The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated
One night, when he was alone, Nightgall entered his chamber, and, closing the door, observed, with a mysterious look, – “Your excellency has thrown out certain dark hints to me of late. You can speak safely now, and I pray you do so plainly. What do you desire me to do?”
Do Noailles looked scrutinizingly at him, as if he feared some treachery. But at length, appearing satisfied, he said abruptly, “I desire Renards assassination. His destruction is of the utmost importance to my king.”
“It is a great crime,” observed Nightgall, musingly.
“The reward will be proportionate,” rejoined De Noailles.. “What does your excellency offer?” asked Nightgall.
“A thousand angels of gold,” replied the ambassador, “and a post at the court of France, if you will fly thither when the deed is done.”
“By my troth, a tempting offer,” rejoined Nightgall. “But I am under great obligations to M. Simon Renard. He appointed me to my present place. It would appear ungrateful to kill him.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed De Noailles, contemptuously. “You are not the man to let such idle scruples stand in the way of your fortune. Renard only promoted you because you were useful to him. And he would sacrifice you as readily, if it suited his purpose. He will serve you better dead than living.”
“It is a bargain,” replied Nightgall. “I have the keys of the subterranean passages, and can easily get out of the Tower when I have despatched him. Your excellency can fly with me if you think proper.”
“On no account,” rejoined De Noailles. “I must not appear in the matter. Come to me when the deed is done, and I will furnish you with means for your flight, and with a letter to the king of France, which shall ensure you your reward when you reach Paris. But it must be done quickly.”
“It shall be done to-morrow night,” replied Nightgall. “Fortunately, M. Renard has chosen for his lodgings the chamber in the Bloody Tower in which the two princes were murdered.”
“A fitting spot for his own slaughter,” remarked De Noailles, drily. “It is so, in more ways than one,” replied Nightgall; “for I can approach him unawares by a secret passage, through which, when all is over, escape will be easy.”
“Good!” exclaimed De Noailles, rubbing his hands gleefully. “I should like to be with you at the time. Mortdieu! how I hate that man. He has thwarted all my schemes. But I shall now have my revenge. Take this ring and this purse in earnest of what is to follow, and mind you strike home.”
“Fear nothing,” replied Nightgall, smiling grimly, and playing his dagger; “the blow shall not need to be repeated. Your excellency’s plan chimes well with a project of my own. There is a maiden whom I have long sought, but vainly, to make my bride. I will carry her off with me to France.”
“She will impede your flight,” observed De Noailles, hastily. “On all difficult occasions, women are sadly in the way.”
“I cannot leave her,” rejoined Nightgall.
“Take her, then, in the devil’s name,” rejoined De Noailles, peevishly; “and if she brings you to the gallows, do not forget my warning.”
“My next visit shall be to tell you your enemy is no more,” returned Nightgall. “Before midnight to-morrow, you may expect me.” And he quitted the chamber.
While his destruction was planned in the manner above-related, Simon Renard was employing all his art to crush by one fell stroke all the heads of the Protestant party. But he met with opposition from quarters where he did not anticipate it. Though the queen was convinced of Elizabeth’s participation in the plot, as well from Wyat’s confession, who owned that he had written to her during his march to London, offering to proclaim her queen, and had received favourable answers from her, – as from the declaration of a son of Lord Russell, to the effect, that he had delivered the despatches into her own hand, and brought back her replies; – notwithstanding this, Mary refused to pass sentence upon her, and affected to believe her innocent. Neither would she deal harshly with Courtenay, though equally satisfied of his guilt; and Renard, unable to penetrate her motives, began to apprehend that she still nourished a secret attachment to him. The truth was, the princess and her lover had a secret friend in Gardiner, who counteracted the sanguinary designs of the ambassador. Baffled in this manner, Renard determined to lose no time with the others. Already, by his agency, the Duke of Suffolk, Lord Thomas Grey, and Wyat, were condemned – Dudley and Jane alone were wanting to the list.
Touched, by a strong feeling of compassion for their youth, and yet more by the devotion Jane had exhibited to her husband, Mary hesitated to sign their death-warrant. She listened to all Renard’s arguments with attention, but they failed to move her. She could not bring herself to put a period to the existence of one whom she knew to be so pure, so lovely, so loving, so blameless, as Jane. But Renard was determined to carry his point.
