XXXII.—HOW THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS BROUGHT A PRISONER TO THE TOWER.

Charged with the painful and highly-responsible commission imposed

upon him by the queen, Sir Henry Bedingfeld, accompanied by the Earl

of Sussex and three others of the council, Sir Richard Southwell, Sir

Edward Hastings, and Sir Thomas Cornwallis, with a large retinue, and

a troop of two hundred and fifty horse, set out for Ashbridge, where

Elizabeth had shut herself up previously to the outbreak of Wyat’s

insurrection. On their arrival, they found her confined to her room with

real or feigned indisposition, and she refused to appear; but as their

mission did not admit of delay, they were compelled to force their way

to her chamber. The haughty princess, whose indignation was roused to

the highest pitch by the freedom, received them in such manner as to

leave no doubt how she would sway the reins of government, if they

should ever come within her grasp.

“I am guiltless of all design against my sister,” she said, “and I shall

easily convince her of my innocence. And then look well, sirs—you that

have abused her authority—that I requite not your scandalous treatment.”

“I would have willingly declined the office,” replied Bedingfeld; “but

the queen was peremptory. It will rejoice me to find you can clear

yourself with her highness, and I am right well assured, when you think

calmly of the matter, you will acquit me and my companions of blame.”

And he formed no erroneous estimate of Elizabeth’s character. With all

her proneness to anger, she had the strongest sense of justice. Soon

after her accession, she visited the old knight at his seat, Oxburgh

Hall, in Norfolk;—still in the possession of his lineal descendant, the

present Sir Henry Bedingfeld, and one of the noblest mansions in

the county,—and, notwithstanding his adherence to the ancient faith,

manifested the utmost regard for him, playfully terming him “her

jailor.”

Early the next morning, Elizabeth was placed in a litter, with her

female attendants; and whether from the violence of her passion, or that

she had not exaggerated her condition, she swooned, and on her recovery

appeared so weak that they were obliged to proceed slowly. During the

whole of the journey, which occupied five days, though it might have

been easily accomplished in one, she was strictly guarded;—the greatest

apprehension being entertained of an attempt at rescue by some of her

party. On the last day, she robed herself in white, in token of her

innocence; and on her way to Whitehall, where the queen was staying,

she drew aside the curtains of her litter, and displayed a countenance,

described in Renard’s despatches to the Emperor, as “proud, lofty,

and superbly disdainful,—an expression assumed to disguise her

mortification.” On her arrival at the palace, she earnestly entreated an

audience of her majesty, but the request was refused.

That night Elizabeth underwent a rigorous examination by Gardiner and

nineteen of the council, touching her privity to the conspiracy of

De Noailles, and her suspected correspondence with Wyat. She admitted

having received letters from the French ambassador on behalf of

Courtenay, for whom, notwithstanding his unworthy conduct, she

still owned she entertained the warmest affection, but denied any

participation in his treasonable practices, and expressed the utmost

abhorrence of Wyat’s proceedings. Her assertions, though stoutly

delivered, did not convince her interrogators, and Gardiner told her

that Wyat had confessed on the rack that he had written to her, and

received an answer.

“Ah! says the traitor so?” cried Elizabeth. “Confront me with him, and

if he will affirm as much to my face, I will own myself guilty.”

“The Earl of Devonshire has likewise confessed, and has offered to

resign all pretensions to your hand, and to go into exile, provided the

queen will spare his life,” rejoined Gardiner.

“Courtenay faithless!” exclaimed the princess, all her haughtiness

vanishing, and her head, declining upon her bosom, “then it is time I

went to the Tower. You may spare yourselves the trouble of questioning

me further, my lords, for by my faith I will not answer you another

word—-no, not even if you employ the rack.”

Upon this, the council departed. Strict watch was kept over her during

the night. Above a hundred of the guard were stationed within the

palace-gardens, and a great fire was lighted in the hall, before which

Sir Henry Bedingfeld and the Earl of Sussex, with a large band of armed

men, remained till day-breaks At nine o’clock, word was brought to the

princess that the tide suited for her conveyance to the Tower. It was

raining heavily, and Elizabeth refused to stir forth on the score of

her indisposition. But Bedingfeld told her the queen’s commands were

peremptory, and besought her not to compel him to use force. Seeing

resistance was in vain, she consented with an ill grace, and as she

passed through the garden to the water-side, she cast her eyes

towards the windows of the palace, in the hope of seeing Mary, but was

disappointed.

The rain continued during the whole of her passage, and the appearance

of every thing on the river was as dismal and depressing as her own

thoughts. But Elizabeth was not of a nature to be easily subdued.

Rousing all her latent energy, she bore up firmly against her distress.

An accident had well nigh occurred as they shot London Bridge. She had

delayed her departure so long that the fall was considerable, and the

prow of the boat struck upon the ground with such force as almost to

upset it, and it was some time before it righted. Elizabeth was wholly

unmoved by their perilous situation, and only remarked that “She would

that the torrent had sunk them.” Terrible as the stern old fortress

appeared to those who approached it under similar circumstances, to

Elizabeth it assumed its most appalling aspect. Gloomy at all times,

it looked gloomier than usual now, with the rain driving against it

in heavy scuds, and the wind, whistling round its ramparts and

fortifications, making the flag-staff and the vanes on the White Tower

creak, and chilling the sentinels exposed to its fury to the bone. The

storm agitated the river, and the waves more than once washed over the

sides of the boat.

“You are not making for Traitors Gate,” cried Elizabeth, seeing that the

skiff was steered in that direction; “it is not fit that the daughter of

Henry the Eighth should land at those steps.”

“Such are the queen’s commands,” replied Bedingfeld, sorrowfully. “I

dare not for my head disobey.”

“I will leap overboard sooner,” rejoined Elizabeth.

“I pray your highness to have patience,” returned Bedingfeld,

restraining her. “It would be unworthy of you—of your great father, to

take so desperate a step.”

Elizabeth compressed her lips and looked sternly at the old knight, who

made a sign to the rowers to use their utmost despatch; and, in another

moment, they shot beneath the gloomy gateway. The awful effect of

passing under this dreadful arch has already been described, and

Elizabeth, though she concealed her emotion, experienced its full

horrors. The Water-gate revolved on its massive hinges, and the boat

struck against the foot of the steps. Sussex and Bedingfeld, and the

rest of the guard and her attendants, then landed, while Sir Thomas

Brydges, the new lieutenant, with several warders, advanced to the

top of the steps to receive her. But she would not move, but continued

obstinately in the boat, saying, “I am no traitor, and do not choose to

land here.”

“You shall not choose, madam,’” replied Bedingfeld, authoritatively.

“The queen’s orders must, and shall be obeyed. Disembark, I pray you,

without more ado, or it will go hardly with you.”

“This from von, Bedingfeld,” rejoined Elizabeth, reproachfully, “and at

such a time, too?”

“I have no alternative,’” replied the knight.

“Well then, I will not put you to further shame,” replied the princess,

rising.

“Will it please you to take my cloak as a protection against the rain?”

said Bedingfeld, offering it to her. But she pushed it aside “with a

good dash,” as old Fox relates; and springing on the steps, cried in a

loud voice, “Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever set

foot on these stairs. And before thee, O God, I speak it, having no

other friend but thee.” *

“Your highness is unjust,” replied Bedingfeld, who stood bare-headed

beside her; “you have many friends, and amongst them none more zealous

than myself. And if I counsel you to place some restraint upon your

conduct, it is because I am afraid it may be disadvantageous reported to

the queen.”

“Say what you please of me, sir,” replied Elizabeth; “I will not be told

how I am to act by you, or any one.”

“At least move forward, madam,” implored Bedingfeld; “you will be

drenched to the skin if you tarry here longer, and will fearfully

increase your fever.”

“What matters it if I do?” replied Elizabeth, seating herself on the

damp step, while the shower descended in torrents upon her. “I will move

forward at my own pleasure—not at your bidding. And let us see whether

you will dare to use force towards me.”

“Nay, madam, if you forget yourself, I will not forget what is due to

your father’s daughter,” replied Bedingfeld, “you shall have ample time

for reflection.”

The deeply-commiserating and almost paternal tone in which this reproof

was delivered touched the princess sensibly; and glancing round, she was

further moved by the mournful looks of her attendants, many of whom

were deeply affected, and wept audibly. As soon as her better feelings

conquered, she immediately yielded to them; and, presenting her hand to

the old knight, said, “You are right, and I am wrong, Bedingfeld. Take

me to my dungeon.”

0436

XXXIII.—HOW NIGHTGALL WAS BRIBED BY DE NOAILLES TO ASSASSINATE SIMON

RENARD; AND HOW JANE’S DEATH-WARRANT WAS SIGNED.

The Tower was now thronged with illustrious prisoners. All the principal

personages concerned in the late rebellion, with the exception of Sir

Peter Carew, who had escaped to France, were confined within its walls;

and the queen and her council wore unremittingly employed in their

examinations. The Duke of Suffolk had written and subscribed his

confession, throwing himself upon the royal mercy; Lord Guilford

Dudley, who was slowly recovering from his wound, refused to answer any

interrogatories; while Sir Thomas Wyat, whose constancy was shaken

by the severity of the torture to which he was exposed, admitted his

treasonable correspondence with Elizabeth and Courtenay, and charged De

Noailles with being the originator of the plot. The latter was likewise

a prisoner. But as it was not the policy of England, at that period,

to engage in a war with France, he was merely placed under personal

restraint until an answer could be received from Henry the Second, to

whom letters had been sent by Mary.

