There’s no drinking in the grave, boys!
“Well sung, my roystering Pibald,” cried Magog, striding up to him, and
delivering him a sounding blow on the back—“thou art ever merry, and
hast the most melodious voice and the lustiest lungs of any man within
the Tower.”
“And thou hast the heaviest hand I ever felt on my shoulder, gigantic
Magog,” replied Ribald; “so we are even. But come, pledge me in a
brimmer, and we will toss off a lusty measure to the health of our
sovereign lady, Queen Jane. What say you, Master Trusbut?—and you, good
Hairun—and you, most melancholic Mauger, a cup of claret will bring the
colour to your cheeks. A pot of wine, good dame, to drink the Queen’s
health in. But whom have we yonder? Is that gallant thy companion,
redoubted Magog?”
The giant nodded an affirmative.
“By my faith he is a well-looking youth,” said Ribald—“but he seems to
have eyes for no one excepting fair Mistress Cicely.”
0055
Aroused by this remark, the young damsel looked up and beheld the
passionate gaze of Cholmondeley fixed upon her. She started, trembled,
and endeavoured to hide her confusion by industriously pursuing her
occupation of netting. But in spite of her efforts to restrain herself,
she could not help stealing a sidelong glance at him; and emboldened by
this slight encouragement, Cholmondeley ventured to advance towards her.
It is scarcely necessary to detail the common-place gallantries which
the youth addressed to her, or the monosyllabic answers which she
returned to them. The language of love is best expressed by the look
which accompanies the word, and the tone in which that word is uttered;
and this language, though as yet neither party was much skilled in it,
appeared perfectly intelligible to both of them. Satisfied, at length,
that she was not insensible to his suit, Cholmondeley drew nearer, and
bending his head towards her, poured the most passionate protestations
in her ear. What answer she made, if she made answer at all to these
ardent addresses, we know not, but her heightened complexion and heaving
bosom told that she was by no means insensible to them. Meanwhile,
Og and Gog, together with the heralds and one or two men-at-arms, had
entered the chamber with the prisoner. Much bustle ensued, and Dame
Potcntia was so much occupied with the new-comers and their wants, that
she had little time to bestow upon her adoptive daughter. It is true
that she thought the handsome stranger more attentive than was needful,
or than she judged discreet; and she determined to take the earliest
opportunity of putting a stop to the flirtation—but, just then, it
happened that her hands were too full to allow her to attend to minor
matters. As to Peter Trusbut, he was so much entertained with the
pleasantries of his friend Ribald—and so full of the banquet he had
provided for the Queen, the principal dishes of which he recapitulated
for the benefit of his guests, that he saw nothing whatever that was
passing between the young couple. Not so a gloomy-looking personage
shrouded behind the angle of the chimney, who, with his hand upon his
dagger, bent eagerly forward to catch their lightest whisper. Two
other mysterious individuals had also entered the room, and stationed
themselves near the doorway. As soon as Dame Trusbut had provided
for the wants of her numerous guests, she turned her attention to the
prisoner, who had excited her compassion, and who sat with his arms
folded upon his breast, preserving the same resolute demeanour he had
maintained throughout. Proffering her services to the sufferer, she bade
her attendant, Agatha, bring a bowl of water to bathe his wounds, and
a fold of linen to bind round his head. At this moment, Xit, the dwarf,
who was by no means pleased with the unimportant part he was compelled
to play, bethought him of an expedient to attract attention. Borrowing
from the herald the scroll of the proclamation, he mounted upon Og’s
shoulders, and begged him to convey him to the centre of the room, that
he might read it aloud to the assemblage, and approve their loyalty.
The good-humoured giant complied. Supporting the mannikin with his left
hand, and placing his large two-handed sword over his right shoulder, he
walked forward, while the dwarf screamed forth the following preamble to
the proclamation:—“Jane, by the grace of God Queen of England, France,
and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, and of the Church of England, and
also of Ireland, under Christ on earth the supreme head. To all our
loving, faithful, and obedients, and to every of them, greeting.” Here
he paused to shout and wave his cap, while the herald, who had followed
them, to humour the joke raised his embroidered trumpet to his lips, and
blew a blast so loud and shrill, that the very rafters shook with it.
To this clamour Og added his stunning laughter, while his brethren,
who were leaning over a screen behind, and highly diverted with the
incident, joined in lusty chorus. Almost deafened by the noise, Dame
Trusbut, by way of putting an end to it, raised her own voice to its
utmost pitch, and threatened to turn Xit, whom she looked upon as the
principal cause of the disturbance, out of the house. Unfortunately, in
her anger, she forgot that she was engaged in dressing the prisoner’s
wounds, and while her left hand was shaken menacingly at the dwarf, her
right convulsively grasped the poor fellow’s head, occasioning him such
exquisite pain, that he added his outcries to the general uproar. The
more Dame Trusbut scolded, the more Og and his brethren laughed, and the
louder the herald blew his trumpet—so that it seemed as if there was
no likelihood of tranquillity being speedily restored—nor, in all
probability would it have been so without the ejectment of the dwarf,
had it not been for the interference of Ribald, who at length, partly by
cajolery, and partly by coercion, succeeded in pacifying the angry dame.
During this tumult, the two mysterious personages, who, it has been
stated, had planted themselves at the doorway, approached the young
couple unobserved, and one of them, after narrowly observing the
features of the young man, observed in an under-tone to his companion,
“It is Cuthbert Cholmondeley—You doubted me, my lord Pembroke, but I was
assured it was Lord Guilford’s favourite esquire, who had conveyed the
note to his master, warning him of our scheme.”
“You are right, M. Simon Renard,” replied the earl. “I bow to your
superior discernment.”
“The young man is in possession of our secret,” rejoined Renard, “and
though we have intercepted the missive, he may yet betray us. He must
not return to the palace.”
“He never shall return, my lords,” said a tall dark man, advancing
towards them, “if you will entrust his detention to me.”
“Who are you?” demanded Renard, eyeing him suspiciously. “Lawrence
Nightgall, the chief jailor of the Tower.”
“What is your motive for this offer?” pursued Renard.
“Look there!” returned Nightgall. “I love that damsel.”
“I see;” replied Renard, smiling bitterly. “He has supplanted you.”
“He has,” rejoined Nightgall; “but he shall not live to profit by his
good fortune.”
“Hum!” said Renard, glancing at Cicely, “the damsel is lovely enough to
ruin a man’s soul. We will trust you.”
“Follow me, then, without, my lords,” replied Nightgall, “and I will
convey him where he shall not cause further uneasiness to any of us. We
have dungeons within the Tower, from which those who enter them seldom
return.”
“You are acquainted, no doubt, with the secret passages of the White
Tower, friend?” asked Renard.
“With all of them,” rejoined Nightgall. “I know every subterranean
communication—every labyrinth—every hidden recess within the walls of
the fortress, and there are many such—and can conduct you wherever you
desire.”
“You are the very man I want,” cried Renard, rubbing his hands,
gleefully. “Lead on.”
And the trio quitted the chamber, without their departure being noticed.
Half an hour afterwards, as Cuthbert Cholmondeley issued from the
postern with a heart elate with rapture at having elicited from the fair
Cicely a confession that she loved him, he received a severe blow on
the head from behind, and before he could utter a single outcry, he was
gagged, and forced away by his assailants.
IV.—OF THE MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCE THAT HAPPENED TO QUEEN JANE IN SAINT
JOHN’S CHAPEL IN THE WHITE TOWER.
On that night Lord Guilford Dudley was summoned to a secret council by
his father, the Duke of Northumberland, and as he had not returned
at midnight, the Lady Hastings, who was in attendance upon the Queen,
proposed that, to while away the time, they should pay a visit to St.
John’s Chapel in the White Tower, of the extreme beauty of which they
had all heard, though none of them had seen it. Jane assented to the
proposal, and accompanied by her sister, the Lady Herbert, and the
planner of the expedition, Lady Hastings, she set forth. Two ushers
led the way through the long galleries and passages which had to be
traversed before they reached the White Tower; but on arriving at the
room adjoining the council-chamber which had so lately been thronged
with armed men, but which was now utterly deserted, Jane inquired from
her attendants the way to the chapel, and on ascertaining it, commanded
her little train to await her return there, as she had determined on
entering the sacred structure alone. In vain her sisters remonstrated
with her—in vain the ushers suggested that there might be danger in
trusting herself in such a place at such an hour without protection—she
remained firm—but promised to return in a few minutes, after which they
could explore the chapel together.
