While pushing through them, a sudden bustle was heard behind, and he was very unceremoniously thrust back by Simon Renard, who was conducting Dudley to the queen’s presence.
“Another prisoner!” exclaimed Xit. “I wonder what Renard will get for his pains. If I could but take Wyat, my fortune were indeed made. First, I will go and see what has become of Bret; and then, if I can do so without much risk, I will venture outside the portcullis of the By-ward Tower. Who knows but I may come in for another good thing!”
Thus communing with himself, Xit went in search of the unfortunate captain of the Trained Bands, while Renard entered the council-chamber with Dudley. The latter, though faint from loss of blood, on finding himself in the queen’s presence, exerted all his strength, and stood erect and unsupported.
“So far your highness is victorious,” said Renard; “one of the rebel-leaders is in your power, and ere long all will be so: Will it please you to question him – or shall I bid Mauger take off his head at once?”
“Let me reflect a moment,” replied Mary, thoughtfully, “He shall die,” she added, after a pause; “but not yet.”
“It were better to behead him now,” rejoined Renard.
“I do not think so,” replied Mary. “Let him be removed to some place of safe confinement – the dungeon beneath Saint John’s Chapel.”
“The only grace I ask from your highness is speedy death,” said Dudley.
“Therefore I will not grant it,” replied Mary. “No, traitor! you shall perish with your wife.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Dudley, “I have destroyed her.”
And as the words were pronounced, he reeled backwards, and would have fallen, if the attendants had not caught him.
“Your Majesty has spared Mauger a labour,” observed Renard, sarcastically.
“He is not dead,” replied Mary; “and if he were so, it would not grieve me. Remove him; and do with him as I have commanded.”
Her injunctions were obeyed, and the inanimate body of Dudley was carried away.
Renard was proceeding to inform the queen that the insurgents had been driven from the Brass Mount, when a messenger arrived, with tidings that another success had been gained – Sir Henry Jerningham having encountered the detachment under the Duke of Suffolk, and driven them back to their vessels, was about to assist the Earl of Pembroke and Sir Henry Bedingfeld in a sally upon Sir Thomas Wyat’s party. This news so enchanted Mary, that she took a valuable ring from her finger and presented it to the messenger, saying – “I will double thy fee, good fellow, if thou wilt bring me word that Wyat is slain, and his traitorous band utterly routed.”
Scarcely had the messenger departed, when another appeared. He brought word that several vessels had arrived off the Tower, and attacked the squadron under the command of Admiral Winter; that all the vessels, with the exception of one, on board which the Duke of Suffolk had taken refuge, had struck; and that her majesty might now feel assured of a speedy conquest. At this news, Mary immediately fell on her knees, and cried – “I thank thee, O Lord! not that thou hast vouchsafed me a victory over my enemies, but that thou hast enabled me to triumph over thine.”
“The next tidings your highness receives will be that the siege is raised,” observed Renard, as the queen arose; “and, with your permission, I will be the messenger to bring it.”
“Be it so,” replied Mary. “I would now gladly be alone.”
As Renard issued from the principal entrance of the White
Tower, and was about to cross the Green, he perceived a small group collected before Saint Peter’s Chapel, and at once guessing its meaning, he hastened towards it. It was just beginning to grow light, and objects could be imperfectly distinguished. As Renard drew nigh, he perceived a circle formed round a soldier whose breast-plate, doublet, and ruff had been removed, and who was kneeling with his arms crossed upon his breast beside a billet of wood. Near him, on the left, stood Manger, with his axe upon his shoulder, and on the right, Gardiner holding a crucifix towards him, and earnestly entreating him to die in the faith of Rome; promising him, in case of compliance, a complete remission of his sins. Bret, for he it was, made no answer, but appeared, from the convulsive movement of his lips, to be muttering a prayer. Out of patience, at length Gardiner gave the signal to Mauger, and the latter motioned the rebel captain to lay his head upon the piece of timber. The practised executioner performed his task with so much celerity that a minute had not elapsed before the head was stricken from the body, and placed on the point of a spear. While the apparatus of death and the blood-streaming trunk were removed, Xit, who was one of the spectators, seized the spear with its grisly burden, and, bending beneath the load, bore it towards the By-ward Tower. A man-at-arms preceded him, shouting in a loud voice, “Thus perish all traitors.”
