Northumberland was employed upon the third line of the quatrain below his name, which remains unfinished to the present day, when he was interrupted by the entrance of a priest, sent to him by Gardiner. The holy man found him in no very favourable frame of mind, but succeeded after some time in awakening him to a due sense of his awful situation. The Duke then made a full confession of his guilt, and received his shrift. At daybreak, the priest departed, with a promise to attend him to the place of execution.
Much tranquillised, the Duke now prepared himself for his last trial. He pondered over what he should say on the scaffold, and nerved himself to meet his fate, whatever it might be. The Duke of Warwick was then introduced to him to receive his blessing, and to take an everlasting farewell. After he had received the Duke’s embrace, the Earl observed, “Would I could change places with you, father. I would say that on the scaffold which would shake the bigot Mary on the throne.”
The Duke then partook of some refreshment, and wrapped himself in a loose robe of grain-coloured damask. At eight o’clock, the Sheriffs of London arrived at the Bulwark Gate, and demanded the body of the prisoner. Upon this, the Lieutenant, accompanied by four warders, proceeded to the Beauchamp Tower, and informed the Duke that all was in readiness.
“I am ready, too,” replied Northumberland, once more embracing his son, whose firmness did not desert him at this trying juncture. And he followed the Lieutenant to the Green. Here they found the priest, and a band of halberdiers waiting to escort him to the scaffold. Among the by-standers stood Simon Renard, who immediately advanced towards him.
“How fares your grace!” he asked.
“Well enough, sir, I thank you,” answered the Duke, bowing. “I shall be better anon.”
The train then set forward, passing through lines of spectators, until it reached the Middle Tower, where it halted, to allow the Lieutenant to deliver the prisoner to the Sheriffs and their officers. This ceremony over, it again set forward, and passed through the Bulwark Gate.
Prepared as the Duke was for some extraordinary sight, he was yet taken completely by surprise. The whole area of Tower Hill seemed literally paved with human heads. A line of scaffoldings was erected on the brink of the moat, and every seat in them was occupied. Never before had so vast an assemblage been collected in the same place. The whole of the western ramparts of the fortress—the roof and battlements of the White Tower—every point from which a view of the spectacle could be obtained, was thronged. On the Duke’s appearance, a murmur of satisfaction pervaded the immense host, and he then felt that even if the Queen’s pardon should arrive, his personal safety was more than questionable.
Preceded by a band of arquebussiers, armed with calivers, and attended by the sheriffs, the priest, and Simon Renard, Northumberland marched slowly forward. At length, he reached the scaffold. It was surrounded by seats, set aside for persons of distinction; and among its occupants were many of his former friends and allies. Avoiding their gaze, the Duke mounted the scaffold with a firm foot; but the sight of the vast concourse from this elevated point almost unmanned him. As he looked around, another murmur arose, and the mob undulated like the ocean. Near the block stood Manger, leaning on his axe; his features concealed by a hideous black mask. On the Duke’s appearance, he fell on his knees, and, according to custom, demanded forgiveness, which was granted. Throwing aside his robe, the Duke then advanced to the side of the scaffold, and leaning over the eastern rail, thus addressed the assemblage:
“Good people. I am come hither this day to die, as ye know. Indeed, I confess to you all that I have been an evil liver, and have done wickedly all the days of my life; and, of all, most against the Queen’s highness, of whom I here openly ask forgiveness,” and he reverentially bent the knee. “But I alone am not the original doer thereof, I assure you, for there were some others who procured the same. But I will not name them, for I will now hurt no man. And the chief occasion that I have erred from the Catholic faith and true doctrine of Christ, has been through false and seditious preachers. The doctrine, I mean, which has continued through all Christendom since Christ. For, good people, there is, and hath been ever since Christ, one Catholic church; which church hath continued from him to his disciples in one unity and concord, and so hath always continued from time to time until this day, and yet doth throughout all Christendom, ourselves alone excepted. Of this church I openly profess myself to be one, and do steadfastly believe therein. I speak unfeignedly from the bottom of my heart. And I beseech you all bear witness that I die therein. Moreover, I do think, if I had had this belief sooner, I never should have come to this pass: wherefore I exhort you all, good people, take example of me, and forsake this new doctrine betimes. Defer it not long, lest God plague you as he hath me, who now suffer this vile death most deservedly.”