Well instructed as to the purport of these despatches, and confident of

his sovereigns protection, De Noailles felt little uneasiness as to

his situation, and did not even despair of righting himself by some

master-stroke. His grand object was to remove Renard; and as he could

not now accomplish this by fair means, he determined to have recourse

to foul; and to procure his assassination. Confined, with certain of his

suite, within the Flint Tower, he was allowed, at stated times, to take

exercise on the Green, and in other parts of the fortress, care

being taken to prevent him from holding communication with the other

prisoners, or, indeed, with any one except his attendants. De Noailles,

however, had a ready and unsuspected instrument at hand. This was his

jailor, Lawrence Nightgall, with whom he had frequent opportunities of

conversing, and whom he had already sounded on the subject. Thus,

while every dungeon in the fortress was filled with the victims of his

disastrous intrigues; while its subterranean chambers echoed with the

groans of the tortured; while some expired upon the rack, others were

secretly executed, and the public scaffold was prepared for sufferers of

the highest rank; while the axe and the block were destined to frequent

and fearful employment, and the ensanguined ground thirsted for the best

and purest blood in England; while such was the number of captives that

all the prisons in London were insufficient to contain them, and they

were bestowed within the churches; while twenty pairs of gallows were

erected in the public places of the city, and the offenders with whom

they were loaded left to rot upon them as a terrible example to the

disaffected; while universal dread and lamentation prevailed,—the

known author of all this calamity remained, from prudential reasons,

unpunished, and pursued his dark and dangerous machinations as before.

One night, when he was alone, Nightgall entered his chamber, and,

closing the door, observed, with a mysterious look,—“Your excellency has

thrown out certain dark hints to me of late. You can speak safely now,

and I pray you do so plainly. What do you desire me to do?”

Do Noailles looked scrutinizingly at him, as if he feared some

treachery. But at length, appearing satisfied, he said abruptly,

“I desire Renards assassination. His destruction is of the utmost

importance to my king.”

“It is a great crime,” observed Nightgall, musingly.

“The reward will be proportionate,” rejoined De Noailles.. “What does

your excellency offer?” asked Nightgall.

“A thousand angels of gold,” replied the ambassador, “and a post at the

court of France, if you will fly thither when the deed is done.”

“By my troth, a tempting offer,” rejoined Nightgall. “But I am under

great obligations to M. Simon Renard. He appointed me to my present

place. It would appear ungrateful to kill him.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed De Noailles, contemptuously. “You are not the man

to let such idle scruples stand in the way of your fortune. Renard only

promoted you because you were useful to him. And he would sacrifice you

as readily, if it suited his purpose. He will serve you better dead than

living.”

“It is a bargain,” replied Nightgall. “I have the keys of the

subterranean passages, and can easily get out of the Tower when I have

despatched him. Your excellency can fly with me if you think proper.”

“On no account,” rejoined De Noailles. “I must not appear in the matter.

Come to me when the deed is done, and I will furnish you with means for

your flight, and with a letter to the king of France, which shall ensure

you your reward when you reach Paris. But it must be done quickly.”

“It shall be done to-morrow night,” replied Nightgall. “Fortunately, M.

Renard has chosen for his lodgings the chamber in the Bloody Tower in

which the two princes were murdered.”

“A fitting spot for his own slaughter,” remarked De Noailles, drily. “It

is so, in more ways than one,” replied Nightgall; “for I can approach

him unawares by a secret passage, through which, when all is over,

escape will be easy.”

“Good!” exclaimed De Noailles, rubbing his hands gleefully. “I should

like to be with you at the time. Mortdieu! how I hate that man. He has

thwarted all my schemes. But I shall now have my revenge. Take this

ring and this purse in earnest of what is to follow, and mind you strike

home.”

“Fear nothing,” replied Nightgall, smiling grimly, and playing his

dagger; “the blow shall not need to be repeated. Your excellency’s plan

chimes well with a project of my own. There is a maiden whom I have long

sought, but vainly, to make my bride. I will carry her off with me to

France.”

“She will impede your flight,” observed De Noailles, hastily. “On all

difficult occasions, women are sadly in the way.”

“I cannot leave her,” rejoined Nightgall.

“Take her, then, in the devil’s name,” rejoined De Noailles, peevishly;

“and if she brings you to the gallows, do not forget my warning.”

“My next visit shall be to tell you your enemy is no more,” returned

Nightgall. “Before midnight to-morrow, you may expect me.” And he

quitted the chamber.

While his destruction was planned in the manner above-related, Simon

Renard was employing all his art to crush by one fell stroke all the

heads of the Protestant party. But he met with opposition from quarters

where he did not anticipate it. Though the queen was convinced of

Elizabeth’s participation in the plot, as well from Wyat’s confession,

who owned that he had written to her during his march to London,

offering to proclaim her queen, and had received favourable answers from

her,—as from the declaration of a son of Lord Russell, to the effect,

that he had delivered the despatches into her own hand, and brought back

her replies;—notwithstanding this, Mary refused to pass sentence upon

her, and affected to believe her innocent. Neither would she deal

harshly with Courtenay, though equally satisfied of his guilt; and

Renard, unable to penetrate her motives, began to apprehend that she

still nourished a secret attachment to him. The truth was, the princess

and her lover had a secret friend in Gardiner, who counteracted the

sanguinary designs of the ambassador. Baffled in this manner, Renard

determined to lose no time with the others. Already, by his agency, the

Duke of Suffolk, Lord Thomas Grey, and Wyat, were condemned—Dudley and

Jane alone were wanting to the list.

Touched, by a strong feeling of compassion for their youth, and yet more

by the devotion Jane had exhibited to her husband, Mary hesitated to

sign their death-warrant. She listened to all Renard’s arguments with

attention, but they failed to move her. She could not bring herself to

put a period to the existence of one whom she knew to be so pure, so

lovely, so loving, so blameless, as Jane. But Renard was determined to

carry his point.

“I will destroy them all,” he said; “but I will begin with Dudley and

Jane, and end with Courtenay and Elizabeth.”

During the examination of the conspirators, the queen, though she had

moved her court to Whitehall, passed much of her time at the Tower,

occupied in reading the depositions of the prisoners, or in framing

interrogatories to put to them. She also wrote frequent despatches to

the emperor, whose counsel she asked in her present difficulties; and

while thus occupied, she was often closeted for hours with Renard.

Whether by accident, or that the gloomy legend connected with it,

harmonising with his own sombre thoughts, gave it an interest in his

eyes, Renard had selected for his present lodging in the Tower, as

intimated by Nightgall, the chamber in which the two youthful princes

were destroyed. It might be that its contiguity to the Hall Tower, where

Mary now for the most part held her conferences with her council,

and with which it was connected by a secret passage, occasioned this

selection—or he might have been influenced by other motives—suffice it

to say he there took up his abode; and was frequently visited within it

by Mary. Occupying the upper story of the Bloody Tower, this mysterious

chamber looks on the north upon the ascent leading to the Green, and on

the south upon Saint Thomas’s Tower. It is now divided into two rooms

by a screen—that to the south being occupied as a bed-chamber; and

tradition asserts, that in this part of the room the “piece of ruthless

butchery,” which stamps it with such fearful interest, was perpetrated.

On the same side, between the outer wall and the chamber, runs a narrow

passage, communicating on the west with the ballium wall, and thence

with the lieutenant’s lodgings, by which the murderers are said to have

approached; and in the inner partition is a window, through which they

gazed upon their sleeping victims. On the east, the passage communicates

with a circular staircase, descending to a small vaulted chamber at the

right of the gateway, where the bodies were interred. In later times,

this mysterious room has been used as a prison-lodging. It was occupied

by Lord Ferrers during his confinement in the Tower, and more recently

by the conspirators Watson and Thistlewood.

0441

On the evening appointed by Nightgall for the assassination of Renard,

the proposed victim and the queen were alone within this chamber. The

former had renewed all his arguments, and with greater force than ever,

and seeing he had produced the desired impression, he placed before her

the warrant for the execution of Jane and her husband.

“Your majesty will never wear your crown easily till you sign that

paper,” he said.

“I shall never wear it easily afterwards,” sighed Mary. “Do you not

remember Jane’s words? She told me, I should be fortunate in my union,

and my race should continue upon the throne, if I spared her husband.

They seem to me prophetic. If I sign this warrant, I may destroy my own

happiness.”

“Your highness will be not turned from your purpose by such idle fears,”

rejoined Renard, in as sarcastic a tone as he dared assume. “Not only

your throne may be endangered, if you suffer them to live, but the

Catholic religion.”

“True,” replied Mary, “I will no longer hesitate.”

And she attached her signature to the warrant.

