “if these suspicious and
timorous English nobles will but act in concert, and confide in me.”
“Confide in you?” said De Noailles, smiling. “They fear you more than
Northumberland.”
“They will not succeed without me,” returned Renard, coldly. “Mark
me, De Noailles, I, Simon Renard, simple bailli of Amont in the
Franche-Comte, and an unworthy representative of his Majesty Charles the
Fifth, hold in my right hand the destiny of this fair land of England.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed De Noailles. “You have learnt to rhodomontade at
the court of Madrid, I perceive, Monsieur le Bailli.”
“This is no rhodomontade, messire,” rejoined the other, sternly; “were I
to join with Northumberland and Suffolk, I could establish Jane upon the
throne. Acting with the privy council, who, as you well know, are, like
ourselves, the duke’s secret enemies, I shall strike the sceptre from
her grasp, and place it in the hand of Mary. Nay more, I will tell you
that if I had not wished to ensure Northumberland’s destruction, I would
not have suffered him to proceed thus far. But he has now taken a step
which nothing can retrieve.”
“My hatred of him is as great as your own, M. Renard,” observed De
Noailles, gravely; “and I shall rejoice as heartily as yourself, or any
of his enemies, in his downfall. But I cannot blind myself to his power.
Clinton, the Lord High Admiral, his fast friend, is in possession of the
Tower, which is full of armed men and ammunition. The royal treasures
are in his hands; the troops, the navy, are his—and, as yet, the
privy council have sanctioned all his decrees—have sworn obedience
to Jane—have proclaimed Mary illegitimate, and deprived her of her
inheritance.”
“They shall eat their own words,” replied Renard, in a sarcastic tone.
“But it is time, De Noailles, to admit you to my full confidence. First,
swear to me, by the holy Evangelists, that I may trust you.”
“I swear it,” replied De Noailles, “provided,” he added, smiling, “your
scheme has nothing treasonable against my liege lord, Henry the Second.”
“Judge for yourself,” answered Renard. “There is a plot hatching against
the life of Northumberland.”
“Mortdieu!” exclaimed the French ambassador; “by whom?”
“To-night you shall meet the conspirators,” replied Renard.
“Their names?” demanded De Noailles.
“It matters not,” answered the other; “I am their leader. Will you make
one of us?”
“Willingly,” rejoined the Frenchman. “But how is the duke to be put to
death?”
“By the headsman,” replied Simon Renard. “He shall die the death of a
traitor.”
“You were ever mysterious, messire,” observed De Noailles, drily; “and
you are now more mysterious than ever. But I will join your plot with
all my heart. Pardieu! I should like to offer Northumberland’s head to
Queen Mary. It would be as acceptable as that of Cicero to Fulvia.”
“My gift shall be yet more acceptable,” rejoined Simon Renard, sternly.
“I will offer her the fairest and the wisest head in England—that of
Queen Jane.”
During this conference, the procession had been increased by several
members of the privy-council, consisting of the Earls of Arundel,
Shrewsbury, Huntingdon, and Pembroke, the Lords Cobham and Rich, with
divers other noble and honourable persons, among whom Sir William Cecil,
principal secretary of state, (afterwards, the great Lord Burghley.)
must not pass unnoticed. Pembroke and Cecil walked together; and, in
spite of their forced composure, it was evident that both were ill
at case. As a brief halt took place amongst the foremost party, Cecil
seized the arm of his companion, and whispered hurriedly in his ear, “We
are lost, my lord. Your messengers to the queen have been arrested; so
have my trusty servants, Alford and Cayewood. Luckily, their despatches
are in cipher. But Northumberland’s suspicions once aroused, his
vengeance will not be slow to follow. There is yet time for escape.
Can we not frame some excuse for landing at your lordship’s residence,
Baynard’s Castle? Once within the Tower, I tremble for our heads.”
“My case is not so desperate as yours,” returned the earl, firmly; “but
were it so, I would never fly while others are left to pay the penalty
of my cowardice. We have advanced too far to retreat—and, be the issue
of this project what it may, I will not shrink from it. Simon Renard is
leagued with us, and he alone is a match for Northumberland, or for the
fiend himself, if opposed to him. Be of good cheer. The day will yet be
ours.”
“Were I assured of Renard’s sincerity,” replied Cecil, “I might,
indeed, feel more confidence. But I have detected too many of his
secret practices—have had too much experience of his perfidy and
double-dealing, to place any faith in him.”
“You wrong him,” rejoined Pembroke; “by my soul you do! As we proceed, I
will give you proofs that will remove all apprehensions of treachery on
his part from your mind. He has proposed a plan.—But of this anon—for,
see!—all, save ourselves, have entered the barge. Do you mark how
suddenly the weather has changed? A thunder-storm is gathering over the
Tower. ‘Tis a bad omen for Northumberland.”
“Or for us,” rejoined Cecil, gloomily.
The sudden change in the weather, here alluded to, was remarked and
commented upon by many others besides the Earl of Pembroke; and by most
it was regarded as an evil augury against the young queen. The sky had
become overcast; the river, lately so smiling, now reflected only the
sombre clouds that overshadowed it; while heavy, leaden-coloured masses,
arising in the north-east, behind the Tower, seemed to threaten a speedy
and severe storm in that quarter. Alarmed by these signs, several of
the more prudent spectators, who preferred a dry skin to the further
indulgence of their curiosity, began to urge their barks homewards. The
majority of the assemblage, however, lingered: a glimpse of a queen
so beautiful as Jane was reputed, appeared to them well worth a little
personal inconvenience.
Meanwhile, a loud and prolonged trumpet-blast proclaimed the approach of
the Duke of Northumberland. He was accompanied by the Duke of Suffolk,
the father of the queen. Nothing more majestic can be conceived than the
deportment of the former—nothing more magnificent than his attire. His
features, though haughty and disdainful, with a fierce expression about
the mouth and eyes, were remarkably handsome and well-formed. His figure
was tall and commanding, and there was something which is generally
associated with the epithets chivalrous and picturesque in his
appearance. John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who by his genius and
rare abilities as a statesman had elevated himself to the lofty position
which he now held, could not be less in age than fifty. But he had none
of the infirmity of years about him. His forehead was bald, but that
only gave expanse to his noble countenance; his step was as firm as
a young man’s; his eye as keen and bright as that of an eagle. He was
habited in a doublet of white satin, with a placard or front-piece of
purple cloth of tissue, powdered with diamonds and edged with ermine.