Concluding by desiring the prayers of the assemblage, he returned slowly, and fixing an inquiring look upon Renard, who was standing with his arms folded upon his breast, near the block, said in a low tone, “It comes not.”
“It is not yet time,” replied Renard.
The Duke was about to kneel down, when he perceived a stir amid the mob in front of the scaffold, occasioned by some one waving a handkerchief to him. Thinking it was the signal of a pardon, he paused. But he was speedily undeceived. A second glance showed him that the handkerchief was waved by Gunnora, and was spotted with blood.
Casting one glance of the bitterest anguish at Renard, he then prostrated himself, and the executioner at the same moment raised his hand. As soon as the Duke had disposed himself upon the block, the axe flashed like a gleam of lightning in the sunshine,—descended,—and the head was severed from the trunk.
Seizing it with his left hand, Mauger held it aloft, almost before the eyes were closed, crying out to the assemblage, in a loud voice, “Behold the head of a traitor!”
Amid the murmur produced by the released respiration of the multitude, a loud shriek was heard, and a cry followed that an old woman had suddenly expired. The report was true. It was Gunnora Braose.
Mary still continued to hold her court within the Tower. Various reasons were assigned for this choice of residence; but her real motive was that her plans for the restoration of the Catholic religion could be more securely concerted within the walls of the fortress than elsewhere. Simon Renard, who had become her confidential adviser, and through whom she carried on an active correspondence with her cousin, the Emperor Charles the Fifth, could here visit her unobserved. Here, also, she secretly received the envoy of Pope Julius the Third, Francisco Commendone (afterwards the celebrated Cardinal of that name,) and detained him until after the Duke of Northumberland’s execution, that he might convey intelligence of the event, and of the effect produced by it upon the populace, to the Pontiff. To Commendone she gave the strongest assurances of her attachment to the Church of Rome, and of her fixed determination to restore its worship. But at the same time she declared that the change must be gradual, and that any undue precipitation would be fatal. In this opinion both Gardiner and Renard, who were admitted to the conference, concurred. And satisfied with their representations, the envoy departed, overjoyed at the success of his mission.
Other and gentler thoughts, however, than those connected with her government, occupied the bosom of the queen. We have already spoken of the impression produced upon her at their first interview on the Tower-Green, bv the striking figure and noble features of Edward Courtenay, whom she on that occasion created Earl of Devonshire, and of the speculations it gave rise to among the by-standers. The interest she then felt had been subsequently strengthened. And it appeared certain to all who had any means of observation, that if she selected a husband, her choice would fall upon Courtenay.
The progress of her attachment was jealously watched by Renard, who having other designs in view, secretly opposed it. But aware that Mary, like many of her sex, was possessed of a spirit, which would be apt, if thwarted, to run into the opposite extreme, he was obliged to proceed with the utmost caution. He had, moreover, a strong party against him. From the moment it became evident that the Queen regarded the Earl of Devonshire with the eyes of affection, all were eager to pay court to him. Among his warmest supporters were Gardiner and De Noailles; the latter being mainly influenced in his conduct by distrust of the Court of Spain. Renard, therefore, stood alone. But though everything appeared against him, he did not despair of success. Placing reliance upon Mary’s jealous and suspicious character, he felt certain of accomplishing his purpose. Accordingly, he affected to approve her choice; and with the view of carrying out his scheme more effectually, took care to ingratiate himself with Courtenay.
Inexperienced as the latter was in the arts of a court, being then only twenty-one, and having passed fourteen years of his life in close captivity in the Tower, he was easily duped by the wily ambassador; and though repeatedly warned against him by De Noailles, who saw through Renard’s design, he disregarded the caution. Satisfied of the Queen’s favourable disposition towards him, which was evinced by the most marked attention on her part, this young nobleman conceived himself wholly beyond the reach of rivalry; and trusting to his personal advantages, and the hold he had obtained over the affections of his royal mistress, he gave himself little concern about an opposition which he regarded as futile. He looked upon himself as certain of the Queen’s hand; and but for his own imprudence, he would have been actually possessed of it.
