'Water! Fetch water!' the order flew from lips to lips, and no one seemed to be able to carry it out, until a silver tankard of cold water was brought to me by the lad Saul.
Bowing low, as he offered it to me, he said in my ear—
'You have been deceived. Make delay. Do not say the words. Your deliverers are coming. They are on the way.'
The next moment a blow from the bridegroom's fist upon the poor lad's ear laid him senseless on the floor.
'How dare he speak to my bride! The varlet!' thundered Sir Claudius.
But I knelt down in reality now by poor Saul's side, trying to raise his head and open his collar, that he might breathe more freely.
They would not permit me to tend him. He was caught up by others and hurried away out of my sight.
'I refuse to marry you now, you cruel man!' I exclaimed.
But Sir Claudius merely smiled, and bade my conductor bring me forward.
There was a little confusion as the wedding party was being arranged before the Communion table, and I took advantage of it to say, in a low tone, to the old clergyman—
'I will not marry Sir Claudius. My promise to him was made under compulsion, and therefore it is not binding.'
The old man looked bewildered, startled. He had evidently no idea of this, and perhaps he only half heard me, for my voice was weak and low.
'It is all right. It is all right, I say,' cried Sir Claudius sharply. 'Proceed with the ceremony. Take no heed of a maiden's bashfulness.'
'It is not that,' I appealed to every one. 'I cannot——'
'Silence! Silence!' said more than one big, bullying voice from those who aided Sir Claudius, and they closed around me, making so much noise that my voice could not be heard.
They were all so absorbed that they did not hear loud shouts and cries outside, nor notice the entrance into the chapel of a little band of well-armed strangers, nor hear the call of 'Sir Claudius! Sir Claudius!' from the yard. Least of all did the bridegroom hear the tumult, for he was exerting himself to smother my remonstrances and compel me to take part in the service.
'Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?' asked the clergyman in quavering, uncertain tones. He was weak and old, in terror of Sir Claudius, and more than half persuaded that he had misunderstood me. 'Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her as long as ye both shall live?' The solemn question fell solemnly from the old man's lips, his eyes sought the bridegroom's face with great anxiety.
'I will!' cried Sir Claudius in loud, exultant tones. He looked round smilingly.
It was his hour of triumph.
'Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey and serve him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him as long as ye both shall live?'
'No,' I said, but the monosyllable was so low that none heard it. None of those around me I mean. There is One to whom a broken heart appeals more strongly than aught else.
'Say "I will,"' prompted the clergyman.
'No,' I said again more loudly, but again my utterance failed to reach the aged ears bent to listen.
'Say "I will,"' repeated the clergyman.
'I cannot,' I almost shrieked now in my agony and fear.
'You are a wicked, lying girl,' hissed the bridegroom in my ear. 'You promised to marry me.'
'But you deceived me,' ventured I.
'My dear,' said the clergyman gravely, 'try to collect yourself. Did you not come here into this chapel to be wedded to this man?'
'Yes—but——'
I thought of the man I loved, whose safety I imagined I had purchased by that daring promise to Sir Claudius, and, knowing from what Saul had said, that I had been deceived, was altogether overwhelmed with grief and misery. A mist gathered around me, the church grew dark; releasing my hand from the arm that held it, I stretched it towards the old clergyman, and then fell half-unconscious at his feet.
Instantly there was a tremendous noise in the chapel. Swords clashed, men shouted and fought wildly. Some one trod upon my dress almost upon me, and was hurled off by strong arms, which the next instant picked me up and placed me out of danger.
I heard Sir Claudius, in harsh but abject accents, begging for mercy, and, looking down—for I had been lifted into the gallery of the chapel—saw him on his knees before Sir Hubert Blair, who, brave and handsome, stood over him with his drawn sword.
'Are you a man?' asked my beloved with scorn. But, the next moment, before he could strike at him, if that was in his mind, a dozen sturdy men attacked Sir Hubert, and the fighting became so terrible that, in fear and horror, I again lost consciousness.
'Are we quite safe now, Betsy?'
'Yes, my dear mistress, we have got clean away from that gloomy Hall, with its half-wild dependents, who would like to have torn us to pieces I verily believe, and it's a comfort to think that our Sir Hubert gave that wicked Sir Claudius a mark to remember him by that will last all his lifetime——'
'What? What was that?' I asked feebly. For, though conscious now, I was feeling very weak, and the litter in which I lay swayed as it was being borne over bumpy, uneven roads.
'He cut off his left hand with one blow of his sword,' cried my woman exultingly, 'so that hand will never do any more mischief, mistress!'
'Poor wretch!' exclaimed I, shuddering.
'Poor, do you call him? It is not a vile enough word. Why, mistress, it was with that hand he boxed the ear of that poor lad who spoke to you in the chapel, thereby probably making him deaf for life.'
'Oh, I hope not! Poor Saul!'
'I have known of hard blows on the ear like that making people deaf for life,' continued Betsy volubly, 'and it is a cruel shame to give them.'
'Indeed it is! Oh! Betsy, how glad I am that I have escaped from the power of that man!' And I thanked God in my heart for my safe deliverance.
'I am deeply thankful, mistress,' and the tears came into Betsy's eyes, for she had a warm heart, full of affection for me and my brothers, having been our nurse for years before she became my maid.
'Where are we now, Betsy?' I asked presently, after trying in vain to piece together the disjointed fragments of events of which I had been conscious since the interrupted wedding in the chapel at Crossley Hall.
'On the high road to Brighthelmstone. Travelling as fast as we can towards our dear home!' cried Betsy delightedly. 'We have had enough of the great world, you and I, mistress, to last us all our lives. When Sir Hubert came hastily into Sion House that day you disappeared, declaring you had been kidnapped, and demanded a litter, horses and men, aye, and me also to ride inside and nurse you if you were ill—that he might go after you—Lady Jane saw him herself, and promised everything he asked. Then she added that she was herself expecting hourly to be sent for to the Tower. "It is not likely," she said, "that my cousin, Queen Mary, will suffer me to be at large, when my freedom might, any day, cause danger to herself; therefore if you succeed, as I trust you will, in rescuing my dear Margery, I pray you take her to her father's house, where she will be safer than either here at Sion House, or with me in the Tower. For my own sake," she said, "I would fain have her near me, but for hers I wish her down at Brighthelmstone with her own people."'
'Did Lady Jane say that?'
'Yes, mistress; I remember every word, and Sir Hubert agreed that he would take you to your home. He is therefore doing so.'
'Where is he?' I asked quickly.
'He is riding on before our litter, to see if the road is clear and safe.'
'I would fain speak with him.'
'Mistress, you cannot just now. He is out of sight and hearing. "Take care of your mistress," he said to me, "and I will ride on in front." There are other riders behind. We are well protected now. It was such a job to get hold of you, mistress,' continued Betsy, 'that we don't mean to lose you again. There was much fighting to do before we could get into the Hall, I can tell you; but, first of all, we found the Duke of Northumberland's men were not much good, and we had to travel ever so far to get some picked men, quite gentlemen some of them, to come over and help.'
