It was the policy of the Romish priesthood, at the commencement of
Mary’s reign, to win, by whatever means, as many converts as possible to
their church. With this view, Gardiner, by the queen’s desire, offered a
free pardon to the Hot-Gospeller, provided he would publicly abjure his
errors, and embrace the Catholic faith; well knowing, that as general
attention had been drawn to his crime, and strong sympathy was excited
on account of his doctrines, notwithstanding the heinous nature of his
offence, among the Protestant party, that his recantation would be far
more available to their cause than his execution. But the enthusiast
rejected the offer with disdain. Worn down by suffering, crippled with
torture, his spirit still burnt fiercely as ever. And the only answer
that could be wrung from him by his tormentors was, that he lamented his
design had failed, and rejoiced he should seal his faith with his blood.
On one occasion, he was visited in his cell by Bonner, who desired that
the heavy irons with which he was loaded should be removed, and a cup of
wine given him. Underhill refused to taste the beverage, but Nightgall
and Wolfytt, who were present, forced him to swallow it. A brief
conference then took place between the bishop and the prisoner, wherein
the former strove earnestly to persuade him to recant. But Underhill was
so firm in his purpose, and so violent in his denunciations against his
interrogator, that Bonner lost all patience, and cried, “If my words do
not affright thee, thou vile traitor and pestilent heretic, yet shall
the fire to which I will deliver thee.”
“There thou art mistaken, thou false teacher of a false doctrine,”
rejoined Underhill sternly. “The fire may consume my body, but it hath
no power over my mind, which shall remain as unscathed as the three
children of Israel, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, when they stood in
the midst of the fiery furnace. For as the apostle saith—‘The fire shall
try every man’s work what it is. If any man’s work, that he hath builded
upon, abide, he shall receive a reward. If any man’s work burn, he shall
suffer loss. But he shall be saved himself, nevertheless, yet as it were
through fire.’ Even so shall I, despite my manifold transgressions,
be saved: while ye, idolatrous priests and prophets of Baal, shall be
consumed in everlasting flames.”
“Go to,—go to, thou foolish boaster,” retorted Bonner angrily; “a season
will come when thou wilt bitterly lament thou hast turned aside the
merciful intentions of thy judges.”
“I have already said that the fire has no terrors for me,” replied
Underhill. “When the spirit has once asserted its superiority over the
flesh, the body can feel no pain. Upon the rack—in that dreadful engine,
which fixes the frame in such a posture that no limb or joint can move—I
was at ease. And to prove that I have no sense of suffering, I will
myself administer the torture.”
So saying, and raising with some difficulty his stiffened arm, he held
his hand over the flame of a lamp that stood upon the table before him,
until the veins shrunk and burst, and the sinews cracked. During this
dreadful trial, his countenance underwent no change. And if Bonner had
not withdrawn the lamp, he would have allowed the limb to be entirely
consumed.
“Peradventure, thou wilt believe me now,” he cried triumphantly; “and
wilt understand that the Lord will so strengthen me with his holy spirit
that I may be ‘one of the number of those blessed, which, enduring to
the end, shall reap a heavenly inheritance.’”
“Take him away,” replied Bonner. “His blood be upon his own head. He is
so blinded and besotted, that he does not perceive that his death will
lead to damnation.”
“No, verily,” rejoined Underhill, exultingly; “for as Saint Paul saith,
There is no damnation to them that are in Christ Jesus, which walk not
after the flesh, but after the spirit. Death, where is thy sting? Hell,
where is thy victory?”
“Hence with the blasphemer,” roared Bonner; “and spare him no torments,
for he deserves the severest ye can inflict.”
Upon this, Underhill was removed, and the bishop’s injunctions in
respect to the torture literally fulfilled.
Brought to trial for the attempt upon the queen’s life, he was found
guilty, and received the royal pardon. Nothing could be elicited as
to his having any associates or instigators to his crime. And the only
matter that implicated another was the prayer for the restoration of
Jane, written in a leaf of the bible found upon his person at the time
of his seizure. But though he was pardoned by Mary, he did not
escape. He was claimed as a heretic by Bonner; examined before the
ecclesiastical commissioners; and adjudged to the stake. The warrant for
his execution was signed, as above related, by the queen.
On the night before this terrible sentence was carried into effect,
he was robed in a loose dress of flame-coloured taffeta, and conveyed
through the secret passages to Saint John’s Chapel in the White Tower,
which was brilliantly illuminated, and filled with a large assemblage.
As he entered the sacred structure, a priest advanced with holy water,
but he turned aside with a scornful look. Another, more officious,
placed a consecrated wafer to his lips, but he spat it out; while a
third forced a couple of tapers into his hands, which he was compelled
to carry, in this way, he was led along the aisle by his guard, through
the crowd of spectators who divided as he moved towards the altar,
before which, as on the occasion of the Duke of Northumberland’s
reconciliation, Gardiner was seated upon the faldstool, with the mitre
on his head. Priests and choristers were arranged on either side in
their full habits. The aspect of the chancellor-bishop was stern and
menacing, but the miserable enthusiast did not quail before it. On the
contrary, he seemed inspired with new strength; and though he had with
difficulty dragged his crippled limbs along the dark passages, he now
stood firm and erect. His limbs were wasted, his cheeks hollow, his
eyes deep sunken in their sockets, but flashing with vivid lustre. At a
gesture from Gardiner, Nightgall and Wolfytt, who attended him, forced
him upon his knees.
Edward Underhill, demanded the bishop, in a stern voice, “for the
last time, I ask thee dost thou persist in thy impious and damnable
heresies?”
“I persist in my adherence to the Protestant faith, by which alone I can
be saved,” replied Underhill, firmly. “I deserve and desire death for
having raised my hand against the queens life. But as her highness has
been graciously pleased to extend her mercy towards me, if I suffer
death it will be in the cause of the gospel. And I take all here present
to witness that I am right willing to do so, certain that I shall obtain
by such means the crown of everlasting life. I would suffer a
thousand deaths—yea all the rackings, torments, crucifyings, and other
persecutions endured by the martyrs of old, rather than deny Christ and
his gospel, or defile my faith and conscience with the false worship of
the Romish religion.”
“Then perish in thy sins, unbeliever,” replied Gardiner sternly.
And he arose, and taking off his mitre, the whole assemblage knelt down,
while the terrible denunciation of the Catholic church against a heretic
was solemnly pronounced. This done, mass was performed, hymns were
chanted, and the prisoner was conducted to his cell.
The brief remainder of his life was passed by Underhill in deep but
silent devotion; for his jailors, who never left him, would not suffer
him to pray aloud, or even to kneel; and strove, though vainly, to
distract him, by singing ribald songs, plucking his beard and garments,
and offering other interruptions.
