The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated

XIII. – OF THE STRATAGEM PRACTISED BY CUTHBERT CHOLMONDELEY ON THE JAILOR

Several days had now elapsed since Cholmondeley was thrown into the dungeon, and during that time he had been visited only at long intervals by Nightgall. To all his menaces, reproaches, and entreaties, the jailor turned a deaf ear. He smiled grimly as he set down the scanty provisions – a loaf and a pitcher of water – with which he supplied his captive; but he could not be induced to speak. When questioned about Cicely and upbraided with his perfidy, his countenance assumed an exulting expression which Cholmondeley found so intolerable that he never again repeated his inquiries. Left to himself, his whole time was passed in devising some means of escape. He tried, but ineffectually, to break his bonds, and at last, satisfied of its futility, gave up the attempt.

One night, he was disturbed by the horrible and heartrending shrieks of the female prisoner, who had contrived to gain access to his cell. There was something about this mysterious person that inspired him with unaccountable dread; and though he was satisfied she was a being of this world, the conviction did not serve to lessen his fears. After making the dungeon ring with her cries for some time, she became silent, and as he heard no sound and could distinguish nothing, he concluded she must have departed. Just then the unlocking of a distant door and a gleam of sickly light on the walls of the stone passage announced the approach of Nightgall, and the next moment he entered the cell. The light fell upon a crouching female figure in one corner. The jailor started; and his angry ejaculations caused the poor creature to raise her head.

Cholmondeley had never beheld anything so ghastly as her countenance, and he half doubted whether he did not look upon a tenant of the grave. Her eyes were sunken and lustreless; her cheeks thin and rigid, and covered with skin of that deadly paleness which is seen in plants deprived of light; her flesh shrunken to the bone, and her hands like those of a skeleton. But in spite of all this emaciation, there was something in her features that seemed to denote that she had once been beautiful, and her condition in life exalted. The terror she exhibited at the approach of the jailor proved the dreadful usage she had experienced. In answer to his savage ejaculations to her to follow him, she flung herself on her knees, and raised her hands in the most piteous supplication. Nothing moved by this, Nightgall was about to seize her and drag her away, when with a piercing scream she darted from him, and took refuge behind Cholmondeley.

“Save me! – save me from him!” she shrieked; “he will kill me.”

“Pshaw!” cried the jailor. “Come with me quietly, Alexia, and you shall have a warmer cell, and better food.”

“I will not go,” she replied. “I will not answer to that name. Give me my rightful title and I will follow you.”

“What is your title?” asked Cholmondeley, eagerly.

“Beware!” interposed Nightgall, raising his hand menacingly. “Beware!”

“Heed him not!” cried Cholmondeley; “he shall not harm you. Tell me how you are called?”

“I have forgotten,” replied the terrified woman, evasively. “I had another name once. But I am called Alexia now.”

“What has become of your child?” asked Cholmondeley.

“My child!” she echoed, with a frightful scream. “I have lost her in these dungeons. I sometimes see her before me running and clapping her little hands. Ah! there she is – coming towards us. She has long fair hair – light blue eyes – blue as the skies I shall never behold again. Do you not see her?”

“No,” replied Cholmondeley, trembling. “How is she named?”

“She died unbaptised,” replied the female. “But I meant to call her Angela. Ah! see! she answers to the name – she approaches. Angela! my child! – my child!” And the miserable creature extended her arms, and seemed to clasp a phantom to her bosom.

“Alexia!” roared the jailor, fiercely, “follow me, or I will have you scourged by the tormentor.”

“He dare not – he will not,” – cried Cholmondeley, to whom the wretched woman clung convulsively. “Do not go with him.”

“Alexia,” reiterated the jailor, in a tone of increased fury.

“I must go,” she cried, breaking from the esquire, “or he will kill me.” And with a noiseless step she glided after Nightgall.

Cholmondeley listened intently, and as upon a former occasion, heard stifled groans succeeded by the clangour of a closing door, and then all was hushed. The jailor returned no more that night. When he appeared again, it was with a moodier aspect than ever. He set down the provisions, and instantly departed.

