The morning of the second day found Francis once more on her way without having seen any of the queen’s men. The day was unusually warm, and both the girl and her horse, wearied by the hard riding, showed the effects of the journey. But fatigued though she was she pushed resolutely on, pausing only to care for the tired animal. At length the road entered a deep wood and she gave a sigh of relief as the grateful shade of the trees enveloped her. The horse too seemed to revive somewhat and went forward with more briskness.
So dense was the shade that Francis was not aware that the sky had become overcast with clouds until a distant peal of thunder broke upon her ear.
“A storm is coming,” she cried. “I must seek shelter; but where?”
It was a problem that would have puzzled a 204 head older and wiser than that of Francis Stafford. She was in the midst of a dense forest. She looked about her in dismay.
“Beshrew me!” she uttered, “these woods are impenetrable enough to furnish hiding-place for Robin Hood and all his men. Surely there must be an inn or house somewhere near. Patience! I will find shelter. On, good horse!”
The mutterings of the thunder became louder and deeper as the storm approached. The clouds scudded across the heavens swiftly, borne on the wings of a heavy wind. Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky followed by a deafening crash of thunder, and the storm broke in all its force. The rain came down in torrents. The trees bent and swayed in the wind, tossing their proud heads as if in defiance to the storm king. The horse snorted in terror as flash after flash of lightning blazed across the road. Francis was drenched to the skin, but she struggled on, soothing the frightened animal as best she could.
Presently she thought she saw an opening in the trees. Drawing closer she was overjoyed 205 to find that there really was a path through the wood. Turning into it she followed it for some distance, finally coming to an open glade where stood what looked to be an ancient inn.
One wing had fallen into decay. The rose covered trellis of the porch lay rotting on the ground. All about the building hung an air of dilapidation and decay that forbade the thought of cheer. One part of the tumbled down structure looked as though it might serve as a shelter, and the girl hastened to the door of this portion and knocked.
There was no response, and Francis rapped again; this time more loudly than before, resolving to force the door should there be no answer. She waited a few moments, and then there came a high shrill voice from behind the closed door.
“Who’s there?”
“One who desires shelter from the storm. Open, i’ God’s name!”
“And who be ye that seek shelter of Dame Margery? Know you not that men call me the white witch?”
“I care not,” exclaimed Francis impatiently. 206 “Open, woman, else I will force the door.”
There was a muttering of protest, then the bolts were drawn, and the door opened. A woman stood in the aperture. A woman, old and bent, and looking not unlike the witch she called herself. A hood of brown sat on her white hair; a brown lappet was thrown about her, and she supported herself by means of a staff. Her black eyes regarded the girl with keenness from under her shaggy brows.
“Now thou art brave, forsooth, who dares take shelter here,” she said. “There are those, and they are many, who would brave the fiercest storm rather than risk Dame Margery’s evil eye.”
“But not I,” said Francis boldly. Nevertheless she made the sign of the cross, for the age was a superstitious one and the belief in witches and witchcraft well nigh universal. “Good dame, tell me, I pray, where I may put my horse. Give us both shelter, and thou shall have this angel for thy guerdon.”
She held the gold piece out as she spoke. The woman’s fingers closed over it eagerly.
“Back of the house are the stables,” she 207 said a trifle more civilly. “There will ye find food for the beast as well as cover. But thou wilt have to be thine own groom, young sir. These old bones be racked with rheums.”
“I thank you,” answered Francis briefly. Following the direction indicated by the beldame she led her horse round the house where she found the stables in somewhat better condition than she had expected. After looking after the welfare of the animal she muttered a short prayer, and entered the dwelling with a bold front.
The door gave entrance into a large, low ceiled room whose rafters were grimed with smoke and dirt. A low bed stood in one corner of the room; a small deal table and three chairs completed the simple furnishings, but the girl’s eyes were caught by the strings of herbs that depended from the walls, and the cabalistic signs that were everywhere in evidence. A fire burned on the hearth and over it, depending from a crane, hung a large kettle in which something savory was brewing.
A black cat which had been stretched near the fire rose at her entrance, and spat as if he 208 resented the intrusion as well as his mistress. Francis glanced at the mysterious signs, the black cat, the old woman, and a half wish came into her mind that she had braved the fury of the storm rather than enter such an abode. As if in answer to her thought the dame spoke:
“Draw nigh the fire, boy, and dry thy wet garments. Marry! hearest thou the rain? Even the dwelling of a witch, I trow, is better than to be out in’t. Hark!”
The storm had redoubled its fury. The wind shrieked and howled as though a thousand demons were loosed from durance and were exulting in their freedom. The rain came down in sheets, while peal on peal of thunder crashed and rolled. Francis shuddered and drew nearer the fire. The steam arose from her saturated garments, and rendered her uncomfortable. The old woman noticed her discomfort and said not unkindly:
“Boy, no garments have I of thy sex, but if thou wilt play the woman for the nonce thou canst have of mine apparel until thine own be dried.”
