No sooner was the Queen seated, than Northumberland, who had placed himself at the foot of the throne, prostrated himself, and besought her permission to lay before the lords of the council a despatch, just received from the Lady Mary, which being accorded, he arose, and, turning towards them, unfolded a paper, and addressed them in a stern tone as follows:— “My lords,” he began, “it will scarcely surprise you to be informed that the Lady Mary, in the letter I here hold, given under her signet, and dated from Kenninghall in Norfolk, lays claim to the imperial crown of this realm, and requires and charges you, of your allegiance, which you owe to her, and to none other, — it is so written, my lords, — to employ yourselves for the honour and surety of her person only; and furthermore, to cause her right and title to the crown and government of the realm to be proclaimed within the city of London and other places, as to your wisdoms shall seem good. Now, my lords, what say you? What answer will you make to these insolent demands — to these idle and imaginary claims?”
“None whatever,” replied the Earl of Pembroke; “we will treat them with the scorn they merit.”
“That may not be, my lord,” observed Queen Jane; “your silence will be misconstrued.”
“Ay, marry will it,” rejoined Northumberland, glancing fiercely at the Earl; “and your advice, my lord of Pembroke, savours strongly of disloyalty. I will tell you how you shall answer this misguided lady. You shall advertise her, firstly, that on the death of our sovereign lord, Edward the Sixth, Queen Jane became invested and possessed with the just and right title in the imperial crown of this realm, not only by good order of ancient laws, but also by our late sovereign lord’s letters patent, signed with his own hand, and sealed with the great seal of England, in presence of the most part of the nobles, councillors, judges, and divers other grave and sage personages, assenting to and subscribing the same. You shall next tell her, that having sworn allegiance to Queen Jane, you can offer it to no other, except you would fall into grievous and unspeakable enormities. You shall also remind her, that by the divorce made between the king of famous memory, King Henry the Eighth, and the lady Catherine her mother, confirmed by sundry acts of parliament yet in force, she was justly made illegitimate and unheritable to the crown of this realm. And, lastly, you shall require her to surcease, by any pretence, to vex and molest our sovereign lady Queen Jane, or her subjects from their true faith and allegiance unto her grace. This, my lords, is the answer you shall return.”
“We will consider of it,” cried several voices.
“Your decision must be speedy,” returned the Duke, scornfully; “a messenger waits without, to convey your reply to the Lady Mary. And to spare your lordships any trouble in penning the despatch, I have already prepared it.”
“Prepared it!” ejaculated Cecil.
“Ay, prepared it,” repeated the Duke. “It is here,” he added, producing a parchment, “fairly enough written, and only lacking your lordships’ signatures. Will it please you, Sir William Cecil, or you, my lord of Pembroke, or you, Shrewsbury, to cast an eye over it, to see whether it differs in aught from what I have counselled as a fitting answer to Mary’s insolent message? You are silent: then, I may conclude you are satisfied.”
“Your grace concludes more than you have warrant for,” rejoined the Earl of Pembroke; I am not satisfied, nor will I subscribe that letter.”
“Nor I,” added Cecil.
“Nor I,” repeated several others.
“We shall see,” returned Northumberland: “bring pen and ink,” he added, motioning to an attendant, by whom his commands were instantly obeyed. “Your grace of Canterbury,” he continued, addressing Cranmer, “will sign it first. ’Tis well. And now, my lord Marquess of Winchester, your signature; my lord Bedford, yours; now yours, Northampton; yours, my lord chancellor; next, I shall attach my own; and now yours, brother of Suffolk. You see, my lords,” he said, with a bitter smile, “you will be well kept in countenance.”
While this was passing, Simon Renard, who stood among the throng of privy-councillors, observed in a whisper to those nearest him,—” If this despatch is signed and sent forth, Mary’s hopes are ruined. She will suspect some treachery on the part of her friends, and immediately embark for France, which is what Northumberland desires to accomplish.”
“His scheme shall be defeated, then,” replied Pembroke; “it never shall be signed.”
“Be not too sure of that,” rejoined Renard, with a scarcely-repressed sneer.