Having seen this punishment inflicted, Renard hastened towards the By-ward Tower, and avoiding the concourse that flocked round Xit and his sanguinary trophy, took a shorter cut, and arrived there before them. He found Pembroke and Bedingfeld, as the messenger had stated, prepared with a large force to make a sally upon the insurgents. The signal was given by renewed firing from the roof and loopholes of the Middle Tower. Wyat, who had retired under the gateway of that fortification, and had drawn up his men in the open space behind it, now advanced at their head to the attack. At this moment, the portcullis of the By-ward Tower was again raised, and the royalists issued from it. Foremost among them were the giants. The meeting of the two hosts took place in the centre of the bridge, and the shock was tremendous. For a short time, the result appeared doubtful. But the superior numbers, better arms, and discipline, of the queen’s party, soon made it evident on which side victory would incline.
If conquest could have been obtained by personal bravery, Wyat would have been triumphant. Wherever the battle raged most fiercely he was to be found. He sought out Bedingfeld, and failing in reaching him, cut his way to the Earl of Pembroke, whom he engaged and would have slain, if Og had not driven him off with his exterminating mace. The tremendous prowess of the gigantic brethren, indeed, contributed in no slight degree to the speedy termination of the fight. Their blows were resistless, and struck such terror into their opponents, that a retreat was soon begun, which Wyat found it impossible to check. Gnashing his teeth with anger, and uttering ejaculations of rage, he was compelled to follow his flying forces. His anger was vented against Gog. He aimed a terrible blow at him, and cut through his partizan, but his sword shivered against his morion. A momentary rally was attempted in the court between the Lion’s Gate and the Bulwark Gate; but the insurgents were speedily, driven out. On reaching Tower Hill, Wyat succeeded in checking them; and though he could not compel them to maintain their ground; he endeavoured, with a faithful band, to cover the retreat of the main body to London Bridge. Perceiving his aim, Pembroke sent off a detachment under Bedingfeld, by Tower-street, to intercept the front ranks while he attacked the rear. But Wyat beat off his assailants, made a rapid retreat down Thames-street, and after a skirmish with Bedingfeld at the entrance of the bridge, in which he gained a decided advantage, contrived to get his troops safely across it, with much less loss than might have been anticipated. Nor was this all. He destroyed the planks which had afforded him passage, and took his measures so well and so expeditiously on the Southwark side, that Pembroke hesitated to cross the bridge and attack him. >
The Tower, however, was delivered from its assailants. The three giants pursued the flying foe to the Bulwark Gate, and then returned to the Middle Tower, which was yet occupied by a number of Wyat’s party, and summoned them to surrender! The command was refused, unless accompanied by a pardon. The giants said nothing more, but glanced significantly at each other. Magog seized a ram, which had been left by the assailants, and dashed it against the door on the left of the gateway. A few tremendous blows sufficed to burst it open. Finding no one within the lower chamber, they ascended the winding stone staircase, their progress up which was opposed, but ineffectually, by the insurgents. Magog pushed forward like a huge bull, driving his foes from step to step till they reached the roof, where a short but furious encounter took place. The gigantic brethren fought back to back, and committed such devastation among their foes, that those who were left alive threw down their arms, and begged for quarter. Disregarding their entreaties, the giants hurled them over the battlements. Some were drowned in the moat, while others wore dashed to pieces in the court below. “It is thus,” observed Magog with a grim smile to his brethren, as the work of destruction was ended, “that the sons of the Tower avenge the insults offered to their parent.”
On descending, they found Xit stationed in the centre of the bridge, carrying the spear with Bret’s head upon it. The dwarf eagerly inquired whether they had taken Wyat; and being answered in the negative, expressed his satisfaction.