The place appointed as the scene of his last earthly suffering was a
square patch of ground, marked by a border of white flint stones, then,
and even now, totally destitute of herbage, in front of Saint Peter’s
Chapel on the Green, where the scaffold for those executed within the
Tower was ordinarily erected, and where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard
were beheaded.
On this spot a strong stake was driven deeply into the ground, and at a
little distance from it was piled a large stack of fagots. An iron ring
was fixed to the centre of the stake, and to the ring was attached a
broad iron girdle, destined to encircle the body of the victim.
As night set in, a large band of halberdiers marched into the green, and
stationed themselves round the stake. Long before this, sombre groups
had gathered together at various points, and eyed the proceedings in
moody silence. None of the curiosity—none of the excitement ordinarily
manifested upon such occasions—was now exhibited. Underhills crime had
checked the strong tide of sympathy which would otherwise have run
in his favour. Still, as he had been pardoned by the queen, and was
condemned for his religious opinions only, deep commiseration was felt
for him. It was not, however, for him that the assemblage looked grave,
but for themselves. Most of them were of the Reformed faith, and they
argued—and with reason,—that this was only the commencement of a season
of trouble; and that the next victim might be one of their own family.
With such sentiments, it is not to be wondered at, that they looked on
sternly and suspiciously, and with the strongest disposition—though
it was not manifested, otherwise than by looks—to interrupt the
proceedings. As it grew dark, and faces could no longer be discerned,
loud murmurings arose, and it was deemed expedient to double the guard,
and to place in custody some of the most clamorous. By this means,
all disposition to tumult was checked, and profound silence ensued.
Meanwhile, numbers continued to flock thither, until, long before the
appointed hour arrived, the whole area from the lieutenant’s lodgings to
Saint Peters Chapel was densely thronged.
0329
As the bell ceased tolling the hour of midnight, a lugubrious procession
slowly issued from beneath the gloomy archway of the Coalharbour Gate.
First came four yeomen of the guard walking two and two, and bearing
banners of black silk, displaying large white crosses. Then twelve
deacons in the same order, in robes of black silk and flat caps, each
carrying a long lighted wax taper. Then a priest’s assistant, in a white
surplice, with a red cross in front, bareheaded, and swinging a large
bell heavily to and fro. Then two young priests, likewise bareheaded,
and in white surplices, each holding a lighted taper in a massive silver
candlestick. Then an old priest with the mitre. Then two chantry-priests
in their robes singing the Miserere. Then four Carmelite monks, each
with a large rosary hanging from his wrist, supporting a richly gilt
square canopy, decorated at each corner with a sculptured cross, beneath
which walked Bonner, in his scarlet chimere and white rochet. Then
came Feckenham and other prelates, followed by two more chantry-priests
singing the same doleful hymn as their predecessors. Then came a long
train of halberdiers. Then the prisoner, clothed in sackcloth and
bare-footed, walking between two friars of the lowly order of Saint
Francis, who besought him, in piteous tones, to repent ere it was too
late. And lastly, the rear was brought up by a company of archers of the
queen’s body guard.
As soon as the procession had formed in the order it arrived round the
place of execution, the prisoner was brought forward by the two friars,
who for the last time earnestly exhorted him to recant, and save his
soul alive. But he pushed them from him, saying, “Get hence ye popish
wolves! ye raveners of Christ’s faithful flock! Back to the idolatrous
Antichrist of Rome who sent ye hither. I will have none of your
detestable doctrines. Get hence, I say, and trouble me no more.”
When the friars drew back, he would have addressed the assemblage. But
a halberdier, by Bonner’s command, thrust a pike into his mouth and
silenced him. A wild and uncouth figure, with strong but clumsily-formed
limbs, coarse repulsive features, lighted up by a savage smile, now
stepped forward. It was Wolfytt, the sworn tormentor. He was attired in
a jerkin and hose of tawny leather. His arms and chest were bare, and
covered with a thick pile of red hair. His ragged locks and beard,
of the same disgusting colour, added to his hideous and revolting
appearance. He was armed with a long iron pitchfork, and had a large
hammer and a pair of pincers stuck in his girdle. Behind him came Mauger
and Nightgall.
A deep and awful silence now prevailed throughout the concourse. Not a
breath was drawn, and every eye was bent upon the victim. He was seized
and stripped by Mauger and Wolfytt, the latter of whom dragged him to
the stake, which the poor zealot reverently kissed as he reached it,
placed the iron girdle round his waist, and riveted it to the post. In
this position, Underhill cried with a loud voice, “God preserve Queen
Jane! and speedily restore her to the throne, that she may deliver this
unhappy realm from the popish idolaters who would utterly subvert it.”
Several voices cried “Amen!” and Wolfytt, who was nailing the girdle
at the time, commanded him to keep silence, and enforced the order by
striking him a severe blow on the temples with the hammer.
“You might have spared me that, friend,” observed Underhill, meekly. And
he then added, in a lower tone, “Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am
weak! O Lord heal me, for all my bones are vexed!”
While the fagots were heaped around him by Mauger and Nightgall, he
continued to pray fervently; and when all was made ready, he cried,
“Dear Father, I beseech thee to give once more to this realm the
blessing of thy word, with godly peace. Purge and purify me by this
fire in Christ’s death and passion through thy spirit, that I may be an
acceptable burnt-offering in thy sight. Farewell, dear friends. Pray for
me, and pray with me.”
As he spoke, Nightgall seized a torch and applied it to the fagots. His
example was imitated by Mauger and Wolfytt, and the pile was speedily
kindled. The dry wood crackled, and the smoke rose in thick volumes.
the flames then burst forth, and burning fast and fiercely, cast a lurid
light upon the countenances of the spectators, upon the windows of Saint
Peter’s chapel, and upon the grey walls of the White Tower. As yet,
the fire had not reached the victim; the wind blowing strongly from
the west, carried it aside. But in a few seconds it gained sufficient
ascendancy, and his sufferings commenced. For a short space, he endured
them without a groan. But as the flames mounted, notwithstanding all his
efforts, the sharpness of the torment overcame him. Placing his hands
behind his neck, he made desperate attempts to draw himself further
up the stake, out of the reach of the devouring element. But the iron
girdle effectually restrained him. He then lost all command of himself;
and his eyes starting from their sockets—his convulsed features—his
erected hair, and writhing frame—proclaimed the extremity of his agony.
He sought relief by adding to his own torture. Crossing his hands upon
his breast, and grasping either shoulder, he plunged his nails deeply
into the flesh. It was a horrible sight, and a shuddering groan burst
from the assemblage. Fresh fagots were added by Nightgall and his
companions, who moved around the pyre like fiends engaged in some
impious rite. The flames again arose brightly and fiercely. By this
time, the lower limbs were entirely consumed; and throwing back his
head, and uttering a loud and lamentable yell which was heard all over
the fortress, the wretched victim gave up the ghost. A deep and mournful
silence succeeded this fearful cry. It found an heco in every breast.