“And now, my lord of Arundel,” said the Duke, taking the document from Suffolk, “we tarry for your signature.”
“Then your grace must tarry still longer,” replied Arundel, sullenly, “for I am in no mood to furnish it.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Northumberland, Gercely, — but, instantly checking himself, he turned to the next peer, and continued: “I will pass on, then, to you, Lord Shrewsbury. I am assured of your loyalty. What! do you, too, desert your queen? God’s mercy! my lord, I have been strangely mistaken in you. Pembroke, you can now prove I was in error. You fold your arms— ’tis well! I understand you. Rich, Huntingdon, Darcy, I appeal to you. My lords! my lords! you forget to whom you owe allegiance. Sir Thomas Cheney — do you not hear me speak to you, Sir Thomas? Cecil, my politic crafty Cecil, — a few strokes of your pen is all I ask, and those you refuse me. Gates, Petre, Cheke, — will none of you move? will none sign?”
“None,” answered Pembroke.
“It is false,” cried Northumberland, imperiously; “you shall all sign, — all! vile, perjured traitors that you are! I will have your hands to this paper, or, by God’s precious soul! I will seal it with your blood. Now, will you obey me?”
There was a stern, deep silence.
“Will you obey him?” demanded Renard, in a mocking whisper.
“No!” answered Pembroke, fiercely.
“Guards!” cried Northumberland, “advance, and attach their persons.”
The command was instantly obeyed by the arquebusiers, who marched forward and surrounded them.
Jane fixed an inquiring look upon Northumberland, but she spoke not.
“What next?” demanded Pembroke, in a loud voice.
“The block!” replied Northumberland.
“The block!” exclaimed Jane, rising, while the colour forsook her cheek. “Oh! no, my lord, — no.”
“But I say yea,” returned the Duke, peremptorily. “‘Fore Heaven! these rebellious lords think I am as fearful of shedding blood as they are of shedding ink. But they shall find they are mistaken. Away with them to instant execution.”
“Your grace cannot mean this!” cried Jane, horror-stricken. “They shall have five minutes for reflection,” returned the Duke, sternly. “After that time, nothing shall save them.”
An earnest consultation was held among the council. ‘Three minutes had expired. The Duke beckoned a sergeant of the guard towards him.
“You had better sign,” whispered Simon Renard; “I will find some means of communicating with her highness.”
“We have reflected,” cried the Earl of Pembroke, “and will do your grace’s behests.”
“It is well,” answered Northumberland. “Set them free.”
As soon as the guard had withdrawn, the council advanced, and each, in turn, according to his degree, subscribed the despatch. This done, Northumberland delivered it to an officer, enjoining him to give it instantly to the messenger, with orders to the latter to ride for his life, and not to draw bridle till he reached Kenninghall.
“And now,” continued the Duke, addressing another officer, “let the gates of the Tower be closed, the drawbridges raised, and suffer none to go forth, on pain of death, without my written order.”
“Diable!” exclaimed De Noailles, shrugging his shoulders. “Prisoners!” cried several of the privy-councillors.
“You are the queen’s guests, my lords,” observed the Duke, drily. “Do you agree to my scheme now?” asked Renard, in a deep whisper. “Do you consent to Northumbe
rland’s assassination?”
“I do,” replied Pembroke. “But who will strike the blow?”
“I will find the man,” answered Renard.
These words, though uttered under the breath of the speakers, reached the ears of Cuthbert Cholmondeley.
Shortly afterwards, the council broke up; and Jane was conducted with much state to the royal apartments.
CHAPTER III.
OF THE THREE GIANTS OF THE TOWER, OG, GOG, AND MAGOG; OF XIT, THE DWARF; OF THE FAIR CICELY; OF PETER TRUSBUT, THE PANTLER, AND POTENTIA HIS WIFE; OF HAIRUN THE BEAR- WARD, RIBALD THE WARDER, MAUGER THE HEADSMAN, AND NIGHTGALL THE JAILOR: AND OF THE PLEASANT PASTIME HELD IN THE STONE KITCHEN.
