The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated

It has already been stated that Mauger, Sorrocold, and Wolfytt were among the guests. The latter had pretty nearly recovered from the wound inflicted by Nightgall, which proved, on examination, by no means dangerous; and, regardless of the consequences, he ate, drank, laughed, and shouted as lustily as the rest. The other two being of a more grave and saturnine character, seldom smiled at what was going forward; and though they did not neglect to fill their goblets, took no share in the general conversation, but sat apart in a corner near the chimney with Winwike, discussing the terrible scenes they had witnessed in their different capacities, with the true gusto of amateurs.

“And so Lady Jane Grey and her husband will positively be executed to-morrow?” observed Winwike. “There is no chance of further reprieve, I suppose.”

“None whatever,” replied Mauger. “Father Feckenham, I understand, offered her two days more, if she would prolong her disputation with him, but she refused. No – no. There will be no further respite. She will suffer on the Green – her husband on Tower Hill.”

“So I heard,” replied Sorrocold – “Poor soul! she is very young – not seventeen, I am told.”

“Poll – poh!” cried Mauger, gruffly – “there’s nothing in that. Life is as sweet at seventy as seventeen. However, I’ll do my work as quickly as I can. If you wish to see a head cleanly taken off, get as near the scaffold as you can.”

“I shall not fail to do so,” returned Sorrocold. “I would not miss it for the world.”

“As soon as the clock strikes twelve, and the Sabbath is ended,” continued Mauger, “my assistants will begin to put up the scaffold. You know the spot before Saint Peter’s chapel. They say the grass won’t grow there. But that’s an old woman’s tale – he! he!”

“Old woman’s tale, or not,” rejoined Winwike, gravely – “it’s true. I’ve often examined the spot, and never could find a blade of herbage there.”

“Well, well,” rejoined Mauger, “I won’t dispute the point. Believe it, and welcome. I could tell other strange tales concerning that place. It’s a great privilege to be beheaded there, and only granted to illustrious personages. The last two who fell there were Queen Catherine Howard, and her confidante, the Countess of Rochford. Lady Jane Grey would be beheaded on Tower Hill, with her husband, but they are afraid of the mob, who might compassionate the youthful pair, and occasion a riot. It’s better to be on the safe side – he! he!”

“You said you had some other strange talcs to tell concerning that place,” observed Sorrocold. “What are they?”

“I don’t much like talking about them,” rejoined Mauger, reluctantly, “but since I’ve dropped a hint on the subject, I may as well speak out. You must know, then, that the night before the execution of the old Countess of Salisbury, who would not lay her head upon the block, and whom I was obliged to chase round the scaffold and bring down how I could – the night before she fell, – and a bright moonlight night it was, – I was standing on the scaffold putting it in order for the morrow, when all at once there issued from the church porch a female figure, shrouded from head to foot in white.”

“Well!” exclaimed Sorrocold, breathlessly.

“Well,” returned the headsman, “though filled with alarm, I never took my eyes from it, but watched it glide slowly round the scaffold, and finally return to the porch, where it disappeared.”

“Did you address it?” asked Winwike.

“Not I,” replied Mauger. “My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I could not have spoken to save my life.”

“Strange!” exclaimed Sorrocold. “Did you ever see it again?”

“Yes, on the night before Catherine Howard’s execution,” replied Mauger; “and I have no doubt it will appear to-night.”

“Do you think so?” cried Sorrocold. “I will watch for it.”

“I shall visit the scaffold myself, an hour after midnight,” returned Mauger – “you can accompany me if you think proper.”

“Agreed!” exclaimed the chirurgeon.

They were here interrupted by a boisterous roar of merriment from the other guests. While their sombre talk was going on, Ribald, who had made considerable progress in the good graces of Lady Le Grand, had related a merry tale, and at its close, which was attended with shouts of laughter, Sir Narcissus ordered a fresh supply of wine, and the vast measures were promptly replenished by the pantier. Several pleasant hours were thus consumed, until at last Sir Narcissus arose, or rather attempted to rise, for his limbs refused their office, and his gaze was rather unsteady, and addressed his friends as follows: – “Farewell, my merry gossips,” he hiccupped – “farewell! As I am now a married man, I must keep go-o-o-d hours.” (At this moment the clock struck twelve). “I have already trespassed too much on Lady Le Grand’s good nature. She is getting sleepy. So, to speak truth, am! I shall often visit you again – as often, at least, as my dignities and duties will permit. Do not stand in awe of my presence. I shall always unbend with you – always. The truly great are never proud – at least to their inferiors. With their superiors it is a different matter. This alone would convince you of my illustrious origin.”

