LITMIR.BIZ

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The Pope had elected him a cardinal and sent his hat as far as Calais. But his head was off before his hat was on, so that they met not.” Next to Fisher was interred his friend, the wise, the witty, the eloquent Sir Thomas More, whom Hall, the chronicler, hesitates whether he shall describe as “a foolish wise man, or a wise foolish man,”—and who jested even on the scaffold. His body was afterwards removed, at the intercession of his daughter, Margaret Roper, to Chelsea. Here also was interred the last of the right line of the Plantagenets, Margaret, Countess of Salisbury, the mother of Cardinal Pole. The venerable countess refused to lay her head upon the block, saying (as Lord Herbert of Cherbury reports),—“‘So should traitors do, and I am none.’ Neither did it serve that the executioner told her it was the fashion:—so turning her grey head every way, she bid him, if he would have it, to get it as he could: so he was constrained to fetch it off slovenly.”

      Here also was deposited the headless trunk of another of Henry the Eighth’s victims, Thomas Lord Cromwell, the son of a blacksmith, who, having served as a common soldier under Bourbon, at the sack of Rome, entered Wolsey’s service, and rose to be Grand Chamberlain of the realm. Here, in Elizabeth’s reign, were brought the remains of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, who aspired to the hand of the Queen of Scots. And here also were laid those of Robert Devereux, the rash and ill-fated Earl of Essex. Under the communion-table was interred, at a later date, the daring and unfortunate Duke of Monmouth, who fell a sacrifice to his ambition. And to come down to yet more recent times, beneath the little gallery at the west of the chapel, were buried the three leaders of the rebellion of 1745—Lords Kilmarnock, Balmerino, and Lovat.

      There were four other graves, which, as being more nearly connected with the personages introduced in this chronicle, it will be proper to notice separately. Before the altar, on the west, a plain flag bore the inscription “Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, 1552.” On the next grave to that of the great Lord Protector was written “Katherine Howard,” and on the adjoining stone, “Anne Boleyn” These two queens,—equally unfortunate, but not, perhaps, equally culpable,—perished within five years of each other—the latter suffering in 1536, the former in 1541. Close to the wall on the right, a fourth grave bore the name of “Thomas Seymour, Baron Sudley.” Seymour was brother to the Duke of Somerset, and Lord High Admiral of England; and the only stain on the Protector’s otherwise reproachless character is, that he signed his death-warrant, and declined to use the power he undoubtedly possessed, of procuring his pardon. The fiery and ambitious Admiral was beheaded in 1549.

      Between this grave and that of Anne Boleyn intervened a plain stone, unmarked by any inscription, and indicating a vacant tomb. Beneath this flag, eighteen months after the execution of his victim, the Duke of Somerset—and barely six weeks from the day on which this chronicle opens—was deposited the headless trunk of the once all-powerful and arrogant Northumberland.

      The service over, as the Queen was about to depart, Simon Renard advanced to meet her. Returning his ceremonious salutation by a dignified greeting, Jane, with a look of some surprise, inquired the cause of his presence..

      “I might have chosen a more fitting season and place for an audience with your majesty,” replied Renard, in the low and silvery tone which he could adopt at pleasure. “But I have that to communicate which emboldens me to break through all forms.”

      “Declare it then, sir,” replied the Queen.

      Renard glanced significantly at her. She understood him, and motioning her attendants to withdraw to a little distance, they obeyed; and Lady Hastings seized the opportunity of despatching a messenger to her father to acquaint him with the circumstance, as already related.

      What was the nature of the disclosure made by the wily ambassador to the Queen, it is not our present purpose to reveal. That it was important was evident from the deep attention she paid to it; and it was apparent, also, from her changing looks and agitated demeanour, that her fears were greatly aroused.

      As Renard proceeded, her uneasiness increased so much that she could scarcely support herself, and her attendants were about to hasten to her assistance, when a gesture from the ambassador checked them.

      Different inferences were drawn by the various witnesses of this singular interview. But all were satisfied of the ascendancy which Renard had, in some manner, acquired over the youthful sovereign. While glances of triumph were exchanged between the conspiring lords, who watched them from their station in the aisle, the greatest misgivings were experienced by the Ladies Hastings and Herbert. Unable to comprehend the mystery, they were so much struck with the peculiar expression of Jane’s countenance, which precisely resembled the look she wore after the mysterious occurrence in St. John’s Chapel, that they could not help thinking the present conference had some relation to that event.

      Renard’s manner, indeed, was so extraordinary that it furnished some clue to the nature of his discourse. Casting off the insinuating tone and deferential deportment with which he had commenced, he gradually assumed a look and accent of command, and almost of menace. His figure dilated, and fixing his black flaming eye upon the trembling Queen, he stamped his foot upon the vacant grave on which he was standing, and said, in a voice so loud that it reached the ears of the listeners, “Your Majesty will never wear your crown in safety till Northumberland lies here.”

      Before any answer could be returned, the door of the chapel was suddenly thrown open, and the Duke presented himself. A momentary change passed over Renard’s countenance at this interruption. But he instantly recovered his composure, and folding his arms upon his breast, awaited the result.

      Unable to control his indignation, the Duke strode towards them, and flinging his jewelled cap on the ground, drew his sword.

      “M. Renard,” he exclaimed, “you are a traitor!”

      “To whom, my lord?” replied Renard, calmly.

      “To me—to the Queen,” rejoined the Duke.

      “If to be your grace’s enemy is to be a traitor, I confess I am one,” retorted Renard sternly. “But I am no traitor to her majesty.”

      “It is false!” exclaimed the Duke, furiously. “You are her worst and most dangerous enemy. And nothing but the sacred spot in which you have sought shelter, prevents me from taking instant vengeance upon you.”

      Renard smiled disdainfully.

      “Your grace threatens safely,” he said, in a taunting tone.

      “Insolent!” exclaimed the Duke, roused to a pitch of ungovernable fury. “Draw and defend yourself, or I will strike you dead at my feet.”

      

      “Put up your sword, my lord,” cried Jane, throwing herself between them. “You forget in whose presence you stand.”

      “No!” exclaimed Northumberland, “I do not forget. I am in the presence of one who owes her authority to me—and who holds it through me. The same power which made you queen, can as readily unmake you.”

      “Your majesty will now judge who is the traitor,” observed Renard, sarcastically.

      “I do,” she replied. “I command your grace,” she continued, authoritatively addressing Northumberland, “to quit the chapel instantly.”

      “What if I refuse to obey?” rejoined the Duke.

      “Your grace will do well not to urge me too far,” replied Jane. “Obey me, or take the consequences.”

      “What are they?” cried the Duke contemptuously.

      “Your arrest,” said the Earl of Pembroke, laying his hand upon his sword, and advancing. “If his grace will not submit himself to your highness’s authority, we will compel him to do so.”

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