“My father!” exclaimed Jane, with a look of inexpressible anguish.
Add that the Earl of Devon, Sir Thomas Wyatt, Throckmorton, Sir Peter Carew, and a hundred others, are leagued together to prevent the spread of popery in this country — to cast off the Spanish yoke with which the people are threatened, and to place a Protestant monarch on the throne. Tell her this, and bring your husband — your father — your whole race — to the block. Tell her this, and you, the pretended champion of the gospel, will prove yourself its worst foe. Tell her this — enable her to crush the rising rebellion, and England is delivered to the domination of Spain — to the inquisition — to the rule of the Pope — to idolatrous oppression. Now, go and tell her this.”
“Dudley, Dudley,” exclaimed Jane in a troubled tone, “you put evil thoughts into my head — you tempt me sorely.”
“I tempt you only to stand between your religion and the danger with which it is menaced,” returned her husband. “Since the meeting of parliament, Mary’s designs are no longer doubtful; and her meditated union with Philip of Spain has stricken terror into the hearts of all good Protestants. A bloody and terrible season for our Church is at hand, if it be not averted. And it can only be averted by the removal of the bigoted Queen who now fills the throne.”
“There is much truth in what you say, Dudley,” replied Jane, bursting into tears. “Christ’s faithful flock are indeed in fearful peril; but bloodshed and rebellion will not set them right. Mary is our liege mistress, and if we rise against her we commit a grievous sin against Heaven, and a crime against the state.”
“Crime or not,” replied Dudley, “the English nation will never endure a Spanish yoke, nor submit to the supremacy of the see of Rome. Jane, I now tell you that this plot may be revealed — may be defeated; but another will be instantly hatched, for the minds of all true Englishmen are discontented, and Mary will never maintain her sovereignty while she professes this hateful faith, and holds to her resolution of wedding a foreign prince.”
“If this be so, still I have no title to the throne,” rejoined Jane. “The Princess Elizabeth is next in succession, and a Protestant.”
“I need scarcely remind you,” replied Dudley, “that the act just passed, annulling the divorce of Henry the Eighth from Catherine of Arragon, has annihilated Elizabeth’s claims by rendering her illegitimate. Besides, she has of late shown a disposition to embrace her sister’s creed.”
“It may be so given out — nay, she may encourage the notion herself,” replied Jane; “but I know Elizabeth too well to believe for a moment she could abandon her faith.”
“It is enough for me she has feigned to do so,” replied Dudley, “and by this means alienated her party. On you, Jane, the people’s hopes are fixed. Do not disappoint them.”
“Cease to importune me further, my dear lord. I cannot govern myself — still less, a great nation.”
“You shall occupy the throne, and entrust the reins of government to me,” observed Dudley.
“There your ambitious designs peep forth, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “It is for yourself, not for me, you are plotting. You would be King.”
“I would,” returned Dudley. “There is no need to mask my wishes now.”
“Sooner than this shall be,” rejoined Jane severely, “I will hasten to Whitehall, and warn Mary of her danger.”
“Do so,” replied Dudley, “and take your last farewell of me. You are aware of the nature of the plot — of the names and object of those concerned in it. Reveal all make your own terms with the Queen. But think not you can check it. We have gone too far to retreat. When the royal guards come hither to convey me to the Tower, they will not find their prey, but they will soon hear of me. You will precipitate measures, but you will not prevent them. Go, madam.”
“Dudley,” replied Jane, falling at his feet, “by your love for me — by your allegiance to your sovereign — by your duty to your Maker — by every consideration that weighs with you — I implore you to relinquish your design.”
“I have already told you my fixed determination, madam,” he returned, repulsing her. “Act as you think proper.”
Jane arose and walked slowly towards the door. Dudley laid his hand upon his sword, half drew it, and then thrusting it back into the scabbard, muttered between his ground teeth, “No, no — let her go. She dares not betray me.”
As Jane reached the door her strength failed her, and she caught against the hangings for support. “Dudley,” she murmured, “help me — I faint’.’
