The house of the wizard

Sir William Carew and Mistress Betty were both kindly received by Cromwell. He gave them a private audience, and Betty sat in the window recess in silent suspense, while her uncle talked with the king’s minister. Cromwell’s face was calm and inscrutable; Carew’s deeply furrowed with anxiety. The one was master of the situation, the other exceedingly perplexed and doubtful of a way in which to help his friend.

“My lord,” he said gravely, “I come to inquire into the arrest of Simon Raby, and to know the fate of certain papers that he bore of mine.”

“He was arrested upon the charge of high treason,” Cromwell replied, “and I regret to say that, upon examination, the evidence against him was materially strengthened. I regret it exceedingly, for I knew his father and have ever held a good opinion of the son. But unhappily, Sir William, in these times a man knows not where to look for backsliding; ’tis on every side, and the younger men are brought into temptation more easily.”

“I find it hard to believe so much ill of my Lord Raby,” Carew said stoutly; “he hath ever borne the character of an honest man. I pray you, sir, to allow him full opportunity to clear himself of this foul charge.”

“Sir,” answered Cromwell, “every subject of the king hath justice. Look you, Carew, I have no wish to cut off this man’s liberty. It is my unpleasant duty to stand for the king in these matters, and the odium of it lies on me. No man grieved more deeply than I for the loss of More, yet More’s death is charged to me. ’Tis like the outcry against the king’s lawyer, Dr. Rich, because he went to Kimbolton in the matter of the will of the princess dowager. The papists claim that her property was not respected. Yet the truth is plain as daylight. The Lady Catherine claimed to be the king’s wife and left no will save in the form of a petition to his grace; and dying as she did, in law, a sole woman, the administration of her estate lapsed to the next of kin, the emperor. But for the work of the attorney-general, the king could not have fulfilled her bequests. Yet Rich and I were pilloried for the matter, which was but a woman’s obstinacy and the plain course of the law. Every rogue who goes to prison, every gentleman who is sent to the Tower, raises the hue and cry against me as the root of evil. ’Twould pleasure me far more to set them all free, but, unhappily, the safety of the realm forces me to a different course. As for Raby, I found upon his person papers more full of treason than an egg of meat. A lamb he may be, but, verily, he seemeth a wolf.”

“He is innocent!” cried Betty, unable to keep silence longer; “give him but the opportunity to prove it.”

Cromwell glanced in surprise at the animated and beautiful face as she stood before him, one hand pressed against her heart and the other outstretched, as if imploring mercy.

“What wench have you here, Carew?” he asked; “such eyes should plead a cause if there were not such lips to enforce it.”

“My niece, my lord,” said Carew, hastily laying a restraining hand on Betty; “a silly fool, who knows not enough to hold her tongue before her betters.”

“I cannot sit by and hear an innocent man accused and not defend him!” exclaimed Betty, with all her natural impatience.

Cromwell smiled grimly. “This nobleman hath truly won an advocate,” he remarked; “I take it that the young lady hath more than a common interest in him.”

“They were but lately affianced,” said Sir William shortly, his cheek flushing, “but that will be soon broken if he proves the traitor.”

“I am sorry, fair mistress, to lose you a lover,” Cromwell said, looking with some admiration and much kindness at the passionate distress on Betty’s face, “but the service of the king’s grace should be nearer your heart than this young nobleman.”

“My lord,” said Betty bravely, her face flushed and her eyes shining, “you have been misled by circumstances; you do Lord Raby an injustice. I know that he is guiltless; I pledge my faith upon it!”

“I doubt not your faith in him, my mistress,” Cromwell answered dryly, “but, unhappily, he gave me the packet which revealed the most damnable plot that it hath been my misfortune to behold.”

“Would he have given it, my lord, had he been guilty?” exclaimed Raby’s defender, valiantly; “surely that alone declares his innocence.”

My lord privy seal shook his head.

“’Twas but a mistake,” he said; “doubtless he meant to give me another. What was it you said of papers, Carew?”

“I had intrusted some documents full of reports of matters in Devon, which you had requested, to Lord Raby’s keeping,” Sir William answered; “he was to deliver them to you, but I fear they went astray.”

Cromwell looked thoughtfully from the window.

