“Undoubtedly, madam,” replied the jailer.
“May I be permitted to confer with him beforehand?” she asked.
“I grieve to say, madam, that the Queen’s orders are to the contrary,” returned the jailer. “You will not meet him till you are placed at the bar before your judges.”
“Since it may not be, I must resign myself contentedly to her Majesty’s decrees. Leave me, sir. Thoughts press upon me so painfully that I would fain be alone.”
“The Queen’s confessor is without, madam. He bade me say he would speak with you.”
“He uses strange ceremony, methinks,” replied Jane. “He would formerly enter my prison without saying, By your leave; but since he allows me a choice in the matter, I shall not hesitate to decline his visit. If I may not confer with my husband, there is none other whom I desire to see.”
“But he is the bearer of a message from her Majesty,” urged the jailer.
“If he is resolved to see me, I cannot prevent it,” replied Jane. “But if I have the power to hinder his coming, he shall not do so.”
“I will communicate your wish to him, madam,” replied the jailer, retiring.
Accordingly, he told Feckenham that his charge was in no mood to listen to him, and the confessor departed.
The third of November, the day appointed for Jane’s trial, as well as for that of her husband, and of Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, was characterized by unusual gloom, even for the season. A dense fog arose from the river, and spread itself over the ramparts, the summits of which could scarcely be discerned by those beneath them. The sentinels pacing to and fro looked like phantoms, and the whole fortress was speedily enveloped in a tawny-colored vapor. Jane had arrayed herself betimes, and sat in expectation of the summons with a book before her, but it became so dark that she was compelled to lay it aside. The tramp of armed men in front of the building in which she was lodged, and other sounds that reached her, convinced her that some of the prisoners were being led forth; but she had to wait long before her own turn came. She thought more — much more — of beholding her husband than of the result of the trial, and her heart throbbed as any chance footstep reached her ear, from the idea that it might be his.
An hour after this the door of her chamber was unbarred, and two officers of the guard in corslets and steel caps appeared and commanded her to follow them. Without a moment’s hesitation she arose, and was about to pass through the door when the jailer prostrated himself before her, and pressing the hand she kindly extended to him to his lips, expressed in faltering tones a hope that she might not be brought back to his custody. Jane shook her head, smiled faintly, and passed on.
Issuing from the structure, she found a large band of halberdiers drawn out to escort her. One stern figure arrested her attention, and recalled the mysterious terrors she had formerly experienced. This was Nightgall, who by Renard’s influence had been raised to the post of gentleman-jailer. He carried the fatal axe — its handle supported by a leathern pouch passed over his shoulders. The edge was turned from her, as was the custom on proceeding to trial. A shudder passed over her frame as her eye fell on the implement of death, connected as it was with her former alarms; but she gave no further sign of trepidation, and took the place assigned her by the officers. The train was then put in motion, and proceeded at a slow pace past the White Tower, down the descent leading to the Bloody Tower. Nightgall marched a few paces before her, and Jane, though she strove to reason herself out of her fears, could not repress a certain misgiving at his propinquity.
“Is it unconditional, reverend sir?” demanded Jane coldly.
“The sole condition annexed to it is your reconciliation with the Church of Rome,” replied Feckenham.
“Then I at once reject it,” rejoined Jane firmly. “I have already told you I should prefer death a thousandfold to any violation of my conscience; and neither persuasion nor force shall compel me to embrace a religion opposed to the gospel of our Saviour, and which, in common with all His true disciples, I hold in utter abhorrence. I take all here to witness that such are my sentiments — that I am an earnest and zealous, though unworthy member of the Protestant Church — and that I am fully prepared to seal my faith with my blood.”
A slight murmur of approbation arose from the guard, which, however, was instantly checked by the officers.
