“It is to be hoped all will have forgotten the former bearer of it,” laughed Og.
“I care not who remembers it,” replied Xit; “the name bespeaks noble descent. Call me in future Narcissus le Grand. The title fits me exactly — Narcissus expressing my personal accomplishments — Le Grand my majesty. For the present you may put ‘ master’ to my name. You will shortly have to use a more honorable style of address. Farewell, sirs.”
And thrusting the piece of flannel into his doublet, he strutted to the door.
“Farewell, sweet Master Narcissus,” cried Og.
“Farewell, Leatherbarrow,” added Gog.
“Le Grand,” corrected Xit, halting, with a dignified air; “Le Grand, henceforth, is my name.” And he marched off with his head so erect that, unfortunately missing his footing, he tumbled down the staircase. Picking himself up before the giants, whose laughter enraged him, could reach him, he darted off, and did not return till a late hour, when they had retired to rest.
Two days after this discovery — the Queen being then at the Tower — as he was pacing the grand gallery of the palace, according to custom, an usher tapped him on the shoulder, and desired him to follow him. With a throbbing heart Xit obeyed, and putting all the dignity he could command into his deportment, entered the presence-chamber. On that very morning, as good luck would have it, his tailor had brought him his new habiliments; and arrayed in a purple velvet mantle lined with carnation-colored silk, a crimson doublet slashed with white, orange-tawny hose, yellow buskins fringed with gold, and a green velvet cap, decorated with a plume of ostrich feathers, and looped with a diamond aigrette, he cut, in his own opinion, no despicable figure.
If the dwarf had entertained any doubts as to why he was summoned, they would have been dispersed at once, as he advanced, by observing that the three giants stood at a little distance from the Queen, and that she was attended only by a few dames of honor, her female jester, and the vice-chamberlain, Sir John Gage, who held a crimson velvet cushion, on which was laid a richly-ornamented sword. A smile crossed the Queen’s countenance as Xit drew nigh, and an irrepressible titter spread among the dames of honor. Arrived within a few yards of the throne, the mannikin prostrated himself as gracefully as he could. But he was destined to mishaps. And in this the most important moment of his life, his sword, which was of extraordinary length got between his legs, and he was compelled to remove it before his knee would touch the ground.
“We have not forgotten our promise — rash though it was,” observed Mary, “and have summoned thy comrades to be witness to the distinction we are about to confer upon thee. In the heat of the siege, we promised that whoso would bring us Bret, alive or dead, should have his request, be it what it might. Thou wert his captor, and thou askest—”
“Knighthood at your Majesty’s hands,” supplied Xit.
“How shall we name thee?” demanded Mary.
“Narcissus Le Grand,” replied the dwarf. “I am called familiarly Xit; but it is a designation by which I do not desire to be longer distinguished.”
Mary took the sword from Sir John Gage, and placing it upon the dwarf’s shoulder, said, “Arise, Sir Narcissus.” The new-made knight immediately obeyed, and making a profound reverence to the Queen, was about to retire, when she checked him.
“Tarry a moment, Sir Narcissus,” she said. “I have a further favor to bestow upon you.”
“Indeed!” cried the dwarf, out of his senses with delight. “I pray your Majesty to declare it.”
“You will need a dame,” returned the Queen.
“Of a truth,” replied Sir Narcissus, tenderly ogling the bevy of beauties behind the throne, “I need one sadly,”
“I will choose for you,” said the Queen.
“Your Highness’s condescension overwhelms me,” rejoined Sir Narcissus, wondering which would fall to his share.
“This shall be your bride,” continued the Queen, pointing to Jane the Fool, “and I will give her a portion.”
Sir Narcissus had some ado to conceal his mortification. Receiving the announcement with the best grace he could assume, he strutted up to Jane, and taking her hand, said, “You hear her Highness’s injunctions, sweetheart. You are to be Lady le Grand. I need not ask your consent, I presume?”
“You shall never have it,” replied Jane the Fool, with a coquettish toss of the head, “if her Highness did not command it.”
“I shall require to exert my authority early,” thought Sir Narcissus, “or I shall share the fate of Magog.”