'Then Sir Hubert never was a prisoner at Crossley Hall?' asked I, thinking of the man in the dungeon, and of all that I had gone through in order to get him liberated.
Betsy laughed at the idea. 'Sir Hubert said he had had a narrow escape of being taken prisoner when you were,' she said. 'There were six to one, but he fought valiantly, and they could not take him, though he was unable to rescue you.'
Lying there in the litter, listening to Betsy's talk and looking on her familiar face, whilst the sweet country air fanned me pleasantly, bringing with it, too—or I could fancy so—a breath of the salt sea air in which I had grown up and lived most of my life, I could almost fancy that the Wheel of Time had gone back a little, and I was once more in my father's litter with Betsy, leaving home for the first time for Sion House and the service of Lady Jane Grey. I had to pull myself together before I could realize that far from being in my father's litter going to Isleworth, I was in one of the Duke of Northumberland's litters, returning in it to my old home.
'You will like to see Master Jack and Master Hal again,' said Betsy cheerily, and of course your father and Master Montgomery too, not to mention Timothy and John and Joseph.'
'Yes, that I shall,' I said, but half absently, for though I was returning to them, there was another love drawing my heart away from them back to the more hazardous life in the great metropolis, wherein was my sweet mistress, Lady Jane. 'For my own sake, I would rather have her with me,' those had been her words about me, and it needed not long thinking about them on my part to make of them my law. Lady Jane would rather have me with her, therefore I must go to Lady Jane. I said so to Betsy, much to her amazement and consternation.
'But, mistress, dear mistress, consider,' she cried. 'Before this she has probably been taken to the Tower, where she will be a prisoner. It will be very different from what it was before,' she continued. 'She will be in another part of the Tower, away from the Royal Palace that she was in before, and they will never allow you to go to her, or, once you go,' she went on inconsequently, 'you will never be permitted to return. Your life won't be safe for a minute, when once you are amongst the State prisoners. They will burn you alive and behead you,' she continued wildly, tears rolling down her face at the idea, 'and then where will you be, my sweet, precious Mistress Margery?' and she caught hold of my hands as if she would keep me away from the Tower by main force.
And then my litter suddenly stopped, and Sir Hubert rode alongside, and, stooping over his horse's head, looked earnestly into my face.
'My dearest,' he said to me, lifting his hat with one hand and reining in his horse with the other, 'what is the matter?'
I told him that he was taking me in the wrong direction, for that I desired, above all things, to return to Lady Jane.
'Well, that is what I desire too,' he said instantly, 'or at least I wish to be in the neighbourhood of her father, that we may together discuss and plan measures——' He stopped short, looking suspiciously around. 'You understand?' he said.
Yes, I understood. He was still not without hope that Mary might be dethroned, and Lady Jane reinstated as Queen. What it is to be young! All things seem possible to the very young, especially when they are greatly desired.
'But Lady Jane Grey wished me to take you to your home, Margery,' he said, 'and indeed I know you would be safer there.'
'Yes,' said I, 'but that does not matter.'
'Would you not like to be back with Jack and Hal and your father?' he asked.
For a moment—I was so young and they were so very dear—I wavered. Then I made answer stoutly, 'I want,above all things, to return to my dear lady. If you love me, dearest, you will take me to her.'
'And if she chides me for disobedience?'
'I will bear the blame,' I said; 'I will bear all the blame.'
We had a little more talk about it, and then, the language of our hearts being one and the same, straightway turned about and retraced our steps, making a detour, that we might avoid the dangerous neighbourhood of Crossley Hall.
A couple of hours later, Sir Hubert, who had been riding on before, returned to us, saying anxiously, 'Margery, we are pursued. Quite a large company of horsemen have appeared in sight from the direction of Crossley Hall, and they are gaining upon us.'
'Oh,' cried I, 'what shall we do? It would be worse than death to fall again into the hands of Sir Claudius!'
'You never shall,' said Sir Hubert, 'whilst I live and a strong arm can prevent it.'
At that moment a solitary horseman, riding towards us from the opposite direction, stopped short, and, looking hard at us, exclaimed—
'Why, is it thou again? And still pursued by the rabble? Thou wilt be killed yet!'
'Master Jack Fish!' exclaimed I. 'You remember him, Hubert, and what a good friend he was to us when we were in that shed?'
'Oh, yes, I remember him perfectly,' and my dear one greeted him in a very friendly way, rapidly explaining the situation.
'Thou art in great danger,' said Jack Fish gravely. 'Thine enemy will stick at nothing to be revenged on thee. I caught a good glimpse of his horsemen when I was on that hill, and there are four times as many of them as there are of thee.'
'Whatshallwe do?' I exclaimed.
Jack Fish looked at me pityingly. 'Madam,' he said, 'thou in that litter art in the position of the greatest danger. Thy litter is a target towards which all will aim. Sir Knight, is it absolutely impossible to separate the lady from her litter?'
'Well, no,' replied Sir Hubert. 'Margery'—he turned to me—'can you ride well? Could you accompany us on horseback?'
'Yes. That I could!' I exclaimed. 'I have been used to riding from my babyhood. A man's saddle? Oh, yes, of course I can ride on that. I can ride without a saddle, if you like,' and I thought of the many gallops across the downs I had had in the old days with Hal and Jack.
'Hurrah! Bravo!' cried my lover triumphantly. 'Now we shall circumvent the enemy!' He was about to choose me a horse, when the sight of Betsy reminded him of her, and he asked, 'Your maid? Can she ride?'
'That I can, sir,' Betsy answered for herself. 'Am I not a farmer's daughter?'
'You will do well,' exclaimed Master Jack Fish, and with that, setting spurs to his horse, he galloped off, not caring for our pursuers to see him with us.
'He is a shrewd man and a good friend,' observed Sir Hubert. Then he quickly arranged that Betsy and I should ride two of his men's horses, whilst their owners rode behind two of the other men.
That done, the party broke up. Sir Hubert, accompanied by me and my woman, and followed by half his company, continuing straight forward on the road to London, whilst the other half of the men took the litter in the direction of Guildford.
In this way we fortunately escaped from our would-be captors, who, we afterwards heard, had a sharp encounter with the company escorting the litter, in which they were only beaten off with tremendous difficulty and the loss of the litter, which fell into their hands.
By the time we reached the vicinity of the outlying suburbs of London City another danger menaced. It was impossible for so large a company of horsemen to approach the metropolis unchallenged, and we were brought to a standstill at Ditton by the cry from two police officials—
'Halt, sirs! Halt! Are you for Queen Mary?'
A VOICE OF THUNDER DEMANDED, "ARE YOU FOR QUEEN MARY?"A VOICE OF THUNDER DEMANDED, "ARE YOU FOR QUEEN MARY?"
