It was that darkest hour of the night, the one just before the dawn, that Francis was summoned to attend her father. None of the household was stirring save Brooks, an old servitor, who stood at the foot of the steps with the horses. The statues of terrace and court gleamed ghostly white in the darkness, and the grim old keep frowned darkly upon them. The deserted aspect of the courtyard filled the girl with dismay. High purposes and noble resolves flourish in the bright light of day and grow into mightiness in the first hours of the night, but the early dawn chills enthusiasm and makes the inspirations of the night before seem poor and weak and hardly worth an effort.
Something of this feeling oppressed Francis Stafford. She missed the shouting of the gallants, the screaming of the hawks, the 38 yelping of the dogs and the blowing of horns that was the accompaniment of a hunting-party. Instead of such a triumphal departure there was only the low sobbing of Lady Stafford as she bade them farewell.
“My lord, you will have great care for you both, will you not?” she murmured, trying to control her emotion. “Oh, I like not the journey! I like it not!”
“Be not dismayed,” comforted her husband. “We will return soon, and there is no danger. We will be with thee again ere thou hast had time to miss us.”
The lady said no more but embraced them mournfully. Both father and child were silent as they swept out of the courtyard into the park beyond. Presently the sky began to soften in the east, and the gray uncertain light gave place to the blushing dawn. Soon the dark shadows that lurked under the trees fled before the golden beams of the sun. Suddenly the note of a lark rang out silvery and joyous. Bird after bird took up the note until from every tree and shrub there swelled a grand chorus as larks and throstles poured forth their matin song of praise. 39
“How beautiful!” cried Francis, her eyes sparkling, her spirits rising. “My father, right glad am I to be here with thee.”
“Thine is a wild spirit, Francis,” said her father rousing himself. “You mind me of these birds, so wild and free yet sweet withal. Child, mayhap I have done ill in taking thee thus from thy mother. And yet, we are not in the queen’s favor! Should misfortune overtake one it would involve all.”
“Father, if by act of mine I can further thy purpose, make use of me, I pray. Glad am I that thou dost deem me worthy of thy confidence. And do we not go to the aid of Mary, our rightful queen? What excuse need we for so doing? Oh, if I can once behold her, can but once kiss her hand, then would I be willing to lose even my life if ’twere needful.”
Lord Stafford smiled at her enthusiasm.
“Has the infection seized upon thee too, child? In like manner so do I feel, and so do hundreds of others. Strange what an influence Mary Stuart wields over human hearts! God forfend that thy life should be required, Francis, though many have been lost in her 40 cause. But I would not that thine should be numbered among them. Marry, it saddens me to think on’t. No more of this!”
“What name shall you call me by, my father, since I am your page?” asked Francis presently.
“Thine own. ’Tis a name that thou dost wear because it was my father’s, and will serve. But bear thyself in accordance with it and none will deem thee other than thou seemest. And I—I must teach my tongue to say boy instead of child. We have a long ride before us, and I fear that thy strength will fail ere we reach its end.”
“Fear not, good my father. Thou knowest how used to fatigue I am in hunting and hawking.”
“I know thy strength, else I should have feared to risk thee for so long a jaunt. And thou hast never been so far from home before.”
“No; I went with thee once to Lymington where I saw The Solent, and in the distance the Isle of Wight. But never have I been even across Southampton water.”
“True; I had forgot. Then thou wilt be entertained greatly, for we go through Wilts, 41 Gloucester and Worcester before we reach Stafford.”
And so conversing on through the woods they passed until at length they came to Bramshaw, a little village standing partly in Hampshire and partly in Wiltshire and forming the forest boundary. Before them swelled the rounded forms of the Wiltshire downs, and from their midst towered the spire of Salisbury with the mound of old Sarum looming darkly behind.
“I prithee tell me, father,” said Francis, “what is that which I see in yon distance? Methinks it looks like the tower of a church.”
