The Tower Of London by W. Harrison Ainsworth

On the left of Lord Guilford Dudley, on a lower platform, stood his faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondeley, charged with abetting him in his treasonable practices. A vacant place on this side of her husband was allotted to Jane. Cranmer, having already been tried and attainted, was removed. The proceedings were soon ended, for the arraigned parties confessed their indictments, and judgment was pronounced upon them. Before they were removed, Lord Guilford turned to his consort, and said in a low voice, “Be of good cheer, Jane. No ill will befall you. Our judges will speedily take our places.”

Jane looked at him for a moment, as if she did not comprehend his meaning, and then replied in the same tone, “I only required to see you so resigned to your fate, my dear lord, to make me wholly indifferent to mine. May we mount the scaffold together with as much firmness!”

“We shall mount the throne together—not the scaffold, Jane,” rejoined Dudley, significantly.

“Ha!” exclaimed Jane, perceiving from his speech that he meditated some new project.

Further discourse was not, however, allowed her, for at this moment she was separated from her husband by the halberdiers, who led her to the litter in which she was carried back to the Tower.

Left to herself within her prison-chamber, she revolved Dudley’s mysterious words; and though she could not divine their precise import, she felt satisfied that he cherished some hope of replacing her on the throne. So far from this conjecture affording her comfort, it deeply distressed her, and for the first time for a long period her constancy was shaken. When her jailer visited her, he found her in the deepest affliction.

“Alas! madam,” he observed, in a tone of great commiseration, “I have heard the result of your trial, but the queen may yet show you compassion.”

“It is not for myself I lament,” returned Jane, raising her head, and drying her tears, “but for my husband.”

“Her majesty’s clemency may be extended towards him likewise,” remarked the jailer.

“Not so,” returned Jane, “we have both offended her too deeply for forgiveness, and justice requires that we should expiate our offence with our lives. But you mistake me, friend. It is not because my husband is condemned as a traitor, that I grieve; but because he still nourishes vain and aspiring thoughts. I will trust you, knowing that you are worthy of confidence. If you can find means of communicating with Lord Guilford Dudley for one moment, tell him I entreat him to abandon all hopes of escape, or of restoration to his fallen state, and earnestly implore him to think only of that everlasting kingdom which we shall soon inherit together. Will you do this?”

“Assuredly, madam, if I can accomplish it with safety,” replied the jailer.

“Add also,” pursued Jane, “that if Mary would resign her throne to me, I would not ascend it.”

“I will not fail, madam,” rejoined the jailer.

Just as he was about to depart, steps were heard on the staircase, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld, attended by a couple of halberdiers, entered the chamber. He held a scroll of parchment in his hand.

“You are the bearer of my death-warrant, I perceive, sir,” said Jane, rising at his approach, but without displaying any emotion.

“On the contrary, madam,” returned Sir Henry, kindly, “it rejoices me to say that I am a bearer of her majesty’s pardon.”

“Clogged by the condition of my becoming a Catholic, I presume?” rejoined Jane, disdainfully.

“Clogged by no condition,” replied Bedingfeld, “except that of your living in retirement.”

Jane could scarcely credit her senses, and she looked so bewildered that the knight repeated what he had said.

“And my husband?” demanded Jane, eagerly.

“He too is free,” replied Bedingfeld; ” and on the same terms as yourself. You are both at liberty to quit the Tower as soon as you think proper. Lord Guilford Dudley has already been apprised of her highness’s clemency, and will join you here in a few minutes.”

Jane heard no more. The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this joyful intelligence, was too much for her; and uttering a faint cry, she sank senseless into the arms of the old knight.