“Your Majesty, I perceive, is struck with the likeness of my worthy friend Og to your late sire King Henry VIII., of high and renowned memory. You will not, therefore, be surprised, when I inform you that he is his—”
Before another word could be uttered, Og, who had been greatly alarmed at the preamble, arose with such suddenness, that Xit was precipitated to the ground.
“Pardon me, your Majesty,” cried the giant, in great confusion, “it is true what the accursed imp says. I have the honour to be indirectly related to your Highness. God’s death, sirrah, I have half a mind to set my foot upon thee and crush thee. Thou art ever in mischief.”
The look and gesture, which accompanied this exclamation, were so indescribably like their royal parent, that neither the Queen nor the Princess Elizabeth could forbear laughing.
As to Xit, the occurrence gained him a new friend in the person of Jane the Fool, who ran up as he was limping off with a crestfallen look, and begged her Majesty’s permission to take charge of him. This was granted, and the dwarf proceeded with the royal cortege. On learning the name of his protectress, Xit, observed— “You are wrongfully designated, sweetheart. Jane the Queen was Jane the Fool — you are Jane the Wise.” While this was passing, Mary had given some instructions in an undertone to Lord Clinton, and he immediately departed to fulfil them. The cavalcade next passed beneath the arch of the Bloody Tower, and the whole retinue drew up on the Green. A wide circle was formed round the Queen, amid which, at intervals, might be seen the towering figures of the giants, and next to the elder of them, Xit, who, having been obliged to quit his new friend, had returned to Og and was standing on his tiptoes to obtain a peep at what was passing. No sooner had Mary taken up her position than Lord Clinton reappeared, and brought with him several illustrious persons who, having suffered imprisonment in the fortress for their zeal for the religion of Rome, were now liberated by her command. As the first of the group, a venerable nobleman, approached her and bent the knee before her, Mary’s eyes filled with tears, and she exclaimed, in a voice of much emotion —
“Arise, my Lord Duke of Norfolk. The attainder pronounced against you in my father’s reign is reversed. Your rank, your dignities, honors, and estates shall be restored to you.”
As the Duke retired, Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, advanced.
“Your Grace shall not only have your bishopric again,” said Mary, “but you shall have another high and important office. I here appoint you Lord Chancellor of the realm.”
“Your Highness overwhelms me with kindness,” replied Gardiner, pressing her hand to his lips.
“You have no more than your desert, my lord,” replied Mary. “But I pray you stand aside a moment. There are other claimants of our attention.”
Gardiner withdrew, and another deprived bishop took his place. It was Bonner.
“My lord,” said Mary, as he bowed before her, “you are restored to the see of London, and the prelate who now so unworthily fills that high post, Bishop Ridley, shall make room for you. My lord,” she added to Lord Clinton, “make out a warrant, and let him be committed to the Tower.”
“I told you how it would be,” observed Renard to Lord Pembroke. “Ridley’s last discourse has cost him his liberty. Cranmer will speedily follow.”
Other prisoners, amongst whom was Tunstall, Bishop of Durham, and the Duchess of Somerset, now advanced, and were warmly welcomed by the Queen. The last person who approached her was a remarkably handsome young man, with fine features and a noble figure. This was Edward Courtenay, son of the Marquess of Exeter who was beheaded in 1538. Since that time Courtenay had been a close prisoner in the Tower. He was of the blood-royal, being grandson of Catherine, youngest daughter of Edward the Fourth, and his father had been declared heir to the throne.
“You are right welcome, my cousin,” said Mary, extending her hand graciously to him, which he pressed to his lips. “Your attainder shall be set aside, and though we cannot restore your father to life, we can repair the fortunes of his son, and restore him to his former honors. Henceforth you are Earl of Devonshire. Your patent shall be presently made out, and such of your sire’s possessions as are in our hands restored.”
Courtenay warmly thanked her for her bounty, and the Queen smiled upon him in such gracious sort, that a suspicion crossed more than one bosom that she might select him as her consort.
