Monday, the 12th of February, 1554, the fatal day destined to terminate
Jane’s earthly sufferings, at length, arrived. Excepting a couple
of hours which she allowed to rest, at the urgent entreaty of her
companion, she had passed the whole of the night in prayer. Angela
kept watch over the lovely sleeper, and the effect produced by the
contemplation of her features during this her last slumber, was never
afterwards effaced. The repose of an infant could not be more calm and
holy. A celestial smile irradiated her countenance; her lips moved as if
in prayer; and if good angels are ever permitted to visit the dreams
of those they love on earth, they hovered that night over the couch of
Jane. Thinking it cruelty to disturb her from such a blissful state,
Angela let an hour pass beyond the appointed time. But observing a
change come over her countenance,—seeing her bosom heave, and tears
gather beneath her eye-lashes, she touched her, and Jane instantly
arose.
“Is it four o’clock?” she inquired.
“It has just struck five, madam,” replied Angela. “I have disobeyed you
for the first and last time. But you seemed so happy, that I could not
find in my heart to waken you.”
“I was happy,” replied Jane, “for I dreamed that all was over—without
pain to me—and that my soul was borne to regions of celestial bliss by a
troop of angels who had hovered above the scaffold.”
“It will be so, madam,” replied Angela, fervently. “You will quit this
earth immediately for heaven, where you will rejoin your husband in
everlasting happiness.”
“I trust so,” replied Jane, in an altered tone, “but in that blessed
place I searched in vain for him. Angela, you let me sleep too long, or
not long enough.”
“Your pardon, dearest madam,” cried the other, fearfully.
“Nay, you have given me no offence,” returned Jane, kindly. “What I
meant was that I had not time to find my husband.”
“Oh you will find him, dearest madam,” returned Angela, “doubt it not.
Your prayers would wash out his offences, even if his own could not.”
“I trust so,” replied Jane. “And I will now pray for him, and do you
pray too.”
Jane then retired to the recess, and in the gloom, for it was yet dark,
continued her devotions until the clock struck seven. She then arose,
and assisted by Angela attired herself with great care.
“I pay more attention to the decoration of my body now I am about to
part with it,” she observed, “than I would do, if it was to serve me
longer. So joyful is the occasion to me, that were I to consult my own
feelings, I would put on my richest apparel to indicate my contentment
of heart. I will not, however, so brave my fate, but array myself in
these weeds.” And she put on a gown of black velvet, without ornament of
any kind; tying round her slender throat (so soon alas! to be severed) a
simple white falling collar. Her hair was left purposely unbraided, and
was confined by a caul of black velvet. As Angela performed those sad
services, she sobbed audibly.
“Nay, cheer thee, child,” observed Jane. “When I was clothed in the
robes of royalty, and had the crown placed upon my brow,—nay, when
arrayed on my wedding-day,—I felt not half so joyful as now.”
“Ah! madam!” exclaimed Angela, in a paroxysm of grief. “My condition is
more pitiable than yours. You go to certain happiness. But I lose you.”
“Only for a while, dear Angela,” returned Jane. “Comfort yourself
with that thought. Let my fate be a warning to you. Be not dazzled by
ambition. Had I not once yielded, I had never thus perished. Discharge
your duty strictly to your eternal and your temporal rulers, and rest
assured we shall meet again,—never to part.”
“Your counsel shall be graven on my heart, madam,” returned Angela. “And
oh! may my end be as happy as yours!”
“Heaven grant it!” ejaculated Jane, fervently. “And now,” she added, as
her toilette was ended, “I am ready to die.”
“Will you not take some refreshment, madam?” asked Angela.
“No,” replied Jane. “I have done with the body!”
The morning was damp and dark. A thaw came on a little before day-break,
and a drizzling shower of rain fell. This was succeeded by a thick mist,
and the whole of the fortress was for a while enveloped in vapour. It
brought to Jane’s mind the day on which she was taken to trial. But a
moral gloom likewise overspread the fortress. Every one within it, save
her few enemies, (and they were few indeed,) lamented Jane’s approaching
fate. Her youth, her innocence, her piety, touched the sternest breast,
and moved the pity even of her persecutors. All felt that morning as if
some dire calamity was at hand, and instead of looking forward to the
execution as an exciting spectacle (for so such revolting exhibitions
were then considered,) they wished it over. Many a prayer was breathed
for the speedy release of the sufferer—many a sigh heaved—many a groan
uttered: and if ever soul was wafted to Heaven by the fervent wishes of
those on earth, Jane’s was so.
It was late before there were any signs of stir and bustle within the
fortress. Even the soldiers gathered together reluctantly—and those
who conversed, spoke in whispers. Dudley, who it has been stated was
imprisoned in the Beauchamp Tower, had passed the greater part of the
night in devotion. But towards morning, he became restless and uneasy,
and unable to compose himself, resorted to the customary employment of
captives in such cases, and with a nail which he had found, carved his
wife’s name in two places on the walls of his prison. These inscriptions
still remain.
