Northumberland ordered the troops he was to command, which were to be raised by the various noblemen adhering to Jane’s party, to meet him at Newmarket. He gave a sort of farewell dinner to the Council in the Tower on the 13th, opening the banquet with a threatening speech to his guests. “If you do not keep your oath, or if you turn traitor to Jane,” said he, “God shall [will] not acquit you of the sacred and holy oath of allegiance, made freely by you to this virtuous lady, the Queen’s Highness, who by your and our enticement is rather of force placed therein [i.e. “in the position of Queen”], than by her own seeking and request. But if ye mean deceit, though not herewith but hereafter, God will revenge the same. I can say no more.” This was perhaps fortunate, for some of the assembled gentlemen certainly did “mean deceit.” The Duke concluded by asking the Council to “wish him no worse speed in his journey than they would have themselves.” One of the members of that august body replied in the following terms: “My Lord, if ye mistrust any of us in this matter [the forcing Jane to become Queen], Your Grace is far deceived; for which of us can wipe his hands clean thereof? And if we should shrink from you, as one that is culpable [of having forced Jane to assume the crown], which of us can excuse himself as guiltless? Therefore herein your doubt is too far cast.” Northumberland was not offended by these ambiguous remarks, and merely added, “I pray God it be so. Let us go to dinner.” When this—as we should imagine—rather gloomy banquet was over, Northumberland sent a messenger to Jane at the Tower, and received by his hand his commission as “Lieutenant of the Army.” As he passed through the Council Chamber on his way to Durham House for the night, he encountered the Earl of Arundel, “who prayed God to be with His Grace, saying he was sorry it was not his chance to go with him and bear him company, in whose presence he could find in his heart to spend his blood even at his feet; and, taking Thomas Lovel, the Duke’s boy, by the hand, he added, ‘Farewell, gentle Thomas, with all my heart.’ Then the Duke, with the Lord Marquis of Northampton, the Lord Grey, and divers others, took barge and went to Durham Place and to Whitehall, where they mustered their men.”[240] Next morning, Friday, 14th July, the Duke and his followers rode proudly forth,[241] with a train of guns and a body of six hundred men, led by some of the greatest in the land; such as Lord Edward Clinton, the Marquis of Northampton, the Earls of Warwick, Huntingdon, and Westmoreland, the Lords Grey de Wilton, Ambrose and Robert Dudley, Sir John Gates, and a score of others, equally influential, the majority already tried in war. As the glittering troop, armed with the motley collection of weapons brought to the Tower two days before, passed through the city and along Shoreditch, Northumberland noticed that, great as the crowd was, it was sullen, no one greeting the troops and their leaders with anything like enthusiasm. “The people,” he remarked surlily to Sir John Gates, “press to see us, but no one bids us God speed.”
On the day her father-in-law left the Tower, only to return as a condemned prisoner, the Lady Jane—whose occupations from the time of her stormy interview with her mother-in-law up to this point are nowhere recorded, except for her inspection of the Crown jewels—signed a number of letters and documents of considerable importance. She wrote to the Duke of Norfolk, for instance, demanding his allegiance and commanding him to come to her Court as Earl Marshal, and confirming his titles and honours if he proved loyal to her. The original of this letter is in the possession of Mr. Wilson of Yorkshire. The body of the document is in Northumberland’s hand, and must have been drafted some days previously, but the signature is Jane’s. She next signed a warrant for the appointment of Edward Baynard as Sheriff of Wiltshire in lieu of our old friend, Sir William Sharington, “lately deceased.” This curious and little-known document is in the possession of Mrs. Alfred Morrison, and is exceedingly curious. The body of the text is in the hand of a Secretary, but the name is in Lady Jane’s handwriting and the signature is an autograph. Curiously enough, on 6th July Queen Mary had made the same appointment: later, she issued a proclamation to the effect that “no document, appointment, payment, or gift of land or money made by Jane Dudley,[242] usurper,” should be considered valid; but Baynard’s nomination, however, held good, as we find from the Pipe Rolls of the County of Wiltshire for 1553. It is strange that Baynard should have been appointed by both the rival Queens, though this may be accounted for by the fact that he is said to have been a Wiltshire man and popular in his neighbourhood.
Bad news reached London that evening, and before Queen Jane retired to rest she knew her fortunes were in jeopardy and she herself rapidly ceasing to be Queen, even in name. Presently a messenger informed the Council that the men of Bucks, under Lord Windsor and Sir Edward Hastings, were rising for Queen Mary. Still worse news flew Londonwards on Saturday, the sixth day of Jane’s disastrous reign. Queen Mary had been proclaimed at Framlingham and Norwich. Northumberland, perceiving his weakness, had sent to London for fresh troops, and was himself speeding as fast as horse could gallop towards Cambridge, which he reached at midnight.
