Mary still continued to hold her court within the Tower. Various reasons
were assigned for this choice of residence; but her real motive was that
her plans for the restoration of the Catholic religion could be more
securely concerted within the walls of the fortress than elsewhere.
Simon Renard, who had become her confidential adviser, and through whom
she carried on an active correspondence with her cousin, the Emperor
Charles the Fifth, could here visit her unobserved. Here, also,
she secretly received the envoy of Pope Julius the Third, Francisco
Commendone (afterwards the celebrated Cardinal of that name,) and
detained him until after the Duke of Northumberland’s execution, that he
might convey intelligence of the event, and of the effect produced by it
upon the populace, to the Pontiff. To Commendone she gave the strongest
assurances of her attachment to the Church of Rome, and of her fixed
determination to restore its worship. But at the same time she declared
that the change must be gradual, and that any undue precipitation would
be fatal. In this opinion both Gardiner and Renard, who were admitted to
the conference, concurred. And satisfied with their representations, the
envoy departed, overjoyed at the success of his mission.
Other and gentler thoughts, however, than those connected with her
government, occupied the bosom of the queen. We have already spoken
of the impression produced upon her at their first interview on the
Tower-Green, bv the striking figure and noble features of Edward
Courtenay, whom she on that occasion created Earl of Devonshire, and of
the speculations it gave rise to among the by-standers. The interest she
then felt had been subsequently strengthened. And it appeared certain
to all who had any means of observation, that if she selected a husband,
her choice would fall upon Courtenay.
The progress of her attachment was jealously watched by Renard, who
having other designs in view, secretly opposed it. But aware that Mary,
like many of her sex, was possessed of a spirit, which would be apt, if
thwarted, to run into the opposite extreme, he was obliged to proceed
with the utmost caution. He had, moreover, a strong party against him.
From the moment it became evident that the Queen regarded the Earl of
Devonshire with the eyes of affection, all were eager to pay court to
him. Among his warmest supporters were Gardiner and De Noailles; the
latter being mainly influenced in his conduct by distrust of the Court
of Spain. Renard, therefore, stood alone. But though everything appeared
against him, he did not despair of success. Placing reliance upon Mary’s
jealous and suspicious character, he felt certain of accomplishing his
purpose. Accordingly, he affected to approve her choice; and with
the view of carrying out his scheme more effectually, took care to
ingratiate himself with Courtenay.
Inexperienced as the latter was in the arts of a court, being then
only twenty-one, and having passed fourteen years of his life in close
captivity in the Tower, he was easily duped by the wily ambassador; and
though repeatedly warned against him by De Noailles, who saw through
Renard’s design, he disregarded the caution. Satisfied of the Queen’s
favourable disposition towards him, which was evinced by the most marked
attention on her part, this young nobleman conceived himself wholly
beyond the reach of rivalry; and trusting to his personal advantages,
and the hold he had obtained over the affections of his royal mistress,
he gave himself little concern about an opposition which he regarded as
futile. He looked upon himself as certain of the Queen’s hand; and but
for his own imprudence, he would have been actually possessed of it.
Mary’s meditated alliance was agreeable to all parties, except, as just
intimated, that of Spain. Already nearly related to the crown by his
descent from Edward the Fourth, no objection could be raised against her
favourite on the score of rank; while his frank and conciliating manner,
combined with his rare endowments of mind and person, won him universal
regard. Doctor Thomas Wilson, in the funeral oration pronounced over
Courtenay at Padua in 1556, states, that during his long imprisonment
in the Tower, “he wholly devoted himself to study, and that neither the
augustia loci, nec solitudo, nec amissio libertatis, ilium à literis
avocarent; that he made such progress in philosophy, that no nobleman
was equal to him in it; that he also explored the mysteria naturae; that
he entered into the mathematicorum labyrintha; that he was so fond of
painting, that he could easily and laudably make any one’s portrait on
a tabula; that he was equally attached to music, and had attained in
it absolutam perfectionem; and that to these acquisitions he added the
Spanish, French, and Italian languages. In manners he was grave
without pride; pleasant without levity; prudent in speech; cautious in
answering; modest in disputing; never boasting of himself, nor excluding
others; and though familiar with many, yet intimately known to few.”
Allowing for the drawbacks which must necessarily be made from such an
éloge, enough will remain to prove that his accomplishments were of no
common order.
On the onset of his career, however, Courtenay was assailed by
temptations which it required more experience of the world to resist.
Strictly confined from his earliest youth, it may be conceived that
when first exposed to female fascination, his heart was speedily melted.
Hitherto, he had only read of beauty. He now felt its full force, and
placed no bounds to the admiration which the charms of the dames
of honour excited within his breast. It was upon this point of his
character, that Renard justly grounded his hopes of alienating the
Queen’s affections. Encouraging his new-born licentiousness, he took
care that none of his gallantries should fail to reach the ears of his
royal mistress. Though of a staid and severe character, Mary was not
indisposed to make allowances for one so utterly inexperienced as
Courtenay; and her first direction to Renard was to check him. So
far from doing this, the artful ambassador incited him to further
irregularities, and contrived to place new objects in his way. In vain
De Noailles remonstrated, entreating him at least to be more guarded in
his conduct. In vain Gardiner sternly rebuked him. He turned a deaf
ear alike to remonstrance and reproof; and hurried on by the unbridled
impetuosity of youth, passed from one excess to another. Renard
witnessed his conduct with secret satisfaction; but he was not prepared
for the calmness with which the Queen viewed it. She was greatly
displeased, yet as her lover still seemed passionately devoted to her,
she looked upon his conduct as resulting from the circumstances of his
previous life, and trusting he would soon open his eyes to its folly,
was content to pardon it.
Renard then saw that he must have recourse to stronger measures. As
Mary’s jealousy was not to be easily aroused, he resolved to bring a
more formidable rival into the held. There was one ready made to his
hand. It was the Princess Elizabeth. On no one point was the Queen’s
vanity more easily touched than by any reference to the superior charms
of her sister. Any compliment paid the latter she construed into a
slight to herself; and she watched with an uneasy glance the effect
produced by her in public. So sensible was Elizabeth of the Queen’s
foible, that she kept in the back ground as much as possible. Unaware
of the mortification he inflicted upon his royal mistress, and of the
injury he did himself, Courtenay often praised the Princess’s beauty in
terms so rapturous as to call a blush into her cheek, while the blood
was driven from that of Mary. So undisguised was his admiration, that
the Queen resolved to remove the object of it from her court; and would
have done so, but for the artful management of Renard, who felt that
such a step would ruin his plans.
Long before Courtenay had noticed it, the subtle ambassador, well
skilled in woman’s feelings, ascertained the state of Elizabeth’s heart,
and saw that she was not proof against the captivating manners and
personal graces of the handsome young nobleman. It was not difficult
for one possessed of so many opportunities as himself to heighten this
feeling into a passion; and before long he had the satisfaction to find
that the princess was deeply enamoured of her sister’s suitor. Nor was
Courtenay less easily enthralled. Apprised of his conquest by Renard,
instead of resisting it, he at once surrendered himself to the snare.
Again De Noailles, who saw his dangerous position, came to his aid.
Again Gardiner rebuked him more severely than before. He derided their
remonstrances; and heedless of the changing manner of the Queen—heedless
also of the peril to which he exposed the princess, he scarcely
attempted to disguise his passion, or to maintain the semblance of love
for his royal mistress. Consumed by jealousy, Mary meditated some blow
which should satisfy her outraged feelings; while Renard only waited a
favourable opportunity to bring matters to a crisis.
Affairs being in this state, it chanced one day that Courtenay received
a summons to the Queen’s presence, and instantly repairing thither, he
found her alone. His reception was so cold, that he was at no loss to
understand she was deeply offended; and he would have thrown himself at
her feet, if she had not prevented him by impatiently waving her hand.
“I have sent for you, my lord,” she said, “for the last time—.”
“For the last time, my gracious mistress!” exclaimed Courtenay.
