In the Shadow of the Crown - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,188

were as he battled there at Ludgate; he must have realized with every passing second that his cause was a lost one.

Sir Maurice Berkeley called to him to surrender.

“If you do not,” he said, “all these men whom you have brought with you will doubtless be killed— yourself, too. Give in now. It may be that the Queen will show you mercy.”

Wyatt hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew that he had lost and he gave up gracefully.

Sir Maurice took Wyatt on the back of his horse and rode to the keep where I was watching, so that I might see that the leader of the rebellion was his prisoner.

My first thought was, “We must give thanks to God.” And, taking my women with me, I went to the chapel, where, on our knees, we gave thanks for this victory.

I was exultant. To me it meant confirmation of my dreams. God's purpose was clear to me. I prayed that I should be worthy to complete my mission.

NOW WAS THE TIME for retribution.

Wyatt was in the Tower. Although there was no question of his guilt, he was not executed immediately, because it was hoped that he would incriminate others—mainly my sister Elizabeth and Edward Courtenay.

At the Old Bailey, as many as eighty-two persons were judged and condemned in one day. In every street in London hung the bodies of traitors— a grim warning. This continued for ten days, and there were so many executions that men had to be cut down from the gibbets to make way for others. As Wyatt came from Kent, it was thought necessary to let the Kentish people see for themselves what happened to traitors. Men were taken there, and in the towns and villages their bodies were set up on gibbets or in chains.

Renard had told me frequently that the leniency I was inclined to show was dangerous. There would always be such insurrections while Lady Jane lived—and I could see that that was true. I knew I must agree that she be brought to the block.

I was wretched. I should have rejoiced. Our victory over Wyatt was complete, and yet, because it must result in so many deaths, I was unhappy. God had shown me how to act, and I had followed His instructions but I wished there need not be this carnage.

I told myself that these men were traitors, and they all knew the risk they ran when they took up arms against the anointed sovereign. It was the thought of Jane which haunted me, but I knew my advisers were right. While she lived, this sort of thing could happen again. It was better for her to die than that thousands should lose their lives because of her.

So at last they prevailed on me to sign the death warrant.

Guilford Dudley was taken out to the block the day before her. It was unnecessary cruelty to make her watch his execution from a window in the Tower. I did not know of this until after it had happened. There were many of my courtiers who regarded me as a soft and sentimental woman who let her heart rule her head. I should not have forced that cruelty on Jane, for, in my view, it served no purpose. Die she must, but I wanted it to be done with the least possible discomfort to her.

There were many to tell me how she went to her death, how she came out to Tower Green, wondrously calm, her prayer book in her hand, looking very young and beautiful. And as she was about to mount the scaffold, she asked permission to speak. When this was given, she spoke of the wrong done to the Queen's Majesty and that she was innocent of it.

“This I swear before God and you good people,” she added.

Her women tied a handkerchief about her eyes, and pathetically she stretched out her hands, as she could not see the block.

“Where is it?” she said. “I cannot see it.”

They said it was the most piteous sight, to observe her thus, a young and beautiful girl, so innocent of blame. I was glad I did not witness it.

They helped her to the block and, before she laid her head on it, she asked the executioner to dispatch her quickly, and he promised he would.

Then she said in a firm, clear voice, “Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.”

I was deeply moved when they told me, and how fervently I wished that it