Mary’s meditated alliance was agreeable to all parties, except, as just intimated, that of Spain. Already nearly related to the crown by his descent from Edward the Fourth, no objection could be raised against her favourite on the score of rank; while his frank and conciliating manner, combined with his rare endowments of mind and person, won him universal regard. Doctor Thomas Wilson, in the funeral oration pronounced over Courtenay at Padua in 1556, states, that during his long imprisonment in the Tower, “he wholly devoted himself to study, and that neither the augustia loci, nec solitudo, nec amissio libertatis, ilium à literis avocarent; that he made such progress in philosophy, that no nobleman was equal to him in it; that he also explored the mysteria naturae; that he entered into the mathematicorum labyrintha; that he was so fond of painting, that he could easily and laudably make any one’s portrait on a tabula; that he was equally attached to music, and had attained in it absolutam perfectionem; and that to these acquisitions he added the Spanish, French, and Italian languages. In manners he was grave without pride; pleasant without levity; prudent in speech; cautious in answering; modest in disputing; never boasting of himself, nor excluding others; and though familiar with many, yet intimately known to few.” Allowing for the drawbacks which must necessarily be made from such an éloge, enough will remain to prove that his accomplishments were of no common order.
On the onset of his career, however, Courtenay was assailed by temptations which it required more experience of the world to resist. Strictly confined from his earliest youth, it may be conceived that when first exposed to female fascination, his heart was speedily melted. Hitherto, he had only read of beauty. He now felt its full force, and placed no bounds to the admiration which the charms of the dames of honour excited within his breast. It was upon this point of his character, that Renard justly grounded his hopes of alienating the Queen’s affections. Encouraging his new-born licentiousness, he took care that none of his gallantries should fail to reach the ears of his royal mistress. Though of a staid and severe character, Mary was not indisposed to make allowances for one so utterly inexperienced as Courtenay; and her first direction to Renard was to check him. So far from doing this, the artful ambassador incited him to further irregularities, and contrived to place new objects in his way. In vain De Noailles remonstrated, entreating him at least to be more guarded in his conduct. In vain Gardiner sternly rebuked him. He turned a deaf ear alike to remonstrance and reproof; and hurried on by the unbridled impetuosity of youth, passed from one excess to another. Renard witnessed his conduct with secret satisfaction; but he was not prepared for the calmness with which the Queen viewed it. She was greatly displeased, yet as her lover still seemed passionately devoted to her, she looked upon his conduct as resulting from the circumstances of his previous life, and trusting he would soon open his eyes to its folly, was content to pardon it.
Renard then saw that he must have recourse to stronger measures. As Mary’s jealousy was not to be easily aroused, he resolved to bring a more formidable rival into the held. There was one ready made to his hand. It was the Princess Elizabeth. On no one point was the Queen’s vanity more easily touched than by any reference to the superior charms of her sister. Any compliment paid the latter she construed into a slight to herself; and she watched with an uneasy glance the effect produced by her in public. So sensible was Elizabeth of the Queen’s foible, that she kept in the back ground as much as possible. Unaware of the mortification he inflicted upon his royal mistress, and of the injury he did himself, Courtenay often praised the Princess’s beauty in terms so rapturous as to call a blush into her cheek, while the blood was driven from that of Mary. So undisguised was his admiration, that the Queen resolved to remove the object of it from her court; and would have done so, but for the artful management of Renard, who felt that such a step would ruin his plans.
Long before Courtenay had noticed it, the subtle ambassador, well skilled in woman’s feelings, ascertained the state of Elizabeth’s heart, and saw that she was not proof against the captivating manners and personal graces of the handsome young nobleman. It was not difficult for one possessed of so many opportunities as himself to heighten this feeling into a passion; and before long he had the satisfaction to find that the princess was deeply enamoured of her sister’s suitor. Nor was Courtenay less easily enthralled. Apprised of his conquest by Renard, instead of resisting it, he at once surrendered himself to the snare. Again De Noailles, who saw his dangerous position, came to his aid. Again Gardiner rebuked him more severely than before. He derided their remonstrances; and heedless of the changing manner of the Queen—heedless also of the peril to which he exposed the princess, he scarcely attempted to disguise his passion, or to maintain the semblance of love for his royal mistress. Consumed by jealousy, Mary meditated some blow which should satisfy her outraged feelings; while Renard only waited a favourable opportunity to bring matters to a crisis.
