Читать книгу The Tower of London - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 31

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Hurrying along Tower Street, and traversing Eastcheap and Watling Street—then narrow but picturesque thoroughfares—Gilbert,—to whom it is now necessary to return,—did not draw breath till he reached the eastern extremity of St. Paul’s. As he passed this reverend and matchless structure—the destruction of which, was the heaviest loss sustained by the metropolis in the Great Fire—he strained his eyes towards its lofty tower, but the gloom was too profound to enable him to discern anything of it beyond a dark and heavy mass.

“Thou art at present benighted, glorious fane!” he cried aloud. “But a bright dawn shall arise for thee, and all thy ancient splendour, with thy ancient faith, be restored. If I could see Mary queen, and hear mass solemnized within thy walls, I could die content.”

“And you shall hear it,” said a voice in his ear.

“Who speaks?” asked Gilbert, trembling.

“Be at St. Paul’s Cross to-morrow at midnight, and you shall know,” replied the voice. “You are a loyal subject of Queen Mary., and a true Catholic, or your words belie you?”

“I am both,” answered Gilbert.

“Fail not to meet me then,” rejoined the other, “and you shall receive assurance that your wishes shall be fulfilled. There are those at work who will speedily accomplish the object you desire.”

“I will aid them heart and hand,” cried Gilbert.

“Your name?” demanded the other.

“I am called Gilbert Pot,” answered the youth, “and am drawer to Ninion Saunders, at the Baptist’s Head, in Ludgate.”

“A vintner’s boy!” exclaimed the other, disdainfully.

“Ay, a vintner’s boy,” returned Gilbert. “But, when the usurper, Jane Dudley, was proclaimed at Cheapside this morning, mine was the only voice raised for Queen Mary.”

“For which bold deed you were nailed to the pillory,” rejoined the other.

“I was,” replied Gilbert; “and was, moreover, carried to the Tower, whence I have just escaped.”

“Your courage shall not pass unrequited,” replied the speaker. “Where are you going?”

“To my master’s, at the Baptist’s Head, at the corner of Creed Lane—not a bow-shot hence.”

“It will not be safe to go thither,” observed the other. “Your master will deliver you to the watch.”

“I will risk it, nevertheless,” answered Gilbert. “I have an old grandame whom I desire to see.”

“Something strikes me!” exclaimed the other. “Is your grandame the old woman who warned the usurper Jane not to proceed to the Tower?”

“She is,” returned Gilbert.

“This is a strange encounter, in good sooth,” cried the other. “She is the person I am in search of. You must procure me instant speech with her.”

“I will conduct you to her, right willingly, sir,” replied Gilbert. “But she says little to any one, and may refuse to answer your questions.”

“We shall see,” rejoined the other. “Lead on, good Gilbert.”

Followed by his unknown companion, about whom he felt a strange curiosity, not unalloyed with fear, Gilbert proceeded at a rapid pace towards his destination. The whole of the buildings then surrounding Saint Paul’s, it is almost unnecessary to say, were destroyed by the same fire that consumed the Cathedral; and, though the streets still retain their original names, their situation is in some respects changed.

Passing beneath the shade of a large tree, which then grew at the western boundary of the majestic edifice, Gilbert darted through a narrow entry into Ave Maria Lane, and turning to the left, speedily reached Ludgate, which he crossed at some fifty paces from the Gate—then used, like several of the other city portals, as a prison—and, entering Creed Lane, halted before a low-built house on the right. The shutters were closed, but it was evident, from the uproarious sounds issuing from the dwelling, that revelry was going on within. Gilbert did not deem it prudent to open the street door, but calling to his companion, he went to the back of the tavern, and gained admittance through a window on the ground floor.

“They are having a merry rouse,” he observed to the other, “in honour of the usurper; and my master, Ninion, will be too far gone to notice aught except his guests and his sack brewage, so that I may safely conduct your worship to my grandame. But first let me strike a light.”

With this, he searched about for flint and steel, and having found them, presently set fire to a small lamp hanging against the wall, which he removed and turned, not without some apprehension, towards the stranger.

His glance fell upon a tall man, with an ample feuille-morte coloured cloak thrown over his left shoulder, so as completely to muffle the lower part of his features. Gilbert could see nothing of the stranger’s face, except an aquiline nose, and a pair of piercing black eyes; but the expression of the latter was so stern and searching, that his own regards involuntarily sank before them. A bonnet of black velvet, decorated with a single drooping feather, drawn over the brow, added to the stranger’s disguise. But what was revealed of the physiognomy was so striking, that Gilbert was satisfied he should never forget it.

Something, indeed, there was of majesty in the stranger’s demeanour, that, coupled with his sinister looks and the extraordinary brilliancy of his eyes, impressed the superstitious youth with the notion that he was in the presence of an unearthly being. Struck by this idea, he glanced at the stranger’s feet, in expectation of finding one of the distinctive marks of the Prince of Darkness. But he beheld nothing except a finely-formed limb, clothed in black silk hose and a velvet shoe, above which hung the point of a lengthy rapier.

“I am neither the enemy of mankind nor your enemy, good youth,” observed the stranger, who guessed the cause of Gilbert’s apprehensions. “Bring your grandame hither, and take heed how you approach her, or your looks will alarm her more than mine do you.”

