On reaching the grove Renard instantly divested himself of his cloak, and drawing his rapier and dagger placed himself in an attitude of defence. Courtenay did not remove his mantle, and therefore he was in readiness before his adversary. The preliminary forms always observed by the combatants of the period being gone through, the conflict commenced with great fury on the side of Courtenay, and with equal animosity, but more deliberation, on that of Renard. As the latter was the most perfect swordsman of his time, he felt little doubt as to the result of the combat; but still the fury of the Earl was so irresistible that he broke through his surest wards. In one of these furious passes Renard received a slight wound in the arm, and roused by the pain he forgot his cautious system, and; returned Courtenay’s thrusts with others equally desperate.
Feeling that he was no match for his antagonist, who was evidently his superior both in force and skill, the Earl now determined to bring the combat to a close before his strength should be further exhausted. Collecting all his energies, he dashed upon Renard with such impetuosity that the latter was compelled to retreat, and his foot catching against the root of a tree, he fell, and lay at the mercy of his antagonist.
“Strike!” he cried. “I will never yield.”
“No,” replied Courtenay. “I will not take this advantage. Arise, and renew the combat.”
“Your courtesy is like your attachment, misplaced, my lord,” replied Renard, springing to his feet, and preparing to attack him. “Look to yourself.”
The combat recommenced with fresh fury, and must have speedily terminated fatally, if a sudden interruption had not occurred. Alarmed by the deadly nature of the strife, and thinking he should gain credit with the Queen if he prevented any accident to her favorite, Xit no sooner beheld the swords drawn, than he ran off as swiftly as he could to the garden gate near the Lanthorn Tower, where he knew Magog was stationed. The giant did not require to be bid twice to accompany him; but grasping his immense halbert, hurried in the direction of the fight, and reached the grove just as it had recommenced.
The combatants were so occupied with each other, and so blind with rage, that they did not hear his approach. Magog, however, soon made them sensible of his presence. Bidding them in a voice of thunder lay down their arms, and finding himself wholly disregarded, he rushed between them, and seizing each by the doublet, hurled them forcibly backwards — swearing lustily that if either advanced another footstep, he would fell him to the ground with his partisan. At this time Xit, who had come up, drew his sword and seconded the giant’s threat, adding with his usual coxcombical dignity, “My lords, I command you, in the Queen’s name, to deliver up your weapons to me.”
Upon this, he took off his cap and strutting up to Courtenay demanded his sword.
“What if I refuse it, sirrah?” said the Earl, who in spite of his indignation could scarcely help laughing at the dwarf’s assurance.
“Your lordship, I am assured, will not compel me to enforce its delivery,” replied Xit.
“I will not,” replied Courtenay, delivering the weapon to him.
“I shall not fail to report your magnanimity to my royal mistress,” returned Xit. “Now yours, worshipful sir,” he added to Renard.
“Take it,” replied the Ambassador, flinging his rapier on the ground. “It is fit that an affair so ridiculously begun should have such a ridiculous termination.”
“It is not ended, sir,” rejoined Courtenay.
“You will note that, Magog,” interposed Xit. “His lordship says it is not ended. Her Majesty must hear of this. I take upon myself to place you both in arrest. Attach their persons, Magog.”
“This insolence shall not go unpunished,” cried Courtenay angrily.
“Heed him not, Magog,” whispered Xit. “I am sure her Highness will approve our conduct. At all events, I take the responsibility of the arrest upon myself — though I promise thee, if there is any reward, thou shalt share it. I arrived at a critical minute for your lordship,” he added, in an undertone to Courtenay. “Your adversary’s blade was within an inch of your breast.”
“Peace, knave,” cried Courtenay.
“Bring them along, Magog,” said Xit, “while I run to the palace to apprise her Majesty of the occurrence, and ascertain her pleasure concerning them.”
“Hold!” exclaimed Courtenay. “Take this purse, and keep silence on the subject.”