Over this he wore a mantle of cloth of silver, pounced with his cipher,
lined with blue velvet, set with pearls and precious stones, and
fastened with a jewelled clasp. From his neck was suspended the order of
the Garter, while in his hand he carried the silver verder belonging
to his office as grand-master of the realm. The Duke of Suffolk was
scarcely less magnificently arrayed, in a doublet of black cloth of
gold, and a cloak of crimson satin flowered with gold, and ribanded
with nets of silver. He also wore the order of the Garter. Suffolk was
somewhat younger than his companion, of whom he stood, as indeed did all
the other nobles, greatly in awe. He had well-formed features, a fine
figure, a courtly air, and affable and conciliating manners; but though
a man of unquestionable ability and courage, he wanted that discernment
and active resolution which alone could have preserved him from the
dangers and difficulties in which he was afterwards involved. His
qualities have been admirably summed up by Holinshed, who describes him
as “a man of high nobility by birth, and of nature to his friend gentle
and courteous; more easy indeed to be led than was thought expedient,
nevertheless stout and hardy; hasty and soon kindled, but pacified
straight again, and sorry if in his heat aught had passed him otherwise
than reason might seem to bear; upright and plain in his private
dealings; no dissembler, nor well able to bear injuries; but yet
forgiving and forgetting the same, if the party would but seem to
acknowledge his fault and seek reconcilement; bountiful he was, and very
liberal; somewhat learned himself, and a great favourer of those that
were learned, so that to many he showed himself a very Maecenas; as
free from covetousness, as devoid of pride and disdainful haughtiness of
mind, more regarding plain-meaning men than clawback flatterers.” Such,
as depicted by the honest old chronicler above-named, was Henry Grey,
Duke of Suffolk, father of Queen Jane.
Just as the two dukes emerged from the portal, a slight commotion was
heard in the outer court, and a valet, stepping forward, made a profound
reverence to Northumberland, and presented him with a paper. The duke
broke the silken thread and seal with which it was fastened, and ran his
eye rapidly over its contents. His brow darkened for an instant, but
as speedily cleared, and a smile of fierce satisfaction played upon his
lips. “Traitors!” he ejaculated in an under tone, turning to Suffolk;
“but I have them now; and, by God’s precious soul! they shall not escape
me.”
“What new treason has come to light, brother!” demanded the Duke of
Suffolk, uneasily.
“Nothing new,—nothing but what I suspected. But their plots have taken a
more dangerous and decided form,” replied Northumberland, sternly.
“You do not name the traitors,—but you speak of the privy-council, I
conclude?” observed Suffolk.
“Ay, brother, of the privy-council. They are all my enemies,—your
enemies,—the queen’s enemies. This scroll warns me that a conspiracy is
forming against my life.”
“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated Suffolk. “Surely, our English nobles are not
turned assassins.”
“The chief mover in the dark scheme is not an Englishman,” returned
Northumberland.
“It cannot be the light-hearted De Noailles. Ha! I have it: it is the
plotting and perfidious Simon Renard.”
“Your Grace is in the right,” replied Northumberland; “it is Simon
Renard.”
“Who are his associates?” inquired Suffolk.
“As yet I know not,” answered the other; “but I have netted them all,
and, like the fowler, will spare neither bird of prey nor harmless
songster. I have a trick shall test the true metal from the false.
What think you, brother?—a letter has arrived from Mary to this false
council, claiming the crown.”.
“Ha!” exclaimed Suffolk.
“It is here,” continued Northumberland, pointing to a paper folded round
his silver staff. “I shall lay it before them anon. Before I depart, I
must give orders for the proclamation. Bid the heralds come hither,” he
added to the attendant; who instantly departed, and returned a moment
afterwards, followed by two heralds in their coats of arms. “Take this
scroll,” continued the duke, “and let the Queens Highness be proclaimed
by sound of trumpet at the cross at Charing, in Cheapside, and in
Fleet-street. Take with you a sufficient guard, and if any murmuring
ensue let the offenders be punished. Do you mark me?”
“We do, your Grace,” replied the heralds, bowing. And, taking the
proclamation, they departed on their behest,—while the duke, accompanied
by Suffolk, entered his barge.
Preceded by two trumpeters, having their clarions richly dressed with
fringed silk bandrols, displaying the royal arms; a captain of the
guard, in a suit of scarlet bound with black velvet, and with a silver
rose in his bonnet, next descended the stairs, and announced, in a
loud and authoritative voice, that her Highness the Queen was about
to embark: an intimation, which, though received with no particular
demonstration of enthusiasm or delight by the spectators, was,
nevertheless, productive of considerable confusion among them. The more
distant wherrymen, who had been hitherto resting tranquilly on their
oars, in their anxiety to secure a better position for their fares, now
pressed eagerly forward; in consequence of which many violent collisions
took place; great damage was sustained by the foremost boats, some being
swamped and their owners plunged in the tide; while others, bereft of
their oars, were swept away by the rapid current. Amid this tumult, much
struggling and scuffling occurred; shrieks and oaths were uttered; and
many blows from sword, dagger, and club were dealt, and requited
with the heartiest good-will. Owing, however, to the exertions of the
officers, no lives were lost. The drowning persons were picked up and
carried ashore; and the disputants compelled to hold their peace,
and reserve the adjustment of their differences to another, and more
favourable opportunity. By the time Jane appeared, all was comparatively
quiet. But the incident had not tended to improve the temper of the
crowd, or create a stronger feeling in her favour. Added to this, the
storm seemed fast advancing and ready to burst over their heads; the
sky grew darker each moment; and when a second discharge of ordnance was
bred from the palace walls, and rolled sullenly along the river, it was
answered by a distant peal of thunder. In spite of all these adverse
circumstances, no delay occurred in the procession. A magnificent barge,
with two large banners, beaten with the royal arms, planted on the
foreship, approached the strand. Its sides were hung with metal
scutcheons, alternately emblazoned with the cognizances of the queen and
her consort; and its decks covered with the richest silks and tissues.
It was attended by two smaller galleys—one of which, designated the
Bachelors’ barge, was appropriated to the younger sons of the nobility:
the other was devoted to the maids of honour. In the latter was placed
a quaint device, intended to represent a mount with a silver tree
springing from it, on which was perched a dove with a circlet of
diamonds around its neck, bearing an inscription in honour of the queen,
and a crown upon its head. No sooner had the royal barge taken up its
position, than a train of twenty gentlemen, in doublets of black velvet
and with chains of gold, stepped towards it. They were followed by
six pages in vests of cloth of gold; after whom came the Earl of
Northampton, lord high chamberlain, bareheaded, and carrying a white
wand; and after the chamberlain, appeared the Lady Herbert, younger
sister of the queen, a beautiful blonde, with soft blue eyes and silken
tresses, accompanied by the Lady Hastings, younger sister of Lord
Guilford Dudley, a sprightly brunette, with large orient orbs, black
as midnight, and a step proud as that of a Juno. Both these lovely
creatures—neither of whom had attained her fifteenth year—had been
married at the end of May—then, as now, esteemed an unlucky month,—on
the sumo day that the nuptials of the Lady Jane Grey took place. Of
these three marriages there was not one but was attended with fatal
consequences.
