“Doubtless, your cross is hard to bear, my lord,” said Cranmer; “but you must not sink beneath it. Your trials, though severe, will soon be over. Forget the injuries you have received, and think of the bliss in store for you.”
All the response made by Cromwell was a groan. On the last occasion they were destined to meet on earth, Cranmer found the unhappy prisoner somewhat more resigned; but he still railed against his enemies, and taxed the King with ingratitude.
“Never was servant more blindly obedient to a master than I have been to his Majesty,” he said. “Yet what has been the reward of all my service?”
“My lord, you wot well that you might have maintained your post, had you not thwarted the King’s inclinations,” observed Cranmer.
“Ay, I have paid the penalty of my imprudence. But I thought to benefit our Church. Had he not repudiated Anne of Cleves, all had gone well. His fatal passion for Catherine Howard has destroyed me, and endangered the Protestant party.”
After a pause, he asked, “Is the affair consummated? Has he married her?”
“They were married privately yesterday at Winchester House, by Gardiner,” replied Cranmer. “‘Twill be a heavy blow to us. The new Queen may be harmless in herself, but she will have bad counsellors, and her influence over the King cannot fail to prove baneful.”
“She will be a mere puppet in the hands of Norfolk and Gardiner,” observed Cromwell. “They will strive to undo our work, and restore Popery and all its errors. One by one, the leaders of the Protestant party will be removed — your Grace among the first. Gardiner will never rest till he has compassed your destruction, as he has done mine. So long as Catherine Howard rules, so long will the Romanists he in the ascendancy. I have failed in preventing this ill-omened marriage. But it will be in your power at any time to dissolve it.”
“How mean you, my lord?” inquired Cranmer.
“Seek out a certain Mary Lassells, who served the old Duchess of Norfolk, and who was — and, for aught I know, still is — in the new Queen’s household. If properly questioned, this woman — Mary Lassells, you will mind the name — will give you some information on which you may act. You have helped to divorce three Queens — you may yet divorce a fourth.”
“Methinks you are leaving me a legacy of vengeance, my lord,” observed Cranmer.
“I am showing you how to defeat the designs of the enemies of our faith,” replied Cromwell. “The hour may come — nay, will come, when you may be glad to avail yourself of the weapon with which I have furnished you.”
At this juncture, the massive door, which was bolted even during the Archbishop’s visits, was unfastened, and Sir William Kingston, the Lieutenant of the Tower, entered the prison-chamber.
He bowed reverently to Cranmer, and with much sorrowful respect to the illustrious prisoner.
“I perceive, from your countenance, that you bring ill tidings, Sir William,” remarked Cromwell, looking earnestly at him.
“You have guessed aright, my lord,” replied the lieutenant. “Summon all your fortitude, I pray you.
The death-warrant has just arrived. Your execution will take place to-morrow morning on Tower Hill.”
“Heaven have mercy upon you!” exclaimed Cranmer.
“Then all hope is gone?” groaned Cromwell.
“My lord, you must prepare to meet your fate,” said Kingston. “His Majesty is inflexible. He would not even listen to his bride, who besought your pardon.”
“Did she intercede for me?” asked Cromwell.
“Most urgently, I am told, my lord; but, I lament to say, ineffectually. Perchance, she might have prevailed, had not the Duke of Norfolk and the Bishop of Winchester interposed.”
“Heaven requite them!” exclaimed Cromwell, clasping his hands.
Then, suddenly starting to his feet, he seized Cranmer’s arm, and whispered in his ear, “Forget what I have just told you. Spare her— ’tis my dying request.”
“Calm yourself, my lord, I entreat you,” said the Primate, fearing some imprudence on the part of the unhappy man. “I will attend to your injunctions.”
“Enough!” cried Cromwell, sinking back in his chair. “I shall not have that guilt on my soul!” he mentally ejaculated.
While preparing to take his departure, Sir William Kingston inquired of the prisoner, in a tone of much feeling, if there was aught he could do for him.
