As the bell ceased tolling the hour of midnight, a lugubrious procession slowly issued from beneath the gloomy archway of the Coal-harbor Gate. First came four yeomen of the guard walking two and two, and bearing banners of black silk, displaying large white crosses. Then twelve deacons in the same order, in robes of black silk and flat caps, each carrying a long lighted wax taper. Then a priest’s assistant, in a white surplice, with a red cross in front, bareheaded, and swinging a large bell heavily to and fro. Then two young priests, likewise bareheaded, and in white surplices, each holding a lighted taper in a massive silver candlestick. Then an old priest with the mitre. Then two chantry-priests in their robes singing the Miserere. Then four Carmelite monks, each with a large rosary hanging from his wrist, supporting a richly-gilt square canopy, decorated at each corner with a sculptured cross, beneath which walked Bonner, in his scarlet chimere and white rochet. Then came Feckenham and other prelates, followed by two more chantry-priests singing the same doleful hymn as their predecessors. Then came a long train of halberdiers. Then the prisoner, clothed in sackcloth and barefooted, walking between two friars of the lowly order of St. Francis, who besought him, in piteous tones, to repent ere it was too late. And lastly, the rear was brought up by a company of archers of the Queen’s bodyguard.
As soon as the procession had formed in the order it arrived round the place of execution, the prisoner was brought forward by the two friars, who for the last time earnestly exhorted him to recant, and save his soul alive.
But he pushed them from him, saying, “Get hence, ye popish wolves! ye raveners of Christ’s faithful flock! Back to the idolatrous Antichrist of Rome who sent ye hither. I will have none of your detestable doctrines. Get hence, I say, and trouble me no more.”
When the friars drew back, he would have addressed the assemblage. But a halberdier, by Bonner’s command, thrust a pike into his mouth and silenced him. A wild and uncouth figure, with strong but clumsily-formed, limbs, coarse repulsive features, lighted up by a savage smile, now stepped forward. It was Wolfytt, the sworn tormentor. He was attired in a jerkin and hose of tawny leather. His arms and chest were bare, and covered with a thick pile of red hair. His ragged locks and beard, of the same disgusting color, added to his hideous and revolting appearance. He was armed with a long iron pitchfork, and had a large hammer and a pair of pincers stuck in his girdle. Behind him came Mauger and Nightgall.
A deep and awful silence now prevailed throughout the concourse. Not a breath was drawn, and every eye was bent upon the victim. He was seized and stripped by Mauger and Wolfytt, the latter of whom dragged him to the stake which the poor zealot reverently kissed as he reached it, placed the iron girdle round his waist, and riveted it to the post. In this position, Underhill cried with a loud voice, “God preserve Queen Jane! and speedily restore her to the throne, that she may deliver this unhappy realm from the popish idolaters who would utterly subvert it.”
Several voices cried “Amen!” and Wolfytt, who was nailing the girdle at that time, commanded him to keep silence, and enforced the order by striking him a severe blow on the temples with the hammer.
“You might have spared me that, friend,” observed Underhill meekly. And he then added, in a lower tone, “Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak! O Lord, heal me, for all my bones are vexed!”
While the fagots were heaped around him by Mauger and Nightgall, he continued to pray fervently; and when all was made ready, he cried, “Dear Father, I beseech Thee to give once more to this realm the blessing of Thy Word, with godly peace. Purge and purify me by this fire in Christ’s death and passion through Thy Spirit, that I may be an acceptable burnt-offering in Thy sight. Farewell, dear friends. Pray for me, and pray with me.”
As he spoke, Nightgall seized a torch and applied it to the fagots. His example was imitated by Mauger and Wolfytt, and the pile was speedily kindled. The dry wood crackled, and the smoke rose in thick volumes. The flames then burst forth, and burning fast and fiercely cast a lurid light upon the countenances of the spectators, upon the windows of St. Peter’s Chapel, and upon the gray walls of the White Tower. As yet the fire had not reached the victim; the wind blowing strongly from the west carried it aside. But in a few seconds it gained sufficient ascendency, and his sufferings commenced. For a short space he endured them without a groan. But as the flames mounted, notwithstanding all his efforts the sharpness of the torment overcame him. Placing his hands behind his neck, he made desperate attempts to draw himself farther up the stake, out of the reach of the devouring element. But the iron girdle effectually restrained him. He then lost all command of himself; and his eyes starting from their sockets — his convulsed features — his erected hair, and writhing frame — proclaimed the extremity of his agony. He sought relief by adding to his own torture. Crossing his hands upon his breast, and grasping either shoulder, he plunged his nails deeply into the flesh. It was a horrible sight, and a shuddering groan burst from the assemblage. Fresh fagots were added by Nightgall and his companions, who moved around the pyre like fiends engaged in some impious rite. The flames again arose brightly and fiercely. By this time the lower limbs were entirely consumed; and throwing back his head, and uttering a loud and lamentable yell which was heard all over the fortress, the wretched victim gave up the ghost. A deep and mournful silence succeeded this fearful cry. It found an echo in every breast.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY AND LADY JANE WERE ARRAIGNED AND ATTAINTED OF HIGH TREASON; AND HOW THEY WERE PARDONED BY QUEEN MARY.