“No, my lord,” replied Xit, with an offended look, “I am above a bribe. Had your lordship — but no matter. Magog, you will answer for their peaceable conduct. I am off to the palace.”
And he hurried away, while the giant followed at a slow pace with Courtenay and Renard.
CHAPTER X.
OF THE CONFERENCE HELD BETWEEN BISHOP GARDINER AND LADY JANE GREY IN THE BEAUCHAMP TOWER.
DURING all this time Jane was kept a close prisoner in the Brick Tower, and allowed neither to hold any intercourse with her husband nor to correspond with him. Heartbreaking as the deprivation was to her in the first instance, she became in some degree reconciled to it, on learning from her jailer, who displayed as much humanity towards her as was consistent with his office — that he bore his fate with the utmost fortitude and resignation.
Entertaining no hopes of mercy, Jane’s whole time was passed in preparation for her end. Except the few hours of refreshment actually required by nature, every moment was devoted to the most intense application or to fervent prayer. By degrees all trace of sorrow vanished from her features, and they assumed a spiritualized and almost angelic expression. Lovely as she was before, she looked far more lovely now — or rather her beauty was of a more refined and exalted character. She was frequently visited by the Queen’s confessor, Feckenham, who used every effort to induce her to renounce her religion — but in vain. When told that the sure way to her Majesty’s favor would be to embrace the faith of Rome, she replied that, anxious as she was to obtain the Queen’s forgiveness, she could not purchase it at the price of her salvation, and that the only favor she desired was to pass the brief residue of her days unmolested. Northumberland’s apostasy was a terrible shock to her. Feckenham brought the intelligence, and boasted of the convert the Catholic Church had gained.
“You may have induced the Duke to recant with his lips, sir,” replied Jane; “but of this I am assured, he died a Protestant in heart.”
“It may be so,” rejoined Feckenham. “He was hypocrite enough to act thus. It is enough for us that he publicly abjured his errors. And before long, others of his house will follow his example.”
“What mean you, sir?” demanded Jane anxiously. “You do not surely allude to my husband?”
Feckenham made no reply, but with a significant smile departed.
The insinuation was not lost upon Jane. And now she more than ever lamented that she was not near her husband, to strengthen his wavering faith and confirm his resolution. Well knowing that his character in a great measure resembled his father’s, she feared that the inducement held out by his enemies might be too much for his resistance. Unable to communicate her fears to him, or to offer any of the counsel her heart suggested, she could only relieve her distresses by earnest supplications in his behalf; but even prayer did not on this occasion afford her the consolation it was wont to do. The Duke of Northumberland’s recantation perpetually haunted her; and the thought that her husband might be made a similar example filled her with inexpressible dread.
While suffering from these agonizing reflections, she received another visit from Feckenham. The expression of his countenance, which was triumphing and sinister, alarmed her, and she almost felt unwilling, though at the same time anxious, to question him.
After enjoying her suspense for a few minutes, he said, “Daughter, you blamed the Duke of Northumberland for being reconciled to our Church; what if I inform you that Lord Guilford Dudley has been likewise converted?”
“I should indeed be grieved to hear it,” replied Jane in a tone of anguish; “but I trust it is not so.”
/> “It is as I have said,” answered Feckenham.
“Heaven pardon him!” exclaimed Jane. “You bring me ill news, indeed. I had far rather you came to tell me the executioner was waiting for me — nay, that my husband was about to be led to the block — than this fatal intelligence. I thought our separation would be short, but now I find it will be eternal.”
“You are in error, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham sternly. “You will be separated from your husband neither in this world nor the next if you are equally conformable.”
“Am I to understand, then, that his apostasy — for I can give it no milder term — has been purchased by an offer of pardon?” demanded Jane.
“I said not so, daughter,” replied Feckenham; “but I now tell you that his hopes of grace rest with yourself.”
“With me!” cried Jane, with a look of agony.