“You can confer a great favour upon me, sir,” replied Cromwell. “Here, in this prison-chamber, I am disturbed by such dreadful thoughts, that I cannot pray. The shades of Exeter and Montague are ever before me. No sooner am I alone, than those ghastly shapes appear, and will not be dismissed.”
“Shake off these superstitions terrors, my lord,” said Cranmer, “and be yourself. Pray heartily, and all the phantoms created by your disordered imagination will disappear.”
“If you are about to ask me to change your prison, my lord,” said the lieutenant, “I grieve to say that I cannot comply. Here you must, perforce, remain to the last.”
“You mistake me, good Sir William,” rejoined Cromwell. “All I would ask of you is leave to perform my devotions for the last time privately within the sacred walls of St. John’s Chapel, in the White Tower.”
“I entreat you to grant the request, sir,” urged Cranmer.
“Most willingly,” replied the lieutenant. “You shall be taken to St. John’s Chapel when you will, and pray there as long as you list.”
“I humbly thank you,” rejoined Cromwell, gratefully. “Since you considerately allow me to choose the hour, I will go thither at midnight, that being the hour when I am most beset by these phantoms.”
“You shall have your wish, my lord,” said the lieutenant; “and it is a satisfaction to me that I can make your mind easier in any way. At midnight, you shall be conducted to the chapel. Meanwhile, I counsel you not to delay your preparations for the morrow. Heaven have you in its keeping!”
With this, he departed.
Cranmer remained for some time longer with the prisoner, earnestly exhorting him to withdraw his thoughts from earth, and to fix them on high.
Nor would he leave him until he had received the unhappy man’s confession, and given him absolution. Then, embracing him affectionately, he bade him an eternal farewell.
X. What occurred in St. John’s Chapel in the white Tower.
THERE are two chapels in the Tower — one of which, standing at the north-west corner of the inner ward, is sufficiently well known: the other, and by far the more remarkable structure, is concealed in the very heart of the old donjon; and being somewhat difficult of access, and used, moreover, as a depositary for State records, is rarely seen.
This ancient chapel, justly considered one of finest specimens of Norman architecture in the country, is in an admirable state of preservation, although it is encumbered by presses, and its unrivalled columns are thickly coated with whitewash.
At the period of our history, it was reserved for the King, during his visits to the old palace in the Tower; but by special permission of the lieutenant, some of the more important prisoners were occasionally allowed to perform their devotions within it.
Henry’s partiality for St. John’s Chapel had prevented it from being desecrated by the Vicar-General. It was still as richly decked as a shrine. The altar was marvellously beautiful. The three windows were filled with stained glass, representing the Virgin and Child, the Holy Trinity, and St. John the Evangelist. Even the numerous saintly images, with the cross and rood, given by Henry the Third, had been allowed to remain.
It is now destitute of all ornament whatever, and can only interest from the severe simplicity of its architecture.
It was in this chapel, which he himself would have despoiled of its treasures, if he had been permitted, that Cromwell had obtained permission to perform his devotions at midnight.
For several hours after Cranmer’s departure, the prisoner was wholly undisturbed. How he passed that interval we need not inquire.
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When the gaoler entered his chamber with his evening meal, he found him leaning back in his chair, with his face covered by his hand, and thought he slumbered.
But the man had something to say; and having lighted the lamp that was placed upon the table, he touched his arm.
Upon this, Cromwell started up, and exclaimed, “What is it? Have you brought me the King’s pardon?”
“Would I had my lord,” rejoined the gaoler. “But a Franciscan friar hath lately come to the Tower, and is most anxious to see you.”
“A Franciscan friar!” exclaimed Cromwell reflecting. “What business can he have with me?”
“Most like, his business is to pray with your lordship,” replied the gaoler; “but I would not admit him.”
“Thou didst wrong, good Jerome. I would fain see him. Is he gone?”
“No, my lord. He is in the guard-chamber at the Bowyer Tower.”
“Fetch him quickly, I pray thee!”