Affairs being in this state, it chanced one day that Courtenay received a summons to the Queen’s presence, and instantly repairing thither, he found her alone. His reception was so cold, that he was at no loss to understand she was deeply offended; and he would have thrown himself at her feet, if she had not prevented him by impatiently waving her hand.
“I have sent for you, my lord,” she said, “for the last time—.”
“For the last time, my gracious mistress!” exclaimed Courtenay.
“Do not interrupt me,” rejoined Mary, severely. “I have sent for you to tell you that whatever were the feelings I once entertained for you, they are now entirely changed. I will not remind you of the favours I have shown you—of the honours I have bestowed on you—or of the greater honours I intended you. I will simply tell you that your ingratitude equals your perfidy; and that I banish you henceforth from my presence.”
“How have I offended your highness?” demanded Courtenay, panic-stricken.
“How?” cried Mary, fiercely—her eyes kindling, and her countenance assuming the terrible expression she inherited from her father. “Do you affect ignorance of the cause? I have overlooked your indiscretions, though I have not been ignorant of them, imputing them to youth and inexperience. I have overlooked them, I say, because I thought I discovered amid all this vice and folly the elements of a noble nature—and because,” and her voice faltered—“I persuaded myself that you loved me.”
“Have you no faith in my adjurations of attachment?” cried Courtenay, prostrating himself, and endeavouring to take her hand.
“None,” rejoined the queen, withdrawing her hand; “none whatever. Arise, my lord, and do not further degrade yourself. You may love the queen, but you do not love the woman.—You may prize my throne, but you do not prize me.”
“You wrong me, gracious madam. On my soul you do,” rejoined Courtenay. “I may have trifled with others, but I have given my heart wholly to you.”
“It is false!” cried Mary, furiously. “You love the princess, my sister.”
Courtenay turned very pale. But he instantly recovered himself.
“Your highness is mistaken,” he answered.
“What!” cried the queen, her anger increasing each moment. “Dare you persist in the denial of your falsehood? Dare you tell me to my face that you have not breathed words of passion to her? Dare you assert that you have not lamented your engagement to me? Dare you say this?”
“I dare, madam.”
“Then your own words shall give you the he, traitor,” replied the queen. “Here is your letter to her,” she added, producing a paper, “wherein you tell her so.”
“Confusion!” uttered Courtenay, “Renard has betrayed me.”
“Is this letter your writing?” demanded the queen.
“I will not prevaricate, madam,” replied Courtenay; “it is.”
“And in the face of this you declare you have not deceived me?”
“I have deceived you, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay. “But I have never ceased to love you.”
“My lord!—my lord!” exclaimed Mary, in a menacing tone. “Beware how you attempt to deceive me further, or as God shall judge me, you shall find that the daughter of Henry the Eighth is not to be offended with impunity.”
“I know you are terrible in anger, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay; “but you are also just. Judge me—condemn me, if you please, but hear me: he who gave you that letter,—Simon Renard,—counselled me to write it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the queen.
“I have been guilty of folly—madness—” rejoined Courtenay—“but not the black perfidy your highness imagines. Dismiss me from your presence—send me into exile—I deserve any punishment—but do not believe that I have ceased to love you.”
“I know not what you term love, my lord,” replied Mary; “but I have no idea of sharing the affection of any man with another. Grant, however, that you speak the truth, why have you addressed this passionate epistle to the Princess Elizabeth?”
“I have already said I was deceived,” replied Courtenay. “I cannot excuse my conduct—though I lament it.”
“Are you sincere?” said Mary, who began to be softened by her lover’s apparent penitence.
“By what oath shall I confirm my truth?” he replied, fervently.
“I will test it more surely,” rejoined the queen, as if struck by a sudden idea.
“In any way your highness thinks proper,” returned Courtenay.
“Summon the Princess Elizabeth to our presence instantly,” said Mary, striking a small bell, the sound of which brought an usher before her.
“The Princess Elizabeth!” exclaimed Courtenay.
“Ay, the Princess,” repeated the queen. “I will confront you with her. Bid the lord chancellor and the ambassadors of Spain and France attend us,” she continued to the usher.
“I know not what your highness intends,” said Courtenay, as the attendant departed. “But I will die rather than do aught to prejudice the princess.”
