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The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

Page 636

by William Harrison Ainsworth


  To Catherine, it appeared as if she were taking leave of the world. In her eyes, the very trees had a mournful look, and in their whispering seemed to bid her farewell.

  Very loth was she to quit their friendly shade, and would have lingered beneath them, if she could, to the last. Why could she not expire at that moment? Why could not the rest be spared her?

  Lady Rochford noticed her wistful looks at the trees, and guessed what was passing in her breast. She, too, was oppressed by sorrowful thoughts, and felt as if she were marching to the grave.

  At last they issued from the grove, and the darkling river opened upon them.

  None, except those that were with her, witnessed the young Queen’s embarcation, but her step did not falter as she entered the barge. She begged to be left alone with Lady Rochford, and her wishes were complied with. No standard floated at the prow — no scutcheon proclaimed that a royal personage was within the vessel — so it swept unnoticed down the current.

  But the onward course of the barge was delayed for a few minutes as it neared Lambeth, and the brief stoppage enabled her to catch a glimpse of the ancient mansion in which she had passed so many happy hours — happy, indeed, by contrast.

  Straining her eyes through the gloom, she could just distinguish the gray old pile amid the trees. What dire calamity she had brought on that ancestral home! She, who had been sheltered there, had caused its ruin — had sent the spoiler to its gates, to plunder it, and drive forth its inmates. She had imperilled the life of the aged relative who had loved her, and watched over her with all a mother’s fondness.

  These reflections caused her such bitter self-reproach and anguish, that she fell into a paroxysm of grief, from which she did not recover till the barge had passed through the mid-arch of London Bridge, and was approaching Traitors’ Gate.

  The arrival of the illustrious prisoner at the Tower was expected. No sooner was the signal given by the sentinels, than the massive wooden gates guarding the private entrance to the fortress swung open, and closed again as the bark passed through them.

  Torchlight flashing on the low-browed arches, and on the black turbid water, revealed Sir William Kingston standing with a guard of halberdiers on the stone steps of the landing-place.

  The Lieutenant of the Tower bowed profoundly as he proffered his hand to assist the Queen in mounting the humid steps, and his looks expressed the deep commiseration he felt for her.

  “Alas, madam!” he said, “I never thought to meet you thus.”

  “You might have expected to do so, Sir William, when you heard I had become Queen,” she rejoined. “From the throne to the Tower is hut a step.”

  A moment afterwards, she inquired, anxiously, “Whither am I to be taken, Sir William? I must not be separated from Lady Rochford.”

  “You shall not be deprived of her attendance, madam,” he replied, with unaffected kindness. “You will have nothing to complain of while you are in my custody. You shall be lodged in the best apartments of the old palace, and Lady Rochford shall remain with you.”

  “I thank you from my heart, Sir William!” she cried.

  And she instantly communicated the satisfactory intelligence to Lady Rochford, who had joined her.

  XXVIII. The old Palace in the Tower.

  THE old palace in the Tower, whither Catherine and her attendant were conducted by the lieutenant, was situated at the south-east angle of the fortress, and with its courts and garden occupied the whole of the space between this side of the donjon and the balllium wall.

  Approached by an embattled gateway, the palace consisted of a mass of irregular buildings, all of which have been swept away. Its chief features were a large hall and a long gallery, the latter standing between the inner court and the privy gardens.

  The apartments, which were seldom occupied by the King, were hung with old faded tapestry, and had a very gloomy air, but to the unfortunate Queen and her companion, who had expected imprisonment in one of the towers, they appeared delightful.

  By the consideration of the lieutenant, they were allowed free range of the palace, and even to take exercise in the privy gardens.

  Still further indulgence was shown the unhappy Queen. She and Lady Rochford had the privilege, seldom accorded to prisoners, however illustrious, of attending mass in the chapel in the White Tower.

  A private passage communicating with the donjon enabled them to repair thither, without attracting observation. Thus, through the kindness of the lieutenant, who might, from his conduct, have incurred the King’s displeasure, Catherine suffered none of the worst miseries of captivity.

