Chapter XV: Book THE SECOND (6)

“She thinks only of her lover,” thought the Queen; “those tears are for him. I will not pity her.”

And she departed without returning an answer.

Having seen two halberdiers placed at the door of the chamber, and two others at the foot of the masked staircase by which she and Renard had approached, Mary proceeded with the ambassador to her own apartments.

On thinking over the recent occurrences, her feelings were so exasperated, that she exclaimed aloud, “Oh! that I could avenge myself on the perjured traitor.”

“I will show you how to avenge yourself,” replied Renard.

“Do so, then,” returned the queen.

“Unite yourself to my master, Philip of Spain,” rejoined the ambassador. “Your cousin, the Emperor, highly desires the match. It will be an alliance worthy of you, and acceptable to your subjects. The Prince is a member of your own religion, and will enable you to restore its worship throughout your kingdom.”

“I will think of it,” replied Mary, musingly.

“Better act upon it,” rejoined Renard. “The prince, besides his royal birth, is in all respects more richly endowed by nature than the Earl of Devonshire.”

“So I have heard him accounted,” replied Mary.

“Your majesty shall judge for yourself,” rejoined Renard, producing a miniature. “Here is his portrait. The likeness is by no means flattering.”

“He must be very handsome,” observed Mary, gazing at the miniature.

“He is,” replied Renard; “and his highness is as eager for the alliance as his imperial father. I have ventured to send him your majesty’s portrait, and you shall hear in what rapturous terms he speaks of it.”

And taking several letters from his doublet, he selected one sealed with the royal arms of Spain, from which he read several highly complimentary remarks on Mary’s personal appearance.

“Enough, sir,” said Mary, checking him. “More unions are formed from pique than from affection, and mine will be one of them. I am resolved to affiance myself to the Prince of Spain, and that forthwith. I will not allow myself time to change my mind.”

“Your highness is in the right,” observed Renard, eagerly.

“Meet me at midnight in Saint John’s Chapel in the White Tower,” continued the queen, “where in your presence, and in the presence of Heaven, I will solemnly affiance myself to the prince.”

“Your majesty transports me by your determination,” replied the ambassador. And full of joy at his unlooked-for success, he took his departure.

At midnight, as appointed, Renard repaired to Saint John’s Chapel. He found the Queen, attended only by Feckenham, and kneeling before the altar, which blazed with numerous wax-lights. She had changed her dress for the ceremony, and was attired in, a loose robe of three-piled crimson velvet, trimmed with swansdown. Renard remained at a little distance, and looked on with a smile of Satanic triumph.

After she had received the sacrament, and pronounced the “Veni Creator,” Mary motioned the ambassador towards her, and placing her right hand on a parchment lying on the altar, to which were attached the broad seals of England, addressed him thus:—“I have signed and sealed this instrument, by which I contract and affiance myself in marriage to Philip, Prince of Spain, son of his imperial majesty, Charles the Fifth. And I further give you, Simon Renard, representative of the prince, my irrevocable promise, in the face of the living God and his saints, that I will wed him and no other.”

0285

“May Heaven bless the union!” exclaimed Feckenham.

“There is the contract,” pursued Mary, giving the parchment to Renard, who reverentially received it. “On my part, it is a marriage concluded.”

“And equally so on the part of the prince, my master,” replied Renard. “In his name I beg to express to your highness the deep satisfaction which this union will afford him.”

“For the present this contract must be kept secret, even from our privy councillors,” said the queen.

“It shall never pass my lips,” rejoined Renard.

“And mine are closed by my sacred calling,” added the confessor.

“Your majesty, I am sure, has done wisely in this step,” observed Renard, “and, I trust, happily.”

“I trust so too, sir,” replied the Queen—“but time will show. These things are in the hands of the Great Disposer of events.”

XVI.—WHAT BEFEL CICELY IN THE SALT TOWER.

Horror-stricken by the discovery he had made of the body of the ill-fated Alexia, and not doubting from its appearance that she must have perished from starvation, Cholmondeley remained for some time in a state almost of stupefaction in the narrow chamber where it lay. Rousing himself, at length, he began to reflect that no further aid could be rendered her,—that she was now, at last, out of the roach of her merciless tormentor,—and that his attention ought, therefore, to be turned towards one who yet lived to suffer from his cruelty.

Before departing, he examined the corpse more narrowly to ascertain whether it bore any marks of violence, and while doing so, a gleam of light called his attention to a small antique clasp fastening her tattered hood at the throat. Thinking it not impossible this might hereafter furnish some clue to the discovery of her real name and condition, he removed it. On holding it to the light, he thought he perceived an inscription upon it, but the characters were nearly effaced, and reserving the solution of the mystery for a more favourable opportunity, he carefully secured the clasp, and quitted the cell. He then returned to the passages he had recently traversed, explored every avenue afresh, reopened every cell-door, and after expending several hours in fruitless search, was compelled to abandon all hopes of finding Cicely.

Day had long dawned when he emerged from the dungeon; and as he was slowly wending his way towards the Stone Kitchen, he descried Lawrence Nightfall advancing towards him. From the furious gestures of the jailor, he at once knew that he was discovered, and drawing his sword, he stood upon his defence. But a conflict was not what Nightgall desired. He shouted to the sentinels on the ramparts, and informing them that his keys had been stolen, demanded their assistance to secure the robber. Some half-dozen soldiers immediately descended, and Cholmondeley finding resistance in vain, thought fit to surrender. The keys being found upon him, were delivered to Nightgall, while he himself was conveyed to the guard-room near the By-ward Tower.

