The Tower Of London by W. Harrison Ainsworth

Passing through an arched doorway on the east of this structure, where the entrance to the Record Office now stands, the officer conducted his prisoner up a spiral stone staircase, and left her in a small antechamber, while he announced her arrival. The unhappy lady still kept herself closely muffled. But though her features and figure were hidden, it was evident she trembled violently. In another moment, the officer reappeared, and motioning her to follow him, led the way along a narrow passage, at the end of which hangings were drawn aside by two ushers, and she found herself in the presence of the queen.

Mary was seated at a table, near which stood Gardiner and Renard, and at the new-comer’s appearance she instantly arose.

The interview about to be related took place in the large octangular chamber previously described. It was sumptuously furnished: the walls were hung with arras from the looms of Flanders, and the deep recesses occupied with couches, or sideboards loaded with costly cups and vessels.

Hastily advancing towards the queen, the lady prostrated herself at her feet, and, throwing aside her disguise, revealed the features of Jane. She extended her hands supplicatingly towards Mary, and fixed her streaming eyes upon her, but was for some moments unable to speak.

“I am come to submit myself to your highness’s mercy,” she said, as soon as she could find utterance.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mary, scornfully. “You shall receive justice, but no mercy.”

“I neither deserve, nor desire it,” replied Jane. “I have deeply, but not wilfully—Heaven is my witness!—offended your majesty, and I will willingly pay the penalty of my fault.”

“What would you with me?” demanded Mary. “I have acceded to this interview in consideration of your voluntary submission. But be brief. I have important business before me, and my heart is steeled to tears and supplications.”

“Say not so, gracious madam,” rejoined Jane. “A woman’s heart can never be closed to the pleadings of the unfortunate of her own sex, still less the heart of one so compassionate as your highness. I do not sue for myself.”

“For whom, then?” demanded the queen.

“For my husband,” replied Jane.

“I am about to sign his death-warrant,” replied Mary, in a freezing tone.

“I will not attempt to exculpate him, madam,” returned Jane, restraining her emotion by a powerful effort, “for his offence cannot be extenuated. Nay, I deplore his rashness as much as your highness can condemn it. But I am well assured that vindictiveness is no part of your royal nature—that you disdain to crush a fallen foe—and that, when the purposes of justice are answered, no sentiments but those of clemency will sway your bosom. I myself, contrary to my own wishes, have been the pretext for the late insurrection, and it is right I should suffer, because while my life remains, your highness may not feel secure. But my husband has no claims, pretended or otherwise, to the throne, and when I am removed, all fear of him will be at an end. Let what I have done speak my sincerity. I could have escaped to France, if I had chosen. But I did not choose to accept safety on such terms. Well knowing with whom I had to deal—knowing also that my life is of more importance than my husband’s, I have come to offer myself for him. If your highness has any pity for me, extend it to him, and heap his faults on my head.”

“Jane,” said Mary, much moved, “you love your husband devotedly.”

“I need not say I love him better than my life, madam,” replied Jane, “for my present conduct will prove that I do so. But I love him so well, that even his treason to your highness, to whom he already owes his life, cannot shake it. Oh, madam! as you hope to be happy in your union with the Prince of Spain—as you trust to be blessed with a progeny which shall continue on the throne of this kingdom—spare my husband, spare him for my sake.”

“For your sake, Jane, I would spare him,” replied Mary, in a tone of great emotion, “but I cannot.”

“Cannot, madam!” cried Jane; “you are an absolute queen, and who shall say you nay? Not your council, not your nobles, not your people, not your own heart. Your majesty can and will pardon him. Nay, I read your gracious purpose in your looks. You will pardon him, and your clemency shall do more to strengthen your authority than the utmost severity could do.”