Mary and her advisers had originally intended that both Lady Jane and
her husband should be executed together on Tower Hill; but reflection
convinced them that the spectacle of so comely and youthful a pair
suffering for what was rather the crime of others than their own,
might powerfully awaken the sympathies of the multitude, and produce a
revulsion of feeling. It was ordered, therefore, that Lady Jane should
suffer within the precincts of the Tower.
The fatal morning came. The young husband--still a bridegroom and a
lover--had obtained permission to bid her a last farewell; but she
refused to see him, apprehensive that so bitter a parting might
overwhelm them, and deprive them of the courage needful to face death
with calmness. She sent him, however, many loving messages, reminding
him how brief would be their separation, and how quickly they would
meet in a brighter and better world.
In going to his death on Tower Hill, he passed beneath the window of
her cell; so that they had an opportunity of exchanging a farewell
look. He behaved on the scaffold with calm intrepidity. After spending
a brief space in silent devotion, he requested the prayers of the
spectators, and, laying his head upon the block, gave the fatal
signal. At one blow his head was severed from his body.
The scaffold on which the girl-queen was to close her stainless career
had been erected on the green opposite the White Tower. As soon as her
husband was dead the officers announced that the sheriffs waited to
attend her thither. And when she had gone down and been delivered into
their hands, the bystanders noted in her "a countenance so gravely
settled and with all modest and comely resolution, that not the least
symptom either of fear or grief could be perceived either in her
speech or motions; she was like one going to be united to her heart's
best and longest beloved."
So, like a martyr, crowned with glory, she went unto her death. Her
serene composure was scarcely shaken when, through an unfortunate
misunderstanding of the officer in command, she met on her way her
husband's headless trunk being borne to its last resting-place.
"Oh Guilford! Guilford!" she exclaimed; "the antepast is not so bitter
that you have tasted, and that I shall soon taste, as to make my flesh
tremble; it is nothing compared to the feast that you and I shall this
day partake of in heaven." This thought renewed her strength and
sustained and consoled, we might almost believe, by ministering
angels, she proceeded to the scaffold with as much grace and dignity
as if it were a wedding banquet that awaited her.
She was conducted by Sir John Brydges, the Lieutenant of the Tower,
and attended by her two waiting-women, Mrs. Elizabeth Tylney and Mrs.
Ellen. While these wept and sobbed bitterly, her eyes were dry, and
her countenance shone with the light of a sure and certain hope. She
read earnestly her manual of prayers. On reaching the place of
execution she saluted the lords and gentlemen present with unshaken
composure and infinite grace. No minister of her own Church had been
allowed to attend her, and she did not care to accept the services of
Feckenham, Queen Mary's confessor. She was not indifferent, however,
to his respectful sympathy and when bidding him farewell, she said:
"Go now; God grant you all your desires, and accept my own warm thanks
for your attentions to me; although, indeed, those attentions have
tried me more than death could now terrify me."
To the spectators she addressed a few gentle words, in admirable
keeping with the gentle tenor of her life.
"Good people," she exclaimed, "I am come hither to die, and by law I
am condemned to the same. My offence to the Queen's Highness was only
in consent to the device of others, which now is deemed treason; but
it was never my seeking, but by counsel of those who should seem to
have further understanding of things than I, who knew little of the
law, and much less of the titles to the Crown. I pray you all, good
Christian people, to bear me witness that I die a true Christian
woman, and that I look to be saved by none other means but only by the
mercy of God, in the merits of the blood of His only son, Jesus
Christ; and I confess, when I did know the word of God, I neglected
the same, loved myself and the world, and therefore this plague or
punishment is happily and worthily happened unto me for my sins; and
yet I thank God of His goodness, that He hath thus given me a time and
respite to repent. And now, good people, while I am alive, I pray you
to assist me with your prayers."
She knelt to her devotions, and turning to Feckenham, inquired whether
she should repeat the Miserere psalm (the fifty-first, "Have mercy
upon me, O Lord").
He replied in the affirmative; and she said it with great earnestness
from beginning to end. Rising from her knees, she began to prepare
herself for the headsman and pulling off her gloves, gave them and her
handkerchief to Mistress Tylney. The manual of prayers, in which she
had written at the desire of the Lieutenant, she handed to Thomas
Brydges, his brother. When she was unfastening her robe, the
executioner would have assisted her, but she motioned him aside, and
accepted the last offices of her waiting-women, who then gave her a
white handkerchief with which to bandage her eyes.
Throwing himself at her feet, the headsman humbly craved her
forgiveness, which she willingly granted. He then requested her to
stand upon the straw, and in complying with his direction she for the
first time saw the fatal block. Her composure remained unshaken; she
simply entreated the executioner to dispatch her quickly. Again
kneeling she asked him:
"Will you take it off before I lay me down?"
"No, madam," he replied.
She bound the handkerchief round her eyes, and feeling for the block,
exclaimed,
"What shall I do? Where is it?"
Being guided to it by one of the bystanders, she laid her head down,
exclaiming, in an audible voice:
"Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit."
In an instant the axe fell, and the tragedy was consummated. An
involuntary groan from the assembled multitude seemed to acknowledge
that vengeance had been satisfied, but justice outraged.
Lady Jane--or Queen Jane, as she should more properly be called--was
little more than seventeen years old when she thus fell a victim to
Mary's jealous fears and hate. She had hardly entered upon womanhood,
and the promise of her young life had had no time to ripen into
fruition. We may well believe, however, that she would not have
disappointed the hopes which that promise had awakened. Her heroic
death showed how well she had profited by the lessons she had imbibed
in her early years.
There was no affectation, no exaggeration, in her conduct upon the
scaffold; but she bore herself with serene dignity and with true
courage. It was worthy of her life--which, brief as an unhappy fortune
made it, was full of beauty, full of calmness, and truth, and
elevation and modest piety. The impression which it made upon her
contemporaries, an impression taken up and retained by posterity, is
visible in the fact to this hour we speak of her as she was in her
sweet simple maidenhood--we pass over her married name and her regal
title, and love to honour her, not as Lady Jane Dudley, or Queen Jane,
but as Lady Jane Grey.