The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated
Too much engrossed by each other to heed whither they were going, they wandered on; – Cicely detailing all the persecution she had experienced from Nightgall, and her lover breathing vengeance against him. The only person she had seen, she said, during her captivity was Xit. He had found his way to her dungeon, but was discovered while endeavouring to liberate her by Nightgall, who threatened to put him to death, if he did not take a solemn oath, which he proposed, not to reveal to the place of her captivity. And she concluded the dwarf had kept his vow, as she had seen nothing of him since; nor had any one been led to her retreat.
To these details, as well as to her professions of love for him, unshaken by time or circumstance, Cholmondeley listened with such absorbing attention, that, lost to everything else, he tracked passage after passage, unconscious where he was going. At last, he opened a door which admitted them to a gloomy hall, terminated by a broad flight of steps, down which several armed figures wore descending. Cholmondeley would have retreated, but it was impossible. He had been perceived by the soldiers, who rushed towards him, questioned him and Cicely, and not being satisfied with their answers, conveyed them up the stairs to the lower guard-room in the White Tower, which it appeared the wanderers had approached.
Here, amongst other soldiers and warders, were the three giants, and instantly addressing them, Cholmondeley delivered Cicely to their care. He would have had them convey her to the Stone Kitchen, but this an officer who was present would not permit, till inquiries had been made, and, meanwhile, the esquire was placed in arrest.
Shortly after this, an extraordinary bustle was heard at the door, and four soldiers entered carrying the body of a man upon a shutter. They set it down in the midst of the room. Amongst those, who flocked round to gaze upon it, was Cholmondeley. It was a frightful spectacle. But in the mutilated, though still breathing mass, the esquire recognized Nightgall. While he was gazing at the miserable wretch, and marvelling how he came in this condition, a tall personage strode into the room, and commanding the group to stand aside, approached the body. It was Renard. After regarding the dying man for a few moments with savage satisfaction, he turned to depart, when his eye fell upon Cholmondeley.
“I had forgotten you,” he said. “But it seems you have not neglected the opportunity offered you of escape.”
“We caught him trying to get out of the subterranean passages, your excellency,” remarked the officer.
“Let him remain here till further orders,” rejoined Renard. “You have saved my life, and shall find I am not ungrateful,” he added to Cholmondeley.
“If your excellency would indeed requite me,” replied the esquire, “you will give orders that this maiden, long and falsely, imprisoned by the wretch before us, may be allowed to return to her friends.”
“I know her,” rejoined Renard, looking at Cicely; “and I know that what you say is true. Release her,” he added to the officer. And giving a last terrible look at Nightgall, he quitted the room.
“Is Cicely here? groaned the dying man.
“She is,” replied Cholmondeley. “Have you aught to say to her!”
“Ay, and to you, too,” replied Nightgall. “Let her approach, and bid the others stand off; and I will confess all I have done. Give me a draught of wine, for it is a long story, and I must have strength to tell it.”
Before relating Nightgall’s confession, it will be necessary to see what dreadful accident had befallen him; and in order to do this, his course must be traced, subsequently to his flight from Cholmondeley’s dungeon.
Acquainted with all the intricacies of the passages, and running with great speed, Nightgall soon distanced his pursuer, who having lost trace of him, was obliged to give up the chase. Determined, however, not to be baulked of his prey, he retraced his steps to the torture-chamber, where he found Wolfytt, Sorro-cold, and three other officials, to whom he recounted the jailor’s atrocious attempt.
“I will engage to find him for your excellency,” said Wolfytt, who bore no very kindly feeling to Nightgall, “if he is anywhere below the Tower. I know every turn and hole in these passages better than the oldest rat that haunts them.”
“Deliver him to my vengeance,” rejoined Renard, “and you shall hold his place.”
“Says your excellency so!” cried Wolfytt; “then you may account him already in your hands.”
With this, he snatched up a halberd and a torch, and bidding two of the officials come with him, started off at a swift pace on the right. Neither he nor his companions relaxed their pace, but tracked passage after passage, and examined vault after vault – but still without success.
Renard’s impatience manifested itself in furious exclamations, and Wolfytt appeared perplexed and disappointed.
“I have it!” he exclaimed, rubbing his shaggy head. “He must have entered Saint John’s Chapel, in the White Tower, by the secret passage.”
