The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated

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.”

With her husband she was allowed no communication; and in reply to her request to see him once more, she was told that their sole meeting would be on the scaffold: – a wanton insult, for it was not intended to execute them together. The room, or rooms, (for the large circular chamber was even then divided by a partition,) occupied by Jane in the Martin Tower, were those on the upper story, tenanted, as before-mentioned, by the keeper of the regalia, and her chief place of resort during the day-time was one of the deep embrasures looking towards the north. In this recess, wholly unobserved and undisturbed, she remained, while light lasted, upon her knees, with a book of prayers, or the bible before here, fearful of losing one of the precious moments which flew by so quickly – and now so tranquilly. At night, she withdrew, not to repose, but to a small table in the midst of the apartment, on which she placed the sacred volume and a lamp, and knelt down beside it. Had she not feared to disturb her calm condition, she would not have allowed herself more than an hour’s repose, at the longest intervals nature could endure. But desirous of maintaining her composure to the last, she yielded to the demand, and from midnight to the third hour stretched herself upon her couch. She then arose, and resumed her devotions. The same rules were observed in respect to the food she permitted herself to take. Restricting herself to bread and water, she ate and drank sufficient to support nature, and no more.

On the fourth day after her confinement, the jailor informed her there was a person without who had an order from the queen to see her. Though Jane would have gladly refused admittance to the applicant, she answered meekly, “Let him come in.”

Immediately afterwards a grave-looking middle-aged man, with a studious countenance overclouded with sorrow, appeared, he was attired in a black robe, and carried a flat velvet cap in his hand.

“What, Master Roger Ascham, my old instructor!” exclaimed Jane, rising as he approached, and extending her hand to him, “I am glad to see you.”

Ascham was deeply affected. The tears rushed to his eyes, and it was some moments before he could speak.

“Do not lament for me, good friend,” said Jane, in a cheerful tone, “but rejoice with me, that I have so profited by your instructions as to be able to bear my present lot with resignation.”

“I do indeed heartily rejoice at it, honoured and dear madam,” replied Ascham, subduing his emotion, “and I would gladly persuade myself that my instructions had contributed in however slight a degree to your present composure. But you derive your fortitude from a higher source than any on earth. It is your piety, not your wisdom that sustains you; and though I have pointed out the way to the living waters at which you have drunk, it is to that fountain alone that you owe the inestimable blessing of your present frame of mind. I came not hither to depress, but to cheer you – not to instruct, but be instructed. Your life, madam, will afford the world one of the noblest lessons it has ever received, and though your career may be closed at the point whence most others start, it will have been run long enough.”

“Alas! good Master Ascham,” rejoined Jane, “I once thought that my life and its close would be profitable to our church – that my conduct might haply be a model to its disciples – and my name enrolled among its martyrs. Let him who standeth take heed lest he fall. I had too much confidence in myself. I yielded to impulses, which, though not culpable in the eyes of men, were so in those of God.”

“Oh madam! you reproach yourself far too severely,” cried Ascham. “Unhappy circumstances have made you amenable to the laws of your country, it is true, and you give up your life as a willing sacrifice to justice. But this is all that can, or will be required of you, by your earthly or your supreme Judge. That your character might have been more absolutely faultless in the highest sense I will not deny, had you sacrificed every earthly feeling to duty. But I for one should not have admired – should not have loved you as I now love you, had you acted otherwise. What you consider a fault has proved you a true woman in heart and affection; and your constancy as a believer in the gospel, and upholder of its doctrines, has been equally strongly manifested. Your name in after ages will be a beacon and a guiding-star to the whole Protestant church.”

“Heaven grant it!” exclaimed Jane, fervently. “I once hoped – once thought so.”

“Hope so – think so still,” rejoined Ascham. “Ah, dear madam, when I last took my leave of you before my departure for Germany, and found you in your chamber at Bradgate, buried in the Phædo of the divine philosopher, while your noble father and his friends were hunting, and disporting themselves in the park – when to my wondering question, as to why you did not join in their pastime, you answered, ‘that all their sport in the park was but a shadow to the pleasure you found in Plato’ – adding, ‘alas! good folk, they never felt what true pleasure meant’ – at that time, I little thought for what a sad, though proud destiny you were reserved.”