“Do not interrupt me,” rejoined Mary, severely. “I have sent for you
to tell you that whatever were the feelings I once entertained for you,
they are now entirely changed. I will not remind you of the favours I
have shown you—of the honours I have bestowed on you—or of the greater
honours I intended you. I will simply tell you that your ingratitude
equals your perfidy; and that I banish you henceforth from my presence.”
“How have I offended your highness?” demanded Courtenay, panic-stricken.
“How?” cried Mary, fiercely—her eyes kindling, and her countenance
assuming the terrible expression she inherited from her father. “Do you
affect ignorance of the cause? I have overlooked your indiscretions,
though I have not been ignorant of them, imputing them to youth and
inexperience. I have overlooked them, I say, because I thought I
discovered amid all this vice and folly the elements of a noble
nature—and because,” and her voice faltered—“I persuaded myself that you
loved me.”
“Have you no faith in my adjurations of attachment?” cried Courtenay,
prostrating himself, and endeavouring to take her hand.
“None,” rejoined the queen, withdrawing her hand; “none whatever. Arise,
my lord, and do not further degrade yourself. You may love the queen,
but you do not love the woman.—You may prize my throne, but you do not
prize me.”
“You wrong me, gracious madam. On my soul you do,” rejoined Courtenay.
“I may have trifled with others, but I have given my heart wholly to
you.”
“It is false!” cried Mary, furiously. “You love the princess, my
sister.”
Courtenay turned very pale. But he instantly recovered himself.
“Your highness is mistaken,” he answered.
“What!” cried the queen, her anger increasing each moment. “Dare you
persist in the denial of your falsehood? Dare you tell me to my face
that you have not breathed words of passion to her? Dare you assert that
you have not lamented your engagement to me? Dare you say this?”
“I dare, madam.”
“Then your own words shall give you the he, traitor,” replied the queen.
“Here is your letter to her,” she added, producing a paper, “wherein you
tell her so.”
“Confusion!” uttered Courtenay, “Renard has betrayed me.”
“Is this letter your writing?” demanded the queen.
“I will not prevaricate, madam,” replied Courtenay; “it is.”
“And in the face of this you declare you have not deceived me?”
“I have deceived you, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay. “But I have
never ceased to love you.”
“My lord!—my lord!” exclaimed Mary, in a menacing tone. “Beware how you
attempt to deceive me further, or as God shall judge me, you shall
find that the daughter of Henry the Eighth is not to be offended with
impunity.”
“I know you are terrible in anger, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay;
“but you are also just. Judge me—condemn me, if you please, but hear me:
he who gave you that letter,—Simon Renard,—counselled me to write it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the queen.
“I have been guilty of folly—madness—” rejoined Courtenay—“but not the
black perfidy your highness imagines. Dismiss me from your presence—send
me into exile—I deserve any punishment—but do not believe that I have
ceased to love you.”
“I know not what you term love, my lord,” replied Mary; “but I have no
idea of sharing the affection of any man with another. Grant, however,
that you speak the truth, why have you addressed this passionate epistle
to the Princess Elizabeth?”
“I have already said I was deceived,” replied Courtenay. “I cannot
excuse my conduct—though I lament it.”
“Are you sincere?” said Mary, who began to be softened by her lover’s
apparent penitence.
“By what oath shall I confirm my truth?” he replied, fervently.
“I will test it more surely,” rejoined the queen, as if struck by a
sudden idea.
“In any way your highness thinks proper,” returned Courtenay.
“Summon the Princess Elizabeth to our presence instantly,” said Mary,
striking a small bell, the sound of which brought an usher before her.
“The Princess Elizabeth!” exclaimed Courtenay.
“Ay, the Princess,” repeated the queen. “I will confront you with her.
Bid the lord chancellor and the ambassadors of Spain and France attend
us,” she continued to the usher.
“I know not what your highness intends,” said Courtenay, as the
attendant departed. “But I will die rather than do aught to prejudice
the princess.”
“I doubt it not, my lord,” rejoined Mary, bitterly. “But though I cannot
punish the perfidy of a lover, I can the disobedience of a subject. If
you refuse to obey my commands, you will take the consequences.”
Courtenay bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
In a few minutes, the usher returned and announced the Princess
Elizabeth, as well as Gardiner, Renard, and De Noailles. Instantly
perceiving how matters stood, the imperial ambassador deemed his own
triumph complete, and Courtenay’s disgrace certain.
“My lord,” said Mary, addressing Gardiner, “it is no secret to you,
neither to you, M. Renard, nor to you, M. De Noailles—that of all those
proposed to me in marriage—the Princes of Spain and Portugal, the King
of the Romans, Cardinal Pole, and others—I have preferred this man, whom
I myself have raised to the rank he now holds, and enriched with the
estates he enjoys.”
“We know it, gracious Madam,” replied Gardiner, alarmed at the ominous
commencement, “and we think your highness has made a happy choice, and
one most acceptable to your subjects. Do we not, M. Renard?”
The ambassador bowed, but said nothing.
“The alliance is in all respects agreeable to my sovereign, Henry the
Second of France,” observed De Noailles.
“What then if I inform you,” pursued Mary, “that the Earl of Devonshire
has rejected my proposal? What if he has broken his oath of fidelity?
What if he has cast aside the crown offered him, and smitten by the
charms of a youthful beauty, abandoned the Queen, who has stooped to
raise him to her throne!”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Gardiner and De Noailles.
“You are mistaken,” rejoined Mary, sternly. “You shall hear him avow his
perfidy with his own lips.”
“When I do hear it,” replied De Noailles, looking steadily at Courtenay,
“I will believe it. But I cannot think him capable of such madness.”
“Nor I,” said Gardiner, glancing significantly from beneath his bent
brows.
Elizabeth, who on the commencement of the Queen’s address had turned
very pale, could with difficulty maintain her composure. Her agitation
did not escape the notice of Mary, whose jealousy was increased by the
sight.
“What if I tell you,” she continued, “that this false earl has
transferred his affections to our sister?”
“Your highness!” exclaimed Elizabeth.
“Peace!” cried the Queen, fiercely. “And she, well knowing his
engagement to ourself, has dared to encourage his suit.”
“Whoever told your majesty this, lied in his throat,” cried Courtenay.
“I own myself guilty, but the Princess Elizabeth is no partner to my
folly.”
“You do well to shield her, my lord,” retorted Mary. “But you cannot
deceive me. She is equally culpable.”
“Nay, more so, if it comes to this,” interposed Elizabeth, whose spirit,
which was quite equal to her sisters, was aroused. “If I had repressed
my admiration for the Earl of Devonshire, he would have made no advances
to me. I am the most to blame in this matter.”
“Not so;” replied Courtenay. “Let my folly and presumption be visited on
my own head. I pray your highness to pass sentence on me at once. But do
not let the Princess suffer for my fault.”
“So, so!” exclaimed Mary, with a bitter laugh, “I have brought you to
your confessions at last. If I had before doubted your love for each
other, your present conduct would have convinced me of it. You shall
have your request, my lord,” she added, turning to Courtenay. “I will
pass sentence upon you.”
“Hold, madam,” cried Gardiner. “Before the sentence is passed and
irrevocable, reflect—if only for one moment. You are a great queen,
and the daughter of a great king. But the rashness of one moment may
annihilate all your future peace, destroy the hopes of your people, and
the prosperity of your reign. The conduct of the Earl of Devonshire
is unpardonable, I allow. But for your own sake—for the sake of your
kingdom—not for his—I beseech you to overlook it. That he loves you, I
am assured.”
“Let him declare as much,” said Renard.
“Hear me, then,” replied Courtenay, throwing himself at the-Queen’s
feet. “I bitterly repent my rashness; and though I can never hope to be
restored to the place I once held in your Majesty’s affections, I shall
never cease to reproach myself—never cease to love you.”
Mary was visibly moved.
“If I thought you sincere?” she said.
“I will answer for his sincerity,” said Gardiner.
“And I,” added De Noailles. “She relents,” he continued in a whisper to
Courtenay. “Improve the advantage you have gained.”
“Grant me an instant’s private audience with your Majesty,” implored
Courtenay; “and I feel certain I can remove all your doubts.”