For the first time since she had left the 209 court Francis laughed. She flushed rosy red under the old woman’s glance, and then grew bewildered and confused at her continued scrutiny, and answered with an effort at self-command.
“I thank you, my good dame, but I will stay as I am an it please you.”
“Content yourself,—master,” answered the dame with the slightest hesitation before the word. “’Twas but to soften thy distress.”
She spoke no more, but busied herself about the brew over the fire. Presently she placed some of the stew before the girl, saying,
“Eat, sir. Thou wilt find it to thy liking, I trow.”
“It is in sooth,” replied Francis falling to heartily. Under the influence of warmth and comfort her fear of the woman had vanished. “Think you, good mother, that the storm will soon pass?”
“Nay;” answered she her face softening at the appellation. “Not till midnight comes; for
“When storm comes at end of day |
The midnight hour takes the rain away.’” |
“Then I must forth at midnight,” she declared.
“Thy need must be urgent that impels thee onward through the darkness,” observed the woman keenly. “Boy, what is thy business? Would have me read the stars for its issue?”
“Nay, mother,” answered Francis in agitated tones. “Were it favorable all would be well, but if it were evil I would not know of it. But it will not be ill. It must not, shall not be!”
She arose and paced the floor, chafing that she must be inactive when time was so precious. The dame regarded her curiously. Presently she spoke.
“Mistress, I may not call thee because of thy garb. Master, I cannot because of thy sex; but whatsoe’er thou art, tell old Margery why thou art so dressed, and why you wander forth alone?”
“Woman, are you in very truth a witch?” cried the girl in astonishment.
“So men call me,” returned Margery dryly.
“But save for the few who were told, not one at the court penetrated my masquerade,” 211 said Francis. “Then how is it, that thou, at our first meeting, know that my dress covers a maiden?”
“Old Margery hath lived long, and her eyes are sharp,” answered the dame. “But tell me. What brings you hither, if you are of the court?”
Francis paused in front of the woman and looked long and earnestly into her eyes. Something she saw there made her say impulsively:
“Good mother, thou must be in truth the witch men call thee, because thine eyes impel me to tell thee all. Listen! and I will unfold the tale from the beginning.” And she recounted the affair of Elizabeth’s coming, the reason for donning the page’s dress, her going to court, and now the cause of her desire to reach her father. The woman listened attentively.
“Child, thou hast done well. And thou sayst that none of the queen’s men have passed thee?”
“None, mother. I have outstripped them all,” exulted Francis. “Let me but continue in the lead for a few hours longer so that my 212 father may have opportunity to get to a place of safety, and I care not how soon they come.”
At this moment there came the sound of hoarse shouting of men, followed by the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and then above the storm came a loud knocking at the door.
“Open in the name of the queen,” came the stern command.
“It is the pursuivants,” cried Francis in consternation. “Good mother, hide me, I entreat. They must not know that I am here.”
Then, indeed, was she thankful that she had taken the old woman into her confidence. The beldame arose and with an agility that was surprising in one of her years glided across the room, and opened a small door that was so small, and black, and grimy that it had escaped the girl’s attention.
“Enter,” whispered the woman. “Enter and fear nothing. They shall not know of thy presence.”
Francis passed through the entrance and closed the door after her just as the rapping came again with renewed vigor.
“What, ho inside!” came a voice. “Give entrance, whosoe’er ye be, else it will be made by force.”
“Now who be ye who would seek admittance 214 to the house of a white witch?” asked Dame Margery’s shrill voice.
“Gramercy! we will show who we be,” and there was a sound as of a man pressing against the panels of the door. The dame undid the fastenings and threw open the door. A man who had evidently put his shoulder against it for the purpose of forcing an entrance sprawled his entire length on the floor. With a loud laugh at his discomfiture several other men crowded into the room.
“Marry! what an unmannerly welcome,” cried the man picking himself up. “My good woman, is this the way to receive guests?”
“Be that the way to enter a body’s house?” cried the dame. “Ye bean’t gentle, surely, else ye would know that an old woman can’t move the swiftest when she’s bent with the rheums.”
“I crave thy pardon, dame,” said the leader who was evidently a man of high degree. “I crave thy pardon for such an unceremonious entrance. I thought that no one was within. Give us shelter from the storm and supper. Then must we on our way. We pay for your trouble.” 215
“Well, ye won’t get either supper or shelter here. Do ye take this for an inn?” she asked querulously.
“Nay, dame; for then would we find greeting and good cheer,” returned the leader good naturedly. “This seemeth more in truth like witch’s dwelling. Whatsoe’er it be here we stay until the storm abates. We are from the queen, woman.”