After he had been detained there for some hours in close captivity,—not even being allowed to communicate with his friends in the Stone-kitchen,—Nightgall returned with an order from the council for his imprisonment in the Nun’s Bower, whither he was forthwith removed. On the way to his place of confinement, he encountered Xit, and the friendly dwarf would fain have spoken with him, but he was kept at a distance by the halberts of the guard. He contrived, however, to inform him by sundry nods, winks, and expressive gestures, that he would keep a sharp watch upon the proceedings of Nightgall.

Having seen Cholmondeley safely bestowed, the jailor repaired to the entrance of the subterranean dungeons, and lighting a torch, opened the door of a small recess, from which he took a mattock and spade. Armed with these implements, he proceeded to the vault, beneath the Devilin Tower, where he commenced digging a grave. After labouring hard for a couple of hours, he attained a sufficient depth for his purpose, and taking the torch, ascended to the small chamber. Lifting the skeleton frame in his arms, he returned to the vault. In placing the torch on the ground it upset, and rolling into the grave was extinguished, leaving him in profound darkness. His first impulse was to throw down the body, but having, in his agitation, placed the hands, which were clasped together, over his neck, he found it impossible to free himself from it. His terror was so great that he uttered a loud cry, and would have fled, but his feet were rooted to the spot. He sank at last on his knees, and the corpse dropped upon him, its face coming into contact with his own. Grown desperate, at length, he disengaged himself from the horrible embrace, and threw the body into the grave. Relieved by this step from much of his fear, he felt about for the spade, and having found it, began to shovel in the mould.

0287

While thus employed, he underwent a fresh alarm. In trampling down the mould, a hollow groan issued from the grave, trembling in every limb, he desisted from his task. His hair stood erect, and a thick damp gathered on his brow. Shaking off his terrors, he renewed his exertions, and in a short time his task was completed.

He then groped his way out of the vault, and having become by long usage familiarized with its labyrinths, soon reached the entrance, where he struck a light, and having found a lantern, set fire to the candle within it. This done, he returned to the vault, where, to his great horror, he perceived that the face of the corpse was uncovered. Averting his gaze from it, he heaped the earth over it, and then flattened the mass with repeated blows of the spade. All trace of his victim being thus removed, and the vault restored to its original appearance, he took back the implements he had used, and struck into a passage leading in another direction.

Pursuing it for some time, he came to a strong door; unlocked it; and, ascending a flight of stone steps, reached another arched passage, which he swiftly traversed. After threading other passages with equal celerity, he came to a wider avenue, contrived under the eastern ramparts, and tracked it till it brought him to a flight of steps leading to a large octangular chamber, surrounded by eight deep recesses, and forming the basement story of the Salt Tower, at that time, and for upwards of a century afterwards, used as one of the prison lodgings of the fortress. In a chamber in the upper story of this fortification, now occupied as a drawing-room, is a curious sphere, carved a few years later than the date of this chronicle, by Hugh Draper, an astrologer, who was committed to the Tower on suspicion of sorcery.

0289

Quitting this chamber, Nightgall ascended a winding stone staircase which brought him to an arched door, leading to the room just described. Taking a key from the bunch at his girdle, he unlocked it, and entered the room. A female was seated in one corner with her face buried in her hands. Raising her head at his approach, she disclosed the features of Cicely. Her eyes were red with weeping—and her figure attenuated by long suffering. Conceiving from the savage expression of the jailor s countenance that he meditated some further act of cruelty, she uttered a loud shriek, and tried to avoid him.

0290

“Peace!” cried Nightgall, “I will do you no harm. Your retreat has been discovered. You must go with me to the tower leading to the Iron Gate.”

“I will never go thither of my accord,” replied Cicely. “Release me, villain. I will die sooner than become your bride.”

“We shall see that,” growled the jailer. “Another month’s captivity will make you alter your tone. You shall never be set free, unless you consent to be mine.”

“Then I shall die a prisoner like your other victims,” cried Cicely.

“Who told you I had other victims?” cried Nightgall, moodily.

“No matter who told me. I have heard Cuthbert Cholmondeley, whom I love as much as I hate you, speak of one—Alexia, I think she was named.”

“No more of this,” cried Nightgall, fiercely, “come along, or—”

“Never!” shrieked Cicely—“I will not go. You will murder me,”—And she filled the chamber with her screams.

“Confusion!” cried Nightgall, “we shall be heard. Come along, I say.”

In struggling to free herself from him, Cicely fell upon the ground, regardless of this, Nightgall dragged her by main, force through the doorway, and so down the secret staircase. She continued her screams, until her head striking against the stones, she was stunned by the blow, and became insensible. He then raised her in his arms, and descending another short flight of steps, traversed a narrow passage, and came to a dark chamber beneath the Tower leading to the Iron Gate.

0291

0292

0294

XVII.—OF THE CONSPIRACY FORMED BY DE NOAILLES; AND HOW XIT DELIVERED A LETTER TO ELIZABETH, AND VISITED COURTENAY IN THE LIEUTENANT’S LODGINGS.

As soon as it was known that the Princess Elizabeth and Courtenay were placed under arrest, the greatest consternation prevailed throughout the Tower. While some few rejoiced in the favourite’s downfall, the majority deplored it; and it was only the idea that when Mary’s jealous indignation subsided, he would be restored to his former position, that prevented open expression being given to their sentiments. On being made acquainted with what had occurred, Gardiner instantly sought an audience of the Queen, and without attempting to defend Courtenay’s conduct, he besought her earnestly to pause before she proceeded to extremities,—representing the yet unsettled state of her government, and how eagerly advantage would be taken of the circumstances to stir up dissension and rebellion. Mary replied that her feelings had been so greatly outraged that she was resolved upon vengeance, and that nothing but the Earl’s life would satisfy her.

