CHAPTER XXII

With Lady Jane

I did not find Lady Jane in bed, in the gloomy quarters where she was confined. Separated from her husband, who was imprisoned in the Beauchamp Tower, and left entirely alone, she was passing the time in prayer, meditation, and studying the philosophic and holy writings, from which she imbibed deep draughts of resignation and wisdom.

Like a child exhausted with play after having acted a difficult part, and like one worn with the strain that has been put upon her in the battle of life, she was simply waiting at the foot of the Cross, and I found her on her knees, weeping gently as she prayed.

The warder, who conducted me to her apartment, retired, bolting the door after him, and I stood by it a little while, unwilling to interrupt my dear lady and noticing with dismay the iron-barred windows of the room and the stone walls, partly concealed by tapestry. I saw also that the furniture--a table and some chairs--was of carved oak. and the deep window-seats were covered with velvet, as was also the seat of the oak chair before which the poor young prisoner knelt.

Perhaps she heard some one enter--certainly the warder made noise enough as he closed the door--and therefore, ending her prayer, she arose and looked round.

The next moment I was folded in her arms, and we were crying together.

'Oh, Margery! My poor Margery!' she said, at last, when we were a little calmer. 'Where have you been? Why, dear,' looking at me more closely, 'what have they done to you? You look so pale and thin! How did you get into the Tower?'

'It took me a week to get in,' I said, beginning to answer her last question first, and then, as we sat together on one of the window seats, I proceeded to tell her all that had befallen me since I was carried off from Isleworth.

Lady Jane was very sympathizing when she heard of all my danger, distress and trouble in Crossley Hall, and was delighted that my valiant knight, Sir Hubert Blair, had rescued me, with a strong hand. But when I proceeded to tell her that he was now in London bent upon fighting for her and deep in schemes with her father, to bring about a change of monarchy, she was greatly concerned and not a little distressed.

'Why did not you stop them, Margery?' she said. 'You know so well that I do not think it right to be queen, when my cousins Mary and Elizabeth are living. You are well aware how I disliked to be queen, and how gladly I gave it up.'

'Yes, madam, I told Sir Hubert Blair all,' replied I, 'but he said that they looked at the matter in this light. There were the people of England to consider, the multitude of human beings who, in the one case, would be plunged back into Roman Catholicism, in the other would enjoy the Reformed faith, and freedom to worship God in their own tongue and read His Divine Word for themselves. He said, madam, that you must not think of your own wishes, but must sacrifice yourself for the good of the people.'

I thought I had stated Sir Hubert's argument clearly and well, yet Lady Jane shook her head.

'We must not do evil that good may come,' she said. 'And have I any right to take another person's possession because it seems to me that I can administer it better than the rightful owner?'

'But think of the suffering that may come upon our good Protestants if Mary reigns?' I urged. 'They say that she will do everything that her Roman Church enjoins, and the horrors--the horrors of the Inquisition--may be brought to this land of ours,' and I poured out all that Sir Hubert had related of that horrible institution.

'God grant that it may never come to England!' said my mistress, when I ended. After which she added, thoughtfully, 'I think that Queen Mary is not so bigoted as some people imagine, and she has behaved very leniently in several ways since her elevation to the throne. She forgave my father and set him free, and, although the Emperor Charles, to whom she looks up so much, has advised her to have me executed, she has refused----'

'I should think so!' I interrupted. 'Oh, dear madam, what a wicked wretch that emperor must be!'

'People always look at things from their own point of view, or the point of view of those dearest to them,' said my mistress. 'The Emperor Charles, considering the welfare of Mary, sees that while I live there will be always a danger of some enthusiasts, like your Sir Hubert, starting up to try and put me on the throne again--and in that case, besides the danger to the reigning monarch, there would be many slain, much blood would be shed, and you must remember Sir Hubert's argument about the duty of considering the welfare of the many. If my death will put away this danger to so many, then I had better die, dear Margery.'

'No! No! No!' I cried. 'It would be the foulest shame in the world for one so innocent and good as you to be killed--and remember your argument, they must not do evil that good may come.'

Lady Jane smiled.

'Well done, little Margery!' she said, adding, 'Now tell me how you managed to get into the Tower.'

I told her, upon which she remarked--

'You see Mary has a good heart--you touched it with your singing, and she allowed you to come to me,' adding, to my delight, 'To have you with me is the one thing I wanted, next to my natural wish to be with my husband. They have separated us, you know, Margery. He is imprisoned in another tower.'

'It _is_ hard,' I said.

'And I have great anxiety about him,' went on my dear lady. 'Doubtless the priests are endeavouring to convert him to Romanism, and since they succeeded with his father----'

'Madame, did the Duke of Northumberland give up his faith?'

'Yes,' she answered sadly. 'He was not brave, not heroic; he gave way on all sides when death was imminent. But they have killed him. He is dead, and we must say nothing, except good, of the dead.'

She quoted a Latin proverb to that effect,[1] but it was strange to my ears, and I have so far forgotten it as not to be able to write it down.

[1] _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_.--ED.

I could not help thinking that Northumberland's ambition was in reality his religion, but could not say so after those words of Lady Jane's.

'He was beheaded on Tower Hill,' she continued, 'and oh! God grant that the same fate may not befall my dear lord!'

