The fencing lesson was repeated the next day. Francis no longer dreaded the meeting with Edward Devereaux, and when the night fell, she stole away to the dueling place confident that she would be the victor in the affair.
There was no one at the wicket of the western gate, and she sat down to await the coming of her adversary with impatience. The broad yellow beams of the full moon lighted up the open spaces of the park with a brightness as if the sun had just set while the shadows under the trees were darker and heavier by contrast. Numerous statues gleamed in the pale light like ghosts newly risen from their sepulchres. Fountains threw jets of water into the air, caught the moonbeams, and fell again into their basins in showers of molten silver. A light breeze ruffled the leaves and came with refreshing coolness after the sultriness of the day. All was still save for the music of the night bird of song. The beauty of the scene, the melody of the nightingales, oppressed Francis with a sense of melancholy.
“Am I doing aright,” she said aloud. “Surely I could do naught else unless I betrayed my sex. Now the matter hath gone 158 so far that I must bear myself as if I were in sooth a boy. But I will not kill the lad. Only make him acknowledge my skill with the deer. I would that he would come. I know not why, but I feel my courage departing from me in the loneliness of the night.”
At this instant, as if in answer to her wish, there was the sound of hurried footsteps, and soon the form of Edward Devereaux appeared among the trees.
“I crave thy pardon, Master Stafford,” he cried, “if I have kept thee waiting. Sir Christopher Hatton detained me, and I could not come sooner. Draw and defend thyself.”
He drew his own sword as he spoke and threw himself on guard. Without one word of reply Francis placed herself on the defensive. And then began a curious scene. Parry, thrust and parry—the steel rattled, and the strange duel was on. The nightingales ceased their singing as if amazed at the folly of the human things. The only sound that fell upon the air besides the clash of the blades was the labored breathing of the contestants. Francis’ new-found knowledge stood her well in hand, and she pressed her 159 opponent furiously. Suddenly she made a false step——
“A hit! a hit!” cried Edward Devereaux.
As the rapier entered her right arm the weakness of her sex overcame the girl. She uttered a faint cry, and, for the first time in her life, fell in a dead faint.
When Francis recovered consciousness she found Edward Devereaux bending over her with the utmost concern.
“You live,” he cried joyfully as she opened her eyes. “Now Heaven be praised! Methought that I had killed thee, Master Stafford.”
“Methought that it was to be a tilt a l’outrance,” said Francis trying to rise. “Oh,” she moaned sinking back as dizziness again assailed her. “I know not why but I am so weak. Bethink you that I am dying, Master Devereaux?”
“I understand it not,” returned the lad much perturbed. “The wound is naught. See! I slashed the sleeve of thy doublet and examined it. The cut should tingle and smart as all such do when green, but there is naught in it that should cause thy death. Art thou still no better?” 161
“Nay;” said Francis feebly. “I am sure that my time is come. Good Edward, I beseech you, bring me a priest that he may shrive me.”
“There is no priest in all the castle walls, Francis Stafford. Know you not that priests and all such popery are forbid? I will call a chirurgeon.”
“Nay; do not so,” said the girl. “What this weakness that has o’ertaken me may be, I know not, unless it be death. E’er I depart I would assoil my soul of all taint. Therefore incline thine ear, Master Devereaux, and receive my confession. It cuts me to the quick to make acknowledgment, but I have hated thee because thy skill with the bow was greater than mine.” She paused for a moment. It was hard for Francis Stafford to confess fault even though she believed herself to be dying. Soon she continued: “It was thine arrow, Edward Devereaux, that slew the deer. I knew it at the time, but I liked not to own thy skill. Wilt thou pardon me?”
“Gladly, gladly,” said Devereaux. “Only I know not how thou couldst have seen the arrow. Thou wert not there.” 162
“I was, Edward,” returned Francis. “I am in truth Francis Stafford, but I am the daughter instead of the son of my father.”
“Thou!—A girl!” The youth drew back in astonishment. “And I struck thee with my sword? O chivalry! I am undone! I am undone!”
“Nay; take it not so to heart. The blame is not thine. How couldst thou know that I was other than I seemed?”
“But I struck thee!” The boy seemed almost stunned. “Would Sidney have been guilty of such an act? Would the basest hind in the field have lifted a sword against a woman? Fair mistress,” he cried in distress offering his sword to her, “do one last favor for Edward Devereaux. Bury that sword in the breast of him who is unworthy to bear it.”
“In the name of St. George, what means this?” cried Lord Shrope as he and Lord Hunsdon ran out from among the trees.
“By my faith, my lord,” cried the chamberlain bursting into a laugh. “If there has not been a duel!” 163
“Art hurt, Francis?” and Lord Shrope bent over the girl with solicitude.
“My lord, methought just now that I was dying, but the weakness that overcame me hath departed,” and the girl staggered to her feet with his assistance.