“If this is your determination, madam,” returned Gardiner,

“I predict that the crown will not remain upon your head a month. Though the Earl of Devonshire has grievously offended your highness, his crime is not treason. And if you put him to death for this offence, you will alienate the hearts of all your subjects.”

“Be it so,” replied Mary, sternly. “No personal consideration shall deter me from my just revenge.”

“And what of the Princess Elizabeth?” asked the Bishop.

“She shall share his fate,” answered the Queen.

“This must not be, my gracious mistress,” cried Gardiner, throwing himself at her feet. “Hero I will remain till I have driven these dark and vindictive feelings from your breast. Banish the Earl—take his life, if nothing else will content you,—but do not raise your hand against your sister.”

“Bishop of Winchester,” replied the Queen, “how many hours have you knelt before my father, Henry the Eighth, and have yet failed to turn him from his purpose! I am by nature as jealous—as firm—as obstinate, if you will—as he was. Arise.”

“No, madam,” replied Gardiner, “I will not rise till I have convinced you of your error. Your august father was a prince of high and noble qualities, but the defects that clouded his royal nature would show to double disadvantage in one of your sex. Dismiss all thought of this faithless Earl from your heart,—banish him from your presence, from your kingdom,—nay, keep him in durance if you will, but use no harsh measures against the Princess Elizabeth. Every step taken against her will be fearfully resented by the Protestant party, of which, I need not remind you, she is the representative.”

“And what matter if it be, my lord?” rejoined Mary. “I am strong enough to maintain my own authority, and shall be right glad of some plea to put down heresy and schism by fire and sword. You are not wont to advocate this cause.”

“Nor do I advocate it now, madam,” returned Gardiner. “All I counsel is prudence. You are not yet strong enough to throw off the mask of toleration which you have hitherto worn. Your first parliament has not yet met. The statutes establishing the Reformed religion are yet unrepealed,—nay, though I shame to speak it, the marriage of your illustrious parents has not yet been confirmed.”

“You should shame to speak it, my lord,” rejoined Mary, fiercely; “for it is mainly by your machinations that the divorce was obtained.”

“I own it to my sorrow,” replied Gardiner, “but I then owed the same obedience to your illustrious sire that I now owe to your highness. I did your injured mother great wrong, but if I live I will repair it. This, however, is foreign to the subject. Your majesty may believe me when I tell you, your worst enemies could not desire you to take a more injudicious step, or one more fraught with danger to yourself, than to strain your prerogative against Courtenay and Elizabeth.”

“Were I to assent to your request and set them free,” replied

Mary, after a moment’s reflection, “the first act of the princess would be to unite herself to this perfidious villain.”

“I do not think it,” replied Gardiner. “But what if she were to do so?”

“What!” exclaimed Mary, furiously. “The thought revives all my indignation. Am I so tame of spirit that I can bear to see him whom I have loved united to a rival I hate? No, my lord, I am not. This is no doubtful case. I have heard his treachery with my own ears—seen it with my own eyes—and I will terribly avenge myself. Courtenay never again shall behold Elizabeth. He has breathed his last false sigh—uttered his last perjured profession of love—exchanged his last look, unless they meet upon the scaffold. You know not what an injured woman feels. I have the power of avenging myself, and, by my father’s head, I will use it!”

“And when you have gratified this fell passion, madam,” returned Gardiner, “remorse will succeed, and you will bitterly regret what you have done. Since nothing better may be,—and if you will not nobly, and like yourself, pardon the offenders,—at least reflect before you act. If you persist in your present intention, it will be the duty of all your faithful subjects to prepare for a rebellion, for such will certainly ensue.”

“Make what preparations you deem fitting, my lord,” replied Mary. “In my father’s time the people did not dare to resist his decrees, however arbitrary.”

“The people are no longer what they were, madam, nor are you—for I must make bold to say so—in the position, or backed by the power of your dread father. What he did is no rule for you. I am no advocate for Courtenay—nor for the princess Elizabeth. Could you avenge yourself upon them with safety, though I should lament it, I would not oppose you. But you cannot do so. Others must bleed at the same time. Remember the Lady Jane Gray and her husband yet live. You will revive their faction—and must of necessity doom them to death to prevent another rebellion. Once begun, there will be no end to bloodshed.”

“These are cogent reasons, my lord,” returned Mary, after a moment’s reflection,—“supposing them well-founded.”

“And trust me, they are well-founded, gracious madam,” replied the Bishop. “Do not sacrifice your kingdom—do not sacrifice the holy Catholic church which looks to you for support—to an insane thirst of vengeance.”

“Gardiner,” replied Mary, taking his hand and looking at him earnestly, “you know not how I have loved this man. Put yourself in my position. How would you act?”

“As I am assured your highness would, if you were not under the dominion of passion,” replied the bishop—“forgive him.”

“I would do so,” rejoined Mary, “but oh! if he were to wed Elizabeth, I should die. I would rather yield them my crown,—my life,—than consent to their espousals. But I will not think for myself. Arise, my lord. Give me your counsel, and what you recommend I will follow.”

“Spoken like yourself, gracious madam,” replied the bishop.

“I was sure your noble nature could soon triumph over unworthy thoughts. Since your highness thinks it possible Courtenay may wed Elizabeth, I would advise you to detain him for the present a captive in the Tower. But instantly liberate the princess—dismiss her from your court—and let her retire to Ashbridge.”

