knocking at a door at the end of a short passage leading out of the
kitchen on the right. “Here is Master Nightgall desires to speak with
you.”
“Does he bring me the token?” demanded the maiden, from within.
“Ay marry, does he, child,” replied the dame, winking at the jailer.
“Heaven forgive me the falsehood,” she added,—“for I know not what she
means.”
“Leave us a moment, dear mother,” said Cicely, hastily unfastening the
door. “Now, Master Nightgall,” she continued, as Dame Potentia retired,
and the jailer entered the room, “have you fulfilled your compact?”
“Cicely,” rejoined the jailer, regarding her sternly, “you have not kept
faith with me. You have despatched a messenger to the palace.”
“Oh! he is free,” exclaimed the maiden, joyfully,—“your plans have been
defeated?”
Nightgall smiled bitterly.
“My messenger cannot have failed,” she continued, with a sudden change
of countenance. “I am sure Lord Guilford would not abandon his favourite
esquire. Tell me, what has happened?”
“I am come to claim fulfilment of your pledge,” rejoined the jailer.
“Then you have set him free,” cried Cicely. “Where is the token?”
“Behold it,” replied Nightgall, raising his hand, on which her lover’s
ring sparkled.
“Lost!—lost!” shrieked Cicely, falling senseless upon the floor.
The jailer gazed at her a moment in silence, but did not attempt to
offer any assistance. He then turned upon his heel, and strode out of
the room.
“Look to your daughter, dame,” he observed, as he passed through the
Stone-kitchen.
IX.—OF THE MYSTERIOUS MANNER IN WHICH GUNNORA BRAOSE WAS BROUGHT TO THE
TOWER.
Hurrying along Tower Street, and traversing Eastcheap and Watling
Street—then narrow but picturesque thoroughfares—Gilbert,—to whom it is
now necessary to return,—did not draw breath till he reached the eastern
extremity of St. Paul’s. As he passed this reverend and matchless
structure—the destruction of which, was the heaviest loss sustained by
the metropolis in the Great Fire—he strained his eyes towards its lofty
tower, but the gloom was too profound to enable him to discern anything
of it beyond a dark and heavy mass.
“Thou art at present benighted, glorious fane!” he cried aloud. “But a
bright dawn shall arise for thee, and all thy ancient splendour, with
thy ancient faith, be restored. If I could see Mary queen, and hear mass
solemnized within thy walls, I could die content.”
“And you shall hear it,” said a voice in his ear.
“Who speaks?” asked Gilbert, trembling.
“Be at St. Paul’s Cross to-morrow at midnight, and you shall know,”
replied the voice. “You are a loyal subject of Queen Mary., and a true
Catholic, or your words belie you?”
“I am both,” answered Gilbert.
“Fail not to meet me then,” rejoined the other, “and you shall receive
assurance that your wishes shall be fulfilled. There are those at work
who will speedily accomplish the object you desire.”
“I will aid them heart and hand,” cried Gilbert.
“Your name?” demanded the other.
“I am called Gilbert Pot,” answered the youth, “and am drawer to Ninion
Saunders, at the Baptist’s Head, in Ludgate.”
“A vintner’s boy!” exclaimed the other, disdainfully.
“Ay, a vintner’s boy,” returned Gilbert. “But, when the usurper, Jane
Dudley, was proclaimed at Cheapside this morning, mine was the only
voice raised for Queen Mary.”
“For which bold deed you were nailed to the pillory,” rejoined the
other.
“I was,” replied Gilbert; “and was, moreover, carried to the Tower,
whence I have just escaped.”
“Your courage shall not pass unrequited,” replied the speaker. “Where
are you going?”
“To my master’s, at the Baptist’s Head, at the corner of Creed Lane—not
a bow-shot hence.”
“It will not be safe to go thither,” observed the other. “Your master
will deliver you to the watch.”
“I will risk it, nevertheless,” answered Gilbert. “I have an old
grandame whom I desire to see.”
“Something strikes me!” exclaimed the other. “Is your grandame the old
woman who warned the usurper Jane not to proceed to the Tower?”
“She is,” returned Gilbert.
“This is a strange encounter, in good sooth,” cried the other. “She is
the person I am in search of. You must procure me instant speech with
her.”
“I will conduct you to her, right willingly, sir,” replied Gilbert. “But
she says little to any one, and may refuse to answer your questions.”
“We shall see,” rejoined the other. “Lead on, good Gilbert.”
Followed by his unknown companion, about whom he felt a strange
curiosity, not unalloyed with fear, Gilbert proceeded at a rapid pace
towards his destination. The whole of the buildings then surrounding
Saint Paul’s, it is almost unnecessary to say, were destroyed by the
same fire that consumed the Cathedral; and, though the streets still
retain their original names, their situation is in some respects
changed.
Passing beneath the shade of a large tree, which then grew at the
western boundary of the majestic edifice, Gilbert darted through a
narrow entry into Ave Maria Lane, and turning to the left, speedily
reached Ludgate, which he crossed at some fifty paces from the Gate—then
used, like several of the other city portals, as a prison—and, entering
Creed Lane, halted before a low-built house on the right. The shutters
were closed, but it was evident, from the uproarious sounds issuing from
the dwelling, that revelry was going on within. Gilbert did not deem it
prudent to open the street door, but calling to his companion, he went
to the back of the tavern, and gained admittance through a window on the
ground floor.
“They are having a merry rouse,” he observed to the other, “in honour of
the usurper; and my master, Ninion, will be too far gone to notice aught
except his guests and his sack brewage, so that I may safely conduct
your worship to my grandame. But first let me strike a light.”
With this, he searched about for flint and steel, and having found them,
presently set fire to a small lamp hanging against the wall, which he
removed and turned, not without some apprehension, towards the stranger.
His glance fell upon a tall man, with an ample feuille-morte coloured
cloak thrown over his left shoulder, so as completely to muffle the
lower part of his features. Gilbert could see nothing of the stranger’s
face, except an aquiline nose, and a pair of piercing black eyes; but
the expression of the latter was so stern and searching, that his
own regards involuntarily sank before them. A bonnet of black velvet,
decorated with a single drooping feather, drawn over the brow, added to
the stranger’s disguise. But what was revealed of the physiognomy was so
striking, that Gilbert was satisfied he should never forget it.
Something, indeed, there was of majesty in the stranger’s demeanour,
that, coupled with his sinister looks and the extraordinary brilliancy
of his eyes, impressed the superstitious youth with the notion that
he was in the presence of an unearthly being. Struck by this idea, he
glanced at the stranger’s feet, in expectation of finding one of the
distinctive marks of the Prince of Darkness. But he beheld nothing
except a finely-formed limb, clothed in black silk hose and a velvet
shoe, above which hung the point of a lengthy rapier.
“I am neither the enemy of mankind nor your enemy, good youth,” observed
the stranger, who guessed the cause of Gilbert’s apprehensions. “Bring
your grandame hither, and take heed how you approach her, or your looks
will alarm her more than mine do you.”
It was not without reason that this caution was given. Gilbert’s
appearance was ghastly in the extreme. His countenance was haggard with
the loss of blood; his garments torn and saturated with moisture; and
his black dripping locks, escaping from the blood-stained bandage around
his head, contrasted fearfully with the deathly paleness of his visage.
Acknowledging the justice of the suggestion, Gilbert decided upon
proceeding in the dark, that his appearance might not be observed.
Accordingly, he crept cautiously up stairs, and returned in a few
minutes with his aged relative. Gilbert found the stranger in the same
attitude he had left him, and his appearance startled Gunnora, as much
as it had done him.
Crossing herself, she glanced uneasily at the mysterious stranger. From
him her eye wandered to Gilbert; and terrified by his haggard looks, she
cried in a tone of anxiety, “You have suffered much, my child. The ill
news reached me of the shameful punishment with which you have been
visited for your loyalty to your true Queen. I heard also that you had
been conveyed a prisoner to the Tower; and was about to make suit to the
gracious lady, Jane Dudley, in your behalf. Was I wrongfully informed?”