“But thou art wounded? Girl, girl, what doth it mean?” Lord Shrope caught hold of the sleeve that dangled from her bared arm.
“Edward,” said the lord chamberlain sternly, “I am surprised at thee. Is this thy honor? Thou wert to treat this girl with gentleness. I had thy word. Thou knowest also that no brawling is permitted near the person of the queen. It shall go hard with thee for this. Francis Stafford might not know the law, albeit ignorance excuses none, but thou didst. Besides, in the name of chivalry, what cause had you to draw your sword against a maiden?”
“My lord,” said Devereaux who had received the rebuke with bowed head, “deal with me as you list. There is no penalty too severe to be visited upon me. There is naught that can restore self-esteem to Edward Devereaux. But, I beseech you, believe me 164 when I say that I knew not until now that yon maiden was a boy only in attire. My lord, believe this, and you may do with me as you will.”
“’Tis true,” corroborated Francis. “He is no more at fault for the encounter than I, my lord. And he knew not that I was not a boy, until, thinking that my end was near, I told him. I know not why I felt so weak.”
“Thou didst swoon, child,” said Lord Shrope. “’Tis a matter that is of frequent occurrence among thy sex. Didst never experience it before?”
“Never,” replied Francis with a light laugh. Save for the sting and smart of the wound she was fully herself. “And I like it not. I’ faith, were I to have them often, there would be few sins of Francis Stafford’s that would be unknown.”
“Didst confess to Edward?” laughed Lord Shrope. “You two should be great friends anent this.”
“No;” said Francis. “I confessed that he killed the deer, and that its horns were justly his. I will not retract that, but still do I 165 count him mine enemy, even as his father and mine are at feud.”
“So be it,” said Edward Devereaux mournfully. “Thou canst not, maiden, hate me more than I loathe myself.”
“Come, Francis,” said Lord Shrope, “we must to my lady. We were filled with alarm when thou didst not come at the usual hour, and my lord and I have sought for thee everywhere. It was lucky chance that brought us this way. Child, child, I would that thy father had thee with him, or else were here. I would also that the queen were not so obdurate in her mind against thee. But she will not have thy name broached to her. Something lies underneath it all. Hadst thou been concerned in treasonous undertakings the matter would be plain. As it is—but why think of it? That wound of thine which to a man would be a mere scratch must with thee be looked to. Let us away.”
The inconvenience caused by the hurt was short, but, before the girl resumed her place among the pages, Lord Shrope again ventured to speak of her to the queen. 166
“My liege,” he said one morning when the queen had been particularly gracious to him, “I would that you would let me speak of Francis Stafford. There is somewhat——”
“Now a murrain on thee, Shrope, for mentioning that name,” cried Elizabeth her humor changing instantly. “We, too, have somewhat to say of Francis Stafford, but the time is not yet ripe. When it is, then will I hear what thou hast to say. Until then we would not be plagued with the matter. Hearest thou?”
“I do, my sovereign mistress,” answered Lord Shrope humbly. “I hear and will heed thy commands. Only take not from me thy divine favor.”
“Hadst thou ever been connected with any enterprise against her,” he said to Francis as he reported the result of the interview, “I could understand it. As it is, her mood toward thee gives me great concern.”
“Trouble not thyself, my good friend,” answered Francis, though she herself was more disturbed than she cared to admit. Perhaps the journey to Chartley had come to the queen’s ears, and that enterprise wore a different 167 complexion now to the girl than it had done ere her coming to the court. “Trouble not about me. Thou canst do no more than thou hast done.”
And so she went back to her place among the pages. The greeting between her and Edward Devereaux was formal. As the time passed she became aware that the lad’s manner toward her was quite different from what it had been before their encounter. Now he seemed to regard her with something akin to admiration, and assumed a protecting air toward her, assuming many of her duties, that irked the girl exceedingly.
“Prithee, sirrah,” she said one day pettishly when his guardianship was more than usually apparent, “who gave thee leave to watch over me? It irks me to have thee play the protector. Beshrew me, but Francis Stafford can care for herself.”
“I crave pardon, Master Stafford,” replied Devereaux who never by word or deed dropped a hint that he knew aught of her sex. “I crave pardon if I have offended. I will vex thee no more.”
From that time his care was more unobtrusive, 168 but Francis was still conscious of it, and it was gall and wormwood to her. She could not forget the acknowledgment of his skill had been wrung from her when she thought herself dying. Although she could not but admit that Devereaux was innocent in the matter, she felt as though a fraud had been perpetrated upon her, and, girl-like, held him responsible for it.
