Chapter XI: Book THE SECOND (2)

Of this unfortunate person the following interesting account is given by Mr. Jardine, in his valuable treatise on the Use of Torture in the Criminal Law of England. “Thomas Myagh was an Irishman who was brought over by the command of the Lord Deputy of Ireland, to be examined respecting a treasonable correspondence with the rebels in arms in that country. The first warrant for the torture of this man was probably under the sign-manual, as there is no entry of it in the council register. The two reports made by the Lieutenant of the Tower and Dr. Hammond, respecting their execution of this warrant, are, however, to be seen at the State-Paper Office. The first of these, which is dated the 10th of March, 1580-1, states that they had twice examined Myagh, but had forborne to put him in Skevington’s Irons, because they had been charged to examine him with secrecy, ‘which they could not do, that manner of dealing requiring the presence and aid of one of the jailors all the time that he should be in those irons,’ and also because they ‘found the man so resolute, as in their opinions little would be wrung out of him but by some sharper torture.’ The second report, which is dated the 17th of March, 1580, merely states that they had again examined Myagh, and could get nothing from him, ‘notwithstanding that they had made trial of him by the torture of Skevington’s irons, and with so much sharpness, as was in their judgment for the man and his cause convenient.’ How often Myagh was tortured does not appear; but Skevington’s irons seem to have been too mild a torture, for on the 30th of July, 1581, there is an entry in the council books of an authority to the Lieutenant of the Tower and Thomas Norton, to deal with him with the rack in such sort as they should see cause.”

From many sentences expressive of the resignation of the sufferers, we take the following, subscribed A. Poole, 1564:—“Deo. servire. penitentiam. inire. fato. ohedire. regnare. est.” Several inscriptions are left by this person—one four years later than the foregoing, is as follows: “A passage perillus maketh a port pleasant.” Here is another sad memento: “O miser Hyon, che pensi od essero.” Another: “Reprens le: sage: et: il: te: aimera: J. S. 1538.” A third: “Principium sapientio timor Domini, I. h. s. x. p. s. Be friend to one. Be ennemye to none. Anno D. 1571, 10 Sept. The most unhappy man in the world is he that is not patient in adversities: For men are not killed with the adversities they have, but with the impatience they suffer. Tout vient apoint, quy peult attendre. Gli sospiri ne son testimoni veri dell angoscia mia. Æt. 20. Charles Bailly.”.

Most of these records breathe resignation. But the individual who carved the following record, and whose naine has passed away, appears to have numbered every moment of his captivity: “Close prisoner 8 months, 32 wekees, 224 dayes, 5376 houres.” How much of anguish is comprised in this brief sentence!

We could swell out this list, if necessary, to a volume, but the above may suffice to show their general character. Let those who would know how much their forefathers have endured cast their eyes over the inscriptions in the Beauchamp Tower. In general they are beautifully carved, ample time being allowed the writers for their melancholy employment. It has been asserted that Anne Boleyn was confined in the uppermost room of the Beauchamp Tower. But if an inscription may be trusted, she was imprisoned in the Martin Tower (now the Jewel Tower) at that time a prison lodging.

Postponing the description of the remaining towers until we have occasion to speak of them in detail, we shall merely note, in passing, the two strong towers situated at the southwestern extremity of the White Tower, called the Coal Harbour Gate, over which there was a prison denominated the Nun’s Bower, and proceed to the palace, of which, unluckily for the lovers of antiquity, not a vestige now remains.

Erected at different periods, and consisting of a vast range of halls, galleries, courts and gardens, the old palace occupied, in part, the site of the modern Ordnance Office. Commencing at the Coal Harbour Gate, it extended in a south-easterly direction to the Lanthorn Tower, and from thence branched off in a magnificent pile of building, called the Queen’s Gallery, to the Salt Tower. In front of this gallery, defended by the Cradle Tower and the Well Tower, was the privy garden. Behind it stretched a large quadrangular area, terminated at the western angle by the Wardrobe Tower, and at the eastern angle by the Broad Arrow Tower. It was enclosed on the left by a further range of buildings, termed the Queen’s Lodgings, and on the right by the inner ballium wall. The last-mentioned buildings were also connected with the White Tower, and with a small embattled structure flanked by a circular tower, denominated the Jewel House where the regalia were then kept. In front of the Jewel House stood a large decayed hall, forming part of the palace; opposite which was a court, planted with trees, and protected by the ballium wall.

This ancient palace—the scene of so many remarkable historical events,—the residence, during certain portions of their reigns, of all our sovereigns, from William Rufus down to Charles the Second—is now utterly gone. Where is the glorious hall which Henry the Third painted with the story of Antiochus, and which it required thirty fir-trees to repair,—in which Edward the Third and all his court were feasted by the captive John,—in which Richard the Second resigned his crown to Henry of Lancaster,—in which Henry the Eighth received all his wives before their espousals,—in which so many royal councils and royal revels have been held;—where is that great hall? Where, also, is the chamber in which Queen Isabella, consort of Edward the Second, gave birth to the child called, from the circumstance, Joan of the Tower? They have vanished, and other structures occupy their place. Demolished in the reign of James the Second, an ordnance office was erected on its site; and this building being destroyed by fire in 1788, it was succeeded by the present edifice bearing the name.

Having now surveyed the south of the fortress, we shall return to the north. Immediately behind Saint Peter’s Chapel stood the habitations of the officers of the then ordnance department, and next to them an extensive range of storehouses, armouries, granaries, and other magazines, reaching to the Martin Tower. On the site of these buildings was erected, in the reign of William the Third, that frightful structure, which we trust the better taste of this, or some future age will remove—the Grand Storehouse. Nothing can be imagined more monstrous or incongruous than this ugly Dutch toy, (for it is little better,) placed side by side with a stern old Norman donjon, fraught with a thousand historical associations and recollections. It is the great blot upon the Tower. And much as the destruction of the old palace is to be lamented, the erection of such a building as this, in such a place, is infinitely more to be deplored. We trust to see it rased to the ground.

