This was a heavy and unexpected blow to the admiral, and it was plain he felt it; but he quickly recovered, and said, with great audacity, “Any charge that Sharington may bring against me can be refuted. Let me be confronted with him.”
“That you shall be anon, and with your other confederates in treason,” said the protector. “But you must be content to await your examination by the council.”
“Your Majesty will not allow me to be sacrificed by my enemies?” cried Seymour, appealing to the king, who, though he looked compassionately at him, had not hitherto spoken.
“Justice must take its course,” interposed the protector. “His majesty cannot interfere.”
“Alas! I cannot,” exclaimed Edward in a voice of deep emotion.
“Do you abandon me in this dire extremity, sire?” cried the admiral. “A word from you, and I am free.”
“You are mistaken, my lord,” said Warwick. “It is not even in his majesty’s power to free you now. You must be brought to trial for the heinous offences with which you are charged. To pardon you would be to encourage treason and rebellion.”
“I am neither traitor nor rebel,” cried Seymour. “Would you all were as loyal and devoted to the king as I am. Sire, will you see me crushed without a word to save me?”
“Peace! your appeals are vain,” rejoined Somerset. “Come, sire!”
“Farewell! my lord,” said Edward. “Heaven grant you may be able to clear yourself!”
Casting a compassionate look at the admiral, he then moved on, attended by the protector, and followed by the council. Before quitting the room, he gave another farewell look at his uncle, who continued gazing imploringly and half reproachfully at him.
In another moment he was gone—for ever, as far as Seymour was concerned. He never beheld him more.
For a moment, the admiral remained stupefied. But quickly recovering himself, he assumed all his customary haughtiness of deportment and fearlessness of look.
“The chances are against me for the moment, Sir John,” he observed to the constable. “But all is not lost. The worst that can befall me is long imprisonment, like Norfolk’s, or exile. My brother will not venture to bring me to the scaffold. The curse of Cain would be on him, were he to shed my blood!”
“Had you succeeded in your attempt and overthrown him, would you have spared your brother, my lord?” demanded the constable.
Seymour made no reply.
“You would not,” pursued Gage. “Then judge him not too severely. You have tried him sorely. But it is now my painful duty to see you taken to your prison-lodging. May it be mine, also, to assist at your liberation. Guards, to the Bowyer Tower!” The admiral was then surrounded by the halberdiers, in the midst of whom he marched across the green towards a tower at the north side of the inner ward.
By this time, the king, with the lord protector, the lords of the council, and their attendants having departed, there were but few witnesses of the scene; and none whom Seymour heeded. Spectacles of this kind had been too frequent during the late reign to excite much wonder. But all who beheld the admiral marvelled at his proud deportment and confident looks.
On arriving at the Bowyer Tower, he was consigned to the charge of Tombs, the gaoler, who, unlocking a strong oaken door, strengthened with plates of iron, and studded with flat-headed nails, ushered him into the very cell in which the Earl of Surrey had been confined. The recollection of his interview with the unfortunate nobleman on the night before his execution rushed upon Seymour’s mind, and filled him with dread.
“I like not this cell, Sir John,” he observed to the constable, who had accompanied him. “Can I not have another lodging?”
“Is there any other cell vacant, Tombs?” demanded the constable.
“None that would suit his lordship,” replied the gaoler. “His Grace of Norfolk is in the Beauchamp Tower, the Earl of Devonshire is in the Devilin Tower, Bishop Gardiner in the Flint Tower, and Bishop Heath in the Brick Tower. Sir William Sharington is in the Constable’s Tower. There is a cell unoccupied in the Martin Tower, but it is not so comfortable as this. The Bowyer Tower hath always been reserved for the highest nobles. The last person who lodged here, as your Lordship may remember,” he added to Seymour, “was the Earl of Surrey.”
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