The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Roused by this address, Magog obeyed, and rearing his bulky frame to its full height, so that his head almost touched the spikes of the portcullis, cried in a voice of thunder, “Would your innocence might be proved by the combat, madam, as in our—” and he hesitated—” I mean your royal father’s time! I would undertake to maintain your truth against any odds. Nay, I and my brethren would bid defiance to the whole host of your accusers.”

  “Though I may not claim you as champions,” replied Elizabeth, “I will fight my own battle as stoutly as you could fight it for me.”

  “And your Grace’s courage will prevail,” rejoined Og. “My innocence will,” returned Elizabeth.

  “Right,” cried Gog. “Your Grace, I am assured, would no more harbor disloyalty against the Queen than we should, seeing that—”

  “Enough,” interrupted the Princess hastily. “Farewell, good friends,” she continued, extending her hand to them, which they eagerly pressed to their lips, “farewell! Be of good cheer. No man shall have cause to weep for me.”

  “This is a proud, though a sad day,” observed Og, who was the last honored by the Princess’s condescension, “and will never be obliterated from my memory. By my father’s beard!” he added, gazing rapturously at the long, taper fingers he was permitted to touch, “it is the most beautiful hand I ever beheld, and whiter than the driven snow.”

  Pleased by the compliment — for she was by no means insensible to admiration — Elizabeth forgave its unseasonableness for its evident sincerity, and smilingly departed. But she had scarcely ascended the steps leading to the Green, when she was chilled by the sight of Renard, who was standing at the northern entrance of the Bloody Tower, wrapped in his cloak, and apparently waiting to see her pass.

  As she drew near, he stepped forward, and made her a profound but sarcastic salutation. His insolence, however, failed in its effect upon Elizabeth. Eyeing him with the utmost disdain, she observed to Bedingfeld, “Put that Spanish knave out of my path. And he who will remove him from the Queen’s councils will do both her and me a good turn.”

  “Your Grace has sufficient room to pass,” returned Renard, with bitter irony, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as if determined to resist any attempt to remove him. “Your prison within the Bell Tower is prepared, and if my counsels have any weight with her Majesty, you will quit it only to take the same path, and ascend the same scaffold as your mother, Anne Boleyn.”

  “Another such taunt,” cried Sussex fiercely, “and neither, the sacred character of your office nor the protection of the Queen shall save you from my sword.”

  And he thrust him forcibly backwards.

  Elizabeth moved on at a slow and stately pace, while the guard closing round her and Sussex, opposed the points of their halberds to the infuriated Ambassador.

  “Your Highness has increased Renard’s enmity,” observed Bedingfeld, with a troubled look.

  “I fear him not,” replied Elizabeth dauntlessly. “Let him do his worst. English honesty will ever prove more than a match for Spanish guile.”

  Entering the lieutenant’s lodgings, and traversing the long gallery already described as running in a westerly direction, Elizabeth soon reached the upper chamber of the Bell Tower, which, she was informed by Sir Thomas Brydges, was appointed for her prison.

  “It is a sorry lodging for a king’s daughter,” she observed, “and for one who may be Queen of this realm. But since my sister will have it so, I must make shift with it. How many attendants are allowed me?”

  “One female,” replied Brydges.

  “Why not deprive me of all?” cried the Princess passionately. “This chamber will barely accommodate me. I will be alone.”

  “As your Grace pleases,” replied Brydges, “but I cannot exceed my authority.”

  “Can I write to the Queen?” demanded Elizabeth.

  “You will be furnished with writing materials, if it is your purpose to prepare your confession,” returned the lieutenant. “But it must be delivered to the Council, who will exercise their discretion as to transmitting it to her Highness.”

  “All!” exclaimed the Princess, “am I at their mercy!”

  “Alas! madam, you are so,” replied Bedingfeld; “but the Chancellor is your friend.”

  “I am not sure of it,” returned Elizabeth. “Oh that I could see the Queen, were it but for one minute. My mother perished because she could not obtain a hearing of my royal sire, whose noble nature was abused in respect to her; and the Duke of Somerset himself told me, that if his brother the Admiral had been allowed speech of him, he would never have consented to his death. But it is ever thus. The throne is surrounded by a baneful circle, whose business is to prevent the approach of truth. They keep me from my sister’s presence well knowing that I could clear myself at once, while they fill her ears with false reports. Bedingfeld, you are her faithful servant, and therefore not my enemy. Tell her, if she will grant me an audience alone, or before her councillors, I will either approve my innocence or consent to lose my head. Above all, implore her to let me be confronted with Wyat, that the truth may be extorted from him.”

  “The interview would little benefit your Grace,” remarked Brydges. “Wyat confesses your privity to the rebellion.”

  “He lies,” replied Elizabeth fiercely. “The words have been put into his mouth with the vain hope of pardon. But he will recant them if he sees me. He dare not — will not look me in the face, and aver that I am a partner in his foul practices. But I will not believe it of him. Despite his monstrous treason, he is too brave, too noble-minded, to act so recreant a part.”

  “Wyat has undergone the question ordinary and extraordinary, madam,” replied Brydges; “and though he endured the first with surprising constancy, his fortitude sank under the severity of the latter application.”

  “I forgive him,” rejoined Elizabeth in a tone of deep commiseration. “But it proves nothing. He avowed thus much to escape further torture.”

  “It may be,” returned Brydges, “and for your Grace’s sake I hope it is so. But his confession, signed with his own hand, has been laid before the Queen.”

  “Ah?” exclaimed Elizabeth, sinking into the only seat which the dungeon contained.

  “I beseech your Highness to compose yourself,” cried Bedingfeld compassionately. “We will withdraw and leave you to the care of your attendant.”