“Its looks belie it not, Francis. It is the spire of the cathedral of Saint Mary, than which there is none higher in England. In the valley lies Salisbury where we will stop for rest and refreshment. Yon conical mound is Old Sarum which hath been a fortress from the earliest times. The fosse and rampart belong to the Roman period. In the vast plain which lies beneath it the Conqueror reviewed his victorious armies, and there also did the English landholders swear fealty to him.” 42
Francis looked with the delight of one who goes abroad for the first time. At the beautiful cathedral, then at the old fort, and lastly at the town itself which lay in the valley at the confluence of four rivers: the upper Avon, the Wiley, the Bourne and the Nadder. In the centre of the city was a large handsome square for the market-place from which the streets branched off at right angles. The streams flowed uncovered through the streets which added greatly to the picturesqueness of the place.
Lord Stafford turned into one of the side streets, and drew rein before a small inn, The Mermaid by name. As he rode into the courtyard the host hurried forward to greet him.
“Good my lord,” he said obsequiously, “light, and grace my poor house, I pray you. There be one here who hath waited since yester e’en to see you.”
“Beshrew me, sayst thou so!” ejaculated Lord Stafford. “I thought not to meet with any here. But oft must a man’s pleasuring be staid for by affairs of business. Is it not true, good Giles?”
“Marry, ’tis only too true,” replied the host. 43
“Where is he that would speak with me, Giles?”
“In the east parlor, my lord. I crave forbearance, sir, for placing any in the room which is reserved for your use, but I knew not that you were about to fare this way.”
“Trouble not thyself concerning the matter, good Giles,” returned his lordship. “Come, Francis.”
Tossing his cloak to Francis he strode toward the entrance of the tavern. The girl threw the garment over her arm, started to follow him, and then paused in sheerest confusion at finding the eyes of the myrmidons of the inn upon her.
Donning male attire in her own home had been mere sport, but with the curious eyes of strangers upon her the girl felt painfully embarrassed.
“Look to thyself, boy,” came in sharp tones from her father, and there was a note of warning in the faint emphasis that he placed upon the word boy.
Thus adjured Francis collected her wits, and, looking neither to the right nor to the left, she followed after her father with all the 44 boldness which she could assume. Lord Stafford wended his way to the east parlor of the inn with the air of being perfectly familiar with the place, giving his orders to the rotund host as he went.
“’Tis but a short time that we will trouble thee, Giles,” he said. “Serve us with dinner, I pray you. We will rest for a time, and then speed onward. Anthony,” he ejaculated as the host threw open the door of the chamber, “it is thou?”
“’Tis even I, my lord,” answered a tall young man coming forward. “I had news that you were coming this way and hurried hither to greet you.”
“Right glad am I to see thee, Babington,” was Stafford’s rejoinder. “I have much to say to thee. Hast dined?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then let us eat, and afterward there will be leisure for converse. Be in haste with thy meal, Giles.”
The host hastened from the room while Francis slipped quietly into the nearest chair, and looked with interest at the young man. She had heard of Anthony Babington. His 45 attachment to Mary of Scotland was well known, and his devotion invested him with a romantic glamour now that she too had espoused the same cause. The young man was speaking in low, rapid tones to her father:
“I tell you, my lord, that the attempt will not be successful. No invasion or insurrection can occur during Elizabeth’s life, for any open endeavor in Mary’s favor will cause Sir Amyas Paulet to slay her. He hath sworn it.”
“Then, Anthony, it may be unwise to try to release Mary from her prison. She hath suffered much of late from illness. It was my hope that if we were successful, to place her where she might obtain the comforts of which she hath been bereft, and so placed she would regain her health.”
“The matter hath gone too far to end in her mere release,” cried Babington earnestly. “Elizabeth must die.”
“Babington, thou art mad!” exclaimed Lord Stafford starting up in horror.
“Mad? Nay; I have just begun to see that I have been called to rid England of that most unjust queen who transcends the 46 laws of blood by keeping her own kin imprisoned as she hath done. And I am not alone, Stafford. There are others who believe as I do. Wilt thou join us?”
“Never,” cried Lord Stafford sternly. “May my right hand drop from its shoulder ere it be raised against England’s queen. Unjust to Mary she hath been. Unjust in her treatment of her, and unjust in usurping the throne. But still she is her father’s daughter, and crowned queen of England. If it be so that the release of Mary can be compassed, and Elizabeth forced to recognize her as her successor, I will join the effort even as I have already pledged to do. But no more.”
