The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, Illustrated

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 honour, 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 honour. 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 favour 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.

XXXVI. – HOW CHOLMONDELEY LEARNT 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 a 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 jailor 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 blood-coloured 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 oil! how changed since Cholmondeley had seen him last – how ghastly, how distorted, how death-like, 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.”

“Oh 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 jailor’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 jailor 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 recognise them.

“There,” cried Nightgall, with a look of fiendish exultation, pointing to Cholmondeley. “I told you you should sec 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 villany. 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!”

“Oh, 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. Cholmondelcy, 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 die here,” shrieked Cicely, struggling.

“Villain!” cried Cholmondeloy, “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 husbands 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.

“Give him a cup of wine,’” said an authoritative voice, which Cholmondeley fancied he recognised, from the further end of the cell. And glancing in the direction of the speaker, he beheld Renard.

“It may be dangerous, your excellency,” returned Sorrocold.

“Dangerous or not, he shall have it,” rejoined Renard.

And wine was accordingly poured out by one of the attendants, and presented to the esquire, who eagerly drained it.

“Now leave us,” said Renard; “and return to the torture-chamber. I will rejoin you there.”

Sorrocold and his companions bowed, and departed.

Renard then proceeded to interrogate Cholmondeley respecting his own share in the rebellion; and also concerning Dudley and Lady Jane. Failing in obtaining satisfactory answers, he turned his inquiries to Elizabeth’s participation in the plot; and he shaped them so artfully, that he contrived to elicit from the esquire, whose brain was a good deal confused by the potent draught he had swallowed, some important particulars relative to the princess’s correspondence with Wyat.

Satisfied with the result of the examination, the ambassador turned to depart, when he beheld, close behind him, a masked figure, which he immediately recognised as the same that had appeared at the window of his lodgings in the Bloody Tower, on the evening when Jane’s death-warrant was signed by the queen.

No sound had proclaimed the mask’s approach, and the door was shut. The sight revived all Renard’s superstitious fears.

“Who, and what art thou?” he demanded.

“Your executioner,” replied a hollow voice. And suddenly drawing a poniard, the mask aimed a terrible blow at Renard, which, if he had not avoided it, must have proved fatal.

Thus assaulted, Renard tried to draw his sword, but he was prevented by the mask, who grappled with him, and brought him to the ground. In the struggle, however, the assassin’s vizard fell off, and disclosed the features of Nightgall.

“Nightgall!” exclaimed Renard. “You, then, were the mysterious visitant to my chamber in the Bloody Tower. I might have guessed as much when I met you in the passage. But you persuaded me I had seen an apparition.”

“If your excellency took me for a ghost, I took you for something worse,” replied Nightgall, keeping his knee upon the ambassador’s chest, and searching for his dagger, which had dropped in the conflict.

“Release me, villain!” cried Renard. “Would you murder me?”

“I am paid to put your excellency to death,” rejoined Nightgall, with the utmost coolness.

“I will give you twice the sum to spare me,” rejoined Renard, who saw from Nightgall’s looks that he had no chance, unless he could work upon his avarice.

“Hum!” exclaimed the jailor; who, not being able to reach his dagger, which had rolled to some distance, had drawn his sword, and was now shortening it, with intent to plunge it in the other’s throat – “I would take your offer – but I have gone too far.”

“Fear nothing,” gasped Renard, giving himself up for lost. “I swear by my patron, Saint Paul, that I will not harm a hair of your head. Against your employer only will I direct my vengeance.”

“I will not trust you,” replied Nightgall, about to strike.

But just as he was about to deal the fatal blow – at the very moment that the point of the blade pierced the ambassador’s skin, he was plucked backwards by Cholmondeley, and hurled on the ground. Perceiving it was his rival, who was more hateful to him even than Renard, Cholmondeley, on the onset, had prepared to take some part in the struggle, and noticing the poniard, had first of all possessed himself of it, and then attacked Nightgall in the manner above related.

Throwing himself upon his foe, Cholmondeley tried to stab him; but it appeared that he wore a stout buff jerkin, for the weapon glanced aside, without doing him any injury. As Cholmondeley was about to repeat the thrust, and in a part less defended, he was himself pushed aside by Renard, who, by this time, had gained his feet, and was threatening vengeance upon his intended assassin. But the esquire was unwilling to abandon his prey; and in the struggle, Nightgall, exerting all his strength, broke from them, and wresting the dagger from Cholmondeley, succeeded in opening the door. Renard, foaming with rage, rushed after him, utterly forgetful of Cholmondeley, who listened with breathless anxiety, to their retreating footsteps. Scarcely knowing what to do, but resolved not to throw away the chance of escape, the esquire hastily attired himself, and taking up a lamp which Renard had left upon the floor, quitted the cell.

“I will seek out Cicely,” he cried, “and set her free; and then, perhaps, we may be able to escape together.”

But the hope that for a moment arose within his breast was checked by the danger and difficulty of making the search. Determined, however to hazard the attempt, he set out in a contrary direction to that taken by Nightgall and Renard, and proceeding at a rapid pace soon reached a flight of steps, up which he mounted. He was now within a second passage, similar to the first, with cells on either side; but though he was too well convinced, from the sounds issuing from them, that they were occupied, he did not dare to open any of them. Still pursuing his headlong course, he now took one turn – now another, until he was completely bewildered and exhausted. While leaning against the wall to recruit himself, he was startled by a light approaching at a distance and, fearing to encounter the person who bore it, was about to hurry away, when, to his inexpressible joy, he perceived it was Cicely. With a wild cry, he started towards her, calling to her by name; but the young damsel, mistaking him probably for her persecutor, let fall her lamp, uttered a piercing scream, and fled. In vain, her lover strove to overtake her – in vain, he shouted to her, and implored her to stop – his cries were drowned in her shrieks, and only added to her terror. Cholmondeley, however, though distanced, kept her for some time in view; when all at once she disappeared.

On gaining the spot where she had vanished, he found an open trap-door, and, certain she must have descended by it, took the same course. He found himself in a narrow, vaulted passage, but could discover no traces of her he sought. Hurrying forward, though almost ready to drop with fatigue, he came to a large octagonal chamber. At one side, he perceived a ladder, and at the head of it the arched entrance to a cell. In an agony of hope and fear he hastened towards the recess, and as he approached, his doubt was made certainty by a loud scream. Quick as thought, he sprang into the cell, and found, crouched in the further corner, the object of his search.

“Cicely,” he exclaimed. “It is I – your lover – Cholmondeley.”

“You!” she exclaimed, starting up, and gazing at him as if she could scarcely trust the evidence of her senses; “and I have been flying from you all this time, taking you for Nightgall.” And throwing herself into his arms, she was strained passionately to his bosom.

After the first rapturous emotions had subsided, Cicely hastily explained to her lover that after she had been borne away by Nightgall she had fainted, and on reviving, found herself in her accustomed prison. Filled with alarm by his dreadful threats, she had determined to put an end to her existence rather than expose herself to his violence; and had arisen with that resolution, when an impulse prompted her to try the door. To her surprise it was unfastened – the bolt having shot wide of the socket, and quitting the cell, she had wandered about along the passages, until they had so mysteriously encountered each other. This explanation given, and Cholmondeley having related what had befallen him, the youthful pair, almost blinded to their perilous situation by their joy at their unexpected reunion, set forth in the hope of discovering the subterranean passage to the further side of the moat.