0330
0332
XXI.—HOW LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY AND LADY JANE WERE ARRAIGNED AND ATTAINTED
OF HIGH TREASON; AND HOW THEY WERE PARDONED BY QUEEN MARY.
More than three months had now been passed by Jane in solitary
confinement in the Brick Tower. Long as was the interval, it appeared
brief to her—her whole time being devoted to intense mental application,
or to prayer. She lived only in her books; and addressed herself
with such ardour to her studies, that her thoughts were completely
abstracted.
Sometimes, indeed, in spite of all her efforts, recollections of the
past would obtrude themselves upon her—visions of earlier days and of
the events and scenes connected with them would rise before her. She
thought of Bradgate and its green retreats,—of her beloved preceptor,
Roger Ascham,—of the delight with which she had become acquainted,
through him, with the poetry, the philosophy, the drama of the ancient
world. She recalled their long conversations, in which he had painted to
her the vanities and vexations of the world, and the incomparable charms
of a life of retirement and meditation, and she now felt the truth
of his assertions. Had it been permitted her to pass her quiet and
blameless career in that tranquil place, how happy would she have
been! And yet she did not repine at her lot, but rather rejoiced at it.
“Whatever my own sufferings may be,” she murmured—“however severely I
may be chastened, I yet feel I shall not endure in vain, but that others
will profit by my example. If heaven will vouchsafe me grace and power,
not one action of my life but shall redound to the honour of the faith I
profess.”
One thought she ever checked, feeling that the emotions it excited,
threatened to shake her constancy. This was the idea of her husband; and
whenever it arose she soothed the pang it occasioned by earnest prayer.
The reflection that he was now as firm an adherent to the tenets of the
gospel as herself, and that by her own resolution she had wrought
this beneficial change in him, cheered and animated her, and almost
reconciled her to her separation.
So fully prepared did she now feel for the worst shock of fate, that the
only thing she regretted was that she was not speedily brought to trial.
But she repressed even this desire as inconsistent with her duty, and
unworthy of her high and holy calling. “My part is submission,” she
murmured, “and whether my term of life is long or short, it becomes
me to feel and act in like manner. Whenever I am called upon, I am
ready,—certain, if I live devoutly, to attain everlasting happiness, and
rejoin my husband where he will never be taken from me.”
In this way, she thoroughly reconciled herself to her situation. And
though in her dreams old scenes and faces would often revisit her—though
her husband’s image constantly haunted her—and on waking her pillow was
bedewed with her tears—still, she maintained her cheerfulness, and by
never allowing one moment to pass unemployed, drove away all distressing
thoughts.
Not so her husband. Immured in the Beauchamp Tower, he bore his
confinement with great external fortitude; but his bosom was a prey
to vain regrets and ambitious hopes. Inheriting, as has before been
observed, the soaring aspirations of his father, but without his genius
or daring, his mind was continually dwelling upon the glittering bauble
he had lost, and upon the means of regaining it. Far from being warned
by the duke’s fate,—far from considering the fearful jeopardy in which
he himself stood—he was ever looking forward to the possibility of
escape, and to the chance of reinstating himself in his lost position.
Sincerely attached to Jane, he desired to be restored to her rather from
the feeling which had led him to seek her hand—namely, a desire to use
her as a means of aggrandizement,—than from any deep regret at the loss
of her society. Not that misfortune had lessened his attachment, but
that his ruling passion was ambition, which no reverse could quench, no
change subdue. “He who has once nearly grasped a sceptre can never lose
all thoughts of it,” he exclaimed to himself. “I may perish—but while I
live I shall indulge the hope of being king of England. And if I should
ever obtain my liberty, I will never rest till I have won back the
crown. Jane’s name shall be my watchword—the Protestant cause my
battle-cry; and if the victory is mine, she shall share my throne, but
not, as heretofore, occupy it alone. Had I been king, this would never
have happened. But my father’s ambition ruined all. He aimed at the
throne himself, and used me as his stepping-stone. Well, he has paid the
penalty of his rashness, and I may perchance share his fate. Yet what
if I do? Better die on the scaffold, than linger out a long inglorious
life. Oh! that I could make one effort more! If I failed I would lay my
head upon the block without a murmur.”
The long delay that occurred before his trial encouraged his hopes, and
a secret communication made to him by the Duke of Suffolk, who had
leave to visit him, that a plot was in agitation to restore Jane to
the throne, so raised his expectations, that he began to feel little
apprehension for the future, confident that ere long the opportunity he
sighed for would present itself.
Ever since Jane’s conference with Gardiner, Dudley had resisted all
overtures from the Romish priesthood to win him over to their religion,
and if his own feelings had not prompted him to this course, policy
would have now dictated it. Slight as was the information he was able
to obtain, he yet gathered that Mary’s determination to restore the
Catholic religion was making her many enemies, and giving new spirits to
her opponents. And when he found, from the communication of De Noailles,
that a plot, having for its basis the preservation of the Reformed
religion, now menaced by the proposed alliance with Spain, was being
formed, he became confirmed in his opinions.
It was not deemed prudent by the conspirators to attempt any
communication with Jane. They doubted much whether she could be
prevailed upon to join them;—whether she might not even consider it her
duty to reveal it;—and they thought there would be ample time to make
it known to her when the season for outbreak arrived. Jane’s partisans
consisted only of her father, her uncle, and ostensibly Do Noailles,
who craftily held out hopes to Suffolk and his brother to secure their
zealous co-operation. In reality, the wily Frenchman favoured Courtenay
and Elizabeth, But he scarcely cared which side obtained the mastery,
provided he thwarted his adversary, Simon Renard.
During the early part of her imprisonment, Jane’s solitude was disturbed
by Feckenham, who, not content with his own discomfiture and that of his
superiors, Gardiner and Bonner, returned again and again to the charge,
but with no better success than before. Worsted in every encounter,
he became, at length, convinced of the futility of the attempt, and
abandoned it in despair. At first, Jane regarded his visits as a species
of persecution, and a waste of the few precious hours allowed her, which
might be far more profitably employed than in controversy. But when they
ceased altogether, she almost regretted their discontinuance, as the
discussions had led her to examine her own creed more closely than she
otherwise might have done; and the success she invariably met with,
inspired her with new ardour and zeal.