Dame Margery said no more, but began to bestir herself about the supper.
“Some of you see about the horses,” commanded the leader, placing himself before the fire.
Two of the men went out and presently returned.
“’Tis a crazy sort of a barn, sir,” said one, “but it encloses as good a bit of horseflesh as e’er trod a heath. How now, dame? Where didst thou get so fine a horse?”
“Are there men here other than us?” asked the leader hastily. “If there be we must look to ourselves for we are on the queen’s business, and naught must delay us.”
“No men, sir,” answered Margery.
“The stable is bad, sayst thou, Martin?” 216 with an expression of relief on his face as he heard the dame’s reply. “The dwelling, too, is none of the best.”
“None asked ye to enter it,” said the woman bluntly. “An ye like not mine abode, ye can leave it.”
“Hold thy tongue, old beldame!” said the leader imperiously. “Nay;” as the dame flashed an angry glance at him, “be not prodigal of thy looks. An thou cast the evil eye on me, I’ll sheathe my blade in thy flesh. We want no witch’s work here.”
Margery made no answer, but placed the supper before them. The men fell to, and soon disposed of all that was on the table. Then the leader began to show signs of impatience for the storm had not yet subsided.
“Beshrew me!” he exclaimed to his companions. “I fear that we will be compelled to pass the night in this vile place. Marry! how it rains!”
“It doth, Master Wainwright,” answered one. “But better the storm than pass the night in the abode of a witch, and if yon dame be not the veriest witch in the kingdom then I ne’er saw one. The house makes me creepy. 217 ’Tis fitting place for some dark deed to be committed. The horse in the stable, I dare say, belonged to some belated traveler caught like ourselves in a storm afar from an inn. Marked you how she answered me not when I spoke on’t? How the wind howls, and how blue the taper burns! ’Sblood! I’d sooner be out in the storm.”
“I would not,” observed Master Wainwright. “One drenching a day is enough for me. Marry! there is naught to do but to possess our souls in patience. I dare say, we will o’ertake the boy on the morrow.”
“Marry! yes, master. If he be out in this storm he will drown like a rat. Who would have thought that he could have kept so far ahead of us?”
“They ride fast who flee from justice,” quoth another sententiously. “If we be not careful he will outstrip us, and we will be void of our quarry.”
“Be not alarmed. We will o’ertake him,” reassured the leader. “Though I like not for the storm to continue. It delays us too much.” He mused for a moment and then turned to the dame suddenly. 218
“My good woman,” he said, “have ye seen aught of a boy to-day?”
“A boy? What boy?” asked she stupidly.
“A boy of the court in page’s dress. Hast thou seen him?”
“No boy have I seen this day,” answered the dame stolidly. “Marry! nor for many days for the matter of that. What did ye want with the boy?”
“We have a warrant for his arrest,” said the leader. “Also one for his father, Lord William Stafford. What think you, my good dame? There has been foul attempt to slay the queen.”
“Ye do well to say ’attempt,’” said the woman. “Elizabeth will never die by the hand of an assassin.”
“Say ye so?” asked the leader eagerly. “Good dame, how will she die?”
“Not in her bed. No hand shall be raised against her, and she dies by misease; yet shall she not die in bed,” and the old woman nodded prophetically.
“Ask her how long the queen will live,” whispered one. “The queen waxeth in years and it may not be amiss to be prepared.” 219
“Seek no further, sir,” said Margery quickly. “Know that thou wilt never live to see the day of her death. Thy time is nigh.”
“Now a murrain on thee for that foul prophecy,” cried the man starting up, his hand on the hilt of his sword. But Master Wainwright interposed.
“No brawling, sirrah. We are on the queen’s business. Thou and thy right arm may be needed ere it be completed. Have done!”
The man sank back. Quiet fell upon them, broken only by the sweep of the rain against the house and the fitful howling of the wind. Night deepened, and still the storm continued. The men disposed themselves about the hearth for their damp clothing made them chilly, and soon one after another fell into slumber, until, after a time, all were asleep. Then Dame Margery rose to her feet and tiptoeing to the small door opened it, and passed out of the room.
Francis stood just within where she could hear everything that went on in the outer chamber. She came forward eagerly as the woman entered. 220
“Mother,” she cried, “those men must be detained here, but how? Canst thou help me?”
“Child, I could make them sleep until the sun was high noon, but they are about the queen’s business, and I durst not.”