“I will destroy them all,” he said; “but I will begin with Dudley and Jane, and end with Courtenay and Elizabeth.”
During the examination of the conspirators, the queen, though she had moved her court to Whitehall, passed much of her time at the Tower, occupied in reading the depositions of the prisoners, or in framing interrogatories to put to them. She also wrote frequent despatches to the emperor, whose counsel she asked in her present difficulties; and while thus occupied, she was often closeted for hours with Renard.
Whether by accident, or that the gloomy legend connected with it, harmonising with his own sombre thoughts, gave it an interest in his eyes, Renard had selected for his present lodging in the Tower, as intimated by Nightgall, the chamber in which the two youthful princes were destroyed. It might be that its contiguity to the Hall Tower, where Mary now for the most part held her conferences with her council, and with which it was connected by a secret passage, occasioned this selection – or he might have been influenced by other motives – suffice it to say he there took up his abode; and was frequently visited within it by Mary. Occupying the upper story of the Bloody Tower, this mysterious chamber looks on the north upon the ascent leading to the Green, and on the south upon Saint Thomas’s Tower. It is now divided into two rooms by a screen – that to the south being occupied as a bed-chamber; and tradition asserts, that in this part of the room the “piece of ruthless butchery,” which stamps it with such fearful interest, was perpetrated. On the same side, between the outer wall and the chamber, runs a narrow passage, communicating on the west with the ballium wall, and thence with the lieutenant’s lodgings, by which the murderers are said to have approached; and in the inner partition is a window, through which they gazed upon their sleeping victims. On the east, the passage communicates with a circular staircase, descending to a small vaulted chamber at the right of the gateway, where the bodies were interred. In later times, this mysterious room has been used as a prison-lodging. It was occupied by Lord Ferrers during his confinement in the Tower, and more recently by the conspirators Watson and Thistlewood.
On the evening appointed by Nightgall for the assassination of Renard, the proposed victim and the queen were alone within this chamber. The former had renewed all his arguments, and with greater force than ever, and seeing he had produced the desired impression, he placed before her the warrant for the execution of Jane and her husband.
“Your majesty will never wear your crown easily till you sign that paper,” he said.
“I shall never wear it easily afterwards,” sighed Mary. “Do you not remember Jane’s words? She told me, I should be fortunate in my union, and my race should continue upon the throne, if I spared her husband. They seem to me prophetic. If I sign this warrant, I may destroy my own happiness.”
“Your highness will be not turned from your purpose by such idle fears,” rejoined Renard, in as sarcastic a tone as he dared assume. “Not only your throne may be endangered, if you suffer them to live, but the Catholic religion.”
“True,” replied Mary, “I will no longer hesitate.”
And she attached her signature to the warrant.
Renard watched her with a look of such fiendish exultation, that an unseen person who gazed at the moment into the room, seeing a tall dark figure, dilated by the gloom, for it was deepening twilight, and a countenance from which everything human was banished, thought he beheld a demon, and, fascinated by terror, could not withdraw his eyes. At the same moment, too, the queen’s favourite dog, which was couched at her feet, and for a short time previously had been uttering a low growl, now broke into a fierce bark, and sprang towards the passage-window. Mary turned to ascertain the cause of the animal’s disquietude, and perceived that it had stiffened in every joint, while its barking changed to a dismal howl. Not without misgiving, she glanced towards the window – and there, at the very place whence she had often heard that the murderers had gazed upon the slumbering innocents before the bloody deed was done – there, between those bars, she beheld a hideous black mask, through the holes of which glared a pair of flashing orbs.
Repressing a cry of alarm, she called Renard’s attention to the object, when she was equally startled by his appearance. He seemed transfixed with horror, with his right hand extended towards the mysterious object, and clenched, while the left grasped his sword. Suddenly, he regained his consciousness, and drawing his rapier, dashed to the door, – but ere he could open it, the mask had disappeared. He hurried along the passage in the direction of the lieutenant’s lodgings, when he encountered some one who appeared to be advancing towards him. Seizing this person by the throat and presenting his sword to his breast, he found from the voice that it was Nightgall.
