“By Saint Paul!” whispered Renard to Gardiner, who had listened with great interest to the conference, and now saw with apprehension the effect produced on Mary, “she will gain her point, if we do not interfere.”
“Leave it to me,” replied Gardiner. “Your majesty will do well to accede to the Lady Jane’s request,” he remarked aloud to the queen, “provided she will comply with your former proposition, and embrace the faith of Rome.”
“Ay,” replied Mary, her features suddenly lighting up, “on these terms I will spare him. But your reconciliation with our holy church,” she added to Jane, “must be public.”
“Your highness will not impose these fatal conditions upon me?” cried Jane, distractedly.
“On no other will I accede,” replied Mary, peremptorily. “Nay, I have gone too far already. But my strong sympathy for you as a wife, and my zeal for my religion, are my inducements. Embrace our faith, and I pardon your husband.”
“I cannot,” replied Jane, in accents of despair; “I will die for him, but I cannot destroy my soul alive.”
“Then you shall perish together,” replied Mary, fiercely. “What ho! guards. Let the Lady Grey be conveyed to the Brick Tower, and kept a close prisoner during our pleasure.”
And, waving her hand, Jane was removed by the attendants, while Mary seated herself at the table, and took up some of the papers with which it was strewn, to conceal her agitation.
“You struck the right key, my lord—bigotry,” observed Renard, in an undertone to Gardiner.
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CHAPTER XXXII
HOW THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS BROUGHT A PRISONER TO THE TOWER
CHARGED with the painful and highly-responsible commission imposed upon him by the queen, Sir Henry Bedingfeld, accompanied by the Earl of Sussex and three others of the council, Sir Richard Southwell, Sir Edward Hastings, and Sir Thomas Cornwallis, with a large retinue, and a troop of two hundred and fifty horse, set out for Ashbridge, where Elizabeth had shut herself up previously to the outbreak of Wyat’s insurrection. On their arrival, they found her confined to her room with real or feigned indisposition, and she refused to appear; but as their mission did not admit of delay, they were compelled to force their way to her chamber. The haughty princess, whose indignation was roused to the highest pitch by the freedom, received them in such manner as to leave no doubt how she would sway the reins of government, if they should ever come within her grasp.
“I am guiltless of all design against my sister,” she said, “and I shall easily convince her of my innocence. And then look well, sirs—you that have abused her authority—that I requite not your scandalous treatment.”
“I would have willingly declined the office,” replied Bedingfeld; “but the queen was peremptory. It will rejoice me to find you can clear yourself with her highness, and I am right well assured, when you think calmly of the matter, you will acquit me and my companions of blame.”
And he formed no erroneous estimate of Elizabeth’s character. With all her proneness to anger, she had the strongest sense of justice. Soon after her accession, she visited the old knight at his seat, Oxburgh Hall, in Norfolk—still in the possession of his lineal descendant, the present Sir Henry Bedingfeld, and one of the noblest mansions in the county—and, notwithstanding his adherence to the ancient faith, manifested the utmost regard for him, playfully terming him “her jailer.”
Early the next morning, Elizabeth was placed in a litter, with her female attendants; and whether from the violence of her passion, or that she had not exaggerated her condition, she swooned, and on her recovery appeared so weak that they were obliged to proceed slowly. During the whole of the journey, which occupied five days, though it might have been easily accomplished in one, she was strictly guarded; the greatest apprehension being entertained of an attempt at rescue by some of her party. On the last day, she robed herself in white, in token of her innocence; and on her way to Whitehall, where the queen was staying, she drew aside the curtains of her litter, and displayed a countenance, described in Renard’s despatches to the emperor, as “proud, lofty, and superbly disdainful, an expression assumed to disguise her mortification.” On her arrival at the palace, she earnestly entreated an audience of her majesty, but the request was refused.