“True,” cried Gog, “no one would suspect you of being the son of a groom of the pantry, for instance.”

“No one,” repeated Xit, fiercely, and making an ineffectual attempt to draw his sword, “or if he did suspect it, he should never live to repeat it.”

“Well, well,” replied Gog, meekly. “I don’t suspect it.”

“None of us suspect it,” laughed Og.

“I am qu-quito sa-sa-satisfied,” replied Sir Narcissus. “More wine, old Trusbut. Fill the pots, pantler. I’ll give you a r-r-r-rousing pledge.”

“And so will I,” cried his dame, who, like her lord, was a little the worse for the wine she had swallowed, – her goblet being kept constantly filled by the assiduous Ribald – “so will I, if you don’t come home directly, you little sot.”

“Lady Le Gr-r-and,” cried Sir Narcissus, furiously, “I’ll divorce you. – I’ll behead you as Harry the Eighth did Anne Boleyn.”

“No, chuck, you won’t,” replied the lady. “You will think better of it to-morrow.” So saying, she snatched him up in her arms, and despite his resistance carried him off to his lodging in the palace, long before reaching which, he had fallen asleep, and when he awoke next morning, he had but a very confused recollection of the events of the preceding night.

And here, as it will be necessary to take leave of our little friend, we will give a hasty glance at his subsequent history. Within a year of his union, a son was born to him, who speedily eclipsed his sire in stature, and in due season became a stalwart, well-proportioned man, six feet in height, and bearing a remarkable resemblance to Ribald. Sir Narcissus was exceedingly fond of him; and it was rather a droll sight to see them together. The dwarfish knight continued to rise in favour with the queen, and might have been constantly with the court had he pleased, but as he preferred, from old habits and associations, residing within the Tower, he was allowed apartments in the palace, of which he was termed, in derision, the grand seneschal. On Elizabeth’s accession, he was not removed, but retained his post till the middle of the reign of James the First, when he died full of years and honours – active, vain, and consequential to the last, and from his puny stature, always looking young. He was interred in front of Saint Peter’s chapel on the green, near his old friends the giants, who had preceded him some years to the land of shadows, and the stone that marks his grave may still be seen.

As to the three gigantic warders, they retained their posts, and played their parts at many a feast and high solemnity during Elizabeth’s golden rule, waxing in girth and bulk as they advanced in years, until they became somewhat gross and unwieldy. Og, who had been long threatened with apoplexy, his head being almost buried in his enormous shoulders, expired suddenly in his chair after a feast; and his two brethren took his loss so much to heart, that they abstained altogether from the flask, and followed him in less than six months, dying, it was thought, of grief, but more probably of dropsy. Their resting-place has been already indicated. In the same spot, also, the Lady Le Grand, Dame Placida, and the worthy pantler and his spouse. Magog was a widower during the latter part of his life, and exhibited no anxiety to enter a second time into the holy estate of matrimony. Og and Gog died unmarried.

XL. – OF THE VISION SEEN BY MAUGER AND SORROCOLD ON THE TOWER GREEN

After the forcible abduction of Sir Narcissus by his spouse, the party broke up, – Og and Gog shaping their course to the By-ward Tower, Magog and his spouse, together with Ribald, who had taken up his quarters with them, to their lodging on the hill leading to the Green, – Hairun to the Lions’ Tower, Win-wike and his son to the Flint Tower, while Mauger, Wolfytt, and Sorrocold proceeded to the Cradle Tower. Unfastening his door, the headsman struck a light, and setting fire to a lamp, motioned the others to a bench, and placed a stone jar of strong waters before them, of which Wolfytt took a long, deep pull, but the chirurgeon declined it.

“I have had enough,” he said. “Besides, I want to see the spirit.”