Immediately behind her sisters, with the laps of her dress supported
by the bishops of Rochester and Winchester, and her train, which was of
great length and corresponding magnificence, borne by her mother, the
duchess of Suffolk, walked queen Jane. Whatever disinclination she might
have previously shown to undertake the dangerous and difficult part
she had assumed; however reluctantly she had accepted the sovereignty;
nothing of misgiving or irresolution was now to be discerned. Her
carriage was majestic; her look lofty, yet tempered with such sweetness,
that while it commanded respect, it ensured attachment. Her attire—for
the only point upon which Jane did not conform to the rigid notions of
the early religious reformers was in regard to dress—was gorgeous in
the extreme; and never, assuredly, was rich costume bestowed upon a
more faultlessly beautiful person. Her figure was tall and slight, but
exquisitely formed, and gave promise, that when she attained the full
maturity of womanhood—she had only just completed her sixteenth year,
and (alas!) never did attain maturity—her charms would be without a
rival. In mental qualifications Jane was equally gifted. And, if it
is to be lamented that her beauty, like an opening flower, was
rudely plucked and scattered to the breezes, how much more must it
be regretted, that such faculties as she possessed should have been
destroyed before they were fully developed, and the fruit they might
have produced lost for ever! Reared in the seclusion of Bradgate, in
Leicestershire, Jane Grey passed hours which other maidens of her tender
age are accustomed to devote to amusement or rest, in the severest
study; and, long before she was called upon to perform the arduous
duties of her brief life, she had acquired a fund of knowledge such as
the profoundest scholars seldom obtain. If this store of learning
did little for the world, it did much for herself:—it taught her a
philosophy, that enabled her to support, with the constancy of a martyr,
her after trials. At the moment of her presentation to the reader,
Jane was in all the flush and excitement of her new dignity. Everything
around her was dazzling and delusive; but she was neither dazzled nor
deluded. She estimated her position at its true value; saw through its
hollowness and unsubstantiality; and, aware that she only grasped the
shadow of a sceptre, and bore the semblance of a crown, suffered neither
look nor gesture to betray her emotions. Her dress consisted of a gown
of cloth of gold raised with pearls, a stomacher blazing with diamonds
and other precious stones, and a surcoat of purple velvet bordered with
ermine. Her train was of purple velvet upon velvet, likewise furred with
ermine, and embroidered with various devices in gold. Her slender and
swan-like throat was encircled with a carcanet of gold set with rubies
and pearls, from which a single and almost priceless pearl depended. Her
head-dress consisted of a coif of velvet of the peculiar form then in
vogue, adorned with rows of pearls, and confined by a circlet of gold.
At her right walked Lord Guilford Dudley—a youthful nobleman, who
inherited his father’s manly beauty and chivalrous look, with much
of his ambition and haughtiness, but without any of his cunning and
duplicity, or of his genius. He was superbly attired in white cloth of
gold, and wore a collar of diamonds. Behind the queen marched a long
train of high-born dames, damsels, youthful nobles, pages, knights,
esquires, and ushers, until the rear-guard was brought up by a second
detachment of halberdiers. Prepared as the mass of the assemblage were
to evidence their dissatisfaction by silence, an involuntary burst
of applause hailed her approach, and many, who thought it a sort of
disloyalty to Mary to welcome a usurper, could not refuse to join in the
cheers.
At the moment Jane was crossing the railed plank leading to her galley,
a small wherry, rowed by a young man of slight sinewy frame, clad in a
doublet of coarse brown serge, and wearing a flat felt cap, on which
a white cross was stitched, shot with marvellous rapidity from out the
foremost line of boats, and, in spite of all opposition, passed between
the state barges, and drew up at her feet. Before the daring intruder
could be removed, an old woman, seated in the stern of the boat, arose
and extended her arms towards Jane. She was dressed in mean attire, with
her grey locks gathered beneath an ancient three-cornered coif; but
her physiognomy was striking, and her manner seemed far above her lowly
condition. Fixing an imploring glance on the queen, she cried—“A boon! a
boon!”
“It is granted,” replied Jane, in a kind tone, and pausing. “What would
you?”
“Preserve you,” rejoined the old woman. “Go not to the Tower.”
“And wherefore not, good dame?” inquired the queen.
“Ask me not,” returned the old woman,—her figure dilating, her eye
kindling, and her gesture becoming almost that of command, as she
spoke,—“Ask me not; but take my warning. Again, I say—Go not to the
Tower. Danger lurks therein,—danger to you—your husband—and to all you
hold dear. Return, while it is yet time; return to the retirement
of Sion House—to the solitudes of Bradgate.—Put off those royal
robes—restore the crown to her from whom you wrested it, and a long and
happy life shall be yours. But set foot within that galley—enter the
gates of the Tower—and another year shall not pass over your head.”
“Guards!” cried Lord Guilford Dudley, advancing and motioning to his
attendants—“remove this beldame and her companion, and place them in
arrest.”
“Have patience, my dear lord,” said Jane, in a voice so sweet, that it
was impossible to resist it—“the poor woman is distraught.”
“No, lady, I am not distraught,” rejoined the old woman, “though I have
suffered enough to make me so.”
“Can I relieve your distresses?” inquired Jane, kindly.
“In no other way than by following my caution,” answered the old woman.
“I want nothing but a grave.”
“Who are you that dare to hold such language as this to your queen?”
demanded Lord Guilford Dudley, angrily.
“I am Gunnora Braose,” replied the old woman, fixing a withering glance
upon him, “nurse and foster-mother to Henry Seymour, Duke of Somerset,
lord protector of England, who perished on the scaffold by the foul
practices of your father.”
“Woman,” rejoined Lord Guilford, in a menacing tone, “be warned by me.
You speak at the peril of your life.”
“I know it,” replied Gunnora; “but that shall not hinder me. If I
succeed in saving that fair young creature, whom your father’s arts have
placed in such fearful jeopardy, from certain destruction, I care not
what becomes of me. My boldness, I am well assured, will be fearfully
visited upon me, and upon my grandson at my side. But were it the last
word I had to utter,—were this boy’s life,” she added, laying her hand
on the youth’s shoulder, who arose at the touch, “set against hers, I
would repeat my warning.”
“Remove your cap in presence of the queen, knave,” cried one of the
halberdiers, striking off the young man’s cap with his staff.
“She is not my queen,” rejoined the youth, boldly; “I am for Queen Mary,
whom Heaven and Our Lady preserve!”
“Peace, Gilbert!” cried Gunnora, authoritatively.
“Treason! treason!” exclaimed several voices—“down with them!”
“Do them no injury,” interposed Jane, waving her hand; “let them depart
freely. Set forward, my lords.”
“Hear me, sovereign lady, before I am driven from you,” cried the old
woman, in accents of passionate supplication—“hear me, I implore you.
You are going to a prison, not a palace.—Look at yon angry sky from
which the red lightning is flashing. A moment since it was bright and
smiling; at your approach it has become black and overcast. It is an
omen not to be despised.”
“Hence!” cried Lord Guilford.
“And you, Lord Guilford Dudley,” continued Gunnora, in a stern
tone,—“you, who have added your voice to that of your false father, to
induce your bride to accept the crown,—think not you will ever rule this
kingdom,—think not the supreme authority will be yours. You are a puppet
in your father’s hands; and when you have served his turn, he will cast
you aside—or deal with you as he dealt with Lord Seymour of Dudley,—with
the lord protector, by the axe,—or, as he dealt with his sovereign,
Edward the Sixth, by poison.”
“This passeth all endurance,” exclaimed Lord Guilford;—“away with her to
prison.”