“And I likewise take all here to witness,” rejoined Feckenham in a loud voice, “that a full and free pardon is offered you by our gracious Queen, whom you have so grievously offended, that no one except a princess of her tender and compassionate nature would have overlooked it; coupled only with a condition which it is her assured belief will conduce as much to your eternal welfare as to your temporal. It has been made a reproach to our Church by its enemies, that it seeks to win converts by severity and restraint. That the charge is unfounded her Highness’s present merciful conduct proves. We seek to save the souls of our opponents, however endangered by heresy, alive; and our first attempts are ever gentle. If these fail, and we are compelled to have recourse to harsher measures, is it our fault, or the fault of those who resist us? Thus in your own case, madam — here, on the way to a trial the issue of which all can foresee, the arm of mercy is stretched out to you and to your husband, on a condition which, if you were not benighted in error, you would recognize as an additional grace — and yet you turn it aside.”
“The sum of her Majesty’s mercy is this,” replied Jane: “she would kill my soul to preserve my body. I care not for the latter, but I regard the former. Were I to embrace your faith, I should renounce all hopes of heaven. Are you answered, sir?”
“I am,” replied Feckenham. “But oh! madam,” he added, falling at her feet; “believe not that I urge you to compliance from any unworthy motive. My zeal for your salvation is hearty and sincere.”
“I doubt it not, sir,” rejoined Jane. “And I thank you for your solicitude.”
“Anger not the Queen by a refusal,” proceeded Feckenham— “anger not Heaven, whose minister I am, by a blind and obstinate rejection of the truth, but secure the favor of both your earthly and your celestial judge by compliance.”
“I should indeed anger Heaven were I to listen to you further,” replied Jane. “Gentlemen,” she added, turning to the officers, “I pray you proceed. The tribunal to which you are about to conduct me waits for us.” Feckenham arose, and would have given utterance to the denunciation that rose to his lips, had not Jane’s gentle look prevented him. Bowing his head upon his breast, he withdrew, while the procession proceeded on its course in the same order as before.
On reaching the Bulwark Gate Jane was placed in a litter, stationed there for her reception, and conveyed through vast crowds of spectators, who, however, were unable to obtain even a glimpse of her, to Guildhall, where she was immediately brought before her judges. The sight of her husband standing at the bar, guarded by two halberdiers, well-nigh overpowered her; but she was immediately reassured by his calm, collected, and even haughty demeanor. He cast a single glance of the deepest affection at her, and then fixed his gaze upon the Marquis of Winchester, high treasurer of the realm, who officiated as chief judge.
On the left of Lord Guilford Dudley, on a lower platform, stood his faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondoley, charged with abetting him in his treasonable practices. A vacant place on this side of her husband was allotted to Jane. Cranmer, having already been tried and attainted, was removed The proceedings were soon ended, for the arraigned parties confessed their indictments, and judgment was pronounced upon them. Before they were removed, Lord Guilford turned to his consort, and said in a low voice, “Be of good cheer, Jane. No ill will befall you. Our judges will speedily take our places.”
Jane looked at him for a moment, as if she did not comprehend his meaning, and then replied in the same tone, “I only required to see you so resigned to your fate, my dear lord, to make me wholly indifferent to mine. May we mount the scaffold together with as much firmness!”
> “We shall mount the throne together — not the scaffold, Jane,” rejoined Dudley significantly.
“Ha!” exclaimed Jane, perceiving from his speech that he meditated some new project.
Further discourse was not, however, allowed her, for at this moment she was separated from her husband by the halberdiers, who led her to the litter in which she was carried back to the Tower.
Left to herself within her prison-chamber, she revolved Dudley’s mysterious words; and though she could not divine their precise import, she felt satisfied that he cherished some hope of replacing her on the throne. So far from this conjecture affording her comfort, it deeply distressed her, and for the first time for a long period her constancy was shaken. When her jailer visited her he found her in the deepest affliction.
“Alas! madam,” he observed in a tone of great commiseration, “I have heard the result of your trial, but the Queen may yet show you compassion.”
“It is not for myself I lament,” returned Jane, raising her head, and drying her tears, “but for my husband.”