“The achievement is reserved for me,” he cried; “no more laughter, my masters, – no more familiarity. I am about to receive knighthood from the queen.” This announcement, however, so far from checking the merriment of the giants, increased it to such a degree, that the irascible mannikin dashed the gory head in their faces, and would have attacked them with the spear, if they had not disarmed him.
By this time, Sir Henry Bedingfeld had returned from the pursuit of the rebels. Many prisoners had been taken, and conveyed, by his directions, to a secure part of the fortress. Exerting-himself to the utmost, and employing a large body of men in the work, the damages done to the different defences of the fortress were speedily repaired, the bodies of the slain thrown into the river, and all rendered as secure as before. The crews on board Winter’s squadron had surrendered; but their commander, together with the Duke of Suffolk, had escaped, having been put ashore in a small boat. Conceiving all lost, and completely panic-stricken, the Duke obtained horses for himself and a few companions, and riding to Shene, where he had appointed a meeting with his brother, Lord Thomas Grey, set off with him, at full speed, for Coventry, the inhabitants of which city he imagined were devoted to him. But he soon found out his error. Abandoned by his adherents, and betrayed into the hands of the Earl of Huntingdon, who had been sent after him, he was shortly afterwards brought a prisoner to the Tower.
Not to anticipate events, such was the expedition used, that in less than an hour, Bedingfeld conveyed to the queen the intelligence that all damage done by the besiegers was repaired, and that her loss had been trifling compared with that of her enemies. He found her surrounded by her nobles; and on his appearance she arose, and advanced a few steps to meet him.
“You have discharged your office right well, Sir Henry,” she said; “and if we deprive you of it for a while, it is because we mean to intrust you with a post of yet greater importance.”
“Whatever office your majesty may intrust me with, I will gladly accept it,” replied Bedingfeld.
“It is our pleasure, then, that you set out instantly with the Earl of Sussex to Ashbridge,” returned Mary, “and attach the person of the Princess Elizabeth. Here is your warrant. Bring her alive or dead.” #
“Alas!” exclaimed Bedingfeld, “is this the task your highness has reserved for me?”
“It is,” replied Mary; and she added in a lower tone, “you are the only man to whom I could confide it.”
“I must perforce obey, since your majesty wills it – but – ”
“You must set out at once,” interrupted Mary – “Sir Thomas Brydges shall be lieutenant of the Tower in your stead. We reserve you for greater dignities.”
Bedingfeld would have remonstrated, but seeing the queen was immoveable, he signified his compliance, and having received further instructions, quitted the presence to make preparations for his departure.
The last efforts of the insurgents must be briefly told. After allowing his men a few hours’ rest, Wyat made a forced march to Kingston, and hastily repairing the bridge, which had been broken down, with planks, ladders, and beams tied together, passed over it with his ordnance and troops in safety, and proceeded towards London. In consequence of a delay that occurred on the road, his plan was discovered, and the Earl of Pembroke, having by this time collected a considerable army, drew up his forces in Saint James’s fields to give him battle.
A desperate skirmish took place, in which the insurgents, disheartened by their previous defeat, were speedily worsted. Another detachment, under the command of Knevet, were met and dispersed at Charing Cross, by Sir Henry Jerningham, and would have been utterly destroyed, but that they could not be distinguished from the royalists, except by their muddy apparel, which occasioned the cry among the victors of “Down with the draggle-tails.”
Wyat himself, who was bent upon entering the city, where he expected to meet with great aid from Throckmorton, dashed through all opposition, and rode as far as the Belle Sauvage (even then a noted hostel), near Ludgate. Finding the gate shut, and strongly defended, he rode back as quickly as he came to Temple Bar, where he was encountered by Sir Maurice Berkeley, who summoned him to surrender, and seeing it was useless to struggle further, for all his companions had deserted him, he complied. His captor carried him to the Earl of Pembroke; and as soon as it was known that the rebel-leader was taken, the army was disbanded, and every man ordered to return to his home. Proclamation was next made that no one, on pain of death, should harbour any of Wyat’s faction, but should instantly deliver them up to the authorities.
