Of this unfortunate person the following interesting account is given
by Mr. Jardine, in his valuable treatise on the Use of Torture in the
Criminal Law of England. “Thomas Myagh was an Irishman who was brought
over by the command of the Lord Deputy of Ireland, to be examined
respecting a treasonable correspondence with the rebels in arms in that
country. The first warrant for the torture of this man was probably
under the sign-manual, as there is no entry of it in the council
register. The two reports made by the Lieutenant of the Tower and Dr.
Hammond, respecting their execution of this warrant, are, however, to be
seen at the State-Paper Office. The first of these, which is dated the
10th of March, 1580-1, states that they had twice examined Myagh, but
had forborne to put him in Skevington’s Irons, because they had been
charged to examine him with secrecy, ‘which they could not do, that
manner of dealing requiring the presence and aid of one of the jailors
all the time that he should be in those irons,’ and also because they
‘found the man so resolute, as in their opinions little would be wrung
out of him but by some sharper torture.’ The second report, which
is dated the 17th of March, 1580, merely states that they had again
examined Myagh, and could get nothing from him, ‘notwithstanding that
they had made trial of him by the torture of Skevington’s irons, and
with so much sharpness, as was in their judgment for the man and his
cause convenient.’ How often Myagh was tortured does not appear; but
Skevington’s irons seem to have been too mild a torture, for on the 30th
of July, 1581, there is an entry in the council books of an authority to
the Lieutenant of the Tower and Thomas Norton, to deal with him with the
rack in such sort as they should see cause.”
From many sentences expressive of the resignation of the sufferers,
we take the following, subscribed A. Poole, 1564:—“Deo. servire.
penitentiam. inire. fato. ohedire. regnare. est.” Several inscriptions
are left by this person—one four years later than the foregoing, is as
follows: “A passage perillus maketh a port pleasant.” Here is another
sad memento: “O miser Hyon, che pensi od essero.” Another: “Reprens le:
sage: et: il: te: aimera: J. S. 1538.” A third: “Principium sapientio
timor Domini, I. h. s. x. p. s. Be friend to one. Be ennemye to none.
Anno D. 1571, 10 Sept. The most unhappy man in the world is he that is
not patient in adversities: For men are not killed with the adversities
they have, but with the impatience they suffer. Tout vient apoint, quy
peult attendre. Gli sospiri ne son testimoni veri dell angoscia mia. Æt.
20. Charles Bailly.”.
Most of these records breathe resignation. But the individual who carved
the following record, and whose naine has passed away, appears to have
numbered every moment of his captivity: “Close prisoner 8 months, 32
wekees, 224 dayes, 5376 houres.” How much of anguish is comprised in
this brief sentence!
We could swell out this list, if necessary, to a volume, but the above
may suffice to show their general character. Let those who would
know how much their forefathers have endured cast their eyes over the
inscriptions in the Beauchamp Tower. In general they are beautifully
carved, ample time being allowed the writers for their melancholy
employment. It has been asserted that Anne Boleyn was confined in the
uppermost room of the Beauchamp Tower. But if an inscription may be
trusted, she was imprisoned in the Martin Tower (now the Jewel Tower) at
that time a prison lodging.
Postponing the description of the remaining towers until we have
occasion to speak of them in detail, we shall merely note, in passing,
the two strong towers situated at the southwestern extremity of the
White Tower, called the Coal Harbour Gate, over which there was a
prison denominated the Nun’s Bower, and proceed to the palace, of which,
unluckily for the lovers of antiquity, not a vestige now remains.
Erected at different periods, and consisting of a vast range of halls,
galleries, courts and gardens, the old palace occupied, in part, the
site of the modern Ordnance Office. Commencing at the Coal Harbour Gate,
it extended in a south-easterly direction to the Lanthorn Tower, and
from thence branched off in a magnificent pile of building, called the
Queen’s Gallery, to the Salt Tower. In front of this gallery, defended
by the Cradle Tower and the Well Tower, was the privy garden. Behind it
stretched a large quadrangular area, terminated at the western angle by
the Wardrobe Tower, and at the eastern angle by the Broad Arrow Tower.
It was enclosed on the left by a further range of buildings, termed
the Queen’s Lodgings, and on the right by the inner ballium wall. The
last-mentioned buildings were also connected with the White Tower,
and with a small embattled structure flanked by a circular tower,
denominated the Jewel House where the regalia were then kept. In front
of the Jewel House stood a large decayed hall, forming part of the
palace; opposite which was a court, planted with trees, and protected by
the ballium wall.
This ancient palace—the scene of so many remarkable historical
events,—the residence, during certain portions of their reigns, of all
our sovereigns, from William Rufus down to Charles the Second—is now
utterly gone. Where is the glorious hall which Henry the Third painted
with the story of Antiochus, and which it required thirty fir-trees to
repair,—in which Edward the Third and all his court were feasted by the
captive John,—in which Richard the Second resigned his crown to Henry of
Lancaster,—in which Henry the Eighth received all his wives before their
espousals,—in which so many royal councils and royal revels have been
held;—where is that great hall? Where, also, is the chamber in which
Queen Isabella, consort of Edward the Second, gave birth to the child
called, from the circumstance, Joan of the Tower? They have vanished,
and other structures occupy their place. Demolished in the reign of
James the Second, an ordnance office was erected on its site; and
this building being destroyed by fire in 1788, it was succeeded by the
present edifice bearing the name.