Thus time glided on. Her spirits were always equable; her looks serene;
and her health, so far from being affected by her captivity, appeared
improved. One change requires to be noticed. It was remarked by her
jailor that when first brought to the Brick Tower, she looked younger
than her age, which was scarcely seventeen; but that ere a month had
elapsed, she seemed like a matured woman. A striking alteration had,
indeed, taken place in her appearance. Her countenance was grave, but
so benignant, that its gravity had no displeasing effect. Her complexion
was pale but clear,—so clear that the course of every azure vein could
be traced through the wax-like skin. But that which imparted the almost
angelic character to her features, was their expression of perfect
purity, unalloyed by any taint of earth. What with her devotional
observances, and her intellectual employments, the mind had completely
asserted its dominion over the body; and her seraphic looks and beauty
almost realized the Catholic notion of a saint.
She had so won upon her jailor by her extraordinary piety, and by her
gentleness and resignation, that he could scarcely offer her sufficient
attention. He procured her such books as she desired—her sole request;
and never approached her but with the profoundest reverence. From
him she learned the fate of Edward Underhill, and during the dreadful
sufferings of the miserable enthusiast, when the flames that were
consuming him lighted up her prison-chamber, and his last wild shriek
rang in her ears, her lips were employed in pouring forth the most
earnest supplications for his release.
It was a terrible moment to Jane; and the wretched sufferer at the stake
scarcely endured more anguish. Like many others, she saw in his fate
a prelude of the storm that was to follow; and passed the whole of the
night in prayer, that the danger might be averted. She prayed also,
earnestly and sincerely, that a like death might be hers, if it would
prove beneficial to her faith, and prevent further persecution.
One day, shortly after this event, the jailor made his appearance at an
unwonted hour, and throwing himself at her feet, informed her that after
a severe struggle with himself, he was determined to liberate her; and
that he would not only throw open her prison-door that night, but would
find means to set her free from the Tower. When he concluded, Jane, who
had listened to his proposal with extreme surprise, at once, though with
the utmost thankfulness, declined it. “You would break your trust, and
I mine,” she observed, “were I to accept your offer. But it would be
useless. Whither should I fly—what should I do were I at large? No,
friend, I cannot for a moment indulge the thought. If that door should
be opened to me, I would proceed to the queen’s presence, and beseech
her highness to bring me to speedy trial. That is all the favour I
deserve, or desire.”
“Well, madam,” replied the jailor, in accents of deep disappointment,
“since I may not have my wish and set you free, I will at once resign my
post.”
“Nay, do not so, I beseech you, good friend,” returned Jane, “that were
to do me an unkindness, which I am sure you would willingly avoid, by
exposing me to the harsh treatment of some one less friendly-disposed
towards me than yourself, from whom I have always experienced compassion
and attention.”
“Foul befal me if I did not show you such, sweet lady!” cried the
jailor.
“Your nature is kindly, sir,” pursued Jane; “and as I must needs
continue a captive, so I pray you show your regard by continuing my
jailor. It gladdens me to think I have a friend so near.”
“As you will, madam,” rejoined the man, sorrowfully. “Yet I beseech you,
pause ere you reject my offer. An opportunity of escape now presents
itself, which may never occur again. If you will consent to fly, I will
attend you, and act as your faithful follower.”
“Think me not insensible to your devotion, good friend, if I once more
decline it,” returned Jane, in a tone that showed that her resolution
was taken. “I cannot fly—I have ties that bind me more securely than
those strong walls and grated windows. Were the queen to give me the
range of the fortress—nay, of the city without it, I should consider
myself equally her captive. No, worthy friend, we must remain as we
are.”
Seeing remonstrance was in vain, the man, ashamed of the emotion he
could neither control nor conceal, silently withdrew. The subject was
never renewed, and though he acted with every consideration towards his
illustrious captive, he did not relax in any of his duties.
Full three months having elapsed since Jane’s confinement commenced, on
the first of November her jailor informed her that her trial would take
place in Guildhall on the day but one following. To his inquiry whether
she desired to make any preparations, she answered in the negative.
“The offence I have committed,” she said, “is known to all. I shall not
seek to palliate it. Justice will take its course. Will my husband be
tried with me?”
“Undoubtedly, madam,” replied the jailor.
“May I be permitted to confer with him beforehand?” she asked.
“I grieve to say, madam, that the queen’s orders are to the contrary.”
returned the jailor. “You will not meet him till you are placed at the
bar before your judges.”
“Since it may not be, I must resign myself contentedly to her majesty’s
decrees. Leave me, sir. Thoughts press upon me so painfully that I would
fain be alone.”
“The queen’s confessor is without, madam. He bade me say he would speak
with you.”
“He uses strange ceremony, methinks,” replied Jane. “He would formerly
enter my prison without saying, By your leave: but since he allows me
a choice in the matter, I shall not hesitate to decline his visit. If
I may not confer with my husband, there is none other whom I desire to
see.”
“But he is the bearer of a message from her majesty,” urged the jailor.
“If he is resolved to see me, I cannot prevent it,” replied Jane. “But
if I have the power to hinder his coming, he shall not do so.”
“I will communicate your wish to him, madam,” replied the jailor,
retiring.
Accordingly, he told Feckenham that his charge was in no mood to listen
to him, and the confessor departed.
The third of November, the day appointed for Jane’s trial, as well as
for that of her husband, and of Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, was
characterized by unusual gloom, even for the season. A dense fog arose
from the river and spread itself over the ramparts, the summits of which
could scarcely be discerned by those beneath them. The sentinels pacing
to and fro looked like phantoms, and the whole fortress was speedily
enveloped in a tawny-coloured vapour. Jane had arrayed herself betimes,
and sat in expectation of the summons with a book before her, but it
became so dark that she was compelled to lay it aside. The tramp of
armed men in front of the building in which she was lodged, and other
sounds that reached her, convinced her that some of the prisoners were
being led forth; but she had to wait long before her own turn came. She
thought more—much more—of beholding her husband, than of the result of
the trial, and her heart throbbed as any chance footstep reached her
ear, from the idea that it might be his.
An hour after this, the door of her chamber was unbarred, and two
officers of the guard in corslets and steel caps appeared and commanded
her to follow them. Without a moment’s hesitation she arose, and was
about to pass through the door when the jailor prostrated himself before
her, and pressing the hand she kindly extended to him to his lips,
expressed, in faltering tones, a hope that she might not be brought back
to his custody. Jane shook her head, smiled faintly, and passed on.
Issuing from the structure, she found a large band of halberdiers drawn
out to escort her. One stern figure arrested her attention, and recalled
the mysterious terrors she had formerly experienced. This was
Nightgall, who by Renard’s influence had been raised to the post of
gentleman-jailor. He carried the fatal axe,—its handle supported by a
leathern pouch passed over his shoulders. The edge was turned from her,
as was the custom on proceeding to trial. A shudder passed over her
frame as her eye fell on the implement of death, connected as it was
with her former alarms; but she gave no further sign of trepidation, and
took the place assigned her by the officers. The train was then put in
motion, and proceeded at a slow pace past the White Towner, down the
descent leading to the Bloody Tower. Nightgall marched a few paces
before her, and Jane, though she strove to reason herself out of her
fears, could not repress a certain misgiving at his propinquity.