“No, mother, you were not,” replied Gilbert. “But heed me not. There
stands the worshipful gentleman who desires to speak with you.”
“I am ready to answer his questions,” said Gunnora. “Let him propose
them.”
“First, let me tell you, dame,” said the stranger, “that your
grandsons devotion to Queen Mary shall not pass unrequited. Ere many
days—perchance many hours—shall have passed, he shall exchange his serge
doublet for a suit of velvet.”
“You hear that, mother,” exclaimed Gilbert, joyfully.
“Who are you that make him the offer?” asked Gunnora, stedfastly
regarding the stranger.
“You shall know, anon,” he replied. “Suffice it, I can make good my
words. Your presence is required in the Tower.”
“By the Lady Jane,—I should say by the queen?” rejoined Gunnora.
“By the Privy Council,” returned the stranger.
“What do they seek from me?” demanded the old woman.
“To testify to the death of his late Majesty, King Edward the Sixth,”
replied the other.
“Ha!” exclaimed Gunnora.
“Fear nothing,” rejoined the stranger. “The council will befriend you.
Their object is to prove that Edward was poisoned by Northumberland’s
order. Can you do this?”
“I can,” replied Gunnora. “My hand administered the fatal draught.”
“Yours, mother!” ejaculated Gilbert, horror-stricken.
“Prove this, and Northumberland will lose his head,” said the stranger.
“Were my own to fall with it, I would do so,” replied Gunnora. “My sole
wish is to avenge my foster-son, the great Duke of Somerset, who fell
by Northumberland’s foul practices. It was therefore when all the
physicians of the royal household were dismissed, and the duke sent
messengers for empirical aid, that I presented myself, and offered my
services. When I beheld the royal sufferer, I saw he had but short space
to live. But short as it was, it was too long for the duke. A potion was
prepared by Northumberland, which I administered. From that moment his
highness grew worse, and in six hours he was a corpse.”
“It was a cursed deed,” cried Gilbert.
“True,” replied Gunnora, “it was so, and Heaven will surely avenge it.
But I did it to get Northumberland into my power. The king’s case was
past all remedy. But he might have lingered for days and weeks, and the
duke was impatient for the crown. I was impatient too—but it was for his
head. And therefore I did his bidding.”
“Your vengeance shall be fully gratified,” replied the stranger. “Come
with me.”
“Hold!” exclaimed Gunnora. “How will his testimony affect the Lady
Jane?”
“It will deprive her of her crown—perchance her head,” rejoined the
stranger.
“Then it shall never be uttered,” replied Gunnora, firmly.
“Torture shall wring it from you,” cried the stranger, furiously.
The old woman drew herself up to her full height, and, regarding the
stranger fixedly, answered in a stern tone—“Let it be tried upon me.”
“Mother,” said Gilbert, striding between them, and drawing his dagger,
“go back to your own room. You shall not peril your safety thus.”
“Tush!” exclaimed the stranger, impatiently. “No harm shall befal her.
I thought you were both loyal subjects of Queen Mary. How can she assume
the sovereign power while Jane grasps the sceptre?”
“But you aim at her life?” said Gunnora.
“No,” replied the stranger, “I would preserve her. My object is
to destroy Northumberland, and restore the crown to her to whom it
rightfully belongs.”
“In that case I will go with you,” returned the old woman.
“You will fall into a snare,” interposed her grandson. “Let him declare
who he is.”
“I will reveal my name to your grandame, boy,” replied the stranger. And
advancing towards Gunnora, he whispered in her ear. *
The old woman started and trembled.
“Hinder me not, Gilbert,” she said. “I must go with him.”
“Shall I accompany you?” asked her grandson.
“On no account,” replied the stranger, “unless you desire to be lodged
in the deepest dungeon in the Tower. Be at the place of rendezvous
to-morrow night, and you shall know more. Are you ready, good dame?”
Gunnora signified her assent; and, after a few parting words with her
grandson, the latter unfastened a small door, opening upon the yard, and
let them out.
They were scarcely clear of the house, when the stranger placing a
silver whistle to his lips, blew a call upon it, which was instantly
answered by a couple of attendants. At a signal from their leader
they placed themselves on either side of Gunnora, and in spite of her
resistance and remonstrances, dragged her forcibly along. The stranger,
who marched a few yards in advance, proceeded at so rapid a pace, that
the old woman found it utterly impossible to keep up with him. She
therefore stood still, and refused to take another step. But this did
not avail her, for the two attendants seized her in their arms, and
hurried forward as swiftly as before.
Though bewildered and alarmed, Gunnora did not dare to cry out for
assistance. Indeed, they did not encounter a single passenger in the
streets, until, as they were descending Budge-row, they heard the clank
of arms, and beheld the gleam of torches borne by a party of the watch
who were approaching from Can-wick-street, or as it is now called,
Cannon-street.
Turning off on the right, the stranger descended Dowgate-hill, and
gained Thames-street before he had been remarked. A short time sufficed
to bring him to St. Mary-hill, up which he mounted, and entering
Thames-street, and passing St. Dunstan’s in the East on the right, and
the ancient church of All Hallows Barking on the left, he reached Great
Tower-hill.
By this time, the vapours from the river had cleared off. The stars had
begun to peep forth, and the first glimpse of day to peer in the east.
By this light, and from this spot, the stern and sombre outline of the
Tower, with its ramparts—its citadel, and its numerous lesser turrets,
was seen to great advantage. On the summit of the Hill appeared the
scaffold and the gallows already noticed.
Pausing for a moment, and pointing to a range of buildings, the summits
of which could just be distinguished, to the south of the White Tower,
the stranger said—“Within that palace Northumberland now reposes,
surrounded by a triple line of fortifications, and defended by a
thousand armed men. But if you will only reveal all you know, ere
another week has passed his head shall be laid on that scaffold.”
“The last time I beheld that fatal spot,” returned Gunnora, “my
foster-son, the Duke of Somerset, was decapitated there. If I can avenge
him upon his foe, I shall die content.‘’
“Obey my directions implicitly, and you shall do so,” rejoined the
other.
“How are we to enter the Tower?” asked Gunnora.
“Not by the ordinary road,” replied the other, significantly. “But we
shall be observed if we linger here. Forward!”
Crossing the Hill in the direction of the City Postern, the stranger
suddenly wheeled round, and, under cover of a low wall, approached the
moat. Exactly opposite the Devilin Tower, and the bastion occupying the
north-western anglo of the exterior line of fortifications, stood at
this time, at a little distance from the moat, a small low building.
Towards this structure the stranger hastened. As he drew near it, he
glanced uneasily at the ramparts, to ascertain whether he was observed.
But though the measured tread of the sentinels and the clank of arms
were distinctly audible, he remained unperceived.
Unlocking the door, the whole party entered the building, which was
apparently deserted. After a moment’s search, the stranger discovered a
spring in the floor, which he pulled, and a trap-door opened, disclosing
a long and steep flight of steps, at the foot of which sat a man with a
mask, bearing a torch.
No sooner did this person hear the noise occasioned by the opening of
the trap-door, than he hastily ascended, and placed himself in readiness
to guide the party. On gaining the level ground, it was evident, from
the dampness of the arched roof of the passage, and the slippery surface
of the floor along which they trod, that they were far below the bottom
of the moat. Traversing this damp dark passage for more than a hundred
yards, the humid atmosphere gave place to a more wholesome air, and the
ground became drier.
