And then, the banquet being over, and the Duke of Northumberland having collected his retinue, the whole cavalcade, of which Queen Jane, as they now called her, and her consort were the centre, proceeded in a grand procession to the Tower of London, where it is customary for the monarchs of England to begin their reign.
I cannot describe all the details of what made the most gorgeous state-procession that I ever saw, as I only caught glimpses of part of it from where I had my place beside Lady Caroline Wood and Mistress Ellen. But I know a troop of halberdiers, wearing velvet caps and fine doublets embroidered with the royal blazon woven in gold, and bearing staves covered with crimson velvet and adorned with golden tassels, in two long files lined the way from Northumberland House to the Thames, where the royal barge awaited us, for we were to go to the Tower by water. Cloth was laid down between these files of halberdiers for the procession to walk over, trumpets blew a great flourish, the sound of which met and mingled with the music of musicians on the water. The City Guard, the Garter King-at-Arms, the Knights of the Bath, in their accoutrements, the Judges in their scarlet and coifs, the Bishop of Ely who, being Lord Chancellor, wore a robe of scarlet, the Lord Mayor in crimson velvet, with many more illustrious, gaily-dressed persons, were followed by two venerable ecclesiastics, Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Ridley, Bishop of London, in their surplices and snowy lawn sleeves, and then the Dukes of Northumberland and Suffolk, richly dressed, and the royal party.
It was a brilliant scene, although the sun was overclouded and the day gloomy with the signs of an approaching storm, and the air was full of music and trumpeting and the sounds of movement and revelry. One thing, however, smote us to the heart, and that was that although the streets were packed with onlookers no joyful cries of greeting to Queen Jane, no caps thrown in the air, no waving of hands and handkerchiefs betokened the joy of a people catching sight of its sovereign for the first time. True, murmurs of sympathy and admiration were to be heard when the youth and beauty of the royal lady were perceived. But it was only too evident that she was not the queen the nation desired.
'The silence of the people is ominous,' whispered Lady Caroline to me, 'I trust our queen does not observe it.'
'She cannot fail to notice it,' I returned. 'Oh, why could they not let her remain a private lady as she was before? Why need they drag her into this prominent position? She did not want to be a queen. She swooned when first the idea was made known to her——'
'But you had prepared her mind,' began Lady Caroline.
I did not heed the interpretation, but went on to describe how, on coming out of her swoon, my mistress begged and implored that she might not be made queen. I only spoke in a whisper, but my companions, fearful of my being overheard, made haste to stop me, and I could see that they did not wish to hear what I was telling them, their hearts being set upon Queen Jane's accession to the throne.
As our barge, following the royal barge, slowly passed along the river, I was greatly struck by the beauty and grandeur of the mighty city through which we were passing. I had never seen London before, and its gardens and stately palaces, spires and towers of churches, gateways, towers, drawbridges, houses, mills and chapels, and, last but not least, the noble old cathedral of St. Paul's,[1] presented to me a panorama of picturesque and beautiful scenes.[2]
[1] The old cathedral which was burnt to the ground.—ED.
[2] London in the old days must have been strikingly beautiful and picturesque, the gardens of the fine old mansions and palaces extending down to the riverside, and the air being clear and clean, undimmed and unpolluted by smoke.—ED.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when Queen Jane arrived at the Tower, her advent to that fortress being heralded by a deafening roar of ordnance, coming from the batteries, which was answered by the guns of several ships at anchor in the river.
Trumpets blew and bells rang, also, as Queen Jane landed, but there was still the same ominous silence of onlookers, who, in small and large boats, hovered around.
As the young queen walked into the Tower the Duchess of Suffolk, her mother, bore her train, the Lord Treasurer presented to her the crown, and her relations saluted her on their knees.
The thunder crashed, and the storm without spent itself upon the lingering sightseers, but Queen Jane was in the Tower, and when I caught sight of her face for a moment I saw that all traces of fear and sorrow had passed from it, leaving only the calm and lofty expression of one who, possessing her own soul in patience, 'holds to the road that leads above' in spite of every earthly distraction.
'Oh, Margery! Margery! I am in sore trouble!'
It was the next morning, and Queen Jane turning away from all her grand Court ladies, seized the first opportunity of being alone with me to sob out her griefs in my arms, which held her tightly and with great affection.
I gathered, with a little difficulty, for she would not say one word against her husband, Lord Guildford Dudley, that he, at whose bidding she was making so great a sacrifice, not satisfied with that, was becoming even more exacting. At first all his ambition seemed to be centred in the desire that his wife should be Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, and that in spite of her firm conviction that she would be usurping the throne which rightly belonged to Princess Mary. But now, not content with seeing her made queen, he desired to be crowned also, that he might be king with equal rights to hers. This, however, my dear mistress could not agree to, for if she had a slender claim to the crown, being only the granddaughter of Henry VII's youngest daughter, Mary, he had even less, being no relation at all. It seemed that his father, the Duke of Northumberland, had persuaded the Council, who being in the Tower were practically in his power, to say that they would make Guildford Dudley king; but Lady Jane reminded the latter that she only had the power to confer the title upon him, adding that it would be impossible for her to do it, as it would not be right; moreover, the people, who were unwilling to see her queen, would be actually incensed if a son of the Duke of Northumberland—who was by no means popular—likewise mounted the throne.
Lord Guildford Dudley, however, would not perceive the justice of these asseverations. He took it ill that Jane, whom he had assisted to the throne, should dislike the idea of sharing it with him, and, after quarrelling with her bitterly, departed alone for Sion House, leaving her to get on as well as she could without him. Then his mother was very angry with her, upbraiding and reproaching her, as did also her own mother, the Duchess of Suffolk.
Poor Queen of England! Every step of the way was a bitter one for her. Was ever a young creature, standing where childhood and womanhood meet, so sorely tried? The evening before, at six o'clock, she had been proclaimed queen in London, the announcement meeting with sullen silence on the part of the people, one of whom, a vintner's lad, even daring to vindicate the rights of the Princess Mary—for which he was afterwards severely punished.
'It was mainly at the desire of my husband that I consented to be queen,' sobbed my mistress, 'yet he has left me in anger, and his father and mother are mightily incensed with me. It is all so miserable, and my own conscience afflicts me, for all that they have said to me has not quietened its doubts about the equity of my position. I cannot help suspecting—especially after what has just happened—that my father-in-law's ambition has been the pivot on which we have all turned. And in the fierce light which all that has been occurring has thrown over everything concerning me, I cannot fail to see that the Duke of Northumberland in causing his son Guildford to marry me was but preparing for this. I believe my dear lord loves me,' she added wistfully, 'but perhaps his father's ambition hurried on our marriage.'
I thought that was likely enough, having heard much during the last day or two about Northumberland's ambition, but hastened to assure my mistress in all sincerity that her charms of person, disposition and mind were such that no young man could possibly be intimate with her without being susceptible to the tender passion, whereupon she smiled through her tears, exclaiming—
'You little flatterer! But if that be so you must by all means keep your own chosen lover away from my presence.'