Now, we were none of us for Queen Mary, and we were all honest folk and true, who hated and abhorred a lie; there was nothing for it therefore but that we should hold our peace and try to rush from the position by galloping past our questioners, who, when they found that they were baulked, fired their pistols after us, but fortunately without doing any of our party a mischief.
'We shall have to separate,' said Sir Hubert when, at last, we deemed it safe to slacken our pace and pull up our steeds for a brief confabulation. 'Every moment that we are together now increases our danger, for news of us will fly round in every direction, and any moment we may be apprehended and taken before the magistrates—that is, if they can get hold of us. Once in Court,' he added, gravely, 'our fate is certain—I, for one, will never declare fealty to the Papist Mary.'
'Nor I,' said I, in whispered words, but he heard them, and, turning to me, said earnestly, 'You are a woman, and I pray you do not get mixed up with political matters, which might endanger your dear head.'
I could not make any rejoinder, for Sir Hubert's friends now began to discuss several matters, in which they wanted his guidance before parting from him. A born leader of men was my Hubert, and there was no hesitancy in his firm voice as he gave out peremptory advice and commands.
I fancy that I see him now, sitting erect on his fine horse, with enthusiasm and earnest hope lighting up his countenance, as, after listening to all, he quietly settled every knotty point in as few words as possible. Betsy's objections to being parted from me took him a little longer to overrule than everything else, but he would allow no one except himself to remain with me. It was only for a few hours, he said, and the smaller my party the safer would be my position. And he picked out a worthy man to escort Betsy into London, and take her to London Bridge, where we were to join her. However, Betsy would not consent to the plan until I also bade her authoritatively to say no more, but obey in every particular. Then she left me, weeping and declaring that she should see my face no more, for we should both perish by the dangers of the way.
'And when you arrive in London,' she went on, in her inconsequent way, 'people will recognize that you have been with Lady Jane Grey, when she was queen, and then you will be burnt and beheaded as well for high treason, or whatever they call it, and I shall have all the misery of returning to Sussex alone, to acquaint your father with the fearful tidings!'
When our company was broken up into twos and threes, Sir Hubert and I rode on at a brisk pace, and did not draw rein until we reached the River Thames at Kingston, a very pretty little town.
The glory of the brilliant summer day was waning then; the sunset was obscured and clouded over by dark clouds; only its reflection lingered a little over the silvery waters of the Thames.
'We cannot reach London to-day,' said I, looking inquiringly at my companion.
I had been so happy riding along by his side that I had not realized that even the longest day comes to an end at last and night will follow. But he—he should have thought of that.
'No. Of course not. I have ascertained that Sir William Wood and Lady Caroline are staying with some friends at a house at Kingston. It is somewhere near the river. I thought that you would like to stay the night with Lady Caroline.'
'Oh, yes, I should,' I replied, cheerfully, for it was very pleasant to think of being with a gentlewoman again, after all the rough experiences I had been through.
'If only I could find the place!' exclaimed Sir Hubert. 'We shall attract observation if we go about on horseback seeking it. News will arrive here, if it has not already arrived, of what happened at Ditton, and we shall be arrested on suspicion.'
'What shall we do then?'
'Leave our horses at an inn, and take a walk along the riverside until we find the house where our friends are. I know it is a house by the river because I have been there.'
I made no objection to this, and we went to an inn, where they were pleased to take our horses, as also to serve us with light refreshment, of ale and bread and cheese for Sir Hubert and milk and cake for me, after hurriedly partaking of which we went out and walked down the street.
As we did so I noticed a little group of men standing near the river were regarding my companion with great curiosity, but concluded that this was due to the fine manly presence and dignified mien of Sir Hubert.
It was a little startling, however, to find that, while we were searching for the house we wanted, we occasionally encountered one or another of these individuals, apparently watching us with interest.
'Those men get upon my nerves,' I said at last. 'We meet them everywhere.'
Sir Hubert laughed.
'I have been thinking that the men of Kingston have a strange similarity of appearance,' he said. 'Can they possibly be the same men?'
I answered, 'Yes, I am sure of it. And I do not like to see them so frequently.'
'But who is this?' exclaimed Sir Hubert with delight.
It was Sir William Wood, who, coming suddenly round a corner, almost ran into my dear knight's arms.
'The very man I want!' cried he. 'You have been long in coming, Hubert, my friend!'
'And now that I am here, before we discuss anything, there is this lady, Mistress Margery Brown, to bring to a place of safety for the night. I hope Lady Caroline is at Kingston.'
'She is,' replied Lady Caroline's husband, shaking hands cordially with me, 'but I must tell you that we are hiding here. Our hostess, Lady Mary Peterson, dared not have us staying with her openly. Even now I have only ventured to leave the house by a subterranean passage from the cellars to yonder clump of willows by the river, and if you wish to remain over the night with us you will have to accompany me that way. But who are those men?' He asked the question with anxiety, pointing as he did so to two of the men who were following us about.
They stood near a thick hedge, which partly screened them from observation.
'Oh, those! I have an account to settle with them,' cried Sir Hubert angrily, at once giving chase to the rascals.
There was a spice of boyishness always about Sir William, and now, like a boy, he forgot all about me and ran off to aid Sir Hubert in the pursuit.
I was left alone, and neither Sir Hubert nor Sir William heard my pitiful little cry—
'Oh, do not leave me!'
By the light of the moon, which had now risen, I saw my escort disappear, with feelings of great misgiving, and sat down disconsolately upon a big boulder by the river side.
It was very lonely there. The water flowed placidly by, with scarcely a murmur. A corncrake in a field behind made mournful music, with monotonous persistence. A dog howled somewhere on the other side of the river. From the town behind us proceeded subdued sounds of horses' hoofs, men's voices, the clashing of steel and, presently, the ringing of the curfew bell.
What a long time my knights were in catching, or frightening, or punishing the spies, if the men were spies, and it seemed evident that they were. Supposing that they had run in the direction of their fellows, and the two knights following them were caught in a trap, overpowered by numbers and taken to prison for rebelling against Queen Mary, what could I do all by myself?
I was horribly frightened, and clasped my hands and strained my eyes in my endeavour to see one or other of my knights returning for me. But in vain. No one was visible. Should I go forward and look for them? No; better to remain where they had left me, lest I missed them altogether.
I sat still, leaning my head upon my hand, and tried to wait as patiently as I could. Would that dog never cease howling? What was that approaching on the river? A boat? It must be, for now the soft beating of oars upon the water was plainly to be heard.
Oh, why did not Sir Hubert, or at least Sir William, return? There were men in the boat—four men, two were rowing. Why, at a gesture from the one sitting in the stern of the boat, did the oarsmen stop rowing? Now they were approaching the bank where I sat. They must have seen me, and indeed my figure, silhouetted against the sky, must have been conspicuous.
They were getting out now—at least two of the men were—and coming towards me.
But what was this? Oh joy! The men whom I now saw more clearly were none other than my two good knights, returning to me in all haste.