Taking a lamp from one of the attendants, and pursuing the course
pointed out to her, she threaded a narrow passage, similar to that she
had traversed with the Duke in the morning, and speedily entered upon
the gallery above the chapel. As she passed through the opening in the
wall leading to this gallery, she fancied she beheld the retreating
figure of a man, muffled in a cloak, and she paused for a moment,
half-inclined to turn back. Ashamed, however, of her irresolution, and
satisfied that it was a mere trick of the imagination, she walked on.
Descending a short spiral wooden staircase, she found herself within one
of the aisles of the chapel, and passing between its columns, entered
the body of the fane. For some time, she was lost in admiration of this
beautiful structure, which, in its style of architecture—the purest
Norman—is without an equal. She counted its twelve massive and circular
stone pillars, noted their various ornaments and mouldings, and admired
their grandeur and simplicity. Returning to the northern aisle, she
glanced at its vaulted roof, and was enraptured at the beautiful effect
produced by the interweaving arches.
While she was thus occupied, she again fancied she beheld the same
muffled figure she had before seen, glide behind one of the pillars.
Seriously alarmed, she was now about to retrace her steps, when her
eye rested upon an object lying at a little distance from her, on the
ground. Prompted by an undefinable feeling of curiosity, she hastened
towards it, and holding forward the light, a shudder ran through
her frame, as she perceived at her feet, an axe! It was the
peculiarly-formed implement used by the headsman, and the edge was
turned towards her.
At this moment, her lamp was extinguished.
0061
0063
V.—OF THE MISUNDERSTANDING THAT AROSE BETWEEN QUEEN JANE AND HER
HUSBAND, LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY.
9063
NOT appearing, and some time having elapsed since her departure, her
sisters, who were anxiously awaiting her return in the room adjoining
the council-chamber, became so uneasy, that, notwithstanding her
injunctions to the contrary, they resolved to go in search of her.
Accordingly, bidding the ushers precede them, they descended to the
chapel; and their uneasiness was by no means decreased on finding
it buried in darkness, and apparently empty. As they gazed around in
perplexity and astonishment, a deep-drawn sigh broke from the northern
aisle; and, hurrying in that direction, they discovered the object of
their search, who had been hidden from view by the massive intervening
pillars, extended upon a seat, and just recovering from a swoon into
which she had fallen. Revived by their assiduities, Jane was soon able
to speak, and the first thing she uttered was a peremptory order that no
alarm should be given, or assistance sent for.
“I am now well—quite well,” she said, with a look and in a tone that
belied her words, “and require no further aid. Do not question me as to
what has happened. My brain is too confused to think of it; and I would
fain banish it altogether from my memory. Moreover, I charge you by your
love and allegiance, that you mention to no one—not even to my dear lord
and husband, should he interrogate you on the subject,—how you have
just found me. And if my visit here be not remarked by him—as is
not unlikely, if he should remain closeted with the Duke of
Northumberland,—it is my will and pleasure that no allusion be made to
the circumstance. You will not need to be told, dear sisters, that I
have good reasons for thus imposing silence upon you. To you, sirs,” she
continued, addressing the ushers, who listened to her with the greatest
surprise, “I also enjoin the strictest secrecy;—and look well you
observe it.”
The solemn and mysterious manner in which the Queen delivered her
commands quite confounded her sisters, who glanced at each other as if
they knew not what to think;—but they readily promised compliance, as
did the ushers. Supporting herself on the arm of Lady Herbert, Jane then
arose, and proceeded at a slow pace towards the eastern stair-case. As
she was about to turn the corner of the aisle, she whispered to Lady
Hastings, who walked on her left—“Look behind you, Catherine. Do you see
nothing on the ground?”
“Nothing whatever, your highness,” replied the other, glancing fearfully
over her shoulder. “Nothing whatever, except the black and fantastic
shadows of our attendants.”
“Thank Heaven! it is gone,” ejaculated Jane, as if relieved from a
weight of anxiety.
“What is gone, dear sister?” inquired Lady Herbert, affectionately.
“Do not ask me,” replied Jane, in a tone calculated to put an end to
further conversation on the subject. “What I have seen and heard must
for ever remain locked in my own bosom.”
“I begin to think a spirit must have appeared to your majesty,” observed
Lady Herbert, whose curiosity was violently excited, and who, in
common with most persons of the period, entertained a firm belief in
supernatural appearances. “Every chamber in the Tower is said to be
haunted,—and why not this ghostly chapel, which looks as if it were
peopled with phantoms? I am quite sorry I proposed to visit it. But if I
am ever caught in it again, except in broad daylight, and then only with
sufficient attendance, your majesty shall have free leave to send me
to keep company with the invisible world for the future. I would give
something to know what you have seen. Perhaps it was the ghost of Anne
Boleyn, who is known to walk;—or the guilty Catherine Howard,—or the old
Countess of Salisbury. Do tell me which it was—and whether the spectre
carried its head under its arm?”
“No more of this,” said Jane, authoritatively. “Come with me to the
altar.”
“Your majesty is not going to remain here?” cried Lady Hastings. “I
declare positively I dare not stop.”
“I will not detain you longer than will suffice to offer a single prayer
to Heaven,” rejoined the Queen. “Be not afraid. Nothing will injure, or
affright you.”
“I am by no means sure of that,” replied Lady Hastings. “And now I
really do think I see something.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Jane, starting. “Where?”
“Behind the farthest pillar on the right,” replied Lady Hastings,
pointing towards it. “It looks like a man muffled in a cloak. There!—it
moves.”
“Go and see whether any one be lurking in the chapel,” said Jane to the
nearest usher, and speaking in a voice so loud, that it almost seemed as
if she desired to be overheard.
The attendant obeyed; and immediately returned with the intelligence
that he could find no one.
“Your fears, you perceive, are groundless, Catherine,” observed Jane,
forcing a smile.
“Not altogether, I am persuaded, from your manner, my dear sister, and
gracious mistress,” rejoined Lady Hastings. “Oh! how I wish I was safe
back again in the palace.”
“So do I,” added Lady Herbert.
“A moment’s patience and I am ready,” rejoined Jane.
With this, she approached the altar, and prostrated herself on the
velvet cushion before it.
“Almighty Providence!” she murmured in a tone so low as to be inaudible
to the others, “I humbly petition thee and supplicate thee, that if the
kingdom that has been given me be rightly and lawfully mine, thou wilt
grant me so much grace and spirit, that I may govern it to thy glory,
service, and advantage. But if it be otherwise—if I am unlawfully
possessed of it, and am an hindrance to one who might serve thee more
effectually, remove, O Lord, the crown from my head, and set it on
that of thy chosen servant! And if what I have this night beheld be a
fore-shadowing and a warning of the dreadful doom that awaits me, grant
me, I beseech thee, strength to meet it with fortitude and resignation;
so that my ending, like my life, may redound to thy honour, and the
welfare of thy holy church.” While Jane was thus devoutly occupied, her
sisters, who stood behind her, could scarcely control their uneasiness,
but glanced ever and anon timorously round, as if in expectation of
some fearful interruption. Their fears were speedily communicated to
the ushers; and though nothing occurred to occasion fresh alarm, the few
minutes spent by the Queen in prayer appeared an age to her companions.
There was something in the hour—it was past midnight,—and the place,
calculated to awaken superstitious terrors. The lights borne by the
attendants only illumined a portion of the chapel; rendering that which
was left in shadow yet more sombre; while the columned aisles on either
side, and the deeply-recessed arches of the gallery above, were shrouded
in gloom. Even in broad day, St. John’s Chapel is a solemn and a
striking spot; but at midnight, with its heavy, hoary pillars, reared
around like phantoms, its effect upon the imagination will be readily
conceived to be far greater.