I blushed very much at that, which caused Queen Jane to insist upon my telling her all about my own love story and the name of the man who had won my heart; and, when she heard that it was the same brave knight who escorted me to Sion House when I came to live with her, she was very pleased, and said that it was a pretty romance in real life and she trusted that God would bless us and give us a very happy future together in His own good time.
We were interrupted by the entrance of the Duchess of Suffolk, who bade her daughter sternly, though in stilted Court language, to prepare to transact business with her father and the Duke of Northumberland and the Council. Indeed, there were many matters for the young queen to deal with and papers of importance for her to sign, and she addressed herself bravely to the task of taking up the burden of royalty at the call of duty. For, having consented to be made queen, she knew that she must fulfil the obligations attached to the high office, to the best of her ability.
'I am happier when I am busily employed,' she said to me later in the day. 'It is when I have time to think, Margery, that my doubts and fears return. Dear one,' she continued, 'I am told that on Sunday next Dr. Ridley, the Bishop of London, is going to preach at St. Paul's Cross, and I want you to do me this favour. You must go and hear him, that you may tell me everything he says. I would fain know, Margery,' she went on very wistfully, 'for it may throw light on what I am at present unable to see.'
I knew she meant the entire justice of her accession to the throne, and readily promised that, if I could leave the Tower and go to hear the bishop, I would tell her every word he said. I doubted not that one of my friends, Sir William Wood or Sir Hubert Blair, would escort me through the crowds which would congregate to hear the eloquent divine.
In my own mind I was full of uneasiness now about the position of my dear lady, for a messenger had arrived at the Tower from Princess Mary, the late king's elder sister, to say that she commanded the Council to see that she was duly proclaimed, and warning them to desist from their treasonable purposes. The Council, with small courtesy, refused to do this, and scarcely had the messenger gone when news came pouring in that Princess Mary had taken up her position at Framlingham Castle in Suffolk, where the nobility, gentry and people were flocking to her standard. It was therefore necessary that forces should be sent out to overcome and disperse Mary's army, and the Council and the Duke of Northumberland were much exercised as to who should lead them. It was rumoured amongst us that the Duke of Northumberland wanted the Duke of Suffolk to go, whilst the Council wished Northumberland himself to head the expedition. If he went it was a question whether the Council, left to themselves, would remain true to Queen Jane, for they had been coerced and over-persuaded by him, though secretly, like most of the people, in favour of Mary. There were intrigues on all sides, and several of the Council so worked upon my mistress's apprehensions that she begged that her father might stay with her. It was therefore settled that Northumberland should lead an army of 2,000 horsemen and 6,000 foot soldiers against Mary's forces.
Accordingly, on the thirteenth, after exhorting the Council to remain true to Queen Jane, he left the Tower for Durham House, where he stayed a night, and then, on the fourteenth, he and his men marched out of the city. We were told by Sir William Wood, who had gone with many others to see them depart, that the Duke of Northumberland was heard observing to some one that though numbers watched them go, there was not one to say, 'God speed you!'
Our hearts were full of apprehension upon hearing this; and also Sir William's tidings that the silence of the multitude watching the troops go was something marvellous and most terrifying in its significance.
And yet again my dear lady said to me—
'Margery, you must go to hear what Dr. Ridley has to say about my claims, for I should fear nothing if only I were absolutely certain that they are just and equitable.'
Upon the Sunday, therefore—July 16 it was—I left the Tower with Lady Caroline and Sir William Wood and went to St. Paul's Cross, where a very great congregation was assembled to hear the bishop's preaching.
Sir William found us a place, with some difficulty, where we could stand without being pushed and hustled by the crowd, but we could hear nothing at first except the talking and moving about of the multitude, the cries of those who were hurt or pushed, and the endeavours of those in authority to induce order and quiet.
When, at length, I was able to hear what the venerable bishop was saying, I found that his eloquence was being exerted on a theme so much to my mind that I could have listened all day. He was speaking of the virtues and abilities of my dear mistress, and praising her exceedingly for her goodness and her learning, dwelling much upon the beneficent effect her Protestant rule would be certain to have upon the people of England, and maintaining her right and her title to the throne by the best arguments he could devise—I noticed among these none that were new, however, which I could carry home to Queen Jane. The fact was, he said nothing but what had been already employed, only being an orator, he said it more emphatically and more beautifully, and being a bishop, his words had to my thinking more weight, and he spoke them as one having great spiritual authority.
I was listening eagerly, with my eyes fixed on the preacher and ears intent only upon his words, when a man wrapped in a long foreign-looking cloak pressed so closely against me that I was pushed a little way from my companions. Glancing at the man with indignation, I perceived that his face was concealed partly by the collar of his coat and partly by a large felt hat pulled low over his brow. It was impossible, therefore, to distinguish his features, and yet I knew I had seen him before.
'Allow me,' I said, 'to step nearer to my friends.'
The fellow pretended not to hear. He stuck his hands in his pockets and straightened his broad back between me and my companions. I thought he was a boor, but no worse, and, giving up the attempt to move him, became speedily absorbed again in the preaching, if preaching it could be called, which was now a speech inveighing against the claims of the late King Henry's daughters, and especially of the Princess Mary, and representing, moreover, that if the latter succeeded to the throne it would mean certain destruction to the reformed religion, which, on the other hand, the amiable and pious Queen Jane would maintain in its entirety. He spoke, too, of the likelihood of Mary's contracting a marriage with a prince of the house of Spain, where the Inquisition, with all its ghastly horrors, was maintained. Then he went on to tell of an interview he had had with Mary before the late king's death. He had ridden over to visit her at Hundson, and she invited him to stay to dinner.
After the meal was over he told her that on the Sunday he intended coming to preach before her, upon which she replied that the Church would be open to him, but he must not expect to see her and her household there. He answered by expressing the hope that she would not refuse God's Word, to which she replied that she did not know what they called God's Word now, as it certainly was not the same as in her father's time.
'God's Word, said I,' cried the preacher, 'was the same at all times, though better understood and practised in some ages than others.'
On his retiring, the princess thanked him for coming to see her, but not at all for his proposal to preach before her.
The bishop paused, after relating the anecdote, as if sure that on hearing of Mary's bigotry his audience would wish to repudiate the idea of their wanting her to be their queen.
But, once again, silence and unresponsiveness chilled the hearts of those who loved Queen Jane.
'You see they are convinced that, in spite of everything, Mary should be queen,' said a woman standing near me.
'The boy who scarcely said more than that the other day was cruelly maltreated for it,' muttered the man in the long cloak,' and I shall inform of you, madam, unless you,' he ended by whispering something into the woman's ear.
Immediately, with a look of terror, she put her arm in mine and began to draw me away from my friends, the man taking hold of my other arm, and almost pushing me along.