  “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 fanf
ares 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 control 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 enclosed, 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 fervor 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.

  Thus meditating, alternately roused by the wildest resentment, and, softened by thoughts of love, Elizabeth passed the remainder of the day without interruption. Worn out at length, she was about to dispose herself to slumber, when the door was opened, and Sir Thomas Brydges, accompanied by two serving-men and a female attendant, entered the room. Provisions were placed before her by the men, who instantly withdrew, and Brydges was about to follow, leaving the female attendant behind, when Elizabeth stopped him, and inquired what answer Sir Henry Bedingfeld had brought from the Queen.

  “My orders are to hold no communication with your Grace,” replied the lieutenant.

  “At least, tell me when I am to be examined by the Council?” rejoined Elizabeth. “The meanest criminal has a right to be so informed.”

  But Brydges shook his head, and quitting the chamber, closed the door, and barred it outside.

  Controlling her feelings, as she was now no longer alone, Elizabeth commanded her attendant to awaken her in an hour, and threw herself upon the couch. Her injunctions were strictly complied with, and she arose greatly refreshed. A lamp had been left her, and taking up a book of prayers, she addressed herself to her devotions, and while thus occupied her mind gradually resumed its composure. About midnight the door was opened by the lieutenant, who entered the room attended by Nightgall, and two other officials in sable robes, while a guard of halberdiers, bearing torches, remained without.

  “I must request your Grace to follow me,” said Brydges.

  “Whither?” demanded Elizabeth, rising. “To the Queen’s presence?”

  The lieutenant made no answer.

  “To the Council?” pursued the Princess; “or to execution? No matter. I am ready.” And she motioned the lieutenant to lead on.

  Sir Thomas Brydges obeyed, and followed by the Princess, traversed the gallery, descended the great staircase, and entered a spacious chamber on the ground floor. Here he paused for a moment, while a sliding panel in the wall was opened, through which he and his companion passed.

  A short flight of stone steps brought them to a dark narrow passage, and they proceeded silently and slowly along it, until their progress was checked by a strong iron door, which was unfastened and closed behind them by Nightgall. The jarring of the heavy bolts, as they were shot into their sockets, resounded hollowly along the arched roof of the passage, and smote forcibly upon Elizabeth’s heart, and she required all her constitutional firmness to support her.

  They were now in one of those subterranean galleries, often described before, on either side of which were cells, and the clangor called forth many a dismal response. Presently afterwards, they arrived at the head of a staircase, which Elizabeth descended, and found herself in the torture-chamber. A dreadful spectacle met her gaze. At one side of the room, which was lighted by a dull lamp from the roof, and furnished as before with numberless hideous implements — each seeming to have been recently employed — sat, or rather was supported, a wretched man upon whom every refinement of torture had evidently been practised. A cloak was thrown over his lower limbs, but his ghastly and writhen features proved the extremity of suffering to which he had been subjected. Elizabeth could scarcely believe that in this miserable object, whom it would have been a mercy to despatch, she beheld the once bold and haughty Sir Thomas Wyat.

  Placed on the corner of a leathern couch, and supported by Wolfytt and Sorrocold, the latter of whom bathed his temples with some restorative, Wyat fixed his heavy eyes upon the Princess. But her attention was speedily diverted from him to another person, whose presence checked her feelings. This was the Queen, who stood on one side with Gardiner and Renard. Opposite them was Courtenay, with his arms folded upon his breast. The latter looked up as Elizabeth entered the chamber, and after gazing at her for a moment, turned his regards with an irrepressible shudder to Wyat. Knowing that her safety depended upon her firmness, though her heart bled for the tortured man, Elizabeth disguised all appearance of compassion, and throwing herself at the Queen’s feet, cried, “Heaven bless your Highness for granting me this interview! I can now prove my innocence.”

  “In what way?” demanded Mary coldly. “It would indeed rejoice me to find I have been deceived. But I cannot shut my ears to the truth. Yon traitor,” she continued, pointing to Wyat, “who dared to rise in arms against his sovereign, distinctly charges you with participation in his rebellious designs. I have his confession, taken from his own lips, and signed with his own hand, wherein he affirms, by his hopes of mercy from the Supreme Judge before whom he will shortly app
ear to answer for his offences, that you encouraged his plans for my dethronement, and sought to win the crown for yourself, in order to bestow it with your hand upon your lover Courtenay.”

  “It is false,” cried Elizabeth; “false as the caitiff who invented it — false as the mischievous councillor who stands beside you, and who trusts to work my ruin; but, by our father’s soul, it shall go hard if I do not requite him! Your Majesty has not a more loyal subject than myself, nor has any of your subjects a more loving sister. This wretched Wyat, whose condition would move my pity were he not so heinous a traitor, may have written to me, but, on my faith, I have never received his letters.”

  “Lord Russell’s son declares that he delivered them into your own hands,” observed Mary.

  “Another lie, as false as the first,” replied Elizabeth. “It is a plot, your Highness — a contrivance of my enemy Simon Renard. Where is Lord Russell’s son? Why is he not here?”

  “You shall see him anon, since you desire it,” replied Mary. “Like yourself, he is a prisoner in the Tower. But these assertions do not clear you.”

  “Your Highness says you have Wyat’s confession,” rejoined Elizabeth. “What faith is to be attached to it? It has been wrung from him by the severity of the torture to which he has been subjected. Look at his shattered frame, and say whether it is not likely he would purchase relief from such suffering as he must have endured at any cost. The sworn tormentors are here. Let them declare how often they have stretched him on the rack — how often applied the thumbscrew — how often delivered him to the deadly embraces of the scavenger’s daughter, before this false charge was wrung from him. Speak, fellows! how often have you racked him?”