“I cannot bring him to your lordship without an order, and I do not think the lieutenant will grant him one.”
“I shall not die in peace unless I see him,” cried Cromwell. “I have ever found thee ready to serve me, good Jerome — serve me now. ’Tis the last favour I shall require of thee. Take this brooch — thou seest it is set with gems — and bring this friar to me.”
The gaoler examined the brooch by the light of the lamp, and then, with a strangely significant smile, said, “I dare not bring the friar here, my lord. But you shall see him at St. John’s Chapel at midnight. Sir William will not be there.”
With this, he departed, leaving the prisoner in an indescribable state of restlessness and anxiety, which he endured until the grating of the bolts announced the gaoler’s return.
When the door was thrown open by Jerome, a warder was seen standing without, bearing a torch.
“’Tis close upon midnight, my lord,” said Jerome. “Are you ready to proceed to St. John’s Chapel?”
“Quite ready,” replied Cromwell, rising.
While the gaoler aided Cromwell to put on his gown, he whispered in his ear, “You will find him in the chapel.”
Preceded by the torch-hearer, they then descended the short spiral staircase, and issued forth into the inner ward.
The night was dark, and the huge pile, towards which they were about to proceed, though close at hand, was scarcely distinguishable in the gloom.
Half a dozen arquebussiers were in waiting to escort the prisoner to the White Tower.
Just as the troop was put in motion, a deep bell tolled forth the hour of midnight. The whole fortress seemed buried in profound repose.
No other sound was heard, except the martial tramp of the halberdiers.
Sentinels there were at the walls and at the gates, but the inner court was deserted.
Presently, the torchlight flashed on the gray walls of the donjon, and on the steep flight of stone steps leading to the door.
At the foot of these steps the arquebusiers halted, while the prisoner entered with the gaoler and the torch-bearer.
Once within the strong walls of the White Tower, Cromwell was left to the sole custody of the gaoler.
The warder remained in a small guard-room near the entrance, where a couple of halberdiers were lying fast asleep on a bench, and having relinquished his torch to Jerome, sat down on a stool beside them.
As the prisoner and the gaoler tracked a stone corridor, a cowled figure glided before them, with noiseless footsteps, and preceded them up a spiral staircase.
Then it disappeared.
Jerome and his companion marched on in silence. Not a word was exchanged between them till they reached the entrance of the chapel.
The door was standing ajar, intimating that some one had recently passed through it.
“Go in, my lord,” said Jerome. “I must lock the door, but I will open it when you desire to come forth. You will find the friar inside.”
As Cromwell entered, the door was locked behind him.
The tapers were lighted at the altar, but their gleam being intercepted by the massive pillars, the aisles were left in gloom.
Cromwell paused for a moment within the arcade, for his strength suddenly forsook him, and leaned against one of the ponderous columns for support.
On recovering, he passed into the centre of the chapel.
Near the altar, which, as we have said, was lighted up, stood the Franciscan friar, with his cowl drawn over his features.
He was aware of Cromwell’s approach, but, not being sure that he was alone, he remained motionless for a moment; and then, throwing back his hood, disclosed the countenance of Francis Dereham.
A short, sad greeting took place between them.
“I have performed my promise, my lord,” said Dereham. “I told you I would come to you in the Tower; and, though I failed to obtain admittance to your prison, I have contrived a meeting with you here.”
“Have you aught to tell me, Dereham?” asked Cromwell, anxiously.
“Only this, my lord — and it will gladden you to hear it. You shall baulk the tyrant. You shall not die on the scaffold.”
Cromwell’s emotion at these words well-nigh overpowered him, and Dereham paused for a moment before proceeding.
“You shall not enter your prison again, my lord,” he said. “I have planned your escape. Disguised in this friar’s habit, you will be able to pass through the guard unquestioned. Haste towards the Bloody Tower; but before reaching it, you will encounter a warder. Do not fear him. He is a confederate. He will get you out of the fortress, and will conduct you to a spot on the banks of the river where you will find a boat. My trusty African, Mourzouk, will be in charge of the skiff, and will convey you with all speed to a place of safety.”
