Horror-stricken by the discovery he had made of the body of the
ill-fated Alexia, and not doubting from its appearance that she must
have perished from starvation, Cholmondeley remained for some time in a
state almost of stupefaction in the narrow chamber where it lay. Rousing
himself, at length, he began to reflect that no further aid could
be rendered her,—that she was now, at last, out of the roach of her
merciless tormentor,—and that his attention ought, therefore, to be
turned towards one who yet lived to suffer from his cruelty.
Before departing, he examined the corpse more narrowly to ascertain
whether it bore any marks of violence, and while doing so, a gleam
of light called his attention to a small antique clasp fastening her
tattered hood at the throat. Thinking it not impossible this might
hereafter furnish some clue to the discovery of her real name and
condition, he removed it. On holding it to the light, he thought
he perceived an inscription upon it, but the characters were nearly
effaced, and reserving the solution of the mystery for a more favourable
opportunity, he carefully secured the clasp, and quitted the cell. He
then returned to the passages he had recently traversed, explored every
avenue afresh, reopened every cell-door, and after expending several
hours in fruitless search, was compelled to abandon all hopes of finding
Cicely.
Day had long dawned when he emerged from the dungeon; and as he was
slowly wending his way towards the Stone Kitchen, he descried Lawrence
Nightfall advancing towards him. From the furious gestures of the
jailor, he at once knew that he was discovered, and drawing his sword,
he stood upon his defence. But a conflict was not what Nightgall
desired. He shouted to the sentinels on the ramparts, and informing them
that his keys had been stolen, demanded their assistance to secure the
robber. Some half-dozen soldiers immediately descended, and Cholmondeley
finding resistance in vain, thought fit to surrender. The keys being
found upon him, were delivered to Nightgall, while he himself was
conveyed to the guard-room near the By-ward Tower.
After he had been detained there for some hours in close captivity,—not
even being allowed to communicate with his friends in the
Stone-kitchen,—Nightgall returned with an order from the council for his
imprisonment in the Nun’s Bower, whither he was forthwith removed.
On the way to his place of confinement, he encountered Xit, and the
friendly dwarf would fain have spoken with him, but he was kept at a
distance by the halberts of the guard. He contrived, however, to inform
him by sundry nods, winks, and expressive gestures, that he would keep a
sharp watch upon the proceedings of Nightgall.
Having seen Cholmondeley safely bestowed, the jailor repaired to the
entrance of the subterranean dungeons, and lighting a torch, opened the
door of a small recess, from which he took a mattock and spade. Armed
with these implements, he proceeded to the vault, beneath the Devilin
Tower, where he commenced digging a grave. After labouring hard for a
couple of hours, he attained a sufficient depth for his purpose, and
taking the torch, ascended to the small chamber. Lifting the skeleton
frame in his arms, he returned to the vault. In placing the torch on the
ground it upset, and rolling into the grave was extinguished, leaving
him in profound darkness. His first impulse was to throw down the body,
but having, in his agitation, placed the hands, which were clasped
together, over his neck, he found it impossible to free himself from it.
His terror was so great that he uttered a loud cry, and would have fled,
but his feet were rooted to the spot. He sank at last on his knees, and
the corpse dropped upon him, its face coming into contact with his own.
Grown desperate, at length, he disengaged himself from the horrible
embrace, and threw the body into the grave. Relieved by this step from
much of his fear, he felt about for the spade, and having found it,
began to shovel in the mould.
0287
While thus employed, he underwent a fresh alarm. In trampling down the
mould, a hollow groan issued from the grave, trembling in every limb, he
desisted from his task. His hair stood erect, and a thick damp gathered
on his brow. Shaking off his terrors, he renewed his exertions, and in a
short time his task was completed.
He then groped his way out of the vault, and having become by long usage
familiarized with its labyrinths, soon reached the entrance, where
he struck a light, and having found a lantern, set fire to the candle
within it. This done, he returned to the vault, where, to his great
horror, he perceived that the face of the corpse was uncovered. Averting
his gaze from it, he heaped the earth over it, and then flattened the
mass with repeated blows of the spade. All trace of his victim being
thus removed, and the vault restored to its original appearance, he took
back the implements he had used, and struck into a passage leading in
another direction.