“Good mother, tell me how, and let me do it,” coaxed Francis. “I must get to my father. O, if you have ever had a loved one, for the sake of that one, give me the aid I ask. I am but a girl. Weak and helpless with the great queen and her ministers against me. Yet I must warn my father. O dame, I lack so little of being home. If I had a few hours more, just a few hours! Please, good mother,”—she paused, and flinging her arms around the woman’s neck, she kissed her. Dame Margery’s frame shook and she held the girl close. Then she whispered, stroking her hair softly:
“My bonny maiden, thou shalt have thy wish. For that kiss I would give thee anything. It hath been years since Margery felt the touch of fresh young lips. Men fear me, and children shun me, but thou hast not. Once more, child.” 221
Gratefully Francis kissed her; not once but many times. Then the dame stole softly out, and the girl followed her. To a corner cupboard the old woman went, and taking out a phial that held some dark mixture she held it to the light for a second and shook it gently. Then with that marvelous agility that had caused Francis to wonder earlier in the evening she glided among the sleeping men and let fall a tiny drop of the decoction near the nostrils of each slumberer. A sweet odor filled the room so subtle and penetrating that the girl beat a hasty retreat into the smaller chamber, fearing that she too might be overcome by it.
“Come, child,” called Margery. “They sleep as slept the seven sleepers of long ago. And so they will sleep until the dawn. I dare not give them more for fear of death. And they are the queen’s men. Thou wilt have to hasten, child. With these few hours’ advantage thou shouldst reach thy father in time. The storm hath broken. Now thou must away.”
The storm had indeed passed. The rain still fell, but gently. In the west a few stars peeped between the rifts in the clouds. 222
“How can I ever repay thee?” whispered Francis embracing the dame warmly. “Heaven bless thee, mother. Farewell!”
“Farewell. Fear naught. Trust to the guidance of thy horse and this lanthorne. The night is dark, but the dawn comes early. Ride now for thy life, girl. Farewell.”
The night was dark as Dame Margery had said. The broken clouds that flitted across the sky obscured the faint light of the stars that struggled to peep through the nebulous masses. At another time the superstitious spirit of the girl would have shrunk from the noises of the wood, and found omens in the hoot of the owl, or the moaning of the wind as it sobbed fitfully through the trees. But now the screech of the night bird and the soughing of the wind fell upon deaf ears for she was so absorbed in the one idea of getting home that all else was unheeded.
In the darkness she was obliged to proceed slowly, trusting rather to the instinct of the horse than to the dim light of the lantern. The dripping trees saturated her garments almost as thoroughly as if it were indeed raining, but the fire of filial love was in her heart, and its flame rendered her impervious to 224 creature discomforts. At length the dawn came, and the sun’s bright beams soon dispersed the mists of the night, his revivifying rays inspiring the girl with new courage. The horse, of his own volition, struck into a brisker gait, and Francis was obliged to control her emotion as each succeeding moment brought her nearer the Hall.
Just before noon the turrets of Stafford Hall came into view. With a cry of exultation she spurred her horse forward.
“On, on!” she cried. “Thy journey is almost done!”
At full gallop she sped through the gates and into the base court. Her father’s horse, bridled and saddled, stood at the foot of the steps leading to the terrace.
“Mistress Francis,” cried Brooks, the old servitor who held the horse, “how came you here?”
“My father?” gasped Francis as she sprang to the ground.
“In the presence chamber, mistress. He——”
She waited to hear no more, but ran up the steps, through the ante-rooms, and bounded into the presence chamber. 225
Lord Stafford and his wife stood with their arms twined about each other, as if in the act of saying farewell. They started at her entrance, the utmost surprise upon their faces when they saw who the intruder was.
“Father!” exclaimed Francis running to him with outstretched arms. “Father!”
Her father did not stir to meet her, but, folding his arms, regarded her sternly.
“False girl,” he cried, “why come you hither?”
“To save thee, my father.” Francis paused bewildered by his manner. “Father, they accuse thee of treason. The queen’s men are coming to take thee to the Tower. You must fly.”
“And do you bid me fly? You who have betrayed me? You whom I trusted? You who vowed that not even the rack could extort one syllable from your lips? Base girl, is it thus that thou dost requite my love? Away! Go back to that court whose enticements have caused thee to betray thy father.”
“I betray thee?” cried Francis in horror. “I, Francis Stafford, betray my father? Never! Never!” 226
“Seek not to deny it, girl. One hath been here from the court. I know that every incident of the journey to Chartley, even to the meeting with Babington at Salisbury, is known to the queen. Who knew all this but thee? Fool that I was to confide in thee! But thou wert so cock-sure of thy ability! So apt and froward with thy promises, that I believed in thee.”
“My father, if there are those who say that I betrayed thee, they speak not the truth. I have come to warn thee of peril. Even now the pursuivants are on their way to take thee. Oh, sir! tarry no longer but fly. ’Tis death to be taken, father. Death!”
She wrung her hands as her father stood there so unheedingly when time was so precious.