And so life at the court went on. A great family under the same walls, loving and hating. The courtiers divided into factions; their followers being kept from brawling only by the presence of the queen. The serving men followed the example of their betters and squabbled in the kitchen; the butlers drank on the sly in the cellars; the maids chattered in the halls; the pages pilfered from the buttery; the matrons busied in the still rooms compounding fragrant decoctions for perfumes, or bitter doses for medicine; the stewards weighing money in the treasury; gallants dueling in the orchard or meeting their ladies on the stairs. But Francis liked it all.
The gallant courtiers with their song and 169 fence, and quibble and prattle and pun; the gaily dressed ladies; the masques in the great hall of the castle; the pomp and ceremony that attended the queen when she went abroad: all appealed to her æsthetic nature.
She soon learned to distinguish the courtiers. The Gipsy Earl of Leicester, with his swarthy handsome face; the tall and comely vice chamberlain, Sir Christopher Hatton; the venerable Burleigh; the trusty and wily Walsingham; the gay, witty and sarcastic Harrington, godson of the queen, and the fiery and impetuous Earl of Essex, stepson to Leicester.
Sometimes a low, broad-shouldered, heavily-built man would appear at court followed by brawny sailors who bore great chests of gold gathered from the Spanish Main. Then the court would be filled with the deeds of Sir Francis Drake, and of the wondrous happenings in that new world which lay over the sea.
Youth does not examine closely below the surface, and so to the girl all was bright and beautiful. She herself would have entered 170 into the life more fully, but that the cloud of the queen’s displeasure hung over her. There is no place where a sense of the august disapprobation makes itself so quickly felt as a court. And, as the days went by and Elizabeth still refused to permit her approach, Francis found herself more and more isolated.
Even the courtiers who had formerly called upon her to perform services for them now chose other of the pages, while the pages themselves no longer stopped to chat or gossip with her.
Thus the days went by.
One thing had puzzled Francis upon her first arrival at the court. That was the number of those who had red hair. She soon came to know, however, that most of the ladies wore wigs of false hair over their own tresses out of compliment to the queen. The demand for hair was therefore great, and frequently the supply was not equal to it. Divers means were employed to obtain such locks, as the girl soon found to her sorrow.
“Where art thou from, my pretty page?” asked a lady one day pausing before her.
“Hampshire, an it please your ladyship,” answered Francis grateful for the attention. She thought the lady must have recently arrived else she would not stop to bandy words with one who was without the pale of the queen’s good will.
“Hampshire? Ah, yes! I passed through the shire once with Her Majesty on one of her 172 progresses,” remarked she. “My lad, know you that you are a pretty boy? But certes! of course you do. Nathless, hear it again from me.”
“I thank your ladyship,” returned Francis with blushing cheeks. “’Tis only your kindness that bids you so to speak.”
“Hear the boy!” laughed the lady, shaking her finger archly. “Nay; I shall not give thee more compliments, but I would have thee know that I am thy friend. I am aware that the queen regards thee with disfavor, and I would aid thee. If thou carest to know more come to the Round Tower which is the dormitory of the maids of honor this night. There is my bower. I am the Lady Priscilla Rutland. Know you the place?”
“Yes, my lady; but why, why?——” began Francis, but the lady interrupted her.
“Fie, fie, naughty boy! art thou so curious? Ask no more until to-night.” With a quizzical look she went on her way leaving the girl staring after her.
“What said the Lady Priscilla to thee?” demanded Edward Devereaux drawing near. 173 “Beware of her, Francis Stafford. She is full of wiles and deceit. ’Tis unseemly to speak ill of a woman, but I would fain warn thee. When Mistress Priscilla is most gracious she is bent on mischief. Therefore do I bid thee to beware of her.”
“Am I so rich in friends that I can cast from me one who proffers amity?” inquired the girl bitterly. “Who art thou, Master Devereaux, that thou sayst do this, or do that, and expect me to obey? Thou art mine foe, the son of my father’s foe. What hast thou to do with me?”
“The son of thy father’s foe, ’tis true,” answered Devereaux, “but not thine, Francis. I make no war on women though I did unwittingly strike thee once. I repent me that ever I claimed to have slain that deer. Yet hear me, mistress. Had the foresters not come as they did, I would have given thee the horns. I came to thy father’s castle to offer them to thee, but dost thou remember how didst greet me with scorn? And I, thinking thee to be thy brother, did answer in like manner.”
“Thou hast been long in the telling, master,” 174 remarked the girl scornfully. “Dost expect me to believe thee?”
“Upon mine honor it is the truth. But to the matter in hand. Believe me, ’tis for thy good to have naught to do with the Lady Priscilla Rutland. I have been longer at the court than thou and therefore know of that of which I speak.”
“I am tired of thy watching and prating,” declared Francis with spirit. “I am no child to be chidden. Leave me, and know that Francis Stafford will do as seemeth best to her.”
“As you will, mistress. But if you come to grief blame me not,” and the lad walked away.
