Several days had now elapsed since Cholmondeley was thrown into the
dungeon, and during that time he had been visited only at long intervals
by Nightgall. To all his menaces, reproaches, and entreaties, the
jailor turned a deaf ear. He smiled grimly as he set down the scanty
provisions—a loaf and a pitcher of water—with which he supplied his
captive; but he could not be induced to speak. When questioned about
Cicely and upbraided with his perfidy, his countenance assumed an
exulting expression which Cholmondeley found so intolerable that he
never again repeated his inquiries. Left to himself, his whole time was
passed in devising some means of escape. He tried, but ineffectually,
to break his bonds, and at last, satisfied of its futility, gave up the
attempt.
One night, he was disturbed by the horrible and heartrending shrieks of
the female prisoner, who had contrived to gain access to his cell.
There was something about this mysterious person that inspired him with
unaccountable dread; and though he was satisfied she was a being of this
world, the conviction did not serve to lessen his fears. After making
the dungeon ring with her cries for some time, she became silent, and as
he heard no sound and could distinguish nothing, he concluded she must
have departed. Just then the unlocking of a distant door and a gleam of
sickly light on the walls of the stone passage announced the approach of
Nightgall, and the next moment he entered the cell. The light fell upon
a crouching female figure in one corner. The jailor started; and his
angry ejaculations caused the poor creature to raise her head.
Cholmondeley had never beheld anything so ghastly as her countenance,
and he half doubted whether he did not look upon a tenant of the grave.
Her eyes were sunken and lustreless; her cheeks thin and rigid, and
covered with skin of that deadly paleness which is seen in plants
deprived of light; her flesh shrunken to the bone, and her hands like
those of a skeleton. But in spite of all this emaciation, there was
something in her features that seemed to denote that she had once been
beautiful, and her condition in life exalted. The terror she exhibited
at the approach of the jailor proved the dreadful usage she had
experienced. In answer to his savage ejaculations to her to follow him,
she flung herself on her knees, and raised her hands in the most piteous
supplication. Nothing moved by this, Nightgall was about to seize her
and drag her away, when with a piercing scream she darted from him, and
took refuge behind Cholmondeley.
“Save me!—save me from him!” she shrieked; “he will kill me.”
“Pshaw!” cried the jailor. “Come with me quietly, Alexia, and you shall
have a warmer cell, and better food.”
“I will not go,” she replied. “I will not answer to that name. Give me
my rightful title and I will follow you.”
“What is your title?” asked Cholmondeley, eagerly.
“Beware!” interposed Nightgall, raising his hand menacingly. “Beware!”
“Heed him not!” cried Cholmondeley; “he shall not harm you. Tell me how
you are called?”
“I have forgotten,” replied the terrified woman, evasively. “I had
another name once. But I am called Alexia now.”
“What has become of your child?” asked Cholmondeley.
“My child!” she echoed, with a frightful scream. “I have lost her in
these dungeons. I sometimes see her before me running and clapping her
little hands. Ah! there she is—coming towards us. She has long fair
hair—light blue eyes—blue as the skies I shall never behold again. Do
you not see her?”
“No,” replied Cholmondeley, trembling. “How is she named?”
“She died unbaptised,” replied the female. “But I meant to call her
Angela. Ah! see! she answers to the name—she approaches. Angela! my
child!—my child!” And the miserable creature extended her arms, and
seemed to clasp a phantom to her bosom.
“Alexia!” roared the jailor, fiercely, “follow me, or I will have you
scourged by the tormentor.”
“He dare not—he will not,”—cried Cholmondeley, to whom the wretched
woman clung convulsively. “Do not go with him.”
“Alexia,” reiterated the jailor, in a tone of increased fury.
“I must go,” she cried, breaking from the esquire, “or he will kill me.”
And with a noiseless step she glided after Nightgall.
Cholmondeley listened intently, and as upon a former occasion, heard
stifled groans succeeded by the clangour of a closing door, and then
all was hushed. The jailor returned no more that night. When he
appeared again, it was with a moodier aspect than ever. He set down the
provisions, and instantly departed.