“Not so, my dear lord,” said Queen Jane. “See you not that her supposed
wrongs have turned her brain? She is faithful to the memory of the lord
protector. If my reign prove as brief as she would have me believe it
will be, it shall never be marked by severity. My first act shall be
one of clemency. Take this ring, my poor woman,” she added, detaching a
brilliant from her taper finger, “and when you need a friend, apply to
Queen Jane.”
Gunnora received the costly gift with a look of speechless gratitude;
the tears started to her eyes, and she sank upon her knees in the boat,
burying her face in her hands. In this state, she was rowed swiftly
away by her grandson, while the loudest shouts were raised for the
munificence and mercy of Jane, who was not sorry to hide herself behind
the silken curtains of her barge.
At this moment, a loud and rattling peal of thunder burst overhead.
Seated beneath a canopy of state, supported by the richest silken
cushions, and with her tiny feet resting upon a velvet footstool,
adorned with her cipher and that of her husband interwoven with
love-knots, Jane proceeded along the river; her heart oppressed with
fears and forebodings, to which she gave no utterance, but which the
storm now raging around with frightful violence was not calculated to
allay. The thunder was awfully loud; the lightning almost insupportably
vivid; but fortunately for those exposed to the tempest, it was
unattended with rain. Lord Guilford Dudley was unremitting in his
assiduity to his lovely consort, and bitterly reproached himself for
allowing her to set forth at such a season. As they approached that part
of the river from which the noble old gothic cathedral of St. Paul’s—one
of the finest structures in the world, and destroyed, it is almost
needless to say, by the Fire of London, when it was succeeded by the
present pile—was best seen, Jane drew aside the curtains of her barge,
and gazed with the utmost admiration upon the magnificent fane. The
storm seemed to hang over its square and massive tower, and flashes
of forked lightning of dazzling brightness appeared to shoot down each
instant upon the body of the edifice.
“Like me, it is threatened,” Jane mentally ejaculated; “and perhaps
the blow that strikes me may strike also the religion of my country.
Whatever betide me, Heaven grant that that noble pile may never again be
polluted by the superstitious ceremonies and idolatries of Rome!”
Viewed from the Thames, London, even in our own time, presents many
picturesque and beautiful points; but at the period to which this
chronicle refers, it must have presented a thousand more. Then, gardens
and stately palaces adorned its banks; then, the spires and towers of
the churches shot into an atmosphere unpolluted by smoke; then,
the houses, with their fanciful gables, and vanes, and tall twisted
chimneys, invited and enchained the eye; then, the streets, of which a
passing glimpse could be caught, were narrow and intricate: then, there
was the sombre, dungeon-like strong-hold already alluded to, called
Baynard’s Castle; the ancient tavern of the Three Cranes; the
Still-yard; and above all, the Bridge, even then old, with its gateways,
towers, drawbridges, houses, mills, and chapel,-enshrined like a hidden
and cherished faith within its inmost heart. All this has passed away.
But if we have no old St. Paul’s, no old London Bridge, no quaint and
picturesque old fabrics, no old and frowning castles, no old taverns,
no old wharfs—if we have none of these, we have still the Tower; and
to that grand relic of antiquity, well worth all the rest, we shall,
without further delay, proceed.
Having passed beneath the narrow arches of London Bridge, the houses on
which were crowded with spectators, and the windows hung with arras and
rich carpets, the royal barge drew up at the distance of a bow-shot from
the Tower. Jane again drew aside the curtain, and when she beheld the
sullen ramparts of the fortress over which arose its lofty citadel (the
White Tower), with its weather-whitened walls relieved against the dusky
sky, and looking like the spectre of departed greatness,—her firmness
for an instant forsook her, and the tears involuntarily started to her
eyes. But the feeling was transient; and more stirring emotions were
quickly aroused by the deafening roar of ordnance which broke from the
batteries, and which was instantly answered from the guns of several
ships lying at anchor near them. By this time, the storm had in a great
measure subsided; the thunder had become more distant, and the
lightning only flashed at long intervals. Still, the sky had an ominous
appearance, and the blue electric atmosphere in which the pageant was
enveloped gave it a ghostly and unsubstantial look. Meanwhile, the lord
mayor and his suite, the bishops, the privy council, the ambassadors,
and the Dukes of Northumberland and Suffolk, having disembarked, the
wafter having the charge of the royal galley drew it towards the land.
Another “marvellous great shot,” as it is described, was then fired, and
amid flourishes of trumpets, peals of ordnance, and ringing of bells,
Jane landed. Here, however, as heretofore, she was coldly received
by the citizens, who hovered around in boats,—and here, as if she was
destined to receive her final warning, the last sullen peal of thunder
marked the moment when she set her foot on the ground. The same
preparations had been made for her landing as for her embarkation. Two
lines of halberdiers were drawn up alongside the platform, and between
them was laid a carpet similar to that previously used. Jane walked
in the same state as before,—her train supported by her mother,—and
attended on her right hand by her husband, behind whom came his esquire,
the young and blooming Cuthbert Cholmondeley.
Where there are so many claimants for attention, it is impossible
to particularize all; and we must plead this as an apology for not
introducing this gallant at an earlier period. To repair the omission,
it may now be stated that Cuthbert Cholmondeley was a younger branch of
an old Cheshire family; that he was accounted a perfect model of manly
beauty; and that he was attired upon the present occasion in a doublet
of white satin slashed with blue, which displayed his slight but
symmetrical figure to the greatest advantage.
Proceeding along the platform by the side of a low wall which guarded
the southern moat, Jane passed under a narrow archway formed by a small
embattled tower connected with an external range of walls facing Petty
Wales. She next traversed part of the space between what was then called
the Bulwark Gate and the Lion’s Gate, and which was filled with armed
men, and passing through the postern, crossed a narrow stone bridge.
This brought her to a strong portal, flanked with bastions and defended
by a double portcullis, at that time designated the Middle Tower. Here
Lord Clinton, Constable of the Tower, with the lieutenant, the gentleman
porter, and a company of warders, advanced to meet her. By them she
was conducted with much ceremony over another stone bridge, with a
drawbridge in the centre, crossing the larger moat, to a second strong
barbican, similarly defended and in all other respects resembling the
first, denominated the Gate Tower. As she approached this portal, she
beheld through its gothic arch a large assemblage, consisting of all the
principal persons who had assisted at the previous ceremonial, drawn
up to receive her. As soon as she emerged from the gateway with her
retinue, the members of the council bent the knee before her. The Duke
of Northumberland offered her the keys of the Tower, while the Marquess
of Winchester, lord treasurer, tendered her the crown.
0041
At this proud moment, all Jane’s fears were forgotten, and she felt
herself in reality a queen. At this moment, also, her enemies, Simon
Renard and De Noailles, resolved upon her destruction. At this moment,
Cuthbert Cholmondeley, who was placed a little to the left of the queen,
discovered amid the by-standers behind one of the warders a face so
exquisitely beautiful, and a pair of eyes of such witchery, that his
heart was instantly captivated; and at this moment, also, another pair
of very jealous-looking eyes, peering out of a window in the tower
adjoining the gateway, detected what was passing between the youthful
couple below, and inflamed their owner with a fierce and burning desire
of revenge.