  From Sir William Kingston she learnt the fate of Dereham. The lieutenant did not, however, inform her that the villain’s head was then bleaching on the gate-towers of London Bridge.

  From the same source she ascertained that Adrian Culpepper still lived, though he had undergone the torture. He was confined in the Broad Arrow Tower — a fortification almost facing the palace, and that could be distinctly seen from the windows of the long gallery. The lieutenant had not received the warrant for his execution, but it might arrive at any time.

  “I was present at his interrogation,” said Sir William. “He exhibited the greatest constancy. Nothing could be wrested from him tending in the slightest degree to criminate your Highness.”

  “I never doubted it, Sir William,” said Catherine.

  “He is too brave, too loyal, too good to utter a falsehood!”

  Not long after this conversation with the lieutenant, the Queen and Lady Rochford repaired to the great gallery; and as they paced to and fro, they cast many an anxious glance at the grated windows of the Broad Arrow Tower, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the prisoner — but in vain. Nothing could be seen of him.

  Next day, however, Catherine was more fortunate. She had stationed herself in the deep embrasure of a window commanding the Broad Arrow Tower, and it soon became evident that she had attracted the prisoner’s attention.

  A figure could just be distinguished behind the bars. Her heart told her it was Adrian. He made a sign, showing that he recognised her, and she returned it. But she did not dare to remain long at her post, lest she should be observed.

  When she again beheld him, he made a different signal to her; but though he repeated it, she could not understand its import; nor could Lady Rochford assist her. Oh, that she could have exchanged a word with him!

  We have said that the Queen and her companion were allowed to attend mass in the chapel in the White Tower. They went thither on that evening, and, entering the gallery, knelt down as they were wont to do on cushions placed near one of the arched openings of the gallery above the nave.

  The interior of the little fane, with the massive stone pillars lining the aisles, was illuminated by the tapers burning at the altar, but the gallery was almost buried in gloom.

  Catherine was engaged in prayer, when she heard her name softly whispered.

  Could it be the voice of Adrian?

  Slightly turning her head, but without altering her posture, she beheld a dark figure bending towards her, and no longer doubted.

  “Adrian!” she murmured. “You here?”

  “Yes,” he replied, in the same low tone. “I have been brought hither by my gaoler, Jerome, whose aid I have secured. But my time is brief. Listen to me calmly, Catherine. I have devised a plan to save you from your threatened fate. ’Tis fraught with difficulty, but, with heaven’s help, it will succeed. Take this phial,” he added, giving her one, which she instantly concealed within her bosom. “’Tis a powerful narcotic, which I have procured from Borlase, the chirurgeon, and will produce a sleep that cannot be distinguished from death.”

  “I will drink it,” she rejoined. “But what will follow?”

  “On your return to sensibility, you will be without the walls of the Tower, and out of the tyrant’s reach,” he rejoined. “In St. Peter’s Chapel, where Anne Boleyn is interred, a grave will be opened, and a coffin placed within it; but the coff
in will be empty.”

  “Ah!” she exclaimed.

  “Have no fear,” he rejoined. “I can trust those I have employed. Not till the work is done will they be rewarded.”

  “And you, Adrian! You will escape?”

  “Think not of me,” he returned. “I shall die happy in the conviction that I have saved you. Were I set free, I could not live long. My frame is shattered by that dreadful engine. Death will be a release from suffering. And it is not far off.”

  “Oh, Adrian!” she ejaculated.

  “The warrant has arrived. To-morrow, I shall he taken to Tower Hill. Think of me sometimes, Catherine.”

  “While life lasts, you will never be absent from my thoughts, Adrian. But I am sure I shall quickly follow you.”

  He did not say farewell. His strength was failing him, and he glided away like a phantom.

  Catherine required all Lady Rochford’s support as she returned to her apartments in the palace.

  XXIX. Another Tragedy on Tower Hill.

  NEXT morn, a melancholy procession took its way from the fortress to Tower Hill.

