“Take care of yourselves, masters,” observed Mauger. “I must attend to business.”
“Never mind us,” laughed Wolfytt, observing the executioner take up an axe, and after examining its edge, begin to sharpen it, “grind away.”
“This is for Lord Guiford Dudley,” remarked Mauger, as he turned the wheel with his foot. “I shall need two axes to-morrow.”
“Sharp work,” observed Wolfytt, with a detestable grin.
“You would think so were I to try one on you,” retorted Mauger. “Ay, now it will do,” he added, laying aside the implement, and taking up another. “This is my favorite axe. I can make sure work with it. I always keep it for queens or dames of high degree — ho! ho! This notch, which I can never grind away, was made by the old Countess of Salisbury, that I told you about. It was a terrible sight to see her white hair dabbled with blood. Poor Lady Jane won’t give me so much trouble, I’ll be sworn. She’ll die like a lamb.”
“Ay, ay,” muttered Sorrocold. “God send her a speedy death!”
“She’s sure of it with me,” returned Mauger, “so you may rest easy on that score.” And as he turned the grindstone quickly round, drawing sparks from the steel, he chanted, as hoarsely as a raven, the following ditty: —
“The axe was sharp, and heavy as lead,
As it touched the neck, off went the head!
Whir — whir — whir — whir!”
And the screaming of the grindstone formed an appropriate accompaniment to the melody.
“Queen Anne laid her white throat upon the block,
Quietly waiting the fatal shock;
The axe it severed it right in twain,
And so quick — so true — that she felt no pain!
Whir — whir — whir — whir!”
And he again set the wheel in motion.
“Salisbury’s countess, she would not die
As a proud dame should — decorously.
Lifting my axe, I split her skull,
And the edge since then has been notched and dull.
Whir — whir — whir — whir!
“Queen Catherine Howard gave me a fee —
A chain of gold — to die easily:
And her costly present she did not rue,
For I touched her head, and away it flew!
Whir — whir — whir — whir!”
“A brave song, and well sung,” cried Wolfytt, approvingly. Have you any more of it?”
“No,” replied Mauger significantly. “I shall make another verse to-morrow. My axe is now as sharp as a razor,” he added, feeling its edge. “Suppose we go to the scaffold? It must be up by this time.”
“With all my heart,” replied Sorrocold, whose superstitious curiosity was fully awakened.
Shouldering the heavy block with the greatest ease, Mauger directed Wolfytt to bring a bundle of straw from a heap in the corner, and extinguishing the lamp, set forth. It was a sharp, frosty night, and the hard ground rang beneath their footsteps. There was no moon, but the stars twinkled brightly down, revealing every object with sufficient distinctness. As they passed St. Thomas’s Tower, Wolfytt laughingly pointed out Bret’s head stuck upon a spike on the roof, and observed, “That poor fellow made Xit a knight.”
On reaching the Green, they found Mauger’s conjecture right — the scaffold was nearly finished. Two carpenters were at work upon it, nailing the planks to the posts, and the noise of their hammers resounded in sharp echoes from the surrounding habitations. Hurrying forward, Mauger ascended the steps, which were placed on the north, opposite St. Peter’s Chapel, and deposited his burden on the platform. He was followed more leisurely by Sorrocold; and Wolfytt, throwing the straw upon the ground, scrambled after them as well as he could.
“If I had thought it was so cold, I would have taken another pull at the stone bottle,” he said, rubbing his hands.
“Warm yourself by helping the carpenter,” replied Sorrocold gravely. “It will do you more good.”
Wolfytt laughed, and dropping on his knees, grasped the block with both hands, and placed his neck in the hallowed space.
“Shall I try whether I can take your head off?” demanded Mauger, feigning to draw his dagger.