“I myself will fix the day for your espousals,” observed Mary. “Meanwhile, you have my permission to woo your intended bride for a few minutes in each day.”
“Only a few minutes!” cried Sir Narcissus, with affected disappointment. “I could dispense with even that allowance,” he added to himself.
“I cannot reward your services as richly,” continued Mary, addressing the gigantic brethren, “but I am not unmindful of them, nor shall they pass unrequited. Whenever you have a boon to ask, hesitate not to address me.”
The three giants bowed their lofty heads.
“A purse of gold will be given to each of you,” continued the Queen, “and on the day of his marriage, I shall bestow a like gift upon Sir Narcissus,” She then waved her hand, and the new-made knight and his companions withdrew.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
HOW CHOLMONDELEY LEARNED THE HISTORY OF CICELY; HOW NIGHTGALL ATTEMPTED TO ASSASSINATE RENARD; AND OF THE TERRIBLE FATE THAT BEFEL HIM.
CUTHBERT CHOLMONDELEY, after upwards of a week’s solitary confinement, underwent a rigorous examination by certain of the Council relative to his own share in the conspiracy, and his knowledge of the different parties connected with it. He at once admitted that he had taken a prominent part in the siege, but refused to answer any other questions. “I confess myself guilty of treason and rebellion against the Queen’s Highness,” he said, “and I ask no further mercy than a speedy death. But if the word of one standing in peril of his life may be taken, I solemnly declare, and call upon you to attest my declaration, that the Lady Jane Grey is innocent of all share in the recent insurrection. For a long time she was kept in total ignorance of the project, and when it came to her knowledge, she used every means, short of betraying it — tears, entreaties, menaces — to induce her husband to abandon the design.”
“This declaration will not save her,” replied Sir Edward Hastings, who was one of the interrogators, sternly. “By not revealing the conspiracy, she acquiesced in it. Her first duty was to her sovereign.”
“I am aware of it, and so is the unfortunate lady herself,” replied Cholmondeley. “But I earnestly entreat you, in pity for her misfortunes, to report what I have said to the Queen.”
“I will not fail to do so,” returned Hastings; “But I will not deceive you. Her fate is sealed. And now, touching the Princess Elizabeth’s share in this unhappy affair. Do you know aught concerning it?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Cholmondeley; and if I did, I would not reveal it.”
“Take heed what you say, sir,” rejoined Sir Thomas Brydges, who was likewise among the examiners, “or I shall order you to be more sharply questioned.”
Nightgall heard this menace with savage exultation.
“The rack will wrest nothing from me,” said Cholmondeley firmly.
Brydges immediately sat down at the table, and writing out a list of questions to be put to the prisoner, added an order for the torture, and delivered it to Nightgall.
Without giving Cholmondeley time to reflect upon his imprudence, the jailer hurried him away, and he did not pause till he came to the head of the stairs leading to the torture-chamber. On reaching the steps Nightgall descended first, but though he opened the door with great caution, a glare of lurid light burst forth, and a dismal groan smote the ears of the listener. It was followed by a creaking noise, the meaning of which the esquire too well divined.
Some little time elapsed before the door was again
opened, and the voice of Nightgall was heard from below calling to his attendants to bring down the prisoner. The first object that caught Cholmondeley’s gaze on entering the fatal chamber, was a figure covered from head to foot in a bloody-colored cloth. The sufferer, whoever he was, had just been released from the torture, as two assistants were supporting him, while Wolfytt was arranging the ropes on the rack. Sorrocold, also, who held a small cup filled with some pungent-smelling liquid, and a sprinkling-brush in his hand, was directing the assistants.
Horror-stricken at the sight, and filled with the conviction from the mystery observed, and the stature of the veiled person, that it was Lord Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley uttered his name in a tone of piercing anguish. At the cry, the figure was greatly agitated — the arms struggled, and it was evident that an effort was made to speak; but only an inarticulate sound could be heard. The attendants looked disconcerted, and Nightgall, stamping his foot angrily, ordered them to take their charge away. But Cholmondeley perceiving their intention broke from those about him, and throwing himself at the feet of him whom he supposed to be Dudley, cried, “My dear, dear lord, it is I, your faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondeley. Make some sign, if I am right in supposing it to be you.”
