The Tower Of London by W. Harrison Ainsworth

Wyat himself, who was bent upon entering the city, where he expected to meet with great aid from Throckmorton, dashed through all opposition, and rode as far as the Belle Sauvage (even then a noted hostel), near Ludgate. Finding the gate shut, and strongly defended, he rode back as quickly as he came to Temple Bar, where he was encountered by Sir Maurice Berkeley, who summoned him to surrender, and seeing it was useless to struggle further, for all his companions had deserted him, he complied. His captor carried him to the Earl of Pembroke; and as soon as it was known that the rebel-leader was taken, the army was disbanded, and every man ordered to return to his home. Proclamation was next made that no one, on pain of death, should harbour any of Wyat’s faction, but should instantly deliver them up to the authorities.

That same night Wyat, together with Knevet, Cobham, and others of his captains, were taken to the Tower by water. As Wyat, who was the last to disembark, ascended the steps of Traitor’s Gate, Sir Henry Brydges, the new lieutenant, seized him by the collar, crying, “Oh! thou base and unhappy traitor! how could’st thou find in thy heart to work such detestable treason against the queen’s majesty? Were it not that the law must pass upon thee, I would stab thee with my dagger.”

Holding his arms to his side, and looking at him, as the old chroniclers report, “grievously, with a grim look,” Wyat answered, “It is no mastery now.” Upon which, he was conveyed with the others to the Beauchamp Tower.

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CHAPTER XXXI

HOW JANE SURRENDERED HERSELF A PRISONER; AND HOW SHE BESOUGHT QUEEN MARY TO SPARE HER HUSBAND

TOWARDS the close of the day following that on which the rebels were defeated, a boat, rowed by a single waterman, shot London Bridge, and swiftly approached the Tower wharf. It contained two persons, one of whom, apparently a female, was so closely muffled in a cloak that her features could not be discerned; while her companion, a youthful soldier, equipped in his full accoutrements, whose noble features were clouded with sorrow, made no attempt at concealment. As they drew near the stairs, evidently intending to disembark, the sentinels presented their arquebuses at them, and ordered them to keep off; but the young man immediately arose, and said that having been concerned in the late insurrection, they were come to submit themselves to the queen’s mercy. This declaration excited some surprise among the soldiers, who were inclined to discredit it, and would not have suffered them to land, if an officer of the guard, attracted by what was passing, had not interfered, and granted the request. By his command, they were taken across the drawbridge opposite the stairs, and placed within the guard-room near the By-ward Tower. Here the officer who had accompanied them demanded their names and condition, in order to report them to the lieutenant.

“I am called Cuthbert Cholmondeley,” replied the young man, “somewhile esquire to Lord Guilford Dudley.”

“You bore that rebel lord’s standard in the attack on the Brass Mount, did you not?” demanded the officer, sternly.

“I did,” replied Cholmondeley.

“Then you have delivered yourself to certain death, young man,” rejoined the officer. “What madness has brought you hither? The queen will show you no mercy, and blood enough will flow upon the scaffold without yours being added to the stream.”

“I desire only to die with my master,” replied Cholmondeley.

“Where is Lord Guilford Dudley?” demanded the muffled female, in a tone of the deepest emotion.

“Confined in one of the secret dungeons, but I may not answer you further, madam,” replied the officer.

“Are his wounds dangerous?” she continued, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.

“They are not mortal, madam,” he answered. “He will live long enough to expiate his offences on the scaffold.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, with difficulty repressing a scream.

“No more of this, if you are a man,” cried Cholmondeley, fiercely. “You know not whom you address.”

“I partly guess,” replied the officer, with a compassionate look. “I respect your sorrows, noble lady, but oh! why, why are you here? I would willingly serve you—nay, save you—but it is out of my power.”