Hitherto, the passage had been about three feet wide and seven high, and
was arched and flagged with stone. But they had now arrived at a point
where it became more lofty, and their further progress was checked by a
strong door plated with iron, and studded with nails. Taking a huge key
from his girdle, the man in the mask unlocked this ponderous door, and,
admitting the party, fastened it behind him. He then led them up another
stone stair-case, similar in all respects to the first, except that
it did not ascend to more than half the height. This brought them to a
vaulted gallery, from which three passages branched.
Pursuing that on the right, and preceded by his masked attendant, the
stranger strode silently along. As she followed him, Gunnora noticed
several strong doors in the wall, which she took to be entrances to
dungeons. After threading this passage, the party ascended a third short
flight of steps, at the top of which was a trap-door. It was opened by
the guide, and admitted them into a small stone chamber, the walls of
which appeared, from the embrazures of the windows, to be of immense
thickness. The roof was groined and arched. In the centre of the room
stood a small table, on which some provisions were placed. A small
copper lamp, suspended from the roof, threw a sickly light around, and
discovered a little pallet stretched in a recess on the right.
“You are now in the Bowyer’s Tower, in the chamber where it is said
the Duke of Clarence was drowned in the butt of malmsey,” observed the
stranger. “Here you will remain till your presence is required by the
Council.”
Gunnora would have remonstrated, but the stranger waved his hand to her
to keep silence, and, followed by his attendants, descended through the
trap-door, which was closed and bolted beneath.
0099
X.—HOW THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND MENACED SIMON RENARD IN SAINT PETER’S
CHAPEL ON THE TOWER-GREEN; AND HOW QUEEN JANE INTERPOSED BETWEEN THEM.
It will now be proper to ascertain how far the Duke of Northumberland
was justified in his suspicion of Queen Jane’s conduct being influenced
by some secret and adverse counsel. After the abrupt departure of Lord
Guilford Dudley for Sion House, as before related, she was greatly
distressed, and refused at first to credit the intelligence. But when
it was confirmed beyond all doubt by a message from her husband himself,
declaring that he would not return till she had acceded to his request,
she burst into tears, and withdrew to her own chamber, where she
remained for some time alone.
When she re-appeared, it was evident from her altered looks that she
had suffered deeply. But it was evident also, from her composure of
countenance and firmness of manner, that whatever resolution she had
formed she would adhere to it.
Summoning the Earls of Arundel and Pembroke to her presence, she
briefly explained to them that she had heard, with infinite concern and
uneasiness, that the council had proposed to raise her husband to
the throne, because she foresaw that it would breed trouble and
dissatisfaction, and greatly endanger her own government.
“Your highness judges rightly,” replied the Earl of Pembroke. “It will
be said that in thus elevating his son, Northumberland seeks only his
own aggrandisement.”
“And it will be truly said, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “But if this is
your opinion, why was your voice given in favour of the measure?”
“No man is bound to accuse himself,” replied Pembroke.
“But every man is bound to speak truth, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “Again
I ask you, why your assent was given to this measure, which, by your own
admission, is fraught with danger?”
“The Duke of Northumberland is my enemy,” replied the Earl, sternly.
“Had this step been taken it would have ensured his destruction.”
“You speak frankly, my lord,” rejoined the Queen. “But you forget that
it must have ensured my destruction also.”
“I am a loyal subject of your majesty,” replied the Earl of Pembroke,
“and will shed my last drop of blood in the defence of your crown. But I
will not submit to the Duke’s imperious conduct.”
“And yet, my lord, you owe your own dignity to him,” rejoined Jane,
sarcastically. “Sir William Herbert would not have been Earl of Pembroke
but for the Duke’s intercession with our cousin Edward. For shame, my
lord! you owe him too much to act against him.”
“I owe him nothing,” interposed the Earl of Arundel, “and may therefore
speak without risk of any such imputation as your majesty has thrown
out against Lord Pembroke. If the overweening power of the Duke of
Northumberland be not checked, it will end in his downfal, and the
downfal of all those with whom he is connected.”
“I thank you for your counsel, my lord,” replied the Queen; “and,
setting down much to your private animosity, will place the rest to
loyalty to myself.”
“Your highness will be speedily satisfied of the truth of my assertion,
if you refuse compliance with Northumberland’s demands,” replied
Pembroke. “But you will find it, unless you have recourse to strong
measures, a difficult and a dangerous game to play.”
“To one who, though so young in years, is yet so old in wisdom as your
majesty,” added the Earl of Arundel, “it will be needless to say,
that on the first decisive movement of your reign—as on that of a
battle—depends the victory. If you yield, all is lost. From this one
step the Duke will estimate your character, and become either your
servant or your master. From his conduct, also, you will know what to
expect from him hereafter.”
“My resolution is taken, my lords,” returned the Queen.
“The course I have resolved upon in reference to the duke, you will
learn when I meet you in the council-chamber, where he will be present
to speak for himself—and, if need be, defend himself. My desire is that
my reign should begin and proceed in peace. And, if you hope for my
favour, you will forget your differences with his grace, and act in
concert with me. In asserting my own power, I trust I shall convince him
of the futility of any further struggle with me, and so bring him to a
sense of duty.”
“Your majesty may depend upon the full support of your council,”
rejoined Arundel.
“I doubt it not, my lord,” replied Jane. “And now to the business on
which I summoned you. It may have reached you that my dear lord has
departed this morning for Sion House, in great displeasure that I have
refused to comply with his wishes.”
“We have heard as much,” replied both noblemen.
“My desire is that you hasten after him and entreat him to return with
all speed,” pursued Jane.
“Your majesty then consents!” exclaimed Pembroke, hastily.
“Not so, my lord,” replied the Queen. “I will raise him to his father’s
rank. He shall have a dukedom, but not a kingdom.”
“I would counsel your majesty to reflect ere you concede thus much,”
observed Arundel.
“I have already said that my resolution is taken,” replied the Queen.
“Repeat what I have told you to him, and entreat him to return.”
“Entreat him!” echoed Pembroke scornfully. “It is not for your highness
to entreat, but to command. Obedience sworn at the altar by the lips of
the Queen of England, is cancelled as soon as uttered. Your husband is
your subject. Empower us to bring him to you, and he shall be at your
feet within an hour.”
“My pleasure is that you literally fulfil my injunctions, my lords,”
replied the Queen. “Lord Guilford Dudley was the husband of my choice.
When I gave my hand to him at the altar, I had no thought that it
would ever grasp a sceptre, Nor, till I obtained this unlooked-for—and,
believe me, most unwished-for dignity,—did the slightest
misunderstanding ever arise between us. But now that I am compelled to
sacrifice my affections at the shrine of duty,—now that I am Queen as
well as consort—and he is subject as well as husband—this disagreement
has occurred, which a little calm reflection will put to rights.”
“What if his lordship should refuse to return with us?” asked Pembroke.
“You will use your best endeavours to induce him to do so,” replied
Jane, a tear starting to her eye, and her voice faltering in spite of
her efforts to maintain her composure. “But if you fail, I shall at
least be satisfied that I have done my duty.”
“Your majesty’s commands shall be obeyed,” replied Pembroke. “But we
must have your licence to go forth—for we are detained as prisoners
within the Tower.”
“You shall have it,” replied Jane. And she immediately wrote out the
order.
“The passport must be countersigned by the duke,” said Pembroke. “The
gate-keepers will not hold this sufficient authority.”
“How!” exclaimed Jane, reddening, “Am I not Queen? Is not my authority
absolute here?”
“Not while the duke holds his high office, gracious madam,” returned
Pembroke. “His followers give you the name of Queen. But they look up to
him as sovereign.”
“My lord, I need no assurance that you are Northumberland’s mortal
enemy,” replied Jane.
“I am your majesty’s loyal subject,” replied the earl. “And if your
passport be respected, I will confess that I have wronged him.”
“And if it be not, I will confess I have wronged you, my lord,” rejoined
Jane. “The royal barge is at your service.—An usher shall conduct you to
it.”
