terminated in a low wide vault, in the centre of which was a deep pit.
From the bottom of this abyss the cries resounded, and hurrying to
its edge, he held down the torch, and discovered, at the depth of some
twenty feet, a miserable half-naked object up to his knees in water, and
defending himself from hundreds of rats that were swarming around him.
While he was considering how he could accomplish the poor wretch’s
deliverance, who continued his shrieks more loudly than ever, asserting
that the rats were devouring him, Cholmondeley perceived a ladder in a
corner of the vault, and lowering it into the pit, the sides of which
were perpendicular and flagged, instantly descended.
If he had been horrified at the vociferations of the prisoner, he
was now perfectly appalled by the ghastly spectacle he presented. The
unfortunate person had not exaggerated his danger when he said that the
rats were about to devour him. His arms, body, and face were torn
and bleeding, and as Cholmondeley approached he beheld numbers of his
assailants spring from him and swim off. More dead than alive, the
sufferer expressed his thanks, and taking him in his arms, Cholmondeley
carried him up the ladder.
As soon as he had gained the edge of the pit, the esquire, who had been
struck with the man’s voice, examined his features by the light of the
torch, and was shocked to find that he was one of the attendants of the
Duke of Northumberland, with whom he was well acquainted. Addressing him
by his name, the man instantly knew him, and informed him that he had
been ordered into confinement by the council, and having given some
offence to Nightgall, had been tortured and placed in this horrible pit.
“I have been here two days and nights,” he said, “as far as I can guess,
without food or light, and should soon have perished, had it not been
for your aid; and, though I do not fear death,—yet to die by inches—a
prey to those horrible animals—was dreadful.”
“Let me support you,” returned Cholmondeley, taking his arm, “and while
you have strength left, convey you to a more wholesome part of the
dungeon, where you will be free from these frightful assailants, till I
can procure you further assistance.”
The poor prisoner gratefully accepted his offer, and lending him all the
assistance in his power, Cholmondeley slowly retraced his course. Having
reached the flight of stone steps, leading to the trap-door, the esquire
dragged his companion up them, and finding it in vain to carry him
further, and fearing he should be disappointed in the main object of his
search, he looked around for a cell in which he could place him for a
short time.
Perceiving a door standing ajar on the left, he pushed it open, and,
entering a small cell, found the floor covered with straw, and, what
was still more satisfactory to him, discovered a loaf on a shelf, and
a large jug of water. Placing the prisoner on the straw, he spread the
provisions before him, and having seen him partake of them, promised to
return as soon as possible.
“Bestow no further thought on me,” said the man. “I shall die content
now.”
Cholmondeley then departed, and proceeding along the passage he had just
traversed, came to a wide arched opening on the left, which he entered,
and pursuing the path before him, after many turnings, arrived at
another low circular vault, about nineteen feet in diameter, which, from
the peculiar form of its groined arches, he supposed (and correctly)
must be situated beneath Devereux Tower.
0250
Of a style of architecture of earlier date than the Beauchamp Tower,
the Devilin, or, as it is now termed, the Devereux Tower, from the
circumstance of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, the favourite of Queen
Elizabeth, having been confined within it in 1601, has undergone less
alteration than most of the other fortifications, and except in the
modernising of the windows, retains much of its original character.
In the dungeon into which Cholmondeley had penetrated, several curious
spear-heads of great antiquity, and a gigantic thigh-bone, have been
recently found.
At the further end of the vault Cholmondeley discovered a short flight
of steps, and mounting them unlocked a door, which admitted him to
another narrow winding stone staircase. Ascending it, he presently came
to a door on the left, shaped like the arched entrance in which it
was placed. It was of strong oak, studded with nails, and secured by a
couple of bolts.
0251
Drawing back the fastenings, he unsheathed his sword, and pushing aside
the door with the blade, raised his torch, and beheld a spectacle that
Idled him with horror. At one side of the cell, which was about six feet
long and three wide, and contrived in the thickness of the wall, upon
a stone seat rested the dead body of a woman, reduced almost to a
skeleton. The face was turned from the door, but rushing forward he
instantly recognised its rigid features. On the wall close to where she
lay, and evidently carved by her own hand, was traced her name—ALEXIA.
0252
0254
XII.—-HOW EDWARD UNDERHILL, THE “HOT-GOSPELLER,” ATTEMPTED TO
ASSASSINATE QUEEN MARY; AND HOW SHE WAS PRESERVED BY SIR HENRY
BEDINGFELD.
Among those who viewed Mary’s accession to the throne with the greatest
dissatisfaction, was the Hot-Gospeller. Foreseeing the danger with which
the Protestant church was menaced, he regarded the change of sovereigns
as one of the most direful calamities that could have befallen his
country. The open expression of these sentiments more than once brought
him into trouble, and he was for some time placed in durance. On his
liberation, he observed more caution; and though his opinions were by no
means altered, but rather strengthened, he no longer gave utterance to
them.
During his imprisonment, he had pondered deeply upon the critical state
of his religion; and having come to the conclusion that there was no
means but one of averting the threatened storm, he determined to resort
to that desperate expedient. Underhill’s temporal interests had been as
much affected as his spiritual, by the new government. He was dismissed
from the post he had hitherto held of gentleman-pensioner; and this
circumstance, though he was, perhaps, scarcely conscious of it,
contributed in no slight degree to heighten his animosity against the
queen. Ever brooding upon the atrocious action he was about to commit,
he succeeded in persuading himself, by that pernicious process of
reasoning by which religious enthusiasts so often delude themselves
into the commission of crime, that it was not only justifiable, but
meritorious.
Though no longer a prisoner, or employed in any office, the
Hot-Gospeller still continued to linger within the Tower, judging it the
fittest place for the execution of his purpose. He took up his abode in
a small stone cell, once tenanted by a recluse, and situated at the back
of Saint Peter’s chapel, on the Green; devoting his days to prayer,
and his nights to wandering, like a ghost, about the gloomiest and
least-frequented parts of the fortress. He was often challenged by the
sentinels,—often stopped, and conveyed to the guard-room by the patrol;
but in time they became accustomed to him, and he was allowed to pursue
his ramblings unmolested. By most persons he was considered deranged,
and his wasted figure—for he almost denied himself the necessaries of
life, confining his daily meal to a crust of bread, and a draught of
water,—together with his miserable attire, confirmed the supposition.
Upon one occasion, Mary herself, who was making the rounds of the
fortress, happened to notice him, and ordered him to be brought before
her. A blaze of fierce delight passed over the enthusiast’s face when
the mandate was conveyed to him. But his countenance fell the next
moment, on recollecting that he was unarmed. Bitterly reproaching
himself for his want of caution, he searched his clothes. He had not
even a knife about him. He then besought the halberdiers who came for
him to lend him a cloak and a sword, or even a partizan, to make a
decent appearance before the queen. But laughing at the request, they
struck him with the poles of their weapons, and commanded him to follow
them without delay.
Brought into the royal presence, he with difficulty controlled himself.
And nothing but the conviction that such a step would effectually defeat
his design, prevented him from pouring forth the most violent threats
against the queen. As it was, he loudly lamented her adherence to the
faith of Rome, entreating her to abjure it, and embrace the new and
wholesome doctrines,—a course, which he predicted, would ensure her
a long and prosperous reign, whereas, a continuance in her present
idolatrous creed would plunge her kingdom in discord, endanger her
crown, and, perhaps, end in her own destruction.
Regarding him as a half-crazed, but harmless enthusiast, Mary paid
little attention to his address, which was sufficiently wild and
incoherent to warrant the conclusion that his intellects were
disordered. Pitying his miserable appearance, and inquiring into his
mode of life, she ordered him better apparel, and directed that he
should be lodged within the palace.
Underhill would have refused her bounty, but, at a gesture from Mary, he
was removed from her presence.
This interview troubled him exceedingly. He could not reconcile the
queen’s destruction to his conscience so easily as he had heretofore
done. Despite all his reasoning to the contrary, her generosity affected
him powerfully. He could not divest himself of the idea that she might
yet be converted; and persuading himself that the glorious task was
reserved for him, he resolved to make the attempt, before resorting to a
darker mode of redress. Managing to throw himself, one day, in her way,
as she was proceeding along the grand gallery, he immediately commenced
a furious exhortation. But his discourse was speedily interrupted by the
queen, who ordered her attendants to remove him into the court yard, and
cudgel him soundly; directing that any repetition of the offence should
be followed by severer chastisement. This sentence was immediately
carried into effect. The Hot-Gospeller bore it without a murmur. But he
internally resolved to defer no longer his meditated design.