0339
The gateway of the Bloody Tower, through which the advanced guard was
now passing, is perhaps one of the most striking remnants of ancient
architecture to be met with in the fortress. Its dark and gloomy
archway, bristling with the iron teeth of the portcullis, and resembling
some huge ravenous monster, with jaws wide-opened to devour its prey,
well accords with its ill-omened name, derived, as before stated, from
the structure above it being the supposed scene of the murder of the
youthful princes.
Erected in the reign of Edward the Third, this gateway is upwards of
thirty feet in length, and fifteen in width. It has a vaulted roof,
supported by groined arches, and embellished with moulded tracery of
great beauty. At the period of this chronicle, it was defended at either
extremity by a massive oak portal, strengthened by plates of iron and
broad-headed nails, and a huge portcullis. Of these defences those at
the south are still left. On the eastern side, concealed by the leaf of
the gate when opened, is an arched doorway, communicating with a flight
of spiral stone steps leading to the chambers above, in which is a
machine for working the portcullis.
By this time, Jane had reached the centre of the arch, when the gate
was suddenly pushed aside, and Feckenham stepped from behind it. On his
appearance, word was given by the two captains, who marched with their
drawn swords in hand on either side of the prisoner, to the train to
halt. The command was instantly obeyed. Nightgall paused a few feet in
advance of Jane, and grasping his fatal weapon, threw a stealthy glance
over his left shoulder to ascertain the cause of the interruption.
“What would you, reverend sir?” said Jane, halting with the others, and
addressing Feckenham, who advanced towards her, holding in his hand a
piece of parchment to which a large seal was attached.
“I would save you, daughter,” replied the confessor. “I here bring you
the queen’s pardon.”
“Is it unconditional, reverend sir?” demanded Jane, coldly.
“The sole condition annexed to it is your reconciliation with the church
of Rome,” replied Feckenham.
“Then I at once reject it,” rejoined Jane, firmly. “I have already
told you I should prefer death a thousand-fold to any violation of my
conscience; and neither persuasion nor force shall compel me to embrace
a religion opposed to the gospel of our Saviour, and which, in common
with all his true disciples, I hold in utter abhorrence. I take all here
to witness that such are my sentiments—that I am an earnest and zealous,
though unworthy member of the Protestant church—and that I am fully
prepared to seal my faith with my blood.”
A slight murmur of approbation arose from the guard, which, however, was
instantly checked by the officers.
“And I likewise take all here to witness,” rejoined Feckenham, in a
loud voice, “that a full and free pardon is offered you by our gracious
queen, whom you have so grievously offended, that no one except a
princess of her tender and compassionate nature would have overlooked
it; coupled only with a condition which it is her assured belief will
conduce as much to your eternal welfare as to your temporal. It has
been made a reproach to our church by its enemies, that it seeks to win
converts by severity and restraint. That the charge is unfounded her
highness’s present merciful conduct proves. We seek to save the souls
of our opponents, however endangered by heresy, alive; and our first
attempts are ever gentle. If these fail, and we are compelled to have
recourse to harsher measures, is it our fault, or the fault of those who
resist us? Thus, in your own case, madam—here, on the way to a trial the
issue of which all can foresee, the arm of mercy is stretched out to you
and to your husband, on a condition which, if you were not benighted in
error, you would recognize as an additional grace,—and yet you turn it
aside.”
“The sum of her majesty’s mercy is this,” replied Jane; “she would kill
my soul to preserve my body. I care not for the latter, but I regard
the former. Were I to embrace your faith, I should renounce all hopes of
heaven. Are you answered, sir?”
“I am,” replied Feckenham. “But oh! madam,” he added, falling at her
feet; “believe not that I urge you to compliance from any unworthy
motive. My zeal for your salvation is hearty and sincere.”
“I doubt it not, sir,” rejoined Jane. “And I thank you for your
solicitude.”
“Anger not the queen by a refusal,” proceeded Feckenham:—“anger not
heaven, whose minister I am, by a blind and obstinate rejection of the
truth, but secure the favour of both your earthly and your celestial
judge by compliance.”
“I should indeed anger heaven were I to listen to you further,” replied
Jane. “Gentlemen,” she added, turning to the officers, “I pray you
proceed. The tribunal to which you are about to conduct me waits for
us.”
Feckenham arose, and would have given utterance to the denunciation that
rose to his lips, had not Jane’s gentle look prevented him. Bowing his
head upon his breast, he withdrew, while the procession proceeded on its
course, in the same order as before.
On reaching the bulwark gate, Jane was placed in a litter, stationed
there for her reception, and conveyed through vast crowds of spectators,
who, however, were unable to obtain even a glimpse of her, to Guildhall,
where she was immediately brought before her judges. The sight of her
husband standing at the bar, guarded by two halberdiers, well nigh
overpowered her; but she was immediately re-assured by his calm,
collected, and even haughty demeanour. He cast a single glance of the
deepest affection at her, and then fixed his gaze upon the Marquis of
Winchester, high treasurer of the realm, who officiated as chief judge.
On the left of Lord Guilford Dudley, on a lower platform, stood his
faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondeley, charged with abetting him in
his treasonable practices. A vacant place on this side of her husband
was allotted to Jane. Cranmer, having already been tried and attainted,
was removed. The proceedings were soon ended, for the arraigned parties
confessed their indictments, and judgment was pronounced upon them.
Before they were removed, Lord Guilford turned to his consort, and
said in a low voice—“Be of good cheer, Jane. No ill will befal you. Our
judges will speedily take our places.”
Jane looked at him for a moment, as if she did not comprehend his
meaning, and then replied in the same tone—“I only required to see you
so resigned to your fate, my dear lord, to make me wholly indifferent to
mine. May we mount the scaffold together with as much firmness!”
“We shall mount the throne together—not the scaffold, Jane,” rejoined
Dudley, significantly.
“Ha!” exclaimed Jane, perceiving from his speech that he meditated some
new project.
Further discourse was not, however, allowed her, for at this moment she
was separated from her husband by the halberdiers, who led her to the
litter in which she was carried back to the Tower.
Left to herself within her prison-chamber, she revolved Dudley’s
mysterious words; and though she could not divine their precise import,
she felt satisfied that he cherished some hope of replacing her on the
throne. So far from this conjecture affording her comfort, it deeply
distressed her—and for the first time for a long period her constancy
was shaken. When her jailor visited her, he found her in the deepest
affliction.
“Alas! madam,” he observed, in a tone of great commiseration, “I
have heard the result of your trial, but the queen may yet show you
compassion.”