That same night Wyat, together with Knevet, Cobham, and ethers of his captains, were taken to the Tower by water. As Wyat, who was the last to disembark, ascended the steps of Traitor’s Gate, Sir Henry Brydges, the new lieutenant, seized him by the collar, crying, “Oh! thou base and unhappy traitor! how could’st thou find in thy heart to work such detestable treason against the queen’s majesty? Were it not that the law must pass upon thee, I would stab thee with my dagger.”
Holding his arms to his side, and looking at him, as the old chroniclers report, “grievously, with a grim look,” Wyat answered, “It is no mastery now.” Upon which, he was conveyed with the others to the Beauchamp Tower.
XXXI. – HOW JANE SURRENDERED HERSELF A PRISONER; AND HOW SHE BESOUGHT QUEEN MARY TO SPARE HER HUSBAND
Towards the close of the day following that on which the rebels were defeated, a boat, rowed by a single waterman, shot London Bridge, and swiftly approached the Tower wharf. It contained two persons, one of whom, apparently a female, was so closely muffled in a cloak that her features could not be discerned; while her companion, a youthful soldier, equipped in his full accoutrements, whose noble features were clouded with sorrow, made no attempt at concealment. As they drew near the stairs, evidently intending to disembark, the sentinels presented their arquebusses at them, and ordered them to keep off; but the young man immediately arose, and said that having been concerned in the late insurrection, they were come to submit themselves to the queen’s mercy. This declaration excited some surprise among the soldiers, who were inclined to discredit it, and would not have suffered them to land, if an officer of the guard, attracted by what was passing, had not interfered, and granted the request. By his command, they were taken across the draw-bridge opposite the stairs, and placed within the guard-room near the By-ward Tower. Here the officer who had accompanied them demanded their names and condition, in order to report them to the lieutenant.
“I am called Cuthbert Cholmondeley,” replied the young man, “somewhile esquire to Lord Guilford Dudley.”
“You bore that rebel lord’s standard in the attack on the Brass Mount – did you not?” demanded the officer, sternly.
“I did,” replied Cholmondeley.
“Then you have delivered yourself to certain death, young man,” rejoined the officer. “What madness has brought you hither? The queen will show you no mercy, and blood enough will-flow upon the scaffold without yours being added to the stream.”
“I desire only to die with my master,” replied Cholmondeley.
“Where is Lord Guilford Dudley?” demanded the muffled’ female, in a tone of the deepest emotion.
“Confined in one of the secret dungeons – but I may not answer you further, madam,” replied the officer.
“Are his wounds dangerous?” she continued, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.
“They are not mortal, madam,” he answered. “He will live long enough to expiate his offences on the scaffold.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed with difficulty, repressing a scream.
“No more of this – if you are a man,” cried Cholmondeley, fiercely. “You know not whom you address.”
“I partly guess.” replied the officer, with a compassionate look. “I respect your sorrows, noble lady – but oh! why – why are you here? I would willingly serve you – nay, save you – but it is out of my power.”
“My presence here must show you, sir, that I have no wish to avoid the punishment I have incurred,” she replied. “I am come to submit myself to the queen. But if you would serve me – serve me without danger to yourself, or departure from your duty – you will convey this letter without delay to her highness’s own hand.”
“It may be matter of difficulty,” rejoined the officer, “for her majesty is at this moment engaged in a secret conference in the Hall Tower, with the chancellor and the Spanish ambassador. Nay, though I would not further wound your feelings, madam, she is about to sign the death-warrants of the rebels.”
“The more reason, then,” she replied, in accents of supplicating eagerness, “that it should be delivered instantly. Will you take it?”
The officer replied in the affirmative.
“Heaven’s blessing upon you!” she fervently ejaculated. Committing the captives to the guard, and desiring that every attention, consistent with their situation, should be shown them, the officer departed. Half an hour elapsed before his return, and during the interval but few words were exchanged between Cholmondeley and his companion. When the officer reappeared, she rushed towards him, and inquired what answer he brought.