“A well-contrived plan!” observed Cromwell. “But what will become of you?”
“Think not of me, my lord!” cried Dereham. “Think only of your own preservation. I can take care of myself. I have secured the aid of the gaoler, Jerome. There is a secret outlet from this donjon, with which he is acquainted. Before to-morrow night I will rejoin you. Imagine the King’s wrath when he hears of your escape! He will be frantic. I would not be the messenger to bring him the news. You cannot laugh now, but ‘twill be matter of mirth to you hereafter.”
Cromwell looked bewildered and irresolute. Dereham became alarmed.
“Time presses, my lord!” he cried, untying his girdle. “Put on this robe, and give me your gown.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Cromwell, despairingly; “I have not strength for the effort.”
“For heaven’s sake, make the attempt, my lord!” cried Dereham. “Your life and liberty are at stake.
Jerome will help you. He is bribed. If you can but hold yourself erect, and walk firmly as you pass the guard, you will excite no suspicion.”
“I cannot do it,” groaned Cromwell. “A hand I cannot resist bolds me back. ’Tis vain to struggle against fate.”
“I thought you bad firmer nerves, my lord,” said Dereham. “But though you refuse to save yourself by flight, you may yet avoid an ignominious death. This phial contains a subtle poison, a few drops of which will quickly place you beyond reach of Henry’s vengeance.”
“I thank you for your devotion to me, Dereham, but I cannot profit by it. I must make atonement for my offences. Heaven wills that I, who have brought so many to the scaffold, should die on the scaffold myself. Of all my followers, you are the only one who has remained true to me in my adversity. I have no means of rewarding your fidelity, but I can give you a piece of counsel. Act upon it, I beseech you. Seek not revenge for any wrong you have endured from Catherine Howard. Banish her from your breast. Cross not the King, or you will perish, as I shall perish, on the block. And now farewell for ever!”
While Dereham was slowly quitting the chapel, he looked back, and perceived that Cromwell had fallen on his knees before the altar, and was praying fervently.
A tap against the door caused the gaoler immediat
ely to open it Without allowing him time to ask any questions, Dereham informed him that the plan of evasion was frustrated by the prisoner’s irresolution.
“’Tis useless to reason with him,” he said. “He is obstinately bent on dying on the scaffold. Get me out of the White Tower as quickly as you can, and then take him hack to his prison-chamber.”
XI. How the Lord Cromwell was beheaded on Tower Hill.
MORN came — a morn perfectly in unison with the dreadful tragedy about to be enacted on Tower Hill.
Partially robed in mist, the huge donjon of the fortress looked sterner and more sombre than usual, and the gray ramparts frowned gloomily upon the crowd that began to collect at an early hour round the scaffold.
Executions were of too frequent occurrence in the terrible days of Henry the Eighth to cause much sensation; hut Cromwell’s execution could not fail to attract a large concourse. He was hated by the citizens, who looked upon him as the author of all the tyrannical and oppressive measures to which they had been subjected. They rejoiced in his downfall; and if he had received a pardon from the King, or had contrived to effect his escape through the instrumentality of Dereham, a dangerous popular outbreak would assuredly have taken place.
Never before had such a crowd been seen on Tower Hill. Protestant and Papist were equally embittered against the fallen minister. By the former, his great services to the Reformation were overlooked in their anger at the heavy imposts he had lately inflicted upon them; by the latter, he was denounced as a traitor — an enemy to the people — a sacramentary, and a heretic.
Mingled with the crowd were a great number of poor monks, who had been driven from the monasteries on their dissolution, and they increased the general excitement by their vehement harangues. They spoke of Cromwell’s sacrilegious acts — of the shrines he had desecrated and despoiled — of the multitudes of holy men he had reduced to beggary — of the mischief he had done to religion; and they dwelt on their own individual hardships, which were attributable to him. Divine justice had at length overtaken the offender, and he would die as he deserved, amid universal execration.
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