“With you, daughter,” repeated the confessor. “Much as it rejoices our pious Queen to win over one soul like that of Lord Guilford Dudley to the true faith — gladly as she will receive his recantation, she will pledge herself to mercy only on one condition.”
“And that is—”
“Your conversion.”
“A safe promise, for her clemency will never be exhibited,” replied Jane. “Not even to purchase my husband’s life would I consent. I would willingly die to bring him back to the paths from which he has strayed; but I will not surrender myself to Rome and her abominations.”
“Your firmness in a good cause, daughter, would elicit my approbation,” replied Feckenham. “As it is, it only excites my compassion. I am deeply concerned to see one so richly gifted so miserably benighted — one so fair so foully spotted with heresy. I should esteem it a glorious victory over Satan to rescue your soul from perdition, and will spare no pains to do so.”
“It is in vain, sir,” replied Jane; “and if I have hitherto repressed my anger at these solicitations, it is because, feeling firm in myself, I look upon them merely as an annoyance to which it is my duty to submit with patience.
But when I perceive the mischief they have done to others, I can no longer contain my indignation. Yours is a pernicious and idolatrous religion — a religion founded on the traditions of men, not on the word of God — a religion detracting from the merits of our Saviour — substituting mummery for the simple offices of prayer; and though I will not be uncharitable enough to assert that its sincere professors will not be saved, yet I am satisfied that no one to whom the true light of heaven has once been vouchsafed can believe in it, or be saved by it.”
“Since you are thus obstinate, daughter,” replied Feckenham, “let us dispute point by point, and dogma by dogma, of our creeds, and I think I can convince you of the error in which you rest. Do not fear wearying me. I cannot be better employed.”
“Pardon me, then, sir, if I reply, that I can be far better employed,” returned Jane; “and though I would not shrink from such a discussion — were it useful — and do not fear its result, yet, as no good can arise from it, I must decline it.”
“As you please, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham— “But I must own that your refusal to accept my challenge seems a tacit admission of the weakness of your cause.”
“Put what construction you please upon it, sir — so you leave me in peace,” replied Jane. “I will fight the good fight when called upon to do so, but I will not waste the little time that remains to me in fruitless disputation.”
“Before I depart, however, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham, “let me deliver your husband’s message to you.”
“What is it?” inquired Jane eagerly; “and yet I almost dread to ask.”
“He implored you not to be his executioner,” answered Feckenham.
“His executioner! — my husband’s executioner! — oh no! — no! that I can never be!” cried Jane, bursting into tears.
“That you will be, unless you consent,” replied the priest coldly.
“I beseech you, sir, urge me no further,” rejoined Jane. “I would lay down my life for my husband a thousand times, but I cannot save him thus. Tell him that I will pray for him night and day — and oh! tell him that his swerving from his faith has wounded me more severely than the axe will ever do.”
“I shall tell him that I left you in the same obstinate state I found you — deaf to the voice of truth — inaccessible to natural affection, and besotted with heresy. Daughter, you love not your husband.”
“Not love him!” echoed Jane passionately. “But no — you shall not shake my firmness. I thought to die calmly, and I looked forward to death as to a certain restoration to my husband. This hope is now at an end. It is you, sir, who are his true executioner. Not content with robbing him of his eternal happiness, you impute his destruction to me. Tell him I love him too well to grant his request — and if he loves me, and hopes to be reunited to me in the bonds of unceasing happiness, he will remain unshaken in his adherence to the Protestant faith.”
“Then you absolutely refuse compliance?” demanded Feckenham.
“Absolutely,” replied Jane.
“Your husband’s blood be upon your head!” exclaimed the confessor in a menacing voice.
And without another word he departed.
As soon as the door of her chamber was locked, and Jane felt herself alone, she threw herself on her knees, and was about to pour out her heart in earnest supplication for her husband, but the shock had been too great for her, and she fainted. On reviving, she was scarcely able to move, and it was some time before she entirely regained her strength.