“No, my lord,” rejoined Mary. “As our rupture has been public, our
reconciliation (if it takes place,) shall be public, also.”
“It must never take place,” remarked Renard, in an under tone.
“Peace, sir,” said the Queen, aloud. “As far as our government is
concerned, we are content to follow your counsel. But in matters of the
heart we shall follow its dictates alone.”
“Your Majesty is in the right,” observed Gardiner.
“Declare, my lord,” pursued Mary, addressing Courtenay, “in the presence
of these gentlemen, in that of our sister—rival we ought to say,—that
you have deceived her, and, though your conduct may have misled
her,—have never swerved from your devotion to ourself.”
While the Queen pronounced these words, Renard’s keen glance wandered
from Courtenay to Elizabeth. The latter was violently agitated, and
seemed to await the Earl’s answer as if her fate hung upon it.
“Do you assert this, my lord?” demanded Mary.
“Hesitate, and you are lost, and so is the Princess,” whispered De
Noailles.
Before Courtenay could reply, Elizabeth fainted and would have fallen,
if Renard had not flown to her assistance.
“Summon our maids of honour, and let her be instantly cared for,” said
Mary, with a look of ill-disguised satisfaction. “My lord,” she added to
Courtenay, “you are forgiven.”
The Earl hastily, and with some confusion, expressed his thanks, while,
in obedience to the Queen’s mandate, Elizabeth was removed.
“And now, my lord,” said Mary to him, “I must pass from my own affairs
to those of my kingdom. I will not detain you further—nor you, M. De
Noailles. But I must crave your attendance, my lord, for a few minutes,”
she added, turning to Gardiner, “and yours, M. Renard.”
“Your highness may always command my best counsel,” replied the latter,
in a slightly sarcastic tone—“provided you will act upon it.”
“Farewell, my lord,” said Mary, extending her hand to Courtenay, which
he pressed to his lips. “I shall walk upon the Tower Green in an hour,
and shall expect you there.”
“I will attend your Majesty,” replied Courtenay. And accompanied by De
Noailles, he quitted the chamber.
“You have had a narrow escape, my lord,” remarked the French Ambassador,
as they traversed the long gallery together.
“So narrow that I thought I had lost all chance of the crown,” replied
Courtenay. “It is the work of that perfidious Simon Renard. But if I
live an hour, I will requite him.”
“You are the victor, my lord,” returned De Noailles. “Maintain your
present position, and you may defy his utmost malice.”
“Tarry with me a moment, M. De Noailles,” said Courtenay, “and you shall
see how I will avenge myself upon him.”
“Prudence, my good lord—prudence,” replied De Noailles. “Your rashness
has already put you once in his power. Do not let it do so a second
time.”
“I will punish his treachery, if it costs me my life,” replied
Courtenay.
IX.—OF THE DUEL BETWEEN COURTENAY AND SIMON RENARD; AND HOW IT WAS
INTERRUPTED.
M eanwhile, a long discussion was carried on between Mary and her
councillors, as to the best means of effecting the entire restoration of
the Romish religion.
“I have a letter from Cardinal Pole,” observed the Queen, “wherein his
Eminence urges me to adopt no half measures.”
“It will not be safe to do so as matters now stand, gracious madam,”
replied Gardiner. “You must proceed cautiously. The noxious weed,
heresy, has taken too deep a root in this country to be forcibly
extirpated. I need not remind you of the murmurs that followed the
celebration of mass in the chapel in the White Tower, for the repose of
the King your brothers soul—of Cranmer’s vehement opposition—of the lord
mayor’s remonstrance, because mass was sung in another chapel in the
city—of the riot for a similar cause in Smithfield—of the dagger thrown
at Doctor Bourne, when he preached at Saint Paul’s Cross, and inveighed
against the deprivation of our prelates during the late reign. Your
Majesty did wisely to declare, at my suggestion, that although your
conscience is stayed in matters of religion, yet you meant not to compel
and constrain other men’s consciences. Abide by this declaration a
little longer. The two chief opponents of our religion, Ridley and
Latimer, are already prisoners in the fortress, and Cranmer will be
speedily brought hither.”
“So speedily, my lord, that he shall be lodged within it today,” replied
Mary. “The order is already signed for his committal on a charge of
high treason for counselling our disinheritance, and aiding the Duke of
Northumberland with horse and men against us in the revolt of the Lady
Jane Grey.”
“When will your highness have him arraigned?” asked Gardiner.
“After our coronation,” replied Mary; “when Lady Jane Grey and her
husband shall also be tried.”
“Suffolk is already liberated,” remarked Renard; “and yet he was more
deeply implicated than Cranmer.”
“True,” replied Mary; “but he is not so dangerous.”
“The counsel of my master, the emperor,” rejoined Renard, “as I
have more than once stated to your Highness, is to spare none of the
rebels—above all, the Lady Jane Grey, who, though she may have been the
instrument of others, is yet in the eyes of the people the principal
offender.”
“Poor Lady Jane!” exclaimed Mary, in a compassionate tone. “She is very
young—very beautiful. I would rather reconcile her to our church than
doom her to the block.”
“I do not despair of being able to accomplish her conversion,” said
Gardiner, “though she is an obstinate heretic. I have appointed
to-morrow for a conference with her on the subject of her religion, and
I trust to be able to convince her of her errors.”
“With your lordship’s permission, I will attend the conference,” said
Renard.
“By all means,” replied Gardiner. “It will take place in the Beauchamp
Tower. Her husband, Lord Guilford Dudley, has become a proselyte, and
they will be both present at the disputation.”
“I leave the care of her soul in your hands, my lord,” replied Mary.
“And now I must to my own devotions.”
So saying, she dismissed them, and proceeded to an oratory, where she
was joined by her confessor, Feckenham.
On issuing from the audience-chamber, Renard perceived De Noailles and
Courtenay pacing the gallery.
“I have waited for you, sir,’’ said the latter, advancing to meet him.
“I am sorry to have detained your lordship so long,” replied Renard.
“Apologies are needless,” rejoined Courtenay. “M. Renard, you are a
double-faced villain.”
“Rail on my lord, and welcome,” replied Renard, contemptuously. “Your
ill-humour has no effect on me!”
“Coward! will not that move you?” cried Courtenay, taking off his glove,
and striking him with it in the face.
“Ha!” exclaimed Renard fiercely, and half-unsheathing his sword. “Follow
me, my lord, and you shall find me as prompt to avenge an insult as you
can be to offer one.”
“My lord,” interposed De Noailles, “and you, M. Renard, I warn you
before you proceed further in this quarrel, that it will deeply offend
the queen.”
“It was not my seeking,” replied Renard, sternly. “But since it is
forced upon me, I will not be stayed. As his lordship has found no
difficulty in duping her majesty with a feigned passion, so, if he
survives, he may readily make out his case by an equally false statement
that I was the aggressor.”
“Insolent!” cried Courtenay. “Fool that I was to place any faith in one
in whom the whole perfidy of his country seems concentred. Follow me,
and quickly, or I will repeat the blow—unless,” he added with bitter
scorn, “like your own arrogant but cowardly nation you prefer avenging
it by assassination.”
“The cowardice will be yours, my lord,” rejoined Renard, haughtily, “if
you attempt to repeat the blow—nay, if you tarry here longer, I shall
think you desire to attract the attention of some of her majesty’s
attendants, and by causing us to be arrested, contrive to escape my
vengeance.”
“Trust me, sir, I have no such intention,” replied Courtenay. “An
Englishman never deals a blow without allowing his adversary to return
it. M. De Noailles, I request your attendance at the duel. It will be
a mortal combat—for I will neither give mercy nor receive it from this
perfidious villain.”
“Pardon me, my lord, if I refuse your request,” replied De Noailles.
“I pledge my word that I will not interrupt you, nor cause you to be
interrupted during the adjustment of your differences. But I will be no
party to the duel.”
“As you please,” replied Courtenay. “Come then, sir,” he added, turning
to Renard, “and let the recollection of the insult I have offered you be
fresh in your memory.”
