In Doublet and Hose Part 25

"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 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 c.o.c.k! 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.

CHAPTER XXIII

IN THE TOWER OF LONDON

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 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 a.s.sault 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 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 pa.s.sed swiftly down the river, shot London Bridge, and all too soon drew near the sombre ma.s.s 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 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 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed through the lofty portal which formed the princ.i.p.al entrance to the inner ward over which rose a dismal-looking structure, then called the Garden Tower, but later known as the b.l.o.o.d.y Tower. Pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sailed her in all its force she could no longer control herself but gave way to a pa.s.sionate burst of grief. She looked at the stone walls by which she was enclosed, the ma.s.sive 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 fort.i.tude.

"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 pa.s.s 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."

"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."