“Her Majesty smiles upon Courtenay as if she would bestow her hand upon him in right earnest,” observed Pembroke to Renard.
“Hum!” replied the ambassador. “This must be nipped in the bud. I have another husband in view for her.”
“Your master, Philip of Spain, I’ll be sworn,” said Pembroke—” a suitable match, if he were not a Catholic.”
Renard made no answer, but he smiled an affirmative.
“I am glad this scheme has reached my ears,” observed De Noailles, who overheard the conversation— “it will not suit my master, Henry II., that England should form an alliance with Spain. I am for Courtenay, and will thwart Renard’s plot.”
Having received the whole of the prisoners, Mary gave orders to liberate all those within the Tower who might be confined for their adherence to the Catholic faith.
“My first care,” she said, “shall be to celebrate the obsequies of my brother, Edward VI. — whose body, while others have been struggling for the throne, remains uninterred according to the forms of the Romish Church. The service shall take place in Westminster Abbey.”
“That may not be, your Highness,” said Cranmer, who formed one of the group. “His late Majesty was a Protestant prince.”
“Beware how you oppose me, my lord,” rejoined Mary sternly. “I have already committed Ridley to prison, and shall not hesitate to commit your Grace.”
“Your Highness will act as it seems best to you,” rejoined Cranmer boldly; “but I shall fulfil my duty, even at the hazard of incurring your displeasure. Your royal brother professed the Protestant faith, which is, as yet — though Heaven only knows how long it may continue so — the established religion of this country, and he must, therefore, be interred according to the rites of that Church. No other ceremonies but those of the Protestant Church shall be performed within Westminster Abbey, as long as I maintain a shadow of power.”
“It is well,” replied Mary. “We may find means to make your Grace more flexible. To-morrow we shall publish a decree proclaiming our religious opinions. And it is our sovereign pleasure that the words ‘Papist’ and ‘Heretic’ be no longer used as terms of reproach.”
“I have lived long enough,” exclaimed the Duke of Norfolk, falling on his knees, “in living to see the religion of my fathers restored.”
“The Providence which watched over your Grace’s life, and saved you from the block, when your fate seemed all but sealed, reserved you for this day,” rejoined Mary.
“It reserved me to be a faithful and devoted servant of your majesty,” replied the Duke.
“What is your Highness’s pleasure touching the Duke of Northumberland, Lord Guilford Dudley, and Lady Jane Dudley?” inquired Clinton.
“The two former will remain closely confined till “their arraignment,” replied Mary. “Lady Jane, also, will remain a prisoner for the present. And now, my lords, to the palace.”
With this she turned her palfrey’s head, and passing under the Bloody Tower, proceeded to the principal entrance of the ancient structure, where she dismounted, and accompanied by a throng of nobles, dames, and attendants, entered the apartments so lately occupied by the unfortunate Jane.
CHAPTER II.
HOW JANE WAS IMPRISONED IN THE BRICK TOWER.
THE first shock over, Jane bore her reverse of fortune with the utmost patience and resignation, uttering no complaints, but making, in the language of Fuller, “misery itself amiable by her pious behaviour.” She then reaped the full benefit of the religious education she had received, and her time was wholly passed in meditation, prayer, or profound study. Her demeanour was gentle
and calm — graver and more thoughtful than it had been, but by no means cast down. If she had not regained her cheerfulness, she had fully recovered her composure; and the warder, Partridge, in whose habitation she was confined in the first instance, described her “as looking more like a queen than when she sat upon the throne.”