The figure struggled violently, and shaking off the officials, raised the cloth, and disclosed the countenance of the unfortunate nobleman — but oh! how changed since Cholmondeley had seen him last — how ghastly, how distorted, how deathlike, were his features!
“You here!” cried Dudley. “Where is Jane? Has she fled? Has she escaped?”
“She has surrendered herself,” replied Cholmondeley, “in the hope of obtaining your pardon.”
“False hope! — delusive expectation!” exclaimed Dudley, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. “She will share my fate. I could have died happy — could have defied these engines, if she had escaped — but now!—”
“Away with him!” interposed Nightgall. “Throw the cloth over his head.”
“O God! I am her destroyer!” shrieked Dudley, as the order was obeyed, and he was forced out of the chamber.
Cholmondeley was then seized by Wolfytt and the others, and thrown upon his back on the floor. He made no resistance, well knowing it would be useless; and he determined, even if he should expire under the torture, to let no expression of anguish escape him. He had need of all his fortitude; for the sharpness of the suffering to which he was subjected by the remorseless Nightgall was such as few could have withstood. But not a groan burst from him, though his whole frame seemed rent asunder by the dreadful tension.
“Go on,” cried Nightgall, finding that Wolfytt and the others paused. “Turn the rollers round once more.”
“You will wrench his bones from their sockets — he will expire if you do,” observed Sorrocold.
“No matter,” replied Nightgall; “I have an order to question him sharply, and I will do so, at all hazards.”
“Do so at your own responsibility, then,” replied Sorrocold, retiring. “I tell you he will die if you strain him further.”
“Go on, I say,” thundered Nightgall. But as he spoke, the sufferer fainted, and Wolfytt refused to comply with the jailer’s injunctions.
Cholmondeley was taken off the engine. Restoratives were applied by Sorrocold, and the questions proposed by the lieutenant put to him by Nightgall. But he returned no answer; and uttering an angry exclamation at his obstinacy, the jailer ordered him to be taken back to his cell, where he was thrown upon a heap of straw, and left without light or food.
For some time Cholmondeley remained in a state of insensibility, and when he recovered, it was to endure far greater agony than he had experienced on the rack. His muscles were so strained that he was unable to move, and every bone in his body appeared broken. The thought, however, that Cicely was alive, and in the power of his hated rival, tormented him more sharply than his bodily suffering. Supposing her dead, though his heart was ever constant to her memory, and though he was a prey to deep and severe grief, yet the whirl of events in which he had been recently engaged had prevented him from dwelling altogether upon her loss. But now, when he knew that she still lived, and was in the power of Nightgall, all his passion — all his jealousy returned with tenfold fury. The most dreadful suspicions crossed him; and his mental anguish was so great as to be almost intolerable. While thus tortured in body and mind, the door, of his cell was opened, and Nightgall entered, dragging after him a female. The glare of the lamp so dazzled Cholmondeley’s weakened vision, that he involuntarily closed his eyes. But what was his surprise to hear his own name pronounced by well-known accents, and as soon as he could steady his gaze, to behold the features of Cicely; but so pale, so emaciated, that he could scarcely recognize them.
“There,” cried Nightgall, with a look of fiendish exultation, pointing to Cholmondeley. “I told you you should see your lover. Glut your eyes with the sight. The arms that should have clasped you are nerveless; the eyes that gazed so passionately upon you, dim; the limbs that won your admiration crippled. Look at him — and for the last time. And let him gaze on you, and see whether in these death-pale features — in this wasted form, there are any remains of the young and blooming maiden that won his heart.”
“Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, making an ineffectual attempt to rise, “do I indeed behold you? I thought you dead.”
“Would I were so,” she cried, kneeling beside him, “rather than what I am. And to see you thus — and without the power to relieve you.”
“You can relieve me of the worst pang I endure,” returned Cholmondeley. “You have been long in the power of that miscreant — exposed to his violence, his ill-usage, to the worst of villainy. Has he dared to abuse his power? Do not deceive me! Has he wronged you? — Are you his minion? Speak! And the answer will either kill me at once, or render my death on the scaffold happy. Speak! Speak!”