I called to Sir William Wood, who had his back towards me and did not hear. I entreated Lady Caroline for help, but she was whispering with some ladies, and I could not attract her attention. Then I appealed to the bystanders, but the man, looking threateningly at them, declared that he would knock down the first who interfered. As he said the words I recognized his voice. He was Sir Claudius Crossley.
And I was in his power, for now we were surrounded by men whom I also recognized, as they were some of those who had drowned the poor old women they called witches.
'No harm will be done to you if you come with us quietly,' said Sir Claudius in my ear.
But I did not believe him, and in desperation struggled to free myself, and cried aloud for help.
The next moment Sir Hubert Blair rode up, and, dashing towards me into the crowd, scattered it on all sides, then, springing from his horse, he seized my adversary in his powerful arms and, hurling him to the ground, administered not a few blows with the butt-end of his riding-whip.
This done, he turned to me, but I had already fled towards my friends and, seeing I was safe, he only smiled and waved his hand, and rode off in another direction, having evidently business of importance in hand.
I saw no more of Sir Claudius Crossley that day, but the incident had shown that he was still my active enemy, bent upon fulfilling his vow, which Betsy had reported to me, that he would win me for his own and vanquish my proud and haughty spirit.
Lady Caroline and Sir William Wood were much concerned when, on my return to them, I related the misadventure which had befallen me, and blamed themselves for being so much occupied with others that they had not heard my cries for succour. However, they were glad that Sir Hubert Blair effected my rescue, and were very kind to me and sympathizing, making me walk and drive between them all the remainder of the time until we were safely back in the Tower.
A great commotion was going on there, armed men and servants hurrying about, and lords and ladies making hasty preparations for departure.
'What is it? What has happened?' cried Sir William, but for some time no one could or would answer him.
A little later we learned the truth. The Lord Treasurer had left the Tower, contrary to the positive order of the Duke of Northumberland who, before departing, had strictly impressed upon the Duke of Suffolk the necessity of keeping the whole Council within its walls, and it was an open secret that this step was the beginning of the end of what some one irreverently termed 'the miserable farce of Queen Jane's reign.'
It seemed to me that every one except the queen knew this, and she, misled by the representations of her father, who was himself duped by the Council, was wholly ignorant that the downfall which she had at the first apprehended was really beginning to take place.
I found her in tears, it is true, when I went to her bedroom where she was lying ill, but that was, as I speedily discovered, because her mother-in-law had been upbraiding her severely and telling her that Lord Guildford justly refused to come near after her conduct towards him.
'And Margery, Margery, put your dear little head quite near to me, I want to whisper something,' said the young queen pitifully. 'Nearer still, Margery,' she went on, 'for the very walls have ears.' And when my ear was close to her sweet lips, she said low into it, 'I am so ill, I have such indescribable sensations, like none that I have ever had in illness before. Do you think it is possible that they are poisoning me?'
I told her No. I scouted the idea as unworthy of her noble mind. I vehemently declared that she was giving way to imagination. I besought her not to be so childish. I implored her to think of Plato's lofty reasonings. I entreated that she would stay her mind on God's promises to His dear children. I began to quote whole passages of the Bible—the words flew from my lips as fast as I could think them, whilst my dear lady listened spell-bound, and then, suddenly I spoilt it all by bursting out into passionate tears and sobs, in the midst of which I cried, 'They will kill you! They will kill you! They have made you their puppet for a day and set you upon a throne and crowned you, and then—being unable to keep you there, and maddened by failure—theywill kill you!' And with that I wept uncontrollably, shaking the great bed on which my dear lady was lying with the sobs that rent and tossed my whole frame.
'My poor child! My dear little Margery!' It was Queen Jane who was comforting me now and holding me in her arms whilst she tried to wipe away my tears. 'How you love me! I believe your love is the sweetest, next to my husband's, and the most disinterested that has ever been given me. Darling one, it was a shame to bring you away from your happy home in the country to share my troubled life! But you are wise, you have spoken of the Bible promises, we will stay our hearts on them, and in prayer we will implore for grace that we may be sustained with heavenly consolation and enabled to do our duty whatever happens.'
In reading the Bible and in prayer, therefore, we sought to find true help and consolation in our time of trouble, but were not left long in peace to perform such exercises, there were so many about us, maids of honour, the Duchess of Suffolk and the Duchess of Northumberland, besides the queen's younger sister, the Lady Herbert, and her young sister-in-law, Lady Hastings, to the former of whom she was tenderly attached.
I cannot describe—for it would make too dismal reading—the way in which Queen Jane's relations and her husband's relations harassed her continually—Lord Guildford Dudley, perhaps, by his absence and treatment of her, the most of all, as he was the best beloved. For it is ever those whom we love most who have it in their power to inflict upon us the bitterest pain. By our love we give them a key admitting them into the holiest, warmest recesses of our hearts, and when they prove unkind they are able to inflict there the most exquisite suffering.
On the Wednesday of that fatal week the Council, following the example of the Lord Treasurer, left the Tower for Baynard's Castle, and upon arriving there they unanimously declared that Princess Mary should be queen, sending for the Lord Mayor and aldermen of the city and emphatically declaring to them that Mary should be queen. The announcement was received with pleasure, and the gentlemen rode to St. Paul's Cross, where the Garter king-at-arms proclaimed Mary Queen of England, France and Ireland.
No dismal silence greeted this proclamation, but cries of triumph and delight, and the day was ended with bonfires, illuminations and loud rejoicings.
Immediately after proclaiming the new queen the Council sent word to the Duke of Suffolk to surrender the Tower, but he did not wait for these instructions, the shouts and acclamations of the people in the streets reached the Tower before their messengers arrived, and the duke went immediately to his daughter's room and imparted the news to her as gently as he could, adding that she must lay aside the state and dignity of a queen and must become again a private person.
'This is better for me to bear,' she answered, 'than my former advancement to royalty. Out of obedience to you and my mother I have grievously sinned and hurt my own inclinations. Now I willingly relinquish the crown, and trust that by so doing immediately and willingly the offence that has been committed may be a little lessened.'
Thus contentedly and even gladly did my dear lady give up the brief sovereignty which had been to her in every way a most distressing period.
'We will go home, Margery,' she said to me, when her maids of honour and the other Court ladies had hurried off to see to the packing of their finery and the safe escort of their persons out of the Tower. 'We will go home to Sion House, where God grant we may once more rest in body and mind, enjoying our books and studying from the fair field of nature, as shown in the lovely gardens, the wide park, and last, but not least, the glorious river.'
'Yes, yes; let us return to Sion House,' I cried eagerly. 'We were happy there.'
'Yes; we were indeed. And my dear lord is there.' A sweet smile lighted up her face. 'Me-thinks,' she added tenderly, 'he will forgive me everything when he sees me once more a private person and no queen.' And she began to sing a tender little love song, still with that charming smile upon her face.