“M. De Noailles,” said Renard, “I take you to witness before I depart,
that I have not sought this quarrel. Whatever ensues, you will avouch
the truth.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied De Noailles. “Whither are you going?” he
demanded.
“To the palace-garden,” replied Courtenay. “It is the only place in
the Tower, where we can be free from interruption. Beneath the trees we
shall be unobserved.”
“Lead on then, my lord,” cried Renard, impatiently. “The affair ought to
have been arranged by this time.”
Hastily quitting the corridor, they descended the grand staircase, and
traversing with rapid steps a long suite of apartments, passed through
a small door opening from the range of building called the Queen’s
gallery, upon the privy garden. At the western angle of this garden
stood a grove of trees, and thinking themselves unobserved they hastened
towards it.
It chanced however at this moment that Xit was passing along one of
the walks, and struck by their furious looks he immediately conjectured
their errand, and being, as has before been shown, of an inquisitive
turn, determined to watch them, and with this view struck into a
shrubbery, which effectually screened him from observation.
On reaching the grove, Renard instantly divested himself of his cloak,
and drawing his rapier and dagger, placed himself in an attitude of
defence. Courtenay did not remove his mantle, and therefore he was in
readiness before his adversary. The preliminary forms always observed by
the combatants of the period, being gone through, the conflict commenced
with great fury on the side of Courtenay, and with equal animosity, but
more deliberation, on that of Renard. As the latter was the most perfect
swordsman of his time, he felt little doubt as to the result of the
combat—but still the fury of the Earl was so irresistible that he broke
through his surest wards. In one of these furious passes Renard received
a slight wound in the arm, and roused by the pain, he forgot his
cautious system, and returned Courtenay’s thrusts with others equally
desperate.
Feeling that he was no match for his antagonist, who was evidently his
superior both in force and skill, the Earl now determined to bring the
combat to a close, before his strength should be further exhausted.
Collecting all his energies, he dashed upon Renard with such
impetuosity, that the latter was compelled to retreat, and his foot
catching against the root of a tree, he fell, and lay at the mercy of
his antagonist.
“Strike!” he cried. “I will never yield.”
“No,” replied Courtenay. “I will not take this advantage. Arise, and
renew the combat.”
“Your courtesy is like your attachment, misplaced, my lord,” replied
Renard, springing to his feet, and preparing to attack him. “Look to
yourself.”
The combat recommenced with fresh fury, and must have speedily
terminated fatally, if a sudden interruption had not occurred. Alarmed
by the deadly nature of the strife, and thinking he should gain credit
with the queen if he prevented any accident to her favourite, Xit no
sooner beheld the swords drawn, than he ran off as swiftly as he could
to the garden-gate, near the Lanthorn Tower, where he know Og was
stationed. The giant did not require to be bid twice to accompany him;
but grasping his immense halbert, hurried in the direction of the fight,
and reached the grove just as it had recommenced.
The combatants were so occupied with each other, and so blinded with
rage, that they did not hear his approach. Og, however, soon made them
sensible of his presence. Bidding them in a voice of thunder lay down
their arms, and finding himself wholly disregarded, he rushed
between them, and seizing each by the doublet, hurled them forcibly
backwards—swearing lustily that if either advanced another footstep, he
would fell him to the ground with his partizan. By this time Xit, who
had come up, drew his sword, and seconded the giant’s threat, adding
with his usual coxcombical dignity, “My lords, I command you, in the
Queen’s name, to deliver up your weapons to me.”
Upon this, he took off his cap, and strutting up to Courtenay, demanded
his sword.
“What if I refuse it, sirrah?” said the earl, who in spite of his
indignation, could scarcely help laughing at the dwarf’s assurance.
“Your lordship, I am assured, will not compel me to enforce its
delivery,” replied Xit.
“I will not,” replied Courtenay, delivering the weapon to him.
“I shall not fail to report your magnanimity to my royal mistress,”
returned Xit. “Now yours, worshipful sir,” he added, to Renard.
“Take it,” replied the ambassador, flinging his rapier on the ground.
“It is fit that an affair so ridiculously begun, should have such a
ridiculous termination.”
“It is not ended, sir,” rejoined Courtenay.
“You will note that, Magog,” interposed Xit. “His lordship says it is
not ended. Her Majesty must hear of this. I take upon myself to place
you both in arrest. Attach their persons, Magog.”
“This insolence shall not go unpunished,” cried Courtenay, angrily.
“Heed him not, Magog,” whispered Xit. “I am sure her highness will
approve our conduct. At all events, I take the responsibility of the
arrest upon myself—though I promise thee, if there is any reward, thou
shalt share it. I arrived at a critical minute for your lordship,” he
added, in an under tone to Courtenay. “Your adversary’s blade was within
an inch of your breast.”
“Peace, knave,” cried Courtenay.
“Bring them along, Magog,” said Xit, “while I run to the palace to
apprise her Majesty of the occurrence, and ascertain her pleasure
concerning them.’
“Hold!” exclaimed Courtenay. “Take this purse, and keep silence on the
subject.”
“No, my lord,” replied Xit, with an offended look, “I am above a bribe.
Had your lordship—but no matter. Magog, you will answer for their
peaceable conduct. I am off to the palace.”
And he hurried away, while the giant followed at a slow pace with
Courtenay and Renard.
X.—OF THE CONFERENCE HELD BETWEEN BISHOP GARDINER AND LADY JANE GREY IN
THE BEAUCHAMP TOWER.
During all this time, Jane was kept a close prisoner in the Brick Tower,
and neither allowed to hold any intercourse with her husband, nor to
correspond with him. Heart-breaking as the deprivation was to her in the
first instance, she became in some degree reconciled to it, on learning
from her jailor,—who displayed as much humanity towards her as was
consistent with his office,—that he bore his fate with the utmost
fortitude and resignation.
Entertaining no hopes of mercy, Jane’s whole time was past in
preparation for her end. Except the few hours of refreshment actually
required by nature, every moment was devoted to the most intense
application, or to fervent prayer. By degrees, all trace of sorrow
vanished from her features, and they assumed a spiritualized and almost
angelic expression. Lovely as she was before, she looked far more lovely
now—or rather her beauty was of a more refined and exalted character.
She was frequently visited by the queen’s confessor, Feckenham, who used
every effort to induce her to renounce her religion,—but in vain. When
told that the sure way to her Majesty’s favour would be to embrace the
faith of Rome—she replied that, anxious as she was to obtain the queen’s
forgiveness, she could not purchase it at the price of her salvation,
and that the only favour she desired was to pass the brief residue of
her days unmolested. Northumberland’s apostacy was a terrible shock to
her. Feckenham brought the intelligence, and boasted of the convert the
Catholic Church had gained.
“You may have induced the Duke to recant with his lips, sir,” replied
Jane; “but of this I am assured, he died a Protestant in heart.”
“It may be so,” rejoined Feckenham. “He was hypocrite enough to act
thus. It is enough for us that he publicly abjured his errors. And
before long, others of his house will follow his example.”
“What mean you, sir?” demanded Jane, anxiously. “You do not surely
allude to my husband?”
Feckenham made no reply, but with a significant smile departed. The
insinuation was not lost upon Jane. And now she more than ever lamented
that she was not near her husband, to strengthen his wavering faith,
and confirm his resolution. Well knowing that his character in a great
measure resembled his father’s, she feared that the inducement held
out by his enemies might be too much for his resistance. Unable to
communicate her fears to him—or to offer any of the counsel her
heart suggested, she could only relieve her distresses by earnest
supplications in his behalf. But even prayer did not on this
occasion afford her the consolation it was wont to do. The Duke of
Northumberland’s recantation perpetually haunted her; and the thought
that her husband might be made a similar example filled her with
inexpressible dread..
While suffering from these agonising reflections, she received another
visit from Feckenham. The expression of his countenance, which was
triumphing and sinister, alarmed her, and she almost felt unwilling,
though at the same time anxious, to question him.
After enjoying her suspense for a few minutes, he said, “Daughter, you
blamed the Duke of Northumberland for being reconciled to our church.