“And if it be death, by whose hand hath it been wrought? Why hast thou dallied at court so long? Why dost thou still wear that garb which shames thy modesty?”
“Father, hear me,” cried Francis, flinging herself at his feet. “If ever thou didst bear aught of affection to her that kneels to thee, believe me when I say that I betrayed thee 227 not. May my tongue be palsied if I speak not the truth. Father, by all the saints, I——”
“False girl, perjure not thy soul,” and he strove to release himself from her grasp. “Unclasp thine arms, Francis Stafford, and hearken to a father’s curse. May——”
“Hold, my lord!” shrieked Lady Stafford. “Curse not thy child! Curse not thine own flesh and blood!”
“No child is she of mine, madam. Rather do I believe her some changeling forced upon us by witches’ craft. Never did Stafford betray trust before! Stay me not! Whether child or changeling yet still shall she be cursed.”
“Father, father, I am innocent of having done this monstrous, wicked thing! ’Twas Anthony Babington that hath so maliciously spoken about me! I know——”
“How know you that ’twas Babington?” demanded her father quickly. “Girl, thine own words condemn thee. Say no more! I will listen to thy false words no longer. I curse the day that thou wast born. I curse thee——”
“Forbear,” shrieked the girl in agonized 228 tones. “O, father, withhold thy curse! Hear me for the love of mercy.”
But Lord Stafford tore himself from her clinging hands, and hastily left the room.
“Father,” cried Francis, darting after him. “Father!”
He heeded her not, but strode out of the castle to the place where old Brooks held his horse.
“Father, father!” The frantic girl reached him as he mounted his steed and held out her arms entreatingly. But the father answered never a word, and without another look at her gave spur to his horse, and dashed through the open gates of the court.
Then a great cry of anguish broke from the girl’s lips. A black mist rose before her eyes, engulfing her in its choking, smothering embrace. She swayed unsteadily and fell in an unconscious heap upon the ground.
When consciousness returned to Francis Stafford she was lying on a couch in the presence chamber with her mother bending over her.
“Mother,” she cried as a full realization of all that had taken place rushed over her. “He is gone! My father is gone, and he hath cursed me!” And she burst into a flood of tears.
“Think not on it, child,” said the mother, her own eyes streaming. “Thou didst try him greatly. It was ill in thee not to return to us, but thou art young and full well do I ken the allurements that court life holds for youth. But this thy father could have pardoned had this been all.”
“My mother, art thou too against me?” The girl struggled to a sitting position, her indignation giving her strength. “Dost thou believe that I betrayed my father, or 230 that I lingered at court from choice? Then what avails it if I tell thee all? Am I not thy child, and wherefore should I do so evil? Would that I had died ere this had come upon me!”
She flung herself back upon the couch and wept bitterly. Her mother, alarmed at the intensity of her grief, strove to soothe her.
“Let me make my moan, mother. If my father would have but listened, he would have known that I did not betray him; but he would not. He would not!”
“Judge him not too harshly, Francis. Now tell me the cause of thy delay. Why thou didst not send us word? Why thou didst not return?”
“Who was there to do my bidding? I would not have been here even yet had I not heard the queen and her ministers planning to arrest the conspirators. So soon as I heard my father’s name I left the court without leave, and came hither with all dispatch to warn him.”
“Tell me all, Francis,” urged her mother. “All that hath happened thee from the beginning. 231 I fear me much that thy father hath done thee wrong.”
“He hath,” said Francis bitterly. “Grievous wrong! And as I live by bread, there hath never been aught but love toward him in my heart. But now——Oh, my mother,” she cried with another outburst of woe, “my heart is broken!”
“There, child! weep not so much. Thy father will repent him of his injustice when he learns the truth. Dry thine eyes and tell all that hath befallen thee.”
Presently, when she had become calmer, Francis complied with the request, and told her mother all that had occurred since she left her.
“And thy hair! Thy pretty hair!” cried Lady Stafford weeping when Francis related that incident. “Ah, child, I repent me that ever I consented to let thee leave me. But continue, I pray thee! I would know all.”
And the girl continued her narrative to its close. Her mother clasped her close when she finished it.
“We have done thee great wrong, my daughter. Forgive me and thy father also. 232 We should have known that thou wouldst not have done this thing, but when we did not hear, and thou didst not come, we marveled at it greatly. This morning Anthony Babington came, and told us that all was known to the queen through thy treachery. And thou must be lenient toward us that we believed him.”
“But why didst thou, mother! Have I been so ill a daughter that ye must believe the first word against me? I can not forgive it.”
“Not now, my child, while thy hurt is recent, but later thy mother must not sue to thee in vain. But, Francis, come to my tiring room. I mislike that garb. Methinks it hath caused all our woe. Come, and let me see thee in thy proper attire once more.”