Having now surveyed the south of the fortress, we shall return to the
north. Immediately behind Saint Peter’s Chapel stood the habitations
of the officers of the then ordnance department, and next to them
an extensive range of storehouses, armouries, granaries, and other
magazines, reaching to the Martin Tower. On the site of these buildings
was erected, in the reign of William the Third, that frightful
structure, which we trust the better taste of this, or some future age
will remove—the Grand Storehouse. Nothing can be imagined more monstrous
or incongruous than this ugly Dutch toy, (for it is little better,)
placed side by side with a stern old Norman donjon, fraught with a
thousand historical associations and recollections. It is the great blot
upon the Tower. And much as the destruction of the old palace is to be
lamented, the erection of such a building as this, in such a place, is
infinitely more to be deplored. We trust to see it rased to the ground.
In front of the Constable Tower stood another range of buildings
appropriated to the different officers and workmen connected with the
Mint, which, until the removal of the place of coinage to its present
situation on Little Tower Hill, it is almost needless to say, was held
within the walls of the fortress.
The White Tower once more claims our attention. Already described as
having walls of enormous thickness, this venerable stronghold is divided
into four stories including the vaults. The latter consist of two large
chambers and a smaller one, with a coved termination at the east, and
a deeply-recessed arch at the opposite extremity. Light is admitted to
this gloomy chamber by four semicircular-headed loopholes. At the north
is a cell ten feet long by eight wide formed in the thickness of the
wall, and receiving no light except from the doorway. Here tradition
affirms that Sir Walter Raleigh was confined, and composed his History
of the World.
Amongst other half-obliterated inscriptions carved on the arched doorway
of this dungeon, are these: He that indvreth TO THE ENDE SHALL BE SAVID.
M. 10. R. REDSTON. DAR. KENT. Ano. 1553.—Be feithful to the death and I
will give the a crown of life. T. Fane. 1554. Above stands Saint John’s
Chapel, and the upper story is occupied by the council-chamber and the
rooms adjoining. A narrow vaulted gallery, formed in the thickness
of the wall, communicating with the turret stairs, and pierced with
semicircular-headed openings for the admission of light to the interior,
surrounds this story. The roof is covered with lead, and crowned with
four lofty turrets, three angular and one square, surmounted with leaden
cupolas, each terminated with a vane and crown.
We have spoken elsewhere, and shall have to speak again of the secret
and subterranean passages, as well as of the dungeons of the Tower;
those horrible and noisome receptacles, deprived of light and air,
infested by legions of rats, and flooded with water, into which
the wretched captives were thrust to perish by famine, or by more
expeditious means; and those dreadful contrivances, the Little Ease—and
the Pit;—the latter a dark and gloomy excavation sunk to the depth of
twenty feet.
To the foregoing hasty sketch, in which we have endeavoured to make the
reader acquainted with the general outline of the fortress, we
would willingly, did space permit, append a history of the principal
occurrences that have happened within its walls. We would tell how in
1234, Griffith, Prince of Wales, in attempting to escape from the
White Tower, by a line made of hangings, sheets, and table-cloths, tied
together, being a stout heavy man, broke the rope, and falling from a
great height, perished miserably—his head and neck being driven into his
breast between the shoulders. How Edward the Third first established a
Mint within the Tower, coining florences of gold. How in the reign of
the same monarch, three sovereigns were prisoners there;—namely, John,
King of France, his son Philip, and David, King of Scotland. How in the
fourth year of the reign of Richard the Second, during the rebellion of
Wat Tyler, the insurgents having possessed themselves of the fortress,
though it was guarded by six hundred valiant persons, expert in arms,
and the like number of archers, conducted themselves with extraordinary
licence, bursting into the king’s chamber, and that of his mother, to
both of whom they offered divers outrages and indignities; and finally
dragged forth Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, and hurrying him
to Tower Hill, hewed off his head at eight strokes, and fixed it on a
pole on London Bridge, where it was shortly afterwards replaced by that
of Wat Tyler.
How, in 1458, jousts were held on the Tower-Green by the Duke of
Somerset and five others, before Queen Margaret of Anjou. How in 1471,
Henry the Sixth, at that time a prisoner, was said to be murdered within
the Tower; how seven years later, George Duke of Clarence, was drowned
in a butt of Malmsey in the Bowyer Tower; and how five years after that,
the youthful Edward the Fifth, and the infant Duke of York, were also
said, for the tradition is more than doubtful, to be smothered in the
Blood Tower. How in 1483, by command of the Duke of Gloucester, who had
sworn he would not dine till he had seen his head off, Lord Hastings was
brought forth to the green before the chapel, and after a short shrift,
“for a longer could not be suffered, the protector made so much haste to
dinner, which he might not go to until this were done, for saving of his
oath,” his head was laid down upon a large log of timber, and stricken
off.
How in 1512, the woodwork and decorations of Saint John’s chapel in
the White Tower were burnt. How in the reign of Henry the Eighth, the
prisons were constantly filled, and the scaffold deluged with blood. How
Sir Richard Empson and Edmund Dudley, the hither of John Dudley, Duke
of Northumberland, were beheaded. How the like fate attended the Duke
of Buckingham, destroyed by Wolsey, the martyred John Fisher, Bishop of
Rochester, the wise and witty Sir Thomas More, Anne Boleyn, her brother
Lord Rochford, Norris, Smeaton, and others; the Marquis of Exeter, Lord
Montacute, and Sir Edward Neville; Thomas, Lord Cromwell, the counsellor
of the dissolution of the monasteries; the venerable and courageous
Countess of Salisbury; Lord Leonard Grey; Katherine Howard and Lady
Rochford; and Henry, Earl of Surrey.
How, in the reign of Edward the Sixth, his two uncles, Thomas Seymour,
Baron Sudley, and Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, were brought to the
block; the latter, as has been before related, by the machinations of
Northumberland.