“Her Majesty’s clemency may be extended towards him likewise,” remarked the jailer.
“Not so,” returned Jane; “we have both offended her too deeply for forgiveness, and justice requires that we should expiate our offence with our lives. But you mistake me, friend. It is not because my husband is condemned as a traitor that I grieve, but because he still nourishes vain and aspiring thoughts. I will trust you, knowing that you are worthy of confidence. If you can find means of communicating with Lord Guilford Dudley for one moment, tell him I entreat him to abandon all hopes of escape, or of restoration to his fallen state, and earnestly implore him to think only of that everlasting kingdom which we shall soon inherit together. Will you do this?”
“Assuredly, madam, if I can accomplish it with safety,” replied the jailer.
“Add also,” pursued Jane, “that if Mary would resign her throne to me, I would not ascend it.”
“I will not fail, madam,” rejoined the jailer.
Just as he was about to depart steps were heard on the staircase, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld, attended by a couple of halberdiers, entered the chamber. He held a scroll of parchment in his hand.
“You are the bearer of my death-warrant, I perceive, sir,” said Jane, rising at his approach, but without displaying any emotion.
“On the contrary, madam,” returned Sir Henry kindly, “it rejoices me to say that I am a bearer of her Majesty’s pardon.”
“Clogged by the condition of my becoming a Catholic, I presume?” rejoined Jane disdainfully.
“Clogged by no condition,” replied Bedingfeld, “except that of your living in retirement.”
Jane could scarcely credit her senses, and she looked so bewildered that the knight repeated what he had said.
“And my husband?” demanded Jane eagerly.
“He too is free,” replied Bedingfeld; “and on the same terms as yourself. You are both at liberty to quit the Tower as soon as you think proper. Lord Guilford Dudley has already been apprised of her Highness’s clemency and will join you here in a few minutes.”
Jane heard no more. The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this joyful intelligence was too much for her; and uttering a faint cry, she sank senseless into the arms of the old knight.
CHAPTER XXII.
OF JANE’S RETURN TO SION HOUSE; AND OF HER ENDEAVORS TO DISSUADE HER HUSBAND FROM JOINING THE CONSPIRACY AGAINST QUEEN MARY.
THAT night Lord Guilford Dudley and Jane, attended by Cholmondeley who was included in the pardon, left the Tower, and repaired to Sion House. On finding herself once more restored to freedom, and an inmate of the house she loved so well, Jane was completely prostrated. Joy was more difficult to bear than affliction; and the firmness that had sustained her throughout her severest trials now altogether forsook her. But a few days brought back her calmness, and she poured forth her heartfelt thanks to that beneficent Being, who had restored her to so much felicity. Measureless content seemed hers, and as she traversed the long galleries and halls of the ancient mansion, as she wandered through its garden walks, or by the river’s side, she felt that even in her proudest moment she had never known a tithe of the happiness she now experienced.
Day after day flew rapidly by, and pursuing nearly the same course she had adopted in prison, she never allowed an hour to pass that was not profitably employed. But she observed with concern that her husband did not share her happiness. He grew moody and discontented, and became far more reserved than she had heretofore known him. Shunning her society, he secluded himself in his chamber, to which he admitted no one but Cholmondeley.
This conduct Jane attributed in some degree to the effect produced upon his spirits by the reverse of fortune he had sustained, and by his long imprisonment. But she could not help fearing, though he did not confide the secrets of his bosom to her, that he still cherished the project he had darkly hinted at. She was confirmed in this opinion by the frequent visits of her father, who like her husband had an anxious look, and by other guests who arrived at nightfall, and departed as secretly as they came, As soon as this conviction seized her, she determined, at the hazard of incurring his displeasure, to speak to her husband on the subject; and accordingly, one day, when he entered her room with a moodier brow than usual, she remarked, “I have observed with much uneasiness, dear Dudley, that ever since our release from imprisonment, a gradually-increasing gloom has taken possession of you. You shun my regards, and avoid my society — nay, you do not even converse with me, unless I wring a few reluctant answers from you. To what must I attribute this change?”