  Its progress was necessarily slow, for he who was about to suffer could scarcely drag along his lacerated limbs. His crime had not been proclaimed, but it was known and much talked about, and curiosity brought forth a vast number of City dames, anxious to behold the victim of the King’s jealous fury.

  On Adrian’s appearance, great commiseration was expressed for him, especially by the female portion of the assemblage, who denounced Henry’s cruelty in sending such a handsome gallant to the block. The barbarous treatment he had experienced from the tormentors formed likewise the subject of much indignant comment.

  Even now, Adrian retained sufficient of his former symmetry to show what a model of grace he had been: while his features, though cadaverous and stamped with pain, still preserved their regularity of outline.

  He bore himself as stoutly as his enfeebled condition would permit; but every now and then the excruciating agony he endured compelled him to halt; and it was at such times that the sympathy of the City dames was most warmly manifested.

  On one of these occasions he was so much moved, that he could not help addressing a few grateful words to those who pressed around him, assuring them that their pity was not undeserved, since he was guiltless of the crime imputed to him.

  “If that he, sooth,” cried one of the kindhearted dames, “the young Queen must needs be innocent!”

  “She is innocent!” exclaimed Adrian, earnestly. “Think not otherwise of her!”

  “Heaven grant her innocence may appear before it is too late!” cried another woman.

  Amid their tearful adieux, Adrian moved slowly on.

  His mind was at ease in regard to Catherine. She would live — would owe her life to him. Dying, he would baulk the tyrant’s vengeance.

  Before quitting his prison on that fatal morn, he had had a long conference with Jerome, to whom he had confided his hazardous scheme for saving the Queen. The gaoler assured him that all arrangements had been made, and that the plan would be faithfully carried out.

  “I have hired Botolph and Montfort, two trusty varlets, for the business in St. Peter’s Chapel; and Master Borlase, the chirurgeon, from whom I procured the sleeping potion, with Dame Agnes, his wife, have undertaken the rest They could not resist the rich reward offered them. You may die content — the Queen will he saved!”

  “Enough!” cried Adrian. “You are certain of your reward.”

  “Ay,” replied Jerome; “and a princely reward it is! The two chests of gold, hidden by Dereham, are to be divided between me and Master Borlase. We shall both be wealthy. As soon as I can do so with safety, I shall throw up my hateful employment, and quit the Tower.”

  When the dread summons came, and Adrian was taken by the lieutenant and the officials down to the court, he cast a last look at the windows of the gallery; but no Catherine was visible.

  She heard the dismal tolling of the bell; she heard the tread of the halberdiers, and the orders given them by the lieutenant; but she had not the courage to look forth, till all became silent.

  Then he was gone.

  The crowd gathered round the scaffold was not nearly so great as that which assisted at Cromwell’s execution; and it was animated, as we have shown, by very different feelings.

  When he arrived at the fatal spot where his sufferings were to terminate, Adrian was so much exhausted that he could not mount the steps of the scaffold without the lieutenant’s assistance. But he bore his anguish with the resolution of a martyr, and did not utter a groan.

  As he stood before the assemblage, with the stamp of death on his countenance, his looks giving proof of his intense suffering, profound expressions of sympathy were heard on all sides.

  By a supreme effort, he advanced to the railing of the scaffold, and glancing round, exclaimed, in tones that carried conviction of their truth to all hearers, “My friends, I die innocent! Pray for me! Pray for the Queen!”

  Sobs and groans followed this address.

  The old palace of the Tower — Catherine’s place of imprisonment — could be distinguished from the scaffold.

  One look in that direction — one thought of her — and he knelt down by the block.

  His head was stricken off at a blow, and when held up by Mauger, a thrill of horror pervaded the assemblage, and shrieks were heard.

  While the crowd dispersed, Adrian’s dying declaration was discussed, and much pity was expressed for the poor young Queen.