“I am yours, and yours only — in life or death, dear Cholmondeley,” replied Cicely. “Neither entreaties nor force should make me his.”
“The time is come when I will show you no further consideration,” observed Nightgall moodily. “And if the question your lover has just asked is repeated, it shall be differently answered. You shall be mine to-morrow, either by your own free consent or by force. I have spared you thus long, in the hope that you would relent and not compel me to have recourse to means I would willingly avoid. Now, hear me. I have brought you hither to gratify my vengeance upon the miserable wretch writhing at my feet, who has robbed me of your affections, and whose last moments I would embitter by the certainty that you are in my power. But though it will be much to me to forego the promised gratification of witnessing his execution, or knowing that he will be executed, yet I will purchase your compliance even at this price. Swear to wed me to-morrow, and to accompany me unresistingly whithersoever I may choose to take you, and in return, I swear to free him.”
“He made a like proposal once before, Cicely,” cried the esquire. “Reject it. Let us die together.”
“It matters little to me how you decide,” cried Nightgall. “Mine you shall be, come what will.”
“You hear what he says, Cholmondeley,” cried Cicely distractedly. “I cannot escape him. Oh, let me save you!”
“Never!” rejoined Cholmondeley, trying to stretch his hands towards her. “Never! You torture me by this hesitation. Reject it, if you love me, positively — peremptorily!”
“O Heaven, direct me!” cried Cicely, falling upon her knees. “If I refuse, I am your destroyer.”
“You will utterly destroy me, if you yield,” groaned Cholmondeley.
“Once wedded to me,” urged Nightgall, “you shall set him free yourself.”
“Oh no, no, no!” cried Cicely. “Death were better than that. I cannot consent. Cholmondeley, you must die.”
“You bid me live,” returned the esquire.
“You have signed his death-warrant!” cried Nightgall seizing her hand. “Come along.”
“I will di
e here,” shrieked Cicely, struggling.
“Villain!” cried Cholmondeley, “your cruelty will turn her brain, as it did that of her mother Alexia.”
“How do you know Alexia was her mother?” demanded Nightgall, starting, and relinquishing his grasp of Cicely.
“I am sure of it,” replied Cholmondeley. “And what is more, I am acquainted with the rightful name and title of your victim. She was the wife of Sir Alberic Mountjoy, who was attainted of heresy and high treason, in the reign of Henry the Eighth.”
“I will not deny it,” replied Nightgall. “She was so. But how did you learn this?”
“Partly from an inscription upon a small silver clasp, which I found upon her hood when I discovered her body in the Devilin Tower,” replied Cholmondeley; “and partly from inquiries since made. I have ascertained that the Lady Mountjoy was imprisoned with her husband in the Tower; and that at the time of his execution she received a pardon. I would learn from you why she was subsequently detained? — why she was called Alexia? — and why her child was taken from her?”
“She lost her senses on the day of her husband’s death,” replied Nightgall. “I will tell you nothing more.”
“Alas!” cried Cicely, who had listened with breathless interest to what was said, “hers was a tragical history.”
“Yours will be still more tragical, if you continue obstinate,” rejoined Nightgall. “Come along.”
“Heaven preserve me from this monster!” she shrieked. “Help me, Cholmondeley.”
“I am powerless as a crushed worm,” groaned the esquire in a tone of anguish.
Nightgall laughed exultingly, and twining his arms around Cicely, held his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, and forced her from the cell.
The sharpest pang he had recently endured was light to Cholmondeley compared with his present maddening sensations, and had not insensibility relieved him, his reason would have given way. How long he remained in this state he knew not, but, on reviving, he found himself placed on a small pallet, and surrounded by three men in sable dresses. His attire had been removed, and two of these persons were chafing his limbs with an ointment, which had a marvellous effect in subduing the pain, and restoring pliancy to the sinews and joints; while the third, who was no other than Sorrocold, bathed his temples with a pungent liquid. In a short time he felt himself greatly restored, and able to move; and when he thought how valuable the strength he had thus suddenly and mysteriously acquired would have been a short time ago, he groaned aloud.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 166