The party were again in motion; and, taking the least circuitous road, Wolfytt soon brought them to a narrow passage, at the end of which he descried a dark crouching figure.
“We have him!” he cried, exultingly. “There he is!”
Creeping quickly along, for the roof was so low that he was compelled to stoop, Wolfytt prepared for an encounter with Nightgall. The latter grasped his dagger, and appeared ready to spring upon his assailant. Knowing the strength and ferocity of the jailor, Wolfytt hesitated a moment, but goaded on by Renard, who was close behind, and eager for vengeance, he was about to commence the attack, when Nightgall, taking advantage of the delay, touched a spring in the wall behind him, and a stone dropping from its place, he dashed through the aperture. With a yell of rage and disappointment, Wolfytt sprang after him, and was instantly struck down by a blow from his opponent’s dagger. Renard followed, and beheld the fugitive speeding across the nave of Saint John’s Chapel, and, without regarding Wolfytt, who was lying on the floor, bleeding profusely, he continued the pursuit.
Nightgall hurried up the steps behind the altar, and took his way along one of the arched stone galleries opening upon the council-chamber. But, swiftly as he fled, Renard, to whom fury had lent wings, rapidly gained upon him.
It was more than an hour after day-break, but no one was astir in this part of the citadel, and as the pursued and pursuer threaded the gallery, and crossed the council-chamber, they did not meet even a solitary attendant. Nightgall was now within the southern gallery of the White Tower, and Renard shouted to him to stop; but he heeded not the cry. In another moment, he reached a door, opening upon the north-east turret. It was bolted, and the time lost in unfastening it, brought Renard close upon him. Nightgall would have descended, but thinking he heard voices below, he ran up the winding stairs.
Renard now felt secure of him, and uttered a shout of savage delight. The fugitive would have gained the roof, if he had not been intercepted by a party of men, who at the very moment he reached the doorway communicating with the leads presented themselves at it. Hearing the clamour raised by Renard and his followers below, these men commanded Nightgall to surrender. Instead of complying, the miserable fugitive, now at his wits’ end, rushed backwards, with the determination of assailing Renard. He met the ambassador at a turn in the stairs a little below, and aimed a desperate blow at him with his dagger. But Renard easily warded it off, and pressing him backwards, drove him into one of the deep embrasures at the side.
Driven to desperation, Nightgall at first thought of springing through the loophole; but the involuntary glance that he cast below, made him recoil. On seeing his terror, Renard was filled with delight, and determined to prolong his enjoyment. In vain, Nightgall endeavoured to escape from the dreadful snare in which he was caught. He was driven remorselessly back. In vain, he implored mercy in the most abject terms. None was shown him. Getting within the embrasure, which was about twelve feet deep, Renard deliberately pricked the wretched man with the point of his sword, and forced him slowly backwards.
Nightgall struggled desperately against the horrible fate that awaited him, striking at Renard with his dagger, clutching convulsively against the wall, and disputing the ground inch by inch. But all was unavailing. Scarcely a foot’s space intervened between him and destruction, when Renard sprang forward, and pushed him by main force through the loophole. He uttered a fearful cry, and tried to grasp at the roughened surface of the wall. Renard watched his descent. It was from a height of near ninety feet.
He fell with a terrific smash upon the pavement of the court below. Three or four halberdiers, who were passing at a little distance, hearing the noise, ran towards him, but finding he was not dead, though almost dashed in pieces, and scarcely retaining a vestige of humanity, they brought a shutter, and conveyed him to the lower guard-room, as already related.
“I have no hope of mercy,” gasped the dying man, as his request was complied with, and Cicely, with averted eyes, stood beside him, “and I deserve none. But I will make what atonement I can for my evil deeds. Listen to me, Cicely, (or rather I should say Angela, for that is your rightful name,) you are the daughter of Sir Alberic Mountjoy, and were born while your parents were imprisoned in the Tower. Your mother, the Lady Grace, lost her reason on the day of her husband’s execution, as I have before stated. But she did not expire as I gave out. My motive for setting on foot this story, and for keeping her existence secret, was the hope of making her mine if she recovered her senses, as I had reason to believe would be the case.”
“Wretch!” exclaimed Cholmondeley.
“You cannot upbraid me more than I now upbraid myself,” groaned Nightgall; “but my purpose was thwarted. The ill-fated lady never recovered, and disappointment, acting upon my evil nature, made me treat her with such cruelty that her senses became more unsettled than ever.”