So complete and rapid was the collapse of Jane’s cause that even the most carefully planned precautions taken in her interest ended by serving her foes. Her partisans, for instance, fearing Mary might escape by sea, had ordered six men-of-war to cruise off the east coast, intercept her flight, and bring her back a prisoner. The weather suddenly became so stormy that the vessels were driven into Yarmouth Roads just as a body of men was being levied in that town for Mary’s support. The sailors of the squadron, who had landed, bribed with money and strong ale to abandon their ships and join the levy, handed over their vessels to Sir Henry Jerningham, one of the staunchest supporters of the Tudor Princess, who, being thus supplied by her enemies with money, ammunition, and a train of artillery,[243] marched forthwith against Northumberland, who was soon fain to fall back towards Cambridge, where he fancied himself safe in Trinity College, with his friends Drs. Sandys, and Parker, and Dr. Bill. As a matter of fact, his enemies, declared and secret, were as numerous and formidable in Cambridge as elsewhere; but during the momentary lull which ensued he flattered himself with false hopes, and plied the Council with demands for money and men, many of his followers having deserted him at Bury to join the enemy. Yet all the time Cecil[244] was betraying him at every point. Nothing can exceed the cunning and treachery he displayed—so deep and cruel that one cannot but feel some pity for Northumberland, notwithstanding his many crimes and faults. When Cecil was forced to order his horsemen to take the field against Mary, he contrived to have them ambushed and attacked, and thus rendered quite useless to the Duke and harmless to his opponents. The Council informed Northumberland of the miscarriage of Cecil’s men; but the letter fell into the hands of Mary, who inquired of Roger Alford, Cecil’s confidential servant in attendance on her, why her master, whom she evidently knew to be playing traitor to Jane, had sent troops against her. Alford, so he says, “being privy to the matter before (hand), laughed, and told her [Mary] the matter,”—that Cecil had never intended his men should do any harm to her cause, but had simply sent them as a “blind” to make Northumberland think the Council was doing all in its power to send him reinforcements, and thus spur him forward to his ruin. Under such circumstances, the Duke’s position soon became desperate. “He would sit moodily in his chair lost in thought, then starting up, would pace the room, muttering to himself.”
Dr. Sandys and several of his friends in Cambridge asked him to sup with them on the Saturday night, and spoke in a very friendly manner about Lady Jane. He shook his head, rose from the table, and seated himself in a vacant chair; remained there a long time in silence, and in deep depression; and, when his entertainers bade him good-night, took their hands in his, and begged them severally to pray for him, “for he was in great distress.”
Sandys had been appointed to preach before the Duke on the following morning (Sunday, 16th July). Before retiring to rest, the learned Doctor, intending to choose a text, took up a Bible, which fell open at the first chapter of Joshua, the verse that met his eye being, “All that Thou commandest we will do, and wheresoever Thou sendest, so will we go.” “Upon which text he preached the next day with such discretion that he [Northumberland] got not such full advantage of him as he had hoped.” On the Monday the Duke went with his men to Bury. Their “feet marched forward, but their minds moved backwards”; in other words, they were but a half-hearted set, and one by one they deserted all through the day, hiding behind hedges and in ditches, till when evening came, the Duke, heart-sore and heavy, rode back to Cambridge almost alone, “with more sad thoughts than valiant soldiers about hym.” Realising that all was lost, he bethought him of a dramatic, or rather theatrical, trick to save himself. He conceived the idea that if he went to London and fell at the Queen’s feet, she would welcome and forgive him. Had she not pardoned many rebels? and was he worse than any of these?
