“I want no persuasion,” replied the gaoler; “I am prepared to run all risks; but I cannot answer for Mauger.”
With this, he went forth, locking the ponderous door upon the prisoner, who now bore his confinement more cheerfully, feeling certain of escape.
XXV. Dereham sends a Missive to Adrian.
BUT his patience was exhausted before Jerome reappeared.
Evidently the gaoler was prepared for flight, for he was wrapped in a cloak, beneath which he carried a dark lantern.
“Well done!” cried Dereham. “I see you have prevailed on Mauger to let us out.”
“Ay, but it has been a hard matter to persuade him,” said Jerome. “He misdoubted your account of the treasure; but I swore to him it was true.”
“He will believe when he handles the gold,” laughed Dereham.
“So I told him,” observed the gaoler.
After extinguishing the lamp, they quitted the dungeon, the door of which was locked, as a precautionary measure, by Jerome.
They then tracked a long stone passage, lined with dungeons on either side, as was made manifest by the numerous massive doors.
Arrived at an angle in the passage, Jerome halted; and giving the lantern to his companion, stooped down, and, laying hold of a ring inserted in the pavement, raised a large square stone, that moved easily upon hinges.
A flight of steps was then disclosed; and the flag being restored to its place, they descended to a lower level.
“We are now beneath the moat,” remarked Jerome, glancing at the roof of the tunnel, which was dripping with moisture.
A second flight of stone steps brought them to a landing-place; but here their further progress was barred by a stout oaken gate.
“He has neglected to unlock the gate!” cried Jerome, knocking against it.
Presently, a small wicket in the upper part of the gate was opened, and a gruff voice demanded who was there.
“Why, who should it be, except friends?” cried Jerome. “Open the door quickly.”
“I have changed my mind,” replied Mauger, whose harsh features could he imperfectly distinguished through the bars of the wicket. “I don’t mean to let the prisoner out. I have no faith in his promises.”
“You distrust me needlessly, good Mauger,” cried Dereham, earnestly. “By everything sacred, I swear to you that I have spoken truth. You shall have a thousand marks in gold as your share. Will not that content you?”
“Perchance it might — if you had the money with you,” replied the headsman.
“Come — come! agree at once. We waste time,” cried Jerome, impatiently. “Open the gate instantly.”
“Not so fast,” rejoined Mauger. “I have reflected, I tell you. I will be neither art nor part in this plan. It is useless to talk to me further. Take back the prisoner to his dungeon.”
“You are a stupid dolt to refuse his gold!” cried Jerome.
“I don’t believe in it,” rejoined the headsman. “But I believe in the halter, which would be my doom, were I to help him.”
“Will nothing move you?” implored Dereham.
“Nothing,” rejoined Mauger, shutting the wicket.
Half maddened, Dereham battered furiously against the gate; but he only bruised himself, and was at last compelled to desist.
“If I could get at him for a moment, I would strangle him!” he cried, fiercely.
A mocking laugh resounded from the other side of the gate.
At last, the discomfited pair were compelled to retrace their steps; and it will be readily understood with what feelings of anguish and despair Dereham reentered the dungeon, which now looked more dismal than ever.
Neither of them had spoken for some time; but when Jerome had lighted the lamp, he looked hard at the prisoner, and said, in a wheedling tone, “’Tis a pity the treasure should be lost. Why not tell me where the chests are concealed?”
Dereham took no heed of the observation; but asked, “Has Adrian Culpepper been brought to the Tower?”
“He was brought hither two hours after your own arrival, and lodged in the Broad Arrow Tower, near the old palace,” replied the gaoler.
“Would I could see him!” observed the other.
“Impossible,” said Jerome. “But I will convey a message to him.”
“I dare not trust you,” rejoined Dereham. “Send the chaplain of the Tower to me, I pray you. I would fain make my shrift.”
“You had best do so; for, most assuredly, you will have to submit to the question to-morrow.”
“Ay; I have led a dog’s life, that’s certain,” said Dereham, half speaking to himself. “Some men think me a renegade; but I will make a clean breast, and die in the true faith.”
“It might ease your conscience to tell me where the treasure-chests are hidden,” suggested Jerome. “The gold can do you no good now. You are sure to expire on the rack.”
“Away! and send the chaplain to me!” cried Dereham, stamping impatiently on the ground.
Thinking it vain to tarry longer, the gaoler quitted the dungeon, and locked the door upon the prisoner, who seated himself on the oak stool, and became lost in bitter reflection.
He was still revolving the incidents of his wild and wayward life, when the door was unlocked, and the venerable chaplain of the Tower — who, it will be remembered, assisted at Cromwell’s execution — entered the cell.
The holy man had to listen to a terrible confession. Many a sinner had he shrived, but never one who had been guilty of so many dark offences as were now detailed to him.
Nevertheless, having no doubt of the sincerity of the penitent, and being aware of the fearful peril in which he stood, he would not refuse him absolution.
Moved, also, by the prisoner’s earnest entreaties, the good chaplain consented to take a missive to Adrian Culpepper.
Tearing a blank leaf from his breviary, he gave it, with a pencil, to Dereham, who traced a few hasty lines on the paper, and then folded it up.