Already described as one of the most perfect specimens of Norman
ecclesiastical architecture, this venerable structure, once used as a
place of private worship by the old monarchs of England, and now as
a receptacle for Chancery proceedings, has, from its situation in the
heart of the White Tower, preserved, in an almost unequalled state,
its original freshness and beauty; and, except that its floors are
encumbered with cases, and its walls of Caen stone disfigured by a thick
coat of white plaster, it is now much in the same state that it was at
the period under consideration. It consists of a nave with broad aisles,
flanked (as has been mentioned) by twelve circular pillars, of the
simplest and most solid construction, which support a stone gallery of
equal width with the aisles, and having an arcade corresponding with
that beneath the floor is now boarded, but was formerly covered with
a hard polished cement, resembling red granite. The roof is coved, and
beautifully proportioned; and the fane is completed by a semicircular
termination towards the east.
Old Stowe records the following order, given in the reign of Henry the
Third, for its decoration:—“And that ye cause the whole chapel of St.
John the Evangelist to be whited. And that ye cause three glass windows
in the same chapel to be made; to wit, one on the north side, with a
certain little Mary holding her child; the other on the south part, with
the image of the Trinity; and the third, of St. John the Apostle and
Evangelist, in the south part. And that ye cause the cross and the beam
beyond the altar of the same chapel to be painted well and with good
colours. And that ye cause to be made and painted two fair images where
more conveniently and decently they may be done in the same chapel;
one of St. Edward, holding a ring, and reaching it out to St. John the
Evangelist.” These fair images—the cross—the rood,—and the splendid
illuminated window, are gone—most of them, indeed, were gone in Queen
Jane’s time—the royal worshippers are gone with them; but enough remains
in its noble arcades, its vaulted aisles, and matchless columns, to
place St. John’s Chapel foremost in beauty of its class of architecture.
Her devotions over, Jane arose with a lighter heart, and, accompanied
by her little train, quitted the chapel. On reaching her own apartments,
she dismissed her attendants, with renewed injunctions of secrecy; and
as Lord Guilford Dudley had not returned from the council, and she felt
too much disturbed in mind to think of repose, she took from among the
books on her table, a volume of the divine Plato, whose Phædo, in the
original tongue, she was wont, in the words of her famous instructor,
Roger Ascham, “to read with as much delight as some gentlemen would take
in a merry tale of Boccace,” and was speedily lost in his profound and
philosophic speculations.
In this way the greater part of the night was consumed; nor was it till
near day-break that she was aroused from her studies by the entrance of’
her husband.
“Jane, my beloved queen!” he exclaimed, hastening towards her with a
countenance beaming with delight. “I have intelligence for you which
will enchant you.”
“Indeed! my dear lord,”’ she replied, laying down her book, and rising
to meet him. “What is it?”
“Guess,” he answered, smiling.
“Nay, dear Dudley,” she rejoined, “put me not to this trouble. Tell me
at once your news, that I may participate in your satisfaction.”
“In a word, then, my queen,” replied Lord Guilford,—“My father and the
nobles propose to elevate me to the same dignity as yourself.”
Jane’s countenance fell.
“They have not the power to do so, my lord,” she rejoined gravely; “I,
alone, can thus elevate you.”
“Then I am king,” cried Dudley, triumphantly.
“My lord,” observed Jane, with increased gravity, “you will pardon me if
I say I must consider of this matter.”
“Consider of it!” echoed her husband, frowning; “I must have your
decision at once. You can have no hesitation, since my father desires
it. I am your husband, and claim your obedience.”
“And I, my lord,” rejoined Jane, with dignity, “am your queen; and, as
such, it is for me, not you, to exact obedience. We will talk no further
on the subject.”
“As you please, madam,” replied Lord Guilford, coldly. “To-morrow you
will learn the Duke’s pleasure.”
“When I do so, he shall know mine,” rejoined Jane.
“How is this?” exclaimed Dudley, gazing at her in astonishment. “Can it
be possible you are the same Jane whom I left—all love—all meekness—all
compliance?—or have a few hours of rule so changed your nature, that you
no longer love me as heretofore?”
“Dudley,” returned Jane, tenderly, “you are dear to me as ever; and if
I accede not to your wishes, do not impute it to other than the
right motive. As a queen, I have duties paramount to all other
considerations,—duties which, so long as I am queen, I will fulfil to
the best of my ability, and at every personal sacrifice. Be not wholly
guided by the counsels of your father,—be not dazzled by ambition. The
step you propose is fraught with danger. It may cost me my crown, and
cannot ensure one to you.”
“Enough,” replied her husband, apparently convinced by her arguments.
“We will postpone its further consideration till to-morrow.”
When that morrow came, Dudley’s first business was to seek his father,
and acquaint him with the manner in which his communication to the Queen
had been received. The haughty Duke appeared surprised, but imputed the
failure to his son’s mismanagement, and undertook to set it right. With
this view, he repaired to the Queen’s apartments, and on obtaining an
audience, informed her that he and the lords of the council had resolved
to place her husband on the throne beside her. Her answer differed in
nothing from that which she had returned to Lord Guilford, except that
it was couched in a firmer tone; but it had this addition, that she was
well aware of his Grace’s object in the proposal, which was, in
effect, to obtain possession of the supreme power. In vain arguments,
entreaties, and even threats, were used by the Duke: Jane continued
inflexible. Northumberland was succeeded by his no less imperious
spouse, who, with all the insolence of her arrogant nature, rated her
daughter-in-law soundly, and strove to terrify her into compliance.
But she, too, failed; and Lord Guilford was so enraged at his consort’s
obstinacy, that he quitted the Tower, and departed for Sion House,
without even taking leave of her.
Perplexed as he felt by Jane’s conduct, Northumberland was too well
versed in human nature not to be aware that a character however soft
and pliant may, by the sudden alteration of circumstances, be totally
changed,—but he was by no means prepared for such a remarkable display
of firmness as Jane had exhibited. The more he considered the matter,
the more satisfied he became that she had some secret counsellor, under
whose guidance she acted, and with the view of finding out who it was,
he resolved to have all her motions watched. No one appeared so well
fitted to this office as his daughter, the Lady Hastings; and sending
for her, he extracted from her, in the course of conversation, all
particulars with which she was acquainted of the mysterious occurrence
in St. John’s Chapel. This information filled Northumberland with new
surprise, and convinced him that he had more to dread than he at first
imagined, and that the schemes of his enemies must be in full operation.
His suspicions fell upon Simon Renard, though he scarcely knew how to
connect him with this particular occurrence. Dismissing his daughter
with full instructions for the part he desired her to play, he continued
for some time brooding over the mystery, and vainly trying to unravel
it. At one time, he resolved to interrogate Jane; but the reception
he had recently experienced, induced him to adopt a different and more
cautious course. His thoughts, however, were soon diverted from the
subject, by the onerous duties that pressed upon him. Amongst other
distractions, not the least was the arrival of a messenger with the
intelligence that Mary had retired from Kenninghall in Norfolk, whither
he had despatched a body of men to surprise her, and retreated to a
more secure post, Framlingham Castle—that she had been proclaimed in
Norwich—and that her party was hourly gaining strength in all quarters.
Ill news seldom comes alone, and the proud Duke experienced the truth of
the adage. Other messengers brought word that the Earls of Bath, Sussex,
and Oxford, Lord Wentworth, Sir Thomas Cornwallis, Sir Henry Jerningham,
and other important personages, had declared themselves in her favour.
While he was debating upon the best means of crushing this danger in the
bud, a page from Lady Hastings suddenly presented himself, and informed
him that the Queen was at that moment engaged in deep conference with M.
Simon Renard, in St. Peter’s Chapel. On inquiry, the Duke learned
that Jane, who had been greatly disturbed in mind since her husband’s
departure, had proceeded to St. Peter’s Chapel—(a place of worship
situated at the north end of the Tower Green, and appropriated to the
public devotions of the court and household,)—accompanied by her
mother, the Duchess of Suffolk, and her sisters, the Ladies Herbert and
Hastings; and that the train had been joined by the Earls of Pembroke
and Arundel, De Noailles, and Simon Renard—the latter of whom, when the
Queen’s devotions were ended, had joined her. Tarrying for no further
information, the Duke summoned his attendants, and hastened to the Tower
Green. Entering the chapel, he found the information he had received
was correct. The wily ambassador was standing with the Queen before the
altar.