“Alas! alas!” cried Cicely, bursting into tears; “my poor mother! what a fate was yours!”
“When all hope of her recovery was extinguished,” continued Nightgall, “I thought, that if any change occurred in the sovereignty or religion of the country, I might, by producing her, and relating a feigned story, obtain a handsome reward for her preservation. But this expectation also passed by. And I must confess that, at length, my only motive for allowing her to exist was that she formed an object to exercise my cruelty upon.”
“Heaven’s curse upon you!” cried Cholmondeley.
“Spare your maledictions,” rejoined Nightgall; “or heap them on my lifeless clay. You will soon be sufficiently avenged. Give me another draught of wine, for my lips are so dry I can scarcely speak, and I would not willingly expire till I have made known the sum of my wickedness.”
The wine given him, he proceeded.
“I will not tell you all the devilish cruelties I practised upon the wretched Alexia, (for so, as you are aware, I called her, to conceal her real name,) – because from what you have seen you may guess the rest. But I kept her a solitary captive in those secret dungeons, for a term of nearly seventeen years – ever since your birth, in short,” he added, to Cicely. “Sometimes, she would elude my vigilance, and run shrieking along the passages. But when any of the jailors beheld her, they fled, supposing her a supernatural being.”
“Her shrieks were indeed dreadful,” remarked Cholmondeley. “I shall never forget their effect upon me. But you allowed her to perish from famine at last?”
“Her death was accidental,” replied Nightgall, in a hollow voice, “though it lies as heavy on my soul as if I had designed it. I had shut her up for security in the cell in the Devilin Tower, where you found her, meaning to visit her at night, as was my custom, with provisions. But I was sent on special business by the queen to the palace at Greenwich for three days; and on my return to the Tower, I found the wretched captive dead.”
“She had escaped you, then,” said Cholmondeley, bitterly. “But you have not spoken of her daughter?”
“First, let me tell you where I have hidden the body, that decent burial may be given it,” groaned Nightgall. “It lies in the vault beneath the Devilin Tower – in the centre of the chamber – not deep – not deep.”
“I shall not forget,” replied Cholmondeley, noticing with alarm that an awful change had taken place in his countenance. “What of her child?”
“I must be brief,” replied Nightgall, faintly; “for I feel that my end approaches. The little Angela was conveyed by me, to Dame Potentia Trusbut. I said she was the offspring of a lady of rank, – but revealed no name, – and what I told beside was a mere fable. The good dame, having no child of her own, readily adopted her, and named her Cicely. She grew up in years – in beauty; and as I beheld her dawning charms, the love I had entertained for the mother was transferred to the child – nay, it was ten times stronger. I endeavoured to gain her affections, and fancied I should succeed, till you” – looking at Cholmondeley – “appeared. Then I saw my suit was hopeless. Then evil feelings again took possession of me, and I began a fresh career of crime. You know the rest.”
“I do,” replied Cholmondeley. “Have you aught further to disclose?”
“Only this,” rejoined Nightgall, who was evidently on the verge of dissolution. “Cut open my doublet; and within its folds you will find proofs of Angela’s birth, together with other papers referring to her ill-fated parents. Lay them before the queen; and I make no doubt that the estates of her father, who was a firm adherent to the Catholic faith, and died for it, as well as a stanch supporter of Queen Catherine of Arragon, will be restored to her.”
Cholmondeley lost not a moment in obeying the injunction. He cut open the blood-stained jerkin of the dying man, and found, as he had stated, a packet.
“That is it,” cried Nightgall, fixing his glazing eyes on Angela, – “that will restore you to your wealth – your title. The priest by whom you were baptised was the queen’s confessor, Feckenham. He will remember the circumstance – he was the ghostly counsellor of both your parents. Take the packet to him and he will plead your cause with the queen. Forget – forgive me – ”
His utterance was suddenly choked by a stream of blood that gushed from his mouth, and with a hideous expression of pain he expired.
“Horrible!” cried Angela, placing her hands before her eyes.
“Think not of him,” said Cholmondeley, supporting her, and removing her to a little distance, – “think of the misery you have escaped, – of the rank to which you will assuredly be restored. When I first beheld those proud and beautiful lineaments, I was certain they belonged to one of high birth. And I was not mistaken.”