Passing over, for obvious reasons, the reign of Mary, and proceeding to
that of Elizabeth, we might relate how Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk,
was beheaded; how the dungeons were crowded with recusants and seminary
priests; amongst others, by the famous Jesuits, fathers Campion and
Persons; how Lord Stourton, whose case seems to have resembled the
more recent one of Lord Ferrers, was executed for the murder of the
Hartgills; how Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, shot himself in his
chamber, declaring that the jade Elizabeth should not have his estate;
and how the long catalogue was closed by the death of the Earl of Essex.
How, in the reign of James the First, Sir Walter Raleigh was beheaded,
and Sir Thomas Overbury poisoned. How in that of Charles the First,
Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, and Archbishop Laud, underwent a
similar fate. How in 1656, Miles Sunderland, having been condemned
for high treason, poisoned himself; notwithstanding which, his body,
stripped of all apparel, was dragged at the horse’s tail to Tower Hill,
where a hole had been digged under the scaffold, into which it was
thrust, and a stake driven through it. How, in 1661, Lord Monson and Sir
Henry Mildmay suffered, and in the year following Sir Henry Vane. How
in the same reign Blood attempted to steal the crown; and how Algernon
Percy and Lord William Russell were executed.
How, under James the Second, the rash and unfortunate Duke of Monmouth
perished. How, after the rebellion of 1715, Lords Derwentwater and
Kenmuro were decapitated; and after that of 1745, Lords Kilmarnock,
Bahnerino, and Lovat. How in 1760, Lord Ferrers was committed to the
Tower for the murder of his steward, and expiated his offence at Tyburn.
How Wilkes was imprisoned there for a libel in 1762; and Lord George
Gordon for instigating the riots of 1780. How, to come to our own times,
Sir Francis Burdett was conveyed thither in April 1810; and how, to
close the list, the Cato-street conspirators, Thistlewood, Ings, and
others, were confined there in 1820.
The chief officer appointed to the custody of the royal fortress, is
termed the Constable of the Tower;—a place, in the words of Stowe, of
“high honour and reputation, as well as of great trust, many earls and
one duke having been constable of the Tower.” Without enumerating all
those who have filled this important post, it maybe sufficient to
state, that the first constable was Geoffrey de Mandeville, appointed
by William the Conqueror; the last, Arthur, Duke of Wellington. Next in
command is the lieutenant, after whom come the deputy-lieutenant, and
major, or resident governor. The civil establishment consists of
a chaplain, gentleman-porter, physician, surgeon, and apothecary;
gentleman-jailer, yeoman porter, and forty yeomen warders. In addition
to these, though in no way connected with the government or custody
of the Tower, there are the various officers belonging to the ordnance
department; the keepers of the records, the keeper of the regalia; and
formerly there were the different officers of the Mint.
The lions of the Tower—once its chief attraction with the many,—have
disappeared. Since the establishment of the Zoological Gardens,
curiosity having been drawn in that direction, the dens of the old
menagerie are deserted, and the sullen echoes of the fortress are no
longer awakened by savage yells and howling. With another and more
important attraction—the armories—it is not our province to meddle.
To return to Simon Renard and the warder. Having concluded his recital,
to which the other listened with profound attention, seldom interrupting
him with a remark, Winwike proposed, if his companion’s curiosity was
satisfied, to descend.
“You have given me food for much reflection.” observed Renard, aroused
from a reverie into which he had fallen; “but before we return I would
gladly walk round the buildings. I had no distinct idea of the Tower
till I came hither.”
The warder complied, and led the way round the battlements, pausing
occasionally to point out some object of interest.
Viewed from the summit of the White Tower, especially on the west, the
fortress still offers a striking picture. In the middle of the sixteenth
century, when its outer ramparts were strongly fortified—when the gleam
of corslet and pike was reflected upon the dark waters of its moat—when
the inner ballium walls were entire and unbroken, and its thirteen
towers reared their embattled fronts—when within each of those towers
state prisoners were immured—when its drawbridges were constantly
raised, and its gates closed—when its palace still lodged a
sovereign—when councils were held within its chambers—when its secret
dungeons were crowded—when Tower Hill boasted a scaffold, and its soil
was dyed with the richest and best blood of the land—when it numbered
among its inferior officers, jailors, torturers, and an executioner—when
all its terrible machinery was in readiness, and could be called into
play at a moment’s notice—when the steps of Traitor’s Gate wore worn by
the feet of those who ascended, them—when, on whichever side the gazer
looked, the same stern prospect was presented—the palace, the fortress,
the prison,—a triple conjunction of fearful significance—when each
structure had dark secrets to conceal—when beneath all these ramparts,
towers, and bulwarks, were subterranean passages and dungeons—then,
indeed, it presented a striking picture both to the eye and mind.
Slowly following his companion, Renard counted all the towers, which,
including that whereon he was standing, and these connected with
the bulwarks and palace, amounted to twenty-two,—marked their
position—commented upon the palace, and the arrangement of its offices
and outbuildings—examined its courts and gardens—inquired into the
situation of the queen’s apartments, and was shown a long line of
buildings with a pointed roof, extending from the south-east angle of
the keep to the Lanthorn Tower—admired the magnificent prospect of the
heights of Surrey and Kent—traced the broad stream of the Thames as
far as Greenwich—suffered his gaze to wander over the marshy tract of
country towards Essex—noted the postern gate in the ancient city walls,
standing at the edge of the north bank of the moat—traced those walls
by their lofty entrances from Aldgate to Cripplegate, and from thence
returned to the church of All Hallows Barking, and Tower Hill. The last
object upon which his gaze rested was the scaffold. A sinister smile
played upon his features as he gazed on it.