“I hate him,” ejaculated the girl, her eyes filling with angry tears. “I hate him with his trite speeches and his sage advice! Why doth he not leave me in peace? I will go to the Lady Priscilla were it only to show him that I regard not his words.”
Nevertheless she could not but wonder why any lady should take such a sudden interest in her, and a slight misgiving lurked in her heart as she approached the Round 175 Tower, entered its portals, and made her way to the Lady Priscilla’s bower.
The lady was lying on a couch surrounded by her tire women.
“So, my pretty lad,” she said with a careless glance, “thou hast come. Didst thou not have enough of flattery? Gramercy! hath it not always been true that sugar would catch more flies than vinegar?”
“What mean you?” stammered Francis, her sensitive nature becoming aware of the change in the lady’s manner from the caressing sweetness of the morning to the mocking air of the moment.
“Didst think thy beauty had ensnared me?” queried the lady quizzically. “It hath. As the yellow metal of the earth hath always thrown a spell over men so the red gold of thy hair hath fascinated me. I dote on thy locks, my fair page. Ay! so much so that they and I shall ne’er be parted more. Celeste! Annabelle! have at him!”
“Why, why,” cried the girl, struggling to rise as the maids set upon her. “My lady! My lady!”
But strong as her outdoor life had made 176 her, she was no match for the damsels of the Lady Priscilla. Soon she lay back in her chair bound hand and foot.
“No harm is meant thee, master page,” remarked the lady as, armed with a huge pair of shears, she approached the maiden. “’Tis only that thy silken tresses have tangled my heart in their meshes until sleep hath fled my pillow. I think on their lustre day and night. And so do I take them to adorn mine own pate. Thinkest thou that they could cover a fairer head?”
“Oh, madam,” cried the girl tearfully as the shears snipped relentlessly over her head, for her hair had always been a weak point with her. “O, spare my hair, I entreat!”
“Fie, sir page! Thou dost shame thy manhood. True, thou art yet guiltless of beard, yet still thou shouldst not play the woman.”
“But, madam, I shall report this to the queen. What think you she will say when she knows that one of her ladies was guilty of this outrage?”
“She would not listen to thee, malapert. Should she do so, I would say that Priscilla Rutland knew no peace until she could emulate 177 in her own locks the regal color that crowned her august mistress’ brow. That she would stoop to do anything could she but faintly follow such beauty. But I fear not thy disclosure, sirrah. Art thou not in disgrace? Then what boots it what thou sayst?”
“True;” said Francis and opened her lips no more. Clip, clip, went the shears until at last all of her ringlets lay, a mass of ruddy gold, in a great heap among the rushes. Francis looked at them, and then at the mocking face of the lady, and her heart throbbed with wrath.
“Madam,” she said as the Lady Priscilla untied her bonds and she was once more free, “I will never forgive this.”
“Thou art rude, sirrah,” laughed the lady. “But I blame thee not. Be patient, master page. I will come to thee when thy locks have been woven into a wig and thou shalt see how well they become me.”
“Thou shalt never wear hair of mine,” cried Francis, white with anger. Before the lady or her maids could prevent she seized a lamp from one of the scones and threw it into the midst of red curls. 178
“Help! Help!” cried the lady and the maids simultaneously, for the lamp which was of the simplest manufacture, being a wick fed by oil, set fire instantly to the curls and surrounding rushes. Scattering to the right and left the maids called lustily: “Fire! Fire! Seize the boy!”
Staying only long enough to see that there was no probability of saving the hair, Francis dashed through the arras, and fled through chamber after chamber trying to find an exit.
“This way,” she heard a voice call as, bewildered and confused, she paused, not knowing which way to turn.
To her amazement, Edward Devereaux stood in a door of a chamber beckoning to her. She gave an exclamation of surprise but, enemy though she considered him, followed him without hesitation. Through a maze of rooms the boy led the way with the air of one to whom they were familiar; then down a flight of steps, through an open window and out upon a balcony that overlooked the great garden.
“We will conceal ourselves in the shrubbery,” he said vaulting lightly over the rail 179 into the garden below, followed closely by the girl. They stopped in the shadow of a clump of close clipped black yews. “Here we can remain,” he said, “until the hue and cry is over. What happened, Francis?”
Francis poured forth her story rapidly.
“I hate this vile court,” she cried with a burst of passionate tears as she concluded. “I want my home! Oh, I want to go home!”
“I blame you not, Francis Stafford,” said Edward Devereaux forbearing to taunt her with the fact that had she heeded his words this last misery would not have come upon her. “You feel as we all feel at times, yet are we constrained to bide here. Were it in truth to serve the queen, God bless her, there would be joy in staying. But to be at the beck and call of every noble; to bear the trains of the ladies or dance attendance upon them is not the life that a youth wishes. I pity thee, Francis, and thy plight is not so bad as it will be should yon tower burn to the ground.”