“I like your advice well, my lord,” replied the Queen, “and will act upon it. The princess shall set out to-day.”

“I cannot too highly applaud your highness’s determination,” replied Gardiner; “but as you have spoken thus frankly, may I venture to ask whether the earl’s case is utterly hopeless?—whether, after he has sufficiently felt the weight of your displeasure you will not restore him to your favour—to your affections?”

“Never,” replied Mary, firmly, “never. And could you counsel it?”

“He is inexperienced, madam,” urged the bishop; “and after this salutary lesson——”

“No more, my lord,” interrupted the Queen, a shade passing over her features, “it is too late.”

“Too late!” echoed Gardiner. “Am I to understand your highness has made another engagement?”

“You are to understand nothing more than you are told, my lord,” replied Mary, angrily. “In due season you shall know all.”

As Gardiner bowed in acquiescence, he perceived the miniature of Philip of Spain lying on the table, and a sudden apprehension of the truth crossed him.

“There is one person upon whom I should chiefly desire your highness’s choice not to fall,1’ he said.

“And that is—?” interrupted Mary.

“Philip of Spain,” answered Gardiner.

“What objections have you to him, my lord?” demanded the queen, uneasily.

“My objections are threefold,” rejoined Gardiner. “First, I dislike the tyrannical character of the prince, which would be ill-suited to render your highness’s union a happy one. Secondly, I am assured that the match would be disagreeable to your subjects—the English nation not being able to brook a foreign yoke; and of all dominations none being so intolerable as that of Spain. Thirdly, the alliance would plunge us in endless wars with France—a country that would never tamely submit to such a formidable extension of power, as this would prove, on the part of its old enemy, Charles the Fifth.”

“If not Philip of Spain, whom would you recommend me?” asked Mary, who was anxious to mislead him.

“One of your own nobles,” replied Gardiner; “by which means your authority would be unabridged. Whereas, if you wed a prince, odious for his tyranny in the eyes of all Europe”———

“No more of this, my lord,” interrupted Mary, hastily.

“Madam,” said Gardiner, “however I may risk displeasing you, I should be wanting in duty, in loyalty, and in sincerity, were I not strongly to warn you against a match with Philip of Spain. It will be fatal to your own happiness—fatal to the welfare of your people.”

“I have already said it is too late,” sighed Mary.

“Your Majesty has not affianced yourself to him,” cried Gardiner, anxiously..

“Question me no further,” rejoined Mary. “What is done is done.”

“Alas! madam,” cried Gardiner, “I understand your words too well. You have taken a perilous step, at the instigation of evil counsellors, and under the influence of evil passions. God grant good may come of it!”

“These are mere surmises on your part, my lord,” returned Mary. “I have not told you I have taken any step.”

“But your majesty leads me to infer it,” answered the bishop. “For your own sake, and for the sake of your kingdom, I trust my fears are unfounded.”

As he spoke, an usher approached, and informed the queen that the imperial ambassador, Simon Renard, desired an audience.

“Admit him,” said Mary. “Farewell, my lord,” she added, turning to Gardiner; “I will weigh what you have said.”

“Act upon it, gracious madam, if you can,” rejoined the bishop. “But if you are so far committed as to be unable to retreat, count upon my best services to aid you in the difficulty.” At this moment, Simon Renard entered the audience-chamber, and the expression of his countenance was so exulting, that Gardiner was convinced his conjectures were not far wide of the truth. His first object, on quitting the royal presence, was to seek out Feckenham, from whom he succeeded in eliciting the fact of the betrothment in Saint John’s chapel; and with a breast full of trouble he returned to his own apartments. On the way thither, he encountered De Noailles.

“Well met, my lord,” cried the ambassador. “I was about to seek you. So, it seems all our projects are ruined. Courtenay is disgraced and imprisoned.”

“His folly has destroyed the fairest chance that ever man possessed,” observed the bishop. “He is now irretrievably lost.”

“Not irretrievably, I trust, my good lord,” replied Do Noailles. “A woman’s mind is proverbially changeful. And when this jealous storm is blown over, I doubt not he will, again bask in the full sunshine of royal favour.”

“Your excellency is in the wrong,” rejoined Gardiner. “The queen will never forgive him, or, what is equally to be lamented, will never unite herself to him.”

“You speak confidently, my lord,” returned Do Noailles gravely. “I trust nothing has occurred to warrant what you say.”

“M. De Noailles,” said the bishop significantly, “look to yourself. The party of France is on the decline. That of Spain is on the ascendant.”

“What mean you, my lord?” cried the ambassador, eagerly. “Renard has not succeeded in his aim? Mary has not affianced herself to the Prince of Spain?”

“I know nothing positively,” replied Gardiner evasively. “I merely throw out the hint. It is for you to follow it up.”

“This were a blow, indeed!” cried De Noailles. “But subtle as Renard is, and with all the advantage he has gained, I will yet countermine him.”

“You shall not want my aid,” returned Gardiner, “provided you hatch no treason against the queen. And that you may the better know how to act, learn that her majesty is affianced to Philip of Spain.”

“Curses on the crafty Spaniard!” exclaimed De Noailles, furiously. “But I will yet defeat him.”

“The princess Elizabeth will be liberated to-day, and sent with a strong guard to Ashbridge,” remarked Gardiner. “Courtenay will be kept a prisoner in the Tower.”

“We must find means to liberate him,” rejoined the ambassador.

