The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated
TextXXI. – HOW LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY AND LADY JANE WERE ARRAIGNED AND ATTAINTED OF HIGH TREASON; AND HOW THEY WERE PARDONED BY QUEEN MARY
More than three months had now been passed by Jane in solitary confinement in the Brick Tower. Long as was the interval, it appeared brief to her – her whole time being devoted to intense mental application, or to prayer. She lived only in her books; and addressed herself with such ardour to her studies, that her thoughts were completely abstracted.
Sometimes, indeed, in spite of all her efforts, recollections of the past would obtrude themselves upon her – visions of earlier days and of the events and scenes connected with them would rise before her. She thought of Bradgate and its green retreats, – of her beloved preceptor, Roger Ascham, – of the delight with which she had become acquainted, through him, with the poetry, the philosophy, the drama of the ancient world. She recalled their long conversations, in which he had painted to her the vanities and vexations of the world, and the incomparable charms of a life of retirement and meditation, and she now felt the truth of his assertions. Had it been permitted her to pass her quiet and blameless career in that tranquil place, how happy would she have been! And yet she did not repine at her lot, but rather rejoiced at it. “Whatever my own sufferings may be,” she murmured – “however severely I may be chastened, I yet feel I shall not endure in vain, but that others will profit by my example. If heaven will vouchsafe me grace and power, not one action of my life but shall redound to the honour of the faith I profess.”
One thought she ever checked, feeling that the emotions it excited, threatened to shake her constancy. This was the idea of her husband; and whenever it arose she soothed the pang it occasioned by earnest prayer. The reflection that he was now as firm an adherent to the tenets of the gospel as herself, and that by her own resolution she had wrought this beneficial change in him, cheered and animated her, and almost reconciled her to her separation.
So fully prepared did she now feel for the worst shock of fate, that the only thing she regretted was that she was not speedily brought to trial. But she repressed even this desire as inconsistent with her duty, and unworthy of her high and holy calling. “My part is submission,” she murmured, “and whether my term of life is long or short, it becomes me to feel and act in like manner. Whenever I am called upon, I am ready, – certain, if I live devoutly, to attain everlasting happiness, and rejoin my husband where he will never be taken from me.”
In this way, she thoroughly reconciled herself to her situation. And though in her dreams old scenes and faces would often revisit her – though her husband’s image constantly haunted her – and on waking her pillow was bedewed with her tears – still, she maintained her cheerfulness, and by never allowing one moment to pass unemployed, drove away all distressing thoughts.
Not so her husband. Immured in the Beauchamp Tower, he bore his confinement with great external fortitude; but his bosom was a prey to vain regrets and ambitious hopes. Inheriting, as has before been observed, the soaring aspirations of his father, but without his genius or daring, his mind was continually dwelling upon the glittering bauble he had lost, and upon the means of regaining it. Far from being warned by the duke’s fate, – far from considering the fearful jeopardy in which he himself stood – he was ever looking forward to the possibility of escape, and to the chance of reinstating himself in his lost position.
Sincerely attached to Jane, he desired to be restored to her rather from the feeling which had led him to seek her hand – namely, a desire to use her as a means of aggrandizement, – than from any deep regret at the loss of her society. Not that misfortune had lessened his attachment, but that his ruling passion was ambition, which no reverse could quench, no change subdue. “He who has once nearly grasped a sceptre can never lose all thoughts of it,” he exclaimed to himself. “I may perish – but while I live I shall indulge the hope of being king of England. And if I should ever obtain my liberty, I will never rest till I have won back the crown. Jane’s name shall be my watchword – the Protestant cause my battle-cry; and if the victory is mine, she shall share my throne, but not, as heretofore, occupy it alone. Had I been king, this would never have happened. But my father’s ambition ruined all. He aimed at the throne himself, and used me as his stepping-stone. Well, he has paid the penalty of his rashness, and I may perchance share his fate. Yet what if I do? Better die on the scaffold, than linger out a long inglorious life. Oh! that I could make one effort more! If I failed I would lay my head upon the block without a murmur.”
The long delay that occurred before his trial encouraged his hopes, and a secret communication made to him by the Duke of Suffolk, who had leave to visit him, that a plot was in agitation to restore Jane to the throne, so raised his expectations, that he began to feel little apprehension for the future, confident that ere long the opportunity he sighed for would present itself.