“Nay;” said Francis resolutely, “from this time forth I wear none other. ’Twas at my father’s bidding that I donned it. I will discard it only when he calls me ‘daughter’ again. Otherwise I shall go to my grave Francis Stafford, the page.”
“Francis, Francis,” wailed the lady, “thou art distraught. Entertain not such purpose, I entreat. Soften thy proud heart, and be 233 not stubborn when thy mother pleads with thee. For my sake, child, remove that dress.”
“Nay, mother;” replied she obdurately, “seek not to change my purpose, for it is fixed. This page’s dress I wear until my father takes me once more to his heart.”
“Thou art as unyielding and inflexible as thy sire,” cried her mother. “What can I do between ye? Have thy way, thou wilful girl! Naught remains for thy mother but to pray that the day may be hastened when all will be well with us again.”
Just then there came a clattering of hoofs in the courtyard, and the sound of voices. Lady Stafford sprang to her feet in alarm.
“What is it?” she cried. “Oh, child, what if they have taken thy father?”
“’Tis the queen’s men,” said Francis starting up. “They seek my father, but they seek in vain. I have foiled them.”
A sense of exultation swept over her, causing her to forget for the time her father’s distrust. She faced the men who entered the apartment triumphantly.
“What seek ye?” she demanded with scorn. 234
“Thy father, boy, and thee,” was the reply. “We know that thou hast warned him so that he hath given us the slip. But marry! the game is but afoot, and we the greyhounds who will bring him to bay. Of him anon. Here is a warrant for one Francis Stafford. Art thou he?”
“I am,” answered the girl haughtily.
“Then, Francis Stafford, son of William, Lord Stafford, in the name of the queen, I arrest thee on a charge of high treason.”
“Arrest thee, Francis?” cried her mother flinging her arms about the girl. “Oh, child, why thee?”
“I was with my father at Chartley, mother,” said Francis calmly. “If he be guilty of treason, why, then so am I.”
“But I knew not that thou wert in danger,” sobbed the mother. “Oh, Francis, why didst thou not go with thy father? Why didst thou not tell him of it? Why, why?”
“I did not think of it,” answered Francis simply. “I thought only of him.”
“How thou hast been misjudged,” exclaimed the lady weeping bitterly. “Oh, cruel, cruel fate that hath befallen thee!” 235
“Cease thy lamentation, woman,” commanded the officer sternly. “Make ready to accompany thy son to London.”
“I?”
“My mother!” exclaimed Francis and her mother in one breath.
“Thou. Thou canst no longer remain here, because this Hall and its estate are forfeited to the crown by the treason of its owner. ’Tis the queen’s command that thou dost go with thy son to London there to be immured in the Tower. Make ready, madam. Ye two must this hour to the queen.”
“But what crime have I committed?” asked the poor lady in dismay.
“I know not, madam. ’Tis the queen’s command,” was the reply.
“’Tis the worst of all crimes, my mother,” said Francis with irony. “Thou art too fair. ’Tis a fault unforgivable by Elizabeth.”
“Hush, child,” whispered the lady quickly. “Make our sad plight no worse by thy railing.”
“Stay, boy!” cried Wainwright as Francis started to leave the apartment with her mother. “Remain where thou art. I would have speech with thee.” 236
Wonderingly, the girl paused, and Master Wainwright, making a peremptory motion to Lady Stafford to leave them, continued:
“Thou art too elusive to be out of my sight, young sir. Now answer these queries. Wert thou in the dwelling of old Margery when we entered it?”
“Marry! what is it to thee where I was,” answered Francis, desiring not to get the dame into trouble.
“Be not too pert, sir page. I wrung from the old woman that thou wert, after I found that we o’erslept. Now, boy, was it due to thee or to the witch that we slept so long?”
“To me, master,” replied the girl boldly. “Upon my shoulders cast all blame. Impute nothing to the old woman. I did all, for I knew that I must distance thee to warn my father. And thou wert outstripped! Thou wert close after the game but he took to soil, and the track is lost, good master.”
“Crow on, my bantam,” cried Wainwright angrily. “Thou wilt sing another tune when Sir Francis Walsingham hath thee. And mark me, sirrah! The track will be regained, and the game brought to cover ere thou dost 237 reach the Tower. Then upon Tower Hill thou canst behold its breaking up.”
Francis turned pale as death at this reference to what would be her father’s fate if taken.
“Ah, that hipped thee, young cock! Dost ken what happens to traitors? ’Twill be thy fate as well as thy father’s. Dream on’t, master! Now must you and your mother take horse for London.”
“To-day?” said Francis faintly, a sense of weakness coming over her. “Oh, sir, not to-day, beseech you. I have ridden so much. I am so tired!”
“This day shalt thou start,” said Wainwright rejoicing with all the might of a small man in the power over another. “No pleading will avail thee. Thou must go!”