“Oh!” Francis looked up with startled eyes. “I did not think of that. It was not my intent to burn the tower. Think you that it is in danger, Edward?” 180
“Mayhap not,” answered the boy regarding the tower with anxious eyes. “We can but watch.”
The two stood looking at the building in silence. As the moments passed the lights disappeared from the windows, darkness settled over the tower, and all was quiet. Francis drew a long breath of relief.
“It was unthinking and unheeding in me to throw the light,” she said. “What if the building had burned? The castle might have followed and thus endangered the life of the queen. Oh, miserable girl that I am! What would my father say to me?”
“Be not so cast down,” comforted Edward. “Thou hadst great provocation, and pardon me, mistress, but thy temper is not of the gentlest.”
“I know,” said Francis with unwonted meekness. “But when I saw my hair, my pretty hair,” she paused, her utterance choked, unwilling to give way to her grief before him.
The boy touched the shorn head compassionately.
“’Twill not be long before it will grow again,” he said. “And so long as thou must 181 wear that garb it will be all the better. I have seen many longing glances cast at thy locks, Francis. ’Tis wonder that such mishap hath not occurred before. If thou dost not wear them, thou hast at least put it out of their power to grace the head of another. There is something in that.”
“Yes;” said Francis with a flash of spirit. “I would not that harm should come to the palace, yet glad am I that the tresses were consumed. Thou hast been kind to me, Master Devereaux. And yet thou art mine enemy!”
“Better an open enemy than a deceitful friend,” quoth Edward sententiously. “Say no more, Francis Stafford. If I have been of service to thee, let it in some measure atone for my churlishness in killing that deer. But we must to our several abodes else we shall bring the displeasure of my lord chamberlain upon us. We shall have enough to answer to this charge. I fear the issue to-morrow. Come!”
Francis awaited the coming of the day with some trepidation, fearing that she might be obliged to render an account of the night before. And indeed had the result been other than it was, she would have been called to a very serious reckoning. It was marvelous that there was not more damage sustained, but it came to her ears during the day that the fire had been extinguished before it had gone beyond the rushes. The hair had been totally consumed.
The girl soon became aware that the episode was known throughout the court. When the Lady Priscilla Rutland made her appearance there was subdued laughter and titterings among the ladies and their gallants. Francis’ shorn head was the cynosure of all eyes, but her manner was so haughty that it repelled all facetious remarks.
The incident was recounted to Elizabeth. The queen laughed heartily at the discomfiture 183 of the lady for she was never ill pleased when one of her maids brought ridicule upon herself, and turning to Lord Shrope who stood near while it was being related she remarked graciously:
“Upon my word, my lord, there is more in that charge of thine than I thought. If certain rumors which have come to our ears be not verified we will have him placed nearer our person. Methinks such spirit well trained could be made useful.”
“You speak truly, madam,” returned Lord Shrope. “I know not what is the nature of the rumors, but knowing Francis Stafford, I make bold to say that Rumor hath played thee false.”
“We shall see, my lord,” was Elizabeth’s reply.
Lord Shrope feared to press the matter, but as soon as it was expedient he hastened to seek Francis.
“The tide hath turned, child,” he ejaculated. “Fate hath at last become propitious to thee, for Elizabeth hath begun to look upon thee with kindness. The accident of the hair hath done for thee what naught else 184 hath been able to do,” and he told her what the queen had said.
To his surprise Francis was not so elated as he expected. On the contrary his words filled her with alarm.
“Said the queen of what the rumors consisted?” she asked with uneasiness.
“No, child; but there can be naught of harm in them. Thy life hath been so innocent in thy Hampshire wilds that there is no act or thought of thine but could be laid open to the queen. Thou hast naught to fear from any gossip. ’Tis only when conscious of baseness that we fear to have our lives searched. Thou hast done nothing wrong; therefore fear nothing.”
“My lord,” said Francis touched by his faith, “you honor me too much. Pray Heaven that you may never have cause to repent your words.”
“Tut, child! why should I repent them? Now be advised by me, and take advantage of the humor of the queen. A good husbandman, as thou knowest, improves the sunshine to make hay. We must do likewise. It is the queen’s habit to repair to her closet to 185 play each day upon the virginals. This she doeth for the most part privately, but, as she plays markedly well, she is not ill pleased to have others hear her. Especially is this true if it transpires accidentally. Now do you place yourself in the gallery behind the arras. When the queen plays seem to be drawn into her presence by the sweetness of her music, even as Orpheus drew Eurydice from among the demons. Then excuse thy intrusion with some well-timed phrase. Elizabeth is great, but she hath a weakness for judicious flattery the which, in truth, doth not ill accord with her femininity. Then, if she receive thee graciously, throw thyself upon her mercy and confess all.”