“There,” he observed, “is the bloody sceptre by which England is ruled.
From the palace to the prison is a step—from the prison to the scaffold
another.”
“King Henry the Eighth gave it plenty of employment,” observed Winwike.
“True,” replied Renard; “and his daughter, Queen Mary, will not suffer
it to remain idle.”
“Many a head will, doubtless, fall (and justly), in consequence of the
late usurpation,” remarked the warder.
“The first to do so now rests within that building,” rejoined Renard,
glancing at the Beauchamp Tower.
“Your worship, of course, means the Duke of Northumberland, since his
grace is confined there,” returned the warder. “Well, if she is spared
who, though placed foremost in the wrongful and ill-advised struggle,
was the last to counsel it, I care not what becomes of the rest. Poor
lady Jane! Could our eyes pierce yon stone walls,” he added, pointing to
the Brick Tower, “I make no doubt we should discover her on her knees.
She passes most of her time, I am informed, in prayer.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Renard. And he half muttered, “She shall either
embrace the Romish faith, or die by the hand of the executioner.”
Winwike made no answer to the observation, and affected not to hear it,
but he shuddered at the look that accompanied it—a look that brought to
mind all he heard of the mysterious and terrible individual at his side.
By this time, the sun was high in heaven, and the whole fortress astir.
A flourish of trumpets was blown on the Green, and a band of minstrels
issued from the portal of the Coalharbour Tower. The esquires,
retainers, pages, and servitors of the various noblemen, lodged within
the palace, were hurrying to and fro, some hastening to their morning
meal, others to different occupations. Everything seemed bright and
cheerful. The light laugh and the merry jest reached the ear of
the listeners. Rich silks and costly stuffs, mixed with garbs of
various-coloured serge, with jerkins and caps of steel, caught the eye.
Yet how much misery was there near this smiling picture! What sighs from
those in captivity responded to the shouts and laughter without! Queen
Mary arose and proceeded to matins in Saint John’s Chapel. Jane awoke
and addressed herself to solitary prayer; while Northumberland, who had
passed a sleepless night, pacing his dungeon like a caged tiger, threw
himself on his couch, and endeavoured to shut out the light of day and
his own agonizing reflections.
Meanwhile, Renard and the warder had descended from the White Tower and
proceeded to the Green.
“Who is that person beneath the Beauchamp Tower gazing so inquisitively
at its barred windows?” demanded the former.
“It is the crow scenting the carrion—it is Mauger the headsman,”
answered Winwike.
“Indeed?” replied Renard; “I would speak with him.”
0192
V.—HOW THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND WAS ARRAIGNED OF HIGH TREASON IN
WESTMINSTER HALL; AND HOW HE MADE FOUR REQUESTS AFTER THE JUDGMENT.
Closely confined within the Beauchamp Tower, and treated with great
rigour, it was almost a satisfaction to the Duke of Northumberland to
be informed, after nearly a fortnight’s immediate prisonment, that his
trial would take place on the 18th of August. Though he anticipated
the result, and had no hope of escaping the block, the near approach of
death did not cast him down, but on the contrary served to reassure
his firmness, which of late, shaken by his altered state of health,
and intense mental anxiety, had in some degree failed him. The last few
weeks had wonderfully changed his appearance. Heretofore, though past
the middle term of life, he exhibited no symptom of decay. His frame was
strong and muscular—his deportment lofty and majestic—his eye piercing
as the eagle’s. He was now shrunken—bent—with the gait and look of an
old man. On the intelligence above mentioned being communicated to him,
he all at once shook off this feebleness. His eye regained its fire, his
frame its strength and lofty bearing; and if his figure was wasted and
his brow furrowed, it detracted nothing from his dignity. Aware that his
enemies would sit in judgment upon him, he determined to confront them
boldly.
When the day appointed for the arraignment arrived, the Duke prepared
himself betimes. He was habited in a doublet of black velvet, and wore
the collar of the order of the garter. His eldest son, John Dudley, Earl
of Warwick, and the Marquess of Northampton, were to be tried with him,
and on the morning in question the three noblemen met for the first time
since their imprisonment. The meeting took place in a spacious chamber
on the first floor, now used, as has been already observed, as a
mess-room, but then as a hall in which the prisoners were separately
introduced at stated intervals to take exercise.
Throwing his arms round his son’s neck, and with difficulty repressing
his emotion, the Duke implored his forgiveness.
“For what, my lord?” demanded the young nobleman.
“For the great wrong I have done you in placing you in this fearful
jeopardy,” answered Northumberland.
“You have done me no wrong, my lord,” replied his son. “My wishes were
as strongly in favour of the cause as yours, and I am therefore
as culpable as yourself. And as I should have been the first to
congratulate you on its success, so I ought to be the last to reproach
you with its failure.”
“Nevertheless the fault is mine, and mine only,” replied the Duke. “I
was the originator of the scheme—the planner of the snare into which we
have fallen—and if you perish, your death will be at my door.”
“Think not of me, father,” replied the young man. “The life I received
from you, I will gladly lay down for you. If you desire my forgiveness
you shall have it. But I ought rather to ask your’s. And, at all events,
I entreat your blessing.”
“Heaven bless you, my son, and have mercy on us both,” exclaimed
Northumberland, fervently. “If the humblest supplication could move our
judges in your favour it should not be wanting. But I well know they are
inexorable.”
“I would rather die a thousand deaths than you so demeaned yourself,”
replied Warwick. “Ask nothing from them but a speedy judgment. We go to
a condemnation, not a trial.”