“As you will then,” answered Francis wearily, though every muscle in her tired body rebelled at this further tax upon her strength.
And so the long, weary journey to London was again begun.
It was a dreary journey. The motive which had sustained the girl in her former trip from the city to her home was lacking. The fatigue incident to travel, the unjust reception of her by her father, with the doubtfulness of his escape, and the uncertainty of what was to become of her mother and herself, now bore upon her with such overwhelming force as to almost crush even her brave spirit. Lady Stafford suffered a like mental anguish, and so, on account of the weakness of the two prisoners, the guard was compelled to return to the city by slow stages.
Upon their entrance within the gates they found that the whole city was in an uproar, caused by the apprehension of Anthony Babington and several others of the conspirators. Bells were ringing, bonfires burning and the most vehement satisfaction expressed by the people, who, with shouts and singing of 239 psalms, gave every demonstration of joy at the escape of the queen from their treasonable designs.
When it became known that these two were also implicated, a hooting, jeering mob followed them through the streets, hurling vile epithets upon them, and taunting them with their disgrace. Lady Stafford drooped under the attack, but the assault roused the spirit in Francis, and she sat erect, her flashing eyes and contemptuous looks bespeaking the tempest that raged in her heart.
“Bear up, my mother,” she said to Lady Stafford who could scarcely sit her horse. “Give not the rabble cause to laugh and jibe.”
“But, my child, that we of the house of Stafford, be thus dishonored!” exclaimed the lady in anguish. “Oh, I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! Carest thou not for this disgrace?”
“I could weep my heart out, if it would avail aught,” uttered Francis in low, intense tones. “Bethink you, mother, that this mob of the streets shall see one tear from me? Nay; ’twould give them too much of pleasure.”
“And has it come to this? That thou 240 shouldst be an example to thy mother?” asked the lady sitting up. “Let them rage! Not another tear shall they behold. There will be time enough for tears later.”
And so saying she followed her daughter’s example and rode with uplifted head, apparently indifferent to the taunts of the people who followed them down to the waterside, even to the wharf where they embarked for the Tower.
Babington and his companions occupied another boat which preceded them down the river, and Francis felt relief when she saw that her father was not among them. The tide being in their favor, the boat passed swiftly down the river, shot London Bridge, and all too soon drew near the sombre mass of the Tower.
In spite of her undaunted front Francis could not forbear a shudder as their wherry drew near Saint Thomas’ tower. As a mere matter of form the boats were challenged by the sentinels. A wicket, composed of immense beams of wood, was opened and they shot beneath the gloomy arch, through the Traitors’ gate. A feeling of dread took possession of 241 the girl as her gaze fell upon the slimy walls of the dismal arch. The wherrymen ceased rowing and the water rippled sullenly against the sides of the boat which soon, impelled by the former efforts of the oarsmen, touched the steps.
The lieutenant of the Tower, followed by numerous warders, appeared and gave acknowledgment of their receipt to the guard. Slowly the prisoners ascended the damp and slippery steps, Francis and her mother being the last to go up. A few quick commands and Babington and the others were hurried away, each man between two warders. Then the lieutenant turned to Lady Stafford.
“Follow me, madam,” he said making a respectful salutation. “I will conduct you to your chamber, where, I pray your pardon, my orders are to place you under some restraint. You, young master, will remain here until my return. The time will be but short.”
“Oh,” cried the lady in supplicating tones, “are we to be separated?”
“Such are my commands, madam,” returned he in tones of commiseration. “Thou art to 242 be confined in the Brick Tower. Thy son in the Beauchamp Tower. Come!”
“Oh, my child! my child!” sobbed the mother throwing her arms about Francis. “What will be thy fate? What will they do to thee?”
“Calm thyself, my mother,” comforted Francis. “We can but hope. Mayhap the good keeper will permit us to see each other occasionally. Go now, mother. We must not vex him.”
Clasping her convulsively to her breast for a moment, Lady Stafford released her, and then followed the lieutenant, weeping bitterly.
Then Francis sat her down in the midst of the warders upon that very stone where Elizabeth had rested when she herself passed into the Tower, a prisoner to the jealousy of her sister, Mary. Soon the lieutenant returned and said courteously:
“And now, master, be pleased to follow me to your chamber.”
Francis arose and followed him without a word. Through the outer ward they passed through the lofty portal which formed the principal entrance to the inner ward over 243 which rose a dismal-looking structure, then called the Garden Tower, but later known as the Bloody Tower. Passing beneath these grim portals the lieutenant led his prisoner into the inner ward, over the Tower Green, and at last paused before an embattled structure of the time of King John, just opposite the great keep, or the White Tower. Ascending the circular stairway, he unlocked the double doors that led into the tower, and they passed into a large, low-roofed dark apartment that held a very scanty array of furniture. Then he withdrew, the bolt clasped, the chain clanged, and Francis was left alone.