She was so beautiful and so good, my love went out to her then in the hour of her outward humiliation and inward peace, more than it had ever done before, and I threw myself on the floor at her feet and, clasping my hands upon her knees, said—
'Madam, we are all kings and priests to God, and yours is the best royalty of all, for you rule your own spirit with wisdom and grace. Oh, if you only knew how I admire and love you!'
'Dear!' she laid her hand caressingly upon my head, 'Plato says that greater is the one who admires than the one who is admired. You must therefore be greater than I. So get up at once—at once, Margery,' she repeated, 'And let us pack up our things, for we are going home.'
Yes, we were going to her home, and were about to leave the grandeur and the gloom of those royal apartments in the palace of the great Tower with far more gladness than we had felt on entering them.
Lady Jane's friends and partisans mourned that she was a fallen queen, but we, she and I, knew that, far from falling, she had risen in all that went to make her life more truly happy, beneficent and noble.
Lady Jane returned to Sion House the next day, and her manner of doing so was as humble and lowly as her leaving for the Tower had been grand and ostentatious. She who had been a queen nine days—which, by the way, is said to have given rise to the saying, 'A nine days' wonder'—laid down her royalty, as we have seen, without a sigh, and returned to Isleworth in a hired litter, attended only by myself and Mistress Ellen, and escorted by a few of the Duke of Suffolk's followers and Sir William Wood, whom nothing would hinder from paying his last token of respect and ready service to her vanished queendom. The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk followed to Sheen House, Richmond, later on, the former well nigh distraught with grief and vexation, and the latter in a state of peevishness and anger, which boded ill for her daughter when once she was within reach of her tongue.
But Lady Jane and I rejoiced that, at length, the right was prevailing and the lawful queen was coming to her own, though I think if we had known of the misery and bloodshed which she would bring upon the Protestants in this country, our joy would have been turned into sorrow.
Isleworth, where Sion House is situated, is about twelve miles from London City, in a sweet country of green trees and verdant meadows. It is two miles from Richmond, where the magnificent palace—a favourite seat of royalty[1]—faces the river and imparts grandeur to the scene.
[1] This was in 1553. The palace has been pulled down now.—ED.
The country looked fresh and beautiful to us after the stone walls and roofs and chimneys of the city, and the air was sweet and pleasant after the closer atmosphere of the metropolis; though certainly in the Tower we got breezes from the river as well as the ill odours of the town. We thought that now we could return to the quiet, studious life we led before, and my lady spoke of teaching me Greek and Latin that I might share her studies—but, alas, such things were not to be.
Lord Guildford Dudley, though bitterly disappointed at the turn of events, and anxious for the safety of his father, of whom we had no certain tidings, became reconciled to Lady Jane, and they spent more time together than before, which necessarily deprived me of the society of my dear mistress and threw much idle time upon my hands.
After the stirring events through which we had been passing, and whilst they were still happening in the great city we had turned our backs upon, I could not settle down to sewing and embroidering, as Mistress Ellen would fain have made me, but took to wandering about the grounds of Sion House and especially down by the river, with vague yearnings which I scarcely put into clear thoughts; but seeing that they had their root in witnessing the happiness my mistress felt in being once more the cherished companion of her lord, and that my gaze was ever fixed upon the river up which Sir Hubert Blair once came to me in his boat, it was evident that he was the loved object of my every thought and wish. Where was he in the great and exciting events that were taking place? I had never seen him since the day of the preaching at St. Paul's Cross, when he rescued me from Sir Claudius Crossley's hands. It seemed strange to me afterwards that he had not joined his friend, Sir William Wood, in escorting Lady Jane back to Sion House, but I had not an opportunity of inquiring of Sir William about him. And now he stayed away. What did it mean? I spent hours in vague conjectures and in wondering what course he was pursuing in the present state of affairs. Of one thing I was certain. He would not, like the Council, have gone over to Mary's side, now that the Duke of Northumberland was away and people were acknowledging her on all sides. He was too true a man to forsake the weaker cause, and too valiant to give in because others were succumbing, and yet if he did the opposite and kept his standard raised for Queen Jane, what danger he would be in! Imprisonment and even death might befall my prince of men.
I was thinking of this one evening, with tear-dimmed eyes gazing on the river, brilliant just then with the reflected light of a most gorgeous sunset, when, hearing the gentle splashing of oars, I turned quickly and perceived Sir Hubert in a boat being rapidly rowed towards me by two strong boatmen. Sir Hubert was sitting in the stern of the boat, with keen eyes scanning the riverside, and upon perceiving me he took off his hat and waved it, whilst his face, so grave a moment before, lighted up with smiles.
He said something to the boatmen, and immediately after, the boat having been run to our little landing-stage, he jumped out, and they pulled away, leaving him coming up the steps and walking towards me.
I was so glad to see him, he looked so strong and brave that all my fears and anxieties regarding his safety disappeared, and with joy I hurried forward to place both my hands in his.
'Welcome! welcome!' I said, and could say no more of all the words of love and greeting crying out in my mind for utterance.
He, too, seemed to find a difficulty in speech, but he led me to a seat near the water, and we sat down, hand in hand, in silence, which was more eloquent than any words.
After a little while, he told me the news of what had been occurring in the City and the open field, where the Duke of Northumberland led the forces, and as he spoke of treachery and cowardice, I scarcely knew my lover in the pale, indignant man.
'You must know, Margery,' he said to me, 'that the Council, after proclaiming Mary Queen, sent the herald, Richard Rose, to the Duke of Northumberland with a message commanding him to disband his army and acknowledge Queen Mary, under penalty of being declared a traitor. But, even before receiving these orders, he had himself submitted in a cowardly, undignified manner. He had withdrawn from Bury St. Edmunds to Cambridge, where, on the Sunday, he caused the Vice-Chancellor of the University to preach a sermon against the rights and the religion of Mary, and the following day, when the news arrived from London of the revolution that had taken place there, he went to the Market place and declared aloud that Mary whom they had been denouncing, was the rightful queen. Moreover, he flung up his cap, as if in joy, whilst tears of mortification and regret rolled down his face. "Queen Mary is a merciful woman," he said to the Vice-chancellor, "and doubtless all will receive the benefit of her generous pardon." The Vice-chancellor, however, gave him no hope, for he said if the queen were ever so inclined to pardon, those who ruled her would destroy him, whoever else was pardoned. Immediately afterwards he was arrested and sent off to the Tower.'
'What a fall for the proud Northumberland!' exclaimed I.
'Proud no longer!' said Sir Hubert. 'His behaviour, when arrested, was abject in the extreme. He fell on his knees before the Earl of Arundel, who arrested him, and begged for his life.'
'Where was his dignity?' cried I, and then, the next instant I asked, 'will they kill him?'
'Yes. He will be executed for high treason.'
'How dreadful!' said I, adding 'How grieved my dear lady will be, although he has been so cruel to her!'
'And many others, braver than he, were sent to the Tower,' continued my lover, 'and amongst them even Bishop Ridley.'