So saying, she motioned one of her train, to attend them, and the two
nobles bowed and departed.
As soon as they had quitted the royal presence, Pembroke observed to his
companion:—
“We have now effected a quarrel, which will end in Northumberland’s
destruction and Jane’s dethronement. Simon Renard will so fan the flame,
that it shall never be extinguished.”
As the Earl anticipated, the Queen’s pass was refused—the warders
declaring that their instructions were to suffer no one to go forth
without the Duke’s written order. They then returned to the palace. It
was some time before they were admitted to the Queen, as she was engaged
in the angry conference previously-related with her mother-in-law. When
the Duchess had departed, they sought an audience.
“How, my lords,” cried Jane, turning very pale; “do I see you again so
soon?”
“It is as I informed your highness,” replied the Earl of Pembroke,
laying the order on the table. “The Duke is master here.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Queen, starting to her feet, “am I deserted by my
husband—braved by the Duke—and treated like an infant by his imperious
dame? I cry you pardon, my lords, you have not deceived me. You are my
loyal subjects. Oh! I could weep to think how I have been deluded. But
they shall find they have not made me queen for nothing. While I
have power I will use it. My lords, I bid you to the council at noon
tomorrow. I shall summon Lord Guilford Dudley to attend it, and he will
refuse at his peril.”
“Have a care, gracious madam, how you proceed with the Duke,” replied
Pembroke. “Your royal predecessor, Edward, it is said, came not fairly
by his end. If Northumberland finds you an obstacle to his designs,
instead of a means of forwarding them, he will have little scruple in
removing you.”
“I shall be wary, doubt it not, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “To-morrow you
shall learn my pleasure. I count on your fidelity.”
“Your majesty may safely do so,” they replied. And with renewed
assurances of zeal, they departed.
“Her spirit is now fairly roused,” observed Pembroke, as they quitted
the palace. “If she hold in the same mind till to-morrow, it is all over
with Northumberland.”
“Souvent femme varie, bien fol est qui s’y fie,” observed Simon Renard,
advancing to meet them. “Let me know how you have sped.”
The Earl of Pembroke then related the particulars of their interview
with the Queen.
“All goes on as well as I could desire,” observed Renard. “But she must
come to an open rupture with him, else the crafty Duke will find some
means of soothing her wounded pride. Be that my task.”
Taking their way slowly along the outer ward, the trio passed under the
gloomy gateway of the Bloody Tower, and ascended a flight of steps on
the left leading to the Tower Green. Here (as now,) grew an avenue of
trees, and beneath their shade they found De Noailles, who instantly
joined them. Renard then entered into a full detail of his schemes,
and acquainted them with the information he had received through his
messengers, in spite of all the Duke’s precautions, of the accession
in strength which Mary’s party had received, and of the numbers who had
declared themselves in her favour. He further intimated that his agents
were at work among the people to produce a revolt in the metropolis.
As they proceeded across the Tower-green, the Earl of Pembroke paused
at a little distance from the chapel, and pointing to a square patch of
ground, edged by a border of white stones, and completely destitute of
herbage, said—
“Two Queens have perished here. On this spot stood the scaffolds of Anne
Boleyn and Catherine Howard.”
“And ere long a third shall be added to their number,” observed Renard,
gloomily.
Shaping their course towards the north-east angle of the fortress, they
stopped before a small turret, at that time called the Martin Tower, and
used as a place of confinement for state offenders, but now denominated
the Jewel Tower, from the circumstance of its being the depository of
the regalia.
“Within that tower are imprisoned the Catholic Bishops Gardiner and
Bonner,’” remarked Arundel..
“Let Mary win the crown, and it shall be tenanted by the protestants,
Cranmer and Ridley,” muttered Renard.
While the others returned to the Green, Renard lingered for an instant
to contemplate the White Tower, which is seen perhaps to greater
advantage from this point of view than from any other in the fortress.
And as it is in most respects unchanged,—excepting such repairs as
time has rendered necessary, and some alterations in the doorways and
windows, to be noted hereafter,—the modern visitor to this spot may,
if he pleases, behold it in much the same state that it appeared to the
plotting Spanish ambassador.
0104
Rising to a height of nearly a hundred feet; built in a quadrangular
form; terminated at each angle by a lofty turret, three of which are
square, while the fourth, situated at the northeast, is circular, and
of larger dimensions than the others; embattled; having walls of immense
thickness, exceeding fourteen feet, and further strengthened by broad
flat buttresses, dividing the face of the building into compartments;
lighted by deep semi-circular-arched windows;—this massive stronghold,
constructed entirely of stone,—and now in some parts defaced by a
coating of mortar and flints,—occupies an area of an hundred and sixteen
feet on the north and south, and ninety-six on the east and west. At
the south-east corner is a broad semi-circular projection, marking the
situation of St. John’s Chapel, already described. The round turret,
at the north-east angle, was used as an observatory by the celebrated
astronomer, Flamstead, in the reign of Charles the Second. The principal
entrance was on the north, and was much more spacious than the modern
doorway, which occupies its site.
At the period of this chronicle the White Tower was connected, as has
already been mentioned, on the south-east with the ancient palace.
On the south stood a fabric called the Jewel-house; while at the
south-western angle was another embattled structure of equal elevation
and dimensions with the By-ward Tower and the other gates, denominated
the Coal-harbour Tower. These, with the Lanthorn Tower and the line of
buildings extending in an easterly direction towards the Broad Arrow
Tower, have totally disappeared, and the White Tower is now disconnected
with every other edifice. For centuries it has stood, and for centuries
may it continue to stand! Within its walls the old monarchs of England
have held their councils,—within its vaults prisoners have sighed,—from
its gates queens have come forth to execution!—Long may it flourish as a
fearful memento of the past!
On the present occasion, it presented a stirring picture. From a tall
staff, planted on the roof, floated the royal standard. Cannon bristled
from its battlements, and armed men were seen marching from post to
post on its platforms. Before the principal entrance four warders were
stationed; and in front troops of arquebusiers and archers were passing
under the review of their leaders. The sound of martial music filled the
air; pennons and banners fluttered in the breeze; and pikes, steel caps,
and corslets glittered in the sunbeams. Amid these warlike groups, the
figures of the gigantic warders and their diminutive attendant, Xit,
caught the eye of Renard, and filled him with astonishment:—the
former being taller by the head and shoulders than the mass of their
companions, besides far exceeding them in bulk and size of limb; while
the latter, with more than ordinary pretensions to the dignity of
manhood, had scarcely the stature of a child. It must not be omitted in
the description of the White Tower that the summits of its four turrets
were surmounted by large vanes, each decorated with a crown, in the
hollows of which, as in our own time, the jackdaws were accustomed to
build.
After gazing at this magnificent structure for a few minutes, and
indulging in the emotions which its contemplation inspired, Simon Renard
followed his companions, and resumed his discourse. They had again
adverted to Jane, when the door of the principal entrance of the White
Tower was thrown open, and, attended by the Duchess of Suffolk and the
Ladies Hastings and Herbert, the subject of their conference issued
from it and proceeded on foot towards St. Peter’s Chapel. The road was
immediately cleared by her attendants, and the three gigantic warders
and their tiny companion marched before her, and planted themselves
on either side of the chapel door. Glancing significantly at his
companions, Renard motioned them to follow him, and hurried towards the
sacred pile.
“What! you a rigid Catholic, M. Renard.” observed Pembroke, “about to
attend Protestant worship? Hopes may be entertained of your conversion.”
“Stronger hopes may be entertained that I shall restore the ancient
worship,” muttered Renard, as he entered the chapel, and took his place
unobserved by the Queen behind one of the columns of the aisle, while
she advanced to the altar.