CUTHBERT CHOLMONDELEY, it may be remembered, was greatly struck by a beautiful damsel whom he discovered among the crowd during the ceremonial at the Gate Tower; and, as faithful chroniclers, we are bound to state that the impression was mutual, and that if he was charmed with the lady, she was not less pleased with him. Notwithstanding her downcast looks, the young esquire was not so inexperienced in feminine arts as to be unconscious of the conquest he had made. During the halt at the gate, he never withdrew his eyes from her for a single moment, and when he was reluctantly compelled to move forward with the procession, he cast many a lingering look behind. As the distance lengthened between them, the courage of the damsel seemed to revive; she raised her head, and before her admirer had reached the extremity of the lofty wall masking the lieutenant’s lodgings, he perceived her gazing fixedly after him. She held by the hand a little curly-haired boy, whom Cholmondeley concluded must be her brother, — and he was perplexing himself as to her rank, — for though her beauty was of the highest order, and her lineaments such as might well belong to one of high birth, her attire seemed to bespeak her of no exalted condition, — when an incident occurred, which changed the tenor of his thoughts, and occasioned him not a little uneasiness. While she remained with her eyes fixed upon him, a tall man in a dark dress rushed, with furious gestures and an inflamed countenance, out of the gateway leading to the inner line of fortifications on the left, and shaking his hand menacingly at the esquire, forced her away. Cholmondeley saw her no more; but the imploring look which she threw at him as she disappeared, produced so powerful an effect upon his feelings that it was with difficulty he could prevent himself from flying to her assistance. So absorbed was he by this idea, that he could think of nothing else; — the pageant, at which he was assisting, lost all interest for him, and amid the throng of court beauties who surrounded him, he beheld only the tender blue eyes, the light satin tresses, the ravishing countenance, and sylph-like person of the unknown maiden. Nor could he exclude from his recollection the figure of the tall dark man; and he vainly questioned himself as to the tie subsisting between him and the damsel. Could he be her father? — Though his age might well allow of such a supposition, there was no family resemblance to warrant it. Her husband? — that he was scarcely disposed to admit. Her lover? — he trembled with jealous rage at the idea. In this perplexity, he bethought himself of applying for information to one of the warders; and, accordingly, he addressed himself to Magog, who, with Xit, happened to be standing hear him. Describing the damsel, he inquired of the giant whether he knew anything of her.
“Know her!” rejoined Magog, “ay, marry, do I. Who that dwells within this fortress knows not fair Mistress Cicely, the Rose of the Tower, as she is called? She is daughter to Dame Potentia Trusbut, wife to Peter the pantler—”
“A cook’s daughter!” exclaimed Cholmondeley, all his dreams of high-born beauty vanishing at once.
“Nay, I ought rather to say,” returned the giant, noticing the young man’s look of blank disappointment, and guessing the cause, “that she passes for his daughter.”
“I breathe again,” murmured Cholmondeley.
“Her real birth is a mystery,” continued Magog; “or, if the secret is known at all, it is only to the worthy pair who have adopted her. She is said to be the offspring of some illustrious and ill-fated lady, who was imprisoned within the Tower, and died in one of its dungeons, after giving birth to a female child, during the reign of our famous king, Harry the Eighth,” and he reverently doffed his bonnet as he pronounced his sire’s name; “but I know nothing of the truth or falsity of the story, and merely repeat it because you seem curious about her.”
“Your intelligence delights me,” replied Cholmondeley, placing a noble in his hand. “Can you bring me where lean obtain further sight of her?”
“Ay, and speech too, worshipful sir, if you desire it,” replied the giant, a smile illuminating his ample features. “When the evening banquet is over, and my attendance at the palace is no longer required, I shall repair to the Stone Kitchen at Master Trusbut’s dwelling, where a supper is provided for certain of the warders and other officers of the Tower, to which I and my brethren are invited, and if it please you to accompany us, you are almost certain to behold her.”
Cholmondeley eagerly embraced the offer, and it was next arranged that the dwarf should summon him at the proper time.