His next consideration was how to execute it. He could not effect
his purpose by poison; and any attempt at open violence would, in all
probability, (as the queen was constantly guarded,) be attended by
failure. He therefore determined, as the surest means, to have recourse
to fire-arms. And, being an unerring marksman, he felt certain of
success in this way.
Having secretly procured an arquebuss and ammunition, he now only
awaited a favourable moment for the enterprise. This soon occurred.
It being rumoured one night in the Tower, that the queen was about to
proceed by water to Whitehall on the following morning, he determined to
station himself at some point on the line of road, whence he could take
deliberate aim at her. On inquiring further, he ascertained that the
royal train would cross the drawbridge leading from the south of the
Byward Tower to the wharf, and embark at the stairs. Being personally
known to several officers of the guard, he thought he should have no
difficulty in obtaining admittance to Saint Thomas’s Tower, which, while
it commanded the drawbridge, and was within shot, was yet sufficiently
distant not to excite suspicion. Accordingly, at an early hour, on the
next day, he repaired thither, wrapped in a cloak, beneath which he
carried the implement of his treasonable intent.
As he anticipated, he readily procured admission, and, under pretence of
viewing the passage of the royal train, was allowed a place at a narrow
loophole in the upper story of one of the western turrets. Most of the
guard being required on the summit of the fortification, Underhill
was left alone in the small chamber. Loud shouts, and the discharge of
artillery from the ramparts of the fortress, as well as from the roofs
of the different towers, proclaimed that Mary had set forth. A few
embers were burning on the hearth in the chamber occupied by the
enthusiast. With these he lighted his tow-match, and offering up a
prayer for the success of his project, held himself in readiness for its
execution.
Unconscious of the impending danger, Mary took her way towards the
By-ward Tower. She was attended by a numerous retinue of nobles and
gentlemen. Near her walked one of her councillors, Sir Henry Bedingfeld,
in whom she placed the utmost trust, and whose attachment to her had
been often approved in the reigns of her father and brother, as well
as during the late usurpation of Lady Jane Grey. Sir Henry was a
grave-looking, dignified personage, somewhat stricken in years. He was
attired in a robe of black velvet, of the fashion of Henry the Eighth’s
time, and his beard was trimmed in the same bygone mode. The venerable
knight walked bare-headed, and carried a long staff, tipped with gold.
By this time, Mary had reached the gateway opening upon the scene of her
intended assassination. The greater part of her train had already passed
over the drawbridge, and the deafening shouts of the beholders, as
well as the renewed discharges of artillery, told that the queen was
preparing to follow. This latter circumstance created a difficulty,
which Underhill had not foreseen. Confined by the ramparts and the
external walls of the moat, the smoke from the ordnance completely
obscured the view of the drawbridge. Just, however, as Mary set foot
upon it, and Underhill had abandoned the attempt in despair, a gust
of wind suddenly dispersed the vapour. Conceiving this a special
interposition of Providence in his favour, who had thus placed his
royal victim in his hands, the Hot-Gospeller applied the match to the
arquebuss, and the discharge instantly followed.
The queen’s life, however, was miraculously preserved. Sir Henry
Bedingfeld, who was walking a few paces behind her, happening to cast
his eye in the direction of Traitor’s Tower, perceived the barrel of
an arquebuss thrust from a loop-hole in one of the turrets, and pointed
towards her. Struck with the idea that some injury might be intended
her, he sprung forward, and interposing his own person between the queen
and the discharge, drew her forcibly backwards. The movement saved her.
The ball passed through the knight’s mantle, but without harming him
further than ruffling the skin of his shoulder; proving by the course
it took, that, but for his presence of mind, its fatal effect must have
been certain.
All this was the work of an instant. Undismayed by the occurrence, Mary,
who inherited all her father’s intrepidity, looked calmly round, and
pressing Bedingfeld’s arm in grateful acknowledgment of the service
he had rendered her, issued her commands that the assassin should be
secured, strictly examined, and, if need be, questioned on the rack. She
then proceeded to the place of embarkation as deliberately as if nothing
had happened. Pausing before she entered the barge, she thus addressed
her preserver:—
“Sir Henry Bedingfeld, you have ever been my loyal servant. You were the
first, during the late usurpation, to draw the sword in my defence—the
first to raise troops for me—to join me at Framlingham—to proclaim me at
Norwich. But you have thrown all these services into the shade by your
last act of devotion. I owe my life to you. What can I do to evince my
gratitude?”
“You have already done more than enough in thus acknowledging it,
gracious madam,” replied Sir Henry; “nor can I claim any merit for the
action. Placed in my situation, I am assured there is not one of your
subjects, except the miscreant who assailed you, who would not have
acted in the same manner. I have done nothing, and deserve nothing.”
“Not so, sir,” returned Mary. “Most of my subjects, I believe, share
your loyalty. But this does not lessen your desert. I should be wanting
in all gratitude were I to let the service you have rendered me pass
unrequited. And since you refuse to tell me how I can best reward you, I
must take upon myself to judge for you. The custody of our person and of
our fortress shall be entrusted to your care. Neither can be confided
to worthier hands. Sir John Gage shall receive another appointment.
Henceforth, you are Lieutenant of the Tower.”
This gracious act was followed by the acclamations of the bystanders;
and the air resounded with cries of “God save Queen Mary!—a
Bedingfeld!—a Bedingfeld!”
“Your majesty has laid an onerous duty upon me, but I will endeavour to
discharge it to your satisfaction,” replied Sir Henry, bending the knee,
and pressing her hand devotedly to his lips. And amid the increased
acclamations of the multitude, Mary entered her barge.
Edward Underhill, meanwhile, whose atrocious purpose had been thus
providentially defeated, on perceiving that his royal victim had
escaped, uttered an ejaculation of rage and disappointment, flung down
the arquebuss, and folding his arms upon his bosom, awaited the result.
Fortunately, an officer accompanied the soldiers who seized him, or they
would have hewn him in pieces.
The wretched man made no attempt to fly, or to defend himself, but when
the soldiers rushed into the room, cried, “Go no further. I am he you
seek.”
“We know it, accursed villain,” rejoined the foremost of their number,
brandishing a sword over his head. “You have slain the queen.”
“Would I had!” rejoined Underhill. “But it is not the truth. The Lord
was not willing I should be the instrument of his vengeance.”
“Hear the blasphemer!” roared another soldier, dealing him a blow in the
mouth with the pummel of his dagger, that made the blood gush from his
lips. “He boasts of the villany he has committed.”
“If my arm had not been stayed, I had delivered the land from idolatry
and oppression,” returned Underhill. “A season of terrible persecution
is at hand, when you will lament as much as I do, that my design has
been frustrated. The blood of the righteous would have been spared; the
fagots at the stake un-lighted; the groans of the martyrs unheard. But
it is the Lord’s will that this should be. Blessed be the name of the
Lord!”
“Silence, hell-dog!” vociferated a third soldier, placing the point of
his halbert at his breast. “Host think Heaven would approve the foul
deed thou meditatedst? Silence! I say, or I will drive my pike to thy
heart.”
“I will not be silent,” rejoined Underhill, firmly. “So long as breath
is left me, I will denounce the idolatrous queen by whom this unhappy
land is governed, and pray that the crown may be removed from her head.”
“Rather than thou shalt do so in my hearing, I will pluck out thy
traitorous tongue by the roots,” returned the soldier who had last
spoken.
“Peace,” interposed the officer. “Secure him, but harm him not. He may
have confederates. It is important that all concerned in this atrocious
attempt should be discovered.”
“I have no accomplice,” replied Underhill. “My own heart dictated what
my hand essayed.”
“May that hand perish in everlasting fire for the deed!” rejoined the
officer. “But if there be power in torture to make you confess who set
you on, it shall not be left untried.”
“I have already spoken the truth,” replied the enthusiast; “and the
sharpest engine ever devised by ruthless man shall not make me gainsay
it, or accuse the innocent. I would not have shared the glory of the
action with any one. And since it has failed, my life alone shall pay
the penalty.”
“Gag him,” cried the officer. “If I listen longer, I shall be tempted
to anticipate the course of justice, and I would not one pang should be
spared him.”
