But the tormentors did not dare to reply. A stifled groan broke from Wyat, and a sharp convulsion passed over his frame.
“The question has only extorted the truth,” observed Mary.
“If the accusation so obtained be availing, the retraction must be equally so,” replied Elizabeth. “Sir Thomas Wyat,” she exclaimed, in a loud and authoritative tone, and stepping towards him, “if you would not render your name for ever infamous, you will declare my innocence.”
The sufferer gazed at her, as if he did not clearly comprehend what was said to him.
Elizabeth repeated the command, and in a more peremptory tone.
“What have I declared against you?” asked Wyat faintly.
“You have accused me of countenancing your traitorous practices against the Queen’s Highness, who now stands before you,” rejoined Elizabeth. “You well know it is false. Do not die with such a stain upon your knighthood and your honor. The worst is over. Further application of the rack would be fatal, and it will not be resorted to, because you would thus escape the scaffold. You can have therefore, no object in adhering to this vile fabrication of my enemies. Retract your words, I command you, and declare my innocence.”
“I do,” replied Wyat in a firm tone. “I have falsely accused you, and was induced to do so in the hope of pardon. I unsay all I have said, and will die proclaiming your innocence.”
“It is well,” replied Elizabeth, with a triumphant glance at the Queen.
“Place me at the feet of the Princess,” said Wyat to his supporters. “Your pardon, madam,” he added, as the order was obeyed.
“You have it,” replied Elizabeth, scarcely able to repress her emotion. “May God forgive you, as I do.”
“Then your former declaration was false, thou perjured traitor?” cried Mary, in amazement.
“What I have said, I have said,” rejoined Wyat.
“what I now say is the truth.” And he motioned the attendants to raise him, the pain of kneeling being too exquisite for endurance.
“And you will adhere to your declaration?” pursued Mary.
“To my last breath,” gasped Wyat.
“At whose instigation were you induced to charge the Princess with conspiring with you?” demanded Renard, stepping forward.
“At yours,” returned Wyat, with a look of intense hatred. “You who have deceived the Queen — deceived me — and would deceive the devil, your master, if you could — you urged me to it — you — ha! ha!” And with a convulsive attempt at laughter, which communicated a horrible expression to his features, he sank into the arms of Wolfytt, and was conveyed to a cell at the back of the chamber, the door of which was closed.
“My innocence is established,” said Elizabeth, turning to the Queen.
“Not entirely,” answered Mary. “Wyat’s first charge was supported by Lord Russell’s son.”
“Take me to him, or send for him hither,” rejoined Elizabeth. “He has been suborned, like Wyat, by Renard. I will stake my life that he denies it.”
“I will not refute the idle charge brought against me,” observed Renard, who had been for a moment confounded by Wyat’s accusation. “Your Majesty will at once discern its utter groundlessness.”
“I ask no clemency for myself,” interposed Courtenay, speaking for the first time; “but I beseech your Highness not to let the words of that false and crafty Spaniard weigh against your sister. From his perfidious counsels all these disasters have originated.”
“You would screen the Princess in the hope of obtaining her hand, my lord,” replied Mary. “I see through your purpose, and will defeat it.”
“So far from it,” replied the Earl, “I here solemnly renounce all pretensions to her.”
“Courtenay!” exclaimed Elizabeth, in a tone of anguish.
“Recent events have cured me of love and ambition,” pursued the Earl, without regarding her. “All I desire is freedom.”
“And is it for one so unworthy that I have entertained this regard?” cried Elizabeth. “But I am rightly punished.”
“You are so,” replied Mary bitterly. “And you now taste some of the pangs you inflicted upon me.”
“Hear me, gracious madam,” cried Courtenay, prostrating himself before the Queen. “I have avowed thus much, that you may attach due credit to what I am about to declare concerning Renard. My heart was yours, and yours only, till I allowed myself to be influenced by him. I knew not then his design, but it has since been fully revealed. It was to disgust you with me that he might accomplish the main object of his heart — the match with the Prince of Spain. He succeeded too well. Utterly inexperienced, I readily yielded to the allurements he spread before me. My indiscretions were reported to you. But failing in alienating me from your regard, he tried a deeper game, and chose out as his tool the Princess Elizabeth.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mary.