What, if I inform you that Lord Guilford Dudley has been likewise
converted?”
“I should indeed be grieved to hear it,” replied Jane, in a tone of
anguish; “but I trust it is not so.”
“It is as I have said,” answered Feckenham.
“Heaven pardon him!” exclaimed Jane. “You bring me ill news, indeed.
I had far rather you came to tell me the executioner was waiting for
me—nay, that my husband was about to be led to the block—than this fatal
intelligence. I thought our separation would be short. But now I find it
will be eternal.”
“You are in error, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham, sternly. “You will
neither be separated from your husband in this world, nor the next, if
you are equally conformable.”
“Am I to understand, then, that his apostacy, for I can give it no
milder term, has been purchased by an offer of pardon?” demanded Jane.
“I said not so, daughter,” replied Feckenham; “but I now tell you that
his hopes of grace rest with yourself.”
“With me?” cried Jane, with a look of agony.
“With you, daughter,” repeated the confessor. “Much as it rejoices our
pious Queen to win over one soul like that of Lord Guilford Dudley to
the true faith—gladly as she will receive his recantation, she will
pledge herself to mercy only on one condition.”
“And that is—”
“Your conversion.”
“A safe promise, for her clemency will never be exhibited,” replied
Jane. “Not even to purchase my husband’s life would I consent. I would
willingly die to bring him back to the paths from which he has strayed.
But I will not surrender myself to Rome and her abominations.”
“Your firmness, in a good cause, daughter, would elicit my approbation,”
replied Feckenham. “As it is, it only excites my compassion. I am deeply
concerned to see one so richly gifted so miserably benighted—one so fair
so foully spotted with heresy. I should esteem it a glorious victory
over Satan to rescue your soul from perdition, and will spare no pains
to do so.”
“It is in vain, sir,” replied Jane; “and if I have hitherto repressed
my anger at these solicitations, it is because feeling firm in myself, I
look upon them merely as an annoyance, to which it is my duty to submit
with patience. But when I perceive the mischief they have done to
others, I can no longer contain my indignation. Yours is a pernicious
and idolatrous religion,—a religion founded on the traditions of men,
not on the word of God—a religion detracting from the merits of our
Saviour—substituting mummery for the simple offices of prayer,—and
though I will not be uncharitable enough to assert that its sincere
professors will not be saved,—yet I am satisfied, that no one to whom
the true light of heaven has once been vouchsafed, can believe in it, or
be saved by it.”
“Since you are thus obstinate, daughter,” replied Feckenham, “let us
dispute point by point, and dogma by dogma, of our creeds, and I think
I can convince you of the error in which you rest. Do not fear wearying
me. I cannot be better employed.”
“Pardon me, then, sir, if I reply, than I can be far better
employed,” returned Jane; “and, though I would not shrink from such a
discussion—were it useful,—and do not fear its result, yet, as no good
can arise from it, I must decline it.”
“As you please, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham. “But I must own that your
refusal to accept my challenge seems a tacit admission of the weakness
of your cause.”
“Put what construction you please upon it, sir,—so you leave me in
peace,” replied Jane. “I will fight the good fight when called upon
to do so. But I will not waste the little time that remains to me in
fruitless disputation.”
“Before I depart, however, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham, “let me
deliver your husband’s message to you.”
“What is it?” inquired Jane, eagerly,—“and yet, I almost dread to ask.”
“He implored you not to be his executioner,” answered Feckenham.
“His executioner!—my husband’s executioner!—oh, no!—no! that I can never
be!” cried Jane, bursting into tears.
“That you will be, unless you consent,” replied the priest, coldly.
“I beseech you, sir, urge me no further,” rejoined Jane.
“I would lay down my life for my husband a thousand times, but I cannot
save him thus. Tell him that I will pray for him night and day,—and oh!
tell him that his swerving from his faith has wounded me more severely
than the axe will ever do.”
“I shall tell him that I left you in the same obstinate state I found
you—deaf to the voice of truth—inaccessible to natural affection, and
besotted with heresy. Daughter, you love not your husband.”
“Not love him!” echoed Jane, passionately. “But no,—you shall not shake
my firmness. I thought to die calmly, and I looked forward to death as
to a certain restoration to my husband. This hope is now at an end. It
is you, sir, who are his true executioner. Not content with robbing him
of his eternal happiness, you impute his destruction to me. Tell him I
love him too well to grant his request—and if he loves me, and hopes to
be reunited to me in the bonds of unceasing happiness, he will remain
unshaken in his adherence to the Protestant faith.”
“Then you absolutely refuse compliance?” demanded Fecken-ham.
“Absolutely,” replied Jane.
“Your husband’s blood be upon your head!” exclaimed the confessor, in a
menacing voice.
And without another word, he departed.
As soon as the door of her chamber was locked, and Jane felt herself
alone, she threw herself on her knees, and was about to pour out her
heart in earnest supplication for her husband, but the shock had been
too great for her, and she fainted. On reviving, she was scarcely able
to move, and it was some time before she entirely regained her strength.
Repairing to the palace, Feckenham detailed the interview to the queen,
observing in conclusion, “I still do not despair of her conversion, and
shall leave no means untried to accomplish it.” The next day, he
again visited Jane, but with no better success. He found her in great
affliction, and she earnestly implored to be allowed to see her husband,
if only for a few minutes, and in the presence of witnesses. The
confessor replied that in her present frame of mind her request could
not be granted. But that if she showed herself conformable she should
no longer be separated from him, and he would answer for their ultimate
pardon. “I have already acquainted you with my determination, sir,”
rejoined Jane, “and you will seek in vain to move me. The rack should
not shake my constancy; neither shall the mental torture to which you
subject me.”
When Feckenham reported the result of his mission to Gardiner, the
bishop decided upon holding a religious conference with the captive,
feeling confident that notwithstanding her boasted learning and zeal,
he could easily overcome her in argument. To induce her to assent to the
plan, it was agreed that a meeting should be allowed between her and
her husband on the occasion. When the matter was announced to Jane,
she readily expressed her acquiescence, and begged that it might not be
delayed, as she had no preparation to make. “Take heed,” she observed,
in conclusion, “lest I win back from you the treasure you have gained.”
“We shall add to it a greater treasure—yourself, madam,” replied the
confessor.
On the following day, she was summoned by an officer of the guard to
attend the Bishop in the Beauchamp Tower. Taking up a volume of the
Holy Scriptures lying on a table beside her, and wrapping herself in an
ermined surcoat, she arose and followed the officer—quitting her chamber
for the first time for nearly two months. On issuing into the open air,
the effect was almost overpowering, and she could not repress her tears.
It was a bright, sunshiny morning, and everything looked so beautiful—so
happy, that the contrast with her recent sufferings was almost too much
for her. Bearing up resolutely against her feelings, in order forcibly
to divert her attention she fixed her eyes upon the reverend walls
of the White Tower, which she was at that moment passing. Near it she
perceived the three gigantic warders, all of whom doffed their caps
as she approached. Og coughed loudly, as if to clear his throat; Gog
hastily brushed the moisture from his eyes with his sleeve; while Magog,
who was the most tender-hearted of the three, fairly blubbered aloud.
Xit, who formed one of the group, but who was the least affected, bade
her be of good cheer.
This encounter was so far of service to Jane, that it served to distract
her thoughts, and she had in a great measure regained her composure,
when another incident occurred, which had nearly upset her altogether.
As she passed near the porch of Saint Peter’s Chapel, she beheld Simon
Renard emerge from it. And if she felt her blood chilled by the sight of
her implacable foe, her alarm was not diminished on hearing him call to
her guards to bring her within the chapel. At a loss to comprehend the
meaning of this mysterious summons, Jane entered the sacred structure.
Coldly saluting her, Renard informed her that her husband was within
the chapel. Trembling at the intimation, Jane looked eagerly round.
At first, she could discern nothing; but, guided by the ambassador’s
malignant glance, she perceived a figure kneeling in front of the altar.