0069
VI.—OF THE SOLEMN EXHORTATION PRONOUNCED TO THE GIANTS BY MASTER EDWARD
UNDERHILL, THE “HOT-GOSPELLER,” AT THEIR LODGING IN THE BY-WARD TOWER;
AND OF THE EFFECT PRODUCED THEREBY.
In spite of the interruption occasioned by the dwarf, the evening at the
Stone Kitchen passed off pleasantly enough. Dame Potentia was restored
to good humour by the attentions of the jovial warder, and the giants
in consequence were regaled with an excellent and plentiful supper,
of which Xit was permitted to partake. Whether it was that their long
fasting, or their attendance at the state-banquet, had sharpened the
appetites of the three gigantic brethren, or that the viands set before
them were of a more tempting nature than ordinary, we pretend not to
say, but certain it is that their prodigious performances at the table
excited astonishment from all who witnessed them, and elicited the
particular approbation of Ribald, who, being curious to ascertain how
much they could eat, insisted on helping them to everything on the
board, and, strange to say, met with no refusal.
With the profuse hospitality of the period, all the superfluities of
the royal feast were placed at the disposal of the household; and it
may therefore be conceived that Peter Trusbut’s table was by no means
scantily furnished. Nor was he disposed to stint his guests. Several
small dishes which had been set before them having disappeared with
marvellous celerity, he called for the remains of a lordly baron of
beef, which had recently graced the royal sideboard. At the sight of
this noble joint, Og, who had just appropriated a dish of roast quails,
two of which he despatched at a mouthful, uttered a grunt of intense
satisfaction, and abandoning the trifling dainties to Xit, prepared for
the more substantial fare.
Assuming the part of carver, Peter Trusbut sliced off huge wedges of the
meat, and heaped the platters of the giants with more than would have
satisfied men of ordinary appetites. But this did not satisfy them. They
came again and again. The meat was of such admirable quality—so well
roasted—so full of gravy, and the fat was so exquisite, that they could
not sufficiently praise it, nor do it sufficient justice. The knife was
never out of Peter Trusbut’s hands; nor was he allowed to remain idle
a moment. Scarcely had he helped Og, when Gog’s plate was empty; and
before Gog had got his allowance, Magog was bellowing for more. And so
it continued as long as a fragment remained upon the bones.
Puffing with the exertion he had undergone, the pantler then sat down,
while Ribald, resolved not to be balked of his pastime, entreated
Dame Potentia to let her guests wash down their food with a measure of
metheglin. After some little solicitation, she complied, and returned
with a capacious jug containing about three gallons of the balmy drink.
The jug was first presented to Magog. Raising it to his lips, he took
a long and stout pull, and then passed it to Gog, who detained it some
seconds, drew a long breath, and returned it to Dame Trusbut, perfectly
empty. By dint of fresh entreaties from the warder, Dame Potentia was
once more induced to seek the cellar; and, on receiving the jug, Og took
care to leave little in it for his brethren, but poured out what was
left into a beaker for Xit.
They were now literally “giants refreshed;” and Peter Trusbut,
perceiving that they still cast wistful glances towards the larder,
complied with a significant wink from Ribald, and went in search of
further provisions. This time he brought the better half of a calvered
salmon, a knuckle of Westphalia ham, a venison pasty with a castellated
crust of goodly dimensions, a larded capon, and the legs and carcass of
a peacock, decorated with a few feathers from the tail of that gorgeous
bird. Magog, before whom the latter dainty was placed, turned up his
nose at it, and giving it to Xit, vigorously assaulted the venison
pasty. It soon became evident that the board would again be speedily
cleared; and though he had no intention of playing the niggardly host on
the present occasion, Peter Trusbut declared that this was the last
time such valiant trenchermen should ever feed at his cost. But his
displeasure was quickly dispelled by the mirth of the warder, who
laughed him out of his resolution, and encouraged the giants to proceed
by every means in his power. Og was the first to give in. Throwing back
his huge frame on the bench, he seized a flask of wine that stood near
him, emptied it into a flagon, tossed it off at a draught, and declared
he had had enough. Gog soon followed his example. But Magog seemed
insatiable, and continued actively engaged, to the infinite diversion of
Ribald, and the rest of the guests.
There was one person to whom this festive scene afforded no amusement.
This was the fair Cicely. After Cholmondeley’s departure—though wholly
unacquainted with what had befallen him—she lost all her sprightliness,
and could not summon up a smile, though she blushed deeply when rallied
by the warder. In surrendering her heart at the first summons of the
enamoured esquire, Cicely had obeyed an uncontrollable impulse; but she
was by no means satisfied with herself for her precipitancy. She felt
that she ought to have resisted rather than have yielded to a passion
which, she feared, could have no happy result; and though her admirer
had vowed eternal constancy, and pleaded his cause with all the
eloquence and fervour of deep and sincere devotion—an eloquence which
seldom falls ineffectually on female ears—she was not so unacquainted
with the ways of the world as to place entire faith in his professions.
But it was now too late to recede. Her heart was no longer her own; and
if her lover had deceived her, and feigned a passion which he did not
feel, she had no help for it, but to love on unrequited.
While her bosom alternately fluttered with hope, or palpitated with
fear, and her hands mechanically pursued their employment, she chanced
to raise her eyes, and beheld the sinister gaze of Lawrence Nightgall
fixed upon her. There was something in his malignant look that convinced
her he read what was passing in her breast—and there was a bitter and
exulting smile on his lip which, while it alarmed her on her account,
terrified her (she knew not why) for her lover.
“You are thinking of the young esquire who left you an hour ago,” he
observed sarcastically.
“I will not attempt to deny it,” replied Cicely, colouring; “I am.”
“I know it,” rejoined the jailer; “and he dared to tell you he loved
you?”
Cicely made no reply.
“And you?—what answer did you give him, mistress?” continued Nightgall,
furiously grasping her arm. “What answer did you give him, I say?”
“Let me go,” cried Cicely. “You hurt me dreadfully. I will not be
questioned thus.”
“I overheard what you said to him,” rejoined the jailer. “You told him
that you loved him—that you had loved no other—and would wed no other.”
“I told him the truth,” exclaimed Cicely. “I do love him, and will wed
him.”
“It is false,” cried Nightgall, laughing maliciously. “You will never
see him again.”
“How know you that?” she cried, in alarm.
“He has left the Tower—for ever,” returned the jailer, moodily.
“Impossible!” cried Cicely. “The Duke of Northumberland has given orders
that no one shall go forth without a pass. Besides, he told me he was
returning to the palace.”
“I tell you he is gone,” thundered Nightgall. “Hear me, Cicely,” he
continued, passionately. “I have loved you long—desperately. I would
give my life—my soul for you. Do not cast me aside for this vain
court-gallant, who pursues you only to undo you. He would never wed
you.”
“He has sworn to do so,” replied Cicely.
“Indeed!” cried Nightgall, grinding his teeth, “The oath will never be
kept. Cicely, you must—you shall be mine.”
“Never!” replied the maiden. “Do you suppose I would unite myself to one
whom I hate, as I do you?”
“Hate me!” cried the jailer, grasping her arm with such force that she
screamed with pain. “Do you dare to tell me so to my face?”
“I do,” she rejoined. “Release me, monster!”
“Body of my father! what’s the matter?” roared Magog, who was sitting
near them. “Leave go your hold of the damsel, Master Nightgall,” he
added, laying down his knife and fork.
“Not at your bidding, you overgrown ox!” replied the jailer. “We’ll see
that,” replied the giant. And stretching out his hand, he seized him by
the nape of the neck, and drew him forcibly backwards.
“You shall bleed for this, caitiff!” exclaimed Nightgall, disengaging
himself, and menacing him with his poniard.
“Tush!” rejoined Magog, contemptuously, and instantly disarming him.
“Your puny weapon will serve me for a toothpick,” he added, suiting the
action to the word. And, amid the loud laughter of the assemblage, the
jailer slunk away, muttering interjections of rage and vengeance.
Nightgall’s dark hints respecting Cholmondeley were not without effect
upon Cicely, who, well aware of his fierce and revengeful character,
could not help fearing some evil; and when he quitted the Stone Kitchen,
an undefinable impulse prompted her to follow him. Hastily descending
the stairs, on gaining the postern she descried him hurrying along the
road between the ballium wall and the external line of fortifications,
and instantly decided on following him.