At nine o’clock, the bell of the chapel began to toll, and an escort of
halberdiers and arquebussiers drew up before the Beauchamp Tower, while
Sir Thomas Brydges and Feckenham entered the chamber of the prisoner,
who received them with an unmoved countenance.
“Before you set out upon a journey from which you will never return, my
lord,” said Feckenham, “I would ask you for the last time, if any change
has taken place in your religious sentiments—and whether you are yet
alive to the welfare of your soul?”
“Why not promise me pardon if I will recant on the scaffold, and silence
me as you silenced the duke my father, by the axe!” replied Dudley,
sternly. “No, sir, I will have naught to do with your false and
idolatrous creed. I shall die a firm believer in the gospel, and trust
to be saved by it.”
“Then perish, body and soul,” replied Feckenham, harshly. “Sir Thomas
Brydges, I commit him to your hands.”
“Am I to be allowed no parting with my wife?” demanded Dudley,
anxiously.
“You have parted with her for ever,—heretic and unbeliever!” rejoined
Feckenham.
“That speech will haunt your death-bed, sir,” retorted Dudley, sternly.
And he turned to the lieutenant, and signified that he was ready.
The first object that met Dudley’s gaze, as he issued from his prison,
was the scaffold on the green. He looked at it for a moment, wistfully.
“It is for Lady Jane,” observed the lieutenant.
“I know it,” replied Dudley, in a voice of intense emotion.—“I thank you
for letting me die first.”
“You must thank the queen, my lord,” returned Brydges. “It was her
order.”
“Shall you see my wife, sir?” demanded Dudley, anxiously.
The lieutenant answered in the affirmative.
“Tell her I will be with her on the scaffold,” said Dudley.
As he was about to set forward, a young man pushed through the lines of
halberdiers, and threw himself at his feet. It was Cholmondeley. Dudley
instantly raised and embraced him. “At least I sec one whom I love,” he
cried.
“My lord, this interruption must not be,” observed the lieutenant. “If
you do not retire,” he added, to Cholmondeley, “I shall place you in
arrest.”
“Farewell, my dear lord,” cried the weeping esquire—“farewell!”
“Farewell, for ever!”—returned Dudley, as Cholmondeley was forced back
by the guard.
The escort then moved forward, and the lieutenant accompanied the
prisoner to the gateway of the Middle Tower, where he delivered him to
the sheriffs and their officers, who were waiting there for him with a
Franciscan friar, and then returned to fulfil his more painful duty. A
vast crowd was collected on Tower Hill, and the strongest commiseration
was expressed for Dudley, as he was led to the scaffold, on which Mauger
had already taken his station.
On quitting the Beauchamp Tower, Feckenham proceeded to Jane’s prison.
He found her on her knees, but she immediately arose.
“Is it time?” she asked.
“It is, madam,—to repent,” replied Feckenham, sternly. “A few minutes
are all that now remain to you of life—nay, at this moment, perhaps,
your husband is called before his Eternal Judge. There is yet time. Do
not perish like him in your sins.”
“Heaven have mercy upon him!” cried Jane, falling on her knees.
And notwithstanding the importunities of the confessor, she continued in
fervent prayer, till the appearance of Sir Thomas Brydges. She instantly
understood why he came, and rising, prepared for departure. Almost
blinded by tears, Angela rendered her the last services she required.
This done, the lieutenant, who was likewise greatly affected, begged
some slight remembrance of her.
“I have nothing to give you but this book of prayers, sir,” she
answered—“but you shall have that, when I have done with it, and may it
profit you.”
“You will receive it only to cast it into the flames, my son,” remarked
Feckenham.
“On the contrary, I shall treasure it like a priceless gem,” replied
Brydges.
“You will find a prayer written in it in my own hand,” said Jane.—“And
again I say, may it profit you.”
Brydges then passed through the door, and Jane followed him. A band
of halberdiers were without. At the sight of her, a deep and general
sympathy was manifested; not an eye was dry; and tears trickled down
cheeks unaccustomed to such moisture. The melancholy train proceeded at
a slow pace. Jane fixed her eyes upon the prayer-book, which she read
aloud to drown the importunities of the confessor, who walked on her
right, while Angela kept near her on the other side. And so they reached
the green.
By this time, the fog had cleared off, and the rain had ceased; but
the atmosphere was humid, and the day lowering and gloomy. Very few
spectators were assembled,—for it required firm nerves to witness such a
tragedy. A flock of carrion-crows and ravens, attracted by their fearful
instinct, wheeled around overhead, or settled on the branches of the
bare and leafless trees, and by their croaking added to the dismal
character of the scene. The bell continued tolling all the time.