The command was obeyed. On searching him, they found a small
powder-flask, a few bullets, notched, to make the wound they inflicted
more dangerous, a clasp-knife, and a bible, in the first leaf of which
was written a prayer for the deliverance and restoration of Queen
Jane,—a circumstance afterwards extremely prejudicial to that
unfortunate lady.
After Underhill had been detained for some hours in the chamber where
he was seized, an order arrived to carry him before the council. Brought
before them, he answered all their interrogations firmly, confessed his
design, related how he had planned it, and denied as before, with the
strongest asseverations, that he had any accomplice. When questioned as
to the prayer for Lady Jane Grey, whom he treasonably designated “Queen
Jane,” he answered that he should ever regard her as the rightful
sovereign, and should pray with his latest breath for her restoration to
the throne—a reply, which awakened a suspicion that some conspiracy
was in agitation in Jane’s favour. Nothing further, however, could be
elicited, and he was ordered to be put to the rack.
Delivered by the guard to Lawrence Nightgall and his assistants, he was
conveyed to the torture-chamber. The sight of the dreadful instruments
there collected, though enough to appal the stoutest breast, appeared to
have no terror for him. Scrutinizing the various engines with a look of
curiosity, he remarked that none of them seemed to have been recently
used; and added, that they would soon be more frequently employed. He
had not been there many minutes, when Mauger, the headsman, Wolfytt, the
sworn tormentor, and Sorrocold the chirurgeon, arrived, and preparations
were made for administering the torture.
The rack has already been described as a large oaken frame, raised about
three feet from the ground, having a roller at each end, moved by a
lever. Stripped, and placed on his back on the ground, the prisoner was
attached by strong cords to the rollers. Stationing themselves at either
extremity of the frame, Mauger and Wolfytt each seized a lever, while
Nightgall took up his position at the small table opposite, to propose
the interrogations, and write down the answers. The chirurgeon
remained near the prisoner, and placed his hand upon his wrist. Those
preparations made, Nightgall demanded, in a stern tone, whether the
prisoner would confess who had instigated him to the crime he had
committed.
“I have already said I have no accomplices,” replied Underhill.
Nightgall made a sign to the assistants, and the rollers were turned
with a creaking sound, extending the prisoners limbs in opposite
directions, and giving him exquisite pain. But he did not even groan.
After the lapse of a few moments, Nightgall said, “Edward Underhill, I
again ask you who were your accomplices?”
No answer being returned, the jailor waved his hand, and the levers were
again turned. The sharpness of the torture forced an involuntary cry
from the prisoner. But beyond this expression of suffering, he continued
silent.
The interrogation was a third time repeated; and after some effort on
the part of the assistants, the levers were again turned. Nightgall
and the chirurgcon both watched this part of the application with some
curiosity. The strain upon the limbs was almost intolerable. The joints
started from their sockets, and the sinews were drawn out to their
utmost capability of tension.
After the wretched man had endured this for a few minutes, Sorrocold
informed Nightgall, in a low tone, that nature was failing. The cords
were then gradually relaxed, and he was unbound. His temples being
bathed with vinegar, he soon afterwards revived.
But he was only recovered from one torture to undergo another. The next
step taken by his tormentors was to place him in a suit of irons,
called the Scavenger’s Daughter—a hideous engine devised by Sir William
Skevington, lieutenant of the Tower, in Henry the Eighth’s reign, and
afterwards corrupted into the name above mentioned. By this horrible
machine, which was shaped like a hoop, his limbs were compressed so
closely together that he resembled a ball; and being conveyed to an
adjoining dungeon, he was left in this state without light or food for
further examination.
XIII.—HOW MAGOG NEARLY LOST HIS SUPPER; HOW HIS BEARD WAS BURNT; HOW XIT
WAS PLACED IN A BASKET; AND HOW HE WAS KICKED UPON THE RAMPARTS.
Congratulations, rejoicings, and public thanksgivings followed the
queen’s preservation from the hand of the assassin. Courtenay, who
had long planned a masque to be exhibited for her amusement within the
Tower, thought this a fitting occasion to produce it. And the utmost
expedition being used, on the day but one after Underhill’s attempt, all
was in readiness.
Great mystery having been observed in the preparations for the pageant,
that it might come upon the spectators as a surprise, none, except those
actually concerned in it, knew what was intended to be represented. Even
the actors, themselves, were kept in darkness concerning it, and it was
only on the night before, when their dresses were given them, that they
had any precise notion of the characters they were to assume. A sort of
rehearsal then took place in one of the lower chambers of the palace; at
which the Earl of Devonshire assisted in person, and instructed them in
their parts. A few trials soon made all perfect, and when the rehearsal
was over, Courtenay felt satisfied that the pageant would go off with
tolerable eclat.
As may be supposed, the three gigantic warders and their diminutive
follower were among the mummers. Indeed, the principal parts wore
assigned them; and on no previous occasion had Xit’s characteristic
coxcombry been more strongly called forth than during the rehearsal.
No consequential actor of modern times could give himself more airs.
Perceiving he was indispensable, he would only do exactly what pleased
him, and, when reprimanded for his impertinence, refused to perform at
all, and was about to walk off with an air of offended dignity. A few
conciliatory words, however, from the Earl of Devonshire induced him
to return; and when all was arranged to his satisfaction, he began to
exhibit a fun and humour that bid fair to outshine all his competitors.
The rehearsal over, a substantial repast was provided by the earl
for his troop. And here, as usual, the giants acquitted themselves to
admiration. Unfortunately, however, for Magog, his spouse was present,
and his dull apprehension of his part at the rehearsal, having excited
her displeasure, she now visited it upon his devoted head. Whenever he
helped himself to a piece of meat, or a capon, she snatched it from his
plate, and transferred it to those of his brethren.
Supper was nearly over, and the hen-pecked giant, who as yet had tasted
nothing, was casting wistful glances at the fast-vanishing dishes, when
Dame Placida arose, and saying she was greatly fatigued, expressed her
determination to return home immediately. In vain Magog remonstrated.
She was firm, and her hapless spouse was arising with a most rueful
countenance to accompany her, when Ribald very obligingly offered to
take his place and escort her. Dame Placida appeared nothing loth, and
Magog, having eagerly embraced the proposal, the pair departed.
“And now brother,” said Gog, “you can do as you please. Make up for lost
time.”
“Doubt it not,” replied Magog, “and by way of commencing, I will trouble
you for that sirloin of beef. Send me the dish and the carving-knife,
I pray you, for with this puny bit of steel I can make no progress at
all.”
His request was immediately complied with, and it was pleasant to behold
with what inconceivable rapidity slice after slice disappeared. In a
brief space, a few bare bones were all that remained of the once-lordly
joint. Magog’s brethren watched his progress with truly fraternal
interest. Their own appetites being satisfied, they had full leisure to
minister to his wants; and most sedulously did they attend to them. A
brisket of veal, steeped in verjuice, supplied the place of the sirloin,
and a hare-pie, in due season, that of the veal.
Magog acknowledged these attentions with grateful murmurings.
He was too busy to speak. When the hare-pie, which was of a somewhat
savoury character, was entirely consumed, he paused for a moment, and
pointed significantly to a large measure of wine at some little distance
from him. Og immediately stretched out his arm, and handed it to him.
Nodding to his brother, the married giant drained its contents at a
draught, and then applied himself with new ardour to the various dishes
with which his plate was successively laden.
“What would your wife say, if she could see you now?” observed Peter
Trusbut, who sat opposite to him, and witnessed his proceedings with
singular satisfaction.
“Don’t mention her,” rejoined Magog, bolting a couple of cheesecakes
which he had crammed, at the same time, into his capacious mouth; “don’t
mention her, or you will take away my appetite.”
“No fear of that,” laughed the pantler; “but what say you to a glass
of distilled waters? It will be a good wind-up to your meal, and aid
digestion.”
“With all my heart,” rejoined the giant.
The pantler then handed him a stone bottle, holding perhaps a quart, and
knowing his propensities, thought it needful to caution him as to the
strength of the liquid. Disregarding the hint, Magog emptied the greater
part of the spirit into a flagon, and tossed it off, as if it had been
water. Peter Trusbut held up his hands in amazement, and expected to see
the giant drop senseless under the table. But no such event followed.
The only consequence of the potent draught being that it brought the
water into his eyes, and made him gasp a little to recover his breath.