In front of the Constable Tower stood another range of buildings appropriated to the different officers and workmen connected with the Mint, which, until the removal of the place of coinage to its present situation on Little Tower Hill, it is almost needless to say, was held within the walls of the fortress.

The White Tower once more claims our attention. Already described as having walls of enormous thickness, this venerable stronghold is divided into four stories including the vaults. The latter consist of two large chambers and a smaller one, with a coved termination at the east, and a deeply-recessed arch at the opposite extremity. Light is admitted to this gloomy chamber by four semicircular-headed loopholes. At the north is a cell ten feet long by eight wide formed in the thickness of the wall, and receiving no light except from the doorway. Here tradition affirms that Sir Walter Raleigh was confined, and composed his History of the World.

Amongst other half-obliterated inscriptions carved on the arched doorway of this dungeon, are these: He that indvreth TO THE ENDE SHALL BE SAVID. M. 10. R. REDSTON. DAR. KENT. Ano. 1553.—Be feithful to the death and I will give the a crown of life. T. Fane. 1554. Above stands Saint John’s Chapel, and the upper story is occupied by the council-chamber and the rooms adjoining. A narrow vaulted gallery, formed in the thickness of the wall, communicating with the turret stairs, and pierced with semicircular-headed openings for the admission of light to the interior, surrounds this story. The roof is covered with lead, and crowned with four lofty turrets, three angular and one square, surmounted with leaden cupolas, each terminated with a vane and crown.

We have spoken elsewhere, and shall have to speak again of the secret and subterranean passages, as well as of the dungeons of the Tower; those horrible and noisome receptacles, deprived of light and air, infested by legions of rats, and flooded with water, into which the wretched captives were thrust to perish by famine, or by more expeditious means; and those dreadful contrivances, the Little Ease—and the Pit;—the latter a dark and gloomy excavation sunk to the depth of twenty feet.

To the foregoing hasty sketch, in which we have endeavoured to make the reader acquainted with the general outline of the fortress, we would willingly, did space permit, append a history of the principal occurrences that have happened within its walls. We would tell how in 1234, Griffith, Prince of Wales, in attempting to escape from the White Tower, by a line made of hangings, sheets, and table-cloths, tied together, being a stout heavy man, broke the rope, and falling from a great height, perished miserably—his head and neck being driven into his breast between the shoulders. How Edward the Third first established a Mint within the Tower, coining florences of gold. How in the reign of the same monarch, three sovereigns were prisoners there;—namely, John, King of France, his son Philip, and David, King of Scotland. How in the fourth year of the reign of Richard the Second, during the rebellion of Wat Tyler, the insurgents having possessed themselves of the fortress, though it was guarded by six hundred valiant persons, expert in arms, and the like number of archers, conducted themselves with extraordinary licence, bursting into the king’s chamber, and that of his mother, to both of whom they offered divers outrages and indignities; and finally dragged forth Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, and hurrying him to Tower Hill, hewed off his head at eight strokes, and fixed it on a pole on London Bridge, where it was shortly afterwards replaced by that of Wat Tyler.

How, in 1458, jousts were held on the Tower-Green by the Duke of Somerset and five others, before Queen Margaret of Anjou. How in 1471, Henry the Sixth, at that time a prisoner, was said to be murdered within the Tower; how seven years later, George Duke of Clarence, was drowned in a butt of Malmsey in the Bowyer Tower; and how five years after that, the youthful Edward the Fifth, and the infant Duke of York, were also said, for the tradition is more than doubtful, to be smothered in the Blood Tower. How in 1483, by command of the Duke of Gloucester, who had sworn he would not dine till he had seen his head off, Lord Hastings was brought forth to the green before the chapel, and after a short shrift, “for a longer could not be suffered, the protector made so much haste to dinner, which he might not go to until this were done, for saving of his oath,” his head was laid down upon a large log of timber, and stricken off.

How in 1512, the woodwork and decorations of Saint John’s chapel in the White Tower were burnt. How in the reign of Henry the Eighth, the prisons were constantly filled, and the scaffold deluged with blood. How Sir Richard Empson and Edmund Dudley, the hither of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, were beheaded. How the like fate attended the Duke of Buckingham, destroyed by Wolsey, the martyred John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, the wise and witty Sir Thomas More, Anne Boleyn, her brother Lord Rochford, Norris, Smeaton, and others; the Marquis of Exeter, Lord Montacute, and Sir Edward Neville; Thomas, Lord Cromwell, the counsellor of the dissolution of the monasteries; the venerable and courageous Countess of Salisbury; Lord Leonard Grey; Katherine Howard and Lady Rochford; and Henry, Earl of Surrey.

How, in the reign of Edward the Sixth, his two uncles, Thomas Seymour, Baron Sudley, and Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, were brought to the block; the latter, as has been before related, by the machinations of Northumberland.

Passing over, for obvious reasons, the reign of Mary, and proceeding to that of Elizabeth, we might relate how Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, was beheaded; how the dungeons were crowded with recusants and seminary priests; amongst others, by the famous Jesuits, fathers Campion and Persons; how Lord Stourton, whose case seems to have resembled the more recent one of Lord Ferrers, was executed for the murder of the Hartgills; how Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, shot himself in his chamber, declaring that the jade Elizabeth should not have his estate; and how the long catalogue was closed by the death of the Earl of Essex.