“He it was,” pursued Courtenay, “who first attracted my attention towards her, who drew invidious comparisons between her youthful charms and your Majesty’s more advanced age. He it was who hinted at the possibility of an alliance between us, who led me on step by step till I was completely enmeshed. I will own it, I became desperately enamored of the Princess. I thought no more of your Highness — of the brilliant prospects lost to me; and blinded by my passion, became reckless of the perilous position in which I placed myself. But now that I can look calmly behind me, I see where and why I fell; and I fully comprehend the tempter’s motives.”
“What says your Excellency to this?” demanded Mary sternly.
“Much that the Earl of Devonshire has asserted is true,” replied Renard. “But in rescuing your Majesty, at any cost, from so unworthy an alliance, I deserve your thanks rather than your reprobation. And I shall ever rejoice that I have succeeded.”
“You have succeeded at my expense, and at the expense of many of my bravest and best subjects,” replied Mary severely. “But the die is cast, and cannot be recalled.”
“True,” replied Renard, with a smile of malignant satisfaction.
“Will your Highness pursue your investigations further to-night?” demanded Gardiner.
“No,” replied the Queen, who appeared lost in thought. “Let the Princess Elizabeth be taken back to the Bell Tower, and Courtenay to his prison in the Bowyer Tower, I will consider upon their sentence. Wyat is respited for the present. I shall interrogate him further.”
With this, she quitted the torture-chamber with her train, and the prisoners were removed as she had directed.
CHAPTER XXXV.
HOW XIT DISCOVERED THE SECRET OF HIS BIRTH; AND HOW HE WAS KNIGHTED UNDER THE TITLE OF SIR NARCISSUS LE GRAND.
LIFE is full of the saddest and the strongest contrasts. The laugh of derision succeeds the groan of despair — the revel follows the funeral — the moment that ushers the new-born babe into existence, is the last, perchance, of its parent — without the prison walls, all is sunshine and happiness — within, gloom and despair. But throughout the great city which it commanded, search where you might, no stronger contrasts of rejoicing and despair could be found than were now to be met with in the Tower of London. While, on the one hand, every dungeon was crowded, and scarcely an hour passed that some miserable sufferer did not expire under the hand of the secret tormentor or the public executioner; on the other, there was mirth, revelry, and all the customary celebrations of victory. As upon Mary’s former triumph over her enemies, a vast fire was lighted in the centre of the Tower Green, and four oxen, roasted whole at it, were distributed, together with a proportionate supply of bread, and a measure of ale or mead, in rations, to every soldier in the fortress: and as may be supposed, the utmost joviality prevailed. To each warder was allotted an angel of gold, and a dish from the royal table, while to the three giants were given the residue of a grand banquet, a butt of Gascoign wine, and, in consideration of their valiant conduct during the siege, their yearly fee, by the Queen’s command, was trebled. On the night of these festivities a m
agnificent display of fireworks took place on the Green, and an extraordinary illumination was effected by means of a row of barrels filled with pitch, ranged along the battlements of the White Tower, which being suddenly lighted, cast forth a glare that illumined the whole fortress, and was seen at upwards of twenty miles’ distance.