“In this you must proceed without my aid,” said the bishop. “If it be possible to reinstate the earl in Mary’s favour, it shall be done. But I can take no part in aiding his flight.”

“Leave it to me, my lord,” rejoined De Noailles. “All I require is your voice with the queen.”

“That you may rely on,” answered the bishop.

With this, they separated; Gardiner proceeding to his own apartments, and De Noailles bending his steps towards the green, debating with himself, as he wended thither, what course it would be best to pursue in the emergency. Nothing occurred to him but expedients so hazardous that he instantly dismissed them. While resolving these matters, as he walked to and fro beneath the avenue, he was accosted by Xit, who, doffing his cap, and making a profound bow, inquired whether the rumour was correct that the Earl of Devonshire had incurred the queen’s displeasure and was imprisoned.

“Ay, marry is it,” replied De Noailles.

“I am truly concerned to hear it,” replied the mannikin; “and I make no doubt his lordship’s disgrace is owing to the machinations of his mortal foe, Simon Renard.”

“Thou art in the right,” replied De Noailles. “And let it be known throughout the Tower that this is the case.”

“I will not fail to spread it among my fellows,” replied Xit. “But none can lament it more than myself. I would lay down my life for his lordship.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed De Noailles. “This knave may be useful,” he muttered. “Harkee, sirrah! Canst thou devise some safe plan by which a letter may be conveyed to the earl, who is imprisoned in the lieutenant’s lodgings?”

“Your excellency could not have chanced upon one more able or willing to serve you,” replied Xit. “Give me the letter, and I will engage it shall reach its destination.”

“Come to my lodgings this evening,” said De Noailles, “and it shall be ready for thee. As yet, my plan is not matured.”

“Your excellency may depend upon me,” replied the dwarf.

“But I conclude, if I perform my task to your satisfaction, I shall be rewarded?”

“Amply,” replied De Noailles. “Take this purse in earnest of what is to follow.”

“I do not desire gold,” returned the dwarf, restoring the purse. “What I aspire to is rank. I am tired of being attendant to three gluttonous giants. If the Earl of Devonshire is restored by my means to liberty and to the position he has lost with the queen, I trust the service will not be unremembered, but that I may be promoted to some vacant post.”

“Doubt it not,” replied De Noailles, who could scarcely help laughing at the dwarfs overweening vanity. “I will answer for it, if thou performest thy part well, thou shalt be knighted ere a month be past. But I will put thy skill further to the test. The princess Elizabeth will be removed from the Tower to-day. Thou must find some means of delivering a letter to her, unperceived by her attendants.”

“I will do it,” replied Xit, unhesitatingly. “Knighted, did your excellency say?”

“Ay, knighted,” returned De Noailles,—“within a month. Follow me. I will prepare the letter.”

It being the ambassador’s wish to carry on a secret correspondence with the princess, he pondered upon the safest means of accomplishing his object; and chancing to notice a guitar, which had been lent him by Elizabeth, it occurred to him that it would form an excellent medium of communication. Accordingly, he set to work; and being well versed in various state ciphers, speedily traced a key to the system beneath the strings of the instrument. He then despatched it by a page to the princess, who, immediately comprehending that some mystery must be attached to it, laid it aside to take with her to Ashbridge. Do Noailles, meanwhile, wrote a few hasty lines on a piece of paper, explaining his motive in sending the guitar, and delivering it to Xit, charged him, as he valued his life, not to attempt to give it the princess, unless he could do so unobserved.

About noon, Elizabeth, escorted by Sir Edward Hastings, and a large guard, left the palace. She was on horseback, and as she rode through the gateway of the By-ward Tower, Xit, who had stationed himself on Og’s shoulder, took off his bonnet, and let it fall as if by accident, on her steed’s head. Startled by the blow, the animal reared, and in the confusion that ensued, the dwarf contrived to slip the billet unperceived into her hand. As soon as the cavalcade had passed on, and the dwarf had undergone a severe rebuke from Og and the other warders for his supposed carelessness, he hastened to the ambassador’s room, to relate the successful issue of his undertaking. De Noailles was overjoyed by the intelligence; complimented him on his skill; promised him still higher dignities in case of success; and bade him return in the evening for further orders.

The remainder of the day was consumed by the ambassador in revolving his project. The more he reflected upon the matter, the more convinced he became, that in the present critical state of affairs, nothing could be done without some daring conspiracy; and after a long debate, he conceived a scheme which would either overthrow Mary’s government altogether, and place Elizabeth on the throne, or reduce the former to such an abject state that he could dictate his own terms to her. On consideration, thinking it better not to write to the Earl for fear of mischance, he entrusted Xit with a message to him, earnestly impressing upon the dwarf the necessity of caution.

The subject of all this plotting, it has been stated, was confined in the lieutenant’s lodgings. Every consideration due to his rank and peculiar position was shown him by Sir Henry Bedingfeld. He was permitted to occupy the large chamber on the second floor, since noted as the scene of the examinations of the Gunpowder Plot conspirators. He was, however, strictly guarded. No one was allowed to hold any communication with him, either personally or by letter, except through the medium of the lieutenant. And every article either of attire or furniture that was brought him was carefully inspected before it was delivered to him.

Xit, who, as a privileged person, went and came where he pleased, found little difficulty in obtaining admittance to the lieutenant’s lodgings. But all his cunning could not procure him a sight of the prisoner, and after wasting several hours in fruitless attempts, being fearful of exciting suspicion, he was compelled for that night to relinquish the design. The next day, he was equally unsuccessful, and he was almost driven to his wits’ end with perplexity, when as he was passing beneath a tree at the southern extremity of the green, he chanced to cast his eye upwards, and saw a cat spring from one of the topmost branches on to the roof of the Bloody Tower.