  A group of female gossips was standing at no great distance from the scaffold, when one of them exclaimed, —

  “If the Queen be really innocent, and the King beheads her, he will deserve—”

  “Hold your peace, woman!” interrupted a sinister-looking personage. “You talk treason. The King knows she is guilty. His vengeance is only half glutted. Catherine Howard will die by the same axe as Adrian Culpepper — ay, before the blood-stains are effaced from it.”

  “Jesus!” ejaculated the woman. “’Tis Mauger himself!”

  XXX. The Sleeping-Potion.

  WHILE the tragic event just described took place on Tower Hill, Catherine was alone with Lady Rochford, and in a state of mind bordering on frenzy.

  Her imagination, powerfully excited, had conjured up the dreadful scene. She was on her knees before a crucifix, trying to pray, when she suddenly started up, and with a look that froze her companion with terror, exclaimed, “Hark! did you not hear that sound? The axe has fallen!”

  Lady Rochford attributed this idea to excitement; but certain it was, that at that moment the fatal blow was dealt.

  After this, the Queen became somewhat calmer, and so continued until the headless trunk of him she had loved was brought back to the Tower.

  Agnes, the wife of Borlase, the chirurgeon, acquainted her with this sad circumstance; and when retiring, said, in a significant tone, “My husband bade me say to you, madam, that no time should now be lost in fulfilling the poor young gentleman’s dying wishes. We are ready.”

  “I thank you,” replied the Queen. “I will no longer delay.”

  Again she was alone with Lady Rochford.

  “You heard what Agnes said?” Catherine observed to her companion.

  “I did,” replied Lady Rochford. “And I am of her opinion.”

  Summoning up all her resolution, she took the phial from her bosom.

  “It may be poison,” she exclaimed, with a shudder.

  “If I thought so, I would ask you to reserve part for me,” said Lady Rochford. “But I am sure it is only a sleeping-potion. Drink it without fear. ‘Twill deliver you.”

  “But you will perish,” observed Catherine. “No, no! I will not drink it. We will die together.”

  “That must not be,” said Lady Rochford, firmly. “‘Twill cheer me at the last to think you have escaped. Remember your promise to Adrian. Do not hesitate.”

  Yielding to these exhortations, Catherine placed the phial t
o her lips, and swallowed its contents.

  “’Tis done!” she cried, flinging it away.

  Just at the moment, the door opened, and Sir William Kingston entered the chamber, accompanied by the old Duchess of Norfolk.

  The Duchess had been attainted, and condemned to death, but the execution of the sentence was deferred. Like Catherine, she was confined within the palace of the Tower, but in a different part of the building, and she had not hitherto been allowed to hold any communication with the Queen.

  On seeing her aged relative, Catherine started up, and threw herself on her knees before her.

  “Heaven brings you to me at this moment, dear grandam,” she exclaimed. “Forgive me, oh, forgive me for all the ill I have brought upon you! It has been among the sharpest of my afflictions, that you should suffer for my fault.”

  “I do forgive you, my dear child,” said the Duchess, raising her. “I do not attribute the grievous wrongs I have endured to you. The crime with which you have been charged, and which I know to be false, has served as a pretext for the tyrant’s ruthless treatment of me. We are both his victims.”

  “Madam,” interposed the lieutenant, “I can make every allowance, but I must pray you to constrain your feelings. I consented to this parting interview between you and the Queen, in the hope that it might afford some consolation to you both.”

  “You have done me a greater kindness than you wot, Sir William,” said Catherine, gratefully. “’Tis an inexpressible satisfaction to me to behold the Duchess once more. She has been the best friend I ever had on earth; and, had I listened to her counsels, all would have been well. I should not be here — nor would she — alas! — alas!”

  “Grieve not for me, dear Catherine,” said the Duchess. “What matter if my life be shortened by a few months? But that you should be cut off in your prime by this remorseless tyrant, ’tis sad— ’tis very sad!”

  “Madam, I must again check you,” said the lieutenant. “The King’s name must not be mentioned in my presence, save with fitting respect.”

 

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