“My Lord of Warwick,” exclaimed Somerset starting to his feet and suddenly finding voice, “that young man is a prisoner under arrest for treason, and shall not leave this presence save with a guard of armed men.”
“This young man is my prisoner, under the king’s warrant, and he not only leaves this room without other guard than his father’s arm, but denies the right of any man here, to question or retain him.”
The Earl of Warwick turned as he spoke, and for the first time that day, all the haughty fire of his soul burst into the usually quiet but fine black eyes, which dwelt upon the Lord Protector’s face.
“What—what means this? am I to be braved at my own council table? I—”
The Earl of Somerset broke off, for so intense was his rage, that words were denied him, and specks of foam rushed up to his white lips in their place.
“No, my lord duke,” replied Warwick, once more recovering the composure which he seldom lost, even in moments of the deepest excitement, “not at your own council table; that no longer exists. The council of this nation is sitting now at Somerset House, and I preside there by a choice of the majority, and by desire of King Edward.”
The Duke of Somerset fell back in his chair as if a sudden blow had stunned him, and shading his pale face with his scarcely less pallid hand, remained motionless and silent. The Lady Jane sprang to his side, flung her arm around his neck, and as Lord Dudley broke from the hold which Warwick placed on his arm, she put him calmly away with her disengaged hand. Then lifting her face to the earl, she said, “Your work is done. Leave my father to those who love him.” For one moment a shade of feeling swept over Warwick’s face, but it was instantly banished, and a courteous inclination of the head was all the reply he made. After a moment he turned to the few councillors still retaining their seats in silent consternation, and invited them in the name of King Edward and their colleagues, sitting at Somerset House, to join himself and son there.
There was a brief and whispered consultation around the board; then all, save one man arose, casting furtive glances at the fallen protector, as if they were anxious to escape from his presence unnoticed. The duke lifted his head, and a smile of mingled bitterness and pain passed over his pale features as he saw this movement of his friends. The Lady Jane too, blanched a little whiter and lifted her large clear eyes with an expression of painful astonishment, as if her generous nature could scarcely force itself to believe the selfishness with which she was surrounded.
With cringing and noiseless steps, those men whom Somerset had deemed his true and tried friends, those that would cling to him through good and through evil report—had glided from his presence and stood in the corridor, consulting together in whispers and waiting anxiously for Warwick to come forth, that they might offer him their support unchecked by the presence of the fallen noble to whom, in his prosperity, they had cringed with servile spirits, ready to kneel at any shrine which possessed stepping stones for their own ambition.
One man there was, a gray-haired and frank old nobleman, poor and proud, of a high name, but dignified in his poverty, who had never cringed to the protector or flattered him in the plenitude of his power, but who put away the hand which his antagonist extended as he passed round the table and knelt down by the fallen duke, with a true homage which had more of feeling in its silence than hours of protestation could have conveyed. The duke had leaned forward to the table, and one hand was pressed over his eyes, the other hung nervelessly by his side, and the quivering lips of that brave old man—for he was braver in his moral strength than a thousand battle heroes, went to his heart. One large tear forced itself through his fingers, and dashing it away, the Duke of Somerset arose a more dignified man in his adversity than he had ever been in prosperity.