The Tower Of London by W. Harrison Ainsworth

“I am aware of your errand, my lord,” said Jane; “you are come to convey me to the Tower. I am ready to attend you.”

“It is well,” replied Lord Clinton. “If you have any preparations to make, you shall have time for them.”

“I have none, my lord,” she replied.

“Nor I,” replied Lord Guilford.

“My sole request is, that I may take one female attendant with me,” said Jane, pointing to Cicely.

“I am sorry I cannot comply with the request,” answered Lord Clinton, “but my orders are peremptory.”

“Will my esquire be permitted to accompany me?” inquired Dudley.

“If he chooses to incur the risk of so doing, assuredly,” replied Clinton. “But he will go into captivity.”

“I will follow my Lord Guilford to death,” cried Cholmondeley.

“You are a faithful esquire, indeed!” observed Lord Clinton, with a slight sneer.

While this was passing, Cicely hastily threw a surcoat of velvet over her mistress’s shoulders, to protect her from the night air, and then prostrating herself before her, clasped her hand, and bedewed it with tears.

“Rise, child,” said Jane, raising her and embracing her. “Farewell! may you be speedily united to your lover, and may your life be happier than that of your unfortunate mistress!”

“My barge awaits you at the stairs,” observed Lord Clinton.

“We will follow you, my lord,” said Dudley.

Leaning upon Cicely, Jane, who was scarcely able to support herself, was placed in the stern of the boat. Her husband took his seat near her, and two men-at-arms, with drawn swords, were stationed as a guard on either side of them. Bidding a hasty adieu to the weeping Cicely, Cholmondeley sprang into the boat, and was followed by Clinton, who immediately gave the signal to the rowers. Cicely lingered till the bark disappeared, and as two halberdiers bearing torches were placed in the fore part of the vessel, she was enabled to track its course far down the river. When the last glimmer of light vanished, her heart died within her, and she returned to indulge her grief in solitude.

Meanwhile, the boat with its unhappy occupants pursued a rapid course. The tide being in their favour they shortly reached London, and as they swept past Durham House, whence, only twelve days ago, she had proceeded in so much pomp to the Tower, Jane’s feelings became too poignant almost for endurance. The whole pageant rose before her in all its splendour. Again she heard the roar of the cannon announcing her departure. Again she beheld the brilliant crowd of proud nobles, gaily-dressed cavaliers, lovely and high-born dames, grave prelates, judges and ambassadors. Again she beheld the river glistening with golden craft. Again she heard the ominous words of Gunnora, “Go not to the Tower!” Again she beheld the fierce lightning flash, again heard the loud thunder roll, and she felt she had received a deep and awful warning. These thoughts affected her so powerfully, that she sank half fainting on her husband’s shoulder.

In this state she continued till they had shot London Bridge, and the first object upon which her gaze rested, when she opened her eyes, was the Tower.

Here again other harrowing recollections arose. How different was the present from her former entrance into the fortress! Then a deafening roar of ordnance welcomed her. Then all she passed saluted her as queen. Then drawbridges were lowered, gates opened, and each vied with the other to show her homage. Then a thousand guards attended her. Then allegiance was sworn—fidelity vowed—but how kept? Now all was changed. She was brought a prisoner to the scene of her former grandeur, unattended, unnoted.

Striving to banish these reflections, which, in spite of her efforts, obtruded themselves upon her, she strained her gaze to discover through the gloom the White Tower, but could discern nothing but a sombre mass like a thunder-cloud. St. Thomas’s, or Traitor’s Tower was, however, plainly distinguishable, as several armed men carrying flambeaux were stationed on its summit.

The boat was now challenged by the sentinels, merely as a matter of form, for its arrival was expected, and almost before the answer could be returned by those on board, a wicket, composed of immense beams of wood, was opened, and the boat shot beneath the gloomy arch. Never had Jane experienced a feeling of such horror as now assailed her, and if she had been crossing the fabled Styx she could not have felt greater dread. Her blood seemed congealed within her veins as she gazed around. The lurid light of the torches fell upon the black dismal arch, upon the slimy walls, and upon the yet blacker tide. Nothing was heard but the sullen ripple of the water, for the men had ceased rowing, and the boat impelled by their former efforts soon struck against the steps. The shock recalled Jane to consciousness. Several armed figures bearing torches were now seen to descend the steps. The customary form of delivering the warrant, and receiving an acknowledgment for the bodies of the prisoners being gone through, Lord Clinton, who stood upon the lowest step, requested Jane to disembark. Summoning all her resolution, she arose, and giving her hand to the officer, who stood with a drawn sword beside her, was assisted by him and a warder to land. Lord Clinton received her as she set foot on the step. By his aid she slowly ascended the damp and slippery steps, at the summit of which two personages were standing, whom she instantly recognised as Renard and De Noailles. The former regarded her with a smile of triumph, and said in a tone of bitter mockery as she passed him, “So—Epiphany is over. The Twelfth Day Queen has played her part.”