XVII.-IN WHAT MANNER JANE WAS BROUGHT BACK TO THE TOWER OF LONDON.
Gunnora Braose kept her word. Before daybreak, Lord Guilford Dudley joined his afflicted consort. Their meeting was passionate and sad. As Jane ardently returned her husband’s fond embrace, she cried—“Oh, my dear lord, that we had never been deluded by the false glitter, of greatness to quit this calm retreat! Oh that we may be permitted to pass the remainder of our days here!”
“I have not yet abandoned all hopes of the throne,” replied Dudley. “Our fortunes may be retrieved.”
“Never,” returned Jane, gravely—“never so far as I am concerned. Were the crown to be again offered to me—were I assured I could retain it, I would not accept it. No, Dudley, the dream of ambition is over; and I am fully sensible of the error I have committed.”
“As you please, my queen, for I will still term you so,” rejoined Dudley—“but if my father is in arms, I will join him, and we will make one last effort for the prize, and regain it, or perish in the attempt.”
“Your wild ambition will lead you to the scaffold—and will conduct me there, also,” replied Jane. “If we could not hold the power when it was in our own hands—how can you hope to regain it?”
“It is not lost—I will not believe it, till I am certified under my father’s own hand that he has abandoned the enterprise,” rejoined Dudley. “You know him not, Jane. With five thousand men at his command—nay, with a fifth of that number, he is more than a match for all his enemies. We shall yet live to see him master of the Tower—of this rebellious city, we shall yet see our foes led to the scaffold. And if I see the traitors, Renard, Pembroke and Arundel, conducted thither I will excuse Fortune all her malice.”
“Heaven forgive them their treason as I forgive them!” exclaimed Jane. “But I fear their enmity will not be satisfied till they have brought us to the block to which you would doom them.”
“This is not a season for reproaches, Jane,” said Dudley, coldly; “but if you had not trusted that false traitor, Renard,—if you had not listened to his pernicious counsels,—if you had not refused my suit for the crown, and urged my father to undertake the expedition against Mary,—all had been well. You had been queen—and I king.”
“Your reproaches are deserved, Dudley,” replied Jane, “and you cannot blame me more severely than I blame myself. Nevertheless, had I acceded to your desires,—had I raised you to the sovereignty,—had I turned a deaf ear to Renard’s counsel, and not suffered myself to be duped by his allies Arundel and Pembroke,—had I retained your father in the Tower,—my reign would not have been of much longer duration.”
“I do not understand you, madam,” said Lord Guilford, sternly.
“To be plain, then,” replied Jane,—“for disguise is useless now—I am satisfied that your father aimed at the crown himself,—that I was merely placed on the throne to prepare it for him,—and that when the time arrived, he would have removed me.”
“Jane!” exclaimed her husband, furiously.
“Have patience, dear Dudley!” she rejoined. “I say not this to rouse your anger, or to breed further misunderstanding between us. Heaven knows we have misery enough to endure without adding to it. I say it to reconcile you to your lot. I say it to check the spirit of ambition which I find is yet smouldering within your bosom. I say it to prevent your joining in any fresh attempt with your father, which will assuredly end in the destruction of both.”
“But you have brought a charge so foul against him, madam,” cried her husband, “that as his son, I am bound to tell you you are grievously in error.”
“Dudley,” replied Jane, firmly, “I have proofs that the Duke poisoned my cousin, King Edward. I have proofs also, that he would have poisoned me.”
“It is false,” cried her husband, furiously—“it is a vile calumny fabricated by his enemies. You have been imposed upon.”
“Not so, my lord,” cried Gunnora Braose, who had been an unseen listener to the conversation. “It is no calumny. The royal Edward was poisoned by me at your ‘father’s instigation. And you and your consort would have shared the same fate.”
“False hag! thou liest,” cried Lord Guilford.
“Read that,” replied Gunnora, placing a document in his hands. “It is my order in the Duke’s own writing. Do you credit me now.”
Dudley hastily cast his eyes over the scroll. His countenance fell, and the paper dropped from his grasp.
“And now hear my news,” continued the old woman, with a smile of exultation. “Your father has proclaimed Queen Mary at Cambridge.”
“Impossible!” cried Dudley.
“I tell you it is true,” replied Gunnora—“a messenger arrived at midnight with the tidings, and it was during the confusion created by the intelligence that I contrived to effect your escape. The Earl of Arundel is despatched to arrest him, and, ere to-morrow night, he will be lodged within the Tower. Yes,” she continued with a ferocious laugh—“I shall see him placed in the same dungeon in which he lodged my foster-son, the great Duke of Somerset. I shall see his head stricken off by the same axe, and upon the same scaffold, and I shall die content.”