How, in the reign of James the First, Sir Walter Raleigh was beheaded, and Sir Thomas Overbury poisoned. How in that of Charles the First, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, and Archbishop Laud, underwent a similar fate. How in 1656, Miles Sunderland, having been condemned for high treason, poisoned himself; notwithstanding which, his body, stripped of all apparel, was dragged at the horse’s tail to Tower Hill, where a hole had been digged under the scaffold, into which it was thrust, and a stake driven through it. How, in 1661, Lord Monson and Sir Henry Mildmay suffered, and in the year following Sir Henry Vane. How in the same reign Blood attempted to steal the crown; and how Algernon Percy and Lord William Russell were executed.

How, under James the Second, the rash and unfortunate Duke of Monmouth perished. How, after the rebellion of 1715, Lords Derwentwater and Kenmuro were decapitated; and after that of 1745, Lords Kilmarnock, Bahnerino, and Lovat. How in 1760, Lord Ferrers was committed to the Tower for the murder of his steward, and expiated his offence at Tyburn. How Wilkes was imprisoned there for a libel in 1762; and Lord George Gordon for instigating the riots of 1780. How, to come to our own times, Sir Francis Burdett was conveyed thither in April 1810; and how, to close the list, the Cato-street conspirators, Thistlewood, Ings, and others, were confined there in 1820.

The chief officer appointed to the custody of the royal fortress, is termed the Constable of the Tower;—a place, in the words of Stowe, of “high honour and reputation, as well as of great trust, many earls and one duke having been constable of the Tower.” Without enumerating all those who have filled this important post, it maybe sufficient to state, that the first constable was Geoffrey de Mandeville, appointed by William the Conqueror; the last, Arthur, Duke of Wellington. Next in command is the lieutenant, after whom come the deputy-lieutenant, and major, or resident governor. The civil establishment consists of a chaplain, gentleman-porter, physician, surgeon, and apothecary; gentleman-jailer, yeoman porter, and forty yeomen warders. In addition to these, though in no way connected with the government or custody of the Tower, there are the various officers belonging to the ordnance department; the keepers of the records, the keeper of the regalia; and formerly there were the different officers of the Mint.

The lions of the Tower—once its chief attraction with the many,—have disappeared. Since the establishment of the Zoological Gardens, curiosity having been drawn in that direction, the dens of the old menagerie are deserted, and the sullen echoes of the fortress are no longer awakened by savage yells and howling. With another and more important attraction—the armories—it is not our province to meddle.

To return to Simon Renard and the warder. Having concluded his recital, to which the other listened with profound attention, seldom interrupting him with a remark, Winwike proposed, if his companion’s curiosity was satisfied, to descend.

“You have given me food for much reflection.” observed Renard, aroused from a reverie into which he had fallen; “but before we return I would gladly walk round the buildings. I had no distinct idea of the Tower till I came hither.”

The warder complied, and led the way round the battlements, pausing occasionally to point out some object of interest.

Viewed from the summit of the White Tower, especially on the west, the fortress still offers a striking picture. In the middle of the sixteenth century, when its outer ramparts were strongly fortified—when the gleam of corslet and pike was reflected upon the dark waters of its moat—when the inner ballium walls were entire and unbroken, and its thirteen towers reared their embattled fronts—when within each of those towers state prisoners were immured—when its drawbridges were constantly raised, and its gates closed—when its palace still lodged a sovereign—when councils were held within its chambers—when its secret dungeons were crowded—when Tower Hill boasted a scaffold, and its soil was dyed with the richest and best blood of the land—when it numbered among its inferior officers, jailors, torturers, and an executioner—when all its terrible machinery was in readiness, and could be called into play at a moment’s notice—when the steps of Traitor’s Gate wore worn by the feet of those who ascended, them—when, on whichever side the gazer looked, the same stern prospect was presented—the palace, the fortress, the prison,—a triple conjunction of fearful significance—when each structure had dark secrets to conceal—when beneath all these ramparts, towers, and bulwarks, were subterranean passages and dungeons—then, indeed, it presented a striking picture both to the eye and mind.

Slowly following his companion, Renard counted all the towers, which, including that whereon he was standing, and these connected with the bulwarks and palace, amounted to twenty-two,—marked their position—commented upon the palace, and the arrangement of its offices and outbuildings—examined its courts and gardens—inquired into the situation of the queen’s apartments, and was shown a long line of buildings with a pointed roof, extending from the south-east angle of the keep to the Lanthorn Tower—admired the magnificent prospect of the heights of Surrey and Kent—traced the broad stream of the Thames as far as Greenwich—suffered his gaze to wander over the marshy tract of country towards Essex—noted the postern gate in the ancient city walls, standing at the edge of the north bank of the moat—traced those walls by their lofty entrances from Aldgate to Cripplegate, and from thence returned to the church of All Hallows Barking, and Tower Hill. The last object upon which his gaze rested was the scaffold. A sinister smile played upon his features as he gazed on it.

“There,” he observed, “is the bloody sceptre by which England is ruled. From the palace to the prison is a step—from the prison to the scaffold another.”

“King Henry the Eighth gave it plenty of employment,” observed Winwike.

“True,” replied Renard; “and his daughter, Queen Mary, will not suffer it to remain idle.”

“Many a head will, doubtless, fall (and justly), in consequence of the late usurpation,” remarked the warder.

“The first to do so now rests within that building,” rejoined Renard, glancing at the Beauchamp Tower.

“Your worship, of course, means the Duke of Northumberland, since his grace is confined there,” returned the warder. “Well, if she is spared who, though placed foremost in the wrongful and ill-advised struggle, was the last to counsel it, I care not what becomes of the rest. Poor lady Jane! Could our eyes pierce yon stone walls,” he added, pointing to the Brick Tower, “I make no doubt we should discover her on her knees. She passes most of her time, I am informed, in prayer.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Renard. And he half muttered, “She shall either embrace the Romish faith, or die by the hand of the executioner.”