“But, my lord, doth it not savor too much of guile?” objected Francis, her spirit revolting at the manner of the transaction.
“It doth, Francis, but what would you? ’Tis the manner of all courts, and the queen is not deceived thereby. Such things the rather appeal to her if the fashion of them be adroit. What boots the method then if the end is accomplished, and the queen pleased. No harm is done.” 186
“My lord, I like not the style of it. It seemeth to me that nothing is ever done in a straightforward manner any more. Is life full of naught but crookedness and devious windings and turnings? Let me go to the queen openly, I beseech you.”
“Nay; ’twill avail thee nothing. Subdue thy pride for once, and be guided by one to whom all the ways of the court are as an open book. Thou dost hold thyself with too much of spirit. Set not thyself above those who are older and of superior wisdom.”
Francis felt the rebuke so sharply spoken, and answered in a conciliatory manner.
“My lord, I intend not to hold my judgment higher than thine for thou art of superior wisdom and age. I am willing to be guided by thee, but I would that the end could be gained by other ways than those of crookedness.”
“’Tis for thy parents’ sake as well as thine,” observed the other. “Thou knowest how full of anxiety they must be, and how solicitously they await thy return. Thou shouldst be willing to adopt any course that would allay that uneasiness and restore thee to their arms.” 187
“And I am willing,” responded the girl with fervor. “Away, indecision! Away, doubts! No longer will I listen to ye; for what says Will Shakspeare:
“‘Our doubts are traitors, |
And make us lose the good we oft might win, |
By fearing to attempt.’ |
Speak on, my lord. Unfold again thy plan, and I will follow it, be the issue what it may.”
“There spake the Stafford blood,” exclaimed the nobleman approvingly. “Listen, girl, then haste thee to the queen’s gallery; for on the hazard of this die depends thy fortune.”
Francis gave heed to all of his instructions, and then made her way to the queen’s apartment. The chamber was unoccupied, and she looked about in quest of some suitable hiding-place. At one end of the room the mullioned window opened upon a long balcony which overlooked the private garden. Francis resolved to place herself there rather than behind the rich tapestries.
She had scarcely taken her position near an 188 open window where she could both see and hear without being herself seen when Elizabeth entered. To the girl’s consternation she was not alone, but attended by Walsingham, Burleigh, Hatton and Leicester.
Elizabeth seemed much agitated, and Francis, unwilling to be a listener in matters of state, looked about her for some means of retiring when her attention was caught by a name.
“And thou art sure, Walsingham, of the truth of this matter? Hast thou indisputable proofs that Anthony Babington is guilty of design to murder us? Long have I known that he inclined toward the claims of our cousin, Mary of Scotland, but so too do my Lord Stafford, my Lord Percy, and other of our subjects. Yet none of these gentlemen would lift a hand against the person of his queen. Art sure of what thou art saying?”
“I have here the proofs, Your Majesty,” returned Walsingham. “Here is a tablet upon which is painted the face of Babington and five others who are associated with him in perilous enterprise, as thou seest engraved. Further: here are letters which have passed between Mary of Scotland and the conspirators 189 in which she commends the performance of the deed. The act was to be committed on thy way to chapel.”
“Then, my lord, if this be true, why have you not apprehended these men? Methinks that the safety of your queen should be your first consideration.”
“Her Highness is right,” cried Leicester. “Upon her life depends not only the safety of her ministers but the welfare of the Commonwealth.”
“Pardon me, my liege lady,” said Walsingham, “if I have seemed to be careless of that life which is so dear to all of us. But I wished to involve Mary so deeply in this conspiracy as to open the way to rid the country of her. Your Majesty will never be safe while that woman lives. She is a menace as long as she remains in England.”
“Deport her then,” suggested Elizabeth. “France would gladly receive her.”
“Nay, madam. That were to place her where she could abet the design of Phillip to invade England. That bourne from which no traveler returns is the only proper abode for Mary Stuart. And for thy protection, madam, 190 I took precautions. Ballard, the priest, as thou knowest, hath long since been confined in the Tower. Babington has been lodged in mine own house where I could watch him. He can be taken at any time. That time hath now come. The warrants are issued, not only for him, but for Tilney, Savage, Tichbourne, Stafford and other conspirators associated in the enterprise.”
Stafford! Francis gave a faint gasp, and started up in terror. Her father? Was he to be taken with these men? But the queen was speaking:
“Lord Stafford?” she said interrogatively. “Stafford, Walsingham? Surely not he. He is an honorable gentleman, and would not be concerned in such foul designs.”
“Did I not tell you some time since that it was whispered in mine ear that Stafford and his son delivered letters to Mary? The whisper hath become a certainty. Those letters were to apprise the queen of the intent to slay thee, deliver her from custody, and raise her to the throne. This hour will I send to arrest Lord Stafford as well as the others. And then——”
“Death to the traitors,” said Burleigh impressively. “They must perish, as must all who are traitors to England and to England’s queen.”