On reaching the projecting walls of the Beauchamp Tower, behind which
she sheltered herself, she saw that he stopped midway between that
fortification and the next turret, then known as the Devilin, or Robin
the Devil’s Tower, but more recently, from having been the prison of the
unfortunate Earl of Essex, as the Devereux Tower. Here he disappeared.
Hastening to the spot, Cicely looked for the door, through which he
must have passed; and after some little search, discovered it. Pushing
against it, it yielded to the pressure, and admitted her to a low
passage, evidently communicating with some of the subterranean dungeons
which she knew existed under this part of the fortress.
She had scarcely set foot within this passage, when she perceived the
jailor returning; and had barely time to conceal herself behind an angle
of the wall, when he approached the spot where she stood. In his
haste he had forgotten to lock the door, and he now, with muttered
execrations, hastened to repair his error; cutting off by this means the
possibility of Cicely’s retreat. And here, for the present, it will be
necessary to leave her, and return to the Stone Kitchen.
The attention which must otherwise have been infallibly called to
Cicely’s disappearance was diverted by the sudden entrance of a very
singular personage, whose presence served somewhat to damp the hilarity
of the party. This was Master Edward Underhill—a man of some ability,
but of violent religious opinions, who, having recently been
converted to the new doctrines, became so zealous in their support and
propagation, that he obtained among his companions the nick-name of the
“Hot-gospeller.” He was a tall thin man, with sandy hair, and a scanty
beard of the same colour. His eyes were blear and glassy, with pink lids
utterly devoid of lashes, and he had a long lantern-shaped visage. His
attire was that of a gentleman-pensioner.
Rebuking the assemblage for their unseemly mirth, and mounting upon a
stool, Master Underhill would fain have compelled them to listen to a
discourse on the necessity of extirpating papacy and idolatry from the
land—but he was compelled, by the clamour which his exordium occasioned,
to desist. He was, moreover, brought down, with undue precipitation,
from his exalted position by Xit, who creeping under the stool,
contrived to overset it, and prostrated the Gospeller on the floor, to
the infinite entertainment of the guests, and the no small damage of his
nose.
This incident, though received in good part even by the principal
sufferer, served to break up the party. Apprehensive of some further
disturbance, and not without fears that the giants might indulge as
freely with the fluids as they had done with the solids, Dame Trusbut
took advantage of the occurrence to dismiss her guests, which she did
without much ceremony.
It was then for the first time that she noticed the absence of Cicely.
Not being able to find her, the recollection of the handsome esquire,
and of the attention he had paid her, rushed to her mind; and with a
dreadful foreboding of impending misery, she despatched her husband to
the palace to make inquiries after him; while she herself went to the
gate—to the ramparts—everywhere, in short, that she thought it likely
she could gain any information,—but everywhere without success.
The giants, meanwhile, with Xit, betook themselves to their lodgings
in the By-ward Tower. The herald and the men-at-anns, who, it may be
remembered, had charge of the prisoner Gilbert, not having received any
further instructions respecting him, accompanied them thither. They were
also attended by Master Edward Underhill, who was bent upon admonishing
them, having been given to understand they were relapsing into papacy.
0074
Arrived at the entrance of the By-ward Tower, the giants volunteered to
take charge of the prisoner till the morning—an offer which was gladly
accepted by the herald, who, intrusting him to their care, departed.
But the Gospeller was not to be got rid of so easily. He begged to be
admitted, and, partly by entreaties, partly by a bribe to the dwarf,
succeeded in his object. The first care of the giants, on entering their
abode—an octagonal chamber of stone, about sixteen feet wide, and twenty
high, with a vaulted coiling, supported by sharp groined arches of great
beauty, springing from small slender columns,—was to light a candle
placed in front of an ancient projecting stone fireplace. Their next was
to thrust the prisoner into the arched embrasure of a loop-hole at one
side of it.
The walls of the chamber were decorated with the arms and accoutrements
of the gigantic brethren,—the size of which would have been sufficient
to strike any chance-beholder with wonder. Over the embrasure in which
they had placed the prisoner, hung an enormous pair of gauntlets, and a
morion of equal size. Here was a quiver full of arrows, each shaft far
exceeding a cloth-yard in length—there a formidable club, armed with
sharp steel spikes; while the fire-place was garnished with a couple
of immense halberts. Having drawn a large pot of wine, which they first
offered to their guest, who refused it, they each took a deep draught;
and informing Underhill, if he was still resolved to hold forth, he
had better commence without further delay, they disposed themselves to
listen to him.
Placing a small table in the centre of the chamber, Og seated himself
opposite it, and took Xit upon his knee; while Gog sat down beside him,
and Magog supported his huge bulk against the wall. Divesting himself
of his cap and sword, and placing an hour-glass on the table, the
Hot-gospeller then opened a small volume, which he took from beneath his
cloak; from which he began to read certain passages and to comment upon
them in a vehement tone.
0076
His exhortation opened with a burst of rejoicing on the accession of
Queen Jane—in which he pronounced terrible anathemas against all those
who sought to restore the fallen religion. Perceiving the fierce gaze of
the prisoner fixed upon him, he directed his chief thunders against
him, and, excited by his subject, soon worked himself into a state
approaching to frenzy.
In this strain he continued for some time, when a sound arose which
drowned even his vehemence. Overcome with drowsiness, the three giants,
who for a short time vainly endeavoured to attend to the discourse of
the Gospeller, had now sunk into a comfortable slumber—and the noise
which they made was tremendous. In vain Underhill endeavoured to
rouse them by thumping the table. Gog gazed at him for an instant
with half-shut eyes, and then leaning on Og’s shoulder, who, with
head dropped back and mouth wide open, was giving audible proof of his
insensible condition, he speedily dropped asleep again. Such was the
astounding din, that the Gospeller could not even make himself heard by
the dwarf, who, perched on Og’s knee at a few paces’ distance, stared in
amazement at his gesticulations.
More than an hour having passed in this manner, the Hot-gospeller, whose
energies were wholly exhausted, came to a pause; and after menacing
his insensible audience with proportionate punishment in the next
world—especially the idolatrous prisoner, whom he threatened with
gesture as well as with word—he closed his volume, and prepared to
depart. With some difficulty the three giants were awakened; and it was
only by the assistance of Xit, who tweaked their noses and plucked their
beards, that this could be accomplished.
Just as Master Underhill was taking his leave, Dame Trusbut arrived in
the greatest tribulation. The fair Cicely was nowhere to be found. Her
husband had been to the palace. Nothing could be heard of the young
esquire; nor could Lawrence Nightgall be met with. In this emergency,
she had come to entreat the giants to aid her in her search. They
agreed to go at once—and Xit was delighted with the prospect of such
employment. Accordingly, the door was locked upon the prisoner, and they
set forth with the distracted dame.
As soon as he was left alone, Gilbert surveyed the chamber to sec
if there was any means by which he might effect his escape. An idea
speedily occurred to him: by the help of one of the halberts he
contrived to free himself from his bonds, and then clambered up the
chimney.
VII.—HOW CUTHBERT CHOLMONDELEY WAS THROWN INTO A DUNGEON NEAR THE
DEVILIN TOWER; AND HOW A MYSTERIOUS FEMALE FIGURE APPEARED TO HIM THERE.
On recovering from the stunning effects of the blow he had received,
Cuthbert Cholmondeley found himself stretched on the floor of a gloomy
vault, or dungeon, for such he judged it. At first, he thought he must
be dreaming, and tried to shake off the horrible nightmare by which he
supposed himself oppressed. But a moment’s reflection undeceived him;
and starting to his feet, he endeavoured to explore the cell in which he
was confined. A heavy chain, which bound his leg to the floor, prevented
him from moving more than a few paces; and, convinced that escape was
impossible, he sank upon the ground in despair.
Unable to assign any cause for his imprisonment, and wholly at a loss
to imagine what offence he had committed, he taxed his brain as to
everything that had recently happened to him. This naturally directed
his thoughts to the fair Cicely—and with her gentle image came the
recollection of the malicious countenance and threatening gestures of
Lawrence Nightgall. Remembering what Magog had told him of the jealousy
and vindictive nature of this person, and remembering also that he had
heard him described as the chief jailer, he felt that he need seek no
further for the motive and the author of his imprisonment.