'Bishop Ridley!'
'Yes. For preaching that sermon at St. Paul's Cross. They say it is like to cost him his life.'
'His life! Will Mary be so wicked as to kill a clergyman because of what he said in his sermon?' asked I.
'Yes,' answered Sir Hubert. 'She is capable of doing far more than that. Did I not tell you what a Papist's rule in England would mean, Margery? Rivers of blood will flow. And they will be Protestants on whom Mary will wreak her vengeance. There is no animosity in the world so bitter, as what is called religious animosity. Remember what they did to our Lord. Think you the Jews of old would have crucified so cruelly an innocent man if it had not been a matter of religion that was at issue?'
'True! true!' I said, wondering at the astuteness of my dear one. 'But, alas!' I sobbed, the next moment. 'If Mary will be so bitter against her Protestant enemies, what, oh! what will be the fate of my dear Lady Jane?'
Sir Hubert looked very grave.
'I can see no hope for her,' he said, 'if Mary is allowed to reign.'
'Why do you say, if Mary is allowed to reign,' I exclaimed, 'when she is reigning already?'
'Not yet!' cried Sir Hubert, in confident tones. 'Not yet! There are some who will never lay down their swords whilst they can wield them on behalf of Lady Jane.'
'A few doubtless,' exclaimed I. 'But, oh, what can a few do against so many, many others?'
'It is on the rightfulness of our cause that we rely,' said my dear knight. 'There is a saying, Margery, that if you give a man rope enough he will hang himself, and of course it holds good with a woman also. Mary has already pounced on a bishop and imprisoned him—or her followers have—and soon she will begin to burn Protestants alive. Then, by that blaze, the nation will awake to see what they are doing and the whole of Protestant England will rise as one man, and deposing Mary, put down papistry with an iron hand.'
'And meanwhile,' I said, 'my dear Lady Jane? And Master Montgomery, too,' my thoughts reverting to the good curate, who had taught me so many lessons of truth and righteousness at home, 'and you, my dear one, what will become of you?'
'If Mary reigns, the life of Lady Jane hangs on single thread,' Sir Hubert answered, oracularly. 'If papistry is upheld by the ruling power, your friend, Master Montgomery's life is not secure for a single day, or an hour. And, as for me, I am well aware that by refusing to submit myself to Mary, I am liable at any moment to be apprehended for high treason!'
I gave a great cry, for I knew that the penalty for high treason is death, and it took my beloved some time to quieten me. When, at last, I was calmer he said, 'if it were not for you, I should not care about myself. But, in any case, I am sure you would not wish to hold me back from doing my utmost to re-establish Lady Jane as Queen of Great Britain, France and Ireland.'
'But the thing is beyond you!' I cried. 'You and a few others can never, never compass it—you will only spend your life, your precious life in the vain effort.'
And I looked around, with a frantic desire to see some one who might come to my help and assist me to persuade this dear, hot-headed, valiant knight not to cast himself into the gulf yawning between my dear Lady Jane and her crown.
The glory of the sunset was over now, the monarch of the skies having sunk out of sight, and the radiance of his setting was momentarily waning. A slight river mist was rising and stealing over the land, like a hazy veil obscuring, though not concealing its rich and brilliant green. Rooks cawed in the trees hard by, as if they were having some earnest debate upon affairs of importance in bird-land, and the distant baying of the watch-dogs up at the house reminded us that, though apparently alone, we were not far from a big residence. No one, however, appeared to be in sight on land, and looking across the darkening water I only perceived a barge, which seemed to be stationary on our side of the river, a little higher up. A few men were upon it, but they were too far apart and too insignificant in appearance to avail me anything, and I looked up to Sir Hubert, whose eyes were resting upon me, with a yearning look of love.
'For my sake,' I said, tremulously.
But he shook off the temptation and began—
'Whilst I have power to wield a sword——'
He was interrupted. An iron hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice of thunder demanded—
'Are you for Queen Mary? Speak. Answer, yea or nay?'
It was Sir Claudius Crossley's ugly face that leered upon us as we looked round, and it was his hand that gripped my beloved one's shoulder, whilst behind him stood a little band of wild, ruffianly men.
Silently along the riverpath they had come from the barge, creeping up behind us, whilst we were absorbed in the momentous questions occupying our attention; and now, shielding himself behind the name of Mary, Sir Claudius was ready for any deed of violence.
'I do not answer ruffians!' cried Sir Hubert, grasping his sword.
The next moment there was a scuffle; the men, some half dozen in number, threw themselves upon Sir Hubert and caught hold of me, and whether from fear, or from some blow that was dealt by a coward, not above fighting women, I know not, but I immediately lost consciousness and knew no more.
'I will never marry you! Never! I would rather die!' I cried passionately.
Sir Claudius laughed in a very insolent manner. We were talking in the big, bare drawing-room of his great hall, near Chichester, where his two sisters had been keeping guard over me ever since I arrived the day before.
When I came out of my swoon it was to find myself being carried on a roughly extemporized litter, and then, in a cart which jolted horribly. I was so sick and ill I scarcely cared what was happening to me, but, by and bye, anxiety for my lover's safety caused me to ask the man who drove the cart and sat sideways on the cart-shafts, if Sir Hubert Blair was also a prisoner. For some time the man did not answer, but after a while said, 'Yes.' That was all the information I could extract, and it made me exceedingly uneasy. The country was in a very lawless, unsettled state; the attention of all the upper classes being concentrated on the Government and the Royal family. While it was being settled who should reign over England there was scanty attention paid to the doings of such rascals as Sir Claudius Crossley, who, under the mask of a knighthood which he violated, roved over the country to spoil and ravage it for his own aggrandizement. Upon our arriving at Crossley Hall, Sir Claudius himself came forward and personally handed me over to his sisters, with the sneering remark that they were to see to it that I did not escape. The women were hard-featured and angular. They resembled their brother in appearance and character, and obeyed him so well that I was not left a moment unattended; and, lest I should escape whilst they slept, even the bedroom door was locked and the key kept under the pillow of the one who waspro tem.my jailer. When I had recovered from my sickness and was able to get up and dress, they took me into the big barn-like apartment they called the drawing-room that their brother might come to me. When he entered, they withdrew to a distant window, whilst he, immediately and without any preparation, began to assure me of his undying love, and to promise me my freedom if I would marry him.
It was a strange wooing, and I was so greatly indignant that I refused him with more haste than politeness, declaring that death itself would be preferable to living as his wife.
This made him angry, and in anger he was even more detestable than before; his frown being so terrible that I believed, in spite of his so-called love, he could almost have laid his hands upon me to wreak a fearful vengeance.
However he merely said—
''Tis a pity that you cannot love me, Mistress Brown,' and, taking a chair near me, endeavoured to grasp my hand, which I held back. 'For, let me tell you,' he continued, 'great harm will be done to an unlucky friend of yours unless you do.'
