“I want no assistance,” replied Elizabeth, recovering herself. “Will you entreat her majesty to grant me an audience on the terms I have named, and in the presence of Wyat?”
“It must be speedy, then,” remarked Brydges, “for he is adjudged to die to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” echoed Elizabeth. “Nay, then, good Bedingfeld, seek the queen without delay. Implore her by the love she once bore me—by the love I am assured she bears me still—to interrogate me before this traitor. If he perishes with this confession uncontradicted, I am lost.”
“Your words shall be repeated to her highness,” replied Bedingfeld, “and I will not fail to add my entreaties to your own. But I cannot give a hope that your request will be granted.”
“It is fortunate for your highness that the queen visits the Tower to-day,” observed Brydges. “Her arrival is momently expected. As I live!” he exclaimed, as the bell was rung overhead, and answered by the beating of drums and the discharge of cannon from the batteries, “she is here!”
“It is Heaven’s interposition in my behalf,” cried Elizabeth, “Go to her at once, Bedingfeld. Let not the traitor, Renard, get the start of you. I may live to requite the service. Go—go.” #
The old knight obeyed, and the others immediately afterwards retired, closing the door upon the princess, and placing a guard outside.
Left alone, Elizabeth flew to the narrow, and strongly-grated loophole, commanding the southern ward, through which the queen must necessarily pass on her way to the palace, in the hope of catching a glimpse of her. She had not to wait long. Loud fanfares of trumpets resounded from the gate of the By-ward Tower. These martial flourishes were succeeded by the trampling of steeds, and fresh discharges of ordnance, and the next moment, a numerous retinue of horse and foot emerged from the gateway. Just as the royal litter appeared, it was stopped by Sir Henry Bedingfeld, and the curtains were drawn aside by Mary’s own hand. It was a moment of intense interest to Elizabeth, and she watched the countenance of the old knight, as if her life depended upon each word he uttered. At first, she could not see the queen’s face, but as Bedingfeld concluded, Mary leaned forward, and looked up at the Bell Tower. Uncertain whether she could be seen, Elizabeth determined to make her presence known, and thrusting her hand through the bars, waved her kerchief. Mary instantly drew back. The curtains of the litter were closed; Bedingfeld stepped aside; and the cavalcade moved on.
“She will not see me!” cried Elizabeth, sinking back in despair. “I shall perish like my mother.”
The princess’s agitation did not subside for some time. Expecting Bedingfeld to return with the tidings that Mary had refused her request, she listened anxiously to every sound, in the hope that it might announce his arrival. Hour after hour passed by and he came not, and concluding that he did not like to be the bearer of ill news, or what was yet more probable, that he was not allowed to visit her, she made up her mind to the worst. Elizabeth had not the same resources as Jane under similar circumstances. Though sincerely religious, she had not the strong piety that belonged to the other, nor could she, like her, divorce herself from the world, and devote herself wholly to God. Possessing the greatest fortitude, she had no resignation, and while capable of enduring any amount of physical suffering, could not controul her impatience. Her thoughts were bitter and mortifying enough, but she felt no humiliation; and the only regrets she indulged were at having acted so unwise a part. Scalding tears bedewed her cheeks—tears that would never have been shed, if any one had been present; and her mingled emotions of rage and despair were so powerful, that she had much ado to overcome them. Ungovernable fury against Mary took possession of her, and she pondered upon a thousand acts of revenge. Then came the dreadful sense of her present situation—of its hopelessness—its despair. She looked at the stone walls by which she was inclosed, and invoked them to fall upon her and crush her—and she rushed towards the massive and iron-girded door, as if she would dash herself against it with impotent fury. Her breast was ravaged by fierce and conflicting passions; and when she again returned to her seat, she grasped it convulsively to prevent herself from executing the desperate deeds that suggested themselves to her. In after years, when the crown was placed upon her head, and she grasped one of the most powerful sceptres ever swayed by female hand—when illustrious captives were placed in that very dungeon by her command, and one royal victim, near almost to her as a sister, lingered out her days in hopeless captivity, only to end them on the block—at such seasons, she often recalled her own imprisonment—often in imagination endured its agonies, but never once with a softened or relenting heart. The sole thought that now touched her, and subdued her violence, was that of Courtenay. Neither his unworthiness nor his inconstancy could shake her attachment. She loved him deeply and devotedly—with all the strength and fervour of her character; and though she had much difficulty in saving him from her contempt, this feeling did not abate the force of her regard. The idea that he would perish with her, in some degree reconciled her to her probable fate.