II.-OF THE INDIGNITY SHOWN TO THE PRIVY COUNCIL BY THE DUKE OF
NORTHUMBERLAND; AND OF THE RESOLUTION TAKEN BY SIMON RENARD TO AVENGE
THEM.
When the ceremonial at the Tower gate was ended, Queen Jane was
conducted by the Duke of Northumberland to an ancient range of
buildings, standing at the south-east of the fortress, between the
Lanthorn Tower, now swept away, and the Salt Tower. This structure,
which has long since disappeared, formed the palace of the old monarchs
of England, and contained the royal apartments. Towards it Jane
proceeded between closely-serried ranks of archers and arquebusiers,
armed with long-bows and calivers. The whole line of fortifications, as
she passed along, bristled with partizans and pikes. The battlements and
turrets of St. Thomas’s Tower, beneath which yawned the broad black
arch spanning the Traitor’s Gate, was planted with culverins and sakers;
while a glimpse through the grim portal of the Bloody Tower,—which,
with its iron teeth, seemed ever ready to swallow up the victims brought
through the fatal gate opposite it,—showed that the vast area and green
in front of the White Tower was filled with troops. All these defensive
preparations, ostentatiously displayed by Northumberland, produced much
of the effect he desired upon the more timorous of his adversaries.
There were others, however, who regarded the exhibition as an evidence
of weakness, rather than power; and amongst these was Simon Renard. “Our
duke, I see,” he remarked to his companion, De Noailles, “fears Mary
more than he would have us believe. The crown that requires so much
guarding cannot be very secure. Ah! well, he has entered the Tower by
the great gate to-day; but if he ever quits it,” he added, glancing
significantly at the dark opening of Traitors Gate, which they wero then
passing, “his next entrance shall be by yonder steps.” Jane, meanwhile,
had approached the ancient palace with her train. Its arched gothic
doorway was guarded by three gigantic warders, brothers, who, claiming
direct descent from the late monarch, Harry the Eighth, were nicknamed
by their companions, from their extraordinary stature, Og, Gog, and
Magog. Og, the eldest of the three, was the exact image, on a large
scale, of his royal sire. By their side, as if for the sake of contrast,
with an immense halbert in his hand, and a look of swelling importance,
rivalling that of the frog in the fable, stood a diminutive but
full-grown being, not two feet high, dressed in the garb of a page.
This mannikin, who, besides his dressed figure, had a malicious and
ill-favoured countenance, with a shock head of yellow hair, was a
constant attendant upon the giants, and an endless source of diversion
to them. Xit—for so was the dwarf named—had been found, when an infant,
and scarcely bigger than a thumb, one morning at Og’s door, where he was
placed in the fragment of a blanket, probably out of ridicule. Thrown
thus upon his compassion, the good-humoured giant adopted the tiny
foundling, and he became, as has been stated, a constant attendant
and playmate—or, more properly, plaything—of himself and his brethren.
Unable to repress a smile at the ludicrous dignity of the dwarf, who,
advancing a few steps towards her, made her a profound salutation as she
passed, and bade her welcome in a voice as shrill as a child’s treble;
nor less struck with the herculean frames and huge stature of his
companions,—they were all nearly eight feet high, though Magog exceeded
his brethren by an inch;—Jane ascended a magnificent oaken staircase,
traversed a long gallery, and entered a spacious but gloomy-looking
hall, lighted by narrow gothic windows filled with stained glass,
and hung with tarnished cloth of gold curtains and faded arras. The
furniture was cumbrous, though splendid,—much of it belonging to the
period of Henry the Seventh, though some of it dated as far back as the
reign of Edward the Third, when John of France was detained a prisoner
within the Tower, and feasted by his royal captor within this very
chamber. The walls being of great thickness, the windows had deep
embrasures, and around the upper part of the room ran a gallery. It was
in precisely the same state as when occupied by Henry the Eighth, whose
portrait, painted by Holbein, was placed over the immense chimney-piece;
and as Jane gazed around, and thought how many monarchs had entered
this room before her full of hope and confidence,—how with all their
greatness they had passed away,—she became so powerfully affected, that
she trembled, and could with difficulty support herself. Remarking her
change of colour, and conjecturing the cause, Northumberland begged her
to retire for a short time to repose herself before she proceeded to the
council-chamber within the White Tower, where her presence was required
on business of the utmost moment. Gladly availing herself of the
suggestion, Jane, attended by her mother and her dames of honour,
withdrew into an inner chamber. On her departure, several of the
privy-councillors advanced towards the duke, but, after returning
brief answers to their questions, in a tone calculated to cut short
any attempt at conversation, he motioned towards him two ushers, and
despatched them on different errands. He then turned to the Duke of
Suffolk, who was standing by his side, and was soon engaged in deep and
earnest discourse with him. Aware that they were suspected, and alarmed
for their safety, the conspiring nobles took counsel together as to
the course they should pursue. Some were for openly defying
Northumberland,—some for a speedy retreat,—some for the abandonment
of their project,—while others, more confident, affirmed that the Duke
would not dare to take any severe measures, and, therefore, there was no
ground for apprehension. Amid these conflicting opinions, Simon Renard
maintained his accustomed composure. “It is plain,” he said to the
group around him, “that the Duke’s suspicions are awakened, and that he
meditates some reprisal. What it is will presently be seen. But trust in
me, and you shall yet wear your heads upon your shoulders.”
At the expiration of a quarter of an hour, the Queen, who had been
summoned by Lord Guilford Dudley, reappeared. The great door was then
instantly thrown open by two officials with white wands, and, attended
by Northumberland, to whom she gave her hand, traversing a second long
gallery, she descended a broad flight of steps, and entered upon another
range of buildings, which has since shared the fate of the old palace,
but which then, extending in a northerly direction, and flanked on the
right by a fortification denominated the Wardrobe Tower, connected the
royal apartments with the White Tower. Taking her way through various
halls, chambers, and passages in this pile, Jane, at length, arrived at
the foot of a wide stone staircase, on mounting which she found herself
in a large and lofty chamber, with a massive roof crossed and supported
by ponderous beams of timber. This room, which was situated within the
White Tower, and which Jane was apprised adjoined the council-chamber,
was filled with armed men. Smiling at this formidable assemblage,
Northumberland directed the Queen towards a circular-arched opening in
the wall on the right, and led her into a narrow vaulted gallery formed
in the thickness of the wall. A few steps brought them to another narrow
gallery, branching off on the left, along which they proceeded. Arrived
at a wide opening in the wall, a thick curtain was then drawn aside by
two attendants, and Jane was ushered into the council-chamber. The sight
which met her gaze was magnificent beyond description. The vast hall,
resembling in all respects the antechamber she had just quitted, except
that it was infinitely more spacious, with its massive roof hung with
banners and its wooden pillars decorated with velvet and tapestry, was
crowded to excess with all the principal persons and their attendants
who had formed her retinue in her passage along the river, grouped
according to their respective ranks. At the upper end of the chamber,
beneath a golden canopy, was placed the throne; on the right of which
stood the members of the privy-council, and on the left the bishops.