“How do you feel after it, brother?” inquired Og, slapping him on the
shoulder.
“So valiant,” hiccupped Magog, “that I think when I get home, I shall
assert my proper position as a lord of the creation.”
“Act up to that resolution, Master Magog,” observed the pantler,
laughing, “and I shall not think my liquor thrown away.”
“If such be its effect,” said Xit, who; it has before been remarked,
had an unconquerable tendency to imitate, and, if possible, exceed the
extravagancies of his companions, “I will e’en try a drop of it myself.”
And before he could be prevented, the mannikin applied the stone bottle
to his lips, and drained it to the last drop. If Magog’s brain was
sufficiently stolid to resist the effect of the fiery liquid, Xit’s was
not. Intoxication speedily displayed itself in the additional brilliancy
of his keen sparkling little orbs, and in all his gestures. At first,
his antics created much diversion, and he was allowed to indulge them
freely; but before long he became so outrageous and mischievous, that
it was found necessary to restrain him. Springing upon the table, he
cut the most extraordinary capers among the dishes, breaking several of
them, upsetting the flagons and pots of wine, tweaking the noses of the
male guests, kissing the females, and committing a hundred other monkey
tricks.
On being called to order, he snapped his fingers in the face of the
reprover, and conceiving himself especially affronted by Gog, he threw
a goblet at his head. Luckily, the missile was caught before it reached
its mark. He next seized a torch, and perceiving that Magog had fallen
asleep, set fire to his beard, to arouse him. Starting to his feet, the
giant clapped his hand to his chin—too late however, to save a particle
of his hirsute honours. His rage was terrific. Roaring like a wild bull,
he vowed he would be the death of the offender; and would have kept his
word, if it had not been for his brethren, who, seizing each an arm,
restrained him by main strength, and forced him into his seat, where,
after a few minutes, his anger gave way to laughter.
This was mainly attributable to an accident that befel Xit in his hurry
to escape. Not being particular where he set his feet, the dwarf plumped
into an open plum tart, the syrup of which was so thick and glutinous
that it detained him as effectually as birdlime. In his terror, he
dragged the dish after him to a considerable distance, and his grimaces
were so irresistibly ludicrous that they convulsed the beholders with
laughter. No one attempted to assist him, and it was only by the loss
of both shoes that he could extricate himself from his unpleasant
situation. Peter Trusbut then seized him, and thrusting him into a
basket, fastened down the lid to prevent further mischief.
This occurrence served as the signal for separation. Og and Gog
took their way to the By-ward Tower, the latter carrying the basket
containing Xit under his arm, while Magog, bemoaning the loss of his
beard, and afraid of presenting himself to his wife under such untoward
circumstances, accompanied them as far as the gateway of the Bloody
Tower. Here he paused to say good night.
“Would I could anticipate a good night, myself!” he groaned “But I can
neither eat, drink, nor sleep in comfort now. Ah! brothers, if I had but
listened to your advice! But repentance comes too late.”
“It does—it does,” replied Gog; “But let us hope your dame will amend.”
“That she never will,” screamed Xit from the basket. “What a lucky
escape I had—ha! ha!”
“Peace! thou stinging gadfly,” roared Magog. “Am I ever to be tormented
by thee!”
But as Xit, who imagined himself secure, only laughed the louder, he
grew at last so enraged, that snatching the basket from Og, he placed it
on the ground, and gave it such a kick, that it flew to the top of the
ramparts beyond Traitor’s Tower, where it was picked up by a sentinel,
and the dwarf taken out more dead than alive.
On reaching his habitation—which was the same Dame Placida had formerly
occupied during her state of widowhood, at the right of the road leading
from the Bloody Tower to the Green,—Magog found she had not retired to
rest as he expected, but was engaged in conversation with Ribald, who
had been prevailed upon to remain for a few minutes to taste the ale
for which she was so much, and so justly, celebrated. One cup had led to
another, and the jovial warder seemed ‘in no hurry to depart. The giant
was delighted to see him, and, forgetting his misfortune, was about to
shake him heartily by the hand, when his wife screamed out—“Why Magog,
what is the matter with your chin? You have lost your beard!”
Humbly deprecating her resentment, the giant endeavoured to explain. But
as nothing would satisfy her, he was fain to leave her with Ribald, and
betake himself to his couch, where he speedily fell asleep, and forgot
his troubles.
XIV.—OF THE MASQUE GIVEN BY COURTENAY IN HONOUR OF QUEEN MARY; AND HOW
XIT WAS SWALLOWED BY A SEA-MONSTER.
During the early part of the next day, the majority of the inmates of
the Tower were on the tiptoe of expectation for the coming pageant,
which was fixed to take place in the evening in the large court lying
eastward of that wing of the palace, denominated the Queen’s Lodgings.
The great hall, used on the previous night for the rehearsal, was
allotted as a dressing-room to those engaged in the performance, and
thither they repaired a few hours before the entertainment commenced.
As the day declined, multitudes flocked to the court, and stationed
themselves within the barriers, which had been erected to keep off the
crowd. In addition to these defences, a warder was stationed at every
ten paces, and a large band of halberdiers was likewise in attendance to
maintain order. Banners were suspended from the battlements of the four
towers flanking the corners of the court,—namely, the Salt Tower, the
Lanthorn Tower, the Wardrobe Tower, and the Broad Arrow Tower. The
summits of these fortifications were covered with spectators, as were
the eastern ramparts, and the White Tower. Such windows of the palace as
overlooked the scene, were likewise thronged.
At the southern extremity of the court, stretching from the Lanthorn
Tower to the Salt Tower, stood a terrace, raised a few feet above the
level of the inclosure, and protected by a low-arched balustrade of
stone. This was set apart for the Queen, and beneath a mulberry-tree,
amid the branches of which a canopy of crimson velvet was disposed, her
chair was placed.
About six o’clock, when every inch of standing-room was occupied, and
expectation raised to its highest pitch, a door in the palace leading
to the terrace was thrown open, and the Queen issued from it. Stunning
vociferations welcomed her, and these were followed, or rather
accompanied, by a prolonged flourish of trumpets. It was a moment of
great excitement, and many a heart beat high at the joyous sounds. Every
eye was directed towards Mary, who bowing repeatedly in acknowledgment
of her enthusiastic reception, was saluted with—“God save your
highness! Confusion to your enemies! Death to all traitors!” and other
exclamations referring to her late providential deliverance.
The Queen was attired in a rich gown of raised cloth of gold. A partlet,
decorated with precious stones, surrounded her throat, and her stomacher
literally blazed with diamonds. Upon her head she wore a caul of gold,
and over it, at the back, a round cap, embroidered with orient pearls.
In front, she wore a cornet of black velvet, likewise embroidered with
pearls. A couple of beautiful Italian greyhounds, confined by a silken
leash, accompanied her. She was in excellent spirits, and, whether
excited by the promised spectacle, or by some secret cause, appeared
unusually animated. Many of the beholders, dazzled by her gorgeous
attire, and struck by her sprightly air, thought her positively
beautiful. Smilingly acknowledging the greetings of her subjects, she
gave her hand to the Earl of Devonshire, and was conducted by him to the
seat beneath the mulberry-tree.
They were followed by a numerous train of dames and nobles, foremost
among whom came Sir Henry Bedingfeld,—who as lieutenant of the Tower,
claimed the right of standing behind the royal chair. Next to the knight
stood the Princess Elizabeth, who viewed with the bitterest jealousy
the devoted attention paid by Courtenay to her sister; and, next to the
princess, stood Jane the Fool. Simon Renard also was among the crowd.
But he kept aloof, resolved not to show himself, unless occasion
required it.
As soon as the Queen was seated, another flourish of trumpets was blown,
and from the great gates at the further end of the court issued a crowd
of persons clothed in the skins of wild animals, dragging an immense
machine, painted to resemble a rocky island. On reaching the centre of
the inclosure, the topmost rock burst open, and discovered a beautiful
female seated upon a throne, with a crown on her head, and a sceptre in
her hand. While the spectators expressed their admiration of her beauty
by loud plaudits, another rock opened, and discovered a fiendish-looking
figure, armed with a strangely-formed musket, which he levelled at the
mimic sovereign. A cry of horror pervaded the assemblage, but at that
moment another rock burst asunder, and a fairy arose, who placed a
silver shield between the Queen and the assassin; while a gauze drapery,
wafted from beneath, enveloped them in its folds.