Francis waited to hear no more. Her father to be taken and tried for treason? That would mean death. She must warn him.
She ran quickly to the other end of the balcony, and swung herself over the balustrade. Hastily she made her way through the grounds to Lord Shrope’s lodgings, bursting in upon that astonished nobleman just as he was about to partake of his dinner.
“I must see thee, my lord, alone,” she cried in such tones that her friend arose without a word and conducted her into his own withdrawing room.
“How now, Francis? What mishap hath attended thy enterprise? Gramercy, girl! what is it? Thou art disheveled and as excited as though some untoward accident had befallen thee. What said the queen? Say what hath happened?”
“My lord,” gasped the girl scarcely able to articulate, “once thou didst love my father. For the sake of that love, I pray you, grant me aid to reach him.”
“Child, what is it?” cried he in alarm “Tell me what hath occurred? Hath Elizabeth sent thee from her?”
“I have not seen the queen,” said Francis trying to speak with calmness. “After I had hidden myself as you bade me, the queen in 193 company with Hatton, Lord Burleigh, Sir Francis Walsingham and Lord Leicester entered the chamber. They discovered to her a plot to slay her, and to elevate Mary of Scotland to the throne, furthered by Anthony Babington, and others, among whom they named my father. My lord, I must go to him. Aid me I beseech you.”
Lord Shrope’s face turned white, and he withdrew himself from the girl’s clinging hands.
“A plot to slay the queen? The saints defend us! Girl, I cannot, I dare not aid thee. It would be as much as my life is worth.”
“You must, my lord. I must reach my father. I must and will, my lord.”
“If William Stafford be concerned in conspiracy against Elizabeth he must abide the consequences. I will aid no traitor to the queen.”
“My lord, he is no traitor,” cried the girl in despair. “He did wish to release Mary from bondage, for he had compassion on her misery as who hath not? But that he is party to the design to murder the queen, I deny. I know, my lord, I know.” 194
“What do you know? Are you too engaged in conspiracies? I thought thee as innocent as the daisy that grows in thy father’s field.”
“I am in no plots nor conspiracies, sir,” declared Francis. “But we lose time in idle words. Give me thine aid to reach my father, I implore thee.”
“Never, girl! And thou,—thou must be restrained of thy liberty, for I see that thou knowest much of this matter.”
He turned toward the door as he spoke, but Francis was before him.
“My lord,” she said, and there was determination in her manner, “thou shalt not touch me, nor cause others to touch me. Heaven be my witness that I speak truth when I say that my father is innocent of design to murder the queen. I must have means to reach him, and thou must give them to me.”
“Must? Thou useth strange terms, girl! Not only will I not give thee aid, but I will take thee into custody.”
He sprang toward her, but the girl turned upon him fiercely with uplifted dagger. 195
“Lay but one finger upon me, and I will slay thee,” she said in a low intense voice.
“Francis Stafford, this from you?”
“Ay, sir, from me. I would kill thee, or any who sought to hold me from my father. The queen herself should not keep me from him.”
“Seditious girl! those are words of treason.”
“I care not,” cried Francis recklessly. “I care not, my lord. And if thou wilt not give me aid thy life shall pay the forfeit.”
“Dost threaten me, girl?”
“Ay! if you deny me. I will slay thee and take thy signet ring.”
“If I aid thee, what then?”
“I will tell no word of it to any man,” declared she earnestly. “No word, my lord. Thou shalt not be implicated in any manner, as indeed, why should you? I am determined to reach my father, and if to do so I must kill thee, I will do so.”
“I believe in thee, Francis. Thy love for him is great. For the sake of that love, and also for that which once I bore him, I will aid thee. Not because of thy threats, girl. They are but talk of an excited brain.” 196
“Nay, my lord; you do me wrong. I would carry them out if it were necessary, albeit I am glad to have gained the end without bloodshed.”
“Here is my signet ring, Francis. By that token the boatmen will take thee to London. By that token also thou mayest obtain horses at my house. Go, girl! Even now thou mayest be too late. As for me, with that ring on thee, ’twill be my undoing, but—take it.”
“Say that I stole it, my lord. Say that I forced it from thee,” cried Francis, receiving it from him joyfully.
“That thou forced it from me?” echoed Lord Shrope with a laugh. “Why, girl, I had rather be beheaded.”
“Then will I leave it at thy house in London when I shall have obtained a horse,” said the girl dropping upon one knee by his side. “Forgive me, my lord, for my words,” and she kissed his hand with fervor. “Thou hast always been kind to me, but my father, sir. There is naught that I would not do for him.”