Winwike made no answer to the observation, and affected not to hear it, but he shuddered at the look that accompanied it—a look that brought to mind all he heard of the mysterious and terrible individual at his side.

By this time, the sun was high in heaven, and the whole fortress astir. A flourish of trumpets was blown on the Green, and a band of minstrels issued from the portal of the Coalharbour Tower. The esquires, retainers, pages, and servitors of the various noblemen, lodged within the palace, were hurrying to and fro, some hastening to their morning meal, others to different occupations. Everything seemed bright and cheerful. The light laugh and the merry jest reached the ear of the listeners. Rich silks and costly stuffs, mixed with garbs of various-coloured serge, with jerkins and caps of steel, caught the eye. Yet how much misery was there near this smiling picture! What sighs from those in captivity responded to the shouts and laughter without! Queen Mary arose and proceeded to matins in Saint John’s Chapel. Jane awoke and addressed herself to solitary prayer; while Northumberland, who had passed a sleepless night, pacing his dungeon like a caged tiger, threw himself on his couch, and endeavoured to shut out the light of day and his own agonizing reflections.

Meanwhile, Renard and the warder had descended from the White Tower and proceeded to the Green.

“Who is that person beneath the Beauchamp Tower gazing so inquisitively at its barred windows?” demanded the former.

“It is the crow scenting the carrion—it is Mauger the headsman,” answered Winwike.

“Indeed?” replied Renard; “I would speak with him.”

0192

V.—HOW THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND WAS ARRAIGNED OF HIGH TREASON IN WESTMINSTER HALL; AND HOW HE MADE FOUR REQUESTS AFTER THE JUDGMENT.

Closely confined within the Beauchamp Tower, and treated with great rigour, it was almost a satisfaction to the Duke of Northumberland to be informed, after nearly a fortnight’s immediate prisonment, that his trial would take place on the 18th of August. Though he anticipated the result, and had no hope of escaping the block, the near approach of death did not cast him down, but on the contrary served to reassure his firmness, which of late, shaken by his altered state of health, and intense mental anxiety, had in some degree failed him. The last few weeks had wonderfully changed his appearance. Heretofore, though past the middle term of life, he exhibited no symptom of decay. His frame was strong and muscular—his deportment lofty and majestic—his eye piercing as the eagle’s. He was now shrunken—bent—with the gait and look of an old man. On the intelligence above mentioned being communicated to him, he all at once shook off this feebleness. His eye regained its fire, his frame its strength and lofty bearing; and if his figure was wasted and his brow furrowed, it detracted nothing from his dignity. Aware that his enemies would sit in judgment upon him, he determined to confront them boldly.

When the day appointed for the arraignment arrived, the Duke prepared himself betimes. He was habited in a doublet of black velvet, and wore the collar of the order of the garter. His eldest son, John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, and the Marquess of Northampton, were to be tried with him, and on the morning in question the three noblemen met for the first time since their imprisonment. The meeting took place in a spacious chamber on the first floor, now used, as has been already observed, as a mess-room, but then as a hall in which the prisoners were separately introduced at stated intervals to take exercise.

Throwing his arms round his son’s neck, and with difficulty repressing his emotion, the Duke implored his forgiveness.

“For what, my lord?” demanded the young nobleman.

“For the great wrong I have done you in placing you in this fearful jeopardy,” answered Northumberland.

“You have done me no wrong, my lord,” replied his son. “My wishes were as strongly in favour of the cause as yours, and I am therefore as culpable as yourself. And as I should have been the first to congratulate you on its success, so I ought to be the last to reproach you with its failure.”

“Nevertheless the fault is mine, and mine only,” replied the Duke. “I was the originator of the scheme—the planner of the snare into which we have fallen—and if you perish, your death will be at my door.”

“Think not of me, father,” replied the young man. “The life I received from you, I will gladly lay down for you. If you desire my forgiveness you shall have it. But I ought rather to ask your’s. And, at all events, I entreat your blessing.”

“Heaven bless you, my son, and have mercy on us both,” exclaimed Northumberland, fervently. “If the humblest supplication could move our judges in your favour it should not be wanting. But I well know they are inexorable.”

“I would rather die a thousand deaths than you so demeaned yourself,” replied Warwick. “Ask nothing from them but a speedy judgment. We go to a condemnation, not a trial.”

“True, my lord,” added Northampton; “we have nothing to hope, and therefore nothing to fear. The game is lost, and we must pay the penalty.”

“Right, my lord,” rejoined Northumberland, embracing him, “and we will discharge it to the uttermost. Would that my life could pay for all.”

“Since it cannot be, my lord,” replied Northampton, “e’en let us meet our fate like men, and give our enemies no additional triumph. To see your grace so well reconciled to your fate, must encourage those who have lost so little in comparison.”

“I am so well reconciled to it,” replied the Duke, “that I scarcely desire to be restored to my former condition. And yet,” he added, sternly, “I would gladly enjoy my former power for an hour, to be avenged on one man.”.

“His name?” inquired the Earl of Warwick, quickly.

“Simon Renard,” replied the Duke.

A deep silence ensued, which was broken at length by Northumberland, who inquired from the officer in attendance if he knew aught of the Queen’s intentions towards Lady Jane Dudley.

“Her highness, it is said, is inclined to pardon her, in consideration of her youth,” replied the officer, “but her councillors are averse to such leniency.”

“They are my enemies,” rejoined the Duke—“Again my crimes are visited on an innocent head.”

At this moment, a small arched door near one of the recesses was opened, and a warder announced that the escort was ready to convey the prisoners to Westminster Hall.