In an instant he was by her side.
“You cannot betray your husband?” he said, catching her in his arms.
“I cannot — I cannot,” she murmured, as her head fell upon his bosom.
Jane kept her husband’s secret. But her own peace of mind was utterly gone. Her walks — her studies — her occupations had no longer any charms for her. Even devotion had lost its solace. She could no longer examine her breast as heretofore — no longer believe herself reproach-less! She felt she was an accessory to the great crime about to be committed, and with a sad presentiment of the result, she became a prey to grief, almost to despair.
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW XIT WAS IMPRISONED IN THE CONSTABLE TOWER; AND HOW HE WAS WEDDED TO THE “SCAVENGER’S DAUGHTER.”
PERSUADING himself that his capture was matter of jest, Xit kept up his braggadocio air and gait, until he found himself within a few paces of the Constable Tower a fortification situated on the east of the White Tower, and resembling in its style of architecture, though somewhat smaller in size, the corresponding structure on the west, the Beauchamp Tower. As Nightgall pointed to this building, and told him with a malicious grin that it was destined to be his lodging, the dwarf’s countenance fell. All his heroism forsook him; and casting a half-angry, half-fearful look at his guards, who were laughing loudly at his terrors, he darted suddenly backwards, and made towards a door in the north-east turret of the White Tower.
Nightgall and the guards, not contemplating any such attempt, were taken completely by surprise, but immediately started after him. Darting between the legs of the sentinel stationed at the entrance of the turret, who laughingly presented his partisan at him, Xit hurried up the circular staircase leading to the roof. His pursuers were quickly after him, shouting to him to stop, and threatening to punish him severely when they caught him. But the louder they shouted, the swifter the dwarf fled; and being endowed with extraordinary agility arrived in a few seconds at the doorway leading to the roof. Here half-a-dozen soldiers, summoned by the cries, were assembled to stop the fugitive. On seeing Xit, with whose person they were well acquainted — never supposing he could be the runaway — they inquired what was the matter.
“The prisoner! the prisoner!” shouted Xit, instantly perceiving their mistake, and pushing through them, “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“No one has passed us,” replied the soldiers. “Who is it?”
“Lawrence Nightgall,” replied Xit, keeping as clear of them as he could. “He has been arrested by an order from the Privy Council, and has escaped.”
At this moment Nightgall made his appearance, and was instantly seized by the soldiers. An explanation quickly ensued, but in the meantime Xit had flown across the roof, and reaching the opposite turret at the southeast angle, sprang upon the platform, and clambering up the side of the building at the hazard of his neck, contrived to squeeze himself through a loophole.
“We have him safe enough,” cried one of the soldiers, as he witnessed Xit’s manœuvre. “Here is the key of the door opening into that turret, and he cannot get below.”
So saying, he unlocked the door and admitted the whole party into a small square chamber, in one corner of which was the arched entrance to a flight of stone steps. Up these they mounted, and as they gained the room above, they perceived the agile mannikin creeping through the embrasure.
“Have a care!” roared Nightgall, who beheld this proceeding with astonis
hment. “You will fall into the court below and be dashed to pieces.”
Xit replied by a loud laugh, and disappeared. When Nightgall gained the outlet he could see nothing of him, and after calling to him for some time and receiving no answer, the party adjourned to the leads, where they found he had gained the cupola of the turret, and having clambered up the vane, had seated himself in the crown by which it was surmounted. In this elevated, and as he fancied, secure position he derided his pursuers, and snapping off a piece of the ironwork, threw it at Nightgall, and with so good an aim that it struck him in the face.
A council of war was now held, and it was resolved to summon the fugitive to surrender; when, if he refused to comply, means must be taken to dislodge him. Meanwhile, the object of this consultation had been discovered from below. His screams and antics had attracted the attention of a large crowd, among whom were his friends the giants. Alarmed at his arrest, they had followed to see what became of him, and were passing the foot of the turret at the very moment when he had reached its summit. Xit immediately recognized them, and hailed them at the top of his voice. At first they were unable to make out whence the noise proceeded; but at length, Gog chancing to look up, perceived the dwarf, and pointed him out to his companions.