More than three months had now been passed by Jane in solitary confinement in the Brick Tower. Long as was the -interval, it appeared brief to her — her whole time being devoted to intense mental application or to prayer. She lived only in her books; and addressed herself with such ardor to her studies, that her thoughts were completely abstracted.
Sometimes, indeed, in spite of all her efforts, recollections of the past would obtrude themselves upon her — visions of earlier days and of the events and scenes connected with them would rise before her. She thought of Bradgate and its green retreats — of her beloved preceptor, Roger Ascham — of the delight with which she had become acquainted, through him, with the poetry, the philosophy, the drama of the ancient world. She recalled their long conversations, in which he had painted to her the vanities and vexations of the world, and the incomparable charms of a life of retirement and meditation, and she now felt the truth of his assertions. Had it been permitted her to pass her quiet and blameless career in that tranquil place, how happy would she have been! And yet she did not repine at her lot, but rather rejoiced at it. “Whatever my own sufferings may be,” she murmured, “however severely I may be chastened, I yet feel I shall not endure in vain, but that others will profit by my example. If Heaven will vouchsafe me grace and power, not one action of my life but shall redound to the honor of the faith I profess.”
One thought she ever checked, feeling that the emotions it excited threatened to shake her constancy. This was the idea of her husband; and whenever it arose she soothed the pang it occasioned by earnest prayer. The reflection that he was now as firm an adherent to the tenets of the gospel as herself, and that by her own resolution she had wrought this beneficial change in him, cheered and animated her, and almost reconciled her to her separation.
So fully prepared did she now feel for the worst shock of fate, that the only thing she regretted was that she was not speedily brought to trial. But she repressed even this desire as inconsistent with her duty, and unworthy of her high and holy calling. “My part is submission,” she murmured, “and whether my term of life is long or short, it becomes me to feel and act in like manner. Whenever I am called upon, I am ready — certain, if I live devoutly, to attain everlasting happiness, and rejoin my husband where he will never be taken from me.”
In this way she thoroughly reconciled herself to her situation. And though in her dreams old scenes and faces would often revisit her, though her husband’s image con
stantly haunted her — and on waking her pillow was bedewed with her tears — still, she maintained her cheerfulness, and by never allowing one moment to pass unemployed, drove away all distressing thoughts.
Not so her husband. Immured in the Beauchamp Tower, he bore his confinement with great external fortitude; but his bosom was a prey to vain regrets and ambitious hopes. Inheriting, as has before been observed, the soaring aspirations of his father, but without his genius or daring, his mind was continually dwelling upon the glittering bauble he had lost, and upon the means of regaining it. Far from being warned by the Duke’s fate — far from considering the fearful jeopardy in which he himself stood — he was ever looking forward to the possibility of escape, and to the chance of reinstating himself in his lost position.
Sincerely attached to Jane, he desired to be restored to her rather from the feeling which had led him to seek her hand — namely, a desire to use her as a means of aggrandizement — than from any deep regret at the loss of her society. Not that misfortune had lessened his attachment, but that his ruling passion was ambition, which no reverse could quench, no change subdue. “He who has once nearly grasped a sceptre can never lose all thoughts of it,” he exclaimed to himself. “I may perish — but while I live I shall indulge the hope of being King of England. And if I should ever obtain my liberty, I will never rest till I have won back the crown. Jane’s name shall be my watchword — the Protestant cause my battle-cry; and if the victory is mine, she shall share my throne, but not, as heretofore, occupy it alone. Had I been King, this would never have happened. But my father’s ambition ruined all. He aimed at the throne himself, and used me as his stepping-stone. Well, he has paid the penalty of his rashness, and I may perchance share his fate. Yet what if I do? Better die on the scaffold than linger out a long inglorious life. Oh that I could make one effort more! If I failed I would lay my head upon the block without a murmur.”
The long delay that occurred before his trial encouraged his hopes, and a secret communication made to him by the Duke of Suffolk, who had leave to visit him, that a plot was in agitation to restore Jane to the throne, so raised his expectations, that he began to feel little apprehension for the future, confident that ere long the opportunity he sighed for would present itself.
Ever since Jane’s conference with Gardiner, Dudley had resisted all overtures from the Romish priesthood to win him over to their religion, and if his own feelings had not prompted him to this course, policy would have now dictated it. Slight as was the information he was able to obtain, he yet gathered that Mary’s determination to restore the Catholic religion was making her many enemies, and giving new spirits to her opponents. And when he found, from the communication of De Noailles, that a plot, having for its basis the preservation of the Reformed religion, now menaced by the proposed alliance with Spain, was being formed, he became confirmed in his opinions.