Renard watched her with a look of such fiendish exultation, that an

unseen person who gazed at the moment into the room, seeing a tall

dark figure, dilated by the gloom, for it was deepening twilight, and a

countenance from which everything human was banished, thought he beheld

a demon, and, fascinated by terror, could not withdraw his eyes. At the

same moment, too, the queen’s favourite dog, which was couched at her

feet, and for a short time previously had been uttering a low growl, now

broke into a fierce bark, and sprang towards the passage-window. Mary

turned to ascertain the cause of the animal’s disquietude, and perceived

that it had stiffened in every joint, while its barking changed to a

dismal howl. Not without misgiving, she glanced towards the window—and

there, at the very place whence she had often heard that the murderers

had gazed upon the slumbering innocents before the bloody deed was

done—there, between those bars, she beheld a hideous black mask, through

the holes of which glared a pair of flashing orbs.

0442

Repressing a cry of alarm, she called Renard’s attention to the object,

when she was equally startled by his appearance. He seemed transfixed

with horror, with his right hand extended towards the mysterious object,

and clenched, while the left grasped his sword. Suddenly, he regained

his consciousness, and drawing his rapier, dashed to the door,—but ere

he could open it, the mask had disappeared. He hurried along the passage

in the direction of the lieutenant’s lodgings, when he encountered some

one who appeared to be advancing towards him. Seizing this person by the

throat and presenting his sword to his breast, he found from the voice

that it was Nightgall.

0443

0444

0446

XXXIV.—HOW THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS CONFRONTED WITH SIR THOMAS WYAT IN

THE TORTURE-CHAMBER.

As Elizabeth passed beneath the portal of the Bloody Tower, on her way

to the lieutenant’s lodgings, whither she was conducted after quitting

Traitor’s Gate, by Bedingfeld and Sussex, she encountered the giants,

who doffed their caps at her approach, and fell upon their knees. All

three were greatly affected, especially Magog, whose soft and sensitive

nature was completely overcome. Big tears rolled down his cheeks, and

in attempting to utter a few words of consolation, his voice failed him.

Touched by his distress, Elizabeth halted for a moment, and laying her

hand on his broad shoulder, said in a tone, and with a look calculated

to enforce her words, “Bear up, good fellow, and like a man. If I shed

no tears for myself, those who love me need shed none. It is the duty of

my friends to comfort—not to dishearten me. My ease is not so hopeless

as you think. The queen will never condemn the innocent, and unheard.

Get up, I say, and put a bold face on the matter, or you are not your

father’s son.”

Roused by this address, Magog obeyed, and rearing his bulky frame to

its full height, so that his head almost touched the spikes of the

portcullis, cried in a voice of thunder, “Would your innocence might be

proved by the combat, madam, as in our—” and he hesitated,—“I mean your

royal father’s time! I would undertake to maintain your truth against

any odds. Nay, I and my brethren would bid defiance to the whole host of

your accusers.”

“Though I may not claim you as champions,” replied Elizabeth; “I will

fight my own battle, as stoutly as you could fight it for me.”

“And your grace’s courage will prevail,” rejoined Og.

“My innocence will,” returned Elizabeth.

“Right,” cried Gog. “Your grace, I am assured, would no more harbour

disloyalty against the queen than we should; seeing that—”

“Enough,” interrupted the princess, hastily. “Farewell, good friends,”

she continued, extending her hand to them, which they eagerly pressed to

their lips, “farewell! be of good cheer. No man shall have cause to weep

for me.”

“This is a proud, though a sad day,” observed Og, who was the last

honoured by the princess’s condescension, “and will never be obliterated

from my memory. By my father’s beard!” he added, gazing rapturously

at the long, taper fingers he was permitted to touch, “it is the most

beautiful hand I ever beheld, and whiter than the driven snow.”

Pleased by the compliment—for she was by no means insensible to

admiration,—Elizabeth forgave its unseasonableness for its evident

sincerity, and smilingly departed. But she had scarcely ascended the

steps leading to the Green, when she was chilled by the sight of Renard,

who was standing at the northern entrance of the Bloody Tower, wrapped

in his cloak, and apparently waiting to see her pass.

As she drew near, he stepped forward, and made her a profound, but

sarcastic salutation. His insolence, however, failed in its effect

upon Elizabeth. Eyeing him with the utmost disdain, she observed to

Bedingfeld, “Put that Spanish knave out of my path. And he who will

remove him from the queen’s councils will do both her and me a good

turn.”

“Your grace has sufficient room to pass,” returned Renard, with bitter

irony, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as if determined

to resist any attempt to remove him. “Your prison within the Bell Tower

is prepared, and if my counsels have any weight with her majesty, you

will quit it only to take the same path, and ascend the same scaffold as

your mother, Anne Boleyn.”

“Another such taunt,” cried Sussex, fiercely, “and neither the sacred

character of your office, nor the protection of the queen, shall save

you from my sword.”

And he thrust him forcibly backwards.

Elizabeth moved on at a slow and stately pace, while the guard closing

round her and Sussex, opposed the points of their halberds to the

infuriated ambassador.

“Your highness has increased Renard’s enmity,” observed Bedingfeld, with

a troubled look.

“I fear him not,” replied Elizabeth, dauntlessly. “Let him do his worst.

English honesty will ever prove more than a match for Spanish guile.”

Entering the lieutenant’s lodgings, and traversing the long gallery

already described as running in a westerly direction, Elizabeth soon

reached the upper chamber of the Bell Tower, which, she was informed by

Sir Thomas Brydges, was appointed for her prison.

0448

“It is a sorry lodging for a king’s daughter,” she observed, “and for

one who may be queen of this realm. But since my sister will have it so,

I must make shift with it. How many attendants are allowed me?”

“One female,” replied Brydges.

“Why not deprive me of all?” cried the princess, passionately. “This

chamber will barely accommodate me. I will be alone.”

“As your grace pleases,’” replied Brydges, “but I cannot exceed my

authority.”

“Can I write to the queen?” demanded Elizabeth.

“You will be furnished with writing-materials, if it is your purpose

to prepare your confession,” returned the lieutenant. “But it must

be delivered to the council, who will exercise their discretion as to

transmitting it to her highness.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the princess, “am I at their mercy?”

“Alas! madam, you are so,” replied Bedingfeld; “but the chancellor is

your friend.”

“I am not sure of it,” returned Elizabeth. “Oh! that I could see the

queen, were it but for one minute. My mother perished because she could

not obtain a hearing of my royal sire, whose noble nature was abused in

respect to her; and the Duke of Somerset himself told me, that if his

brother the Admiral had been allowed speech of him, he would never have

consented to his death. But it is ever thus. The throne is surrounded

by a baneful circle, whose business is to prevent the approach of truth.

They keep me from my sister’s presence, well knowing that I could clear

myself at once, while they fill her ears with false reports. Bedingfeld,

you are her faithful servant, and, therefore, not my enemy. Tell her, if

she will grant me an audience alone, or before her councillors, I will

either approve my innocence, or consent to lose my head. Above all,

implore her to let me be confronted with Wyat, that the truth may be

extorted from him.”

“The interview would little benefit your grace,” remarked Brydges. “Wyat

confesses your privity to the rebellion.”

“He lies,” replied Elizabeth, fiercely. “The words have been put into

his mouth with the vain hope of pardon. But he will recant them if he

sees me. He dare not—will not look me in the face, and aver that I am a

partner in his foul practices. But I will not believe it of him. Despite

his monstrous treason, he is too brave, too noble-minded, to act so

recreant a part.”

“Wyat has undergone the question ordinary, and extraordinary, madam,”

replied Brydges; “and though he endured the first with surprising

constancy, his fortitude sank under the severity of the latter

application.”

“I forgive him,” rejoined Elizabeth, in a tone of deep commiseration.

“But it proves nothing. He avowed thus much to escape further torture.”

“It may be,” returned Brydges, “and for your grace’s sake I hope it is

so. But his confession, signed with his own hand, has been laid before

the queen.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Elizabeth, sinking into the only seat which the dungeon

contained.

“I beseech your highness to compose yourself,” cried Bedingfeld,

compassionately. “We will withdraw and leave you to the care of your

attendant.”

“I want no assistance,” replied Elizabeth, recovering herself. “Will you

entreat her majesty to grant me an audience on the terms I have named,

and in the presence of Wyat?”

“It must be speedy, then,” remarked Brydges, “for he is adjudged to die

to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” echoed Elizabeth. “Nay, then, good Bedingfeld, seek the

queen without delay. Implore her by the love she once bore me—by the

love I am assured she bears me still—to interrogate me before this

traitor. If he perishes with this confession uncontradicted, I am lost.”

“Your words shall be repeated to her highness,” replied Bedingfeld, “and

I will not fail to add my entreaties to your own. But I cannot give a

hope that your request will be granted.”

“It is fortunate for your highness that the queen visits the Tower

to-day,” observed Brydges. “Her arrival is momently expected. As I

live!” he exclaimed, as the bell was rung overhead, and answered by the

beating of drums and the discharge of cannon from the batteries, “she is

here!”

“It is Heaven’s interposition in my behalf,” cried Elizabeth, “Go to her

at once, Bedingfeld. Let not the traitor, Renard, get the start of you.

I may live to requite the service. Go—go.” #

The old knight obeyed, and the others immediately afterwards retired,

closing the door upon the princess, and placing a guard outside.