Sir Hubert seized my trembling hands.
'You have been left too long, my love!' he said. 'But indeed we could not help it. What do you think? The men we ran after were no foes, after all. Far from it, they were friends. When we had knocked them down, and they found out who we were, mostly from Sir William, whom they had seen before, they informed us that they belonged to a small party of men that the Duke of Suffolk had sent out here to look for me. They had come down to Kingston by boat, and were hoping to meet with me and take me to London City by water.'
'Then that was why they stared so hard at us, and followed us about?' I said inquiringly.
'Exactly. They were not sure that it was I, until Sir William and I had knocked a little sense into them!'
'Shall you go with them?' I asked. 'And I, what shall I do?'
'Well, you mast come too. You want to be with Lady Jane. I think that I had better take you to her father, whom the queen has pardoned and set free. He will know best how to get you into the Tower, and to his daughter.'
'But it is night,' I said.
Sir Hubert was eager to go that very moment to the Duke, but, looking down upon me, he suddenly perceived my weariness and weakness.
'Poor Margery!' he said, with infinite tenderness, 'you are worn out! What shall we do with her, Sir William?'
'Leave her with me,' said Sir William at once. 'I will take her straight to Lady Caroline, and we will all three follow you to London to-morrow, probably by water, as that will attract the least observation.'
After a hurried discussion we agreed to this, and Sir Hubert, who I saw must have received some political information which greatly excited him, took a hasty, though affectionate, leave of me there, by the Thames, within sight of Kingston Bridge, which was so soon to be the scene of a very daring exploit. And we parted, little knowing what was to happen before we met again, he going to the boat to be rowed down to London City, I going with Sir William through the subterranean passage to the great house, where Lady Caroline received me as a sister, and assisted me to bed with her own hands.
I was so tired that I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. But my dreams were troubled. For in them, over and over again, I saw Sir Hubert in a boat, pulling against the stream, and unable to get on, whilst I, standing on the river bank, besought him to make haste to Lady Jane, who in the Tower was in sore need of succour. And still he tried to go to her, but in vain; the boat heaved and tossed, but did not advance at all, in spite of every effort. And I wept in my sleep, because he could not go to Lady Jane.
'Oh, help me!' I implored. 'Help me to get into the Tower!'
The Court physician to whom I appealed shook his head gravely.
'It is a difficult matter for an outsider to get in there,' he said, 'and, if I mistake not, you are one who would be liable to be suspected, by reason of your having been there before with the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey.'
'Then you remember me? I thought you would. I am Margaret Brown,' I faltered.
'Mistress Margaret Brown,' said he, very gently, 'I will give you one word of advice, and that is, go home to your friends.'
'Alas!' I said, wringing my hands, 'I have no friend—save one—so dear as she who is imprisoned in the Tower. Help me to get to her, Dr. Massingbird, I implore you. She said that it would be a comfort to her to have me there, and she is in sore need of comfort!'
'Poor lady! Poor young lady! So sinned against, and yet so innocent; and made a tool of by that wicked man who has met with his just fate. I mean Northumberland.'
'Yes,' said I. 'It was he and his ambition that ruined my dear lady.'
We were standing talking together in Thames Street, not far from the Bulwark Gate of the great Tower of London. For a week I had been making many endeavours to get into the Tower, but, owing to the great precautions which were being taken against treachery—especially during Queen Mary's residence there—every attempt of mine to effect an entrance was in vain. I had found Betsy all right on London Bridge, where she stayed twelve hours waiting for me, in spite of every effort made to dislodge her from her position, and she and I were lodging, with the Woods, in apartments in the Strand.
Sir William Wood and Lady Caroline had no power to assist me to get into the Tower; they were obliged to keep as quiet as possible, only going out at night, owing to Sir William's partisanship of Lady Jane, whilst, for the same reason, Sir Hubert Blair, too, was compelled to remain hidden until certain plans were matured. He could not help me, and indeed I had not seen him since we parted on Kingston Bridge. As for the Duke of Suffolk, he was quite unable to assist me to go to his daughter, for, having been liberated after two or three days' imprisonment, owing to the intercession of his wife who prostrated herself before Mary, pleading that he was delicate and that his health would suffer if he were not set free, upon which Her Majesty graciously forgave him, he was most ungratefully busying himself with secret schemes for ousting her from the throne and reinstating Queen Jane. Always careless of the latter's feelings, whether she had her favourite gentlewoman with her in her imprisonment, or not, was a matter of indifference to him. Others who had made my acquaintance during the queen's short reign cut me dead, or treated me with scanty civility upon my reappearing on the scene. There was not one of those fine Court ladies who had formerly professed to admire and love Queen Jane who would lift a hand to help her now that she was in affliction and imprisonment. I was thinking sadly about this, as I returned from my last fruitless effort to gain ingress into the Tower, when I met one of the physicians who had attended Queen Jane during her illness in the royal palace. He was a truly benevolent man, and although he was evidently going somewhere in a hurry, he got out of his coach when I called to him, to inquire what I wanted.
'I am very hurried just now,' he said, temporizing, 'The fact is Queen Mary cannot sleep; evil, unpleasant thoughts trouble her, from the moment in which she lies down in bed until it is well nigh time to rise again, and potions and drugs do not cure the malady. But I bethought me of King Saul, to whom David played when he was distracted in that manner, until the evil spirits no longer troubled him, so I told Her Majesty that I would slip out of the Tower and go and fetch a young female singer, who would sing to her so beautifully that she would fall into a natural sleep. I heard a girl singing very sweetly in a friend's house in the Strand once, but whether I shall be able to find her or not I know not. It is growing late. The curfew bell has rung; the streets will not be very safe to be out in soon, and yet I must try to find the girl, if Queen Mary is to sleep.'
A bold thought came to me as he was speaking. The good physician was in search of a girl who could sing well, who in fact could sing Queen Mary to sleep, and I, who could sing well, wanted above all things to get into the Tower; it therefore seemed conclusive that I must be the girl to sing for the queen. But Queen Mary? I would rather that it had been Queen Jane.
'Doctor,' I said entreatingly, 'I am your girl. Your sweet singer, you know,' I hurriedly explained, seeing that he did not understand. 'I can sing very sweetly, though I say it myself. Take me to Queen Mary.'
'You!' The good man looked amazed. 'I am afraid it would not do,' he said. 'Supposing now that Her Majesty found out that you had been in the Tower with Queen Jane?'
'I don't think that that would make so much difference,' I said. 'A singer may sing to any one.'
After a little more demur, to my intense satisfaction, Dr. Massingbird consented to take me, only stipulating that I should conceal my real name and position from the queen, and appear before her as a professional singer only. He also made me promise that I would do Queen Mary no harm in any way when admitted into her presence—for these were days in which treachery was common.
Under his care, escorted by him, in scarcely an hour from the time in which we met in Thames Street, I was entering the royal apartments of the ancient palace[1] in the mighty Tower of London.