“True, my lord,” added Northampton; “we have nothing to hope, and
therefore nothing to fear. The game is lost, and we must pay the
penalty.”
“Right, my lord,” rejoined Northumberland, embracing him, “and we will
discharge it to the uttermost. Would that my life could pay for all.”
“Since it cannot be, my lord,” replied Northampton, “e’en let us meet
our fate like men, and give our enemies no additional triumph. To see
your grace so well reconciled to your fate, must encourage those who
have lost so little in comparison.”
“I am so well reconciled to it,” replied the Duke, “that I scarcely
desire to be restored to my former condition. And yet,” he added,
sternly, “I would gladly enjoy my former power for an hour, to be
avenged on one man.”.
“His name?” inquired the Earl of Warwick, quickly.
“Simon Renard,” replied the Duke.
A deep silence ensued, which was broken at length by Northumberland, who
inquired from the officer in attendance if he knew aught of the Queen’s
intentions towards Lady Jane Dudley.
“Her highness, it is said, is inclined to pardon her, in consideration
of her youth,” replied the officer, “but her councillors are averse to
such leniency.”
“They are my enemies,” rejoined the Duke—“Again my crimes are visited on
an innocent head.”
At this moment, a small arched door near one of the recesses was opened,
and a warder announced that the escort was ready to convey the prisoners
to Westminster Hall.
Preceded by the officer, the Duke and his companions descended a short
spiral stone staircase, and, passing under an arched doorway, on either
side of which was drawn up a line of halberdiers, entered upon the
Green. The whole of this spacious’ area, from Saint Peter’s Chapel to
the Lieutenant’s lodgings—from the walls of the tower they had
quitted, to those of the White Tower, was filled with spectators. Every
individual in the fortress, whose duty did not compel his attendance
elsewhere, had hastened thither to see the great Duke of Northumberland
proceed to his trial; and so intense was the curiosity of the crowd,
that it was with great difficulty that the halberdiers-could keep them
from pressing upon him. On the Duke’s appearance something like a groan
was uttered, but it was instantly checked. Northumberland was fully
equal to this trying moment. Aware of his own unpopularity,—aware
that amid that vast concourse he had not one well-wisher, but that all
rejoiced in his downfall,—he manifested no discomposure, but marched
with a step so majestic, and glanced around with a look, so commanding,
that those who were near him involuntarily shrunk before his regards.
The deportment of Northampton was dignified and composed—that of the
Earl of Warwick fierce and scornful. Lord Clinton, the Constable of the
Tower, and the Lieutenant, Sir John Gage, now advanced to meet them, and
the former inquired from Northumberland whether he had any request to
make that could be complied with. Before an answer could be returned
by the Duke, an old woman broke through the ranks of the guard, and
regardless of the menaces with which she was assailed confronted him.
“Do you know me?” she cried.
“I do,” replied the Duke, a shudder passing over his frame. “You are
Gunnora Braose.”
“I am,” she answered. “I am, moreover, foster-mother to the Duke of
Somerset—the great, the good Lord Protector, whom you, murderer and
traitor, destroyed eighteen months ago. By your false practices, he was
imprisoned in the tower you have just quitted; he was led forth as you
are, but he was not received like you with groans and hootings, but with
tears. He was taken to Westminster Hall where you sat in judgment upon
him, and condemned him, and where he will this day testify against you.
Tremble! perfidious Duke, for a fearful retribution is at hand. He, whom
you have destroyed, sleeps in yon chapel. Ere many days have passed, you
will sleep beside him.”
“Peace! woman,” cried Lord Clinton, interfering.
“I will speak,” continued Gunnora, “were they the last words I had to
utter. Behold!” she cried, waving a handkerchief before the Duke, “this
cloth was dipped in thy victim’s blood. It is now beginning to avenge
itself upon thee. Thou goest to judgment—to death—to death—ha! ha!”
“Remove her!” cried Lord Clinton.
“To judgment!—to judgment!—to death!” reiterated the old woman with a
wild exulting laugh, as she was dragged away.
Order being restored, the procession set forth. First, marched a band of
halberdiers; then came a company of arquebussiers, armed with calivers.
Immediately before the Duke walked the gentleman-jailor, who, according
to a custom then observed towards those charged with high treason,
carried the axe with the edge turned from the prisoner. On either side
of Northumberland and his companions walked an officer of the guard,
with a drawn sword in his hand. The rear of the cortege was brought up
by two other bands of halberdiers and arquebussiers. Taking its course
across the green, and passing beneath the gloomy portal of the Bloody
Tower, the train entered an archway at the left of the By-ward Tower,
and crossing the drawbridge, drew up at the head of the stairs leading
to the river. Here several boats were in readiness to convey them to
their destination. As soon as the Duke and his companions had embarked,
the gentleman-jailor followed them, and stationed himself at the head of
the boat, holding the gleaming instrument of death in the same position
as before.