Left alone, Elizabeth flew to the narrow, and strongly-grated loophole,

commanding the southern ward, through which the queen must necessarily

pass on her way to the palace, in the hope of catching a glimpse of her.

She had not to wait long. Loud fanfares of trumpets resounded from the

gate of the By-ward Tower. These martial flourishes were succeeded by

the trampling of steeds, and fresh discharges of ordnance, and the next

moment, a numerous retinue of horse and foot emerged from the gateway.

Just as the royal litter appeared, it was stopped by Sir Henry

Bedingfeld, and the curtains were drawn aside by Mary’s own hand. It

was a moment of intense interest to Elizabeth, and she watched the

countenance of the old knight, as if her life depended upon each word he

uttered. At first, she could not see the queen’s face, but as Bedingfeld

concluded, Mary leaned forward, and looked up at the Bell Tower.

Uncertain whether she could be seen, Elizabeth determined to make her

presence known, and thrusting her hand through the bars, waved her

kerchief. Mary instantly drew back. The curtains of the litter were

closed; Bedingfeld stepped aside; and the cavalcade moved on.

“She will not see me!” cried Elizabeth, sinking back in despair. “I

shall perish like my mother.”

The princess’s agitation did not subside for some time. Expecting

Bedingfeld to return with the tidings that Mary had refused her request,

she listened anxiously to every sound, in the hope that it might

announce his arrival. Hour after hour passed by and he came not, and

concluding that he did not like to be the bearer of ill news, or what

was yet more probable, that he was not allowed to visit her, she made

up her mind to the worst. Elizabeth had not the same resources as Jane

under similar circumstances. Though sincerely religious, she had not

the strong piety that belonged to the other, nor could she, like her,

divorce herself from the world, and devote herself wholly to God.

Possessing the greatest fortitude, she had no resignation, and while

capable of enduring any amount of physical suffering, could not controul

her impatience. Her thoughts were bitter and mortifying enough, but she

felt no humiliation; and the only regrets she indulged were at having

acted so unwise a part. Scalding tears bedewed her cheeks—tears that

would never have been shed, if any one had been present; and her mingled

emotions of rage and despair were so powerful, that she had much ado to

overcome them. Ungovernable fury against Mary took possession of her,

and she pondered upon a thousand acts of revenge. Then came the dreadful

sense of her present situation—of its hopelessness—its despair. She

looked at the stone walls by which she was inclosed, and invoked them

to fall upon her and crush her—and she rushed towards the massive and

iron-girded door, as if she would dash herself against it with impotent

fury. Her breast was ravaged by fierce and conflicting passions; and

when she again returned to her seat, she grasped it convulsively to

prevent herself from executing the desperate deeds that suggested

themselves to her. In after years, when the crown was placed upon her

head, and she grasped one of the most powerful sceptres ever swayed by

female hand—when illustrious captives were placed in that very dungeon

by her command, and one royal victim, near almost to her as a sister,

lingered out her days in hopeless captivity, only to end them on the

block—at such seasons, she often recalled her own imprisonment—often

in imagination endured its agonies, but never once with a softened or

relenting heart. The sole thought that now touched her, and subdued

her violence, was that of Courtenay. Neither his unworthiness nor

his inconstancy could shake her attachment. She loved him deeply and

devotedly—with all the strength and fervour of her character; and though

she had much difficulty in saving him from her contempt, this feeling

did not abate the force of her regard. The idea that he would perish

with her, in some degree reconciled her to her probable fate.

Thus meditating, alternately roused by the wildest resentment, and

softened by thoughts of love, Elizabeth passed the remainder of the

day without interruption. Worn out, at length, she was about to dispose

herself to slumber, when the door was opened, and Sir Thomas Brydges,

accompanied by two serving-men and a female attendant, entered the room.

Provisions were placed before her by the men, who instantly withdrew,

and Brydges was about to follow, leaving the female attendant behind,

when Elizabeth stopped him, and inquired what answer Sir Henry

Bedingfeld had brought from the queen.

“My orders are to hold no communication with your grace,” replied the

lieutenant.

“At least, tell me when I am to be examined by the council?” rejoined

Elizabeth. “The meanest criminal has a right to be so informed!”

But Brydges shook his head, and quitting the chamber, closed the door,

and barred it outside.

Controlling her feelings, as she was now no longer alone, Elizabeth

commanded her attendant to awaken her in an hour, and threw herself upon

the couch. Her injunctions were strictly complied with, and she arose

greatly refreshed. A lamp had been left her, and taking up a book of

prayers, she addressed herself to her devotions, and while thus occupied

her mind gradually resumed its composure. About midnight, the door was

opened by the lieutenant, who entered the room attended by Nightgall,

and two other officials in sable robes, while a guard of halberdiers,

bearing torches, remained without.

“I must request your grace to follow me,” said Brydges.

“Whither?” demanded Elizabeth, rising. “To the queen’s presence?”

The lieutenant made no answer.

“To the council?” pursued the princess,—“or to execution? No matter. I

am ready.” And she motioned the lieutenant to lead on.

Sir Thomas Brydges obeyed, and followed by the princess, traversed the

gallery, descended the great staircase, and entered a spacious chamber

on the ground floor. Here he paused for a moment, while a sliding panel

in the wall was opened, through which he and his companion passed.

A short flight of stone steps brought them to a dark narrow passage, and

they proceeded silently and slowly along it, until their progress was

checked by a strong iron door, which was unfastened and closed behind

them by Nightgall. The jarring of the heavy bolts, as they were shot

into their sockets, resounded hollowly along the arched roof of the

passage, and smote forcibly upon Elizabeth’s heart, and she required all

her constitutional firmness to support her.

They were now in one of those subterranean galleries, often described

before, on either side of which were cells, and the clangour called

forth many a dismal response. Presently afterwards, they arrived at the

head of a staircase, which Elizabeth descended, and found herself, in

the torture-chamber. A dreadful spectacle met her gaze. At one side of

the room, which was lighted by a dull lamp from the roof, and furnished

as before with numberless hideous implements—each seeming to have been

recently employed—sat, or rather was supported, a wretched man upon whom

every refinement of torture had evidently been practised. A cloak was

thrown over his lower limbs, but his ghastly and writhen features proved

the extremity of suffering to which he had been subjected. Elizabeth

could scarcely believe that in this miserable object, whom it would

have been a mercy to despatch, she beheld the once bold and haughty Sir

Thomas Wyat.

Placed on the corner of a leathern couch, and supported by Wolfytt and

Sorrocold, the latter of whom bathed his temples with some restorative,

Wyat fixed his heavy eyes upon the princess. But her attention was

speedily diverted from him to another person, whose presence checked her

feelings. This was the queen, who stood on one side, with Gardiner

and Renard. Opposite them was Courtenay, with his arms folded upon his

breast. The latter looked up as Elizabeth entered the chamber; and after

gazing at her for a moment, turned his regards, with an irrepressible

shudder, to Wyat. Knowing that her safety depended upon her firmness,

though her heart bled for the tortured man, Elizabeth disguised all

appearance of compassion, and throwing herself at the queen’s feet,

cried, “Heaven bless your highness, for granting me this interview! I

can now prove my innocence.”

“In what way?” demanded Mary coldly. “It would indeed rejoice me to

find I have been deceived. But I cannot shut my ears to the truth. Yon

traitor,” she continued, pointing to Wyat, “who dared to rise in arms

against his sovereign, distinctly charges you with participation in his

rebellious designs. I have his confession, taken from his own lips, and

signed with his own hand, wherein he affirms, by his hopes of mercy from

the Supreme Judge before whom he will shortly appear to answer for his

offences, that you encouraged his plans for my dethronement, and sought

to win the crown for yourself, in order to bestow it with your hand upon

your lover, Courtenay.”

“It is false,” cried Elizabeth;—“false as the caitiff who invented

it—false as the mischievous councillor who stands beside you, and who

trusts to work my ruin,—but, by our father’s soul it shall go hard if

I do not requite him! Your majesty has not a more loyal subject than

myself, nor has any of your subjects a more loving sister. This wretched

Wyat, whose condition would move my pity were he not so heinous a

traitor, may have written to me, but, on my faith, I have never received

his letters.”

“Lord Russell’s son declares that he delivered them into your own

hands,” observed Mary.

“Another he, as false as the first,” replied Elizabeth. “It is a plot,

your highness—a contrivance of my enemy, Simon Renard. Where is Lord

Russell’s son? Why is he not here?”

“You shall see him anon, since you desire it,” replied Mary. “Like

yourself, he is a prisoner in the Tower. But these assertions do not

clear you.”

“Your highness says you have Wyat’s confession,” rejoined Elizabeth.

“What faith is to be attached to it? It has been wrung from him by the

severity of the torture to which he has been subjected. Look at his

shattered frame, and say whether it is not likely he would purchase

relief from such suffering as he must have endured at any cost.

The sworn tormentors are here. Let them declare how often they have

stretched him on the rack—how often applied the thumbscrew,—how often

delivered him to the deadly embraces of the scavenger’s daughter, before

this false charge was wrung from him. Speak, fellows! how often have you

racked him?”