“What matters my newly-discovered birth – my title – my estates, if I obtain them, – if you are lost to me!” cried Angela, despairingly. “I shall never know happiness without you.”
As she spoke, an usher, who had entered the guard-room, marched up to Cholmondeley, and said, “I am the bearer of the queen’s pardon to you. Your life is spared, at the instance of the Spanish ambassador. But you are to remain a prisoner on parole, within the fortress, during the royal pleasure.”
“It is now my turn to support you,” said Angela, observing her lover stagger, and turn deadly pale.
“So many events crowd upon my brain,” cried Cholmondeley, “that I begin to fear for my reason – Air! – air!”
Led into the open court, he speedily recovered, and in a transport of such joy as has seldom been experienced, he accompanied Angela to the Stone Kitchen, where they were greeted with mingled tears and rejoicings by Dame Potentia and her spouse.
In the course of the day, Cholmondeloy sought out Feckenham, and laid the papers before him. The confessor confirmed all that Nightgall had stated respecting the baptism of the infant daughter of Lady Mountjoy, and the other documents satisfied him that the so-called Cicely was that daughter. He undertook to lay the case at once before the queen, and was as good as his word. Mary heard his statement with the deepest interest, but made no remark; and at its conclusion desired that the damsel might be brought before her.
XXXVII. – HOW JANE WAS IMPRISONED IN THE MARTIN TOWER; HOW SHE WAS VISITED BY ROGER ASCHAM; HOW SHE RECEIVED FECKENHAM’S ANNOUNCEMENT THAT THE TIME OF HER EXECUTION WAS FIXED; AND HOW SHE WAS RESPITED FOR THREE DAYS
The Martin Tower (or, as it is now termed, the Jewel Tower, from the purpose to which it is appropriated), where Jane was confined by the queen’s commands, lies at the north-eastern extremity of the ballium wall, and corresponds in size and structure with the Develin, or Devereux Tower, at the opposite angle. Circular in form, like the last-mentioned building, and erected, in all probability, at the same period – the latter end of the reign of John, or the commencement of that of Henry the Third, it consists of two stories having walls of immense thickness, and containing, as is the case with every other fortification, deep recesses, terminated by narrow loop-holes. A winding stone staircase, still in a tolerable state of preservation, communicates with these stories, and with the roof, which was formerly embattled, and defended on either side by two small square turrets. Externally, on the west, the Martin Tower has lost its original character; the walls being new-fronted and modernized, and a flight of stops raised to the upper story, completely masking the ancient door-way, which now forms the entrance to the jewel-room. On the cast, however, it retains much of its ancient appearance, though in part concealed by surrounding habitations; and when the building now in progress, and intended for the reception of the regalia, is completed, it will be still further hidden.3 While digging the foundations of the proposed structure, which were sunk much below the level of the ballium wall, it became apparent that the ground had been artificially raised to a considerable height by an embankment of gravel and sand; and the prodigious solidity and strength of the wall were proved from the difficulty experienced by the workmen in breaking through it, to effect a communication with the new erection.
Within, on the basement floor, on the left of the passage, and generally hidden by the massive portal, is a small cell constructed in the thickness of the wall; and further on, the gloomy chamber used as a depositary for the crown ornaments, and which requires to be artificially lighted, is noticeable for its architecture, having a vaulted and groined roof of great beauty. The upper story, part of the residence of Mr. Swift, the keeper of the regalia, at present comprehends two apartments, with a hall leading to them, while the ceiling having been lowered, other rooms are gained. Here, besides the ill-fated and illustrious lady whose history forms the subject of this chronicle, was confined the lovely, and, perhaps guiltless, Anne Boleyn. The latter fact has, however, been doubted, and the upper chamber in the Beauchamp Tower assigned as the place of her imprisonment. But this supposition, from many circumstances, appears improbable, and the inscription bearing her name, and carved near the entrance of the hall, is conclusive as to her having been confined in this tower.
