The Collected Novels. William Harrison Ainsworth

      “None,” answered Pembroke.

      “It is false,” cried Northumberland, imperiously; “you shall all sign,—all! vile, perjured traitors that you are! I will have your hands to this paper, or, by God’s precious soul! I will seal it with your blood. Now, will you obey me?”

      There was a stern, deep silence.

      “Will you obey him?” demanded Renard, in a mocking whisper. “No!” answered Pembroke, fiercely.

      “Guards!” cried Northumberland, “advance, and attach their persons.”

      The command was instantly obeyed by the arquebusiers, who marched forward and surrounded them.

      Jane fixed an inquiring look upon Northumberland, but she spoke not.

      “What next?” demanded Pembroke, in a loud voice.

      “The block,” replied Northumberland.

      “The block!” exclaimed Jane, rising, while the colour forsook her cheek. “Oh! no, my lord,—no.”

      “But I say yea,” returned the Duke, peremptorily. “‘Fore Heaven! these rebellious lords think I am as fearful of shedding blood as they are of shedding ink. But they shall find they are mistaken. Away with them to instant execution.”

      “Your grace cannot mean this!” cried Jane, horror-stricken.

      “They shall have five minutes for reflection,” returned the Duke, sternly. “After that time, nothing shall save them.’”

      An earnest consultation was held among the council. Three minutes had expired. The Duke beckoned a sergeant of the guard towards him.

      “You had better sign,” whispered Simon Renard; “I will find some means of communicating with her highness.”

      “We have reflected,” cried the Earl of Pembroke, “and will do your grace’s behests.”

      “It is well,” answered Northumberland. “Set them free.” As soon as the guard had withdrawn, the council advanced, and each, in turn, according to his degree, subscribed the despatch. This done, Northumberland delivered it to an officer, enjoining him to give it instantly to the messenger, with orders to the latter to ride for his life, and not to draw bridle till he reached Kenninghall.

      “And now,” continued the Duke, addressing another officer, “let the gates of the Tower be closed, the drawbridges raised, and suffer none to go forth, on pain of death, without my written order.”

      “Diable!” exclaimed De Noailles, shrugging his shoulders.

      “Prisoners!” cried several of the privy-councillors.

      “You are the queen’s guests, my lords,” observed the Duke, drily.

      “Do you agree to my scheme now?” asked Renard, in a deep whisper. “Do you consent to Northumberland’s assassination?”

      “I do,” replied Pembroke. “But who will strike the blow?”

      “I will find the man,” answered Renard.

      These words, though uttered under the breath of the speakers, reached the ears of Cuthbert Cholmondeley.

      Shortly afterwards, the council broke up; and Jane was conducted with much state to the royal apartments.

      III. OF THE THREE GIANTS OF THE TOWER, OG, GOG, AND MAGOG; OF XIT, THE DWARF; OF THE FAIR CICELY; OF PETER TRUSBUT, THE PANTLER, AND POTENTIA HIS WIFE; OF HAIRUN THE REARWARD, RIBALD THE WARDER, MAUGER THE HEADSMAN, AND NIGHTGALL THE JAILOR: AND OF THE PLEASANT PASTIME HELD IN THE STONE KITCHEN.

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      Cuthbert Cholmondeley, it may be remembered, was greatly struck by a beautiful damsel whom he discovered among the crowd during the ceremonial at the Gate Tower; and, as faithful chroniclers, we are bound to state that the impression was mutual, and that if he was charmed with the lady, she was not less pleased with him. Notwithstanding her downcast looks, the young esquire was not so inexperienced in feminine arts as to be unconscious of the conquest he had made. During the halt at the gate, he never withdrew his eyes from her for a single moment, and when he was reluctantly compelled to move forward with the procession, he cast many a lingering look behind. As the distance lengthened between them, the courage of the damsel seemed to revive; she raised her head, and before her admirer had reached the extremity of the lofty wall masking the lieutenant’s lodgings, he perceived her gazing fixedly after him. She held by the hand a little curly-haired boy, whom Cholmondeley concluded must be her brother,—and he was perplexing himself as to her rank,—for though her beauty was of the highest order, and her lineaments such as might well belong to one of high birth, her attire seemed to bespeak her of no exalted condition,—when an incident occurred, which changed the tenor of his thoughts, and occasioned him not a little uneasiness. While she remained with her eyes fixed upon him, a tall man in a dark dress rushed, with furious gestures and an inflamed countenance, out of the gateway leading to the inner line of fortifications on the left, and shaking his hand menacingly at the esquire, forced her away. Cholmondeley saw her no more; but the imploring look which she threw at him as she disappeared, produced so powerful an effect upon his feelings that it was with difficulty he could prevent himself from flying to her assistance. So absorbed was he by this idea, that he could think of nothing else;—the pageant, at which he was assisting, lost all interest for him, and amid the throng of court beauties who surrounded him, he beheld only the tender blue eyes, the light satin tresses, the ravishing countenance, and sylph-like person of the unknown maiden. Nor could he exclude from his recollection the figure of the tall dark man; and he vainly questioned himself as to the tie subsisting between him and the damsel. Could he be her father?—Though his age might well allow of such a supposition, there was no family resemblance to warrant it. Her husband?—that he was scarcely disposed to admit. Her lover?—he trembled with jealous rage at the idea. In this perplexity, he bethought himself of applying for information to one of the warders; and, accordingly, he addressed himself to Magog, who, with Xit, happened to be standing near him. Describing the damsel, he inquired of the giant whether he knew anything of her.

      “Know her!” rejoined Magog, “ay, marry, do I. Who that dwells within this fortress knows not fair Mistress Cicely, the Rose of the Tower, as she is called? She is daughter to Dame Prudentia Trusbut, wife of Peter the pantler—”

      “A cook’s daughter!” exclaimed Cholmondeley, all his dreams of high-born beauty vanishing at once.

      “Nay, I ought rather to say,” returned the giant, noticing the young mans look of blank disappointment, and guessing the cause, “that she passes for his daughter.”

      “I breathe again,” murmured Cholmondeley.

      “Her real birth is a mystery,” continued Magog; “or, if the secret is known at all, it is only to the worthy pair who have adopted her. She is said to be the offspring of some illustrious and ill-fated lady, who was imprisoned within the Tower, and died in one of its dungeons, after giving birth to a female child, during the reign of our famous king, Harry the Eighth,” and he reverently doffed his bonnet as he pronounced his sire’s name; “but I know nothing of the truth or falsity of the story, and merely repeat it because you seem curious about her.”

      “Your intelligence delights me,” replied Cholmondeley, placing a noble in his hand. “Can you bring me where I can obtain further sight of her?”

      “Ay, and speech too, worshipful sir, if you desire it,” replied the giant, a smile illuminating his ample features. “When the evening banquet is over, and my attendance at the palace is no longer required, I shall repair to the Stone Kitchen at Master Trusbut’s dwelling, where a supper is provided for certain of the warders and other officers of the Tower, to which I and my brethren are invited, and if it please you to accompany us, you are almost certain to behold her.”

      Cholmondeley