“I care for no other spirit but this,” rejoined Wolfytt, again applying his mouth to the jar.

“Take care of yourselves, masters,” observed Mauger. “I must attend to business.”

“Never mind us,” laughed Wolfytt, observing the executioner take up an axe, and after examining its edge, begin to sharpen it, “grind away.”

“This is for Lord Guilford Dudley,” remarked Mauger, as he turned the wheel with his foot. “I shall need two axes to-morrow.”

“Sharp work,” observed Wolfytt, with a detestable grin.

“You would think so were I to try one on you,” retorted Mauger. “Ay, now it will do,” he added laying aside the implement, and taking up another. “This is my favourite axe. I can make sure work with it. I always keep it for queens or dames of high degree – he! he! This notch, which I can never grind away, was made by the old Countess of Salisbury, that I told you about. It was a terrible sight to see her white hair dabbled with blood. Poor Lady Jane won’t give me so much trouble, I’ll be sworn. She’ll die like a lamb.”

“Ay, ay,” muttered Sorrocold. “God send her a speedy death!”

“She’s sure of it with me,” returned Mauger, “so you may rest easy on that score.” And as he turned the grindstone quickly round, drawing sparks from the steel, he chaunted; as hoarsely as a raven, the following ditty: —

 
The axe was sharp, and heavy as lead,
As it touched the neck, off went the head!
Wh i r – wh i r – wh i r – wh i r!
 

And the screaming of the grindstone formed an appropriate accompaniment to the melody.

 
Queen Anne laid her white throat upon the block,
Quietly waiting the fatal shock;
The axe it severed it right in twain,
And so quick – so true – that she felt no pain!
Whir – whir – whir – whir!
And he again set the wheel in motion.
Salisbury’s countess, she would not die
As a proud dame should – decorously.
Lifting my axe, I split her skull,
And the edge since then has been notched and dull.
Whir – tvhir – whir – whir!
 
 
Queen Catherine Howard gave me a fee, —
A chain of gold – to die easily:
And her costly present she did not rue,
For I touched her head, and away it flew!
Whir – whir – whir – whir!
 

“A brave song, and well sung,” cried Wolfytt, approvingly. “Have you any more of it?”

“No,” replied Mauger, significantly. “I shall make another verse to-morrow. My axe is now as sharp as a razor,” he added, feeling its edge. “Suppose we go to the scaffold? It must be up by this time.”,

“With all my heart,” replied Sorrocold, whose superstitious curiosity was fully awakened.

Shouldering the heavy block with the greatest ease, Mauger directed Wolfytt to bring a bundle of straw from a heap in the corner, and extinguishing the lamp, set forth. It was a sharp, frosty night, and the hard ground rang beneath their footsteps. There was no moon, but the stars twinkled brightly down, revealing every object with sufficient distinctness. As they passed Saint Thomas’s Tower, Wolfytt laughingly pointed out Bret’s head stuck upon a spike on the roof, and observed, – “That poor fellow made Xit a knight.”

On reaching the Green, they found Manger’s conjecture right – the scaffold was nearly finished. Two carpenters were at work upon it, nailing the planks to the posts, and the noise of their hammers resounded in sharp echoes from the surrounding habitations. Hurrying forward, Mauger ascended the steps, which were placed on the north, opposite Saint Peter’s chapel, and deposited his burthen on the platform. He was followed more leisurely by Sorrocold; and Wolfytt, throwing the straw upon the ground, scrambled after them as well as he could.

“If I had thought it was so sold, I would have taken another pull at the stone bottle,” he said, rubbing his hands.

“Warm yourself by helping the carpenter,” replied Sorrocold gravely. “It will do you more good.”

Wolfytt laughed, and dropping on his knees, grasped the block with both hands, and placed his neck in the hollowed space.

“Shall I try whether I can take your head off?” demanded Mauger, feigning to draw his dagger.

Apprehensive that the jest might be carried a little too far, Wolfytt got up, and imitated, as well as his drunken condition would allow, the actions of a person addressing the multitude and preparing for execution. In bowing to receive the blessing of the priest, he missed his footing a second time, and rolled off the scaffold. He did not attempt to ascend again, but supported himself against one of the posts near the carpenters. Mauger and Sorrocold took no notice of him, but began to converse in an under tone about the apparition. In spite of himself, the executioner could not repress a feeling of dread, and the chirurgeon half-repented his curiosity.