Not unmindful of the Queen’s promise, Xit, though unable to find a favorable opportunity of claiming it, did not fail to assume all the consequence of his anticipated honors. He treated those with whom he associated with the utmost haughtiness; and though his arrogant demeanor only excited the merriment of the giants, it drew many a sharp retort, and not a few blows, from such as were not disposed to put up with his insolence. The subject that perpetually occupied his thoughts was the title he ought to assume; for he was thoroughly dissatisfied with his present appellation. “Base and contemptible name!” he exclaimed. “How I loathe it! — and how did I acquire it? It was bestowed upon me, I suppose, in my infancy, by Og, to whose care I was committed. A mystery hangs over my birth. I must unravel it. Let me see: Two-and-twenty years ago (come Martinmas), I was deposited at the door of the By-ward Tower in a piece of blanket! — unworthy swaddling-cloth for so illustrious an infant — a circumstance which fully proves that my noble parents were anxious for concealment. Stay! I have heard of changelings — of elfin children left by fairies in the room of those they steal. Can I be such a one? A shudder crosses my frame at the bare idea. And yet my activity, my daring, my high mental qualities, my unequalled symmetry of person, small though it be — all these seem to warrant the supposition. Yes! I am a changeling. I am a fairy child. Yet hold! this will not do. Though I may entertain these notions in secret of my alliance with the invisible world, they will not be accepted by the incredulous multitude. I must have some father, probable or improbable. Who could he have been? Or who might he have been? Let me see. Sir Thomas More was imprisoned in the Tower about the time of my birth. Could I not be his son? It is more than probable. So was the Bishop of Rochester. But to claim descent from him would bring scandal upon the Church. Besides, he was a Catholic prelate. No, it must be Sir Thomas More. That will account for my wit. Then about the same time there were the Lord Darcy; and Robert Salisbury, Abbot of Yale Crucis; the Prior of Doncaster; Sir Thomas Percy; Sir Francis Bygate; and Sir John Bulmer. All these were prisoners, so that I have plenty to choose from. I will go and consult Og. I wonder whether he has kept the piece of blanket in which I was wrapped. It will be a gross omission if he has not.”
The foregoing soliloquy occurred in one of the galleries of the palace, where the vainglorious mannikin was lingering in the hope of being admitted to the royal presence. No sooner did the idea Elphin Elphin-stone stone of consulting Og on the subject of his birth occur to him, than he set off to the By-ward Tower, where he found the two unmarried giants employed upon a huge smoking dish of baked meat, and notwithstanding his importunity, neither of them appeared willing to attend to him. Thus baffled, and his appetite sharpened by the savory odor of the viands, Xit seized a knife and fork, and began to ply them with great zeal. The meal over, and two ponderous jugs that flanked the board emptied of their contents, Og leaned his huge frame against the wall, and in a drowsy tone informed the dwarf that he was ready to listen to him.
“No sleeping, then my master,” cried Xit, springing upon his knee, and tweaking his nose. “I have a matter of the utmost importance to consult you about. You must be wide awake.”
“What is it?” replied the good-humored giant, yawning as if he would have swallowed the teasing mannikin.
“It relates to my origin,” replied Xit. “Am I the son of a nobleman?”
“I should rather say you were the offspring of some ape escaped from the menagerie,” answered Og, bursting into a roar of laughter, in which he was joined by Gog, much to the discomfiture of the cause of their merriment. “You have all the tricks of the species.”
“Dare to repeat that insinuation, base Titan,” cried Xit furiously, and drawing his sword, “and I will be thy death. I am as illustriously descended as thyself, and on both sides too, whereas thy mother was a frowzy fishwife. Know that I am the son of Sir Thomas More.”
“Sir Thomas More!” echoed both giants, laughing more immoderately than ever. “What has put that notion into thy addle pate?”
“My better genius,” replied Xit, “and unless you can show me who was my father, I shall claim descent from him.”
“You will only expose yourself to ridicule,” returned Og, patting the mannikin’s shock head — a familiarity which he resented,— “and though I and my brethren laugh at you, and make a jest of you, we do not desire others to do so.”
“Once graced by knighthood, no man, be he of my stature or of yours, my overgrown master, shall make a jest of me with impunity,” replied Xit, proudly. “But since you think I am not the son of Sir Thomas More, from whom can I safely claim descent?”
“I would willingly assist you to a father,” replied Og, smothering a laugh, “but on my faith, I can think of none more probable than Hairun’s pet monkey, or perhaps old Max.”
“Anger me not,” shrieked Xit, in extremity of fury, “or you will rue it. What has become of the blanket in which I was wrapped?”
“The blanket!” exclaimed Og; “why, it was a strip scarcely bigger than my hand.”
“Is it lost?” demanded Xit eagerly.
“I fear so,” replied Og. “Stay! now I recollect, I patched an old pair of hose with it.”