“I doubt it not, my lord,” rejoined Mary, bitterly. “But though I cannot punish the perfidy of a lover, I can the disobedience of a subject. If you refuse to obey my commands, you will take the consequences.”
Courtenay bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
In a few minutes, the usher returned and announced the Princess Elizabeth, as well as Gardiner, Renard, and De Noailles. Instantly perceiving how matters stood, the imperial ambassador deemed his own triumph complete, and Courtenay’s disgrace certain.
“My lord,” said Mary, addressing Gardiner, “it is no secret to you, neither to you, M. Renard, nor to you, M. De Noailles—that of all those proposed to me in marriage—the Princes of Spain and Portugal, the King of the Romans, Cardinal Pole, and others—I have preferred this man, whom I myself have raised to the rank he now holds, and enriched with the estates he enjoys.”
“We know it, gracious Madam,” replied Gardiner, alarmed at the ominous commencement, “and we think your highness has made a happy choice, and one most acceptable to your subjects. Do we not, M. Renard?”
The ambassador bowed, but said nothing.
“The alliance is in all respects agreeable to my sovereign, Henry the Second of France,” observed De Noailles.
“What then if I inform you,” pursued Mary, “that the Earl of Devonshire has rejected my proposal? What if he has broken his oath of fidelity? What if he has cast aside the crown offered him, and smitten by the charms of a youthful beauty, abandoned the Queen, who has stooped to raise him to her throne!”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Gardiner and De Noailles.
“You are mistaken,” rejoined Mary, sternly. “You shall hear him avow his perfidy with his own lips.”
“When I do hear it,” replied De Noailles, looking steadily at Courtenay, “I will believe it. But I cannot think him capable of such madness.”
“Nor I,” said Gardiner, glancing significantly from beneath his bent brows.
Elizabeth, who on the commencement of the Queen’s address had turned very pale, could with difficulty maintain her composure. Her agitation did not escape the notice of Mary, whose jealousy was increased by the sight.
“What if I tell you,” she continued, “that this false earl has transferred his affections to our sister?”
“Your highness!” exclaimed Elizabeth.
“Peace!” cried the Queen, fiercely. “And she, well knowing his engagement to ourself, has dared to encourage his suit.”
“Whoever told your majesty this, lied in his throat,” cried Courtenay. “I own myself guilty, but the Princess Elizabeth is no partner to my folly.”
“You do well to shield her, my lord,” retorted Mary. “But you cannot deceive me. She is equally culpable.”
“Nay, more so, if it comes to this,” interposed Elizabeth, whose spirit, which was quite equal to her sisters, was aroused. “If I had repressed my admiration for the Earl of Devonshire, he would have made no advances to me. I am the most to blame in this matter.”
“Not so;” replied Courtenay. “Let my folly and presumption be visited on my own head. I pray your highness to pass sentence on me at once. But do not let the Princess suffer for my fault.”
“So, so!” exclaimed Mary, with a bitter laugh, “I have brought you to your confessions at last. If I had before doubted your love for each other, your present conduct would have convinced me of it. You shall have your request, my lord,” she added, turning to Courtenay. “I will pass sentence upon you.”
“Hold, madam,” cried Gardiner. “Before the sentence is passed and irrevocable, reflect—if only for one moment. You are a great queen, and the daughter of a great king. But the rashness of one moment may annihilate all your future peace, destroy the hopes of your people, and the prosperity of your reign. The conduct of the Earl of Devonshire is unpardonable, I allow. But for your own sake—for the sake of your kingdom—not for his—I beseech you to overlook it. That he loves you, I am assured.”
“Let him declare as much,” said Renard.
“Hear me, then,” replied Courtenay, throwing himself at the-Queen’s feet. “I bitterly repent my rashness; and though I can never hope to be restored to the place I once held in your Majesty’s affections, I shall never cease to reproach myself—never cease to love you.”
Mary was visibly moved.
“If I thought you sincere?” she said.
“I will answer for his sincerity,” said Gardiner.
“And I,” added De Noailles. “She relents,” he continued in a whisper to Courtenay. “Improve the advantage you have gained.”
“Grant me an instant’s private audience with your Majesty,” implored Courtenay; “and I feel certain I can remove all your doubts.”
“No, my lord,” rejoined Mary. “As our rupture has been public, our reconciliation (if it takes place,) shall be public, also.”