While meditating upon various means of escape, an idea at length occurred to the young esquire upon which he resolved to act. He determined to feign death. Accordingly, though half famished, he left his provisions untouched; and when Nightgall next visited the cell, he found him stretched on the ground, apparently lifeless. Uttering a savage laugh, the jailor held the light over the supposed corpse, and exclaimed, “At last I am fairly rid of him. Cicely will now be mine. I will fling him into the burial-vault near the moat. But first to unfasten this chain.”

So saying, he took a small key from the bunch at his girdle and unlocked the massive fetters that bound Cholmondeley to the wall. During this operation the esquire held his breath, and endeavoured to give his limbs the semblance of death. But the jailor’s suspicions were aroused.

“He cannot have been long dead,” he muttered, “perhaps he is only in a trance. This shall make all secure.” And drawing his dagger, he was about to plunge it in the bosom of the esquire, when the latter being now freed from his bondage, suddenly started to his feet, and flung himself upon him.

The suddenness of the action favoured its success. Before Nightgall recovered from his surprise, the poniard was wrested from his grasp and held at his throat. In the struggle that ensued, he received a wound which brought him senseless to the ground; and Cholmondeley, thinking it needless to despatch him, contented himself with chaining him to the wall.

Possessing himself of the jailor’s keys, he was about to depart, when Nightgall, who at that moment regained his consciousness, and with it all his ferocity, strove to intercept him. On discovering his situation, he uttered a torrent of impotent threats and execrations. The only reply deigned by the esquire to his menaces, was an assurance that he was about to set free the miserable Alexia.

Quitting the cell, Cholmondeley turned off on the left, in the direction whence he imagined the shrieks had proceeded. Here he beheld a range of low strong doors, the first of which he unlocked with one of the jailor’s keys. The prison was unoccupied. He opened the next, but with no better success. It contained nothing except a few rusty links of chain attached to an iron staple driven into the floor. In the third he found a few mouldering bones; and the fourth was totally empty. He then knocked at the doors of others, and called the miserable captive by her name in a loud voice. But no answer was returned.

At the extremity of the passage he found an open door, leading to a small circular chamber, in the centre of which stood a heavy stone pillar. From this pillar projected a long iron bar, sustaining a coil of rope, terminated by a hook. On the ground lay an immense pair of pincers, a curiously-shaped saw, and a brasier. In one corner stood a large oaken frame, about three feet high, moved by rollers. At the other was a ponderous wooden machine, like a pair of stocks. Against the wall hung a broad hoop of iron, opening in the middle with a hinge – a horrible instrument of torture, termed “The Scavenger’s Daughter.” Near it were a pair of iron gauntlets, which could be contracted by screws till they crushed the fingers of the wearer. On the wall also hung a small brush to sprinkle the wretched victims who fainted from excess of agony, with vinegar; while on a table beneath it were placed writing materials and an open volume, in which were taken down the confessions of the sufferers.

Cholmondeley saw at once that he had entered the torture-chamber, and hastily surveying these horrible contrivances, was about to withdraw, when he noticed a trap-door in one corner. Advancing towards it, he perceived a flight of steps, and thinking they might lead him to the cell he was in search of, he descended, and came to a passage still narrower and gloomier than that he had quitted. As he proceeded along it, he thought he heard a low groan, and hurrying in the direction of the sound, arrived at a small door, and knocking against it, called “Alexia,” but was answered in the feeble voice of a man.

“I am not Alexia, but whoever you are, liberate me from this horrible torture, or put me to death, and so free me from misery.”

After some search, Cholmondeley discovered the key of the dungeon and unlocking it, beheld an old man in a strange stooping posture, with his head upon his breast, and his back bent almost double. The walls of the cell, which was called the Little Ease, were so low, and so contrived, that the wretched inmate could neither stand, walk, sit, nor he at full length within them.

With difficulty, – for the poor wretch’s limbs were too much cramped by his long and terrible confinement, to allow him to move, – Cholmondeley succeeded in dragging him forth.

“How long have you been immured here?” he inquired.

