The Tower of London - William Harrison Ainsworth

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of Gunnora, and in spite of her resistance and remonstrances, dragged her forcibly along. The stranger, who marched a few yards in advance, proceeded at so rapid a pace, that the old woman found it utterly impossible to keep up with him. She therefore stood still, and refused to take another step. But this did not avail her, for the two attendants seized her in their arms, and hurried forward as swiftly as before.

      Though bewildered and alarmed, Gunnora did not dare to cry out for assistance. Indeed, they did not encounter a single passenger in the streets, until, as they were descending Budge-row, they heard the clank of arms, and beheld the gleam of torches borne by a party of the watch who were approaching from Can-wick-street, or as it is now called, Cannon-street.

      Turning off on the right, the stranger descended Dowgate-hill, and gained Thames-street before he had been remarked. A short time sufficed to bring him to St. Mary-hill, up which he mounted, and entering Thames-street, and passing St. Dunstan’s in the East on the right, and the ancient church of All Hallows Barking on the left, he reached Great Tower-hill.

      By this time, the vapours from the river had cleared off. The stars had begun to peep forth, and the first glimpse of day to peer in the east. By this light, and from this spot, the stern and sombre outline of the Tower, with its ramparts—its citadel, and its numerous lesser turrets, was seen to great advantage. On the summit of the Hill appeared the scaffold and the gallows already noticed.

      Pausing for a moment, and pointing to a range of buildings, the summits of which could just be distinguished, to the south of the White Tower, the stranger said—“Within that palace Northumberland now reposes, surrounded by a triple line of fortifications, and defended by a thousand armed men. But if you will only reveal all you know, ere another week has passed his head shall be laid on that scaffold.”

      “The last time I beheld that fatal spot,” returned Gunnora, “my foster-son, the Duke of Somerset, was decapitated there. If I can avenge him upon his foe, I shall die content.‘’

      “Obey my directions implicitly, and you shall do so,” rejoined the other.

      “How are we to enter the Tower?” asked Gunnora.

      “Not by the ordinary road,” replied the other, significantly. “But we shall be observed if we linger here. Forward!”

      Crossing the Hill in the direction of the City Postern, the stranger suddenly wheeled round, and, under cover of a low wall, approached the moat. Exactly opposite the Devilin Tower, and the bastion occupying the north-western anglo of the exterior line of fortifications, stood at this time, at a little distance from the moat, a small low building. Towards this structure the stranger hastened. As he drew near it, he glanced uneasily at the ramparts, to ascertain whether he was observed. But though the measured tread of the sentinels and the clank of arms were distinctly audible, he remained unperceived.

      Unlocking the door, the whole party entered the building, which was apparently deserted. After a moment’s search, the stranger discovered a spring in the floor, which he pulled, and a trap-door opened, disclosing a long and steep flight of steps, at the foot of which sat a man with a mask, bearing a torch.

      No sooner did this person hear the noise occasioned by the opening of the trap-door, than he hastily ascended, and placed himself in readiness to guide the party. On gaining the level ground, it was evident, from the dampness of the arched roof of the passage, and the slippery surface of the floor along which they trod, that they were far below the bottom of the moat. Traversing this damp dark passage for more than a hundred yards, the humid atmosphere gave place to a more wholesome air, and the ground became drier.

      Hitherto, the passage had been about three feet wide and seven high, and was arched and flagged with stone. But they had now arrived at a point where it became more lofty, and their further progress was checked by a strong door plated with iron, and studded with nails. Taking a huge key from his girdle, the man in the mask unlocked this ponderous door, and, admitting the party, fastened it behind him. He then led them up another stone stair-case, similar in all respects to the first, except that it did not ascend to more than half the height. This brought them to a vaulted gallery, from which three passages branched.

      Pursuing that on the right, and preceded by his masked attendant, the stranger strode silently along. As she followed him, Gunnora noticed several strong doors in the wall, which she took to be entrances to dungeons. After threading this passage, the party ascended a third short flight of steps, at the top of which was a trap-door. It was opened by the guide, and admitted them into a small stone chamber, the walls of which appeared, from the embrazures of the windows, to be of immense thickness. The roof was groined and arched. In the centre of the room stood a small table, on which some provisions were placed. A small copper lamp, suspended from the roof, threw a sickly light around, and discovered a little pallet stretched in a recess on the right.

      “You are now in the Bowyer’s Tower, in the chamber where it is said the Duke of Clarence was drowned in the butt of malmsey,” observed the stranger. “Here you will remain till your presence is required by the Council.”

      Gunnora would have remonstrated, but the stranger waved his hand to her to keep silence, and, followed by his attendants, descended through the trap-door, which was closed and bolted beneath.

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      It will now be proper to ascertain how far the Duke of Northumberland was justified in his suspicion of Queen Jane’s conduct being influenced by some secret and adverse counsel. After the abrupt departure of Lord Guilford Dudley for Sion House, as before related, she was greatly distressed, and refused at first to credit the intelligence. But when it was confirmed beyond all doubt by a message from her husband himself, declaring that he would not return till she had acceded to his request, she burst into tears, and withdrew to her own chamber, where she remained for some time alone.

      When she re-appeared, it was evident from her altered looks that she had suffered deeply. But it was evident also, from her composure of countenance and firmness of manner, that whatever resolution she had formed she would adhere to it.

      Summoning the Earls of Arundel and Pembroke to her presence, she briefly explained to them that she had heard, with infinite concern and uneasiness, that the council had proposed to raise her husband to the throne, because she foresaw that it would breed trouble and dissatisfaction, and greatly endanger her own government.

      “Your highness judges rightly,” replied the Earl of Pembroke. “It will be said that in thus elevating his son, Northumberland seeks only his own aggrandisement.”

      “And it will be truly said, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “But if this is your opinion, why was your voice given in favour of the measure?”

      “No man is bound to accuse himself,” replied Pembroke.

      “But every man is bound to speak truth, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “Again I ask you, why your assent was given to this measure, which, by your own admission, is fraught with danger?”

      “The Duke of Northumberland is my enemy,” replied the Earl, sternly. “Had this step been taken it would have ensured his destruction.”

      “You speak frankly, my lord,” rejoined the Queen. “But you forget that it must have ensured my destruction also.”

      “I am a loyal subject of your majesty,” replied the Earl of Pembroke, “and will shed my last drop

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