“Give this to him, I pray you,” he said to the chaplain. “He will know how to act.”
“He shall have it to-morrow,” replied the good man. “And I solemnly promise you that he alone shall read what you have written.”
With this, the chaplain departed.
XXVI. The Torture-Chamber.
NOT far from the dungeon in which Dereham was confined, but approached by a private passage from the lieutenant’s lodgings, there was a chamber which was regarded with more dread than any other place in the Tower. It was more than double the size of any of the adjoining cells; and its walls and doors were so solid, that no sounds whatever could be heard outside.
From the arched stone ceiling was suspended a lamp; and its light disclosed many horrible implements of torture — ropes, pulleys, thumbscrews, pincers, and, above all, a great, hideous-looking machine, that cumbered the floor.
That this dreadful engine was about to be used was evident, since Botolph, the headsman’s assistant, and another equally brawny knave, were stationed near it — their muscular arms bared to the shoulder. Everything, indeed, betokened that an important prisoner was about to be interrogated.
Several members of the Privy Council were assembled. Among them were the Earl of Hertford. Wriothesley, and Sir Anthony Browne. In virtue of his office, Sir William Kingston was present, and Borlase, the chirurgeon of the Tower, was likewise in attendance.
Though so many persons were collected in the torture-chamber, no noise was heard, all observations being made in low tone, while almost every countenance wore a grave expression.
The members of the Council were provided with seats; and close beside them, at a small table, sat a secretary, with writing materials before him.
All being in readiness for the examination, Sir William Kingston signed to an attendant, and Mourzouk was brought in.
The African made a profound obeisance to the Council; but no question was put to him, and he was ordered to stand aside.
Scarcely had the slave wit
hdrawn, than his master was introduced.
Dereham entered the torture-chamber, which he did not expect to quit with life, with a firm footstep.
His complexion was livid, hut his deportment was resolute. He saw at a glance all the terrible preparations that had been made for him, but he regarded them with perfect disdain.
He was placed before the Council by the guard, who left him standing near the secretary’s table.
It had been arranged that the examination should be conducted by Wriothesley; but before it could commence, the prisoner craved leave to say a few words; and permission being granted him, he spoke thus: “My lords, I desire to retract all I stated before the King. I was influenced at the time by malignant and vindictive feelings, and cared not what I avouched. The accusations that I brought against the Queen and Adrian Culpepper were false — utterly false. Her Highness is perfectly innocent, and I deserve any punishment you can inflict upon me for the foul calumnies I have uttered against her.”
“By this device you hope to escape punishment,” observed the Earl of Hertford, sternly. “But you are mistaken. We attach no credit to your disavowal. We know that the accusations are true, and cannot be disputed.”
“You are resolved to find the Queen guilty, my lords, but I repeat she is innocent,” rejoined Dereham. “As matter of justice to her Highness, I require that my present declaration be taken down and shown to the King.”
“It shall be read to him,” said Hertford; “but he will disbelieve it, as we do.”
“I do not think so,” said Dereham.
“We cannot be trifled with thus,” said Wriothesley: “We will see whether the prisoner persists in his disavowal. Let him be placed on the rack.”
Dereham smiled contemptuously.
“You must believe my dying words,” he said; “and I will maintain the Queen’s innocence to the last.”
As he spoke, he was seized by Botolph and his comrade, who plucked off his doublet with great expedition, and bound him to the dreadful apparatus.
These proceedings were watched with suppressed rage by Mourzouk, and a glance was exchanged between him and Dereham.
The African seemed to understand his master’s meaning.
The Earl of Hertford now arose, and stepped towards the engine on which the unfortunate prisoner was stretched.
Even in this extremity, Dereham’s courage did not desert him. He eyed the Earl boldly.
“What would you with me?” he haughtily demanded.
“I would spare you the torture,” replied Hertford. “Recall your declaration, and you shall be released.”
“I would not preserve my life on such conditions,” rejoined Dereham. “I lied in what I said before, but I speak truth now. Hear me, all of you — the Queen is innocent!”
“Fool!” exclaimed Hertford, signing to the tormentors to turn the engine.
But ere he could be obeyed, Mourzouk sprang forward, with lightning swiftness, and snatching the poniard that dangled at Hertford’s side from its sheath, plunged it into Dereham’s heart; and then buried it in his own breast, falling upon his master’s body.
Both blows were almost instantaneously mortal.
When the surprise and consternation caused by this dreadful occurrence had somewhat subsided, the Earl of Hertford exclaimed, “The villain has escaped us, but he must not escape the King’s judgment. Hew off his head, and fix it on the great gate of London Bridge.”
XXVII. How Catherine was taken to the Tower.
CATHERINE’S disgrace, and the arrest of Dereham and Adrian Culpepper, had, of course, become known to all the inmates of the Palace at Hampton Court, and much sympathy was felt for the fair young Queen, though no one dared utter a word in her favour. It would have been perilous to express a doubt as to her guilt.
She was now a prisoner in her own apartments, and a guard was placed at the door. Her household was dismissed, and only a few female attendants were allowed her. But she was not deprived of the companionship of Lady Rochford, who, being regarded as her instigator and accomplice, had been placed under arrest, and was, consequently, a prisoner like herself.