Ever since Jane’s conference with Gardiner, Dudley had resisted all overtures from the Romish priesthood to win him over to their religion, and if his own feelings had not prompted him to this course, policy would have now dictated it. Slight as was the information he was able to obtain, he yet gathered that Mary’s determination to restore the Catholic religion was making her many enemies, and giving new spirits to her opponents. And when he found, from the communication of De Noailles, that a plot, having for its basis the preservation of the Reformed religion, now menaced by the proposed alliance with Spain, was being formed, he became confirmed in his opinions.
It was not deemed prudent by the conspirators to attempt any communication with Jane. They doubted much whether she could be prevailed upon to join them; – whether she might not even consider it her duty to reveal it; – and they thought there would be ample time to make it known to her when the season for outbreak arrived. Jane’s partisans consisted only of her father, her uncle, and ostensibly Do Noailles, who craftily held out hopes to Suffolk and his brother to secure their zealous co-operation. In reality, the wily Frenchman favoured Courtenay and Elizabeth, But he scarcely cared which side obtained the mastery, provided he thwarted his adversary, Simon Renard.
During the early part of her imprisonment, Jane’s solitude was disturbed by Feckenham, who, not content with his own discomfiture and that of his superiors, Gardiner and Bonner, returned again and again to the charge, but with no better success than before. Worsted in every encounter, he became, at length, convinced of the futility of the attempt, and abandoned it in despair. At first, Jane regarded his visits as a species of persecution, and a waste of the few precious hours allowed her, which might be far more profitably employed than in controversy. But when they ceased altogether, she almost regretted their discontinuance, as the discussions had led her to examine her own creed more closely than she otherwise might have done; and the success she invariably met with, inspired her with new ardour and zeal.
Thus time glided on. Her spirits were always equable; her looks serene; and her health, so far from being affected by her captivity, appeared improved. One change requires to be noticed. It was remarked by her jailor that when first brought to the Brick Tower, she looked younger than her age, which was scarcely seventeen; but that ere a month had elapsed, she seemed like a matured woman. A striking alteration had, indeed, taken place in her appearance. Her countenance was grave, but so benignant, that its gravity had no displeasing effect. Her complexion was pale but clear, – so clear that the course of every azure vein could be traced through the wax-like skin. But that which imparted the almost angelic character to her features, was their expression of perfect purity, unalloyed by any taint of earth. What with her devotional observances, and her intellectual employments, the mind had completely asserted its dominion over the body; and her seraphic looks and beauty almost realized the Catholic notion of a saint.
She had so won upon her jailor by her extraordinary piety, and by her gentleness and resignation, that he could scarcely offer her sufficient attention. He procured her such books as she desired – her sole request; and never approached her but with the profoundest reverence. From him she learned the fate of Edward Underhill, and during the dreadful sufferings of the miserable enthusiast, when the flames that were consuming him lighted up her prison-chamber, and his last wild shriek rang in her ears, her lips were employed in pouring forth the most earnest supplications for his release.
It was a terrible moment to Jane; and the wretched sufferer at the stake scarcely endured more anguish. Like many others, she saw in his fate a prelude of the storm that was to follow; and passed the whole of the night in prayer, that the danger might be averted. She prayed also, earnestly and sincerely, that a like death might be hers, if it would prove beneficial to her faith, and prevent further persecution.
One day, shortly after this event, the jailor made his appearance at an unwonted hour, and throwing himself at her feet, informed her that after a severe struggle with himself, he was determined to liberate her; and that he would not only throw open her prison-door that night, but would find means to set her free from the Tower. When he concluded, Jane, who had listened to his proposal with extreme surprise, at once, though with the utmost thankfulness, declined it. “You would break your trust, and I mine,” she observed, “were I to accept your offer. But it would be useless. Whither should I fly – what should I do were I at large? No, friend, I cannot for a moment indulge the thought. If that door should be opened to me, I would proceed to the queen’s presence, and beseech her highness to bring me to speedy trial. That is all the favour I deserve, or desire.”
“Well, madam,” replied the jailor, in accents of deep disappointment, “since I may not have my wish and set you free, I will at once resign my post.”
“Nay, do not so, I beseech you, good friend,” returned Jane, “that were to do me an unkindness, which I am sure you would willingly avoid, by exposing me to the harsh treatment of some one less friendly-disposed towards me than yourself, from whom I have always experienced compassion and attention.”