“Horrible!” cried Jane. “Leave us, wretched woman. Your presence adds to my affliction.”
“I will leave you, dear lady,” replied Gunnora—“but though absent from you, I will not fail to watch over you. I have powerful friends within the Tower, and if any ill be designed you, I will give you timely warning. Farewell!”
A miserable and anxious day was passed by Jane and her husband. Lord Guilford would fain have departed with Chol-mondeley to join his father at Cambridge, but suffered himself to be dissuaded from the rash undertaking, by the tears and entreaties of his consort. As to Cicely and her lover, their sympathies were so strongly excited for the distresses of Jane, that the happiness they would otherwise have experienced in each other’s society, was wholly destroyed. At night, as the little party were assembled, Gunnora Braose again made her appearance, and her countenance bespoke that some new danger was at hand.
“What ill tidings do you bring?” cried Dudley, starting to his feet.
“Fly!” exclaimed Gunnora. “You have not a moment to lose. Simon Renard has discovered your retreat, and Lord Clinton, with a body of men, is hastening hither to convey you to the Tower. Fly!”
“Whither?” exclaimed Lord Guilford. “Whither shall we fly?”
“It is useless, my dear lord,” replied Jane, calmly, “to contend further. I resign myself to the hands of Providence, and I counsel you to do the same.”
“Come then with me, Cholmondeley,” cried Dudley, snatching up his cloak, and girding on his sword, “we will to horse at once, and join my father at Cambridge. If he has a handful of men left we can yet make a gallant defence.”
“The Duke is arrested, and on his way to the Tower,” said Gunnora.
“Ha!” exclaimed Dudley, “when did this occur?”
“Yesterday,” replied the old woman. “He was taken within his chamber by my grandson, Gilbert Pot, who has received a hundred pounds in lands, and the degree of an esquire, for the deed. He submitted himself to the Earl of Arundel, and his deportment was as abject as it formerly was arrogant. When he saw the Earl, he fell on his knees, and desired him to have pity on him for the love of God. ‘Consider.’ he said, ‘I have done nothing but by the order of you and the whole Council.’ Then the Earl of Arundel replied, ‘I am sent hither by the Queen’s majesty, and in her name I arrest you.’ ‘And I obey it, my lord.’ answered the Duke. ‘I beseech you use mercy towards me, knowing the case as it is.’ ‘My lord,’ rejoined the Earl, ‘you should have sought mercy sooner. I must do according to my commandment. You are my prisoner!’ And he committed him in charge to my grandson and others of the guard.”
“How learnt you this?” inquired Lord Guilford.
“From a messenger who has just arrived at the Tower,” replied the old woman—“and this is the last act of the great Duke of Northumberland. We shall soon see how he comports himself on the scaffold.”
“Begone,” cried Jane, “and do not stay here to deride our misery.”.
“I am not come hither to deride it,” replied the old woman, “but to warn you.”
“I thank you for your solicitude,” replied Jane—“but, it is needless. Retire all of you, I entreat, and leave me with my husband.”
Her injunctions were immediately complied with, and her attendants withdrew. The unfortunate pair were not, however, allowed much time for conversation. Before they had been many minutes alone, the door was burst open, and a troop of armed men headed by Lord Clinton, the lieutenant of the Tower, rushed in.
“I am aware of your errand, my lord,” said Jane; “you are come to convey me to the Tower. I am ready to attend you.”
“It is well,” replied Lord Clinton. “If you have any preparations to make, you shall have time for them.”
“I have none, my lord,” she replied.
“Nor I,” replied Lord Guilford.
“My sole request is, that I may take one female attendant with me,” said Jane, pointing to Cicely.
“I am sorry I cannot comply with the request,” answered Lord Clinton, “but my orders are peremptory.”
“Will my esquire be permitted to accompany me?” inquired Dudley.
“If he chooses to incur the risk of so doing, assuredly,” replied Clinton. “But he will go into captivity.”
“I will follow my Lord Guilford to death,” cried Cholmondeley.
“You are a faithful esquire, indeed!” observed Lord Clinton, with a slight sneer.
While this was passing, Cicely hastily threw a surcoat of velvet over her mistress’s shoulders, to protect her from the night air, and then prostrating herself before her, clasped her hand, and bedewed it with tears.
“Rise, child,” said Jane, raising her and embracing her—“Farewell! may you be speedily united to your lover, and may your life be happier than that of your unfortunate mistress!”