While meditating upon various means of escape, an idea at length
occurred to the young esquire upon which he resolved to act. He
determined to feign death. Accordingly, though half famished, he left
his provisions untouched; and when Nightgall next visited the cell,
he found him stretched on the ground, apparently lifeless. Uttering a
savage laugh, the jailor held the light over the supposed corpse, and
exclaimed, “At last I am fairly rid of him. Cicely will now be mine.
I will fling him into the burial-vault near the moat. But first to
unfasten this chain.”
So saying, he took a small key from the bunch at his girdle and unlocked
the massive fetters that bound Cholmondeley to the wall. During this
operation the esquire held his breath, and endeavoured to give his limbs
the semblance of death. But the jailor’s suspicions were aroused.
“He cannot have been long dead,” he muttered, “perhaps he is only in
a trance. This shall make all secure.” And drawing his dagger, he was
about to plunge it in the bosom of the esquire, when the latter being
now freed from his bondage, suddenly started to his feet, and flung
himself upon him.
The suddenness of the action favoured its success. Before Nightgall
recovered from his surprise, the poniard was wrested from his grasp and
held at his throat. In the struggle that ensued, he received a wound
which brought him senseless to the ground; and Cholmondeley, thinking
it needless to despatch him, contented himself with chaining him to the
wall.
Possessing himself of the jailor’s keys, he was about to depart, when
Nightgall, who at that moment regained his consciousness, and with it
all his ferocity, strove to intercept him. On discovering his situation,
he uttered a torrent of impotent threats and execrations. The only reply
deigned by the esquire to his menaces, was an assurance that he was
about to set free the miserable Alexia.
Quitting the cell, Cholmondeley turned off on the left, in the direction
whence he imagined the shrieks had proceeded. Here he beheld a range
of low strong doors, the first of which he unlocked with one of the
jailor’s keys. The prison was unoccupied. He opened the next, but with
no better success. It contained nothing except a few rusty links of
chain attached to an iron staple driven into the floor. In the third he
found a few mouldering bones; and the fourth was totally empty. He then
knocked at the doors of others, and called the miserable captive by her
name in a loud voice. But no answer was returned.
At the extremity of the passage he found an open door, leading to a
small circular chamber, in the centre of which stood a heavy stone
pillar. From this pillar projected a long iron bar, sustaining a coil
of rope, terminated by a hook. On the ground lay an immense pair of
pincers, a curiously-shaped saw, and a brasier. In one corner stood a
large oaken frame, about three feet high, moved by rollers. At the other
was a ponderous wooden machine, like a pair of stocks. Against the wall
hung a broad hoop of iron, opening in the middle with a hinge—a horrible
instrument of torture, termed “The Scavenger’s Daughter.” Near it were
a pair of iron gauntlets, which could be contracted by screws till they
crushed the fingers of the wearer. On the wall also hung a small brush
to sprinkle the wretched victims who fainted from excess of agony, with
vinegar; while on a table beneath it were placed writing materials
and an open volume, in which were taken down the confessions of the
sufferers.
Cholmondeley saw at once that he had entered the torture-chamber, and
hastily surveying these horrible contrivances, was about to withdraw,
when he noticed a trap-door in one corner. Advancing towards it, he
perceived a flight of steps, and thinking they might lead him to the
cell he was in search of, he descended, and came to a passage still
narrower and gloomier than that he had quitted. As he proceeded along
it, he thought he heard a low groan, and hurrying in the direction of
the sound, arrived at a small door, and knocking against it, called
“Alexia,” but was answered in the feeble voice of a man.
“I am not Alexia, but whoever you are, liberate me from this horrible
torture, or put me to death, and so free me from misery.”
After some search, Cholmondeley discovered the key of the dungeon and
unlocking it, beheld an old man in a strange stooping posture, with his
head upon his breast, and his back bent almost double. The walls of the
cell, which was called the Little Ease, were so low, and so contrived,
that the wretched inmate could neither stand, walk, sit, nor he at full
length within them.
With difficulty,—for the poor wretch’s limbs were too much cramped by
his long and terrible confinement, to allow him to move,—Cholmondeley
succeeded in dragging him forth.
“How long have you been immured here?” he inquired.
“I know not,” replied the old man. “Not many weeks perhaps—but to me it
seems an eternity. Support me—oh! support me! I am sinking fast!”