“Your request is granted, madam,” he replied. “I am commanded to bring you to the queen’s presence; and may your suit to her highness prove as successful as your letter! You are to be delivered to the chief jailor, sir,” he added to Chol-mondeley, “and placed in close custody.”
As he spoke, Nightgall entered the guard-room. At the sight of his hated rival, an angry flush rose to the esquire’s countenance – nor was his wrath diminished by the other’s exulting looks.
“You will not have much further power over me,” he observed, in answer to the jailor’s taunts. “Cicely, like Alexia, is out of the reach of your malice. And I shall speedily join them.”
“You are mistaken,” retorted Nightgall, bitterly. “Cicely yet lives; and I will wed her on the day of your execution. Bring him away,” he added, to his assistants. “I shall take him, in the first place, to the torture-chamber, and thence to the subterranean dungeons. I have an order to rack him.”
“Farewell, madam,” said the esquire, turning from him, and prostrating himself before his companion, who appeared in the deepest anguish; “we shall meet no more on earth.”
“I have destroyed you,” she cried. “But for your devotion to me, you might be now in safety.”
“Think not of me, madam – I have nothing to live for,” replied the esquire, pressing her hand to his lips. “Heaven support you in this your last, and greatest, and – as I can bear witness – most unmerited trial. Farewell, for ever!”
“Ay, for ever!” repeated the lady. And she followed the officer; while Cholmondeley was conveyed by Nightgall and his assistants to the secret entrance of the subterranean dungeons near the Devilin Tower.
Accompanied by his charge, who was guarded by two halberdiers, the officer proceeded along the southern ward, in the direction of the Hall Tower – a vast circular structure, standing on the east of Bloody Tower.
This fabric, (sometimes called the Wakefield Tower from the prisoners confined within it, after the battle of that name in 1460, and more recently the Record Tower, from the use to which it has been put,) is one of the oldest in the fortress, and though not coeval with the White Tower, dates back as far as the reign of William Rufus, by whom it was erected. It contains two large octagonal chambers, – that on the upper story being extremely lofty, with eight deep and high embrazures, surmounted by pointed arches, and separated by thin columns, springing from the groined arches formerly supporting the ceiling, which though unfortunately destroyed, corresponded, no doubt, with the massive and majestic character of the apartment. In this room tradition asserts that
– the aspiring blood of Lancaster
Sank in the ground: —
– it being the supposed scene of the murder of Henry the Sixth by the ruthless Gloster. And whatever doubts may be entertained as to the truth of that dark legend, it cannot be denied that the chamber itself seems stamped with the gloomy character of the occurrence. In recent times, it has been devoted to a more peaceful purpose, and is now fitted up with presses containing the most ancient records of the kingdom. The room on the basement floor is of smaller dimensions, and much less lofty. The recesses, however, are equally deep, though not so high, and are headed by semicircular arches. At high tides it is flooded, and a contrivance for the escape of the water has been made in the floor.
Passing through an arched doorway on the east of this structure, where the entrance to the Record Office now stands, the officer conducted his prisoner up a spiral stone staircase, and left her in a small antechamber, while he announced her arrival. The unhappy lady still kept herself closely muffled. But though her features and figure were hidden, it was evident she trembled violently. In another moment, the officer reappeared, and motioning her to follow him, led the way along a narrow passage, at the end of which hangings were drawn aside by two ushers, and she found herself in the presence of the queen.
Mary was seated at a table, near which stood Gardiner and Renard, and at the new-comer’s appearance she instantly arose.
The interview about to be related took place in the large octangular chamber previously described. It was sumptuously furnished: the walls were hung with arras from the looms of Flanders, and the deep recesses occupied with couches, or sideboards loaded with costly cups and vessels.
Hastily advancing towards the queen, the lady prostrated herself at her feet, and, throwing aside her disguise, revealed the features of Jane. She extended her hands supplicatingly towards Mary, and fixed her streaming eyes upon her, but was for some moments unable to speak.