Instantly recognising her husband, with an exclamation of delight that
made him spring to his feet, she rushed forward and threw herself into
his arms.
After the first passionate emotion had subsided, Jane inquired how he
came to be there.
“Do you not know?” replied Lord Guilford. “Or have you been kept in
ignorance of the terrible tragedy which has been recently enacted? Look
there!” And he pointed downwards.
Jane obeyed, and saw that she was standing upon a gravestone, on which
was inscribed in newly-cut letters— JOHN DUDLEY, DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND.
—DECAPITATED AUGUST 22, 1553
Jane trembled and leaned upon her husband for support. “Here is the
victim—there the executioner,” said Lord Guilford, pointing from the
grave to Renard.
“Three months ago,” said the Ambassador, who stood with folded arms at a
little distance from them, “within this very chapel, I told the Duke of
Northumberland he would occupy that grave. My words have been fulfilled.
And I now tell you, Lord Guilford Dudley, and you Lady Jane, that unless
you are reconciled with our holy Church, you will rest beside him.”
With these words he quitted the chapel, and the guards closing round the
captives, they were compelled to follow. During their short walk, Jane
passionately implored her husband not to yield to the persuasions of his
enemies. He hung his head and returned no answer, and she inferred from
his silence, that he was not disposed to yield to her solicitations.
They were now close upon the Beauchamp Tower, when Dudley, pointing to a
barred window in the upper story of one of its turrets, observed—“Within
that room my father parsed the last few weeks of his existence.”
0236
Ascending the spiral stone stairs of the tower, they passed beneath the
arched doorway, and entered the principal chamber—now used—as has more
than once been observed—as the mess-room of the garrison. Here they
found Gardiner awaiting their arrival, he was seated on a high backed
arm chair between Bonner and Feckenham, who occupied stools on either
side of him, while behind him stood the friar who had attended the Duke
of Northumberland on the scaffold. Across one of the deep and arched
embrazures of the room looking towards the south, a thick curtain was
drawn, and before it, at a small table covered with a crimson cloth, on
which writing materials were placed, sat a secretary prepared to take
down the heads of the disputation. On Jane’s appearance, Gardiner and
the other ecclesiastics arose and gravely saluted her.
“You are welcome, daughter,” said the bishop. “You have come hither an
unbeliever in our doctrines. I trust you will depart confirmed in the
faith of Rome.”
“I am come to vanquish, not to yield, my lord,” replied Jane, firmly.
“And as I shall give you no quarter, so I expect none.”
“Be it so,” rejoined the bishop. “To you, my son,” he continued,
addressing Lord Guilford, “I can hold very different language. I can
give you such welcome as the prodigal son received, and rejoice in your
reconciliation with your heavenly father. And I sincerely trust that
this noble lady, your consort, will not be a means of turning aside that
mercy which her most gracious Majesty is desirous of extending towards
you.”
“My lord,” said Jane, stepping between them, and steadfastly regarding
the bishop, “if I am wrong and my husband is right, the Queen will do
well not to punish the innocent with the guilty. And you, dear Dudley,”
she continued, taking his hand, and gazing at him with streaming eyes,
“grant me one favour—the last I shall ever ask of you.”
“Daughter!” observed Gardiner, severely, “I cannot permit this
interference. I must interpose my authority to prevent your attempting
to shake your husband’s determination.”
“All I ask, my lord, is this,” rejoined Jane, meekly; “that he will
abide the issue of the disputation before he renounces his faith for
ever. It is a request, which I am sure neither he, nor you will refuse.”
“It is granted, daughter,” replied Gardiner; “the rather that I feel
so certain of convincing you that I doubt not you will then as strongly
urge his reconciliation as you now oppose it.”
“I would that not my husband alone, but that all Christendom could be
auditors of our conference, my lord,” replied Jane. “In this cause I am
as strong, as in the late on which I was engaged I was weak. With this
shield,” she continued, raising the Bible which she carried beneath her
arm, “I cannot sustain injury.” Advancing towards the table at which
the secretary was seated, she laid the sacred volume upon it. She then
divested of her surcoat, and addressed a few words, in an under tone, to
her husband, while the ecclesiastics conferred together. While this
was passing, Lord Guilford’s eye accidentally fell upon his father’s
inscription on the wall, and he called Jane’s attention to it. She
sighed as she looked, and remarked, “Do not let your name be stained
like his.”
Perceiving Simon Renard gazing at them with malignant satisfaction, she
then turned to Gardiner and said, “My lord, the presence of this person
troubles me. I pray you, if he be not needful to our conference, that
you will desire him to withdraw.”
The bishop acquiesced, and having signified his wishes to the
ambassador, he feigned to depart. But halting beneath the arched
entrance, he remained an unseen witness of the proceedings.
A slight pause ensued, during which Jane knelt beside the chair, and
fervently besought heaven to grant her strength for the encounter. She
then arose, and fixing her eye upon Gardiner, said in a firm tone, “I am
ready, my lord, I pray you question me, and spare me not.”
0238
No further intimation was necessary to the bishop, who immediately
proceeded to interrogate her on the articles of her faith; and being
a man of profound learning, well versed in all the subtleties of
scholastic dispute, he sought in every way to confound and perplex her.
In this he was likewise assisted by Bonner and Feckenham, both of
whom were admirable theologians, and who proposed the most difficult
questions to her. The conference lasted several hours, during which
Jane sustained her part with admirable constancy—never losing a single
point—but retorting upon her opponents questions, which they were
unable to answer—displaying such a fund of erudition—such powers of
argument—such close and clear reasoning—and such profound knowledge of
the tenets of her own faith and of theirs, that they were completely
baffled and astounded. To a long and eloquent address of Gardiner’s
she replied at equal length, and with even more eloquence and fervour,
concluding with these emphatic words—“My lord, I have lived in the
Protestant faith, and in that faith I will die. In these sad times,
when the power of your church is in the ascendant, it is perhaps needful
there should be martyrs in ours to prove our sincerity. Amongst these I
shall glory to be numbered—happy in the thought that my firmness will
be the means in after ages, of benefiting the Protestant church. On
this rock,” she continued, pointing to the Bible, which lay open before
her—“my religion is built, and it will endure, when yours, which is
erected on sandy foundations, shall be utterly swept away. In this
sacred volume, I find every tenet of my creed, and I desire no other
mediator between my Maker and myself.”
As she said this, her manner was so fervid, and her look so full of
inspiration, that all her listeners were awe-stricken, and gazed at her
in involuntary admiration. The secretary suspended his task to drink in
her words; and even Simon Renard, who ensconced beneath the door-way,
seemed no inapt representation of the spirit of evil, appeared
confounded.
After a brief pause, Gardiner arose, saying, “the conference is ended,
daughter. You are at liberty to depart. If I listen longer,” he added,
in an under tone to his companions, “I shall be convinced against my
will.”
“Then you acknowledge your defeat, my lord,” said Jane, proudly.
“I acknowledge that it is in vain to make any impression on you,”
answered the bishop.
“Jane,” cried her husband, advancing towards her, and throwing himself
on his knees before her, “you have conquered, and I implore your
forgiveness. I will never change a religion of which you are so bright
an ornament.”
“This is indeed a victory,” replied Jane, raising him and clasping him
to her bosom. “And now, my lord,” she added to Gardiner, “conduct us
to prison or the scaffold as soon as you please. Death has no further
terrors.”
After a parting embrace, and an assurance from her husband, that he
would now remain constant in his faith, Jane was removed by her guard
to the Brick Tower, while Lord Guilford was immured in one of the cells
adjoining the room in which the conference had taken place.
0241
XI.—HOW CUTHBERT CHOLMONDELEY REVISITED THE STONE KITCHEN; AND HOW HE
WENT IN SEARCH OF CICELY.
Cuthbert Cholmondeley, who, it may be remembered, attended Lord Guilford
Dudley, when he was brought from Sion House to the Tower, was imprisoned
at the same time as that unfortunate nobleman, and lodged in the
Nun’s Bower—a place of confinement so named, and situated, as already
mentioned, in the upper story of the Coal Harbour Tower. Here he was
detained until after the Duke of Northumberland’s execution, when,
though he was not restored to liberty, he was allowed the range of the
fortress. The first use he made of his partial freedom was to proceed
to the Stone Kitchen, in the hope of meeting with Cicely; and his bitter
disappointment may be conceived on finding that she was not there, nor
was anything known of her by her foster-parents.