“Hast thou not seen Ballard?” asked the young man in surprise.
“Yes; he tarried with me at mine own house as Captain Fortescue. How now?”
“He said that thou wert ripe for the project,” mused the other.
“Not to assassinate Elizabeth,” returned Lord Stafford firmly. “I go to Chartley now to acquaint Mary with the plan for her release. But I tell thee, Anthony, if what 47 thou tellest me be true, then will I withdraw from the enterprise.”
“My lord, I did but try thee. Some there be who advocate the slaying of Elizabeth, but they are few. I beseech you, as you have given your pledge, aid us in acquainting Mary with the plan for her rescue. No more than this do we ask, and thou art depended on for this much.”
“As mine honor hath been given, I will continue to Chartley,” said Lord Stafford.
“Then, my lord, wilt thou bear this letter also from me,” and Babington handed him a small missive. “It hath given her some uneasiness at not hearing from me, and I would ease her mind.”
“Yes, Anthony; the letter shall be given her with these others.” Lord Stafford concealed it in his belt. “Methinks that thou art in a bad way, my lad.”
“More anon,” said Babington. “Our host comes. Thy dinner is served, my lord.”
Francis was so absorbed in the thoughts engendered by the conversation that she had just heard that she forgot all about her character as page and her duties as such. She was recalled to herself by a sharp reprimand from her father:
“Thy duty, Francis. Attend to the serving.”
Babington turned a startled glance upon her as she arose in obedience to her father’s command.
“The page?” he cried. “Did he hear our converse, my lord?”
“Yes; but fear not, Anthony. I would stake mine honor upon his silence. Thou canst be trusted, Francis?”
With heightened color, for the blood mounted to her cheeks at the intent gaze of the young man, the girl answered earnestly:
“Yes, my lord. Naught of what I have 49 heard shall pass my lips. Not even the rack should wring it from me.”
“Protest not too much, boy,” rebuked Babington. “Older and wiser men than thou have succumbed to its tortures.”
“You speak words of wisdom, Anthony,” remarked Lord Stafford. “Let us hope that the boy will not be tried by so grievous an instrument. Yet I do believe that he will be discreet.”
“He seems a proper lad,” returned the other. “A little backward, forsooth, but with none of the malapertness of some pages.”
Francis, now completely at ease as she saw that the young man believed her to be what she appeared, flashed an arch look at her father. Lord Stafford smiled slightly, but his countenance soon became overcast with gravity. The meal over, the host withdrew, and the elder man turned once more to the younger one.
“Anthony,” he said, “I must on my way, but let me plead with thee that if thou dost entertain a thought of such rash emprises as thy words suggest, to forego them. Naught but disaster could follow upon such projects.” 50
“My lord, say no more an thou lovest me,” replied Babington. “Mary’s sufferings cry aloud for vengeance. Sleeping or waking her wrongs are before me. My lord, she is a prisoner; made to submit to privations that even the basest criminals do not undergo. Couldst thou have seen her at Tutbury or Wingfield as I have done, you would wonder no longer that deeds of blood suggest themselves.”
“Anthony, thou art mad,” exclaimed Lord Stafford compassionately.
“Mad! nay; but Mary Stuart hath languished too long in her chains. I would dare anything to release her from them.”
“And so would we all who love and reverence her as the true heiress of England’s crown, Anthony. Yet I fear that thou dost meditate wrong to Elizabeth, but surely thou wouldst not raise thy hand against a woman?”
“Ay, my lord! Against a woman, or what not for Mary’s sake.”
“But Mary would not approve such measure.”
“No; therefore do we only contemplate her 51 rescue. The softness of her heart doth prevent other aims.”
“Anthony,” said Lord Stafford preparing to renew his journey, “I see that thou art ripe for some foolhardy enterprise. I misdoubt thy loyalty to Elizabeth, and fear that thou wilt soon engage in mischief. Had I not pledged mine honor to take these letters to Mary I would have naught to do with the matter. Thou hast raised grave doubts as to the nature of this undertaking. I fear for thee, for myself and family, and most of all do I fear for Mary Stuart. Thou knowest how eagerly Walsingham watches for an excuse to compass her death. Remember that, Anthony, and by the love you bear to her, forego the thoughts that charge thy brain.”