“Patched a pair of hose with it!” cried Xit. “You deserve to go in tatters during the rest of your days. You have destroyed the sole clue to my origin.”
“Nay, if that blanket will guide you, I have taken the best means of preserving it,” rejoined Og, “for I think I have the hose still.”
“Where are they?” inquired Xit. “Let me see them instantly.”
“If they still exist, they are in a large chest in the upper chamber,” replied Og. “But be not too much elated, for I fear we shall be disappointed.”
“At all events, let us search without a moment’s delay,” rejoined Xit, jumping down, and hurrying up the staircase.
He was followed somewhat more leisurely by the two giants, and the trunk was found crammed under a heap of lumber into an embrasure. The key was lost, but as Xit’s impatience would not allow him to wait to have it unfastened by a smith, Og forced it open with the head of a halbert. It contained a number of old buskins, cloaks of all hues and fashions, doublets, pantoufles, caps, buff-boots, and hose. Of the latter there were several pairs, and though many were threadbare enough, it did not appear that any were patched.
Xit, who had plunged into the trunk to examine each article, was greatly disappointed.
“I fear they are lost,” observed Og.
“It would seem so,” replied Xit, “for there are only a doublet and cloak left. Oh that a worshipful knight’s history should hang on so slight a tenure!”
“Many a knight’s history has hung on less,” replied Gog. “But what have we rolled up in that corner?”
“As I live, a pair of watchet-colored hose,” cried Xit.
“The very pair we are in quest of,” rejoined Og. “Unfold them, and you will And the piece of blanket in the seat.”
Xit obeyed, and mounting on the side of the box held out the huge garments, and there, undoubtedly in the region intimated by Og, was a piece of dirty flannel.
“And this, then, was my earliest covering,” apostrophized Xit. “In this fragment of woollen cloth my tender limbs were swathed!”
“Truly were they,” replied Og, laughing. “And when I first beheld thee it was ample covering. But what light does it throw upon thy origin?”
“That remains to be seen,” returned Xit. And unsheathing his dagger he began to unrig the piece of flannel from the garment in which it was stitched.
The two giants watched his proceedings in silence, and glanced significantly at each other. At length Xit tore it away.
; “It is a labor in vain,” observed Og.
“Not so,” replied Xit. “See you not that this corner is doubled over. There is a name worked within it.”
“The imp is right,” cried Og. “How came I to overlook it?”
And he would have snatched the flannel from Xit, but the dwarf darted away, crying, “No one shall have a hand in the discovery but myself. Stand off.”
Trembling with eagerness, he then cut open the corner, and found, worked withinside, the words —
“NARCISSUS LE GRAND.”
“Narcissus le Grand!” exclaimed Xit triumphantly. “That was my father’s title. He must have been a nobleman.”
“If that was your father’s name,” returned Gog—” and I begin to think you have stumbled upon the right person at last — he was a Frenchman, and groom of the pantry to Queen Anne Boleyn.”
“He was a dwarf like yourself,” added Og, “and though the ugliest being I ever beheld, had extraordinary personal vanity.”
“In which respect he mightily resembled his son,” laughed Gog; “and since we have found out the father, I think I can give a shrewd guess at the mother.”
“I hope she was a person of distinction?” cried Xit, whose countenance had fallen at the knowledge he had acquired of his paternity.
“She was a scullion,” replied Gog—” by name Mab Leatherbarrow.”
“A scullion!” ejaculated Xit indignantly. “I the son of a scullion — and of one so basely named as Leatherbarrow — impossible!”
“I am as sure of it as of my existence,” replied Og. “Your mother was not a jot taller, or more well favored than your father; and they both, I now remember, disappeared about the time you were found.”
“Which name will you adopt — Le Grand, or Leatherbarrow?” demanded Gog maliciously.
“This is an unlucky discovery,” thought Xit. “I had better have left my parentage alone. The son of a groom of the pantry and a scullion. What a degrading conjunction! However, I will make the most of it, and not let them have the laugh against me. I shall assume my father’s name,” he added aloud—” Sir Narcissus le Grand; and a good, well-sounding title it is, as need be desired.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 165