“It is not for myself I lament,” returned Jane, raising her head, and
drying her tears, “but for my husband.”
“Her majesty’s clemency may be extended towards him likewise,” remarked
the jailor.
“Not so,” returned Jane, “we have both offended her too deeply for
forgiveness, and justice requires that we should expiate our offence
with our lives. But you mistake me, friend. It is not because my husband
is condemned as a traitor, that I grieve; but because he still nourishes
vain and aspiring thoughts. I will trust you, knowing that you are
worthy of confidence. If you can find means of communicating with Lord
Guilford Dudley for one moment, tell him I entreat him to abandon all
hopes of escape, or of restoration to his fallen state, and earnestly
implore him to think only of that everlasting kingdom which we shall
soon inherit together. Will you do this?”
“Assuredly, madam, if I can accomplish it with safety,” replied the
jailor.
“Add also,” pursued Jane, “that if Mary would resign her throne to me, I
would not ascend it.”
“I will not fail, madam,” rejoined the jailor.
Just as he was about to depart, steps were heard on the staircase, and
Sir Henry Bedingfeld, attended by a couple of halberdiers, entered the
chamber. He held a scroll of parchment in his hand.
“You are the bearer of my death-warrant, I perceive, sir,” said Jane,
rising at his approach, but without displaying any emotion.
“On the contrary, madam,” returned Sir Henry, kindly, “it rejoices me to
say that I am a bearer of her majesty’s pardon.”
“Clogged by the condition of my becoming a Catholic, I presume?”
rejoined Jane, disdainfully.
“Clogged by no condition,” replied Bedingfeld, “except that of your
living in retirement.”
Jane could scarcely credit her senses, and she looked so bewildered that
the knight repeated what he had said.
“And my husband?” demanded Jane, eagerly.
“He too is free,” replied Bedingfeld; “and on the same terms as
yourself. You are both at liberty to quit the Tower as soon as you think
proper. Lord Guilford Dudley has already been apprised of her highness’s
clemency, and will join you here in a few’ minutes.”
Jane heard no more. The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this
joyful intelligence, was too much for her; and uttering a faint cry, she
sank senseless into the arms of the old knight.
XXII.—OF JANE’S RETURN TO SION HOUSE; AND OF HER ENDEAVOURS TO DISSUADE
HER HUSBAND FROM JOINING THE CONSPIRACY AGAINST QUEEN MARY.
That night Lord Guilford Dudley and Jane, attended by Cholmondeley, who
was included in the pardon, left the Tower, and repaired to Sion House.
On finding herself once more restored to freedom, and an inmate of the
house she loved so well, Jane was completely prostrated. Joy was more
difficult to bear than affliction; and the firmness that had sustained
her throughout her severest trials now altogether forsook her. But a
few days brought back her calmness, and she poured forth her heartfelt
thanks to that beneficent Being, who had restored her to so much
felicity. Measureless content seemed hers, and as she traversed the long
galleries and halls of the ancient mansion—as she wandered through its
garden walks,—or by the river’s side—she felt that even in her proudest
moment she had never known a tithe of the happiness she now experienced.
Day after day flew rapidly by, and pursuing nearly the same course she
had adopted in prison, she never allowed an hour to pass that was not
profitably employed. But she observed with concern that her husband did
not share her happiness. He grew moody and discontented, and became far
more reserved than she had heretofore known him. Shunning her society,
he secluded himself in his chamber, to which he admitted no one but
Cholmondeley.
This conduct Jane attributed in some degree to the effect produced upon
his spirits by the reverse of fortune he had sustained, and by his long
imprisonment. But she could not help fearing, though he did not confide
the secrets of his bosom to her, that he still cherished the project he
had darkly hinted at. She was confirmed in this opinion by the frequent
visits of her father, who like her husband, had an anxious look, and by
other guests who arrived at nightfall, and departed as secretly as they
came.
As soon as this conviction seized her, she determined, at the hazard of
incurring his displeasure, to speak to her husband on the subject; and
accordingly, one day, when he entered her room with a moodier brow than
usual, she remarked, “I have observed with much uneasiness, dear Dudley,
that ever since our release from imprisonment, a gradually-increasing
gloom has taken possession of you. You shun my regards, and avoid my
society,—nay, you do not even converse with me, unless I wring a few
reluctant answers from you. To what must I attribute this change?”
“To anything but want of affection for you, dear Jane,” replied Dudley,
with a melancholy smile, while he fondly pressed her hand. “You had once
secrets from me, it is my turn to retaliate, and be mysterious towards
you.”
“You will not suppose me influenced by idle curiosity if I entreat to
be admitted to your confidence, my dear lord,” replied Jane. “Seeing
you thus oppressed with care, and knowing how much relief is afforded
by sharing the burthen with another, I urge you, for your own sake, to
impart the cause of your anxiety to me. If I cannot give you counsel, I
can sympathy.”
Dudley shook his head, and made a slight effort to change the
conversation.
“I will not be turned from my purpose,” persisted Jane; “I am the truest
friend you have on earth, and deserve to be trusted.”
“I would trust you, Jane, if I dared,” replied Dudley.
“Dared!” she echoed. “What is there that a husband dares not confide to
his wife?”
“In this instance much,” answered Dudley; “nor can I tell you what
occasions the gloom you have noticed, until I have your plighted word
that you will not reveal aught I may say to you. And further, that you
will act according to my wishes.”
“Dudley,” returned Jane gravely, “your demand convinces me that my
suspicions are correct. What need of binding me to secrecy, and exacting
my obedience, unless you are acting wrongfully, and desire me to do so
likewise? Shall I tell why you fear I should divulge your secret—why
you are apprehensive I should hesitate to obey your commands? You are
plotting against the queen, and dread I should interfere with you.”
“I have no such fears,” replied Dudley, sternly.
“Then you own that I am right?” cried Jane, anxiously.
“You are so far right,” replied Dudley, “that I am resolved to depose
Mary, and restore you to the throne, of which she has unjustly deprived
you.”
“Not unjustly, Dudley, for she is the rightful queen, and I was an
usurper,” replied Jane. “But oh! my dear, dear lord, can you have the
ingratitude—for I will use no harsher term, to requite her clemency
thus?” *
“I owe her no thanks,” replied Dudley, fiercely. “I have solicited no
grace from her, and if she has pardoned me, it was of her own free will.
It is part of her present policy to affect the merciful. But she showed
no mercy towards my father.”
“And does not your present conduct, dear Dudley, prove how necessary it
is for princes, who would preserve their government undisturbed, to
shut their hearts to compassion?” returned Jane. “You will fail in this
enterprise if you proceed in it. And even I, who love you most, and am
most earnest for your happiness and honour, do not desire it to
succeed. It is based upon injustice, and will have no support from the
right-minded.”