The assurance, however, which he had thus gained, afforded him no
consolation, but rather tended to increase his disquietude. If he had
been a prisoner of state, he might have hoped for eventual release;
but placed in the hands of so remorseless and unscrupulous an enemy
as Nightgall had shown himself, he felt he had little to hope. This
consideration filled him with anguish, which was heightened as he
thought of the triumph of his savage rival, who by some means—for he
seemed desperate enough to have recourse to any expedient—might
possess himself of the object of his passion. Fired by this thought,
Cholmondeley again sprang to his feet, and strove with all his force to
burst his bondage. But the effort was fruitless; and by lacerating his
hands, and straining his limbs, he only added bodily torture to his
mental suffering. Exhausted at length, he sank once more upon the floor.
By this time, having become habituated to the gloom of the place, he
fancied he could make out that it was an arched cell of a few feet in
width, and corresponding height. The only light admitted was from the
entrance, which appeared to open upon a passage branching off on
the left, and upon a further range of dungeons extending in the same
direction.
Not altogether unacquainted with the prisons of the Tower, Cholmondeley
felt against the walls to try whether he could find any of those
melancholy memorials which their unfortunate inmates delighted to
bequeath to their successors, and which might serve as a clue to the
particular place of his confinement. But nothing but the smooth surface
of the stone met his touch. This circumstance, however, and the peculiar
form of the cell, induced him to think that it must be situated beneath,
or at no great distance from the Devilin Tower, as he had heard of a
range of subterranean dungeons in that quarter: and, it may be added, he
was right in his conjecture.
The cell in which he was thrown was part of a series of such dreadful
receptacles, contrived in the thickness of the ballium wall, and
extending from the Beauchamp Tower to the Devilin Tower. They were
appropriated to those prisoners who were doomed to confinement for life.
Horrible recollections then flashed upon his mind of the dreadful
sufferings he had heard that the miserable wretches immured in these
dungeons underwent—how some were tortured—some destroyed by secret and
expeditious means—others by the more lingering process of starvation. As
the latter idea crossed him, he involuntarily stretched out his hand to
ascertain whether any provisions had been left him; but he could find
none.
The blood froze in his veins as he thought of dying thus; his hair
stiffened upon his head; and he was only prevented from crying out to
make his lamentable case known to the occupants of any of the adjoining
cells, by the conviction of its utter futility. But this feeling passed
away, and was succeeded by calmer and more consolatory reflections.
While in this frame of mind, Nature asserted her sway, and he dropped
asleep.
0081
How long he remained thus, he knew not; but he was awakened by a loud
and piercing scream. Raising himself, he listened intently. The scream
was presently repeated in a tone so shrill and unearthly, that it filled
him with apprehensions of a new kind. The outcry having been a third
time raised, he was debating within himself whether he should in any way
reply to it, when he thought he beheld a shadowy figure glide along the
passage. It paused at a short distance from him. A glimmer of light
fell upon the arch on the left, but the place where the figure stood
was buried in darkness. After gazing for some time at the mysterious
visitant, and passing his hand across his brow to assure himself that
his eyesight did not deceive him, Cholmondeley summoned courage enough
to address it. No answer was returned; but the figure, which had the
semblance of a female, with the hands raised and clasped together as if
in supplication or prayer, and with a hood drawn over the face, remained
perfectly motionless. Suddenly, it glided forward, but with a step so
noiseless and swift, that almost before the esquire was aware of the
movement, it was at his side. He then felt a hand cold as marble placed
upon his own, and upon grasping the fingers they appeared so thin and
bony, that he thought he must have encountered a skeleton. Paralysed
with fright, Cholmondeley shrunk back as far as he was able; but the
figure pursued him, and shrieked in his ear—“My child, my child!—you
have taken my child!”
Convinced from the voice that he had a being of this world to deal with,
the esquire seized her vestment, and resolved to detain her till he had
ascertained who she was and what was the cause of her cries; but just
as he had begun to question her, a distant footstep was heard, ands
uttering a loud shriek, and crying—“He comes!—he comes!”—the female
broke from him and disappeared.
Fresh shrieks were presently heard in a more piteous tone than before,
mixed with angry exclamations in a man’s voice, which Cholmondeley
fancied sounded like that of Nightgall. A door was next shut with great
violence; and all became silent.
While he was musing on this strange occurrence, Cholmondeley heard
footsteps advancing along the passage on the left, and in another moment
Lawrence Nightgall stood before him.
The jailer, who carried a lamp, eyed the captive for a few moments in
silence, and with savage satisfaction.
“It is to you, then, I owe my imprisonment, villain,” said Cholmondeley,
regarding him sternly.
“It is,” replied the jailer; “and you can readily conjecture, I doubt
not, why I have thus dealt with you.”
“I can,” resumed the esquire; “your jealousy prompted you to the deed.
But you shall bitterly rue it.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Nightgall. “You are wholly in my power. I am not,
however, come to threaten, but to offer you freedom.”
“On what terms?” demanded Cholmondeley.
“On these,” replied the jailer, scowling—“that you swear to abandon
Cicely.”
“Never!” replied the esquire.
0083
“Then your fate is sealed,” rejoined Nightgall. “You shall never quit
this spot.”
“Think not to move me by any such idle threat,” returned Cholmondeley.
“You dare not detain me.”
“Who shall prevent me?” laughed the jailor, scornfully. “I, alone,
possess the key of these dungeons. You are their sole occupant.”
“That is false,” retorted the esquire. “There is another captive,—a
miserable female,—whom I, myself, have seen.”
“Has she been here?” cried Nightgall, with a look of disquietude.
“Not many minutes since,” replied the other, fixing a scrutinizing
glance upon him. “She came in search of her child. What have you done
with it, villain?”
Cholmondeley had no particular object in making the inquiry. But he was
astonished at the effect produced by it on the jailer, who started and
endeavoured to hide his confusion by pulling his cap over his brows.
“She is a maniac,” he said, at length, in a hoarse voice.
“If it be so,” rejoined the esquire, severely; “she has been driven
out of her senses by your barbarous usage. I more than suspect you have
murdered her child.”
“Entertain what suspicions you please,” replied Nightgall, evidently
relieved by the surmise. “I am not accountable for the ravings of a
distracted woman.”
“Who is she?” demanded the esquire.
“The names of those confined within these cells are never divulged,’”
returned the jailer. “She has been a prisoner of state for nineteen
years.”
“And during that term her child was born—ha?” pursued Cholmondeley.
“I will answer no further questions,” replied Nightgall, doggedly. “One
word before I depart. I am not your only enemy. You have others more
powerful, and equally implacable. You have incurred the displeasure of
the Privy Council, and I have a warrant, under the hands of its chief
members, for your execution. I am now about to summon the headsman for
the task.”
“Then your offer to liberate me was mere mockery,” observed the esquire.
“Not so,” replied the other; “and I again repeat it. Swear to abandon
Cicely, and to maintain profound silence as to what you have just seen,
and I will convey you by a secret passage underneath the Tower moat to
a place of security, where you will be beyond the reach of your enemies,
and will take the risk of your escape upon myself. Do you agree to
this?”
“No,” replied Cholmondeley, firmly. “I distrust your statement, and defy
your malice.”
“Obstinate fool!” growled the jailer. “Prepare to meet your fate in an
hour.”
“Whenever it comes it will find me prepared,” rejoined the esquire.
Nightgall glared at him fiercely for a moment from beneath his shaggy
brows. He then strode sullenly away. But his departure was prevented by
Cicely, who suddenly appeared at the mouth of the dungeon.
“You here!” he exclaimed recoiling, and trembling as if an apparition
had crossed his path. “How have you obtained admittance?”,
“It matters not,” she answered. “I am come to purchase your prisoner’s
freedom.”
“You know the terms?” rejoined the jailer, eagerly.
“I do,” she replied; “and will comply with them when you have fulfilled
your share of the compact.”
“Cicely!” cried Cholmondeley, who had been to the full as much
astonished at her unexpected appearance as the jailer. “Cicely!” he
cried, starting to his feet, and extending his hands towards her. “Do
not consent to his proposal. Do not sacrifice yourself for me. I would
die a thousand deaths rather than you should be his.”