0269
At the appearance of the fairy, the musket fell from the assassin’s
grasp. Uttering a loud cry, a troop of demons issued from below, and
seizing him with their talons bore him out of eight. The benignant fairy
then waved her sword; the gauzy drapery dropped to her feet; and four
other female figures arose, representing Peace, Plenty, Justice, and
Clemency. These figures ranged themselves round the Queen, and the
fairy addressed her in a speech, telling her that these were her
attributes;—that she had already won her people’s hearts, and ended by
promising her a long and prosperous reign. Each word, that applied
to Mary, was followed by a cheer from the bystanders, and when it was
ended, the applauses were deafening. The mimic queen then arose, and
taking off her crown, tendered it to the real sovereign. The four
attributes likewise extended their arms towards her, and told her they
belonged to her. And while the group was in this position, the machine
was borne away.
Fresh flourishes of trumpets succeeded; and several lively airs were
played by bands of minstrels stationed at different points of the
court-yard.
A wild and tumultuous din was now heard; and the gates being again
thrown open, forth rushed a legion of the most grotesque and fantastic
figures ever beheld. Some were habited as huge, open-jawed sea-monsters;
others as dragons, gorgons, and hydras; others, as satyrs and harpies;
others, as gnomes and salamanders. Some had large hideous masks, making
them look all head,—some monstrous wings,—some long coiled tails, like
serpents many were mounted on hobby-horses,—and all whose garbs would
permit them, were armed with staves, flails, or other indescribable
weapons.
When this multitudinous and confused assemblage had nearly filled the
inclosure, loud roarings were heard, and from the gateway marched Gog
and Magog, arrayed like their gigantic namesakes of Guildhall. A long
artificial beard, of a blue tint, supplied the loss which Magog’s singed
chin had sustained. His head was bound with a wreath of laurel leaves.
Gog’s helmet precisely resembled that worn by his namesake, and he
carried a curiously-formed shield, charged with the device of a black
eagle, like that with which the wooden statue is furnished. Magog was
armed with a long staff, to which a pudding-net, stuffed with wool,
was attached; while Gog bore a long lathen spear. The appearance of the
giants was hailed with a general roar of delight. But the laughter and
applauses were increased by what followed.
Once more opened to their widest extent, the great gates admitted
what, at first, appeared to be a moving fortification. From its sides
projected two enormous arms, each sustaining a formidable club. At the
summit stood a smaller turret, within which, encircled by a wreath of
roses and other flowers, decorated with silken pennoncels, sat Xit, his
pigmy person clothed in tight silk fleshings. Glittering wings fluttered
on his shoulders, and he was armed with the weapons of the Paphian God.
The tower, which, with its decorations, was more than twenty feet high,
was composed of basket-work, covered with canvass, painted to resemble a
round embattled structure. It was tenanted by Og, who moved about in it
with the greatest case. A loophole in front enabled him to see what
was going forward, and he marched slowly towards the centre of the
inclosure. An edging of loose canvass, painted like a rocky foundation,
concealed his feet. The effect of this moving fortress was highly
diverting, and elicited shouts of laughter and applause from the
beholders.
“That device,” observed Courtenay to the queen, “represents a tower of
strength—or rather, I should say, the Tower of London. It is about to be
attacked by the rabble rout of rebellion, and, I trust, will be able to
make good its defence against them.”
“I hope so,” replied Mary, smiling. “I should be grieved to think that
my good Tower yielded to such assailants. But who is that I perceive?
Surely, it is Cupid?”
“Love is at present an inhabitant of the Tower,” replied Courtenay, with
a passionate look.
Raising his eyes, the next moment, he perceived Elizabeth behind Sir
Henry Bedingfeld. She turned from him with a look of reproach.
A seasonable interruption to his thoughts was offered by the tumultuous
cry arising from the mummers. Gog and Magog having placed themselves on
either side of the Tower as its defenders, the assault commenced. The
object of the assailants was to overthrow the fortress. With this
view, they advanced against it from all quarters, thrusting one another
forward, and hurling their weapons against it. This furious attack
was repelled by the two giants, who drove them back as fast as they
advanced, hurling some head over heels, trampling others under foot,
and exhibiting extraordinary feats of strength and activity. The Tower,
itself, was not behind-hand in resistance. Its two arms moved about like
the sails of a windmill, dealing tremendous blows.
The conflict afforded the greatest amusement to the beholders; but while
the fortress and its defenders maintained their ground against all the
assailants, there was one person who began to find his position somewhat
uncomfortable. This was Xit. So long as Og contented himself with
keeping off his enemies, the dwarf was delighted with his elevated
situation, and looked round with a smile of delight. But when the giant,
animated by the sport, began to attack in his turn, the fabric in which
he was encased swayed to and fro so violently, that Xit expected
every moment to be precipitated to the ground. In vain he attempted to
communicate his fears to Og. The giant was unconscious of his danger,
and the din and confusion around them was so great, that neither Gog
nor Magog could hear his outcries. As a last resource, he tried to creep
into the turret, but this he found impracticable.
“The god of love appears in a perilous position, my lord,” observed the
queen, joining in the laughter of the spectators.
“He does, indeed,” replied Courtenay; “and though the Tower may defend
itself, I fear its chief treasure will be lost in the struggle.”
“You speak the truth, my lord,” remarked the deep voice of Simon
lienard, from behind.
If Courtenay intended any reply to this observation of his mortal foe,
it was prevented by an incident which at that moment occurred. Combining
their forces, the rabble rout of dragons, gorgons, imps, and demons had
made a desperate assault upon the Tower. Og whirled around his clubs
with increased rapidity, and dozens were prostrated by their sweep. Gog
and Magog likewise plied their weapons vigorously, and the assailants
were driven back completely discomfited.
But, unluckily, at this moment, Og made a rush forward to complete
his conquest, and in so doing pitched Xit out of the turret. Falling
head-foremost into the yawning jaws of an enormous goggle-eyed
sea-monster, whose mouth seemed purposely opened to receive him,
and being moved by springs, immediately closed, the dwarf entirely
disappeared. A scream of delight arose from the spectators, who looked
upon the occurrence as part of the pageant.
The queen laughed heartily at Xit’s mischance, and even Courtenay,
though discomposed by the accident, could not help joining in the
universal merriment.
“I might take it as an evil omen,” he remarked in an under tone to Mary,
“that love should be destroyed by your majesty’s enemies.”
“See! he re-appears,” cried the queen, calling the earl’s attention
to the monster, whose jaws opened and discovered the dwarf. “He has
sustained no injury.”
Xit’s disaster, meanwhile, had occasioned a sudden suspension of
hostilities among the combatants. All the mummers set up a shout of
laughter, and the echoing of sound produced by their masks was almost
unearthly. Gog and Magog, grinning from ear to ear, now approached
the dwarf, and offered to restore him to his turret. But he positively
refused to stir, and commanded the monster, in whose jaws he was seated,
to carry him to the queen. After a little parley, the order was obeyed;
and the huge pasteboard monster, which was guided within-side by a
couple of men, wheeled round, and dragged its scaly length towards the
terrace.
Arrived opposite the royal seat, the mimic Cupid sprang out of the
monster’s jaws, and fluttering his gauzy wings (which were a little the
worse for his recent descent) to give himself the appearance of flying,
ran nimbly up the side of the terrace, and vaulted upon the balustrade
in front of her majesty. He had still possession of his bow and arrows,
and poising himself with considerable grace on the point of his left
foot, fitted a silver shaft to the string, and aimed it at the queen.
“Your highness is again threatened,” observed Sir Henry Bedingfeld,
advancing and receiving the arrow, which, winged with but little force,
dropped harmlessly from his robe.
“You are ever faithful, Sir Henry,” observed Mary, to the knight, whose
zeal in this instance occasioned a smile among the attendants; “but we
have little fear from the darts of Cupid.”
Xit, meanwhile, had fitted another arrow, and drawing it with greater
force, struck Courtenay on the breast. Not content with this, the
mischievous urchin let fly a third shaft at the Princess Elizabeth, who
had advanced somewhat nearer the queen, and the arrow chancing to stick
to some of the ornaments on her stomacher, appeared to have actually
pierced her bosom. Elizabeth coloured deeply as she plucked the dart
from her side, and threw it angrily to the ground. A cloud gathered on
the queen’s brow, and Courtenay was visibly disconcerted.