In this way, surrounded by the escort, and attended by a multitude of
smaller vessels, filled with curious spectators, the prisoners were
conveyed to Westminster. No sympathy was exhibited for the Duke’s
fallen state; but, on the contrary, the spectacle seemed to afford
more satisfaction to the observers than the gorgeous pageant he had
so recently devised for their entertainment. Northumberland was not
insensible to this manifestation of dislike, though he made no remark
upon it; but he could not avoid noticing, with a sensation of dread, one
boat following in his wake, as near as the escort would permit, in
which was seated an old woman, waving a bloodstained handkerchief, and
invoking vengeance upon his head. Many of the wherries pressed round
her to ascertain the cause of her vociferations, and as soon as it was
understood who she was, other voices were added to hers. On landing at
the stairs near Westminster Hall, the escort first disembarked, and then
the Duke and his companions, who, preceded by the gentleman-jailor in
the same order as before, were conducted to the place of trial. In the
midst of this magnificent and unrivalled hall, which William Rufus, who
built it, affirmed was “but a bedchamber in comparison of what he meant
to make,” was erected an immense scaffold, hung with black cloth. At
the upper extremity was a canopy of state, embroidered with the royal
escutcheon in gold; and on either side were twenty-seven seats, each
emblazoned with armorial bearings woven in silver. The canopy was
reserved for the Duke of Norfolk, Lord High Steward of England; the
chairs for the different peers appointed to hear the arraignment of the
prisoners. At the lower extremity was the bar. On entering the hall,
the Duke and his companions were conducted into a small chamber on the
right, where they were detained till the arrival of the judges.
After some time, they were summoned by an usher, and following the
attendant through two long files of halberdiers, the Duke slowly but
firmly ascended the steps of the scaffold. On arriving at the bar, he
bowed profoundly to the assemblage, and every peer, except the Duke of
Norfolk, immediately arose, and acknowledged the salutation. Drawing
himself up to his full height. Northumberland then glanced sternly
around the tribunal. Not one of those upon whom his gaze fell
but—scarcely a month ago—had trembled at his nod. Wherever be
looked, his glance encountered an enemy. There sat Arundel, Pembroke,
Shrewsbury, Rich, Huntingdon, Darcy,—the abettors in his treason, now
his judges. On the right of the Lord High Steward sat Bishop Gardiner,
in his capacity of Lord Chancellor: on the left, Lord Paget.
Northumberland’s indictment having been read, he thus addressed the
court:—
“My lords,” he said, “I here profess my faith and obedience to the
Queen’s highness, whom I confess to have most grievously offended, and
beyond the hope of pardon. I shall not attempt to say anything in my
own defence. But I would willingly have the opinion of the court in two
points.”
“State them,’” said the Duke of Norfolk.
“First then,” replied Northumberland, “I desire to know, whether the
performance of an act by the authority of the sovereign and the council,
and by warrant of the great seal of England, can be construed as
treason?”
“Most undoubtedly, in your grace’s case,” replied the Duke of Norfolk;
“inasmuch as the great seal whence your authority was derived was not
the seal of the lawful Queen of the realm, but that of a usurper, and
therefore no warrant.” Northumberland bowed.
“I am answered,” he said. “And now to the second point on which I would
be resolved. Is it fitting or right,” he continued, glancing fiercely
around, “that those persons who are equally culpable with myself, and by
whose letters and commandments I have been directed in all I have done,
should be my judges, or pass upon my trial at my death?”
“Grant that others are as deeply implicated in this case as your Grace,”
replied the Duke of Norfolk; “yet so long as no attainder is of record
against them, they are able in the law to pass upon any trial, and
cannot be challenged, except at the Queen’s pleasure.”
“I understand,” replied Northumberland, bowing coldly; “and since it
is useless to urge any reasonable matter, I will at once confess the
indictment, entreating your Grace to be a means of mercy for me unto the
Queen.”
Judgment was then pronounced.
The Duke once more addressed them.
“I beseech you, my lords,” he said, “all to be humble suitors for me to
the queens highness, that she grant me four requests.” Most of the peers
having signified their assent by a slight inclination of the head, he
proceeded:—
“First, that I may have that death which noblemen have had in times
past, and not the other. Secondly,” and his voice faltered, “that her
highness will be gracious to my children, who may hereafter do her good
service, considering that they went by my commandment, who am their
father, and not of their own free wills.”
“Do not include me in your solicitation, my lord,” interrupted the Earl
of Warwick, haughtily. “I neither ask mercy, nor would accept it at the
Queen’s hands; and prefer death to her service. What I have done, I have
done on no authority save my own, and were it to do again, I would act
in like manner.”
“Rash boy, you destroy yourself,” cried the Duke.
“Proceed, my lord,” observed the Duke of Norfolk, compassionately; “your
son’s indiscreet speech will not weigh with us.”
“Thirdly, then,” rejoined Northumberland, “I would entreat that I may
have appointed to me some learned man for the instruction and quieting
of my conscience. And fourthly, that her highness will send two of the
council to commune with me, to whom I will declare such matters as shall
be expedient for her and the state. And thus I beseech you all to pray
for me.”
“Doubt it not, my lord,” rejoined Norfolk; “and doubt not, also, that
your requests shall be duly represented to the Queen.”
“Add, if it please your grace,” pursued Northumberland, “a few words in
favour of the unhappy Lady Jane Dudley, who, as is well known to many
now sitting in judgment upon me, so far from aspiring to the crown, was
by enticement and force compelled to accept it.”
The Duke then retired, and the Marquess of Northampton having advanced
to the bar, and pleaded to his indictment, sentence was passed on him
likewise.
His example was followed by the Earl of Warwick, who heard his
condemnation pronounced with a smile.
“I thank you, my lords,” he said, when the sentence was uttered,
“and crave only this favour of the Queen, that as the goods of those
condemned to death are totally confiscated, her highness will be pleased
to let my debts be paid.”
Upon this, he bowed to the tribunal and withdrew.
During the trial, an immense concourse had assembled in the open space
in front of the hall, waiting in breathless impatience for the result.
It was not till towards evening that this was known. The great doors
were then thrown open, and a troop of halberdiers came forth to clear
the way for the prisoners. A deep dead silence prevailed, and every eye
was bent upon the doorway. From beneath it marched the gentleman-jailor,
carrying the axe with its edge towards the prisoners. This was enough.