“It must never take place,” remarked Renard, in an under tone.
“Peace, sir,” said the Queen, aloud. “As far as our government is concerned, we are content to follow your counsel. But in matters of the heart we shall follow its dictates alone.”
“Your Majesty is in the right,” observed Gardiner.
“Declare, my lord,” pursued Mary, addressing Courtenay, “in the presence of these gentlemen, in that of our sister—rival we ought to say,—that you have deceived her, and, though your conduct may have misled her,—have never swerved from your devotion to ourself.”
While the Queen pronounced these words, Renard’s keen glance wandered from Courtenay to Elizabeth. The latter was violently agitated, and seemed to await the Earl’s answer as if her fate hung upon it.
“Do you assert this, my lord?” demanded Mary.
“Hesitate, and you are lost, and so is the Princess,” whispered De Noailles.
Before Courtenay could reply, Elizabeth fainted and would have fallen, if Renard had not flown to her assistance.
“Summon our maids of honour, and let her be instantly cared for,” said Mary, with a look of ill-disguised satisfaction. “My lord,” she added to Courtenay, “you are forgiven.”
The Earl hastily, and with some confusion, expressed his thanks, while, in obedience to the Queen’s mandate, Elizabeth was removed.
“And now, my lord,” said Mary to him, “I must pass from my own affairs to those of my kingdom. I will not detain you further—nor you, M. De Noailles. But I must crave your attendance, my lord, for a few minutes,” she added, turning to Gardiner, “and yours, M. Renard.”
“Your highness may always command my best counsel,” replied the latter, in a slightly sarcastic tone—“provided you will act upon it.”
“Farewell, my lord,” said Mary, extending her hand to Courtenay, which he pressed to his lips. “I shall walk upon the Tower Green in an hour, and shall expect you there.”
“I will attend your Majesty,” replied Courtenay. And accompanied by De Noailles, he quitted the chamber.
“You have had a narrow escape, my lord,” remarked the French Ambassador, as they traversed the long gallery together.
“So narrow that I thought I had lost all chance of the crown,” replied Courtenay. “It is the work of that perfidious Simon Renard. But if I live an hour, I will requite him.”
“You are the victor, my lord,” returned De Noailles. “Maintain your present position, and you may defy his utmost malice.”
“Tarry with me a moment, M. De Noailles,” said Courtenay, “and you shall see how I will avenge myself upon him.”
“Prudence, my good lord—prudence,” replied De Noailles. “Your rashness has already put you once in his power. Do not let it do so a second time.”
“I will punish his treachery, if it costs me my life,” replied Courtenay.
M eanwhile, a long discussion was carried on between Mary and her councillors, as to the best means of effecting the entire restoration of the Romish religion.
“I have a letter from Cardinal Pole,” observed the Queen, “wherein his Eminence urges me to adopt no half measures.”
“It will not be safe to do so as matters now stand, gracious madam,” replied Gardiner. “You must proceed cautiously. The noxious weed, heresy, has taken too deep a root in this country to be forcibly extirpated. I need not remind you of the murmurs that followed the celebration of mass in the chapel in the White Tower, for the repose of the King your brothers soul—of Cranmer’s vehement opposition—of the lord mayor’s remonstrance, because mass was sung in another chapel in the city—of the riot for a similar cause in Smithfield—of the dagger thrown at Doctor Bourne, when he preached at Saint Paul’s Cross, and inveighed against the deprivation of our prelates during the late reign. Your Majesty did wisely to declare, at my suggestion, that although your conscience is stayed in matters of religion, yet you meant not to compel and constrain other men’s consciences. Abide by this declaration a little longer. The two chief opponents of our religion, Ridley and Latimer, are already prisoners in the fortress, and Cranmer will be speedily brought hither.”
“So speedily, my lord, that he shall be lodged within it today,” replied Mary. “The order is already signed for his committal on a charge of high treason for counselling our disinheritance, and aiding the Duke of Northumberland with horse and men against us in the revolt of the Lady Jane Grey.”
“When will your highness have him arraigned?” asked Gardiner.
“After our coronation,” replied Mary; “when Lady Jane Grey and her husband shall also be tried.”
“Suffolk is already liberated,” remarked Renard; “and yet he was more deeply implicated than Cranmer.”