Erected in the reign of Edward the First, the little chapel of St. Peter
ad Vincula (the parochial church—for the Tower, it is almost needless to
say, is a parish in itself), is the second structure occupying the same
site and dedicated to the same saint. The earlier fabric was much more
spacious, and contained two chancels, with stalls for the king and
queen, as appears from the following order for its repair issued in the
reign of Henry the Third, and recorded by Stow:—“The king to the keepers
of the Tower work, sendeth greeting: We command you to brush or plaster
with lime well and decently the chancel of St. Mary in the church of St.
Peter within the bailiwick of our Tower of London, and the chancel of
St. Peter in the same church; and from the entrance of the chancel of
St. Peter to the space of four feet beyond the stalls made for our
own and our queen’s use in the same church; and the same stalls to
be painted. And the little Mary with her shrine and the images of St.
Peter, St. Nicholas, and Katherine, and the beam beyond the altar of St.
Peter, and the little cross with its images to be coloured anew, and to
be refreshed with good colours. And that ye cause to be made a certain
image of St. Christopher holding and carrying Jesus where it may best
and most conveniently be done, and painted in the foresaid church. And
that ye cause two fair tables to be made and painted of the best colours
concerning the stories of the blessed Nicholas and Katherine, before the
altars of the said saints in the same church. And that ye cause to be
made two fair cherubims with a cheerful and joyful countenance standing
on the right and left of the great cross in the said church. And
moreover, one marble font with marble pillars well and handsomely
wrought.”
Thus much respecting the ancient edifice. The more recent chapel is a
small, unpretending stone structure, and consists of a nave and an aisle
at the north, separated by pointed arches, supported by clustered stone
pillars of great beauty. Its chief interest is derived from the many
illustrious and ill-fated dead crowded within its narrow walls.
Here rested, for a brief season, the body of John Fisher, Bishop
of Rochester, beheaded in 1535, for denying the king’s supremacy—“a
prelate,” says Holinshed, “of great learning and of very good life. The
Pope had elected him a cardinal and sent his hat as far as Calais. But
his head was off before his hat was on, so that they met not.” Next to
Fisher was interred his friend, the wise, the witty, the eloquent Sir
Thomas More, whom Hall, the chronicler, hesitates whether he shall
describe as “a foolish wise man, or a wise foolish man,”—and who
jested even on the scaffold. His body was afterwards removed, at the
intercession of his daughter, Margaret Roper, to Chelsea. Here also
was interred the last of the right line of the Plantagenets, Margaret,
Countess of Salisbury, the mother of Cardinal Pole. The venerable
countess refused to lay her head upon the block, saying (as Lord Herbert
of Cherbury reports),—“‘So should traitors do, and I am none.’ Neither
did it serve that the executioner told her it was the fashion:—so
turning her grey head every way, she bid him, if he would have it, to
get it as he could: so he was constrained to fetch it off slovenly.”
Here also was deposited the headless trunk of another of Henry the
Eighth’s victims, Thomas Lord Cromwell, the son of a blacksmith, who,
having served as a common soldier under Bourbon, at the sack of Rome,
entered Wolsey’s service, and rose to be Grand Chamberlain of the realm.
Here, in Elizabeth’s reign, were brought the remains of Thomas Howard,
Duke of Norfolk, who aspired to the hand of the Queen of Scots. And here
also were laid those of Robert Devereux, the rash and ill-fated Earl
of Essex. Under the communion-table was interred, at a later date, the
daring and unfortunate Duke of Monmouth, who fell a sacrifice to his
ambition. And to come down to yet more recent times, beneath the little
gallery at the west of the chapel, were buried the three leaders of the
rebellion of 1745—Lords Kilmarnock, Balmerino, and Lovat.
There were four other graves, which, as being more nearly connected with
the personages introduced in this chronicle, it will be proper to
notice separately. Before the altar, on the west, a plain flag bore the
inscription “Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, 1552.” On the next grave
to that of the great Lord Protector was written “Katherine Howard,”
and on the adjoining stone, “Anne Boleyn” These two queens,—equally
unfortunate, but not, perhaps, equally culpable,—perished within five
years of each other—the latter suffering in 1536, the former in 1541.
Close to the wall on the right, a fourth grave bore the name of “Thomas
Seymour, Baron Sudley.” Seymour was brother to the Duke of Somerset,
and Lord High Admiral of England; and the only stain on the Protector’s
otherwise reproachless character is, that he signed his death-warrant,
and declined to use the power he undoubtedly possessed, of procuring his
pardon. The fiery and ambitious Admiral was beheaded in 1549.
Between this grave and that of Anne Boleyn intervened a plain stone,
unmarked by any inscription, and indicating a vacant tomb. Beneath this
flag, eighteen months after the execution of his victim, the Duke of
Somerset—and barely six weeks from the day on which this chronicle
opens—was deposited the headless trunk of the once all-powerful and
arrogant Northumberland.
The service over, as the Queen was about to depart, Simon Renard
advanced to meet her. Returning his ceremonious salutation by a
dignified greeting, Jane, with a look of some surprise, inquired the
cause of his presence..
“I might have chosen a more fitting season and place for an audience
with your majesty,” replied Renard, in the low and silvery tone which he
could adopt at pleasure. “But I have that to communicate which emboldens
me to break through all forms.”
“Declare it then, sir,” replied the Queen.
Renard glanced significantly at her. She understood him, and motioning
her attendants to withdraw to a little distance, they obeyed; and Lady
Hastings seized the opportunity of despatching a messenger to her father
to acquaint him with the circumstance, as already related.
What was the nature of the disclosure made by the wily ambassador to the
Queen, it is not our present purpose to reveal. That it was important
was evident from the deep attention she paid to it; and it was apparent,
also, from her changing looks and agitated demeanour, that her fears
were greatly aroused.
As Renard proceeded, her uneasiness increased so much that she could
scarcely support herself, and her attendants were about to hasten to her
assistance, when a gesture from the ambassador checked them.
Different inferences were drawn by the various witnesses of this
singular interview. But all were satisfied of the ascendancy which
Renard had, in some manner, acquired over the youthful sovereign. While
glances of triumph were exchanged between the conspiring lords, who
watched them from their station in the aisle, the greatest misgivings
were experienced by the Ladies Hastings and Herbert. Unable to
comprehend the mystery, they were so much struck with the peculiar
expression of Jane’s countenance, which precisely resembled the look
she wore after the mysterious occurrence in St. John’s Chapel, that they
could not help thinking the present conference had some relation to that
event.
Renard’s manner, indeed, was so extraordinary that it furnished some
clue to the nature of his discourse. Casting off the insinuating tone
and deferential deportment with which he had commenced, he gradually
assumed a look and accent of command, and almost of menace. His figure
dilated, and fixing his black flaming eye upon the trembling Queen, he
stamped his foot upon the vacant grave on which he was standing, and
said, in a voice so loud that it reached the ears of the listeners,
“Your Majesty will never wear your crown in safety till Northumberland
lies here.”
Before any answer could be returned, the door of the chapel was suddenly
thrown open, and the Duke presented himself. A momentary change passed
over Renard’s countenance at this interruption. But he instantly
recovered his composure, and folding his arms upon his breast, awaited
the result.
Unable to control his indignation, the Duke strode towards them, and
flinging his jewelled cap on the ground, drew his sword.
“M. Renard,” he exclaimed, “you are a traitor!”
“To whom, my lord?” replied Renard, calmly.
“To me—to the Queen,” rejoined the Duke.
“If to be your grace’s enemy is to be a traitor, I confess I am one,”
retorted Renard sternly. “But I am no traitor to her majesty.”
“It is false!” exclaimed the Duke, furiously. “You are her worst and
most dangerous enemy. And nothing but the sacred spot in which you have
sought shelter, prevents me from taking instant vengeance upon you.”
Renard smiled disdainfully.
“Your grace threatens safely,” he said, in a taunting tone.