'Is this a threat?' I asked haughtily, showing no sign of fear, although my heart was beating quickly and wordlessly, and with exceeding earnestness a prayer for help and succour ascended from it.
'Call it what you please,' answered he, with a gesture of irritability. 'I tell you that if you will not marry me, your precious lover, Sir Hubert Blair—you start! Had you forgotten that we took him prisoner, too?—Sir Hubert Blair, I repeat, shall die?'
'How can you say that?' cried I. 'You have no right to kill him.'
And with that I began trembling so violently as to shake the chair in which I was sitting.
He perceived it, and drew nearer.
'Sir Hubert is in my power,' he said, in low, meaning tones. 'He is in fact a prisoner in this house, even now lying in our dungeon. For, let me tell you, we have a dungeon down amongst the cellars. Aye, and a gallows, too, in the inner yard. If I hold up my hand, so——' he made a gesture, 'my men will bear him to the gallows, where he will die.'
I interrupted him with a cry of terror-stricken anguish.
'You can save him,' he said quickly. 'You have it in your power to save him. Dear Margaret,' and again he endeavoured to take my hand, whilst a fawning, obsequious tone succeeded the fiercer one, 'you, and no one else, can prevent his terrible fate.'
'How? How can I prevent it?' and I looked up appealingly into the hardest and most cruel face it has ever been my lot to encounter.
Sir Claudius took my hand, my most unwilling hand, in his, pressing it tenderly.
'My dear, I love you,' he said. 'Nay, don't wince, for in that fact lies the man's salvation. If you will try ever so little to return my love, if you will promise to marry me, Sir Hubert shall live. Nay, more, upon the day on which we are married he shall be liberated.'
'Oh, but I cannot! I cannot marry you!' I sobbed distractedly. 'I cannot!'
An ugly look came into his face.
'Sir Hubert will hang on our gallows to-morrow morning,' said he, slowly.
'No! no!' I cried. 'You dare not do such a thing! The law——'
'Has no power against me here, in this lonely country, amongst my servants and dependents,' he interrupted. 'The officers of the law will have their eyes directed towards Queen Mary, and that other foolish young woman, who aped——'
'Do not speak about Queen Jane in that way!' exclaimed I. 'Unless,' I added, 'you mean me to hate you even more than I do.'
'I shall speak as I please,' he muttered sulkily, 'What I mean to tell you is this. Out here in my own country, at this time when all the fighting-men are otherwise engaged, I can do almost what I like, and if I choose that Sir Hubert shall die, he shall.'
The horrible conviction came upon me as he spoke, that it was true; in the then distracted state of England, even a big crime, such as murdering Sir Hubert, could be done by a powerful miscreant like Sir Claudius, with impunity.
Still in desperation I cried out—
'You dare not! You dare not!'
'I dare,' he returned, 'for, look you, if he appealed to the law, I could but turn him over to the law, accusing him as I did so of high treason. They would behead him then, sure enough. Yes, I say, they would behead him.'
'No! no! no!' I cried.
'But I repeat, they would,' he said. 'The penalty of high treason is execution——'
'Oh, what must he do? How can he be saved?' wailed I, for it seemed to me my beloved, between the villainy of Sir Claudius and the vengeance of Queen Mary's adherents, was like one between Scylla and Charybdis, bound to perish in any case.
'He ought to have a friend,' said the wily voice of Sir Claudius, 'a friend who would set him free and counsel him to quit the country, and procure him a secret passage to Holland——'
'Will you do it?' I interrupted, falling upon my knees before him. 'You say you love me. Then do this thing for me. I will believe you, if you will do it for me,' I went on, beseechingly. 'Set Sir Hubert free, let him leave the country, get him across to Holland, and I will——' I paused. I was going to say, 'esteem you highly and pray for you all my life,' but recognized that would not content him, that indeed he would not care for that.
'You will what?' he asked sharply.
'I will——' again I paused. He would not be content with that which I would promise.
'I will do it on one condition,' he said, 'and only one.'
'And that is?'
But I knew, and my heart almost ceased beating, whilst a giddiness to which I was never subject made my head swim.
When I could understand him again, he was telling me that if I would promise to marry him he would do all that I wished for Sir Hubert, and more, he would guarantee his safety until he reached Holland, and, if needs be, would personally conduct him to a port from which he could sail.
'But, be generous,' besought I, 'do all that without the heavy price being paid that you have named.'
'Heavy?'
He frowned.
'Yes. Most heavy. I cannot pay it! I cannot! But be generous,' I pleaded, 'be generous!'
Sir Claudius, seeing me so exceedingly concerned about his rival, fell into an awful rage.
'Generous!' cried he. 'Not I. It is for you to be generous to me—and to him. For I swear unless you promise to marry me—unless I have your promise before night, he shall hang to-morrow morning.'
And with that he went out, slamming the door behind him.
I fell back in my chair, weeping bitterly.
Was ever a more hideous snare laid for a poor girl? I thought with horror of the woes and threatened death of my dear knight. I imagined I saw him lying in the dungeon of which Sir Claudius had been speaking. How very hard was his fate! Not a prisoner of war, he had simply been kidnapped by brigands, as a girl, or a child might have been! Six to one, they had overcome him by sheer physical strength. And he had the misery of knowing that I also was a captive in their power. How he would chafe at the confinement which kept him from my side! What would be his feelings when his jailer told him that he must prepare to die upon the morrow? And on the gallows, too! Despair would be his portion, horror and despair.
And I might save him. It was in my power, by submitting to my imperious captor and promising to marry him, to save my own beloved from a truly awful death. I could do it, and no one else. And it did not so much matter what happened to me, if his precious life was saved. If he died I should be miserable, wherever I was; if he lived I should have the consolation of knowing that, to lighten my own dark lot.
I was in poor health, my spirits depressed and my soul sickened by my captivity and the knowledge that my absence would afflict my dear mistress and make her very anxious. No one was at hand to advise me—no one but Sir Claudius' sisters, and I could not consult them. What was I to do? 'Sacrifice myself,' answered my heart, 'sacrifice myself for him I love.'
Sir Claudius did not leave me long to think it over.
'I must press for an answer now, immediately,' he said, returning.
'Oh, but please wait a little,' said I, tearfully. 'I cannot answer you now, not just now,' I pleaded. 'Give me a little time. Give me at least until the evening.'
'No, you must promise now,' said he imperiously.
'But—but——'
I sobbed, putting up both my hands to my face, like a child, and crying as if my heart would break.
'Now, or never? It is the only chance you can have of saving Sir Hubert Blair's life. And, look you, Madam, if you do not——' leaning forward he whispered that the gallows was waiting for its prey.
I shrank back. My heart felt frozen. I laughed with bitter recklessness. Thus talked he who said he loved me!
I wrung my hands.
'Why was I born?' I lamented. 'And why did my father send me away from home?'
'Do you consent, madam?' demanded the ruffian who had me in his power.