In this way some days were spent, when word was brought her by an attendant, that a chamber had been prepared for her in the Brick Tower, and that a guard was without to conduct her to it. She received the intimation with composure, and immediately rose to obey it, requesting only that her books might be sent after her. The attendant, whose eyes were blinded with tears, promised to fulfil her wishes. On going forth, she found an officer and the three gigantic warders waiting to escort her to her prison. The party moved forward in silence, and at a slow pace. While crossing the Green, she perceived another group advancing towards her, and as it drew nearer, she found it was her husband attended by a guard. Uttering a loud cry, she would have rushed and thrown herself into his arms if she had not been prevented by the officer. Dudley, whose eyes had been bent on the ground, heard the cry, and immediately knew by whom it was uttered. He made a movement similar to that of Jane, but like her he was checked by his attendants. So deeply, however, were the guards on either side moved by the anguish of the unfortunate pair, that, although expressly enjoined to the contrary, they suffered them to approach and embrace each other. The meeting drew tears from all eyes that beheld it; and the susceptible heart of Magog was so touched, that he had much ado to hide his grief. From the few hasty words she was able to exchange with her husband, Jane learned that his prison had been changed, and that an order had been issued for his removal from the Beauchamp to the Bowyer Tower.
“Every dungeon in the Tower,” he said, “is filled with our friends and partisans. Your father, the Duke of Suffolk, is confined in the Martin Tower. And I have been just removed from the Beauchamp Tower to make room for my father, the Duke of Northumberland, my two brothers, Ambrose and Robert, and their faithful followers, Sir John Gates, Sir Henry Gates, and Sir Thomas Palmer.”
“Alas!” cried Jane, “we are all equally culpable, and must all suffer alike. But we shall be speedily released.”
“On the scaffold,” rejoined Dudley bitterly.
“Ay, on the scaffold,” repeated Jane. “And I trust, though the remainder of our mortal life may be separated, that we shall meet above to part no more. Pray for this, my dear lord. It is my own constant prayer. And it is my firm reliance upon it that enables me to endure the agony of this meeting, which otherwise would kill me.”
“I will strive to do so, Jane,” replied her husband. “But I still cling to life and hope.”
“Divest yourself of these vain desires, my lord,” cried Jane earnestly, “and turn your thoughts from earth to heaven There indeed we shall inherit an everlasting kingdom, undisturbed by misery and calamity.” —
“Madam,” said the officer, advancing, “I grieve to abridge this short meeting. But my duty admits of no alternative. You must follow me.”
“It is well, sir,” she replied. “Farewell, dear Dudley My prayers shall be for you.”
“And mine for you, dear Jane,” replied her husband, pressing her to his bosom— “Heaven grant me your patience and resignation!”
“Amen!” she fervently ejaculated. And with another embrace they parted.
For a short distance the two escorts walked close together, during which the afflicted pair kept their eyes fondly fixed on each other. After passing the north-west corner of the White Tower, Lord Guilford’s attendants took a straightforward course, while Jane’s guards proceeded to the right. Still but a short distance intervened between them, until Jane beheld her husband disappear beneath the low-arched entrance of the Bowyer Tower. A convulsive movement passed over her frame; but the next moment she was apparently as calm as ever, and followed the officer into the structure destined for her reception.
This, as has already been intimated, was the Brick Tower, the next turret on the east of the Bowyer Tower. The upper story, which is of brick — whence its name — was erected in the reign of Edward the Fourth, or Richard the Third: the basement story is of stone, and of much greater antiquity.
Entering a narrow passage, she was ushered by the officer into a small room, which he informed her was prepared for her reception. Everything that circumstances would admit appeared to have been done to lessen the rigor of her confinement. The stone walls were hung with arras; and much of the furniture — a carved oak table, and velvet covered seats, placed in the deep embrasures of the windows — had been brought from Jane’s late chamber in the palace.
“This seat,” said the officer, pointing to a curiously-carved chair, “was used by Queen Anne Boleyn during her imprisonment. I had it brought hither for your ladyship’s accommodation.”
“I thank you for your consideration, sir,” replied Jane; “it will serve to support one as unhappy as that ill-fated princess.”
Having inquired whether she had any further commands with which it was possible for him to comply, and being answered in the negative, the officer took his departure, and Jane was left alone.