“Wherever a cat can go, I can,” thought Xit; “That roof reached, I could pass along the summits of the ramparts and fortifications connecting it with the lieutenant’s lodgings; and on arriving there, it were easy to descend the chimney, and get into the earl’s chamber. Bravo! That will do.”

The plan so enchanted him, that he was in a fever to put it in execution. This, however, could not take place till night, and retiring to a little distance to survey the premises, he satisfied himself, after some consideration, that he had discovered the chimney communicating with the earl’s room. When the proper time arrived, he cautiously approached the tree, and looking round to make sure no one observed him, he clambered up it with the agility of a squirrel. Notwithstanding his caution, a serious accident had nearly befallen him. Just as he was about to spring upon the wall, the bough on which he stood broke. Luckily he caught hold of a projection of the building, and saved himself. But he was some minutes before he recovered from the fright. The noise, too, had nearly betrayed him to the sentinels, who approached within a few paces of him. But the darkness was so profound, that he escaped observation. When they returned to their posts he proceeded along the ridge of the battlements, and dropping upon the ballium wall, proceeded with the utmost caution to the edge of the ramparts. He then passed on tip-toe close to the guard, and hastening forward, reached the tiled roof of the lieutenant’s house, up which he clambered, as noiselessly and actively as the animal he emulated.

On gaining the chimney he was in search of, he untied a cord with which he had provided himself, and securing it to the brickwork, let one end drop down the aperture. He then descended, and soon came to a level with the chamber, and perceiving a light within it, resolved to reconnoitre before he ventured further. Courtenay was asleep on a couch in the corner, while two attendants were likewise slumbering upon seats near the door. At a loss how to act, as he could scarcely awaken the earl without disturbing the guards, Nit got out of the chimney, and crept cautiously towards the couch. He would fain have extinguished the lamp, but it was out of his reach. Planting himself on the further side of the couch, so as to conceal himself from the attendants, he ventured at length slightly to shake the sleeper. Courtenay started, and uttered an exclamation which immediately aroused his guards.

“Who touched me?” he demanded angrily.

“No one, my lord,” replied the foremost of the men, glancing at the door and round the chamber. “Your lordship must have been dreaming.”

“I suppose it must be so,” replied the carl, looking round, and perceiving nothing. “And yet—”

At this moment a slight pressure on the hand warned him to be silent.

“If your lordship wishes it, we will search the room,” observed the second soldier.

“No, no, it is needless,” replied Courtenay. “I have no doubt it was a dream.”

In a few minutes, the soldiers were again snoring, and Xit popping his head from beneath the coverlet, in a low tone delivered his message. The earl expressed his satisfaction, and proceeded to make inquiries respecting the Princess Elizabeth. On learning that she had quitted the Tower the day before, he had much ado to restrain his joy. And when he ascertained by what means the dwarf had obtained access to the chamber, he was desirous to attempt an escape by the same way, but was dissuaded by Xit, who represented to him the risk he would incur, adding that even if he escaped from his present prison, he would be unable to quit the Tower.

The dwarf then departed as he came. Climbing up the chimney, he drew the rope after him, retraced his course over the fortifications; and on reaching the Bloody Tower, contrived, with much exertion, and no little risk, to lay hold of a branch of the tree, down which he clambered. The next day, he related the successful issue of his trip to his employer.

De Noailles did not remain idle. He had already mentioned his project to the Duke of Suffolk, Lord Thomas Grey, Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, Sir James Croft, Sir Peter Carew, and Sir Thomas Wyat, all of whom eagerly joined in it. With most of these, but especially with Wyat,—afterwards the leader of the rebellion against Mary,—the main inducement to conspire was aversion to the Queen’s meditated alliance with the Prince of Spain. With the Duke of Suffolk and his ambitious brother, Lord Thomas Grey, it was, (as De Noailles had foreseen,) the hope that in the tumult the Lady Jane Grey might be restored, that purchased their compliance. The conspirators had frequent secret meetings in the apartments of the French ambassador, where they conferred upon their plans. Suffolk, though pardoned for his late treason by Mary, was yet detained a prisoner on parole within the Tower. His brother had not taken a sufficiently prominent part to bring him into trouble. The bravest of their number was Wyat, of whom it may be necessary to say a few words.

Inheriting the wit and valour of his father, the refined and courtly poet of the same name, Sir Thomas Wyat of Allingham Castle in Kent, had already earned for himself the highest character as a military leader. His father’s friend, the chivalrous and poetical Earl of Surrey, in one of his despatches to Henry the Eighth, thus describes his conduct at the siege of Boulogne:—“I assure your Majesty, you have framed him to such towardness and knowledge in the war, that (none other dispraised) your Majesty hath not many like him within your realm, for hardiness, painfulness, circumspection, and natural disposition for the war.” Wyat was in the very flower of his age. But his long service,—for from his earliest youth, he had embraced the profession of arms,—had given him an older look than his years warranted. He was of middle-size, strongly but symmetrically proportioned, with handsome boldly-carved features, of a somewhat stern expression. His deportment partook of his frank soldier-like character. In swordsmanship, horsemanship, and all matters connected with the business of war, he was, as may be supposed, eminently skilful.

After much deliberation, it was agreed among the conspirators to have all in readiness for a general insurrection, but to defer their project until the meeting of parliament, when the Queen’s intentions respecting her alliance with Spain would be declared, and if what they anticipated should prove true, the whole nation would favour their undertaking.