Preceded by the officer, the Duke and his companions descended a short spiral stone staircase, and, passing under an arched doorway, on either side of which was drawn up a line of halberdiers, entered upon the Green. The whole of this spacious’ area, from Saint Peter’s Chapel to the Lieutenant’s lodgings—from the walls of the tower they had quitted, to those of the White Tower, was filled with spectators. Every individual in the fortress, whose duty did not compel his attendance elsewhere, had hastened thither to see the great Duke of Northumberland proceed to his trial; and so intense was the curiosity of the crowd, that it was with great difficulty that the halberdiers-could keep them from pressing upon him. On the Duke’s appearance something like a groan was uttered, but it was instantly checked. Northumberland was fully equal to this trying moment. Aware of his own unpopularity,—aware that amid that vast concourse he had not one well-wisher, but that all rejoiced in his downfall,—he manifested no discomposure, but marched with a step so majestic, and glanced around with a look, so commanding, that those who were near him involuntarily shrunk before his regards. The deportment of Northampton was dignified and composed—that of the Earl of Warwick fierce and scornful. Lord Clinton, the Constable of the Tower, and the Lieutenant, Sir John Gage, now advanced to meet them, and the former inquired from Northumberland whether he had any request to make that could be complied with. Before an answer could be returned by the Duke, an old woman broke through the ranks of the guard, and regardless of the menaces with which she was assailed confronted him.

“Do you know me?” she cried.

“I do,” replied the Duke, a shudder passing over his frame. “You are Gunnora Braose.”

“I am,” she answered. “I am, moreover, foster-mother to the Duke of Somerset—the great, the good Lord Protector, whom you, murderer and traitor, destroyed eighteen months ago. By your false practices, he was imprisoned in the tower you have just quitted; he was led forth as you are, but he was not received like you with groans and hootings, but with tears. He was taken to Westminster Hall where you sat in judgment upon him, and condemned him, and where he will this day testify against you. Tremble! perfidious Duke, for a fearful retribution is at hand. He, whom you have destroyed, sleeps in yon chapel. Ere many days have passed, you will sleep beside him.”

“Peace! woman,” cried Lord Clinton, interfering.

“I will speak,” continued Gunnora, “were they the last words I had to utter. Behold!” she cried, waving a handkerchief before the Duke, “this cloth was dipped in thy victim’s blood. It is now beginning to avenge itself upon thee. Thou goest to judgment—to death—to death—ha! ha!”

“Remove her!” cried Lord Clinton.

“To judgment!—to judgment!—to death!” reiterated the old woman with a wild exulting laugh, as she was dragged away.

Order being restored, the procession set forth. First, marched a band of halberdiers; then came a company of arquebussiers, armed with calivers. Immediately before the Duke walked the gentleman-jailor, who, according to a custom then observed towards those charged with high treason, carried the axe with the edge turned from the prisoner. On either side of Northumberland and his companions walked an officer of the guard, with a drawn sword in his hand. The rear of the cortege was brought up by two other bands of halberdiers and arquebussiers. Taking its course across the green, and passing beneath the gloomy portal of the Bloody Tower, the train entered an archway at the left of the By-ward Tower, and crossing the drawbridge, drew up at the head of the stairs leading to the river. Here several boats were in readiness to convey them to their destination. As soon as the Duke and his companions had embarked, the gentleman-jailor followed them, and stationed himself at the head of the boat, holding the gleaming instrument of death in the same position as before.

In this way, surrounded by the escort, and attended by a multitude of smaller vessels, filled with curious spectators, the prisoners were conveyed to Westminster. No sympathy was exhibited for the Duke’s fallen state; but, on the contrary, the spectacle seemed to afford more satisfaction to the observers than the gorgeous pageant he had so recently devised for their entertainment. Northumberland was not insensible to this manifestation of dislike, though he made no remark upon it; but he could not avoid noticing, with a sensation of dread, one boat following in his wake, as near as the escort would permit, in which was seated an old woman, waving a bloodstained handkerchief, and invoking vengeance upon his head. Many of the wherries pressed round her to ascertain the cause of her vociferations, and as soon as it was understood who she was, other voices were added to hers. On landing at the stairs near Westminster Hall, the escort first disembarked, and then the Duke and his companions, who, preceded by the gentleman-jailor in the same order as before, were conducted to the place of trial. In the midst of this magnificent and unrivalled hall, which William Rufus, who built it, affirmed was “but a bedchamber in comparison of what he meant to make,” was erected an immense scaffold, hung with black cloth. At the upper extremity was a canopy of state, embroidered with the royal escutcheon in gold; and on either side were twenty-seven seats, each emblazoned with armorial bearings woven in silver. The canopy was reserved for the Duke of Norfolk, Lord High Steward of England; the chairs for the different peers appointed to hear the arraignment of the prisoners. At the lower extremity was the bar. On entering the hall, the Duke and his companions were conducted into a small chamber on the right, where they were detained till the arrival of the judges.

After some time, they were summoned by an usher, and following the attendant through two long files of halberdiers, the Duke slowly but firmly ascended the steps of the scaffold. On arriving at the bar, he bowed profoundly to the assemblage, and every peer, except the Duke of Norfolk, immediately arose, and acknowledged the salutation. Drawing himself up to his full height. Northumberland then glanced sternly around the tribunal. Not one of those upon whom his gaze fell but—scarcely a month ago—had trembled at his nod. Wherever be looked, his glance encountered an enemy. There sat Arundel, Pembroke, Shrewsbury, Rich, Huntingdon, Darcy,—the abettors in his treason, now his judges. On the right of the Lord High Steward sat Bishop Gardiner, in his capacity of Lord Chancellor: on the left, Lord Paget.