“Never since the ill-fated Queen Jane, whom they now call a usurper,
took her into her service, have I set eyes upon her,” said Dame
Potentia, who was thrown into an agony of affliction, by the sight
of Cholmondeley. “Hearing from old Gunnora Braose, that when her
unfortunate mistress was brought back a captive to the Tower she had
been left at Sion House, and thinking she would speedily return, I did
not deem it necessary to send for her; but when a week had elapsed, and
she did not make her appearance, I desired her father to go in search
of her. Accordingly, he went to Sion House, and learnt that she had been
fetched away, on the morning after Queen Jane’s capture, by a man who
stated he had come from us. This was all Peter could learn. Alas! Alas!”
“Did not your suspicions alight on Nightgall?” asked Cholmondeley.
“Ay, marry, did they,” replied the pantler’s wife; “but he averred he
had never quitted the Tower. And as I had no means of proving it upon
him, I could do nothing more than tax him with it.”
“He still retains his office of jailer, I suppose?” said Cholmondeley.
“Of a surety,” answered Potentia; “and owing to Simon Renard, whom you
may have heard, is her Majesty’s right hand, he has become a person of
greater authority than ever, and affects to look down upon his former
friends.”
“He cannot look down upon me at all events,” exclaimed a loud voice
behind them. And turning at the sound, Cholmondeley beheld the bulky
figure of Gog darkening the door-way.
A cordial greeting passed between Cholmondeley and the giant, who in
the same breath congratulated him upon his restoration to liberty, and
condoled with him on the loss of his mistress.
“In the midst of grief we must perforce eat,” observed the pantler, “and
our worthy friends, the giants, as well as Xit, have often enlivened our
board, and put care to flight. Perhaps you are not aware that Magog has
been married since we last saw you.”
“Magog married!” exclaimed Cholmondeley, in surprise.
“Ay. indeed!” rejoined Gog, “more persons than your worship have been
astonished by it. And shall I let you into secret—if ever husband was
henpecked, it is my unfortunate brother. Your worship complains of
losing your mistress. Would to heaven he had had any such luck! And the
worst of it is that before marriage she was accounted the most amiable
of her sex.”
“Ay, that’s always the case,” observed Peter Trusbut; “though I must
do my dame the justice to say that she did not disguise her qualities
during my courtship.”
“I will not hear a word uttered in disparagement of Dame Potentia,”
cried Ribald, who at that moment entered the kitchen, “even by her
husband. Ah! Master Cholmondeley I am right glad to see you. I heard of
your release to-day. So, the pretty bird is flown you find—and whither
none of us can tell, though I think I could give a guess at the fowler.”
“So could I,” replied Cholmondeley.
“I dare say both our suspicions tend to the same mark,” said Ribald—“but
we must observe caution now—for the person I mean is protected by Simon
Renard, and others in favour with the queen.”
“He is little better than an assassin,” said Cholmondeley; “and has
detained a wretched woman whom he has driven out of her senses by his
cruelty a captive in the subterranean dungeons beneath the Devilin
Tower.”
And he proceeded to detail all he knew of the captive Alexia.
“This is very dreadful, no doubt,” remarked Ribald, who had listened to
the recital with great attention. “But as I said before, Nightgall is in
favour with persons of the greatest influence, and he is more dangerous
and vindictive than ever. What you do, you must do cautiously.”
By this time, the party had been increased by the arrival of Og and Xit,
both of whom, but especially the latter, appeared rejoiced to meet with
the young esquire.
“Ah! Master Cholmondeley,” said the elder giant, heaving a deep sigh.
“Times have changed with us all since we last met. Jane is no longer
Queen. The Duke of Northumberland is beheaded. Cicely is lost. And last
and worst of all, Magog is married.”
“So I have heard from Gog,” replied Cholmondeley, “and I fear not very
much to your satisfaction.1’
“Nor his own either,” replied Og, shrugging his shoulders. “However it
can’t be helped. He must make the best of a bad bargain.”
“It might be helped though,” observed Xit. “Magog seems to have lost all
his spirit since he married. If I had to manage her, I’d soon let her
see the difference.”
“You, forsooth!” exclaimed Dame Potentia, contemptuously. “Do you
imagine any woman would stand in awe-of you!”
And before the dwarf could elude her grasp, she seized him by the
nape of the neck, and regardless of his cries, placed him upon the
chimney-piece, amid a row of shining pewter plates.
“There you shall remain,” she added, “till you beg pardon for your
impertinence.”
Xit looked piteously around, but seeing no hand extended to reach him
down, and being afraid to spring from so great a height, he entreated
the dame’s forgiveness in a humble tone; and she thereupon set him upon
the ground.
“A pretty person you are to manage a wife,” said Dame Potentia, with a
laugh, in which all, except the object of it, joined.
It being Cholmondeley’s intention to seek out a lodging at one of the
warder’s habitations, he consulted Peter Trusbut on the subject, who
said, that if his wife was agreeable, he should be happy to accommodate
him in his own dwelling. The matter being referred to Dame Potentia she
at once assented, and assigned him Cicely’s chamber.
On taking possession of the room, Cholmondeley sank upon a chair, and
for some time indulged the most melancholy reflections, from which he
was aroused by a tremendous roar of laughter, such as he knew could
only be uttered by the gigantic brethren, proceeding from the adjoining
apartment. Repairing thither, he found the whole party assembled round
the table, which was, as usual, abundantly, or rather superabundantly,
furnished. Amongst the guests were Magog and his wife, and the laughter
he had heard was occasioned by a box administered by the latter to
the ears of her spouse, because he had made some remark that sounded
displeasing in her own. Magog bore the blow with the utmost philosophy,
and applied himself for consolation to a huge pot of metheglin, which he
held to his lips as long as a drop remained within it.
“We had good doings in Queen’s Jane’s reign,” remarked Peter Trusbut,
offering the young esquire a seat beside him, “but we have better in
those of Queen Mary.”
And, certainly, his assertion was fully borne out by the great joints of
beef, the hams, the pasties, and pullets with which the table groaned,
and with which the giants were making their accustomed havoc. In the
midst stood what Peter Trusbut termed a royal pasty, and royal it was,
if size could confer dignity. It contained two legs of mutton, the
pantler assured his guests, besides a world of other savoury matters,
enclosed in a wall of rye-crust, and had taken twenty-four hours to
bake.
“Twenty-four hours!” echoed Magog. “I will engage to consume it in the
twentieth part of the time.”
“For that observation you shall not even taste it,” said his arbitrary
spouse.
Debarred from the pasty, Magog made himself some amends by attacking
a gammon of Bayonne bacon, enclosed in a paste, and though he found it
excellent, he had the good sense to keep his opinion to himself. In this
way, the supper passed off—Ribald jesting as usual, and devoting himself
alternately to the two dames—Peter Trusbut carving the viands and
assisting his guests—and the giants devouring all before them.
Towards the close of the repast, Xit, who always desired to be an object
of attention, determined to signalise himself by some feat. Brandishing
his knife and fork, he therefore sprang upon the table, and striding up
to the royal pasty, peeped over the side, which was rather higher than
himself, to take a survey of the contents.
While he was thus occupied, Dame Placida, who was sitting opposite to
the pasty, caught him by the skirts of his doublet, and tossed him into
the pie, while Peter Trusbut instantly covered it with the thick lid
of crust, which had been removed when it was first opened. The laughter
which followed this occurrence was not diminished, as the point of Xit’s
knife appeared through the wall of pastry—nor was it long before he
contrived to cut a passage out.
His re-appearance was hailed with a general shout of merriment. And
Magog was by no means displeased at seeing him avenge himself by rushing
towards his plump partner, and before she could prevent him, throw his
arms round her, and imprint a sounding kiss upon her lips, while his
greasy habiliments besmeared her dress.