“I am come to submit myself to your highness’s mercy,” she said, as soon as she could find utterance.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Mary, scornfully. “You shall receive justice, but no mercy.”
“I neither deserve, nor desire it,” replied Jane. “I have deeply, but not wilfully – Heaven is my witness! – offended your majesty, and I will willingly pay the penalty of my fault.”
“What would you with me?” demanded Mary. “I have acceded to this interview in consideration of your voluntary submission. But be brief. I have important business before me, and my heart is steeled to tears and supplications.”
“Say not so, gracious madam,” rejoined Jane. “A woman’s heart can never be closed to the pleadings of the unfortunate of her own sex, still less the heart of one so compassionate as your highness. I do not sue for myself.”
“For whom, then?” demanded the queen.
“For my husband,” replied Jane.
“I am about to sign his death-warrant,1’ replied Mary, in a freezing tone.
“I will not attempt to exculpate him, madam,” returned Jane, restraining her emotion by a powerful effort, “for his offence cannot be extenuated. Nay, I deplore his rashness as much as your highness can condemn it. But I am well assured that vindictiveness is no part of your royal nature – that you disdain to crush a fallen foe – and that, when the purposes of justice are answered, no sentiments but those of clemency will sway your bosom. I myself, contrary to my own wishes, have been the pretext for the late insurrection, and it is right I should suffer, because while my life remains, your highness may not feel secure. But my husband has no claims, pretended or otherwise, to the throne, and when I am removed, all fear of him will be at an end. Let what I have done speak my sincerity. I could have escaped to France, if I had chosen. But I did not choose to accept safety on such terms. Well knowing with whom I had to deal – knowing also that my life is of more importance than my husband’s, I have come to offer myself for him. If your highness has any pity for me, extend it to him, and heap his faults on my head.”
“Jane,” said Mary, much moved – “you love your husband devotedly.”
“I need not say I love him better than my life, madam,” replied Jane, “for my present conduct will prove that I do so. But I love him so well, that even his treason to your highness, to whom he already owes his life, cannot shake it. Oh, madam! as you hope to be happy in your union with the Prince of Spain – as you trust to be blessed with a progeny which shall continue on the throne of this kingdom – spare my husband – spare him for my sake.”
“For your sake, Jane, I would spare him,” replied Mary, in a tone of great emotion, “but I cannot.”
“Cannot, madam!” cried Jane – “you are an absolute queen, and who shall say you nay? Not your council – not your nobles – not your people – not your own heart. Your majesty can and will pardon him. Nay, I read your gracious purpose in your looks. You will pardon him, and your clemency shall do more to strengthen your authority than the utmost severity could do.”
“By Saint Paul!” whispered Renard to Gardiner, who had listened with great interest to the conference, and now saw with apprehension the effect produced on Mary, “she will gain her point, if we do not interfere.”
“Leave it to me,” replied Gardiner. “Your majesty will do well to accede to the Lady Jane’s request,” he remarked aloud to the queen, “provided she will comply with your former proposition, and embrace the faith of Rome.”
“Ay,” replied Mary, her features suddenly lighting up, “on these terms I will spare him. But your reconciliation with our holy church,” she added to Jane, “must be public.”
“Your highness will not impose these fatal conditions upon me,” cried Jane, distractedly.
“On no other will I accede,” replied Mary, peremptorily. “Nay, I have gone too far already. But my strong sympathy for you as a wife, and my zeal for my religion, are my inducements. Embrace our faith, and I pardon your husband.”
“I cannot,” replied Jane, in accents of despair; “I will die for him, but I cannot destroy my soul alive.”
“Then you shall perish together,” replied Mary, fiercely. “What ho! guards. Let the Lady Grey be conveyed to the Brick Tower, and kept a close prisoner during our pleasure.” And, waving her hand, Jane was removed by the attendants, while Mary seated herself at the table, and took up some of the papers with which it was strewn, to conceal her agitation.
“You struck the right key, my lord, – bigotry,” observed Renard, in an under tone to Gardiner.