Pursuing it for some time, he came to a strong door; unlocked it; and,
ascending a flight of stone steps, reached another arched passage,
which he swiftly traversed. After threading other passages with equal
celerity, he came to a wider avenue, contrived under the eastern
ramparts, and tracked it till it brought him to a flight of steps
leading to a large octangular chamber, surrounded by eight deep
recesses, and forming the basement story of the Salt Tower, at that
time, and for upwards of a century afterwards, used as one of the
prison lodgings of the fortress. In a chamber in the upper story of
this fortification, now occupied as a drawing-room, is a curious sphere,
carved a few years later than the date of this chronicle, by Hugh
Draper, an astrologer, who was committed to the Tower on suspicion of
sorcery.
0289
Quitting this chamber, Nightgall ascended a winding stone staircase
which brought him to an arched door, leading to the room just described.
Taking a key from the bunch at his girdle, he unlocked it, and entered
the room. A female was seated in one corner with her face buried in her
hands. Raising her head at his approach, she disclosed the features of
Cicely. Her eyes were red with weeping—and her figure attenuated by
long suffering. Conceiving from the savage expression of the jailor s
countenance that he meditated some further act of cruelty, she uttered a
loud shriek, and tried to avoid him.
0290
“Peace!” cried Nightgall, “I will do you no harm. Your retreat has been
discovered. You must go with me to the tower leading to the Iron Gate.”
“I will never go thither of my accord,” replied Cicely. “Release me,
villain. I will die sooner than become your bride.”
“We shall see that,” growled the jailer. “Another month’s captivity
will make you alter your tone. You shall never be set free, unless you
consent to be mine.”
“Then I shall die a prisoner like your other victims,” cried Cicely.
“Who told you I had other victims?” cried Nightgall, moodily.
“No matter who told me. I have heard Cuthbert Cholmondeley, whom I love
as much as I hate you, speak of one—Alexia, I think she was named.”
“No more of this,” cried Nightgall, fiercely, “come along, or—”
“Never!” shrieked Cicely—“I will not go. You will murder me,”—And she
filled the chamber with her screams.
“Confusion!” cried Nightgall, “we shall be heard. Come along, I say.”
In struggling to free herself from him, Cicely fell upon the ground,
regardless of this, Nightgall dragged her by main, force through the
doorway, and so down the secret staircase. She continued her screams,
until her head striking against the stones, she was stunned by the blow,
and became insensible. He then raised her in his arms, and descending
another short flight of steps, traversed a narrow passage, and came to a
dark chamber beneath the Tower leading to the Iron Gate.
0291
0292
0294
XVII.—OF THE CONSPIRACY FORMED BY DE NOAILLES; AND HOW XIT DELIVERED A
LETTER TO ELIZABETH, AND VISITED COURTENAY IN THE LIEUTENANT’S LODGINGS.
As soon as it was known that the Princess Elizabeth and Courtenay were
placed under arrest, the greatest consternation prevailed throughout the
Tower. While some few rejoiced in the favourite’s downfall, the
majority deplored it; and it was only the idea that when Mary’s jealous
indignation subsided, he would be restored to his former position, that
prevented open expression being given to their sentiments. On being made
acquainted with what had occurred, Gardiner instantly sought an audience
of the Queen, and without attempting to defend Courtenay’s conduct,
he besought her earnestly to pause before she proceeded to
extremities,—representing the yet unsettled state of her government,
and how eagerly advantage would be taken of the circumstances to stir
up dissension and rebellion. Mary replied that her feelings had been so
greatly outraged that she was resolved upon vengeance, and that nothing
but the Earl’s life would satisfy her.
“If this is your determination, madam,” returned Gardiner,
“I predict that the crown will not remain upon your head a month. Though
the Earl of Devonshire has grievously offended your highness, his crime
is not treason. And if you put him to death for this offence, you will
alienate the hearts of all your subjects.”
“Be it so,” replied Mary, sternly. “No personal consideration shall
deter me from my just revenge.”
“And what of the Princess Elizabeth?” asked the Bishop.
“She shall share his fate,” answered the Queen.
“This must not be, my gracious mistress,” cried Gardiner, throwing
himself at her feet. “Hero I will remain till I have driven these dark
and vindictive feelings from your breast. Banish the Earl—take his life,
if nothing else will content you,—but do not raise your hand against
your sister.”
“Bishop of Winchester,” replied the Queen, “how many hours have you
knelt before my father, Henry the Eighth, and have yet failed to turn
him from his purpose! I am by nature as jealous—as firm—as obstinate, if
you will—as he was. Arise.”
