us, we could as well, in sundry ways, foresee and provide for our own safety, as any of you, by betraying us, can do for yours. But now, upon the only trust and faithfulness of your honours, whereof we think ourselves most assured, we do hazard our lives. And if ye shall violate your trust and promise, hoping thereby of life and promotion, yet shall not God account you innocent of our bloods, neither acquit you of the sacred and holy oath of allegiance, made freely by you to the Queen’s highness, who, by your own and our enticement, is rather of force placed therein, than by her own seeking and request. Consider, also, that God’s cause, which is the preferment of his word, and fear of Papists’ entrance, hath been (as you have heretofore always declared,) the original ground whereupon you even at the first motion granted your good wills and consents thereunto, as by your handwritings appeareth. And think not the contrary. But if ye mean deceit, though not forthwith, yet hereafter, Heaven will revenge the same.”
“Your grace wrongs us by these suspicions,” observed the Earl of Arundel.
“I will say no more,” rejoined the Duke, “but in this perilous time wish you to use constant hearts, abandoning all malice, envy, and private affections.”
“Doubt it not,” said Cecil.
“I have not spoken to you in this sort upon any mistrust I have of your truths,” pursued the Duke, “of which I have always hitherto conceived a trusty confidence. But I have put you in remembrance thereof, in case any variance should arise amongst you in my absence. And this I pray you, wish me not worse good-speed in this matter than you wish yourselves.”
“We shall all agree on one point,” observed Pembroke aside to Renard—“and that is a hope that he may never return.”
“If your grace mistrusts any of us in this matter, you are deceived,” rejoined Arundel, “for which of us can wash his hands of it. And if we should shrink from you as treasonable, which of us can excuse himself as guiltless. Therefore, your doubt is too far cast.”
“I pray Heaven it be so,” replied the Duke, gravely. “Brother of Suffolk, I resign the custody of the Tower to you, entreating you, if you would uphold your daughter’s crown, to look well to your charge. I now take my leave of your highness.”
“Heaven speed your grace,” replied Jane, returning his haughty salutation.
“Farewell, my lord,” said the Earl of Arundel, “I am right sorry it is not my chance to bear you company, as I would cheerfully spend my heart’s blood in your defence.”
“Judas!” muttered the Duke.
Upon this, the Council broke up, and Jane returned to the palace, accompanied by the Duke of Suffolk, the two ambassadors, and others of the conspiring nobles.
“We may give each other joy,” said Pembroke to Renard, as they walked along—“we are at last rid of Northumberland. Suffolk will be easily disposed of.”
“Queen Mary shall be proclaimed in London, before tomorrow night,” rejoined Renard.
Meanwhile, the Duke, attended by the Marquis of Northampton, the Lord Grey, and divers other noblemen, entered his barge, and proceeded to Durham House. On the same night, he mustered his troops, and made every preparation for his departure, As he rode forth on the following morning through Shoreditch, great crowds collected to see him pass. But they maintained a sullen and ominous silence.
“The people press to see us,” observed the Duke, in a melancholy tone, to Lord Grey, who rode by his side; “but not one saith God speed us!”
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