“I know not,” replied the old man. “Not many weeks perhaps – but to me it seems an eternity. Support me – oh! support me! I am sinking fast!”

“A draught of water will revive you,” cried Cholmondeley. “I will bring you some in a moment.”

And he was about to hurry to his cell for the pitcher, when the old man checked him..

“It is useless,” he cried. “I am dying – nothing can save me. Young man,” he continued, fixing his glazing eyes on Cholmondeley. “When I was first brought to the Tower, I was as young as you. I have grown old in captivity. My life has been passed in these dismal places. I was imprisoned by the tyrant Henry VIII. for my adherence to the religion of my fathers – and I have witnessed such dreadful things, that, were I to relate them, it would blanch your hair like mine. Heaven have mercy on my soul!” And, sinking backwards, he expired with a hollow groan.

Satisfied that life was wholly extinct, Cholmondeley continued his search for the scarcely less unfortunate Alexia. Traversing the narrow gallery, he could discover no other door, and he therefore returned to the torture-room, and from thence retraced his steps to the cell. As he approached it, Nightgall, who heard his footsteps, called out to him, and entreated to be set at liberty.

“I will do so, provided you will conduct me to the dungeon of Alexia,” replied the esquire.

“You have not found her?” rejoined the jailor.

“I have not,” replied Cholmondeley. “Will you guide me to it?”

Nightgall eagerly answered in the affirmative.

The esquire was about to unlock the chain, but as he drew near him, the jailor’s countenance assumed so malignant an expression, that he determined not to trust him. Despite his entreaties, he again turned to depart.

“You will never get out without me,” said Nightgall.

“I will make the attempt,” rejoined Cholmondeley. And wrapping himself in the jailor’s ample cloak, and putting on his cap, he quitted the dungeon.

This time, he shaped his course differently. Endeavouring to recall the road by which Nightgall had invariably approached, he proceeded for a short time along the onward passage, and presently reaching a spot where two avenues branched off – one to the right and the other to the left, – he struck into the latter, and found a second range of dungeons. He opened the doors of several, but they were untenanted; and giving up the idea of rescuing the ill-fated Alexia, he began to think it time to attend to his own safety.

The passage he had chosen, which, like all those he had previously traversed, was arched and flagged with stone, brought him to a low square chamber, from which a flight of steps ascended. Mounting these he came to two other passages, and without pausing to consider, hurried along the first. In a short time he was stopped by a strong iron door, and examining the lock tried every key, but could find none to fit it. Failing to procure egress in this quarter, he was obliged to return, and choosing his course at random, struck into an avenue on the right.

Greatly surprised at the extent of the passages he had tracked, he could not help admiring the extraordinary solidity of the masonry, and the freshness of the stone, which looked as if it had just come from the chisel. Arriving at a gate which impeded his further progress, he applied to his keys, and was fortunately able to open it. This did not set him free as he had anticipated, but admitted him into a spacious vault, surrounded by deep cavernous recesses, filled with stone coffins. Broken statues and tattered escutcheons littered the ground.

Wondering where he could have penetrated, he paused for a moment to consider whether he should return; but fearful of losing his way in the labyrinth he had just quitted, he determined to go on. A broad flight of stone steps led him to a large folding-door, which he pushed aside, and traversing a sort of corridor with which it communicated, he found himself at the foot of a spiral staircase. Mounting it, he came to an extremely narrow passage, evidently contrived in the thickness of the wall; and threading it, he reached a small stone door, in which neither bolt nor lock could be detected.

Convinced, however, that there must be some secret spring, he examined it more narrowly, and at length discovered a small plate of iron. Pressing this, the heavy stone turned as upon a pivot, and disclosed a narrow passage, through which he crept, and found himself to his great surprise in the interior of St. John’s Chapel in the White Tower. At first, he thought he must be deceived, but a glance around convinced him he was not mistaken; and when he called to mind the multitude of passages he had traversed, his surprise was greatly diminished.

While he was thus musing, he heard footsteps approaching, and instantly extinguished the light. The masked door from which he had emerged, lay at the extremity of the northern aisle, and the parties (for there was evidently more than one) came from the other end of the chapel. Finding he had been noticed, Cholmondeley advanced towards them.