But the tormentors did not dare to reply. A stifled groan broke from

Wyat, and a sharp convulsion passed over his frame.

“The question has only extorted the truth,” observed Mary.

“If the accusation so obtained be availing, the retraction must be

equally so,” replied Elizabeth. “Sir Thomas Wyat,” she exclaimed, in

aloud and authoritative tone, and stepping towards him, “if you would

not render your name for ever infamous, you will declare my innocence.”

0455

The sufferer gazed at her, as if he did not clearly comprehend what was

said to him.

Elizabeth repeated the command, and in a more peremptory tone.

“What have I declared against you?” asked Wyat, faintly.

“You have accused me of countenancing your traitorous practices against

the queen’s highness, who now stands before you,” rejoined Elizabeth.

“You well know it is false. Do not die with such a stain upon your

knighthood and your honour. The worst is over. Further application of

the rack would be fatal, and it will not be resorted to, because you

would thus escape the scaffold. You can have, therefore, no object in

adhering to this vile fabrication of my enemies. Retract your words, I

command you, and declare my innocence.”

“I do,” replied Wyat, in a firm tone. “I have falsely accused you, and

was induced to do so in the hope of pardon. I unsay all I have said, and

will die proclaiming your innocence.”

“It is well,” replied Elizabeth, with a triumphant glance at the queen.

“Place me at the feet of the princess,” said Wyat to his supporters.

“Your pardon, madam,” he added, as the order was obeyed.

“You have it,” replied Elizabeth, scarcely able to repress her emotion.

“May God forgive you, as I do.”

“Then your former declaration was false, thou perjured traitor?” cried

Mary, in amazement.

“What I have said, I have said,” rejoined Wyat; “what I now say is

the truth.” And he motioned the attendants to raise him, the pain of

kneeling being too exquisite for endurance.

“And you will adhere to your declaration?” pursued Mary.

“To my last breath,” gasped Wyat.

“At whose instigation were you induced to charge the princess with

conspiring with you?” demanded Renard, stepping forward.

“At yours,” returned Wyat, with a look of intense hatred. “You, who have

deceived the queen—deceived me—and would deceive the devil your master,

if you could—you urged me to it—you—ha! ha!” And with a convulsive

attempt at laughter, which communicated a horrible expression to his

features, he sank into the arms of Wolfytt, and was conveyed to a cell

at the back of the chamber, the door of which was closed.

“My innocence is established,” said Elizabeth, turning to the queen.

“Not entirely,” answered Mary. “Wyat’s first charge was supported by

Lord Russell’s son.”

“Take me to him, or send for him hither,” rejoined Elizabeth. “He has

been suborned, like Wyat, by Renard. I will stake my life that he denies

it.”

“I will not refute the idle charge brought against me,” observed Renard,

who had been for a moment confounded by Wyat’s accusation. “Your majesty

will at once discern its utter groundlessness.”

“I ask no clemency for myself,” interposed Courtenay, speaking for the

first time; “but I beseech your highness not to let the words of that

false and crafty Spaniard weigh against your sister. From his perfidious

counsels all these disasters have originated.”

“You would screen the princess in the hope of obtaining her hand, my

lord,” replied Mary. “I see through your purpose, and will defeat it.”

“So far from it,” replied the Earl, “I here solemnly renounce all

pretensions to her.”

“Courtenay!” exclaimed Elizabeth, in a tone of anguish.

“Recent events have cured me of love and ambition,” pursued the Earl,

without regarding her. “All I desire is freedom.”

“And is it for one so unworthy that I have entertained this regard?”

cried Elizabeth. “But I am rightly punished.”

“You are so,” replied Mary, bitterly. “And you now taste some of the

pangs you inflicted upon me.”

“Hear me, gracious madam,” cried Courtenay, prostrating himself before

the queen. “I have avowed thus much, that you may attach due credit to

what I am about to declare concerning Renard. My heart was yours, and

yours only, till I allowed myself to be influenced by him. I knew not

then his design, but it has since been fully revealed. It was to disgust

you with me that he might accomplish the main object of his heart—the

match with the prince of Spain. He succeeded too well. Utterly

inexperienced, I readily yielded to the allurements he spread before

me. My indiscretions were reported to you. But, failing in alienating me

from your regard, he tried a deeper game, and chose out as his tool, the

princess Elizabeth.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Mary.

“He it was,” pursued Courtenay, “who first attracted my attention

towards her—who drew invidious comparisons between her youthful charms

and your Majesty’s more advanced age. He it was, who hinted at the

possibility of an alliance between us—who led me on step by step till I

was completely enmeshed. I will own it, I became desperately enamoured

of the princess. I thought no more of your highness—of the brilliant

prospects lost to me; and, blinded by my passion, became reckless of

the perilous position in which I placed myself. But now that I can look

calmly behind me, I see where, and why I fell—and I fully comprehend the

tempter’s motives.”

“What says your excellency to this?” demanded Mary, sternly.

“Much that the Earl of Devonshire has asserted is true,” replied

Renard. “But in rescuing your majesty, at any cost, from so unworthy

an alliance, I deserve your thanks, rather than your reprobation. And I

shall ever rejoice that I have succeeded.”

“You have succeeded at my expense, and at the expense of many of my

bravest and best subjects,” replied Mary, severely. “But the die is

cast, and cannot be recalled.”

“True,” replied Renard, with a smile of malignant satisfaction.

“Will your highness pursue your investigations further tonight?”

demanded Gardiner.

“No,” replied the queen, who appeared lost in thought. “Let the Princess

Elizabeth be taken back to the Bell Tower, and Courtenay to his prison

in the Bowyer Tower. I will consider upon their sentence. Wyat is

respited for the present. I shall interrogate him further.”

With this, she quitted the torture-chamber with her train, and the

prisoners were removed as she had directed.

XXXV.—-HOW XIT DISCOVERED THE SECRET OF HIS BIRTH; AND HOW HE WAS

KNIGHTED UNDER THE TITLE OF SIR NARCISSUS LE GRAND.

Life is full of the saddest and the strongest contrasts. The laugh of

derision succeeds the groan of despair—the revel follows the funeral—the

moment that ushers the new-born babe into existence, is the last,

perchance, of its parent—without the prison walls, all is sunshine and

happiness—within, gloom and despair. But throughout the great city which

it commanded, search where you might, no stronger contrasts of rejoicing

and despair could be found, than were now to be met with in the Tower of

London. While, on the one hand, every dungeon was crowded, and scarcely

an hour passed that some miserable sufferer did not expire under the

hand of the secret tormentor, or the public executioner; on the other,

there was mirth, revelry, and all the customary celebrations of victory.

As upon Mary’s former triumph over her enemies, a vast fire was lighted

in the centre of the Tower Green, and four oxen, roasted whole at it,

were distributed, together with a proportionate supply of bread, and a

measure of ale or mead, in rations, to every soldier in the fortress;

and as may be supposed, the utmost joviality prevailed. To each warder

was allotted an angel of gold, and a dish from the royal table; while

to the three giants were given the residue of a grand banquet, a butt of

Gascoign wine, and, in consideration of their valiant conduct during

the siege, their yearly fee, by the queen’s command, was trebled. On

the night of these festivities, a magnificent display of fireworks took

place on the Green, and an extraordinary illumination was effected

by means of a row of barrels filled with pitch, ranged along the

battlements of the White Tower, which being suddenly lighted, cast forth

a glare that illumined the whole fortress, and was seen at upwards of

twenty miles’ distance.

Not unmindful of the queen’s promise, Xit, though unable to find a

favourable opportunity of claiming it, did not fail to assume all the

consequence of his anticipated honours. He treated those with whom

he associated with the utmost haughtiness; and though his arrogant

demeanour only excited the merriment of the giants, it drew many a sharp

retort, and not a few blows, from such as were not disposed to put up

with his insolence. The subject that perpetually occupied his thoughts,

was the title he ought to assume;—for he was thoroughly dissatisfied

with his present appellation. “Base and contemptible name!” he

exclaimed. “How I loathe it!—and how did I acquire it? It was bestowed

upon me, I suppose, in my infancy, by Og, to whose care I was

committed. A mystery hangs over my birth. I must unravel it. Let me

see:—Two-and-twenty years ago, (come Martinmas,) I was deposited at the

door of the Byward Tower in a piece of blanket!—unworthy swaddling-cloth

for so illustrious an infant—a circumstance which fully proves that

my noble parents were anxious for concealment. Stay! I have heard of

changelings—of elfin children left by fairies in the room of those they

steal. Can I be such a one? A shudder crosses my frame at the bare idea.

And yet my activity, my daring, my high mental qualities, my unequalled

symmetry of person, small though it be—all these seem to warrant the

supposition. Yes! I am a changeling. I am a fairy child. Yet hold!

this will not do. Though I may entertain these notions in secret of

my alliance with the invisible world, they will not be accepted by the

incredulous multitude. I must have some father, probable, or improbable.

Who could he have been? Or who might he have been? Let me see. Sir

Thomas More was imprisoned in the Tower about the time of my birth.