Opposite to the throne, at the lower extremity of the room, the walls
were hung with a thick curtain of black velvet, on which was displayed
a large silver scutcheon charged with the royal blasen. Before this
curtain was drawn up a line of arquebusiers, each with a caliver upon
his shoulder.
No sooner was the Queen seated, than Northumberland, who had placed
himself at the foot of the throne, prostrated himself, and besought
her permission to lay before the lords of the council a despatch,
just received from the Lady Mary; which being accorded, he arose, and,
turning towards them, unfolded a paper, and addressed them in a stern
tone as follows:—“My lords,” he began, “it will scarcely surprise you to
be informed that the Lady Mary, in the letter I here hold, given under
her signet, and dated from Kenninghall in Norfolk, lays claim to the
imperial crown of this realm, and requires and charges you, of your
allegiance, which you owe to her, and to none other,—it is so written,
my lords,—to employ yourselves for the honour and surety of her person
only; and furthermore, to cause her right and title to the crown and
government of the realm to be proclaimed within the city of London and
other places, as to your wisdoms shall seem good. Now, my lords, what
say you? What answer will you make to these insolent demands—to these
idle and imaginary claims?”
“None whatever,” replied the Earl of Pembroke; “we will treat them with
the scorn they merit.”
“That may not be, my lord,” observed Queen Jane; “your silence will be
misconstrued.”
“Ay, marry will it,” rejoined Northumberland, glancing fiercely at
the Earl; “and your advice, my lord of Pembroke, savours strongly of
disloyalty. I will tell you how you shall answer this misguided lady.
You shall advertise her, firstly, that on the death of our sovereign
lord, Edward the Sixth, Queen Jane became invested and possessed with
the just and right title in the imperial crown of this realm, not only
by good order of ancient laws, but also by our late sovereign lord’s
letters patent, signed with his own hand, and sealed with the great seal
of England, in presence of the most part of the nobles, councillors,
judges, and divers other grave and sage personages, assenting to
and subscribing the same. You shall next tell her, that having sworn
allegiance to Queen Jane, you can offer it to no other, except you would
fall into grievous and unspeakable enormities. You shall also remind
her, that by the divorce made between the king of famous memory, King
Henry the Eighth, and the lady Catherine her mother, confirmed by sundry
acts of parliament yet in force, she was justly made illegitimate and
unheritable to the crown of this realm. And lastly, you shall require
her to surcease, by any pretence, to vex and molest our sovereign lady
Queen Jane, or her subjects from their true faith and allegiance unto
her grace. This, my lords, is the answer you shall return.”
“We will consider of it,” cried several voices.
“Your decision must be speedy,” returned the Duke, scornfully; “a
messenger waits without, to convey your reply to the Lady Mary. And to
spare your lordships any trouble in penning the despatch, I have already
prepared it.”
“Prepared it!” ejaculated Cecil.
“Ay, prepared it,” repeated the Duke. “It is here,” he added, producing
a parchment, “fairly enough written, and only lacking your lordships’
signatures. Will it please you, Sir William Cecil, or you, my lord of
Pembroke, or you, Shrewsbury, to cast an eye over it, to see whether
it differs in aught from what I have counselled as a fitting answer to
Mary’s insolent message? You are silent: then, I may conclude you are
satisfied.”
“Your grace concludes more than you have warrant for,” rejoined the Earl
of Pembroke; “I am not satisfied, nor will I subscribe that letter.”
“Nor I,” added Cecil.
“Nor I,” repeated several others.
“We shall see,” returned Northumberland: “bring pen and ink,” he added,
motioning to an attendant, by whom his commands were instantly obeyed.
“Your grace of Canterbury,” he continued, addressing Cranmer, “will
sign it first. ‘Tis well. And now, my lord Marquess of Winchester, your
signature; my lord Bedford, yours; now yours, Northampton; yours, my
lord chancellor; next, I shall attach my own; and now yours, brother of
Suffolk. You see, my lords,” he said, with a bitter smile, “you will be
well kept in countenance.”
While this was passing, Simon Renard, who stood among the throng of
privy-councillors, observed in a whisper to those nearest him,—“If this
despatch is signed and sent forth, Mary’s hopes are ruined. She will
suspect some treachery on the part of her friends, and immediately
embark for France, which is what Northumberland desires to accomplish.”
“His scheme shall be defeated, then,” replied Pembroke; “it never shall
be signed.”
“Be not too sure of that,” rejoined Renard, with a scarcely-repressed
sneer.
“And now, my lord of Arundel,” said the Duke, taking the document from
Suffolk, “we tarry for your signature.”
“Then your grace must tarry still longer,” replied Arundel, sullenly,
“for I am in no mood to furnish it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Northumberland, fiercely,—but, instantly checking
himself, he turned to the next peer, and continued: “I will pass on,
then, to you, Lord Shrewsbury. I am assured of your loyalty. What! do
you, too, desert your queen? God’s mercy! my lord, I have been strangely
mistaken in you. Pembroke, you can now prove I was in error. You fold
your arms—‘tis well! I understand you. Rich, Huntingdon, Darcy, I appeal
to you. My lords! my lords! you forget to whom you owe allegiance. Sir
Thomas Cheney,—do you not hear me speak to you, Sir Thomas? Cecil, my
politic, crafty Cecil,—a few strokes of your pen is all I ask, and those
you refuse me. Gates, Petre, Cheke,—will none of you move? will none
sign?”
“None,” answered Pembroke.
“It is false,” cried Northumberland, imperiously; “you shall all
sign,—all! vile, perjured traitors that you are! I will have your hands
to this paper, or, by God’s precious soul! I will seal it with your
blood. Now, will you obey me?”
There was a stern, deep silence.
“Will you obey him?” demanded Renard, in a mocking whisper. “No!”
answered Pembroke, fiercely.
“Guards!” cried Northumberland, “advance, and attach their persons.”
The command was instantly obeyed by the arquebusiers, who marched
forward and surrounded them.
Jane fixed an inquiring look upon Northumberland, but she spoke not.
“What next?” demanded Pembroke, in a loud voice.
“The block,” replied Northumberland.
“The block!” exclaimed Jane, rising, while the colour forsook her cheek.
“Oh! no, my lord,—no.”
“But I say yea,” returned the Duke, peremptorily. “‘Fore Heaven! these
rebellious lords think I am as fearful of shedding blood as they are of
shedding ink. But they shall find they are mistaken. Away with them to
instant execution.”
“Your grace cannot mean this!” cried Jane, horror-stricken.
“They shall have five minutes for reflection,” returned the Duke,
sternly. “After that time, nothing shall save them.’”
An earnest consultation was held among the council. Three minutes had
expired. The Duke beckoned a sergeant of the guard towards him.
“You had better sign,” whispered Simon Renard; “I will find some means
of communicating with her highness.”
“We have reflected,” cried the Earl of Pembroke, “and will do your
grace’s behests.”