“True,” replied Mary; “but he is not so dangerous.”
“The counsel of my master, the emperor,” rejoined Renard, “as I have more than once stated to your Highness, is to spare none of the rebels—above all, the Lady Jane Grey, who, though she may have been the instrument of others, is yet in the eyes of the people the principal offender.”
“Poor Lady Jane!” exclaimed Mary, in a compassionate tone. “She is very young—very beautiful. I would rather reconcile her to our church than doom her to the block.”
“I do not despair of being able to accomplish her conversion,” said Gardiner, “though she is an obstinate heretic. I have appointed to-morrow for a conference with her on the subject of her religion, and I trust to be able to convince her of her errors.”
“With your lordship’s permission, I will attend the conference,” said Renard.
“By all means,” replied Gardiner. “It will take place in the Beauchamp Tower. Her husband, Lord Guilford Dudley, has become a proselyte, and they will be both present at the disputation.”
“I leave the care of her soul in your hands, my lord,” replied Mary. “And now I must to my own devotions.”
So saying, she dismissed them, and proceeded to an oratory, where she was joined by her confessor, Feckenham.
On issuing from the audience-chamber, Renard perceived De Noailles and Courtenay pacing the gallery.
“I have waited for you, sir,’’ said the latter, advancing to meet him.
“I am sorry to have detained your lordship so long,” replied Renard.
“Apologies are needless,” rejoined Courtenay. “M. Renard, you are a double-faced villain.”
“Rail on my lord, and welcome,” replied Renard, contemptuously. “Your ill-humour has no effect on me!”
“Coward! will not that move you?” cried Courtenay, taking off his glove, and striking him with it in the face.
“Ha!” exclaimed Renard fiercely, and half-unsheathing his sword. “Follow me, my lord, and you shall find me as prompt to avenge an insult as you can be to offer one.”
“My lord,” interposed De Noailles, “and you, M. Renard, I warn you before you proceed further in this quarrel, that it will deeply offend the queen.”
“It was not my seeking,” replied Renard, sternly. “But since it is forced upon me, I will not be stayed. As his lordship has found no difficulty in duping her majesty with a feigned passion, so, if he survives, he may readily make out his case by an equally false statement that I was the aggressor.”
“Insolent!” cried Courtenay. “Fool that I was to place any faith in one in whom the whole perfidy of his country seems concentred. Follow me, and quickly, or I will repeat the blow—unless,” he added with bitter scorn, “like your own arrogant but cowardly nation you prefer avenging it by assassination.”
“The cowardice will be yours, my lord,” rejoined Renard, haughtily, “if you attempt to repeat the blow—nay, if you tarry here longer, I shall think you desire to attract the attention of some of her majesty’s attendants, and by causing us to be arrested, contrive to escape my vengeance.”
“Trust me, sir, I have no such intention,” replied Courtenay. “An Englishman never deals a blow without allowing his adversary to return it. M. De Noailles, I request your attendance at the duel. It will be a mortal combat—for I will neither give mercy nor receive it from this perfidious villain.”
“Pardon me, my lord, if I refuse your request,” replied De Noailles. “I pledge my word that I will not interrupt you, nor cause you to be interrupted during the adjustment of your differences. But I will be no party to the duel.”
“As you please,” replied Courtenay. “Come then, sir,” he added, turning to Renard, “and let the recollection of the insult I have offered you be fresh in your memory.”
“M. De Noailles,” said Renard, “I take you to witness before I depart, that I have not sought this quarrel. Whatever ensues, you will avouch the truth.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied De Noailles. “Whither are you going?” he demanded.
“To the palace-garden,” replied Courtenay. “It is the only place in the Tower, where we can be free from interruption. Beneath the trees we shall be unobserved.”
“Lead on then, my lord,” cried Renard, impatiently. “The affair ought to have been arranged by this time.”
Hastily quitting the corridor, they descended the grand staircase, and traversing with rapid steps a long suite of apartments, passed through a small door opening from the range of building called the Queen’s gallery, upon the privy garden. At the western angle of this garden stood a grove of trees, and thinking themselves unobserved they hastened towards it.
It chanced however at this moment that Xit was passing along one of the walks, and struck by their furious looks he immediately conjectured their errand, and being, as has before been shown, of an inquisitive turn, determined to watch them, and with this view struck into a shrubbery, which effectually screened him from observation.