[1] This palace of the old kings of England has long since disappeared. It was at the south-east of the Tower.—ED.
I must confess candidly that, whilst outwardly appearing dignified and calm, I was inwardly in a state of great trepidation and timidity. Always overawed by the vastness and gloom of the mighty fortress, even when there with Queen Jane, while she was in power and every effort was made to display its riches and magnificence, it can easily be understood, that I was many times more so now when, late at night under an assumed character, yet at heart an adherent of the imprisoned ex-queen, I ventured alone, except for the presence of the physician, himself a servant, into the palace of the reigning monarch. Curious glances were cast at me by guards and sentinels, squires and dames, lords and ladies, as we ascended the great oaken staircase and passed through a long gallery into a spacious hall, with narrow Gothic windows of stained glass, hung with tarnished cloth of gold curtains. Here the furniture was large and splendid, the windows were in deep recesses, whilst there was a gallery round the upper part of the room.
'Wait a little here, until I return,' said my guide, signing to me to sit down on an old oak chair.
The physician went away, leaving me, as I at first thought, alone, but, in a little while, my eyes became accustomed to the dim light, and I saw that in some of the embrasures by the windows, men and women sat, or stood engaged in earnest conversation. A few of them appeared to be foreigners; from their dress I imagined they were Spaniards, and two or three of these were monks, the sight of whom there recalled to my mind Sir Hubert Blair's prediction in Woodleigh Castleyard, that if Mary reigned, the country would be plunged into Roman Catholicism and brought into alliance with Spain, upon which a door would be thrown open for the Inquisition, with all its horrors.
At that moment I heard a girl, standing in a recess near, saying to a tall man, who from his dress and bearing seemed to be of noble birth—
'The queen means well. She is cautious about beginning, but in time she will do all that she is bidden by the Holy Church. At present she is racked with indecision and gloomy forebodings——'
'But she has the iron will of her father, King Hal—you see him there in that portrait, painted by Holbein, over the chimneypiece. What a man that was!' exclaimed the other.
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
'Mary has a very different creed from his, fortunately,' she said, 'and she hankers after Spain—all may yet be well for our Church!'
I heard no more, for at that moment Dr. Massingbird, returning, accompanied by a lady of the bedchamber, desired me to go with her to Queen Mary, who had already retired for the night.
'I have done all I could for you,' added the physician, aside, in a low tone. 'I have brought you here. But you will have to get out again as you best can, for I cannot dance attendance upon you any longer.'
I tried to thank him, and to say that I should be all right, but, not listening to me, he said—
'I have announced you as a poor singer named Meg Brown! having clipped off a bit of your name. God grant you may come to no harm, my child!'
Then he hurried away.
I followed the lady to Queen Mary's bedchamber, walking silently after her into the splendidly furnished bedroom, where I had been before with Queen Jane. How it reminded me of her! But this was a very different woman lying upon the great bed, with its silk and gold counterpane.
Mary was about forty years old—a little woman, slender and delicate in appearance. She did not in the least resemble her father, King Henry VIII. Her features were not bad, and her eyes were bright—so bright indeed that they frightened me when, all at once, I discovered them fixed upon my face.
'Who are you?' demanded the queen, in a voice which was thick and loud like a man's.
I was still more alarmed, and felt at that moment as if those bright, piercing eyes were looking into the very depths of my heart.
I knelt for one moment, but quickly rose from the ground, with a prayer in my heart that I might be forgiven bowing in the house of Rimmon and before the wrong queen.
'I am Meg Brown, madam. At your service,' I said, adding, as she remained quiet, 'a poor young singing-girl.'
'You don't seem to have much boldness in speech, Meg. How, then, can you have the courage to sing?'
I clasped my hands tightly together, with an inward prayer for help, and, in a moment, from the extremity of fear passed to a state of blessed confidence.
'Only hear me,' I said. 'I can sing, madam.'
'Can you?' The piercing eyes sought to read my innermost soul.
'Yes, madam. Once, when I was a child, Master Montgomery, our curate, took me to see a poor woman who had lost her baby and was almost dead with grief. She could not weep, nor sleep, nor eat; the trouble was killing her. But I sang to her, and she cried like a child, and prayed to God and recovered. And another time,' I spoke more clearly now, 'when some serving-men and women had a great quarrel, and were fighting in a truly terrible manner, I stood up and sang, and sang until they fell upon their knees and burst out into tears and prayers. After that, Master Montgomery always fetched me to sing to people when he could do nothing with them.'
'Wonderful!' said Queen Mary, in a rather satirical manner. 'But those were only poor folk; it remains to be seen whether you can sing to a queen.'
'God,' said I, half to myself and half to her, 'Who helped me to sing to His poor, can help me to sing to'—I was going to say His queen, but substituted 'a queen.'
'And is not the poor queen His, too?' asked the woman, who was reading my heart.
'He knows,' I said, trembling a little, lest she should take umbrage at my daring. 'He knows them that are His.'
Mary did not say anything to this. She turned her head away from me with a peevish movement.
I was afraid to speak, and therefore waited in silence until she spoke again.
'Sing to me,' she said.
'What shall I sing?'
'I am greatly troubled,' she replied at length. 'Sing what you sang to that poor mother who had lost her child.'
It was one of Martin Luther's cradle songs, translated for me, when a child, by Master Montgomery, who fitted it to a tender little tune of his own composing. I loved it well, but it seemed a strange song to sing to the mightiest woman in the land, the Queen of England. Perhaps, however, as she said she was greatly troubled, she might be in need of comforting. I thought of that, and standing there, with my hands tightly clasped before me, sang as I had never sung before—
Sleep well, my dear, sleep safe and free;The holy angels are with thee,Who always see thy Father's face,And never slumber nights nor days.
There was a quick movement on the bed, and Mary opened wide eyes of amazement, but she did not interrupt, and I went on singing, until, gaining confidence, my voice rang out clearly and triumphantly in the last verse—
Sleep now, my dear, and take thy rest;And if with riper years thou'rt blestIncrease in wisdom, day and night,Till thou attain'st th' eternal light!
For a little time there was silence in the room, when I ended, and then, with a heaving sigh, the deep voice came from the bed—
'I'm only a frail woman, though I am queen, and I need wisdom. But go on singing, child. Go on singing.'
I began a favourite hymn of Master Montgomery's, and it brought to my mind so many memories that sobs trembled in my voice, as I sang—
When my dying hour must be,Be not absent then from me;In that dreadful hour I pray,Jesus, come without delay,See and set me free!When thou biddest me departWhom I cleave to with my heart,Lover of my soul, be near,With Thy saving Cross appear,Show Thyself to me.
Mary lay so still when I ended that I thought she was asleep; but no, she was awake, and as I looked closely at her, I perceived that tears were slowly stealing down her face.
I fell on my knees by the bedside, but I was not kneeling to her, as she seemed to think, when opening her eyes and looking at me, she said, in a softer tone than before—
'Child, do you want something?'