“It is well,” answered Northumberland. “Set them free.” As soon as the
guard had withdrawn, the council advanced, and each, in turn, according
to his degree, subscribed the despatch. This done, Northumberland
delivered it to an officer, enjoining him to give it instantly to the
messenger, with orders to the latter to ride for his life, and not to
draw bridle till he reached Kenninghall.
“And now,” continued the Duke, addressing another officer, “let the
gates of the Tower be closed, the drawbridges raised, and suffer none to
go forth, on pain of death, without my written order.”
“Diable!” exclaimed De Noailles, shrugging his shoulders.
“Prisoners!” cried several of the privy-councillors.
“You are the queen’s guests, my lords,” observed the Duke, drily.
“Do you agree to my scheme now?” asked Renard, in a deep whisper. “Do
you consent to Northumberland’s assassination?”
“I do,” replied Pembroke. “But who will strike the blow?”
“I will find the man,” answered Renard.
These words, though uttered under the breath of the speakers, reached
the ears of Cuthbert Cholmondeley.
Shortly afterwards, the council broke up; and Jane was conducted with
much state to the royal apartments.
III.-OF THE THREE GIANTS OF THE TOWER, OG, GOG, AND MAGOG; OF XIT, THE
DWARF; OF THE FAIR CICELY; OF PETER TRUSBUT, THE PANTLER, AND POTENTIA
HIS WIFE; OF HAIRUN THE REARWARD, RIBALD THE WARDER, MAUGER THE
HEADSMAN, AND NIGHTGALL THE JAILOR: AND OF THE PLEASANT PASTIME HELD IN
THE STONE KITCHEN.
Cuthbert Cholmondeley, it may be remembered, was greatly struck by
a beautiful damsel whom he discovered among the crowd during the
ceremonial at the Gate Tower; and, as faithful chroniclers, we are bound
to state that the impression was mutual, and that if he was charmed
with the lady, she was not less pleased with him. Notwithstanding her
downcast looks, the young esquire was not so inexperienced in feminine
arts as to be unconscious of the conquest he had made. During the halt
at the gate, he never withdrew his eyes from her for a single moment,
and when he was reluctantly compelled to move forward with the
procession, he cast many a lingering look behind. As the distance
lengthened between them, the courage of the damsel seemed to revive; she
raised her head, and before her admirer had reached the extremity of the
lofty wall masking the lieutenant’s lodgings, he perceived her gazing
fixedly after him. She held by the hand a little curly-haired boy,
whom Cholmondeley concluded must be her brother,—and he was perplexing
himself as to her rank,—for though her beauty was of the highest order,
and her lineaments such as might well belong to one of high birth, her
attire seemed to bespeak her of no exalted condition,—when an incident
occurred, which changed the tenor of his thoughts, and occasioned him
not a little uneasiness. While she remained with her eyes fixed upon
him, a tall man in a dark dress rushed, with furious gestures and an
inflamed countenance, out of the gateway leading to the inner line
of fortifications on the left, and shaking his hand menacingly at
the esquire, forced her away. Cholmondeley saw her no more; but the
imploring look which she threw at him as she disappeared, produced so
powerful an effect upon his feelings that it was with difficulty he
could prevent himself from flying to her assistance. So absorbed was he
by this idea, that he could think of nothing else;—the pageant, at which
he was assisting, lost all interest for him, and amid the throng of
court beauties who surrounded him, he beheld only the tender blue eyes,
the light satin tresses, the ravishing countenance, and sylph-like
person of the unknown maiden. Nor could he exclude from his recollection
the figure of the tall dark man; and he vainly questioned himself as
to the tie subsisting between him and the damsel. Could he be her
father?—Though his age might well allow of such a supposition, there was
no family resemblance to warrant it. Her husband?—that he was scarcely
disposed to admit. Her lover?—he trembled with jealous rage at the idea.
In this perplexity, he bethought himself of applying for information
to one of the warders; and, accordingly, he addressed himself to Magog,
who, with Xit, happened to be standing near him. Describing the damsel,
he inquired of the giant whether he knew anything of her.
“Know her!” rejoined Magog, “ay, marry, do I. Who that dwells within
this fortress knows not fair Mistress Cicely, the Rose of the Tower, as
she is called? She is daughter to Dame Prudentia Trusbut, wife of Peter
the pantler—”
“A cook’s daughter!” exclaimed Cholmondeley, all his dreams of high-born
beauty vanishing at once.
“Nay, I ought rather to say,” returned the giant, noticing the young
mans look of blank disappointment, and guessing the cause, “that she
passes for his daughter.”
“I breathe again,” murmured Cholmondeley.
“Her real birth is a mystery,” continued Magog; “or, if the secret is
known at all, it is only to the worthy pair who have adopted her. She is
said to be the offspring of some illustrious and ill-fated lady, who
was imprisoned within the Tower, and died in one of its dungeons, after
giving birth to a female child, during the reign of our famous king,
Harry the Eighth,” and he reverently doffed his bonnet as he pronounced
his sire’s name; “but I know nothing of the truth or falsity of the
story, and merely repeat it because you seem curious about her.”
“Your intelligence delights me,” replied Cholmondeley, placing a noble
in his hand. “Can you bring me where I can obtain further sight of her?”
“Ay, and speech too, worshipful sir, if you desire it,” replied the
giant, a smile illuminating his ample features. “When the evening
banquet is over, and my attendance at the palace is no longer required,
I shall repair to the Stone Kitchen at Master Trusbut’s dwelling, where
a supper is provided for certain of the warders and other officers of
the Tower, to which I and my brethren are invited, and if it please you
to accompany us, you are almost certain to behold her.”
Cholmondeley eagerly embraced the offer, and it was next arranged that
the dwarf should summon him at the proper time.
“If your worship requires a faithful emissary to convey a letter
or token to the fair damsel,” interposed Xit, “I will undertake the
office.”
“Fail not to acquaint me when your master is ready,” replied
Cholmondeley, “and I will reward you. There is one question,” he
continued, addressing Magog, “which I have omitted to ask.—Who is the
tall dark man who seems to exercise such strange control over her? Can
it be her adoptive father, the pantier?”
“Of a surety no,” replied the giant, grinning, “Peter Trusbut is neither
a tall man nor a dark; but is short, plump, and rosy, as beseems his
office. The person to whom your worship alludes must be Master Lawrence
Nightgall, the chief jailor, who lately paid his suit to her. He is of a
jealous and revengeful temper, and is not unlikely to take it in
dudgeon that a handsome gallant should set eyes upon the object of his
affections.”
“Your description answers exactly to the man I mean,” returned
Cholmondeley, gravely.
“Shall I bear a cartel to him from your worship?” said Xit. “Or, if you
require a guard, I will attend upon your person,” he added, tapping the
pummel of his sword.
“I do not require your services in either capacity, as yet, valiant
sir,” replied the esquire, smiling. “After the banquet I shall expect
you.”
Resuming his place near Lord Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley shortly
afterwards proceeded with the royal cortege to the council-chamber,
where, being deeply interested by Northumberland’s address to the
conspiring lords, he for an instant forgot the object nearest his heart.