A sense of desolation swept over the girl as the full realization of the situation burst upon her, and the blackness of despair filled her soul with anguish. She was alone. She had no one to lean upon. No ear to which she could impart her sorrows. Her mother a prisoner like herself. Her father—a fugitive wandering she knew not whither. As the bitterness of her lot assailed her in all its force she could no longer control herself but gave way to a passionate burst of grief. She looked at the stone walls by which she was 244 enclosed, the massive iron-girded door and the hopelessness of her situation bore with crushing weight upon her.
There was no eye to see, no longer need for control, and she gave vent to her despair unrestrainedly. At length the fountain of her tears was dry, and becoming more composed she sought to regain her fortitude.
“I have done no wrong,” she said aloud. “No wrong? Was it wrong to give those letters to Mary? But my father bade me. My father! Ah, no word of that must pass my lips. Cruel and unjust he hath been, but never shall word or act of mine bear witness against him. I must fortify my soul for I fear that I will be questioned.”
Her foreboding proved true. Early the next morning the door leading into the chamber was opened, and Sir Francis Walsingham with two others entered. Francis’ heart sank at sight of them, but she nerved herself for the ordeal.
“Good-morrow, Master Stafford,” said the secretary courteously. “We give you good-morrow.” 245
“Good-morrow, Sir Francis. And to you, gentlemen, good-morrow,” returned she.
“My lad,” said Walsingham not unkindly, seating himself before her, “thou art charged with a heinous crime, and methinks that thou art too young to be concerned in such weighty matters. Therefore, am I with these lords, come to examine thee somewhat anent it.”
“With what am I charged, sir?” asked Francis.
“With that most atrocious of all crimes,—treason,” was the reply.
“My lord, I meant not to be guilty of treason against the queen,” said the girl earnestly. “If aught that I have done seemeth so in her eyes, believe me I pray you, when I say that it was not so intended.”
“I do believe it,” answered the secretary. “I think that thou hast been made use of by others to further design of bold and unscrupulous men. Didst thou ever meet with Anthony Babington?”
“Yes, Sir Francis.”
“Where?”
“Once at Salisbury, and once in the forest as I left London.” 246
“What passed at those meetings?” Walsingham drew closer, expecting from the girl’s demeanor to find ready answers to his inquiries.
“I cannot tell you, sir, of the nature of the first,” answered Francis. “I will gladly do so of the second.”
“Relate it then.”
“He was trying to make his escape when his design upon the queen became known. He sprang upon me when I was unaware, seized the bridle of my horse, and demanded that I give the animal to him.”
“Which you refused?”
“Which I refused to do, sir.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“Yes.”
“And you him?”
“Yes, Sir Francis.”
“Did you know that he was trying to escape from arrest?”
“Yes;” answered Francis again.
“Then why did you not let him have the horse?” queried Walsingham.
“Because I wished to reach my father,” replied the girl simply. 247
“But why did you want to reach your father?” and the secretary bent forward. “How knew you that he was in danger?”
“Why, I heard you tell the queen that you were going to arrest him, and I wished to warn him.”
“Thou heardst me tell the queen?” cried the minister in surprise. “Boy, how couldst thou? We were in the queen’s own chamber. How couldst thou hear it?”
“I went there to seek a favor from Her Majesty, and awaited her coming upon the balcony outside the window. When the queen entered, the vice-chamberlain, Lord Burleigh, my Lord of Leicester, and yourself were with her. I feared then to come into the room. Thus I could but hear all that passed. When I found that my father was in danger I left the balcony and the palace as quickly, determined to warn him of his peril.”
“Then you knew that he was concerned in the plot to kill the queen?” and Walsingham eyed her keenly.
“He was not,” cried the girl eagerly.
“Then why should he flee?” asked the 248 merciless inquisitor. “No peer of the realm hath aught to fear if he be innocent of foul design.”
Francis was so disconcerted by this question that she did not attempt to reply, but looked at him hopelessly.
The wily minister saw her confusion and pressed his advantage.
“Thou needest not to answer, boy, on the condition that thou tell to me all that passed the first time that you saw Babington.”
“I cannot do that, sir.”
“’Twill be the better for thee,” warned the secretary. “We have knowledge that thou and thy father did meet with Babington at an inn in Salisbury. For thine own sake, thou wouldst best reveal what took place. Reflect! Thine own safety depends upon it.”
“I will not tell, Sir Francis,” returned Francis bravely.
“Have a care, boy. There are ways of extorting confessions from unwilling lips.”
“I do not misunderstand your meaning,” returned the girl with white lips, “but I cannot tell.”