“Fear naught, my lord. Thy doubts carry thee farther than the issue warrants,” said Babington lightly.
“I bid you farewell, Anthony, but my heart is heavy with foreboding,” and Lord Stafford embraced him. “Would that I had known all this ere mine honor had become involved.”
“Be of good cheer. You lay too much 52 stress upon the matter,” and the young man returned his embrace. “Farewell.”
“Fare you well.” Lord Stafford proceeded to the courtyard followed by Francis. When the girl would have ridden behind him, he motioned her silently to come beside him. Wonderingly she obeyed, for not thus were pages wont to travel with their lords.
“My child,” said Lord Stafford when they had left the tavern behind and were on the old Roman road to Bath, “I have done ill in embarking upon this emprise, and more than ill in engaging thee in it also. There are dark days before us, Francis.”
“My father,” and leaning from her horse the girl kissed him. “No matter what befall thou hast deemed me worthy to share thy danger, and I will not repine. But I like not to think that they wish to kill the queen.”
“Think not on that, Francis,” said her father hastily. “On that matter my heart is heavy, though I trow such attempt will not be made. Anthony but raves. Such thoughts are not for thy young heart. Dismiss them, I entreat thee.”
“Let us rather think only that we are to 53 carry the tidings to Mary that an effort will be made to release her. Surely it is right to seek to relieve her suffering,” said the girl sweetly.
“It is in very truth, my child. Thou and I are not concerned in aught but in bearing good news; therefore will I cheer up, sweet chuck, though I am greatly troubled.”
And by an effort he put aside the dire forebodings that filled his soul, and tried to enter into the enjoyment of his daughter who, with the elasticity of youth, had turned to the more cheerful scenes around them.
Frequently he called her attention to some historic spot, or pointed out the beauties of the sylvan landscape. And thus, sometimes in sweet converse in which Francis learned to know her father better than she had ever known him; at others, in long lapses of silence the more eloquent that there was no conversation, and in stopping for rest and refreshment at taverns did the days pass without further incident. Yet though nothing of import transpired, the journey was not without interest to Francis.
Bath, on the right bank of the river Avon, 54 presented a great variety of beautiful landscape; the old city of Gloucester, city of churches and beloved of kings; Tewkesbury, site of the battle between Lancastrians and Yorkists which placed the crown upon the head of Edward the Fourth; Worcester, with its glorious cathedral, filled her with delight. The beauty of the diversified scenery, consisting of hill, vale, forest and river, the numerous remains of Druid, British, Roman, Anglo-Saxon and Norman to which her father called her attention; all these things contributed to her pleasure, and served to banish everything from her mind save the happiness of the moment.
“And now, Francis,” said Lord Stafford on the evening of the fourth day, “yonder lies Stafford, and we are near the end of our travel. Behold, on yon mount, called ‘Castle Hill,’ the place where stood a noble castle built by William the Conqueror. He conferred it upon Robert de Torri who took the name de Stafford from whom, as thou dost well ken, our family hath sprung. Art thou weary, girl?”
“Yes, father, but the journey hath nevertheless 55 been full of delight,” returned Francis brightly though her drooping body spoke of the fatigue by which she was almost overcome. “Yet right glad am I that we are come to Stafford. And on the morrow it may be that I shall see Queen Mary.”
“Mayhap, child. But now put from thee all thought save that of rest. Let the morrow bring what it will, this night shall be devoted to quiet and repose.”
Putting spurs to his horse the tired animal renewed his speed, and they were soon within the gates of the city.
Francis’ wish of beholding the Queen of Scots was gratified in a most unexpected manner.
“Do you remain here, my child,” said Lord Stafford the next morning. “I would behold for myself if what I have heard of Mary’s keeper, Sir Amyas Paulet, be true. If he be not so strict as report hath it, access to Mary may be easy. I would rather, if it be possible, that the matter be dispatched without employ of thee.”
“But thou wouldst still let me see Mary, father?”
“By my troth, I would. Thou hast well merited it. But now farewell for a season. When I return we can tell better how to conclude this business.”