“A draught of water will revive you,” cried Cholmondeley. “I will bring
you some in a moment.”
And he was about to hurry to his cell for the pitcher, when the old man
checked him..
“It is useless,” he cried. “I am dying—nothing can save me. Young man,”
he continued, fixing his glazing eyes on Cholmondeley. “When I was
first brought to the Tower, I was as young as you. I have grown old
in captivity. My life has been passed in these dismal places. I was
imprisoned by the tyrant Henry VIII. for my adherence to the religion
of my fathers—and I have witnessed such dreadful things, that, were I to
relate them, it would blanch your hair like mine. Heaven have mercy on
my soul!” And, sinking backwards, he expired with a hollow groan.
Satisfied that life was wholly extinct, Cholmondeley continued his
search for the scarcely less unfortunate Alexia. Traversing the narrow
gallery, he could discover no other door, and he therefore returned to
the torture-room, and from thence retraced his steps to the cell. As he
approached it, Nightgall, who heard his footsteps, called out to him,
and entreated to be set at liberty.
“I will do so, provided you will conduct me to the dungeon of Alexia,”
replied the esquire.
“You have not found her?” rejoined the jailor.
“I have not,” replied Cholmondeley. “Will you guide me to it?”
Nightgall eagerly answered in the affirmative.
The esquire was about to unlock the chain, but as he drew near him,
the jailor’s countenance assumed so malignant an expression, that he
determined not to trust him. Despite his entreaties, he again turned to
depart.
“You will never get out without me,” said Nightgall.
“I will make the attempt,” rejoined Cholmondeley. And wrapping himself
in the jailor’s ample cloak, and putting on his cap, he quitted the
dungeon.
This time, he shaped his course differently. Endeavouring to recall the
road by which Nightgall had invariably approached, he proceeded for a
short time along the onward passage, and presently reaching a spot where
two avenues branched off—one to the right and the other to the left,—he
struck into the latter, and found a second range of dungeons. He opened
the doors of several, but they were untenanted; and giving up the idea
of rescuing the ill-fated Alexia, he began to think it time to attend to
his own safety.
The passage he had chosen, which, like all those he had previously
traversed, was arched and flagged with stone, brought him to a low
square chamber, from which a flight of steps ascended. Mounting these
he came to two other passages, and without pausing to consider, hurried
along the first. In a short time he was stopped by a strong iron door,
and examining the lock tried every key, but could find none to fit it.
Failing to procure egress in this quarter, he was obliged to return, and
choosing his course at random, struck into an avenue on the right.
Greatly surprised at the extent of the passages he had tracked, he could
not help admiring the extraordinary solidity of the masonry, and the
freshness of the stone, which looked as if it had just come from the
chisel. Arriving at a gate which impeded his further progress, he
applied to his keys, and was fortunately able to open it. This did not
set him free as he had anticipated, but admitted him into a spacious
vault, surrounded by deep cavernous recesses, filled with stone coffins.
Broken statues and tattered escutcheons littered the ground.
Wondering where he could have penetrated, he paused for a moment to
consider whether he should return; but fearful of losing his way in the
labyrinth he had just quitted, he determined to go on. A broad flight of
stone steps led him to a large folding-door, which he pushed aside,
and traversing a sort of corridor with which it communicated, he found
himself at the foot of a spiral staircase. Mounting it, he came to an
extremely narrow passage, evidently contrived in the thickness of the
wall; and threading it, he reached a small stone door, in which neither
bolt nor lock could be detected.
Convinced, however, that there must be some secret spring, he examined
it more narrowly, and at length discovered a small plate of iron.
Pressing this, the heavy stone turned as upon a pivot, and disclosed a
narrow passage, through which he crept, and found himself to his great
surprise in the interior of St. John’s Chapel in the White Tower. At
first, he thought he must be deceived, but a glance around convinced
him he was not mistaken; and when he called to mind the multitude of
passages he had traversed, his surprise was greatly diminished.
While he was thus musing, he heard footsteps approaching, and instantly
extinguished the light. The masked door from which he had emerged, lay
at the extremity of the northern aisle, and the parties (for there was
evidently more than one) came from the other end of the chapel. Finding
he had been noticed, Cholmondeley advanced towards them.