XIV. – HOW SIMON RENARD AND THE LORDS OF THE COUNCIL WERE ARRESTED BY LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY

The brief and troubled reign of the ill-fated Queen Jane was fast drawing to a close. Every fresh messenger brought tidings of large accessions to the cause of the lady Mary, who was now at the head of thirty thousand men, – an army trebling the forces of Northumberland. Added to this, the metropolis itself was in a state of revolt. Immense mobs collected in Smithfield, and advanced towards the Tower-gates, commanding the warders to open them in the name of Queen Mary. These rioters were speedily driven off, with some bloodshed. But their leader, who was recognised as the prisoner Gilbert, escaped, and the next day larger crowds assembled, and it was feared that an attack would be made upon the fortress.

Meanwhile, Northumberland, whose order of march had been prescribed by the council, proceeded slowly on the expedition; and the fate that attended him fully verified the old proverb, that delay breeds danger. An accident, moreover, occurred, which, while it greatly disheartened his party, gave additional hope to that of the lady Mary. Six vessels, well manned with troops and ammunition, stationed off Yarmouth to intercept Mary in case she attempted to escape by sea, were driven into that port, where their commanders were immediately visited by Sir Henry Jerningham, who was levying recruits for the princess, and were prevailed upon by him to join her standard.

When the news of this defection reached the Tower, even the warmest partisans of Jane perceived that her cause was hopeless, and prepared to desert her. The Duke of Suffolk could not conceal his uneasiness, and despatched a secret messenger to Lord Guilford Dudley, who during the whole of this trying period had absented himself, commanding his instant return..

On receiving the summons, Dudley immediately answered it in person. Jane received him with the utmost affection, and their meeting, which took place in the presence of her father, the Duchess of Northumberland, and the Ladies Herbert and Hastings, was deeply affecting. Lord Guilford was much moved, and prostrating himself before the queen, besought her forgiveness for his ill-advised and ungenerous conduct – bitterly reproaching himself for having deserted her at a season of so much peril.

“I will not upbraid you, dear Dudley,” rejoined Jane, “neither will I attempt to disguise from you that your absence has given me more anguish than aught else in this season of trouble. My crown you well know was your crown. But now, alas! I fear I have lost that which, though a bauble in my eyes, was a precious-jewel in yours.”

“Oh, say not so, my queen,” replied Lord Guilford, passionately. “Things are not so desperate as you imagine. I have letters full of hope and confidence from my father, who has reached Bury Saint Edmund’s. He means to give battle to the rebels to-morrow. And the next messenger will no doubt bring news of their defeat.”

“Heaven grant it may prove so, my dear lord!” rejoined Jane. “But I am not so sanguine. I have despatched missives to the sheriffs of the different counties, enjoining them to raise troops in my defence, and have summoned the Lord Mayor and the city-authorities to the council to-morrow, to decide upon what is best to be done in this emergency.”

“Daughter,” said the Duke of Suffolk, “it is my duty to, inform you that I have just received letters from his Grace of Northumberland, very different in purport from that which has reached Lord Guilford. In them he expresses himself doubtful, of the result of the conflict, and writes most urgently for further succour. His men, he says, are hourly deserting to the hostile camp. And, unless he speedily receives additional force and munition, it will be impossible to engage the enemy.”

“This is bad news, indeed, my lord,” replied Jane, mournfully.

“Have we not troops to send him?” cried Lord Guilford Dudley. “If a leader is wanted, I will set forth at once.”

“We cannot spare another soldier from the Tower,” replied Suffolk. “London is in a state of revolt. The fortress may be stormed by the rabble, who are all in favour of Mary. The Duke has already taken all the picked men. And, if the few loyal soldiers left, are removed, we shall not have sufficient to overawe the rebels.”

“My lord,” observed the Duchess of Northumberland, “you have allowed the council too much sway. They will overpower you. And your highness,” she added, turning to Jane, “has suffered yourself to be deluded by the artful counsels of Simon Renard.”

“Simon Renard has given me good counsel,” replied Jane.