“My father, what shall I do until thy return? Could I not go forth to the place 57 where stood the castle of our ancestors? I would fain examine it.”
Lord Stafford hesitated for a moment before replying, and then said thoughtfully:
“Thou mayst, if thou wilt. I know that I need not tell thee to remember that though thou dost wear a man’s habit thou art still in truth a maid, and to demean thyself in accordance therewith. But still as thou dost wear the habit, more of liberty may be given thee than otherwise thou couldst enjoy. Yes; go to Castle Hill, an thou wishest, but say to none what and for why we tarry in the town.”
“I am thy daughter, sir,” said Francis proudly. “Thou dost deem me worthy to abet thy enterprises. I will so bear myself that thou couldst ask no more of me than if I were thy son.”
“No more,” said Lord Stafford smilingly. “Thou leavest me with no regret that thou art not my son. A son could do no more.”
He kissed her and left the chamber. Francis followed after him to the courtyard of the inn where she stood watching him until he was lost to view. Then drawing her 58 cloak about her she left the yard, and walked slowly toward the eminence upon which the great castle formerly stood.
The ruins were interesting and served to entertain the girl for some time, but at length becoming weary, it occurred to her to set forth to meet her father.
“It seems long since he started,” she mused. “It cannot be a great while ere he returns. Therefore to beguile my loneliness I will go to meet him.”
Passing through the gates of the town she struck boldly into the open plain through which the road ran to Chartley. On and on she walked, the road turning and winding until at length it forked; one branch going to the left, the other to the right. Francis paused in bewilderment.
“Which shall I take?” she asked herself looking first at one and then at the other. “My faith, but either stretches forth invitingly. I have it! I will cast my dagger, and traverse that one toward which it points.”
So saying she unsheathed a small poniard from her belt and drew herself up to cast the weapon, when the clatter of horses’ hoofs 59 broke upon her ear. She looked up startled. From behind a bend in the road to the right there came at full gallop a party consisting of several men and a lady. Francis was so amazed at their sudden appearance that she still retained her position, the dagger poised ready for the throw. With a cry of horror the lady spurred her horse to her side.
“Boy,” she cried, “what art thou about to do? Stay thy hand, I command. Knowest thou not that self-destruction is forbid?”
Francis gave vent to a merry peal of laughter as the lady’s meaning flashed upon her.
“Be not dismayed, fair lady,” she said doffing her bonnet and making a deep courtesy. “I was not planning self-destruction. Life holds too much of promise to end it now. I was but wondering which of these two roads led to Chartley, and thought to follow the one toward which a throw of the dagger would point.”
The lady joined in the laugh, and then became grave.
“To Chartley?” she said. “And what wouldst thou at Chartley?”
It was on the tip of the girl’s tongue to reply, 60 “I go to meet my father,” but she caught herself in time. None must know of his journey there, and even though she who asked were beautiful and gracious she must be discreet.
“I wished to see Queen Mary,” she answered after a moment’s hesitation.
“To see Mary?” broke in one of the men who had drawn near during the above colloquy. “And may I ask, young sir, what business thou hast with Mary?”
“Why, why,” stammered Francis abashed by his harsh address and rude bearing. “I have no business. I only wished to see the queen.”
“Queen forsooth! Of what is she queen?” asked the other brusquely. “Of nothing, I trow. Not even is she mistress of her own actions. Queen forsooth!”
“Thou speakest truly, Paulet,” said the lady mildly. “Yet methinks it not becoming in thee to taunt Mary Stuart with the miserable state to which she hath been reduced. Boy, thou didst wish to see Mary. I am she.”
“Mary? Art thou in truth Queen Mary?” Francis exclaimed rapturously, and seeing the 61 assenting smile on the lady’s face she darted to her side and seizing her hand she kissed it fervently. “Oh,” she cried, “if thou art Mary, know that mistress of thy actions thou mayst not be, but thou dost reign in truth a queen over this poor heart.”
The dark eyes of Mary Stuart filled with tears and she pressed the girl’s hand tenderly.