“Neither did I, good Master Ascham,” replied Jane; “but you now find me at a better study. I have exchanged him whom you term, and truly, in a certain sense, the ‘divine’ philosopher, for writings derived from the highest source of inspiration, – direct from heaven – and I find in this study more pleasure and far more profit than the other. And now farewell, good friend. Do me one last favour. Be present at my ending. And see how she, whom you have taught to live, will die. Heaven bless you!” <

“Heaven bless you too, noble and dear lady,” replied Ascham, kneeling and pressing her hand to his lips. “I will obey your wishes.” He then arose, and covering his face to hide his fast-falling tears, withdrew.

Jane, also, was much moved, for she was greatly attached to her old instructor; and to subdue her emotion, took a few turns within her chamber. In doing this, she noticed the various inscriptions and devices carved by former occupants; and taking a pin, traced with its point the following lines, on the wall of the recess where she performed her devotions:

 
Non aliéna putes homini quæ obtingere possunt;
Sors hodierna mihi, eras erit ilia tibi.
 

Underneath, she added the following, and subscribed them with her name:

 
Deo juvante, nil nocet livor malus;
Et non juvante, nil juvat labor gravis:
Post tenebras, spero lucem!
 

The lines have been effaced. But tradition has preserved them. How deeply affecting is the wish of the patient sufferer – “Post tenebras, spero lucem!”

Scarcely had Jane resumed her devotions, when she was a second time interrupted by the jailor, who, ushering a young female into the room, departed. Jane arose, and fixed her eyes upon the new-comer, but did not appear to recognise her; while the latter, unable to restrain her tears, tottered towards her, and threw herself at her feet.

“Do you not know me, dearest madam?” she cried, in a voice suffocated by emotion.

“Can it be Cicely?” inquired Jane, eagerly. “The tones are hers.”

“It is – it is,” sobbed the other.

Jane instantly raised her, and pressed her affectionately to her bosom.

“Poor child!” she exclaimed, gazing at her pale and emaciated features, now bedewed with tears, “you are as much altered as I am, – nay, more. You must have suffered greatly to rob you of your youth and beauty thus. But I should have known you at once, despite the change, had I not thought you dead. By what extraordinary chance do I behold you here?”

As soon as she could command herself, Angela related all that had befallen her since their last sad parting. She told how she had been betrayed into the hands of Nightgall by one of his associates, who came to Sion House with a forged order for her arrest, – carried her off, and delivered her to the jailor. How she was conveyed by the subterranean passage from Tower Hill to the secret dungeons beneath the fortress, – how she was removed from one cell to another by her inexorable captor, and what she endured from his importunities, threats, and cruel treatment, – and how at last, when she had abandoned all hope of succour, Providence had unexpectedly and mysteriously interposed to release her, and punish her persecutor. She likewise recounted the extraordinary discovery of her birth – Nightgall’s confession – Cholmondeley’s interview with Feckenham – and concluded her narration thus: – “The confessor having informed me that her majesty desired I should be brought before her, I yesterday obeyed the mandate. She received me most graciously – ordered me to relate my story – listened to it with profound attention – and expressed great sympathy with my misfortunes. ‘Your sufferings are at an end, I trust,’ she said, when I had finished, ‘and brighter and happie days are in store for you. The title and estates of which you have been so long and so unjustly deprived, shall be restored to you. Were it for your happiness, I would place you near my person; but a life of retirement, if I guess your disposition rightly, will suit you best.’ In this I entirely agreed, and thanking her majesty for her kindness, she replied: – ‘You owe me no thanks, Angela. The daughter of Sir Alberic Mountjoy – my mother’s trusty friend – has the strongest claims upon my gratitude. Your lover has already received a pardon, and when these unhappy affairs are ended, he shall be at liberty to quit the Tower. May you be happy with him!’”

“I echo that wish with all my heart, dear Angela,” cried Jane. “May heaven bless your union! – and it will bless it, I am assured, for you deserve happiness. Nor am I less rejoiced at your deliverance than at Cholmondeley’s. I looked upon myself as in some degree the cause of his destruction, and unceasingly reproached myself with having allowed him to accompany me to the Tower. But now I find – as I have ever found in my severest afflictions, – that all was for the best.”