The mob knew they were condemned, and expressed their satisfaction by a
sullen roar.
Suddenly, the voice of a woman was heard exclaiming, “See ye not the
axe? See ye not the edge turned towards him? He is condemned. The slayer
of the good Duke of Somerset is condemned. Shout! Shout!”
And in obedience to her commands, a loud cry was raised by the mob.
Amid this clamour and rejoicing, Northumberland and his companions were
conveyed to their boat, and so to the Tower.
VI.—BY WHAT MEANS THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND WAS RECONCILED TO THE
CHURCH OF ROME.
Several days having elapsed since the trial, and no order made for his
execution, the Duke of Northumberland, being of a sanguine temperament,
began to indulge hopes of mercy. With hope, the love of life returned,
and so forcibly, that he felt disposed to submit to any humiliation
to purchase his safety. During this time, he was frequently visited by
Bishop Gardiner, who used every persuasion to induce him to embrace the
Romish faith. Northumberland, however, was inflexible on this point,
but, professing the most, sincere penitence, he besought the Bishop, in
his turn, to intercede with the Queen in his behalf. Gardiner readily
promised compliance, in case his desires were acceded to; but as the
Duke still continued firm in his refusal, he declined all interference.
“Thus much I will promise,” said Gardiner, in conclusion; “your grace
shall have ample time for reflection, and if you place yourself under
the protection of the Catholic church, no efforts shall be wanting on my
part to move the Queen’s compassion towards you.”
That night, the officer on guard suddenly threw open the door of his
cell, and admitting an old woman, closed it upon them. The Duke, who
was reading at the time by the light of a small lamp set upon a table,
raised his eyes and beheld Gunnora Braose.
“Why have you come hither?” he demanded. “But I need no task. You have
come to gratify your vengeance with a sight of my misery. Now you are
satisfied, depart.”
“I am come partly with that intent, and partly with another,” replied
Gunnora. “Strange as it may sound, and doubtful, I am come to save you.”
“To save me!” exclaimed Northumberland, starting. “How?—But—no!—no! This
is mockery. Begone, accursed woman.”
“It is no mockery,” rejoined Gunnora. “Listen to me, Duke of
Northumberland. I love vengeance well, but I love my religion better.
Your machinations brought my foster-son, the Duke of Somerset, to the
block, and I would willingly see you conducted thither. But there is
one consideration that overcomes this feeling. It is the welfare of the
Catholic church. If you become a convert to that creed, thousands will
follow your example; and for this great good I would sacrifice my
own private animosity. I am come hither to tell you your life will be
spared, provided you abandon the Protestant faith, and publicly embrace
that of Rome.”
“How know you this?” demanded the Duke.
“No matter,” replied Gunnora. “I am in the confidence of those, who,
though relentless enemies of yours, are yet warmer friends to the Church
of Rome.”
“You mean Simon Renard and Gardiner!” observed Northumberland.
G minora nodded assent.
“And now my mission is ended,” she said. “Your grace will do well to
weigh what I have said. But your decision must be speedy, or the warrant
for your execution will be signed. Once within the pale of the Catholic
church, you are safe.”
“If I should be induced to embrace the offer!” said the Duke. “If”—cried
Gunnora, her eye suddenly kindling with vindictive fire.
“Woman,” rejoined the Duke, “I distrust you. I will die in the faith I
have lived.”
“Be it so,” she replied. “I have discharged the only weight I had upon
my conscience, and can now indulge my revenge freely. Farewell! my lord.
Our next meeting will be on Tower Hill.”
“Hold!” cried Northumberland. “It may be as you represent, though my
mind misgives me.”
“It is but forswearing yourself,” observed Gunnora, sarcastically. “Life
is cheaply purchased at such a price.”
“Wretch!” cried the Duke. “And yet I have no alternative. I accede.”
“Sign this then,” returned Gunnora, “and it shall be instantly conveyed
to her highness.”
Northumberland took the paper, and casting his eye hastily over it,
found it was a petition to the Queen, praying that he might be allowed
to recant his religious opinions publicly, and become reconciled to the
church of Rome. “It is in the hand of Simon Renard,” he observed.
“It is,” replied Gunnora.
“But who will assure me if I do this, my life will be spared!”
“I will,” answered the old woman.
“You!” cried the Duke.
“I pledge myself to it,” replied Gunnora. “Your life would be spared,
even if your head were upon the block. I swear to you by this cross,”
she added, raising the crucifix that hung at her neck, “if I have played
you falsely, I will not survive you.”
“Enough,” replied the Duke, signing the paper.
“This shall to the Queen at once,” said Gunnora, snatching it with a
look of ill-disguised triumph. “To-morrow will be a proud day for our
church.”
And with this she quitted the cell.
The next morning, the Duke was visited by Gardiner, on whose appearance
he flung himself on his knees. The bishop immediately raised him, and
embraced him, expressing his delight to find that he at last saw
through his errors. It was then arranged that the ceremonial of the
reconciliation should take place at midnight in Saint John’s Chapel in
the White Tower. When the Duke’s conversion was made known to the
other prisoners, the Marquess of Northampton, Sir Andrew Dudley,
(Northumbcrland’s brother,) Sir Henry Gates, and Sir Thomas Palmer;
they all—with the exception of the Earl of Warwick, who strongly and
indignantly reprobated his father’s conduct,—desired to be included in
the ceremonial. The proposal being readily agreed to, priests were sent
to each of them, and the remainder of the day was spent in preparation
for the coming rites.