On reaching the grove, Renard instantly divested himself of his cloak, and drawing his rapier and dagger, placed himself in an attitude of defence. Courtenay did not remove his mantle, and therefore he was in readiness before his adversary. The preliminary forms always observed by the combatants of the period, being gone through, the conflict commenced with great fury on the side of Courtenay, and with equal animosity, but more deliberation, on that of Renard. As the latter was the most perfect swordsman of his time, he felt little doubt as to the result of the combat—but still the fury of the Earl was so irresistible that he broke through his surest wards. In one of these furious passes Renard received a slight wound in the arm, and roused by the pain, he forgot his cautious system, and returned Courtenay’s thrusts with others equally desperate.
Feeling that he was no match for his antagonist, who was evidently his superior both in force and skill, the Earl now determined to bring the combat to a close, before his strength should be further exhausted. Collecting all his energies, he dashed upon Renard with such impetuosity, that the latter was compelled to retreat, and his foot catching against the root of a tree, he fell, and lay at the mercy of his antagonist.
“Strike!” he cried. “I will never yield.”
“No,” replied Courtenay. “I will not take this advantage. Arise, and renew the combat.”
“Your courtesy is like your attachment, misplaced, my lord,” replied Renard, springing to his feet, and preparing to attack him. “Look to yourself.”
The combat recommenced with fresh fury, and must have speedily terminated fatally, if a sudden interruption had not occurred. Alarmed by the deadly nature of the strife, and thinking he should gain credit with the queen if he prevented any accident to her favourite, Xit no sooner beheld the swords drawn, than he ran off as swiftly as he could to the garden-gate, near the Lanthorn Tower, where he know Og was stationed. The giant did not require to be bid twice to accompany him; but grasping his immense halbert, hurried in the direction of the fight, and reached the grove just as it had recommenced.
The combatants were so occupied with each other, and so blinded with rage, that they did not hear his approach. Og, however, soon made them sensible of his presence. Bidding them in a voice of thunder lay down their arms, and finding himself wholly disregarded, he rushed between them, and seizing each by the doublet, hurled them forcibly backwards—swearing lustily that if either advanced another footstep, he would fell him to the ground with his partizan. By this time Xit, who had come up, drew his sword, and seconded the giant’s threat, adding with his usual coxcombical dignity, “My lords, I command you, in the Queen’s name, to deliver up your weapons to me.”
Upon this, he took off his cap, and strutting up to Courtenay, demanded his sword.
“What if I refuse it, sirrah?” said the earl, who in spite of his indignation, could scarcely help laughing at the dwarf’s assurance.
“Your lordship, I am assured, will not compel me to enforce its delivery,” replied Xit.
“I will not,” replied Courtenay, delivering the weapon to him.
“I shall not fail to report your magnanimity to my royal mistress,” returned Xit. “Now yours, worshipful sir,” he added, to Renard.
“Take it,” replied the ambassador, flinging his rapier on the ground. “It is fit that an affair so ridiculously begun, should have such a ridiculous termination.”
“It is not ended, sir,” rejoined Courtenay.
“You will note that, Magog,” interposed Xit. “His lordship says it is not ended. Her Majesty must hear of this. I take upon myself to place you both in arrest. Attach their persons, Magog.”
“This insolence shall not go unpunished,” cried Courtenay, angrily.
“Heed him not, Magog,” whispered Xit. “I am sure her highness will approve our conduct. At all events, I take the responsibility of the arrest upon myself—though I promise thee, if there is any reward, thou shalt share it. I arrived at a critical minute for your lordship,” he added, in an under tone to Courtenay. “Your adversary’s blade was within an inch of your breast.”
“Peace, knave,” cried Courtenay.
“Bring them along, Magog,” said Xit, “while I run to the palace to apprise her Majesty of the occurrence, and ascertain her pleasure concerning them.’
“Hold!” exclaimed Courtenay. “Take this purse, and keep silence on the subject.”
“No, my lord,” replied Xit, with an offended look, “I am above a bribe. Had your lordship—but no matter. Magog, you will answer for their peaceable conduct. I am off to the palace.”
And he hurried away, while the giant followed at a slow pace with Courtenay and Renard.