Xit, however, either unconscious of the trouble he had occasioned,
or utterly heedless of it, took a fourth arrow from his quiver, and
affecting to sharpen its point upon the stone balustrade, shot it
against Jane the Fool. This last shaft likewise hit its mark, though
Jane endeavoured to ward it off with her marotte; and Xit Completed the
absurdity of the scene by fluttering towards her, and seizing her hand,
pressed it to his lips,—a piece of gallantry for which he was rewarded
by a sound cuff on the ears.
“Nay, mistress,” cried Xit, “that is scarcely fair. Love and Folly were
well matched.”
“If Love mate with Folly, he must expect to be thus treated,” replied
Jane.
“Nay, then, I will bestow my favours on the wisest woman I can find,”
replied Xit.
“There thou wilt fail again,” cried Jane; “for every wise woman will
shun thee.”
“A truce to thy rejoinders, sweetheart,” returned Xit. “Thy wit is as
keen as my arrows, and as sure to hit the mark.”
“My wit resembles thy godship’s arrows in one particular only,” retorted
Jane. “It strikes deepest where it is most carelessly aimed. But, hie
away! Thou wilt find Love no match for Folly.”
“So I perceive,” replied Xit, “and shall therefore proceed to Beauty. I
must have been blinder than poets feign, to have come near thee at all.
In my pursuit of Folly, I have forgot the real business of Love. But
thus it is ever with me and my minions!”
With this, he fluttered towards the queen, and prostrating himself
before her, said—“Your majesty will not banish Love from your court?”
“Assuredly not,” replied Mary; “or if we did banish thee, thou wouldst
be sure to find some secret entrance.”
“Your majesty is in the right,” replied the mimic deity, “I should.
And disdain not this caution from Cupid. As long as you keep my two
companions, Jealousy and Malice, at a distance, Love will appear in
his own rosy hues. But the moment you admit them, he will change his
colours, and become a tormentor.”
“But if thou distributest thy shafts at random, so that lovers dote on
more than one object, how am I to exclude Jealousy?” asked the queen.
“By cultivating self-esteem,” replied Cupid. “The heart I have wounded
for your highness can never feel disloyalty.”
“That is true, thou imp,” observed Courtenay; “and for that speech, I
forgive thee the mischief thou hast done.”
“And so thou assurest me against infidelity?” said Mary.
“Your highness may be as inconstant as you please,” replied Cupid,
“since the dart I aimed at you has been turned aside by Sir Henry
Bedingfeld. But rest easy. He who loves you can love no other.”
“I am well satisfied,” replied Mary, with a gratified look.
“And since I have thy permission to love whom I please, I shall avail
myself largely of it, and give all my heart to my subjects.”
“Not all your heart, my gracious mistress,” said Courtenay, in a tender
whisper.
At this juncture, Xit, watching his opportunity, drew an arrow from his
quiver, and touched the queen with it near the heart.
“I have hit your majesty at last, as well as the Earl of Devonshire,” he
cried gleefully. “Shall I summon my brother Hymen to your assistance? He
is among the crowd below.”
A half-suppressed smile among the royal attendants followed this daring
remark.
“That knave’s audacity encourages me to hope, gracious madam,” whispered
Courtenay, “that this moment may be the proudest—the happiest of my
life.”
“No more of this—at least not now, my lord,” replied Mary, whose
notions of decorum were somewhat scandalised at this public declaration.
“Dismiss this imp. He draws too many eyes upon us.”
“I have a set of verses to recite to your majesty,” interposed Xit,
whose quick ears caught the remark, and who was in no hurry to leave the
royal presence.
“Not now,” rejoined Mary, rising. “Fear nothing, thou merry urchin. We
will take care Love meets its desert. We thank you, my lord,” she added,
turning to Courtenay, “for the pleasant pastime you have afforded us.”
As the queen arose, loud and reiterated shouts resounded from the
spectators, in which all the mummers joined. Amid these acclamations she
returned to the palace. Courtenay again tendered her his hand, and the
slight pressure which he hazarded was sensibly returned.
Just as she was about to enter the window, Mary turned round to bow for
the last time to the assemblage, when there arose a universal cry—“Long
live Queen Mary!—Long live the Earl of Devonshire!”
Mary smiled. Her bosom palpitated with pleasure, and she observed to her
lover—“You are the people’s favourite, my lord. I should not deserve to
be their queen if I did not share in their affection.”
“May I then hope?” asked the Earl, eagerly.
“You may,” replied Mary, softly.
The brilliant vision which these words raised before Courtenay’s eyes,
was dispersed by a look which he at that moment received from Elizabeth.
The festivities in the court did not terminate with the departure of the
royal train. Xit was replaced in the turret, whence he aimed his darts
at the prettiest damsels he could perceive, creating infinite merriment
among the crowd. An immense ring was then formed by all the mummers, who
danced round the three giants, the minstrels accompanying the measure
with appropriate strains. Nothing more grotesque can be imagined than
the figures of Gog and Magog, as engaged in the dance, in their uncouth
garbs. As to Og, he flourished his clubs, and twirled himself round with
great rapidity in the opposite direction to the round of dancers, until
at last, becoming giddy, he lost his balance, and fell with a tremendous
crash, upsetting Xit for the second time.
Ever destined to accidents, the dwarf, from his diminutive stature,
seldom sustained any injury, and upon this occasion, though a good deal
terrified, he escaped unhurt. Og was speedily uncased, and, glad to be
set at liberty, joined the ring of dancers, and footed it with as much
glee as the merriest of them.
As the evening advanced, fire-works were discharged, and a daring
rope-dancer, called Peter the Dutchman, ascended the cupola of the
south-east turret of the White Tower, and got upon the vane, where he
lighted a couple of torches. After standing for some time, now upon one
foot—now on the other, he kindled a firework placed in a sort of helmet
on his head, and descended amid a shower of sparks by a rope, one end
of which was fastened in the court where the masquers were assembled.
A substantial supper, of which the mummers and their friends partook,
concluded the diversions of the evening, and all departed well satisfied
with their entertainment.
XV.—BY WHOSE INSTRUMENTALITY QUEEN MARY BECAME CONVINCED OF COURTENAY’S
INCONSTANCY; AND HOW SHE AFFIANCED HERSELF TO PHILIP OF SPAIN.
While the festivities above described occurred without the palace,
within, all was confusion and alarm. The look, which Elizabeth had given
Courtenay, sank into his very soul. All his future greatness appeared
valueless in his eyes, and his only desire was to break off the alliance
with Mary, and reinstate himself in the affections of her sister. For
the queen, it is almost needless to say, he felt no real love. But he
was passionately enamoured of Elizabeth, whose charms had completely
captivated him.
As soon as she could consistently do so, after her return to the palace,
the princess retired to her own apartments, and though her departure
afforded some relief to the earl, he still continued in a state of great
perturbation. Noticing his altered manner, the queen inquired the cause
with great solicitude. Courtenay answered her evasively. And putting her
own construction upon it, she said in a tone of encouragement—“It was
a strange remark made by the little urchin who enacted Cupid. Was he
tutored in his speech?”
“Not by me, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay, distractedly.
“Then the knave hath a ready wit,” returned the queen. “He has put
thoughts into my head which I cannot banish thence.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the earl. “I trust his boldness has not offended
you.”
“Do I look so?” rejoined Mary, smiling. “If I do, my countenance belies
my feelings. No, Courtenay, I have been thinking that no woman can
govern a great kingdom, like mine, unaided. She must have some one, to
whom she can ever apply for guidance and protection,—some one to
whom she can open her whole heart,—to whom she can look for counsel,
consolation, love. In whom could she find all this?”
“In no one but a husband, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay, who felt
he could no longer affect to misunderstand her.
“You are right, my lord,” she replied playfully. “Can you not assist our
choice?”
“If I dared,”—said Courtenay, who felt he was standing upon the verge of
a precipice.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Mary. “A queen must ever play the wooer. It is part
of her prerogative. Our choice is already made—so we need not consult
you on the subject.”
“May I not ask whom your majesty has so far distinguished?” demanded the
earl, trembling.
“You shall learn anon, my lord,” replied the queen. “We choose to keep
you a short time in suspense, for here comes Simon Renard, and we do not
intend to admit him to our confidence.”