The days passed slowly and quietly for me and my dear lady in her prison in the Tower. Queen Mary did not send for me to come and sing to her any more. She went to stay for a while at Richmond Palace, and, then again, we heard that she was at Whitehall, and sometimes she was in her palace in the Tower, but that made no difference to us. Certain privileges were accorded by her to Lady Jane, and of course I shared them. For instance, we were allowed to walk across the green to St. Peter's Church occasionally, where Lady Jane much enjoyed the fine music, and liked to join in the services. On these occasions she would look up at the Beauchamp Tower, as we passed it, wondering how her husband was and what he was doing. My heart ached for her many a time, when I saw her wistful face upturned to the windows of the Tower, as she vainly tried to see the face she loved. At least Mary might have permitted them to meet occasionally, if she could not permit them to enjoy each other's constant society. But a day was coming, though I knew it not then, when they would be allowed to be together, at least for a short time. Lady Jane was also permitted to walk in the queen's garden--this was a pleasure to her, who so dearly loved fresh air and flowers. Sometimes she would talk about the gardens at Sion House, and the Thames flowing by them, and wonder if we should ever go there again. At other times she would tell me about Bradgate, where she had been brought up and where her tutor, Mr. Roger Ascham, used to marvel because she preferred to sit reading Plato to joining her young companions in the sport of hunting. It was well that she preferred books, as they were now her solace when it would not have been possible for her to have had the other pastime.

In the beginning of October Lady Jane was allowed to meet her husband once more, but the occasion was most melancholy, for they were both being conducted to the Guildhall, together with Archbishop Cranmer and Lord Ambrose Dudley, Lord Guildford Dudley's brother, to be tried on the charge of high treason. Lady Jane pleaded guilty, and they were all convicted of high treason and condemned to death as traitors. Lady Jane's sentence was that she was to be beheaded or burnt to death, at the queen's pleasure, and Judge Morgan, who pronounced it, was afterwards so deeply afflicted in his mind at the remembrance that he died, raving.

Many people were exceedingly grieved for the poor young creature, who had been made a tool of by her ambitious relatives, sorely against her will, and the touching grace and meekness of her demeanour, as well as her misfortunes, caused them to follow her weeping and lamenting her hard fate, as she was being reconducted to the Tower.

The queen, however, appears to have had no intention at that time of carrying out Lady Jane's sentence, nor indeed that of the others who were condemned with her, but thought it better to please her partisans by keeping them in prison under sentence of death. To Lady Jane, indeed, Mary granted more indulgences, such as permitting her to walk on Tower Hill, where I always accompanied her.

The autumn passed slowly into winter. I often thought of my beloved, wondering what he was doing and dreading inexpressibly to hear of his one day being brought into the Tower, through the Traitors' Gate. I wrote to him two or three letters, sending them off as I found opportunity, in which I told him guardedly, lest they should fall into the wrong hands, that Lady Jane, above all things, desired that no effort should be made to replace her in what she felt had been a false position. But I received no sign that my dear knight ever got my poor little epistles, and indeed it would not have been strange if they had never reached his hands.

At length, however, I heard of him. One day there was a great commotion in the Tower, armed men springing up everywhere, guns bristling on all sides, the defences of the whole fortress being looked to, and military commands being called out in all directions.

'What is it, warder? What is happening?' Lady Jane inquired, in her gentle way.

Then the warder informed us that they were expecting that the Tower would be assailed by a large force, which was coming to attack it, under a leader who had begun to carry all before him.

'Who is he?' asked Lady Jane.

'Madam, he is a knight, who owns property and a castle in Kent, where he began the rebellion. His name,' added the man, 'is Sir Thomas Wyatt, and he is accompanied by several gentlemen, and amongst them Sir Hubert Blair, who is notoriously active against the Government.'

'Margery,' said my dear lady, when the warder had retired, 'if we could have prevented this! If we only could have prevented it!'

'I wrote to Sir Hubert Blair again and again after I knew your wishes,' said I, 'but I think he cannot have received my missives, or perchance his friend, Sir Thomas Wyatt, heeds not his advice.'

Even as I spoke I was hoping that these valiant knights, who were carrying all before them, would indeed succeed in their great enterprise.

'There will be a terrible amount of bloodshed!' sighed my mistress.

'God will be on the side of the right,' said I.

'Yes. On the side _of the right_,' she rejoined with emphasis. Then she continued, with another sigh, 'If this fails, my life will be the forfeit, and justly, too, for the words of those who said Queen Mary would not be safe upon her throne whilst I live will have proved true.'

Another time, as we were returning from St. Peter's Chapel, she paused, and, looking at a certain spot on the green, where a scaffold was wont to be erected for the more private execution of State prisoners, the tears came into her eyes, and I knew that she was apprehending a similar fate.

However, I had every confidence in my brave and valiant hero, and often lay awake at night, thinking of all that would happen when he and the Duke of Suffolk once more placed my Lady Jane upon the throne.

I thought, when all that was settled, and my dear lady, with her husband by her side, no longer depended so entirely on her Margery for companionship and love, and my beloved, with his work accomplished, had leisure to be happy, he and I might have time to get married, and then we would go together to see my home and my dear old father, Hal and Jack, and, too, Master Montgomery in his parsonage, and the villagers and our servants. After which Sir Hubert would take me to his own beautiful place, Harpton Hall, where we should live together in great happiness and prosperity. But I am glad to think that I always said to myself, 'If the Lord will,' and resolved that, even if things went contrary and we did not have quite such a good time, I would be resigned and thankful for smaller mercies.

But of what was really going to happen I had not the faintest conception.