But the next, it returned with greater force than ever; and he was
picturing to himself the surprise, and, as he fondly hoped, the delight,
he should occasion her by presenting himself at her dwelling, when Simon
Renard’s dark proposal to the Earl of Pembroke reached his ear. Anxious
to convey the important information he had thus obtained to his master,
as soon as possible, he endeavoured to approach him, but at this moment
the council broke up, and the whole train returned to the palace. During
the banquet that followed, no opportunity for an instant’s private
conference occurred—the signal for the separation of the guests being
the departure of the Queen and her consort. While he was considering
within himself what course he had best pursue, he felt his mantle
slightly plucked behind, and, turning at the touch, beheld the dwarf.
“My master, the giant Magog, awaits you without, worshipful sir,” said
Xit, with a profound reverence.
Weighing his sense of duty against his love, he found the latter feeling
too strong to be resisted. Contenting himself, therefore, with tracing
a hasty lino of caution upon a leaf torn from his tablets, he secured it
with a silken thread, and delivering it to an attendant, commanded him
instantly to take it to the Lord Guilford Dudley. The man departed, and
Cholmondelcy, putting himself under the guidance of the dwarf,
followed him to the great stairs, down which he strutted with a most
consequential air, his long rapier clanking at each step he took.
Arrived at the portal, the young esquire found the three giants, who
had just been relieved from further attendance by another detachment
of warders, and, accompanied by them, proceeded along the ward in the
direction of the Gate-Tower. Sentinels, he perceived, were placed at ten
paces’ distance from each other along the ramparts; and the guards
on the turrets, he understood from his companions, were doubled. On
reaching the Gate-Tower, they found a crowd of persons, some of whom,
on presenting passes from the Duke of Northumberland, were allowed to go
forth; while others, not thus provided, were peremptorily refused.
While the giants paused for a moment to contemplate this novel scene,
an officer advanced from the barbican and acquainted the keepers of
the inner portal that a prisoner was about to be brought in. At this
intelligence, a wicket was opened, and two heralds, followed by a band
of halberdiers, amidst whom walked the prisoner, stepped through it.
Torches were then lighted by some of the warders, to enable them to
discern the features of the latter, when it appeared, from his ghastly
looks, his blood-stained apparel, and his hair, which was closely matted
to his head by the ruddy stream that flowed from it, that some severe
punishment had been recently inflicted upon him. He was a young man
of nineteen or twenty, habited in a coarse dress of brown serge, of a
slight but well-proportioned figure, and handsome features, though now
distorted with pain and sullied with blood, and was instantly recognised
by Cholmondelcy as the individual who had rowed Gunnora Braose towards
the Queen. On making the discovery, Cholmondeley instantly demanded, in
a stern tone, of the heralds, how they had dared, in direct opposition
to their sovereign’s injunctions, to punish an offender whom she had
pardoned.
“We have the Duke of Northumberland’s authority for what we have done,”
replied the foremost herald, sullenly; “that is sufficient for us.”
“The punishment we have inflicted is wholly disproportioned to the
villain’s offence, which is little short of high treason,” observed
the other. “When we proclaimed the Queen’s Highness at Cheapside, the
audacious knave mounted a wall, flung his cap into the air, and shouted
for Queen Mary. For this we set him in the pillory, and nailed his head
to the wood; and he may think himself fortunate if he loseth it not as
well as his ears, which have been cut off by the hangman.”
“Ungrateful wretch!” cried Cholmondeley, addressing the prisoner, his
former commiseration being now changed to anger; “is it thus you requite
the bounty of your Queen?”
“I will never acknowledge a usurper,” returned Gilbert, firmly.
“Peace!” cried the esquire; “your rashness will destroy you.”
“It may so,” retorted Gilbert, boldly; “but while I have a tongue to
wag, it shall clamour for Queen Mary.”
“Where are you going to bestow the prisoner?” inquired Gog from the
foremost herald.
“In the guard-room,” replied the man, “or some other place of security,
till we learn his grace’s pleasure.”
“Bring him to the Stone Kitchen, then,” returned Gog. “He will be as
safe there as anywhere else, and you will be none the worse for a can of
good liquor, and a slice of one of Dame Trusbut’s notable pasties.’”
0053
“Agreed;” rejoined the heralds, smiling; “bring him along.” While this
was passing, Cholmondeley, whose impatience could brook no further
delay, entreated Magog to conduct him at once to the habitation of the
fair Cicely. Informing him that it was close at hand, the giant opened a
small postern on the left of the gateway leading to the western line
of fortifications, and ascending a short spiral staircase, ushered his
companion into a chamber, which, to this day, retains its name of the
Stone Kitchen. It was a low, large room, with the ceiling supported by
heavy rafters, and the floor paved with stone. The walls were covered
with shelves, displaying a goodly assortment of pewter and wooden
platters, dishes and drinking-vessels; the fire-place was wide enough to
admit of a whole ox being roasted within its limits; the chimney-piece
advanced several yards into the room, while beneath its comfortable
shelter were placed a couple of benches on either side of the hearth, on
which a heap of logs was now crackling. Amid the pungent smoko arising
from the wood could be discerned, through the vast aperture of the
chimney, sundry hams, gammons, dried tongues, and other savoury meats,
holding forth a prospect of future good cheer. At a table running across
the room, and furnished with flagons and pots of wine, several boon
companions were seated. The chief of these was a jovial-looking warder
who appeared to be the life and soul of the party, and who had a laugh,
a joke, or the snatch of a song, for every occasion. Opposite to him sat
Peter Trusbut, the pantler, who roared at every fresh witticism uttered
by his guest till the tears ran down his cheeks. Nor did the warder
appear to be less of a favourite with Dame Potentia, a stout buxom
personage, a little on the wrong side of fifty, but not without some
remains of comeliness. She kept his glass constantly filled with the
best wine, and his plate as constantly supplied with the choicest
viands, so that, what with eating, drinking, singing, and a little sly
love-making to Dame Trusbut, Pibald, for so was the warder named,
was pretty well employed. At the lower end of the table was placed
a savage-looking person, with red bloodshot eyes and a cadaverous
countenance. This was Mauger, the headsman. He was engaged in earnest
conversation with Master Hairun, the bearward, assistant-keeper of the
lions,—an office, at that time, of some consequence and emolument. In
the ingle nook was ensconced a venerable old man with a snowy beard
descending to his knees, who remained with his eyes fixed vacantly upon
the blazing embers. Seated on a stool near the hearth, was a little boy
playing with a dog, whom Cholmondeley perceived at once was Cicely’s
companion; while the adjoining chair was occupied by the fair creature
of whom the enamoured esquire was in search. Pausing at the doorway,
he lingered for a moment to contemplate her charms. A slight shade of
sadness clouded her brow—her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and
she now and then uttered a half-repressed sigh. At this juncture, the
jolly-looking warder struck up a Bacchanalian stave, the words of which
ran as follows:—
With my back to the fire and my paunch to the table,
Let me eat,—let me drink as long as I am able:
Let me eat,—let me drink whate’er I set my whims on,
Until my nose is blue, and my jolly visage crimson.
The doctor preaches abstinence, and threatens me with dropsy,