“Tush!” cried Dudley, impatiently. “I well knew you would oppose my
project, and therefore I would not reveal it to you. You shall be queen
in spite of yourself.”
“Never again,” rejoined Jane, mournfully;—“never again shall my brow
be pressed by that fatal circlet. Oh! if it is for me you are about
to engage in this wild and desperate scheme, learn that even if it
succeeded, it will be futile. Nothing should ever induce me to mount
the throne again; nor, if I am permitted to occupy it, to quit this calm
retreat. Be persuaded by me, dear Dudley. Abandon your project. If you
persist in it, I shall scarcely feel justified in withholding it from
the queen.”
“How, madam,” exclaimed Dudley, sternly; “would you destroy your
husband?”
“I would save him,” replied Jane.
“A plague upon your zeal!” cried Dudley, fiercely. “If I thought you
capable of such treachery, I would ensure your silence.”
“And if I thought you capable, dear Dudley, of such black treason to
a sovereign to whom you owe not merely loyalty and devotion, but life
itself, no consideration of affection, still less intimidation, should
prevent me from disclosing it, so that I might spare you the commission
of so foul a crime.”
“Do so, then,” replied Dudley, in a taunting tone. “Seek Mary’s
presence. Tell her that your husband and his brothers are engaged in
a plot to place you on the throne. Tell her that your two uncles, the
Lords John and Thomas Grey, are conspiring with them—that your father,
the Duke of Suffolk, is the promoter, the leader, of the design.”
“My father!” exclaimed Jane, with a look of inexpressible anguish.
“Add that the Earl of Devon, Sir Thomas Wyat, Throckmorton, Sir Peter
Carew, and a hundred others, are leagued together to prevent the spread
of popery in this country—to cast off the Spanish yoke, with which the
people are threatened, and to place a Protestant monarch on the throne.
Tell her this, and bring your husband—your father—your whole race—to
the block. Tell her this, and you, the pretended champion of the gospel,
will prove yourself its worst foe. Tell her this—enable her to crush the
rising rebellion, and England is delivered to the domination of Spain—to
the inquisition—to the rule of the pope—to idolatrous oppression. Now,
go and tell her this.”
“Dudley, Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, in a troubled tone, “you put evil
thoughts into my head—you tempt me sorely.”
“I tempt you only to stand between your religion and the danger with
which it is menaced,” returned her husband. “Since the meeting of
parliament, Mary’s designs are no longer doubtful; and her meditated
union with Philip of Spain has stricken terror into the hearts of all
good Protestants. A bloody and terrible season for our church is at
hand, if it be not averted. And it can only be averted by the removal of
the bigoted queen who now fills the throne.”
“There is much truth in what you say, Dudley,” replied Jane, bursting
into tears. “Christ’s faithful flock are indeed in fearful peril; but
bloodshed and rebellion will not set them right. Mary is our liege
mistress, and if we rise against her we commit a grievous sin against
heaven, and a crime against the state.”
“Crime or not,” replied Dudley, “the English nation will never endure a
Spanish yoke nor submit to the supremacy of the see of Rome. Jane, I
now tell you that this plot may be revealed—may be defeated; but another
will be instantly hatched, for the minds of all true Englishmen are
discontented, and Mary will never maintain her sovereignty while she
professes this hateful faith, and holds to her resolution of wedding a
foreign prince.”
“If this be so, still I have no title to the throne,” rejoined Jane.
“The Princess Elizabeth is next in succession, and a Protestant.”
“I need scarcely remind you,” replied Dudley, “that the act just passed,
annulling the divorce of Henry the Eighth from Catherine of Arragon, has
annihilated Elizabeth’s claims, by rendering her illegitimate. Besides,
she has, of late, shown a disposition to embrace her sister’s creed.”
“It may be so given out—nay, she may encourage the notion herself,”
replied Jane; “but I know Elizabeth too well to believe for a moment she
could abandon her faith.”
“It is enough for me she has feigned to do so,” replied Dudley, “and
by this means alienated her party. On you, Jane, the people’s hopes are
fixed. Do not disappoint them.”
“Cease to importune me further, my dear lord. I cannot govern
myself—still less, a great nation.”
“You shall occupy the throne, and entrust the reins of government to
me,” observed Dudley.
“There your ambitious designs peep forth, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “It
is for yourself, not for me you are plotting. You would be king!”
“I would,” returned Dudley. “There is no need to mask my wishes now.”
“Sooner than this shall be,” rejoined Jane, severely, “I will hasten to
Whitehall, and warn Mary of her danger.”
“Do so,” replied Dudley, “and take your last farewell of me. You
are aware of the nature of the plot—of the names and object of those
concerned in it. Reveal all—make your own terms with the queen. But
think not you can check it. We have gone too far to retreat. When the
royal guards come hither to convey me to the Tower, they will not
find their prey, but they will soon hear of me. You will precipitate
measures, but you will not prevent them. Go, madam.”
“Dudley,” replied Jane, falling at his feet—“by your love or me—by
your allegiance to your sovereign—by your duty to your Maker—by every
consideration that weighs with you—I implore you to relinquish your
design.”
“I have already told you my fixed determination, madam,” he returned,
repulsing her. “Act as you think proper.”
Jane arose and walked slowly towards the door. Dudley laid his hand upon
his sword, half drew it, and then thrusting it back into the scabbard,
muttered between his ground teeth, “No, no—let her go. She dares not
betray me.”
As Jane reached the door, her strength failed her, and she caught
against the hangings for support. “Dudley,” she murmured, “help me—I
faint.”
In an instant, he was by her side.
“You cannot betray your husband he said, catching her in his arms.
“I cannot—I cannot,” she murmured, as her head fell upon his bosom.
Jane kept her husband’s secret. But her own peace of mind was utterly
gone. Her walks—her studies—her occupations had no longer any charms for
her. Even devotion had lost its solace. She could no longer examine her
breast as heretofore—no longer believe herself reproachless! She felt
she was an accessary to the great crime about to be committed; and with
a sad presentiment of the result, she became a prey to grief,—almost to
despair.
XXIII.—HOW XIT WAS IMPRISONED IN THE CONSTABLE TOWER; AND HOW HE WAS
WEDDED TO THE “SCAVENGER’S DAUGHTER.”
Persuading himself that his capture was matter of jest, Xit kept up his
braggadocio air and gait, until he found himself within a few paces of
the Constable Tower,—a fortification situated on the east of the White
Tower, and resembling in its style of architecture, though somewhat
smaller in size, the corresponding structure on the west, the Beauchamp
Tower. As Nightgall pointed to this building, and told him with a
malicious grin that it was destined to be his lodging, the dwarf’s
countenance fell. All his heroism forsook him; and casting a half-angry,
half-fearful look at his guards, who were laughing loudly at his
terrors, he darted suddenly backwards, and made towards a door in the
north-east turret of the White Tower.