“No, madam,” replied Gardiner, “I will not rise till I have convinced
you of your error. Your august father was a prince of high and noble
qualities, but the defects that clouded his royal nature would show
to double disadvantage in one of your sex. Dismiss all thought of this
faithless Earl from your heart,—banish him from your presence, from your
kingdom,—nay, keep him in durance if you will, but use no harsh measures
against the Princess Elizabeth. Every step taken against her will be
fearfully resented by the Protestant party, of which, I need not remind
you, she is the representative.”
“And what matter if it be, my lord?” rejoined Mary. “I am strong enough
to maintain my own authority, and shall be right glad of some plea
to put down heresy and schism by fire and sword. You are not wont to
advocate this cause.”
“Nor do I advocate it now, madam,” returned Gardiner. “All I counsel
is prudence. You are not yet strong enough to throw off the mask of
toleration which you have hitherto worn. Your first parliament has
not yet met. The statutes establishing the Reformed religion are yet
unrepealed,—nay, though I shame to speak it, the marriage of your
illustrious parents has not yet been confirmed.”
“You should shame to speak it, my lord,” rejoined Mary, fiercely; “for
it is mainly by your machinations that the divorce was obtained.”
“I own it to my sorrow,” replied Gardiner, “but I then owed the same
obedience to your illustrious sire that I now owe to your highness. I
did your injured mother great wrong, but if I live I will repair it.
This, however, is foreign to the subject. Your majesty may believe me
when I tell you, your worst enemies could not desire you to take a more
injudicious step, or one more fraught with danger to yourself, than to
strain your prerogative against Courtenay and Elizabeth.”
“Were I to assent to your request and set them free,” replied
Mary, after a moment’s reflection, “the first act of the princess would
be to unite herself to this perfidious villain.”
“I do not think it,” replied Gardiner. “But what if she were to do so?”
“What!” exclaimed Mary, furiously. “The thought revives all my
indignation. Am I so tame of spirit that I can bear to see him whom I
have loved united to a rival I hate? No, my lord, I am not. This is no
doubtful case. I have heard his treachery with my own ears—seen it with
my own eyes—and I will terribly avenge myself. Courtenay never again
shall behold Elizabeth. He has breathed his last false sigh—uttered his
last perjured profession of love—exchanged his last look, unless they
meet upon the scaffold. You know not what an injured woman feels. I have
the power of avenging myself, and, by my father’s head, I will use it!”
“And when you have gratified this fell passion, madam,” returned
Gardiner, “remorse will succeed, and you will bitterly regret what you
have done. Since nothing better may be,—and if you will not nobly, and
like yourself, pardon the offenders,—at least reflect before you act. If
you persist in your present intention, it will be the duty of all your
faithful subjects to prepare for a rebellion, for such will certainly
ensue.”
“Make what preparations you deem fitting, my lord,” replied Mary. “In
my father’s time the people did not dare to resist his decrees, however
arbitrary.”
“The people are no longer what they were, madam, nor are you—for I must
make bold to say so—in the position, or backed by the power of your
dread father. What he did is no rule for you. I am no advocate for
Courtenay—nor for the princess Elizabeth. Could you avenge yourself upon
them with safety, though I should lament it, I would not oppose you. But
you cannot do so. Others must bleed at the same time. Remember the Lady
Jane Gray and her husband yet live. You will revive their faction—and
must of necessity doom them to death to prevent another rebellion. Once
begun, there will be no end to bloodshed.”
“These are cogent reasons, my lord,” returned Mary, after a moment’s
reflection,—“supposing them well-founded.”
“And trust me, they are well-founded, gracious madam,” replied the
Bishop. “Do not sacrifice your kingdom—do not sacrifice the holy
Catholic church which looks to you for support—to an insane thirst of
vengeance.”
“Gardiner,” replied Mary, taking his hand and looking at him earnestly,
“you know not how I have loved this man. Put yourself in my position.
How would you act?”
“As I am assured your highness would, if you were not under the dominion
of passion,” replied the bishop—“forgive him.”
“I would do so,” rejoined Mary, “but oh! if he were to wed Elizabeth, I
should die. I would rather yield them my crown,—my life,—than consent to
their espousals. But I will not think for myself. Arise, my lord. Give
me your counsel, and what you recommend I will follow.”
“Spoken like yourself, gracious madam,” replied the bishop.