“Such homage is sweet to the poor captive, my lad. It gladdens our heart to know that there are some who still hold Mary in reverence. Take this and wear in remembrance of her who is grateful for even the homage of a page.”
She drew from her neck a chain of gold to which was attached a locket which she threw over the girl’s head. With an exclamation of delight Francis pressed it to her lips passionately.
“It shall never leave me while life lasts,” she declared. “But may I not wait upon you at your castle, Your Highness? I would be of service to you.”
Her eyes sought the lady’s with a meaning look that Mary was quick to catch.
“Nay;” broke in Sir Amyas Paulet for 62 the gruff old puritan was very rigid with his illustrious captive. “Thou hast had thy wish, boy, and obtained what was doubtless thy object: a chain for a kiss, a locket for an obeisance. It pays to give court to reduced royalty. Away with thee, and let me not see thy face at Chartley, else thou shalt meet a gruff reception.”
“Then farewell.” Francis drew as close to the lady’s side as she could. “There are letters,” she whispered.
“Away!” Sir Amyas laid a hand upon the bridle of Mary’s horse and turned the animal from the girl. “I will have no whisperings. Away, boy!”
“Be not overcome, my pretty lad,” and Mary drew rein despite the protests of her uncivil guardian. “We thank thee for thy homage, and hope to see thee again when we journey forth. Farewell.”
“Farewell,” returned Francis sinking upon one knee and saluting her. “I will see you again, Your Grace.”
With an impatient exclamation Sir Amyas Paulet gave a sharp blow to Mary’s horse, which reared and plunged at the treatment, 63 almost unseating the lady, able horsewoman though she was. The animal then dashed away followed by the grim old puritan and the remainder of the party who had halted at some little distance from them.
As soon as they were out of sight Francis took the locket in her hand.
“And I have seen Mary,” she said with gladness. “How it will surprise my father. How beautiful is the locket, and how full of graciousness and sweetness she is! Service in her behalf must be a joy.”
She turned and retraced her steps toward Stafford unmindful of the fact that she had started to meet her father.
It had been morning when Lord Stafford had left his daughter; the sun was declining in the west when, discouraged and low in spirit, he returned to the tavern!
“It is even worse than report hath it,” he said as he entered the apartment where Francis awaited him. “Chartley is as much a prison for Mary as the tower itself would be. When I sought admission to its gates I was refused and threatened, forsooth. The manor is surrounded by a moat and is well 64 defended. The walls can be scaled only by birds. Methinks that there is cause for Babington’s wild frenzy.”
“Father,” spoke Francis demurely, though there was exultation in her tones, “I saw Mary.”
“My child, what do you say?” ejaculated Lord Stafford in surprise. “How couldst thou? You were not at Chartley.”
“Nathless I saw the queen,” and Francis laughed gleefully. “See what she graciously gave me.”
Her father took the chain and locket in his hands and examined them closely.
“It doth indeed come from Mary,” he said looking at the name, Marie R, engraved upon it. “Thou hast accomplished wonders, Francis. Tell me how the matter fell out?”
Francis related all that had happened. Lord Stafford listened intently.
“Sir Amyas is an austere jailer,” he observed. “He thinketh to do his duty more acceptably to Elizabeth by treating Mary with rigor. Mary is quick of wit, and I doubt not that this will put her on the alert. Child, I 65 must trust to thy wit to help me in this. Canst thou compass it?”
“I am sure so,” answered Francis with the confidence of youth. “To-morrow I will again repair to the forked roads, and mayhap she will be there.”
“Mayhap,” said her father, “but I misdoubt it. Paulet may be suspicious of thee, but ’twill do no harm to be there. We will try to get the letters to her, but if we do not succeed then must Ballard, or Captain Fortescue as he calls himself, find some other means of communicating with her.”
“We will succeed. Never fear,” said Francis with conviction.
The next morning Francis was early at the crossroads but although she waited for several hours neither Mary nor any of her party appeared.
“It is as I thought it would be,” said Lord Stafford, “but we must not be discouraged. You must go to the same place for several days. I feel sure that if Mary can compass it she will fare that way again. It is our only hope of opening up communication with her.”