It was not deemed prudent by the conspirators to attempt any communication with Jane. They doubted much whether she could be prevailed upon to join them — whether she might not even consider it her duty to reveal it; and they thought there would be ample time to make it known to her when the season for outbreak arrived. Jane’s partisans consisted only of her father, her uncle, and ostensibly De Noailles, who craftily held out hopes to Suffolk and his brother to secure their zealous co-operation. In reality, the wily Frenchman favored Courtenay and Elizabeth. But he scarcely cared which side obtained the mastery, provided he thwarted his adversary, Simon Renard.
During the early part of her imprisonment, Jane’s solitude was disturbed by Feckenham, who, not content with his own discomfiture and that of his superiors, Gardiner and Bonner, returned again and again to the charge, but with no better success than before. Worsted in every encounter, he became at length convinced of the futility of the attempt, and abandoned it in despair. At first, Jane regarded his visits as a species of persecution, and a waste of the few precious hours allowed her, which might be far more profitably employed than in controversy. But when they ceased altogether, she almost regretted their discontinuance, as the discussions had led her to examine her own creed more closely than she otherwise might have done; and the success she invariably met with, inspired her with new ardor and zeal.
Thus time glided on. Her spirits were always equable, her looks serene; and her health, so far from being affected by her captivity, appeared improved. One change requires to be noticed. It was remarked by her jailer that, when first brought to the Brick Tower, she looked younger than her age, which was scarcely seventeen; but that ere a month had elapsed, she seemed like a matured woman. A striking alteration had, indeed, taken place in her appearance. Her countenance was grave, but so benignant, that its gravity had no displeasing effect. Her complexion was pale but clear — so clear that the course of every azure vein could be traced through the wax-like skin. But that which imparted the almost angelic character to her features was their expression of perfect purity, unalloyed by any taint of earth. What with her devotional observances, and her intellectual employments, the mind had completely asserted its dominion over the body; and her seraphic looks and beauty almost realized the Catholic notion of a saint.
She had so won upon her jailer by her extraordinary piety, and by her gentleness and resignation, that he could scarcely offer her sufficient attention. He procured her such books as she desired — her sole request; and never approached her but with the profoundest reverence. From him she learned the fate of Edward Underhill, and during the dreadful sufferings of the miserable enthusiast, when the flames that were consuming him lighted up her prison-chamber, and his last wild shriek rang in her ears, her lips were employed in pouring forth the most earnest supplications for his release.
It was a terrible moment to Jane; and the wretched sufferer at the stake scarcely endured more anguish. Like many others, she saw in his fate a prelude of the storm that was to follow; and passed the whole of the night in prayer that the danger might be averted. She prayed also, earnestly and sincerely, that a like death might be hers, if it would prove beneficial to her faith, and prevent further persecution.
One day, shortly after this event, the jailer made his appearance at an unwonted hour, and throwing himself at her feet, informed her that after a severe struggle with himself, he was determined to liberate her; and that he would not only throw open her prison-door that night, but would find means to set her free from the Tower. When he concluded, Jane, who had listened to his proposal with extreme surprise, at once, though with the utmost thankfulness, declined it. “You would break your trust, and I mine” she observed, “were I to accept your offer. But it would be useless. Whether should I fly — what should I do were I at large? No, friend, I cannot for a moment indulge the thought. If that door should be opened to me, I would proceed to the Queen’s presence, and beseech her Highness to bring me to speedy trial. That is all the favor I deserve, or desire.”
“Well, madam,” replied the jailer in accents of deep disappointment, “since I may not have my wish and set you free, I will at once resign my post.”
“Nay, do not so, I beseech you, good friend,” returned Jane; “that were to do me an unkindness, which I am sure you would willingly avoid, by exposing me to the harsh treatment of some one less friendly disposed towards me than yourself, from whom I have always experienced compassion and attention.”
“Foul befall me if I did not show you such, sweet lady!” cried the jailer “Your nature is kindly, sir,” pursued Jane; “and as I must needs continue a captive, so I pray you show your regard by continuing my jailer. It gladdens me to think I have a friend so near.”
“As you will, madam,” rejoined the man sorrowfully. “Yet I beseech you, pause ere you reject my offer. An opportunity of escape now presents itself, which may never occur again. If you will consent to fly, I will attend you, and act as your faithful follower.”
“Think me not insensible to your devotion, good friend, if I once more decline it,” returned Jane, in a tone that showe
d that her resolution was taken. “I cannot fly — I have ties that bind me more securely than those strong walls and grated windows. Were the Queen to give me the range of the fortress — nay, of the city without it I should consider myself equally her captive. No, worthy friend, we must remain as we are.”
Seeing remonstrance was in vain, the man, ashamed of the emotion he could neither control nor conceal, silently withdrew. The subject was never renewed, and though he acted with every consideration towards his illustrious captive, he did not relax in any of his duties.
Full three months having elapsed since Jane’s confinement commenced, on the first of November her jailer informed her that her trial would take place in Guildhall on the day but one following. To his inquiry whether she desired to make any preparations, she answered in the negative, The offence I have committed,” she said, “is known to all. I shall not seek to palliate it. Justice will take its course. Will my husband be tried with me?”
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