Apprehensive that the jest might be carried a little too far, Wolfytt got up, and imitated, as well as his drunken condition would allow, the actions of a person addressing the multitude and preparing for execution. In bowing to receive the blessing of the priest, he missed his footing a second time, and rolled off the scaffold. He did not attempt to ascend again, but supported himself against one of the posts near the carpenters. Mauger and Sorrocold took no notice of him, but began to converse in an undertone about the apparition. In spite of himself, the executioner could not repress a feeling of dread, and the chirurgeon half-repented his curiosity.
After a while, neither spoke, and Sorrocold’s teeth chattered, partly with cold, partly with terror. Nothing broke the deathlike silence around, except the noise of the hammer, and ever and anon a sullen and ominous roar proceeding from the direction of the Lions’ Tower.
“Do you think it will appear?” inquired Sorrocold, whose blood ran cold at the latter awful sounds.
“I know not,” replied Mauger—” Ah! there — there it is.” And he pointed towards the church porch, from which a figure, robed in white, but unsubstantial almost as the mist, suddenly issued. It glided noiselessly along, and without turning its face towards the beholders. No one saw it except Mauger and Sorrocold, who followed its course with their eyes. The carpenters continued their work, and Wolfytt stared at his companions in stupid and inebriate wonderment. After making the complete circuit of the scaffold, the figure entered the church porch and disappeared.
“What think you of it?” demanded Mauger, as soon as he could find utterance.
“It is marvellous and incomprehensible, and if I had not seen it with my own eyes, I could not have believed it,” replied the chirurgeon. “It must be the shade of Anne Boleyn. She is buried in that chapel.”
“You are right,” replied the executioner. “It is her spirit. There will be no further respite. Jane will die to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XLI.
OF THE UNION OF CHOLMONDELEY WITH ANGELA.
THE near approach of death found Jane as unshaken as before, or rather she rejoiced that her deliverance was at hand. Compelled to her infinite regret to hold a disputation with Feckenham, she exerted all her powers; and, as upon a former occasion, when opposed to a more formidable antagonist, Gardiner, came off victorious. But though defeated, the zealous confessor did not give up his point, trusting he should be able to weary her out. He accordingly passed the greater part of each day in her prison, and brought with him, at different times, Gardiner, Tunstal, Bonner, and other prelates, all of whom tried the effect of their reasoning upon her, but with no avail. Bonner, who was of a fierce and intolerant nature, was so enraged, that on taking leave of her he said with much acrimony, “Farewell, madam. I am sorry for you and your obstinacy, and I am assured we shall never meet again.”
“True, my lord,” replied Jane; “we never shall meet again, unless it shall please God to turn your heart. And I sincerely pray that He may send you His Holy Spirit, that your eyes may be opened to His truth.”
Nor had the others better success. Aware that whatever she said would be reported to the disadvantage of the Protestant faith, if it could be so perverted, she determined to give them no handle for misrepresentation, and fought the good fight so gallantly that she lost not a single point, and wrung even from her enemies a reluctant admission of defeat. Those best skilled in all the subtleties of scholastic argument could not perplex her. United to the most profound learning, she possessed a clear logical understanding, enabling her at once to unravel and expose the mysteries in which they sought to perplex her, while the questions she proposed in her turn were unanswerable. At first she found Feckenham’s visits irksome, but by degrees they became almost agreeable to her, because she felt she was at once serving the caus
e of the Gospel, and taking from her own thoughts. During all this time Angela never for a moment quitted her, and though she took no part in the conferences, she profited greatly by them.
Two days before she suffered, Jane said to Feckenham, “You have often expressed a wish to serve me, reverend sir. There is one favor you can confer upon me if you will.”
“What is it, madam?” he rejoined.
“Before I die,” returned Jane, “I would fain see Angela united to her lover, Cuthbert Cholmondeley. He was ever a faithful follower of my unfortunate husband, and he has exhibited a like devoted attachment to me. I know not whether you can confer this favor upon me, or whether you will do so if you can. But I venture, from your professions of regard for me, to ask it. If you consent, send, I pray you, to Master John Bradford, prebendary of St. Paul’s, and let him perform the ceremony in this chamber.”