Northumberland’s indictment having been read, he thus addressed the court:—

“My lords,” he said, “I here profess my faith and obedience to the Queen’s highness, whom I confess to have most grievously offended, and beyond the hope of pardon. I shall not attempt to say anything in my own defence. But I would willingly have the opinion of the court in two points.”

“State them,’” said the Duke of Norfolk.

“First then,” replied Northumberland, “I desire to know, whether the performance of an act by the authority of the sovereign and the council, and by warrant of the great seal of England, can be construed as treason?”

“Most undoubtedly, in your grace’s case,” replied the Duke of Norfolk; “inasmuch as the great seal whence your authority was derived was not the seal of the lawful Queen of the realm, but that of a usurper, and therefore no warrant.” Northumberland bowed.

“I am answered,” he said. “And now to the second point on which I would be resolved. Is it fitting or right,” he continued, glancing fiercely around, “that those persons who are equally culpable with myself, and by whose letters and commandments I have been directed in all I have done, should be my judges, or pass upon my trial at my death?”

“Grant that others are as deeply implicated in this case as your Grace,” replied the Duke of Norfolk; “yet so long as no attainder is of record against them, they are able in the law to pass upon any trial, and cannot be challenged, except at the Queen’s pleasure.”

“I understand,” replied Northumberland, bowing coldly; “and since it is useless to urge any reasonable matter, I will at once confess the indictment, entreating your Grace to be a means of mercy for me unto the Queen.”

Judgment was then pronounced.

The Duke once more addressed them.

“I beseech you, my lords,” he said, “all to be humble suitors for me to the queens highness, that she grant me four requests.” Most of the peers having signified their assent by a slight inclination of the head, he proceeded:—

“First, that I may have that death which noblemen have had in times past, and not the other. Secondly,” and his voice faltered, “that her highness will be gracious to my children, who may hereafter do her good service, considering that they went by my commandment, who am their father, and not of their own free wills.”

“Do not include me in your solicitation, my lord,” interrupted the Earl of Warwick, haughtily. “I neither ask mercy, nor would accept it at the Queen’s hands; and prefer death to her service. What I have done, I have done on no authority save my own, and were it to do again, I would act in like manner.”

“Rash boy, you destroy yourself,” cried the Duke.

“Proceed, my lord,” observed the Duke of Norfolk, compassionately; “your son’s indiscreet speech will not weigh with us.”

“Thirdly, then,” rejoined Northumberland, “I would entreat that I may have appointed to me some learned man for the instruction and quieting of my conscience. And fourthly, that her highness will send two of the council to commune with me, to whom I will declare such matters as shall be expedient for her and the state. And thus I beseech you all to pray for me.”

“Doubt it not, my lord,” rejoined Norfolk; “and doubt not, also, that your requests shall be duly represented to the Queen.”

“Add, if it please your grace,” pursued Northumberland, “a few words in favour of the unhappy Lady Jane Dudley, who, as is well known to many now sitting in judgment upon me, so far from aspiring to the crown, was by enticement and force compelled to accept it.”

The Duke then retired, and the Marquess of Northampton having advanced to the bar, and pleaded to his indictment, sentence was passed on him likewise.

His example was followed by the Earl of Warwick, who heard his condemnation pronounced with a smile.

“I thank you, my lords,” he said, when the sentence was uttered, “and crave only this favour of the Queen, that as the goods of those condemned to death are totally confiscated, her highness will be pleased to let my debts be paid.”

Upon this, he bowed to the tribunal and withdrew.

During the trial, an immense concourse had assembled in the open space in front of the hall, waiting in breathless impatience for the result. It was not till towards evening that this was known. The great doors were then thrown open, and a troop of halberdiers came forth to clear the way for the prisoners. A deep dead silence prevailed, and every eye was bent upon the doorway. From beneath it marched the gentleman-jailor, carrying the axe with its edge towards the prisoners. This was enough. The mob knew they were condemned, and expressed their satisfaction by a sullen roar.

Suddenly, the voice of a woman was heard exclaiming, “See ye not the axe? See ye not the edge turned towards him? He is condemned. The slayer of the good Duke of Somerset is condemned. Shout! Shout!”

And in obedience to her commands, a loud cry was raised by the mob. Amid this clamour and rejoicing, Northumberland and his companions were conveyed to their boat, and so to the Tower.

VI.—BY WHAT MEANS THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND WAS RECONCILED TO THE CHURCH OF ROME.

Several days having elapsed since the trial, and no order made for his execution, the Duke of Northumberland, being of a sanguine temperament, began to indulge hopes of mercy. With hope, the love of life returned, and so forcibly, that he felt disposed to submit to any humiliation to purchase his safety. During this time, he was frequently visited by Bishop Gardiner, who used every persuasion to induce him to embrace the Romish faith. Northumberland, however, was inflexible on this point, but, professing the most, sincere penitence, he besought the Bishop, in his turn, to intercede with the Queen in his behalf. Gardiner readily promised compliance, in case his desires were acceded to; but as the Duke still continued firm in his refusal, he declined all interference. “Thus much I will promise,” said Gardiner, in conclusion; “your grace shall have ample time for reflection, and if you place yourself under the protection of the Catholic church, no efforts shall be wanting on my part to move the Queen’s compassion towards you.”

That night, the officer on guard suddenly threw open the door of his cell, and admitting an old woman, closed it upon them. The Duke, who was reading at the time by the light of a small lamp set upon a table, raised his eyes and beheld Gunnora Braose.

“Why have you come hither?” he demanded. “But I need no task. You have come to gratify your vengeance with a sight of my misery. Now you are satisfied, depart.”

“I am come partly with that intent, and partly with another,” replied Gunnora. “Strange as it may sound, and doubtful, I am come to save you.”