Could I not be his son? It is more than probable. So was the Bishop of

Rochester. But to claim descent from him would bring scandal, upon the

church. Besides, he was a Catholic prelate. No, it must be Sir Thomas

More. That will account for my wit. Then about the same time there were

the Lord Darcy; and Robert Salisbury, Abbot of Vale Crucis; the Prior

of Doncaster; Sir Thomas Percy; Sir Francis Bygate; and Sir John Bulmer.

All these were prisoners, so that I have plenty to choose from. I will

go and consult Og. I wonder whether he has kept the piece of blanket in

which I was wrapped. It will be a gross omission if he has not.”

The foregoing soliloquy occurred in one of the galleries of the palace,

where the vain-glorious mannikin was lingering in the hope of being

admitted to the royal presence. No sooner did the idea of consulting Og

on the subject of his birth occur to him, than he set off to the By-ward

Tower, where he found the two unmarried giants employed upon a huge

smoking dish of baked meat, and, notwithstanding his importunity,

neither of them appeared willing to attend to him. Thus baffled, and

his appetite sharpened by the savoury odour of the viands, Xit seized

a knife and fork, and began to ply them with great zeal. The meal over,

and two ponderous jugs that flanked the board emptied of their contents,

Og leaned his huge frame against the wall, and in a drowsy tone informed

the dwarf that he was ready to listen to him.

“No sleeping, then, my master,” cried Xit, springing upon his knee, and

tweaking his nose. “I have a matter of the utmost importance to consult

you about. You must be wide awake.”

“What is it? replied the good-humoured giant, yawning as if he would

have swallowed the teazing mannikin.

“It relates to my origin,” replied Xit. “Am I the son of a nobleman?”

“I should rather say you were the offspring of some ape escaped from the

menagerie,” answered Og, bursting into a roar of laughter, in which

he was joined by Gog, much to the discomfiture of the cause of their

merriment. “You have all the tricks-of the species.”

“Dare to repeat that insinuation, base Titan,” cried Xit, furiously,

and drawing his sword, “and I will be thy death. I am as illustriously

descended as thyself, and on both sides too, whereas thy mother was a

frowzy fish-wife. Know that I am the son of Sir Thomas More.”

“Sir Thomas More!” echoed both giants, laughing more immoderately than

ever. “What has put that notion into thy addle pate?”

“My better genius,” replied Xit, “and unless you can show me who was my

father, I shall claim descent from him.”

“You will only expose yourself to ridicule,” returned Og, patting the

mannikin’s shock head—a familiarity which he resented,—“and though I

and my brethren laugh at you, and make a jest of you, we do not desire

others to do so.”

“Once graced by knighthood, no man, be he of my stature or of yours, my

overgrown master, shall make a jest of me with impunity,” replied Xit,

proudly. “But since you think I am not the son of Sir Thomas More, from

whom can I safely claim descent?”

“I would willingly assist you to a father,” replied Og, smothering a

laugh, “but on my faith, I can think of none more probable than Hairun’s

pet monkey, or perhaps old Max.”

“Anger me not,” shrieked Xit, in extremity of fury, “or you will rue it.

What has become of the blanket in which I was wrapped?”

“The blanket!” exclaimed Og, “why, it was a strip scarcely bigger than

my hand.”

“Is it lost?” demanded Xit, eagerly.

“I fear so,” replied Og. “Stay! now I recollect, I patched an old pair

of hose with it.”

“Patched a pair of hose with it!” cried Xit. “You deserve to go in

tatters during the rest of your days. You have destroyed the sole clue

to my origin.”

“Nay, if that blanket will guide you, I have taken the best means of

preserving it,” rejoined Og;—“for I think I have the hose still.”

“Where are they?” inquired Xit. “Let me see them instantly.”

“If they still exist, they are in a large chest in the upper chamber,”

replied Og. “But be not too much elated, for I fear we shall be

disappointed.”

“At all events, let us search without a moment’s delay,” rejoined Xit,

jumping down, and hurrying up the staircase.

He was followed somewhat more leisurely by the two giants, and the trunk

was found crammed under a heap of lumber into an embrasure. The key was

lost, but as Xit’s impatience would not allow him to wait to have it

unfastened by a smith, Og forced it open with the head of a halbert.

It contained a number of old buskins, cloaks of all hues and fashions,

doublets, pantoufles, caps, buff-boots and hose. Of the latter there

were several pair, and though many were threadbare enough, it did not

appear that any were patched.

Xit, who had plunged into the trunk to examine each article, was greatly

disappointed.

“I fear they are lost,” observed Og.

“It would seem so,” replied Xit, “for there are only a doublet and cloak

left. Oh! that a worshipful knight’s history should hang on so slight a

tenure!”

“Many a knight’s history has hung on less,” replied Gog. “But what have

we rolled up in that corner?”

“As I live, a pair of watchet-coloured hose,” cried Xit.

“The very pair we are in quest of,” rejoined Og. “Unfold them, and you

will find the piece of blanket in the seat.”

Xit obeyed, and mounting on the side of the box held out the huge

garments, and there, undoubtedly in the region intimated by Og, was a

piece of dirty flannel.

“And this, then, was my earliest covering,” apostrophised Xit. “In this

fragment of woollen cloth my tender limbs were swathed!”

“Truly were they,” replied Og, laughing. “And when I first beheld thee

it was ample covering. But what light does it throw upon thy origin?”

“That remains to be seen,” returned Xit. And unsheathing his dagger he

began to unrip the piece of flannel from the garment in which it was

stitched.

The two giants watched his proceedings in silence, and glanced

significantly at each other. At length, Xit tore it away.

“It is a labour in vain,” observed Og.

“Not so,” replied Xit. “See you not that this corner is doubled over.

There is a name worked within it.”

“The imp is right,” cried Og. “How came I to overlook it.” And he would

have snatched the flannel from Xit, but the dwarf darted away, crying,

“No one shall have a hand in the discovery but myself. Stand off!”

Trembling with eagerness, he then cut open the corner, and found, worked

withinside, the words: NARCISSUS LE GRAND.

“Narcissus Le Grand!” exclaimed Xit, triumphantly. “That was my father’s

title. He must have been a nobleman.”

“If that was your father’s name,” returned Gog, “and I begin to think

you have stumbled upon the right person at last, he was a Frenchman, and

groom of the pantry to Queen Anne Boleyn.”

“He was a dwarf like yourself,” added Og, “and though the ugliest being

I ever beheld, had extraordinary personal vanity.”

“In which respect he mightily resembled his son,” laughed Gog; “and

since we have found out the father, I think I can give a shrewd guess at

the mother.”

“I hope she was a person of distinction?” cried Xit, whose countenance

had fallen at the knowledge he had acquired of his paternity.

“She was a scullion,” replied Gog,—“by name Mab Leather-barrow.”

“A scullion!” ejaculated Xit, indignantly. “I, the son of a

scullion,—and of one so basely-named as Leatherbarrow—impossible!”

“I am as sure of it as of my existence,” replied Og. “Your mother was

not a jot taller, or more well-favoured than your father; and they both,

I now remember, disappeared about the time you were found.”

“Which name will you adopt—Le Grand, or Leatherbarrow?” demanded Gog,

maliciously.

“This is an unlucky discovery,” thought Xit. “I had better have left my

parentage alone. The son of a groom of the pantry and a scullion. What a

degrading conjunction! However, I will make the most of it, and not let

them have the laugh against me. I shall assume my father’s name,” he

added aloud—“Sir Narcissus Le Grand—and a good, well-sounding title it

is, as need be desired.”

“It is to be hoped all will have forgotten the former bearer of it,”

laughed Og.

“I care not who remembers it,” replied Xit; “the name bespeaks noble

descent. Call me in future Narcissus Le Grand. The title fits me

exactly,—Narcissus expressing my personal accomplishments—Le Grand my

majesty. For the present, you may put ‘master’ to my name. You will

shortly have to use a more honourable style of address. Farewell, sirs.”

And thrusting the piece of flannel into his doublet, he strutted to the

door.

“Farewell, sweet Master Narcissus,” cried Og.

“Farewell, Leatherbarrow,” added Gog.

“Le Grand,” corrected Xit, halting, with a dignified air; “Le Grand,

henceforth, is my name.” And he marched off with his head so erect

that, unfortunately missing his footing, he tumbled down the staircase.

Picking himself up before the giants, whose laughter enraged him, could

reach him, he darted off, and did not return till a late hour, when they

had retired to rest.

Two days after this discovery,—the queen being then at the Tower,—as

he was pacing the grand gallery of the palace, according to custom, an

usher tapped him on the shoulder, and desired him to follow him. With

a throbbing heart Xit obeyed, and, putting all the dignity he could

command into his deportment, entered the presence-chamber. On that very

morning, as good luck would have it, his tailor had brought him his

new habiliments; and arrayed in a purple velvet mantle lined with

carnation-coloured silk, a crimson doublet slashed with white,

orange-tawny hose, yellow buskins fringed with gold, and a green velvet

cap, decorated with a plume of ostrich feathers, and looped with a

diamond aigrette, he cut, in his own opinion, no despicable figure.