Did I want something? Yes, I wanted something so much, that now when the time had come for asking for it, I could not say a word,
'Your singing is marvellously sweet,' continued Queen Mary. 'Yet it has not sent me to sleep. I should like to hear you every night. Will you stay here in the palace and sing to me every night? You shall have a fair wage.'
'I do not want a wage,' I answered, thanking her. 'But I crave a boon at your hands, madam.'
'And that is——'
'That I may be allowed to go to Lady Jane Grey——'
'Lady Jane! My cousin? Methinks that you are a bold girl to ask that,' exclaimed the queen, starting up in bed and speaking very angrily.
I rose slowly, and, with clasped hands, stood before her, pleading my love for her sweet cousin and beseeching that I might be allowed to attend Lady Jane in her prison. I described her youth, her innocence, and the great unwillingness with which she had permitted herself to be dragged into the dangerous position of queen, and also mentioned the quickness and satisfaction with which she abandoned the undesired sovereignty.
'You plead well, Meg,' said the Queen, when I stopped, partly because my breath failed, 'and you have a wonderful voice for singing, aye, and for speaking. If I let you go to Lady Jane, and allow you to attend her in her prison, will you come and sing to me when I require you?'
'I will. I will,' I exclaimed delightedly. 'I will sing you to sleep whenever you like, madam.'
'Nay, not to sleep, Meg, not to sleep,' said Queen Mary. 'As a promoter of sleep you are a failure, for your singing awakens me out of the sleep of years, making me feel as if I should never want to sleep again.'
She then rang a hand-bell, and on the entrance of a gentlewoman, commanded that I should be taken to the Brick Tower, to attend upon the Lady Jane Grey.
I did not find Lady Jane in bed, in the gloomy quarters where she was confined. Separated from her husband, who was imprisoned in the Beauchamp Tower, and left entirely alone, she was passing the time in prayer, meditation, and studying the philosophic and holy writings, from which she imbibed deep draughts of resignation and wisdom.
Like a child exhausted with play after having acted a difficult part, and like one worn with the strain that has been put upon her in the battle of life, she was simply waiting at the foot of the Cross, and I found her on her knees, weeping gently as she prayed.
The warder, who conducted me to her apartment, retired, bolting the door after him, and I stood by it a little while, unwilling to interrupt my dear lady and noticing with dismay the iron-barred windows of the room and the stone walls, partly concealed by tapestry. I saw also that the furniture—a table and some chairs—was of carved oak. and the deep window-seats were covered with velvet, as was also the seat of the oak chair before which the poor young prisoner knelt.
Perhaps she heard some one enter—certainly the warder made noise enough as he closed the door—and therefore, ending her prayer, she arose and looked round.
The next moment I was folded in her arms, and we were crying together.
'Oh, Margery! My poor Margery!' she said, at last, when we were a little calmer. 'Where have you been? Why, dear,' looking at me more closely, 'what have they done to you? You look so pale and thin! How did you get into the Tower?'
'It took me a week to get in,' I said, beginning to answer her last question first, and then, as we sat together on one of the window seats, I proceeded to tell her all that had befallen me since I was carried off from Isleworth.
Lady Jane was very sympathizing when she heard of all my danger, distress and trouble in Crossley Hall, and was delighted that my valiant knight, Sir Hubert Blair, had rescued me, with a strong hand. But when I proceeded to tell her that he was now in London bent upon fighting for her and deep in schemes with her father, to bring about a change of monarchy, she was greatly concerned and not a little distressed.
'Why did not you stop them, Margery?' she said. 'You know so well that I do not think it right to be queen, when my cousins Mary and Elizabeth are living. You are well aware how I disliked to be queen, and how gladly I gave it up.'
'Yes, madam, I told Sir Hubert Blair all,' replied I, 'but he said that they looked at the matter in this light. There were the people of England to consider, the multitude of human beings who, in the one case, would be plunged back into Roman Catholicism, in the other would enjoy the Reformed faith, and freedom to worship God in their own tongue and read His Divine Word for themselves. He said, madam, that you must not think of your own wishes, but must sacrifice yourself for the good of the people.'
I thought I had stated Sir Hubert's argument clearly and well, yet Lady Jane shook her head.
'We must not do evil that good may come,' she said. 'And have I any right to take another person's possession because it seems to me that I can administer it better than the rightful owner?'
'But think of the suffering that may come upon our good Protestants if Mary reigns?' I urged. 'They say that she will do everything that her Roman Church enjoins, and the horrors—the horrors of the Inquisition—may be brought to this land of ours,' and I poured out all that Sir Hubert had related of that horrible institution.
'God grant that it may never come to England!' said my mistress, when I ended. After which she added, thoughtfully, 'I think that Queen Mary is not so bigoted as some people imagine, and she has behaved very leniently in several ways since her elevation to the throne. She forgave my father and set him free, and, although the Emperor Charles, to whom she looks up so much, has advised her to have me executed, she has refused——'
'I should think so!' I interrupted. 'Oh, dear madam, what a wicked wretch that emperor must be!'
'People always look at things from their own point of view, or the point of view of those dearest to them,' said my mistress. 'The Emperor Charles, considering the welfare of Mary, sees that while I live there will be always a danger of some enthusiasts, like your Sir Hubert, starting up to try and put me on the throne again—and in that case, besides the danger to the reigning monarch, there would be many slain, much blood would be shed, and you must remember Sir Hubert's argument about the duty of considering the welfare of the many. If my death will put away this danger to so many, then I had better die, dear Margery.'
'No! No! No!' I cried. 'It would be the foulest shame in the world for one so innocent and good as you to be killed—and remember your argument, they must not do evil that good may come.'
Lady Jane smiled.
'Well done, little Margery!' she said, adding, 'Now tell me how you managed to get into the Tower.'
I told her, upon which she remarked—
'You see Mary has a good heart—you touched it with your singing, and she allowed you to come to me,' adding, to my delight, 'To have you with me is the one thing I wanted, next to my natural wish to be with my husband. They have separated us, you know, Margery. He is imprisoned in another tower.'
'Itishard,' I said.
'And I have great anxiety about him,' went on my dear lady. 'Doubtless the priests are endeavouring to convert him to Romanism, and since they succeeded with his father——'
'Madame, did the Duke of Northumberland give up his faith?'
'Yes,' she answered sadly. 'He was not brave, not heroic; he gave way on all sides when death was imminent. But they have killed him. He is dead, and we must say nothing, except good, of the dead.'
She quoted a Latin proverb to that effect,[1] but it was strange to my ears, and I have so far forgotten it as not to be able to write it down.
[1]De mortuis nil nisi bonum.—ED.
I could not help thinking that Northumberland's ambition was in reality his religion, but could not say so after those words of Lady Jane's.
'He was beheaded on Tower Hill,' she continued, 'and oh! God grant that the same fate may not befall my dear lord!'