Nightgall and the guards, not contemplating any such attempt, were
taken completely by surprise, but immediately started after him. Darting
between the legs of the sentinel stationed at the entrance of the
turret, who laughingly presented his partizan at him, Xit hurried up the
circular staircase leading to the roof. His pursuers were quickly after
him, shouting to him to stop, and threatening to punish him severely
when they caught him. But the louder they shouted, the swifter the dwarf
fled; and, being endowed with extraordinary agility, arrived, in a few
seconds, at the doorway leading to the roof. Here half-a-dozen soldiers,
summoned by the cries, were assembled to stop the fugitive. On seeing
Xit, with whose person they were well acquainted—never supposing he
could be the runaway,—they inquired what was the matter.
“The prisoner! the prisoner!” shouted Xit, instantly perceiving their
mistake, and pushing through them, “Where is he? What have you done with
him?”
“No one has passed us,” replied the soldiers. “Who is it?”
“Lawrence Nightgall,” replied Xit, keeping as clear of them as he
could. “He has been arrested by an order from the privy-council, and has
escaped.”
At this moment, Nightgall made his appearance, and was instantly seized
by the soldiers. An explanation quickly ensued, but, in the meantime,
Xit had flown across the roof, and reaching the opposite turret at the
south-east angle, sprang upon the platform, and clambering up the side
of the building at the hazard of his neck, contrived to squeeze himself
through a loophole.
“We have him safe enough,” cried one of the soldiers, as he witnessed
Xit’s manoeuvre. “Here is the key of the door opening into that turret,
and he cannot get below.”
So saying, he unlocked the door and admitted the whole party into a
small square chamber, in one corner of which was the arched entrance to
a flight of stone steps. Up these they mounted, and as they gained
the room above, they perceived the agile mannikin creeping through the
embrazure.
“Have a care!” roared Nightgall, who beheld this proceeding with
astonishment; “You will fall into the court below and be dashed to
pieces.”
Xit replied by a loud laugh, and disappeared. When Nightgall gained the
outlet, he could see nothing of him, and after calling to him for some
time and receiving no answer, the party adjourned to the leads, where
they found he had gained the cupola of the turret, and having clambered
up the vane, had seated himself in the crown by which it was surmounted.
In this elevated, and as he fancied, secure position, he derided
his pursuers, and snapping off a piece of the iron-work, threw it at
Nightgall, and with so good an aim that it struck him in the face.
A council of war was now held, and it was resolved to summon the
fugitive to surrender; when, if he refused to comply, means must be
taken to dislodge him. Meanwhile, the object of this consultation had
been discovered from below. His screams and antics had attracted the
attention of a large crowd, among whom were his friends the giants.
Alarmed at his arrest, they had followed to see what became of him,
and were passing the foot of the turret at the very moment when he had
reached its summit. Xit immediately recognized them, and hailed them at
the top of his voice. At first, they were unable to make out whence the
noise proceeded; but at length, Gog chancing to look up, perceived the
dwarf, and pointed him out to his companions.
Xit endeavoured to explain his situation, and to induce the giants to
rescue him; but they could not hear what he said, and only laughed
at his gestures and vociferations. Nightgall now called to him in a
peremptory tone to come down. Xit refused, and pointing to the crown in
which he was seated, screamed, “I have won it, and am determined not to
resign it. I am now in the loftiest position in the Tower. Let him bring
me down who can.”
“I will be no longer trifled with,” roared Nightgall. “Lend me your
arquebuss, Winwike. If there is no other way of dislodging that
mischievous imp, I will shoot him as I would a jackdaw.”
Seeing he was in earnest, Xit thought fit to capitulate. A rope was
thrown him which he fastened to the vane, and after bowing to the
assemblage, waving his cap to the giants, and performing a few other
antics, he slided down to the leads in safety. He was then seized
by Nightgall, and though he promised, to march as before between his
guards, and make no further attempt to escape, he was carried, much
to his discomfiture,—for even in his worst scrapes he had an eye to
effect,—to the Constable Tower, and locked up in the lower chamber.
“So, it has come to this,” he cried, as the door was barred outside by
Nightgall. “I am now a state prisoner in the Tower. Well, I only share
the fate of all court favourites and great men—of the Dudleys, the
Rochfords, the Howards, the Nevills, the Courtenays, and many others
whose names do not occur to me. I ought rather to rejoice than be cast
down that I am thus distinguished. But what will be the result of it?
Perhaps, I shall be condemned to the block. If I am, what matter? I
always understood from Mauger that decapitation was an easy death—and
then what a crowd there will be to witness my execution—Xit’s
execution—the execution of the famous dwarf of the Tower! The Duke of
Northumberland’s will be nothing to it. With what an air I shall ascend
the steps—how I shall bow to the assemblage—how I shall raise up Mauger
when he bends his lame leg to ask my forgiveness—how I shall pray with
the priest—address the assemblage—take off my ruff and doublet,
and adjust my head on the block! One blow and all is over. One
blow—sometimes, it takes two or three—but Mauger understands his
business, and my neck will be easily divided. That’s one advantage,
among others, of being a dwarf. But to return to my execution. It will
be a glorious death, and one worthy of me. I have half a mind to con
over what I shall say to the assembled multitude. Let me see. Hold! it
occurs to me that I shall not be seen for the railing. I must beg Mauger
to allow me to stand on the block. I make no doubt he will indulge me—if
not, I will not forgive him. I have witnessed several executions, but I
never yet beheld what I should call a really good death. I must try
to realize my own notions. But I am getting on a little too fast. I am
neither examined, nor sentenced yet. Examined! that reminds me of the
rack. I hope they won’t torture me. To be beheaded is one thing—to be
tortured another. I could bear anything in public, where there are so
many people to look at me, and applaud me—but in private it is quite
another affair. The very sight of the rack would throw me into fits. And
then suppose I should be sentenced to be burnt like Edward Underhill—no,
I won’t suppose that for a moment. It makes me quite hot to think of it.
Fool that I was, to be seduced by the hope of rank and dignity held out
to me by the French ambassador, to embark in plots which place me in
such jeopardy as this! However, I will reveal nothing. I will be true to
my employer.”
Communing thus with himself, Xit paced to and fro within his prison,
which was a tolerably spacious apartment, semi-circular in form, and
having deep recesses in the walls, which were of great thickness.
0351
As he glanced around, an Idea occurred to him. “Every prisoner of
consequence confined within the Tower carves his name on the walls,” he
said. “I must carve mine, to serve as a memorial of my imprisonment.”
The only implement left him was his dagger, and using it instead of
a chisel, he carved, in a few hours, the following inscription in
characters nearly as large as himself:—