“Alas! madam,” returned Angela, “when I see you here, I can with difficulty respond to the sentiment.”

“Do not question the purposes of the Unquestionable, Angela,” replied Jane, severely. “I am chastened because I deserve it, and for my own good. The wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, and fortitude is given me to bear my afflictions. Nay, they are not afflictions. I would not exchange my lot – sad as it seems to you – for that of the happiest and the freest within the realm. When the bondage of earth is once broken, – when the flesh has no more power over the spirit – when the gates of heaven are open for admittance – can the world, or worldly joys, possess further charms? No. These prison walls are no restraint to me. My soul soars upwards, and holds communion with God and with his elect, among whom I hope to be numbered. The scaffold will have no terror for me. I shall mount it as the first step towards heaven; and shall hail the stroke of the axe as the signal to my spirit to wing its flight to the throne of everlasting joy.”

“I am rebuked, madam,” returned Angela, with a look of admiration. “Oh! that I might ever hope to obtain such a frame of mind.”

“You may do so, dear Angela,” replied Jane – “but your lot is cast differently from mine. What is required from me is not required from you. Such strong devotional feelings have been implanted in my breast, for a wise purpose, that they usurp the place of all other, and fit me for my high calling. The earnest and hearty believer in the gospel will gladly embrace death, even if accompanied by the severest tortures, at seasons perilous to his church, in the conviction that it will be profitable to it. Such have been the deaths of the martyrs of our religion – such shall be my death.”

“Amen!” exclaimed Angela, fervently.

“Must we part now?” inquired Jane.

“Not unless you desire it,” replied Angela. “I have obtained the queen’s permission to remain with you to the last.”

“I thank her for the boon,” returned Jane. “It will be a great consolation to me to have you near me. Angela, you must not shrink from the last duty of a friend – you must accompany me to the scaffold. I may need you there.”

“I will shrink from nothing you injoin, madam,” replied Angela, shuddering. “But I had rather – far rather – suffer in your stead.”

Jane made no reply, but pressed her hand affectionately.

“I have omitted to tell you, madam,” continued Angela, “that the queen, before I was dismissed from the presence, urged me to embrace the faith of Rome, – that of my father, who perished for his adherence to it, – and to use my endeavours to induce you to become reconciled with that church.”

“And what answer did you make?” demanded Jane, sternly.

“Such as you yourself, would have made, madam,” replied Angela – “I refused both.”

“It is well,” rejoined Jane. “And now I must return to my devotions. You will have a weary office in attending me, Angela. Nor shall I be able to address more than a few words to you – and those but seldom.”

“Think not of me, madam,” replied the other; “all I desire is to be near you, and to join my prayers with yours.”

Both then knelt down, and both prayed long and fervently. It would have been a touching sight to see those young and beautiful creatures with eyes upturned to heaven – hands clasped – and lips murmuring prayer. But the zeal that animated Jane far surpassed that of her companion. Long before the former sought her couch, fatigue overcame the latter, and she was compelled to retire to rest; and when she arose (though it was not yet daybreak), she found the unwearying devotee had already been up for hours. And so some days were spent – Jane ever praying – Angela praying too, but more frequently engaged in watching her companion.

On the morning of Thursday, the 8th of February, the jailor appeared, with a countenance of unusual gloom, and informed his captive that the lieutenant of the Tower and Father Feckenham were without, and desired to see her.

“Admit them,” replied Jane. “I know their errand. You are right welcome, sirs,” she added, with a cheerful look, as they entered. “You bring me good news.”

“Alas! madam,” replied Feckenham, sorrowfully, “we are the bearers of ill tidings. It is our melancholy office to acquaint you that your execution is appointed for to-morrow.”

“Why that is good news,” returned Jane, with an unaltered countenance. “I have long and anxiously expected my release, and am glad to find it so near at hand.”

“I am further charged, by the queen’s highness, who desires not to kill the soul as well as the body,” pursued Feckenham, “to entreat you to use the few hours remaining to you in making your peace with heaven.”

“I will strive to do so, sir,1’ replied Jane meekly.

“Do not mistake me, madam,” rejoined Feckenham, earnestly. “Her majesty’s hope is that you will reconcile yourself with the holy Catholic church, by which means you can alone ensure your salvation. For this end, she has desired me to continue near you to the last, and to use my best efforts for your conversion – and by God’s grace I will do so.”