After a while, neither spoke, and Sorrocold’s teeth chattered, partly with cold, partly with terror. Nothing broke the deathlike silence around, except the noise of the hammer, and ever and anon, a sullen and ominous roar proceeding from the direction of the Lions’ Tower.

“Do you think it will appear?” inquired Sorrocold, whose blood ran cold at the latter awful sounds.

“I know not,” replied Mauger – “All! there – there it is.” And he pointed towards the church porch, from which a figure, robed in white, but unsubstantial almost as the mist, suddenly issued. It glided noiselessly along, and without turning its face towards the beholders. No one saw it except Mauger and Sorrocold, who followed its course with their eyes. The carpenters continued their work, and Wolfytt stared at his companions in stupid and inebriate wonderment. After making the complete circuit of the scaffold, the figure entered the church porch and disappeared.

“What think you of it?” demanded Mauger, as soon as he could find utterance.

“It is marvellous and incomprehensible, and if I had not seen it with my own eyes, I could not have believed it,” replied the churgeon. “It must be the shade of Anne Boleyn, she is buried in that chapel.”

“You are right,” replied the executioner. “It is her spirit, there will be no further respite. Jane will die to-morrow.”

XLI. – OF THE UNION OF CHOLMONDELEY WITH ANGELA

The near approach of death found Jane as unshaken as before, or rather she rejoiced that her deliverance was at hand. Compelled to her infinite regret to hold a disputation with Fecken-ham, she exerted all her powers; and, as upon a former occasion, when opposed to a more formidable antagonist, Gardiner, came off victorious. But though defeated, the zealous confessor did not give up his point, trusting he should be able to weary her out. He, accordingly, passed the greater part of each day in her prison, and brought with him, at different times, Gardiner, Tunstal, Bonner, and other prelates, all of whom tried the effect of their reasoning upon her, – but with no avail. Bonner, who was of a fierce and intolerant nature, was so enraged, that on taking leave of her he said with much acrimony – “Farewell, madam. I am sorry for you and your obstinacy, and I am assured we shall never meet again.”

“True, my lord,” replied Jane; “we never shall meet again, unless it shall please God to turn your heart. And I sincerely pray that he may send you his holy spirit, that your eyes may be opened to his truth.”

Nor had the others better success. Aware that whatever she said would be reported to the disadvantage of the Protestant faith, if it could be so perverted, she determined to give them no handle for misrepresentation, and fought the good fight so gallantly that she lost not a single point, and wrung even from her enemies a reluctant admission of defeat. Those best skilled in all the subtleties of scholastic argument, could not perplex her. United to the most profound learning, she possessed a clear logical understanding, enabling her at once to unravel and expose the mysteries in which they sought to perplex her, while the questions she proposed in her turn were unanswerable. At first, she found Feckenham’s visits irksome, but by degrees they became almost agreeable to her, because she felt she was at once serving the cause of the Gospel, and taken from her own thoughts. During all this time, Angela never for a moment quitted her, and though she took no part in the conferences, she profited greatly by them.

Two days before she suffered, Jane said to Feckenham, “You have often expressed a wish to serve me, reverend sir. There is one favour you can confer upon me if you will.”

“What is it, madam?” he rejoined.

“Before I die,” returned Jane, “I would fain see Angela united to her lover, Cuthbert Cholmondeley. He was ever a faithful follower of my unfortunate husband, and he has exhibited a like devoted attachment to me. I know not whether you can confer this favour upon me, or whether you will do so if you can. But I venture, from your professions of regard for me, to ask it. If you consent, send, I pray you to Master John Bradford, pre bendary of Saint Paul’s, and let him perform the ceremony in this chamber.”

“Bradford!” exclaimed Feckenham, frowning. “I know the obstinate and heretical preacher well. If you are willing that I should perform the ceremony, I will undertake to obtain the queen’s permission for it. But it must not be done by Bradford.”

“Then I have nothing further to say,” replied Jane.

“But how comes it that you, Angela,” said Feckenham, addressing her in a severe tone, “the daughter of Catholic parents, both of whom suffered for their faith, abandon it?”

