would have been no match for Renard had they been opposed: and, indeed, his inferiority was afterwards signally manifested. But they were now united by common bonds of animosity: both were determined enemies of Northumberland—both resolved upon his overthrow, and that of the queen he had placed upon the throne.
No sooner had the ambassadors entered their barge, than withdrawing out of earshot of their attendants, they commenced a conversation in a low tone.
“How long will this farce last, think you?” inquired De Noailles, with a laugh.
“Not a day—not an hour,” rejoined Simon Renard, “if these suspicious and timorous English nobles will but act in concert, and confide in me.”
“Confide in you?” said De Noailles, smiling. “They fear you more than Northumberland.”
“They will not succeed without me,” returned Renard, coldly. “Mark me, De Noailles, I, Simon Renard, simple bailli of Amont in the Franche-Comte, and an unworthy representative of his Majesty Charles the Fifth, hold in my right hand the destiny of this fair land of England.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed De Noailles. “You have learnt to rhodomontade at the court of Madrid, I perceive, Monsieur le Bailli.”
“This is no rhodomontade, messire,” rejoined the other, sternly; “were I to join with Northumberland and Suffolk, I could establish Jane upon the throne. Acting with the privy council, who, as you well know, are, like ourselves, the duke’s secret enemies, I shall strike the sceptre from her grasp, and place it in the hand of Mary. Nay more, I will tell you that if I had not wished to ensure Northumberland’s destruction, I would not have suffered him to proceed thus far. But he has now taken a step which nothing can retrieve.”
“My hatred of him is as great as your own, M. Renard,” observed De Noailles, gravely; “and I shall rejoice as heartily as yourself, or any of his enemies, in his downfall. But I cannot blind myself to his power. Clinton, the Lord High Admiral, his fast friend, is in possession of the Tower, which is full of armed men and ammunition. The royal treasures are in his hands; the troops, the navy, are his—and, as yet, the privy council have sanctioned all his decrees—have sworn obedience to Jane—have proclaimed Mary illegitimate, and deprived her of her inheritance.”
“They shall eat their own words,” replied Renard, in a sarcastic tone. “But it is time, De Noailles, to admit you to my full confidence. First, swear to me, by the holy Evangelists, that I may trust you.”
“I swear it,” replied De Noailles, “provided,” he added, smiling, “your scheme has nothing treasonable against my liege lord, Henry the Second.”
“Judge for yourself,” answered Renard. “There is a plot hatching against the life of Northumberland.”
“Mortdieu!” exclaimed the French ambassador; “by whom?”
“To-night you shall meet the conspirators,” replied Renard.
“Their names?” demanded De Noailles.
“It matters not,” answered the other; “I am their leader. Will you make one of us?”
“Willingly,” rejoined the Frenchman. “But how is the duke to be put to death?”
“By the headsman,” replied Simon Renard. “He shall die the death of a traitor.”
“You were ever mysterious, messire,” observed De Noailles, drily; “and you are now more mysterious than ever. But I will join your plot with all my heart. Pardieu! I should like to offer Northumberland’s head to Queen Mary. It would be as acceptable as that of Cicero to Fulvia.”
“My gift shall be yet more acceptable,” rejoined Simon Renard, sternly. “I will offer her the fairest and the wisest head in England—that of Queen Jane.”
During this conference, the procession had been increased by several members of the privy-council, consisting of the Earls of Arundel, Shrewsbury, Huntingdon, and Pembroke, the Lords Cobham and Rich, with divers other noble and honourable persons, among whom Sir William Cecil, principal secretary of state, (afterwards, the great Lord Burghley.) must not pass unnoticed. Pembroke and Cecil walked together; and, in spite of their forced composure, it was evident that both were ill at case. As a brief halt took place amongst the foremost party, Cecil seized the arm of his companion, and whispered hurriedly in his ear, “We are lost, my lord. Your messengers to the queen have been arrested; so have my trusty servants, Alford and Cayewood. Luckily, their despatches are in cipher. But Northumberland’s suspicions once aroused, his vengeance will not be slow to follow. There is yet time for escape. Can we not frame some excuse for landing at your lordship’s residence, Baynard’s Castle? Once within the Tower, I tremble for our heads.”
“My case is not so desperate as yours,” returned the earl, firmly; “but were it so, I would never fly while others are left to pay the penalty of my cowardice. We have advanced too far to retreat—and, be the issue of this project what it may, I will not shrink from it. Simon Renard is leagued with us, and he alone is a match for Northumberland, or for the fiend himself, if opposed to him. Be of good cheer. The day will yet be ours.”
“Were I assured of Renard’s sincerity,” replied Cecil, “I might, indeed, feel more confidence. But I have detected too many of his secret practices—have had too much experience of his perfidy and double-dealing, to place any faith in him.”
“You wrong him,” rejoined Pembroke; “by my soul you do! As we proceed, I will give you proofs that will remove all apprehensions of treachery on his part from your mind. He has proposed a plan.—But of this anon—for, see!—all, save ourselves, have entered the barge. Do you mark how suddenly the weather has changed? A thunder-storm is gathering over the Tower. ‘Tis a bad omen for Northumberland.”
“Or for us,” rejoined Cecil, gloomily.
The sudden change in the weather, here alluded to, was remarked and commented upon by many others besides the Earl of Pembroke; and by most it was regarded as an evil augury against the young queen. The sky had become overcast; the river, lately so smiling, now reflected only the sombre clouds that overshadowed it; while heavy, leaden-coloured masses, arising in the north-east, behind the Tower, seemed to threaten a speedy and severe storm in that quarter. Alarmed by these signs, several of the more prudent spectators, who preferred a dry skin to the further indulgence of their curiosity, began to urge their barks homewards. The majority of the assemblage, however, lingered: a glimpse of a queen so beautiful as Jane was reputed, appeared to them well worth a little personal inconvenience.
Meanwhile, a loud and prolonged trumpet-blast proclaimed the approach of the Duke of Northumberland. He was accompanied by the Duke of Suffolk, the father of the queen. Nothing more majestic can be conceived than the deportment of the former—nothing more magnificent than his attire. His features, though haughty and disdainful, with a fierce expression about the mouth and eyes, were remarkably handsome and well-formed. His figure was tall and commanding, and there was something which is generally associated with the epithets chivalrous and picturesque in his appearance. John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who by his genius and rare abilities as a statesman had elevated himself to the lofty position which he now held, could not be less in age than fifty. But he had none of the infirmity of years about him. His forehead was bald, but that only gave expanse to his noble countenance; his step was as firm as a young man’s; his eye as keen and bright as that of an eagle. He was habited in a doublet of white satin, with a placard or front-piece of purple cloth of tissue, powdered with diamonds and edged with ermine. Over this he wore a mantle of cloth of silver, pounced with his cipher, lined with blue