“Heed him not,” interposed Nightgall, grasping her arm, and preventing
her from approaching her lover; “but attend to me. You see this
warrant,” he added, producing a parchment. “It is from the Council, and
directs that the prisoner’s execution shall take place in such manner as
may best consist with despatch and secrecy. If I deliver it to Manger,
the headsman, it will be promptly obeyed. And I shall deliver it, unless
you promise compliance.”
“The villain deceives you, dear Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, in a voice
of anguish. “The Council have not the power of life and death. They
cannot—dare not order my execution without form or trial.”
“The Council will answer for their actions themselves,” rejoined
Nightgall, carelessly. “Their warrant will bear me and my comrades
harmless. Mauger will not hesitate to act upon it. What is your
determination, Cicely?”
“Free him,” she replied.
“Recal your words, sweet Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, throwing himself
at her feet, “if you have any love for me. You doom me to worse than
death by this submission.”
“Cholmondeley,” she replied in a mournful voice, “my resolution is
taken, and even you cannot induce me to change it. The opening of our
love has been blighted. My heart has been crushed, almost before it
knew for whom it beat. It matters not now what becomes of me. If my life
could preserve yours, or restore you to freedom, I would freely yield
it. But as nothing will suffice except my hand, I give that. Think of me
no more,—or think of me only as another’s.‘’’
“That thought were madness!” groaned Cholmondeley.
“Master Lawrence Nightgall,” continued Cicely, “you say you can conduct
the prisoner beyond the walls of the Tower, Bring me back some token
that you have done so, and I am yours.”
“Willingly,” replied the jailer.
“Retire then for a moment, while I arrange with him what the token shall
be.”
Nightgall hesitated.
“Refuse, and I retract my promise,” she added.
And the jailer, with a suspicious look, reluctantly left the cell.
“Cicely, my beloved,” cried Cholmondeley, clasping her in his arms,
“why—why have you done this?”
“To preserve you,” she replied, hurriedly. “Once out of this dungeon, I
can bring assistance to liberate you.”
“Indeed!” ejaculated Nightgall, who, having placed his ear to the wall,
lost not a syllable of their discourse.
“It will be unavailing,” replied Cholmondeley. “No one will venture
to oppose an order of the Council. You must make known my case to Lord
Guilford Dudley. Take this ring. Explain all to him, and I may yet be
saved. Do you hear me, Cicely?”
“I do,” she replied “And I,” added Nightgall.
“In case you fail,” continued the esquire, “the token of my escape shall
be”—And placing his lips close to her ear, he spoke a few words in so
low a tone, that they escaped the jailer. “Till you receive that token
treat Nightgall as before.”
“Doubt it not,” she answered.
“I am content,” said the esquire.
“I see through the design,” muttered the jailer, “and will defeat it.
Have you done?” he added, aloud.
“A moment,” replied Cholmondeloy, again pressing the damsel to his
bosom, “I would sooner part with my life’s-blood than resign you.”
“I must go,” she cried, disengaging herself from his embrace. “Now,
Master Nightgall, I am ready to attend you.”
“In an hour I shall return and release you,” said the jailer, addressing
the prisoner. “Your hand, Cicely.”
“I will go alone,” she replied, shrinking from him with a look of
abhorrence.
“As you please,” he rejoined, with affected carelessness. “You are
mine.”
“Not till I have received the token. Farewell!” she murmured, turning
her tearful gaze upon Cholmondeley.
“For ever!” exclaimed the youth.
And as they quitted the cell, he threw himself despairingly on the
ground.
Issuing from the outer door of the dungeon, Cicely and her companion
took their way towards the Stone Kitchen. They had not proceeded far,
when they perceived several persons approaching them, who, as they drew
nearer, proved to be Dame Potentia, Xit, and the giants.
“What have you been doing, Cicely?” inquired her adoptive mother,
angrily. “I have been searching for you everywhere!”
“You shall know anon,” replied the maiden. “But come with me to the
palace. I must see Lord Guilford Dudley, or the Duke of Northumberland,
without a moment’s delay.”
“Warders,” interposed Nightgall, authoritatively: “go to Master Manger’s
lodging in the Bloody Tower. Bid him hasten with two assistants, and the
sworn tormentor, to the dungeon beneath the Devilin Tower. He will know
which I mean. Justice is about to be done upon a prisoner.”
“Oh no—no—do not go,” cried Cicely, arresting the giants. “He does not
mean it. He is jesting.”
“Go home, then, and do not stir forth till I bring you the token,”
rejoined Nightgall, in a deep whisper.
“In Heaven’s name, what is the meaning of all this?” cried Dame
Potentia, in amazement.
“I will inform you,” replied the jailer, drawing her aside. “Your
daughter was about to elope with the young esquire. I detected them
trying to escape by the secret passage beneath the moat, of which you
know I have the key. Lock her within her chamber. Pay no attention to
her tears, entreaties, or assertions. And, above all, take care no one
has any communication with her.”
“Trust me to guard her,” rejoined Dame Potentia. “I know what these
court-gallants are. They will venture anything, and contrive anything,
when a pretty girl is concerned. But what has happened to the esquire?”
“He is safe for the present,” answered Nightgall, significantly.
Cicely, meantime, had availed herself of their conversation, to whisper
a few words to Xit.
“Take this ring,” she said, placing the ornament given her by her lover,
in the hands of the dwarf, “and fly to the palace. Show it to Lord
Guilford Dudley, and say that the wearer is imprisoned in the dungeons
beneath the Devilin Tower. Assistance must be speedily rendered, as he
is ordered for immediate and secret execution. Do you understand?”
“Most precisely, lovely damsel,” replied Xit, kissing her hand, as he
took the ring; “and I guess the name and condition of the prisoner, as
well as the nature of the interest you take in him.”
“Fly!” interrupted Cicely. “Not a moment is to be lost. You shall be
well rewarded for your trouble.”
“I desire no higher reward than your thanks, adorable maiden,”
replied Xit. “Your behests shall be punctually obeyed.” So saying, he
disappeared.
“Come, young mistress,” cried Dame Potentia, seizing her adoptive
daughter’s arm, “you must to your chamber. You have led me and your
father, and these worthy warders, a pretty dance. But you shall lead us
all where you list, if I let you out of my sight in future.”
And thanking the giants, who had looked on in speechless astonishment,
she dragged Cicely along with her.
“Remember!” whispered Nightgall, as he walked a few paces by the side of
the latter.
“I shall expect the token in an hour,” she answered in the same tone.
“You shall have it,” he rejoined.
With this, he halted, and retraced his steps. The others then separated.
Cicely was conveyed to the Stone Kitchen; and the giants, after looking
in vain for Xit, and calling to him repeatedly but without effect,
returned to the By-ward Tower. Just as they reached it, a shot was fired
from the battlements, and was immediately answered from those of the
Middle Tower. Other reports followed. And, alarmed by the sounds, the
huge brethren hastily unlocked the door of their lodging, and entering
it, to their infinite dismay, found the prisoner gone.
VIII.—HOW GILBERT ESCAPED FROM THE BY-WARD TOWER, AND SWAM ACROSS THE
MOAT; HOW OG HUNG XIT UPON A HOOK; AND HOW LAWRENCE NIGHTGALL BROUGHT
THE TOKEN TO CICELY.
Gilbert having freed himself from his bonds, and clambered into the
chimney in the By-ward Tower in the manner previously related, ascended
without any inconvenience, except what was occasioned by the pungent
smoke arising from the blazing fagots beneath, until he reached the
level of the upper story, where another fire-place, connected with the
passage up which he was mounting, so narrowed its limits, that it seemed
scarcely possible to proceed further. The sound of voices in the chamber
on this floor also alarmed him, and for some minutes he suspended his
labour to listen. But as nothing occurred to disturb him, and it was
evident, from the conversation of the speakers, that he had not been
noticed, he presently resumed his task, and redoubling his efforts, soon
vanquished all obstacles, and gained the opening of the chimney.
Here a fresh difficulty awaited him; and one for which he was wholly
unprepared. The smoke found a vent through a small circular opening or
louver, as it was termed,—for there was no chimney-top to disperse it
to the air,—in the battlements. Through this opening he must necessarily
creep; and, provided he could accomplish the feat, he had to elude the
vigilance of the sentinels stationed on the roof of the turret. Luckily,
the night was profoundly dark; and the gloom, increased by a thick
mist from the river, was so intense, that an object could scarcely
be discerned at a foot’s distance. Thus favoured, Gilbert resolved to
hazard the attempt.