The days passed slowly and quietly for me and my dear lady in her prison in the Tower. Queen Mary did not send for me to come and sing to her any more. She went to stay for a while at Richmond Palace, and, then again, we heard that she was at Whitehall, and sometimes she was in her palace in the Tower, but that made no difference to us. Certain privileges were accorded by her to Lady Jane, and of course I shared them. For instance, we were allowed to walk across the green to St. Peter's Church occasionally, where Lady Jane much enjoyed the fine music, and liked to join in the services. On these occasions she would look up at the Beauchamp Tower, as we passed it, wondering how her husband was and what he was doing. My heart ached for her many a time, when I saw her wistful face upturned to the windows of the Tower, as she vainly tried to see the face she loved. At least Mary might have permitted them to meet occasionally, if she could not permit them to enjoy each other's constant society. But a day was coming, though I knew it not then, when they would be allowed to be together, at least for a short time. Lady Jane was also permitted to walk in the queen's garden—this was a pleasure to her, who so dearly loved fresh air and flowers. Sometimes she would talk about the gardens at Sion House, and the Thames flowing by them, and wonder if we should ever go there again. At other times she would tell me about Bradgate, where she had been brought up and where her tutor, Mr. Roger Ascham, used to marvel because she preferred to sit reading Plato to joining her young companions in the sport of hunting. It was well that she preferred books, as they were now her solace when it would not have been possible for her to have had the other pastime.
In the beginning of October Lady Jane was allowed to meet her husband once more, but the occasion was most melancholy, for they were both being conducted to the Guildhall, together with Archbishop Cranmer and Lord Ambrose Dudley, Lord Guildford Dudley's brother, to be tried on the charge of high treason. Lady Jane pleaded guilty, and they were all convicted of high treason and condemned to death as traitors. Lady Jane's sentence was that she was to be beheaded or burnt to death, at the queen's pleasure, and Judge Morgan, who pronounced it, was afterwards so deeply afflicted in his mind at the remembrance that he died, raving.
Many people were exceedingly grieved for the poor young creature, who had been made a tool of by her ambitious relatives, sorely against her will, and the touching grace and meekness of her demeanour, as well as her misfortunes, caused them to follow her weeping and lamenting her hard fate, as she was being reconducted to the Tower.
The queen, however, appears to have had no intention at that time of carrying out Lady Jane's sentence, nor indeed that of the others who were condemned with her, but thought it better to please her partisans by keeping them in prison under sentence of death. To Lady Jane, indeed, Mary granted more indulgences, such as permitting her to walk on Tower Hill, where I always accompanied her.
The autumn passed slowly into winter. I often thought of my beloved, wondering what he was doing and dreading inexpressibly to hear of his one day being brought into the Tower, through the Traitors' Gate. I wrote to him two or three letters, sending them off as I found opportunity, in which I told him guardedly, lest they should fall into the wrong hands, that Lady Jane, above all things, desired that no effort should be made to replace her in what she felt had been a false position. But I received no sign that my dear knight ever got my poor little epistles, and indeed it would not have been strange if they had never reached his hands.
At length, however, I heard of him. One day there was a great commotion in the Tower, armed men springing up everywhere, guns bristling on all sides, the defences of the whole fortress being looked to, and military commands being called out in all directions.
'What is it, warder? What is happening?' Lady Jane inquired, in her gentle way.
Then the warder informed us that they were expecting that the Tower would be assailed by a large force, which was coming to attack it, under a leader who had begun to carry all before him.
'Who is he?' asked Lady Jane.
'Madam, he is a knight, who owns property and a castle in Kent, where he began the rebellion. His name,' added the man, 'is Sir Thomas Wyatt, and he is accompanied by several gentlemen, and amongst them Sir Hubert Blair, who is notoriously active against the Government.'
'Margery,' said my dear lady, when the warder had retired, 'if we could have prevented this! If we only could have prevented it!'
'I wrote to Sir Hubert Blair again and again after I knew your wishes,' said I, 'but I think he cannot have received my missives, or perchance his friend, Sir Thomas Wyatt, heeds not his advice.'
Even as I spoke I was hoping that these valiant knights, who were carrying all before them, would indeed succeed in their great enterprise.
'There will be a terrible amount of bloodshed!' sighed my mistress.
'God will be on the side of the right,' said I.
'Yes. On the sideof the right,' she rejoined with emphasis. Then she continued, with another sigh, 'If this fails, my life will be the forfeit, and justly, too, for the words of those who said Queen Mary would not be safe upon her throne whilst I live will have proved true.'
Another time, as we were returning from St. Peter's Chapel, she paused, and, looking at a certain spot on the green, where a scaffold was wont to be erected for the more private execution of State prisoners, the tears came into her eyes, and I knew that she was apprehending a similar fate.
However, I had every confidence in my brave and valiant hero, and often lay awake at night, thinking of all that would happen when he and the Duke of Suffolk once more placed my Lady Jane upon the throne.
I thought, when all that was settled, and my dear lady, with her husband by her side, no longer depended so entirely on her Margery for companionship and love, and my beloved, with his work accomplished, had leisure to be happy, he and I might have time to get married, and then we would go together to see my home and my dear old father, Hal and Jack, and, too, Master Montgomery in his parsonage, and the villagers and our servants. After which Sir Hubert would take me to his own beautiful place, Harpton Hall, where we should live together in great happiness and prosperity. But I am glad to think that I always said to myself, 'If the Lord will,' and resolved that, even if things went contrary and we did not have quite such a good time, I would be resigned and thankful for smaller mercies.
But of what was really going to happen I had not the faintest conception.
I heard full particulars afterwards of the insurrection, but at the time, shut up in the Tower, knew little of its course.
Sir Thomas Wyatt, though professedly a Romanist, having seen the horrors of the Inquisition in Spain, had risen in revolt against Mary because of her Spanish marriage. He first raised the standard of revolt in Kent, where many joined him, and amongst them Sir Hubert Blair, who thought he could thus best serve Lady Jane, whilst the Duke of Suffolk, who was openly for his daughter, was making a similar attempt in the Midlands, and Sir Peter Carew in the West; the latter's object being to place the Princess Elizabeth on the throne.
At Rochester, where Sir Thomas Wyatt, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Sir Hubert Blair, encamped in the ruins of the old castle, and held the bridge with cannon and well-armed Kentish men, there was a great scene. The Duke of Norfolk, with a detachment of Guards from London, was to have forced the bridge, but a certain Captain Brett, who was deputed by him to lead five hundred men against it, turning, addressed his followers thus—
'Masters, we are about to fight against our native countrymen of England and our friends, in a quarrel unrightful and wicked; for they, considering the great miseries that are like to fall upon us if we shall be under the rule of the proud Spaniards, or strangers, are here assembled to make resistance to their coming, for the avoiding of the great mischiefs likely to alight not only upon themselves, but upon every one of us and the whole realm, wherefore I think no English heart ought to say against them. I and others will spend our blood in their quarrel.'