XVIII.—HOW COURTENAY ESCAPED FROM THE TOWER.

While the great outbreak was thus deferred, it was deemed expedient to liberate Courtenay as soon as possible. Such were the precautions taken by the vigilant Sir Henry Bedingfeld, that this was not so easy of accomplishment as it appeared on the onset. At length, however, all was arranged, and Xit was despatched to the earl to tell him the attempt might be made on the following night, when unluckily, just as the mannikin had entered the chimney, one of the guards awakened, and hearing a noise, flew to see what occasioned it. Exerting his utmost agility, the dwarf was soon out of reach, and the attendant could not distinguish his person, but he instantly gave the alarm.

Flying for his life, Xit got out of the chimney, hurried along the tops of the ramparts, and jumping at the hazard of his neck, into the tree, reached the ground just as the alarm was given to the sentinels. It was past midnight. But Sir Henry Bedingfeld, aroused from his couch, instantly repaired to the chamber of his prisoner. Nothing could be found but the rope by which Xit had descended, and which in his hasty retreat he had not been able to remove. Courtenay refused to answer any interrogations respecting his visiter, and after a long and fruitless search, the lieutenant departed.

The next day, the occurrence was made known to the queen, and at her request Simon Renard visited the prisoner. Not thinking his place of confinement secure enough, Renard suggested that he should be removed to the Bell Tower,—a fortification flanking the lieutenant’s habitation on the west, and deriving its name, as has already been mentioned, from the alarm-bell of the fortress, which was placed in a small wooden belfry on its roof. This tower is still in existence, and devoted to the same purpose as of old,—though its chambers, instead of being used as prison-lodgings, form the domestic offices of the governor. In shape it is circular, like all the other towers, with walls of great thickness pierced by narrow loopholes, admitting light to the interior. Courtenay was confined in a small room on the basement floor, having a vaulted roof supported by pointed arches of curious construction, with deep recesses in the intervals. From this strong and gloomy cell it seemed impossible he could escape; and having seen him placed within it, Renard departed fully satisfied.

0305

When the intelligence of the earl’s removal was brought to De Noailles, he was greatly disheartened; but Xit bade him be of good cheer, as he still felt certain of effecting his deliverance. Some time, however, elapsed before any new scheme could be devised; when one night Xit appeared with a smiling countenance, and said he had found means of communicating with the prisoner. On being questioned as to how he had contrived this, he replied that he had crept up to a loophole opening into the earl’s chamber, and filed away one of the iron bars; and though the aperture was not large enough to allow a full-grown man to pass through it, he had done so without inconvenience, and under cover of night without being perceived. He then proceeded to detail a somewhat hazardous plan of flight, which Courtenay had determined to risk, provided his friends would second the attempt. All the earl required was, that a well-manned boat should be in waiting for him near the Tower-wharf, to put off the instant he reached it.

After some consideration, this plan was held feasible, and Sir Thomas Wyat undertook the command of the boat. A dark night being indispensable for the enterprise, the third from that time, when there would be no moon, was chosen; and this arrangement was communicated by the dwarf to Courtenay. Measures were then concerted between the earl and his assistant, and all being settled, it was agreed, to avoid heedless risk, that the latter should not return again till the appointed night.

On its arrival, Xit, as soon as it grew dark, crept through the loophole, and found the earl impatiently expecting him. He was alone, for since his removal to so strong a prison it was deemed needless to have an attendant constantly with him. Xit brought him a rapier and dagger, and a long coil of rope, and when he had armed himself with the weapons, they proceeded to the execution of their project. Knocking at the door, the earl summoned the warder who was stationed outside. The man immediately obeyed the call, and as he opened the door Xit crept behind it, and while Courtenay engaged the warder’s attention, he slipped out, and concealed himself behind a projection in the winding stairs. The earl having made a demand which he knew would compel the warder to proceed to Sir Henry Bedingfeld, dismissed him.

Quitting the cell, the warder, who had no suspicions, locked the door, leaving the key,—as had been foreseen,—within it. He then ascended the stairs, and passed close to Xit without perceiving him. As soon as he was gone, the dwarf unlocked the door, and made good his own retreat through the loophole; it being necessary he should give the signal to the party on the river.

Courtenay then hurried up the winding steps. On reaching the upper chamber, he perceived it was vacant—but the open door showed him that the warder had just passed through it. Hastily shutting it, and barring it withinside, he mounted a short flight of steps leading to the roof, where he knew a sentinel who had charge of the alarm-bell was stationed. Before the man, who was leaning upon his partizan, could utter an exclamation, Courtenay snatched the weapon from him, and dealt him a blow that stretched him senseless at his feet. He then quickly fastened the rope to one of the stout wooden supporters of the belfry, and flinging the coil over the battlements, prepared to descend by it.

Possessed of great strength and activity, and materially aided by the roughened surface of the old walls, and other irregularities in the structure, against which he placed his feet, the earl reached the ground in safety. He was now in the outer ward, near the By-ward Tower. It was so dark that his descent had not been noticed, but he perceived several soldiers passing at a little distance from him, from whose remarks he gathered that they were about to convey the keys of the fortress to the lieutenant.

As soon as they had passed him, he rushed across the ward in the direction of the arched passage leading to the drawbridge. Here he encountered Og, who was on guard at the time. The gigantic warder immediately challenged him, and presented his huge halbert at his breast. But the earl, without making any reply, stooped down, and before he could be prevented, darted through his legs. Og, in a voice of thunder, gave the alarm, and was instantly answered by a party of halberdiers, who rushed out of the adjoining guard-room. They were all armed, some with pikes, some with arquebusses, and snatching a torch from the soldier nearest him, Og darted after the fugitive.