“My barge awaits you at the stairs,” observed Lord Clinton.
“We will follow you, my lord,” said Dudley.
Leaning upon Cicely, Jane, who was scarcely able to support herself, was placed in the stern of the boat. Her husband took his seat near her, and two men-at-arms, with drawn swords, were stationed as a guard on either side of them. Bidding a hasty adieu to the weeping Cicely, Cholmondeley sprang into the boat, and was followed by Clinton, who immediately gave the signal to the rowers. Cicely lingered till the bark disappeared, and as two halberdiers bearing torches were placed in the fore part of the vessel, she was enabled to track its course far down the river. When the last glimmer of light vanished, her heart died within her, and she returned to indulge her grief in solitude.
Meanwhile, the boat with its unhappy occupants pursued a rapid course. The tide being in their favour they shortly reached London, and as they swept past Durham House—whence, only twelve days ago, she had proceeded in so much pomp to the Tower—Jane’s feelings became too poignant almost for endurance. The whole pageant rose before her in all its splendour. Again she heard the roar of the cannon announcing her departure. Again she beheld the brilliant crowd of proud nobles, gaily-dressed cavaliers, lovely and high-born dames, grave prelates, judges and ambassadors. Again she beheld the river glistening with golden craft. Again she heard the ominous words of Gunnora, ‘Go not to the Tower!’ Again she beheld the fierce lightning flash, again heard the loud thunder roll—and she felt she had received a deep and awful warning. These thoughts affected her so powerfully, that she sank half fainting on her husband’s shoulder.
In this state she continued till they had shot London Bridge, and the first object upon which her gaze rested, when she opened her eyes, was the Tower.
Here again other harrowing recollections arose. How different was the present, from her former entrance into the fortress! Then a deafening roar of ordnance welcomed her. Then all she passed saluted her as Queen. Then drawbridges were lowered, gates opened, and each vied with the other to show her homage. Then a thousand guards attended her. Then allegiance was sworn—fidelity vowed—but how kept? Now all was changed. She was brought a prisoner to the scene of her former grandeur, unattended, unnoted.
Striving to banish these reflections, which, in spite of her efforts, obtruded themselves upon her, she strained her gaze to discover through the gloom the White Towrer, but could discern nothing but a sombre mass like a thunder-cloud. St. Thomas’s, or Traitor’s Tower was, however, plainly distinguishable, as several armed men carrying flambeaux were stationed on its summit.
The boat was now challenged by the sentinels—merely as a matter of form, for its arrival was expected,—and almost before the answer could be returned by those on board, a wicket, composed of immense beams of wood, was opened, and the boat shot beneath the gloomy arch. Never had Jane experienced a feeling of such horror as now assailed her—and if she had been crossing the fabled Styx she could not have felt greater dread. Her blood seemed congealed within her veins as she gazed around. The lurid light of the torches fell upon the black dismal arch—upon the slimy walls, and upon the yet blacker tide. Nothing was heard but the sullen ripple of the water, for the men had ceased rowing, and the boat impelled by their former efforts soon struck against the steps. The shock recalled Jane to consciousness. Several armed figures bearing torches were now seen to descend the steps. The customary form of delivering the warrant, and receiving an acknowledgement for the bodies of the prisoners being gone through, Lord Clinton, who stood upon the lowest step, requested Jane to disembark. Summoning all her resolution, she arose, and giving her hand to the officer, who stood with a drawn sword beside her, was assisted by him and a warder to land. Lord Clinton received her as she set foot on the step. By his aid she slowly ascended the damp and slippery steps, at the summit of which, two personages were standing, whom she instantly recognised as Renard and De Noailles. The former regarded her with a smile of triumph, and said in a tone of bitter mockery as she passed him—“So—Epiphany is over. The Twelfth Day Queen has played her part.”
“My lord,” said Jane, turning disdainfully from him to Lord Clinton—“will it please you to conduct me to my lodging?”
“What he! warders,” cried Lord Clinton, addressing the gigantic brethren who were standing near—“Conduct Lady Jane Dudley to Master Partridge’s dwelling till her chamber within the Brick Tower is prepared. Lord Guilford Dudley must be taken to the Beauchamp Tower.”
“Are we to be separated?” cried Jane.
“Such are the Queen’s commands,” replied Lord Clinton, in a tone of deep commiseration.
“The Queen’s!” exclaimed Jane.
“Ay! the Queen’s!” repeated Renard. “Queen Mary of England, whom Heaven long preserve!”