“Foul befal me if I did not show you such, sweet lady!” cried the jailor.
“Your nature is kindly, sir,” pursued Jane; “and as I must needs continue a captive, so I pray you show your regard by continuing my jailor. It gladdens me to think I have a friend so near.”
“As you will, madam,” rejoined the man, sorrowfully. “Yet I beseech you, pause ere you reject my offer. An opportunity of escape now presents itself, which may never occur again. If you will consent to fly, I will attend you, and act as your faithful follower.”
“Think me not insensible to your devotion, good friend, if I once more decline it,” returned Jane, in a tone that showed that her resolution was taken. “I cannot fly – I have ties that bind me more securely than those strong walls and grated windows. Were the queen to give me the range of the fortress – nay, of the city without it, I should consider myself equally her captive. No, worthy friend, we must remain as we are.”
Seeing remonstrance was in vain, the man, ashamed of the emotion he could neither control nor conceal, silently withdrew. The subject was never renewed, and though he acted with every consideration towards his illustrious captive, he did not relax in any of his duties.
Full three months having elapsed since Jane’s confinement commenced, on the first of November her jailor informed her that her trial would take place in Guildhall on the day but one following. To his inquiry whether she desired to make any preparations, she answered in the negative.
“The offence I have committed,” she said, “is known to all. I shall not seek to palliate it. Justice will take its course. Will my husband be tried with me?”
“Undoubtedly, madam,” replied the jailor.
“May I be permitted to confer with him beforehand?” she asked.
“I grieve to say, madam, that the queen’s orders are to the contrary.” returned the jailor. “You will not meet him till you are placed at the bar before your judges.”
“Since it may not be, I must resign myself contentedly to her majesty’s decrees. Leave me, sir. Thoughts press upon me so painfully that I would fain be alone.”
“The queen’s confessor is without, madam. He bade me say he would speak with you.”
“He uses strange ceremony, methinks,” replied Jane. “He would formerly enter my prison without saying, By your leave: but since he allows me a choice in the matter, I shall not hesitate to decline his visit. If I may not confer with my husband, there is none other whom I desire to see.”
“But he is the bearer of a message from her majesty,” urged the jailor.
“If he is resolved to see me, I cannot prevent it,” replied Jane. “But if I have the power to hinder his coming, he shall not do so.”
“I will communicate your wish to him, madam,” replied the jailor, retiring.
Accordingly, he told Feckenham that his charge was in no mood to listen to him, and the confessor departed.
The third of November, the day appointed for Jane’s trial, as well as for that of her husband, and of Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, was characterized by unusual gloom, even for the season. A dense fog arose from the river and spread itself over the ramparts, the summits of which could scarcely be discerned by those beneath them. The sentinels pacing to and fro looked like phantoms, and the whole fortress was speedily enveloped in a tawny-coloured vapour. Jane had arrayed herself betimes, and sat in expectation of the summons with a book before her, but it became so dark that she was compelled to lay it aside. The tramp of armed men in front of the building in which she was lodged, and other sounds that reached her, convinced her that some of the prisoners were being led forth; but she had to wait long before her own turn came. She thought more – much more – of beholding her husband, than of the result of the trial, and her heart throbbed as any chance footstep reached her ear, from the idea that it might be his.
An hour after this, the door of her chamber was unbarred, and two officers of the guard in corslets and steel caps appeared and commanded her to follow them. Without a moment’s hesitation she arose, and was about to pass through the door when the jailor prostrated himself before her, and pressing the hand she kindly extended to him to his lips, expressed, in faltering tones, a hope that she might not be brought back to his custody. Jane shook her head, smiled faintly, and passed on.
Issuing from the structure, she found a large band of halberdiers drawn out to escort her. One stern figure arrested her attention, and recalled the mysterious terrors she had formerly experienced. This was Nightgall, who by Renard’s influence had been raised to the post of gentleman-jailor. He carried the fatal axe, – its handle supported by a leathern pouch passed over his shoulders. The edge was turned from her, as was the custom on proceeding to trial. A shudder passed over her frame as her eye fell on the implement of death, connected as it was with her former alarms; but she gave no further sign of trepidation, and took the place assigned her by the officers. The train was then put in motion, and proceeded at a slow pace past the White Towner, down the descent leading to the Bloody Tower. Nightgall marched a few paces before her, and Jane, though she strove to reason herself out of her fears, could not repress a certain misgiving at his propinquity.