If the dwarf had entertained any doubts as to why he was summoned they

would have been dispersed at once, as he advanced, by observing that the

three giants stood at a little distance from the queen, and that she

was attended only by a few dames of honour, her female jester, and the

vice-chamberlain, Sir John Gage, who held a crimson velvet cushion, on

which was laid a richly-ornamented sword. A smile crossed the queen’s

countenance as Xit drew nigh, and an irrepressible titter spread among

the dames of honour. Arrived within a few yards of the throne, the

mannikin prostrated himself as gracefully as he could. But he was

destined to mishaps. And in this the most important moment of his life,

his sword, which was of extraordinary length, got between his legs, and

he was compelled to remove it before his knee would touch the ground.

“We have not forgotten our promise—rash though it was,” observed Mary,

“and have summoned thy comrades to be witness to the distinction we are

about to confer upon thee. In the heat of the siege, we promised that

whoso would bring us Bret, alive or dead, should have his request, be it

what it might. Thou wert his captor, and thou askest—”

“Knighthood at your majesty’s hands,” supplied Xit.

“How shall we name thee?” demanded Mary.

“Narcissus Le Grand,” replied the dwarf. “I am called familiarly

Xit. But it is a designation by which I do not desire to be longer

distinguished.”

Mary took the sword from Sir John Gage, and placing it upon the dwarf’s

shoulder, said, “Arise, Sir Narcissus.”

The new-made knight immediately obeyed, and making a profound reverence

to the queen, was about to retire, when she checked him.

“Tarry a moment, Sir Narcissus,” she said. “I have a further favour to

bestow upon you.”

“Indeed!” cried the dwarf, out of his senses with delight. “I pray your

majesty to declare it.”

“You will need a dame,” returned the queen.

“Of a truth,” replied Sir Narcissus, tenderly ogling the bevy of

beauties behind the throne, “I need one sadly.”

“I will choose for you,” said the queen.

“Your highness’s condescension overwhelms me,” rejoined Sir Narcissus,

wondering which would fall to his share.

“This shall be your bride,” continued the queen, pointing to Jane the

Fool, “and I will give her a portion.”

Sir Narcissus had some ado to conceal his mortification. Receiving the

announcement with the best grace he could assume, he strutted up to

Jane, and taking her hand, said, “You hear her highness’s injunctions,

sweetheart. You are to be Lady Le Grand. I need not ask your consent, I

presume?”

“You shall never have it,” replied Jane the Fool, with a coquettish toss

of the head, “if her highness did not command it.”

“I shall require to exert my authority early,” thought Sir Narcissus,

“or I shall share the fate of Magog.”

“I, myself, will fix the day for your espousals,” observed Mary.

“Meanwhile, you have my permission to woo your intended bride for a few

minutes in each day.”

“Only a few minutes!” cried Sir Narcissus, with affected disappointment.

“I could dispense with even that allowance,” he added to himself.

“I cannot reward your services as richly,” continued Mary, addressing

the gigantic brethren, “but I am not unmindful of them,—nor shall

they pass unrequited. Whenever you have a boon to ask, hesitate not to

address me.”

The three giants bowed their lofty heads.

“A purse of gold will be given to each of you,” continued the queen;

“and on the day of his marriage, I shall bestow a like gift upon Sir

Narcissus.” She then waved her hand, and the new-made knight and his

companions withdrew.

XXXVI.—HOW CHOLMONDELEY LEARNT THE HISTORY OF CICELY; HOW NIGHTGALL

ATTEMPTED TO ASSASSINATE RENARD; AND OF THE TERRIBLE FATE THAT BEFEL

HIM.

Cuthbert Cholmondeley, after upwards of a week’s solitary confinement,

underwent a rigorous examination by certain of the Council relative

to his own share in the conspiracy, and his knowledge of the different

parties connected with it. He at once admitted that he had taken a

prominent part in the siege, but refused to answer any other questions.

“I confess myself guilty of treason and rebellion against the queen’s

highness,” he said, “and I ask no further mercy than a speedy death.

But if the word of one standing in peril of his life may be taken, I

solemnly declare, and call upon you to attest my declaration,—that the

Lady Jane Grey is innocent of all share in the recent insurrection. For

a long time, she was kept in total ignorance of the project, and when

it came to her knowledge, she used every means, short of betraying

it,—tears, entreaties, menaces,—to induce her husband to abandon the

design.”

“This declaration will not save her,” replied Sir Edward Hastings, who

was one of the interrogators, sternly,—“By not revealing the conspiracy,

she acquiesced in it. Her first duty was to her sovereign.”

“I am aware of it, and so is the unfortunate lady herself,” replied

Cholmondeley. “But I earnestly entreat you, in pity for her misfortunes,

to report what I have said to the queen.”

“I will not fail to do so,” returned Hastings; “but I will not deceive

you. Her fate is sealed. And now, touching the Princess Elizabeth’s

share in this unhappy affair. Do you know aught concerning it?”

“Nothing whatever,” replied Cholmondeley; “and if I did, I would not

reveal it.”

“Take heed what you say, sir,” rejoined Sir Thomas Brydges, who was

likewise among the examiners, “or I shall order you to be more sharply

questioned.”

Nightgall heard this menace with savage exultation.

“The rack will wrest nothing from me,” said Cholmondeley, firmly.

Brydges immediately sat down at a table, and writing out a list of

questions to be put to the prisoner, added an order for the torture, and

delivered it to Nightgall.

Without giving Cholmondeley time to reflect upon his imprudence, the

jailor hurried him away, and he did not pause till he came to the head

of the stairs leading to the torture-chamber. On reaching the steps,

Nightgall descended first, but though he opened the door with great

caution, a glare of lurid light burst forth, and a dismal groan smote

the ears of the listener. It was followed by a creaking noise, the

meaning of which the esquire too well divined.

Some little time elapsed before the door was again opened, and the voice

of Nightgall was heard from below calling to his attendants to bring

down the prisoner. The first object that caught Cholmondeley’s gaze on

entering the fatal chamber, was a figure, covered from head to foot in

a blood-coloured cloth. The sufferer, whoever he was, had just been

released from the torture, as two assistants were supporting him, while

Wolfytt was arranging the ropes on the rack. Sorrocold, also, who held

a small cup filled with some pungent-smelling liquid, and a

sprinkling-brush in his hand, was directing the assistants.

Horror-stricken at the sight, and filled with the conviction from the

mystery observed, and the stature of the veiled person, that it was Lord

Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley uttered his name in a tone of piercing

anguish. At the cry, the figure was greatly agitated—the arms

struggled—and it was evident that an effort was made to speak. But

only an inarticulate sound could be heard. The attendants looked

disconcerted, and Nightgall stamping his foot angrily, ordered them to

take their charge away. But Cholmondeley perceiving their intention,

broke from those about him, and throwing himself at the feet of him

whom he supposed to be Dudley, cried—“My dear, dear lord, it is I, your

faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondeley. Make some sign, if I am right

in supposing it to be you.”

The figure struggled violently, and shaking off the officials, raised

the cloth, and disclosed the countenance of the unfortunate nobleman—but

oil! how changed since Cholmondeley had seen him last—how ghastly, how

distorted, how death-like, were his features!

“You here!” cried Dudley. “Where is Jane? Has she fled? Has she

escaped?”

“She has surrendered herself,” replied Cholmondeley, “in the hope of

obtaining your pardon.’”

“False hope!—delusive expectation!” exclaimed Dudley, in a tone of

the bitterest anguish. “She will share my fate. I could have died

happy—could have defied these engines, if she had escaped—but now!—”

“Away with him!” interposed Nightgall. “Throw the cloth over his head.”

“Oh God! I am her destroyer!” shrieked Dudley, as the order was obeyed,

and he was forced out of the chamber.

Cholmondeley was then seized by Wolfytt and the others, and thrown upon

his back on the floor. He made no resistance, well knowing it would be

useless; and he determined, even if he should expire under the torture,

to let no expression of anguish escape him. He had need of all his

fortitude; for the sharpness of the suffering to which he was subjected

by the remorseless Nightgall, was such as few could have withstood. But

not a groan burst from him, though his whole frame seemed rent asunder

by the dreadful tension.

“Go on,” cried Nightgall, finding that Wolfytt and the others paused.

“Turn the rollers round once more.”

“You will wrench his bones from their sockets,—he will expire if you

do,” observed Sorrocold.

“No matter,” replied Nightgall; “I have an order to question him

sharply, and I will do so, at all hazards.”

“Do so at your own responsibility, then,” replied Sorrocold, retiring.

“I tell you he will die if you strain him further.”

“Go on, I say,” thundered Nightgall. But as he spoke, the sufferer

fainted, and Wolfytt refused to comply with the jailor’s injunctions.

Cholmondeley was taken off the engine. Restoratives were applied by

Sorrocold, and the questions proposed by the lieutenant put to him by

Nightgall. But he returned no answer; and uttering an angry exclamation

at his obstinacy, the jailor ordered him to be taken back to his cell,

where he was thrown upon a heap of straw, and left without light or

food.