“Insolent!” exclaimed the Duke, roused to a pitch of ungovernable fury.
“Draw and defend yourself, or I will strike you dead at my feet.”
0110
“Put up your sword, my lord,” cried Jane, throwing herself between them.
“You forget in whose presence you stand.”
“No!” exclaimed Northumberland, “I do not forget. I am in the presence
of one who owes her authority to me—and who holds it through me. The
same power which made you queen, can as readily unmake you.”
“Your majesty will now judge who is the traitor,” observed Renard,
sarcastically.
“I do,” she replied. “I command your grace,” she continued,
authoritatively addressing Northumberland, “to quit the chapel
instantly.”
“What if I refuse to obey?” rejoined the Duke.
“Your grace will do well not to urge me too far,” replied Jane. “Obey
me, or take the consequences.”
“What are they?” cried the Duke contemptuously.
“Your arrest,” said the Earl of Pembroke, laying his hand upon his
sword, and advancing. “If his grace will not submit himself to your
highness’s authority, we will compel him to do so.”
“Jane!” said the Duke, suddenly controlling himself—“be warned before it
is too late. You are in the hands of those who will destroy you.”
“On the contrary,” rejoined Renard, “her majesty is in the hands of
those who will uphold her, and destroy you?
“No more of this,” interposed the Queen. “If you are, what you profess
yourselves, my faithful subjects, you will reconcile your differences.”
“Never!” exclaimed the Duke. “Let M. Renard look to himself.”
“Another such menace, my lord,” said Jane, “and I place you in arrest.”
“Threatened men live long,” observed Renard. “I beseech your majesty not
to place any restraint upon his grace.”
“Will your highness grant me a moment’s speech with you!” said
Northumberland, sheathing his sword.
“Not now, my lord,” replied Jane. “To-morrow, at the council, you shall
be fully heard. And I charge you, by your allegiance, to cease all
hostilities till then. Have I your knightly word for this?”
“You have,” replied the Duke, after a moment’s reflection.
“And yours, M. Renard?” continued the Queen, turning to him.
“Since his grace has passed his word I cannot withhold mine,” replied
the ambassador. “But I give it with reluctance.”
“Your grace will not fail to attend the council to-morrow,” said Jane.
“If your highness desires it I will not, undoubtedly,” replied the Duke.
“But since you decline to act upon my advice, there can be little need
for my presence.”
“My wishes—my commands are, that you attend,” rejoined the Queen.
“Your wishes are commands,” rejoined the Duke. “I will be there.”
“Enough,” replied Jane. “M. Renard, you will accompany me to the
palace.”
As the ambassador was preparing to depart, he perceived Northumberland’s
cap lying at his feet.
“Your grace’s hat,” he observed, pointing to it. And glancing
significantly at Jane, he added, in an audible whisper, “Would the head
were in it!”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Duke, laying his hand upon his sword. “But you are
safe till to-morrow.”
Renard made no reply, but with a smile of exultation followed the Queen
out of the chapel.
XI.—HOW THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND WAS PREVAILED UPON TO UNDERTAKE THE
ENTERPRISE AGAINST THE LADY MARY.
At noon on the following day, the Council was held as appointed by the
Queen. In the meantime, alarming intelligence having been received of
the accession which Mary’s party had obtained, it became absolutely
necessary that immediate and decisive measures should be taken against
her.
As soon as the Lords of the Council, including the two ambassadors,
Renard and Noailles, were assembled, and the Queen had taken her
seat upon the throne, the Earl of Pembroke stepped forward, and thus
addressed her:—
“It is with infinite concern that I have to apprise your majesty that
news has just been brought that Sir Edward Hastings, with an army of
four thousand men, has gone over to the Lady Mary. Five counties also
have revolted. Your highness is already aware that the Earls of Sussex,
Bath and Oxford, Lord Wentworth, Sir Thomas Cornwallis and Sir Henry
Jerningham, have raised the commoners of Suffolk and Norfolk. Lord
Windsor, Sir Edmund Peckham, Sir Robert Drury, and Sir Edward Hastings,
have now raised those of Buckinghamshire. Sir John Williams and Sir
Leonard Chamberlain have stirred up a party in Oxfordshire, and Sir
Thomas Tresham another in Northamptonshire. These rebels with their
companies are now marching towards Framlingham Castle.”
“The revolt must be instantly checked,” rejoined Jane. “An army must be
sent against her.”
“To whom will your majesty entrust its command?” inquired the Earl of
Pembroke.
“To one well fitted for the office,—my father, the Duke of Suffolk,”
answered the Queen.
“My advice is, that it be given to the Duke of Northumberland,” said the
Earl of Arundel. “Wherever he has carried his arms—in Scotland and in
France—he has been victorious. The recollection of the defeat sustained
by the rebels at Dussindale will operate in his favour. His grace has
every recommendation for the office. Having achieved the victory of
Norfolk once already, he will be so feared that none will dare to lift
up a weapon against him. Besides which, I need scarcely remind your
highness, who must be familiar with his high reputation, that he is the
best man of war in the realm, as well for the ordering of his camps
and soldiers, both in battle and in the tent, as for his experience and
wisdom, with which he can both animate his army and either vanquish his
enemies by his courage and skill, or else dissuade them (if need be,)
from their enterprise.”
“My voice is for Northumberland,” cried Cecil.
“And mine,” added Huntingdon.
“We are all unanimous,” cried the rest of the Council.
“Your grace hears the opinion just given,” said Jane. “Will you
undertake the command?”.
“No,” answered the Duke, bluntly. “I will shed my blood in your
majesty’s defence. But I see through the designs, of your artful
council, and will not be made their dupe. Their object is to withdraw me
from you. Let the Duke of Suffolk take the command. I will maintain the
custody of the Tower.”
“Do not suffer him to decline it,” whispered Simon Renard to the Queen.
“By this means you will accomplish a double purpose—insure a victory
over Mary, and free yourself from the yoke he will otherwise impose upon
you. If the Duke of Suffolk departs, and he is left absolute master of
the Tower, you will never attain your rightful position.”
“You are right,” replied Jane. “My lord,” she continued, addressing the
Duke, “I am satisfied that the Council mean you well. And I pray you,
therefore, to acquiesce in their wishes and my own.”.
“Why will not your highness send the Duke of Suffolk, as you have this
moment proposed?” rejoined Northumberland.
“I have bethought me,” replied the Queen. “And as my husband has thought
fit to absent himself from me at this perilous juncture, I am resolved
not to be left without a protector. Your grace will, therefore, deliver
up the keys of the Tower to the Duke of Suffolk.”
“Nay, your majesty,”—cried Northumberland.
“I will have no nay, my lord,” interrupted the Queen peremptorily. “I
will in nowise consent that my father shall leave me. To whom else would
your grace entrust the command?”
The Duke appeared to reflect for a moment.
“I know no one,” he answered.
“Then your grace must perforce consent,” said the Queen.
“If your majesty commands it, I must. But I feel it is a desperate
hazard,” replied Northumberland.
“It is so desperate,” whispered Pembroke to Renard,—“that he has not one
chance in his favour.”
“The Council desire to know your grace’s determination?” said Arundel.
“My determination is this,” rejoined the Duke. “Since you think it good,
I will go,—not doubting your fidelity to the Queen’s majesty, whom I
shall leave in your custody.”
“He is lost!” whispered Renard.
“Your grace’s commission for the lieutenantship of the army shall be
signed at once,” said Jane; “and I beseech you to use all diligence.”
“I will do what in me lies,” replied the Duke. “My retinue shall meet me
at Durham House to-night. And I will see the munition and artillery set
forward before daybreak.”
A pause now ensued, during which the Duke’s commission was signed by the
whole Council.
“It is his death-warrant,” observed Renard to the Earl of Arundel.
“Here is your warrant, under the broad seal of England,” said the Earl
of Pembroke, delivering it to him.