With characteristic rapacity, Henry took possession of all the presents he had made her — jewels, ornaments, and rich dresses — and left her no means of rewarding her attendants. She had to submit to repeated interrogations by the Council, but no acknowledgment of guilt could be wrested from her, though she freely admitted her contract to Dereham.
Throughout all these examinations, Catherine resolutely maintained that she had never wronged the King, and her assertions were supported by Lady Rochford, who affirmed, as was the fact, that she had not quitted the Queen for a moment during her interview with Adrian at Pontefract Castle.
But little credit was attached to their asseverations. The Council was determined to find them both guilty; and a bill of attainder was prepared against the Queen and her accomplice.
Meantime, the vindictive monarch’s instructions to Wriothesley had been carried into effect.
It chanced that the old Duchess of Norfolk was labouring under a severe illness that confined her to her room; but, notwithstanding her indisposition, she was arrested, and at once committed to the Tower. Her goods were confiscated. Plate of considerable value, and money, to the amount of two thousand marks, were seized in the King’s name. The old Duchess behaved with great spirit, and stoutly expressed her belief in Catherine’s innocence. “She is sacrificed that the King may take another wife,” she said to Wriothesley. “With my consent she should never have wedded him. Do with me what you please. I cannot expect better treatment than was shown to the martyred Countess of Salisbury.”
Lord William Howard’s mansion at Reigate, which had been erected on the site of the old Priory, and is still in existence, was plundered in a similar manner; all his property being sequestered by the emissaries of the Council sent to arrest him and his wife.
By these spoliations, only to be paralleled by the proceedings of an Oriental despot, a large sum was added to the royal coffers.
But Henry derived but little satisfaction from thus indulging his vengeance. He suffered more than he had ever done before. He was satiated with the charms of Anne Boleyn, when he destroyed her to make way for Jane Seymour, but he was passionately enamoured of Catherine Howard, at the moment when he was forced by a sense of injured honour to cast her from him, and doom her to death. Though convinced that she had betrayed him, he could not banish her image from his breast, and tormented himself by recalling her thousand attractions. Lest he should yield to a momentary weakness, he kept inflexibly to his resolution not to see her.
Quitting Hampton Court on the day when the terrible discovery was made, he proceeded to Greenwich. But the change in his manner was very perceptible. He was moodier than ever, and his brow was constantly sombre.
He was persuaded by the leaders of the Protestant party to visit Anne of Cleves, in the hope that a reconciliation might take place, but, though the divorced Queen condoled with him upon his misfortune, she produced no impression upon him. To Anne’s credit, it may be mentioned that she did not exult in her rival’s fall, but, on the contrary, commiserated her; feeling thankful, no doubt, that she had escaped a like fate.
Speculations were rife among the courtiers as to whether Henry would marry again, and who would be the next object of his choice. Overhearing some of these discussions, Will Sommers remarked, “Wait till Catherine Howard is disposed of, and you will see!”
“She must be a widow,” observed one of the interlocutors.
“Certes!” rejoined the jester,— “twice a widow. I could tell you her name, but you will blah.”
“Handsome?” inquired another speaker.
“Not so handsome as the present Queen, but handsome enough..”
“I know whom you mean,” said the first speaker; “’tis the Lady Catherine Parr.”
A prisoner, as we have said, in her splendid apartments, with no one to console and counsel her but Lady Rochford, Cathe
rine passed the most miserable week of her brief life at Hampton Court.
She was still Queen; but what remained to her of her former state and splendour? For her there were no more pageants, no more brilliant assemblages, no more magnificent banquets. The high-born dames who had attended upon her had deserted her. The pages and ushers who thronged her ante-chamber were gone. Had it all been a dream? She would have thought so, but for the terrible reality that confronted her.
Adrian, too, was gone. She would soon be near him, in the Tower; but stone walls, solid as those of a tomb, would separate them.
No message came to her from the King, and she had ceased to hope for mercy from him.
At the end of a week, she was removed to Sion House, a large, gloomy-looking mansion situated on the banks of the Thames, and belonging to the King, but never occupied by him.
Her departure from Hampton Court was conducted with the utmost privacy, and she passed through the gardens to her barge without raising her eyes towards the windows of the Palace, at which many of the household were collected. All the beholders were weeping.
Sion House looked dreary and desolate, yet she preferred it to Hampton Court, since she was allowed by Master John Gates, the keeper, to roam about its neglected state-apartments.
But she did not remain there long. An order from the Council that the Queen and Lady Rochford should be taken to the Tower, was brought to Gates by the Duke of Suffolk and Wriothesley, and when this came, they knew their fate was sealed.
The fatal sentence had, in fact, been pronounced by the Peers and Commons, and the death-warrant had only to be signed by the King.
The shades of evening were deepening the gloom of the melancholy woods surrounding Sion House, as Catherine and her attendants proceeded to the low banks of the river where her barge was moored. A small guard of halberdiers headed the sad procession, and another brought up the rear. The Duke of Suffolk and Wriothesley marched in front.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 635