“To save me!” exclaimed Northumberland, starting. “How?—But—no!—no! This is mockery. Begone, accursed woman.”

“It is no mockery,” rejoined Gunnora. “Listen to me, Duke of Northumberland. I love vengeance well, but I love my religion better. Your machinations brought my foster-son, the Duke of Somerset, to the block, and I would willingly see you conducted thither. But there is one consideration that overcomes this feeling. It is the welfare of the Catholic church. If you become a convert to that creed, thousands will follow your example; and for this great good I would sacrifice my own private animosity. I am come hither to tell you your life will be spared, provided you abandon the Protestant faith, and publicly embrace that of Rome.”

“How know you this?” demanded the Duke.

“No matter,” replied Gunnora. “I am in the confidence of those, who, though relentless enemies of yours, are yet warmer friends to the Church of Rome.”

“You mean Simon Renard and Gardiner!” observed Northumberland.

G minora nodded assent.

“And now my mission is ended,” she said. “Your grace will do well to weigh what I have said. But your decision must be speedy, or the warrant for your execution will be signed. Once within the pale of the Catholic church, you are safe.”

“If I should be induced to embrace the offer!” said the Duke. “If”—cried Gunnora, her eye suddenly kindling with vindictive fire.

“Woman,” rejoined the Duke, “I distrust you. I will die in the faith I have lived.”

“Be it so,” she replied. “I have discharged the only weight I had upon my conscience, and can now indulge my revenge freely. Farewell! my lord. Our next meeting will be on Tower Hill.”

“Hold!” cried Northumberland. “It may be as you represent, though my mind misgives me.”

“It is but forswearing yourself,” observed Gunnora, sarcastically. “Life is cheaply purchased at such a price.”

“Wretch!” cried the Duke. “And yet I have no alternative. I accede.”

“Sign this then,” returned Gunnora, “and it shall be instantly conveyed to her highness.”

Northumberland took the paper, and casting his eye hastily over it, found it was a petition to the Queen, praying that he might be allowed to recant his religious opinions publicly, and become reconciled to the church of Rome. “It is in the hand of Simon Renard,” he observed.

“It is,” replied Gunnora.

“But who will assure me if I do this, my life will be spared!”

“I will,” answered the old woman.

“You!” cried the Duke.

“I pledge myself to it,” replied Gunnora. “Your life would be spared, even if your head were upon the block. I swear to you by this cross,” she added, raising the crucifix that hung at her neck, “if I have played you falsely, I will not survive you.”

“Enough,” replied the Duke, signing the paper.

“This shall to the Queen at once,” said Gunnora, snatching it with a look of ill-disguised triumph. “To-morrow will be a proud day for our church.”

And with this she quitted the cell.

The next morning, the Duke was visited by Gardiner, on whose appearance he flung himself on his knees. The bishop immediately raised him, and embraced him, expressing his delight to find that he at last saw through his errors. It was then arranged that the ceremonial of the reconciliation should take place at midnight in Saint John’s Chapel in the White Tower. When the Duke’s conversion was made known to the other prisoners, the Marquess of Northampton, Sir Andrew Dudley, (Northumbcrland’s brother,) Sir Henry Gates, and Sir Thomas Palmer; they all—with the exception of the Earl of Warwick, who strongly and indignantly reprobated his father’s conduct,—desired to be included in the ceremonial. The proposal being readily agreed to, priests were sent to each of them, and the remainder of the day was spent in preparation for the coming rites.

At midnight, as had been arranged, they were summoned. Preceded by two priests, one of whom bore a silver cross, and the other a large flaming wax candle, and escorted by a band of halberdiers, carrying lighted torches, the converts proceeded singly, at a slow pace, across the Green, in the direction of the White Tower. Behind them marched the three gigantic warders, Og, Gog, and Magog, each provided with a torch. It was a solemn and impressive spectacle, and as the light fell upon the assemblage collected to view it, and upon the hoary walls of the keep. The effect was peculiarly striking. Northumberland walked with his arms folded, and his head upon his breast, and looked neither to the right nor to the left.

Passing through Coalharbour Gate, the train entered an arched door-way in a structure then standing at the south-west of the White Tower. Traversing a long winding passage, they ascended a broad flight of steps, at the head of which was a gallery leading to the western entrance of the chapel. Here, before the closed door of the sacred structure, beneath the arched and vaulted roof, surrounded by priests and deacons in rich copes, one of whom carried the crosier, while others bore silver-headed staves, attired in his amice, stole, pluvial and alb, and wearing his mitre, sat Gardiner upon a faldstool. Advancing slowly towards him, the Duke fell upon his knees, and his example was imitated by the others. Gardiner then proceeded to interrogate them in a series of questions appointed by the Romish formula for the reconciliation of a heretic; and the profession of faith having been duly made, he arose, took off his mitre, and delivering it to the nearest priest, and extended his arms over the converts, and pronounced the absolution. With his right thumb he then drew the sign of the cross on the Duke’s forehead, saying, “Accipe signum crucis.” and being answered, “Acccpi.” he went through the same form with the rest. Once more assuming the mitre, with his left hand he took the Duke’s right, and raised him, saying, “Ingredere in ceclesiam Dei à qua incaute alerrasti. Horicsce idola. Respite omnes gravitates et super superstitiones hereticus. Cole Deum oninipotcntem et Jesum fillimm ejus, et Spiritum Sanctum.”

Upon this, the doors of the chapel were thrown open, and the bishop led the chief proselyte towards the altar. Against the massive pillars at the east end of the chapel, reaching from their capitals to the base, was hung a thick curtain of purple velvet, edged with a deep border of gold. Relieved against this curtain stood the altar, covered with a richly-ornaincnted antipendium, sustaining a large silver crucifix, and six massive candlesticks of the same metal. At a few paces from it, on either side, were two other colossal silver candlesticks, containing enormous wax lights. On either side were grouped priests with censers, from which were diffused the most fragrant odours.