Presently, considerably cheered by his own but erroneous reflections, he betook himself, accompanied by the Mayor and Dr. Sandys, to the market cross, where the crowd greeted him in silence, “more believing the grief in his eyes, when they let down tears, than the joy professed by his hands, when he threw up his cap,” full of gold coins, into their midst. This show of tardy loyalty—produced by the arrival of the news of Mary’s growing power—having failed in its effect, Slegg, the Sergeant-at-Arms, accused him of treason, and brought him back a prisoner to King’s College.[245]
On the morning of the 21st of July, according to Machyn, the Earl of Arundel, as treacherous a man as any in that nest of vipers, who, a week before, had knelt before Northumberland and sworn to shed his blood for him and for Queen Jane, came rapping at his door before he was up. The Duke, huddling on a cloak, went out to him, and seeing him look so threatening, fell on his knees, praying him to be good to him and merciful. “For the love of God, my lord,” said he, “consider that I have done nothing but by consent of the Council.” “My Lord Duke,” quoth the Earl of Arundel, “I am hither sent by the Queen’s Majesty, and in her name I arrest you.” Whereupon the Duke, rising, said, “I obey; but I beseech you, my Lord Arundel, have mercy towards me, knowing the case as it is.” “My good lord,” quoth the Earl, “you should have sought for mercy sooner. I must do according to the commands that have been given to me,” and upon this he took the Duke’s sword and committed him in charge of the guard and other gentlemen that stood by. The miserable Duke went to breakfast with not much appetite, looking as white as a ghost and feeling most wretchedly ill. Towards evening, under an escort of eight hundred men, he left Cambridge with Sir John Gates and Dr. Sandys—both prisoners—still wearing his red cloak wrapped about him and suffering agonies from gout in the feet. As night fell, it began to rain; and down long country roads, under the lowering clouds, went the weird procession of rough troopers on horseback, footmen with their pikes, and in their midst the tall, gaunt, grim figure of the Duke, his soaked and tattered red cloak clinging about his bent shoulders. He is said to have spent the night in a barn, to be moved on to London the next day, entering the city early in the morning, 25th July, just as the shopkeepers were taking down their shutters. His plight must have been pitiable, for in the streets men, recognising him, jeered at him as a “Traitor,” threw mud on his red cloak and scowled at him, calling him Somerset’s murderer, and so scaring him that he was almost thankful to reach the Tower and its comparative safety. He had gone forth in proud security, certain of success, sure he was about to punish his enemies and reward his friends. He came back, cold and miserable, knowing he had sacrificed his youngest son to his ambition; that the fate of his other children and of the unhappy Jane hung in the balance; and that the only friend left him in the world was his faithful wife, who was at that moment on her knees to Queen Mary, pleading for mercy and receiving none, her husband’s offence being deemed too great for pardon. That night surely, in the solitude of his prison in the Beauchamp Tower,[246] the Duke flung himself on his knees, and prayed the long-neglected prayers of his childhood, the Pater Noster that was now said in English, and the Ave Maria that had gone out of fashion altogether!
Meanwhile, on Sunday the 16th (the seventh day of Queen Jane’s reign) there was no rest throughout the whole length and breadth of England; everywhere the people were rising for Queen Mary. In the streets of the metropolis there was great cheering and rioting, even bloodshed. Bonfires were lighted in the streets, and crowds of rough men and loose women whirled round the lurid flames shouting, “Queen Mary! Queen Mary!” In the churches, the claims of the rival Queens and rival Creeds occupied the preachers. At Paul’s Cross, Bishop Ridley preached against Queen Mary[247] and the Scarlet Woman, and in favour of Jane and the Reformation. At St. Bartholomew’s, a Catholic priest told his congregation to kneel down and thank God that the victory was with Queen Mary; while at Amersham, in Buckinghamshire, John Knox thundered forth in favour of Queen Jane—but all his eloquence, and that of her other defenders, was in vain: the people would have Queen Mary, and Queen Mary only. Late this Sunday night a curious incident occurred. The Tower had been shut up for the night, when suddenly Jane, dreading perhaps some unexpected rising, ordered the outer gates to be locked and the keys carried up[248] to her chamber. Then the guards were informed that one of the Royal Seals was missing; and Jane had the lately closed gates unbarred, to send a body of Archers of the Guard after the Marquis of Winchester, who had left the precincts about seven o’clock for his house in Broad Street. They found him in bed, forced him to rise and dress himself, and brought him back about midnight to the Tower, where, it is said, he had to explain matters to Lady Jane, who connected him with the loss of the Seal. The whole incident is somewhat mysterious. Did the poor little Queen fancy Winchester was contemplating some move like that of Somerset when he practically assumed the Kingship at Hampton Court? Winchester undoubtedly bore Jane no particular good-will, and the interview, if it occurred, was probably somewhat stormy.
The eighth day of the reign, Monday the 17th, opened with a violent scene in the early morning between the Duchesses of Northumberland and Suffolk, who wrangled over Guildford and his Kingship. Poor Jane was most miserable: her eyes were red with weeping, and she looked more dead than alive as she endeavoured to calm her belligerent Grace of Northumberland and reason with her own headstrong and domineering parent. By this time everything and everybody in the Tower were at sixes and sevens. No one seemed to know what to do or say. In the midst of it all came bad news from the country, where the peasants, notwithstanding the threats of their lords and masters, were refusing to take arms against Mary. Trouble was drawing unpleasantly near.[249] On the previous day (Sunday, 16th) some ten thousand of Mary’s adherents, many of them county notables, had assembled at Lord Paget’s house at Drayton, and marched to Westminster Palace, which they sacked of its arms and ammunition, “for the better furnishing of themselves in the defence of the Queen’s Majesty’s person and her title.” Paget, whose house was this army’s headquarters, was at this time, be it observed, amongst the party in the Tower and ostensibly loyal to Jane! Meanwhile, the people, at one with that section of the nobles who would have none of poor Jane, were shouting, in London and all over the land, “God save Queen Mary!”—whilst poor Jane’s name was never heard except to be scoffed at. The “nine days’ Queen” was now nothing but “a mock.”