Repairing to the palace, Feckenham detailed the interview TO the Queen, observing in conclusion, “I still do not despair of her conversion, and shall leave no means untried to accomplish it.”
The next day he again visited Jane, but with no better success. He found her in great affliction, and she earnestly implored to be allowed to see her husband, if only for a few minutes, and in the presence of witnesses. The confessor replied that in her present frame of mind her request could not be granted; but that if she showed herself conformable she should no longer be separated from him, and he would answer for their ultimate pardon.
“I have already acquainted you with my determination, sir,” rejoined Jane, “and you will seek in vain to move me. The rack should not shake my constancy; neither shall the mental torture to which you subject me.”
When Feckenham reported the result of his mission to Gardiner, the Bishop decided upon holding a religious conference with the captive, feeling confident that, notwithstanding her boasted learning and zeal, he could easily overcome her in argument. To induce her to assent to the plan, it was agreed that a meeting should be allowed between her and her husband on the occasion. When the matter was announced to Jane she readily expressed her acquiescence, and begged that it might not be delayed, as she had no preparation to make. “Take heed,” she observed, in conclusion, “lest I win back from you the treasure you have gained.”
“We shall add to it a greater treasure — yourself, madam,” replied the confessor.
On the following day she was summoned by an officer of the guard to attend the Bishop in the Beauchamp Tower. Taking up a volume of the Holy Scriptures lying on a table beside her, and wrapping herself in an ermined surcoat, she arose and followed the officer — quitting her chamber for the first time for nearly two months. On issuing into the open air the effect was almost overpowering, and she could not repress her tears.
It was a bright, sunshiny morning, and everything looked so beautiful — so happy, that the contrast with her recent sufferings was almost too much for her. Bearing up resolutely against her feelings, in order forcibly to divert her attention she fixed her eyes upon the reverend walls of the White Tower, which she was at that moment passing. Near it she perceived the three gigantic warders, all of whom doffed their caps as she approached. Og coughed loudly, as if to clear his throat; Gog hastily brushed the moisture from his eyes with his sleeve; while Magog, who was the most tender-hearted of the
three, fairly blubbered aloud. Xit, who formed one of the group, but who was the least affected, bade her be of good cheer.
This encounter was so far of service to Jane that it served to distract her thoughts, and she had in a great measure regained her composure when another incident occurred, which had nearly upset her altogether. As she passed near the porch of St. Peter’s Chapel, she beheld Simon Renard emerge from it. And if she felt her blood chilled by the sight of her implacable foe, her alarm was not diminished on hearing him call to her guards to bring her within the chapel. At a loss to comprehend the meaning of this mysterious summons, Jane entered the sacred structure. Coldly saluting her, Renard informed her that her husband was within the chapel’. Trembling at the intimation, Jane looked eagerly round. At first she could discern nothing; but, guided by the Ambassador’s malignant glance, she perceived a figure kneeling in front of the altar. Instantly recognizing her husband, with an exclamation of delight that made him spring to his feet, she rushed forward and threw herself into his arms.
After the first passionate emotion had subsided, Jane inquired how he came to be there.
“Do you not know?” replied Lord Guilford. “Or have you been kept in ignorance of the terrible tragedy which has been recently enacted? Look there!” And he pointed downwards.
Jane obeyed, and saw that she was standing upon a gravestone, on which was inscribed in newly-cut letters — John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland — DECAPITATED AUGUST 22, 1553.
Jane trembled and leaned upon her husband for support.
“Here is the victim — there the executioner,” said Lord Guilford, pointing from the grave to Renard.
“Three months ago,” said the Ambassador, who stood with folded arms at a little distance from them, “within this very chapel, I told the Duke of Northumberland he would occupy that grave. My words have been fulfilled. And I now tell you, Lord Guilford Dudley, and you, Lady Jane, that unless you are reconciled with our holy Church, you will rest beside him.”
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