The gateway of the Bloody Tower, through which the advanced guard was now passing, is perhaps one of the most striking remnants of ancient architecture to be met with in the fortress. Its dark and gloomy archway, bristling with the iron teeth of the portcullis, and resembling some huge ravenous monster, with jaws wide-opened to devour its prey, well accords with its ill-omened name, derived, as before stated, from the structure above it being the supposed scene of the murder of the youthful princes.
Erected in the reign of Edward the Third, this gateway is upwards of thirty feet in length, and fifteen in width. It has a vaulted roof, supported by groined arches, and embellished with moulded tracery of great beauty. At the period of this chronicle, it was defended at either extremity by a massive oak portal, strengthened by plates of iron and broad-headed nails, and a huge portcullis. Of these defences those at the south are still left. On the eastern side, concealed by the leaf of the gate when opened, is an arched doorway, communicating with a flight of spiral stone steps leading to the chambers above, in which is a machine for working the portcullis.
By this time, Jane had reached the centre of the arch, when the gate was suddenly pushed aside, and Feckenham stepped from behind it. On his appearance, word was given by the two captains, who marched with their drawn swords in hand on either side of the prisoner, to the train to halt. The command was instantly obeyed. Nightgall paused a few feet in advance of Jane, and grasping his fatal weapon, threw a stealthy glance over his left shoulder to ascertain the cause of the interruption.
“What would you, reverend sir?” said Jane, halting with the others, and addressing Feckenham, who advanced towards her, holding in his hand a piece of parchment to which a large seal was attached.
“I would save you, daughter,” replied the confessor. “I here bring you the queen’s pardon.”
“Is it unconditional, reverend sir?” demanded Jane, coldly.
“The sole condition annexed to it is your reconciliation with the church of Rome,” replied Feckenham.
“Then I at once reject it,” rejoined Jane, firmly. “I have already told you I should prefer death a thousand-fold to any violation of my conscience; and neither persuasion nor force shall compel me to embrace a religion opposed to the gospel of our Saviour, and which, in common with all his true disciples, I hold in utter abhorrence. I take all here to witness that such are my sentiments – that I am an earnest and zealous, though unworthy member of the Protestant church – and that I am fully prepared to seal my faith with my blood.”
A slight murmur of approbation arose from the guard, which, however, was instantly checked by the officers.
“And I likewise take all here to witness,” rejoined Feckenham, in a loud voice, “that a full and free pardon is offered you by our gracious queen, whom you have so grievously offended, that no one except a princess of her tender and compassionate nature would have overlooked it; coupled only with a condition which it is her assured belief will conduce as much to your eternal welfare as to your temporal. It has been made a reproach to our church by its enemies, that it seeks to win converts by severity and restraint. That the charge is unfounded her highness’s present merciful conduct proves. We seek to save the souls of our opponents, however endangered by heresy, alive; and our first attempts are ever gentle. If these fail, and we are compelled to have recourse to harsher measures, is it our fault, or the fault of those who resist us? Thus, in your own case, madam – here, on the way to a trial the issue of which all can foresee, the arm of mercy is stretched out to you and to your husband, on a condition which, if you were not benighted in error, you would recognize as an additional grace, – and yet you turn it aside.”
“The sum of her majesty’s mercy is this,” replied Jane; “she would kill my soul to preserve my body. I care not for the latter, but I regard the former. Were I to embrace your faith, I should renounce all hopes of heaven. Are you answered, sir?”
“I am,” replied Feckenham. “But oh! madam,” he added, falling at her feet; “believe not that I urge you to compliance from any unworthy motive. My zeal for your salvation is hearty and sincere.”
“I doubt it not, sir,” rejoined Jane. “And I thank you for your solicitude.”
“Anger not the queen by a refusal,” proceeded Feckenham: – “anger not heaven, whose minister I am, by a blind and obstinate rejection of the truth, but secure the favour of both your earthly and your celestial judge by compliance.”
“I should indeed anger heaven were I to listen to you further,” replied Jane. “Gentlemen,” she added, turning to the officers, “I pray you proceed. The tribunal to which you are about to conduct me waits for us.”