XXXIV. – HOW THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS CONFRONTED WITH SIR THOMAS WYAT IN THE TORTURE-CHAMBER
As Elizabeth passed beneath the portal of the Bloody Tower, on her way to the lieutenant’s lodgings, whither she was conducted after quitting Traitor’s Gate, by Bedingfeld and Sussex, she encountered the giants, who doffed their caps at her approach, and fell upon their knees. All three were greatly affected, especially Magog, whose soft and sensitive nature was completely overcome. Big tears rolled down his cheeks, and in attempting to utter a few words of consolation, his voice failed him. Touched by his distress, Elizabeth halted for a moment, and laying her hand on his broad shoulder, said in a tone, and with a look calculated to enforce her words, “Bear up, good fellow, and like a man. If I shed no tears for myself, those who love me need shed none. It is the duty of my friends to comfort – not to dishearten me. My ease is not so hopeless as you think. The queen will never condemn the innocent, and unheard. Get up, I say, and put a bold face on the matter, or you are not your father’s son.”
Roused by this address, Magog obeyed, and rearing his bulky frame to its full height, so that his head almost touched the spikes of the portcullis, cried in a voice of thunder, “Would your innocence might be proved by the combat, madam, as in our – ” and he hesitated, – “I mean your royal father’s time! I would undertake to maintain your truth against any odds. Nay, I and my brethren would bid defiance to the whole host of your accusers.”
“Though I may not claim you as champions,” replied Elizabeth; “I will fight my own battle, as stoutly as you could fight it for me.”
“And your grace’s courage will prevail,” rejoined Og.
“My innocence will,” returned Elizabeth.
“Right,” cried Gog. “Your grace, I am assured, would no more harbour disloyalty against the queen than we should; seeing that – ”
“Enough,” interrupted the princess, hastily. “Farewell, good friends,” she continued, extending her hand to them, which they eagerly pressed to their lips, “farewell! be of good cheer. No man shall have cause to weep for me.”
“This is a proud, though a sad day,” observed Og, who was the last honoured by the princess’s condescension, “and will never be obliterated from my memory. By my father’s beard!” he added, gazing rapturously at the long, taper fingers he was permitted to touch, “it is the most beautiful hand I ever beheld, and whiter than the driven snow.”
Pleased by the compliment – for she was by no means insensible to admiration, – Elizabeth forgave its unseasonableness for its evident sincerity, and smilingly departed. But she had scarcely ascended the steps leading to the Green, when she was chilled by the sight of Renard, who was standing at the northern entrance of the Bloody Tower, wrapped in his cloak, and apparently waiting to see her pass.
As she drew near, he stepped forward, and made her a profound, but sarcastic salutation. His insolence, however, failed in its effect upon Elizabeth. Eyeing him with the utmost disdain, she observed to Bedingfeld, “Put that Spanish knave out of my path. And he who will remove him from the queen’s councils will do both her and me a good turn.”
“Your grace has sufficient room to pass,” returned Renard, with bitter irony, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as if determined to resist any attempt to remove him. “Your prison within the Bell Tower is prepared, and if my counsels have any weight with her majesty, you will quit it only to take the same path, and ascend the same scaffold as your mother, Anne Boleyn.”
“Another such taunt,” cried Sussex, fiercely, “and neither the sacred character of your office, nor the protection of the queen, shall save you from my sword.”
And he thrust him forcibly backwards.
Elizabeth moved on at a slow and stately pace, while the guard closing round her and Sussex, opposed the points of their halberds to the infuriated ambassador.
“Your highness has increased Renard’s enmity,” observed Bedingfeld, with a troubled look.
“I fear him not,” replied Elizabeth, dauntlessly. “Let him do his worst. English honesty will ever prove more than a match for Spanish guile.”
Entering the lieutenant’s lodgings, and traversing the long gallery already described as running in a westerly direction, Elizabeth soon reached the upper chamber of the Bell Tower, which, she was informed by Sir Thomas Brydges, was appointed for her prison.
“It is a sorry lodging for a king’s daughter,” she observed, “and for one who may be queen of this realm. But since my sister will have it so, I must make shift with it. How many attendants are allowed me?”
