“It is granted,” replied Jane, in a kind tone, and pausing. “What would you?”
“Preserve you,” rejoined the old woman. “Go not to the Tower.”
“And wherefore not, good dame?” inquired the queen.
“Ask me not,” returned the old woman,—her figure dilating, her eye kindling, and her gesture becoming almost that of command, as she spoke,—“Ask me not; but take my warning. Again, I say—Go not to the Tower. Danger lurks therein,—danger to you—your husband—and to all you hold dear. Return, while it is yet time; return to the retirement of Sion House—to the solitudes of Bradgate.—Put off those royal robes—restore the crown to her from whom you wrested it, and a long and happy life shall be yours. But set foot within that galley—enter the gates of the Tower—and another year shall not pass over your head.”
“Guards!” cried Lord Guilford Dudley, advancing and motioning to his attendants—“remove this beldame and her companion, and place them in arrest.”
“Have patience, my dear lord,” said Jane, in a voice so sweet, that it was impossible to resist it—“the poor woman is distraught.”
“No, lady, I am not distraught,” rejoined the old woman, “though I have suffered enough to make me so.”
“Can I relieve your distresses?” inquired Jane, kindly.
“In no other way than by following my caution,” answered the old woman. “I want nothing but a grave.”
“Who are you that dare to hold such language as this to your queen?” demanded Lord Guilford Dudley, angrily.
“I am Gunnora Braose,” replied the old woman, fixing a withering glance upon him, “nurse and foster-mother to Henry Seymour, Duke of Somerset, lord protector of England, who perished on the scaffold by the foul practices of your father.”
“Woman,” rejoined Lord Guilford, in a menacing tone, “be warned by me. You speak at the peril of your life.”
“I know it,” replied Gunnora; “but that shall not hinder me. If I succeed in saving that fair young creature, whom your father’s arts have placed in such fearful jeopardy, from certain destruction, I care not what becomes of me. My boldness, I am well assured, will be fearfully visited upon me, and upon my grandson at my side. But were it the last word I had to utter,—were this boy’s life,” she added, laying her hand on the youth’s shoulder, who arose at the touch, “set against hers, I would repeat my warning.”
“Remove your cap in presence of the queen, knave,” cried one of the halberdiers, striking off the young man’s cap with his staff.
“She is not my queen,” rejoined the youth, boldly; “I am for Queen Mary, whom Heaven and Our Lady preserve!”
“Peace, Gilbert!” cried Gunnora, authoritatively.
“Treason! treason!” exclaimed several voices—“down with them!”
“Do them no injury,” interposed Jane, waving her hand; “let them depart freely. Set forward, my lords.”
“Hear me, sovereign lady, before I am driven from you,” cried the old woman, in accents of passionate supplication—“hear me, I implore you. You are going to a prison, not a palace.—Look at yon angry sky from which the red lightning is flashing. A moment since it was bright and smiling; at your approach it has become black and overcast. It is an omen not to be despised.”
“Hence!” cried Lord Guilford.
“And you, Lord Guilford Dudley,” continued Gunnora, in a stern tone,—“you, who have added your voice to that of your false father, to induce your bride to accept the crown,—think not you will ever rule this kingdom,—think not the supreme authority will be yours. You are a puppet in your father’s hands; and when you have served his turn, he will cast you aside—or deal with you as he dealt with Lord Seymour of Dudley,—with the lord protector, by the axe,—or, as he dealt with his sovereign, Edward the Sixth, by poison.”
“This passeth all endurance,” exclaimed Lord Guilford;—“away with her to prison.”
“Not so, my dear lord,” said Queen Jane. “See you not that her supposed wrongs have turned her brain? She is faithful to the memory of the lord protector. If my reign prove as brief as she would have me believe it will be, it shall never be marked by severity. My first act shall be one of clemency. Take this ring, my poor woman,” she added, detaching a brilliant from her taper finger, “and when you need a friend, apply to Queen Jane.”
Gunnora received the costly gift with a look of speechless gratitude; the tears started to her eyes, and she sank upon her knees in the boat, burying her face in her hands. In this state, she was rowed swiftly away by her grandson, while the loudest shouts were raised for the munificence and mercy of Jane, who was not sorry to hide herself behind the silken curtains of her barge.
At this moment, a loud and rattling peal of thunder burst overhead.
Seated beneath a canopy of state, supported by the richest silken cushions, and with her tiny feet resting upon a velvet footstool, adorned with her cipher and that of her husband interwoven with love-knots, Jane proceeded along the river; her heart oppressed with fears and forebodings, to which she gave no utterance, but which the storm now raging around with frightful violence was not calculated to allay. The thunder was awfully loud; the lightning almost insupportably vivid; but fortunately for those exposed to the tempest, it was unattended with rain. Lord Guilford Dudley was unremitting in his assiduity to his lovely consort, and bitterly reproached himself for allowing her to set forth at such a season. As they approached that part of the river from which the noble old gothic cathedral of St. Paul’s—one of the finest structures in the world, and destroyed, it is almost needless to say, by the Fire of London, when it was succeeded by the present pile—was best seen, Jane drew aside the curtains of her barge, and gazed with the utmost admiration upon the magnificent fane. The storm seemed to hang over its square and massive tower, and flashes of forked lightning of dazzling brightness appeared to shoot down each instant upon the body of the edifice.
“Like me, it is threatened,” Jane mentally ejaculated; “and perhaps the blow that strikes me may strike also the religion of my country. Whatever betide me, Heaven grant that that noble pile may never again be polluted by the superstitious ceremonies and idolatries of Rome!”
Viewed from the Thames, London, even in our own time, presents many picturesque and beautiful points; but at the period to which this chronicle refers, it must have presented a thousand more. Then, gardens and stately palaces adorned its banks; then, the spires and towers of the churches shot into an atmosphere unpolluted by smoke; then, the houses, with their fanciful gables, and vanes, and tall twisted chimneys, invited and enchained the eye; then, the streets, of which a passing glimpse could be caught, were narrow and intricate: then, there was the sombre, dungeon-like strong-hold already alluded to, called Baynard’s Castle; the ancient tavern of the Three Cranes; the Still-yard; and above all, the Bridge, even then old, with its gateways, towers, drawbridges, houses, mills, and chapel,-enshrined like a hidden and cherished faith within its inmost heart. All this has passed away. But if we have no old St. Paul’s, no old London Bridge, no quaint and picturesque old fabrics, no old and frowning castles, no old taverns, no old wharfs—if we have none of these, we have still the Tower; and to that grand relic of antiquity, well worth all the rest, we shall, without further delay, proceed.
Having passed beneath the narrow arches of London Bridge, the houses on which were crowded with spectators, and the windows hung with arras and rich carpets, the royal barge drew up at the distance of a bow-shot from the Tower. Jane again drew aside the curtain, and when she beheld the sullen ramparts of the fortress over which arose its lofty citadel (the White Tower), with its weather-whitened walls relieved