“’Tis strange,” he said; “there were no such matters on his person. If I told you what he bore, ’twould amaze you. I fear that there is no clear excuse; though, in the interest of this young lady, I would rejoice could one be found.”

“My lord, it shall be!” said Betty, firmly. “I pray you only give me time; let me see my Lord Raby in the Tower, and I will unravel this mystery.”

Cromwell glanced from her impassioned face to Sir William’s. Woman’s devotion was an old story to him, from the faithful love of Margaret Roper to the loyalty of Mary Wyatt. There was something in the spectacle that depressed him.

“The charge against Raby is of the most serious nature, mistress,” he said, “but I will give him all the time I can, albeit the king’s service must not suffer therefrom. Nor will I refuse to let you carry him what comfort you may, but ’tis a sorry errand for one so young, so beautiful, and so brave. I wish your heart were more happily placed.”

“My lord,” said Betty, gravely, “love is nothing worth that may not bear misfortune.”

Cromwell gave her an earnest look. It may be that his own thoughts went back to the dying Wolsey, and he knew that he had not failed to fight the last gallant fight for the fallen cardinal.

“That is true enough, fair mistress,” he said kindly; “I do think that Raby hath at least a greater happiness in the Tower than some true men who go free. Carew, I will give a warrant for you and this brave wench to visit the prisoner, and I speak sooth when I say that I would gladly see the matter righted.”

As he spoke, he wrote a formal warrant addressed to the Lieutenant of the Tower, admitting Sir William and his niece to visit a state prisoner. He handed it to Betty.

“There, mistress,” he said, “I had not the heart to refuse thee;” and then, after another look at her, “I know that face surely; thou hast been at court?”

“’Tis the wench you sent to Kimbolton, my lord,” Carew said, “and lately she attended Queen Anne Boleyn.”

Cromwell leaned back in his chair, shading his face with his hand.

“I meant not to give the wench two such sad appointments,” he said gravely. “I do not care to think of the past in either case. Happily, the king is well married and if there be but a boy!”

“Ay,” assented Carew, heartily, “’tis the wish of all true Englishmen.”

“Sir,” said Cromwell, solemnly, “God only knows what it would mean to this realm. Parliament hath happily placed the crown at the disposal of the king’s grace, but to have the succession established would mean England’s salvation; and all these conspiracies which bring us such misery would be harmless as a still-born babe.”

He paused; his face deeply overcast. Then recollecting himself, as he encountered Betty’s inquiring gaze, he summoned an attendant.

“This man will go with you,” he said to Sir William, “and will secure you immediate admittance at the Tower.”

Carew thanked him heartily, although he half suspected the attendant of being a spy, but he had no choice but to accept him. After a few more words, Cromwell dismissed them and they set out without delay for the Tower.

Sir William was not altogether pleased at being pushed forward upon the errand, but he was too kind-hearted to blame his niece, who was so deeply distressed already. So he made the best of an unpleasant business and walked briskly to the wharf, where Cromwell’s servant obtained a wherry with a readiness that increased Sir William’s uneasiness. However, it seemed but an ordinary river craft, manned by four stout oarsmen, who haggled, as usual, over the fare. But Carew was so liberally inclined that in a few moments the bargain was completed and the three set out on their voyage. Betty’s face was muffled, and she sat quietly by her uncle as the boat travelled swiftly over the waters. They crossed that part of the river which was most thickly crowded with shipping, but the young girl had no eyes save for the low dark walls of the Tower, which presently came in sight. She shuddered when the boatmen, obeying the directions of Cromwell’s servant, turned under the dusky bastion to the Traitor’s Gate. The tide was rising and bore the wherry under the low arch to the stone steps, where the water lapped gently as it rose. Above them the arch was closed by a wicket of heavy wooden cross-bars, and behind this rose the causeway leading to the prison. On the other side of the wicket could be seen the sentries on guard. This was the view before them; behind, looking back through the arch, was the sunshine on the river, the gay life of the world. Here, but a short while before, had entered More and Fisher, the Charterhouse monks, and the unhappy Queen of England—a strange company!

