She spoke very little on the scaffold; only saying that “though she had consented unto the setting up of herself against the Queen’s Highness, yet was she innocent of all procurement or desire thereof: and that she died a true Christian woman, looking for eternal life unto the passion of Jesus Christ only, and to none other; and she thanked God, that had given her space to repent; for when she was younger, and did know the word of God, she had neglected the same, and had loved her own self and the world.” And then she said to Dr Feckenham, “Shall I say this Psalm?”
Feckenham—a man of the Jesuitical type, renowned for the softness and sweetness of his manners—bowed assent. Then the victim prayed through the Fifty-first Psalm, and prepared herself for the sacrifice. The hangman knelt down and asked her forgiveness: she replied, “Most willingly,” and “I pray you, despatch me quickly. Will you take it off before I lay me down?” Poor child! The executioner was the one who dealt with her most gently and respectfully. He said, “No, Madam.” So she handed her gloves to one of her women, and her book to Sir John Bridges, and tied the handkerchief over her eyes. Feeling about with her hands for the block, she said,—“What shall I do? Where is it? Where is it?” One of the bystanders guided her hand to it. Then she laid down her head; and saying, “Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!” her head fell with one stroke. She was out of Philip’s way now. And the angels of God, for whose company she exchanged a society somewhat less angelic, were not so likely to account her in their way.
A fearful day was that from dawn to dusk. Half an hour after the execution of Lady Jane, Lord Courtenay (but a few days before made Earl of Devon) was brought into the Tower; he would not declare the cause of his coming there, saying he could not tell; “but,” added he, “let the world judge.” All the evening the noise of hammers was going in the City, for the gallows were set up everywhere. There was one at every gate of the City, and at the bridge-foot one; four in Southwark, one at Leadenhall two in Cheapside, six or eight in Fleet Street and Charing Cross—nor were these all.
Throughout London all the prisons were so full that the less important prisoners were kept in the churches, by eighty in a group. Dr Thorpe said, “If they hang all the Queen’s subjects, there will be small fear of a new rebellion.” Men greeted each other fearfully, scarcely knowing if they should ever meet again. But the worst fears of all were awakened for the Archbishop, Bishop Ridley, and Mr Latimer, within the Tower, and for Mr Rose outside it. On the 15th of February, Isoult Avery wrote in her diary—
“In Southwark all this day were the gallows at work, till I am sick at heart for every sound I hear. The gallows at Aldgate, I thank God, cannot be seen from our windows, being hid by the gate. If it could, I scantly know what should come of us. I dare not go forth of the door, lest I meet some awful sight that I may not forget to my dying day.
“God Himself showeth His displeasure by fearful sights from Heaven. Two suns should this morrow be seen in the sky, and this even was a rainbow over London, turned the diverse way, the arch on the ground, and the points on high. I dare not think what shall come next, either on earth or in Heaven, unless Christ Himself (that scarce ever was more wanted) would rend the heavens and come down to save us. Yea, Amen, Lord Jesus, come Thou quickly!”
But no sign of the Son of Man flashed on that weary land. Not yet was accomplished the number of the elect; and until the last sheep was gathered into the fold, there could be no hastening of the kingdom.
The execution of Lady Jane’s father quickly followed her own. He died, as men of his stamp often do, better than he had lived. The “subjection to bondage from fear of death,” in which he had spent his trembling life, vanished before death came to him. Boldly and bravely this timid, shrinking soul stood forth at the last, telling all the world that he died in the faith of Christ, “trusting to be saved by His blood only, and by no other trumpery.” Strange words from one of the weakest men that ever lived!—yet it is the special characteristic of Christ’s strength that it is “made perfect in weakness.” It may be chiefly when His children come to die that they understand the full meaning of that passage, “He hath abolished death.” For our faith, as it has been said, is a religion of paradoxes. Strength, whose perfection lies in weakness,—life, which is founded upon a death—glory, which springs out of shame and suffering. When the Twelve heard that, to draw all men unto Him, the Master should be lifted up from the earth, it probably never dawned upon their minds that the scene of that exaltation was to be the cross. News that made men tremble came before the end of February. The Lady Elizabeth had been summoned to Court—was it for life or death?—and Bishop Bonner had issued a commission of inquiry concerning all in his diocese, with orders to present all persons who had failed to frequent auricular confession and the mass. Many fell away in this time of temptation—Sir William Cecil (afterwards Lord Burleigh) and his wife Mildred, amongst others. The Duchess of Suffolk held on her way unwavering. Annis Holland’s second letter, which had been delayed, reached Isoult Avery in the beginning of March.
“Unto my right entirely beloved friend, Mistress Avery, that dwelleth at the sign of the Lamb, in the Minories, next without Aldgate, beside London, be these delivered.
“My Very well beloved Isoult,—My most hearty and loving commendations remembered unto thee. Sithence my last writing have I made a most woeful discovery, the which I would almost I had not done. But thou shalt know the same.