Three more days passed without result, but on the morning of the fourth day a cavalcade appeared. Francis was delighted to see Mary in their midst. Not as before on a horse but in a coach. As she stood with uncovered head the party swept by her without stopping. The queen bowed and smiled, but when the girl would have darted to the side of the coach she was prevented by the gentlemen of the guard who closed around it. 67
“Oh,” cried the girl, tears of disappointment streaming from her eyes, “what shall I do? What can I do?” But the equipage swept on bearing Mary from her sight and Francis gave way to her grief unrestrainedly.
“And I thought to have done so much,” she murmured when she had become calm. “Ah! my father did well to say that Sir Amyas was an austere man. Little doth it comfort Mary to be a queen when there is such an one to control her actions. Well, I must to the inn.”
She turned to go back to the town when her eye was caught by a filmy bit of linen which was caught in a bush by the wayside.
“’Twas hers,” cried Francis catching it up eagerly. “How foolish to repine when I should have known that there would be some sign.”
Examining the dainty bit of cloth carefully she found it covered over with a lot of characters whose meaning she could not fathom.
“I must take it to my father,” she said concealing the linen in her bosom. “Mayhap he can decipher it.” And she hastened to return 68 to the tavern joyful at having obtained at least a token.
“It is written in cipher,” remarked Lord Stafford, examining the bit of cloth attentively. “It is my good fortune to have the key to some of the ciphers which she uses. It may be that it is the one that will unravel the meaning of this for us.”
Francis awaited the result with impatience while her father applied himself to the task of deciphering the characters. Presently he looked up triumphantly.
“I have it, child. Mary is in truth on the alert. She knows that we have messages for her. Listen! she says: ‘I find no security in writing by carrier; the best recipe for secret writing is alum dissolved in a little clear water twenty-four hours before it is required to write with. In order to read it the paper must be wetted in a basin of water and then held to the fire; the secret writing then appears white and may easily be read until the paper gets dry. You may write in this manner on white taffeta or white linen, especially lawn; and as a token when anything is written on a piece of taffeta or linen a little snip can be cut 69 off from one of the corners. Friend, if so be that you have letters, transcribe their message in the above manner. As to the manner of their delivery I know not. I will this way as often as the disposition of my jailer will permit. Adieu, my friend—though I know not thy name, yet thy features are engraved upon the heart of your queen,
‘MARIE, ROYNE.’”
“There!” Lord Stafford smoothed the piece of cloth complacently. “The thing that troubles is how to give her the papers and letters. ’Tis my belief that they would be as easy to deliver as to transcribe their contents upon cloth to give her. She must be made aware of the plan for her rescue.”
“What is the plan, father?”
“To overwhelm her escort while she is taking the air, child. Babington is to come with one hundred men and carry Mary off. Her escort seldom consists of more than eighteen or twenty men, and we think she might be easily taken from them.”
“But would not other of Sir Amyas’s men follow after and retake her?”
“We hope to place her in a secure spot ere 70 they could do so, Francis. Once across the border Elizabeth would have no power over her, and her son, unfilial though he hath shown himself, could not for very shame refuse her safe asylum. Then she might, if she would so choose, retire to France where she could dwell in peace.”
“She must have those letters, my father.”
“Yes, Francis; but how? My mind plays me false when I would discover a way. It is not active. We must think, think, Francis.”
Francis arose and walked to the window where she stood abstractedly looking through the lattice which overhung a large yard, surrounded by the stables of the hostelry. Some yeomen were dressing their own or their masters’ horses, whistling, singing and laughing. Suddenly she bent forward eagerly.
“My father,” she cried, “prithee come here!”
“What is it, Francis?” asked Lord Stafford joining her.
“Dost see the boy on the cart that has just entered the yard?”
“What is he, think you?”
“My child, he is a carter. What doth make thee so full of interest in him?”
“Might it not be that as a carter he would go to Chartley sometimes?”
“Gramercy! I see thy meaning. How full of wit thou art!”
Francis smiled, much gratified.
“If it can be compassed would it not be excellent to enter Chartley as a carter? The thing is to get within the gates. Then the delivery of the letters would be easy.”
“’Tis excellently thought of, child, but there are guards within as well. ’Twould still require adroitness to accomplish the rest.”