“That man is ever in my path,” muttered the earl, returning the
ambassador s stern glance with one equally menacing. “I am half
reconciled to this hateful alliance by the thought of the mortification
it will inflict upon him.”
It would almost seem from Renard’s looks, that he could read what was
passing in the other’s breast; for his brow grew each instant more
lowering.
“I must quit your majesty for a moment,” observed Courtenay, “to see
to the masquers. Besides, my presence might be a restraint to your
councillor. He shall not want an opportunity to utter his calumnies
behind my back.”
Renard smiled bitterly.
“Farewell, my lord,” said the queen, giving him her hand to kiss. “When
you return, you shall have your answer.”
“It is the last time his lips shall touch that hand,” muttered Renard,
as the earl departed.
On quitting the royal presence, Courtenay wandered in a state of the
utmost disquietude to the terrace. He gazed vacantly at the masquers,
and tried to divert his thoughts with their sports; but in vain. He
could not free himself from the idea of Elizabeth. He had now reached
the utmost height of his ambition. He was all but affianced to the
queen, and he doubted not that a few hours—perhaps moments—would decide
his fate. His bosom was torn with conflicting emotions. On one side
stood power, with all its temptations—on the other passion, fierce,
irrepressible passion. The struggle was almost intolerable.
After debating with himself for some time, he determined to seek one
last interview with Elizabeth, before he finally committed himself to
the queen, vainly imagining it would calm his agitation. But, like most
men under the influence of desperate emotion, he acted from impulse,
rather than reflection. The resolution was no sooner formed, than
acted upon. Learning that the Princess was in her chamber, he proceeded
thither, and found her alone.
Elizabeth was seated in a small room, partially hung with arras, and
over the chair she occupied, were placed the portraits of her sire,
Henry the Eighth, and two of his wives, Anne Boleyn and Catharine of
Arragon. Greatly surprised by the earl’s visit, she immediately arose,
and in an authoritative tone commanded him to withdraw.
“How is this?” she cried. “Are you not content with what you have
already done, but must add insult to perfidy!”
“Hear me, Elizabeth,” said Courtenay, advancing towards her, and
throwing himself on his knee. “I am come to implore your forgiveness.”
“You have my compassion, my lord,” rejoined Elizabeth; “but you shall
not have my forgiveness. You have deeply deceived me.”
“I have deceived myself,” replied Courtenay.
“A paltry prevarication, and unworthy of you,” observed the Princess,
scornfully. “But I have endured this long enough. Arise, and leave me.”
“I will not leave you, Elizabeth,” said Courtenay, “till I have
explained the real motives of my conduct, and the real state of my
feelings, which, when I have done, I am persuaded you will not judge me
as harshly, as you do now.”
“I do not desire to hear them,” replied tho Princess. “But since you are
determined to speak, be brief.”
“During my captivity in this fortress,” began Courtenay, “when I
scarcely hoped for release, and when I was an utter stranger, except
from description, to the beauties of your sex, I had certain vague and
visionary notions of female loveliness, which I have never since found
realized except in yourself.”
Elizabeth uttered an exclamation of impatience.
“Do not interrupt me,” proceeded Courtenay. “All I wish to show is, that
long before I had seen you, my heart was predisposed to love you. On my
release from imprisonment, it was made evident in many ways, that the
Queen, your sister, regarded me with favourable eyes. Dazzled by the
distinction—as who would not be?—I fancied I returned her passion. But I
knew not then what love was—nor was it till I was bound in this thraldom
that I became acquainted with its pangs.”
“This you have said before, my lord,” rejoined Elizabeth, struggling
against her emotion. “And if you had not, it is too late to say it now.”
“Your pardon, dearest Elizabeth,” rejoined Courtenay, “for such you will
ever be to me. I know I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I know,
also, that I shall not the less on that account obtain it. Hear the
truth from me, and judge me as you think proper. Since I knew that I
had gained an interest in your eyes, I never could love your sister. Her
throne had no longer any temptation for me—her attachment inspired me
with disgust. You were, and still are, the sole possessor of my heart.”
“Still are! my lord,” exclaimed Elizabeth, indignantly. “And you are
about to wed the Queen. Say no more, or my pity for you will be changed
into contempt.”
“It is my fate,” replied the earl. “Oh! if you knew what the struggle
has cost me, to sacrifice love at the shrine of ambition, you would
indeed pity me.”
“My lord,” said Elizabeth, proudly, “if you have no respect for me, at
least have some for yourself, and cease these unworthy lamentations.”
“Tell me you no longer love me—tell me you despise—hate me—anything to
reconcile myself to my present lot,” cried Courtenay.
“Were I to say I no longer loved you, I should belie my heart,” rejoined
Elizabeth; “for, unfortunately for my peace of mind, I have formed a
passion which I cannot conquer. But were I also to say that your abject
conduct does not inspire me with contempt—with scorn for you, I should
speak falsely. Hear me, in my turn, my lord. To-morrow, I shall solicit
permission from the Queen to retire from the court altogether, and I
shall not return till my feelings towards yourself are wholly changed.”
“Say not so,” cried Courtenay. “I will forego all the brilliant
expectations held out to me by Mary. I cannot endure to part with you.”
“You have gone too far to retreat, my lord,” said Elizabeth. “You are
affianced to my sister.”
“Not so,” replied Courtenay, “and I never will be. When I came hither,
it was to implore your forgiveness, and to take leave of you for ever.
But I find that wholly impossible. Let us fly from this fortress,
and find either in a foreign land, or in some obscure corner of this
kingdom, a happiness, which a crown could not confer.”
As he pronounced these words with all the ardour of genuine passion, he
pressed her hand to his lips. Elizabeth did not withdraw it.
“Save me from this great crime,” he cried—“save me from wedding one whom
I have never loved—save me from an union, which my soul abhors.”
“Are you sincere?” asked Elizabeth, much moved.
“On my soul I am,” replied Courtenay fervently. “Will you fly with
me—this night—this hour,—now?”
0279
“I will answer that question,” cried a voice, which struck them both
as if a thunderbolt had fallen at their feet. “I will answer that
question,” cried Mary, forcibly throwing aside the arras and gazing at
them with eyes that literally seemed to flash fire,—“she will not.”
“Had I not heard this with my own ears,” she continued in a terrible
tone, addressing her faithless lover, who still remained in a kneeling
posture, regarding her with a look of mingled shame and defiance—“had I
not heard this with my own ears, and seen it with my own eyes, I could
not have believed it! Perfidious villain! you have deceived us both.
. But you shall feel what it is to incur the resentment of a queen—and
that queen the daughter of Henry the Eighth. Come in, sir,” she added to
some one behind the arras, and Simon Renard immediately stepped forth.
“As I owe the discovery of the Earl of Devonshire’s perfidy to you, the
least I can do is to let you witness his disgrace.”
“I will not attempt to defend myself, gracious madam,” said Courtenay,
rising.
“Defend yourself!” echoed the Queen, bitterly. “Not a word of your
conversation to the Princess has escaped my ears. I was there—behind
that curtain—almost as soon as you entered her chamber. I was acquainted
with your treachery by this gentleman. I disbelieved him. But I soon
found he spoke the truth. A masked staircase enabled me to approach you
unobserved. I have heard all—all, traitor, all.”
“To play the eaves-dropper was worthy of Simon Renard,” returned
Courtenay, with a look of deadly hatred at the ambassador, “but
scarcely, I think, befitting the Queen of England.”
“Where the Queen of England has unworthy persons to deal with, she must
resort to unworthy means to detect them,” returned Mary. “I am deeply
indebted to M. Renard for his service—more deeply than I can express.
An hour more, and it had been too late. Had I affianced myself to you,
I should have considered the engagement binding. As it is, I can
unscrupulously break it. I am greatly beholden to you, sir.”
“I am truly rejoiced to be the instrument of preventing your majesty
from entering into this degrading alliance,” said Renard.—“Had it taken
place, you would have unceasingly repented it.”
“For you, minion,” continued the Queen, turning to Elizabeth, who had
looked silently on, “I have more pity than anger. You have been equally
his dupe.”
“I do not desire your highness’s pity,” rejoined the Princess,
haughtily. “Your own case is more deserving of compassion than mine.”
“Ah! God’s death! derided!” cried the Queen, stamping her foot with
indignation. “Summon the guard, M. Renard. I will place them both in
confinement. Why am I not obeyed?” she continued, seeing the ambassador
hesitated.