Xit would have suffered severely for this retaliation, if it had not
been for the friendly interference of Ribald, who rescued him from the
clutches of the offended dame, and contrived with a tact peculiar to
himself not only to appease her anger, but to turn it into mirth.
Order being once more restored, the dishes and plates were removed, and
succeeded by flagons and pots of ale and wine. The conversation then
began to turn upon a masque about to be given to the Queen by the Earl
of Devonshire, at which they were all to assist, and arrangements were
made as to the characters they should assume. Though this topic
was interesting enough to the parties concerned, it was not so to
Cholmondeley, who was about to retire to his own chamber to indulge his
grief unobserved, when his departure was arrested by the sudden entrance
of Lawrence Nightgall.
At the jailor’s appearance, the merriment of the party instantly ceased,
and all eyes were bent upon him.
“Your business here, master Nightgall?” demanded Peter Trusbut, who was
the first to speak.
“My business is with Master Cuthbert Cholmondeley,” replied the jailor.
“State it then at once,” replied the esquire, frowning. “It is to
ascertain where you intend to lodge, that I may report it to the
lieutenant,” said Nightgall.
“I shall remain here,” replied Cholmondeley, sternly—“in Cicely’s
chamber.”
“Here!” exclaimed Nightgall, starting, but instantly recovering
himself, he turned to Peter Trusbut, and in a voice of forced composure,
added—“You will be responsible then for him, Master Pantler, with your
life and goods to the Queen’s highness, which, if he escapes, will both
be forfeited.”
“Indeed!” cried Trusbut, in dismay. “I—I—”
“Yes—yes—my husband understands all that,” interposed Dame Potentia; “he
will be answerable for him—and so will I.”
“You will understand still further,” proceeded Nightgall, with a
smile of triumph, “that he is not to stir forth except for one hour at
mid-day, and then that his walks are to be restricted to the green.”
While this was passing, Og observed in a whisper to Xit—“If I were
possessed of that bunch of keys at Nightgall’s girdle, I could soon find
Cicely.”
“Indeed!” said Xit. “Then you shall soon have them.” And the next minute
he disappeared under the table.
“You have a warrant for what you do, I suppose?” demanded Og, desirous
of attracting the jailor’s attention.
“Behold it,” replied Nightgall, taking a parchment from his vest. He
then deliberately seated himself, and producing an ink-horn and pen,
wrote Peter Trusbut’s name upon it.
“Master Pantler,” he continued, delivering it to him, “I have addressed
it to you. Once more I tell you, you will be responsible for the
prisoner. And with this I take my leave.”
“Not so fast, villain,” said Cholmondeley, seizing his arm with a firm
grasp,—“where is Cicely?”
“You will never behold her more,” replied Nightgall. “What have you done
with the captive Alexia?” pursued the esquire, bitterly.
“She likewise is beyond your reach,” answered the jailor, moodily. And
shaking off Cholmondeley’s grasp, he rushed out of the chamber with
such haste as nearly to upset Xit, who appeared to have placed himself
purposely in his path.
This occurrence threw a gloom over the mirth of the party.
The conversation flagged, and even an additional supply of wine failed
to raise the spirits of the guests. Just as they were separating, hasty
steps were heard on the stairs, and Night-gall again presented himself.
Rushing up to Cholmondeley, who was sitting apart wrapt in gloomy
thought, he exclaimed in a voice of thunder—“My keys!—my keys!—you have
stolen my keys.”
“What keys?” demanded the esquire, starting to his feet. “Those of
Alexia’s dungeon.”
“Restore them instantly,” cried Nightgall, furiously—“or I will
instantly carry you back to the Nun’s Bower.”
“Were they in my possession,” replied Cholmondeley, “nothing should
force them from me till I had searched your most secret hiding-places.”
“‘Tis therefore you stole them,” cried Nightgall. “See where my girdle
has been cut,” he added, appealing to Peter Trusbut. “If they are not
instantly restored, I will convey you all before the lieutenant, and you
know how he will treat the matter.”
Terrified by this threat, the pantler entreated the esquire, if he
really had the keys, to restore them. But Cholmondeley positively denied
the charge, and after a long and fruitless search, all the party except
Xit, who had disappeared, having declared their ignorance of what had
become of them, Nightgall at last departed, in a state of the utmost
rage and mortification.
Soon after this, the party broke up, and Cholmondeley retired to his own
room. Though the pantler expressed no fear of his escaping, he did not
neglect the precaution of locking the door. Throwing himself on a couch,
the esquire, after a time, fell into a sort of doze, during which he was
haunted by the image of Cicely, who appeared pale and suffering, and as
if imploring his aid. So vivid was the impression, that he started up,
and endeavoured to shake it off. In vain. He could not divest himself
of the idea that he was at that moment subjected to the persecutions
of Nightgall. Having endured this anguish for some hours, and the night
being far advanced, he was about to address himself once more to repose,
when he heard the lock turned, and glancing in the direction of the
door, perceived it cautiously opened by Xit. The mannikin placed his
finger to his lips in token of silence, and held up a huge bunch of
keys, which Cholmondeley instantly conjectured were those lost by
Nightgall. Xit then briefly explained how he had possessed himself of
them, and offered them to Cholmondeley.
“I love the fair Cicely,” he said, “hate Nightgall, and entertain a
high respect for your worship. I would gladly make you happy with your
mistress if I can. You have now at least the means of searching for her,
and heaven grant a favourable issue to the adventure. Follow me, and
tread upon the points of your feet, for the pantler and his spouse
occupy the next room.”
As they crossed the kitchen, they heard a sound proceeding from an
adjoining room, which convinced them that neither Peter Trusbut nor Dame
Potentia were on the watch.
“They don’t snore quite so loud as my friends the giants,” whispered
Xit; “but they have tolerably good lungs.’”
Having, at Xit’s suggestion, armed himself with a torch and materials to
light it, and girded on a sword which he found reared against the
wall, the esquire followed his dwarfish companion down a winding stone
staircase, and speedily issued from the postern.
The night was profoundly dark, and they were therefore unobserved by
the sentinels on the summit of the Byward Tower, and on the western
ramparts. Without delaying a moment, Cholmondeley hurried towards the
Devilin Tower. Xit accompanied him, and after some little search they
found the secret door, and by a singular chance Cholmondeley, on the
first application, discovered the right key. He then bade farewell to
the friendly dwarf, who declined attending him further, and entering the
passage, and locking the door withinside, struck a light and set fire to
the torch.
Scarcely knowing whither to shape his course, and fully aware of the
extent of the dungeons he should have to explore, Cholmondeley resolved
to leave no cell unvisited, until he discovered the object of his
search. For some time, he proceeded along a narrow arched passage,
which brought him to a stone staircase, and descending it, his further
progress was stopped by an iron door. Unlocking it, he entered another
passage, on the right of which was a range of low cells, all of which he
examined, but they were untenanted, except one, in which he found a man
whom he recognized as one of the Duke of Northumberland’s followers.
He did not, however, dare to liberate him, but with a few words of
commiseration passed on.
Turning off on the left, he proceeded for some distance, until being
convinced by the hollow sound of the floor that there were vaults
beneath, he held his torch downwards, and presently discovered an iron
ring in one of the stones. Raising it, he beheld a flight of steps, and
descending them, found himself in a lower passage about two feet wide,
and apparently of considerable length. Hastily tracking it, he gradually
descended until he came to a level, where both the floor and ceiling
were damp and humid. His torch now began to burn feebly, and threw a
ghastly light upon the slimy walls and dripping roof.
While he was thus pursuing his way, a long and fearful shriek broke
upon his ear, and thinking it might proceed from the captive Alexia, he
hastened forward as quickly as the slippery path would allow him. It
was evident, from the increasing humidity of the atmosphere, that he
was approaching the river. As he advanced the cries grew louder, and he
became aware, from the noise around, that legions of rats were
fleeing before him. These loathsome animals were in such numbers, that
Cholmondeley, half-fearing an attack from them, drew his sword.