Here, in 1641, the twelve bishops, impeached of high treason by the revolutionary party in the House of Commons, for protesting against the force used against them, and the acts done in their absence, were imprisoned during their committal to the Tower: – at least, so runs the legend, though it is difficult to conceive how so many persons could be accommodated in so small a place. Here, also, Blood made his atrocious attempt (a story still involved in obscurity – it has been conjectured, with some show of probability, that he was prompted to the deed by Charles himself), to steal the crown jewels; and in this very chamber, the venerable Talbot Edwards made his gallant defence of the royal ensigns, receiving for his bravery and his wounds, a paltry grant of two hundred pounds, half of which, owing to vexatious delays, he only received, while the baffled robber was rewarded with a post at court, and a pension of five hundred pounds a-year in Ireland. Can it be doubted after this which of the two was the offender, in the eyes of the monarch?
It must not be omitted that the Jewel Tower enjoys, in common with its corresponding fortification, the Devereux Tower, the reputation of being haunted. Its ghostly visitant is a female figure robed in white – whether the spirit of Anno Boleyn, or the ill-fated Jane, cannot be precisely ascertained.
The Martin Tower acquired its present designation of the Jewel Tower, in the reign of James the First, when the crown ornaments were removed to it from a small building, where they had been hitherto kept, on the south side of the White Tower.
The regalia were first exhibited to the public in the reign of Charles the Second, when many of the perquisites of the ancient master of the Jewel House were abolished, and its privileges annexed to the office of the lord chamberlain.
Jane’s present prison was far more commodious than her former place of confinement in the Brick Tower, and by Mary’s express injunctions, every attention consistent with her situation was shown her. Strange as it may seem, she felt easier, if not happier, than she had done during the latter part of the period of her liberation. Then, she was dissatisfied with herself, anxious for her husband, certain of the failure of his enterprise, and almost desiring its failure, – now, the worst was past. No longer agitated by the affairs of the world, she could suffer with patience, and devote herself wholly to God. Alone within her prison-chamber, she prayed with more fervour than she had been able to do for months; and the soothing effect it produced, was such, that she felt almost grateful for her chastening. “I am better able to bear misfortune than prosperity,” she murmured, “and I cannot be too thankful to Heaven, that I am placed in a situation to call forth my strength. Oh! that Dudley may be able to endure his trial with equal fortitude! But I fear his proud heart will rebel. Sustain him, Lord! I beseech thee, and bring him to a true sense of his condition.”
Convinced that her days were now numbered, having no hope of pardon, scarcely desiring it, and determined to reject it, if coupled with any conditions affecting her faith, Jane made every preparation for her end. No longer giving up a portion of her time to study, she entirely occupied herself with her devotions. Influenced by the controversial spirit of the times, she had before been as anxious to overcome her opponents in argument, as they were to convince her of her errors. Now, though feeling equally strong in her cause, she was more lowly-minded. Reproaching herself bitterly with her departure from her duty, she sought by incessant prayer, by nightly vigil, by earnest and heart-felt supplication to wipe out the offence. “I have not sinned in ignorance,” she thought, “but with my eyes open, and therefore my fault is far greater than if no light had been vouchsafed me. By sincere contrition alone can I hope to work out my salvation; and if sorrow, remorse, and shame, combined with the most earnest desire of amendment, constitute repentance, I am truly contrite. But I feel my own unworthiness, and though I know the mercy of Heaven is infinite, yet I scarcely dare to hope for forgiveness for my trespasses. I have trusted too much to myself already – and find that I relied on a broken reed. I will now trust only to God.”
And thus she passed her time, in the strictest self-examination, fixing her thoughts above, and withdrawing them as much as possible from earth. The effect was speedily manifest in her altered looks and demeanour. When first brought to the Martin Tower, she was downcast and despairing. Ere three days had passed, she became calm, and almost cheerful, and her features resumed their wonted serene and seraphic expression. She could not, it is true, deaden the pangs that ever and anon shook her, when she thought of her husband and father. But she strove to console herself by the hope that they would be purified, like herself, by the trial to which they were subjected, and that their time of separation would be brief. To the duke she addressed that touching letter preserved among the few fragments of her writings, which after it had been submitted to Gardiner, was allowed to be delivered to him. It concluded with these words: – “And thus, good father, I have opened unto you the state wherein I presently stand, – my death at hand. Although to you it may seem woful, yet to me there is nothing that can be more welcome than to aspire from this Vale of Misery to that heavenly throne of all joy and pleasure with Christ, my Saviour. In whose steadfast faith (if it may be lawful for the daughter so to write to the father), the Lord who hath hitherto strengthened you so continue to keep you, that at the last we may meet in heaven.”