“Bradford!” exclaimed Feckenham, frowning. “I know the obstinate and heretical preacher well. If you are willing that I should perform the ceremony, I will undertake to obtain the Queen’s permission for it. But it must not be done by Bradford.”
“Then I have nothing further to say,” replied Jane.
“But how comes it that you, Angela,” said Feckenham, addressing her in a severe tone, “the daughter of Catholic parents, both of whom suffered for their faith abandon it?”
“A better light has been vouchsafed me,” she replied, “and I lament that they were not equally favored.”
“Well, madam,” observed Feckenham to Jane, “you shall not say I am harsh with you. I desire to serve Angela, for her parents’ sake — both of whom were very dear to me, I will make known your request to the Queen, and I can almost promise it shall be granted on one condition.”
“On no condition affecting my opinions,” said Jane. “Nay, madam,” returned the confessor, with a half-smile, “I was about to propose nothing to which you can object. My condition is, that if Bradford is admitted to your prison, you exchange no word with him, except in reference to the object of his visit. That done, he must depart at once.”
“I readily agree to it,” replied Jane, “and I thank you for your consideration.”
After some further conference, Feckenham departed, and Angela, as soon as they were alone, warmly thanked Jane for her kindness, saying, “But why think of me at such a time?”
“Because it will be a satisfaction to me to know that you are united to the object of your affections,” replied Jane. “And now leave me to my devotions, and prepare yourself for what is to happen.”
With this, she withdrew into the recess, and, occupied in fervent prayer, soon abstracted herself from all else. Three hours afterwards, Feckenham returned. He was accompanied by Cholmondeley, and a grave-looking divine in the habit of a minister of the Reformed Church, in whom Jane immediately recognized John Bradford, the uncompromising preacher of the Gospel, who not long afterwards won his crown of martyrdom at Smithfield. Apparently, he knew why he was summoned, and the condition annexed to it, for he fixed an eye full of the deepest compassion and admiration upon Jane, but said nothing. Cholmondeley threw himself at her feet, and pressed her hand to his lips, but his utterance failed him. Jane raised him kindly and entreated him to command himself, saying, “I have not sent for you here to afflict you, but to make you happy.”
“Alas! madam,” replied Cholmondeley, “you are ever more thoughtful for others than yourself.”
“Proceed with the ceremony without delay, sir,” said Feckenham. “I rely upon your word, madam, that you hold no conference with him.”
“You may rely upon it,” returned Jane.
And the confessor withdrew.
Bradford then took from his vest a book of prayers, and in that prison-chamber, with Jane only as a witness, the ceremony was performed. At its conclusion, Angela observed to her husband —
“We must separate as soon as united, for I shall never quit my dear mistress during her lifetime.”
“I should deeply regret it if you did otherwise,” returned Cholmondeley. “Would I had like permission to attend on Lord Guilford! But that is denied me.”
At the mention of her husband’s name, a shade passed over Jane’s countenance, but she instantly checked the emotion.
“My blessing upon your union I” she cried, extending her hands over the pair, “and may it be happy — happier than mine.”
“Amen!” cried Bradford. “Before I take my leave, madam, I trust I shall not transgress the confessor’s commands if I request you to write your name in this book of prayers. It will stimulate me in my devotions, and may perchance cheer me in a trial like your own.”
Jane readily complied, and taking the book, wrote a short prayer in the blank leaf, and subscribed it with her name. « This is but a slight return for your compliance with my request, Master Bradford,” she said, as she returned the book, “but it is all I have to offer.”
“I shall prize it more than the richest gift,” replied the preacher. “Farewell, madam, and doubt not I shall pray constantly for you.”
“I thank you heartily, sir,” she rejoined. “You must go with him, Cholmondeley,” she continued, perceiving that the esquire lingered—” We must now part forever.”
“Farewell, madam,” cried Cholmondeley, again prostrating himself before her, and pressing her hand to his lips.
“Nay, Angela, you must lead him forth,” observed Jane kindly, though a tear started to her eye. And she withdrew into an embrasure, while Cholmondeley, utterly unable to control his distress, rushed forth, and was followed by Bradford.