“I was sure your noble nature could soon triumph over unworthy thoughts.
Since your highness thinks it possible Courtenay may wed Elizabeth, I
would advise you to detain him for the present a captive in the Tower.
But instantly liberate the princess—dismiss her from your court—and let
her retire to Ashbridge.”
“I like your advice well, my lord,” replied the Queen, “and will act
upon it. The princess shall set out to-day.”
“I cannot too highly applaud your highness’s determination,” replied
Gardiner; “but as you have spoken thus frankly, may I venture to ask
whether the earl’s case is utterly hopeless?—whether, after he has
sufficiently felt the weight of your displeasure you will not restore
him to your favour—to your affections?”
“Never,” replied Mary, firmly, “never. And could you counsel it?”
“He is inexperienced, madam,” urged the bishop; “and after this salutary
lesson——”
“No more, my lord,” interrupted the Queen, a shade passing over her
features, “it is too late.”
“Too late!” echoed Gardiner. “Am I to understand your highness has made
another engagement?”
“You are to understand nothing more than you are told, my lord,” replied
Mary, angrily. “In due season you shall know all.”
As Gardiner bowed in acquiescence, he perceived the miniature of Philip
of Spain lying on the table, and a sudden apprehension of the truth
crossed him.
“There is one person upon whom I should chiefly desire your highness’s
choice not to fall,1’ he said.
“And that is—?” interrupted Mary.
“Philip of Spain,” answered Gardiner.
“What objections have you to him, my lord?” demanded the queen,
uneasily.
“My objections are threefold,” rejoined Gardiner. “First, I dislike the
tyrannical character of the prince, which would be ill-suited to render
your highness’s union a happy one. Secondly, I am assured that the match
would be disagreeable to your subjects—the English nation not being
able to brook a foreign yoke; and of all dominations none being so
intolerable as that of Spain. Thirdly, the alliance would plunge us in
endless wars with France—a country that would never tamely submit to
such a formidable extension of power, as this would prove, on the part
of its old enemy, Charles the Fifth.”
“If not Philip of Spain, whom would you recommend me?” asked Mary, who
was anxious to mislead him.
“One of your own nobles,” replied Gardiner; “by which means your
authority would be unabridged. Whereas, if you wed a prince, odious for
his tyranny in the eyes of all Europe”———
“No more of this, my lord,” interrupted Mary, hastily.
“Madam,” said Gardiner, “however I may risk displeasing you, I should
be wanting in duty, in loyalty, and in sincerity, were I not strongly to
warn you against a match with Philip of Spain. It will be fatal to your
own happiness—fatal to the welfare of your people.”
“I have already said it is too late,” sighed Mary.
“Your Majesty has not affianced yourself to him,” cried Gardiner,
anxiously..
“Question me no further,” rejoined Mary. “What is done is done.”
“Alas! madam,” cried Gardiner, “I understand your words too well. You
have taken a perilous step, at the instigation of evil counsellors, and
under the influence of evil passions. God grant good may come of it!”
“These are mere surmises on your part, my lord,” returned Mary. “I have
not told you I have taken any step.”
“But your majesty leads me to infer it,” answered the bishop. “For
your own sake, and for the sake of your kingdom, I trust my fears are
unfounded.”
As he spoke, an usher approached, and informed the queen that the
imperial ambassador, Simon Renard, desired an audience.
“Admit him,” said Mary. “Farewell, my lord,” she added, turning to
Gardiner; “I will weigh what you have said.”
“Act upon it, gracious madam, if you can,” rejoined the bishop. “But if
you are so far committed as to be unable to retreat, count upon my best
services to aid you in the difficulty.” At this moment, Simon Renard
entered the audience-chamber, and the expression of his countenance was
so exulting, that Gardiner was convinced his conjectures were not far
wide of the truth. His first object, on quitting the royal presence, was
to seek out Feckenham, from whom he succeeded in eliciting the fact
of the betrothment in Saint John’s chapel; and with a breast full
of trouble he returned to his own apartments. On the way thither, he
encountered De Noailles.
“Well met, my lord,” cried the ambassador. “I was about to seek you.
So, it seems all our projects are ruined. Courtenay is disgraced and
imprisoned.”
“His folly has destroyed the fairest chance that ever man possessed,”
observed the bishop. “He is now irretrievably lost.”