Feckenham arose, and would have given utterance to the denunciation that rose to his lips, had not Jane’s gentle look prevented him. Bowing his head upon his breast, he withdrew, while the procession proceeded on its course, in the same order as before.
On reaching the bulwark gate, Jane was placed in a litter, stationed there for her reception, and conveyed through vast crowds of spectators, who, however, were unable to obtain even a glimpse of her, to Guildhall, where she was immediately brought before her judges. The sight of her husband standing at the bar, guarded by two halberdiers, well nigh overpowered her; but she was immediately re-assured by his calm, collected, and even haughty demeanour. He cast a single glance of the deepest affection at her, and then fixed his gaze upon the Marquis of Winchester, high treasurer of the realm, who officiated as chief judge.
On the left of Lord Guilford Dudley, on a lower platform, stood his faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondeley, charged with abetting him in his treasonable practices. A vacant place on this side of her husband was allotted to Jane. Cranmer, having already been tried and attainted, was removed. The proceedings were soon ended, for the arraigned parties confessed their indictments, and judgment was pronounced upon them. Before they were removed, Lord Guilford turned to his consort, and said in a low voice – “Be of good cheer, Jane. No ill will befal you. Our judges will speedily take our places.”
Jane looked at him for a moment, as if she did not comprehend his meaning, and then replied in the same tone – “I only required to see you so resigned to your fate, my dear lord, to make me wholly indifferent to mine. May we mount the scaffold together with as much firmness!”
“We shall mount the throne together – not the scaffold, Jane,” rejoined Dudley, significantly.
“Ha!” exclaimed Jane, perceiving from his speech that he meditated some new project.
Further discourse was not, however, allowed her, for at this moment she was separated from her husband by the halberdiers, who led her to the litter in which she was carried back to the Tower.
Left to herself within her prison-chamber, she revolved Dudley’s mysterious words; and though she could not divine their precise import, she felt satisfied that he cherished some hope of replacing her on the throne. So far from this conjecture affording her comfort, it deeply distressed her – and for the first time for a long period her constancy was shaken. When her jailor visited her, he found her in the deepest affliction.
“Alas! madam,” he observed, in a tone of great commiseration, “I have heard the result of your trial, but the queen may yet show you compassion.”
“It is not for myself I lament,” returned Jane, raising her head, and drying her tears, “but for my husband.”
“Her majesty’s clemency may be extended towards him likewise,” remarked the jailor.
“Not so,” returned Jane, “we have both offended her too deeply for forgiveness, and justice requires that we should expiate our offence with our lives. But you mistake me, friend. It is not because my husband is condemned as a traitor, that I grieve; but because he still nourishes vain and aspiring thoughts. I will trust you, knowing that you are worthy of confidence. If you can find means of communicating with Lord Guilford Dudley for one moment, tell him I entreat him to abandon all hopes of escape, or of restoration to his fallen state, and earnestly implore him to think only of that everlasting kingdom which we shall soon inherit together. Will you do this?”
“Assuredly, madam, if I can accomplish it with safety,” replied the jailor.
“Add also,” pursued Jane, “that if Mary would resign her throne to me, I would not ascend it.”
“I will not fail, madam,” rejoined the jailor.
Just as he was about to depart, steps were heard on the staircase, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld, attended by a couple of halberdiers, entered the chamber. He held a scroll of parchment in his hand.
“You are the bearer of my death-warrant, I perceive, sir,” said Jane, rising at his approach, but without displaying any emotion.
“On the contrary, madam,” returned Sir Henry, kindly, “it rejoices me to say that I am a bearer of her majesty’s pardon.”
“Clogged by the condition of my becoming a Catholic, I presume?” rejoined Jane, disdainfully.
“Clogged by no condition,” replied Bedingfeld, “except that of your living in retirement.”
Jane could scarcely credit her senses, and she looked so bewildered that the knight repeated what he had said.
“And my husband?” demanded Jane, eagerly.
“He too is free,” replied Bedingfeld; “and on the same terms as yourself. You are both at liberty to quit the Tower as soon as you think proper. Lord Guilford Dudley has already been apprised of her highness’s clemency, and will join you here in a few’ minutes.”
Jane heard no more. The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this joyful intelligence, was too much for her; and uttering a faint cry, she sank senseless into the arms of the old knight.