For some time, Cholmondeley remained in a state of insensibility,

and when he recovered, it was to endure far greater agony than he had

experienced on the rack. His muscles were so strained that he was

unable to move, and every bone in his body appeared broken. The thought,

however, that Cicely was alive, and in the power of his hated rival,

tormented him more sharply than his bodily suffering. Supposing her

dead, though his heart was ever constant to her memory, and though he

was a prey to deep and severe grief, yet the whirl of events in which

he had been recently engaged had prevented him from dwelling altogether

upon her loss. But now, when he knew that she still lived, and was in

the power of Nightgall, all his passion—all his jealousy, returned with

tenfold fury. The most dreadful suspicions crossed him; and his mental

anguish was so great as to be almost intolerable. While thus tortured in

body and mind, the door of his cell was opened, and Nightgall

entered, dragging after him a female. The glare of the lamp so dazzled

Cholmondeley’s weakened vision, that he involuntarily closed his eyes.

But what was his surprise to hear his own name pronounced by well-known

accents, and, as soon as he could steady his gaze, to behold the

features of Cicely—but so pale, so emaciated, that he could scarcely

recognise them.

“There,” cried Nightgall, with a look of fiendish exultation, pointing

to Cholmondeley. “I told you you should sec your lover. Glut your eyes

with the sight. The arms that should have clasped you are nerveless—the

eyes that gazed so passionately upon you, dim—the limbs that won your

admiration, crippled. Look at him—and for the last time. And let him

gaze on you, and see whether in these death-pale features—in this wasted

form, there are any remains of the young and blooming maiden that won

his heart.”

“Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, making an ineffectual attempt to rise, “do

I indeed behold you? I thought you dead.”

“Would I were so,” she cried, kneeling beside him, “rather than what I

am. And to see you thus—and without the power to relieve you.”

“You can relieve me of the worst pang I endure,” returned Cholmondeley.

“You have been long in the power of that miscreant—exposed to his

violence, his ill-usage, to the worst of villany. Has he dared to abuse

his power? Do not deceive me! Has he wronged you?—Are you his minion?

Speak! And the answer will either kill me at once, or render my death on

the scaffold happy. Speak! Speak!”

“I am yours, and yours only—in life or death, dear Cholmondeley,”

replied Cicely. “Neither entreaties nor force should make me his.”

“The time is come when I will show you no further consideration,”

observed Nightgall, moodily. “And if the question your lover has just

asked, is repeated, it shall be differently answered. You shall be mine

to-morrow, either by your own free consent, or by force. I have spared

you thus long, in the hope that you would relent, and not compel me to

have recourse to means I would willingly avoid. Now, hear me. I have

brought you hither to gratify my vengeance upon the miserable wretch,

writhing at my feet, who has robbed me of your affections, and whose

last moments I would embitter by the certainty that you are in my power.

But though it will be much to me to forego the promised gratification

of witnessing his execution, or knowing that he will be executed, yet

I will purchase your compliance even at this price. Swear to wed me

to-morrow, and to accompany me unresistingly whithersoever I may choose

to take you, and, in return, I swear to free him.”

“He made a like proposal once before, Cicely,” cried the esquire.

“Reject it. Let us die together.”

“It matters little to me how you decide,” cried Nightgall. “Mine you

shall be, come what will.”

“You hear what he says, Cholmondeley,” cried Cicely, distractedly. “I

cannot escape him. Oh, let me save you!”

“Never!” rejoined Cholmondeley, trying to stretch his hands towards her.

“Never! You torture me by this hesitation. Reject it, if you love me,

positively—peremptorily!”

“Oh, Heaven direct me!” cried Cicely, falling upon her knees. “If I

refuse, I am your destroyer.”

“You will utterly destroy me, if you yield,” groaned Cholmondeley.

“Once wedded to me,” urged Nightgall, “you shall set him free yourself.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Cicely. “Death were better than that. I cannot

consent. Cholmondelcy, you must die.”

“You bid me live,” returned the esquire.

“You have signed his death-warrant!” cried Nightgall, seizing her hand.

“Come along.”

“I will die here,” shrieked Cicely, struggling.

“Villain!” cried Cholmondeloy, “your cruelty will turn her brain, as it

did that of her mother Alexia.”

“How do you know Alexia was her mother?” demanded Nightgall, starting,

and relinquishing his grasp of Cicely.

“I am sure of it,” replied Cholmondeley. “And, what is more, I am

acquainted with the rightful name and title of your victim. She was

the wife of Sir Alberic Mountjoy, who was attainted of heresy and high

treason, in the reign of Henry the Eighth.”

“I will not deny it,” replied Nightgall. “She was so. But how did you

learn this?”

“Partly, from an inscription upon a small silver clasp, which I found

upon her hood when I discovered her body in the Devilin Tower,” replied

Cholmondeley; “and partly, from inquiries since made. I have ascertained

that the Lady Mountjoy was imprisoned with her husband in the Tower; and

that at the time of his execution she received a pardon. I would

learn from you why she was subsequently detained?—why she was called

Alexia?—and why her child was taken from her?”

“She lost her senses on the day of her husbands death,” replied

Nightgall. “I will tell you nothing more.”

“Alas!” cried Cicely, who had listened with breathless interest to what

was said, “hers was a tragical history.”

“Yours will be still more tragical, if you continue obstinate,” rejoined

Nightgall. “Come along.”

“Heaven preserve me from this monster!” she shrieked. “Help me,

Cholmondeley.”

“I am powerless as a crushed worm,” groaned the esquire, in a tone of

anguish.

Nightgall laughed exultingly, and twining his arms around Cicely, held

his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, and forced her from the

cell.

The sharpest pang he had recently endured was light to Cholmondeley,

compared with his present maddening sensations, and had not

insensibility relieved him, his reason would have given way. How long he

remained in this state he knew not, but, on reviving, he found himself

placed on a small pallet, and surrounded by three men, in sable dresses.

His attire had been removed, and two of these persons were chafing his

limbs with an ointment, which had a marvellous effect in subduing the

pain, and restoring pliancy to the sinews and joints; while the third,

who was no other than Sorrocold, bathed his temples with a pungent

liquid. In a short time, he felt himself greatly restored, and able to

move; and when he thought how valuable the strength he had thus suddenly

and mysteriously acquired would have been a short time ago, he groaned

aloud.

“Give him a cup of wine,’” said an authoritative voice, which

Cholmondeley fancied he recognised, from the further end of the cell.

And glancing in the direction of the speaker, he beheld Renard.

“It may be dangerous, your excellency,” returned Sorrocold.

“Dangerous or not, he shall have it,” rejoined Renard.

And wine was accordingly poured out by one of the attendants, and

presented to the esquire, who eagerly drained it.

“Now leave us,” said Renard; “and return to the torture-chamber. I will

rejoin you there.”

Sorrocold and his companions bowed, and departed.

Renard then proceeded to interrogate Cholmondeley respecting his own

share in the rebellion; and also concerning Dudley and Lady Jane.

Failing in obtaining satisfactory answers, he turned his inquiries to

Elizabeth’s participation in the plot; and he shaped them so artfully,

that he contrived to elicit from the esquire, whose brain was a good

deal confused by the potent draught he had swallowed, some important

particulars relative to the princess’s correspondence with Wyat.

Satisfied with the result of the examination, the ambassador turned

to depart, when he beheld, close behind him, a masked figure, which he

immediately recognised as the same that had appeared at the window

of his lodgings in the Bloody Tower, on the evening when Jane’s

death-warrant was signed by the queen.

No sound had proclaimed the mask’s approach, and the door was shut. The

sight revived all Renard’s superstitious fears.

“Who, and what art thou?” he demanded.

“Your executioner,” replied a hollow voice. And suddenly drawing a

poniard, the mask aimed a terrible blow at Renard, which, if he had not

avoided it, must have proved fatal.

Thus assaulted, Renard tried to draw his sword, but he was prevented by

the mask, who grappled with him, and brought him to the ground. In the

struggle, however, the assassin’s vizard fell off, and disclosed the

features of Nightgall.

“Nightgall!” exclaimed Renard. “You, then, were the mysterious visitant

to my chamber in the Bloody Tower. I might have guessed as much when I

met you in the passage. But you persuaded me I had seen an apparition.”

“If your excellency took me for a ghost, I took you for something

worse,” replied Nightgall, keeping his knee upon the ambassador’s chest,

and searching for his dagger, which had dropped in the conflict.

“Release me, villain!” cried Renard. “Would you murder me?”

“I am paid to put your excellency to death,” rejoined Nightgall, with

the utmost coolness.

“I will give you twice the sum to spare me,” rejoined Renard, who saw

from Nightgall’s looks that he had no chance, unless he could work upon

his avarice.

“Hum!” exclaimed the jailor; who, not being able to reach his dagger,

which had rolled to some distance, had drawn his sword, and was now

shortening it, with intent to plunge it in the other’s throat—“I would

take your offer—but I have gone too far.”

“Fear nothing,” gasped Renard, giving himself up for lost. “I swear by

my patron, Saint Paul, that I will not harm a hair of your head. Against

your employer only will I direct my vengeance.”

“I will not trust you,” replied Nightgall, about to strike.

But just as he was about to deal the fatal blow—at the very moment that

the point of the blade pierced the ambassador’s skin, he was plucked

backwards by Cholmondeley, and hurled on the ground. Perceiving it was

his rival, who was more hateful to him even than Renard, Cholmondeley,

on the onset, had prepared to take some part in the struggle, and

noticing the poniard, had first of all possessed himself of it, and then

attacked Nightgall in the manner above related.