“You are deceived, my queen,” replied her husband. “He is conspiring against your crown and life.”

“It is too true,” added Suffolk, “I have detected some of his dark practices.”

“Were I assured of this,” answered Jane, “the last act of my reign – the last exertion of my power should be to avenge myself upon him.”

“Are the guards within the Tower true to us?” inquired Dudley.

“As yet,” replied Suffolk. “But they are wavering. If something be not done to confirm them, I fear they will declare for Mary.”

“And the council?”

“Are plotting against us, and providing for their own safety.”

“Jane,” said Lord Guilford Dudley, “I will not attempt to excuse my conduct. But if it is possible to repair the injury I have done you, I will do so. Everything now depends on resolution. The council are more to be feared than Mary and her forces. So long as you are mistress of the Tower, you are mistress of London, and Queen of England – even though the day should go against the Duke, my father. Give me a warrant under your hand for the arrest of the council, and the ambassadors Renard and De Noailles, and I will see it instantly executed.”

“My lord!” she exclaimed.

“Trust me, my queen, it is the only means to save us,” replied Dudley. “This bold step will confound them and compel them to declare their purposes. If they are your enemies, as I nothing doubt, you will have them in your power.”

“I understand,” replied Jane. “You shall have the warrant. It will bring matters to an issue.”

At this moment, the door of the chamber was thrown open, and an usher announced “Monsieur Simon Renard.”

“You are right welcome, M. Renard,” said Lord Guilford, bowing haughtily. “I was about to go in search of you.”

“Indeed,” rejoined the ambassador, coldly returning the salutation. “I am glad to spare your lordship so much trouble, – and I am still more rejoiced to find you have recovered your temper, and returned to your royal consort.”

“Insolent!” exclaimed Lord Guilford. “Guards!” he cried, motioning to the attendants – “Assure yourselves of his person.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Renard, laying his hand upon his sword. “You have no authority for this.”

“I have the Queens warrant,” rejoined Dudley, sternly.

“The person of an ambassador is sacred,” observed Renard.

“The emperor, Charles the Fifth, will resent this outrage as an insult to himself.”

“I will take the consequences upon myself,” replied Lord Guilford, carelessly.

“Your highness will not suffer this wrong to be done?” said Renard, addressing Jane.

“Monsieur Renard,” replied the queen, “I have reason to believe you have played me false. If I find you have deceived me, though you were brother to the emperor, you shall lose your head.”

“You will have cause to repent this step,” rejoined Renard, furiously. “The council will command my instant release.”

“The order must be speedy then,” replied Dudley, “for I shall place them all in arrest. And here, as luck will have it, are your friends the Earls of Arundel and Pembroke. They will attend you to the White Tower.”

So saying, he motioned to the guards to take them into custody.

“What means this?” cried Pembroke in astonishment.

“It means that Lord Guilford Dudley, who has been slumbering for some time in Sion House, has awakened at last, and fancies his royal consort’s crown is in danger,” rejoined Renard with a bitter sneer.

“This is some jest surely, my lord,” observed Pembroke. “The council arrested at a moment of peril like this! Will you provoke us to manifest our power?”

“I will provoke you to manifest your treacherous designs towards her majesty,” replied Dudley. “Away with them to the White Tower! Shrewsbury, Cecil, Huntingdon, Darcy, and the others shall soon join you there.”

“One word before we go, gracious madam’?” said Pembroke, addressing the queen.

“Not one, my lord,” replied Jane. “Lord Guilford Dudley has my full authority for what he does. I shall hold early council to-morrow – which you shall be at liberty to attend, and you will then have ample opportunity to explain and defend yourself.”

Upon this, the confederate nobles were removed.

“It is time to put an end to this farce,” remarked Renard, as they were conducted along the gallery towards the White Tower.

“It is,” answered Pembroke, “and my first address in the council to-morrow shall be to proclaim Queen Mary.”

“The hair-brained Dudley imagines he can confine us in the White Tower,” observed Renard, laughing. “There is not a chamber in it without a secret passage. And thanks to the jailor, Nightgall, I am familiar with them all. We will not be idle to-night.”