The sole person upon the scaffold was Wolfytt. He was occupied in
scattering straw near the block. Among the bystanders was Sorrocold
leaning on his staff; and as Jane for a moment raised her eyes as she
passed along, she perceived Roger Ascham. Her old preceptor had obeyed
her, and she repaid him with a look of gratitude.
By the lieutenant’s directions, she was conducted for a short time into
the Beauchamp Tower, and here Feckenham continued his persecutions,
until a deep groan arose among those without, and an officer abruptly
entered the room.
“Madam,” said Sir John Brydges, after the new-comer had delivered his
message, “we must set forth.”
Jane made a motion of assent, and the party issued from the Beauchamp
Tower, in front of which a band of halberdiers was drawn up. A wide open
space was kept clear around the scaffold. Jane seemed unconscious of all
that was passing. Preceded by the lieutenant, who took his way towards
the north of the scaffold, and attended on either side by Feckenham and
Angela as before, she kept her eyes steadily fixed on her prayer-book.
Arrived within a short distance of the fatal spot, she was startled by
a scream from Angela, and looking up, beheld four soldiers, carrying a
litter covered with a cloth, and advancing toward her. She knew it was
the body of her husband, and unprepared for so terrible an encounter,
uttered a cry of horror. The bearers of the litter passed on, and
entered the porch of the chapel.
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While this took place, Mauger, who had limped back as fast as he
could after his bloody work on Tower I Till,—only tarrying a moment
to exchange his axe,—ascended the steps of the scaffold, and ordered
Wolfytt to get down. Sir Thomas Brydges, who was greatly shocked at what
had just occurred, and would have prevented it if it had been possible,
returned to Jane and offered her his assistance. But she did not require
it. The force of the shock had passed away, and she firmly mounted the
scaffold.
When she was seen there, a groan of compassion arose from the
spectators, and prayers were audibly uttered. She then advanced to the
rail, and, in a clear distinct voice, spoke as follows:—
“I pray you all to bear me witness that I die a true Christian woman,
and that I look to be saved by no other means except the mercy of God,
and the merits of the blood of his only son Jesus Christ. I confess when
I knew the word of God I neglected it, and loved myself and the world,
and therefore this punishment is a just return for my sins. But I thank
God of his goodness that he has given me a time and respite to repent.
And now good people, while I am alive, I pray you assist me with your
prayers.”
Many fervent responses followed, and several of the by-standers imitated
Jane’s example, as, on the conclusion of her speech, she fell on her
knees and recited the Miserere.
At its close, Feckenham said in a loud voice, “I ask you, madam, for the
last time, will you repent?”
“I pray you, sir, to desist,” replied Jane, meekly. “I am now at peace
with all the world, and would die so.”
She then arose, and giving the prayer-book to Angela, said,—“When all is
over, deliver this to the lieutenant. These,” she added, taking off her
gloves and collar, “I give to you.”
“And to me,” cried Mauger, advancing and prostrating himself before her
according to custom, “you give grace.”
“And also my head,” replied Jane. “I forgive thee heartily, fellow. Thou
art my best friend.”
“What ails you, madam?” remarked the lieutenant, observing Jane suddenly
start and tremble.
“Not much,” she replied, “but I thought I saw my husband pale and
bleeding.”
“Where?” demanded the lieutenant, recalling Dudley’s speech.
“There, near the block,” replied Jane. “I see the figure still. But it
must be mere fantasy.”
Whatever his thoughts were, the lieutenant made no reply; and Jane
turned to Angela, who now began, with trembling hands, to remove her
attire, and was trying to take off her velvet robe, when Mauger offered
to assist her, but was instantly repulsed.
He then withdrew, and stationing himself by the block, assumed his
hideous black mask, and shouldered his axe.
Partially disrobed, Jane bowed her head, while Angela tied a kerchief
over her eyes, and turned her long tresses over her head to be out of
the way. Unable to control herself, she then turned aside, and wept
aloud. Jane moved forward in search of the block, but fearful of making
a false step, felt for it with her hands, and cried—“What shall I
do?—Where is it?—Where is it?”
Sir Thomas Brydges took her hand and guided her to it. At this awful
moment, there was a slight movement in the crowd, some of whom pressed
nearer the scaffold, and amongst others Sorrocold and Wolfytt. The
latter caught hold of the boards to obtain a better view. Angela placed
her hands before her eyes, and would have suspended her being, if she
could; and even Feckenham veiled his countenance with his robe. Sir
Thomas Brydges gazed firmly on.
By this time, Jane had placed her head on the block, and her last words
were, “Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit!”
The axe then fell, and one of the fairest and wisest heads that ever sat
on human shoulders, fell likewise. THUS ENDS THE CHRONICLE OF THE TOWER
OF LONDON
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End of Project Gutenberg’s The Tower of London, by William Harrison
Ainsworth