“One female,” replied Brydges.
“Why not deprive me of all?” cried the princess, passionately. “This chamber will barely accommodate me. I will be alone.”
“As your grace pleases,’” replied Brydges, “but I cannot exceed my authority.”
“Can I write to the queen?” demanded Elizabeth.
“You will be furnished with writing-materials, if it is your purpose to prepare your confession,” returned the lieutenant. “But it must be delivered to the council, who will exercise their discretion as to transmitting it to her highness.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the princess, “am I at their mercy?”
“Alas! madam, you are so,” replied Bedingfeld; “but the chancellor is your friend.”
“I am not sure of it,” returned Elizabeth. “Oh! that I could see the queen, were it but for one minute. My mother perished because she could not obtain a hearing of my royal sire, whose noble nature was abused in respect to her; and the Duke of Somerset himself told me, that if his brother the Admiral had been allowed speech of him, he would never have consented to his death. But it is ever thus. The throne is surrounded by a baneful circle, whose business is to prevent the approach of truth. They keep me from my sister’s presence, well knowing that I could clear myself at once, while they fill her ears with false reports. Bedingfeld, you are her faithful servant, and, therefore, not my enemy. Tell her, if she will grant me an audience alone, or before her councillors, I will either approve my innocence, or consent to lose my head. Above all, implore her to let me be confronted with Wyat, that the truth may be extorted from him.”
“The interview would little benefit your grace,” remarked Brydges. “Wyat confesses your privity to the rebellion.”
“He lies,” replied Elizabeth, fiercely. “The words have been put into his mouth with the vain hope of pardon. But he will recant them if he sees me. He dare not – will not look me in the face, and aver that I am a partner in his foul practices. But I will not believe it of him. Despite his monstrous treason, he is too brave, too noble-minded, to act so recreant a part.”
“Wyat has undergone the question ordinary, and extraordinary, madam,” replied Brydges; “and though he endured the first with surprising constancy, his fortitude sank under the severity of the latter application.”
“I forgive him,” rejoined Elizabeth, in a tone of deep commiseration. “But it proves nothing. He avowed thus much to escape further torture.”
“It may be,” returned Brydges, “and for your grace’s sake I hope it is so. But his confession, signed with his own hand, has been laid before the queen.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Elizabeth, sinking into the only seat which the dungeon contained.
“I beseech your highness to compose yourself,” cried Bedingfeld, compassionately. “We will withdraw and leave you to the care of your attendant.”
“I want no assistance,” replied Elizabeth, recovering herself. “Will you entreat her majesty to grant me an audience on the terms I have named, and in the presence of Wyat?”
“It must be speedy, then,” remarked Brydges, “for he is adjudged to die to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” echoed Elizabeth. “Nay, then, good Bedingfeld, seek the queen without delay. Implore her by the love she once bore me – by the love I am assured she bears me still – to interrogate me before this traitor. If he perishes with this confession uncontradicted, I am lost.”
“Your words shall be repeated to her highness,” replied Bedingfeld, “and I will not fail to add my entreaties to your own. But I cannot give a hope that your request will be granted.”
“It is fortunate for your highness that the queen visits the Tower to-day,” observed Brydges. “Her arrival is momently expected. As I live!” he exclaimed, as the bell was rung overhead, and answered by the beating of drums and the discharge of cannon from the batteries, “she is here!”
“It is Heaven’s interposition in my behalf,” cried Elizabeth, “Go to her at once, Bedingfeld. Let not the traitor, Renard, get the start of you. I may live to requite the service. Go – go.” #
The old knight obeyed, and the others immediately afterwards retired, closing the door upon the princess, and placing a guard outside.
Left alone, Elizabeth flew to the narrow, and strongly-grated loophole, commanding the southern ward, through which the queen must necessarily pass on her way to the palace, in the hope of catching a glimpse of her. She had not to wait long. Loud fanfares of trumpets resounded from the gate of the By-ward Tower. These martial flourishes were succeeded by the trampling of steeds, and fresh discharges of ordnance, and the next moment, a numerous retinue of horse and foot emerged from the gateway. Just as the royal litter appeared, it was stopped by Sir Henry Bedingfeld, and the curtains were drawn aside by Mary’s own hand. It was a moment of intense interest to Elizabeth, and she watched the countenance of the old knight, as if her life depended upon each word he uttered. At first, she could not see the queen’s face, but as Bedingfeld concluded, Mary leaned forward, and looked up at the Bell Tower. Uncertain whether she could be seen, Elizabeth determined to make her presence known, and thrusting her hand through the bars, waved her kerchief. Mary instantly drew back. The curtains of the litter were closed; Bedingfeld stepped aside; and the cavalcade moved on.