XIV.—HOW SIMON RENARD AND THE LORDS OF THE COUNCIL WERE ARRESTED BY LORD
GUILFORD DUDLEY.
The brief and troubled reign of the ill-fated Queen Jane was fast
drawing to a close. Every fresh messenger brought tidings of large
accessions to the cause of the lady Mary, who was now at the head of
thirty thousand men,—an army trebling the forces of Northumberland.
Added to this, the metropolis itself was in a state of revolt. Immense
mobs collected in Smithfield, and advanced towards the Tower-gates,
commanding the warders to open them in the name of Queen Mary. These
rioters were speedily driven off, with some bloodshed. But their leader,
who was recognised as the prisoner Gilbert, escaped, and the next day
larger crowds assembled, and it was feared that an attack would be made
upon the fortress.
Meanwhile, Northumberland, whose order of march had been prescribed
by the council, proceeded slowly on the expedition; and the fate that
attended him fully verified the old proverb, that delay breeds danger.
An accident, moreover, occurred, which, while it greatly disheartened
his party, gave additional hope to that of the lady Mary. Six vessels,
well manned with troops and ammunition, stationed off Yarmouth to
intercept Mary in case she attempted to escape by sea, were driven into
that port, where their commanders were immediately visited by Sir
Henry Jerningham, who was levying recruits for the princess, and were
prevailed upon by him to join her standard.
When the news of this defection reached the Tower, even the warmest
partisans of Jane perceived that her cause was hopeless, and prepared
to desert her. The Duke of Suffolk could not conceal his uneasiness, and
despatched a secret messenger to Lord Guilford Dudley, who during the
whole of this trying period had absented himself, commanding his instant
return..
On receiving the summons, Dudley immediately answered it in person. Jane
received him with the utmost affection, and their meeting, which took
place in the presence of her father, the Duchess of Northumberland, and
the Ladies Herbert and Hastings, was deeply affecting. Lord Guilford
was much moved, and prostrating himself before the queen, besought
her forgiveness for his ill-advised and ungenerous conduct—bitterly
reproaching himself for having deserted her at a season of so much
peril.
“I will not upbraid you, dear Dudley,” rejoined Jane, “neither will I
attempt to disguise from you that your absence has given me more anguish
than aught else in this season of trouble. My crown you well know was
your crown. But now, alas! I fear I have lost that which, though a
bauble in my eyes, was a precious-jewel in yours.”
“Oh, say not so, my queen,” replied Lord Guilford, passionately. “Things
are not so desperate as you imagine. I have letters full of hope and
confidence from my father, who has reached Bury Saint Edmund’s. He means
to give battle to the rebels to-morrow. And the next messenger will no
doubt bring news of their defeat.”
“Heaven grant it may prove so, my dear lord!” rejoined Jane. “But I
am not so sanguine. I have despatched missives to the sheriffs of the
different counties, enjoining them to raise troops in my defence, and
have summoned the Lord Mayor and the city-authorities to the council
to-morrow, to decide upon what is best to be done in this emergency.”
“Daughter,” said the Duke of Suffolk, “it is my duty to, inform you
that I have just received letters from his Grace of Northumberland, very
different in purport from that which has reached Lord Guilford. In them
he expresses himself doubtful, of the result of the conflict, and
writes most urgently for further succour. His men, he says, are
hourly deserting to the hostile camp. And, unless he speedily receives
additional force and munition, it will be impossible to engage the
enemy.”
“This is bad news, indeed, my lord,” replied Jane, mournfully.
“Have we not troops to send him?” cried Lord Guilford Dudley. “If a
leader is wanted, I will set forth at once.”
“We cannot spare another soldier from the Tower,” replied Suffolk.
“London is in a state of revolt. The fortress may be stormed by the
rabble, who are all in favour of Mary. The Duke has already taken all
the picked men. And, if the few loyal soldiers left, are removed, we
shall not have sufficient to overawe the rebels.”
“My lord,” observed the Duchess of Northumberland, “you have allowed the
council too much sway. They will overpower you. And your highness,”
she added, turning to Jane, “has suffered yourself to be deluded by the
artful counsels of Simon Renard.”
“Simon Renard has given me good counsel,” replied Jane.