When they heard this, his men shouted, 'A Wyatt! A Wyatt!' and, instead of turning their guns against the bridge, turned them against their own Duke of Norfolk's forces.
The duke and his officers fled, and Brett and his men, crossing the bridge, joined Wyatt's soldiers, followed by three-fourths of the queen's troops and more.
Meantime, the Duke of Norfolk and his officers galloped to London, which by their news was thrown into a state of alarm and consternation. There were meetings of the city and military authorities, and Queen Mary, sceptre in hand, addressed them with great spirit, promising that if her contemplated marriage with Philip of Spain did not meet with the approval of Parliament she would give it up. She also offered a reward of lands, with £100 a year, to any one who would take or kill Sir Thomas Wyatt.
For some reason—could it be that Sir Hubert Blair was persuading him not to go on?—the latter did not push forward with that speed which characterized the commencement of his enterprise. His forces had increased to 15,000 men, but he did not reach London until the words of the queen and the news of the dispersion of the two other bands of rebels, under the Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, had restored the courage of the citizens.
Sir Thomas Wyatt entered Southwark, and proceeded to the end of London Bridge, where he found the drawbridge raised, the gates closed, and a strong armed force ready to resist his entrance. This was a painful surprise for him, as he had been led to believe that the Londoners were on his side; and he must have hoped that they would still come over to him, for he waited two days without beginning the attack.
On the third day, however, the garrison of the Tower began to cannonade him, which resulted in such mischief being done to the houses in the vicinity that the people implored Sir Thomas to go away with his troops.
Unwilling to distress them, and hoping to be able to cross the bridge at Kingston and proceed thence to Westminster and London, where it was not so well defended, Sir Thomas and my dear knight began the march to Kingston.
I was told, afterwards, that a London merchant met them on that march, and that Sir Thomas said to the merchant, 'I pray you commend me to your citizens, and say to them from me, that when liberty was offered to them they would not receive it, neither would they admit me within their gates, who, for their freedom and for relieving them from the oppression of foreigners, would frankly spend my blood in this cause and quarrel.'
Sir Thomas Wyatt reached Kingston about four o'clock in the afternoon, where he found part of the bridge broken down and an armed force waiting to oppose his passage. Bringing up his artillery, however, he swept the enemy from the opposite bank, and, having hastily made the bridge passable again with the help of boats and barges, his troops crossed over it. It was eleven o'clock at night by the time this was done—had his aide-de-camp a moment to spare for the thought of that other night, when I waited so long for him by the river there?—and his men were thoroughly exhausted; but he pushed on. They marched all through that cold February night, along muddy roads, and, after being delayed by having to remount a heavy gun that had broken down, reached Hyde Park in broad daylight, where the Earl of Pembroke awaited them with the royal forces. Lord Clinton, at the head of the cavalry, had taken up his position, with a battery of cannon, on the rising ground opposite the Palace of St. James.
The morning was dismal, dark clouds gathered overhead, and it rained more or less heavily. Sir Thomas' men were worn out, and many had deserted. Nothing daunted, however, the brave knight divided them into three companies, and at the head of the largest division, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, charged Clinton's cavalry with such effect that it seemed to give way. This, however, was only a stratagem. Clinton allowed Sir Thomas, his aide-de-camp and four hundred of his followers to pass, then he closed his ranks, cutting off the main body from their commander.
'In all Wyatt's proceedings,' says an historian, 'he displayed great bravery, but little military experience or caution.'
His main forces, now without a leader, wavered, but kept together, and endeavoured to reach the city another way. They said afterwards that Sir Thomas Wyatt did not appear to know that, having left the body of his army behind, his enemies were now between him and it, and he dashed along, past Charing Cross and through the Strand to Ludgate, hoping still to be joined by the citizens.
In the Strand the Earl of Courtenay, with his soldiers, was stationed. He had engaged to join Wyatt, but had not the courage to do either one thing or the other, for at the sight of him he fled. Doubly treacherous, he was a traitor to the queen and also to Wyatt.
At Ludgate, Wyatt found the gates were closed, and Lord William Howard appeared above them, crying—
'Avaunt, traitor! Avaunt! You enter not here!'
This was a truly awful reception, instead of the promised welcome. And the brave knight must have felt stunned and bewildered as he turned to assist his troops, only to be met by a crowd of the enemy under Pembroke. In desperation, Sir Thomas, closely followed by Sir Hubert, fought his way back as far as the Temple, where he found that he had only fifty followers remaining. (The other troops, which he had left in Hyde Park, were fighting at Whitehall and Westminster, but of that he knew nothing, having lost touch with them and being without cognisance of their doings, which came to nothing.)
The King-at-arms called upon Sir Thomas to yield and not madly sacrifice his brave companions, yet he continued fighting desperately.
He was beaten back, by overwhelming numbers, down Fleet Street, until he sank exhausted on a fish-stall, opposite La Belle Sauvage. His sword was broken, and, throwing it away, he surrendered himself to Sir Maurice Berkely. At the same moment, Sir Hubert Blair, his aide-de-camp, overpowered by numbers, was taken prisoner.
So much I was told. At the time, Lady Jane and I knew little of all these happenings, and our suspense was terrible. After the first crashing of our cannonade, when Sir Thomas attempted crossing London Bridge, nothing quite so alarming was to be heard in the Tower, only on the next day there were the booming of guns and the roar of battle in London.
And then news came to us that the brave knights were defeated, that they had been forced to surrender, and that the Guards were bringing them to the Tower.
Lady Jane, knowing how my heart was wrung, did all in her power to sustain me. Forgetting or ignoring the far greater issues she herself had at stake, she endeavoured to fortify my mind and calm it by prayer and wise counsel, and now, when it was all over and they were bringing my lover, with Sir Thomas Wyatt, to the Tower, exerted herself to obtain leave for me to mingle with the spectators and see them brought in.
'Though perhaps,' she said, 'it will be a doubtful benefit for you to see your lover in his defeat.'
But my heart craved for one sight of his dear face, and I answered, 'I can bear it all better, if I see him once more.'
'You shall, dear Margery, if I can possibly compass it,' she said. And success crowned her efforts, for our warder, having leave of absence, took me himself to join the crowd hurrying across the Green, towards the entrance by which those guilty of high treason were brought to the Tower.
And, presently, I saw my dear knight, sitting by Sir Thomas in a boat, between their captors, and being rowed towards the Traitors' Gate.
Thus they brought them to the Tower, heroes vanquished, conquerors conquered, true men and noble knights; albeit considered by many renegades and traitors, by Lady Jane mistaken zealots, but by me the noblest and most estimable champions, who sacrificed all that they had, even their earthly loves, for that which they held to be right and duty towards England and fidelity to true religion. They had done their part, they could do no more, and they sat in the boat between their captors, with brave countenances and steadfast bearing, as of men dying at their post.