“Thou art forgiven. But hasten! Time is precious.”
Without further parley Francis bounded 197 from the room, and hurried through the palace yard, out of the great gate and down to the steps that led to the river.
Within the yard and at the landing-place there was a great deal of confusion. Servitors were running to and fro, courtiers were grouped together talking excitedly, while numerous officials and dignitaries were taking boat for London. Among these latter the girl discerned the form of Walsingham, the queen’s secretary of state. Her heart sank at sight of him.
“He goes to send pursuivants for my father,” was her thought, and her conclusion was correct. The secretary was indeed on his way to cause the arrest of the conspirators.
Seeing her among the followers of Walsingham, the watermen permitted her to enter one of the wherries and she found herself being carried to London more expeditiously than would otherwise have been the case. There was no indulgence on the part of the boatmen in song. Stern and silent they bent to their oars, responding with all their mights to Walsingham’s “Faster, my men, faster!”
It seemed to Francis that they no sooner 198 reached London than the whole city was ablaze with the news. Traffic was suspended, and citizens discussed in hushed accents the plot to kill the queen.
Francis made haste to Lord Shrope’s house in Broad Street, and by means of the ring, procured an excellent horse. Mounting him she urged the animal to great speed and was soon outside the city.
“Heaven grant that I may reach my father before Walsingham’s men,” she murmured. “I have gotten the start of them somehow. Let me make the most of it.”
Now the reason for her advantage was this: several of the conspirators, notably the six who had associated together to assassinate the queen, were in London awaiting their opportunity. Anthony Babington lodged at Walsingham’s own house, lured there by the wily secretary under pretense of taking him into his confidence; while Babington, to further his own ends, seemingly acquiesced in the minister’s plans. It was a case of duplicity against duplicity, craft matched against craft, with the odds on the side of Elizabeth’s brainy secretary. For the reason that the chief conspirators 199 were in London, Walsingham tarried there to apprehend them before sending forth to arrest the other gentlemen concerned in the plot who lived somewhat remotely from the city. But the conspirators had gotten wind of his intentions, and when he reached the city they had fled.
All this the girl did not know until long afterward. Now she pushed forward with the utmost expedition, hoping to reach the Hall before the pursuivants started. The weather was warm, it being the last of July, and the Hall was two days’ journey from London by hard riding. Therefore whatever distance she might gain in the first stage of the trip would be of incalculable advantage.
Toward the end of the day, her horse showing great signs of fatigue, Francis was of necessity forced to allow the animal to settle into a walk. As the steed slackened pace the girl relapsed into thought. So absorbed did she become that she was startled into something closely akin to fright when a man sprang from behind some trees, ran into the road, and seized her horse by the bridle.
At this time the woods and forests of England 200 were infested by highwaymen, gipsies, or Egyptians as they were called, and wandering vagrants whose depredations had been the cause of severe legislation to rid the country of its pests. It had not occurred to Francis that she might be molested by any of these, and she could not forbear a slight scream at the appearance of the man.
His clothing, though of rich material, was torn and ragged as though it had been caught by thorns in the unfrequented paths of the forest. His head was bare of covering, his locks disheveled; his face and hands were of an uneven dark color as though stained with some decoction unskilfully applied. His whole manner was so distraught that Francis trembled excessively.
“Boy,” cried the man wildly, “dismount, and give me thy horse.”
At the first sound of his voice the girl started violently, leaned forward and scanned his face keenly.
“Anthony Babington,” she cried as she recognized the unhappy man, “how came you here?”
“You know me?” cried Babington in dismay. 201 “Who in the fiend’s name are you that know me?”
“One that knows all of your nefarious purpose,” said Francis accusingly, her girl nature imputing to this man her father’s trouble. “Wretched man, knowest thou that the queen’s men search for thee even now?”
“Ha!” cried Babington peering into her face, “’tis the page that was with Stafford at Salisbury. Boy, where is thy master?”
“At Stafford Hall.”
“And thou! Thou art not with him. Hast thou been at court?” Babington peered suspiciously into her countenance.
“Yes;” answered the unsuspecting girl. “I have been at court, Anthony Babington, where all thy deed is known. The whole palace, ay! the whole city of London is in an uproar because of the discovery of thy intention to kill the queen. I was present when the matter was discovered to the queen. Death will be thy portion if thou art apprehended. Why stand you here? If you would save yourself, fly!”
“Thou present when it was discovered? Then it is thou who hast betrayed us? Varlet! 202 Base brawler of men’s secrets! die, ere thou canst betray others.”
His dagger flashed in the air as he spoke, but ere it could descend Francis gave him a sharp, stinging cut across the face with her whip. With a cry of rage Babington let fall the poniard, and before he could regain the weapon the girl dashed away. On she rode, never stopping until at length the night fell, and she knew that she was far from the wretched Babington.