“She will not see me!” cried Elizabeth, sinking back in despair. “I shall perish like my mother.”
The princess’s agitation did not subside for some time. Expecting Bedingfeld to return with the tidings that Mary had refused her request, she listened anxiously to every sound, in the hope that it might announce his arrival. Hour after hour passed by and he came not, and concluding that he did not like to be the bearer of ill news, or what was yet more probable, that he was not allowed to visit her, she made up her mind to the worst. Elizabeth had not the same resources as Jane under similar circumstances. Though sincerely religious, she had not the strong piety that belonged to the other, nor could she, like her, divorce herself from the world, and devote herself wholly to God. Possessing the greatest fortitude, she had no resignation, and while capable of enduring any amount of physical suffering, could not controul her impatience. Her thoughts were bitter and mortifying enough, but she felt no humiliation; and the only regrets she indulged were at having acted so unwise a part. Scalding tears bedewed her cheeks – tears that would never have been shed, if any one had been present; and her mingled emotions of rage and despair were so powerful, that she had much ado to overcome them. Ungovernable fury against Mary took possession of her, and she pondered upon a thousand acts of revenge. Then came the dreadful sense of her present situation – of its hopelessness – its despair. She looked at the stone walls by which she was inclosed, and invoked them to fall upon her and crush her – and she rushed towards the massive and iron-girded door, as if she would dash herself against it with impotent fury. Her breast was ravaged by fierce and conflicting passions; and when she again returned to her seat, she grasped it convulsively to prevent herself from executing the desperate deeds that suggested themselves to her. In after years, when the crown was placed upon her head, and she grasped one of the most powerful sceptres ever swayed by female hand – when illustrious captives were placed in that very dungeon by her command, and one royal victim, near almost to her as a sister, lingered out her days in hopeless captivity, only to end them on the block – at such seasons, she often recalled her own imprisonment – often in imagination endured its agonies, but never once with a softened or relenting heart. The sole thought that now touched her, and subdued her violence, was that of Courtenay. Neither his unworthiness nor his inconstancy could shake her attachment. She loved him deeply and devotedly – with all the strength and fervour of her character; and though she had much difficulty in saving him from her contempt, this feeling did not abate the force of her regard. The idea that he would perish with her, in some degree reconciled her to her probable fate.
Thus meditating, alternately roused by the wildest resentment, and softened by thoughts of love, Elizabeth passed the remainder of the day without interruption. Worn out, at length, she was about to dispose herself to slumber, when the door was opened, and Sir Thomas Brydges, accompanied by two serving-men and a female attendant, entered the room. Provisions were placed before her by the men, who instantly withdrew, and Brydges was about to follow, leaving the female attendant behind, when Elizabeth stopped him, and inquired what answer Sir Henry Bedingfeld had brought from the queen.
“My orders are to hold no communication with your grace,” replied the lieutenant.
“At least, tell me when I am to be examined by the council?” rejoined Elizabeth. “The meanest criminal has a right to be so informed!”
But Brydges shook his head, and quitting the chamber, closed the door, and barred it outside.
Controlling her feelings, as she was now no longer alone, Elizabeth commanded her attendant to awaken her in an hour, and threw herself upon the couch. Her injunctions were strictly complied with, and she arose greatly refreshed. A lamp had been left her, and taking up a book of prayers, she addressed herself to her devotions, and while thus occupied her mind gradually resumed its composure. About midnight, the door was opened by the lieutenant, who entered the room attended by Nightgall, and two other officials in sable robes, while a guard of halberdiers, bearing torches, remained without.
“I must request your grace to follow me,” said Brydges.
“Whither?” demanded Elizabeth, rising. “To the queen’s presence?”