“I must have my marches prescribed,” replied the Duke. “I will do
nothing without authority.”
“What say you, my lords?” said Pembroke, turning to them.
“Agree at once,” whispered Renard—“he is planning his own ruin.”
“Your grace shall have full powers and directions,” rejoined Pembroke.
“It is well,” replied Northumberland. “My lords,” he continued
with great dignity, addressing the Council, “I and the other noble
personages, with the whole army that are now about to go forth, as well
for the behalf of you and yours, as for the establishing of the Queen’s
highness, shall not only adventure our bodies and lives amongst the
bloody strokes and cruel assaults of our adversaries in the open fields;
but also we leave the conservation of ourselves, children and families,
at home here with you, as altogether committed to your truth and
fidelity. If,” he proceeded sternly, “we thought you would through
malice, conspiracy, or dissension, leave us, your friends, in the briars
and betray us, we could as well, in sundry ways, foresee and provide for
our own safety, as any of you, by betraying us, can do for yours. But
now, upon the only trust and faithfulness of your honours, whereof we
think ourselves most assured, we do hazard our lives. And if ye shall
violate your trust and promise, hoping thereby of life and promotion,
yet shall not God account you innocent of our bloods, neither acquit
you of the sacred and holy oath of allegiance, made freely by you to
the Queen’s highness, who, by your own and our enticement, is rather
of force placed therein, than by her own seeking and request. Consider,
also, that God’s cause, which is the preferment of his word, and fear of
Papists’ entrance, hath been (as you have heretofore always declared,)
the original ground whereupon you even at the first motion granted your
good wills and consents thereunto, as by your handwritings appeareth.
And think not the contrary. But if ye mean deceit, though not forthwith,
yet hereafter, Heaven will revenge the same.”
“Your grace wrongs us by these suspicions,” observed the Earl of
Arundel.
“I will say no more,” rejoined the Duke, “but in this perilous time wish
you to use constant hearts, abandoning all malice, envy, and private
affections.”
“Doubt it not,” said Cecil.
“I have not spoken to you in this sort upon any mistrust I have of your
truths,” pursued the Duke, “of which I have always hitherto conceived
a trusty confidence. But I have put you in remembrance thereof, in case
any variance should arise amongst you in my absence. And this I
pray you, wish me not worse good-speed in this matter than you wish
yourselves.”
“We shall all agree on one point,” observed Pembroke aside to
Renard—“and that is a hope that he may never return.”
“If your grace mistrusts any of us in this matter, you are deceived,”
rejoined Arundel, “for which of us can wash his hands of it. And if we
should shrink from you as treasonable, which of us can excuse himself as
guiltless. Therefore, your doubt is too far cast.”
“I pray Heaven it be so,” replied the Duke, gravely. “Brother of
Suffolk, I resign the custody of the Tower to you, entreating you, if
you would uphold your daughter’s crown, to look well to your charge. I
now take my leave of your highness.”
“Heaven speed your grace,” replied Jane, returning his haughty
salutation.
“Farewell, my lord,” said the Earl of Arundel, “I am right sorry it
is not my chance to bear you company, as I would cheerfully spend my
heart’s blood in your defence.”
“Judas!” muttered the Duke.
Upon this, the Council broke up, and Jane returned to the palace,
accompanied by the Duke of Suffolk, the two ambassadors, and others of
the conspiring nobles.
“We may give each other joy,” said Pembroke to Renard, as they walked
along—“we are at last rid of Northumberland. Suffolk will be easily
disposed of.”
“Queen Mary shall be proclaimed in London, before tomorrow night,”
rejoined Renard.
Meanwhile, the Duke, attended by the Marquis of Northampton, the Lord
Grey, and divers other noblemen, entered his barge, and proceeded to
Durham House. On the same night, he mustered his troops, and made every
preparation for his departure, As he rode forth on the following morning
through Shoreditch, great crowds collected to see him pass. But they
maintained a sullen and ominous silence.
“The people press to see us,” observed the Duke, in a melancholy tone,
to Lord Grey, who rode by his side; “but not one saith God speed us!”
0117
XII.—HOW MAGOG BECAME ENAMOURED OF A BUXOM WIDOW, YCLEPED DAME PLACIDA
PASTON; HOW HE WENT A WOOING; AND HOW HE PROSPERED IN HIS SUIT.
ON the night of the Duke of Northumberland’s departure, as the three
gigantic warders and their dwarfish attendant were assembled in their
lodging in the By-ward Tower, preparatory to their evening meal, the
conduct of Magog, which had been strange enough throughout the day,
became so very extraordinary and unaccountable, that his brethren began
to think he must have taken leave of his senses. Flinging his huge
frame on a bench, he sighed and groaned, or rather bellowed, like an
over-driven ox, and rolling his great saucer eyes upwards, till the
whites only were visible, thumped his chest with a rapid succession of
blows, that sounded like the strokes of a sledgehammer. But the worst
symptom, in the opinion of the others, was his inability to eat. Magog’s
case must, indeed, be desperate, if he had no appetite for supper—and
such a supper! Seldom had their board been so abundantly and invitingly
spread as on the present occasion—and Magog refused to partake of it. He
must either be bewitched, or alarmingly ill.
Supplied by the provident attention of the pantler and his spouse,
the repast consisted of a cold chine of beef, little the worse for its
previous appearance at the royal board; a mighty lumber pie, with a wall
of pastry several inches thick, moulded to resemble the White Tower,
and filled with a savoury mess of ham and veal, enriched by a goodly
provision of forcemeat balls, each as large as a cannon-shot; a soused
gurnet floating in claret; a couple of pullets stuffed with oysters, and
served with a piquant sauce of oiled butter and barberries; a skirret
pasty; an apple tansy; and a prodigious marrow pudding. Nor, in this
bill of fare, must be omitted an enormous loaf, baked expressly for the
giants, and compounded of nearly a bushel of mingled wheaten flour
and barley, which stood at one end of the table, while at the opposite
extremity was placed a nine-hooped pot of mead—the distance between each
hoop denoting a quart of the humming fluid.
But all these good things were thrown away upon Magog. With some
persuasion he was induced to take his seat at the table, but after
swallowing a single mouthful of the beef, he laid down his knife and
fork, and left the rest untasted. In vain Og urged him to try the
pullets, assuring him he would find them delicious, as they were cooked
by Dame Potentia herself:—in vain Gog scooped out the most succulent
morsels from the depths of the lumber pie, loading his plate with
gobbets of fat and forcemeat balls. He declined both offers with a
melancholy shake of the head, and began to sigh and groan more dismally
than ever.
Exchanging significant looks with each other, the two giants thought it
best to leave him to himself, and assiduously addressed themselves to
their own meal. By way of setting him a good example, they speedily
cleared the chine to the bone. The gurnet was next despatched; and
a considerable inroad made into the lumber pie,—three of its turrets
having already disappeared,—when, as if roused from a trance, Magog
suddenly seized the marrow pudding, and devoured it in a trice. He then
applied himself to the nine-hooped pot, and taking a long deep draught,
appeared exceedingly relieved.
But his calmness was of short duration. The fit almost instantly
returned with fresh violence. Without giving the slightest intimation
of his intention, he plucked his cap from his brow, and flung it at Xit,
who chanced at the moment to be perched upon a stool stirring a great
pan of sack posset, set upon a chafing-dish to warm, with such force
as to precipitate him over head and ears into the liquid, which,
fortunately, was neither hot enough to scald him, nor deep enough to
drown him. When he reappeared, the mannikin uttered a shrill scream
of rage and terror; and Og, who could not help laughing at his comical
appearance, hastened to his assistance, and extricated him from his
unpleasant situation.