I started violently. The outlook was appalling.
'May I see Sir Hubert Blair once? Just once, that I may take my leave of him?' I asked beseechingly.
'No, no. That is too much to ask.'
'But, unless I see him I cannot consent,' I said, temporizing. 'You see,' a little hope came into my heart, 'I am not sure whether you are speaking the truth about him, or not. He was certainly in a desperate state—one against six—when I saw him last, but he is tremendously strong and he had his sword, therefore he may have escaped.'
'I tell you we took him prisoner with you.'
'Unless I see him, I cannot believe he is a prisoner here,' I persisted.
'Ho! So you doubt me?'
'Yes.' I bowed my head. 'I doubt you altogether.'
'And you do not think Sir Hubert is here?'
'I do not know. I do not know anything. Allow me to see him—allow me only to see him for one minute—and then, then, if I see him here, in your power, and if you will vow that you will not only liberate him but also send him safely across to Holland, I will consent to do as you wish.'
'To marry me.'
'Yes.'
Sir Claudius looked hideously triumphant.
'It won't be such a bad bargain,' he said, leering at me.
I shuddered. But then, next instant, derived hope from the reflection that if he could not show me Sir Hubert Blair it would be because he lied in saying Sir Hubert was a prisoner in his dungeon, moreover I should then be free from my promise.
This hope was dashed, however, by Sir Claudius saying—
'Very well. You shall see Sir Hubert—not to speak to, mind—but you shall see him. I will go now, and return for you in half an hour. Will that satisfy you?'
'Yes.'
He left the room, closing the door roughly after him, as was his wont.
His sisters, who had been listening all the time, and must have heard every word he said, for his voice was loud and harsh, came forward, asking,—
'What? Is he going to show you the secret dungeon?'
I made no answer. Perhaps I could not at that moment, for thoughts of agony and fear were surging through my mind. My dread was terrible; it obscured all things, including my faith in my Heavenly Father's care.
'He must have you entirely in his power, or he must trust you completely,' said the women.
I made no rejoinder, and they, looking at me askance, withdrew again to a little distance, and began a low-toned conversation.
I was left to myself. And my thoughts were bitter.
Sir Claudius, returning in about half an hour, bade me gruffly follow him, and then led the way down many steps and through gloomy passages until we reached a huge dark subterranean hall, the extreme chilliness of which was deathly and vaultlike in its nature.
'Pleasant, is it not?' sneered my guide. Thereupon he whistled, and a pale-faced lad, dressed in garments made of skins, came quickly out of the darkness and ran towards him.
'Prisoner ready, Saul?' interrogated Sir Claudius.
'Yes, master,' answered the lad, looking from him to me with startled eyes. He added something which I did not catch.
Sir Claudius hesitated a moment before saying to the lad, with a frown, 'Stay here with this lady and take care of her; you understand?'
'Yes, master. I must not let her escape.'
The man nodded.
'I shall soon return,' he said, and vanished into the darkness.
A few moments of intense silence followed. Full of apprehension and dread about my own safety and that of Sir Hubert Blair, I was not thinking at all about the boy, when he startled me by saying in low tones—
'I think you must be the lady who tried to save my grandmother's life?'
'Your grandmother's life?' I asked wonderingly. 'When? Where?'
'I have heard about you since you came here, from the servants, and I think you must be the lady,' continued the lad slowly. 'It was many weeks ago, not very far from Horsham. Wicked men made out that my grandmother was a witch and drowned her. My dear old grandmother!' he sobbed. 'But you tried to save her life.'
'Was she your grandmother?' asked I, thinking of the so-called witch, who had implored me frantically to save her.
'Yes, lady. She was one of the best of women,' answered Saul sorrowfully. 'I knew it was you,' he added, 'who was so good to her, because he who told me all about it said that the lady who tried to save her looked like an angel, with hair of gold, a face like pink wild roses and eyes like big speedwells. Your face is rather too white, but the other part of you answers to the description exactly.'
'I certainly tried to protect a poor old woman from her wicked enemies,' said I; 'and I remember now one of the charges against her was that she had done away with her own grandson. I suppose that was you?'
'Yes, lady. And it was a wicked lie. My master it was who stole me away from home and brought me here to be his slave and turnkey. I hate him. He is cruel as death. He has a gallows, and he kills people without any trial, or with only a mock trial.'
'Terrible!' I exclaimed, and was just beginning to ask questions about Sir Hubert when footsteps were to be heard returning, and Saul whispered—
'I will try to save you, for the sake of what you did for my dear, good grandmother——' he broke off, for, alas! he had said too much.
'Dog!' cried Sir Claudius, kicking him so brutally that the poor lad fell upon his knees with a cry of pain.
'You do that in my presence!' exclaimed I. 'And yet you profess to love me?'
'Silence, in the lad's presence!' commanded Sir Claudius gruffly. 'What business had he to whisper to you? What was he saying?'
'Does it matter what a young boy says?' asked I, remembering just in time that it might be better policy to soothe than to anger him.
'You dare to whisper to a prisoner in my castle?' exclaimed Sir Claudius, turning again upon the lad and beginning to kick and cuff him unmercifully.
Every cry of the poor boy's went to my heart. I seemed to feel each blow myself, and begged pitifully for mercy. But I might as well have spoken to the great stone walls. Sir Claudius did not stop until poor Saul lay motionless upon the ground; then, leaving him stunned, the tyrant seized my hand and drew me from the spot, through the darkness to the far side of the hall, where there was an immense circular opening in the ground.
'Look down. Look into the dungeon below,' he said.
I peered into the gloomy depths and saw a man lying on some straw with his back toward us; but it was so dark that I could discern neither his clothes, nor exact size, nor the colour of his hair. I simply saw that there was a man and that he was lying down in a helpless, hopeless attitude, as if too weak to stand.
'That is Sir Hubert Blair,' said Sir Claudius. 'He has not fared so well as you. He has scarcely had such sumptuous lodgings. He is ill. Ha! ha! If we do not bring him to the gallows quickly, or release him, he will spare us the trouble.'
A bitter cry fell from my lips. I seemed to be in a hideous nightmare.
The man in the dungeon started, but did not turn round.
'Hubert! Hubert!' I called.
No answer. The prisoner lay quite still now.
'He does not hear,' said the harsh voice by my side. 'He is farther off than you think.'
I knew he lied, for had I not seen the man start when I first cried out? Was he Sir Hubert? I strained my eyes, but could not see if it was he. Why did he not turn round? Sir Hubert would have turned in a moment at my cry.
'Sir Hubert Blair,' I shouted, 'it is I—Margery Brown—will you not look at me? Turn round. Please—please turn round.'
I spoke in vain. The prisoner did not turn. He stayed in the same position.
'Oh, why does he not turn? I want to see his face,' I said.
Sir Claudius regarded me sternly.
'I said you might see, but not speak to him,' he said; 'and I only meant you to look at him.'
