—it being the supposed scene of the murder of Henry the Sixth by the
ruthless Gloster. And whatever doubts may be entertained as to the truth
of that dark legend, it cannot be denied that the chamber itself seems
stamped with the gloomy character of the occurrence. In recent times, it
has been devoted to a more peaceful purpose, and is now fitted up with
presses containing the most ancient records of the kingdom. The room on
the basement floor is of smaller dimensions, and much less lofty. The
recesses, however, are equally deep, though not so high, and are headed
by semicircular arches. At high tides it is flooded, and a contrivance
for the escape of the water has been made in the floor.
Passing through an arched doorway on the east of this structure, where
the entrance to the Record Office now stands, the officer conducted
his prisoner up a spiral stone staircase, and left her in a small
antechamber, while he announced her arrival. The unhappy lady still kept
herself closely muffled. But though her features and figure were hidden,
it was evident she trembled violently. In another moment, the officer
reappeared, and motioning her to follow him, led the way along a narrow
passage, at the end of which hangings were drawn aside by two ushers,
and she found herself in the presence of the queen.
Mary was seated at a table, near which stood Gardiner and Renard, and at
the new-comer’s appearance she instantly arose.
The interview about to be related took place in the large octangular
chamber previously described. It was sumptuously furnished: the walls
were hung with arras from the looms of Flanders, and the deep recesses
occupied with couches, or sideboards loaded with costly cups and
vessels.
Hastily advancing towards the queen, the lady prostrated herself at her
feet, and, throwing aside her disguise, revealed the features of Jane.
She extended her hands supplicatingly towards Mary, and fixed her
streaming eyes upon her, but was for some moments unable to speak.
0429
“I am come to submit myself to your highness’s mercy,” she said, as soon
as she could find utterance.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Mary, scornfully. “You shall receive justice, but no
mercy.”
“I neither deserve, nor desire it,” replied Jane. “I have deeply, but
not wilfully—Heaven is my witness!—offended your majesty, and I will
willingly pay the penalty of my fault.”
“What would you with me?” demanded Mary. “I have acceded to this
interview in consideration of your voluntary submission. But be brief. I
have important business before me, and my heart is steeled to tears and
supplications.”
“Say not so, gracious madam,” rejoined Jane. “A woman’s heart can never
be closed to the pleadings of the unfortunate of her own sex, still less
the heart of one so compassionate as your highness. I do not sue for
myself.”
“For whom, then?” demanded the queen.
“For my husband,” replied Jane.
“I am about to sign his death-warrant,1’ replied Mary, in a freezing
tone.
“I will not attempt to exculpate him, madam,” returned Jane, restraining
her emotion by a powerful effort, “for his offence cannot be extenuated.
Nay, I deplore his rashness as much as your highness can condemn it.
But I am well assured that vindictiveness is no part of your royal
nature—that you disdain to crush a fallen foe—and that, when the
purposes of justice are answered, no sentiments but those of clemency
will sway your bosom. I myself, contrary to my own wishes, have been
the pretext for the late insurrection, and it is right I should suffer,
because while my life remains, your highness may not feel secure. But my
husband has no claims, pretended or otherwise, to the throne, and when
I am removed, all fear of him will be at an end. Let what I have done
speak my sincerity. I could have escaped to France, if I had chosen. But
I did not choose to accept safety on such terms. Well knowing with whom
I had to deal—knowing also that my life is of more importance than my
husband’s, I have come to offer myself for him. If your highness has any
pity for me, extend it to him, and heap his faults on my head.”
“Jane,” said Mary, much moved—“you love your husband devotedly.”
“I need not say I love him better than my life, madam,” replied Jane,
“for my present conduct will prove that I do so. But I love him so well,
that even his treason to your highness, to whom he already owes his
life, cannot shake it. Oh, madam! as you hope to be happy in your union
with the Prince of Spain—as you trust to be blessed with a progeny which
shall continue on the throne of this kingdom—spare my husband—spare him
for my sake.”
“For your sake, Jane, I would spare him,” replied Mary, in a tone of
great emotion, “but I cannot.”
“Cannot, madam!” cried Jane—“you are an absolute queen, and who shall
say you nay? Not your council—not your nobles—not your people—not
your own heart. Your majesty can and will pardon him. Nay, I read your
gracious purpose in your looks. You will pardon him, and your clemency
shall do more to strengthen your authority than the utmost severity
could do.”
“By Saint Paul!” whispered Renard to Gardiner, who had listened with
great interest to the conference, and now saw with apprehension
the effect produced on Mary, “she will gain her point, if we do not
interfere.”
“Leave it to me,” replied Gardiner. “Your majesty will do well to accede
to the Lady Jane’s request,” he remarked aloud to the queen, “provided
she will comply with your former proposition, and embrace the faith of
Rome.”
“Ay,” replied Mary, her features suddenly lighting up, “on these terms I
will spare him. But your reconciliation with our holy church,” she added
to Jane, “must be public.”
“Your highness will not impose these fatal conditions upon me,” cried
Jane, distractedly.
“On no other will I accede,” replied Mary, peremptorily. “Nay, I have
gone too far already. But my strong sympathy for you as a wife, and
my zeal for my religion, are my inducements. Embrace our faith, and I
pardon your husband.”
“I cannot,” replied Jane, in accents of despair; “I will die for him,
but I cannot destroy my soul alive.”
“Then you shall perish together,” replied Mary, fiercely. “What ho!
guards. Let the Lady Grey be conveyed to the Brick Tower, and kept a
close prisoner during our pleasure.” And, waving her hand, Jane was
removed by the attendants, while Mary seated herself at the table, and
took up some of the papers with which it was strewn, to conceal her
agitation.
“You struck the right key, my lord,—bigotry,” observed Renard, in an
under tone to Gardiner.