By this time, the earl’s flight from the Bell Tower had been discovered. On his return, finding the door barred withinside, the warder suspected something wrong, and gave the alarm. A few seconds sufficed to the men-at-arms to break down the door with their bills, and they then found what had occurred. The alarm-bell was instantly rung, and word passed to the sentinels on the By-ward Tower, and on the other fortifications, that the Earl of Devonshire had escaped. In an instant, all was in motion. Torches gleamed along the whole line of ramparts; shouts were heard in every direction; and soldiers hastened to each point whence it was conceived likely he would attempt to break forth.

Before relating the result of the attempt, it may be proper to advert to what had been done in furtherance of it by Xit. Having got through the loophole as before related, the dwarf pursued the course subsequently taken by Courtenay, made a hasty excuse to Og, and crossed the drawbridge just before it was raised. Approaching the side of the river, he drew a petronel, and flashing it, the signal was immediately answered by the sound of muffled oars; and Xit, whose gaze was steadfastly bent upon the stream, could just detect a boat approaching the strand. The next moment, Sir Thomas Wyat sprang ashore, and as Xit was explaining to him in a whisper what had occurred, the alarm was given as above related.

It was a moment of intense interest to all concerned in the enterprise, and Wyat held himself in readiness for action. On reaching the drawbridge and finding it raised, Courtenay without hesitation bounded over the rails, and plunging into the moat, struck out towards the opposite bank.

0308

At this juncture, Og and his companions arrived at the outlet. The giant held his torch over the moat, and perceived the earl swimming across it. A soldier beside him levelled his arquebuss at the fugitive, and would have fired, but Og checked him, crying, “Beware how you harm the queen’s favourite. It is the Earl of Devonshire. Seize him, but injure him not—or dread her majesty’s displeasure.”

The caution, however, was unheeded by those on the summit of the By-ward Tower. Shots were fired from it, and the balls speckled the surface of the water, but without doing any damage. One of Wyat’s crew hastened to the edge of the moat, and throwing a short line into the water, assisted the earl to land.

While this was passing, the drawbridge was lowered, and Og and his companions rushed across it—too late, however, to secure the fugitive. As soon as Courtenay had gained a footing on the wharf, Sir Thomas Wyat seized his hand, and hurried him towards the boat, into which they leaped. The oars were then plunged into the water, and before their pursuers gained the bank, the skiff had shot to some distance from it. Another boat was instantly manned and gave chase, but without effect. The obscurity favoured the fugitives. Wyat directed his men to pull towards London Bridge, and they soon disappeared beneath its narrow arches.

XIX.—HOW QUEEN MARY VISITED THE LIONS’ TOWER; HOW MAGOG GAVE HIS DAME A LESSON; AND HOW XIT CONQUERED A MONKEY, AND WAS WORSTED BY A BEAR.

Courtenay’s escape from the Tower created almost as much sensation as his imprisonment had done; and while his partisans were cheered by it, his enemies were proportionately discouraged. Several bands of soldiers, headed by trusty leaders, were sent in pursuit of him in different directions; but no trace could be discovered of the course he had taken; nor could all the vigilance of Sir Henry Bedingfeld detect who had assisted him in his flight. After some time, as no tidings were heard of him, it was concluded he had embarked for France. Inspired by jealousy, Mary immediately sent an order to Ashbridge to double the guard over her sister; and she secretly instructed Sir Edward Hastings, in case of any attempt to set her free, to convey her instantly to the Tower. Elizabeth either was severely indisposed, or feigned to be so, and it was bruited abroad that poison had been given her. This rumour, which obtained general credence, as well as others to the effect that her life had been attempted by different means, at length reached the queen’s ears, and occasioned her great distress and annoyance. To remove the suspicion, she commanded Elizabeth’s appearance at court. And though the princess would fain have refused, she was compelled to obey.

Some weeks had now elapsed since Courtenay’s flight, and during that time the queen’s anger had so much abated, that Gardiner thought he might venture to solicit his pardon, he-presenting to her, that she had already punished him sufficiently by the disgrace she had inflicted upon him, and that it was desirable to give no pretext for tumult during the momentous discussions which would take place on the meeting of parliament,—then immediately about to be assembled,—he urged his suit so warmly, that in the end Mary consented to pardon the carl, provided he appeared at court within three days.

Intelligence of the queen’s change of feeling was soon conveyed to Courtenay, who had been concealed in an obscure lodging in London, and on the second day he presented himself before her. Mary received him graciously but coldly, and in such a manner as to convince him and his friends, if they still indulged any such hopes, that a restoration to the place he had once held in her affections was out of the question.

“If you are disposed to travel, my lord,” she said, sarcastically, “I will take care you have such appointments to foreign courts as will best suit your age and inclination.”

“Your Majesty has perchance some delicate mission at the Court of Madrid, which you desire me to execute,” replied the earl, significantly.

“Had I any mission to that court,” replied the Queen, repressing her emotion, “it is not to your hands I should entrust it. You have offended me once, Courtenay. Beware how you do so a second time. Abandon all hopes of Elizabeth. She never can be—never shall be yours.”

“That remains to be seen,” muttered Courtenay as he quitted the presence.

The interview over, Courtenay was joined by De Noailles, and, from that moment, he surrendered himself unresistingly to the designs of the artful ambassador.