The Tower of London. William Harrison Ainsworth
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meanwhile, had taken advantage of this diversion, to leave the Guard-room, and hasten to the Stone Kitchen.
Dame Potentia was just retiring to rest as the jailer reached her dwelling, and it was only by the most urgent importunity that he succeeded in obtaining admission.
“Your pardon, good dame,” he said, as the door was opened. “I have that to tell Cicely, which will effectually cure her love for the young esquire.”
“In that case, you are right welcome, Master Nightgall,” she replied; “for the poor child has almost cried her pretty eyes out since I brought her home. And I have been so moved by her tears, that I greatly misdoubt, if her lover had presented himself instead of you, whether I should have had the heart to refuse to let him see her.”
“Fool!” muttered Nightgall, half aside. “Where is she?” he added, aloud. “I have no time to lose. I have a secret execution to attend before day-break.”
“Yours is a butcherly office, Master Nightgall,” observed Peter Trusbut, who was dozing in an arm-chair by the fire. “Those secret executions, to my mind, are little better than state murders. I would not, for all the power of the Duke of Northumberland, hold your office, or that of Gilliam Mauger, the headsman.”
“Nor I yours, on the same fee, Master Pantler,” rejoined Nightgall. “Tastes differ. Where is your daughter, good dame?”
“In her chamber,” replied Potentia. “Ho! Cicely, sweetheart!” she added, knocking at a door at the end of a short passage leading out of the kitchen on the right. “Here is Master Nightgall desires to speak with you.”
“Does he bring me the token?” demanded the maiden, from within.
“Ay marry, does he, child,” replied the dame, winking at the jailer. “Heaven forgive me the falsehood,” she added,—“for I know not what she means.”
“Leave us a moment, dear mother,” said Cicely, hastily unfastening the door. “Now, Master Nightgall,” she continued, as Dame Potentia retired, and the jailer entered the room, “have you fulfilled your compact?”
“Cicely,” rejoined the jailer, regarding her sternly, “you have not kept faith with me. You have despatched a messenger to the palace.”
“Oh! he is free,” exclaimed the maiden, joyfully,—“your plans have been defeated?”
Nightgall smiled bitterly.
“My messenger cannot have failed,” she continued, with a sudden change of countenance. “I am sure Lord Guilford would not abandon his favourite esquire. Tell me, what has happened?”
“I am come to claim fulfilment of your pledge,” rejoined the jailer.
“Then you have set him free,” cried Cicely. “Where is the token?”
“Behold it,” replied Nightgall, raising his hand, on which her lover’s ring sparkled.
“Lost!—lost!” shrieked Cicely, falling senseless upon the floor.
The jailer gazed at her a moment in silence, but did not attempt to offer any assistance. He then turned upon his heel, and strode out of the room.
“Look to your daughter, dame,” he observed, as he passed through the Stone-kitchen.
IX.—OF THE MYSTERIOUS MANNER IN WHICH GUNNORA BRAOSE WAS BROUGHT TO THE TOWER.
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