“You are deceived, my queen,” replied her husband. “He is conspiring
against your crown and life.”
“It is too true,” added Suffolk, “I have detected some of his dark
practices.”
“Were I assured of this,” answered Jane, “the last act of my reign—the
last exertion of my power should be to avenge myself upon him.”
“Are the guards within the Tower true to us?” inquired Dudley.
“As yet,” replied Suffolk. “But they are wavering. If something be not
done to confirm them, I fear they will declare for Mary.”
“And the council?”
“Are plotting against us, and providing for their own safety.”
“Jane,” said Lord Guilford Dudley, “I will not attempt to excuse my
conduct. But if it is possible to repair the injury I have done you, I
will do so. Everything now depends on resolution. The council are more
to be feared than Mary and her forces. So long as you are mistress of
the Tower, you are mistress of London, and Queen of England—even though
the day should go against the Duke, my father. Give me a warrant under
your hand for the arrest of the council, and the ambassadors Renard and
De Noailles, and I will see it instantly executed.”
“My lord!” she exclaimed.
“Trust me, my queen, it is the only means to save us,” replied Dudley.
“This bold step will confound them and compel them to declare their
purposes. If they are your enemies, as I nothing doubt, you will have
them in your power.”
“I understand,” replied Jane. “You shall have the warrant. It will bring
matters to an issue.”
At this moment, the door of the chamber was thrown open, and an usher
announced “Monsieur Simon Renard.”
“You are right welcome, M. Renard,” said Lord Guilford, bowing
haughtily. “I was about to go in search of you.”
“Indeed,” rejoined the ambassador, coldly returning the salutation.
“I am glad to spare your lordship so much trouble,—and I am still more
rejoiced to find you have recovered your temper, and returned to your
royal consort.”
“Insolent!” exclaimed Lord Guilford. “Guards!” he cried, motioning to
the attendants—“Assure yourselves of his person.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Renard, laying his hand upon his sword. “You have no
authority for this.”
“I have the Queens warrant,” rejoined Dudley, sternly.
“The person of an ambassador is sacred,” observed Renard.
“The emperor, Charles the Fifth, will resent this outrage as an insult
to himself.”
“I will take the consequences upon myself,” replied Lord Guilford,
carelessly.
“Your highness will not suffer this wrong to be done?” said Renard,
addressing Jane.
“Monsieur Renard,” replied the queen, “I have reason to believe you have
played me false. If I find you have deceived me, though you were brother
to the emperor, you shall lose your head.”
“You will have cause to repent this step,” rejoined Renard, furiously.
“The council will command my instant release.”
“The order must be speedy then,” replied Dudley, “for I shall place
them all in arrest. And here, as luck will have it, are your friends the
Earls of Arundel and Pembroke. They will attend you to the White Tower.”
So saying, he motioned to the guards to take them into custody.
“What means this?” cried Pembroke in astonishment.
“It means that Lord Guilford Dudley, who has been slumbering for
some time in Sion House, has awakened at last, and fancies his royal
consort’s crown is in danger,” rejoined Renard with a bitter sneer.
“This is some jest surely, my lord,” observed Pembroke. “The council
arrested at a moment of peril like this! Will you provoke us to manifest
our power?”
“I will provoke you to manifest your treacherous designs towards
her majesty,” replied Dudley. “Away with them to the White Tower!
Shrewsbury, Cecil, Huntingdon, Darcy, and the others shall soon join you
there.”
“One word before we go, gracious madam’?” said Pembroke, addressing the
queen.
“Not one, my lord,” replied Jane. “Lord Guilford Dudley has my full
authority for what he does. I shall hold early council to-morrow—which
you shall be at liberty to attend, and you will then have ample
opportunity to explain and defend yourself.”
Upon this, the confederate nobles were removed.
“It is time to put an end to this farce,” remarked Renard, as they were
conducted along the gallery towards the White Tower.
“It is,” answered Pembroke, “and my first address in the council
to-morrow shall be to proclaim Queen Mary.”
“The hair-brained Dudley imagines he can confine us in the White Tower,”
observed Renard, laughing. “There is not a chamber in it without a
secret passage. And thanks to the jailor, Nightgall, I am familiar with
them all. We will not be idle to-night.”