“Not irretrievably, I trust, my good lord,” replied Do Noailles. “A
woman’s mind is proverbially changeful. And when this jealous storm
is blown over, I doubt not he will, again bask in the full sunshine of
royal favour.”
“Your excellency is in the wrong,” rejoined Gardiner. “The queen will
never forgive him, or, what is equally to be lamented, will never unite
herself to him.”
“You speak confidently, my lord,” returned Do Noailles gravely. “I trust
nothing has occurred to warrant what you say.”
“M. De Noailles,” said the bishop significantly, “look to yourself. The
party of France is on the decline. That of Spain is on the ascendant.”
“What mean you, my lord?” cried the ambassador, eagerly. “Renard has not
succeeded in his aim? Mary has not affianced herself to the Prince of
Spain?”
“I know nothing positively,” replied Gardiner evasively. “I merely throw
out the hint. It is for you to follow it up.”
“This were a blow, indeed!” cried De Noailles. “But subtle as Renard is,
and with all the advantage he has gained, I will yet countermine him.”
“You shall not want my aid,” returned Gardiner, “provided you hatch no
treason against the queen. And that you may the better know how to act,
learn that her majesty is affianced to Philip of Spain.”
“Curses on the crafty Spaniard!” exclaimed De Noailles, furiously. “But
I will yet defeat him.”
“The princess Elizabeth will be liberated to-day, and sent with a
strong guard to Ashbridge,” remarked Gardiner. “Courtenay will be kept a
prisoner in the Tower.”
“We must find means to liberate him,” rejoined the ambassador.
“In this you must proceed without my aid,” said the bishop. “If it be
possible to reinstate the earl in Mary’s favour, it shall be done. But I
can take no part in aiding his flight.”
“Leave it to me, my lord,” rejoined De Noailles. “All I require is your
voice with the queen.”
“That you may rely on,” answered the bishop.
With this, they separated; Gardiner proceeding to his own apartments,
and De Noailles bending his steps towards the green, debating with
himself, as he wended thither, what course it would be best to pursue in
the emergency. Nothing occurred to him but expedients so hazardous that
he instantly dismissed them. While resolving these matters, as he walked
to and fro beneath the avenue, he was accosted by Xit, who, doffing his
cap, and making a profound bow, inquired whether the rumour was correct
that the Earl of Devonshire had incurred the queen’s displeasure and was
imprisoned.
“Ay, marry is it,” replied De Noailles.
“I am truly concerned to hear it,” replied the mannikin; “and I make no
doubt his lordship’s disgrace is owing to the machinations of his mortal
foe, Simon Renard.”
“Thou art in the right,” replied De Noailles. “And let it be known
throughout the Tower that this is the case.”
“I will not fail to spread it among my fellows,” replied Xit. “But
none can lament it more than myself. I would lay down my life for his
lordship.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed De Noailles. “This knave may be useful,” he
muttered. “Harkee, sirrah! Canst thou devise some safe plan by which
a letter may be conveyed to the earl, who is imprisoned in the
lieutenant’s lodgings?”
“Your excellency could not have chanced upon one more able or willing to
serve you,” replied Xit. “Give me the letter, and I will engage it shall
reach its destination.”
“Come to my lodgings this evening,” said De Noailles, “and it shall be
ready for thee. As yet, my plan is not matured.”
“Your excellency may depend upon me,” replied the dwarf.
“But I conclude, if I perform my task to your satisfaction, I shall be
rewarded?”
“Amply,” replied De Noailles. “Take this purse in earnest of what is to
follow.”
“I do not desire gold,” returned the dwarf, restoring the purse. “What
I aspire to is rank. I am tired of being attendant to three gluttonous
giants. If the Earl of Devonshire is restored by my means to liberty and
to the position he has lost with the queen, I trust the service will not
be unremembered, but that I may be promoted to some vacant post.”
“Doubt it not,” replied De Noailles, who could scarcely help laughing at
the dwarfs overweening vanity. “I will answer for it, if thou performest
thy part well, thou shalt be knighted ere a month be past. But I will
put thy skill further to the test. The princess Elizabeth will be
removed from the Tower to-day. Thou must find some means of delivering a
letter to her, unperceived by her attendants.”
“I will do it,” replied Xit, unhesitatingly. “Knighted, did your
excellency say?”
“Ay, knighted,” returned De Noailles,—“within a month. Follow me. I will
prepare the letter.”