Sir William and Mistress Betty alighted on the stone steps, and the wicket was promptly opened at the warrant of the privy seal, which also ensured the visitors a respectful welcome. Without more delay than naturally accompanied the formalities of a military prison, they were shown into the presence of Sir William Kingston, who received Carew with every mark of kindness, as an old acquaintance.

“I am well pleased to see you,” he said, “and better pleased that you come not as a permanent guest.”

“God forbid!” said Sir William Carew, bluntly; “but I come to see one of your guests, Kingston; my friend, Simon Raby.”

The officer’s face became grave at once.

“I am sorry for his case,” he said; “he was the last I looked for. He will be glad to welcome you, for he takes not kindly to confinement.”

As he spoke, he led the way to the rooms near the chapel, and having a warder with him, soon caused a door to be unbolted and signed to Carew to enter.

“You have the privy seal’s warrant,” he said, “and yonder you will find the prisoner.”

After an instant’s hesitation, Sir William pushed his niece forward and then followed her across the threshold. Kingston, closing the door, left them alone with the imprisoned nobleman. It was a low, dark room, so insufficiently lighted that at first they could not plainly see Lord Raby’s face as he rose at their entrance. A small fire took off a little of the chill of the place, but the atmosphere was unwholesomely damp. The unwonted captivity and the anxiety had driven all the color from the prisoner’s cheeks, and his expression was stern and sad. For an instant he did not recognize Carew, and then he uttered an exclamation of joy.

“This is kind of you indeed!” he exclaimed, advancing, and as he did so, his eyes lighted on the cloaked figure beside Sir William. In an instant he recognized her, and regardless of her uncle, he sprang forward and caught her in his arms.

Mistress Betty’s high spirit would at other times have resisted her lover’s fashion of taking possession of her, but his situation made a sad difference, and she clung to him a moment, tears shining in her eyes, while he caressed her and blessed her for coming. It was Carew who interrupted this little drama.

“Come, come,” he said with gruff kindness, “our time is short; and if we are to serve you, we must inquire into your case.”

“’Tis so,” said Betty, withdrawing from Raby’s embrace; “you must tell us all.”

Her lover drew forward the only two chairs the room afforded for his guests, and seating himself on a low stool at her feet, listened patiently to Sir William’s harangue.

“My Lord Raby,” he said gravely, “but yesterday we received the tidings of your arrest, and came post-haste to London to my lord privy seal to learn what we could of the matter. Nor can I say that we were comforted thereby; the information is so strange that it perplexeth me marvellously. We were granted permit to come to the Tower by Cromwell, and here we be, but how we may serve you is not so plain to me. Doubtless, though, you can make some clean statement of the matter, albeit it seems so bewildering to others.”

Sir William’s frame of mind was not easily mistaken and Raby’s cheek flushed at the doubt implied, even though he saw only faith and trust in the eyes of Betty Carew.

“Unhappily, sir,” he said stiffly, “I can make no explanation; could I do so, doubtless I should not be in the Tower.”

Carew bent his brows. “My lord privy seal tells me that you were chiefly condemned by the packet you gave him,” he said slowly; “therefore it would seem that you must hold some key to the matter. What was this packet? Wherefore did you give it to Cromwell?”

“The packet was yours, Sir William,” Raby replied sharply, “therefore ’tis you who should unfold the story.”

Carew’s face flushed red with indignation.

“My Lord Raby,” he said coldly, “that is a child’s tale, but not for the ears of men. My papers were innocent of any offence to king or council; they pertained entirely to affairs in Devon, and were writ at Cromwell’s request.”

“Sir,” replied the prisoner, sternly, “it hath been a mystery to me, and, albeit I would not have spoken of it, for fear of offence to you, now I will even speak my mind. The packet that you gave me was cherished with care, and when I was apprehended, was yet in the breast of my doublet. My lord privy seal had received me kindly, and used me with the justice I had a right to expect. Being willing to serve you, even in my own misfortune, I handed your packet to him. Scarce had he opened it before his face changed, and after reading half its contents, he sent me to the Tower. Had I been minded to think ill of you, Sir William, surely I had cause enough, but I strove to judge the matter with charity. In return, you cast suspicion on my motives and charge me with falsehood in regard to this same evil packet. Sir, it tries my patience to its limit.”