At midnight, as had been arranged, they were summoned. Preceded by two
priests, one of whom bore a silver cross, and the other a large flaming
wax candle, and escorted by a band of halberdiers, carrying lighted
torches, the converts proceeded singly, at a slow pace, across the
Green, in the direction of the White Tower. Behind them marched the
three gigantic warders, Og, Gog, and Magog, each provided with a torch.
It was a solemn and impressive spectacle, and as the light fell upon the
assemblage collected to view it, and upon the hoary walls of the keep.
The effect was peculiarly striking. Northumberland walked with his arms
folded, and his head upon his breast, and looked neither to the right
nor to the left.
Passing through Coalharbour Gate, the train entered an arched door-way
in a structure then standing at the south-west of the White Tower.
Traversing a long winding passage, they ascended a broad flight of
steps, at the head of which was a gallery leading to the western
entrance of the chapel. Here, before the closed door of the sacred
structure, beneath the arched and vaulted roof, surrounded by priests
and deacons in rich copes, one of whom carried the crosier, while others
bore silver-headed staves, attired in his amice, stole, pluvial and alb,
and wearing his mitre, sat Gardiner upon a faldstool. Advancing slowly
towards him, the Duke fell upon his knees, and his example was imitated
by the others. Gardiner then proceeded to interrogate them in a series
of questions appointed by the Romish formula for the reconciliation of
a heretic; and the profession of faith having been duly made, he
arose, took off his mitre, and delivering it to the nearest priest, and
extended his arms over the converts, and pronounced the absolution.
With his right thumb he then drew the sign of the cross on the Duke’s
forehead, saying, “Accipe signum crucis.” and being answered, “Acccpi.”
he went through the same form with the rest. Once more assuming the
mitre, with his left hand he took the Duke’s right, and raised him,
saying, “Ingredere in ceclesiam Dei à qua incaute alerrasti. Horicsce
idola. Respite omnes gravitates et super superstitiones hereticus. Cole
Deum oninipotcntem et Jesum fillimm ejus, et Spiritum Sanctum.”
Upon this, the doors of the chapel were thrown open, and the bishop led
the chief proselyte towards the altar. Against the massive pillars at
the east end of the chapel, reaching from their capitals to the base,
was hung a thick curtain of purple velvet, edged with a deep border
of gold. Relieved against this curtain stood the altar, covered with a
richly-ornaincnted antipendium, sustaining a large silver crucifix, and
six massive candlesticks of the same metal. At a few paces from it, on
either side, were two other colossal silver candlesticks, containing
enormous wax lights. On either side were grouped priests with censers,
from which were diffused the most fragrant odours.
0203
As Northumberland slowly accompanied the bishop along the nave, he saw,
with some misgiving, the figures of Simon Renard and Gunnora emerge from
behind the pillars of the northern aisle. His glance met that of Renard,
and there was something in the look of the Spaniard that made him fear
he was the dupe of a plot—but it was now too late to retreat. When
within a few paces of the altar, the Duke again knelt down, while the
bishop removed his mitre as before, and placed himself in front of him.
0205
Meanwhile, the whole nave of the church, the aisles, and the circular
openings of the galleries above, were filled with spectators. A wide
semicircle was formed around the converts. On the right stood several
priests. On the left Simon Renard had planted himself, and near to him
stood Gunnora; while, on the same side against one of the pillars, was
reared the gigantic frame of Magog. A significant look passed between
them as Northumberland knelt before the altar. Extending his arms
over the convert, Gardiner now pronounced the following exhortation:—
“Omnipotens sempiterne Deus hanc ovem tuam de faucibus lupi tua virtute
subtractam paterna recipe, pietate et gregi tuo reforma piâ benignitate
ne de familiâ tua damno inimicus exultet; sed de conversione et
liberatione jus ecclesiam ut pia mater de filio reperto gratuletur per
Christum Dominum nostrum.”
“Amen!” ejaculated Northumberland.
After uttering another prayer, the bishop resumed his mitre, and seating
himself upon the faldstool, which, in the interim, had been placed by
the attendants in front of the altar, again interrogated the proselyte:—
“Homo, abrcnuncias Sathanas et angelos ejus?”
“Abrenuncio,” replied the Duke.
“Abrenuncias etiam omnes sectas hereticæ pravitatis?” continued the
bishop.
“Abrenuncio,” responded the convert.
“Vis esse et vivere in imitate sancto fidei Catholico?” demanded
Gardiner.
“Volo,” answered the Duke.
Then again taking off his mitre, the bishop arose, and laying his right
hand upon the head of the Duke, recited another prayer, concluding by
signing him with the cross. This done, he resumed his mitre, and seated
himself on the faldstool, while Northumberland, in a loud voice, again
made a profession of his faith, and abjuration of his errors—admitting
and embracing the apostolical ecclesiastical traditions, and
all others—acknowledging all the observances of the Roman
church——purgatory—the veneration of saints and relics—the power of
indulgences—promising obedience to the Bishop of Rome,—and engaging to
retain and confess the same faith entire and invio-lated to the end
of his life. “Ago talis,” he said, in conclusion, “cognoscens veram
Catholicam et Apostolicum fidem. Anathematizo hic publiée omnem heresem,
procipuè illam de qua hactenus extiti.” This he affirmed by placing both
hands upon the book of the holy gospels, proffered him by the bishop,
exclaiming, “Sic me Deus adjunct, et hoc sancta Dei evangelia!”
The ceremony was ended, and the proselyte arose. At this moment, he
met the glance of Renard—that triumphant and diabolical glance—its
expression was not to be mistaken. Northumberland shuddered, he felt
that he had been betrayed.