Xit endeavored to explain his situation, and to induce the giants to rescue him; but they could not hear what he said, and only laughed at his gestures and vociferations. Nightgall now called to him in a peremptory tone to come down. Xit refused, and pointing to the crown in which he was seated, screamed, “I have won it, and am determined not to resign it. I am now in the loftiest position in the Tower. Let him bring me down who can.”
“I will be no longer trifled with,” roared Nightgall. “Lend me your arquebuse, Winwike. If there is no other way of dislodging that mischievous imp, I will shoot him as I would a jackdaw.”
Seeing he was in earnest, Xit thought fit to capitulate. A rope was thrown him, which he fastened to the vane, and after bowing to the assemblage, waving his cap to the giants, and performing a few other antics, he slided down to the leads in safety. He was then seized by Nightgall, and though he promised to march as before between his guards, and make no further attempt to escape, he was carried, much to his discomfiture — for even in his worst scrapes he had an eye to effect — to the Constable Tower, and locked up in the lower chamber.
“So, it has come to this,” he cried, as the door was barred outside by Nightgall. “I am now a state prisoner in the Tower. Well, I only share the fate of all court favorites and great men — of the Dudleys, the Rochfords, the Howards, the Nevills, the Courtney’s and many others whose names do not occur to me. I ought rather to rejoice than be cast down that I am thus distinguished. But what will be the result of it? Perhaps I shall be condemned to the block. If I am, what matter? I always understood from Mauger that decapitation was an easy death — and then what a crowd there will be to witness my execution — Xit’s execution — the execution of the famous dwarf of the Tower! The Duke of Northumberland’s will be nothing to it. With what an air I shall ascend the steps — how I shall bow the assemblage — how I shall raise up Mauger when he bends his lame leg to ask my forgiveness — how I shall pray with the priest — address the assemblage — take off my ruff and doublet, and adjust my head on the block! One blow and all is over. One blow — sometimes it takes two or three — but Mauger understands his business, and my neck will be easily divided. That’s one advantage, among others, of being a dwarf. But to return to my execution. It will be a glorious death, and one worthy of me. I have half a mind to con over what I shall say to the assembled multitude. Let me see. Hold! it occurs to me that I shall not be seen for the railing. I must beg Mauger to allow me to stand on the block. I make no doubt he will indulge me — if not, I will not forgive him. I have witnessed several executions, but I never yet beheld what I should call a really good death. I must try to realize my own notions. But I am getting on a little too fast. I am neither examined, nor sentenced yet. Examined? that reminds me of the rack. I hope they won’t torture me. To be beheaded is one thing — to be tortured another. I could bear anything in public, where there are so many people to look at me, and applaud me — but in private it is quite another affair. The very sight of the rack would throw me into fits. And then suppose I should be sentenced to be burnt like Edward Underhill — no, I won’t suppose that for a moment. It makes me quite hot to think of it. Fool that I was, to be seduced by the hope of rank and dignity held out to me by the French Ambassador, to embark in plots which place me in such jeopardy at this! However, I will reveal nothing. I will be true to my employer.”
Communing thus with himself, Xit paced to and fro within his prison, which was a tolerably spacious apartment, semicircular in form, and having deep recesses in the walls, which were of great thickness. As he glanced around, an idea occurred to him. “Every prisoner of consequence confined within the Tower carves his name on the walls,” he said. “I must carve mine, to serve as a memorial of my imprisonment.”
The only implement left him was his dagger, and using it instead of a chisel, he carved, in a few hours, the following inscription in characters nearly as large as himself: —
By the time he had finished his work, he was reminded by a clamorous monitor within him that he had had no supper, and he recalled with agonizing distinctness the many glorious meals he had consumed with his friends the giants. He had not even the common prisoners’ fare, a loaf and a cup of water, to cheer him.