“’Tis sheer nonsense to lay the matter to my papers,” retorted Carew, irritably; “know I not what was writ there? Am I a fool? If all your conduct was as innocent, there is little doubt you would be a freeman.”

“I am a prisoner,” Raby replied proudly, “and mayhap it pleasures you to cast aspersions on a man who may not defend himself, but ’tis unworthy of you.”

At this, Betty interfered.

“I pray you both to forbear,” she said, looking from one face to the other imploringly; “surely there is some terrible mistake, and do not make it worse by a quarrel.”

Raby, seeing her distress, pressed her hand affectionately.

“Dear heart,” he said, “I would not quarrel with thy uncle, but no man can endure such insinuations with patience. I am innocent, and I have no such meek spirit that I love to be suspected by my friends.”

“I am an old man, my lord,” said Carew, impatiently, “and I am not over-smooth-tongued; I have no wish to offend your nice feelings, but I see a plain matter and you give me a foolish excuse. My packet! Why, Lord Raby, I would have sent this child Betty with it and taken no thought.”

“Sir, I never accused you of malice,” Simon replied more calmly, “but I had the packet of you, I gave it to Cromwell, and I am here.”

“Tush!” exclaimed Sir William, testily, “am I a fool? Do I look a dullard? Can you think to pass this dream off on a sane man? Raby, it was not my packet!”

“Sir!” exclaimed the younger man, springing to his feet, “do you accuse me of falsehood?”

Mistress Betty rose and ran to her uncle, who was standing, his strong face working with anger.

“Uncle,” she said, pushing him toward the door, her rosy palms pressed against his broad breast, and using all her young strength, “go—go to the door and wait for me. I would speak with him. You will only quarrel. Hush! hush!” she added, as she saw the angry words trembling on Sir William’s lips; “he is a prisoner; ’tis unworthy of you.”

Sir William looked at the beautiful young face so close to his, and his heart relented.

“Thou art a witch, Betty,” he said; “have thy will, but make the man talk sense to thee.”

She had pushed him to the door, and would have thrust him out if the warder had not fastened it from without. Having disposed of one, she ran back to the other disputant, who stood leaning on his chair with a gloomy face.

“Have you also so poor an opinion of me?” he asked, looking searchingly at the fair face.

“Would I be here?” she answered simply. “Ah, my lord, a woman comes not lightly to such a place!”

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, kissing her hands passionately; “Sir William’s suspicions of me struck a sore heart. My darling, while I have your confidence, no man shall dare to doubt me.”

“Think, think!” she cried, pressing her hand on his arm earnestly; “how did it happen? What can we do to explain it away?”

Lord Raby shook his head; he knew too well the secret nature of such charges, the slow course of the law, the difficulty of defence.

“I know not,” he answered, looking fondly into her troubled eyes; “we must even let the law find its own way. The attack on me is of a nature which I can least easily defeat. I trust most in mine innocence. Let it not so distress you, happy as it makes me to feel you care. Ah, Betty, I had no thought of such a fate when I asked you to be my wife; will you keep faith? Forgive me; I ought not to ask you to remain plighted to a prisoner.”

He was looking sadly at the beautiful, animated face. She raised her head proudly; her eyes shone.

“Sir,” she said sweetly, “I will wed you or none!”

“God bless you!” he cried, catching her in his arms and kissing her; “I have no right to ask such a pledge of you!”

“You asked not,” she said archly; “I gave it. Hark! there comes the warder; doubtless our time is expired. I pray you think better of my uncle; I love him. He is a blunt man and too free-spoken, but he is true as steel.”

“Dear Betty,” the prisoner whispered fondly, “if he were a monster, I would try to love him for your sake.”

“Come, niece!” called Sir William, impatiently, “we must be gone; the warder is here.”

“I must go,” Betty said, tearing herself away from her lover’s detaining arms; “I must go, but surely will I work for your deliverance with all my might, and so shall my uncle. Farewell—oh, farewell till we meet again!”

Her eyes were shining now with tears, and there was a third summons from Sir William before she parted from the prisoner, and ran from the room, drawing her mantle over her face.

When they sat again in the boat, Carew turned to her with a grim face, but there was a kind light in his eyes.

“My wench,” he said bluntly, “thou art a fool, but I love thee.”