It being the ambassador’s wish to carry on a secret correspondence with
the princess, he pondered upon the safest means of accomplishing his
object; and chancing to notice a guitar, which had been lent him by
Elizabeth, it occurred to him that it would form an excellent medium
of communication. Accordingly, he set to work; and being well versed in
various state ciphers, speedily traced a key to the system beneath
the strings of the instrument. He then despatched it by a page to the
princess, who, immediately comprehending that some mystery must
be attached to it, laid it aside to take with her to Ashbridge. Do
Noailles, meanwhile, wrote a few hasty lines on a piece of paper,
explaining his motive in sending the guitar, and delivering it to
Xit, charged him, as he valued his life, not to attempt to give it the
princess, unless he could do so unobserved.
About noon, Elizabeth, escorted by Sir Edward Hastings, and a large
guard, left the palace. She was on horseback, and as she rode through
the gateway of the By-ward Tower, Xit, who had stationed himself on Og’s
shoulder, took off his bonnet, and let it fall as if by accident, on
her steed’s head. Startled by the blow, the animal reared, and in
the confusion that ensued, the dwarf contrived to slip the billet
unperceived into her hand. As soon as the cavalcade had passed on, and
the dwarf had undergone a severe rebuke from Og and the other warders
for his supposed carelessness, he hastened to the ambassador’s room,
to relate the successful issue of his undertaking. De Noailles was
overjoyed by the intelligence; complimented him on his skill; promised
him still higher dignities in case of success; and bade him return in
the evening for further orders.
The remainder of the day was consumed by the ambassador in revolving his
project. The more he reflected upon the matter, the more convinced he
became, that in the present critical state of affairs, nothing could
be done without some daring conspiracy; and after a long debate, he
conceived a scheme which would either overthrow Mary’s government
altogether, and place Elizabeth on the throne, or reduce the former
to such an abject state that he could dictate his own terms to her. On
consideration, thinking it better not to write to the Earl for fear of
mischance, he entrusted Xit with a message to him, earnestly impressing
upon the dwarf the necessity of caution.
The subject of all this plotting, it has been stated, was confined
in the lieutenant’s lodgings. Every consideration due to his rank
and peculiar position was shown him by Sir Henry Bedingfeld. He was
permitted to occupy the large chamber on the second floor, since noted
as the scene of the examinations of the Gunpowder Plot conspirators.
He was, however, strictly guarded. No one was allowed to hold any
communication with him, either personally or by letter, except through
the medium of the lieutenant. And every article either of attire or
furniture that was brought him was carefully inspected before it was
delivered to him.
Xit, who, as a privileged person, went and came where he pleased, found
little difficulty in obtaining admittance to the lieutenant’s lodgings.
But all his cunning could not procure him a sight of the prisoner, and
after wasting several hours in fruitless attempts, being fearful of
exciting suspicion, he was compelled for that night to relinquish the
design. The next day, he was equally unsuccessful, and he was almost
driven to his wits’ end with perplexity, when as he was passing beneath
a tree at the southern extremity of the green, he chanced to cast his
eye upwards, and saw a cat spring from one of the topmost branches on to
the roof of the Bloody Tower.
“Wherever a cat can go, I can,” thought Xit; “That roof reached, I could
pass along the summits of the ramparts and fortifications connecting it
with the lieutenant’s lodgings; and on arriving there, it were easy to
descend the chimney, and get into the earl’s chamber. Bravo! That will
do.”
The plan so enchanted him, that he was in a fever to put it in
execution. This, however, could not take place till night, and retiring
to a little distance to survey the premises, he satisfied himself, after
some consideration, that he had discovered the chimney communicating
with the earl’s room. When the proper time arrived, he cautiously
approached the tree, and looking round to make sure no one observed him,
he clambered up it with the agility of a squirrel. Notwithstanding his
caution, a serious accident had nearly befallen him. Just as he was
about to spring upon the wall, the bough on which he stood broke.
Luckily he caught hold of a projection of the building, and saved
himself. But he was some minutes before he recovered from the fright.
The noise, too, had nearly betrayed him to the sentinels, who approached
within a few paces of him. But the darkness was so profound, that he
escaped observation. When they returned to their posts he proceeded
along the ridge of the battlements, and dropping upon the ballium wall,
proceeded with the utmost caution to the edge of the ramparts. He then
passed on tip-toe close to the guard, and hastening forward, reached
the tiled roof of the lieutenant’s house, up which he clambered, as
noiselessly and actively as the animal he emulated.