“Do nothing at this moment, I implore you, gracious madam.” said Renard,
in a low voice. “Disgrace were better than imprisonment. You punish the
Earl sufficiently in casting him off.”
“Obey me, sir,” vociferated Mary, furiously, “or I will fetch the guard
myself. An outraged woman may tamely submit to her wrongs—an outraged
Queen can revenge them. Heaven be thanked! I have the power to do so, as
I have the will. Down on your knees, Edward Courtenay, whom I have made
Earl of Devonshire, and would have made King of England—on your knees, I
say. Now, my lord, your sword.”
“It is here,” replied the Earl, presenting it to her, “and I entreat
your majesty to sheathe it in my bosom.”
“His crime does not amount to high treason,” whispered Renard, “nor can
your highness do more than disgrace him.”
“The guard! the guard, sir!” cried Mary, authoritatively. “Our father,
Henry the Eighth, whose lineaments frown upon us from that wall, had not
authority for all he did. He was an absolute king, and we are absolute
queen. Again, I say, the guard! and bid Sir Henry Bedingfeld attend us.”
“Your majesty shall be obeyed,” replied Renard, departing. “Do with me
what you please, gracious madam,” said Courtenay, as soon as they were
alone. “My life is at your disposal. But, I beseech you, do not visit my
faults upon the Princess Elizabeth. If your majesty tracked me hither,
you must be well aware that my presence was as displeasing to her as it
could be to yourself.”
“I will not be sheltered under this plea,” replied Elizabeth, whose
anger was roused by her sister’s imperious conduct. “That the interview
was unsought on my part, your highness well knows. But that I lent a
willing ear to the Earl of Devonshire’s suit is equally true. And if
your highness rejects him, I see nothing to prevent my accepting him.”
“This to my face!” cried Mary, in extremity of indignation.
“And wherefore not?” returned Elizabeth, maliciously.
“Anger me no further,” cried Mary, “or by my father’s soul! I will not
answer for your head.” Her manner was so authoritative, and her looks so
terrible, that even Elizabeth was awed.
“Again,” interposed Courtenay, humbly, “let me, who am the sole cause
of your majesty’s most just displeasure, bear the weight of it. The
Princess Elizabeth, I repeat, is not to blame.”
“I am the best judge in my own cause, my lord,” replied the Queen. “I
will not hear a word more.”
A deep silence then ensued, which was broken by the entrance of the
Lieutenant of the Tower and the guard. Renard brought up the rear.
“Sir Henry Bedingfeld,” said Mary, “I commit the Princess Elizabeth and
the Earl of Devonshire to your custody.”
“I can scarcely credit my senses, gracious Madam,” replied Bedingfeld,
gazing at the offenders with much concern, “and would fain persuade
myself it is only a part of the pastime I have so recently witnessed.”
“It is no pastime, Sir Henry,” replied the Queen, sternly. “I little
thought, when I entrusted you with the government of this fortress, how
soon, and how importantly, you would have to exercise your office. Let
the prisoners be placed in close confinement.”
“This is the first time in my life,” replied the old knight, “that I
have hesitated to obey your majesty. And if I do so now, I beseech you
to impute it to the right motive.”
“How, sir!” cried the Queen fiercely. “Do you desire to make me regret
that I have removed Sir John Gage? He would not have hesitated.”
“For your own sake, gracious madam,” said Sir Henry, falling on his
knees before her, “I beseech you pause. I have been a faithful servant
of your high and renowned father. Henry the Eighth—of your illustrious
mother, Catherine of Arragon, who would almost seem,—from their pictures
on that wall,—to be present now. In their names, I beseech you pause.
I am well aware your feelings have been greatly outraged. But they may
prompt you to do that which your calmer judgment may deplore.”
“Remonstrance is in vain,” rejoined the Queen. “I am inexorable. The
Princess Elizabeth may remain a close prisoner in her own apartments.
The Earl of Devonshire must be removed elsewhere. You will be answerable
for their safe custody.”
“I will,” replied Bedingfeld, rising; “but I would that I had never
lived to see this day!”
With this, he commanded his attendants to remove Courtenay, and when the
order was obeyed, he lingered for a moment at the door, in the hope that
the Queen would relent. But, as she continued immoveable, he departed
with a sorrowful heart, and conveyed the Earl to his own lodgings.
Courtenay gone, Elizabeth’s proud heart gave way, and she burst into a
hood of tears. As Mary saw this, a feeling of compassion crossed her,
which Renard perceiving, touched her sleeve, and drew her away.
“It were better to leave her now,” he observed. Yielding to his advice,
Mary was about to quit the room, when Elizabeth arose and threw herself
at her feet.
“Spare him!” she cried.
“She thinks only of her lover,” thought the Queen; “those tears are for
him. I will not pity her.”
And she departed without returning an answer.
Having seen two halberdiers placed at the door of the chamber, and two
others at the foot of the masked staircase by which she and Renard had
approached, Mary proceeded with the ambassador to her own apartments.
On thinking over the recent occurrences, her feelings were so
exasperated, that she exclaimed aloud, “Oh! that I could avenge myself
on the perjured traitor.”
“I will show you how to avenge yourself,” replied Renard.
“Do so, then,” returned the queen.
“Unite yourself to my master, Philip of Spain,” rejoined the ambassador.
“Your cousin, the Emperor, highly desires the match. It will be an
alliance worthy of you, and acceptable to your subjects. The Prince is a
member of your own religion, and will enable you to restore its worship
throughout your kingdom.”
“I will think of it,” replied Mary, musingly.
“Better act upon it,” rejoined Renard. “The prince, besides his royal
birth, is in all respects more richly endowed by nature than the Earl of
Devonshire.”
“So I have heard him accounted,” replied Mary.
“Your majesty shall judge for yourself,” rejoined Renard, producing
a miniature. “Here is his portrait. The likeness is by no means
flattering.”
“He must be very handsome,” observed Mary, gazing at the miniature.
“He is,” replied Renard; “and his highness is as eager for the alliance
as his imperial father. I have ventured to send him your majesty’s
portrait, and you shall hear in what rapturous terms he speaks of it.”
And taking several letters from his doublet, he selected one sealed with
the royal arms of Spain, from which he read several highly complimentary
remarks on Mary’s personal appearance.
“Enough, sir,” said Mary, checking him. “More unions are formed from
pique than from affection, and mine will be one of them. I am resolved
to affiance myself to the Prince of Spain, and that forthwith. I will
not allow myself time to change my mind.”
“Your highness is in the right,” observed Renard, eagerly.
“Meet me at midnight in Saint John’s Chapel in the White Tower,”
continued the queen, “where in your presence, and in the presence of
Heaven, I will solemnly affiance myself to the prince.”
“Your majesty transports me by your determination,” replied the
ambassador. And full of joy at his unlooked-for success, he took his
departure.
At midnight, as appointed, Renard repaired to Saint John’s Chapel. He
found the Queen, attended only by Feckenham, and kneeling before the
altar, which blazed with numerous wax-lights. She had changed her
dress for the ceremony, and was attired in, a loose robe of three-piled
crimson velvet, trimmed with swansdown. Renard remained at a little
distance, and looked on with a smile of Satanic triumph.
After she had received the sacrament, and pronounced the “Veni Creator,”
Mary motioned the ambassador towards her, and placing her right hand on
a parchment lying on the altar, to which were attached the broad
seals of England, addressed him thus:—“I have signed and sealed this
instrument, by which I contract and affiance myself in marriage to
Philip, Prince of Spain, son of his imperial majesty, Charles the Fifth.
And I further give you, Simon Renard, representative of the prince, my
irrevocable promise, in the face of the living God and his saints, that
I will wed him and no other.”
0285
“May Heaven bless the union!” exclaimed Feckenham.
“There is the contract,” pursued Mary, giving the parchment to Renard,
who reverentially received it. “On my part, it is a marriage concluded.”
“And equally so on the part of the prince, my master,” replied Renard.
“In his name I beg to express to your highness the deep satisfaction
which this union will afford him.”
“For the present this contract must be kept secret, even from our privy
councillors,” said the queen.
“It shall never pass my lips,” rejoined Renard.
“And mine are closed by my sacred calling,” added the confessor.
“Your majesty, I am sure, has done wisely in this step,” observed
Renard, “and, I trust, happily.”
“I trust so too, sir,” replied the Queen—“but time will show. These
things are in the hands of the Great Disposer of events.”