Watching his opportunity, he drew himself cautiously through the louver,
and without being noticed by the sentinel, who was standing beside it,
crouched beneath the carriage of a culverin. In this state, he remained
for a short time, meditating what course he should next pursue, and
nerving himself for some desperate attempt, when a door at the side of
the southern turret suddenly opened, and three men-at-arms, the foremost
of whom carried a torch, came to relieve guard.
Aware that he should now infallibly be discovered, Gilbert started to
his feet, and drawing a dagger which he had picked up in the giants’
chamber, stood upon his defence. The movement betrayed him. Though
confounded by his appearance, the sentinel nearest him presented his
partizan at his breast and commanded him to surrender. Gilbert answered
by striking up the man’s arm, and instantly sprang over the battlements.
A loud splash told that he had fallen into the moat. The men held the
torch over the side of the turret. But it was too dark to distinguish
any object below. Presently, however, a noise was heard in the water
that convinced them the fugitive was swimming for the opposite bank. One
of the soldiers instantly discharged his caliver in the direction of the
sound,—but without effect.
This served as an alarm to the guards posted on the western ramparts, as
well as to those on the Middle Tower, both of which commanded this part
of the moat, and other shots were immediately fired. A signal was then
rapidly passed from tower to tower, and from portal to portal, until it
reached the Bulwark-gate, which formed the only entrance to the fortress
on the west, and a body of armed men carrying lights instantly sallied
forth and hurried towards the side of the moat.
Gilbert, meanwhile, swam for his life. Guided by the torches, which
served to discover his enemies rather than to betray him, he effected
a secure landing, But before he had climbed the steep bank, he was
observed by a soldier, who, making towards him, shouted to his comrades
for assistance. In the struggle that ensued, the torch borne by the
soldier was extinguished, and bursting from him, Gilbert darted at a
swift pace up Tower-hill. His pursuers were close upon him. But, well
acquainted with the spot, he contrived to baffle them, by flinging
himself beneath the permanent scaffold, then standing upon the brow
of the eminence, and thus eluded observation. As soon as his foes had
passed, he struck off swiftly to the left, and leaping a low wall,
skirted All-hallows Church, and speedily gained Tower-street.
While Gilbert was flying in this direction, his pursuers finding
themselves at fault, hastened back, and endeavoured to discover some
trace of him. Some mounted the steps of the scaffold to see whether
he had taken refuge on its blood-stained planks,—some crept under
it,—others examined the posts of the neighbouring gallows,—while a
fourth party flew to the postern gate, which defended the southern
extremity of the city wall, in the hope that he might have been stopped
by the watch. All, however, it is needless to say, were disappointed.
And after some time had been fruitlessly expended, the whole party
returned to the Tower to report the unsuccessful issue of their
expedition.
Meanwhile, the report of the musquetry had reached the ears of
Lord Clinton, the constable, who, attended by the lieutenant, the
gentleman-porter, and a numerous patrol, chanced to be making the round
of the fortifications at the time, and he descended to the gates
to ascertain the cause of the alarm. On learning it, he immediately
summoned the herald and the gigantic warders to his presence, and after
sharply rebuking the former for neglect, ordered him into custody till
the morning, when he proposed to take the duke’s pleasure as to his
punishment. He then turned to the giants, who tried to soften his
displeasure by taking the blame upon themselves, and telling them he
would listen to their statement when the herald was examined, and, in
the interim, they would be answerable with their lives for any further
dereliction of duty, he dismissed the assemblage, and returned with his
train to the ramparts.
Among those who had been gathered together in the guardroom near
the By-ward Tower,—where the foregoing examination took place,—were
Nightgall and Xit,—the latter having just returned from the palace,
after a vain attempt to deliver his message to Lord Guilford Dudley,
who, it has been already stated, was engaged at the time in secret
conference with the Duke of Northumberland, and could not therefore be
spoken with.
Ever on the alert, and suspicious of those around him, Night-gall
overheard Og question the dwarf as to the cause of his absence; and
perceiving, from Xit’s manner, that he had some secret to communicate,
he contrived to approach them unobserved. He then learnt the message
with which the dwarf had been entrusted by Cicely, and enraged at
her endeavour to overreach him, snatched the ring from him as he was
displaying it to the giant, and threatened him with severe punishment,
if he dared to meddle further in the matter.
As soon as he had recovered from his surprise, the affronted mannikin
drew his rapier, and making several passes at Nightgall, would have
certainly wounded him, if he had not dextrously avoided the blows by
interposing the huge bulk of the giant between him and his assailant.
The fury of the dwarf was so excessive, and the contortions into which
he threw himself so inconceivably diverting, that Og could render him
no assistance for laughing. Thrusting his sword between the giant’s
legs,—now cutting on the right, now on the left,—Xit tried in every way
to hit the jailer, and must have succeeded, if Og, who was by no means
desirous to have blood shed in so ridiculous a fray, and who enjoyed the
pastime too much to speedily terminate it, had not prevented him.
Gog, moreover, having on the onset disarmed Nightgall, he could not
protect himself except by keeping under the shelter of the giant. Foiled
in his attempts, Xit’s indignation knew no bounds, and exasperated by
the derisive shouts and laughter of the spectators, he threatened to
turn his sword against Og if he did not deliver up the jailer to
his vengeance. This only produced louder roars of merriment from the
by-standers; and the dwarf, whose passion had almost deprived him of
reason, uttering a shrill scream like a child robbed of its plaything,
threw himself on Og’s leg, and scrambled up his body, with the intention
of descending on the other side, and exterminating his foe.
This feat raised the merriment of the spectators to the utmost. Og
suffered the imp to ascend without opposition, and clinging to the
points of the giant’s slashed red hose, Xit drew himself up to his broad
girdle, and then setting one foot on the circlet of raised gold thread
which surrounded the badge on his breast, soon gained his shoulder, and
would have leapt from thence upon his foe, if Og, who began to think it
time to put an end to the sport, had not seized him by the leg as he
was in the act of springing off, and held him at arm’s-length, with his
heels upwards.
After many useless struggles to liberate himself, and menaces of what
he would do when he got free, which, as may be supposed, only
provoked still further the laughter of the by-standers, Xit became so
unmanageable, that Og fastened him by his nether garments to a hook in
the wall, about fourteen feet from the ground, and left him to recover
himself.
Thus perched, the dwarf hurled his rapier at Nightgall’s head, and
replied to the jeers of the assemblage by such mops and mows as an
enraged ape is wont to make at its persecutors. After the lapse of a few
minutes, however, he began to find his position so uncomfortable,
that he was fain to supplicate for release, to which, on receiving
his assurance of quieter conduct for the future, Og consented, and
accordingly unhooked him, and set him on the ground.
Nightgall, meanwhile, had taken advantage of this diversion, to leave
the Guard-room, and hasten to the Stone Kitchen.
Dame Potentia was just retiring to rest as the jailer reached her
dwelling, and it was only by the most urgent importunity that he
succeeded in obtaining admission.
“Your pardon, good dame,” he said, as the door was opened. “I have
that to tell Cicely, which will effectually cure her love for the young
esquire.”
“In that case, you are right welcome, Master Nightgall,” she replied;
“for the poor child has almost cried her pretty eyes out since I
brought her home. And I have been so moved by her tears, that I greatly
misdoubt, if her lover had presented himself instead of you, whether I
should have had the heart to refuse to let him see her.”
“Fool!” muttered Nightgall, half aside. “Where is she?” he added, aloud.
“I have no time to lose. I have a secret execution to attend before
day-break.”
“Yours is a butcherly office, Master Nightgall,” observed Peter Trusbut,
who was dozing in an arm-chair by the fire. “Those secret executions, to
my mind, are little better than state murders. I would not, for all
the power of the Duke of Northumberland, hold your office, or that of
Gilliam Mauger, the headsman.”
“Nor I yours, on the same fee, Master Pantler,” rejoined Nightgall.
“Tastes differ. Where is your daughter, good dame?”