Jane’s benediction did not fall to the ground. When the tragic event, which it is the purpose of this chronicle to relate, was over, Angela fell into a dangerous illness, during which her husband watched over her with the greatest solicitude. Long before her recovery, he had been liberated by Mary and, as soon as she was fully restored to health, they retired to his family seat in Cheshire, where they passed many years of uninterrupted happiness, saddened — but not painfully — by the recollection of the past.
CHAPTER XLII.
THE EXECUTION OF LADY JANE GREY.
MONDAY, the 12th of February, 1554, the fatal day destined to terminate Jane’s earthly sufferings, at length arrived. Excepting a couple of hours which she allowed to rest, at the urgent entreaty of her companion, she had passed the whole of the night in prayer. Angela kept watch over the lovely sleeper, and the effect produced by the contemplation of her features during this her last slumber, was never afterwards effaced. The repose of an infant could not be more calm and holy. A celestial smile irradiated her countenance; her lips moved as if in prayer; and if good angels are ever permitted to visit the dreams of those they love on earth, they hovered that night over the couch of Jane. Thinking it cruelty to disturb her from such a blissful state, Angela let an hour pass beyond the appointed time. But observing a change come over her countenance, seeing her bosom heave, and tears gather beneath her eyelashes, she touched her, and Jane instantly arose.
“Is it four o’clock?” she inquired.
“It has just struck five, madam,” replied Angela. “I have disobeyed you for the first and last time. But you seemed so happy, that I could not find in my heart to waken you.”
“I was happy,” replied Jane, “for I dreamed that all was over — without pain to me — and that my soul was borne to regions of celestial bliss by a troop of angels who had hovered above the scaffold.”
“It will be so, madam,” replied Angela fervently. “You will quit this earth immediately for heaven, where you will rejoin your husband in everlasting happiness.”
“I trust so,” replied Jane, in an altered tone, “but in that blessed place I searched in vain for him. Angela, you let me sleep too long, or not long enough.”
“Your pardon, dearest madam,” cried the other fearfully. “Nay, you have given me no offence,” returned Jane kindly. “What I meant was that I had not time to find my husband.”
“Oh you will find hi
m, dearest madam,” returned Angela, “doubt it not. Your prayers would wash out his offences, even if his own could not.”
“I trust so,” replied Jane. “And I will now pray for him, and do you pray too.”
Jane then retired to the recess, and in the gloom — for it was yet dark — continued her devotions until the clock struck seven. She then arose, and assisted by Angela, attired herself with great care.
“I pay more attention to the decoration of my body now I am about to part with it,” she observed, “than I would do if it was to serve me longer. So joyful is the occasion to me that were I to consult my own feelings, I would put on my richest apparel to indicate my contentment of heart. I will not, however, so brave my fate, but array myself in these weeds.” And she put on a gown of black velvet, without ornament of any kind; tying round her slender throat (so soon alas! to be severed) a simple white falling collar. Her hair was left purposely unbraided, and was confined by a caul of black velvet. As Angela performed those sad services, she sobbed audibly.
“Nay, cheer thee, child,” observed Jane. “When I was clothed in the robes of royalty, and had the crown placed upon my brow — nay, when arrayed on my wedding-day — I felt not half so joyful as now.”
“Ah, madam,” exclaimed Angela, in a paroxysm of grief, “my condition is more pitiable than yours. You go to certain happiness. But I lose you.”
“Only for a while, dear Angela,” returned Jane. “Comfort yourself with that thought. Let my fate be a warning to you. Be not dazzled by ambition. Had I not once yielded, I had never thus perished. Discharge your duty strictly to your eternal and your temporal rulers, and rest assured we shall meet again — never to part.”
“Your counsel shall be graven on my heart, madam,” returned Angela. “And oh, may my end be as happy as yours!”
“Heaven grant it!” ejaculated Jane fervently. “And now,” she added, as her toilette was ended, “I am ready to die.”
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