“Surely they cannot intend to starve me,” he thought. “I will knock at the door and try whether any one is without.” But though he thumped with all his might against it, no answer was returned. Indignant at this treatment, he began to rail against the giants, as if they had been the cause of his misfortunes.
“Why do they not come to deliver me?” he cried in a peevish voice. “The least they could do would be to bring me some provisions. But, I warrant me, they have forgotten their poor famishing dwarf, while they are satisfying their own inordinate appetites. What would I give for a slice of Hairun’s wild boar now! The bare idea of it makes my mouth water. But the recollection of a feast is a poor stay for a hungry stomach. Cruel Og! barbarous Gog! inhuman Magog! where are ye now? Insensible that ye are to the situation of your friend, who would have been the first to look after you had ye been similarly circumstanced! Where are ye, I say — supping with Peter Trusbut, or Ribald, or at our lodging in the By-ward Tower? Wherever ye are, I make no doubt you have plenty to eat, whereas I, your best friend, who would have been your patron, if I had been raised to the dignity promised by De Noailles, am all but starving. It cannot be — hilloah! hilloah! help!” And he kicked against the door as if his puny efforts would burst it open. “The Queen cannot be aware of my situation. She shall hear of it — but how?”
Perplexing himself how to accomplish this, he flung himself on a straw mattress in one corner, which, together with a bench and a small table constituted the sole furniture of the room, and in a short time fell asleep. He was disturbed by the loud jarring of a door, and, starting to his feet, perceived that two men had entered the room, one of whom bore a lantern, which he held towards him. In this person Xit at once recognized Nightgall, and in the other, as he drew nearer, Wolfytt the sworn tormentor. The grim looks of the latter so terrified Xit, that he fell back on the mattress in an ecstasy of apprehension. His fright seemed to afford great amusement to the cause of it, for he burst into a coarse loud laugh that made the roof ring again. His merriment rather restored the dwarf, who ventured to inquire in a piteous accent, whether they had brought him any supper.
“Ay, ay!” rejoined Wolfytt, with a grin. “Follow us, and you shall have a meal that shall serve you for some days to come.”
“Readily,” replied Xit. “I am excessively hungry, and began to think I was quite forgotten.”
“We have been employed in making all ready for you,” rejoined Wolfytt. “We were taken a little by surprise. It is not often we have such a pris
oner as you.”
“I should think not,” returned Xit, whose vanity was tickled by the remark. “I was determined to let posterity know that one dwarf had been confined within the Tower. Bring your lantern this way, Master Nightgall, and you will perceive I have already carved my name on the wall.”
“So I see,” growled Nightgall, holding the light to the inscription. “Bring him along, Wolfytt.”
“He will not need, sir,” returned Xit, with dignity, “I am ready to attend you.”
“Good!” exclaimed Wolfytt. “Supper awaits us, ho! ho!”
They then passed through the door, Xit strutting between the pair. Descending a short flight of stone steps they came to another strong door, which Nightgall opened. It admitted them to a dark narrow passage which, so far as it could be discerned, was of considerable extent. After pursuing a direct course for some time, they came to an opening on the left, into which they struck. This latter passage was so narrow that they were obliged to walk singly. The roof was crusted with nitrous drops, and the floor was slippery with moisture.
“We are going into the worst part of the Tower,” observed Xit, who began to feel his terrors revive. “I have been here once before. I recollect it leads to the Torture Chamber, the Little-Ease, and the Pit. I hope you are not taking me to one of those horrible places?”
“Poh! poh!” rejoined Wolfytt gruffly. “You are going to Master Nightgall’s bower.”
“His bower!” exclaimed Xit, surprised by the term; “what! where he keeps Cicely?”
At the mention of this name, Nightgall, who had hitherto maintained a profound silence, uttered an exclamation of anger, and regarded the dwarf with a withering look.
“I can keep a secret if need be,” continued Xit in a deprecatory tone, alarmed at his own indiscretion. “Neither Cuthbert Cholmondeley, nor Dame Potentia, nor any one else, shall hear of her from me, if you desire it, good Master Nightgall.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 153