It was not without reason that this caution was given. Gilbert’s appearance was ghastly in the extreme. His countenance was haggard with the loss of blood; his garments torn and saturated with moisture; and his black dripping locks, escaping from the blood-stained bandage around his head, contrasted fearfully with the deathly paleness of his visage. Acknowledging the justice of the suggestion, Gilbert decided upon proceeding in the dark, that his appearance might not be observed.

Accordingly, he crept cautiously up stairs, and returned in a few minutes with his aged relative. Gilbert found the stranger in the same attitude he had left him, and his appearance startled Gunnora, as much as it had done him.

Crossing herself, she glanced uneasily at the mysterious stranger. From him her eye wandered to Gilbert; and terrified by his haggard looks, she cried in a tone of anxiety, “You have suffered much, my child. The ill news reached me of the shameful punishment with which you have been visited for your loyalty to your true Queen. I heard also that you had been conveyed a prisoner to the Tower; and was about to make suit to the gracious lady, Jane Dudley, in your behalf. Was I wrongfully informed?”

“No, mother, you were not,” replied Gilbert. “But heed me not. There stands the worshipful gentleman who desires to speak with you.”

“I am ready to answer his questions,” said Gunnora. “Let him propose them.”

“First, let me tell you, dame,” said the stranger, “that your grandsons devotion to Queen Mary shall not pass unrequited. Ere many days—perchance many hours—shall have passed, he shall exchange his serge doublet for a suit of velvet.”

“You hear that, mother,” exclaimed Gilbert, joyfully.

“Who are you that make him the offer?” asked Gunnora, stedfastly regarding the stranger.

“You shall know, anon,” he replied. “Suffice it, I can make good my words. Your presence is required in the Tower.”

“By the Lady Jane,—I should say by the queen?” rejoined Gunnora.

“By the Privy Council,” returned the stranger.

“What do they seek from me?” demanded the old woman.

“To testify to the death of his late Majesty, King Edward the Sixth,” replied the other.

“Ha!” exclaimed Gunnora.

“Fear nothing,” rejoined the stranger. “The council will befriend you. Their object is to prove that Edward was poisoned by Northumberland’s order. Can you do this?”

“I can,” replied Gunnora. “My hand administered the fatal draught.”

“Yours, mother!” ejaculated Gilbert, horror-stricken.

“Prove this, and Northumberland will lose his head,” said the stranger.

“Were my own to fall with it, I would do so,” replied Gunnora. “My sole wish is to avenge my foster-son, the great Duke of Somerset, who fell by Northumberland’s foul practices. It was therefore when all the physicians of the royal household were dismissed, and the duke sent messengers for empirical aid, that I presented myself, and offered my services. When I beheld the royal sufferer, I saw he had but short space to live. But short as it was, it was too long for the duke. A potion was prepared by Northumberland, which I administered. From that moment his highness grew worse, and in six hours he was a corpse.”

“It was a cursed deed,” cried Gilbert.

“True,” replied Gunnora, “it was so, and Heaven will surely avenge it. But I did it to get Northumberland into my power. The king’s case was past all remedy. But he might have lingered for days and weeks, and the duke was impatient for the crown. I was impatient too—but it was for his head. And therefore I did his bidding.”

“Your vengeance shall be fully gratified,” replied the stranger. “Come with me.”

“Hold!” exclaimed Gunnora. “How will his testimony affect the Lady Jane?”

“It will deprive her of her crown—perchance her head,” rejoined the stranger.

“Then it shall never be uttered,” replied Gunnora, firmly.

“Torture shall wring it from you,” cried the stranger, furiously.

The old woman drew herself up to her full height, and, regarding the stranger fixedly, answered in a stern tone—“Let it be tried upon me.”

“Mother,” said Gilbert, striding between them, and drawing his dagger, “go back to your own room. You shall not peril your safety thus.”

“Tush!” exclaimed the stranger, impatiently. “No harm shall befal her. I thought you were both loyal subjects of Queen Mary. How can she assume the sovereign power while Jane grasps the sceptre?”

“But you aim at her life?” said Gunnora.

“No,” replied the stranger, “I would preserve her. My object is to destroy Northumberland, and restore the crown to her to whom it rightfully belongs.”

“In that case I will go with you,” returned the old woman.

“You will fall into a snare,” interposed her grandson. “Let him declare who he is.”

“I will reveal my name to your grandame, boy,” replied the stranger. And advancing towards Gunnora, he whispered in her ear. *

The old woman started and trembled.

“Hinder me not, Gilbert,” she said. “I must go with him.”

“Shall I accompany you?” asked her grandson.

“On no account,” replied the stranger, “unless you desire to be lodged in the deepest dungeon in the Tower. Be at the place of rendezvous to-morrow night, and you shall know more. Are you ready, good dame?”

Gunnora signified her assent; and, after a few parting words with her grandson, the latter unfastened a small door, opening upon the yard, and let them out.

They were scarcely clear of the house, when the stranger placing a silver whistle to his lips, blew a call upon it, which was instantly answered by a couple of attendants. At a signal from their leader they placed themselves on either side 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.