“If your worship requires a faithful emissary to convey a letter or token to the fair damsel,” interposed Xit, “I will undertake the office.”
“Fail not to acquaint me when your master is ready,” replied Cholmondeley, “and I will reward you. There is one question,” he continued, addressing Magog, “which I have omitted to ask. Who is the tall dark man who seems to exercise such strange control over her? Can it be her adoptive father, the pantler?”
“Of a surety no,” replied the giant, grinning, “Peter Trusbut is neither a tall man nor a dark; but is short, plump, and rosy, as beseems his office. The person to whom your worship alludes must be Master Lawrence Nightgall, the chief jailor, who lately paid his suit to her. He is of a jealous and revengeful temper, and is not unlikely to take it in dudgeon that a handsome gallant should set eyes upon the object of his affections.”
“Your description answers exactly to the man I mean,” returned Cholmondeley, gravely.
“Shall I bear a cartel to him from your worship?” said Xit.
“Or, if you require a guard, I will attend upon your person,” he added, tapping the pummel of his sword.
“l do not require your services in either capacity, as yet, valiant sir,” replied the esquire, smiling. “After the banquet I shall expect you.”
Resuming his place near Lord Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley shortly afterwards proceeded with the royal cortege to the council-chamber, where, being deeply interested by Northumberland’s address to the conspiring lords, he for an instant forgot the object nearest his heart. But the next, it returned with greater force than ever; and he was picturing to himself the surprise, and, as he fondly hoped, the delight, he should occasion her by presenting himself at her dwelling, when Simon Renard’s dark proposal to the Earl of Pembroke reached his ear. Anxious to convey the important information he had thus obtained to his master, as soon as possible, he endeavoured to approach him, but at this moment the council broke up, and the whole train returned to the palace. During the banquet that followed, no opportunity for an instant’s private conference occurred — the signal for the separation of the guests being the departure of the Queen and her consort. While he was considering within himself what course he had best pursue, he felt his mantle slightly plucked behind, and, turning at the touch, beheld the dwarf.
“My master, the giant Magog, awaits you without, worshipful sir,” said Xit, with a profound reverence.
Weighing his sense of duty against his love, he found the latter feeling too strong to be resisted. Contenting himself, therefore, with tracing a hasty line of caution upon a leaf torn from his tablets, he secured it with a silken thread, and delivering it to an attendant, commanded him instantly to take it to the Lord Guilford Dudley. The man departed, and Cholmondeley, putting himself under the guidance of the dwarf, followed him to the great stairs, down which he strutted with a most consequential air, his long rapier clanking at
each step he took. Arrived at the portal, the young esquire found the three giants, who had just been relieved from further attendance by another detachment of warders, and, accompanied by them, proceeded along the ward in the direction of the Gate-Tower. Sentinels, he perceived, were placed at ten paces’ distance from each other along the ramparts; and the guards on the turrets, he understood from his companions, were doubled. On reaching the Gate-Tower, they found a crowd of persons, some of whom, on presenting passes from the Duke of Northumberland, were allowed to go forth; while others, not thus provided, were peremptorily refused. While the giants paused for a moment to contemplate this novel scene, an officer advanced from the barbican and acquainted the keepers of the inner portal that a prisoner was about to be brought in. At this intelligence, a wicket was opened, and two heralds, followed by a band of halberdiers, amidst whom walked the prisoner, stepped through it. Torches were then lighted by some of the warders, to enable them to discern the features of the latter, when it appeared, from his ghastly looks, his blood-stained apparel, and his hair, which was closely matted to his head by the ruddy stream that flowed from it, that some severe punishment had been recently inflicted upon him. He was a young man of nineteen or twenty, habited in a coarse dress of brown serge, of a slight but well-proportioned figure, and handsome features, though now distorted with pain and sullied with blood, and was instantly recognised by Cholmondeley as the individual who had rowed Gunnora Braose towards the Queen. On making the discovery, Cholmondeley instantly demanded, in a stern tone, of the heralds, how they had dared, in direct opposition to their sovereign’s injunctions, to punish an offender whom she had pardoned.
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