Alone! the thought struck chill to her heart. She was now a solitary captive. She heard the door of her prison bolted — she examined its stone walls, partly concealed by the tapestry — she glanced at its iron-barred windows, and her courage forsook her. She had no bosom to lean upon — no ear to which she could impart her sorrows. Her husband, though not far from her, was, like her, a prisoner. She pictured him in his solitary room — and she would have given worlds to be near him, if only for a few moments. The thought occasioned her so much anguish, that she burst into tears, and for some time was a prey to despair. She then knelt down beside the chair, and burying her face in her clasped hands, prayed deeply and fervently for support through her trial. And she prayed not in vain. She soon afterwards arose tranquil and refreshed.
CHAPTER III.
HOW SIMON RENARD ASCENDED TO THE ROOF OF THE WHITE TOWER; AND OF THE GOODLY PROSPECT HE BEHELD THEREFROM.
THE night of Queen Mary’s entrance into the Tower was spent by Simon Renard, the Duke of Norfolk, Gardiner (the new Lord Chancellor), Courtenay, Arundel, Pembroke, and other noble and honourable persons composing her Council, in framing a public declaration of her religious opinions, to be proclaimed on the morrow, and in deliberating on other mighty matters connected with the establishment of her government. Throughout this consultation, when any difference of opinion arose, the matter was invariably deferred to the judgment of the imperial ambassador, whose decision was regarded as final; and as he was looked upon as the chief instrument in crushing the late rebellion, so it was supposed he could, by his sagacity and influence, establish Mary upon her throne.
It was late when the Council separated, and instead of returning to his apartments in the palace, Renard, fevered and wearied by the protracted discussion at which he had assisted, preferred refreshing himself by a stroll in the open air. Accordingly, he proceeded to the green, and began to pace backwards and forwards, at a brisk pace, between the lieutenant’s lodgings and the chapel. He continued this exercise for nearly an hour, pondering upon recent events, and revolving future schemes within his plotting brain, when just as day was breaking, and the hoary walls of the White Tower began to reveal themselves in all their grandeur, he perceived a man, armed with a caliver, advancing to meet him. Renard stood still, and throwing his ample cloak over his shoulder, awaited the new-comer’s approach. It proved to be a warder, who, having seen him as he was going his rounds, at first supposed he had some ill designs in view, but finding out his mistake, as he drew nearer and recognized the Spanish ambassador, with whose person he was familiar, he was about to withdraw, when Renard called him back and demanded his name.
“I am called Gervase Winwike, your excellency,” replied the man, “and am one of the senior warders of the Tower.”
“Whither are you going, friend?” inquired Re
nard.
“To the summit of the White Tower,” answered Winwike; “to see that the sentinels are at their posts.”
“Is it inconsistent with your duty to take me with you?” asked the ambassador.
“By no means,” rejoined the warder. “I shall feel honoured by your presence. We shall reach the roof just at sunrise, and the view from thence, on a fine clear morning like the present, is magnificent beyond compare, and will amply repay your excellency for climbing up so many steps as you will have to scale to obtain it.”
“Let us make what haste we can, then,” said Renard; “I am impatient to behold it.”
Thus exhorted, Winwike led the way to the northwest turret of the ancient structure, before a door in which a sentinel was stationed, who, on receiving the password, lowered his halbert, and suffered them to enter. They were now within a small circular chamber, from which a flight of spiral stone steps ascended. Followed by Renard, the warder commenced the ascent. Light was admitted at intervals through loop-holes, gradually diminishing in width as they approached the exterior of the walls, and serving to reveal their immense thickness. As they mounted, Winwike pointed out to his companion the entrance of a passage communicating with the Council-chamber. Renard was much struck with the substantial and beautiful masonry of the turret; but being anxious to gain the roof as soon as possible, he urged his companion to quicken his pace, and they soon arrived at an arched door, which Winwike threw open, and they stepped upon the roof.
Springing upon the platform, Renard was about to rush to the battlements, when Winwike offered to lead him to the best point of view. As he followed his conductor towards the southwest angle, Renard cast his eye over the roof. Cannon were placed on the raised platform, while armed men were stationed at twenty paces distant from each other. In the centre of the building stood a tall staff, from which floated the royal banner.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 133