“A better light has been vouchsafed me,” she replied, “and I lament that they were not equally favoured.”

“Well, madam,” observed Feckenham, to Jane, “you shall not say I am harsh with you. I desire to serve Angela, for her parents’ sake – both of whom were very dear to me. I will make known your request to the queen, and I can almost promise it shall be granted on one condition.”

“On no condition affecting my opinions,” said Jane.

“Nay, madam,” returned the confessor, with a half-smile, “I was about to propose nothing to which you can object. My condition is, that if Bradford is admitted to your prison, you exchange no word with him, except in reference to the object of his visit. That done, he must depart at once.”

“I readily agree to it,” replied Jane, “and I thank you for your consideration.”

After some further conference, Feckenham departed, and Angela, as soon as they were alone, warmly thanked Jane for her kindness, saying – “But why think of me at such a time?”

“Because it will be a satisfaction to me to know that you are united to the object of your affections,” replied Jane. “And now leave me to my devotions, and prepare yourself for what is to happen.”

With this, she withdrew into the recess, and, occupied in fervent prayer, soon abstracted herself from all else. Three hours afterwards, Feckenham returned. He was accompanied by Cholmondeley, and a grave-looking divine in the habit of a minister of the Reformed Church, in whom Jane immediately recognised John Bradford, – the uncompromising preacher of the Gospel, who not long afterwards won his crown of martyrdom at Smithfield. Apparently, he knew why he was summoned, and the condition annexed to it, for he fixed an eye full of the deepest compassion and admiration upon Jane, but said nothing. Cholmondeley threw himself at her feet, and pressed her hand to his lips, but his utterance failed him. Jane raised him kindly and entreated him to command himself, saying, “I have not sent for you hero to afflict you, but to make you happy.” <

“Alas! madam,” replied Cholmondcley, “you are ever more thoughtful for others than yourself.”

“Proceed with the ceremony without delay, sir,” said Fleckenham.

“I rely upon your word, madam, that you hold no conference with him.”

“You may rely upon it,” returned Jane.

And the confessor withdrew.

Bradford then took from his vest a book of prayers, and in that prison-chamber, with Jane only as a witness, the ceremony was performed. At its conclusion, Angela observed to her husband – “We must separate as soon as united, for I shall never quit my dear mistress during her lifetime.”

“I should deeply regret it, if you did otherwise,” returned Cholmondcley. “Would I had like permission to attend on Lord Guilford. But that is denied me.”

At the mention of her husband’s name, a shade passed over Jane’s countenance – but she instantly checked the emotion.

“My blessing upon your union!” she cried, extending her hands over the pair, “and may it be happy – happier than mine.”

“Amen!” cried Bradford. “Before I take my leave, madam, I trust I shall not transgress the confessor’s commands, if I request you to write your name in this book of prayers. It will stimulate me in my devotions, and may perchance cheer me in a trial like your own.”

Jane readily complied, and taking the book, wrote a short prayer in the blank leaf, and subscribed it with her name.

“This is but a slight return for your compliance with my request, Master Bradford,” she said, as she returned the book, “but it is all I have to offer.”

“I shall prize it more than the richest gift,” replied the preacher. “Farewell, madam, and doubt not I shall pray constantly for you.”

“I thank you heartily, sir,” she rejoined. “You must go with him, Cholmondeley,” she continued, perceiving that the esquire lingered – “We must now part for ever.”

“Farewell, madam,” cried Cholmondeley, again prostrating himself before her, and pressing her hand to his lips.

“Nay, Angela, you must lead him forth,” observed Jane, kindly, though a tear started to her eye. And she withdrew into an embrasure, while Cholmondeley, utterly unable to control his distress, rushed forth, and was followed by Bradford.

Jane’s benediction did not fall to the ground. When the tragic event, which it is the purpose of this chronicle to relate, was over, Angela fell into a dangerous illness, during which her husband watched over her with the greatest solicitude. Long before her recovery, he had been liberated by Mary, and as soon as she was fully restored to health, they retired to his family seat, in Cheshire, where they passed many years of uninterrupted happiness, – saddened, – but not painfully, – by the recollection of the past.