0203

As Northumberland slowly accompanied the bishop along the nave, he saw, with some misgiving, the figures of Simon Renard and Gunnora emerge from behind the pillars of the northern aisle. His glance met that of Renard, and there was something in the look of the Spaniard that made him fear he was the dupe of a plot—but it was now too late to retreat. When within a few paces of the altar, the Duke again knelt down, while the bishop removed his mitre as before, and placed himself in front of him.

0205

Meanwhile, the whole nave of the church, the aisles, and the circular openings of the galleries above, were filled with spectators. A wide semicircle was formed around the converts. On the right stood several priests. On the left Simon Renard had planted himself, and near to him stood Gunnora; while, on the same side against one of the pillars, was reared the gigantic frame of Magog. A significant look passed between them as Northumberland knelt before the altar. Extending his arms over the convert, Gardiner now pronounced the following exhortation:— “Omnipotens sempiterne Deus hanc ovem tuam de faucibus lupi tua virtute subtractam paterna recipe, pietate et gregi tuo reforma piâ benignitate ne de familiâ tua damno inimicus exultet; sed de conversione et liberatione jus ecclesiam ut pia mater de filio reperto gratuletur per Christum Dominum nostrum.”

“Amen!” ejaculated Northumberland.

After uttering another prayer, the bishop resumed his mitre, and seating himself upon the faldstool, which, in the interim, had been placed by the attendants in front of the altar, again interrogated the proselyte:—

“Homo, abrcnuncias Sathanas et angelos ejus?”

“Abrenuncio,” replied the Duke.

“Abrenuncias etiam omnes sectas hereticæ pravitatis?” continued the bishop.

“Abrenuncio,” responded the convert.

“Vis esse et vivere in imitate sancto fidei Catholico?” demanded Gardiner.

“Volo,” answered the Duke.

Then again taking off his mitre, the bishop arose, and laying his right hand upon the head of the Duke, recited another prayer, concluding by signing him with the cross. This done, he resumed his mitre, and seated himself on the faldstool, while Northumberland, in a loud voice, again made a profession of his faith, and abjuration of his errors—admitting and embracing the apostolical ecclesiastical traditions, and all others—acknowledging all the observances of the Roman church——purgatory—the veneration of saints and relics—the power of indulgences—promising obedience to the Bishop of Rome,—and engaging to retain and confess the same faith entire and invio-lated to the end of his life. “Ago talis,” he said, in conclusion, “cognoscens veram Catholicam et Apostolicum fidem. Anathematizo hic publiée omnem heresem, procipuè illam de qua hactenus extiti.” This he affirmed by placing both hands upon the book of the holy gospels, proffered him by the bishop, exclaiming, “Sic me Deus adjunct, et hoc sancta Dei evangelia!”

The ceremony was ended, and the proselyte arose. At this moment, he met the glance of Renard—that triumphant and diabolical glance—its expression was not to be mistaken. Northumberland shuddered, he felt that he had been betrayed.

VII.-HOW THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND WAS BEHEADED ON TOWER HILL.

Three days after Northumberland’s reconciliation with the Church of Rome, the warrant for his execution was signed by Queen Mary. The fatal intelligence was brought him by the lieutenant, Sir John Gage, and though he received it with apparent calmness, his heart sank within him. he simply inquired when it was to take place, and, being informed on the following day at an early hour, he desired to be left alone. As soon as the lieutenant was gone, he abandoned himself wholly to despair, and fell into a state bordering on distraction. While he was in this frenzied state, the door of his cell opened, and the jailor introduced Gunnora Braose and a tall man muffled in the folds of an ample black cloak.

“Wretch!” cried the Duke, regarding the old woman fiercely. “You have deceived me. But the device shall avail you little. From the scaffold I will expose the snare in which I have been taken. I will proclaim my Protestant opinions; and my dying declaration will be of more profit to that faith than my recent recantation can be to yours.”

“Your grace is mistaken,” rejoined Gunnora. “I do not deserve your reproaches, as I will presently show. I am the bearer of a pardon to you.”

“A pardon!” exclaimed Northumberland, incredulously.

“Ay, a pardon,” replied the old woman. “The Queen’s highness will spare your life. But it is her pleasure that her clemency be as public as your crime. You will be reprieved on the scaffold.”

“Were I assured of this,” cried Northumberland, eagerly grasping at the straw held out to him, “I would exhort the whole multitude to embrace the Catholic faith.”

“Rest satisfied of it, then,” replied Gunnora. “May I perish at the same moment as yourself if I speak not the truth!”

“Whom have we here?” inquired the Duke, turning to the muffled personage. “The headsman?”

“Your enemy,” replied the individual, throwing aside his mantle, and disclosing the features of Simon Renard.

“It is but a poor revenge to insult a fallen foe,” observed Northumberland, disdainfully.

“Revenge is sweet, however obtained,” rejoined Renard. “I am not come, however, to insult your grace, but to confirm the truth of this old woman’s statement. Opposed as I am to you, and shall ever be, I would not have you forfeit your life by a new and vile apostacy. Abjure the Catholic faith, and you will die unpitied by all. Maintain it; and at the last moment, when the arm of the executioner is raised, and the axe gleams in the air—when the eyes of thousands are fixed on it—sovereign mercy will arrest the blow.”

“You awaken new hope in my bosom,” rejoined the Duke.

“Be true to the faith you have embraced, and fear nothing,” continued Renard. “You may yet be restored to favour, and a new career of ambition will open to you.”