“You may spare yourself the labour, sir,” replied Jane. “You will more easily overturn these solid walls by your arguments than my resolution.”

“At least, suffer me to make the attempt,” replied Feckenham. “That I have hitherto failed in convincing you is true, and I may fail now, but my very zeal must satisfy you that I have your welfare at heart, and am eager to deliver you from the bondage of Satan.”

“I have never doubted your zeal, sir,” returned Jane; “nor – and I say it in all humility, – do I doubt my own power to refute your arguments. But I must decline the contest now, because my time is short, and I would devote every moment to the service of God.”

“That excuse shall not avail you, madam,” rejoined Fecken-ham, significantly. “The queen and the chancellor are as anxious as I am, for your conversion, and nothing shall be left undone to accomplish it.”

“I must submit, then,” replied Jane, with a look of resignation. “But I repeat, you will lose your labour.”

“Time will show,” returned Feckenham.

“I have not yet dared to ask a question which has risen to my lips, but found no utterance,” said Jane, in an altered tone. “Mv husband! – what of him?”

“His execution will take place at the same time with your own,” replied Feckenham.

“I shall see him to-morrow, then?” cried Jane.

“Perhaps before,” returned Feckenham.

“It were better not,” said Jane, trembling. “I know not whether I can support the interview.”

“I was right,” muttered Feckenham to himself. “The way to move her is through the affections.” And he made a sign to the lieutenant, who quitted the chamber.

“Prepare yourself, madam,” he added to Jane.

“For what?” she cried.

“For your husband’s approach. He is here.”

As he spoke, the door was opened, and Dudley rushed forward, and caught her in his arms. Not a word was uttered for some moments by the afflicted pair. Angela withdrew weeping as if her heart would break, into one of the recesses, and Feckenham and the lieutenant into another. After the lapse of a short time, thinking it a favourable opportunity for his purpose, the confessor came forward. Jane and her husband were still locked in each other’s embrace, and it seemed as if nothing but force could tear them asunder.

“I would not disturb you,” said Feckenham, “but my orders are that this interview must be brief. I am empowered also to state, madam,” he added to Jane, “that her majesty will even now pardon your husband, notwithstanding his heinous offences against her, provided you are publicly reconciled with the church of Rome.”

“I cannot do it, Dudley,” cried Jane, in a voice of agony – “I cannot – cannot.”

“Neither do I desire it,” he replied. “I would not purchase life on such terms. We will die together.”

“Be it so,” observed Feckenham, with a disconcerted look. “The offer will never be repeated.”

“It would never have been made at all, if there had been a chance of its acceptance,” returned Dudley, coldly. “Tell your royal mistress, that I love my wife too well to require such a sacrifice at her hands, and that she loves me too well to make it.”

“Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, gazing at him with tearful eyes, “I can now die without a pang.”

“Have you aught more to say to each other?” demanded Feckenham. “You will meet no more on earth!”

“Yes, on the scaffold,” cried Jane.

“Not so,” replied Feckcnham, gloomily. “Lord Guilford Dudley will suffer on Tower Hill – you, madam, will meet your sentence on the green before the White Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard perished.”

“We shall meet in the grave, then,” rejoined Dudley, bitterly, “where Mary’s tyranny can neither reach us, nor the voice of juggling priest disturb us more.”

“Your prisoner,” cried Feckenham, turning angrily to the lieutenant.

“Farewell, dear Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, straining him to her bosom – “Be constant.”

“As yourself,” he replied, gently disengaging himself from her. “I am ready, sir,” he added, to Brydges. And without hazarding another look at Jane, who fell back in the arms of Angela, he quitted the chamber.

Half an hour after this, when Jane had in some degree recovered from the shock, Feckenham returned, and informed her that he had obtained from the queen a reprieve for herself and her husband for three days. “You can now no longer allege the shortness of the time allowed you, as a reason for declining a conference with me,” he said: “and I pray you address yourself earnestly to the subject, for I will not desist till I have convinced and converted you.”

“Then I shall have little of the time allotted me to myself,” replied Jane. “But I will not repine. My troubles may benefit others – if not myself.”