On gaining the chimney he was in search of, he untied a cord with which
he had provided himself, and securing it to the brickwork, let one end
drop down the aperture. He then descended, and soon came to a level with
the chamber, and perceiving a light within it, resolved to reconnoitre
before he ventured further. Courtenay was asleep on a couch in the
corner, while two attendants were likewise slumbering upon seats near
the door. At a loss how to act, as he could scarcely awaken the earl
without disturbing the guards, Nit got out of the chimney, and crept
cautiously towards the couch. He would fain have extinguished the lamp,
but it was out of his reach. Planting himself on the further side of
the couch, so as to conceal himself from the attendants, he ventured at
length slightly to shake the sleeper. Courtenay started, and uttered an
exclamation which immediately aroused his guards.
“Who touched me?” he demanded angrily.
“No one, my lord,” replied the foremost of the men, glancing at the door
and round the chamber. “Your lordship must have been dreaming.”
“I suppose it must be so,” replied the carl, looking round, and
perceiving nothing. “And yet—”
At this moment a slight pressure on the hand warned him to be silent.
“If your lordship wishes it, we will search the room,” observed the
second soldier.
“No, no, it is needless,” replied Courtenay. “I have no doubt it was a
dream.”
In a few minutes, the soldiers were again snoring, and Xit popping his
head from beneath the coverlet, in a low tone delivered his message.
The earl expressed his satisfaction, and proceeded to make inquiries
respecting the Princess Elizabeth. On learning that she had quitted the
Tower the day before, he had much ado to restrain his joy. And when he
ascertained by what means the dwarf had obtained access to the chamber,
he was desirous to attempt an escape by the same way, but was dissuaded
by Xit, who represented to him the risk he would incur, adding that even
if he escaped from his present prison, he would be unable to quit the
Tower.
The dwarf then departed as he came. Climbing up the chimney, he drew
the rope after him, retraced his course over the fortifications; and on
reaching the Bloody Tower, contrived, with much exertion, and no little
risk, to lay hold of a branch of the tree, down which he clambered. The
next day, he related the successful issue of his trip to his employer.
De Noailles did not remain idle. He had already mentioned his project
to the Duke of Suffolk, Lord Thomas Grey, Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, Sir
James Croft, Sir Peter Carew, and Sir Thomas Wyat, all of whom eagerly
joined in it. With most of these, but especially with Wyat,—afterwards
the leader of the rebellion against Mary,—the main inducement to
conspire was aversion to the Queen’s meditated alliance with the Prince
of Spain. With the Duke of Suffolk and his ambitious brother, Lord
Thomas Grey, it was, (as De Noailles had foreseen,) the hope that in
the tumult the Lady Jane Grey might be restored, that purchased their
compliance. The conspirators had frequent secret meetings in the
apartments of the French ambassador, where they conferred upon their
plans. Suffolk, though pardoned for his late treason by Mary, was yet
detained a prisoner on parole within the Tower. His brother had not
taken a sufficiently prominent part to bring him into trouble. The
bravest of their number was Wyat, of whom it may be necessary to say a
few words.
Inheriting the wit and valour of his father, the refined and courtly
poet of the same name, Sir Thomas Wyat of Allingham Castle in Kent, had
already earned for himself the highest character as a military leader.
His father’s friend, the chivalrous and poetical Earl of Surrey, in one
of his despatches to Henry the Eighth, thus describes his conduct at the
siege of Boulogne:—“I assure your Majesty, you have framed him to such
towardness and knowledge in the war, that (none other dispraised)
your Majesty hath not many like him within your realm, for hardiness,
painfulness, circumspection, and natural disposition for the war.” Wyat
was in the very flower of his age. But his long service,—for from his
earliest youth, he had embraced the profession of arms,—had given him an
older look than his years warranted. He was of middle-size, strongly but
symmetrically proportioned, with handsome boldly-carved features, of
a somewhat stern expression. His deportment partook of his frank
soldier-like character. In swordsmanship, horsemanship, and all
matters connected with the business of war, he was, as may be supposed,
eminently skilful.
After much deliberation, it was agreed among the conspirators to have
all in readiness for a general insurrection, but to defer their project
until the meeting of parliament, when the Queen’s intentions respecting
her alliance with Spain would be declared, and if what they anticipated
should prove true, the whole nation would favour their undertaking.