By the aid of a napkin, Xit was speedily restored to a state of
tolerable cleanliness, and though his habiliments were not a little
damaged by the viscous fluid in which they had been immersed, he
appeared to have suffered more in temper than in any other way from
the accident. While Og was rubbing him dry,—perhaps with no very gentle
hand,—he screamed and cried like a peevish infant undergoing the process
of ablution; and he was no sooner set free, than darting to the spot
where Magog’s cap had fallen, he picked it up, and dipping it in
the sack-posset, hurled it in its owners face. Delighted with this
retaliation, he crowed and swaggered about the room, and stamping
fiercely upon the ground, tried to draw his sword; but this he found
impossible, it being fast glued to the scabbard. Magog, however, paid no
sort of attention to his antics, but having wiped his face with the end
of the table-cloth, and wrung his bonnet, marched deliberately out
of the room. His brothers glanced at each other in surprise, and were
hesitating whether to follow, when they were relieved from further
anxiety on this score by Xit, who hurried after him. They then very
quietly returned to the repast, and trusting all would come right,
contented themselves with such interjectional remarks as did not
interfere with the process of mastication. In this way they continued,
until the return of Xit, who, as he entered the room, exclaimed, with a
half-merry, half-mischievous expression of countenance, “I have found it
out—I have found it out.”
“Found out what?” cried out both giants.
“He is in love,” replied the dwarf.
“Magog in love!” ejaculated Og, starting. “Impossible!”
“You shall be convinced to the contrary if you will come with me,”
rejoined Xit. “I have seen him enter the house. And, what is more, I
have seen the lady.”
“Who is she?” demanded Gog.
“Can you not guess,” rejoined Xit.
“The fair Cicely,” returned the giant.
“You are wide of the mark,” replied the dwarf—“though, I confess, she is
lovely enough to turn his head outright. But he is not so moonstruck
as to aspire to her. Had I sought her hand, there might have been some
chance of success. But Magog—pshaw!”
“Tush!” cried Og, “I will be sworn it is Mistress Bridget Crumbewell,
the Bowyer’s daughter, who hath bewitched him. I have noted that she
hath cast many an amorous glance at him of late. It is she, I’ll be
sworn.”
“Then you are forsworn, for it is not Bridget Crumbewell,” rejoined
Xit—“the object of his affections is a widow.”
“A widow!” exclaimed both giants—“then he is lost.”
“I see not that,” replied the dwarf. “Magog might do worse than espouse
Dame Placida Paston. Her husband, old Miles Paston, left a good round
sum behind him, and a good round widow too. She has a bright black eye,
a tolerable waist for so plump a person, and as neat an ancle as can
be found within the Tower, search where you will. I am half disposed to
enter the lists with him.”
“Say you so,” replied Og, laughing at the dwarf’s presumption, “then
e’en make the attempt. And such assistance as we can render, shall
not be wanting; for neither Gog nor I—if I do not misapprehend his
sentiments—have any desire that our brother should enter into the holy
state of matrimony.”
“Right, brother,” rejoined Gog; “we must prevent it if possible, and I
see not a better way than that you propose. If it does nothing else, it
will afford us excellent pastime.”
“Excuse me a moment,” observed Xit. “If I am to play the suitor to
advantage, I must change my dress. I will return on the instant, and
conduct you to Dame Placida’s dwelling.”
So saying, he withdrew for a short space, during which he arrayed
himself in his holiday garments. “Magog will have no chance,” he
observed, as he strutted into the room, and glanced at his pigmy limbs
with an air of intense self-satisfaction; “the widow is already won.”
“If she be as fond of apes as some of her sex, she is so,” replied Og;
“but widows are not so easily imposed upon.”
The two giants, who, during Xit’s absence had entirely cleared the
board, and wound up the repast by emptying the nine-hooped pot, now
expressed themselves ready to start. Accordingly, they set out, and,
preceded by Xit, shaped their course along the southern ward, and
passing beneath the gateway of the Bloody Tower, ascended the hill
leading to the Green, on the right of which, as at the present time,
stood a range of buildings inhabited by the warders and other retainers
of the royal household.
Before one of these Xit stopped, and pointing to an open window about
six feet from the ground, desired Gog to raise him up to it, The giant
complied, when they beheld a sight that filled them with merriment. Upon
a stout oak table—for there was no chair in the domicile sufficiently
large to sustain him—sat Magog, his hand upon his breast, and his eyes
tenderly fixed upon a comely dame, who was presenting him with a large
foaming pot of ale. The languishing expression of the giant’s large
lumpish features was so irresistibly diverting, that it was impossible
to help laughing; and the lookers-on only restrained themselves, in the
hope of witnessing something still more diverting.
0121
Dame Placida Paston had a short plump (perhaps a little too plump, and
yet it is difficult to conceive how that can well be,) figure; a round
rosy face, the very picture of amiability and good humour; a smooth
chin, dimpling cheeks, and the brightest and merriest black eyes
imaginable. Her dress was neatness itself, and her dwelling as neat as
her dress. With attractions like these, no wonder she captivated many a
heart, and among others that of Magog, who had long nourished a secret
passion for her, but could not muster courage to declare it—for, with a
bluff and burly demeanour towards his own sex, the giant was as bashful
as a shamefaced stripling in the presence of any of womankind.
With the tact peculiarly belonging to widows, Dame Placida had
discovered the state of affairs, and perhaps being not altogether
unwilling to discourage him, having accidentally met him on the Tower
Green on the day in question, had invited him to visit her in the
evening. It was this invitation which had so completely upset the
love-sick giant. The same bashfulness that prevented him from making
known his attachment to the object of it, kept him silent towards his
brethren, as he feared to excite their ridicule.
On his arrival at her abode, Dame Placida received him with the utmost
cordiality, and tried to engage him in conversation. But all without
effect.
“I see how it is,” she thought; “there is nothing like a little strong
liquor to unloose a man’s longue.” And she forthwith proceeded to a
cupboard to draw a pot of ale. It was at this juncture that she was
discovered by the observers outside.
Magog received the proffered jug, and fixing a tender look on the fair
donor, pressed his huge hand to his heart, and drained it to the last
drop. The widow took back the empty vessel, and smilingly inquired if he
would have it replenished. The giant replied faintly in the negative,—so
faintly, that she was about to return to the cupboard for a fresh
supply, when Magog caught her hand, and flung himself on his knees
before her. In this posture he was still considerably the taller of the
two; but bending himself as near to the ground as possible, he was about
to make his proposal in due form, when he was arrested by a tremendous
peal of laughter from without, and, looking up, beheld Xit seated on the
window-sill, while behind him appeared the grinning countenances of his
brethren.
Ashamed and enraged at being thus detected, Magog sprang to his feet,
and seizing Xit by the nape of the neck, would have inflicted some
severe chastisement upon him, if Dame Placida had not interfered to
prevent it. At her solicitation, the mannikin was released; and he no
sooner found himself at liberty, than, throwing himself at her feet, he
protested he was dying for her. Perhaps it might be from a certain love
of teazing, inherent even in the best-tempered of her sex, or, perhaps,
she thought such a course might induce Magog more fully to declare
himself; but whatever motive influenced her, certain it is that Dame
Placida appeared by no means displeased with her diminutive suitor, but
suffered him, after a decent show of reluctance, to take her hand.
Thus encouraged, the dwarf was so elated, that springing upon a chair,
he endeavoured to snatch a kiss. But the widow, having no idea of
allowing such a liberty, gave him a smart box on the ear, which
immediately brought him to the ground.
Notwithstanding this rebuff, Xit would have persevered, had not Magog,
whose feelings were really interested, begun to appear seriously angry.
Seeing this, he judged it prudent to desist, and contented himself with
entreating the widow to declare which of the two she preferred. Dame
Placida replied, that she must take a few hours to consider upon it,
but invited them both to supper on the following evening, when she would
deliver her answer. Having given a similar invitation to the two giants
outside, she dismissed the whole party.