“To anything but want of affection for you, dear Jane,” replied Dudley, with a melancholy smile, while he fondly pressed her hand. “You had once secrets from me; it is my turn to retaliate, and be mysterious towards you.”
“You will not suppose me influenced by idle curiosity if I entreat to be admitted to your confidence, my dear lord,” replied Jane. “Seeing you thus oppressed with care, and knowing how much relief is afforded by sharing the burden with another, I urge you, for your own sake, to impart the cause of your anxiety to me. If I cannot give you counsel, I can sympathy.”
Dudley shook his head, and made a slight effort to change the conversation.
“I will not be turned from my purpose,” persisted Jane; “I am the truest friend you have on earth, and deserve to be trusted.”
“I would trust you, Jane, if I dared,” replied Dudley.
“Dared!” she echoed. “What is there that a husband dares not confide to his wife?”
“In this instance much,” answered Dudley; “nor can I tell you what occasions the gloom you have noticed, until I have your plighted word that you will not reveal aught I may say to you. And further, that you will act according to my wishes.”
“Dudley,” returned Jane gravely, “your demand convinces me that my suspicions are correct. What need of binding me to secrecy, and exacting my obedience, unless you are acting wrongfully, and desire me to do so likewise? Shall I tell why you fear I should divulge your secret — why you are apprehensive I should hesitate to obey your commands? You are plotting against the Queen, and dread I should interfere with you.”
“I have no such fears,” replied Dudley sternly.
“Then you own that I am right?” cried Jane anxiously.
“You are so far right,” replied Dudley, “that I am resolved to depose Mary, and restore you to the throne, of which she has unjustly deprived you.”
“Not unjustly, Dudley, for she is the rightful Queen, and I was an usurper,” replied Jane. “But oh! my dear, dear lord, can you have the ingratitude — for I will use no harsher term — to requite her clemency thus?”
“I owe her no thanks,” replied Dudley fiercely. “I have solicited no grace from her, and if she has pardoned me, it was of her own free will. It is part of her present policy to affect the merciful. But she showed no mercy towards my father.”
“And does no
t your present conduct, dear Dudley, prove how necessary it is for princes, who would preserve their government undisturbed, to shut their hearts to compassion?” returned Jane. “You will fail in this enterprise if you proceed in it. And even I, who love you most, and am most earnest for your happiness and honor, do not desire it to succeed. It is based upon injustice, and will have no support from the right-minded.”
“Tush!” cried Dudley impatiently. “I well knew you would oppose my project, and therefore I would not reveal it to you. You shall be Queen in spite of yourself.”
“Never again,” rejoined Jane mournfully; “never again shall my brow be pressed by that fatal circlet. Oh! if it is for me you are about to engage in this wild and desperate scheme, learn that even if it succeeded, it will be futile. Nothing should ever induce me to mount the throne again; nor, if I am permitted to occupy it, to quit this calm retreat. Be persuaded by me, dear Dudley. Abandon your project. If you persist in it, I shall scarcely feel justified in withholding it from the Queen.”
“How, madam!” exclaimed Dudley sternly; “would you destroy your husband?”
“I would save him,” replied Jane.
“A plague upon your zeal!” cried Dudley fiercely. “If I thought you capable of such treachery, I would insure your silence.”
“And if I thought you capable, dear Dudley, of such black treason to a sovereign to whom you owe not merely loyalty and devotion, but life itself, no consideration of affection, still less intimidation, should prevent me from disclosing it, so that I might spare you the commission of so foul a crime.”
“Do so, then,” replied Dudley, in a taunting tone. “Seek Mary’s presence. Tell her that your husband and his brothers are engaged in a plot to place you on the throne. Tell her that your two uncles, the Lords John and Thomas Grey, are conspiring with them — that your father, the Duke of Suffolk, is the promoter, the leader, of the design.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 152