“Trust me! If I can get within, the rest shall follow,” said she with great determination. “I will enter into talk with that carter and see what can be done with him. My father, do I bear myself in a manner befitting my garb?”
“Thou art a very model of pagehood, Francis. Go, my child. Heavy as the burden of this emprise is it seems to have shifted its weight to thy shoulders. Find if the lad 72 goes to Chartley, and if so, the way may be opened for us to enter therein. Divers means must be employed to accomplish our aims.”
The girl left the chamber and, assuming the careless frowardness of a page, sauntered into the yard.
“Good-morrow, my lad,” she said, stopping by the side of the boy who was busily engaged in removing sacks, baskets and other receptacles from the cart.
“Good-morrow, young sir,” returned the wight civilly. “It hath been some days since I saw your worshipful sir. Methought that you had gone away.”
“Nay; I tarry here still for there is good cheer to be found at the Red Hand,” quoth Francis with a bold swagger. “How busy thou art.”
“Yes; the likes o’ us have to be. What with loading the cart, delivering, and unloading again, and caring for the nag I find the time full.”
“And where doth it all go, lad?”
“To Chartley, sir.”
“Chartley? Is not that where Mary of 73 Scotland is confined?” asked Francis, trying to speak indifferently.
“The very place.”
“Didst ever see her, boy?”
“Why, yes, my young master. Many a time and oft since she hath been at Chartley. She takes the air in the early morning in the gardens and I have seen her there when I drove in with my cart.”
“I would that I might see her. Could I—could I go with you?”
The youth stared for a moment and then answered soberly:
“It is forbid to us to carry aught besides our wares within the gates. And Sir Amyas is that particular that I misdoubt if he would let you enter.”
“Still I would like to try. ’Tis only for a sight of the queen. And see! here is a gold piece that thou canst have. Do let me go with thee, Will. Thy name is Will?”
“That is my name, sir.” Will’s hand closed over the gold but he still appeared reluctant. “Well, it shall be as you wish, my young master. But you must wear other garb than that, else you cannot enter.” 74
“What habit shall I wear, good Will?”
“I will give thee my cloak and bonnet, master. I durst not do this if thou shouldst want else but to look at the queen. But what harm is there in that?”
“What in truth, Will? A cat may look at a king, I trow. When do you go again?”
“To-morrow. Wouldst go then?”
“Ay, Will.”
“Then, my master, you must be up with the lark for we start early.”
“I will be ready. Then farewell until then. Thou wilt not regret thy favor to me, Will, I promise thee.”
“I hope not, master.”
“Thou wilt not. Farewell till the morrow.”
And Francis ran lightly back to her father to report the result of the interview.
Will was disposed to be taciturn on the way to Chartley. Francis did not know whether he suspected her design was more than to see Mary or not, but summoning all the finesse of which she was mistress she made herself as agreeable as she could, relating stories and incidents of the chase, until long before the plain which lay between Stafford and Chartley was crossed, Will’s surliness had vanished.
The sun was an hour high when they reached their destination. Chartley, grim and gray in the morning light, rose before them. The manor was large and roomy, surrounded by such a high wall that none, unless he were endowed with the wings of a bird, could scale its heights. A moat encompassed the whole. The castle with wall and moat forming a stronghold well suited to its present use as prison. 76
As they crossed the drawbridge and entered the portals Francis was surprised to see sentinels everywhere. Her spirit sank a little and her heart quailed as she noted all of the means employed to insure Mary’s safe-keeping.
“My father was right,” she thought. “To obtain entrance is not all. There will still be difficulty, I fear, in seeing her. What if she comes not to the garden? But courage! Poor lady! I marvel not that she doth wish to gain her liberty. Methinks I should die were I to be deprived of my freedom!” Thus she mused little dreaming that not many weeks would elapse ere she would be put to the test.
“There are the gardens,” said Will breaking in upon her thoughts. “’Tis there that I have often seen the queen. See, the guard is leaving.”
“Don’t they guard her through the day, Will?”
“Ay, master. But the sentinels stand not at the doors and windows as they do at night. The walls only are guarded through the day. There she is, forsooth.”
“I see her not, good Will.”