'But I want to see his face,' I said. 'I must see his face. Please ask him to turn towards us.'
Sir Claudius looked annoyed. At last he said with evident reluctance—
'He cannot turn round. He is chained in that position to an iron staple in the wall.'
I burst into tears. It is a woman's refuge when words fail her, and sometimes it softens the beholder, but not in this case; the man standing by my side possessed a heart of stone.
'Tears do no good, madam,' said he. 'It is perfectly useless for you to stand there weeping.'
'How long has he been chained there?' I asked at length.
'A day or two,' answered Sir Claudius airily. 'If you really wish him to be liberated,' he said, 'you have it in your power to set him free—otherwise, as I said, to-morrow morning—the gallows.'
'Oh, no! No!' cried I. 'Not that! Not that!'
'But I say it must be that, unless——'
'Tell me,' said I, 'does he know what fate is in store for him?'
'No. He does not know yet. But I can tell him now. He will hear my voice if I shout.'
'Oh, but do not shout it,' I exclaimed heroically, resolving that if I could prevent it Sir Hubert should never hear that dreadful sentence.
'Then you consent to marry me?'
'Will Sir Hubert be liberated immediately if I do?' asked I.
By this time I was certain that the prisoner was indeed my poor lover, for my straining eyes could discern that he had black hair and that his size and figure corresponded exactly. Moreover his dress appeared to be exactly the same as that Sir Hubert wore when last I saw him. My one desire, therefore, was to save him from the gallows.
'Immediately. I guarantee that he shall be set free immediately.'
'If I consent, may I be allowed to tell him the good news about his freedom?'
The other was silent. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of the matter.
'Please allow me,' I entreated.
'Very well. If you promise to become my wife?'
I bowed—not being able to speak. The next moment I cried triumphantly—
'Hubert! Hubert! You are about to be set free. You are about to be liberated. I, your Margery, have effected this. Never forget me.' My voice broke into sobs, and, weeping bitterly, I suffered my companion to lead me away.
Was it imagination, or did I really hear an anxious voice calling after us as Sir Claudius led me away from the subterranean hall and up a steep flight of stone steps? My companion declared that it was nothing but the echo of our own footsteps, yet I had my doubts.
I will not attempt to describe my misery during the weeks which intervened between my consenting to become the wife of Sir Claudius and the dawning of the dreadful day upon which he claimed the fulfilment of my promise.
As a lover, it can easily be understood, the ruffian who had me in his power was altogether detestable, even his sisters taking pity upon me at last, and exercising a kind of rough guardianship. I was bitterly distressed because of not being allowed to see Sir Hubert for one moment before he left Crossley Hall. If I could only have said farewell to him, I thought I could have borne my position better. Sir Claudius was obdurate and would not allow us to meet for even five minutes. He told me that he was sending Sir Hubert abroad, under a safe escort, and that was all the information I could extract. For the rest, news of the entire surrender of the country to Queen Mary was brought to the house by travellers, as well as fearful tidings of the distinguished men who had passed through the Traitors' Gate into the Tower, with the certain prospect of more or less speedy execution.
Mary had entered London in state, having first dismissed her army that she might show confidence in her people. With the Princess Elizabeth by her side, she rode into the city amidst the acclamations of the multitude. They had entered the Tower, where the queen's first act was one of clemency, for she pardoned the State prisoners who had been imprisoned there during the reigns of Henry VIII and Edward VI. But, alas!—and this touched me more nearly—she commanded the Earl of Arundel to seize the Duke of Suffolk and Lady Jane Grey and commit them to the Tower. There were rumours that the Duke of Suffolk was soon liberated, but I did not know what truth was in the tale. I was greatly affected by the thought of my dear lady being imprisoned there, where she had been before in such different, though scarcely happier, circumstances. How she would miss me! No one would quite take my place with her, and having to do without me would add to her many troubles. However, she would be spared the knowledge of my grievous fate, and God would be merciful to her and give her His peace. Of that I was assured.
The end of the time which I insisted must elapse before my marriage came only too soon, notwithstanding its wretchedness, and at last the day arrived which I had been compelled to name as our wedding day. I felt stunned now that it had come, and everything that happened seemed to be happening in a dream.
There was a great commotion in the house, many coming and going and serving-men and women flying hither and thither. There was to be a great breakfast, or dinner after the ceremony, and to it several people were coming from the neighbourhood.
The marriage was to take place in the small chapel adjoining the house by eleven o'clock in the morning. An old clergyman had been brought to the Hall by Sir Claudius—a poor scared-looking old man—and he was to officiate.
Every arrangement for the wedding had been made, a trousseau provided for me and an elderly man found to give me away. The sisters of Sir Claudius were to be my bridesmaids, and children were to scatter flowers before me as I walked to and from the chapel.
I thought that I looked ghastly and quite plain-looking as I surveyed myself in a mirror, in my wedding-dress of white satin embroidered with gold, and a headdress and veil of costly lace, before the ceremony, but felt no regret on that account. Sleepless nights, a poor appetite and troubled thoughts are not calculated to enhance beauty, and I should have rejoiced if the sight of me had frightened away my unloved bridegroom.
The latter, dressed in a doublet of black velvet, embroidered with gold and various other adornments, looked coarser and more vulgar than ever. He strutted about, staring at people to see if they admired him and his bride.
'Did you ever see any one like her?' he said in a loud whisper to more than one of his companions. 'Beautiful as an angel, isn't she? And she is mine, mine, mine! And she is very much in love with me,' he had the audacity to add. 'Oh, yes, very much in love with me!'
The last time he said this was when he was waiting, with his best man, in the prettily decorated chapel.
I overheard him as I walked up the aisle, leaning on the man's arm who was to play the part of father and give me away. Then, for a moment, I awoke out of the stupor in which I was plunged while acting my part mechanically, and, raising my eyes, looked reproachfully at Sir Claudius. He shifted his eyes uneasily, and, with a sudden realization of what I was doing, I looked keenly around for some way of escape. I had prayed so very much that a way of escape would be opened for me out of the terrible tangle into which my life had got. Surely there must be some way of escape.
The little building was packed with the guests, the followers and the servants of Sir Claudius; behind me stood his sisters, my jailer-bridesmaids; before me was my enemy, soon to be transformed into my husband, unless by some bold stroke I could now, at the eleventh hour, avert the coming calamity. At that moment I perceived the lad Saul, standing by a door, watching me with eager eyes out of an almost colourless face, and as I looked at him I saw his lips saying, 'Wait,' though no sound fell from them.
I was certain that he said 'Wait,' although I was not learned in lip-reading, and, remembering that he had promised to try to save me from Sir Claudius, instantly resolved to delay my progress as much as possible.
For that purpose I stumbled over my dress, and fell upon my knees, in spite of my companion's efforts to keep me up. This occasioned a few moments' delay, for when I was on my feet again I clung to the arm on which I leaned, whispering that I felt faint.